Vienna Secrets (20 page)

50

L
IEBERMANN LEANED BACK AND
looked upward. The steep brick gable of the Old-New Synagogue appeared black against the bright blue sky. It was a striking piece of architectural design. The sloping edges of the gable were serrated with sharp, pointed teeth, giving it a curiously sinister appearance. There was something about its primitive execution that conveyed an impression of great age and mystery.

Your forefathers would have worshipped in the Old-New Synagogue in Prague… Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray
.

Liebermann moved on and, turning along a side street, found the entrance: stairs descended to a vestibule and a closed door, the tympanum of which was decorated with intricate carvings of vine leaves and twisted branches. Liebermann opened the door and stepped inside.

His first impression was of a relatively narrow space, but with a high ceiling. Small windows admitted very little light, and most of the illumination came from bronze chandeliers. A continuous wooden bench skirted the walls. The center of the temple was occupied by a wrought-iron Gothic grille behind which stood the cantor’s platform and lectern. Liebermann advanced, his footsteps finding a resonant reply in the farthest corners of the building.

Two massive octagonal pillars rose up to a ceiling of ribbed vaults, and between these hung a red standard decorated with a yellow Star of David. Against the far wall, an eternal light drew Liebermann’s attention to a wooden ark. It looked so ancient that it might have been carried out of Egypt by the Israelites.

Go there, Herr Doctor, and pray
.

Superstition!

He had no intention of praying.

Liebermann remembered something his father had told him: The ark is always positioned on a wall that faces Jerusalem.

Jews are always looking backward!
thought Liebermann.

He was a man of science, a man who embraced modernity. He was a citizen of the most sophisticated city in Europe! Yet the young doctor felt a curious stirring in the depths of his being. His conversation with Gabriel Kusevitsky came back to him:
cultural unconscious, endopychic myths
. Was it really possible? Could people of the same race share ancestral memories that found expression in the symbolic language of dreams? And were those ancestral memories also the cause of the peculiar emotion that was now tightening his chest? It was like an experience of déjà vu, but much stronger than he had ever known before.

The door opened and a man entered. He was an orthodox Jew wearing a leather vest and a collarless shirt. He was carrying what appeared to be a box of tools. On seeing Liebermann, the man smiled. He put his toolbox down on the floor, produced a skullcap from his pocket, and offered it to Liebermann.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Liebermann. “Of course…” He took the skullcap and placed it on his head with conspicuous care. It was not something he was accustomed to doing. “Thank you,” he muttered. The man simply continued smiling. “I’m a stranger here,” Liebermann added defensively. “Do you speak German?”

“Yes, I do,” said the man. His accent was slight.

“A very beautiful temple,” said Liebermann. “How old is it?”

“More than six hundred years old.”

Liebermann glanced at the man’s toolbox.

“Are you the caretaker?”

“I am indeed.”

“Such an old building… I suppose your work is never done.”

“Never. Broken door hinges, loose tiles, woodworm—there’s always something.”

“Why is it called the Old-New Synagogue? Why not just the Old Synagogue, or the Maiselova Temple?”

“It was called the New Synagogue originally
—New
because it replaced a much older house of prayer. Over time, more synagogues were built, all of which were
newer
than the New Synagogue. So to avoid confusion people started to call the New Synagogue the
Old
-New Synagogue, and the name stuck!” The caretaker paused and stared at his companion. “So, where are you from? Vienna?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” said the caretaker. “A lawyer?”

“No—a doctor.”

“Well, it had to be one or the other!” Liebermann was amused by the caretaker’s perspicacity. “It’s your coat, sir,” the caretaker added. “Only a professional man would wear a coat like that.”

Liebermann asked the caretaker a few more questions concerning the temple’s history and found him to be very knowledgeable. He was a good-humored man and evidently enjoyed acting as a guide, but Liebermann suspected that his eagerness to please was not entirely innocent. The fluency of his patter suggested frequent rehearsal and the expectation of a reward for a job well done.

“Notice the vaulting, Herr Doctor. It has five ribs instead of the usual four. This was to avoid anything that might resemble a cross. The red banner was a gift from Ferdinand the Third. He gave it to the Jews as a token of gratitude. The Jews helped him fight off the Swedes in 1648—the Battle of Prague. Without the Jews, the Swedes would have marched right into the Staré Mýsto, and all would have been lost.”

The caretaker beckoned, and Liebermann followed. They walked toward the ark.

“And this,” said the caretaker, pointing at a high-backed chair, “is Rabbi Loew’s chair.”

Liebermann became aware of his heart beating more swiftly and made efforts to conceal his excitement.

