The Devil's Piper

by Sarah Rayne

  The music went up and up: he began the toccata, the series of rising arpeggios, feeling them build, feeling the fearful anticipation spilling out . . . The Piper approaching . . .

  Into the music, sinisterly in time with the rhythmic staccato chords that were the Piper’s prowling footsteps, came a sound so alien but so intrusive that it scratched at Jude’s mind and broke into the chimerical world that he had been spinning. He frowned and went on playing, but the spell was splintering and the magic was lost.

  A subtle change had come over the long, bare room and Jude, his hands weaving the music but his mind no longer inside its bewitchment, looked towards the inadequately curtained window facing him.

  Filing through the grounds of the camp in terrible procession was a shivering, straggling line of humanity – several hundred prisoners at least – being driven forward by heavily armed, black-clad guards. Each prisoner wore the thinnest of rags, each head was bowed, all eyes were bereft of light and hope. Most of the prisoners wore the yellow Star of David, not defiantly or proudly, but in numb obedience to the Gestapo’s ruling and although some were crying in a miserable beaten way, most of them moved in silence. As Jude lifted his hands from the keys, the sound of the shuffling shambling footsteps and the helpless sobbing swelled and ebbed on the air, like ritualistic keening. It mingled unexpectedly with low sullen murmurs from the angry-eyed men and young women, and Jude caught the words ‘murderers’ and ‘butchery’ before the guards advanced on the prisoners, raising their rifles threateningly. The prisoners cringed and fell silent, but although there was terror in their faces, there was still hard bitter hatred as well. At the front of the hall, Vogel and the officers had risen to their feet and as Jude took an uncertain step forward, Vogel bounded on to the platform, shouting to him to go on playing. His thin face was blazing with emotion, and his voice sliced through the charged atmosphere, escalating with exultant madness.

  ‘Go on!’ he cried. ‘This is what we brought you here for! Play them to their deaths! Cow the subhuman things! Quench the rebels!’ He looked down to the floor of the hut, where the prisoners were being herded through the door and a terrible gloating lust showed in his face.

  The doors at the back had been dragged open, and Jude could see the tracks made by the black railway sleepers more clearly. The low brick buildings were perhaps half a kilometre distant, and the shambling shuffling line of prisoners was still going forward. Dreadful understanding assaulted his mind like a blow then, because he had heard the whispers and the rumours, although he had discounted them, because no one surely would commit such a huge act of savagery—

  But the rumours were true. This was Hitler’s solution to what he regarded as the scourge of Europe. Genocide. The murder of a people. The low buildings were gas chambers and adjoining them were crematoria. He was witnessing the annihilation of Jewry; it was happening while he stood here. And this was why Vogel had wanted the music. To drown the cries of the dying prisoners. Perhaps even to subdue the ones who are next. Yes, of course, to subdue the rebels.

  Because the music has the charm to call up spirits, and to soothe pain with sound and agony with air . . . To lead lambs to the slaughter and Jews to the flames . . . My own people, he thought, the immense horror of it breaking against his emotions. My own people and I have helped them to die.

  In here were the dissidents; the difficult ones he was supposed to soothe. Perhaps they were even the nucleus of some kind of underground resistance movement that Burkhardt and Vogel had uncovered.

  At his side, Burkhardt, his voice thick with relish, said, ‘Now you see how we deal with the problem of Jewry, Herr Weissman. Gassing and immediately afterwards incineration. Quick and easy and clean.’

  ‘And now,’ said Karl, his eyes as cold and as hard as agates, ‘now, Herr Weissman, play on. Subdue them! This is what we are paying you for! Use the music!’

  Jude, his mind spiralling from disgust to repulsion and then back again, looked across at the guards, weighing his chance of rushing the SS men and somehow leading the prisoners out. Would they respond? Would they follow him if he created a diversion? But he knew at once that it would be useless. There had been that spark of rebellion in their faces, but they were plainly half-starving and exhausted, and at the smallest sign of real mutiny the guards would gun them down without compunction and within seconds.

