Buchenwald is the third concentration camp opened by the Nazis to imprison political opponents, intellectual dissidents and targeted racial groups. Now with Dachau and Sachsenhausen, they’ve made plenty of room for prisoners and it has become more dangerous than ever to speak out. We frequently hear about Jews being snatched off the street and taken to concentration camps for so-called interrogation. I am glad that my two loved ones are far away and safe. I learned that over a thousand Jews emigrated to Italy last year and even more are coming this year. Look for them. Make a connection.
Love, Papa
My mother immediately replied to his letters. She wrote glowingly about my progress with the company and about our life together in Bologna. She tried to be upbeat, but it was a thin disguise. Between the lines, I’m sure that Papa could easily see her melancholia. She wrote that we haven’t met any German émigrés, that she hasn’t been able to establish much of a social life, and most of all, she wished she could come home. “I cannot wait until October to see you” is the way she ended every letter.
Last week I finally decided to intercede. I wrote to my father and told him I was worried about Mama. Our little apartment, though fine for me, was too confining for her. I expressed concern that she was retreating into a deep depressive state. She had no interest in activities. In a city known for delicious food, she had little appetite. She would complain that there was no place to get a good brisket or schnitzel or spaetzle. She would complain that the cobblestone streets hurt her feet. “How does anyone wear high heels in this medieval town?” she’d say to me. She would complain that the students were so noisy she couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. I would try to cheer her up and point out the bright side of Bologna, but her complaints were only symptoms of her longing to be with her husband in her home. I urged Papa to visit, if only for a few days. Even a weekend. It would brighten her spirits immensely. Alternatively, if he couldn’t come to Bologna, could I send Mama back home for a few days?
He answered me right away. He told me that the Philharmonic was hard at work every day preparing for opening night. He had talked to Uncle Wilhelm and mentioned that the separation was hard on Mama. But, he wrote,
I have wonderful news. Ever since Felix Weingartner left Vienna, Wilhelm has been its main conductor, spending much more time there. Wilhelm told me that he would like me to move to Vienna at the end of the spring season next June. I will be concertmaster of the Vienna Philharmonic! I will send for Mama and we will be together in Vienna. That should lift her spirits. Sadly, I cannot come to Bologna before the end of October. As to Mama coming home on the train, I absolutely forbid it. The trains are full of Nazis, SS and Brownshirts. You know how nervous she gets. What if she were confronted? I fear such an episode might push her over the edge. Berlin gets meaner and more dangerous every day. Most of her friends have moved away. This is no place for her. Please make sure that she stays in Bologna. I will see you both in October.
Love, Papa
TWENTY-EIGHT
Pienza, August 2017
“I NEED TO TALK to Aunt Gabi,” Liam said to Floria. “If I am to have the slightest chance of locating Carlo Vanucci, I’m going to need more information.”
Floria shook her head. “She is not in very good spirits. She won’t come out of her room. For three days now, I have brought in her meals. It is as though she has been wounded. When Lenzini cut Ada’s vines, he cut out pieces of her heart.”
“I need a starting place, Floria. Do you know anything about Vanucci? Were you here when the deed was delivered?”
Floria shook her head. “No, I’ve only been here since 2007. But I will try to talk to the signora and ask if she knows.”
A few minutes later, Floria reappeared and led Catherine and Liam into Gabriella’s room. Gabriella was reclining in her bed when they entered. She looked weakened, defeated. “How are you doing today, Aunt Gabi?” Catherine asked.
She shrugged. “We can’t stop them, you know. Lenzini and VinCo. They’ve already taken what they want. They’ve destroyed the soul of my vineyard.”
“Aunt Gabi, it’s not that bad,” Liam said. “They didn’t destroy your vineyards. They just took a few random cuttings. It was all for show. You have acres and acres of grapevines.”
Gabriella wagged her finger. “No, no. Lenzini knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t random, it wasn’t for show and it wasn’t about mold. He took from Ada’s vines. Enough to make root stock.”
“There’s still so much left.”
