Vienna Secrets lp-4

by Frank Tallis

  “I thought we’d agreed that sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be, and nothing else.”

  Liebermann shrugged. “You have certainly been fishing this week, and I must suppose from your good humor that you are pleased with your catch.”

  “All right,” said Rheinhardt. “You’ve made your point! I would be most grateful if we could now continue this conversation without any further reference to fish.”

  “Of course,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps we should begin with the autopsy?”

  Rheinhardt nodded, poured himself another brandy, and said, “Decapitation was achieved through clockwise cranial rotation.” He traced a circle in the air with his finger. “Professor Mathias said that the last time he’d seen anything like it was when he was in the army doing his national service. An infantryman stumbled across a bear and her cubs. She attacked him and ripped his head off.” Rheinhardt swirled his brandy. “The monk had no other injuries. Except some superficial damage to the facial skin, some small cuts and grazes, which could have been caused when the head was rolled away from the body. However, Professor Mathias did find a laceration about here…”

  Rheinhardt tapped his crown.

  “Caused by a blunt weapon, no doubt,” Liebermann interrupted, “which is why there was no evidence of a struggle. The monk was unconscious when they set about removing his head. Did Professor Mathias express an opinion regarding the handedness of the perpetrator, based on the direction of cranial rotation?”

  “No. He wasn’t prepared to say anything conclusive. Given that the phenomenon of manual decapitation is so rare, he advised caution in this respect.”

  “That is reasonable.”

  “I went back to the Maria Treue Kirche on Wednesday,” Rheinhardt continued, “to question the abbot. He spoke very highly of Brother Stanislav and was completely mystified by the monk’s murder. So much so that he was inclined to blame the devil.”

  “Ha!” Liebermann scoffed.

  “I waited outside the school and talked to some of the parents as they arrived to collect their children. Some had brought wreaths-costly for people of their class, and yet it was like a flower market! They described a kind, compassionate man, a teacher with a gentle manner, particularly evident in his dealings with the younger boys and girls. Brother Stanislav’s good works were not confined to the classroom. He made it his business to help the most disadvantaged families and frequently arranged alms and housing. He was, as far as they were concerned, nothing less than a saint.”

  “Then you have discounted my suggestion that he might have been murdered by former pupils seeking vengeance.”

  “It isn’t a conjecture that I currently favor, given what has since come to light.” Rheinhardt paused to light a cigar. “I returned to the church the following day and overheard two monks saying disparaging things about Brother Stansilav. One of them ran off. The other, a Brother Lupercus, was willing to talk a little, although he was eager not to be seen talking to me. He urged me to read some articles written by Brother Stanislav for Das Vaterland, a conservative Catholic newspaper.”

  “Not a publication I can claim to be overly familiar with.”

  “Nor I,” said Rheinhardt, smiling. “Haussmann dug some back issues out of the library, and we were able to find two articles by Brother Stanislav. They were supposed to be about education, but in fact, they were more like political tracts. Some heinous sentiments were expressed with respect to Jews.”

  “Clerics are always saying such things.”

  “They can be outspoken, I agree, but it is not customary for them to express their prejudices in such colorful language. He likened the diaspora after the pogroms to the spread of vermin, a plague.”

  Liebermann turned to face his friend. “You think there is a connection here, with the column?”

  “There could be.”

  The young doctor considered this possibility for a moment before gesturing for Rheinhardt to continue.

  “We learned that Brother Stanislav had become associated with a conservative political group, an odd amalgam of anti-Semites. A few months ago they held an unofficial rally in the old ghetto area of Leopoldstadt. Brother Stanislav gave an inflammatory speech, and there was some fighting. By the time the constables arrived, the crowd had dispersed, but later the body of a young man was found on the Prater. Chaim Robak, an orthodox Jew. He had been beaten and stabbed.”

  “The agitators killed him?”

  “We don’t know that for certain, but it’s very likely. Thus, one could argue that Brother Stanislav was responsible for the young man’s death.”

  “Have you spoken to Robak’s family?”

  “I see that you are already considering revenge as a motive. Yes, I have spoken to them. Robak senior is in his late sixties and walks with a stick. He married a much younger woman and they have three daughters, all under twenty and still living at home. None of them could have killed Stanislav. They are physically incapable of performing such a violent act.”

  Liebermann inhaled the sweet, fruity fragrance of his brandy.

  “I wonder why Brother Lupercus told you about the Vaterland articles.”

  “Even monks are prey to the usual human frailties-rivalry, envy, spite. He was probably resentful of Brother Stanislav’s saintly reputation. Or perhaps Brother Stanislav was always getting preferential treatment from the abbot. Who knows?”

  “Do you think the abbot knew about Brother Stanislav’s political activities?”

  “Perhaps. The sad truth-as I’m sure you’re only too well aware-is that, for most devout Christians, Jews are-and will always be-the people who killed Jesus Christ. Deicide is not easily forgiven.”

