The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “I know. It’s time for us all to move, but I can’t leave Wilhelm and the orchestra without their concertmaster a month before the season starts. He promised me that if I stayed, I would continue to receive my salary no matter what laws are passed. But Friede, you and Ada need to be safe. You have to leave without me.”

  Mama was inconsolable. “I can’t.”

  “It will only be temporary,” he said. “Just until the end of the season. By then Wilhelm will have found a replacement for me. Look at the bright side: we’ll have a steady income and you’ll be there to support Ada in her career. We’re much better off than many of our friends.”

  She shook her head and cried. “I can’t do this without you, Jacob. Please don’t send me away. I’ll get better. I’ll be stronger. You’ll see, you won’t have to worry about me.”

  He hugged her tightly. “Oh, Friede, my darling, don’t cry. I’m not sending you away, I’m doing my best to protect you. I’m doing this for both of us. I would go if I could. Berlin is no place for Jews.” He kissed her and ran his fingers gently through her hair. “You’ll only be a train ride away and I will come and visit as often as I can. It will just be for a little while and before you know it, the season will be over. By then I will have found a position in another orchestra, maybe Vienna, maybe America, and we will make a new home, a sweet home wherever we land. Until then, you’ll have Ada to help you. You can help each other.”

  She went into the bedroom and shut the door. My father followed her.

  Over the ensuing days, my mother sank into a deep depression. She couldn’t accept being separated from the man she had lived with and depended on for thirty years. She couldn’t understand what was happening all around her. Her walls were crumbling. She cried all the time. She’d walk around her home, look at her things, spend time with her memories and sob. Nothing we said or did would cheer her up. But my father felt he had no other options. He had made the hard call, done what he had to do. My mother and I would leave in two weeks.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Pienza, August 2017

  CATHERINE AND LIAM WERE once again alarmed by shouts of “Va via.” Floria burst into the room and frantically let loose a long string of Italian, interspersed with an occasional English word—“Gabi,” “Lenzini,” “gun” and “police.” Cat and Liam dashed out of the room and ran through the vineyards until they came to the patch that Gabi called “Ada’s Vineyard.”

  Lenzini stood with his arms folded across his chest, smiling smugly. Beside him stood his two workers with shovels and farm implements. In front of Lenzini were two uniformed policemen. Gabi was standing in a cotton robe, loosely tied around her nightgown, holding a vintage shotgun by the barrel and screaming in Italian. Thankfully, her hand was nowhere near the trigger. Her face was red, her tears were flowing and her words came out in gasps. She was hysterical. A policeman was patiently asking her to hand over the gun.

  “What’s happening here, Officer?” Liam asked, as he gently took the gun from Gabi.

  “I tell you what’s happening, Mr. Toughguy,” Lenzini interjected. “The polizia are here to protect me from your assault. No fists today, Mr. Thug. No crazy old women with guns. VinCo will take soil samples and cuttings of the vines and no one will stop us.”

  “Aahh!” Gabi screamed and reached for the shotgun. “They will not touch Ada’s vines! Please do not let them touch Ada’s vines.” She pulled on the policeman’s arm. “Please. Those vines are precious to me.”

  Catherine waved a copy of the court order. “Lenzini has no right to be here. There is nothing in this order that allows VinCo to come upon this land before September 10. They have no right to take soil samples or cut vines. Those are possessory acts, and possession is deferred by court order.”

  The policeman took the order and started to read it when Lenzini stepped up and handed another paper to him. “Aah, but this is a new court order, Officer,” Lenzini said. “It was entered yesterday by Judge Riggioni. It gives us the right to come onto the land at any time we choose to take samples. As many as I like. As often as I like. I could dig up this whole section if I want to. Here, read it.”

  The policeman read the order, shrugged and handed it to Catherine.

  “Did you tell Gabriella that you were going back to court?” she asked Lenzini.

  Lenzini just smiled.

  “You didn’t tell her, did you? You didn’t tell her that you were going to present a motion to the judge to conduct testing on her property, did you?”

