The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “And now he has a court order.”

  Floria nodded. “We have forty-six more days before we must leave, but the signora will not prepare. She is in denial. Perhaps she thinks you will work a miracle and save her farm.”

  “But you do not?” Liam said.

  Floria shrugged. “I am a realist. We have been through two lawyers and both of them examined the papers, both of them fought with Mr. Lenzini and, in the end, both of them told us that we must leave. I mean no disrespect, but I don’t know how you can do what these other two lawyers failed to do.”

  “I don’t know that we can,” Catherine said. “I told that to Tony, but he insisted that we come and look into it. I examined the papers he gave me in Chicago. When I did, I was bewildered. It occurred to me that there were several loose pieces. Unanswered questions. For one, Gabriella has lived here for many years without anyone challenging her title. If the land really belonged to someone else, Gerda Fruman or the Quercia Company, why wouldn’t they have come forward long before this? For another, why would VinCo, such a large conglomerate, be so covetous of Gabriella’s seventy acres? Can it be worth that much to them to go through the expense and effort of opening an estate in Germany and enforcing it here through the Italian courts? Besides, it’s bad public relations. For yet another, why was Gabriella’s deed, which predated VinCo’s by twenty years, determined to be invalid? Why would she take a deed from someone outside the chain? Finally, how is it that Gabriella has never heard of the supposed title holder, Gerda Fruman, or her corporation, the Quercia Company? In many ways, it looks like a setup to me, and as Tony would say, it stinks like a dead fish. And that is why I think there might be a chance.”

  Floria smiled. “I think I like you.”

  “I’d love to get a tour of the property,” Liam said. “Any chance we could do that today?”

  “Signora is very proud of her land, and she’d scold me if I preempted her. She would insist on introducing you to Villa Vincenzo herself. She’ll be up and about in an hour or so. In the meantime, I’ll take you to your room.”

  Inside the villa, it was pleasantly cool. The windows were designed to funnel the breezes. The floors were tiled, the ceilings were high and blades from the hanging fans slowly moved the air around. Catherine and Liam were shown to a back bedroom. The arched windows overlooked the slopes of the western vineyard and the lush green Tuscan hills beyond.

  “You two make yourselves at home. Feel free to use the kitchen and help yourself to anything you find. The cupboards are well stocked, and you’ll usually find a nice pinot in the wine cooler. Franco goes into town every other day, so if you need something, he’ll be happy to pick it up for you.”

  After Floria left, Catherine started to unpack her suitcase and Liam stretched out on the four-poster bed. “Pretty sweet, isn’t it, Cat,” he said. “Not sorry you came now, are you?”

  “It’s beautiful. I’m not sorry I’m here, I just hope we haven’t created any false expectations.”

  “I think you made yourself clear. We gave no promises. How are you coming with the manuscript?”

  “Ada’s story? It reads more like a memoir, not with daily entries but at set periods in Ada’s life. And it is extraordinarily detailed with descriptions and dialogue. I get the feeling that Ada wrote the manuscript at a much later time, maybe to preserve her memories.”

  “For whom?”

  “I don’t know. It’s well written. It’s very introspective. It’s extremely informative. You need to read it as well.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll let you read it and give me the cliff notes. Have you come across any connection with Gabriella or her property?”

  Catherine shook her head. “So far it’s all about Ada Baumgarten’s life in Berlin. I’ll ask Gabriella when I see her.”

  “It’s Gabi,” said a raspy voice from the doorway. “Or Aunt Gabi, if you like. Either one will suffice.” Gabriella, a smile on her face, tottered into the bedroom with the assistance of her cane. “Welcome to my Villa Vincenzo.”

  She greeted Catherine and Liam with a warm hug each and a kiss on the cheek. “Has Floria settled you in? Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?”

  “It’s all very lovely,” Catherine said. “The view is marvelous.”

  Gabi walked to the window. “The windows open outward, like this. There are shutters that you may close for warmth or to sleep a little longer. Floria said you would like to see my farm. Are you up for a brisk walk?”

