by Aubrey Flegg
Erich had gone out to get something to eat, when Elaine, on her evening cleaning round, knocked on Erich’s door and, getting no reply, used her master key to come into the room. Evening light glowed through the high gallery windows. She walked over to Erich’s desk, reached up and turned Louise’s picture about, hesitated and then sniffed.
‘I smell burning. Paper?’ she said. She sniffed again. ‘What has Erich Hoffman been doing burning papers in here?’ She ran her duster over his desk, examined it, and rubbed the small flakes of grey ash with her finger. ‘Oh Erich,’ she said. ‘I hope you are not a naughty boy. Only people who have secrets burn papers – Gestapo people – and we don’t like Gestapo people here.’
When the Germans marched into Paris, Elaine’s father had decided that it was best for France, for him, to co-operate with them. Elaine, on the other hand, had chosen resistance. Father and daughter lived together happily, Papa knowing full well that Elaine was in the Resistance. Because she spoke some German and could use her father’s influence, she had been able to get a job in the Jeu de Paume. ‘We believe there is a Gestapo member there. We need you to find him for us!’ Her resistance leader had ordered her.
Surely Erich couldn’t be the one she was looking for?
‘Perhaps you lied to me and were really writing to your Fräulein, saying that you had fallen in love with a little French girl called Elaine?’ She dusted thoroughly, as if to remove the evidence, but paused again at his wash-hand basin. There too were signs of ash having been washed down the plughole. When she had finished she sat in Erich’s chair for a moment and let her eyes roam over the wall. Then, with an anxious smile at Louise she whispered, ‘Tell me that it was just a love letter.’ Then she turned the picture back to face the wall.
That evening it was Erich who turned her picture about. He glared at her, but his look told all. He had not sent his letter of resignation to von Brugen! She realised she had won. She felt a surge of relief; she hadn’t realised how her helplessness had been weighing on her. But what had she won? A little time, perhaps, until he was put to the test again? He had admitted that he didn’t believe in the Nazi cause, but he had been a Nazi long enough to steal her picture from Izaac, and to volunteer for the SS after a drunken night out! Louise shuddered. There was something insidious about the Nazi doctrine. Klaus knew all about it and exploited it to his own ends, but Erich was trusting. Was it lying dormant, like a worm inside him? She needed to know for her sake, but also for his.
Erich’s scowl softened as she emerged. He got up and cleared some books from her chair and then sat down himself. She wondered how to start, but then decided that the direct approach was best.
‘Erich,’ she said, ‘I know very little about you, apart from what you told me while you were talking to my picture. You never sent your letter to General von Brugen, did you?’ He shook his head. ‘So we have a little time. When you remembered happy times, you talked about a village up in the mountains; I’d like you to tell me about it. Were the salt mines there?’
Erich had felt unusually flat since he had burned his last draft to General von Brugen. He had enjoyed the thrill of action again and had dreaded another evening of inactivity. Now the girl was challenging him and this fitted his mood. He made himself a cup of barley coffee, sat down opposite her and began to tell her about Altaussee. As he talked, the Jeu de Paume developed a misty quality until eventually it blew away and he was facing into a stiff breeze on the Loser Mountain. Surprised, he faltered, but Louise’s voice was with him, like a companion urging him to pick up the thread again. After she had done this several times, she said simply, ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to take me with you?’ and somehow she was there, walking, talking, and climbing like any other congenial companion.
If Louise had known in advance where Erich would take her, she mightn’t have been so keen to come. He tested her mettle. She found herself added to the rope on his first real rock climb, and later even on sections of the first ascent of the Adlerwand. She found a whole new dimension, where eagles soared and fixed her with tawny eyes, and the thrill of having what Erich called ‘air beneath your heels’.
