The Forest of Souls [Paperback]

Praise for “The Forest of Souls.’‘

‘A haunting legacy of war’ Frances Fyfield

‘Banks… has managed to bring disturbingly alive the history of the Stalinist terrors and the brutal Nazi persecutions’ Daily Mail

‘A satisfying crime novel’ TLS

‘A breakthrough book… watch out for Carla Banks’ Observer

A powerful thriller...(Banks) brings disturbingly alive the history of the Stalinist terrors and the brutal Nazi persecutions that followed. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

A story to wrench at the heart and haunt the soul. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Dense with ideas about truth and betrayal, asylum and integration, acceptance and hatred...this is a satisfying crime novel --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

A gripping psychological thriller, taking the reader from 21st century Britain to the darkest days of war-torn Eastern Europe.

The cries of the innocent echo through the years…

Her obsession with history has cost Helen Kovacs her life. Helen’s research into the Nazi occupation of Eastern Europe was a secret she kept from even her closest friend, Faith Lange. Now Faith, retracing Helen’s last steps, is convinced that the man the police have arrested is not the killer. Journalist Jake Denbigh’s investigations have led him to the same conclusion.

Faith is disturbed by Denbigh’s digging. Among the refugees from the concentration camps of Minsk were war criminals masquerading as victims. Could Faith’s beloved grandfather Marek be hiding such a secret? And does the reason for Helen’s murder lie in the mass graves of the Kurapaty Forest – or much closer to home?

My father grew up in the forest of Byelorussia and was taken prisoner by Stalin's army during the first invasion of Poland. He escaped to England where he joined the Polish Free Forces, but he was never able to go home. He suffered from survivor guilt for much of his life, and he used to tell us stories about his childhood home. After his death, I found that he had written some of these down, including this poem about the last time he saw his mother: 1938/ I didn’t see you/ 1939/ Was too late/ Do you remember when/ you came to see me/ standing there on Gorzow Station./ Where is Janek? Did he forgotten to meet me?/ And when I crept behind you/ pick you off the ground/ and twirl. And you pleaded/ Put me down. Put me down Janek./ What all this people will say./ And then you kiss me and ruffle my hair. The character of Marek Lange was inspired by my father, though his story is very different from my father's. I spent some time in Minsk researching the Nazi occupation of Belarus, and found the truly horrific story of that occupation. I have tried to tell something of that story, and its consequences, in this book. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

A passion for history had already cost Helen Kovacs her marriage. Now she's paid with her life. Helen had told no one of her research into the Nazi occupation of Eastern Europe. Even her closest friend and colleague, Faith Lange, had no idea - until she began retracing the dead woman's steps. Though the police have a suspect in custody, Faith is convinced the murderer is still at large. And she is troubled, too, by the presence of Jake Denbigh, a journalist who appears to be investigating her grandfather, Marek, a refugee from the Eastern Front. Everything hinges on the memories of a 75 year old whose will to survive preserved her through the horrors of Minsk and the concentration camps, and enabled her to make a new life in England with her son. Helen's murder and its consequences will take Jake and Faith on terrifying journeys: to Belarus where the mass graves of the Kurapaty Forest have their own dreadful tale to tell; and into the heart of Faith's own family where a tragic secret lies hidden. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

'But she can hear it now. Deep in the forest under the darkness of the trees, she can hear it. The careful placing of a foot, and silence, and again, and silence...closer and closer.' 'A fine, compelling novel': Andrew Taylor. 'Gripping, vivid and moving - an excellent mystery which combines the resonance and drama of the second world war with page-turning suspense': Laura Wilson 'A haunting legacy of war': Frances Fyfield --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Carla Banks grew up in a scholarly family. Her father, an Eastern European cavalry officer, came to the UK as a wartime refugee where he met and married her half-Irish mother. He told his children stories of his childhood in a country that had been destroyed by the war. Carla Banks has been an academic for most of her working life and is fascinated by the power of language. She lives in the north of England and now writes full time.

...She looked at the letters spread out on the desk in front of her, and at the diary. She was about to make a decision. She couldn’t finish reading these here. She’d assumed there would be some kind of copying facilities – the word ‘library’ had conjured up a different image from the one that had confronted her. But no one knew the letters and diary were here, so no one would miss them. She could slip them into her bag and take them away to study at her leisure. It would be okay – she was a bona fide scholar, and she could quietly return them when she’d finished with them. She didn’t think anyone would check.
And that was when she heard the sound. It was – it had been – the soft click of the door. "Nick?" she said. There was no response. She waited for a moment with the notebook closed over her finger. "Hello?" she said.
Silence whispered back. And in the silence – was it? – the faintest sound of breathing, of something moving through the darkness like silk. She stood up, suddenly uneasy. "Who’s there." She picked up the lamp to lift it higher, to expand the area of light, but the cord pulled tight. She put it down on the desk and moved slowly back down the aisle, the high shelves looming shadows in the darkness.
Now her imagination was playing tricks, making movements in the dark corners of the room, making soft sounds like footsteps behind her. She spun round, looking back along the aisle to the pool of light that marked the place where she had been working. "Hello?" she said again.
The aisle was empty, running back into the shadows. But she’d heard…
Then there was someone behind her and before she could move, something snaked round her neck and pulled tight. Her breath was cut off and her hands clawed futilely at the thing that bit deep into her flesh, feeling the slipperiness of blood under her fingers. Blood? My blood? And her legs were starting to tremble as she twisted and struggled for air and there was no one behind her as her flailing arms hit out and the darkness was darker and….
And the circle of light from the desk lamp crept up the wall, illuminating the shelves, up and up until the balance mechanism caught, and the light froze, fixed upwards at the stained and ornate ceiling where a plaster cherub, half its face gone, dispensed grapes from fingerless hands and the stains darkened as the rain penetrated and dripped onto the papers spread out below. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.