In the Claws of the Eagle (26 page)

‘Well, thank God that’s over, Elaine, the Reichsmarschall’s last visit I hope.’ He walked over to her, his face open and happy. ‘How will I manage without you, Elaine? A little kiss?’ He stopped.

Against all rules, against all training, Elaine slowly opened her hand. Erich didn’t notice what she was doing immediately; she had to glance towards it to get him to look.

‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I have been careless.’ She wanted to scream. Didn’t the idiot realise the danger he was in? Didn’t he realise that all she had to do was take the disk to her commander, together with his name, and he would be found floating in the Seine tomorrow? But, of course how could he, she was just little Elaine, the cleaner, who was here for him to flirt with. By revealing her hand to Erich, she had probably blown her cover. So she decided she had nothing to lose now.

‘Erich,’ she said slowly, ‘you may not be all you seem, but neither am I. And I want to know what you are doing with this Gestapo disk.’

Erich looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you
interrogating
me?’ There was a slight smile on his face still, but it vanished when Elaine said, quietly: ‘Yes. That is just what I am doing, Herr Hoffman. I am a member of the Resistance. Kindly sit down …’

In a way it was a relief to tell her – about his work with
General
von Brugen; about the secret reports. Elaine listened in silence, then she said, ‘What were you doing on Platform 14 of the Gare de l’Est last time Göring’s special train came in?’ She 
made it sound like an accusation. Erich stared at her, how did she know that? He had told nobody, literally nobody, about that incident. Only Louise knew. As he stumbled through his description of what he had seen and how he had collected the notes and letters of the people on the trucks, he relived the shame he had felt on that day.

Elaine had seen some of those pathetic scraps of paper on his desk. It had looked as though he were posting them, but she had to be sure.

‘These letters,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Were they full of State secrets that the Gestapo must know about?’ Erich, now close to breaking down, remembered those scribbled notes; he looked up at Elaine. Her outline was becoming blurred. He couldn’t stop the tears.

‘What
were
you planning to do, Erich, before I found this disk?’ He noticed the past tense. He spread his hands so that they lay palm up on the desk, the white rope burns from his climbing exploits clearly visible.

‘Would you believe me if I told you that I was planning to do some small thing to resist the Nazi monster I have helped to create?’

Élaine stood up, slipping the incriminating Gestapo disc into the pocket of her apron. His tears had been real, she was sure of that. But when she spoke her voice was hard.

‘Herr Hoffman, I have no choice. I will hand this disk to my superiors. I will, however, delay doing this by exactly
twenty-four
hours. By which time you must be out of Paris, preferably out of France. Go then and tackle your monster.’

It was one o’clock on the following morning when Erich’s train crossed the border into Germany, and the last Frenchman left his compartment. It had been a frenetic day, making excuses 
for his sudden departure and acquiring a temporary passport. He had had no time to talk to Louise about the theft of his clothes and his papers. It had to be Klaus, but why he had done it, he had no idea. The German border guards accepted the temporary passport and he relaxed. Louise’s portrait,
carefully
wrapped, rested on top of his suitcase. With the hostile Frenchmen gone, Louise joined him in the carriage. The lights were dimmed and the windows were blacked out. Trains were favourite targets for enemy bombers. To the measured
clack-clack
of the wheels on the track, she told Erich about Klaus’s visit, and how it was Klaus who had dropped Erich’s
identification
disc.

‘Fortunately I had my identity card in my pocket when he came. All he seems to have been interested in was my
passport
, and of course the visas. I don’t fancy changing identity with Klaus Steinman.’ Erich poked distastefully at the papers Klaus had left for him in the safe. ‘What are these?’

‘He called it his present for you.’

‘All this SS Death’s Head squad stuff makes me sick now. So, what have we here? A leave form, travel passes, security passes, all to a place called Auschwitz. I’m finished with this Nazi
Scheiße
, I think I’ll just throw the lot out of the window.’

‘No, Erich, don’t! I’ve got a feeling about it. I’m almost
certain
Izaac is in this “Auschwitz” place. I heard the name when I dreamed about him being on a train, and then Klaus
mentioned
it, and how Izaac might play for you there. Oh, if only you could turn Klaus’s trick against him!’

Erich shuddered. ‘I’ve already nearly been turned over to the French Resistance because of him. Anything to do with Klaus is bad news. I’ve got to get some sleep now. We can talk about it later.’

