13
F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
Dr. Max Liebermann
Have recently been playing through the complete Chopin Studies, but am quite dissatisfied with my overall performance. Especially No. 12 in C minor. The left-hand part is extremely demanding, and I lack the necessary strength and flexibility. I was in Schott’s and discovered a book of intriguing five-finger exercises devised by Professor Willibald Klammer, a hand surgeon and amateur pianist from Munich. Apparently he is the world’s leading authority on strains and breaks and has been consulted by many virtuosi including Caroline von Gomperz-Bettelheim.
The Klammer Method consists of sixty-two exercises executed at the piano and a supplementary set of twenty-four exercises that can be practiced anywhere (finger stretches, contractions, wrist rotations, and so forth). In his introduction, which is copiously illustrated with finely produced anatomical drawings, he fancifully compares his method to the ascetic disciplines practiced by the fakirs of India.
I asked Goetschl if any of his other customers had found the Klammer Method useful, but he couldn’t say. He only had the one copy. Needless to say, I bought it. I plowed through the exercises and then attempted the C minor again. It sounded much the same. Even so, I think I will persevere.
As I was playing through the exercises, I kept on thinking about the incident on Professor Friedländer’s ward: Baron von Kortig and the priest. Did I do the right thing? I think so. Yes, I did do the right thing. The young baron was not a man of strong character, and the appearance of the priest would have filled him with terror. That is no way for anyone to die.
14
R
ABBI
S
ELIGMAN DID NOT
leave the synagogue after the service. He stood alone at the back of the building, deep in thought.
The Alois Gasse Temple was a modest building. It did not have the vast, overwhelming majesty of the “Central Temple,” or the ornamental charm of the “Turkish Temple;” however, its manageable proportions were pleasing to the eye. Late-afternoon sunlight fanned through the arched windows. Through this shimmering haze Rabbi Seligman could see the newly restored ark, the cabinet containing the sacred Torah scrolls. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, a gilded tower decorated with intricate carvings: columns, vines, flowers, and urns. The middle panel showed a crowned eagle with outstretched wings, and at the very top, two rearing lions supported a blue tablet on which the Ten Commandments were written in Hebrew. In front of the ark was a lamp—an eternal light—burning with a steady, resolute flame.
“Rabbi?”
Seligman started, and wheeled around.
The caretaker was entering the temple through the shadowy vestibule.
“Kusiel? Is that you.”
“Yes, only me.”
The caretaker was in his late sixties. He wore a loose jacket and baggy trousers held up with suspenders. His sky-blue skullcap matched his rumpled collarless shirt.
“What is it, Kusiel?”
“I wanted to speak with you about something.”
“The damp? Not again, surely.”
“No, not the damp.” The caretaker rubbed the silver bristles on his chin. “Noises.”
“Noises?”
“I was here last night,” Kusiel continued, “repairing the loose board on the stairs, when I heard footsteps. I thought there was someone on the balcony, but when I went up, there was no one there.”
The rabbi shrugged. “Then you were mistaken.”
“That’s not all. There was a banging, a loud banging. I don’t know where it was coming from.”
“What? Someone was trying to break in?”
“No. I checked everywhere. No one was trying to break in. And then… then I heard a moaning sound.”
Rabbi Seligman tilted his head quizzically.
“It was terrible,” Kusiel added. “Inhuman.”
Somewhere in the synagogue a wooden beam creaked.
“Old buildings make noises, Kusiel,” said the rabbi.
“Not like these.”
“Perhaps you were tired. Perhaps you imagined—”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” said the caretaker firmly. “With respect, Rabbi, I know what I heard, and what I heard wasn’t…” The old man paused before saying, “Natural.”
Rabbi Seligman took a deep breath and looked up at the balcony. It followed the walls on three sides, being absent only over the ark.
“I don’t understand, Kusiel. Are you suggesting that whatever it was you heard was…” He hesitated. “A spirit?”
“It wasn’t right—that’s all I’m saying. And something should be done. You know more about these things than I do.” The old man attacked his bristly chin with the palms of his hands, producing a rough, abrasive sound. “Something should be done,” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Rabbi Seligman. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Kusiel.”
The old man grunted approvingly and shuffled back into the vestibule.
Rabbi Seligman, somewhat troubled by this exchange, climbed the stairs to the balcony. He looked around and noticed nothing unusual. The caretaker had heard something strange, that much he could accept. But a spirit? No, there would be a perfectly rational alternative explanation.
Something should be done
.
The caretaker’s refrain came back to him.
Rabbi Seligman had no intention of performing an exorcism! It probably wouldn’t happen again. And if it did? Well, he would give Kusiel instructions to fetch him at once. Then he could establish what was
really
going on.
15
R
HEINHARDT FLICKED THROUGH THE
volume of Schubert songs and placed
Die Forelle—The Trout—
on the music stand.
“Let’s end with this, eh? Something cheerful.”
