by F. R. Tallis
“Are you married?”
“Yes . . . but my wife and I recently separated.”
“A difficult time . . .”
“Thank you for your sympathy, Herr Doctor, but it would be better to save your solicitations for your patients. Their need is surely much greater than mine. Now, what was it you wanted to know about Globocnik?”
Liebermann made a steeple with his index fingers and tapped them together. “A lonely man, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes.”
“Good at his job?”
“Good enough.”
“And always sniffing . . .”
“Yes. He sniffed a great deal.”
“Nerves, perhaps?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Liebermann leaned forward. “Have you lost weight by any chance, Herr Bok?”
“What?”
“Your waistcoat,” Liebermann pointed over the desktop. “It’s creased. Horizontal lines—evidence of former straining. Yet you experienced no difficulty extracting your pocket watch.”
Bok pinched his waistcoat and tugged it away from his stomach. “I have lost a little weight, yes.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“Have you been exerting yourself more than usual?”
Bok’s ruddy complexion intensified. “I am in the habit of taking a short walk every day. That hasn’t changed. Herr Doctor, with respect—”
“Herr Globocnik—of course.” Liebermann removed his spectacles, cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief, and put them back on again. “Ah, that’s better.”
“Well?”
Liebermann squeezed his lips and appeared to be in a state of deep contemplation. After a few seconds his hand dropped to his lap and he smiled. “Thank you, Herr Bok.”
“I’m sorry?”
The young doctor stood up and bowed. “You have been most helpful.”
Bok made various huffing noises. “What about Globocnik?”
“What about him?”
“Weren’t we supposed to be discussing his fit?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You’re his doctor!”
Liebermann lifted his astrakhan coat from the stand and draped it over his shoulders like a cape. “Good morning, Herr Bok. And thank you once again for being so generous with your time.” Bok remained seated but continued emitting plosive sounds. Liebermann left the office quickly before indignation and bewilderment became anger.
The young doctor crossed the factory floor, aware that his progress was being closely observed by Bok’s employees. They were all women and most of them looked tired and undernourished. He noticed that one of them had a black eye. The clatter of the sewing machines was relentless and the air was opaque with steam. Before stepping outside, he paused and looked back. He was struck by the efficiency of the production line; however, he couldn’t help feeling that such repetitive work was bad for the soul. These women exercised no skill (other than the single action that they had overlearned) and consequently would experience no emotional connection with the result of their industry; no pride or satisfaction, no sense of mastery. He remembered his earlier flippant remark about machines taking over the work of humans in the future. Perhaps such a development would prove unnecessary, if humans were reduced to the condition of machines first. And all in pursuit of profit! He hoped that his father’s textile factories weren’t like this.
Liebermann exited the building and blinked at the bright sun. Apart from a few wispy clouds the sky was clear and blue. He lit a cigarette and began to march across a yard littered with empty crates and toward metal gates that had been left wide open.
“Excuse me.” He turned and saw that he had been followed out of the factory by the woman with the black eye. She was wearing a blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a brown skirt that was made of a coarse material that had the appearance of hemp. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in a while and the individual strands had clumped together to form a peruke of rat tails. “You’re Lutz’s doctor?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Please, Herr Doctor, could you give him this?” She produced a handful of change that amounted to about ten kronen.
“If you wish.”
“It’s money I owe him. He was kind to me, Lutz—a good friend.”
She tilted her palm and the coins changed hands. Liebermann counted the amount and tipped the money into his trouser pocket. “And your name is?”
“Dagna.”
“I’ll give it to him this afternoon.”
“Thank you.” The woman looked over her shoulder before addressing Liebermann again. “I saw him come out of Herr Bok’s office—that day—the day he had the fit. He was in such a terrible state.”
“He must have been very . . . distressed.”
Dagna lowered her voice. “Did he really try to kill Herr Bok?”
“I’m not sure.”
“He wasn’t like that—not Lutz. He wasn’t like that at all. But if he had a fit, well, I suppose anything’s possible.” Liebermann offered the woman a cigarette which she took and placed behind her right ear. “I’ll save it for later. Poor Lutz—it was so embarrassing . . .”
“Embarrassing?”
“You know . . . like a baby.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know . . . the wetting.” She made a gesture with both hands, up and down her own body. “He was wearing a gray suit and the dark patches were everywhere—all over him.”
“Even on his jacket?”
“Jacket, trousers . . . terrible; how is he, poor Lutz? I had an uncle who got put away when I was a girl. Never saw the light of day again.”
The factory door opened and a woman’s head craned around the vertical edge. “Dagna! Quick! Get back in here now!”
Dagna nodded. “Pardon me, sir—I’ve got to go—more than my job’s worth if I get caught out here chatting.” She lifted her skirt to prevent it from dragging on the gravel and ran toward the door. Liebermann drew on his cigarette and when he exhaled the smoke gave substance to the sunlight.
