Vienna Secrets (29 page)

76

R
ABBI
S
ELIGMAN SHOOK HIS
head. “Leave us? Why must you leave us?”

Kusiel shifted uncomfortably. “My sister’s ill.”

“I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

“Yes, a sister and two brothers.”

“Why can’t you go back home, attend to her, do whatever’s necessary, and then come back? I’m sure we could find someone to help maintain the synagogue in your absence.”

“Thank you, Rabbi. That’s very kind of you. But she’s very ill.”

“Couldn’t your brothers look after her?”

“They’ve moved away. She’s on her own.”

“In which case, why don’t you bring her back here? We could look after her. My wife would be only too pleased to—”

“She wouldn’t want to come. She’s like that, stuck in her ways.”

The rabbi shook his head. “But how will you survive?”

“I’ve saved a little. And I’ll get a job.”

“In rural Galicia? At your age?”

Kusiel replied with a shrug as if to say,
Maybe. Why not?

The rabbi looked at the caretaker anxiously. “How much have you saved?”

“Enough.”

“Are you sure? Look…” The rabbi squeezed his shoulder. “If you need more…”

“No,” said Kusiel sharply. “I couldn’t.”

“All right,” Seligman continued. “But if you find yourself in difficulties?”

“I’ll write,” said Kusiel.

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll sleep more soundly knowing that.”

The old man smiled sheepishly and lowered his gaze. There was something about his inability to hold Seligman’s look that made the gentle rabbi uncharacteristically suspicious.

“Kusiel,” he said, hesitantly, “you’re not leaving Alois Gasse because of that
… business
in the attic room?”

The caretaker sighed. “No, of course not.”

The rabbi nodded. “We’ll miss you.”

At midnight Kusiel was leaning over a bridge, looking into the murk of the Danube Canal. He found the old key in his pocket and dropped it into the water. It didn’t make a sound, and he did not see it disappear. When he put his hand back into his pocket, he closed his fingers around a roll of banknotes. It was more money than he had ever before seen in his life.

77

L
IEBERMANN OPENED HIS EYES
, but he could not see clearly. His vision was blurred. Two strips of luminescence were separated by a vertical band of darkness, and everything expanded and contracted with the agonizing throb in his skull. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that he could not think. He was no longer a person. He was a mute sensorium, receiving impressions but unable to reflect on them. Then there was nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, he was vaguely aware that time had passed. His vision was still blurred, but the detonations of pain were not so harrowing. He set about assessing his situation.

He could not move his legs.

He could not move his hands.

Liebermann could move his head from side to side, but it made him feel very nauseous. After some preliminary tests of this type he concluded that he was sitting on a chair and that his legs and hands were tied together. But when he rotated his wrists, he could not feel the bite of rough hemp. There was no chafing. Something, it seemed, had been placed between the bindings and his skin: something soft, like muslin. It struck him as odd.

He closed his eyes, rested them for a few seconds, and opened them again.

The vertical band of darkness directly in front of him began to resolve itself into a more precise form: a human figure—seated, legs crossed. On a workbench behind the figure were two paraffin lamps, one at each extremity. Liebermann strained to see more clearly. Outlines became more defined, and gradually details appeared—the man’s hat, coat, beard, and coiled sideburns.

A Hasid…

The same person, most probably, who had knocked him out.

“Where is Barash?” said Liebermann. His voice sounded glutinous, each syllable poorly articulated. His tongue felt enlarged, and he could taste blood in his mouth.

“Who?”

“Your rebbe. Where is he?”

The Hasid did not reply. Instead, his hands went to his right ear and he detached the hanging sideburn. He then repeated the action on the left side. Leaning back, he dropped the gray coils onto the workbench and removed his hat. A bald dome caught the light. Liebermann squinted and craned forward. It was Professor Priel.

Liebermann glanced around the room. There were no windows. The only pieces of furniture were the workbench, the two chairs on which they were sitting, and a potbellied stove. Some machines that would not have looked out of place in a factory were freestanding. There were also some sheets of metal, chains, and panels of wood scattered about the floor. Propped up against the wall was something that Liebermann was not very surprised to see, even though it appeared quite incongruous within its surroundings: a barrel organ.

“Yes,” said Priel, observing Liebermann closely. “You were correct. Mechanical advantage. Any technical-school student would be able to explain the principle and build a device to demonstrate it.”

“The Vienna golem,” said Liebermann, his eyes lingering on the lacquered box.

“Indeed.”

Portable and inconspicuous. It was an inspired piece of deception.

“So,” said Liebermann, “which plague column have you chosen for me? Lichtental? Dornach?”

