Vienna Secrets lp-4

by Frank Tallis

  Turning off the main thoroughfare, Barash entered a dim alleyway-a gap between buildings that served as a shortcut. The temperature dropped as soon as he ventured between its dank, precipitous walls. He became aware of footsteps-a soft accompaniment shadowing his own tread-and glanced over his shoulder.

  “My rebbe…” It was Gershom.

  Barash halted. “What is the matter?”

  “I was in Zucker’s and saw you passing.”

  Zucker’s was a small coffeehouse on Tandelmarktgasse.

  The young man came forward.

  “I was reading this.” Gershom offered Barash a folded newspaper indicating a particular news item. The headline read PIARIST MONK MUDRERED IN JOSEFSTADT.

  Barash grabbed the paper and read down the column of Gothic typeface. His tangled eyebrows came together and his breathing quickened. When he had finished reading, he handed the paper back to the young man, who said tremulously, “How did you know?”

  The zaddik, who towered over his acolyte, did not respond.

  “You said our enemies would be struck down.” The young man was nervous, uncertain whether to proceed. But his need for answers spurred him on. “Is this what you meant? Has it begun already?”

  “Yes,” said Barash. “It has begun.”

  “My rebbe, how did you know?”

  Barash observed a procession of carts passing at the other end of the alley. A peddler was shouting, trying to sell a trayful of dreidels.

  “Be thankful, Gershom. Our troubles will soon be over. As the great Maharal of Prague freed his people from persecution, so we shall be freed. Pray, Gershom, and give thanks.”

  The young man was not consoled by these words.

  “But… my rebbe, who did this?” He held up the newspaper. “Was it…” Gershom lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “Was it one of us?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then who?”

  “Not who, Gershom. What?”

  4

  Light was streaming through a high window. The abbot raised his chin, and closed his eyes against the sun. Rheinhardt thought he looked tired.

  “Brother Stanislav was a good Piarist,” said the abbot. “I daresay you will consider me grudging with my praise. It does not sound very generous-‘a good Piarist’-but as far as I am concerned there is no higher commendation, no greater accolade.” The shaft of yellow light faded, and the abbot opened his eyes. “Stanislav exemplified Piarist virtues. He was humble and pious, hardworking and dutiful. He was respected by his brothers in Christ and loved by the children he taught.” As an afterthought he added, “The young are less sullied by the world and are naturally drawn toward goodness-of that I am certain.”

  “Where did Brother Stanislav come from?”

  “Poland.”

  “Does he still have family there?”

  “No. His father was impecunious and abandoned his wife and son when Stanislav was a boy. Stanislav’s mother died shortly after-God rest her soul.” The abbot made the sign of the cross. “She was, however, a devout woman, and Stanislav attended the Piarist school in Krakow. It became his ambition to dedicate his life to the service of others, and the brothers who instructed him became his inspiration. He was ordained when still a young man, and since then the Piarist order has been his only family. What do you know of us, Inspector?”

  “I know only that you provide teaching for the poor.”

  “We owe our existence to Joseph Calasanz.” The abbot gestured toward a portrait that hung behind his table. It was an oil painting, darkened with age, that showed an old monk with gentle eyes. “He pledged to assist the needy, but, being a practical man, he wanted to offer them more than just his prayers. He believed that the provision of a good, free education would give children born into poverty a better start in life. Thus, when our order was recognized by Pope Gregory XV, all Piarist monks were bound to take a fourth vow in addition to the usual three: that of complete devotion to the gratis instruction of youth.”

  The abbot smiled, quietly satisfied with this compressed history.

  “Did Brother Stanislav talk to you very much about the children in his classes?”

  “Yes. He was always talking about them: how Johannes had mastered his algebra or Franz Xavier his Latin grammar. He enjoyed their little triumphs as though they were his own.”

  “And what about children who were difficult… problematic?”

  “How do you mean, ‘problematic’?”

  “Children who misbehaved.”

  “Brother Stanislav was an experienced teacher. He had no difficulty maintaining discipline in his classes.”

  “But what if a child did misbehave? Would he punish such a child?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How?”

  “Penance-the setting of a repetitive written exercise-or prayers for forgiveness.”

  “And if the child still misbehaved?”

  “Well, the child would have to be disciplined.”

  “In what way?”

  “The birch… across the fingers of the left hand.” The abbot observed Rheinhardt shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Inspector, if our pupils are to make the most of what we are trying to offer them, it is imperative that they are well behaved. Moreover, it would not be fair to the other children if we let miscreants run wild.”

  “How often are children punished in this way?”

  “Very infrequently.”

  “About ten or fifteen years ago… was there anyone here-a child-whom Brother Stanislav had to punish repeatedly?”

  The abbott leaned back in his chair, brought his hands together, and focused his gaze on his fingertips. His brow cracked like dry parchment.

  “No. I cannot remember a child like that, not at that time.”

  “Then earlier, perhaps?”

  “Many years ago-perhaps twenty or so-we had to expel a boy called Richard Kahl.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a bully and a thief.”

  “Did Brother Stanislav punish him?”

  “We all did.”

