The lost symphony, p.30
The Lost Symphony, page 30
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ said Jack, enjoying the banter.
‘A Rigó Jancsi is a traditional Hungarian chocolate cake dating from the Austro-Hungarian Empire’. Kun smacked his lips. ‘Delicious, you’ll see. It’s cube-shaped and has a touch of rum and vanilla in the filling. It also has quite a history.’
‘Oh? Everything here in Budapest seems to have quite a history.’
‘But this one is delightful. Let me tell you. The cake will taste so much better after you hear this: it’s all about a Hungarian–Belgian love story.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘Rigó Jancsi was a famous gypsy violinist. Young, handsome, full of bravado and flair. He toured all over Europe with his own orchestra towards the end of the nineteenth century. One day in 1896, he was playing in a restaurant in Paris and was asked to come to one of the tables to play a solo to show off his extraordinary skills. That’s when he met Clara, the beautiful young wife of a Belgian duke. Enchanted by Jancsi’s music and charm, she immediately fell in love and eloped with him, disguised as a gypsy. They lived together for ten years in various countries and squandered a fortune. She was the daughter of an American millionaire, which no doubt helped. During one of their visits to Budapest, Jancsi ordered a chocolate cake for Clara. She loved the cake, and the shrewd proprietor immediately named it after Jancsi. The Rigó Jancsi was born—’
‘What a wonderful story,’ interjected Jack.
‘Unfortunately, this whirlwind romance didn’t last. It came to an abrupt end when Clara met an Italian waiter and exchanged the violin for a bowl of pasta,’ said Kun, laughing. ‘Ah, here come our Rigó Jansci now. Let me know what you think.’
‘Will do.’
‘Speaking of remarkable love stories,’ continued Kun, enjoying his Rigó Jancsi, ‘I have another one for you that happens to be relevant to what we are about to discuss. I also have a surprise for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s about David Herzl—’
‘The Postmaster of Treblinka?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the surprise?’
‘Before we talk about that, I must tell you about the love story, because the two are connected.’
Jack reached for his notebook, opened it, and put it on the table next to the empty Rigó Jancsi plate, which he had scraped clean right down to the very last morsel.
‘I told you yesterday that Herzl survived the Warsaw Ghetto uprising, was taken by the SS to Treblinka and put to work,’ said Kun.
‘Yes, restoring stolen paintings for the Germans.’
‘Correct, but what I didn’t tell you was that he had an assistant, a beautiful young Hungarian woman called Ilona. She, too, was a talented painter. They fell in love, and it was she who came up with the idea.’
‘What idea?’
‘To introduce a little ray of sunshine and hope into the death camp.’
‘How?’
‘Because of his work, Herzl had free access to the Feldpost, the general postal authority established by the Wehrmacht in the occupied territories.’
‘You told me.’
‘It all began with a small, desperate request.’
‘What kind of request?’
‘One of Ilona’s friends in the camp asked her if she could perhaps smuggle a letter out of the camp and send it through the Feldpost to her parents in Prague. She offered a valuable diamond ring as payment. When Ilona first mentioned this to Herzl, he dismissed the idea as absurd, but Ilona persisted. To cut a long story short, Herzl and Ilona managed to establish a sophisticated, underground postal network – involving people both inside, and outside the camp – to facilitate the sending and receiving of letters through the Nazi Feldpost.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. It even had a name. It was called the Ballroom of Hope.’
‘Strange name.’
‘It is. They all knew they were dancing with death. If discovered, well, you can imagine ...’
‘How macabre.’
‘Hope often is.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It was an ingenious set-up using contacts and bribes that went undetected right up to July 1944 when Soviet troops overran the camp. Despite risking their lives, Herzl and Ilona were among the few survivors.’
‘Amazing.’
‘But what is even more amazing is this,’ said Kun. He opened his briefcase and put a bundle of papers on the table in front of him.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s a copy of Herzl’s diary. As I told you, the original is in the Jewish Museum in Prague. Another coffee?’
