Kurt sighed. “I understand. I’ll meet you at the Termini. We’ll take the midnight train north.”
SIXTY-THREE
Rome, October 1943
Monday, October 18, 1943, was the company’s last performance of the fall season. I would leave directly from the opera house. I had packed my bag and closed up my apartment. I would waste no time getting out of Rome. The performance would end at eleven and the Termini was only three blocks from the Teatro. Kurt and I planned to take the midnight train to Siena. He was buying the tickets and would meet me on the platform. I was glad he was coming with me. Truth be told, I was scared to death.
The thought of arresting ten thousand Jews and transporting them north to one of the German concentration camps was unthinkable, inconceivable, but I knew it was true. Hitler intended to make all Europe Judenfrei. He was intent on destroying an entire race of humans. The concept was so depraved as to make it absurd. Hitler was a madman, but what was even more incomprehensible were the legions of mindless followers who supported him. Thank God, Kurt was not one of them.
I had no right to think of this horrific roundup in personal terms. The thought of so many innocent people being victimized was catastrophic, but I couldn’t help but think what it had done to me and my career. It made me furious. I had worked so hard to get where I was—the first woman member of a major orchestra. I had good reason to believe that Maestro Molinari would have kept me on permanently. It was unfair that I had to leave. Maestro was very kind and even encouraging when I told him I had to leave. He told me, “When this is all over, you come back and see me.” It was not a promise, but it was a strong possibility.
In many ways, it was a relief to be escaping the city and going home. It was like taking a deep breath. It would be peaceful at the villa. It was another world. It would be good to see Mama. I hadn’t been there in a year. I often wondered how things were going on her farm and in her social life. With the chief of police, no less. She wasn’t much of a letter writer, so we would have a lot of catching up to do.
The walk from my apartment to the Teatro was daunting. I saw a number of canvas-covered trucks headed off to the right and entering the Jewish quarter. Shouts blasted from the loudspeakers in German. “Raus,” I heard over and over. “Sich anstellen.” Line up. I picked up my pace and arrived at the Teatro, my suitcase in one hand and my violin case in the other. As before, the hall was full of uniformed men and their women guests. No children in attendance to laugh at Papageno. In three hours, I would be out of here.
The opera went well and many of the people did laugh at the dialogue. They were having a jolly good time, while out in the streets innocent people were being grabbed and put into trucks. Twice during the performance, we heard bomb blasts in the distance and the audience gasped. The time seemed to drag. I was anxious to leave. Finally, the curtain fell, and the applause ended. It was time for me to leave Rome.
I said good-bye to Maestro Molinari. “Be well,” he said. “Come see me when the war is over.”
I grabbed my suitcase and violin and rushed out the front door only to be stopped dead in my tracks. Right before me, in his black SS uniform, stood Lieutenant Herbert Kleiner, his arms crossed, a pompous smile on his face. Two SS officers stood to his side.
“So, Fraulein Baumgarten, we meet again. How fortuitous. Did you think your efforts to subvert my career had all been forgotten? Your insolence, the way you insulted me in front of the general? Well, now you see it did not work. Here I am, in the flesh, a lieutenant, in wonderful spirits, and now in charge of carrying out the führer’s directive to rid this lovely city of Jewish garbage. By the way, the Excelsior’s concierge sends his felicitations. Would you care for room service?”
I knew that if I opened my mouth and responded to him in any way, I would be struck down. I stood awaiting my fate, wishing I had listened to Kurt and left town last week.
He glared at me with Satan’s eyes. “Nothing to say this time, Fraulein?” He nodded to his companions. “Take her.”
