Chord of Evil

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Jacob, smiling.

  Christa hoped she was not blushing. She said, ‘Um, well, all right, if you really want to.’

  If it had not been for the gnawing anxiety about Stefan, and the perpetually locked gates in the high old wall, life inside the Torhaus might almost have been friendly.

  Occasionally, late at night, Christa stole downstairs to curl up on the small chair immediately outside Father’s room, and listen to him playing the music by the unknown composer. It felt like a link to Mother because of the ghost note. The music itself was lovely, it was strong and stirring and rich, even played on the tinny old piano in this sad, dark house. It was music to keep in your mind to give you strength if bad things happened to you.

  Jacob sometimes brought pieces of jewellery for Christa to see, or asked her to help him with some small process in his little workshop. This she found very interesting. Christa wanted to ask Jacob why he was here – whether he had been in danger from the Nazis – but she did not want to appear to be prying, particularly when he was so friendly and nice. They talked about his uncle, dear flamboyant Herr Eisler, who had played at so many of Father’s concerts. Jacob said his uncle had been a marvellous influence in his life.

  The writer was not friendly towards anyone. He did not always appear at meals, and he was abrupt with everyone and sometimes called Elsa Frank shocking names. The painter told Christa writers were often bad-tempered, and not to take any notice. He arranged for Christa to go up to his studio at the top of the house for an hour each morning. Christa was pleased, because it filled up some of the day, although she sometimes got cramp from keeping still in one position for so long.

  But then came the day when everything changed.

  Christa had gone up to the painter’s studio at their usual time. As she went up the stairs, he came into the hall below and called up to her to go along to his room; he would be there in a minute, and they would continue with the sketch he had started yesterday.

  Climbing the stairs to the studio, Christa was feeling almost happy. Yesterday Brax had come to the Torhaus – Elsa Frank had flown into a flurry of cooking and house-cleaning because of it. Ben, the writer, said it was revolting to see such slavish adoration; the woman might as well put down a prayer mat and make obeisance and he would not come in to the communal supper that evening.

  Brax had brought Father and Christa a letter from Velda, which included a carefully written note from Stefan, telling about things at school, and sending lots of love. He sounded happy and normal, and it had been a huge relief to read it. Velda’s letter contained no news about the SS finding Reinhardt’s body or of any enquiry being made in the town about his murder, and, as Father said, Velda was the most gossipy person you could meet, and she would certainly have written about that. We’re going to be safe, thought Christa. Father’s transcribing that music for Brax, and Brax will think it’s Father’s own work and be pleased, and everything will be all right. And soon we’ll be able to go home.

  The painter’s room was littered with easels and canvases, and painting things were strewn around, but Christa liked the feeling of stepping into a slightly bohemian world. Here was the makeshift dais he had set up, with the draped velvet curtain which was the backdrop he was using for her portrait. The velvet was rubbed and old, but the painter would make it look good. It had slipped down, though, and it would save time if Christa could get it back in place. She reached for the edges and lifted it to pin it back on to the wall. There was a small cabinet pushed into the corner, which the velvet had hidden, and which she had not realized was there. Probably it held brushes and palette knives and things.

  Christa had certainly not intended to look at the drawer’s contents, but the top drawer was open, and in reaching up with the velvet, she could not help seeing the scatter of what looked like postcards in the drawer. It seemed vaguely odd that the painter should have postcards sent to him here.

  There were six altogether, and they were larger than normal postcards. The colours were vivid – almost crude – and the images were dreadfully clear.

  The first was obviously meant to portray a British soldier – the khaki uniform was unmistakable. He was lying on a bed with a female who was as near naked as made no difference, apart from a fold of the sheet here and there.

  The caption across the top, said: ‘Is this what your husband is doing while you think he is fighting a war …?’

