Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.

  “What did you say?”

  “He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”

  “Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”

  “Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”

  “And where did this happen?”

  “The General Hospital.”

  Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”

  “Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”

  “And where did Edlinger hear this?”

  “He was there when it happened! He’s an aspirant. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”

  Fabian winked.

  “And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”

  Fabian shrugged.

  “Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.

  “Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”

  “Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.

  “Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”

  “I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”

  “Tomorrow, actually.”

  “Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this zwiebelrostbraten splendid?”

  Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.

  11

  “DISGRACEFUL,” SAID DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Alfred Hohenwart, tossing the folded copy of Vaterland onto his desk. He was a stout man with short gray hair and a square mustache that occupied only the space between the bottom of his nose and his upper lip. He was an experienced officer, and one whom Rheinhardt respected.

  “I can only assume,” said Rheinhardt, “that the censor does not make a habit of reading through Catholic newspapers—otherwise it would never have been published.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “My informant was one of Stanislav’s confrères, another Piarist called Brother Lupercus.”

  “So it would seem that Brother Stanislav wasn’t as popular as the abbot wanted you to believe.”

  “The abbot was a kindly old man, and, for what it’s worth, I judged him to be a decent fellow. He probably wasn’t aware of Stanislav’s hateful essays.”

  “Or he was deliberately withholding information to protect the reputation of his community.”

  Rheinhardt shrugged. “It’s possible.”

  “Stanislav,” Hohenwart continued, thinking hard. “Stanislav. I seem to recall…” His sentence trailed off before he suddenly said, “Excuse me a moment.” Hohenwart rose from his desk and vanished into an adjoining room. Sounds issued from beyond the half-open door—noises of rummaging, papers being flicked through, and a private grumbling commentary. In due course, Hohenwart produced a triumphal “Eureka!” and emerged holding a large cardboard file. A paper label had been gummed to the spine, on which was written Christian Nationalist Alliance.

  “Do you remember Robak? Koell was the investigating officer.”

  “Yes,” said Rheinhardt. “The Jewish boy…”

  “Found beaten and stabbed to death on the Prater. He was discovered after a rally. A rally held in Leopoldstadt and organized by the Christian Nationalist Alliance.”

  “Who are they?”

  “A fringe political group. They’re an odd coalition of Catholics, pan-German sympathizers, and extreme conservatives. In reality, the various factions of the alliance don’t have very much in common. What holds them together is anti-Semitism.” Hohenwart opened the file and laid it in front of Rheinhardt. “Stanislav! I thought the name was familiar. Brother Stanislav was one of the speakers at the Leopoldstadt rally. The local Jews were offended by his immoderate views. They protested, a fight broke out, and the constables from Grosse Sperlgasse had to be called. No one was seriously hurt—but Robak’s body was found later.”

  “Did you interview Stanislav?” Rheinhardt asked.

  “No. We were too busy helping Koell trace alliance members. I’d already collated this file on them, which contains several names and addresses. Needless to say, the murder investigation took priority. We didn’t have time to pursue the lesser infringement of religious agitation, and the troublesome monk was quite forgotten.”

  12

  ANNA KATZER AND OLGA Mandl were seated in the parlor of the Katzer residence in Neutorgasse. It was a pleasant room with landscape paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture. Opposite Anna and Olga sat Gabriel Kusevitsky and his older brother, Asher. Although Asher shared his brother’s diminutive physique, he was generally judged to be the better-looking of the pair. The prescription for his lenses was not so strong, and his beard had been finely groomed to conceal his receding chin. In Asher, Gabriel’s weak, neurasthenic appearance was transformed into something more appealing: artistic sensitivity, the romantic glamour of the consumptive—and the small dueling scar on his right cheek advertised that he was not without courage. He also affected a more bohemian style of dress, which was only fitting for a playwright.

  The women had been speaking about the congress they had attended in Frankfurt the previous October, the German National Conference on the Struggle Against the White Slave Trade. In philanthropic circles there were many—mostly matrons with thickening waistlines and jowly, powdered faces—who were deeply suspicious of Anna’s and Olga’s involvement with good causes. Their fashionable dress and frequent appearance at gala balls made them seem more like dilettantes than fund-raisers. Yet there could be no denying that their coquettish charm had successfully loosened the purse strings of several famous industrialists.

  “It is a shameful business,” said Anna, pouring the tea. “Jewish girls are sold by our own people, a fact that many find hard to accept. They cry ‘False accusation, slander!’”

  “And one can see why,” said Asher. “The town hall would almost certainly use these reports against us—yet another example of Jewish immorality! Even so, I agree it is far better that the problem should be addressed than denied. There will be trouble when it all comes out, but it’ll be just one more unpleasant thing to deal with!”

  “Why now?” asked Gabriel. “Jewish brothels have always been relatively rare.”

  “The pogroms,” said Olga. An uneasy silence prevailed, as if the room had been preternaturally chilled by a horde of Russian ghosts. “And they are still arriving, these girls. Ignorant of any language other than their own jargon and bad Polish.” By “jargon” she meant Yiddish. “Needless to say, they can’t get good jobs, and they find themselves working as waitresses, peddlers, or shop assistants. Such positions allow them to develop irregular habits, and without family connections they soon become prey to profiteers and procurers.”

  “How very sad,” said Gabriel.

  “Indeed,” said Olga.

  “But we intend to do something about it,” said Anna. “Which is why we wanted to talk with you.”

  The two men looked at each other, then back at the women, before saying in perfect unison, “Us?” The comical effect made the women smile.

