Vienna Secrets (13 page)

30

P
ROFESSOR
P
RIEL TROTTED DOWN
the stairs of the university and paused on the pavement to extricate his watch from his vest pocket. He noted the time, and set off in a southerly direction. If he hurried, he would be able to deliver the envelope that he carried in his pocket to Frau Meyer and be back in good time to give his afternoon tutorial. The envelope contained a donation from the Rothenstein Education Fellowship, and its purpose was to provide Frau Meyer with sufficient funds to equip her new school on Alois Gasse with some basic classroom furniture. The donation would probably be reported in the newspapers, and once again the public would be informed of Rothenstein’s outstanding generosity. Priel, of course, would not be mentioned. He never was.

Another man might have felt envious or resentful, but Priel was remarkably sanguine concerning his situation. Indeed, he rather liked being an éminence grise: advising, making suggestions, his judgment trusted. He associated himself with the Talmudic legend of the
lamed vavniks
, the righteous men. Living in the world there are, at any given time, thirty-six righteous men whose good deeds stop the world from ending. They accomplish their work in secret and are never rewarded. When one dies, another is born. And so it goes on, from generation to generation, thirty-six anonymous Jews standing unthanked between civilization and ruin.

Priel thought about Frau Meyer. A widow, dedicated to improving the lot of the latest wave of immigrant children who had arrived in Leopoldstadt. He would give her the envelope, and she would smile, clasp his hand, and express profound gratitude. And he would then reply, as he always did,
It isn’t me whom you should be thanking
.

Rothenstein was always too busy hobnobbing with royalty to decide who should—or shouldn’t—be the recipient of his largesse. And Rothenstein’s wife, Priel’s sister, was completely self-obsessed. The fate of the poor meant nothing to her as compared with the unmitigated disaster of wearing the wrong kind of dress at a palace function. Priel’s two nieces and his nephew were equally indifferent. Brittle, shallow, and spoiled, their German was embarrassingly inflected to sound like the imperial dialect known as
Schönbrunnerdeutsch
. Over the years Priel had been given more and more responsibility for the distribution of Rothenstein’s bounty. Occasionally, when Priel presented Rothenstein with documents to sign, the great banker would ask a few bland questions. But if Priel attempted to give him a proper answer, Rothenstein would soon look bored and end the conversation by saying, “I’m sure everything is in order. I have every confidence in you, Josef.” Like the rest of his family, Rothenstein enjoyed the gala balls and the public recognition much more than the process of determining which causes were the most deserving.

Priel passed the town hall and glanced up at its Gothic façade: the huge central tower, the elevated loggia with its curved balconies and delicate tracery.

Thirty-six righteous men…

They wouldn’t be found in there. Of that he was quite certain.

Priel accelerated his sprightly step. He was looking forward to seeing Frau Meyer again. She was an intelligent woman who appreciated philosophy and good music. The last time they’d met she had asked him what he thought of Nietzsche’s
The Case of Wagner
. The discussion that followed had been most stimulating. Moreover, she had kept her figure.

Having warned his students and the Kusevitsky brothers that great thinkers should be wary of the snare of marriage, he reprimanded himself.

Hypocrite!

He might not be a righteous man, exactly, but he was nevertheless a man of honor. He had an example to set. And as much as he would enjoy the company of Frau Meyer at the opera, it was probably better that he continued to go alone. He would give her the envelope, have a cup of tea, and leave.

31

N
AHUM
N
AGEL PLACED THE
small weights on one side of his scale and a large weight on the other. The equipoise was so perfect that even his breath caused the left side to dip lower than the right. His friend Yudl Berger was sitting on the other side of the shop counter on a three-legged stool.

“My cousin knows about these things,” said Yudl, winding around his fingers the knotted tassles that hung from his waist. “And in his opinion Faust would have caused us a lot of grief, had he lived. He wanted to introduce special taxes and special police.”

Upstairs, Nahum’s father began coughing. It sounded like someone sawing wood, a horrible double rasp. Yudl glanced upward. “Has he seen a doctor?”

“Zingler came a few weeks ago. He said we should consider moving so as to get away from the damp.” Nahum made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “How could we possibly manage that?”

Yudl nodded sympathetically but returned to his original theme. “You know Pinhas the draper? He was delivering some curtains up to the big hotel in Hietzing, where the body was found. He actually saw it, by the plague column.” Yudl raised his eyebrows and in a melodramatic stage whisper added, “Mud everywhere.”

Nahum looked up from his weights. “You don’t really believe…”

“Doubrovsky knows the shoeblack who sits outside the theatre in Josefstadt. When the police were getting ready to leave, several of them walked up to have their shoes cleaned. The shoeblack said they were filthy. Covered in thick mud. Like clay. Josefstadt
and
Hietzing.” Nahum shook his head. He was evidently unconvinced.

“Our rebbe Barash says that things are going to change,” Yudl continued. “For the better.”

“Ach! He said the same thing to my father, and look at us!”

The look in Nahum’s eyes was desperate, his voice angry.

