62
T
HE STOVE HAD BEEN
lit, but the room still felt cold. As before, Liebermann found the dull, lifeless décor of Barash’s parlor enervating. It seemed to sap his strength.
“I followed your advice,” said Liebermann. “I have just returned from Prague.”
Barash tilted his head to one side and raised his chin.
“You surprise me, Herr Doctor.”
“I visited the Jewish cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue, just as you recommended.”
“Then I hope you benefited from the experience.”
“The cemetery and the synagogue have a very particular atmosphere, a poignancy that is difficult to describe.”
“Again, you surprise me. I had thought you would be inured to such
influences
.” The zaddik toyed with the tassels hanging from beneath his frock coat. “So, Herr Doctor, do you
understand
now?”
From outside came the sound of a man whistling. The melody was full of the complex embellishments that typified the music of Eastern Jewry, exotic intervals and imitative sobs and sighs. Liebermann waited for the melody to fade.
“I discovered the grave of Rabbi Loew and learned of his remarkable ministry, how he protected his people in difficult times.”
“Your journey was not wasted,” said Barash concisely.
A lengthy silence followed.
“May I ask…” Liebermann was hesitant. “How does one go about making a golem?”
Barash’s expression altered. It might have been a smile, but if so the small, flickering light of good humor did little to relieve the darkness in his eyes. The overhang of his brow ensured that his face could never be wholly free of disapprobation.
“The procedure is described in many places,” the zaddik replied. “However, the clearest instructions can be found in the commentary of Eleazar of Worms on
The Book of Creation.”
Liebermann’s face showed no sign of recognition. “Eleazar ben Judah of Worms,” Barash continued, “was a thirteenth-century German kabbalist and liturgical poet. His instructions for the making of a golem have been revised and presented as a separate work. It is called
pe’ullath hayetsirah
, which means ‘the practical application of
The Book of Creation.’
Eleazar tells us that two or three adepts should take part in the ritual. Untilled earth is kneaded in running water and molded into human form. The transformation—from inanimate to living matter—is achieved through the recitation of letters taken from the
Sefer Yetzirah
. Other methods have been described, but it is Eleazar’s method that commands the greatest respect among students of kabbalah.”
“Not difficult, then? Simply a matter of following instructions.”
Barash glowered. His expression was as oppressive, and baleful, as the gloom preceding a deluge.
“The ritual is highly dangerous. It must be observed precisely or catastrophic consequences will follow. An error in the ritual would not damage the golem, but it would very likely destroy the creator. He would be returned to his primal element. He would be sucked back into the earth.”
These words were spoken with such fierce conviction that they produced a complementary image in Liebermann’s mind: a wide-open mouth, screaming and sinking, being filled with loam. It was a disturbing image, and it sent a shiver down Liebermann’s spine.
“Rebbe Barash, have you ever tried to make a golem?”
“No!” cried Barash. “I would not be so reckless, so presumptuous, so foolhardy!” The denial was emphatic. “I have the power—” The zaddik quickly corrected himself: “I
do not
have the power.”
Liebermann noted the slip. Professor Freud asserted that people often betrayed themselves—their true beliefs, wishes, and intentions—by making verbal blunders.
What
, Liebermann wondered,
does this slip mean?
Did Barash believe that he was capable of performing Eleazar’s ritual? Did he believe that he had already succeeded? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s megalomania—an unconscious fantasy of omnipotence?
“I assume you’ve heard about the discovery in Alois Gasse?”
Barash’s massive hands came together, the fingers interlocking.
“It was inevitable that
he
would reveal himself.”
“He?”
“The creator of the Vienna golem.”
Liebermann suspended his disbelief and continued the conversation as if he accepted that such a creature could exist.
“Who is he, this creator?”
“I don’t know. He wishes to remain unknown. Or perhaps he must remain unknown as a condition of his being in the world, like the righteous—the
lamed vavniks—
the thirty-six hidden saints whose presence here on earth prevents humanity from descending into barbarism. We might pass him on the street, seeing only a humble peddler, but believe me, he is a
great
soul.” Barash shrugged, his mountainous shoulders rising and falling like a geological upheaval. “A great soul,” he repeated. “Perhaps the revenant may even be Loew himself come back to us.”
