Mama and I had started Italian lessons last month, and we had been trying to speak Italian to each other as often as possible. In the event I passed my audition, I would need to know enough to follow instructions from my conductor and my section leader, and rehearsals were scheduled to begin in a couple of months. But all in all, it was pretty funny to see us walk around the house butchering Italian phrases.
My father and Uncle Wilhelm made all the arrangements for our stay in Bologna. Our hotel, the Baglioni, was on the Via Marsala, a block from the Piazza Maggiore in a lively section of Bologna, a ten-minute walk from the opera house. Papa had arranged for us to spend five days—two before the audition and two afterward.
Before we left, he pulled me aside. “Mama has been having a hard time,” he said quietly. “I want the two of you to go on holiday like never before. Take her shopping. See the museums. Eat late dinners al fresco. Order a bottle of wine. See if you can get her shickered.”
“Papa!”
“I’m serious. She needs a break, a vacation from stress. I’m worried about her.”
I smiled. “Wining and dining and shopping, that’s a tough assignment, but I’ll try my best not to fail.”
When we arrived in Bologna, we gathered our bags and hailed a taxi outside the train station. My mother got in and immediately said, “Vogliamo mangiare l’hotel Baglioni.”
I doubled over. “Mother, you just told the cab driver that we wanted to eat the Baglioni Hotel.”
The Baglioni sat in the old quarter of the magnificent city. I had only pictured cities like this in my imagination. Medieval architecture, red tile roofs, colonnades, archways, narrow walkways, covered bridges, basilica towers and domed churches. And the colors—so different from gray Berlin. The lovely renaissance buildings were covered with a dusting of cinnamon or nutmeg. Houses and churches were colored in shades of rose and orange. Bologna was known as the “portico city” because arched porticos covered most of the pedestrian walkways.
My father chose our hotel because it was a six-block walk from the Teatro Comunale and the University of Bologna, where I planned to apply. There were also several music conservatories within walking distance. Not to mention chocolate shops and fabulous restaurants. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was in a wonderland of music and food.
The Accademia Filarmonica di Bologna was steps away. Young Mozart went to school there to study composition in 1770. Rossini and Donizetti studied in the Conservatory of Music just around the corner. There were several ancient basilicas where choirs and ensembles performed all the time. And of course, there was the famous Bologna State Opera.
I told my mother that I wanted to check out the Teatro Comunale before my audition. I needed to see and hear where I would be playing. I brought my instrument to hear how it would sound in the two-hundred-year-old auditorium. Would there be echoes? Would the soft harmonics carry? The human ear hears the vibrated note in its highest pitch. Would the auditorium swallow that sound?
The door was open. We didn’t see anyone, so we made our way into the darkened concert hall. It reminded me of the Philharmonie, but with an Italian flair. The seats in the great hall were empty and I knew that would affect the sound. Like a cavern, the music would reflect off the empty hall’s walls and ceiling and would sound brighter. When the seats were full, they would dampen the sound.
Mama sat in the middle of the hall. I played a few warm-up scales and études. Then I played the concluding portion of the “Meditation.” Although the hall was large, I played the notes as quietly as they deserved, stretching out the final note and letting it fade. Mama smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. The sound was clear to her.
Suddenly, I heard clapping. A chubby man with tufts of white hair above his ears walked into the hall from a side door. “Dolce. Che bello.” He kissed his fingers like they had tomato sauce on them. “Benvenuto, Signorina Baumgarten.”
I bowed. “Grazie, Maestro Vittorio.”
He saw my mother and said, “Buongiorno, Signora Baumgarten.” He took a seat in the third row. “Ada,” he called out, “portei sentirti suonare una selezione vivace?”
I grimaced. I didn’t understand the words; he spoke them so quickly. I had a blank smile on my face, like a child.
“Vivace,” he repeated. “Capisco ti conoscere La Carmen Fantasie. Dammi il flamenco!”