THIRTY-TWO
Eduard Autenburg and Axl Diamant were striding down the middle of an empty street, side by side, yet separated by a noticeable gap. It was as if some fundamental physical power, like magnetic repulsion, was keeping them apart. The two men cast sharp shadows that extended and contracted as they passed between stunted, rusty gas lamps. Already, the air was beginning to smell of fish and effluent. They had not spoken to each other for several minutes when Diamant exclaimed: “I can’t wait any longer!”
Autenburg continued looking straight ahead. “You must not act alone—do you understand? It is forbidden.”
“Why must I always do what you say?” Diamant sounded like a peevish, whining schoolboy.
“Because we are a collective.”
“I’m sick of your prevarication.”
“Your feelings are irrelevant—as are mine. The only thing that matters is the cause.” Autenburg asked himself how it was that their relationship had arrived at this sorry impasse. Diamant had been Autenburg’s protégé. Only a year earlier, they had been boon companions, kindred spirits. Now, they just bickered between awkward silences. Autenburg sensed the young man’s frustration. “We are at war,” he continued with firm determination. “An army cannot function without generals and foot soldiers, without a chain of command and discipline.”
“Did I hear you correctly?” Diamant scoffed. “You imagine us to be like an army? Please allow me to remind you that an army attacks its enemies.”
“We are attacking our enemies.”
“What with? Pamphlets?”
“Words are powerful things.”
“But no match for a gun.”
“I can assure you that the movement is always active, always performing great deeds.”
“Though never in Vienna. Perhaps the moment has come for you to step aside.”
Autenburg produc
ed a humorless, gravelly laugh. “And leave the way clear for a younger man?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Why is that absurd?”
Autenburg didn’t distinguish the question with a direct answer: “If the decision is made to initiate a campaign of propaganda by deed in Vienna, then I will submit your name with an appropriate recommendation; however, until I receive such notice, you must be patient.”
“Have you ever wondered why such notice never comes?” The inquiry was purely rhetorical. “It’s because they don’t think we’re good enough.” As the two men turned into Obere Weissgärberstrasse a startled cat ran through a pool of gaslight and disappeared into a shadowed alley. Diamant muttered, “I’m wasted here.”
“If that’s what you think, go to Berne.”
“I want to speak to Mephistopheles.”
Autenburg threw Diamant an angry glance. “Not so loud.”
“I want to speak to him.”
“You don’t call Mephistopheles! He calls you!”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe what you like!”
They had arrived at Autenburg’s building.
“Who is he?” Diamant’s eyes had widened and he sounded desperate.
“Not here!” Autenburg beat the air downward.
“Did you see him?”
“Yes, of course I did.”
“At the factory?” Autenburg nodded. “And where is he now?”
“I don’t know. No one knows.”
“You’re keeping me away from him, aren’t you? Just so you can carry on being in control.”
“That is a ridiculous accusation. Go home and I’ll accept your apology in the morning.”
Autenburg tried to step forward but Diamant barred his way. “I want to see him! I insist!”
“Do you really think that you—a philosophy student—are in a position to make such a demand? Do you really think that you can ring a bell and he’ll come running?”
“He doesn’t even know of my existence—does he?”
“We had no reason to discuss you.”
“You could have told him about me, you could have explained how dedicated I am, how eager I am to participate. But you chose not to.”
“The circumstance was not conducive to such a conversation. Now let me pass.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”
“You can’t stop me. I’ll make my own enquiries.”
“That would be very ill-advised.”
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? It serves your interests.”
“Enough!”
“Or what?”
“Axl . . .”
“Or what? What are you going to do?” Flecks of spit accompanied Diamant’s invective. “What can you do? How are you going to stop me?” The younger man lowered his arm and straightened his back to emphasize his height. “Accept the truth, Eduard. Face the reality of your situation. You’re getting old. You’re not the man you used to be. You’ve gone soft—and in more ways than one I gather!”
Suddenly, Autenburg’s fingers were around Diamant’s neck. Although he was squeezing hard, his efforts had little effect: he met unexpected resistance, muscle and bone, rather than soft tissue. The younger man grinned, gripped Autenburg’s wrists, and wrenched them away. Autenburg retreated a few steps and said, “Either accept my authority, or go. You cannot act alone. And if you threaten to do so again—”
“What?”
“I will have to report you.”
“Yes, you do that. Report me to Mephistopheles.”
“Have a care, Axl. Have a care . . .” Autenburg tugged at his coat and straightened his tie. Then, he whispered, “Not a word about this to Della, you understand? She hates it when we argue.”
Diamant shook his head. “You don’t understand her at all, do you?”
THIRTY-THREE
The women’s society at the university did not have many members and they met in a room on the top floor, overlooking the courtyard. Officially, they gathered in order to provide each other with mutual support and exchange ideas concerning methods of study, but in reality, they had far more important matters to discuss, namely, the rights of women, gender equality, and the delicate subject of reproductive anatomy.
