The Devil's Harmony, page 23
When the birth began, Tanwen thought she was going to die. She clung to Irina and sobbed and gasped, and begged her to do something to end it. But then, incredibly, at the end of the pain was a tiny scrap of humanity, who, even from the first, had a disconcerting way of looking at the world with her father’s dark eyes. And Yan’s daughter had his instinctive response to music as well. Early on, when she cried, Tanwen tried playing one of Brahms’ lullabies on her violin. The effect was magical. The baby was at once calmed and entranced. None of that could be allowed to get under Tanwen’s skin, though, and the child must never find out that every time her mother looked at her she was pulled back to a night that should never have happened. A night when barriers had come down, and this baby’s father had confessed to committing a murder.
When it was time to leave the child, Irina said Tanwen would have to steel herself to do so.
‘You can’t take her with you,’ she had said. ‘And I have a friend – a restaurant owner near the Street of Music – who has a cousin in the Kampinos Forest. Some help is wanted there, so that’s where I’ll be going. Helena will come with me.’
The Kampinos Forest sounded safe and rural and rather peaceful. Tanwen was glad to think of the small, helpless Helena being safe.
The journey out of Warsaw to her parents’ home was long and tiring, and also quite dangerous. Twice SS men boarded the train, demanding to see everyone’s papers. They glared suspiciously at Tanwen for what felt like a very long time. She glared back, because her papers were all in order, and there was no reason why they would haul her away to some sinister destination. Even so, it was a relief when the officers left the train, and it rumbled on its way again. She had not been especially frightened; in fact she looked forward to telling her parents all about it. Her mother would listen, round-eyed with astonishment at such dreadful things, and Father would say she was a brave girl and he would like to punch those men who had intimidated her.
Father.
Irina’s words that day had stayed with Tanwen; they had gnawed at her mind. ‘Georg Malek will never come to this house,’ she had said. ‘He knows that if he does, I will certainly kill him.’
What could Tanwen’s father possibly have done to warrant such hatred – because there had undoubtedly been hatred in Irina’s voice and in her face. Father could be a bit of an old fusspot, of course, and he was shockingly old-fashioned and irritatingly prim and prudish, but that hardly warranted somebody wanting to kill him.
When at last she reached her parents’ house, it felt as if she had stepped into another world. Their village was a long way from the city and the eye of the storm; Tanwen thought at times you might almost even be able to forget there was a war being waged, and that Poland was in the grip of the German armies. Her mother was quiet and unquestioning of everything. Her father came and went, vaguely referring to ‘business’. Tanwen’s mother said, proudly, that he still received a great many letters, and also telephone calls, and that people often came to the house, wanting to see him about business matters. No, she did not know what any of those business matters were, of course she did not.
The months before Helena’s birth – the Library, Yan, the birth itself – began to feel distant, like something in a dream, although news of the war reached them, of course. Warsaw was at the mercy of the Third Reich by now, and most people understood that the city was seen by the Nazis as one of the main goals to complete subjugation of Poland. They viewed it as a core of defiance and potential rebellion, and they were doing everything they could to crush this core before it could spread.
Letters came from Irina at erratic intervals. Tanwen supposed that not all the letters sent actually reached her, because you could no longer trust the postal services. Irina did not put an address at the head of any of the letters, which would be because of the censor. Everything she wrote sounded perfectly innocent and ordinary. She sent good wishes, and said that she, and people Tanwen had known and been close to, were safe and well, and Tanwen had no need to worry. Tanwen knew Irina was talking about Helena, and she was reassured.
Her parents invited neighbours to the house one evening, so that Tanwen could play to them. Tanwen made a show of reluctance, but of course she allowed herself to be coaxed into agreeing. Mother found a white frock with ruffles which had been left in the back of a wardrobe when Tanwen went away to the Academy, and father said delightedly that she must certainly wear that for the evening, she would look a picture.
The frock was frightful. It made her look about fifteen, but the neighbours all smiled indulgently, and said things like, My word, Georg, isn’t your little girl clever. Tanwen hated them for not knowing what she had been through, but she smiled, and looked modestly at her feet, and played a Mozart sonata. Father beamed with pride and sat well forward in his chair, as if he could not bear to miss a single note. Seeing this, and later, watching him hand round drinks to the neighbours, and look on approvingly as Tanwen’s mother brought in platters of food, Tanwen was very much inclined to think Irina’s words had been due to some stupid misunderstanding.
But the day after that evening, the safe-feeling dreamlike world splintered and the nightmare came clawing in.
She had been putting the stupid, frilled frock away, folding it into a small bundle, and stowing it at the bottom of an old suitcase in the guest room where it was not likely to be found and brought to her again for her to wear.
Tucked inside the suitcase was a large envelope, which was probably of no interest whatsoever, and need not be opened. However, it might contain newspaper cuttings about Tanwen, so it was worth taking a look. When she won the Żelazowa Award, Father had gone along to several newspaper offices – local ones here and also a couple of the larger city ones – to tell them about it, saying he believed this was called a human interest story. The result had been a couple of articles – the fact that the award had been given by an anonymous benefactor had spiced it up, of course, and Father had said this would all help her to get into one of the prestigious concert halls. In a way he had been proved right, because the Chopin Library, although small, had been very prestigious indeed.
