Vienna Secrets (3 page)

The bald university professor who had been talking so passionately to Rothenstein earlier raised his hand, capturing Kusevitsky’s notice.

“I’m sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “You will have to excuse me. I am being summoned by Professor Priel. Until we will meet again…”

Kusevitsky bowed and joined the animated professor, who welcomed him into his group with an expansive embracing gesture.

Liebermann was not sure what he thought of Kusevitsky. He was a pleasant enough young man, but somewhat over earnest. Liebermann also wasn’t convinced of the value of his research—even if Freud did approve of it.

The cultural unconscious, endopsychic myths, archaic remnants
.

It was all a little too arcane for Liebermann’s tastes.

Could ancient memories really be passed on, from generation to generation?

He was abruptly roused from his meditation by a hand falling heavily on his shoulder.

“Have you had any cake yet?”

It was his father. He was holding a piece of
guglhupf
over a small dish. The sponge was sweetly fragrant and dense with raisins.

“No.”

“You should try some.” He held the slice up, creating a little shower of icing sugar. “It’s from Grodzinksi’s shop. He supervised the baking himself.”

“In which case…”

At least there were some things that he and his father could still agree on.

3

T
HE ZADDIK
—R
EBBE
E
LIMELECH
B
EN
S
OLOMON
B
ARASH
—was a thickset man with craggy features, a long black beard, and uncut sideburns that had been styled into springlike coils. He wore a somber frock coat—lined with fur—a white shirt, and slippers without buckles or laces. White tassels hung from his waist (each individual thread knotted five times to represent the five books of Moses). His large head was shaven, but shadowed with enough spiky stubble to keep his velvet skullcap firmly in place. He was enthroned on a quilted armchair with a high back.

In front of the zaddik was gathered a group of young men—about ten in number—sitting cross-legged on the floor. Each wore an ornately embroidered shawl draped around his shoulders. Prayer books were scattered among them on the Persian rug. Like their master, they had shaven heads and their sideburns hung in uncut ringlets or braids.

“The magid of Safed
tells us that the world in which we live is imperfect. The divine light could not be contained in the sacred vessels—and the sacred vessels were broken. Thus it was that His mighty undertaking failed. What came to be was not correspondent with the divine plan. What came to be was flawed—a universe out of humor, an ailing universe, a universe in which wickedness might thrive.”

The zaddik turned his head, making eye contact with each of his disciples. His gaze was particularly intense, and some of the young men had to look away.

“When something is broken, it must be repaired. This is our task:
tikkun
, the mending of the vessels, the healing of the cosmos. When you ask yourselves “What is the purpose of human existence?” you now have an answer:
tikkun
. What is the purpose of the sky, the earth, the stars, and the moon? You now have an answer:
tikkun
. It is the purpose of the holy books, the purpose of scripture, the purpose of prayer. The achievement of
tikkun
is the
only
means of redemption. It brings perfection back to God and so to the universe, to humanity, and to the people of Israel.”

Barash paused and gripped the arms of his chair. His hands were large, like the oversize hands on a classical statue—a rough assembly of bulbous knuckles and swollen phalanges.

“And how are we to achieve
tikkun
?”

He paused again, allowing his question to persist in the minds of his disciples.

“My rebbe…”

A young man sitting at the front raised his hand.

The zaddik nodded, encouraging him to speak.

“Study of the law, observance of the commandments, and absolute commitment to ethical behavior.”

“The unselfish pursuit of religious perfection, Gershom,” said the zaddik, endorsing the young man’s answer while extracting from it an abstract essence. “The task in hand is so great that
all
must participate,
all
have a role to play—however small. The greatest scholar and the unschooled laborer have this in common. No man is exempt. Without total participation, the
tikkun
will not succeed, and wickedness will remain in the world.”

The zaddik suddenly leaned forward. One of the young men started.

“There is no such thing as an inconsequential observance. Every observance is of the greatest importance, because through observances the
tikkun
proceeds and that which is wrong is corrected. If you are negligent, it is not only the fate of your soul that is affected but the whole of creation. The burden of
tikkun
weighs heavily on our shoulders at all times. All deeds and misdeeds have cosmic consequences. Every day the choices you make will either cure the world or hasten the progress of its malignancies. Every day your thoughts will either strengthen or weaken the powers of good and evil.”

