Touching the Wire

by Rebecca Bryn

  She tried to retrieve a memory. ‘I feel I should know where it is. It looks Roman.’

  Adam peered at the sepia print again. ‘I can’t read it without a magnifying glass and part of it’s worn away, but I’m willing to bet that’s the name of a photographic studio. That could give us a clue to the town or city.’

  She compared the photographs. ‘These faces do have likenesses. The girl is very pretty.

  ‘Do you think you and Lucy were named after Mary and Miriam?’

  ‘We must be, though why when we’ve never heard of them?’

  Adam let out a long, slow breath. ‘You said you didn’t know anything about your grandfather’s life before the second war. Lives were ripped apart by the war, families lost.’

  She nodded. ‘Everything changed.’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘And people were separated. Not all were reunited.’

  ‘You think these are members of Grandpa’s family?’

  ‘Have you got a photograph of your grandfather?’

  ‘No. He hated having his photo taken. It’s one thing I really regret… we were very young when he died. I have trouble recalling his face now.’

  ‘Me too, sis.’ Lucy sighed. ‘I wish we had just one photo of him.’

  ‘Was he dark-haired?’

  ‘He was grey by the time we were born… he had blue eyes though, like us. I always assumed we inherited our blonde hair from him. Mum’s brunette, and Gran was before she went grey.’

  ‘Was your father fair?’

  ‘Sort of mousy, Mum said.’ The familiar stab of pain at not remembering her father resurfaced briefly. Grandpa, Dad, Robin, Adam: she seemed destined to lose all the men she loved.

  ‘The truth shall be uncovered and I pray for those I love.’ Adam’s voice was thoughtful. ‘I am holding the wolf by the ears…’

  She frowned. ‘Those I love… I’d always assumed that meant Gran, Mum and us.’

  ‘The first carving held locks of dark as well as fair hair, remember.’

  Lucy tapped her lips with a finger as she considered. ‘But why don’t we know anything about them?’

  ‘Hofmann could be Miriam’s maiden name. It may be your grandmother wasn’t your grandfather’s first wife.’ Adam waved Miriam’s photo pointedly. ‘Not all second wives live happily with the fact.’

  Lucy waved a dismissive hand. ‘Gran wouldn’t have had a problem with that. She knows she was loved.’

  ‘This Mary… Do you think Mum has a half-sister somewhere?’

  Adam shrugged and dredged up more words. ‘Of civilization and humanity, fear bought my silence and love… Who keeps silence consents. He was obviously afraid of something, something with which he didn’t feel comfortable.’

  She understood not feeling comfortable with something: she’d been tempted to commit adultery. Had Grandpa been tempted? Had he loved two women? ‘Afraid of admitting they existed?’

  ‘It’s possible your grandfather couldn’t be sure she was dead, Charlotte.’

  ‘You can’t be suggesting he was a bigamist.’

  ‘There is no atonement too great, eternal…’ Adam shrugged. ‘He felt guilty about something… I have sinned. He was obviously a man with a keen sense of morality. Bigamy wouldn’t have sat happily with him.’

  Lucy glowered at him.

  Adam pursed his lips. It’s not impossible, Lucy. Illegitimacy would have been a terrible stigma in those days. If his first wife hadn’t been declared dead…’

  She pushed the photographs away from her. ‘It would be best if we don’t mention any of this to Gran or Mum. Not until we know more.’

  ***

  Adam lay awake long after Charlotte had gone to bed. He gave up trying to sleep and opened his laptop. He’d kept something about these photographs to himself and he needed to research them before sharing his suspicions with Charlotte. He put on reading glasses and turned over the photographs. Were those faded yellow shapes Stars of David?

  Who were they, and more to the point where were they? He held the sepia image closer. Pivtu… or Pirtu, Portu? Could be porta… gate… The next word was wegva?’

  He held the image closer to the light. Negva? Negra? Nigra. Black… Porta Nigra, Black Gate. The writing on the bottom of the photograph of Miriam looked like W. Fischer, Grabenstrasse. The rest he couldn’t make out.