They grabbed me by the arms and shoved me into the back of a truck. They drove in the direction of the Vatican and onto the grounds of the Collegio Militare, a military prep school. They pushed me into a large gymnasium where hundreds of other people were already imprisoned. Maybe thousands, it was hard to tell. There were people in the gymnasium, in the lunchroom and in the auditorium. I heard a guard say that it was the “holding pen for Judenaktion.” Most of the people had a suitcase or a pillowcase stuffed with clothes. Many were crying. Some were pleading. Some made futile demands for answers. Some showed signs of injuries. Perhaps they had resisted. Some were sick. All were frightened. But the guards were stoic and impervious.
There wasn’t much I could do but sit on the floor and wait for whatever the Germans had in mind. I sat there with my suitcase and my violin and watched. Many of the families huddled in little enclaves, their arms around one another. Parents were comforting their children and telling them that everything would be all right. But the children knew better. The parents could not hide their own fear; it was palpable and hard to disguise.
A little girl caught my eye. She was wandering from group to group. No one seemed to know her. She couldn’t have been more than three or four. She had golden blond hair, with long curls tied in ribbons. Her dress was white with a pink embroidered hem, but it had been soiled and dirtied. Her pretty little Mary Jane shoes had heart designs. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but no one was comforting her. She seemed totally lost. I gestured for her to come to me.
She walked slowly and tentatively, her eyes down. She stopped a few feet away, unsure what I wanted.
“Come here, sweetheart,” I said. “Are you looking for someone? Can I help you find your family?”
My words did not register. I tried again. It seemed as though she didn’t know or couldn’t hear what I was saying. Her lower lip quivered. I smiled, knelt down, reached my arms out and beckoned her forward. Finally, she came to me. I gently placed my arms around her and drew her to my chest. She put her arms around my neck and quietly cried.
A tall, thin man walked over and nodded. “Is this your daughter?” I said.
“No,” he said with a compassionate smile. “She is alone.”
“What about her parents?”
The man closed his eyes and shook his head. He mouthed, “They didn’t make it.”
“Who’s been caring for her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think anyone.”
“What is your name?” I said to the girl.
“She doesn’t understand Italian,” the man said. “I believe she came with the refugees from the French region. But I don’t speak French.”
“Parles-tu français?” I said to the top of her curly head. She looked up with her big blue eyes and nodded.
“Je m’appelle Ada,” I said. “Quel est ton nom, ma chère?”
In a tiny voice, she said, “Gabrielle.”
SIXTY-FOUR
Rome, October 1943
Morning came at Collegio Militare and no changes had been made to our confinement. From time to time throughout the night, more people were brought in. We were allowed a single bathroom break, under supervision, one at a time. It took hours. There were two fountains in the gym, and we were allowed to drink as needed. No food had been supplied. Gabrielle had slept on my lap all night. Now that it was morning and people were up and about, she wouldn’t leave my side.
When I went to get a drink, Gabrielle clung to my skirt. When I went to the bathroom, Gabrielle came along. If we walked from one side of the room to the other, we walked together, my arm around her.
Sometime in the afternoon they brought out bread, one piece per person. Some of the people asked questions. “Why have we been brought here? Where are we going? How long are we staying here?” But none of the guards would give an answer. Maybe they didn’t know.
“Where do you live?” I asked Gabrielle, using the simple French words I had learned in high school.
“Do you know the name of the town?”
She shook her head.
“Is it Grenoble?”
She nodded.
“It’s very pretty there, isn’t it?”
She raised her eyebrows, nodded and smiled.
“What are the names of your mother and father?” That was the wrong question to ask. She broke down in tears and buried her head on my chest. There was no telling what she had seen. I wouldn’t ask that question again. I patted her on the back. I told her it was okay, I would take care of her. Everything would be okay.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked, and I said I would.
“You won’t leave me?”
“No, I will not leave you,” I said.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
I slept a few hours with my back against the wall and little Gabrielle on my lap.
I estimated it was about 10:00 p.m. the next day. More people had been brought in. We were all tired and hungry and the conditions were onerous. Then I saw him. Kurt walked into the room in full uniform. He had a document in his hand. He strode purposefully across the room looking at the faces of the detainees. Finally, he saw me and nodded. He approached a guard and showed him the paper. “I am to bring the woman with the violin to Via Tasso for questioning. Here are my orders.” For the first time, I noticed that Kurt was wearing a pistol.
