by Sarah Rayne
Ugly sounds were filling the hall, wet glottal gruntings, and the girl jerked and writhed, bloodied foam covering her face. The watching creatures were shrieking with inhuman excitement, their faces turned up to the cage in the way that an animal turns its face up to the sun. Seeking the blood.
The girl was not quite dead. She was still struggling feebly, her hands in bloodied tatters as she beat against the bars. Hilary began to pray that she would die quickly. She could see the dark thick blood of internal wounding, and guessed that the spikes had pierced the girl’s liver and stomach. It was a dreadful way to die.
Blood was still dripping from the floor of the cage, but it was a thin watery flow now. Then she is dying or already dead, thought Hilary and, as if in echo of this, the corpse-creatures set up a high-pitched keening.
‘Dying! Cooling! Bring it down! Bring it down!’
‘All done!’
‘A weakling to die so quickly!’
‘The servants have missed their mark!’ cried the woman who had spoken to Hilary, and Hilary saw the dark-clad attendants glance uneasily at one another.
The corpse-creatures fell upon the cage as it was hauled down by the servants, scrabbling at the door and wrenching it open. The girl half fell out, her limbs streaked with her own blood. The iron bars were darkened and shiny-wet, and Hilary saw that she had been right: there was the dark thick blood of internal bleeding on the dead girl’s white gown. The corpse-creatures were mauling over the drained body, pawing it this way and that, lifting blood-smeared hands to their faces and necks, intent on extracting the last few drops. They turned to look back to where Hilary lay, their jowls dripping with gore.
And then, as if a command had been given, they stood up and moved back from the drained body, and the indefinable air of patricians descended about them again. They stood up straighter, and their skin was softer and smoother. Their eyes shone.
When their leader spoke again, his voice held the silken purr that Hilary had caught earlier on and, when he smiled, for the first time it was uncannily Franz-Josef’s smile.
He said, softly, ‘You see, my dear.’ He spread his hands to indicate his companions. ‘Elizabeth Bathory’s legacy works.’ And then, looking at the waiting servants, ‘And now that she knows what is ahead of her, you may take her down to the dungeons.’
Chapter Twelve
Michael had rather enjoyed his day. He had remembered the inn and Tobias, its companionable owner, and he thought he was coping rather well with the practicalities of being on his own for the first time.
There had been a sense of achievement in showering and changing before dinner on the night of his arrival: in finding and putting on a fresh shirt and a corduroy jacket that he remembered as being dark brown, and in knotting a tie which Hilary had labelled with a square velcro tab, which meant it was tan or beige or something that would go with brown. Square velcro meant toning browns and creams. Round was all shades of blue and diamond-shaped was maroons and reds.
‘Vanity, Sister Hilary,’ he had said when she explained the small arrangement, but she had said there was no point in wearing clashing colours or putting on a dinner jacket by mistake when you were only going into Sainsbury’s for a loaf of bread. The velcro shapes would make life easier. Michael was going to make a grand ceremony of ripping them all off after Istvan restored his sight.
He had found his way unaided to the small coffee room where dinner was served, and he had asked Tobias what could be ordered.
‘There is our version of the Russian beef stroganoff,’ said Tobias, apparently happy to wait on the pleasure of his guest. ‘Or there is a local dish called galuska which is very good. Smoked pork, tomatoes, wild mushrooms and soured cream.’
Michael had the galuska, which was wholly delicious. Tobias regretted that he did not keep what the English gentleman would call an extensive wine cellar, but the grapes of Hungary itself were very good, and he had a very reasonable Merlot which he could recommend.
‘Recommend away, Tobias. I’m in a very reasonable mood.’
The wine was excellent and to follow it there was a creamily ripe Stilton. Michael found it unexpectedly pleasant to sit at his table in the coffee room, sipping brandy, half listening to the desultory talk of the locals drinking in the adjoining bar. Tomorrow he would begin work. There would be people to talk to here: people who might remember the Bosnian refugees of a year ago. A year was not so very long, and it might be possible to trace them. And Tobias himself might be of some help in identifying the castle where Michael had glimpsed that strange, grisly feast. Castles out here were two-a-penny, and ruined castles were a farthing each, but Michael thought he could describe it fairly accurately.
