“What’s wrong with Austria? They don’t have any racial laws. There are no Nazis. It’s not Germany.”
“No, it’s not. I guess you’re right,” she said, but with a most unconvincing smile. She was hiding something. She knew something she didn’t want to say.
“What do you know about Austria, Nat?”
“It doesn’t matter. Things change almost every day. By June, it may be just fine.”
“Come on, Nat.”
“Ada, Austria may not be what you think it is. There is a strong Nazi influence and an unofficial group of Austrian Nazis. There are random bombings and frequent demonstrations that get violent. They’re energized by Hitler and his radio speeches, and we believe they are funded by the SS. So far, the police have been able to control them, but it’s not so peaceful in Vienna.”
“It’s not Berlin. There are no concentration camps, there are no Brownshirts, and there is no Reichstag passing anti-Jewish laws every week.”
“That is true. You’re right.” Once again, she was unconvincing. “Listen, Ada,” she said, “why don’t you meet us for a drink at Cesare later, after your mama goes to bed? We’ll talk about more pleasant things”
I nodded. “Sounds good.”
The organizational meeting with Sister Maria Alicia took place at the concert venue, the Basilica di San Petronio, Bologna’s oldest and most important church and one of the largest in the world. The fifteenth-century church sat in the center of the city facing the Piazza Maggiore. It was a giant structure, longer than an entire block, and divided into three naves and twenty-two chapels.
Sister had recruited a six-person ensemble to perform as instrumental backup to the choirs and soloists. It was a modified sextet: a violin, a cello, a double bass, a horn, a clarinet and a flute. We gathered in a semicircle while Sister laid out the plans for the 1937 series. As I looked around at our group, there were three women. Three out of six. How about that? Good for Sister.
She explained that the series would feature two a cappella nights where our ensemble would not be needed. The remaining four nights—two with the Christmas chorus and two with operatic stars—would involve our ensemble. Then Sister announced the stars. “We are privileged to have the great Magda Olivero on December 22 and the one and only Beniamino Gigli on December 23.” A buzz of excitement ran through the group. Two of the greatest vocalists in the world.
Sister passed out the scores for the two nights with the Christmas chorus. “Please arrange for rehearsal times among yourselves. There will not be much time to practice with the chorus before the concert. I do not yet have the music for Signora Olivero or Signor Gigli. It is likely we will not see their selections or the scores until earlier on the day of performance.”
With that, the meeting ended. I started out when one of the women, the cellist, stopped me. “You are Ada Baumgarten?” she said. I nodded. “And you are a member of the Bologna State Opera Orchestra?” she added.
“Right, the BSO. At least for this season,” I said. “I’m filling in for a man on sabbatical.”
“I was at the Teatro to hear you when you played the solos in La Traviata. I saved my lunch money to buy that ticket. Then I borrowed money from my friends so I could come back and hear you at the third performance. You were so beautiful. You know what I thought?”
I shook my head.
“I thought: Ada’s a woman. That’s what I thought. She’s playing with a major opera orchestra, and someday I will play my cello in an orchestra, just like Ada. I hope you know that all of my friends think the same thing. You give us all hope. You are our hero.”
She brought tears to my eyes. I didn’t feel like anybody’s hero. I just wanted to play my instrument, and I guess that’s all she wanted to do too.
Gigli showed up for rehearsal a mere four hours before his concert, but we were given his music earlier in the day. Not much time to practice, but the music was familiar and the scores were simple. He was a little taller and chubbier than I had imagined from his photographs. He had the habit of leaning back when he sang, pushing his chest forward. At the time of the performance, he was forty-seven years old and in his prime. He was the undisputed successor to Enrico Caruso. He was often referred to as Caruso Secondo. He smiled a lot, and he had the cutest cheeks. I wanted to pinch them.