  “Do you know where he is now, this Kahl?”

  “In the Saint Marxer cemetery.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. He became a drunkard and strangled his wife.” The abbot made the sign of the cross again. “A tragedy… a great tragedy.” Looking up, the old man continued, a note of desperation catching in his throat. “Inspector, surely you are not thinking that one of our pupils is responsible for Brother Stanislav’s murder?”

  “I must consider all possibilities, Father.”

  “God preserve us.”

  “Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask some of the other monks if they can remember any child whom they think might have harbored ill feelings toward Brother Stanislav?”

  The abbott nodded.

  “Did Brother Stanislav’s ministry bring him into contact with individuals suffering from mental illness?”

  “He visited hospitals during the course of his work.”

  “Was he ever threatened?”

  “By a lunatic?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. It is possible.”

  “If he had been threatened, would he have told anyone-a fellow Piarist in whom he confided?”

  The abbot shook his head. “Stanislav treated all his brothers in Christ equally. He did not cultivate special friendships.” Then, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Inspector? Have you ever encountered anything like this before? What I mean to say is… Brother Stanislav’s head?” He winced as he recalled the decapitation and blood. “It looked as if his head had been ripped from his body.”

  “I have seen many terrible things, Father.”

  “But this… have you seen anything quite like this before?”

  “No, Father. I haven’t.”

  “If I didn’t know better…” The old man clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles to his lips.

  “What?” Rheinhardt prompted.

>   “If I didn’t know better,” the abbot repeated, “I would say it was the work of the devil.”

  Rheinhardt rose from his chair. “Thank you for your assistance, Father.”

  Before closing the door, Rheinhardt paused. The abbot’s eyes must have been registering the room in which he was seated, but what he was actually seeing in his mind was clearly something quite different: a hideous force, come from hell to unleash its evil power on the doorstep of his church.

  5

  Councillor Julius Schmidt; his nephew and assistant, Fabian; Councillor Burke Faust; and Hofrat Holzknecht were seated in one of the upper chambers of the town hall.

  The agenda had been dispensed with, and a large pile of documents had now been signed and stamped with official seals. Hofrat Holzknecht was going over the paperwork, while Fabian distributed cognac and cigars.

  “All in order,” said Holzknecht. The title with which he was distinguished-Hofrat-had been introduced in the eighteenth century for high officials. It had come to represent not only social elevation but the power to dispense favors (or what the Viennese referred to as protektion).

  Schmidt and Faust-both councillors of the same rank-were political allies, but they were not friends. Faust was, on the whole, indifferent to Schmidt. Faust was a pragmatist, and Schmidt’s personal qualities were largely irrelevant as far as he was concerned. The reverse, however, was not true. Schmidt was acutely aware of everything that made up the person of Burke Faust, and each constituent part inspired resentment. He resented Faust’s diamond ring, his expensive wristwatch, and his edelweiss tiepin; he resented his spotless frock coat, the smell of his Italian cologne, and his relaxed, superior attitude; he resented his spacious Hietzing villa, his full head of hair, and his family fortune. But most of all, he resented the fact that Faust was almost certainly going to get the job that he, Schmidt, wanted-a key position on Mayor Lueger’s special advisory panel.

  Faust had recently created a stir by writing an article for Die Reichspost on the “social question,” an eloquently argued piece of polemical writing that not only found a sympathetic audience among the mayor’s inner circle but impressed the “Lord God of Vienna” himself. Mayor Lueger needed the services of a talented propagandist, and, luckily, one had appeared. Faust had started writing his piece as soon as old Horngacher had announced that he was retiring. Schmidt had to admire Faust, albeit grudgingly. He was a consummate opportunist.

  Schmidt took a cigar and held a match to its tip. He ensured that the burn was even, and then put the match out by waving his hand violently in the air. He dropped the match into a glass ashtray and stared at Faust, who was conferring with Hofrat Holzknecht.

  How Schmidt wanted that job.

  The successful candidate would become a confidant of Mayor Lueger, would be introduced to important people and be granted significant powers. An ambitious man might even use this privileged position to cultivate more general support among the party membership. Mayor Lueger would not last forever. His eyesight wasn’t so good these days, and there were rumors about his failing health. In the fullness of time a replacement would have to be found.

  Schmidt sniffed his cognac. The fragrance seemed to enter his skull and excite his imagination. He thought of Mayor Lueger’s theatrical public appearances, his gold chain of office flashing in the sunlight, his entourage of laborers, civil servants, nuns, priests, and altar boys, the members of his inner circle, with their special green tailcoats with black velvet cuffs. Even when the mayor opened a factory, he managed to create a sense of occasion. Spectacle! How Schmidt longed to slip his arms into the silk-lined sleeves of such a tailcoat. But it would not be him going to the tailor’s. No-it would be Burke Faust.

  Still, Schmidt consoled himself, although he might never get to be mayor, he might still get his villa in Hietzing. He had recently learned that money could be made quite easily-if one was prepared to enter into negotiations with the right people. Mutually provident arrangements could be agreed upon with no initial investment, merely the promise of a little “political” protection, should the need arise. They weren’t the kind of business associates he could welcome into an office at the Rathaus, but their views on social justice were not that different from his own-or the mayor’s, for that matter.

