The Keeper of Secrets (16 page)

“Gentlemen, if your Guarneri is, indeed, a 1742, then I know where it is.”

Possession

Part Three: Sergei Valentino

1945

Chapter 29

Berlin

Late April 1945

T
he bullet whistled past about three inches above his left ear. In a desperate reflex action, Willi Graf threw himself behind a pile of rubble and lay very still. He couldn’t hear the blood thudding in his head because the sounds around him were too loud, but he was aware of his heart hammering in his chest. The artillery shells landing in the next street made the ground vibrate, and his nostrils were full of the stink of smoke from the fires raging in bombed-out buildings.

About three hundred meters earlier, he’d finally given up on the brown box, it was slowing him down, so now he held nothing but the violin case, clutched to his chest. It was covered in a fine powder of dust from the rubble, and almost instinctively he brushed it clean with the back of his hand. Very slowly he raised his head above the jagged chunks of brick and peered around. Large craters crisscrossed the street between the debris, and he could see several bodies lying where they’d fallen, some missing limbs. The sharp cracks of rifle fire, the deep boom of artillery, and the low rumble of tanks over cobblestone echoed through the city like a death rattle. Berlin was falling, and street by street, building by building, the great Red Army was getting closer to victory. There would be no rescue from German troops outside the city; all was lost and it was time to leave, to melt into the crowd. He knew he should feel something, anger at the incompetence of a high command that had allowed things to get to this, fear for his family or even for himself, shame or humiliation when he considered the past few years. But for the moment the only emotion coursing through him was a strong sense of self-preservation; he knew what he had to do to save his own skin and secure his future and that took all his mental capacity.

Up until a few weeks ago his war had gone very well. As a
stabsmusikmeister,
Willi Graf had enjoyed a position of rare privilege. He was part of the M-Aktion team and had spent the last seven years evaluating and cataloging precious musical treasures for the Sonderstab Musik, the führer’s special task force for music. Their instructions were to prepare the collection for a music university to be opened in Linz, Austria, after the glorious victory. Graf had traveled all over occupied Europe and handled wonderful musical instruments and original manuscripts. In 1942, he’d been in Paris, helping compose a nine-page list, an inventory of the cream of the violins they’d found so far, including ten Stradivari, three Amati, and at least four gorgeous Guarneri.

But in January he’d been recalled to Berlin. The war was not going well, and his orders seemed less confident, more confused, every day. He knew there were lists of instruments in Berlin, Leipzig, Amsterdam, and Brussels, but he also knew that they’d probably been destroyed when the enemy bombs hit the administration buildings. This meant there were now very few people who knew where the most valuable treasures were hidden—and he was one of them. The führer himself had commanded him to guard the knowledge with his life so that when the army came and the Reich was saved, the plans for a music university could continue.

This morning he’d decided it was time he made his escape, so he’d dressed in civilian clothing and donned his long, black leather coat to keep out the spring cold. Before packing the box, he’d caressed its contents one last time, lingering over the curves and marveling at the beauty of the varnish. Nothing in his life mattered as much as this, his constant companion.

His plan had been to make his way on foot to a garage on the southern outskirts of the city where he knew he’d find a car, fueled and ready for the journey to the Swiss border. Then, after a couple of quick stops to collect some possessions, which he’d carefully hidden away for just such a “rainy” day, he’d be on his way to freedom and a life of luxury.

Now he admitted that he’d severely underestimated the danger on the streets, and the journey to the car was far more complicated than it’d appeared from the relative safety of the führer’s bunker, but Graf had survived so far on his nerves and his cunning, and he wasn’t going to give in to some stupid Russkies.

Slowly he uncoiled from behind the mountain of broken bricks. Snipers were his immediate problem, German riflemen hidden from view picking off people not in uniform. Case clasped to his body and bent low, he sprinted across the street into the deep shadows created by the shells of the buildings. Two streets from the garage, the gunfire sounded farther away, and he dropped his guard a fraction, rounded a corner, and walked straight into a raised Russian Tokarev semiautomatic rifle. The patrol was miles from where it should’ve been. In desperation, he surrendered and tried to explain that he was just a German civilian, but they hauled him away, still clinging to the violin case.

Chapter 30

G
eneral Vladimir Mikhailovich Valentino sat behind a temporary desk and studied a wall-mounted street map of Berlin as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe. He was a heavyset man, six foot four and over two hundred and eighty pounds, with thick glistening black hair slicked back from a high forehead, a large mouth under a hooked nose, and an impressive downward-drooping mustache. He sighed deeply and lit the bowl of the pipe. On the desk in front of him lay a report detailing a sector his division had “liberated” the day before: how many German soldiers killed in combat, how many taken prisoner, how many supplies confiscated, how many civilians shot, and so on.

