The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

folded the note along its well-worn creases and slipped it into his pocket. 'Life rarely moves in a straight line’, he continued. ‘It has taken me more than twenty years to find those answers, and when I finally did—guided by destiny and fate—they were as astonishing as they were surprising. Apart from this curious note, Brother Francis left me a tidy sum, which saved my family from ruin and allowed me to follow my dream.

‘There was nothing left for me at home; no future. So I left, went to Brisbane and began working for a small newspaper. It was the beginning of my career as a journalist, and the beginning of a new life and a long journey that would ultimately allow me to grant Brother Francis’ last wish. This journey has almost reached its destination, right here, and you, ladies and gentlemen, are now all part of it.

‘However, to fully understand how this has come about, we have to first visit a little cemetery in Bavaria.’

Berchtesgaden: Christmas Eve, 2008

The snow had come early that year, and everyone was looking forward to a white Christmas. The little walled cemetery next to the Franziskaner Kirche in the middle of the picturesque village looked like something out of a fairy-tale. Almost all the graves had been decorated with small Christmas trees and candles as tradition demanded. Relatives stood around some of the graves and remembered loved ones long departed, before going into church to say a prayer and light a candle.

Jack pulled up his collar, looked at the diagram in his gloved hand and tried to orientate himself. The heavy snow cover made this difficult, but at least he had a name: Berghofer, Johann and Elfriede. Johann died in 1932, and Elfriede eight years later. After counting the rows a second time, Jack had narrowed it down to two. Walking slowly along the silent rows, he looked at the names on the headstones, the large snowflakes tickling his face.

Earlier that year, Jack had been investigating a high-ranking Nazi war criminal, and was writing a book—Dental Gold and Other Horrors—about the controversial trial that followed. While this was a totally unrelated matter at the time, Jack found himself in the vicinity of Berchtesgaden as part of his research for the book.

Berchtesgaden, with its breathtakingly beautiful alpine scenery, had a notorious past. During the war, Hitler had spent a lot of time in his mountain fortress on the Obersalzberg above Berchtesgaden, and in the stunning Kehlsteinhaus—the famous Eagle’s Nest—presented to him on his fiftieth birthday by the Nazi Party.

Over the years, Jack had forgotten all about Brother Francis and his cryptic note, considering it fanciful or a long shot at best, but the trial and his recent research had somehow made him think of Brother Francis and his kindness and generosity when he had needed it most. A dying man’s wish is something sacred, thought Jack, feeling good about finally being able to do something to honour that wish.

He had almost walked to the end of the second row, when he saw it: Johann Berghofer Gebor: 1868, and below, Gestor: 1932.

My God, this is it, thought Jack, reading the inscription on the headstone a second time. Exactly as shown on the diagram. Who would have believed it! By now the visitors had left, and Jack found himself alone in the deserted cemetery, with the organ music and singing drifting across from the church the only sound intruding into the stillness of the night. Most of the candles had gone out and it was almost dark, with snowflakes descending like a blanket of peace upon the silent graves.

According to the diagram, a small piece of marble in front of the headstone could be removed. Whatever Jack was supposed to find was apparently buried underneath it. Jack knelt down, pulled out his Swiss army knife and began to loosen the rectangular slab. To his surprise, it began to move quite easily, and soon he was able to lift it up, exposing a shallow little pit below. Holding his breath, Jack peered inside, not really expecting to find anything. Yet there was something. A metal box, he thought, reaching into the pit, his hands shaking.

 

* * *

 

Jack paused again, collecting his thoughts. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked wistfully at Krakowski sitting in the front row. ‘What I found in that metal box—wrapped tightly in some thick, waterproof material—was this…’ Jack held up the little notebook he had shown his audience before. ‘Brother Francis’ diary. But this wasn’t all’, continued Jack, enjoying himself. ‘There was one more important item in the box: a key. As it turned out, a very special and unique key.’ Jack held up a photograph. ‘I can only show you a picture of it, because the original had to be returned to where it belonged; an extraordinary place in the heart of Vienna. But I will tell you more about this later.

‘As you know, ladies and gentlemen, the Francis diary forms part of the sale, and with good reason. It answers all the questions and explains everything, but more importantly, it ultimately led me not only to the painting itself, but to this man,’ Rogan pointed to Krakowski, ‘its rightful owner.’

A wave of excitement and anticipation washed over the spellbound crowd, who were following Jack’s story with interest and hanging on his every word.

‘But how all this came about is quite a story in itself that also has to be told. The journey of the painting would be incomplete without it, and it all began on a cold winter’s day in Warsaw. Inspector Jana Gonski, an Australian Federal Police officer, and I were following the trail of a Nazi war criminal who was being prosecuted in Australia. The trail pointed us to Jakob Finkelstein, a colourful character known as The Watchmaker of Warsaw. Without him and what he told us, we wouldn’t be here, and this extraordinary painting would most likely have been lost forever. This is what happened…’

Warsaw: December 2007

Jana Gonski knew she was lost. Warsaw in winter was grey, damp and freezing and the empty cobblestoned backstreets all looked the same. She walked up to an old woman at a bus stop and asked for directions. Jana’s childhood Polish was a little rusty, but adequate. When she finally found the tiny shop it was almost dark. ‘Jakob Finkelstein—Watchmaker’, said the faded sign above the door. A torn blind covered the narrow shop window; there was no light inside. A nauseating smell of boiled cabbage and sewage filled the air. Jana pulled the brass bell knob next to the door. She could hear a bell ringing in the back of the shop but nothing happened. She tried the bell again.

