A solitary red poppy shivers in the breeze, swaying on a long stem. Fragile and vulnerable, yet defiant. She sits cross-legged near the barbed wire, the grey dust seeping through the holes in her mismatched shoes. A raven, its eyes blinking, perches on a fence post, watching as her nail-bitten fingers cup the petals. Stay with me, she whispers and leans in as tears cut tracks in the grime of her cheeks. She wants the flower to survive, but is afraid to love it as she has lost everything she loved. Will this nightmare never end? Distant voices raised in song make her lift her head, but there’s no joy in the singing, interrupted by a shouted order followed by a cry and a gunshot. Silence settles before the singing resumes, broken and tuneless, like the whimpering of wounded animals. Music is a punishment here, and the guards amuse themselves by making prisoners sing as they march. Sing louder, they exhort, until their lungs ache, and often they sing until they collapse. Once, they pulled out two prisoners, shaking and snivelling, and forced them into a duel to outdo each other, singing louder and longer, their voices rising to a crescendo before turning to a wail and dissipating to a croak. The guards dispatched the vanquished with a bullet, and the victor returned to work another day. I will never sing again.
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The growl of a Mercedes-Benz 320 cabriolet sparked a spasm of expectancy that sliced through him like a knife. ‘Right on time,’ Jan Pastorek muttered and took a cigarette case from a pocket of his leather jacket. The silver case caught the sun’s rays, and he angled the reflection down the road. Its light flickered across a parked tram full of passengers and flashed on its targets, Jozef Gabcik, wearing a heavy trench coat almost reaching his ankles, and Jan Kubis, carrying a battered leather briefcase. The driver of the Mercedes, Hartmut Schmidt, a corporal in the Wehrmacht, drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Every time he accelerated, Gruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich ordered him to slow down. That irritated him. He hadn’t wished to chauffeur a general, but the General’s usual driver had called off sick at the last minute, and he had no choice. As a regular soldier, he had little time for the SS, whom he regarded as politicians with a fetish for pantomime uniforms, but he kept that to himself. In his opinion, the slower they drove, the more the general could be at risk, and many would enjoy spreading the Butcher of Prague’s brains over the car’s leather upholstery. Anyone who encountered Heydrich, with his receding fair hair plastered over a bony skull and a long, aquiline nose as sharp as a stiletto, never forgot the experience. Hitler called him the man with the heart of iron. He’d crushed the Czechs under his boots like ants and now aimed to exterminate the Jewish race. A mere corporal couldn’t challenge him, so he eased his foot off the accelerator. The daily drive from the north of the city to Heydrich’s office in Prague Castle reminded the people that they were untermensch and expendable. That pleased the general, who seldom showed emotion but allowed himself a satisfied smile, confident his work here was another positive step in a brilliant career. He expected to travel to Berlin later that day, May 27th, 1942, for a meeting with the Führer. His spy in Reichsführer Himmler’s office suggested it might be a posting to France, where the Resistance was causing problems. He had completed every task required of him, from his strategy of Night and Fog, where dissidents disappeared overnight, to his Wannsee master plan to rid the world of Jews. And it had all but removed the stain of his dishonourable discharge from the Navy as a junior officer. Anyone who crossed him was dispatched by the apparatus he’d built around him, and Hitler regarded him as a role model for the Aryan race and his successor rather than Himmler, an overweight little man who resembled a bespectacled hamster. Himmler lived for the day Heydrich failed, but he couldn’t admit it. From the tram stop at the junction of Kirchmayerova and Holesovickach, Gabcik and Kubis watched the car approach as Pastorek strolled towards them to avoid attracting attention. The previous night, they had shared a meal, which could have been their last, and a few beers in a safe house. Like Pastorek, trained by the Special Operations Executive at the commando base in Arisaig in Scotland, they were handpicked for Operation Anthropoid, which would strike at the heart of the Reich. If they could assassinate a senior member of the Nazi hierarchy, anything might be possible. Gabcik and Kubis readied themselves as the vehicle slowed for a tight curve before turning westwards, and as the Mercedes drew closer, Gabcik pulled a Sten gun from under his coat and aimed at Heydrich, who was raised behind the driver and an easy target. He squeezed the trigger, but the weapon jammed. ‘Christ.’ Despite the danger, Heydrich stood, holding a Luger as the car braked, and Kubis withdrew a grenade from his briefcase and pulled out the pin. He missed the target, and the grenade landed by a rear wheel. As Pastorek approached the car, the blast lifted him off his feet, and he lost consciousness, his Colt M1903 spilling onto the road. Kubis dived for cover, but shrapnel sliced into his face and passengers in a stationary tram on the other side of the road were also hit. Although wounded on his side, Heydrich was determined to confront the terrorists and followed Schmidt out of the shattered Mercedes. As his attacker attempted to get the Sten gun operational, he limped towards him, firing from the hip. Diving for cover behind a telegraph pole, Gabcik returned fire with his pistol before retreating. Grimacing in pain, Heydrich limped back to the car and turned on Pastorek as he regained consciousness. ‘You bastard!’ He bared his teeth in an animal smile and raised his pistol. Stunned by the blast and unable to focus, Pastorek struggled to his feet, but the German forced his face into the road and rammed the Luger into the back of his head. He closed his eyes. They had failed.