  “Not her property,” Lenzini said with his chin pushed out. “VinCo’s property. Sadly, there have been rumors of mold in some Tuscan vineyards. We must make sure that these are clean. Besides, the old lady is not entitled to notification. She is in default.”

  “There is no mold here!” Gabriella yelled. “There has never been mold in my vineyards.”

  Lenzini smiled and shrugged. “We shall see. It will take many cuttings to make sure.”

  “I am sorry,” the officer said. “But this is a court order. I can’t stop him.”

  “Just give me two days,” Catherine said. “Let me get the matter before Judge Riggioni. Lenzini snuck in behind her back. The judge didn’t hear Gabriella’s side. When he does, he may very well vacate this order. Just two days. There will be no harm in waiting two days.”

  The policeman shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “VinCo will not be harmed by waiting two days. Just one day then, please.”

  The policeman grimaced and shook his head again. “I can’t.”

  Lenzini waved to his workers and they took large cutting instruments over to the vines.

  “Stop! Fermare!” Gabi screamed. “Do not touch those vines!”

  Lenzini laughed and motioned for his workers to proceed.

  Floria stepped forward and spoke in desperate tones. “Don’t you know that improper cuttings could kill the plants? These are irreplaceable. They are award-winning vines. Cutting these plants would be like cutting into the signora’s veins. Please, let Miss Lockhart talk to the judge.”

  The policeman sadly shook his head. “I’m sorry. Truly I am, but my hands are tied.”

  The workers loudly snapped a branch of a large vine and put it into a cart. Gabriella shrieked and moved forward to stop the worker. Lenzini took a quick step and hip-checked her with enough force to knock her hard to the ground. “Oh, how clumsy of me,” Lenzini said. “A thousand apologies.”

  In a flash, Liam was on Lenzini, throwing him to the ground, pinning his arms behind his back and pushing his face hard into the dirt. “How do you like it, you heartless son of a bitch?” Liam said through clenched teeth. “If you touch that woman again, I’ll break every bone in your body.” Just as quickly, the two policemen grabbed Liam and pulled him off.

  “You had better come this way, Signore,” an officer said, and led Liam down the path to the police car.

  “Hoo, hoo, Mr. Big Toughguy,” Lenzini called. “Welcome to Italy.” Then he motioned for his workers to cut more vines. As the workers snapped another branch, Gabriella fainted.

  “When you’re done with these, cut those over there,” Lenzini said loudly for all to hear.

  Catherine and Floria helped Gabriella to her feet and then to the golf cart. She was inconsolable and barely cognizant. “There’s nothing more we can do here,” Catherine said. “I will try to reopen the case as soon as I can. Right now, I have to figure out how to get my husband out of custody.”

  Catherine returned to the house where the police car was parked in the driveway. “Are you charging my husband with an offense, Officer?”

  The policeman, whose name tag read FORESTA, shook his head. “No charges. To my observation, the American detective was protecting his client. In America, I think they call it justifiable use of force in defense of another. I’m sure you understand, it was necessary for me to remove him from the scene. He can go now.” Officer Foresta tipped his cap. “A word of caution. Lenzini is a despicable man, but he ha
s friends. Powerful friends. You have made an enemy of a well-connected person.”

  Once out of the custody of the polizia, Liam said, “Cat, Lenzini won’t stop until the court order is changed. Somehow you have to get into court.”

  “I agree. But I can’t practice here. I’m going to have to hire local counsel to file a motion and I surely can’t use any of Gabi’s previous attorneys. Santi and Giangorgi may well be in Lenzini’s pocket. In the meantime, we have to find Carlo Vanucci. He signed the deed that was supposed to transfer the property to Gabriella. I’m sure there had to be lawyers involved. They must have all believed that Vanucci had good title. In my professional opinion, finding Vanucci calls for the work of America’s finest private investigator.”

  “At your service.”

