The Death Instinct

by Jed Rubenfeld

  'You're here to get me out of this place.'

  'No, I'm not.'

  'Yes, you are. And to ask me when I first received my premonition of the Wall Street bombing.'

  Littlemore sat up.

  'I'm correct?' asked Fischer.

  'Son of a gun. How'd you know that?'

  'Were you at the train station when the police brought me from Canada, Captain?'

  'No. So when was it — your first premonition?'

  'I love train stations. Whenever I go to a new city, I wander around the station for hours. It makes me feel at home. Grand Central Terminal is like a second home to me.'

  'Great. When was your first premonition?'

  'You'll do something about the Popes?'

  'I'll do what I can.'

  'The end of July, I think. I know it was before the East-West matches. It was right after I decided not to go to Washington. You must know I'm an adviser to Mr Wilson?'

  'That would be President Wilson, I'm guessing.'

  'In 1916, I advised Mr Wilson that if he didn't stop the war, many would die. That's how I got to be a Secret Service agent. He wished to meet with me, but his aides wouldn't permit it. Doubtless he regrets that decision profoundly today.'

  'Sure he does. So who do you think was behind the bombing, Fischer? Who did it?'

  'Anarchists, of course. Bolsheviks.'

  'Are you positive?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I read it in the papers.'

  A nurse interrupted them, to take Mr Fischer back to his room.

  Their train slipped with a satisfied shriek into Vienna's Westbahnhof on a mid-October evening. The Austrian trains, once the pride of an empire, were shells of their former selves. They ran on half rations of coal — the other half having been sold off by corrupt officials and needy conductors. Chandeliers and decorated paneling had been ripped away, evidently by thieves.

  A single cab was waiting outside the station under a bright half- moon — an elegant two-horse carriage. Although Younger sat next to Colette, she kept her distance, facing away from him and looking out at Vienna. Luc sat across from them, one suitcase under his legs and another beside him. It was a lovely, old-world night. In the distance, over the roofs of handsome buildings, the electric lights of the Riesenrad the giant Ferris wheel of the Prater, Vienna's famous amusement park — described a high slow arc in the air. The wind carried strains of a faraway waltz and merry laughter.

  'Vienna is gay,' said Colette — wistfully, Younger thought.

  Colette had spoken in French. The coachman answered in the same language: 'Yes, we are gay, Mademoiselle. It is our nature. Even during the war we were gay. And unlike the last time you were here, we are no longer eating our dogs.'

  The driver presented his card to them. He was the very same nobleman — Oktavian Ferdinand Graf Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau — who had taken them to their hotel on their first stay in Vienna. But on his card, the words Graf and von, indications of his illustrious birth, had been crossed out.

  'Titles of nobility have been abolished,' he explained. 'We're not allowed them even on our cards. Yes, things are improving. Things are certainly improving.'

  They heard a far-off keening behind them, followed by a thunderous crash.

  'What was that?' asked Colette, starting almost out of her seat.

  'It's nothing, Mademoiselle,' replied the coachman. 'It comes from the Wienerwald, the Vienna woods, the loveliest woods in the world. They are chopping down its trees.'

  'At this hour?' said Younger. 'Who?'

  'Everyone, Monsieur. It's illegal, but people have no choice. There is no more coal to burn. Only wood. They go at night to avoid arrest. When winter comes, many will have no heat at all. You've come from Paris?'

  'New York,' said Younger.

  'Is Monsieur American?'

  Younger allowed that he was.

  'I beg your pardon; I thought you were French. Then you must accept this ride with my compliments. Austria owes you its deepest thanks.'

  Younger was surprised at this offer and said so.

  'A defeated country does not ordinarily express gratitude toward its foe?' asked the coachman. 'It's our children I'm thanking you for. Your relief packages are still their chief source of food. Do you know Mr Stockton — your charge d'affaires? I drove him to the station last month. He had just received a letter from the Chief Justice of our Supreme Court, asking if the judges could have a relief package too.'

  'What will happen,' asked Colette, 'to the children if they have no heat this winter?'

  'They'll die, I imagine, many of them. Here we are — 19 Berggasse. I hope Dr Freud is well.'

