In the Claws of the Eagle (24 page)

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.

A voice directly behind him said, low and urgently, ‘Don’t believe what you are seeing. Believe none of it! This is a Potemkin village! It is all a sham. There is no First Aid, or even Second Aid. Tomorrow the food will be gone and we will be 
back to soup and rotten vegetables.’

Marti turned. Like most educated Swiss, he spoke German as well as French. He recognised the speaker as the man who had led the orchestra in the opera. He still carried his violin. ‘Every week there are transports out of here to Auschwitz. What are they doing with us there? Work or death, we do not know. That’s where you should be, not here.’

There was a hoarse shout; Marti’s SS minder had seen him. The soldier rushed up and thrust the violinist back so that he staggered and nearly fell. Marti watched, shocked at this unnecessary violence, while the soldier took the violinist’s name and inspected a number that the man had tattooed on his arm. The soldier raised the butt of his rifle threateningly, but saw Marti watching him and lowered his arm.

‘Please, back to your barracks and don’t bother the visitors.’

The following day, back in Geneva, Marti Bochsler asked to speak with his Chef de Mission. He sat on the opposite side of a vast polished desk, and described his encounter with the violinist.

‘What is a Potemkin Village, sir?’ he asked.

‘Mr Bochsler, thank you for your report. You must not forget, our mission was to inspect what in the end turned out to be a well-run concentration camp. There we saw the actual conditions under which those people live. We recorded what we saw, and our mission is now accomplished. Thank you for your comments but I don’t think we need concern ourselves with obscure Russian villages.’

When young Bochsler had gone, his superior tapped his teeth with the top of his pen. What would be the result if their first concentration camp visit came out with an unfavourable report? They would never be invited again. So he closed his 
mind like an oyster around a pearl, which in his case was the letter of the law.

Izaac forgot about the incident. The SS man was not a camp officer; he had been brought in to accompany the visitors. He’d even been polite for once, and was probably on the other side of Czechoslovakia by now. He didn’t even bother to check the next transportation list for his name; it was one of the longest yet but Spare Time Activity members were
normally
exempt. He had a student at nine o’clock and was
hurrying
to the practice room when Pafko appeared.

‘Mr Izaac, sir. Your name is on the transportation list.’ His face crumpled like tissue paper. For a second he looked like a little old man, and then he threw his arms about Izaac’s waist and hugged him like a drowning sailor holding on to a floating spar. Izaac could feel the boy’s shoulders shaking.

It was after that that Pafko took Izaac in charge. He had been talking to men working in the underground factory close to the camp and finding out how they had come to be selected for work, and now passed this information on to Izaac. The day before Izaac’s transport left, Pafko said something that struck Izaac as strange.

‘We’ll miss you both, sir.’

‘Both?’

‘Yes, you and your … spirit girl; the younger ones call her Mr Abraham’s ghost. She appears on the set and plays tag with the little ones. Oh, that’s the curfew. I’d better be off.’

‘What does she look like?’ Izaac called after the fleeing figure. Just before he went out of sight Pafko turned and called out, ‘She wears green.’ 

After a night standing on the moving floor of the cattle truck, the ground seemed to tremble under Izaac’s feet. They stood in the blazing sun, a thousand of them: young and old, men, women and children, shuffling forward slowly in lines twenty across. To their left and right, row after row of black wooden barracks stretched into the distance, merging in the
heat-shimmer
like blobs of lead melting on a hotplate. Nobody spoke much; nobody tried to escape; dogs and guns and a feeling of security in their numbers held them together. Izaac, trying to remain alert, reached into the pocket of his tatty
dungarees
and fished out the last of the sand Pafko had given him to roughen his hands. He ground it onto his palms and up under his nails, before scattering it as a small libation on the ground.

‘Just look at those hands – uncooked sausages – if you’ll
forgive
me, sir,’ he’d said. ‘There’s people in the factory here who’ve been through selections and they all say: “Tell them you’re a worker,” that’s what they want. It’s good that you don’t wear glasses and haven’t red hair, cos they can’t stand them neither.’

Izaac had gone along with Pafko’s instructions just to please him; now as he approached the front of the queue he was grateful. Parting with his violin had been a terrible wrench, but he had given it a good home with his best pupil in Terezín; it at least would play on. He squared his shoulders and walked briskly up to the selection officer, who looked him up and down. Izaac’s stomach muscles tightened; the man’s eyes, cold as a snake’s, had stopped at the red weal under Izaac’s chin, a callus from a lifetime of cradling a violin; it was a dead
giveaway
. Izaac swore inwardly.

‘Where did you get that?’ the man demanded.

Think, Izaac. Think
. ‘Carrying boards, sir!’ he growled.