  There was absolutely nothing to do but resume his seat and continue to play the music and try to drown the despairing sobbing and the piteous pleas of the doomed prisoners and the shuffling of their feet as they were crammed by the hundred into the gas chambers.

  As the music spun to its final soaring notes, from beyond the hall, came the deep echoing sound of the gas chamber doors closing.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Ahasuerus was no longer tapping against the door of the grisly oven, but Kate knew he had not gone away. She could feel him standing on the other side of the door: within a few feet of where she was crouched. He’s working out how to open the oven, she thought in horror, and shrank back against the far wall, hugging her knees to her chest.

  The bolts had halted Ahasuerus in his tracks. Kate had no idea if this was because he was unfamiliar with bolts or because he was physically unable to move them, and she shuddered, remembering the mutilated hands. The Devil’s Piper might not be able to grasp the thick, awkward bolts in the way she had been able to grasp them, but he probably had sufficient strength to simply force them back and then pull the door wide. If he did that, was there any way she could hold the door shut from this side?

  She crawled forward again, scarcely noticing the crunched-up spun-glass bones on the oven floor this time, and ran the palms of her hands over the flat, pitted surface of the door. At once Ahasuerus moved closer. Had he heard her? But he knew she was in here anyway. There was the sound of harsh ragged breathing – he’s bending down, thought Kate, still pressing against the door, feeling for some kind of handle. He’s peering at the unknown mechanism that’s cheating him of his prey. He’s sniffing at the edges of the door – I can feel that he is! If I had a weapon I could defend myself. Wild ideas of snatching up the poor, crumbling bones and using them as clubs if Ahasuerus opened the door coursed through her mind, only to be discarded. The bones in here were half a century old and they were as fragile as porcelain. But what about a shoe? Could she deal a good enough blow with the heel of her boot? She dragged one off, running her hand over it to convey its outline to her mind in the dark. Black suede, with high heels – she remembered putting them on to go to Conrad Vogel’s office about a thousand years ago. They were not at all practical footwear to have on if you were trapped inside a Nazi incinerator with an undead corpse trying to get at you, but the heels were high and they were tipped with tiny steel caps. As makeshift weapons they were not at all bad. Who said vanity never paid?

  It would make a terrific story if she got out. When she got out. There I was, she would say; trapped in an ancient crematorium oven with a corpse trying to get at me, and I escaped by hitting the creature over the head with the heel of a Gucci boot! It ruined the suede but it did the trick. For a brief, wild moment she could visualise herself at a dinner party – one of the kind she and Richard used to give and attend – burlesquing the tale, making everyone laugh. Trust Kate, they would say, grinning. Vanity of vanities to the end.

  She took a firmer grip on the boot, and as she did so, the scream of tortured metal sliced shockingly into the thick stifling darkness. Kate shot back to her dark corner at once and crouched there, shivering and terrified, but still clutching the spike-heeled boot. One good blow to the temple—There was the really sickening noise of thick claws scraping against steel and every nerve in Kate’s body flinched. She fixed her eyes on the thin smear of light that was the only indication of the door’s whereabouts, and waited.

  Inch by tortuous inch, the rim of light was widening; not normally and gradually as if the door was opening as it was intended to open, but jerkily and painfully. I was right! He�
�s tearing the door away from its hinges! She could hear the snuffling, painful breathing much more loudly now, and waves of sick revulsion washed over her.

  Light spilled in from the outer room: dim pale light, and there, framed against it, was the cowled head and shoulders of Ahasuerus. He stood for a moment, looking in at her, and Kate caught the glint of his eyes through the mask. She set her teeth and took a firmer grasp on the boot. One good blow to the temple, remember, Kate?

  From the dark tunnels beyond the crematorium, came the sound of the outside door slamming, reverberating through the crematorium and the gas chamber dully. Ahasuerus froze, and half turned his head so that the hood fell back a little. Kate, her mind caught between fear and hope, saw that even with the thin clinging mask, his face in profile was extraordinarily clear. The thought that this had once been an extremely attractive creature brushed her mind and then vanished as she caught another sound. Footsteps. Someone was coming along the tunnel towards them.

