“That’s how the Gestapo learned about Uncle Wilhelm’s negotiations with the New York Philharmonic,” I said. “But Papa’s smart. That’s why his telegram didn’t say anything about money or even coming to Bologna. Natalia is right. We shouldn’t contact him. We should trust that he knows what he’s doing.”
“But I don’t want him to get caught,” Mama said, her voice quivering. “I have to do something.”
Natalia patted Mama on the arm. “He’s doing what he thinks is best.”
I couldn’t imagine a scenario where taking funds out of Germany and bringing them to Italy could be done safely. I couldn’t telegraph or phone him. I didn’t even want to put it in a letter in case it was intercepted. I would just have to wait and pray. As March was about to end, we received another telegram from Papa.
My dearest Friede and Ada. I sold the house. Hallelujah! There was some squabbling at the end as the buyer tried to whittle down the price, but I held firm and he took it. I think his wife was the deciding factor. She loved the way you decorated our house. She said she could move right in and wouldn’t change a thing. I couldn’t exclude any of your precious things, Friede, and for that I am sorry, but the offer was contingent on the furnishings. Given the circumstances here, in a few weeks I would not be able to sell the house at all. The Philharmonic has a two-day set in Munich on April 9 and April 10. Isn’t that exciting!
Love, Papa
There would be no reason for any of us to get excited about the Philharmonic performing in Munich. They played there several times a year. The telegram could only mean that he would try to come to Bologna on April 11. Unless we were all wrong about his intent to smuggle money out of Germany, we had to prepare for him. I would go to the bank and rent a safe deposit box.
Mama was worried, but she understood. She trusted Papa’s judgment. Nevertheless, it broke her heart that some other woman was moving into our house and taking possession of Mama’s treasures, all the things she cherished. I was with her when she bought many of those things, and I can recall the joy we shared when she’d come across a find. Maybe it was a chair or a dish or a swatch of fabric. “Don’t you just love this?” she’d say, and the piece would have a special place in our home. Now they all belonged to some other woman, who couldn’t possibly appreciate them in the same way.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bologna, April 1938
We were confident that Papa would arrive on April 11. The train from Munich by way of Verona, the one I took when I rescued Mama, was due to arrive at 2:00 p.m. Mama went to the market and placed beautiful spring flowers all around the apartment. She made a Bolognese sauce for dinner. She did her makeup and her hair and put on a pretty dress that she hadn’t worn since she left Berlin. And then we waited.
The more the hours passed, the more anxious we became. Two o’clock came and went. Evening came and still no Papa. Mama paced like a tiger, back and forth across the room, stopping only to stare out the window. We started to believe that either something had gone wrong or he had decided not to come. Natalia stopped by to ask if we had heard anything, and Mama invited her to stay for dinner.
“Maybe we misread his letters,” I said. “It was our conclusion that he was coming, but all he said was that the orchestra had two dates in Munich.”
Mama shook her head. “There’s nothing exciting about playing in Munich. That was a coded message for us. Maybe the plans have changed. I pray to God that he didn’t get caught.”
Just before midnight, there was a knock on the door. There stood Papa with a suitcase in one hand and his violin case in the other.
“Jacob, Jacob, oh my God,” Mama shrieked and wrapped her arms around him. She hadn’t seen him in twelve months and the two of them stood in the doorway locked in each other’s arms and crying their eyes out. The emotion of the moment wasn’t lost on me either. I picked up his bag and violin and brought them into the room where Natalia sat smiling.
Mama finally released Papa and they entered the apartment. “Mmm. Something smells good,” he said, and Mama smiled. Then it was my turn. “Where’s my Ada!” he said, and I was once again in his arms. Lord, how I missed my papa.
He nodded to Natalia. “I am Jacob,” he said, holding out his hand.
“I guessed as much,” Natalia said with a chuckle. “Welcome to Bologna. I’m Natalia, the girl who comes here as often as she can to have dinner.”
Nothing was said about the house or Papa’s journey. Just a lot of talk about what we’d all been doing. I told him of my progress with the orchestra and my private talks with Maestro Vittorio.
