The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “But Lenzini has been described as a man who wields influence. Lawyers are afraid to litigate against him.”

  “In some respects, that’s true. He represents a client, VinCo, that has a lot of money and will spend it. Lenzini will use that money to litigate an opponent to death. He will file dozens of motions, engage in repetitive procedures, all to—how do you say—impoverish his opponent. He is aggressive, and the fees and costs of opposing him are high. But our time today is better spent discussing Gabriella’s case and possible strategies, rather than worrying about Lenzini’s influences, don’t you think?”

  Catherine smiled. “Well said.” She took out her file and laid it on the table. “This is the most recent order, the one permitting VinCo to conduct digging and cutting. We would like to appear before Judge Riggioni as quickly as possible to vacate this order, or to stay it until September 10, the date for surrender of possession.”

  “I could file for an emergency hearing,” Giulia said, “but what is the emergency? What is the harm in taking soil samples or vine cuttings? Especially, since the judge has ruled that VinCo will have the property in a month.”

  “I will tell you,” Gabi said forcefully, walking slowly out to the veranda, banging her cane along the way. “The cuttings may destroy my vines and limit production of the grapes. Digging in my fields will interfere with my farming operations. The manner in which I farm and harvest is confidential and proprietary. VinCo has cleverly chosen to cut my most valuable vines because they covet my success. I win awards with those vines. How does it hurt the great VinCo to wait a few weeks?”

  Giulia stood and bowed slightly. “Piacere di conoscerti, Signora Vincenzo.”

  “She has a point,” Catherine said. “What is the harm to VinCo in waiting until possession date?”

  “You will be asking Judge Riggioni to reverse an order he has already considered,” Giulia said. “We must be mindful that Italian judges do not like to revisit their rulings. There must be a good reason, supported by evidence, perhaps something the judge may not have considered when he made his decision. In this case, Judge Riggioni has already ruled that VinCo owns the property. Preserving vines for Gabriella’s future use or interfering with her farming operations are weak arguments, considering she will be gone in a few weeks anyway. We must first convince the judge that Gabi may not be gone in a month, that she has a valid argument that VinCo does not own the land. If Judge Riggioni thinks that the ownership will once again be an unresolved issue, then he might be more agreeable to staying his digging order.”

  “I totally agree, and I am impressed,” Catherine said. “How many years did you say you’ve been practicing?”

  Giulia smiled. “Long enough to learn some lessons the hard way.”

  Catherine took the two deeds out of the file. “The judge’s ruling focused on these two deeds. When the judge reviewed the registry books, he found that Quercia’s name is shown as the owner all the way back to 1980. Thus, a deed in 1995 from Vanucci would not have been valid. But he only considered the most recent book, not the previous book. We don’t know how Quercia claims to be the owner.”

  Giulia nodded. “What is Avvocato Hernandez’s involvement? That was Liam’s initial question—did I know a lawyer named Hernandez.”

  “He was the lawyer who came with Mr. Vanucci in 1995,” Gabi said. “We all signed the deed, and then he took it to the registrar for recording.”

  “No one seems to know him,” Liam said.

  “So, I guess the obvious question is, why would Hernandez and Vanucci go through all this trouble if they couldn’t give Gabi a good title?” Giulia said.

  Catherine nodded. “Exactly. Gabi was not well represented against VinCo and Lenzini. We need help. Are you interested?”

  Giulia smiled and said, “I will take the case. I’ll start by reviewing the court records tomorrow. Hopefully, I will find an opening. Maybe something was overlooked. Meanwhile, we must find evidence. Judge Riggioni will not review this case again without evidence.”

  “What about the order permitting Lenzini to dig on the land?” Liam said. “We need to stop him.”

  “Gabi said she never had notice of the motion,” Catherine added.

  “I will check the file,” Giulia said. “If she didn’t receive notice, the judge may vacate the order. Would you like to help me draft the motion, Catherine?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “We also need to fill out a request to see the older registry book, the one before 1980.”

  “Mr. Santi told us that he did that several weeks ago, but did not follow up. Liam and I filled out a request for the book a few days ago.”