“How could that be?”
“The magid of Safed
teaches us that the soul is eternal, participating in long chains of transmigration, back to the very beginning.” Barash closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again slowly. “They say that Rabbi Loew’s golem still sleeps in the Old-New Synagogue, waiting for a time when he is needed again; however, I understand this to be figurative, a promise on which we can build our hopes. When the forces of darkness gather, and our people are in danger, a great soul will come into the world to assist us.”
“Do we live in
such
bad times?” Liebermann asked.
“We do, Herr Doctor. And the tragedy is that
you
and the legions of dispossessed like you do not realize it.”
Barash was quite mad, but he had an annoying habit of saying things that were perceptive. Liebermann’s predicament at the hospital was almost entirely due to his refusal to take anti-Semitism seriously. Discomfited by Barash’s pointed remark, Liebermann became interrogative.
“Rebbe Barash, what were you doing last night?”
“I was praying.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I often pray into the night. It is peaceful… and I feel closer to God.”
Liebermann continued to ask questions, but Barash’s answers revealed nothing of consequence. In due course Liebermann said, “There has been another murder.”
Barash responded calmly. “Like the others?”
“Yes. The victim’s head was torn from his body and his remains were left outside a church.”
“Then it has struck again.”
“The murder was the same in all respects,” continued Liebermann, “with one exception.” He paused dramatically.
“Which was?”
“The victim was not an enemy of Jewry.”
“Are you sure, Herr Doctor?”
“Quite sure.”
“But how can you possibly say?”
“He was Jewish.”
The zaddik appeared genuinely surprised. His thick eyebrows rose up, and his lips parted.
“That is not possible.” He spoke hoarsely, his basso profundo momentarily robbed of its savory depth. Liebermann played a five-finger exercise on the chair arm. The soft percussion of his fingertips on the wood filled the hiatus, until Barash added more steadily, “No. You must be mistaken.”
Liebermann’s fingers stopped moving. “All of the evidence suggests the contrary. Whoever—whatever—killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust also killed Jeheil Sachs.”
Barash shook his head, slow and bovine. His coiled sideburns continued bouncing after the movement was completed. “No. You are mistaken. Another party is responsible.” His expression communicated that he saw no point in discussing the matter any further.
Liebermann was dissatisfied. Apart from the zaddik’s slip of the tongue, the interview had not been very revealing. Feeling frustrated, Liebermann asked, “Did you sleep at all last night, Rebbe Barash?”
“Yes. I retired at about four or five this morning.”
“Last time we spoke, our conversation touched upon the subject of dreams. May I ask, when you slept, did you dream?”
“I did.”
“What about?”
The zaddik’s eyebrows joined, and his brow became a network of deep creases, “I cannot tell you about my dreams,” he said disdainfully. “They are sacred, and it is most impertinent of you to make such an inquiry. When you ask a man about his dreams, you ask him to expose his soul. You eavesdrop on a conversation between man and God.”
Barash stood up.
“Herr Doctor, I am afraid I have other business. I have attempted to answer your questions in good faith, but it is clear to me that you still believe that I am in some way connected with the deaths of the monk Stanislav and Councillor Faust. Once again, I must protest and declare my innocence. If I am to be arrested, then please proceed. Tell your associates at the security office that I am ready. However, if it is not your intention to arrest me, then I would ask you to leave me in peace.”
Barash crossed the room and opened the door. Liebermann followed.
The young doctor thanked the zaddik for his assistance, but Barash did not respond. He stood in the doorway, perfectly still, his gigantic frame swaying slightly. It was an unnatural stillness, and it reminded Liebermann of the
absences
that he had observed in certain hysterical and neurological cases. Liebermann then noticed that the zaddik’s gaze was focused on Liebermann’s forehead. Quite suddenly Barash blinked as if waking from a deep sleep and grumbled an apology.