‘Yes, please. I could certainly do with one. This is an incredible story.’
‘Wait, it gets even better,’ said Kun and began to sort through the pages in front of him. ‘As part of his secret diary, which he must have kept carefully hidden, Herzl kept a meticulous record—’
‘A record? Of what?’ interjected Jack, sensing that something significant was about to be revealed. The butterflies in his stomach told him so.
‘Herzl kept a record of all the letters he managed to smuggle out of the camp. Dates, names and addresses.’
‘Why on earth would he have done that? Surely, if caught ...’
‘I was wondering about that, too, but there’s a simple explanation. This ingenious postal service was a two-way street. Not only did letters get out, there were quite a few replies as well, all addressed to Herzl. Using his records, he could then identify the intended recipient and pass on the replies. All part of a secret, underground postal service right under the noses of the SS. The Ballroom of Hope. Brazen, yes. Desperate, certainly, but surprisingly effective.’
‘And this diary was like a dance card with death?’
‘Sure, if the SS had found out about this ...’
‘Unbelievable!’
‘The bribes involved were huge, and this was what kept the wheels turning. Each letter cost a small fortune, but when you have nothing to lose ... A diamond on the way to the gas chamber is worthless.’ Kun shook his head and looked sadly at Jack. ‘Self-interest and greed in the middle of unimaginable slaughter, bringing a little hope, perhaps even joy, to the condemned.’ Kun paused and looked at Jack. ‘You must be wondering why I’m telling you all this.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind,’ said Jack, smiling.
‘It’s because of this here.’ Kun held up a piece of paper. ‘I went through all this stuff last night because I remembered something.’
‘What?’
‘A name.’
‘What name?’
‘Countess Bezukhova.’
‘What?’ Jack almost shouted. ‘Show me!’
Kun handed Jack the piece of paper. One entry at the top of the page had been underlined: 12 June 1943. Countess Bezukhova. After the name was an address in France, and another name, obviously the sender.
For a while Jack stared at the piece of paper, his mind racing.
‘Are you suggesting that in June 1943, a letter was sent from Treblinka to Countess Bezukhova in France?’ he asked quietly.
‘It looks that way.’
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the music box letter and put it next to the piece of paper on the table. ‘This one here?’
Kun nodded. ‘The Herzl signature at the top confirms it. Apparently, all the letters dispatched by Herzl had these markings at the top. A couple of letters with the same Star of David and the little heart have survived and are in the museum in Prague. But there’s a further clue.’
‘Oh? What kind of clue?’
‘Here, the sender: Pavel Ustinov.’
‘What about him?’
‘Pavel Ustinov was a Trawniki guard, a Russian prisoner of war captured by the Germans during Operation Barbarossa in December 1941. Trawniki guards helped the Germans run the camps. They were all former Soviet Red Army soldiers who received special training in a facility at Trawniki outside Lublin.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘It was part of my research for the book. Pavel Ustinov was an important link in Herzl’s underground Treblinka postal network, and ultimately helped save Herzl and Ilona when the Russians liberated the camp. They wouldn’t have survived without him.’
‘Incredible.’
‘He was a decent man. He also saved dozens of others. When the Germans decided to dismantle Treblinka and shoot all the remaining prisoners, Ustinov didn’t participate and instead managed to hide many of them and keep them alive, including Herzl and Ilona, until the Russians arrived and liberated what was left of the camp—’
‘Let me get this right,’ interrupted Jack. He put down his pen and looked at Kun. ‘Are you suggesting that this Russian prisoner of war sent the Bezukhova letter from Treblinka to France through the German Feldpost in 1943?’
Kun held up the Herzl diary page with the entry. ‘According to this, yes. And the letter here in front of us is proof that it actually arrived.’
‘German efficiency in the middle of a devastating war?’
‘Looks that way. The Wehrmacht was incredibly well organised.’
