by Frank Tallis
“Earlier, I said that the peculiarities of these murders indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic mind: obsessionality, symbolism, the construction of dramatic tableaux. These are all ‘signatures’ that we have learned to associate with a particular kind of criminal, the lone fanatic whose delusional system, unchallenged, thrives in isolation, its internal structure becoming increasingly intricate and mythic, and promoting in the process a form of messianic narcissism. Nevertheless, these murders could not have been perpetrated by one man alone.”
“Professor Mathias was of the opinion that it would require the efforts of at least two exceptionally strong men to remove a human head by ripping it from the body in this way.”
“Indeed. Now, it is commonplace for individuals to become delusional, and delusional beliefs might easily guide a campaign of retributive violence. But what we seem to have here is a delusional individual who has persuaded others of the legitimacy of his vision.”
“Ahh…,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly sitting up straight and waving his index finger in the air. “I believe you have said something there that might prove to be very significant.”
“Oh?”
“Clearly, the perpetrators of these two murders are Jews.” Rheinhardt paused to allow Liebermann to disagree. The young doctor said nothing. “And you will remember that on a previous occasion you suggested that the hereditary leaders of the Hasidim often wield great power over their people, and that their sects are relatively self-contained.”
Liebermann thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled and said, “So I did!”
“Well, then, it seems to me that you have already proposed an ideal environment in which the phenomenon you seek to explain might occur. If my memory serves me correctly, you said that a rebbe might claim to receive instructions from God, and that his devotees-in the absence of any other counsel-would very likely obey his orders without question.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, impressed by his own perspicacity. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“There is a rebbe among the Hasidim of Leopoldstadt called Barash, who is said to have predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Did he prophesy that the monk was going to be decapitated?”
“We’re not sure. One of his sect became involved in a religious argument and was overheard making the claim.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In a coffeehouse. Zuckers. I wonder, would you be willing to interview Barash, Max?”
“Of course. But if we are correct, and it transpires that these murders are the work of a Jewish cabal, can you imagine how the Christian Socials and the clerics will react! Think of the political capital they made out of that miserable wretch Hilsner!” Liebermann flicked his glass, and the crystal emitted a soft chime. “Which makes me wonder… what if? What if these murders are not what they appear to be? What if they are a means of turning public opinion against an all too obviously guilty party?”
Rheinhardt poured himself another large brandy.
In his mind, he saw an angry horde crossing the Danube canal and marching into Leopoldstadt. He saw men in caftans being dragged from their houses, and he saw blood on the cobbled streets. He tried to think of something else, but the images were vivid and persistent.
30
Professor Priel trotted down the stairs of the university and paused on the pavement to extricate his watch from his vest pocket. He noted the time, and set off in a southerly direction. If he hurried, he would be able to deliver the envelope that he carried in his pocket to Frau Meyer and be back in good time to give his afternoon tutorial. The envelope contained a donation from the Rothenstein Education Fellowship, and its purpose was to provide Frau Meyer with sufficient funds to equip her new school on Alois Gasse with some basic classroom furniture. The donation would probably be reported in the newspapers, and once again the public would be informed of Rothenstein’s outstanding generosity. Priel, of course, would not be mentioned. He never was.
Another man might have felt envious or resentful, but Priel was remarkably sanguine concerning his situation. Indeed, he rather liked being an eminence grise: advising, making suggestions, his judgment trusted. He associated himself with the Talmudic legend of the lamed vavniks, the righteous men. Living in the world there are, at any given time, thirty-six righteous men whose good deeds stop the world from ending. They accomplish their work in secret and are never rewarded. When one dies, another is born. And so it goes on, from generation to generation, thirty-six anonymous Jews standing unthanked between civilization and ruin.
Priel thought about Frau Meyer. A widow, dedicated to improving the lot of the latest wave of immigrant children who had arrived in Leopoldstadt. He would give her the envelope, and she would smile, clasp his hand, and express profound gratitude. And he would then reply, as he always did, It isn’t me whom you should be thanking.
Rothenstein was always too busy hobnobbing with royalty to decide who should-or shouldn’t-be the recipient of his largesse. And Rothenstein’s wife, Priel’s sister, was completely self-obsessed. The fate of the poor meant nothing to her as compared with the unmitigated disaster of wearing the wrong kind of dress at a palace function. Priel’s two nieces and his nephew were equally indifferent. Brittle, shallow, and spoiled, their German was embarrassingly inflected to sound like the imperial dialect known as Schonbrunnerdeutsch. Over the years Priel had been given more and more responsibility for the distribution of Rothenstein’s bounty. Occasionally, when Priel presented Rothenstein with documents to sign, the great banker would ask a few bland questions. But if Priel attempted to give him a proper answer, Rothenstein would soon look bored and end the conversation by saying, “I’m sure everything is in order. I have every confidence in you, Josef.” Like the rest of his family, Rothenstein enjoyed the gala balls and the public recognition much more than the process of determining which causes were the most deserving.
