by Simon Toyne
‘Come on,’ Marie-Claude said, grabbing Léo’s hand and heading across the road towards the front door of La Broderie, a huge rectangular slab of studded oak with a cartoon keyhole set beneath a cast-iron handle and a secondary, electronic keypad lock that was a nod to progress. The last person out each night was supposed to lock the deadbolt but no one ever did because the key was huge. Marie-Claude punched the security number into the keypad and pushed the door open to reveal the dark interior of the old factory. Inside it was quiet and still. She glanced behind her one last time then pushed Léo in and closed the door behind them.
Léo listened to the bang of the closing door echo away into the soft gloomy silence of the building.
He’d been here a few times before when he’d been dropped off by a friend’s mother after a play date or directly from school, but each time his mama had met him at the front door and walked them straight home, or to Café Belloq for an ice cream or an Orangina. He had never set foot inside before and it felt like being let into some big grown-up secret. He followed his mama, keeping as close as he could without tripping her up. They were in a corridor of new-looking white walls with numbered doors and keypad locks. It looked like he imagined a prison would be like, and he wondered if this was like the one his papa had been in.
They reached a set of wooden stairs and his Spider-Man trainers squeaked on the steps as he followed his mama up them to the first floor. It seemed older up here, like they’d gone up the stairs and back in time. The walls were covered in dark wooden panelling and the doors set into them were old too with writing on them in faded gold paint – M. Beq – Gérante; M. Bouyssié – Directeur Adjoint. Black-and-white photographs lined the corridor showing men in shirts and waistcoats with big moustaches, and women with their hair piled high on top of their heads, standing by complicated-looking machines. They seemed to be staring out of the pictures and directly at Léo. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like being on this floor. It was dark and old and empty and he felt as if the shadows were getting thicker, making it harder for him to breathe. He felt like he might drown in this darkness and he hurried after his mother, eager to escape the gaze of these long-dead workers – and bumped right into her.
She had stopped in the middle of the corridor and was staring straight ahead. Léo could feel tension coming off her and saw that her colours were getting darker, which meant she was scared and this made him feel scared too. He peered around her legs to see what she was looking at. The corridor ahead was as gloomy as the rest of the floor, the shuttered window at the end of the hallway allowing little light inside. There were three doors ahead of them, exactly the same as all the other doors. Only one of them was open.
Léo felt a hand on the top of his head and looked up at his mama. She placed a finger to her lips and he nodded. There was no way he was going to make any noise. He wanted to grab her hand and drag her out of this murky building and back into the sunlight. But she was already moving towards the open door, and all he could do was follow. She stopped short, listened again, then moved forward, pushing the door wide open to reveal the room beyond.
The office was smaller than Léo had expected, about the same size as his own bedroom and almost as messy. A dark window filled the far wall, the closed shutters warped slightly and letting in enough light for him to see the tall piles of paperwork on the floor and all around the desk. But it was the walls that drew his attention. They were covered with tiny writing, every surface filled with words that surrounded black-and-white photographs of thin, hollow-eyed people. There was a map of France too that he recognized from school and a piece of paper in the centre of the main wall with thin cotton threads coming out of it like a spiderweb and connecting to different parts of the walls. The paper had some names written on it in bigger letters and Grampy’s was one of them. He didn’t get a chance to read the others because his mama stepped through the door and started to close it behind her and fear exploded in Léo’s chest.
He moved forward, holding his arms out to stop the door from closing, but it opened again as fast as it had closed and his mama reappeared holding something big and white in her hands. She pulled a coat hanger from inside and shook it out.
‘Empty!’ she said, her colours swirling in confusion. She turned it inside out and shook it again and Léo saw it was one of the canvas carriers Grampy used to protect the suits he made. ‘Totally empty.’ Léo saw sadness flash across her face. Then she looked up and past him and her eyes went wide, and her colours flashed red, and Léo knew that something awful was standing in the corridor right behind him.
28
Léo leaped away from the unknown horror and hid behind his mother’s legs.
‘Who are you?’ she said, her voice coming out stretched and shrill and all the wrong colour.
Léo clung to her legs and thought of the shadow by the front door of their house and the hollow-eyed people in the photographs. He didn’t want to look and see what was there but he had to. He had to. He opened his eyes and looked up.
The man in the corridor was tall and thin and his hair and skin were as pale as the unbuttoned waistcoat he was wearing. He held a suit jacket in his hand, pale like the waistcoat but worn with age. But it was his colours that made Léo stare. They were white, as white as Léo’s were, and his eyes went wide as he realized who he must be.
‘I know you,’ he said, the words tumbling from his mouth before he knew he was speaking. The man looked at him and Léo felt the full weight of his dark gaze.
‘Who am I?’ the man said, his voice soft and low like a stone rolling across floorboards.
‘You’re the man who saved Grampy from the bad camp.’ He searched his memory for the strange name Grampy had whispered to him the one time he had talked about it. ‘You’re Solomon Creed.’
The man smiled making his colours seem brighter and Léo’s mama turned to him, confusion creasing her face. ‘You know this man?’
