Vienna Secrets

55

Liebermann crossed the busy road and entered the little park in front of the Votivkirche. Seen from the front, the church was an assembly of steeples, pointed windows, and arches that drew the eye upward, to a blue sky quartered by two crocket-covered spires. The exuberance of the architecture suited Liebermann’s mood. He was glad to be back in Vienna and eager to see Rheinhardt. There was much to discuss.

As he walked, he thought he could see his friend sitting on a bench in the distance. He quickened his pace but came to an abrupt halt when an organ-grinder’s monkey leaped out onto the path in front of him. It chirruped and raised an empty tin cup. The organ-grinder, who was dressed in a bowler hat and shabby tailcoat, was standing behind a barrel organ of medium size, its lacquered box supported by a long retractable metal spike. A strap around the man’s neck helped him to balance the instrument with one hand, leaving the other free to turn the crank handle. The doors at the front of the device had been left open, displaying the pipes and a rotating drum. As a result of his efforts, the sound of the Maximilianplatz traffic was drowned out by one of Schubert’s German Dances.

Liebermann bent forward and dropped a few coins into the monkey’s cup. Immediately, the creature scampered up the organ-grinder’s legs and then to his shoulders, where it lifted the man’s hat to express gratitude. Liebermann smiled and continued toward the church.

He found Rheinhardt enjoying the rays of an unusually bright sun, his head thrown back to catch the warmth and light.

“Oskar!”

The inspector stirred. “Max!”

Rheinhardt stood, and the young doctor gripped his friend’s arm.

“Oskar, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Oh, it was nothing really,” said Rheinhardt. He gestured that they should sit, and produced a brown paper bag from his pocket. “Pumpkin seed?”

Liebermann shook his head.

“I am deeply indebted,” Liebermann continued. “Accompanying my father on his business trip to Prague was unspeakably boring. You have no idea.”

“Ah, but I do,” said Rheinhardt. “A detective inspector in this bureaucratic empire is no stranger to tedium. You forget how many forms I am obliged to complete! Now.” Rheinhardt sat up straight. “Why did you want to see me? Am I justified in assuming that it was not merely to thank me in person?”

“That is correct.”

“You have discovered something?”

“I have.”

“Pertaining to the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“In Prague?”

“Indeed.”

“Then perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me?”

“Forgive me, Oskar. On this occasion I am not being coy. Merely considering how best to explain myself.”

Rheinhardt poured some pumpkin seeds into the palm of his hand.

“Thankfully,” sighed the inspector, “I don’t have to be back at Schottenring for another hour, by which time I sincerely hope you will have decided upon a satisfactory turn of phrase.”

Liebermann took a deep breath.

“When I interviewed Barash,” he began hesitantly, “he said some things to me that I did not include in my report.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t think they were of any consequence at the time. They were rather personal. He accused me of failing to respect my origins, which are Czech on my father’s side, and he urged me to visit the Jewish cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue in Prague. He suggested that if I embraced my Jewish heritage, I would gain insights into the murders of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust. Needless to say, I interpreted these exhortations as further evidence of his derangement-no better or worse than his confidence in metoposcopy! However, when circumstances conspired to transport me not only to the Czech capital but also to the locality of both the cemetery and the synagogue, I must admit that curiosity got the better of me.”

Liebermann paused, allowing two ladies with wide-brimmed hats to pass out of earshot.

“In the Jewish cemetery, I came across the tomb of a famous sixteenth-century scholar, Rabbi Loew. He is reputed to have been one of the greatest kabbalists of all time. He preached at the Old-New Synagogue, and he has become a kind of folk hero among the Hasidim. Of the many tales told of his miraculous ministry, there is one that seems to have become a favorite. It is said that when the ghetto Jews were being persecuted, Rabbi Loew used his magical powers to create an artificial being of great power to protect them. The being he created was called a golem, and it was made from mud.”

Rheinhardt dropped the bag of pumpkin seeds onto his lap. A few spilled across the path.

“Mud?”

“Yes.”

Rheinhardt’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth contracted into a tight circle.

“I am not suggesting,” Liebermann continued, “that a golem created in Alois Gasse killed Stanislav and Faust. But this is clearly what we-or at least those who are familiar with the legends of the Prague ghetto-are being invited to believe. A kabbalist’s lair containing barrels of mud… mud strewn around the bodies of anti-Semites… These similarities cannot be coincidental. Moreover, the golem legend also explains one of the most puzzling features of the Josefstadt and Hietzing murders: Why did the perpetrators choose such an inconvenient method of decapitation? Well, now we have a very plausible hypothesis. The heads of the victims were torn from their bodies to suggest the exercise of supernatural strength.”

“Extraordinary,” said Rheinhardt.

“The legends of the Prague ghetto are not well known beyond the city, but they are told by Hasidim everywhere. Subsequently I suspect that they are the only inhabitants of Vienna who would appreciate the significance of the Alois Gasse lair, the mud, and the brutal decapitations.”

“What are we to conclude, then? That Barash killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust?”

Liebermann looked up at the Votivkirche spires.

