He gestured toward Simon, who, along with the rest of the family, was staring back at him in a state of shock over this departure from the script. He could also see Sergei, who’d leaned slightly forward, all his attention focused on the speech.
“Simon is a German Jew who grew up in Berlin. In 1939, his father had his bank taken away from him by the Nazis and his house, it was looted”—there was a growing noise as individual audience members reacted to the story—“and all the boys and the men in the family were sent to Dachau. The women were later sent to Auschwitz. Simon survived for five terrible years because he was made to play the violin for the guards. But the most remarkable part of this story is that Simon’s father had a genuine Guarneri del Gesú violin, and, you know, the Nazis took it in 1939. Simon hasn’t heard one played for nearly seventy years and tonight he is, by his own grandson!”
Spontaneous applause burst forth and people began to stand. Rafael walked across the gap to the front row and embraced Simon in a warm hug. He could feel the frail body quivering.
“Trust me,” he whispered softly in Simon’s ear. “Go with your instinct.”
Then he pulled back and shook the bony hand. Ruth was crying softly, and he kissed her gently on each cheek, then shook Levi’s hand. As he turned he saw Sergei. The Russian was standing and clapping. His round face was as white as Rafael had ever seen it, and the pale green eyes glittered at him with what he knew was cold rage . . . and something else. Knowledge and understanding. In that split second, Rafael’s instinct hit him squarely in the gut. Sergei knew. He knew where his violin came from; he knew something about the story he’d just heard.
Chapter 49
Rafael mounted the podium and led the orchestra through Rossini’s “William Tell Overture,” as he had with a hundred orchestras all around the world. That experience and training carried him through as his mind raced ahead. The audience’s response was polite, impatient; they wanted to hear from the star attraction again. So, the maestro thought, let the games begin, and whatever happens, happens.
“Time to hear from our prodigy again. This time he will play for us Debussy’s ‘The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.’ ”
Daniel walked back into the room to yet more applause. He tuned the violin briefly, and before he took up his stance, he nodded to Rafael.
“Daniel would like to say something to you all.”
The boy was looking over the heads of the crowd, as Rafael had suggested to him; any direct eye contact would’ve been too difficult.
“I would like to dedicate this piece to my poppa and to all my family I never knew.”
It began with an achingly soft melody, haunting and smooth. About two minutes in, a loud collective gasp cut across Rafael’s intense concentration and he swung around, the baton raised. Simon was standing right in front of Daniel but not looking at him; he was looking at the violin, his head slightly cocked to one side. Daniel’s eyes were open, and he’d stopped playing, the bow on the string and his fingers in the air. Levi started out of his chair, but David shot to his feet and grabbed Levi’s arm to hold him back. Simon raised his arms and took the violin and bow out of Daniel’s hands. The boy took two instinctive steps to his left, and Rafael came down off the podium and put his arm around him. The room was completely silent.
Simon caressed the body of the instrument with his finger, tracing the purfling and up the fingerboard to the scroll. Then he laid his cheek against the back and mumbled some words in Hebrew. Finally he put the violin to his chin and started to play the Debussy, slowly and carefully, his stiff fingers searching for the notes and the bow jerking over the strings. He rocked on his feet and moved to steady himself; his eyes closed and he smiled.
Then in one fluid motion he stopped, his arms dropped to his sides, and he sank to his knees. Six decades of rage, grief, humiliation, and frustration burst forth in a howl that sounded more like an animal than a human being. It was a keen, a funeral lament for his father, his mother, his brother, his sister, his uncle, his aunt, and his cousins, for all the lost years, all the shiva he’d been denied, all the agony he’d been forced to hide in order to survive.
It took Sergei almost another full minute to come out of his shock and move swiftly across to the kneeling man, but before he could take the instrument, Rafael intercepted him.
“No,” he said firmly, “we need to talk, privately. But for the moment, he holds it.”
Sergei recoiled, and Rafael could see the shock and anger.
“Never!”
Rafael spoke into the Russian’s face, his voice deep and full of menace.
“Be careful, Sergei, this is very public, and in a battle for hearts you will not win. Keep it private. Be sensible and come with me.”
He gestured to David to come to him.
“We need all your family and I think Roberto and Carlo. Follow Sergei, now.”
As Levi helped Simon to his feet, all hell broke loose in the audience. People were talking loudly and standing up, pointing at Simon and arguing. Rafael climbed the podium and held his hands up.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please. Please. Can I talk to you all, please?”
Eventually people started to turn to him and stop talking. Many were still watching the group following Sergei out of the room.
“Thank you, may I apologize for this, please. There is going to be a break, perhaps for a while now. I am hopeful that the concert will continue, but for now there will be more champagne and food for you all.”
With that he turned to the orchestra.
“Eat and drink and relax a little; as soon as I can I’ll let you know.”
Before they could react, he was striding after the last figure disappearing through the door.
Chapter 50
Sergei was pacing the room. As soon as Rafael appeared at the doorway the Russian turned on him.
