Mephisto Aria

by Justine Saracen

  Anastasia raised one hand, signaling “silence,” and stepped back into the bathroom.

  Katherina opened the door to the garrison commander. Two soldiers stood behind him with carbines across their chests. Was he here to offer her safe conduct to the train? She hoped so.

  “Fräulein Marow. I’m afraid I must ask you to accompany me to my office for questioning.”

  “Questioning? What for? I’ve just been battered and assaulted by your men. All I want to do right now is leave the Brocken, safely. I was hoping you might—”

  “Leave the Brocken? I’m afraid that’s out of the question. A man has just burned to death and you were the only person standing near him.”

  “What?” Katherina was speechless. Then, “Of course I was on the rock with him. He dragged me back there, forced me to continue his grotesque aria. Then someone shot him. You can see it yourself. You have it all on film.”

  Exner averted his eyes. “Unfortunately not. The cameras were turned off when the riot began. But you will have a chance to tell your side of the story in the interrogation.” He appeared to finally notice her state of undress as she huddled under her cape. “I will give you a moment to put on some clothes. Then please come out. My men will accompany you to my office.”

  “All right. Just give me a few minutes.” Katherina closed the door and threw the flimsy lock again. Anastasia stepped out of hiding.

  “You’re not going back with him,” she whispered. “Once the news of what happened gets out, he’ll have hell to pay. He’ll throw you to the wolves to avoid a court martial.” Anastasia ran to the window on the other side of the room and yanked it open.

  “Good, they didn’t send a guard to the back. They must have assumed you’d go quietly. We have maybe three minutes to get to the wall. Never mind dressing. Here, just take your pass.” She snatched up the shoulder bag that had hung over the chair back and laid the straps over Katherina’s head. Leaving Katherina to follow, she threw one leg over the windowsill and struggled through the opening.

  Hesitating only a second, Katherina fastened her cape at the throat and hurried after her.

  For some five hundred meters they were on open ground, but the moonless sky gave no light, and Katherina could barely make out the dark form of Anastasia slightly ahead of her. There was no sound of pursuit.

  In a few minutes, they confronted the row of high concrete slabs that formed the security wall. Katherina stopped abruptly. Panic seized her as she heard the dogs.

  Anastasia dropped to her knees. Thinking she had stumbled, Katherina reached over to help her up.

  “No, not me. Take hold of this.”

  Katherina felt cold metal—the rung of a ladder, invisible in the dark grass. How simple it now seemed. But could they do it fast enough? She could already see the flashlights of the men searching the rear of the shed they had just been in.

  The ladder was aluminum, not heavy, but its length made it unwieldy. They struggled for agonizing seconds before getting it upright and laying it against the wall. “Go!” Anastasia commanded in a harsh whisper.

  “I have to jump off the other side?” Katherina imagined broken ankles.

  “No. Straddle the wall at the top until I get there.”

  Katherina scrambled up the ladder and swung her leg over the top of the slab. The rough concrete added another abrasion to the inside of her thigh. She curled forward, holding herself with pressure from her knees, sweating inside her cloak.

  Anastasia appeared seconds later, then swung herself onto the wall. Taking a quick breath, she grasped the top rung. “Help me haul it up,” she grunted, and together they dragged the long metal ladder over the top and slid it down the other side. Checking first that the ladder was well anchored, Anastasia threw herself onto it and descended.

  Katherina was suddenly blinded by a flashlight beam. She heard a gunshot and the ping of a bullet striking the concrete just in front of her knee. With a sudden absurd recollection of Tosca’s operatic end, she flung herself off the wall, grasping the ladder in both arms, and managed to half slide, half clamber down a few rungs before jumping. More gunshots sounded from the other side of the wall as well as the cursing of the thwarted guards who ran along the concrete barrier to the gate.

  “This way,” Anastasia said, and set off at full speed toward a line of trees. They had gained precious minutes but the dogs would be tracking by smell, and Katherina had no idea how to escape them.