  Liebermann tilted his brandy glass and watched a point of light move around the rim. “The Hasidic communities are relatively self-contained, congregating around a hereditary leader, or rebbe. These men have enormous influence, and it is just possible that one of them might have orchestrated Brother Stanislav’s murder.”

  “I thought the Hasidic Jews were a peaceful people.”

  “They are. But there are always exceptions-fanatics. One can imagine how it might happen. Fiery sermons. The idea of retribution planted in the minds of devoted followers and justified with quotes from scripture. The rebbe might even claim to have received a direct communication from God Himself. This is all quite plausible; however, what I don’t understand is why they would have set themselves the most inconvenient task of ripping off a man’s head! If the purpose was to retaliate, then they could have simply struck Brother Stanislav a little harder-smashing his skull instead of merely knocking him out. This would have been quite enough to achieve their aim: an eye for an eye.”

  “Does tearing the head off an enemy have any religious significance?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “Not that I know of. The only biblical beheading I can think of is that of John the Baptist.” Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “Which doesn’t help us very much.”

  “Then perhaps it was simply an audacious display, meant to make their enemies fearful.”

  “But if that was their objective, why did they set about their task in such a peculiar way? Why didn’t they use a sabre or an axe? It would have been so much easier. There is something going on here that is most strange and I fear-at present-utterly beyond our powers of comprehension.”

  16

  After the morning ward round, Liebermann returned to his room. On the floor he found an envelope. He sat at his desk, broke the seal, and read the note inside. It was from the hospital’s chancellor, Professor Robert Gandler. Liebermann was to report-no later than one o’clock-to the chancellor’s office, in order to discuss a matter of utmost importance. Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and, discovering that it was almost noon, set off, walking briskly through seemingly endless interconnected corridors. He had to ask a porter for directions. Finally he managed to find the chancellor’s office on the third floor, in the administrative department. The sound of a typist, tapping at her ke
yboard, created an illusion of heavy rainfall.

  Liebermann knocked and waited for an invitation to enter. None came, so he knocked again, this time louder.

  “Ah…” He heard a voice, sounding as if it belonged to someone being roused from sleep. “Ah… do come in.”

  Liebermann opened the door. It was a large room, lined with shelves, each of which was crammed with files and official-looking directories. He was facing a desk, piled so high with papers that the person behind them was entirely hidden.

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Liebermann, sir. You wished to speak with me?”

  A head appeared from behind the barricade of paperwork.

  Professor Gandler was in his late sixties, but his abundant black hair was only just beginning to turn silver. It was brushed back from a high, pale forehead, and adamantly refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of gravity. Renegade tufts sprouted at various angles, giving the impression that he had only recently been battered by a strong wind. His dress was traditional and sombre, and a pair of eager eyes peered through oval-shaped spectacles.

  “Liebermann,” said the professor. “Ah yes, Liebermann. Thank you for coming.” He pointed to a wooden chair with a quilted seat. “Please…”

  The young doctor bowed and came forward, but when he sat down, he found that he was staring once again into the blank wall of piled papers. A tower of documents in the center began to retreat and move off to the side, its displacement creating a defile through which Professor Gandler’s head reappeared.

  “You wouldn’t believe the number of documents I have to read, sign, countersign, approve, reject, and so on. It’s quite intolerable.” The professor made a steeple with his fingers and hummed loudly. “Liebermann…”

  “A matter of utmost importance?” Liebermann prompted.

  “Indeed,” said the professor. “Indeed… However, with your cooperation I am sure that the situation can be managed. And once all parties are satisfied, the affair can be laid to rest.”

  “Situation?”

  “Yes. The von Kortig business.”

  “I’m not sure I understand…”

  “I suppose I should hear your side of the story first, although whatever you say, I doubt whether it will alter things very much. The priest would not have misrepresented events, and there were witnesses, of course.”

  Liebermann still looked confused.

  “It was you, wasn’t it,” the professor continued, “who stopped Father Benedikt from giving von Kortig the last rites? We have only one Dr. Liebermann working in the hospital at the moment. So it must have been you. I remember that there used be a cardiologist, Emanuel Liebermann, who worked here many, many years ago… Are you related?”

  “No.” Liebermann crossed his legs and leaned toward the professor. “I’m sorry, sir, but am I to understand that there has been a complaint concerning my professional conduct?”

  “The priest wrote to the old baron explaining what happened, and he in turn wrote to me. I was obliged to raise his grievances at the hospital committee meeting, which was scheduled for the following day. Unfortunately the committee members were very troubled by what they heard.”

  “With respect, Professor, may I see the old baron’s letter?”

  “Certainly not. It is confidential.”

  “Then would you be so kind as to tell me what he wrote?”

  “That you stopped the priest from giving his son the consolation of his faith.”

