The Keeper of Secrets (9 page)

Loss

Part Two: Simon Horowitz

1935

Chapter 16

Berlin

November 1935

Y
ou’re playing too slowly, again.
Look
at the tempo, Simon. You should be able to play it the way it’s written by now. I want it fast with a nice strong, biting marcato articulation in your bow.”

Simon stood in the middle of the room, his music on the stand and the violin and bow in his hands. He stopped and peered uncertainly at the sheet in front of him. A short distance away his teacher, Herr Eisenhardt, was watching him. The man tapped sharply with his highly polished boot.

“Now, concentrate, boy. From the beginning.”

Simon took a deep breath and began to play again.

Three hours later he was much happier. His elder brother, Levi, played the Steinway grand, and Simon and his papa played their violins. It was a beautiful, melodic sound with the main tune carried by the piano, while the violins rose and fell in harmony.

“All together, and finish.”

Benjamin’s bow made a theatrical flourish, which Simon almost succeeded in imitating, and they all finished together.

“Well done, both of you. Just a little more and we should be able to play it for family night. What would you like to finish with?”

He was a short, rotund man with a round face topped by bushy eyebrows and divided by a huge handlebar mustache. His deep smile lines and laughing brown eyes created the impression that he was always in a good mood.

“Play some Vivaldi, Papa.” Simon wiped his violin and laid it in its case.

“Always Vivaldi. Very well.”

Minutes passed and neither boy moved. They were both so engrossed in the haunting, sharp sound of the Concerto in B Minor pouring forth from the Guarneri they hardly noticed the wink Benjamin gave their mother as she paused at the open door.

The Horowitz family lived in the most beautiful house on a street full of beautiful houses. Just minutes from the Brandenburg Gate, it was an old seven-bedroom mansion set in a lovely, leafy garden. Benjamin Horowitz had bought the house on his first visit after the decision was made to move the family bank from Frankfurt to Berlin in 1925. He’d been promised important government and commercial accounts if they relocated, and it had proved a very wise move. In three years, the bank had nearly doubled in size and profit and moved to magnificent premises on the Pariser Platz. His brother Mordecai ran the public banking services, while Benjamin took care of the elite government and business accounts. Their elder brother, Avrum, had immigrated to the United States in 1930 and worked for a bank in New York. They heard from him infrequently, but he seemed happy and successful.

Then in 1933 the Nazis came to power, and slowly, but inevitably, the tide turned against Jewish businesses. At first Benjamin had thought they’d be immune, and it had taken a long time for the effects of the insidious policies to bite. But over the last twelve months the government had used the bank to force several important Jewish companies into bankruptcy. When Benjamin protested, he was told he’d be quiet if he knew what was good for him and he was advised to concentrate on strengthening his international client list. Then he was instructed to foreclose on a major department store owned by close Jewish friends, and when he refused, he’d been threatened with arrest until he complied. But he brought none of these concerns home with him at the end of the day.

The house was Elizabeth Horowitz’s pride and joy. She’d completely redecorated it in creamy ivories, rich reds, and brilliant blues and restored much of its original grandeur. It was the perfect place to showcase their collective treasures, some of which had been in their families for over three hundred years. An Albrecht Dürer portrait of one of Elizabeth’s ancestors, a Nuremberg nobleman, hung in the hall and a Sandro Botticelli woman, in a Christian pose, in the drawing room. There were huge silver tea services and ornate table centerpieces, fine china dinner services hand-painted with twenty-four-carat gold, Venetian glass, original Fabergé eggs, many porcelain figurines and delicately carved ivory ornaments, Persian carpets and silk rugs, and numerous artworks.

Simon’s favorite room of all was the music room. The ceiling was a canvas for a magnificent homage to Apollo, playing a golden lyre and surrounded by cherubs blowing on trumpets. The walls were covered with bloodred silk wallpaper decorated with music notes in gold leaf; there were lots of floor-to-ceiling mirrors in gold frames, heavy red velvet curtains, and, in the center, a magnificent Austrian crystal chandelier. A 1586 Flemish double virginal, all intricately decorated panels and two keyboards, stood in one corner of the large room. No one ever played it, but it looked gorgeous when the setting sun struck the golden decoration. The room was dominated by a huge Steinway grand piano, and along the walls, several instruments sat on velvet in old glass cases. They included a sixteenth-century tenor recorder, a 1788 wood-and-ivory serpent, a 1535 Italian lute from the famous Bologna school, and, in pride of place, two violins. The first was an Amati and the second a Guarneri del Gesú.

