Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  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.”

  Liebermann was tempted to ask Barash if he had read any Freud. But he decided against it.

  “Did you know that Burke Faust was going to die?”

  “No, of course not. How could I? I hadn’t seen his face.” The zaddik stroked his beard and added calmly, “Herr Doctor, am I a suspect?”

  “You will appreciate,” said Liebermann, “that as far as the police are concerned, the accuracy of your prophecy is rather worrying.”

  The zaddik shifted in his chair.

  “You are not a believer, are you?”

  “A believer?”

  “You do not practice your faith.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Barash broke eye contact, and his line of vision found Liebermann’s forehead. His dilated pupils began to oscillate. The experience was unnerving.

  “Where does your family come from, Herr Doctor?”

  “My mother’s family are mostly German. But my father’s family… I think his side were Czech.”

  “You sound doubtful. Are your origins of such little consequence?”

  “We are Viennese now,” said Liebermann plainly.

  “Perhaps,” said Barash, “if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts
talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean.”

  “Rebbe Barash, if you know something more, then you must say. This is a police matter.”

  Barash laughed, a mirthless convulsion.

  “No, it is not a police matter. It is a matter between us and them, and whether you like it or not, Herr Doctor, as far as they are concerned you are one of us. Allow me to give you some advice. Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague, the most important temple outside of Jerusalem. Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray. Pray for enlightenment. Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful. Perhaps they will pity you and guide you back to your faith, and then—only then—will you understand, fully understand, what is happening. You think me misguided, don’t you? A superstitious fool, no different, really, from the madmen whom you attend at the hospital. I am deluded, whereas you… you are a rational man! But, Herr Doctor, your arrogance, your conceit, blinds you!”

  Liebermann pinched his lower lip. After a lengthy pause he said, “Rebbe Barash, you put me in a difficult position. Am I to understand that you know more about these murders than you are evidently prepared to say? Us and them? Who are you referring to? The agitators, the Christian Socials, the nationalists? I must warn you, unless you are more candid, I will be obliged to submit a report in which—”

  “Do as you please!” Barash cried, thumping the chair arm with his massive fist. “Tell the police what you like. Arrest me! Try me! I have nothing to fear. I am innocent. If you want answers, look to Prague. I’ll say no more.”

  The zaddik stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Liebermann to stand. He was breathing heavily.

  The young doctor rose, adjusted his cuffs, and shook the creases from his trousers.

  “I seem to have caused you some distress, Rebbe Barash,” he said softly. “Please accept my apology.”

  Before leaving, the young doctor glanced at the zaddik’s hands. He imagined them on either side of a human head, turning it around and around, the cracking of vertebrae and the severing of arteries.

  33

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF Dr. Max Liebermann

  We interrupted our circumnavigation of the ring at Karlsplatz, where we found a bench on which to sit and admire the Karlskirche. I was reminded of a fact originally learned at school: during the plague of 1713, Emperor Karl VI vowed that if the population of the city survived, he would build a church dedicated to Saint Charles Borromeo, a former archbishop of Milan and the patron saint of the plague. What an odd notion, to have a patron saint of plagues. I wonder if the Catholic Church has considered appointing a patron saint of gallstones or—even better—syphilis. Is it any wonder that Vienna leads the world in medicine? It seems to me that the Viennese have always been preoccupied by death and diseases.

  I shared this speculation with Miss Lydgate, who asked how long it had taken to build the Karlskirche. “Twenty-five years,” I was able to tell her. She scrutinized the church for some time before saying, “The Italianate dome owes a great debt to Brunelleschi, don’t you think? The lantern, for example?” Needless to say, I had to confess that I didn’t know whom she was referring to. “Filippo Brunelleschi,” she replied, “the architect who designed the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. The largest dome in the world.”

  As is her habit, she enthused about her topic and mentioned in passing a treatise, “On the Tranquility of the Soul,” written by one of Brunelleschi’s disciples. It was of some interest to me because the subject matter of this work was the treatment of depression. Two men, both depressed, are conversing beneath Brunelleschi’s newly constructed dome. One of them lists a number of traditional remedies for low spirits: wine, music, the company of women, and exercise. But to these he adds a new remedy: the contemplation of giant hoists of the kind that Brunelleschi had devised to raise his creation.

  I was obviously amused by this idea. Miss Lydgate, however, was not altogether impressed by my reaction. She explained that this “treatment” was not really as absurd as it might at first seem, particularly if one considered it in its proper context. The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was nothing less than a miracle to the people of Renaissance Florence. Therefore machines that made such buildings possible were viewed as equally miraculous, symbolic of human ingenuity. To contemplate Brunelleschi’s hoist, in that age, was to realize the unlimited potential of the human mind, an undeniably uplifting consideration.

