I set my bags down in the house, freshened up a little and accepted his gracious offer. The wagon ride into Pienza took only fifteen minutes. Mama didn’t have a phone and I hadn’t written that I would be coming—it was a spur-of-the-moment decision—so Mama was surprised to see me. I told her I stopped by the villa.
“Did you love it? Do you like what I’m doing with it? Did you see the color of your bedroom? Did you see all the flowers I’ve been planting?”
I nodded. It warmed my heart to see her so enthusiastic. “I love what you’ve done. I can see you’ve brought your decorating expertise from Berlin to Pienza.”
“Ada, I’m not just going to decorate. I’m going to learn how to manage a vineyard and grow grapes. There is a school in Siena that teaches viticulture. And Guido is going to train me as well. The duchess and her vineyards. What do you think?”
I was amazed. It was quite an undertaking but just what she needed. “I think that’s wonderful,” I said. “I didn’t know you wanted to go back to school.”
“Give your mother a little credit now and then, Miss Prodigy. I can learn too.”
Naomi walked into the room and gave me a hug. “So you came to join us for Rosh Hashanah?”
Uh-oh, I thought. I hadn’t been paying attention to the calendar and Natalia hadn’t warned me. I didn’t know it was time for the High Holy Days. They always seemed to sneak up on me. I smiled. “Is that today?”
Mama shot me an exasperated look. “No, my too-busy daughter. It’s on the thirteenth.”
I thought that smarty look was a little unfair. My mother wasn’t exactly the most observant person I knew. “I’ll be here,” I said. “I’ll come with Natalia.”
“I haven’t heard from her in a while,” Naomi said. “How is my daughter doing?”
Actually, I hadn’t spoken with her since Hitler’s invasion of Poland. I assumed that Natalia was involved in some way or another with underground organizations, planning or plotting or whatever they do, and I was worried about her. “She’s fine,” I lied.
I looked for Natalia when I returned to Bologna, but I didn’t find her until shortly before I was to return to Pienza. I asked her where she’d been, but she waved me off.
“I promised your mother I’d bring you down for Rosh Hashanah,” I said.
She winced. Natalia had forgotten about it as well, but she agreed, and we made plans to meet at the train.
“You look tired,” I said when I saw her at Bologna Centrale.
“I haven’t slept very much. I’ve been in Rome, off and on.”
I was pretty certain that it had something to do with her network, but she didn’t offer and I didn’t ask. She napped the entire way from Bologna to Siena. When we did talk on the bus, it was hard not to discuss the war; it was practically the only subject on everyone’s lips. As far as Natalia was concerned, Germany’s attack of Poland was no surprise.
“Hitler threatened it on the radio every day,” she said. “Anyone paying attention heard him scream about the oppressed German citizens in the Polish corridor. Just like he yelled before Austria and the Czech Sudeten mountains. He always talks about unifying the Germans when he wants to conquer free and independent countries. He’s been building a huge military for years.”
I knew about the military buildup since 1935 when Papa and I drove into the country. So did the rest of the world leaders, but they did nothing. What was so surprising was the ease with which Germany conquered Poland. It was over in a couple of weeks.
Great Britain and France had declared a state of war but had not attacked Germany or engaged in any military battles. According to Natalia, that was consistent with Britain’s prime minister, Neville Chamberlain, and his conservative appeasement policies. With Germany in solid control of Poland, all the battles had ceased, although there were reports of clashes on the high seas between the British and German navies. All in all, even though a state of war had been declared, the battlefields were quiet.
Mama and I, along with all the Romittis, attended Rosh Hashanah services at the ancient Sinagoga in Pitigliano. It was an hour bus ride from Pienza and a lovely outing. We prayed where Jews had prayed four hundred years ago. It was the start of the New Year, the birthday of the world—hayom harat olam—ushering in the ten-day period of self-reflection and prayers for peace and forgiveness. No one wanted to talk about the war in Europe. Still, even the rabbi could not avoid leading us in prayers for the Polish people and the Jewish victims in Germany and the German-conquered territories.
