Kurt laughed too, but added, “Just be careful. Stay away from Kleiner. He’s a scorpion.”
We had another round of beer as the bar was emptying. “Do you have to get back now?” Kurt said.
It was one of those flip-a-coin moments. It was already 2:00 a.m. We were supposed to board the bus at 6:00 a.m. I said, “What do you have in mind?”
“Could we just take a walk?”
I was pushing my luck, but I had made my decision. “The bus leaves at six o’clock and our train leaves at eight. You have to get me back to my room by five.”
We started walking through the town, hand in hand. At the corner, he stopped, took a deep breath, turned me around and passionately kissed me. There we were—me and a Nazi soldier in full uniform—kissing under a streetlamp. The wind was still, soft snowflakes were falling, the world was quiet and I was in love.
“You know, you’re breaking the law,” I said. “You just kissed a Jew and we’re holding hands. The kissing police are going to arrest you.”
“I’ll gladly take the punishment, it was worth it. You want to talk about breaking the law? I’m in love with a Jewish girl. How am I supposed to deal with that?”
That was just what I wanted to hear. He felt the same way I did, but he was taking a much bigger risk. Not only did Nazi Party rules prohibit contact with Jews, but the 1935 racial laws forbade marital or extramarital relations between Jews and people of German blood. And Kurt was in the military.
There were other people out walking, but the streets were clearing. And it was cold. Kurt could see I was shivering and he put his arm around me. We were near the temporary quarters that had been constructed for some of the athletes. Kurt stopped in a bar, picked up a couple of lidded beer steins and we ducked into the hall of a temporary residence.
Time was short, but the hours were sweet. We found a corner and some privacy. It was a chance for intimate conversation and talk of hopeful days to come. Kurt was so easy to be with. He had always been that way, but it seemed as though there were always forces trying to pull us apart.
Kurt told me that he hated the army. He had no desire to make a career of it like his father, but Hitler was quickly building the world’s largest army and there was no choice. All able-bodied young men were being conscripted. The army was continually getting new equipment. Soldiers were being trained on heavy artillery. There was talk about remilitarizing the Rhineland or marching into the Sudeten mountains. Kurt was sure that war was on the horizon.
We were interrupted by the sound of men talking outside the building. I checked my watch. It was already 5:15. Where had the time gone? I started to panic. “I’m late! We have to go.”
“Just a minute,” he said quietly and put his finger to his lips. “One of those voices—it’s Kleiner. Believe me, he’ll recognize you. If he catches us, we’re done for. We can’t let that happen.”
“I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get back.”
“We have to wait.”
We waited for thirty minutes, but from the tenor of their conversations, it didn’t seem like the men were leaving any time soon. There were three, maybe four of them and they were joking around, passing a bottle and smoking cigarettes.
“Kurt, we have to make a run for it.”
He nodded and took off his coat. “Wrap yourself up in this coat and make sure to cover your face. Let’s hope they’ve been up all night and they’re hammered. If Kleiner thinks I just picked up a town girl and brought her in here, he’ll scold me, but he’ll do it with a wink. I don’t think he’ll chase us.”
I put my hands on my hips. “A town girl? Is that what I am? How many town girls have you picked up?”
I wrapped Kurt’s coat around my shoulders and pulled it down over my head. I couldn’t see very well. “Don’t let me fall, Kurt.”
“We clasped hands, opened the door and bolted out of the hallway. We practically knocked Kleiner over.
“Halt!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Halt!”
“Keep running,” Kurt whispered. “It’s our only chance.”
“Halt!”
“Nein, nein,” Kurt yelled. “Ich bin Kurt Koenig.” And we kept running.
I heard Kleiner laughing. “Let them go,” he said. “He’s one of mine, out to get some action. I hope she’s worth it, Koenig.”
“Jawohl,” Kurt yelled over his shoulder. “She is.”
I made it back to the hotel just as the instruments were being loaded into the truck. Mrs. Linder pulled me aside. “Where have you been, Miss Baumgarten?”
“Out for a walk. I got lost.”