“No, Herr Doctor,” said Priel. “Your body will not be found at the foot of a plague column. Your body will be found—whole—on the shores of the Danube. You are going to commit suicide.” On Priel’s lap was Liebermann’s journal. “She must be a remarkable person, this Englishwoman of yours, Miss Lydgate, your unattainable object of desire. However, anybody reading these lines would conclude, as I did, that your attachment to her has become quite unhealthy: joyless, obsessional, morbid. I cannot open a newspaper these days without reading of yet another young fellow who has exchanged unrequited anguish for oblivion. It appears to be the fashion. Love is everything, and to live without love is not to live at all. I blame Goethe.”

The professor removed his pince-nez and cleaned the lenses with a handkerchief.

“I take it that you haven’t spoken to Inspector Rheinhardt about your most recent speculations?” He licked his fingertip and turned some pages. “Yesterday’s entry in particular.” He put his pince-nez back on and stuffed the handkerchief into his frock coat pocket. “I’m afraid you really were getting far too close to the truth, Herr Doctor. Far too close.” The professor tore out the page he was reading, crumpled it up, and threw it onto the floor. Then, perusing another section, he added, “I’ll make the ink run in a few places. Tears, you see? A little touch to emphasize your deteriorating mental state. What with the von Kortig affair and this pitiful preoccupation with the young Englishwoman…” His sentence trailed off. He was thinking aloud rather than addressing his prisoner.

Liebermann understood now why Priel had wrapped his, Liebermann’s, wrists in muslin. It was to protect his skin! There would be no marks, no impressions left by the cords to show that he had been tied up! A flare of outrage, bracing and astringent, dissipated his stupor. He felt obliged to do everything in his power to spoil Priel’s carefully constructed plan. He was still very weak from concussion, but, summoning what little reserves of strength he possessed, he pulled his hands hard apart and began to rotate his wrists. Perhaps, if he generated enough friction, he could produce a small amount of grazing, sufficient to give Rheinhardt cause for suspicion. It would be difficult to accomplish as, in order to avoid detection, he would have to keep the rest of his body still, and the task would take time. It was essential, therefore, to keep the professor talking.

“Professor Priel?”

The professor looked up from the journal.

“Was I correct in my assumption?”

“What?”

“Were the murders of Brother Stanislav, Councillor Faust, and the procurer Jeheil Sachs intended to revive memories of the Prague golem, your purpose being to provide the Jews of Vienna with a symbol of empowerment?”

Priel nodded, but his expression declared that he was contemplating a more comprehensive answer. After a brief pause, he added, “I also hoped that some—the Hasidim, for example—would take a more literal view of the evidence. I hoped that they would actually believe that a kabbalist of Rabbi Loew’s stature had returned to protect them, which, I gather, has indeed transpired. A people need to be strong in their faith to survive. I have made a good start with the Hasidim. I am confident that the wider community will follow.”

“I do not consider the promotion of superstition an achievement, Herr Professor.”

Priel shook his head. “The irrational is an essential part of human nature. To overlook the irrational is to overlook the greater part of our constitution. I would have thought that you, a psychiatrist conversant with the works of Professor Freud, would appreciate this important point.”

“Professor Freud indeed acknowledges the irrational, as the principal cause of psychopathology.”

“That may be so, but Professor Freud’s objectives are somewhat different from mine.”

“True. Where he seeks to heal divisions in the psyche, you seek to open them up in society.”

As Liebermann spoke, he found that his wrists were moving more easily. Were the bonds loosening?

Priel set his jaw and drummed his fingers on the journal. Eventually he said, “We are a people under threat, Herr Doctor. And the threat is not merely physical but spiritual. And when I use that word—“spiritual”—I am referring not only to the numinous. I am referring to something broader of which religion is but a part, albeit an important one. I am referring to our sense of who we are, which is preserved in our music, our poetry, our stories, and our dreams. They want to take those things away from us—”

“They?”

“The priests, the Christian Socials, the Pan-Germans, and we are complicit in our demise. We assimilate, convert, and become embarrassed by the appearance of a caftan on the Ringstrasse! They divide us. They weaken us at a time when we must be strong. And unlike you, they respect the power of symbols and the irrational wellsprings of human imagination. They have their crosses, their Norse gods, and rune signs to rally behind, while we are left with nothing. While we forget, they remember. While we ignore our archaic heritage, they are celebrating theirs.”

“You talk like a prophet, Herr Professor.”

Priel shook his head. “You don’t have to be a prophet to foresee what is coming.”

“Another term for Mayor Lueger, and things will continue just as they are.”

“I don’t think so, Herr Doctor. I really don’t think so.”

The professor’s movements suggested he was about to stand.

“How did you know about my journal?” Liebermann asked.

Priel sat back in his chair. “I was bored and looked through your drawers when you were called out of your office. A private journal—unattended. It was simply too tempting.”

“You didn’t know about it beforehand?”

“How could I have known?”

The bonds were loosening! Liebermann pulled his thumbs in and twisted his hands. The Klammer Method was proving more useful than he had ever imagined.