‘Grampy told me a pale man came to the bad camp, right at the end, and saved him and his friends. They made him a suit, Grampy and the others, to thank him for saving them.’ He looked back at Solomon. ‘He said you would come to collect it one day.’
Solomon’s eyes bored into Léo, like he was staring right through him. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Léonardo. But everyone calls me Léo.’
The man closed his eyes and grabbed his shoulder as if a wasp had stung him and his whiteness shimmered with different colours – reds and purples and blues. ‘Léonardo Engel,’ he gasped.
‘Yes,’ Léo nodded, amazed that he knew his name.
Solomon gripped his arm tighter and his colours went golden and white. Then the shimmering stopped and he opened his eyes again. ‘You are the reason I’ve come here,’ he said. ‘I’m here to save you.’
‘What?’ His mama took a step forward, putting herself between Léo and Solomon like he was in danger. ‘Save him from what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Solomon said. ‘From whoever killed your grandfather perhaps.’ He turned back to Léo. ‘What else did he tell you about me, about the suit?’
‘He said they shared the suit out. They kept the suit and the suit kept them – that’s what he told me.’ He looked up at Solomon. ‘Only it didn’t, did it? It didn’t keep him safe. Because Grampy’s dead. You didn’t save him.’
‘Léo,’ his mama dropped down to his level. ‘You’re confused, chéri. This gentleman is far too young to have known Grampy in the war. That was a long, long time ago.’ She looked up at Solomon. ‘I don’t know what Monsieur is doing here, or why he broke into my office and took something that didn’t belong to him.’ She held up the suit-carrier. ‘That waistcoat you’re wearing was in here, wasn’t it?’ Solomon didn’t answer. ‘It’s mine and I would like it back – please.’
Solomon tipped his head to one side, looking at Léo. ‘What was the name you called me?’
‘Solomon Creed,’ Léo replied.
He nodded and held the waistcoa
t open to reveal the lining – pale ivory with black stripes woven through it, some thick, some thin – and a maker’s label saying:
Ce costume a été fait au trésor pour M. Solomon Creed.
This suit was made to treasure for Mr Solomon Creed.
Léo looked up at his mama, expecting her to be as amazed as he was by this revelation. ‘That doesn’t prove it’s yours,’ she said. ‘My grandfather made lots of suits for lots of people.’
‘But this one fits me,’ Solomon said opening his arms wide to show how well the waistcoat clung to his slender frame. ‘It also matches this.’ He slid his arms into the jacket, tugged the sides down to straighten it and opened the left flap, revealing another label identical to the one in the waistcoat – same wording, same name.
‘How do I know that jacket wasn’t also in the suit-carrier?’
Solomon buttoned the waistcoat. ‘Does it look like it was?’ The jacket looked dusty and worn and had dark marks on the arms and shoulders like faded burn marks. By contrast the waistcoat was immaculate. ‘I promise the only thing I found in the carrier was the waistcoat – and this.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small envelope and handed it to Marie-Claude.
Marie-Claude stared at her name, written on the envelope in Grampy’s elegant, looping handwriting along with the words:
Only to be read in the event of my death.
She felt something cold and heavy settle on her heart as she realized that her guilty suspicions had been correct. Her grandfather had genuinely been worried about her research bringing danger to their door. And he had been right.
She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, opened the envelope and began to read:
My dearest granddaughter,
I know how much you wish to know about my time in the camp, that you feel your own identity is somehow connected to it. Please believe me when I tell you that it is not. You are your own person, a wonderful and strong woman and mother. My past is mine, not yours, and trust me when I say that learning it will only bring you sadness. My continued silence on this subject has always been for your protection and for the protection of others. And it is for the sake of others that I ask you to take this waistcoat to my old friend Otto Adelstein at this address:
Le Métier,
Myosotis-La-Fleur
21000
Do not trust this task to anyone else. You must deliver it yourself. Please tell Otto the pale man did not return to claim it but he should keep it safe in case he ever does. Ask Otto your questions too, if you must, though I doubt he will remember much. I envy him that.
Your generation seems to believe that all knowledge is good and truth is more valuable than gold. Maybe this is why we fought the war, so that our children and grandchildren could enjoy the luxury of such thoughts. Those of us who grew up in the war know different. We know that knowledge is sometimes a curse. And you can never unlearn something once it is known.
Your ever-loving Grampy,
Josef
‘May I see?’ Solomon asked.
She handed the note over, her heart beating fast in a confusion of sadness and fear, and watched him read it, seeing him afresh now she had read her grandfather’s words. He couldn’t be the man mentioned in the note, the man Grampy had spoken to Léo about, it wasn’t possible. But the suit did fit him. And here he was.
‘We should go,’ Solomon said, handing back the note and tipping his head to one side as if listening to something.
‘Go where?’
‘Dijon – 21000 is the postcode for a place called Quevillon, close to Dijon. A nine-hour drive, give or take. I assume you have a car?’
