Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing,” said the chancellor. “It’s too late for an apology now. However, given the current situation, I have decided that it is in the best interests of all concerned if you are relieved of your clinical duties pending a special meeting of the hospital committee.”

  “What do you mean, ‘relieved’?”

  “You must not have any further contact with your patients.”

  “But that’s impossible. Some of them are very ill.”

  “Then they will have to be reassigned to another physician.”

  Liebermann raised his hands in the air, a futile mute beseeching.

  “What is the purpose of this suspension? What does it achieve?”

  “The hospital must show that we are taking the matter of your alleged misconduct seriously. If we permit you to continue your clinical duties, then there is nothing to stop you from repeating the offense. Such a possibility cannot be countenanced.”

  “Professor Gandler,” said Liebermann, attempting unsuccessfully to maintain a steady voice, “the circumstances surrounding the young Baron von Kortig’s death were somewhat unusual. I do not expect to encounter such a situation again in the foreseeable future. Surely it would be better if I were relieved only of ward duties. I could then continue to see individual cases.”

  The chancellor was shaking his head before Liebermann had finished his sentence.

  “No, that wouldn’t be wise. I’m sure you can busy yourself in other ways. Spend some time in the library, write up a few old cases, plan some research…”

  “When is this special meeting of the hospital committee planned?”

  “We don’t have a date yet, but as soon as everyone is agreed, I’ll let you know. You will be expected to attend.”

  “I thought you said it was too late for an apology.”

  “It is.”

  “Then why must I attend?”

  “To justify your actions so that the committee can make a decision concerning your position here at the hospital. I fear, however, that little can be done now. Unless something very remarkable happens, I believe that you will be dismissed. I did warn you, Herr Doctor. I did warn you.”

  44

  LIEBERMANN WAS ALREADY SITTING in the little coffeehouse by the Anatomical Institute when Rheinhardt came through the door. The inspector hung his coat on the stand and made his way over to Liebermann’s table. A waiter who had been lurking in the shadows emerged to take Rheinhardt’s order.

  “A türkische, please,” said Rheinhardt. “With plenty of sugar.”

  Liebermann, finely attuned to the nuances of his friend’s behavior, registered that Rheinhardt had neglected to order a pastry. This he took to be a very bad sign indeed. Only something of the utmost importance would make Rheinhardt forget his partiality for the chef’s exotically spiced topfenstrudel.

  “Well,” said Liebermann, “I must suppose that you have called this impromptu meeting because a very considerable problem has arisen with respect to the investigation.”

  Rheinhardt shook his head. “No, Max, on this occasion you are quite mistaken.” The inspector pulled a chair from under the table and sat down heavily. “This morning,” he continued, “I was approached by Hohenwart….”

  “Hohenwart?”

  “Alfred Hohenwart: one of my colleagues at Schottenring. He is aware of our association.” Rheinhardt’s finger oscillated in the air, linking himself and Liebermann. “Hohenwart investigates individuals and groups who seek to cause social division by religious agitation. Yesterday he received a dossier from a member of parliament that included letters from the old Baron von Kortig, a statement from a medical aspirant named Edlinger, and a draft copy of a scurrilous article soon to be published in the satirical magazine Kikeriki. Needless to say, the article is purported to be an account of events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig, and describes—in very colorful terms—your dispute with the priest. The honorable gentleman suggested that it might be prudent for Hohenwart to make you, Herr Doctor, the subject of a comprehensive inquiry.”

  Liebermann opened his mouth and waited for a suitable expletive to give expression to his feelings, but all that he could manage was a horrified gasp.

  “I know,” Rheinhardt continued. “It is truly appalling. I explained to Hohenwart what really happened, and he agreed that there was insufficient cause to mount an inquiry; however, this is, of course, a very disturbing development. You will understand now why I wanted to see you as a matter of some urgency.”

  “The chancellor warned me that things might escalate, that my situation could become worse, but I never envisaged this!”

  Liebermann told Rheinhardt about his recent encounter with Professor Gandler and explained how there was a good chance that he might lose his position altogether.

  The waiter arrived with Rheinhardt’s türkische. The inspector tasted it, grimaced, and spooned some extra sugar into the cup.

  “Things stand to get very ugly indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Particularly if the newspapers get involved. You’ll be hounded by journalists. Given that you’ve been relieved of clinical responsibilities, I’d recommend that you keep a low profile. Why don’t you get away for a few weeks?”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be very far, just somewhere they can’t find you. In the meantime, I can have a word with the editor of Kikeriki. Perhaps I can apply a little pressure and get him to withdraw the article. I’ll also request a meeting with the censor, who might be persuaded to intercept similar articles. After all, I very much doubt whether the emperor would approve.” Rheinhardt sipped his coffee and added, “I wonder who’s behind all this.”

  “It can’t be just one person. You will recall that Councillor Faust wanted to eliminate Jews from professional life. There must still be others in the town hall who share his views, and creating a climate of hostility toward Jewish doctors would certainly help prepare the way.” Liebermann took a box of small cigars from his pocket and offered one to Rheinhardt. “How ironic… that I—a man without any religious convictions whatsoever—should find myself described as a religious agitator!”

