Vienna Secrets lp-4 Page 19

  Alexander looked over at his brother.

  “I don’t see why not,” said Mendel. “We have the time.”

  Liebermann detected suspicion in the network of creases around his father’s eyes.

  “And if we’re quick,” said Alexander, “we won’t have to forgo the pleasure of Frau Ruzicka’s delightful pastries.”

  The old Jewish cemetery was built on what appeared to be a small hillock and was completely surrounded by a perimeter wall.

  “Are any of our family buried here?” Liebermann asked his father.

  “Probably. Your great-grandfather was a Praguer-although he’s buried in the new cemetery, of course. I think they stopped burying people here more than a hundred years ago.”

  “What was his occupation, my great-grandfather?”

  “He was a tailor.”

  “Do you remember him?”

  “No. He died long before Alexander and I were born.”

  They climbed up a steep path and were soon surrounded by headstones. These were of varying sizes and were packed closely together. Some were leaning over, others had fallen flat, and all were covered in Hebrew inscriptions. Nearly five hundred winters had taken their toll, rendering the older monuments illegible. The lettering had filled with moss, creating strange emerald patterns against the gray stone. Although chaotic and decayed, the necropolis possessed a sombre majesty. Even Liebermann, who was generally inured to such things, felt something akin to reverence.

  Liebermann and his uncle walked along the path, leaving Mendel behind. The old man seemed to be tarrying on purpose. Glancing over his shoulder, Liebermann saw his father standing very still in the dappled shadows beneath a lime tree. He guessed that Mendel wanted to be alone in order to say a prayer.

  The route that Liebermann and his uncle had chosen ascended until they were level with the first-floor windows of the buildings beyond the perimeter wall. The path took them on a meandering course that squeezed between the serried graves. Liebermann noticed that several of the dead had been honored in the traditional Jewish way: pebbles had been placed on the headstones as a mark of esteem. One of the headstones was particularly conspicuous in this respect. The tributes and folded messages of supplication were so abundant that many had fallen and scattered on the ground.

  “Who is buried here?” asked Liebermann.

  “Oh, I think this is the grave of Rabbi Loew. He was a holy man… and a sort of Hebrew magician. A kabbalist.”

  Liebermann turned sharply to address his uncle.

  “Do you know much about him?”

  “Not a great deal. The local Hasidim have lots of legends about his good works. He was supposed to have performed miracles and to have protected the ghetto in times of persecution. He used to preach at the Old-New Synagogue. They still have his chair there.”

  Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue.

  “Where is it?”

  “The Old-New Synagogue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just over there.” Alexander raised his arm and pointed. “On Maiselova.”

  Mendel was approaching.

  “Well,” he called out, “just enough time for a coffee, and then we must see Broz and Holub.”

  “Father,” said Liebermann, “forgive me… but I’d like to see the Old-New Synagogue.”

  “What?”

  “Would you mind?”

  Mendel came to a halt and looked somewhat puzzled. “Can’t you go later? Since when have you been interested in synagogues?”

  “I would very much like to go now,” Liebermann answered. The tone of his voice was firm.

  “You spend half the night drinking with your uncle-and don’t deny it.” Mendel lifted a finger to silence Alexander’s anticipated objection. “And then you want to go to the synagogue!” Mendel looked up at the sky as if beseeching God for assistance. “Sometimes…”

  Liebermann had already started to retreat.

  “I’ll see you back at the hotel, Father.”

  “Why can’t you see the synagogue and catch us up at the coffeehouse? It won’t take you long.”

  “No. I’d prefer to take my time, if you don’t mind. Good-bye, Father… Uncle Alexander.”

  Liebermann bowed and hurried off.

  Mendel turned to his brother, shaking his head.

  “I don’t understand him. Do you?”

  Alexander leaned both hands on his cane and replied, “No. I thought I did. But, on reflection, I realize I was quite mistaken.”