‘Yes, but – what on earth makes you think I’m going to drive you to Dijon?’
‘Because it would appear from your grandfather’s note that our pasts are somehow intertwined. You want to learn about where you come from and so do I. I’m also wearing the waistcoat your grandfather told you to take to Monsieur Adelstein and I’m not going to take it off. Plus, I have a very strong feeling that I’m here to save your son from something, which means we need to stick together.’
Marie-Claude looked down at the note, her brain trying to process it all – the pale man … my old friend … ask Otto your questions if you must …
‘I know it’s hard to believe that your grandfather made this suit for me,’ Solomon said. ‘I’m struggling with it myself. And if he was still alive we could ask him about it, but he’s not, and this Monsieur Adelstein is. So I need to find him and talk to him, and you do too.’ He cocked his head to the side again and this time she heard the sirens too. ‘But we need to go right now, if we’re going.’
Marie-Claude stared at him and was struck by the cold realization of who he was. ‘Amand said they had a suspect in custody. It was you.’
Solomon shrugged. ‘Wrong place at the wrong time.’
Marie-Claude started backing away and put her hand on Léo’s shoulder as she realized the dangerous situation she had put them both in.
Solomon stayed where he was in the corridor. ‘I know how this all appears,’ he said. ‘And if you wish to run from this building and into police protection I will neither stop you nor blame you. I came here seeking your grandfather because of this label in my jacket. I believe I am here to save your son. I can’t explain how I know this, or how your grandfather appears to have made me a suit when I have no memory of ever meeting him, but what I do know is that if I stay here the police will most probably lock me up for a long time.’
‘Then why don’t you run?’ Marie-Claude said.
Solomon clutched at his shoulder. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I run, I won’t be able to protect your son.’
Outside, the sirens grew louder, but she knew the streets: they were still a good few minutes away. ‘But if you stay you’ll get arrested.’
Solomon shrugged. ‘I suppose I’ll have to figure out how I might save your son from inside a prison cell.’
She stared at him and knew he was serious and felt strangely touched that this stranger seemed willing to risk his freedom for the sake of her son.
‘I think we should trust him,’ Léo said, stepping out from behind her. Marie-Claude looked down at his serious little face. ‘Grampy trusted him and the suit he made fits him, so …’
Marie-Claude looked at Solomon, the waistcoat and jacket like a second skin on his slender body. The sirens grew louder and she thought of her grandfather’s note:
… take this waistcoat to my old friend Otto Adelstein …
Do not trust this task to anyone else. You must deliver it yourself.
She had ignored his warnings before, not taken them seriously enough, and he had died as a result. And despite all her instincts to run she wasn’t going to make that same mistake again, no matter how crazy it seemed.
‘Follow me,’ she said, hurrying past Solomon and heading for the stairs. ‘There’s a back way into the building. I’ll get my car and bring it round. That way no one will see us leaving.’
V
‘Yellow is a light which has been dampened by darkness; blue is a darkness weakened by light.’
Goethe
Extract from
DARK MATERIAL – THE DEVIL’S TAILOR: DEATH AND LIFE IN DIE SCHNEIDER LAGER
By Herman Lansky
They marched us out of the Mulhouse railroad sidings and into the forest. I thought they were going to execute us but I was already half-dead from the journey and didn’t care. It would have been a relief. Night fell as we marched and I remember feeling profoundly sad that I would never see the sun again.
We walked for maybe an hour until we came across a semi-derelict factory complex on the edge of the woods and close to a main road. It had no fences, no guard towers, no accommodation blocks or any of the facilities required to house the six thousand prisoners earmarked for transportation there within the month. Yet this was to be Die Schneider Lager, and it was our job to build i
t before everyone else arrived.
We slept on the factory floor that first night, huddled together around textile machinery so old my family’s factories had scrapped them when I was a boy. It was cold that night and the concrete floor was hard, but we were free from the horror of the train and we all slept for the first time in days. Such a deep sleep. So deep that some never woke up.
In the morning, we were taken out to a large overgrown field beyond the main factory building and ordered to clear it and put up old army tents left over from the Great War to serve as temporary dormitories until we had built permanent accommodation blocks. We were tailors and seamstresses, shopkeepers and mothers, we barely knew how to put the tents up, let alone construct buildings of brick and wood.
I remember that first day, struggling with the old and broken tools we had been given, exhausted from the train journey and the heat of the summer sun. It took everything I had just to stay standing, but I did. I stood and I worked. I had to. Anyone who faltered or fell to the ground was shot and dragged into the forest where a fire burned, sending greasy smoke drifting across the field. The message was clear: you work, you survive; you don’t work, you die. It should have been written above the camp gates as a warning to all the thousands who came there.
Die Schneider Lager had not been set up as a death camp, but that is what it became. The records show that it only had enough allocated rations to adequately feed three thousand prisoners a month, and there were already double that before the camp had officially opened. With no guarantees that these already inadequate supplies would be maintained, Artur Samler decided to abandon any hope of improving the situation; rather than request more food supplies, he asked for more prisoners.