After breakfast the next morning, he made his way to the bar: a short walk along a carpeted passage, two steps down and reach for the door handle. I’m coping, he thought, pleased. And in the same breathspace: I don’t want to cope; I want to see again.
The bar smelt of woodsmoke and old seasoned panelling. Michael found this not unpleasant. He had brought from his room the small battery-operated dictaphone which he always used for interviews.
Tobias, approached at the inn’s somnolent hour of ten-thirty in the morning, expressed himself delighted to talk with the English journalist. He himself had come to Debreczen over forty years ago; he had had this inn which was perhaps fifteen kilometres from the town for almost twenty-five. There was the inevitable hopeful pause and Michael responded with automatic politeness.
‘That surprises me. You have the voice of a young man, Tobias.’ He felt the small pleased ruffle of acknowledgement; the slight expansion, the deprecatory huffing out of breath.
But yes, Tobias had been here since his people had been driven out of their homes in a war which Herr Devlin would be too young to remember. It had been a war filled with atrocities of the worst possible kind, and Tobias did not forget it. Because of it he had an immense sympathy with other beleaguered peoples fleeing from warlords.
Warlords. Michael had always found it an evocative word. It smacked of J.R.R. Tolkien. But he set the tape, feeling for the triangular-shaped record button, and explained that this was only an informal discussion; he had returned to Austria primarily to consult a famous Viennese eye-specialist, but he was also hoping to inquire into the plight of refugees fleeing from the Serbian aggressors. It might be that there was a story of interest to be written about how far the exiled people were able to travel, and how they coped with such things as checkpoints and barriers and the lack of papers. Stories of human interest. But for these few days he was doing nothing more specific than gathering general background. Tobias would not be worried by the recording machine?
It appeared that Tobias would not be worried at all. He knew of such things, naturally; his two granddaughters had many machines for recording and playing music, most of it far too loud, but it was what all the young people did these days. In Tobias’s day there had not been such things, but the world was a remarkable place now. It would be a happiness to tell what he could. His wife was engaged in preparing the food for the evening’s consumption and they would not be interrupted. They would take a measure of slivovitz each and Herr Devlin would perhaps not find it a discourtesy if Tobias applied himself to the polishing of the glasses while they talked?
‘Of course not.’
And yes, of a surety, the war in Yugoslavia was a terrible thing, as was all war, said Tobias sombrely. To be driven from a homeland was the deepest sadness.
Michael, who had nearly choked on the fiery slivovitz at first encounter, and was now sipping it with respectful caution, said, ‘You have perhaps come across refugees here? Debreczen itself is very far from the centre of fighting, but when I was here last I came across several Bosnian families on the eastern outskirts—’
‘That is entirely possible,’ said Tobias. ‘We have known refugees here, not once, but many times. Many of the villages surrounding Debreczen are places of sanctuary. As long as I have been here, refugees have
come. No, I do not know why it should be so. In the 1950s there were the Hungarians who had tried to break the Soviet Union’s dictatorship and failed. There were Czechoslovakians who attempted the same thing in the late 1960s. More recently there have been Romanians . . .’
‘Well, you’re within pretty easy reach of all those countries,’ said Michael, although this was more than he had bargained for.
‘The Romanians were fleeing from Ceauşescu,’ said Tobias, ‘in 1989 or so. And then lately there are Bosnians.’
Michael said, thoughtfully, ‘And all of them come here.’
‘Yes.’ Tobias set down the glasses and Michael felt him lean forward. ‘You are thinking it is strange to have so many – what would you put it . . .?’
‘Diverse nations.’
‘Thank you, diverse nations, yes. Over the years – many years – all to come to a place that is off the made-up road.’
‘Beaten track,’ said Michael automatically. ‘Yes. You will allow, Tobias, that it is odd. Why here?’