“You don’t understand. Every year, I win awards for the wine produced from Ada’s Vineyard. I told you it’s the best in Tuscany. VinCo produces tens of thousands of bottles, but they don’t win awards. Don’t you see, that’s why they want my vineyards. It’s not about the inconvenience of farming around my little plot. It’s about the awards. The prestige. It’s about Ada’s Vineyard. VinCo could never replicate that vineyard.”
“They took small cuttings, Aunt Gabi. I don’t know much about farming, but you have old vines deep in the Tuscan soil. Even if they could replicate Ada’s vines, it would be decades. And Ada’s Vineyard has that special location you told me about.”
Gabriella smiled. “You learn quickly, young man.”
“We’ll do our very best to stop VinCo. It’s not over yet, but I need your help. Who was Carlo Vanucci, and how do I get in touch with him?”
Gabriella shook her head. “I don’t know. Truly.”
“But he’s the one who deeded this property to you. Surely, you must know who he is.”
“I only met him the one time.”
“And you’ve lived here…”
“Practically all my life.”
“You lived on Carlo Vanucci’s farm all your life?”
“I never thought so. I never thought it belonged to Mr. Vanucci. I didn’t have any idea who Mr. Vannuci was. In 1995, a lawyer showed up with Mr. Vanucci and we all signed a deed. It was a total surprise, but the lawyer said that this was the way my family had purchased the land. He told me to record the deed and I would have absolute ownership.”
“That’s all he said?”
“He said we have to record the deed right away because Mr. Vanucci was very ill. The lawyer took it to Siena and had it recorded. That’s all I knew until VinCo started pestering me.”
“What was the lawyer’s name?”
“My memory is foggy. I think it was Hernandez, or something very similar. He was Spanish and Italian. A very nice man. Are you reading Ada’s story?”
“Yes, we are. Is it in the story?”
Gabi’s breath was becoming labored. She shook her head. “Please, read the story. I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m sorry.”
TWENTY-NINE
Bologna, September 1937
A buzz of anticipation ran through the orchestra on the first day we rehearsed with the singers. Our opening night was just a week away. The sensational Italian soprano, Licia Albanese, was singing the role of Violetta Valéry, Traviata’s frail courtesan, and oh, how she looked the part. Young, slender, stunning. She had made her debut in Milan three years ago and took the Italian opera scene by storm. Everyone could see that Maestro Vittorio loved working with her.
Miss Albanese was born to sing Traviata. It’s a three-act opera and Violetta is onstage almost the entire time. To carry off such a strenuous part and stay in character requires a strong, athletic woman and Miss Albanese fit the bill. As in other Verdi operas, the strings play a prominent role, almost like another singer on the stage. Even before the curtain rises on act one, two violins play a soft, slow, passionate prelude, setting the mood for the tragedy to come. Gradually the orchestra joins in and the curtain rises on a nineteenth-century high society party at Violetta’s Paris salon. The party has been thrown to celebrate Violetta’s reemergence on the social scene. She has been ill for a year and this is her big comeback. Ah, but don’t be fooled, because she is not really better. Soon Alfredo arrives and professes his love. Violetta is struck by the
fact that she could actually be in love with someone for the first time in her life. “É strano.” “It is strange,” she sings, “that perhaps he is the one.”
The parallel was not lost on me. It made me think of Kurt. I hadn’t seen him since we met in the Tiergarten on the night he warned me about Kleiner. Nor had he written, but I forgave him for that. I was sure he didn’t have my Bologna address, and if he addressed a letter to my house in Berlin and if it was discovered by Kleiner, that would endanger Kurt and my family. Still, I thought about him often. I missed him, and I wondered if he still felt the same about me.
