The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  The sudden and violent attack on my grandfather had a numbing effect on us all, but nowhere did it resonate more deeply than with my mother. Her attitude toward the Nazis had previously been dismissive, like shooing a fly. Now she was frightened. She did not want to go out alone. It was a profound shift in her spirit, one that would never change.

  EIGHT

  Berlin, July 1933

  I had overheard discussions, off and on, that the Philharmonic was having financial problems. Attendance was down. The Wolff family, the Jewish owners of the Philharmonie and chief benefactors of the orchestra, were financially wounded by the depression and by the campaign against Jewish businesses. They were struggling to fund the operations, and their call for backers was falling on deaf ears. My father said it was only a matter of time until the Reich would take over the Philharmonic.

  Both Uncle Wilhelm and my father feared that if the Nazis nationalized the Philharmonic, they’d impose their racial restrictions and seek to expel the Jewish members. So-called Jewish quotas were becoming commonplace in other industries and professions, and pressure was being exerted to dismiss Jewish performers from all the arts. Uncle Wilhelm decided to be proactive and, at considerable risk to himself, wrote a letter of protest to Goebbels.

  “Ultimately, there is only one dividing line I recognize: that between good and bad art. If the campaign is directed at truly great artists, then it ceases to be in the interests of Germany’s cultural life. It must therefore be stated that men such as Walter, Klemperer, Reinhardt, etc. must be allowed to exercise their talents in Germany in the future as well, in exactly the same way as Kreisler, Huberman, Schnabel and other great instrumentalists of the Jewish race.”

  Not only did Uncle Wilhelm write that provocative letter, but he sent a copy directly to the newspapers. All of us were shocked by his open defiance, and we feared he would suffer reprisals. But Uncle Wilhelm felt he was untouchable. Hitler considered him the centerpiece of German culture, a fine-arts deity, and Goebbels was left with the task of trying to manage him.

  After his letter was published, Uncle Wilhelm and three other leading members of the orchestra came to the house for dinner to discuss the Philharmonic’s future. I sat in the living room not far from the group, trying to listen. Just a fly on the wall. Theodore Goldberg, a trumpet player who had been with the Philharmonic since the 1890s, asked, “When Goebbels and Hitler nationalize the orchestra, what will that mean for us?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Uncle Wilhelm said. “There’s talk about nazification; bringing arts and culture in line with the Nazis’ so-called values and policies. In that case, God help us. Dr. Goebbels called me yesterday after my letter appeared in the paper. Needless to say, he was furious, but restrained. He demanded a meeting. I told him I’d try to work it in, but with our Mannheim concert scheduled for next week, we were very busy. I know he’s going to pressure me to publicly apologize, but it won’t work.”

  “When are you going to meet?”

  “We scheduled it for next Thursday, after the Mannheim concert. I hope he’ll tell me what the mighty führer has in store for us. If I find out, I’ll let you know, but let’s face it, we should all take stock of what lies ahead. Times are changing. If you think it’s time for you to go, believe me, I will not hold it against you or any of our members. In fact, I’ll use all my resources to assist you in placement elsewhere if you choose to resign. But please know this; I will not stand for the dismissal of any member because he is Jewish. I’m counting on Hitler’s vanity. He boasts we are Germany’s treasure, the world’s greatest orchestra. At least for now, it’s hands off my orchestra.”

  “Why did we agree to play a joint concert in Mannheim?” Goldberg asked. “They are a small, local orchestra, nowhere near our proficiency. Besides, they are strong Nazi supporters. They play beneath a giant swastika flag, they give the Hitler salute and they begin their concerts with the ‘Horst Wessel Lied,’ the Nazi anthem. Are we now going to be Nazi supporters?”

  Uncle Wilhelm brushed it off. “We agreed to go to Mannheim at the request of their director to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Richard Wagner’s death,” he said calmly. “It’s a necessary fund-raiser for them and a big boost to their prestige at a time when all orchestras are in trouble. I will tell them to tone down the politics. No Nazi propaganda.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, Theo, we’re not going to be Nazi supporters. No flags. No salutes.”

