The Devil's Harmony, page 27
There were no unlocked doors, and the windows in every room were boarded over on the outside. But in one of the upper rooms there was a small narrow space in the boarding, where the two boards did not quite meet. The window was deeply inset, but by pressing against the glass Yan managed to see almost all the way down to the ground. And there the fire was. It was not inside the Library at all; it was outside it. It looked as if rags and bits of wood had been heaped against the main doors, and then set alight. Had those soft-footed shadows he had heard earlier done this? Helena had said she had followed Bruno and Tanwen earlier, and Bruno had certainly intended to come out here tonight. But that had been to look at the wireless. There was no reason why either of those two would set fire to the Chopin Library.
The blaze was directly beneath the elaborate stone canopy over the main doors, and flames were already licking around the stonework, bathing it in livid colour. How long would it be before those flames blazed higher, and the old mansion’s fabric began to burn in earnest?
He ran down to the main hall and snatched up a chair, slamming it against one of the narrow windows on the side of the massive double doors. The glass smashed at once, but the chair was no match for the thick heavy planking, and the legs splintered. Yan cursed and threw the chair down, seizing instead a heavy gilt statue from the Ivory Salon. But it was no better; the stone simply broke into pieces and the windows remained stubbornly boarded over.
He beat down fear and looked about him. Was there anywhere he had not checked? What about the lower part of the Library? The sculleries? Something stirred in a corner of his mind, because the main scullery would not offer any escape route, but there was the older one – the one they had found recently, sealed off behind the false wall. The one that had stone floors, and that, if Anatol could be believed, contained an old ice room.
Yan’s mind looped back over the years – to the stone slab set deep into the wall, where Katya and the Romanov servant had hidden. Surely, if anything was impervious to fire, an ice room would be. And Anatol had described the Library’s ice room – how the famous Frozen Polonaise was kept there and brought up to the sound of violinists playing …
He picked Helena up, and carried her down the stone steps to the main scullery.
‘It’s all perfectly all right,’ he said, as she clutched him in fear. ‘But we might have to stay down here, just for a while. I’ll be with you, though, and it won’t be for long.’ Please God it really won’t be for long, he thought.
It was very dark in the scullery, but there were always candles and matches left to hand. Yan, aware of the irony of lighting a flame in this situation, found a candle and lit it. With that long-ago memory of Ipatiev House, he thrust several more candles and the matches into his pocket.
The last person here – presumably Bruno – had not replaced the panel concealing the original stairs, and the stairway opening yawned blackly. Helena shivered and tried to pull away.
Yan said, ‘It’s all right. There’s nothing to be frightened of.’
The candle flame caused shadows to dance grotesquely on the stair wall as they went down, but here were the original kitchens, and there was the stone shelf with the transmitter. For a moment, Yan wondered if he could transmit a message for help, but the wireless had always been Bruno’s province, and he had no idea how to operate it. All he could do was find the ice room, and get the two of them inside it. It ought not to be difficult to locate – it would be set into one of the alcoves, most likely.
And then he held the candle up, and its light fell on something that sent the blood thudding through Yan’s body and brought waves of horror and panic rushing down like swooping nightmares.
In the far corner of the old scullery, a section of the stone floor had been partly levered up – like the lid of a trapdoor. Even from here, even in the uncertain light, he could see the faint breath of iciness coming from below. Not an ice room, an ice pit, thought Yan.
But the past was swooping down, smothering him with memories, and for several nightmare moments he was in Ipatiev House again, seeing Katya and the other girl huddled together in that frozen death grip. Because protruding from the partly open stone lid was the head of a man – a terrible head; a nightmare thing of shattered bone and brain and eye on one side, but with the other side grey and frozen, just as those two had been. Withered and shrunken and dried out, as if something had sucked all the moisture.…
Somehow, Yan managed to say, very calmly, ‘Helena – there’s nothing for you to be scared of, but will you take this candle very carefully, and go up those stairs and wait for me at the very top. Can you do that? Hold on, I’ll light a second one for myself.’
