Keeper of Secrets (9780062240316)
Page 1
The
Keeper of Secrets
Julie Thomas
Dedication
To Vicky—for inspiring me
with her passion for classical music;
to my mum—for providing me unconditional support;
and to my musical friends and family—for showing me
that anything’s possible if you work hard enough
and want it badly enough.
Epigraph
Music is the language of the spirit. It opens the secret of life bringing peace, abolishing strife.
—KAHLIL GIBRAN
Acknowledgments
The roots of The Keeper of Secrets run back to my childhood and I have so many to thank. My best friend at school was Ruth Burns and her parents, Joe and the late Carmel, welcomed me with open arms into their Jewish home and shared their faith with their daughter’s Gentile friend. Ruth, after forty years we’re as close as ever and you’re a true supporter and an honest critic.
This novel would not have happened at all without my late sister-in-law, Vicky Thomas, who was a music teacher with a deep and abiding love of classical music. Vicky’s son, my nephew Paul, played the violin and she encouraged me to keep researching and writing when I felt overwhelmed and underqualified.
The incomparable Sir Michael Hill’s International Violin Competition is held in New Zealand every year and was the basis for the competition chapters. Hill does so much to foster the love of the violin and happily shares his knowledge.
Many thanks to those who read versions along the way and added their opinions and enthusiasm to the project, especially Reuben Aitchison, who is the best beta reader any author ever had.
Heartfelt thanks to my extraordinary mum, Thelma Thomas, who has always believed in my writing and been there through good and bad.
To my delightful editor, Carolyn Marino, and associate editor Amanda Bergeron, your patience and expert help and guidance and your passion for my story are appreciated more than words can express.
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Part One: Daniel Horowitz
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Two: Simon Horowitz
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Three: Sergei Valentino
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Part Four: The Violin
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
P.S.: Insights, Interviews & More . . .
About the author
Meet Julie Thomas
About the book
Reading Group Guide
The Lost Violins
Read on
From Julie Thomas’s Bookshelf
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Berlin
February 1935
What does it mean when someone calls you swine?” Simon Horowitz asked suddenly, as his father’s black Mercedes-Benz rolled to a stop at the top of a blind alley off the Friedrichstraße.
“Who called you that?” Simon could tell by the tone of his voice that his father was concerned.
“Not me. Joshua told us a story in school. A Nazi official passed his father in the street and said ‘swine’ and Joshua’s father tipped his hat and said, ‘Goldstein, pleased to meet you.’ ”
Benjamin Horowitz roared with laughter as Simon scrambled out of the huge car to join him.
“A very appropriate response. You tell Joshua I think his father is a genius.”
This was a violin excursion. Sometimes his older brother, Levi, came with them but today he’d gone ice-skating with the girl who lived next door. Why would you choose ice-skating with a girl when you could come on a violin excursion? The twins, David and Rachel, were only nine, and they got bored when Papa played the violin. Mama said they were too young to appreciate the family treasures.
“Now come on, or we’ll be late,” his father said as he walked briskly down the alley, the violin case swinging from his hand. At nearly fourteen Simon was years older than the twins, and he was satisfied that these violin excursions made that difference clear. He slowed and let his father go on ahead.
It was midwinter and the shop displays were bursting with colorful and tempting fare. He moved from window to window: books, magazines, and crayons were displayed in one; glistening gold and diamond jewelry in another; and delicious cakes and pastries on round wooden stands in the third.
“Do you remember standing with your nose pressed to the glass watching the gingerbread house being built?” His father’s question surprised him, and he looked up at the man’s round, smiling face. It was Simon’s experience that important men didn’t have time for children and his father’s patience and kindness were unusual. Still, if he had pressed his nose to a shopwindow, it must have been centuries ago.
“I remember the twins wanting to go inside. I’ve always preferred next door.”
Next door was Amos Wiggenstein’s Music Shoppe. Together they moved the few steps to the window. It was full of violins and violas, nestled on bright green satin, with sheet music spread artfully between them.
“Come in when you’re ready,” his father said gently and opened the door, setting off the chimes. They made a tinkling, silvery sound, like cascading water. Simon loved that sound; it meant the entrance to Aladdin’s cave, and he felt the familiar excitement start to bubble.