“It’s not easy for him to bring a woman into his orchestra,” Papa said. “I’m sure he’s catching his share of protests and grievances. Men do not want the door opened to women. There are only so many seats in an orchestra.”
Papa was delighted when I told him that I played at the Christmas series. “You accompanied Beniamino Gigli?” he said. “I’m impressed. I hear he’s very difficult, very hard to work with.”
“Not at all,” I said. “He was most complimentary. And he insisted I accompany him next year when he returns.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised. Nothing you accomplish should surprise me, and everything you do amazes me. I am so proud of you every day.”
We sat at the table eating dinner and finally Mama said, “All right, Jacob, it’s time to quit the small talk. Tell us about the house and what you’ve done over the last few days.”
Papa furled his forehead and tipped his head in Natalia’s direction.
“She’s a good friend, Jacob. She can be trusted.”
Papa grabbed his violin case and opened it. Inside were thousands of reichsmarks wrapped in newspaper. “Here is everything we own,” he said. “We sold the house and all the furnishings.”
“How could you possibly smuggle that money in your violin case?” I said. “They searched mine on the train.”
Papa smiled one of his all-knowing smiles. “When the Philharmonic travels, all the instruments are packed, placed on a cart and loaded onto the train. No Nazi dares to search through the instrument cases of the mighty Berlin Philharmonic. As concertmaster, it was my job to supervise the baggage car where the instruments were placed. I made sure they were properly loaded and stayed with them until moments before departure. At the last minute, I grabbed my violin case, jumped off the Berlin train and boarded the train for Torino. From that point on, no one cared what was in my possession.”
“Very brave,” Natalia said.
“Where is your violin?” I asked.
Papa winked. “As fate would have it, there happened to be an empty violin case that Wilhelm was carrying, and he took it back to Berlin. Thank God, I got our money out before it had to be registered. I am told that there will be a mandatory order for all Jews to register assets in excess of five thousand reichsmarks. Apparently, the money will be earmarked for Göring’s program called ‘Safeguarding the German Economy.’”
“That is what I have heard as well,” Natalia said. “I am told it will happen during the last week of April.”
“How do you know—?”
“Don’t, Papa,” I interrupted. “What she knows and how she knows is Natalia’s personal business.”
“That’s all right, Ada,” Natalia said. “We are among friends.”
“Well, as I was saying,” Papa continued, “I am happy to move my money to Italy, where it won’t be taken from me and where Jews are not persecuted.”
Natalia lowered her eyes and shook her head.
“What, Nat?” I said.
“I’m afraid that’s a false sense of security. There are anti-Semitic forces at work here as well. Just like in Germany, it starts subtly, creeping into the newspapers. Last week, on April 9, La Civiltà Cattolica, the Jesuits’ official journal, warned about the dangers of the ‘Jewish problem’ and cautioned against Jews and Catholics commingling. It also took a stance against the church accepting Jewish converts or condoning mixed marriages.”
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br /> My father shrugged. “There’s a big difference between a Catholic newspaper warning against mixed marriages and the Nazi racial laws.”
“The Catholic newspaper wouldn’t have printed it without encouragement from the anti-Semitic forces within the Fascist Party. Fascists are no friends of the Jews,” Natalia said, “but you’re right, the two regimes are not comparable. Jews are not arrested or abused here in Italy. We have no concentration camps. Jews are still prominent in all fields and in the educational community.”
“It’s true,” Mama said, “we’re safe here. Don’t go back to Berlin, Jacob. Stay here.”
“You know I can’t move right now. I must keep my word to Wilhelm. I have to return to Berlin. It’s only for eight months, just until the end of the year. I’m confident that Wilhelm will find us a position in America. If he can’t, then we will live here.”
Papa left on April 14 and the very next day, Mama, Natalia and I boarded the train bound for Siena. From there it was a bus ride to Pienza and a Passover seder with the Romitti family. Mama was wistful. A day and half with her husband was not nearly enough. She had begged him to stay longer, but he had to get back. The Philharmonic had a concert that he could not miss. It was a tearful send-off.
