The Keeper of Secrets (14 page)

Chapter 25

I
t 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 him 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

T
he 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 door. 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.

K
urt walked a very dangerous line. He had to pretend to be brutal toward his friend when other guards were around. If just one senior officer suspected that he actually
liked
the young Jewish violinist, he’d be transferred to another camp or, worse, to the Russian front. He took Simon on a work detail to the farthest corner of the camp and they swapped stories of their childhoods and families. He was the son of a prominent doctor from Düsseldorf and had an older brother in the Luftwaffe Ministry in Berlin. They’d both played piano as children and Kurt had learned the cello, so they argued good-naturedly about which instrument was harder to learn. Kurt admitted that he missed his dog, an Alsatian called Meister, more than his family and talked of his passion for football, ice-skating, and fencing.

Simon told him about Levi, who’d set out so bravely for London but had never been in touch after that night in 1938. And about his mother and sister, left behind outside their house in Berlin in 1939, four years ago.

Despite their envied position as musicians to the officers, Simon and Benjamin still had to work in the armaments section. The extra food gave them strength, and the music gave them something to think about while they completed the repetitive tasks. Simon had considered suggesting that they find some more musicians among the prisoners, audition them, and request instruments for a special string quartet or even larger. Then he realized that the amount of food wouldn’t multiply in proportion and they’d end up getting less to eat. And he doubted the officers would be prepared to go to all that trouble. The violin, and the reward and respect it helped them to gain, had become the whole point to their existence, and they weren’t prepared to share.

O
ne afternoon in December, Benjamin was carrying a box of antiaircraft shells from one side of the room to the other when an unidentified foot shot out between the machines and tripped him. He fell heavily, and the shells went rolling all over the floor. The guards pounced on him and dragged him to his knees. They yelled at him to pick them all up, but before he could finish the task the SS-
obertsturmführer
blew the whistle for a shift change.

By chance, Kurt was about thirty yards away, escorting a work party to the nearby building site and saw the
obertsturmführer
and a guard dragging the struggling old man through the snow, followed some distance behind by a younger inmate whom he recognized instantly. He must have broken rank and followed them.

“Simon!” he murmured in horror. He sprinted across the open ground and reached Simon just before he caught up with the trio. “No!”

Simon was completely focused on getting to his father and hadn’t heard or seen Kurt’s approach. The tall man launched himself at Simon and pushed him into the side of the building, pinning him there with his body. The
obertsturmführer
threw Benjamin down into the snow. “Kneel, you filthy piece of scum,” he yelled.

Kurt pushed Simon even harder into the wall.

“Don’t move an inch, leave it to me,” he whispered into Simon’s ear. He pulled himself upright and walked over to the group.

“What is this?” he asked, as casually as he could.

The guard had pulled his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and had it pointed at Benjamin’s lowered head.

“Stupid old fool, he ruined a whole box of shells.”

“Before you do that, you should know that he’s a master violinist, the major’s favorite.”

Kurt’s voice was icy cold. The older man glanced at him.

“You mean those Jews who come and play in the mess? I never stay. I can’t stand to breathe the air when they pollute it.”

“Still, I wouldn’t kill him before checking with the major. You wouldn’t want him to be furious, and it’s not like he can pluck another violinist out of the night.”

The guard shrugged, started to turn away, thought better of it, and with one flowing movement turned back and fired a single shot at Benjamin. The old man pitched forward into the snow, a large red stain spreading from beneath his face.

“Too late.”

Kurt met Simon’s body hurtling forward toward the assassin. They collided and went flying into the snow. Kurt landed on top of him and stayed there.

“What are you doing?” The
obertsturmführer
sounded amused and surprised.

Kurt looked up. “Nothing, sir. Just disciplining a man who should be working faster and I fell over him. I’ll deal with it.”

He struggled up and pulled Simon to his feet.

“Don’t say a word,” Kurt snarled as he dragged Simon around the corner. Once out of sight of the guards, he let him go and the young man slumped to the ground.

“I’m sorry, Simon, I had to stop you. He would’ve shot you. What good would that have done your father? I’m going to take you back to the plant and tell them that I called you away but you’re ready for your work detail now. They won’t punish you. Do you understand me? You
must
work.”

Kurt put his face very close to Simon’s, and there was desperation in his expression.

“If you don’t carry on, Simon, I can’t help you.”

“I was supposed to keep him safe,” Simon mumbled.

“This wasn’t your fault. He made a mistake and they punished him. You must believe in heaven; you must believe he won’t suffer anymore?”

Simon didn’t answer him.

“Come on.” Kurt hauled him to his feet. “It’s too cold out here, and you must go back to your shift. I’ll take care of him, I promise.”

S
imon’s world had come to an end. He seesawed between rage and numbness and accepted the condolences of his friends with a blank expression. That night he lay with his face buried in his filthy mattress and cried silent tears of pain and fury. He’d seen the terror in his father’s body replaced by calmness as he’d accepted his fate and said his silent prayers. His papa was dead. After so much suffering and with a half life that was almost bearable, one mistake, one lapse in concentration, and he was gone. So was he the last one left? Or were Simon’s mother and sister still out there, waiting for all this horror to end? Where was Levi? Where was God, for that matter?

It was five days before he was summoned to play in the mess again. There was only one case on the table, the violin his father had played. He gave them Mozart, Brahms, and a piece of Bach his father had loved, the allegro from the Concerto in E. He played as if by remote control and thought of nothing as the music poured out of him. Afterward the major came over to him and said it was unfortunate his father was no longer able to play. It was the closest an officer of the Third Reich was ever going to come to saying he was sorry the man had been killed. Simon knew the major could’ve been court-martialed for apologizing to a Jew so he accepted the statement with a nod and a “thank you, sir.” Kurt escorted him back to his barracks in silence. At the door Simon turned to him.

“Can you tell me? Was the man who shot my father punished? Did it anger the major?”

“Very much. He would court-martial him if he could, but the army wouldn’t allow it. But he gave him some private justice, I believe, and his justice is legendary. I think he would’ve preferred the court-martial.”