by Sarah Rayne
As he hesitated, trying to make up his mind to go through the door, something glimmered in the darkness beyond it. Something that was small and pale, and something that had long chestnut hair … As Leo stared, caught between fear and fascination, the outline half-turned, and he saw that a second figure, almost identical, stood there as well. Hands, small, soft, fragile, came up and beckoned to him.
There are moments in life when what you most want in all the world suddenly seems within your grasp, and logic deserts you. In that moment, Leo was aware only of a surge of delight. Sophie and Susannah! he thought, and went eagerly into the dark corridor and down the flight of stairs.
At first he could see them clearly, but as he plunged through the dimness, they seemed to recede and several times their outlines blurred. Then they were there again, moving away from him. Sophie turned and beckoned once more, and Leo went forward eagerly. This was where he had come that night, struggling against the pain in his head, fighting the fever and nausea.
Expecting at any minute to see the twins, he went on, towards the row of doors he remembered. He was level with the third door, when he realized that footsteps were coming into the corridor behind him, from the main hall. He stopped and looked back. Had someone followed him in? Perhaps it was almost twelve o’clock and Mr Hurst had come to look for him.
And then cold horror washed over him, because a soft voice came out of the dimness.
‘Children, where are you?’
It was the thick, breathy whisper Leo had heard all those years ago. It was with him, here in this narrow passageway. As he tried frantically to think what to do, a figure appeared in the corridor. It was indistinct in the uncertain light, but Leo could see that it was small and hunched over, as if the person was deformed. To walk towards it was unthinkable, so Leo turned and plunged towards the furnace room. Towards Sophie and Susannah, said his mind. They would be waiting for him. ‘We’ll always be linked,’ they had said on the night they had left Warsaw. ‘We’ll always know if you’re not all right, or if you’re in trouble.’
But that was six years ago, said Leo’s mind. They vanished six years ago; they can’t still be here, looking exactly the same, they can’t.
The words reached him again.
‘Children, are you here? I’ll find you wherever you are …’
And underlying the words, as if tapping out a rhythm, was a clicking. Machinery, thought Leo, and his mind looped back over the years. Old machinery starting up.
The furnace room was only a few yards away now. If he could get in there, he could slam the door against that horrid whispering figure. The iron door was closed, but a faint glimmer of light showed through the thick round window.
‘Children, where are you?’
The words trickled through the shadows, and Leo gasped, and went towards the iron door. Light, crimson and baleful, poured out, lying across the worn old stones, and he could smell the burning iron. An ancient heat, Sophie had called it.
Sophie and Susannah were not really here. It had only been his mind that had pretended to him that he could see them. He would not see them again.
But he did.
Framed by the iron staves of the old door, as if to make a macabre painting, was the same scene that had printed itself so deeply on his mind all those years ago. The black lump of the furnace, its innards glowing with the fierce, ancient heat, and the figures of the two girls moving through the red light. There was the struggling, squirming figure again, exactly as Leo remembered it.
The heat of the furnace was scorching his eyes, making them water and blurring the scene before him. But even though he could not see it clearly, he knew what was happening, and he knew who was in there. Sophie and Susannah, and the sharp nursing sister – Sister Dulce – whom they had believed was going to feed them to the terrible ovens – the ovens their parents had dreaded. The twins had killed her all those years ago, rather than face the ovens, and they were killing her again today. She would burn alive, all over again.
Leo began to pray that he was asleep and having a nightmare, and that he would wake up at any minute, because none of this could possibly be happening. Then he thought: but what if I’m being given a second chance? A chance to stop it happening? He took a fearful step closer, and behind him the iron door made a slow grating sound. Leo spun round, and managed to grab the door’s handle, dragging it back before it could close. It was much heavier than he had expected, and he had the sudden terrifying impression that someone was standing on the other side, just out of sight, pulling the door back into its frame. In another minute it would clang shut, and he would be trapped.