He told her about the salt mines, taking her into caverns and lakes deep under the mountain, where he showed her where the miners had cut out a chapel and built an altar out of solid salt. She listened to the timbre of his voice and liked it; she could trust this man. But then one day, Louise was suddenly alert. She realised that what he had been telling her was not in fact what he was showing her. It happened one evening when they had been on a long walk, returning over the top of the Kleinkogel and running across the meadow towards the chalet.
‘Look, there’s a car at the house, I wonder whose that is?’ he had said. As they passed the window they paused and she saw Erich’s mother, Sabine, crying. There was a man with her, Jewish looking, who was comforting her. Sabine moved towards him and momentarily rested her forehead on his shoulder. Erich had said with relief, ‘Oh, good, Herr Solomons has come!’ He hurried around to greet the man like an old friend.
Now Louise stared across the table at Erich in disbelief; the image she had seen and the words Erich had used bore no resemblance to the account he had just given her, here in the Jeu de Paume. What he had said was: ‘It was that bloody Jew, Solomons, making a pass at Mother, so I went around, burst in, and gave him a piece of my mind!’ This was like Klaus, but in reverse! Had she found the worm?
‘Erich! Do you realise what you have just said?’
‘About Solomons making a pass at Mother? Yes, I was disgusted!’
‘But Erich, that is not what happened! I was beside you, just seconds ago, when you saw Herr Solomons with your mother. What you really said was, “Oh good, Herr Solomons has come,” and you went round and greeted him like a friend!’
A sudden chill came over the room.
‘You shouldn’t interrupt,’ Erich said angrily. ‘How can you know what happened?’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Because you showed me,’ but she kept quiet. He got to his feet and, angling his shoulders, strode away across the room. ‘I’m not going to waste my time talking if you start making things up against me. Go on, fade away, or do whatever you do when you’re not wanted.’
Down in his tiny bedroom, Erich banged about, washed his face, combed his hair; then feeling suddenly tired, he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the defiance draining out of him. She was right. He had been pleased and grateful to see Solomons comforting his mother. It had only been later that Veit’s poison had crept in, twisting poor Solomons’s concerned smile into a wicked leer. Oh God, he wondered. How much more had he distorted in his mind, and where was Solomons now? In a concentration camp, most likely. It was almost a relief to find that Louise was no longer there when he went back into the room; he needed time to think.
As Izaac’s audience and critic, Louise had learned how to deal with him when he had convinced himself that he was playing something right – when he knew deep down that he was wrong. Erich was, if anything, more willing to have his false notes shown to him: he had found something in himself that he didn’t like. She never told him about her theory of a ‘worm’ but she became adept at spotting it in the memories that he told her about. They found it in Grandpa Veit, but also in the poverty Erich had experienced after the first war. They found it in Erich’s father’s sickness, and in poor Mr Solomons’s charity to them. But above all they found it in Klaus. When she saw the way Klaus had skilfully manipulated Erich on his ‘eye-opening’ tour of Vienna’s Jewish banks and cafes, she thought, poor Erich, he didn’t stand a chance.
‘Erich,’ she said one day after one of her disturbing dreams. ‘I’m worried about Izaac. I hear him playing in my dreams. But I see all sorts of nightmare things as well.’
‘We all have nightmares. If he’s playing his violin I think you can take it he’s all right. We’ve got to believe Klaus on this; he should know, he’s out there. The camps are just temporary accommodation for the Jews unt
il the war is over. He even said the place where Izaac is, is like a holiday camp. They say the first class carriages are all being used to take the Jews east.’
Louise was still uneasy, although, when she thought about it, the images Izaac had been showing her recently were mostly of good-natured activity.
CHAPTER 25
The Embellishment
Christmas 1943 brought a strange proposal from the Germans to the Jewish Administration.
‘No! No! No! I will not cooperate! This is Hanukah, the time when we, as Jews, celebrate independence against tyranny!’ Rabbi Ishmael brought a bony fist down on the table.
‘But if we cooperate, conditions will improve, Ishmael!’ the leader of the Council of Elders appealed. ‘The Commandant calls it his Christmas present to us.’
