“You have an Italian passport with a Jewish name. That might be worse.”
“I feel like I have to take the chance. What if Papa’s injured? What if Uncle Wilhelm finds out where he is, but he’s unable to get to him?”
“And what if he was part of the tens of thousands of men who were arrested, detained and held in a camp?” Natalia said. “As much as we hope that didn’t happen, it’s the most likely scenario. Isn’t Furtwängler with all his connections the best one to arrange for his release? Wasn’t it Heydrich and Furtwängler who found out about your mother?”
“I agree,” Mama said. “The danger to you far exceeds any chance you could rescue Papa. Let’s leave it to Wilhelm for the time being. After all, he’s Papa’s best friend and a very powerful man.”
As a consequence of the riots, which they blamed on the Jews, Germany enacted a series of extreme anti-Jewish laws, turning the vise even tighter. On November 12, the Reichstag enacted the Decree on the Elimination of the Jews from Economic Life. The law forbade any Jew from owning a store, carrying on a trade or selling goods or services of any kind. All Jewish-owned businesses were to be immediately transferred to Aryan owners. The next day all Jewish children were expelled from public schools. The next week Jewish movement was curtailed and Jews were prevented from entering theaters, cinemas and certain designated “Aryan zones.” Of course, that meant there would be no Jewish attendance at the Philharmonie.
Mussolini, in a show of solidarity with his partner in the north, pushed through anti-Jewish laws of his own. Jewish children were not permitted to attend Italian public schools, marriage between Jews and non-Jews was prohibited and Jews were excluded from the army and certain professions. On November 17, a law directed all presumed members of the Jewish race to appear at the local municipal office and record their religious status. This census would then be available to governmental authorities.
“I’m not going to do it,” Mama said. “How do they know if I’m Jewish? Maybe my religious status is that I no longer attend synagogue or believe in God anymore. Maybe I’m nothing.”
“You had a Jewish mother and a Jewish father,” Natalia said. “Under the law, you’re a Jew no matter what you believe.”
“We have to register, Mama; we already disclosed our religion when we immigrated last year. If they catch you breaking the law, they’ll deport you back to Germany.”
“January can’t come soon enough for me,” Mama said. “I hope and pray that Wilhelm can find Papa, get him released and secure a position for us in America. It won’t take two minutes for me to pack, that’s for sure.”
FORTY-TWO
Pienza, August 2017
“WE HAVE YET TO develop any meaningful evidentiary support,” Catherine said to Liam and Giulia. “We’re nowhere near putting together a motion for a new trial. We need to do something to postpone the eviction, or at the very least get an extension. There are only eighteen days until VinCo gets possession, and you can bet that Lenzini will be here on the morning of September 10 with a police escort and a moving van.”
“Postpone possession on what grounds?” Giulia asked. “As you say, we’ve uncovered no new evidence.”
“What about the missing property book and the dead clerk?” Liam said. “Doesn’t that create an inference that there’s an effort to suppress evidence favorable to Gabi?”
“Suppressed evidence is not evidence. By definition, it’s suppressed. The judge said he wants evidence.”
“I have a feeling that there may be something in Fabio’s house,” Liam said. “What’s the chance we can get in there and take a look?”
Giulia shook her head. “It’s a crime scene investigation. Besides, what are we searching for? We don’t even know.”
“Can we ask the judge for permission to enter the premises?”
“For what?”
“To look for Registry Book 143,” Catherine said. “Back home, we can get an order to view premises. We could say we have reason to believe that the decedent took the book and did not return it. The book will be the best evidence as to who owns Gabi’s property.”
Giulia shrugged. “I’ve never done that before, but maybe Judge Riggioni will give us a writ to explore Fabio’s house and search for the book. It can’t hurt to ask.”