The bus ride through the Tuscan countryside was lovely. The Romittis lived in a two-story house on the outskirts of Pienza. The tiny city center was quaint and charming, with winding walkways and well-maintained historic buildings, like a miniature Bologna without the porticos. Mama seemed to like it. She commented that it was peaceful, warm and inviting. There were no universities with sixty-five thousand noisy students, no beeping horns from public transportation. Indeed, there wasn’t a car to be seen.
Natalia’s mother and Mama hit it off right away. Naomi Romitti had curly brown hair with touches of gray and a pleasant rosy face. I imagined that at a younger age she must have looked just like Natalia. She was hard at work in her kitchen, and Mama immediately asked if she had an extra apron.
Natalia’s father, Nico, owned a shoe store in Pienza. He had large hands, broad shoulders and a warm smile. Her brother, Matteo, a few years older than Natalia, lived on a farm outside Montepulciano and ran the retail operation for a small winery. Matt and his wife, Lidia, and their two children came for the seder.
Natalia told me that her parents weren’t overly observant, but they did celebrate the holidays and would attend Shabbat services every now and then in the tiny town of Pitigliano, an hour to the south. “There is a sizable Jewish community there and a fifteenth-century synagogue,” Matt said. “In fact, it was settled hundreds of years ago by Jews escaping the edicts of the Vatican, and it became known as Piccola Gerusalemme, or ‘Little Jerusalem.’” Nico said the Romittis were descendants of that community.
It seemed awkward to attend a seder without my father leading, but the Romittis’ seder was nice. Matt brought an outstanding bottle of wine, and, mysteriously, Elijah’s cup was emptied long before the seder was over. To my mother’s delight, Naomi’s brisket was tender and juicy, just like Grandma used to make. After dinner, we all took a walk through the town. Naomi and Mama gabbed the whole time, and I thought to myself, she’s finally found a friend in Italy.
THIRTY-NINE
Pienza, August 2017
CATHERINE, LIAM AND GIULIA returned to the registrar’s office in Siena. It had been three days since they had placed the request for the pre-1980 registry book, and it was sure to be there by now. Giulia handed her receipt to a clerk at the counter whose name tag read JOSEPH. He smiled and said he would bring it right out. Fifteen minutes later he returned empty-handed and said, “I’m sorry, but it’s not in the stacks. Perhaps it’s still in storage off-premises at the archives.”
“That’s not good enough,” Giulia said. “I paid for that book to be brought here on an expedited basis three days ago. And Avvocato Santi did the same thing a few weeks ago. That book should be here. We need that book for a lawsuit.”
Joseph looked bewildered. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “Someone must have misplaced your request. The registry archives are off-premises, but not too far. I will take my car and get the book myself at lunch. You have my word.”
“Thank you,” Giulia said. “Just to make sure, we want the book covering the Pienza section, prior to 1980.”
“I understand,” he said. “The one you want is Book 143. I’ll bring it.”
“Normally, this delay would make me unhappy,” Liam said. “But there is a pepperoni pizza waiting for me on the Campo.”
* * *
AFTER LUNCH, THEY RETURNED to the registrar’s office to wait for the clerk. Two hours later, he walked in, empty-handed again and shaking his head. “It’s not there. I looked everywhere. I even had two interns helping me. It’s just not there.”
“Is it possible that someone might have checked it out?” Catherine asked.
He shook his head. “That’s not permitted.”
“What about a situation where a judge would want to see it as evidence in a case? Maybe it’s sitting in a courtroom?”
Again, Joseph shook his head. “One of us would take it over to the court, wait until the judge was done examining it, bring it back here and shelve it. These books do not circulate. They are valuable historic records of property transfers, especially in the older times. More recently, paper archives are being digitized, but not yet for this property.”
“Without the official registry book, is there any other way to prove who owned property at any given time?”
“Signore, I do not know. Maybe someone has a deed that is notarized.”
“That’s the problem,” Catherine said. “There are two notarized deeds and they are conflicting. We need to know who owned the property before the deeds were issued.”
The clerk shrugged. “Then we would have to find the book. It must be somewhere.”
