by Aubrey Flegg
In the Claws of the Eagle
Praise for Wings Over Delft, Book 1 in the Louise trilogy:
‘A remarkably engaging story, in which themes of love, art and history are powerfully combined. The unfolding narrative is dramatic, passionate and brilliantly set. The quality of the writing throughout is superb and the ending unforgettably moving.’
Robert Dunbar, critic and broadcaster
‘The gentle love story takes the reader through dark intrigue, religious unrest and the palpable, cultural atmosphere of life in a Dutch city, to an unexpected conclusion. A well-tailored and absorbing read for adults as well as for age 12-plus.’
The Sunday Tribune
‘Flegg gives us an exquisitely crafted novel which will stay in the reader’s memory long after the closing pages are read. The ending is unexpected and dramatic and leaves the reader eagerly awaiting the subsequent books in the Louise trilogy.’
Valerie Coghlan, Inis
Praise for The Rainbow Bridge, Book 2 in the Louise trilogy:
‘An original, interestingly-imagined and challenging book. Its finely-textured writing with historical flavour and a strong plot make this a rare achievement.’
The Irish Times
‘Flegg is one of the finest writers of children’s literature in Ireland today. Many passages in this novel are a pure pleasure to read.’
Inis
In the Claws of the Eagle
Book 3: the Louise trilogy
Aubrey Flegg
The Louise trilogy is dedicated
to Bill Darlison
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four,
and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God,
and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street,
and every one is sign’d by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are,
for I know that whereso’er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
Walt Whitman. ‘Song of Myself’ Canto 48.
In the Claws of the Eagle is dedicated to
The children of Terezín
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am once again deeply indebted to my family and friends for their help, criticisms and observations, this time with the writing of In the Claw of the Eagle. I particularly thank my wife Jennifer for reading and commenting on my manuscript, for her patience and support, and for her skill with The Rough Guide during our travels.
I would like to thank Maeve Broderick of the Royal Irish Academy of Music for allowing me to attend a series of master classes for violin students of the Academy. And so too Mary O’Brien, whose master classes were an inspiration not only to her students but to the writer in the audience. Violinist Clodagh Vedres gave me her time and help, particularly with the question of musical memory. Rosemary O’Connell helped me with some of the German words used in the text, and Ewa Rudolf gave Helena Stronski her name, and also provided me with the Polish for Frère Jacques. I, however, claim sole responsibility for any errors that may have crept in.
My thanks to Mandy Gelbmann for suggesting Mödling as an appropriate retreat for Izaac, and to her and her family for their hospitality when we visited that lovely little town.
I acknowledge with gratitude the Arts Council of Ireland for travel and mobility bursaries that enabled me to research the Paris side of this story and also, while on another mission, to visit the Terezín Concentration Camp near Prague. A week’s residency at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig provided the starting blocks for me at the commencement of this project.
Finally, grateful thanks to Michael and Ivan O’Brien, and all at The O’Brien Press for their skills, patience, encouragement and good humour. To Íde ní Laoghaire who has been a guiding light throughout the writing of the Louise trilogy, and especially to my editor, Mary Webb, for her inspired suggestions, and meticulous editing of this book, my heartfelt thanks.
