For once the answers to her letters had come quite quickly; her mother was certain she couldn’t come because she was still filming in Ireland, and the next day Czernowitz had written to say that her father was extremely sorry but he was delaying his return from America.
Her disappointment had brought the usual stricken look to her eyes. What if no one came ever again, what if the school emptied and she was forgotten? But Ellen had not been interested in this train of thought. ‘If the school empties and you’re forgotten I’ll take you to Gowan Terrace and we’ll go to the zoo and see lots of Charlie Chaplin films and make fudge.’
‘I don’t know why you want them to come,’ said Leon. ‘It’s an awful play.’
But he too had responded to Sophie’s distress, extending the role he had written for her so that in addition to being terrified in her hovel she was allowed to walk slowly into the lake, like Ludwig of Bavaria, and drown.
He was setting up this tricky shot during a gap in Abattoir rehearsals when Sophie, wading through the bulrushes, stopped suddenly and said: ‘Goodness! Here comes Cleopatra in her barge!’
The children who had been resting in the grass sat up. The boat making its way in a stately manner towards them did indeed have something regal about it, though it was only a motor boat hired from the village. The woman who lay back against the cushions was amply built, dressed in a flowing, flowery garment with matching turban, and held a fringed parasol in a gloved hand. Behind her, wearing black, sat some kind of lesser person, probably a maid, hanging on to the collar of a small and excited dog.
‘She doesn’t look like a parent,’ said Flix – and this was true.
Parents coming to see how their children were faring at the school seldom approached with that air of grandeur and self-assurance. They were usually thin people in corduroy or ethnic skirts and looked apprehensive.
As they drew close to the castle, Brigitta’s hopes rose. Too vain to wear the spectacles she needed, she could make out only the beauty of the pink building and a number of children moving about in the grounds. Altenburg’s devotion to children, his conviction that they could be taught to sing or play from infancy, had irritated her in Vienna, but made it more than likely that he should be lying low in a place like this. She had left Staub and Benny in the villa that Stallenbach had procured for them, wanting to be alone when she ran her old lover to ground. Now, as the boat slowed down by the landing stage, she promised herself that she would utter no word of reproach when she came face to face with Marcus. She would beg his help in the matter of the gala and he would not deny her, she was sure. Then when he was in Vienna and Rosenkavalier was safely over she would show him Staub’s libretto and their true collaboration would begin. Cosima von Bülow and Wagner . . . Alma Schindler and Gustav Mahler . . . George Sand and Chopin . . . there was nothing absurd in the comparison. Cosima had cut off her long, long hair and thrown it into Wagner’s grave, thought Brigitta, fingering her short permed hair under the turban. If Marcus came back, if he set Staub’s opera, she might even be prepared to huddle.
The children waiting on the landing stage were larger than she had expected and did not look salubrious, but that only made it more likely that Marcus was here.
‘Can we help you?’ said the only one that looked even remotely clean and decent, a girl with dark pigtails.
‘I am Brigitta Seefeld,’ the diva announced, not troubling to introduce her maid. ‘And I am looking for Herr Altenburg, the composer, who I believe is working here.’
Sophie and the others, in all innocence, shook their heads. Only Leon stiffened and looked wary.
‘There’s no one here called that,’ said Sophie.
‘Definitely not,’ agreed Flix, making her way towards the little dog.
But Brigitta was not so easily put off. ‘Take me to your headmaster,’ she ordered. ‘Tell him that Brigitta Seefeld is here.’
As the children led her towards the steps, Leon took Sophie aside.
‘Go in and find Ellen,’ he whispered. ‘Tell her Brigitta Seefeld is here and looking for someone called Altenburg. Go on, quickly.’
Sophie, without question, turned and ran towards the kitchen. She did not pause to wonder why Ellen had to be told of this visit or its purpose: to fetch Ellen at all times was second nature now to the children in the school.
She found Ellen teaching the new kitchen hand how to slice angelica into interesting shapes. He was hoping to be a chef and had only been here a few days but everyone liked him: he was quick to learn and funny and would help with anything, indoors and out.