  “Then it should already be in. Depending on what is in the book, we may need to establish proof in other ways as well. We also need to find out what we can about Vanucci and Hernandez.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Bologna, October 1937

  It had been twelve days since my mother disappeared. Papa and I exchanged letters and occasionally talked on the phone, but there wasn’t any news. We were assured that Uncle Wilhelm was using his connections in the German government, but no one seemed to have any information. She had just vanished. I blamed myself for not being there when she made the decision to leave. I could have talked her out of it. I should have spent more time with her, made her feel more welcome. Maybe I could have done more to bring her out of her depression. The simple fact was, if I had paid more attention to my mother, she wouldn’t have felt so isolated.

  I was sick at heart. I was losing hope that she was alive. Still, for my father’s sake, I kept an upbeat attitude. Papa would say, “Only good thoughts, Ada. Only positive. We’ll find her.” And I would answer, “Of course, we will.”

  The BSO was now performing The Barber of Seville and starting to rehearse Tosca. I had returned to my seat in the second-violin section. Since it was clear to all that I was a temporary replacement and no longer usurping Signor Lassoni’s first-chair privileges, the evil glares started to abate. After all, hadn’t Maestro Vittorio put me in my place? Wasn’t I back in second violin? Evil stares or not, playing with the professional orchestra was a dream come true for me and most of the members were kind.

  Of course, my father did not come to Bologna in October as he had earlier planned. He was concerned that he might be out of the city when there was news about Mama. He needed to be at home or with the Philharmonic. Uncle Wilhelm was our best hope, but so far, he’d come up empty. The Philharmonic had traveled to Brussels for a series of concerts. The orchestra was staying at the Regent Hotel, and Papa gave me the telephone number to call if I heard anything at all.

  I was preparing to go out to dinner with Franny and Natalia when I received a telegram: “Wilhelm found her! Call me at the Regent.” The telegram sent chills through my body. Was she all right? Was she well? Where did he find her? Why didn’t he give me more information? I ran all the way to the post office to make a phone call.

  “Papa, tell me, is Mama all right?”

  “She is. Wilhelm, God bless him, called everyone he knew in the Third Reich, and he knows plenty. He found out that she is in Munich at a detention center.”

  “At a detention center! What did she do?”

  “I’m not really sure. The story I got was that Mama was running wildly through the Munich train station and screaming at the soldiers. They assumed she was mentally ill and took her to a detention center.”

  “Oh, Papa, I knew this would happen. I’m sure she got mixed up changing trains and wandered into the station. There must have been hundreds of soldiers in their green uniforms and SS in their black uniforms and Brownshirts everywhere. You know, Nazi officers scare her to death. She must have panicked.”

  “That’s what they said. She was running through the station and an SS officer stopped her and asked to see her papers. Other officers came over and encircled her. Apparently, Mama lost it. She became hysterical. According to Wilhelm, she started screaming, ‘Kleiner, Kleiner. Kleiner is after
me.’”

  “Where did they take her?”

  “They took her to a holding facility somewhere in Munich while they tried to figure out who Kleiner was. It was an unofficial detainment and they didn’t register her name, so no one knew she was in custody. Finally, they took her to Wittelsbacher Palace. It is the Munich headquarters of the Gestapo and also a Gestapo prison. They put Mama in solitary confinement as a mental patient. They registered her name and that’s how Heydrich found out and he told Wilhelm. He’s the head of Reich Security, you know. Detention centers come under his authority.”

  “Reinhard Heydrich?”

  “Yes, the same, the one who praised your solo. Thank God he found her. There’s no telling what the Gestapo would have done to her, Ada. Heydrich recognized the Baumgarten name, called Wilhelm and told him she was there.”

  “And she’s there now?”

  “Yes,” Papa said. “At Wittelsbacher Palace in Munich. There is a train out of Brussels tomorrow afternoon, and I’m going to Munich to get her. If I make my connections, I can get there by Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday? Papa, we can’t leave her in a Gestapo prison in solitary confinement for another hour. I can get a train to Munich tonight.”