  The next postcard showed a semi-nude, fair-haired female, lying seductively on a bed. She was wearing a British Army helmet, and looking into a full-length mirror. But the image that looked out of the mirror was different – it was of a dark-haired female, with the yellow Star of David across her front. And again, a besotted-looking British officer – this time in an RAF uniform – was kneeling at the foot of the bed. The caption was much the same as the first: ‘Your husband, your sweetheart, your brother, tell you they are fighting for your country – but this is what they are really doing …’

  They were sickening in a number of ways, but the terrible thing was that in every single one, the face of the female posing so alluringly was Christa herself.

  Christa gave a deep sob, and ran blindly out of the room and down the stairs. Arms grabbed her and held her, and Jacob Eisler said, ‘Christa, my poor love, what on earth’s happened?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘I thought you knew,’ said Jacob, facing Christa and her father in his small cluttered workshop. ‘I thought you both understood.’

  Father’s face was white and he was holding Christa’s hand very tightly, as if he feared she might slip from him if he did not cling to her.

  He said, ‘We were told – we were promised – that we were being saved from the Nazis. Hidden from them. I was suspected of – a particular crime against the SS. Brax wanted to get me away from them.’

  Jacob said, in a voice of extreme reluctance, ‘Felix, you’re not being kept from the Nazis. You’re being kept for them. Everyone here is. We’re all working for them.’ He made a gesture with his hands that reminded Christa painfully of his uncle, who used to make almost exactly that same gesture when audiences applauded him.

  ‘I’m here because they found that I was still making Jewish jewellery, despite all the bans,’ said Jacob. ‘Menorah candleholders for Hanukkah. Silver rings with Jewish emblems – lockets and pendants with the chai.’

  Father nodded, understanding.

  ‘They told me I could either work for them, or be thrown into somewhere like Sachsenhausen or Auschwitz. And it wouldn’t just be me they’d imprison – they said they’d take my uncle and that when they had finished with him, he would never be able to play a piano again.’ Again the characteristic gesture. ‘Some people would say I’m a coward,’ said Jacob, ‘a traitor. But I will admit to you both that I would rather do this and try to find a way to outwit Brax and his people, than be half starved and probably eventually gassed and burned. And,’ he said, in a voice that was suddenly blurred with pain, ‘told they have cut off my uncle’s fingers, one by one.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, my poor boy, yes of course, I understand,’ said Father, reaching out to pat Jacob’s shoulder a bit awkwardly. ‘You couldn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done it, either. So you work for them here?’

  ‘Mostly making death’s head rings for Reichsführer Himmler,’ said Jacob, and the earlier pain in his voice had given way to such bitter hatred that Christa was startled, because Jacob had been so gentle and even shy until now.

  ‘And a silver bracelet for me,’ put in Christa, and he smiled at her.

  ‘And the others?’ said Father. ‘Daniel and Ben?’

  Jacob hesitated, then got up and went to the door, opening it slightly to listen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I thought I heard a footstep, and Brax is here today, and he prowls around like a cat. There’s no one out there, though.’ But when he spoke again, he lowered his voice. ‘The others have similar tales. Ben is writing news items for the Brit
ish and their allies, telling how victorious the German armies are. Quite a lot of the stuff he writes is used for wireless broadcasts – they’re broadcast into England. They call the programmes Germany Calling, and they’re sneering and dreadful. The English absolutely hate them. And what they say is all lies, of course, but Brax’s people have got Ben’s wife in Sachsenhausen, and if he doesn’t write what they want and make it sound authentic, they promise they’ll kill her. That’s why Ben’s so furious with everyone all the time. He daren’t disobey Brax, though. And it’s agony for him to see Sachsenhausen from his window and know his wife’s so near.’

  ‘And the postcards of Christa?’ said Father. ‘How would they be used?’

  ‘They’ll be meant for propaganda of a different kind. The Luftwaffe drop batches of them over England – or their spies over there leave them in public places. There are several kinds – not just the ones Christa found. They’re meant to demoralize the English. To dent their fighting spirit.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ said Father, furiously. ‘That kind of thing wouldn’t dent anyone’s fighting spirit.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, I believe the English make jokes of them – they use them as dartboards in pubs. There’s even one story of how a British air marshal – Sir Arthur Harris, I think is his name – said the only thing the propaganda leaflets achieved was helping the supplies of lavatory paper for the troops.’ He gave his sudden shy smile. ‘Forgive me for such a coarse reference.’