‘Yes, yes I’m coming’, a voice called out from inside. Someone fumbled with a reluctant key in the lock. Finally, the door opened with a creak and a small, wizened old man squinted at Jana through thick glasses. ‘I’m closed; can’t you see? I’m eating dinner. What do you want?’ said Finkelstein gruffly. Jana smiled at him and mentioned the name of the American GI who had written a book about the musicians of Auschwitz. The old man’s demeanour changed abruptly. ‘Don’t just stand there; come in’, he said. Stepping aside, he pointed down a dark corridor leading to the back of the shop.

The room at the back was Finkelstein’s world. The walls were covered with all kinds of clocks. Old Viennas were busily ticking next to elaborately carved cuckoo clocks from the Black Forest. Marble mantle clocks and bracket clocks of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves. In the far corner of the room, an elegant English mahogany grandfather clock was rubbing shoulders with an old Dutch lantern clock, which had once belonged to a sea captain. The dimly lit room was full of movement and sound. Fascinating shadows crept along the walls, following polished brass pendulums in mesmerising unison. The regular tick-tock of a hundred intricate mechanisms was deafening.

Finkelstein lived in the past, surrounded by his treasures—each reminding him of former customers. He could still remember all their names, yet he could barely recall the name of someone he met only the day before. Most of the clocks had been brought to Finkelstein for safekeeping during the war. Unlike their unfortunate—predominantly Jewish—owners, the clocks survived the Holocaust, securely hidden in the spacious cellar beneath his shop.

‘My faithful friends’, explained Finkelstein, pointing to the clocks. ‘They are all special, but I do have my favourites of course. Take this one for instance’, he continued, running his hands affectionately along the gleaming mahogany case of a tall grandfather clock. ‘Made in Glasgow in 1820; magnificent workmanship. It took me three weeks to repair it. It was very difficult. It needed new parts. I make all the parts myself, you know’, he explained. Jana smiled at him. ‘It belonged to Professor Horowitz, a great man. Ah, and over here I have something really special. Come, look.’ Jana followed the strange little man to his workbench. He pointed to an exquisite porcelain table clock on the shelf above. ‘Meissen china; the best. It once stood in King Ludwig’s dining room in Neuschwanstein. Wait until it chimes—superb.’ Finkelstein became quite animated and began to stroke the tip of his white goatee. ‘Forgive me, but I can see you didn’t come here to talk about my clocks.’ He motioned towards a threadbare sofa next to the workbench. ‘Please, take a seat.’ Jana glanced at the steaming bowl of evil-smelling broth on the bench and sat down. ‘Would you like some? It’s borscht; I made it myself.’ Jana declined politely. Finkelstein climbed onto his stool in front of the bench and continued to eat his dinner. ‘If it’s not clocks, then what brings you here?’

‘Auschwitz.’

Finkelstein put down his spoon and looked wistfully at Jana through his thick glasses. ‘It never really goes away, does it?’ he said at last, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. ‘It just goes on; the ghosts are still with us.’

‘You were playing in the camp orchestra until the end, I’m told.’

Finkelstein nodded, a haunted look clouding his wrinkled face. 'They made us play at the camp entrance when the trains arrived. Mainly cheerful Viennese music, would you believe. A polka to sweeten the march to the gas chamber. Terrible. The things one did to stay alive…’ Finkelstein shook his head. ‘But I was still a young man then, full of hope. One of the lucky ones, I thought at the time. I was sent to Auschwitz with my wife and two small daughters soon after the ghetto revolt in forty-three. The orchestra needed another musician; my clarinet saved my life. I thought it would save theirs as well’, he added sadly. ‘It didn’t.’

Suddenly, an extraordinary cacophony of sound filled the room. The clocks announced the hour with an exotic melange of whistles and bells, hooting owls and chipper cuckoos, sonorous gongs, lullabies and folk tunes. It was seven o’ clock.

‘No matter how hard I try, I can never quite get them to do it all on time’, shouted Finkelstein. ‘There are always a few slow ones.’ The chiming went on for several minutes until the last of the stragglers finally caught up.

Jana opened her handbag and pulled out the photograph. ‘Do you recognise this man?’ she asked, pointing to the German officer in the photo.

Finkelstein took off his glasses, adjusted the lamp on the bench and pressed his round watchmaker’s magnifying glass to his right eye. He examined the photograph for a long time and Jana noticed that he kept coming back to the dog in the picture.

‘Do I recognise this man?’ repeated Finkelstein, putting down his magnifying glass. ‘Strictly speaking, no. As you can see, his face is barely