The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

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  In loving memory of Sara Titlebaum, a gifted concert pianist and teacher, who soloed with the Detroit Symphony Orchestra, and from whom I inherited my love of opera.

  And to my wife, Monica, for more reasons than I can count.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The Girl from Berlin is a work of historical fiction. The principal characters portrayed herein are imaginary and do not refer to any actual person, living or dead. Ada, her family, her friends and acquaintances are fictitious. Individual players in the orchestras, judges, lawyers and city officials are fictional representations. The Berlin Junior Orchestra and conductor Dr. Kritzer are also fictitious, but symbolic of youth orchestras in Germany during the era.

  The Bologna State Opera is widely recognized as a magnificent and accomplished opera company, though I have chosen to create a fictional music director, Stefano Vittorio, to more easily suit the story. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra is and has been one of the world’s finest symphony orchestras. Wilhelm Furtwängler was its principal conductor from 1922 to 1945, and from 1952 until his death in 1954. His reputation and his accomplishments during the time in question are portrayed as accurately as possible. He did indeed stand up to Hitler and Goebbels. The public quotes attributed to him in which he criticized Hitler and the Nazi regime are true. The episodes regarding the Mannheim Concert, the Hindemith Case, his negotiations with the New York Philharmonic and his interactions and compromises with Goebbels are true. He was sympathetic and was deeply affected by the events of Kristallnacht. He did his best to protect his Jewish members and sought to keep the music of Jewish composers alive at the Philharmonie during a time when the Nazi government declared them to be degenerate. He was treated unfairly after the war by those who thought he should have left Germany and turned his back on his orchestra.

  Sister Maria Alicia and her Christmas concert series is fictitious, but the Italian operatic stars were real. Beniamino Gigli, Caruso Secondo, was one of the finest Italian tenors who ever lived. The plaza in front of the Rome Opera House, Teatro dell’Opera di Roma, is named for him, Piazza Beniamino Gigli. Bernardino Molinari was the conductor of the Rome orchestra, l’Orchestra dell’Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, between 1912 and 1944.

  Rafael Schächter was a Czechoslovak composer and a true hero. He was sent to the Theresienstadt Concentration Camp where he organized and trained fellow prisoners as singers and musicians. They practiced in the basement under brutal conditions and performed the difficult Verdi Requiem for the International Red Cross when the camp was inspected in 1944. In the fall of 1944, he was sent to Auschwitz as set out in the narration. He died while on the Auschwitz death march in 1945.

  Brigadeführer Reinhard Heydrich, one of history’s most malevolent men, was second only to Heinrich Himmler in the SS. It was Heydrich who ordered the arrests of thirty thousand Jewish men during Kristallnacht. Heydrich also convened the Wannsee Conference in 1942 in order to implement the Final Solution to kill Europe’s Jews. As noted in the story, he was in fact an accomplished violinist and a lover of music. His father was a composer. Heydrich was ambushed by Czech freedom fighters on May 27, 1942, and died of his wounds days later.

  Commandant Karl Rahm and Waffen-SS Colonel Hollman were actual persons. Herbert Kleiner was fictitious, but his character was in large part based upon SS-Sturmbannführer Herbert Kappler, one of the most brutal Nazi killers. It was Kappler who operated out of the Via Tasso as head of security forces in Rome. He imposed the tax of 110 pounds of gold upon the Roman Jewish community and personally supervised the roundup of Roman Jews in October 1943. He was also responsible and personally participated in the massacre of 335 Jews who were marched into the caves of Ardeatine with their hands tied behind their backs and shot to death, most times with a single bullet to the head. After the war, he was tried, convicted and sentenced to life imprisonment by an Italian court. Dying of cancer, he escaped from a military hospital in 1976 and died of his illness soon thereafter.