  “But you have your orchestra. Are you sure?”

  “Papa, she’s in a prison. Yes, I’m sure. I’m not going to leave her to be mistreated in solitary confinement.”

  “Please be careful. Wilhelm has secured orders for her to be released, but we are still dealing with the Nazis. Nothing is ever certain. When I said I would pick her up, they told me to go to the administration office inside the front entrance and they would bring her out. I’ll make sure they know you’re coming instead of me.”

  That evening, I told Franny and Natalia the news. It was a relief she had been found. Learning that she had been imprisoned in Munich for almost two weeks was very disturbing. She had been detained for mental issues, not for crimes, so I hoped they had treated her fairly. Both of my friends offered to go with me, but they did not have visas to travel to Germany, and even if they did, I would not put them in danger. Since Uncle Wilhelm had arranged for Mama’s release, I felt pretty comfortable going alone.

  This whole Kleiner episode at the Munich train station had me shaken. I know that every Nazi was Kleiner to Mama, but what if she actually saw him? What if he was alerted? If there was anyone that Kleiner wanted more than my mother, it was me. What if he was assigned to Gestapo headquarters? For me to walk into a prison where Herbert Kleiner was working would be about the dumbest thing I could do. Still, I had no choice. I would have to go to Munich, get my mother and hope that Kleiner wasn’t anywhere around.

  The train from Bologna Centrale to Munich Hauptbahnhof took eight and a half hours, with stops in Verona, Bolzano, Innsbruck and at the German border at Kiefersfelden, where a number of soldiers and SS personnel boarded. With a train full of Nazis, conversations among the passengers immediately ceased or were conducted at a whisper. SS officers walked down the aisles checking passports, visas and papers. I fingered my magic locket. Keep me safe, magic locket. They stared at me, looked me up and down and then demanded my papers. When they were satisfied, they hmph’d and walked on.

  The Munich station was a beehive of armed personnel. Wehrmacht soldiers, SS, Brownshirts, Gestapo and Munich police. It was all I could do to hold it together, and I could easily understand how my mother would have gone over the edge. Her anxiety about Nazis was the principal reason she had left Berlin in the first place.

  I got into a taxi outside the Munich station and asked the driver to take me to Wittelsbacher Palace. He looked at me like I was crazy. “Do you know what that is?” he said.

  “Yes. I’m on official business.” My reply seemed to shake him up a bit.

  The area around Wittelsbacher was patrolled, and other than official vehicles, no cars were permitted within a two-block radius. Formerly King Ludwig’s palace, the imposing structure easily covered an entire city block. Now housing the Gestapo headquarters and prison, it was three stories of red brick with a gothic exterior. It had turrets on the four corners and two large stone lions guarded the entrance. As I approached, a young soldier no older than Kurt, with his rifle in his hands, stopped me and asked what I was doing.

  “I am here to pick up a woman named Friede Baumgarten. She is to be released to me on orders from Maestro Wilhelm Furtwängler.”

  The guard chuckled and told me to go away; I had no business at Gestapo headquarters. “Nobody stops by and picks up any of the prisoners here, especially not on the orders of a music conductor,” he said. “You don’t want to be here. Go away.”

  “But Friede Baumgarten is detained in this facility, not for a crime but because of her confused mental state,” I said. “Arrangements have been made for her release. I am here to pick her up. Please check with your superior officer.”

  Now he was losing patience and he started to wave his rifle around. I could see that he was a nervous young man, no more than eighteen. “You are mistaken,” he said. “No one gets released from Wittelsbacher to a young girl. A prisoner would have to be released to someone in authority. Not you. You are most definitely mixed up. Now you must go.”

  I couldn’t blame him for his logic. What was a young girl doing trying to pick up a prisoner at a Gestapo prison? I sure hoped my father had the story right. I would give it another shot.

  “Friede Baumgarten’s release was arranged and communicated to Maestro Furtwängler by Brigadeführer Heydrich himself.”

