The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Can’t they help her?”

  Tony shook his head. “They say that VinCo has better title than Aunt Gabi.”

  “How can that be?” Liam said.

  Tony shrugged. He gestured to the stack of documents. “They sent me these papers.”

  Catherine thumbed through the documents. “They’re all in Italian. What do they say?”

  “A lot of words that don’t mean much to me. I can’t make any sense out of this. But you, Catherine, you’re the best lawyer in Chicago. Maybe the whole country.”

  Catherine smiled. “I appreciate your confidence, but I don’t practice in Italy. I’m not familiar with Italian law, I’m not licensed to practice there and I don’t even speak the language. You need an Italian lawyer.”

  “I told you, I’ve hired two of them. They both say the same thing—VinCo is the legal title holder and Aunt Gabi has to move. You want my opinion? VinCo paid them off.”

  “I can’t read these papers, Tony.”

  “I’ll get them translated for you. Would you go over there and straighten this out? You could talk to these lawyers. Italian, English, it doesn’t matter. You all speak legalese. Would you go help my aunt? You’d love her.”

  Catherine sighed. “Have the documents translated and delivered to my office. I’ll review them and try to give you my opinion. No promises.”

  Tony leaned over, cupped Catherine’s face and kissed her. “Grazie, grazie. And then you’ll go over there and stop them from evicting Aunt Gabi?”

  “I didn’t say that. First things first, Tony. Let me read through the papers, try to figure out what’s going on and then we’ll talk.”

  “Fantastico.” He turned to his bartender. “Franco, three glasses of limoncello.”

  * * *

  CATHERINE LOCKHART’S LAW OFFICE was situated in a storefront building on Clark Street in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood. Catherine had been a solo practitioner in that location for five years, enjoying a comfortable neighborhood practice, in contrast to the pressured life she had previously endured as an associate lawyer with the downtown firm of Jenkins and Fairchild. It was during the case of Solomon v. Rosenzweig that Walter Jenkins had given her an ultimatum—drop Ben Solomon as a client or leave the firm. She chose the latter and has never looked back.

  Tony Vincenzo entered her office early Tuesday morning and was greeted by Catherine’s receptionist. She walked him back to the conference room where Catherine and Liam were waiting.

  “I hope you have good news for me,” Tony said.

  Catherine shook her head. “The records are not as complete as I would like, but from what I can see, it looks like the Italian lawyers were right. VinCo purchased the Villa Vincenzo property, all seventy acres of it, from a decedent’s estate in 2015. The deed was accepted by the province of Siena and recorded.”

  “What estate? My aunt is alive. How could there be a decedent’s estate? Whose estate?”

  “The deed came from the administrator of the estate of Gerda Fruman, a German citizen. She was the sole owner of Quercia Company, the corporation that owned the land. I have a copy of the administrator’s deed. It was filed online.”

  “This has got to be a mistake. I never heard of Gerda Fruman. Or Quercia. I’ve been to Pienza many times, I’ve stayed at my aunt’s villa for weeks at a time, and take my word for it, there’s never been any Gerda Fruman. You gotta clear this up for me.”

  Catherine reached into the stack of papers and withdrew a court order. “This order, the one Attorney Lenzini dropped at Gabi’s house, grants possession to VinCo on September 10. It was issued by a judge after a hearing. The order recites that neither your aunt nor her lawyer came to court. They didn’t show up.”

  “Okay, that’s the reason then. She probably fired the last lawyer. He told her she didn’t have a good case. My aunt can be stubborn.”

  Catherine shook her head. “The judge ruled that your aunt’s title to the land was not valid. It was outside the chain.”

  “The chain? What chain? What does that mean?”

  “The chain of title, Tony. How the property passes from one owner to another. When you look at the history of the property in the official records, it shows each time it was deeded from one person to another. The judge ruled that your aunt got a deed from someone who didn’t own the property.”

  “When was this? Who did she buy the property from who supposedly didn’t own it?”

  “In 1995, Carlo Vanucci deeded the property to Gabriella Vincenzo and it was recorded.”

  “Well, okay then, it was recorded before 2015 when VinCo got a deed.”