  She then described to me Brunelleschi’s mechanical marvel: a large frame that supported a number of vertical spindles, each rotating the other by means of variously sized cogged wheels. Miss Lydgate reserved her most profligate praise for Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism, the operation of which involved a large screw with a helical thread. This gear mechanism was, I gather, of some considerable significance, but I am not altogether sure why. Miss Lydgate’s account was complex and difficult to understand without the aid of a diagram. In truth, I fear that her erudition was rather lost on me. I am bound to confess too that my intellectual powers had gradually deserted me as I became absorbed by the unique coloring of her eyes.

  Over the years, marble and masonry weighing millions of pounds—I forget the exact figure—were lifted hundreds of feet by Brunelleschi’s hoist with astonishing efficiency. The mechanism was set in motion by a single ox. I inquired of Miss Lydgate how it was that she had come to know so much about a subject that must—in all fairness—be described as obscure. She replied that her father was greatly interested in the Renaissance and had taken her to Florence when she was only thirteen. While there, he had made it his business to gather information about the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore and its construction. On his return to London he had composed a pamphlet on Brunelleschi’s hoist for the edification of his pupils (how delighted they must have been).

  I formed the impression that Samuel Lydgate had used his daughter as an amanuensis, and that she had spent most of her time during this Italian adventure traipsing around old buildings and holed up in dusty archives. This, I could see, she regarded as entirely normal! The sun was setting, and its red light found corresponding tones in her hair. She was talking about a geometric feature of Brunelleschi’s dome called the quinto acuto, or pointed fifth. I have a dim recollection of certain words: “radius,” “curvature,” “intersecting arches.” But what I remember most is a feeling of quiet desperation. I wanted so much to reach out and link my fingers with hers. But instead, I found myself agreeing with her on some point that I had barely been able to follow.

  On returning home I attacked the Chopin Studies: a definite improvement. Perhaps the Klammer Method is working. On the other hand, venting one’s frustrations at the keyboard typically produces a more impressive performance. And I am at present nothing if not frustrated.

  34

  GABRIEL KUSEVITSKY OPENED THE door of his apartment and found his brother Asher lying on the sofa, a pen in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. On his lap was a notebook. The pages were covered in Asher’s jagged script and splotches of ink. Distributed around the sofa were balls of scrunched-up paper, unsuccessful drafts that had been ripped out. Although it was still light outside, the curtains had been drawn and a paraffin lamp burned on the table. The air was stale with cigarette smoke.

  Asher looked up. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

  “Where have you been?”

  Gabriel started to respond, stopped himself, and then smiled nervously. He dropped his umbrella into the stand and said, “I went to see Anna.”

  “But you saw her only a few days ago.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but…” Gabriel’s sentence trailed off. He shrugged, and moved toward his bedroom door.

  “Gabriel?” Gabriel stopped and looked back at his brother. “Gabriel, it wasn’t easy for Professor Priel to get you that scholarship. The case for such a research project had to be made. There were many applicants, all of them good.”

 
; “Yes, I know.”

  “You have work to do.”

  “I know. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Gabriel walked over to the sofa and rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How is the new play coming along?”

  Asher made a sweeping gesture with his hand, drawing Gabriel’s attention to the scrunched-up sheets of paper.

  “Slowly.”

  “Have you been out today?”

  “No.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to get you something?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Asher looked up at his brother. “Did you really go to see Anna again?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be very fond of her.”

  Gabriel nodded. “I am.”

  “I’m happy for you. But you must not let Professor Priel down, and you must not neglect your work.”

  Gabriel put his hand into his pocket and pulled out a book with a battered cloth cover.

  “Look at this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hildebrandt’s treatise on dreams. It’s a first edition—1875, Leipzig. I bought it for next to nothing from an old man selling books from a stall. He had no idea what it was.”

  Asher took the volume from his brother and flicked through the pages.

  “Would I understand it?”

  “Yes, it isn’t very technical. Professor Freud quotes Hildebrandt, an observation Hildebrandt made concerning memory and dreams… that dreams often reproduce remote or even forgotten events from our earliest years.” Asher closed the book. “Do you still get such dreams?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I still get the hunting dream.”

  “I know. You had it again the night before last. You were making noises in your sleep.”

  Gabriel’s expression became intense.

  “We were lion cubs this time, running across a frozen waste.”

  “Did we get caught?”

  “I could hear the Cossack behind us. The drumming of hooves. The swish of his blade. Then I woke up.”