A
t school the next day, Simon continued to think about his family’s precious violins. Nicolo Amati was born in Cremona, Italy, in 1596. He was the grandson of Andrea Amati, the founder of the Cremonese school of luthiers, who made the first instrument on the pattern of the classical violin. Nicolo’s father, Hieronymus, and his uncle Antonio were also violin makers. When his father died, Nicolo took over the workshop and improved the model that had been adopted by the rest of the family. He used a so-called big pattern, with higher ribs and flatter arching. These changes resulted in a baroque sound that suited the compositions of the period perfectly. His violins had a beautiful, sweet, penetrating tone, although they were not known for their power. He also made violas, cellos, and three-string bass viols. Benjamin Horowitz’s Nicolo Amati was made in 1640 with a sound as smooth as liquid honey, a light tone, and a lovely dark varnish. Nicolo Amati’s workshop was important because it trained so many master craftsmen. His star pupils included Antonio Stradivari and Andrea Guarneri.

Like the Amatis, the Guarneris were a family firm. Andrea had sons, and they had sons, and they all made violins. The most famous of all was Giuseppe (or Joseph) Guarneri, Andrea’s grandson. His violins were, possibly, the most glorious ever made. He was born in 1698 and lived only forty-six years. He produced around two hundred fifty violins, compared with Stradivari’s more than six hundred. From the beginning, he had his own individual style and was often in a hurry, which meant that his workmanship was sometimes quite rough. His backs were maple and his tops spruce. He flattened the backs and elongated the
f
holes to make them more upright and longer, and he put more wood in the resonator, making the box and belly thicker. All this meant his instruments had tremendous personality and individual characteristics. The sound was deep, rich, and mellow, with enormous resonance and penetration, ideal for the concert violinist. They were not easy to play but they rewarded skill with a sound so amazing it took one’s breath away.

The Horowitzes’ Guarneri was a warm brown color, with just a hint of a reddish tint over a yellow ground, and had a marvelous bright luster to the oil varnish. Simon would sit and just gaze at it for as long as his mother would let him. When his father allowed him to hold it, he would marvel at the silky feel of the highly varnished wood and the sudden chill under his fingertips. The sound was haunting and melancholic, especially during the Russian pieces—

S
imon Horowitz! Pay attention!”

With a sudden shock, he pulled himself together and looked up into the furious face of his schoolteacher.

“You’re daydreaming again.”

“No, miss. I was listening.”

“Liar. Little Jew boy liar. Do you know what we do with boys like you?”

He looked at her uncertainly. She’d never paid him this much attention before. Behind her glasses her blue eyes were bulging, and her face was turning a horrible puce color.

“Um, no, miss.”

She reached out and grabbed his shirt collar.

“Come with me.”

The force propelled him out of the seat and almost off his feet. She dragged him between the rows of boys to the front of the classroom. The collar dug into his throat as the rush of mortification burned his cheeks with a bright red flame. He could see the other faces laughing at him.

“Now, class, pay attention. This boy is a liar.
And
he is a Jew. How do I know this? Look at his nose; no Aryan has a nose that big. And his forehead is slanted backward. He has very brown eyes, almost black, and they are crafty, disobedient eyes.”

As she pointed out each feature with her pudgy finger, she slapped the side of his head with the other hand and the impact knocked him slightly off his feet. He stared up at the venom on her face in astonishment. What on earth had he done to deserve this?

“If you read the new chart on the wall, it’ll tell you how to identify a Jew, so you’ll know to avoid con—”

With a sudden burst of strength, Simon pushed her away from him.

“Leave me alone, you fat old frau!” He ran out the door and down the corridor. Behind him he could hear her voice shouting and the class in an uproar. He ignored all the sounds and kept on running, the clatter of his footsteps echoing off the walls, down the main steps, and across the playground toward the iron gates. It was freezing cold and his lungs felt like bursting, and tears were smarting in his eyes. He rounded a corner and saw two teenaged boys sitting on a wooden bench at the tram stop across the road. He pulled up, hesitated, and then walked toward them, breathing deeply through his mouth. As he approached he could see they were eyeing him with interest, too late now.

“Why aren’t you in school?”

Simon prayed silently that the tram would appear soon. It was too far to walk home, and his head was spinning from lack of oxygen.

“Didn’t you hear me, boy?” the teenager repeated. A wiry boy with freckles and blond hair got up and walked around him.

“Are you a Jew?” he said, sneering. Fear spurted up again like bile, and Simon searched for an escape route. Levi’s words came back to him, “Say nothing and don’t look afraid.”

“What’s your name?”

In the distance he heard the clang of the tram.

“Is it Levi, or Saul, or Abraham maybe?”

The second one had joined his tormentor and just as the tram swung into view and glided toward them, Simon saw that the boy had a large clod of earth in his hand. Why did the tram take so long?

“Lost your voice? Dirty little Jew boy.”

“Just you wait, pig, you’ll get what’s coming to you. My father says all Jews are filth, just vermin, to blame for everything, and we need to sweep them—”

The tram pulled to a stop and Simon jumped on board just as the earth hit him in the small of the back. The boys were laughing, but they didn’t follow him. He found a seat and waited for his racing heart to slow down.

