by Frank Tallis
Uncle Alexander had been a distant and exotic presence throughout Liebermann’s life. He used to stay for weekends in Vienna when Liebermann was a child, but these rare visitations had become even less frequent as Liebermann had grown up. By the time Liebermann had reached adolescence, Uncle Alexander’s brief sojourns had stopped altogether. This was probably because his uncle and his father didn’t get on. They were very different people-opposites, in fact. Mendel was resolute, ambitious, determined, whereas Alexander was languid, easygoing, and rather too fond of the bachelor’s cheery existence to take the family business very seriously. This difference of outlook, Liebermann supposed, must have been the cause of many arguments. Liebermann remembered a handsome well-dressed man, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. He had always been very fond of Alexander and guiltily recalled how, when very small, he had wished that his uncle could take the place of his father.
“Why don’t you come along?” said Mendel, swallowing his last piece of apfelstrudel. He brushed his beard to make sure that no errant crumbs had found tenancy among his wiry curls.
“To Prague?”
Mention of Prague had made Liebermann feel uneasy. He remembered the zaddik: Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray… It felt as if some strange power were attempting to draw him to the Bohemian capital, the city of his ancestors. It was a feeling that he-as a rational man-found distinctly uncomfortable.
“Yes,” said Mendel. “You might learn something… about negotiating. You never know. It might come in useful one day.”
Mendel still hoped that his son would take over the family textile business. It was a futile hope, but one that he could not relinquish in spite of his son’s obvious lack of interest.
“I can’t, Father. My patients, the hospital…”
Mendel sighed. “I thought you’d say that.” The old man pushed his plate forward and beckoned a waiter. “The bill, please?”
Mendel knew as well as his son that there was nothing else to say. They would leave the Imperial and go their separate ways.
42
There were many Warmestuben in Vienna, “warming-up rooms” where people in need, regardless of their circumstances or origin, could find shelter from the cold and receive a free meal. None were asked to prove their indigence or to produce licenses for police inspection. Anna and Olga were proud of the Spittelberg warmestube, which they had worked hard to establish after securing large donations from Baron Konigswarter and Baron Epstein. The opening ceremony had proved to be a rather glamorous occasion (some believed distastefully so) in the presence of the emperor’s daughter, Archduchess Marie Valerie, who had attended in her official capacity as the principal patron of Vienna’s warmestuben association.
Anna and Olga were now standing by a giant tureen of bubbling soup. It was Anna who ladled the thick yellow liquid into a tin bowl, which was then picked up by Olga and handed to whichever unfortunate had arrived at the head of the line. A third person doled out bread and spoons. This process was mechanically repeated until everyone in the line had been served.
The Spittelberg warmestube was larger than most, possessing a dining area in which sturdy wooden benches were arranged in parallel rows. All the seating seemed to be occupied, and Anna had to squeeze people together to make more room. Even though the warmestube was full, it was remarkably quiet. All those who had assembled there-including the children-were too exhausted, miserable, and cold to make noise or conversation. The aroma of the fragrant soup, which smelled strongly of onions and garlic, was not redolent enough to swamp the disagreeable olfactory undertow of unwashed clothes and fetid breath. Some of the people in the warmestube had traveled to Vienna over immense distances. Only that week, one man claimed to have come, mostly on foot, all the way from Odessa.
There was a loud clattering sound, followed by the hum of anxious voices. An empty tin bowl rolled across the floor, spiraling in smaller and smaller circles until it came to a clamorous halt. It belonged to a young woman who had passed out. One of her neighbors had managed to catch her as she slumped forward, preventing her limp body from toppling off the bench.
Anna and Olga rushed over to assist.
“I thought she was ill,” Anna whispered to her companion. “When she was collecting her soup, I noticed she was wincing, as if in pain, and when she walked away, she was dragging her feet, like an old woman.”
“Michael, Egon,” Olga snapped. “Come over here.” Two helpers made their way down an aisle. “Take this young lady next door and lay her down on the rest bed. Then one of you must hurry and find a doctor.”
Within minutes Michael returned, accompanied by a venerable gentleman with white hair, half-moon glasses, and a pointed beard. He introduced himself as Dr. Janosi. Anna and Olga left him alone with his patient. When he finally emerged from the room, almost an hour later, he was escorted to a private room on the first floor, which was normally used for meetings.
“I’m afraid she is very unwell,” said the doctor, “and will have to be taken to a hospital.”
“What is the matter with her?” asked Anna.
“She has an injury.”
“What kind of injury?”
“Ladies,” said the doctor, “I managed to rouse the young woman with some smelling salts. She is originally from Galicia. She was-until a few days ago-a resident in a house of disrepute, here in Spittelberg.”
“She is a prostitute?”
The doctor nodded.
“And her injury, Herr Doctor?” Olga pressed.
Dr. Janosi looked over his half-moon spectacles.
“I do not think it is appropriate to say. It is neither seemly nor fitting for young ladies such as yourselves, from good, respectable families, to hear such things.”
