The City of Shadows (36 page)

Somehow they kept together. There was more cloud and less moonlight suddenly, but their eyes had adjusted to the darkness. The torchlight was too far away to catch their backs now. They halted, gasping for breath. The trees were thicker and more regimented here. They were on the edge of a forestry plantation. A narrow path seemed to open up to the right. The stormtroopers were calling out to each other behind them. Then the voices were still. They were listening, listening for movement from their quarry.

Stefan and Hannah plunged into the narrow gully between the walls of trees. It was darker than ever, but the path meant they were making less noise. They ran faster. Suddenly the ground below their feet was no longer there. They were falling. It wasn't far, but in the split second before they hit the forest floor below, it was all they could do not to cry out. Somehow they didn't. The ground knocked the breath out of their bodies. For a minute they lay still. Stefan reached out and found Hannah, lying next to him. She sat up. They filled their lungs with air as quietly as they could. The stormtroopers were near again, still crashing noisily through the undergrowth, still cursing and laughing. Two voices were very close. ‘Listen you arsehole!' ‘I am fucking listening!' ‘Hans, where are you?' ‘Here!' There was another voice, further away. ‘Where's here?' ‘I can't hear the fuckers, can you?' ‘They're somewhere. Flush the bastards out!' There was more crashing about, more cursing. But it was quieter now. The SA men were going the wrong way.

They didn't move. They waited in silence for what felt like a long time, till they could hear nothing, till they were sure their pursuers had gone.

‘You all right, Hannah?'

‘I think so.'

As they stood up the cloud broke. The moon shone through. They had fallen down a low bank on to a broader track. There were piles of felled timber. The road wound away in both directions. They heard a voice again. It seemed much further off, behind them. They had to go the other way.

They began to walk, saying nothing. They kept to one side of the track, close to the line of trees, ready at the slightest sound to disappear into them again. The moon was still coming and going, but the track was wide enough for them to see without light now. They had been walking for half an hour when the road divided. There was nothing to tell them which way to go; they had no idea where they were in the first place. There was nowhere they were trying to get, except away. Hannah shrugged. Stefan's guess was as good as hers. They took the left fork, for no good reason, and walked on for another mile. Then they heard something. They stopped. It was nothing that made them freeze with fear. There were no voices, at least not straight away. It was a deeper, richer sound, not identifiable but already strange. They moved on cautiously towards the noise. It was as they turned a sharp bend in the track, and it sloped rapidly and steeply downhill, that the sound took on real form. It was music. It was the sound of an orchestra in the night. The thick ranks of evergreens stopped. There was a fence and a gate. Beyond it the track wound through pale silver birches. The music was growing louder and clearer. There was a dim haze of light in the distance.

‘What is it?

Stefan listened for a moment, and then he laughed.

‘I'd say Wagner.
Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg
.'

‘Whyever not?' Hannah was laughing too. It was the release of fear.

He took her hand again. Now they could hear voices, singing. The lights were brighter, just a few at first, where the track emerged on to a small, metalled road. The air was full of music, and as the road turned again and the trees thinned, they could see the raked seats of the Forest Theatre. Nothing felt safer than being where there were people, lots of people. They walked towards the theatre and stood watching, where the trees came right up to the auditorium. They could even see part of the stage, where Hans Sachs was singing to the citizens of Nuremberg about the glory of Germany.

Then Stefan looked behind him again. He could hear something other than the music. There were different lights now, headlights, coming out of the forest. Hannah felt his grip tighten on her hand. She followed his eyes. They recognised the vehicle as it pulled on to the road. It was the pickup that had brought Johannes and Karl to the hunting lodge. It stopped. Three SA men leapt down. As the truck drove on they recognised the bearded man who was driving it. The three stormtroopers were walking towards the auditorium. Ahead the truck had stopped again and more brown shirts jumped off. Hannah and Stefan could see the rifles they carried. They were trapped. If they stayed where they were they would be found; if they tried to run they would be seen. The only option was the auditorium itself. They looked at each other, taking in their clothes and their dishevelled hair. Hannah shrugged. They both knew that the only chance was the crowd of opera-goers. They brushed off what dirt they could and slipped quietly into the theatre. They sat at the end of the first row they could find with empty seats. The final words of Hans Sachs rang out. ‘Ehrt eure deutschen Meister.' Pay homage to your German masters. ‘Zerging' in Dunst das heil'ge röm'sche Reich, uns bliebe gleich die heil'ge deutsche Kunst!' If the Holy Roman Empire turns to dust, Holy German Art will still be ours!

