Vienna Secrets

80

Liebermann was seated outside a large double door. He had been waiting there for some time. His heart was beating with uncomfortable violence, and his palms were moist with anxiety. The committee room was located on an upper floor of the hospital, far removed from the wards. An unpleasant musty odor tainted the air, redolent of old wardrobes. Hanging from the wall at regular intervals were portraits of distinguished administrators and benefactors. Their expressions were either haughty or censorious. Liebermann stood and examined the likeness of Princess Stixenstein: sharp features, a cruel mouth, and a pale powdered complexion. The observer, gazing up at her disdainful visage, could not help but feel diminished.

From behind the doors came the sound of muffled voices.

Liebermann glanced at his wristwatch.

The hands had barely moved.

How much longer?

It was intolerable. Time seemed to have slowed down. Each extended second, inching forward, made every minute into an eternity.

Suddenly the hush was broken by the sound of footsteps. The double doors were flung open by a clerk who possessed the appearance and manner of a funeral director.

“Herr Dr. Liebermann?”

“Yes?”

“The committee is ready to see you. When you enter the committee room, proceed to the table and stand in front of the chancellor. Do not speak unless you are addressed first. Is that clear? Good. This way, please.”

The clerk led Liebermann through an antechamber, and vanished as they entered a big ceremonial hall. At the far end was a long table, behind which sat five figures silhouetted against a row of tall rectangular windows. Liebermann followed the clerk’s instructions and stopped in front of the chancellor, who occupied the central position. When their gazes met, Liebermann bowed.

“Thank you for coming, Herr Doctor,” said the chancellor. “Before we proceed I would like to introduce you to my fellow committee members.” He gestured to his right. “Dr. Eisler and Professor Roga.” And then to his left. “Bishop Waldheim and Municipal Councillor Julius Schmidt.” None of them responded to the introduction with any of the usual signs of courtesy. They sat impassively, observing Liebermann with granite faces. The chancellor consulted some papers and summarized the allegations made against Liebermann by Father Benedikt and the medical aspirant Edlinger. He then asked the committee members if they had any questions.

Schmidt raised his hand.

“Please proceed,” said the chancellor.

“Thank you, Professor Gandler. Thank you.” Schmidt leaned forward. “Herr Dr. Liebermann, these are very serious allegations, are they not?”

“Very serious indeed, sir.”

“And do you have anything to say in your defense?”

“Although it is true that I prevented Father Benedikt from administering the last rites to the young Baron von Kortig, I did not use violence to achieve that end.”

“You barred the priest’s way.”

“I placed my arm across a doorway, and he stopped.”

“The aspirant-Herr Edlinger-who was present at the time is of the opinion that your behavior was threatening.”

“That may have been Edlinger’s perception. However, it was never my intention to threaten the priest.”

“Then why did you do it? Why did you physically stop him from entering the ward?”

“I was concerned for the welfare of my patient. I did not-”

“Yes,” Schmidt interrupted. “We know the reasons you gave for denying the young Baron von Kortig the consolation of his faith. But that is a different matter. The question I am asking concerns your conduct toward Father Benedikt. I repeat, why did you physically stop him from entering the ward?”

“I did not think he had given due consideration to the young baron’s state of mind. I hoped that, after a moment’s delay, he might review his position.”

“Well, if I may say so, Herr Doctor, that strikes me as a remarkably arrogant thing to suggest. How could you possibly know what Father Benedikt had-or hadn’t-considered?”

“Come now, Councillor,” said Professor Roga. “I think Dr. Liebermann should be allowed to justify himself. That, after all, is why he is here today. You were saying, Herr Doctor, that you were concerned for the welfare of your patient…”

Liebermann looked over to the professor, a dignified gentleman with kind eyes.

“Thank you, sir. The young baron had been given morphine and was oblivious of his condition. If Father Benedikt had begun to administer the last rites, this would have signaled the young baron’s imminent demise. I believe that this would have caused him great distress. He was not mentally prepared to die.”

“Herr Doctor,” said the bishop, “do you think what you did was wrong?”

“I did what I thought was best for my patient,” said Liebermann.

“Yes,” said the bishop, “but was it wrong to stop Father Benedikt from administering the last rites to a dying Catholic?”

“I am a doctor,” Liebermann continued. “When I am called to attend a patient, I do not see a Catholic patient, a Jewish patient, or a Muslim patient. I see only an individual in need of care, a fellow citizen of Vienna.”