‘Fiddlesticks! Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. We stood up to the Greeks two thousand years ago …’ Izaac wondered what this had to do with the Germans, but he could see a religious lecture a mile off. With a deferential bow he cut across the quavering voice, ‘Excuse me, Rabbi, but can someone explain exactly what it is the Germans want us to do?’ He got a grateful glance from the Elder.
‘The Danish government, Izaac, are worried about their Jews, the ones that have been arriving here recently from Denmark. They want the International Red Cross to visit Terezín to certify that conditions here are adequate.’
‘But they aren’t adequate!’ said Izaac in indignation.
‘That’s the point, if we agree to cooperate, the Germans have promised to reduce over-crowding, improve our food rations and support our free-time activities. Our role will be to clean the place up; they will provide paint and materials. It will be a chance for us to show that we are capable of policing and governing ourselves! Hopefully the Red Cross will see this, and insist on the same standards in the other camps.’
‘Pah! Another Potemkin village!’ snapped old Rabbi Ishmael. Nobody paid any attention to him; the idea of improved conditions was tempting them all. Izaac was trying to remember what a Potemkin village was. It was coming back to him … General Potemkin, a favourite of Empress Catherine II of Russia, worried that the Empress would see the dreadful poverty of her rule, had special villages built before the Empress’s visits, and filled them with ‘happy peasants’ singing and dancing. Old Ishmael had a point, but the Red Cross would never be fooled, they would see through the ruse. Anyway the concessions would be worth it.
‘Hey there, Pafko!’ Izaac shouted. Pafko had a clipboard in his hands and was looking up studiously at the windows of the Magdeburg building as if surveying the paintwork. The boy took a pencil from behind his ear, appeared to jot something on to his clipboard, and walked on. Izaac lengthened his stride and caught up with him. ‘Pafko, where’s your brick and bucket? Have you been caught for a job at last?’
Pafko gave a broad grin. ‘I’ve promoted myself. Look!’ he held up his clipboard. ‘It’s a lot lighter than the bucket and brick, and it works just as well. I bet you thought I was doing something official. See, it’s even got a swastika on the back,’ he held it up.
‘You shirker! So I’ve been on my hands and knees digging up the grass from between the cobbles while you wander about pretending to be the town surveyor.’ Under the Embellishment everyone had to work, even those exempted for other reasons, it was an all-out effort.
‘Surveyors can go anywhere,’ Pafko said with a wink. ‘If it moves, move it; if you can’t move it, paint it; if it moves on its own salute it. The Germans just love clipboards!’ he grinned. Izaac changed the subject.
‘How many performances of Brundibár have you done so far?’
‘Over forty. You know they are putting up a special stage for the Red Cross visit? Have you noticed, the food is getting better?’ Pafko prattled on. Izaac wondered what would happen if his voice broke; he must be nearly fourteen. They all agreed that if he couldn’t sing, they would have to cancel. It wasn’t just that people loved him and his moustache; he had made the villain, Brundibár, human, and human villains can be defeated. Izaac thought of the Terezín March they all liked to sing:
‘The time will come to pack our bags
And home we’ll joyfully depart.
We will conquer and survive
All the cruelty in our land,
We will laugh on ghetto ruins
Hand in hand!’
There was a feeling of optimism throughout the camp. Transports continued to leave, but as long as your name wasn’t on the list you didn’t have to worry. If they hadn’t been so busy with what the Germans called ‘The Embellishment’, they might have noticed that it was the old, the sick, and even the ugly that were being magicked away. They left in the early mornings; old couples united briefly for yet another train journey to God knows where. The Germans were everywhere, planning the exact route that the Red Cross delegation would follow.
