‘My father was a wonderful teacher. He believed that music could express things mere words could not. He believed that it allowed man to communicate on a different, intensely personal level. One of the last things he said to me more than fifty years ago in Auschwitz,’ he added quietly, ‘which I have never forgotten and would like to share with you here, if you will permit me, was this: When you play, reach deep within yourself, let the music flow from your heart into your fingers and from your fingertips into the strings. Make them sing.’
Jana turned towards Jack sitting next to her in the back row and whispered, ‘It’s him.’
‘Like this.’ Professor Krakowski lifted the violin to his chin, closed his eyes and played a short passage from Mozart’s second violin concerto. He played with total concentration and technical brilliance yet made it appear easy and uncomplicated. He left the final note floating in mid air and placed the violin carefully on top of the lectern. ‘There was one more thing my father said one had to do,’ Krakowski explained. ‘I’ll tell you what it is: practise, practise, practise ...’ He shrugged apologetically. The students began to cheer and clap, giving their beloved professor a standing ovation.
‘Thank you for inviting us to your class. It was fascinating,’ Jana said, holding out her hand. Carrington and Jack stayed deliberately in the background, watching.
‘Ah, yes, Ms Gonski.’ They shook hands. ‘I must say, I was intrigued by your questions about the musicians of Auschwitz,’ Krakowski said, closing his violin case.
‘I understand you were once one of them ...’
‘Are you a journalist?’ Krakowski asked, looking a little apprehensive. Jana decided to come straight to the point.
‘No. I’m a police officer from Australia investigating a possible war criminal.’
‘A war criminal? Who?’
‘This one,’ Jana explained. She put an enhanced copy of the photograph showing the German officer and the naked boy on top of the lectern. Krakowski reached for his glasses and looked at the photo. Carrington leant forward, watching him carefully; Jack took a deep breath. Krakowski began to tremble and had to reach for the lectern to steady himself.
‘David,’ he muttered at last and kept staring at the photo. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Could we go somewhere a little more private?’ Jana suggested. Krakowski nodded and shuffled slowly towards the exit. Suddenly, the vitality of the gifted teacher had evaporated; all that remained was an old man remembering a painful past.
37
Jana knew the future of the case hung in the balance. The Cattle Baron was Carrington’s favourite London restaurant. With a view across to Tower Bridge it was a bit touristy, but the steaks came from Down Under. That was the attraction, even if the prices were eye-popping.
Jack had gone back to Zurich to meet Sam Greenberg, and Jana was anxiously awaiting Carrington’s decision. She wasn’t sure whether Carrington had chosen the venue to let her down gently, or to enjoy a meal he knew they would both like.
Carrington handed the wine list back to the waiter and ordered a bottle of Shiraz – all the way from South Australia. ‘Funny how we gravitate towards the familiar,’ he said.
‘We all do,’ replied Jana.
‘I’ve decided to carry on with the investigation,’ announced Carrington, coming straight to the point.
‘Oh? Has Krakowski convinced you?’
‘Convinced me? No. There are too many coincidences here for my liking. To me, the whole story has a sense of destiny, almost inevitability, about it. Not very scientific is it? I’m not explaining this very well, am I?’
‘Not really,’ Jana replied, obviously relieved, ‘but I know exactly what you mean. I have the same feeling. It’s almost as if someone is guiding us, leaving clues, showing us the way, urging us on.’ Carrington nodded. ‘What’s our next step then?’ Jana asked.
‘We need a body.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I phoned Krakowski this afternoon. He’s prepared to take part in a search for his brother’s grave.’
‘That’s great! But where do we start?’
Carrington pulled a crumpled map out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. ‘Right here,’ he said, pointing to a lake on the border between Austria and Switzerland. ‘In 1944 this was all part of Greater Germany, today it’s Austria. And remember, the Swiss border hasn’t changed,’ he added.
‘And Krakowski told us yesterday,’ interrupted Jana, ‘that he and his brother were taken out of Auschwitz – here.’ Jana pointed to the map. ‘In the evening, he said, after dark.’
