“Don’t go yet. First, let me see what I can find out. Maybe in the change of trains there was a mixup. Maybe she got on the wrong train. I’ll reach out to Wilhelm. He has connections everywhere. You stay in Italy and take care of your career. There is nothing waiting for you here in Berlin.”
THIRTY
Pienza, August 2017
“I’M STRIKING OUT,” LIAM said. “No one seems to know anything about a lawyer named Hernandez who supposedly practiced here twenty-two years ago.”
“That’s really disappointing,” Catherine said. “There’s got to be some record of him.”
“I’ve tried the legal registers, bar association memberships, even the clerk of the court in Siena. No Hernandez.”
“Maybe his name is not Hernandez, but some other Spanish name,” Floria said. “Maybe the signora got the name wrong. She said her memory was foggy. He was Spanish and Italian.”
“How many Spanish Italians can there be in this area?” Liam asked.
“There can be a lot,” Floria said. “Spain once controlled this region. The office building in Pienza’s square is named for the Borgia pope.”
“I think I’ll drive into Pienza and ask around,” Liam said. “Are you having any luck finding local counsel, Cat?”
Catherine shook her head. “I’ve spoken to six attorneys, and when I get to the part about VinCo and Lenzini, they all respectfully decline. They don’t want to take him on. The policeman was probably right when he warned us about Lenzini. I’m afraid he wields influence in the Siena legal community.”
“I don’t understand,” Floria said. “He’s just a pompous little fat man. How can he frighten off so many other avvocati?”
“As we say in Chicago,” Liam answered, “it’s because the fix is in. No sense making enemies in a case you can’t win.”
“But the signora was able to hire two avvocati; Signor Giangorgi and Signor Santi. They agreed to take him on.”
“And what did they do?” Liam said. “They folded up their tents. They took the signora’s money, but they didn’t contest the eviction. Santi was trying to make a deal with Gabi that gave the property to VinCo.”
“You could be right,” Catherine said. “The lawyers could have been paid off, but I don’t know about the fix. We need someone who can tell us about Judge Riggioni. I have an appointment with another attorney in Siena later today. His English is poor. Floria is going to drive and be my interpreter. We have to keep on trying. We have no choice.”
Liam grabbed the car keys. “I’m going into Pienza. I’ll ask around. Maybe someone has heard of Avvocato Hernandez. Maybe I’ll come across a lawyer who has the guts to take on Lenzini.”
“Bring me some pastries from that little store on the square.”
* * *
THE NARROW STREETS OF Pienza’s centuries-old city center were pedestrian only. Aside from the usual assortment of cafés, clothing stores and gift shops, there was a smattering of professional offices. Liam noticed a sign outside an office door which read, G. ROMANO, SERVICI LEGALI. He shrugged and opened the door.
A young woman was seated behind a desk in the small reception room. Liam paused to appreciate the moment. He was in a charming medieval town in Tuscany, he had ambled down a cobblestone walkway adorned with plants and flowers, he had located a lawyer’s office and the woman behind the reception desk was strikingly pretty. Not a bad day’s work.
Liam guessed the woman was in her mid- to late twenties. She was dressed in a light blue summer shift. A floral silk scarf was knotted at the neckline. Her dark hair was pulled back and held in a tortoiseshell French barrette. She smiled, raised her eyebrows and said, “Buongiorno, Signore. Come posso aiutarti?”
Liam had no idea what she had said, but she said it delightfully. He scrunched his face.
“English?” she said. Liam nodded.
“How can I assist you?”
“I wonder if Mr. Romano might have a moment to spare for me?”
“Mister Romano?”
“The lawyer.”
She smiled.
“Uh-oh,” Liam said with a grimace. “I’m sorry. I take it you are G. Romano?”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Goodness, no!”
She stood and extended her hand. “Giulia.”
“Liam Taggart. I’m embarrassed. Please forgive me.”
A shake of her head brushed away the concern. “Non è un problema. How can I help you, Mr. Taggart?”
