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  Barash clasped his big hands together and held them against his chest.

  “If our enemies succeed, they not only destroy us, they destroy everything. There can be no release of divine essence, no mending, no healing. The powers of evil will grow, and the natural order of things will never be restored. The darkness that comes will be impenetrable-and final. There will be no redemption. Yet we should not despair. Our enemies are ignorant. They know nothing of our ancient wisdom, the hidden power of words and numbers. The magids have used this power many times before to protect our people, and it can be used again. So let our enemies provoke us, taunt us, and spit as we pass. Let them! For the time of reckoning has come, and such a force will be unleashed against them that they will quake at the merest mention of its name.”

  18

  Rheinhardt halted in order to admire the architectural peculiarities of the Turkish synagogue. Its doors were housed beneath onion-shaped arches, and its minimal decoration consisted of repeated abstract patterns. Towering above the synagogue’s terraces was a minaret with a domed roof and cusped windows. It could have easily been mistaken for a mosque had it not been for the Hebrew characters embossed over the entrance.

  A noisy caravan of carts and barrows, heavily laden with crates, rattled up Zirkusgasse.

  This won’t do, thought Rheinhardt. I have fish to catch.

  He remembered the conversation that he had had with Liebermann about Die Forelle and, smiling, hummed a few bars of Schubert’s jaunty melody. He cut across the center of Leopoldstadt, turned right into Taborstrasse, and eventually arrived at Tandelmarktgasse.

  The buildings were tall and unadorned, with raked roofs and stained plaster. They resembled oversize alpine huts. All the ground-floor apartments had been converted into shops. Rheinhardt passed two men standing in a doorway. Some of their goods had been put out on the pavement: a dented samovar, a rusty accordion, a basket containing a tea service, and a few silver candlesticks. One of the men raised his hat and called out a price for the samovar. Rheinhardt declined and hurried on.

  Before reaching the market square-and only just behind the police station-Rheinhardt came to a stall selling savories. A brazier was burning, and the air smelled of cooking oil and herbs. On seeing Rheinhardt, the stallholder, a man with a thin mustache and pointed rodent features, extended his hand.

  “Ah, my dear friend, good to see you.” His voice was accented and slightly nasal. “How’s life?”

  As Rheinhardt shook Moni Teitel’s hand, he let go of the coins he had been holding in his palm. Teitel dropped the inducement into his apron pocket and removed a golden-brown potato latke from the brazier.

  “Try this… and help yourself to the pickled cucumber. They’re very sweet.”

  “Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.

  “Family well?”

  “Thriving.”

  “Then why such a long face? You should be a happy man. Health is a blessing, make no mistake.”

  Rheinhardt bit into the latke and looked off toward the market. “So… any news?”

  “There’s always news, my friend.”

  “Of interest to me?”

  “Possibly.” Teitel prodded the coals in the brazier with a poker. “Since that business on the Prater a few months back-you know, the boy who was killed at the rally-there’ve been rumors. There’s this zaddik-”

  “This what?” Rheinhardt cut in.

  “Zaddik, a preacher among the Hasidim. He’s called Barash, and they say he knew what was going to happen. They say he knew the priest was going to die.”

  “How?”

  “Perhaps God told him. They’re fanatics, these people.”

  A woman wearing a spotted scarf and carrying a small child stopped to buy some oatcakes and some pastry pillows filled with curd cheese. While she was haggling, Rheinhardt found a shop window and pretended to be interested in the display. When the woman had gone, he returned to the stall.

  “Where does he live, this Barash?”

  “Just round the corner.” Teitel jerked his thumb toward the market. “In the old ghetto buildings.”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “My brother-in-law. He was in Zucker’s-do you know Zucker’s? One of Barash’s people was in there. They were talking about the priest, and this boy pipes up that Barash had known-weeks before it happened.”

  “Anything else?”

  Teitel shook his head. Rheinhardt dropped another two kronen into Teitel’s hand and said, “For the latke.”

