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powerful, monumental, a mountain of a man, with wide shoulders and a barrel chest, huge feet and marble hands. His zeal created an illusion of expansion, and he seemed to fill the room. His commanding presence made it easier for his followers to believe a fundamental tenet of their faith: that God could be approached only through the mediation of a zaddik. Barash was a divine messenger, like his father, Solomon, and his grandfather—another Elimelech—before him. In their Hasidic sect, Barash was regarded as the single human being who could redeem their souls; bring their prayers before God; and ensure that if they sinned, God would accept their repentance. In return, his followers gave him their faith and material security.
    The study group came to an end and the young men collected their coats and departed. Barash stood by the window, watching them cross the yard before spilling out onto Grosse Sperlgasse. The surrounding buildings were rather dilapidated, having once been part of the former ghetto. When the last of his followers had disappeared from view, Barash attended to some correspondence, discussed housekeeping arrangements with his wife, donned a large beaver hat, and set off to visit some of the elderly members of his congregation.
    Barash marched down the narrow streets, passing numerous shops on the way: a general store, a bakery, a kosher butcher’s—with substantial joints of meat hanging from hooks on the wide-open doors—a cobbler’s establishment, a watchmaker, a textile merchant. Some of the shop signs were in Hebrew, but most were in German. Occasionally Barash saw other men dressed like himself, although, relative to the rest of the Jewish population, the Hasidim of Vienna were few in number. Even in Leopoldstadt, caftans and beaver hats were not such a common sight.
    Turning off the main thoroughfare, Barash entered a dim alleyway—a gap between buildings that served as a shortcut. The temperature dropped as soon as he ventured between its dank, precipitous walls. He became aware of footsteps—a soft accompaniment shadowing his own tread—and glanced over his shoulder.
    “My rebbe…” It was Gershom.
    Barash halted. “What is the matter?”
    “I was in Zucker’s and saw you passing.”
    Zucker’s was a small coffeehouse on Tandelmarktgasse.
    The young man came forward.
    “I was reading this.” Gershom offered Barash a folded newspaper indicating a particular news item. The headline read PIARIST MONK MURDERED IN JOSEFSTADT .
    Barash grabbed the paper and read down the column of Gothic typeface. His tangled eyebrows came together and his breathing quickened. When he had finished reading, he handed the paper back to the young man, who said tremulously, “How did you know?”
    The zaddik, who towered over his acolyte, did not respond.
    “You said our enemies would be struck down.” The young man was nervous, uncertain whether to proceed. But his need for answers spurred him on. “Is this what you meant? Has it begun already?”
    “Yes,” said Barash. “It has begun.”
    “My rebbe, how did you know?”
    Barash observed a procession of carts passing at the other end of the alley. A peddler was shouting, trying to sell a trayful of dreidels.
    “Be thankful, Gershom. Our troubles will soon be over. As the great Maharal of Prague freed his people from persecution, so we shall be freed. Pray, Gershom, and give thanks.”
    The young man was not consoled by these words.
    “But… my rebbe, who did this?” He held up the newspaper. “Was it…” Gershom lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “Was it one of us?”
    “Of course not!”
    “Then who?”
    “Not who, Gershom. What?”

4
    L IGHT WAS STREAMING THROUGH a high window. The abbot raised his chin, and closed his eyes against the sun. Rheinhardt thought he looked tired.
    “Brother Stanislav was a good Piarist,” said the abbot. “I daresay you will consider me grudging with my praise. It does not sound very generous—‘a