  “I admire your strength, Wilhelm, but Hitler and Goebbels can be relentless in pursuing their so-called nazification,” my father said. “Just last month, Bruno Walter gave up. He left his post as principal conductor of Leipzig. For years, Hitler had been ridiculing him, calling him names, stating how there are far too many Jewish conductors. Whenever Hitler mentioned Bruno’s name, he mocked him. He called him, ‘Bruno Walter, alias Schlesinger.’”

  Uncle Wilhelm nodded. “Well, I’ve made my position clear, Jacob; if Hitler and Goebbels seek to interfere in any way with our artistic autonomy, they will not have Furtwängler as a conductor.”

  “Then we will lose another fine conductor,” Goldberg said. “I hear that Otto Klemperer is moving to America as well.”

  “He’s a Catholic,” my father said. “Why should he worry?”

  “He has Jewish parents,” Goldberg replied. “But it’s not only Jews, all of Germany should be worried. We have a power-grabbing lunatic in charge of our country. Maybe going to America is the answer. You should think about it as well, Jacob.” Then turning to my mother, he added, “Friede, talk to him. You have a gifted child. She should grow up in a society where she can flourish.” (I blushed and slid down in my chair.)

  My mother smiled politely. “That is a decision for my husband.”

  “I’ll be firm at the meeting,” Uncle Wilhelm said, as he stood to leave. “I intend to stand strong. If I’m right and they value our Philharmonic and our reputation, then I will do everything I can to insulate us from their racist policies. I promise you, we will not be Hitler’s house band.”

  Uncle Wilhelm was true to his word and that was demonstrated when the orchestra traveled to Mannheim. The president of the Mannheim Orchestra Committee approached Uncle Wilhelm and insisted that Papa be replaced as concertmaster for the evening. “It’s just for one night,” he said. “There will be several dignitaries and benefactors in attendance, and after all, your concertmaster, Jacob Baumgarten, is a Jew. In such times as these, doesn’t one need to be sensitive to national policies? Let my man be concertmaster.”

  The great Furtwängler turned to his assistant music director and said, “Put the instruments back on the bus, Philip. We’re not staying.”

  The Mannheim president turned white and apologized. He begged Uncle Wilhelm not to leave. “Let me make it clear,” Maestro Furtwängler said, “there will be no Nazi flags, no Nazi anthem, and no one in either orchestra will flash a Hitler salute. This is an artistic endeavor to honor a German composer, not to provide propaganda footage for a newsreel. In such times as these.”

  Of course, the committee yielded, the concert went on as scheduled and Uncle Wilhelm had his way, as he usually did. The concert concluded with a rousing Ride of the Valkyries in honor of Wagner. Ironically, we were all unaware at the time that the piece would later be adopted as background music to play at Nazi political rallies.

  There was a gala banquet scheduled following the concert. Since there was no longer a risk of cancellation, the committee’s president decided to take a swipe at Maestro Furtwängler. As the dinner was beginning, senior members of the Mannheim committee stood and stated what a shame it was that the Philharmonic exhibited such a “lack of national sentiment.” Furtwängler stood, faced the dignitaries, took my father by the elbow and said, “Let’s go, Jacob, I have lost my appetite for the dishes they serve.”

  News of the Mannheim controversy quickly reached Goebbels, who insisted on moving up his meeting with Uncle Wilhelm. My father feared this might be the end of Furtwängler, but like so many
others, he underestimated the maestro’s unparalleled prestige. As my father would later explain, “The meeting went smoothly. First, Dr. Goebbels said that both he and Hitler cherish the Berlin Philharmonic as the world’s premier orchestra and the pride of Germany, and they intend to keep it that way. ‘As you know, our führer is a classical music devotee,’ said Goebbels. ‘He has attended several Philharmonic concerts and plans to come more often in the future.’ Apparently, Hitler is also a fan of Maestro Furtwängler. Goebbels promised not to disturb the wonderful working camaraderie of the Berlin Philharmonic.”

  Shortly after the Mannheim concert, I received a letter, postmarked Mannheim, Germany.

