The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (12 page)

“Mikhail,” whispered Alesky. “Please don’t cough when the Kapos pass by. They will take you away.”

Mikhail worked alongside Alesky Borchovski, a Polish Jew who was twenty-two years old. Mikhail had liked him from the first and looked out for him almost as a father would. He wasn’t unaware of the subtle interchange of roles and mutual respect that would often pass between them.

Alesky’s shaven head accentuated his Polishness; high cheekbones, full lips, fine sculptured nose now imbedded in a face becoming increasingly thin-skinned and skeletal. Mikhail’s Polish and Alesky’s Russian proved adequate to overcome communication problems. Mikhail didn’t doubt that sooner or later his frail health would betray him and he’d be taken away. That meant only one thing: death. By some odd quirk of fate, he’d not been chosen to be marched off to the gas chambers, a daily threat they all had to live with. Yet, he knew that he could not survive much longer. To survive the oncoming winter, one had to be fit and strong. Alesky fitted that criteria, he didn’t. Death’s ever-present threat now convinced him more than ever that he needed to take action. To do this was simple but there was something about Alesky that made him feel safe. To build that trust for what he had in mind, he needed to know more about him.

When he was sure he wasn’t being watched, Mikhail approached him. “Alesky, I know how you got to this place. But what about you and your life? Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell, Mikhail. Sit down, I’ll tell you what there is.” He indicated the end of a damp, mouldy space at the bottom of his bed.

Mikhail sat down, and huddled up his knees to preserve what little warmth his body had retained. As Alesky began to speak, Mikhail sensed the undercurrent of anger, an edge of bitterness that wrapped around the way he spoke.

“My father was an accountant and wanted me to succeed in business, make a name for myself and get rich. I didn’t mind the idea of money, but business…
business
I ask you! That was loathsome to me.”

“What did you want to do?”

“I told him I wanted to be a poet, a writer. He went berserk. ‘You can’t do that! You’ll die in poverty. You’ll end up in prison with homosexuals and criminals.’ Well, he kept at me until I caved in and went on to study economics and law. But after eighteen months, I gave up. My heart and mind were in a constant turmoil. I didn’t fit in with Papa’s model. My parents disowned me and I went on to Warsaw, to the Academy of Fine Arts. I wanted to hold a pen in my hands like an artist holds his brush. I wanted to create. I still do, even in this shithole. I had no real income, but I scraped by. The
Endeks,
The National Democrats and their
Pogroms
began, and anybody remotely Jewish had all funding stopped and were separated from non-Jewish students. Jews were systematically persecuted. Then the fucking Nazis took over, and from there you know the rest. This camp is filling up. Thousands arrive each day and they’re going to reach twenty thousand in no time at all. It’s like a giant slave shit-hole. Do you know how many die here in a week? Let me tell you… it’s up to a thousand and
feh,
I’m not going to be one of them!”

Alesky’s voice was steeped with raw fury, and he banged his fist hard on the wooden edge of the bed.

“Never… Never!” His accelerated breathing, his determination, filled the small space they squatted in.

His tone and fervour convinced Mikhail that Alesky, if willing, would be the right choice. Mikhail was unable to prevent another round of consumptive wheezes brought on by Alesky’s spirited outburst.

In between coughs, he explained. “Thank God you told me that, Alesky. I suspected that we had a common bond. I’m an artist. My works have been seen in many galleries, I’m not going to survive this…”

“But…” Alesky began to interrupt. Mikhail’s gaze and upraised hand cut him short.

“It’s true. I’m not going to get out of this hellhole, apart from when I die. My health will ensure that one way or the other. Look, I trust and like you. We’re similar in many ways. Tonight, I need to show you something. If you are willing, all I ask is that you keep and preserve it for as long as you are able. You have a better chance than I have of getting through this. I know you have hidden things from the SS and Kapo search teams, and I would like you to hide something for me. If it’s too much of a risk, say so, for you know what will happen if you’re caught. I’ll understand.” Mikhail saw Alesky’s puzzled expression, and knew he returned his affection.

“Mikhail, I thought the same about you too. It would be an honour. I will do my very utmost.” He leant forward and grasped Mikhail’s arms and stared into his sunken eyes.

Mikhail continued. “It’s important. Should you fail, I know it won’t be for lack of effort on your part.” He clasped Alesky hard. “Thank you, thank you.” He kissed his cheek.

