Vienna Secrets (27 page)

70

F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
Dr. Max Liebermann

    Wheels, gears, pulleys, levers! All have the power to confer
mechanical advantage
, the factor by which a mechanism multiplies the force put into it. Brunelleschi raised the great dome in Florence with the assistance of an ox—marble and masonry, weighing millions of pounds, lifted hundreds of feet! I wonder whether the golem’s strength is attributable to mechanical advantage? With the right apparatus a weakling could tear the head off an elephant! Use of a device is also suggested by the fact that all three decapitations were remarkably uniform: clockwise cranial rotation, matching displacements of cervical structures. An identical force, utilized in exactly the same way, is likely to produce the same results. Would a golem—or a group of human beings attempting to perform a golem’s task—produce such consistent results?

Stanislav, Faust, Sachs. Three men, each in his own way a threat to Viennese Jewry, are murdered. Their bodies are found near plague columns. In the case of the first two murders, the plague column embodies the prejudice of the victims (Jews are a plague). In the case of the third murder, the plague column fulfills a somewhat different cautionary purpose. It declares that those who would exploit and harm their own people are vermin.

All three men are decapitated, but in such a way as to suggest the exercise of great force (an illusion probably achieved through the use of a mechanical instrument). Mud distributed around the bodies, and the kabbalist’s lair discovered above the Alois Gasse Temple, are clearly intended to revive memories of the Prague golem. But to what end? Why must we believe that Stanislav, Faust, and Sachs were killed by a “fairy-tale” creature? Answer: to make Jews—or their enemies (even consanguineous enemies)—believe in the return of a supernatural retributive agency. But again, why? Answer: to deter anti-Semites from violence. No. There is more to it than that. Much more. Schiller once wrote that deeper meanings can be found in fairy tales than in all the lessons we learn from real life. Fairy tales contain knowledge and lessons distilled from many lives.

I suspect that the key to this mystery is to be found in the fundamental meaning of the golem legend, its essence. What, then, does it teach us? What lies at its heart? Empowerment!
Empowerment!
It is a tale about empowerment. By “enacting” the golem legend, the perpetrators remind us of the need of a beleaguered community to defend itself and of Rabbi Loew’s triumph. They are making an appeal, the potency of which might be multiplied tenfold if theories of a collective racial memory have any legitimacy. Their macabre theatricality is less a warning and more a call to arms. And if that is their intention—to radicalize Jewry—then they
must
be stopped. Vienna is already too divided. Rheinhardt should continue to monitor the Hasidim closely. But he should also cast his net wider. Jewish political societies, dueling fraternities such as Kadimah—even B’nai B’rith.

I am reminded of something I overheard Kusevitsky’s brother saying in the Café Central. He was referring to

71

T
HERE WAS A KNOCK
on the door. Liebermann stopped writing, closed his journal, and placed it in his desk drawer.

“Come in,” he called out.

The door opened slowly, and a gentleman stepped into his office. He was carrying a homburg hat in his hand and wearing a long frock coat. Liebermann recognized him—bald head, long beard, pince-nez—a professor of philosophy whom he often saw around the university. He had also seen him somewhere else, but he couldn’t quite remember where.

“Herr Dr. Liebermann?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Priel. Professor Josef Priel. Do you have a moment? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”

“Concerning?”

“Concerning the death of the young Baron von Kortig.”

Liebermann assumed that the professor had some involvement with the hospital committee and offered him a chair. Priel bowed and sat down, crossing his long legs.

“I was informed by an associate of yours, Dr. Gabriel Kusevitsky—and his brother, the dramatist, Asher Kusevitsky—that your future here at the hospital is now uncertain on account of your conduct at the time of the young baron’s demise. But it is obvious to any right-thinking person that you acted in the best interests of your patient. Therefore one can only suppose that your present predicament owes much to the mischievous interference of politically motivated parties.”

“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “That is almost certainly so.”

“The Kusevitskys mentioned a dossier… sent to an investigator at the security office?”

“Yes, by a member of parliament. It contained letters from the old baron, an unfavorable statement by a witness—an aspirant named Edlinger—and the draft of a scurrilous article.”

“Extraordinary.”

“If it had not been for the intervention of a friend, I might have been made the subject of an official inquiry.”

