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
The 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 facade, 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.