‘Ellen, a great big blonde woman has just arrived; she’s called Brigitta Seefeld and she’s looking for someone called Altenburg. A musician. Leon said I should tell you.’
Ellen looked up, the egg whisk still in her hand. At the same time a small exclamation from the trainee chef made them both turn. Usually so neat and careful, he had cut his finger.
‘Where is she now?’ asked Ellen.
‘Leon’s taking her to see Bennet; we told her there wasn’t anyone like that here but she didn’t believe us.’ But Sophie was staring at the new assistant, who had gone as white as his overalls. There were people who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, she knew that. It was nothing to do with cowardice; it was just one of those things. ‘Shall I go and get some sticking plaster from your box?’ she offered.
Ellen shook her head. ‘No, I’ll see to it. Will you go to Bennet and tell him I’ll bring coffee and cakes to his study. I’ll be there in ten minutes if he would just wait there. Would you tell him that?’
Sophie nodded and sped off, and Ellen went to shut the door of the scullery in which Frau Tauber was washing up.
‘She knows you, of course.’
‘Yes.’ He was biting his lip. She could see the effort he was making to control himself.
‘Well then, we must hide you,’ she said, fetching a roll of plaster and some lint. She bound up the finger, thinking. Then: ‘Didn’t you offer to stand in for David Langley at the rehearsal?’ And as he nodded: ‘In that case, our troubles are over. You’ll be as safe as houses there.’
Brigitta’s route towards the headmaster’s study, escorted by Leon and followed by Ursula and Janey, was unfortunate. Unaware that she had been spared Chomsky’s appendix scar, she shuddered as the Biology teacher, virtually naked, ran past her with his net, searching for dragonfly larvae in the mud. An uncouth boy with dirty feet dropped from a tree, bumped into her, swore and disappeared.
‘That’s Frank,’ explained Janey helpfully. ‘His father’s a famous philosopher and he’s been through five psychoanalysts.’
‘I’ll wait outside,’ said Ufra firmly, and led the dog away towards the kitchen garden.
As she passed the open doors of classrooms and rehearsal rooms, Brigitta’s certainty that she had found Marcus’ hiding place began to evaporate. In one a sinewy female in a leotard was exhorting a group of sulky children to give vent to their viscerality; in another a mustachioed woman in flannels was demonstrating the Primal Scream. A child lay on the floor in the corridor, reading a book and eating a banana. Surely even Marcus with his passion for freedom and tolerance, would not be able to work in this kind of bedlam?
But when she reached Bennet’s study she became more hopeful again. The headmaster was a cultivated and good-mannered man who spoke excellent German and was properly dressed. His walls were lined with books, and the bust of Shakespeare encouraged her; Marcus had set six of the sonnets for tenor, strings and percussion when he first came to Vienna, boring her with eulogies about the verse.
‘I am Brigitta Seefeld –’ she began – and frowned angrily as the boy who had put himself forward all along, had the impertinence to interrupt her.
‘Madame Seefeld has come because she thinks Herr Altenburg has been here,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve told her he hasn’t, but –’
‘Leon is right, Madame Seefeld. There has been no one here of that name,’ said Bennet with perfect truthfuln
ess, giving Leon a reassuring nod.
There was a brief knock at the door and Sophie entered with Ellen’s message, ‘She won’t be more than ten minutes, she said.’
Bennet nodded and sent the children away. ‘Ellen is our matron – and in charge of the kitchen too. An excellent woman.’
That Marek would want his stay in Hallendorf kept secret even now, Bennet was certain. Only three people knew his identity: Ellen, Leon and himself, and it was clear that the boy could be trusted.
Meanwhile he was in effect looking at a kind of Toscanini’s Aunt. Brigitta Seefeld was known all over Europe as a brilliant singer, a doyenne of the operatic stage. Two years ago when Franz Lerner had produced an opera based on The Pied Piper he had written to invite her to Hallendorf and she had not even troubled to reply. Now she was here and all he had to show her was Abbatoir. But was it ‘all’? Was he being unduly pessimistic? A premiere of a Brecht play directed by a man who had studied with Meyerhold and Stanislavsky . . .