  Her throat was parched and her chest ached from the full-out run. Even her tiny shoulder bag seemed a burden, as it knocked against her hip with every step. Under the trees there was almost no light, only the alternating vertical patches of dark and less dark and the black form of Anastasia that threaded a way through them.

  The sound of dogs baying came again. More of them now. Katherina remembered them in their cages, savage, always hungry. Glancing back, she saw spots of light from half a dozen flashlights sweeping the tree line.

  Anastasia halted suddenly, appeared to take her bearings, then pivoted sharply toward the left. Katherina followed, winded, with no strength left to ask why. Their change in direction seemed a mistake as they emerged from the tree cover to an exposed ridge.

  Out of breath, Katherina threw her head back, gulping in air. Cruelly, when mist might have hidden them, the mountain-top air was crystal clear. The night sky held countless stars in a swath that swept southwest to northeast.

  More important to watch their own feet, so as not to stumble. But below them, the ground dropped away sharply into a steep ravine. The beginning of a footpath was faintly visible where it led downward into the obscure depths. A hiking path, probably, from more innocent days.

  “Is that where we’re going?” Katherina managed between pants.

  “No. Up there.” Anastasia pointed in the opposite direction, to another ridge. They would have to climb again. Katherina could see huge granite rocks, gathering starlight.

  “There’s a van waiting…somewhere…that direction,” Anastasia forced out between ragged breaths. “But we need to get…farther away…so they don’t hear the motor.”

  Katherina understood. If the border guards still thought she was alone and on foot, they’d keep searching the mountain, at least for a while. But if they heard a vehicle, they’d block the roads. “But how? The dogs are following our smell.” She corrected herself. “No, only my smell. They don’t know you’re here.”

  Bracing herself against the cold, she opened her sweat-damp cloak and let it drop from her shoulders. Then, rolling it up into a tight ball, she flung it out over the ravine and it disappeared into the darkness. The sound of barking dogs came again through the frigid air, echoing slightly.

  “Very clever.” Anastasia had started off again. “As long as we’re moving, you should be all right. It’s not much farther, I think.”

  The way became steep and they were soon on their hands and knees again. The rocks were icy cold and the soil between them clammy. Bruised and exhausted, Katherina stopped again for breath. The pursuers were below them now and their flashlights revealed them descending into the ravine toward the still-warm coat. Relieved, but shivering again, she resumed the arduous climb.

  “I’m sorry, darling. It’s only a few more minutes,” Anastasia encouraged, and the word “darling” gave Katherina a surge of energy. “Whose van?” she whispered as they crested another ridge and dropped down on the other side. “And how do you know where it is?”

  “I don’t, but I have this.” Anastasia slipped a tiny penlight from the pocket of her uniform and directed it toward the line of trees below them. She made X-patterns in the air, once, twice, three times, then clicked the light off. A moment later, a tiny light among the trees signaled with an O, also three times, then extinguished.

  “That’s it. We’ve found him.” Anastasia seized Katherina’s hand and pulled her toward the signal.

  “Him? Who’s down there?”

  “Long story,” Anastasia panted as they neared the cl
uster of pines. They were thicker now, their resin pungent. Still Katherina saw no sign of life until they arrived under a cluster of trees and she spotted the rear of a minivan. It was identical to those used by the technicians at the Brocken transmission station. Anastasia clicked on the penlight again. Yes, there it was, stenciled in black on camouflage green, Fernsehen der DDR.

  A man stepped out from behind the vehicle. “Finally. I was about to leave without you,” he grumbled, obviously agitated. Without waiting for introductions, he yanked open the cab door and helped Katherina inside. There was a blanket folded behind the seat and he opened it for her. She took it gratefully, still wondering who he was.

  The stranger hurried to the driver’s side while Anastasia got in beside her and then they were moving. Without headlights, they could only creep along downhill in low gear.

  “Katherina, this is Johann.”