“You knew this,” he snarled.
“Keep calm, Sergei—”
“You set me up! You will never work—”
Roberto came between them, his palms raised.
“Now let’s just—”
“You!”
The Russian spun around and poked his finger into Roberto’s chest. “What part have you played?”
Rafael grabbed his hand by the wrist.
“I know you’re angry and you feel betrayed, yes? But we need to talk, all of us, sensibly, calmly.”
Sergei wrenched his arm away and focused on Simon sitting in a chair, clutching the violin and bow to his body.
“Why should I want to talk? Give it back to me, now!”
He strode toward the old man, and his intention was obvious. It was Carlo Montenagro who intercepted him and stood in his path.
“Listen to them, just for five minutes; listen to what they have to say.”
“Why? They have nothing I want to hear.”
“Make sure of that.”
Rafael looked around the room. Daniel was standing between his parents, and they each had an arm around him. He looked frightened. Ruth stood beside Simon’s chair, and Levi was only a couple of feet away. Carlo Montenagro gestured to the others.
“Please, everyone take seat. Please, now.”
They all gave a little start and moved quickly to seats at the table. Sergei’s ice-cold eyes swiveled from face to face, and Rafael felt them pierce his veneer of calmness.
“So. Who is going to tell me what this crap is all about?”
No one moved.
“Rafael? My friend?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Slowly Rafael pulled himself to his feet; he needed to be taller than the immense man if he was to have any chance of appearing convincing.
“I’ll start, and I think others will add. Sergei, this is Simon and Ruth Horowitz. They’re Daniel’s grandparents, and this is Simon’s elder brother, Levi. Their father was a banker in Berlin
before the war and he was also a very good musician. He collected many wonderful instruments and he had, also, an Amati and a Guarneri. But in 1939 the bank was taken, the house was looted, and the family was sent to concentration camps. They believe that this”—he pointed to the violin that Simon still clutched—“is their Guarneri.”
Suddenly Simon looked up at him as if snapped awake by what he heard.
“Believe? I know it is. I would know this instrument anywhere.”
“And how on earth are you going to prove this, after all those years?” Sergei asked, glaring at the old man.
Roberto answered for him.
“Actually, it would be remarkably easy to identify their violin. It has a highly unusual, even unique, history. In 1935, Benjamin Horowitz took his Guarneri to a Berlin luthier and had the label changed, so it would read 1729. It was a misguided attempt to conceal the true value of the instrument. In effect, what he created was a violin with its own individual quirk. It looks and sounds like a 1742, the year it was truly made, but the label reads 1729.”
Roberto looked smug, and Rafael could see that he was enjoying himself.
“Where did your grandfather get the violin from, Sergei?” he asked suddenly.
Sergei was glowering at the elderly Horowitzes, as if sizing up an enemy, and he ignored the question for several seconds. Rafael wondered how they should position themselves to stop him from getting the violin into his grasp and ordering them out.
“He bought it, in Berlin. From little music shop that had survived the bombing; he drove a very hard bargain. Maybe it was the same luthier that your father took his violin to.” He directed the last comment at Simon.
“Impossible. Amos’s shop was destroyed. I saw it happen, the night of the Kristallnacht pogrom.”
Levi nodded. “I saw the ruins too.”
Suddenly Sergei stood up.
“Enough!” he roared. “I have been patient and I have listened to this rubbish. Now I want my violin back, and I want you all to leave. If not, I call the police.”
As he spoke he moved with surprising speed around the table and came at Simon from behind, reaching out for the violin. But the old man was prepared, and his hands were still agile. Almost instinctively, he grabbed the scroll in one hand and with a flick of the wrist threw the instrument to Levi. As soon as it reached his cupped hands Levi passed it on to Rafael, who was already standing. He held it securely in two hands. Sergei stared at him.
“Raffy? Is it really worth your career? Are you prepared to sacrifice everything for these . . .”
Rafael raised an eyebrow. “Jews?”
He saw the shock in the Russian’s expression.
“No. I may be many things, but I am not an anti-Semite. I was going to say ‘people you don’t know.’ It belongs to me; I own it, and police will support my rights.”
“Before the police are called, perhaps we better show you our evidence,” Levi said.
“What evidence?” Sergei’s voice was harsh, with a note of desperation that was not lost on Rafael. Levi opened a blue pocket folder and drew out the documents. He described each one as he placed them on the table.
“A photograph of us, Simon and me, with our two violins. A list of our possessions, compiled in 1938; the violins are on page one. And many letters, written by my mother to her sister-in-law in New York before the war, in which she talks about the violin often, describes it.”
Rafael watched Sergei as the Russian raised his eyes from the row of papers and returned the old man’s steady gaze. He could see the barely contained fury. There was no hint in the expression that the Russian was lying about his grandfather, and yet, somehow, Rafael knew he was.
“Carlo, you’re an expert; what year do you think this violin was made?” Roberto asked suddenly.
Sergei turned to look at the maestro.
