The young doctor took another cigar, lit it, and sank back into his chair. In only a few seconds he had produced a dense, fragrant haze. He was evidently deep in thought. Rheinhardt made a fanciful connection between the smoke and his friend’s intense mental activity, imagining the billowing clouds to be the product of an overheated brain. A log on the fire hissed, crackled, and threw up a fountain of sparks. The pyrotechnics roused Liebermann, who pulled himself up to speak.
“These two murders,” he began, “are characterized by peculiarities that indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic but purposeful mind. There is a scheme here, obviously: two rabid anti-Semites who have recently likened Jews to a scourge are found dead, justly punished for their invective.” The young doctor grinned, to show that the sentiment was not his own. “Found dead at the foot of the Treue Kirche and Maria Geburt plague columns. They have been decapitated, a method of execution that is associated with the demise of kings. Thus, we are to understand that men of influence, the heads of religious and civic life, are being warned against the promulgation of hateful ideologies. The proximity of the schools reinforces this message. Prejudice can easily be transmitted from generation to generation-thus those who occupy positions of power are doubly cautioned against the abuse of authority. So far the symbolism presents us with few interpretative difficulties; however, there are other features that remain utterly incomprehensible. Why were the victims decapitated in such an impractical way? And what does the mud represent? Filth, excrement, moral turpitude? To these questions I have no ready answer.”
Liebermann stubbed out his cigar and immediately lit another. Rheinhardt patiently waited for his friend to continue.
“Earlier, I said that the peculiarities of these murders indicate the workings of an idiosyncratic mind: obsessionality, symbolism, the construction of dramatic tableaux. These are all ‘signatures’ that we have learned to associate with a particular kind of criminal, the lone fanatic whose delusional system, unchallenged, thrives in isolation, its internal structure becoming increasingly intricate and mythic, and promoting in the process a form of messianic narcissism. Nevertheless, these murders could not have been perpetrated by one man alone.”
“Professor Mathias was of the opinion that it would require the efforts of at least two exceptionally strong men to remove a human head by ripping it from the body in this way.”
“Indeed. Now, it is commonplace for individuals to become delusional, and delusional beliefs might easily guide a campaign of retributive violence. But what we seem to have here is a delusional individual who has persuaded others of the legitimacy of his vision.”
“Ahh…,” said Rheinhardt, suddenly sitting up straight and waving his index finger in the air. “I believe you have said something there that might prove to be very significant.”
“Oh?”
“Clearly, the perpetrators of these two murders are Jews.” Rheinhardt paused to allow Liebermann to disagree. The young doctor said nothing. “And you will remember that on a previous occasion you suggested that the hereditary leaders of the Hasidim often wield great power over their people, and that their sects are relatively self-contained.”
Liebermann thought for a moment. Suddenly he smiled and said, “So I did!”
“Well, then, it seems to me that you have already proposed an ideal environment in which the phenomenon you seek to explain might occur. If my memory serves me correctly, you said that a rebbe might claim to receive instructions from God, and that his devotees-in the absence of any other counsel-would very likely obey his orders without question.”
“Yes,” said Liebermann, impressed by his own perspicacity. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“There is a rebbe among the Hasidim of Leopoldstadt called Barash, who is said to have predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Did he prophesy that the monk was going to be decapitated?”
“We’re not sure. One of his sect became involved in a religious argument and was overheard making the claim.”
“Where did this happen?”
“In a coffeehouse. Zuckers. I wonder, would you be willing to interview Barash, Max?”
“Of course. But if we are correct, and it transpires that these murders are the work of a Jewish cabal, can you imagine how the Christian Socials and the clerics will react! Think of the political capital they made out of that miserable wretch Hilsner!” Liebermann flicked his glass, and the crystal emitted a soft chime. “Which makes me wonder… what if? What if these murders are not what they appear to be? What if they are a means of turning public opinion against an all too obviously guilty party?”
Rheinhardt poured himself another large brandy.
In his mind, he saw an angry horde crossing the Danube canal and marching into Leopoldstadt. He saw men in caftans being dragged from their houses, and he saw blood on the cobbled streets. He tried to think of something else, but the images were vivid and persistent.
30
Professor Priel trotted down the stairs of the university and paused on the pavement to extricate his watch from his vest pocket. He noted the time, and set off in a southerly direction. If he hurried, he would be able to deliver the envelope that he carried in his pocket to Frau Meyer and be back in good time to give his afternoon tutorial. The envelope contained a donation from the Rothenstein Education Fellowship, and its purpose was to provide Frau Meyer with sufficient funds to equip her new school on Alois Gasse with some basic classroom furniture. The donation would probably be reported in the newspapers, and once again the public would be informed of Rothenstein’s outstanding generosity. Priel, of course, would not be mentioned. He never was.
Another man might have felt envious or resentful, but Priel was remarkably sanguine concerning his situation. Indeed, he rather liked being an eminence grise: advising, making suggestions, his judgment trusted. He associated himself with the Talmudic legend of the lamed vavniks, the righteous men. Living in the world there are, at any given time, thirty-six righteous men whose good deeds stop the world from ending. They accomplish their work in secret and are never rewarded. When one dies, another is born. And so it goes on, from generation to generation, thirty-six anonymous Jews standing unthanked between civilization and ruin.
Priel thought about Frau Meyer. A widow, dedicated to improving the lot of the latest wave of immigrant children who had arrived in Leopoldstadt. He would give her the envelope, and she would smile, clasp his hand, and express profound gratitude. And he would then reply, as he always did, It isn’t me whom you should be thanking.
Rothenstein was always too busy hobnobbing with royalty to decide who should-or shouldn’t-be the recipient of his largesse. And Rothenstein’s wife, Priel’s sister, was completely self-obsessed. The fate of the poor meant nothing to her as compared with the unmitigated disaster of wearing the wrong kind of dress at a palace function. Priel’s two nieces and his nephew were equally indifferent. Brittle, shallow, and spoiled, their German was embarrassingly inflected to sound like the imperial dialect known as Schonbrunnerdeutsch. Over the years Priel had been given more and more responsibility for the distribution of Rothenstein’s bounty. Occasionally, when Priel presented Rothenstein with documents to sign, the great banker would ask a few bland questions. But if Priel attempted to give him a proper answer, Rothenstein would soon look bored and end the conversation by saying, “I’m sure everything is in order. I have every confidence in you, Josef.” Like the rest of his family, Rothenstein enjoyed the gala balls and the public recognition much more than the process of determining which causes were the most deserving.
Priel passed the town hall and glanced up at its Gothic facade: the huge central tower, the elevated loggia with its curved balconies and delicate tracery.
Thirty-six righteous men…
They wouldn’t be found in there. Of that he was quite certain.
Priel accelerated his sprightly step. He was looking forward to seeing Frau Meyer again. She was an intelligent woman who appreciated philosophy and good music. The last time they’d met she had asked him what he thought of Nietzsche’s The Case of Wagner. The discussion that followed had been most stimulating. Moreover, she had kept her figure.
Having warned his students and the Kusevitsky brothers that great thinkers should be wary of the snare of
