The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  Uncle Wilhelm did not conduct at the games at all. Everyone believed that it was due to an incident that happened a few weeks earlier at the Bayreuth Festival. I asked Papa what that was all about, and he said, “I recently learned about it from Friedelind Wagner. Do you remember her?”

  I did. She’d been to our house for a social gathering. “She’s Richard Wagner’s granddaughter.”

  “Yes, and unlike her mother, she’s no friend of the Nazis. She told me about a meeting she witnessed between Wilhelm and Hitler at her mother’s house. Hitler told Wilhelm that the Olympics were coming, and he wanted to use Wilhelm for a Nazi Party propaganda film. Wilhelm flatly refused. No propaganda for him. Hitler flew into a rage and said, ‘In that case there will be a concentration camp ready for you.’ As you might imagine, Wilhelm stuck out his chin and replied, ‘In that case, Herr Reichskanzler, at least I will be in very good company.’ Friedelind told me that Hitler was red-faced and stormed out of the room.”

  I told my father I was worried about Uncle Wilhelm. “Hitler is irrational and Uncle Wilhelm is arrogant. That’s a bad combination. He might be sent to a concentration camp.”

  “The great Furtwängler seems to know his boundaries. He is no fool. He’s confident that his prestige gives him a certain level of invulnerability. To tell you the truth, it’s that arrogance that keeps me and the few Jewish orchestra members still working. Uncle Wilhelm takes no guff from the Nazi Party leaders. Even der führer.”

  Guff or no guff, the great Furtwängler did not conduct his orchestra at the games.

  The Junior was scheduled to play the matinee on Sunday afternoon at the newly built Dietrich-Eckart Open Air Theater. I was to solo the “Meditation” as the next-to-last number. I was so excited. The world press would be there. And best of all, it was to be televised!

  On Friday, Dr. Kritzer asked me to come into his office. “Ada, I am very sad to tell you this. Believe me, it was not my choice. I am striking the ‘Meditation’ from the program.”

  My heart sank. “Why? What did I do?”

  He shook his head. “You didn’t do anything. Dr. Goebbels and Dr. von Halt came to me earlier today. They ordered me to have someone else play the ‘Meditation.’ Someone who wasn’t Jewish. They said it didn’t comport with the Olympic theme of German superiority.”

  “I am a German!” I said, clenching my fists.

  Dr. Kritzer hung his head. “I’m sorry, there was nothing I could do. I pulled the selection from the program. I won’t have anyone else play it.”

  I was boiling. “No one else can play it!”

  All Dr. Kritzer could do was shake his head. Uncle Wilhelm would never have crumbled like that, but Dr. Kritzer was no Furtwängler.

  “Then I’m not going to play at all Sunday,” I said. “I’m not coming.”

  His head hung low and he wiped a tear from his eye. “I understand.”

  Although I hadn’t yet decided about the fall season, I never played for the Junior again.

  TWENTY

  Pienza, July 2017

  LIAM ROLLED OVER, NOTICED that the other side of his bed was empty and sat up. Catherine was standing by the window.

  “Cat, are you all right? It’s three a.m.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s metaphysical. I can sense when you leave the bed. Why are you up?”

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The music.”

  “I was sleeping. What music?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t hear it now. I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but it sounded like someone playing the violin.”

  Liam walked over and embraced her from behind. “You were dreaming. Ada’s story is putting thoughts into your head.”

  “No, Liam, I wasn’t sleeping. I woke up an hour ago and I’ve been lying here listening to the music. Someone’s playing the violin.”

  “What was the person playing?”

  “I don’t know, just some scales and a sweet melody.”

  “Don’t you think it might have been the wind?”

  Catherine turned and gave Liam a look. “I know the difference between the wind and a musical instrument.”

  “Maybe Aunt Gabi was playing the violin. Or maybe it was Floria.”

  Catherine nodded. “Could be.”

  “Or what? Ada’s ghost? Would you come back to bed now, please? We have an appointment with the lawyer in Siena at nine o’clock.”