  “Ah” was all she could think of saying. Knowing the man’s name did little to dispel her fear and bewilderment, but it seemed unwise to demand an explanation at just that moment. Every lurch told her they were on a steep and precarious slope, and she had no idea how he managed to keep from crashing in the darkness. She could make out the trees, but not the rocks, and the vehicle heaved and tilted wildly each time they ran over one. If they capsized, which the van threatened to do once or twice, she wondered how far they would tumble and how much noise they would make.

  They rocked sideways and lurched forward for some fifteen minutes before they dropped onto a narrow gravel service road. Johann exhaled audibly as the level of incline reduced to near horizontal. They might still be shot, but now they would not tumble to their deaths.

  Though still without headlights, the van picked up speed and the driver relaxed visibly. “What took so long?” he said, finally. “I was sure they’d got you.”

  “A lot of the unexpected,” Anastasia replied. “Raspin was shot. To death, it looks like. And then he burned. All hell broke loose. Then, when things began to settle and I reached Katherina, the commander showed up to arrest her. He backed off so she could get dressed, and that’s when we made the break. The ladder worked perfectly, by the way. Will they be able to trace it back to you?”

  “Naa. I took it out of old storage. They don’t even know what’s down there. But once we get off the mountain, we’ve got to make up for lost time. I have to have the truck back in place and refueled before dawn.”

  “Can I ask now to what I owe this rescue? And how did you both know I was in trouble?” Katherina judged it was the moment for explanations.

  “Don’t ask me,” Johann grumbled. “I’m doing this because I’m bloody nuts.”

  “He’s doing this because he’s an old friend of Boris,” Anastasia said. “From the East front days, right?”

  “Yes. We worked together for the Ministry of Propaganda filming Wehrmacht victories. Regular Leni Riefenstahls, we were. I stayed in filming and Boris decided he could make more money in sound. Seems he was right.”

  Katherina was warming to her rescuer. “Why didn’t you move west after the war? There was a lot more work with the Americans.”

  “Not a chance.” He spat out the window. “I’m from Dresden. My family was there, plus all our relatives from the east. Refugees. They died in the firestorm. You can imagine how. After that I never wanted to shake hands with an American or Brit. Still don’t,” he added quietly, the rage in his voice obviously undiluted by time.

  Katherina moved away from the dangerous subject of Dresden. “But I still don’t know why you thought I needed to be rescued in the first place. Even I didn’t know how crazy Gregory Raspin was until I was up on the rock with him facing a wall of flames.”

  “Flames, eh? That sounds like the sort of theatrical touch he would like,” Johann said, full of contempt. “Looks like this one blew up in his face, so to speak. It was a fitting end. I hope they got it all on film.”

  “How can you say that?” Katherina was shocked at the remark. “That’s so callous. He might have been unbalanced, but he didn’t deserve to be murdered. I feel sorry for him.”

  “Don’t.” Anastasia joined the conversation again. “The man was vile. You have no idea what he used to do and what he was attempting to do to you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s what I was trying to rescue you from. Gregory Raspin used to be Peter Schalk, a sadist and a murderer.”

  “Schalk? The man my father wrote about in his journal? How do you know?”

  “Boris put the two together. When I translated the pages from Cyrillic and told him about Schalk, he insisted that he’d seen the man in Salzburg outside your dressing room.”

  “How is that possible? They’re from two different worlds.” Katherina pulled the blanket up closer around her, fending off new, incomprehensible information.

  “Believe me, it’s true. We checked the Salzburg anniversary program that has his picture. Boris was absolutely certain it was Schalk. You won’t doubt it either when you hear the story.”

  “Of Gregory Raspin? You already told me he was a big investor.”

  “Yes, that’s what he did with the money he acquired in the 1950s. After the war, while he was Peter Schalk, he not only ran a large black-market network, he also made pornographic films. Not the usual fare, but films involving torture and murder. Not faked murder, but real. At least in one or two cases, anyhow.”

  “The kind of creepy shit that makes me ashamed to be a man,” Johann grumbled.

