by Frank Tallis
Liebermann had raised many questions and provided too few answers. His conclusions about Barash were equivocal. Before his departure Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann if he wanted protection. The young doctor had declined. He did not want a constable following him everywhere.
In the street below, a peasant cart rolled past, its driver illuminated by a red lantern. The spoked wheels reminded Liebermann of the music that he had played earlier, the repetitive figures that Schubert had employed to represent endless rotation.
The mill wheel, the spinning wheel: turning, turning, turning…
Again he found himself thinking about the conversation he had had with Miss Lydgate outside the Karlskirche: gear mechanisms, screws, helical threads.
He went to bed and fell into a fitful, disturbed sleep.
In the morning, Liebermann unlocked his bureau and took out his journal. He would take it with him to the hospital. He needed to work through some of his thoughts.
69
Professor Priel was already seated in the parlor when Anna Katzer entered. She was wearing purple because she suspected that this was to be no ordinary social call. The professor’s note had promised some news pertaining to the matter raised-on your behalf-by the Kusevitsky brothers. The “matter” that he had alluded to could only be the women’s refuge in Leopoldstadt.
The Kusevitskys had introduced Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl to Priel after a theatrical event, and the two women had spoken to him at some length about their plans. He had been very attentive and had asked a number of questions.
Anna’s heart was beating fast with excitement. She wished that Olga Mandl were there, but her friend had been unable to come. She was languishing in bed with a very bad cold.
The professor stood to greet her. He was taller than Anna recollected, and spry, with unusually bright eyes.
“Fraulein Katzer!” he declared. “So good to see you again.”
Anna offered her hand, and the professor leaned forward, brushing his lips and whiskers against her skin.
“Professor Priel, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She was feeling guilty, having taken far too long to decide what she would wear.
“Not at all. I was admiring the landscapes.”
“Tea?”
“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”
Anna called the maid and communicated their need for refreshment with a mimetic gesture, a barely noticeable tilt of the wrist.
The professor waited for Anna to sit. Then, adjusting his frock coat, he lowered himself onto the sofa.
“Well, Fraulein Katzer, I have some good news for you. I have spoken to Herr Rothenstein about your plans for the new refuge, and he was extremely impressed.” Anna produced a radiant smile and clasped her hands together. “I mentioned Hallgarten’s promise of five thousand kronen and suggested to Rothenstein that he might consider donating an equivalent sum; however, Rothenstein declined.” Anna’s smile died on her face. “He is a generous man,” the professor continued. “But also a proud one.” He shook his head. “Pride. A human frailty all too common, I am sorry to say, among the captains of commerce and industry.”
“But you said you had some good news,” Anna sighed.
The professor raised his finger, tacitly requesting her to suspend judgment.
“Herr Rothenstein would not-could not-countenance an arrangement that would place him on an equal footing with Hallgarten. He was insistent that he should be named as the principal benefactor. Subsequently, he authorized me to provide you with funds, payable to the Jewish Women’s Refuge Trust, of fifteen thousand kronen.” Anna’s mouth fell open. “Congratulations, Fraulein Katzer. A very deserving cause. I wish you and Fraulein Mandl every success in your enterprise.”
Anna was speechless for a few moments before she laughed out loud. “Thank you, Herr Professor. I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” said Priel. “After all, it isn’t my money.”
“However, it was you, dear professor, who brought our project to Herr Rothenstein’s attention.”
“Yes,” said Priel, extending the syllable and allowing its pitch to fall and rise. “But only because of the Kusevitsky brothers. If it wasn’t for them…” He finished his sentence with a shrug, as if divesting himself of any last vestige of responsibility for having obtained the donation.
The maid arrived with a tray full of tea things and a plate of vanilla biscuits. Anna was too excited to drink tea. In fact, her tea, untouched, went cold as she spoke with compelling sincerity about her intention to make the Leopoldstadt refuge a model institution.
Priel had heard unfavorable reports about Anna and her friend Olga Mandl, how they were superficial, flighty, and more interested in flirting with industrialists than they were in social policy. But it was now clear to the professor that he was in the presence of a genuinely good woman. The smears had obviously been motivated by jealousy, the casual spite that older women reserve for their younger, and more attractive, counterparts. Anna Katzer was not a striking beauty, but there was nevertheless something about the set of her small, delicate features, the overall composition of her face, that was undeniably very pleasing to look at. And the cut of her dress-or was it the striking purple? — suggested more than just a penchant for luxury. It promised sensuality.
The professor was much relieved. She would make an excellent wife for Gabriel Kusevitsky, and her father’s dowry would be very substantial. He imagined the young doctor ensconced in a smart Alsergrund apartment, receiving private patients.
Yes, he thought. A very satisfactory outcome.
In due course, their exchanges became less mannered. They spoke of mutual acquaintances and, inevitably, of the Kusevitsky brothers. Professor Priel praised the two young men, and Anna detected in his eulogy a warmth of feeling more typical of a parent. She found herself echoing the professor’s sentiments. Indeed, she had to stop herself when her enumeration of Gabriel’s many virtues threatened to expose the strength of her attachment. But the abrupt caesura and her subsequent embarrassment had already revealed more than she had intended.
