Vienna Secrets

by Frank Tallis

  “I don’t have any.”

  “An only child…”

  “Yes. I’m sure my mother and father wanted more children, but there must have been a problem. I used to see my cousins occasionally—but not very often.” He blinked and pushed out his lower lip. “Is this relevant?”

  The tone of the question was confused rather than belligerent.

  “What were they like, your mother and father?”

  “They were very loving, but also rather anxious. I suppose this was because I was their only child. They tended to mollycoddle me. If I so much as sneezed, they would keep me home from school. Of course, I was delighted with their behavior at the time, but I grew to regret it in adult life.”

  “Did you enjoy school?”

  “Not much. I’ve never been very academic, and the school I went to was a grim place: whitewashed walls and hard benches that made your bones ache. The teachers were awful, strict disciplinarians—and petty. They used to cover the windows in the summer so that we wouldn’t be distracted, and we had only one break, ten minutes, standing like miserable wretches in a stuffy hall.”

  “If your parents were so concerned about your welfare, why didn’t they send you to a better school?”

  “There wasn’t a better school. It was supposed to be the best in our neighborhood.”

  Liebermann nodded sympathetically. He asked Herr Poppmeier more questions about his childhood, and formed a picture in his mind of a rather lonely, unhappy boy, somewhat stifled by his overprotective parents.

  “You said that your mother and father wanted more children…”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My mother and father used to tell me that I was going to have a little brother or sister… but he or she never arrived. I imagine that my mother was getting”—he hesitated and winced—“pregnant.” Then, knitting his brow, he persevered with his unfinished sentence: “And while in the first flush of excitement, they would share their good news with me. But my mother must have miscarried.”

  “Were you disappointed, when the promised brother or sister did not arrive?”

  “Not desperately. I was accustomed to having the exclusive attention of my parents. I’m not sure that I was eager to share them with anyone else.”

  “Can you remember your mother and father becoming sad?”

  “Yes, I can. But in due course these episodes of sadness became less frequent. They must have stopped trying.”

  Liebermann summarized his thoughts with great economy, writing only Self-blame? in his notes.

  After discussing Herr Poppmeier’s childhood, Liebermann then asked him about his work. He immediately appeared more comfortable.

  “I’m a salesman, for Prock and Hornbostel. I take samples of our jewelry around Vienna, but I am also required to travel quite a lot: Pressburg, Linz, Budapest. I once had to go as far as Trieste. We cater for all tastes—and classes.” Herr Poppmeier then went into an extensive and detailed description of the contents of the Prock and Hornbostel catalogue. His intonation immediately changed, acquiring the persuasive strains and cadences of a seasoned salesman. “The Belvedere range has been crafted to the highest possible standards; the brooch with pendant is quite exquisite: beaten gold leaves, inlays of pearl and shell, with a suspended tear of topaz and diamond.”

  Liebermann thought that it would be prudent to interrupt. “Thank you, Herr Poppmeier. That is all very interesting, very interesting indeed.” He leaned forward to arrest the salesman’s pitch. “May I ask, when was it that you first became aware of your symptoms?”

  Herr Poppmeier’s expression darkened. Clearly his well-rehearsed patter had brought him some small relief—temporary deliverance—from the shameful strangeness of his condition.

  “About three weeks ago…. I think I experienced the initial bout of morning sickness around the time when Arabelle’s pregnancy started to show. When she started wearing maternity dresses.”

  “Did you get any of these symptoms when your wife was pregnant before?”

  “No. I was perfectly healthy.”

  Liebermann paused to make some notes, but before he had finished, Herr Poppmeier said, “She was pregnant another time… just over a year ago. Sadly, we lost the child. The labor was complicated. Arabelle almost died. The child was stillborn.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been dreadful.”

  “Yes, it was. And I was away when Arabelle went into labor. On one of my trips… I got a telegram.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Lin—” The syllable slipped out before he corrected himself. “No, Steyr.”

