interpreted as a kind of confession? Or was it merely a symptom of the man’s underlying megalomania? A zaddik, after all, was supposed to communicate with God.
Liebermann had raised many questions and provided too few answers. His conclusions about Barash were equivocal. Before his departure Rheinhardt had asked Liebermann if he wanted protection. The young doctor had declined. He did not want a constable following him everywhere.
In the street below, a peasant cart rolled past, its driver illuminated by a red lantern. The spoked wheels reminded Liebermann of the music that he had played earlier, the repetitive figures that Schubert had employed to represent endless rotation.
The mill wheel, the spinning wheel: turning, turning, turning…
Again he found himself thinking about the conversation he had had with Miss Lydgate outside the Karlskirche: gear mechanisms, screws, helical threads.
He went to bed and fell into a fitful, disturbed sleep.
In the morning, Liebermann unlocked his bureau and took out his journal. He would take it with him to the hospital. He needed to work through some of his thoughts.
69
Professor Priel was already seated in the parlor when Anna Katzer entered. She was wearing purple because she suspected that this was to be no ordinary social call. The professor’s note had promised some news pertaining to the matter raised-on your behalf-by the Kusevitsky brothers. The “matter” that he had alluded to could only be the women’s refuge in Leopoldstadt.
The Kusevitskys had introduced Anna Katzer and Olga Mandl to Priel after a theatrical event, and the two women had spoken to him at some length about their plans. He had been very attentive and had asked a number of questions.
Anna’s heart was beating fast with excitement. She wished that Olga Mandl were there, but her friend had been unable to come. She was languishing in bed with a very bad cold.
The professor stood to greet her. He was taller than Anna recollected, and spry, with unusually bright eyes.
“Fraulein Katzer!” he declared. “So good to see you again.”
Anna offered her hand, and the professor leaned forward, brushing his lips and whiskers against her skin.
“Professor Priel, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She was feeling guilty, having taken far too long to decide what she would wear.
“Not at all. I was admiring the landscapes.”
“Tea?”
“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”
Anna called the maid and communicated their need for refreshment with a mimetic gesture, a barely noticeable tilt of the wrist.
The professor waited for Anna to sit. Then, adjusting his frock coat, he lowered himself onto the sofa.
“Well, Fraulein Katzer, I have some good news for you. I have spoken to Herr Rothenstein about your plans for the new refuge, and he was extremely impressed.” Anna produced a radiant smile and clasped her hands together. “I mentioned Hallgarten’s promise of five thousand kronen and suggested to Rothenstein that he might consider donating an equivalent sum; however, Rothenstein declined.” Anna’s smile died on her face. “He is a generous man,” the professor continued. “But also a proud one.” He shook his head. “Pride. A human frailty all too common, I am sorry to say, among the captains of commerce and industry.”
“But you said you had some good news,” Anna sighed.
The professor raised his finger, tacitly requesting her to suspend judgment.
“Herr Rothenstein would not-could not-countenance an arrangement that would place him on an equal footing with Hallgarten. He was insistent that he should be named as the principal benefactor. Subsequently, he authorized me to provide you with funds, payable to the Jewish Women’s Refuge Trust, of fifteen thousand kronen.” Anna’s mouth fell open. “Congratulations, Fraulein Katzer. A very deserving cause. I wish you and Fraulein Mandl every success in your enterprise.”
Anna was speechless for a few moments before she laughed out loud. “Thank you, Herr Professor. I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, you don’t have to thank me,” said Priel. “After all, it isn’t my money.”
“However, it was you, dear professor, who brought our project to Herr Rothenstein’s attention.”
“Yes,” said Priel, extending the syllable and allowing its pitch to fall and rise. “But only because of the Kusevitsky brothers. If it wasn’t for them…” He finished his sentence with a shrug, as if divesting himself of any last vestige of responsibility for having obtained the donation.
The maid arrived with a tray full of tea things and a plate of vanilla biscuits. Anna was too excited to drink tea. In fact, her tea, untouched, went cold as she spoke with compelling sincerity about her intention to make the Leopoldstadt refuge a model institution.
Priel had heard unfavorable reports about Anna and her friend Olga Mandl, how they were superficial, flighty, and more interested in flirting with industrialists than they were in social policy. But it was now clear to the professor that he was in the presence of a genuinely good woman. The smears had obviously been motivated by jealousy, the casual spite that older women reserve for their younger, and more attractive, counterparts. Anna Katzer was not a striking beauty, but there was nevertheless something about the set of her small, delicate features, the overall composition of her face, that was undeniably very pleasing to look at. And the cut of her dress-or was it the striking purple? — suggested more than just a penchant for luxury. It promised sensuality.
The professor was much relieved. She would make an excellent wife for Gabriel Kusevitsky, and her father’s dowry would be very substantial. He imagined the young doctor ensconced in a smart Alsergrund apartment, receiving private patients.
Yes, he thought. A very satisfactory outcome.
In due course, their exchanges became less mannered. They spoke of mutual acquaintances and, inevitably, of the Kusevitsky brothers. Professor Priel praised the two young men, and Anna detected in his eulogy a warmth of feeling more typical of a parent. She found herself echoing the professor’s sentiments. Indeed, she had to stop herself when her enumeration of Gabriel’s many virtues threatened to expose the strength of her attachment. But the abrupt caesura and her subsequent embarrassment had already revealed more than she had intended.
“You are fond of Gabriel,” said the professor, a faint smile of encouragement playing around his lips.
“Yes, very fond,” Anna replied. Her commitment to egalitarian values was evident in her level gaze. She would not betray her sex by showing shame. Her needs were as natural and acceptable as any man’s.
“They are remarkable fellows, the Kusevitsky brothers,” said the professor. “More remarkable than most people who make their acquaintance ever realize. Has Gabriel spoken to you of his origins, where they come from?”
“He told me that his parents died when he was very young and that he and his brother were raised by an uncle in Vienna.”
The professor squeezed his lower lip.
“That is true,” he said. “But it is not-as it were-the whole truth. We cannot judge Gabriel unkindly if he has elected to remain silent. His reticence merely reinforces his claim on our high regard. He and his brother are strangers to self-pity. I have never known them to seek sympathy. Yet I am convinced that it is in the interests of those who have suffered to be surrounded by intimates who have at least some inkling of the trials that they have survived.” The professor crossed his long legs. “I am not breaking a confidence, you understand? The Kusevitskys have never sworn me to secrecy.”
“Trials?” Anna repeated.
“The Kusevitskys,” Professor Priel continued, “were born in the eastern Ukraine. Their father was accused of stealing. It was a false accusation, and the inhabitants of the nearest village took the law into their own hands, a common occurrence in those times. A Jewish family could not go to the authorities for help. It was after the Czar
