In the Claws of the Eagle (17 page)

‘How about acquiring their art?’

Erich winced. Ever since his visit to the Abrahams’, he had been struggling with this. ‘The Jews are bleeding our country of its wealth, sir. Art should not belong to individuals but to all the people. This is the idea behind the Führermuseum, isn’t it? That’s why I volunteered to work on the selection of suitable pictures for it. It’s for the common good. Owners should, of course, be compensated,’ he added lamely. His scalp was prickling, as it did whenever he was unsure about what he was saying.

‘So you would be offended if people started taking these works of art for profit, or for their private collections?’

‘Yes, sir, of course! I would be horrified. Who would do such a thing?’

‘You’d be surprised, Lieutenant … very surprised. But we will come back to that.’

‘Now, tell me a little about your ascent of the Adlerwand?’

This time the change of direction was welcome. Erich began his usual three-minute account of the climb, but the General was having none of it.

‘You say it took you three days – so that means you had to carry food and water and something to sleep under?’ So Erich had to give him a detailed account of their diet and their
equipment. ‘Did you have these new ice claws for your feet?’

‘Crampons,’ Erich confirmed. ‘Yes, sir.’ This was like being back on the Adlerwand, with a new companion on the rope. He began to relax, but again was brought to with a jolt.

‘When did you become a Nazi?’

‘Well, I’ve never actually joined the Party, sir. I was, well, swept in after the climb, as a sort of mascot.’ Erich spread his hands. ‘They wanted to make the climb a
German Conquest
. Before I knew what had happened I had a swastika pinned on me and a glowing career in the SS promised if I applied to join. It all sort of … happened.’

‘So that uniform you are wearing, for example, does it mean
everything
to you or …?’

Erich supposed he should say ‘yes’ but he’d got the feeling that the general wasn’t looking for easy answers. The eyes under the bristling eyebrows were as demanding as ever; he took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, General, I’d feel more
comfortable
in my climbing gear.’

‘Yes. I thought you would. For my part I would more
comfortable
in the grey of the Wehrmacht uniform. My career has been in the regular army, you see, but I didn’t feel the SS should be left just to you young people.’ The general looked at his watch. ‘Time flies. So, what are we going to do about you?’ He looked at Erich quizzically, then appeared to make up his mind.

‘Let me explain. As I understood my orders, I was to have sole responsibility for seeing that works of art of all kinds were acquired, catalogued and stored in safety for the
Führermuseum
. Whether we agree with it or not, the great Jewish collections are going to be forfeit. My mission was to rescue their art so it is not dispersed or destroyed. My main reason for joining the SS was the promise that I would be responsible for this task. Now, however, the Führer has decided to create a new civilian
Art Administration Organisation to do the listing and cataloguing. The SS will have no jurisdiction over this organisation.’

‘Surely there aren’t so many Jews with art collections in Austria, that we need two organisations, sir?’

‘It is not for me to read the Führer’s mind, but I think Germany’s search for living space,
Lebensraum
, is not going to stop with Austria. I think war is inevitable. If this happens, there will be a huge influx of items for the Führermuseum. Whatever occurs, I want to be sure that all these items end up in the museum, and not lining other people’s pockets. I already detect signs of a feeding frenzy developing among our own people. People who have never shown the slightest interest in art are looking to grab what they can for their own private collections, and worse, to sell them for profit to the highest bidder.’ The general’s voice had risen. ‘Now that we are to have two organisations I find myself with responsibility but no control!’ He leaned back, narrowing his eyes. ‘So … I am looking for an agent, someone of integrity to penetrate this new Art Administration Organisation and to report directly to me on all illegal appropriations by anyone, and I mean anyone, from the Führer down. I may not be able to do anything to stop items being taken in the short term, but my ultimate aim is to see that every single item that is acquired ends up in the Führermuseum.’

