by Frank Tallis
You have nothing to fear. You have only to call and the golem will come to assist you.
“Give me the cash box!”
Nahum handed Haas the tin. The thug opened it up and looked inside. He turned the empty container upside down and threw it over his shoulder. It clattered across the floor.
“I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
Nahum closed his eyes. Come to me, help me…
And, to his surprise, the prayer was answered.
The golem arrived, but not in the form that he had anticipated. It came not as a supernatural being. It came instead as blind, pitiless rage.
They are evil, and their evil is my responsibility.
Nahum opened his eyes.
“The money,” said Haas.
The shopkeeper snatched up the heaviest weight from the counter and swung it against the side of Haas’s head. It made a strange, sickening thud. Nahum then allowed his hand to drop.
Haas did not move. He remained standing, swaying slightly, his expression showing nothing more than mild irritation. Blood ran down his cheek in a straight line until it was diverted along the arc of his scar. His eyes rolled and he fell backward, crashing to the ground.
Nahum stepped out from behind the counter and began to go through the thug’s pockets. He found a wallet bulging with notes, enough to pay for dry rooms and a specialist in lung diseases.
Haas was still breathing.
“Father?” Nahum called out.
“Yes?” the old man croaked.
“Get your coat. We’re leaving.”
67
Professor Kraus entered Gabriel Kusevitsky’s room without knocking.
“There’s a policeman outside,” said the professor. “He wants to speak to you.”
“Me?” said Kusevitsky, rising unsteadily from his chair.
“Yes, you. What on earth have you done, Kusevitsky?”
“Why, nothing, sir. Well, nothing wrong, at least.”
“This is a private hospital,” said the professor. “We can’t have the police snooping around the wards. It won’t do.”
“Indeed, sir, but I can assure you-”
The professor cut in, “Just make sure he doesn’t come back, eh? You young fellows are all the same. Dueling, drinking, parties, and ridiculous pranks. You’re not a student anymore, Kusevitsky.”
“With respect, sir, I have never-”
“And incidentally,” the professor pressed on, “that necktie is far too loud. It lacks gravitas. And if there’s one thing a patient expects from his physician, it is gravitas.”
“Very good, sir,” said Kusevitsky. “I will wear only a black necktie in the future.”
“His name’s Rheinhardt.”
“Sir?”
“The policeman. I managed to hide him away in the common room.”
“Thank you, Professor Kraus. I will see him immediately and make sure that when he leaves he does so via the kitchen entrance.”
The professor made some grunting noises and left. His footsteps (loud, regular, and implacable) resounded down the corridor.
Gabriel Kusevitsky sighed, tidied his notes, and made his way to the common room, where a portly gentleman in plain clothes was waiting. He had been expecting a constable with spiked helmet and sabre. The man stood up, bowed, and said, “Herr Dr. Kusevitsky? I am Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office. Forgive me for interrupting your day.”
His civility was a pleasant change after Professor Kraus’s insults.
The two men sat down at a table covered with medical journals.
“Does the name Jeheil Sachs mean anything to you?” asked Rheinhardt.
“Yes. He’s a procurer. Why?”
“What else do you know of him?”
“Well, he lives in Spittelberg and recently assaulted a poor young woman, Fraulein Pinski, who was admitted into this hospital.” Kusevitsky produced a flickering smile, a fast series of facial contractions. “I think there must have been some mistake or misunderstanding, Inspector. She is not in my care. You really need to speak to Professor Kraus and Dr. Goldberger.”
“No,” said Rheinhardt. “There has been no mistake.”
“But I know nothing of this woman’s circumstances. Other than that she was a prostitute, of course.”
“Tell me,” Rheinhardt continued, resting his elbows on the table and locking his fingers. “How did you get to hear about Herr Sachs?”
“One of my friends-Fraulein Katzer-she does charity work in Spittelberg and told me what had happened, about the assault.”
“Fraulein Katzer… Is she just a friend? Or are you romantically associated?”
Kusevitsky’s cheeks flushed. “We are associated, yes,” said the young man stiffly.
“And when she told you what Sachs had done to Fraulein Pinski, what was your reaction?”
“I was angry. Very angry. It was a brutal and ugly attack.”
“Fraulein Katzer went to see Herr Sachs with…” Rheinhardt consulted his notebook. “Fraulein Mandl. Why didn’t you go with her?”
“I learned of her visit only after she’d already gone. It was a foolish thing to do.”
Rheinhardt twisted his mustache. “Where were you on Thursday night?”
“At home, with my brother, Asher.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“What possible use would such information be to you, Inspector?” Rheinhardt allowed the ensuing silence to build. “Very well,” said Gabriel, shrugging. “I was writing up some preliminary results of a study I am conducting into the nature of dreams.”
“Ah, dreams,” said Rheinhardt. “A very interesting topic. You must be a devotee of Professor Freud.”
Kusevitsky was surprised. “Yes, as it happens, I am. Are you familiar with Professor Freud’s works?”
“I have read The Psychopathology of Everyday Life and some of The Interpretation of Dreams. I enjoyed the former but struggled to finish the latter. The technical passages at the end were somewhat obscure.” Rheinhardt glanced nonchalantly at one the medical journals. “What time did you retire?”