Erich settled back. Louise tried to think ahead. In the
morning
they would arrive at some huge picture depot in Munich, 
where her picture might easily be discovered and taken from him. But she needed Erich to rescue Izaac. More and more she had a feeling that time was running out for him. She would give him an hour or two’s sleep and then tackle him.

Back in Paris Élaine was serving in her father’s cafe when the familiar figure of Pierre came in and sat at a small table tucked out of sight in the back of the café. She shivered. Thank God Erich had got safely away. Pierre, the executioner, was bad news. She went over, in her own time, and stood ready to take his order. He wasted no breath:

‘We got him, your Gestapo bugger; the boss wants you to identify him. Absinthe please.’

Élaine stared incredulously at the familiar suit, the face – none the better for a bullet hole in the middle of it. How could this have happened? She had actually
seen
Erich climb into the car to be driven to the station. One half of her wanted to run screaming from the filthy cellar where his body lay, the other half stayed cool.

‘The hands,’ she demanded. ‘Turn over his hands.’ She looked, and looked again. Those hands had never held a
falling
climber; they were as clean and unscarred as a babe’s. She turned to Pierre.

‘That’s him, that’s Erich alright,’ and her smile had a look of triumph that chilled even Pierre the executioner.

‘Did you see her smile? She’s a tough one, that Élaine!’ he said to his colleague. ‘You know, we all thought she was sweet on him!’

While Erich slept, Louise had come up with a plan. But was it preposterous to expect him to risk everything, life included, just to rescue her friend, one Jew out of thousands? Clack … clack … time was running out. She was jerked awake by shouts outside.

‘Erich, wake up! Open the blinds, I want to see.’ He unhooked a blind and it shot up, revealing crazy images of wrecked carriages, cranes, and a half capsized engine.

‘Must have been bombed.’ He reached up to pull the blind back down again.

‘Erich, we’ve got to talk. We’ve only got an hour or two.’

He looked at her through gummed up eyes. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘Tell me.’

When Louise had finished, Erich took out Klaus’s papers and examined them closely this time. Together they went step by step through what he would have to do if he was to get to Auschwitz.

‘There is one problem I can see no way around. How I will persuade them to release Izaac to me? I will need some
compelling
reason.’

‘You know, Erich; there is someone you’ve told me about who I’ve always liked the sound of … ’ she looked at Erich, her head to one side. Would he have the same idea?

‘Von Brugen! Of course!’ He thumped his knee. ‘He’s the one person I could ask. That very first time, after the Winkler affair, von Brugen asked me for Izaac’s name, almost as if he would try to do something for him. All I need is an order from him for the “release of Jew Izaac Abrahams into the custody of the bearer for the purpose of interrogation. Signed, General von Brugen.” No need to involve him in the details.’

‘Then what will you do with Izaac if you rescue him? Hide him in the salt mines?’

‘Not a bad idea. If I could find one of the old entrances that 
hasn’t been blocked off, but I have another idea. My mother moved to Altaussee when Father died. There is a loft there that could be made habitable. I will check it out.’

Erich was too busy, and there were too many people around for any fond farewells when he finally brought Louise to the salt mines. However, Louise did manage to see the place where her picture was being stored, in an alcove behind the chapel altar. The altar was made of salt and it glowed with a honey light when the lights were on. Her portrait was packed exactly like all the other pictures: corrugated cardboard, brown paper, string, and a label. The only differences were that the number on the label was bogus, and that Erich had ‘accidentally’ spilled a blot of red ink on one corner. His last words to her were: ‘Don’t expect too much, Louise. You have no idea of the security surrounding the camps.’

She heard his footsteps retreating, and a silence deeper than anything she had ever experienced closed about her. On every side were piled the priceless art treasures of Europe. From time to time there would be a hum from the pumps deep in the mine, otherwise nothing. Out of sight, out of mind – had they effectively died – these beautiful works that had given so much pleasure and love, fading from the memories of the people who had given them life or dying as those people died somewhere above? Gradually, however, Louise realised that there was life still within the cavern surrounding her. She thought of them as tiny candles of light around her, springing into life as they were remembered by former owners, families, servants, just as she felt herself flicker to life when Izaac played, or when Erich thought of her waiting in the mine. Ominously, as the weeks went by she realised, that these tiny lights were getting fewer and fewer around her.