“And charged with religious agitation, no doubt.”

“That might have been the outcome, yes.”

“A very worrying development,” said Priel, tutting. “Very worrying. I understand that you are to appear before a hospital committee soon.”

“That is correct.”

“And a final decision will be made about your future.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, the chancellor is not very optimistic about my prospects.”

“The chancellor. Would that be Professor Gandler?”

“Yes.”

Priel hummed. When the sonic possibilities of the note had been thoroughly explored, he said, “Gandler will be more concerned about pleasing patrons than about your welfare. He has friends in the town hall, you know.”

Liebermann sighed. “I didn’t realize.”

“And if you are dismissed, what are your plans?”

“It will be difficult for me to get another position here in Vienna.”

“There are other hospitals—private establishments—that would not be unsympathetic; the hospital where Gabriel Kusevitsky works, for example.”

“I do not know the medical director,” said Liebermann meekly. He had not troubled to socialize advantageously, and now he regretted it. His only professorial acquaintance was Freud, a man who possessed little influence outside his own small circle of devotees.

“Introductions could be made,” said Priel, disregarding Liebermann’s reservation. “However, if your appointment at another institution was arranged, it would solve
your
problem, but it wouldn’t solve
the
problem.” Priel altered the position of his head, and his pince-nez flashed as they caught the light. “If you are dismissed, and the decision of the committee is not challenged, it will set something of a precedent—don’t you see?—a dangerous precedent in these difficult times.”

“Challenged?” Liebermann repeated. Not quite sure what the professor was proposing.

“This scandalous affair was never really about your ability to practice medicine. My dear fellow, there is more at stake here than your position.” The professor was beginning to sound a little like the chancellor. “We have a
collective
responsibility…”

The rest of Priel’s sentence was drowned out by a frantic banging on Liebermann’s door.

“Yes, please come in.” Liebermann called out over the noise.

A nurse appeared. Her face was flushed and she had clearly been running.

“Herr Doctor—Herr Poppmeier…”

“Yes? What about him?”

“You must come—immediately.”

“Why?” Liebermann’s first thought was that his patient might have—quite unexpectedly—attempted suicide. “What’s happened?”

“Something unbelievable.” The nurse glanced warily at Professor Priel and then back at Liebermann. “Please hurry.”

“Has he tried to harm himself?”

“No. He’s gone…” She raised her hands and stamped her feet. “He’s gone into labor!”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

“Forgive me, Herr Doctor, but I must insist that you come this instant. Herr Poppmeier
is
having a baby. He really is.”

Liebermann stood up.

“I am sorry, Herr Professor, but I must attend to one of my patients who—if I have understood Nurse Stangassinger correctly—is about to transcend the biological limitations of his sex.”

The professor smiled, wrinkles fanning out from his eyes.

“I am happy to wait. Not only am I anxious to finish our conversation, but I am now equally anxious to hear the outcome of Herr Poppmeier’s miraculous confinement.”

72

L
IEBERMANN FOLLOWED
N
URSE
S
TANGASSINGER
down the corridor and up a broad flight of stairs. They came to a set of rooms set a short distance apart from one of the psychiatric wards. Herr Poppmeier’s screams could be heard long before their arrival.

Nurse Stangassinger opened one of the doors, and Liebermann entered. The traveling salesman was lying on a cart. He was wearing a plain white hospital gown, which rose up to accommodate his swollen belly. The roundness and size of the swelling presented a fair imitation of pregnancy. Poppmeier, evidently in considerable pain, was clutching his distended abdomen. He was flanked by two nurses, one of whom was cooling his brow with a damp sponge.

“Dear God,” he cried. “What is happening to me?”

His eyes were bulging, and he appeared to be semi-delirious.

“How long has he been like this?” Liebermann asked.

The nurse with the sponge said, “We don’t know. He was in the toilet cubicle most of this afternoon.”

“Herr Poppmeier,” said Liebermann, “when did your stomach start to enlarge?”

“Oh, the pain,” said Poppmeier, writhing. “Please do something, Herr Doctor. Operate. Do anything you can. Get it out of me, for mercy’s sake!”

Liebermann grabbed Poppmeier’s jaw and held his head still.