‘Correct. And they drove through the night and ended up at this lake here in the morning. Right on the Swiss border; that fits. Unfortunately, he’s quite vague about what happened after that. Too traumatic, I suppose.’
‘What’s next?’
‘I’ve already spoken to the Attorney-General. He will request the help of the Austrian ambassador later today. You know, cutting through the red tape and all that. The notorious Austrian bureaucracy,’ explained Carrington, rolling his eyes. ‘You have no idea – there’s a department and a permit for everything and it all takes ages. And besides, the whole thing is rather delicate. Everyone is tired of digging up the past – in this case quite literally. Understandably, the Austrians are very sensitive about these things.’ Carrington ordered another bottle of wine.
‘If we do find the grave with his brother’s remains in it, that would certainly substantiate Krakowski’s story,’ observed Jana. ‘But it still doesn’t link Newman to the officer in the photo – it doesn’t link him to what happened at the lake, does it?’
‘No, unless Krakowski can provide the missing link and identify him.’
‘Do you think that’s likely?’
‘The simple answer is no. An experienced cross-examiner would eat him alive if he tried. Even if Krakowski could honestly identify Newman as the officer in the photo, even if he would be prepared to say on oath: “This is the man who shot my brother”, there would have to be some convincing independent corroboration before a jury could accept his testimony.’
‘You’re right of course. But then again, look where we were a few days ago,’ observed Jana. ‘We didn’t even know Krakowski existed. And a man had to die ...’ she added.
‘I know.’
Carrington signalled to the waiter and suggested coffee by the fire. ‘With all we’ve been through in the short time we’ve known each other,’ Carrington began, changing the subject, ‘I feel that I know you, but I hardly know anything about you. Strange, isn’t it?’ He raised his glass and looked at Jana. ‘I’d like to know more.’
‘What would you like to know?’ asked Jana, staring into the flames.
‘The usual things, I suppose. Growing up, career, relationships, plans for the future ...’ Most people are flattered when someone shows interest in them and need little encouragement to talk about themselves. Not Jana. On the contrary, delving into her past filled her with dread. Still, she wanted to open up and tell this fascinating, lonely man sitting next to her about her real self. She drained her glass and took a deep breath.
‘This may surprise you, perhaps even shock you,’ she began quietly and put down her glass. ‘Mum was a single mother, an alcoholic. I was taken away from her when I was quite young and went to live with an aunt. That didn’t work out either. I grew up on the streets after that. When other girls my age went to ballet classes and had piano lessons, I was doing drugs and stealing food. I was a feral street kid; so much for family. Can I have some more?’ asked Jana, pointing to her empty glass.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,’ Carrington said.
‘Of course you didn’t.’ Jana managed a faint smile. She hadn’t spoken about this part of her life to anyone in years. But now that the worst was out in the open, she felt better and wanted to continue. ‘Then, one day, I broke into this small cottage ...’
‘Stop! I should really warn you about self-
incrimination now,’ Carrington joked, raising his hand. ‘Are you sure you want to continue?’
‘Yes, Your Honour. I was looking for food. I was very weak by then and must have fallen asleep. The next thing I remember is waking up in a real bed with real pillows and sheets. I thought I was dead. That was the day I met Mrs Gonski.’
‘This sounds a bit like a fairytale,’ observed Carrington, smiling.
‘Perhaps, but let me tell you about Olga Gonski. She was a tiny, middle-aged woman from Poland. She had migrated to Australia with her young husband shortly after the war. He was killed in a mining accident soon after. They had no children. She was a wonderful person, she ...’ Jana paused and looked at Carrington, ‘... she radiated love, if you know what I mean.’
Jana felt suddenly at ease; the earlier tension disappeared. Remembering Olga’s kindness had given her confidence. ‘She hardly spoke English, so I learnt Polish; so much for my Polish background, hey?’ Jana explained, laughing. ‘She became mother, friend, teacher and confidante, all wrapped into one. She may not have given me life, but she certainly gave it back to me.’ Jana paused and looked into the dying embers. ‘I lived with her for ten years – until she died of leukaemia. I still have her cottage; it’s in Sydney. I only live in Canberra for work. That cottage is my real home; I’ll show it to you one day.’