“He was right about the priest, wasn’t he?” Yudl responded, defending their spiritual master. “He said the priest would never make trouble here again—and he won’t, that’s for sure! And did you hear what he said to old man Robak? He promised him justice, vengeance. Two weeks before!”

The expression of sulky resentment on Nahum’s face was replaced by curiosity.

“Who told you that?”

“My wife. Old Robak’s eldest daughter is a friend of my wife’s aunt.”

Nahum tapped the pyramid of small weights on the scale. He wanted to believe, but his faith in the zaddik had been weakened. It was only a matter of time before the two men came again, making impossible demands. He and his father were close to ruin.

“Mud,” he said pensively. “In both places?”

“Yes,” said Yudl. “It can mean only one thing.”

32

L
IEBERMANN MADE HIS WAY
to the old ghetto district and Rebbe Barash’s residence. He was received by a sullen maid who ushered him into a sparsely furnished parlor: two armchairs, a stove, and an old sideboard. The walls were a dreary buff color, as were the curtains and the faded rug. Indeed, the whole room seemed to have been drained of vitality: everything in it was of an anemic, indefinite hue.

The young doctor sat down and waited. Time passed, and he occupied himself by performing some of the Klammer Method exercises. First wrist rotations, and then, holding his hands out in front of his body, he repeatedly touched the proximal phalanx of his little fingers with the tips of his thumbs. This movement, Professor Klammer suggested, was invaluable for development of the abductor pollicis brevis, opponens pollicis, and flexor pollicis brevis muscles. Liebermann continued his regimen until he reached exercise eleven, at which point the door opened and the zaddik entered.

In his general appearance, Barash conformed to Liebermann’s expectations, a Hasidic jew with a shaven head, skullcap, coiled sideburns, and heavy frock coat. He was, however, astonishingly large, a man whose dimensions demanded nothing less than comparison with features of the natural world. He was positively mountainous, possessing broad, peaked shoulders, and a face that resembled a serendipitously anthropomorphic arrangement of rocks. His scowl was evocative of the darkness that precedes a thunderstorm.

Barash sat directly opposite Liebermann, resting his big sculpted hands on the arms of his chair.

“My name is Dr. Max Liebermann. I am an associate of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office.” Liebermann produced his official papers, but the zaddik showed no interest. “You were informed in advance of my visit?”

The zaddik nodded.

After some preliminary remarks, it was clear to Liebermann that Barash did not want to prolong their meeting with inconsequential courtesies. Indeed, after only a few polite exchanges Barash said curtly, “Herr Doctor, your business?”

“Rebbe Barash,” said Liebermann, “were you acquainted with Chaim Robak?”

“Yes,” Barash replied. “He used to attend one of my study groups.”

“A good student?”

“Exceptional.”

After a little prompting, Barash talked freely about his former pupil. He remembered a virtuous young man—quiet, bookish, but not shy, a young man with many friends, respectful of his father, and loved by his sisters. Barash delivered his obituary in a steady monotone, his features set fast. Nevertheless, his eyes betrayed him, revealing genuine sorrow in their moist, reflective glaze.

“Who do you believe was responsible for his murder?” Liebermann asked.

“You know what happened
that
day, the day his body was found?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” said the zaddik. “It must have been one of the agitators.”

“Where were you when the trouble started?”

“I was right here, sitting in this very room, reading. I could hear them, though. They had gathered for their rally in the market square. At first, I thought it would be wise to stay inside; however, the noise—the shouting and shrieking—became very loud, and I decided that I should go out after all. I thought I might be able to assist if anyone got hurt. I told my wife to go down into the cellar with the children. They were very frightened.”

“What did you see?”

“People running around—confused, trying to get away from the fracas. When I got to the market square, there was fighting, but it wasn’t long before the police arrived and the crowd dispersed. In actuality, there wasn’t much I could do. A few young men had been hurt and were sitting on the cobbles, holding bloodied handkerchiefs to their faces. But no one had been seriously injured.”

“Did you see the monk, Stanislav?”

“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, we came face-to-face. He was marching away from the square, surrounded by henchmen. We almost bumped into each other.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. He didn’t notice me. He seemed eager to make a quick departure.”

Liebermann paused.

“Rebbe Barash, has anyone told you about the articles that Brother Stanislav wrote for the Catholic newspaper
Das Vaterland
?”

“No.”

“In one of them he likened Jews to a plague.”

Liebermann watched Barash for a reaction, but the zaddik merely shrugged. His expression was impassive. Liebermann continued, “Does the name Burke Faust mean anything to you?”

“He was a councillor—murdered last week, I believe.”

“Do you know how he was murdered?”

“Decapitated, same as the monk.”

“He was also the author of an article in which Jews were likened to a plague.”

“I have heard, from people better informed about such matters than myself, that he was a bad man.”

Liebermann tilted his head against his clenched fist, unfurled his index finger, and tapped his temple.

“Do you believe in prophecy, Rebbe Barash?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Is it a gift that you possess?”

“I am the spiritual leader of my community,” Barash replied obtusely.

“It is rumored that you predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”

“Who told you this?”

