The Stolen

by T. S. Learner

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Herr von Holindt, but it was rather important…’

  Matthias studied Klauser. Preparing himself for yet more bad news, he was nevertheless intrigued that the detective had chosen to visit him and not his father. Klauser met his perplexed gaze and held it. ‘And you did offer to help with my enquiries.’

  ‘Indeed, but to come all the way to Küsnacht, to the house?’

  Klauser shrugged apologetically then helped himself from the coffee pot while Johanna looked on disapprovingly.

  ‘Extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures. Interesting place, Küsnacht – such a discreet paradise. I always found the fact that Jung chose to live here intriguing – can you imagine the contrast? His imagination and intellect surrounded by all this tranquillity. Seems like a paradox, but then that’s our country in a nutshell, Matthias, isn’t it? You don’t mind me calling you Matthias, do you?’

  ‘Why not? You’re drinking my coffee,’ Matthias replied, bemused.

  Klauser squeezed his wide posterior into one of the high bar stools and joined Matthias at the kitchen bench. ‘Yesterday I found myself staring at the corpse of a priest, a man who had, theoretically, just hung himself.’ There was a loud rattle of dishes from the sink where Johanna stood, now staring over in shocked disapproval.

  ‘Johanna, you may go; we can look after ourselves,’ Matthias instructed, and the housekeeper left reluctantly. Matthias turned back to Klauser.

  ‘My housekeeper is very religious and, as you know, suicide is considered a mortal sin by Catholics. For a priest to commit suicide…’

  ‘Exactly. And my priest was frightened, not suicidal. He came to see me to tell me about a visit he’d had from an old gypsy —’

  ‘Ah-ha, I’m beginning to see a pattern.’

  ‘Who, himself, had been found murdered —’

  ‘Outside the company’s Altstadt showroom?’

  ‘Correct.’ Klauser opened his briefcase with a dramatic flourish. ‘None of which would have meant much except when I searched the priest’s monastic cell I found this…’

  He pulled out the clock book and handed it to Matthias. ‘Recognise it? It is a book about the great clocks commissioned by royalty.’

  Matthias ran his hands across the thin plastic cover. ‘No, but it’s rather beautiful.’ He noticed the stain that bled into some of the pages. ‘Pity about the stain.’

  ‘It’s blood. The book dates back to the eighteenth century and is one of an edition of ten. A real collector’s item, and extremely valuable. In fact it’s so valuable it’s on a list – a list that was issued by Interpol and sent to the Swiss government. The list is of some of the artefacts seized illegally by the Nazis during the last war and never returned to their rightful owners – the ones who weren’t exterminated, that is.’

  Matthias opened the book, in which delicate etched illustrations of the clocks, along with diagrams of their movements, and descriptions in archaic German, filled the pages. Then the book fell open at a marker. He recognised the clocks on the page immediately – he’d seen them every day of his childhood in his father’s glass cabinet. Originally commissioned by Marie Antoinette, the clocks were Christoph’s prize possessions – the clocks of the elements, he’d called them. Matthias suddenly had a sense of vertigo; snippets of half-remembered comments and images rushed through his head like stills from an old movie.

  ‘You mean…’ He couldn’t say the words. The detective studied him carefully, trying to assess how much the son really knew about the father, but the physicist seemed genuinely stunned.

  ‘Ownership is an interesting concept and naturally in times of political upheaval such notions become very fluid. I mean, how did a Catholic priest end up with a stolen antique book that was originally owned by a wealthy Jewish book-collector gassed in a concentration camp in 1943? And why sew it into his mattress? I would say this was more than interesting. Especially as the book was “reappropriated” from a gallery owner who was murdered in 1962, a German called Eberhard Neumann who appears to have been an associate of your father’s. At the front of the book is a card saying that Christoph von Holindt brought the book in for preservation work. Is Neumann’s name familiar?’

  ‘No…’ Matthias’s mouth was dry and he felt nauseous, torn between the natural urge to protect his father’s reputation and a queasy feeling there was an uncomfortable truth bubbling up from something Klauser was obliquely telling him. He knew his father had certain prejudices, ones he tended to ignore, attributing them to Christoph’s age – after all, a lot of Swiss his father’s age held similar views, but to have actually done business with Nazi thieves and murderers? ‘I do, however, recognise the clock collection depicted on page fourteen. Is that the real reason you’re here?’

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’ Before Matthias could respond, the detective had lit up. ‘I’m not sure whether you completely understand the implications. The priest was connected to the dead gypsy and the dead gypsy was connected to your family. How, why and when, I have no idea, but it has a smell about it.’

  As Klauser spoke, Matthias remembered Johanna’s story about the gypsy watching the house the night before. He was about to tell the detective but loyalty held him back. Christoph was innocent until proved guilty and there were many who would like to see both his father and the company’s reputation ruined. If this investigation involved his family, he would get to the bottom of it, not the police.

