“Remember you told me that Quercia’s sole shareholder was a trust? Could you get the name of that trust?”
“Sure, give me a few minutes and I’ll call you.”
Gunther stood. “Have you had lunch, Liam?”
Liam shook his head. “Nothing since breakfast.”
“Let’s go downstairs. There’s a terrific Italian restaurant in the building.”
“Italian? Seriously?”
* * *
“LIAM,” GIULIA SAID ON speakerphone, “Quercia Company was formed in May 1944 with the same organizational structure as VinCo. The German trust that owned all of Quercia’s shares was called the Totenkopf Trust.”
“Holy shit,” Gunther said. “Quercia is a Nazi organization.”
“Giulia,” Liam said, “were there any individuals named in the papers? Do we know who the beneficiary of the Totenkopf Trust is or was?”
“No, that is not disclosed.”
“One more thing, Giulia,” Gunther said. “The name Quercia. That doesn’t mean anything to me. Does it mean anything to you?”
“Yes, of course. It’s Italian for oak or oak tree or oak leaf.”
“Thank you, Giulia.”
“What does all this mean, Gunther?” Liam said.
“They’re all SS signs. Totenkopf is the death’s head, the skull and crossbones used by the Storm Troopers and the Schutzstaffel—the SS. Oak leaves were worn by the SS. Wolfsangel was a runic sign used by the SS. Whoever formed these corporations was using SS symbols. If we can show that the Nazis seized that property in 1944, or forced people to sell it to them, you may very well have just won your case. I’ve worked on restitution cases in Germany and Austria, but not in Italy. Tell your wife and Giulia to research Italian law on the restitution of wartime property seizures. I’m sure that Italy’s law would be similar.”
“So you think it’s likely that property was seized from farmers by members of the SS during 1944?”
“From the names, I would say it’s very likely, but you’ll need more than that. You need to show that the individuals behind the scenes of these companies were members of the Nazi Party, the SS or profiteers operating under the auspices of the Third Reich. We have to find out who formed and operated these companies.”
“How do we do that?”
“I have a friend in the prosecutor’s office. I’m going to lean on him to get a subpoena out for the records of these two trusts. My guess is the records are located at the same law firm that handled the Fruman estate.”
SIXTY-SIX
Pienza, March 1944
By the time the vineyards and the flowers were budding, we had been on Mama’s farm for four and a half months. During that time, neither Kurt nor I had ventured off the property, but we did have visitors. The first was Enzo, Mama’s friend and the town’s chief of police. When we arrived, we told Mama not to have visitors or let anyone know we were staying at the villa. But we had an immediate problem; we arrived without any extra clothes and all Kurt had was his uniform. Mama could go into Pienza and buy women’s clothes for me without arousing suspicion. She could even buy dresses for Gabrielle because several of her friends and neighbors had children. But Kurt? That was another story. Questions would be asked. Why would a fifty-eight-year-old widow be buying a man’s wardrobe?
So Mama picked up the phone, called the police department and asked for Enzo. Bear in mind, Pienza was a small town. Mama and Enzo were seeing each other, and everyone knew it. It didn’t take long to figure out that she and the chief were more than casual companions. I thought they were cute together. Papa had died almost five years ago, and it was heartwarming to know that Mama had found a new relationship. When she called him on the phone, I could have sworn she was talking to Papa.
“Enzo,” she said in that firm direct manner of hers (some would call it bossy), “I need you to buy two pairs of men’s trousers and a few shirts. And some underwear. And socks. Maybe a pair of shoes.” Pause. “I’ll tell you when you get here.” Pause. “About the same as you, my dear, but a lot thinner.” Pause. “And Enzo, do not tell anyone you are buying these for me.”
That night, he arrived for dinner in his police car. He took out a big bag and brought it into the house. “All right, Friede, what’s going on?”
She called Kurt and me into the kitchen. “This is what’s going on.”
He bowed and kissed my hand. “Ada, so nice to see you again. Your mother does not stop talking about you. Maybe you will play for me one day?”
I smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
Enzo looked at Kurt. He was dressed in his army trousers and a T-shirt.
“This is Kurt Koenig,” Mama said. “He and Ada have been friends since they were children. My Jacob used to drive him to and from orchestra practice. Yes, he is a German officer, but he saved Ada’s life. The clothes are for him.” Mama went on to tell him about our escape from the Collegio Militare. Mama is a nonstop talker, but the entire time she was telling the story, it was obvious that Enzo already knew about it.
“We received a bulletin about Sergeant Koenig,” Enzo finally said. “It’s posted on the board in the station. He is accused of stealing a Wehrmacht vehicle. He is also accused of desertion and treason, but those are outside our jurisdiction.”
I was shocked. I was immediately sorry that we had come to the villa and that we had involved Mama. But I was wrong. Enzo loved my mother and he hated the Nazis. “What did you do with the car?” he asked.
Kurt shrugged. “It is enjoying a beautiful view of Firenze from the Piazzale Michelangelo. No one saw me leave it there. It was the middle of the night.”
Enzo nodded. “We are a small police department. I have three officers on my staff, and they do not patrol out here unless they are called. You are probably safe here, but you would be well advised to stay out of Pienza.”
Kurt and I both thanked him. “Who is this little angel?” he asked when Gabi walked into the kitchen wearing one of the new dresses that Mama had bought for her.
“That is Gabrielle and she is my daughter,” I said.
Enzo bent low from the waist and kissed the top of Gabi’s head. “Hello to you, pretty Gabriella.”
Gabi looked at me quizzically. “It’s Gabrielle.”
I smiled. “You’re in the Tuscan countryside. Out here, they would say Gabriella.”
Mama could cook, and Enzo could eat. They were a perfect combination. And they both loved their wine. Mama’s vines were mature, she was managing her vineyard expertly and her estate wine was out of this world. By the end of the meal, we had drained two bottles. Enzo stood, patted his stomach and said, “I’d better get going.” He gave Mama a kiss, headed for the door and said, “I hope I don’t give myself a ticket for driving under the influence.” You had to like Enzo.
Our next visitors were the Romittis, who came in December to celebrate Chanukah. Mama had seen Naomi in town and confided that we were hiding at the villa. Naomi told us that Natalia was in hiding as well, somewhere in the mountains of Chianti. Her partisan group was being pursued by the Fascists and the Nazis.
The Romittis brought a doll for Gabi, and Naomi brought her famous latkes. I could see the light go on in Gabi’s eyes when we gathered around the menorah. She was reconnecting with happy memories of her life in Grenoble. She helped us light the candles and I played a few Chanukah songs. Here we were—Germans, Italians and a little French darling—and we were all bound together by the traditions of our forebears. Jews in the diaspora, all different and all the same. And like our forebears, our Chanukah celebration had to be clandestine. Jews were being snatched off the streets by Nazi patrols and sent north to prison camps. We had also heard rumors that Jews were being shot, sometimes in large groups.
Generally, winter days on the farm were peaceful. The weather was chilly but with an occasional warm, sunny day. I practiced every day, sometimes on the veranda if the weather was nice, but most often in the living room with its high ceilings and its gloriou
s acoustics. I played for Mama and Gabi and sometimes for Enzo. He loved the old Neapolitan melodies and he would supply the vocals. I nearly wet my pants when he got up to dance the tarantella. Those nights were special and for a moment we could forget that a war was waging three hours to the south.
Sadly, I could not get Kurt to play. I told Gabi that he was an excellent player as a teenager, but Kurt did not want to pick up the instrument. He finally revealed that his father told him that a violin was for weak, effeminate little boys, not German soldiers. He put Kurt’s violin on the floor and smashed it with his foot. The dark memories were too upsetting for Kurt, and he declined whenever I suggested that he play.
Gabi, on the other hand, showed an interest. I was playing Papa’s violin, but I had left my violin with Mama months ago. I decided to teach Gabi. It wasn’t as easy as I thought. I was not my father with his endless patience, and Gabi was not me. Still, she began to learn the scales and a few simple melodies, ones that didn’t strain her small fingers.
