68
T
HEY HAD JUST COMPLETED
the
Schöne Müllerin
song cycle and were very satisfied with their performance. Rheinhardt’s voice had sounded particularly good, discovering in each perfectly constructed phrase new registers of bittersweet feeling.
The images still lingered: murmuring brooks, water mills, broad skies—a landscape of innocent pleasures. And, for any self-respecting German romantic, the natural setting for tales of unrequited love and suicidal despair.
“One more,” said Liebermann, rummaging in his piano stool for a suitable song to end with.
“Yes, but only one more,” said Rheinhardt. “My voice is going.”
“Nonsense,” said Liebermann. “You’re in excellent form. Ah, how about this?”
He placed some more Schubert on the music stand:
Gretchen am Spinnrade
. Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel.
It was not an obvious choice, the sentiment of the poetry being, strictly speaking, more appropriate for a female singer. Nevertheless, Liebermann found that he was seized by a curious desire to hear Schubert’s beautiful lyric melody.
Gretchen am Spinnrade
was a miracle of precocity. It had been completed before the composer had reached twenty, and most music aficionados agreed that even if Schubert had lived to a hundred he would not have been able to improve a single note.
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Very well.”
Liebermann’s hands dropped to the keyboard, producing on contact the fluid semiquavers that evoked with astonishing fidelity the turning of Gretchen’s spinning wheel. So powerful was this impression that the listener could all but hear her foot pumping the treadle. The semiquavers were relentless, their melancholy revolutions suggesting not only poignant yearning but tired resignation. Schubert’s account of Gretchen’s wheel had, perhaps, more in common with the medieval
Rota Fortuna
than with a machine for making yarn. Human beings might rail against fate, but ultimately each individual had to accept his or her destiny. There was no other choice. Gretchen’s wheel reproduced in the listener’s mind an intimation of universal circularities: orbiting worlds and the motion of stars. Never, thought Liebermann, had a composer responded so comprehensively to a given text, finding within the poetry meanings that might even have escaped its author, no less a genius than the godlike Goethe.
Rheinhardt’s baritone was rich and dark:
“Meine Ruh ist hin,”
My peace is gone,
“Mein Herz ist schwer,”
My heart is heavy,
“Ich finde sie nimmer, Und nimmermehr.”
I shall never, ever find peace again.
Why
, Liebermann wondered,
did I want to hear this song again, this song of yearning and fate?
A series of ghostly images flickered in front of his eyes.
Uncle Alexander on the Charles Bridge:
This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire
.
Miss Lydgate in front of the Karlskirche:
Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism employed a large screw with a helical thread
.
The chancellor:
Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved
.
Barash:
We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor
.
These images were connected in some way and were struggling to tell him something, but he couldn’t say what, exactly. Their deeper meaning, like the latent content of dreams, was elusive. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware of the great
Rota Fortuna
turning, bringing him closer and closer to an uncertain fate. Ordinarily, Liebermann was not superstitious. But he could not dismiss a nagging presentiment of peril that had made its home in the pit of his stomach.
The spinning wheel figure was interrupted at the song’s emotional climax, and Rheinhardt’s voice rang out above inconclusive, questioning harmonies. A brief pause. Then, hesitatingly at first, the revolving figure began again, proceeding inexorably to the final bar: a tonic minor chord, held into silence.
Liebermann closed the music book, and he and Rheinhardt retired, without exchanging a single word, to the smoking room.
A full ten minutes passed before Liebermann said, “So, what have you learned about Jeheil Sachs? The newspaper articles said very little about him—other than that he was Jewish, of course.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“He was a small-time procurer whose business was conducted in a tiny hovel in Spittelberg. He solicited for a young Galician woman named Kadia Pinski. She had become dissatisfied with her sorry existence and wanted to make a new life for herself. Sachs assaulted her. It was a brutal assault, in which he violated her person with the handle of a brush.” The expression of disgust on Rheinhardt’s face disambiguated his euphemistic sentence. “She almost died. Fortunately, she was able to get medical help, but only after she had collapsed in the Spittelberg
wärmestube
. The two women who run it, Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl, called for a doctor, and Fräulein Pinski was admitted into a private hospital.”
“Does she have friends? Relatives?”
“People who might want to take vengeance on Sachs? No. Not here in Vienna. She was all alone, easy prey for a procurer: young, destitute, unable to speak German. I daresay that she must have initially thought Sachs was her savior, a charitable co religionist, offering her food and shelter.” Rheinhardt drew on his cigar and expelled a prolific quantity of smoke. “The
wärmestube
fräuleins—Katzer and Mandl—took it upon themselves to visit Sachs in order to issue some sort of legal threat. Pinski was too frightened to make a statement, and besides, the police—I am ashamed to admit—are reluctant to come to the aid of unlicensed prostitutes: especially those of Galician origin. A witness reported that the women and Sachs argued.”
“Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl. Those names sound familiar to me.”
“They are two socialites who have made it their avocation to raise money for charitable—and mostly Jewish—causes. They are often mentioned in the society columns.”
“Yes, that’s it. I remember reading something about them in the
Neue Freie Presse
. The archduchess Marie Valerie attended the opening of the Spittelberg
wärmestube.”
Liebermann poured some brandy. “Surely you don’t suspect…” Liebermann allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Sachs’s treatment of Pinski was heinous. He was an odious man who would have no doubt continued to exploit young women. They are wealthy. They are well connected. They wanted to stop him.”
“Yes, but if murder was their aim, then Sachs could have been dispatched neatly and efficiently with a stiletto. There are, as we know, villains who would willingly provide such a service for a relatively small sum. Why on earth would they choose to link his demise with the deaths of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust?”
“We have previously speculated about the operation of a group—a cabal—whose intention all along has been, for whatever reason, to revive the myth of the golem, to inspire belief in its existence. Now, if the golem’s purpose is to protect Jews, then one can imagine why such a creature might have been commanded to kill an individual such as Sachs. In his own way, Sachs was as much a threat to the Jewish community as were Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust. The Church has been warned, politicians have been warned, and now the Jewish community itself has been warned: punishment will be meted out to anyone who harms Jews, even Jews who harm other Jews.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, “if we posit the existence of a militant secret society, then there is no reason why its generals shouldn’t receive intelligence from unlikely agents.”
Rheinhardt tapped the ash from his cigar.
“Fräulein Katzer is romantically associated with a young doctor, a gentleman called Kusevitsky.”
“Gabriel Kusevitsky?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Indeed. We’ve met twice: once at my father’s lodge—B’nai B’rith—and again in the Café Central only a few days ago. He is an enthusiastic supporter of Professor Freud.”
“I interviewed him yesterday.”
“And…?”
“I thought him rather odd.”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Indeed.” Rheinhardt smiled. “However, I believe his peculiarity exceeded my usual expectations even for a member of your esteemed profession.”
“Interesting…,” said Liebermann, turning his brandy glass and examining the patterns of light thus created.
“What is?”
“Kusevitsky knows a great deal about Jewish mythology, and he is currently conducting research into universal symbolism in dreams.” Rheinhardt looked bemused. “That is to say, symbols that have the same meaning from person to person. They are thought to be residues of collective human experience that pass from one generation to the next via an inherited region of the unconscious. Universal symbols are also thought to appear in folktales. It follows that different races may have different common symbols.”
“Now,” said Rheinhardt. “That
is
interesting.”
Liebermann remembered Asher Kusevitsky’s words:
They want a purge. They treat us like a plague…
.
“His brother, Asher Kusevitsky, is a playwright. He was with Gabriel when we met in the Café Central. They were both sitting at Arthur Schnitzler’s table. Asher was talking to Schnitzler about his latest play. I formed an impression that Asher is as preoccupied with myths and legends as is Gabriel. He has written a play called
The Dybbuk
, which I believe is an evil spirit in Jewish folklore.”
“When we last spoke, you mentioned a medical condition—folie à deux. You described it as contagious insanity. You said that it typically affects two people.”
“Indeed, and it is observed most frequently in couples who are related: spouses, for example—or siblings.” Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “However,” Liebermann added, “I must urge caution. We are getting carried away with ourselves. Surely you
must
have noticed Gabriel Kusevitsky’s physique. His brother is just the same. Did you shake Gabriel’s hand?”
“No.”
“He is a weakling. I was worried that I might snap his fingers.”
Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar. “Still, there is something to discover here, perhaps—something worth pursuing. We need to know more about these brothers.” The inspector poured himself a brandy. He raised the glass to his lips and signaled his approval. “So—Barash. What did he have to say this time?”
“He told me, in his cryptic way, that I am about to die.”
Rheinhardt coughed and spluttered. “What?”
“Another prophecy, I fear,” said Liebermann calmly. “He was right about Brother Stanislav, of course. I can only hope that he is wrong about me. I must admit that since our interview I cannot walk down an alley without first glancing over my shoulder.”
Liebermann stood by the window, looking out into the night, his breath producing a silver-gray condensate on the cold glass.
The remainder of the evening had been taken up with discussion about his interview with Barash and the zaddik’s slip of the tongue. Barash had inadvertently claimed to have the power to make a golem. Could it be interpreted as a kind of confession? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s underlying megalomania? A zaddik, after all, was supposed to communicate with God.
