by Sarah Rayne
Phin wondered if there was anyone else in the modern world who would have used the word ‘grandiloquent’.
‘—I guessed he’d seen Silke’s letter,’ said Arabella, unexpectedly picking up the thread of her sentence. ‘I daresay he brought boxes of stuff when he left Lindschoen and some of the things would have been Velda’s, and I expect the letter was in one of the boxes. The boxes probably got shovelled into the attics without the contents being looked at.’
‘And then,’ said Phin, ‘the roof at Greymarsh House had to be fixed.’
‘Chaos theory,’ said Toby, nodding wisely. ‘A butterfly bats its wings in Hong Kong and there’s a tornado in Texas.’
‘I thought I’d make a bit of an investigation into Christa,’ said Arabella. ‘With the idea that I could tell Stefan the letter was all jabberwocking and fantasizing, and that Christa was pure as a saint. But I didn’t want to tell anyone what I was doing, in case I didn’t find anything out, or—’
‘Or,’ said Phin, ‘in case you found out something that indicated Silke was right. That Christa really had been some kind of cold-blooded killer.’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And,’ put in Toby, ‘because you liked the idea of being a lone female sleuth.’
‘It was the greatest fun,’ said Arabella, mischievously. ‘I bought masses of new clothes, so I could look the part. I had a cloak and a marvellous wide-brimmed hat that shadowed my eyes, and I thought about a cigarette holder as well, but since I don’t smoke … Anyway, I was a mysterious foreign lady travelling alone, and you wouldn’t believe how kind people were. I had so many offers of help with luggage and plane tickets and things.’
‘You’d better leave out those parts,’ said Toby, hastily.
‘I behaved impeccably,’ said Arabella, with guileless eyes.
‘First time ever if so. Go on with the tale, and don’t prevaricate with cigarette holders and hats.’
‘First,’ said Arabella, ‘I went to Sachsenhausen itself. It didn’t yield much, though – it’s a kind of war museum and memorial place now, so anyone can go in. From there I came to Lindschoen and this very shop. And Ottomar’s been so helpful – he even unearthed the old deeds from Felix Klein’s day. Is deeds the right word, Ottomar? It’s what we’d call them in England.’
Ottomar, pleased to be called on, said it was the right word, and he had the very deeds here for them to see, and if Herr Toby would not mind moving his glass of whisky …
‘Ah, thank you. I spread the documents out for you to see.’
‘You see that,’ said Arabella, indicating a single sheet of paper clipped to the main deeds. ‘It’s a copy of a letter addressed to a Miss Lina Mander. Carbon copy, which is why it’s so smudgy.’
‘Lina Mander,’ said Phin, staring at the letter. ‘So Marcus Mander really was looking for some great-aunt’s house.’
‘And Lina could have been that very great-aunt,’ said Arabella, eagerly.
‘I have made for you a translation,’ said Ottomar. ‘A date finds itself at the top of the page, but it is not clear for reading. Very blurred.’
‘I think the date’s nineteen-sixty-something,’ said Arabella.
‘It looks like that,’ said Phin, studying the letter carefully. ‘It could be 1963 or 1965, couldn’t it? Thank you for the translation, Ottomar. My German wouldn’t be equal to legal phrases.’
The letter said:
Dear Miss Mander
Thank you for your letter and enquiry.
However, I regret that I must inform you that the Trust you believe was created to give you entitlement to the house acquired by your father, Count von Braxen, in or around 1940, is not legal. Indeed, it seems not to have existed.
Land and property were certainly bestowed on senior members of the Gestapo during World War II – frequently where the rightful owners had been taken prisoner. There were, though, a number of cases where Gestapo officers simply appropriated properties themselves. After the war many (although not all) of those illegally acquired properties were restored to the original owners – or, more often, to the descendants.
The house you believed to be held in Trust for you fell into this latter category, and it was later returned to the descendants of its former owner, Felix Klein, who was executed in Sachsenhausen concentration camp in the early 1940s. I believe the charge against him was that of conspiracy against the Nazis. The house passed to his children.