After supper that evening, Mikhail, in secret and with great caution, retrieved his rolled-up, unfinished work, intact as he had hidden it, and handed it to Alesky. “This is it. It’s my last painting and it’s in three parts.”

“Can I look?”

“No. Please promise me you will only look at it when you get away from here. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I think it’s my best work ever, although it’s unfinished. Is it too big?”

“That’s okay. I’ve hidden bigger things.” He paused and went to the end of his bunk. “Watch.”

Alesky’s bunk formed the bottom of the three tiers. To help support the two top bunks, its structure had additional thickness, both in the uprights and the flimsy looking bottom panels. Mikhail found out that it wasn’t as flimsy as it appeared.

“Try pulling that.” Alesky gestured to the floor-mounted panel.

Mikhail grasped it hard with both hands and pulled as hard as he could. It refused to move. It had been wedged in solid, tight as a nut.

“Now let me try.” Alesky repeated Mikhail’s attempt, with the same result. “You see? It’s unmoveable. Now, watch this.” He placed one hand on the end where the panel had been joined to the upright. “Go to the other end and do the same as me.”

Mikhail moved to the other end, stretched out his arm, and grabbed hold of the far end joint.

“Now what?”

“On the count of three… pull it. One… two… three… pull!”

Mikhail pulled. To his surprise, the panel slipped off its fitting with the softest of creaks from its supports, revealing a spacious compartment underneath that couldn’t be found unless a thorough destructive search by the guards was undertaken.

“Big enough… safe enough, Mikhail?”

“
Chutzpa
, that’s amazing.”

“Give it to me.” Alesky held out his hands to take the unfinished triptych. Mikhail handed it over with some reluctance, but he knew there could be no other way. Alesky placed the triptych into its hiding place and sealed up the end strut.

“There, it is done.”

Mikhail’s emotions showed. “Look, tears are running down my face. Forgive me, Alesky.” He bent his head and with a mud covered hand he wiped away his emotions. “I have not felt like this since I got emotive, drinking vodka after my first ever art prize at the academy.”

“Mikhail, there is nothing to forgive. The honour is mine.”

Mikhail looked up and pulled Alesky’s head in close, embraced him and kissed his forehead.

“Alesky, I’m in your debt and I won’t forget this.”

Alesky broke across his words. “My brother, you’d have done the same for me, that I know for sure, Mikhail Brodsky. C’mon, let’s get some rest while we have the time.”

~ * ~

The Russian Christmas Day of 7 January 1943 was welcomed by a cloudy morning sky, along with the announcement of the four o’clock roll call. Standing at attention on the frost-encrusted dirt stood rows of bedraggled, threadbare and emaciated ranks that barely resembled a once healthy humanity. As always, they stood in half-lit darkness. Alesky had found a short overcoat that once belonged to a deceased prisoner. It didn’t protect him much from the knifing coldness though, as it had no lining. He wiped away a freezing nose-drop before it became a small icicle, hanging with the other body fluids drooping from his unshaven face and orifices.

No man was different.

They had been standing at attention for over an hour, and were ordered to remove their caps. A wind had begun to whip up, slicing through their ranks. A man had been reported missing and they would have to stand there until he was found. When he was, he could expect to receive uncountable lashes from the Kapos at the very least. The other option would be execution on the gallows.

Alesky could hear Mikhail, standing next to him, finding it difficult to control the cough that came out in white breathy billows and wrenching whoops that could clearly be heard above the gathering wind. Alesky gritted his teeth.

My God, if he keeps coughing, he won’t make it through the day one way or the other.
He kicked Mikhail’s foot.

“Mikhail, try to suppress it. The Kapos are looking at you.”

Mikhail coughed up phlegm in a muffled choke and shook his head. “Alesky, I don’t think I care anymore. It will be over soon. My coughing may give me release.”

“Don’t speak that way. You have to stay alive. There are more paintings you have to do… think of that!”

Mikhail gave him an odd smile and turned away his head. “Thank you friend, thank you.” Mikhail’s tears did not escape his notice.

A guard looking for the absentee shouted across the compound. “Don’t worry, we’ve found him. He’s in the shithouse and he’s dead. Get two of those bastards here and they can get rid of him.”

Two men at the end of the ranks were dragged out to remove the corpse and dump it in the prisoners’ communal burial pit, situated at the far end of the camp.

“You men,” shouted the adjutant. “Get to work. This morning, thanks to your man dying, there is no time for breakfast. Slackers will be punished!”

