“Romy, come over here-at once.” The little boy ran to his mother, but on arrival hid behind her skirts, clutching the coarse material in his hands. “Don’t be shy, Romy. Say good morning to the holy fathers.”
The boy peeped out from his hiding place, but said nothing. The short monk rested his hands on the projecting shelf of his stomach and smiled indulgently.
“I brought a wreath,” said the woman.
“Thank you,” said the short monk.
“He was so kind, so caring. I don’t know what I would have done without his help. After my husband died, I had no one.” She wiped the tears from her face as soon as they appeared. “He was a saint.”
“Pray for him,” said the short monk.
“Yes, pray for him,” repeated his lean companion. “It is what Brother Stanislav would have wanted, and it is all that we poor sinners can do now.”
The woman reached for her son’s hand and began walking back to the road. When she was out of earshot, the short monk exclaimed, “A saint!”
“Indeed!” said the tall monk, raising his gaze irreverently to the heavens.
They stepped over the wreath and made their way toward the nearest school entrance.
Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.
“One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
The two monks looked at each other.
“And you are?” the shorter one inquired.
“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”
“I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”
“Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time-when it is more convenient?”
The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well-”
“Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.
“Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”
The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.
“If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was really like, read the articles he wrote for Das Vaterland.” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.
“Vaterland? What’s that?”
“A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.
“Vaterland,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.
Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.
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.
