The Keeper of Secrets (28 page)

“1670,” Simon said quietly.

Sergei nodded slowly, and Rafael wondered if he could see the beginning of a solution.

“A beautiful instrument. Do you know where it is?”

“In a private collection in Lyon, we think—”

“Lyon? Jean-Pierre Clavelle, I presume? He would own such a thing. We are friends.”

“The description of the Clavelle Amati fits our instrument.”

Rafael watched Sergei studying Simon. The Russian was a clever man. He would find a compromise if he could, and this was what Rafael had been banking on—back Sergei into a corner and he’ll come out with a deal. The faint sensation of optimism was rising in his chest;
come on, Sergei, work this out!

“What if I bought the Amati and gave it back to you. And I guarantee that Daniel can play the Guarneri whenever he needs to. When he is a concert violinist, he will need an instrument.”

Before Simon could respond, Rafael cut in.

“You said you would never sell her. If you keep ownership for your lifetime, then on your death, you must will her to Daniel, yes?”

“I have no children, so I am happy to do that. I would have left her to a museum somewhere anyway. And I ask in return that when he records his first CD, he dedicates it to my aunt, Yulena, and continues to name the violin after her. She would have been a great concert violinist had she lived.”

Rafael looked inquiringly at Simon, who exchanged glances with Levi, then nodded with a small movement of his head.

“But what if they want to sell it? You give them no way to get any real financial compensation for their losses!” Roberto blurted out, his anger still evident.

“We would never sell her.” It was Simon’s turn to sound indignant. “People who own such a thing for generations never consider selling.”

“So we are agreed,” Rafael said quietly.

“What about Tatiana?” It was David who asked the question, and everyone turned to look at him. Cindy glared and he shrugged.

“She obviously considers the violin to be hers to play by right; should we just ignore her?”

Sergei sighed.

“Like me, she is mistaken. My friend, your son is a more gifted violinist than Tatiana will ever be. I will find her an instrument that will please her. Now, if we are to share her, Mr. Horowitz, I have something to tell you that I think you will want to know.”

He sat down opposite Simon and held out his hands. The old man handed the violin to him without hesitation. Sergei turned her over and over, stroking the wood lovingly as he spoke.

“My memories of her go back to when I was small child, also. We lived in Moscow, and my aunt played to me. My mother died when I was born, and she and my grandmama raised me. In 1965, my aunt was murdered by the KGB, here in London. They said she was trying to defect, but I know she would never have done that; she had promised me. Although she wanted to live in the West and learn from great teachers, she would never have left me.”

He looked up at Simon. “Were you there, when the Nazis took her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember? The men?”

“Until my dying breath. There was a
stabsmusikmeister.
He played her, badly. He swore at me and he played her. I hit him, punched him, broke his nose, and he broke my hand with his truncheon.”

Sergei smiled with understanding, and Simon smiled back. These men shared more than one connection, Rafael thought to himself as he watched, fascinated.

“Good for you. Before my grandpapa died, about eighteen years ago, he told me a secret that I swore I would never tell. But you will want to know this. As Berlin fell he was there and he interrogated a Nazi spy who was carrying a genuine Guarneri violin. The man admitted to being a music captain in the army. He boasted he had looted it from a wealthy family of Jewish bankers in Berlin at the start of the war. He was running away, deserting his homeland. My grandpapa kept the violin.”

“And the man?”

Simon seemed to hold his breath as he waited.

“He was shot, as a deserter.”

Simon closed his eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

“But not before he showed where he had hidden some other treasure.”

His words were ambiguous and didn’t become clear to everyone straightaway. It was David who spoke.

“Your grandpapa brought back more than just the violin?”

Sergei turned to look at him.

“Yes, he hid it in the summerhouse at his dacha on the Black Sea. I think he was deciding what to do with it, and then it just became . . . too long, too hard to explain where it came from. He told me about it also on his deathbed, and it was there, as he said.”

