The Road Between Us (21 page)

Anselm watches as the Commandant rides away, his Alsatian breaking into a trot to keep pace with him. He then signals for the kapo to come down. Without a word the old man removes the rope, steps off the stool and puts his clothes back on.

The following day Anselm is again summoned to the Commandant’s office, this time by the Valkyrie. He removes his cap and presents his sketches rolled up.

The Commandant studies them without comment. ‘Can you use oils?’

As Anselm nods he notices that the sketch he did of the Commandant the other day is now propped against a shelf, on display.

‘Then I have another commission for you. Come to my residence at one tomorrow.’

Anselm considers explaining that he does not have a watch, that it was taken from him, but he thinks better of it. Besides, he knows the noon roll call begins when the sun is overhead. It is shorter than the morning and evening roll calls because most of the inmates are at work. He will use the flagpole as a sundial after that.

The Commandant seems to read his mind. ‘The
Erstaufseherin
will collect you at one and escort you over.’

The residence, a white, ivy-mantled château with a turret, is a short walk from the camp gate and is partially hidden by a screen of beech trees. There are square-shouldered eagles guarding the entrance – made from granite – and, inside, crystal chandeliers, silk hangings and Persian rugs. The Valkyrie leads the way into a drawing room and looks around. This is clearly her first visit here too.

Stacked on the floor are cases of French wine and champagne, while leaning against the wall, evenly spaced out but not yet hung, are half a dozen paintings by French Impressionists. Anselm recognizes one as being by Renoir, a voluptuous young woman bathing in a lake. The spoils of war. Anselm also notices an easel set up in one corner and a canvas stretched on a board. Beside it are a selection of sable brushes and bone-handled knives with rounded blades, a palette and dozens of unopened tubes of oil paint. The smell is intoxicating.

The Valkyrie has picked up two framed photographs of Fräuleins on the desk and is contemplating them. Both have plaited blonde hair and are wearing folk costumes which show off their ample
bosoms and broad hips. Both are smiling and holding babies.

The Commandant enters in full dress uniform, his medal around his neck. He is cleaning his nails with the point of his ceremonial dagger. ‘You may wait outside,’ he says to the Valkyrie.

She puts the photographs down and crosses the room without looking up.

‘Can you paint horses?’ The Commandant asks once the guard has closed the door behind her.

Anselm has never painted a horse in his life. ‘Yes,’ he says.

‘I was thinking of posing on mine.’

‘If you have a wooden horse we could put a saddle on that for now and add the real horse later. I could paint it separately.’

The Commandant slips his dagger back into its sheath and disappears from the room for a few minutes before returning with a saddle, followed by two prisoners carrying a vaulting horse. He has them position it by the window, places his saddle on it then mounts it, putting his boots in the stirrups.

Anselm wants to work with as little preparatory drawing as possible and so tries to cover the canvas quickly with a big brush. He will dispense with the usual primer because he knows if he wants to relate his colours accurately any white on the canvas will have to disappear anyway, and carefully filling in a tightly drawn outline will inhibit his response to the different tones.

‘What is it?’ the Commandant asks.

Anselm has seen a swastika armband on the desk. ‘I need some colour. Could you put your armband on?’ The Commandant does as asked. ‘And could you remove your gloves? You could be holding them in your hand. Hands are always a good counterpoint to faces and the skin tones will complement the black of your uniform.’

After almost an hour of intense painting, the Commandant checks his watch. ‘We must stop for today,’ he says. ‘We shall resume at the same time tomorrow.’

Anselm glances at the two photographs of the Fräuleins on the desk. The Commandant catches him staring and says: ‘I have two
children from two different mothers. It is an SS officer’s duty to father Aryan stock for the Fatherland.’

‘I hope to have a child one day.’ Anselm does not know why he has said this. He has never thought it in his life. He scratches under his left armpit to cover the pink triangle on his chest with his right forearm. Is he trying to impress the Commandant? Ingratiate himself? Pretend he is something he is not?

The Commandant looks thoughtful. ‘What is your name?’

Anselm is so surprised he forgets for a moment.

‘You must have a name.’

‘Anselm.’

‘Anselm,’ the Commandant repeats, as if trying it out on his tongue. ‘You have heard of Ernst Röhm?’

