by Frank Tallis
Liebermann grasped his chin, and tapped his pursed lips with his index finger.
“An anticlerical group?”
“Who?”
Liebermann shrugged.
“Or some former pupils, originally educated by Brother Stanislav, who returned to settle a score? A payback for some cruelty, some violation, perpetrated when they were powerless to retaliate.”
“He was a priest!” said Rheinhardt, balking a little.
Liebermann threw his friend a look of wry amusement. He did not believe that an outward show of piety automatically merited respect.
“One should never underestimate the murderous rage of children. It is fierce, and unfettered by civilizing influences. I can well imagine some cherished infantile fantasy of revenge, shared by a close group of friends, festering, incubating in the unconscious, generating tension over many years—the release of which could then only ever be achieved by the performance of a brutal, cathartic murder. Ritualistic acts often focus and channel the energies of a community. They provide a means of safe discharge. Think, for example, of our funeral services and ceremonies. Appalling and otherwise unmanageable grief is contained by the time-honored practice of vigils, processing, and rites. There is certainly something ritualistic about decapitation. I wonder whether it served some similar purpose.” Liebermann turned and faced the column. “What is this?”
“A plague monument, like the one on the Graben.”
“And who are these figures?”
They began to walk around the pedestal.
“This, I believe, is Saint Anna,” said Rheinhardt, pointing to the androgynous figure with the compassionate face. “Mother of the Virgin. I don’t know who the fellow with the two birds is supposed to be, but this one here”—Rheinhardt nodded at the final statue—“is almost certainly Saint Joseph, husband of the Virgin. Do you want me to find out who the fellow with the birds is?”
Before Liebermann could answer, he slipped on the cobbles. Rheinhardt caught his arm.
“Have you noticed all this mud?” exclaimed the young doctor. “It couldn’t have been carried on people’s shoes. There’s too much of it. Is there a garden close by?”
“Not that I know of.” Rheinhardt squatted down. “They might have arrived in a carriage…” The inspector squeezed some of the mud between his thumb and forefinger. “It could have been stuck to the wheels.”
“In which case there should be wheel tracks. Can you see any?”
Rheinhardt studied the ground.
“Then perhaps it is inconsequential. Someone was carrying pots here earlier—and dropped them.”
Liebermann scraped his feet on the iron railings surrounding the pedestal. The mud was sticky and not easily displaced.
“I can’t attend a ward round with dirty shoes.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt. “That would be a catastrophe, I’m sure.”
Liebermann ignored the inspector’s pointed remark. Dirty shoes might not seem very important to Rheinhardt, especially when set against murder; however, in Vienna, a doctor indifferent to sartorial etiquette might just as well give up medicine. Liebermann took out a handkerchief, bent over, and started to polish.
Rheinhardt raised his gaze to the sky.
“What are you doing? There’s a shoeblack who sets up a stall just outside the theatre. He’ll be there in a few minutes!”
Liebermann was not prepared to wait.
2
MENDEL LIEBERMANN HAD NOT been very attentive during Professor Freud’s lecture. The first part—a history of the scientific study of dreams—had been quite interesting, but the second part, which had dealt mainly with the professor’s recent discoveries, seemed impenetrable. It wasn’t the first time that Mendel had heard Freud talk at the B’nai B’rith lodge. Freud had addressed the brethren many times before, and when he wasn’t talking about his psychological theories, Mendel found him perfectly intelligible, even entertaining. His talks on “The Goals and Purposes of the B’nai B’rith Order” and “The Role of Women in Our Union” were perceptive and thought-provoking; however, when Freud spoke about psychoanalysis, Mendel became utterly lost.
The audience was still clapping when Mendel turned to his son and said, “I’m not sure I understood very much of that.”
“What didn’t you understand?”
“He said that dreams are about events that happen the previous day—but on the other hand, he said that dreams are to do with forbidden wishes. So what are they? Memories of the previous day—or wishes?… I don’t understand.”
“They’re both, Father,” said Liebermann.
Mendel stroked his beard and glowered at his son.
“What does that mean? Both? In life, things are usually either one thing or another. Can’t you doctors explain things in a straightforward way… a way that someone like me, a simple businessman, can understand? As a rule, if something can’t be communicated in plain German, then it’s probably not worth knowing. That’s what I believe, anyway.”
“Very well,” Liebermann said. “Think of it like this: in every business undertaking there is a capitalist—who covers the required outlay—and an entrepreneur, who has the idea and knows how to carry it out. In the construction of dreams, the part of the capitalist is played by the unconscious wish: it provides the energy for the dream to be made. The entrepreneur is the day’s residues. It is the day’s residues that determine how the outlay is to be spent. There! Is that plain enough for you?”
“Yes, that’s plain enough. If Professor Freud had put it in those terms, I’d have had no trouble following him.”
“He did, Father. You just weren’t listening.”
Mendel waved his hand in the air, as if to say that the subject was closed.
“Come,” Mendel said curtly. “Let’s go.”
