In Sachsenhausen no one noticed you very much. For most of the time you were faceless, anonymous.
But Christa was neither. She was noticed – it was realized who she really was, and there was a lash of fury that Giselle Klein had dared to cheat them. But she had not done so in the end, said the camp commandant, Oberführer Hans Loritz. The execution machinery would be re-assembled at once. The creature who had murdered Count von Braxen would still be shot and the entire camp would see it happen. The stupid females who had tried to hide Christa Klein would be shot, also.
Then a further discovery was made. Christa Klein was to have a child. Von Braxen’s child.
‘This does not mean you will escape execution,’ said Loritz. ‘It merely means that execution will be postponed. A child of the von Braxen line must not die before it is born.’
Christa supposed it did not matter what she said now, so she asked what would happen to the child.
‘It will be taken to its father’s family to be brought up by them. There is a distant cousin of the Count living very nearby.’
Elsa Frank, thought Christa, dismayed. She said, ‘The child will be kindly treated, won’t it, though? Can you assure me of that?’
‘It will be brought up to revere its country. Also to know that its father was highly regarded and that his death at your hands was a great tragedy.’
‘I see,’ said Christa. ‘And the women who tried to help me … They did so because of the child – you do understand that?’
This was a lie; the women had had no idea of the pregnancy, but Loritz appeared to accept it. He said, ‘There will be punishment for them, but it will not be execution.’
‘Thank you.’ Christa was glad to know the good friends who had helped her would not die.
As she was taken back to the hut, Christa thought about Elsa Frank. At least the child would not have to endure Sachsenhausen, and although the thought of Fräulein Frank was dreadful, Elsa had always displayed that slavish emotion for Brax – to the point of adoration. Christa dared believe that Elsa would be kind to the child for Brax’s sake.
After this, time began to blur. Normally, pregnancy and births were not especially of interest in the camp; prisoners were left to get on with such things. There might, if they were lucky, be minimal medical help, but most of them shied away from any kind of doctor in Sachsenhausen. There were whispers of atrocities in the medical block – terrible stories of brutal experiments.
But Christa Klein’s case was different. Her unborn child was the son or daughter of von Braxen, never mind it would be illegitimate. Doctors sometimes came to see her, and prodded her, and nodded, as if satisfied, then went away.
Christa did not want to count up the weeks, because as soon as the child was born they would take her out to be shot. She did the work she was given, and she ate the food that was brought, understanding that she was not being treated as harshly as she might have been, because her captors believed they owed it to Count von Braxen’s memory to ensure his son or daughter was safely born.
It began to feel as if a thick glass wall had formed around Christa, and as if real life was no longer completely visible or audible. Some memories were still with her, though. Glimpses of a warm house with lamplight on cobblestones outside. She could not bear to think of her parents, but she thought about Stefan with his dear, trusting face. Please let Stefan be all right.
There were more recent memories, as well. The Torhaus and the people she had known there. Jacob, with his gentle eyes and his kindness. Daniel, who had made that promise that one day he would paint her. That would not happen now, thought Christa. And then – or would it? A tiny spiral of defiance uncurled within her. It was said that hardly anyone ever escaped from Sachsenhausen. But a few did.
The child was born after a night of pain. Christa, swimming in and out of the pain, clung to the hand of the doctor who had been brought to her, wanting reassurance.
But he was cold and impersonal, although she thought he dealt with her efficiently. Presently, he said, ‘We have the child.’ A hesitation, then, ‘A healthy girl,’ he said. ‘Fräulein Frank is waiting to take her at once.’
Christa did not dare ask to see the child; she would not have borne seeing it and knowing it would be the only time she would do so. She said, ‘What will happen now?’
‘A few days,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a week.’ Christa understood he meant that in a few days she would be considered fit to walk to the big square and stand before the firing squad.
Then, three days after the birth, a note was thrust into her hand.
‘Try to be near the death strip between the two western searchlights after the supper call. Keep between all the searchlights.’ It was signed simply J.
J. Jacob. Christa’s heart leapt, but she managed to tear the note into tiny pieces, and drop the pieces into the latrine bucket.
Jacob was trying to get her out. He had obviously found out about the camp’s routines, and he would be waiting by the western searchlights. Or was it a trick, a trap? Christa considered this, but could not see any point in anyone trapping her. They were going to execute her in a few days – they had been perfectly open about that. Why bother to set a trap? And even if this went wrong – because very few people escaped from Sachsenhausen – what did she have to lose? Except for Jacob, said her mind. I might lose Jacob, because he might die with me.