“Look at me, Herr Poppmeier. When did your stomach start to swell? It is important. Try to remember.”

“I had some pains… earlier this afternoon. I thought it might have been something I’d eaten. I shut myself in the water closet, but to no avail. Evacuations did not solve the problem. In fact, the pain got worse.” Poppmeier gritted his teeth. “My stomach began to swell and it started to get hard.”

Liebermann raised the gown and laid his hand on the lower region of Poppmeier’s abdomen. The skin was tight and translucent. He felt movement—not as sharp as a fetal kick, but movement nevertheless. His patient rolled over, groaning.

“Please keep still,” Liebermann growled, hauling Herr Poppmeier back into his original position. He covered the man’s navel with the palm of his hand and applied some pressure. “Does that hurt?”

“Yes, yes. It’s very tender.”

“And here?”

“Yes. There too.”

“And what about here?”

“Argh!” Poppmeier cried out. “For heaven’s sake, man.”

“I’m sorry,” said Liebermann. Then he found a stethoscope on a nearby cart and rested the diaphragm on Poppmeier’s stomach.

Gurgling sounds: a swashing and murmuring—a strange, primordial effervescence.

Liebermann whispered something to Nurse Stangassinger, who subsequently left the room.

“Well?” said Poppmeier. “Is it trying to get out?”

Liebermann shook his head. “Herr Poppmeier, you are not carrying a baby.”

“How can you say that? Look at me!”

“You have swallowed a large amount of air and are suffering from severe abdominal distension.”

“What are you talking about? I haven’t been swallowing air!”

“It can happen without awareness. Unconsciously.”

“But I can feel the thing inside me. I can feel it kicking.”

“No, Herr Poppmeier, you are mistaken. You can feel the movement of air. Now, it is very important that you relax.”

“I can’t relax. I’m having a baby!”

Nurse Stangassinger returned, carrying a syringe.

“Now,” said Liebermann gently, “please keep very still. I need to give you an injection, something to relieve your pain.”

Poppmeier offered his arm, and Liebermann slid the needle beneath his skin.

Almost immediately, Poppmeier stopped writhing.

“Ahh… that’s better,” he said. “Thank you, Herr Doctor.”

“It will make you sleep.”

Poppmeier’s eyelids began to flutter. But before slipping into oblivion, he belched loudly and whispered, “I do beg your pardon.”

Liebermann handed the syringe back to Nurse Stangassinger.

“Keep the patient in here. The swelling will subside in due course.”

Nurse Stangassinger’s cheeks reddened, a sprinkling of vivid paprika.

“I’m sorry, Herr Doctor. I shouldn’t have—”

Liebermann silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Please. There is no need to apologize.”

“Herr Doctor?”

Liebermann turned. Another nurse was looking through the half-open door.

“Yes?”

“Frau Poppmeier arrived a few minutes ago. We asked her to wait in the next room. She is quite anxious. Could you speak to her?”

Liebermann sighed. He thanked the nurses for their assistance, bowed, and made his exit.

Arabelle Poppmeier was standing by the window, biting her nails.

“Ah, Herr Dr. Liebermann. Is something wrong?” She came forward a few steps. “The nurses looked worried, and I heard shouting. It sounded like Ivo. Is he all right?”

“There is no cause for concern, I promise you. Your husband is well—and sleeping. Please, do sit down.”

Liebermann offered her a chair.

“Why was he shouting? It
was
him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. He was in pain because of abdominal distension probably caused by the swallowing of air. He convinced himself that he was going into labor. Needless to say, he became very distressed and I had to sedate him with chloral hydrate.”

“Oh, dear God,” said Frau Poppmeier, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He has gone quite mad. What am I to do?”

“He has not gone mad,” Liebermann said calmly. “He is suffering from an excess of sympathy—for you. Thus, he is attempting to share the burden of your pregnancy. But this decision was not made consciously. It was made in a region of his mind that is ordinarily inaccessible: the unconscious. The unconscious is very resourceful and can communicate symbolically through the body. It creates symptoms, which have meaning—in your husband’s case, symptoms that express solidarity with your condition.”

“Was this…” Frau Poppmeier hesitated. “Was this
attack
caused by Ivo’s unconscious?”