  He typed in Porta Nigra and clicked on images. One was of a black horse, but the others showed a huge three-story building with rows of round-topped openings and a square four-story tower. ‘Bingo. Trier.’

  If these were Jews, visiting or living in Germany at the start of the Second World War, and Walt failed to get them back to England, no wonder the old man had nightmares. No wonder he felt guilty. Somehow, he’d escaped with his life.

  Fata viam invenient… the Fates will find a way. He could be playing a dangerous game with Charlotte and Lucy’s feelings. Auribus teneo lupum. If the wolf was free, it could come back to bite them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Charlotte woke, her neck stiff from resting it on Adam’s shoulder. Frankfurt airport rotated slowly below her and her ears popped painfully. They touched down and taxied towards the terminal. Adam gathered their hand luggage: travelling light, it was all they’d brought. Nodded through, nothing to declare, they headed straight for the hire car.

  ‘Have you driven on the continent before?’

  ‘We… I’ve always used trains and buses. There’s a first time for everything.’

  ‘Oh, great.’

  She slid into the passenger seat of the little Opel and pushed buttons on the satnav. Directions came up on the screen and a voice spoke, in German.

  ‘Oh, great. I set the wrong language.’

  ‘Worry not. German is my second language. It’s left out of the main gate.’

  ‘French is my second language. It doesn’t mean I can understand it.’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  A lorry careered towards them, hooting. ‘The other side of the road.’

  He yanked the wheel. ‘Which way do I go round this roundabout?’

  ‘Anti-clockwise, you idiot. Jesus, Adam. Why did I agree to this stupid trip?’

  ‘Hellcats are not immune to curiosity, and Trier is where your grandfather is leading you.’

  They followed the Mosel River valley, its steep sides clothed with vineyards, some proudly proclaiming their names on huge boards. She recognised the names. Robin liked… She tried to push Robin from her mind, and failed: he was doing what he’d promised and she was gadding around Europe with another man.

  The next terrifying junction convinced Adam that checking into the hotel early and going into Trier on the bus would be preferable to writing off the hire car. They approached reception. She let him do the talking.

  ‘We can take our luggage up to our rooms. There’s a bus every fifteen minutes. They stop over there.’ He pointed vaguely with one hand and handed his credit card to the receptionist with the other.

  ‘I’ll sort what I owe you when we get the bill, Adam, if that’s okay?’

  He nodded but said nothing. Did she catch a flash of relief in his eyes?

  The bus deposited them at a pedestrian precinct and Adam pulled her to her feet. ‘Come on. Food.’ They found a restaurant among the many-windowed terraced buildings in the Hauptmarkt. Adam led the way down into the Roman wine-cellar upon which the restaurant stood. ‘My treat, Hellcat, to make up for scaring you to death with my driving.’

  ‘No. I’ll pay for this. After all, I’m the reason we’re here.’

  He smiled, shrugging his acceptance. ‘If you’re sure. I’ll get dinner, tonight, though.’

  ‘Maybe we should go Dutch?’

  He laughed. ‘In Germany?’

  The windowless room at the bottom of smooth-worn steps was spanned by wide stone arches: lit with roman lamps, and candles, it flickered with yellow light and smelt of lamp oil and wax. Adam pulled out a chair for her at a nearby table and sat opposite.
He leaned across the table and took one of her hands in his. ‘It’s great to be here, with you.’

  She smiled, but an approaching waiter saved her from having to reply.

  Adam studied the menu. ‘I fancy the ham with figs and myrtle.’

  ‘A two millennia-old recipe? As long as the ham isn’t two thousand years-old, I’ll have the same.’

  They ate the meal with a local wine, and fed each other grapes for desert. It was a moment she never wanted to end.

  Porta Nigra, the Black Gate, the image that had brought them across Europe, took her breath away. Made from blocks of grey sandstone, weathered black, it straddled the road, defensive and powerful. Two arches in the windowless ground floor allowed access to the far side. She almost expected chariots to race through, or guards with spears and shields to block their way. Above, on both sides of the gates, rows of windows stared down on them, guarding every direction from round towers. She took the photographs from her handbag. Miriam had stood on almost the same spot. A memory stirred. ‘Weasel-wolf.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Adam’s brow furrowed. ‘I thought we were past all that.’