He did not dare look back to where the twins were. He only wanted to run away and find somewhere safe to hide. He had hold of the door handle and if he could manage to pull it a bit wider, he could dart out into the passageway before it closed altogether. The hunched-over figure might still be out there, but Leo would rather face that than be shut in here with the blazing furnace and the twins, who had suddenly become sinister and menacing. He knew they were still here; even though he had not looked back into the room, their shadows were moving on the walls.
He had not realized he had been shouting for help, but he heard his voice reverberating along the narrow corridor. There would not be anyone to hear, but he went on shouting anyway. Once, something seemed to move in the dark corridor, and Leo yelled to this something to help him, no longer caring that it might be the hunched figure.
He was nerving himself to let go of the handle and trust to luck that he could run out before the door swung shut, when other footsteps rang out in the corridor – real footsteps. A moment later came Simeon Hurst’s voice, calling his name. Leo drew in a shuddering breath of relief, and shouted for help.
‘I’m in here! I’m trapped – I can’t get the door open.’
The farmer was coming towards him. Leo could hear Mr Hurst’s firm heavy footsteps. He was aware of relief, because no one – not horrid whispering voices or shadowy figures – would dare to oppose Mr Hurst.
He shouted again. ‘I’m in the furnace room! The door’s trying to close – I can’t get out! And the furnace is burning—’
Simeon had reached the door – his thick, comforting bulk filled the doorway, and Leo had never been so glad to see anyone in his life. Simeon did not waste time in asking questions; he dragged at the door. It seemed to resist, then Hurst’s extra strength and weight prevailed, and he pulled it wide, banging it back against the stone wall. Leo tumbled through, and half fell against the passage wall.
The furnace was still roaring up, and Simeon, clearly puzzled, went towards it. Leo, huddled in the stone passage, saw two shapes creep out of the shadows. Their outlines were densely black against the red glow, but they were small and fine-boned, and they had long hair.
‘No!’ cried Leo, in panic. ‘Come out! Come out now, oh, please.’ He scrambled to his feet and started towards the iron door, but Simeon did not seem to hear him. Instead, he went up to the furnace, and picked up a long iron rod with a black hook at one end that was lying nearby.
Simeon Hurst’s outline was silhouetted blackly against the roaring crimson furnace, like a cut-out figure. He was intent on shutting the furnace door, and he was slotting the rod in place, so he could push the cover back. Leo started forward, then paused, fearful that the door might start to close again and trap them both inside.
Simeon almost had the furnace door closed, when a sheet of flame seemed to spit outwards, and a tiny crackle of flame caught the edge of his coat. He cried out and the rod slipped from his hands and clanged noisily on the stone floor as he beat at the tiny licking fire. Leo darted across to him, but Simeon had already fought himself free of his coat and had flung it down, stamping out the flames to douse them. Without looking round, he said, ‘Leo – stay clear – it’s not safe.’
‘But—’
‘Stay clear, I tell you.’
There was such a commanding note in his voice that Leo did as he was told.
Mr Hurst’s jacket was no longer burning, and he would know what to do about the furnace. It would be all right.
Hurst reached for the hooked rod again, but in doing so he seemed to miss his footing or perhaps he tripped on the uneven floor. He stumbled forwards, flinging up his arms. Leo cried out and bounded across the floor, but it was too late. Simeon Hurst fell head first into the scarlet roaring depths.
The furnace blazed up and there was the nightmare, never-to-be-forgotten sound of Hurst screaming through the fire, and of the triumphant roaring crackle of the fire itself. Leo grabbed the iron rod, hardly noticing that its heat blistered his fingers, and tried to thrust it into the furnace. He was panic-stricken and terrified, but through the panic he had a confused idea that Mr Hurst might somehow be able to grasp the rod and be pulled out.
He could not, of course. There was a moment when Leo could see his silhouette within the flames – writhing, the hands clawing as if for freedom, his hair blazing and flames shooting out of his eye sockets. Then he simply folded in on himself. The fire died down, licking greedily over what was left.