Motioning her to his slightly disintegrating leather armchair, he set himself to be charming and flatter her.
‘As you can imagine, this is a great honour for Hallendorf. If you’d given me a little warning we could have shown you some of the workshops in progress. Unfortunately our music is at present our weakest point. Our excellent music teacher has gone to fight in Spain and so far we’ve not found a replacement.’
‘I understand Professor Steiner lives across the lake.’ Brigitta was still suspicious. ‘We called at his house but he seems to be away. Couldn’t he help you?’
‘I wouldn’t trouble a man of such eminence,’ said Bennet truthfully. ‘Or of his age. Some of the children here are a little . . . untutored.’
‘Yes, I see that. But Altenburg has been seen with Professor Steiner. I find it hard to believe that he never came here. He is interested in working with children.’
Bennet gave a wistful smile. ‘I assure you, we would have welcomed any help of that sort with open arms.’
A knock at the door interrupted them, and Ellen entered bearing a silver tray, a coffee pot and a plate of biscuits.
‘Ah – Vanilla Kipferl! I think you won’t do better than these even at Demels,’ said Bennet.
Ellen set down the tray and smiled at the woman described so fulsomely in Kendrick’s concert programme. Seefeld seemed middle-aged to her; there was a puffiness under the eyes and in Ellen’s opinion she was not so much voluptuous as fat. But the eyes themselves were a bright periwinkle blue, the hair under the turban still golden – above all Seefeld had the assurance, the presence, that comes from years of fame. That the collaboration between her and Marek had been ‘fruitful’ in all senses of the word, seemed all too likely.
Brigitta in her turn examined Ellen with sudden interest. The girl was remarkably pretty; the careless curls, the big gold-brown eyes and soft mouth – and for an instant she thought that maybe she had found the reason for Marcus’ sojourn in the neighbourhood. But that was absurd. She was a below stairs person, she worked in the kitchens. He might have flirted with such a girl but that she could seriously interest him, that he could write music for her was absurd. Even Marcus did not write music for cooks.
The coffee however was excellent, the Vanilla Kipferl delicious. When they were finished, Bennet invited her to the theatre, where a rehearsal for the play had just resumed.
‘The theatre was built at the same time as the castle – in 1743. It’s a remarkably pretty one; the work of Grunwald von Heilgen . . .’
He elaborated, and Brigitta suppressed a yawn. ‘Very well. But I should like to look over the school first. I should like to see everything?’
That Marcus, for no reason she could imagine, was concealed in the building, was an idea that would not entirely go away.
But when they reached the theatre and found the Abbatoir rehearsal in full spate, Brigitta finally realised that wherever her former lover was it could not be here.
Chomsky’s three-tiered structure was in place at last and FitzAllan was attempting to get everyone on stage together: the capitalists on top, the Salvation Army girls in the middle and the workers on the bottom.
Things were not going well. The Salvation Army girls came on too soon, were yelled at and vanished. The capitalists, rolling their dice, looked green, contemplating the distance to the ground – and there was trouble with the carcasses. There was always trouble with the carcasses. FitzAllan had insisted that the headless cadavers, completely swathed in muslin, were played by real people who could neither see nor be seen, and the opportunities for disaster were endless.
The arrival of the famous diva brought the director unctuously to her side.
‘This is an honour indeed,’ he said in excellent German, bowing over her hand, and led her towards the footlights. ‘Carry on,’ he shouted to the increasingly confused children, and a disorientated slaughterhouse worker crashed into a dimly lit side of beef, was sworn at and veered off at an angle. ‘As you see, we are still feeling our way a little,’ said FitzAllan.
Brigitta said she did indeed see this. She made however one last attempt before making her escape. ‘Who does the music – presumably there is music?’
FitzAllan gave a modest smile. ‘I have endeavoured to fill the gap left by the departure of Franz Lerner. Perhaps you’d like to hear one of the workers’ songs? I’ve adapted it myself from one I found in a communist manifesto.’
