In the Claws of the Eagle

by Aubrey Flegg

  With a curt nod of apology to Ramon, Izaac walked away from the orchestra. Let them shoot him if they must, there was no need to endanger the others. He walked to the edge of the raised platform and looked down on the children. They looked up and saw him. He could see the relief in their faces; here was someone who would look after them. Their false trust ran through him like a sword. Without a smile or a wave he signalled to them to line up, just as their choirmaster would have done. Immediately, and to the astonishment of their guards, the children ran and formed themselves into their choir groups. Izaac raised his violin and played the first bars of the Terezín March, the defiant cheeky march that was performed at almost every function in Terezín. He could hear the noise of the little orchestra behind preparing to play too. One … two … three … the high clear voices of the children rose as if to heaven and the audience of SS officers shifted uneasily as their ‘little entertainment’ began to go sour on them.

  ‘We will conquer and survive

  All the cruelty in our land,

  We will laugh on ghetto ruins

  Hand in hand!’

  Izaac glanced behind him; the SS officer who had detached himself from the rest looked strangely familiar. Afraid of reprisals, he stepped forward and urged the children to walk on; he didn’t want any shooting. Pafko was the first to move, grasping the situation in one. With a cheeky grin up at Izaac, he set off in a wonderfully exaggerated goose-step.

  Izaac watched them go, their voices still ringing in his ears. Despite Pafko’s efforts, they looked small and so vulnerable. This was monstrous! They must not be allowed go alone! He wanted to rush after them, but what good would it do them if he hurled himself against the barbed wire? Was there no way he could go with them, was there nothing he could do to support them on their journey?

  As if it had waited two hundred and fifty years for this moment, Helena’s Stradivarius rose to his shoulder. Yes, he did have something to give them: his music. He drew his bow. For a moment the violin seemed to gather its breath; then the bow bit into the strings and the music poured out. Rising, it seemed to fill the vastness of the open air about the children as Izaac played the composition that had exploded in his three-year-old head in Vienna all those years ago; Helena’s ‘Humoresque’. The children knew it because he had often played it between rehearsals to keep them happy; they turned to wave. Watching them down the length of his strings, he noticed that they were beginning to dance, a whirling movement that seemed strangely familiar. How often he had seen them playing like this on the Brundibár set and wondered what they were dancing about.

  Then in the very vortex of the dance he saw a flash of green, and Louise was there, reaching out as if to catch their hands and swing the little ones as they swirled about her like a flock of birds. So this was the origin of those games! Despite his efforts to shield her from the horrors of the camp, she had been there, invisible to him but not to them. For a second his resolve faltered; he would give his life for those children; he would sacrifice his music for them, but Louise – was she his to give?

  ‘Louise,’ he called out silently, just as he would have called to during a performance: ‘Louise, you shouldn’t be here. Do you know what you are doing? Do you know where you are going?’ Her reply came back to him as clearly as if she was beside him. ‘Yes, of course I know, Izaac. I’ve been with you all along. These are my children too, you know. Just play on, and we’ll see them through this together.’ And so they did.

  Then they were gone. Izaac’s arms sank slowly to his sides. He turned to face his fate. The members of the orchestra were standing, staring after the departed children, applauding them by tapping their instruments with their bows, a tiny rattle of sound that swelled and faded. Behind the orchestra the small group of SS officers was breaking up, drifting away, kicking at thistles, tasting perhaps the first bitter taste of defeat. Izaac stood, wondering what to do with his violin; it still throbbed with fury in his hands.

  He found himself staring into the face of an SS officer who must have walked up while he was playing. He handed him the violin and waited for the shot. The officer took the violin but his eyes were focused on where the children had just vanished. In an awed voice he said, as if to himself, ‘Dear God, what are we doing, what have we done? At least they had Louise. It’s what she would have wanted.’ Then he looked at his hand and saw that he was holding Izaac’s violin. He pulled himself together visibly. When he spoke next it was a prepared statement.

