I was amazed. Kurt was a hero. My hero! I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years. I didn’t know if he ever thought about me or whether he still cared. Now he was sticking his neck out to save my father. “I can’t believe you’re doing this, Kurt. So much can go wrong and you’ll be risking your future.”
“Future? In what, the German army? You know me, Ada, I never wanted to be a soldier. All I ever wanted for my future was to sit next to you in an orchestra. Or anywhere else. Whenever I think about my future, whenever I dream about it, you’re in it, sitting right next to me.” He leaned over, brushed the hair back from my face, kissed me and said, “Someday, when this is all over, all this idiocy, I’ll come and find you, no matter where you are. That will be my future. And it can be yours, if you’ll have me.”
Was that a proposal? It sure sounded like one to me. I threw my arms around his neck and gave him my answer.
Early the next morning, Kurt came by in a small military truck and we drove south out of Berlin. The route toward Leipzig reminded me of 1935 and the time Papa drove into the countryside to show me the anti-Jewish banners and the military buildup. The memories made me sad. Back then, my father was sitting next to me. Back then, I felt safe in his company. Back then, it was an eye-opener. Now, as Kurt drove south, I could see huge military installations where farm fields had been.
Kurt dropped me at a coffee shop in Leipzig and drove on to Buchenwald. I couldn’t wait to see Papa. The last time I saw him was when he brought the money to Bologna for us to hide. He was so confident and courageous. He was taking care of his family. I thought he was taking a dangerous risk in carrying the money, but I knew he did it for us and I was so proud of him. He was planning on moving us far away to another country, and he knew he would need money to make a fresh start. Some countries required immigrants to show a means of support. He felt he might need that money to get into the U.S. You would never think of my father as the intrepid type, but what he did took a lot of courage.
I sat in the coffeehouse for two hours, nervously fidgeting and fingering my magic locket. Finally, I saw them pull into the parking lot. I knew Papa would be hungry, just like Mama was when I took her out of Wittelsbacher, and I took a sandwich in a carryout bag and walked out to the truck.
Kurt had wrapped Papa in the long army coat. He teared up when he saw me, and we hugged for a long time. He had lost weight in the three weeks he was imprisoned, but it was his face and arms that shocked me. He had sores and bruises and dark circles around his eyes, and he was shaking. Not just shivering from the cold, but actually shaking, like his nerves and his muscles were out of sync. Kurt started the car and we drove north toward Berlin.
“Ada, I’m so happy to see you, but you shouldn’t have come,” Papa said. “You must get out of Germany as soon as possible. Don’t you see what’s going on here?”
“Of course, I do. I am going back to Bologna as soon as I can arrange for your safety. Kurt and Uncle Wilhelm are working it all out. We’re going to set things straight with the Gestapo. Then you’ll rejoin the orchestra. It’s Uncle Wilhelm’s plan to get you a job in Boston and soon we’ll all be together.”
Papa shook his head. “Go home to Mama. Go back to Italy. They’re never going to let me out of Germany. I can’t leave the country.”
“Yes you can, once they have the money. The ministry will receive the money, they’ll release you from all charges and you’ll go back to being concertmaster. Uncle Wilhelm has arranged it. He’s very influential.”
He shook his head from side to side. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Of course, it is.”
“I’m not giving them the money, Ada.”
“What do you mean, Papa? You have to. That’s the only way to get you released. The bank will transfer it.”
“First of all, the ministry can’t transfer it, it’s in a safe deposit box.”
“Mama can take it out of the box and deposit it. It can easily be done.”
“You don’t understand, Ada. I’m not giving up the money. That’s our house money. It’s all we’ve got. I’m not giving it to the Nazis. It’s our savings, it’s all our belongings, all the precious things that your mother acquired over the years. It’s our whole life. That money belongs to Mama. It’s there for her to buy a house and start a life.”
“Papa, you’re talking about property. She doesn’t want precious items. She doesn’t want a life without you. You and Mama will go to America and you’ll earn money in Boston. The two of you can support yourselves and buy a new house.”
