Experiment
As the weeks passed, the babies started to die. George, one of Cecile’s babies, was the first. For days, he lay in his crib, without crying, without even whimpering. Most of the time, his eyes were closed. But even when they were open, he stared straight ahead, as if he wasn’t seeing anything. He sucked listlessly on his bottle, and eventually he refused to eat at all. After a few days, he was dead. Cecile wrapped him in a linen sheet and placed his tiny body into a plain wooden coffin. Since then, Cecile’s eyes were always red from crying. She kept saying she wanted to go home.
Stephanie, one of Monica’s babies, died a few weeks later. Monica walked around all day long, a scowl on her face and angry words on her lips.
Now Angela was very ill. Johanna had trouble concentrating. She was constantly spilling milk, breaking things, tripping over her own skirts.
Frau Taubman became more and more demanding. She blamed the girls for the babies’ deaths and had no patience for even the smallest matters.
With each sick baby, Doctor Keller tried every remedy he knew. He prescribed medicines and tonics. He bled them to rid them of bad humours. He placed leeches on their thin tummies and legs. He put hot glass bottles on their backs. They screamed in pain, but nothing helped.
One day, Johanna was returning from the bathroom when she heard Doctor Keller and the scientist, Professor Leibniz, arguing in the hallway outside the nursery. She hid in a doorway as she listened.
In spite of his fashionable clothes, Professor Leibniz didn’t make a striking impression. He was a thin, middle-aged man whose long nose jutted out from a face as pale as a turnip. His limbs were crooked and ungainly; he carried his head far forward of his hunched shoulders.
It was said of him that he often stayed in his chair for days at a time while he was working on his various theories and projects. It was whispered that he was brilliant, ambitious beyond reckoning, and an inveterate liar.
“I must know what is wrong with the babies,” Leibniz was saying.
“I cannot understand what is making them so sick,” said Doctor Keller. “They do not seem to have an illness that I can diagnose. They are simply not growing as normal babies should.” He paused. “I wonder why they do not thrive.”
“Thrive?” Leibniz said, straightening his black wig. “You did not obtain this position to ask questions. Only to follow orders.”
“Listen to me for a moment,” said Doctor Keller. “The babies have little appetite. They are not gaining weight. They lie listlessly in their beds and show little curiosity about the world around them. I cannot but think that the babies have given up the will to live.”
“You must find out what is wrong with them,” said Leibniz. “You must bring them back to health. They are vital for my experiment.” Leibniz paused and rubbed his hands together.
“Experiment?” Doctor Keller said. “The babies are dying. Whatever it is, you must stop this experiment at once.”
“That is impossible,” said Leibniz, sniffing. “The price of knowledge is unfortunately sometimes very high.”
“But Professor … this price is far too high.” Doctor Keller took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his sweating face. “What kind of experiment are you conducting, Professor Leibniz, that makes it worth the lives of these poor babies?”
Johanna’s heart was pounding as she eavesdropped. She was terrified that she might be discovered.
“I have a theory that all languages come from one and the same language — what I call a ‘proto-language.’” Leibniz said.
“A proto-language?”
“Yes. I believe that all languages have one common ancestor — not Hebrew or Swedish, as some people propose. Something else.” He paused. “I am certain I will discover it through this experiment.”
“I see,” said Doctor Keller. “But … what about the babies?”
Now Johanna was sure. This was no ordinary orphanage, but the setting for an experiment — one that was proving deadly. No one has the right to experiment on human beings, Johanna thought. Does Leibniz think that science is more important than people? She felt she would burst with the effort of keeping silent.
“It is your responsibility to see that my subjects receive the very best of care — food, shelter, clothing.” Leibniz raised his voice. “Do you perhaps think that the caregivers do not tend to them properly?” Johanna pressed herself against the wall.
“Not at all,” said Doctor Keller. “The caregivers are competent. The babies must also be talked to and held and loved. It is only common sense. You are denying the babies their emotional needs.” He paused. “Your theory,” Doctor Keller said scornfully, “your theory prevents me from treating them properly.”
Leibniz wagged a finger at Doctor Keller. “And you prevent me from conducting this important experiment. Do not forget: the duke has agreed. He is my sponsor.” He sniffed unpleasantly. “Doctor, if you cannot determine what is wrong with these foundlings, then we will find someone who can.”
“As you wish,” said Doctor Keller, bowing. “Do so. Seek another physician. I am done with this wretched business.” Johanna heard his footsteps and peeked around the corner.
“Wait, doctor!” called Leibniz, lurching after Keller. “Please come back! I did not mean that you should stop caring for these babies.”
“Then what did you mean?” asked Doctor Keller. His usually red face was becoming redder; his waistcoat buttons seemed about to pop.
“Only that we must both work together for … the welfare of these poor unfortunate babies.”
“It is obvious that our ideas about their welfare differ in the extreme,” said Doctor Keller. He was almost a head taller than Leibniz and stared down at the ugly scientist with disdain.
“That may well be true. But we can still work together, can we not?”
“Perhaps.”
“Of course we can! After all, are we not both learned men of science?”
“We are.” Doctor Keller’s voice shook.
“Good. Then we are agreed.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, have you heard about the new Academy of Sciences in Berlin? I am its first president, you know. And have I told you about my plan to drain the canals in Venice…? No? Have you been to the Gänsemarkt, the new opera house? Tomorrow, I plan to see the debut of that young composer — Handel, I believe is his name.”
Their voices faded as they walked down the hall away from the nursery. The strong scent of Leibniz’s cologne lingered in the air. Johanna waited until they had gone and hurried back to the nursery.
The situation at the orphanage continued to worsen. The babies had little appetite, so they lost weight and weakened. Some of the babies were listless and apathetic; others were angry and irritable. No matter how they acted, the result was the same. The undertaker’s wagon became a familiar sight at the orphanage.