  ‘Izaac Abrahams,’ he said. ‘If you recognise me, I would ask you to keep quiet about it. If we get away safely there will be time enough for explanations.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Between the Mountains and the Sea

  Erich and Izaac sat facing each other in silent animosity as their train inched its way across Poland towards Austria. Erich had given the Jew a brief account of how he had come to Auschwitz specifically to rescue him. The Nazis had thought that they were entertaining Klaus Steinman, who for them had an enviable reputation for brutal efficiency, so they had invited their guest to observe their own little display of Jew baiting. Now that the fear of discovery was receding, the sheer horror of what he had seen was beginning to take effect on Erich.

  ‘At least the children are safe in heaven now,’ he sighed.

  The train clacked mechanically on; the Jew appeared not to be listening. He was looking out of the window. Erich watched him in his reflection. When he did reply it was to the passing fields.

  ‘You know, Herr Hoffman, I think heaven is the one thing that you have denied them. What is heaven but a promise, and a comfort for those of us who are left behind? Perhaps it exists, perhaps it doesn’t, but you know, even in your concentration camps we found heaven … little bits of it, scattered on the ground; we picked these up and treasured them far more than any promise.’

  Someone, lugging a suitcase, passed in the corridor, looked in, saw the SS uniform and what looked like a Jewish prisoner, and went on. Erich looked down at his jack-booted feet.

  ‘Can we ever be forgiven?’ The train plunged into a tunnel, smoke swirled against the windows and the rotten smell of brown coal caused them to catch their breath. When the train emerged again into the weak autumn sunlight, Erich got up to open the window.

  ‘Don’t look to me for comfort, Herr Hoffman. I can never forgive you.’ Izaac’s voice rose momentarily: ‘and what right … excuse me … what right have I to forgive you on behalf of the people you have murdered? Nobody, not even God, can forgive you. You have to work for forgiveness; you have to earn forgiveness by accepting what you have done in the depth of your heart. Don’t ask someone else to do this for you.’ A thin, almost apologetic smile crossed his face, and he looked Erich in the eyes for the first time. ‘Now, tell me, why have you have come to rescue me alone, out of so many?’

  Deep underground in the salt mines of Altaussee the silence of oblivion wrapped itself like a protective cloak about Louise. The slender threads of consciousness that had given her life had been burned up in the horror of what the Nazis had done. All that remained for her was a lingering awareness of self and, just occasionally, a sound that might have been the whisper of a pen moving on paper.

  She knew nothing of the conversation that took place between Erich and Izaac on the train; a conversation that ended, not so much in reconciliation, but in understanding. She was unaware when the SS manoeuvred a five-hundred-pound bomb into the mine directly above her, with the intention of blowing the entire collection sky-high should Germany lose the war.

  Spring came slowly in the mountains above where Izaac lay hidden in the loft of Sabine Hoffman’s house. He heard a sudden commotion below, and sat up. It was Erich, who had been waiting to engage in a peaceful handover of the priceless contents of the mine to the victors. What had happened? Izaac heard the ladder being put in place, followed by the agreed tap on the trap door. He slid the bolt. Erich stood shoulder high in the light from below.

  ‘Herr Abrahams, you must come. T
he Americans are about to enter the valley, but I have just heard that the SS have planted a huge bomb in the salt mine, and that they will explode it before the Americans arrive. I must take action now. I have been in touch with the salt miners, who are horrified, partly because of the art, but chiefly because this is their place of work. They know of ways into the mine that the SS don’t know about. As I know where the pictures are stored, and have been trained in defusing mines from my SS days, I am going with them. I may not succeed and I certainly can’t do it carrying Louise’s portrait under my arm. I want you to come, take Louise’s portrait and escape with her picture from the mine. I promised her she would be safe; I need you to help me fulfill that promise.’

  ‘I will come,’ Izaac said.

  They entered the mine through an old drainage tunnel and waded in until they came to an iron ladder. At the top was a grill with a padlock. Long handled cutters soon disposed of this and they were into the modern workings. While the miners searched for the bomb, Erich led Izaac down to the underground chapel. The package containing Louise’s portrait was still there, the seals intact. This was the moment for Erich to hand it over. A sudden urge came over him to open it and see Louise for a last time.

