In the Claws of the Eagle

by Aubrey Flegg

  Talking to Jacob Edelstein opened Izaac’s eyes to the way the camp was organised. Up until now he had been, like all newcomers, preoccupied with his own affairs: where to go for a meal ticket, which of the cooks was generous with what little meat there was in the inevitable soup, what toilets worked, where to get water to wash, and how to kill bedbugs. Now he started to look about him. His barrack was crowded, but at least they weren’t two or even three to a bed as they were in the dormitories of the less privileged.

  Driven by curiousity, he had visited one and been revolted by the stench of sickness, dirty bodies and incontinence that hung over the barracks. He climbed into the loft and found people lying and dying in total darkness. These barracks provided the gruesome daily fodder for the dead cart. It took him several days to rid himself of the fleas and bugs he had picked up on that visit and it brought home to him how priviliged he and the other musicians were. And it was only luck in their choice of profession that stood between them and the misfortunate others, he thought guiltily.

  The Jewish Administration did their best to cope but it became impossible when more and more transports of dazed and miserable people continued to arrive. Little wonder that it was almost a relief to the administration when the Germans demanded a thousand for immediate transport to one of their other camps, where, hopefully, the people would find a better life.

  Some people even longed to be listed for transport. ‘Surely things will be better there,’ they said. Others were apprehensive; at least here the camp was run by their own, not by the Germans. Rumours were rife of camps where people were worked till they died, slaving for the German war machine. Izaac would watch the pyjama-clad Terezín residents leaving to work in local factories, digging trenches or any other hard labour the Germans wanted. Inside the camp, women sewed uniforms or split great crystals of mica into paper-thin sheets for electrical circuits.

  Within the more comfortable surroundings of Izaac’s block, however, he found himself being greeted by a veritable who’s-who of distinguished musicians from all over Europe, but there was little time for pleasantries. Izaac soon realised that there was a fierce work ethic in the ghetto. These musicians were here, not just to entertain, but to promote the cause of music as well. He would find groups huddled over plans for recitals, concerts, and plays. There were laments over the fact that there was so little printed music, and no ruled sheets on which to make copies. Musicians were writing whole scores from memory directly onto hand-ruled sheets of brown paper.

  The lack of a piano was another great lament. When Izaac mentioned that Pafko said he had found a piano in the German part of the town there was immediate interest. Clearly, the Jewish authorities had vetoed Pafko’s salvage plan as too dangerous; not so the musicians. Nobody ever revealed quite how it came to be there, but the miraculous appearance of an admittedly legless piano in the gymnasium of the boy’s barracks was to become a turning point in music in the ghetto.

  The great Victor Shek gave the first recital, a piano tuner in attendance to repair it between movements. As Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition marched on, the old urge to make music began to burn inside Izaac again. He thought of Madame Helena, and felt ashamed. She she would never have given up as he had done. After the concert he heard two girls talking on the way out.

  ‘You know, Greta, for one hour I haven’t thought of hunger, or food tickets, or the black market, or passes to this or that. Tonight I will dream my own pictures and be a hundred miles away from here.’

  Determined not to reveal how out of practise he was, Izaac made his way up into a loft at the very top of the block where he was housed. His hands were stiff and he felt as if he was starting from the very beginning again. He played the open strings: G, D, A, E, then again G … D … A … E … but so slowly that the sound turned to gravel under his bow. He was listening to the primordial sound of the violin again. Izaac let the horrible sound resonate inside him until he could bear it no longer. His bow moved faster; the gravel turned to sand, until finally pure sound emerged like a new shoot thrusting up through the soil.