She was of a catholic family that lived in a town where the Germans had decided to attack, taking people off the streets no matter who they were it seemed. And, so, it was that day that her mother had taken her family out to shop--their father was away--and it was there that Germans were out looking for anyone that they might choose to remove from their homes. To be taken away at the direction of Hitler, a man who had decided it was his time to seek and hold power over others who he hated. It was the Jewish people he was aiming for, but it was more important that the white Germanic race be retained in the world that he cared most about...
But from the standpoint of those who were soldiers, they had more personal thoughts as they watched the family--a mother, two girls and a boy that could be useful... They were grabbed that day, never to be seen again by the old woman who lived next to them... Even though she kept watch, hoping one day they would return...
Of course the family was taken to a camp--the story is well known as the family was divided up, taken away from each other, not knowing what would be happening... Only one was left. She was the oldest daughter and she had a skill that was very much of use... Anneliesa was added to the camp orchestra which was very grateful to have the new violinist...
And it was while she played that she saw her family being guided away, by the guards...
In the meantime, their father had returned home, reacting to the signs of the Nazis and all that they represented to the world...
The time within the camp follows traditional stories, not that it does not draw readers in, but rather that it serves to document that the book was indeed inspired by true events. The twist in this story is unique, so unique that it leads to an extension out of the camp, through an escape, and on to follow the life of Anneliesa... and the character who was introduced in an earlier chapter and took a much more dominant role.
Jan Pastorek was a Czech who had a job to do, with the Germans watching him closely; however, we become more involved in his life as he takes on the responsibility of helping our Violinist to escape... And, of course, this brings a bit of romance into this time of war and death...
A driven and conscientious activist, Wächter had been involved in the assassination of Chancellor Engelbert Dollfuss. His exploits had attracted the attention of the Führer and Himmler, which led to him being appointed governor of Katowice and then Galicia. He met his targets with enthusiasm and believed that for the Aryan race to prevail, the removal of Jews, Czechs, Slovaks and Poles was justified. Approaching all tasks as logistical problems, he never considered the impact on individual lives. But the woman’s presence in the camp made little sense. A mystery. ‘Wounded?’ he said, rejoining the heated conversation between the two officers. They fell silent. ‘Who was wounded? The man or the woman or both?’ ‘Impossible to tell.’ Jünger offered a deprecatory smile. ‘I hit at least one of them. There was a lot of blood at the scene, but I’m not sure how serious it was.’ ‘Man or woman, they can die of their wounds for all I care,’ Höss said. ‘Once we catch them, they’ll face a firing squad after they reveal the names of everyone who helped them.’ He sneered at Jünger. Wächter looked away. This was how the Nazi system worked. Everyone is set against each other. Every slip reported. Never safe, especially at his level and if the Gestapo were involved, the truth was twisted so tight it evaporated. ‘With your permission, Herr General,’ Jünger requested. ‘I will question the guards who had the prisoner in their custody.’ He nodded. Höss tried to speak, but Jünger waved him away. ‘There are anomalies requiring investigation, and there may have been a greater conspiracy.’ While the commandant looked pained, Wächter suppressed a smile. ‘We will meet again in the morning after you have interrogated the guards and caught the escapees, hopefully.’ He stood, signalling the end of the meeting and turned to Höss. ‘How you deal with the man is up to you, but the woman should not be harmed. If she is wounded, do everything possible to ensure her survival.’