As limited as my Italian was, I understood he wanted something lively. He said he knew I played the Carmen Fantasy. He wanted flamenco!
“Okay,” I thought, “here you go.” I smiled and tore into my seguidilla and its sassy twelve-beat rhythm. I was on the stage of the Teatro Comunale in Bologna, Italy, auditioning in front of the Bologna State Opera’s music director, and suddenly I felt like dancing. I wanted castanets. I wanted to tap-dance across the stage. I ended in a flourish and took a bow with a smile on my face.
“Brava, brava,” Vittorio said, clapping enthusiastically. Then he let me know, in slow and simple Italian, that his concertmaster, his artistic director and some of his players were most anxious to meet me. He stood, gave me a short bow and said, “A domani.” Until tomorrow.
“Well, he certainly seemed to like you,” my mother said as we left the theater.
I nodded. “I’m a little concerned about the other orchestra members.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. You play beautifully. Why wouldn’t they love you?”
“Why? Because I’m young? Because I’m a woman? Because I’m a Jew? Because I’m not Italian and I don’t know what the hell they’re saying half the time? I’m fighting all those prejudices. I’m not worried about whether I can play the instrument well enough—you know me, I’m confident. It’s all those other reasons.”
My mother smiled and patted my arm. “You saw Maestro Vittorio. He loved you. Let’s get an ice cream.”
“A gelato, Mama.”
As it happened, Maestro Vittorio brought twelve people to my audition. I began with the Bach Chaconne and followed it with a Dvorak Slavonic dance. The stage lights were on and it was difficult to see the faces of the members as I played, but the applause after each number was proper. The third number was my calling card—Massenet’s “Meditation.” I heard a “Ben fatta” and a “Abbastanza buono.” I knew those words. They were compliments.
“Forse … un po’ di lettura a prima vista?” Vittorio said.
That was more Italian than I knew. I had to shrug, smile and shake my head. “Mi dispiace, non capisco,” I said. I don’t understand.
Vittorio’s smile was kind, but it also conveyed a bit of annoyance with the language barrier. He pointed to his eyes and then the sheet music.
Oh, of course, he wants to know if it’s possible for us to do a little sight-reading. I nodded. “Si, si.” I worried he might ask for this because there was no way to prepare for it. But sight-reading was part of the business.
Eight of us assembled as a small group to play “Spring” from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. I was familiar with the music, it was common enough, but I wasn’t familiar with the score. The members who played with me were quite good and I wasn’t sure I held up my end. I knew I came in too soon from a pause and underestimated the tempo of the last movement. Then Maestro Vittorio said in elementary Italian that the company was scheduled to perform Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia next fall. Was I familiar with it?
I tilted my head from side to side as if to say, “somewhat.” Then I added in my broken Italian that I’d never seen the sheet music.
He smiled and nodded, so I must have communicated. He left for a minute and returned with sheet music for the overture to the Barber of Seville and four more musicians to join us. Now we were a little chamber orchestra. I was a little nervous at first, but it all went well, and I must say, playing with those men was a lot of fun. The violinist sitting next to me nodded and shook my hand. He went on and on in Italian and I nodded back, although the only words I caught were sono impressionato (he was impressed) and è stato un piacere conoscert
i (he was happy to meet me).
When the piece was finished, Maestro Vittorio stepped down from the podium, came over to me and shook my hand. Then, taking great pains to use simple, short words, he thanked me for making the journey and for playing with his members. With the help of hand motions, he conveyed that he and the others would get together and have a discussion about my audition. They would let me know within a few weeks.
Once again, he shook my hand and said, “Buona giornata a Bologna,” which I understood to mean have a nice day in Bologna.
As we were leaving, he indicated he wanted to talk to my mother privately.
While they talked, I stood off to the side thinking, “That’s it? Thank you for making the journey? Enjoy your day in Bologna? We’ll let you know in a few weeks? I played well. Better than well. I knocked it out. Didn’t I deserve more than thanks for coming, have a nice day? And why does he want to talk to my mother? She doesn’t speak Italian any better than I do.”