  49

  Councillor Schmidt was sitting at his preferred table in the Cafe Eiles. He had just finished eating a potato goulash with frankfurter sausages and had begun to study the newspapers. Leafing through the Wiener Tagblatt, he came across a salacious headline: ONGOING SCANDAL SURROUNDS SCHNITZLER’S BOOK REIGEN. Two months ago the Viennese publishing company released the first edition of Arthur Schnitzler’s book Reigen. This scandalous book harms the feeling of honor of every Viennese. The “Reigen” consist of ten dialogues about sex. After each act a partner is exchanged. There has never been such a pornographic work.

  Schmidt tutted to himself and shook his head. Jews. Obsessed with smut. He read on: In 1901, Arthur Schnitzler’s book Lieutenant Gustl also brought controversy with the public. The result was that Arthur Schnitzler was relieved of his title as an officer.

  “Quite right!” Schmidt said aloud.

  At an adjacent table a lawyer wearing a green bow tie looked up from his soup to see if he was being addressed.

  Turning to the political pages, Schmidt came across a small piece on forthcoming appointments at the town hall. He read, with pride, that the candidates for the mayor’s special advisory committee included Councillor Julius Schmidt, “a resourceful and popular advocate of small businesses and the rights of hardworking families.”

  I’m going to get the job.

  The thought sent an electric charge of excitement through his body. With Faust eliminated from the new short list, the only other serious contender was Armannperg, and Armannperg was too old. He-Julius Schmidt-would get the coveted position, cultivate support among the most elevated members of the party, and be ready to run for mayor when the time came-and surely, given Lueger’s failing health, he would not have to wait very long.

  But even as he imagined himself ensconced in the mayor’s office, he was troubled by an irritating secondary consideration. Lueger’s failing health was rumored, not fact. There were whisperings, overheard conversations, raised eyebrows, if the mayor was not looking his best. But Schmidt had to admit that, for an ailing man, Karl Lueger was alarmingly spry and energetic. He could be mayor for some time to come. Certainly long enough for several of the ambitious young pretenders at the town hall to establish themselves as credible alternatives.

  Lueger could never be usurped. A political challenge was out of the question.

  Always someone in the way…

  The pundit writing in the Tagblatt had correctly identified one of Schmidt’s strengths. He was indeed a resourceful politician and rather good at finding solutions-often unconventional ones-to difficult and seemingly intractable problems. He drummed the table with his fingers and considered his options.

  When the waiter came to collect Schmidt’s empty plate, the councillor ordered an einspanner coffee and a large reisauflauf mit apfeln. He read the flattering line about his resourcefulness and popularity again, and then picked up a copy of the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.

  Inside, he found a report on the discovery of a magical laboratory above a synagogue in Leopoldstadt. The article was accompanied by an illustration of a Jewish magus-a kabbalist-conducting rites in a room filled with the trappings of alchemy and astrology. The magus was dressed in long ceremonial robes embroidered with the Star of David. He was standing in a pentacle, his hands raised as if he were commanding some supernatural being to appear. His features were executed crudely in an unflattering caricature: thick eyebrows, coiled sideburns, a massive nose, and a f
lowing black beard. On his head the magus wore an oversize beaver hat.

  Schmidt glanced through the article.

  Alois Gasse… locked room…

  A superstitious race…

  Ritualistic practices… common among Jews.

  The waiter returned and deposited the contents of his silver tray onto the table: a black coffee, served in a tall glass and topped with whipped cream, and a steaming slab of rice souffle, sitting in a wide, deep red pool of raspberry syrup. Schmidt became curiously absorbed by his pudding.

  “Uncle?”

  Schmidt looked up, surprised to see his nephew standing next to him. The councillor had been mesmerized by the redness of the syrup, and a chain of associations had formed in his mind: raspberry syrup, blood, blood libel…

  “Ah,” said Schmidt. “Fabian!” He tapped the open newspaper and pretended he had been looking at the illustration rather than at his reisauflauf. “Have you seen this?”

  Fabian sat down next to his uncle and started to read the article.