‘This has been a place of sanctuary ever since I am here. Perhaps before. There are groups of people who help the homeless—’
‘Charitable associations?’
‘Thank you, charitable associations to bring people out of war.’
‘Red Cross, Amnesty International, Liberty—’ began Michael.
‘Yes, all of those. But also,’ said Tobias, and it seemed to Michael that he lowered his voice, ‘also there is Tranz.’
Tranz. Something deep within Michael’s mind sprang to attention. There was no logical reason why the single word should drop into his mind like a stone into a deep black pool, but it did.
Tranz. Meaning to bring across. Meaning to cross barriers. Is it this that I have been searching for? Is this the key?
He set down his glass. ‘Tell me about Tranz,’ he said.
To begin with it was not very much. As Tobias talked, that first prickle of awareness faded, and Michael was able to listen properly, each layer of his mind registering facts. The tape recorder whirred.
‘Tranz exists for very many years,’ said Tobias. ‘It is known as a private concern, a family concern – that is so far as anyone knows anything about it at all, you understand. As the father or the grandfather dies, so the next takes up. Or so we believe. But it is nearly fifty years since Tranz brought some of my own people out of Poland, and now it is others who flee from greedy madmen. Tranz brings them all here.’
Tranz brings them all here . . . There it was, the suggestion, very faintly, of someone manipulating the homeless, drawing into a net the wounded and the vulnerable. Michael’s mind argued that it was quite possible that some kind of private charity existed, something that was passed down within a family, generation to generation. If so, it was rather admirable. But why have I never heard of it?
He was aware of his journalist’s instincts working overtime, and also of something else: something ancient and deeply buried spiking across his mind.
There is something more here than a refugee organisation. There is something much more than that. I can feel that there is!
Rubbish! said his logical side. This group, this Tranz is simply a minor, little-publicised organisation.
But why have I never heard of them? In my work I could not have failed to do so.
Tranz. To go beyond the barriers.
He leaned forward, and felt instantly the black, blank wall that enclosed him. Damn! If only I could see! But he fought for balance; he said, ‘Tobias, what is Tranz? Who is behind it?’
‘That I do not know. Nobody knows. Only that it is very charitable, very wealthy. It is said that within it are doctors, bankers . . . Private money to bring the helpless out of wars.’
‘And take them – where?’
‘Who can say?’ There was an unmistakable withdrawal now. Why? Fear? Michael changed gear smoothly and imperceptibly.
‘Tobias, you fled from Poland: you understand about exile.’
‘Exile. Yes. You are too young to remember,’ said Tobias, and Michael heard him pause in his polishing of the glasses. ‘But you are intelligent and widely travelled. You will know the stories. All of us fleeing – Poles, Jews. There were many Jews with us. And, casting that long black shadow over us all, the Austrian dictator. That was true living evil. Perhaps not at the start. Perhaps not when he spoke of having a dream.’
‘I have a dream . . .’ Evocative words. Sometimes the dream was genuine and good and sometimes it was dark and warped. History’s evil underside. For every Martin Luther King there was a Saddam Hussein. For every Mother Teresa or Nelson Mandela there was a Rasputin. History was littered with the names of the cruel greedy madmen in whom the dream had distorted.
‘The Austrian dictator,’ said Michael, softly. ‘Adolf Hitler.’
‘My family took a vow never to speak his name. But he had the force, he could sway the crowds who came to listen to him. I saw him once speaking at Nuremburg. The crowd was ready to worship him. It was as if he was casting a spell.’ The squeaking of the polishing cloth against the glasses continued.
‘I have seen news footage of him,’ said Michael. ‘I understand.’
Tobias said, ‘It is a long time ago, but I do not forget. So many of us – children, old people – we believed we were running from the atrocities—’
‘But in fact you were running towards them,’ finished Michael. ‘Of course. You came to Hungary, but Hungary was to be occupied by the Nazis, just as Poland had been. Almost all of Europe fell.’
