Vienna Secrets

62

The stove had been lit, but the room still felt cold. As before, Liebermann found the dull, lifeless decor of Barash’s parlor enervating. It seemed to sap his strength.

“I followed your advice,” said Liebermann. “I have just returned from Prague.”

Barash tilted his head to one side and raised his chin.

“You surprise me, Herr Doctor.”

“I visited the Jewish cemetery and the Old-New Synagogue, just as you recommended.”

“Then I hope you benefited from the experience.”

“The cemetery and the synagogue have a very particular atmosphere, a poignancy that is difficult to describe.”

“Again, you surprise me. I had thought you would be inured to such influences.” The zaddik toyed with the tassels hanging from beneath his frock coat. “So, Herr Doctor, do you understand now?”

From outside came the sound of a man whistling. The melody was full of the complex embellishments that typified the music of Eastern Jewry, exotic intervals and imitative sobs and sighs. Liebermann waited for the melody to fade.

“I discovered the grave of Rabbi Loew and learned of his remarkable ministry, how he protected his people in difficult times.”

“Your journey was not wasted,” said Barash concisely.

A lengthy silence followed.

“May I ask…” Liebermann was hesitant. “How does one go about making a golem?”

Barash’s expression altered. It might have been a smile, but if so the small, flickering light of good humor did little to relieve the darkness in his eyes. The overhang of his brow ensured that his face could never be wholly free of disapprobation.

“The procedure is described in many places,” the zaddik replied. “However, the clearest instructions can be found in the commentary of Eleazar of Worms on The Book of Creation.” Liebermann’s face showed no sign of recognition. “Eleazar ben Judah of Worms,” Barash continued, “was a thirteenth-century German kabbalist and liturgical poet. His instructions for the making of a golem have been revised and presented as a separate work. It is called pe’ullath hayetsirah, which means ‘the practical application of The Book of Creation.’ Eleazar tells us that two or three adepts should take part in the ritual. Untilled earth is kneaded in running water and molded into human form. The transformation-from inanimate to living matter-is achieved through the recitation of letters taken from the Sefer Yetzirah. Other methods have been described, but it is Eleazar’s method that commands the greatest respect among students of kabbalah.”

“Not difficult, then? Simply a matter of following instructions.”

Barash glowered. His expression was as oppressive, and baleful, as the gloom preceding a deluge.

“The ritual is highly dangerous. It must be observed precisely or catastrophic consequences will follow. An error in the ritual would not damage the golem, but it would very likely destroy the creator. He would be returned to his primal element. He would be sucked back into the earth.”

These words were spoken with such fierce conviction that they produced a complementary image in Liebermann’s mind: a wide-open mouth, screaming and sinking, being filled with loam. It was a disturbing image, and it sent a shiver down Liebermann’s spine.

“Rebbe Barash, have you ever tried to make a golem?”

“No!” cried Barash. “I would not be so reckless, so presumptuous, so foolhardy!” The denial was emphatic. “I have the power-” The zaddik quickly corrected himself: “I do not have the power.”

Liebermann noted the slip. Professor Freud asserted that people often betrayed themselves-their true beliefs, wishes, and intentions-by making verbal blunders. What, Liebermann wondered, does this slip mean? Did Barash believe that he was capable of performing Eleazar’s ritual? Did he believe that he had already succeeded? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s megalomania-an unconscious fantasy of omnipotence?

“I assume you’ve heard about the discovery in Alois Gasse?”

Barash’s massive hands came together, the fingers interlocking.

“It was inevitable that he would reveal himself.”

“He?”

“The creator of the Vienna golem.”

Liebermann suspended his disbelief and continued the conversation as if he accepted that such a creature could exist.

“Who is he, this creator?”

“I don’t know. He wishes to remain unknown. Or perhaps he must remain unknown as a condition of his being in the world, like the righteous-the lamed vavniks-the thirty-six hidden saints whose presence here on earth prevents humanity from descending into barbarism. We might pass him on the street, seeing only a humble peddler, but believe me, he is a great soul.” Barash shrugged, his mountainous shoulders rising and falling like a geological upheaval. “A great soul,” he repeated. “Perhaps the revenant may even be Loew himself come back to us.”

“How could that be?”