Amelia Lydgate enjoyed the company of her fellow female students, all of whom shared a similar outlook and commitment to a life of the mind. Most of them planned to marry and have children, although none envisaged a future in which their intellectual ambitions would be endangered by running a household.
Only a few months earlier, the convener of the women’s society had invited Raissa Adler to give them a talk. Adler—who had studied biology in Zurich—was the mother of two children and still managed to be a significant voice in the women’s movement. When Amelia had told Max about Adler’s visit, she had been surprised to learn that he was acquainted with Adler’s husband—Alfred—another acolyte of Freud. Max had said, “Yes, I know Alfred. He’s got a very good voice. I once accompanied him at a party.” Vienna was a great city, but a curiously small world.
Clarimonda—a chemistry student—had been reading aloud from a pamphlet that she had been given by a woman on the street. It concerned the “new woman” and should have been interesting, but the anonymous author was somewhat preoccupied with equality of sexual license between men and women—rather than the general principle of equality. Much was made of the dissident communities in Switzerland, who practiced free love. Indeed, it was suggested that the politically enlightened male should encourage his spouse to take as many lovers as she desired. When Clarimonda had finished reading, she looked around the circle of faces, tacitly inviting comment.
“I can’t help feeling,” said Lorne, a student of classical literature, “that this pamphlet is the work of a gentleman.”
“That was my impression also,” said Amelia.
“His approach is rather narrow,” Lorne interjected.
“Almost obsessive,” Amelia added with healthy disdain.
“The sexual question is important,” said Clarimonda, “but not that important. Moreover, the majority of women do not equate emancipation with the indiscriminate pursuit of sensual gratification.”
“One might even argue,” said Lorne, looking over her spectacles, “that his conception of the female character is rather demeaning, a creature driven primarily by base instincts—consumed by wanton appetites.”
“Immoderate,” said Amelia
“Lacking in self-control,” Clarimonda agreed.
“He writes about the woman of the future,” said Lorne, “yet his understanding of women is rooted in the past. He mounts an attack on the conventions and traditions that have led to our subjugation, but at the same time reinforces the most unflattering and backward-looking prejudices.”
The hum of collective consent was quite loud. Like a swarm of bees.
Hedy—who had only recently joined the society—raised a finger and reddened a little before speaking. “The issue is not so much the woman of the future. I think we know what she’ll be like. She’ll be like us. No. It is rather, the man of the future. What will he be like?”
After a long pause Clarimonda said: “Quite confused.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Axl Diamant had decided to eschew the pleasure of drinking and eating at The Golden Bears. He didn’t want to be distracted from his purpose. Instead, he settled at a table in a beer cellar near St. Leopold’s. The landlord was a Ruthenian who wore a peasant tunic, a shaggy waistcoat, and a hat with a floppy brim. He had also grown an extraordinarily long beard, the pointed tip of which was tucked beneath a wide leather belt. Diamant ordered a bowl of kapusniak—a pork and cabbage soup served with sour cream. It was very filling. By the time he’d drunk half a bottle of horilka, his lips had gone numb.
The clientele smoked pipes and played arcane card games. Voices were only raised when someone ha
d won a bet. At half past ten, an ill-kempt musician carrying a balalaika entered. It was an odd-looking instrument, possessing a triangular body, a flimsy, thin arm, and only three strings. The musician perched himself on a high stool, pressed his knees together, and placed his feet on an overturned crate. Then, after a brief pause, he began to play. Some of the gamblers voiced their approval. It sounded like a folksong. The first section was melancholic, but the second section modulated to the relative major and became faster and faster with each repetition of the melody. The musician adopted a hunched position, occasionally looking up at the ceiling and contracting his features so that he looked like a shrivelled gnome. His rapid right hand was so limber it became a fleshy blur as he executed a superhuman accelerando. When he strummed the final chords, he received—perhaps unfairly—only a smattering of applause. A man sitting nearby flicked a coin that spun through the air. The musician caught it and said “thank you” in several languages. After performing two more pieces—another folksong and Brahms’s “Wiegenlied”—he jumped off the stool and snatched a few more spinning coins out of the air. When he opened the door to leave, he admitted a chill gust of wind that made the flames of the paraffin lamps shake and flare.
One by one, the card games came to an end and over the next hour the tables emptied. Eventually, the landlord called out, “Drink up—time to go home.” Diamant discovered that his legs were a little unsteady. This didn’t cause him any great concern. It was a long walk to Schönbrunn.
Outside, the night was fresh and clear. Stars sparkled with cheerful brilliance. Diamant crossed the canal, marched down Rotenturmstrasse and passed the cathedral. On Kärntner Strasse he came across a group of revellers, one of whom—a loud, stout man—was shaking a bottle of champagne. After popping the cork, the man held the neck of the bottle in front of his crotch and allowed a jet of frothy liquid to arc into the gutter. The joker’s companions roared with laughter. Diamant was overcome by a wayward impulse to stop the revellers and give them advanced warning of the coming cataclysm.
When you wake up tomorrow morning, everything will have changed—everything will be different.
