Academy of the Dead

by Christopher Wright

  "I thought you weren't getting involved in all that nonsense."

  "This one's different. It's for money. What have we got in the way of digital recorders?"

  *

  MATT PRINTED the pages from Mac the Hack's CD then phoned the Homeless Anchor Trust and spoke to Father Alban. The young priest said that Olga was in this afternoon but was suffering from a stomach upset.

  "I only want to have a word with her," Matt explained.

  "I do not think she will want to see you. She thinks she has eaten something bad for breakfast."

  Matt expressed surprise. "Is anyone else ill?"

  "Olga did not come back last night. Often she stays out walking in the countryside. Probably she found food in the bin of a restaurant. Always I am warning my crew not to scavenge for food. Anyway, Matt, why is it that you wish to speak to her?"

  He might as well come out into the open. "I've got some pages written in the Czech language. I printed them off the computer this morning."

  "Ah yes," Father Alban said. "You would like Olga to translate them into English." Matt could almost hear Father Alban shaking his head wearily. "Today? Impossible." He gave the word an emphatic, French pronunciation.

  Well, it had to happen. After the climb comes the fall. Now Blake's microfiche was ruined, and all for nothing. Where else would he find a Czech speaker, apart from Olga and Mrs. Smith? And no way was he going to show them to Mrs. Smith. "Could I bring them round for Olga to look at when she's better?"

  "Perhaps you can wait until tomorrow."

  No, he wasn't going to wait. "I'll drive by HAT on my way home and give the pages to you."

  "I may not be here," Father Alban explained.

  "Let Olga know I'm coming. I'll put everything in a large envelope with her name on it. One of your crew can give it to her."

  Father Alban had run out of excuses. All Matt had to do now was wait for Mrs. Smith to collect Hana's brooch.

  *

  FATHER ALBAN was outside the Homeless Anchor Trust when Matt drove up in the late afternoon, arguing with three men who were without doubt the worse for drink. Matt stopped well short of the building to wait until the fracas was over. Unfortunately the young priest spotted the Mini and waved to Matt to come over.

  "Meet some of my crew," he said. "This is Larry, this is Jock, and the handsome one is Paddy."

  Larry and Jock laughed, and Matt smiled dutifully at each one in turn, but he felt embarrassed, not knowing what to say. The men seemed to be sobering up. Whatever the argument was about, it couldn't have been serious.

  He pushed the envelope into Father Alban's hand. "This is for Olga; for when she's better." He tried not to feel too disgusted with these men. As a police officer he'd found them relatively easy to deal with. You could threaten scum like this with arrest, or warn them that it would be better if they found somewhere else to hang out. Father Alban was treating them as human beings.

  The priest handed the envelope back. "Olga is much better now, so you can give it to her yourself."

  This was good news. "I won't keep her long."

  "Wait here," Father Alban said. "I think it is better if visitors like you stay outside. We have many here who are suspicious of anyone who is smartly dressed."

  Matt had never thought himself as being smartly dressed, but maybe that was how the homeless saw him. Father Alban came out with a thin, shy girl who looked like a fifteen-year-old. As she came closer he could see that she was probably in her early twenties. The swept-back hair accentuated the hollowness of her cheeks. Her two small dark eyes glanced nervously around.

  Matt held out the envelope. "Hi, I'm Matt." That didn't seem to get much of a response. "Father Alban thinks you can read Czechoslovakian."

  Olga nodded, though warily.

  He decided to open the envelope. "I want to know what's on these pages. Can you do me a translation -- when you're better?"

  He wasn't sure why he'd said that last bit. Quite honestly he didn't care how Olga felt as long as he got results. Maybe some of Father Alban's compassion was starting to rub off. Probably not. "I don't need to know what's on every page. Look at this one. What's it about?"

  "It is a list of clothing that someone needs for school."

  "And this one?" He passed Olga a page of typing.

  She took her time reading it. "It is a copy of a letter to say that someone called Hana is a shy girl and is not fitting well into a place called the Academy. It is, I think, to her parents."

