“Ordinarily I would ask you the nature of that business, but I know there is little point. You have been ordered to keep it a secret.”
Rheinhardt emitted a cry of surprise and demanded: “How on earth did you know that?”
Liebermann closed his eyes and an enigmatic smile played about his lips. “Perhaps I had a feeling,” he said softly.
Rheinhardt burst out laughing. “Sometimes,” he said, shaking his head, “you can be quite insufferable!”
22
“YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, headmaster?”
“Yes indeed, Wolf. Please sit.”
Professor Eichmann was signing and dating documents. On Eichmann's desk was a photograph of himself looking considerably younger and dressed in the uniform of an artillery officer. The headmaster glanced up from his paperwork.
“How is your father?”
“Very well, headmaster.”
“You will be kind enough to include my salutations when you next write home.”
“Of course, headmaster.”
Professor Eichmann signed and dated one more document, and said: “You will be wondering why I wanted to see you today.” He did not pause for a reply, but instead made some polite inquiries after Wolf's health. He then congratulated Wolf, first for winning a bronze medal in the school shooting competition, and second for having been invited by Professor Gärtner to join his special tutorial group.
“He is very particular about who he accepts,” said the headmaster. “Such an invitation is extended to only the most promising pupils—boys with the right attitude.”
When their gazes met, they did so with mutual understanding. They had had similar discussions in the past.
The headmaster toyed with his pen, and spoke for some time about the values of the school and about how, for generations now, Saint Florian's had been producing soldiers of the highest quality. “Men who appreciated the importance of loyalty, fidelity, and obedience— men of honor.”
He put his pen down and made some minor adjustments to its position.
“Of course,” continued the headmaster, “lately Saint Florian's has been forced to accept a number of boys who do not share our values. Boys who object to our methods, find fault with our principles— and whose families are not acquainted with our traditions. This saddens me, because if an outside party were to question these boys, I fear they would misrepresent us. They do not seem to appreciate that we are—as it were—a family. Loose talk damages the school's reputation—and what damages the school's reputation damages all of us.”
Eichmann's voice was persuasive, reasonable—but it was also troubled by a trace of anger. The headmaster sighed, smiled, and said: “I understand that Professor Gärtner has recently introduced you to the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche.”
“Yes,” said Wolf. “We have been reading Beyond Good and Evil.“
“A very stimulating work,” said Eichmann. “Although when Professor Gärtner introduces you to Thus Spake Zarathustra, you will discover even greater riches.” The headmaster stood up and walked over to the lancet windows. He reached out his right hand and, resting it against the stone casement, leaned forward, allowing his arm to support his pitched body. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and rivers of darkness had begun to appear between the hills. “The police were here again today.” His voice was even.
“I know, headmaster.”
“Something must be done.”
“Yes, headmaster.”
“Something decisive.”
“Of course, headmaster.”
23
LIEBERMANN WAS SITTING at the table of an inauspicious coffeehouse in Landstrasse with Signor Barbasetti, his fencing master, and two other pupils with whom he was moderately acquainted: Brod and Lind. They had just taken part in a competition. However, none of the three aspirants had performed very well.
Signor Barbasetti concealed his disappointment with a lengthy and somewhat philosophical disquisition on the art of fencing, the conclusion of which was that much could be learned from the close examination of small errors.
Yes, like psychoanalysis, thought Liebermann.
Unfortunately, Barbasetti chose to demonstrate the truth of this maxim by recounting and itemizing the failings of his students in such detail that any bonhomie slowly ebbed away, leaving in its place an intransigent atmosphere of gloom and despondency. Earlier than antici pated, the men rose from their seats, enacted the requisite courtesies, and parted company.
Liebermann was not familiar with the city's third district—and because his mind was still occupied by his mentor's excoriating critique, it took him some time to register that he had strayed from his intended route and was now hopelessly lost. He had wandered into an area consisting mainly of building sites and decrepit terraces: squat buildings with ruined stucco and rotten window frames. The air smelled damp, tainted with a trace of stagnancy (not unlike sewage). At the end of the road a mangy dog was standing beneath a streetlamp, feeding on something in the gutter. As Liebermann approached, the dog stopped eating and gazed up at him with minatory pale lupine eyes: it emitted a cautionary growl, and then began to gnaw on an object that cracked loudly in its mouth. Liebermann turned the corner, and peered down another poorly lit road.
Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffeehouse Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch—and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.
Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going toward the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been traveling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line—which would serve the same purpose.
As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream—a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted toward the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.
An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.
Where is she?
Liebermann was breathing hard.
The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second streetlamp.
Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace and almost missed an opening between two houses—a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling—movements and a whimper. Treading softly he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.
Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.
Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a streetlamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles, and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.