In the Claws of the Eagle

by Aubrey Flegg

  ‘Stand back! Stand back!’ SS men were walking down the platform, unbolting the doors of the cattle trucks. ‘Leave your cases on the platform, and get in.’ One piece of luggage only the transportation order had said and then came a long list of forbidden items, including No musical instruments. So, biting his lip with anger, Izaac had abandoned his violin case, rolled his precious instrument in shirts, and placed it in the very middle of the suitcase – it was an outside chance that he would ever see it again.

  ‘Get in!’ Nobody moved; it was as if the people on the platform still didn’t really believe that the cattle trucks were for them. There were more shouts from the guards. Then Izaac heard screams and the sound of someone being beaten. This was SS ‘encouragement’! Izaac took the hint. Whatever about the people here, Gretchen and little Konrad mustn’t hear this screaming. He grabbed the hand of the lady who had been complaining about the transport, and heaved her, protesting, into the cattle truck. Her thick fur coat felt soft and luxurious on his hand. He bent to the task of helping people clamber up, knowing full well that he was just postponing the moment when he would have to follow them. He got no thanks for his trouble but the butt of an SS rifle in his back, as hands reached down to pull him in too. The door was slammed behind him and the bolts were shot. There was hardly room for him to stand. The shocked silence was broken only by the mounting wails of the woman in the fur coat. Then they were off.

  As time went by, the cold became intense. Sometimes the train stopped for long periods and with no explanation. Izaac got the impression that it only moved when the track was free of more important traffic. Rest was impossible. They took it in turns to sit, propped against the sides of the truck, but there the icy wind sliced through the cracks like knives. It was better to stand and doze in the comparative warmth of the huddle, until one’s legs began to buckle. Whatever Izaac had anticipated about transportation, he hadn’t realised how excruciatingly uncomfortable and degrading it would be. From the voices and clothes of the people around him, these were well off, cultured Jews like himself who would hardly have used a public toilet, let alone a bucket within view of a hundred other people.

  Morning was dragging itself into being, and Izaac was taking his turn sitting with his back to the door watching the tracks through a crack in the floor. The rhythmic click of the wheels was hypnotic, like a metronome. Terra tack, terra tack, terra tack went the wheels, and he found himself whistling one of the pieces his quartet had been practising before he got his transportation order.

  ‘I bet you don’t know the name of that tune,’ said a voice beside him.

  ‘Oh, but I do,’ Izaac smiled, surprised; ‘it’s Beethoven’s Razumovsky Quartet No. 1.’

  The man reached across and shook his hand. ‘My name is Julius Kohn, cello with the Kohn Quartet. I thought I recognised you – Izaac Abrahams, isn’t it? Let’s start at the beginning, but a little higher if you please.’

  Izaac started whistling again; to his delight his new friend came in, whistling not just the cello part, but the viola and second violin wherever appropriate. The whole atmosphere in the carriage eased. There were murmurs of appreciation when they reached the end, even a clap or two. Outwardly they were frozen but had an inner warmth now; they kept close when they stood up.

  ‘I’m terrified that they will confiscate my violin; it’s in my case. What a shame you couldn’t bring your cello,’ Izaac commiserated.

  Julius chuckled and leaned close to Izaac and whispered in his ear:

  ‘Oh but I have!’

  ‘Did they let you bring it?’

  ‘No. I have a friend who is an instrument maker. He dissolved the glue for me and helped me take it apart. It’s in my bag now, in bits. I even have clamps and glue to re-assemble it, though God knows if I will succeed. Apparently half the Czech Academy of Music are in Terezín, the camp we are being sent to.’

  ‘You know something about this camp, then?’ Izaac asked.

  ‘Probably no more than you have heard yourself. That it’s a Jewish-run ghetto, somewhere near Prague in Czechoslovakia. They are inviting musicians and intellectuals to come and work there.’

  The train was slowing and they heard voices outside. The door was drawn back a foot or so. ‘Brot!’ Five loaves of dark heavy bread were thrust in through the opening. ‘Wasser!’ A bucket of water was passed in, no cup or anything to drink it with. ‘Scheiße!’ The stinking toilet bucket was passed out to someone in the striped suit of a prisoner, and an empty one passed in; the door slammed. Inside the cattle truck, a man who Julius identified as a professor began organising the distribution of food.