“Ah yes,” said Liebermann, feigning nonchalance. “Rabbi Loew. I’ve heard of him. He was a great magician, wasn’t he?”

“Well, a wise man, and a learned scholar.”

“A kabbalist?”

“The most powerful ever—so they say.”

“When did he live?”

“About four hundred years ago. He was chief rabbi and head of the rabbinical court of the holy community. A terrible time it was for Jews, because of the fanaticism of the Catholic priests. The clergy were constantly making unfounded accusations of ritual murder. Subsequently, the goyim were suspicious of the Jews, who were wrongly arrested, abused, and mistreated.”

“I was told that Rabbi Loew performed miracles—to protect his people.”

“There are many stories,” said the caretaker, maintaining his smile but now turning oddly silent. Liebermann put his hand into his pocket and jingled some loose change. It was subtly done and had the desired effect. “Yes, many stories…” The caretaker continued as though there had been no pause. “But he is most famous for making a golem.”

“A what?”

“A golem. An artificial being. He collected mud from the banks of the Vltava and made it into the shape of a man, which he then brought to life after consulting the
Sefer Yetzirah
, the book of creation. The golem had supernatural strength and protected the ghetto Jews for many years. Although in one version of the story, the golem is supposed to have become uncontrollable and destructive.”

“Like in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’?”

“Yes. Rabbi Loew had to use his most potent spells to stop the golem. Otherwise—such was the creature’s might—he would have destroyed half the ghetto. They say the golem is still here, laid out in the attic. When the Jews were no longer threatened, Rabbi Loew ordered the golem to take its bed upstairs. He made the golem sleep and covered the body with prayer shawls and holy books. Rabbi Loew forbade anyone to go up there again. He said that he was worried about someone causing a fire, but the real reason was the golem. Few people have been up there since Rabbi Loew’s time, but all have come down again gibbering like idiots.”

“Do you have a key to the attic?”

The caretaker laughed.

“It’s a story, Herr Doctor, only a story—although, to be honest, I wouldn’t want to go against the will of Rabbi Loew. Would you?”

“Mud. He made the creature out of mud? You’re quite certain of that?”

“Yes. As God made Adam. From the earth.”

Liebermann took off his skullcap and handed it back to the caretaker along with a silver coin.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have been most helpful”

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
.

Liebermann had not prayed for enlightenment, but he had drawn a little closer to his roots, and Barash had proved himself to be an impressive prophet: either that, or a zealot capable of monstrous violence.

51

“H
E WAS A DISGUSTING
man,” said Anna. “A vile creature.”

Gabriel Kusevitsky could see that Anna was distressed; however, he did not offer her solicitous platitudes. Instead, he watched her closely and listened. There was something about his posture that betrayed his medical training, a certain detachment and ease in the presence of anguish. But his composure was never in any danger of being misconstrued as boredom or lack of interest, for Kusevitsky’s eyes—dark, perceptive, and penetrating—showed intense mental engagement.

“What he did was unforgivable,” Anna continued. “That poor girl. That poor, poor girl. How she must have suffered.” For a moment Anna’s gaze became glassy with incipient tears, but she set her jaw and did not let herself cry. “Olga and I reported the incident to the police, but they weren’t very helpful. We were told that Kadia would have to make a statement herself. But this isn’t possible. Kadia is as frightened of constables as she is of Sachs. She has no papers and thinks she will be thrown into prison. Moreover, she is still in terrible pain—her internal injuries were appalling. We felt so frustrated,
so
angry that we decided to pay Herr Sachs a visit ourselves. He’ll soon run out of money, and when he does, he’ll be scouring the streets looking for another girl like Kadia—a
replacement—
and, believe me, he’ll have no difficulty finding one. All he’s got to do is wait outside any of the
wärmestuben
. There are so many girls like her. We thought that if he knew Kadia was being looked after—and that we were trying to get the police involved—he might think again. We were wrong, of course. He didn’t take our threats seriously. He was confident that the police wouldn’t care very much about Kadia’s fate, whatever evidence we produced. And now I suspect the villain may be right. I could see what the police were thinking: ‘If a woman chooses to live such a life, then what does she expect?’ But it is the police’s indifference, their lack of compassion, that permits wicked men like Sachs to evade justice. It is so very wrong.”

“You shouldn’t have gone to see Sachs on your own, you know,” said Kusevitsky.

“I don’t think we were in any real danger,” Anna replied. “I am not a psychiatrist, Gabriel, but I believe that men who abuse women are, without exception, cowards. He wouldn’t dare harm us; although that isn’t quite true. He did…” Anna looked at the floor guiltily. “Push me.”

“He did what?”

“I was holding the door open, and he shoved me out of the way in order to close it.”

