‘I found a photo of von Schleigel,’ Max said. ‘An official head-and-shoulders shot that allowed me to put a face to a name. I didn’t expect to achieve much more with him and had turned my attention to the family Bonet.’ He shrugged. ‘It is a Jewish name, you’re right, and I figured while I was at the Federal Archives, I might as well look up their details.’
Nic sighed. ‘You’re going to tell me now that you found the Bonet family, aren’t you?’
‘I found only two names: Sarah and Rachel. Their prison numbers corresponded so I have to presume they were sisters, and their dates of birth tell me they were in their twenties.’
‘Go on then. Tell me everything,’ Nic said, sighing again.
‘According to the records, they both died of heart failure … on the same day. All those murdered by the gas chambers “died of heart failure”, according to Nazi records.’
Nic winced. ‘Bastards.’ He moved closer to the small fire, staring into its orange glow, and his silence let Max press on.
‘I found the Nazi mug shots of the sisters, taken on the day of their arrival at Auschwitz. Both had newly shaved heads and large, dark eyes.’ What Max didn’t admit was that even bald, Rachel was pretty and her sorrowful gaze hurt his heart. She had died not far off the same age as he was now. He couldn’t imagine how frightened she must have felt, how brave these two sisters must have needed to be. He imagined them holding hands, facing their end courageously; it was intolerable, and Rachel’s front and side mug shots came to represent for him every one of the millions of souls lost. He shook his head helplessly. ‘Sitting there amongst the records, Nic, I felt guilty on behalf of the world that knew about this but did nothing.’ Nic brooded by the fire but Max could tell he was paying attention. ‘So I went in search of any other reports relating to that day in May 1943. I don’t know why – I just needed to and had nothing else to do – no other leads. I thought it would somehow show respect for Rachel and Sarah Bonet.’
The staff at Das Bundesarchiv were brilliant, he recalled, especially how they never once questioned why or what his interest was. The team simply set about helping.
‘But there was nothing special about May 18, 1943, it turned out,’ he said, sadly. ‘It was just another hellish, hopeless, death-filled day at Auschwitz.’
Max then told Nic that one older staff member suggested another approach. ‘… And that’s when she suggested I hunt through the witness accounts.’
‘Witnesses?’ Nic said, looking blank. ‘To what?’
‘A lot of witness reports were made up as survivors recalled daily life in the camps,’ he explained. ‘The Nuremburg Trials set much store by these witness accounts. Anyway, with help and over the course of the day I finally came across an eyewitness account of the day Rachel Bonet died. It was dated October 1947 so it was over four years later when retold. Here, can I read my notes to you?’
Nic shrugged. ‘You might as well – now you’ve got me hooked.’
‘My name is Alicja Zawadski.’ Max pronounced her name with difficulty. ‘I am thirty-four years old and I was born in Poland. She now lives in Brooklyn, New York and is a teacher of music,’ Max explained. ‘I was made a prisoner in Poland in 1942 and taken to the Oścwięcim camp in November. I worked at the Buna factory as a manual worker.’ Max checked his notes. ‘That’s a chemical factory.’
Nic nodded. ‘Go on.’
Max returned to the letter he’d copied. ‘The camp provided slave labour, hired out to the factory. Later, when it was discovered I had been a professional musician, I was put on milder work routines around Birkenau so that I could play in the camp orchestra, where I made some friends, even though it was not wise to do so.’
It made heartbreaking reading once again as Alicja’s words outlined the harsh work, the constant humiliations, regular beatings and pitiful offerings that the camp authorities called food. According to Alicja, people became ill almost immediately after taking the soup and, once weakened, other problems began to kill them. She explained the unbearable living conditions and named hostile Polish kapos who made their fellow prisoners’ lives even more miserable, if that were possible. She even named the chief German physician who signed off on the selections of people no longer fit to work, explaining that these took place daily at roll call and often occurred randomly again in the afternoon.
Nic had become transfixed as Max read aloud.
