Free The Winston Affair by Howard Fast Page A

concerned with whether or not any man looked Jewish or was Jewish. It did not resolve itself into a matter of principle or tolerance; the problem had been absent in his formative years, and in his maturity he did not approach it as anything that excited either his interest or his curiosity. He had never cared nor had he ever found any reason to care—until the last three days.
    Now he studied Kaufman in terms of two men, Lieutenant Winston and Colonel Burton. He deliberately attempted to see Kaufman as a Jew, but his frame of reference was insufficient. He could not make any reliable connection between Kaufman and the Jews in his company, nor could he reliably separate Kaufman from other army doctors he had been in contact with.
    Kaufman was of medium height. He was dark, with gray eyes. He had a round face that was badly scarred from a youthful acne, a flat nose, full lips, and a New York City inflection in his speech. He was somewhere in his middle forties. He was neither friendly nor unfriendly, and he was on his guard. He also impressed Barney Adams with the fact that he was a very busy man.
    Of the Winston case, he observed briefly, “That’s over and done with, so far as I am concerned. It’s been taken out of my hands, Captain. I am not interested, and I have no desire to discuss it.” As he spoke, he was glancing through the papers on his desk. He signed two documents and put them into a box labeled Outgoing .
    Then, pointing his pen at Adams, he said, “There’s small virtue in thoroughness, Captain. No one will commend you for it. You tell me that you have to defend Winston. Good. That’s your job. I have finished with mine, so far as Winston is concerned. I have over a hundred patients to see today. I don’t know what you have to do.”
    â€œVery little,” Adams replied softly, “and I am afraid nothing of the importance of having to see sick people and help them.”
    Back at his papers, Kaufman looked up sharply. He studied the ribbons Barney Adams wore and asked about his wounds.
    â€œI was very lucky. A grenade exploded behind me, and I got five pieces in my shoulders.”
    â€œThere’s all kinds of luck. Why did you come here?” he asked bluntly.
    â€œThat’s too long a story to tell now.”
    â€œAnd how do you think I can help you?”
    â€œWell—I suppose the core of it is this. I want to know whether Charles Winston is insane.” Then he told Kaufman about the incident in the prison the day before. “I’m asking you because it seems to me that you are in the best position to know. You admitted Winston to your ward. You examined him. You treated him.”
    Kaufman did not reply at once. He watched Adams thoughtfully for a long moment before he said, “Do you think he was shamming?”
    â€œI don’t know. I felt it was too much like a literary notion of how an insane man would act.”
    â€œYou can put your mind to rest, Captain. Winston is an incurable psychopath. In other words, he’s insane. Not only that, but his condition is progressive, with very little hope for even a temporary remission.”
    â€œWhat do you mean by that?”
    â€œI mean that as a personality, Winston is disintegrating. He is very quickly losing touch with all reality. How can I put that to you? His consciousness—his soul, if you will have it that way and admit to a soul in such a man—is turning in upon itself, shortening its lines of defense in a desperate search for survival. But in that search he will be destroyed.”
    â€œPhysically?”
    â€œNo—he won’t die. Not yet. Unless he kills himself—which is not unlikely. But as an inhabitant of our world, he will die.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t follow you,” Adams said.
    â€œDo you know much about insanity, Captain?”
    â€œAlmost nothing.”
    â€œThat’s honest, and if most physicians were equally