Keeper of Secrets (9780062240316) Read online

  “My God! What was it like?” he asked with genuine fascination.

  “Very hard to play, sir.” Simon’s voice was steadier.

  “I’ll bet. Tell me, I think I read somewhere, about a wolf note?”

  “Yes, sir, on the top C on the fourth string. The G was magnificent, sir.”

  The guard nodded.

  “We’re looking for a violin case. I know there are at least two in here; I just don’t know where.”

  Simon acknowledged with a small nod of his head.

  “So come on! Get on with it!”

  Simon tried to focus his thoughts and breathe deeply through his mouth to slow his frenetic heart. What was this? What did it mean? Was he going to die? Was this man just playing with him? Frantically he dug into the nearest box and saw that it was full of spectacles, so he turned to a second and it was full of shoes. The third contained wristwatches and pocket watches. Suddenly there was a sharp cry from the other side of the room.

  “Here!”

  He spun around and saw the guard was holding a black violin case aloft. He watched as the man opened it and lifted out a full-sized violin. It had a very dark varnish and was covered in a maze of cracks.

  “I’m afraid it’s been left here in the cold and the heat and it may not be so great”—the guard was running his finger over the instrument—“but it will sound better than that piece of shit you were playing. Come, outside!”

  He opened the door and Simon hurried out. He watched as the guard padlocked the door and glanced around.

  “Follow me.”

  He did as he was ordered and didn’t falter until they came to the entrance to the SS barracks. He’d never been close to this part of the camp before, and the smell of real food mixed with the sour stench of his own terror.

  “Inside.”

  The guard shoved him in the ribs but with no real force and he stumbled inside. The room was empty. The guard put the case on a rough wooden table, opened it, and held the violin out toward him. Simon took it and turned it over. There were several deep cracks running vertically down the back and across the front. The strings were attached but completely slack. Everything else seemed to be intact. There were no cracks over the sound box, the bass bar was there, and the bridge seemed to be strong. He blew gently on the top and a cloud of dust rose through the sound holes. Then he turned his attention to the pegs and the peg holes. The pegs were very stiff, but little by little he tightened the strings until they sounded roughly in tune with each other. Without a tuning fork or a piano it was the best he could hope for. He held out his hand for the bow. The guard watched him intently, genuine respect and fascination on his young face.

  “Will it play?” he asked enthusiastically.

  “Yes, sir. It’ll take a while to sound good, but it will play.”

  Simon examined the horsehair and found it was in remarkably good condition. The bow had been rehaired just before it was confiscated. He tightened the screw on the heel and looked up.

  “The bow is good . . . I . . . I don’t suppose there’s any rosin, sir?”

  “Um . . . just a moment . . . yes, look!” He held up a lump of golden rosin and beamed. “And a cloth to wipe the strings,” he added.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Finally they were ready. Simon played a simple scale and adjusted the pegs. Then he played it again and nodded. It was as close as it was going to get. He hesitated and wondered what on earth should he play? What would this man want to hear?

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you want me to play, sir.”

  “Well, what can you play?”

  “Vivaldi, Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Debussy, Brahms, Mozart . . .” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Do you know any Wagner? Perhaps the ‘Bridal Chorus’ from Lohengrin?”

  Simon gazed back at him steadily, his face betraying none of the revulsion he felt.

  “No, sir. I never learned any Wagner.”

  “A pity, but never mind. Some . . . Vivaldi perhaps? Quietly.”

  Simon grinned.

  “One of my favorites. Even if he is Italian, sir.”

  “Mine too. A little winter to make us feel cooler?”

  So Simon began to play, shakily at first and then with more confidence. Soon the sound overtook him, his eyes closed, and he moved, rhythmically dipping and rising with the music. There were some wrong notes, fingering he’d forgotten, and bowing that was less than perfect, but it was unmistakably Vivaldi. Something deeper, more elemental, seemed to course through his wasted body. A life force he’d all but forgotten that rose up and nourished him.

  When he’d finished, he stood with the violin in one hand and the bow in the other, his eyes downcast, unsure of what to do next. The guard reached out for them.

  “You’d better go.”

  The guard laid the violin and bow in the case and walked over to a bench on the side of the room. When he returned, he was carrying a large enamel cup that he held out to Simon.

  “Here, drink this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Simon took it and raised it to his lips. It was beer. The cold liquid, with its sharp distinctive flavor, filled his mouth and he gulped down the whole cup. It was the first taste of something real, something delicious, he’d had in nearly two years.

  “Good?”

  “Very, very good, sir, thank you.”

  “Go now”—he pointed toward the door—“and run back to your barracks. It’ll be roll call soon. We will do this again.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Simon turned and went out the door, his heart still flying from the adrenaline rush of playing the violin. As he ran across the hard parade ground a laugh of pure astonishment and relief bubbled up and spilled out of him.

  Back in the hut the young guard stood staring at the violin lying in its case. Then he picked it up and put it to his chin, took up the bow, and started to play a simple scale.

