In the Claws of the Eagle (7 page)

‘But I’m only nine!’ Izaac said, his jaw dropping.

Helena reached forward and raised his chin. ‘You’ll still have to go to school, but well done, my little wonder. Now give the old dragon a kiss. I deserve it. We can talk vibrato later.’

Erich was doing his homework while his mother painted. He liked the smell of turpentine as it mixed with the piny smell of his pencil parings. She was relaxed, singing quietly to herself,
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot
…They were like two overlapping circles, each with their own centre but each aware of the other. Erich didn’t understand her paintings, splashes of colour and criss-cross lines, but he liked cutting out pictures of ‘real things’ from her monthly magazine and pasting them on to the walls of his room. He would imagine walking into the pictures and having adventures.

He looked up. Grandpa Veit was resting, and Father was still at his work. Erich could see his mother over the top of her easel. The light falling over her right shoulder was catching the curtain of fair hair across her face. Grandpa called her a
Rhine maiden
, so Erich thought Rhine maidens must be the most beautiful people in the world. Yet there was something in the way that Grandpa said it that made Izaac feel protective and possessive about her. People said that he looked like her. Once, when Grandpa had him on his own, he had pushed Erich’s shoulders back and lifted his chin, and had told him he was ‘good Aryan stock’. Erich had no idea what this meant but, like most things Grandpa told him, he kept it to himself.

That evening after work, Mr Solomons, the owner of the timber yard, knocked on their door. They were all there,
Father, Mother, Grandpa and Erich, about to have dinner. Though there was little enough food, Mother, impulsive as always, invited Mr Solomons to join them. He refused politely but stood there awkwardly, a book under one arm, twisting his hat. Then he explained that he had been in Munich on
business
. While there he had gone to an exhibition of modern art. Knowing Mrs Hoffman’s interest, he had taken the liberty of bringing her the catalogue of the exhibition, if she would be so kind as to accept it.

Mother’s face lit up. ‘Oh, how kind, how wonderful.’ In a moment, forgetting all about dinner, beckoning them to her, she said, ‘Come and look, everyone!’ She began turning the pages of the catalogue, exclaiming over the pictures with cries of delight. ‘Oh look: Picasso, and Matisse, that’s Miró surely …’

As his mother was excitedly turning the pages, Erich felt Grandpa’s hand on his shoulder, biting in and drawing him back from the others. When he had been pulled to a safe
distance
Grandpa Veit bent and whispered in his ear.

‘Mustn’t let you get contaminated, boy.’ He made a dusting gesture at Erich’s front as if Erich had rubbed up against
something
dirty. Confused and embarrassed, Erich tried to move away but Grandpa Veit held on to him. ‘Notice that he wouldn’t eat with us?’ Erich supposed he meant Mr Solomons. ‘Because we’re not kosher … we’re unclean, might give him pig.’ The old man’s stale breath blasted in his ear. ‘He’s
poisoning
her now with all that rubbish – modern art – it’s a
conspiracy
, son! All cut-up people, and nudes that nature wouldn’t recognise; it looks like kid’s art, but it’s corrupting; all part of their plan.’

‘Whose plan, Grandpa?’ Erich whispered.

The old man bent even closer. ‘The Jews’, he whispered in his ear.

Erich stopped on the stairs to listen, his pyjamas cold on his shoulders. No one had heard his scream. He had woken in a sweat. Mr Solomons had been cutting up people with scissors and mixing the pieces in a drink for mother. Could Mr
Solomons
really be trying to poison her? He could hear Grandpa snoring and was glad; this was something Erich wanted to investigate on his own. He had never understood his mother’s paintings, but if she was happy, he was happy. He took a deep breath and turned into the sitting room where there was a row of them propped up against the wall. He approached them suspiciously and began to move methodically down the line.