  He was getting somewhere. Olga spoke excellent English, which meant the translation would be reliable. "Can we go through each page and you quickly tell me what each one is about?"

  "Perhaps," Olga said quietly. She held her stomach and looked decidedly off-color. "I speak Czech as well as Slovak."

  "And can you write English?"

  She shook her head. "I can read and speak Czech and I can read and speak English, but I have never been able to write properly in any language. Father Alban has tried to help me, but I still cannot do it." She coughed as though to be sick. "And now I do not feel so well again."

  "I'll pay you."

  Father Alban must have heard the offer for he hurried across. "I am sorry, Matt, but you must not give money to my crew. If you want to give the money, please make a donation to the Anchor Trust."

  "I was only trying to help," Matt explained. "I have to know what's on the rest of these pages."

  "Of course, and I did not mean to give offense." Father Alban pointed down. "Maybe Olga would like the pair of new shoes."

  Matt looked down at Olga's tiny feet. He'd not noticed before, but her sneakers had split at the front.

  "What size are they?"

  "An English three," Olga said, her dark eyes almost lighting up.

  Matt tried to smile, but felt uncomfortable. Maybe his mind was too much on the job to care about Olga's stomach upset. "I'll be here tomorrow lunchtime." He looked at the French priest. "It really is important," he said. "All I need is a brief description of what each page is about."

  Father Alban smiled. "I am sure Olga is looking forward to a new pair of the sneakers. She walks a lot on the Mount, looking for wild birds. But she does not know all their names." He turned to Olga. "Matt will buy you some sneakers and a book on British birds to take with you on your walks."

  Olga's almost jumped in excitement. "That is so kind," she said, her eyes wet.

  He'd walked right into that one, but he'd not really been had. A pair sneakers and a small book on British birds was a small price to pay to find out what Blake was trying to hide.

  "And the Anchor Trust relies on financial donations from the public," Father Alban added with a wink.

  A donation? He'd been had after all. "Let's see how we get on with the translation." He pulled one of the pages from the pile.

  Olga took it and looked through it. "It is another letter," she said, no longer clutching her stomach. "This one is very upsetting."

  "It says something about a girl called Hana Eisler," Matt told her. "Is she dead?"

  "I will read it to you." Olga moved to be under one of the overhead lights.

  Matt switched on his miniature digital recorder as soon as Olga began speaking. She did the translation slowly, but seemed to have no trouble with the English language.

  Dearest Mama,

  I want to tell you about a girl who is my new friend here at Terezín. She came here four days ago, but she is still not speaking a word to anyone, not even to me. When they brought her to the camp, the guards told us her name is Hana Eisler and she attends the Helios Music Academy in Prague. I wonder if anyone at the Academy knows she is here. Perhaps you should tell them.

  Yesterday Hana started to play one of the camp violins for us. She is so good that the guards have asked her to play some German solo pieces to them tomorrow. The music she plays is rather slow and sad, but she is very talented. We are all listening to Hana now, and soon we will go to bed. Hana shares a bunk with me.

  It is now t
he next day. The saddest thing happened this morning, Mama. I woke to find Hana crying in our little bunk. She was clutching her stomach and suddenly blood came from her mouth. I called the guard and he said he was taking Hana to the camp hospital. But first he had to take Hana for a shower because she had soiled herself in the night. After breakfast the guard told us Hana was dead. I feel so terribly miserable. The camp violin that Hana played is being given to an old man. He is a good player, but not nearly as good as Hana. I do not think I ever want to hear the violin being played again.

  Tomorrow some of us are being taken on a train journey all the way to a camp in Poland. I think the guards say it is called Auswich. We do not know what awaits us there.

  All the love in the world, Your dearest Emilie.

  Chapter Eighteen

  MRS. SMITH'S house looked as ordinary today as it had yesterday, when he'd pushed the letter through the front door. For a church, which is what Martin Smith said his mother called it, the place wasn't exactly imposing. The uninitiated would think it was merely a 1930s semi-detached: with a small front garden in need of attention, rusting drainpipes, and loose tiles on the front porch.