  Catherine looked at Gabi. It took effort for her to cross the room. She hesitatingly said, “We’d love to, Gabi, but we don’t want you to strain yourself on our account and…”

  Gabi smiled. “I get to ride. We have a golf cart. I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes.”

  Gabi, Floria, Catherine and Liam walked from the steps of the villa a few dozen yards to a small stone building where farm equipment, tools and the golf cart were stored. A man with a broad-brimmed, weather-beaten hat and a thin moustache over a large smile came out to meet them. Gabi said something in Italian and he thrust out his hand to greet Liam. He dipped his cap to Catherine. “Signora.”

  Gabi said, “This is Franco, who has been with this property for all of his sixty years. He was born here, and his family was here for many years before that. And their family before them. They were contadini. All of this land, all of Tuscany for that matter, once belonged to the church or the dukes. The vineyards were independent little serfdoms. The contadini worked and cared for the land. My house and the other little homes in the area were poderi, housing for the contadini, who were basically sharecroppers. Franco does not speak English, but he’s very wise and often communicates well without words. If you want to interview him or talk to him about the property, either Floria or I will translate for you.”

  They strolled from the villa toward the vineyards, down walkways bordered by Italian cypresses, tall evergreens that resembled dark green tapers. They passed groves of fruit trees and olive trees and entered the vineyards, stopping here and there for an explanation of the development of the vine, the variety of the fruit, the cultivation techniques or the mechanics of harvesting. It was easy to see how deeply and lovingly Gabriella was connected to her land. Eventually they came to a smaller section on a gentle slope.

  “This is my best, the finest vineyard in Tuscany,” Gabi said proudly. “All of my sections produce elegant fruit, but they are not all the same. The fruit can vary from hectare to hectare. It has to do with the sun and the breeze and the drainage and the minerals. They vary a little from here to there. But this section, the vines that grow right here, are the best in all of Italy, and I have awards to prove it.”

  She waved her arm. “Look around. The fruit grows on a southwest-facing vineyard at an elevation of over four hundred meters. Beneath the vines is Tuscany’s famous limestone-rich galestro soil. The vines dig deep here and create a wine of incomparable depth, concentration, elegance and balance.”

  Gabi picked a few deep purple grapes, seemingly ready to burst through their skin, and handed them to Liam and Catherine. They squirted when Catherine bit them. She wiped her chin and said, “Very sweet. The skin is thick and different from table grapes.” She looked out to the horizon. “This is all very beautiful. I can understand why you fight for this land.”

  Gabi turned serious. “I will die before I let Lenzini take my farm. I will stand here with my shotgun. He will not have my land. Especially these vines.”

  Franco nodded. He didn’t know English, but he knew what she was saying. “Le viti di Ada,” he said. “Questo é il vigneto di Ada.”

  Catherine quickly glanced at Gabi. “What did he say?”

  “He said these are Ada’s vines. This is Ada’s vineyard.”

  Catherine bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Ada lived here? She planted these vines? You know I’ve been reading Ada’s story.”

  Gabi smiled and raised her eyebrows.

  “Who was she, Gabi? Was she your mother, your sister, yo
ur aunt?”

  “How far have you come in the story?”

  “February 1935. When Ada’s father warned her about the Brownshirts, Ada’s mother was frightened.”

  Gabi nodded. “For now, I will let the story talk for me.”

  “Why did you send her story to me, Gabi? Why do you want me to know about Ada? Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “Finish reading. Then you will understand, and maybe then we will talk. Not now.”

  “Just answer one question. Who is Ada?”

  Gabi turned her golf cart. “It’s time to return to the villa. I’m tired. Read Ada’s story. Please. You will find lots of answers.”

  On the walk back to the house, Liam smiled. “Frustrated by the signora?”

  “You bet. I wish she’d give me a hint, but did you see her face when we asked about it? Her eyes opened wide and her facial muscles twitched.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Maybe tomorrow. Aren’t we going into town?”

  “Yes. We have a meeting with Gabriella’s first attorney, Paulo Giangiorgi. He said he’d share his file with me.”

  Liam turned to Floria. “Would you please ask Franco if he knew Gerda Fruman or if he ever heard of the Quercia Company? He’s been here sixty years.”

