‘Is she still around, you think?’
‘She’s not, but her son is. I’m meeting Lord Ashburton later this morning at his country estate near Bath. He’s even sending his driver to meet me at the station.’
‘Jolly nice of the chap. Good luck! Are you ready for the plodder report now? You’re not the only one making progress, you know.’
‘I miss you – plodder,’ Jana interrupted.
‘What did you say? I couldn’t quite catch that,’ Jack pretended, ‘we must have a bad line.’
‘I miss you,’ Jana repeated, louder this time.
‘This must be my bit of long-distance encouragement,’ Jack speculated. ‘It’s not quite the same, but I guess it’s better than nothing. For now, that is.’
‘Seriously, Jack, how do we explain Horst turning up at the auction – eh?’
‘I’m just as puzzled as you are. There has to be a connection, we just can’t see it, that’s all. What does Marcus think about all this?’
‘He’s making inquiries. Apparently, the Egyptian secret service had the auction under surveillance.’
‘How exciting; turbans and dark glasses? Were they bidding?’
‘You’re an incorrigible larrikin,’ Jana said, laughing.
‘And you’re a relentless teaser. Now, listen carefully. Do you have pen and paper?’
‘Sure, why?’
‘Write this down. J–a–k–o–b F–i–n–k–e–l–s–t–e–i–n.’ Jack spelled the name and gave her an address in Warsaw.
‘Who’s Jakob Finkelstein?’ Jana asked.
‘A Holocaust survivor, and ... a former member of the Auschwitz welcoming orchestra. He was in the camp until the end and was liberated by the Allies. A young GI befriended him and later wrote a book about the musicians of Auschwitz based on Finkelstein’s memoirs.’
‘You truly amaze me,’ interrupted Jana. ‘How on earth did you find him?’
‘On the internet. I found the book first, then I tracked down its author – a retired journalist living in Colorado. He was most helpful and gave me his friend’s address. They still correspond regularly.’
‘If Miss Abramowitz’s recollections are accurate, this could be quite a lead,’ Jana said. ‘I suppose you want me to look him up, is that it?’
‘If you have time.’
‘I should ... Marcus is tied up with the lawyers and the injunction. Apparently he’ll have to give evidence. It’ll take a couple of days.’
‘I’m going crazy here, all on my own,’ said Jack, changing direction.
‘You’ve got your dolphins.’
‘Not quite the same.’
‘You need to rest.’
‘Bullshit! I need to be with you.’
‘I wish you were here ...’
‘You mean it?’
‘You know I do.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because wishes can come true.’
‘But you’re an invalid, remember? You told me so yourself,’ Jana reminded Jack, laughing.
‘Enough! Incidentally, Finkelstein seems to be quite a character,’ Jack warned. ‘In the book he’s referred to as the Watchman of Warsaw.’
‘How strange. Why?’
‘Patience. You’ll find out when you get there.’
31
Lord Ashburton cantered across the frozen meadow, followed by a brace of large Irish wolfhounds. He jumped off his steaming horse and threw the reins to the waiting groom.
‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he apologised, holding out his hand. ‘You should have gone inside, it’s freezing.’
‘I’ve enjoyed walking through the gardens. They’re magnificent, even in winter,’ Jana said, introducing herself.
Lord Ashburton waved his hand dismissively at the manicured grounds. ‘Let’s have some tea to warm us up, shall we?’ he suggested, leading the way to the entrance of the imposing residence. Hamilton Park had been in his family for over three hundred years.
Everything about Lord Ashburton was a little odd. His arms were a little too long, his head and ears a little too large and his mouth too wide. Yet, at fifty, he still had a youthful, rather school-boyish look about him. He gave the impression that he consisted of several ill-fitting parts belonging to different people.
‘Splendid. James has lit the fire for us, good man,’ said Lord Ashburton, pulling a large leather chair closer to the fireplace for Jana. The wolfhounds settled down in front of the chair and refused to move. ‘Now, some tea.’ On cue, the old butler appeared, dressed in a morning coat. It was the same man who had earlier collected Jana from the station in a vintage Rolls Royce.
