The Porcelain Maker, page 29
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he hissed between his teeth. He poured himself another glass of champagne, though she saw his hand was shaking.
‘You are my wife. Clara is my daughter, and I will do whatever I deem best for this family. Now go and lie down. The doctor will be here soon.’
* * *
In Dachau, the early morning came and went with roll call. Every hand was set to cleaning out the barracks until they were scrubbed and orderly. Himmler might decide to inspect while he was at the factory and the Kommandant knew all too well his passion for cleanliness. Disease must not be allowed to run free, as it had done here several times. There was no vestige of humanity in the edict, he simply took it as a point of pride.
At the factory, preparations continued. Today, the final pieces would be chosen. In the basement, the copies of each figurine had been laid out. Bettina would choose which were best and add a few finishing flourishes: a little extra lustre to the eye, to bring each one to life. They would then be displayed, nestled in a bed of straw, each in its own perfect Allach box made for the occasion.
But first came all the normal morning labours: preparing clay for the day ahead and readying Bettina’s station. Max felt anticipation in his every move, electrifying him. The more mundane the task, the more momentous it became. He felt the echo of all the days he’d spent since his arrest, performing these same rotes and rituals, each one ordered and unchanging. Only now could he lift his head and look back across the years which had elapsed. They felt to him like a lifetime.
The sun crept through the window, briefly filling the room with light. Max glanced at the ceiling, worried in case something there might catch the guard’s attention, but the golem remained safely shrouded in shadow. Only the very brightest days could penetrate the deep gloom of the basement.
Whenever someone walked into the room, he looked up, searching their faces for her familiarity. Ezra, Stefan, even Holger came and went, but still her seat stayed empty. Max forced himself to work, starting on a simple vase to keep his conscious brain distracted. He ran through the first stage of their planned escape repeatedly. Together she and Holger had finessed the scheme further still. Though he hadn’t had an opportunity to speak to his friend about it, Bettina had traced it out the day before in hurried whispers.
On the morning of the inspection, Holger would call Max to his office, where they would wait and keep watch for Bettina and Clara. Max had been relieved that he would see his daughter from a distance first; he hoped it might prepare him for their meeting face to face. He didn’t want her earliest memory to be of him breaking down in tears.
Holger’s secretary, Fräulein Schaffer, would escort Bettina and little Clara to the studio, before fetching Holger and Max to join them. On their arrival, Bettina would feign illness and Holger would offer to take her home in the absence of her driver.
Fräulein Schaffer could see them out, leaving Max in the studio alone, where he would change into Karl’s SS uniform, which Bettina would have concealed, along with their porcelain golem. He would leave by the fire escape, making his way outside. The factory stood at the heart of the SS training campus, so one more man in uniform would draw no real attention. Holger would be waiting on the drive to pick him up. He would take them to the station where he would deposit them, before returning to the factory, in time to be seen by dozens of others making the final preparations, providing him with an alibi. In the chaos of the day it might be hours before anyone was missed.
Max, Bettina and Clara would make their way to the Zurich train – the family Holz, complete with all the necessary paperwork. Max was concerned that Clara might protest at his company, or disavow him if they should be questioned, but Bettina assured him she loved playing elaborate make-believe.
‘If I tell her you’re her father in a game, she’ll go along with absolute ferocity. She has a powerful imagination.’
‘Just like her mother,’ Max had replied.
He had only the vaguest notion about the next stage of the journey to the border: a faint hope it might pass uneventfully and a more likely fallback where they might abandon the train entirely and cross by foot, under cover of night. It was a tremendous risk, whatever way you looked at it, but better than any alternative.
Max heard a noise outside and came back to awareness. The sun was now at the height of its trajectory and the task in front of him remained untouched, the blade in his hand held loosely. The door swung open but, to his obvious disappointment, it was only Holger.
‘Everything all right in here?’
The young guard standing at the door was scuffing his heels. Max nodded, his eyes turning pointedly to Bettina’s empty chair. Holger caught his look and asked the guard, ‘No sign of Frau Holz today?’
The guard shrugged and shook his head.
‘I wonder where she’s got to…’ Holger ruminated, turning his eyes back to Max.
‘No doubt she’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. We must just wait and see.’
* * *
By the time Holger descended the echoing staircase the following morning, Max was grey with worry. His eyes were already shadowed from malnourishment, but Holger could now see his veins through the tissue-thin skin, his pupils dark as a flooded pit.
The guard informed him what he knew already – for a second day, Bettina was absent. Holger nodded, grimly reassuring and said out loud, ‘I will look into it myself, right now.’
He returned to his office and asked Fräulein Schaffer to telephone Frau Holz’s apartment directly, but there was no response. He sat at his desk for a full five minutes, head in hands, trying to decide, then sprang to his feet and informed the office he was going out. He walked to his car and drove straight into the city, parking on the wide street opposite the Holz apartment. For a moment he considered what to do next. He watched the building’s flow of traffic, the people coming in and going out, then crossed the street. He entered the lobby at a clip, marching directly to the elevator. With an air of assured confidence, he stated his destination: The Holz residence. Were they expecting him? Of course. The operator had little option other than to convey him upwards. The elevator opened out into the soft silence of the top floor, where a solitary maid could be seen. Holger stepped out and hailed the girl.