Some were very simple, just lines and blocks of colour; he felt safe with these, and began to wonder what the fuss was about. All these were the elite, the few that had survived
Sabine’s
frequent over-painting and scraping-out of old canvasses. They were in many styles, mostly abstract, shapes and colours that were meaningless to Erich. It was just as he thought – her playthings – nothing even as meaningful as his Wiener
schnitzel
. He had reached the end of the line and was about to go, when out of the corner of his eye, one of the pictures appeared to move.

He whipped around. Nothing. He was sure though. He
had
seen a person move! He turned away slowly and there it was! Out of the corner of his eye there
was
a person that had not been there before. He turned back, careful not to lose the image. It was a girl dancing, head thrown back. How had he missed her? Now, as he looked down the line of painting, he realised that there were more. Not moving, that had been an illusion, but people and faces, and possibly places, emerging and fading as his eyes moved from picture to picture. Some of the pictures gave him feelings of sadness.

‘Poor Mother,’ he murmured, as his eight-year-old mind unwittingly revealed the pain his mother had so successfully concealed from the world. He moved slowly, falteringly, back down the line. Here was one he could hardly look at now: a seascape or a troubled sky? Then suddenly out of the
tormented
blues his father’s face emerged, cyanose, as Erich had seen it one time when his heart was bad. The image went and he could not see it again. Feeling shaken, he arrived at the end of the line. The last canvas had been turned to face the wall. Erich turned it and looked at it curiously; it was easier, much more realistic than the others, a gnarled tree covered in ivy. He knelt to prop it up, and then nearly reeled back as the ivy seemed to burst apart in his face, and there was Grandpa Veit, his face staring out at him. Erich dropped the picture back against the wall and covered his eyes.

What evil magic was this? What spell was Mother under that made her paint these terrifying things? Still half covering his eyes, he ran for the door and nearly straight into Grandpa Veit who stood blocking his way, spindle-shanked in his nightshirt. Erich staggered to a stop and stood, waiting for a blow to the head or a blast of the old man’s anger, but none came. To his amazement, his grandfather began speaking to him seriously, as if talking to a young soldier just back from patrol.

‘So you have seen it, have you? You have been looking into the heart of darkness, boy. The pure apple infected by the worm. The Rhine Maiden sings, but the worm has the ring. Who will be our Siegfried, Erich, where are our heroes?’

Grandpa had told him the Siegfried saga at great length, even so, Erich had only the vaguest idea of what the Rhine Maidens were, except that they must be beautiful, and that Siegfried was a hero of heroes. But Veit had seized Erich by the shoulders. ‘We have work to do, lad. Not only have we an empire to recover, but a race to save.’

The words and the passion behind them stirred Erich like the rousing music that would boom out from Grandpa Veit’s hissing gramophone. Nobody but Grandpa spoke to him like this: man-to-man. His words made Erich proud, so that when his grandfather reached forward, lifted his chin, and looked him in the eye, Erich felt his own shoulders broadening and his chest expanding, as if some great purpose was being revealed to him.

But then something happened. The old man’s eyes were boring into him…piercing but changing … the face was
transforming
, wrinkles deepening into rugged bark. Now ivy leaves were crowding round his face, framing it. Erich pulled back in terror, but the evil mask remained, it was a warning and he knew where it came from. He turned and fled for the stairs.

‘Follow me, Mr Abrahams.’ Maestro Herzfeld, Izaac’s
conductor
, a formidable man with fierce bushy eyebrows and a shock of grey hair, swept past him and out onto the stage. Izaac
followed
, holding his violin high above the seated players. He had given dozens of recitals, had played several times with
student
orchestras and had loved it, but this was his first full
professional
engagement. Helena had intentionally held him back until he was sixteen, saying that he was too volatile.

‘This is your chance, Izaac. Play well for Maestro Herzfeld and you can call yourself a professional. I want no histrionics … Understand?’

Izaac had never felt less volatile, or more in control. He sidled past the violins, and exchanged grins with the
woodwind
players on his left.