  “I am a recently qualified physician,” said Gabriel, “and my brother is a struggling playwright…”

  Anna waved her hand, dismissing the interruption.

  “Our aim is to establish a new refuge,” she continued, “for young Jewish women. Naturally, it will be situated in Leopoldstadt, and will provide a safe haven for those who would otherwise be at risk. We will also offer assis
tance to abandoned mothers and their babies, pregnant girls, and those suffering from moral illnesses.”

  Olga offered the men a dish of vanilla biscuits, shaped like stars and sprinkled with large granules of decorative sugar. Gabriel took one while Asher declined.

  “We envisage a middle-size community,” said Olga, returning the plate to its resting place on a circular doily. “Two houses—adjoining—with ten to fifteen beds in each dormitory. Both buildings will be furnished simply; however, the atmosphere will be warm and friendly, like a family home, not like a hostel or hospital. There will be no forced detention. Every resident will be free to leave at any time, if that is her wish. And most important, there will be no punishment. These women have suffered enough already.”

  Gabriel Kusevitsky bit into his biscuit, which crumbled in his mouth, releasing a flood of buttery flavors. He nodded with approval at both the sentiment expressed and the quality of the baking.

  “We intend to provide clothing,” said Anna. “Which again should be simple, but not ugly or disfiguring. All women—in whatever circumstance they find themselves—like to look their best.” She smiled coyly at Gabriel before continuing. “And there will be a schoolroom, where those residents who do not speak good German will be coached by volunteers from the Women’s Association.”

  Olga interjected, “We would prefer our refuge to be staffed entirely by women. It is our view that men—however well-intentioned—and young girls from the street are not a good combination. Further, the majority of our staff should be married, because they will then know about sexual relations and be neither excessively strict nor permissive.”

  This bold, direct, and unflinching mention of “sexual relations” signaled that Olga and Anna considered themselves “new women.” They had both, no doubt, read Mantegazza’s popular book The Physiology of Love.

  Gabriel stopped chewing his biscuit and waited.

  “Hallgarten has already promised five thousand kronen,” Olga added, maintaining a steady gaze.

  “It is a splendid idea,” said Asher, clapping his hands together. “And very modern. I like that.”

  “Yes,” said Gabriel. “Much good could be accomplished. Five thousand, you say?”

  “Indeed,” said Olga. “A very generous donation, but—as I’m sure you will appreciate—such an ambitious project will require funding from other sources.”

  Anna offered Gabriel another biscuit.

  “Should you happen to meet in the course of your work any potential benefactors,” Olga continued, “who might consider our scheme worthy of their patronage, I trust that you will remember us.”

  Olga straightened her back, which had the effect of pushing her bosom forward.

  “Of course,” said Asher. “If the opportunity arises, you can be assured of our cooperation.”

  “Thank you,” said Olga. “You are most kind.”

  Now that the main purpose of inviting the Kusevitsky brothers had been accomplished, Anna and Olga were free to steer the conversation toward lighter topics—mutual acquaintances, some royal gossip, and an operetta that they had both found amusing. Having mentioned the stage, the women were then obliged to ask Asher Kusevitsky about his new play. He took their interest seriously—perhaps too seriously—and spoke for some time about his principal themes of mental illness, creativity, and mysticism. The action of the play concerned a man’s decline after possession by a dybbuk (an evil spirit and a staple character of old Jewish folktales).

  In due course, Anna and Olga politely turned their attention to Gabriel, who in response to their inquiries explained that he was conducting research into the meaning of dreams. Anna began to recount one of her own dreams, but Gabriel stopped her, saying that he would be unable to interpret it without asking her questions of a personal nature and that she would probably be embarrassed to answer them in the company of guests.

  “Then some other time, perhaps,” said Anna.

  When tea was finished and the Kusevitskys had been shown to the door by one of the servants, Anna and Olga retired to the drawing room, where they sat on a couch, heads together, conferring.

  “Are you sure they’ll be useful?” asked Anna.

  “I hope so,” said Olga. “They know Professor Priel, who is Rothenstein’s brother-in-law. That’s how Gabriel Kusevitsky got his scholarship; the professor put in a good word.”

  “If Rothenstein took an interest in our project…”

  “We would be able to do everything—and very soon too.”

  “Where do the Kusevitsky brothers come from?”

  Olga paused and looked off into space. A single straight line transected her forehead.

  “I don’t know. I was introduced to Gabriel by my cousin Martin. They studied medicine together.”

  “Do they have family in Vienna?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  Anna caught sight of herself in a silver decorative plate standing on the sideboard. She patted her hair and positioned her necklace more centrally.

  “He’s interesting, isn’t he?”

  “Asher, yes, although he did go on a bit about his play. Didn’t you think?”

  “No, I meant the other one. Gabriel.”

  “I didn’t really understand what he was saying: symbols, dreams…”

  “And very intelligent.”

  “Did you”—Olga rested her hand on her friend’s arm—“like him?”

  The question contained a hint of alarm.

  Anna shrugged. “I did find him interesting. Why? What is it?”

  “I don’t think they’re the right type.”

  “Right type?”

  “They’re intellectuals, too preoccupied with their work.” Olga assumed a piqued expression. “Did you notice when I sat up straight?” She repeated the movement, lifting the fulsome weight of her breasts. “They didn’t even look!”

  Anna laughed and squeezed her friend’s arm. She had noticed, and she too had been surprised by the Kusevitsky brothers’ indifference.

  13

  FROM 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

  RABBI SELIGMAN 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 sunl
ight 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.”