A stocky boy in a dark blue wool coat that was just too small for him, Simon had black curls cut short and a plump face ending in a deeply cleft chin; his watchful, liquid brown eyes stared back at him from the glass. Finally he tugged the heavy door open and slipped inside.
Violins and violas of all sizes hung from metal hooks in the ceiling and were inserted into slats on the wall-mounted shelving that lined the long, narrow shop. The smells rose in clouds to meet his twitching nostrils—spruce, varnish, maple, beeswax, and dust. Rosin hung thick in the air, and the filtered sunlight formed golden shafts that bounced off the bodies of the instruments.
Simon turned his attention to the nearest violin; it was a rich orange-brown with lighter-colored purfling around the edges. He ran his finger over the body. The wood felt cool and smooth to the touch, yet welcoming and eager to share the music. A stab of intense longing to just pick it up and play almost took his breath away.
Beside the violin hung a half size completely covered in gold paint, and farther along the row he could see a viola that was almost black.
When he was younger, he used to pretend he’d come here to choose his own violin, but now he understood that nothing on these shelves could compare with what he saw beneath the glass in the music room at home. The 1742 Guarneri del Gesú violin was one of the most glorious stringed instruments ever made, and the Horowitz family had owned it for one hundred and fifty years. Simon knew his career path, and every visit to this shop cemented it and made the vision clearer; he would play the Guarneri with the Berlin Philharmonic in recital.
Slowly he was drawn down the cluttered aisle. The wood shavings on the floor crunched beneath his feet, and he had to avoid empty violin cases and music stands. Passing the huge pigeonholed shelving, with its cleaners, strings, polishes, and chin rests stuffed into every available crevice, he hesitated in the doorway to the back room.
Amos’s gangly teenaged assistant, Jacob, was bending over the silver saucepan of hide glue on the stove, stirring it gently and observing the two men cautiously. Amos and his father stood at the workbench surrounded by the tools of the luthier’s trade: chisels, jack planes, scrapers, files, and gouges. Amos held the violin up to the light.
“As magnificent as ever. A true masterpiece,” he whispered, seemingly oblivious to everyone else. His old fingers were gentle with the instrument, loving, reverential. Simon was used to this; he’d seen many adults hold the Guarneri that way. The intense oil varnish seemed to sparkle like new in the soft artificial light as Amos turned it over and over.
“I know that, Amos. But can you do it? Is it possible?” Simon could hear unfamiliar notes in his father’s voice, impatience, uncertainty.
“Possible? Yes, certainly. Advisable, I’m not so sure,” the old man said slowly.
Suddenly there was tension, and Simon could sense his father’s indignation. No one questioned him about the instruments.
“When I want advice, I’ll ask for advice. If you can do it, then do it.”
“But you are changing important history, my friend.”
Benjamin Horowitz stiffened. Simon knew that response well; his father was slow to anger, but his precious violin was always able to rouse him.
“It’s my responsibility to keep it safe. The world is changing and we may have to make many pacts with the devil. This lowers the value and, maybe, I can give up other treasures and keep this one.”
A question was forming in Simon’s mind, a dark feeling of foreboding. It frightened him, and before it reached his lips, he turned back to the shop. Sometimes it was better to remember your place. He looked over his shoulder at the two men, oblivious to the world, bent over the violin that now lay on the green covering of the workbench.
Jacob followed him, took a violin down from its hook, picked up a bow, and handed them to Simon. He played a few notes and adjusted a couple of the pegs. Then he played a snatch of music. Jacob watched, delight on his face. Simon fiddled with the pegs again, then played some more, feeling suddenly exhilarated as the clear, sweet sound of Bach cut through the rosin-filled air. Amos and Benjamin emerged from the back room.
“He’s a talented boy, this son of yours,” Amos murmured. Benjamin smiled fondly at Simon.
“He’s a good boy, he practices hard.”
“Maybe so, but he has soft hands and a natural sense of rhythm and that’s half the battle won already.”
Simon stopped playing and handed the violin and bow back to Jacob. He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks.
“Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.
“That’s a French violin, made in 1810. Not as wonderful as your papa’s Guarneri but still a precious thing.”
Amos took down a box from the rack behind him and held it out to the boy.
“Here, son, have some rosin. Don’t stop practicing, and one day you may be very good indeed. Then we hear you play your papa’s Guarneri. Did you know the master himself described her sound as like the tears of an angel?”