“I am sorry, Herr Doctor. I am tired. Perhaps you could see yourself out.”
Liebermann did not move. “What did you see?”
Barash extended his hand and touched the doorjamb in order to steady himself. “Great danger,” he whispered.
“Am I going to die?” Liebermann asked.
“We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor,” said Barash obtusely.
“Am I going to die in the next thirty days?” Liebermann persisted. “Is that what you saw?”
The zaddik’s face was inscrutable. “Be very careful.”
Liebermann wasn’t sure whether Barash was showing compassion or issuing a threat.
63
T
HE
D
ANUBE
C
ANAL WAS
bathed in late afternoon sunshine. A shimmer of light played on the gray-green water as Liebermann crossed the Maria-Theresien Bridge and headed off toward the Börse. He did not hail a cab. He wanted to walk, to clear his head and dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the zaddik’s parlor. It clung to him like the scent of mildew, and filled his mind with images of dust, decay, and interment. As he proceeded through the backstreets, Liebermann decided that he needed a very strong coffee. The Café Central—the favored haunt of writers, poets, and freethinkers—was just beyond the misshapen old town square, and the prospect of its splendid interior and decadent patrons was irresistible.
Liebermann crossed the open concourse, glancing in passing at the central fountain with its vigilant circle of bronze nymphs, and entered a shadowy street on the other side. Soon he was standing outside his destination, a little flushed but feeling better for having physically exerted himself. He opened the door and entered.
Inside, sturdy columns with ornate capitals rose up to a high vaulted ceiling. The pianist was playing a Brahms waltz, and the cavernous space was resonant with loud conversation and laughter. In the far corner a gaggle of art students (one still wearing his paint-spattered smock) was watching a billiard game.
Liebermann searched for somewhere to sit. He ventured farther into the coffeehouse, passing an inebriated cavalryman and squeezing between tables. Amid the general hubbub, he caught snatches of political debate, jokes, and immoderate language. After completing an unsuccessful circuit, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings. It was hopeless: the place was full. He would have to go somewhere else. But just as he was about to depart, he noticed a man, some distance away, rising from his chair and waving. It was Gabriel Kusevitsky, the young doctor whom he had met at his father’s lodge.
“Excuse me, sir.” A waiter with a full tray was trying to pass.
“I’m sorry,” said Liebermann, veering off in the direction of Kusevitsky’s table.
Kusevitsky stood to greet him.
“Liebermann, how good to see you. Would you like to join us?” He gestured toward his companions. The first was a youth whose physical features duplicated Kusevitsky’s. The second needed no introduction. “My brother, Asher Kusevitsky, and Arthur Schnitzler.” Liebermann bowed. “Herr Dr. Max Liebermann.” Kusevitsky added, “Another devotee of Professor Freud.”
Schnitzler was wearing a large pale hat with a wide brim, tilted at a perilously steep angle. His velvet jacket and embroidered shirt were rather dandified, as was his somewhat overwhelming and sweet-smelling cologne. His substantial mustache was combed out sideways, and his triangular beard was trimmed to a sharp point.
Liebermann sat down.
Schnitzler was in the middle of a story and evidently intended to finish it. “I made a few timid efforts to gain recognition for
The Adventure of His Life
. First I sent it to Siegwart Friedmann, who ignored it, then to Tewele, who as a friend of the family at least felt he had to say a few pleasant words about it. Director Lautenburg had already had a copy of the script sent to him from Vienna by Eirich. I had heard nothing from him, but when Lothar arrived, a meeting was arranged with Lautenburg at a restaurant—Krziwanek—and Lothar soon found a way to shift the conversation tactfully to my comedy. At first Lautenburg didn’t seem to remember it. I reminded him of a few scenes. Suddenly he knew what we were talking about, gave me a polite, pitying look, shook his head, and said just one word: Terrible.”
Schnitzler grinned.
“What a fool!” said Asher.
“That’s not all,” Schnitzler continued. “A few minutes later, as if to console me, he added, ‘Your first effort, I presume?’ Because I couldn’t even offer him this as an excuse, he apparently gave me up as a hopeless case, and we talked of other things.”