‘All right, listen to this,’ Max warned. ‘We knew they were being killed off. One random selection I recall vividly occurred one late afternoon as we played for the returning workers. I can remember the date very well for that was the day they took my closest friend, Rachel Bonet.’ He looked at Nic in triumph, tapping his notebook for added weight before continuing. ‘She was twenty-six and healthier than any of us, for she had been chosen to teach the Hoss children their music. Her shaved head had frightened them and her dirty clothes had offended the household, so Rachel had been allowed to grow her hair and wash regularly.’ Max’s voice intensified, excited again by what he was reading. ‘The family’s residence was a villa on the compound. Rachel said the gardens were incredibly pretty. Whatever food she could secrete from what the family gave her, she would share out amongst the band members and her elder sister, Sarah, whom she waited for every day, while we played horrible, merry music at the entrance of the main camp. This particular day Sarah did not return from her work at the factory. And I recall our shock when Rachel’s name was suddenly called during selection. It didn’t make sense, for she was one of our best and youngest players, plus her role for the commandant’s family seemed important. I remember that a smallish man – he was Gestapo and recently arrived into Auschwitz – was walking the camp that day. Rachel was scared of him. She told me his name was Horst von Schleigel.’
Max had to stop reading his notes to savour the moment of awe again. He’d trembled when he’d first read this witness account as the former Polish prisoner delivered not only Rachel Bonet but also the despised Gestapo Kriminaldirektor to him.
‘Are you okay?’ Nic asked, flicking him a glance.
Max realised his voice must have been shaking. ‘Yes, sorry, it’s both horrific and exciting, don’t you think?’
‘History so often is,’ Nic admitted.
‘It’s like unravelling a mystery … All of the characters are connected but only we have the benefit – because of time and the German obsession with records – to see them all at once and how they connect.’
‘Finish it,’ Nic said, as though tasting something sour.
Max continued Alicja’s story.
‘Rachel had met von Schleigel in the Hoss villa and he had asked her questions about her brother. Rachel had told me about her family. The brother had been a lavender grower in Provence but he’d disappeared on the day the family had been taken. His name is Luc Bonet; I remember this because we shared details about our families in case either of us survived and could help each other’s kin with information. She was proud of Luc, close to him, and he was all that was left to her other than Sarah. Rachel told me that von Schleigel had been searching for a man called Bonet, a known Resister from southern France. She was fiercely proud that one member of her family might have eluded the Nazi round-ups.
‘It was von Schleigel who’d had her name called out by the guard that day. She handed me her violin and told me to be strong. I recall that the Gestapo officer spoke a few words to Rachel before she climbed into the truck. Rachel snapped at him and whatever she said unnerved him because he blinked a lot and his monocle twisted. I recall that clearly. I wanted to cheer but I lacked her courage. And then she was gone.
‘I knew she had been killed. Our captors brought the trucks back from “Selections” and inside were the clothes of those who had been taken away. I saw her red headscarf lying in the back and knew she would never wear it again.’
Max stopped reading and looked intensely at Nic, whose good humour of earlier had evaporated.
‘What do you want me to sa
y, Max?’ he asked, sounding heavy-hearted.
‘Alicja’s Zawadski’s survival and her recollection of that day have given me another critical piece of the jigsaw. A chilling one.’
Nic sighed. ‘Max, leave this alone. I just don’t see what you think you can achieve. These people have all presumably moved on in their lives; they’re not chess pieces to play with, no matter how exciting you find their history. You’ve found out what you wanted to know about your father. To dig further is plain macabre and not going to bring happiness to anyone. I feel sickened just listening to that account.’
Max knew Nic was right. Logic told him he should leave it. It was none of his business. It did not impact on his desire to learn more about his father. But his heart was hammering, demanding he pay attention to what he’d discovered.
‘Max?’ Nic pressed. ‘Leave it. It’s going to bring grief to someone. This happened twenty years ago.’
