by Frank Tallis
“True. Where he seeks to heal divisions in the psyche, you seek to open them up in society.”
As Liebermann spoke, he found that his wrists were moving more easily. Were the bonds loosening?
Priel set his jaw and drummed his fingers on the journal. Eventually he said, “We are a people under threat, Herr Doctor. And the threat is not merely physical but spiritual. And when I use that word-“spiritual”-I am referring not only to the numinous. I am referring to something broader of which religion is but a part, albeit an important one. I am referring to our sense of who we are, which is preserved in our music, our poetry, our stories, and our dreams. They want to take those things away from us-”
“They?”
“The priests, the Christian Socials, the Pan-Germans, and we are complicit in our demise. We assimilate, convert, and become embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse! They divide us. They weaken us at a time when we must be strong. And unlike you, they respect the power of symbols and the irrational wellsprings of human imagination. They have their crosses, their Norse gods, and rune signs to rally behind, while we are left with nothing. While we forget, they remember. While we ignore our archaic heritage, they are celebrating theirs.”
“You talk like a prophet, Herr Professor.”
Priel shook his head. “You don’t have to be a prophet to foresee what is coming.”
“Another term for Mayor Lueger, and things will continue just as they are.”
“I don’t think so, Herr Doctor. I really don’t think so.”
The professor’s movements suggested he was about to stand.
“How did you know about my journal?” Liebermann asked.
Priel sat back in his chair. “I was bored and looked through your drawers when you were called out of your office. A private journal-unattended. It was simply too tempting.”
“You didn’t know about it beforehand?”
“How could I have known?”
The bonds were loosening! Liebermann pulled his thumbs in and twisted his hands. The Klammer Method was proving more useful than he had ever imagined.
“Well, someone might have told you.”
“Who?”
“Gabriel Kusevitsky.”
Priel became impatient and stood up. “And now…”
“The kabbalist’s lair? Was Rabbi Seligman your accomplice?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“The caretaker.”
“How did you persuade him to cooperate?”
“I bribed him.”
“Did he understand your purpose?”
“He’s a simple man, but intelligent enough not to ask questions.”
“But he must have-”
“Please, Herr Doctor!” Priel interrupted, raising a finger to his mouth.
“You have already killed one Jew,” said Liebermann. “And now you are about to kill another. Perhaps you should study the golem legend more closely? Isn’t it true that, ultimately, the Prague golem could not be controlled, even by Rabbi Loew? Isn’t it true that it ran amok, destroying parts of the Prague ghetto? Yes, the golem legend is about empowerment, but it is also about the judicious use of power. It is also about being wary of unleashing forces that we may not be able to contain. It is a metaphor. You have released the irrational-the golem within-with inevitable consequences: You are killing your own people, not protecting them.”
The professor ran his hand over his pate. His expression was suddenly shadowed by the presence of doubts.
“I…” He hesitated and started his sentence again. “Men like Sachs… they are evil.”
“And what about me? Am I evil too?”
“No, Herr Doctor. You are not evil. Merely…” Priel paused to select an apposite term. “Unfortunate. Please understand, I do not want to kill you.” The professor shook his head violently. “If there were another way…” His voice sounded strained. “But there is no other way. What I must do… it is far too important. I must proceed. Don’t you see that?”
“When violence is employed to serve an ideal, it invariably negates that ideal. No truly good cause was ever furthered by the use of violence.”
“Enough, Herr Doctor!” the professor snapped. “I will not be lectured by you! Do you think the Jews of the Ukraine would agree with you? Do you think they would approve of your philosophy, which is nothing but a hollow luxury! Do you know what’s happening out there? Do you? It’s started all over again, just like before! The horror! The carnage! Villages burned to the ground! Cossack atrocities that beggar belief: cats sown into the bellies of pregnant women!”
“And as before, the Jews will flee-and find safety, here in Vienna!”
“In Mayor Lueger’s Vienna?” Priel sneered. “Where Schneider can propose that a special police force supervise the Jews at Easter to prevent ritual murders? Where funds are made available to distribute anti-Semitic literature in elementary schools? And where a Jewish doctor cannot care for a dying patient without being accused of religious agitation!”
Priel tossed Liebermann’s journal onto the workbench and opened a drawer. He took out a bottle and a large sponge. As soon as he had removed the glass stopper from the bottle, the room filled with the distinctive sweet smell of chloroform. Liebermann pulled his thumbs in tighter.
Almost, almost…
Priel poured some chloroform onto the sponge and turned to Liebermann.
“I am sorry, Herr Doctor.” His anger had dissipated, and he appeared to be genuinely saddened by the task he was about to perform. “But I must do this. I really must. Please do not struggle. As you know, the chloroform will be much more effective if you take deep breaths, and I promise to administer the chloroform again, before…” He sighed. “Before we reach our destination. Do not be fearful. You will feel no pain or discomfort. I will make every effort to ensure that you do not regain consciousness.”
The professor reached out and placed the sponge over Liebermann’s nose and mouth. Liebermann complied, taking a deep breath. Chloroform, administered in this fashion, could take up to thirty minutes to produce narcosis. He calculated that he could afford to feign acquiescence.
