The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “He died conducting Puccini,” I said to Natalia later that evening. “A massive heart attack, they said. He never suffered, not for a minute. Right up to the end he was doing what he was made to do. I suppose if God had given him the opportunity, he’d have scripted it that way. I will miss him very much. He was a father figure to me.”

  “What will become of the orchestra?” she said.

  I shrugged. “Who knows. Because of the war, our season was cut down to a few weeks anyway. Now I understand that the balance of the season will be canceled.”

  “That is such a shame. What will you do?”

  “I think I’ll go stay with Mama for a while. Do you want to go down to Pienza with me?”

  “Maybe I’ll join you for Passover in April, but right now I have a lot going on. We’re actually supporting the authorities in Italian-occupied France. They’re standing up to the Nazi demands for Jewish deportation. The Italian governor in Lyons canceled an order to deport two hundred Jews to Auschwitz. The Italian military commander in Croatia did the same thing. So far, the authorities are stalling. They don’t want to cooperate.”

  “What are we going to do, Nat? It’s only going to get worse. How long can we hold out against the Nazis? How long will Italians be able to resist the Nazi demands for Jewish bodies? You know Mussolini, he’s weak. He’ll cave in and we won’t stand a chance.”

  “Don’t talk like that. We’re going to do what we can until the world defeats Hitler. And it will. We hear from the Italian troops outside Stalingrad that the German army has suffered a major defeat. Millions killed. The Allied forces have turned the tide in Africa and they’re getting closer to Italy every day. You have to have faith, Ada. You have to resist. We have no other choice.”

  Springtime on Mama’s farm was as peaceful as could be. Everything born anew. Even the vines I helped her plant in the little patch of land she called Ada’s Vineyard were showing little buds and flourishing. The rest of the world did not exist. Nature’s rebirth defied the Nazis. It defied World War II with colors and tastes and fragrances. It seemed to say, “We are eternal. We will be here long after you and your bombs are gone.”

  “Will you be staying here now?” Mama asked.

  “Just for a little while. The BSO is closed, but I need to earn money. I’ll try to get dates in the Bologna restaurants. I’ll make enough to get by until something opens up. Unless Gigli cancels, I’ll go back to Rome in June.”

  It was heartwarming to see how well Mama was managing her farm. She had contracted with a winery to produce small batches of her wine, and to give my mother her due, the wine was pretty damn good. The night before I returned to Bologna, Mama held a dinner party. She invited the Romittis and several of her neighbors. Mama even had a gentleman friend for dinner, a stocky man with a bushy gray moustache. His name was Enzo, and he was Pienza’s chief of police.

  “Mama, you didn’t tell me you were seeing someone,” I said to her in the kitchen.

  “Well, I’m not exactly seeing him. I met him one evening when I was waiting for the bus. It was raining and he gave me a ride. It’s nothing, really. We just enjoy each other’s company, and he happens to like my Bolognese cooking.”

  The way to a man’s heart. Mama’s food was delicious, and the wine was out of this world. Each of her neighbors brought a bottle to the dinner. Would I be unfairly biased if I said Mama’s wine was the best? It was.

  Bologna seemed to be on edge when I returned. Rumors abounded that Hitler’s Russian campaign was a disaster, and wounded Italian soldiers were straggling back with tales of massive defeat. The Axis had also failed to hold North Africa. Patton and Montgomery were in Tunisia, and from there it was a quick jump to Sicily. Hitler and Mussolini were now girding for an Allied attack from the south. Germany was sending reinforcements into Italy and their presence was more visible. I was getting ready to return to Rome for the June concert when Natalia paid me another visit. I knew she would. She had another envelope for me to deliver to Tomaso.

  “Welcome back, Signorina Baumgarten,” the concierge said when I arrived at the Excelsior. He snapped his fingers and a porter led me to my room on the third floor. There were fresh flowers and a box of chocolates on the table, along with a handwritten note from the hotel president telling me that I was an honored guest. When I had settled in, I called room service and ordered a pot of tea and a scone. I had a job to do and I wanted to get it over as soon as possible.