  The guard smiled and shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He waved his rifle at me. “Go!”

  I was shaking like a leaf, but somehow I found the strength. “Please check with your office. Would I stand here and make up such a story? Go inside and check. If what I say is true, and you refuse, then you are disobeying an order from Reinhard Heydrich. Not a good career decision on your part.”

  The guard thought for a moment and then stepped inside. When he returned, he nodded. He asked to see my papers and looked them over carefully. “It seems your crazy story is right. She is being held in solitary confinement. But I am also told that Master Sergeant Kleiner has been notified and is on his way to pick her up himself. She apparently demanded to see him several times when she was arrested. He has since been contacted and has made arrangements to pick her up.”

  “She is to be released to me,” I said. “Check your orders. The Brigadeführer’s orders are clear. I am the one to pick her up. Ada Baumgarten.”

  “I don’t want to be in the middle of this,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t want Master Sergeant Kleiner to say I didn’t follow his orders. Why don’t you wait for him? Then the two of you can straighten it out. I am told he is on his way.” He started to walk away.

  “Those are not your orders!” I yelled. “Your orders come from Brigadeführer Reinhard Heydrich. If I leave, I will have to tell Brigadeführer Heydrich that his direct orders were willfully disobeyed by a guard who would rather wait for orders from a sergeant.”

  He exhaled. “One way or another, I’m gonna get screwed,” he said, under his breath. “Stay here. I will go and see about the prisoner.”

  I stood outside the entrance for thirty minutes, nervously watching every person and every official car that approached the building. I desperately hoped that Mama would be released before Kleiner arrived. From time to time a black car would drive up and stop at the entrance, and uniformed soldiers would alight. I would turn the other way, hiding my face. Finally, the door opened, and the soldier brought Mama out.

  The dress she wore, elegant when new, looked shabby, dirty and wrinkled. I assumed she had been in that dress since she was arrested. Mama had lost weight, and her beautiful hair, which I had seen her brush fifty times a day, was all knotted. She had a glazed look on her face, and at first I didn’t think she recognized me, but then she started crying. And so did I.

  “Mama, we are going to have to walk a few blocks to get out of this area. Are you able
to walk?”

  She nodded. “I’m sorry I left you. I…”

  “We can’t stand and talk. We have to walk now, Mama. Before someone comes.”

  “Okay, Ada,” she said weakly.

  The weather was chilly. I took my coat off and wrapped it around her. I put her arm over my shoulder and held her by the waist and we started walking. Her gait was weak and unsteady. I had to hold her to keep her from stumbling. It was important to get us off Briennerstrasse as quickly as possible before Kleiner came, but I didn’t want to tell her that.

  Mama was suffering from malnourishment, and she had undoubtedly been mistreated, emotionally if not physically. She could walk with my help, but slowly, and we had to stop every few steps to rest. Finally, we were out of sight of Gestapo headquarters. It had been strenuous for her, and there was no telling when my mother had last eaten. I asked her, but she didn’t remember. I took her to a café for coffee and scrambled eggs. Then I flagged a taxi to take us to the Munich station.

  “Mama, I’m going to take you back home and everything is going to be all right, but first we have to get on the train at the Munich station. You’re going to see soldiers again, Nazis in uniform. You’ll see them in Munich and you’ll also see them when we get to Berlin. Don’t look at them, just look at me. Keep your eyes on me. I’ll be with you every step of the way, and I will protect you. You have to believe in me. Nobody in a uniform is going to harm you. You have to hold it together. Can you do that?”

  She bit her lip, swallowed and nodded her head.

  “You can’t scream, no matter what. You can squeeze my arm as hard as you want, but you can’t scream. Do we have a deal?”

  She nodded and brushed the tears from her eyes. “I love you, Ada.”

  The taxi dropped us at the train station, but before we entered, Mama stopped me. “I don’t want to go home, Ada,” she said. “Please don’t take me back to Berlin. I don’t want to be in Germany anymore.” She looked at me with plaintive eyes. “Would it be all right if I came back to Bologna and lived with you again? Please?”