His concert had several arias that were Gigli standards and a few Christmas songs. He began with Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” and ended with “Adeste Fideles,” but it was “Silent Night” that would become one of my fondest memories. At the rehearsal, he shocked me by insisting that it be sung with solo violin accompaniment. Just me and the great Beniamino Gigli. Stage center. And it was gorgeous. The large crowd gave us a standing ovation.
The Gigli concert was the finale to Sister Maria Alicia’s Christmas series, which by all accounts was a roaring success. When the concert was over and the group of us were standing around sharing cookies and hot spiced wine, Mr. Gigli came over to talk to me.
“Very well done, Signorina Baumgarten. I understand your father is concertmaster for the Berlin Philharmonic.” I smiled and nodded. “Mine was a shoemaker in Ricanati. And here we are playing together, and very well, I think. I do several benefit performances in Italy each year. Sometimes I have trouble finding the right musicians. May I call on you to accompany me one day in the future?”
Flabbergasted. That’s what I was. “I would be honored,” I said.
THIRTY-SIX
Pienza, August 2017
CATHERINE, LIAM AND GIULIA decided to enjoy a tasty lunch on the Campo before going to the registry. Actually, the lunch was Liam’s idea.
“There are differences, as I understand it, between deeds in Italy and deeds in the United States,” Giulia said. “Here buyers and sellers will hire attorneys, avvocati. There will also be a notary public, the notaio. Their roles are different. Avvocati give advice about the transaction and the contract. They check out the title online or at the Registrar of Titles and conduct searches on the ownership of the property before a purchase contract is signed. A notaio is a public official who meets the parties for the first time at the closing to sign the deed. Then he registers the deed with the Registrar of Titles. Today he would file it online.”
“The notary is supposed to check the registry book, isn’t that right?” Catherine asked.
“Correct. So we may assume that Vanucci had the notaio certify that he had the right to sign the deed and transfer ownership to Gabi.”
“Since the book shows Quercia Company as the title owner at all times since 1980, then the notary must have based his decision on what was in the previous book, is that right?” Liam said.
“We hope so. Let’s go take a look at it.”
* * *
GIULIA ASKED THE CLERK for the registry book covering Gabi’s area. He was a tall, thin man with a mole on his right cheek. He brought out the current book. It was a large, clothbound volume with a number embossed on the cover. It was at least eighteen inches tall and five inches thick.
“I’d like to see the prior book as well,” Giulia said. “The one before 1980.” The clerk nodded and went back into the stacks. A few minutes later he returned empty-handed.
“I am sorry, but the prior book is in storage off premises.”
“It was ordered,” Catherine said. “A few days ago, I paid a twenty-euro fee. It was also ordered by Avvocato Santi.”
The clerk shook his head. “I do not see any record of a cash fee being paid a few days ago. The book is not here.”
“This is my receipt,” Catherine said, tendering the paper. “Twenty euros.”
The clerk looked at the receipt and shook his head. “I’m sorry, someone must have misplaced the order.”
“We’d like to place an expedited request for this registry book,” Giulia said.
The clerk nodded and made some notes. “There is the fee,” he said.
Giulia took out her credit card and handed it to the clerk.
“Giulia, would you
ask the clerk if the registrar keeps a record of credit card receipts? I paid cash, but Santi probably put it on his credit card. I think we might find out whether Mr. Santi actually ordered the registry and who took the order.”
The clerk shrugged when he heard the question. “Of course,” he said. “What date would it have been ordered?”
“About four or five weeks ago,” Catherine said.
He stared at his computer screen for several minutes, shaking his head the whole time. “There is nothing. No one ordered the book. No fees were paid.”
“The book was ordered twice, and there’s no record of the orders?” Liam said.
“Sir, I do not see that the book was ordered by anyone, but I will take your order and call as soon as the book is retrieved.”
“I hate to be a conspiracy theorist,” Liam said, “but it seems awfully strange that the registrar’s office would keep losing request records.”
Giulia handed her business card to the clerk and asked him to call her as soon as the book was delivered.