  Liebermann made a note of the blunder. The arrival of momentous news was indelibly associated with the circumstances of the recipient. The brain absorbed everything, suspending the tragic communication in a preservative of easily accessible sense memories. Why would Poppmeier have made such a slip?

  “Herr Doctor?”

  Liebermann looked up.

  “Will I have to stay here… in the hospital?”

  “For a short period, for observation, yes—after which it might be possible to treat you as an outpatient. Let’s see.”

  “What is the matter with me?”

  “That is what we must find out.”

  “These symptoms… I know what they are, obviously.” Again, Poppmeier winced, and a hectic rash appeared on his neck. He loosened the stud holding his collar. “I was once told that you psychiatrists treat people by learning the meaning of symptoms. Well, you don’t have to be a psychiatrist to understand the meaning of my symptoms. I know what they mean already, and they still won’t go away.”

  “You are quite right, symptoms often remit when patients discover their significance; however, there are meanings—and then there are hidden meanings. It is the latter that are most important.”

  “I don’t understand. Hidden?”

  “Hidden in your own mind.”

  “But if they are hidden, how can we find them? And where are they hidden?”

  Liebermann smiled. “Tell me, Herr Poppmeier, what did you dream last night?”

  61

  COUNCILLOR SCHMIDT WAS SITTING in his room at the town hall, smoking a cigar and thinking about his mistress. She had started to make unreasonable demands. From his experience, all women were the same in this respect. They became over-curious, meddlesome. They always wanted more. Private dining rooms, trinkets, and bouquets were no longer sufficient to keep them happy. They became morose, subdued in the bedroom, and maddeningly inquisitive.

  Where are you going tomorrow night? Is it an official engagement? Will there be any society ladies present?

  And so on…

  He treated these questions as he might the singing of a canary, being barely conscious of the incessant warbling until its cessation.

  Inquisitive mistresses were a liability. He did not want them, or anyone, to know his whereabouts. His plans (and he now had many of them) could be endangered by loose talk. The less people knew, the better.

  Schmidt leaned back and rested his feet on his desk. The cigar tasted good. It was expensive and had been given to him, with other incentives, by a business associate in return for a small favor. The associate’s lawyer had needed to study a certain title deed in the town hall archive. A promise of future preferment was all it had taken to persuade the archivist to hand him the desired document.

  The tobacco was pungent, but teased the palate with a fruity sweetness. Schmidt dislodged some ash and continued thinking about his mistress.

  Yes, it’s been diverting enough—especially at the beginning, when she was more vivacious, lively, and appreciative. But the dalliance has probably run its course now. Time to move on.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Schmidt quickly shifted his feet off the desk, spread some papers, and picked up his pen. Adopting the vexed attitude of someone in the middle of a taxing piece of work, he called out, “Enter.”

  The door opened,
and his nephew appeared.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Schmidt relaxed and tossed his pen across the desk.

  He saw that his nephew was clutching his mail. It was Fabian who opened and read all his official correspondence. The majority of which consisted of requests for assistance, support, advice, good causes—the sort of thing he could let Fabian attend to. The mayor’s motto was “We must help the little man.” A laudable sentiment, but in practice remarkably time-consuming and very unprofitable.

  “Come in, dear boy,” said Schmidt. “What have you got for me?”

  “Uncle Julius,” said Fabian, “you’ll never believe what’s happened. There’s been another murder—a decapitation again, just like Brother Stanislav and poor Faust.”

  “Where?”

  “The Ulrichskirche. I tried to walk through Ulrichsplatz this morning and was stopped. There were policemen and a journalist. They said it happened in the small hours.”

  “And the victim?”

  “A Jew, a penniless Jew.”