Within hours Izaac had been sucked into the mad system that ran the enormous concentration camp, feeling like an insect crawling through some vast machine. There was no escape from the daily routine: identity parade, march to work, dig a drain, be yelled at, kicked or punched, fill in the drain, march back, queue for food, stand in line for the toilet, wash in an inch of water, and never, never leave property unguarded – another day over. Cogs – black-uniformed SS men, guard dogs, Kapos (collaborators) who were worse than the dogs, foul food, dysentery – waited to crush the unwary. Nobody knew or cared who or what Izaac was, nor did they want to know about music or orchestras. The man in the bunk above him died, probably of despair. Help carry the corpse to the mortuary, nearly full today.

What looked like a well-oiled machine was, in fact, chaos, everything was out of sync. Buildings were built and never used; roads were laid that were never finished. When you arrived at work, exhausted, it was time to turn for home. Only by throwing the lives of people at a job was anything ever achieved, and all the time smoke poured from the chimney in the little wood.
Don’t listen to the stories about the gas
chambers
and the crematoria. Don’t think about them! Stay alive! 
But Izaac was no good at not thinking about things; he couldn’t sleep, he got dysentery, his hands bled, raw from the unaccustomed work; he no longer cared; within a month he was on a downward spiral into despair.

He nearly missed the shout when it came. ‘Izaac bloody Abrahams!’ Exhausted after a day carrying bricks, he struggled to the door where the kapo in charge of his barrack was
standing
. ‘I have a message for you. You can have it for one bread ration.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you or do you not want to hear the message?’ Izaac’s stomach was writhing with hunger, but he had no choice. Reluctantly he handed over his quarter loaf.

‘Report to barrack C28,’ the kapo instructed. ‘And go now, before I change my mind!’

As Izaac sidled between the bunks in his new barracks, hands reached out to shake his. He swapped names and found
himself
talking to musicians he had heard of from all over Europe. Some he recognised joyfully from Terezín. The barracks was identical to the one he had left, except that this one was clean. The food was the same, but because the kapo – also a
musician
– was honest, there was no thieving. The morning bustle started even earlier here because the various bands and orchestras had to be ready to play at roll call. They would play stirring marches and gay waltzes as the work-parties marched out.

The barracks, like all the others, were segregated, but he met his young friend Deborah in the rehearsal room; even with her shorn head she looked pretty. He thanked her profusely for rescuing him from the hell of the main camp. As he did so he was shocked to realise that the sense of purpose, the desire
to entertain and to perfect his music that had driven him while in Terezín, had been subtly replaced by a more primitive urge – the urge to survive.

‘We must get you a violin, Maestro,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I will be allowed to take you.’

It was a long walk past interminable barrack buildings to a place where groups of young women, working in the open, were separating vast piles of clothing into smaller piles.
Suitcases
were stacked in mountains. Inside one shed Izaac saw piles of shoes spilling towards the door.

‘Where
does
all this come from?’ he murmured in amazement.

Deborah looked at him, and he followed her eyes to where a chimney belched black smoke into the hot summer air. Izaac winced. Despite grudging confirmation from his former
workmates
, he still could not take in the reality of the gas chambers, and the crematoria. Deborah took his arm briefly; she
understood
. They all had to go through this dreadful moment of realisation.

She opened the door to a smaller store and they stood there, peering into the comparative darkness. First to come to sight were the brass instruments, gleaming like coiled snakes. Gradually Izaac realised that the four walls were literally piled high with musical instruments. Most of them were still in their cases, but others, gypsy fiddles for example, that had possibly never had a case in their life, were uncovered. Two double bases leaned together like drunks in conversation against the wall. He walked in. Where do you start, when faced with a six-foot pile of violins?

They were as different and as uniform as the players in an orchestra. Izaac ran his eyes over the heap and realised he was counting not just violins, but the lives of violinists. All these lives … Suddenly he felt a chill that began at the back of his 
neck and seeped into the rest of his body. He closed his eyes: I don’t want to see this, he thought. It was just another violin case, battered, like so many of the others, but a case with a scarlet hotel-sticker, with a picture of a dancing clown on it. He went over, carefully eased it out from the pile and stood cradling it like a baby in his arms. Then he carried the case over to the light and knelt reverently, fumbling with the catches, hoping perhaps to find some battered old instrument, not hers. But no, nestling in one of Helena’s old silk scarves lay her Stradivarius. Tears ran down his cheeks.