‘I have to find out more about this Pavel Ustinov,’ said Jack, circling the name in his notebook. ‘Do you think that’s possible?’
‘Yes. Ustinov was one of the few who showed some humanity and compassion, and actually saved lives, at great risk to himself. Almost a million Jews were slaughtered in Treblinka. It was a killing machine. One of the worst. There’s a lot of material about him in the museum in Prague. He was known in the camp as the Golem of Treblinka.’
‘Golem of Treblinka? How curious. Why?’
‘I will let someone else who knows a lot more about this than I, tell you,’ said Kun, smiling.
‘Who?’
‘A good friend of mine: Avigdor Stein.’
‘This story is becoming more fascinating by the minute. Who is Avigdor Stein?’
‘He’s the curator of the Jewish Museum in Prague. He helped me with my book.’
‘And he might be able to help me, too?’
Kun nodded. ‘I think so. I spoke to him already. He has a lot of information about Pavel Ustinov in his museum that may be useful to you.’
‘Should I go and talk to him?’
‘Definitely!’
More breadcrumbs of destiny, thought Jack, shaking his head. He pointed to the bundle of papers on the table. ‘How did you manage to get hold of this diary?’ he asked quietly.
‘It was left to me.’
‘Oh? By whom?’
‘Ilona Kun. My mother.’
52
Chief Superintendent Lapointe visits Malenkova, Paris: 28 February 2017
Sitting at her desk in the study, Malenkova was enjoying her second cup of strong morning coffee. She was going over the latest messages sent by Anielka from Budapest, when her maid knocked and walked in.
‘Chief Superintendent Lapointe is outside, Madame. He would like to see you.’
‘Oh? Did he say what it was about?’ said Malenkova, her mind racing.
‘No. Shall I tell him to leave, or come back later?’
‘No! Just give me a moment and then show him in.’
Malenkova cleared her desk, pushed the whiteboard into a closet, and surveyed the room. Satisfied that nothing incriminating was lying around, she poured herself another cup of coffee.
Well aware that Lapointe was heading the investigation into the two sensational murders, Malenkova was wondering what had brought the chief superintendent to her doorstep. She was also aware that the best way to deal with the police was polite cooperation without giving anything away. Hiding or delay were not an option in a situation like this. On the contrary, Malenkova viewed this as an opportunity to gather valuable intelligence and, if possible, deflect attention away from her.
‘Enter!’ Malenkova called out when her maid knocked.
‘Chief Superintendent Lapointe and a colleague, Madame,’ said the maid and stepped aside.
‘Apologies for the early intrusion, Madame, and thank you for seeing me,’ said Lapointe, extending his hand. ‘This is Claude Dupree, a colleague of mine who is assisting me with my enquiries.’
Dupree, here? How astonishing, thought Malenkova, composing herself and trying not to look alarmed.
‘How can I be of assistance, gentlemen?’ she said and motioned towards a Chesterfield and two leather chairs in the corner of the large room. ‘Please take a seat.’
Dupree looked at Malenkova with interest, sizing up the fascinating, portly woman leaning on a walking stick in front of him. Not what I expected. Could this be the Black Widow, or are we mistaken and jumping to conclusions? he thought, as he remembered the meeting with Martin Charpentier, the Fabergé expert, the day before. What Dupree had found particularly interesting was not the little that Charpentier did say about Malenkova, but what was left unsaid.
After Fabron’s spectacular murder, Lapointe had changed direction and focused his investigation on the Black Widow cold cases, as initially suggested by Dupree. He had also followed up the curious Victor Sokolov visit to Le Club Barrière on 16 February, as a possible lead. Further examination of CCTV footage obtained from the club had led him to Martin Charpentier, who was seen talking to Sokolov and a mystery woman. This in turn had resulted in a visit to Charpentier’s antique shop and a robust interrogation, pointing the way, albeit obliquely, to Malenkova.
‘This shouldn’t take too long,’ said Lapointe, preferring to stand. ‘I believe you know Martin Charpentier?’