“Herr Doctor,” said Olga firmly, “we are grateful for your consideration; however, I can assure you that Fraulein Katzer and I are experienced fund-raisers for charity, and our work has necessitated frequent contact with the lowest and most unfortunate elements of society. We are modern women and do not balk at the harsh realities of existence.”
“But, ladies…”
“Herr Doctor.” Olga raised herself up to deliver her final, imperious command: “You will please speak plainly.”
“Very well,” said the doctor. “She is suffering from blood loss due to an internal injury.”
“Internal?” Olga repeated. “Then she was… overcome?”
The doctor grimaced. In his day, a young lady would never have said such a thing.
“Her German was very bad,” said the doctor, “but as far as I could tell, she has-until this evening-been receiving men in the house of a procurer, a villain called Sachs. She had decided, however, to move out of his establishment and had told him of her intention to do so. He said that she could not leave her situation. They argued; Sachs became violent and began to abuse her. He overcame her… but such is the depth of his depravity…” The doctor’s sentence trailed off, and he looked away.
“Dr. Janosi?” Anna inquired, persisting.
“He held her down and inserted the wooden handle of a floor brush into her person. It was the vigorous movements of this implement that caused the bleeding. I am sorry-it is a dreadful affair. Such brutality should not go unpunished.”
“Will she live?” asked Anna.
“If we can get her to a hospital soon,” said the doctor, “there is a chance.”
43
The note had been slipped under Liebermann’s door while he had been attending Professor Heideck’s morning ward round. He knew immediately that it was another summons from the chancellor.
When Liebermann arrived at the chancellor’s office, Professor Gandler received him with a sullen stare and a few costive words of greeting. Liebermann sat down and waited politely for Gandler to speak. The silence that followed was deeply uncomfortable. The chancellor shifted in his chair and managed to say only “Herr Dr. Liebermann…”
“Am I to understand,” ventured the young doctor, “that there have b
een some developments?”
“Yes,” said the chancellor, as if addressing himself in a moment of abstraction. “Developments. There have been some developments.”
Liebermann raised his eyebrows, willing Gandler to continue.
“When we last met, Herr Doctor, you will recall that I expressed grave concerns as to what consequences might follow from the publication of the article in Das Vaterland-that is to say, the article in which references were made to your alleged misconduct on the night when the young Baron von Kortig died. It gives me no pleasure to inform you that my misgivings have since been proved uncannily prescient. The issue of your alleged misconduct has come to the attention of several members of parliament. These gentlemen belong to the Christian Social party and take a keen interest in religious issues. Questions have been asked, explanations demanded, and I am of the opinion that this matter will shortly receive much greater attention in the wider press.”
“But that is outrageous!” Liebermann cried.
“I would find it easier to offer you sympathy, Herr Doctor, had you not shown such disregard for my previous advice, which-I can assure you-was given in good faith. I told you that this business had the potential to escalate. You were warned, Herr Doctor.”
“Be that as it may,” said Liebermann, “your advice, however intended, does not alter the fact that I behaved as I did to best serve the interests of my patient, and with respect to the practice of medicine, I have still done no wrong.”
Professor Gandler’s upper lip curled to form a haughty sneer.
“I cannot believe your naivete, Herr Doctor. Nor can I believe your selfishness. For the sake of making some self-indulgent, self-regarding, self-important moral stand, you have succeeded in exposing the hospital to the most serious public criticism. Yet you are still vain enough, in the light of what has so far transpired, to maintain your belligerent attitude. I would suggest, Herr Doctor, that a little humility might now be in order! Do you not see what is happening here? What some sections of the press will make of all this? Do you not see how the hospital will be portrayed as a haven for atheists and religious agitators? And can you not imagine what effect such a scandal will have on the number of charitable donations we receive!”
“It was never my intention to bring the hospital into disrepute, Herr Professor. As you know, I merely sought to honor my principal obligation, which was to my patient, and to him alone.”
The chancellor shook his head. “Such worthy sentiments would be all well and good, Herr Doctor, if we lived in some perfect platonic world. But we don’t. We live in a real and very complex world in which decisions have numerous consequences, all of which have to be taken into account. To do some good in this world-and by that I mean substantial, practical good-requires an individual to rise above simplistic juvenile idealism.”
Liebermann was surprised by the chancellor’s vehemence. Moreover, his insult was finely honed. It was penetrating and hurtful, Liebermann realized, because it was also insightful. There was some truth in what Professor Gandler had said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” said the chancellor. “It’s too late for an apology now. However, given the current situation, I have decided that it is in the best interests of all concerned if you are relieved of your clinical duties pending a special meeting of the hospital committee.”
“What do you mean, ‘relieved’?”
“You must not have any further contact with your patients.”
“But that’s impossible. Some of them are very ill.”
“Then they will have to be reassigned to another physician.”
Liebermann raised his hands in the air, a futile mute beseeching.
“What is the purpose of this suspension? What does it achieve?”
“The hospital must show that we are taking the matter of your alleged misconduct seriously. If we permit you to continue your clinical duties, then there is nothing to stop you from repeating the offense. Such a possibility cannot be countenanced.”