  I waited for ten minutes, sitting on the bed with the envelope in my hand. Finally, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to see a young lady with a cart. “Servizio in camera, Signora.”

  She wheeled the cart into the room, set the tea and pastry on the table and said, “Will there be anything else?” I didn’t know how to respond. Tomaso should have been the one to bring the cart, or at least he should have sent someone with instructions to ask for the envelope. I couldn’t just give it to some woman. I thanked her and gave her a tip. She left without another word. I decided to try later.

  It was raining, and our rehearsal was held indoors. Gigli and I were driven to the Teatro Reale dell’Opera, where we were met by Maestro Molinari, who took me aside. “I am so very sad to hear of Stefano’s passing,” he said. “He was a visionary. Stefano was a force in northern Italy. I hear now that your season has been canceled. They will have to find a new director.”

  I nodded, and a tear rolled down my cheek.

  “Have you made arrangements with another orchestra?” he said.

  I shook my head. “There is nothing for me. There are no openings for women.”

  “In these times, during war years, one must be flexible,” he said quietly. “If the demands of presenting music at the highest level means filling a vacancy with a talented woman, it should be done.”

  “I wish the music world saw it that way,” I said.

  “Some of us do.”

  I was shocked. “Do you know of such a vacancy?”

  He nodded. “We are doing Lucia. Rehearsals start on July 1.”

  I shook his hand like it was a water pump. “Thank you so much, Maestro. I hope I will never disappoint you.”

  That evening, after the rehearsal, I returned to the hotel and once again ordered room service. Once again, no Tomaso. This time the cart was delivered by a young man. What is a spy supposed to do? I handed a tip to the man and casually asked, “Does Tomaso still work in the catering department?” I knew the minute I asked that it was a mistake.

  He shook his head. “I’m new. I’ve only been here for three months. I don’t know anyone named Tomaso. What is his last name?”

  I waved it off. “Never mind, it’s not important.”

  “I will ask for you, Signora. I’ll see if someone knows Tomaso.”

  “No, please don’t bother. It’s not important really. Let’s just forget it.”

  He smiled, nodded and left.

  The concert at Caracalla was a success. Another great review in Il Messaggero: “Stars Beneath the Stars.” Maestro Molinari introduced me to several of the orchestra members. He told them I would be filling the vacancy beginning in July. They had all heard me play and were pleased to have me on board for the fall season. All in all, it was great to be in the right place at the right time, or so I thought.

  When I checked out of the Excelsior, the concierge said to me, “I understand you were looking for Tomaso Reggio. Regretfully, he left here last year. Is there something I can help you with?”

  I hoped I didn’t look nervous. I tried to brush it off. “No,” I said, “I was just asking for a friend. Someone in Bologna who asked me to say hello. Nothing really.”

  The concierge smiled. I thought I saw him give a slight nod to a man reading a newspaper in a lobby chair, but then I decided it was just my nerves.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Pienza, September 2017

  CATHERINE RETURNED TO THE villa, a little tired from the flight, but with plenty of pictures of Ben. “He is having a great time with his
cousins,” she said. “My sister told me he’s been an angel. Liam, he didn’t miss me for a minute. I don’t even think he knew I was gone.” She made a pouty face.

  “Maybe that’s because we Skype with him every other day. What about Ada’s story—did you finish it on the plane?”

  Catherine shook her head. “I think I’m caught up with you, but I fell asleep on the plane. The last thing I read was Vittorio’s death.”

  “Did you read the part where Ada’s mother had dinner with her neighbors?”

  “Yes. That was the second time she mentioned it. The first time was New Year’s Eve. What is so important about…? Wait a minute—Friede had neighbors all around her!”

  Liam smiled and nodded. “And none of them were VinCo.”

  “Liam, we’ve been focusing on the wrong company.”

  “Exactly what I’ve been thinking. VinCo owns all the vineyards surrounding Gabi, as far as the eye can see. It would have had to purchase them piece by piece from Friede’s neighbors.”

  “Or…”

  “Right. It may fit into a pattern. Maybe VinCo’s name just appeared in 1944, like Quercia. Maybe there are no deeds. We need to see the registry books.”