CONTENTS
Reviews
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PRELUDE
CHAPTER 1. THE PERFORMER
CHAPTER 2. OF CATS AND VIOLS
CHAPTER 3. PARTNERS IN CRIME
CHAPTER 4. THE BRAHMS LULLABY
CHAPTER 5. THE FIRST VIOLIN
CHAPTER 6. MUTUAL UNDERSTANDING
CHAPTER 7. A PRODIGY STEPS OUT
CHAPTER 8. THE FACE IN THE IVY
CHAPTER 9. ON THE CREST OF A WAVE
CHAPTER 10. NIGHT IN VIENNA WOODS
CHAPTER 11. HOLIDAY IN MÖDLING
CHAPTER 12. EVIL PLANTING, NEW GROWTH
CHAPTER 13. A NEW HERO, A NEW BEGINNING
CHAPTER 14. UNCERTAIN YEARS
CHAPTER 15. EDELWEISS AND NEW BOOTS
CHAPTER 16. THE PURITY OF THE RACE
CHAPTER 17. THE ANSCHLUSS
CHAPTER 18. UNTERSTURMFÜHRER ERICH HOFFMAN
CHAPTER 19. ON SECOND THOUGHTS
CHAPTER 20. LIMBO YEARS: 1939–1942
CHAPTER 21. ARBEIT MACHT FREI
CHAPTER 22. JEU DE PAUME, PARIS
CHAPTER 23. BRUNDIBÁR
CHAPTER 24. THE TURNING OF A NAZI
CHAPTER 25. THE EMBELLISHMENT
CHAPTER 26. PLATFORM 14
CHAPTER 27. FRENETIC ACTIVITY AT THE JEU DE PAUME
CHAPTER 28. AUSCHWITZ CONCENTRATION CAMP
CHAPTER 29. BETWEEN THE MOUNTAINS AND THE SEA
HISTORICAL NOTE
About the Author
Copyright
Other Books
PRELUDE
Louise: The Story so Far
Wings Over Delft
Nearly two hundred and sixty years before Izaac Abrahams was born in 1910, a master painter, Jacob Haitink, who lived in the tiny town of Delft in Holland, undertook to paint the portrait of a sixteen-year-old Dutch girl, Louise Eeden. He did so against his own best judgement because he knew that if he failed to capture this girl’s illusive beauty it would destroy him. But he did succeed, just as she succeeded in capturing the heart of his young apprentice Pieter. When the portrait, probably his finest work, was nearing completion, the Master prophesied that one day, long after they were all dead, Louise Eeden would live again in the hearts and minds of people who saw her portrait.
The Rainbow Bridge
And so it happened. Certain people, who had the eyes to see, were indeed so captivated by the girl in the portrait that she became real for them, and shared in their lives. Gaston Morteau, a young French hussar, who rescued her painting from a Dutch canal, had Louise as his riding companion as he crossed the frozen Rhine and journeyed south through France. Young Pierre, his cadet – too gentle for a soldier’s life – turned to her portrait to tell her of his fears, and of his heart’s yearnings. Then there was Colette, the girl who was destined to become Gaston’s wife. There was also the Count du Bois, in whom dark forces stirred, so that not only her portrait, but Louise herself were put in jeopardy.
When her portrait was sold to a Jewish pedlar in exchange for a few trinkets, Louise was ready to move on.
After The Rainbow Bridge …
In the Jewish pedlar’s family, Louise found herself valued: first as an investment, then as a work of art, and then as a companion to Mitsu, the teenage son of the family. When the family were forced to flee France, following a local pogrom against the Jews, they crossed the border into Switzerland. It was with Mitsu that Louise saw mountains for the first time, and stood on a bridge, watching the pearl-green glacier-water creaming over the rocks of the riverbed. For several years they shared each other’s interests and activities.
