The Mask of Troy (21 page)

‘What could hiding art conceivably have to do with this place? With all this horror?’ Cameron asked, gesturing around them, then letting his hand drop.

‘The all-encompassing ideology,’ Stein said grimly. ‘The looting of art, the destruction of art, is all part of the same ideology, the Nazi programme of hate. In 1907, Hitler was rejected by the Vienna Academy of Fine Art. He was a competent artist, but lacked imagination. Two of the academicians were Jewish. Hitler never forgot that, nor the modernist art he never had the flair to create. When he came to power, he ridiculed it, destroyed it or had it sold out of Germany. Art was to be cleansed, just as race was to be cleansed. This - what we see around us, the horror this represents - was Hitler’s ultimate canvas. Absolute ideology. Absolute realism.’

Mayne looked at Stein. ‘And stolen antiquities?’

‘On the way in, you asked about Schliemann’s treasure,’ Stein replied, eyeing him shrewdly. ‘I said nothing. But now I think I owe you an explanation. Heinrich Himmler ran a department known as the Ahnenerbe, the Department of Cultural Heritage. Before the war they went all round the world searching for evidence of Aryan roots, for the origins of the master race. In Europe they excavated sites they thought would reveal Germany’s heroic past. They became fixated on kings, on rulers who seemed to display the characteristics the Nazis most admired, absolute power, absolute ruthlessness. The emperors of Rome were a huge inspiration. But they also looked further back, to the semi-mythical kings of prehistory. Any artefacts associated with those kings had huge lustre in the eyes of the Nazis, and they would do anything to get hold of them, to glorify their heroes.’

‘So you’re saying that anything of that treasure from Schliemann would have huge cachet in Nazi eyes.’

Stein nodded. ‘Huge.’

‘It’s time we showed Cameron that drawing.’ Mayne took out a sheet of notepaper from his tunic pocket, unfolded it and held it for the others to see. The sheet had been torn from a German order book, with Gothic typeface at the top, and was thin, almost diaphanous, so the grey sky seemed to suffuse the drawing with depth, with dimensionality. The lines were precise, in crayon. In the centre were simple sketches of a man in a dark suit and a woman, gaily coloured. Between them was a little girl, holding hands with them. Below the adults were two words,
Mama
and
Papa
. But it was the object drawn above the child’s head that was so extraordinary. It was golden, luminous, with a silvery interior, and the child was looking up at it.

‘
Good God
,’ Cameron whispered. ‘It’s a swastika. But a
reverse
swastika. And those colours.’ He looked up. ‘Why would a Jewish child draw that?’

Mayne looked at Stein, then at Cameron. ‘We assume it’s something she’s seen. What you were saying earlier. Somehow associated with trauma. But we’re putting two and two together and thinking it’s here, somehow associated with that bunker.’

Cameron looked at them. ‘Have you seen this before? This symbol?’

Stein spoke quickly. ‘We don’t know what it means. Not yet. But we’ve had it described to us, very exactly. The interrogation of a top Nazi official. The details are top secret. That official is no longer alive. That’s how deadly serious this is.’

Mayne stared at Stein, his mind in a whirl.
It had been seen somewhere before
. When should he tell Stein? About the treasure the old foreman had seen under the Mask of Agamemnon? A treasure that had become a dread symbol in Nazi Germany? Stein had spoken of the Nazi fervour for ancient mythical kings, for Aryan roots, and everyone knew their fetish for symbols and secrecy, for codes and decrees. Was that what had happened? Somehow, someone had found this treasure, symbol of Agamemnon, symbol of Troy, secreted away in Germany by Schliemann, and made it instead into a symbol of hate, of some hidden horror that Stein could not bring himself to tell,
or did not even yet know
. It was suddenly imperative that they find out more. Mayne turned to Cameron. ‘Where is the girl who drew this likely to be found, if she’s still alive?’

Cameron pointed. ‘That hut ahead. That’s where the children are, the
Kinderbaracke
. A Red Cross nurse is looking after them. Come on.’ He led them around the hut to a line of stretchers in the shade, facing away from the camp, away from the bodies and the horror. Each stretcher held a small form, beneath a blanket. Two British soldiers with Sten guns slung over their backs crouched among the children, offering cups of water. A woman got up from beside one stretcher, gently raised the blanket to cover the head of the still form beneath, then bowed her own head for a moment. She was wearing dungarees, gaiters and rubber boots like Cameron’s, with her hair tied in a scarf. She looked up as they approached. ‘Helen,’ Cameron said quietly, gesturing back at the two officers and Lewes. ‘Just a few questions. We won’t take up any of your time.’