The worst part was the smell. It was exactly the same smell as the kitchen at Willow Bank Farm when Miss Hurst roasted their Sunday dinner. Hot and greasy. A scent that would normally make you think of gravy and potatoes. Leo’s mouth filled with water, then he bent over retching.
He had no idea how long he remained like that, cold and sick, but when finally he was able to go back up the stairs the hunched-over figure had vanished. Leo was shivering so violently he felt as if his bones might break apart, and despite the blazing heat of the furnace a short while ago he was so cold he thought he would probably never be able to get warm again. But he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and went to find someone who would tell him what should be done.
What had been done became a nightmare of confusion and grief, but men had come in response to Miss Hurst’s telephone call, and had taken charge.
Later, ashes had been scraped out of the now-cold, now-quiescent furnace so that a funeral service could be held and decent burial be given. There was some kind of official enquiry, and Leo had to explain to a policeman what had happened. He tried to do this as clearly as he could. Mr Hurst had stumbled, he said, and fallen into the furnace. No, he did not know how the furnace came to be alight. No, he had not touched anything – of course he had not. Asked why he had been there in the first place, he said he had been exploring; he remembered being there when he had meningitis as a small child, and he was curious to see the place again. He did not say anything about seeing Sophie and Susannah, because he was no longer sure if he had seen them, and he did not say anything about the figure who had called for the children.
The policeman said he had done very well, and he was not to worry. He would not have to attend the enquiry or the inquest.
People in the small farming community were shocked and horrified at Simeon Hurst’s terrible death, although several hardier souls asked if it was true that it had not been possible to distinguish the contents of the furnace from his remains, so that the funeral might be read over nothing more than, well, over bits of clinker?
The verger said that this was unfortunately true, but the vicar was going to hold the service anyway, and they must just trust in God that they would be chanting the Twenty-Third Psalm and praying for the resurrection of life over some remaining bits of Simeon Hurst at the very least, and not over pieces of anthracite. As for those attending the wake at Willow Bank Farm afterwards, the vicar had said they were please to remember not to refer to funeral bak’d meats under any circumstances whatsoever.
Several ladies from the neighbourhood came to the farmhouse on the morning of the funeral to cut sandwiches and make tea and coffee, because Miss Hurst, poor soul, could not be expected to cope. Leo could perhaps help with handing round the sandwiches, could he? When Leo said he could, the ladies were pleased and told one another what a very nicely behaved boy he was, and how well repaid Simeon and poor Mildred had been for taking him into their home.
Mildred Hurst lay on her bed and sobbed for two days, after which she got up, put on a black frock of ancient cloth and forgotten style, netted her hair, and presided ferociously over the sandwich-cutting party. The sandwiches were egg and cress, cheese and chutney, and shrimp and anchovy paste. Leo heard one of the ladies say that ham was the usual offering, but that nobody had had the heart – or the stomach – to bake a ham.
During the sandwich-cutting Miss Hurst was given several glasses of elderflower wine by one well-meaning lady, and several glasses of brandy by another, neither of whom realized what the other had done, both of whom thought it would help the poor soul to pluck up a bit. After the second round of brandy, Miss Hurst said that she was perfectly all right, and Simeon would not have wanted a lot of wailing and beating of breasts. Everything must be devout and respectful, and please would people cut that bread thinner for the sandwiches otherwise it would not go round and she was not made of money.
Leo sat next to her during the service, and hoped nobody noticed that she took frequent and furtive sips from a small silver flask. Before the congregation went out to the graveside, she sprayed the front of her fur tippet with a scent bottle labelled Attar of Roses. It smelled peculiar, but it helped cover up the brandy fumes.
During the wake at the farmhouse, Leo heard the vicar’s sister say that Deadlight Hall had been shut up and a fence put round it. ‘Downright dangerous,’ she said, disapprovingly, and the lady to whom she was speaking said, in a low voice, that it was not the first time there had been a dreadful tragedy there.
‘I suppose they’ll try to sell it,’ said her listener.
‘Oh, they’ll try,’ said the vicar’s sister. ‘But I shouldn’t think they’ll succeed. Nobody will want it.’
