‘Yes.’
‘May I see it?’
‘Of course.’ Berenger opened the violin case, took out his precious violin and held it up.
‘A thing of true beauty’, said Monet, admiring the instrument.
‘Its real beauty is in the sound’, replied Berenger.
‘Of course. You had a nickname.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I remember. They called you Little Sparrow.’
‘That’s right’, replied Berenger, laughing. ‘I haven’t heard that mentioned for a long time. So much has happened since... the war...’
‘The violin has a name, I believe?’ said Monet.
‘Yes. It’s called die Kaiserin: the Empress.’
‘How curious; why?’
Berenger ran his fingers gently along the smooth curves of the magnificent instrument, almost caressing it. ‘It was named after Kaiser Franz Joseph’s wife, Elisabeth, in 1867, the year of her coronation in Hungary’, he said. ‘She was a great beauty—very popular and much loved by her subjects. The violin belonged to a Hungarian noble family, the Esterhazys.’
‘What a wonderful story’, said Monet.
‘Yes, it is, but it has a sad ending.’
‘How come?’
‘Kaiserin Elisabeth was stabbed to death by an anarchist in Geneva in 1898. Beauty is fragile and fleeting. It is said that since then, the violin has been weeping. It’s all in the sound ...’
Monet looked at the young man’s face, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight. Sad eyes, he thought. He knows suffering. ‘Would you mind playing something for me?’
‘Not at all. What would you like to hear?’
‘I leave it up to you.’
‘Paganini?’
‘Yes, please!’
Berenger lifted the violin to his chin, closed his eyes and began to play.
Transported by Paganini’s stunning violin concerto, which showed off Berenger’s virtuosity to perfection, Monet reached for his paintbrush and looked at the young man standing at the edge of the lily pond. It was a bitter-sweet moment of irresistible beauty he wanted to capture. With a few bold strokes, he inserted Berenger and his violin into the painting, immortalising both with his art.
Berenger continued to play and Monet continued to paint until the sun went down, and the light faded. Satisfied, Monet stepped back, lifted the painting off the easel and turned to his guest. ‘This is for you: Little Sparrow in the Garden’, he said. ‘I’ll have it framed and sent to you as soon as it’s dry.’
* * *
‘This is how the painting got its name: Little Sparrow in the Garden,’ Krakowski told his spellbound audience, ‘and became one of my father’s two most treasured possessions. The other was the violin in the painting, the Empress. Looking back, I can see they were important reminders of a carefree, happier time. Little Sparrow in the Garden always had pride of place in our home, and on occasion, my mother would affectionately call my father Little Sparrow. ’Krakowski paused, steeling himself for what was to come.
He then talked about the Warsaw Ghetto uprising of 1943, the arrest, and the family’s deportation to Auschwitz. ‘I saw the painting for the last time as we left the ruins of our home in the ghetto and were taken by the SS to the train station; final destination, Auschwitz. After that, my life changed forever. The unspeakable horror that followed blurred all of my memories of the past, and I forgot all about the painting and our life in Warsaw. It all seemed distant and irrelevant.’
Krakowski paused, collecting his thoughts, and then, his voice barely audible as if he could only whisper what he was about to reveal, ‘My mother and sister were sent to the gas chamber first. My father followed sometime later. My brother David was killed during an unsuccessful escape attempt. I survived...’
Krakowski turned towards the painting and looked at it as if to reassure himself that it was really there, and not just something haunting his imagination. Then, banishing the memories of that painful past, he faced his audience again and continued.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not telling you all this only to establish the provenance of the painting. There is another, far more compelling reason, and it has to do with Dr Rosen here.’ Krakowski pointed to an elegant lady sitting in the front row. ‘I’m sure Dr Rosen and her foundation are well-known to most of you. Her outstanding work in the Third World to help the destitute and the sick, the forgotten and the weak with no voice, has only recently made headlines again around the world. She almost lost her life in Somalia after uncovering a human catastrophe. The entire proceeds of this sale will be donated to the Rosen Foundation in memory of my family. 'Then he added quietly, ‘Something good and noble can rise out of tragedy and the callous brutality of man.’