My enquiries indicate that the house is in Lindschoen and that it was a thriving music shop, known as The Music House. It continues with that use today, and recently was extended to provide a bookshop.
I am sorry not to have better news, but I am afraid that your claim to this property has no validity whatsoever.
I return the copy of your birth certificate which you sent as part of your claim.
I am yours very sincerely.
‘So Felix died in Sachsenhausen,’ said Phin, and found this so deeply sad he had to pretend to take a drink from his whisky.
Arabella silently passed him the soda syphon. ‘Good for diluting the emotions,’ she said, then, without missing a beat, ‘I wonder if Marcus Mander knew the house he was trying to find was really this one, and if he was simply using the Torhaus because it was conveniently abandoned.’
‘To get rid of his sister? Yes, that’s possible,’ said Phin, remembering some of the things Marcus Mander had said.
Ottomar said, ‘I have the deed here showing how this house transferred itself to my great-uncle from Felix Klein—’
‘From Felix Klein and from Giselle Klein,’ said Phin, staring at the document. ‘Joint ownership. That can only mean Giselle was Felix’s wife.’
‘Which would mean she was Christa’s mother—’ said Toby.
‘And also Stefan’s. No wonder it knocked the poor old love sideways to read Silke’s letter saying Christa had killed Giselle,’ said Arabella. ‘His sister killing their mother. It’s Greek tragedy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but did Christa kill Giselle?’ demanded Phin. ‘We’ve only got Silke’s word for that.’
‘Phin doesn’t want Christa to be a villainess because he’s conceived an irrational passion for her,’ murmured Toby to Arabella.
‘Have you really? I once conceived a passion for Lord Byron. Then I remembered he had monumental debts and was given to sulking, so I thought, well, that’s not what you’d want to encounter over the breakfast table, is it?’
‘It’s a pity we don’t know a bit more about that Mander gang,’ said Toby. ‘Phin, you didn’t by any chance go through Marcus Mander’s pockets, did you?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Phin. ‘The music was there though – Giselle’s Music. I don’t know if Mander brought it with him – I can’t think why he’d have it in the first place, but I can’t think how else it got there.’ He said, a bit awkwardly, ‘The police didn’t seem interested in it—’
‘So you lifted it?’
‘Well, it was Giselle’s Music and it didn’t seem relevant to the murder—’
‘Oh, who cares if you made off into the night with the whole of the Torhaus’s contents,’ said Arabella. ‘I’d have taken that music without a second thought. Good for you, Phin. Let’s face the music. I mean, let’s look at it. There might be a clue we’ve overlooked.’
By this time Phin had taken the music from his jacket and flattened it out. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh, my God.’
‘What?’
‘The back page isn’t part of the music. I hadn’t realized – I just picked up the sheaf of papers. But this is a separate thing …’ He broke off, staring at the creased paper.
‘It’s a birth certificate,’ said Toby, leaning forward to see. ‘You do produce these things bang on cue, don’t you?’
‘It’s Lina Mander’s birth certificate,’ said Phin, still staring at it. ‘Or a copy of it. I suppose if Marcus Mander really was trying to track down his aunt’s house, he’d bring it with him to substantiate any claim he was able to make.
’
It was Arabella who leaned forward to read out the details. ‘Father: Count Karol von Braxen. Mother: Christa Klein. Place of birth: Sachsenhausen. Well!’ she said, sitting back. ‘That’s something we didn’t expect.’
‘No, we didn’t, but it’s the link between Marcus Mander and the Klein family,’ said Phin. ‘It would explain why Marcus had that music. His great-aunt – or cousin or whatever she was – was Lina Mander. Lina was Christa’s daughter.’
‘So Christa had a relationship of some kind with Count von Braxen,’ said Arabella, thoughtfully, ‘and there was a child. She flew high when it came to gentlemen friends, didn’t she?’