  “You’re very generous,” said Teitel. Then, raising his voice, he added, “Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi?”

  Rheinhardt shook his head.

  “A priest and a rabbi are on a train. The priest turns to the rabbi and says, ‘Is it still a requirement of your faith to not eat pork?’ And the rabbi replies, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ So the priest then says, ‘Have you ever eaten pork?’ And the rabbi says, ‘On one occasion I did succumb to temptation, and, yes, I did eat pork.’ The priest goes back to reading his book. A while later the rabbi speaks again. ‘Father,’ he says, ‘is it still a requirement of your faith to remain celibate?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, very much so.’ The rabbi then asks him, ‘Father, have you ever succumbed to temptation?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, Rabbi, on one occasion I was weak, and I succumbed.’ The rabbi nods, pauses for a moment, and then says, ‘It’s a lot better than pork, isn’t it?’”

  Rheinhardt dug another krone out of his vest pocket and flicked it over the pickle jars. Its flashing trajectory was interrupted by Teitel’s fingers as he snatched it out of the air.

  “You’re a gentleman, sir,” said Teitel.

  “And you are a scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt, laughing to himself as he turned away.

  19

  Professor Priel and Asher Kusevitsky had been engaged in a deep conversation about mysticism and metaphor. They were sitting in a corner seat in the Cafe Eiles, which was situated behind the town hall. It was a relatively new coffeehouse and had not as yet built up a very large clientele. There were some regular customers, mostly civil servants and lawyers, but it was always possible to get a seat.

  The gas lamps on the wall had already been turned on, but the opaque globes on the brassy arms of the chandeliers were dull and lifeless. A big station clock hung on chains from an archway that led to the kitchen. Beneath it an alert-looking waiter scanned the empty tables.

  “You see, my boy…,” said Priel, pausing to accomplish the delicate operation of sipping coffee without moistening his mustache or beard. “Lurianic Kabbalah was never the exclusive property of a small closed group. It became the subject of much popular preaching and influenced many aspects of Jewish life. Why? I’ll tell you why. The Lurianic creation myth describes a cosmic catastrophe-the breaking of the vessels-after which nothing is in its proper place…” He took another quick sip. “And of course, something that is not in its proper place, is-as it were-also in exile. Needless to say, this idea, which is at the heart of the Lurianic canon, is one that finds deep and complex resonances in the Jewish psyche. Human existence becomes the scene of the soul’s exile.”

  Asher Kusevitsky nodded, and picked up one of the punschkrapfen that Professor Priel had ordered before his arrival. The symmetry of the cube appealed to him. His teeth sank into the soft pink icing, which cracked, forming a tessellated surface. At once his mouth was suffused with a melee of flavors. The coolness of the shell contrasted with the warmth of the alcoholic sponge inside, and he was overwhelmed by an almost dizzying sweetness. After he had swallowed, his taste buds were still tingling with flavors: marzipan, nuts, and jam.

  “Is it good?” asked Priel.

  “Excellent,” Asher replied.

  The professor took a large bite, examined the interior, nodded approvingly, and picked a few particles of icing from his beard.

  “How are the rehearsals going?” he said, evidently having finished with the subject of Lurianic Kabbalah.
r />   “Very well. Herzog is a fine actor.”

  “Yes, I saw him at the Court Theatre last year. A very impressive performance.”

  “And Baumshlager’s shopgirl is perfect. She brings such sympathy to the role.”

  “Excellent. Let us hope that this play receives the plaudits it so justly deserves.”

  Asher’s mouth twisted to form an ironic smile. “Well, given its subject matter, I have to say that I am not expecting very much praise from certain critics.”