The officer flicked his thumb to the left and Izaac was sent 
off towards the barracks building. He saw the women and the children, the old, and, presumably, those with glasses and red hair, filing off towards a clump of young trees in the distance. They looked strangely pastoral, like families setting off for a picnic in the park on a Sunday. He wondered where they were being sent.

It was the hairdresser, or rather people-shearer, who spotted the weal under Izaac’s chin and knew that it hadn’t come from carrying boards. He was either new to the concentration camp system, or, at a guess, from Terezín where they weren’t shaved.

‘You’re a violinist!’ she hissed as Izaac’s hair fell from his head in chunks. Izaac nodded carefully between snips. ‘Me too. I’m Deborah, by the way.’ Snip … snip … the scissors were clipping air now, playing for time. ‘What’s your name?’ Izaac responded. ‘Abrahams! Of course I’ve heard of you. There are six orchestras here. Ours needs a new leader.’ Snip … ‘I’ll tell our conductor.’

‘But I’ve left my violin in Terezín!’ Izaac exclaimed.

‘Shhh. Don’t look as if you’re talking. Just listen. We have more violins than violinists. The important thing is not to lose you. Once you leave reception you’re in the machine,
consigned
to God knows what, and finding you will be the
problem
.’ There was a bellow from across the room. ‘That’s for me to stop talking.’ Snip, snip, snip. The last of Izaac’s hair fell in a flurry. ‘Go quickly, we’ll find you … somehow.’

The raucous screech of the klaxon horn rang through the Jeu de Paume. Erich looked up, one, two, three blasts. Not a fire … almost worse, Reichsmarschall Herman Göring’s private train had arrived, unannounced as usual, at the Gare de l’Est. The fat man was coming!

There were shouts now from every corner of the building. Erich dashed to his room, struggled into a suit, and ran for the door. Downstairs in one of the main galleries were all the
pictures
that might be of interest to Germany’s most senior officer. The experts, of whom Erich was one, would have to be there ready to answer his questions. Göring’s lackeys in the Jeu de Paume would guide him skilfully to the pick of the collection and suggest ridiculously low prices for the pictures, which he would then whisk off in his private train to Karinhall, his palace in Germany. While Göring swore that every picture he selected for his private collection was paid for, everyone knew that no money ever actually passed hands. The only person outside the Jeu de Paume who knew precisely what was going on was General von Brugen, and that was because Erich’s coded messages got to him almost as quickly as the pictures got to Karinhall.

The shouting and running stopped; a sudden hush fell on the
Jeu de Paume. The great man was down in the gallery making his selection.

The door of Erich’s room opened and Elaine Colville slipped in. She had her duster with her but she didn’t use it. She went to Erich’s desk as a matter of routine to check what might be there. A clerk had just placed an order on his desk authorising him to go to the Gare de l’Est to supervise the
loading
of pictures into the Reichsmarschall’s private train. She looked up, and noticed that the cord on Hitler’s portrait was twisted. The cord was a dead giveaway so she got up and turned the picture half about. At that moment, there was a round of applause from below.

‘The pigs!’ she said under her breath. Then to Louise: ‘Do you know what the other “Special Train” in the Gare de l’Est is today?’ She prodded the order on Erich’s desk. ‘Cattle trucks crammed with Jews: men women and children being sent to concentration camps in the east. It is hidden away on platform 14. The locals can smell it! God help the poor creatures! The pigs down below know what’s going on, but they don’t care. I wonder if our Erich knows?’

‘No. I’m sure he doesn’t.’ Louise exclaimed. Elaine leapt back from where Louise had appeared close beside her.

‘Mon Dieu
!’

Louise wasted no time on introductions. ‘But he
should
know. I want him to know!’

Elaine was recovering from her shock. ‘Wha…what do you want me to do?’ she stammered.

‘Couldn’t you show him, somehow … take him there?’

‘Take him to the train? No, no … it would be suicide. But, maybe …’ She picked up the order from Erich’s desk. Then she smiled. ‘So, Göring’s train is at Platform 1; that’s handy.’ She sat down at the table, picked up Erich’s fountain pen and unscrewed the top. Then, her hand shaking slightly, she 
simply added the number 4 to the platform number. She returned the pen and wiped away the sweaty marks of her
fingers
with her duster.

‘It’s a slim chance,’ she said. ‘But we have to take it.’

Erich arrived at the Gare de l’Est early. The lorries would not be here for a quarter of an hour. He went, as usual, to Platform 1. To his surprise, the guard pointed out that his pass was made out for Platform 14. Security was tight when the Reichsmarschall’s train was in. He hurried across the station. When he arrived at Platform 14, however, a soldier on guard there tried to turn him back.

‘This is a special train sir, not for the likes of you!’