We all hoped that this war, now involving Germany, England, France, Poland, Russia and Slovakia, would come to a quick cessation and not expand into another five-year period of world war. The fact that no military battles were waging was a promising sign. Through the fall, hopes were high that a resolution was possible.
Christmastime in Bologna was unaffected by the European state of war. My focus was on the Christmas concert series and my opportunity to play once more with Maestro Gigli. In that way, I was not much different from any other Bolognese. Shop owners opened their doors every morning. Students went to school. Life was pretty normal. Even the racial laws of 1938, mostly ignored, had very little effect on daily life in Italy.
As always, the Christmas concerts were sold out. Maestro Gigli greeted me like an old friend. He told me that in June 1940, he would be performing at the Baths of Caracalla again. Could I find it in my schedule to join him? Could I ever! The previous June, I played with Gigli and the Rome Opera Orchestra at Caracalla. I also soloed with Mr. Gigli in two numbers. I don’t know why he took such a liking to me—the Rome orchestra had many fine players—but I wasn’t about to complain.
I made New Year’s Eve plans with Franny, Natalia and Genia. We were going out to Cesare’s for dinner and then to the Piazza Maggiore for the midnight music and fireworks display. Franny was now engaged to Michael and he arranged for three of his friends to come along. There were eight of us at Cesare’s and the wine was flowing. The guys paired up with the girls, and my date turned out to be a nice fellow named Denys. He was a mathematics student from Greece.
Sitting around the table, we debated what was going to happen in the war. All of us had very strong opinions based upon very little information. “Italy’s never getting into this mess,” Michael said. “Mussolini’s too smart. Let them all fight it out on the other side of the mountains.”
Giorgio agreed. “Hitler and Churchill and Stalin, let them carve up Central Europe. It’s got nothing to do with us.”
But Natalia shook her head, as if to say naïveté is running rampant tonight. She smiled wistfully.
“What?” I said.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to get pulled into the discussion, and I understood. She had real information, but she couldn’t say where she got it. She did give us something to think about, though. “Italy has limited resources, especially where coal and oil are concerned,” she said. “It comes to us by ship, either through the Suez Canal or through the Strait of Gibraltar. Since September, Britain has been blockading the shipments.” She shrugged. “Sooner or later something’s got to give.”
Once the conversation changed subjects, it became a lot more lively. Fashion, food, music and pop personalities dominated the table talk. We finished dinner and walked over to the piazza. Denys was shy, but he reached for my hand and we walked together. He was taller than me, with tousled hair and an infectious smile. We embraced at midnight and kissed under the fireworks, but that’s as far as I would let it go. I wasn’t ready to get involved. It wasn’t just loyalty to Kurt, who was a million miles away in the middle of a war. I was just reluctant to get entangled with someone who would interfere with my career.
The BSO had an ambitious spring travel schedule. We were performing Verdi’s Un Ballo in Maschera, A Masked Ball, in three northern Italian cities during the annual Verdi celebration. I looked forward to playing in Modena, Parma and Ferrara, where I had never been before. The tour would begin in March. Then in June
, I would once again return to Rome for the Gigli concert. In between, I would visit Mama as often as I could. I was going to be a busy traveler, and I didn’t want a serious relationship creating scheduling conflicts and demands.
FIFTY-TWO
Bologna, June 1940
Natalia had predicted it and she was right. With the economy struggling and Italy’s dependence on Germany for raw materials, it was only a matter of time. Mussolini declared war on France and Great Britain on June 10. Our hopes that the war would not widen and that peace would prevail were quickly shattered. For months, they called it the “phony war,” because it was a war of economics only. There were no theaters of battle. No new invasions. No expeditionary forces sent from Britain or France.
Then in May, Hitler invaded the Netherlands and Belgium. Natalia said it was his way of preparing to invade France, and sure enough, on May 10, the German army crossed into France. Now it was June and Italy was in the war. Newspaper reports told us that the Italian army had crossed the Franco-Italian border and occupied a swath of land from Nice to Grenoble. According to Natalia, it was Mussolini’s way of grabbing the spoils. “He wants a seat at the peace table,” she said.