“You are fond of Gabriel,” said the professor, a faint smile of encouragement playing around his lips.
“Yes, very fond,” Anna replied. Her commitment to egalitarian values was evident in her level gaze. She would not betray her sex by showing shame. Her needs were as natural and acceptable as any man’s.
“They are remarkable fellows, the Kusevitsky brothers,” said the professor. “More remarkable than most people who make their acquaintance ever realize. Has Gabriel spoken to you of his origins, where they come from?”
“He told me that his parents died when he was very young and that he and his brother were raised by an uncle in Vienna.”
The professor squeezed his lower lip.
“That is true,” he said. “But it is not-as it were-the whole truth. We cannot judge Gabriel unkindly if he has elected to remain silent. His reticence merely reinforces his claim on our high regard. He and his brother are strangers to self-pity. I have never known them to seek sympathy. Yet I am convinced that it is in the interests of those who have suffered to be surrounded by intimates who have at least some inkling of the trials that they have survived.” The professor crossed his long legs. “I am not breaking a confidence, you understand? The Kusevitskys have never sworn me to secrecy.”
“Trials?” Anna repeated.
“The Kusevitskys,” Professor Priel continued, “were born in the eastern Ukraine. Their father was accused of stealing. It was a false accusation, and the inhabitants of the nearest village took the law into their own hands, a common occurrence in those times. A Jewish family could not go to the authorities for help. It was after the Czar had been assassinated, and Jews were being blamed for everything. The situation worsened, threats were made, and the boys were told to flee to their uncle’s house. It was November, and their uncle lived some twenty-five miles away. Can you imagine what it m
ust have been like for them? The freezing cold? The darkness? Two frightened children, running for their lives? Gabriel was five, Asher six. And there were evil forces abroad. Cossacks.” Priel shook his head. “One shudders to think of what might have happened, what sport their discovery would have afforded those wicked barbarians. The boys must have been protected by angels, because somehow-it is little short of a miracle-they managed to cross the frozen steppe and reach their destination.”
The professor paused. The room had become unnaturally quiet.
“Asher was carrying a note. The boys’ parents had expected to die. They begged the uncle to abandon his home and escape with their children to the relative safety of Austria-Hungary. He was a simple, hardworking man-but wily. He knew what lawlessness meant for the Jews. They set off immediately.”
Professor Priel leaned back and stroked his beard.
“In due course, they settled in Leopoldstadt and the boys were educated at a humble burgerschule; however, Asher and Gabriel were conspicuously intelligent. A kindly teacher advised the uncle to apply for two charity places at the gymnasium, funded by Rothenstein. I had some modest involvement with the scheme and subsequently made their acquaintance.”
“Is their uncle still alive?”
“He died three years ago. Scarlet fever.”
“How sad.”
“Yes. But he lived long enough to see his nephews become students at the university. He died contented, his labors thus rewarded.”
“An extraordinary story,” said Anna. “I had no idea. And how terrible that they should have suffered so.”
“Indeed. Still, I am of the opinion that some good has come from their tribulations. They have a rare bond, a degree of closeness that I have observed otherwise only in identical twins. Perhaps I am being fanciful, but I believe that this special bond was forged on their miraculous journey. It drew them together. Sometimes they seem to be party to the same thoughts and feelings. Have you noticed how they complete each other’s sentences? Or answer a question simultaneously with the very same words? And although they have different specialisms, I cannot rid myself of a curious impression that they are like the scientific and artistic faculties of a single mind.”
Anna detected a certain uneasiness in Priel’s expression.
“Professor,” she ventured hesitantly, “why are you telling me these things?”
He made an appeasing gesture.
“I wanted to give you some advice, which I trust you will accept in good faith. I promise you it is well-intentioned, and it is this: never come between them. Never come between these two brothers. In a way, if you choose to marry Gabriel, you also marry Asher.” The professor’s expression suddenly lightened. “This friend of yours, Fraulein Olga. She’s met Asher, hasn’t she?”
Anna’s eyes widened.
“Well?” asked the professor. “Did she not like him?”
70
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
Wheels, gears, pulleys, levers! All have the power to confer mechanical advantage, the factor by which a mechanism multiplies the force put into it. Brunelleschi raised the great dome in Florence with the assistance of an ox-marble and masonry, weighing millions of pounds, lifted hundreds of feet! I wonder whether the golem’s strength is attributable to mechanical advantage? With the right apparatus a weakling could tear the head off an elephant! Use of a device is also suggested by the fact that all three decapitations were remarkably uniform: clockwise cranial rotation, matching displacements of cervical structures. An identical force, utilized in exactly the same way, is likely to produce the same results. Would a golem-or a group of human beings attempting to perform a golem’s task-produce such consistent results?
Stanislav, Faust, Sachs. Three men, each in his own way a threat to Viennese Jewry, are murdered. Their bodies are found near plague columns. In the case of the first two murders, the plague column embodies the prejudice of the victims (Jews are a plague). In the case of the third murder, the plague column fulfills a somewhat different cautionary purpose. It declares that those who would exploit and harm their own people are vermin.