Liam stepped forward. “Joseph, may I ask, which clerk took the request to retrieve Book 143 when Mr. Santi ordered it last month? That wasn’t you, was it?”
“No, Signore. I did not know it was missing until today.” He looked at his computer terminal, typed a few keystrokes and said, “It was Fabio. He took the order and gave the receipt to Avvocato Santi.”
“May we speak to Fabio, please?”
“Mi dispiace. He should be here, but he is out today.”
“When was he last here?”
“Three days ago.” The clerk pointed to Giulia’s credit card receipt on the counter and tapped it with his finger. “On the bottom of your receipt, Signora, the initials FL. That stands for Fabio Lombardo. He took your order three days ago.”
“Tall guy with a mole on his cheek?” Liam asked.
“Si.”
Liam looked at Catherine. “Dead fish.”
“Excuse me?” the clerk said.
“One more thing,” Liam said. “Is it possible to tell if a request was put in for Book 143 previously, before Mr. Santi—say, within the past year?”
The clerk nodded and consulted his computer screen. “Si. Three times it has been requested. Once by Avvocato Lenzini in October 2016, once by Avvocato Santi, almost four weeks ago and your request three days go. All of the times for Book 143 only.”
“Who took the orders?”
“All three times it was Fabio Lombardo.”
“I wonder what happened to my twenty euros,” Liam said. “Can you give me Fabio’s home address?”
“Oh, no, Signore. It is against the rules.”
“We need Book 143 to show to a judge. Otherwise a very nice woman could be wrongfully evicted from her villa where she has lived her entire life.”
The clerk nodded. “Strict rules prohibit me from revealing any personal information about our employees. It is even against the rules to tell you that his address is in the public telephone book for the Cassone section of Siena.”
Liam nodded. “Thank you. If you come across the registry book, please let us know.”
“Certo. Happy to help in
any way I can.”
* * *
THE LISTING FOR FABIO Lombardo led them to a small street in Cassone, on the east side of Siena. When they arrived at the small yellow frame house, they saw a car in the driveway and two newspapers on the front porch. Liam rang the bell and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
“Well, we have his phone number,” Giulia said. “I’ll call him later.”
The mailbox adjacent to the front door was stuffed with mail. Liam shook his head. “Something’s not right.” He tried the door. It was unlocked. He entered.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” Catherine said.
“Fabio? Fabio Lombardo?” Liam called, but there was no response.
“Let’s go, he’s obviously out of town,” Catherine said.
Liam looked around the foyer and suddenly backed out. He put his hands over his nose and mouth. “Oh, Jesus. Call the police, Giulia. There’s a dead body in here.”
* * *
THE POLICE TOOK STATEMENTS from all three. Liam told them that they came looking for Fabio because they thought he might know something about a missing registry book, but Fabio was obviously dead when they arrived. The police reported that he had been shot three times, once in his left temple, which would have been instantly fatal. The medical examiner estimated he had been dead for three days. Liam asked for permission to search the house for the missing registry book. That was denied.
“I am sorry, Signore, but this is now an active crime scene and nothing may be disturbed.”
“If you come across his cell phone,” Liam said, “please make note of who he talked to three days ago. I’d be interested in seeing whether there were calls with an attorney named Lorenzo Lenzini.”
* * *
“DO YOU THINK LENZINI shot him?” Catherine said on the way back to Pienza.
“No, I don’t,” Liam said. “Not Lenzini. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty. But he’s involved, I’d bet the farm on it. Fabio initially took the order from Lenzini last October, about the time VinCo filed suit. Maybe something in the registry book showed that Quercia didn’t get good title or that it wasn’t listed as the owner at all in Book 143. It’s possible that Lenzini talked Fabio into letting him take the book. A bribe would certainly not be out of the question. When Santi placed his order, Fabio knew he would be in trouble. He probably tried to get it back from Lenzini, but since Santi didn’t follow up on his order, maybe Fabio thought the whole thing would go away. When Catherine, and then Giulia, placed the order, Fabio knew it wasn’t going to go away and he must have panicked. My guess is he contacted Lenzini and demanded the return of the book. That was his fatal mistake.”
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