“The swine!”

“It was nothing. Honestly.”

“Where does he live? I’ve a good mind to—”

“No, Gabriel.”

“Asher is an excellent swordsman.”

“We must be patient and hope that in due course our efforts with the police will be rewarded. Olga and I can be very persistent.”

Kusevitsky recovered his professional calm.

“Where is Fräulein Pinski now?”

“Actually we managed to get her admitted into your hospital.”

“Really?”

“Dr. Janosi is a friend of Professor Kraus’s.”

“I will visit her.”

“That is kind of you. But you must not ask Kadia about her dreams.” Anna smiled sadly. “We must suppose she only ever has nightmares.”

“And when she is recovered from her injuries? Where will she go?”

“I have no idea.”

“I will mention her case to Professor Priel. He might be able to provide her with pecuniary assistance from one of the Rothenstein contingency funds. It won’t be much, but it should be enough to keep her in lodgings until she finds respectable employment.”

Anna reached out and covered Gabriel’s hand with her own.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

Kusevitsky, somewhat embarrassed, withdrew and stood up. He paced over to the window.

“Jeheil Sachs,” he muttered.

“What a pig,” said Anna. “Wallowing in his own filth.”

“No, not a pig—more a parasite. A parasite living off the misfortune of others. These procurers… they shame us all. They are a scourge. A plague!”

Anna reached out. “Come. Sit down.”

She had never seen Gabriel looking quite so troubled.

Kusevitsky crossed the room and sat down beside her. She took his face in her hands, kissed him, and stroked his forehead.

“It’s all right,” Anna said. He was hot, and his eyes were glazed—like a child with a fever.

52

F
ROM THE JOURNAL OF
Dr. Max Liebermann

    I spent the remainder of the afternoon browsing in the secondhand bookshops of the Jewish quarter. The booksellers—shriveled old men with white beards, all of whom were almost blind from reading too much—were as erudite (and eccentric) as university professors.

The legend is an old one. Golem stories have been told for centuries. Even Jacob Grimm mentions the Polish Jews making a man from clay and mud; however, since the sixteenth century, the golem has become particularly associated with the name of Rabbi Loew. Orthodox Jews have many tales about the Maharal of Prague, which typically involve him outwitting a vindictive Christian adversary (most notably an evil priest called Thaddeus). In most of these, his supernatural assistant, the golem, ensures that the enemies of Jewry are punished.

Mankind has always been preoccupied with the idea of aping the creator, stealing fire from the gods. In literature the tradition extends from ancient times to the present. (I am reminded of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a work that I have discussed with Miss Lydgate.) It is a didactic tradition that alerts mankind to the dangers of hubris. A golem can be created, but not necessarily controlled. When men act like gods, danger follows.

Prague is a dark place, a city that has always welcomed astrologers, kabbalists, and animators. One has only to stroll around the Staré Mýsto and Malá Strana, looking up at the relief door signs—numbers, stars, devils, compasses, and occult symbols—to see evidence of Prague’s magical past. There is even a narrow lane called the Street of the Alchemists up by the castle.

But now, it seems, the golem is no longer confined to the Prague ghetto: neither the physical ghetto nor the imaginary ghetto of Hasidic folktales. It has broken free of its own myth and now haunts the broad avenues of Vienna. Prague! I have already been here too long. These archaic places, which make an appeal to the deepest levels of the unconscious, corrode reason. I find it all too easy now to imagine a monstrous hulk lurking in the shadows, the magic holding its form against the laws of nature, the spell occasionally weakening, and the supernatural flesh transmuting back into mud. The great expenditure of energy as it rips the head off its victim producing a momentary dissolution—clods on cobbles—and then the creature rising, its bulky body impossibly fleet, returning to the kabbalist’s lair above the Alois Gasse Temple.

Yes, it comes all too easily, as though the wellspring of dreams has been unstopped. The images spout up and spill into the real world. I can’t stop thinking about the conversation that I had with Kusevitsky: dreams, myths—a racial unconscious. Professor Freud: “When the work of interpretation has been completed, we perceive that a dream is the fulfillment of a wish.” But not just any wish—a forbidden wish, a wish unacceptable to the censoring agency of the mind.

A golem is the embodiment of a forbidden wish, a wish to unleash unconscionable violence on the enemy—an abrogation of civilized values and the triumph of the primitive unconscious. A people who have endured persecution for millennia would have necessarily repressed the urge to strike back at their tormentors. Such a reservoir of anger and resentment must be fathomless. Regiments unite behind a standard and nations behind a flag. Who are they, I wonder, who are now uniting behind the figure of this terrifying mythic avenger?