  A shout from above indicated that the miners had found the bomb. He would have to go. But down in the chapel a bizarre tug of war was taking place. Erich, having initially offered the package to Izaac, found that his hands just would not let go. Suddenly old resentments and old hates resurged and boiled between them. Then, as quickly as they had come, the resentments passed. Erich managed to give the package to Izaac; they embraced briefly, then one of the young partisans showed Izaac the way out of the mine. It was May 1945; in a few days the war in Europe would be over.

  Izaac returned to Vienna later in the summer. He half expected to find that his apartment had been requisitioned by some Nazi family, but when he rang the bell, it was Lotte, her hair nearly white now, who opened the door and welcomed him with tears of joy and sadness. She told him how his mother and father had been taken away, not long after he was transported. She was sure that he would have met them there? ‘No,’ he told her, tearfully. No, he had not met Father or Mother, nor, indeed, Uncle Rudi or Nathan and his family. Lotte supposed that the east must be a very big place, then, and Izaac agreed.

  For weeks he occupied himself in searching for their names on lists; but it was too soon. All he could do for now was put their names down as ‘missing’ and hope for a miracle. He sat in the music room, but every corner held memories, and he decided that he must get away. Gretchen and her husband implored him to come and live with them, but he couldn’t bring his countless ghosts into that happy family. So he sold the apartment and in doing so released Lotte to take up Gretchen’s offer of a place in her home where, if she wished, she could help look after Konrad, the little boy who had waved to ‘Uncle Izaac’ the day he was taken off to Terezín. He made over half the proceeds of the sale of the apartment to Lotte by way of thanks for looking after it throughout the war. A pension would follow, but that would have to wait until he had persuaded their Swiss bank to open an account for him. It was time for Izaac to leave. When Konrad asked him where he was going, Izaac told him he was going to visit Herr Schnurrbart.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, Uncle Izaac is going to visit Mr Moustache! Isn’t he funny?’

  Gretchen was the only person he told where he was going. ‘Gretchen, people keep telling me that I have to learn to forget, to blot it all out and start again.’ Izaac could feel his voice tightening, rising. ‘But, Gretchen, I don’t want to forget.’ He got himself under control. ‘I’ve told you about the children in the little opera we put on! Am I to blot them out of my mind just for my own survival? Or the people I played with, or the weary Hungarians on their way to nowhere? No, there is something I can do for them still. I feel it in my bones, but I can’t do it here. Every evening as the dark creeps out of the east, the black dogs come padding with it. Years ago, after I was nearly lynched by a Nazi gang in Berlin, I found myself in Ireland. There, between the mountains and the sea I found a place where I felt I was safe.’

  ‘And Louise, can’t she help you? I notice you haven’t unwrapped her picture.’

  ‘Oh, Gretchen, how can I explain? I played Louise into the gas chambers with them. She is just a memory too.’

  ‘Look, Izaac, we created music together, and I know its healing properties. I want to see you happy. I don’t know what you can do, but don’t try to do it alone. Think of us and we’ll think of you. Perhaps one day all three of us, Willie, Konrad and I, will come and find you in your place between the mountains and the sea.’

  Gretchen and Konrad came to see Izaac off the following day. He had with him just one suitcase, Madame Helena’s violin, complete with clown sticker, and a square package securely wrapped and sealed. Konrad was fascinated by the clown sticker.

  Izaac stood on the deck of the mailboat from Wales, his back protected by the ship’s funnel, watching their approach to Dublin. Early morning sun sparkled on the waves and lit the creamy underside of the seagull that hung close above him, riding the updraft from the moving ship. The two arms of Dublin Bay seemed to be held wide in welcome. Colour-washed houses lined the shore, and grey spires pierced a thin veil of mist. The humpy hills beyond the city were just beginning to glow.

  Going through customs on arrival was disturbingly like arriving at a concentration camp. He chose his customs officer with care; a sleepy one.

  ‘Just an old violin, you say?’ the man said when Izaac opened its case. ‘Well, it’s not wrapped in silk stockings anyway.’ He yawned and prodded Louise’s portrait. ‘A portrait, you say?’

  ‘Of a friend.’