  Zoé held back. "Perhaps we will not go in."

  Matt took her firmly by the hand. It had needed a fair bit of persuasion to get Zoé this far, and he wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to contact Hana. Quickly he rang the doorbell.

  He thought he'd seen a slight movement behind the downstairs net curtain as they drove up, but Mrs. Smith took a couple of minutes before coming to the door. Even though the woman had said there was nothing to be alarmed about, she had dressed in a long white cotton gown, which Matt knew would worry Zoé.

  "Welcome," the medium said in a rather somber voice. "I believe we are going to be blessed this evening. The brooch you gave me today carries many powerful feelings, but most of all a great sense of sorrow. Would you care to tell me something about the owner? A young woman, I imagine."

  That wasn't a surprising observation. Only a child or a young girl would wear a glass brooch. Matt waited until the front door shut behind them. "She's a twelve-year-old Jewish girl who lived in Prague." To be more precise he should have said she was a twelve-year-old Jewish girl. The Terezín site on the Internet said Hana was dead, the girl's letter on Blake's microfiche said Hana was dead -- and now the medium was probably about to tell them the same thing.

  "Can you give me the name of the person you wish to contact?" the medium asked.

  "Not yet."

  Mrs. Smith held the brooch wistfully in her right-hand and raised it up, the white sleeve of her gown hanging in a loose fold. "A Jewish girl, I think." She looked at Matt questioningly, as though seeking confirmation or denial.

  He tried to keep his face expressionless. He didn't intend to say anything more at this stage, but the woman was doing her best to drag things out of him. It was probably all part of the skill needed to summon up the dead -- or to pretend to summon up the dead.

  "Ah yes," Mrs. Smith continued. "A Jewish girl living in Prague during the war. The sensations I picked up from the brooch are starting to make sense now."

  The woman was fishing. She would have seen Zoé making an almost invisible nod of the head when she mentioned Prague. Together they had given her Hana's background. Well, he couldn't help that. The main thing was not to give Hana's name away.

  In the center of the room the medium had placed three chairs around a small circular table with a plain white cloth on it. The room would have looked gloomy enough in daylight, but outside it was now almost dark. The medium lit a candle, placed it on the sideboard, and closed the heavy brown curtains. The flickering candle was their only illumination.

  "Before we start, is there anything you want to ask?" Mrs. Smith looked from Matt to Zoé and back again.

  Apart from asking if they could both go home? Matt placed his digital recorder on the table. "I'd like to use this."

  Mrs. Smith reached forward and picked it up. "Is it switched on?" she asked.

  Matt shook his head. "I was going to wait until we started."

  "Ah," Mrs. Smith said, "I should have explained yesterday evening. The spirits are disturbed by nearby electrical circuits, and often refuse to come. I would much prefer it if we put your recorder to one side, but you are welcome to leave it running. And mobile phones -- if either of you have one."

  Matt put his on the table. Mrs. Smith placed it on the sideboard. "Do you have one, Mrs. Rider?"

  Zoé sounded apologetic. "I am always forgetting mine."

  Mrs. Smith turned to Matt. "Do you have a camera?"

  Matt shook his head. "I didn't think there'd be anything to photograph."

  "There won't," Mrs. Smith said firmly. "I believe the spirits will only communicate by voice today." She picked up the recorder, checked that it was on and put it with Matt's phone on the sideboard close to the candle.

  Matt looked at the three chairs. "Where do we sit?"

  Mrs. Smith placed herself in the largest and pointed to her left. "I would like Mrs. Rider to sit here, and you must have the other chair, Mr. Rider. We touch hands to make a circle, and the energy flows in through the right hand and out through the left. I think that as you are the only man present, the spirit of the young girl will feel more comfortable with this arrangement."

  Never mind about how Hana would feel. Matt looked at the woman in the long white gown and began to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "What happens next?"

  "You seem nervous," Mrs. Smith said.

  Matt agreed. "I am."

  Mrs. Smith placed the brooch in the center of the table and spread out her hands to make contact with his and Zoé's fingers. "No matter what happens, please stay seated exactly as you are. I am going to summon my spirit guide. There is nothing to be alarmed about."