  * * *

  FLORIA BROUGHT A FRESH pot of coffee out to the veranda to where Catherine and Liam sat. “How are you two this morning?”

  “Just fine,” Liam said. “We’re getting ready to drive to Siena. We have an appointment with Mr. Santi.”

  “Hmph,” Floria responded. “The eloquent Mr. Santi. Very smooth, very expensive and very ineffective.”

  Catherine turned in her chair. “Floria, does Signora Gabriella play the violin?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I heard someone playing the violin last night.”

  Floria shrugged. “Sometimes the wind blows though the cedars and can make a whistling sound.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Liam said.

  “It wasn’t the wind,” Catherine replied.

  * * *

  THE RIDE FROM PIENZA to Siena took almost an hour. With the windows rolled down, Catherine’s eyes were glued to the landscape and her hair was tousled by the wind. The road meandered past vineyards, farms, cypress-covered mountains and several small hilltop villages, all too picturesque for Catherine to pass without recording the moment.

  “Liam, pull over, I want to take a picture. Just look at that view. Have you ever seen anything like it?” She held her hands like a picture frame. “Wouldn’t this look great on the den wall? My sister will be so jealous.”

  “Cat, we’re supposed to be in Siena by nine o’clock and you heard Floria describe Mr. Santi. He bills by the minute.”

  “But look, Liam, look at that farm—the neat little rows of trees, there must be a thousand of them. Do you suppose they’re olive trees? Stop, seriously, I need to get a picture.”

  * * *

  WHERE PIENZA IS A sleepy little Tuscan village with barely two thousand people, Siena is a larger, more commercial city with over fifty thousand inhabitants. In addition to being the seat of government for the province, it is a major tourist hub. The center of the city, partially walled off from the twenty-first century, is a fourteenth-century jewel, adhering as closely as commercially feasible to its medieval Tuscan lineage. Sylvio Santi’s office was a short distance from the old city.

  Santi greeted Liam and Catherine, warmly shaking both their hands. His blue designer suit, smartly tailored to his thin figure, his styled brown hair with touches of gray and his gold watch and cufflinks confirmed the image Floria had described. Santi led them to his conference room where his window overlooked the Duomo, the white-and-green marble Siena Cathedral, once the largest basilica in the world. He smoothly gestured for them to be seated.

  “How is the lovely Signora Vincenzo?” he asked, and without waiting for an answer, he said, “You know, I negotiated a very favorable solution for the signora. She has no legal rights, none at all.” He leaned forward in his chair, his manicured hands folded on the table. “But I appealed to Mr. Mastroviani, VinCo’s senior vice president, who happens to be a very good friend of mine. I said, ‘Riccardo, we must help this lovely widow. Think of the goodwill that would come to VinCo.’” Santi smiled and pointed to his head. “You see, I was playing on their sympathies and telling them that it would be good public relations for them to give Signora Vincenzo money and a place to live.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Santi, why doesn’t she have legal rights to the property?” Catherine asked.

  Santi spread his hands. “Why does the sun come up in the morning? Because it is a fact. VinCo owns the land. Signora Vincenzo has been living there for many years but has never owned the land. The deed tha
t she recorded in 1995 at the Registrar of Titles was a worthless piece of paper.”

  “What do you know about the Quercia Company?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not much. It was the prior owner of the property. An Italian corporation. Apparently inactive. Quercia never took any steps to operate the farm or harvest the grapes. So I guess that is why Signora Vincenzo took it on herself to do so. I suppose, in legal terms, she was a squatter. Eventually, VinCo took the initiative to investigate the company. They discovered it was owned by the late Gerda Fruman. Signora Vincenzo could have accomplished the same thing herself, had she come to me many years ago. Perhaps the signora could have made a similar offer.”

  “Why does VinCo care so much about Gabriella’s property?”

  “Simple. It is thirty hectares of tillable land sitting in the middle of VinCo’s operation. It is currently a nuisance to them, but it could be usable. The signora tells me she plants vines, but I don’t know. I know that commercially, VinCo can make much better use of the land than a sick, elderly woman.”

  “What is the market value of this nuisance?” Liam asked.