Phin said, ‘It’s not much of a stretch to think Lina Mander had the music from her mother – from Christa. Maybe Lina was given Christa’s possessions and this was among them.’ He studied the music intently. ‘This mightn’t have Siegreich written across the top,’ he said, suddenly, ‘and without comparing the two I can’t be sure. But I think essentially it’s the same as the music we found at Greymarsh House.’
‘A copy of it?’ said Toby. ‘Or was the Greymarsh one the copy and this is the original?’
‘It could be either way round, couldn’t it? Did Stefan know Christa had a daughter?’ said Phin. ‘Or about von Braxen?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Arabella. ‘He would have said.’
‘I’m sure he knew Christa was in Sachsenhausen for a while, though,’ put in Toby. ‘At least, he knew she’d been imprisoned by the Nazis.’
‘Did Christa survive Sachsenhausen?’ Phin had not realized this question had been in his mind, but as soon as he said it, he knew he had been wondering ever since he had read Silke’s letter. ‘I know there’s the portrait, but it might have been done after she was dead.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Arabella, after a moment. ‘I’ve never asked Stefan when she died – or where. He’s always been so reticent about her.’
Phin said, ‘So now we know that Christa had a daughter – Lina – and it’s a fair guess that Lina was taken from Christa very early – probably while she was just a baby.’
‘Is it a fair guess?’ asked Toby.
‘Well, Lina was born in a concentration camp. Her father – or his family – could have removed her and put her with adoptive parents.’
‘And when she grew up, she wrote to solicitors to find out about the house she thought she’d inherited,’ said Arabella. ‘That’s the action of someone who doesn’t have any family she can ask.’
‘Yes. But,’ said Phin, ‘we still don’t know what eventually happened to Christa.’
TWENTY-NINE
Sachsenhausen, early 1941
In Sachsenhausen no one noticed you very much. For most of the time you were faceless, anonymous.
But Christa was neither. She was noticed – it was realized who she really was, and there was a lash of fury that Giselle Klein had dared to cheat them. But she had not done so in the end, said the camp commandant, Oberführer Hans Loritz. The execution machinery would be re-assembled at once. The creature who had murdered Count von Braxen would still be shot and the entire camp would see it happen. The stupid females who had tried to hide Christa Klein would be shot, also.
Then a further discovery was made. Christa Klein was to have a child. Von Braxen’s child.
‘This does not mean you will escape execution,’ said Loritz. ‘It merely means that execution will be postponed. A child of the von Braxen line must not die before it is born.’
Christa supposed it did not matter what she said now, so she asked what would happen to the child.
‘It will be taken to its father’s family to be brought up by them. There is a distant cousin of the Count living very nearby.’
Elsa Frank, thought Christa, dismayed. She said, ‘The child will be kindly treated, won’t it, though? Can you assure me of that?’
‘It will be brought up to revere its country. Also to know that its father was highly regarded and that his death at your hands was a great tragedy.’
‘I see,’ said Christa. ‘And the women who tried to help me … They did so because of the child – you do understand that?’
This was a lie; the women had had no idea of the pregnancy, but Loritz appeared to accept it. He said, ‘There will be punishment for them, but it will not be execution.’
‘Thank you.’ Christa was glad to know the good friends who had helped her would not die.
As she was taken back to the hut, Christa thought about Elsa Frank. At least the child would not have to endure Sachsenhausen, and although the thought of Fräulein Frank was dreadful, Elsa had always displayed that slavish emotion for Brax – to the point of adoration. Christa dared believe that Elsa would be kind to the child for Brax’s sake.
After this, time began to blur. Normally, pregnancy and births were not especially of interest in the camp; prisoners were left to get on with such things. There might, if they were lucky, be minimal medical help, but most of them shied away from any kind of doctor in Sachsenhausen. There were whispers of atrocities in the medical block – terrible stories of brutal experiments.
But Christa Klein’s case was different. Her unborn child was the son or daughter of von Braxen, never mind it would be illegitimate. Doctors sometimes came to see her, and prodded her, and nodded, as if satisfied, then went away.