“You’re wrong. The Nazis will make promises to Wilhelm, but they won’t keep them. They’ll take my money and they’ll keep me here. Maybe Wilhelm can protect me for a while, but I have committed a crime. That is what they screamed at me over and over at Buchenwald. I am a criminal. A Jew-criminal. I am an enemy of the Reich. I am only alive because they don’t have my money yet. And they’re not going to get it. It’s for Mama.”
“Please, Papa. You don’t know how much she misses you. She’s been so sad. She wants you and a new life in America. Not money.”
“Ada, I’ll never get to America. I am finished here. They told me they will never let me out of the camp. I have to accept that. I know that I will never see my Friede again, so I have to do the best I can for her. That money is all we have. Without it, Mama won’t be able to support herself and I won’t let that happen to her.”
“You’ve been through a terrible time and I can understand why you feel defeated. But we can make this work. Even without the money, we’ll get by. I have a job. Remember what you told me, Papa: keep positive. Only positive thoughts.”
When I said that, he burst into tears. “I only wish.” Then he turned to Kurt. “Take me back to Buchenwald. Please turn the car around, Kurt. I have made my decision. I won’t give them the money.”
Kurt pulled the truck over to the side of the road and looked at me. “Drive, Kurt,” I commanded. “Don’t listen to him. He’s delirious. Keep driving.”
“No,” Papa said. “I’m not delirious. I’ve never thought more clearly. Turn the truck around, Kurt. Even if you bring me to the ministry, I will refuse to transfer the money, and it will only get you into trouble. I won’t give them our life savings no matter what they do to me. It is Friede’s money. You’re a good boy, Kurt, and I don’t want to see you in trouble. Please, honor my wishes. Take me back to the camp.”
“Papa, no,” I cried. “That’s crazy. You can’t go back into a concentration camp. No one does that. You’ll die.”
“I understand.”
I was rapidly losing it. “I don’t want you to do that. I don’t want you to die. Please, Papa. Mama would never agree with this decision. She would never choose the money.”
He grabbed my wrists and squeezed hard. “You are never to tell Mama what I did. Promise me that you will not tell her about my decision. Or even that you saw me.”
“Papa…”
“Promise me!” he said sternly.
At that moment I knew I had lost. “I promise.”
Kurt turned the car around and started driving south. I was hysterical.
“Kurt, will you do one more favor for me, please?” Papa said.
“Anything, sir.”
“After you take me to the camp, make sure Ada gets back to Wilhelm. Tell him he must protect her, get her on the train and get her safely out of Germany.”
“Yes, sir. I will make sure as well.”
We returned to the coffee shop in Leipzig. I hugged my papa so tightly. The greatest man I have ever known. I wouldn’t let go. My heart was broken, but there was no changing his mind. He whispered in my ear, “Kurt’s a good boy. I always liked him. Maybe someday, God will shine on you two. Now I’m going to give you a big kiss, and I want you to carry it to Bologna and give it to your mama. From me to her. Just don’t tell her.”
He gave me a kiss that had so much love I could feel it. I would deliver it to Mama on my return.
“
And this one is for you,” he said, and he kissed me again. I would carry that kiss for the rest of my life.
“Ada,” he said, as I got out of the truck, “never forget for an instant that you have all the tools, all the ability and all the talent that God ever gave to a musician. Show the world what you’ve got. You are my Ada, my prodigy.”
“I love you so much, Papa,” I said.
I watched the truck pull away, then I took my magic locket and flung it as far as I could.
My return to Bologna was a blur. I reported to Mama that I was unsuccessful. As the days passed and we heard nothing further from Papa or Uncle Wilhelm, I stopped praying for a miracle and accepted his fate, just as he had. Ultimately, a package arrived from Berlin. There was a note from Uncle Wilhelm that read, “With deepest sorrow, I report that my beloved concertmaster died on December 6, 1938. He was the finest man I have ever known. Ada, I am sending you his violin. I am sure he would want you to have it.”