Helena had backed into a corner, a small clenched hand pressing against her mouth, her eyes on the dreadful thing thrusting up out of the stone opening. This is going to haunt her for the rest of her life, thought Yan, appalled. As she ran up the stairs, he forced himself to walk across the stone floor, seeing that one of the man’s hands was grasping the edges of the stone, as if he had tried desperately to claw his way to freedom. He had got one arm and part of a shoulder out. But then the lid jammed, and that was as far as you could get, thought Yan. But someone shot you through the head – that’s very clear. But why? Who are you? It was then that he saw the silver ring on the man’s hand. He had never seen one before, but he knew at once what it was. A Nazi Death’s Head ring. Then this man must have been a high-ranking SS or Nazi officer.
Forcing down his revulsion, Yan set the candle down so that its light fell across the terrible head, and reached down to the pocket flap of the man’s jacket. It was only just visible and only just reachable, but there might be something in it that would identify him … The confused thought that if this was a Nazi – or a Nazi spy – they needed to know who it was.
And there it was. An identity card – the kind that gave the administrative region. There was the green cover, reserved for Poles, and at the foot was a signature and a name. Georg Malek.
Malek. Tanwen’s brother? No, too old. Her father? Yan glanced at the date of birth. Yes, it fitted. The region given was Tanwen’s home and the card looked genuine. But this man was wearing a Death’s Head ring.
Bruno and Tanwen, thought Yan. Did they kill him because he was a Nazi? A spy? It looks like it. And now they’re burning this building to destroy the evidence – that’s the explanation for the fire. But there was no time to speculate further. He tried again to raise the stone lid, but he already knew it would not move, and he had already acknowledged that the ice pit could not be used to shield them from the fire.
He ran back upstairs. The smoke was denser now, and the crackling of the flames was louder. Helena was crouching on the stairs. She looked up at him, and Yan’s heart turned over. He said, ‘It was some poor man that someone hurt. You don’t need to worry about it, though.’
He scooped her up again – she was struggling, and Yan understood she wanted to run away and hide. But he held onto her, still trying to reassure her, and carried her up to the room where there had been the small gap in the window boards. It was the narrowest of narrow spaces between the two sections of wood, but it might just be possible for Helena, small and light, to squeeze through. Then what? Could she climb out onto the jutting canopy, and then to that lower window sill, and drop down to the ground? It was the longest shot in the world, but it was the only shot Yan could think of.
‘D’you see that little opening, Helena?’ he said. ‘I think you could squeeze through there and get outside.’
There was only a frightened sob in reply, so, with memories of his own childhood Yan said, ‘It’s a bit of an adventure, really. Escaping and being brave.’
She shook her head.
‘Let’s try anyway,’ said Yan. ‘You go first, and I’ll follow.’ He knew he could not possibly get through the narrow gap himself, but it was important that Helena thought he would be with her. ‘You’ve only got to get onto that square slab just under this window, d’you see it? It’s what’s called a canopy. It’s not very far from the ground,’ he said, as she did not speak. ‘And once you’re on it, you can slither onto that window sill at the side – you see where I mean? And then you can jump onto the ground.’
‘And you’ll come too?’
He was relieved to hear her respond at last. ‘Yes, I will, but it might take a bit longer, because I’ll have to break off a bit of that boarding.’ He knelt in front of her, taking her hands. ‘So when you get down there, don’t wait for me. Run as fast as you can and tell somebody – a grown-up – your mamma or Bruno or Irina. Say I’m here in the Library, and they must come. Can you do that?’ There was a small worried nod, but her eyes were huge with terror and Yan had no idea if she was fully understanding him. But he could see no other way and this might give her a good chance to get free. Beyond that he did not dare think.