Liebermann had raised many questions and provided too few answers. His conclusions about Barash were equivocal. Before his departure Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann if he wanted protection. The young doctor had declined. He did not want a constable following him everywhere.
In the street below, a peasant cart rolled past, its driver illuminated by a red lantern. The spoked wheels reminded Liebermann of the music that he had played earlier, the repetitive figures that Schubert had employed to represent endless rotation.
The mill wheel, the spinning wheel: turning, turning, turning…
Again he found himself thinking about the conversation he had had with Miss Lydgate outside the Karlskirche: gear mechanisms, screws, helical threads.
He went to bed and fell into a fitful, disturbed sleep.
In the morning, Liebermann unlocked his bureau and took out his journal. He would take it with him to the hospital. He needed to work through some of his thoughts.
69
P
ROFESSOR
P
RIEL WAS ALREADY
seated in the parlor when Anna Katzer entered. She was wearing purple because she suspected that this was to be no ordinary social call. The professor’s note had promised
some news pertaining to the matter raised—on your behalf—by the Kusevitsky brothers
. The “matter” that he had alluded to could only be the women’s refuge in Leopoldstadt.
The Kusevitskys had introduced Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl to Priel after a theatrical event, and the two women had spoken to him at some length about their plans. He had been very attentive and had asked a number of questions.
Anna’s heart was beating fast with excitement. She wished that Olga Mandl were there, but her friend had been unable to come. She was languishing in bed with a very bad cold.
The professor stood to greet her. He was taller than Anna recollected, and spry, with unusually bright eyes.
“Fräulein Katzer!” he declared. “So good to see you again.”
Anna offered her hand, and the professor leaned forward, brushing his lips and whiskers against her skin.
“Professor Priel, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She was feeling guilty, having taken far too long to decide what she would wear.
“Not at all. I was admiring the landscapes.”
“Tea?”
“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”
Anna called the maid and communicated their need for refreshment with a mimetic gesture, a barely noticeable tilt of the wrist.
The professor waited for Anna to sit. Then, adjusting his frock coat, he lowered himself onto the sofa.
“Well, Fräulein Katzer, I have some good news for you. I have spoken to Herr Rothenstein about your plans for the new refuge, and he was extremely impressed.” Anna produced a radiant smile and clasped her hands together. “I mentioned Hallgarten’s promise of five thousand kronen and suggested to Rothenstein that he might consider donating an equivalent sum; however, Rothenstein declined.” Anna’s smile died on her face. “He is a generous man,” the professor continued. “But also a proud one.” He shook his head. “Pride. A human frailty all too common, I am sorry to say, among the captains of commerce and industry.”
“But you said you had some good news,” Anna sighed.
The professor raised his finger, tacitly requesting her to suspend judgment.
“Herr Rothenstein would not
—could not—
countenance an arrangement that would place him on an equal footing with Hallgarten. He was insistent that he should be named as the principal benefactor. Subsequently, he authorized me to provide you with funds, payable to the Jewish Women’s Refuge Trust, of fifteen thousand kronen.” Anna’s mouth fell open. “Congratulations, Fräulein Katzer. A very deserving cause. I wish you and Fräulein Mandl every success in your enterprise.”
Anna was speechless for a few moments before she laughed out loud. “Thank you, Herr Professor. I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” said Priel. “After all, it isn’t my money.”
“However, it was you,
dear
professor, who brought our project to Herr Rothenstein’s attention.”
“Yes,” said Priel, extending the syllable and allowing its pitch to fall and rise. “But only because of the Kusevitsky brothers. If it wasn’t for them…” He finished his sentence with a shrug, as if divesting himself of any last vestige of responsibility for having obtained the donation.
The maid arrived with a tray full of tea things and a plate of vanilla biscuits. Anna was too excited to drink tea. In fact, her tea, untouched, went cold as she spoke with compelling sincerity about her intention to make the Leopoldstadt refuge a model institution.
Priel had heard unfavorable reports about Anna and her friend Olga Mandl, how they were superficial, flighty, and more interested in flirting with industrialists than they were in social policy. But it was now clear to the professor that he was in the presence of a genuinely good woman. The smears had obviously been motivated by jealousy, the casual spite that older women reserve for their younger, and more attractive, counterparts. Anna Katzer was not a striking beauty, but there was nevertheless something about the set of her small, delicate features, the overall composition of her face, that was undeniably very pleasing to look at. And the cut of her dress—or was it the striking purple?—suggested more than just a penchant for luxury. It promised sensuality.
The professor was much relieved. She would make an excellent wife for Gabriel Kusevitsky, and her father’s dowry would be very substantial. He imagined the young doctor ensconced in a smart Alsergrund apartment, receiving private patients.