“Well, someone might have told you.”

“Who?”

“Gabriel Kusevitsky.”

Priel became impatient and stood up. “And now…”

“The kabbalist’s lair? Was Rabbi Seligman your accomplice?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“The caretaker.”

“How did you persuade him to cooperate?”

“I bribed him.”

“Did he understand your purpose?”

“He’s a simple man, but intelligent enough not to ask questions.”

“But he must have—”

“Please, Herr Doctor!” Priel interrupted, raising a finger to his mouth.

“You have already killed one Jew,” said Liebermann. “And now you are about to kill another. Perhaps you should study the golem legend more closely? Isn’t it true that, ultimately, the Prague golem could not be controlled, even by Rabbi Loew? Isn’t it true that it ran amok, destroying parts of the Prague ghetto? Yes, the golem legend is about empowerment, but it is also about the judicious use of power. It is also about being wary of unleashing forces that we may not be able to contain. It is a metaphor. You have released the irrational—the golem within—with inevitable consequences: You are killing your own people, not protecting them.”

The professor ran his hand over his pate. His expression was suddenly shadowed by the presence of doubts.

“I…” He hesitated and started his sentence again. “Men like Sachs… they are evil.”

“And what about me? Am I evil too?”

“No, Herr Doctor. You are not evil. Merely…” Priel paused to select an apposite term. “Unfortunate. Please understand, I do not
want
to kill you.” The professor shook his head violently. “If there were another way…” His voice sounded strained. “But there
is
no other way. What I must do… it is far too important. I must proceed. Don’t you see that?”

“When violence is employed to serve an ideal, it invariably negates that ideal. No truly good cause was ever furthered by the use of violence.”

“Enough, Herr Doctor!” the professor snapped. “I will not be lectured by you! Do you think the Jews of the Ukraine would agree with you? Do you think they would approve of your
philosophy
, which is nothing but a hollow luxury! Do you know what’s happening out there? Do you? It’s started all over again, just like before! The horror! The carnage! Villages burned to the ground! Cossack atrocities that beggar belief: cats sown into the bellies of pregnant women!”

“And as before, the Jews will flee—and find safety, here in Vienna!”

“In Mayor Lueger’s Vienna?” Priel sneered. “Where Schneider can propose that a special police force supervise the Jews at Easter to prevent ritual murders? Where funds are made available to distribute anti-Semitic literature in elementary schools? And where a Jewish doctor cannot care for a dying patient without being accused of religious agitation!”

Priel tossed Liebermann’s journal onto the workbench and opened a drawer. He took out a bottle and a large sponge. As soon as he had removed the glass stopper from the bottle, the room filled with the distinctive sweet smell of chloroform. Liebermann pulled his thumbs in tighter.

Almost, almost…

Priel poured some chloroform onto the sponge and turned to Liebermann.

“I am sorry, Herr Doctor.” His anger had dissipated, and he appeared to be genuinely saddened by the task he was about to perform. “But I must do this. I really must. Please do not struggle. As you know, the chloroform will be much more effective if you take deep breaths, and I promise to administer the chloroform again, before…” He sighed. “Before we reach our destination. Do not be fearful. You will feel no pain or discomfort. I will make every effort to ensure that you do not regain consciousness.”

The professor reached out and placed the sponge over Liebermann’s nose and mouth. Liebermann complied, taking a deep breath. Chloroform, administered in this fashion, could take up to thirty minutes to produce narcosis. He calculated that he could afford to feign acquiescence.

“Good,” said the professor. “Good. Close your eyes, eh? It will be better… easier.”

Liebermann spoke sotto voce into the sponge. The muffled sound was incomprehensible.

“What?” Again, Liebermann mumbled a string of unstressed syllables, and the professor drew closer. “What did you say?”

Priel put down the bottle and removed the sponge.

Liebermann’s hands slipped from the bindings. The muslin dropped to the floor. Professor Priel’s eyes widened quizzically.

A heartbeat—time suspended—and a curious magnification of otherwise
insignificant details: the pores on Professor Priel’s nose, the metal on his breath
.

Liebermann swung his arms forward like a man diving. His hands met behind Priel’s head. Gripping the length of rope tightly, Liebermann pulled it around Professor Priel’s neck, crossing the ends to create a noose. Instinctively, the professor tried to free himself. He struggled to insinuate his fingers between the constricting hemp and his throat. Liebermann responded by tugging harder. The professor began to emit guttural choking sounds, and his complexion darkened. He pulled back, dragging Liebermann’s chair with him. The young doctor maintained his grip, but the chair toppled over, dragging Professor Priel down with it. They faced each other, lying side by side on the floor. Priel’s eyes were bulging, and his face was distorted. He began to thrash around, and Liebermann, already weakened by concussion and chloroform, felt his fingers slipping.