Vienna Secrets

48

When Liebermann entered the restaurant, he saw that his father and uncle were already seated for breakfast.

“Good morning, Maxim,” said Alexander. “Did you sleep well?”

“No,” said Liebermann. “I didn’t. The room was rather hot.”

“What are you talking about, hot?” said Mendel. “It was freezing last night.”

“The young don’t feel the cold like us,” said Alexander innocently. “It doesn’t get into their bones.”

Liebermann sat down and tried to disguise a yawn.

“And what time did you get back last night?” Mendel growled at his son.

“Not too late,” Liebermann replied.

“We stopped off for a nightcap,” said Alexander. “That’s all.”

A waiter appeared with a cart.

“Coffee, sir?”

“Please,” Mendel replied. The waiter filled their cups with coffee and then served freshly baked honzova buchta-fruit buns. When broken, they steamed slightly and exuded a sweet, wholesome smell that made Liebermann’s stomach gurgle. They tasted heavenly, combining the simple virtues of a staple food with the piquant pleasures of an indulgence. Mendel read the newspapers, and Alexander talked to his nephew about various aspects of piano technique. Liebermann recommended the Klammer Method, and turned his thumbs under his hands to demonstrate their flexibility. Given what had transpired the previous evening, it was a remarkably controlled performance, by both parties.

After breakfast, the three men headed north, to Josefov, where they met with several shop owners. Mendel’s business with them was thankfully brief, and at its conclusion he declared that they had an hour or so to spare.

“I know a splendid coffeehouse near the cemetery,” said Alexander.

“The old Jewish cemetery?” asked Liebermann.

“The proprietor’s wife makes extremely good chocolate eclairs,” Alexander continued, failing to acknowledge his nephew’s question.

Liebermann recalled the zaddik’s exhortation: Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful.

“I’ve heard it’s very beautiful-the old cemetery,” Liebermann pressed.

“Yes, it is, if you like that sort of thing. Myself, I find it rather gloomy.”

“If we’re passing,” Liebermann continued, “could we go inside? I’d like to see it.”

Alexander looked over at his brother.

“I don’t see why not,” said Mendel. “We have the time.”

Liebermann detected suspicion in the network of creases around his father’s eyes.

“And if we’re quick,” said Alexander, “we won’t have to forgo the pleasure of Frau Ruzicka’s delightful pastries.”

The old Jewish cemetery was built on what appeared to be a small hillock and was completely surrounded by a perimeter wall.

“Are any of our family buried here?” Liebermann asked his father.

“Probably. Your great-grandfather was a Praguer-although he’s buried in the new cemetery, of course. I think they stopped burying people here more than a hundred years ago.”

“What was his occupation, my great-grandfather?”

“He was a tailor.”

“Do you remember him?”

“No. He died long before Alexander and I were born.”

They climbed up a steep path and were soon surrounded by headstones. These were of varying sizes and were packed closely together. Some were leaning over, others had fallen flat, and all were covered in Hebrew inscriptions. Nearly five hundred winters had taken their toll, rendering the older monuments illegible. The lettering had filled with moss, creating strange emerald patterns against the gray stone. Although chaotic and decayed, the necropolis possessed a sombre majesty. Even Liebermann, who was generally inured to such things, felt something akin to reverence.

Liebermann and his uncle walked along the path, leaving Mendel behind. The old man seemed to be tarrying on purpose. Glancing over his shoulder, Liebermann saw his father standing very still in the dappled shadows beneath a lime tree. He guessed that Mendel wanted to be alone in order to say a prayer.

The route that Liebermann and his uncle had chosen ascended until they were level with the first-floor windows of the buildings beyond the perimeter wall. The path took them on a meandering course that squeezed between the serried graves. Liebermann noticed that several of the dead had been honored in the traditional Jewish way: pebbles had been placed on the headstones as a mark of esteem. One of the headstones was particularly conspicuous in this respect. The tributes and folded messages of supplication were so abundant that many had fallen and scattered on the ground.

“Who is buried here?” asked Liebermann.

“Oh, I think this is the grave of Rabbi Loew. He was a holy man… and a sort of Hebrew magician. A kabbalist.”

Liebermann turned sharply to address his uncle.

“Do you know much about him?”

“Not a great deal. The local Hasidim have lots of legends about his good works. He was supposed to have performed miracles and to have protected the ghetto in times of persecution. He used to preach at the Old-New Synagogue. They still have his chair there.”

Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue.

“Where is it?”

“The Old-New Synagogue?”

“Yes.”

“Just over there.” Alexander raised his arm and pointed. “On Maiselova.”

Mendel was approaching.

“Well,” he called out, “just enough time for a coffee, and then we must see Broz and Holub.”

“Father,” said Liebermann, “forgive me… but I’d like to see the Old-New Synagogue.”

“What?”

“Would you mind?”

Mendel came to a halt and looked somewhat puzzled. “Can’t you go later? Since when have you been interested in synagogues?”

“I would very much like to go now,” Liebermann answered. The tone of his voice was firm.

“You spend half the night drinking with your uncle-and don’t deny it.” Mendel lifted a finger to silence Alexander’s anticipated objection. “And then you want to go to the synagogue!” Mendel looked up at the sky as if beseeching God for assistance. “Sometimes…”

Liebermann had already started to retreat.

“I’ll see you back at the hotel, Father.”

“Why can’t you see the synagogue and catch us up at the coffeehouse? It won’t take you long.”

“No. I’d prefer to take my time, if you don’t mind. Good-bye, Father… Uncle Alexander.”

Liebermann bowed and hurried off.

Mendel turned to his brother, shaking his head.

“I don’t understand him. Do you?”

Alexander leaned both hands on his cane and replied, “No. I thought I did. But, on reflection, I realize I was quite mistaken.”