‘The SA commander?’

Anselm had been aware of the scandal surrounding Röhm’s open homosexuality in 1934. Everyone in Germany had heard the rumour. It was the unofficial reason Röhm had had to die in the ‘night of the long knives’. The story was that Hitler had wanted to give his friend an opportunity to shoot himself and so had arranged for a gun to be left in his cell. When the guards returned, they found Röhm bare-chested and demanding that Hitler should come and shoot him himself. A theatrical end.

‘Exactly. Röhm was the only one allowed to address the Führer by his first name.’

Anselm rubs his neck as he tries to read between the Commandant’s enigmatic lines.

‘My name is Manfred,’ the Commandant says, reaching the door and holding it open.

As he walks through it, Anselm says: ‘Thank you, Manfred.’

The door closes behind him. Anselm ignores the glare of the Valkyrie who is waiting for him on a chair by the front door.

When the Valkyrie collects Anselm at the same time the following day she presents him with a new prison uniform neatly folded, along with a bar of soap, a toothbush and a towel. He takes them
without asking what they are for and then follows her as she leads the way out of the camp entrance gate towards the château. ‘The Commandant will see you in half an hour,’ she says when they enter. ‘You are to use his shower. The first door at the top of the stairs. He finds your smell objectionable.’

When Anselm comes back downstairs feeling clean and enjoying the itchiness of his new clothes, the Valkyrie is not in her usual chair. As he waits for her in the entrance hall, he notices a tray of letters ready to be posted on a desk. He hears a flushing sound and a door opens. The Valkyrie emerges, tugging down the hem of her skirt.

‘What should I do with these?’ Anselm says, holding up his dirty old clothes.

The Valkyrie turns up her nose and points to a bin in the corner. Once he has deposited the clothes there he is led through to the drawing room and told to wait. The Valkyrie checks her watch and then leaves. He sees the wooden horse in the same place, still with the saddle on it. He also sees his easel set up where he left it. On the Commandant’s desk are sheets of writing paper and a wad of envelopes.

His heart hammers as he sits down and reaches for a pen with fumbling fingers that seem too thick and numb. ‘My dear Grumpy,’ he writes, trying to steady his shaking hand. The pen feels awkward, almost too thin to hold. He looks over his shoulder as he thinks he hears the door handle turn, but it remains closed. Writing comes back to him quickly but the pen is soon out of ink. He looks around for an inkwell, opens it, refills and starts scribbling again. As he is signing his name he loses control of the pen and it falls to the floor. Reaching for it too quickly he knocks over the inkwell. Half of the ink spills out on to the desk before he can set it upright again and seal its lid. By using several sheets of blotting paper he is able to absorb most of the spilled ink on the desk, but not before it has dripped on to the wooden floor. He tries to blot it there too but it leaves a splashy stain. The desk leg, when moved a few inches, casts a shadow over it, making it less obvious.

With his teeth clenched in concentration, he licks the envelope with a dry tongue and hesitates before writing the name and address. He snatches a second sheet of paper. On this he writes a covering note to his friend at the Swedish Embassy in Berlin. He folds this in half, slips the folded envelope inside it then places both in another envelope which he also addresses. As he crosses the room, he wafts the envelope to dry the ink. He opens the door a crack and sees the Valkyrie is sitting in her chair, her back to him.

He rests his head against the doorframe, trying to control his breathing, wondering what to do. Hearing the rattle of a chair being drawn back he looks through the crack again. The Valkyrie has stood up and is opening the drawer of a filing cabinet. A moment later she walks past the door down a corridor that leads deeper into the house. Anselm takes his clogs off and pads barefoot to the desk and slips the envelope behind others in the tray.

VIII

London

AS IS HIS HABIT, CHARLES CHECKS HIS PIGEONHOLE MORE IN HOPE
than expectation. The letter he longs for is not here, but there is one from the War Artists Advisory Committee inviting him to submit work for a Royal Academy Summer Exhibition. The letter also notifies him that he has been appointed an Associate of the Royal Academy, an honour that will provide him with a modest stipend, enough to pay his bar bill at the club.

