Chapter Text
February 1914
You alone can make my song take flight
It’s over now the music of the night.
August 1914
The rain pelting on the tin roof wakes him up in the middle of the night. It has been raining with no respite for a week and it seems there is no end in sight. Erik does not care much; he is used to hard conditions – he lived for years in the proximity of a lake under the Opera Garnier in Paris. But now that he has chosen the life of a wanderer, he has to make do with whatever shelter he can find on a day-to-day basis, like this run-down farmer’s tool shed in the middle of a wheat field somewhere between Nancy and Lunéville.
He needs to leave France. He has been toying with that thought long enough that it has transformed from mere idea to urgent need. He has already seen the world – Eastern Europe, Russia, Persia and the Far East. His wanderlust tapered down once he had found a home for himself under the theatre.
That home is now gone, and the woman he had hoped to share it with is gone too – lost to him forever because, blinded by his love for her, he could not let go of his obsessiveness and his foolishness. Because he could not be honest with her.
In his most self-deprecating moments, he thinks that it is better like that. He has given her what he could – music and her voice and confidence in what she could do with it. As for the rest... He is a barely functioning human being with a disfigured face and a penchant for violent behaviour. Yes, he reckons, she is better off without him, although he might have a few choice words about the current object of her affections.
Erik grunts and tries to find a better position to sleep in. He figures he has at least another two hours of rest before the farmers start their morning activities, but his mind is restless. Thoughts about Paris and what happened at the opera plague his nights and more often than not he finds himself looking at whatever ceiling is above his head for hours trying to find some measure of peace. It is a pointless waste of time.
Loud crackling sounds start echoing in the dark. They are distant, but his keen ear can detect them clearly enough. Some could mistake them for thunder, but Erik knows that they are harbingers of death. It is unfortunate that he has decided to cross the border to Germany here. Even more unfortunate, the fact that war has just been declared between France and Germany, yet again. He has been biding his time deciding whether to risk the crossing or not, but what he read in a newspaper in Nancy a few days back is worrying him very much. This is no simple bilateral skirmish between two countries with an antagonistic, acrimonious past. The whole of Europe seems to be involved, and soon there might be no safe place to hide anymore.
He is not worried for himself. He is used to living in the darkness, a ghost among the living. He knows how to deal with dire situations, and he survived torture at an age most would not; he knows how to go with no food or drink for days. No, he is not worried for himself. His constant thought goes to the woman he loves. He hopes she is safe, and away from the eastern border.
The rain lets up before sunrise and Erik sneaks out of the tool shed and pays a visit to the farmer’s chicken coop. A few eggs and a chicken missing will surely not raise suspicions. He sets off in the general direction of Lunéville with his newly acquired lunch. Once in town, he will get fresh news about the war and decide how to proceed.
Keeping to the back roads allows him to avoid people, as it is always easy to hide in the small patches of woodland that pepper the countryside or in the middle of fully grown corn or wheat fields.
Cities are a different matter, but so far, he has always had luck hiding in churches, bell towers or abandoned buildings and cellars. He lived for years in self-imposed isolation because it was easier that way. There was no need to explain the mask. There was no fear of being exposed. There was the safety and comfort of a home built for him and him alone. No constraints or limits except those that he himself decided upon.
Out here it is different. The world is not what he remembered, but some things have not changed, like the blatant hostility towards anything that is different. He is aware of the risks he is going to face, but for the first time in his life they seem risks worth taking.
He finds an ancient, deconsecrated church at the end of the road. The bell tower seems sturdy enough to be climbed and Erik decides that it is the perfect place to set up a small fire and eat the chicken he has stolen. His stomach has been grumbling since he left the tool shed. The clothes he liberated a few months prior from the courtyard of a farm near Arras are quite comfortably withstanding the drizzle that is still coming from the sky, but he prefers to let at least the outer layers dry a bit, before adventuring out again. Once inside, he takes to the stairs that lead to the upper floor. Behind an unhinged wooden door, the silvery pipes of a beautiful organ reflect the light that enters from the tall gothic windows of the apse, almost blinding him, and he stops. He shoulders the door open and steps into the choir balcony, heeding their call.
The tips of his fingers tingle, yearning. He drops the bag that carries a few personal possessions and his good clothes, and he sits on the stool in front of the ancient organ. He adjusts his position on the seat, tests the pedal board with his feet. The keys on the manuals are stuck from disuse at first, but once he presses them, slowly, one by one, they seem to come back to life. Their weight under his fingers is excellent. It is a pity that such a beautiful instrument lies forgotten in the middle of the French countryside. Bach would be the most appropriate choice of music for the occasion, but when he starts playing, it is Haendel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba that flows through his hands. The pipes are not working of course, but Erik does not need them to hear. The music is in his head and his heart, and it is permeating, saturating his soul. After such a long time without touching an instrument, he feels a piece of himself click back into place.
