by Frank Tallis
“Put it over there,” said Rheinhardt to his assistant, indicating the far corner of the room. “And then I’m afraid I must ask you to go to Leopoldstadt.”
“Why, sir?” asked Haussmann.
“To arrest Rabbi Seligman’s caretaker.” Rheinhardt turned to address Liebermann. “I will have to speak to Commissioner Brugel about the management of Professor Priel’s trial. His intention to radicalize the Jews of Vienna must never be reported. I am thankful that Priel chose Sachs as his last victim. At least this will make it easier for us to ascribe his behavior to lunacy, and disguise his political objectives.” Rheinhardt swallowed and added, “Although, of course, that may not be so far from the truth. His plan was absurd, wasn’t it? Are stories and symbols so very potent? Could they really be used to unite and mobilize a whole people?”
“The Pan-Germans make much of their folklore…”
“Yes, but really, Max.” Rheinhardt pushed the remains of his biscuit between his lips. While chewing he added, “Priel must be unbalanced-surely?”
Liebermann walked to the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. He caught his reflection in the glass and touched the scabs on his cheek.
“Look at me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve got to go before the hospital committee in a few days. I look as though I’ve been brawling in a beer cellar!”
79
Herr Poppmeier was supine, looking up at the ceiling with a vacant expression on his face.
“You will recall that we were discussing your wife’s second pregnancy.” Liebermann spoke softly. “You said that you had traveled to Steyr on a work assignment, and it was while you were there that you received the telegram containing news of the stillbirth. But I could not help noticing, Herr Poppmeier, a small speech error that you made. When I asked you where you were when the telegram arrived, you started to say Linz, but you corrected yourself and said Steyr instead. This is very strange, because people tend to remember exactly where they were at the time when they first received momentous news. I am sure, for example, that you could tell me where you were when the empress Elisabeth was assassinated. Think, Herr Poppmeier. Think very carefully. Were you really in Steyr?”
“You know,” Herr Poppmeier replied, “now that you mention it, my memories of that trip are a little vague. I’ve always put it down to shock. The news was so unexpected. Even so, I’m reasonably confident that I was in Steyr.”
“No, Herr Poppmeier. You were not in Steyr. Your wife informs me that you were staying in Linz.”
“Well, there you are,” said Poppmeier. “My mind is playing tricks on me.”
“And the question is, why should it be playing tricks on you? I would suggest that your memory has been distorted by a powerful wish. At the time when you received the telegram, you wished that you were not in Linz. You wished that you were in Steyr, and that is still the case.”
“Why should I have wanted to be in Steyr? I had no friends there to comfort me, no special affection for the place.”
“Then let me express the wish differently. It wasn’t that you wanted to be in Steyr. Rather, you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else other than Linz. You chose Steyr simply because it was one of your usual destinations.”
“Herr Doctor, this isn’t helping me very much.” Poppmeier scratched his head, and some flakes of dandruff fell onto the pillow. “This is all very confusing.”
“Then let us consider again your recurring dream, which will-I believe-clarify matters. The action of the dream takes place in a hotel that you likened to the Kaiser in Steyr. Once again, note the desire to be away from Linz. You appear in the dream as a priest, which reveals the presence of another wish, a wish that you had been celibate.”
“Ah yes,” said Poppmeier. “I see what you mean. The dream is an expression of regret. If I had been celibate, if I hadn’t made my wife pregnant in the first place, then the terrible confinement-and the baby’s death-might have been avoided.”
Liebermann tapped his pen on the chair arm.
“I favor another interpretation. After receiving news of your wife’s fateful confinement, you wished you had been celibate…”-Liebermann hesitated before adding-“not back in Vienna, but in Linz.”
Poppmeier rocked his head from side to side. “I’m not really following this. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“In your dream,” Liebermann persisted, “you were asked by a pretty nurse to give a dying child the last rites, and you refused. The dying child is, of course, your own stillborn child, and your refusal to administer the last rites represents the understandable difficulty you experienced in accepting what had transpired. Denial. A very common response when-”
“Yes, yes,” Poppmeier interrupted. “But what you said before. What did you mean, exactly? That I’d wished I’d been celibate in Linz?”