  Younger, letting himself out and extending his hand to Colette, raised an eyebrow at their exceedingly knowledgeable coachman.

  'When foreigners visit the Berggasse,' explained the driver, 'there can be only one reason.'

  Younger asked if he would be so kind as to wait for them while they called on the Freuds. Oktavian said he would be most willing.

  It was Freud's wife's sister, Minna Bernays, who answered the door to the second-floor apartment. Although they were expected, Miss Bernays wouldn't let them in, explaining that Dr Freud and his wife, Martha, had retired early. She was asking if they could come back tomorrow when a deep male voice intervened, declaring his retirement to be much exaggerated.

  Their greetings were cordial. Much was made of Luc being a full head taller. 'Well, Minna,' observed Freud, 'Martha was mistaken, as I predicted she would be.' To Younger and Colette, he explained: 'My wife was certain the two of you would be married before the year was out.'

  'The year's not over yet,' said Younger.

  'She meant 1919,' Freud replied drily.

  'Then tell her there is still hope for 1920,' said Younger.

  'I've given you no reason to hope, Stratham,' Colette rebuked him. 'Not for any year.'

  Younger, stung, resolved to make light of it: 'In that case I'll schedule the wedding for midnight December thirty-first,' he said, 'which doesn't belong to any year.'

  Colette turned to Minna Bernays and said, 'He's hopeless.'

  'First she chides you for hoping,' Freud replied to Younger, 'then for being hopeless. Women — what do they want?'

  Sigmund Freud looked his age, sunk deep in an armchair in his study. A furrow knit his white brows into a scowl. His usually frenetic chow, Jofi, curled sympathetically at the master's feet. They had talked of the Wall Street bombing, the kidnapping, and the collapse of the finances of the psychoanalytic association. Freud's son Martin had finally been released from prison. 'His first act of freedom,' Freud said, 'was to relinquish it. He got married.'

  Colette thanked Freud for agreeing to treat her brother.

  'I haven't agreed to treat him,' answered Freud. 'I wrote you, Fraulein, stipulating my one condition. You didn't answer.'

  Colette made no reply.

  'I'm too old and too busy for half measures,' said Freud. 'I take very few new patients now; I only have time to train others to do so. Every new hour I take on is an hour lost for my own work. Psychoanalysis, Miss Rousseau, is not accomplished in a few days. You must be prepared to stay in Vienna for a very substantial period.'

  'But I — have no means, no work,' said Colette.

  'That's your concern,' answered Freud, his sharpness surprising Younger. 'If I'm to treat your brother, I must have your word that you will remain in Vienna this time as long as it takes.'

  'I'm sorry,' said Colette. 'I don't know.'

  Freud rose slowly, went to the window, opened it. A fresh night breeze tousled his white hair. From the little courtyard below, where Count Oktavian's carriage waited, came the stamping and neighing of horses. Freud took a deep breath. 'So,' he said, his back to Younger and Colette. 'Have you ever dreamt, Fraulein, of a child being beaten?'

  'I beg your pardon?' said Colette.

  'Have you?'

  Colette hesitated. 'How did you know t
hat?'

  'Sometimes without knowing who is doing the beating?'

  'Yes,' said Colette.

  'It is a surprisingly common dream in women who feel they should be punished for something,' said Freud. 'Well, it's clear you didn't come to Vienna specifically to have your brother see me. It follows you have some other business. Based on your remark to Younger in the foyer, I can only conclude that you are here to find and marry your fiancй, the one who was in jail the last time you were here. That would explain your uncertainty about whether or how long you will be in Vienna. You don't know where he lives now — perhaps not in Austria at all — is that it?'

  Colette was astonished.

  'It's all right,' Younger said to her. 'He does this sort of thing all the time.'

  'The real mystery,' said Freud, 'is how you managed to persuade Younger, your fiancй's rival, to join you on such a journey. I must say I find that impressive — and puzzling.'

  'You're not the only one,' said Younger.