‘And remember to shake hands with the leader;’ Helena had reminded him. ‘He’s a better violinist than you are! No bobbing up and down; turn to the audience and give one polite bow. The years when you were applauded just because you looked cute in short trousers are over.’

Izaac had wished she’d shut up. He was well able to look after himself.

Louise found herself an empty seat tucked away to the right
of the platform where Izaac could see her without turning if he really wished. She relaxed, relishing the anonymity of the crowd. She was exhausted, but elated too. They had worked so hard on the Dvorak that she was sure that nothing could go wrong. As they had worked, bar by bar, line by line, she had felt the music drawing them closer and closer. Most of the time her role was to help Izaac to stand back and listen and ‘feel’ the music while tackling its technical difficulties. As they approached performance standard, however, the concerto began to grow, developing into a living thing, no longer a
succession
of lovely notes, but at one moment a monster that raged and terrified, leading them into the dark places of the soul; and next a friend that walked them through fields and gardens. Locked in the world of music, they shared the drama and pain, laughter and tenderness, as if they were one person. But when their practice together was over, they shed their
intimacy
and walked away as if their close encounters had never happened.

Izaac was lucky, he had the release of his performance to look forward to, but Louise had no such release. Without her noticing it, the cumulative effect of these collaborations began to grow. She thought back to her own short life, and her
cruelly
interrupted love for Pieter, the Master’s apprentice back in Delft. Then there had been Gaston, her French Hussar; if she hadn’t loved Colette like a sister she could never have stepped aside for her.

Why did she have this so human need for love and
affection
, if it was never to be fulfilled? Her love for Izaac might be that of an older sister, but bitter experience had taught her that such love can spill over. She had no right to his heart outside of their music. And time, her enemy, would inevitably take him beyond her. The sadness of her immortality, of being
constantly
left behind, was a bitter pill. Now, as she watched him
on the platform, relaxed and confident, she let go her hold on her feelings. The audience enclosed her, sending out their own warmth to him; a little more affection from her could do no harm.

Izaac looked towards the conductor, his smile confident. Madame Stronski could have told Louise that the one thing Izaac needed at this moment was a sharp slap on the backside and a reminder to place his feet correctly. But just now Louise was not on duty. He raised his bow, the conductor’s baton fell, and the music from the orchestra swept over him.

There is probably no greater moment for a violin player than to experience for the first time the full strength and power of a seventy-piece orchestra surging in behind. Izaac felt
himself
being lifted up and thrust forward, like the bowsprit of a ship under full sail, reaching far out over the waves. The
playing
of the orchestra had the power of the wind behind it. No matter which way the ship turned, he would be there.

This was the moment at which Izaac must abandon all flights of fancy. Now he must enter his own private tunnel of sound where there was nothing to distract him but the
remembered
pages of music sliding before his eyes, and the strange designs and shapes that represented harmony and rhythm to him. But suddenly something infinitely sweet and alluring was pouring into him, lifting him headily higher. He had no idea where it was coming from but it manifested itself as a bright line of sound which danced about his playing, illusive,
disarming
, passionate but yet infinitely sad. It flooded him, drove him, intoxicated him. His ship was riding on the crest of a wave. Had he been a sailor he’d have known to fear for his life.

Louise realised, far too late, that something was seriously wrong. It was only when Izaac’s body started to weave to the music that she realised that he needed her help.

‘Come down Izaac, come down,’ she pleaded, but he was
gone beyond her call. She had no access to him now. He was playing with a brilliance that he surely could never sustain. The opening passages of the first movement were passing, but at this pitch there was no room for error, nothing to stand between him and musical disaster. Louise closed her eyes and prayed.

Izaac never heard Louise’s call to ‘come down’ but he noticed when the intoxicating harmony began to fade. His mind groped desperately for other indulgences to buoy him up. He became conscious of himself, of his good looks, of his technical skills, of his musicianship. He reminded himself how brilliantly he was playing. In Madame Stronski’s language, he was beginning to swell, and Louise saw it all.

