Free Oswald's Tale by Norman Mailer Page B

one’s dead, so other tourists might be afraid to visit. What with serious distrust between two great nations, Americans might think that Soviet officials had tortured him.
    Their trip took a while because they had been assigned to Botkin Hospital, which for Rimma was one of the best in Moscow. It was not near the Berlin Hotel, but it had very good doctors, with a special department for diplomats, also for foreigners. When they arrived, however, they were taken to a locked-door facility for Russians. Mental ward.
    At Reception, they had put him on a stretcher with wheels, and injected him. After surgery, when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t understand at first where he was, but then she began speaking to him, and said, “Everything is all right. We are in the right ward. Don’t worry.” And she patted his hair. She was very gentle. He looked at her but did not smile. Since they had already stitched everything, there was a bandage on his left arm near his wrist. Right arm, nothing. Just his left wrist. She stayed with him from arrival at four in the afternoon until maybe ten o’clock. He asked her not to go, and so she stayed. For six hours.
    He had been put in a room with Russians, and Rimma told them he was a good American, but she did not mention that he had tried suicide. She merely said she was from Intourist, and he was American and ill—no further details. She told him to be calm. He asked if she would come and she said she would. Tomorrow morning. Certainly.

    Oct. 21
    Evening 6:00
    Receive word I must leave country at 8:00 PM tonight as visa expires. I am shocked! My dreams! I retire to my room. I have $100 left. I have waited for two years to be accepted. My fondest dreams are shattered because of a petty official, because of bad planning. I planned too much!

    7:00 P.M.
    I decide to end it. Soak wrist in cold water to numb the pain. Then slash my left wrist. Then plunge wrist into bathtub of hot water. I think, “when Rimma comes at 8 to find me dead it will be a great shock.” Somewhere a violin plays as I watch my life whirl away. I think to myself, “how easy to die,” and “a sweet death to violins.” About 8:00 Rimma finds me unconscious (bathtub water a rich red color). She screams (I remember that) and runs for help. Ambulance comes, am taken to hospital where five stitches are put in my wrist. Poor Rimma stays at my side as interpreter (my Russian is still very bad), far into the night. I tell her, “go home.” My mood is bad, but she stays. She is my “friend.” She has a strong will. Only at this moment I notice she is pretty.

    The Moscow doctor did not want her name used, but she could state unqualifiedly that she had been on duty at Botkin Hospital when Oswald arrived at 4:00 P.M., October 21. Not at night. Four o’clock. Now she is almost seventy but, unlike most Russians of her generation, looks younger than her age. One would take her for fifty-five, and well preserved, a short heavy woman, rather handsome, but stolid and sure of herself. She repeats that she does not want publicity and does remember that day well.
    It was never a serious wound, she says. Not much more than a scratch. His cut was on the lower part of his left arm, and he was up walking around very soon. Not one day did he stay in bed, not one day. When she came to examine him, he was lively, talked to other people in his ward, was only able to communicate in very bad Russian, but was very communicative.
    Given such good condition, he would not have been allowed to stay if he had been a Russian. In and out the same day for such a case. His cut was hardly more than a scratch; it never reached his vein.
    As for one’s psychiatric examination, you ask your patient about his family background and other history. Then you go on to his reason: Why did he want to commit suicide? You try to see what kind of mood he’s in. In his mind, is there still something dark? Or is he coming back to life? People either feel grateful