  Back in the house, Catherine heard loud sobs coming from Gabi’s bedroom. She poked her head in the doorway to ask if there was anything she could do. Gabi lay on the bed, Floria by her side trying to calm her, a sad and heartrending scene. Catherine brushed away a tear. “Liam and I will find someone who will help us get before the judge. I promise.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gabriella said. “He has won.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bologna, August 1937

  Rehearsals began in July. Mama and I had settled into an apartment in a busy neighborhood near the Teatro Comunale. It was a four-room appartamento on the second floor of a rehabbed two-hundred-year-old stone building. Two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room. And a tiny little bathroom. For me, it was my first apartment, and I was delighted. For my mother, moving from her gracious Berlin home, it was an uncomfortable little cracker box.

  Our apartment was also close to the sprawling campus of the University of Bologna and its sixty-five thousand students. As such, the streets of Bologna’s Old City were alive at all hours of the day. I thought it was magical having so much youthful energy right outside my door. Students were ubiquitous—in the cafés, on steps of the piazzas, under the porticos and clustered in groups. At first, the bustle was intoxicating to both of us, but as the days passed, it seemed to get on Mama’s nerves. To be fair, my mother was not herself. She had been forced to separate from her husband and leave her home under the most frightening of circumstances. While she tried to keep a positive outlook, it was evident that her depression was gaining a foothold.

  When we arrived, we were met at the train by Francesca Denardo, the promotion and marketing director of the opera company. Franny became our Bologna resource and my good friend. She was young, vivacious and always running in several directions at the same time. As they say in Bologna, she had many pots on the stove. She helped us furnish our apartment. She took us around the city, showed us where to shop, gave us valuable insight into life in Bologna and shuttled us through the intricacies of immigration.

  Unlike the other European countries, Italy did not require visas for entry or immigration. Even a person with no passport, a stateless person, could be granted entry. Within three days of entry, Mama and I were required to register and submit a residence declaration at the nearest questura, or police headquarters. Mine was a little more complicated because I wanted permission to work. Franny went with us and helped us file our registration forms. It did not escape my attention that the forms asked for our religious preference, though there didn’t seem to be any outward signs of discrimination against Jews. There were no Italian laws designed to isolate Jews. There were no anti-Semitic signs in the windows or pasted to the lampposts.

  Professionally, Franny was my liaison to the company. She introduced me to the routines: when to arrive, where to change, what to wear, what to say and, most important, what not to say. As our friendship grew, she took me into her confidence and revealed her studied profiles of the company’s personalities. This one is a pompous elitist. This one is a drinker. This one has roving hands. This one can be trusted. This one seems distant but is really just shy. And so on.

  Most importantly, Franny was very social. She had a large circle of girlfriends in their twenties, and she brought me into the group. I went out with them quite often. One of the girls, Natalia Romitti, a doctoral student in political science, became a close friend. She was extremely intelligent and keenly aware of current world affairs. How she got her information I didn’t know, but she was well-informed. She was particularly interested in my experiences in Berlin, and she spent hours asking me about nazification. I soon learned that Natalia was not merely curious; she was Jewish and fearful of what she called the dark clouds on the Italian horizon.

  “But there are no laws against Jews here, are there? Isn’t Italy a tolerant country?” I asked.

  “We are a small minority, Ada. There are only fifty thousand Jews in all of Italy. We are vulnerable. As yet, the Fascist Party has not passed any legislation discriminating against us, and there are even Jewish members in the party. But Mussolini covets a friendship with Hitler. Ever since his failed war in Ethiopia, European leaders have scorned him, all except Hitler. I’m worried about what Mussolini would do to gain Hitler’s favor. It’s best we keep our eyes and ears open.”

  “Aren’t Italian Jews well integrated into Italian society?”

  “Weren’t German Jews as well?”

  I nodded. “Sadly, that’s true.”

  “But Ada, here’s a big difference—Italy doesn’t have Joseph Goebbels and his propaganda machine. No one has taken over the public communication channels to tell us that Jews are evil. Italians will not be so easily manipulated.”