Mayne saw that the nurse’s eyes were tired and grey like Cameron’s. She nodded, but remained where she was, turning away from the dead child to the one on the stretcher on the other side, holding the emaciated head in one hand and a cup in the other, dripping water into the open mouth. She put down the cup and gently raised the child’s left arm, showing a black smudge below the elbow. ‘That’s the Auschwitz tattoo,’ she said. ‘They all have it. Their parents are gone, murdered by the Nazis, in the Polish ghettos, in Krakow, Warsaw, in the death camps. According to the adult inmates we’ve spoken to, almost all of the children who arrived at Auschwitz were gassed immediately. These are the ones who survived selection. Some are Dutch children of Jewish families in the diamond trade, kept alive by the Nazis for ransom. Others are children who had arrived in Auschwitz before the gas chambers were built, and had made themselves useful in the camp. They somehow survived the march from Auschwitz a few months ago. We brought them here, away from the barracks, to get them away from the typhus.’

Mayne showed her the drawing. ‘Do you know who did this?’

She glanced at it. ‘Several of them have done drawings like that. It’s the first thing they draw when we give them crayons. Images of their parents. Sometimes on the railhead at Auschwitz, where the Nazi doctors separated parents and children. It’s as if . . .’ She paused, just as Cameron had done, at a loss for words. ‘It’s as if that moment lives with them for ever, frozen in time, as if all that’s happened afterwards is a nightmare. They want to wake up and go back. So they draw it, the last image of their parents. It’s as if liberation has allowed them to see an image of happiness that the survival instinct has denied them for so long, and they become fixated on it, see nothing else. It’s heartbreaking.’ She glanced at the picture. ‘Yes. That was the girl with the harp. She’s over there.’

They followed her gaze. About fifty yards away they saw a figure seated on a chair, with her back to them, in the middle of open ground. Mayne could see her shorn head and thin neck, but not her face. She was wearing an outsized army shirt and trousers, evidently given to her by the soldiers, but she was barefoot. Her hands lay on her knees, and she seemed motionless, staring ahead. ‘She’s about seventeen,’ the nurse said. ‘According to the others, she survived Auschwitz because she worked in a place called Block Twelve. She was a sex slave, used by the SS guards and privileged inmates. Shortly before we arrived here, the female camp leader, the
Lagerfüherin
, found out what the girl had been at Auschwitz, and took her into the forest one night along with several of the guards. I can’t bear to tell you what they did to her. After the camp’s surrender, several inmates who went after the guards found her in the forest and brought her here. She hasn’t spoken a word, but she did do that drawing. She’s done many like it, almost identical, but that’s the only one I’ve seen with the swastika above her parents. Odd. It’s reversed. But they have seen that hated thing so much, it must be burned into their minds. Who knows why she drew it there.’

‘The drawing was taken from her by an SAS patrol who were in here yesterday,’ Mayne said. ‘Their officer took it to VIII Corps HQ.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I gave it to him. A Captain Frazer, Hugh Frazer. They’d shot some of the guards, and a German officer who fired at them. Captain Frazer stayed with me for a while afterwards, and tried to help with the children. He was pretty frayed. Spent a long time here, on the edge of this bed, just sitting and looking at the girl with the harp. It was strange. It was almost as if . . . as if he’d found peace, just sitting here, looking at her. Funny how it takes men like that, killers one moment, and then just sitting there, broken by it all. I only wish you chaps could cry a bit more easily. God knows, I’m close to it myself after having been here for twenty-four hours.’

Mayne swallowed hard. Hugh. ‘Frazer’s a friend of mine, actually. Saw him back at HQ. Thought he needed a rest.’

She nodded. ‘I thought it was malaria. I was in India before this. So many of them coming out of Burma had it. You get pretty good at spotting the signs.’

‘We both picked it up in Egypt. Long time ago now.’

‘What’s she doing now, sitting out there all alone?’ Stein asked.