‘Could you kindly tell your mistress that Holger Ostendorff is here to see her?’
He waited, standing alone in the plush, expansive vestibule. There was no sign that a child lived here, no toys, no trace of the familial. Elevated views of the city stretched out from every window. Bettina undoubtedly existed in some comfort here, but even a gilded cage could make a wild bird long for its escape.
The maid returned with a pinch-faced woman in a long silk housecoat, clenched tight at the collarbone by a gaunt hand.
‘Am I supposed to be expecting you?’
Her face was somehow both incredulous and bored.
‘I do apologize for the disturbance; I was hoping to see Frau Holz.’
He took a neat letter-pressed card from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘Holger Ostendorff. Artistic Director of Allach Porcelain.’
A single eyebrow rose. ‘And?’
He continued, ‘And, I am a friend of Frau Holz. We have been working together for several months.’
Her face soured. ‘I didn’t know my sister-in-law had any friends. But given the extensive porcelain collection she’s bought in recent months, I’m not surprised. My brother’s wallet must be keeping you afloat!’
She gestured to the nearby mantelpiece where Holger saw displayed many of the pieces Max had made over the past four years.
‘We were expecting to see her at the factory this morning. I grew concerned; is she well?’
‘I’m afraid not. She was taken ill, quite suddenly. Overwork, the doctors think.’
She glared at him pointedly, as if he might be personally to blame.
‘I only ask because she was due to meet with the Reichsführer-SS tomorrow and I am certain he will enquire about her absence.’
Mention of Himmler, at least, garnered her attention. She sighed, clearly frustrated that he seemed determined to get a more substantive answer.
‘Not that it is anybody’s business outside the family, but she evidently had some sort of latent nervous condition. She has been sent away to Italy for treatment. Please send our apologies to the Reichsführer.’
‘And when might I tell him we expect her to return?’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Ostendorff, have I not made myself clear? Bettina isn’t coming back. You shan’t be seeing her again.’
She called for the maid.
‘And now, I really must insist you leave. This is a very difficult time for all her family, as well you might imagine.’
* * *
Holger sent for Max and broke the news as gently as he could, but there was no way to soften such a blow. He half expected him to break down, but he simply listened, his expression unreadable. Eventually Holger felt his efforts to console were having the opposite effect, so he trailed off into silence and Max spoke at last.
‘There was no sign of Clara?’
‘No sign of either one.’
Max was picking at his nails unconsciously. Holger stared at the ragged cuticles, deep trenches of raw pink flesh exposed.
‘You think the worst.’
‘Don’t you?’
He stopped picking when he noticed the direction of Holger’s gaze.
‘It’s the clay. It’s hardened the skin, however much I pick away. I sometimes dream that I’m turning into a golem.’
Max tucked his hands out of sight and turned to end the conversation.
‘Max?’
He looked back.
‘Please don’t lose hope, you found each other once before.’
‘I wish I could believe you. I think they somehow realized she intended to escape. They nearly lost their little pet. They won’t make that mistake again.’
When he’d gone Holger felt too restless to settle to his work. Instead, he meandered slowly through the building, observing the preparations for Himmler’s visit, now fully underway. He headed first towards the kiln, where Ezra and Stefan were busy preparing a few seasonal trinkets for firing – a last-minute request from the Reichsführer’s office. Now Bettina’s collection was complete, Ezra was required to help out in other departments. The fact that Max would spend his day almost entirely alone only served to make Holger worry even more. He shared his fears with the older man and told him what he’d said to Max.
‘And how did he respond?’
‘He said very little, but what he did was fairly fatalistic.’
‘He needs to grieve, Herr Ostendorff. We have to let that take its course.’
Holger took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes; he couldn’t seem to focus.
‘I’m worried for him.’
‘Then keep him busy; let him prepare for Himmler’s visit and work all the hours that God sends. He needs something to occupy his mind. That is why all cultures have some version of a levoya, a funeral.’
‘She isn’t dead; she might yet return at some point in the future.’
‘Whatever has happened, they’ve been taken from him – both of them. Believe me: we still mourn them, even if they live.’
* * *
Fräulein Schaffer made arrangements with the Außenkommandoführer, who oversaw all the prisoners on work details: Max was to be put on special duty, required to prepare the studio, ready for the Reichsführer’s inspection.
The major works took priority. Of primary importance were the human figurines and busts, which included a drummer boy, a fencer and even Der Führer himself; each one was a model of glacial perfection. They would take the centre of the room, exhibited on separate plinths. Then there were the urns and chalices with oak leaves, runic signs and symbols, all looking like they’d been conjured up from a Viking banquet. They would be staged on a series of square columns, set along the right side of the room. On the left, a long table would display the collection of animals made in collaboration with Frau Holz. Each creature would be presented in an Allach box bearing the dual lightning sigils of the SS and nesting in a bed of hay.