‘You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about the Stradivarius my mother bought. I must say, you made me curious. How can I help you?’
‘It’s a bit of a long story, I’m afraid,’ Jana said, reaching into her handbag. She handed the photograph of the German officer and the naked boy to Lord Ashburton and began to explain how and where it was found.
Lord Ashburton was an attentive listener and didn’t interrupt. Jana told him about Dr Rosen and gave him the Adelaide newspaper article to read.
‘How extraordinary,’ said Lord Ashburton. ‘But there’s no doubt we’re talking about the same instrument here. We always knew it came from Australia. I suppose the real question for you is, of course,’ he speculated, ‘whether the violin case in this photograph contained the same instrument.’
‘Correct. If the man in the photo is Sir Eric, well ... it’s a long shot, I know.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Do you still have the violin?’
‘In a way – yes. My mother gave it to me when I was still a boy being groomed for the concert hall. Regrettably I wasn’t the virtuoso type ... All my tutors finally gave up in despair because I was more interested in horses and hunting than violin practice. I was a great disappointment to her I’m afraid,’ he said, staring into the fire. ‘I was sent to Eton and hardly ever saw her after that. She lived in Italy for many years. All her lovers were musicians. My father was much older; they lived separate lives. You know how it is ...’ he added quietly.
‘Where’s the violin now? May I see it?’
‘For years it was kept over there,’ he replied, pointing to a glass display cabinet in the far corner. ‘Mother left it to the conservatorium in Florence as part of a trust arrangement. There’s an annual competition and a prize that bears her name. The winner gets a scholarship and is allowed to keep the instrument for a year. It travels all over the world, you see. Maximum exposure, I suppose, and all that.’
‘What a wonderful idea,’ Jana said, ‘but it’s gone then. It’s no longer yours – right?’
‘Not exactly ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m the sole trustee.’
32
Jana knew she was lost. Warsaw in winter was grey, damp and freezing and the empty, cobblestoned backstreets all looked the same. She walked up to an old woman at a bus stop and asked for directions. Jana’s childhood Polish was a little rusty, but adequate. When she finally found the tiny shop it was almost dark.
‘Jakob Finkelstein – Watchmaker,’ said the faded sign above the door. A torn blind covered the narrow shop window; there was no light inside. A nauseating smell of boiled cabbage and sewage filled the air. Jana pulled the brass bell knob next to the door. She could hear a bell ringing in the back of the shop, but nothing happened. After a few minutes, with no one coming to answer, she tried the bell again.
‘Yes, yes I’m coming,’ a voice called out from inside. Someone fumbled with a key in the lock. Finally, the door opened with a creak and a small, wizened old man squinted at Jana through thick glasses. ‘I’m closed, can’t you see? I’m eating dinner. What do you want?’ said Finkelstein gruffly. Jana smiled at him and mentioned the name of the American GI who wrote the book. The old man’s demeanour changed abruptly. ‘Don’t just stand there; come in,’ he
said, pointing down a dark corridor leading to the back of the shop.
The walls of the room in the back – Finkelstein’s world – were covered with all kinds of clocks. Old Viennas were busily ticking next to elaborately carved cuckoo clocks from the Black Forest. Marble mantle clocks and bracket clocks of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves. In the far corner of the room an elegant English mahogany grandfather clock was rubbing shoulders with an old Dutch lantern clock that had once been to sea. The dimly lit room was full of movement and sound. Fascinating shadows crept along the walls following polished brass pendulums in mesmerising unison. The regular tick-tock of a hundred intricate mechanisms was near deafening.
Finkelstein lived surrounded by his treasures – each reminding him of former customers. He could still remember all their names, yet he could barely recall the name of someone he met only the day before. Most of the clocks had been brought to Finkelstein for safekeeping during the war. Unlike their unfortunate – predominantly Jewish – owners, the clocks survived the Holocaust, securely hidden in the spacious cellar under his shop.