The day was spent in a ferment of excitement and terror. Supposing she could not manage to walk to that part of the compound? She was still quite weak from the birth; she had only been out of bed twice, and each time she had only walked a short distance. The memory of her mother came to her then, and she knew her mother would not have flinched from this opportunity to get out. Somehow, I’ll do it, thought Christa determinedly. And Jacob will be there. That was a very good thought indeed; she would focus on seeing him again, even if it were to be for the last time.
During the afternoon she went into the half-screened cubicle with the latrine, but she took with her the bedcover. She hid it in there, folded as small as she could manage. When she left, she would wrap it around her. It was dark grey, so it would cover the pale prison dress, and help her to blend into the darkness. She had no shoes, but that would not have to matter, and she would have walked barefoot over broken glass if it meant getting out.
Once supper had been called, the infirmary room was more or less deserted. Security was not quite as stringent here, because hardly anyone was ever brought to the infirmary. Illness was not recognized or acknowledged in Sachsenhausen. But Christa had no idea if the door would be locked, although if it was, she thought she might be able to climb through the narrow window.
The door was not locked. Her heart in her mouth, her throat dry with fear, Christa stepped outside. So far so good. Now she must make her way to the western searchlights. Jacob had chosen well – had he known they were fairly near the infirmary block? It was suddenly warm and reassuring to think he must have done. He’s not far away, thought Christa. I’m going to reach him.
She scarcely felt the hard ground under her bare feet, although she was aware of a soft rain falling about her. Was that good? Yes, it might mean the guards would be huddling inside their boxes. She kept as close as possible to the walls of the huts, and went on until she could see the perimeter fences. There were the searchlights – or were they the right ones? She had a moment of hideous doubt. No, she had the right ones, she was sure. Between the two, Jacob’s note had said. Near the death strip. Oh God, the death strip … Stefan’s nightmares …
If you went on to the death strip, you were shot, he used to say, sobbing from out of the bad dreams. Your blood and bones were splattered everywhere.
Christa put this determinedly from her mind and concentrated on reaching the appointed spot. She was starting to feel dreadfully shaky; this was the furthest she had walked since the birth, but that must be ignored. She would collapse when she was outside and free.
She crept forward. Her legs were starting to feel like cotton threads, and with every minute she expected the lights to blaze up, and to hear shouted commands and feel bullets tear into her. How close did she dare get to the death strip? Panic rose again, in a thick, near-choking flood, because supposing she had got it all wrong – supposing she was in the wrong part of the compound?
She could see the wire clearly now. She could see the death strip. Once she stepped on that she would be dreadfully, dangerously close to the wire, and if she touched it at the wrong point it would send a fatal jolt of electricity through her. Would it be better to fry on a wire fence than be shot by a dozen gunmen?
And then something moved in the darkness just beyond the fence, and Christa’s heart leapt again, but this time with hope. Was he there? It must be him. He would not let her down.
‘Christa …’ It was the faintest cobweb of sound, but it reached her, and she knew it was Jacob. She did not dare call back in case her voice was picked up by a nearby guard, but it gave her new strength and she went towards the sound.
The whisper came again. ‘We’ve neutralized part of the wire – it’s still a hell of a risk, but if we go we’ll go together. All right?’
Christa nodded. There was someone with him, apparently. This was reassuring.
And now she was walking on the death strip itself. It felt exactly the same as the rest of the compound, which was unexpected; she had thought it would be different. Harsh, hard, painful.
‘Kneel down as low as you can manage,’ said Jacob’s voice – it was much nearer now. ‘Get flat if you can.’
Christa thought she would burrow into the ground itself if it would get her to safety. She lay flat, ignoring the slight cramping pain in her stomach.
‘Good,’ said Jacob’s voice from the darkness. ‘We’ve loosened the wire, and made a bit of a hollow under it. You have to get through.’
Even though Christa had thought she would happily have burrowed into the ground, she had not realized she might actually have to do so. The cramping pains were increasing, but they had to be ignored. She began to inch her way into the hollow, which she could just about see.
‘Stay clear of the wires,’ said a second voice. Daniel? Yes. ‘They’re probably all right, but don’t take any chances.’
‘Can you see the guards looking towards us?’ That was Jacob again.
‘No, but the quicker the better,’ said Daniel. ‘Christa, you’re halfway there – are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Christa resolutely bit her lip against the pain that was clenching at her more definitely. She thought she might be bleeding now, but that would have to be ignored, as well.
Sharp footsteps rang out on the compound, and Jacob’s voice said, ‘Freeze.’ Christa put her head down, and stayed motionless. There was the sound of someone calling out – one of the guards saying something about it being almost time for the next ones to come on duty.