Christa did not want to count up the weeks, because as soon as the child was born they would take her out to be shot. She did the work she was given, and she ate the food that was brought, understanding that she was not being treated as harshly as she might have been, because her captors believed they owed it to Count von Braxen’s memory to ensure his son or daughter was safely born.
It began to feel as if a thick glass wall had formed around Christa, and as if real life was no longer completely visible or audible. Some memories were still with her, though. Glimpses of a warm house with lamplight on cobblestones outside. She could not bear to think of her parents, but she thought about Stefan with his dear, trusting face. Please let Stefan be all right.
There were more recent memories, as well. The Torhaus and the people she had known there. Jacob, with his gentle eyes and his kindness. Daniel, who had made that promise that one day he would paint her. That would not happen now, thought Christa. And then – or would it? A tiny spiral of defiance uncurled within her. It was said that hardly anyone ever escaped from Sachsenhausen. But a few did.
The child was born after a night of pain. Christa, swimming in and out of the pain, clung to the hand of the doctor who had been brought to her, wanting reassurance.
But he was cold and impersonal, although she thought he dealt with her efficiently. Presently, he said, ‘We have the child.’ A hesitation, then, ‘A healthy girl,’ he said. ‘Fräulein Frank is waiting to take her at once.’
Christa did not dare ask to see the child; she would not have borne seeing it and knowing it would be the only time she would do so. She said, ‘What will happen now?’
‘A few days,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a week.’ Christa understood he meant that in a few days she would be considered fit to walk to the big square and stand before the firing squad.
Then, three days after the birth, a note was thrust into her hand.
‘Try to be near the death strip between the two western searchlights after the supper call. Keep between all the searchlights.’ It was signed simply J.
J. Jacob. Christa’s heart leapt, but she managed to tear the note into tiny pieces, and drop the pieces into the latrine bucket.
Jacob was trying to get her out. He had obviously found out about the camp’s routines, and he would be waiting by the western searchlights. Or was it a trick, a trap? Christa considered this, but could not see any point in anyone trapping her. They were going to execute her in a few days – they had been perfectly open about that. Why bother to set a trap? And even if this went wrong – because very few people escaped from Sachsenhausen – what did she have to lose? Except for Jacob, said her
mind. I might lose Jacob, because he might die with me.
The day was spent in a ferment of excitement and terror. Supposing she could not manage to walk to that part of the compound? She was still quite weak from the birth; she had only been out of bed twice, and each time she had only walked a short distance. The memory of her mother came to her then, and she knew her mother would not have flinched from this opportunity to get out. Somehow, I’ll do it, thought Christa determinedly. And Jacob will be there. That was a very good thought indeed; she would focus on seeing him again, even if it were to be for the last time.
During the afternoon she went into the half-screened cubicle with the latrine, but she took with her the bedcover. She hid it in there, folded as small as she could manage. When she left, she would wrap it around her. It was dark grey, so it would cover the pale prison dress, and help her to blend into the darkness. She had no shoes, but that would not have to matter, and she would have walked barefoot over broken glass if it meant getting out.
Once supper had been called, the infirmary room was more or less deserted. Security was not quite as stringent here, because hardly anyone was ever brought to the infirmary. Illness was not recognized or acknowledged in Sachsenhausen. But Christa had no idea if the door would be locked, although if it was, she thought she might be able to climb through the narrow window.
The door was not locked. Her heart in her mouth, her throat dry with fear, Christa stepped outside. So far so good. Now she must make her way to the western searchlights. Jacob had chosen well – had he known they were fairly near the infirmary block? It was suddenly warm and reassuring to think he must have done. He’s not far away, thought Christa. I’m going to reach him.
She scarcely felt the hard ground under her bare feet, although she was aware of a soft rain falling about her. Was that good? Yes, it might mean the guards would be huddling inside their boxes. She kept as close as possible to the walls of the huts, and went on until she could see the perimeter fences. There were the searchlights – or were they the right ones? She had a moment of hideous doubt. No, she had the right ones, she was sure. Between the two, Jacob’s note had said. Near the death strip. Oh God, the death strip … Stefan’s nightmares …