Gabi was a much better student when it came to baking lessons. Mama had an eager helper. Gabi spent hours learning the delicacies of baking challah, cookies, pies and cakes. Of all the things she had to do in a day—all the chores we had assigned to her, the books we wanted her to read and her violin practice—Gabi made time to sit with Mama in the kitchen, and that was Mama’s delight.
For Kurt and me, it was a time to build on the strange bonds that had held us together for so many years. We embraced the opportunity to develop deep and mutual understandings. Our roots were so very different, and yet we saw the world with the same eyes. Kurt was a kind man and great with Gabi. She would sit on his lap while he told her stories of gingerbread houses and flying ships.
Late in the evening, Kurt and I would sit together. Our time was unpressured. There were no uncertainties about when or if we’d see each other again. A night by the fire with nothing more than intimate conversation was completely satisfying, without the urgency to make something bigger and better happen. We would be there the next morning, waking up in each other’s arms.
We took walks through the vineyards, down the rows of trellises, enjoying the present and planning for the future—what we would do when this was all over, where we would live, how we would raise our family. And our family always included Gabrielle.
Gabi was a joy. Pure magical energy. Watching Gabi run through the gardens chasing ducks made us forget the horrific state of affairs that brought us together. Just four months ago she had closed herself in a shell. Now, like a tulip, she was opening up to the world. Her spontaneity, formerly repressed by unspeakable tragedy, was returning. Like a normal four-year-old girl, she exuded happiness. And it was infectious.
Natalia surprised us in early February. It was the middle of the night and we were sound asleep when we heard someone trying the front doorknob. Kurt jumped out of bed, told me to stay back, grabbed his pistol and headed for the door. There stood Natalia and she was a mess. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her hair was disheveled and tied with a scarf and she had dark circles under her eyes.
“They broke into our camp,” she said. “We all scattered. They fired at us, but most of us were able to make it into the woods.”
“Who broke into your camp?” Kurt asked.
Natalia shook her head. “I don’t know if it was the Fascists or the Nazis. Probably Nazis, but in the end, what’s the difference?”
“Did they follow you here?”
“No. Our camp was more than twenty miles away. I didn’t know where to go. I can’t return to Pienza. There are Nazis searching for Jews in the city and in cities throughout Tuscany. A squad of Nazis ravaged through Pitigliano last week, the place we went for Rosh Hashanah. They arrested the entire community, put them in a truck and took them north to a prison camp. I hope you don’t mind that I came here. I warned my mother and father to get out of town, that the Nazis were coming, and I hope they went to Matt’s.”
We brewed a pot of tea and sat in the kitchen. Natalia took a sip, leaned back and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t slept in two days.”
“We have a room for you,” I said. “You can stay here. We’re safe here.”
“No Jew is safe. I thank you for your offer, but I have to rejoin my unit. The partisans are growing, Ada. There are tens of thousands of us now. Women too, you’d be so proud. There are thousands of women in the partisan fighting units. We move from sector to sector, sleeping in abandoned farms and farmhouses. We move equipment by horse and donkey and wagons. We derail their trains, set fire to their storehouses, and we kill them, Ada, we shoot them from the forests.”
As we were talking, Gabi walked into the room. She was in her nighty, barefoot and rubbing her eyes.
“What is this?” Natalia said. “Who is this darling little girl?” She picked up Gabi and held her on her lap. “What is your name, sweetheart?”
“Gabrielle.”
“My God, Ada, this child is precious. Where did she come from?”
“Grenoble. I’m sure you heard about the roundup in Rome. She was swept up with the rest of us. We were being held in a detention center in Rome. We were all about to be shipped north when Kurt rescued us.”
Natalia looked at Kurt with her mouth open. “You? You are the one who walked into the Collegio, took two of the prisoners, stole a car and drove away? That was you? You are Ada’s German boyfriend?”
“Guilty.”
