Vienna Secrets (6 page)

9

“I
CANNOT THANK YOU
enough,” said Rabbi Seligman to Professor Priel.

“Well, it isn’t me you should be thanking.”

“Yes, I know that it is Herr Rothenstein’s money, and I am indeed grateful for his generosity, but it was you who acted as our advocate.”

“Please,” said the professor, indicating with a gesture that he would not tolerate another word of praise. “The Alois Gasse Temple has a unique charm of its own, and its ark is a treasure. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was worth preserving. ‘The Rothenstein Judaica Fund,’ I said to myself. It is regrettable that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been allowed to fall into disrepair. I think we caught the rot just in time.”

“My predecessor, I understand, was not a worldly man. Isn’t that so, Kusiel?” The rabbi glanced at the
shammos—
the old caretaker.

“Whenever anything went wrong, Rabbi Tunkel just said
‘Leave it
.’ He seemed to think that God would intervene and sort things out. Even the roof.”

“And as we know only too well,” said Professor Priel, “God is distinctly inclined to help those who help themselves.” The rabbi laughed—falsely—as, in truth, he did not agree with this facile sentiment. “Which reminds me,” said the professor. “You mentioned some damp, Rabbi?”

“Indeed, but really, Professor Priel, you have done quite enough.”

“It costs me nothing to ask. And there are other funds that might be appropriate.”

“Thank you,” said Rabbi Seligman. “You are too kind.”

The professor finished his tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together vigorously, “shall we go and see the finished product?”

“Of course—if you wish.”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“You will excuse me a moment,” said the rabbi. “I must get my hat and coat.”

He rose from his seat and left the room, calling out to his wife.

Professor Priel looked at the caretaker and smiled. This small token of goodwill was not returned. The caretaker looked troubled.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Professor Priel.

“No,” said the caretaker. “Nothing is the matter.”

“Good,” said Professor Priel.

10

C
OUNCILLOR SCHMIDT AND HIS
nephew were sitting in a coffeehouse, attacking their
zwiebelrostbraten
as if they had not eaten for more than a week. The slices of beef were piled high with crispy fried onion rings and garnished with cucumber. Schmidt felt his stomach pressing against his vest and reached down to undo one of the buttons. A mound of flesh—covered in the tight whiteness of his shirt—bulged out of the gap. He was a big man, prone to putting on weight easily, and he thought, rather ruefully, that it was preferable for a political leader to look lean and athletic rather than heavy and bovine. Burke Faust had been a sportsman in his youth, and he still looked trim! Schmidt considered forgoing the pleasure of a second course, but his resolve evaporated when he placed a piece of meat into his mouth and it melted like butter, releasing with its disintegration a bouquet of savory flavors.

Fabian had been talking incessantly—a constant, tumbling flow of gossip, tittle-tattle, and trivia. He spoke of his visits to the Knobloch household, where he had made the acquaintance of Fräulein Carla, who was very pretty and an accomplished pianist; of his friend Dreher, who had come into a fortune and was about to embark on a world tour; and of the new beer cellar in the fifth district, where he had seen a man give a rousing speech about workers’ rights, which he had agreed with entirely, but which had produced a lot of heckling before a fight broke out and he’d been obliged to punch someone in the face to shut him up.

When Fabian was in full spate, Schmidt was content to listen, and say very little. Occasionally he would grunt or look up from his meal. However, that was usually the extent of his involvement. He wasn’t particularly interested. But he didn’t object to Fabian’s talk. Indeed, he found his nephew’s nonsense quite comforting, like familiar music played softly in the background, and once in a while Fabian said things that allowed Schmidt to gauge opinion among his nephew’s peers—the all-important youth of Vienna. Many of Fabian’s friends were disaffected, and Schmidt could see why. What kind of future could they hope for? Too many people, too few jobs, and an unremitting stream of parasites coming in from the east. As soon as people really grasped the gravity of the situation, they would be moved to take action—of that he was sure. It was just a question of giving them something on which to focus their minds.

Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.

“What did you say?”

“He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”

“Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”

“Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”

“And where did this happen?”

“The General Hospital.”

Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”

“Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”

“And where did Edlinger hear this?”

“He was there when it happened! He’s an
aspirant
. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”

Fabian winked.

“And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”

Fabian shrugged.

“Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.

“Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”

“Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.

“Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”

“I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this
zwiebelrostbraten
splendid?”

Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.

11

“D
ISGRACEFUL,” SAID
D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
A
lfred
H
ohenwart
, tossing the folded copy of
Vaterland
onto his desk. He was a stout man with short gray hair and a square mustache that occupied only the space between the bottom of his nose and his upper lip. He was an experienced officer, and one whom Rheinhardt respected.

“I can only assume,” said Rheinhardt, “that the censor does not make a habit of reading through Catholic newspapers—otherwise it would never have been published.”

“How did you find it?”

“My informant was one of Stanislav’s confrères, another Piarist called Brother Lupercus.”

