allach

This is probably the most sinister thing I’ve written. The topic leant itself to ‘sinister’ – Allach, a kind of porcelain made in the years of Nazi Germany.

This was more of a character study than a story, but I had a lot of fun writing it.

Collecting ghosts

Priscilla knocked hesitantly on her employer’s door, trying not to shake the huge box she knew in some distant way was stuffed to bursting with packing foam, its contents certainly safe from a slight rattle and probably even the short drop to the floor. Mr Pitt was known to abandon his rationality in such situations.

“Come in,” he called from behind the door.

She struggled with the handle and pushed the door open with her bottom, backing slowly into his office.

He was beside her almost instantly. “You should have said, Ms Blake. I would have opened the door for you if I had known your hands were full.” His eyes never left her burden. He relieved her of it and placed it reverently on his desk.

“Marvellous,” he breathed. He motioned for Priscilla to leave him. “Thank you, Ms Blake. I will be occupied for the rest of the afternoon. Please don’t disturb me for any matter of less than the utmost urgency.”

“Of course, Mr Pitt,” she said, retreating to her desk to catalogue the new arrivals, not wanting to watch the spider unwrap its meal.

His hands rubbing each other, up to his face and back down in jerking motions not unlike the image of the spider in Priscilla’s thoughts, he moved across to see that the door was shut properly, regretting once again not having had the lock fixed sooner. Working the blinds, he shut out the dim daylight reflecting from the building that stood metres away from his window. He switched on the desk lamp and settled down to his prize.

His company dealt in many rare objects, strange and obscure items bought, unearthed and – on occasion – purloined from across the globe, but this box contained the only things Pitt could muster an interest in these days. Indeed, as his broader interests had faded and failed over the years, his one delight had burned brighter with its unhealthy light. Blue eyes, fever bright, watched as the pale spider-hands carefully undid the packaging, working – or so it seemed – independently of his fogged brain.

Time slipped, squeezed between the fingers of anticipation. The empty box, trailing foam like a wedding dress, hit the floor with a muted whump. Arrayed before him were seven ghosts in white porcelain, eerily fluorescent beneath the electric light. Three soldiers, a Hitler Youth with a trumpet raised to his lips, a rearing horse, a naked athlete with his fine javelin in perfect condition clutched in his hand, and a vicious looking wolf. He ran his pale fingers through his thinning blonde hair. This was his largest and finest haul from the long abandoned facilities at Allach, and had cost him a minor fortune to add to his personal collection.

His eyes strayed with displeasure at a chipped finger on a soldier before giving up once more to his excitement. He washed his fingers in the glass of water on his right and dried them on a cloth before beginning his inspection.

‘Ghosts’ was the right word; they were like the spirit, the essence, captured and immortalised in this glowing substance more durable than flesh. Hard and cold and smooth as cream, such beauty. He laughed softly to himself as he turned the pieces over in his hands, noting the insignia of the Schutzstaffel of the maker’s marks on the bases. His mind strayed back to the other, infamous lover of this particular art-form, the infamous Heinrich Himmler. The man had been heavily involved in the production of the Allach porcelain in the 30s and early 40s, the patron of this truly remarkable stuff. He had poured his fascination with the occult into this endeavour, intending it as a platform for the spreading of his intriguing arcane beliefs.

Of course Himmler and his compatriots had got things very wrong; Pitt wouldn’t hesitate to deny that. After all, he had many Jewish friends of his own. But the German had been right in some respects: mankind was in desperate need of perfecting, and there was no doubt that some branches were closer to that perfection than others. And after all, the man who had brought into being such remarkable art couldn’t be all bad now, could he?

Himmler had been fascinated by these pieces. Pitt often wondered what secrets he might have concealed in their making. He felt that there was a message hovering just out of reach, something profound and wonderful that might make his love for these things transcendent and life changing and worth the thousands of dollars spending that he had carefully hidden from his wife over the years.

Historical accounts varied on whether concentration camp prisoners had been involved in the production of the porcelain. Pitt fancied that sometimes he could smell the pain on them, warm and comforting like the scent of second-hand books. He was no sadist, but he had always thought that there was something about fine and noble in suffering for the sake of art. He held the wolf close to his face and breathed in heavily. He shuddered involuntarily and the cold porcelain bounced gentle against his lips in a forbidden kiss.

He sat very still for a moment, the wolf cradled in his arms, all the world seemingly paused around him. Here was true happiness, the hidden heart of contentment in a life drawn long and thin by boredom and disappointment. Here among the ghosts was his last refuge.

The door banged open.

Priscilla stepped unwittingly into the room. “Mr Pitt, I’ve got your son’s school on the phone, they say they-“ she stopped short as she saw him. “Are you ok?”

He followed her gaze down to the glistening tear of saliva that hung from his lip. It was suspended for a second before falling down to splash into the wolf’s open maw. His head snapped up, glaring.

“I told you not to disturb me!”

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