turned it in the lock. When he returned, he was carrying several books. He piled them on the desk and invited Liebermann to examine them. One of the volumes was extremely old and was bound in crumbling leather. Freud opened it and carefully turned the fragile pages until he came to an illustration of a bearded man in medieval dress, sitting on a chair in a cell. The man’s right hand grasped the lowest strut of the Tree of Life.
“What is this book?” asked Liebermann.
“A Latin translation of The Gates of Light-a very influential work. It was originally written by Joseph Gikatilla in the thirteenth century. The other books are German translations by Adolf Jellinek and his associates. Except this one here, which is a French translation of The Book of Splendour.”
Liebermann was surprised that Freud had so many volumes of Jewish mysticism in his possession. The old man had always been scathing about religion and was famously ambivalent about his own racial identity. Indeed, he had once said to Liebermann that he was concerned that so many of his followers were Jewish. I don’t want psychoanalysis to turn into a national affair, he had said.
Only moments earlier the idea that Freud might be a clandestine kabbalist, poring over arcane holy books in the dead of night, would have seemed absurd. Yet the evidence suggested otherwise.
“Are you, then…,” said Liebermann hesitantly, “a believer in…”
“No, no,” said Freud, shaking his head and waving his hand. “I abandoned the illusory consolation of faith many years ago. I no longer need to defend myself against unpalatable truths-the insignificance of humankind and the inevitability of my own demise. However, I have found a close reading of these books to be very instructive. In The Book of Splendour, for example, I first encountered the notion that the mind can be understood using the same exegetical techniques employed to study scripture. Kabbalistic writings also contain some extremely interesting accounts of human sexuality and the interpretation of dreams…”
Freud smiled, but he was clearly a little embarrassed. He seemed to be confessing that the inspiration for psychoanalysis had come from reading works of Jewish mysticism. Immediately, Liebermann understood why Freud was so ambivalent about Jews and Judaism, and why he kept his kabbalistic books locked in a chest out of view.
Liebermann rested a finger on the drawing of the Tree of Life. Once again, the zaddik’s words returned to haunt him: Perhaps 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.
The zaddik’s scolding no longer sounded ridiculous, and Liebermann found himself wondering how Freud would react if he asked to borrow his Latin translation of The Gates of Light.
41
Liebermann and his father, Mendel, were sitting in the Imperial. The pianist was playing Chopin’s Mazurka Number One in F sharp minor; however, his abrupt changes of tempo and volume made the piece sound like cheap cafe music. This was entirely intentional, as the pianist had learned that the patrons of the Imperial preferred their Chopin this way.
“Do you remember Blomberg?” said Mendel.
“The gentleman I met at the lodge?”
“Yes. He spoke to Rothenstein about the new department store. I would never have done such a thing myself. It was disrespectful, really. I mean… a man like Rothenstein!” Mendel shook his head and took a mouthful of apfelstrudel. “Rothenstein wasn’t interested, of course, but he said that he knew a man who would be, and he put Blomberg in touch with Marek Bohm, another gentleman of considerable means and an associate of the banker. Well, to cut a long story short, it looks like the capital can be raised. Blomberg is going to go ahead with his plan for a second department store.” Mendel slurped his coffee and dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m definitely going to go in with him,” he continued. “Blomberg’s a decent enough fellow, and his other store is doing very well indeed. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. What did you think of him? Blomberg?”
“I didn’t really speak to him for very long.”
Mendel frowned. “Even so, you must have formed an impression?”
“He seemed very energetic.”
“Oh, he’s hardworking, that’s for sure.”
“And agreeable.”
“If you have to work with someone over a long period of time, character becomes important, let me tell you. I remember, many years ago-before you were born, in fact-I tried to set up some dyeing works with a man named Plischke, and every meeting we had was like a funeral. In the end I couldn’t take it anymore. What’s the matter with your mohnstrudel? You’ve hardly touched it!”
“Nothing-it’s very good.” To prove the point, Liebermann sliced a large chunk off of the pastry and put it into his mouth. “Delicious.”
Mendel shrugged.
“Anyway, I’ve decided to go to Prague. I’m going to visit some of the factories and have some meetings: Doubek, Krakowski-some of the shop owners. I also intend to see your uncle Alexander.” At the mention of his younger brother’s name, Mendel grimaced and emitted a low grumbling sound. “He’s always been good at finding us new associates out there, but when it comes to overseeing the day-to-day running of the business, he can be quite careless. He never double-checks his figures and doesn’t see Slavik as often as he should. I’ve got to make sure he understands the situation. The books must add up. We can’t have someone like Herr Bohm raising doubts about our competence.”
Uncle Alexander had been a distant and exotic presence throughout Liebermann’s life. He used to stay for weekends in Vienna when Liebermann was a child, but these rare visitations had become even less frequent as Liebermann had grown up. By the time Liebermann had reached adolescence, Uncle Alexander’s brief sojourns had stopped altogether. This was probably because his uncle and his father didn’t get on. They were very different people-opposites, in fact. Mendel was resolute, ambitious, determined, whereas Alexander was languid, easygoing, and rather too fond of the bachelor’s cheery existence to take the family business very seriously. This difference of outlook, Liebermann supposed, must have been the cause of many arguments. Liebermann remembered a handsome well-dressed man, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. He had always been very fond of Alexander and guiltily recalled how, when very small, he had wished that his uncle could take the place of his father.
“Why don’t you come along?” said Mendel, swallowing his last piece of apfelstrudel. He brushed his beard to make sure that no errant crumbs had found tenancy among his wiry curls.
“To Prague?”
Mention of Prague had made Liebermann feel uneasy. He remembered the zaddik: Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray… It felt as if some strange power were attempting to draw him to the Bohemian capital, the city of his ancestors. It was a feeling that he-as a rational man-found distinctly uncomfortable.
“Yes,” said Mendel. “You might learn something… about negotiating. You never know. It might come in useful one day.”
Mendel still hoped that his son would take over the family textile business. It was a futile hope, but one that he could not relinquish in spite of his son’s obvious lack of interest.
“I can’t, Father. My patients, the hospital…”
Mendel sighed. “I thought you’d say that.” The old man pushed his plate forward and beckoned a waiter. “The bill, please?”
Mendel knew as well as his son that there was nothing else to say. They would leave the Imperial and go their separate ways.
42
There were many Warmestuben in Vienna, “warming-up rooms” where people in need, regardless of their
