Habakkuk nodded. ‘I was there ...’
‘Of course; then you heard it all. A Swiss bank account, would you believe, after all these years. With the number, right there, under our very noses.’ Newman began to breathe heavily. ‘It’s suddenly all so clear. He’s still taunting us, even from the grave. What we’ve been looking for is in a bank vault in Switzerland – it must be. We suspected this, remember? He even quoted from die Dokumente in der Schweiz; now we know!’
‘And Krakowski now has it all within reach. We handed it to him! How ironic,’ Habakkuk interrupted.
‘Well, yes, that. And fortuitous.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If only we could ... Perhaps there’s a way after all. Perhaps one last chance ... one last throw of the dice ...’ Newman’s voice trailed off.
‘What’s your plan?’ Habakkuk asked, pulling his chair closer to the bed. For a moment, as Newman’s gaunt face grew a smile, Habakkuk saw a hint of the old, arrogant man once more.
‘Listen carefully,’ Newman whispered, ‘this is what we should do ... and I know just the man to help us.’
68
When his master class at the Sydney Conservatorium was over, Krakowski closed his violin case, took a bow and hurried to the exit to meet Dr Rosen. She had sounded upset when she phoned him earlier from the hospital and pleaded with him to meet her after the class.
‘I’m sorry, Benjamin. I know it’s your last night, but this is urgent,’ Dr Rosen apologised. Krakowski shrugged and steered her towards a side entrance to escape the waiting press, the autograph hunters and the curious.
‘I’d rather see you anytime than face these wolves,’ he joked. ‘You look exhausted. How’s your father?’
‘Not good; the stroke was severe. Can we go somewhere private please? I need to talk to you about him.’
‘Sure. How about my hotel?’ Krakowski suggested. ‘We can walk.’
Krakowski pointed to an empty table at the back of the piano bar, turned to the waiter and ordered two cognacs.
‘I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but I do believe this is a wish – quite possibly the last – of a dying man,’ she said. Krakowski put his hand reassuringly on hers. ‘My father wants to talk to you.’
‘What? But he’s on trial. I couldn’t possibly ... it wouldn’t be right!’ Krakowski withdrew his hand and almost knocked over his glass.
‘Benjamin, please listen. I know how you must feel, but there won’t be any more trial.’
‘Why on earth would he want to talk to me?’
‘Because he wants to give you something.’
‘Give me something? You can’t be serious. What?’
‘Something that belonged to your father,’ Dr Rosen said quietly.
Krakowski turned to look out the window. He reached for his glass as, slowly, the implications began to sink in. The harbour lights receded and all he could see was his father standing alone under the Arbeit-macht-frei-gates of Auschwitz. Krakowski made himself blink, hoping the disturbing vision would disappear. When he opened them again, all he could see was the pain in Dr Rosen’s expression.
‘Do you realise what you just said?’ Krakowski asked, his voice cracked. Dr Rosen nodded.
‘So, it’s him after all. He’s admitting it. But why? I don’t understand!’
‘Benjamin, please. There isn’t much time,’ pleaded Dr Rosen. ‘You must see him.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
The man propped in the hospital bed barely resembled the man Krakowski had confronted in court just days before. Gone was the arrogance, the almost regal bearing. What remained was a shadow of approaching death. Krakowski felt ill at ease and, for an instant, he saw that the patient’s eyes – ice blue and crystal clear – hadn’t changed at all.
‘Please leave us, Bettany,’ Newman said, watching Krakowski carefully.
‘The circle is almost complete,’ Newman began, as soon as they were alone. ‘We meet again. Do you believe in destiny, Mr Krakowski? Your father certainly did.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I want to close the circle.’
‘You speak in riddles. What circle, what destiny?’
‘Please, sit down. We don’t have much time and I have a lot to tell you,’ Newman said, ignoring the question.
The door to Newman’s hospital room remained closed for a long time. Dr Oberndorfer sat next to Dr Rosen dropping his eyes anxiously to his watch almost every five minutes. The patient should be resting, he thought. But this patient, he realised, would not take kindly to being interrupted. However, after an hour, he stood up, knocked on the door and opened it. Dr Rosen could hear her father’s voice; he was almost shouting.
‘But you must! You have no choice. You owe it to history, you owe it to mankind, you owe it to ... Diderot, your ...’
Almost colliding with the doctor, Krakowski stormed out of the room. All colour had drained from his face. Dr Rosen noticed he clutched a bundle of papers to his chest. She stood up and hurried towards him.
‘Benjamin, what happened?’ she asked. Krakowski didn’t reply. He walked to the water cooler and poured himself a cup.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered and gulped down the water. When they reached the elevator, neither of them noticed the black man sitting in the far corner of the waiting room, quietly reading his breviary.
Krakowski looked at his reflection in the window of the speeding taxi. What he saw frightened him. Dr Rosen sensed his unease and reached for his hand.
‘You are a fortunate man, Benjamin,’ she said.