“I’m ashamed of you,” she said. “Even though you asked them to lie for you, your roommates finally confessed that you left at midnight. I have reported this to Dr. Kritzer, and I will make sure your father is informed.”
Papa met me at the train station in Berlin. Before he could even kiss me hello, Mrs. Linder pushed past me and cornered him. She went on for a good five minutes about how I had stayed out all night. About how she had seen me talking to a German soldier at the reception—a grown man, no less. About how shameless and embarrassing my conduct was. And of course, all about my loose morals. Finally, she said, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“First, I’m going to say hello to my daughter, tell her that I’m happy to see her and ask her if she had a good time. Then I’m going to inquire about the performances, and then I’ll take her home. Good day, Mrs. Linder.”
Mrs. Linder huffed her indignation and stormed away. I was sure I hadn’t heard the last of this.
In the car, my father turned to me. “Was it Kurt?”
I nodded.
“Well, you picked a fine time for your indiscretion, Ada.”
“We didn’t do anything, Papa. We had a few beers and sat in a hallway talking. I’m sorry. It isn’t like I get to see him very often. I may never see him again.”
“You know Mrs. Linder is a busybody. You can be assured that her gossip will spread far and wide. Staying out all night compromised the chaperones. They were responsible for you.”
“I didn’t think they would find out. I lost track of time.”
“Well, how is young Kurt?”
“He’s wonderful. Thanks, Papa.”
Then my father laughed. “I’m afraid we’re in a heap of trouble here at the Junior. I hope you’re prepared to eat some humble pie.”
I nodded. “I understand. It was worth it.”
SIXTEEN
Pienza, Italy, July 2017
CATHERINE CLOSED HER EYES and smiled in the warm morning sun. “Breakfast on a veranda in Tuscany. Fresh strawberries, warm bread. Can I use the cliché ‘I could get used to this,’ even if I mean it?” She took a deep breath. “Even the air is sweet.”
“Nothing wrong with Chicago air,” Liam said, and then he sang, “That’s where the lake breezes blow. It’s always fair weather, when we get together in C-H-I-C-A-G-O.” He took a bow. “Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week.”
Catherine shook her head and muttered, “And I married this guy.” She reached into her purse and took out her cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” Liam said.
“Well, first I’m texting Sarah to remind her of the baby’s medicine, and then I’m calling Attorney Giangiorgi.”
“Cat, you’ve called Sarah four times since we arrived. She knows about Ben’s medicine. Ben is just fine. It’s three in the morning in Chicago. Your text will beep and wake her up.”
Catherine nodded. “You’re right. I just miss him. We’ve never left him before.”
“He has Sarah and your sister Carol looking after him. He’s fine.”
Catherine dialed the attorney, confirmed the appointment for 11:00 a.m. and wrote down the directions. “Mr. Giangiorgi is located on the Via del Giglio, just off the Corso Il Rossellino, a few steps from the Piazza Pio,” she said, letting the Italian names roll off her tongue. “He said that if Gabi wasn’t coming, we should bring a signed authorizat
ion allowing him to speak to us. I’ll write one out for Floria to translate.”
“Doesn’t Gabi want to go with us?”
Catherine shook her head. “Floria said it would be too exhausting for her, but I think she means emotionally, not physically.”
* * *
THE TOWN OF PIENZA was a postage stamp on the provincial envelope called Siena. If you stretched your arms in opposite directions, you could touch the city limits. Catherine gushed her adoration for the picturesque countryside, oohing and ahhing during the entire fifteen-minute drive from Villa Vincenzo.
“Look at this, Liam. Are you looking at these hills? I expect that any minute I will see the ducal army on horseback, or maybe Caesar’s legions marching toward Rome. I could live here, Liam, I really could.”
“And what would you do with yourself?”
“I’d eat strawberries on the veranda and take Ben for long walks in the Tuscan sun.”
“I mean how would you support yourself—you can’t practice law here.”
“Lord almighty, do you always have to trample on my daydreams? Can’t you just say, ‘Yes, and I would sit in the shade and drink the finest Sangiovese’?”
“But how could I afford to buy the finest Sangiovese?”