  “Indeed. But they are not your audience. Providing our people come to see The Dybbuk, that is all that matters.” Priel held up his half-eaten cake as if it possessed totemic potencies. “They must become more aware of who they are and draw inspiration and strength from their traditions. Much has been forgotten, but gradually, little by little, we can reintroduce them to their stories, myths, and legends. I have such faith in the power of narrative-to inspire, revive, and sustain. A people who have been cut off from their folklore are doomed. We define ourselves with our stories. We become who we are-by telling stories. And we are held together-as a people-by our stories. Yes, Asher, my boy, you are doing us all a great service. You are giving them something back, which they have lost. You are giving them back their souls.”

  “Today, the Volkstheatre. Tomorrow…?”

  “The Opera House!” Priel lowered his voice. “Perhaps Director Mahler could be encouraged to try his hand at a dramatic piece. After all, his symphonies are dramatic enough. He must be sick and tired of all those caterwauling Valkyries and brutish muscle-bound heroes. The Dybbuk would make a fine libretto…”

  “It could never happen.”

  Priel squeezed Asher’s arm. “It does no harm to dream. And sometimes dreams come true. Ask your brother. He knows a thing or two about dreams!” Asher smiled and swallowed the remains of his punsch krapfen. “And how is he, by the way, the good doctor?” Priel continued. “Enjoying his newfound liberty as a Rothenstein scholar?”

  “He’s… well,” said Asher.

  The professor detected a slight hesitation. “Is something the matter?”

  “No, no.” Asher paused, grimaced, and added, “Nothing’s the matter, but…”

  “What?”

  “He’s seeing someone.”

  “Seeing someone?”

  “A woman. Katzer’s daughter-Anna.”

  “Perhap it is just an infatuation… a temporary dalliance.”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “He’s in love?”

  “He talks about her incessantly.”

  The professor dabbed his mouth with a napkin and thought for a moment. “I see.” He peered over his pince-nez. “Well, providing it doesn’t distract him.”

  Asher’s expression became resolute. “Don’t worry. I won’t let it.”

  “Good,” said the professor. “Then there’s nothing to worry about, eh?”

  He raised his hand to get the waiter’s attention and called, “Two more coffees and some more of these splendid cakes.”

  “Oh, by the way,” said Asher. “The Katzer girl… she has a project you might be interested in. She’s trying to raise funds for a Jewish women’s hostel in Leopoldstadt.”

  The professor turned and, looking over his pince-nez again, said, “Is she, indeed?”

  20

  From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann

  Last night I dreamed of Amelia Lydgate, and what a dream it was: a wild, strange dream. Quite unnerving. As I sit here in my apartment, surrounded by familiar things, it seems, by way of contrast, even stranger. Something of the dream has stayed with me all day. I had fancied that writing it down might be cathartic; however, now that the time has come, I find that I am curiously reluctant. I am experiencing what Professor Freud would call resistance, and therefore I can be certain that the dream contains uncomfortable truths.

  Am I embarrassed, I wonder? Ashamed? Professor Freud did not balk at intimate self-disclosure when he was writing his dream book. He was perfectly content to describe a boil the size of an apple rising at the base of his scrotum, merely to illustrate the point that the physical state of the body can influence what appears in dreams. Why should I be so coy? What am I afraid of? Writing this journal is not unlike the process of free association in psychoanalysis. I must suspend the urge to censor.

  So: we were in a garden, Miss Lydgate and I. A place of extraordinary lushness and beauty. Tropical. Humid. We were surrounded by brightly colored exotic flowers-orange amaryllises, yellow orchids, and purple lilies. They were all oversize. Long filaments drooped under the weight of anthers, heavy with pollen, and a conspicuously phallic spadix rose up from the center of a bright red anthurium. Pink lotus blossoms floated on a lake, the surface of which shimmered with colonies of emerald algae. The colors were so vivid, the light so strong, everything seemed newly made-primordial. Dew-drops had collected on the petals. They resembled pieces from a chandelier, and each glassy fragment contained a captive miniature sun. The air was warm and perfumed with fragrances of exquisite, intoxicating sweetness. I could hear bird-song, and something that sounded like glissandi played on many harps.