“If it came from the same German, it could have come from our house?” Simon phrased it as a question.

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Sergei said. “I’m not a criminal, Mr. Horowitz. I believe my grandpapa would have returned it, had he known there was anyone alive to return it to. I have the original items here, in my vault. Come, I show you.”

Chapter 51

A
s soon as Sergei switched on the lights, it became obvious that it was more than a possibility.

“Levi, look!”

Simon went straight to the portrait on the wall. It was a handsome young man with shoulder-length curly brown hair, wearing the colorful garments of a German nobleman at the turn of the sixteenth century. His eyes were hazel and his bearing proud.

“He was mother’s grandfather, but many, many generations before. It hung in our entrance hall.”

Levi was studying the painting, and at last he addressed Sergei.

“You own an original Albrecht Dürer and you do not display it publicly?”

Sergei returned the accusing gaze without flinching. “I knew it was stolen.”

“So why did you not hand it in, so that the owners could be traced?”

“My understanding was the owner and his family were dead.”

“He was a clever man, this German officer, using the chaos to hide valuable things for himself.”

Sergei nodded.

“There will always be corruption in war. I believe the Russian and American armies found hundreds of these private treasure stacks.”

While they were talking Simon had gone to the other painting.

“This is not ours,” he said simply and moved on to the glass case displaying the silver. They saw a silver-and-gold teapot, two silver bowls decorated with inlaid enamel, and one large silver box, with the initials “ERH” on the lid, intertwined and surrounded by delicate engraving.

“Mama’s box! It sat on her dresser. She kept her jewelry in it. The other pieces I don’t recognize; we had so much silver.”

Levi had gone to the case containing the three illuminated manuscripts.

“Papa’s books. Simon, come see; remember these books? Papa always wore his white gloves when he read them, and we were never allowed to touch them.”

The old men bent over the case together, grasping each other’s forearms, joy and sadness on their faces, tears in their eyes.

Rafael had stood to one side watching in wonder. He looked over at Sergei and their eyes met again; the Russian’s expression was a mixture of grief and pride.

“Thank you, my friend, you didn’t have to do this.”

“Why would I not? These things belong to them also. My aunt, she had strong ideas about what happened to the Jews. She had very close friends who were Jews, and they were persecuted under Stalin and forced into exile for their faith. Had she known where her violin really came from, she would have made it her mission to see if the real owners were still alive. Had she known about these things, she would have done the same . . .”

His voice trailed off, as if he’d thought of something.

“Mr. Horowitz.”

They both looked up at him.

“Do you remember anything of your mama’s jewelry?”

“Her pearls!” they answered in unison.

Sergei smiled and nodded.

“A very long string of the most beautiful pearls; I suspected as much. I have them here; Tatiana has been wearing them, but they will be returned to you. There are some other pieces I think you will—”

“She had a diamond brooch my papa gave her, in the shape of a violin.”

“Ahh, yes, I’m sorry. My aunt, Yulena, she was buried with that brooch. My grandpapa had given it to her. It was the only piece of the jewelry he took out of hiding, in spite of the . . . he could not resist the urge to give it to his child. He adored her.”

Simon smiled at him. “And I’m so very glad he did, sir. I’m happy that it rests with her.”

“And I am glad that you will have some of your possessions returned to you.”

He turned to Rafael.

“This deal stays between us, Raffy; the details never leave this room—no press, no interviews, no sale, ever. We will need to sign an agreement; my lawyer will draw one up, but no one else will know. And you will speak to di Longi?”

“Leave Roberto to me,” Rafael said quickly. “He knows better than to bite the hand that feeds him customers. Plus, I suspect he will have an Amati to sell. For my part, I’ll support your concept for the
Parsifal
in Egypt. Together we will persuade Jeremy of the brilliance of the idea, and they will get their money’s worth, yes?”

Sergei grinned delightedly. Rafael held out his hand.

“Still friends?”

Sergei shook it and then embraced him.