A stillness settled over the place like an ancient, forgotten battlefield as Anneliesa lifted the violin to her shoulder with an overpowering sense of fear and self-loathing. She didn’t want to play and dreaded facing them. When she had finished her audition in the hut, she opened her eyes, but she was still in hell, although the woman showed a glimmer of appreciation. It had saved her life, although it led to this. Music should be a creation of the gods, not an instrument of torture, she thought, but she had no choice and, shamed by her weakness, she maneuvered the instrument under her chin, the once-reassuring texture of varnished spruce now rough on her skin. Anger fluttered in her chest like the wings of a trapped bird and bile burned her throat and she swallowed as she clamped her lips tight because sickness was verboten. So as not to witness their pain, she closed her eyes. Please, don’t make me look at them. Shuffling skeletons, devoid of gender or age, who would soon become memories, their shaven heads and eyes buried deep in sunken cheeks. A woollen skull cap protected her shaven head from the biting cold and fingerless gloves warmed her hands while leaving fingers free for their work. Her body was shrouded in a dirty overcoat, as heavy as a blanket and still smelling of its former owner, an old man so deprived of food he no longer had shoulders able to support its weight. The music was a prelude to their deaths, but playing prolonged her own life. The guard rapped a wooden post with his Luger, signaling it time to play as a guttural command and accompanying whistle started the column moving. The prisoners took faltering steps, heads down, showing no interest in their destination, and, in the distance, the chimneys were smoking. Do I look like them? She hadn’t seen her face for a long time. If the prisoners were uncertain about what would happen, she wasn’t, as she’d witnessed it too many times. Every morning, she played the violin as the prisoners marched off for a day of hard labour, and every evening she played them back. A few collapsed and were shot where they lay, and their colleagues carried the bodies back to the camp for disposal. Today, these lost souls, some holding the hands of infants carrying toys as broken as their owners, would embark on a walk from which there was no return. Some were stoic, living only for the moment. I’m alive now, they’d say with a detached acceptance, and next, I might be in my grave. Here, death was a demanding companion. No one left their hut in the morning expecting to return in the evening. We all must die and this would be their time and, in death, there would be relief from suffering. Unable to endure the barbarity, some walked to the electrified fences surrounding the camp and embraced the barbed wire and a flash illuminated the sky, followed by a lingering cloud of smoke and a sickening smell of flesh burning. Only the fading hope that one day she’d be reunited with her family prevented her from joining them. What awaited was beyond reason. Their masters, regarding them as useless, had scheduled them for extermination, but many didn’t suspect their fate or wouldn’t acknowledge it. Those who attempted to flee were encouraged by rifle butts to return to the line, but the guards were reluctant to kill them here because they would have to clear up the mess. Others wailed like sirens and a few sank to their knees in silence and prayed. The result was always the same, and the knowledge made her complicit. They marched two miles from the main camp to a field with two cottages, the Little White House and the Little Red House and there, guards ordered them to strip on the pretext of taking a shower. The prisoners are ushered into the buildings and the doors bolted behind them while an SS guard, wearing a gas mask, climbs onto the roof with canisters of Zyklon B Prussic acid. At a signal from the officer in charge, he drops the canisters through an opening into the house, and their screams carry to the camp for fifteen minutes. Afterwards, other prisoners arrive and collect the contorted black and blue corpses for the ovens. Her colleagues stiffened when their guard, Horst, appeared. A red face, neck bulging over a buttoned-up tunic, he enjoyed using his shapeless hands and often he prodded them with his Luger as a prompt for them to look happy while they played. All had felt his anger, although not her for some time, meaning punishment was imminent. She’d welcome it, for experiencing pain eased her guilt. ‘We have a special guest this morning.’ He pointed at a raised wooden dais on the other side of the mass of prisoners. ‘Play as though your lives depend on it .... or it’s the frauenblock for you.’ He winked at the ensemble, but they ignored him. Their so-called women’s orchestra comprised two violins, a cello, a saxophone, a mandolin, an accordion, sounding like the squawk of a strangled bird, and a bullet-riddled piano. Sufficient for ausrucken, the daily marches to work, and einrucken, the return home in the evening and, for a day like today, when they sent off marchers and played until the screaming stopped. Horst wanted more to entertain the SS officers on Sundays, but it was the best he could do. Even musicians didn’t last long here. Over the bowed heads of the column, she recognised an SS general, whom she’d seen before, once when he dined at the camp commandant’s quarters as they sat outside for hours playing in sleety rain. As he left, he smirked at her. ‘She plays well,’ he remarked to his host, and Commandant Höss beamed as though complimenting his daughter. They said he was the governor of Galicia and the architect of all their misery and had consigned hundreds of thousands to execution. He talked animatedly to the officers surrounding him, basking in their fawning attention as they responded with deferential smiles, their faces still brutal. And he appeared immune to the tragedy before him. With his aristocratic countenance, he stood out from the others and several times he took off his cap and swept back a full head of