“Carlo? You know this violin for long time; what do you say about all this?”
“I do, and I would say, in my opinion, although the label, it say 1729, the evidence, it tell me 1742.”
Rafael feared that Sergei would lose what little self-control he had left if Roberto pushed this angle too hard. Then security would be called and the opportunity he’d so carefully crafted would be lost. But the Englishman pushed on determinedly.
“The authenticity of the date can be verified by tests. If the label has been altered, that will prove it beyond doubt. If it hasn’t, then it can’t be the Horowitz violin. If it has, then there is only one conclusion,” Roberto added with finality. There was a long pause. Finally Rafael cleared his throat.
“So we have disputed ownership of a violin that is priceless—”
“Hardly that,” Sergei sneered. “It’s insured for over five million pounds.”
There were reactions all around the table. Clearly only di Longi and Rafael had had any idea of its true worth.
“But why insure it for so much if you think it’s a 1729?”
Sergei stiffened, but it was too late, they’d all seen his reaction. The realization propelled Roberto to his feet.
“You know. You know it’s been altered. You’ve had it checked.”
“I’ve checked nothing; the label, that is your fantasy. I insure all my instruments for what experts tell me they are worth.”
“No credible expert would tell you a 1729 Guarneri is worth five million pounds. That’s ludicrous.”
Roberto came around the table and eyeballed him, only inches from the Russian’s vast bulk, but he was a tall man and adrenaline spurred him on.
“You have no right to this instrument and you know it! I’ve researched cases like this; some make claims and go to court, some get tried by the media. How many journalists are there in that room, only a few hundred feet away? They know about violins, and they know how to write a story like this. Shall we invite them in, show them the evidence, let them make up their own minds? We could go to the Chicago Tribune; they’ve a history with this subject and they’ll crucify you.”
Sergei’s fists clenched, and Rafael started forward; one good punch and Sergei could kill Roberto.
“My family has owned this violin for over sixty years!”
Roberto pointed to Simon.
“Bad call. His owned it for over a hundred and fifty years before that. Wait until CNN gets the story—”
Rafael stepped between them.
“Enough, gentlemen. Sergei, I have a question for you, and I want an honest answer, yes? If you suspected that the instrument was more valuable than a 1729, that the label, it was wrong; if experts tell you it is worth five million pounds, too much for any violin except a 1742, why didn’t you get it investigated? Tested and restored?”
Everyone waited for the answer, seconds passed. Sergei shrugged.
“I thought about it, but I will never sell it, so what was the hurry?”
Rafael shook his head.
“But how could you claim the insurance if anything happened to it? Any company would want to know why the value was so high.”
Sergei didn’t answer. Rafael could see the emotional tussle, the desperate search for a way out, being played out on the normally impassive face.
“This is bullshit.” Roberto spat the word out. “You knew that if it was verified as the last 1742, everyone would want to know its history and you couldn’t risk that. You knew that ridiculous story of your grandfather finding a music shop, in a bombed-out city under gunfire, would be laughed at.”
Roberto put his hands on Simon’s shoulders.
“Look at him, Valentino. Do you honestly believe the musical elite will side with you? You give so much money to so many arts organizations and at the same time you keep a violin torn from its rightful owners? Before most of them were shipped to death camps? And you think time is on your side? For God’s sake, man, you think sixty years means more than over a hundred and fif
ty? Admit it, you are never going to win this one. Your reputation will be in the gutter from the moment this man gives his first interview. I’ve heard him speak and he’s very eloquent. That first interview is about half an hour away unless you give him back what belongs to him.”
Still Sergei looked at Rafael.
“Why did you not come to me? Talk to me, tell me this? Why did you publicly humiliate me?”
He had a point, and it made Rafael feel uneasy.
“I apologize. I, we, thought that if we tipped our hand, you would hide the violin somewhere and refuse to discuss it.”
Sergei sighed heavily. “How could I hide her? Everyone knows I own her.”
Again there was silence. The Russian turned his back on them and gazed into the empty fireplace. When Rafael spoke, his voice was gentle.
“I know what she means to you, this instrument. I know who she reminds you of. You must understand, my friend, it is the same for these men, yes? They watched their father play her when they were children. The same father, you know, who Simon saw shot dead in the camp. He also lost his mother, his sister, his brother, all murdered by their own people. Just like Yulena.”
At the sound of his aunt’s name, he swung around to face Rafael, and there were tears in his eyes.
“This violin, she is all I have left.”
“I know, but she is all they have left as well. It’s time to do the right thing.”
Sergei turned away again, and Rafael knew there was nothing more that could be said—the case was closed. Then all of a sudden Simon stood up and held out his hands toward Rafael. His dark eyes were very calm and he smiled as he took the violin, put it to his chin, and began to play, the allegro from the Concerto in E by Bach. As he listened, it occurred to Rafael that Simon knew what it was like to play a violin for a hostile enemy when everything he held dear was on the line.
“Papa loved that piece,” Levi said softly, with immense sadness in his voice.
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