by F. R. Tallis
Liebermann allowed a few seconds to pass before he spoke again. “When did you see Fräulein Mugoša for the first time?”
Parallel lines appeared on the clerk’s forehead. “November.”
“At the factory?”
“She was working on the production line—collars.”
“And did you find her attractive?”
“I thought she was . . .” Globocnik closed his mouth tightly and Liebermann could see the raised muscles.
“Relax,” said Liebermann. “You are perfectly safe and can speak freely.”
“I thought she was very beautiful,” said Globocnik. Liebermann sensed that the clerk was about to say more and waited. “Her hair . . . I was always fascinated by its lustrous waves—and her mouth, its shape and color—and her eyes—their darkness and mystery.” The rhythm of Globocnik’s language was like a prayer. “No one else noticed these qualities. It was as if she was invisible.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. It could never be. I had never known a woman and she was so very shapely and graceful. All I could do was admire her from afar. I was constantly finding excuses to tarry on the factory floor, just so that I could look at her. How wretched I became. The yearning that I experienced was a sweet and terrible agony, a torment that I recognized from the works of Goethe and other great poets. I was afflicted, stricken—and there was no hope of happiness, because I would never feel the warmth of her embrace. Then, one day, a miracle happened. I was in the yard, smoking, when she came out of the factory and asked me for a cigarette. She smiled and we talked. She said that I must be a very clever man to do the bookkeeping—and she said that she liked the cut of my suit. I felt like a giant. She suggested that we meet in Café Schwarzenberg the following Sunday. I could not believe that the gods had favored me with such good fortune. It was the first of many assignations.”
“Did you make love?”
“Yes, we made love, on the tenth of December 1903, between the hours of nine and ten o’clock. During that hour, I was transformed. I became a man.”
“Tell me . . . did Fräulein Mugoša ever ask you for money?”
“I helped her with some debts,” said the clerk grandly. “And her wardrobe was rather small. I bought her a new dress from Taubenrach und Cie—and a hat in Habig’s. She was like a bud that had suddenly burst into flower.” Globocnik’s expression became troubled. “But flowers are conspicuous in a dull, colorless world. People want to pick them and possess them.”
“Herr Bok started to take an interest in her?”
At the mention of Bok’s name Globocnik became agitated and Liebermann had to offer him more assurances of safety. When the clerk was still again, Liebermann repeated his question. No answer was forthcoming.
“What happened?” Liebermann asked, “After Herr Bok took an interest in Fräulein Mugoša? You must answer all my questions—honestly, truthfully.”
“Herr Bok was a bad man,” Globocnik replied, as his customary defenses reassembled. “I think he must always have been a bad man. From birth I imagine. You see, it’s a question of morality . . . personal morality.”
“Answer my question, Herr Globocnik. Do not be afraid. No harm will come to you.” Liebermann placed his fingers on Globocnik’s temples and pressed gently. “As the pressure increases, your memories rise out of darkness and clarify.” Globocnik twisted his neck to free himself but Liebermann did not let his hands slip and he pressed harder.
“She grew cold,” Globocnik whispered. “A garnet ring appeared on her finger. ‘Where did you get that from?’ I asked. ‘I bought it,’ she replied. But I knew she was lying. It was an expensive stone. We were sitting on a bench in the Stadtpark . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . and she said,” Globocnik sniffed and groaned. “She said that we could not continue—that it had been a mistake—a regrettable misunderstanding. I begged her, I fell on my knees and kissed her hand, ‘Milica, Milica, Milica, please, you are my life, you are my sun and stars, please, don’t leave me.’ But she was impervious to my entreaties. He had warped her mind, polluted her thoughts—hardened her heart. She was a simple country girl, easy prey for a man like Bok. He had corrupted her, made her impure—his plaything. I think he must always have been a bad man. From birth I imagine. You see . . .”
Liebermann pressed Globocnik’s temples again. “No. Go back. What happened next—after the Stadtpark?”
“I was sick with despair. I didn’t sleep—I stayed up all night, smoking—pacing—beating my mattress and weeping into my pillow. In the morning I went to work. What else was there to do? I hoped that I might change her mind. She wasn’t on the production line and when I went into the office, I found her sitting at my desk. Herr Bok told me to sit down. He told me that he had decided to invest in a calculating machine and that he no longer required my services.” The clerk reproduced Bok’s resonant braying as he relived the moment: “‘I know that I’m giving short notice, but be assured, Globocnik, you will be compensated.’ I was dumbstruck. ‘Come now, Globocnik, be reasonable. All is fair in love and war.’ I looked over at Milica but she turned away. ‘What have you done to her?’ I demanded. I was convinced that he had exercised some malign influence, a clever manipulation, or even worse—blackmail, perhaps? It was up to me to save her. Who else, if not me? ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Globocnik.’ Our exchanges became heated. ‘Get out!’ he shouted. ‘Get out of my office before I throw you out.’ He stood, grabbed my shirt, and lifted me off the ground. ‘You sniveling piece of vermin.’ His face had gone bright red and he was spitting. He pulled back his fist, ready to punch me on the nose, but I snatched the letter opener off his desk and held it up. I wanted to kill him, I wanted to thrust it into his heart . . . but I couldn’t. I let my arm drop and Bok hurled me across the room. I stumbled and fell. An instant later he had kicked me in the stomach and all the air went from my lungs, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. And then, he was unbuttoning the flap of his trousers. He was a bad man . . .”