Spontaneous applause erupted, and many in the audience rose to their feet, honouring a courageous man unafraid to face a painful past and share it with strangers.
The auctioneer was delighted. Tonight, celebrities were doing the heavy lifting, and all he had to do was introduce them, and then step back and give them a free hand. Krakowski had been a hit, just as he had expected. The response from the audience had surpassed expectations, and a new element had just entered the bidding about to start: philanthropy. This would further loosen the purse strings, as bidders were less reluctant to pay a premium when a charitable cause was involved. And there was still more to come. It was time to introduce the trump card of the evening: Jack Rogan, the famous author and storyteller, was ready to weave his magic.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, wouldn’t it be helpful to know what happened to the painting after all that?’ began the auctioneer once the applause had died down and Krakowski had returned to his seat. ‘Where has it been during the past seventy years? Well, there is someone who can answer that question: Mr Jack Rogan.’
The auctioneer then introduced Rogan and spoke briefly about the phenomenal success of his books, especially Dental Gold and Other Horrors, which had catapulted him onto the world stage and made him a famous author and Time magazine’s Person of the Year.
Jack Rogan loved nothing more than an attentive audience. A gifted public speaker with an engaging manner, he soon had everyone in the room mesmerised and under his spell.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, you just heard the auctioneer ask that all-important question: where has the painting been during the past seventy years? Intriguing, isn’t it? Especially after what Mr Krakowski has just told us. Well, I can answer that question for you.’ Rogan held up what looked like a small notebook. ‘The answers are all in here, in the Francis diary. As you know, I’m a storyteller. So, allow me to tell you a story. And what a story it is! It’s worthy of a book on its own. Who knows ... perhaps one day’, teased Rogan. ‘But for now, ladies and gentlemen, we have to go on a journey together. We have to travel back thirty years to a remote cattle station in Australia, and the worst drought in a generation ...’
OUTBACK QUEENSLAND: DECEMBER, 1985
Exhausted, the horses could barely move. The heat was unbearable and the cattle were dying. Choking on the dust, the three men riding slowly along the ridge looked dejected and defeated as the relentless outback sun sucked the life out of the parched, cracked earth, turning the meagre pastures into dustbowls. The few native creatures still alive were hiding underground and only ventured outside during the night.
The man at the front pulled up his horse and looked across the plain, shimmering in the glare of the searing midday sun. ‘I don’t know how much longer we can keep going’, he said, wiping his neck with a red handkerchief. ‘Another ten dead this morning’, he added, his voice filled with sadness. ‘There’s no point ... It’s time to get out the rifles ...’
‘We’ll get through this, Dad,’ said young Jack, ‘you’ll see.’
The optimism of youth and inexperience, thought the man, looking affectionately at his son. He shook his head, but didn’t have the heart to contradict him.
‘He’s right,’ said Gurrul, the last remaining Aboriginal drove
r, ‘we will.’ With most of the cattle dead or dying, all the other stockmen had been dismissed long ago. Gurrul, an Aboriginal elder, had known Jack all his life, and was part of the Rogan family. Jack looked gratefully at his friend. He loved that familiar face. Furrowed like the parched earth all around them and with deep creases and wrinkles crisscrossing the forehead, it looked as if it could hold three days’ rain. But what he loved most were the old man’s eyes, radiating intelligence and kindness.
Gurrul knew that watching cattle die day after day was heartbreaking. He also knew that worse was to come: shooting the weak survivors to end their pitiful suffering without hope. He could see that the father’s despair was having a devastating effect on his son. Seventeen was a vulnerable age, and a drought like this could break grown men three times the boy’s age. Gurrul had been through it all before, and was determined to shield Jack from the pain of seeing the family’s livelihood reduced to rotting carcasses and bleached bones. Somehow, he had to get him away from all this for a while, before it was too late and the inevitable slaughter began. Fortunately, he knew exactly how do to just that.