Liam nodded. “I agree. The judge never heard Gabi’s side. Maybe he’ll give us a little room to work. I know it’s all supposition, but there’s so much here that doesn’t smell right. Gabi lives on the property all of her life. No one bothers her. No one tries to remove her until last year. Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“Okay, and how about this Vanucci character? He appears out of nowhere with a lawyer named Hernandez that no one can find and delivers a deed to Gabi. What’s that all about? And why in 1995?”
“That’s not the only date that’s mysterious,” Catherine said. “VinCo has owned the surrounding property for years, and to hear Gabi tell it, they’ve wanted her little piece for a long time. Why does VinCo wait until 2015 to investigate who owns Gabi’s parcel and then miraculously discovers the Quercia Company and a dead shareholder?”
“It would be nice if we could find Vanucci or Hernandez,” Liam said. “Nobody in the Siena legal community knows an attorney named Hernandez.”
“What about Bologna?” Catherine said. “Are those two different practice regions? Maybe Bologna lawyers would know Hernandez.”
“Why Bologna?” Giulia asked.
“Just a hunch. I’ve been reading about Bologna.”
Giulia nodded. “Could be. Lawyers in Bologna typically limit their practice to the Bologna city court. There might be some attorneys there who know Hernandez.”
“I think we should take a ride up to Bologna.”
“First things first,” Giulia said. “Let’s see if we can get an order allowing us into the house to search for evidence. I’ll draw up an emergency motion.”
* * *
“SIGNOR PRESIDENTE DELLA CORTE, I have two matters to bring before you this morning,” Giulia said. “The first is a request for the issuance of an order giving the defendant access to the premises of Fabio Lombardo, a deceased clerk of the Registrar of Titles, to search for a certain registry book, number 143. We believe that book may contain evidence that Gabriella Vincenzo is the rightful owner of the property.”
“Nonsense!” shouted Lenzini. “Pure nonsense brought up to obfuscate the clear meaning of your order declaring VinCo to be the absolute owner. This matter has been tried to its conclusion. The book does not exist, and if it did, it would confirm that my client is the rightful owner. I happen to know that Avvocato Santi requested the book over a month ago and was told it was missing.”
“How do you know what he was told?” Liam interjected after Floria whispered the translation.
“Excuse me, Signore,” Judge Riggioni said to Liam, “only the avvocati may address the court.”
“Right,” said Lenzini. “Not you, Mr. Toughguy.”
“But he has a point,” the judge said. “How do you know what Santi was told?”
Lenzini took a deep breath. “Simple. By deductive reasoning. He did not bring it to the court’s attention. So he must have been told it was missing, or he saw it and it was unhelpful.”
“Avvocato Santi did not come to court at all,” the judge said. “He and his client were inexplicably absent. What is your objection to allowing them to look for the book? I would think if they found the book, it might clear up a lot of mystery.”
“Because the case is over. You have ruled. A judgment is a judgment. How much longer do we have to belabor the point?”
Judge Riggioni looked at Giulia and nodded. “I’ll grant the motion. You may search Mr. Lombardo’s premises for the book, but only in the presence of the police and under their supervision.”
“Thank you, Signor Presidente.”
“What is your second matter, Signorina Romano?”
“I wish to postpone the date for possession.”
>
“Of course, you do. Perhaps indefinitely, no?”
“Ultimately. But for now, I ask for time to gather evidence to show that Gabriella Vincenzo is the real owner, not VinCo. How odd is it that she has lived there for most of her seventy-eight years undisturbed? How odd is it that less than two years ago, VinCo suddenly appears with a deed from a deceased German citizen? Signora Vincenzo and Carlo Vanucci signed a deed to her property before a notaio twenty-two years ago. We are trying to contact the notary and the seller, but we will need more time.”
The judge shook his head. “I have been through this before. I saw the registry book that shows a German company as the title holder for all the years since 1980, as far back as the book goes. I’ll give you the right to search for the older registry book, and if you come up with something, then I’ll reconsider. That’s all for today.”
Liam stopped Lenzini on the way out of the courtroom. “We’re getting closer. When we go to your buddy Fabio’s house, do you suppose we’ll find the book and your fingerprints all over it, Lorenzo?”
