“No.”
“In one of them he likened Jews to a plague.”
Liebermann watched Barash for a reaction, but the zaddik merely shrugged. His expression was impassive. Liebermann continued, “Does the name Burke Faust mean anything to you?”
“He was a councillor-murdered last week, I believe.”
“Do you know how he was murdered?”
“Decapitated, same as the monk.”
“He was also the author of an article in which Jews were likened to a plague.”
“I have heard, from people better informed about such matters than myself, that he was a bad man.”
Liebermann tilted his head against his clenched fist, unfurled his index finger, and tapped his temple.
“Do you believe in prophecy, Rebbe Barash?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Is it a gift that you possess?”
“I am the spiritual leader of my community,” Barash replied obtusely.
“It is rumored that you predicted the death of Brother Stanislav.”
“Who told you this?”
“Inspector Rheinhardt. He has friends in Leopoldstadt. Well, is it true? Did you predict the death of Brother Stanislav?”
“Yes,” said Barash, his hooded eyelids lowering a fraction. “I did.”
“How was that possible?”
“It was written… on his face.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It was written on his face,” Barash repeated. The zaddik sighed and continued. “We-that is to say, my congregation and I-venerate the teachings of Isaac Luria.”
“Who?”
Barash’s scowl intensified.
“Isaac Luria. A great holy man who lived in Palestine hundreds of years ago. He practiced metoposcopy, the art of reading lines on the human face. It is very similar to palmistry, a sister discipline that has proved more popular since Luria’s time.” Liebermann bristled. “Is it such a peculiar notion, Herr Doctor? Many educated medical men-like yourself-accept physiognomy, do they not?”
“They do. But I am not one of them. I am not persuaded that a man’s character is revealed by the shape of his nose.”
“You might, however, agree that men frequently acquire the faces they deserve. By that I mean that men often make choices, and these choices have consequences with respect to their appearance. For example, a man overly fond of schnapps will look very different from his abstemious neighbor.” Liebermann thought the argument was specious, but he conceded the point and gestured for Barash to continue. “Lines on the forehead often suggest letters of the Hebrew alphabet, and these can be interpreted.”
Liebermann was unable to conceal his incredulity. “So, you saw letters on the monk’s forehead, and it was written there, in Hebrew, that he would die?”
“Let us say,” Barash replied with mysterious precision, “that what I saw was enough for me to know that he would not live for more than thirty days.” Before Liebermann could formulate his next question, Barash added, “You are a doctor who specializes in treating diseases of the mind?”
Barash gave no sign that he was exercising his metoposcopic powers. Liebermann assumed that it was merely a good guess.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you and I are not so very different. It is said that every evening Luria would look closely at his disciples’ faces until he could discern scriptural verses on their foreheads. He would explain the meaning of these verses and instruct his disciples to reflect on them before going to sleep. On waking, his disciples recorded their dreams, which were later taken to the master for interpretation. Through cycles of close observation, explanation, and dream interpretation, Luria helped his disciples to understand themselves better and resolve their spiritual dilemmas. I try to extend the same service to my students. Now, isn’t this-or at least something very similar-what you do for your patients? Surely, a good psychiatrist observes his patients closely, tries to read their faces, and offers them interpretations. And when a patient tells you about his dreams, do you not listen very carefully? For you know as well as I that the secret life of the soul is revealed in dreams.”
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.
