Vienna Secrets

16

After the morning ward round, Liebermann returned to his room. On the floor he found an envelope. He sat at his desk, broke the seal, and read the note inside. It was from the hospital’s chancellor, Professor Robert Gandler. Liebermann was to report-no later than one o’clock-to the chancellor’s office, in order to discuss a matter of utmost importance. Liebermann looked at his wristwatch and, discovering that it was almost noon, set off, walking briskly through seemingly endless interconnected corridors. He had to ask a porter for directions. Finally he managed to find the chancellor’s office on the third floor, in the administrative department. The sound of a typist, tapping at her keyboard, created an illusion of heavy rainfall.

Liebermann knocked and waited for an invitation to enter. None came, so he knocked again, this time louder.

“Ah…” He heard a voice, sounding as if it belonged to someone being roused from sleep. “Ah… do come in.”

Liebermann opened the door. It was a large room, lined with shelves, each of which was crammed with files and official-looking directories. He was facing a desk, piled so high with papers that the person behind them was entirely hidden.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Liebermann, sir. You wished to speak with me?”

A head appeared from behind the barricade of paperwork.

Professor Gandler was in his late sixties, but his abundant black hair was only just beginning to turn silver. It was brushed back from a high, pale forehead, and adamantly refused to acknowledge the sovereignty of gravity. Renegade tufts sprouted at various angles, giving the impression that he had only recently been battered by a strong wind. His dress was traditional and sombre, and a pair of eager eyes peered through oval-shaped spectacles.

“Liebermann,” said the professor. “Ah yes, Liebermann. Thank you for coming.” He pointed to a wooden chair with a quilted seat. “Please…”

The young doctor bowed and came forward, but when he sat down, he found that he was staring once again into the blank wall of piled papers. A tower of documents in the center began to retreat and move off to the side, its displacement creating a defile through which Professor Gandler’s head reappeared.

“You wouldn’t believe the number of documents I have to read, sign, countersign, approve, reject, and so on. It’s quite intolerable.” The professor made a steeple with his fingers and hummed loudly. “Liebermann…”

“A matter of utmost importance?” Liebermann prompted.

“Indeed,” said the professor. “Indeed… However, with your cooperation I am sure that the situation can be managed. And once all parties are satisfied, the affair can be laid to rest.”

“Situation?”

“Yes. The von Kortig business.”

“I’m not sure I understand…”

“I suppose I should hear your side of the story first, although whatever you say, I doubt whether it will alter things very much. The priest would not have misrepresented events, and there were witnesses, of course.”

Liebermann still looked confused.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” the professor continued, “who stopped Father Benedikt from giving von Kortig the last rites? We have only one Dr. Liebermann working in the hospital at the moment. So it must have been you. I remember that there used be a cardiologist, Emanuel Liebermann, who worked here many, many years ago… Are you related?”

“No.” Liebermann crossed his legs and leaned toward the professor. “I’m sorry, sir, but am I to understand that there has been a complaint concerning my professional conduct?”

“The priest wrote to the old baron explaining what happened, and he in turn wrote to me. I was obliged to raise his grievances at the hospital committee meeting, which was scheduled for the following day. Unfortunately the committee members were very troubled by what they heard.”

“With respect, Professor, may I see the old baron’s letter?”

“Certainly not. It is confidential.”

“Then would you be so kind as to tell me what he wrote?”

“That you stopped the priest from giving his son the consolation of his faith.”

“Sir, the young baron had been given morphine and was unaware of his fatal condition. He was making plans for the future and was in good spirits. If the priest had been permitted to administer the last rites, the young baron would have realized that he was about to die. He was not, in my estimation, a courageous or thoughtful man. He was completely unprepared for such a dreadful revelation. It would have caused him considerable distress. Fortunately I was able to stop the priest, and the young baron died peacefully.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” said the professor, repeatedly batting the air with his hand. “You were acting in the patient’s interests. That goes without saying. But that isn’t the point.”

“Then perhaps you could explain?”

“Bishop Waldheim is on the committee and wants you to apologize. First by writing to the old baron; second by writing to the priest; and third in person to the committee.”

There was a lengthy pause, during which the reiterative hammering of the typewriter-perhaps in the next room-became exceptionally loud.

Liebermann said, “I am happy to write to the old baron and to Father Benedikt, and I will attend the next meeting of the committee-”

“Excellent!” cried the professor, clapping his hands together. “I knew you wouldn’t be difficult! Good man!”

“With respect, Professor,” said Liebermann, “I did not finish. I am happy to explain my actions and to answer any questions concerning the legitimacy of my medical judgment.”

“Nobody is doubting your medical judgment,” said the professor sharply.

“Then why should I apologize?”

“You have caused offense.”

“But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Isn’t causing offense wrong?”

“Not so wrong as letting a patient die in distress.”

The professor got up from his seat and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out, a crooked smile twisting his lips.

“Herr Doctor, you are placing me in a very awkward position.” He turned abruptly. “I am not sure whether you appreciate the importance of the committee. It not only provides the hospital with a moral compass, it also provides us with resources. The members of the committee assist in the raising of funds, and they wield influence on our behalf so that we can maintain the high standards that have made us preeminent in the whole of Europe. We all benefit from their patronage and charity-not only the patients but we doctors too. If the committee wants you to apologize, then I would strongly urge you to comply. For heaven’s sake, man, it’s a simple matter of dashing off a few lines.” The professor returned from the window and, resting both hands on his desktop, leaned forward, peering through the gap in his paperwork. “Look, I’ll tell you what… I’ll see if I can charm the bishop into accepting a letter to the committee instead of an appearance in person. There! That should make it easier, eh? How about that as a compromise?”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Herr Doctor, if you see no purpose for yourself in complying with the bishop’s request, then perhaps you might consider the interests of the hospital.”

“With respect, Professor Gandler, I very much doubt that the fate of the hospital will be greatly affected by whether or not I apologize.”

The professor sat down in his chair and sighed.

“I am an old man, Herr Doctor. But I was young once, and thus have the advantage. You were never old. Permit me to give you some advice. Most of the battles fought in youth seem insignificant with the passing of time. When I reflect on my behavior as a young man-the arguments, the duels-I find it incomprehensible, and sometimes just foolish. I very much hope that when you reach my age, you will have fewer regrets than I do.”

The noise of the nearby typewriter filled the ensuing silence.

“Well?” said the professor.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Liebermann again, shaking his head.

“Very well,” said the chancellor curtly. “You may leave. I will convey the substance of our interview to the committee and will commend you as a man of principle. I fear, however, that this will not be enough to appease them. Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”