“Good,” said the professor. “Good. Close your eyes, eh? It will be better… easier.”
Liebermann spoke sotto voce into the sponge. The muffled sound was incomprehensible.
“What?” Again, Liebermann mumbled a string of unstressed syllables, and the professor drew closer. “What did you say?”
Priel put down the bottle and removed the sponge.
Liebermann’s hands slipped from the bindings. The muslin dropped to the floor. Professor Priel’s eyes widened quizzically.
A heartbeat-time suspended-and a curious magnification of otherwise insignificant details: the pores on Professor Priel’s nose, the metal on his breath.
Liebermann swung his arms forward like a man diving. His hands met behind Priel’s head. Gripping the length of rope tightly, Liebermann pulled it around Professor Priel’s neck, crossing the ends to create a noose. Instinctively, the professor tried to free himself. He struggled to insinuate his fingers between the constricting hemp and his throat. Liebermann responded by tugging harder. The professor began to emit guttural choking sounds, and his complexion darkened. He pulled back, dragging Liebermann’s chair with him. The young doctor maintained his grip, but the chair toppled over, dragging Professor Priel down with it. They faced each other, lying side by side on the floor. Priel’s eyes were bulging, and his face was distorted. He began to thrash around, and Liebermann, already weakened by concussion and chloroform, felt his fingers slipping.
I have to hold on.
Priel clawed at Liebermann’s face. His nails found flesh, and Liebermann felt searing pain as his cheek was stripped of skin. The professor’s fingers, crooked into bony talons, then sought out Liebermann’s eyes. The young doctor jerked back and pulled harder. It was an extraordinary effort, and it made Priel repeat his original bid for survival. Once again, t
he professor tried to get his fingers beneath the rope, tried to pry it away from his throat-and once again he did not succeed. Desperate, Professor Priel pushed the heel of his palm against Liebermann’s chin and landed an ineffectual blow on Liebermann’s thigh.
The young doctor held fast.
More punches. A weak kick…
As before, Liebermann experienced a curious illusion of suspended time, accompanied by the heightened perception of detail. He became acutely aware of Priel’s eyes. The fear had gone, and in its place something much more difficult to define had appeared: an eloquent sorrow-disappointment? It might even have been pity. The professor’s eyelids descended, and the flow of time resumed. His body went limp.
Suspecting a ruse, Liebermann did not let go of the rope. But Priel’s final tacit communication had been peculiarly poignant, and Liebermann let the cord become slack. Immediately, Professor Priel began to cough. He rolled over onto his back, groaning and gasping for air.
Liebermann untied his feet and crawled to the workbench. He picked up the bottle of chloroform and knelt next to the professor. He checked the man’s pulse and waited for his breathing to become regular. Then he soaked the sponge and pressed it against Priel’s face. Liebermann stayed in that position, occasionally pouring more chloroform onto the sponge, until he was satisfied that the professor was unconscious. Then he stood up, righted the chair, and sat down. The fumes had made him feel light-headed, and he reached out to touch the workbench. The solidity of the wood made him feel a little better.
In due course he rose again and crossed to the barrel organ. He opened the doors and examined the interior. No bellows, no pipes-but two leather-covered discs and an array of cogwheels, pulleys, and chains. The discs were parallel and set apart but could be brought closer together, like the plates of a vise. Liebermann turned the crank handle, and the discs began to rotate. In his mind, he could hear Schubert’s mesmeric semiquavers, the ghost of Rheinhardt’s mellifluous baritone entering at the end of the second bar: My peace is gone,
My heart is heavy;
I shall never
Ever find peace again.
The door was locked, and Liebermann had to search through the unconscious professor’s pockets for the key. He found it among a bunch of other keys linked together on a ring. The door opened into a dingy lightless corridor that led to a steep stone staircase. At the top of the stairs was another door. This too was locked. He found the correct key, pushed the second door open, and sniffed the night air. It was fresh and cold. He emerged into an alleyway in which a horse and carriage were waiting. Turning around, he locked the door, tested it, and walked toward the tethered animal.
“God bless you, Professor Klammer,” he said. “God bless you!”
78
Somewhere in the Schottenring station a clock struck five.
Rheinhardt was seated behind his desk, writing the concluding sentences of Liebermann’s statement. When he had finished, he sat back in his chair, yawned, and offered Liebermann a cigar. Then he poured two glasses of slivovitz.
“The thing that I don’t understand,” said Rheinhardt, “is this: How is it that you managed to escape those bindings? You said…” Rheinhardt consulted the statement. “‘I discovered that the bindings were loosely tied and managed to free my hands.’ But that strikes me as rather peculiar, that a man of Professor Priel’s intelligence, a thorough man, should make such a fundamental error.”
Liebermann sighed. “Well, I don’t suppose it was quite as simple as that, but I think that my statement is perfectly adequate for administrative purposes.”
“That may be so,” said Rheinhardt. “However, you have now succeeded in arousing my curiosity, and if there is an explanation, I would be most interested to hear it.”
Liebermann exhaled a cloud of smoke and sampled the slivovitz. “Do you still get this brandy from the Croatian scissors grinder?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“We have an arrangement. He gives me information and I buy his slivovitz. It’s actually from his brother’s market stall.”
