by Sarah Rayne
When Leo talked of Sophie and Susannah Reiss, and described what he had seen them do in Deadlight Hall’s furnace room, his voice faltered for the first time.
‘I believed that what I saw that night was my dear twins wreaking a revenge on a woman they thought posed a threat,’ he said. ‘But now—’
‘Now?’
‘Now I am not so sure. But that night I made a vow to myself – and to the twins – that I would never speak of what I saw,’ he said. ‘It was a child’s vow, but it was deeply and genuinely meant. Today is the first time I’ve ever spoken about it,’ he said.
‘A vow made out of loyalty?’ Michael’s tone was hesitant, but Rosendale looked at him eagerly, as if grateful for this comprehension.
‘I can’t be sure,’ he said, ‘because it was a very long time ago, and I was very young, as well as being quite seriously ill. But I think it was mostly loyalty. We – the three of us – had all been through so much, and I believed that nursing sister had been immensely cruel to the twins. I didn’t understand then about the tests they had to do for meningitis.’
‘Lumbar puncture,’ said Nell, nodding. ‘I believe it’s very unpleasant and painful.’
‘Yes. Probably they tried to explain it to us, but none of us had much English. And to have grasped medical terms—’ He leaned forward, his thin graceful hands clasped together so tightly the knuckles showed white. ‘I knew – at least, I thought then – that part of the twins’ motive was to punish that woman,’ he said. ‘But I also thought there was more to it than that.’ He looked from one to the other of his listeners, as if to be sure they wanted him to continue. Michael said, ‘Please go on,’ and Nell nodded.
‘When we were smuggled out to this country,’ said Leo, ‘we were surrounded by an atmosphere of what I can only describe as extreme fear. We had spent the previous two years – perhaps longer than that – in the midst of terror and secrecy. Most of us hadn’t really known any other world. And the one thing we all knew about was what the adults called the ovens. We had heard – half heard – our parents whispering – and we knew fragments of the stories. We knew people had vanished into the ovens – almost every family we knew had a tragedy, a loss.’ His eyes narrowed in memory. ‘It’s difficult to convey to you now the absolute menace those words – the Ovens – held,’ he said. ‘For the children it was tangled up with the grisly old fairy tales. Hansel and Gretel, and the gingerbread house with the oven. Ogres who would grind men’s bones to make bread. It wasn’t until many years later that I understood what our parents had really feared.’
‘Not ovens at all,’ said Michael, softly, almost as if he was afraid to say the words too loudly. ‘The gas chambers.’
‘Yes. They sent us away to save us,’ said Leo. ‘It wasn’t until much later that I understood that. But in those years – 1941, 1942 – the Nazis were combing the towns and the villages for our people. The German High Command had given orders for what they called the “resettling of Jews in the East”. That was a euphemism, of course. What they were doing was interning hundreds of thousands of Jews in labour camps, and then exterminating most of them. So when we saw the old furnace in Deadlight Hall …’ He made a brief, expressive gesture with one hand. ‘We equated it with the nightmares from our home,’ he said.
‘I understand that,’ said Nell, torn with pity for the small boy he had been.
‘Go on,’ said Michael.
‘Sophie and Susannah thought someone was watching the house where they had been placed. Battersby, I think the name of the family was – odd how things like that come back to you, isn’t it? And on that night in Deadlight Hall, they thought they were going to be dragged into the ovens. When I saw – when I thought I saw them with that nursing sister, I assumed they were acting in self-defence. But in light of that journal,’ he said, ‘I’m no longer sure if what I saw was real.’
‘What happened to the twins?’ asked Nell. ‘To Sophie and Susannah?’
‘I never knew. They simply vanished that night. I suppose I could have tried to find out what happened, but I was very young, and I was in a foreign country with strangers.’
‘Did you ever return to your home?’
‘No. But I heard – at second or third hand – that the Nazis did march in,’ he said. ‘So I don’t think there’s much doubt about what happened to my family and the people I knew there.’ He said this with such humility and such acceptance that Nell’s heart twisted with pity.