‘Yes. We came here, as many were to come after us. My parents had heard of an organisation that would give help: shelter, food. We thought we would be safe.’ He paused. ‘The organisation was Tranz,’ he said, and there was a brief silence so that the only sound in the room was the hissing of the tape. This had not been quite what Michael had been angling for, but his journalist’s instincts were guiding him. He waited, and presently, Tobias said:
‘We came to this place from my home, which was near to Silesia. A place called Oświęcim. You do not know of it?’
‘No.’ But the name brushed Michael’s consciousness with a faint breath of unease.
‘Perhaps you would not. We came here, and we found that on the border between Hungary and Romania was being created one of the greatest epicentres of the Nazis’ evil. My family escaped it, but there were many who came with us who did not. Tranz brought us into the centre of the monster’s net, Mr Devlin.’
‘Deliberately?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can you tell me about it?’ said Michael. ‘About Tranz?’
‘It is not good to speak, but I will tell what I know.’ Tobias’s voice faded a little, as if he might have turned away from Michael for a moment, to check that the door was properly closed. Then he began to speak again.
‘A little way from here, perhaps an hour’s drive, deep in the mountains, there is a house. I am unsure whether it is in Hungary or Romania. Perhaps it is in neither. Once it was the house of aristocrats, but it passed out of their hands many many years ago. It has a strange history, that house.’ He paused again. ‘The legends about it are many and some are plainly fiction. But there is one that is believed to be true.’
‘Yes?’
‘Early in 1941,’ said Tobias, ‘the house came under the sway of the Austrian dictator. It was not known to the world outside, but in the villages hereabouts, everyone came to hear the stories. Little by little, they leaked out.’ He paused and Michael waited. ‘It was the Nazis’ most secret place,’ said Tobias. He was speaking softly now and Michael touched the volume control of the tape.
‘My family were more fortunate than most; we had a little money which we managed to bring with us, and we found people to help us. My parents acquired this inn – I do not know the details, but my grandfather had been a wine merchant and perhaps he had connections. In the end we did not need Tranz. But many of those who came out of Poland with us were not so fortunate. They had nothing. They were whol
ly dependent on Tranz.’ Michael heard his voice drop again. ‘Mr Devlin, whole families vanished. Young girls—’
‘What happened?’ said Michael.
‘They were taken to the old house in the mountains. To Tranz’s headquarters. They believed they were going to a sanctuary, to a place where they could have shelter until they could begin to rebuild their lives.’
‘But – they were not?’
‘None of them was seen again,’ said Tobias. The bar counter creaked a little as he leaned forward. ‘Memories out here are long,’ he said, ‘and even today, you will find people here, old men and women, who heard screams or saw inexplicable things, creatures—’
Inexplicable creatures . . .
The embers of memory that had eluded Michael earlier stirred into grisly life. He said, in a whisper, ‘You referred to Oświȩcim earlier and I had not heard of it. But that was because it was known to the world by another name, Tobias?’
‘Yes. It is not as Oświȩcim that it is remembered today.’
Michael felt the horror prickling his skin. He heard his voice say, ‘Auschwitz.’
‘I was a child at the time, and so I can only give you what is called hearsay,’ said Tobias. ‘But my family believed – everyone believed that the old mansion became a death camp in the way that Auschwitz did. It was the only explanation for the disappearances.’
‘Why the only explanation . . .’ Michael stopped, knowing what Tobias was going to say.
‘Those who vanished were all Jews,’ said Tobias. ‘In Poland at that time there were many Jews.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There was much secrecy, but it was whispered that Himmler visited the house many times.’ He resumed his polishing. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘even though it is many years since Himmler and his Gestapo died, the stories have not quite died with them. The people in the countryside surrounding the mansion will tell you that they see strange lights burning, and that creatures not quite human are occasionally glimpsed. Tradesmen, people delivering bread or milk, have seen odd things; such people gossip. And because people have long memories out here, they remember that other time, half a century ago now. When people disappeared and in particular when young girls disappeared.’