it? He has never liked me.”
Gabriel was about to protest. He raised his arm energetically, but then allowed it to drop. “We have much to do. Not for ourselves, but for the good of our people.” Anna was unsure whether he was referring to himself and his brother or to himself and her. “It was wrong of me to pursue your affection,” Gabriel continued. “The time is not right. I am sorry, Anna. Please forgive me.”
“Am I to understand that you wish to end our…”-she was suddenly lost for words, and ended the sentence with a sterile noun-“association”?
The young doctor nodded.
Anna was not accustomed to being dismissed in such a peremptory fashion. All her other suitors had been rejected by her. The reverse was unthinkable. Her response, therefore, was rage, followed by a show of defensive indifference. “Very well,” she said. “If that is how you feel, you’d better go.”
“Anna…” Gabriel made a few faltering steps toward her.
“Please,” she said. “Do not insult me with an apology.”
Kusevitsky bowed and walked stiffly to the door.
“Oh, and incidentally,” Anna added, “it was I who pursued your affection, not you who pursued mine.”
Kusevitsky accepted this emasculating barb and left the room. Anna listened for the sound of the apartment door, and then allowed herself to burst into tears.
She ran from the parlor, down the hallway, and into her bedroom. Standing by the window, she concealed herself behind the curtain and watched Gabriel’s diminutive figure cross the road below. Something caught in her chest, a more pitiful emotion that made itself known through the maelstrom of anger. She noticed something: a man-who must have been standing in a doorway-emerging and walking after Gabriel. It looked as though he had been waiting for the young doctor to come out. Her thoughts were interrupted by a timid knock on the door.
“Fraulein Anna?” It was the maid. “Fraulein Anna? Are you all right?”
“It’s for the best,” said Asher Kusevitsky, handing his brother the bottle of schnapps. “You did the right thing.”
Gabriel took a swig and wiped his lips on his sleeve. His purple necktie was loose. He pulled it off, examined it for a moment, and then tossed it aside.
“We cannot… must not be distracted,” said Asher
“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Of course.” After a pause, he added, “I dreamed of Mother and Father last night.”
“Did you?” said Asher. “How strange. So did I. The old house?”
“Yes.”
“They came for them… carrying torches… and I watched the house burn. Mother called out to me.” Gabriel bit his lower lip. “‘Leave,’ she said. ‘Run.’”
“It was the same for me too.”
“What? She mentioned Vienna?”
Asher shook his head. “No.”
“I heard her quite distinctly. She said, ‘Run, run… Leave Vienna.’”
The playwright stood up and extended his hand. Gabriel grabbed it and pulled himself up. “We’re not going anywhere,” said Asher. “No more running-ever again. We have work to do. Work will set you free!” he said, quoting the title of an old novel.
75
After a meal at the little cafe by the Anatomical Institute-two fat bratwurst, a pile of sauerkraut, and a dollop of mustard-Liebermann returned to his room at the hospital. He reviewed his case notes and then tried to distract himself by reading; however, he found that he was unable to concentrate. That afternoon he had received two letters. The first was from the chancellor’s secretary, requesting his attendance at the next hospital committee meeting, and the second was from the aspirant, Edlinger: WHAT I DID WAS WRONG. MEET ME BY THE NARRENTURM TONIGHT AT TEN-THIRTY. WE MUST SPEAK. WE MUST SPEAK. THERE IS SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW.
It read more like a plea for help than a repentant man’s promise of restitution. The inclusion of Edlinger’s statement in the dossier sent to the security office indicated that he had probably been courted by Christian Social activists; however, he was young-rash-and might have regretted his decision to become involved in the von Kortig affair. Perhaps his political masters were making demands that he was now less willing to go along with? Or perhaps they had revealed the true scope of their ambition, and Edlinger was having scruples? Edlinger was a hotheaded young man with a reputation for dueling. Nevertheless, it was rumored that he rarely drew his sword to defend an ideal. It was almost always because of a lady.
At first Liebermann was disinclined to meet with Edlinger. If the aspirant had gotten himself into trouble, that was his problem. He could always relieve his guilty conscience by confessing to a priest! Moreover, Liebermann did not believe that Edlinger could tell him anything that he hadn’t already guessed. Yet, as the day progressed, curiosity got the better of him.
At ten-fifteen he placed his journal and the two letters in his bag. He locked his desk, extinguished the gaslight, and left his room.
The General Hospital was not a single building but a group of interconnected structures, with a hinterland of clinics and university institutes to the north. Liebermann made his way through a complex maze of corridors that eventually took him out into an open space surrounded by various outhouses and a high stucco facade.
The night was cold. Overhead, slow-moving clouds were limned with the silver valance of a hidden moon.
Liebermann’s breath condensed on the air, and through the dissolving haze he saw the Narrenturm-the fools’ tower. Five stories high, its hooplike structure resembled a guglhupf cake (a correspondence that had provided students with a serviceable sobriquet for well over a hundred years). Its curved, dilapidated brick wall was featureless except for a uniform girdle of equidistant slit windows. The absence of any ornament suggested penal austerity-incarceration and hard labor. Yet the Narrenturm had once been the most important psychiatric hospital in the world, attracting not only distinguished doctors but also interested members of the public. Its unique design permitted visitors to circumambulate its corridors and view the unfortunate inmates in their cells as if they were animals in a zoo.
In spite of its historical importance, the Narrenturm now stood on a neglected plot of scrubby grass that was littered with the detritus of construction work: wooden planks, steel drums, and broken slates. A washing line had been attached to a crumbling pillar, and undergarments floated above the ground like the pale body parts of dismembered ghosts.
Only a few windows on the stucco facade opposite were illuminated, but Liebermann’s eyes swiftly adapted to the darkness and he was able to find a way to the Narrenturm with relative ease. He had been standing there for only a few moments when he heard the sound of a restive horse: the jangle of a bridle and the stamping of hooves.
Perhaps Edlinger had already arrived and was waiting on the other side?
Liebermann walked to the back of the building, but could see very little: a clump of trees, more building materials, and the faint outline of additional outhouses. He tried to check the time on his wrist-watch, but the meager light was insufficient.
Again-the jangling bridle.
Peering across the open space, Liebermann thought he detected some movement, a piece of the night-even darker than its background-detached and expanding. The moon emerged momentarily from behind its cloud and clarified the world: an old man, wearing a frock coat and a massive beaver hat, was heading toward him. He was making slow progress, stooped over a walking stick, and he carried a substantial book under his other arm.
“Excuse me… is that someone there?” The voice was thin, and the effort of speech seemed to make the old man cough.
Liebermann tutted. This is most irritating.
He walked out to meet the old fellow. As he approached, he noticed the coiled sideburns of a Hasidic
