Frank Tallis - Vienna Secrets

“I went back to the Maria Treue Kirche on Wednesday,” Rheinhardt continued, “to question the abbot. He spoke very highly of Brother Stanislav and was completely mystified by the monk’s murder. So much so that he was inclined to blame the devil.”

“Ha!” Liebermann scoffed.

“I waited outside the school and talked to some of the parents as they arrived to collect their children. Some had brought wreaths-costly for people of their class, and yet it was like a flower market! They described a kind, compassionate man, a teacher with a gentle manner, particularly evident in his dealings with the younger boys and girls. Brother Stanislav’s good works were not confined to the classroom. He made it his business to help the most disadvantaged families and frequently arranged alms and housing. He was, as far as they were concerned, nothing less than a saint.”

“Then you have discounted my suggestion that he might have been murdered by former pupils seeking vengeance.”

“It isn’t a conjecture that I currently favor, given what has since come to light.” Rheinhardt paused to light a cigar. “I returned to the church the following day and overheard two monks saying disparaging things about Brother Stansilav. One of them ran off. The other, a Brother Lupercus, was willing to talk a little, although he was eager not to be seen talking to me. He urged me to read some articles written by Brother Stanislav for Das Vaterland, a conservative Catholic newspaper.”

“Not a publication I can claim to be overly familiar with.”

“Nor I,” said Rheinhardt, smiling. “Haussmann dug some back issues out of the library, and we were able to find two articles by Brother Stanislav. They were supposed to be about education, but in fact, they were more like political tracts. Some heinous sentiments were expressed with respect to Jews.”

“Clerics are always saying such things.”

“They can be outspoken, I agree, but it is not customary for them to express their prejudices in such colorful language. He likened the diaspora after the pogroms to the spread of vermin, a plague.”

Liebermann turned to face his friend. “You think there is a connection here, with the column?”

“There could be.”

The young doctor considered this possibility for a moment before gesturing for Rheinhardt to continue.

“We learned that Brother Stanislav had become associated with a conservative political group, an odd amalgam of anti-Semites. A few months ago they held an unofficial rally in the old ghetto area of Leopoldstadt. Brother Stanislav gave an inflammatory speech, and there was some fighting. By the time the constables arrived, the crowd had dispersed, but later the body of a young man was found on the Prater. Chaim Robak, an orthodox Jew. He had been beaten and stabbed.”

“The agitators killed him?”

“We don’t know that for certain, but it’s very likely. Thus, one could argue that Brother Stanislav was responsible for the young man’s death.”

“Have you spoken to Robak’s family?”

“I see that you are already considering revenge as a motive. Yes, I have spoken to them. Robak senior is in his late sixties and walks with a stick. He married a much younger woman and they have three daughters, all under twenty and still living at home. None of them could have killed Stanislav. They are physically incapable of performing such a violent act.”

Liebermann inhaled the sweet, fruity fragrance of his brandy.

“I wonder why Brother Lupercus told you about the Vaterland articles.”

“Even monks are prey to the usual human frailties-rivalry, envy, spite. He was probably resentful of Brother Stanislav’s saintly reputation. Or perhaps Brother Stanislav was always getting preferential treatment from the abbot. Who knows?”

“Do you think the abbot knew about Brother Stanislav’s political activities?”

“Perhaps. The sad truth-as I’m sure you’re only too well aware-is that, for most devout Christians, Jews are-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.”

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…”