With the last note of the opera the audience rose as one in an eruption of applause and cheering. Stefan and Hannah rose with them. Their applause was not for the performance; it was for the fact that they were alive. But as the lights went up and they looked around they became all too aware just how many uniforms, Nazi uniforms, there were in the audience.

The applause was dying down. The orchestra started to play again. It wasn't anything they knew and they moved into the aisle as everyone else began to move, or almost everyone. The crowd was pressing too close for anyone to really notice their appearance. But scattered amongst the audience were a handful of people who didn't move. As Stefan and Hannah shuffled towards the exit an old man stood at the end of a row of seats, unmoving, blocking people's way, and singing. ‘Kennst du die Stadt am Bernstein Strand.' The city on the amber strand. ‘Umgrünt von ew'ger Wälder Band.' Where green, eternal forests stand. People pushed past him, muttering and swearing. But there were other voices now, and another song. A group of SA men had climbed on to the stage, singing the Horst Wessel Song. There was renewed applause. And now everyone had stopped; everyone was singing with them, drowning out the anthem of the Free City. The orchestra changed tunes. ‘Zum letzten Mal wird Sturmalarm geblasen!' The final call to arms rings out! ‘Zum Kampfe steh'n wir alle schon bereit!' We'll put our enemies to rout! ‘Bald flattern Hitlerfahnned über alle Strassen.' Hitler's banners fill every town. ‘Die Knechtschaft dauert nur noch kurze Zeit!' Our time of slavery is done! People were glaring at Stefan and Hannah, not because of their appearance, but because they were not singing. Hannah seemed grimly unfazed. Stefan looked at the man next to him and produced a smile that was as inane as he could manage. ‘Sorry, we're Irish!' The man frowned, not quite hearing, and then laughed. Other people laughed and smiled, as if this explained everything. But as they moved out of the auditorium towards the exit there were Schutzpolizei and more SA men ahead of them. The foyer was still packed with people, chatting and laughing, gathering up coats and hats. It wouldn't be full for much longer. Soon the opera-goers would all be gone.

‘They can't know what we look like, Stefan.'

‘No, if we stick close to all the other people who look like they've just run through a forest at night to get here, we shouldn't have any problems.'

‘The crowd's still all we've got.'

He nodded. It was. Then he heard two voices, just behind him. The words were English and the voices were unmistakably Irish.

‘At least it's stirring stuff.' It was a man who spoke. He was middle-aged, balding, with sharp features and dark, thick brows. He sounded like someone who was trying to make the best of something he hadn't much enjoyed.

‘I like my stirring stuff shorter and a bit less Wagner, Seán,' replied the woman with cheerful indifference. It was obvious she was his wife.

‘And a bit more Mozart?' he laughed.

‘It wasn't even a good production,' she continued. ‘Wagner can be sung in registers other than loud. You really were over the top at the interval, darling. One of the best productions you've seen! Danzig's made you such a convincing liar. I'm never going to be able to believe a word you say again.'

‘I'm unpopular enough here as it is, Elsie. If I can't enthuse about the bloody Forest Opera –'

‘Why worry? Herr Greiser and Herr Forster both cut you dead.'

‘Well be fair, darling, they did cut each other dead too,' the man continued. ‘If the Senate President and the Nazi Gauleiter won't speak to each other except on instructions from Berlin, why should they bother with the poor old League of Nations High Commissioner? Besides, did you really want a conversation with them anyway, Elsie?'

‘Certainly not. Gobshites the pair of them.'

‘Now, now, no political opinions please. It's undiplomatic.'

She laughed as they moved forward towards the exit.

‘Smile and say yes,' said Stefan, putting his arm through Hannah's.

‘What?' She narrowly avoided bumping straight into the woman.