The guard read the order and nodded. Kurt walked over to me and took me by the elbow. “Come with me, Fraulein,” he said brusquely. “It’s time for some answers.”
Gabrielle’s eyes were wide with fright. Her little body shook. She stood behind me and clutched my skirt.
“I have to bring the child,” I whispered to him.
“Ada, that’s impossible,” Kurt said. “The order states you are to come with me to SS Headquarters. You can bring your luggage, but not her.”
“I will not leave without the child,” I said quietly.
“Ada, be reasonable. She’s not covered by the order,” he whispered. “I can’t get her out of here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Then I will have to stay. I made a promise.”
“Ada!”
“At some point, people have to stand up for what’s right. I’m not going.”
“Listen to me. I have a car outside. I’m risking my neck to get you out of here and drive you north.”
“And I love you for that, but I’m not going to leave without this child.”
He snorted through his nose. “Damn, Ada. You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever known! All right. Hand me the child.”
I lifted Gabrielle and tried to hand her to Kurt, but she wouldn’t let go of me.
“Tell her it’s just until we get outside,” he said.
“Gabrielle,” I said in French, “just for a minute. Kurt is my friend and he’s going to carry you outside. He’s very strong and you’re such a big girl. And I’m coming with you.”
She nodded. Kurt took her and started for the doorway. The guard came over and Kurt said, “She’ll give us the information or she’ll never see her child again.”
The guard smiled. “Ja, clever.”
Yes, it was clever, I thought, and I followed him out.
He had a black sedan waiting in the school parking lot. We got in and drove off, Kurt in the driver’s seat, Gabrielle and I in the backseat.
“Where did you get this car?” I said.
“I told you, I work in administration. I’m a recordkeeper in charge of motorized vehicles.”
“And they gave you this car to drive?”
“They don’t know that yet.”
We pulled out of Rome and headed north.
“If you can get us to Pienza, I can get you to Mama’s.”
I can only imagine what my mother thought when a large black Nazi sedan pulled into her driveway in the middle of the night. No one rushed out to greet us. We got out of the car and walked into the villa. “Mama?” I called.
She poked her head out of the door to her bedroom. “Who is that with you?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Baumgarten. Kurt Koenig.”
“In a Nazi uniform?”
“Yes, ma’am. With a Nazi car that just rescued your daughter.”
“And the child?”
“Her name is Gabrielle, Mama, and she’s very hungry,” I said.
Mama smiled, took Gabrielle by the hand and led her to the kitchen. “We can take care of that problem. Do you like spaghetti, little one?”
“French, Mama. She speaks French.”
Mama gave me the eye. “Spaghetti is spaghetti. It’s universal.” She looked down at Gabrielle and said, “Spaghetti?”
Gabrielle smiled widely and nodded.
“Ada, you’ll have to fill me in, this is a lot to digest.”
Kurt had burned his bridges, but they were bridges he no longer sought to cross. He had stolen a car and deserted from the army. It was likely that both of us had made the Most Wanted list. Wherever we went, we would have to keep a low profile. We told Mama that under no circumstances should she ever tell her friends that we were staying with her. If her friends, or her police chief, wanted to visit, she was to let us know so we could hide in the cellar.
I felt it was important that Mama understood her own criminal liability if she chose to give us shelter, and we talked about it very seriously. If we were discovered, we would all be subjected to imprisonment or worse. She could be charged as an accomplice. We offered to move on and hide somewhere in the Tuscan hills. I could contact Natalia in Bologna. She and her partisan group were finding places for people to hide. She would help us if I asked. Mama would have none of it. We would stay with her at her home, and what better place to hide? Like many Italians, she was sure that the Allies would come marching up the peninsula any day.