  There were fifty people in the truck, so a tenth of a loaf seemed very small. Someone had produced a cup and a shuffling queue snaked about the carriage for an allowance of one mouthful of water each; the movement was welcome too. ‘I can’t eat this,’ the fur-clad lady exclaimed in disgust. ‘I will complain!’ That caused a few wry smiles. When an aggrieved voice said, ‘To think I paid five hundred shillings for first class!’ everyone, including the complainer laughed; the train jerked forward, upsetting the now empty water bucket. For some reason they found this cheering. At least they hadn’t lost their water ration. One score for them.

  It was evening before the train pulled into a country station and they were forced out to stand in a line, ready for a two-kilometre march to the camp. Rumours had been circulating about Terezín. One man explained that the camp was like a holiday spa, and that he had paid in advance for special accommodation. Izaac eyed the iron-faced SS guards marching on each side of them, rifles at the ready, and wondered what was really in store. Julius leaned towards him.

  ‘Have you noticed; these guards have skull and cross-bones badges on their caps?’

  ‘The “Death’s Head squads”. I’ve heard of them.’

  When the tired column turned off the road they crossed a bridge and arrived at an arched entrance leading into what appeared to be a vast fortress. Vertical sided moats stretched out on either side. The words ‘ARBEIT MACHT FREI’ curved over the gateway.

  ‘So, work will free us!’ murmured Julius. He looked along the moat. ‘They certainly plan to keep us here.’

  At that the gates swung open and the file shuffled forward. They found themselves in a small town with streets laid out on a symmetrical grid. Izaac’s immediate impression was of an anthill, order and chaos. A squad of boys who had been sweeping the road, stood back to let a line of workers in the striped pyjama suits of prisoners march by on their way to the gate. Izaac noticed that, unlike them, they weren’t flanked by guards until they reached the gates, where their SS guards were waiting for them. A long line of people stood patiently clutching tin plates and spoons. Steam billowed from a food kitchen and there was a strong smell of cabbage. Izaac wrinkled his nose and thought longingly of coffee and a crisp roll. Despite the bustle, listless groups of people moved aimlessly, their eyes unfocused as if unable to take in what was happening around them. No one paid much attention to the new arrivals.

  The accommodation seemed to be made up of high brick barracks. Through an open door they glimpsed tiers of wooden bunks, some occupied. An arm hung listlessly from a top bunk. Outside the door of the barracks an old man and an old woman were squabbling over a potato that had fallen on the ground.

  ‘I can’t sleep in there!’ the fur-clad lady was almost hysterical. She turned away in disgust only to stifle a scream. A handcart was being pushed past her towards the gate. A tarpaulin revealed the unmistakable outline of a human body.

  It was too much to take in all at once. Whatever Terezín was, Izaac thought, it was no ‘holiday spa’. Then suddenly, out of the misery and horror of this place came the sound of someone playing a flute. It was like a shaft from heaven. He gripped Julius’s arm. They stopped short, causing the people behind to pile into them. The SS guard nearest them shouted, unslung his rifle and worked the bolt as if he meant to use it. They hurried on, took a left turn, and stopped in front of a once fine adm
inistrative building. The guards began to sort them into two parallel lines.

  ‘Let’s stay together,’ Julius said, slipping in behind Izaac as the line began to inch forward. Just inside the entrance to the building there were two desks, one on each side. A girl looked up. She had a pile of pre-numbered cards, which she was filling in for each arrival. ‘Name and forename?’ Izaac told her. ‘Occupation?’

  ‘Musician.’ She looked up, suddenly interested.

  ‘Not the Izaac Abrahams, the violinist?’ He nodded. She dropped her eyes as an SS man passed. ‘I’m not supposed to talk; lean close.’ She pretended to sort her cards. ‘Have you a violin in your case?’

  ‘If it hasn’t been lost or stolen, yes.’

  ‘Don’t worry; it will be safe until they’ve had a chance to loot it. We’re desperately short of instruments. Listen, there is an SS officer second from the left. You’ll recognise him; he looks mean, he is mean – and he shouts at everyone. Find your case and get into his queue; it is always short. Tell him, “The statues still stand on Charles’s Bridge” – he’s a Czech from Prague – then put your head down and hope for the best.’