  Anastasia went on. “The way Boris told it, the business started almost accidentally, when the Russians invaded Germany. I’m sure you’ve heard about the raping and the nailing of women to barn doors. Apparently at least once, someone made a film of it, and it was passed around before some Soviet officers found it and destroyed it. But Schalk evidently thought torture was a product he could sell, and he was right. He had women kidnapped, isolated women with no one who would track them down, and he found soldiers who were happy to accommodate him for the rape. With a little extra vodka, he’d have no trouble getting them to do the killing too. The woman belonged to the enemy, after all. The films became more and more sadistic, more and more gruesome, and all of them found audiences. Western troops, especially, paid a lot of money to see them. It excited them and at the same time made them feel superior to the Russian ‘animals.’”

  Reflexively, Katherina drew up her knees inside her blanket. “But how did Boris know about them?”

  “Boris made the soundtracks for them, all through the 1950s. He swears he recorded the tracks on order, without ever seeing any of the films. I mean, he knew it was pornography and assumed it was the ordinary variety. He made tracks of music, non-musical sound, moans, and so forth. Schalk never asked for sounds for the torture scenes. Maybe that part was silent, I don’t know. It sickens me to think about it.”

  “Then how did he find out? Wouldn’t he have wanted to see the final product?”

  “That isn’t how it worked in those days. He said he found out by accident when he heard about a showing at a place called Auerbach’s Cellar. He was curious to see how the film turned out, so he simply paid to go in and watch it. He said when the film, which was obviously amateurish, got to the end, he nearly threw up. Right after that, he broke all ties with Schalk.”

  “Why didn’t he call the police?”

  “I asked him that too, but he pointed out that he couldn’t. After all, he was implicated in the production. All he could do was walk away. Like your father did.”

  “My father was involved in that?” Katherina could not keep the revulsion from her voice.

  “No, not with the films. I don’t mean to suggest that. But he was part of Schalk’s general network. The team doctor. Eventually he must have also found out about the murders and the children, but he was just as unable to notify the police as Boris was. More so, since he was homosexual and faced certain jail time for that. And Schalk could be vindictive. Your father had to have courage to even walk a
way.”

  “So that was going on in the 1950s, in the part of the journal that was torn out.”

  “Yes, almost certainly by Raspin. He must have had an opportunity to pilfer the book. In any case, by the 1960s, with his network threatening to unravel, Schalk gave up the business. He had a fortune by then, of course, and invested it in the New Germany.”

  “But why this opera then? Why me?”

  Anastasia took her hand. “This was his magnum opus. Not a grainy black-and-white smuggled into basements for drunks, but a full opera in color, with an authentic setting, fire, and a famous high-class victim who would go along with the whole thing until it was too late. And it would be broadcast to millions all over Germany. Pornography as high art.”

  “But he was known as the producer. He would have been arrested, ruined.”

  “Not at all. First of all, if it had ended in gang rape, that alone would have made it a success. He couldn’t be held responsible for the behavior of drunken soldiers, especially Russian soldiers who already have the reputation. It would have shown up in the papers as ‘a terrible accident.’ He would have acted shocked and horrified, and the film would have been worth its weight in gold.”

  “But the DDR would never have released it, in that case. Besides, the commandant said the Fernsehen DDR cameras had been turned off.”

  Johann spoke up. “He was probably lying, to cover his troops, but even if they had shut them off or destroyed the footage, Raspin had a fourth camera of his own. My office lent him a cable for it. He would have enjoyed a certain notoriety for a while, claiming that he had ‘misjudged the savagery of his audience,’ and then begun marketing the film through some third party.”

  “It’s grotesque,” Katherina said weakly.

  Anastasia nodded. “I think that’s why your father refused to introduce you to Raspin. He suspected that he planned to use you in some awful way.”

  “But why? He didn’t need the money anymore.”

  “Money wasn’t the reason,” Johann added. “I only talked with the man a couple of times but I could see he was really obsessed. This ‘ultimate-opera’ project was the realization of some sick fantasy he’d carried around for years.”