“No,” Liebermann said, “you must remember. Be strong, Herr Globocnik, be strong!”
“He emptied his bladder.” Globocnik sighed. “He pissed on me. And when I caught sight of Milica . . .”
“Go on.”
“She . . . she was smiling. I scrambled to my feet and ran from the office, across the factory floor and out into the yard. I ran and ran, trying to distance myself from my humiliation. But you cannot run away from yourself—and wherever I ran—I burned with shame.”
Liebermann released Globocnik’s head. He folded his hands on his lap and said, with gentle emphasis, “Listen to me, Herr Globocnik. You do not need to escape from your shame—because you have nothing to be ashamed of. It is Herr Bok and Fräulein Mugoša who have disgraced themselves.”
The clerk sighed and said in a distant, uncertain voice: “I have nothing to be ashamed of . . .”
“No, nothing at all.”
“Nothing at all,” Globocnik echoed.
“When you wake, you will recall everything we have discussed today. These memories will still cause you pain, but it is a pain that you will be able to withstand.”
“. . . a pain that I will be able to withstand.”
A gentle knocking captured Liebermann’s attention. He tip-toed to the door and opened it a fraction. The face of a young nurse could be seen through the narrow gap.
“What is it?”
“Telephone—a policeman called Rheinhardt. He says it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“Take his number and tell him I’ll call him back shortly.”
The nurse nodded and withdrew. Liebermann closed the door and returned to his seat, where he remained for a few moments, gazing down at his patient, reflecting on the easy, commonplace dispensation of human cruelty. Where would it end?
THIRTY-EIGHT
Liebermann and Rheinhardt were seated opposite Eduard and Della Autenburg. Between them, the surface of the table was cluttered with pens, ink p
ots, and papers. There were also several academic publications and an old, yellowing copy of the Neue Freie Presse. The room in which they were seated was a well-stocked library. Haussmann had chosen not to sit and was standing with his hands behind his back, adjacent to an aspidistra on a high wooden stand.
Rheinhardt opened his notebook. “What is your occupation, Herr Autenburg?”
“I am a publisher,” Autenburg replied. “History and philosophy, mostly.”
“That must be a very rewarding profession.”
“Certainly, although, it is becoming increasingly precarious.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t help feeling with so many distractions—cheap seats at the opera house, exciting new rides on the Prater, and free reading matter readily available in the coffeehouses—people are buying fewer books these days.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. As far as I am concerned, there is nothing quite so improving or enjoyable than an evening spent at home, seated in a comfortable chair, with a book on one’s lap. You know, I was talking to a writer only the other day. Clement Kruckel?”
“The journalist.”
“Do you know him?”
“We’ve met many times. I’ve always wanted to publish a collection of some of his early writings. They are incisive and often very amusing; a sharper wit than Kraus, in my humble opinion.” He laughed and then said more soberly: “But I’m sure you’re not here to discuss our coffeehouse wits. Forgive me, inspector, but why are you here?”
Rheinhardt smiled politely. “I understand that Herr Kruckel has become very active in the field of education.”
“He has always considered it of great importance that the working man should be politically well-informed.”
“Does the name ‘Fraternitas’ mean anything to you?”
“Yes. It’s the name of Kruckel’s society.”
“Have you ever attended one of his meetings?”
“No,” Autenburg shook his head. “We’re only acquaintances.”
Della caught her husband’s eye and asked, without the necessity of language: What’s going on? Autenburg shrugged and pursed his lips. Rheinhardt made some notes and said, “The Golden Bears . . .”
“Yes.” Autenburg’s perplexity intensified.
“Do you know it?”
“I know it very well. It’s a beer cellar in Leopoldstadt, not to everyone’s taste, but it attracts an interesting clientele and the atmosphere is convivial.”
Rheinhardt turned to address Della. “Do you go there too?”
“Eduard works hard,” Della replied. “We don’t get the chance to go there together very often.”
She was younger than Autenburg. A slim woman endowed with a disproportionately inflated bust, a long neck, and thick chestnut hair. Her eyes were constantly slipping away to the side, almost with intent, as if she were trying to surreptitiously communicate that she wished to talk in private.
Rheinhardt tapped his pencil on the open page of his notebook. “Did either of you ever meet an Italian gentleman called Tab?”
Husband and wife looked at each other, shook their heads, and then looked back at their inquisitor with blank expressions.
“Tab wasn’t his real name,” Rheinhardt continued. “His real name was Angelo Callari.” Autenburg’s head continued to shake. “He met Herr Kruckel in The Golden Bears and attended a Fraternitas meeting in Kruckel’s apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” said Autenburg. “The name means nothing to me.”