One thing that surprised him was the number of civilian bodies his troops were finding, men and women hanged or shot by their own soldiers. They were a barbaric lot, these Germans. Many years of warfare had taught him that one important statistic was missing and would always be missing. It was one of the universal tenets of conflict, over two thousand years old, that the women of the conquered belong to the conquerors and he knew that German women were being raped all over the city every day. He accepted the fact but he disliked the secrecy.

“Where’s that tank?” he muttered to no one in particular. “I should be out on the streets, in the battle. Not hiding down here in a bloody rat hole.”

There was a sharp rap at the door, and the young captain at the other desk looked up.

“Here it is now, General. Enter.”

The door swung open. It was a junior lieutenant. He looked both nervous and utterly exhausted.

“Excuse me, General. We have something I think you’ll want to see.”

Valentino’s cold eyes narrowed in anger. “Is it a tank?”

“No, sir, it’s not. But it is important.”

The general slowly pulled himself to his feet.

“All right, Andrei. I’ll come, but I warn you, it better be so bloody important you never forget it until your dying day.”

W
illi Graf glanced up and went very white. The man mountain in front of him wore the insignia of a three-star general in the Red Army and was looking at him with keen interest in his pale green eyes. Graf shrank back into the frame of the metal chair. He felt very exposed in the bare room with nothing between him and the Russian officer.

“What is your name?” the Russian asked in perfect German.

“Helmut Becker.”

“Where are your papers?”

“I lost them.” He raised a hand to the graze on his cheek. “Some men attacked me in the street yesterday and stole them.”

“Where were you going?”

“Home. I live on the Weibberstrasse.”

The only emotion on the large face came from the eyes that bore relentlessly into his skull.

“You’re lying,” the general said simply.

“I’m a teacher, not important—”

“What do you teach?”

Graf hesitated then decided to take a risk. “Music.”

The officer smiled and nodded.

“Hence the violin.”

Graf raised his hands in a gesture of supplication.

“Please, sir, can I have it back? I need to be on my way, and I’ve done nothing wrong. I didn’t even like the Nazis. I’m a simple musician and my pupils call me the Violin Man.”

The general walked to the door and clicked his fingers briskly. “Bring it,” he ordered in Russian, and then he returned to the center of the room.

The junior lieutenant came in carrying a closed black violin case. He stood at attention. The general opened the case and turned the officer’s body so the case was facing Graf.

“Your violin, Herr Becker.”

Graf sprang from his seat, but before he reached the case, the general caught him in the chest with a massive hand and pushed him back onto the chair.

“Sit down!” he thundered.

Graf’s fear was palpable. He glanced from the men to the violin. Then the general picked up the instrument and inspected it closely. Surely the man didn’t know what it was; what were the chances of that? Graf’s brain was doing rapid calculations as he watched for a sign of recognition. The varnish glowed in the pale light coming from the corridor, and he longed to snatch it back.

“How long have you had this?” the general asked abruptly.

“Years.” Graf licked his dry lips repeatedly. “My parents . . . my . . . my father gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Where was it made?”

The Russian was studying the back, running his finger over the vibrant flame pattern in the wood grain. Graf didn’t answer immediately.

“It’s . . . I think my teacher said it, it was Italian?”

Finally the man put the violin back into the case and turned to gaze at Graf impassively.

“You
think
? You’re a music teacher, a violin teacher presumably, and you don’t know the make of your own instrument?”

“I do. It’s Italian, from Cremona.”

“Play it for me,” the general barked as he picked up the violin again and handed it and the bow to Graf. Graf stood up, tightened the screw on the heel of the bow, and played a couple of notes. His fingers slipped off the pegs as he fiddled with them. Then he put the violin to his chin and began to play some Brahms. He was a very average violinist, but the sound was luscious, dark, and melancholic. It filled the room and bounced off the walls. The Russian listened for a few moments, seemingly transfixed to the spot. Suddenly he held out his hands.

“Enough. Give it back.”

Graf reluctantly handed the violin and bow to the general and watched as he laid them gently in the case. The reverence in his movements was ominous.

“I ask myself some questions, Herr Becker. Why would a music teacher venture out on a day like this when there is so much danger everywhere? And without your papers? And why would such an insignificant man have one of the great violins of the world in his possession?”

Graf’s blue eyes opened wide in horror, and he ran a hand through his short blond hair. This was going very badly.

“It’s nothing like—”

“You’re lying to me again, Herr Becker.”