He clapped his hands and those of the children who heard him came to the front of the stage. ‘We’re going straight into the Song of Starvation at the end of Act Two. I’ll give you the note. Ready?’
Brigitta listened and the last of her doubts were laid to rest. Not in a hundred years could Marcus have countenanced a noise like that. Turning, she found the dark, intense boy who had met her at the landing stage standing beside her.
‘If Herr von Altenburg could hear that, he’d turn in his grave, wouldn’t you say?’ he whispered.
Much as she wanted to snub the child, she could only agree.
‘The premiere is at the end of July. If you happened to be in the district we should be most honoured,’ said Bennet.
‘Thank you, but my calendar for July is very full,’ she said.
She found Ufra and Puppchen already in the launch. Puppchen was passionately chewing a large leather gardening glove. ‘He found it in one of the sheds,’ said Ufra. ‘It belonged to the handyman. He’s left now, so I thought he might as well have it.’
‘It’s disgusting,’ said Brigitta, as the object became covered in the little dog’s saliva. ‘Take it away and throw it into the lake.’
But Puppchen wouldn’t be parted from his treasure. He growled and showed his crooked teeth and he was still slobbering over it when the boat arrived in the village, and the local taxi bore Brigitta off to the villa so kindly provided by the count.
Ellen waited till the theatre was empty and dark before she made her way back stage.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You can come out now. She’s been gone for ages.’
The ox carcass in its muslin wrapping swayed; the papier-mâché stump representing its severed neck was lifted.
‘Goodness, you do look green! There’s no need to be afraid; she’s miles away.’
‘It isn’t fear, it’s seasickness,’ said Isaac Meierwitz, and climbed out of the bag.
By day Isaac could forget the terror in the forest; the moment when Marek had disappeared in the direction of the river, the second shot. He could forget the hours he had stumbled through the mist, trying to find Steiner’s van, the baying of the guard dogs which had sent him crawling under barbed wire, to find himself in Austria . . . the long journey, footsore and starving, to Hallendorf, hoping against hope that Steiner and Marek were there.
But at night he played back the nightmare again and again, and then there was nothing to do except get up and go outside and sit on the steps of the little temple, looking out across the lake to Steiner’s house, praying that a light
would show in the windows . . . that the men who had risked their lives for him were safely back.
There Ellen found him the night after Brigitta’s visit, wearing a coat over her nightdress, and bringing a blanket for him, for the night was cool.
‘You should sleep, Ellen; you work so hard.’
‘Flix woke me,’ she said. ‘She had a dream about the Judas sheep.’
She sat down beside him, wrapping the blanket round them both, and her closeness gave him a stab of something he did not recognise at first because it had become so unfamiliar. Happiness? thought Isaac – is that possible still? And answered himself: Where she is, it is possible.
The moment of panic by Steiner’s door when he had tried to pull the intruder down on to the grass had not lasted long. The softness of her body, the way she crumpled in his arms and then stiffened, ready to fight, had overwhelmed him. He let her go, and then the dizziness he had been fighting overcame him, and he lost consciousness.
When he came round again his victim was kneeling beside him, opening a suitcase. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you a balanced diet,’ she had said, shining a pocket torch on to a salami in a lattice of gold, a packet of Karlsbad plums, a cluster of grapes. ‘You must eat very slowly,’ she had instructed him in her gentle voice, with its very slight English accent, ‘otherwise you’ll be sick.’
He was famished, but he reached out not for the strange foods she was proffering from her magic suitcase but for her hair, touching it once where it clustered on the nape of her neck. She existed then; she was real.
‘There seems to be a bottle of Tokay here also,’ she said, lifting a flagon wrapped in straw out of its wooden box. ‘But you mustn’t drink that; not yet. There’s a tap at the back of the house; I’ll get you some water.’
Isaac had shaken himself out of his trance then. Ashamed of his weakness, he stretched out his hand for the bottle. ‘Water is for the feet,’ he said.