“You wished that you had not been conducting an assignation, Herr Poppmeier.” The jewelry salesman gasped. “I suspect,” Liebermann continued, “that the pretty nurse in the dream was your lover. When you read the telegram, you were horrified-not only by the news it contained but by your own iniquity, the extent of your betrayal. While you and your lover had been enjoying illicit pleasures, your wife had been suffering the agonies of a protracted labor, and had almost died attempting to bring your heir into the world. Subsequently, the memory of your dalliance in Linz was repressed. However, nothing in the unconscious is forgotten. The truth always asserts itself, if only when the censorship of the conscious mind is relaxed during sleep.”
Liebermann leaned back in his chair and observed the effect of his pronouncements on his patient. Poppmeier’s eyes were now glassy and unfocused.
“One must suppose,” Liebermann added, “that your guilt was amplified by some residue of childhood. Your promised siblings did not arrive, and you may have concluded at that tender age that their advent was being prevented magically by your own desire to retain the exclusive attention of your mother. It is possible that a trace of this magical thinking still survives. Thus, somewhere in the depths of your mind you harbor a belief that your assignation exercised a malign influence on your wife’s confinement.”
Liebermann wondered what Herr Poppmeier was thinking, whether repressed memories of Linz were now rising up and breaking into awareness.
“You wanted to make amends. You wanted to atone. And for you, that atonement has taken the form of symptoms. They are a compensation for your prior neglect. They are a means of sharing the burden of your wife’s current pregnancy. In effect, they are an apology and a reaffirmation of your love.”
“Dear God,” said Poppmeier hoarsely. “The train journey, the hotel bedroom… the woman. I had given her a ring from the Prestige range as an enticement. A heart-shaped ring-dear God-with an opal set in a decoration of perpendicular bars.” Poppmeier’s eyes closed tightly. His expression became anguished, and his lower lip trembled like a child’s. Tears trickled down his cheeks. “What am I to do, Herr Doctor?” he groaned. “Must I tell Arabelle? Confess?”
Liebermann sighed. “That is for you to decide. Our work is done now. I would be very surprised if your symptoms persist.”
The young doctor stood up, squeezed the jewelry salesman’s shoulder, and quietly left the room.
80
Liebermann was seated outside a large double door. He had been waiting there for some time. His heart was beating with uncomfortable violence, and his palms were moist with anxiety. The committee room was located on an upper floor of the hospital, far removed from the wards. An unpleasant musty odor tainted the air, redolent of old wardrobes. Hanging from the wall at regular intervals were portraits of distinguished administrators and benefactors. Their expressions were either haughty or censorious. Liebermann stood and examined the likeness of Princess Stixenstein: sharp features, a cruel mouth, and a pale powdered complexion. The observer, gazing up at her disdainful visage, could not help but feel diminished.
From behind the doors came the sound of muffled voices.
Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch.
The hands had barely moved.
How much longer?
It was intolerable. Time seemed to have slowed down. Each extended second, inching forward, made every minute into an eternity.
Suddenly the hush was broken by the sound of footsteps. The double doors were flung open by a clerk who possessed the appearance and manner of a funeral director.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann?”
“Yes?”
“The committee is ready to see you. When you enter the committee room, proceed to the table and stand in front of the chancellor. Do not speak unless you are addressed first. Is that clear? Good. This way, please.”
The clerk led Liebermann through an antechamber, and vanished as they entered a big ceremonial hall. At the far end was a long table, behind which sat five figures silhouetted against a row of tall rectangular windows. Liebermann followed the clerk’s instructions and stopped in front of the chancellor, who occupied the central position. When their gazes met, Liebermann bowed.