  Floria posed the question and Franco shook his head.

  “Odd,” said Liam. “Would you ask him if he knew Carlo Vanucci?”

  Again, Franco shook his head and answered in Italian.

  “He says he is sorry, but he does not know any of those people,” Floria said.

  Franco added, “Non sono mai stati in proprietà.”

  “They have never been to the property, as far as he knows,” Floria translated. “And I would say the same thing, but I have only been here for ten years.”

  “Thank you,” Liam said, and then he yawned. “Sorry. Jet lag. If we have a few hours before dinner, I’m going to take a nap. Want to join me, Cat?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I’m not tired. I’m going to sit on the veranda, drink a lemonade and read. The curiosity is killing me.”

  FOURTEEN

  Berlin, November 1935

  It was barely a month until our winter concert and our rehearsals were running late every day. On Sunday, our practice started at 9:00 a.m. and did not finish until 2:00 p.m. I was exhausted and hungry, and I rushed to get home. When I opened the door, what should I see but Kurt Koenig sitting on the couch in our front room. It had been nearly two years. He had grown tall and filled out. All teenage vestiges of gangliness had given way to square shoulders and a powerful posture. He looked strong and handsome in his uniform. I rushed over and gave him a hug.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “My unit is in Berlin and we have the afternoon free. I couldn’t imagine coming to the city and not seeing you.”

  His voice had deepened, his smile was gorgeous and I wanted nothing more than to be alone with him. But my parents were in the house. “Do you want to take a walk?” I said. “Let’s get some hot chocolate in the Tiergarten.”

  The late November sky was clear and bright, but a cold wind was blowing from the north, a hint of what winter had in store for us. We walked the footpaths, my hand in his.

  “When did you join the Wehrmacht?” I said.

  “I enlisted six months ago. I would have been drafted if I hadn’t volunteered, and enlisting made my father very happy. But let’s talk about you. I have heard wonderful things, Ada. I even read an article in the paper about the night you played the ‘Meditation.’ I always knew you would be a star. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  I blushed. “Yes, you did.”

  “And you will be the first woman concertmaster of the Berlin Philharmonic. No doubt.”

  I laughed. “I would have to be a member of the orchestra first and they don’t let women in.”

  “That will change,” Kurt said. “The world is changing, and it will be women like you who change it.”

  “Wow, pretty suave, Mr. Koenig. Are you trying to charm me?”

  “Yes, I am, but it is the truth.”

  “Well, it worked, so you better give me a kiss.” He didn’t need to be asked twice. He stepped over and took me in his arms. Perhaps it was that moment, that very moment, when a kiss conveys more than playful banter. It was full of promise and hope, and it touched me deeply. It was a kiss to build upon. I returned it in kind.

  “I miss you. I wish you were still with the Junior,” I said. “I wish I could see you every day, just like before.”

  “So do I. But my life is on a different track. I am a career military man, just like my father.”

  What a waste, I thought.

  We bought hot chocolate and cookies at the refreshment cart and sat on a bench.

  “Our concert is set for December 15. Can you come?”

  Kurt shook his head. “We’re stationed in Frankfurt and we’ll be on maneuvers all of December. I don’t know when I will be in Berlin next. In February, we’ll be stationed in Garmisch-Partenkirchen for the Winter Olympics.”

  I pouted. “Can’t you get away for a little while? A weekend pass?”

  Kurt laughed. “No such thing. Besides, my squad commander is a real jerk. Mean and tough. Very hard on us.” Kurt stood and pretended to salute. “Yes, sir, Corporal Kleiner. No, sir, Corporal Kleiner.”

  I was shocked. “Did you say Kleiner? Herbert Kleiner? Short red hair?”

  “Yes, do you know of him?”

  I nodded. “I saw him put in his place by Reinhard Heydrich. He was scolded like a child.”

  Kurt turned very serious. “It was you? You were the violinist? You were on the stage?” He slapped his forehead. “Of course, I should have known. The Jewish violinist.”

  “What?”

  “Kleiner. He blames you for the collapse of his career. He says he was on track to be Heydrich’s right-hand man, a top officer in the SS, until some Jewish bitch sideswiped him and embarrassed him in front of the general.”

