the wreath and made their way toward the nearest school entrance.
Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.
“One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
The two monks looked at each other.
“And you are?” the shorter one inquired.
“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”
“I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”
“Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time—when it is more convenient?”
The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well—”
“Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.
“Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”
The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.
“If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was really like, read the articles he wrote for Das Vaterland .” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.
“ Vaterland ? What’s that?”
“A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.
“ Vaterland ,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.
Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.
9
“I CANNOT THANK YOU enough,” said Rabbi Seligman to Professor Priel.
“Well, it isn’t me you should be thanking.”
“Yes, I know that it is Herr Rothenstein’s money, and I am indeed grateful for his generosity, but it was you who acted as our advocate.”
“Please,” said the professor, indicating with a gesture that he would not tolerate another word of praise. “The Alois Gasse Temple has a unique charm of its own, and its ark is a treasure. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was worth preserving. ‘The Rothenstein Judaica Fund,’ I said to myself. It is regrettable that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been allowed to fall into disrepair. I think we caught the rot just in time.”
“My predecessor, I understand, was not a worldly man. Isn’t that so, Kusiel?” The rabbi glanced at the shammos— the old caretaker.
“Whenever anything went wrong, Rabbi Tunkel just said ‘Leave it .’ He seemed to think that God would intervene and sort things out. Even the roof.”
“And as we know only too well,” said Professor Priel, “God is distinctly inclined to help those who help themselves.” The rabbi laughed—falsely—as, in truth, he did not agree with this facile sentiment. “Which reminds me,” said the professor. “You mentioned some damp, Rabbi?”
“Indeed, but really, Professor Priel, you have done quite enough.”
“It costs me nothing to ask. And there are other funds that might be appropriate.”
“Thank you,” said Rabbi Seligman. “You are too kind.”
The professor finished his tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together vigorously, “shall we go and see the finished product?”
“Of course—if you wish.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“You will excuse
Rheinhardt emerged from his hiding place.
“One moment, please.” The two monks turned around abruptly. Rheinhardt showed his identification. “Security office. Forgive me, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.”
The two monks looked at each other.
“And you are?” the shorter one inquired.
“Detective Inspector Oskar Rheinhardt.”
“I am sorry, Inspector,” the short monk continued, “but the children are waiting. We have classes to teach.”
“Then perhaps I could arrange to speak with you some other time—when it is more convenient?”
The short monk wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Brother Stanislav,” said the tall monk hesitantly, “had a reputation for saintliness; however, those who knew him well—”
“Lupercus!” the short monk interrupted. Again, the two Piarists looked at each other, saying nothing, but obviously engaged in a silent battle of wills. Eventually the shorter monk conceded defeat. He bit his lower lip, and his shiny cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red. “I must go.” Marching briskly toward the school, he departed without bothering to excuse his rudeness.
“Brother Lupercus?” Rheinhardt prompted. “You were saying?”
The tall monk surveyed the empty concourse.
“If you want to know what Brother Stanislav was really like, read the articles he wrote for Das Vaterland .” Rheinhardt detected a slight foreign accent in the monk’s speech.
“ Vaterland ? What’s that?”
“A Catholic newspaper.” The school entrance on the opposite side of the concourse opened, and the monk froze. He held his breath until a small boy emerged. “I can say no more,” he added with decisive finality. “Good morning, Inspector.” He turned his back on Rheinhardt and loped across the cobbles, his loose sandals slapping against the soles of his feet.
“ Vaterland ,” Rheinhardt muttered. He took out his notebook and wrote the name down in a quick but barely legible scrawl.
Two women, each with small children, had left the road and were coming in his direction. Both of them were carrying wreaths.
9
“I CANNOT THANK YOU enough,” said Rabbi Seligman to Professor Priel.
“Well, it isn’t me you should be thanking.”
“Yes, I know that it is Herr Rothenstein’s money, and I am indeed grateful for his generosity, but it was you who acted as our advocate.”
“Please,” said the professor, indicating with a gesture that he would not tolerate another word of praise. “The Alois Gasse Temple has a unique charm of its own, and its ark is a treasure. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was worth preserving. ‘The Rothenstein Judaica Fund,’ I said to myself. It is regrettable that such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship had been allowed to fall into disrepair. I think we caught the rot just in time.”
“My predecessor, I understand, was not a worldly man. Isn’t that so, Kusiel?” The rabbi glanced at the shammos— the old caretaker.
“Whenever anything went wrong, Rabbi Tunkel just said ‘Leave it .’ He seemed to think that God would intervene and sort things out. Even the roof.”
“And as we know only too well,” said Professor Priel, “God is distinctly inclined to help those who help themselves.” The rabbi laughed—falsely—as, in truth, he did not agree with this facile sentiment. “Which reminds me,” said the professor. “You mentioned some damp, Rabbi?”
“Indeed, but really, Professor Priel, you have done quite enough.”
“It costs me nothing to ask. And there are other funds that might be appropriate.”
“Thank you,” said Rabbi Seligman. “You are too kind.”
The professor finished his tea and replaced the cup in its saucer. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together vigorously, “shall we go and see the finished product?”
“Of course—if you wish.”
“I can’t wait to see it.”
“You will excuse
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