* * *
WHEN THEY ARRIVED BACK at the villa, Gabriella was anxious to know how successful they had been. “Our motion was granted,” Catherine said. “Lenzini has no right to come here anymore. Not until September 10 anyway.”
Gabriella was delighted. “That’s wonderful news. Now all we have to do is stop Lenzini from taking my property in September.”
Liam smiled. “Is that all?”
“Of course. Lenzini is my number one enemy.”
“Not according to him, Aunt Gabi. He says that VinCo is the sleeping lion, the one who will stop at nothing to get your property.”
“That’s nothing new.”
Liam shook his head. “I’m a little concerned by Lenzini’s warning. He said VinCo would obliterate you and you would have nothing. That’s probably a lot of rhetoric, but to me it sounds like a threat. Maybe he means to damage your vineyard, although I don’t know how that would benefit VinCo.”
“Well, maybe it would,” Giulia said. “Without a vineyard, the case would go away. It might not pay for Gabriella to defend barren land. With no court case, VinCo wouldn’t have to worry about people investigating missing registry books or phony titles.”
“Assuming there is a threat, what is the most likely way of damaging Aunt Gabi’s vineyards?”
“A fire,” Floria said. “They happen all too frequently. The weather gets hot, things dry out, lightning hits or someone is careless with a match. Boom. The fire spreads quickly.”
“Then we need to protect against it. Let’s keep a vigilant eye and warn Franco.”
Giulia’s cell phone buzzed, and she read a text message. “Santi swears that he ordered the registry book and paid for the expedited service with his credit card. He has a receipt. He also has no explanation for why the book wouldn’t be at the registrar’s office.”
“Is there a name on the receipt? Do the receipts disclose which clerk took the order?”
Giulia looked at her receipt and shrugged. “I don’t see any names on it. It’s just a credit card receipt from the Siena registrar’s office.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Bologna, March 1938
Despite all the progress Mama had made, her dark clouds returned on March 12, 1938, when German soldiers marched into Austria and took over the country without firing a single shot. Austria was swallowed up by Germany in the Anschluss. In a single moment, the country of Austria ceased to be. Even the name was erased. Vienna became a German city. Austria’s regional districts became districts of the Reich. All of our plans to join Papa and move to Vienna were summarily canceled.
Immediately after the Anschluss, Nazi officials imposed their racial laws. Whatever applied in Germany, now applied in Austria. Any hope of improving our conditions by moving to Vienna vanished. Father’s plans to join the Vienna Philharmonic as concertmaster were abandoned. Mother’s hopes to join her husband in the fairy-tale city of Vienna were shattered.
Austria had two hundred thousand Jews and most of them lived in Vienna. As in Germany, many of them were professionals. They were teachers, doctors, lawyers, judges, scientists. All of them immediately lost their positions, not gradually as we had seen in Berlin, but instantly. Not only were they expelled from all cultural, educational and professional activities, they were subject to torture and public humiliation, as though abuse of Austrian Jews had become a Nazi sport. Fanatical Storm Troopers went on rampages of cruelty, grabbing Jewish men and women at random and forcing them to scrub the sidewalks, gutters and latrines. Jewish businesses were taken away and handed over to Aryans. Thousands were taken to detention centers.
News reports of the Anschluss and its aftermath were sketchy in Bologna, maybe because Mussolini was courting friendship with Hitler and vice versa. We learned the details through other sources. My father’s daily letters told us what he had learned in Berlin, and Natalia was a wealth of information. She seemed to have information that no one else had. For example, she knew that Mussolini gave Hitler his approval for the Anschluss, even though four years earlier Mussolini had guaranteed Austria’s independence. Natalia told us that Il Duce’s change of heart was due to Hitler’s promise not to invade the Tyrol region, which Italy had been occupying since the Treaty of Versailles. Most distressing was the fact that the Western European powers—England, France, Belgium—did absolutely nothing.
