9
“I cannot thank you enough,” said Rabbi Seligman to Professor Priel.
“Well, it isn’t me you should be thanking.”
“Yes, I know that it is Herr Rothenstein’s money, and I am indeed grateful for his generosity, but it was you who acted as our advocate.”
“Please,” said the professor, indicating with a gesture that he would not tolerate another word of praise. “The Alois Gasse Temple has a unique charm of its own, and its ark is a treasure. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was worth preserving. ‘The Rothenstein Judaica Fund,’ I said to myself. It is regrettable that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been allowed to fall into disrepair. I think we caught the rot just in time.”
“My predecessor, I understand, was not a worldly man. Isn’t that so, Kusiel?” The rabbi glanced at the shammos-the old caretaker.
“Whenever anything went wrong, Rabbi Tunkel just said ‘Leave it.’ He seemed to think that God would intervene and sort things out. Even the roof.”
“And as we know only too well,” said Professor Priel, “God is distinctly inclined to help those who help themselves.” The rabbi laughed-falsely-as, in truth, he did not agree with this facile sentiment. “Which reminds me,” said the professor. “You mentioned some damp, Rabbi?”
“Indeed, but really, Professor Priel, you have done quite enough.”
“It costs me nothing to ask. And there are other funds that might be appropriate.”
“Thank you,” said Rabbi Seligman. “You are too kind.”
The professor finished his tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together vigorously, “shall we go and see the finished product?”
“Of course-if you wish.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“You will excuse me a moment,” said the rabbi. “I must get my hat and coat.”
He rose from his seat and left the room, calling out to his wife.
Professor Priel looked at the caretaker and smiled. This small token of goodwill was not returned. The caretaker looked troubled.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Professor Priel.
“No,” said the caretaker. “Nothing is the matter.”
“Good,” said Professor Priel.
10
Councillor Schmidt and his nephew were sitting in a coffeehouse, attacking their zwiebelrostbraten as if they had not eaten for more than a week. The slices of beef were piled high with crispy fried onion rings and garnished with cucumber. Schmidt felt his stomach pressing against his vest and reached down to undo one of the buttons. A mound of flesh-covered in the tight whiteness of his shirt-bulged out of the gap. He was a big man, prone to putting on weight easily, and he thought, rather ruefully, that it was preferable for a political leader to look lean and athletic rather than heavy and bovine. Burke Faust had been a sportsman in his youth, and he still looked trim! Schmidt considered forgoing the pleasure of a second course, but his resolve evaporated when he placed a piece of meat into his mouth and it melted like butter, releasing with its disintegration a bouquet of savory flavors.
Fabian had been talking incessantly-a constant, tumbling flow of gossip, tittle-tattle, and trivia. He spoke of his visits to the Knobloch household, where he had made the acquaintance of Fraulein Carla, who was very pretty and an accomplished pianist; of his friend Dreher, who had come into a fortune and was about to embark on a world tour; and of the new beer cellar in the fifth district, where he had seen a man give a rousing speech about workers’ rights, which he had agreed with entirely, but which had produced a lot of heckling before a fight broke out and he’d been obliged to punch someone in the face to shut him up.
When Fabian was in full spate, Schmidt was content to listen, and say very little. Occasionally he would grunt or look up from his meal. However, that was usually the extent of his involvement. He wasn’t particularly interested. But he didn’t object to Fabian’s talk. Indeed, he found his nephew’s nonsense quite comforting, like familiar music played softly in the background, and once in a while Fabian said things that allowed Schmidt to gauge opinion among his nephew’s peers-the all-important youth of Vienna. Many of Fabian’s friends were disaffected, and Schmidt could see why. What kind of future could they hope for? Too many people, too few jobs, and an unremitting stream of parasites coming in from the east. As soon as people really grasped the gravity of the situation, they would be moved to take action-of that he was sure. It was just a question of giving them something on which to focus their minds.
Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.
“What did you say?”
“He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”
“Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”
“Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”
“And where did this happen?”
“The General Hospital.”
Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”
“Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”
“And where did Edlinger hear this?”
“He was there when it happened! He’s an aspirant. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”
Fabian winked.
“And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”
Fabian shrugged.
“Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.
“Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”
“Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.
“Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”
“I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”
“Tomorrow, actually.”
“Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this zwiebelrostbraten splendid?”
Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.
11
“DisgracefuL,” said detective inspector Alfred Hohenwart, tossing the folded copy of Vaterland onto his desk. He was a stout man with short gray hair and a square mustache that occupied only the space between the bottom of his nose and his upper lip. He was an experienced officer, and one whom Rheinhardt respected.
“I can only assume,” said Rheinhardt, “that the censor does not make a habit of reading through Catholic newspapers-otherwise it would never have been published.”
“How did you find it?”
“My informant was one of Stanislav’s confreres, another Piarist called Brother Lupercus.”
“So it would seem that Brother Stanislav wasn’t as popular as the abbot wanted you to believe.”
“The abbot was a kindly old man, and, for what it’s worth, I judged him to be a decent fellow. He probably wasn’t aware of Stanislav’s hateful essays.”
“Or he was deliberately withholding information to protect the reputation of his community.”
Rheinhardt shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“Stanislav,” Hohenwart continued, thinking hard. “Stanislav. I seem to recall…” His sentence trailed off before he suddenly said, “Excuse me a moment.” Hohenwart rose from his desk and vanished into an adjoining room. Sounds issued from beyond the half-open door-noises of rummaging, papers being flicked through, and a private grumbling commentary. In due course, Hohenwart produced a triumphal “Eureka!” and emerged holding a large cardboard file. A paper label had been gummed to the spine, on which was written Christian Nationalist Alliance.