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local manufacture.'
Liebermann was familiar with Gruner's 'instruments', all of which were very similar in appearance. This one, however, was notable on account of its size – being much bigger than the others he had seen to date. Gruner moved to the table and caressed the polished surface of a large teak box. He released two brass hasps and gently lifted the lid, the underside of which was lined with red leather that was embossed in gold lettering: The Galvanic and Faradic Battery Company of Chicago, Ill. USA. Inside the box was an arrangement of knobs, rollers and dials. Gruner removed two bright metal rods with wooden handles, which were attached to the assembly by long leads.
'For those interested in the technical specifications of this instrument, it is of standard design. It is powered by six-volt dry batteries which are both safe and easy to maintain. The output voltage can be varied by adjusting a simple metal cylinder that slides over the core of the induction coil.'
Gruner flicked a switch and the room immediately filled with a loud buzzing. He then invited one of the assembly to assist. A middle-aged man rose from his seat.
'Thank you, Herr Doctor,' said Gruner. 'If you would position yourself on the other side of the patient?' The man walked across the bare wooden floor boards, stepped up on to the stage, and stood to attention beside the diplomat's wife.
'Signora Locatelli,' continued Gruner. 'Could I prevail upon you to raise your gown?'
The woman gathered up the material of the skirt of her gown in her hands and, as she did so, the hem began to lift, revealing her slim ankles and calves.
'Signora,' continued Gruner, 'it will be necessary to raise your gown to a level above the knee.' The woman blushed and, gripping more material in her hands, exposed her legs completely. Liebermann turned away and looked disdainfully at his colleagues, most of whom had leaned forward. Sensing his friend's movement, Kanner delivered another elbow jab and nodded towards the demonstration.
Gruner stepped forward and passed the metal rods over Signora Locatelli's legs.
'Do you feel anything?'
'No.'
'Nothing – not even a tickling sensation?'
'No.'
Gruner addressed the audience. 'I will now increase the charge.'
He took both rods in one hand and reached into the box, adjusting the dials and cylinders. The pitch of the buzzing ascended an octave. Gruner then returned to his patient and passed the metal rods over her legs a second time. She did not move, and her gaze remained fixed on some elevated point at the back of the room. Liebermann saw that she was staring at the bust of some long-forgotten medical luminary.
'Signora,' said Gruner. 'You must feel something now. Perhaps pins and needles?'
Without moving her head to make eye contact, the diplomat's wife simply continued staring.
'Signora?' Gruner said tetchily. 'What do you feel?'
'I feel . . .' The woman paused before saying: 'That there is no hope.'
Gruner shook his head: 'Signora, please refrain from obtuse answers. Do you feel any sensations in your legs?'
Still without moving, she said softly: 'No. I feel nothing . . .' And then, after another pause, she added: 'In my legs.'
'Very well,' said Gruner. He passed both rods to his assistant and then plunged his hands into the electrical apparatus. The buzzing became louder: a horrible glissando ascending to a pitch that made Liebermann's ears ache. Gruner then took back the rods.
It was clear that Gruner had increased the charge considerably and the room was tense with expectation. Even Liebermann found himself attending more closely, drawn into the drama by the woman's declaration that there was no hope – a statement that he felt resonated with many meanings.
Gruner extended his arms and then, after the briefest of hesitations, prodded Signora Locatelli's legs. She opened her mouth and let out a cry, not of pain but of anguish. It was not particularly loud, yet it was deeply disturbing to Liebermann. It reminded him of an