  “A Jew, eh? Perhaps someone with a bit of backbone has finally decided to retaliate, an eye for an eye. What do you think? One of the dueling fraternities? When I was your age, I can remember Strength and Unity was full of high-spirited fellows.” Schmidt stubbed out his cigar. “The reports in the newspapers have been so tame—so assiduous in their efforts to avoid stating the obvious—that it wouldn’t surprise me. The censor is supposed to protect the public interest, not a parasitic minority.”

  Fabian handed Schmidt the wad of papers. “Your mail, Uncle.”

  “Anything I need to look at?”

  “Not really. Oh, no… there was something.” Fabian licked his finger and, leaning forward, rifled through the papers. “Yes—this, from Professor Gandler at the hospital. You must reply today if possible.”

  Schmidt took the letter from the pile and began to read.

  62

  THE STOVE HAD BEEN lit, but the room still felt cold. As before, Liebermann found the dull, lifeless décor of Barash’s parlor enervating. It seemed to sap his strength.

  “I followed your advice,” said Liebermann. “I have just returned from Prague.”

  Barash tilted his head to one side and raised his chin.

  “You surprise me, Herr Doctor.”

  “I visited the Jewish cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue, just as you recommended.”

  “Then I hope you benefited from the experience.”

  “The cemetery and the synagogue have a very particular atmosphere, a poignancy that is difficult to describe.”

  “Again, you surprise me. I had thought you would be inured to such influences.” The zaddik toyed with the tassels hanging from beneath his frock coat. “So, Herr Doctor, do you understand now?”

  From outside came the sound of a man whistling. The melody was full of the complex embellishments that typified the music of Eastern Jewry, exotic intervals and imitative sobs and sighs. Liebermann waited for the melody to fade.

  “I discovered the grave of Rabbi Loew and learned of his remarkable ministry, how he protected his people in difficult times.”

  “Your journey was not wasted,” said Barash concisely.

  A lengthy silence followed.

  “May I ask…” Liebermann was hesitant. “How does one go about making a golem?”

  Barash’s expression altered. It might have been a smile, but if so the small, flickering light of good humor did little to relieve the darkness in his eyes. The overhang of his brow ensured that his face could never be wholly free of disapprobation.

  “The procedure is described in many places,” the zaddik replied. “However, the clearest instructions can be found in the commentary of Eleazar of Worms on The Book of Creation.” Liebermann’s face showed no sign of recognition. “Eleazar ben Judah of Worms,” Barash continued, “was a thirteenth-century German kabbalist and liturgical poet. His instructions for the making of a golem have been revised and presented as a separate work. It is called pe’ullath hayetsirah, which means ‘the practical application of The Book of Creation.’ Eleazar tells us that two or three adepts should take part in the ritual. Untilled earth is kneaded in running water and molded into human form. The transformation—from inanimate to living matter—is achieved through the recitation of letters taken from the Sefer Yetzirah. Other methods have been described, but it is Eleazar’s method that commands the greatest respect among students of kabbalah.”

  “Not difficult, then? Simply a matter of following instructions.”

  Barash glowered. His expression was as oppressive, and baleful, as the gloom preceding a deluge.

  “The ritual is highly dangerous. It must be observed precisely or catastrophic consequences will follow. An error in the ritual would not damage the golem, but it would very likely destroy the creator. He would be returned to his primal element. He would be sucked back into the earth.”

  These words were spoken with such fierce conviction that they produced a complementary image in Liebermann’s mind: a wide-open mouth, screaming and sinking, being filled with loam. It was a disturbing image, and it sent a shiver down Liebermann’s spine.

  “Rebbe Barash, have you ever tried to make a golem?”

  “No!” cried Barash. “I would not be so reckless, so presumptuous, so foolhardy!” The denial was emphatic. “I have the power—” The zaddik quickly corrected himself: “I do not have the power.”

  Liebermann noted the slip. Professor Freud asserted that people often betrayed themselves—their true beliefs, wishes, and intentions—by making verbal blunders. What, Liebermann wondered, does this slip mean? Did Barash believe that he was capable of performing Eleazar’s ritual? Did he believe that he had already succeeded? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s megalomania—an unconscious fantasy of omnipotence?