How did all that change life in Italy? Other than the occasional groups of uniformed Germans who happened to be passing through Bologna, not much that I could see. It was something to read about when you came home from work and before you went out for the evening. The fighting was far from our home. More than most, I had seen what the Nazis did to their victims, and I was terrified to see them wandering through my town or sitting at the opera. But they were transitory, and whatever brought them to Bologna took them away soon enough.
“In every country that Germany occupies, the Nazis enforce their nazification,” Natalia said to us one evening around a café table. “Their hatred of Jews, their hatred of Gypsies, their hatred of disabled people, their hatred of non-Aryans or anyone different propels them to savage persecution. In occupied countries, Jews are forced to wear armbands or yellow stars, visibly separating them from the rest of the populace. They are horribly mistreated and to the greatest extent possible, excluded from society. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that, Ada. You saw it for yourself.”
For Jews in Italy, we were safer being Hitler’s friend than his enemy. That was the ironic truth. We did not fear German invasion or occupation. As Hitler’s strongest ally, Italy was free to be Italy.
“What happens when Hitler decides that his good buddy Mussolini isn’t tough enough on Jews or doesn’t adhere to Nazi policies closely enough?” I said. “Then what, Nat? Does he send his troops south? Germany gets stronger every day. He conquers more of Europe every day. When does he hunger for Rome?”
That seemed to be a conversation killer. Everyone just took another sip of wine.
The Baths of Caracalla, built two thousand years ago, was a Roman feat of engineering providing heated water through aqueducts to large public baths. Only the ruins remain and serve as a picturesque backdrop to an open-air concert venue, which in its setting is second to none. The opera stage was constructed less than ten years ago over what would have been the steam room. Opera performances began here in 1937.
The Rome Opera was performing four nights of Pagliacci, starring Beniamino Gigli. On June 22, Gigli was scheduled for his annual solo concert, the one to which I was invited. The evening was warm. The sun did not set until almost nine o’clock. The copper-colored towers of Terme di Caracalla surrounded us, and in the moment, one could imagine we would be performing for Julius Caesar and the Roman Senate. Gigli asked me to accompany him on his second encore, his trademark aria from The Pearl Fishers. It was always incredible to me how silent two thousand people could become when Maestro Gigli raised his palms and sang so softly. Even the birds stopped to listen. When it was over and I looked at the audience, standing and shouting, it was hard to believe I was anywhere but in music heaven.
After the concert, Maestro Gigli introduced me to Bernardino Molinari, the conductor of the Rome Opera and also the prestigious Rome Symphony Orchestra. It was a fortuitous introduction, one that would play a significant role in my life.
Maestro Molinari had kind words to say about my father, whom he had met several years ago when he guest-conducted in Berlin. Maestro Gigli made me promise to play for him next Christmas in Bologna and the following June in Caracalla. The entire two days I was in Rome, not a word was said about the war. The next morning, I took the train to Siena and the bus to Mama’s house.
It was grand to see my mother, healthy and strong, working in her vineyards. She had become so knowledgeable in such a short period of time. It had been little more than a year, but you’d have thought that this Berlin socialite had been born to the Tuscan countryside. In her wide-brimmed hat and with her white dress billowing in the wind, she took me into the vineyards to explain what she was doing. And that she had a surprise for me.
We walked to an area where the ground had been cleared for planting. “This section will be perfect for Sangiovese, Ada. There is a gentle lift to the slope at about four hundred meters. It faces southwest and will grab the sun all day long. Do you want to plant it with me?”
I hesitated. “Mama, I don’t know what I’m doing. My fingers are only good for playing a violin. I’ll watch you plant.”
She would have none of it. “Nonsense. You’ll help, and we’ll name this little patch Ada’s Vineyard.”
