by Frank Tallis
Liebermann was tempted to ask Barash if he had read any Freud. But he decided against it.
“Did you know that Burke Faust was going to die?”
“No, of course not. How could I? I hadn’t seen his face.” The zaddik stroked his beard and added calmly, “Herr Doctor, am I a suspect?”
“You will appreciate,” said Liebermann, “that as far as the police are concerned, the accuracy of your prophecy is rather worrying.”
The zaddik shifted in his chair.
“You are not a believer, are you?”
“A believer?”
“You do not practice your faith.”
“No. I don’t.”
Barash broke eye contact, and his line of vision found Liebermann’s forehead. His dilated pupils began to oscillate. The experience was unnerving.
“Where does your family come from, Herr Doctor?”
“My mother’s family are mostly German. But my father’s family… I think his side were Czech.”
“You sound doubtful. Are your origins of such little consequence?”
“We are Viennese now,” said Liebermann plainly.
“Perhaps,” said Barash, “if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean.”
“Rebbe Barash, if you know something more, then you must say. This is a police matter.”
Barash laughed, a mirthless convulsion.
“No, it is not a police matter. It is a matter between us and them, and whether you like it or not, Herr Doctor, as far as they are concerned you are one of us. Allow me to give you some advice. Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague, the most important temple outside of Jerusalem. Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray. Pray for enlightenment. Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful. Perhaps they will pity you and guide you back to your faith, and then-only then-will you understand, fully understand, what is happening. You think me misguided, don’t you? A superstitious fool, no different, really, from the madmen whom you attend at the hospital. I am deluded, whereas you… you are a rational man! But, Herr Doctor, your arrogance, your conceit, blinds you!”
Liebermann pinched his lower lip. After a lengthy pause he said, “Rebbe Barash, you put me in a difficult position. Am I to understand that you know more about these murders than you are evidently prepared to say? Us and them? Who are you referring to? The agitators, the Christian Socials, the nationalists? I must warn you, unless you are more candid, I will be obliged to submit a report in which-”
“Do as you please!” Barash cried, thumping the chair arm with his massive fist. “Tell the police what you like. Arrest me! Try me! I have nothing to fear. I am innocent. If you want answers, look to Prague. I’ll say no more.”
The zaddik stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Liebermann to stand. He was breathing heavily.
The young doctor rose, adjusted his cuffs, and shook the creases from his trousers.
“I seem to have caused you some distress, Rebbe Barash,” he said softly. “Please accept my apology.”
Before leaving, the young doctor glanced at the zaddik’s hands. He imagined them on either side of a human head, turning it around and around, the cracking of vertebrae and the severing of arteries.
33
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
We interrupted our circumnavigation of the ring at Karlsplatz, where we found a bench on which to sit and admire the Karlskirche. I was reminded of a fact originally learned at school: during the plague of 1713, Emperor Karl VI vowed that if the population of the city survived, he would build a church dedicated to Saint Charles Borromeo, a former archbishop of Milan and the patron saint of the plague. What an odd notion, to have a patron saint of plagues. I wonder if the Catholic Church has considered appointing a patron saint of gallstones or-even better-syphilis. Is it any wonder that Vienna leads the world in medicine? It seems to me that the Viennese have always been preoccupied by death and diseases.
I shared this speculation with Miss Lydgate, who asked how long it had taken to build the Karlskirche. “Twenty-five years,” I was able to tell her. She scrutinized the church for some time before saying, “The Italianate dome owes a great debt to Brunelleschi, don’t you think? The lantern, for example?” Needless to say, I had to confess that I didn’t know whom she was referring to. “Filippo Brunelleschi,” she replied, “the architect who designed the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. The largest dome in the world.”
As is her habit, she enthused about her topic and mentioned in passing a treatise, “On the Tranquility of the Soul,” written by one of Brunelleschi’s disciples. It was of some interest to me because the subject matter of this work was the treatment of depression. Two men, both depressed, are conversing beneath Brunelleschi’s newly constructed dome. One of them lists a number of traditional remedies for low spirits: wine, music, the company of women, and exercise. But to these he adds a new remedy: the contemplation of giant hoists of the kind that Brunelleschi had devised to raise his creation.
I was obviously amused by this idea. Miss Lydgate, however, was not altogether impressed by my reaction. She explained that this “treatment” was not really as absurd as it might at first seem, particularly if one considered it in its proper context. The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was nothing less than a miracle to the people of Renaissance Florence. Therefore machines that made such buildings possible were viewed as equally miraculous, symbolic of human ingenuity. To contemplate Brunelleschi’s hoist, in that age, was to realize the unlimited potential of the human mind, an undeniably uplifting consideration.
