Liebermann was tempted to ask Barash if he had read any Freud. But he decided against it.
“Did you know that Burke Faust was going to die?”
“No, of course not. How could I? I hadn’t seen his face.” The zaddik stroked his beard and added calmly, “Herr Doctor, am I a suspect?”
“You will appreciate,” said Liebermann, “that as far as the police are concerned, the accuracy of your prophecy is rather worrying.”
The zaddik shifted in his chair.
“You are not a believer, are you?”
“A believer?”
“You do not practice your faith.”
“No. I don’t.”
Barash broke eye contact, and his line of vision found Liebermann’s forehead. His dilated pupils began to oscillate. The experience was unnerving.
“Where does your family come from, Herr Doctor?”
“My mother’s family are mostly German. But my father’s family… I think his side were Czech.”
“You sound doubtful. Are your origins of such little consequence?”
“We are Viennese now,” said Liebermann plainly.
“Perhaps,” said Barash, “if you had troubled to take a greater interest in your own origins, in the traditions and history of your people, then you would not be wasting your efforts talking to me now. You would have at least some inkling of what these murders might mean.”
“Rebbe Barash, if you know something more, then you must say. This is a police matter.”
Barash laughed, a mirthless convulsion.
“No, it is not a police matter. It is a matter between us and them, and whether you like it or not, Herr Doctor, as far as they are concerned you are one of us. Allow me to give you some advice. Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague, the most important temple outside of Jerusalem. Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray. Pray for enlightenment. Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful. Perhaps they will pity you and guide you back to your faith, and then-only then-will you understand, fully understand, what is happening. You think me misguided, don’t you? A superstitious fool, no different, really, from the madmen whom you attend at the hospital. I am deluded, whereas you… you are a rational man! But, Herr Doctor, your arrogance, your conceit, blinds you!”
Liebermann pinched his lower lip. After a lengthy pause he said, “Rebbe Barash, you put me in a difficult position. Am I to understand that you know more about these murders than you are evidently prepared to say? Us and them? Who are you referring to? The agitators, the Christian Socials, the nationalists? I must warn you, unless you are more candid, I will be obliged to submit a report in which-”
“Do as you please!” Barash cried, thumping the chair arm with his massive fist. “Tell the police what you like. Arrest me! Try me! I have nothing to fear. I am innocent. If you want answers, look to Prague. I’ll say no more.”
The zaddik stood up and walked to the door. He opened it and waited for Liebermann to stand. He was breathing heavily.
The young doctor rose, adjusted his cuffs, and shook the creases from his trousers.
“I seem to have caused you some distress, Rebbe Barash,” he said softly. “Please accept my apology.”
Before leaving, the young doctor glanced at the zaddik’s hands. He imagined them on either side of a human head, turning it around and around, the cracking of vertebrae and the severing of arteries.
33
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
We interrupted our circumnavigation of the ring at Karlsplatz, where we found a bench on which to sit and admire the Karlskirche. I was reminded of a fact originally learned at schooclass="underline" during the plague of 1713, Emperor Karl VI vowed that if the population of the city survived, he would build a church dedicated to Saint Charles Borromeo, a former archbishop of Milan and the patron saint of the plague. What an odd notion, to have a patron saint of plagues. I wonder if the Catholic Church has considered appointing a patron saint of gallstones or-even better-syphilis. Is it any wonder that Vienna leads the world in medicine? It seems to me that the Viennese have always been preoccupied by death and diseases.
I shared this speculation with Miss Lydgate, who asked how long it had taken to build the Karlskirche. “Twenty-five years,” I was able to tell her. She scrutinized the church for some time before saying, “The Italianate dome owes a great debt to Brunelleschi, don’t you think? The lantern, for example?” Needless to say, I had to confess that I didn’t know whom she was referring to. “Filippo Brunelleschi,” she replied, “the architect who designed the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore in Florence. The largest dome in the world.”
As is her habit, she enthused about her topic and mentioned in passing a treatise, “On the Tranquility of the Soul,” written by one of Brunelleschi’s disciples. It was of some interest to me because the subject matter of this work was the treatment of depression. Two men, both depressed, are conversing beneath Brunelleschi’s newly constructed dome. One of them lists a number of traditional remedies for low spirits: wine, music, the company of women, and exercise. But to these he adds a new remedy: the contemplation of giant hoists of the kind that Brunelleschi had devised to raise his creation.
I was obviously amused by this idea. Miss Lydgate, however, was not altogether impressed by my reaction. She explained that this “treatment” was not really as absurd as it might at first seem, particularly if one considered it in its proper context. The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore was nothing less than a miracle to the people of Renaissance Florence. Therefore machines that made such buildings possible were viewed as equally miraculous, symbolic of human ingenuity. To contemplate Brunelleschi’s hoist, in that age, was to realize the unlimited potential of the human mind, an undeniably uplifting consideration.
She then described to me Brunelleschi’s mechanical marveclass="underline" a large frame that supported a number of vertical spindles, each rotating the other by means of variously sized cogged wheels. Miss Lydgate reserved her most profligate praise for Brunelleschi’s revolutionary gear mechanism, the operation of which involved a large screw with a helical thread. This gear mechanism was, I gather, of some considerable significance, but I am not altogether sure why. Miss Lydgate’s account was complex and difficult to understand without the aid of a diagram. In truth, I fear that her erudition was rather lost on me. I am bound to confess too that my intellectual powers had gradually deserted me as I became absorbed by the unique coloring of her eyes.
Over the years, marble and masonry weighing millions of pounds-I forget the exact figure-were lifted hundreds of feet by Brunelleschi’s hoist with astonishing efficiency. The mechanism was set in motion by a single ox. I inquired of Miss Lydgate how it was that she had come to know so much about a subject that must-in all fairness-be described as obscure. She replied that her father was greatly interested in the Renaissance and had taken her to Florence when she was only thirteen. While there, he had made it his business to gather information about the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore and its construction. On his return to London he had composed a pamphlet on Brunelleschi’s hoist for the edification of his pupils (how delighted they must have been).