  ‘So we have an honest SS man?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid! A well paid crook.’

  Izaac went over to where prisoners in striped uniforms were helping the transportees to find their cases. Julius caught up with him.

  ‘The girl at the desk told me to talk to you. I’m sure she’s a viola player with the Philharmonic.’

  ‘Yes. Apparently what we’ve got to do is this … ’ Suddenly there was a commotion. An SS man, one of the searchers, was leaning over his desk, screaming like a maniac, trying to tear the fur coat off the woman from the train. She, foolishly, was resisting, struggling to hold onto her precious fur.

  ‘Bloody Jewish whore!’ A crack of his fist on her jaw and the woman slumped to the floor. There was a gasp from the new arrivals, but they all stood rooted. Only the woman’s husband dared move, darting forward like someone coming within range of a chained dog, before drawing her back to safety. The SS man threw the coat into the tea chest behind him, and called for the next person. As the people shuffled forward apprehensively, Izaac began to question the girl’s advice. Was this really the SS man he was to go to if he wanted to hold onto his violin?

  Julius was obviously thinking the same. ‘Can we trust him?’ he asked.

  ‘We have to, don’t we?’ Izaac went first, delivering his incongruous message as he leaned forward to undo the straps on his case.

  ‘Halt’s Maul, Shut up! Stop talking and stand back!’ An open hand on his chest sent Izaac staggering back. All he could do now was watch helplessly as the man, muttering expletives, plunged his hands into his suitcase, apparently exploring every inch. The man stiffened. What if he and the girl at the door were in cahoots? He couldn’t have missed the violin, but what else could he have found? As if pulling a rabbit from a hat, he held up Izaac’s alarm clock for all to see: ‘Verboten! Streng verboten!’ he yelled. Then he turned and hurled it nonchalantly into his tea chest, where it landed with a soft thud on the fur coat. ‘Raus!’ Get out!’ Izaac was fumbling nervously with his straps; ‘Raus!’

  Half an hour later, Izaac and Julius met up in a dormitory for new arrivals and compared the shaking of their hands. After the inspection they had been given a bowl of revolting soup, which they used to soften the single slice of black bread that appeared to be their ration. As nothing else seemed to be required of them, they lay down to get some sleep on the thin, straw-filled mattresses that bore the stains of many previous occupants. Exhaustion overcame squalor and sleep came quickly, almost as quickly in fact as the bed bugs that climbed out of the cracks in the bunks for their nightly feast.

  ‘Psst…I’m Pafko!’ It was early morning. Izaac opened his eyes to find a boy’s face within inches of his own. ‘You’re Izaac Abrahams?’ Izaac blinked and nodded. The boy glanced right and left. ‘I’m not supposed to be in here, so I’ll make this quick. I’ve been told to make sure you don’t get put on a transport, or sent to work in the factory; else we might never see you again. Where’s Herr Kohn?’

  ‘That’s him in the bunk above, but who sent you?’

  ‘The Administration for Free Time Activities. I’m a musician. I sing in a choir,’ the boy added grandly. Izaac smiled, but the boy was in a hurry. ‘Listen, sir. First thing this morning, you’ll get your number, a tattoo on your arm.’ He pulled up his sleeve to display a not very clean arm with a blue number on it. Then the SS will hand you over to the Jewish Administration for your ration card and to be assigned to a work squad. You must get work in the town, not in the factory. The factory workers are the ones in the striped suits because they go outside to work. Go to Ondrej. He has a long drooping moustache, and he loves music; tell him you hope to work for the AFTA and he will give you a squad in the town.’ There was a sound of someone blowing into a microphone, testing the loudspeaker. The boy stiffened. ‘Got to go. That’ll be the morning call. Tell Herr Kohn about Ondrej. Look for me outside.’

  ‘Raus! Raus! Schnell raus!’ but the boy had gone, in a patter of bare feet.

  Izaac’s ordeal was over. The freshly tattooed number on his arm felt no worse than the bed-bug bites that seemed to cover him all over. He stood scratching, guarding Julius’s case with its precious dismantled cello, as his friend manoeuvred himself into the queue where the moustachioed Ondrej held court. When Julius came over, Izaac took up both cases, feeling that the sooner he got out of this building the better. They stopped at the bottom of the steps where Julius looked at the piece of paper Ondrej had given him.

