Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  “Did you ever see Jellinek talk?” asked Freud.

  Liebermann looked puzzled.

  “No,” Freud continued. “Of course not. You’re too young. Adolf Jellinek. He was a preacher, here in Vienna, and very popular too. He gave some talks that I was lucky enough to attend ten or perhaps even fifteen years ago. He had translated some of the medieval kabbalists into German. It was all very interesting.”

  “Then you know something about it? The kabbalah?”

  “Yes.” The syllable dipped in the middle and was produced with evident reluctance.

  “May I?” Liebermann gestured toward some notepaper. Freud handed him a sheet. The young doctor took a pencil from his pocket and proceeded to sketch an arrangement of interconnected circles. It was the design that he had seen on the attic floor of the Alois Gasse Temple.

  “Do you know what this is?” Liebermann handed the illustration to Freud.

  The professor stubbed his cigar out and contemplated the image.

  “Yes. It is called the Tree of Life. It is a diagram of how the universe was created and describes the dispersal of primal energies. It encapsulates the kabbalistic worldview.”

  Freud rose from his desk and approached a small chest next to the stove. He took a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. When he returned, he was carrying several books. He piled them on the desk and invited Liebermann to examine them. One of the volumes was extremely old and was bound in crumbling leather. Freud opened it and carefully turned the fragile pages until he came to an illustration of a bearded man in medieval dress, sitting on a chair in a cell. The man’s right hand grasped the lowest strut of the Tree of Life.

  “What is this book?” asked Liebermann.

  “A Latin translation of The Gates of Light—a very influential work. It was originally written by Joseph Gikatilla in the thirteenth century. The other books are German translations by Adolf Jellinek and his associates. Except this one here, which is a French translation of The Book of Splendour.”

  Liebermann was surprised that Freud had so many volumes of Jewish mysticism in his possession. The old man had always been scathing about religion and was famously ambivalent about his own racial identity. Indeed, he had once said to Liebermann that he was concerned that so many of his followers were Jewish. I don’t want psychoanalysis to turn into a national affair, he had said.

  Only moments earlier the idea that Freud might be a clandestine kabbalist, poring over arcane holy books in the dead of night, would have seemed absurd. Yet the evidence suggested otherwise.

  “Are you, then…,” said Liebermann hesitantly, “a believer in…”

  “No, no,” said Freud, shaking his head and waving his hand. “I abandoned the illusory consolation of faith many years ago. I no longer need to defend myself against unpalatable truths—the insignificance of humankind and the inevitability of my own demise. However, I have found a close reading of these books to be very instructive. In The Book of Splendour, for example, I first encountered the notion that the mind can be understood using the same exegetical techniques employed to study scripture. Kabbalistic writings also contain some extremely interesting accounts of human sexuality and the interpretation of dreams….”

  Freud smiled, but he was clearly a little embarrassed. He seemed to be confessing that the inspiration for psychoanalysis had come from reading works of Jewish mysticism. Immediately, Liebermann understood why Freud was so ambivalent about Jews and Judaism, and why he kept his kabbalistic books locked in a chest out of view.

  Liebermann rested a finger on the drawing of the Tree of Life. Once again, the zaddik’s words returned to haunt him: Perhaps 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.

  The zaddik’s scolding no longer sounded ridiculous, and Liebermann found himself wondering how Freud would react if he asked to borrow his Latin translation of The Gates of Light.

  41

  LIEBERMANN AND HIS FATHER, Mendel, were sitting in the Imperial. The pianist was playing Chopin’s Mazurka Number One in F sharp minor; however, his abrupt changes of tempo and volume made the piece sound like cheap café music. This was entirely intentional, as the pianist had learned that the patrons of the Imperial preferred their Chopin this way.

  “Do you remember Blomberg?” said Mendel.

  “The gentleman I met at the lodge?”

  “Yes. He spoke to Rothenstein about the new department store. I would never have done such a thing myself. It was disrespectful, really. I mean… a man like Rothenstein!” Mendel shook his head and took a mouthful of apfelstrudel. “Rothenstein wasn’t interested, of course, but he said that he knew a man who would be, and he put Blomberg in touch with Marek Bohm, another gentleman of considerable means and an associate of the banker. Well, to cut a long story short, it looks like the capital can be raised. Blomberg is going to go ahead with his plan for a second department store.” Mendel slurped his coffee and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m definitely going to go in with him,” he continued. “Blomberg’s a decent enough fellow, and his other store is doing very well indeed. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. What did you think of him? Blomberg?”

  “I didn’t really speak to him for very long.”

  Mendel frowned. “Even so, you must have formed an impression?”

  “He seemed very energetic.”

  “Oh, he’s hardworking, that’s for sure.”

  “And agreeable.”

  “If you have to work with someone over a long period of time, character becomes important, let me tell you. I remember, many years ago—before you were born, in fact—I tried to set up some dyeing works with a man named Plischke, and every meeting we had was like a funeral. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore. What’s the matter with your mohnstrudel? You’ve hardly touched it!”

  “Nothing—it’s very good.” To prove the point, Liebermann sliced a large chunk off of the pastry and put it into his mouth. “Delicious.”