  “If Lenzini hasn’t destroyed them.”

  “The clerk, Joseph, he seemed to be an honest fellow. Let’s go talk to him.”

  * * *

  CATHERINE, LIAM AND GIULIA returned to the registrar’s office and asked for Joseph. “We would like to see the registry books for the properties surrounding Gabriella Vincenzo’s land, please,” Giulia said. She pointed to the sections on the plat of survey hanging on the registrar’s wall.

  The clerk nodded and filled out request cards. “All of that land is owned by VinCo. The tracts appear in three separate volumes.”

  He left for a short time, brought out three books and laid them on the counter. When he opened the books to the appropriate pages, they all read “VinCo S.p.A.” Joseph shrugged. “Just like Quercia, VinCo is listed as the owner for the entire time the books have been in service, since 1980.”

  “As we suspected. We’ll need to see the earlier books,” Giulia said.

  Joseph nodded. “I’ll order them and call you as soon as they come in. And Mr. Taggart, I’ll take care of them. They won’t disappear. Don’t worry.”

  * * *

  “GIULIA, I THINK IT’S time we took a look at VinCo S.p.A.,” Liam said. “I mean the corporate status. What can we find out about it? When was it formed? Who were the incorporators? Who are the shareholders? What do they say in their annual report?”

  “I’ll start this afternoon. It shouldn’t take too long,” Giulia said.

  “Have you been able to find out anything about Natalia’s family, the Romittis?”

  “There is a family named Romitti listed at the same address in Pienza. I went there yesterday, but nobody was home. I’ll try later. In the meantime, I consulted Aurora, the oldest person I know in Pienza. You can always find her in the Duomo; she goes to church every day. She remembers the Romitti family from her childhood. She was able to point out the house. She recalled that they were Jewish and thought they may have been arrested when the Nazis came. Some years later, one of the children moved in and started a family. She thinks that the grandchildren live there now. That’s about all she knew.”

  “I’d also like you to find out what you can about a real estate agent named Sylvia,” Liam said.

  “Do you have a last name?”

  “No. The only thing I can tell you is that she was a little heavy and had a staccato laugh. She’s the one who found Gabi’s property in 1939. I know it’s a long shot.”

  “Maybe not as long as you think. There aren’t that many real estate offices in Pienza, and I’m pretty sure there were even fewer in 1939,” Giulia said. “Maybe there are records. I’ll look.”

  “And you, Mr. Man-in-Charge, what are you going to do?” Catherine said.

  “I’m going to call Gunther Strauss. I have a feeling there’s something more we should be looking at in Berlin, and Gunther’s the man to do it.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  Bologna, June 1943

  Rehearsals for Lucia were set to begin on July 1 and I had barely two weeks to move my belongings. I found an apartment in Rome, between the Campo de’ Fiore and the Piazza Navona. If Mama thought my Bologna apartment was small, she should have seen the thimble I rented when I stayed in the Eternal City.

  Natalia stopped by when I was cleaning out my Bologna apartment. It was a bittersweet experience, and we were both sad. I had lived in Bologna for six years. I had experienced tremendous artistic growth. I had forged a number of close relationships. I had grown to love the city and all its charm. But I had seen the devil rise. I had seen the world go to war. I had suffered tragic personal losses. And now my beloved conductor was dead.

  “Now it is onto the next chapter,” Natalia said. “To new heights, to perform on the stage in Rome, the first woman to sit in the Rome Opera Orchestra. I’m so proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Nat. But I’m a lousy spy. I failed to give the envelope to Tomaso.”

  Natalia nodded. “That was my fault. I found out too late that Tomaso had been discovered and arrested. I’m glad you didn’t go looking for him.”

  “The concierge said he was terminated.”

  “The concierge? You didn’t ask him about Tomaso, did you?”

  “Sort of. Was that a mistake?”

  Natalia drew air through her clenched teeth. “Maybe. We don’t trust him. My advice: don’t stay there again.”

  “I thought I saw him nod to a man in the lobby.”

  “The Excelsior lobby is a den of spies. You never know who is working for who. I won’t ask you to go there again.”

