eighteen at the time.
During his Spring break he had been invited to accompany Benjamin Krantz, his father, and a world-renowned art dealer to a sale of French Impressionist art at Sotheby’s in London. Encouraged by his father, Adam had entered the bidding, acquiring the painting for three thousand dollars below the estimate. Adam would never forget the thrill he’d experienced when the hammer had come down, with the auctioneer’s shout of ‘Sold’ ringing in his ears, or his excitement when the painting had arrived at the Krantz Gallery on Madison Ave along with several others his father had purchased. Benjamin had given him the picture and Adam’s life-long love of fine art had begun.
His stockinged feet made no sound on the thick pile carpet when he entered his study. Adam knew this room like the back of his hand and easily negotiated his way in the dark. Sitting down, he flicked a switch, illuminating the desk-top. Taking a key out of a drawer, he used it to open another drawer to his left. Lifting out a box file, he began to riffle through the assorted papers. It took him a few minutes to find what he wanted.
Holding the old newspaper cutting under the strong spotlight, he drank deeply of his whisky whilst staring into the arrogant face of Klaus Von Trellenberg standing next to Heinrich Himmler at a Nazi party rally in 1939. Adam narrowed his eyes in hatred, and allowed a cruel smile to distort his generous mouth.
‘I’m going to get you this time, you son-of-a-bitch.’
He was still smiling as he crushed the paper into a tiny ball in the palm of his hand.
Kathryn was very cold. She could not feel her hands and feet, and when she opened her mouth to speak no words came, in fact she was unable to make any sound at all. She was completely naked, and her body looked different. Not quite like her own. It was very thin, and totally hairless. Slowly she parted her legs and to her horror saw that she was covered in open sores.
She was alone in a small room, it was about ten foot square, there were no windows or doors, and the walls were painted white, perfect new snow white. There were no lights, yet it was glaringly bright. It felt like being inside a large floodlit cardboard box. She looked up when she heard the voice, which seemed to be floating out of the ceiling. It was a soothing sound; like a caress it washed over her, and she wondered why she felt afraid.
‘Kathryn, Kathryn, it’s so good to meet you at long last.’
She pulled her legs into her body to cover her nakedness, dropping her head to her knees. She began to shake, her whole body jerking uncontrollably as the voice got louder.
‘Kathryn, it’s your Grandfather Klaus; look at me, Kathryn, please.’
She was afraid to look, but the voice kept insisting, and eventually she raised her head, opening her eyes wide. A disembodied head floated in front of her face. It was covered in a black mask, resembling the type worn by executioners in the Middle Ages. Her mouth opened to scream, but no sound came, and still the voice kept on.
‘I’ve come to save you, Kathryn. I love you, I want to take you home to Germany with me, where you belong.’
The hideous mask came closer. She tried to cover her face, but her limbs were paralysed. The head was an inch from her now. She wanted to close her eyes, but her eyelids refused to move. She could feel hot breath on her cheek; it smelt strangely sweet, like boiling sugar.
The death mask moved up and down, the voice repeating, ‘I love you, Kathryn, your grandfather loves you. I’m going to take you to Germany, you’ll be safe there.’
She could no longer feel her heart beating and thought that perhaps she was dead. Then, suddenly the mask was stuck to her face like glue, the lips fatty and very wet. They began to suck at her, first at her mouth, then at her nose – sucking harder and harder. She struggled to breathe as she felt her whole face being suctioned into the huge gaping gash until she was gasping for air.
Her heart was banging, when a minute later she woke up. The bedclothes were tangled around her head, and for a split second she wasn’t sure where she was. Pulling the sheets off, she sat bolt upright in bed. Her palms were clammy and her hair stuck to her head, soaking wet.
Kathryn took a few deep breaths, she stayed very still until her breathing returned to normal. This was the second time she’d had the dream since her Aunt Ingrid had told her about Klaus Von Trellenberg less than a week ago. She closed her eyes again, willing herself not to think of him. But she could feel her lids twitching as with nagging consistency the cold repetitive voice in her head kept banging on: Klaus Von Trellenberg, Klaus Von Trellenberg. Then her grandfather’s face, as it had appeared in the photograph, materialized in her head. But instead of wearing the arrogant half smile, he was laughing. She could hear him. The sound rose to a hysterical screech, pealing in her ears.
With the flat of her hand, Kathryn wiped small pearls of perspiration from her brow and the back of her neck. Sweat rolled down her temples and she experienced a return to the unreality of the day she had learnt about her unwanted SS connections.
The thought of her mother’s father as the archetypal Nazi, a cold-blooded psychopath on an indiscriminate killing spree, made her feel physically sick. Suddenly she began to cry. Kathryn realized it was the first time she had cried since Freda’s death. With a sense of shame she buried her face deep in the pillow, admitting to herself that she had never loved her. In fact she conceded there were many times when she had hated her. Hated her resentment, her hostility, and her lack of communication. Was it such a terrible crime to dislike your own mother? Until now she had thought so, and had berated herself for not trying harder. But after what Ingrid had revealed, it seemed easier to accept that her mother had been impossible to love.
Kathryn spent the remainder of the night wide awake. It seemed interminably long, and she was pleased when dawn broke with a roll of thunder, heralding the start of a storm that was to last all day. Unable to face food, she made herself a pot of strong coffee and was just pouring her third cup when the telephone rang. She glanced at the clock in the hall, wondering who could be calling her at seven-thirty a.m.
It was Emily de Moubray, her father’s second wife.
‘Good morning, Kathryn! I do hope I haven’t woken you, but I wanted to catch you before you left for the office. I can never get through to you there. You’re such a busy girl these days.’ Emily sounded infuriatingly breezy.
‘Hi, Emily. How are you?’
‘Since you only spoke to me yesterday, I doubt there’s much change,’ she giggled.
Kathryn bit her bottom lip, suppressing the rising irritation that Emily frequently engendered in her.
‘I’m calling because your father can’t make supper next week. Would it be possible for us to come up to town this Saturday? Sorry to mess you around like this, Kathryn, but he has to attend an important lecture on Friday the eighteenth. He only found out about it last night. Frank Kamer, the doctor he’s working with on the cancer vaccine, is over from America and has agreed to speak. The lecture will be followed by a dinner – you know, the same old boring surgeons’ do.’
Since she had never been invited to any of her father’s lectures or functions, Kathryn did not know, and was tempted to remind Emily that she had not shared her father’s life since she was nine. She bit back the recrimination, afraid to sound bitter or, worse, a martyr. She had no time for whining self-pity. Yet she had to resist the urge to ask why her father could not speak to her, himself. Anyway she knew the reply would be the same as usual, delivered in a brisk defensive manner. You are aware how busy your father is, Kathryn. I try not to bother him with mundane matters.
‘If you can’t make it, Kathryn, I’m sure your father will understand, but don’t forget we won’t be back in England for at least a year.’ Emily sounded rather pleased by this prospect.
‘Well,