  The medium closed her eyes and tipped her head forward. Matt waited for her to say something, but she stayed silent. Perhaps it was like prayer, where you didn't actually need to say the words out loud.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Smith spoke in a rather morbid voice. "I have two people with me who wish to make contact with a girl from Czechoslovakia. She was the owner of this brooch."

  Matt couldn't hear anything, but Mrs. Smith kept nodding her head as though conducting a conversation with her eyes closed. Then she opened them and stared up at the ceiling. "I can feel the presence of a new spirit. Yes, she is a girl who can only speak the Czech language. She is asking why you have come to contact her."

  "Ask her what the name is," Matt said, trying not to sound too distrustful.

  Mrs. Smith said something in a foreign language that was presumably Czech. Suddenly her voice went squeaky and poured out a torrent of words.

  "Is the girl you wish to speak to called Rachel?" Mrs. Smith asked after a period of silence.

  Matt shook his head. He wasn't surprised Mrs. Smith had failed to come up with the right name. She already knew that the girl they wanted to contact was Jewish. Rachel was a fair guess, but this could take ages because he'd done his best to give nothing away.

  "I will ask her to fetch the owner of the brooch." Mrs. Smith spoke again in Czech. After two or three minutes of painful silence she looked up at the ceiling again. "The girl you are seeking is here now. Her name is Hana."

  Matt felt a shiver run down his back. He heard Zoé gasp, and watched as she put her hands to her face, giving the biggest clue ever that the name was correct. But no way would Mrs. Smith be able to guess the surname Eisler.

  "Don't break the circle," Mrs. Smith warned.

  Matt was still trying to see how was the trick was performed. Okay, Zoé had just given away that Hana was the right name, but it didn't explain how Mrs. Smith had come up with it so quickly. Maybe she had a genuine gift. Well, perhaps she did, if people were prepared to make regular visits. If Hana had come through, he desperately wished he could ask her the questions directly rather than rely on Mrs. Smith's interpretation. He just hoped that the medium's Czech language was up to the job.
>
  He needed to be convinced before they went any further. "Ask Hana what her surname is."

  Mrs. Smith started to ask the question. Or at least she was asking something, judging by her tone of voice.

  Again the reply in a high-pitched voice. After a few sentences Mrs. Smith opened her eyes and looked at Matt. "I am having difficulty keeping the communication open. Hana is not an easy spirit to commune with. Even now she is not fully at rest."

  Matt realized he should have expected such a maneuver. Mrs. Smith had got one name right, but now she was struggling to find the surname. Maybe Hana was a common Jewish name in Czechoslovakia before World War Two.

  Mrs. Smith spoke again, and the hairs on the back of Matt's neck stood up.

  "Hana is speaking clearly now. She says her name is Eisler. Hana Eisler."

  Matt sat in stunned amazement, still making finger contact with Zoé and the medium.

  "Hana agrees for me to do the translation into English," Mrs. Smith added.

  Something else must have been said, because whatever the girly voice had been saying, a lot more words than that had been used. He looked over at his digital recorder, and put on a wistful expression. Mrs. Smith, who seemed to miss nothing, spotted him looking.

  "You must trust me, Mr. Rider," she said in her normal voice. "If you ask the questions I will be able to translate them into Czechoslovakian for Hana, and translate her answers into English for you. Would you like to start now?"

  He nodded.

  "I am going into a deeper trance," she explained. "The spirit of Hana will be able to talk through me. Please do not try to wake me."

  Mrs. Smith made a low moaning noise and rocked slowly backwards and forwards with her eyes closed. Suddenly Matt felt her fingers in contact with his stiffen, and she sat absolutely still. The candle, burning on the sideboard directly behind her, gave her white gown an edge of light, almost an aura.

  He waited and then realized that the next move had to be his. "Ask Hana if she can remember the war."

  Mrs. Smith said something. The high-pitched voice answered briefly.

  "She remembers many things," Mrs. Smith said. "She says that some of her experiences were too unpleasant to recall now."