Vienna Secrets (5 page)

7

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 nurse stepped into his office. He had seen her before but they had never spoken. She seemed rather agitated.

“Yes?” said Liebermann.

“My name is Magdalena Heuber. I am a nurse on Professor Friedländer’s ward.” She gestured down the corridor. “Would you please come and examine one of our patients? He is very ill.”

“Where is Professor Friedländer?” asked Liebermann.

“He has gone home,” said Nurse Heuber.

Liebermann glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting late. He had been so absorbed in his journal that he had lost track of time.

“What about Professor Friedländer’s
sekundararzt—
Dr. Platen?”

The nurse, looking distinctly uncomfortable, replied, “Dr. Platen has been unavoidably detained.” Liebermann suspected that she wasn’t being entirely candid, but he chose not to press her. “We only have an
aspirant—
Herr Edlinger—on the ward,” the nurse continued, “and he is not sure what to do. The patient is the young Baron von Kortig.”

Liebermann sighed and stood up. Remembering his journal, he took a key from his pocket, locked the desk drawer, and pulled at it a few times to make sure that the bolt had properly engaged.

“Confidential case notes,” said Liebermann, catching the nurse’s eye. This small falsehood still drew an unwelcome warmth to his cheeks.

They made their way down the corridor to Professor Friedländer’s ward and entered an anteroom. It was cramped and dim. The shelves were stacked with folders and formularies, and the wooden table—which nestled under the black square of a small window—was covered in medical journals. A metal cart parked beside the table was loaded with flasks, some of which were filled with opaque peach-colored urine. The claustrophobic and stale atmosphere of the anteroom was exacerbated by the presence of the aspirant, Edlinger, who occupied the central floor space. He was a well-dressed young man with blond hair, an exceedingly thin mustache, and a silver dueling scar on his chin.

Edlinger introduced himself, briefly described the patient’s condition, and handed Liebermann a weighty buff file. Liebermann sat down and flicked through the summary: Baron Klemens von Kortig:
mood shifts, delusions of grandeur, irrational rages, gambling, spending sprees, vertigo, headache, digestive problems, vomiting, “lightning pain” in the hands and feet
. It was unusual to see a man quite so young in the advanced stages of tertiary syphilis, but presumably, like many of his peers, on reaching puberty the baron had immediately enjoyed the sexual favors of the peasant girls on his father’s estate. He was now paying a heavy price for these plein air romances.

“What did you give him?” asked Liebermann.

“Morphine,” Edlinger replied.

“Why?”

“He was agitated. I wanted him to settle down.”

“The other patients were being disturbed,” interjected Nurse Heuber.

“But the syphilis has spread to his heart,” said Liebermann.

The aspirant and the nurse presented a united front: void expressionless faces.

“Never mind,” said Liebermann, shaking his head. “I’d better go and see him. Where is he?”

Nurse Heuber led Liebermann out onto the ward. It smelled of carbolic. The other patients watched their progress as they approached the last bed, which was hidden behind a screen.

Baron von Kortig, propped up with pillows, was fast asleep. His hair was lank, sweat glistened on his brow, and his eyelids were red and swollen. The hospital gown he wore was rucked at the shoulders, revealing long pale arms and thin white fingers.

Liebermann stood at the end of the bed. He looked at his patient with an expression unique to clinicians, a combination of devotion and predatory interest: a paradoxical look, compassionate yet calculating.

He noted that the baron’s head was nodding with each heartbeat, and positioned himself closer. He bent forward and examined the man’s fingernails. Edlinger was standing in the light, and Liebermann gestured that he should take a step back. Liebermann observed the subtle blushing beneath the transparent keratin, the color coming and going. He squeezed von Kortig’s bony wrist and felt the flow of blood—its physicality—his fingers being raised by the pressure, and their subsequent fall. He then lifted von Kortig’s arm and felt the pulse collapse, the loss of power and only a residual
tap, tap, tap
. It was ominously weak, its actual presence sometimes indistinguishable from an anticipatory tactile illusion.

Liebermann asked Edlinger for his stethoscope.

Pressing the diaphragm against the baron’s chest, Liebermann listened.

Lubb-dub, lubb-dub, lubb-dub…

There was something very wrong.

He heard a rumbling on the second component of the beat, a rumbling that became more marked when he placed the diaphragm of the stethoscope closer to the left edge of the patient’s sternum. When he listened to the patient’s lungs, he heard a loud crackling. They were horribly congested.

Liebermann took off the stethoscope and handed it back to Edlinger.

“Aortic regurgitation. The infection has all but destroyed his heart. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”

“He’s dying?” cried the aspirant, the pitch of his voice climbing with surprise.

Liebermann quickly raised his finger to his lips.

“Yes,” he whispered, looking once again at von Kortig’s blushing fingertips.