He leaned forward. ‘I’m used to judging men, Lieutenant, and making decisions. You have the qualifications, and I think you have the integrity. Think before you answer. But it will be marginally better than peeling potatoes in some remote SS barracks!’

Erich was flattered and a little nervous. ‘But … but Captain Winkler’s complaint? And what could I do?’

‘As for Captain Winkler, he will be delighted at having had you thrown out of the SS, at least until he finds that he has
been posted to some obscure outpost in the Black Forest. When it is safe, you will re-emerge as a civilian looking for a job as an expert in the Art Administration Organisation. There you will make yourself a trusted member of staff and use your skills as you know best. You will, however, have one
additional
very secret duty. You will observe and report personally to me on every illegal appropriation and every theft that comes to your attention.’

Erich was thrilled. In the six months since he had driven in triumph into Vienna, he had lost all interest in his uniform and in his duties as an SS officer. The thought of being able to throw all this off and get back to his beloved pictures was like being offered his dearest dream, but there was something that bothered him.

‘Wouldn’t that really be work for the Gestapo to do, sir?’ He shivered; everyone hated and feared the secret police.

‘Yes, it is indeed their work. Because of this it would make a lot of sense for you to join the Gestapo; they will train you, help you with what you need by way of codes and
communications
and will protect you if you are discovered. However, you will still report to me and to no one else. You might end up with two salaries: one from the Gestapo, and one from the Art Administration Organisation!’ Erich realised by now that he had little choice but to accept the general’s offer. Perhaps rumours of the Gestapo were exaggerated. Anyway, as General von Brugen had said, it would be better than peeling potatoes.

Thanks, no doubt to von Brugen, there were no
announcements
or ceremonies. Erich simply handed in his uniform and insignia and walked out of the SS barracks in a civilian suit and made it known in his old art circles that he was in the market
for a job. On the agreed day, a week or two later, he met
General
von Brugen ‘by accident’ in a side chapel in St Stephan’s Dom Cathedral. Here, kneeling side by side, Erich was given and memorised a password that even the Gestapo would know nothing about.

‘By the way, Erich, what is the name of your violinist, the Jew?’

Erich had avoided mentioning this before now. He told the general.

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ was all von Brugen said as he dusted off his knees.

Later that same evening, for the first time since the day he had appropriated it, Erich thought about the portrait that still stood wrapped up in a corner of his room. It hadn’t occurred to him to mention it at his trial or even to the general. Perhaps he was better at keeping secrets than he realised. He would hold on to it for the moment. He could probably use it as an entrée to the Art Administration Organisation when he applied. In the meantime, he thought he would be nice to take it out and see if it was as good as he remembered.

Louise hardly noticed her own gradual drift into timelessness. To begin with she had felt Izaac calling her, as ever, through his music. She would awake feeling tired but stimulated, and would guess that Izaac had been drawing on her to work on some new piece or programme. If, however, she tried to recall what it was, it would fade like a dream. She wasn't aware when the Nazi unwrapped her portrait and began his critical examination of it.

Erich, however, was looking forward to the moment when he would hand the picture over to the Führer museum.
Possibly
it would be hailed as the greatest art discovery of the
century
. But, somehow, there never seemed to be a right moment to reveal it. Also, the more he saw of senior officers of the Reich squabbling over pictures they didn't appreciate or understand, the less inclined he felt to risk it falling into their hands.

Over the next months, as the Nazi race laws became more and more restrictive, Izaac's performing career collapsed, and so did his playing. He felt debased by the yellow Star of David that all Jews were now forced to sew on their clothes. Even to
go out on the streets was taking a risk. Normal life as he knew it ceased.

A year in this limbo had passed when Nathan appeared at the door of Izaac's apartment. His face was contorted with anxiety.

‘Izaac! They arrested Father last night, and came for Mother in a lorry this morning. They said he was a criminal for tuning an Aryan piano. I've been to every office in town and can't find where they have taken him!'