On the way back to the homestead, Gurrul fell in beside his boss. ‘I hear that the brothers at the Coberg Mission are looking for labourers,’ he said, ‘to help them renovate the classrooms and put a new roof on the chapel ...’
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I was thinking of Jack ... he’s good with his hands.’
For a while the two men rode along in silence. ‘I know what you’re getting at’, said Jack’s father. ‘Good idea.’
‘I could take him over to the Mission in the morning, and then meet you to finish the job ...’ he added, lowering his voice.
Jack’s father looked gratefully at the old man. ‘Thank you, my friend; let’s do that’, he said, relieved.
* * *
Brother Francis, one of the senior missionaries, was in charge of the building works. He watched Jack carry the heavy beams up the ladder and lower them carefully into the correct slots. He’s strong and keen to learn, thought Brother Francis. What he lacks in experience, he makes up in enthusiasm. The plight of the cattlemen all around them was well-known to the missionaries and they were keen to help the best way they could. Some employment with full board and a little money was worth a lot during difficult times.
Set up after the First World War by German missionaries to educate Aboriginal children, the Coberg Mission had an excellent reputation. Most of the teaching was done by the sisters. The brothers worked in the fields, looked after the livestock and maintained the buildings, but they also taught practical skills such as carpentry and farming. The Mission was virtually self-sufficient, and the little that was needed and could not be produced, was purchased with donations and monies sent by the Order from faraway Germany. It was a successful division of tasks that had worked well for a long time.
Over the years, the missionaries had earned the trust of the local Aboriginals, who left their children in their care during the school term to be educated while they went ‘bush’. Walkabout had been the way of life of their revered ancestors since the Dreamtime, and the older generation still followed this age-old tradition.
However, during the nineteen-seventies, numbers began to decline rapidly in the missionary ranks. The number of headstones in the little cemetery next to the chapel was increasing faster than the seats occupied by new arrivals around the refectory table. For years there had been virtually no new missionaries, and the average age of those remaining was well above seventy. The days of the Coberg Mission were numbered, and the sisters and brothers knew it. Times were changing. They were content to live out their lives in this harsh new country, far away from the place they used to call home, and the people they once held dear. Every refuge has its price.
Always eager to please and with a sunny nature and agile mind, Jack slipped easily into the mission routine. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Helping the sisters in the morning to light the cooking fires before sunrise, or preparing the tools and provisions for another day of drudgery in the fields for the brothers, Jack was always ready to crack a joke and lend a helping hand.
In the evening, he would sit around the refectory table with the brothers to share the evening meal. This was his favourite time of the day. Fascinated by the stories told after dinner—mainly about the war, because most of the brothers had been soldiers—he listened in awe to stories about battles in North Africa, U-boat raids in the Atlantic, Messerschmitt dogfights over Berlin, and carpet bombing in Dresden. To an impressionable seventeen-year-old boy who had grown up on a remote cattle station in outback Queensland, this all sounded very exciting, the romance of adventure masking the tragedy and suffering that stood behind all of the stories, like ghosts of a bloody past.
At first Jack didn’t notice the obvious hierarchy and discipline among the brothers. There appeared to be a strict, almost military chain of command governing everything they did. Jack put this down to how missionaries operated and how a religious order worked. It wasn’t until much later that he realised there was much more to it than that, and it had nothing to do with religion or missionary life.
Impressed by Jack’s sparkling intelligence and inquisitive nature—he appeared interested in just about everything and was eager to learn—Brother Francis took Jack under his wing. They sat next to each other during meals, worked on the chapel roof together, went for walks before dinner and sat on the veranda, talking, long after everyone had gone to bed. At seventy-seven, Brother Francis’ life was almost behind him, but Jack’s was just beginning. Despite this generational gap, their mutual respect had developed into a deep friendship.