‘But she wasn’t even a Jew!’ he exclaimed, looking at
Deborah
as if searching for an answer.

‘Who? Who do you mean?’ she asked.

‘The owner of this violin was Helena Stronski, my teacher, my mentor. I remember this clown from when I was a child.’

‘Stronski,’ said Deborah, ‘it sounds Polish. That would be enough. The Poles are
Untermenschen
– subhuman, like the Jews. Perhaps she spoke out about what they were doing to her people?’

Izaac nodded. ‘Yes, Helena
would
have spoken out! It doesn’t say much for the many that held their tongues?’

‘Except that they are still alive,’ said Deborah.

As he had not yet been assigned to an orchestra, Izaac had the rehearsal room to himself. He stood for a while looking at the Stradivarius in its case, and it seemed to glow with some
internal
energy. He had often played the ‘Strad’ when a student, but Helena had always stopped short of letting him perform on it. ‘I don’t trust you two together,’ she’d said. ‘You might shatter the chandeliers or something.’ It was over a month since he had played a note. He tightened the bow, remembering his childish delight at the pretty mother of pearl knob on the end 
of it, then he picked up the violin, and ran his fingers over the strings. It was still almost in tune. Perhaps it was only days since … he checked himself. He suddenly felt very much alone. He wanted Louise, he needed her, but he had managed to keep her out of his mind for the last month; this was no time to share his experiences with her.

Perhaps if he just tuned Helena’s violin, Louise would pick this up and know that he was thinking of her. He put his bow on the strings. The notes swooped and settled as he turned the pegs, tuning the four strings closer to each other until they merged in perfect harmony. Then he drew his bow and played the brief scales and runs that he always played after tuning,
finishing
on the high delicate harmonics. Instantly he was back in the past, playing the Dvorak Violin Concerto and listening to the wild harmonies that Louise had accidentally released to him that day.

He began to play, and out it came, like water breaching a dam, a trickle, then faster and faster as all the bottled up fears and misery of the last weeks flowed out of him: the transport, the camp, all the things he had carefully concealed from her. There was nothing he could do but let it go, as helpless as
Pandora
when she opened her box and accidentally released all its evils into the world until there was nothing left in her box but hope. Poor Louise, had he sent her all that misery without hope?

To begin with, playing Helena’s violin was like riding a
thoroughbred
. Ramon, his conductor, would look down kindly at him, and Izaac would apologise.

‘Sorry, Ramon, did I cut loose a bit?’ But Ramon didn’t mind because since Izaac had come, he found himself looking down on forty alert and interested faces, all wondering what their new leader would do next. In order to discipline himself, Izaac 
disciplined them.

‘Go on, go on,’ Deborah told him in private. ‘We love it, it’s good for us.’ The players would now linger in the rehearsal room and listen while Izaac took the legendary Stradivarius for a gallop. He would imagine himself back in Vienna being wrestled with by Madame Helena as she tried to mould him into a proper playing position. Instead of Louise shouting at him to ‘go back. Get it right!’ he was doing just this with his orchestra.

Members of the orchestra played in the mornings and
evenings
, for roll calls and while the working parties came and went. In between these times, many, like Deborah, had to do part-time work, but they also had to be available for two hours practice in the afternoons. There were camp concerts for inmates, and sometimes public concerts for the Nazi officers’ friends and guests. The orchestra even wore dress clothes on these occasions, suits salvaged from the piles of garments that Deborah had shown Izaac on his first day with the orchestra. Izaac’s health improved, his dysentery subsided. Of all their duties, the one they dreaded most was having to play during the selection process, when exhausted people from the
transports
were divided up, the ‘lucky’ ones sent to join work gangs, the others directed towards the grove of trees, and thence, as they all now knew, straight to the gas chambers. ‘Don’t look, don’t listen, just play; it’s the only thing you can do to help them,’ Ramon advised on each of these occasions. So far Izaac had been spared this ordeal.

He now felt ‘secure in the saddle’ when playing the Strad, but that didn’t mean he had complete control over it. It was as if Helena’s rebelliousness was wrestling to get out and make some statement about the monster that was devouring them.