When the two of them had finished talking, my mother and I left the Teatro. She could see the disappointment on my face.
“You played very nicely,” she said.
“I could have played better.”
“Stefano said you performed very nicely.”
“Stefano, is it? Then why did he say have a nice day and send us on our way?”
“Oh, did you expect him to hand you a contract? Maybe he should have come off his podium with a written contract in his hand and begged you to sign it, without any input from his artistic director or any of the other players. Do you think that would that have been the diplomatic thing to do?”
“Well, what did he say in private?”
My mother looked at me a bit askance. She had that coy expression on her face. “He said you were truly a gifted artist. He said your Italian needs a lot of work. And then he asked if he could assist in finding you an apartment in Bologna!”
With that, we both shouted and jumped up and down.
We stayed one more day in Bologna. I hadn’t seen my mother this cheerful in such a long time. The cloud that had settled over her in Berlin had evaporated in the Italian sun. We perused the shops for trinkets, bought new Italian handbags of the softest leather and ate sumptuous meals. Pasta bolognese, of course. Both of us developed a taste for Brunello di Montalcino and craft olive oil. “If I lived here,” my mother said, “I would grow wine and olive oil.”
I laughed. “I think the way it’s done is that you grow the grapes. I didn’t see any bottles on the trees.”
“Oh, you’re such a smarty. But I am serious. I would take viticulture classes, bottle the finest wine in Italy and drink it all myself,” she said and then laughed. We both laughed. It was the perfect end to the perfect trip.
TWENTY-FIVE
Berlin, May 1937
As far as my mother was concerned, the train from Bologna to Berlin was a voyage from day into night. From heaven into hell. Nazi soldiers, SS guards and Brownshirts were everywhere within the noisy Hauptbahnhof Station and they scurried about like rats in a dumpster. Everything was in motion and every face was cast in stone. There was an unmistakable air of order and obedience. There were twenty suspicious eyes upon you as you disembarked and twenty more as you walked along the platform with your luggage.
The contrast was evident in my mother’s mood as well. It seemed as though her depression had been patiently waiting to consume her upon her return from Bologna. I watched as a palpable fear engulfed her and plunged her back into a darkened state. She was now in enemy territory. Her head turned from side to side as she passed groups of Nazis. Was Kleiner here?
My father met us in the station, happy to see us and full of nonstop questions. “How was the audition? Did you do well? What did you think of Italy?” He loaded the bags into the car and headed home. I told him all about Bologna, Maestro Vittorio and the likelihood that I would be invited to join this summer. He took all that in stride, as if there had never been a doubt. He was clearly more interested in our extracurricular activities. Did we wine and dine? Did we shop? Was my mother happy? I assured him that I hadn’t seen her so at ease in a long time.
My mother scoffed. “Stop analyzing me. I was on holiday, why wouldn’t I have been at ease? But I have to say, Italy is a pleasant country and distinctly different from Nazi Germany. Germans could learn a thing or two, and maybe they wouldn’t be so eager to ‘Heil Hitler.’” She pointed out the window at the ubiquitous Nazi banners.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Papa said, “but things seemed to have stabilized. It’s been weeks since there were any new restrictions. I have faith in the German people. They will soon tire of Hitler’s bombast and tirades. In the meantime, we are making plans for a wonderful fall concert season. Sir Thomas Beecham has contracted to come and conduct us in the world’s first recording of The Magic Flute, Mozart’s entire opera. It will be released on nineteen records, thirty-seven sides. Can you imagine? There has never been such a recording.”
My mother smiled. “At least the music world is still sane.”
My acceptance letter from Bologna came on June 10.
I am pleased to offer you a position as violinist for the 1937–1938 opera season. You are expected to appear for our first organizational meeting on July 3. We will commence rehearsals in our Bologna practice facility on July 5. I have taken the liberty to arrange for your temporary living quarters in the university dormitory until you decide on something more permanent.