With only seven days left before opening night, Maestro Vittorio was under pressure to bring it all together and we were having trouble with the opening scene of act three. Traviata’s third act begins with a somber melody from the strings. They foretell of heartbreak. They set the mood—mournful and despairing. As the curtain rises, Violetta is lying on her bed in the last hours of her life. She is attended by her maid, Anina. The room is dark but for a single candle. The first violin, in solo, plays a somber melody with great pathos. It must mimic her anguish. It must follow her as she struggles to rise from the bed and walk to the window in vain hopes of seeing Alfredo. It becomes a sad duet between Violetta and the first violinist. In falling couplets, the violinist draws out her longing and her frailty. Without raw emotion from the solo violin, the scene falls flat.
We hadn’t put it together and Maestro Vittorio was not happy. We had gone over this final scene several times. Vittorio shook his head. He slapped his baton on the podium, once so hard he broke it. “Quanto volte?” he barked. “How many times must we go over the same passage?” He was frustrated that his first violinist, Rico Lassoni, could not get the mood or the tempo to his liking.
“Dammi emozione! Give me the emotion? I don’t believe you, Rico. Make me believe you.”
He glared at the violinist. Lassoni was shaking. “Ancora una volta,” Vittorio said sharply. “Once again.”
The scene began, Miss Albanese rose off her couch and Lassoni played. The maestro shook his head violently and stopped the scene. “No, no, no.” She stood still on the stage and everyone was silent while Vittorio berated his first violinist.
“Ancora una volta, per favore,” he said, and Lassoni played it yet again. Lassoni’s bow shook so badly he could barely draw it. He was totally intimidated. I don’t know how he played at all. Maestro Vittorio made a sour face and shook his head, but nevertheless motioned for Miss Albanese to continue with the scene.
Anina walks in and hands Violetta a letter. As she speaks the words in her weakened and breathy voice, the violin plays the background melody. It is sad and sweet, but it must be in tempo with Violetta’s reading. It didn’t go well. The timing was off. Maestro slammed his hand on the score. “Do you see what Verdi wrote on this page?” he yelled. Lassoni nodded his head. “Read it,” Vittorio commanded with a reddened face. “Read it out loud for everyone to hear. Read how Giuseppe Verdi wants his music played.”
Lassoni swallowed hard and in a shaky, nervous tone said, “‘Legge con voce bassa suono ma a tempo.’”
“Esattamente,” Vittorio said. “‘She speaks with a low voice but a tempo.’ Is that what you are hearing when you play, Mr. Lassoni? Are we a tempo?”
He lowered his head and shook it slowly from side to side. “No, Maestro.”
“No, Maestro, no Maestro,” Vittorio mocked. “She is, but you are not.” Then Vittorio turned and pointed at the second chair. “Mr. Ayers,” he said, “From bar 620, please.” Ayers, equally intimidated, picked up his violin and played the section. He was at least a beat behind Miss Albanese. Vittorio listened but his facial expressions did not improve. He halted the music with a wild wave of his arms. “Stop!”
Then he looked directly at me and tapped his baton. “Miss Baumgarten, if you please. From bar 620.” I was not a first violinist. There was no way that he should have turned to me. But he did. Ayers turned around and handed me the sheet music. Vittorio nodded to Miss Albanese on the stage, who picked up the letter and started the scene again. I felt my stomach drop out of my body. I watched Maestro Vittorio as he gently lowered his hands to begin the music. In order for me to succeed, my instrument must radiate profound sorrow. I listened to Miss Albanese read the narration, I listened to her breaths, counting the rhythm, and I weaved the melody in as best I could. The scene continued. Only once, in a cautionary tone, did Maestro Vittorio repeat the score’s notation, “a tempo.” Miss Albanese sang the final notes, Violetta died and the scene concluded. Maestro exhaled. He gave a little bow of his head to the orchestra and then to me. “Perfetto,” he said. Miss Albanese raised her eyebrows, nodded and smiled at me.
Maestro beckoned me with his fingers. “Miss Baumgarten, please change seats with Lassoni.” I hesitated. Lassoni was the first chair. I was an eighteen-year-old girl. “Miss Baumgarten, are you asleep?” he asked with eyebrows raised. I quickly gathered up my things and moved into Lassoni’s chair. In that moment, I became the Bologna State Opera Orchestra’s first violinist. Me.