“So it would seem that Brother Stanislav wasn’t as popular as the abbot wanted you to believe.”

“The abbot was a kindly old man, and, for what it’s worth, I judged him to be a decent fellow. He probably wasn’t aware of Stanislav’s hateful essays.”

“Or he was deliberately withholding information to protect the reputation of his community.”

Rheinhardt shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“Stanislav,” Hohenwart continued, thinking hard. “Stanislav. I seem to recall…” His sentence trailed off before he suddenly said, “Excuse me a moment.” Hohenwart rose from his desk and vanished into an adjoining room. Sounds issued from beyond the half-open door—noises of rummaging, papers being flicked through, and a private grumbling commentary. In due course, Hohenwart produced a triumphal “Eureka!” and emerged holding a large cardboard file. A paper label had been gummed to the spine, on which was written
Christian Nationalist Alliance
.

“Do you remember Robak? Koell was the investigating officer.”

“Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The Jewish boy…”

“Found beaten and stabbed to death on the Prater. He was discovered after a rally. A rally held in Leopoldstadt and organized by the Christian Nationalist Alliance.”

“Who are they?”

“A fringe political group. They’re an odd coalition of Catholics, pan-German sympathizers, and extreme conservatives. In reality, the various factions of the alliance don’t have very much in common. What holds them together is anti-Semitism.” Hohenwart opened the file and laid it in front of Rheinhardt. “Stanislav! I thought the name was familiar. Brother Stanislav was one of the speakers at the Leopoldstadt rally. The local Jews were offended by his immoderate views. They protested, a fight broke out, and the constables from Grosse Sperlgasse had to be called. No one was seriously hurt—but Robak’s body was found later.”

“Did you interview Stanislav?” Rheinhardt asked.

“No. We were too busy helping Koell trace alliance members. I’d already collated this file on them, which contains several names and addresses. Needless to say, the murder investigation took priority. We didn’t have time to pursue the lesser infringement of religious agitation, and the troublesome monk was quite forgotten.”

12

A
NNA
K
ATZER AND
O
LGA
M
andl
were seated in the parlor of the Katzer residence in Neutorgasse. It was a pleasant room with landscape paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. Opposite Anna and Olga sat Gabriel Kusevitsky and his older brother, Asher. Although Asher shared his brother’s diminutive physique, he was generally judged to be the better-looking of the pair. The prescription for his lenses was not so strong, and his beard had been finely groomed to conceal his receding chin. In Asher, Gabriel’s weak, neurasthenic appearance was transformed into something more appealing: artistic sensitivity, the romantic glamour of the consumptive—and the small dueling scar on his right cheek advertised that he was not without courage. He also affected a more bohemian style of dress, which was only fitting for a playwright.

The women had been speaking about the congress they had attended in Frankfurt the previous October, the German National Conference on the Struggle Against the White Slave Trade. In philanthropic circles there were many—mostly matrons with thickening waistlines and jowly, powdered faces—who were deeply suspicious of Anna’s and Olga’s involvement with good causes. Their fashionable dress and frequent appearance at gala balls made them seem more like dilettantes than fund-raisers. Yet there could be no denying that their coquettish charm had successfully loosened the purse strings of several famous industrialists.

“It is a shameful business,” said Anna, pouring the tea. “Jewish girls
are
sold by our own people, a fact that many find hard to accept. They cry ‘
False accusation, slander!
’”

“And one can see why,” said Asher. “The town hall would almost certainly use these reports against us—yet another example of Jewish immorality! Even so, I agree it is far better that the problem should be addressed than denied. There will be trouble when it all comes out, but it’ll be just one more unpleasant thing to deal with!”

“Why now?” asked Gabriel. “Jewish brothels have always been relatively rare.”

“The pogroms,” said Olga. An uneasy silence prevailed, as if the room had been preternaturally chilled by a horde of Russian ghosts. “And they are still arriving, these girls. Ignorant of any language other than their own jargon and bad Polish.” By “jargon” she meant Yiddish. “Needless to say, they can’t get good jobs, and they find themselves working as waitresses, peddlers, or shop assistants. Such positions allow them to develop irregular habits, and without family connections they soon become prey to profiteers and procurers.”

“How very sad,” said Gabriel.

“Indeed,” said Olga.

“But we intend to do something about it,” said Anna. “Which is why we wanted to talk with you.”

The two men looked at each other, then back at the women, before saying in perfect unison, “Us?” The comical effect made the women smile.

“I am a recently qualified physician,” said Gabriel, “and my brother is a struggling playwright…”

Anna waved her hand, dismissing the interruption.

“Our aim is to establish a new refuge,” she continued, “for young Jewish women. Naturally, it will be situated in Leopoldstadt, and will provide a safe haven for those who would otherwise be at risk. We will also offer assistance to abandoned mothers and their babies, pregnant girls, and those suffering from moral illnesses.”