FIFTY-THREE
Bologna, October 1940
Maestro Vittorio announced in mid-October that the BSO would once again travel to Florence to play for Hitler, who was coming to Florence to meet with Mussolini. In September, Italy, Germany and the Empire of Japan had signed a joint defense agreement called the Tripartite Pact. Now the German chancellor was coming to Florence for a high-level strategy meeting following the Italian army’s failures on the Greek peninsula.
Although the war was still far from our borders, Italy had sent troops into France, North Africa and, most recently, Greece. From what Natalia had learned, the Greek incursion was a disaster and the Italian troops were in retreat. She was sure that was why Hitler demanded a face-to-face with Il Duce. While Hitler was in Florence, he was to be wined and dined and entertained. We were scheduled to play in his honor in the Piazza della Signoria on October 29.
Hitler did not come to Italy alone. This was a high-level wartime meeting with top military advisers from both countries. Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, the second most powerful man in Germany and leader of the German armed forces, accompanied Hitler. For the entire week, Florence was inundated with SS and Wehrmacht soldiers. There must have been a thousand of them. Everywhere you went, you bumped into a German.
As I walked through the narrow streets of Florence, I shuddered. This was what life would be like if Hitler invaded Italy, and let there be no illusions, he could have Italy if he wanted. But there was this strange mutual affection between Der Führer and Il Duce. They were partners. They had negotiated and signed the Tripartite Pact. The uniformed Germans flooding the streets were here for a state visit, not to impose martial law or persecute Jews. Still, when we walked around, we could feel their eyes.
Hitler and Mussolini met all day on October 28. We were in the middle of setting up for our concert when we learned that Hitler had abruptly gone home. There were rumors that he became frustrated and enraged at Il Duce, lost his patience, stormed out and returned directly to Berlin. With Hitler gone and the state visit terminated, the organizers canceled all plans for the outdoor celebration.
Our train back to Bologna did not leave until the next morning, so we had an afternoon and evening free to wander about in this most congenial city. Some of the orchestra members had friends or family in Florence. Others, like me, were on their own for a night out in the birthplace of the Renaissance. I was standing in the market, shopping for a leather coat, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I spun around and looked directly into the blue eyes of Sergeant Kurt Koenig in full uniform.
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br /> “Oh my God! What are you doing here?” I said.
“I’m on the Reichsmarschall’s detail,” he said, with an impish smile, “but Göring ducked out with Hitler and returned to Berlin before they could make travel arrangements for the rest of us. Our unit pulls out tomorrow.”
“Is that also Kleiner’s detail?” I said, and a shiver went down my spine.
He shook his head. “No, no. I’m in a different unit now. I’ve been promoted, and I’m generally sent in with the administrative personnel. You know me, I’m a recordkeeper. I don’t even carry a handgun.”
I knew the kinds of records Nazis kept: who were the Jews and what did they own. Now I was hearing stories about Jews being forced to move into walled ghettoes. I had to ask: “What kind of records do you keep, Kurt?”
“It’s all logistics, Ada. How many motorized vehicles we have in any given area. What is necessary to move food and equipment from one place to another. On an assignment like this, I keep track of personnel, how they get to and from Florence, where they are bivouacked, how much food is needed. I don’t make decisions, I just keep the records.”
“Well, I glad you’re not keeping track of Jews.”
“Come on, Ada, you know me better than that.”
I did know him better than that. He went out on a limb to save my father. But he was standing before me in full Nazi regalia and it gave me the creeps. I loved him, but I wished he wasn’t wearing that uniform. I wished he wasn’t German at all.
“And you’re not with Kleiner? What ever happened to him? Something bad, I hope.”
Kurt shook his head. “No, he’s climbing ladders. He’s been promoted to second lieutenant. His unit generally follows the expeditionary forces and imposes Nazi policies on the occupied countries. He’s an enforcer, a brutal man. They call him ‘The Hammer.’ I think he’s in Paris now.”
“So, you’re here in Florence and your boss is gone. What are you doing today?”
The Girl from Berlin--A Novel Page 28