“Well, to tell the truth, I’m looking for a lawyer named Hernandez. Do you know him?”
She shook her head. Her smile was intoxicating. “No, I’m sorry. Does he practice in this province?”
“He did twenty-two years ago.”
“I have only been practicing for three years. I do not know of him. Is there something else?”
“Well, now that you ask, what sort of practice do you have? Do you specialize in certain types of cases? I mean … what kind of lawyer are you? I mean, do you do real estate or litigation or … I’m usually not this clumsy.”
She laughed. “This is a small town, Liam. I have a general practice. Family-oriented. Wills, trusts, real property sales, the occasional divorce. What do you need?”
“Before we go much further, we should clear any conflicts. Do you have any professional connection with VinCo?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Wish I did. They have a lot of money. I believe that Lorenzo Lenzini does most of their work.”
“I’m afraid that’s true.” Liam stopped and considered the next question. Why not? “Do you like him? Lenzini?”
Her answer was quick. “No. Not in the least.”
“Great. We are in a jam and we need a lot of help.”
“I think I have some idea. Have you come from America to help Signora Vincenzo?”
“Yes, how do you know that?”
“Word gets around. It’s a small town.”
“We are trying to stop Lenzini from evicting Gabriella Vincenzo. So far, we’ve been totally ineffective. We need someone who practices here to help us. There are issues concerning who owns the land—who has good title to the land. Lenzini has managed to get court orders ex parte, without anyone else present. In fact, Gabi has been held in default. Recently, Lenzini has been showing up at the property. I had a run-in with him. And then I had a run-in with the police. We have tried to be reasonable, but Lenzini is maniacal. My wife, Catherine, is an outstanding attorney in Chicago, but here in Pienza, she can’t do much on her own. We need help.”
“I understand.”
“Well, how can I get you interested in helping us?”
Again, that dazzling smile. “I quote a fee. You agree to pay the fee. Isn’t that how it works in America?”
“Yes, I believe it is.”
“Where is your wife, Catherine, now?”
“She was going to Siena, but she’ll be at Gabi’s villa later on. We’re staying there.”
Giulia handed a business card to Liam. “I have an appointment in an hour. I will drive out to the villa at five o’clock.”
“Fabulous.”
* * *
CATHERINE RETURNED TO THE villa at three. Liam was sitting on the veranda, his feet up, holding a bottle of beer. He had a smug look on his face.
“Well, I struck out today,” Catherine said. “As soon as we said Lenzini, the lawyer backed off.” She took the bottle from Liam’s hand and took a drink. “What’s with the big smile? Did you at least bring me pastries?”
“Better. Much better. I brought you a lawyer. Giulia Romano. She’ll be here later this afternoon.”
“Seriously? How did you get a lawyer?”
“Me Irish charm.”
THIRTY-ONE
Bologna, September 1937
Though my mother’s disappearance weighed heavily on my mind, I returned to rehearsal the next morning. As distraught as I was, there was nothing I could do at home, and if I didn’t show up for rehearsal, I would lose my job. There
were five Traviata performances, and we were getting ready to begin rehearsals of Rossini’s The Barber of Seville. As we prepared to move from Verdi to Rossini, I wondered if Maestro Vittorio would put Mr. Lassoni back in his first chair. That question was answered as soon as I arrived at the Teatro. Maestro called me into his office.
“What I say to you, I say in private. Inside these walls only.”
I nodded.
“Ada, I am impressed by your talent, your skills, your passion, your feel for the instrument. Wilhelm did not mislead me. You are at least as fine a violinist as any in my orchestra. You lack only experience, and that will come. But I cannot keep you in the first section.”
My heart sank. I feared this was coming. I saw the men gathering around Vittorio when I was promoted. I knew they were leveling a grievance. Again, I nodded.
“It is political, Ada. Many were unhappy by what I did. They thought I shamed Lassoni, though that was not my intention. I sought only to give Miss Albanese the orchestral support she deserved in Traviata’s most emotional scene, but some of my members did not approve. They did not like replacing Lassoni with a new person, a young person.”