“I see.”
Rheinhardt assumed an expression of patient suffering. The pouches of discoloration under his eyes were more marked than usual. He looked a little like a bloodhound.
“The explanation, Max?”
Liebermann took another slug of the slivovitz. “I must begin with Professor Freud.”
“Freud? What has he got to do with it?”
“Overdetermination.”
“What?”
“I’m sure I must have mentioned the concept before.”
“I’m sure you have. Even so, would you care to refresh my memory?”
Liebermann tapped the ash from his cigar.
“A symptom is said to be overdetermined if it has more than one cause. The ease with which I was able to escape Professor Priel’s bindings can be explained by the happy coincidence of three contributory factors-two of them physical, and a third that was psychodynamic. First, the muslin that Professor Priel had placed between the rope and my wrists-to stop my skin from chafing-allowed me to move my hands. It was a limited degree of movement, but considerably more than would have been possible otherwise. The second contributory factor, or cause, comes in the shape of Professor Willibald Klammer, a hand surgeon who currently resides in Munich.”
“Max, you are being purposely obtuse-almost provocative.”
Liebermann shrugged and continued. “Professor Klammer is the author of The Klammer Method, a system of piano exercises devised to enhance strength and flexibility: finger stretches, wrist rotations, and the like.” Liebermann demonstrated. “I am a recent convert, and my Chopin Studies are much improved as a consequence. You should hear my Number Twelve now. The position changes in the left hand are seamless.” He reached forward and played a few bars on the inspector’s desk. “It would seem that the physical advantages conferred by The Klammer Method are not merely beneficial to students of the keyboard. They are, I have discovered, of equal benefit to would-be escapologists.”
“And the third contributory factor?”
“Professor Priel’s conscience, or at least that part of his conscience that operates below the threshold of awareness. Although he had identified me as a potential threat to his ambitious plans, he did not count me among the true enemies of Jewry. In truth, he did not want to kill me. Indeed, in order to perform the unconscionable act of my murder, he had to repress strong feelings of guilt. Professor Freud has proved that repressed material is rarely dormant. It always continues to exert a subtle influence on behavior, finding expression in slips of the tongue and trifling errors. I believe that Professor Priel did not tie the knots as hard as he might have on account of his unconscious guilt.”
Rheinhardt smiled. “Well, Max. That is the most orotund explanation I have ever heard in my life.” Rheinhardt opened his drawer and produced a paper bag full of wiener vanillekipferl biscuits. “Would you like one of these?”
“No, thank you.”
“They’re from Demel!”
The inspector looked at Liebermann as if his refusal to accept a biscuit from the imperial and royal confectioners were a sign of madness. He picked out one of the yellow crescents and was about to bite into it when he suddenly stopped.
“What’s troubling you?” asked Liebermann.
“The kabbalist’s lair,” Rheinhardt replied. “How did Professor Priel manage to get all those things up into the attic room of the Alois Gasse Temple without being seen? We haven’t really found an answer-which will be a significant omission in my final report.”
“He bribed Rabbi Seligman’s caretaker.”
“How do you know that?”
“I asked Professor Priel and he told me.”
Rheinhardt looked impressed. “And do you think this man, the caretaker, was in any way party to the murders?”
“No. His only involvement was with respect to creating the illusion of the kabbalist’s workplace. Well, at
least that is what I concluded from the way in which Priel spoke of their relationship.”
Rheinhardt bit into his biscuit, and a shower of crumbs rained down on Liebermann’s statement.
There was a knock on the door, and Rheinhardt called out, “Enter.” Haussmann appeared with Professor Priel’s barrel organ hanging from his shoulders.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. But what should I do with this?”
Liebermann stood up, crossed to Haussmann, and inspected the painted exterior of the instrument.
“Ingenious.” Liebermann opened the doors to reveal the leather-covered discs he had observed earlier and, winding the crank handle, watched them turn for the second time. In motion, the mechanism produced a sound reminiscent of a giant cicada.
“These upholstered plates are adjustable and close against the sides of the victim’s face. A complex system of cogs and pulleys creates mechanical advantage, the factor by which a machine amplifies the force put into it. By means of a simple principle of engineering, Professor Priel became endowed with the strength of a golem.” The young doctor pushed back a slat of wood on the upper surface of the box, creating a semicircular indentation. “This aperture is for the neck. After Professor Priel had concussed his victims, he rested the barrel organ on the ground, doors open, so that the head he intended to remove was covered. During decapitation, jets of blood issued from the major vessels, jets that would possibly have reached the professor had they not been contained within the barrel organ’s casing. Once his monstrous work was done, Priel was at liberty to return to his carriage in the person of a poor itinerant organ-grinder, a type with whom we are all so familiar in Vienna. His presence would have aroused little suspicion, even in the early hours of the morning.”
Liebermann reached into the barrel organ and wiped his finger across one of the wheels. He then raised his hand to display a red-black residue.
“Do you think he made this device himself?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Very probably. The means by which mechanical advantage can be achieved must be detailed in even the most rudimentary textbooks of engineering.”