Priel passed the town hall and glanced up at its Gothic facade: the huge central tower, the elevated loggia with its curved balconies and delicate tracery.
Thirty-six righteous men…
They wouldn’t be found in there. Of that he was quite certain.
Priel accelerated his sprightly step. He was looking forward to seeing Frau Meyer again. She was an intelligent woman who appreciated philosophy and good music. The last time they’d met she had asked him what he thought of Nietzsche’s The Case of Wagner. The discussion that followed had been most stimulating. Moreover, she had kept her figure.
Having warned his students and the Kusevitsky brothers that great thinkers should be wary of the snare of marriage, he reprimanded himself.
Hypocrite!
He might not be a righteous man, exactly, but he was nevertheless a man of honor. He had an example to set. And as much as he would enjoy the company of Frau Meyer at the opera, it was probably better that he continued to go alone. He would give her the envelope, have a cup of tea, and leave.
31
Nahum Nagel placed the small weights on one side of his scale and a large weight on the other. The equipoise was so perfect that even his breath caused the left side to dip lower than the right. His friend Yudl Berger was sitting on the other side of the shop counter on a three-legged stool.
“My cousin knows about these things,” said Yudl, winding around his fingers the knotted tassles that hung from his waist. “And in his opinion Faust would have caused us a lot of grief, had he lived. He wanted to introduce special taxes and special police.”
Upstairs, Nahum’s father began coughing. It sounded like someone sawing wood, a horrible double rasp. Yudl glanced upward. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“Zingler came a few weeks ago. He said we should consider moving so as to get away from the damp.” Nahum made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “How could we possibly manage that?”
Yudl nodded sympathetically but returned to his original theme. “You know Pinhas the draper? He was delivering some curtains up to the big hotel
in Hietzing, where the body was found. He actually saw it, by the plague column.” Yudl raised his eyebrows and in a melodramatic stage whisper added, “Mud everywhere.”
Nahum looked up from his weights. “You don’t really believe…”
“Doubrovsky knows the shoeblack who sits outside the theatre in Josefstadt. When the police were getting ready to leave, several of them walked up to have their shoes cleaned. The shoeblack said they were filthy. Covered in thick mud. Like clay. Josefstadt and Hietzing.” Nahum shook his head. He was evidently unconvinced.
“Our rebbe Barash says that things are going to change,” Yudl continued. “For the better.”
“Ach! He said the same thing to my father, and look at us!”
The look in Nahum’s eyes was desperate, his voice angry.
“He was right about the priest, wasn’t he?” Yudl responded, defending their spiritual master. “He said the priest would never make trouble here again-and he won’t, that’s for sure! And did you hear what he said to old man Robak? He promised him justice, vengeance. Two weeks before!”
The expression of sulky resentment on Nahum’s face was replaced by curiosity.
“Who told you that?”
“My wife. Old Robak’s eldest daughter is a friend of my wife’s aunt.”
Nahum tapped the pyramid of small weights on the scale. He wanted to believe, but his faith in the zaddik had been weakened. It was only a matter of time before the two men came again, making impossible demands. He and his father were close to ruin.
“Mud,” he said pensively. “In both places?”
“Yes,” said Yudl. “It can mean only one thing.”
32
Liebermann made his way to the old ghetto district and Rebbe Barash’s residence. He was received by a sullen maid who ushered him into a sparsely furnished parlor: two armchairs, a stove, and an old sideboard. The walls were a dreary buff color, as were the curtains and the faded rug. Indeed, the whole room seemed to have been drained of vitality: everything in it was of an anemic, indefinite hue.
The young doctor sat down and waited. Time passed, and he occupied himself by performing some of the Klammer Method exercises. First wrist rotations, and then, holding his hands out in front of his body, he repeatedly touched the proximal phalanx of his little fingers with the tips of his thumbs. This movement, Professor Klammer suggested, was invaluable for development of the abductor pollicis brevis, opponens pollicis, and flexor pollicis brevis muscles. Liebermann continued his regimen until he reached exercise eleven, at which point the door opened and the zaddik entered.
In his general appearance, Barash conformed to Liebermann’s expectations, a Hasidic jew with a shaven head, skullcap, coiled sideburns, and heavy frock coat. He was, however, astonishingly large, a man whose dimensions demanded nothing less than comparison with features of the natural world. He was positively mountainous, possessing broad, peaked shoulders, and a face that resembled a serendipitously anthropomorphic arrangement of rocks. His scowl was evocative of the darkness that precedes a thunderstorm.
Barash sat directly opposite Liebermann, resting his big sculpted hands on the arms of his chair.
“My name is Dr. Max Liebermann. I am an associate of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office.” Liebermann produced his official papers, but the zaddik showed no interest. “You were informed in advance of my visit?”
The zaddik nodded.
After some preliminary remarks, it was clear to Liebermann that Barash did not want to prolong their meeting with inconsequential courtesies. Indeed, after only a few polite exchanges Barash said curtly, “Herr Doctor, your business?”