“Inspector Rheinhardt. He has friends in Leopoldstadt. Well, is it true? Did you predict the death of Brother Stanislav?”

“Yes,” said Barash, his hooded eyelids lowering a fraction. “I did.”

“How was that possible?”

“It was written… on his face.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It was written on his face,” Barash repeated. The zaddik sighed and continued. “We—that is to say, my congregation and I—venerate the teachings of Isaac Luria.”

“Who?”

Barash’s scowl intensified.

“Isaac Luria. A great holy man who lived in Palestine hundreds of years ago. He practiced metoposcopy, the art of reading lines on the human face. It is very similar to palmistry, a sister discipline that has proved more popular since Luria’s time.” Liebermann bristled. “Is it such a peculiar notion, Herr Doctor? Many educated medical men—like yourself—accept physiognomy, do they not?”

“They do. But I am not one of them. I am not persuaded that a man’s character is revealed by the shape of his nose.”

“You might, however, agree that men frequently acquire the faces they deserve. By that I mean that men often make choices, and these choices have consequences with respect to their appearance. For example, a man overly fond of schnapps will look very different from his abstemious neighbor.” Liebermann thought the argument was specious, but he conceded the point and gestured for Barash to continue. “Lines on the forehead often suggest letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and these can be interpreted.”

Liebermann was unable to conceal his incredulity. “So, you saw letters on the monk’s forehead, and it was written there, in Hebrew, that he would die?”

“Let us say,” Barash replied with mysterious precision, “that what I saw was enough for me to know that he would not live for more than thirty days.” Before Liebermann could formulate his next question, Barash added, “You are a doctor who specializes in treating diseases of the mind?”

Barash gave no sign that he was exercising his metoposcopic powers. Liebermann assumed that it was merely a good guess.

“Yes, I am.”

“Then you and I are not so very different. It is said that every evening Luria would look closely at his disciples’ faces until he could discern scriptural verses on their foreheads. He would explain the meaning of these verses and instruct his disciples to reflect on them before going to sleep. On waking, his disciples recorded their dreams, which were later taken to the master for interpretation. Through cycles of close observation, explanation, and dream interpretation, Luria helped his disciples to understand themselves better and resolve their spiritual dilemmas. I try to extend the same service to my students. Now, isn’t this—or at least something very similar—what you do for your patients? Surely, a good psychiatrist observes his patients closely, tries to read their faces, and offers them interpretations. And when a patient tells you about his dreams, do you not listen very carefully? For you know as well as I that the secret life of the soul is revealed in dreams.”

Liebermann was tempted to ask Barash if he had read any Freud. But he decided against it.

“Did you know that Burke Faust was going to die?”

“No, of course not. How could I? I hadn’t seen his face.” The zaddik stroked his beard and added calmly, “Herr Doctor, am I a suspect?”

“You will appreciate,” said Liebermann, “that as far as the police are concerned, the accuracy of your prophecy is rather worrying.”

The zaddik shifted in his chair.

“You are not a believer, are you?”

“A believer?”

“You do not practice your faith.”

“No. I don’t.”

Barash broke eye contact, and his line of vision found Liebermann’s forehead. His dilated pupils began to oscillate. The experience was unnerving.

“Where does your family come from, Herr Doctor?”

“My mother’s family are mostly German. But my father’s family… I think his side were Czech.”

“You sound doubtful. Are your origins of such little consequence?”

“We are Viennese now,” said Liebermann plainly.

“Perhaps,” said Barash, “if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean.”

“Rebbe Barash, if you know something more, then you must say. This is a police matter.”

Barash laughed, a mirthless convulsion.

“No, it is not a
police matter
. It is a matter between us and them, and whether you like it or not, Herr Doctor, as far as
they
are concerned you are one of us. Allow me to give you some advice. Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague, the most important temple outside of Jerusalem. Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray. Pray for enlightenment. Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful. Perhaps they will pity you and guide you back to your faith, and then—only then—will you understand,
fully
understand, what is happening. You think me misguided, don’t you? A superstitious fool, no different, really, from the madmen whom you attend at the hospital. I am deluded, whereas you… you are a
rational
man! But, Herr Doctor, your arrogance, your conceit, blinds you!”

Liebermann pinched his lower lip. After a lengthy pause he said, “Rebbe Barash, you put me in a difficult position. Am I to understand that you know more about these murders than you are evidently prepared to say? Us and them? Who are you referring to? The agitators, the Christian Socials, the nationalists? I must warn you, unless you are more candid, I will be obliged to submit a report in which—”

“Do as you please!” Barash cried, thumping the chair arm with his massive fist. “Tell the police what you like. Arrest me! Try me! I have nothing to fear. I am innocent. If you want answers, look to Prague. I’ll say no more.”

The zaddik stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Liebermann to stand. He was breathing heavily.

The young doctor rose, adjusted his cuffs, and shook the creases from his trousers.

“I seem to have caused you some distress, Rebbe Barash,” he said softly. “Please accept my apology.”

Before leaving, the young doctor glanced at the zaddik’s hands. He imagined them on either side of a human head, turning it around and around, the cracking of vertebrae and the severing of arteries.