He lifted her onto the sill, still talking as she squeezed through the narrow gap with his help, repeating that she would be safe, that everything would be all right. As she dropped onto the canopy, Yan tried not to think that the fire might suddenly surge up and engulf Helena. But she crawled to the edge and then reached the window sill below it. It was going to be all right. She was slithering to the ground now – it was not very far, but it was far enough for such a small girl. As she reached the ground, smoke billowed up, obscuring his view of her. There was a moment when he thought he saw her, a small shadowy figure through the murk, and then she was gone. Had she managed to run clear?
He went back downstairs and tried again to break through another of the windows, shouting for help as he did so. But he had no idea if anyone was out there or, even if they were, whether he could be heard through the crackling of the flames.
Even if Helena had not reached help, surely Irina and Tanwen would have missed her, and be looking for her. But would it occur to them to come here? Wouldn’t Tanwen be giving this place a very wide berth indeed? Because down there in the old scullery …
Tanwen’s own father. He must have been working for the Nazis, thought Yan, sickened. Working against his own people. And in this building because of the Resistance group – to find out about them – to report back to Berlin. Had Bruno and Tanwen killed him to stop him doing that? Had it been, in effect, a traitor’s execution?
But Yan’s mind was working on strange levels now – at one level he knew the fear was affecting him, and he knew fear did odd things to a man’s mind. But it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important that Tanwen – Helena’s mother – was not suspected of killing Georg Malek. And that Helena did not have to grow up in that shadow or with that knowledge. Was there one last thing he could do for Helena – and for Tanwen? If he did not escape, was there some way in which he could leave clues so that people would know that if Malek’s body were to be found, his death had been the justified, justifiable death of a traitor?
He seized a big portfolio which he sometimes used for music scores. It had a number of thick card pages slotted inside it – he could scribble an account of the truth on one of them. Glancing towards the door leading out to the hall, he saw that the fire had not yet got through the old walls, and he thought he had a little time left. There might be time to include proof to back up his account.
Working with frantic haste, he ransacked the drawers of his desk, finding some Nazi orders that had been sent earlier in the year. There was a notice about buildings scheduled to be demolished, but the Library was not listed, which might tell some discerning eye that it had been some other force that had caused the place to be destroyed tonight.
In his pocket was the fake programme summoning people to Anatol’s restaurant. Irina had drawn that tiny, detailed sketch of Father Gregory’s firebird piano. At the top of the programme Yan wrote in the name of the ‘Dark Cadence’, as if it was the music that would be played at the concert that would not and could not take place. ‘Temnaya Kadentsiya’. A concert advertising the execution of a traitor. He added a date of October 1944. Anyone finding that would certainly know the programme to be false – no concert could possibly have taken place at such a time. He pushed everything into the portfolio – there was even some glue in the desk, which would make sure the things stayed in place.
What else? He eyes fell on the music of the ‘Cadence’ itself – the music he had disguised as the ‘Demon’s aria’. For a moment the shadowy Katerinburg house closed around him, and his copper-haired Romanov girl was coming down the stairs towards him, her hands outstretched …
He put the music in as well. If anyone with any knowledge were to play it, they would know it was not the real aria. They might even know it for the ‘Traitor’s Music’, and understand something of what had happened tonight.
Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a handful of letters and memoranda from his desk drawer. They referred to the appointment of Tanwen Malek, and he had always thought they had hinted at a degree of manipulation. Had Tanwen’s father been part of that manipulation? Yan thought he could well have been. He had kept the documents separate from the main files for that precise reason – you never knew what you might want or need to make use of. He would make use of them now – they should go into the scrapbook with the rest.
The fire was roaring up now, and there was a crash of something overhead near the front of the building. It’s starting to disintegrate, thought Yan. I don’t believe I’m entirely sane any longer – I don’t believe anyone in this situation would be sane – I could even believe that if I escape this I won’t do so with my mind entirely intact …
But he seized the pencil anyway, and began to write.
