Julian Altman could make a violin cry. It had always been his mother's wish that her firstborn son become a great musician, and Julian did. He started playing the violin at age nine. Within two years, he had made his professional debut. From concertmaster of his high school orchestra to the first chair of the National Symphony, the young violinist quickly made a prestigious name for himself in the eastern United States. There were numerous solo concert dates as well.
And yet, wherever Julian performed amid scores of musicians, he was utterly alone. The beauty he created was remarkable, and some said, incomparable. By 1945, Julian Altman outgrew even the concert stage which had nurtured him. He went solo full-time, headlining in New York's most exclusive clubs and distinguished hotels: The Saint Regis, The Roosevelt, The Trocadero. He became a favorite of presidents and charmed the White House with his musical magic under FDR, Truman, and Eisenhower.
But within the soul of the creator of that spectacular beauty, within his soul, lurked a beast—a Mr. Hyde. For Julian Altman, whose towering, lyrical violin music captivated audiences for half a century, was, when the music stopped, rotten to the core.
It is impossible to know precisely how and when his private life of dissipation and debauchery began. It happened early, for certain. Drinking and gambling at first, then rampant womanizing, and then con artistry. Countless nights, Julian's forlorn Russian-immigrant mother would search for him in the dens of his incessant iniquity, but he was not to be retrieved. Not ever.
So committed was Julian Altman to the bad life that he would sometimes forget his violin, leaving it in those dark places, and then go searching for it as his mother had once searched for him. Even back in the 1930s, there were rumors of mob ties; those were more than rumors. Then, in 1985, came his conviction for sexually molesting a six-year-old girl. Subsequently, he was imprisoned.
Julian Altman died in prison only a short while ago, of stomach cancer. But before he did, he called his wife to his side. He told her about a secret compartment in his violin case. The papers in that secret compartment authenticated the violin as a Stradivarius. Newspaper clippings in the compartment told how it had been stolen from Carnegie Hall in 1936. Julian had always said that he'd bought it from a man who stole it for a hundred dollars, and had played the stolen violin for fifty years.
Well, the statute of limitations on the theft has long since expired. And yet, even though Julian's widow might have kept the valuable violin, she elected instead to return it to the insurance company, which long ago paid the former owner for his loss.
They say in Maestro Altman's hands, his instrument spoke, but it never told. He did. For on his deathbed, Julian revealed this one thing more: he described the thief from whom he said he had bought the violin. And in describing the thief, he precisely described himself.
And now you know the rest of the story.
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