Frank Tallis: Vienna Secrets

Still, Schmidt consoled himself, although he might never get to be mayor, he might still get his villa in Hietzing. He had recently learned that money could be made quite easily-if one was prepared to enter into negotiations with the right people. Mutually provident arrangements could be agreed upon with no initial investment, merely the promise of a little “political” protection, should the need arise. They weren’t the kind of business associates he could welcome into an office at the Rathaus, but their views on social justice were not that different from his own-or the mayor’s, for that matter.

Faust was leaning back in his chair, voicing his opinions in a languid tenor. Schmidt listened carefully so as to pick up the thread of his argument. He didn’t want anyone present to think he had been “dreaming.”

“I fear that the mayor is becoming complacent,” said Faust. “The issue of their status has become a tool, a means to an end: a device used to get the attention and support of the lower middle class. Of course, he’s still willing to denounce glorified moneylenders like Rothenstein, Wittgenstein, and their kind-but none of this hot air leads to municipal reform.”

“He’s even consulting them these days,” Schmidt chipped in. “I heard that he actually met with Cohen to discuss one of his new building projects.”

“It’s no good,” said Faust. “We can’t denounce them in the morning and invite them for tea in the afternoon. He’s playing a dangerous game.”

Schmidt rose from his seat and went over to the window. His breath condensed on the glass, and he had to wipe the moisture away to see out. Beyond the Rathaus park stood the Burgtheater. It looked particularly beautiful, its windows glowing from inside with a warm amber light. Rain was falling, and the street lamps were surrounded by haloes of luminescence.

Schmidt recalled one of the mayor’s most famous speeches.

If you go to the theatre, nothing but Jews. If you walk on the Ringstrasse, nothing but Jews. If you go to a concert, nothing but Jews. If you attend a ball, nothing but Jews. If you go on campus, again, nothing but Jews…

Schmidt’s lips twisted to form an ironic smile. The Burgtheater was showing a play written by a Jew. Faust was absolutely right. Mayor Lueger had lost his early zeal. Yet the public still had an appetite for such fiery rhetoric. Schmidt thought of Faust’s article and sighed. The rhythms were reminiscent of Mayor Lueger’s old speeches, written when he was still hungry for power: insistent repetition, like a fist banging on a door-brooking no refusal-and metaphors so striking, so just that no one could deny the truth of his vision.

Faust would get the job-and he might even be mayor, one day. Faust was an obstacle. Faust was in Schmidt’s way.

“Only ten years ago,” Faust continued, “the program for reform was accepted by everyone: removal of the Jews from the civil service, medicine, law, and small business. Only ten years ago, these proposals were taken very seriously indeed. Now look at the state of our most important institutions.”

“There have been some successes,” said Hofrat Holzknecht. “There aren’t that many of them in the civil service, and we’ve managed to limit admissions to the gymnasia.”

“But it’s not enough!” said Faust.

“Well,” said Hofrat Holzknecht. “Should you ever find yourself in a position to revive the mayor’s flagging program for municipal reform”-his expression became arch and knowing-“then you would be assured of support from my bureau.”

Schmidt felt his heart beating faster. It was so unfair. Holzknecht was acting as if the decision had already been made.

Holzknecht blew out a cloud of smoke. “It won’t be easy,” he continued, “to fight this new complacency.”

“Of course it won’t,” said Schmidt. “That is why we need something to capture the public’s imagination.” He wasn’t going to let Faust have a coronation. Holzknecht should realize that Faust wasn’t the only councillor with ideas. Schmidt paused, hoping that his silence would be sufficiently cryptic to elicit a further question. His ruse was successful.

“What do you mean, Schmidt?”

“I mean that there is only so much one can do to persuade the electorate with economic and social arguments. Sometimes you have to engage their emotions. Somebody once suggested to me that what we really need right now is another Hilsner.”

Fabian, having already distributed the cognac and cigars, had been sitting quietly reading a newspaper. However, he had been half-listening to the conversation, and now he raised his head quizzically.

“Hilsner, uncle?”

Schmidt smiled at his nephew and then turned to Faust and Holzknecht. “He’s only eighteen… one forgets.” He came away from the window and sat down next to his nephew.

“Leopold Hilsner, dear boy. He killed a nineteen-year-old virgin and drained her body of blood. It’s what they do. Christian blood for their bread. The scandal started a very healthy debate in the popular press… It got people thinking.”

“Is it true, Uncle Julius? They really do this?”

“As far as we’re concerned, it’s true,” said Schmidt, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Fabian looked confused.

“No, Julius,” said Faust, “I think you can be more emphatic than that. They are a superstitious and backward people. Whenever a child disappears-particularly in the rural areas of Hungary and Galicia-the local communities are quite right to suspect the tinkers and peddlers passing through from the east. I can assure you, young man, ritual murder is a real phenomenon. And you don’t have to take my word for it. Read the Reverend Joseph Decker’s A Ritual Murder or Father August Rohling’s The Talmudic Jew. They are chilling works that deserve a place on every right-thinking person’s bookshelf.”

Schmidt’s jaw tightened with irritation. He had read neither of these tracts. Faust always seemed to be able to back up his arguments with scholarly references. It was particularly riling because Schmidt, unlike many of his colleagues, had made a thorough study of Jewish lore and was relatively well informed. Know thy enemy was an epigram he lived by.

“That’s all very well, Schmidt,” said Holzknecht, “saying that we need another Hilsner. But you can’t expect something like that to happen just when you want it to.”

“No,” said Schmidt. “My point exactly! You can’t!”

The men exchanged glances.

Holzknecht possessed a very expressive face. At first his lineaments showed doubt. Surely he was mistaken, surely he was investing Schmidt’s response with too much meaning; however, the balance of his judgment was tipped by Schmidt’s rising eyebrow. Holzknecht’s doubt turned to amusement, and his features communicated an amalgam of surprise and approval.

The silence was broken by Fabian.

“Uncle,… Brother Stanislav is dead.” The young man pushed the paper toward Schmidt. “The Piarist monk, remember? We met with him last month. We had to talk to him about that incident in Leopoldstadt.”

“Stanislav-dead?” said Faust. “I don’t believe it!”

“Murdered,” said Schmidt, without inflection.

“Murdered?” cried Faust. “Dear God!”

“It says he was decapitated,” said Fabian.

“Schmidt, give me that,” said Faust, reaching over and pulling the newspaper out of Schmidt’s hands. Faust’s eyes moved from side to side as he read the column. “Dear God! I don’t believe it. He was a good man… a truly good man.”

“Yes,” said Schmidt, “but he wasn’t admired universally.” He looked innocently at the ceiling. Then he dropped his gaze and caught Holzknecht’s eye. He saw that he had hit his mark. Hofrat’s face, expressive to the point of transparency, revealed that he was reassessing Schmidt. Perhaps they had underestimated him and his application should be reconsidered.