  Far far away, on the other side of Europe, Louise woke from her own hibernation. Izaac wanted her again and she would come. Day in, day out, Izaac played, clawing his way back, scale by scale, bow by bow, until he felt able to play with the cream of Europe’s performers in the camp. He could feel Louise’s presence, laughing, bullying, chiding, coaxing him as he played. He kept feeling that he only had to turn to see her there. But she must never see inside the camp. So he closed his mind to her image and kept it on his music; she must never see his emaciated face and this terrible place. And so they continued to share his music as they always had. In case she should pick up on his gloomy thoughts, he tried to concentrate on the few nice things about camp life: the cabaret about the lost food card, the children singing, and the swallows that swooped, chattering, about the square. In return he found, not only that he felt better, but that this began to show in his music. His audiences smiled more. So with Louise’s help, in this way he plunged into the music of the camp, his repertoire increasing by the day: Vivaldi, Bach, Mozart, Tartini, Dvorak, Leclair, Franck, Paganini, Smetna …

  Often the only musical score he had to go on was the one he carried in his head. Hours were spent ruling blank paper with lines to make music manuscript and then transcribing the notes from the one copy that someone had managed to smuggle into the camp. Izaac found himself leading orchestras for symphonies, musicals and operas. He played solo, and he played to the accompaniment of the legless piano. He would remember Gretchen then, and he would think of the little boy she had held aloft: the son that could have been his. Practising, rehearsing, performing and teaching were their work. There was something frenetic about their lives, as if every moment had to be consumed.

  One day Julius joined him in the attic, carrying his reconstructed cello. They worked for a bit before Julius said, ‘Izaac, where are they all going?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There was another transport out this morning. One thousand people crammed into cattle trucks. Two of my pupils were listed. They’re too young to do useful work, so what are they wanted for? I sometimes think I’m playing my cello just in order not to think.’

  ‘I think that’s what we are all doing, Julius. But how would thinking help those who are going? While they’re here we can do something for them; our playing makes life that bit more tolerable. At least, I hope it does; otherwise it is all for nothing. And I couldn’t bear to think that.’

  Julius went with the next transport, one name on a list of a thousand. Izaac realised that even the privileged few were not immune to the Nazi whim. His cello, however, went on being played for as long as music was played in Terezín.

  CHAPTER 22

  Jeu de Paume, Paris

  ‘Erich, my old pal, tracked you down at last!’ Erich looked up in amazement; the doors of the gallery had long been closed for the night and he had thought he was alone.

  ‘Good heavens, Klaus Steinman! I haven’t seen you in years!’ He struggled to get up. Klaus looked formidable in his SS uniform. Erich began to raise his arm.

  ‘Put that arm down, Erich, you were never any good at the Heil Hitler thing. Come on; give an old comrade a hug.’ Erich hastened round his desk and they pounded on each other’s backs for a moment.

  ‘So, what is this place?’ Klaus asked looking around.

  Erich glanced nervously towards the safe in which he kept his codebook and spying materials; Every week he sent a secret message to General von Brugen about the dishonest dealings of certain senior Nazi officers. The door to the safe was open, but, after all, Klaus was an old friend, and what interest would he have in the safe anyway?

  ‘It’s the Jeu de Paume. Once the French King’s indoor tennis court, I believe; now it’s a picture gallery. This is where we collect all the art that has been acquired from the great Jewish collections; we sort out the best for the Führermuseum.’ There were paintings everywhere, hanging from the
rails, five deep, and stacked against the walls. ‘I have a room here, it’s free, I can work late, and can avoid the curfew. But sit down, Klaus, just move those books.’ Erich was genuinely pleased to see his old friend. ‘So, how long has it been?’

  ‘Four years ago, give or take – Kristallnacht, 1938. And here you are, surrounded by your art, where you should have been all the time.’ He chuckled. ‘Perhaps the SS was not for you. I heard about your brush with Captain Winkler. Dear old Erich, you were no better at baiting Jews than you were at saluting.’ Erich blushed deeply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Klaus…I feel I let you down, especially after you got me a place in the SS. So you’ve come across Captain Winkler?’ He was feeling his way; perhaps Klaus and Winkler were friends.