Yes
, he thought.
A very satisfactory outcome
.
In due course, their exchanges became less mannered. They spoke of mutual acquaintances and, inevitably, of the Kusevitsky brothers. Professor Priel praised the two young men, and Anna detected in his eulogy a warmth of feeling more typical of a parent. She found herself echoing the professor’s sentiments. Indeed, she had to stop herself when her enumeration of Gabriel’s many virtues threatened to expose the strength of her attachment. But the abrupt caesura and her subsequent embarrassment had already revealed more than she had intended.
“You are fond of Gabriel,” said the professor, a faint smile of encouragement playing around his lips.
“Yes, very fond,” Anna replied. Her commitment to egalitarian values was evident in her level gaze. She would not betray her sex by showing shame. Her needs were as natural and acceptable as any man’s.
“They are remarkable fellows, the Kusevitsky brothers,” said the professor. “More remarkable than most people who make their acquaintance ever realize. Has Gabriel spoken to you of his origins, where they come from?”
“He told me that his parents died when he was very young and that he and his brother were raised by an uncle in Vienna.”
The professor squeezed his lower lip.
“That is true,” he said. “But it is not—as it were—the whole truth. We cannot judge Gabriel unkindly if he has elected to remain silent. His reticence merely reinforces his claim on our high regard. He and his brother are strangers to self-pity. I have never known them to seek sympathy. Yet I am convinced that it is in the interests of those who have suffered to be surrounded by intimates who have at least some inkling of the trials that they have survived.” The professor crossed his long legs. “I am not breaking a confidence, you understand? The Kusevitskys have never sworn me to secrecy.”
“Trials?” Anna repeated.
“The Kusevitskys,” Professor Priel continued, “were born in the eastern Ukraine. Their father was accused of stealing. It was a false accusation, and the inhabitants of the nearest village took the law into their own hands, a common occurrence in those times. A Jewish family could not go to the authorities for help. It was after the Czar had been assassinated, and Jews were being blamed for everything. The situation worsened, threats were made, and the boys were told to flee to their uncle’s house. It was November, and their uncle lived some twenty-five miles away. Can you imagine what it must have been like for them? The freezing cold? The darkness? Two frightened children, running for their lives? Gabriel was five, Asher six. And there were evil forces abroad. Cossacks.” Priel shook his head. “One shudders to think of what might have happened, what sport their discovery would have afforded those wicked barbarians. The boys must have been protected by angels, because somehow—it is little short of a miracle—they managed to cross the frozen steppe and reach their destination.”
The professor paused. The room had become unnaturally quiet.
“Asher was carrying a note. The boys’ parents had expected to die. They begged the uncle to abandon his home and escape with their children to the relative safety of Austria-Hungary. He was a simple, hardworking man—but wily. He knew what lawlessness meant for the Jews. They set off immediately.”
Professor Priel leaned back and stroked his beard.
“In due course, they settled in Leopoldstadt and the boys were educated at a humble
bürgerschule;
however, Asher and Gabriel were conspicuously intelligent. A kindly teacher advised the uncle to apply for two charity places at the gymnasium, funded by Rothenstein. I had some modest involvement with the scheme and subsequently made their acquaintance.”
“Is their uncle still alive?”
“He died three years ago. Scarlet fever.”
“How sad.”
“Yes. But he lived long enough to see his nephews become students at the university. He died contented, his labors thus rewarded.”
“An extraordinary story,” said Anna. “I had no idea. And how terrible that they should have suffered so.”
“Indeed. Still, I am of the opinion that some good has come from their tribulations. They have a rare bond, a degree of closeness that I have observed otherwise only in identical twins. Perhaps I am being fanciful, but I believe that this special bond was forged on their miraculous journey. It drew them together. Sometimes they seem to be party to the same thoughts and feelings. Have you noticed how they complete each other’s sentences? Or answer a question simultaneously with the very same words? And although they have different specialisms, I cannot rid myself of a curious impression that they are like the scientific and artistic faculties of a single mind.”
Anna detected a certain uneasiness in Priel’s expression.
“Professor,” she ventured hesitantly, “why are you telling me these things?”
He made an appeasing gesture.
“I wanted to give you some advice, which I trust you will accept in good faith. I promise you it is well-intentioned, and it is this: never come between them. Never come between these two brothers. In a way, if you choose to marry Gabriel, you also marry Asher.” The professor’s expression suddenly lightened. “This friend of yours, Fräulein Olga. She’s met Asher, hasn’t she?”
Anna’s eyes widened.
“Well?” asked the professor. “Did she not like him?”