Nurse Heuber made the sign of the cross and excused herself. The sound of her brisk step, captured and amplified by the vaulted ceiling, fell silent when she reached the anteroom. Liebermann explained, sotto voce, to the aspirant how he had determined the severity of von Kortig’s condition. He then suggested to Edlinger that he should go and make a relevant entry in the patient’s notes.

There was no reason for Liebermann to stay on; however, having become involved in the young baron’s care, he felt a curious sense of obligation, a compulsion to remain a little longer.

Liebermann found a chair, placed it behind the screen, and sat by the patient. He checked von Kortig’s pulse again and plumped up the pillows: maintaining him in an upright position would make it easier for the poor fellow to breathe. The gas lamps were humming, and the steady persistence of their inanimate drone lulled Liebermann into a pensive, melancholy state. His mind produced a loose circle of associations: death, mortality, the importance of seizing opportunities because of the brevity of life, Miss Lydgate, sexual desire, syphilis—and, again, death.

Suddenly Liebermann became aware that something had changed. There was a difference in the acoustics of the ward. Where there had hitherto been a constant rhythmic accompaniment to the humming gas lamps—von Kortig’s shallow, stertorous breathing—there was now an absence. Liebermann looked up, expecting the worst, expecting to be confronted with the terrible stillness of the dead; however, what he saw almost made him jump. Von Kortig had opened one eye and was staring at him intently.

“I’m sorry,” said the aristocrat in a cracked, wheezy voice. “But you are?”

“Dr. Max Liebermann.”

“Liebermann, you say.” The other eye opened. “Liebermann… Ah yes, of course. Karl’s friend. I am sorry. My memory isn’t as good as it once was…. You were my guest last summer—at the hunting lodge.”

It was probably the effect of the morphine. Liebermann did not have the heart to challenge him.

Von Kortig winked. “What a summer, eh?”

“Yes,” Liebermann replied softly. “What a summer…”

“Those girls from Paris… Have you ever encountered a more sporting group of ladies?”

“No… I haven’t.”

The young baron paused for a moment and smiled wistfully.

“Hugo, eh? What a fool he was. His father was furious, you know—when he heard. He’s threatened to disinherit him. That land has been in the Meissner family for generations. Although, who am I to criticize. We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Luck seems to be on your side, you’re dealt one fantastic hand after another, you get overconfident, and then…” Von Kortig paused, lifted his arm, but was too weak to hold it up. When it hit the sheet, he winced.

“Are you coming again this year?”

“If I can.”

“Good. Karl will be pleased.”

The dying young man looked at the screen, but his eyes were focused on a distant, imaginary horizon.

“I must say, I’m looking forward to it again this year—more so than ever before.” He closed his eyes and croaked, “Is there any champagne left? Put a few drops of cognac in mine, there’s a good chap.” The young man drifted out of consciousness, and when he came to again, he said, “They’re not going to keep me in here for very much longer, are they?” A note of anxiety had crept into his voice.

“No,” said Liebermann.

“Good. What did you say your name was?”

“Liebermann.”

“Ah yes… Liebermann.” Von Kortig’s breath was suddenly labored. “Look, there’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“Wrong?”

“Well, to be honest, I’m not feeling too good.”

“You need rest, that’s all. Close your eyes. Get some sleep.”

“That’s not a bad idea. I am feeling awfully tired.”

Von Kortig’s eyelids slowly closed.

Liebermann, moved by the terrible irony of their exchange, looked away. Through a gap in the screen he could see the entrance to the anteroom. Nurse Heuber appeared—and behind her stood a priest. Liebermann got up quietly and walked to the other end of the ward.

“I trust I am not too late, Herr Doctor,” said the priest, a man not very much older than Liebermann. “Nurse Heuber did her best.” He turned to face the nurse and smiled.

“Thank you for coming. But…” Liebermann grimaced. “I am not altogether sure that your ministrations will be in the patient’s best interests.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?” The question was not interrogative, merely curious.

“He is ignorant of his condition. He is not suffering, and because of the brain disease, the morphine, or both, he is under the impression that he will be discharged shortly… and he is looking forward to spending the summer in a hunting lodge with friends.”

The priest glanced at the nurse, and then at the aspirant.

“I understood that the young baron is close to death.”

“He is,” said Liebermann. “That is my point: he is very close to death, but is also blissfully unaware of his predicament. He will pass away within the hour—within minutes, perhaps. I fear that conducting the last rites will rouse him from his dreams. Such a rude awakening might cause him considerable distress.”

“You would have him die… in ignorance?”

“No. I would have him die happy rather than fearful.”

“I have no intention of frightening him. I only wish to offer him the consolation—the balm—of
his own
religion.”

The priest had pronounced “his own” with sufficient emphasis to make his point.

“With the greatest respect, I am a doctor. And I must decide what is correct in that capacity alone—and no other. My single concern is for my patient’s welfare. It was not my intention to question your religious authority, the sanctity of your beliefs, or your good intentions.”