  ‘Oh don’t worry about Winkler, he was posted out east, ended up in my division; he’s found his level. He’s as happy as a pig in muck!’

  ‘So it’s tough on the eastern front? Where exactly are you fighting now?

  ‘Would that it was fighting. No, it’s an administrative job, trying to put in place the Führer’s final solution for the old problem of the Jews. A matter of finding food, and work and – how shall I put it – a suitable future for them. The concentration camps get a bad press, but the Jews have been living in ghettos since forever. It’s home from home for them. I’ve visited one in Czechoslovakia that’s like a bloody holiday camp compared to … well, never mind. Anyway, half the Jewish musicians of Europe are in there, sawing away to their heart’s content. Your friend Mr Izaac Abrahams is there, I saw his name on one of their handwritten concert bills. Now that the Jews are out of the way, our own German talent can make it onto the concert platforms. We’ll show them!’

  ‘And this final solution?’

  ‘The code word is “evacuation”. It’s really just an innovative way of creating Lebensraum for our Aryan peoples. It’s tough enough work though.’ Then Klaus laughed. ‘But that’s quite enough about me. Good old Erich, I always think of you as my double. It’s nice to imagine you working away, living a blameless life here in the heart of Paris.’ Klaus waved his arm at the profusion of pictures. ‘So, what will you be doing with this lot?’

  ‘I’m separating the art wanted for the Führermuseum from degenerate art: the Picassos, van Goghs, Renoirs etc, which will be sold to buy finer works.’

  ‘And that, on the table?’

  ‘That’s Christ in the House of Mary and Martha by Vermeer. Like it?

  ‘Not very much.’

  ‘That proves that you have better taste than Reichsmarschall Göring, and are more honest than most experts. If you were Göring you would see money, and the prestige of owning a Vermeer. If you were an art expert you would be lying through your teeth to prove it’s genuine.’

  ‘And it’s not?’

  ‘A Vermeer in which the figures look dead? No it’s a fake, but I am junior to Göring’s experts. It’ll go off to his country house next time he brings his private train to Paris.’ Erich would have gone on, but he realised that Klaus’s mind had wandered; he was looking at his watch.

  ‘I feel like a drink. There are some of our chaps meeting in a bar on the Rue Saint-Honoré; that’s quite close isn’t it? Come on, shake the dust off yourself, and join us.’

  At this point Klaus turned as if to go, but in turning he found himself opposite the picture that hung on the wall facing Erich’s desk.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Klaus said under his breath. And, so quietly that only Louise heard, ‘So this is where you are!’

  Erich looked past him, and his heart nearly missed a beat. What Klaus should have been looking at was the usual government issue portrait of the Führer. Instead he was looking at The Girl in the Green Dress.

  Some time ago, frightened that some expert – and there were plenty working in the gallery – would spot Louise’s portrait and ask awkward questions, Erich had mounted a copy of the standard Führer portrait on its back. In the evenings, as now, when he knew he would be on his own, he would turn the picture, frame and all, so that Louise’s portrait faced out. Then he would lose himself for a few precious moments in the tranquillity of the Dutch interior. As he worked he would talk to the girl in the green dress, Louise her name was, telling her the news, and speaking about his work, even his secret work. She was company and there was no one else he could unburden himself to. Without his realising it, he was becoming addicted to her presence. Tonight he had had no time to turn the picture back, but after all, it was Klaus who had first told him about the picture; he had a right to admire it.

  ‘Well, well, well! So this is where she ended up, eh? I often wondered what became of Abrahams’s painting after I sent you to pick it up. Must have taken you by surprise when you realised who he was?’ Klaus laughed; he had obviously enjoyed the trick he had played on Erich. ‘I hope you weren’t too cross with me, old chap. After all, I did have a score to settle with you over that time in the woods.’

  ‘So you knew who you were sending me to when you told me about the picture. Why didn’t you tell me?’ Erich demanded.