‘I think I have only moments left, but before death overtakes me I must set down what happened in the Chopin Library tonight …’
It took barely five minutes to write what he wanted to say, but in those minutes he was aware of the heat as the fire tore through the old fabric. There were more crashes – the gilt stairway? – and splinterings as windows were blown. Yan’s hands were shaking badly by this time, mostly from sheer terror, but also from the frantic compulsion that was driving him to get this done – to finish before the fire took over. A particularly loud crash shook the floor of the room, and the pot of glue teetered slightly, spilling a few drops onto the corner of the portfolio. Yan cursed, and tore the edges of the page away where it had touched them.
But it’s all done, he thought. I can’t do anything more – I’ve said what needs saying, and there’s no more time. He looked about him. There was a small safe in his office, used for the modest amount of cash kept for small day-to-day expenses, and for any papers or documents. Fire proof? Probably reasonably so. He dragged the door open and pushed the portfolio inside, slamming the door. Then he stood very still. There was one more thing to do before the flames came roaring into the room. His violin lay in a corner. He was still clinging to the hope that he would be rescued, but for now …
As the flames tore through the great hall and into the Ivory Salon – the famous hall where once the renowned musicians and composers of the world had performed, where kings and princes and doomed tsars had gathered – Yan began to play the ‘Dark Cadence’.
Bruno said, and Irina said – even Anatol said – that lying on a bed and sobbing out reproaches would not do Tanwen any good. It would not bring back Yan or Helena.
From out of the welter of grief and guilt and sheer scalding horror, Tanwen said, ‘But I was the one who killed them. I started the fire.’
‘We both started it,’ said Bruno, who was slumped in a chair in the corner of Tanwen’s bedroom, and who seemed to have aged twenty years in a single night. ‘We’re both guilty. We locked the door, trapping them. But we didn’t know – how could we know – they were both in there. Oh, God, my dearest friend – that gifted man—’
‘And a child, barely started on her life,’ said Irina, softly.
‘We don’t know for certain about Helena,’ said Bruno. ‘We know about Yan, because he told Alicja he was going to the Library. But by the time we knew that, it was too late. But we don’t know that Helena—’
‘We do. Anatol saw her crossing the square that night, remember?’ said Tanwen.
‘I was worried,’ said Anatol. ‘It was so late. I went along to Irina’s house to tell her. Irina had thought she was in bed.’
Tanwen, still sobbing, said, ‘And if she didn’t die in the fire, where is she now? She died, I know she did.’ It no longer seemed to matter about letting them know that Helena was her daughter. Tanwen did not care if the entire world knew it.
Alicja, arriving later, sat by Tanwen’s bed and held her hand, and said tragedy of all kinds came into people’s lives. If only she had stopped Yan from going to the Library that night, she said. Or if she had accompanied him … She, too, had her guilt, said Alicja.
It was two days later that Anatol returned, and his chubby face was serious. ‘You’ll both have to leave Warsaw,’ he said to Tanwen, and to Bruno who was constantly in Tanwen’s rooms now, and who seemed unable to be by himself any longer. ‘They’ve begun clearing the ruins. Who knows what they might find?’
Burned bodies – a little girl whose life had scarcely started. A gifted, charismatic musician, who had never known he had a daughter …
And, thought Tanwen, the body of a man who should have worked for his country against the oppressors, but who worked for the oppressors instead. But wouldn’t even the bones have been burned to ash after such a fierce fire? She began to cry all over again.
Anatol was saying that they could not be sure that the fire would not be traced back to Bruno or Tanwen. ‘But I went out to the ruins myself early this morning.’ He gave a brief shrug. ‘I thought perhaps there might be things – clues – that I could cover up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bruno. ‘You wouldn’t find anything, though. It would all be reduced to cinders.’
‘I found one thing,’ said Anatol. ‘And I brought it away before anyone – the oppressors – could find it. I didn’t know if it would set people thinking – asking questions.’