  Mendel shrugged.

  “Anyway, I’ve decided to go to Prague. I’m going to visit some of the factories and have some meetings: Doubek, Krakowski—some of the shop owners. I also intend to see your uncle Alexander.” At the mention of his younger brother’s name, Mendel grimaced and emitted a low grumbling sound. “He’s always been good at finding us new associates out there, but when it comes to overseeing the day-to-day running of the business, he can be quite careless. He never double-checks his figures and doesn’t see Slavik as often as he should. I’ve got to make sure he understands the situation. The books must add up. We can’t have someone like Herr Bohm raising doubts about our competence.”

  Uncle Alexander had been a distant and exotic presence throughout Liebermann’s life. He used to stay for weekends in Vienna when Liebermann was a child, but these rare visitations had become even less frequent as Liebermann had grown up. By the time Liebermann had reached adolescence, Uncle Alexander’s brief sojourns had stopped altogether. This was probably because his uncle and his father didn’t get on. They were very different people—opposites, in fact. Mendel was resolute, ambitious, determined, whereas Alexander was languid, easygoing, and rather too fond of the bachelor’s cheery existence to take the family business very seriously. This difference of outlook, Liebermann supposed, must have been the cause of many arguments. Liebermann remembered a handsome well-dressed man, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. He had always been very fond of Alexander and guiltily recalled how, when very small, he had wished that his uncle could take the place of his father.

  “Why don’t you come along?” said Mendel, swallowing his last piece of apfelstrudel. He brushed his beard to make sure that no errant crumbs had found tenancy among his wiry curls.

  “To Prague?”

  Mention of Prague had made Liebermann feel uneasy. He remembered the zaddik: Go there
, Herr Doctor, and pray…. It felt as if some strange power were attempting to draw him to the Bohemian capital, the city of his ancestors. It was a feeling that he—as a rational man—found distinctly uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” said Mendel. “You might learn something… about negotiating. You never know. It might come in useful one day.”

  Mendel still hoped that his son would take over the family textile business. It was a futile hope, but one that he could not relinquish in spite of his son’s obvious lack of interest.

  “I can’t, Father. My patients, the hospital…”

  Mendel sighed. “I thought you’d say that.” The old man pushed his plate forward and beckoned a waiter. “The bill, please?”

  Mendel knew as well as his son that there was nothing else to say. They would leave the Imperial and go their separate ways.

  42

  THERE WERE MANY Wärmestuben in Vienna, “warming-up rooms” where people in need, regardless of their circumstances or origin, could find shelter from the cold and receive a free meal. None were asked to prove their indigence or to produce licenses for police inspection. Anna and Olga were proud of the Spittelberg wärmestube, which they had worked hard to establish after securing large donations from Baron Königswarter and Baron Epstein. The opening ceremony had proved to be a rather glamorous occasion (some believed distastefully so) in the presence of the emperor’s daughter, Archduchess Marie Valerie, who had attended in her official capacity as the principal patron of Vienna’s wärmestuben association.

  Anna and Olga were now standing by a giant tureen of bubbling soup. It was Anna who ladled the thick yellow liquid into a tin bowl, which was then picked up by Olga and handed to whichever unfortunate had arrived at the head of the line. A third person doled out bread and spoons. This process was mechanically repeated until everyone in the line had been served.

  The Spittelberg wärmestube was larger than most, possessing a dining area in which sturdy wooden benches were arranged in parallel rows. All the seating seemed to be occupied, and Anna had to squeeze people together to make more room. Even though the wärmestube was full, it was remarkably quiet. All those who had assembled there—including the children—were too exhausted, miserable, and cold to make noise or conversation. The aroma of the fragrant soup, which smelled strongly of onions and garlic, was not redolent enough to swamp the disagreeable olfactory undertow of unwashed clothes and fetid breath. Some of the people in the wärmestube had traveled to Vienna over immense distances. Only that week, one man claimed to have come, mostly on foot, all the way from Odessa.

  There was a loud clattering sound, followed by the hum of anxious voices. An empty tin bowl rolled across the floor, spiraling in smaller and smaller circles until it came to a clamorous halt. It belonged to a young woman who had passed out. One of her neighbors had managed to catch her as she slumped forward, preventing her limp body from toppling off the bench.

  Anna and Olga rushed over to assist.

  “I thought she was ill,” Anna whispered to her companion. “When she was collecting her soup, I noticed she was wincing, as if in pain, and when she walked away, she was dragging her feet, like an old woman.”

  “Michael, Egon,” Olga snapped. “Come over here.” Two helpers made their way down an aisle. “Take this young lady next door and lay her down on the rest bed. Then one of you must hurry and find a doctor.”

  Within minutes Michael returned, accompanied by a venerable gentleman with white hair, half-moon glasses, and a pointed beard. He introduced himself as Dr. Janosi. Anna and Olga left him alone with his patient. When he finally emerged from the room, almost an hour later, he was escorted to a private room on the first floor, which was normally used for meetings.

  “I’m afraid she is very unwell,” said the doctor, “and will have to be taken to a hospital.”

