by Frank Tallis
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 assistance 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 Friedlander’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 sunlight 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.”
“What? Someone was trying to break in?”
“No. I checked everywhere. No one was trying to break in. And then… then I heard a moaning sound.”
Rabbi Seligman tilted his head quizzically.
“It was terrible,” Kusiel added. “Inhuman.”
Somewhere in the synagogue a wooden beam creaked.
“Old buildings make noises, Kusiel,” said the rabbi.
“Not like these.”
“Perhaps you were tired. Perhaps you imagined-”
“I didn’t imagine anything,” said the caretaker firmly. “With respect, Rabbi, I know what I heard, and what I heard wasn’t…” The old man paused before saying, “Natural.”
Rabbi Seligman took a deep breath and looked up at the balcony. It followed the walls on three sides, being absent only over the ark.
“I don’t understand, Kusiel. Are you suggesting that whatever it was you heard was…” He hesitated. “A spirit?”
“It wasn’t right-that’s all I’m saying. And something should be done. You know more about these things than I do.” The old man attacked his bristly chin with the palms of his hands, producing a rough, abrasive sound. “Something should be done,” he repeated.
“Yes,” said Rabbi Seligman. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Kusiel.”
The old man grunted approvingly and shuffled back into the vestibule.
Rabbi Seligman, somewhat troubled by this exchange, climbed the stairs to the balcony. He looked around and noticed nothing unusual. The caretaker had heard something strange, that much he could accept. But a spirit? No, there would be a perfectly rational alternative explanation.
Something should be done.
The caretaker’s refrain came back to him.
Rabbi Seligman had no intention of performing an exorcism! It probably wouldn’t happen again. And if it did? Well, he would give Kusiel instructions to fetch him at once. Then he could establish what was really going on.
15
Rheinhardt flicked through the volume of Schubert songs and placed Die Forelle-The Trout-on the music stand.
“Let’s end with this, eh? Something cheerful.”
Liebermann pulled back his cuffs, straightened his back, and began to play the jolly introduction. His fingers found a curious repeating figure, ostensibly straightforward yet containing both rhythmic and chromatic oddities. It evoked the burble of a country stream; however, the music was not entirely innocent. The notes were slippery, knowing-the effect ironic. Indeed, there was something about the introduction that reminded Liebermann of an adolescent boy whistling nonchalantly while walking away from an orchard, his pockets bulging with stolen apples. The figure dropped from the right hand to the left, then down another octave before the music came to a halt on an arpeggiated tonic chord.
Rheinhardt was so familiar with the song that he didn’t bother to look at the music. Resting his elbow on the piano case, like a rustic leaning on a swing gate, he began to sing: “In einem Bachlein helle
Da Scho? in froher Eil’
Die launische Forelle
Voruber wie ein Pfeil.” In a clear stream
In lovely haste The capricious trout
Darted by like an arrow.
What is it about? Liebermann asked himself. It was a strange lyric that didn’t really lead anywhere. “Ein Fischer mit der Rute
Wohl an dem Ufer stand
Und sah’s mit kalten Blute
Wie sich das Fischleim wand” An angler with his rod
Stood on the bank
And cold-bloodedly watched
The fish twist and turn
Rheinhardt sang the poetry with effortless fluency, his rich lyrical baritone filling the room and rattling the windowpanes.
Again, Liebermann asked himself, What is it about?
A narrator, watching an angler, hopes that a trout will not get caught. However, when the writhing fish is lifted from the water, he is sent into an impotent rage.
Did the poet mean to show how human beings encroach upon and disturb the natural world? Or was he s
uggesting that freedom is so treasured by human beings that even a landed fish can find sympathy in a poet’s heart?
After an agitated final verse, the burbling theme reappeared in the piano accompaniment and the music progressed to a tranquil pianissimo ending.
Liebermann looked up and saw that Rheinhardt was pleased with his performance. However, when the inspector noticed Liebermann’s troubled expression, he said, “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Not at all… Your voice was relaxed, expressive, and beautifully resonant.”
“Then why do you look so perplexed?”
Liebermann lifted his hands off the keyboard but allowed the final chord to continue indefinitely by keeping his foot on the pedal.
“What’s it about?” Liebermann asked.
“Die Forelle?”
“Yes.”
“A man-watching an angler-watching a fish,” said Rheinhardt flatly.
“With respect, Oskar, that isn’t a terribly penetrating analysis.”
“It’s what the poet describes,” said Rheinhardt. “It’s what the words say.”
The young doctor considered his friend’s riposte, and conceded, “Yes, I suppose so.” He released the pedal, terminating the gentle hum of the fading chord. “Sometimes things are exactly what they seem to be, and nothing else.”
“A difficult concept for a psychiatrist to grasp, admittedly,” said Rheinhardt.
They retired to the smoking room, lit some cigars, sipped brandy, and stared into the fire. In due course Liebermann broke the silence. “I suspect that your choice of Die Forelle represents a form of wish fulfillment.”
Rheinhardt roused himself, cleared his throat, and replied, “I chose it because I wanted us to end our music-making with something cheerful.”
“Yes, but a song about a man catching a fish? Come now, Oskar, the parallels are blindingly obvious! The very idea of catching has positive connotations for you, a detective inspector. Your raison d’etre is to catch criminals. That is why you find Die Forelle so uplifting. It fulfills-at least symbolically-one of your deepest wishes. When the trout is caught, instead of raging with the poet, you experience nothing but satisfaction. You were beaming with pleasure when the song came to an end.”