“Professor Gandler,” said Liebermann, attempting unsuccessfully to maintain a steady voice, “the circumstances surrounding the young Baron von Kortig’s death were somewhat unusual. I do not expect to encounter such a situation again in the foreseeable future. Surely it would be better if I were relieved only of ward duties. I could then continue to see individual cases.”
The chancellor was shaking his head before Liebermann had finished his sentence.
“No, that wouldn’t be wise. I’m sure you can busy yourself in other ways. Spend some time in the library, write up a few old cases, plan some research…”
“When is this special meeting of the hospital committee planned?”
“We don’t have a date yet, but as soon as everyone is agreed, I’ll let you know. You will be expected to attend.”
“I thought you said it was too late for an apology.”
“It is.”
“Then why must I attend?”
“To justify your actions so that the committee can make a decision concerning your position here at the hospital. I fear, however, that little can be done now. Unless something very remarkable happens, I believe that you will be dismissed. I did warn you, Herr Doctor. I did warn you.”
44
Liebermann was already sitting in the little coffeehouse by the Anatomical Institute when Rheinhardt came through the door. The inspector hung his coat on the stand and made his way over to Liebermann’s table. A waiter who had been lurking in the shadows emerged to take Rheinhardt’s order.
“A turkische, please,” said Rheinhardt. “With plenty of sugar.”
Liebermann, finely attuned to the nuances of his friend’s behavior, registered that Rheinhardt had neglected to order a pastry. This he took to be a very bad sign indeed. Only something of the utmost importance would make Rheinhardt forget his partiality for the chef’s exotically spiced topfenstrudel.
“Well,” said Liebermann, “I must suppose that you have called this impromptu meeting because a very considerable problem has arisen with respect to the investigation.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “No, Max, on this occasion you are quite mistaken.” The inspector pulled a chair from under the table and sat down heavily. “This morning,” he continued, “I was approached by Hohenwart…”
“Hohenwart?”
“Alfred Hohenwart: one of my colleagues at Schottenring. He is aware of our association.” Rheinhardt’s finger oscillated in the air, linking himself and Liebermann. “Hohenwart investigates individuals and groups who seek to cause social division by religious agitation. Yesterday he received a dossier from a member of parliament that included letters from the old Baron von Kortig, a statement from a medical aspirant named Edlinger, and a draft copy of a scurrilous article soon to be published in the satirical magazine Kikeriki. Needless to say, the article is purported to be an account of events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig, and describes-in very colorful terms-your dispute with the priest. The honorable gentleman suggested that it might be prudent for Hohenwart to make you, Herr Doctor, the subject of a comprehensive inquiry.”
Liebermann opened his mouth and waited for a suitable expletive to give expression to his feelings, but all that he could manage was a horrified gasp.
“I know,” Rheinhardt continued. “It is truly appalling. I explained to Hohenwart what really happened, and he agreed that there was insufficient cause to mount an inquiry; however, this is, of course, a very disturbing development. You will understand now why I wanted to see you as a matter of some urgency.”
“The chancellor warned me that things might escalate, that my situation could become worse, but I never envisaged this!”
Liebermann told Rheinhardt about his recent encounter with Professor Gandler and explained how there was a good chance that he might lose his position altogether.
The waiter arrived with Rheinhardt’s turkische. The inspector tasted it, grimaced, and spooned some extra sugar i
nto the cup.
“Things stand to get very ugly indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Particularly if the newspapers get involved. You’ll be hounded by journalists. Given that you’ve been relieved of clinical responsibilities, I’d recommend that you keep a low profile. Why don’t you get away for a few weeks?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be very far, just somewhere they can’t find you. In the meantime, I can have a word with the editor of Kikeriki. Perhaps I can apply a little pressure and get him to withdraw the article. I’ll also request a meeting with the censor, who might be persuaded to intercept similar articles. After all, I very much doubt whether the emperor would approve.” Rheinhardt sipped his coffee and added, “I wonder who’s behind all this.”
“It can’t be just one person. You will recall that Councillor Faust wanted to eliminate Jews from professional life. There must still be others in the town hall who share his views, and creating a climate of hostility toward Jewish doctors would certainly help prepare the way.” Liebermann took a box of small cigars from his pocket and offered one to Rheinhardt. “How ironic… that I-a man without any religious convictions whatsoever-should find myself described as a religious agitator!”
Rheinhardt took a cigar.
“This chap Edlinger-I gather he described your behavior as threatening.” Rheinhardt struck a match, lit his friend’s cigar and then his own. “Why should he have done that? Is it possible that he had reason to hold a grudge against you?”
“I hardly know him,” Liebermann replied. “He did object to the position I took when I was arguing with the priest, so it could be that Edlinger is a devout Catholic, but I don’t think so. Edlinger isn’t really the type. He’s a rakish fellow with a dueling scar. No, I suspect that his animosity stems from a simple but universal human failing. Psychoanalysis informs us that we often harbor resentment toward those to whom we owe a debt, and Edlinger is-without doubt-very much in my debt. He shouldn’t have given the young Baron von Kortig morphine, nor should he have administered such a large dose. In fact, it was probably the morphine that accelerated the young baron’s demise. I could have mentioned this to Professor Friedlander, but I didn’t.”