He feels whole.
When he is done playing, his hands rest on the keyboard as if trying to absorb the essence, the spirit of the organ. His head is bent down in contemplation. This is the god to whom he has pledged his life, not the one looking at him from behind his back, on the cross suspended high above the altar. When his last prayer is over, Erik rises from the bench, collects his bag, and climbs the stairs all the way to the top.
The news from the front is not good.
The western border of France is the first to feel the brush of the flames of war.
The French have not forgotten their disastrous defeat by the German Empire in 1870, they have not forgotten that territories were annexed by their most hated enemy. After Germany declares war, the French army wastes no time in rushing to reclaim what was lost forty years before. They invade Mulhouse, which the Germans had renamed Mülhausen, but the Empire strikes back with impressive force and conquers it again a few days later. Crossing the border, uncertain as it is, is becoming impossible even for someone as invisible as him.
Lunéville sits placidly in the hilly countryside, surrounded by lush forests. One would think that nothing bad could happen here. The town had been bombed by a plane – something previously unheard of – the day before the declaration of war three weeks ago but had remained otherwise untouched. Its inhabitants felt safe under the protection of the 2nd Army that was stationed there.
In fact, it turns out his arrival in Lunéville could not have happened at a worse time.
The morning after, Erik wakes up to the sound of orders being shouted in German and the sound of men marching in the streets. From the cellar he was hiding in, he climbs to the roof of the four storey house and sees in the distance groups of townsfolk who have had the opportunity to flee the city disappearing in the distance behind the hills. He cannot fathom how the enemy could have gained so much terrain in such little time.
It is not the way he hoped to cross the border, but he guesses that he is in German territory now. He could make his way through the back rows of the invading army and continue eastward, or he could flee the area, retracing his steps, and seek a safer place. He gives himself time to think about his exit plan until nightfall. There is not much he will be able to do until then.
In the early afternoon something stirs the soul of the city. Shouts and cries run through the streets as throngs of citizens rush beyond the church of Saint Jacques, to the square behind, where the mayor’s office has been turned into the headquarters of the invading army.
Soldiers are forming a line all around the area to keep the populace back, rifles and guns at the ready. From a darkened corner Erik hears someone explain that some German soldiers have been shot and killed and the ones responsible are going to be punished for their act of resistance.
A dozen people are shoved into the middle of the square and desperate voices rise all around. The prisoners come from all walks of life and Erik has a hard time believing any of them ever held a weapon in their hands.
There is a young woman in the group. Erik cannot take his eyes off her. His mind is playing tricks on him and all he can see is Christine, standing awkward and tall in the middle of the group, trembling and unsure like the first time he ever saw her. Even from this distance he can tell she is scared, and she keeps close to an older man who is holding her by the shoulders. Is he her father? An acquaintance?
An officer marches into the middle of the tragic tableau, shouting in French with a heavy German accent that the town has been conquered; concealed weapons must be surrendered and if there are French soldiers hidden in the city, they must turn themselves in. The German army will not hurt the populace, but acts of resistance will be punished.
Soldiers approach with chairs and rope and Erik cannot believe they would really punish these twelve. A certain feeling of agitation is settling in the pit of his stomach. The girl is now imploring the Germans to let the old man go, to spare his life and Erik is thrown back under the opera house in Paris when Christine begged him to spare her beau. He sees himself in the place of the officer and bile rises in his throat.
Soldiers cannot execute civilians like that, Erik knows there are rules about war. She is crying and he keeps looking. The Germans are not going to shoot; it is just a stupid display of power to ensure that everyone will follow their rules. They are not going to shoot, they just cannot…
Twelve rifles. Twelve shots. That is all it takes, in a single moment, to plunge the square into stunned silence. A dodecaphony of death that makes Erik’s blood run cold. The crumpled body of the girl is tied to a chair, a discarded doll, her hopes and dreams lost forever and all he feels is the sting of tears in his eyes. ‘No’ and ‘Christine’ are the only two words that he can think of. His fingers ache to find the punjab lasso that is no longer where he always kept it and for the first time in months he almost regrets leaving it behind with the rest of his old life.
Beasts. What war turns men into.