  Santi shrugged. “A million euros, more or less.”

  “Tell me, how does VinCo allege to have obtained a valid deed?” Catherine said.

  “Allege? VinCo followed the law. It found out that Gerda Fruman was the sole owner and that she died. VinCo opened an estate in Germany and got a deed from the public administrator. It was all very legal.”

  “How did Quercia Company become the owner?”

  Santi smiled. “They are listed on the books as far back as it goes.”

  “You mean to 1980?”

  Santi nodded. “They are shown as the owner in 1980.”

  “Who owned the property before 1980?”

  Santi shrugged again. “Quercia, I’m sure.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “When the Registrar of Titles makes a new book, as he did in 1980, he copies the last known owner from the previous book. So it had to be Quercia. Bear in mind, Miss Lockhart, that no one contested Quercia’s title for almost forty years.”

  “Someone would have to know that Quercia was listed as the owner to contest it, though, wouldn’t they?”

  “Perhaps, but the book is a public record for all to see. I do not undertand the importance of this discussion. The issue is closed.”

  “Mr. Santi, the fact that I am sitting at this desk should tell you that the issue is not closed.”

  “You are wasting your time and, frankly, mine as well.”

  “Truly sorry. May I ask one more question? Who sold the property to Quercia Company and when?”

  Santi shook his head. “It would be in the older books and they are in storage.”

  “Why didn’t you look at the older books to find out?” Catherine said.

  Santi had an irritated look on his face. “I did order the book, but I didn’t follow up on it. I was arguing with the signora, it would have been a waste of time and the amount of my fee was becoming an issue. I never went back to the registrar. Why would it matter who sold the property to Quercia? Maybe it was Piccolomini himself. What’s the difference who?”

  “Because maybe the ‘who’ never had good title to begin with, nor the right to transfer it to Quercia. Maybe Quercia’s title was defective.”

  “And maybe the moon is made of green cheese. I’m sorry, Miss Lockhart, but the matter is closed. A judge has ruled, and I tell you, he has ruled correctly. But the good news is this: even though the signora has no legal rights, I believe I can still prevail upon VinCo to honor that wonderful arrangement I worked out. VinCo’s lawyer, Mr. Lenzini, happens to be a very good personal friend of mine.”

  “Why did I know that?” Liam said under his breath.

  Santi stood, signaling that the meeting was over.

  “One more thing,” Catherine said. “Did you contact Mr. Vanucci to learn why he would give a deed to Gabriella?”

  Santi chuckled and shook his head. “Two reasons, Miss Lockhart, and then we must end this meeting. Uno, it would make no difference what he had to say, even if I could find him. The book is the best evidence. And Due, my rates are very expensive, and I do not recklessly charge my clients for chasing wild gooses.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Santi. Can you point us to the government office where the property records are kept?”

  “But of course.”

  * * *

  CATHERINE AND LIAM DECIDED to have lunch before tackling the registrar’s office. There were several restaurants lining the brick seashell-like plaza that was known as the Piazza del Campo. It seemed to be the thing to do in Siena. There were students, tourists and even businessmen in suits sitting on the bricks of the Piazza del Campo. At the base of the piazza stood the brick-and-stone Palazzo Pubblico, with its crowned campanile, at one time the tallest tower in Italy. Catherine ordered a vegetable assortment while Liam opted for the pepperoni pizza, which he devoured without any help from Catherine.

  Liam took a sip of beer, stared out at the Campo, the medieval gathering place still functioning so gracefully in modern-day Italy, smiled at Catherine and said, “Tell me again that we could live here.”

  “Oh, I could. I’d move tomorrow. Let’s sell the Chicago house. I’ll work in that store over there selling sunglasses while I learn Italian law. Then I’ll open up an office right here in Siena. I certainly couldn’t do any worse than Santi. Or Giangiorgi. Tony warned us about the lawyers he hired. He said they were all paid off. At the time, I took it with a grain of salt. But this guy, Santi, has a lot of very good friends that are all on the payroll of VinCo. I have no proof Santi was paid off, but he certainly didn’t advocate very hard for Gabriella.”