FORTY-FOUR
Siena, August 2017
THERE WAS A CHALK outline of Fabio’s body on the bathroom floor. It was evident that the house had been searched thoroughly by the police. Doors and drawers were open. Cupboards were emptied. Even the bedding had been bundled.
“We have dusted for prints and photographed every inch of the house,” the police officer said. “You may search, but I do not recall seeing a registry book here in the house. They are very large volumes. I would have inventoried it.”
Catherine, Giulia and Liam searched in every conceivable place one might hide a book. The sun began to set, and Catherine looked at her watch. It had been two hours. She was ready to leave but Liam was tapping the walls and the floors listening for hollow sounds.
“Really?” Catherine said. “Do you think there are hidden staircases and revolving walls? Do you think that Colonel Mustard is hiding in the study with the candlestick? This is a twenty-year-old, run-of-the-mill subdivision house.”
“No stone unturned,” he said.
They left the house empty-handed and the police locked the front door. On the way out, Liam noticed a blue Toyota sitting by the curb. “That car has been sitting there the whole time,” Liam said to Giulia. “There’s a man in the front seat watching us. I’m going to talk to him. Would you come with me to translate?”
The driver lowered his window. Liam turned to Giulia. “Please ask him if he knew the man who lived in this house?”
“I speak English,” he said with a strong accent. “Un po.”
“Did you know Fabio Lombardo?”
The man swallowed hard and teared up. He nodded.
“Was he a friend of yours?”
Again, a sad nod.
“My name is Liam Taggart. This is Avvocato Giulia Romano. Would you mind talking to us for a minute?”
He eyed Liam suspiciously and said, “Avvocato? You with Lenzini?”
“Why do you ask? Are you a friend of Lorenzo Lenzini?”
“No. I curse him.” He pretended to spit.
“Good. We do too. Lenzini is representing a company that is trying to evict our friend.”
“VinCo?”
“Right.”
“You are helping the old lady?”
“Yes, what do you know about the case?”
“Plenty. I am Berto.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee, Berto? Or a cappuccino?”
He nodded and pointed forward. “La Dolce Pasticceria.”
“I know where that is,” Giulia said.
* * *
SITTING AROUND A SMALL table in the corner of the busy bakery, Berto quietly said, “We were friends, partners. Fabio, he always wants better for us. Like a bigger house. We don’t need it, but Fabio, he’s like that. One day last October, Lenzini comes into the registry. He orders up an old registry book. It’s at the archives. When Fabio brings it, Lenzini looks at a certain page very, very closely. He shakes his head. Fabio says Lenzini doesn’t like what he sees. Lenzini takes Fabio aside. ‘How many euros to make this book disappear?’ he says. Fabio, he is shocked. Disappear? He shakes his head. ‘How about five thousand euros?’ Lenzini says. Fabio shakes his head. ‘I cannot destroy a public record.’ Then Lenzini says, ‘Ten thousand and you don’t have to destroy it, just hide it. Someday much later, it can reappear.’ Ten thousand is a lot of money to Fabio. I told him no. But he took the money. That night he brought the book home.”
“What happened to the book?”
Berto shrugged. “It was in the closet under some sweaters. I know that a month ago—what’s her name, the old woman?”
“Gabriella Vincenzo.”
“Si, Gabriella. She has an avvocato who wants to see the same book. Fabio takes the order. Now he tells me he’s in trouble. If he brings the book back, he has to return the money to Lenzini, which he doesn’t have anymore. Not all of it.”
“So he calls Lenzini?”
Berto nodded. “Lenzini tells Fabio to destroy the book. Fabio says he can’t. Lenzini says to give him the book. Fabio says no. Lenzini tells Fabio to keep hiding it and he will give him another five thousand euros.”
“And Fabio takes the money?”
Berto nodded. “He takes the money. The book stays under the sweaters. Here’s the thing; Gabriella’s avvocato never comes back to the registrar. He orders the book, but he never comes back to pick it up. Fabio is happy. He just got another five thousand for doing nothing.”
