portrayed as a haven for atheists and religious agitators? And can you not imagine what effect such a scandal will have on the number of charitable donations we receive!”
“It was never my intention to bring the hospital into disrepute, Herr Professor. As you know, I merely sought to honor my principal obligation, which was to my patient, and to him alone.”
The chancellor shook his head. “Such worthy sentiments would be all well and good, Herr Doctor, if we lived in some perfect platonic world. But we don’t. We live in a real and very complex world in which decisions have numerous consequences, all of which have to be taken into account. To do some good in this world-and by that I mean substantial, practical good-requires an individual to rise above simplistic juvenile idealism.”
Liebermann was surprised by the chancellor’s vehemence. Moreover, his insult was finely honed. It was penetrating and hurtful, Liebermann realized, because it was also insightful. There was some truth in what Professor Gandler had said.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing,” said the chancellor. “It’s too late for an apology now. However, given the current situation, I have decided that it is in the best interests of all concerned if you are relieved of your clinical duties pending a special meeting of the hospital committee.”
“What do you mean, ‘relieved’?”
“You must not have any further contact with your patients.”
“But that’s impossible. Some of them are very ill.”
“Then they will have to be reassigned to another physician.”
Liebermann raised his hands in the air, a futile mute beseeching.
“What is the purpose of this suspension? What does it achieve?”
“The hospital must show that we are taking the matter of your alleged misconduct seriously. If we permit you to continue your clinical duties, then there is nothing to stop you from repeating the offense. Such a possibility cannot be countenanced.”
“Professor Gandler,” said Liebermann, attempting unsuccessfully to maintain a steady voice, “the circumstances surrounding the young Baron von Kortig’s death were somewhat unusual. I do not expect to encounter such a situation again in the foreseeable future. Surely it would be better if I were relieved only of ward duties. I could then continue to see individual cases.”
The chancellor was shaking his head before Liebermann had finished his sentence.
“No, that wouldn’t be wise. I’m sure you can busy yourself in other ways. Spend some time in the library, write up a few old cases, plan some research…”
“When is this special meeting of the hospital committee planned?”
“We don’t have a date yet, but as soon as everyone is agreed, I’ll let you know. You will be expected to attend.”
“I thought you said it was too late for an apology.”
“It is.”
“Then why must I attend?”
“To justify your actions so that the committee can make a decision concerning your position here at the hospital. I fear, however, that little can be done now. Unless something very remarkable happens, I believe that you will be dismissed. I did warn you, Herr Doctor. I did warn you.”
44
Liebermann was already sitting in the little coffeehouse by the Anatomical Institute when Rheinhardt came through the door. The inspector hung his coat on the stand and made his way over to Liebermann’s table. A waiter who had been lurking in the shadows emerged to take Rheinhardt’s order.
“A turkische, please,” said Rheinhardt. “With plenty of sugar.”
Liebermann, finely attuned to the nuances of his friend’s behavior, registered that Rheinhardt had neglected to order a pastry. This he took to be a very bad sign indeed. Only something of the utmost importance would make Rheinhardt forget his partiality for the chef’s exotically spiced topfenstrudel.
“Well,” said Liebermann, “I must suppose that you have called this impromptu meeting because a very considerable problem has arisen with respect to the investigation.”
Rheinhardt shook his head. “No, Max, on this occasion you are quite mistaken.” The inspector pulled a chair from under the table and sat down heavily. “This morning,” he continued, “I was approached by Hohenwart…”
“Hohenwart?”
“Alfred Hohenwart: one of my colleagues at Schottenring. He is aware of our association.” Rheinhardt’s finger oscillated in the air, linking himself and Liebermann. “Hohenwart investigates individuals and groups who seek to cause social division by religious agitation. Yesterday he received a dossier from a member of parliament that included letters from the old Baron von Kortig, a statement from a medical aspirant named Edlinger, and a draft copy of a scurrilous article soon to be published in the satirical magazine Kikeriki. Needless to say, the article is purported to be an account of events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig, and describes-in very colorful terms-your dispute with the priest. The honorable gentleman suggested that it might be prudent for Hohenwart to make you, Herr Doctor, the subject of a comprehensive inquiry.”
Liebermann opened his mouth and waited for a suitable expletive to give expression to his feelings, but all that he could manage was a horrified gasp.
“I know,” Rheinhardt continued. “It is truly appalling. I explained to Hohenwart what really happened, and he agreed that there was insufficient cause to mount an inquiry; however, this is, of course, a very disturbing development. You will understand now why I wanted to see you as a matter of some urgency.”
“The chancellor warned me that things might escalate, that my situation could become worse, but I never envisaged this!”
Liebermann told Rheinhardt about his recent encounter with Professor Gandler and explained how there was a good chance that he might lose his position altogether.
The waiter arrived with Rheinhardt’s turkische. The inspector tasted it, grimaced, and spooned some extra sugar into the cup.
“Things stand to get very ugly indeed,” said Rheinhardt. “Particularly if the newspapers get involved. You’ll be hounded by journalists. Given that you’ve been relieved of clinical responsibilities, I’d recommend that you keep a low profile. Why don’t you get away for a few weeks?”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be very far, just somewhere they can’t find you. In the meantime, I can have a word with the editor of Kikeriki. Perhaps I can apply a little pressure and get him to withdraw the article. I’ll also request a meeting with the censor, who might be persuaded to intercept similar articles. After all, I very much doubt whether the emperor would approve.” Rheinhardt sipped his coffee and added, “I wonder who’s behind all this.”
“It can’t be just one person. You will recall that Councillor Faust wanted to eliminate Jews from professional life. There must still be others in the town hall who share his views, and creating a climate of hostility toward Jewish doctors would certainly help prepare the way.” Liebermann took a box of small cigars from his pocket and offered one to Rheinhardt. “How ironic… that I-a man without any religious convictions whatsoever-should find myself described as a religious agitator!”
Rheinhardt took a cigar.
“This chap Edlinger-I gather he described your behavior as threatening.” Rheinhardt struck a match, lit his friend’s cigar and then his own. “Why should he have done that? Is it possible that he had reason to hold a grudge against you?”
“I hardly know him,” Liebermann replied. “He did object to the position I took when I was arguing with the priest, so it could be that Edlinger is a devout Catholic, but I don’t think so. Edlinger isn’t really the type. He’s a rakish fellow with a dueling scar. No, I suspect that his animosity stems from a simple but universal human failing. Psychoanalysis informs us that we often harbor resentment toward those to whom we owe a debt, and Edlinger is-without doubt-very much in my debt. He shouldn’t have given the young Baron von Kortig morphine, nor should he