“Thank you for coming, Herr Doctor,” said the chancellor. “Before we proceed I would like to introduce you to my fellow committee members.” He gestured to his right. “Dr. Eisler and Professor Roga.” And then to his left. “Bishop Waldheim and Municipal Councillor Julius Schmidt.” None of them responded to the introduction with any of the usual signs of courtesy. They sat impassively, observing Liebermann with granite faces. The chancellor consulted some papers and summarized the allegations made against Liebermann by Father Benedikt and the medical aspirant Edlinger. He then asked the committee members if they had any questions.
Schmidt raised his hand.
“Please proceed,” said the chancellor.
“Thank you, Professor Gandler. Thank you.” Schmidt leaned forward. “Herr Dr. Liebermann, these are very serious allegations, are they not?”
“Very serious indeed, sir.”
“And do you have anything to say in your defense?”
“Although it is true that I prevented Father Benedikt from administering the last rites to the young Baron von Kortig, I did not use violence to achieve that end.”
“You barred the priest’s way.”
“I placed my arm across a doorway, and he stopped.”
“The aspirant-Herr Edlinger-who was present at the time is of the opinion that your behavior was threatening.”
“That may have been Edlinger’s perception. However, it was never my intention to threaten the priest.”
“Then why did you do it? Why did you physically stop him from entering the ward?”
“I was concerned for the welfare of my patient. I did not-”
“Yes,” Schmidt interrupted. “We know the reasons you gave for denying the young Baron von Kortig the consolation of his faith. But that is a different matter. The question I am asking concerns your conduct toward Father Benedikt. I repeat, why did you physically stop him from entering the ward?”
“I did not think he had given due consideration to the young baron’s state of mind. I hoped that, after a moment’s delay, he might review his position.”
“Well, if I may say so, Herr Doctor, that strikes me as a remarkably arrogant thing to suggest. How could you possibly know what Father Benedikt had-or hadn’t-considered?”
“Come now, Councillor,” said Professor Roga. “I think Dr. Liebermann should be allowed to justify himself. That, after all, is why he is here today. You were saying, Herr Doctor, that you were concerned for the welfare of your patient…”
Liebermann looked over to the professor, a dignified gentleman with kind eyes.
“Thank you, sir. The young baron had been given morphine and was oblivious of his condition. If Father Benedikt had begun to administer the last rites, this would have signaled the young baron’s imminent demise. I believe that this would have caused him great distress. He was not mentally prepared to die.”
“Herr Doctor,” said the bishop, “do you think what you did was wrong?”
“I did what I thought was best for my patient,” said Liebermann.
“Yes,” said the bishop, “but was it wrong to stop Father Benedikt from administering the last rites to a dying Catholic?”
“I am a doctor,” Liebermann continued. “When I am called to attend a patient, I do not see a Catholic patient, a Jewish patient, or a Muslim patient. I see only an individual in need of care, a fellow citizen of Vienna.”
“But we are not all the same, are we?” said the bishop. “We are, in many ways, quite different.”
“I do not believe that people are so very different,” Liebermann replied. “Particularly when they are dying. In the final moments, we all want peace, not terror.”
The bishop frowned. “If you encountered the same situation again, would you repeat your actions?”
“Yes,” said Liebermann. “I would.”
Eisler coughed into his hand and caught Liebermann’s eye.
“Tell me, Herr Doctor, if you were asked to write a letter to the old baron explaining your reasons for denying his son the last rites, would you do so?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And if you were also asked to include in that letter an apology-not for what you did but for causing the old baron distress-would you do that too?”
“Indeed.”
Eisler and Professor Roga looked at each other and nodded.
“Well, gentlemen,” said the chancellor, “I think we are in full possession of the facts. Could those who consider Dr. Liebermann’s conduct unbefitting a physician in the employ of the General Hospital please raise their hands?”
The bishop and Schmidt registered their vote.
The chancellor looked to his left, and then to his right.
