by Sarah Rayne
‘The chord of evil. Every time I say that,’ said Toby, ‘it sounds even more sinister.’
‘It’s not considered so very sinister nowadays. In fact you find it in modern music – Jimi Hendrix made use of it, and also Black Sabbath. It’s like a sting within the melody. Film background music sometimes has it as a kind of warning to the audience that something bad’s about to happen. That harsh discordance that tells you the killer’s outside the door with an axe. Think shower curtains in Psycho. But it’s surprising if a composer in Christa’s time used it. And it’s incredible if it’s in the Siegreich. If this is the Siegreich.’
‘Why would it have the devil’s chord in it?’
‘Well,’ said Phin, thoughtfully, ‘if it really was written under duress, it could have been a jibe at Hitler. Meant to imply, “Stuff you, Adolf.” Or maybe a kind of a stage direction: “Enter the villain.”’
‘So it could be a message of sorts. Only the message is the musical equivalent of, “Balls to the Führer.” Phin, you do realize,’ said Toby, ‘that you’re moving into da Vinci code territory with this?’
‘I am a bit, aren’t I?’ Phin grinned at Toby and set down his pen. ‘OK, I think I’ve got it all copied now – at least as much as is visible.’
‘So this is when we make the comparison? Moment of truth?’
‘Moment of truth,’ confirmed Phin.
They took the notes over to the dining table, where the Siegreich music still lay. As Phin flattened them out next to it, he had the feeling that Christa Cain’s painted eyes flickered with life. Might she even have composed this? Surely she would have been too young. It was Giselle’s music, anyway. But Christa might have played it. She might have been the one person, other than the composer, who had actually heard the Siegreich.
‘Well?’ said Toby, after Phin had pored over the two sets of music for some minutes.
Phin straightened up from the table. His neck muscles were aching with tension, and he felt as if something had looped a steel wire around his chest. In a voice from which he had determinedly smoothed all emotion, he said, ‘They’re exactly the same. Note for note, semi-quaver for semi-quaver, breve for breve, rests and fermata and the whole damn lot.’
‘And the devil’s chord?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Phin looked at Toby. ‘The music we found in that box is the same as the music painted in Christa Cain’s portrait. It’s the Siegreich – Hitler’s vanished invasion march. It’s the music the Nazis tortured out of an unknown composer seventy-odd years ago.’
TEN
Wewelsburg Castle, Spring 1939
Imprisonment in a medieval castle was something you expected to read about in an old fairy story or a gothic romance. It was not something you expected to happen to you in your own life, in twentieth-century Germany.
As the jeep rattled into a courtyard and Wewelsburg’s shadows closed around them, Giselle began to wonder if any of this was actually happening. Might it be a nightmare – her own or even someone else’s? With this last thought, came the memory of Silke, who had scribbled that last frantic clue – Sachsenhausen.
Reinhardt and the jeep’s driver pulled Giselle out of the jeep. All around the courtyard were soaring flat-fronted walls, with small, mean windows in them. Giselle stared up and shivered, but when they forced her towards an archway, she kicked at them with all her strength, and Reinhardt swore and called her a hellcat.
‘Yes, and if my hands weren’t still tied I would claw out your eyes,’ said Giselle, viciously.
‘Bitch.’ He gestured impatiently to the driver, who picked her up and carried her through the archway, to where a deep-set, oak-studded door stood partly open.
The minute they were inside the castle, Giselle felt as if a thick choking darkness had closed down on her. This really was the sinister old castle of those teenage fantasies. This was the place where people suffered and died and were forgotten. As the driver carried her across a massive, echoing, stone-flagged hall, she tried to quench the panic, and take note of everything. It looked as if the rumours that Herr Himmler was renovating the place to use as an SS centre might be true, because workmen’s tools and workbenches were strewn around, and in one corner were crumpled ground sheets and large tubs of paint or plaster mix.