“No, sir!” Simon couldn’t keep the wonder from his voice. The master, Guarneri del Gesú, had described the sound of their violin? He exchanged a smile with his obviously delighted father.
They made their good-byes, leaving the violin in Amos’s care. Halfway up the alley Simon touched his father’s arm anxiously.
“What’s he doing to it, Papa?”
Benjamin laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder as they walked up the sidewalk toward the waiting car.
“Just a minor alteration, a necessary . . . improvement. You’ll see for yourself when I collect it next week.”
Talent
Part One: Daniel Horowitz
2008
Chapter 1
New Zealand
February 2008
The auditorium was in total darkness. You could’ve heard a pin bounce on the wooden floor; the air was alive with anticipation and the collective holding of five thousand breaths. Suddenly a large circle of light fell onto the front center of the stage, and Daniel Horowitz, fourteen years old, stepped out of the darkness into the middle of the white light. He wore a well-cut black suit and white shirt, complete with small black bow tie. In his left hand he held a full-sized violin and in his right, a bow. For a long second he blinked vigorously to adjust his eyes and steady his nerves. All he could see were rows of mysterious shapes in the darkness, but somewhere out there his father sat, his heart beating as fast as Daniel’s. A bead of sweat ran down his face, and he brushed it away with the cuff of his shirt as he took a few deep breaths to control the butterflies in the pit of his stomach.
The stage lights came up to reveal a full orchestra seated behind him, the tall, imposing figure of the conductor on the podium, his baton raised. The atmosphere in the hall was charged as every ear strained for the sound. With one dramatic sweep of the baton, the orchestra burst into the first note of Paganini’s Allegro maestoso, the first movement of Violin Concerto no. 1 in D Major.
For over a minute the boy waited; then he gave the screw at the end of the bow one last twist, put the violin to his left shoulder, and raised the bow above the strings. The bow swept down and a strong, confident note rang out. His eyes closed and his body relaxed as the nerves vanished. His long fingers flew over the ebony fingerboard, and the smooth arc of the bow was mesmerizing to the entranced audience.
He was oblivious to everything but the music; his slender frame swayed slightly, more dipping and rising than swaying, as the sound climbed and fell in cascading waves. The conductor was half turned toward him and watched him almost constantly. Toward the end, the orchestra was silent and Daniel played the intricate music, trill after complicated trill, as the emotional journey built toward its climax.
Then seventeen spellbinding minutes later it was over. The last note was a flourish; his head jerked back, he dropped his arms to his sides, and he bowed from the waist. For a second there was a stunned silence, and then the audience rose as one, breaking into loud applause and shouts of “Bravo!”
Daniel stood in the wings watching the orchestra accompanying a young woman on her violin. It was finals night at the Samuel J. Hillier Foundation International Competition, and Daniel was the youngest competitor by at least four years. He was from Newbrick, Illinois, one of three Americans who’d made it to the semifinals stage, but the only one to progress on to the final. His fellow finalists were Russian, Korean, Chinese, Australian, and Canadian. The competition was more than seventy years old and held in a different country every year. It worked on an annual rotation around piano, violin, cello, and viola; this year was the turn of the violin. Steeped in tradition and prestige, as well as a very good first prize of $20,000, the top award usually went to an up-and-coming musician on the verge of solo stardom. The first prize was regarded as an important step toward international recognition, and Daniel knew he was far from being
at that stage.
He was an only child, tall for his age, with long arms and legs and a mop of black curls that fell into his eyes when he needed a haircut. Women adored his dimpled chin, his large brown eyes and long black lashes. He sometimes wished he looked more rugged and wondered if a broken nose or a small scar would make him look older and meaner. In many respects he was just an ordinary kid, until you heard him play the violin. His father had first put a tiny violin into his hands when he was four, continuing a male family tradition that went back over a hundred and fifty years. His great-great-grandfather, his great-grandfather, his grandfather, and his father had all played the violin, starting in childhood. But none of them was ever as good as Daniel already was, or so his mother told him.
Twelve months earlier, his school music teacher, who’d also been his violin teacher, had told his parents that Daniel now played better than he did and he could teach the child no more. He suggested that they allow Daniel to audition for the Hamilton Bruce Institute of Music in Philadelphia. He was younger than the school usually considered, but his talent was so obvious they made an exception and welcomed him with open arms.