  The season’s first opera was Verdi’s La Traviata and practices were intense. We were also rehearsing The Barber of Seville and Tosca, the next two operas in the schedule. I sat in the middle of the second violin section and shared my music stand with an older gentleman who was very patient with my broken Italian. Our initial rehearsals were orchestra only. We did not rehearse with the singers. We started promptly at 8:30 a.m. and rehearsed until lunch. The singers practiced in the afternoon in an adjoining room with a rehearsal pianist and, of course, with Maestro Vittorio. The afternoon was practice time for me, learning the score, reading the libretto and studying my Italian. In the evening, I would dine with Mama and retire early. On the weekends, I would go out with Franny and Natalia and join in whatever social plans they had.

  Maestro Vittorio was a dynamic conductor with expressive, exaggerated movements, more like Uncle Wilhelm and not at all like Dr. Kritzer. He expected excellence and would accept nothing less, but this was a professional company, not the Junior, so Vittorio’s expectations were usually met. Even though I was the only woman and the youngest member, he did not single me out or give me special treatment. He treated me as one of the company and that suited me fine. I sought only to be a part of the whole. Regrettably, it was quickly evident that certain members were not so graciously inclusive. Like a middle-school lunchroom, there were stares, cold shoulders and seats made “unavailable” in the commissary. Mr. Fortis, the percussionist, an acerbic man, made it clear early on that he did not appreciate playing in an orchestra with a woman. “This is not some put-together ensemble,” he said to Vittorio. “For centuries, we have held tightly to our traditions, and you dishonor them without a second thought by bringing in this young girl.”

  “How regrettable that you are so troubled, Mr. Fortis,” Vittorio said. “Fortunately, you are not glued to your seat. As fine a percussionist as you are, I’m sure you could find another orchestra that does not dishonor you, as I am equally sure we could find another fine percussionist.”

  I wanted to stand and applaud as Mr. Fortis was put in his place, but I kept my control. Nonetheless, Mr. Fortis managed to exclude me from the Green Room—the performers lounge just beside the orchestra pit. He told me it was a dressing room and inappropriate for women. Vittorio told me not to fight that battle. Sometimes it is better to let a lion roar rather than to force him into a corner. Vittorio helped me to see these exclusionary tactics as minor obstacles to overcome. Bumps in the road. They were totally unfair,
but I should think of myself as a trailblazer, a pathfinder. I would not be the first woman to fight such battles and I would not be the last.

  As I was able to observe during my ten-day stint with Uncle Wilhelm and the Berlin Opera, an opera conductor’s duties are much broader than a symphony conductor’s. He must be continuously alert, supporting the singers and the orchestra as their needs dictate, balancing the sound level so that one does not dominate the other, and he must take care not to constrict a singer’s artistry—her ability to color, decorate and embellish her vocal lines. That is why piano rehearsal time is so important for the conductor and the vocalists.

  Opera demands equal vigilance from the orchestra. My father often told me that if Maestro Furtwängler was sick, the Philharmonic could perform the entire symphony without a conductor and no one would notice. Not so with an opera. A conductor must keep the orchestra and singers together, using hand movements, body movements and facial expressions meant for each. There are many times that the orchestra must wait for the action on the stage or the singer’s interpretation. Each must learn from the other.

  While my life and career in Bologna was ascending, Mama’s was descending. She was trying to adjust but the contrast in lifestyles was overwhelming her. She missed my father. She missed her home, her city and her way of life. She either could not or would not make a connection with Bologna. I felt guilty when I left for rehearsals or on those few occasions when I went out with Franny and Natalia. My mother would just sit in the apartment. Sometimes she’d read, sometimes she’d listen to the radio, but most often she just sat and stared out the window. Once Berlin’s most vivacious woman, she was now dispirited. On most days, she only left the apartment to shop for groceries or to take Mitzi for a walk.

  My father wrote at least twice a week. Like me, he was busy with rehearsals, but he promised to come to Bologna during the Philharmonic’s fall break. His letters were very chatty. Mama read them over and over and kept them by her nightstand. He told us what was going on with the Philharmonic, with our friends and, disturbingly, what was happening to life in Berlin. A new concentration camp had been opened in Buchenwald, near Weimar. “What irony,” my father wrote, “that a political prison has been constructed in the birthplace of German constitutional democracy.”