“On Thursday night? Quite late. The early hours of the morning, I imagine.”
“Yes, but what time?”
“I can’t remember. But it must have been around one or two.”
Rheinhardt made a note.
“Inspector?” The young man was looking at him intently. “Your questions and manner lead me to conclude that something has happened to Herr Sachs. Has he, by any chance, been murdered?”
Rheinhardt reached into his pocket and took out a folded copy of the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung. On the cover was a crude drawing of a plague column and a headless corpse lying-its position inaccurate-on the pavement next to it.
“You haven’t seen this, then?”
Kusevitsky took the newspaper and examined the image.
“Did he deserve to die?” Rheinhardt asked.
“That is not a question I have the moral authority to answer,” the young doctor replied calmly.
68
They had just completed the Schone Mullerin song cycle and were very satisfied with their performance. Rheinhardt’s voice had sounded particularly good, discovering in each perfectly constructed phrase new registers of bittersweet feeling.
The images still lingered: murmuring brooks, water mills, broad skies-a landscape of innocent pleasures. And, for any self-respecting German romantic, the natural setting for tales of unrequited love and suicidal despair.
“One more,” said Liebermann, rummaging in his piano stool for a suitable song to end with.
“Yes, but only one more,” said Rheinhardt. “My voice is going.”
“Nonsense,” said Liebermann. “You’re in excellent form. Ah, how about this?”
He placed some more Schubert on the music stand: Gretchen am Spinnrade. Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel.
It was not an obvious choice, the sentiment of the poetry being, strictly speaking, more appropriate for a female singer.
Nevertheless, Liebermann found that he was seized by a curious desire to hear Schubert’s beautiful lyric melody. Gretchen am Spinnrade was a miracle of precocity. It had been completed before the composer had reached twenty, and most music aficionados agreed that even if Schubert had lived to a hundred he would not have been able to improve a single note.
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Very well.”
Liebermann’s hands dropped to the keyboard, producing on contact the fluid semiquavers that evoked with astonishing fidelity the turning of Gretchen’s spinning wheel. So powerful was this impression that the listener could all but hear her foot pumping the treadle. The semiquavers were relentless, their melancholy revolutions suggesting not only poignant yearning but tired resignation. Schubert’s account of Gretchen’s wheel had, perhaps, more in common with the medieval Rota Fortuna than with a machine for making yarn. Human beings might rail against fate, but ultimately each individual had to accept his or her destiny. There was no other choice. Gretchen’s wheel reproduced in the listener’s mind an intimation of universal circularities: orbiting worlds and the motion of stars. Never, thought Liebermann, had a composer responded so comprehensively to a given text, finding within the poetry meanings that might even have escaped its author, no less a genius than the godlike Goethe.
Rheinhardt’s baritone was rich and dark: “Meine Ruh ist hin,”
My peace is gone,
“Mein Herz ist schwer,”
My heart is heavy,
“Ich finde sie nimmer, Und nimmermehr.”
I shall never, ever find peace again.
Why, Liebermann wondered, did I want to hear this song again, this song of yearning and fate?
A series of ghostly images flickered in front of his eyes.
Uncle Alexander on the Charles Bridge: This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire.
Miss Lydgate in front of the Karlskirche: Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism employed a large screw with a helical thread.
The chancellor: Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved.
Barash: We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor.
These images were connected in some way and were struggling to tell him something, but he couldn’t say what, exactly. Their deeper meaning, like the latent content of dreams, was elusive. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware of the great Rota Fortuna turning, bringing him closer and closer to an uncertain fate. Ordinarily, Liebermann was not superstitious. But he could not dismiss a nagging presentiment of peril that had made its home in the pit of his stomach.
The spinning wheel figure was interrupted at the song’s emotional climax, and Rheinhardt’s voice rang out above inconclusive, questioning harmonies. A brief pause. Then, hesitatingly at first, the revolving figure began again, proceeding inexorably to the final bar: a tonic minor chord, held into silence.
Liebermann closed the music book, and he and Rheinhardt retired, without exchanging a single word, to the smoking room.
A full ten minutes passed before Liebermann said, “So, what have you learned about Jeheil Sachs? The newspaper articles said very little about him-other than that he was Jewish, of course.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“He was a small-time procurer whose business was conducted in a tiny hovel in Spittelberg. He solicited for a young Galician woman named Kadia Pinski. She had become dissatisfied with her sorry existence and wanted to make a new life for herself. Sachs assaulted her. It was a brutal assault, in which he violated her person with the handle of a brush.” The expression of disgust on Rheinhardt’s face disambiguated his euphemistic sentence. “She almost died. Fortunately, she was able to get medical help, but only after she had collapsed in the Spittelberg warmestube. The two women who run it, Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl, called for a doctor, and Fraulein Pinski was admitted into a private hospital.”
“Does she have friends? Relatives?”