  Whoever it was, it was certainly not Vogel. The footsteps were too uncertain for that. And Vogel had said he would leave her in here with Ahasuerus all night. Time had ceased to be measurable or even noticeable in here and her watch had stopped, but Kate thought it had been early morning when Vogel came in, and that only a couple of hours had elapsed.

  Whoever had entered the chamber was approaching. Kate could hear the footsteps more clearly now, but Ahasuerus was still barring the path to the door, and she stayed where she was, straining every sense to hear, still ready to strike out if Ahasuerus reached for her. But Ahasuerus had moved away, and he was standing with his back to her, facing the door leading to the gas chamber beyond. Dare she creep forward and strike that blow now? But it would mean crawling awkwardly to the edge of the ovens, which she could certainly not do silently. And she had absolutely no idea who the footsteps might belong to.

  And then a tall, dark-clad figure appeared in the half-open door, and Ciaran’s voice said, ‘Kate?’ and the hooded, cloaked figure of the Devil’s Piper flinched and half fell back. The sound of Ahasuerus’s anguished breathing filled the chamber, and with it, a dreadful, imploring sobbing. Kate, her skin prickling with compassion and revulsion, her mind tumbling in disbelief, crawled cautiously to the edge and saw that Ahasuerus was backing away from Ciaran – what in God’s name was Ciaran doing here? – and that he had thrown up his hands – oh dear heaven, the terrible claw-hands! – as if fearful of a blow.

  Ciaran said in a curiously gentle voice, ‘Ahasuerus – you must know I mean you no harm—’ and stopped as Ahasuerus turned his head mutely from side to side, like a trapped animal. Ciaran advanced, and Ahasuerus moved instantly to the door, the awkward, deformed gait piteously obvious. There was a half-strangled cry, and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing limpingly in the outer room and then in the tunnel. Going away from them.

  Kate fell through the opening into Ciaran’s arms.

  They were seated on the brick floor of the crematorium, their backs against the wall facing the ovens. Kate thought she had not really fainted – fainting was what dieaway Victorian heroines did for goodness’ sake – but she felt a bit odd, as if it might be better not to stand up yet. Ciaran’s arm was around her and he felt warm and safe and masculine.

  Kate said a bit fuzzily, ‘You aren’t a mirage?’

  ‘Far from it, dear girl.’

  ‘And – you do know where we are?’

  ‘Certainly I know. In general, we’re just outside Eisenach Castle, and more specifically we’re in a disused death chamber.’ There was the glint of a smile. ‘And yes, you did faint, but you were only out for a few minutes. And no, I don’t know where Vogel is, and I don’t care at the moment. Ahasuerus is somewhere out there, but between us we’ll think of a way to deal with Ahasuerus, Kate.’

  Kate was still light-headed, but she stared up at him and thought: yes, that’s how he talked, that’s the soft, silver-tongued Irishness I’ve been remembering.

  ‘What you are doing here?’

  There was the smallest pause, and then Ciaran said, ‘I followed Vogel.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get you back.’ His arms tightened about her. His thigh was six inches away from hers. Kate’s heart began to race. ‘Although,’ said Ciaran, ‘I’d have to say it was to get Ahasuerus as well.’

  ‘I never really deceived you, did I?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Ciaran, his eyes on her. ‘Oh yes, my girl, you deceived me all right. It wasn’t until you’d gone that I put the pieces together.’

  ‘He recognised you, didn’t he? Ahasuerus, I mean. Just now?’ It had been rather terrible to see Ahasuerus cowering like that. Kate hoped it was not going to be the one thing she would remember if they got out of all this alive. When they got out of all this alive.

  Ciaran said, ‘Yes, he recognised me. He recognised what I represented.’ He looked down at her. ‘Re-interment.’ he said. ‘He knows it’s the vow we all take, and he knows because he’s come up against it more than once.’ He paused, and then said, half to himself, ‘And the poor tormented thing will fight like a wild creature to avoid that.’