“Of course, best of friends. Once Daniel has graduated, the violin will be available whenever he needs it, and for agreed concerts before that. Otherwise, it lives with me until I die.”

Suddenly Daniel cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.”

For a second it wasn’t clear who had spoken, and then everyone swung around to look at him. He walked uncertainly across the room to face Rafael. His face was very pale.

“Excuse me, Maestro, but I have a condition too.”

“That’s fair. You played magnificently; did I tell you that?”

“No, but I’m sure you would’ve.”

Daniel smiled shyly at him, and Rafael felt a stab of guilt. In all the drama of the confrontation, he’d forgotten about the child. After so much practice, his concert had been interrupted, and the precious violin, the piece of musical history he was responsible for, had been taken from him. He had seen Sergei very angry with his poppa, and no one had stopped to ask him if he was okay, if he understood what was happening. Or that, in Rafael’s case, it was exactly what he’d wanted to happen.

“Everyone’s talking about my career and after my graduation and my concerts. I agreed to play, to help get the violin back for Poppa. I want to keep playing, especially if we have the violins back, but I
really, really
want to play baseball too. So if there is no baseball”—he paused—“there is no career.”

Rafael hid his amusement and addressed David and Cindy over the boy’s head.

“I’m afraid a deal is a deal, my friends. He’s fourteen and he knows his own mind. I can tell you the risk is really very small.”

Sergei nodded.

“Raffy is right. Let him have his passions; he will play better if he loves life. Maybe he and I could buy a baseball team! What do you say, Daniel?”

Daniel grinned up at him.

“Cool! Definitely the Cubs, the Chicago Cubs.”

Sergei looked at him thoughtfully.

“These Cubs, are they good investment?”

“They will be, if we own them. We’d need to talk about transfers.”

Rafael couldn’t help it; the laughter spilled out of him. It was an incongruous idea, but Sergei just might make it happen and it broke the tension. David shifted and looked at Cindy. She took it as a cue and opened her mouth. Her husband laid his hand on her arm.

“No, dear, this one is mine. If we say no, he’ll only find another way to play; he’s a Horowitz and we’re very determined. Of course you can, you’ve earned it.”

Epilogue

T
hirty-five years later, much-loved violin virtuoso Daniel Horowitz sat on the terrace of his Italian summer home and turned an open violin case toward the ghostwriter of his autobiography. His famous Guarneri lay inside, the oil varnish still glowing brightly.

“Oh, my lord! When you see it up close, it’s truly magnificent.”

He gave her a satisfied smile; he never tired of seeing the first reaction to Yulena, nor was he oblivious to the effect he was having on her.

“She is, isn’t she? Magnificent and sexy.”

As they spoke their words appeared on the screen of her electronic tablet and she pulled her finger across the device to change the font size. She was recovering her composure, and he waited patiently.

“When did you start to play the violin, Maestro?” she asked eventually.

“The day I turned four. The same age as my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather. A family tradition.”

“My goodness! Did you ever want to stop?”

He hesitated and smiled at the memory.

“Yes, and that’s why I’ve always invested in baseball teams.”

She frowned, and he could see the association was too obscure and obviously confused her. Daniel picked up the violin and stroked it.

“For a short while my passion for baseball overwhelmed my passion for music, but then this beauty came into my life, and I became content to own a part of a professional baseball team. I was there during the great Valentino years with the Cubs!”

She nodded slowly. He couldn’t help but smile again; this was clearly not where she’d expected to start, nor was he the intense musician she’d assumed he would be. Mention of the late Sergei Valentino brought the memories flooding back, and he hid his emotion by carefully laying the violin back in its case. Where on earth did he begin to do justice to the amazing men who had secured his beloved violin, guided his early career, and made it possible for him to balance his passions?

“The opening sentence should be, ‘This is not so much
my
story as the story of a German Jew, a Spanish Catholic, a Russian agnostic, and a rather special violin called Yulena.’