by Sarah Rayne
If we had known how to disable the furnace that might have saved him, but we did not know, and we did not dare waste time trying to find out. Instead, we tore our hands to shreds trying to get the door open. To no avail. The door resisted our efforts as firmly as if something was leaning heavily against it, or as if – and this really will convince you I went temporarily mad in that hellish place – as if something on the inside was pulling hard on it to prevent it being opened. In the end, the heat became so unbearable that eventually we were forced to stop. Even so, we both had badly blistered hands for some days.
I cannot tell you how long it took Porringer to die, because time ceased to exist in that hellish place. The glow from the furnace turned the room into something from one of the ancient visions of hell. Our shadows, distorted and grotesque, moved across the old stone walls, and more than once I thought other shadows moved with them. Smaller, more fragile silhouettes, their arms outstretched. The old deadlight set into the room’s iron door was bathed in the sullen light; it watched us unblinkingly.
Porringer was screaming, and there was a stench of burning flesh – I cannot find words to describe that, nor is it something that should be described. But at one stage the nausea overwhelmed me, and I was sick, helplessly and messily, spattering on the floor. I think Porringer was dead by that time, for the sounds from the furnace had ceased.
One of the most bizarre, most sinister aspects of the entire incident was that once Porringer was dead, the furnace began to cool. The angry glow faded and the sound of the pipes clanking and growling ceased. There was a ticking as the metal cooled.
We left him – what remained of him – in that room, closing the iron-bound door, and groping our way back through the dark passages. I could not stop thinking about that smeared, blinded deadlight, and how it had seemed to watch everything that happened. That is something else that is in my nightmares.
I suppose Porringer’s body will be found sometime, but I am not sure if it will be possible for it to be identified. I don’t know if there will be enough of it left.
Schönbrunn and I walked rather shakily from the furnace room. Neither of us spoke. Both of us wanted, I believe, to simply reach the good fresh air and the normal world, and to get away from Deadlight Hall as fast as we could.
Neither of us can explain what happened to Porringer. There was no one else with us in the furnace room. It can only be that when Porringer fell against the furnace, the cover was dislodged by his fall and the hinges broke, so that when it swung closed, it somehow locked into place. That, we have agreed, is the likeliest explanation.
But we cannot explain how the furnace itself fired.
As we went up the stone steps to the main hall, Schönbrunn said, ‘There was no trace of the twins here, was there?’ and I heard a note of appeal in his voice.
‘No trace whatsoever. We’ve done all we can here to find them.’
‘Did he really know anything, do you suppose?’ I said, as we crossed the big hall. ‘Because there was that hesitation when we asked him.’
‘I marked that, as well. But …’ He stopped. ‘Listen.’
‘I can’t hear anything,’ I began, then broke off, because I was hearing it now. Through the dim dereliction of Deadlight Hall came the strange and vaguely sinister call we had heard earlier.
‘Children, where are you?’
‘It’s Mr Battersby,’ I said, but even I could hear the uncertain note in my voice.
‘I don’t think it is,’ said Schönbrunn, speaking quietly as if fearful of being overheard.
‘Then who?’
‘I have no idea.’
We went out of the old house without waiting to find out who was calling for the children – I don’t think either of us really wanted to know who it was. We stood for a moment, thankfully breathing in the fresh air, then we drove back to Oxford and our lodgings.
As to Sophie and Susannah Reiss, we still have no information. Porringer wanted us to believe Mengele had them, of that we are sure. And yet there was that hesitation. But we shall not stop trying to find out what happened to them.
Tomorrow I am going to London, and I will follow the twins’ trail from another source – that of the Prague golem that they took when they were smuggled out of Warsaw. It is just faintly possible that whoever took the girls will have tried to sell it – it’s so obviously valuable that it would be a considerable temptation. It’s also sufficiently unusual to be remembered. I have a few contacts in the jewellery quarter of London and I shall approach them – using extreme discretion, of course. I am not very optimistic about finding anything, but it is an avenue that must be explored.