‘Then, when I was eleven,’ he said, ‘I was taken to the Hall by Simeon Hurst, and I saw the twins again. I knew with my head and my brain that it wasn’t the real Sophie and Susannah I was seeing – of course I did, it was five years after they vanished – but my emotions kept telling me otherwise. Perhaps I wanted them to be still there.’ A pause. ‘And on that day I saw it all happen again,’ he said. ‘Only this time it was Simeon Hurst they killed. I tried to save him, but I couldn’t.’ Again there was the quick expressive gesture with his hands. ‘It sounds like the wildest flight of fantasy,’ he said, ‘but—’
‘You thought you were seeing the murder of the nursing sister replayed?’
‘Yes. I found I could believe that the … the hatred and the terror that Sophie and Susannah had felt that night had remained inside that house.’
‘Printed itself on the walls,’ said Nell.
‘In a strange, child’s way, I even thought I might be being given a second chance to stop it all happening. But tonight, listening to that journal, I have to ask whether it was a different replay altogether I was seeing.’
‘A replay of a much older tragedy,’ said Michael, softly. ‘The burning of Esther.’
‘Tomorrow I may argue against you on that,’ said Leo. ‘But tonight … yes, tonight I can believe that.’
‘What happened about Simeon’s death?’
‘It was put down as a bizarre accident. And eventually I managed to … not forget it exactly, but to put it to the back of my mind. Life went along, and other things overlaid his death. School and study and then Oxford. I came here as a young man,’ he said. ‘And I never left. But the years have been good to me, you know. I like my work and my students. I like being part of Oxford. I enjoy the research and the friendships. Even the little feuds and power struggles that go on. But then I read that Deadlight Hall was being restored – that people would be living in it again – and I couldn’t get rid of the fear that the old hatred – the twins’ hatred and their terror – might somehow reactivate. So I came to you for help,’ he said, looking at Michael.
There was a brief silence, then Michael said, ‘There’s something more, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told us. Is it to do with the twins?’
Leo hesitated, then said, ‘A long-standing nightmare. On the night we were smuggled out of our village, we heard some of the grown-ups talking about the Todesengel. The Angel of Death.’
Nell looked at him questioningly, and it was Michael who said, ‘Josef Mengele. That was what they called him, wasn’t it? My God, yes, of course. Mengele experimented on twins in the concentration camps.’
‘Yes. I didn’t know at the time, of course, but I’ve come to know since, that Dr Mengele was deeply interested in telepathy between twins. He was hunting for case studies. Sophie and Susannah were strongly telepathic. I think he was hunting for them.’
‘Did you find out what happened to them?’
‘No. But that night in Deadlight Hall I heard – and the twins heard – someone prowling through the house, calling for the children.’
‘Children where are you? I will find you, you know,’ said Michael softly. ‘Was it Mengele’s agents, do you think, or … or was it the voice I heard? That the nineteenth-century children heard?’
‘I don’t know. But Sophie and Susannah vanished that night, as silently and as efficiently as if they had been snatched up by someone who knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted. Someone working to very precise orders.’
‘Orders from Josef Men
gele?’
‘That’s what I’ve always thought,’ said Leo. ‘At least – until tonight.’
‘Is there no one – no one at all – who might know about your twins?’
‘It’s too long ago,’ he said.
Nell said, ‘Not necessarily,’ and handed him the letter Ashby’s had sent from David Bensimon.
‘What …?’
‘It probably won’t lead to anything,’ she said. ‘But read it anyway.’
Leo frowned, and began to read. As he did, Nell saw that the pupils of his eyes contracted as if he had suddenly been faced with a dazzling light.
‘How extraordinary,’ he said, at last. ‘Maurice Bensimon.’ His voice sounded faraway, as if he had retreated into the past, or as if he was trying to reach back a very long way in order to unwrap an old and fragile memory. ‘I never thought I’d hear that name again. But this man – this David – says his great-uncle tried to find a silver golem during the years of the Second World War.’