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because you haven’t lost your compassion. Despite everything you’ve been through, your humanity, your capacity to love, has remained intact. Thank you for seeing my father. I know you didn’t do it for him, or for yourself for that matter. I think you did it for me,’ she whispered.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s all in your music. All one has to do is listen. An angry man, a bitter man, could never have created such beauty. Your music touches the soul. My husband was the same, only he did it through healing. He wasn’t a religious man as such, but he was very spiritual.’ Remembering her husband brought a smile to Dr Rosen’s pale face. ‘He used to reprimand me ...’
‘In what way?’
‘“If we don’t believe in something greater than ourselves,” he used to say, “we are destined to remain forever small.” Not everyone can see that.’
‘Few know where to look.’ Krakowski squeezed her hand.
‘Well, what was it that my father wanted to tell you, Benjamin?’ Dr Rosen asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
‘He kept talking about destiny, about forces beyond our control, forces that shape our lives. At first he didn’t make sense at all; I thought he was hallucinating.’
‘But?’
‘But then he started to explain and it all came together in a strange kind of way.’
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘He solved one of the great puzzles that has haunted me since Auschwitz.’
‘Are you serious?’
Krakowski kept staring out the window. ‘Absolutely,’ he whispered.
‘What puzzle?’
‘Why my brother and I were taken out of the camp by the SS.’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘No, everything happened so fast. You must understand, we – that is my father, my brother and I – were all in different dormitories. The camp was huge. We only saw each other when we played in the orchestra, and then only for a short time. All I remember – and I have been over this a thousand times before – is this ...’
‘Your hotel, sir,’ interrupted the taxi driver, pulling up in front of the entrance.
Krakowski paid the fare. ‘Night cap?’ he asked, turning to Dr Rosen.
‘Yes, please. I think we can both do with one.’
‘Déjà vu,’ Krakowski
said, walking into the piano bar they had left just a few hours before.
‘You were saying ...’
‘A new train had just arrived and we were playing as usual. I still don’t know how we did it. All around us was chaos; guards shouting, women screaming ... children. Then the Kommandant came over to us with an SS officer – a tall man with a dog – and ordered my father to go with him; no explanation. I didn’t see my father again until the next morning. Apparently, and this of course I didn’t know, the officer had been looking for my father for a long time.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of who he was; or more accurately, because of what he had.’
‘You’ve lost me, I’m afraid.’
‘During the night, the German officer and my father made some kind of pact, a deal as they say. They agreed to make an exchange.’
‘An exchange? What on earth do you mean?’
‘My father had hidden some old manuscripts inside the lining of his violin case. My brother and I didn’t know anything about that. In return for those documents, the officer promised to take us out of the camp and smuggle us into Switzerland.’
‘How extraordinary. My father told you all this?’
‘Yes. He claims that the SS officer in the camp was ...’
‘Him?’
Krakowski nodded.
‘Do you believe it?’
Krakowski pointed to the leather pouch on the table in front of him, shrugged, and continued. ‘I saw my father only once more after that – the next morning at the railway sidings – just before he handed his violin to the officer and we were marched out of the camp by the SS. That was the last time I saw him. He had to stay behind of course. We couldn’t really talk, everything happened so fast. However, he did make me promise him something.’
‘What?’
‘My father had this deposit box in a Swiss bank. It had a long account number and two passwords,’ explained Krakowski. ‘I knew the number and the passwords were inscribed in the sound post; just as I explained the other day. I saw him do it; we thought it was all a joke. I also knew the name of the bank; we had spoken about it often at home. The whole thing had to do with some old documents in safekeeping, something like that. No money, no diamond necklace, no title deeds to the family estates, only old papers. We used to laugh about it. Father never really explained, yet, he made me promise ...’
‘Promise what?’
‘To go to the bank and retrieve the deposit box. In fact, he pleaded with me.’
‘Did you ask why?’
‘I tried, but there wasn’t time. He did say, however, that once I opened the box I would understand ... because it was my destiny. And then,’ Krakowski recalled, pointing his finger at Dr Rosen, ‘he reminded me about the hidden number inside the violin. The Empress holds the key – remember?’
‘But I thought you said the violin was handed to the officer ...’
‘True, but apparently it was supposed to be given to me ... in Switzerland. You know, something of value ... for the future.’
‘After the officer had taken the manuscripts out of the case lining, I suppose? That’s what he was really after – right?’
‘Something like that. But it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?’
‘My father told you all this?’ Dr Rosen asked, peering at Krakowski.
‘Yes, he was brutally frank.’
‘How odd. That’s just not like him; not like him at all.’
‘I had almost forgotten about all this, you see,’ explained Krakowski. ‘I couldn’t remember the account number in any event and the whole violin thing didn’t seem important after all these years – until now that is.’
‘And now you know the number.’
‘Yes, now I know. Thanks to the Empress giving up its secrets in court the other day. It does look a bit like destiny, don’t you think?’
‘Destiny? Perhaps. Did you have any idea the violin was that famous?’
‘Yes, father was very proud of it and often spoke about the Empress – his Sissi, as he affectionately used to call it.’
‘Sissi?’
‘Yes. Sissi was Empress Elisabeth’s nickname.’
‘How extraordinary.’