  Miss Lydgate was standing next to me-naked. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and breasts, but it did not descend far enough to conceal her sex. Her mons veneris was covered with fiery curls, and her skin was an unblemished white. She looked at me and said, with some anger, “I will not lie below. I am also made from the earth and therefore must be considered your equal.” I responded with some indignation, and we began to argue. Although I cannot remember exactly what was said, the meaning of our heated exchange was quite clear and concerned coital “superiority.”

  Then, unexpectedly, she pronounced my father’s name. I turned and saw that he was sitting close by on a throne. As is so often the way in dreams, his presence in our paradisal garden did not strike me as in any way remarkable. My father said, “It is not good for a man to be alone.” I protested, “I am not alone.” However, when I gestured toward Miss Lydgate, she had vanished.

  In this instance I can hardly disagree with Professor Freud with respect to his views on the predominance of sexual content in dreams. That Miss Lydgate should appear naked obviously suggests the fulfillment of a “forbidden” wish. But what of our argument concerning coital superiority? An idea suggests itself: Amelia Lydgate is an extraordinary woman, endowed with remarkable intellectual gifts. Yet, would marriage to such a strong-minded woman eventually lead to feelings of emasculation? Does the dream betray a deep-seated anxiety that I am unwilling to own? I have always been a vigorous advocate of equality between the sexes; however, in reality, perhaps I am still-at least in part-a traditionalist. It is not that men are strong and women weak (or any other such crude and dubious distinction), but rather that the sexes are complementary. They do have different attributes. Moreover, the success of a relationship might well depend on these differences coming together, to make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts. Is that what my father represented? Traditional values? “It is not good for a man to be alone.” Indeed, and although I do not feel alone-preoccupied as I am with Miss Lydgate-the fact of the matter is that I am alone.

  My relations with Miss Lydgate have certainly reached a difficult juncture. In the normal course of events, a couple grows more intimate until the erotic nature of their mutual attraction becomes explicit; however, if this period exceeds a certain amount of time, then the relationship is conducted largely as a friendship rather than a burgeoning romance. It becomes increasingly difficult for both parties to see each other as anything more than friends. This is how I have chosen to account for my inaction. My dream, however, suggests an alternative. Perhaps my paralysis with respect to Miss Lydgate has more complex origins. Desire is one of those things that seems ostensibly simple but is always-in truth-very obscure. Answering the question “What do I want?” is far more challenging than most people ever realize.

  21

  The coffeehouse had little to distingu
ish it from the other shops. It did not have lettering above the windows or a bright awning, only a board standing on the pavement on which the proprietor’s name had been painted in flowing red letters: Zucker.

  Rheinhardt opened the door and entered. His first impression was of humidity and noise. Condensation had made the windows opaque, and the steamy atmosphere was ripe with the savory smells of frankfurters, mustard, and sauerkraut. Although the coffeehouse had only four circular tables, these were fully occupied and were covered with newspapers, which were being continually consulted in order to support one side or the other of a communal debate involving everyone present. In addition to seated patrons, there were many others who were either standing in a central space or leaning against the walls. The general mayhem was compounded by the presence of a shabby violinist who had situated himself in a corner and was singing along to a merry dance tune. There was much shouting, gesticulating, jeering, and occasional outbursts of raucous laughter.

  Squeezing through the crowd, Rheinhardt advanced to the counter, where an attractive young woman was ladling a thick orange soup into rustic bowls.

  “I’m looking for Herr Zucker.”

  “What?”

  “I’m looking for Herr Zucker,” Rheinhardt repeated, raising his voice.

  The young woman wiped some perspiration off her brow with the back of her hand and, leaning back, directed her voice through an open door. “Father! Someone to see you.” The sound of clattering saucepans and a Yiddisher curse heralded the emergence of a big man wearing a striped apron. His face possessed a rough, unfinished quality-raw and pitted skin and nubbly features. Rheinhardt noticed that his exposed arms were insulated by a natural sleeve of wiry black hair. It was difficult to believe that he was the pretty girl’s father.