  “I don’t understand,” said the councillor’s nephew. “What does it mean?”

  “What does it mean?” Schmidt chuckled. “A busy afternoon, that’s what it means. A lot more could be made of this.” Fabian returned a puzzled stare. “Oh, never mind. How’s your friend Edlinger? Did he get on with Professor Hollar?”

  50

  Liebermann leaned back and looked upward. The steep brick gable of the Old-New Synagogue appeared black against the bright blue sky. It was a striking piece of architectural design. The sloping edges of the gable were serrated with sharp, pointed teeth, giving it a curiously sinister appearance. There was something about its primitive execution that conveyed an impression of great age and mystery.

  Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague… Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray.

  Liebermann moved on and, turning along a side street, found the entrance: stairs descended to a vestibule and a closed door, the tympanum of which was decorated with intricate carvings of vine leaves and twisted branches. Liebermann opened the door and stepped inside.

  His first impression was of a relatively narrow space, but with a high ceiling. Small windows admitted very little light, and most of the illumination came from bronze chandeliers. A continuous wooden bench skirted the walls. The center of the temple was occupied by a wrought-iron Gothic grille behind which stood the cantor’s platform and lectern. Liebermann advanced, his footsteps finding a resonant reply in the farthest corners of the building.

  Two massive octagonal pillars rose up to a ceiling of ribbed vaults, and between these hung a red standard decorated with a yellow Star of David. Against the far wall, an eternal light drew Liebermann’s attention to a wooden ark. It looked so ancient that it might have been carried out of Egypt by the Israelites.

  Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray.

  Superstition!

  He had no intention of praying.

  Liebermann remembered something his father had told him: The ark is always positioned on a wall that faces Jerusalem.

  Jews are always looking backward! thought Liebermann.

  He was a man of science, a man who embraced modernity. He was a citizen of the most sophisticated city in Europe! Yet the young doctor felt a curious stirring in the depths of his being. His conversation with Gabriel Kusevitsky came back to him: cultural unconscious, endopychic myths. Was it really possible? Could people of the same race share ancestral memories that found expression in the symbolic language of dreams? And were those ancestral memories also the cause of the peculiar emotion that was now tightening his chest? It was like an experience of deja vu, but much stronger than he had ever known before.

  The door opened and a man entered. He was an orthodox Jew wearing a leather vest and a collarless shirt. He was carrying what appeared to be a box of tools. On seeing Liebermann, the man smiled. He put his toolbox down on the floor, produced a skullcap from his pocket, and offered it to Liebermann.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Liebermann. “Of course…” He took the skullcap and placed it on his head with conspicuous care. It was not something he was accustomed to doing. “Thank you,” he muttered. The man simply continued smiling. “I’m a stranger here,” Liebermann added defensively. “Do you speak German?”

  “Yes, I do,” said the man. His accent was slight.

  “A very beautiful temple,” said Liebermann. “How old is it?”

  “More than six hundred years old.”

  Liebermann glanced at the man’s toolbox.

  “Are you the caretaker?”

  “I am indeed.”

  “Such an old building… I suppose your work is never done.”

  “Never. Broken door hinges, loose tiles, woodworm-there’s always something.”

  “Why is it called the Old-New Synagogue? Why not just the Old Synagogue, or the Maiselova Temple?”

  “It was called the New Synagogue originally-New because it replaced a much older house of prayer. Over time, more synagogues were built, all of which were newer than the New Synagogue. So to avoid confusion people started to call the New Synagogue the Old-New Synagogue, and the name stuck!” The caretaker paused and stared at his companion. “So, where are you from? Vienna?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so,” said the caretaker. “A lawyer?”

  “No-a doctor.”

  “Well, it had to be one or the other!” Liebermann was amused by the caretaker’s perspicacity. “It’s your coat, sir,” the caretaker added. “Only a professional man would wear a coat like that.”

