by Frank Tallis
Mendel waved his hand in the air, as if to say that the subject was closed.
“Come,” Mendel said curtly. “Let’s go.”
Liebermann and his father made their way toward the door. They passed Professor Freud, who was being detained at the rostrum by a few men asking questions. One of them had raised his voice. He didn’t sound very friendly. In an adjacent room, drinks were being served. Father and son positioned themselves by a window overlooking Universitatsstrasse. Outside, it had started to rain.
“See him over there. Do you know who that man is?”
“What?” said Liebermann, pulling his head out from behind the curtains.
Mendel tutted.
“Nathaniel Rothenstein. The banker. As rich as… What’s the expression?”
“Croesus.”
“Yes, as rich as Croesus.”
Rothenstein was a tall, handsome man in his mid-fifties with an impressive head of hair, brushed back like a poet’s.
“I don’t know who the other fellow is,” Mendel added pensively.
The banker was talking to an older gentleman whose bald, perspiring head was gleaming beneath a gaslight. His grizzled beard was thick, long, and rather unkempt. A pair of pince-nez balanced on his long, straight nose. He was evidently talking with some passion, as his hands repeatedly chopped the air.
“I think he’s an academic,” said Liebermann.
“Is he?”
“Yes, I’m sure I’ve seen him at the university. I think he’s a professor, a member of the philosophy faculty.”
“A friend of Professor Freud’s, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mendel’s interest in the identity of Rothenstein’s companion was short-lived. “Banking,” he sighed, his thoughts returning to Rothenstein. “If I had my time again, that’s what I’d do. The textile business is all well and good, but it’s only one step removed from the market stall. Banking is something else entirely, a different world. A man like Rothenstein doesn’t have to concern himself with factory managers like Doubek, or suppliers like Zedlacher and Krakowski. He doesn’t have to go to Prague to check up on incompetent accountants! Which reminds me-another trip is well overdue. No, a man like Rothenstein is invited to the Hofburg. A man like Rothenstein dines with emperors. When Rothenstein speaks, people listen.”
“His friend from the university isn’t listening,” said Liebermann.
Mendel turned sharply.
“Why have you always got to say something clever?”
Liebermann did not respond. There wasn’t any point. He already knew that if he tried to defend or justify himself it would make matters worse. Mendel’s rebuke was simply a venting from a reservoir of suppressed anger (the depth of which the young doctor did not care to contemplate). He had disappointed his father in two ways. First, he had shown no interest in taking over the family business, and second, only five months earlier he had broken off his engagement with Clara Weiss, the daughter of one of Mendel’s closest friends. The first of these “disappointments” had placed a considerable strain on their relationship; the second had almost destroyed it. Liebermann’s mother had worked a small miracle in getting father and son to talk again; however, the truce that she had brokered was fragile.
Mendel’s remark had created an uncomfortable atmosphere that effectively killed further conversation. Subsequently, it was a great relief to father and son when a dapper fellow wearing a spotted bow tie and a floral vest emerged from the crowd and came straight toward them.
“Liebermann,” cried the new arrival, taking Mendel’s hand and shaking it vigorously.
“Blomberg.”
“What did you think of the talk, eh?”
Mendel shook his head. “I didn’t really understand it.”
“Nor me…” Blomberg turned slightly, extending his hand again. “This must be your son-the doctor?”
“Yes, this is Maxim. Maxim-Herr Blomberg. You remember me mentioning Herr Blomberg, don’t you? He’s the gentleman who owns the department store.”
Liebermann bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Herr Blomberg.”
“And you too, dear boy… Dreams, eh? Well, we all have our dreams, don’t we? I’m not sure what Professor Freud would make of mine, but I suspect that all my dreams have the same meaning. I have only one wish, and it’s certainly not unconscious. Another department store… on Karntnerstrasse!” Blomberg’s eyes glinted a little too brightly. “That’s what I dream about.”
“Have you seen who’s here?” asked Mendel, his gaze flicking across the room.