  I laughed. “Ha. I’m glad. He was a snarky, evil rat who told Heydrich that I should be banned from the stage. He embarrassed himself by publicly contradicting the general. I really didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, Kleiner thinks you did. He thinks you ruined his career. If I were you, I’d steer clear of Corporal Kleiner.”

  Just then, a group of Brownshirts came marching by. We stood and saluted. Kurt looked at me with caring eyes and said, “You’ve learned to be careful. Bad times are coming, Ada, and we need to be smart. We need to survive. There will be a place for us when the madness is over.”

  I squeezed the locket that I wore every day, the one that Grandpa gave me, my magic locket, and I made a wish. “There will be, I’m certain,” I said. “How can we continue to see each other?”

  He shook his head and shrugged. “I’ll be here whenever I get the chance, I promise,” he said, and kissed me again. “You’ll come home one day and I’ll be sitting in your living room. I have to go now.”

  He walked away, and I thought to myself, “Magic locket, you better do your job.”

  A group of teenagers walked by, smiled and gave me a Hitler salute.

  Oddly, by 1935, the Hitler salute was not solely a political pledge or military statement. It was a greeting. It had become as commonplace as a handshake. You’d see a person enter a restaurant, approach a table and give a Hitler salute. Everyone would chuckle. It was jocular. Then it worked its way into daily exchanges. Greet a friend on the street and flash a Hitler salute. It was nationalistic. It was very German. It was second nature. But not for Jews.

  In many ways, Hitler’s tirades and rantings were energizing the German people. He loudly condemned the onerous conditions that the world had imposed on Germany in the Treaty of Versailles, and his condemnations resonated with the populace. He promised to make Germany great again. In 1931, before the Nazis took over, five million Germans were unemployed, one out of every eight. Now, the German economy was rebounding. After years
of shame and guilt, people were starting to feel proud to be German. Once again, that did not include the Jews.

  If a salute was given in my social circle, there would be an apology. Sorry, they would say. It was just a reflex. Only an expression of enthusiasm for Germany, not an endorsement of racial policies. No one wanted to openly admit they condoned nazification. In general, even among adults, Hitler’s hateful rhetoric was discounted as bluster, as if to say, “I don’t believe in all that Nazi ideology, but you must admit, Germany’s doing much better economically.”

  Of course, “much better” was not a perception held by Jews. With every passing day, our world became darker. Last September, at the annual Nazi party rally, Hitler introduced the Nuremburg Laws, which were unanimously adopted by the Reichstag. First was the Reich Citizenship Law, which defined a citizen as a person of “German blood.” Next was the Law for the Protection of German Blood and Honor, which forbade marriages or extramarital relations between Jews and persons of German blood. Two months later, “German blood” was defined to exclude Jews. Thus, on November 14, 1935, Jews were no longer citizens, could not vote, could not hold even the most insignificant public office, and we were barred from relationships with 90 percent of the country.

  The subject of our family leaving Germany was always playing in the background. My mother recounted how many of her friends had already sold their houses, taken what money they could and left Germany. Grandma and Grandpa had made arrangements to move to New York and they were leaving soon. Mama’s social circle had dwindled down to just a few people. From a life of glamorous entertaining, my mother now felt isolated. The law required her to dismiss her household help—a Jew could not employ a person of German blood—and so my mother was forced to discharge Krista, a woman who had been with us for twelve years. She cleaned, she cooked, she cared for me and now she was gone. It was like another member of the family had moved away. As far as Mama was concerned, it was time to leave.

  As for seventeen-year-old me, I was strongly and vocally opposed to moving. My father still had a job and a prestigious position. I loved my high school. I had a starring role with the Junior Orchestra and our winter concert was less than a month away. Once again, I was scheduled to be featured as a soloist, this time playing Pablo de Sarasate’s Carmen Fantasy: five movements based on themes from Bizet’s opera. Every day was exciting for me and I couldn’t conceive of life away from my orchestra and my friends. Someday this ship would right, and Kurt and I had made promises to each other.