Brother Francis was a wonderful storyteller, and without knowing it at the time, this was the beginning of Jack’s fascination with storytelling that would dominate his entire life. They spoke about history and music, astronomy and warfare, philosophy and religion, and the cruelty of man, which often saw them turning in well after midnight. After that, Jack would lie on his swag, looking up at the stars blazing above. Unable to sleep and with his head spinning, he would go over the stories Brother Francis had told him until it was almost time to get up and face another day.
Jack stayed at the mission for three months. By the time Gurrul came to collect him and take him home, Jack the boy had matured into a young man with a dream.
***
‘I am telling you all this, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Jack, addressing the spellbound audience in the auction room, ‘because it will help you understand what happened next. I returned home to a cattle station without cattle, a desperate father who drank to avoid going mad, and a mother at the end of her tether—the bank manager had just refused to further extend credit to an enterprise without foreseeable prospects. But six months later, my family was thrown a lifeline from an unexpected quarter. I received a note from the Coberg Mission: Brother Francis had passed away. But that wasn’t all. He had made me his heir. After the funeral, I was handed a note Brother Francis had written just before he died.’ Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, creased around the edges. ‘This is it here’, he continued. ‘Allow me to read it to you:
Dear Jack,
By the time you read this, I will be in the Good Lord’s hands. I realise we knew each other for only a short time, but the length of days has nothing to do with friendship. There are many things about me and my past you don’t know, and when you do find out, you will be shocked and no doubt disappointed. Words cannot express the regret I have felt over the years for the things I have done.
As a dying man and your friend, I ask you to help me right a great wrong. I know this is a big ask, but there is no time left to explain it all. The best I can do is point you in the right direction and hope you will one day grant me this last wish. Just before I left Europe after the war, I buried something in a cemetery. If you follow the instructions on the back of this note, you will find all the answers, and a lot more...
You are the son I never had.
Your loving friend,
Francis
Jack held up the note. 'On the back here is a diagram of a cemetery in Berchtesgaden, a village in Bavaria,’ said Jack, ‘with directions pointing to a particular grave.’
Jack paused, folded the note along its well-worn creases and slipped it into his pocket. 'Life rarely moves in a straight line’, he continued. ‘It has taken me more than twenty years to find those answers, and when I finally did—guided by destiny and fate—they were as astonishing as they were surprising. Apart from this curious note, Brother Francis left me a tidy sum, which saved my family from ruin and allowed me to follow my dream.
‘There was nothing left for me at home; no future. So I left, went to Brisbane and began working for a small newspaper. It was the beginning of my career as a journalist, and the beginning of a new life and a long journey that would ultimately allow me to grant Brother Francis’ last wish. This journey has almost reached its destination, right here, and you, ladies and gentlemen, are now all part of it.
‘However, to fully understand how this has come about, we have to first visit a little cemetery in Bavaria.’
BERCHTESGADEN: CHRISTMAS EVE, 2008
The snow had come early that year, and everyone was looking forward to a white Christmas. The little walled cemetery next to the Franziskaner Kirche in the middle of the picturesque village looked like something out of a fairy-tale. Almost all the graves had been decorated with small Christmas trees and candles as tradition demanded. Relatives stood around some of the graves and remembered loved ones long departed, before going into church to say a prayer and light a candle.
Jack pulled up his collar, looked at the diagram in his gloved hand and tried to orientate himself. The heavy snow cover made this difficult, but at least he had a name: Berghofer, Johann and Elfriede. Johann died in 1932, and Elfriede eight years later. After counting the rows a second time, Jack had narrowed it down to two. Walking slowly along the silent rows, he looked at the names on the headstones, the large snowflakes tickling his face.
The Forgotten Painting: A Historical Mystery Novella Page 2