  Faust was leaning back in his chair, voicing his opinions in a languid tenor. Schmidt listened carefully so as to pick up the thread of his argument. He didn’t want anyone present to think he had been “dreaming.”

  “I fear that the mayor is becoming complacent,” said Faust. “The issue of their status has become a tool, a means to an end: a device used to get the attention and support of the lower middle class. Of course, he’s still willing to denounce glorified moneylenders like Rothenstein, Wittgenstein, and their kind-but none of this hot air leads to municipal reform.”

  “He’s even consulting them these days,” Schmidt chipped in. “I heard that he actually met with Cohen to discuss one of his new building projects.”

  “It’s no good,” said Faust. “We can’t denounce them in the morning and invite them for tea in the afternoon. He’s playing a dangerous game.”

  Schmidt rose from his seat and went over to the window. His breath condensed on the glass, and he had to wipe the moisture away to see out. Beyond the Rathaus park stood the Burgtheater. It looked particularly beautiful, its windows glowing from inside with a warm amber light. Rain was falling, and the street lamps were surrounded by haloes of luminescence.

  Schmidt recalled one of the mayor’s most famous speeches.

  If you go to the theatre, nothing but Jews. If you walk on the Ringstrasse, nothing but Jews. If you go to a concert, nothing but Jews. If you attend a ball, nothing but Jews. If you go on campus, again, nothing but Jews…

  Schmidt’s lips twisted to form an ironic smile. The Burgtheater was showing a play written by a Jew. Faust was absolutely right. Mayor Lueger had lost his early zeal. Yet the public still had an appetite for such fiery rhetoric. Schmidt thought of Faust’s article and sighed. The rhythms were reminiscent of Mayor Lueger’s old speeches, written when he was still hungry for power: insistent repetition, like a fist banging on a door-brooking no refusal-and metaphors so striking, so just that no one could deny the truth of his vision.

  Faust would get the job-and he might even be mayor, one day. Faust was an obstacle. Faust was in Schmidt’s way.

  “Only ten years ago,” Faust continued, “the program for reform was accepted by everyone: removal of the Jews from the civil service, medicine, law, and small business. Only ten years ago, these proposals were taken very seriously indeed. Now look at the state of our most important institutions.”

  “There have been some successes,” said Hofrat Holzknecht. “There aren’t that many of them in the civil service, and we’ve managed to limit admissions to the gymnasia.”

  “But it’s not enough!” said Faust.

  “Well,” said Hofrat Holzknecht. “Should you ever find yourself in a position to revive the mayor’s flagging program for municipal reform”-his expression became arch and knowing-“then you would be assured of support from my bureau.”

  Schmidt felt his heart beating faster. It was so unfair. Holzknecht was acting as if the decision had already been made.

  Holzknecht blew out a cloud of smoke. “It won’t be easy,” he continued, “to fight this new complacency.”

  “Of course it won’t,” said Schmidt. “That is why we need something to capture the public’s imagination.” He wasn’t going to let Faust have a coronation. Holzknecht should realize that Faust wasn’t the only councillor with ideas. Schmidt paused, hoping that his silence would be sufficiently cryptic to elicit a further question. His ruse was successful.

  “What do you mean, Schmidt?”

  “I mean that there is only so much one can do to persuade the electorate with economic and social arguments. Sometimes you have to engage their emotions. Somebody once suggested to me that what we really need right now is another Hi
lsner.”

  Fabian, having already distributed the cognac and cigars, had been sitting quietly reading a newspaper. However, he had been half-listening to the conversation, and now he raised his head quizzically.

  “Hilsner, uncle?”

  Schmidt smiled at his nephew and then turned to Faust and Holzknecht. “He’s only eighteen… one forgets.” He came away from the window and sat down next to his nephew.

  “Leopold Hilsner, dear boy. He killed a nineteen-year-old virgin and drained her body of blood. It’s what they do. Christian blood for their bread. The scandal started a very healthy debate in the popular press… It got people thinking.”

  “Is it true, Uncle Julius? They really do this?”

  “As far as we’re concerned, it’s true,” said Schmidt, his eyes glinting mischievously.

  Fabian looked confused.

  “No, Julius,” said Faust, “I think you can be more emphatic than that. They are a superstitious and backward people. Whenever a child disappears-particularly in the rural areas of Hungary and Galicia-the local communities are quite right to suspect the tinkers and peddlers passing through from the east. I can assure you, young man, ritual murder is a real phenomenon. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Read the Reverend Joseph Decker’s A Ritual Murder or Father August Rohling’s The Talmudic Jew. They are chilling works that deserve a place on every right-thinking person’s bookshelf.”

  Schmidt’s jaw tightened with irritation. He had read neither of these tracts. Faust always seemed to be able to back up his arguments with scholarly references. It was particularly riling because Schmidt, unlike many of his colleagues, had made a thorough study of Jewish lore and was relatively well informed. Know thy enemy was an epigram he lived by.