Barash’s voice, which was deep and resonant, had been growing steadily louder. He appeared unnaturally large and powerful, monumental, a mountain of a man, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, huge feet and marble hands. His zeal created an illusion of expansion, and he seemed to fill the room. His commanding presence made it easier for his followers to believe a fundamental tenet of their faith: that God could be approached only through the mediation of a zaddik. Barash was a divine messenger, like his father, Solomon, and his grandfather—another Elimelech—before him. In their Hasidic sect, Barash was regarded as the single human being who could redeem their souls; bring their prayers before God; and ensure that if they sinned, God would accept their repentance. In return, his followers gave him their faith and material security.

The study group came to an end and the young men collected their coats and departed. Barash stood by the window, watching them cross the yard before spilling out onto Grosse Sperlgasse. The surrounding buildings were rather dilapidated, having once been part of the former ghetto. When the last of his followers had disappeared from view, Barash attended to some correspondence, discussed housekeeping arrangements with his wife, donned a large beaver hat, and set off to visit some of the elderly members of his congregation.

Barash marched down the narrow streets, passing numerous shops on the way: a general store, a bakery, a kosher butcher’s—with substantial joints of meat hanging from hooks on the wide-open doors—a cobbler’s establishment, a watchmaker, a textile merchant. Some of the shop signs were in Hebrew, but most were in German. Occasionally Barash saw other men dressed like himself, although, relative to the rest of the Jewish population, the Hasidim of Vienna were few in number. Even in Leopoldstadt, caftans and beaver hats were not such a common sight.

Turning off the main thoroughfare, Barash entered a dim alleyway—a gap between buildings that served as a shortcut. The temperature dropped as soon as he ventured between its dank, precipitous walls. He became aware of footsteps—a soft accompaniment shadowing his own tread—and glanced over his shoulder.

“My rebbe…” It was Gershom.

Barash halted. “What is the matter?”

“I was in Zucker’s and saw you passing.”

Zucker’s was a small coffeehouse on Tandelmarktgasse.

The young man came forward.

“I was reading this.” Gershom offered Barash a folded newspaper indicating a particular news item. The headline read
PIARIST MONK MURDERED IN JOSEFSTADT
.

Barash grabbed the paper and read down the column of Gothic typeface. His tangled eyebrows came together and his breathing quickened. When he had finished reading, he handed the paper back to the young man, who said tremulously, “How did you know?”

The zaddik, who towered over his acolyte, did not respond.

“You said our enemies would be struck down.” The young man was nervous, uncertain whether to proceed. But his need for answers spurred him on. “Is this what you meant? Has it begun already?”

“Yes,” said Barash. “It has begun.”

“My rebbe, how did you know?”

Barash observed a procession of carts passing at the other end of the alley. A peddler was shouting, trying to sell a trayful of dreidels.

“Be thankful, Gershom. Our troubles will soon be over. As the great Maharal of Prague freed his people from persecution, so we shall be freed. Pray, Gershom, and give thanks.”

The young man was not consoled by these words.

“But… my rebbe, who did this?” He held up the newspaper. “Was it…” Gershom lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “Was it one of us?”

“Of course not!”

“Then who?”

“Not who, Gershom. What?”

4

L
IGHT WAS STREAMING THROUGH
a high window. The abbot raised his chin, and closed his eyes against the sun. Rheinhardt thought he looked tired.

“Brother Stanislav was a good Piarist,” said the abbot. “I daresay you will consider me grudging with my praise. It does not sound very generous—‘a good Piarist’—but as far as I am concerned there is no higher commendation, no greater accolade.” The shaft of yellow light faded, and the abbot opened his eyes. “Stanislav exemplified Piarist virtues. He was humble and pious, hardworking and dutiful. He was respected by his brothers in Christ and loved by the children he taught.” As an afterthought he added, “The young are less sullied by the world and are naturally drawn toward goodness—of that I am certain.”

“Where did Brother Stanislav come from?”

“Poland.”

“Does he still have family there?”