‘We’ll be in the village, having a few drinks, within the hour,’ said the second man.
Then nothing.
‘It’s all right, he’s gone,’ said Jacob. ‘And you’re almost there.’
Almost there … Terrified and in pain, and probably bleeding all over the ground, but almost free … Christa gave a sob, and felt Jacob’s hands close around hers, firm and warm and infinitely reassuring.
‘I’ve got you,’ he said, and pulled her the rest of the way through the fence. The ground scraped at her arms and her legs, but she no longer cared. Then Jacob’s arms came around her. ‘I’ve got you,’ he said again. ‘And I don’t think I ever want to let you go.’
‘Please never do,’ said Christa and, to her everlasting annoyance, fainted.
She revived to discover she was in the Torhaus – she only found out a long time afterwards that Jacob and Daniel had carried her there, that they had taken her inside, and bathed her feet, and cleaned her up.
‘There was blood,’ she said, ashamed and embarrassed. ‘I had a child—’
‘We know,’ said Daniel. ‘We heard. That’s why we waited all these months to reach you.’
Jacob said, a touch awkwardly, ‘I think the blood’s stopped. I don’t think there’s any more.’
‘Not uncommon after a birth,’ said Daniel, and Christa remembered gratefully that he had a son.
She said, ‘What now? Aren’t there guards here?’
‘There were, but we neutralized them as well,’ said Daniel.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Once Brax was no longer here,’ said Daniel, ‘the guards weren’t nearly as watchful. And then Elsa left – that was two days ago. We don’t know where she went or why.’
Christa thought: I know why. She’s taken the child – my daughter. A pang sliced through her.
‘And so it was surprisingly easy to catch the guards unawares and knock them out. At the moment,’ said Daniel, ‘they’re lying in their own blood outside that window. No – don’t look.’
‘But we daren’t stay here any longer than absolutely necessary,’ said Jacob. ‘We can’t risk other guards turning up – or Elsa returning.’
Christa, who was starting to feel better, said, ‘What are we going to do then?’
Jacob smiled. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said.
Christa thought that one of the most extraordinary things about this entire extraordinary experience was to find herself in the back of dear Herr Eisler’s familiar rattletrap car, and to be bouncing over the roads, with Herr Eisler himself at the wheel, Jacob beside him, and Daniel and Ben wedged in the back with her.
‘There is extra petrol in the boot,’ explained Herr Eisler, confidently. ‘It is against somebody’s law to carry petrol in that way, but we say pshaw and pish to laws.’
They had packed as much as they could into the car. Christa had gone into her father’s music room – there were not many of his things there, but there were a few. And there might be the music … As she opened the piano’s lid, her heart had been racing. Probably he really had burned it, but …
But he had not burned it. Both sets of music were there – the copy he had made to fool Brax, and the original – the one with Siegreich written across it, and the familiar ghost note at the foot. Christa held this music to her for a moment. She would take it with her, and if possible, one day send it to Velda for Stefan. She would like him to have that memory of their parents, that small, affectionate ghost note.
‘Is this the copy your father made?’ said Jacob, picking up the other one. ‘He’s put your mother’s name on it. Did you see? Giselle’s Music.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shall I put that in the box, as well?’
‘Let’s leave that here,’ said Christa.
‘For Elsa Frank to find? She’s bound to come back – her things are still in her room; Daniel checked.’
‘Even so, I’d like to leave it,’ said Christa. And thought: because it was written – or at least somehow compiled – by my mother. And one day Elsa might give it to my daughter.
‘What if we’re seen – stopped – questioned?’ asked Christa, as the car careered forward.
Eisler made one of his extravagant gestures. ‘I do not get stopped or questioned,’ he said, grandly. ‘I am known and loved, and I am famous. Today I am with my family, and we are going to a rehearsal of …’ He paused to think, then said, ‘A rehearsal of Wagner’s Tristan.’
‘Hitler’s favourite composer,’ said Christa, smiling for the first time for hours.
‘Indeed. During the Great War, Hitler carried the music of Tristan in his knapsack. I shall be playing the overture at the rehearsal,’ said Herr Eisler, firmly. ‘I shall play it better than even Paderewski did.’
‘But where are we really going?’ asked Christa.
Herr Eisler half turned to look at her, and beamed.
‘We are going south,’ he said. ‘To Switzerland.’
‘And if the car gives up we’ll walk,’ put in Daniel.
‘I don’t care if we have to walk all the way,’ said Christa.
‘My car will not give up and we will not have to walk.’