“Rebbe Barash,” said Liebermann, “were you acquainted with Chaim Robak?”
“Yes,” Barash replied. “He used to attend one of my study groups.”
“A good student?”
“Exceptional.”
After a little prompting, Barash talked freely about his former pupil. He remembered a virtuous young man-quiet, bookish, but not shy, a young man with many friends, respectful of his father, and loved by his sisters. Barash delivered his obituary in a steady monotone, his features set fast. Nevertheless, his eyes betrayed him, revealing genuine sorrow in their moist, reflective glaze.
“Who do you believe was responsible for his murder?” Liebermann asked.
“You know what happened that day, the day his body was found?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” said the zaddik. “It must have been one of the agitators.”
“Where were you when the trouble started?”
“I was right here, sitting in this very room, reading. I could hear them, though. They had gathered for their rally in the market square. At first, I thought it would be wise to stay inside; however, the noise-the shouting and shrieking-became very loud, and I decided that I should go out after all. I thought I might be able to assist if anyone got hurt. I told my wife to go down into the cellar with the children. They were very frightened.”
“What did you see?”
“People running around-confused, trying to get away from the fracas. When I got to the market square, there was fighting, but it wasn’t long before the police arrived and the crowd dispersed. In actuality, there wasn’t much I could do. A few young men had been hurt and were sitting on the cobbles, holding bloodied handkerchiefs to their faces. But no one had been seriously injured.”
“Did you see the monk, Stanislav?”
“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, we came face-to-face. He was marching away from the square, surrounded by henchmen. We almost bumped into each other.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. He didn’t notice me. He seemed eager to make a quick departure.”
Liebermann paused.
“Rebbe Barash, has anyone told you about the articles that Brother Stanislav wrote for the Catholic newspaper Das Vaterland?”
“No.”
“In one of them he likened Jews to a plague.”
Liebermann watched Barash for a reaction, but the zaddik merely shrugged. His expression was impassive. Liebermann continued, “Does the name Burke Faust mean anything to you?”
“He was a councillor-murdered last week, I believe.”
“Do you know how he was murdered?”
“Decapitated, same as the monk.”
“He was also the author of an article in which Jews were likened to a plague.”
“I have heard, from people better informed about such matters than myself, that he was a bad man.”
Liebermann tilted his head against his clenched fist, unfurled his index finger, and tapped his temple.
“Do you believe in prophecy, Rebbe Barash?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is it a gift that you possess?”
“I am the spiritual leader of my community,” Barash replied obtusely.
“It is rumored that you predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Who told you this?”
“Inspector Rheinhardt. He has friends in Leopoldstadt. Well, is it true? Did you predict the death of Brother Stanislav?”
“Yes,” said Barash, his hooded eyelids lowering a fraction. “I did.”
“How was that possible?”
“It was written… on his face.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was written on his face,” Barash repeated. The zaddik sighed and continued. “We-that is to say, my congregation and I-venerate the teachings of Isaac Luria.”
“Who?”
Barash’s scowl intensified.
“Isaac Luria. A great holy man who lived in Palestine hundreds of years ago. He practiced metoposcopy, the art of reading lines on the human face. It is very similar to palmistry, a sister discipline that has proved more popular since Luria’s time.” Liebermann bristled. “Is it such a peculiar notion, Herr Doctor? Many educated medical men-like yourself-accept physiognomy, do they not?”
“They do. But I am
not one of them. I am not persuaded that a man’s character is revealed by the shape of his nose.”
“You might, however, agree that men frequently acquire the faces they deserve. By that I mean that men often make choices, and these choices have consequences with respect to their appearance. For example, a man overly fond of schnapps will look very different from his abstemious neighbor.” Liebermann thought the argument was specious, but he conceded the point and gestured for Barash to continue. “Lines on the forehead often suggest letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and these can be interpreted.”
Liebermann was unable to conceal his incredulity. “So, you saw letters on the monk’s forehead, and it was written there, in Hebrew, that he would die?”
“Let us say,” Barash replied with mysterious precision, “that what I saw was enough for me to know that he would not live for more than thirty days.” Before Liebermann could formulate his next question, Barash added, “You are a doctor who specializes in treating diseases of the mind?”
Barash gave no sign that he was exercising his metoposcopic powers. Liebermann assumed that it was merely a good guess.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you and I are not so very different. It is said that every evening Luria would look closely at his disciples’ faces until he could discern scriptural verses on their foreheads. He would explain the meaning of these verses and instruct his disciples to reflect on them before going to sleep. On waking, his disciples recorded their dreams, which were later taken to the master for interpretation. Through cycles of close observation, explanation, and dream interpretation, Luria helped his disciples to understand themselves better and resolve their spiritual dilemmas. I try to extend the same service to my students. Now, isn’t this-or at least something very similar-what you do for your patients? Surely, a good psychiatrist observes his patients closely, tries to read their faces, and offers them interpretations. And when a patient tells you about his dreams, do you not listen very carefully? For you know as well as I that the secret life of the soul is revealed in dreams.”