almost golden hair from his brow. And the casualness of the action chilled her. The first time she saw him, she thought his face was familiar and trawled her memory for when they might have met, but starvation plays havoc with the mind. He was also an Austrian. They had shared the same air, so why was there this chasm between them? Perhaps I’m fantasising about a life that never existed. She closed her eyes to prevent the scene from being imprinted on her retina, although at night, as she drifted into a fitful sleep, the horror returned like a perpetual nightmare. As with the others in the orchestra, she had no choice but to play, yet still experienced guilt. And they were protected in their compound because the other prisoners regarded them as collaborators and called them names and spat on them. The music flowed through her fingers, travelling up her arm and resonating in her mind, carrying her above the double rows of barbed wire fencing and the machine-gun posts and floodlights and the misery. It transported her back to performing at home in Vienna before an appreciative audience, including Mama and Papa and Little Bird. Although she couldn’t see their faces in the darkness, love and pride shone from their eyes and, at the finish, Papa was on his feet applauding. No matter where or how well she played, nerves always affected her, but they also sharpened her talent, especially when playing for her life. To her despair and shame, she hoped they’d never find another violinist.
~~~~~~
Planning to leave the camp was something to contemplate. Jan would be leaving, why not help the beautiful Anneliese go as well. There were always ways and always those in the resistance who could help... they both agreed it was worth the risk...
Marek and Tomasz hid in a copse a hundred yards from the farmhouse. When they returned, taking a route over the fields because it was safer than the roads, the Nazis were arriving. The soldiers’ superior firepower and their involvement would have risked Jan and Anneliesa’s lives, and they could only watch as Jan was led to a vehicle and driven off. There had been one shot, but who was the target? For the moment, Jan was alive, so it must have been the woman, but Tomasz tugged his sleeve and pointed to the bike propped against a wall. Marek stopped him from going down to the farmhouse. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘They might drive a little way off and creep back to surprise you.’ He lit a needle-thin, roll-up cigarette, his hand trembling, then offered the tin of tobacco to his partner, who declined. Deep in contemplation, he smoked the cigarette down until it burned his fingers. ‘Now we can go,’ he said, ‘but be careful, soldiers might still be there.’ They found her in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling the doctor’s body, and there was a lot of blood. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, laying down his rifle. ‘I hate this stupid war,’ she said. ‘Why shoot him? He’s just a doctor and, because of me, he’s dead.’ The woman had been Jan’s responsibility, but now she was his, increasing his problems. ‘What did they do to you?’ he asked, seeing blood on her. ‘They didn’t touch me,’ she said, putting a hand to her side and wincing. Marek took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Tomasz, go find another doctor, and he must come now.’ He turned, shaking his head. ‘Then you must leave.’ To his surprise, she snapped back, ‘Not until I know Jan is okay.’ ‘You can’t stay.’ He frowned. ‘He’ll give them what they want, and they’ll return for you.’ ‘I’m staying,’ she said, but didn’t return his look.
‘If the Nazis take you, you don’t come out.’ He stepped in close. ‘Anyone they regard as an enemy dies. The officer didn’t realise Jan’s importance, but to Hitler, he’s enemy No.1. They’ll get out of him the names of everyone who’s helped him and if there are other hit squads and who their targets are. Once they’ve got what they want, they’ll execute what’s left of him. There will be no mercy.’ Her face screwed up as she bit on her fist to silence a gasp. ‘Jan would expect you to escape,’ he said. ‘It would be a victory of sorts.’ In her confusion, his words were lost in her thoughts, and she stumbled and clutched his arm to stop from falling. He put out a steadying hand, and his voice had a finality brooking no argument. ‘You must get far away from here, believe me, there’s no alternative.’ All the time his eyes were alert, searching, as though expecting the Nazis at any moment. His colleague returned alone. ‘Couldn’t get a doctor,’ he said and stared in her direction, but through her as though she didn’t exist. ‘Every minute she stays here, she’s endangering our lives.’ Marek flashed a warning look, but he persevered. ‘We can’t leave any witnesses behind.’ ‘Are you going to shoot me?’ She stared back at him. Marek confronted his colleague and pushed him in the chest, saying over his shoulder, ‘We’re not barbarians.’ ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Tomasz looked at his feet, unwilling to meet her gaze. ‘Is there a chance Jan might be freed?’ she asked. ‘No,’ Marek said. ‘Hopefully, death comes quickly for him.’ He tried to avoid her eyes. He had been committed to guiding Jan out of Poland to continue his work against the Nazis, but now? To make amends, Tomasz shrugged. ‘What I meant is it takes many people risking their lives carrying out an escape like this. Jan was a war hero and she’s an inexperienced woman, so what use can she be against the Nazis?’ Marek kicked a chair, sending it skittering across the stone floor. She stood hunched, silhouetted in the light from the window, vulnerable, and he knew he couldn’t abandon her. He summoned his colleague outside, and there was shouting and Marek lifting both arms in frustration. She left them to it and found clean bandages in the doctor’s discarded case and also a vial of what she took to be morphine, which she swallowed, and then dressed the wound, which lessened the bleeding. Marek returned, his face set. ‘We go now. Come.’