  “I assume you’ve heard about the discovery in Alois Gasse?”

  Barash’s massive hands came together, the fingers interlocking.

  “It was inevitable that he would reveal himself.”

  “He?”

  “The creator of the Vienna golem.”

  Liebermann suspended his disbelief and continued the conversation as if he accepted that such a creature could exist.

  “Who is he, this creator?”

  “I don’t know. He wishes to remain unknown. Or perhaps he must remain unknown as a condition of his being in the world, like the righteous—the lamed vavniks—the thirty-six hidden saints whose presence here on earth prevents humanity from descending into barbarism. We might pass him on the street, seeing only a humble peddler, but believe me, he is a great soul.” Barash shrugged, his mountainous shoulders rising and falling like a geological upheaval. “A great soul,” he repeated. “Perhaps the revenant may even be Loew himself come back to us.”

  “How could that be?”

  “The magid of Safed teaches us that the soul is eternal, participating in long chains of transmigration, back to the very beginning.” Barash closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again slowly. “They say that Rabbi Loew’s golem still sleeps in the Old-New Synagogue, waiting for a time when he is needed again; however, I understand this to be figurative, a promise on which we can build our hopes. When the forces of darkness gather, and our people are in danger, a great soul will come into the world to assist us.”

  “Do we live in such bad times?” Liebermann asked.

  “We do, Herr Doctor. And the tragedy is that you and the legions of dispossessed like you do not realize it.”

  Barash was quite mad, but he had an annoying habit of saying things that were perceptive. Liebermann’s predicament at the hospital was almost entirely due to his refusal to take anti-Semitism seriously. Discomfited by Barash’s pointed remark, Liebermann became interrogative.

  “Rebbe Barash, what were you doing last night?”

  “I was praying.”

  “All night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I often pray into the night. It is pe
aceful… and I feel closer to God.”

  Liebermann continued to ask questions, but Barash’s answers revealed nothing of consequence. In due course Liebermann said, “There has been another murder.”

  Barash responded calmly. “Like the others?”

  “Yes. The victim’s head was torn from his body and his remains were left outside a church.”

  “Then it has struck again.”

  “The murder was the same in all respects,” continued Liebermann, “with one exception.” He paused dramatically.

  “Which was?”

  “The victim was not an enemy of Jewry.”

  “Are you sure, Herr Doctor?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “But how can you possibly say?”

  “He was Jewish.”

  The zaddik appeared genuinely surprised. His thick eyebrows rose up, and his lips parted.

  “That is not possible.” He spoke hoarsely, his basso profundo momentarily robbed of its savory depth. Liebermann played a five-finger exercise on the chair arm. The soft percussion of his fingertips on the wood filled the hiatus, until Barash added more steadily, “No. You must be mistaken.”

  Liebermann’s fingers stopped moving. “All of the evidence suggests the contrary. Whoever—whatever—killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust also killed Jeheil Sachs.”

  Barash shook his head, slow and bovine. His coiled sideburns continued bouncing after the movement was completed. “No. You are mistaken. Another party is responsible.” His expression communicated that he saw no point in discussing the matter any further.

  Liebermann was dissatisfied. Apart from the zaddik’s slip of the tongue, the interview had not been very revealing. Feeling frustrated, Liebermann asked, “Did you sleep at all last night, Rebbe Barash?”

  “Yes. I retired at about four or five this morning.”

  “Last time we spoke, our conversation touched upon the subject of dreams. May I ask, when you slept, did you dream?”

  “I did.”

  “What about?”

  The zaddik’s eyebrows joined, and his brow became a network of deep creases, “I cannot tell you about my dreams,” he said disdainfully. “They are sacred, and it is most impertinent of you to make such an inquiry. When you ask a man about his dreams, you ask him to expose his soul. You eavesdrop on a conversation between man and God.”