‘My faithful friends,’ said Finkelstein. ‘They are all special, but I do have my favourites of course. Take this one for instance,’ he continued, running his hands affectionately along the gleaming mahogany case of a tall grandfather clock. ‘Made in Glasgow in 1820; magnificent workmanship. It took me three weeks to repair it. It was very difficult. It needed new parts. I make all the parts myself, you know,’ he explained. Jana smiled at him. ‘It belonged to Professor Horowitz, a great man. Ah, and over here I have something really special. Come, look.’ Jana followed the little man to his workbench. He pointed to an exquisite porcelain table clock on the shelf above. ‘Meissen china, the best. It once stood in King Ludwig’s dining room in Neuschwanstein castle. Wait until it chimes – superb.’ Finkelstein became quite animated and began to stroke the tip of his white goatee. ‘Forgive me, but I can see you didn’t come here to talk about my clocks.’ He motioned towards a threadbare sofa next to the workbench. ‘Please, take a seat.’
Jana glanced at the steaming bowl of evil-smelling broth on the bench and sat down. ‘Would you like some? It’s borscht, I made it myself.’ Jana declined politely. Finkelstein climbed onto his stool in front of the bench and continued to eat his dinner. ‘If it’s not clocks, then what brings you here?’
‘Auschwitz.’
Finkelstein put down his spoon and looked wistfully at Jana through his thick glasses. ‘It never really goes away, does it?’ he said at last, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. ‘It just goes on; the ghosts are still with us.’
‘You were playing in the camp orchestra until the end, I’m told.’ Finkelstein nodded, a haunted look clouding his wrinkled face. ‘Can you ...?’ Silence. ‘Can you tell me about it?’ prompted Jana quietly.
Finkelstein nodded again. ‘They made us play at the camp entrance when the trains arrived,’ he said. ‘Mainly cheerful Viennese music, would you believe. A polka to sweeten the march to the gas chamber; terrible. The things one did to stay alive ...’ Finkelstein shook his head. ‘But I was still a young man then, full of hope. One of the lucky ones, I thought at the time. I was sent to Auschwitz with my wife and two small daughters soon after the ghetto revolt in forty-three. The orchestra needed another musician; my clarinet saved my life. I thought it would save theirs as well,’ he added sadly. ‘It didn’t.’
Suddenly, a cacophony filled the room. The clocks announced the hour with an exotic melange of whistles and bells, hooting owls and chipper cuckoos, sonorous gongs, lullabies and folk tunes. It was seven o’clock.
‘No matter how hard I try, I can never quite get them to do it all on time,’ shouted Finkelstein, ‘there are always a few slow ones.’ The chiming went on for several minutes until the last of the stragglers finally caught up.
Jana opened her handbag and pulled out the photograph. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ she asked, pointing to the German officer in the photo. Finkelstein took off his glasses, adjusted the lamp on the bench and pressed his round watchmaker’s magnifying glass to his right eye. He examined the photograph for a long time and Jana noticed that he kept coming back to the dog in the picture.
‘Do I recognise this man?’ repeated Finkelstein, putting down his magnifying glass. ‘Strictly speaking, no. As you can see, his face is barely visible under the visor of his cap.’ He pointed to the officer’s head. ‘Yet, there’s something familiar about him. His stance, his arrogance, I can’t really explain it. And then of course, there’s the dog ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there was a German officer who visited the camp regularly. He used to come to the train station with his dog, and often spoke to us about music before the trains arrived and the selections were made. He was always looking for new arrivals with certain special skills. They were taken to another camp close by. He had a dog just like this one.’ Finkelstein pointed to the snarling beast in the photo. Jana recognised echoes of Miss Abramowitz’s recollections. Holding her breath, she leant forward. ‘The dog had an unusual metal collar with an inscription on it,’ he explained.