Liebermann and his father made their way toward the door. They passed Professor Freud, who was being detained at the rostrum by a few men asking questions. One of them had raised his voice. He didn’t sound very friendly. In an adjacent room, drinks were being served. Father and son positioned themselves by a window overlooking Universitätsstrasse. Outside, it had started to rain.
“See him over there. Do you know who that man is?”
“What?” said Liebermann, pulling his head out from behind the curtains.
Mendel tutted.
“Nathaniel Rothenstein. The banker. As rich as… What’s the expression?”
“Croesus.”
“Yes, as rich as Croesus.”
Rothenstein was a tall, handsome man in his mid-fifties with an impressive head of hair, brushed back like a poet’s.
“I don’t know who the other fellow is,” Mendel added pensively.
The banker was talking to an older gentleman whose bald, perspiring head was gleaming beneath a gaslight. His grizzled beard was thick, long, and rather unkempt. A pair of pince-nez balanced on his long, straight nose. He was evidently talking with some passion, as his hands repeatedly chopped the air.
“I think he’s an academic,” said Liebermann.
“Is he?”
“Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen him at the university. I think he’s a professor, a member of the philosophy faculty.”
“A friend of Professor Freud’s, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mendel’s interest in the identity of Rothenstein’s companion was short-lived. “Banking,” he sighed, his thoughts returning to Rothenstein. “If I had my time again, that’s what I’d do. The textile business is all well and good, but it’s only one step removed from the market stall. Banking is something else entirely, a different world. A man like Rothenstein doesn’t have to concern himself with factory managers like Doubek, or suppliers like Zedlacher and Krakowski. He doesn’t have to go to Prague to check up on incompetent accountants! Which reminds me—another trip is well overdue. No, a man like Rothenstein is invited to the Hofburg. A man like Rothenstein dines with emperors. When Rothenstein speaks, people listen.�
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“His friend from the university isn’t listening,” said Liebermann.
Mendel turned sharply.
“Why have you always got to say something clever?”
Liebermann did not respond. There wasn’t any point. He already knew that if he tried to defend or justify himself it would make matters worse. Mendel’s rebuke was simply a venting from a reservoir of suppressed anger (the depth of which the young doctor did not care to contemplate). He had disappointed his father in two ways. First, he had shown no interest in taking over the family business, and second, only five months earlier he had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s closest friends. The first of these “disappointments” had placed a considerable strain on their relationship; the second had almost destroyed it. Liebermann’s mother had worked a small miracle in getting father and son to talk again; however, the truce that she had brokered was fragile.
Mendel’s remark had created an uncomfortable atmosphere that effectively killed further conversation. Subsequently, it was a great relief to father and son when a dapper fellow wearing a spotted bow tie and a floral vest emerged from the crowd and came straight toward them.
“Liebermann,” cried the new arrival, taking Mendel’s hand and shaking it vigorously.
“Blomberg.”
“What did you think of the talk, eh?”
Mendel shook his head. “I didn’t really understand it.”
“Nor me…” Blomberg turned slightly, extending his hand again. “This must be your son—the doctor?”
“Yes, this is Maxim. Maxim—Herr Blomberg. You remember me mentioning Herr Blomberg, don’t you? He’s the gentleman who owns the department store.”
Liebermann bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Blomberg.”
“And you too, dear boy…. Dreams, eh? Well, we all have our dreams, don’t we? I’m not sure what Professor Freud would make of mine, but I suspect that all my dreams have the same meaning. I have only one wish, and it’s certainly not unconscious. Another department store… on Kärntnerstrasse!” Blomberg’s eyes glinted a little too brightly. “That’s what I dream about.”
“Have you seen who’s here?” asked Mendel, his gaze flicking across the room.
“Rothenstein? Yes, of course. I might try to have a word with him later. You never know, eh?” Blomberg tapped the side of his nose.
Mendel pulled a face.
“Ach! Always the pessimist!” Blomberg raised his hands.
“Pessimist?” said Mendel. “A pessimist is just a well-informed optimist!”
People were still streaming out of the lecture hall and dispersing around the room. They were joined by two more of Mendel’s friends, and the conversation turned from business to politics. Liebermann was expecting these men to express views similar to those held by his father. He expected to hear them criticize the mayor and lambast the traditional enemies of Austrian Jewry: the clerics, the aristocracy, and conservative Slavs. They were, however, far less preoccupied and troubled than Mendel. In fact, they were—on the whole—extremely positive about the condition of Jews in Vienna.
Liebermann had declined previous invitations to B’nai B’rith because he had assumed that everyone there would be much the same as his father. Even though he knew that Professor Freud was an active member—and Freud was certainly very different from his father—this did little to change his mind. Indeed, he was only attending that evening because his mentor had promised him a particularly lucid account of the dream theory. Now that he was there, standing in the lodge house, he had to admit that B’nai B’rith—which translated solemnly from the Hebrew as Sons of the Covenant—was nothing like the organization he had imagined. It was much more like a club for progressive thinkers than a “Jewish society,” which made Liebermann wonder why his father was such a regular attendee. He could only conclude—as he frequently did when trying to understand aspects of his father’s behavior—that it was good for business.
