“That is not a question I have the moral authority to answer,” the young doctor replied calmly.
68
They had just completed the Schone Mullerin song cycle and were very satisfied with their performance. Rheinhardt’s voice had sounded particularly good, discovering in each perfectly constructed phrase new registers of bittersweet feeling.
The images still lingered: murmuring brooks, water mills, broad skies-a landscape of innocent pleasures. And, for any self-respecting German romantic, the natural setting for tales of unrequited love and suicidal despair.
“One more,” said Liebermann, rummaging in his piano stool for a suitable song to end with.
“Yes, but only one more,” said Rheinhardt. “My voice is going.”
“Nonsense,” said Liebermann. “You’re in excellent form. Ah, how about this?”
He placed some more Schubert on the music stand: Gretchen am Spinnrade. Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel.
It was not an obvious choice, the sentiment of the poetry being, strictly speaking, more appropriate for a female singer. Nevertheless, Liebermann found that he was seized by a curious desire to hear Schubert’s beautiful lyric melody. Gretchen am Spinnrade was a miracle of precocity. It had been completed before the composer had reached twenty, and most music aficionados agreed that even if Schubert had lived to a hundred he would not have been able to improve a single note.
Rheinhardt shrugged. “Very well.”
Liebermann’s hands dropped to the keyboard, producing on contact the fluid semiquavers that evoked with astonishing fidelity the turning of Gretchen’s spinning wheel. So powerful was this impression that the listener could all but hear her foot pumping the treadle. The semiquavers were relentless, their melancholy revolutions suggesting not only poignant yearning but tired resignation. Schubert’s account of Gretchen’s wheel had, perhaps, more in common with the medieval Rota Fortuna than with a machine for making yarn. Human beings might rail against fate, but ultimately each individual had to accept his or her destiny. There was no other choice. Gretchen’s wheel reproduced in the listener’s mind an intimation of universal circularities: orbiting worlds and the motion of stars. Never, thought Liebermann, had a composer responded so comprehensively to a given text, finding within the poetry meanings that might even have escaped its author, no less a genius than the godlike Goethe.
Rheinhardt’s baritone was rich and dark: “Meine Ruh ist hin,”
My peace is gone,
“Mein Herz ist schwer,”
My heart is heavy,
“Ich finde sie nimmer, Und nimmermehr.”
I shall never, ever find peace again.
Why, Liebermann wondered, did I want to hear this song again, this song of yearning and fate?
A series of ghostly images flickered in front of his eyes.
Uncle Alexander on the Charles Bridge: This Englishwoman, if I am not mistaken, is your unattainable object of desire.
Miss Lydgate in front of the Karlskirche: Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism employed a large screw with a helical thread.
The chancellor: Had you apologized to the committee when I advised you to, Herr Doctor, this problem might have been swiftly and quietly resolved.
Barash: We are all of us going to die, Herr Doctor.
These images were connected in some way and were struggling to tell him something, but he couldn’t say what, exactly. Their deeper meaning, like the latent content of dreams, was elusive. Nevertheless, he was acutely aware of the great Rota Fortuna turning, bringing him closer and closer to an uncertain fate. Ordinarily, Liebermann was not superstitious. But he could not dismiss a nagging presentiment of peril that had made its home in the pit of his stomach.
The spinning wheel figure was interrupted at the song’s emotional climax, and Rheinhardt’s voice rang out above inconclusive, questioning harmonies. A brief pause. Then, hesitatingly at first, the revolving figure began again, proceeding inexorably to the final bar: a tonic minor chord, held into silence.
Liebermann closed the music book, and he and Rheinhardt retired, without exchanging a single word, to the smoking room.
A full ten minutes passed before Liebermann said, “So, what have you learned about Jeheil Sachs? The newspaper articles said very little about him-other than that he was Jewish, of course.”
Rheinhardt nodded.
“He was a small-time procurer whose business was conducted in a tiny hovel in Spittelberg. He solicited for a young Galician woman named Kadia Pinski. She had become dissatisfied with her sorry existence and wanted to make a new life for herself. Sachs assaulted her. It was a brutal assault, in which he violated her person with the handle of a brush.” The expression of disgust on Rheinhardt’s face disambiguated his euphemistic sentence. “She almost died. Fortunately, she was able to get medical help, but only after she had collapsed in the Spittelberg warmestube. The two women who run it, Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl, called for a doctor, and Fraulein Pinski was admitted into a private hospital.”
“Does she have friends? Relatives?”
“People who might want to take vengeance on Sachs? No. Not here in Vienna. She was all alone, easy prey for a procurer: young, destitute, unable to speak German. I daresay that she must have initially thought Sachs was her savior, a charitable co religionist, offering her food and shelter.” Rheinhardt drew on his cigar and expelled a prolific quantity of smoke. “The warmestube frauleins-Katzer and Mandl-took it upon themselves to visit Sachs in order to issue some sort of legal threat. Pinski was too frightened to make a statement, and besides, the police-I am ashamed to admit-are reluctant to come to the aid of unlicensed prostitutes: especially those of Galician origin. A witness reported that the women and Sachs argued.”
“Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl. Those names sound familiar to me.”
“They are two socialites who have made it their avocation to raise money for charitable-and mostly Jewish-causes. They are often mentioned in the society columns.”
“Yes, that’s it. I remember reading something about them in the Neue Freie Presse. The archduchess Marie Valerie attended the opening of the Spittelberg warmestube.” Liebermann poured some brandy. “Surely you don’t suspect…” Liebermann allowed the sentence to trail off.
“Sachs’s treatment of Pinski was heinous. He was an odious man who would have no doubt continued to exploit young women. They are wealthy. They are well connected. They wanted to stop him.”
“Yes, but if murder was their aim, then Sachs could have been dispatched neatly and efficiently with a stiletto. There are, as we know, villains who would willingly provide such a service for a relatively small sum. Why on earth would they choose to link his demise with the deaths of Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust?”
“We have previously speculated about the operation of a group-a cabal-whose intention all along has been, for whatever reason, to revive the myth of the golem, to inspire belief in its existence. Now, if the golem’s purpose is to protect Jews, then one can imagine why such a creature might have been commanded to kill an individual such as Sachs. In his own way, Sachs was as much a threat to the Jewish community as were Brother Stanislav and Councillor Faust. The Church has been warned, politicians have been warned, and now the Jewish community itself has been warned: punishment will be meted out to anyone who harms Jews, even Jews who harm other Jews.”
“Well,” said Liebermann, “if we posit the existence of a militant secret society, then there is no reason why its generals shouldn’t receive intelligence from unlikely agents.”
Rheinhardt tapped the ash from his cigar.
“Fraulein Katzer is romantically associated with a young doctor, a gentleman called Kusevitsky.”
“Gabriel Kusevitsky?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Indeed. We’ve met twice: once at my father’s lodge-B’nai B’rith-and again in the Cafe Central only a few days ago. He is an enthusiastic supporter of Professor Freud.”