As always, my best regards to you,
M.B.
London 1944
Dear J.W.
Forgive the rather long silence between letters, but since reaching London I have been very much involved in the search for the golem. Sadly, my cautious forays into the jewellery quarters of London have provided no information at all. My approaches met with courtesy and efficiency, but no one could help. One fine old auction house here – Ashby’s by name – has promised to correspond with me if they do hear of such an item being offered, and I have given the name and address of my bank for any possible letters. I am not, though, very hopeful.
I had to put off writing this letter for a while – the Luftwaffe had mounted one of their raids on London, and it was necessary to make for the nearest air-raid shelter. It was full of all kinds of people, and they passed round beer and sandwiches, after which they sang an extraordinary song which referred in the most derogatory of fashions to the physical, and very personal, limitations of the Führer and Herr Himmler. Schönbrunn sang as enthusiastically as anyone (I have no idea how he knew the words) and after the second verse I too found myself joining in. Then the All Clear sirens sounded and everyone went back into the streets and on their separate ways. These are remarkable experiences, even for people such as Schönbrunn and myself, who have seen cities laid waste and devastating tragedy across half of Europe.
Three days ago Schönbrunn heard, through one of his networks of informers and spies, that Dr Mengele currently has three sets of twins in his laboratories – and that two of the sets are girls around the age of the Reiss twins and closely match their descriptions. I do not need to tell you what a bitter blow this is. It may not be Sophie and Susannah, of course, but we dare not take any chances. Schönbrunn is making plans to leave England. His eyes shine with that reckless light, and there is the sense that the air around him crackles with an electrical force.
He has not asked if I will accompany him when he leaves England. I have no idea what I shall say if he does.
My good wishes to you,
M.B
London
1944
My dear J.W.
This morning a letter was delivered to my lodgings from Schönbrunn.
It seems that he left England four days ago and is now on his way to Oswiecim. My heart sinks even to write the name. For you and I, my good friend, know that the name of Oswiecim has been changed by the Nazis. And that it is now known as Auschwitz.
Auschwitz. The name strikes such terror into the soul.
Schönbrunn, cautious as a cat, puts no details of his plans in the letter, and clearly he arranged for it to be delivered after he had left, so that I could not try to dissuade him. Would I have done so? I have no idea.
He says nothing of how he intends to get into the camp, but of course that is what he means to do. You and I know he has got into other concentration camps, and has managed to bring out several of our people. But this is Auschwitz.
He has said he does not wish me to accompany him. ‘You would never pass unnoticed, my friend,’ he says, and I know this to be true. I cannot blend into a crowd; I cannot appear or sound anonymous. He also writes, ‘If you do not hear from me, do not assume I have failed.’
I think I do not need to say he will rescue the children whether they are Sophie and Susannah Reiss
or not – assuming any rescue to be possible, you understand. But, as with everyone who has ever known Schönbrunn, I have utter faith in him. I cannot imagine he will go unchallenged on his journey, but you and I both know his capacity for creating an illusion – both of appearance and of nationality.
I intend to remain here for a little longer, following my own search for the golem.
My good wishes, as always, and a hope that I shall be with you again before too long – as well as a hope that the families we all know will one day be reunited.
M.B.
TWELVE
Over the years, Leo had come to accept that his family had been lost to him. He had never known what had become of his parents or any of the people in the small village just outside Warsaw. There had been times when he had thought he would go back and try to find out, but when it came to it, he had not wanted to do so. He had been afraid of finding that those beloved people had been incarcerated in the concentration camps, and that some had died in the gas chambers. The Ovens, thought Leo. That was our childhood fear. We didn’t really understand, but we were all afraid.