Mitsu had hoped to get an appr
enticeship as a clockmaker, but soon found that the clockmakers of Switzerland kept a closed shop and did not take kindly to strangers. Then one day, desperate for work, he undertook to mend his landlady’s piano and discovered that he had perfect pitch. His ear could tell him to the tiniest turn of the tuning key if a string was in tune or not. With Mitsu’s new-found skill, the fortunes of the Abrahams family changed. Mitsu’s descendents all had good or perfect pitch and followed his trade as piano tuners. They graduated from pubs to parlours, to drawing rooms, to concert halls. But they also migrated, inching eastwards towards Austria and ultimately to Vienna, the music capital of the world. Here, David Abrahams and his brother Rudi divided the great concert halls and salons between them. Though they were too busy to pay more than passing attention to the portrait that had hung on their walls since they could remember, Louise never felt neglected; she had a place in their lives, even if it was now a passive one. Then, in 1910, baby Izaac was born to David and Judit, and Louise was to find herself called back to action by an imperious demand from a most unexpected quarter …
CHAPTER 1
The Performer
It was a spring morning; a light breeze stirred the muslin curtains in front of the open windows of the Abrahams’ apartment in Vienna. Motors passed, horses clopped, and carriages occasionally clattered on the cobbled street below. Trams hissed and clanged over the nearby crossing. Izaac Abrahams, aged three months, stirred restlessly in his pram; his nurse Lotte had placed it facing the wall with instructions for him to ‘go to sleep!’ But Izaac had no intention of going to sleep; he had just learned to put both of his big toes into his mouth at the same time, and was in urgent need of an audience.
For some time now he’d been examining an object on the wall above him. The image was a bit fuzzy because his eyes didn’t focus well on distant things yet. His view of the world was, therefore, mostly made up of shapes and colours. There were shapes that didn’t move and on which no amount of charm had any effect, then there were shapes that did move, and therefore had to be entertained. For these he reserved a repertoire of gurgles, squirms and smiles, or if these failed, a variety of cries, roars and wails.
Nothing was moving now so he turned his attention back to that thing on the wall above him. For some reason he felt it had potential; there was a shape inside it that intrigued him; he gathered himself to work on it.
Louise felt Izaac’s attention on her as a flow of energy, a small dynamic focus in the already sunlit room. At first glance there didn’t seem to be anyone else present, but energy was clearly coming to her from somewhere. She was out of practice and was bothered that she could see no source for this attention. Izaac, however, sensed her growing interest and tried an exploratory:
‘Ba?’
She looked down in surprise. Two large eyes, inky pupils bright with curiosity, were staring up at her picture. She had to smile. To her amazement he smiled back, tentatively it is true, but a smile nonetheless.
‘Well, who are you?’ she asked herself. He wriggled – she smiled; he tried a gurgle – she smiled again; they could go on like this. Now he tried her with his word again, repeating it in case she hadn’t heard.
‘Ba … ba?’ Now Louise laughed outright. That was all the encouragement he needed. He lifted both legs in the air and whumped them down on the bed.
What followed was a gala performance of all the tricks that Izaac knew, the climax of which was, of course, putting both big toes in his mouth. He concluded the show with his own tumultuous applause. Louise joined in, it didn’t seem to bother him that her applause was silent; he was a very engaging creature. The effect of all this attention was, of course, for him to start again. It was when he started on his third performance that Louise began to get a little desperate. She had no experience of babies; she was afraid of encouraging him and equally afraid of stopping him. Fortunately at this moment Lotte appeared.
‘Ach Liebchen, du bist so fröhlich!’ Little one, you are happy! She picked him up and turned her back, leaving Louise with a glimpse of a triumphant small face looking at her over Lotte’s shoulder.
As the days, weeks and months passed, Louise became genuinely fascinated with Izaac, and she could see him growing, not just in body but in mind. It was like watching frost patterns growing on a windowpane; tiny branches thrusting out, dividing, spreading until they met and became part of a network that was a small human being. Because the music room, where her picture hung, was where he was put to rest in the afternoons, Louise had him to herself. Sometimes he would be content to watch the shifting light on the ceiling. On other occasions his urge to show her what he was seeing was so strong that she would find herself seeing the world through his eyes. When a bumblebee landed on his pram and then spread its wings, unfolding them like transparent fans, and flew off with a buzz like a hornet, she experienced anew his surprise and amazement at the phenomenon of flight. Then the vision would fade, and it might be weeks before he felt compelled to share some other experience with her. How was it that this little fragment of humanity had such complete command over her?