“Very probably. It is seeking to reproduce the signs of pregnancy. Subtle changes of respiration might have sufficed to cause the swelling and pain that your husband mistook to be the onset of labor.”

“But why is this happening to him? Other men are
sympathetic—
very sympathetic—but they don’t become pregnant!”

Her eyes glittered with frustration and anger.

“I don’t know why, as yet,” Liebermann replied. “But when I do find out, I am confident that he will be cured.”

Frau Poppmeier stuffed her handkerchief into her coat pocket.

“May I see him?”

“He won’t awaken for another hour or so. And when he does, I’m afraid he won’t be very communicative. It might be better for you to go home. He will be in better spirits tomorrow morning.”

Frau Poppmeier nodded. Liebermann offered his arm and helped her to stand. She walked to the door.

“Frau Poppmeier, before you leave… I am sorry, but I must ask you an indelicate question. It concerns the stillbirth… last year.”

Frau Poppmeier rested her fingers on the door handle, but she did not turn it.

“When you went into labor,” Liebermann continued, “your husband was away from home. Can you remember where?”

“Linz,” she replied.

“Linz. You’re quite sure it was Linz, and not Steyr?”

“Quite sure.”

“Thank you, Frau Poppmeier.”

The woman looked at Liebermann quizzically.

“Thank you, Frau Poppmeier,” Liebermann repeated, not wishing to explain himself. “We will see you tomorrow morning, I hope.”

Liebermann discovered Professor Priel still waiting in his office. He was studying a clothbound book that he had evidently been carrying in his coat pocket. He was holding a stubby pencil in his hand and writing comments in the margin.

“Professor Priel, I am so very sorry.”

The professor looked up and smiled. “Sorry? Why sorry?”

“For keeping you so long.”

The professor laughed.

“Have you been long? I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been rather absorbed by this little critique here of Ernst Mach’s positivist philosophy.” He scribbled down some final thoughts and closed the book. “So, did your patient defy the immutable laws of biology and science?”

“No. His symptoms—although dramatic—were nothing more than hysteriform phenomena.”

“What a shame. I had hoped that Nurse Stangassinger’s excitement presaged a more interesting report. Now, where were we?”

“Collective responsibility?”

“Indeed. However, before returning to that very important topic, may I ask you a few questions concerning the pending hospital committee meeting, and in particular the evidence against you?”

“If you wish.”

“Have you seen the aspirant’s… What was his name?”

“Edlinger.”

“Have you seen Edlinger’s statement?”

“No.”

“Do you know what Edlinger alleges?”

“I believe he alleged that I used force to stop the priest from seeing the young Baron von Kortig.”

“And did you?”

“Of course not. I put my hand across a doorway. If Father Benedikt had come forward, I would have let him through. I had no intention of wrestling a priest to the ground! I have a duty to my patients, but there are limits to what even I am prepared to do for them.”

“Have you seen Edlinger since that evening?”

“No. He was transferred to another department shortly afterward.”

“Were there any other witnesses?”

“A nurse.”

“Could she be called upon to give a more truthful account?”

“It was she who called the priest in the first place.”

“Ahh… I see,” said the professor. After a lengthy pause, he took out his pocket watch, and his expression showed surprise.

“Forgive me, Herr Doctor. I must be brief.” He dropped the watch into his fob pocket. “You are without doubt being exploited by individuals with political objectives. If you are dismissed and the hospital committee is not challenged, others will suffer in due course. My brother-in-law is a very powerful man: Rothenstein, the banker.”

Liebermann suddenly remembered where else he had seen Priel. Not only strolling around the university, but also talking to the wealthy banker at his father’s lodge.

“Rothenstein is a very charitable man,” Priel continued. “He is always keen to support good causes. If you require funds to mount a legal challenge, they will be made available to you. Similarly, if you require legal advice, Herr Rothenstein will ensure that the very best lawyers are at your disposal. Moreover, we can introduce you to journalists who would be willing to promote your cause in the liberal press, should the need arise. Mayor Lueger is not the only one who appreciates the importance of newspapers! I trust you will give Herr Rothenstein’s offer very serious consideration. I can be contacted at the university.” The professor inclined his head. “Good day, Herr Doctor.”

Before Liebermann had the chance to say thank you, the professor had gone.