“A female person?”
“I am glad you understand. But the replacement itself was a good thing, not only because of your skill but because competition makes for better artistry. Ada, your assignment here is temporary, only as long as Signor Fishman is on sabbatical. When you leave, I will once again have to rely on my senior members, the ones who have played for me throughout the years. Like Rico Lassoni.”
I was sad, but he was right. I had no claim to first chair.
Maestro smiled. “When we begin Barbiere, you will please return to second section. And in the future, who knows? Competition is good. When I came in today, I saw Lassoni practicing Barbiere very intensely.”
Rehearsals, performances and practices absorbed all my time, some days from eight thirty in the morning to eleven at night. Still, only half my mind was on my music. The other half was on my mother. Each night I returned to the apartment to see if there was a telegram waiting for me. In my most recent telephone call, Papa told me that there were no mechanical problems noted on the rail lines. “It is possible that Mama was taken off the train and detained for some reason. Uncle Wilhelm is using all his influence to find out what happened. He has even reached out to Joseph Goebbels. But don’t be disheartened. There are no reports of her arrest or her death. She is simply missing.”
Papa insisted on maintaining optimism. He made me promise to be upbeat. “We will only send out positive vibrations,” he said. “No negative thoughts allowed. Perhaps Mama has fallen ill along the way and is recuperating in a clinic somewhere. Maybe Switzerland. I am checking the hospitals. Have faith. We must continue to have faith. It’s all we have.” He refused to believe something horrid had happened. I was not so confident. I cried for an hour after hanging up.
There was no performance on Monday and I was supposed to go out with Franny and Natalia that evening, but I didn’t feel up to it. They knew about Mama and they knew I didn’t want to go out of the apartment for any reason, except to rehearse or perform. I spent all my free time in the apartment practicing Barbiere and trying to stop thinking of tragic scenarios. Thank God I had my music. Otherwise, I would have gone mad. Half of me wanted to run to the station, get on a train, take it to Munich and go off searching for her.
At eight o’clock there was a knock on the door. It was Franny, Natalia and two other girls. “Come on,” they said. “It’s time for dinner. You need to get out.” I protested, but they insisted. They said either I would walk or they would carry me.
It was a warm September night, the city was alive and I was with friends who cared about me. I tried to be upbeat, but my spirits were down. There were tears in my eyes that just wouldn’t go away. I apologized to my friends, but they would have none of it. They continually drew me into conversations. I was sick at heart and they were spoon-feeding me the very best medicine they could—concern, warmth, friendship and love.
Natalia turned to me and said, “Thursday is Rosh Hashanah. Have you made plans to attend synagogue? Will you come with me?”
That was a surprise. I had forgotten she was Jewish and I had forgotten about the High Holy Days.
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very clearly. Being here in Italy, it’s easy to forget I’m Jewish. No one is pointing it out to me everywhere I go. In Germany, we are Juden. We are people to be avoided. Here in Italy, no one seems to care if you’re Jewish. No signs tell you where you can or cannot go. No one asks if you’re Jewish before you enter a restaurant. Everyone gets along. You’re lucky, Nat. Italy hasn’t seen the horrors of a regime that makes it a national policy to exclude Jews.”
Natalia raised her eyebrows. “Just to the right of the Two Towers, behind the gelato store,” she said, “what is the name of the street?”
I thought for a minute and finally said, “Via Inferno.”
Natalia nodded. “That’s right. It’s called Hell Street. Do you know why?”
I shrugged. “No.”
“The several blocks in that area were formerly known as Ghetto Ebraico, the Hebrew ghetto. In the middle of the sixteenth century, in an effort to combat so-called religious contamination, the Catholic church confiscated and burned copies of the Talmud throughout Italy on the charge of blasphemy. In 1555, Pope Paul IV ordered all Jews in the Papal States to sell their houses and move into a walled section of the city that would be locked at night.”
“That was the Ghetto Ebraico?” I said.