“Rothenstein? Yes, of course. I might try to have a word with him later. You never know, eh?” Blomberg tapped the side of his nose.
Mendel pulled a face.
“Ach! Always the pessimist!” Blomberg raised his hands.
“Pessimist?” said Mendel. “A pessimist is just a well-informed optimist!”
People were still streaming out of the lecture hall and dispersing around the room. They were joined by two more of Mendel’s friends, and the conversation turned from business to politics. Liebermann was expecting these men to express views similar to those held by his father. He expected to hear them criticize the mayor and lambast the traditional enemies of Austrian Jewry: the clerics, the aristocracy, and conservative Slavs. They were, however, far less preoccupied and troubled than Mendel. In fact, they were-on the whole-extremely positive about the condition of Jews in Vienna.
Liebermann had declined previous invitations to B’nai B’rith because he had assumed that everyone there would be much the same as his father. Even though he knew that Professor Freud was an active member-and Freud was certainly very different from his father-this did little to change his mind. Indeed, he was only attending that evening because his mentor had promised him a particularly lucid account of the dream theory. Now that he was there, standing in the lodge house, he had to admit that B’nai B’rith-which translated solemnly from the Hebrew as Sons of the Covenant-was nothing like the organization he had imagined. It was much more like a club for progressive thinkers than a “Jewish society,” which made Liebermann wonder why his father was such a regular attendee. He could only conclude-as he frequently did when trying to understand aspects of his father’s behavior-that it was good for business.
Professor Freud finally emerged from the lecture hall and was now standing on the other side of the room. He was engaged in conversation with a short, spindly youth with closely cropped black hair. Liebermann immediately excused himself from his father’s group.
“Professor.”
Freud shook Liebermann’s hand.
“Delighted you could come.” He gestured toward his companion. “Are you acquainted? No. Then allow me to introduce Dr. Gabriel Kusevitsky, a recent convert to our cause. Dr. Kusevitsky-Dr. Max Liebermann.”
The youth smiled and inclined his head. He looked far too young to be a doctor.
Liebermann congratulated Freud on his talk, but the professor was dissatisfied. “I should have said more about infant sexuality-but to do so invariably arouses resistances, hostility. Even the scant allusions I made this evening managed to offend some of our little congregation. Had I been addressing a professional body, I would have been more courageous. Still, the audience may yet have derived some benefit.”
Liebermann and Kusevitsky were quick to protest.
“The audience will almost certainly have benefited!”
“The dream theory could not have been explained more clearly!”
“Nobody in the audience-at least no thinking person-will ever be able to wake from a dream again without pondering its significance!”
Yes, he might have said more about infant sexuality, but he had surely said enough-given that the audience was mostly laymen.
Freud was gratified by their response but maintained a show of glum indifference. The imposture, however, could not be sustained, and his sober attitude was subverted by the appearance of a sly, almost coy smile.
&nbs
p; Their subsequent conversation did not last long. Almost immediately, a plump gentleman with an officious manner approached and said that Freud was needed elsewhere. The second lodge committee (of which Freud was an important member) was having an impromptu meeting by the punch bowl. Freud apologized to his acolytes and allowed the official to whisk him away.
Liebermann and Kusevitsky exchanged pleasantries, praised Freud’s genius, and in due course spoke of their respective situations.
It transpired that Kusevitsky had only just completed his medical training and had been awarded a prestigious research scholarship at a private teaching hospital. The post was funded by the Rothenstein foundation.
Kusevitsky nodded discreetly toward the banker. “I have that gentleman to thank. It is a great opportunity.”
“And what area have you chosen to study?” asked Liebermann.
