‘How awful.’
‘In 1944, the Germans were digging up the place – using miners from the Ruhr – searching for something.’
‘Do you know what?’
‘There’s a lot of speculation about this. Some sources speak of old Visigoth treasure, others refer to the Templars and their phenomenal wealth ... and their secrets. But the consensus is that they were looking for some old manuscripts,’ Carrington explained, ‘and a relic.’
‘What kind of manuscripts, do you think, and what relic?’
‘The sources are deliberately vague, but whatever it was it must have been hugely important and of particular interest to the Church in Rome. Some religious mystery perhaps or some secret from the past. Something like that. Even the Holy Grail gets a look in. You know how superstitious Hitler was with his astrology. He was obsessed with anything supernatural; knew a lot about the occult.’
‘Here it is,’ interrupted Jana, ‘Exodus 37.’
‘Go on ...’
‘And Bezaleel made the Ark of shittim wood,’ Jana began to read, ‘two cubits and a half was the length of it and a cubit and a half the breadth of it, and a cubit and a half the height of it.’ Jana paused. ‘How big is a cubit?’
‘About this long,’ Carrington replied, pointing at his elbow, ‘from here, to here. And shittim wood is acacia wood.’
‘What do you make of all this?’
‘Well, this refers to the Ark of the Covenant of course, built to precise specifications by Bezaleel to house the two stone tablets given to Moses on Mount Sinai.’
‘You mean, like in Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark?’
‘The very same.’
‘Jack is having us on, surely.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Carrington took the Bible out of Jana’s hands. ‘And he overlaid it with gold within and without, and made a crown of gold to it round about,’ he read aloud. ‘And then here, further down, it says: And he made a mercy seat of pure gold ... and two cherubims of gold, beaten out of one piece made he them, on the two ends of the seat ... and the cherubims spread out their wings on high, and covered with their wings over the mercy seat with their faces one to another.’
‘What does it all mean? You’re the learned scholar here.’
‘Surely you know the story of Moses and the Exodus – the Israelites leaving Egypt?’
‘Sunday school was a long time ago ...’
‘You do remember the plagues, the parting of the sea, and the pillar of fire – no?’
Jana shrugged, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her before reaching for her glass. She shook her head and gave Carrington a large smile.
‘I see. All right; settle in my dear. It’s time for the full story.’ Carrington liked this new feeling between them. ‘Well, the year is about 1300 BC – no one is quite sure – and the King of Egypt, generally thought to be Ramses II, refuses to let the Israelites leave Egypt. There’s a huge showdown between the Pharaoh – in many ways himself a god – and the god of the Israelites. Many terrible things happen: a plague of locusts devours his crops, the Nile turns blood red and all the first-born males are visited by the angel of death. Finally, Pharoah’s had his will broken by inexplicable disasters, and he gives in and lets the Israelites go.’
‘That’s nice of him,’ Jana quipped.
‘There was a lot of divine persuasion involved, you must admit. Even a god-king can only take so much.’
‘Then what?’
‘Well, the children of Israel have Moses. He’s their persistent prophet and he’s guided by a pillar of fire, and they leave slavery behind them and follow him into the wilderness.’
‘I hope it was worth it,’ commented Jana, reaching for her glass.
‘Funny you should say that; not all of them were happy with the arrangement. Despite being fed by manna from heaven, despite the waters of the Red Sea parting to let them pass ...’
‘And then drowning the Pharaoh’s charioteers who were chasing after,’ interrupted Jana. ‘I’ve seen The Ten Commandments you know. Great film.’
‘Yes. Well, it wasn’t all roses. A lot of them believed Moses had led them into the wilderness only to die ...’
‘Not a happy situation.’
‘No. So ... remember that and let’s get back to the Ark. After three months, the well-travelled refugees reach Sinai and camp in front of a mountain.’
‘Ah, the famous mountain.’