“But that is exactly what you are doing, Herr Doctor. Baron von Kortig is a Catholic. I am a priest. In the same way that you have obligations, so have I! Do you really expect me to let the baron die in a state of sin? Please… you have already said that we have little time. Please, Herr Doctor, would you stand aside?”

“I am sorry, but I can’t let you go through. I have been charged with certain responsibilities and I must honor them.” The priest moved forward, and Liebermann stretched his arm across the doorway. “I’m sorry.”

The priest looked from the nurse to the aspirant.

“Please, you must help me. We cannot let this godless—” He stopped himself from using the word “Jew” and began again. “Please, I beg you. The fate of a man’s soul is at stake.”

Edlinger stood up.

“Father Benedikt has a point, Herr Doctor. What I mean to say is, if the baron were lucid, able to know his own mind, he might actually want absolution. Who are we, as medical men, to deny him a religious sacrament?”

“It was not my impression that the baron led a very spiritual existence.”

“All the more reason to let me through!” said the priest angrily.

“Nurse Heuber,” said Liebermann calmly, “could you please go and make sure that Baron von Kortig is comfortable?”

He lowered his arm, and the nurse passed through. As he did so, he maintained eye contact with the priest.

“Herr Doctor,” said the priest, “how do you think the baron’s family will react when they hear that their son was denied absolution at the time of his death?”

Liebermann sighed. “Once again, I must remind you that my responsibilities differ from yours. I am sorry that you have had a wasted journey. Edlinger will escort you to the foyer.”

Liebermann could hear the nurse’s footsteps returning—and knew immediately that the baron was dead.

The priest was an intelligent man. He too recognized the significance of her swift return. Turning, he took his cape from the stand and said, “I can see myself out, thank you.”

For a moment he stopped in the doorway.

“Liebermann… That is your name?”

“Yes.”

The priest nodded and left, his flapping cape creating a gust of chill air that lifted some of the loose papers on the table.

8

T
HE GOLDEN HORNED SPHERE
on top of the plague column was struck by sunlight, and a flare of white radiance ignited beneath the Virgin’s feet. Two stone figures, casually perched on the Maria Treue Kirche façade, legs dangling into space, looked curiously unimpressed by the spectacle. Their raised hands directed the eye toward the ornate clock face instead of the Virgin, suggesting that the passage of time was a matter of much greater significance than divine pyrotechnics.

Rheinhardt circumnavigated the plague column and placed himself just inside one of the two doorways that flanked the central and much larger entrance to the church.

A woman, with a small child in tow, crossed the concourse and laid a wreath by the lamppost beneath which the mutilated remains of Brother Stanislav had been discovered. Others had already paid their respects. The ground was covered with floral tributes that formed a makeshift garden, the colors of which blazed in the brilliant light. The woman urged her son to say a prayer, but he was too young to understand the purpose of his mother’s manipulations—the joining of his hands, the closing of his eyes, and the guiding of his tiny fingers to the four points of the cross. His mother let him go, and he walked back to the plague column, where he peered through the railings at the assembly of saints, angels, knights, and cherubs. A carriage came rattling down the road, and the boy turned, emitting a gurgle of pleasure at the sight of two piebald horses.

His mother bowed her head, closed her eyes, and her lips moved silently as she recited a Hail Mary. The central door of the church opened and two monks emerged from the darkness. They were both middle-aged but differed greatly in build: the first was tall, pale, and emaciated, while the second was short, ruddy, and plump.

The woman opened her eyes. They were bright with tears.

The two monks halted.

“Romy, come over here—at once.” The little boy ran to his mother, but on arrival hid behind her skirts, clutching the coarse material in his hands. “Don’t be shy, Romy. Say good morning to the holy fathers.”

The boy peeped out from his hiding place, but said nothing. The short monk rested his hands on the projecting shelf of his stomach and smiled indulgently.

“I brought a wreath,” said the woman.

“Thank you,” said the short monk.

“He was so kind, so caring. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. After my husband died, I had no one.” She wiped the tears from her face as soon as they appeared. “He was a saint.”

“Pray for him,” said the short monk.

“Yes, pray for him,” repeated his lean companion. “It is what Brother Stanislav would have wanted, and it is all that we poor sinners can do now.”

The woman reached for her son’s hand and began walking back to the road. When she was out of earshot, the short monk exclaimed, “A saint!”

“Indeed!” said the tall monk, raising his gaze irreverently to the heavens.

They stepped over the wreath and made their way toward the nearest school entrance.

Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.

“One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”

The two monks looked at each other.

“And you are?” the shorter one inquired.

“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”

“I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”

“Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time—when it is more convenient?”

The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

“Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well—”

“Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.

“Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”

The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.

“If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was
really
like, read the articles he wrote for
Das Vaterland
.” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.

“
Vaterland
? What’s that?”

“A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.

“
Vaterland
,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.

Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.