  The system for land recordation in Italy is somewhat confusing in comparison to the American system. I have tried to simplify it in order to tell the story. Beginning in the 1990s Italy’s land registry system began the conversion to computerization and was at various times thereafter searchable online. Beginning in 2012, deeds were filed online in a digital format, so that VinCo’s deed in 2015 would likely have been filed online. The project to convert all handwritten paper archives to digital format is ongoing. For the purposes of this story, I have assumed that the paper archives covering the Villa Vincenzo property had not yet been digitized, were not searchable online and that the only practical way to determine land ownership was by reference to the handwritten registry books. Further, though the handwritten entries of a single transaction may be contained in more than one registry book, I have often referred to them in a single book for simplicity’s sake.

  I have received wonderful help and encouragement during the research and writing of this book. I have had access to a wealth of information and material from several institutions and I am grateful for the assistance of their staffs: the Jewish Museum Berlin, the German Historical Museum, the Philharmonie, the Teatro Comunale di Bologna, the Illinois Holocaust Museum and Educational Center and in particular, Yad Vashem, whose archives hold thousands of personal histories, including those of Italian Jewish survivors. I am also indebted to those historians who spent time with us and took us from site to site, providing first-hand knowledge. Isabel Bahiana Wotzasek was a wellspring of historical information and insight about Berlin and Germany. She dauntlessly guided us to historical sites throughout the city despite the persistence of a driving rainstorm. In Bologna, we were lucky to meet Micol Mazzeo and tap into her knowledge of the Ghetto Ebraico and the history of the Portico City. Finally, it is astonishing to me how much information is available on YouTube. I have watched Maestro Furtwängler conduct Beethoven, Maestro Molinari conduct Paganini, Beniamino Gigli sing Bizet arias, and I have sat in virtual attendance at several master violin classes taught by Jascha Heifetz.

  Once again, thanks to my supportive group at St. Martin’s Press: my editor, Jennifer Weis, my publicist, Staci Burt, Brant Janeway and Sylvan Creekmore. Thanks to Martha Cameron, for her talented and insightful copyediting.

  As always, my heartfelt thanks to my cadre of readers and their invaluable advice: Rose McGowan, Cindy Pogrund, David Pogrund, Linda Waldman, Richard Templer, Katie Lang Lawrence and Benjamin Balson. And my deepest gratitude to my patient and tireless wife, Monica, who read each of the pages as they were written. She must have read and edited the story a thousand times and always stayed upbeat, positive and encouraging.

  ONE

  Pienza, Italy, July 2017

  THE SILVER ALFA ROMEO kicked up a tail of dust as it traveled the road between Montalcino and Montepulciano. The brilliant afternoon sun baked the rolling landscape of the Tuscan hills and for
ced Lorenzo to squint. It had been hot and dry for the past ten days, and in the struggle for Lorenzo’s comfort, the Alfa’s air conditioning was inadequate.

  He stopped briefly in the little town of Pienza for a cold soda before heading south into the countryside. To be frank, the weather wasn’t the only unpleasant aspect to this day’s assignment. On the passenger seat, in his attaché case, lay a court order. Lorenzo Lenzini, Avvocato, was headed to the Villa Vincenzo to serve an eviction.

  It wasn’t that he minded dispossessing a resident, goodness knows he’d done that a thousand times. And it wasn’t that she was elderly and in failing health, for Lorenzo had no feelings for her one way or another. It was the universal support that this perverse woman had somehow managed to rally from the local populace that unsettled him. His obligations to his client had backed him into a corner. Now he was forced to play the role of a heartless villain, and while it didn’t bother him personally, he felt sure it would affect him professionally in the province of Siena.

  The old stone villa was perched on a pleasant hill above groves of olive trees and rows of grapevines heavily laden with the season’s crop. Well-tended flower gardens lined the perimeter of the structure. The villa was typical of Tuscan architecture—oatmeal-colored stone exterior, seasoned oak beams beneath a roof of overlapping terracotta half-pipes, flower boxes under the windows—all in the Etruscan fashion. To Lorenzo’s way of thinking, nothing exceptional. Seen one, you’ve seen them all.