‘That’s quite a story,’ Carrington said, reaching for her hand. ‘I must say, you’ve surprised me – again. I had no idea. And the name?’
‘I changed mine to Gonski – in her memory. And you know what’s really scary?’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’m now about the age she was when she took me in.’
Carrington squeezed her hand. ‘You never married?’ he asked.
‘No. The white knight hasn’t found me in time, I’m afraid,’ Jana said, adding, ‘This damsel has turned into a matron, see?’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Well, I think I’ve shown you enough skeletons in my dusty cupboard for one evening,’ she joked, leaning back into the soft cushions. ‘There must be at least a few bones rattling around in yours.’
Carrington began to laugh. He had not laughed since Luxor. Something about the vivacious woman with the surprising past and warm, engaging manner made him feel strangely alive.
‘I can’t compete with your adventures, I’m afraid. My father was a rather eccentric academic, a professor of ancient history with a consuming passion for Ancient Rome. I grew up in a large, totally bohemian household. Imagine six children, two spinster aunts, one imperious grandmother ruling us all like the proverbial matriarch, several exchange students of various nationalities and a whole menagerie of animals – all under one roof. We were all given Latin names. I ended up with Marcus Aurelius, one of my father’s heroes. We even had to speak Latin at the dinner table.’
‘How do you say, “May I have another glass of wine, please” in Latin?’ interrupted Jana.
‘That’s obviously a hint,’ replied Carrington, reaching for the bottle.
‘Why criminal law?’
‘Criminal law is about people, everything else in law is about money. I prefer people; simple as that. Incidentally, have you been to Austria?’ asked Carrington, changing the subject.
‘No, but I’ve always wanted to see Vienna.’
‘You’re about to. We’re meeting the Australian ambassador in Vienna to discuss the arrangements for the search.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow.’
38
Dr Otto Gruber was waiting for them in the hotel foyer with the Australian ambassador. He was a senior public servant with the curious title, Oberregierungsrat. In Austria, the title was more important than the salary. Dr Gruber was in charge of some obscure department for the preservation of monuments and someone in the government had decided that the exhumation permit which, if the truth be known, was considered an irritating nuisance, came under his jurisdiction.
‘Welcome to Vienna. Is this your first visit to Austria?’ the ebullient Dr Gruber asked in perfect English.
‘No, I’ve been here several times before, mainly on legal conferences and one ball – the Opernball,’ explained Carrington. ‘And Professor Krakowski here is certainly no stranger to your wonderful concert halls,’ he continued, pointing to Krakowski standing next to him. ‘He conducted the New Year’s Concert only last year, I believe, as guest conductor right here in Vienna. You might remember?’
‘Of course.’ Dr Gruber smiled, nodding his head in pretend recognition. ‘Where is Mr Rogan, the journalist?’
‘He’ll join us tomorrow,’ replied Jana.
‘And you, Inspector Gonski, are you also a Viennese veteran?’
‘I’m afraid not. This is my first visit.’
‘In that case, perhaps you will permit me to show you a little of our city before we leave tomorrow. But we can discuss all this later,’ continued Dr Gruber, motioning towards the exit. ‘In Vienna we eat first; sightseeing comes later. Parks and museums on an empty stomach – unthinkable,’ he said. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a table for lunch in a small restaurant close by. We can walk if you don’t mind.’
Dr Gruber was not only an excellent host, but as it turned out, an extremely efficient organiser as well. All the necessary permits had been sealed and stamped, transportation arranged and the local officials notified of their arrival.