  My friend Ada:

  I had the privilege of being in the HJ honor guard at the Wagner Memorial concert last night. I saw your father, but I did not have a chance to speak with him. The orchestra sounded marvelous and I only think to myself, some day you will sit in that orchestra and you will be concertmistress. Of that, I am sure.

  I hope you understand how ashamed I was when my father insulted you at Eva’s house. He was quite harsh with me that night, and I still have a bruise or two to remind me. He has forbidden me to play my violin, and he took it away from me. But I would do it all again if it meant I could see you. I miss you terribly.

  My father has moved us all to Stuttgart. He is rising quickly in the SA ranks and is pushing me farther along in the Hitler Youth. I am now a group leader. My father plans to send me to a training academy in the fall. I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to see you again, but I think of you often.

  Your friend,

  Kurt

  P.S. Do not write back to me. I am sure you understand.

  I understood all too well. And I cried.

  NINE

  En Route—High Above the Swiss Alps, July 2017

  THE CABIN LIGHTS WERE turned on and breakfast service commenced in advance of the plane’s approach to Rome.

  “That sounds like a very interesting story,” Liam said, “but what does it have to do with a vineyard in Tuscany? Why did Aunt Gabi send it to you? Do you think that Ada is really Gerda Fruman, the woman who VinCo alleges held legal title to the villa?”

  “No, I do not think that Ada is Gerda Fruman.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Gabi said she never heard of Gerda Fruman. Because Ada is Ada Baumgarten, a Jewish violinist in Nazi Germany. Why that’s important, I don’t know yet. The manuscript is autobiographical and unpublished. Ada wrote it, and in her introduction, she intimated that her time was short and that something terrible was about to happen to her. How does Gabi come to have this manuscript? I don’t know that either. But I’m only partway through the book. These are mysteries yet to be revealed. I’m sure that I’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “Maybe there’s a simpler answer,” Liam said. “It’s a World War II story and Ada is a Jewish girl in Berlin. Tony might have told Gabi that we’ve worked on a couple of Holocaust cases. Maybe she knows about Ben Solomon or Lena Scheinman. Maybe she just wants to share a World War II story with you. Could it be as simple as that?”

  Catherine scrunched her nose and shook her head. “No. There’s something about Ada’s life that Gabi wants me to know. Something that will impact the fight for her property. This is all background. Maybe there’s a relationship. Maybe there’s a purpose. Embedded in this story is information that will assist us in this case, I’m sure of it.”

  “I have another thought,” Liam said. “Gabi instructed Tony to give the manuscript directly to the woman lawyer. Only the woman lawyer. From what you tell me, Ada is a strong young woman who dreams of breaking gender barriers in the music world under the most difficult of circumstances. Maybe Gabi sees a correlation between Ada Baumgarten and America’s most brilliant woman lawyer. You know, maybe the story is meant to be inspirational.”

  Catherine turned in her seat with a look of pleasant surprise. “Liam, that’s a very nice thing to say. I’m flattered.”

  “I don’t know how I should take that. Are you surprised that insensitive Liam could have a sensitive thought?”

  Catherine smiled. “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Here’s another paradox,” Liam said, pointing down the aisle. “There’s nothing more unappetizing than airplane food, yet look—everyone watches the cart moving slowly down the aisle, willing it to hurry up so they can get their tray of faux eggs and mystery meat.”

  “But not you?”

  “Nope.” Liam unwrapped Tony’s Italian sub sandwich. “Not me.”

  TEN

  Berlin, December 15, 1933

  The Philharmonie was all aglow for the Berlin Junior Orchestra’s annual winter concert. Its stone columns, archways and neoclassical façade were brilliantly lit with torches and spotlights. Fir trees dressed for Christmas lined the Tiergartenstrasse with twinkling lights. Guests arrived in black limousines, festively dressed for the occasion—furs and long gowns, top hats and tails. Doormen in long wool coats held the massive doors open.

  It is such an exciting time for me. Six weeks ago, I was elevated to first chair. As such, I am the Junior’s concertmaster for the winter concert. Even more exciting, I am to be the featured soloist! Mozart’s Violin Concerto no. 3. My father and I have been practicing nonstop for weeks. The piece runs twenty-five minutes and I am to stand stage center the entire time.