‘Quite. There, the voice of God speaks directly to the Israelites and offers them the terms of the Covenant – the Ten Commandments, which they will have to obey as a nation.’
Jana laughed. ‘They all begin with, Thou shalt not ... isn’t that right?’
‘More or less. Moses is then summoned to the top of the mountain and given the famous tablets ...’
‘... inscribed by the finger of God.’ Jana completed the sentence. ‘How exciting.’
‘This was the first set,’ Carrington explained.
‘What do you mean, there were more?’ Jana asked, looking confused.
‘Patience; all will be revealed. After handing the Tablets of the Law to the prophet on the mountain, God also gave Moses certain instructions – precise and very detailed – for how to construct an amazing object.’ Carrington paused and reached for the Bible on the table in front of him.
‘Build an ark of acacia wood, two cubits and a half shall be its length ... You heard the rest. Moses stayed up on that mountain for forty days and forty nights.’
‘I suppose the instructions were rather complicated,’ observed Jana, ‘but still, forty days is quite a long time, even for something so special, don’t you think?’
‘Spot on, as usual. That’s what the Israelites thought too. They got a bit anxious, you see, frightened of being lost and abandoned in the wilderness and decided to turn to the old, more familiar gods for help.’
‘I can understand that. Maybe the old jobs back in Egypt didn’t look so bad after all,’ Jana suggested, enjoying the story. ‘Even bondage can look rather attractive after wandering around in the wilderness for a while.’
‘They approached Aaron, the brother of Moses, and asked him to build them images of the old gods they could worship. When the prophet finally came down from the mountain with the tablets, he was met by a most horrible sight. The Chosen People were dancing around the image of a golden calf. Understandably, Moses lost his temper, smashed the Tablets of the Law in an act of fury and put three thousand offenders to the sword.’
‘A man with a mission, not to be crossed, I see.’
‘Prophets are notoriously dangerous and unpredictable,’ Carrington joked. ‘So, he’s silenced the idol worshippers by considerably reducing his unruly flock, and then climbed the mountain again to ask God’s forgiveness.’
‘Surely not another forty days and nights ...’
‘Absolutely. These things take time. Not only did he succeed in placating the angry God, he came back with new tablets.’
‘A replacement set.’
‘Quite. Compliments of a merciful and forgiving God.’
Jana began to clap slowly in mock applause. ‘Bravo, Marcus, you certainly know your scriptures, I’m impressed. But surely this is just a wonderful old story, right? It’s been told and retold through the millennia.’
‘Most likely, yes ... yet ...’ Carrington looked at the glass in his hand.
‘Yet ... what?’
‘Let me answer you this way: You’ve heard of Heinrich Schliemann, I hope?’
‘I remember seeing something interesting about him on the Discovery Channel not long ago. He found Troy, didn’t he?’
‘That’s the man. But do you know how he found it?’
‘He dug it up, I suppose.’
‘Yes. But you have to know where to dig. Right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Unlike all the mainstream scholars of his day, he followed his instincts and took Homer’s Iliad quite literally, you see. And he located th
e site.’
‘A lateral thinker.’
‘An original thinker, not afraid of being different.’
‘Are you suggesting there could be something factual about the story of the Ark and the Ten Commandments? Are you seriously suggesting the Ark and the tablets could exist?’
‘All I’m saying is, yes, it’s possible. Most myths and legends have some factual foundation that’s embroidered through the ages. However, the kernel of truth is always there. Funny thing about truth ...’
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t change. It doesn’t go away. All you have to do is find it.’
‘And how do you do that, Marcus Aurelius?’
Carrington leant across to Jana and tapped her gently on the tip of her nose with his finger. ‘By keeping an open mind.’
60
‘What do you mean you can’t find him?’ Carrington demanded. His junior looked flustered. ‘Do you have any idea what this means? We’re due back in court. Lord Ashburton was supposed to be here at noon with the violin. Go and find him. Now!’
