Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [49]
Younger drove his meat knife through the wad of bank notes, pinning them to the wood table. He stood, towering over the waiter, and his voice came out barely above a whisper: “What’s Hans in for?”
“He was in the rally,” stammered the waiter, although it wasn’t clear whether he was more in fear of physical force or pecuniary loss.
“What rally?”
“The league rally. For the Anschluss—the union with Germany.”
“What league?”
“The league.”
Younger left, not because there was no more information to be had, but because he was concerned he might hurt someone if he didn’t.
So,” Freud said to Younger late that night in the splendid lobby of the Hotel Bristol. “I have a conjecture.”
The statement took a moment to penetrate. Freud was on his feet, hands crossed behind him, coat hanging down from his shoulders, while Younger sat at a low table before an empty snifter of brandy. Freud had been there for more than a minute. Younger hadn’t seen him.
“I beg your pardon,” said Younger, coming to his senses.
“My conjecture is that you’ve discovered what Miss Rousseau has been hiding,” said Freud.
“You knew?” asked Younger.
“Knew what?”
“That she’s engaged?”
“Certainly I didn’t know. Engaged? Why didn’t she tell you?”
Younger shook his head.
“Of the three of you,” said Freud, “I think I’m analyzing the one who needs it least.”
“Is there a league in Vienna,” asked Younger, “that marches in favor of union with Germany?”
“The Anti-Semitic League.”
“They call themselves Anti-Semitic?”
“Proudly. In fact most of them are simply anti-Socialist—no more anti-Jewish than anyone else. There was a demonstration a couple of months ago. Several of them were jailed. Why?”
“One of those is Colette’s fiancé.”
“I see,” said Freud. “What are you going to do?”
“Leave Vienna. But I—”
“Yes?
“I’ll still pay for her brother’s treatment. If you think you can treat him.”
“I don’t. I intend to tell Miss Rousseau the same thing tomorrow. The truth is I don’t understand his condition; I don’t understand the war neuroses at all. It would be wrong of me to pretend otherwise. I know just enough to know how much I don’t know. I wish I could analyze the boy at length, but under the circumstances, that’s impossible.”
Neither spoke.
“Well,” said Freud, “I came to thank you heartily and to pass on Martha’s and Minna’s gratitude as well. You gave us enough to provision a small army. Will you join me walking? It’s my only exercise. I have something important to tell you. You’ll be pleased to hear it, I promise you.”
They strolled toward the city center, leaving the broad and modern Ringstrasse for streets that grew ever more medieval and tortuous, as if they led backward through the centuries. In a small and irregular square, old townhouses faced the back walls of heavier, administrative buildings. The square was empty, dark. “This is the Judenplatz,” said Freud. “It’s quite historical. There’s a plaque somewhere, over four hundred years old. There it is. Come, let’s have a look. You see the relief? That’s Christ receiving his baptism in the River Jordan. How’s your Latin?”
Younger read from the plaque: “ ‘As the waters of the Jordan cleansed the souls of the baptized, so did the flames of 1421 purge the city of the crimes of the—of the—Hebrew dogs’ ?”
“Yes. In 1421 Vienna tried to force its Jews to convert. A thousand or so took refuge in a synagogue, barricading the doors. For three days they went without food or water. Then the synagogue burned. Jewish accounts say that the chief rabbi himself ordered the fire, preferring death to conversion. About two or three hundred survived. These were rounded up and taken to the banks of the Danube, where they were burned alive. Ever thrifty, the Viennese used the stones