‘I do,’ said Malenkova, the question taking her by surprise. ‘I’ve done business with him in the past. Why do you ask?’
‘Recently?’
Malenkova was about to reply, but her finely honed instincts told her to take her time and be careful. She could sense danger signals radiating from the little man in the ill-fitting overcoat standing in front of her like a caricature straight out of a 1950s detective movie. He refused to take a seat, she thought. A bad sign. He knows about the meeting with Sokolov! I almost walked into a trap!’
‘I saw him a few days ago, quite by chance actually,’ said Malenkova, casually. ‘Won’t you take a seat? May I offer you some coffee?’
She’s good, thought Lapointe, watching Malenkova carefully. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Club Barrière. It was a chance meeting. I hadn’t seen him in years. He was there with someone else.’
Lapointe reached into his pocket, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Malenkova. ‘With this man?’ he asked.
Malenkova looked at the photograph. It showed Sokolov sitting next to Charpentier. It also showed her, but only partially, and only from the back.
‘Yes. That’s Victor Sokolov, a former client of mine. Is he in trouble?’
‘And is that you sitting next to him with your back turned towards the camera?’ asked Lapointe, ignoring the question.
‘Yes. As I said, it was a chance meeting. We were all in the club at the same time. I had a rare winning streak and we were celebrating. Now, would you like to tell me what this is all about, Chief Superintendent?’
‘I am investigating two recent murders and the theft of a precious artefact, a Russian Imperial Fabergé Easter egg.’
‘How fascinating. And you think Martin and Victor are somehow involved? That’s absurd!’
‘Is it? Charpentier is a well-known Fabergé expert who has spent time in jail, and Sokolov – a man with a dubious reputation – owns several Russian Imperial Easter eggs worth millions, and one such egg was recently stolen from a safe here in the Ritz. Involving a brutal murder.’
He knows nothing and is obviously fishing, thought Malenkova. Otherwise, he would have come with a search warrant, or worse still, made an arrest. She knew Charpentier must have kept his mouth shut. With Victor involved, that was hardly surprising. You didn’t cross that man and get away with it. This copper is trying to scare me, hoping I make a mistake. Well, I don’t scare that easily!
‘And you are telling me all this because …?’
‘The stolen Fabergé egg was recently auctioned on the dark web,’ said Dupree, ‘and you are – how shall I put this? – an art dealer known for her creative ways.’
‘I still don’t understand. What has all that to do with me?’ Malenkova said, going on the attack. ‘You barge in here early in the morning, Chief Superintendent, unannounced, asking questions about some heinous crimes I know absolutely nothing about, and making veiled insinuations. I cannot help you!’
‘But you already have, Madame,’ said Dupree, smiling.
‘What do you mean?’
Dupree raised his bandaged right hand and pointed to a painting on the wall behind Malenkova’s desk. He didn’t say anything, but kept watching Malenkova carefully. It was the striking painting Anielka had given her just a month earlier.
Malenkova paled. ‘I think you better leave, gentlemen,’ she said, steel in her voice. ‘And next time, please make an appointment and I’ll make sure I have my lawyer present.’
‘As you wish, Madame,’ said Lapointe and headed for the door.
‘You obviously know a lot more about art than I do, Madame, but even well-paid lawyers can’t silence a painting when it speaks,’ said Dupree, and followed Lapointe outside.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Lapointe as they got into the waiting police car.
‘The painting?’ said Dupree.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see her reaction?’
‘I did. A flash of fear? You must have touched a raw nerve.’
‘It’s always about the little things; that painting … it took me some time to work out where I’d seen something very similar just recently – no doubt by the same artist – and what that could mean.’
‘And this could be helpful?’
‘Oh yes. I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s all about a striking young woman and the infatuation of a friend of mine. Something about that young woman has bothered me from the moment I met her.’
‘You are full of surprises, Claude. A connection, you think?’