But, now that Izaac had co-opted her as an audience for his dress rehearsals for life, Louise joined in with enthusiasm. It was she who first saw him rise up from his stomach like a caterpillar until he formed a hoop and then, miraculously stand. She also saw him take his first steps, and later heard the cries of joy from the next room when he gave his first public display of this new skill. Months stretched to years. For long periods Izaac would appear to forget about Louise. Then something would arise and he would urgently require an audience. On other occasions he would go out of his way to avoid attracting her attention.
It was young Mitsu (Izaac’s great grandfather) who had reinstated music in Louise’s life, when he had reassembled his landlady’s piano in Switzerland, and in doing so had discovered his perfect pitch. As the three generations of piano tuners had worked, struggling to establish themselves, there had always been a piano, harpsichord or other instrument in bits in the parlour. Later, as the family flourished, and there were workshops to which these poor wrecks could be banished, there would be new or borrowed instruments for the family to play on. None of them played the piano professionally but they were enthusiastic amateurs making music for the love of it. Also it went down well with clients to hear short pieces played when the tuning was done. Inspired perhaps by the music in Vienna, or even to get away from pianos for an hour or two, the family turned to strings. Soon there were violinists, viola players, or cellists in the family ready to play the duets, trios and quartets that they loved. As they always played in the parlour, Louise was in on their performances and on their practising too. It was as if they enjoyed having someone to play for, often positioning themselves so that they could play to her portrait.
She had become used to their Jewishness as well. Sometimes observant, more often not, they struck her as being very comfortable with their God. Their main observance seemed to concentrate on the ancient traditions that welded the community together. On Friday nights, in particular, music and tradition were melded together on the eve of the Jewish Sabbath. She would look forward to these evenings with relish. One evening, however, things did not go quite to plan.
CHAPTER 2
Of Cats and Viols
It was the turn of the Abrahams family to host the other members of the Tuning Fork Quartet, first to music, and then when the sun had gone down, to join their Sabbath dinner. Every week they would gather in one or other of their homes to play, mostly quartets and trios, with lots of enthusiasm and equal toleration of each other’s mistakes. As the afternoon wore on the music would get less demanding, steins of foaming beer would appear beside their chairs, and any piece that ended with all of them still playing, and still together, would be greeted with a cheer.
‘At least we look like a real quartet,’ laughed Uncle Rudi, who was their first violin. He was completely bald, with a head like the pointy end of an egg, and a beard that flowed out generously over his violin. H
e had to tuck his beard in, in case it got tangled up with his bow. Uncle Rudi’s son, Nathan, who played second fiddle, was a medical student, while Uncle Albert, their viola player, was neither an uncle nor a Jew, but became honorary ones on Fridays. Father played the cello, and the piano if needed. Today, however, they had a very special guest, an old friend of the family, none other than the great Madame Helena Stronski, still one of the most sought-after solo violinists out of her native Poland.
She had arrived towards the end of their session, sweeping in like a ship under full sail in a billow of diaphanous scarves. She was a large woman, once strikingly beautiful, now inclined to weight and to ruff and gruff to hide a heart alloyed equally of steel and gold.
‘Don’t stop, don’t stop!’ she called as the music faltered, ‘I love it. This is what I’ve come for, real music on the hoof.’
The quartet, however, rose to a man, not the least offended. She offered both cheeks to her host David Abrahams, and the same honour to Uncle Rudi. She gave young Nathan a hearty shake of the hand, and let Uncle Albert kiss the back of it. Having dealt with them all in accordance with her code of intimacy, she declared: ‘Well gentlemen, what will we play?’ From Uncle Rudi’s music stand she picked up a sheet of the music they had been playing. ‘Good heavens, dears, this is far too difficult for me.’ She searched deeper among his sheets of music. ‘Here … this is much more my standard these days.’ They all burrowed through their music, eager as squirrels, while she surveyed the room with a smile of content. This was what she loved; people making music together. But they would all enjoy it more if they could play something within their ability.