And he is not different. Vengeance. That is what he wants. For the girl who has been so brutally murdered. He wants to make them pay as though they had murdered his Christine.
He will not kill, no. He promised himself that that will not happen again, but that does not mean that he cannot be a thorn in the side of the Germans, driving them crazy in an endless game of cat and mouse. Retribution can come in different guises. It is a challenge, not much different than what he did at the opera in Paris, if he is to be honest with himself, but at least this time he is doing it for someone else’s sake.
Erik does not waste too much time making sense of the crusade he is about to start. He was never good at self-analysis. He did not care. He just did what he did because he could, and he did it whenever it suited him and that was that. The world owed him for a lifetime of suffering, and he took his due. Until he lost everything.
And now? What did he have to lose now?
Why should he care?
A textbook case of a man developing a conscience. His mind mocks him, and he bristles. He never needed one before – it was an unnecessary complication – but now Erik understands that actions bring consequences, and he must find a way to navigate a life filled with them.
No one ever saved him from his destiny. Could he maybe save other people from theirs?
It is just like that that the whispers about the ghost of Lunéville start. Le Fantôme leaves food for those who do not have it, because the Germans have confiscated all the flour in the city. Le Fantôme makes prisoners disappear from the cells where Germans hold them, and they miraculously reappear safe behind the lines. Engine failures become the norm on otherwise technically advanced trucks.
Three weeks of whispers and rumours and wild speculations. The Germans do not understand what is happening under their noses and the French do not talk.
After three weeks, Lunéville is back in French territory, abandoned by captors who give it up willingly to pursue the main theatre of battle northward. With the Germans gone, the ghost vanishes, as silently as he appeared, into thin air.
Erik knows all about the darkness that is harboured in the hearts of men. He has lived with it all of his life. He knows the insanity that started in the early days of August in Mulhouse and in Lunéville will not end overnight. He knows that promises of a short war circulating left and right are empty ones.
Leaving the city, he feels strangely accomplished. It is the first time in his life that he has done something for other people. If Christine knew, she would approve. She is, after all, the one who showed him what compassion is and he is intent on applying her lesson to the letter.
He could leave. He could go back to Paris. He could go south. There are plenty of ways he could leave the country, but something keeps him here. Whether it is a need for redemption or simply a way to demonstrate to himself that he is so clever he can outrun enemies and avoid bullets in the midst of war, he does not know. He thinks he will stay just to find out exactly what he is looking for.
The area between Lunéville and Nancy is nothing like he saw three weeks prior. The main roads are the exclusive dominion of the French army – moving men, animals, and weapons alike where they are needed to cover the effort of war.
The church where he played Haendel is no more, destroyed by the German artillery which seems capable of reaching targets in a way far beyond any possible imagination. Kneeling in front of the ruins and debris, he cries for the organ that is no more, as if he has left a part of his soul inside it.
Sticking to the woods seems the wisest choice; they are more secure and offer plenty of hiding spots. He never stays in the same place for long. With all this moving around his clothing is disintegrating slowly but surely. He will have to find replacements soon. Winter is closer than anyone thinks, and he cannot afford to be caught unaware. But whereas he stole the garments he is wearing with careless agility and a light heart he now has to think of the people that may need them. The villages along the border are already showing signs of dwindling and giving up on life. Whoever can flee, does, and they carry with them their meagre belongings. For those who remain, hard times and sacrifices are the only certainties on the horizon.
September 1914
Rain strikes again in the middle of September. The days are getting shorter and that means Erik is free to roam for longer hours when darkness falls. He moves constantly from village to village – the bad weather makes it impossible to stay in the woods for longer periods – and tries to help civilians the same way he did at Lunéville. Provisions are hard to come by but now and then some wealthier inhabitants move away from the border leaving behind most of their possessions and it is easy to liberate wares from the abandoned homes. The black market is very active, and he knows how to work it. The people he deals with are scared of him – this imposing tall man, half of his face always covered, always lurking in the shadows, appearing and disappearing like a ghost.
He is hiding in a patch of woodland near Saint-Mihiel when the Germans attack the area and seize the town. It is the first time that he finds himself right in the middle of a battleground and it is an eye-opening experience. He sees French soldiers die in the forest, their bodies perforated by machine gun bullets and the only thing he can do is remain a silent witness and avoid capture. Dying here, like this, serves no purpose. He is helping out people in need and that is more important than losing his life. It is hard, however, to turn away when young men are shot or stabbed with a bayonet in the back.