“The magid of Safed teaches us that the soul is eternal, participating in long chains of transmigration, back to the very beginning.” Barash closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them again slowly. “They say that Rabbi Loew’s golem still sleeps in the Old-New Synagogue, waiting for a time when he is needed again; however, I understand this to be figurative, a promise on which we can build our hopes. When the forces of darkness gather, and our people are in danger, a great soul will come into the world to assist us.”

“Do we live in such bad times?” Liebermann asked.

“We do, Herr Doctor. And the tragedy is that you and the legions of dispossessed like you do not realize it.”

Barash was quite mad, but he had an annoying habit of saying things that were perceptive. Liebermann’s predicament at the hospital was almost entirely due to his refusal to take anti-Semitism seriously. Discomfited by Barash’s pointed remark, Liebermann became interrogative.

“Rebbe Barash, what were you doing last night?”

“I was praying.”

“All night?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I often pray into the night. It is peaceful… and I feel closer to God.”

Liebermann continued to ask questions, but Barash’s answers revealed nothing of consequence. In due course Liebermann said, “There has been another murder.”

Barash responded calmly. “Like the others?”

“Yes. The victim’s head was torn from his body and his remains were left outside a church.”

“Then it has struck again.”

“The murder was the same in all respects,” continued Liebermann, “with one exception.” He paused dramatically.

“Which was?”

“The victim was not an enemy of Jewry.”

“Are you sure, Herr Doctor?”

“Quite sure.”

“But how can you possibly say?”

“He was Jewish.”

The zaddik appeared genuinely surprised. His thick eyebrows rose up, and his lips parted.

“That is not possible.” He spoke hoarsely, his basso profundo momentarily robbed of its savory depth. Liebermann played a five-finger exercise on the chair arm. The soft percussion of his fingertips on the wood filled the hiatus, until Barash added more steadily, “No. You must be mistaken.”

Liebermann’s fingers stopped moving. “All of the evidence suggests the contrary. Whoever-whatever-killed Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust also killed Jeheil Sachs.”

Barash shook his head, slow and bovine. His coiled sideburns continued bouncing after the movement was completed. “No. You are mistaken. Another party is responsible.” His expression communicated that he saw no point in discussing the matter any further.

Liebermann was dissatisfied. Apart from the zaddik’s slip of the tongue, the interview had not been very revealing. Feeling frustrated, Liebermann asked, “Did you sleep at all last night, Rebbe Barash?”

“Yes. I retired at about four or five this morning.”

“Last time we spoke, our conversation touched upon the subject of dreams. May I ask, when you slept, did you dream?”

“I did.”

“What about?”

The zaddik’s eyebrows joined, and his brow became a network of deep creases, “I cannot tell you about my dreams,” he said disdainfully. “They are sacred, and it is most impertinent of you to make such an inquiry. When you ask a man about his dreams, you ask him to expose his soul. You eavesdrop on a conversation between man and God.”

Barash stood up.

“Herr Doctor, I am afraid I have other business. I have attempted to answer your questions in good faith, but it is clear to me that you still believe that I am in some way connected with the deaths of the monk Stanislav and Councillor Faust. Once again, I must protest and declare my innocence. If I am to be arrested, then please proceed. Tell your associates at the security office that I am ready. However, if it is not your intention to arrest me, then I would ask you to leave me in peace.”

Barash crossed the room and opened the door. Liebermann followed.

The young doctor thanked the zaddik for his assistance, but Barash did not respond. He stood in the doorway, perfectly still, his gigantic frame swaying slightly. It was an unnatural stillness, and it reminded Liebermann of the absences that he had observed in certain hysterical and neurological cases. Liebermann then noticed that the zaddik’s gaze was focused on Liebermann’s forehead. Quite suddenly Barash blinked as if waking from a deep sleep and grumbled an apology.

“I am sorry, Herr Doctor. I am tired. Perhaps you could see yourself out.”

Liebermann did not move. “What did you see?”

Barash extended his hand and touched the doorjamb in order to steady himself. “Great danger,” he whispered.

“Am I going to die?” Liebermann asked.

“We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor,” said Barash obtusely.

“Am I going to die in the next thirty days?” Liebermann persisted. “Is that what you saw?”

The zaddik’s face was inscrutable. “Be very careful.”

Liebermann wasn’t sure whether Barash was showing compassion or issuing a threat.