There was a cutting in the envelope – a magazine report of the award ceremony for the Żelazowa, and a description of how Tanwen had played the Mozart rondo. She had read it at the time, of course, but it was always nice to read these things again.
But also in the envelope were letters and what looked like notes of a meeting. The top letter was handwritten, and simply headed Warsaw. The date was shortly after the Żelazowa Award.
My dear Georg,
Your most generous donation to the Trust’s coffers was cleared today, and I can assure you it will be put to good use.
As for the appointment of your young lady, you can now take it as official. I know I can trust you to get from her details of the workings of the Library itself without her realizing she is being manipulated. As you say, she’s very young, and only just out of the Academy, so I expect she’s still very naïve. To be blunt, this is what we need in those we use as puppets. Have no misgivings about using her, my good friend – think of the eventual glory we shall have in victory.
I am still undecided if you are right about a Resistance strand being woven in the Library, but the attached letter came into my possession recently – better not to ask how! – and could add weight to your suspicions. Please keep it somewhere safe and secret; as well as helping in your investigations, it may also be useful as evidence at some future time.
Since our last meeting, I have heard a whisper that if you are indeed proved right and this rebellion is rooted out, a certain personage might consider giving you a certain honour. I must say no more, but you will know to whom and to what I refer! That said, we must proceed slowly and with extreme caution.
May I advise you to keep your private life separate? The woman with the lodging house may indeed possess all the arts of Salome and Messalina combined, and putting your girl into her house could pay dividends. It could, however, also rebound and jeopardize this entire operation.
Cordially yours.
The signature was not really legible, although by the time Tanwen got to the foot of the page, she was not sure she could have read it if it had been printed in foot-high letters.
Her mind felt as if it was being wrenched into jagged pieces. A puppet, the writer had said, and it was quite dreadfully clear that it was Tanwen he was referring to. Her own father had used her as a puppet – he had deliberately got her into the Chopin Library and then proceeded to get information out of her about its workings and its layout.
Beneath the letter were notes of a meeting held at the Library itself. The members of the Chopin Library Trust had been present, together with Yan and Bruno Sicora.
Yan had objected to the proposal to appoint Tanwen – reading that brought an unexpected pain – but Bruno had supported it. The anonymous donation was referred to, and despite Yan’s objections, the Trust had confirmed Tanwen’s appointment.
But beneath this was another missive.
Dear friend,
Your suspicions regarding G were initially surprising, but when I thought about it, they answered several questions that had been in my mind.
As you say, we certainly need to know more, and seduction might well bring forth some unguarded confidence from him. If you do feel you can play Mata Hari for a night or two, heaven forbid that I should try to deter you, but you’d better let me know, because we’ll need to get T out of the house for the evening. That won’t be difficult – I can arrange for a late practice session, which she’ll jump at. She’s conceived a passion for the maestro – but which of his female musicians don’t do that? I expect she’ll try to seduce him, but whether or not she’ll succeed, I have no idea. He’s a deep one, as you know.
Incidentally, I’ve heard one or two slightly dubious rumours about G’s bedroom tastes, so if you do get him into bed, I hope you can cope!
And if he really is a … I had better not use the word, but if you are right and G is what you suspect, then we both know what must be done. Such people can’t be allowed to live.
Your always irreverent, but unfailingly patriotic Bruno.
As she put down the letter, it was as if white, hurting lights were piercing Tanwen’s eyes. She had been used by her father – everything fitted – dates, names, everything. He believed the Library was the base for a spy network against the Nazis, and he was gathering information about it. And he had engineered her post with the Library, even giving them a donation in return for the appointment. Had he engineered the Żelazowa Award, as well? Had he even been the anonymous donor?
Through the sick disbelief, Tanwen was aware of a thread of puzzlement as to how her father had come by Bruno’s letter. But how often might her father have been in Irina’s house? The memory suddenly came to her of how, when Tanwen had offered to tidy the rooms, Irina said she had more important things to be thinking about. From there it was sickeningly easy for Tanwen to visualize her father furtively searching cupboards and drawers while Irina was not around, looking for scraps of information that might one day be of use. And he had found something; he had found this damning letter, and he had kept it to one day use against Bruno.
Bruno had written that such a traitor could not be allowed to live. He had not used the word traitor, but his meaning had been obvious. Irina had said that if Georg Malek were ever to enter her house again, she would kill him. Had they both really meant that? It certainly sounded like it. When might they do it, though? It might be some way in the future – it had sounded as if their suspicions were still very slight and unformed. They would want to be sure of their facts. Tanwen would want to be sure, as well.
But she thought she would want to be there when they executed her father.
TWENTY-THREE
Thaisa had stood completely still, staring at Helena and the photograph she was holding for what felt like a very long time. It was only when there were voices behind her that the frozen immobility snapped, and she turned to see Phin and the professor and the others coming in.
Nina said, ‘We didn’t know you were in here. Helena said something about going across to the cloakroom – to freshen up after all the drama.’