Mama was devastated. She had been counting on moving to Vienna. For the past few months, she had been furnishing a home in her mind. Now her future was up in the air. Vienna was just another German city with Storm Troopers, Gestapo and soldiers. To her, it meant that Kleiner was standing on every corner. She would stay in Italy. She wrote to Papa, telling him that life in Italy was comfortable. Together, they would find a home in Bologna, or maybe in the countryside.
Papa conceded that Vienna was now out of the question. He intended to rejoin Mama as soon as possible, but he wasn’t sure that Italy was the best place for them. After all, he was a professional musician and he needed to find the right opportunity. Papa preferred the United States, which had several fine orchestras, and a recommendation from Uncle Wilhelm would ensure senior placement with a top American orchestra. He had spoken at length with Uncle Wilhelm, who said he would do everything he could, but he asked Papa to remain with the Philharmonic until the end of the fall 1938 season. Just eight more months. Uncle Wilhelm promised that he would guarantee Papa’s salary and would find him a position with a prominent orchestra by January 1939. Papa agreed to stay.
Natalia and I were becoming very close friends, in part because she loved Mama’s cooking. She was a frequent dinner guest. As always, she had inside information about world affairs and what Italy was doing and why. Deep down, I suspected that she was involved in some kind of underground resistance movement with other young people who opposed the Fascists. There was street talk that groups like those existed, especially in the university communities. But I was not about to broach the subject with her.
One night, as we were devouring a plate of wiener schnitzel, one of Mama’s tried and true triumphs, Natalia said, “My mother is also a very good cook and I would like to repay your kindness. Do you have plans for Passover seder next month?”
We shook our heads. I hadn’t even thought about Passover.
“Sounds lovely,” Mama said. “Does she live here in Bologna?”
“No, in Pienza. It’s a small town south of here. We’ll take a train to Siena and a bus to Pienza.”
Mama looked at me and I shrugged. “Sounds like an adventure.”
While we were talking, there was a knock on the door. It was a delivery from the telegraph office. Mama gave the boy a tip, brought the telegram to the table and read it:
My darlings. I have found a man who wants to buy our house. We are negotiating. Sadly, it is far below our asking price, but it is urgent that we sell immediately. I am also going to try to sell as many household furnishings as I can. As soon as I complete the sale, I will immedi
ately keep my promise to you.
All my love, Papa.
“Why is it so urgent to sell immediately and take a low price?” Mama said. “Your father is so impulsive. He was never good with money. I think I will send him a reply and tell him to wait. He has to stay through the fall anyway. Maybe someone will come along and pay more. And I don’t want my precious treasures sold to some stranger. It took me years to gather those furnishings. They mean something to me. Selling in a hurry is foolish.”
“What promise, Mrs. Baumgarten, if I may ask?” Natalia said.
“He’s been promising to come visit us in Bologna. He was supposed to come in October, but I fouled up those plans. I’m going to wire him and tell him not to sell.”
“You might want to hold off on that telegram, Mrs. Baumgarten,” Natalia said. “He’s not being foolish. A law is presently under discussion in the Reichstag and will undoubtedly be enacted very soon. It will require all Jews to register their property with the Reich. I wonder how your husband learned this information.”
“Wilhelm, no doubt.”
Natalia was deep in thought. “Once that law is passed, it is only a matter of time until the Reich taxes your house or simply takes it away from you. Your husband is being wise to sell the house. It’s the smart thing to do, but it’s the second part of his telegram that worries me.”
“You mean his promise to visit me? Is there something wrong with that?”
Natalia nodded. “Not the visit itself, but the fact that his decision to visit seems to be tied to the sale of your house. The law will affect all Jewish assets, not only real estate property but cash and personal property as well. If your husband plans to sell the house and bring the cash to Italy, that would be a direct violation of German law. I hope he’s not thinking of doing that.”
Natalia’s warning shook up Mama. “What can I do? Should I send him a telegram and tell him not to take any money out of Germany?”
“No. The Gestapo routinely monitors international telegrams and telephone calls.”
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