  Rheinhardt took a cigar.

  “This chap Edlinger—I gather he described your behavior as threatening.” Rheinhardt struck a match, lit his friend’s cigar and then his own. “Why should he have done that? Is it possible that he had reason to hold a grudge against you?”

  “I hardly know him,” Liebermann replied. “He did object to the position I took when I was arguing with the priest, so it could be that Edlinger is a devout Catholic, but I don’t think so. Edlinger isn’t really the type. He’s a rakish fellow with a dueling scar. No, I suspect that his animosity stems from a simple but universal human failing. Psychoanalysis informs us that we often harbor resentment toward those to whom we owe a debt, and Edlinger is—without doubt—very much in my debt. He shouldn’t have given the young Baron von Kortig morphine, nor should he have administered such a large dose. In fact, it was probably the morphine that accelerated the young baron’s demise. I could have mentioned this to Professor Friedländer, but I didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Liebermann produced a twisted smile. “Doing so might have damaged Edlinger’s prospects. I thought it unnecessary.”

  “The scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt. “You should definitely report him now.”

  “I’m not sure that would be wise, Oskar. He could deny that he administered morphine—or such a large dose, at any rate—and that would cast me in a very unfavorable light.”

  “Wasn’t there a nurse present?”

  “Yes, Nurse Heuber. But she was wearing a crucifix, and it was she who went to fetch Father Benedikt. I don’t think I can count on her for support.” Liebermann drew on his cigar and blew out a jet of blue smoke. “Do you really think that I should leave Vienna?”

  “Yes. Let me know where you’re staying, and I can send you a telegram when it’s safe
to come back.”

  “Then perhaps I will go to…” Liebermann hesitated before saying, “Prague.” The city was now inextricably linked with the zaddik’s injunction. Once again, he felt as if he were being drawn there by fate. “My father asked me to accompany him to Prague on a business trip. He leaves tomorrow morning.”

  As he said these words, Liebermann felt as if he were making a concession not only to his father but, irrationally, to the zaddik as well. Still, it was the obvious solution to his predicament. He told himself that he should take advantage of the opportunity.

  “Don’t tell anyone at the hospital where you’re going. Just leave a telephone number—your mother’s, perhaps, and then she can contact you if the hospital committee is about to convene. I’ll see what I can do.…”

  Liebermann rested a hand on his friend’s arm and tightened his grip.

  “Thank you, Oskar.”

  The inspector, embarrassed by Liebermann’s gratitude, made some dismissive noises and said, “Cake. We haven’t had cake.”

  Rheinhardt called the waiter over and ordered two topfenstrudels.

  “How is the investigation proceeding?” Liebermann asked.

  “Do you really want to talk about that now?”

  “Of course I do.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “Well, if you insist. Haussmann has been watching Barash’s residence but has had nothing remarkable to report, although Barash has been receiving a large number of visitors—other Hasidim, from different sects.”

  “How did Haussmann know that they were from different sects?”

  “They wear different hats, apparently. Haussmann also formed the impression that most of these visitors were community leaders—zaddiks, like Barash.”

  “What do you make of that?”

  “It could, I suppose, be something to do with our discovery at the Alois Gasse Temple.”

  “Very likely, I imagine. Presumably you have someone posted there?”

  “Yes, a constable from Grosse Sperlgasse, but the kabbalist has not returned to resume his activities.” Rheinhardt raised his cigar and inspected the twisting column of smoke that rose from its burning tip. “Whoever created the kabbalist’s lair wanted it to be discovered. They made loud enough noises to ensure that the room would be opened. Clearly they wanted us to make a connection between the lair and the murders, the barrels of mud serving to remind us of the deposits found close to the bodies of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust.”

  “Have you compared the samples?”

  “Yes. The laboratory results showed they were identical.” Rheinhardt puffed at his cigar and added, “Incidentally we went up onto the roof of the Alois Gasse Temple. It is certainly possible that many of the items we found could have been lowered through the skylight. The houses on that side of the street are dilapidated, and several of the rooms are unoccupied. A dedicated team working from a top-floor hideout could have accomplished the operation quite easily.”

  The waiter arrived with the two strudels.

  Rheinhardt broke the flaky pastry with his fork, and the sweet curd filling spilled out, exuding a distinctive aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and something less easily identified, an unknown ingredient that evoked images of a caravanserai and sand dunes.

  “Exquisite,” said Rheinhardt, his spirits rising with his appetite. “I wish I knew the chef’s secret.”

  Liebermann stirred the froth around in his coffee and said, “I’ve been doing a bit of research into the kabbalah myself.”

  “Really?” said Rheinhardt somewhat vaguely, his attention having been captured almost entirely by his pastry.

  “Yes. That floor design, the one consisting of interconnected circles. It’s called the Tree of Life, and it represents creation and the subsequent dispersal of vital energies through the universe. Kabbalistic scholars believe that a thorough understanding of its principles can give a man godlike powers.”

  “Is that so?” said Rheinhardt.

  Liebermann picked up his fork. He knew that he could not compete with Rheinhardt’s topfenstrudel. He would have to wait for the inspector to finish.