  ‘I wonder what this means?’ he asked. ‘EIII/6/10/107?’

  ‘Let me see.’ Izaac looked down and there was the boy, Pafko, grinning up at him. The boy put down a bucket he was holding and held out his hands for their slips of paper.

  Izaac laughed. ‘I’d better introduce you. Julius, this is Pafko, messenger and go-between supreme. You were asleep when he came and told me about Ondrej.’

  Pafko was busy examining their papers.

  ‘Good old Ondrej, you’re together. Block 3/ building 6/ room 10/ bunks 107 & 108. The good thing is that this block is just full of AFTA players. Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Who sent to you look after us?’ Izaac asked.

  ‘Anna, who you met at the door yesterday, gave your numbers to Maria Thron who will be the head of AFTA when the Nazis agree. She sent me to find you to make sure you weren’t sent off to make engines in the factory. I’m her personal messenger;’ he took off his floppy cap and bowed. ‘You see, the camp is segregated: men and boys on one side, women and kids under twelve on the other. Though I look older, I’m still eleven, so I can go both sides if I’m careful. The thing is to look busy.’

  ‘How do you manage that?’ Izaac asked.

  ‘I carry a bucket,’ Pafko grinned. ‘Sometimes I put a brick in it. People think I must be doing some chore and so don’t bother me.’ They crossed a square outined with bare and tired trees. ‘We call that building where you’ve just been the “Sluice”– open it and they pour in. More people come every day; Mrs Thron says the town was built for six thousand soldiers, guess how many people are here now? Fifty eight thousand!’ The flow of camp information continued: ‘That there’s the boy’s barracks, I’ll be in there when I turn twelve. I’m with my mum and sisters on the women’s side now.’

  ‘Where do the musicians play?’ Izaac asked.

  ‘Anywhere for folk songs and things and solo instruments, then there is a hall in the Sudeten barracks; real concerts there, violins, flute, accordion, but no cello,’ he winked at Julius. Did the boy know everything, Izaac wondered. ‘ … and no piano. AFTA are desperate for a piano. We have just one piano accordion for recitals, choir practice … everything! I found them a piano but it has no legs and it’s in the part of the town where the Germans and their families live. The wimps won’t go and get it.’

  They had arrived at their destination. �
�Here’s your barracks, EIII/6.’ Pafko announced.

  Izaac sat drinking acorn coffee with Jacob Edelstein, head of the Council of Elders. This was an honour. To begin with, Izaac had been jealous of the almost normal apartment with proper furnishings and rugs on the floor. Now he was realising that these luxuries had their price.

  ‘Izaac, when I agreed to run this ghetto for the Nazis, I just wanted to make it a refuge for our Czech Jews, to make life tolerable for them here in Bohemia until the war is over. We can wear our own clothes inside the ghetto, we largely police ourselves. Even when numbers rose to nearly sixty thousand, I thought, at least these people were safe in my care. Then last month I was ordered to select one thousand people for a transport out “further east”, that was all I was told.’

  ‘Why, what do they want them for?’ Izaac asked.

  ‘Dear knows. Labour in factories, perhaps. They talk about “re-settlement”… who knows the Nazi mind? But it was I who had to make the list, or to risk having to them do it for me.’ He sighed. ‘I kept the children where possible, I tried not to break up families, even so…’ His voice trailed away, lost in the loneliness of his position. ‘All I can do, Izaac, is make life tolerable for those that remain. There are two classes of essential workers here: workers who keep our bodies together, and workers who feed our minds and our souls. They are equally important. I can’t feed ten thousand properly on the food they give me, so I must feed the soul. This is where you and other ‘essential workers’ in the Administration of Spare Time Activities come in. Through your music you can liberate us, if only for an hour or two. We can leave this dreadful place in our imaginations, if not in reality. I need you for this work and will protect you if I can, but if the Nazis say that ‘Herr Abrahams’ must go on the next transport, I can do nothing but put you on the list. So, bring our people a little joy, who knows about the future. Now, I must go back to requisitioning: potatoes, cabbages and rotten meat.’