She was carried up a flight of wide, shallow stairs and into a room at the top. At least they had not thrown her into the dungeons. And in a general way she could fix the location of the room. It was at the top of a flight of stairs that led off the big stone hall. One flight of stairs meant it would not be too far from the ground. In stories, beleaguered heroines often climbed courageously out of windows – there was sometimes a friendly tree with thick branches usefully close to window ledges. But this was Wewelsburg – fortress, bastion, prison house and even torture chamber in the past – so it was not very likely to have any accommodating trees or conveniently flimsy locks on doors. Still, the room was better than it might have been. It was unexpectedly large, and by no means spartan. The floor was stone, but there were rugs on it, and a bed stood against one wall, made up with sheets and blankets. There was a deep chair with cushions, and a small table, with a narrow wooden chair drawn up to it.
Two windows were set into the thick old wall, and a plywood desk stood between them, where it would catch whatever light came in. The glass of both windows was thick and slightly blurred from age, and metal strips criss-crossed each one. This was a pity, because even if there had been that helpful tree outside, nothing short of Thor’s hammer, with Thor himself wielding it, would have broken those windows. Surprisingly, there was electricity in here; a thin cable was fastened to the wall, and went all the way up to a light fitting high above. So it was not to be the classic candlelit prison, then.
The driver saluted Reinhardt, and went out.
Reinhardt turned to look at Giselle very intently. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘we shall talk about why you are here.’
‘Music,’ said Giselle staring at Reinhardt in astonishment. ‘You want me to compose music for you.’
‘Yes.’ Reinhardt was standing in front of one of the windows, silhouetted against the darkening sky. It gave him an aura of authority but also of menace.
‘But I can’t compose,’ said Giselle. ‘I can play the piano – the violin a bit, as well – but composing is a whole world away from reading music and playing an instrument. Why on earth d’you think I can compose?’
‘Because in your house are several music scores with your name on them. We found them.’
The thought of Reinhardt or one of his jackals creeping secretly into the house was sickening. Giselle said, ‘Yes, but I didn’t— It wasn’t—’ Then she stopped, because the denial must not be made. The music Reinhardt had found had been written by Felix, of course; he had composed it as a kind of technical exercise, and even though it had not been very good, he had put her name on it because he had said she was his inspiration, no matter how poor the end result.
If Giselle told Reinhardt this, it was possible he would believe her. But that might mean Felix would be taken prisoner and forced to compose their music – which meant Christa and Stefan would be alone, because Giselle was not so naïve as to believe they would let her go.
‘Giselle,’ said Reinhardt, softly, and his voice licked across her name in a way that made Giselle feel as if her skin had been scraped, ‘your family doesn’t yet know where you are or what’s happening to you. They know you were to be away for four, perhaps five, days, so they won’t yet be worried at not hearing from you. And in four or five days—’
‘But I couldn’t compose a piece of music in five days,’ said Giselle quickly. ‘It isn’t like scribbling a quick note to the grocer, or writing a laundry list.’ Did that sound authentic? She thought so.
‘It would be a pity if we have to exert pressure on you,’ said Reinhardt.
‘What d’you mean by pressure?’ But shards of ice were already jabbing into Giselle’s spine.
He came over to her, took her ha
nd, and pulled her to the windows. ‘Do you see that cluster of buildings across to the west? From here, and in this light, you’ll only see a general outline. It’s clearer in daylight. But if you look carefully, you can see black gates, rearing up.’
‘I see all that.’
‘Do you know what that place is?’
His eyes were on her, and after a moment, Giselle said, very softly, ‘Yes. It’s Sachsenhausen.’
Sachsenhausen, Silke had written, in that last desperate scrawl.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s where my cousin and her parents are, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. If you look towards the western side, you’ll see two massive brick chimneys.’
‘I can see them.’ A cold dread clutched Giselle.
‘While you’re here, there will be times when you see flames coming from them,’ said Reinhardt. ‘Never at night – that would attract attention. But during the day they will sometimes burn.’
‘Crematoria,’ said Giselle, in a voice of horror, then, half to herself, ‘“those who begin by burning books, end by burning men”.’