  “What is the matter with her?” asked Anna.

  “She has an injury.”

  “What kind of injury?”

  “Ladies,” said the doctor, “I managed to rouse the young woman with some smelling salts. She is originally from Galicia. She was—until a few days ago—a resident in a house of disrepute, here in Spittelberg.”

  “She is a prostitute?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “And her injury, Herr Doctor?” Olga pressed.

  Dr. Janosi looked over his half-moon spectacles.

  “I do not think it is appropriate to say. It is neither seemly nor fitting for young ladies such as yourselves, from good, respectable families, to hear such things.”

  “Herr Doctor,” said Olga firmly, “we are grateful for your consideration; however, I can assure you that Fräulein Katzer and I are experienced fund-raisers for charity, and our work has necessitated frequent contact with the lowest and most unfortunate elements of society. We are modern women and do not balk at the harsh realities of existence.”

  “But, ladies…”

  “Herr Doctor.” Olga raised herself up to deliver her final, imperious command: “You will please speak plainly.”

  “Very well,” said the doctor. “She is suffering from blood loss due to an internal injury.”

  “Internal?” Olga repeated. “Then she was… overcome?”

  The doctor grimaced. In his day, a young lady would never have said such a thing.

  “Her German was very bad,” said the doctor, “but as far as I could tell, she has—until this evening—been receiving men in the house of a procurer, a villain called Sachs. She had decided, however, to move out of his establishment and had told him of her intention to do so. He said that she could not leave her situation. They argued; Sachs became violent and began to abuse her. He overcame her… but such is the depth of his depravity…” The doctor’s sentence trailed off, and he looked away.

  “Dr. Janosi?” Anna inquired, persisting.

  “He held her down and inserted the wooden handle of a floor brush into her person. It was the vigorous movements of this implement that caused the bleeding. I am sorry—it is a dreadful affair. Such brutality should not go unpunished.”

  “Will she live?” asked Anna.

  “If we can get her to a hospital soon,” said the doctor, “there is a chance.”

  43

  THE NOTE HAD BEEN slipped under Liebermann’s door while he had been attending Professor Heideck’s morning ward round. He knew immediately that it was another summons from the chancellor.

  When Liebermann arrived at the chancellor’s office, Professor Gandler received him with a sullen stare and a few costive words of greeting. Liebermann sat down and waited politely for Gandler to speak. The silence that followed was deeply uncomfortable. The chancellor shifted in his chair and managed to say only “Herr Dr. Liebermann…”

  “Am I to understand,” ventured the young doctor, “that there have been some developments?”

  “Yes,” said the chancellor, as if addressing himself in a moment of abstraction. “Developments. There have been some developments.”

  Liebermann raised his eyebrows, willing Gandler to continue.

  “When we last met, Herr Doctor, you will recall that I expressed grave concerns as to what consequences might follow from the publication of the article in Das Vaterland—that is to say, the article in which references were made to your alleged misconduct on the night when the young Baron von Kortig died. It gives me no pleasure to inform you that my misgivings have since been proved uncannily prescient. The issue of your alleged misconduct has come to the attention of several members of parliament. These gentlemen belong to the Christian Social party and take a keen interest in religious issues. Questions have been asked, explanations demanded, and I am of the opinion that this matter will shortly receive much greater attention in the wider press.”

  “But that is outrageous!” Liebermann cried.

  “I would find it easier to offer you sympathy, Herr Doctor, had you not shown such disregard for my previous advice, which—I can assure you—was given in good faith. I told you that this bu
siness had the potential to escalate. You were warned, Herr Doctor.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Liebermann, “your advice, however intended, does not alter the fact that I behaved as I did to best serve the interests of my patient, and with respect to the practice of medicine, I have still done no wrong.”

  Professor Gandler’s upper lip curled to form a haughty sneer.

  “I cannot believe your naïveté, Herr Doctor. Nor can I believe your selfishness. For the sake of making some self-indulgent, self-regarding, self-important moral stand, you have succeeded in exposing the hospital to the most serious public criticism. Yet you are still vain enough, in the light of what has so far transpired, to maintain your belligerent attitude. I would suggest, Herr Doctor, that a little humility might now be in order! Do you not see what is happening here? What some sections of the press will make of all this? Do you not see how the hospital will be portrayed as a haven for atheists and religious agitators? And can you not imagine what effect such a scandal will have on the number of charitable donations we receive!”

  “It was never my intention to bring the hospital into disrepute, Herr Professor. As you know, I merely sought to honor my principal obligation, which was to my patient, and to him alone.”

  The chancellor shook his head. “Such worthy sentiments would be all well and good, Herr Doctor, if we lived in some perfect platonic world. But we don’t. We live in a real and very complex world in which decisions have numerous consequences, all of which have to be taken into account. To do some good in this world—and by that I mean substantial, practical good—requires an individual to rise above simplistic juvenile idealism.”

  Liebermann was surprised by the chancellor’s vehemence. Moreover, his insult was finely honed. It was penetrating and hurtful, Liebermann realized, because it was also insightful. There was some truth in what Professor Gandler had said.