  Liebermann asked the caretaker a few more questions concerning the temple’s history and found him to be very knowledgeable. He was a good-humored man and evidently enjoyed acting as a guide, but Liebermann suspected that his eagerness to please was not entirely innocent. The fluency of his patter suggested frequent rehearsal and the expectation of a reward for a job well done.

  “Notice the vaulting, Herr Doctor. It has five ribs instead of the usual four. This was to avoid anything that might resemble a cross. The red banner was a gift from Ferdinand the Third. He gave it to the Jews as a token of gratitude. The Jews helped him fight off the Swedes in 1648-the Battle of Prague. Without the Jews, the Swedes would have marched right into the Stare Mysto, and all would have been lost.”

  The caretaker beckoned, and Liebermann followed. They walked toward the ark.

  “And this,” said the caretaker, pointing at a high-backed chair, “is Rabbi Loew’s chair.”

  Liebermann became aware of his heart beating more swiftly and made efforts to conceal his excitement.

  “Ah yes,” said Liebermann, feigning nonchalance. “Rabbi Loew. I’ve heard of him. He was a great magician, wasn’t he?”

  “Well, a wise man, and a learned scholar.”

  “A kabbalist?”

  “The most powerful ever-so they say.”

  “When did he live?”

  “About four hundred years ago. He was chief rabbi and head of the rabbinical court of the holy community. A terrible time it was for Jews, because of the fanaticism of the Catholic priests. The clergy were constantly making unfounded accusations of ritual murder. Subsequently, the goyim were suspicious of the Jews, who were wrongly arrested, abused, and mistreated.”

  “I was told that Rabbi Loew performed miracles-to protect his people.”

  “There are many stories,” said the caretaker, maintaining his smile but now turning oddly silent. Liebermann put his hand into his pocket and jingled some loose change. It was subtly done and had the desired effect. “Yes, many stories…” The caretaker continued as though there had been no pause. “But he is most famous for making a golem.”

  “A what?”

  “A golem. An artificial being. He collected mud from the banks of the Vltava and made it into the shape of a man, which he then brought to life after consulting the Sefer Yetzirah, the book of creation. The golem had supernatural strength and protected the ghetto Jews f
or many years. Although in one version of the story, the golem is supposed to have become uncontrollable and destructive.”

  “Like in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’?”

  “Yes. Rabbi Loew had to use his most potent spells to stop the golem. Otherwise-such was the creature’s might-he would have destroyed half the ghetto. They say the golem is still here, laid out in the attic. When the Jews were no longer threatened, Rabbi Loew ordered the golem to take its bed upstairs. He made the golem sleep and covered the body with prayer shawls and holy books. Rabbi Loew forbade anyone to go up there again. He said that he was worried about someone causing a fire, but the real reason was the golem. Few people have been up there since Rabbi Loew’s time, but all have come down again gibbering like idiots.”

  “Do you have a key to the attic?”

  The caretaker laughed.

  “It’s a story, Herr Doctor, only a story-although, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to go against the will of Rabbi Loew. Would you?”

  “Mud. He made the creature out of mud? You’re quite certain of that?”

  “Yes. As God made Adam. From the earth.”

  Liebermann took off his skullcap and handed it back to the caretaker along with a silver coin.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You have been most helpful”

  Pray for enlightenment. Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful. Perhaps they will pity you and guide you back to your faith, and then-only then-will you understand, fully understand, what is happening.

  Liebermann had not prayed for enlightenment, but he had drawn a little closer to his roots, and Barash had proved himself to be an impressive prophet: either that, or a zealot capable of monstrous violence.

  51

  “He was a disgusting man,” said Anna. “A vile creature.”

  Gabriel Kusevitsky could see that Anna was distressed; however, he did not offer her solicitous platitudes. Instead, he watched her closely and listened. There was something about his posture that betrayed his medical training, a certain detachment and ease in the presence of anguish. But his composure was never in any danger of being misconstrued as boredom or lack of interest, for Kusevitsky’s eyes-dark, perceptive, and penetrating-showed intense mental engagement.