“Symbolism in dreams,” said Kusevitsky. “Professor Freud has suggested that, when interpreting dreams, we must discover what a certain object represents to the dreamer by examining where it stands with respect to his or her unique cluster of experiences and associations. Thus, a horse may represent different things to different people.” Kusevitsky had dark, intelligent eyes that floated behind thick spectacle lenses. A tapering wispy beard covered his receding chin. “At the same time,” Kusevitsky continued, “Professor Freud has also noted some intriguing regularities, elements that appear and reappear in the dreams of many of his patients and that psychoanalysis has shown us have the exact same meaning. For example, an emperor and empress are often found to represent the dreamer’s parents; a prince or princess, the dreamer him-or herself; and so on… I find these common symbols extremely interesting, and believe that they arise from a deeper level of mind.”
Liebermann tilted his head quizzically.
“Perhaps,” said Kusevitsky, “we possess not only a personal unconscious, in which all our idiosyncratic memories are stored, but in addition a cultural unconscious, in which we find the inherited distillations of ancestral experience. We encounter these distillations in the form of symbols, which sometimes emerge in our dreams; however, they can also be identified in other contexts-for example, in our storytelling. Emperors and empresses, princes and princesses frequently appear in myths, legends, and fairy tales.”
“You are already familiar, no doubt, with the work of the romantic philosophers,” said Liebermann. “Didn’t von Schubert propose something very similar almost a hundred years ago?”
“Indeed he did. But von Schubert could only speculate. We are in a different position today. We have psychoanalysis, which equips us with new tools. I believe that Professor Freud’s methods can be used to probe and explore the cultural unconscious.”
“That is very ambitious. In effect, you are aiming to analyze not just one man but all mankind.”
“Well, let us say one race to begin with. The psychiatric patients at the private hospital are mostly Jews. They will be my first subjects.”
“What does Professor Freud think of your proposal?”
“He is very enthusiastic. Apparently he was intrigued by what he called endopsychic myths many years ago, and I understand he discussed the possible existence of ancestral memories with a colleague…”
“Fleiss, probably.”
“He was writing The Interpretation of Dreams at the time and never gave the topic his full attention. He assures me, however, that one day he intends to revisit the area. Until then, he gave me his blessing and said that he was looking forward to reading the results of my investigation.”
“Yes, I can see how the idea of archaic remnants embedded deep in the psyche would appeal to Professor Freud. He has always loved archaeology. Have you been to his apartment yet?”
“No.”
“It’s full of ancient artifacts: little statues, stelae, amulets, and urns…”
The bald university professor who had been talking so passionately to Rothenstein earlier raised his hand, capturing Kusevitsky’s notice.
“I’m sorry,” said Kusevitsky. “You will have to excuse me. I am being summoned by Professor Priel. Until we will meet again…”
Kusevitsky bowed and joined the animated professor, who welcomed him into his group with an expansive embracing gesture.
Liebermann was not sure what he thought of Kusevitsky. He was a pleasant enough young man, but somewhat over earnest. Liebermann also wasn’t convinced of the value of his research-even if Freud did approve of it.
The cultural unconscious, endopsychic myths, archaic remnants.
It was all a little too arcane for Liebermann’s tastes.
Could ancient memories really be passed on, from generation to generation?
He was abruptly roused from his meditation by a hand falling heavily on his shoulder.
“Have you had any cake yet?”
It was his father. He was holding a piece of guglhupf over a small dish. The sponge was sweetly fragrant and dense with raisins.
“No.”
“You should try some.” He held the slice up, creating a little shower of icing sugar. “It’s from Grodzinksi’s shop. He supervised the baking himself.”
“In which case…”
At least there were some things that he and his father could still agree on.
3
The Zaddik-rebbe Elimelech Ben Solomon Barash-was a thickset man with craggy features, a long black beard, and uncut sideburns that had been styled into springlike coils. He wore a somber frock coat-lined with fur-a white shirt, and slippers without buckles or laces. White tassels hung from his waist (each individual thread knotted five times to represent the five books of Moses). His large head was shaven, but shadowed with enough spiky stubble to keep his velvet skullcap firmly in place. He was enthroned on a quilted armchair with a high back.