‘The others said that before she was used as a prostitute, she survived selection at Auschwitz because her parents told the SS she could play the harp. Her parents were taken away to be gassed. The Nazis ran a camp orchestra, the
Lagerkapelle
. Many of the Jews were accomplished musicians, and the Nazis had them play the music the Jews had loved, the classics, folk songs, especially modern jazz, songs like “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love”, you know? Used to be one of my favourites too. It was meant to calm the arrivals during selection. Some of the people here hum snatches of it, or words from the Shabbat, in Yiddish. But so much of what they sing is anguished, despairing. I wish there was music here. There aren’t even any birds any more, with those awful fires we lit to get rid of the clothes. It’s all death, like the entrance to hell.’ She paused, swallowing hard, then nodded towards the girl. ‘You saw the local German people the soldiers brought in to see all this? I asked if anyone had a harp, and a schoolteacher brought one, a child’s harp. She’s sitting in front of it now.’

Mayne stared again at the girl, and saw the harp. He felt dizzy and swayed slightly, the ringing he had heard since Cassino going from one side of his head to the other. Lewes came silently up. ‘Sir,’ he said quietly, holding his arm. Mayne shut his eyes, opened them again, then nodded. ‘I’m all right, Jock,’ he said quietly, squeezing Lewes’ arm. ‘Good man.’ Lewes moved back, still watching. Mayne tried to focus on the girl, as if he were at sea and she was a fixed point on the horizon. He blinked hard, then remembered what he had done at the death pit. He made himself think as a painter again, framing the scene, trying to imagine how he would distil it. There was no need. Absolute realism.
Girl with a harp
.

Stein stepped forward. ‘We need to question her.’

‘Not if she won’t talk,’ Mayne said.

‘What is it you want from her?’ the nurse asked.

Mayne pointed at the drawing. ‘That object: the reverse swastika.’

‘I tried talking to her about her drawings. There are sometimes other objects in that place, flowers. She kept pointing at the forest. I think it could be something she saw there, where she was taken. Or maybe it’s something she imagined, while she was in the hands of those SS monsters. I don’t know.’

‘She won’t talk?’ Mayne said.

‘Not a word. None of them have heard her speak, even at Auschwitz. She probably has no family left in the world, nobody who knew her before. We don’t even know her name.’

‘All right.’ Mayne looked at Stein. ‘We leave her alone.’

Stein nodded. ‘Time for a little recce in those woods.’

Mayne turned to Lewes, who had lit up and was smoking a few feet behind them. He folded up the drawing and handed it to the corporal. ‘Take this back to VIII Corps HQ. Tell Colonel Woolley in Intelligence that I want the back-up team here as soon as possible. We want a tracker dog, Sergeant Parker and his demolition chaps for blowing open doors, the usual. And some MPs.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘See you back at that first sentry post outside the barracks in, say, four hours, at seventeen thirty. Got that?’

‘Sir.’ Lewes dropped his cigarette butt, ground it into the earth, took the drawing and buttoned it into his tunic breast pocket. Then he stood to attention and saluted. Mayne returned the salute, but Lewes remained in place, ramrod straight. Mayne gave him a tired smile, and put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be all right, Jock. No need to worry. I’ve got Stein here to look after me. You get on, and look after yourself, all right? Dismissed.’

‘Sir.’ Lewes swivelled round and walked swiftly off in the direction they had come. Mayne nodded to the nurse. ‘Thanks, Helen. And . . . thanks for letting Hugh, Captain Frazer . . . help you.’ He was suddenly at a loss for words. She gave him a tired smile. ‘I know,’ she said quietly, touching his arm. ‘I know how you chaps who’ve been through so much look out for each other.’ She turned back to the stretchers.

Mayne looked at Cameron. ‘We’d better let you get on too.’

‘I’ll show you the track into the forest.’ Cameron led them towards the treeline, and stopped on a dirt road that led to a cut in the trees, evidently an old bridleway. They could see the barbed-wire compound fence, with an open gate. ‘Anyone who’s going to try to leave the camp will have done so already. We leave that gate open to let in the former inmates who want to return, who’ve got exhausted and realize the SS really have gone.’ Cameron shook his head. ‘But it’s a wild place. SS still out there, I’m sure. Rather you than me.’

Mayne knelt down. The track was well-trodden, but there were no wheel ruts. ‘If there’s some sort of installation out there, this can’t have been the main route in.’

‘They wouldn’t have put the main route through the camp,’ Stein said. ‘There’ll be another way in, probably on the other side of the forest, for trucking in building materials and whatever they might have been storing there. The aerial photographs don’t show anything clearly, but tracks in forests are easy to conceal. It’s all consistent with something top secret.’