Liebermann thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled and said, “So I did!”
“Well, then, it seems to me that you have already proposed an ideal environment in which the phenomenon you seek to explain might occur. If my memory serves me correctly, you said that a rebbe might claim to receive instructions from God, and that his devotees-in the absence of any other counsel-would very likely obey his orders without question.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, impressed by his own perspicacity. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“There is a rebbe among the Hasidim of Leopoldstadt called Barash, who is said to have predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Did he prophesy that the monk was going to be decapitated?”
“We’re not sure. One of his sect became involved in a religious argument and was overheard making the claim.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In a coffeehouse. Zuckers. I wonder, would you be willing to interview Barash, Max?”
“Of course. But if we are correct, and it transpires that these murders are the work of a Jewish cabal, can you imagine how the Christian Socials and the clerics will react! Think of the political capital they made out of that miserable wretch Hilsner!” Liebermann flicked his glass, and the crystal emitted a soft chime. “Which makes me wonder… what if? What if these murders are not what they appear to be? What if they are a means of turning public opinion against an all too obviously guilty party?”
Rheinhardt poured himself another large brandy.
In his mind, he saw an angry horde crossing the Danube canal and marching into Leopoldstadt. He saw men in caftans being dragged from their houses, and he saw blood on the cobbled streets. He tried to think of something else, but the images were vivid and persistent.
30
PROFESSOR PRIEL TROTTED DOWN the stairs of the university and paused on the pavement to extricate his watch from his vest pocket. He noted the time, and set off in a southerly direction. If he hurried, he would be able to deliver the envelope that he carried in his pocket to Frau Meyer and be back in good time to give his afternoon tutorial. The envelope contained a donation from the Rothenstein Education Fellowship, and its purpose was to provide Frau Meyer with sufficient funds to equip her new school on Alois Gasse with some basic classroom furniture. The donation would probably be reported in the newspapers, and once again the public would be informed of Rothenstein’s outstanding generosity. Priel, of course, would not be mentioned. He never was.
Another man might have felt envious or resentful, but Priel was remarkably sanguine concerning his situation. Indeed, he rather liked being an eminence grise: advising, making suggestions, his judgment trusted. He associated himself with the Talmudic legend of the lamed vavniks, the righteous men. Living in the world there are, at any given time, thirty-six righteous men whose good deeds stop the world from ending. They accomplish their work in secret and are never rewarded. When one dies, another is born. And so it goes on, from generation to generation, thirty-six anonymous Jews standing unthanked between civilization and ruin.
Priel thought about Frau Meyer. A widow, dedicated to improving the lot of the latest wave of immigrant children who had arrived in Leopoldstadt. He would give her the envelope, and she would smile, clasp his hand, and express profound gratitude. And he would then reply, as he always did, It isn’t me whom you should be thanking.
Rothenstein was always too busy hobnobbing with royalty to decide who should-or shouldn’t-be the recipient of his largesse. And Rothenstein’s wife, Priel’s sister, was completely self-obsessed. The fate of the poor meant nothing to her as compared with the unmitigated disaster of wearing the wrong kind of dress at a palace function. Priel’s two nieces and his nephew were equally indifferent. Brittle, shallow, and spoiled, their German was embarrassingly inflected to sound like the imperial dialect known as Schonbrunnerdeutsch. Over the years Priel had been given more and more responsibility for the distribution of Rothenstein’s bounty. Occasionally, when Priel presented Rothenstein with documents to sign, the great banker would ask a few bland questions. But if Priel attempted to give him a proper answer, Rothenstein would soon look bored and end the conversation by saying, “I’m sure everything is in order. I have every confidence in you, Josef.” Like the rest of his family, Rothenstein enjoyed the gala balls and the public recognition much more than the process of determining which causes were the most deserving.
Priel passed the town hall and glanced up at its Gothic facade: the huge central tower, the elevated loggia with its curved balconies and delicate tracery.
Thirty-six righteous men…
They wouldn’t be found in there. Of that he was quite certain.
Priel accelerated his sprightly step. He was looking forward to seeing Frau Meyer again. She was an intelligent woman who appreciated philosophy and good music. The last time they’d met she had asked him what he thought of Nietzsche’s The Case of Wagner. The discussion that followed had been most stimulating. Moreover, she had kept her figure.
Having warned his students and the Kusevitsky brothers that great thinkers should be wary of the snare of marriage, he reprimanded himself.
Hypocrite!
He might not be a righteous man, exactly, but he was nevertheless a man of honor. He had an example to set. And as much as he would enjoy the company of Frau Meyer at the opera, it was probably better that he continued to go alone. He would give her the envelope, have a cup of tea, and leave.
31
NAHUM NAGEL PLACED THE small weights on one side of his scale and a large weight on the other. The equipoise was so perfect that even his breath caused the left side to dip lower than the right. His friend Yudl Berger was sitting on the other side of the shop counter on a three-legged stool.
“My cousin knows about these things,” said Yudl, winding around his fingers the knotted tassles that hung from his waist. “And in his opinion Faust would have caused us a lot of grief, had he lived. He wanted to introduce special taxes and special police.”
Upstairs, Nahum’s father began coughing. It sounded like someone sawing wood, a horrible double rasp. Yudl glanced upward. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“Zingler came a few weeks ago. He said we should consider moving so as to get away from the damp.” Nahum made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “How could we possibly manage that?”
Yudl nodded sympathetically but returned to his original theme. “You know Pinhas the draper? He was delivering some curtains up to the big hotel in Hietzing, where the body was found. He actually saw it, by the plague column.” Yudl raised his eyebrows and in a melodramatic stage whisper added, “Mud everywhere.”
Nahum looked up from his weights. “You don’t really believe…”
“Doubrovsky knows the shoeblack who sits outside the theatre in Josefstadt. When the police were getting ready to leave, several of them walked up to have their shoes cleaned. The shoeblack said they were filthy. Covered in thick mud. Like clay. Josefstadt and Hietzing.” Nahum shook his head. He was evidently unconvinced.
“Our rebbe Barash says that things are going to change,” Yudl continued. “For the better.”
“Ach! He said the same thing to my father, and look at us!”
The look in Nahum’s eyes was desperate, his voice angry.
“He was right about the priest, wasn’t he?” Yudl responded, defending their spiritual master. “He said the priest would never make trouble here again-and he won’t, that’s for sure! And did you hear what he said to old man Robak? He promised him justice, vengeance. Two weeks before!”
The expression of sulky resentment on Nahum’s face was replaced by curiosity.