Natalia nodded. “Most people agree the word ghetto comes from the Italian word borghetto, meaning ‘small neighborhood.’ Jews were forced into small neighborhoods.”
“Jews were locked into a ghetto?”
“They could come and go during the day, but they had to be in at night. That arrangement lasted for about forty years. Then, in 1593, the Jews were totally expelled from all of the Papal States, except for Rome. Expelled. Had to leave the country. It wasn’t until the nineteenth century that they wandered back, reestablished the synagogue and opened their businesses.”
“I didn’t know.”
“So, you see, Italy has not always been as accommodating to Jews as you thought.”
“But that took place hundreds of years ago. There are no restrictive laws in Italy today. In Germany, it’s happening right now and getting worse by the day. You have to agree, it’s much better for us in Italy.”
Natalia slowly shook her head. She wasn’t convinced. “Better today, but there is talk. I hear the rumors at the university. Mussolini and the Fascist Grand Council are considering laws restricting Jewish life. At the moment, it’s just talk, but we can never be sure.”
That shocked me. I hoped she was wrong.
“Again, come to High Holy Day services with me,” Natalia said. “We’ll pray for your mother.”
I nodded. “I will. Thank you. Where do we go?”
“In the Ghetto Ebraico, where else? There is a new synagogue, built in 1928.”
“Where did your family go before the synagogue was built?”
“Oh, my family doesn’t live here. They live out in the country in a little town where nothing ever happens. It is far too quiet for me. I have only been in Bologna for the last five years working on my degrees. My wish is to teach right here at the University of Bologna. Someday maybe you will go with me when I visit my parents.”
“I’d love that. What town do they live in?”
“My family comes from a small town in the Tuscany region. It is called Pienza.”
THIRTY-TWO
Pienza, August 2017
A RED FIAT PULLED up to the villa at five o’clock, and Giulia Romano stepped out. “Lovely,” she said as she took a moment to scan the landscape.
“Exactly my reaction,” Catherine said, extending her hand. “I’m Catherine Lockhart and this is Floria, Signora Vincenzo’s most able assistant. You’ve al
ready met my husband. Thank you for driving out here tonight.”
“It is my honor.”
They strolled over to a table on the veranda and Floria didn’t waste a moment. “We have to stop Lenzini,” she said. “You can be sure he’ll come back, and he’ll dig and he’ll cut and he’ll drive my poor padrona to the grave. He’s a monster. He must be stopped!”
Catherine patted her on the shoulder. “We’re going to stop him, Floria.” Turning to Giulia, she said, “Liam tells me that you already knew we were here to help Gabi.”
“Yes. As I told him, Pienza is a small community. Everyone here knows that the signora has been fighting with Lenzini about her farm. There are no secrets in Pienza. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Ultimately, we want to reopen the case, retry the ownership of the property and prove it belongs to Gabi,” Catherine said. “More urgently, we need to get before the judge and stop Lenzini from bringing his work crew out here. We need to vacate a court order Lenzini obtained that gives VinCo the right to conduct digging and testing on Gabi’s land.”
“Can I ask a question?” Liam said. “What do you know about Judge Riggioni?”
Giulia shrugged. “Not too much. He has a solid reputation. I’ve only had one matter before him. It was a border dispute. He read the file and ruled fairly; not all judges do that.”
“Our friend in Chicago has suggested that he can be reached.”
Giulia squinted. “Reached?”
“Improperly influenced. You know, on the take.”
Giulia straightened up. She had a shocked look on her face. “And you want me to…”
“No, no, no. Just the opposite. Gabi’s nephew is of the opinion that Lenzini may have reached the judge.”
Giulia laughed. “Reached. Interesting. I suppose that is an opinion held by many who lose a case. Well, this is not Chicago and I do not think that Judge Riggioni is ‘on the take,’ as you say. Appellate courts in this province will review the decision quite carefully and reverse it if it is not correct. Paying a judge would not be money well spent, even if such a thing were possible.”
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