It was Carrington’s first day in court without Jana, and he was missing her already. Dreadfully. To his surprise, he found it difficult to concentrate. She’d be half way there by now, he thought, all by herself.
‘You are still under oath,’ the judge reminded Krakowski waiting in the witness box. ‘Yes, Mr Crown,’ she continued, nodding towards Carrington at the bar table in front of her.
‘Mr Krakowski, just before the luncheon adjournment you told the court about your father’s violin,’ Carrington began, rising to his feet. ‘I think you referred to it as precious. Why was it precious?’
‘My father was a child prodigy. At the age of ten he was already giving concerts all over Europe. Count Esterhazy heard him play Paganini in Vienna. Apparently the count was so impressed by the boy’s performance that he presented him with a violin after the concert. The violin was a Stradivarius. It also had a name ...’
‘A name you say? What name?’
‘It was called The Empress. It was named after the Empress Elisabeth of Austria – the Kaiserin.’
Carrington glanced over his shoulder; Lord Ashburton had still not arrived.
‘You said in your evidence this morning,’ Carrington continued, trying to buy time, ‘that you and your family were deported from Warsaw after the ghetto uprising in April 1943, and sent by train to Auschwitz. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘You also told the jury that your father took one item with him, his violin, because it was his most treasured possession. Is that right?
‘Yes, he couldn’t bear to leave it behind. It was part of him.’
‘What happened when you arrived at Auschwitz?’
Krakowski paled. Trying to calm himself, he reached for the glass of water in front of him.
‘Your Honour,’ protested Archibald, rising to his feet. ‘I must object. This evidence is hardly relevant.’ Archibald realised that Krakowski had the jury eating out of his hand and hoped an objection now would break the spell of Krakowski’s carefully chosen words and restrained, spellbinding delivery. Any account from him of the enormous human tragedy in which the accused was implicated would be disastrous for Archibald’s client. Krakowski sounded truthful, accurate and honest; a devastating combination in a witness giving evidence against one’s client. Just as one would expect from a seasoned performer, Archibald thought.
‘Mr Crown?’ asked Her Honour. ‘What do you say about that?’
‘The relevance of this evidence will become apparent shortly, Your Honour,’ Carrington explained calmly. The judge accepted the assurance.
‘Please continue, Mr Krakowski. What happened next?’ Carrington asked, turning towards his witness.
‘A German officer came over to us, pointed to the violin case under my father’s arm and asked if he was a musician. My father explained who he was and told the officer that we, that is my brother and I, were also accomplished musicians. We were ordered to stand aside. In the confusion my mother and sister were ... swept along by the crowd ... they were all moving away from the train. It was the ...’ Krakowski’s voice became almost inaudible.
‘You have to speak up, Mr Krakowski,’ said the judge, ‘we cannot hear you.’
‘It was the last time I saw them ... alive.’ Krakowski covered his face with his hands and sat down.
‘Your Honour, I think a short adjournment would be in order,’ Carrington said quietly.
A clever performance or a truthful witness? Archibald asked himself. He jotted down the last answer and underlined the word ‘alive’. Krakowski’s pause struck Archibald as odd and he made a note to cross examine Krakowski about this. It was always the little things – a word, a gesture, an intonation, a pause – that provided the clues. Those were the real gems pointing to the things hidden behind the words and occasionally, with luck, even to the truth.
After the adjournment, a more composed Krakowski told the jury how his father had been put in charge of the camp orchestra, which had to perform at the railway station every time a death-train rolled into the camp. The guards thought that music would calm the new arrivals, he explained, and make them easier to control.
The Kommandant was passionate about classical music, Krakowski recalled, and was taking violin lessons from Krakowski’s father. It was during one of those lessons that the Kommandant discovered that the violin was a Stradivarius.
‘Curiously enough, instead of confiscating the precious instrument,’ Krakowski testified, ‘not only did the Kommandant let my father keep it, but whenever he entertained visitors he would ask my father to play for his guests. They ... my father and his quite famous instrument, were a curiosity that became the favourite topic of after-dinner conversation at the Kommandant’s table, because ...’