  ‘You can be as coarse as you want,’ said Father, with force. ‘It’s all those things are fit for. They’re sick and twisted.’

  ‘Of course they are. But Daniel is a widower – his wife died when their son was born. If Dan doesn’t create the posters and the leaflets they want, the Gestapo will take his son to one of the camps.’

  ‘That’s dreadful.’ Christa’s mind went at once to Stefan.

  ‘Yes, it is. Dan’s a very fine artist, though, and they want him to start making copies of some famous art treasures as well. He’ll try to resist, but he won’t resist very hard because of his little boy,’ said Jacob. ‘As for you two, I suspect you were a double prize for Brax. He wanted a model for the propaganda illustrations and Christa was exactly right. Also, he wants music for the Führer’s armies – something that can accompany the occupation of the next country, I think. And most likely Britain.’

  ‘Is that what I’m meant to be composing?’ said Father, horror in his voice. ‘Music to celebrate the vanquishing of Britain?’

  ‘Yes. You didn’t know?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ said Father, angrily.

  ‘Brax could get the music from any one of a dozen approved German musicians, but the thought of forcing it from a Jew pleases him,’ said Jacob. ‘I think the concept was originally someone else’s idea, but Brax has picked it up, and he’ll take any credit for it that he can. Felix, can I ask – does Brax have some sort of hold over you? Don’t answer if you’d rather not, but you mentioned a crime against the SS …’

  Christa looked at Father, and there was a moment when she thought they both wondered how far to trust Jacob. But at once came the instinctive knowledge that they could trust him completely.

  Father said, slowly, ‘He does have a hold over me – and over Christa. There was a brutal killing – the death of a senior SS man. It looked as if I could have done it – or even as if Christa could. I would certainly have had a motive.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ said Jacob. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask. Don’t answer. I don’t care if you did kill him, whoever he was. I’m glad if you did, in fact.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Father. ‘Neither did Christa. But it was made to look as if either of us could have done so.’

  ‘Brax would almost certainly have killed him,’ said Jacob. ‘Or had him killed. But he would have set the stage so that you were – what do they call it? – the prime suspect. Then he’d offer his help, and you’d be so grateful you wouldn’t question things too closely.’

  ‘Jacob – my own small son is still in Lindschoen. You don’t think—’

  ‘No.’ It came out swiftly and with such reassurance that Father relaxed. ‘Your boy will be safe,’ said Jacob. ‘That murder is Brax’s hold on you. He likes to employ different tactics – he’s used that one once with Daniel, and he’s holding Ben’s wife. With you he wanted a different method. It’s part of his subtle brutality that he likes variation with his cruelty.’

  ‘It’s a vicious kind of cruelty,’ said Father.

  ‘He’s a maestro at cruelty.’

  It was two nights later that Christa heard the music change. Most of it was still the same, but something had been added. Something that was like a jagged piece of glass tearing through the cadences. Ugly and harsh.

  ‘You’ve added something to the music,’ she said to him, the following day.

  ‘You heard it?’ Father sounded startled.

  ‘Sometimes I come downstairs when everyone’s asleep. I like listening. I’m right, aren’t I? There is something different?’

  For a moment something mischievous – something very nearly malicious – showed in Father’s eyes. Then he said, ‘It’s a small touch of my own. Didn’t you recognize it? It’s a tritone.’

  A tritone. Christa thought: yes, of course that’s what it is. It’s the diabolus in musica. The chord once regarded by the Church as the sound of the devil. She said, ‘But why would you add something like that?’