Erik has killed in his life, but it has never been this uncontrolled and random, it has never been a display of savagery. It was ice cold, calculated, a precise affair on selected targets. Killing en masse the way these soldiers do is abominable and repulsive to him.
He is almost out of the forest when he sees a wounded French soldier carrying another one over his shoulder. His body is bent under the weight, and he is limping heavily, but he shows no sign of giving up. Erik is so near to him he can hear the grunts of pain from the bent man as well as he can hear the Germans approaching. They are not being stealthy in the forest now that it is conquered, elephants in a china shop, and they might be here in a matter of minutes. There are no prisoners of war in the forest of Saint-Mihiel and he is not keen on letting both men face their destiny like that; if they get caught, they will end up in a pile of dead bodies like the rest of those who are left in the woods.
It is a split-second decision that settles the matter. He approaches the soldier with quick steps and stops – with raised hands – when he sees the gun that is pointing at him.
The soldier eases up a bit only when he hears a perfect Parisian accent talking to him. “Let me take him. If you can walk faster, there is a chance we can still make it out of here alive.”
Wariness is painted on the other man’s face, furrowed brows, tight lips, slightly bent knees ready to spring into action, but there really is no time to waste. Erik throws caution to the wind and in two strides he is towering over the soldier – an officer of some sort if he reads the rank markings on his shoulders correctly, shorter by a head – and liberates him from the additional human weight. The body he is carrying is one of a young man, no older than twenty, with a bleeding gash on the right side of his chest. How he is still breathing Erik does not know, but he wastes no time asking questions. He hoists him up on his shoulder and walks away quickly. The other man is still limping but is now moving more easily and manages to keep the pace. They even try to run a few times to gain an advantage that might make the difference between life and death.
When they reach the outskirts of Saint-Mihiel, the town has already fallen into German hands: troops are marching towards the main road with columns of trucks and carts at their heels. The town centre is illuminated bright as day, and they can hear orders shouted through loudspeakers in a language that is not theirs. By silent agreement, they keep on walking into the night to reach the next village with the hope that it will not have been invaded.
Erik keeps on moving like a man possessed – the memories of Lunéville still a raw wound – barely turning back to see if his companion is keeping up. The blood of the man he carries has soaked through Erik's clothes, sticking them to his skin. He can hear the rattle in the soldier’s lungs and wonders how long he will manage to hold on. If he manages to hold on. He realises that he does not want the man to die. Such a young life wasted for what? He could be the next Offenbach; he could be the next Voltaire, the next Baudelaire. Erik wants him to live, he hates waste of potential talent. This country does not need any more Napoleons, it needs more Garniers, more Lumières, more Monets.
“Who are you?”
The voice coming from behind him shakes him out of his thoughts. Erik stops for a moment, adjusts his hold on the boy he is carrying and pivots on his feet to face the older soldier. “I am no one of consequence.” He tries to project as much of his dark aura as he can to stop the line of questioning, but the soldier is not having it.
“Why are you out of uniform? Who is your commanding officer?”
They come face to face in the middle of the road in a stand-off. Erik cannot very well tell him ‘I am the Phantom of the Opera’ and ‘I do not exist to the rest of the world’ even if that is the truth. So, he tries to end the questioning before it becomes too invasive and steers attention to a more logical subject. “Do you want him to live?” he says, nodding his head at the man on his shoulder. “Then stop asking questions I can give no answer to and let’s try to find someone who can help.” He starts walking again and hears steps behind him and is satisfied that for the moment the crisis is averted.
A military truck appearing out of nowhere stops right in front of them, blinding them with headlights, and they barely have time to react. Erik is wary when several people come down from it. He is ready to fight even with the impediment of the young man weighing on his shoulder, but all the tension suddenly evaporates when the approaching soldiers snap to attention at the sight of his limping companion.
“Colonel Blanchet! We were looking for you! The line did not hold. Saint-Mihiel…”
“… is lost, I know. We managed to evade capture thanks to this gentleman.”
Comforted that the stranger is not an enemy, they take the boy off Erik’s shoulder and are quick to load him in the back of the truck. The officer – Colonel Blanchet – enters the cabin, sits near the driver, and looks at Erik expectantly. Erik would like to take his leave, uneasy in the presence of such a crowd, but he is surrounded by French soldiers who are watching him and clearly waiting for him to get in. It is not the right time to make a scene.
As he climbs in the front seat, he has the sinking sensation that this is one of those turning points in his life that he often overlooked, but this time there is no way to avoid seeing it. He will have to play it by ear and make a hasty exit as soon as he can.