“Two in favor of Herr Dr. Liebermann’s dismissal, and two against. It is therefore incumbent upon me as chancellor to resolve this matter by casting a vote.” Professor Gandler sighed. “Herr Dr. Liebermann, I must be frank. I have not been impressed by your arguments. Moreover, you have risked exposing the hospital to a damaging scandal. In my personal dealings with you I have found you to be rash, proud, and unwilling to accept advice. You cannot disguise poor judgment behind a veil of immature idealism and expect unanimous approval.”
“Hear, hear,” said Schmidt.
“This hospital needs good doctors,” the chancellor continued. “It does not need self-appointed crusaders, an Order of Hippocratic Knights!” The chancellor paused before adding, “However, you acted in accordance with the necessities of your profession…” Gandler grimaced and uttered his final words with obvious discomfort. “And you will be retained.”
“Gandler?” Schmidt was looking at the chancellor, bemused.
The chancellor’s concluding remark was so unexpected that Liebermann was not confident that he heard it correctly.
“I can stay… in my post?”
“Yes,” said the chancellor, unsmiling.
The bishop and Schmidt had begun a private conference.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You may leave, Herr Doctor.”
Liebermann bowed, turned on his heel, and walked briskly toward the antechamber. The sound of discontented voices followed him.
“Really, Gandler,” Schmidt was saying. “This is quite unacceptable…”
Liebermann passed through the antechamber, and the moribund clerk opened the double doors to allow him back into the hall. As soon as they were closed behind him, Liebermann made an obscene gesture in the face of Princess Stixenstein, laughed hysterically, and ran toward the stairs. He skidded to a halt when he saw Rheinhardt waiting by the balustrade.
“What are you doing here?” said Liebermann.
“I wanted to be the first to know. Well?”
“I haven’t been dismissed. I can stay in my post.”
Rheinhardt embraced the young doctor and emitted a deep, resonant chuckle. “Then we must celebrate!”
They walked to the Cafe Landtmann and sat outside. Rheinhardt or
dered mountains of food: zwiebelrostbraten, beef tenderloin with crisp onions; krautrouladen, cabbage stuffed with mincemeat, parsley, and pepper; saure nierndln, soured kidneys; and warme rahmgurken, warm cucumbers in cream sauce. He also ordered two bottles of red wine, one of which was consumed in a matter of minutes.
“You know,” said Liebermann, “it’s most peculiar. I really wasn’t expecting the chancellor to vote in my favor. And the municipal councillor, Schmidt, seemed genuinely surprised, shocked almost. I could hear them arguing about it as I left.”
“Well,” said Rheinhardt, scooping a tangle of onions onto his fork, “perhaps he had good reason.”
“What do you mean? Good reason?”
Rheinhardt pulled a face, a slightly pained expression.
“I have a small confession to make.”
“What?”
“I wrote a note to the chancellor yesterday… and said that the security office intended to commend you to the emperor for an imperial and royal award. I mentioned that you recently helped us to foil a politically sensitive plot to foment racial discord.” Rheinhardt shoveled the onions into his mouth. “I indicated that the judgment of the hospital committee would not look very good if they dismissed a doctor so rewarded by the emperor.”
“And is it true?” Liebermann asked. “Is the security office really considering putting my name forward?”
“I raised the issue with the commissioner.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he’d think about it.”
“Then you lied, Oskar!”
“Well,” said the inspector, “that’s a matter of opinion.” He drained his wineglass and pointed at one of the dishes. “Try those kidneys. They’re quite stupendous.”
81
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
I was passing through Judenplatz and stopped to consider the relief depiction of the baptism of Jesus Christ. I can remember my father pointing it out to me as a child and explaining the meaning of the Latin inscription beneath. He doesn’t read Latin, so he must have been recollecting what someone else-possibly his father-had told him. The translation he gave, as I remember it, was accurate enough. The inscription says, “By baptism in the River Jordan bodies are cleansed from disease and evil, so all secret sinfulness takes flight. Thus, the flame rising furiously through the whole city in 1421 purged the terrible crimes of the Hebrew dogs. As the world was once purged by the flood, so this time it was by fire.” My father explained the nature of the event being commemorated and gave it a name: the first Viennese geserah.
