by sarvar. bhat
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 that journey.
‘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.
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, 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 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 poli
shed 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. Jana recognised echoes of Miss Abramowitz’s recollections. Holding her breath, she leaned forward. ‘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.