‘And he believes the one you’re selling could be that same figure,’ said Nell. ‘Could it be?’
‘Yes. Yes, I think it must be,’ said Leo.
‘Did you know Maurice Bensimon?’
‘Oh, yes. He taught for a while in the village school I attended – history, it was, although very simplified history because we were all quite young. Infants’ class. It’s a long time ago, but I still remember him. He was a gentle, scholarly man, but beneath it there was a steely core. I think he had immense courage and resilience.’
‘Ashby’s knew him as a collector – something to do with jewellery and silver,’ said Nell.
‘I don’t know what he was. I certainly don’t think teaching was his profession. The conditions in Europe at that time meant people – my people in particular – had to take on jobs that weren’t the norm for them. Sometimes it was camouflage for secret work against the Nazis. What I do know, though, is that Maurice Bensimon was part of some sort of resistance network in the war years,’ said Leo. ‘I think he was part of the escape plan that got us – myself and the other children – out to England in 1943. He worked with Schönbrunn, and Schönbrunn was the real heart of that network. He organized a great many escapes from the concentration camps, and he was a kind of legend. Even as children we knew about him. And when we met him on the night we left our homes for ever … We thought he was a god,’ said the professor. ‘He told us he would save us from the ovens and that we would be safe, and we believed him. And he did save us. He brought us to England.’ The smile deepened for a moment. ‘A remarkable man,’ he said. ‘Very charismatic.’
‘Professor, if you wish, I could ask Ashby’s to forward a letter to David Bensimon,’ said Nell.
She had not been sure how he would react, but the light came into his eyes again at once. ‘Could you do that? Would they agree?’
‘Let’s try,’ said Nell.
TWENTY-SIX
Professor Rosendale’s study was not particularly small, but as Nell and Michael waited with him for David Bensimon to arrive, Nell thought the room was filled almost to suffocation point with anticipation.
She had thought the professor was taking it very calmly, but when they heard the step on the stair, he stood up to face the door, and she saw that he grasped the back of his chair so tightly, his knuckles whitened.
David Bensimon came in quietly enough, and shook hands politely. He was around forty years of age, and Nell had the impression that although he wore casual, unobtrusive clothes, he had taken considerable care in the choosing of them. He had dark hair and eyes, and sensitive hands. He acknowledged Nell and Michael, then stood looking at the professor for a long time, before putting out his hands. As their hands met and gripped, Nell felt as if something had sizzled on the air – as if two electrical leads had been joined and become live.
‘Professor Rosendale,’ said David, at last. ‘I feel I am meeting a part of my great-uncle’s past.’
‘You have a strong look of Maurice. I’m so pleased to meet you.’ The words were conventional; the tone in which they were spoken was filled with emotion. ‘Please sit down,’ said Leo. ‘There is coffee there, or whisky if you prefer.’
‘Coffee, please. I shall keep a level head. Later we can get drunk.’ He smiled, then said, ‘I was right about the golem, wasn’t I? It’s the one Maurice tried to find?’
‘It is. It came to England seventy years ago,’ said Leo. ‘I had no idea your great-uncle tried to find it.’
‘He spent years in the search,’ said David. ‘The family legend is that he was trying to trace two girls. He hoped that if he could find the figure – if someone was trying to sell it – then that might give him a path to them.’
‘But … he didn’t find them?’ Nell thought she and Michael both heard the hope in the professor’s voice.
‘No.’
‘Did he ever mention a man called Schönbrunn?’
David Bensimon’s eyes lit up at once. ‘Ah, Schönbrunn,’ he said. ‘There were so many stories about that man. Maurice died in 1970 – I was only ten at the time, but I remember all the stories. He regarded Schönbrunn as a god, I think.’
‘We all did.’ Leo leaned forward. ‘You said you had letters written by Maurice …’
‘Written by him, and also to him. A number of them weren’t in English, of course, but over the years my family translated them. I’ve brought photocopies of the translations for you.’ He reached into his briefcase and brought out a manilla folder. ‘Some were written to our village – to a man there who was thought to work for Schönbrunn’s network. Later, the letters were found in that man’s house.’