“Once again, everyone,” Maestro said. “From the beginning. Act three.”
As I left practice, I was justifiably concerned that other orchestra members, especially Lassoni and the string section, would resent me. I saw several of them gather around Vittorio and whisper. The afternoon had been horribly embarrassing for Lassoni. A temporary replacement, a woman no less, had just unseated the first-chair violin. Surprisingly, some were complimentary. Some commended me on my playing. Lassoni himself walked by and nodded. He didn’t speak to me, his eyes were down, but he nodded in a complimentary way. I felt sorry for him. Ayers, with whom I was then to share a music stand, told me that he was happy he wasn’t chosen to sit in the hot seat. Other members, however, shook their heads disapprovingly when I walked by, as though I should have declined to play when Maestro called on me.
I rushed back to the apartment. I couldn’t wait to tell Mama. First chair! I called her name as soon as I walked in the door, but there was no response other than Mitzi’s barking. I assumed Mama had gone to the store, but then I saw a note on the table.
My Dearest Ada,
I have taken the train back to Berlin. I am proud of you and your successes here in Bologna, but it is not for me. It is not my home. This is a young person’s city. Perfect for you, Ada, but I don’t fit in. I feel out of place and I miss your father terribly. I know that you will do just fine without me. You have made so many friends. I know there is danger back in Berlin, but I feel like I should be with your father. He has no one to take care of him. Perhaps your father and I will come and visit when there is a break in the Philharmonic schedule. Please don’t be angry with me, but I need to be at home with my husband where I belong. Keep up with your practices. You are a star!
Love, Mama
I broke down. I blamed myself for being the reason that Mama had to leave her husband. Now she had to travel alone. I knew I shouldn’t have been worried; she was a competent woman who could certainly travel by herself. But I was. My father warned me that the trains were full of Nazis. Anything could happen. I knew that the train would stop at the German border. Everyone would have to show their papers. Everyone was subject to questioning. Just the sight of a Nazi or a Brownshirt could send my mother over the edge. She saw Herbert Kleiner in every Nazi uniform. I wonder if she thought of that before she left.
I didn’t know whether she had been planning this trip or whether it was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I knew she was depressed, but Bologna was such a warm city, I thought she’d get over it. I wondered if she had even told Papa she was coming home.
I decided to go to the telegraph office and send a wire to my father. Letters could take a week, and if Papa didn’t know, he should be alerted that she was coming. He should meet her at the station. I hoped the telegram reached him before Mama’s train arrived.
Two days later, I received a letter from my father. It was addressed to both my mother and me. It
was full of the usual happenings at the Philharmonic and news of what was going on in Berlin. Obviously, it was written before my mother arrived or before he received my telegram. I replied the same day, both to him and to Mama. I asked how she fared on the train trip home. I asked Mama how her garden had survived in her absence. I told Papa how I came to be elevated to first chair. I knew he would be proud when he read that part. I ended by telling them both that I hoped they would still come and visit me at the end of October.
I posted the letter and later in the day I received a telegram from my father. “Mother never arrived. When was she supposed to get here? When did she leave? What train did she take? Call me!”
I was stunned. I ran to the post office where I could make a telephone call. I called on three separate occasions without success. Finally, late that evening, I got through. He answered the phone. “Did Mama get home?” I asked frantically.
“No, she didn’t. Which train did she take? When did she leave?”
There was panic in my voice. “Oh, Papa, I don’t know which train she took. She left two days ago. I found a note saying she was going home. Where could she be? Should I come home?”
“No, she’s not here and there’s nothing you can do in Berlin. I will contact the railroad. There could have been an equipment failure or a delay on the line.”
“Papa, when we traveled from Berlin to Bologna, Mama and I had to change trains in Munich. The station was chaotic. There were Nazis and SS officers checking everyone’s papers. Returning to Germany, they will confront everyone and ask for papers. Something dreadful could have happened. She’s so frightened of the SS. I should go to Munich right away. I’ll ask if anyone saw her.”
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 16
