Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said the professor, repeatedly batting the air with his hand. “You were acting in the patient’s interests. That goes without saying. But that isn’t the point.”

  “Then perhaps you could explain?”

  “Bishop Waldheim is on the committee and wants you to apologize. First by writing to the old baron; second by writing to the priest; and third in person to the committee.”

  There was a lengthy pause, during which the reiterative hammering of the typewriter—perhaps in the next room—became exceptionally loud.

  Liebermann said, “I am happy to write to the old baron and to Father Benedikt, and I will attend the next meeting of the committee—”

  “Excellent!” cried the professor, clapping his hands together. “I knew you wouldn’t be difficult! Good man!”

  “With respect, Professor,” said Liebermann, “I did not finish. I am happy to explain my actions and to answer any questions concerning the legitimacy of my medical judgment.”

  “Nobody is doubting your medical judgment,” said the professor sharply.

  “Then why should I apologize?”

  “You have caused offense.”

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Isn’t causing offense wrong?”

  “Not so wrong as letting a patient die in distress.”

  The professor got up from his seat and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out, a crooked smile twisting his lips.

  “Herr Doctor, you are placing me in a very awkward position.” He turned abruptly. “I am not sure whether you appreciate the importance of the committee. It not only provides the hospital with a moral compass, it also provides us with resources. The members of the committee assist in the raising of funds, and they wield influence on our behalf so that we can maintain the high standards that have made us preeminent in the whole of Europe. We all benefit from their patronage and charity—not only the patients but we doctors too. If the committee wants you to apologize, then I would strongly urge you to comply. For heaven’s sake, man, it’s a simple matter of dashing off a few lines.” The professor returned from the window and, resting both hands on his desktop, leaned forward, peering through the gap in his paperwork. “Look, I’ll tell you what… I’ll see if I can charm the bishop into accepting a letter to the committee instead of an appearance in person. There! That should make it easier, eh? How about that as a compromise?”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Herr Doctor, if you see no purpose for yourself in complying with the bishop’s request, then perhaps you might consider the interests of the hospital.”

  “With respect, Professor Gandler, I very much doubt that the fate of the hospital will be greatly affected by whether or not I apologize.”

  The professor sat down in his chair and sighed.

  “I am an old man, Herr Doctor. But I was young once, and thus have the advantage. You were never old. Permit me to give you some advice. Most of the battles fought in youth seem insignificant with the passing of time. When I reflect on my behavior as a young man—the arguments, the duels—I find it incomprehensible, and sometimes just foolish. I very much hope that when you reach my age, you will have fewer regrets than I do.”

  The noise of the nearby typewriter filled the ensuing silence.

  “Well?” said the professor.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Liebermann again, shaking his head.

  “Very well,” said the chancellor curtly. “You may leave. I will convey the substance of our interview to the committee and will commend you as a man of principle. I fear, however, that this will not be enough to appease them. Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”

  17

  “IT IS SAID THAT Enoch, who became the angel Metatron, was once a humble cobbler.” Rebbe Barash looked around the room at the studious faces of the young men. “But with every stitch he not only joined the upper leather of the shoe with the sole, he also joined all higher things with all lower things. His awl conjoined heaven and earth and united the rocks and stars.” He stroked his long black beard, and his eyes became inquisitorial. “What does this mean? How are we to understand it?”

  “My rebbe.” One of the young men raised his hand. “Does it mean that he undertook his daily work meditating on the divine?”

  Barash’s large head rocked backward and forward. His coiled sideburns bounced, extending and contracting with the movement. He did not smile, but his heavy features communicated solemn approval.

  “Indeed. Thus, even his profane actions acquired the qualities of a sacred ritual. He transformed the mundane task of repairing shoes into a spiritual exercise. And in the fullness of time, he too was transformed. We have much to learn from Enoch, the humble cobbler. Through patient and persistent application much can be achieved. And if we are to transform the world, we too must cultivate the virtues of patience and persistence.”

  The zaddik paused and noted the rapt expressions on the faces of his followers.

  “In the beginning,” Barash continued, “when the vessels were broken, much of the divine essence ascended back to its source. But some remained enclosed in the shards of the vessels, the substances of the material world. It is this entrapped essence that sustains all. Nothing can exist—even for a fleeting moment—without its power. If all the essence is liberated, returning to its proper place in the realm of high things, evil will have nothing on which to feed and will cease to exist. The release of divine essence separates good from evil, a process that, if continued, will lead to the end of all wickedness. Eventually everything will be in its rightful place and our work will be done. Obey the commandments, pray, observe the Sabbath, and perform acts of charity and justice. All of these will release divine essence. God alone cannot ensure the triumph of good over evil. He cannot mend what has been undone. Therefore you must be like Enoch and approach every labor as if it were an act of devotion.”

  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 an
d 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 Café 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 mêlée 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.

  “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.