“Who told you that?”
“My wife. Old Robak’s eldest daughter is a friend of my wife’s aunt.”
Nahum tapped the pyramid of small weights on the scale. He wanted to believe, but his faith in the zaddik had been weakened. It was only a matter of time before the two men came again, making impossible demands. He and his father were close to ruin.
“Mud,” he said pensively. “In both places?”
“Yes,” said Yudl. “It can mean only one thing.”
32
LIEBERMANN MADE HIS WAY to the old ghetto district and Rebbe Barash’s residence. He was received by a sullen maid who ushered him into a sparsely furnished parlor: two armchairs, a stove, and an old sideboard. The walls were a dreary buff color, as were the curtains and the faded rug. Indeed, the whole room seemed to have been drained of vitality: everything in it was of an anemic, indefinite hue.
The young doctor sat down and waited. Time passed, and he occupied himself by performing some of the Klammer Method exercises. First wrist rotations, and then, holding his hands out in front of his body, he repeatedly touched the proximal phalanx of his little fingers with the tips of his thumbs. This movement, Professor Klammer suggested, was invaluable for development of the abductor pollicis brevis, opponens pollicis, and flexor pollicis brevis muscles. Liebermann continued his regimen until he reached exercise eleven, at which point the door opened and the zaddik entered.
In his general appearance, Barash conformed to Liebermann’s expectations, a Hasidic jew with a shaven head, skullcap, coiled sideburns, and heavy frock coat. He was, however, astonishingly large, a man whose dimensions demanded nothing less than comparison with features of the natural world. He was positively mountainous, possessing broad, peaked shoulders, and a face that resembled a serendipitously anthropomorphic arrangement of rocks. His scowl was evocative of the darkness that precedes a thunderstorm.
Barash sat directly opposite Liebermann, resting his big sculpted hands on the arms of his chair.
“My name is Dr. Max Liebermann. I am an associate of Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt of the security office.” Liebermann produced his official papers, but the zaddik showed no interest. “You were informed in advance of my visit?”
The zaddik nodded.
After some preliminary remarks, it was clear to Liebermann that Barash did not want to prolong their meeting with inconsequential courtesies. Indeed, after only a few polite exchanges Barash said curtly, “Herr Doctor, your business?”
“Rebbe Barash,” said Liebermann, “were you acquainted with Chaim Robak?”
“Yes,” Barash replied. “He used to attend one of my study groups.”
“A good student?”
“Exceptional.”
After a little prompting, Barash talked freely about his former pupil. He remembered a virtuous young man-quiet, bookish, but not shy, a young man with many friends, respectful of his father, and loved by his sisters. Barash delivered his obituary in a steady monotone, his features set fast. Nevertheless, his eyes betrayed him, revealing genuine sorrow in their moist, reflective glaze.
“Who do you believe was responsible for his murder?” Liebermann asked.
“You know what happened that day, the day his body was found?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then,” said the zaddik. “It must have been one of the agitators.”
“Where were you when the trouble started?”
“I was right here, sitting in this very room, reading. I could hear them, though. They had gathered for their rally in the market square. At first, I thought it would be wise to stay inside; however, the noise-the shouting and shrieking-became very loud, and I decided that I should go out after all. I thought I might be able to assist if anyone got hurt. I told my wife to go down into the cellar with the children. They were very frightened.”
“What did you see?”
“People running around-confused, trying to get away from the fracas. When I got to the market square, there was fighting, but it wasn’t long before the police arrived and the crowd dispersed. In actuality, there wasn’t much I could do. A few young men had been hurt and were sitting on the cobbles, holding bloodied handkerchiefs to their faces. But no one had been seriously injured.”
“Did you see the monk, Stanislav?”
“Yes, I did. As a matter of fact, we came face-to-face. He was marching away from the square, surrounded by henchmen. We almost bumped into each other.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“No. He didn’t notice me. He seemed eager to make a quick departure.”
Liebermann paused.
“Rebbe Barash, has anyone told you about the articles that Brother Stanislav wrote for the Catholic newspaper Das Vaterland?”
“No.”
“In one of them he likened Jews to a plague.”
Liebermann watched Barash for a reaction, but the zaddik merely shrugged. His expression was impassive. Liebermann continued, “Does the name Burke Faust mean anything to you?”
“He was a councillor-murdered last week, I believe.”
“Do you know how he was murdered?”
“Decapitated, same as the monk.”
“He was also the author of an article in which Jews were likened to a plague.”
“I have heard, from people better informed about such matters than myself, that he was a bad man.”
Liebermann tilted his head against his clenched fist, unfurled his index finger, and tapped his temple.
“Do you believe in prophecy, Rebbe Barash?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is it a gift that you possess?”
“I am the spiritual leader of my community,” Barash replied obtusely.
“It is rumored that you predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Who told you this?”
“Inspector Rheinhardt. He has friends in Leopoldstadt. Well, is it true? Did you predict the death of Brother Stanislav?”
“Yes,” said Barash, his hooded eyelids lowering a fraction. “I did.”
“How was that possible?”
“It was written… on his face.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was written on his face,” Barash repeated. The zaddik sighed and continued. “We-that is to say, my congregation and I-venerate the teachings of Isaac Luria.”
“Who?”
Barash’s scowl intensified.
“Isaac Luria. A great holy man who lived in Palestine hundreds of years ago. He practiced metoposcopy, the art of reading lines on the human face. It is very similar to palmistry, a sister discipline that has proved more popular since Luria’s time.” Liebermann bristled. “Is it such a peculiar notion, Herr Doctor? Many educated medical men-like yourself-accept physiognomy, do they not?”
“They do. But I am not one of them. I am not persuaded that a man’s character is revealed by the shape of his nose.”
“You might, however, agree that men frequently acquire the faces they deserve. By that I mean that men often make choices, and these choices have consequences with respect to their appearance. For example, a man overly fond of schnapps will look very different from his abstemious neighbor.” Liebermann thought the argument was specious, but he conceded the point and gestured for Barash to continue. “Lines on the forehead often suggest letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and these can be interpreted.”
Liebermann was unable to conceal his incredulity. “So, you saw letters on the monk’s forehead, and it was written there, in Hebrew, that he would die?”
“Let us say,” Barash replied with mysterious precision, “that what I saw was enough for me to know that he would not live for more than thirty days.” Before Liebermann could formulate his next question, Barash added, “You are a doctor who specializes in treating diseases of the mind?”
Barash gave no sign that he was exercising his metoposcopic powers. Liebermann assumed that it was merely a good guess.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you and I are not so very different. It is said that every evening Luria would look closely at his disciples’ faces until he could discern scriptural verses on their foreheads. He would explain the meaning of these verses and instruct his disciples to reflect on them before going to sleep. On waking, his disciples recorded their dreams, which were later taken to the master for interpretation. Through cycles of close observation, explanation, and dream interpretation, Luria helped his disciples to understand themselves better and resolve their spiritual dilemmas. I try to extend the same service to my students. Now, isn’t this-or at least something very similar-what you do for your patients? Surely, a good psychiatrist observes his patients closely, tries to read their faces, and offers them interpretations. And when a patient tells you about his dreams, do you not listen very carefully? For you know as well as I that the secret life of the soul is revealed in dreams.”