  “What should he have done, sunglasses girl?”

  “Well, to begin with, he never should have assumed that the listing of Quercia as owner in the 1980 registry book was correct. He should have confirmed the chain of title. Both Santi and Giangiorgi should have examined the prior registry books, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do, Liam.”

  “Santi said he ordered the book but changed his mind.”

  “Right. Stinks like a dead fish.” Catherine reached into her valise and took out Gabriella’s deed. “Carlo Vanucci. If he’s still alive, we need to find him. He’ll know why he deeded the property to Gabriella in 1995.”

  “Find Vanucci? Is that my job?” asked Liam.

  “Definitely your job.”

  * * *

  AT THE REGISTRAR OF Titles, Catherine asked if there was an English-speaking person who could assist her. In a few minutes, an older man in blue slacks and a short-sleeve white shirt came out to the counter. His reading glasses hung from a chain around his neck. He had three pens in his shirt pocket.

  “I can converse with you in English,” he said with a smile and wagged his finger back and forth, “if you don’t get too complicated.”

  Catherine handed Gabriella’s deed to him. “We’d like to see the book where this deed is recorded and also the prior book.”

  The clerk returned in a few minutes with a large, heavy clothbound volume. He turned to a page and pointed to an entry. “Here is the notation for this deed. It was recorded in 1995. But as you can see, the owner of the property at that time is shown as Quercia Company, not Vanucci. Apparently, your deed is out of the chain of title.”

  “May we see the older book, the one where Quercia Company became the owner.”

  “That volume is in storage in the archive building. It’s a few kilometers from here. I can put in a request for the book, but it is normally done with an attorney.”

  “I am an attorney in America. All we want to do is look at the book.”

  He nodded. “There is a twenty-euro fee. Fill out this form, and I will order it for you, but it might take several days.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Berlin, November 1936

  The relative tolerance that was exhibited during the months preceding the Olympics vanis
hed after the rest of the world went home. The false congeniality that Hitler marketed to the world was replaced by a renewal of his venomous campaign against non-Aryans. Der Stürmer, Julius Streicher’s tabloid newspaper, was so hateful, so incendiary, that it was banned from publication during the Olympics, but just a few weeks into the fall, there it was on the newsstands. Once again, the cover page depicted horrid cartoon caricatures of ugly Jewish monsters with grotesque noses, sexually abusing innocent German girls. Der Stürmer was the workingman’s newspaper and it appealed mainly to the lower strata of German society, but it had a large circulation and was prominently displayed everywhere periodicals were sold.

  The mainstream Völkischer Beobachter, the Nazi Party’s official newspaper, resumed running stories that accused the “scheming Jewish banking elite” and “Jewish dishonesty in business.” It praised the efforts of the government to stop Jewish corruption. It lauded the removal of Jews from their positions in education and the arts.

  Nazi Party members, now numbering in the millions, were forbidden from having contact with Jews, and that mandate was broader than mere social contact: it meant no commerce whatsoever. Thus, no party member could buy from a Jewish shop or hire a Jewish worker. An infraction could result in a trial by the Nazi Party court and removal from the party.

  Almost daily, there were proclamations from Hitler or Goebbels designed to disparage Jews or isolate us economically. If it wasn’t for the fact they were cumulatively toxic, some of the proclamations were downright laughable. For example, on September 19, all German churches were required to eliminate the word “hallelujah” from prayers because it was a Hebrew word.

  We all saw the writing on the wall, but some were quicker to act than others. Many of my parents’ Jewish friends were leaving or making plans to leave. “Do you have a bag packed?” was a question heard more and more frequently. Some were planning to move to Palestine, some even as far as South America. It wasn’t easy to move to another European country. Visa restrictions were complicated. It was even harder to emigrate to the United States, which had a Jewish quota of 27,000 for Germany and Austria combined. On top of that, Germany had imposed a severe emigration penalty called the Reichsfluchtsteuer—the Reich Flight Tax—equal to 25 percent of the value of one’s assets, payable in cash before one could leave.