Liebermann felt a shoe knock against his foot under the table. Opposite, Della Autenburg was giving him a smoldering look, and, as was her habit, apparently suggesting the direction of some imaginary assignation with her restless eyes. Liebermann coughed and crossed his legs, removing his foot out of harm’s way. He had already made his diagnosis.
“What about Axl Diamant?” said Rheinhardt.
Autenburg replied, “Ah—yes—we know Axl Diamant very well. He lives across the road in the house opposite.”
“And what is the nature of your relationship?”
“I often meet young men of promise and have made it a kind of avocation to offer them guidance and, where it is in my gift, opportunities for advancement. I assisted Axl with his essays, allowed him to use my library.” Autenberg raised his hands and made horizontal circles in the air. “And once, I paid for the production and distribution of a polemical pamphlet he wished to write.”
“What was it about?”
Autenburg made an appeasing gesture and appeared a little uncomfortable. “You will appreciate, I hope, inspector, that we—that is, my wife and I—inhabit a social milieu where no topic is considered unsuitable for debate. We have few, if any, sacred cows.”
“What was it about?” Rheinhardt repeated frostily.
“The pamphlet,” Autenburg continued, “was a critique of the church; well, not so much the church, but rather the church’s vested interest in the preservation of traditional family values. Axl proposed some interesting alternatives to the accepted social order, a more communal approach to the raising of children, for example.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“No—I’m afraid not. Do you, Della?”
“No,” Della replied. “I gave the last one away some time ago.”
Rheinhardt was about to ask another question when he was interrupted by Liebermann. “Herr Autenburg,” said the young doctor, leaning some way forward. “I notice that you bite your nails.”
“Yes,” said Autenburg, glancing at his fingertips. “I suppose I do.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“I couldn’t say. A long time—I might even have done so as a child.”
“No, I think not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“There is no deformity, no scarring. Years of nail biting can destroy the nail bed and cause repeated infection. Moreover, you exhibit no malocclusion of the anterior teeth.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There is no misalignment. Your teeth are straight. No, this is a much more recent development.”
Everyone present was expecting Liebermann to continue, but instead, he looked at Rheinhardt and said respectfully, “My apologies for interrupting, inspector. Please continue.”
Rheinhardt did not react, except for a barely perceptible pinching at the corner of his mouth. He twirled his moustache and continued as if Liebermann hadn’t spoken. “When was the last time you saw Axl Diamant, Herr Autenburg?”
“The night before last,” Autenburg replied.
“Where?”
“Right outside this building, we had been to a fascinating talk on Sombart’s two volume history: Der moderne Kapitalismus.”
“Who?”
“Werner Sombart. He’s an economist.”
“Do you know where Herr Diamant went, after you parted?”
“He went home. Well, that’s where I assumed he was going. He might have changed his mind, but I was already inside before he’d reached the other side of the road. Why are you asking these questions?”
Liebermann coughed and raised a finger. “I’m sorry, Herr Autenburg, but have you been suffering from more stomach complaints than usual?”
Autenburg was momentarilly confused. “I—well—yes. Yes, I have actually. But what has that—”
Liebermann cut in: “They tend to go together, you see. Nail biting and stomach complaints. If you stopped biting your nails the stomach complaints would very probably improve.”
The publisher eyed Liebermann with suspicion and said with brittle courtesy, “Thank you for your advice, Herr Doctor. I am sure that it will prove very useful.”
Liebermann struck a haughty attitude. It was as if he had transcended the quotidian plane and existed in some refined Hippocratic realm where expressions of gratitude from patients were unnecessary and, if anything, slightly annoying.
“Have you finished, Herr Doctor?” asked Rheinhardt, who in actuality was now also eyeing Liebermann with
a degree of suspicion.
“Yes,” Liebermann replied. “I’ve finished.”
Rheinhardt made a note and while he was still writing said, “Frau Autenburg, what was the precise nature of your relationship with Herr Diamant?”
“We were friends,” Della replied.
Rheinhardt’s expression showed obvious dissatisfaction with the answer. “With respect, Frau Autenburg, would it be perhaps more accurate to—”
“That’s enough, inspector!” Autenburg slapped the table top. “Have you been spying on us?”
Rheinhardt sighed. “I really do not wish to embarrass Frau Autenburg; but unfortunately I am obliged to clarify the nature of her relationship with Herr Diamant for reasons that will soon become apparent.”
“I’m afraid that you are confirming all my existing prejudices with respect to the police,” said Autenburg angrily. “Am I wrong to suppose that we live in a free country, where citizens are at liberty to do as they please in their own homes, providing they cause no harm to others?”
“Believe me, Herr Autenburg, your domestic arrangements, however unorthodox, are of no particular interest to the security office.”
“Indeed!”
“However . . .”
Autenburg took a deep breath, but his attempt at self-control failed miserably. “The world is changing, inspector. Women are no longer willing to accept the inequalities of the past. A human being should not be treated as a possession and ownership has no legitimacy in a civilized and enlightened society. What you call our unorthodox domestic arrangements represent a step forward—the future.”