Izaac joined in the frantic search for information until he was threatened with arrest himself. That was how Uncle Rudi went. Just like that. The head of the family gone, probably to a concentration camp! Izaac had to lie to Mother; she relied on Rudi, more even than on Izaac's father. Just to create an atmosphere of normality, he continued to practise, but he no longer had the will to play.

Having lost its leader, The Tuning Fork Quartet was soon to lose its viola player. Nathan and Krystal, together with their two children: Rachel, eleven, and Herbert, nine, were ordered to assemble in the
Juden Platz
. As Izaac walked with them he remembered how Rachel – the baby then – had been with them on their wonderful holiday in Mödling. He took her hand and pointed out the
Drei Mädel Haus
, where Schubert used to come and play to the three sisters who lived there. At the
Freyung
he had to show his papers and was turned back. Nathan promised to try to keep in touch. They would, of course, meet up again later. They were just being evacuated to … that was the trouble; the Nazis never said anything more specific than ‘
The East
'.

Izaac wasn't overly worried about Nathan and his family. The sort of camps they were being sent to were nothing new. Ever since the First World War there had been camps designed to house displaced people. It had been a humanitarian move.
There were rumours circulating that the Nazi camps were pretty rough, but then so were the ghettos that many Jewish people still lived in, even in Vienna. In some ways, Izaac wished he had been evacuated too. The waiting, the
uncertainty
, not being able to play, was wearing him down.

In February 1942 all that ended.

‘This can’t be our train, Otto. These are just cattle trucks. I’m sure you have the wrong platform.’ The high querulous voice ended in a nervous laugh. Izaac looked at the fur-clad lady who had spoken. Didn’t she know that they were using cattle trucks to transport Jews?

He turned away, shifting his position on the platform to take a last longing look through the barrier to where Lotte, grey haired now, was waiting to see him off. ‘I’m like a boy going to school for the first time,’ he thought. They had had to sit
separately
on the tram as it clanged around the Ring to the Apsang station. By now he was resigned to the yellow Star of David on his arm, and having to travel in the
Jews Only
section of the tram.

Restriction had followed restriction, and when the Nazis had finally forbidden Jews to take part in any public performances he had formed a quartet, so that he could keep playing and try, as best he could, to keep the now everyday horrors of the streets from his mind. Madame Helena had always said he would never be a good quartet player, as he would bully the others, but it had worked out fine. She had gone back to Poland after Hitler walked into Austria; he wondered how she was now that Germany had invaded Poland.

He wondered too if he would find Uncle Rudi, or Nathan and his young family at the end of this journey. Perhaps they
had already been resettled in the east. Lotte had seen him and was waving. Dear Lotte, she had promised to look after his parents until they could come and join him. His mother was very fragile now, and Izaac wasn’t sure that she fully understood what was happening any more. It had been an easy task to convince her that they would only be separated for a short time. The SS would surely not transport them, he thought; they were old, they couldn’t work, and couldn’t breed, so what danger were they to the Aryan race? Lotte was signalling to him, drawing his attention to someone beside her; he raised an arm to wave, and then froze, seeing an unmistakable splash of gold. It was Gretchen!

A flood of emotions swept over Izaac. Two years ago Gretchen had married one of Izaac’s dearest friends from the Opera Orchestra, Willie Henning. Izaac had been at their
wedding
. Ever since, as humiliation after humiliation had been piled on Vienna’s Jews, Izaac had breathed sighs of relief that she, at least, was free of all this. He had so nearly proposed to her, and she might well have accepted. What a catastrophe that would have been for her! He visited the couple discreetly and delighted in their happiness. Then a little over a year ago, he had been at the christening of their little boy, Konrad, who Gretchen was now holding aloft so he could wave to ‘Uncle Izaac’; he could see her mouthing the words. It was almost more than he could bear; she shouldn’t be here, it was
dangerous
. He waved, and even as he did so, he saw a man in a trench coat come up to them – Gestapo surely – and turn them away.

‘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 administrative 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
!
’