“Not so wrong as letting a patient die in distress.”
The professor got up from his seat and walked over to the window. He pulled the curtain aside and looked out, a crooked smile twisting his lips.
“Herr Doctor, you are placing me in a very awkward position.” He turned abruptly. “I am not sure whether you appreciate the importance of the committee. It not only provides the hospital with a moral compass, it also provides us with resources. The members of the committee assist in the raising of funds, and they wield influence on our behalf so that we can maintain the high standards that have made us preeminent in the whole of Europe. We all benefit from their patronage and charity-not only the patients but we doctors too. If the committee wants you to apologize, then I would strongly urge you to comply. For heaven’s sake, man, it’s a simple matter of dashing off a few lines.” The professor returned from the window and, resting both hands on his desktop, leaned forward, peering through the gap in his paperwork. “Look, I’ll tell you what… I’ll see if I can charm the bishop into accepting a letter to the committee instead of an appearance in person. There! That should make it easier, eh? How about that as a compromise?”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Herr Doctor, if you see no purpose for yourself in complying with the bishop’s request, then perhaps you might consider the interests of the hospital.”
“With respect, Professor Gandler, I very much doubt that the fate of the hospital will be greatly affected by whether or not I apologize.”
The professor sat down in his chair and sighed.
“I am an old man, Herr Doctor. But I was young once, and thus have the advantage. You were never old. Permit me to give you some advice. Most of the battles fought in youth seem insignificant with the passing of time. When I reflect on my behavior as a young man-the arguments, the duels-I find it incomprehensible, and sometimes just foolish. I very much hope that when you reach my age, you will have fewer regrets than I do.”
The noise of the nearby typewriter filled the ensuing silence.
“Well?” said the professor.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” said Liebermann again, shaking his head.
“Very well,” said the chancellor curtly. “You may leave. I will convey the substance of our interview to the committee and will commend you as a man of principle. I fear, however, that this will not be enough to appease them. Good afternoon, Herr Doctor.”
17
“It is said that Enoch, who became the angel Metatron, was once a humble cobbler.” Rebbe Barash looked around the room at the studious faces of the young men. “But with every stitch he not only joined the upper leather of the shoe with the sole, he also joined all higher things with all lower things. His awl conjoined heaven and earth and united the rocks and stars.” He stroked his long black beard, and his eyes became inquisitorial. “What does this mean? How are we to understand it?”
“My rebbe.” One of the young men raised his hand. “Does it mean that he undertook his daily work meditating on the divine?”
Barash’s large head rocked backward and forward. His coiled sideburns bounced, extending and contracting with the movement. He did not smile, but his heavy features communicated solemn approval.
“Indeed. Thus, even his profane actions acquired the qualities of a sacred ritual. He transformed the mundane task of repairing shoes into a spiritual exercise. And in the fullness of time, he too was transformed. We have much to learn from Enoch, the humble cobbler. Through patient and persistent application much can be achieved. And if we are to transform the world, we too must cultivate the virtues of patience and persistence.”
The zaddik paused and noted the rapt expressions on the faces of his followers.
“In the beginning,” Barash continued, “when the vessels were broken, much of the divine essence ascended back to its source. But some remained enclosed in the shards of the vessels, the substances of the material world. It is this entrapped essence that sustains all. Nothing can exist-even for a fleeting moment-without its power. If all the essence is liberated, returning to its proper place in the realm of high things, evil will have nothing on which to feed and will cease to exist. The release of divine essence separates good from evil, a process that, if continued, will lead to the end of all wickedness. Eventually everything will be in its rightful place and our work will be done. Obey the commandments, pray, observe the Sabbath, and perform acts of charity and justice. All of these will release divine essence. God alone cannot ensure the triumph of good over evil. He cannot mend what has been undone. Therefore you must be like Enoch and approach every labor as if it were an act of devotion.”
Barash clasped his big hands together and held them against his chest.
“If our enemies succeed, they not only destroy us, they destroy everything. There can be no release of divine essence, no mending, no healing. The powers of evil will grow, and the natural order of things will never be restored. The darkness that comes will be impenetrable-and final. There will be no redemption. Yet we should not despair. Our enemies are ignorant. They know nothing of our ancient wisdom, the hidden power of words and numbers. The magids have used this power many times before to protect our people, and it can be used again. So let our enemies provoke us, taunt us, and spit as we pass. Let them! For the time of reckoning has come, and such a force will be unleashed against them that they will quake at the merest mention of its name.”
18
Rheinhardt halted in order to admire the architectural peculiarities of the Turkish synagogue. Its doors were housed beneath onion-shaped arches, and its minimal decoration consisted of repeated abstract patterns. Towering above the synagogue’s terraces was a minaret with a domed roof and cusped windows. It could have easily been mistaken for a mosque had it not been for the Hebrew characters embossed over the entrance.
A noisy caravan of carts and barrows, heavily laden with crates, rattled up Zirkusgasse.
This won’t do, thought Rheinhardt. I have fish to catch.
He remembered the conversation that he had had with Liebermann about Die Forelle and, smiling, hummed a few bars of Schubert’s jaunty melody. He cut across the center of Leopoldstadt, turned right into Taborstrasse, and eventually arrived at Tandelmarktgasse.
The buildings were tall and unadorned, with raked roofs and stained plaster. They resembled oversize alpine huts. All the ground-floor apartments had been converted into shops. Rheinhardt passed two men standing in a doorway. Some of their goods had been put out on the pavement: a dented samovar, a rusty accordion, a basket containing a tea service, and a few silver candlesticks. One of the men raised his hat and called out a price for the samovar. Rheinhardt declined and hurried on.
Before reaching the market square-and only just behind the police station-Rheinhardt came to a stall selling savories. A brazier was burning, and the air smelled of cooking oil and herbs. On seeing Rheinhardt, the stallholder, a man with a thin mustache and pointed rodent features, extended his hand.
“Ah, my dear friend, good to see you.” His voice was accented and slightly nasal. “How’s life?”
As Rheinhardt shook Moni Teitel’s hand, he let go of the coins he had been holding in his palm. Teitel dropped the inducement into his apron pocket and removed a golden-brown potato latke from the brazier.
“Try this… and help yourself to the pickled cucumber. They’re very sweet.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.
“Family well?”
“Thriving.”
“Then why such a long face? You should be a happy man. Health is a blessing, make no mistake.”
Rheinhardt bit into the latke and looked off toward the market. “So… any news?”
“There’s always news, my friend.”
“Of interest to me?”
“Possibly.” Teitel prodded the coals in the brazier with a poker. “Since that business on the Prater a few