“But we are not all the same, are we?” said the bishop. “We are, in many ways, quite different.”

“I do not believe that people are so very different,” Liebermann replied. “Particularly when they are dying. In the final moments, we all want peace, not terror.”

The bishop frowned. “If you encountered the same situation again, would you repeat your actions?”

“Yes,” said Liebermann. “I would.”

Eisler coughed into his hand and caught Liebermann’s eye.

“Tell me, Herr Doctor, if you were asked to write a letter to the old baron explaining your reasons for denying his son the last rites, would you do so?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And if you were also asked to include in that letter an apology-not for what you did but for causing the old baron distress-would you do that too?”

“Indeed.”

Eisler and Professor Roga looked at each other and nodded.

“Well, gentlemen,” said the chancellor, “I think we are in full possession of the facts. Could those who consider Dr. Liebermann’s conduct unbefitting a physician in the employ of the General Hospital please raise their hands?”

The bishop and Schmidt registered their vote.

The chancellor looked to his left, and then to his right.

“Two in favor of Herr Dr. Liebermann’s dismissal, and two against. It is therefore incumbent upon me as chancellor to resolve this matter by casting a vote.” Professor Gandler sighed. “Herr Dr. Liebermann, I must be frank. I have not been impressed by your arguments. Moreover, you have risked exposing the hospital to a damaging scandal. In my personal dealings with you I have found you to be rash, proud, and unwilling to accept advice. You cannot disguise poor judgment behind a veil of immature idealism and expect unanimous approval.”

“Hear, hear,” said Schmidt.

“This hospital needs good doctors,” the chancellor continued. “It does not need self-appointed crusaders, an Order of Hippocratic Knights!” The chancellor paused before adding, “However, you acted in accordance with the necessities of your profession…” Gandler grimaced and uttered his final words with obvious discomfort. “And you will be retained.”

“Gandler?” Schmidt was looking at the chancellor, bemused.

The chancellor’s concluding remark was so unexpected that Liebermann was not confident that he heard it correctly.

“I can stay… in my post?”

“Yes,” said the chancellor, unsmiling.

The bishop and Schmidt had begun a private conference.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You may leave, Herr Doctor.”

Liebermann bowed, turned on his heel, and walked briskly toward the antechamber. The sound of discontented voices followed him.

“Really, Gandler,” Schmidt was saying. “This is quite unacceptable…”

Liebermann passed through the antechamber, and the moribund clerk opened the double doors to allow him back into the hall. As soon as they were closed behind him, Liebermann made an obscene gesture in the face of Princess Stixenstein, laughed hysterically, and ran toward the stairs. He skidded to a halt when he saw Rheinhardt waiting by the balustrade.

“What are you doing here?” said Liebermann.

“I wanted to be the first to know. Well?”

“I haven’t been dismissed. I can stay in my post.”

Rheinhardt embraced the young doctor and emitted a deep, resonant chuckle. “Then we must celebrate!”

They walked to the Cafe Landtmann and sat outside. Rheinhardt ordered mountains of food: zwiebelrostbraten, beef tenderloin with crisp onions; krautrouladen, cabbage stuffed with mincemeat, parsley, and pepper; saure nierndln, soured kidneys; and warme rahmgurken, warm cucumbers in cream sauce. He also ordered two bottles of red wine, one of which was consumed in a matter of minutes.

“You know,” said Liebermann, “it’s most peculiar. I really wasn’t expecting the chancellor to vote in my favor. And the municipal councillor, Schmidt, seemed genuinely surprised, shocked almost. I could hear them arguing about it as I left.”

“Well,” said Rheinhardt, scooping a tangle of onions onto his fork, “perhaps he had good reason.”

“What do you mean? Good reason?”

Rheinhardt pulled a face, a slightly pained expression.

“I have a small confession to make.”

“What?”

“I wrote a note to the chancellor yesterday… and said that the security office intended to commend you to the emperor for an imperial and royal award. I mentioned that you recently helped us to foil a politically sensitive plot to foment racial discord.” Rheinhardt shoveled the onions into his mouth. “I indicated that the judgment of the hospital committee would not look very good if they dismissed a doctor so rewarded by the emperor.”

“And is it true?” Liebermann asked. “Is the security office really considering putting my name forward?”

“I raised the issue with the commissioner.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said he’d think about it.”

“Then you lied, Oskar!”

“Well,” said the inspector, “that’s a matter of opinion.” He drained his wineglass and pointed at one of the dishes. “Try those kidneys. They’re quite stupendous.”