  Catherine shrugged. “I know, but the court ruled that Vanucci didn’t own the property. If Italy is like the U.S., the registrar’s office will accept anything you give them to record, as long as it correctly identifies the land. It’s not the registrar’s job to determine if a deed is valid—he just records it as a document. If someone claims it’s invalid, it is up to a court to decide. From what I see here, a judge examined the chain of title and came to the conclusion that Gabriella’s deed was not valid and that the deed from Fruman’s estate to VinCo was valid.”

  Tony stood. He paced the room. “Something’s wrong. This is a fraud. My aunt has lived there for years. I’ve been going there for fifty years, since I was a boy. There’s no such person as Gerda Fruman. I never heard of no company named Quercia whatever. Can’t you see? VinCo’s paying off everyone. They made up this Fruman estate. Holy Mother of God, this is going to kill my aunt Gabi. She can’t be evicted from her home. You gotta help me. You gotta go there and stop this.”

  “I don’t know what we can do in Italy,” Liam said. “You heard her, Catherine’s not an Italian lawyer. If you’re going to attack this order, you need to do it through a lawyer who practices in the province of Siena.”

  “I’ve had two of them. They both sided with VinCo.”

  “Maybe they’re right, Tony. Maybe Aunt Gabi’s title is defective.”

  “I don’t buy it. Liam, I know you for years and you can trust me when I tell you this—it stinks like a dead fish. Please, go there and see if there’s something you can do for my aunt. Catherine may not be licensed in Italy, but she has a sharp mind. She can figure things out. And you, you can find out who the hell this Quercia is. I’ll pay all the costs, I’ll pay Catherine’s attorney’s fees and you two can stay at the villa. Worst comes to worst, you got a couple weeks in Tuscany. Is that so bad?”

  “It’s very tempting,” Catherine said, “but I’m pretty sure you’d be wasting your money.”

  “It’s my money. So let me waste it a little and try to help my aunt.”

  Catherine and Liam looked at each other. They shrugged. They tilted their heads. They pursed their lips. “Give us a minute,” she said. Once outside the room she whispered to Liam, “Do you really want to do this? It’s a wild goose chase.”

  He nodded. “I do. I want to give it a shot. Tony and I go back a long way. I feel like we might dig something up. This could be a scam. And like he says, we’d have a couple of weeks in Tuscany. That’s not so hard to take.”

  “What about the baby?”

  “What about him? We’ll take him. He loves Italian food.”

  “No. That’s a terrible idea. Let me talk to Sarah and see if she can stay.”

  “You’ll go?”

  “I feel like I’m being selfish here. You and I haven’t been away since Belfast, and that was hardly a vacation. Like Tony says, ‘couple of weeks in Tuscany—is that so bad?’ I would go, but I don’t have a lot of faith in our ability to resolve this problem.”

  Tony was waiting at the table, drumming his fingers, when they returned. “So?”

  “With the understanding that I may be entirely ineffective,” Catherine said, “we’ll go. I have some matters that need my attention first and I’ll have to juggle my schedule, but we can go in two weeks.”

  With tears in his eyes, Tony gave them each a hug. “Grazie. God bless you. I�
�ll let my aunt know you’re coming. That’ll lift her spirits for sure.”

  THREE

  Pienza, Italy, July 2017

  THE PIAZZA PIO II was alive with the sounds, colors and aromas of its weekly outdoor market. Townsfolk, tourists and the plainly curious arrived from all directions. The brick clock tower of the Palazzo Piccolomini anchored the piazza and threw a long shadow onto the plaza’s wide brick expanse. Commissioned and built over five hundred years ago by Pienza’s founder, Enea Silvio Piccolomini, the man who would later become Pope Pius II, the piazza overlooked the fertile Tuscan valley, known as the Val d’Orcia. On the left edge of the piazza sat the building that Pope Pius II gave to Cardinal Rodrigo Borgia, who would later become Pope Alexander VI. On the right sat the Duomo. Between the buildings, dozens of portable canopies and folding tables were set up by vendors who trucked in their fruits, vegetables, charcuterie, cheeses, pastries and crafts to sell at the Sunday market.