THIRTEEN
Life changed after Simeon’s death. The farm began to fail, not all in one tumble, but little by little. Things that wore out were not replaced. Livestock dwindled. Crops did not have just one bad year, which most farmers expected, but several in a row.
Miss Hurst employed a manager, but the place became less and less prosperous. She herself did not change very much with the years; she continued to have her elderflower wine – ‘Just a little nip for comfort,’ she said – and the vicar continued to call regularly. Miss Hurst was always pleased to see him – a very kind gentleman, she said, entirely trustworthy, and most helpful over financial affairs. She did not understand these things, and Simeon had always handled such matters. If she had to go to the bank or the solicitor’s offices, the vicar always accompanied her, and his sister went along as well, because dear Cuthbert was an unworldly soul, and must be guarded against hussies such as Mildred Hurst. So they had gone all together in the vicar’s little rattletrap car, Miss Hurst in the back, her feet primly together, the vicar’s sister seated in the front so that Miss Hurst could not throw out any lures.
After Mildred’s death, there was a note for Leo which the solicitor handed to him.
‘I can’t leave Willow Bank Farm to you, Leo,’ she had written. ‘I should like to, but there are cousins who have a legal claim and there’s nothing I can do about it.’ Reading that, Leo had supposed there was some kind of entail. He had never expected to be left the farm, anyway. But Mildred Hurst had left him a fair sum of money. ‘The life savings of my brother and myself,’ the note said. ‘Dear Leo, you were the son I never had.’
Leo had cried over that, quietly and genuinely. He wished he had known what she meant to do, because he could have told her how very grateful he was, not specifically for the money, but for the home she and her brother had given him.
The vicar’s sister had been right in saying nobody would want Deadlight Hall. It had crouched on its patch of scrubby land, quietly decaying, its windows falling in, its stonework gradually covered by creeping moss and lichen. Sometimes Leo had frightening dreams about the misshapen shadow who had walked the dark corridors, and the voice calling for the children. After a while
the dreams became less frequent, but they never quite went away.
He never forgot Deadlight Hall. Of course he did not – it was not the kind of place anyone could forget. It was reassuring, though, to remember that it was still standing empty. No one will ever live there, he had thought. It will fall down of its own accord in the end, and the shadow and whatever was in that furnace room will go.
But if he was able to push Deadlight Hall into the corners of his mind, he was never able to do the same thing with Sophie and Susannah. Just as Deadlight Hall was not the kind of place to forget, Sophie and Susannah were not the kind of people to forget, either.
As the years slid past he gradually accepted it was unlikely he would ever find out what had happened to them.
London
1944
Dear J.W.
Later today I shall try to get on a train for the journey home, although it is not easy to do so, and I may have to make several attempts. All the trains are constantly crowded with service men and women, some wounded, others who are joining or rejoining their regiments. So although I hope to be home in the next few days, it could be longer.
Yesterday I heard from Schönbrunn – a letter sent from the very lip of Auschwitz itself. I cannot begin to imagine how he was able to get a letter out from there, but it should not surprise me that his remarkable network stretches even to the town of Oswiecim. He has never talked much about that network, but from time to time I have had glimpses of it – of people with whom a letter or a message can be left … A small shop in an unobtrusive side street where the shopkeeper can be trusted … Stone bridges spanning narrow rivers where there are cavities within the stones, allowing messages to be left for collection …
At times I almost wonder if Schönbrunn is real, for he seems to inhabit the pages of an adventure story or some strange and vivid fantasy. There have been occasions in his company when I have remembered the old legends, and in particular that of the Golem of Prague – the real one, that is, not the two that Leo and the Reiss twins had. You know the old tale, of course – indeed, it is part of our heritage. How that Golem was constructed of clay, and brought to life to defend the Prague ghetto How, later, it was entombed in a hiding place in the Old New Synagogue, and how, when the tomb-like hiding place was broken open at the end of the nineteenth century, no trace of it was found. And how it is prophesied that the golem will be restored to life again if it is ever needed to protect our people.