She then described to me Brunelleschi’s mechanical marvel: a large frame that supported a number of vertical spindles, each rotating the other by means of variously sized cogged wheels. Miss Lydgate reserved her most profligate praise for Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism, the operation of which involved a large screw with a helical thread. This gear mechanism was, I gather, of some considerable significance, but I am not altogether sure why. Miss Lydgate’s account was complex and difficult to understand without the aid of a diagram. In truth, I fear that her erudition was rather lost on me. I am bound to confess too that my intellectual powers had gradually deserted me as I became absorbed by the unique coloring of her eyes.
Over the years, marble and masonry weighing millions of pounds-I forget the exact figure-were lifted hundreds of feet by Brunelleschi’s hoist with astonishing efficiency. The mechanism was set in motion by a single ox. I inquired of Miss Lydgate how it was that she had come to know so much about a subject that must-in all fairness-be described as obscure. She replied that her father was greatly interested in the Renaissance and had taken her to Florence when she was only thirteen. While there, he had made it his business to gather information about the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore and its construction. On his return to London he had composed a pamphlet on Brunelleschi’s hoist for the edification of his pupils (how delighted they must have been).
I formed the impression that Samuel Lydgate had used his daughter as an amanuensis, and that she had spent most of her time during this Italian adventure traipsing around old buildings and holed up in dusty archives. This, I could see, she regarded as entirely normal! The sun was setting, and its red light found corresponding tones in her hair. She was talking about a geometric feature of Brunelleschi’s dome called the quinto acuto, or pointed fifth. I have a dim recollection of certain words: “radius,” “curvature,” “intersecting arches.” But what I remember most is a feeling of quiet desperation. I wanted so much to reach out and link my fingers with hers. But instead, I found myself agreeing with her on some point that I had barely been able to follow.
On returning home I attacked the Chopin Studies: a definite improvement. Perhaps the Klammer Method is working. On the ot
her hand, venting one’s frustrations at the keyboard typically produces a more impressive performance. And I am at present nothing if not frustrated.
34
Gabriel Kusevitsky opened the door of his apartment and found his brother Asher lying on the sofa, a pen in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On his lap was a notebook. The pages were covered in Asher’s jagged script and splotches of ink. Distributed around the sofa were balls of scrunched-up paper, unsuccessful drafts that had been ripped out. Although it was still light outside, the curtains had been drawn and a paraffin lamp burned on the table. The air was stale with cigarette smoke.
Asher looked up. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Where have you been?”
Gabriel started to respond, stopped himself, and then smiled nervously. He dropped his umbrella into the stand and said, “I went to see Anna.”
“But you saw her only a few days ago.”
“Yes, that’s true, but…” Gabriel’s sentence trailed off. He shrugged, and moved toward his bedroom door.
“Gabriel?” Gabriel stopped and looked back at his brother. “Gabriel, it wasn’t easy for Professor Priel to get you that scholarship. The case for such a research project had to be made. There were many applicants, all of them good.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You have work to do.”
“I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Gabriel walked over to the sofa and rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How is the new play coming along?”
Asher made a sweeping gesture with his hand, drawing Gabriel’s attention to the scrunched-up sheets of paper.
“Slowly.”
“Have you been out today?”
“No.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to get you something?”
“I’m not hungry.” Asher looked up at his brother. “Did you really go to see Anna again?”
“Yes.”
“You must be very fond of her.”
Gabriel nodded. “I am.”
“I’m happy for you. But you must not let Professor Priel down, and you must not neglect your work.”
Gabriel put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a book with a battered cloth cover.
“Look at this.”
“What is it?”
“Hildebrandt’s treatise on dreams. It’s a first edition-1875, Leipzig. I bought it for next to nothing from an old man selling books from a stall. He had no idea what it was.”
Asher took the volume from his brother and flicked through the pages.
“Would I understand it?”
“Yes, it isn’t very technical. Professor Freud quotes Hildebrandt, an observation Hildebrandt made concerning memory and dreams… that dreams often reproduce remote or even forgotten events from our earliest years.” Asher closed the book. “Do you still get such dreams?”
“Sometimes.”
“I still get the hunting dream.”
“I know. You had it again the night before last. You were making noises in your sleep.”
Gabriel’s expression became intense.
“We were lion cubs this time, running across a frozen waste.”
“Did we get caught?”
“I could hear the Cossack behind us. The drumming of hooves. The swish of his blade. Then I woke up.”
“We escaped, then.” Asher passed the book back to his brother. “Go to bed. I want to finish this act tonight.”
35
Councillor Schmidt offered Bishop Waldheim more tea and a plate of steirische schneeballen-strips of dough molded into “snowballs,” fried until golden brown, and generously dusted with powdered sugar. The bishop accepted, and after biting through the crisp exterior of the pastry emitted a low growl to express his satisfaction. They had just finished interviewing Nurse Heuber.
“Not as forthcoming as we had hoped,” said the bishop.
“No,” said Schmidt.
“She was obviously quite anxious.”
“That’s it, you see… I think these people need to know that they have nothing to fear, that they have our full support.”
“Well, that goes without saying, doesn’t it?”