  ‘It was a story Grandpa used to tell us, when we were little. No, not Weasel-wolf.’ She groped for the shape of the word, drawn inside a colouring book one long-ago summer day. ‘Wselfwulf.’

  ‘Wselfwulf? Not a story I know.’

  ‘The wolf tried to eat the woodcutter’s daughters. To protect them he gave the wolf his neighbours’ children to keep him happy. Eventually he asked the king to rid the country of the wolf.’

  ‘Why, had he run out of children? Nice story this.’

  ‘Grandpa said it was a cautionary tale. The woodcutter felt guilty about what he’d done. The king offered his daughter’s hand in marriage to anyone who could kill the wolf. A prince accepted the challenge, but he made a deal with the wolf… the princess in exchange for gold. When it came to it he realised he loved the princess, so he stole both the woodcutter’s daughters and gave them to the wolf instead.’

  ‘Oh, great. So?’

  ‘The castle the princesses lived in? This is it, exactly how Grandpa described it. That’s the tower where they were locked to keep them safe from Wselfwulf.’

  Adam stared at the top of the tallest tower. ‘It worked for the king.’

  ‘But not for the woodcutter.’

  She shook away the prickling feeling of pale wolf eyes, and betrayal, and looked back at the photographs. ‘How are we going to find out anything about Miriam and her family?’

  ‘We’ve confirmed they were here. That’s a start. There’s a museum.’

  It could be that easy? ‘Another carving?’

  Interesting though the museum was there was no carving and nothing to point the way.

  ‘Charlotte, have you looked at the back of the photographs?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

  He pointed at the faint yellowed stars. ‘That’s a Star of David. It’s a Jewish symbol.’

  ‘I know what the Star of David is. Miriam and Mary are Hebrew names. Look at the clothing, the family features.’

  ‘You realised they could be Jewish?’

  She nodded. ‘How do you suppose Grandpa came into contact with Jews?’

  ‘Jewish communities exist in England… These could be holiday snaps… they could have been visiting relatives. There’s a small Jewish community here in Trier.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I did a bit of research before we came. There’s a synagogue in Kaiserstrasse.’

  ‘The Flames of Hope were on display in a cathedral.’

  Adam consulted the guidebook. ‘The Landesmuseum is not far from Kaiserstrasse. Two birds, one stone…’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  At the junction of Kaiserstrasse and Hindenburgstrasse, a square building of pale stone stood amidst trees. Leafy shadow mottled the canopied porch at the top of steep steps, and rows of triangular windows perforated the walls. In one wall was a window in the shape of the Star of David.

  A bicycle leaned against the handrail at the foot of the steps. They mounted the steps and pushed open the door. The interior flickered with candlelight.

  ‘Shabbat Shalom.’ The voice was deep and welcoming.

  Adam put a hand on her arm. ‘Oh Lord, Saturday is the Jewish Sabbath.’

  She should have covered her head or something, shouldn’t she, or removed her shoes?

  The owner of the voice approached and Adam stepped forward. ‘Shalom… We’re sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘English? It is not against Jewish law to converse on Shabbat.’ The rabbi raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Though it’s seldom we are blessed with gentiles on such a day. I am Rabbi Malachi Cohen. What brings you here?’

  ‘I’m Doctor Adam Bancroft and this is Charlotte Masters.’

  She took photographs from her handbag and held them out in silence.

  The rabbi glanced at them and motioned his guests towards the door. ‘The light is better outside.’ He peered through wire-rimmed glasses. ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘We’re not sure.’ Adam showed the rabbi the Stars of David on the reverse of the photographs. ‘We think the woman is Miriam Hofmann. She may have had family here. This could be her daughter, and this some of her family… the György’s. It’s possible they are connected to Charlotte, here.’

  ‘You wish to trace them?’ The rabbi looked at her, his tone doubtful.

  Adam squeezed her hand gently. ‘I don’t expect that’s likely.’

  ‘May I borrow these photographs? If you meet me here tomorrow, I may be able to help you.’

  ‘Please take care of them. They’re the originals.’