~~~~~~
This morning as I began with items from the news affecting the world, a question soon came to mind. This is Monday. Who's turn is it to be hated...? The individual spotlighted was a Jew, but also a gay man, who was at a rally for the transgender people... While next, there was a statement that a new agreement with Iran was supposedly made, while at the same time experts were giving opinions about what, exactly, had happened over the weekend... Yes, WWII was an extremely difficult time in the world... One that cannot be forgotten...
And yet, the Jewish man was being harassed because of how the people of Gaza had been and now are being treated... How does so much hate keep people at each other's throats? Again and Again... And why does the storyline never change--only the characters within this country or another...???
Robbie has gone beyond the prejudice against the Jewish people. He's added characters from various countries which were part of World War II, even commenting on what the Catholic Church was involved with, while purposely choosing to have a catholic family disappearing from the streets by the German soldiers and also taken to the camps controlled for war prisoners of the Third Reich... Prejudice against the Jewish people was always part of it... But, as we consider today's world versus the time of WWII, it leads to some, to me, very obvious questions as we consider what is happening in the United States right now...
Is it really about personal bias of one sort or another? Or is it a methodology by which men seeking power can "use" our emotions to bring about hatred for this group or that? Or, perhaps, is there still a different type of individual who likes to use his financial riches to control the world from the background, as seems to be coming even more clear than ever before...
Key to this overall activity which leads to millions being killed by one group versus another, while the costs of those wars are held and controlled by the individual (or rich observer behind the scenes) is that it thrives on the manipulation of all those who inhabit the planet called Earth? Robbie takes a new twist into his book by sharing that the Catholic Church supported not the people, but those who initiated and/or controlled the use of violence against another group or country.
As we consider what occurred in The Violinist's Revenge, while working to create a thriller novel, Robbie has done sufficient research to bring in parts of that significant war that are not as well known... It was this additional research that I found added intrigue and mystery as readers explores the gamesmanship of warfare which, at the same time, rarely changes... What I mean by that is that the methods used by Hitler and his staff have been written about, explored by military members, as well as used by politicians from the beginning of time. And still we learn more about who and how people were affected by these events, and either copied or improved upon by the invention of even more and better military hardware.
For instance, many have stated that the present U.S. president kept Mein Kampf next to his bed to read... At the same time, we have all also learned that there is little reading performed during his presidencies. Was his reading of just one book sufficient to result in what is now happening related to violence and war-like activities now being initiated? For surely one wonders just how somebody chooses to get rid of enemies by whatever means possible? At least I do... Because it can be clearly recognized that Robbie has succeeded in creating a novel of significance as both of historical value, but also related to today's world...
Because bottom line is the question. Why is violence and war-like events also suitable for entertainment? To be enjoyed as fiction, yet continue to explore the world of dominance, violence, and even create video games to duplicate the emotional impact of "winning" versus "losing..." I've already admitted that I was curious about the inclusion of a main character as a violinist... But, the writing, the storyline and the characters led me to sink into the story itself in a meaningful and satisfying way. So, I don't have an answer of why we read fiction which copies the violence of war--and the prejudice against people who are different..."
And still long for peace...
Have we turned away from the peace that the majority of people seek? I don't think so, but we certainly have been influenced by our history in which we have chosen, always, to hate "somebody," have a war, find peace, and then move on to another target or decide to love this neighbor or that one... We, then, are a very complicated species, don't you think? Do check out my thoughts further as The Violinist's Revenge is highly recommended...
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