“You should have taken the money.”
FORTY-THREE
Bologna, November 1938
It has been two weeks since Kristallnacht and not a word from Papa. I sent him two telegrams but received no answers. Mama and I have been on pins and needles. Finally, an odd telegram arrived from Uncle Wilhelm:
“Ada. Hope this finds you well as you rehearse for the Christmas season. Contacted by KK, who has found what we were looking for. I’m so pleased that you are coming to visit us for a guest performance. Zitla has our guest room waiting for you. See you tomorrow. Love, Uncle Wilhelm”
Mama, whose hopes were initially raised when the telegram was delivered, became angry. “What is that supposed to mean? You know, I think the old goat is losing his mind.”
“No, Mama. I think it means he’s located Papa. He wants me to come to Berlin immediately. To his house. He just can’t say so in the telegram.”
“Who is KK?”
Only one thought came to my mind: Kurt Koenig. I packed a bag, grabbed my Italian passport and my magic locket and headed to the train station. The first train would get me into Berlin at 10:00 p.m. I wired Uncle Wilhelm that I would meet him at the Philharmonie.
It was a frightening experience reentering Germany, now a total military state. As we crossed the border, I was stopped and examined by a young guard who compared my face to my passport several times before letting me pass. Twice on the train from Munich, SS officers asked to see my papers. “Italienerin?” one said.
I nodded. “Ja.”
“Where are you headed, Fraulein?”
“Berlin.”
“Are you visiting? What is the purpose of your visit?”
“I am to perform with the Berlin Philharmonic.”
He looked up at the luggage shelf. “Where is your instrument?”
“Maestro Furtwängler has it. It has been repaired.”
He thought for a minute, then nodded and moved on. The German train was a stark contrast to the Italian trains. There was little or no conversation. No joy on anyone’s face. All seriousness. If possible, Germany had become even colder and more impersonal than when I had left. I arrived at Berlin Hauptbahnhof precisely at 10:00 p.m. The station was filled with military and uniformed personnel. People walked quickly and looked straight head. I went directly to the Philharmonie.
Uncle Wilhelm met me in the empty lobby. There was no concert scheduled and the building was dark. “We’ve located your father, Ada. Sorry to be so circumspect in my telegram. Actually, it was your friend Corporal Koenig who found him, and he contacted me. I had given up hope. None of the people I knew had any idea where he was. It is impossible to imagine the chaos that has existed here for the past two weeks. Thirty thousand men were arrested. At random. Well, I shouldn’t say random; they were Jews. It was madness. Until they are all processed, no one really knows who was arrested or where they were taken. Two days ago, Kurt came to see me here at the hall. He had been assigned to an office job in Berlin, creating a central data ledger of the arrestees at the camps. He came across your father’s name and saw that he was detained at the Buchenwald camp.”
“Did he say how my father was?”
“According to Kurt, he is not listed as deceased or injured, and that’s all he knew. As with all of the detainees, he is being interrogated. I don’t know much more.”
“I want to take him out of here. Out of Germany.”
Uncle Wilhelm shook his head. “I can try to get him out of the camp, using whatever influence I still have with the hierarchy, but even then, he has a Jewish passport. In order for him to leave Germany, he must secure an exit visa. And he will have to pay a Reich flight tax based upon a percentage of his assets. I’m afraid it would be tens of thousands of reichsmarks.”
“But he doesn’t own…”
“I know what he did when he sold his house, Ada. I know he took the money to Friede. I told him at the time I thought it was foolish. The Gestapo also knows he sold the house. They track all property sales. They will want to know where the money is, and he certainly can’t tell them he took it to Italy.”
“What can we do?”
“I don’t know. If it’s possible, you will have to get the money and bring it back to Germany. Then, hopefully, when he’s released, he can get an exit visa and pay his flight tax. I will get him a position in the United States. I have spoken to Serge Koussevitzky in Boston. He will guarantee him a position with the Boston Symphony Orchestra whenever he gets there.”