A commotion at the back of the court interrupted Krakowski’s evidence. Annoyed, the judge looked up. Turning around, Carrington recognised Lord Ashburton brandishing a violin case above his head.
‘I think I can explain, Your Honour,’ Carrington said calmly, ‘a piece of evidence has just arrived.’ Lord Ashburton followed the court attendant to the bar table and handed the violin to Carrington. ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ hissed Carrington, opening the violin case, ‘what happened?’
‘I only flew in this morning,’ replied Lord Ashburton. ‘The Stradivarius was on a concert tour in Japan; I had to come via Tokyo ...’
‘Thanks, any longer and it would have been sayonara ...’
‘Bravo Marcus!’ whispered Archibald, leaning towards his opponent. He began clapping his hands together in mock applause. ‘What a performance; this is turning more and more into a circus.’
‘In that case, you must make sure that your client doesn’t turn into a clown, or the last laugh could well be on him,’ Carrington retorted calmly. Right on cue, he thought to himself. I’m sure everyone thinks we have carefully orchestrated this. If only they knew! Well, here it comes ... Slowly, Carrington took the violin out of its case.
‘We are waiting, Mr Crown ...’ said the judge impatiently, pointing with her pen to Carrington.
‘I apologise, Your Honour.’ Carrington turned to Krakowski in the witness box. ‘Please, have a look at this instrument, Mr Krakowski,’ he said, handing the violin to the court officer.
At first, Krakowski explored the beautiful instrument with the tips of his fingers. Then, holding it up against the light, he began to examine it carefully from all sides. Letting the tension mount around him, Carrington took his time before asking the next question.
‘Is this the violin your father took with him to Auschwitz?’
‘I object, Your Honour!’ Archibald barked. ‘My friend is leading the witness.’ Archibald was not going to make it easy for Carrington.
‘I reject the question in that form, Mr Crown,’ ruled the judge.
‘To put it another way,’ Carrington continued unperturbed, ‘do you recognise this instrument?’
>
‘Yes, I do.’
‘What can you tell the court about it?’
‘I believe it’s my father’s violin ...’ Krakowski paused in mid-sentence.
That’s not good enough! Carrington thought, pressing his knuckles against the bar table until they turned white. Think man, think!
‘But to be absolutely sure, Your Honour,’ Krakowski continued, turning towards the judge, ‘I would have to play it. Is that possible?’
‘Your Honour, may the witness ...?’ Carrington asked.
‘Any objection, Mr Archibald?’
‘No, Your Honour.’ Looking annoyed, Archibald glanced at Carrington. ‘Act one, scene two, the witness fiddles in the box. Bravo Marcus,’ Archibald mumbled under his breath and sat down. ‘What next?’
‘Relax, Archie, and enjoy the tune.’
‘If it helps you, Mr Krakowski, you may play the instrument,’ Carrington said, handing the bow to the court attendant to take across to the witness. Krakowski stood up, lifted the violin to his chin and closed his eyes. This moment of total concentration was how he focused before every performance. Courtroom or concert hall, an audience was an audience.
A hush fell over the spectators in the gallery. All eyes were on the man standing motionless in the witness box. Slowly, the bow touched the strings and the first notes of a Mozart Adagio drifted eerily across the spellbound court.
How strange, Carrington thought, the violin is giving evidence. Krakowski played a short passage and then stopped.
‘Has this assisted you?’ Carrington asked. For a while, Krakowski didn’t respond, almost as if he hadn’t heard the question at all. Then, opening his eyes, he looked directly at Newman sitting motionless in the dock opposite.
‘You have to answer,’ the judge prompted quietly.
‘There is absolutely no doubt in my mind, Your Honour, that this is the violin my father took with him to Auschwitz,’ came the clear and precise answer. ‘This is the Empress.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 26