In front of the zaddik was gathered a group of young men-about ten in number-sitting cross-legged on the floor. Each wore an ornately embroidered shawl draped around his shoulders. Prayer books were scattered among them on the Persian rug. Like their master, they had shaven heads and their sideburns hung in uncut ringlets or braids.
“The magid of Safed tells us that the world in which we live is imperfect. The divine light could not be contained in the sacred vessels-and the sacred vessels were broken. Thus it was that His mighty undertaking failed. What came to be was not correspondent with the divine plan. What came to be was flawed-a universe out of humor, an ailing universe, a universe in which wickedness might thrive.”
The zaddik turned his head, making eye contact with each of his disciples. His gaze was particularly intense, and some of the young men had to look away.
“When something is broken, it must be repaired. This is our task: tikkun, the mending of the vessels, the healing of the cosmos. When you ask yourselves “What is the purpose of human existence?” you now have an answer: tikkun. What is the purpose of the sky, the earth, the stars, and the moon? You now have an answer: tikkun. It is the purpose of the holy books, the purpose of scripture, the purpose of prayer. The achievement of tikkun is the only means of redemption. It brings perfection back to God and so to the universe, to humanity, and to the people of Israel.”
Barash paused and gripped the arms of his chair. His hands were large, like the oversize hands on a classical statue-a rough assembly of bulbous knuckles and swollen phalanges.
“And how are we to achieve tikkun?”
He paused again, allowing his question to persist in the minds of his disciples.
“My rebbe…”
A young man sitting at the front raised his hand.
The zaddik nodded, encouraging him to speak.
“Study of the law, observance of the commandments, and absolute commitment to ethical behavior.”
“The unselfish pursuit of religious perfection, Gershom,” said the zaddik, endorsing the young man’s answer while extracting from it an abstract essence. “The task in hand is so great that all must participate, all have a role to play-however small. Th
e greatest scholar and the unschooled laborer have this in common. No man is exempt. Without total participation, the tikkun will not succeed, and wickedness will remain in the world.”
The zaddik suddenly leaned forward. One of the young men started.
“There is no such thing as an inconsequential observance. Every observance is of the greatest importance, because through observances the tikkun proceeds and that which is wrong is corrected. If you are negligent, it is not only the fate of your soul that is affected but the whole of creation. The burden of tikkun weighs heavily on our shoulders at all times. All deeds and misdeeds have cosmic consequences. Every day the choices you make will either cure the world or hasten the progress of its malignancies. Every day your thoughts will either strengthen or weaken the powers of good and evil.”
Barash’s voice, which was deep and resonant, had been growing steadily louder. He appeared unnaturally large and powerful, monumental, a mountain of a man, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, huge feet and marble hands. His zeal created an illusion of expansion, and he seemed to fill the room. His commanding presence made it easier for his followers to believe a fundamental tenet of their faith: that God could be approached only through the mediation of a zaddik. Barash was a divine messenger, like his father, Solomon, and his grandfather-another Elimelech-before him. In their Hasidic sect, Barash was regarded as the single human being who could redeem their souls; bring their prayers before God; and ensure that if they sinned, God would accept their repentance. In return, his followers gave him their faith and material security.
The study group came to an end and the young men collected their coats and departed. Barash stood by the window, watching them cross the yard before spilling out onto Grosse Sperlgasse. The surrounding buildings were rather dilapidated, having once been part of the former ghetto. When the last of his followers had disappeared from view, Barash attended to some correspondence, discussed housekeeping arrangements with his wife, donned a large beaver hat, and set off to visit some of the elderly members of his congregation.
Barash marched down the narrow streets, passing numerous shops on the way: a general store, a bakery, a kosher butcher’s-with substantial joints of meat hanging from hooks on the wide-open doors-a cobbler’s establishment, a watchmaker, a textile merchant. Some of the shop signs were in Hebrew, but most were in German. Occasionally Barash saw other men dressed like himself, although, relative to the rest of the Jewish population, the Hasidim of Vienna were few in number. Even in Leopoldstadt, caftans and beaver hats were not such a common sight.