The Forgotten Painting: A Historical Mystery Novella

by Gabriel Farago

  Earlier that year, Jack had been investigating a high-ranking Nazi war criminal, and was writing a book—Dental Gold and Other Horrors—about the controversial trial that followed. While this was a totally unrelated matter at the time, Jack found himself in the vicinity of Berchtesgaden as part of his research for the book.

  Berchtesgaden, with its breathtakingly beautiful alpine scenery, had a notorious past. During the war, Hitler had spent a lot of time in his mountain fortress on the Obersalzberg above Berchtesgaden, and in the stunning Kehlsteinhaus—the famous Eagle’s Nest—presented to him on his fiftieth birthday by the Nazi Party.

  Over the years, Jack had forgotten all about Brother Francis and his cryptic note, considering it fanciful or a long shot at best, but the trial and his recent research had somehow made him think of Brother Francis and his kindness and generosity when he had needed it most. A dying man’s wish is something sacred, thought Jack, feeling good about finally being able to do something to honour that wish.

  He had almost walked to the end of the second row, when he saw it: Johann Berghofer Gebor: 1868, and below, Gestor: 1932.

  My God, this is it, thought Jack, reading the inscription on the headstone a second time. Exactly as shown on the diagram. Who would have believed it! By now the visitors had left, and Jack found himself alone in the deserted cemetery, with the organ music and singing drifting across from the church the only sound intruding into the stillness of the night. Most of the candles had gone out and it was almost dark, with snowflakes descending like a blanket of peace upon the silent graves.

  According to the diagram, a small piece of marble in front of the headstone could be removed. Whatever Jack was supposed to find was apparently buried underneath it. Jack knelt down, pulled out his Swiss army knife and began to loosen the rectangular slab. To his surprise, it began to move quite easily, and soon he was able to lift it up, exposing a shallow little pit below. Holding his breath, Jack peered inside, not really expecting to find anything. Yet there was something. A metal box, he thought, reaching into the pit, his hands shaking.

  * * *

  Jack paused again, collecting his thoughts. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked wistfully at Krakowski sitting in the front row. ‘What I found in that metal box—wrapped tightly in some thick, waterproof material—was this…’ Jack held up the little notebook he had shown his audience before. ‘Brother Francis’ diary. But this wasn’t all’, continued Jack, enjoying himself. ‘There was one more important item in the box: a key. As it turned out, a very special and unique key.’ Jack held up a photograph. ‘I can only show you a picture of it, because the original had to be returned to where it belonged; an extraordinary place in the heart of Vienna. But I will tell you more about this later.

  ‘As you know, ladies and gentlemen, the Francis diary forms part of the sale, and with good reason. It answers all the questions and explains everything, but more importantly, it ultimately led me not only to the painting itself, but to this man,’ Rogan pointed to Krakowski, ‘its rightful owner.’

  A wave of excitement and anticipation washed over the spellbound crowd, who were following Jack’s story with interest and hanging on his every word.

  ‘But how all this came about is quite a story in itself that also has to be told. The journey of the painting would be incomplete without it, and it all began on a cold winter’s day in Warsaw. Inspector Jana Gonski, an Australian Federal Police officer, and I were following the trail of a Nazi war criminal who was being prosecuted in Australia. The trail pointed us to Jakob Finkelstein, a colourful character known as The Watchmaker of Warsaw. Without him and what he told us, we wouldn’t be here, and this extraordinary painting would most likely have been lost forever. This is what happened…’

  WARSAW: DECEMBER 2007

  Jana Gonski 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. She tried the bell again.

  ‘Yes, yes I’m coming’, a voice called out from inside. Someone fumbled with a reluctant 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 had written a book about the musicians of Auschwitz. The old man’s demeanour changed abruptly. ‘Don’t just stand there; come in’, he said. Stepping aside, he pointed down a dark corridor leading to the back of the shop.

  The room at the back was Finkelstein’s world. The walls 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, which had once belonged to a sea captain. 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 deafening.

  Finkelstein lived in the past, 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 beneath his shop.

  ‘My faithful friends’, explained Finkelstein, pointing to the clocks. ‘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 strange 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. 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. 'They made us play at the camp entrance when the trains arrived. 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, an extraordinary cacophony of sound 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 this 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. ‘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, as a young boy he used to play in the camp orchestra 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 violin virtuoso and 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…’

  ‘But 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 I returned to Finkelstein’s shop with Jana Gonski the next morning,’ continued Jack, ‘we found the old man lying face down, the back of his skull crushed. On the floor next to his head was a piece of marble covered in blood. All the clocks in the ransacked room had been smashed to pieces. The floor was littered with broken glass, twisted pendulums, dented brass weights, steel springs and splinters of wood. Finkelstein had been murdered during the night. Why it had happened was a separate, complicated matter linked to our investigation, but we managed to discover the name he couldn’t remember the night before. The name was Benjamin Krakowski, a vital lead in our case.’ Jack paused, letting this remarkable revelation find its mark.