  “Will you come and visit me in Rome? I can get you tickets to Lucia.”

  “I definitely will, and I’ll bring Franny. Oh, I almost forgot. Franny said to give this letter to you.”

  She handed a letter addressed to the Bologna State Opera, attn: Francesca. I knew it was from Kurt. I ripped it open.

  My dear friend,

  I saw the review in Il Messaggero. Another triumph! I miss you and think about Florence all the time. Damn this war! But here is the good news: massive troop movements are going south. I will be staying in Rome with the seventh division. I will find you.

  Love,

  Kurt

  “Is that a letter from your German boyfriend, the one in the army, the one you say is not a Nazi but he is?”

  “I know. I’m sleeping with the enemy. He’s kind and he’s sweet. He tells me he’s not a Nazi. All German boys were conscripted into the army, just like here in Italy. He didn’t have a choice. He’s a clerk. He works in an office keeping track of motor vehicles. He doesn’t arrest anybody, he doesn’t shoot anybody. But then he says that massive troop movements into Italy is good news. I don’t know. I don’t know how to reconcile it.”

  “I’m sorry. As you can understand, I have no sympathy for Germans in uniform.”

  “All uniformed Germans aren’t the same. Kurt is sweet. There are exceptions.”

  She grabbed my forearms and looked straight into my eyes. “Be careful, Ada. Even the best people get compromised. I’ve seen it. Rome is going to be flooded with Nazis now that they’ve lost North Africa. Everyone expects the Allies to land in Italy this summer. The Germans will make a stand at Rome. It will be in the center of the battlefield. Don’t trust anyone, especially not a German in uniform.”

  I understood her. She was sincere and concerned for me. I nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

  I gave Natalia my new address and told her I hoped to see her from time to time, whether in Rome or in Pienza.

  SIXTY

  Rome, July 1943

  The Teatro Reale dell’Opera was a magnificent structure. The concert hall had four tiers of boxes and a balcony. The interior was beautifully decorated with colors, molding and stuccowork. But the most impressive feature was the giant chandelier that hu
ng in the middle of the hall. It was nineteen feet in diameter and had twenty-seven thousand crystal drops. The orchestra pit was just below and in front of the stage. The venue was far more imposing than Bologna and, in many ways, reminded me of the Philharmonie.

  Did I feel out of place? Did I feel like I was the only woman in an all-male industry? Did I feel like all eyes were on me? Yes, I did, but no one said a word. Everyone was polite. We were all professionals and this was our business. Besides, there was a war going on and they were happy to have me.

  Maestro Molinari was a thin man, elegantly dressed in dark suits, often double-breasted. His movements were elegant as well. He had a delicate touch and could accomplish much with a minimum of movement. He was keenly focused on his soloists and would cue them subtly at just the right times.

  We practiced late every night. Afterward, I would either go home or head to the Campo and join the crowd in the cafés. It was a delightful routine in the summer months. One night, on my way back to the apartment, I saw Kurt standing with two other soldiers under a streetlamp. I started to walk in his direction, but he shook his head sternly from side to side. I resumed walking home, aware after a while that Kurt was tailing me from a distance.

  We closed the door and I was once again in his arms. In this crazy war, circumstances kept putting us together. Now we were both assigned to Rome. “Can you stay here tonight?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I have to check in. When my shift is done, I can go out, but I have to be back in the barracks at night.”

  “Barracks? What barracks are there in Rome?”

  He smiled. “We’re in a girl’s school dormitory.”

  “Girls!”

  “School’s not in session, Ada.”

  “How long will you be stationed in Rome?”

  “That’s a good question. British and American troops have landed in Sicily. We’ve sent troops and materiel south, but the Allies are formidable opponents. The Italian general, Alfredo Guzzoni, is the supreme commander of the Axis forces in Sicily, but back at headquarters they laugh at him. They have no confidence in him. Ada, I don’t think we’re going to be able to stop the Allies from landing on the mainland. That puts you right in the middle. It’s only a matter of time before this area will be a battlefield. I think you should leave Rome and stay with your mother. It won’t be safe here.”