“What if I am?” the man said. The fogginess of sleep suddenly dissipated from his expression. He studied Anna and Olga more closely, his gaze wandering disrespectfully from head to toe, his mouth twisting into a lecherous grin. “What if I am?” he repeated, and added in a softer tone, “Ladies…”
Anna and Olga bristled simultaneously.
“It is our understanding,” said Olga, “that you are acquainted with a Galician woman named Kadia Pinski.” Sachs stiffened. “Well?” Olga persisted. “Is it true?”
Sachs nodded. “Yes, I know her. Why? And where is she?”
“In the hospital,” said Anna.
Sachs’s tongue moistened his cracked lower lip.
“What is your relationship with Fraulein Pinski?”
“That’s none of your business,” Sachs snorted. Then he added in a more conciliatory tone, “All right. If you must know, I help her out a little. Financially. I’ve introduced her to a few soldiers who’ve given her a good time. Hospital, eh? What happened to her?”
“You know very well what happened to her!” said Anna, her voice brittle with anger. “What you did was despicable!”
When Sachs tried to close the door, Anna threw her weight against it, keeping it open.
“We know what you did!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Have you no conscience, no self-respect?” said Anna. “To profit from the misery and hardship of your own people.”
“You can’t prove anything,” said Sachs. “I helped the girl out, that’s all. If she’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble, it has nothing to do with me.” Sachs looked across the street at the plump woman, who had stopped doing her chores and was watching the altercation. “Hey!” he shouted, making a shooing-away gesture with his hand. “This is a private conversation!” Sachs spat onto the cobbles and swore under his breath.
“We have a doctor’s report, Herr Sachs,” said Olga.
“Good,” said the procurer. “Do you think I care? If she’s accused me of anything, then it’s my word against hers. Do you think she’s the first drunken whore to get herself into trouble and make up a story?”
“Justice will be done, Herr Sachs,” said Anna. “Believe me. We will see to it that justice is done.”
Sachs suddenly lost his temper.
“Go away! The pair of you! Meddling bitches. I’ve had enough! Go back to your fancy apartments and perfumes and fine wines, eh? I’m going back to bed!”
Sachs pushed Anna out of the way and pulled the door shut.
“Are you all right?” said Olga, placing an arm around Anna’s shoulder.
Anna didn’t notice her friend’s ministrations. She clenched her fist and banged it against the door.
“We’ll be back, Herr Sachs,” she shouted. “I promise you, we’ll be back.”
48
When Liebermann entered the restaurant, he saw that his father and uncle were already seated for breakfast.
“Good morning, Maxim,” said Alexander. “Did you sleep well?”
“No,” said Liebermann. “I didn’t. The room was rather hot.”
“What are you talking about, hot?” said Mendel. “It was freezing last night.”
“The young don’t feel the cold like us,” said Alexander innocently. “It doesn’t get into their bones.”
Liebermann sat down and tried to disguise a yawn.
“And what time did you get back last night?” Mendel growled at his son.
“Not too late,” Liebermann replied.
“We stopped off for a nightcap,” said Alexander. “That’s all.”
A waiter appeared with a cart.
“Coffee, sir?”
“Please,” Mendel replied. The waiter filled their cups with coffee and then served freshly baked honzova buchta-fruit buns. When broken, they steamed slightly and exuded a sweet, wholesome smell that made Liebermann’s stomach gurgle. They tasted heavenly, combining the simple virtues of a staple food with the piquant pleasures of an indulgence. Mendel read the newspapers, and Alexander talked to his nephew about various aspects of piano technique. Liebermann recommended the Klammer Method, and turned his thumbs under his hands to demonstrate their flexibility. Given what had transpired the previous evening, it was a remarkably controlled performance, by both parties.
After breakfast, the three men headed north, to Josefov, where they met with several shop owners. Mendel’s business with them was thankfully brief, and at its conclusion he declared that they had an hour or so to spare.
“I know a splendid coffeehouse near the cemetery,” said Alexander.
“The old Jewish cemetery?” asked Liebermann.
“The proprietor’s wife makes extremely good chocolate eclairs,” Alexander continued, failing to acknowledge his nephew’s question.
Liebermann recalled the zaddik’s exhortation: Go to the cemetery and pray for your ancestors to be merciful.
“I’ve heard it’s very beautiful-the old cemetery,” Liebermann pressed.
“Yes, it is, if you like that sort of thing. Myself, I find it rather gloomy.”
“If we’re passing,” Liebermann continued, “could we go inside? I’d like to see it.”
Alexander looked over at his brother.
“I don’t see why not,” said Mendel. “We have the time.”
Liebermann detected suspicion in the network of creases around his father’s eyes.
“And if we’re quick,” said Alexander, “we won’t have to forgo the pleasure of Frau Ruzicka’s delightful pastries.”
The old Jewish cemetery was built on what appeared to be a small hillock and was completely surrounded by a perimeter wall.
“Are any of our family buried here?” Liebermann asked his father.
“Probably. Your great-grandfather was a Praguer-although he’s buried in the new cemetery, of course. I think they stopped burying people here more than a hundred years ago.”
“What was his occupation, my great-grandfather?”
“He was a tailor.”
“Do you remember him?”
“No. He died long before Alexander and I were born.”
They climbed up a steep path and were soon surrounded by headstones. These were of varying sizes and were packed closely together. Some were leaning over, others had fallen flat, and all were covered in Hebrew inscriptions. Nearly five hundred winters had taken their toll, rendering the older monuments illegible. The lettering had filled with moss, creating strange emerald patterns against the gray stone. Although chaotic and decayed, the necropolis possessed a sombre majesty. Even Liebermann, who was generally inured to such things, felt something akin to reverence.
Liebermann and his uncle walked along the path, leaving Mendel behind. The old man seemed to be tarrying on purpose. Glancing over his shoulder, Liebermann saw his father standing very still in the dappled shadows beneath a lime tree. He guessed that Mendel wanted to be alone in order to say a prayer.
The route that Liebermann and his uncle had chosen ascended until they were level with the first-floor windows of the buildings beyond the perimeter wall. The path took them on a meandering course that squeezed between the serried graves. Liebermann noticed that several of the dead had been honored in the traditional Jewish way: pebbles had been placed on the headstones as a mark of esteem. One of the headstones was particularly conspicuous in this respect. The tributes and folded messages of supplication were so abundant that many had