  Chapter 25

  It took Simon half an hour to recount his exploits to his father and their friends. They were far more excited about the beer than the violin. Heinz said he knew the guard with that scar, that he sometimes guarded the woodworking room and he was a quiet man, not as brutal as some.

  Over and over again the Vivaldi cascaded through Simon’s head, and his fingers twitched and stretched. Finally he fell into a disturbed sleep, peopled by tumbling musical notes and cracked violins being wrenched away by men with scars on their faces. The sound of the door and a beam of white light jolted him from the dream.

  “Attention! Attention! Prisoner 8467291. We want 8467291.”

  He rolled over. His father hissed in his ear.

  “That’s you. That’s your number.”

  Simon shrank back into the darkness beside the wall. A guard with a flashlight was shining light into the shelves.

  “Attention! Come forward now or we will pull everyone onto the parade ground.”

  “It’s me,” he called out and started to climb down. The soldier’s hand grabbed him and pulled him to the ground. He shone the light into his face, and Simon put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare.

  “Come. Now.”

  The guard pushed him hard in the direction of the door. Outside it was a beautifully cool, star-filled night with a gentle breeze blowing. He followed the man across the parade ground to the SS barracks. The room looked smaller now with about fifteen men sitting around, drinking and talking. The table was covered with plates and glasses, and the smell of food made his stomach contract with hunger.

  “Hello again.”

  He raised his eyes a little and saw that the guard who’d found him earlier in the day was standing over by the bench. He was holding the violin and the bow. Did they want him to play? All the men were staring at h
im and the conversations had died. He lowered his gaze to the floor. His heart was pounding against his rib cage.

  “8467291, sir,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, I remembered. Here, tune this.”

  The guard held the violin out to him. He took it and plucked the strings, not bad. He took the bow, tuned the violin as best he could, and then tightened the bow. The guard held out the rosin toward him.

  “What can he play?” asked one of the other men.

  “Plenty.” The guard turned to Simon. “Play whatever comes into your head.”

  Simon looked at the impassive faces. He pretended he was in an eighteenth-century court and in front of him sat the all-powerful emperor and his courtiers. He was playing for his life; of that he was certain.

  What should he choose to play on this cracked, barely in-tune, second-rate violin? He started with Massenet’s “Méditation,” then went on to some Vivaldi in “Spring,” a little Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, not whole pieces just passages that floated into his head from long practice sessions that seemed a lifetime ago.

  During the entire thirty minutes that he played no one moved, and some seemed barely to be breathing. He was completely lost in the music, his eyes closed, his body moving gently, and when his mind told him he was back in the beautiful music room at home, a smile played on his lips. Finally he stopped and opened his eyes. Reality flooded back, and he lowered the instrument and his gaze. For another second there was silence, and then two guards started to applaud.

  “Be quiet.”

  The order was barked by an older man who wore the insignia of a major and was sitting by the empty fireplace. The applause died instantly.

  “Whatever he does, we never clap him. You were right, Kurt, he is a find. He’ll do very nicely.”

  He got up and walked over to Simon. He had a cruel face, with a square jaw, thin lips, and a broken nose below sharp cheekbones and small eyes.

  “How long have you been playing? You may speak.”

  “Since I was four, sixteen years, sir.”

  “And who was your teacher?”

  “Herr Eisenhardt, in Berlin, sir.”

  “And Kurt tells me you had a Guarneri?”

  “Yes, sir, a 1729 del Gesú.”

  Simon could see his boots as the major walked around him. Suddenly the man reached out and lifted up his left hand.

  “What is that scar?”

  “I . . . I was hit by a truncheon, sir. But it has healed now.”

  “Just as well.”

  He nodded to Kurt and returned to his seat. Kurt took the violin and bow from Simon and put them in the case, then he gestured to the door. Simon took one last look around the room and followed him. Once outside Kurt handed him a mug. It was beer again, and Simon gulped it down gratefully.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “We need to strengthen you up. Come.”

  Kurt led him back to the barracks. At the door he stopped, pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle out of his pocket, and thrust it into Simon’s hand.

  “Keep it hidden until you’re lying down. You will play for us. Don’t . . . be afraid.”

  Simon kept his bundle hidden all night by sleeping on top of it. The next day he met his father at his secret place, and together they shared squashed bread, sausage, and cheese. It was the most food either of them had had in one sitting since their incarceration, and for a few moments they feared they’d both be sick. The Simon of those early days in 1939 would’ve shared these riches with his fellow inmates, but imprisonment had taught him the cruel laws of self-preservation. The men he lived and worked beside would’ve fought him to the death for a share of such booty, and the Simon of 1941 understood that this golden windfall, this discovery of his talent, might yet be the thing that ensured his, and his father’s, survival.

  Chapter 26

  Dachau

  November 1943

  The night had drawn in early. Snow fell from the black clouds overhead and swirled around the wooden buildings of the camp. Over the creek a steady stream of smoke billowed from the tall chimneys and floated off toward the town. Figures, bent over against the biting cold wind, scurried across the open ground, and in the distance dogs barked hungrily. Simon and Benjamin stood on the doorstep of the officers’ mess waiting for the door to open. They were both painfully thin, but neither looked sick. Their skin color was good, they had no boils or open ulcers, and their feet were wrapped in strips of felt. The door opened, and yellow light flooded out onto the snow.