‘A guide will meet us at the lake with a patrol boat. He’s an experienced border guard. As you can imagine, our border guards know every corner of the terrain,’ Dr Gruber explained. ‘Incidentally, I agree with Professor Krakowski’s suggestion entirely. We should start the search by boat. As you’ll see, the snow cover is still very heavy and it would be extremely difficult to explore the shore on foot.’ He paused and looked at the menu. ‘For the all important dessert, may I suggest the Gundl pancakes; a specialty of the house.’ Everybody ordered pancakes.
‘What’s an Einspaenner?’ asked Jana, reading from the menu.
‘A coffee – delicious. You should have one with your pancake,’ suggested Dr Gruber, delighted to have been asked. ‘The army has provided engineers to assist with the exhumation, should we locate the gravesite.’ He continued, lowering his voice, ‘They are standing by.’
‘We are indebted to you, Dr Gruber,’ said the ambassador, tucking into his second pancake filled with apricot jam and walnuts covered with generous lashings of whipped cream. ‘No doubt the Attorney-General will thank you personally in due course.’ Dr Gruber looked pleased; formalities were important. After all, this was Austria.
39
Jack opened his briefcase and put several enhanced copies of the photograph on the map table. The border guard began to pore over them immediately.
‘This has obviously been taken from the Austrian side,’ he explained, pointing to the mountains in the background. ‘The peaks in the photo are clearly those over there, but viewed from a different angle. I think I know where we should begin.’ He started the engine of the patrol boat.
Carrington put on his beloved hat and stepped outside. ‘Do you always travel with this funny thing?’ asked Jana, pointing to Carrington’s battered Akubra. ‘It looked okay in Egypt, but here ... really, Marcus, what will the Austrians think? It’s full of holes ...’ she pointed out, lowering her voice.
Carrington shrugged. ‘Habit. Do you think it’s, well, a little eccentric?’ he asked, frowning.
‘Marcus, look at yourself ...’ Jana replied, laughing.
Krakowski was very quiet and looked pale. This was the first time he’d returned to the lake since the war. Back in London a few days before, it had somehow seemed the right thing to do, but now, here at this brooding lake, he was no longer so sure. He was suddenly afraid of what he might find; afraid of the past. Carrington sensed his disquiet and took him aside.
‘This cannot be easy for you, Benjamin,’ began Carrington, adjusting his hat, ‘but if you turn back now you’ll always wonder. You will ask yours
elf what if ...’ Krakowski looked at Carrington.
‘You must have been reading my thoughts,’ he replied, no longer feeling quite so alone. ‘I was thinking the same thing. You see, it’s an eerie feeling being back here on this bright, clear, cold day ...’ He left the sentence unfinished and began to scan the shore with his binoculars. ‘I find it hard to believe that more than half a century has passed since that day. The world has changed, but the lake looks just the same.’
‘How did you get away from here – all by yourself? Where did you go? You never told me,’ Carrington asked. Krakowski put down the binoculars.
‘I remember running into the forest. All I wanted to do was leave that horrible place and hide in case the Germans came back. It was raining heavily and I recall sinking deep into the mud. I must have walked for hours because it was beginning to get dark by the time I heard it.’
‘Heard what?’
‘Someone was chopping wood. I followed the sound and came to a clearing.’
‘And?’
‘An old man was splitting wood and loading it into a cart. When I walked towards him he raised his axe and swung it at me. I must have looked like a ghost, I guess, in those striped rags covered in blood and filth. He was obviously afraid of me at first, but then he must have realised I meant no harm, because the next thing I remember is lying in the cart on top of the wood with an old blanket wrapped around me. It was almost completely dark by then and the old man was leading the horse towards a small farmhouse. I can still see the lights of that house; they looked so beautiful and so safe.’
‘That’s quite a story,’ Carrington said, surprised by the detail of Krakowski’s recollection.
‘I haven’t thought about this in years, you know. It must be this place. It seems to bring it all back – quite strange really.’
They explored the shoreline throughout the morning. They pulled into every cove, investigated every pebbly beach, held up the photo every few minutes and looked at the mountains for clues and direction. The heavy snow cover made everything look the same. In the afternoon, the fog drifted in and the mountains disappeared in the mist.
The Empress Holds the Key Page 17