‘A romanticized line of poetry,’ said Reinhardt, after a moment. ‘Wasn’t it Heinrich Heine who wrote that?’
‘I can’t remember.’ But incredibly Giselle was aware that something had passed between them – that they had both recognized a fragment of long-ago poetry. That they had shared that recognition.
Then Reinhardt said, ‘Possibly the words were prophetic.’ Giselle shivered, and, as if her fear had aroused him, his hand came out to her, touching her face lightly, tracing a line across her cheekbones. ‘Do what we’re asking, Giselle,’ he said. ‘Give us the music we want.’
Because if you do not … The words were not spoken, but Giselle felt as if he had splashed them against her mind, like acid. Felix and the children would suffer if she did not do what was wanted. That was what Reinhardt meant. Perhaps Silke and her parents, also would suffer. There will be times when you see flames coming from them, Reinhardt had said, looking towards the monstrous brick chimneys.
His hand was still caressing her neck, and it moved lower, curving over her breasts. Giselle forced herself not to flinch. If he could be made to believe she would accept him in her bed, would he let her go? She turned her head to look at him through half-closed eyes, as if his touch was arousing her. But please, don’t let him actually do anything to me now. If I have to, I’ll do it, I really will, only, please, not yet.
In a soft voice, Reinhardt said, ‘Well, spitfire?’ His eyes were dark with strong emotion. Sexual desire? A treacherous wisp of curiosity slid through Giselle’s mind. What would he be like as a lover?
It was a thought to push away at once, but the pretence must be maintained. With the feeling that she was standing on the edge of a yawning chasm, Giselle said slowly, ‘There are many kinds of music to be made, Reinhardt.’
He smiled and removed his hand. It was all right. He believed she was attracted to him, and he also apparently believed that she could compose music – that she would agree to his demand. For the moment she was safe, and Felix and the children were safe.
A rush of relief went through her, but unexpectedly there was also a spike of curiosity. What was the music they wanted that must be created in such secrecy? And why did they want a Jewish composer when they were systematically herding Jews into labour camps?
And then Reinhardt said, ‘You are to compose music that is to be presented to the Führer. To Herr Hitler himself.’
Giselle stared at him. ‘What kind of music?’
‘Music that will show our absolute belief and confidence in his ability to achieve his aim.’ He studied her, then said, ‘There’s no reason why you can’t know this next part—’
After all, said his tone, imprisoned in here, there’s no one you can tell.
‘—which is that plans are in place for the annexing of Belgium and then of France. After that—’
‘Yes?’
Reinhardt smiled, and this time the flame that showed in his eyes was not that of sexual desire, it was plain, outright madness. Giselle repressed a shiver.
‘The music I shall give to the Führer,’ said Reinhardt, ‘will be his march of victory to accompany our armies when they conquer – and when they occupy – England.
‘And I shall call it the Siegreich.’
After Reinhardt had gone, locking the door, Giselle huddled on the bed, hugging a cushion for warmth and comfort, listening to the castle sinking into brooding silence.
Hitler would never be so mad as to march into more countries. Or would he? Giselle tried to think about this, because it was better than thinking about being imprisoned in this dreadful place. She knew a little about what had been going on in the world, and she knew that Hitler had already sent his armies into Czechoslovakia. When that became known, Felix had said it was only the start; Hitler would not stop with Czechoslovakia. He would want Belgium next, because Belgium was the only thing that stood between him and France. Nobody had given this much credence, but Felix had stuck to his point. And now Reinhardt had confirmed that Felix had been right.
The next morning two guards carried a piano into the room, and set it against one wall. One of them placed a sheaf of blank music scores on the top, together with several newly sharpened pencils.
The piano appeared so soon after Reinhardt’s demand, Giselle realized angrily that he had assumed her acquiescence, and had had everything ready. She supposed they had brought her to this room because manoeuvring even the smallest piano up twisty turret stairs or down dungeon steps would have been virtually impossible.
