fallen and scattered on the ground.
“Who is buried here?” asked Liebermann.
“Oh, I think this is the grave of Rabbi Loew. He was a holy man… and a sort of Hebrew magician. A kabbalist.”
Liebermann turned sharply to address his uncle.
“Do you know much about him?”
“Not a great deal. The local Hasidim have lots of legends about his good works. He was supposed to have performed miracles and to have protected the ghetto in times of persecution. He used to preach at the Old-New Synagogue. They still have his chair there.”
Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue.
“Where is it?”
“The Old-New Synagogue?”
“Yes.”
“Just over there.” Alexander raised his arm and pointed. “On Maiselova.”
Mendel was approaching.
“Well,” he called out, “just enough time for a coffee, and then we must see Broz and Holub.”
“Father,” said Liebermann, “forgive me… but I’d like to see the Old-New Synagogue.”
“What?”
“Would you mind?”
Mendel came to a halt and looked somewhat puzzled. “Can’t you go later? Since when have you been interested in synagogues?”
“I would very much like to go now,” Liebermann answered. The tone of his voice was firm.
“You spend half the night drinking with your uncle-and don’t deny it.” Mendel lifted a finger to silence Alexander’s anticipated objection. “And then you want to go to the synagogue!” Mendel looked up at the sky as if beseeching God for assistance. “Sometimes…”
Liebermann had already started to retreat.
“I’ll see you back at the hotel, Father.”
“Why can’t you see the synagogue and catch us up at the coffeehouse? It won’t take you long.”
“No. I’d prefer to take my time, if you don’t mind. Good-bye, Father… Uncle Alexander.”
Liebermann bowed and hurried off.
Mendel turned to his brother, shaking his head.
“I don’t understand him. Do you?”
Alexander leaned both hands on his cane and replied, “No. I thought I did. But, on reflection, I realize I was quite mistaken.”
49
Councillor Schmidt was sitting at his preferred table in the Cafe Eiles. He had just finished eating a potato goulash with frankfurter sausages and had begun to study the newspapers. Leafing through the Wiener Tagblatt, he came across a salacious headline: ONGOING SCANDAL SURROUNDS SCHNITZLER’S BOOK REIGEN. Two months ago the Viennese publishing company released the first edition of Arthur Schnitzler’s book Reigen. This scandalous book harms the feeling of honor of every Viennese. The “Reigen” consist of ten dialogues about sex. After each act a partner is exchanged. There has never been such a pornographic work.
Schmidt tutted to himself and shook his head. Jews. Obsessed with smut. He read on: In 1901, Arthur Schnitzler’s book Lieutenant Gustl also brought controversy with the public. The result was that Arthur Schnitzler was relieved of his title as an officer.
“Quite right!” Schmidt said aloud.
At an adjacent table a lawyer wearing a green bow tie looked up from his soup to see if he was being addressed.
Turning to the political pages, Schmidt came across a small piece on forthcoming appointments at the town hall. He read, with pride, that the candidates for the mayor’s special advisory committee included Councillor Julius Schmidt, “a resourceful and popular advocate of small businesses and the rights of hardworking families.”
I’m going to get the job.
The thought sent an electric charge of excitement through his body. With Faust eliminated from the new short list, the only other serious contender was Armannperg, and Armannperg was too old. He-Julius Schmidt-would get the coveted position, cultivate support among the most elevated members of the party, and be ready to run for mayor when the time came-and surely, given Lueger’s failing health, he would not have to wait very long.
But even as he imagined himself ensconced in the mayor’s office, he was troubled by an irritating secondary consideration. Lueger’s failing health was rumored, not fact. There were whisperings, overheard conversations, raised eyebrows, if the mayor was not looking his best. But Schmidt had to admit that, for an ailing man, Karl Lueger was alarmingly spry and energetic. He could be mayor for some time to come. Certainly long enough for several of the ambitious young pretenders at the town hall to establish themselves as credible alternatives.
Lueger could never be usurped. A political challenge was out of the question.
Always someone in the way…
The pundit writing in the Tagblatt had correctly identified one of Schmidt’s strengths. He was indeed a resourceful politician and rather good at finding solutions-often unconventional ones-to difficult and seemingly intractable problems. He drummed the table with his fingers and considered his options.
When the waiter came to collect Schmidt’s empty plate, the councillor ordered an einspanner coffee and a large reisauflauf mit apfeln. He read the flattering line about his resourcefulness and popularity again, and then picked up a copy of the Illustrierte Kronen-Zeitung.
Inside, he found a report on the discovery of a magical laboratory above a synagogue in Leopoldstadt. The article was accompanied by an illustration of a Jewish magus-a kabbalist-conducting rites in a room filled with the trappings of alchemy and astrology. The magus was dressed in long ceremonial robes embroidered with the Star of David. He was standing in a pentacle, his hands raised as if he were commanding some supernatural being to appear. His features were executed crudely in an unflattering caricature: thick eyebrows, coiled sideburns, a massive nose, and a flowing black beard. On his head the magus wore an oversize beaver hat.
Schmidt glanced through the article.
Alois Gasse… locked room…
A superstitious race…
Ritualistic practices… common among Jews.
The waiter returned and deposited the contents of his silver tray onto the table: a black coffee, served in a tall glass and topped with whipped cream, and a steaming slab of rice souffle, sitting in a wide, deep red pool of raspberry syrup. Schmidt became curiously absorbed by his pudding.
“Uncle?”
Schmidt looked up, surprised to see his nephew standing next to him. The councillor had been mesmerized by the redness of the syrup, and a chain of associations had formed in his mind: raspberry syrup, blood, blood libel…
“Ah,” said Schmidt. “Fabian!” He tapped the open newspaper and pretended he had been looking at the illustration rather than at his reisauflauf. “Have you seen this?”
Fabian sat down next to his uncle and started to read the article.
“I don’t understand,” said the councillor’s nephew. “What does it mean?”
“What does it mean?” Schmidt chuckled. “A busy afternoon, that’s what it means. A lot more could be made of this.” Fabian returned a puzzled stare. “Oh, never mind. How’s your friend Edlinger? Did he get on with Professor Hollar?”