“Well,” said Asher, “I’ll bear that in mind.” He tapped the side of his nose, an odd gesture that suggested some kind of private understanding had been reached.
After a short pause, the conversation became more inclusive, turning to recent theatrical productions, and Liebermann was invited to give his opinion; however, he was painfully aware that he had not been to the theatre very much of late and had little of consequence to say.
Liebermann recalled reading something about Schnitzler only the previous week in the
Wiener Tagblatt
. His latest publication, the text of a dramatic work called
Riegen
, had been dubbed pornography. Liebermann had not read
Riegen
, but he had seen one of Schnitzler’s plays,
Paracelsus
, at the Court Theatre, and had once come across an interesting academic paper by Schnitzler (who was also a doctor) on the treatment of functional aphonia using hypnotic suggestion.
As the conversation progressed, Liebermann gleaned that Asher Kusevitsky was a burgeoning playwright and was in some way connected with Schnitzler’s circle. The famous author was nodding vigorously; however, Liebermann noticed that he was somewhat distracted. He kept looking over at a pretty young woman seated at an adjacent table. She was smoking a thin black cigarette and sipping red wine. Asher Kusevitsky, in the throes of an impassioned speech about the hammy excesses of an actor called Obermoser, was oblivious to his companion’s lapses of concentration.
A waiter arrived, and Liebermann ordered a large, very strong
schwarzer
.
When the conversation started up again, an invisible curtain seemed to have been drawn across the table, separating Gabriel Kusevitsky and Liebermann on one side from Asher Kusevitsky and Schnitzler on the other. The two literary gentlemen clearly had some business to discuss.
“So,” said Liebermann, addressing Kusevitsky, “how is your research progressing?”
“Very well,” Kusevitsky replied, straightening his stylish purple necktie. He was looking much smarter. Liebermann observed a small pearl in the tie knot. “I have already collected a considerable amount of fascinating material. I am now utterly convinced of Nietzsche’s assertion that in dreams some primeval relic of humanity is at work.”
“Have you reported your preliminary findings to Professor Freud?”
“Of course, and he was delighted with my results.” Kusevitsky smiled, though the contraction and release of facial muscles was so brief that it was more like a twitch. “Through such research, Professor Freud believes that psychoanalysis may claim an elevated position among the historical sciences, superseding even archaeology. The mental antiquities that lie buried in the deepest stratum of the mind will be aeons older than anything excavated in Egypt.”
The waiter returned with Liebermann’s coffee.
A fragment of Asher’s conversation intruded: “… A secondary purpose of
The Dybbuk…
to raise Jewish consciousness.” The sentence was drowned by applause as the pianist began a sentimental Ländler. It obviously had special significance to some of the regulars.
Kusevitsky described several dreams in which he identified the presence of universal symbols: kings, queens, sages and devils, towers, skeletons, and stars. All of them were supposed to have a specific meaning, each being an inherited residue resulting from generations of repeated human experience.
Liebermann remained unconvinced. He could accept that dreams contained symbols. That much was incontrovertible. But the idea that dreams could be understood in terms of fixed representations and that these representations were invariant from generation to generation seemed faintly preposterous. Adopting such a view made psychoanalysis seem indistinguishable from fortune-telling. A doctor became no different from the charlatan mystics on the Prater, reading off the meaning of dreams as if they were nothing more than the psychological equivalent of a pack of tarot cards.
“I wonder,” said Liebermann, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “what you will make of this, then, Kusevitsky—a dream reported to me by one of my patients.” He paused in order to recollect his own dream of Miss Lydgate in the tropical garden. “Let us, for reasons of confidentiality, call my patient Herr D, a professional gentleman in his twenties suffering from…” Again Liebermann paused before adding, “Obsessional indecision and doubting.”
Kusevitsky gave his tacit consent.