“Perhaps not, Bishop. Perhaps not.” Schmidt sampled a snowball and was impressed by his cook’s achievement. The brittle surface offered just enough resistance, and the soft interior was redolent of vanilla and rum. “I may be a little more direct with the next witness,” Schmidt added. He looked toward the bishop for approval, his eyebrows raised slightly, expectant.
“Do whatever you think best,” said the bishop, collecting up the snowball remnants on his plate and pressing them between his unusually rosy lips.
When they had finished their tea, Schmidt summoned his butler and asked for Edlinger to be shown in. When the young man appeared, the councillor came around the table and shook his hand.
“Edlinger, dear boy, delighted you could come. We are most grateful.”
Schmidt introduced Bishop Waldheim, and the young man-impressed by his office-bowed ostentatiously low. The bishop, however, responded only by raising his hand and tracing a vague cruciform benediction in the air. Schmidt offered Edlinger a seat and then returned to his place beside the bishop.
“So, Edlinger,” said Schmidt. “I understand that you are a friend of my nephew Fabian.”
“Yes, we are well acquainted.”
“Indeed, he speaks very highly of you.”
Edlinger looked a little embarrassed, painfully aware that Fabian’s esteem had not been earned by acts of Christian charity.
“Well…,” said the young man, shrugging and hoping that his inarticulacy would pass for modesty.
Schmidt produced a benign, indulgent smile.
“You are an aspirant?”
“Yes.”
“And where do you want to practice, once you are qualified?”
“At the General Hospital.”
“And why not? It is, after all, the finest medical institution in the world. Do you have a special interest?”
“Liver disease.”
“Liver disease, eh? Well, I suppose Professor Hollar is your man. If you could get a position working under a specialist with his reputation, well, that would be a tremendous advantage, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Edlinger, somewhat confused. “It would.”
“A man like him has more private referrals than he can possibly see. He’s always passing wealthy patients on to his juniors. Yes, you couldn’t hope for a better start to a career in medicine.”
Again, Schmidt smiled.
Edlinger glanced nervously at the bishop.
“Well,” Schmidt continued, “I must apologize for involving you in a disciplinary matter, but you were present on the evening when the young Baron von Kortig died. You are, therefore, a key witness, and we would very much value your assistance. There are certain details that need to be-as it were-clarified.”
“Clarified?”
Schmidt picked up a piece of yellow paper. “I have here a letter, written by Father Benedikt to the old Baron von Kortig. In it he describes what transpired when he arrived to administer the last rites to the young baron.” Schmidt summarized the priest’s account. “Clearly, this is a very serious incident. The young baron was heinously denied the consolation of his faith, on his deathbed.” The bishop rumbled like distant thunder. “Incidents like this have the potential to destroy public trust in the medical profession, and bring the great institution of the General Hospital into disrepute.”
“Quite so,” said the bishop.
Edlinger bit his lower lip and stroked his dueling scar.
“Would you say,” Schmidt continued, “that Herr Dr. Liebermann’s manner-on that evening-could be described as aggressive?”
“Aggressive…,” Edlinger pondered. “I can remember feeling that Herr Dr. Liebermann should have shown Father Benedikt more respect. And I can remember appealing to h
im… I said something like, ‘What right do we as medical men have to interfere with a priest’s obligation to administer a sacrament?’”
“But would you say he was aggressive?”
“I’m not sure. Disrespectful, dismissive, perhaps.”
“He did obstruct Father Benedikt. Physically…”
“Yes, he did.”
“What would have happened, one wonders, if Father Benedikt had been more insistent? What if Father Benedikt had tried to get past him? Do you think Dr. Liebermann would have resisted, exercising even greater force?”
“He was quite adamant that Father Benedikt should not pass.”
“Disgraceful,” muttered the bishop.
“Was Father Benedikt at any point threatened?” Schmidt continued.
“He was not threatened with violence, no.”
“Though I suspect he must have felt threatened. Dr. Liebermann barred his entrance to the ward. Obstruction is a kind of violence. This was surely threatening behavior?”
Edlinger looked to the bishop, who was nodding sagely, and back to Schmidt.
“Well, I suppose it is possible that Father Benedikt felt threatened. He didn’t look very comfortable or happy with the situation.”
“Indeed. So if you were asked-let us say during the course of a hospital committee inquiry-if Dr. Liebermann’s manner was threatening, you would have to answer yes.”
Edlinger’s brow furrowed. “I…” He hesitated and scratched his head.
“Edlinger, I cannot help noticing that you have a dueling scar. What is your fraternity?”
“Alemania.”
“Ah yes,” said Schmidt, as if he were enjoying the aromatic waft of a fine coffee. “Alemania,” he repeated. “Did you know that I am very well acquainted with Professor Hollar? Did Fabian mention that? We sometimes share a box at the opera. A young man like you needs to consider his prospects, his future. Medicine is a very competitive profession. And there’s a lot you could do-right now-to expedite your advancement at the hospital.”