But she did take warnings seriously. “Ada, if Natalia’s right and they’re rounding up all the Jews, then I’m at risk the same as you,” she said, “but we’re way out here in the country. Do you really think the Nazis are going to search every farmhouse in Italy? If they do, then we don’t have a choice, and I hope the Americans hurry up.”
“Kurt, what are we going to do with the car?” I asked. “We can’t leave it in the driveway.”
“I’ll drive it somewhere and ditch it. Somewhere far away, maybe up near Florence. I’ll leave tonight. It’s dark and the roads are empty.”
SIXTY-FIVE
Berlin, September 2017
GUNTHER STRAUSS’ OFFICE WAS located in the Sony Center, an architectural jewel built by Helmut Jahn at the Potsdamer Platz. A huge indoor-outdoor plaza, covered by a glass canopy, lay between the high-rise office buildings, movie theaters, apartments, restaurants and museums. Gunther met Liam in the reception area and led him back to his twelfth-floor office. He had a spectacular view of the Tiergarten.
“Initially, we were only focusing on Quercia Company, the putative owner of Gabi’s property,” Liam said. “Catherine and I have learned that all of the parcels surrounding Gabi’s farm were owned by separate farmers before the war. Individual families. They would come over to Gabi’s house for dinner.”
“The land wasn’t all owned by VinCo?”
“No, sir. It wasn’t even owned by a single landowner. They were all separate parcels with separate owners. Giulia researched VinCo and discovered that it was formed the same day that Quercia was formed. We had the registrar pull the older books, and there it was—VinCo is shown buying all the surrounding parcels of property from the individual owners on a single day in 1944.”
Gunther nodded. “And you’re going to tell me that the owner of VinCo is a secret German trust.”
“Yes, I am. The name of the trust, as shown in the Italian corporate records, is the Wolfsangel Trust of 1944.”
Gunther’s expression turned serious. “Wolfsangel?”
“Right. Does that mean something? Is that a German expression?”
&nbs
p; “I’ll say—an illegal one. The public use of that phrase is against the law. The German Criminal Code forbids use of Nazi symbols to identify a group or to support an ideology, like a swastika or an iron cross. During the Nazi era, the Wolfsangel was a runic emblem used by the Waffen-SS. Now it’s outlawed.”
“Well, it sure wasn’t outlawed in 1944.”
“Hell, no. The SS used it throughout the war.”
“Gunther, did you ever find out the name of the trust that owned Quercia?”
“No, we didn’t see it in the probate court documents. We just figured it was called the Fruman Trust.”
“Maybe it wasn’t identified by name because it’s another outlawed symbol.”
“That’s a good point. Use or display of banned symbols and emblems could subject the user to arrest and a jail term of three years.”
Liam shook his head. “Isn’t that something? Here in Germany, it’s against the law to use or display Nazi symbols, but back in the U.S., punks march through Charlottesville and Skokie in full Nazi uniforms with swastika armbands yelling Jewish slurs.”
“That wouldn’t be permitted here. They’d all be arrested and face jail terms.”
“And these American neo-Nazis even give the Hitler salute as they march.”
“That salute is banned here as well. You’d go to jail. Why does the United States permit it?”
Liam shrugged. “Freedom of speech.”
“Well, we have freedom of speech too, but not for Nazis, hate groups or Holocaust deniers.”
Liam nodded. “How do we find out the name of Quercia’s trust?”
Gunther shook his head. “I suppose you could get a court order, if you had a reason. How did you find out that VinCo’s trust was the Wolfsangel Trust?”
Liam slapped his forehead. “Giulia! It was contained in the Italian corporate records. I bet she could find out Quercia’s the same way.” Liam took out his cell phone and called. “Giulia, how hard was it to find out the name of VinCo’s trust?”
“Not hard at all. The names of corporate shareholders have to be publicly disclosed. I was able to find it online.”
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