‘Mr Lester? I'm Stefan Gillespie.' He stretched out his hand. Seán Lester looked slightly puzzled as he registered the dishevelled appearance of the stranger, and the fixed grin on the equally dishevelled woman's face.

‘We're over here from Dublin. This is Miss Rosen, Hannah.'

Mrs Lester reached across and shook Stefan's hand, unfazed.

‘I'm Elsie Lester. Shake the man's hand, darling.' She took Hannah's.

‘Hannah Rosen.'

‘Did you enjoy the opera?'

‘We missed quite a lot of it.'

‘That was very sensible of you.'

Lester had now shaken hands with Stefan; he still hadn't spoken.

‘I'll give you a very short version, Mr Lester. Do you have a car?'

‘Yes, I do.'

‘We need a lift into Danzig very badly,' continued Stefan, ‘avoiding the police officers and stormtroopers who may or may not be watching the exits. If they are, they're looking for us, for reasons I haven't got time to explain at the moment. We're both keen not to be arrested, that's the thing.'

‘I'm not with you, Mr Gillespie. Have you done something wrong?'

‘I don't think we've broken any laws.'

‘Mr Gillespie, my position –'

‘It's not easy to go into the details here, sir.' The crowd was thinning out noticeably now. ‘Robert Briscoe said that if I – if we – did get into any tight spots – and I suppose we have done – you might be able to help.'

‘He did, did he?'

‘Oh, and how is Bob?' exclaimed Mrs Lester. ‘It's ages since I've seen him. And do you know Lilly as well?' She looked at Hannah.

Stefan was lost, but Hannah was on board at last.

‘I know Mrs Briscoe, of course. She's a friend of my mother's.'

‘Wonderful! I did see her last time I was in Dublin –'

‘Mr Gillespie,' interrupted Lester, ‘if the police need to speak to you, the easiest things really would be just to talk to them and clear things up. I can't imagine you have anything to be concerned about – as Irish citizens –'

‘Don't be so stuffy, Seán,' scolded Mrs Lester. She put her arm through Hannah's. ‘We'd be delighted to give you a lift, why wouldn't we be? Perhaps you'll pop in for a drink, and possibly a bath.' The two women headed towards the exit. Seán Lester put on his hat.

‘We'd better do as Elsie says then. Bob Briscoe's got a damned cheek. I haven't spoken to the man in years. Just smile and talk about Wagner.'

‘I'm not really that well up on Wagner.'

‘You're in good company here, I can assure you. The Party requires them to worship Wagner, not actually to like his music. I'm rather fond of the old bastard myself, but Elsie's great love is Mozart, especially the Magic Flute. Her view is that if the Magic Flute is the human spirit at its most profound, masquerading as nonsense, the Ring Cycle is nonsense masquerading as something immensely pro-found. I'm not sure she hasn't got a point.'

They walked past the policemen and the stormtroopers, who looked at each other uncertainly. The High Commissioner's car was waiting. It flew the red pennant of the Free State. The chauffeur held open the door. As Stefan and Lester followed Hannah and Mrs Lester to the car, two Gestapo men were close behind. One of them moved forward. The other barked an order and the first one stopped abruptly. Seán Lester turned, waiting for Stefan to get into the car. He smiled amiably and raised his hat. ‘A splendid evening, didn't you think?' He spoke in English. Stefan sat in the car. Lester got in next to him. The chauffeur closed the door. Then the car pulled away. There was nothing the Gestapo officers could do. Elsie Lester was laughing now.

‘That was the highlight of the evening. I could murder a whiskey!'

The house in Silberhütte, where the League of Nations High Commissioner and his family lived, looked like a French chateau, though in pursuing that ideal the architect had concentrated on size at the expense of charm. A year after moving in Elsie Lester still hadn't been into every room; she had eventually decided there must be more interesting things to do. The house was surrounded by its own small park, which was like a green moat keeping the city at bay. It was the only building in sight not swathed in swastikas. The police who stood at the gates were there because a lot of people in Danzig didn't like that. In the drawing room Seán Lester was pouring four whiskeys. Hannah Rosen and Stefan Gillespie, still grubby and dishevelled, sat by the fire with Elsie. The butler who had brought in the bottle and the glasses hovered and fussed behind the High Commissioner.