“Okay, I know where the money is and I can get it. How do I get my father out of Buchenwald?”
He shrugged. “That I don’t know. Kurt said he will meet you here tomorrow morning at eight.”
I spent the night in the darkened Philharmonie concert hall, sitting fifth row center, where I sat so many times before, watching my father. I drifted off, now and again, and the hall replayed my memories. I saw Papa sitting with the orchestra. First chair. A sweet symphony was playing. Maybe the Brahms Third. Whenever the strings reached a rest in the score, he’d look down at Mama and me and smile. Such a proud papa. Such a polished gentleman. Such a great artist. So many memories in that hall. I had even performed on that stage myself before Germany imploded.
I was sound asleep when Kurt woke me. At first, I thought it was a dream, but there he stood in his Wehrmacht uniform. Damn, it was good to see him, even under these circumstances. It felt like only yesterday that we were together. We kissed in the empty hall, a desperate kiss, the kind I could get lost in. Finally, I let go and took a deep breath.
“What do you know about Papa?”
“He’s in the Buchenwald concentration camp. I came across his name when I was registering the men who were arrested during Kristallnacht. I’ve been temporarily assigned to SS headquarters to assist documenting the people detained during the riots. There were thousands of them. I don’t know why the SS decided to arrest so many people, all at one time, all Jews. It created a statistical nightmare for us. Each and every name and address had to be written and entered into two different registers.” He shrugged. “Germans and their statistical efficiency.”
“Don’t make light, Kurt.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. When I saw your father’s name, I immediately contacted Furtwängler because I knew he had deep connections. But even with all his political pull, he has been unable to get him released. We won’t finish processing the names for weeks. Ada, Furtwängler tells me that the Gestapo knows your father sold his house. They contacted the buyer to find out exactly what was paid. Your father did not report the money as an asset. They have been asking him what he did with the money. It was supposed to be registered.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s in a Bologna bank, Kurt. He brought it to us to hold for him.”
“He committed a serious crime, Ada, and lying to the Gestapo to cover it up will only make it worse.” Kurt shook his head. “He can’t fool them.
No one can.”
“I’ll go get the money and bring it back.”
Kurt shook his head. “It’s too dangerous to bring money into the country. Especially thousands of reichsmarks. Weren’t you searched on the train?”
I nodded.
“You’d get caught and the money would be confiscated. You’d end up jailed as well.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I could hide it like he did when he brought it to Bologna. We need to do something. Can I at least go to him?”
“No. He’s in a concentration camp.”
“What can we do?”
He leaned forward and spoke softly. “I have a plan and I’ve been working on it. When I spoke with Maestro Furtwängler, he told me he believes that if the money is returned to Berlin, he can use his political influence to get the charges dropped.”
“He told me that too, but you said I can’t bring the cash across the border.”
“True, but banks can make transfers by wire. I have obtained the authority to take your father to the Ministry of Finance in Berlin to make a wire transfer from the Bologna bank to the ministry. Then we’ll let Furtwängler work his magic. Let’s hope that Furtwängler’s influence is as strong as he thinks it is. If it works out, your father could be back playing with the orchestra as soon as he’s back on his feet.”
“What do you mean on his feet?”
“I’m sure he’s had a rough time.”
“I want to see him.”
Kurt shook his head. “The plan is for me to drive to Buchenwald, pick up your father and drive him to the ministry where he’ll authorize the wire transfer. You can drive with me, not to the camp, but part of the way. On the way down, we pass through Leipzig. I’ll drop you off there and pick you up on the way back to Berlin. I’m going to go now and finalize the arrangements. I’ll be back in a while.”
I hugged him as tightly as I could. I didn’t want to let him go.
Four hours later, Kurt returned. “It’s all set. I’m going to bring him out tomorrow morning. It’s a three-hour drive from Berlin. You’ll ride with me. With any luck, he’ll be back with the orchestra in a few days.”
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 23