Liebermann pulled back his cuffs, straightened his back, and began to play the jolly introduction. His fingers found a curious repeating figure, ostensibly straightforward yet containing both rhythmic and chromatic oddities. It evoked the burble of a country stream; however, the music was not entirely innocent. The notes were slippery, knowing—the effect ironic. Indeed, there was something about the introduction that reminded Liebermann of an adolescent boy whistling nonchalantly while walking away from an orchard, his pockets bulging with stolen apples. The figure dropped from the right hand to the left, then down another octave before the music came to a halt on an arpeggiated tonic chord.
Rheinhardt was so familiar with the song that he didn’t bother to look at the music. Resting his elbow on the piano case, like a rustic leaning on a swing gate, he began to sing:
“In einem Bächlein helle
Da Schoß in froher Eil’
Die launische Forelle
Vorüber wie ein Pfeil.”
In a clear stream
In lovely haste The capricious trout
Darted by like an arrow.
What is it about?
Liebermann asked himself. It was a strange lyric that didn’t really lead anywhere.
“Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand
Und sah’s mit kalten Blute
Wie sich das Fischleim wand”
An angler with his rod
Stood on the bank
And cold-bloodedly watched
The fish twist and turn
Rheinhardt sang the poetry with effortless fluency, his rich lyrical baritone filling the room and rattling the windowpanes.
Again, Liebermann asked himself,
What is it about?
A narrator, watching an angler, hopes that a trout will not get caught. However, when the writhing fish is lifted from the water, he is sent into an impotent rage
.
Did the poet mean to show how human beings encroach upon and disturb the natural world? Or was he suggesting that freedom is so treasured by human beings that even a landed fish can find sympathy in a poet’s heart?
After an agitated final verse, the burbling theme reappeared in the piano accompaniment and the music progressed to a tranquil pianissimo ending.
Liebermann looked up and saw that Rheinhardt was pleased with his performance. However, when the inspector noticed Liebermann’s troubled expression, he said, “It wasn’t
that
bad, was it?”
“Not at all…. Your voice was relaxed, expressive, and beautifully resonant.”
“Then why do you look so perplexed?”
Liebermann lifted his hands off the keyboard but allowed the final chord to continue indefinitely by keeping his foot on the pedal.
“What’s it about?” Liebermann asked.
“Die Forelle?”
“Yes.”
“A man—watching an angler—watching a fish,” said Rheinhardt flatly.
“With respect, Oskar, that isn’t a terribly penetrating analysis.”
“It’s what the poet describes,” said Rheinhardt. “It’s what the words say.”
The young doctor considered his friend’s riposte, and conceded, “Yes, I suppose so.” He released the pedal, terminating the gentle hum of the fading chord. “Sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be, and nothing else.”
“A difficult concept for a psychiatrist to grasp, admittedly,” said Rheinhardt.
They retired to the smoking room, lit some cigars, sipped brandy, and stared into the fire. In due course Liebermann broke the silence. “I suspect that your choice of
Die Forelle
represents a form of wish fulfillment.”
Rheinhardt roused himself, cleared his throat, and replied, “I chose it because I wanted us to end our music-making with something cheerful.”
“Yes, but a song about a man catching a fish? Come now, Oskar, the parallels are blindingly obvious! The very idea of
catching
has positive connotations for you, a detective inspector. Your raison d’être is to catch criminals. That is why you find
Die Forelle
so uplifting. It fulfills—at least symbolically—one of your deepest wishes. When the trout is caught, instead of raging with the poet, you experience nothing but satisfaction. You were beaming with pleasure when the song came to an end.”
“I thought we’d agreed that sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be, and nothing else.”
Liebermann shrugged. “You have certainly been
fishing
this week, and I must suppose from your good humor that you are pleased with your
catch.”
“All right,” said Rheinhardt. “You’ve made your point! I would be most grateful if we could now continue this conversation without any further reference to fish.”
“Of course,” said Liebermann. “Perhaps we should begin with the autopsy?”
Rheinhardt nodded, poured himself another brandy, and said, “Decapitation was achieved through clockwise cranial rotation.” He traced a circle in the air with his finger. “Professor Mathias said that the last time he’d seen anything like it was when he was in the army doing his national service. An infantryman stumbled across a bear and her cubs. She attacked him and ripped his head off.” Rheinhardt swirled his brandy. “The monk had no other injuries. Except some superficial damage to the facial skin, some small cuts and grazes, which could have been caused when the head was rolled away from the body. However, Professor Mathias did find a laceration about here…”
Rheinhardt tapped his crown.
“Caused by a blunt weapon, no doubt,” Liebermann interrupted, “which is why there was no evidence of a struggle. The monk was unconscious when they set about removing his head. Did Professor Mathias express an opinion regarding the handedness of the perpetrator, based on the direction of cranial rotation?”
“No. He wasn’t prepared to say anything conclusive. Given that the phenomenon of manual decapitation is so rare, he advised caution in this respect.”