  Gabriella Vincenzo, guided by her nurse, Floria, slowly made her way through the market, sampling a piece of fruit here and there as she bid buongiorno to the kiosk owners she had known for so many years. Gabriella was no longer able to navigate the town’s stone passageways on her own. Floria guided her wheelchair.

  “We’ll take one pint of strawberries and a small sack of apricots,” she said to a vendor.

  He smiled, nodded, bagged up her order and said, “And here’s a pint of cherries, Gabi, the end of the season. Sweet, just like you.” He handed the bag to Floria. Leaning over his counter, he whispered, “How’s that nasty matter with Lenzini working out? Is he going to leave you alone?”

  “He should roast in everlasting hell,” Gabi answered loudly, clenching her fist. “Would you believe that last week, Lenzini threw a court paper at me, Piero? It orders me to vacate my own house in sixty days.”

  “How awful for you. I am so sorry. I want you to know that you and Floria have a room at my house whenever you want it. You know there isn’t a soul in Pienza who wouldn’t make the same offer. And we’d all love to throw Lenzini into the goat pen where he belongs.”

  “That’s very nice of you. I am lucky to have friends. But my nephew Tony in America says he might be able to help. He’s friendly with a very sharp lawyer. And she’s coming here next week.”

  Piero smiled. “Is she Italiana?”

  Gabi shook her head and winked. “No, and that’s a good thing. VinCo and Lenzini can’t buy her off. Tony says she looked at the papers and figured out the reasons that the judge ruled against me.”

  “Why was that?”

  Gabi shrugged. “She says the judge found my title to be ‘outside the chain’ or something like that.”

  Piero nodded his understanding. “When did you get your title to the property?”

  “Twenty-two years ago, way before VinCo. What does that have to do with a chain?”

  “It means that the judge thinks that when you got your deed, it didn’t come from the owner.”

  “It most certainly did, and I know that for a fact.”

  Piero shrugged. “Well, your American lawyer’s going to have to convince the judge. Sometimes these title issues are hard to figure out. May God’s graces fall upon that avvocata. She’s going to need a lot of help.”

  Gabi raised her eyes to the heavens and nodded. Then, turning to Floria, she said, “I have an idea. You know those papers I keep in the leather portfolio? The one locked in the cabinet by my bed?”

  Floria nodded. “Ada’s story?”

  “Right. Take it to Mr. Campagna in Siena and have it translated from German to English. I want to ship it to my nephew right away.”

  Floria wrinkled her forehead. “But, signora, it is a very long story, written many years ago. I know Tony. He’s not the reading type.”

  “It’s not for Tony, it’s for the woman lawyer.”

  Floria smiled. “Very wise, signora.”

  FOUR

  Chicago, July 2017

  LIAM STOOD IN THE foyer of his Lincoln Park townhome and scratched his head. Three suitcases and a large briefcase with Catherine’s computer and working papers lay on the floor. “How are we supposed to get all this to the airport?” he said.

  “I ordered a large car,” Catherine called from the second floor. “Do you know where my passport is? I can’t find it.”

  “I have it. You asked me to hold it for you ten minutes ago. Did you also reserve a large car in Italy?”

  “Of course.”

  “And a muscular porter to carry all this stuff?”

  “That would be you.”

  The doorbell rang, and Liam made his way around the baggage to answer the door. Tony was standing on the stoop with a leather binder in his hand and a paper bag. He looked at the floor of the foyer and started laughing.

  “This is all your fault, you know,” Liam said.

  “You’re on a humanitarian mission. You should feel honored I gave you the opportunity,” he said between chuckles. “I have something for Catherine and something for you.”

  “That’s what we need, more stuff to take on the trip.”

  Tony held the binder out. “My aunt Gabi sent this to me and told me to ‘hand it directly to the woman lawyer.’”

  Liam started to take the binder, but Tony pulled it away. “You ain’t the woman lawyer. I got clear instructions.”

  “I believe that I am the woman lawyer,” Catherine said, coming down the stairs.

  Tony greeted her with a kiss and a warm hug. “Aunt Gabi asked that I deliver this to you and only you. It’s a binder full of papers. I got it yesterday.”