“No. His father was impecunious and abandoned his wife and son when Stanislav was a boy. Stanislav’s mother died shortly after—God rest her soul.” The abbot made the sign of the cross. “She was, however, a devout woman, and Stanislav attended the Piarist school in Kraków. It became his ambition to dedicate his life to the service of others, and the brothers who instructed him became his inspiration. He was ordained when still a young man, and since then the Piarist order has been his only family. What do you know of us, Inspector?”

“I know only that you provide teaching for the poor.”

“We owe our existence to Joseph Calasanz.” The abbot gestured toward a portrait that hung behind his table. It was an oil painting, darkened with age, that showed an old monk with gentle eyes. “He pledged to assist the needy, but, being a practical man, he wanted to offer them more than just his prayers. He believed that the provision of a good, free education would give children born into poverty a better start in life. Thus, when our order was recognized by Pope Gregory XV, all Piarist monks were bound to take a fourth vow in addition to the usual three: that of complete devotion to the gratis instruction of youth.”

The abbot smiled, quietly satisfied with this compressed history.

“Did Brother Stanislav talk to you very much about the children in his classes?”

“Yes. He was always talking about them: how Johannes had mastered his algebra or Franz Xavier his Latin grammar. He enjoyed their little triumphs as though they were his own.”

“And what about children who were difficult… problematic?”

“How do you mean, ‘problematic’?”

“Children who misbehaved.”

“Brother Stanislav was an experienced teacher. He had no difficulty maintaining discipline in his classes.”

“But what if a child
did
misbehave? Would he punish such a child?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How?”

“Penance—the setting of a repetitive written exercise—or prayers for forgiveness.”

“And if the child still misbehaved?”

“Well, the child would have to be disciplined.”

“In what way?”

“The birch… across the fingers of the left hand.” The abbot observed Rheinhardt shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Inspector, if our pupils are to make the most of what we are trying to offer them, it is imperative that they are well behaved. Moreover, it would not be fair to the other children if we let miscreants run wild.”

“How often are children punished in this way?”

“Very infrequently.”

“About ten or fifteen years ago… was there anyone here—a child—whom Brother Stanislav had to punish repeatedly?”

The abbott leaned back in his chair, brought his hands together, and focused his gaze on his fingertips. His brow cracked like dry parchment.

“No. I cannot remember a child like that, not at that time.”

“Then earlier, perhaps?”

“Many years ago—perhaps twenty or so—we had to expel a boy called Richard Kahl.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a bully and a thief.”

“Did Brother Stanislav punish him?”

“We all did.”

“Do you know where he is now, this Kahl?”

“In the Saint Marxer cemetery.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes. He became a drunkard and strangled his wife.” The abbot made the sign of the cross again. “A tragedy… a great tragedy.” Looking up, the old man continued, a note of desperation catching in his throat. “Inspector, surely you are not thinking that one of our pupils is responsible for Brother Stanislav’s murder?”

“I must consider
all
possibilities, Father.”

“God preserve us.”

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask some of the other monks if they can remember any child whom they think might have harbored ill feelings toward Brother Stanislav?”

The abbott nodded.

“Did Brother Stanislav’s ministry bring him into contact with individuals suffering from mental illness?”

“He visited hospitals during the course of his work.”

“Was he ever threatened?”

“By a lunatic?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. It is possible.”

“If he had been threatened, would he have told anyone—a fellow Piarist in whom he confided?”

The abbot shook his head. “Stanislav treated all his brothers in Christ equally. He did not cultivate
special
friendships.” Then, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Inspector? Have you ever encountered anything like this before? What I mean to say is… Brother Stanislav’s head?” He winced as he recalled the decapitation and blood. “It looked as if his head had been ripped from his body.”

“I have seen many terrible things, Father.”

“But
this…
have you seen anything quite like
this
before?”

“No, Father. I haven’t.”

“If I didn’t know better…” The old man clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles to his lips.

“What?” Rheinhardt prompted.

“If I didn’t know better,” the abbot repeated, “I would say it was the work of the devil.”

Rheinhardt rose from his chair. “Thank you for your assistance, Father.”

Before closing the door, Rheinhardt paused. The abbot’s eyes must have been registering the room in which he was seated, but what he was actually seeing in his mind was clearly something quite different: a hideous force, come from hell to unleash its evil power on the doorstep of his church.