“That is reasonable.”
“I went back to the Maria Treue Kirche on Wednesday,” Rheinhardt continued, “to question the abbot. He spoke very highly of Brother Stanislav and was completely mystified by the monk’s murder. So much so that he was inclined to blame the devil.”
“Ha!” Liebermann scoffed.
“I waited outside the school and talked to some of the parents as they arrived to collect their children. Some had brought wreaths—costly for people of their class, and yet it was like a flower market! They described a kind, compassionate man, a teacher with a gentle manner, particularly evident in his dealings with the younger boys and girls. Brother Stanislav’s good works were not confined to the classroom. He made it his business to help the most disadvantaged families and frequently arranged alms and housing. He was, as far as they were concerned, nothing less than a saint.”
“Then you have discounted my suggestion that he might have been murdered by former pupils seeking vengeance.”
“It isn’t a conjecture that I currently favor, given what has
since
come to light.” Rheinhardt paused to light a cigar. “I returned to the church the following day and overheard two monks saying disparaging things about Brother Stansilav. One of them ran off. The other, a Brother Lupercus, was willing to talk a little, although he was eager not to be seen talking to me. He urged me to read some articles written by Brother Stanislav for
Das Vaterland
, a conservative Catholic newspaper.”
“Not a publication I can claim to be overly familiar with.”
“Nor I,” said Rheinhardt, smiling. “Haussmann dug some back issues out of the library, and we were able to find two articles by Brother Stanislav. They were supposed to be about education, but in fact, they were more like political tracts. Some heinous sentiments were expressed with respect to Jews.”
“Clerics are always saying such things.”
“They can be outspoken, I agree, but it is not customary for them to express their prejudices in such colorful language. He likened the diaspora after the pogroms to the spread of vermin, a
plague
.”
Liebermann turned to face his friend. “You think there is a connection here, with the column?”
“There could be.”
The young doctor considered this possibility for a moment before gesturing for Rheinhardt to continue.
“We learned that Brother Stanislav had become associated with a conservative political group, an odd amalgam of anti-Semites. A few months ago they held an unofficial rally in the old ghetto area of Leopoldstadt. Brother Stanislav gave an inflammatory speech, and there was some fighting. By the time the constables arrived, the crowd had dispersed, but later the body of a young man was found on the Prater. Chaim Robak, an orthodox Jew. He had been beaten and stabbed.”
“The agitators killed him?”
“We don’t know that for certain, but it’s very likely. Thus, one could argue that Brother Stanislav was responsible for the young man’s death.”
“Have you spoken to Robak’s family?”
“I see that you are already considering revenge as a motive. Yes, I have spoken to them. Robak senior is in his late sixties and walks with a stick. He married a much younger woman and they have three daughters, all under twenty and still living at home. None of them could have killed Stanislav. They are physically incapable of performing such a violent act.”
Liebermann inhaled the sweet, fruity fragrance of his brandy.
“I wonder why Brother Lupercus told you about the
Vaterland
articles.”
“Even monks are prey to the usual human frailties—rivalry, envy, spite. He was probably resentful of Brother Stanislav’s saintly reputation. Or perhaps Brother Stanislav was always getting preferential treatment from the abbot. Who knows?”
“Do you think the abbot knew about Brother Stanislav’s political activities?”
“Perhaps. The sad truth—as I’m sure you’re only too well aware—is that, for most devout Christians, Jews are—and will always be—the people who killed Jesus Christ. Deicide is not easily forgiven.”
Liebermann tilted his brandy glass and watched a point of light move around the rim. “The Hasidic communities are relatively self-contained, congregating around a hereditary leader, or rebbe. These men have enormous influence, and it is just possible that one of them might have orchestrated Brother Stanislav’s murder.”
“I thought the Hasidic Jews were a peaceful people.”
“They are. But there are always exceptions—fanatics. One can imagine how it might happen. Fiery sermons. The idea of
retribution
planted in the minds of devoted followers and justified with quotes from scripture. The rebbe might even claim to have received a direct communication from God Himself. This is all quite plausible; however, what I don’t understand is why they would have set themselves the most inconvenient task of ripping off a man’s head! If the purpose was to retaliate, then they could have simply struck Brother Stanislav a little harder—smashing his skull instead of merely knocking him out. This would have been quite enough to achieve their aim: an eye for an eye.”
“Does tearing the head off an enemy have any religious significance?” Rheinhardt asked.
“Not that I know of. The only biblical beheading I can think of is that of John the Baptist.” Liebermann pulled at his lower lip. “Which doesn’t help us very much.”
“Then perhaps it was simply an audacious display, meant to make their enemies fearful.”
“But if that was their objective, why did they set about their task in such a peculiar way? Why didn’t they use a sabre or an axe? It would have been so much easier. There is something going on here that is most strange and I fear—at present—utterly beyond our powers of comprehension.”