  ‘How dreadful.’ Kate could not tear her eyes away from him. Even in the uncertain light his eyes were cool and grey and clear. Eyes you could drown in. And that glossy beard, not quite red, but the colour of autumn leaves. It emphasises the lines of his face. Puckish. Satyr-like.

  ‘You gave me a terrible fright when you passed out,’ said Ciaran softly. ‘Are you really all right, Kate?’ His voice was like a caress. It was indecent the way the Irish could slide into that sexy purr.

  ‘I think I’m all right. I think I’m fine,’ said Kate, by no means sure that she was. ‘I’m a bit cold,’ she said suddenly, and he pulled her closer,

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ought we to see if Ahasuerus has gone?’

  ‘Yes, we ought. We ought to be thinking of a way to get out, as well.’ He held her against him. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘No. I understand.’ Neither of them had moved.

  ‘I shouldn’t be feeling like this, either. Kate, have you the least idea of the effect you’re having on me?’ His other arm came round her at the exact moment that Kate turned her face up to him and put her arm about his neck. The kiss when it came was tentative and exploratory, and then suddenly it was not tentative in the least. Explosive, thought Kate. Hungry. As if we’ve both been starving for each other. Like being drawn down into a whirlpool. I’ve never felt like this in my life. She forgot everything in the world except his lips and his arms and the feel of his body against hers. She forgot the creeping menace somewhere in the tunnel, she forgot about Vogel and Richard and Eisenach.

  Ciaran said, as if the words were being torn from him,

  ‘Oh Kate, I was afraid you were dead—’

  ‘I nearly was.’

  ‘You can’t imagine the fantasies I’ve had about you—’

  ‘All the things you’re supposed to have renounced? I had a few fantasies on my own account, Ciaran.’ Marvellous to say his name. ‘Will you have to confess this?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Will you be punished?’

  ‘Excommunicated, probably.’ He kissed her again.

  ‘I thought celibacy went with being a monk,’ said Kate. ‘Automatic impotence.’

  ‘My darling girl, impotent is the last thing I am at the moment—’

  Her skin was blazing with such passion that she thought if he touched her it would burn his hands . . . His hands . . . Sliding under the silk shirt, caressing her. He might have been inside a monastery for God-knew how many years, but he had the assurance and the gentle authority of someone very experienced with women indeed. Impossible to resist. I don’t want to resist. But I should. I think I might faint again if he continues. But I think I’ll die if he stops. But she summoned up the resolve to sit up straight again, and she put her hands flat on his chest and pushed him away. ‘I’m stopping while we still can,’ she sai
d. ‘You do understand?’

  ‘I understand it all. And if I was to make love to you—’ His eyes darkened and Kate’s heart leapt. ‘If I was to make love to you,’ said Ciaran, ‘I certainly wouldn’t do it down here with the Devil’s Piper prowling the tunnels, and with ghosts and agonies crowding us on all sides.’

  So he had felt the ghosts as well.

  ‘Of course I feel them,’ he said at once. He looked at her and Kate thought that the passion was like a tangible thing, hovering on the air between them. I don’t know where he ends and I begin. I don’t know where I end and he begins. I can feel his mind, flowing into mine and back again. It’s the situation we’re in, that’s all. Propinquity created by danger. It’s a well-known phenomenon to feel immensely close to people you share danger with, I believe. Comrades in the trenches. People risking their lives for fellow soldiers. Iche hatte eine Kameraden. You’re kidding yourself, of course, Kate. This isn’t Iche hatte eine Kameraden. This is something much deeper and something that’s potentially very damaging indeed. Whatever it was, it bore no resemblance at all to the handful of light affairs she had had since Richard’s accident: brief amusing interludes that had never hurt anyone and that had certainly never hurt Richard. Kate had always hoped that Richard, damaged in ways that did not show, might have understood about those occasional casual adventures. This feeling was not casual at all. It was something deep and strong and so fierce that it could hurt Richard very deeply indeed and it could hurt Ciaran and all of them. And I haven’t the least idea what I’m going to do about any of it, thought Kate. I wonder if he has?