With warmest regards,
Stefano Vittorio
Mama immediately made plans for a celebration dinner, inviting the Furtwänglers and two other couples. For the briefest of moments she was Friede Baumgarten, hostess extraordinaire of the Weimar Republic. Although she could not hire servers or household help, the house was made to shine, adorned with all her special treasures and decorations, with flowers on every table. Candles burned in all the windows. She wore a beautiful gown and was back in her comfort zone.
She greeted each of our guests as they arrived. Canapés were set on silver trays. Wine and champagne were served in her finest crystal. Her roast was warming in the oven. The conversation was bright, and though the party was thrown in my honor, my mother was truly the star. I will remember just that moment and keep it locked in my mind, for it immediately preceded the fall of the House of Baumgarten.
Before she could serve the dinner, we heard the squeal of tires and the voices of men in front of our house. We all looked at one another and shrugged. Then we heard shouts of “Juden” and “Juden schweine.” Our male guests rushed outside the house only to see the intruders jump into their cars and speed away. On the brick walls on either side of our doorway, they had painted KILL THE JEWISH PIGS, and they had splashed a red swastika on our front door. My mother fainted on the doorstep.
My father called the police, but they did not come. The guests reassembled in the house and tried to reignite the celebration, but the moment had come and gone. “It’s just hooligans, it’s just paint,” they said. “We’ll remove it tomorrow.”
But my mother said, “It was Kleiner.”
My father put his arm around her and said, “Kleiner and his unit left a month ago.” She shook her head slowly at first and then violently. “There are three million Kleiners!” she screamed. “They’re all Kleiners!” She began to cry hysterically, and my father took her to the bedroom. I bid our guests good-bye and extended my apologies. They all expressed their sympathies as they left and offered to help Mama in any way they could.
For three days, my mother rested in her bedroom. Dr. Gruen came and gave her sedatives. My father and his friends from the orchestra removed the paint from the bricks, but the emotional damage was permanent. The security of our home had now been violated twice within a few months. My mother had seen Kleiner and his men prepared to break my father’s arms and take us all to a concentration camp, only to be rescued at the last moment. If there were any hopes that the situation had been resolved or diffused, the desecration
of our home at the dinner party had served to shatter them. All illusions that her home was a safe place dissolved that night.
Later that month, my father asked me to sit with him. I knew he was at his wits’ end. “Ada,” he said, “I’d like to send Mama to live with you when you move to Bologna. Her nerves are hanging by a thread. It’s only a matter of time until something else goes wrong—another edict, another confrontation, another vandalism. Whether it happens at a store, on the street or at our home again, she won’t be able to handle it. She’s so fragile. Will you take her with you?”
“Of course. But will she go?”
“We’ll talk to her.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll tell her that I need her, that I am afraid to move to Bologna by myself and I can’t perform without her.”
Papa smiled at me and kissed me on the forehead. “That would be lovely, but she’ll know that’s a fib. It’s better we stick to the truth.”
Two nights later, my father told Mama that he and I wanted to talk to her. She had been his wife for thirty years, so she knew something was up. “What do you two schemers have in mind?” she said.
“Friede, Ada is leaving in two weeks. I’d like you to go with her.”
She nodded. “She really doesn’t need me, she’s quite independent. If you think I should travel with her to make sure she gets there safely, it’s unnecessary, but I will go.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not what I think. I think you should go to Bologna and live with Ada. I think you should leave Berlin. Permanently.”
“I understand, but what about you?”
“I can’t leave yet. You’ll go with Ada.”
Her voice was quivering. “No, Jacob, I can’t go without you.”
Papa put his arms around her. Tears were rolling down my mother’s cheeks. Her world was disintegrating. “Why couldn’t we go together?” she said. “We could all leave Berlin. It’s time. The Schwartzes left, the Seligmans left, the Rothschilds left, the Bergers left. All our friends have left or they’re leaving. We’ve been together for thirty years, Jacob; I can’t live somewhere without you.”
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