  ‘Will you look at the wrapping, we’d never get that back together again.’ A quick rummage in Izaac’s case, and he was through. He was still blinking in the doorway when he got a hearty thump on the back and turned to see Paddy McCormack – he of the mighty moustaches – beaming down on him.

  ‘Well, how are you, Mr Izaac? You don’t look a day older!’ Paddy lied happily. ‘Give me that case. I got your telegram and I have the perfect little house for you. Near to where you played your violin to the seals all those years ago. Thirteen is it, well, time flies.’ He heaved Izaac’s bag into the train that stood waiting on the pier. ‘We’ll take the train to Galway, sir; petrol is terrible scarce these days. It’ll be an ass and cart from then on.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke and Izaac, who had no idea what an ‘assncart’ was, leaned back in the stuffy carriage. Apart from his expanding waistline, Paddy had hardly changed from his last visit. When he said, ‘Which way, Mr Izaac?’ Izaac remembered the response: ‘West, Paddy bitte. To the sea!’ and they laughed together.

  It wasn’t an ass and cart, but a rickety old car, hired from a garage in Galway, that Izaac eventually watched drive away, leaving him to survey his new property and his new world. The property was a thatched cottage. It had been empty for a year and looked it. There was grass growing from the thatch and the walls needed a coat of whitewash, but it was its surroundings that held Izaac spellbound. The cottage was tucked into the arm of a small semi-circular bay. The tide had been in when they arrived, so full that it seemed that one deep sigh from the Atlantic beyond and the cup would overflow. While they had unloaded the vast pile of things that Paddy had insisted on Izaac buying for his bachelor existence, the tide had secretly slipped away. So now, when Izaac turned from waving goodbye, he found himself gazing at a golden half-moon of sand with, in the far distance, a line of white breakers marking the sea. It drew Izaac like a magnet, crispy little pink flowers led down to the shore. Here he stepped cautiously on to the sand; it was firm.

  Michael Joyce had stopped on the ridge looking down into the bay when he saw the car leaving. The cottage stood on his way to the place, on the opposite side of the bay, where he kept his boat in a sheltered creek from which he could launch it at any tide. He had heard that someone had taken the cottage. He could see him now,
walking out on the sand, picking up sea-shells like any child. The man’s driver had told Kevin, the man at the petrol pump, that the new owner was foreign; a bachelor who – God help him – had had a bad time in the war. As the figure was virtually out of sight, Michael diverted down past the cottage to look at the state of the place. He made a mental note of the hole in the thatch on the back of the roof and the meagre pile of the turf in the lean-to as he passed.

  Izaac had taken off his shoes and rolled up his trousers. Even on a calm day, the Atlantic rollers sent wavelets thick with foaming bubbles up the sand. They massaged his feet. The sun, sinking towards the horizon, glowed on the mountains; a warm and friendly barrier against things sinister and things past. He could hardly see his new little house. He must find out how to paint it. His supper had to be cold, as he couldn’t get the strange fuel to light. He managed to light a candle but the oil lamp defeated him. When he opened the door in the morning, to his surprise he found a fresh fish on the windowsill.

  A year passed. Twice a week Izaac would get the bus into Galway where he gave violin lessons to half a dozen worthy but uninspired pupils. His humble ambition now was for them to pass their next grade in their violin exams. In an unfulfilled sort of way, he was happy. He was known to the locals as ‘The Professor’, and they watched over him as a sort of mascot. Things would happen to his little house without any prompting from him. The thatch would be raked down and a hole in it repaired, and one day just before Easter, he came home to find the walls newly whitewashed. He got to know his neighbours by trying to find out which one to pay. A cheque would arrive monthly from his Swiss bank and he would think, gratefully, if sadly, of Uncle Rudi and his little bags of gold. There was still no word of him, nor of the rest of Izaac’s family. Michael Joyce, the fisherman, would often call with a fish and stay for a chat and a bottle of stout. Izaac developed both a taste for Guinness and a Galway lilt to add to his Austrian ‘brogue’. He was urged to come down and play in the pub when the traditional musicians were there. He played Viennese airs for them, but when he tried to join in their traditional sessions it was a disaster. He could play the notes, but there were rhythms and subtleties he knew he could never master.