All three men are decapitated, but in such a way as to suggest the exercise of great force (an illusion probably achieved through the use of a mechanical instrument). Mud distributed around the bodies, and the kabbalist’s lair discovered above the Alois Gasse Temple, are clearly intended to revive memories of the Prague golem. But to what end? Why must we believe that Stanislav, Faust, and Sachs were killed by a “fairy-tale” creature? Answer: to make Jews-or their enemies (even consanguineous enemies)-believe in the return of a supernatural retributive agency. But again, why? Answer: to deter anti-Semites from violence. No. There is more to it than that. Much more. Schiller once wrote that deeper meanings can be found in fairy tales than in all the lessons we learn from real life. Fairy tales contain knowledge and lessons distilled from many lives.
I suspect that the key to this mystery is to be found in the fundamental meaning of the golem legend, its essence. What, then, does it teach us? What lies at its heart? Empowerment! Empowerment! It is a tale about empowerment. By “enacting” the golem legend, the perpetrators remind us of the need of a beleaguered community to defend itself and of Rabbi Loew’s triumph. They are making an appeal, the potency of which might be multiplied tenfold if theories of a collective racial memory have any legitimacy. Their macabre theatricality is less a warning and more a call to arms. And if that is their intention-to radicalize Jewry-then they must be stopped. Vienna is already too divided. Rheinhardt should continue to monitor the Hasidim closely. But he should also cast his net wider. Jewish political societies, dueling fraternities such as Kadimah-even B’nai B’rith.
I am reminded of something I overheard Kusevitsky’s brother saying in the Cafe Central. He was referring to
71
There was a knock on the door. Liebermann stopped writing, closed his journal, and placed it in his desk drawer.
“Come in,” he called out.
The door opened slowly, and a gentleman stepped into his office. He was carrying a homburg hat in his hand and wearing a long frock coat. Liebermann recognized him-bald head, long beard, pince-nez-a professor of philosophy whom he often saw around the university. He had also seen him somewhere else, but he couldn’t quite remember where.
“Herr Dr. Liebermann?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Priel. Professor Josef Priel. Do you have a moment? There is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
“Concerning?”
“Concerning the death of the young Baron von Kortig.”
Liebermann assumed that the professor had some involvement with the hospital committee and offered him a chair. Priel bowed and sat down, crossing his long legs.
“I was informed by an associate of yours, Dr. Gabriel Kusevitsky-and his brother, the dramatist, Asher Kusevitsky-that your future here at the hospital is now uncertain on account of your conduct at the time of the young baron’s demise. But it is obvious to any right-thinking person that you acted in the best interests of your patient. Therefore one can only suppose that your present predicament owes much to the mischievous interference of politically motivated parties.”
“Indeed,” said Liebermann. “That is almost certainly so.”
“The Kusevitskys mentioned a dossier… sent to an investigator at the security office?”
“Yes, by a member of parliament. It contained letters from the old baron, an unfavorable statement by a witness-an aspirant named Edlinger-and the draft of a scurrilous article.”
“Extraordinary.”
“If it had not been for the intervention of a friend, I might have been made the subject of an official inquiry.”
“And charged with religious agitation, no doubt.”
“That might have been the outcome, yes.”
“A very worrying development,” said Priel, tutting. “Very worrying. I understand that you are to appear before a hospital committee soon.�
��
“That is correct.”
“And a final decision will be made about your future.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, the chancellor is not very optimistic about my prospects.”
“The chancellor. Would that be Professor Gandler?”
“Yes.”
Priel hummed. When the sonic possibilities of the note had been thoroughly explored, he said, “Gandler will be more concerned about pleasing patrons than about your welfare. He has friends in the town hall, you know.”
Liebermann sighed. “I didn’t realize.”
“And if you are dismissed, what are your plans?”
“It will be difficult for me to get another position here in Vienna.”
“There are other hospitals-private establishments-that would not be unsympathetic; the hospital where Gabriel Kusevitsky works, for example.”
“I do not know the medical director,” said Liebermann meekly. He had not troubled to socialize advantageously, and now he regretted it. His only professorial acquaintance was Freud, a man who possessed little influence outside his own small circle of devotees.
“Introductions could be made,” said Priel, disregarding Liebermann’s reservation. “However, if your appointment at another institution was arranged, it would solve your problem, but it wouldn’t solve the problem.” Priel altered the position of his head, and his pince-nez flashed as they caught the light. “If you are dismissed, and the decision of the committee is not challenged, it will set something of a precedent-don’t you see? — a dangerous precedent in these difficult times.”
“Challenged?” Liebermann repeated. Not quite sure what the professor was proposing.
“This scandalous affair was never really about your ability to practice medicine. My dear fellow, there is more at stake here than your position.” The professor was beginning to sound a little like the chancellor. “We have a collective responsibility…”
The rest of Priel’s sentence was drowned out by a frantic banging on Liebermann’s door.