“Barash’s sect is not the only one to be found in Leopoldstadt. And if he is guilty, I wonder why he chose to implicate himself further by demonstrating that he was in possession of relevant knowledge. The golem legend does make the murders more intelligible.”

“You have already questioned his sanity,” said Rheinhardt bluntly. “Perhaps he was just behaving irrationally; however, his familiarity with the golem legend doesn’t necessarily implicate him further. If, as you say, the golem is a staple of the Hasidic storytelling tradition, then Barash would have, quite naturally, connected the murders of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust with Rabbi Loew’s monster. He was simply pointing this out to you, albeit in an oblique way.”

Liebermann shook his head. “Barash told me to go to Prague before the discovery of the Alois Gasse lair. And none of the newspaper reports have, to my knowledge, said anything about the mud discovered close to the bodies. In addition, Barash was quite definite when he said that if I visited the Jewish ghetto in Prague I would better understand the nature of the murders.”

“All right, then. For the sake of argument let us entertain the notion that Barash is guilty. What is his purpose?”

“To foment some kind of religious revival, perhaps? I believe that Hasidism, and particularly Lurianic Hasidism, is a messianic belief system.”

“And are you still of the opinion,” Rheinhardt continued, “that the decapitations were a joint enterprise, requiring the combined effort of more than one man?”

“Barash is a big fellow, but I cannot believe that he is strong enough to make short work of tearing a man’s head off.”

“Then we must assume that he was assisted by his disciples.”

Rheinhardt detected a pumpkin seed nestling in the folds of his trousers and promptly put it into his mouth.

“I am reminded,” said Liebermann, “of the condition known as ‘folie a deux.’ The term is employed to describe the curious phenomenon of two individuals sharing the same-usually paranoid-delusion. Although contagious insanity, as it was once called, typically affects two people, it can extend from the original pair to three, four, or even five persons. The infectious delusion tends to arise in a man of strong character, and is subsequently imposed on weaker and more impressionable associates. Thus, it is also sometimes designated folie imposee.”

“Perhaps you should interview Barash again?”

“Yes, I think that is a good idea.”

The organ-grinder’s monkey scampered across the grass and began to make a meal of Rheinhardt’s spilled pumpkin seeds.

“This is a grave business,” said Rheinhardt. “We must now suppose that the perpetrators, even if they are not Barash and his disciples, are more than likely to be Hasidic Jews.”

“You are worried about how the Christian Socials will respond?”

Rheinhardt nodded.

“Saladin!” It was the organ-grinder, chasing his pet. “Saladin!”

The man came toward them, the lacquered box swinging from the straps around his neck.

“Saladin, you scoundrel! Leave the gentlemen alone.”

The monkey scooped up the last of the pumpkin seeds and ran back to his master.

That evening, Liebermann played a selection of Chopin Studies, including the testing Number Twelve in C minor. He was pleased with his performance, particularly the ease with which his left hand now provided the thunderous accompaniment to the dramatic chords in the right. The Klammer Method was yielding quite exceptional results. Closing the volume, he discovered beneath it a copy of the Opus 45 C sharp minor Prelude. He had intended to stop practicing, but the prospect of Chopin’s enigmatic masterpiece prevented him from leaving the music room. Liebermann placed his hands on the keyboard and produced a sequence of descending harmonies that found a melancholy resting place in the resonant lower octaves of the Bosendorfer. A bel canto melody gradually emerged, but in due course surrendered its authority to an arpeggiated bass.

Liebermann began thinking about Prague-not the Jewish cemetery, the Old-New Synagogue, Rabbi Loew, or the golem, but instead his hotel room-and the pretty prostitute, Anezka.

What I did was shameful.

The arpeggiated bass executed a series of dreamy, remote modulations.

And such folly…

That he, a doctor, should have taken such a risk. It was a depressing thought, but now, for all he knew, he might be destined to suffer the same fate as the young Baron von Kortig.

Alexander!

He felt angry at his libertine uncle. But his ire could not be sustained. How could he blame Alexander? His uncle had only meant to cheer him up. It was his own fault, and his fault alone.

Liebermann came to the cadenza, and the sense of key dissolved in a cascade of tritones. This untethering of tonality reflected Liebermann’s mental state. He felt emotionally lost, without direction.

The bel canto melody returned, and the prelude coasted to its sombre close. For a few moments, Liebermann remained still, his head bowed, listening to the fading notes. Then he closed the lid, and retired to his bedroom.

After his ablutions, he changed into his nightshirt and tried to go to sleep. The attempt was futile, as his memory kept on tormenting him with spectral impressions of accommodating flesh, black eyes, and red lips.

It must have been past two in the morning when the telephone rang.

“Max?”

“Oskar?”

“There’s been another murder.”

“A decapitation?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Saint Ulrich’s-Spittelberg.”

“Do you want me to-”

“Come. Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll send a police vehicle.”

“Who is it? Do you know?”

Rheinhardt paused before giving his answer. “A man named Jeheil Sachs.”

“Jeheil Sachs…”

“Yes. A Jew. Now, I wonder where that leaves us?”