After Dachau by Daniel Quinn

drive, was an absurd caricature, someone’s idea of a stately gothic pile, as conceived, perhaps, by some dour railroad magnate in the age of Queen Victoria. Naturally it did not in fact date from that era. It was a modern horror, fashioned deliberately to overwhelm and oppress the minds of students unfortunate enough to be incarcerated there, with massive walls of gray stone streaked with moss, and tall, cramped windows admitting only enough light to allow the contemplation of one’s sins or the merciful shortness of life.
    Mallory and I arrived as we had traveled, in an uncomfortable silence.
    On picking her up at the studio, I’d said something witty like, “You look nice,” which was certainly true enough. She looked, I suppose, like a young woman applying for a job as a junior legal secretary.
    She said, in a kind of savage murmur, “Mallory has exquisite taste.”
    The conversational tone for the journey had been set.
    When she finally caught sight of the school, she said, “Are you committing me to a lunatic asylum?”
    I said, “It’s a school.”
    “What are we doing at a school?”
    “Learning,” I replied neatly, pulling into a parking space by the entrance.
    As promised, one of the girls was waiting for us inside the cathedral-like entrance, a stout, businesslike youngster in a navy blue outfit that could only be a school uniform.
    “Mr. Tull?” she said to me, darting a look at Mallory.
    I told her that was right and glanced at my watch. It was 1:05.
    “My name is Ava,” the greeter announced. Good manners dictated a handshake and an introduction to Mallory, who said, “How do you do?” as if she’d been at it all her life.
    The classroom was suitably dim, dank, and high-ceilinged.
    Miss Crenevant looked like she might be Ava’s mother. She was tall and rather muscular, dressed in a mannish suit, with a jowly, rectangular face, thick glasses, and russet hair in an unattractive pageboy cut. She shook our handssolemnly, as if welcoming us to a memorial service, then turned to present us to the girls, who were staring at Mallory, evidently struck by her icy beauty and sophisticated manner.
    “I thought you might want these,” she said, indicating two high stools she’d arranged at the front of the class.
    “Yes, that’s fine,” I said, awkwardly leading the way.
    Mallory sat down, crossed her legs precisely, and looked around with an air of detachment, establishing that none of this had anything to do with her.
    I sent my eyes round the class, and the girls—fifteen or eighteen in all—switched their gaze from her to me. We were ready to begin.
    “I want to start by thanking you for your time,” I said and gave them a moment to snicker at this rather silly statement, since we all knew they’d had no say in the matter. “Believe it or not,” I went on, “you’re going to do something important in this room today, for this person here, Mallory Hastings.”
    Mallory shot me a perplexed, half-angry look.
    “Miss Hastings,” I went on, “recently had an accident in her automobile that—without going into details—caused her to suffer an unusual form of amnesia.”
    There was no doubt I had their attention now.
    “I’m sure you know what amnesia is and what its usual effects are. The amnesiac may be missing his name, his address, even his occupation, but he hasn’t forgotten how to read and speak the language he grew up with. He hasn’t forgotten how to drive a car. He hasn’t forgotten what money is or what it can buy. He hasn’t forgotten that he’s a citizen of a certain country with a certain history, a certain political structure, and so on. Yet he may not recognize either his parents or his wife and children.
    “Some of this is true of Miss Hastings—and some of it isn’t. There are some very fundamental things that exist in your heads that are missing in hers. These are things you take for granted, that you hardly think about at all, and that may actually seem to you