‘And then we heard the music,’ said Phin.
The music.
Thaisa felt as if her legs had turned to cotton threads, but she managed to reach one of the chairs, and sat down, gratefully, clasping her trembling hands together tightly.
To her astonishment, she heard herself say, ‘Nina, Lucek, please will you ask Helena who she believes is the person in that photo?’
Lucek spoke to Helena, and for a moment Thaisa thought Helena was not going to answer, but then she looked down at the photograph again. She said, ‘Moja matka.’
Thaisa heard Lucek gasp and she saw Nina start slightly. Then Lucek said, ‘She’s saying it’s a photograph of her mother. Only it can’t be – can it?’
‘No, of course not.’ Thaisa took a deep breath. ‘It’s a photograph of me,’ she said. ‘It was taken when I was about seventeen – by my music teacher. She was trying to fathom the workings of a new camera, and we were laughing.’ For a moment she was back in that sunlit picture, herself and Alan enjoying the afternoon. She saw, with a pang, how very different she had looked in the photograph – her hair dark, not the pepper-and-salt grey it was now, her eyes bright and happy because of being with Alan and looking forward to the music festival they were going to enter.
She forced herself to say, ‘You wouldn’t recognize it as me, of course. It was a long time ago, and my hair was dark in those days. But—’
‘I can see the resemblance,’ said Professor Liripine, unexpectedly. ‘The cheekbones and the eyes.’
Thaisa had no idea how to respond to this, so she said, ‘I had it framed for my father to have in here, because … oh, because I thought I’d like him to have it in the room where he spent most of his time.’ She looked at the photo again. ‘But he said—’
‘Yes?’
‘He said in the photograph I looked exactly as my mother looked when she was around that age. When he first met her.’
There was a silence. They’re all working it out, thought Thaisa, and heard Lucek translating for Helena. She saw Helena smile and nod, as if this had not surprised her.
There was only one conclusion that could be reached, of course, and everyone would have reached it. The same mother, thought Thaisa. Making us half-sisters. Different father? Yes, it must have been. But she was aware of unexpected warmth at what had just happened. She was able to look at Helena and think that this was someone who belonged to her – it was even someone who might understand about the fears and the strangeness of her own life. She and Helena could talk properly later – there would be a great many things to find out. Nina and Lucek would help with the language. That, too, brought a good feeling. But for the moment …
She said, ‘Professor – the music. You called it the “Dark Cadence”.’
‘We think that’s what it is. Did you recognize it?’
‘I once heard my father play it,’ said Thaisa. ‘It was just before he died. Many years ago. But I never forgot it. It seemed to me that it was almost being torn from him. My mother was almost distraught at hearing it – she begged him to stop. She said something about being there with him when they had heard it played. “I heard it being played,” she said. “And it was a bad way for them to die”.’
‘Thaisa, you don’t have to tell us anything that might be – well, private,’ said Phin. ‘And we wouldn’t try to find out anything you didn’t want to talk about.’
Thaisa was grateful. She said, ‘You wouldn’t think I’d remember a piece of music after so long – and you certainly wouldn’t think I’d know the music so well after hearing it just that once. But I do.’
‘It isn’t music you’d ever forget,’ said Lucek. ‘Helena must have been very small when she heard it, but she never forgot it, either. It was part of her nightmares.’
‘You said it was known as the “Traitor’s Music”,’ said Thaisa, looking back at the professor.
‘That’s its legend. We’ve more or less established that it was heard the night the Chopin Library burned.’
‘Which means that if we’re trusting the legend at all, a traitor died in that fire,’ said Phin. ‘That he – or even she – was executed. But not in the usual way of being shot or hanged—’
‘Burned to death,’ said Thaisa, and the memory came again. She said, ‘It would have been a bad way to die.’
‘Yes.’ Phin hesitated, and when he spoke again, Thaisa had the impression that he was choosing his words carefully. He said, ‘Is it possible that either of your parents could have been in Warsaw when the Library burned? That they heard the music that night?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t who they were,’ said Thaisa. ‘Not in the way most people know about their parents. They never spoke about their early lives, although I know they were both Polish, and I’m fairly sure they were both from Warsaw.’ She could hardly believe she was saying this – that she was actually stepping into the dark, forbidden waters at last. Always be on guard … Keep people away … But I can’t. Not any longer. And there’s Helena— And this is Helena’s mother, as well as mine.
Helena’s memories might fill in the jagged gaps in Thaisa’s knowledge of the past. They might help to bring the truth into the light – it might turn out to be a terrible truth, but finally knowing it might free Thaisa of all the years of uncertainty and the ingrained compulsion to keep the world at bay and the past sealed up. It might also mean that Helena would be freed from the nightmares.
With the feeling that now she really was stepping into those dark waters, she said, ‘I don’t know what my father might have done as a young man – I don’t know what part he might have played in the war, because …’ She broke off. This was going to be the hardest thing yet, but she would do it. ‘He had a Nazi Death’s Head ring,’ she said. ‘I found it one day by accident. What was called a Totenkopf.’