Professor Freud finally emerged from the lecture hall and was now standing on the other side of the room. He was engaged in conversation with a short, spindly youth with closely cropped black hair. Liebermann immediately excused himself from his father’s group.
“Professor.”
Freud shook Liebermann’s hand.
“Delighted you could come.” He gestured toward his companion. “Are you acquainted? No. Then allow me to introduce Dr. Gabriel Kusevitsky, a recent convert to our cause. Dr. Kusevitsky—Dr. Max Liebermann.”
The youth smiled and inclined his head. He looked far too young to be a doctor.
Liebermann congratulated Freud on his talk, but the professor was dissatisfied. “I should have said more about infant sexuality—but to do so invariably arouses resistances, hostility. Even the scant allusions I made this evening managed to offend some of our little congregation. Had I been addressing a professional body, I would have been more courageous. Still, the audience may yet have derived some benefit.”
Liebermann and Kusevitsky were quick to protest.
“The audience will almost certainly have benefited!”
“The dream theory could not have been explained more clearly!”
“Nobody in the audience—at least no thinking person—will ever be able to wake from a dream again without pondering its significance!”
Yes, he might have said more about infant sexuality, but he had surely said enough—given that the audience was mostly laymen.
Freud was gratified by their response but maintained a show of glum indifference. The imposture, however, could not be sustained, and his sober attitude was subverted by the appearance of a sly, almost coy smile.
Their subsequent conversation did not last long. Almost immediately, a plump gentleman with an officious manner approached and said that Freud was needed elsewhere. The second lodge committee (of which Freud was an important member) was having an impromptu meeting by the punch bowl. Freud apologized to his acolytes and allowed the official to whisk him away.
Liebermann and Kusevitsky exchanged pleasantries, praised Freud’s genius, and in due course spoke of their respective situations.
It transpired that Kusevitsky had only just completed his medical training and had been awarded a prestigious research scholarship at a private teaching hospital. The post was funded by the Rothenstein foundation.
Kusevitsky nodded discreetly toward the banker. “I have that gentleman to thank. It is a great opportunity.”
“And what area have you chosen to study?” asked Liebermann.
“Symbolism in dreams,” said Kusevitsky. “Professor Freud has suggested that, when interpreting dreams, we must discover what a certain object represents to the dreamer by examining where it stands with respect to his or her unique cluster of experiences and associations. Thus, a horse may represent different things to different people.” Kusevitsky had dark, intelligent eyes that floated behind thick spectacle lenses. A tapering wispy beard covered his receding chin. “At the same time,” Kusevitsky continued, “Professor Freud has also noted some intriguing regularities, elements that appear and reappear in the dreams of many of his patients and that psychoanalysis has shown us have the exact same meaning. For example, an emperor and empress are often found to represent the dreamer’s parents; a prince or princess, the dreamer him-or herself; and so on…. I find these common symbols extremely interesting, and believe that they arise from a deeper level of mind.”
Liebermann tilted his head quizzically.
“Perhaps,” said Kusevitsky, “we possess not only a personal unconscious, in which all our idiosyncratic memories are stored, but in addition a cultural unconscious, in which we find the inherited distillations of ancestral experience. We encounter these distillations in the form of symbols, which sometimes emerge in our dreams; however, they can also be identified in other contexts—for example, in our storytelling. Emperors and empresses, princes and princesses frequently appear in myths, legends, and fairy tales.”
&n
bsp; “You are already familiar, no doubt, with the work of the romantic philosophers,” said Liebermann. “Didn’t von Schubert propose something very similar almost a hundred years ago?”
“Indeed he did. But von Schubert could only speculate. We are in a different position today. We have psychoanalysis, which equips us with new tools. I believe that Professor Freud’s methods can be used to probe and explore the cultural unconscious.”
“That is very ambitious. In effect, you are aiming to analyze not just one man but all mankind.”
“Well, let us say one race to begin with. The psychiatric patients at the private hospital are mostly Jews. They will be my first subjects.”
“What does Professor Freud think of your proposal?”
“He is very enthusiastic. Apparently he was intrigued by what he called endopsychic myths many years ago, and I understand he discussed the possible existence of ancestral memories with a colleague…”
“Fleiss, probably.”
“He was writing The Interpretation of Dreams at the time and never gave the topic his full attention. He assures me, however, that one day he intends to revisit the area. Until then, he gave me his blessing and said that he was looking forward to reading the results of my investigation.”
“Yes, I can see how the idea of archaic remnants embedded deep in the psyche would appeal to Professor Freud. He has always loved archaeology. Have you been to his apartment yet?”
“No.”
“It’s full of ancient artifacts: little statues, stelae, amulets, and urns…”
The bald university professor who had been talking so passionately to Rothenstein earlier raised his hand, capturing Kusevitsky’s notice.
“I’m sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “You will have to excuse me. I am being summoned by Professor Priel. Until we will meet again…”
Kusevitsky bowed and joined the animated professor, who welcomed him into his group with an expansive embracing gesture.
Liebermann was not sure what he thought of Kusevitsky. He was a pleasant enough young man, but somewhat over earnest. Liebermann also wasn’t convinced of the value of his research—even if Freud did approve of it.