T
he house was silent and welcoming. He closed the front door behind him and went straight to the music room. The weak November sunlight reflected off the virginal and made patterns on the walls, but today he didn’t stop to look; instead he went straight to the glass case.

“Simon, darling! What’s wrong?”

He looked up as his mother crossed the room. Her arms enfolded him in a hug, and he could smell her lilac scent.

“My violin”—his voice sounded small and forced in his throbbing ears, and his throat felt tight—“doesn’t hate me. It doesn’t call me a dirty Jew boy.”

He felt his mother recoil beside him and heard the shock in her voice.

“A what?”

“That’s what they said, and Mrs. Munz, she said I was a little Jew boy liar.”

She stroked his hair off his forehead and looked down into his face.

“I think you had better tell me exactly what’s happened.”

Chapter 17

T
hat night the Horowitzes held one of their special musical evenings. Berlin in the 1930s was full of artists, poets, singers, dancers, and musicians. Some had left for the States, but many felt themselves to be invulnerable, protected by their popularity despite the ever-growing Nazi oppression. The classical music “set” was no different. Benjamin and Elizabeth invited composers, conductors, instrumentalists, and singers to their home and held musical soirees for their friends. On this night they had Franz Reinhardt, an elderly German composer and gifted pianist who would play the Steinway, and Lillian Hauptman, an accomplished violinist who adored playing the Amati. A group of elegantly dressed men and women were chatting, sipping brandy, and taking their seats in the music room.

Simon sat over in one corner watching intently. He’d repeated his story twice, to his mother and then to his father. They’d promised him it would never happen again because they’d find him a new school and make sure he never had to ride the trams. Even more wonderfully, as a special treat, they’d allowed him to stay up and watch the performance. Now he was so excited his heart was racing and the palms of his hands were damp. His father stood by the piano and as he waited for the guests to settle, he winked at Simon, who grinned back. His papa was the center of his universe, and Simon knew how lucky he was to have a father as affectionate and involved with his children as Benjamin was; some of his friends hardly ever spoke to their fathers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the musical part of the evening. I trust you’ve all dined well, now let us have a feast for the ears! And in Lillian’s case, indeed, a feast for the eyes as well. However, before I ask Franz to perform his brand-new composition, I have a little surprise for you.”

As he spoke he walked over to the nearest glass case and unlocked the lid with a key he kept on a chain attached to his pocket watch. Carefully he lifted out the Guarneri violin and its bow and shut the lid.

“This is my Guarneri, as most of you know. My son Simon is fourteen, and he is a wonderful little violinist. He practices very hard and he’s going to have a special night tonight.”

He went back to the piano and gestured to Simon.

“Come here, son.” Simon walked slowly over to Benjamin and gazed from him to the crowd of smiling people and back again. He could see his father’s dark eyes brimming with joy and something else, pride. His papa was proud of him! Then his father put the violin in his hand.

“The Guarneri can be very hard on a nervous player. This way he has no time to get nervous. Here, take the bow, son.” He turned to the audience.

“You must understand that Simon has loved this violin all his life and he’s held it very often. But he has never been allowed to play it, until now.”

A sudden bolt of energy shot through Simon’s body. Instinctively he stood up very straight and took the bow. Benjamin hit an A on the piano.

“Tune it with me.”

He adjusted each peg until his father nodded and then moved on to the next string.

“What do you want to play?”

His mouth was dry and he licked his lips.

“Debussy.”

“Don’t think too hard, son, just do it. Don’t worry about mistakes, just keep playing.” Simon tightened the screw on the end of the bow. The swirl of confusion, shock, and delight dropped out of his mind as he put the violin to his chin. It felt cold, strange, and unforgiving. He closed his eyes and drew the bow across the string. The quiet, melancholic sounds of “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair” drifted out into the room.

S
ometime later Elizabeth sat on the bed of her second son. He watched the moonlight dancing on her long string of pearls. It was a hairdresser day so her hair was swept up into a roll, and when she smiled at him, the dimples in her cheeks and chin were like exclamation marks. He liked the fact that he had a dimple in his chin too, but Levi didn’t.

“Your papa wanted you to go to sleep with happy thoughts, not sad ones,” she said.

“It was the best night ever. Papa said we can rehearse the Bach Concerto for Two Violins. He’ll play his Amati and I’ll play my Guarneri. Levi will be so jealous.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “
Your
Guarneri?”

He grinned. “It’ll always be mine. I’m going to spend my life playing it now, Mama.”

She nodded gently. “I do believe you will, and you’ll always remember tonight, for all the right reasons.”

“I’ve just been going over every note in my head. After all these years, I played it! I knew exactly what it would feel like and it did.”

She stroked his hair.

“I know you did, my clever young man, and you were wonderful. If you worry about Mrs. Munz or those awful boys, you just remember, none of them could play a violin at all, let alone a violin like . . . yours.”

A slow smile spread across his face.

“I hadn’t thought of that. They couldn’t do it, but I can. And next time Papa and I will play together, for everyone.”