  The room was deliciously warm, and a huge fire roared in the open fireplace. The officers were drinking and talking, sitting in small groups around the table and the fireplace. A large plate of food sat in the center of the table next to the two black violin cases. Kurt was standing with his back to the fire, and he strode over to the table when he saw them.

  “I have some more sheet music. My brother sent it from Berlin; have a look.”

  He picked up a brown leather folder and gave it to Benjamin, then waited impatiently while the older man looked through it. Simon was preparing his violin and watching his father out of the corner of his eye.

  “What is it, Papa?”

  “Handel, the Violin Sonata in D. I know the larghetto; it is very beautiful, sir.”

  Kurt beamed.

  “Excellent! You can practice it tomorrow. How’s the Mozart?”

  “Very good, sir. We’re ready to play it.”

  They tuned their instruments with a tuning fork and prepared their bows. Simon still played the same instrument Kurt had found two years before, but Benjamin’s was in better condition, a lovely Italian violin with a honey-gold varnish and a rich tone.

  The officers turned their chairs around and faced the musicians. Kurt held the violins and gestured to Simon and Benjamin to warm their hands in front of the fire. This was one of the best moments for both of them; the chilling numbness of the day was replaced by golden warmth that flowed up their arms and into their frail bodies.

  Carefully keeping their eyes averted from any of the officers’ faces, they picked their way through the chairs and back to Kurt. It was the Allegro con spirito from Mozart’s Concerto for Two Violins in C, KV190. Simon played the sweeping melody while Benjamin’s violin danced around it in the cascading runs so typical of Mozart, until they combined for the beautiful climatic finish. Benjamin’s violin sounded particularly magnificent; the music suited its sweet tone, and Simon could see the rapt expression on Kurt’s face.

  Then they played the Bach Concerto for Two Violins in D Minor, their best piece and one that was often ordered. Benjamin finished with the Massenet “Méditation,” the major’s favorite. As always there was a long silence and then an uncomfortable shifting that took the place of applause. Kurt came back to them as they wiped the violins and put them away. His blue eyes were warm, and he nodded the appreciation he dared not speak.

  “You may eat inside tonight; it’s too cold outside.”

  Simon hesitated and shot him a worried glance. He knew only too well how quickly the atmosphere could turn ugly. When he was too weak to play for more than a few minutes last winter, one particularly brutal guard had started to beat him until Kurt had intervened. Eventually the major had agreed that there was a danger Simon could lose the ability to play altogether. It hadn’t stopped that guard from taking his revenge two days later in another setting, and the cuts from that whipping had taken weeks to fade. Kurt seemed to read his thoughts.

  “It’s okay. Come, sit down over here.”

  He’d moved two chairs into the far corner, away from the soldiers, and he gave them a plate each and then stood between them and the rest of the room, blocking the view. The plate held a little cold meat stew, some potato, some bread and cheese. They ate as quickly as they could, using their fingers. Then he took the plates and gave them a mug of coffee each as he ushered them out the do
or. The cold hit all three men like an explosion of ice. Simon and Benjamin gulped the hot coffee down and handed the mugs back.

  “Thank you, sir,” they said quietly in unison.

  Kurt was looking at Benjamin.

  “The Mozart was wonderful.”

  “It’s a magnificent violin, sir. I’d love to know the history.”

  “So would I. But it isn’t wonderful when I play it.”

  Benjamin smiled at him, and for a second they stared at each other, then Kurt looked away in embarrassment.

  “You’re not frightened of me anymore, are you?”

  “No, sir. You’re very good to us. No one eats as well as we do.”

  “I wanted you to know. Don’t ever tell anyone I said this, it would get me court-martialed. But you’re both so talented and when you get to know . . .” His voice trailed off and still he didn’t make eye contact.

  Benjamin touched Kurt’s arm, and Simon marveled at his father’s bravery.

  “It’s a simple truth. Prejudice is much harder to maintain when you break down the barrier of ignorance, my son. You see us now as individual people with talent, not subhuman vermin, and that makes it harder for you to hate us.”

  Kurt looked directly at him.

  “I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry we did all this to you. I hope that when the war is over and Germany rules the world, I can persuade someone to make an exception for both of you and you’ll be able to live and play in peace.”

  Simon was watching his father as Benjamin shook his head sadly.

  “No, son, it’ll never work like that. I don’t want to be an exception. I am a Jew, I am proud to be a Jew. If I live as I used to and play my violins again, then all Jews must be allowed the same right. You like us because you respect us. What you don’t know is that all Jews are like us. They are no more vermin than we are. That is the truth about prejudice.”

  Kurt turned away abruptly. “I must take you back. If you’re too late, the guards in your barracks will punish you. Come!”

  His voice was harsh, and he drew his coat around his shoulders and followed them out into the snow-filled darkness.