  ‘Because if I had told you, you would have gone soft-centred, as you did when my scouts had him cornered in the Wienerwald, and said that because he was a “prodigy” he was excused his race. And I was right, because you then compounded the folly by going back to rescue the creep from the mob, and ruined your chances in the SS.’

  Klaus was still examining the picture, and something in his attitude to it made Erich feel uncomfortable. He got up and turned the painting to the wall. When Klaus saw what was on the other side, he laughed uproariously.

  ‘Our Führer – a decoy! So you are keeping the young lady for yourself, is that it, Erich?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m doing research on the origins of the painting. It’s unsigned and I need time to check its provenance.’ Erich hoped he sounded convincing. It was true, wasn’t it? Then a thought struck him. ‘How did you know that Abrahams had this picture in the first place?’

  ‘Ah, did you ever meet my half-sister Gretchen? Probably not – she tends to avoid me – I can’t think why.’ Erich had a vague memory of a bouncy girl with a shock of fair hair; he’d thought she seemed rather nice, but Klaus was going on: ‘She became rather good at the piano. Well, let me put it this way, I heard on the grapevine that she was developing a most inappropriate relationship with the man she accompanied, so I decided to investigate. In best Gestapo manner, I did a little recruiting, and got our maid to do some listening in for me.’

  ‘You spied on your family?’ Erich was shocked.

  ‘Our party acknowledges that this is necessary when the purity of our race is at issue.’ Klaus said primly. ‘Well, one of the results of my little investigation was to find that the subject of my sister’s affections was the owner of a very special picture. Gretchen told our mother that it was his inspiration, his muse, if you like. So, I thought, let’s see how the Jew plays without his muse. And who better to get the picture than my old friend Erich?’

  He glared at Erich suddenly. ‘Damn it, man! You had the picture – why bother with the Jew?’

  Erich tried to make light of it. ‘Guilty conscience perhaps.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Erich. These pictures belong to us, understand! Conscience is a luxury we give up when we take our oath!’ For a moment Erich saw the face that had frightened him that night in the woods, then Klaus shook himself, as if throwing off his anger. ‘Well, all water under the bridge now, eh? Come on, Erich, let’s drink!’

  ‘And don’t forget to close your safe before you go.’ Klaus peered inside. ‘I see you still have your civilian passport.’ He picked it up and flicked it open. ‘Visas to everywhere, lucky man! They don’t want people like me flitting the country.’

  ‘We do some trading in neutral countries,’ Erich said quickly. ‘I have to be able to travel.’

  The safe was a modest affair built into the wall with a simple three-ring combination; anyone could read the numbers while the door was open. Klaus clo
sed it for Erich and spun the dial.

  ‘Right then, Erich, Drink!’

  For some months Louise had been rising from the depths of unconsciousness, drawn upwards by Erich’s interest in her portrait. It was a gradual, even cautious awakening. When he had appropriated her picture she had recognised him as the boy who stood up for Izaac that time in the Wienerwald. She still resented having been taken from Izaac, but Erich talked with her naturally and this had given her confidence to listen, if not to respond, to what he had to say. In this way, she had become familiar with the gallery and his work there. Up to now, Erich had been meticulous about turning her picture to face the wall before anyone came into the room. Tonight he had been caught unaware and she was in full view.

  As she listened to the suave tones of the newcomer, with his bonhomie and his ‘Erich, my old pal,’ alarm bells began to ring. Where had she heard a voice like that … Of course! The treacherous Count du Bois who had nearly destroyed both her and her portrait almost a hundred and fifty years ago. She listened in fear. Had she known Erich for longer she might have attempted a warning, but she had never tried to communicate with him before, and he wouldn’t have understood anyway because what she was hearing from this apparent friend was a totally different story to the one he was telling to Erich. While he was teasing Erich about his salute, Louise could hear another voice mocking Erich’s honest efforts to do the right thing. She was affronted: What sort of friend was this?