Olga offered the men a dish of vanilla biscuits, shaped like stars and sprinkled with large granules of decorative sugar. Gabriel took one while Asher declined.

“We envisage a middle-size community,” said Olga, returning the plate to its resting place on a circular doily. “Two houses—adjoining—with ten to fifteen beds in each dormitory. Both buildings will be furnished simply; however, the atmosphere will be warm and friendly, like a family home, not like a hostel or hospital. There will be no forced detention. Every resident will be free to leave at any time, if that is her wish. And most important, there will be no punishment. These women have suffered enough already.”

Gabriel Kusevitsky bit into his biscuit, which crumbled in his mouth, releasing a flood of buttery flavors. He nodded with approval at both the sentiment expressed and the quality of the baking.

“We intend to provide clothing,” said Anna. “Which again should be simple, but not ugly or disfiguring. All women—in whatever circumstance they find themselves—like to look their best.” She smiled coyly at Gabriel before continuing. “And there will be a schoolroom, where those residents who do not speak good German will be coached by volunteers from the Women’s Association.”

Olga interjected, “We would prefer our refuge to be staffed entirely by women. It is our view that men—however well-intentioned—and young girls from the street are not a good combination. Further, the majority of our staff should be married, because they will then know about sexual relations and be neither excessively strict nor permissive.”

This bold, direct, and unflinching mention of “sexual relations” signaled that Olga and Anna considered themselves “new women.” They had both, no doubt, read Mantegazza’s popular book
The Physiology of Love
.

Gabriel stopped chewing his biscuit and waited.

“Hallgarten has already promised five thousand kronen,” Olga added, maintaining a steady gaze.

“It is a splendid idea,” said Asher, clapping his hands together. “And very modern. I like that.”

“Yes,” said Gabriel. “Much good could be accomplished. Five thousand, you say?”

“Indeed,” said Olga. “A very generous donation, but—as I’m sure you will appreciate—such an ambitious project will require funding from other sources.”

Anna offered Gabriel another biscuit.

“Should you happen to meet in the course of your work any potential benefactors,” Olga continued, “who might consider our scheme worthy of their patronage, I trust that you will remember us.”

Olga straightened her back, which had the effect of pushing her bosom forward.

“Of course,” said Asher. “If the opportunity arises, you can be assured of our cooperation.”

“Thank you,” said Olga. “You are most kind.”

Now that the main purpose of inviting the Kusevitsky brothers had been accomplished, Anna and Olga were free to steer the conversation toward lighter topics—mutual acquaintances, some royal gossip, and an operetta that they had both found amusing. Having mentioned the stage, the women were then obliged to ask Asher Kusevitsky about his new play. He took their interest seriously—perhaps too seriously—and spoke for some time about his principal themes of mental illness, creativity, and mysticism. The action of the play concerned a man’s decline after possession by a dybbuk (an evil spirit and a staple character of old Jewish folktales).

In due course, Anna and Olga politely turned their attention to Gabriel, who in response to their inquiries explained that he was conducting research into the meaning of dreams. Anna began to recount one of her own dreams, but Gabriel stopped her, saying that he would be unable to interpret it without asking her questions of a personal nature and that she would probably be embarrassed to answer them in the company of guests.

“Then some other time, perhaps,” said Anna.

When tea was finished and the Kusevitskys had been shown to the door by one of the servants, Anna and Olga retired to the drawing room, where they sat on a couch, heads together, conferring.

“Are you sure they’ll be useful?” asked Anna.

“I hope so,” said Olga. “They know Professor Priel, who is Rothenstein’s brother-in-law. That’s how Gabriel Kusevitsky got his scholarship; the professor put in a good word.”

“If Rothenstein took an interest in our project…”

“We would be able to do everything—and very soon too.”

“Where do the Kusevitsky brothers come from?”

Olga paused and looked off into space. A single straight line transected her forehead.

“I don’t know. I was introduced to Gabriel by my cousin Martin. They studied medicine together.”

“Do they have family in Vienna?”

“I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

Anna caught sight of herself in a silver decorative plate standing on the sideboard. She patted her hair and positioned her necklace more centrally.

“He’s interesting, isn’t he?”

“Asher, yes, although he did go on a bit about his play. Didn’t you think?”

“No, I meant the other one. Gabriel.”

“I didn’t really understand what he was saying: symbols, dreams…”

“And
very
intelligent.”

“Did you”—Olga rested her hand on her friend’s arm—“
like
him?”

The question contained a hint of alarm.

Anna shrugged. “I
did
find him interesting. Why? What is it?”

“I don’t think they’re the right type.”

“Right type?”

“They’re intellectuals, too preoccupied with their work.” Olga assumed a piqued expression. “Did you notice when I sat up straight?” She repeated the movement, lifting the fulsome weight of her breasts. “They didn’t even look!”

Anna laughed and squeezed her friend’s arm. She
had
noticed, and she too had been surprised by the Kusevitsky brothers’ indifference.