  ‘Oh, and before I forget, I also brought you this…’ Klauser reached back into the briefcase and brought out an LP record. Matthias stared down at the cover incredulously.

  ‘A first pressing of “Serenade to a Cuckoo”? Jesus, where did you get this?’

  ‘I have my sources. Besides, I’m a fellow Jethro Tull fan, probably one of four in the canton. Here, take it – it’s yours.’

  Seriously tempted, Matthias studied the black vinyl disc. It would complete his own collection. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me into helping you? I mean, why come to me?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘You have an open face. Your father does not, despite all his charity work.’ Klauser leaned forward. ‘You want to know why I visit you? Because no one can control what I do. There are some who would like me simply to stop asking questions. Difficult questions about the nature of trade and ownership in times of war. We come from a pragmatic nation, you and I. I like to think I try to keep it an honest one in my own small way. When I first met you I had the impression you had similar sentiments. For example, the way you refuse to work with DARPA, the rumour that you are trying to keep your research for non-military technology.’

  ‘You are well-informed.’

  ‘It’s my business to be. So will you help me? I can’t pretend this is not a dangerous proposition, Matthias, but I think I’m right in assuming you are not a man who scares easily.’

  ‘If I do, it’s because I choose to.’

  ‘I want you to give the book back to Herr Christoph von Holindt, and report on his reaction.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all for now. Delicious coffee, by the way.’ Klauser slipped off the stool, leaving the record on the kitchen bench.

  Matthias had started to walk him to the door when Liliane stepped into the kitchen, still in her dressing gown, looking hungover, her hair all over her face and her make-up smudged, Matthias observed with some dismay. He had no choice but to introduce the two.

  ‘Liliane, this is Herr Detective Klauser. He has kindly returned some stolen property of the family’s. Detective, my daughter, Liliane – who is a little the worse for wear this morning.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve met,’ Klauser told Matthias. ‘Guete morge, Fräulein von Holindt.’

  ‘Guete morge,’ Liliane replied warily. ‘Last year, Papa, Herr Klauser was there when they interrogated me. He was one of the good guys.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ Klauser smiled at Liliane. ‘Nice meeting you again.’

  ‘You too,’ she
growled as she made a beeline for the coffee.

  ‘You’re very late up, are you sure you haven’t got a hangover?’ Matthias peered over suspiciously.

  ‘Of course not; I’m under house arrest, remember?’ she snapped back, hiding her face under her hair. Shrugging, Matthias escorted the bemused detective out of the room.

  Back in the kitchen Liliane stared at the book. Could her grandfather have been involved with Nazi plunder knowingly? She pulled it towards her and it fell open at an illustration of four clocks, clocks that were instantly familiar.

  Latcos leaned over and took a light from the small caravan stove, inhaling deeply on his cigarette. He glanced over at his mother, still huddled in her bed. He reached into his pocket. ‘She’s of our blood. She looks exactly like you when you were young.’ He handed Keja the gold bangle. Out of all the women in the camp his mother had always been the best at reading the shape of people – from a lock of hair, an abandoned earring. If there was anything to glean from the young girl whose dark eyes were from his family, Keja would know.

  Sitting at the edge of the tiny kitchen table, wrapped in an old blanket, Keja lifted the bangle and held it to her forehead. A moment later she opened her eyes. ‘She is my chaveske chikni, my granddaughter; she is us. You must watch her. There is much darkness around her.’ Suddenly the sick woman’s eyes welled up. ‘There has been too much death – and this time I will not allow it!’ She slammed her fist onto the table.

  The reception room of the customs office exuded a formality that, Matthias guessed, was designed to intimidate. Until then he’d managed to ignore it.

  ‘It is not customary to release records going back that far.’ The bureaucrat, a glassy-eyed blonde whose outsized shoulder pads gave her the look of an Amazonian warrior, was failing to respond to Matthias’s usual charm. A customs officer, who obviously took the custodian aspects of her job seriously, stood poised at a door behind which Matthias could see dozens of filing cabinets, containing the import/export records of every business in the Zürich canton since the nineteenth century. If any damning information existed it would be stored in there.

  ‘But, Fräulein’ – the address was a deliberate compliment on Matthias’s account; the woman was at least forty – ‘as a von Holindt I am privy to such information.’

  ‘But the company itself would keep its own records.’ She had a natural distrust of handsome men – and if they were powerful, more so. ‘Why don’t you consult those?’

  Matthias placed his hand on her arm, an audacious but effective move and despite her prejudices she found herself both flattered and excited by his touch. ‘I would like this to stay between you and me, but my father’s memory hasn’t been good since his heart attack. I’m sure you understand how it could be awkward’ – he gestured helplessly – ‘if that news got out…’

  She blushed at his confidence in her discretion, exactly the reaction Matthias was looking for.

  ‘Of course, of course, Herr Professor. What were the years you were looking for?’

