Helen was equally fascinated to see Dora’s mutilated right hand running lightly over the ivory keys. Sometimes she had to rest it for a moment and massage her aching wrist.
“I have difficulty spreading my fingers beyond a fifth these days and it’s no use even trying thumb passages!”
She might as well be talking Hebrew, thought Helen. “I’d never have noticed anything,” she said, intending to comfort Dora. “I think you play incredibly well.”
“That just shows you don’t know anything about it!” cried Dora, bursting into laughter and holding up her damaged hand. “Myself, I feel as if I’m playing with my foot!”
Helen thought her laughter was just a little too cheerful. “Are there any records of Eva-Maria Bach?” she asked suddenly.
“Yes. I have one here, but Milena doesn’t want to listen to it.”
“Dora’s right,” Milena agreed. “The idea scares me. But with Helen here today I think I could summon up the courage.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Dora disappeared into the bedroom and came back with a black vinyl record in its sleeve. She held it out to Milena.
“There, this is all I have, and the few photos I’ve shown you. My treasures. I’d hidden them in a suitcase and given it to a friend for safekeeping before I left the capital. I was right to take precautions, too. They ransacked the apartment and took everything away. Everything. Except the piano, because it was too big. And guess what else those idiots left, Helen?”
“The Schubert manuscript?”
“Exactly! It was just where you see it today, pinned to the wall in full view. It’s the one thing they’d have been bound to take if they hadn’t been such ignoramuses! I think I’ll be laughing over that for the rest of my life!”
Milena turned the record sleeve over in her fingers. It had a simple design of a bunch of pale mauve flowers on it. She read out loud, in a low voice, “High-quality recording . . . symphony orchestra . . . contralto: Miss Eva-Maria Bach . . . They called her ‘miss’?”
“Yes, she wasn’t twenty-five yet, remember. And unmarried.”
“But she already had me, didn’t she?”
“Yes. I think you were two at the time. You had chubby cheeks, and you —”
“I don’t know if I will have the courage, after all. I’m all right with the photos, not so sure about the voice.”
It was Helen who took the record and put it on the gramophone. Dora had lifted the heavy varnished wood lid. The “high-quality recording” crackled badly. Dora turned the volume down very low. “My neighbors are safe,” she said, “but you never know; they might have visitors.”
The extract began with several bars played on the violin, and waiting was almost unbearable for the two girls. It was as if Eva-Maria Bach might suddenly open the door and walk in. At last the voice rose, distant and peacefuclass="underline"
“What is life to me without thee?
What is left if you are dead?”
Overwhelmed, Milena hid her face in her hands and kept them there until the end of the aria. Helen listened, entranced by the fullness and balance of the low contralto voice. She realized how young her friend still was by comparison. Dora was smiling, her eyes bright with emotion.
“What is life, life without thee?
What is life without my love?”
“That’s enough for today,” murmured Milena, as the aria reached its last note. “I’ll listen to the rest of the record another time.”
All three wiped away tears, laughing as they brought out their tissues at exactly the same time.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Dora when she had put the record back in its sleeve.
“I think I still have a lot of work to do.”
“You’re right. So let’s get on with it!”
“Let’s do that.”
When Helen and Milena left the Old Town, the streetlights had already come on. They took the shortest way they could along little, sloping streets and down flights of stone steps. When they reached the square where Jahn’s Restaurant stood, they met Bartolomeo, returning at just the same moment with a huge black scarf wound around his neck.
“Bart,” called Milena, “Helen would like you to tell her what you know about Milos.”
“Come on, then, Helen,” he said. “Let’s walk on a little way, just the two of us, and I’ll explain.”
They left Milena behind, went toward the river, and walked along the bank. Without knowing it, they stopped at the same bench where Two-and-a-Half had been sitting before Mitten hit him on the head with his exhaust pipe. The quiet murmur of the ripples accompanied their voices.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Bart began. “I just couldn’t make up my mind.”
“Is it that tricky?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. Well, first you have to know that Mr. Jahn has always been sure that Milos is alive.”
“How could he be sure?”
“He knows the Phalangists and the way their minds work. If they took Milos away on their sleigh in such a hurry, that means he wasn’t dead or they’d have dug a hole quite close and thrown him into it. They’re not the sort to bother about an enemy’s corpse.”
Helen had always thought the same, deep in her heart. And above all, over and beyond all reason, she had an utter conviction that her lover was alive. It had taken firm hold of her mind. She felt it in every fiber of her being. If not, how could she talk to him silently as often as she did, by night, by day, telling him her secrets, telling him about her difficulties and her moments of happiness?
“Since then,” Bart went on, “Mr. Jahn’s had confirmation through the network. Milos is alive. Only what comes next is rather more worrying. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”
“I’m listening,” said Helen, but a shudder ran through her.
“Well, if they spared his life,” Bart went on, “it was with one idea in mind.”
“What idea?”
“Look, I’ll repeat what Mr. Jahn said, shall I? That’ll be easier. The Phalange despises weaklings and losers. They eliminate them without any scruples, just like putting down the sick animals in a litter. But they respect the strong. As they see it, Milos is strong, and he proved it by killing Pastor. What’s more, they found out that he was a wrestler. So they had him looked after, and now they’re going to use him in their fights.”
“Fights?” asked Helen, feeling as if the blood were draining out of her.
How could Bart explain gently about the barbarity of the arena and the savage shows it mounted? He did his best, but in spite of all his efforts he could only tell her unbearable things. No, no one can avoid fighting. Yes, one of the two must die. No, no mercy is ever shown.
“The winter fights begin next month,” he finished, determined to tell the truth to the end. “And Milos will be . . .”
For a moment he hoped Helen would slap his face to punish him for the horrors he was revealing. He’d have welcomed it; he hated himself so much for having to tell her.
“What can we do?” she asked at last, in a faint voice.
“I don’t know,” Bart replied. “Of course we’ve thought of getting him out of there, but even approaching the place is impossible. The army guards the camps.”