Sub-standard buildings were locked up. Mock washing facilities were put in. Fresh paint hid squalor. Teams of gardeners worked in the wide moat to bring on a lush crop of vegetables. A café was opened. There was nothing in it, but it was fun to sit there and pretend. A group of girls with rakes and spades practised the song they would sing as they passed the delegation on their way to work. Women were rehearsed to sit in the barracks knitting and talking among themselves about menus. In the café a little boy was to complain: ‘Not sardines again!’ He didn’t know what a sardine was. A football team began cautious training on increased rations; they mustn’t fall over from hunger on the pitch. Orchestras, bands, choirs, and plays went into rehearsals. Like everyone else, Izaac was far too busy to wonder why on earth they were all doing their utmost to help the Germans deceive the Red Cross.
In the midst of this came a rumour that the British and Americans had landed somewhere in France; Normandy, the rumours said. Suddenly there was light at the end of the tunnel. Then, for the few days before the delegation arrived from Switzerland, the quality of food improved dramatically. The Germans didn’t want people who were used to starvation rations throwing up in front of the delegation because the food was too rich. Everything was ready.
Marti Bochsler looked down on the coloured strips of land – golden corn, green grass, blue green kale – as the plane of the Red Cross Delegation circled Prague airport. His hands were sweating, he didn’t like flying, and even though there were massive red crosses on the wings and fuselage, flying over war-torn Europe was always risky. He was a junior clerk with the delegation and had never been on an international inspection before. Like everyone else on the delegation he had heard terrible rumours about the conditions in the concentration camps. What if they found that these were correct? Would he be able to take it? He had heard of delegates coming home nervous wrecks from examining prisoner of war camps, and this was the first concentration camp the Red Cross had been allowed to see.
The plane bounced, bounced again, and trundled along the runway to where a group of staff cars were waiting. Marti stared through the small window at the SS men in their black uniforms. These Teutonic giants would never lose the war! He thought with momentary pity of the Americans and British fighting their way through Normandy.
The drive to Terezín took about an hour. Marti enjoyed the fresh air in the open car, even though the dust of the cavalcade fell thickest on the last car where he sat behind Dr Elser, a junior doctor, and between two stony SS privates. He felt like a prisoner himself. ‘Remember, delegates,’ their Chef de Mission had said in Geneva, ‘we are here to record what we see, we want facts, not rumours. You are forbidden to talk to the ghetto inmates. Our role is to see that the living accommodation in the camp is adequate, that they have proper sanitation, and a sufficient diet. Forget the rumours, collect the facts.’ Marti felt for his notebook in his pocket and checked his pencils in his top pocket.
In the end he enjoyed the day. The camp was clean, the food was good. Dr Elser estimated the calories of the meals they saw being put down for the inmates, all of which Marti entered in his notebook. T
he bunks and the spaces about them were within international standards. There seemed to be a musician in every room. They happened on a jazz band, playing to a small audience, and a quartet was playing to old people sitting in the café. Dr Elser tasted the bread in the dining room and declared it excellent. They were even invited to watch a football match, and the barracks overlooking the pitch were crowded with children who made a healthy lot of noise. The highlight of his day was a performance by the children of an opera composed by one of the inmates. He noticed that even the Camp Commandant was amused by the Hitler-like antics of the wicked organ grinder.
It was only when Izaac turned, aglow with pride for his young performers, and found himself face to face with the beaming faces of the Red Cross delegation and their flanking SS minders that he realised how their cooperation with the ‘Embellishment’ had backfired. Those fat faces showed no penetration, no conception that everything they were seeing was a paper-thin facade; that it was sham! The cockroaches would flood the kitchens after dark. The dead cart would resume its rounds, carrying the bodies of the starved and the shot, and he and all the others had gone out of their way conceal all this from the only people who might be able to help them. He packed his violin with trembling hands, and exited by a back door so he could intercept the party on the way out. The delegation had talked to no one, not one single ordinary camp inmate. Now they were going to!
When the party was being led back towards the cars at the end of the inspection, Marti got separated from the main group. A first-aid team, followed by a hurrying doctor in a white coat, crossed their path, carrying a stretcher.