  ‘Nineteen forty-two to nineteen forty-five.’

  He kept his voice level, as if they were normal years, years where nothing of any significance had ever happened. But she turned round sharply. ‘Are you sure Herr Christoph von Holindt would approve?’

  ‘Fräulein, I have a duty to protect my father.’

  Twenty minutes later the bureaucrat watched Matthias leave with a folder full of photocopied records. But the spell was broken. Why had the son wanted the records and why those specific years? She reached for the telephone and dialled a number her superior had been very insistent she memorise. The call was answered immediately.

  It was only after he’d walked past St Peterskirche twice that Matthias realised he had been walking aimlessly for the past half hour trying to assimilate the implications of what he’d just read. He had always been aware that his father had right-wing sympathies, but to have actually had business dealings with the Nazis… that was an active commitment to fascism.

  The records showed that between 1940 and 1944 the Holindt Watch Company had received regular shipments of what were described as raw materials from Nazi Germany. It was impossible to see what the raw materials actually consisted of, but all the evidence indicated that these shipments were most likely gold or perhaps gold objects ready to be melted down. There appeared to be no exports back to Germany – which meant some of this raw material might still be stored in the vaults. If it was there, it would be evidence of wartime criminal activity. Mein Gott, Papa, what have you done? Overwhelmed, Matthias sat on a bench staring out at a well-dressed schoolboy of about six or seven feeding birds with his nanny in a park. There was something unbearably lonely about the boy’s manner – the way he carefully poured out the bird seed in small piles then stood very still as he was surrounded by a cloud of descending pigeons. Matthias tried to think back to his own childhood. He had been born during the war so he had little memory of the actual war years. The presence of refugees in the city, the pervading sense of isolation and an ongoing terror of invasion – to him these were just the anecdotes of his parents’ generation. His earliest memory was one of loss, of a name being whispered, the musky smell of a woman and a curtain of black hair falling across his pram. He must have been very young, a baby, and sometimes he wondered whether the memory was a dream he’d appropriated as fact, yet the image was sunk into him like a bruise. He needed to talk to someone, confide his fears.

  There was only one person he could think of that he trusted.

  SIX

  Thomas Mueller, the CEO of Mueller Bank, studied Matthias, who’d slumped back against the plush maroon leather chair after finishing his diatribe.

  ‘Before you jump to conclusions, I’m sure it was probably an innocent business transaction, with a German individual who might or might not have been a member of the Nazi Party. You know your father – he’s an ethical man, but he is also a company man. You forget how Switzerland was surrounded by the Axis nations, Germany was threatening to invade and we all did what we needed to in order to survive. Really, Matthias’ – the banker, his wide jowly face suffused with an aura of natural benevolence, paused to offer Matthias a cigar, which he declined – ‘I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. You know me; I would tell you otherwise if I thought as much.’

  Matthias searched the man’s face. He’d known Thomas for as long as he could remember – he was Christoph’s closest friend, the company’s banker and Liliane’s godfather. It had been Thomas who had suggested Christoph employ Marie; it had also been Thomas who’d mentored and sponsored his wife through university. Then, after her death, he’d become a surrogate uncle to Matthias.

  ‘So you think I should just ignore the records?’ Matthias leaned forward. ‘I mean, Thomas, this isn’t just one shipment – and then there’s Klauser…’

  ‘Ah yes, the curious Detective Klauser, an interesting man, but a little paranoid, don’t you think? Now tell me about your father, I hear rumours he’s standing down?’

  ‘Christoph wants me to take over…’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘How? I have my work, the laboratory… Maybe you can talk to him?’

  ‘I’ll try. Wim Jollak, of course, is the obvious choice. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some appointments.’ Thomas got up and led Matthias to the door. ‘But tell me, how’s my lovely goddaughter?’

  ‘Struggling a little. In all honesty, it’s hard, without Marie.’

  ‘Hard for us all… Matthias, I’ll have one of my chats with her in the next few weeks, I promise.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that.’ Matthias smiled back, thankful for the support.

  Matthias got into his car and sat behind the wheel trying to work through the myriad of emotions he felt, his instinct telling him one thing, his intellect another. He tried to imagine what Marie would have advised – follow the paper trail and your gut instinct, he thought, remembering her favourite motto. She had believed there was often a rationa
l reason behind an intuitive sense, as if instinct had merely registered something unconsciously before registering it consciously. It was a philosophy Matthias had adopted both in his life and in his research techniques and it had yet to fail him. Reaching a decision, he decided to apply it. He climbed out of the car, locked it and began walking towards the Holindt Watch Company’s main showroom.

  As he hurried across the street an auburn-haired woman in her mid-thirties, in jeans, high heels and duffel coat hurried past him. As she did, her heel caught in the cobblestones and she fell, her briefcase dropping to the ground, spilling several old leather books onto the snow. Matthias rushed over to help her up.