  Part Three

  Prague

  45

  THE WHISTLE BLEW AND the train began to roll out of the Nordbahnhof. Leaning his head against the window, Liebermann looked out at the receding platform—at luggage porters, army officers, smartly dressed women and children, the tide of humanity flowing backward as the locomotive engine gathered speed. The last person Liebermann glimpsed on the platform was an elderly gentleman holding up a white handkerchief, fixed in the attitude of his final parting gesture. It was a sad image that kindled a sympathetic pang of grief in Liebermann’s chest. He did not want to be leaving Vienna. The train chugged through Brigittenau, crossed the Danube over an iron bridge, and thundered off through a thinly populated suburb out into open countryside.

  “So,” said Mendel. “What made you change your mind?”

  “It’s a long and rather complicated story.”

  “Well, we won’t be arriving in Prague until midday, Maxim. You’ve plenty of time to explain yourself.”

  Liebermann sighed and told his father about the young Baron von Kortig, Liebermann’s interviews with the chancellor, the article in Das Vaterland, his suspension from clinical practice, the allegation of religious agitation, and the forthcoming committee meeting at which, in all probability, his career as a doctor would be blighted. Mendel sat through the account in silence, but his expression showed that his feelings were complex, vacillating between conflicting states of horror and hope. He was furious that his son had become the victim of anti-Semitism, but at the same time he was aware that the demise of his son’s medical career would force him to consider alternatives, one of which would surely be to enter the family business. Never before had Mendel’s foremost wish come so close to fulfillment.

  “Well, that’s very bad. Very bad indeed,” Mendel muttered. “Do you need a lawyer? I’d pay, of course.”

  “I don’t think that would help, Father.”

  “Perhaps not.” Mendel took off his hat and laid it on his lap. “Despicable, the way they treat us. Despicable.” He looked down and toyed with the hat’s label. “I know how much medicine means to you, Maxim. But if you do lose your position, and can’t find another post…” Somehow the offer of employment seemed to be more tactful if implied, rather than spoken.

  Ordinarily, Liebermann would have responded with a verbal parry, or a defensive change in posture. But now he was feeling tired and drained. He had succumbed to an insidious, enervating pessimism. He nodded and said, “It might well come to that, Father.”

  Mendel had not expected the concession to come so easily, and he looked up, surprised.

  “It’s not such a bad life,” said Mendel cheerily. “Business!”

  Liebermann managed to smile, but the pretense was unsustainable, and an expression of blank despondency quickly reasserted itself.

  Father and son fell silent. The rocking motion of the train was conducive to private meditation, and some thirty minutes passed before Mendel stirred again. He opened his bag and pulled out a ledger book.

  “Here. Take a look at this.”

  Liebermann crossed the compartment and sat next to his father.

  “Now,” said Mendel, stroking the cloth cover, “here we have the principal financial record book of the textile company. It contains details of transactions, assets, and liabilities.” Liebermann tried to listen, to understand what his father was saying, but the language of commerce was totally foreign to him. It failed to find any purchase in his mind, becoming a meaningless, disconnected babble: “expenditure,” “solvency,” “returns,” “profit,” “imports,” “loss,” “receipts,” “equity.” Indeed, Liebermann marveled at his own inability to learn anything. Something deep inside him refused to cooperate. He recognized it as a form of resistance, the strength of which was almost pathological.

  The journey felt interminable, and when the train finally
pulled into Prague, although Mendel’s spirits were unusually high, his son’s were correspondingly low.

  They hailed a cab and traveled first to the Old Town Square, where Mendel had arranged to collect a garnet necklace, a present for his wife. While Liebermann was waiting for his father’s return, he stepped down from the carriage and found himself standing next to a massive astrological clock. The upper disc, being the timepiece, was ringed with golden numerals. The lower disc, which appeared to be a calendar, was richly illustrated with seasonal tableaux and the signs of the zodiac. Set among the allegorical figures that adorned the clock was a skeleton: death, carrying his hourglass.

  Across the square, Liebermann observed an imposing Gothic structure, which he knew to be the Church of Our Lady Before Týn. Its two towers, of unequal height, were festooned with sharp pinnacles. It looked nothing like the baroque churches of Vienna, with their ebullient ornate façades, which always reminded Liebermann of confectionery. The Church of Our Lady Before Týn was a much darker piece of architecture—brooding, even sinister. The black, bristling spires were menacing, the home of some horrifying storybook evil.

  Liebermann shivered in the breeze, chilled more by his fanciful imaginings than by the cold. He got back into the cab.

  Mendel returned, carrying a jewelry case. He opened it up and took out a necklace of bloodred garnets, suspended in a delicate web of silver chains.

  “It’s beautiful,” said Liebermann.

  His father allowed himself a smile. “A surprise. She’ll like it.”

  Their hotel, the Ambassador, was on Wenceslas Square. After depositing their luggage with porters, they proceeded to the restaurant, where Mendel had agreed to meet his brother Alexander. The restaurant had a large plush interior in which a piano trio played music that—unusual for him—Liebermann did not recognize. He suspected that the composer might be Dussek.

  As soon as they were seated, Mendel began looking at his watch and huffing impatiently.