“The dream,” Liebermann continued, “was as follows: Herr D found himself in a vast garden of exotic flowers and high trees. A woman, with whom he had become acquainted through his work and whom I shall call Fräulein Lisa, appeared beside him, naked. She then spoke to him, saying something like, ‘I won’t lie below you. I am your equal.’ Consequently they began to argue. During the course of this argument, Fräulein Lisa pronounced the name of Herr D’s father, who then appeared, sitting on a throne.”
While Liebermann was recounting the dream, he was unnerved by changes in Kusevitsky’s expression. The young man’s eyes were opening wider and wider. His initial interest had undergone a strange metamorphosis, becoming, with its final transition, something closer to shock or fear.
Liebermann pressed on. “The old gentleman said to his son, ‘It isn’t good for you to be alone.’ Herr D pointed toward where he thought Fräulein Lisa was still standing, but she had in fact vanished. There. What do you make of that?”
“Extraordinary!” said Kusevitsky, his voice sounding slightly strangulated. “Quite, quite extraordinary! I
must
see this patient.”
“I’m afraid you can’t.”
“Surely
you
would have no objection? And it would not be
so
onerous for him to sit with me for an hour or two. Could he not be persuaded if told, for example, that he would be helping to advance scientific knowledge? You did say he was a professional gentleman.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Kusevitsky. He has left the country.”
“Do you have his address?”
“I can look, but why?”
“He is Jewish, of course—this patient.”
“Yes, he is, but he’s not very religious.”
“Even better. I don’t suppose you’d know whether or not he was familiar with Hebrew creation myths?”
“Well, because you ask,” said Liebermann tentatively, “I think I can say with some confidence that the answer to that question would be no.”
“In which case, Herr D’s dream is a remarkable example of an archaic remnant. Its elements correspond exactly with the legend of Lilith, as recounted in
The Alphabet of Ben Sira
. Herr D is Adam, his father is God, and Fräulein Lisa is Lilith.”
“And who, may I ask, is Lilith?”
“Adam’s first wife.”
“I thought he was married to Eve.”
“He was. But according to many Jewish sources, Adam had another wife before her: Lilith. She was a fiery and rebellious woman, refusing to obey her husband and God. Her fate was to become the queen of demons. She was much feared in ancient times, and is still feared today by the Hasidim. Some believe she makes infernal off-spring by stealing wasted seed, a belief that might explain the origin of the taboo against masturbation.” Kusevitsky sat back in his chair, recovering from his excitement. “Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary. Please promise me that you’ll look for Herr D’s address. I would be most indebted.”
“Of course,” said Liebermann. “I’ll do my best.”
Liebermann was perplexed. He could not
—would not—
accept that his dream had been shaped by a racial memory, a narrative template buried deep in his own unconscious. The only other explanation was
cryptomnesia
, the spontaneous recall of something forgotten without any memory of having learned it. But this was hardly a compelling alternative. Where would he have encountered the Lilith legend before? And why should it have been so powerfully repressed? Kusevitsky, now less agitated, extracted a further assurance from Liebermann that he would look for Herr D’s address; they exchanged visiting cards, and the subject was allowed to drop from their conversation.
“And how are things at the General Hospital?” asked Kusevitsky.
Liebermann sighed. “Actually at present not very good. I’ve run into some difficulties.”
Once again, he was obliged to provide a summary of the events surrounding the death of the young Baron von Kortig.
“My dear fellow, I am so sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “If there’s anything I can do?”
Liebermann shook his head. “No, but thank you for your kind offer.”
He became aware that the conversation on the other side of the table had stopped. Asher Kusevitsky and Schnitzler had been listening.
“They won’t be happy,” said Asher bitterly, “until they’ve got us out of the theatres, out of the hospitals, and, in the end, out of Vienna altogether! That’s what they really want. They want a purge. They treat us like a plague….”
“Mmmm…” Schnitzler hummed, the note rising and falling. “Very interesting. Very interesting indeed.” He did not look sympathetic, like Gabriel, or angered, like Asher—merely curious. In fact, Liebermann thought he saw the author’s lips twisting to form a sardonic smile. “A story with definite potential,” Schnitzler added. “Yes, definite potential. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, Liebermann, could you tell it again, starting from the very beginning.”