and will always be-the people who killed Jesus Christ. Deicide is not easily forgiven.”
Liebermann tilted his brandy glass and watched a point of light move around the rim. “The Hasidic communities are relatively self-contained, congregating around a hereditary leader, or rebbe. These men have enormous influence, and it is just possible that one of them might have orchestrated Brother Stanislav’s murder.”
“I thought the Hasidic Jews were a peaceful people.”
“They are. But there are always exceptions-fanatics. One can imagine how it might happen. Fiery sermons. The idea of retribution planted in the minds of devoted followers and justified with quotes from scripture. The rebbe might even claim to have received a direct communication from God Himself. This is all quite plausible; however, what I don’t understand is why they would have set themselves the most inconvenient task of ripping off a man’s head! If the purpose was to retaliate, then they could have simply struck Brother Stanislav a little harder-smashing his skull instead of merely knocking him out. This would have been quite enough to achieve their aim: an eye for an eye.”
“Does tearing the head off an enemy have any religious significance?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Not that I know of. The only biblical beheading I can think of is that of John the Baptist.” Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “Which doesn’t help us very much.”
“Then perhaps it was simply an audacious display, meant to make their enemies fearful.”
“But if that was their objective, why did they set about their task in such a peculiar way? Why didn’t they use a sabre or an axe? It would have been so much easier. There is something going on here that is most strange and I fear-at present-utterly beyond our powers of comprehension.”
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?”