Two men in brown smocks and bowler hats arrive the next day to collect the triple-mirrored dressing table and Charles, wearing a three-piece suit and bow tie that feels uncomfortable against his neck, travels with it, and them, in a cream-and-red van to Piccadilly. Here he watches protectively as they lift the artwork from the back of the van into the courtyard before carrying it through the main entrance and up the stairs.

There are three galleries being used for the exhibition and as Charles accompanies the table up through the first two to reach the third he feels like an imposter. Here, being hung on the wall by two more brown-smocked men, is a complex study of Clydeside’s shipyards by Stanley Spencer. Further along are Henry Moore’s claustrophobic charcoal sketches of Londoners taking refuge from the bombs in the Underground. And in the second room, as a
curator removes a dust cover from it like a magician flicking back his cape, is a cinematically striking painting of a sea of mangled German planes glinting mutely in the moonlight. It is by Paul Nash.

Once he has removed his own dust cover and angled the side mirrors that frame the central painting, Charles stands back and has an idea. Five minutes later he is in Regent Street, searching for two candles and a mirror the same rectangular shape and size as the wooden top of the dressing table. He finds them in an antique shop and, when he returns with the mirror under his arm and the candles in his pocket, he sees Sir Kenneth Clark contemplating the dressing table, his arms crossed, his head to one side.

‘Ah, Charles,’ he says. ‘Very interesting. Very interesting. The use of scorching orange, the twisted and contorted features, the way the face looks as if it is melting. I like it. It’s unflinching. Apocalyptic. Do you have a title?’

‘I was thinking of calling it “Crossing the Line”.’

‘Yes, I like that. Good. Good. An RAF pilot, I take it?’

‘A young man who died in 1941. Burned to death in his Spitfire. I saw it happen. But it’s also a self-portrait of sorts.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s a portrait of anyone who sits in front of the dressing table. Try it.’

When Sir Kenneth sits down, Charles spins the central panel so that the painting is alternating with the mirror.

‘Oh I see! Ingenious! Ingenious!’

‘The effect will be better with this.’ Charles slides the mirror he has just bought over the top of the table and then lights the candles one at a time, dripping wax to hold them in place either side of the central panel. ‘There. Now try spinning it again.’

Sir Kenneth does as asked. ‘Yes. Very good. Very good.’

‘I had the idea that the spinning mirror might be like the spinning propellers of the plane. Convey movement in the aeropainting style of the Italian Futurists.’

‘Yes, yes. Excellent.’

Both men contemplate the artwork in silence for a moment, then Charles clears his throat. ‘Sir Kenneth, may I ask you something? Is Maggie still working for you?’

‘Maggie? No, she’s long gone. I believe she joined ENTS, entertaining the Eighth Army out in Africa. Why?’

‘Oh, no reason.’

A short, square-set man in a black leather coat and poloneck approaches. He has quizzically raised eyebrows and his wiry hair, arranged in a quiff, looks dyed. His face appears flushed with alcohol, which he has clearly tried to disguise with make-up. He is smoking a cigarette.

‘Hello, Francis,’ Sir Kenneth says. ‘Charles, have you met Francis Bacon?’

‘No.’ Charles holds out his hand to shake. ‘Hello. Charles Northcote.’

Bacon ignores the proffered hand. He sways slightly. Smells of alcohol. ‘You a war artist?’ he asks flatly.

‘Yes. Was. Before this.’ Charles touches his cheek. ‘I’ve seen your work. You exhibited with Sutherland and Pasmore, didn’t you?’

‘Before the war, yes. Then I gave up messing around with paint to fight for my king and country.’ He is slurring his words. ‘Unlike some.’

‘Weren’t you in the ARP, Francis?’ Sir Kenneth interrupts, perhaps sensing the older artist bullying the younger.

‘We had it harder than any front-line soldiers,’ Bacon says, drawing on the cigarette. ‘During the Blitz.’

Sir Kenneth’s smile is dangerous now. ‘Didn’t I hear that you went to live in the country during the Blitz? Somewhere near Petersfield, wasn’t it?’

‘I was medically discharged.’ Smoke curls from Bacon’s mouth. ‘The dust from the bomb damage aggravated my asthma.’

‘Well, as I mentioned on the phone, Francis, it’s still not too late if you want to exhibit something. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have to try and persuade the man printing the catalogue to reduce his fee. Has this been photographed yet, Charles?’

‘Not yet.’