  As the hall was filling up, I stood in the wings behind the curtain and watched. The deep red of the Philharmonie’s velvet seats was fading under a tide of black tuxedos and colorful evening gowns. My heart beat as I watched the concertgoers file in—the patricians, the dignitaries, the socialites, the parents, the music lovers and, of course, the uniformed Nazi Party members. At long last the hall was full—every main-floor seat, every balcony seat and every box.

  The chimes rang and the lights dimmed. The orchestra filed in to enthusiastic applause. As concertmaster, I entered last. I mirrored what I had seen my father do as concertmaster on countless occasions. I bowed slightly to the audience, acknowledging the applause for the orchestra. I smiled and nodded to Martin, our oboist, as a cue for him to play a sustained A as the note to tune the orchestra. As I stood in the presence of the full auditorium, it was comforting to focus on protocol. It took my mind off the fact that I would soon be standing alone, soloing Mozart. Finally, Dr. Kritzer entered, shook my hand, bowed to the audience, tapped his baton on the music stand and raised his arms. The winter concert was under way.

  Our first two short pieces went well, and the audience was engaged and loudly appreciative. Then it was my turn. Mozart’s Violin Concerto no. 3 in G major. I walked up next to Dr. Kritzer and smiled. Like a sprinter before the gun, I felt as if two dozen butterflies were darting around in my stomach. I was anxious but not frightened. I was confident. I knew the piece. We’d practiced well and the only thing I really worried about was how I looked. My mother had my hair styled back in a bun. I had a new floor-length sleeveless gown. If I was to be judged on my appearance, as so many women artists are, we had done the best we could.

  Dr. Kritzer looked at me, I nodded, he raised his hands and the orchestra struck the opening chords of the concerto’s first movement. In the classic style, the orchestra set the opening melody and tempo in the first several measures while I waited. Dr. Kritzer then turned to me and I began my solo. The first notes, light and lively, sprang into the air. The concerto’s first movement is an allegro with rapid fingering and great fun to play. I was totally caught up in the music and my fingers did exactly what they were trained to do.

  Behind me, enveloping me, supporting me and sounding heavenly, were all my friends. My peers. The Berlin Junior. Kids who came from all directions and all walks of life to practice together every day. They were boys, they were girls, they were fourteen, they were sixteen, they were eighteen, they were Jewish, they were Christian, they were masterful, and tonight, they were one and they had my back. I never felt prouder to be a Junior member than at that moment.

&
nbsp; The concerto’s second movement is slow and sweet, adagio, one in which I mimic the orchestra. The flutes and I have a conversation. Back and forth. It is soft and passionate. At the end of the movement, Mozart inserted a cadenza. It was a door the composer left open for me, a few measures for a solo passage in which I could express my own creativity. Papa and I worked on it for weeks. This night I gave it my all and it went off perfectly. Though it is not customary to clap between movements, the audience gave me a hearty round of applause that made me blush. Dr. Kritzer smiled and tapped his baton.

  The concerto’s final movement is a spirited rondo. I danced through that movement with joy. I felt like I could stand there and play all night. Before I knew it, the horns and flutes sounded the final seven notes and the concerto was finished. I took a deep breath and bowed. When I looked up, the entire hall was standing. I was in tears. Dr. Kritzer stepped down from the podium and hugged me tightly. I turned around to acknowledge my orchestra and bowed to them. The clapping continued. It was the best night of my life. How could it possibly get any better?

  After the concert, we were all backstage celebrating with our parents and friends when Dr. Kritzer walked up and said, “Did you notice the blond gentleman in the second box, stage right?”

  I nodded. “The one in the black uniform. He was with a younger man and two women.”

  “That is Brigadeführer Reinhard Heydrich,” Dr. Kritzer said. “He is the chief of the Sicherheitsdienst, the SD, the intelligence arm of the SS. He is one of the most powerful men in Germany. But he’s also an accomplished violinist. His father was a composer. He loved your performance. He said it brought tears to his eyes. He wants to present you with his compliments.”

  I was impressed. I looked at my father. “He’s a Nazi officer, is this all right?”

  Papa shrugged and nodded. “Who is the young man with him?” my father asked.