‘Later?’
David Bensimon said, ‘You had better read them for yourself.’
He opened the folder, and Nell and Michael saw the heading – The Village School House, Nr Warsaw, 1942 and the opening line.
The Village School House, Nr Warsaw, 1942
Autumn
My dear M.B.
We agreed that, in the British expression, there would be ‘no names, no pack drill’ in these messages, so I address you by your initials only, and sign in the same way. Forgive the discourtesy, my good friend.
With great reluctance, we have agreed that despite the emotional cost to their families, the children in our village may need to be removed to safety. You mentioned a possible escape plan from the man we both know as Schönbrunn. Does such a plan actually exist? Can you give me information about it? And can it – and Schönbrunn himself – be trusted?
Affectionately,
J.W.
Leo looked up, his eyes clouded with memory.
‘You should read them all,’ said David. ‘It won’t take very long. I’ve put them in chronological order. In places they’re harrowing, but it may answer some questions for you.’
‘Let me pass them to Nell and Michael as I read,’ said Leo. Then, to Nell, ‘You don’t mind that?’
‘Professor,’ said Nell, ‘I’d have been devastated if you hadn’t let us see them.’
For a long time there was no sound in the study, save the rustle of papers. Nell and Michael sat next to each other, reading together. David Bensimon watched, nodding occasionally as Leo looked up having read a particular section, not quite questioningly, but as if to say, This is right?
The clock ticked steadily on the mantelpiece, but Nell thought it was almost as if it had been wound backwards so they could be pulled into this strange, troubled fragment of the past.
When Leo picked up the last letter he recoiled slightly. Then he said, ‘It’s a remarkable story you’ve brought me, David. Your great-uncle – that gentle scholarly man – he did all that. He tried to find the twins – he came to England to search.’
‘And,’ said Nell, ‘he and Schönbrunn went to Deadlight Hall as part of that search.’
‘They heard that voice,’ said Michael. ‘Children, are you here?‘
‘That always puzzled him, I think,’ said David. ‘He never found a satisfac
tory explanation for it.’
‘I don’t think there is one,’ said Michael. ‘How strange to see that Porringer name again.’
‘Paul Porringer was a traitor to this country,’ said David. ‘My great-uncle found that despicable and impossible to understand. But towards the end of his life, when he became a little more talkative about those years, he said no man should have to suffer such a death as Porringer did. I believe he never forgot what he saw.’
Michael said, ‘Professor, these letters – in particular the one about their visit to Deadlight Hall – give even more proof that whatever you saw and heard that night – and again on the day Simeon was killed – it wasn’t your twins.’
‘I know.’ Leo looked at the final letter. ‘One more river to cross, and I think this one is going to be the River of Jordan. Will it be distressing to read this?’ he said to David.
‘Yes. But you need to know.’
‘Yes, I do.’ He reached for his glass, and as he did so, Nell caught sight of the heading. The address was The Schoolhouse, but beneath that had been written:
To J.W. Nuremberg Prison.
The date was October 1946.
Leo suddenly said, ‘Michael, we asked Nell to read Maria’s journal. This was written by a man – would you read it for us?’
‘If you’re sure it’s what you want?’
‘I am.’
Michael took the letter, glanced at the heading, then began to read.
My dear J.W.
I am permitted to send you this letter following your trial. I hope it will reach you before you are led out to your death. I shall think of you on that morning, but …
But, my dear, one-time friend, how could I have been so deceived and for so long? I am cold and sick when I remember how you seemed to help our children to escape – how you warned us that Mengele’s agents were converging on our village, and how you helped with the plans – plans whose details I had given you. And all the time, it seems you were herding those children together – most particularly Sophie and Susannah Reiss – for Dr Mengele’s agents. I can forgive many people many things, but I can never forgive you for that.