‘I know a special train when I see one, that’s why I am here,’ Erich snapped crossly, and showed the guard a piece of paper with enough swastikas on it to impress his simple mind. The man shrugged and let him pass. The train had not pulled right in. As he walked towards it, it looked unlike anything the Reichsmarschall would ever use. These were cattle trucks surely.

And there was an appalling smell. He looked up as he reached the first of the trucks and there, to his astonishment, were eyes, dozens of eyes, looking over the top of the door. People were looking out at him. As they became aware of him they started to call out, asking for water, for food. Who were these people? Prisoners of war? He walked down the train in a daze, unwilling to pluck up the courage to ask. Then he saw a slip of paper being pushed through a crack towards him. He glanced left and right to see if he was being watched, but if there were any guards they were out of sight. He took the paper. A voice spoke from the cattle truck. Could he post this note? The voice was French. 

‘But who are you, where are you from?’ Erich asked.

‘We are Jews, of course. I am from Lille; my wife is not Jewish so they did not take her. She doesn’t know where I am. I want her to know I am well. I’ve been in Drancy, the Paris concentration camp, for three months. Now they are closing it and taking us east. I heard the guards talking; we are waiting for some special train to leave. You’re German, do you know what they will do with us?’

‘No … no,’ said Erich hurriedly. ‘But I will post your letter.’ He blundered on down the train, his mouth too dry to speak, a growing sheaf of letters, cards and notes in his hands. Some were in envelopes, obviously prepared in advance. Others were hurried notes clearly scribbled on any scrap of paper they could find. Some people wanted him to listen to their
stories
; he didn’t want to know. So this was a ‘transport’. Terms like ‘final solution’ and ‘sub-human’ were exploding in his mind, drowning out the pleas behind the slips of paper that wriggled for attention in the cracks. He went on taking them until he heard shouts from behind him.

Soldiers were running towards him; one of them dropped to one knee and levelled his rifle at him; a guard dog was hauling its owner by its leash. Erich stood there with the notes plainly visible in his hands. The guards would certainly take them from him, but he had crossed his Rubicon: he had said he would post them, and he would. He opened his shirt and stuffed the sheaf of papers inside.

He saw railings in the middle of the platform, and steps leading down. Perhaps he could get out that way. He lunged forward, and half fell, half ran down the steps. A shot rang out. A bullet pinged off the railings above him. Metal gates blocked his way at the bottom. He seized them and shook, but they were locked fast. Then he noticed a bunch of keys hanging in the lock on the outside. He reached through, the key turned 
and the gate swung open. He had just time to close the gate, lock it, and pocket the keys before the soldiers arrived at the top of the steps. As he stepped out of the line of fire he saw that there was a tunnel at right angles to the steps, obviously connecting all the platforms. It was dead straight but as long as the gate held, it was out of sight of the soldiers.

He was sure now that the 14 on his order had been a
mistake
. Göring’s special train would be at Platform 1 at the far end of this tunnel. If he could reach it, there were plenty of people who would vouch for him. He sprinted the width of the station until he reached the gate to Platform 1. He rattled the gate, it was locked. The keys, the keys – what had he done with the keys? He felt in his pocket; thank God, they were there. The lock was stiff, but the key turned. He slipped through the gate, relocked it, and was standing out of sight in the well before he heard the sound of running behind him. Walking up onto the platform as casually as he could, he found himself beside the Reichsmarschall’s gleaming
locomotive
, hissing loudly enough to drown a whole battle below.

Erich and Louise sat late over the scraps of paper that he had collected from the transport. Some were in addressed
envelopes
, but many had been written in haste on scraps of paper, or card, whatever was to hand. They had to read these in order to find and transcribe the address. One brave little note after another: ‘I am well … We are well looked after… The train is quite comfortable … Don’t worry … We expect great things in the east … Little Marie, alas, has left us …’ Sometimes they couldn’t find an address, or even a name. Wherever they found an address, no matter how brief, Erich wrote out an envelope. In the end he lowered his head on to his arms.

‘Oh Louise, the inhumanity, the cruelty; how can we be doing this to human beings? What can I do, Louise? What can I do?’ His shoulders were shaking.

Elaine got no reply to her knock the following morning and let herself into Erich’s room with her master key. She found him lying face down at his desk.

‘Erich,
mon chou
!’ She hurried forward anxiously. Was he breathing? Then she smiled in relief as she saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She tiptoed forward. Envelopes were
scattered
over his desk. She glanced at them, puzzled; they all bore addresses in France. Then she noticed that his arm was resting on a number of handwritten scraps. Careful not to wake him, she eased one out from under his arm and read it. So this was what he had been doing. She put back the note, her eyes pricking with tears. She bent low and whispered, ‘
Merci
, Erich,’ as she tiptoed away.