“But Avvocata Romano orders the book last week?”
“Si. Fabio calls Lenzini and tells him he has to return the book now. Fabio’s sorry, but he has no choice. There is shouting on the phone.” Berto teared up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and said, “Fabio was not a bad man; he was just foolish.”
“Where is the book now, Berto?”
Berto opened his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe the killer took it.”
“Who is the killer?”
Berto hesitated. He pursed his lips. “Not Lenzini.”
“How do you know?”
“He’d pay someone. That’s his way.”
“Well,” Catherine said, “that’s unfortunate. We sure could have used that book.”
Berto looked at Catherine with raised eyebrows. “I saw the page. The one that Lenzini looked at when he was at the counter. Fabio showed it to me and he laughed.”
“Why did he laugh?”
“Because he said VinCo doesn’t own the property. Gabriella Vincenzo owns it. Fabio said Quercia never got a deed. Quercia never owned the property. It was owned by Carlo Vanucci.”
“Quercia’s name did not appear in the registry book?” Giulia asked.
“Oh no, I saw it. But Fabio said there should have been a deed from Vanucci to Quercia and there wasn’t. Fabio said it looked like someone just put Quercia’s name on the page in 1944 without a deed or any details.”
“I don’t suppose that Fabio made a copy of the page.”
Berto shrugged. “Not that I know.”
“But you saw the page with your own eyes, and the handwritten entries that Fabio pointed out to you?” Catherine said.
“Si, I saw the page.”
“Would you come before the judge and tell him what you told us?”
“Si.”
Giulia took down his personal information and the meeting was over.
* * *
IN THE CAR, GIULIA said, “That’s a good story, but without the book, that’s all it is. It’s just the memory of what someone else told him. Berto doesn’t know to his own knowledge if there was a deed or not. He just knows that Fabio told him there was no deed.”
“Back in the U.S., we would call that hearsay. The testimony would probably be barred.”
“It would be permitted here, but it is very weak. It’s better than nothing, and so far, it’s all we’ve got.”
“I hate to keep saying back in America, but back in America, we build our cases brick by brick.”
“Same here. And that’s a brick. A little
one.”
FORTY-FIVE
Bologna, December 1938
I spared her the details. I honored my promise to Papa and did not tell Mama the whole story. In that respect, Papa was right: she would not have come to grips with his decision to face death rather than give up their savings. I didn’t tell her that I saw him or that he was ever outside the walls of Buchenwald, not even for the two hours. I only told her that Kurt discovered that he was held at Buchenwald and that everyone was trying to arrange for his release. She will never know that he chose to die so that she could live without worry. As noble an act as it was, as proud as she would have been, the guilt would have overwhelmed her. As always, Papa was right.
Mama was trying hard to keep her balance, but she was caught in a tailspin. The man she loved and admired had been taken from her and she wasn’t there for him at the end. She wasn’t there to tell him good-bye. She wasn’t even there to bury him. He had been her rock. All of her plans, all of her dreams, had burst like a child’s balloon. Now there were no plans and there were no dreams. Now she was on her own in a strange land without a clue how to navigate the rest of her life.
She sat alone most of the time, staring at nothing. I would leave in the morning for rehearsal and return to find her in the same chair. I would beg her to go out, to come with me to a café. Sometimes she would go just to appease me, and we would end up sitting across from each other in silence. A handkerchief was frequently in her hand, and it was usually damp.
Previously, when she was depressed and frightened, she would accompany me to rehearsals and sit in the hall. Now, I couldn’t coax her out of the house. She had lost interest in everything. When she did speak, it was to retell a memory of Papa. Did I remember when he took us to the lake? Did I remember when he would read to me on his lap? “He loved you so,” she would say.
I was thoroughly ill-equipped to handle her depression or to provide the necessary support. To tell the truth, I was struggling with my own inadequacies. I should have brought him out. I should not have let him return to Buchenwald. I blamed myself. At one time, I sought out a psychologist at the university, who counseled me it would take time for each of us.
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 24