  ‘I realise how precious such images are, child.’

  She delved in her bag. ‘And we wanted to know about these. We believe another exists, somewhere.’ She held out the other photographs.

  The rabbi took them from her. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘My grandfather carved the flames and the wolf, years ago. We’re searching for their meaning. The trail has led us here…’

  ‘Meaning?’ Rabbi Cohen gave her an odd look. ‘These are Flames of Death, a constant reminder of our loss and our mortality. The meaning is clear, is it not?’

  Adam pointed at the photograph of the Coventry carving. ‘This one is called the Flames of Hope.’

  ‘They’re not just carvings. They’re hollow… each holds words, photographs…’

  ‘And hair and carved candles,’ Adam added. ‘Hair of innocents: candles to burn eternally in their memory.’

  Pain fled across the rabbi’s gentle face. ‘Come.’ He led them back inside. At the rear of the synagogue, on a small cloth-covered table with a candle burning at either side, stood the last of the five carvings. ‘These are the Flames of Death, the Flames of Shoah.’

  She frowned. ‘Shoah?’

  He bowed his head briefly and turned to face her. ‘The nearest translation would be calamity. I remember the day the parcel arrived from England. Many years ago.’

  ‘Grandpa died in 1985.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sorry. It is a powerful image in our history and it moved me very much. Your grandfather asked that we display it to honour our dead. I have his letter here, in the safe. If I remember correctly, conditions are attached to us having it. Come tomorrow, at ten?’

  ‘Thank you, we’ll be here.’ Her heart pounded as she walked down the steps. ‘This is the last one? We’ll get to find out what it’s all about?’

  ‘I do hope so.’ Adam looked at his watch. ‘We can’t do anything until tomorrow and we have the afternoon to kill. How about doing something really Roman?’

  ‘The Kaiserthermen? The Landesmuseum?’

  ‘I was thinking more of lying on a bed of crushed rose petals, and being fed grapes while rubbing scented oils onto your back, your thighs, your…’

  She ached with need. ‘It sounds wonderful, but…’

  His eyes held hers. ‘Si vis amari,
ama.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘If you wish to be loved, love.’

  Her reply spilt from her lips before she could stop it: the only Latin she’d learned at school. ‘Apudne te vel me?’

  Adam laughed. ‘Your place or mine…. Brazen hussy.’

  She took his outstretched hand. No-one had ever made her feel like this before. Brazen hussy… She deserved happiness, didn’t she? Reaching the road she glanced back at the synagogue, unable to shift the image of the tortured carving. She had a chilling conviction that, of the five, this was the most aptly named: the Flames of Death, the Flames of Shoah.

  ***

  Charlotte paused outside the door to Adam’s hotel room.

  His lips met hers, chaste but lingering. ‘I can wait until you’re sure, Charlotte.’

  She didn’t want chaste. She didn’t want to wait. He bent to kiss her again, his lips firm and passionate. Her stomach tied itself into knots and the tangle travelled downwards making her tremble with longing. ‘I am sure, Adam.’

  He pushed open the door: the click as it closed behind them made her heart beat faster. He lifted her, one arm around her waist and the other beneath her knees. She clung around his neck, kissing his lips, his neck, his cheek. He moved towards the bed, tripped over the rug at its side and deposited her in a heap on the duvet.

  She giggled helplessly. ‘Your take-off was impressive but you could do with some work on your landing.’

  He silenced her with a kiss. ‘You’re so damn fussy.’ He undid the top button of her blouse. ‘I suppose I’ll be getting marks out of ten, now?’

  She tugged at his belt, her need urgent. ‘Nil, so far.’

  He grinned. ‘The only way is up, then.’ Two more buttons came undone.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than this… oh.’

  He’d finished with the buttons. He looked at her body appraisingly. ‘If you can give marks out of ten, it only seems fair I can, too. Seven?’

  ‘You… just you wait.’ Her jeans and briefs followed her blouse.

  ‘That’s gone up to eight and a half.’ His lips smothered her retort. His jeans joined hers on the floor. ‘How am I doing?’

  His hands and lips caressed her breasts and stomach. ‘Four.’ His kiss took her breath away.