“People who might want to take vengeance on Sachs? No. Not here in Vienna. She was all alone, easy prey for a procurer: young, destitute, unable to speak German. I daresay that she must have initially thought Sachs was her savior, a charitable co religionist, offering her food and shelter.” Rheinhardt drew on his cigar and expelled a prolific quantity of smoke. “The warmestube frauleins-Katzer and Mandl-took it upon themselves to visit Sachs in order to issue some sort of legal threat. Pinski was too frightened to make a statement, and besides, the police-I am ashamed to admit-are reluctant to come to the aid of unlicensed prostitutes: especially those of Galician origin. A witness reported that the women and Sachs argued.”
“Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl. Those names sound familiar to me.”
“They are two socialites who have made it their avocation to raise money for charitable-and mostly Jewish-causes. They are often mentioned in the society columns.”
“Yes, that’s it. I remember reading something about them in the Neue Freie Presse. The archduchess Marie Valerie attended the opening of the Spittelberg warmestube.” Liebermann poured some brandy. “Surely you don’t suspect…” Liebermann allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Sachs’s treatment of Pinski was heinous. He was an odious man who would have no doubt continued to exploit young women. They are wealthy. They are well connected. They wanted to stop him.”
“Yes, but if murder was their aim, then Sachs could have been dispatched neatly and efficiently with a stiletto. There are, as we know, villains who would willingly provide such a service for a relatively small sum. Why on earth would they choose to link his demise with the deaths of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust?”
“We have previously speculated about the operation of a group-a cabal-whose intention all along has been, for whatever reason, to revive the myth of the golem, to inspire belief in its existence. Now, if the golem’s purpose is to protect Jews, then one can imagine why such a creature might have been commanded to kill an individual such as Sachs. In his own way, Sachs was as much a threat to the Jewish community as were Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust. The Church has been warned, politicians have been warned, and now the Jewish community itself has been warned: punishment will be meted out to anyone who harms Jews, even Jews who harm other Jews.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, “if we posit the existence of a militant secret society, then there is no reason why its generals shouldn’t receive intelligence from unlikely agents.”
Rheinhardt tapped the ash from his cigar.
“Fraulein Katzer is romantically associated with a young doctor, a gentleman called Kusevitsky.”
“Gabriel Kusevitsky?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Indeed. We’ve met twice: once at my father’s lodge-B’nai B’rith-and again in the Cafe Central only a few days ago. He is an enthusiastic supporter of Professor Freud.”
“I interviewed him yesterday.”
“And…?”
“I thought him rather odd.”
“He’s a psychiatrist.”
“Indeed.” Rheinhardt smiled. “However, I believe his peculiarity exceeded my usual expectations even for a member of your esteemed profession.”
“Interesting…,” said Liebermann, turning his brandy glass and examining the patterns of light thus created.
“What is?”
“Kusevitsky knows a great deal about Jewish mythology, and he is currently conducting research into universal symbolism in dreams.” Rheinhardt looked bemused. “That is to say, symbols that have the same meaning from person to person. They are thought to be residues of collective human experience that pass from one generation to the next via an inherited region of the unconscious. Universal symbols are also thought to appear in folktales. It follows that different races may have different common symbols.”
“Now,” said Rheinhardt. “That is interesting.”
Liebermann remembered Asher Kusevitsky’s words: They want a purge. They treat us like a
plague…
“His brother, Asher Kusevitsky, is a playwright. He was with Gabriel when we met in the Cafe Central. They were both sitting at Arthur Schnitzler’s table. Asher was talking to Schnitzler about his latest play. I formed an impression that Asher is as preoccupied with myths and legends as is Gabriel. He has written a play called The Dybbuk, which I believe is an evil spirit in Jewish folklore.”
“When we last spoke, you mentioned a medical condition-folie a deux. You described it as contagious insanity. You said that it typically affects two people.”
“Indeed, and it is observed most frequently in couples who are related: spouses, for example-or siblings.” Rheinhardt raised his eyebrows. “However,” Liebermann added, “I must urge caution. We are getting carried away with ourselves. Surely you must have noticed Gabriel Kusevitsky’s physique. His brother is just the same. Did you shake Gabriel’s hand?”
“No.”
“He is a weakling. I was worried that I might snap his fingers.”
Rheinhardt stubbed out his cigar. “Still, there is something to discover here, perhaps-something worth pursuing. We need to know more about these brothers.” The inspector poured himself a brandy. He raised the glass to his lips and signaled his approval. “So-Barash. What did he have to say this time?”
“He told me, in his cryptic way, that I am about to die.”
Rheinhardt coughed and spluttered. “What?”
“Another prophecy, I fear,” said Liebermann calmly. “He was right about Brother Stanislav, of course. I can only hope that he is wrong about me. I must admit that since our interview I cannot walk down an alley without first glancing over my shoulder.”
Liebermann stood by the window, looking out into the night, his breath producing a silver-gray condensate on the cold glass.
The remainder of the evening had been taken up with discussion about his interview with Barash and the zaddik’s slip of the tongue. Barash had inadvertently claimed to have the power to make a golem. Could it be interpreted as a kind of confession? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s underlying megalomania? A zaddik, after all, was supposed to communicate with God.