And yet the years with the Hursts had not been as unhappy as they might have been. Simeon Hurst and his sister had been severe and strict; they had not understood about Leo being Jewish, and they had force-fed him with Christianity. But he had come to understand that this had not done him so ill a turn; it had given him his ability to view religion with a wider lens than he might otherwise have done, and had probably led him to studying philosophy and theology – a study that had proved so rewarding and that had led him to his beloved Oriel College. He sometimes thought that because of the Hursts he had worked hard, and because of that he had managed to get to Oxford. More, he had managed to remain at Oxford, and it became his life and his family.
The years at Willow Bank Farm had settled into a degree of stability. There was school and singing in the choir, and there were school activities and friends. The sad memories of his home began to fade a bit. The other memory of that pain-filled, macabre night at Deadlight Hall did not fade, though; Leo did not think it ever would. He did not think the memory of the twins would ever completely fade, either.
But he liked school and he had liked most of his lessons. The Hursts made sure he did his work diligently and thoroughly, and occasionally handed out a few sparse words of praise. Surprisingly, they never missed attending a school concert or a prize-giving, Simeon wearing his Sunday suit and polished boots, Miss Hurst in a knitted hat and black lace-up shoes. They always sat in the front row, and afterwards talked earnestly to the teachers about Leo’s progress. One year, when rationing was starting to ease, the school offered a cold buffet after its Christmas carol service, with a fruit cup rather daringly flavoured with sherry. It was unfortunate that the headmaster, wanting to be hospitable, and pleased to talk to the guardians of his promising young pupil, poured Miss Hurst several glasses of this, after which, inspired by the carol singers, she began her own rendition of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, slightly off-key, and had to be helped out to the battered truck which Farmer Hurst drove. She sang ‘We Three Kings’ all the way back to the farm, then collapsed in a bundled heap in a fireside chair and smiled foolishly at the plate of stew which had been simmering on the stove while they were out.
After that night, Leo had usually managed to steer her away from any alcoholic beverage that was on offer, although it was sometimes difficult, because Miss Hurst made her own elderflower and parsnip wines, which she liked to bring out for visitors. Sometimes, if the vicar called, she became quite bright-eyed and giggly, and said, ‘Oh, Vicar, the things you say.’ Leo thought Farmer Hurst did not like to see his sister being giggly and prodding the vicar with a pretend-stern finger. If the vicar’s sister was there, she always folded her lips tightly like a drawstring purse.
Simeon and Mildred Hurst both said Leo must continue to study hard. Simeon said if God had given Leo the gift of intelligence Leo must be sure to make use of it.
Occasionally they talked about their disgraceful ancestor.
‘A wastrel,’ said Simeon. ‘And he lost us a lot of money.’
‘And land,’ chimed in Miss Hurst. ‘Don’t forget the land.’
‘I don’t forget the land, Mildred, I’ve never forgotten the land. We don’t covet our neighbour’s goods, of course, Leo, and a man cannot serve God and Mammon both—’
‘But that land was once Hurst land and rightfully this family’s,’ put in Miss Hurst, firmly. ‘Our ancestor sold a large piece of land all those years ago,’ she told Leo, by way of explanation. ‘To pay his debts, so we’ve always understood. Women, mostly.’
‘And drink.’
‘Yes, that, too, and woe unto them that rise up early in the morning that they may follow strong drink,’ said Miss Hurst, putting a half-empty bottle of parsnip wine back in its cupboard.
‘He squandered his substance and sold his birthright for a mess of pottage,’ said Simeon. ‘So think on, young man, think on, and avoid suchlike temptations.’
Leo said he would think on, although he did not really know what Simeon meant. But shortly after his twelfth birthday, it appeared that the Hursts now had a chance of regaining the land so wantonly sold by their forbear.
‘A reasonable price they’re asking,’ said Simeon. ‘I don’t know but what we mightn’t manage it, Mildred.’
‘They’ll expect you to haggle.’
‘D’you think so? Yes, I dare say they will. I dare say it’s usual.’ For the first time Leo saw Simeon Hurst uncertain of himself, and he guessed it was because the farmer was not familiar with the buying and selling of anything, and particularly not land.