  “They’re not in Italian, are they?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nah. It’s all in English. I think it’s like a book.”

  Catherine opened the binder. There were easily two hundred pages. The title page just said My Meditation: A Work for Solo Violin.

  “It looks like a manuscript. What’s this all about, Tony?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t read it and Aunt Gabi didn’t say.”

  “Why does Aunt Gabi want me to read it?”

  Again, he shook his head. “She didn’t say, but she spent good money on overnight delivery service to make sure I’d get it to you before you left.”

  Catherine nodded. “What’s in the paper bag?”

  Tony smiled broadly. “That’s for my buddy, Liam. Italian deli sandwiches. You can’t eat that airplane crap.”

  FIVE

  En Route—Somewhere over the North Atlantic Ocean, 2:00 a.m.

  THE CABIN LIGHTS HAD dimmed, and Liam was asleep. Catherine opened Aunt Gabi’s binder and took out the manuscript.

  My Meditation

  A Work for Solo Violin

  My name is Ada Baumgarten. In the time that has been allotted to me, I will recall and write as much of my life’s story as I am able, all for a very special person. I am fortunate that my memories are so vivid and detailed. I can see the people, I can hear their voices and I can recall the conversations word for word, as though it were playing out before me.

  Despite my present circumstances, I have no regrets. I have led a rich and fortunate life. From an early age, my father told me that I was kissed by the muses, and in truth, I offer no other explanation for my gifts. I have stepped onto celestial stages, I have soared through barriers and I have loved and been loved truly and deeply. Whatever God has in store for me, I will accept with grace. He has given me more than my share.

  Berlin, 1918

  I was born in Berlin, Germany, on November 11, 1918, the very day the Armistice was signed ending the Great World War. I was the first and only child of Jacob and Friede Baumgarten. My father was a musician, and not just any musician. He held the first chair in the first violin section of the world’s greatest orchestra—the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra. He was the orchestra’s concertmaster.

  On the day I was born, the orchestra’s principal conductor was Arthur Nikisch. On the day I was born, Jacob Baumgarten was a no-show. He was at
the hospital, pacing in the father’s waiting room with a box of cigars. He was expecting a boy. I disappointed him, but only momentarily. The box of cigars was meant for his friends, but they never made it out of the hospital. He was so overcome with joy, that he handed a cigar to everyone he saw on the fifth floor of Berlin General. He was a proud papa.

  My father was a sweet and gentle man who had but two preoccupations: his music and his family. All else he relinquished to the governance of my mother. He deferred to her on all matters concerning the home, our finances, our social circles and, most significantly, the ground rules for my upbringing. Whatever she decided was accepted with an affectionate smile.

  My mother was a very beautiful woman. She had dark eyes and long, luxurious hair that she would brush more times than I could count. Our home was her domain and every piece had its place. She managed our household efficiently, cooked the dinners, policed my activities, supervised the household staff and created a proper and inviting Jewish home. To that end, she sought to mirror her own upbringing. My maternal grandparents, while not wealthy, were quite comfortable. They were Ostjuden, having immigrated from Eastern Europe.

  My grandfather owned a jewelry store on Oranienburger Strasse in Berlin’s Hackescher Markt area. He was small in stature but tall in character. And he loved me deeply. On my tenth birthday, he gave me a cameo locket, and it became my most treasured possession. He said it was a magic locket and I believed him. In his business, Grandpa was keen and sharp, but in his home, he was kind and easygoing. He didn’t like to make waves. Like my father, he left that to the women. Mama and Grandma were two peas in a pod; efficient, organized women, not necessarily the warm and nurturing type. They left that to the men.

  Though Mama never considered herself a socialite (she thought the moniker demeaning), she moved easily and gracefully in the grandeur of interwar Berlin, and she loved to entertain. Always in control, she could host a fashionable dinner party, a garden luncheon or a child’s birthday party, all with equal elegance. Because of Papa’s celebrity as the Philharmonic’s concertmaster, she was called upon to host a number of dinners with local and visiting musicians. She understood social politics—who sat where, who to invite and who to exclude. She would later explain to me that some couples were oil and some were water and we would try not to mix them.