  The lawyer parked his car, grabbed his attaché case, placed his Borselino panama hat squarely on his head, straightened the lapels of his cream-colored suit, puffed his chest out and strode purposefully up the stairs of the veranda and directly to the villa’s front door, there to confront the intransigent Signora Vincenzo. Before knocking, he paused to take in the surrounding landscape, the green and cappuccino pastels of the richest vineyards in the world. In all directions, as far as he could see, the land was owned by his client, VinCo S.p.A., one of Italy’s largest wine producers. In all directions, that is, except for the land he was standing on.

  Villa Vincenzo was a rogue island in the sea of VinCo’s vineyards. A trespasser. Lorenzo, on behalf of his client, had tried for months to persuade Signora Vincenzo to sell. It was an inconvenience for his client to farm around this obtrusive appendage. Villa Vincenzo was an aberration in the midst of VinCo’s perfectly contiguous rows of Sangiovese, merlot and cabernet. It was a break in symmetry. It had to go.

  Lorenzo had conveyed VinCo’s offers to Signora Vincenzo on a dozen occasions, and they were more than fair—a cost-free relocation to a lovely rental home in the village and a cash bonus. She was foolish to turn them down. In truth, VinCo didn’t have to offer a damn thing. VinCo owned the land.

  It seemed to Lorenzo that Signora Vincenzo had some unnatural and unreasonable attachment to the property. How could this commonplace parcel of property have such a strong hold on such a sick old lady? She wouldn’t take the offer, so now she’d forced his hand. The legal steps had all been taken, the court order had been issued, and the obstinate Signora Vincenzo would have sixty days to vacate. Sorry, but that’s the way it goes.

  Lorenzo gritted his teeth and knocked on the door. A young woman, whom Lorenzo knew to be Signora Vincenzo’s equally obstinate nurse, answered. “What is it this time, Mr. Lenzini?”

  “Please summon Signora Vincenzo to the door. I have a document to hand to her.”

  “I’ll do no such thing. She has told you and your soulless client that she will never sell. This is her land. She has lived here for years. Now be gone.”

  Lorenzo rattled the eviction order in the face of the young woman. “Not so fast, Signorina,” he barked, sternly and loudly. “This is a court order. Now it is you who will be gone. Signora Vincenzo must surrender possession within sixty days, or I will have the pleasure of watching the polizia toss the two of you out.”

  From inside the house, a raspy voice cried out, “Va via! Va via!” Gabriella Vincenzo, on unsteady legs, made her way to the front door. Age had bowed her back as though her head had become too heavy. Despite the pains she suffered in every joint, she waved her cane as menacingly as she could. “Get out. Get out! Get off my land!”

  Lorenzo took a step back. With a shaking hand, he held the eviction order front and center. “You have sixty days, Signora Vincenzo. Sixty days and no more.” Then he threw the order on the floor and beat a hasty retreat to his car. As he left, the young nurse consoled her patrona, who wept on her shoulder.

  TWO

  Chicago, July 2017

  “TELL ME AGAIN WHY we’re having dinner at Café Sorrento tonight,” Catherine said.

  Liam parked alongside the curb and handed his keys to the valet. “Because we love the food.”

  Catherine raised a single eyebrow. “We do. But an urgent afternoon phone call asking me to get a babysitter at the last minute on a Thursday night means something more than ‘I’m dying for a plate of Tony’s veal parmesan.’ Fess up. What’s going on?”

  Liam smiled at his perceptive wife. “Tony called me this afternoon. He sounded troubled. He asked if we could come over and be his guests for dinner tonight. Pleaded would be more like it.”

  “Troubled? That’s all he said?”

  “Well, he didn’t say troubled. That’s how he sounded. What he said was, ‘I have a small legal matter to discuss.’”

  Catherine groaned. “Liam, you should have told him to make an appointment at the office, where it’s quiet, confidential and uninterrupted. This packed restaurant is no place to conduct a client interview.”