  'Well, none of this affects my position,' said Freud. 'In case, Fraulein, you decide you are serious about finding employment here, I'll give you the address of Vienna's Radium Institute. I'm told it is excellent, and they hire women without compunction. I'm also going to give you the name and address of an old friend, a neurologist.' A smile, brief and not cheerful, passed over Freud's face as he wrote them a note. 'He has a treatment for war neuroses far more expeditious than mine. I can't vouch for what he does, but many believe in it, and since you seem interested in attempting a quick cure for your brother, Miss Rousseau, it would be remiss on my part not to mention him. As for you, Younger, it's high time we settled our unfinished business. I have an hour free at eleven tomorrow morning. I'll see you then.'

  'I told you he could be brusque,' said Younger as their carriage clopped down the cobblestoned Berggasse toward the Danube canal.

  'He's so very sad,' answered Colette.

  'Freud? Tired, I think,' replied Younger. 'And angry — I'm not sure why.'

  'Pragmatic, I would have said,' reflected Oktavian, their coachman. 'Professional.'

  'I've never seen such sad eyes,' said Colette.

  'I didn't find them sad at all,' replied Younger.

  'Ah, there, you must take me out of it,' declared Oktavian. 'I could hear him from the window, but I couldn't see his eyes.'

  'That's because you never know what other people are feeling,' Colette said to Younger. 'It's a good thing you gave up psychology. You're like a blind man.'

  Chapter Fourteen

  Among the grander edifices on Vienna's Ringstrasse was a five-story, pink-and-white confection of an apartment building, the first floor of which housed the elegant Cafй Landtmann. In the main salon of that coffeehouse, below a receding boulevard of crystal chandeliers, Younger met Freud at eleven the next morning. The head waiter had greeted Freud as if he knew him personally and guided them to a table at a window with elaborate drapery, through which they could see the magnificent state theater across the street.

  'So,' said Freud, taking a seat, 'do you know what I want to discuss with you?'

  'The Oedipus complex?' asked Younger.

  'Miss Rousseau.'

  'Why?'

  'Tell me first,' said Freud, 'what you thought of my old friend Jauregg, the neurologist.'

  Younger, Colette, and Luc had visited Dr Julius Wagner-Jauregg in his university office earlier that morning. 'His treatment for war neurosis is electrocution,' said Younger.

  'Yes. His team reports considerable success. Was he surprised I had sent you?'

  'Very. He said you testified against him at a trial of some kind last week.'

  'On the contrary, I testified for him. There was an allegation that he had essentially tortured our soldiers into returning to the front. The government commissioned me to investigate. I reported that his use of electrotherapy had been perfectly ethical. I explained, of course, that only psychoanalysis could uncover the roots of shell shock and cure it, but that this was not yet known in 1914. My friend — and his many supporters — spent the rest of the hearing attempting to destroy the reputation of every psychoanalyst in Vienna.' A waiter brought them two small gold- rimmed demitasses of coffee and a basket of pastries. 'Foolish of me. I'd somehow forgotten how intense a hostility we still provoke. But never mind. Did he persuade you to attempt electrocution on the boy?'

  'He made a case for a single treatment at low voltage. He believes shell shock is a kind of short circuit inside the brain — and that a brief convulsive charge can clear the circuitry.'

  'I know. And since you disbelieve in psychology, you should be favorably inclined.'

  Younger pictured the confused and harrowed expressions he had seen in the faces of shell-shocked soldiers. The scientist in him knew that the cause of their suffering could indeed have been a cross-firing in their neural circuitry. But something in him rebelled at this diagnosis or at least at the treatment. At last he said, 'I don't believe there's anything wrong with the boy's brain.'

  'Ah — you think the problem is in his larynx?'

  'I doubt it,' said Younger.

  'Well, at least you have one thing right. What was Miss Rousseau's opinion? No, let me guess. She was distracted and had no firm opinion. She wanted you to decide.'

  'How did you know that?'

  'Would you say she is self-destructive?' asked Freud.

  'Not at all.'

  'Really? My impression was that you had a taste for such women.'

  'I make exceptions,' said Younger.

  'She's not attracted to abusive men?'

  'If you mean me, her attraction to abusive men is regrettably weak.'