‘Oh, where are you, Izaac?’ she whimpered in anxiety. That wasn’t him on the platform; it was the dreadful
Master
Abrahams
. ‘Stop. Stop,’ she pleaded, echoing Madame Stronski’s cry, but Izaac couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Seventy
musicians
, eyes lifting from their music to the conductor and back, were dependent on him, and he loved it.

At last the movement came to an end. Louise sank back in her seat, exhausted. He’d made it! Let him come down to earth now while the conductor was mopping his brow and while people coughed. He would be mentally turning the page in preparation for the next movement. But what in fact Izaac was doing was writing a rave review of his own performance.

The conductor glanced down, a courtesy glance to see if his young performer was comfortable, a smile of reassurance
perhaps
? He felt a slight prickle of apprehension. Those glazed eyes could just mean that the boy was preparing himself. On the other hand …

Izaac was called back from faraway by that glance. Ah yes, the third movement. But no, it couldn’t be, there’d been no pause yet. Doubt flickered across his mind like a black-winged
bat. This must be the second movement, surely. But the page he was seeing in his mind belonged to the third! Panic spread through him like a fever; he began to sweat. He would have to ask the conductor for a look at his score. He had heard of this happening, but he’d also heard that performers who did this were seldom seen again. ‘Louise, help me!’ He didn’t deserve it, but he needed her now as never before.

Louise felt his call with a mixture of guilt and alarm. While they worked together she would watch the musical score through his eyes, one sheet sliding down over the other as the first was played. Most of the time the notes would appear as a comfortable blur, a sufficient reminder of the shape of the
passage
. When he was approaching a difficult section, however, she would know because here the notes would be crisp and clear. Now she realised that she hadn’t been paying attention. She closed her eyes to concentrate, and her heart sank; what she was seeing through his eyes now was chaos. A page would appear, and then be snatched away. She could feel his panic mounting. She gripped her seat and tried to concentrate.

The conductor, realising that time was up, tapped his leg with his baton. What could have gone wrong? What
should
he be showing her? Surely the beginning of the second movem… She sat up. Of course! In the Dvorak violin concerto the first and second movements are always played as one continuous piece without a break. The mutt had forgotten; they had always practised the first two movements separately. He had let the orchestra carry him clean through into the second movement without thinking, and was now looking for the beginning of the wrong movement.

‘Izaac, listen! You have played the second movement; it’s the THIRD: Laa laa la la lee laa la la la lee la … ’

A look of enlightenment crossed Izaac’s face. He turned to the conductor with an apologetic smile; he was ready.

After that Louise never left him for a second, thinking ahead for reminders and associations should he need them, but Izaac was safe now; she had saved him. The applause poured over her, but she was too drained even to clap. Izaac looked down and saw her hunched in the vacant seat, invisible to all but him.

The following morning Madame Stronski called to
congratulate
Izaac on his performance. He was exhausted and deflated, a condition that she knew from her own career, so she
postponed
her enquiries about what had happened at the end of the second movement until she was about to leave.

‘Well, what happened at number three? I thought Maestro Herzfeld was going to run you through with his baton. I would have done!’ Izaac hung his head and explained to the carpet that he had forgotten where he was in the score. ‘What? With that lovely tune to remember? Oh Izaac!’

‘I was playing so well in the first two movements, too.’

‘No
you
weren’t. It was bloody
Mr Abrahams
who was
playing
, wasn’t it?’

‘How can I explain, Madame Helena? I heard another line, a harmony like nothing I have ever heard before, it was so
beautiful
, but so sad. It just lifted me up and up.’

‘Pah! I’d put that down to a bad case of inflated ego!’ Madame Stronski snorted.

Louise sighed with relief. Ever since the concert she had been wondering if what had happened had anything to do with the feelings she had directed at Izaac.

Madame Helena wasn’t interested in his excuses. There were new challenges ahead, she warned him. She wanted him to study some more modern composers, saying darkly that these would be brutes to learn.