“Bravo! You are legendary. All of my people know about you. You’re a hero to us.”
“The Nazis know about us too,” I said.
“You’re not kidding. They’ve posted notices. There’s a monetary reward.” She brushed Gabi’s hair with her fingertips. “What a sweetie. What about her parents?”
I shook my head. “Don’t ask, Nat, it upsets her. She’s probably witnessed things that no little girl should ever see. She’s blocked those memories and that’s a good thing. Anyway, she’s mine now, and I’m going to make sure she’s loved and cared for.”
“I’m so proud of you, Ada. I’ve always been in awe of what you’ve done.”
“Me? Nat, you and your partisans are the real heroes. Why don’t you bed down for the night? You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”
She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “Thank you, Ada, but I’ll be gone in the morning. If you see my parents, tell them to be very careful, stay at Matt’s and stay out of Pienza. And you do the same. Kurt, keep your gun loaded and by your side.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Pienza, April 1944
Nazi patrols were searching all of Tuscany for Jews. Despite the fear of being discovered, Mama and Naomi were determined to keep Passover. It was agreed that we would have the celebration at our house, not at Matteo’s. They had a car and we did not. We ended up with a full house: Naomi and Nico Romano, Matt, his wife and three children, Gabi, Mama and Enzo, Kurt and me.
Mama made a brisket and Naomi brought vegetables. Mama and Gabi spent most of the day making a flourless chocolate cake. The Passover service was short and sweet. I played the traditional songs, and the delight of the evening was watching the children hunt for the hidden matzo, the afikomen.
Enzo said that he heard the Allies were on the outskirts of Rome. “The Nazis are packing up their offices and heading north,” he said. “It won’t be too much longer until Italy is liberated.”
“That’s what Passover is all about,” Mama said. We raised our wineglasses and toasted liberation. “Next year in Jerusalem and this year in a liberated and free Italy.”
No sooner had she uttered those words than we saw the lights of a car pull down the drive and park in the front. Enzo rose from his seat. “Stay here. I’ll see who it is. It could be one of my men.” Kurt slipped into the back room, out of sight.
Enzo opened the door and a German corporal and two adjutants pushed their way into the room. “What is it you want here?” Enzo said.
“Just get out of the way, old man,” the corpor
al said. Then to his companions, “Look at this. A Jewish ritual dinner! The informants were right. All you people are to come with us.”
“I am the chief of police here, and this house is under my jurisdiction,” Enzo said. “I am the senior law enforcement official in Pienza. Now I direct you to leave.”
“Old man, you better get on your horse and ride away. We’re taking these people to Fossoli. Those are my orders that come from SS headquarters.” He moved quickly to the table and grabbed Mama by the arm.
Enzo rushed at him, “Let her go. You will not touch her,” he said. One of the Nazis swung his rifle stock and knocked Enzo to the floor. Mama shrieked.
Right at that moment, Kurt walked through the door and into the room in full uniform, his hat square upon his head, his pistol in his belt. “Nice work, Corporal. I’ll take it from here.”
“We didn’t know you were coming here, sir. We were instructed to come directly to this house, take all the occupants into custody and transport them to Fossoli for resettlement.”
“Who do you think gave those orders, Corporal? They came from my office at the Via Tasso, direct from Lieutenant Kleiner. Now you can leave, I have this all under control. Two trucks are on their way here for the transport.”
“But sir, I … I just saw Lieutenant Kleiner. He didn’t say anything about you.”
Kurt became angry. “Then maybe you didn’t listen. Now turn around and walk out of here before I put all three of you on report! That’s an order!” Kurt snapped his heel and shot his arm out. “Heil Hitler!”
The corporal swallowed hard and nodded to his companions. “Heil Hitler,” he said. They turned and left the house.
Mama bent down to care for Enzo. “He’s hurt,” she cried.
“I’ll be okay,” Enzo said, “but all of you have to get out of here right now. They’ll come back.”
Matteo and his parents left to drive back to his home near Montepulciano. “We should be safe out in the country.”
“We could go to Bologna,” I said.
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