As he spoke, the general walked over to stand in front of him, several inches taller and much broader, his presence intimidating.

“And that’s very stupid. I will give you one final chance. My men arrest you on a Berlin street, in broad daylight, wearing a quality leather coat and carrying a genuine Guarneri del Gesú violin. Who are you and
where did you get it
?”

In a detached part of his brain, Graf recalled all the threatening conversations he’d held as he ripped possessions from their owners and he couldn’t help analyzing the emotion.

“There’s only one thing that will save you. If you know of other . . . items of interest, and can show us where they are, we will spare you. Otherwise you will be shot as a German spy.”

By now the menace in the Russian’s voice was plain, and the threat spurred Graf into life. He was no spy. He snapped his heels together and saluted.

“I am Stabsmusikmeister Willi Graf, of the army of the Third Reich.”

The Russian smiled broadly.

“Better, much better. A music captain, well, well, that explains everything. And when and where did you acquire the del Gesú?”

Graf looked over at the case and licked his lips again. Perhaps if he shared some of his loot with this man, they could make a deal; he had quite a bit to trade.

“I’ve had it since 1939, General. It belonged to a Jewish family, a wealthy banker in Berlin. I was present when their house and possessions were reclaimed.”

“And you stole it. As an insurance policy.”

Despite his predicament, Graf felt his anger burn at the insinuation.

“I’d never sell it! It’s the most magnificent instrument I’ve ever held, and believe me, over the last seven years I’ve handled some truly extraordinary examples. I was told that Guarneri himself said that the sound was like the tears of an angel. . . .”

The Russian was staring at him, and Graf’s voice trailed off. What was the man thinking? Why was he so impossible to read?

“And what else have you kept?”

“One or two other things, some wonderful art, some silver and jewelry. I have it hidden but this I had with me—”

“While you desert your post and your country?”

Graf remained silent; he was admitting to nothing more than the obvious.

“In Russia you’d be shot for such insubordination. So where is the rest of your treasure housed?”

The Russian’s voice was dripping with contempt, but Graf could hear his interest.

“Not far from here. I’ll show you.”

The general stepped back and surveyed him one last time, then he turned away. Over his shoulder he barked at Graf. “You will show my soldiers where this is, and then they will bring you back. When I’m convinced you’ve told the truth, we’ll talk again. Bring the violin.”

The officer picked up the violin case, followed him out, and banged the door behind them. Graf sank back onto the chair and rubbed his hands over his face.

T
he truck rumbled to a stop outside a row of deserted, bomb-damaged houses. Willi Graf and Junior Lieutenant Andrei Malenskvia climbed out of the back, and two Russian soldiers joined them from the front of the vehicle.

“Down there.”

Graf indicated the ground floor of the second house. The soldiers exchanged glances and raised their rifles to cover him. Malenskvia withdrew his pistol from its holster and waved it in the direction of the house.

Graf led them to a wooden door and down some stone steps into a dark, dry cellar. One of the soldiers lit his cigarette lighter, and a small flame of golden light split the darkness. Two squares wrapped in cloth and a long metal box leaned against the wall. Malenskvia pointed at the squares.

“What are those?”

“Paintings.” Graf couldn’t keep the hatred out of his voice.

“Give me that and take them up,” ordered the officer, and the soldier handed him the lighter and picked up one of the squares. Somewhere in the distance a rat scuttled across the stone floor. There were a dozen wooden boxes stacked over by a far wall.

“Is that it?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Graf replied dully.

“What’s in those boxes?”

“Wine, I believe, or scotch. I didn’t put it there.”

“Upstairs, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The men loaded both squares, the metal box, and the wine onto the back of the truck while Graf watched them, aware that Malenskvia’s pistol remained trained on him. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d hidden where but, with the contents of their stop at another cellar, it should be enough to bargain with. He knew two paintings, silver, and jewelry from the house that his violin had come from—what he’d considered restitution for his broken nose—were probably in the truck by now; perhaps the Russian oaf had a mistress at home.

Finally Malenskvia waved his gun in the direction of the street. “Run,” he ordered.

Graf was confused and didn’t move.

“What? What do you mean?”

“Run! You have sixty seconds, starting now.”

“But the general said—”

“Now you have fifty-eight seconds. Do you want to escape or not?”

Graf took a last look at the shapes in the back of the truck, then began to pick his way through the rubble as quickly as he could. Malenskvia raised his pistol and shot him once in the back. His body jerked and he slumped, face forward, into the mud.

“Too late, time’s up.” The Russian grinned at his fellow soldiers. “He really shouldn’t have tried to escape. That wine’ll be a nice surprise for the general.”