‘What inscription?’ Jana asked hoarsely.
‘Ah, yes, I do remember now: Arbeit macht frei. Crazy. We didn’t know what to make of it. Typical SS, they were all mad.’
Jana could barely contain her excitement. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about him?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Not really. It was a long time ago and my memory isn’t what it used to be, I’m afraid.’ Finkelstein shrugged, and handed the photograph back to Jana.
‘Do you know of anyone else who might?’ she asked casually, almost as an afterthought.
‘Strange you should ask; I was just thinking the same thing. There was this musician at the Auschwitz remembrance service – you know, the fiftieth anniversary of the camp’s liberation. I was there.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, he used to play in the camp orchestra as a young boy with his father. Perhaps he can remember something. You see, he survived – his father didn’t. I spoke to him afterwards. It was all very moving.’
‘Did you recognise him?’
‘No, but I did remember his father. He was a well-known music teacher right here in Warsaw before the war.’
‘What was his name?’
‘I knew you would ask that. I’m sorry, but I just can’t remember right now,’ said Finkelstein apologetically. ‘I’m rather bad with names ...’
‘Please ... you must!’ Jana almost shouted, unable to control her frustration. She put her hand on the old man’s shoulder. He shook his head sadly. Embarrassed, Jana withdrew her hand.
‘Wait, there is someone who might know,’ said Finkelstein, waving his finger at Jana. ‘My friend Moritz was with me at the liberation ceremony. We spoke a lot about it at the time; he might remember the name.’
‘Where’s your friend?’
‘He lives close by; we play chess almost every day. I will ask him in the morning. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we’ll see ...’
When Finkelstein showed Jana to the door the clocks chimed again –eight o’clock. Jana turned up the collar of her coat and looked around. The narrow alley was dark and deserted. There was only one street light. Preparing herself for the long walk back to her hotel, she hurried towards the light.
Jana thought she could hear footsteps behind her. The footsteps stopped when she stopped, and started again when she walked on. She looked quickly over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of a figure darting into a doorway. Certain she was being followed, she began to run towards the intersection at the end of the alley. Looking ahead, Jana saw another shadowy figure coming towards her from the intersection. A trap, she thought, her heart racing. She knew she had to get past the man in front. If he didn’t have a gun, she had a chance; her hand-to-hand combat skills were excellent. Jana slowed to a walk and clenched her fists, ready to attack. As the man came closer, a flash
of recognition raced across her mind. No way! she thought. She couldn’t see the face, yet there was something familiar about the shape of the body and the outline of the head lit up from behind. The man stopped, so did Jana, bracing herself for an assault. ‘I did warn you,’ said the man, ‘wishes can come true.’ The man limped into the pale cone of streetlight and held up his hands. ‘I surrender, Inspector.’
‘Jack?’ asked Jana, refusing to trust her eyes.
‘And for a moment I thought you were running into my arms,’ said Jack, laughing.
Staring incredulously at Jack, Jana tried to catch her breath. ‘I’m being followed,’ she croaked.
‘Yeah, by those two guys over there.’
‘We’ve got to get out of here; quickly!’
‘Sure. My cab’s waiting ’round the corner, come.’
As she sat next to Jack in the taxi, Jana began to relax. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked, running her fingers through Jack’s short hair struggling to grow back. ‘Just look at yourself, Scarface.’
‘Someone had to scare the villains away. And besides, I got sick of sitting on the beach. Dolphins aren’t much company, believe me. To tell you the truth, I was bored shitless.’
‘How on earth did you find me?’
‘I spoke to Carrington. He told me you had gone to Warsaw, you weren’t at your hotel, I had Finkelstein’s address ... here I am.’
‘But your injuries ...’
‘A few stitches and a limp; big deal.’
‘And the rest.’ Jana traced the red scar running across Jack’s cheek with the tip of her finger. ‘You can’t afford any more knocks, mate. Trust me.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Aren’t you freezing?’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 15