Alesky pushed Mikhail along to their work-post, and noticed two Kapos staring at them and one pointing in their direction. Both had an outstanding record of gratuitous brutality and murder. Alesky sensed that trouble could unfold at any moment.

“Quiet, Mikhail, please, please,” Alesky hissed at him as he exploded into another bout of coughing. “They’re looking at you.” If Mikhail heard him, he gave no sign.

The weather worsened as the morning grew older. Snow descended, covering the ground with a deep duvet of unwelcome whiteness. In its false serenity, Mikhail struggled to move his wheelbarrow. Alesky could see he’d almost reached a point of physical collapse. Mikhail had attempted to manoeuvre out of a rut, but the effort was too much and he folded over the icy iron handle of the barrow. His hand clasped his ravaged chest, causing his scarecrow body into disgorging a lungful of bloody phlegm, staining the snow red around him.

“Mikhail!” Alesky shouted as he dropped his own barrow and ran towards him. He never reached him.

A Kapo, bristling, moved across to prevent him, brandishing a thick stick.

“One more step and it will be the last you’ll ever make.” Alesky froze. Kapos were not known for making idle threats. He could only watch with mounting anxiety as the other Kapo reached Mikhail, picked him up as if he were a wet flannel, and set him down on his knees in front of the upended barrow. He then turned and signalled to an officer who had watched the event. Mikhail made no effort to resist.

Lieutenant Gossberg of the SS
Einsatzgruppen
swiftly marched over. Standing behind Mikhail, he stooped to brush away the snow from his new shiny boots. Once satisfied, he then pulled his pistol from its holster. Alesky clenched his fists, closed his eyes, but not before he saw Mikhail bend his head towards the snow and clasp his hands in prayer.

The retort of the gun blasted through the silence. Alesky, opening his eyes, knew what he would see. Mikhail’s crumpled body, shrouded in the obscene grey and blue stripes of his uniform, lay shot through the back of the head. Face down, spread out as if in supplication, his blood spreading thickly into the pores of the welcoming snow.

Echoing from the woods, Alesky heard the howl of a distant wolf.

Chapter Twelve

King Street, St. James’s, London SW1, the present day

Clovis Munroe locked the door to his office. From his terrestrial globe, he extracted an unopened bottle of twelve-year-old Jura malt whisky. It was time for a quiet moment of reflection. He had no qualms about opening the bottle and pouring an ample measure into a heavyweight tumbler. There was no argument. They were what they purported to be – two works of art by Mikhail Brodsky, as they were since the day he had painted them.

The X-ray analysis confirmed that there was no ghosting, a previous picture beneath the picture you could see. The canvas and linings had not been interfered with, and the frames were original. Ultraviolet inspection confirmed that no glow or hairline cracks was present, which would be found if modern paints had been used. The paper and canvas used fitted the period perfectly. They were in common usage in the regional area of Kharkov in Russia during the 1930s, before the Nazi invasion. The paints and pigments used were no longer available, and the factory producing them had ceased production in 1939. No other substances, metals, dusts, filings or even cosmetics could be found. The signatures were consistent with other known examples, although they had been known to vary from time to time. The colour he used in signing had always been the same. The texture and brush strokes, not just of the signatures but the entire works, remained consistent with all other known examples. The two numbers, twenty-three and twenty-four, were consistent with the numbering system he used. If correct, they filled a couple of gaps of up to a dozen known to be missing.

Placing his delicate fingers across his well-fed belly, Munroe’s contentment was exceeded by another emotion: excitement. As Christie’s chief expert on Russian and Slavonic Art, he had seen it all before: fakes, forgeries in every possible genre, often entire collections.

Once more, he allowed his incisive gaze to saturate the two works in front of him, standing and mounted on easels. He knew from his experience the ease in which Russian art had been forged in the past. Isolated for almost eighty years from mainstream influences, many Russian artists, under constant threat for producing paintings not in the genre of socialist realism, had been forced to work in secret, most in appalling poverty.
Glasnost
had changed all that. To the west, their work had been a revelation, possessing vitality, fresh with abstractions, avant-garde perceptions of figures in sharp blocks of colour. He knew that in their beguiling and often simplistic subtlety arose the problem that they were too easily faked. Impoverished or unscrupulous painters could make anything from $1000 to $15000 plus for a decent fake. One of his London experts had calculated that up to seventy percent of Russian art on the market was forged.