Max spoke slowly, considering his response, knowing somewhere deep his instincts served him well. ‘In Australia is a man connected to my father, connected to Lisette, connected to von Schleigel,’ he began. ‘Luc Bonet … Lukas Ravensburg … Luke Ravens – whichever name he goes by now – he is the final piece in the jigsaw. Perhaps the most important piece, Nic, because he was with my father when he died.’ Max sat back and closed his eyes. ‘I can’t leave this alone because, above all, he is connected to Rachel, whose story I can’t get out of my head. If I can, I would like to give her back to her brother. He deserves to know and I feel obligated to tell him.’
‘What about Lisette? She’s specifically warned you to keep this from her husband. Why rake over old ground? It won’t bring Kilian back!’
‘I have to know what happened between him and my father. This is personal, Nic. You can’t understand because you can’t stand your father. I haven’t even had the luxury of being able to make that decision.’
‘Yes, but that’s not Lisette’s fault or Ravensburg’s … or even yours. It’s just how life has panned out. I’m poor, you’re rich. I don’t go around bleating about it.’
‘That’s a pathetic argument,’ he snapped, but again Nic’s logic resonated. He just didn’t want to admit it. ‘Ravensburg should know what happened in Auschwitz.’
‘And hearing about the day his sisters were taken to the gas chambers and choked on Zyklon B is really going to improve his life’s outlook, isn’t it?’
‘I’m going to write one more letter. I’ll send it to Ravensburg this time. Then it will be over.’
‘Will it?’ Nic demanded. ‘I doubt it, Max. You’re a lawyer, with a passion for human rights. I can hear it in your voice that you are a long way from being finished with this. What aren’t you saying?’ Nic got up, exasperated. He left the room and Max heard him run water and light the stove for the kettle before disappearing into the bathroom.
Max had been trying to ignore the demon in his mind that had been nagging at him ever since he’d found Alicja’s witness report. He’d managed to keep it to a whisper – that way he could pretend he couldn’t hear the taunting. But natural human curiosity and that other human quality – a need for justice – were overriding his instincts to banish the voice.
In the momentary silence of his apartment, with only the guttering of the fire, the low rumble of the kettle warming and the distant sound of soft laughter filtering up from another apartment, he could hear the whisper distinctly. It goaded him, and he was sure it was Rachel’s ghost speaking to him.
Find von Schleigel, it taunted.
PART THREE
January 1964
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lisette walked down the hill carefully balancing a tray, engulfed by her signature broad white hat. The air was pungent with feral, herbaceous aromas – hardly a pleasant smell and yet she’d learnt over the years this was the very odour that meant a good harvest. There were times when she could barely believe that this extract was as precious as gold, but Europe, and increasingly America, couldn’t get enough of it.
Jenny had grown up with the smell. It was a perfectly natural part of her calendar; in January, this was the aroma that spiced the air around Bonet’s and carried for miles. She barely seemed to notice it. ‘The rows change dramatically once harvested, don’t they?’ she asked.
‘Yes, bright blue for such a short time and then suddenly red.’
‘They’re pretty the way they sweep around in such neat lines.’
Lisette was privately impressed by the way her daughter’s sharp mind worked. She was adept at numbers and more than adequate in science but her creativity was beginning to shine through. Jenny drew and painted beyond her years. Others had noticed and teachers had remarked that Jenny was gifted artistically. But Lisette didn’t think her daughter’s bigger view on life, or her talent, were suited to their quiet lifestyle in Launny. Lisette already felt that Jenny was ‘larger’ than Nabowla and was convinced she’d be too restless for Launceston by the time she soon hit her teens.
‘Yes, your father is very clever,’ she replied. ‘Do you know why he’s planted the lavender in these long sweeping curves?’ she said, pausing despite the fierce heat and her load.
‘Drainage,’ came the answer, fast as a bullet.
‘You’ve paid attention, despite your head being buried in fashion magazines.’