He said, a bit timidly, that he remembered people at home always haggling a bit; it was part of almost any purchase you made.
‘I told you that, Simeon. They’ll expect you to haggle, I said.’
With slightly more confidence, Leo said that what you had to do was to start at a much lower price than you were prepared to pay. Then you increased the figure a little at a time.
‘Is that how it’s done? I tell you what, Simeon, you take Leo with you. It’ll be good for him to know about the land and the running of the farm.’
‘That’s a good suggestion. Leo, you’ll come along with me, and while we’re there, you’ll mind your manners and not speak unless you’re spoken to, remember. Get your coat, and we’ll be off to see if we can buy back our field.’
Leo, interested in this unexpected departure from routine, sped up to his room to get his coat.
‘We’ll take the old carriage path,’ said Simeon Hurst, lacing up his boots. ‘You’ve never been along there, have you, and it’s a nice walk of a fine morning. You’ll see how the two fields march alongside Willow Bank land, and you’ll understand why it’d be good for this farm to have the fields back. We’ll be back for dinner.’
Miss Hurst said there would be rabbit pie, which Simeon and Leo thought would do very nicely after their long walk.
But if Leo had realized the land adjoined Deadlight Hall, he would have found a reason to remain at the farm. He had never managed to completely push down the memory of the night when Sophie and Susannah vanished. Even though he had clamped a lid over it, the lid sometimes became dislodged, so that the seething memories escaped in little scalding dribbles, like Miss Hurst’s stews sometimes hissed and spilled out on the stove.
As they walked along the carriage path, Simeon pointing out wildlife and flora as they went and explaining about the different crops and how crop rotation worked, a slow horror was stealing over Leo. They were going towards Deadlight Hall. Deadlight Hall, with its iron-bound room and the furnace that roared greedily away. The place where his beloved twins had burned someone to death and then disappeared. But I promised I’d never tell anyone what they did, thought Leo. I promised, and I’ve kept the promise.
As the Hall came into view, a man walked along the path to meet them, hailing Farmer Hurst cordially. This was the present owner of t
he land, who might be prepared to sell it back to the Hurst family. Leo was secretly pleased when Mr Hurst introduced him as if he had been a grown-up. He shook hands politely as he had been taught, and stood quietly while the two men talked. Most of it was incomprehensible – there was a good deal about boundaries and rights of way, and Leo tried not to be bored. Then the man said, ‘Perhaps your boy would like to look around, would he?’ And, to Leo, ‘There’s a badgers’ sett nearby. And someone saw a heron near the canal last month.’
Leo understood that the man would prefer not to talk about the land in front of him, so he said thank you, yes, he would do that, and went off. No, he would not get lost, and yes, he would come back here.
He had not meant to go into the Hall, but it seemed to call to him. All the time he was looking for the heron he could almost feel the house pulling him. Perhaps he should let it. People said you could get rid of a nightmare by looking it in the face, and at home there had been a very old man, a rabbi and a scholar, who had told the children that you could drive out evil spirits by confronting them. You simply had to hold fast to your courage and your faith.
Leo did not think he had very much courage, but in this bright, clean, sunshiney morning, he thought he might have just about enough to look his nightmare in the face. He walked across the overgrown grass, and up the steps to the double doors. As he grasped the handle he was whispering a plea that the doors would be locked, but they were not, and they swung inwards with only a small protest.
The scent of damp and age and despair came out, and the bad memories swirled up, like a cloud of rancid flies. He flinched and almost turned back, but having got this far he must at least step inside. And once inside, it was not so bad. He did not remember much about the main part of the Hall – he supposed he had been too ill that night – and he looked around with curiosity. The schoolhouse at home had had an entrance a little like this – not as large, but there had been the same kind of floor, and the same wide shallow stairs leading to the upper floors. There was the door that led down to the furnace room. Someone had propped it open, and he could see the stone steps.