“Ach. You’re too Irish to enjoy a Tuscan dream.”
“Northern Irish. We dream of castles and kings.”
* * *
THE OFFICE OF PAULO Giangiorgi, avvocato, was on the first floor of a small commercial building on the Via del Giglio. His office was not unlike Catherine’s, with file jackets, books and papers strewn over his desk. Paulo appeared to be in his midforties, his light blue shirt was open at the collar and his sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. His smile was warm.
“How can I help?” he said.
“You represented Gabriella Vincenzo in the case where VinCo is trying to evict her?”
“Si.”
“We’d like to get some idea why Gabriella Vincenzo is being evicted from the property she has lived on for so many years,” Catherine said.
Paulo shrugged. “Yes, it is sad, but the answer is simple. She does not own the property. It is owned by another.”
“She believes she owns the property. I’ve seen the deed. It was signed by Carlo Vanucci. She bought it.”
“No, no. You are mistaken. Gabriella did not buy the property; she was given a deed as a gift. No money changed hands. I know that because there were no taxes paid on the transaction, which are required for a sale.”
“Why would that matter? Isn’t the gift of property valid in Italy? Wasn’t the deed recorded?”
“I only point out that it was not a sale. Yes, it was recorded, but so what? The registrar will record whatever you give him, even an invalid document. The act of recording doesn’t make a document legally valid. It is just a public notification. Its legality can always be challenged in court. Isn’t that true in the U.S. as well?”
“Yes, it is. The company that is challenging Gabriella’s title, is that VinCo?”
Paulo smiled. “Oh yes, and there you have your problem. VinCo is a well-respected company. A very wealthy company. It employs hundreds of people in this province and pays lots of taxes. A very good company.”
“But VinCo did not get a deed until 2015, is that right?”
Paulo shrugged again and opened his hands. “Si. But VinCo’s deed was good, and Gabriella’s was no good.”
“Why was Gabriella’s deed no good?”
“Again, the answer is simple. It came from a man named Carlo Vanucci, but Signor Vanucci did not have ownership of the property. So he had no authority to give Gabriella a deed. The Italian judge made the determination that the owner of the property in 2015 was the Quercia Company. The German court determined that Gerda Fruman was the sole owner of the Quercia Company and her estate had the right to transfer title. The administrator of her estate deeded the property to VinCo.”
Catherine exhaled through her nose, a sign of frustration that Liam was all too familiar with. “Mr. Giangiorgi,” she said, “who owned the property in 1995, when Vanucci deeded it to Gabriella? That would seem to be our foundational question?”
“Paulo. Just Paulo, please. Not Mr. Giangiorgi. Just Paulo. And you are so right. That is the foundational question. In 1995, it was owned by Quercia Company. It’s right in the registry book. That is why Vanucci’s deed is worthless.”
“Did you look at the registry book yourself? Did you see for yourself that Quercia Company was listed in 1995?”
Giangiorgi was becoming irritated. He was looking for a way to end this conversation. “Of course, I did. Now, if you’ll please excuse me…”
But Catherine was neither dissuaded nor put off her mark. “Fine. You saw Quercia in title in 1995. Then please tell me how and when Quercia bought the property.”
Paulo shrugged. “I do not know when Quercia bought the property.”
“Really? You said you looked at the registry book.”
“The book only goes back to 1980. Quercia Company was in title all the way since 1980, the whole time.”
“Before 1980. What do the books say then? Who sold the property to Quercia?”
Giangiorgi shrugged. “I don’t know? It was many years ago. The current registry book doesn’t say. But the registrar is very careful going from one book to the next. He would not make a mistake.”
“I would like to see the books. Where are the registry books kept?”
“At the registrar’s office in the government house in Siena. The current book, the one from 1980, is there. It shows that as of the beginning of the book in 1980, Quercia Company owned the property, and then in 2015, VinCo owns it.”
“Where is the prior book, the one before 1980?”
Paulo chuckled and shrugged. “I don’t know. This is Italy. In storage, someplace.”
“And you never asked to see the old book?”