‘Initially, the violin had a quite different name, you know.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was called the Gypsy Queen.’
‘How come?’
‘Well, before the violin passed to the Esterhazys it belonged to the gypsies.’
‘How did the Esterhazys get it?’
‘Apparently, the Count often invited the gypsies to play for him on his estate; Hungarian gypsies’ prowess with the violin is legendary. Then one day the gypsies got into trouble; big trouble. The Count intervened on their behalf. On his next birthday the gypsies presented him with the violin.’
‘What a story! How do you know all this?’
‘It’s quite well documented, actually; father researched it all. And when Elizabeth became Empress,’ Krakowski continued, ‘Count Esterhazy renamed the violin in her honour. The Gypsy Queen became The Empress.’
‘Fantastic!’
‘Sure. And sad. Kaiserin Elizabeth was the Princess Diana of her time. Estranged from her husband – the Emperor Franz Josef – she travelled through Europe; alone. In the end ...’
‘What?’
‘A tragic end; she was assassinated. An anarchist stabbed her through the heart with a file.’
‘Oh that’s dreadful.’
‘Yes, and where do you think it happened?’
‘Where?’
‘In Geneva; on the shores of a Swiss lake.’
‘Another lake – that’s scary.’ A cold shiver raced down Dr Rosen’s spine.
‘Yes, and quite close to the other one ... spooky, isn’t it?’
‘Threads of destiny?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But what about this elusive deposit box? Is it still there, do you think?’
‘I’m not sure, but you know the Swiss. Precise and thorough to the end.’
‘And what about these mysterious documents?’
‘Well, here they are. This is what your father gave me,’ Krakowski explained. He pulled a small bundle of papers out of a leather pouch and placed them on the glass table in front of him. ‘He said, if I studied them carefully, all would become clear. And, that there would be a few surprises.’
‘These look really old,’ said Dr Rosen, pointing to the faded parchments on the table.
Krakowski hadn’t recounted everything Newman had told him. Not because he didn’t trust Dr Rosen, but because he still found it difficult to come to terms with it. He didn’t tell her about Diderot. Neither did she question him about the argument she’d overheard in the hospital.
‘How do you feel about all this?’ asked Krakowski.
‘Relieved.’
‘Oh? In what way?’
‘The uncertainty is finally over.’
‘Uncertainty?’
‘I suspected all along that the man in that horrible photo was my father,’ she said quietly. ‘I tried to put it out of my mind, you see; denial. I refused to accept it. But, as soon as I saw the violin case in the picture Jana showed me in New Guinea ... well, I knew then. I think my mother knew the moment she first laid eyes on the photo; that’s what destroyed her in the end.’
‘Closure then at last, you think?’
‘I hope so. But what about you?’
‘Deep down, I also knew it was him. I sensed it – when I saw him in court the first time. His eyes; it was all in his eyes.’
Krakowski gathered up the documents on the table in front of him. ‘At first it was intuitive. Nothing specific, just a feeling. But then came the violin and now these ... The past is really catching up with me, don’t you think?’
‘What will you do now?’
‘I have to see Marcus in the morning before I leave – I really must try to explain all this. I owe him that.’
‘Why such a hurr
y?’
‘The fate of the travelling musician, I’m afraid. Insatiable concert-goers, fickle press, relentless schedules,’ Krakowski joked, winking at her. ‘You know how it is. I’ve paid for it with two divorces ...’
‘But you married opera singers ... surely they understood?’
‘Ships passing in the musical night ... I’m afraid I hit an iceberg on both occasions,’ Krakowski said, laughing. ‘But seriously, I have to go to Warsaw. I promised, you see – I’m dedicating my second concerto to the city and its Holocaust victims. Poland has claimed me ...’
‘A famous son.’
‘Something like that. But first, I’m going to Zurich ...’
‘I thought you might. I’m leaving too. A fundraising dinner in Vienna and then off to Rome for a charity do.’
‘The whole of Europe seems to have claimed you.’
‘Not quite. I’m shamelessly raising money,’ Dr Rosen explained, shrugging off the compliment. ‘Touting for eyesight – pennies.’
‘In that case, why don’t we meet in Rome, say, after your Viennese-penny-collection and my Warsaw-concerto-dedication? I have an Eternal City apartment overlooking the Piazza Navona.’
‘Very tempting. I’ll think about it, but on one condition: You must promise to tell me all about this mysterious deposit box ...’
‘I promise,’ Krakowski said, holding out his hand.
Dr Rosen raised an eyebrow. ‘Another promise? Benjamin, are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
69
‘Don’t you think it was perhaps just a little bit reckless to go and see Newman on your own – just like that?’ Carrington reprimanded Krakowski.
‘Possibly,’ Krakowski answered. He was annoyed at having to justify himself. ‘So what would you have done? The man appears to be close to death, he wants to give me something that had belonged to my father. And, aren’t we forgetting something else here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He admitted it all and handed me the proof!’
‘I do understand Benjamin, but this could have compromised the entire trial.’ Carrington ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Then again, it probably doesn’t matter anymore.’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 30