‘Mum, perfume, like a handbag, is something women of your age don’t leave home without. It’s a habit,’ Jenny observed but without condescension. ‘You are given a bottle and you are happy with it. But I think a time will come when we will wear all sorts of perfume depending on our mood, perhaps what we’re wearing, and even who we’re wearing it for. So I think it will become fashionable and therefore it does interest me, Mum, a lot more than you think.’ Her mother raised an eyebrow, always taken aback by her eleven-year-old’s mature manner. ‘Besides, Dad said we’re going to need both Harry and me to run this place if it keeps getting bigger.’
‘It looks so bare up there,’ Lisette said, sweeping a gaze over the barren rolling paddocks behind them. Just days ago they had been a frenzy of colour, and now, dusty and monotone, they led the eye towards the host of purple hills in the far distance that encircled them.
‘This is the last section,’ Jenny replied. ‘Next year harvest will last even longer, when Dad plants out Ned’s field.’ Ned was a horse they’d inherited from Des Partridge.
Lisette smiled as she watched her child. Jenny was petite and dark like her but she was sure that’s where the similarities ended, for Jenny did not possess her mother’s reticence or her social skills. Even so, the youngster was already far too pretty for her own good, her mother thought, and despite her small stature, walked to her full height with a straight back and an elegant way of moving. Lisette often believed her and Luc’s daughter had inherited their combined worst traits: she was strong-willed with a determination to do things her own way, on her terms. It was daunting to witness it in one so young. Meanwhile dear Harry … he was such a sweet fellow. He had always been an easy child to raise and he’d only become easier, mellowing into a teen who aimed to please. Everyone loved Harry, from his schoolmates to the harvest crew. In contrast he seemed to possess the best of her and Luc’s combined qualities, with his eager manner, strong work ethic and his love of family. Lisette had no doubt that Jenny could up and leave them in a heartbeat if she chose to, but she wondered whether Harry could ever leave. She hoped neither would, if this farm was to thrive. But Harry in particular loved the farm and his simple life. He hated having to leave it each day to go to school and was happiest in the far paddocks, or down in the shed with his dad, learning. Harry had big footsteps to fill but Lisette suspected he might well outgrow them; the boy was embracing the knowledge of lavender so fast that he was already making suggestions to Luc about how to improve their yield.
Long discussions would be held over their evening meal about the farm’s productivity. Luc was bringing on loads of new hives, determined that the bees be given free rein. And he
’d convinced Lisette that she could shoulder a new role in producing lavender honey.
‘Just like the precious gold from Provence,’ he’d jested. ‘I think we should call the honey “Jenny’s Gold”,’ their daughter decided.
It was Harry who had suggested giving the curious white lavender a chance to prove itself, and any moment she would discover if their youngster had been right. Maybe the pup could teach the old dog a new trick, Lisette thought. She smiled to herself, recalling the conversation.
‘Dad, you should give the white lavender a name,’ Harry had said excitedly.
‘Any ideas?’ he’d asked.
‘Lisette,’ Harry had replied. ‘What else?’ he’d said, giving his mother a shy grin.
‘White lavender?’ Lisette had queried.
‘I’ve been waiting for the full moon. I’ll show you tonight,’ Luc had promised with a wink.
He’d kept his promise. That night when the children were asleep, he’d arrived with a lantern into the kitchen where Lisette had been sewing a torn patch on Harry’s trousers.
‘What’s this?’ she’d laughed.
He’d put a finger to his lips. ‘Viens, mon amour,’ he’d whispered. Whenever he spoke French, which was rare now, she melted. ‘Come where?’ she’d whispered.
‘Ssh,’ he’d insisted, taking her hand to lead her from the back door.
‘Luc, where are we going?’
‘I will show you. Put your boots on.’
It had been a full moon, they had been just days from harvesting the fields and he’d led her down through the rows in front of the cottage and up to the back blocks, hidden from the house by a sentinel of trees that were their wind breaks. They could talk without whispering now.
The French Promise Page 19