  “He said it was a small matter. What if it’s just a parking ticket or some simple licensing issue? Maybe the city’s hassling him. You know, he practically lives in this restaurant. He’s here fifteen hours a day. It’s hard for him to come to your office.”

  Café Sorrento was indeed packed. There was a line at the hostess stand and several patrons were standing at the bar and in the entryway waiting to be seated. No sooner had Catherine and Liam squeezed their way through the door, then the stocky restauranteur in his three-piece suit hurried over to greet them. He warmly kissed Catherine on each cheek and vigorously shook Liam’s hand.

  “Buonasera, buonasera, miei cari amici,” Tony Vincenzo said. “Grazie per la venuta. Thank you so much for coming.” He opened his palm and gestured toward a booth in the corner. “Prego,” he said, walking briskly through his restaurant. A small bouquet and an open bottle of wine were already on the table. A server promptly appeared with menus, but Tony waved her away. “No menus tonight. These are my dear friends and I have planned a very special dinner.”

  Midway through the meal, Catherine leaned over and quietly said, “Liam, this dinner is over the top. We’ve had bruschetta, minestrone, gnocchi with veal ragout and Lord knows what he’s bringing for the main course. It makes me feel that this ‘small legal matter’ might not be so small after all. If there’s any equivalency, we’re likely headed for complex litigation.”

  It was almost ten o’clock, after servings of grilled branzino, pecan gelato and a tray of cookies with coffee, and after the restaurant had nearly emptied, when Tony reappeared at the table carrying a briefcase. He slid into the booth and said, “Did you get enough to eat?”

  “I can’t move,” Liam said.

  “It was wonderful,” Catherine said.

  Tony opened his case, took out a stack of papers and laid them on the table. He looked at Catherine. “Did Liam tell you that I have a very serious legal matter?”

  She gave Liam a quick evil eye and then nodded. “Yes, he did, but he used a different adjective.”

  Tony leaned back in the booth and spoke expressively, using his hands and arms for emphasis. “I have an aunt Gabi back in Italy. Such a sweet lady. A widow. Heart of gold. But, sorry to say, not too healthy these days. Everyone loves her. You talk to anybody, they love her.”

  Liam spread his hands. “And?”

  Tony leaned forward. “So, some rot
ten bastard is trying to throw her out of her house. Can you imagine that? A seventy-eight-year-old woman, never hurt a single person, and she’s not well. She can hardly walk.” Tony dabbed at his eyes. “And now this stronzo, this asshole, wants to throw her out of the house that she’s lived in for as long as I can remember. He’s given her sixty days.”

  “How does this man claim rights to her property?” Catherine said.

  “It’s not just this man. If it was just him, I’d take care of it. Believe me, I wouldn’t need a lawyer and a private detective. No, he’s an attorney and he represents a big company, VinCo. Big-deal wine producer. They say VinCo holds the deed to her property.”

  “Did Aunt Gabi sign a deed? Did she transfer her rights?”

  “Never. My aunt Gabi may be physically disabled, but mentally she’s sharp as a tack. She tells me she has good title to her land. If she says it, it’s so.”

  Tony had the dishes cleared and then rolled out a survey. “Here’s her land. She calls it Villa Vincenzo. Such a sweetheart.” In the middle of the survey he drew a circle with his finger. “This part, these seventy acres, are hers. She has olive trees, vineyards and vegetables. The best vegetables. Zucchini like you’ve never seen. I wish I could get ’em in Chicago.” Then Tony circled his finger around the rest of the survey. “All the rest of this land surrounding Aunt Gabi’s little piece, it all belongs to VinCo. That’s why they hate her. She’s a pimple on their ass. They can’t stand that they don’t own her little piece. They’ve been pestering her for months to buy her out. But she’s been firm, God bless her. And now they have some slimy lawyer trying to figure out a way to steal it from her.”

  “Has she hired a lawyer?”

  Tony nodded. “Two of them. One in her little town of Pienza and one from Siena. Cost me plenty.”