  “Sir, the young baron had been given morphine and was unaware of his fatal condition. He was making plans for the future and was in good spirits. If the priest had been permitted to administer the last rites, the young baron would have realized that he was about to die. He was not, in my estimation, a courageous or thoughtful man. He was completely unprepared for such a dreadful revelation. It would have caused him considerable distress. Fortunately I was able to stop the priest, and the young baron died peacefully.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said the professor, repeatedly batting the air with his hand. “You were acting in the patient’s interests. That goes without saying. But that isn’t the point.”

  “Then perhaps you could explain?”

  “Bishop Waldheim is on the committee and wants you to apologize. First by writing to the old baron; second by writing to the priest; and third in person to the committee.”

  There was a lengthy pause, during which the reiterative hammering of the typewriter-perhaps in the next room-became exceptionally loud.

  Liebermann said, “I am happy to write to the old baron and to Father Benedikt, and I will attend the next meeting of the committee-”

  “Excellent!” cried the professor, clapping his hands together. “I knew you wouldn’t be difficult! Good man!”

  “With respect, Professor,” said Liebermann, “I did not finish. I am happy to explain my actions and to answer any questions concerning the legitimacy of my medical judgment.”

  “Nobody is doubting your medical judgment,” said the professor sharply.

  “Then why should I apologize?”

  “You have caused offense.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Isn’t causing offense wrong?”

  “Not so wrong as letting a patient die in distress.”

  The professor got up from his seat and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out, a crooked smile twisting his lips.

  “Herr Doctor, you are placing me in a very awkward position.” He turned abruptly. “I am not sure whether you appreciate the importance of the committee. It not only provides the hospital with a moral compass, it also provides us with resources. The members of the committee assist in the raising of funds, and they wield influence on our behalf so that we can maintain the high standards that have made us preeminent in the whole of Europe. We all benefit from their patronage and charity-not only the patients but we doctors too. If the committee wants you to apologize, then I would strongly urge you to comply. For heaven’s sake, man, it’s a simple matter of dashing off a few lines.” The professor returned from the window and, resting both hands on his desktop, leaned forward, peering through the gap in his paperwork. “Look, I’ll tell you what… I’ll see if I can charm the bishop into accepting a letter to the committee instead of an appearance in person. There! That should make it easier, eh? How about that as a compromise?”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Herr Doctor, if you see no purpose for yourself in complying with the bishop’s request, then perhaps you might consider the interests of the hospital.”

  “With respect, Professor Gandler, I very much doubt that the fate of the hospital will be greatly affected by whether or not I apologize.”

  The professor sat down in his chair and sighed.

  “I am an old man, Herr Doctor. But I was young once, and thus have the advantage. You were never old. Permit me to give you some advice. Most of the battles fought in youth seem insignificant with the passing of time. When I reflect on my behavior as a young man-the arguments, the duels-I find it incomprehensible, and sometimes just foolish. I very much hope that when you reach my age, you will have fewer regrets than I do.”

  The noise of the nearby typewriter filled the ensuing silence.

  “Well?” said the professor.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Liebermann again, shaking his head.

  “Very well,” said the chancellor curtly. “You may leave. I will convey the substance of our interview to the committee and will commend you as a man of principle. I fear, however, that this will not be enough to appease them. Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”

  17

  “It is said that Enoch, who became the angel Metatron, was once a humble cobbler.” Rebbe Barash looked around the room at the studious faces of the young men. “But with every stitch he not only joined the upper leather of the shoe with the sole, he also joined all higher things with all lower things. His awl conjoined heaven and earth and
united the rocks and stars.” He stroked his long black beard, and his eyes became inquisitorial. “What does this mean? How are we to understand it?”

  “My rebbe.” One of the young men raised his hand. “Does it mean that he undertook his daily work meditating on the divine?”

  Barash’s large head rocked backward and forward. His coiled sideburns bounced, extending and contracting with the movement. He did not smile, but his heavy features communicated solemn approval.

  “Indeed. Thus, even his profane actions acquired the qualities of a sacred ritual. He transformed the mundane task of repairing shoes into a spiritual exercise. And in the fullness of time, he too was transformed. We have much to learn from Enoch, the humble cobbler. Through patient and persistent application much can be achieved. And if we are to transform the world, we too must cultivate the virtues of patience and persistence.”

  The zaddik paused and noted the rapt expressions on the faces of his followers.

  “In the beginning,” Barash continued, “when the vessels were broken, much of the divine essence ascended back to its source. But some remained enclosed in the shards of the vessels, the substances of the material world. It is this entrapped essence that sustains all. Nothing can exist-even for a fleeting moment-without its power. If all the essence is liberated, returning to its proper place in the realm of high things, evil will have nothing on which to feed and will cease to exist. The release of divine essence separates good from evil, a process that, if continued, will lead to the end of all wickedness. Eventually everything will be in its rightful place and our work will be done. Obey the commandments, pray, observe the Sabbath, and perform acts of charity and justice. All of these will release divine essence. God alone cannot ensure the triumph of good over evil. He cannot mend what has been undone. Therefore you must be like Enoch and approach every labor as if it were an act of devotion.”