  ‘So that no matter how the music is used, anyone hearing it – anyone who understands about music – will know what its composer really thought about the Nazis,’ he said. ‘Which is that they’re devils, one and all. Harsh and cruel and warped.’ He frowned. ‘The music is wonderful,’ he said in a gentler voice. ‘Whoever composed it, was very gifted indeed. It’s a bad thing I’m doing in distorting it like this. But it’s something I believe has to be done.’ He smiled at her. ‘I doubt the Nazis will know what I’ve done. I doubt they’ll recognize the chord for what it is, and even if they do, I’m not sure I care any longer.’

  Sleep was impossible. Christa lay awake, worrying that even though Brax might never have heard of the chord of evil, he would certainly know that something ugly and jarring was at the music’s core. Tomorrow I’ll beg Father to remove the devil’s chord, she thought.

  She was just slipping into an uneasy sleep at last, when she heard footsteps downstairs, and the sound of a door opening. It sounded as if it was at the back of the house. Father’s room? Christa sat up, listening, then slid out of bed, and stole down the stairs to the big hall at the house’s centre, and along the narrow passage that led to the back of the house.

  Light showed around the door, and she heard her father say: ‘The truth is, you’re a vicious, cold-blooded killer, and a manipulator of everyone you meet. You’ve used me, and you’ve used my daughter, and in the most repulsive, disgusting way. I’ve only just found out.’

  ‘Ah. That,’ said Brax, ‘is unfortunate.’

  ‘I won’t write another note for you. I won’t write a victory march for Hitler’s armies.’

  ‘A great pity,’ said Brax, and his voice rapped out an order. Two men, both in the dark sharp uniform of the Gestapo, crossed the hall. Christa heard her father cry out, and then the sound of steel snapping. Restraints? Please don’t let it be the sound of rifles being primed. She dug her fingernails into her palms.

  Then Father’s voice came again, still defiant. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To Sachsenhausen. It was where you were destined to end, anyway. Once we had the Siegreich you would have become expendable. You had started to write something – you told me it was evolving well. Where is it?’

  ‘Destroyed. Burned in that very hearth. You can sift through the ashes if you like, but you won’t find more than a few charred fragments,’ said Father.

  ‘Burned,’ said Brax, half to himself, then let out an oath. ‘I had such hopes – we all had such hopes – of presenting victo
ry music to the Führer. Well, you will have time to reflect on that in Sachsenhausen.’

  ‘What will happen to Christa?’ There was a note of sudden fear in Father’s voice.

  ‘I haven’t finished with Christa yet,’ said Brax, and then, with a harsh authority that Christa had not heard him use before, he said to the two officers, ‘The girl’s in the top bedroom. Lock the door. I shan’t have time to deal with her until tomorrow. But the waiting will put an edge on my appetite.’ Then, as if in an afterthought, he said, ‘Post several of the guards outside in case any of the others tries to escape.’

  If Christa could have got down the stairs and out into the garden and somehow hidden there, she would have done so, but there was no chance. The Gestapo man was already on the stairs, and before she could do anything, there was the sound of the lock turning. She darted to the door, and banged on it, yelling to be let out, but there was only the sound of his steps going away again.

  She sat down on the bed, feeling more helpless and more alone than she had ever felt in her entire life, then went to the window to kneel on the window-seat, in case she could get one last glance of Father. She could not, of course; the window overlooked the back of the house. She could see the smudge that was Sachsenhausen, though. Within the next hour, Father would be in there. He had told Brax that he had burned the Siegreich, but Christa knew he had not. She knew he would never have done that, because he believed Mother was somehow linked to the music.

  There was a small fragment of comfort in knowing that Jacob and the other two were in the house. Between them, couldn’t they make some escape effort? But when Christa leaned right over the window, she saw the Gestapo below, and she remembered that Brax had told them to mount guard.

  There was nothing to be done but wait until tomorrow when Brax came to do what he had called ‘deal with her’.

  The hours of that day were impossibly long. Elsa Frank brought Christa a mug of coffee and Brötchen, and she and the scullery girl took Christa along to the bathroom.