The piano was very similar to one Giselle’s grandmother had owned. There was a walnut veneer with the same ornate, polished figuring, and a candleholder so that light could be trained to fall on the music stand. Giselle found the sight of all this unexpectedly strengthening; it brought back memories of her grandmother telling her how she had escaped from the slaughter of Jews in Kiev in 1919. Giselle smiled for the first time since being brought here. Her grandmother, that doughty old lady, would not have been cowed by Reinhardt or Hitler’s brutal SS men today, and Giselle would not be cowed by them, either.
Being manhandled through the castle had jangled the piano hopelessly out of tune, of course, but a real composer would not have cared overmuch about that. The great composers had often not needed instruments at all, because they could hear the music in their heads. Hands hitting a table-top, fingernails tapping against glass, the scratching of a blunt pencil on any surface … All those things were sufficient for them to spin music from nothing, like the miller in the old story spinning gold from straw. This was the kind of analogy Silke would have seized on with delight. If Silke were here now, she would weave the darkness of Wewelsburg into one of her wild stories, conjuring up its past, summoning ghosts and spectres, making them dance to her bidding.
Giselle could not make anything dance to her bidding, and she did not believe in ghosts, but if ghosts could have helped her now she would have called up every shade that had stalked every gothic novel written, or had drifted across every eerie legend known to humanity. She would have traded her soul to the devil, like Faust, for the ability to compose the music the Nazis wanted.
As captivity went, it could have been worse. The food they brought her was plain, but perfectly adequate. Bread and porridge for breakfast, generally with a small dish of jam or honey. An apple or a few plums. There was always enough bread for a second wedge at midday, together with the fruit. Supper was more substantial: often a bowl of thick soup, and perhaps a chicken dish with rice and vegetables.
There was a curtained recess with a tiny cracked sink and a wooden-framed commode. Giselle hated this contraption, which was emptied each morning, and the water from the rickety tap was cold. But at least she was able to wash and keep reasonably clean. Her handbag and overnight case had been brought to her, and each morning she dabbed a little powder on her face and combed her hair in the small handbag mirror. This wa
s probably the ultimate in vanity, but Giselle did not care, because she refused to become raggle-taggle and unkempt, even in a place like this.
But lying in bed each night, the desolation closed suffocatingly around her, and her arms ached with the need to fold Christa and Stefan to her, and to lie alongside Felix and hear his quiet, even breathing and feel his familiar warmth close by. She tried to send out her love and her reassurances to Christa and Stefan – to tell them she was all right, that she would find a way to get back to them. She knew this to be ridiculous, but she did it anyway. I’m here, my dear loves, she said to them in her mind.
Strangely, she had the feeling that of the two children, Stefan would be coping better. Christa would appear to be all right – she would seem to be dealing with the pain and the bewilderment more successfully, but the trouble was that those very emotions might feed that darkness that Giselle had always feared lay deep inside Christa’s mind.
Three nights after the piano had appeared, Giselle ate her supper and put the tray by the door for it to be collected, which was the routine. She was trying to keep track of the days, trying to assess when Felix would be told she was not with Silke’s family. Four or five days, Reinhardt had said. She had no idea what they would tell Felix, and she did not dare ask.
She tried over and over again to think of a means of escaping. She would have burned the entire castle down if she had had the means, but there were no candles or matches. If she had possessed any knowledge of electricity she might have found a way of fusing the light, hoping it would plunge other parts of the castle into darkness and create a diversion, or that the power would crackle up into a fire. But she had no knowledge whatsoever of how electricity operated.
Shadows were starting to form in the corners. It was not very late, though; there was still movement within the castle. Footsteps came and went on the stairs. It was remarkable how distinctive footsteps could be. But tonight they sounded different, and Giselle could almost believe she was hearing a death drum tattoo, or the marching feet of a procession to an execution chamber. If those footsteps could be set to music, it would be music with slow, measured cadences and it would convey the approach of something dreadful.