As a piece of theatre, it needed careful planning, construction and choreography. As a method of distraction, it required Max’s full attention.
The night before Himmler’s visit, Holger came to look over the studio himself. The echoing space was pooled in darkness, save for the moonlight shining through the vast windows. Max looked exhausted, like a wraith, but the room was immaculate, the presentation of each item flawless. He showed Holger the tables, plinths and shelves, all ready for inspection. As they went round he made further small adjustments to each piece, to show them at their best advantage.
Finally Max led Holger to the long table where his own work stood. The six boxes sat perfectly aligned. Holger lifted the lid of the first and saw Bettina’s handiwork, the delicately painted rabbit, lying cushioned in a bed of real, sweet-smelling hay. In the low light it appeared so lifelike, Holger could almost imagine you might see its pink nose twitch.
‘I’m so sorry that she couldn’t see this, Max. But you must know, you’ve done her proud.’
Max shuffled his feet and shook his head.
‘I only ever wanted to protect her. I should have done so much more.’
* * *
Hours later, Max woke in the pre-dawn darkness. He had barely slept, his fitful dreams a torment of paralysis. Each time he surfaced from sleep, the knowledge that Clara and Bettina had been taken from him would return and roll across him, crushing the breath from his lungs.
The last time he’d woken from a vision that all three of them were drowning, a scream had risen to his lips and almost escaped him as he felt his lungs begin to fill with water. After that, he decided it would be better to stay awake and wait for morning. Roll call would come soon enough, followed by the Reichsführer’s inspection. He could not envisage any future after that; it stretched ahead of him, a barren landscape; a vast bank of fog on the horizon.
A little distance from him in the barracks, a rabbi woke and uttered a short prayer of thanks for another day of life. He was grateful that his soul had returned to his body from the small death of sleep, though he did not dare invoke God’s name, for he had yet to wash his hands. Max wondered how the rabbi maintained such gratitude. He’d seen the bald patches on his chin where the hairs had been pulled out individually, the guards intent on punishing him for his continued faith in the face of their barbarity.
Slowly the light turned from black to inky indigo and Max felt beneath his straw-filled mattress for the photograph of Clara hidden there. He would only have a few moments in which to gaze at the precious image of his daughter before the call went up to rise.
The photograph was a window on another world. The child sat on the grey-green grass, which rolled down to the water’s edge. Behind her a lake, like the one where her mother and father last felt the sun on their shoulders. Both had been separately nursing the pain of loss, but had found each other when they’d returned, shivering, from the blackest depths. They had been happy again, after that, but never so carefree.
Max listened to the sounds of men in their dozens rousing from sleep. The hard boards they slept on creaked in protest.
Several bunks held men who did not welcome a return from sleep. Daybreak was hardest for the sad-eyed skeletons, jaundiced and feverish, who knew their time was short. For the sick and dying there was no chance of treatment; the only medics at Dachau were those determined to learn what a human body could endure. The rising blade of the sun simply pared down their chances of survival. If they stumbled or fainted, then a guard might choose to beat the last of life from them. Those spared that fate would soon be sent away to Hartheim.
Second after them, in Max’s eyes, were those who’d lost all hope. They lived, although life’s purpose had abandoned them. Their only desire now, a swift end of their own choosing. In the early days of his incarceration Max had felt that level of despair loom over him, but he’d felt it lift a little when he was reunited with Holger and further still with the arrival of Bettina. The thought of her, of Clara, had sustained him ever since. Now he felt its cold encroaching shadow lumber into view again; he shivered at its touch.
Max tucked the photograph back in its hiding place. He did not need to see it to recall each crease and fold and every freckle on his daughter’s sunny face. He offered up a silent prayer for both of them, wherever they may be. He did not invoke God’s name, for he dare not hope that anyone was listening.
* * *
All the workers returned to the factory early. There was still much to prepare and the Reichsführer-SS was a stickler. Woe betide any man caught slacking when Himmler was in the building. Even the guards stood a little stiffer at their posts.
The day dawned brighter than any had for months on end. Spring was finally here and with it the fierce radiance of the sun, which brightened the world but exposed all flaws. Holger had requested that the studio be swept first thing, so the clouds of powder would have time to settle, and then be swept once more, but small drifts of white particles still formed like sand dunes against the edges of the room and filled the cracks between the floorboards. They flew up again as crisp white table linens were snapped like whips and then laid down. Bone-dry bisque and milk-gloss figurines received a final brush and polish, before being set back on their plaster columns to bask in shafts of clean spring light. Finally, everything was set.
The artist modellers of Allach took their places and stood beside their work. Not all the pieces were guaranteed to pass muster, but those that did could soon be reproduced in multitudes and sold across the Reich. Each sculptor wore their long white smock coat, immaculately clean, given the occasion. Only Max bore the yellow Star of David on his arm.