“No. It was entirely unnecessary. The court has ruled. The case is over. I am sorry, but I am busy with a most important appointment now. I must bid you good-bye. Let me know if I can help you further.”
Back in the car, Catherine turned to Liam and said, “Stinks like a dead fish.”
SEVENTEEN
Berlin, April 1936
Uncle Wilhelm was coming over for dinner, and my mother was hard at work preparing a special meal. She said that Papa and Uncle Wilhelm had a surprise for me. I had no idea what she was talking about and I couldn’t coax it from her. But I knew that the past few months had been rocky for me and also for the great Maestro Furtwängler.
I had been through my share of ups and downs since the Winter Olympics. Mostly downs. When we returned to Berlin, Dr. Kritzer severely reprimanded me and placed me on probation for violating curfew. While I was sorry to have put him in that awkward position, I could have lived with his written and oral reprimand. But Mrs. Linder, that nasty woman, insisted that Dr. Kritzer demote me from first chair and from the title of concertmistress for impugning the reputation of the Junior by my blatantly immoral conduct. Dr. Kritzer responded by telling her that I had received a reprimand and that was sufficient. People make mistakes. Teenagers are certainly known to have lapses in good judgment.
But that wasn’t enough for Mrs. Linder. She went on a hate campaign and rallied some of the wealthier parents. They threatened to withhold financial support from the Junior if I was not removed from my position. They insisted that second chair Lisel Preston replace me. Without the donors’ financial support, the Junior would fold. That left Dr. Kritzer with no choice. He told me I would have to be demoted.
I immediately tendered my resignation, but Dr. Kritzer wouldn’t accept it. He called for a meeting with me and my father. He explained his dilemma. He didn’t want to demote me, but the Junior could not survive the withdrawal of substantial contributions. Mrs. Linder was a powerful socialite. She and her friends controlled a lot of money and, indeed, the fate of the Junior Orchestra. Dr. Kritzer promised me that I would still be featur
ed in solos. Even if I sat in the second chair, just one chair over, I would still be playing the same sheet music as the first chair. I would just be giving up the so-called prestige of first violinist and concertmistress.
“Exactly,” I said. “And I won’t do it. Mrs. Linder is a hateful woman who thinks she can get her way just because she’s rich. She’s a dictator. She’s a perfect Nazi. I’m sorry I stayed out late and broke curfew. I was not immoral. I was nothing more than a teenage curfew violator, and I apologized. If that’s not good enough, I resign.”
Surprisingly, my father said, “I don’t want you to resign. The Summer Olympics are coming up. There will be opportunities for you to solo in front of the international community. It’s your last year with the Junior; you’ll be eighteen in November. I urge you to stick it out until then.”
“But Papa, it’s so humiliating. I didn’t do anything wrong. I’m seventeen. I had a beer with a boy and stayed out late. I returned before the bus left. For that, I am to be demoted and humiliated? You know what everyone is going to think. You know the rumors that Mrs. Linder is spreading. How can I go to practice every day and sit in the second chair and face my peers?”
“Because you are doing it for the good of the orchestra. In many ways, I face the same dilemma, Ada. There are many reasons for us to leave Germany, but I am loyal to my orchestra and my conductor. It’s easy to quit. It takes courage to stay. Your peers won’t condemn you. They’ll know the demotion is not talent-based, that it’s coming from intolerant adults. Ada, the decision is ultimately yours, but I would like you to stay. I’m sure Dr. Kritzer would appreciate it.”
Dr. Kritzer nodded. “Ada, you will always be first violin to me. You are the finest musician I have ever conducted. Please reconsider.”
That night I sat in my bedroom and cried. After a while, my mother came in and shut the door. We hugged. I knew that for years she hadn’t been keen on my friendship with Kurt, especially when he became involved in the Hitler Youth. She would always say, “Why can’t you find a nice Jewish boy?” The truth is, I wasn’t looking for a boy at all. Now I was sure that she was going to say, “I told you so.” I waited for her to tell me that I stayed out all night, put myself in a compromising situation, and this was the result. But I was wrong. She was warm, forgiving and comforting.
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