the pickled cucumber. They’re very sweet.”
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.
“Family well?”
“Thriving.”
“Then why such a long face? You should be a happy man. Health is a blessing, make no mistake.”
Rheinhardt bit into the latke and looked off toward the market. “So… any news?”
“There’s always news, my friend.”
“Of interest to me?”
“Possibly.” Teitel prodded the coals in the brazier with a poker. “Since that business on the Prater a few months back—you know, the boy who was killed at the rally—there’ve been rumors. There’s this zaddik—”
“This what?” Rheinhardt cut in.
“Zaddik, a preacher among the Hasidim. He’s called Barash, and they say he knew what was going to happen. They say he knew the priest was going to die.”
“How?”
“Perhaps God told him. They’re fanatics, these people.”
A woman wearing a spotted scarf and carrying a small child stopped to buy some oatcakes and some pastry pillows filled with curd cheese. While she was haggling, Rheinhardt found a shop window and pretended to be interested in the display. When the woman had gone, he returned to the stall.
“Where does he live, this Barash?”
“Just round the corner.” Teitel jerked his thumb toward the market. “In the old ghetto buildings.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“My brother-in-law. He was in Zucker’s—do you know Zucker’s? One of Barash’s people was in there. They were talking about the priest, and this boy pipes up that Barash had known—weeks before it happened.”
“Anything else?”
Teitel shook his head. Rheinhardt dropped another two kronen into Teitel’s hand and said, “For the latke.”
“You’re very generous,” said Teitel. Then, raising his voice, he added, “Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi?”
Rheinhardt shook his head.
“A priest and a rabbi are on a train. The priest turns to the rabbi and says, ‘Is it still a requirement of your faith to not eat pork?’ And the rabbi replies, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ So the priest then says, ‘Have you ever eaten pork?’ And the rabbi says, ‘On one occasion I did succumb to temptation, and, yes, I did eat pork.’ The priest goes back to reading his book. A while later the rabbi speaks again. ‘Father,’ he says, ‘is it still a requirement of your faith to remain celibate?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, very much so.’ The rabbi then asks him, ‘Father, have you ever succumbed to temptation?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, Rabbi, on one occasion I was weak, and I succumbed.’ The rabbi nods, pauses for a moment, and then says, ‘It’s a lot better than pork, isn’t it?’”
Rheinhardt dug another krone out of his vest pocket and flicked it over the pickle jars. Its flashing trajectory was interrupted by Teitel’s fingers as he snatched it out of the air.
“You’re a gentleman, sir,” said Teitel.
“And you are a scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt, laughing to himself as he turned away.
19
P ROFESSOR P RIEL AND A SHER K usevitsky had been engaged in a deep conversation about mysticism and metaphor. They were sitting in a corner seat in the Café Eiles, which was situated behind the town hall. It was a relatively new coffeehouse and had not as yet built up a very large clientele. There were some regular customers, mostly civil servants and lawyers, but it was always possible to get a seat.
The gas lamps on the wall had already been turned on, but the opaque globes on the brassy arms of the chandeliers were dull and lifeless. A big station clock hung on chains from an archway that led to the kitchen. Beneath it an alert-looking waiter scanned the empty tables.
“You see, my boy…,” said Priel, pausing to accomplish the delicate operation of sipping coffee without moistening his mustache or beard. “Lurianic Kabbalah was never the exclusive property of a small closed group. It became the subject of much popular preaching and influenced
“Thank you,” said Rheinhardt.
“Family well?”
“Thriving.”
“Then why such a long face? You should be a happy man. Health is a blessing, make no mistake.”
Rheinhardt bit into the latke and looked off toward the market. “So… any news?”
“There’s always news, my friend.”
“Of interest to me?”
“Possibly.” Teitel prodded the coals in the brazier with a poker. “Since that business on the Prater a few months back—you know, the boy who was killed at the rally—there’ve been rumors. There’s this zaddik—”
“This what?” Rheinhardt cut in.
“Zaddik, a preacher among the Hasidim. He’s called Barash, and they say he knew what was going to happen. They say he knew the priest was going to die.”
“How?”
“Perhaps God told him. They’re fanatics, these people.”
A woman wearing a spotted scarf and carrying a small child stopped to buy some oatcakes and some pastry pillows filled with curd cheese. While she was haggling, Rheinhardt found a shop window and pretended to be interested in the display. When the woman had gone, he returned to the stall.
“Where does he live, this Barash?”
“Just round the corner.” Teitel jerked his thumb toward the market. “In the old ghetto buildings.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“My brother-in-law. He was in Zucker’s—do you know Zucker’s? One of Barash’s people was in there. They were talking about the priest, and this boy pipes up that Barash had known—weeks before it happened.”
“Anything else?”
Teitel shook his head. Rheinhardt dropped another two kronen into Teitel’s hand and said, “For the latke.”
“You’re very generous,” said Teitel. Then, raising his voice, he added, “Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi?”
Rheinhardt shook his head.
“A priest and a rabbi are on a train. The priest turns to the rabbi and says, ‘Is it still a requirement of your faith to not eat pork?’ And the rabbi replies, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ So the priest then says, ‘Have you ever eaten pork?’ And the rabbi says, ‘On one occasion I did succumb to temptation, and, yes, I did eat pork.’ The priest goes back to reading his book. A while later the rabbi speaks again. ‘Father,’ he says, ‘is it still a requirement of your faith to remain celibate?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, very much so.’ The rabbi then asks him, ‘Father, have you ever succumbed to temptation?’ And the priest replies, ‘Yes, Rabbi, on one occasion I was weak, and I succumbed.’ The rabbi nods, pauses for a moment, and then says, ‘It’s a lot better than pork, isn’t it?’”
Rheinhardt dug another krone out of his vest pocket and flicked it over the pickle jars. Its flashing trajectory was interrupted by Teitel’s fingers as he snatched it out of the air.
“You’re a gentleman, sir,” said Teitel.
“And you are a scoundrel,” said Rheinhardt, laughing to himself as he turned away.
19
P ROFESSOR P RIEL AND A SHER K usevitsky had been engaged in a deep conversation about mysticism and metaphor. They were sitting in a corner seat in the Café Eiles, which was situated behind the town hall. It was a relatively new coffeehouse and had not as yet built up a very large clientele. There were some regular customers, mostly civil servants and lawyers, but it was always possible to get a seat.
The gas lamps on the wall had already been turned on, but the opaque globes on the brassy arms of the chandeliers were dull and lifeless. A big station clock hung on chains from an archway that led to the kitchen. Beneath it an alert-looking waiter scanned the empty tables.
“You see, my boy…,” said Priel, pausing to accomplish the delicate operation of sipping coffee without moistening his mustache or beard. “Lurianic Kabbalah was never the exclusive property of a small closed group. It became the subject of much popular preaching and influenced
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