  ‘Little did I know at the time,’ said Jack, speaking softly, ‘that a few months later, I would come across that name again in a totally unrelated matter,’ Jack held up the little notebook, ‘in here, in Brother Francis’ diary. And little did I know at the time what that would lead to, and how. Destiny, and fate—’

  A young woman in the audience held up her hand.

  ‘Please’, said Jack, grateful for the interruption.

  ‘Cecilia Crawford, New York Times’, said the woman, standing up. ‘You may not remember, but I spoke to you in New York after the release of your book, Dental Gold and Other Horrors—’

  Jack smiled. How could I forget, he thought, remembering the stunning, well-informed reporter who had given him a polite grilling about his book. 'I do remember,’ interrupted Jack. ‘The press conference in Central Park.’

  ‘Yes’, replied the woman, obviously pleased. ‘Are you suggesting that Mr Krakowski here is the same man who features in your book and was the key witness in the trial of Sir Eric Newman, alias Sturmbannfuehrer Wolfgang Steinberger, the notorious Nazi war criminal?’

  ‘I know this may be difficult to accept, but yes, he’s the same man.’

  Crawford shook her head and sat down.

  ‘As you can imagine,’ continued Jack, ‘I hurried back to my hotel room in Berchtesgaden to examine what I had just found. Despite the metal box and the waterproof wrapping, it soon became apparent that the diary had been significantly damaged. Not only was the small, spidery handwriting difficult to decipher, but the ink had almost completely faded away in certain places, and water damage had destroyed several pages.

  ‘My limited German was totally inadequate to make sense of what was left, so I had the text translated by an expert. Slowly, line by line, I began to piece together an extraordinary story about an interesting, complex man. It was the beginning of an exciting journey of discovery with many twists and turns that finally brought us right here, to this very moment.

  ‘It all began in 1939, with the first entry.’ Jack held up a sheet of paper. ‘I have the translation right here’, he said. ‘Let me read it to you: Today, at 10 a.m., I joined the Nazi Party. A glorious future awaits Germany, and I look forward with pride to my contribution to my country’s destiny. Potent words indeed, ladies and gentlemen, especially in light of what was to come.

  ‘But before going any further, I must point out something significant that may have a bearing on everything I’m telling you. The true identity of the author of this diary is not known. There is no name or any other form of identification, or clue in the text. There is only one link: Brother Francis. However, I do believe it is reasonable to assume that he is the author, and if you will allow me, I would like to proceed on that basis.

  ‘The Coberg Mission closed down many years ago and I was unable to discover who Brother Francis really was. However, in hindsight, it has become clear to me that the brothers I met at the mission all those years ago were all high-ranking SS officers who had joined the Order to escape Germany after the war under a cloak of protection provided by the Church. The discipline I had observed at the mission as a boy wasn’t monastic, it was military.

  ‘According to the diary, soon after joining the Nazi Party, Brother Francis joined the SS and advanced rapidly through the ranks. He even became a member of the notorious LeibstandarteSS Adolf Hitler, Hitler’s personal bodyguard, and spent
a lot of time on the Obersalzberg near Berchtesgaden, close to Hitler’s inner circle of power. What is particularly relevant to our story here is the fact that he was one of the senior SS officers in charge of putting down the Warsaw Ghetto revolt in 1943.

  ‘Until the middle of 1944, the tone of the entries is very enthusiastic, even bombastic about what was happening in Germany. The atrocities, the defeats, the disasters are all seen as part of a bigger picture: the struggle of the glorious Reich, destined for victory.

  ‘However, towards the end of 1944, something significant must have occurred, because things begin to change—dramatically. Suddenly, there is a drastic shift in the tone of the entries. Blind optimism and unquestioning loyalty and belief are replaced by doubt and fear. Some of the entries are almost incoherent and often written days, if not weeks after the event. Entries become fewer and fewer, the gaps wider. By Christmas, they cease altogether; nothing until January 1945, only silence.

  ‘Then, on the twenty-eighth of January, something curious happens; a writing frenzy. Obviously jotted down in a great hurry—the changes in the handwriting support this—the entries deal with only one subject: the Warsaw Ghetto revolt of 1943 and the part played by the author—let’s call him Francis—in crushing it. He describes the brutality and the atrocities in graphic detail and the tone is one of regret and despair. However, one particular event stands out, and he deals with it over and over as if putting down what had happened on paper could make it undone. The event? Sending the Krakowski family to a concentration camp to face certain death, and then stealing the only thing of value left behind in their miserable home: a painting.’