  'I don't mean you,' said Freud.

  'Her fiancй — Gruber?'

  'The man is a convicted criminal.'

  Younger looked out the window. 'She only remembers a sweet, injured, devout soldier she knew in a hospital.'

  'A maternal affection? Not likely.' Freud stirred his coffee. A scowl came to his already deeply furrowed brow. 'Was I too severe with her last night?'

  'She can take it. Why were you severe?'

  Freud removed his glasses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief, lingering on each lens. 'She reminds me of my Sophie, my second-to-youngest,' he said. 'Beautiful, headstrong. Sophie became engaged at the age of nineteen. To a thirty-year-old photographer. It was as if she couldn't get out of the house fast enough. I believe I was taking out on Miss Rousseau an anger I harbor against Sophie for leaving us so soon.'

  'Sophie — she's the one who lives in Germany?'

  'She's the one who is dead.'

  Freud's spoon tapped the rim of his glass, repeatedly, unevenly.

  'I didn't know,' said Younger.

  'It happened last January. The flu. She was living in Berlin, she and her two little boys and her husband, whom I never treated as well as I should have. When we received word she was ill, there were no trains running — not even for an emergency. The next we heard, she was gone.' He took a deep breath. 'After that, fundamentally everything lost its meaning for me. To an unbeliever like myself, there can be no rationalizations in such circumstances. No justifications. Only mute submission. Blunt necessity. For several months, my own children — my other children — and their children — ' Freud stopped, gathering himself — 'I could no longer bear the sight of them.'

  Outside, the Ring was in its full daytime bloom. Cars and streetcars rolled by. A charming carriage trotted past. A governess strolled with a perambulator.

  'Well, the intention that man be happy was never part of his creation,' said Freud. 'You will say it's superstition, but I have a foreboding about Miss Rousseau. What is her goal in coming to Vienna?'

  'You guessed it last night. This Gruber fellow was just released from prison.'

  'Come — you can't have forgotten all your psychology. What is her object?'

  'To see if he still loves her, I suppose. Or perhaps if she still loves him. She made a promise. She feels she has to keep it.'r />
  'Nonsense. I don't trust her motivation. Neither should you. Do you know what specifically her soldier was imprisoned for?'

  'No.'

  'I do. She told me herself — in tears, the day after you left Vienna last year. He beat up an old man. So at least the police say. I advised her that a ruffian who marches with the Anti-Semitic League was not a fit husband for her. I counseled her not to see him again. I thought she took my advice.'

  'Evidently she reconsidered,' said Younger.

  'There is a condition into which many young women fall. They attach themselves to violent men. They forgive any mistreatment. They think it love; it isn't. What they really want is to be punished for their sins, real and imagined — or for someone else's. There's something wrong with Miss Rousseau's attachment to this Gruber. I sense it. My advice to you is not to let her out of your sight. She's throwing herself into the arms of a criminal.'

  'Maybe he'll beat her, and she'll come to her senses.'

  Freud raised an eyebrow. Younger wondered if his own habit of doing so — raising a single brow — was copied from Freud. 'You feel,' said Freud, 'she's made her bed with this man, and you're inclined to let her sleep in it?'

  'I don't control where Miss Rousseau sleeps.'

  'You wish to see her punished — for choosing another man. You retaliate by letting her go.'

  'Letting her go? I crossed an ocean trying to change her mind.'

  'You can't change her mind. But you might be able to protect her.' 'From what?' asked Younger.

  'From this Gruber. From a decision she'll regret the rest of her life.'

  Younger, back at the Hotel Bristol, found a note waiting for him:

  Dear Stratham:

  I'm running to catch a train. I didn't go to the Radium Institute. I went to the prison, and they told me that Hans had left Vienna and gone to Braunau am Inn. I think it's his hometown. There's only one train a day for Braunau, and it leaves in half an hour. I expect to be back tomorrow. Luc is upstairs in my room. Please look after him. Some day I hope you'll understand.

  Yours,

  Colette

  Younger stared at the note a long time. He ran his hands through his hair. Then he had a messenger sent for Oktavian Kinsky, the aristocratic carriage driver.