The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  Liam smiled and nodded. “Of course we can. You can drop your suit, leave Gabriella alone and get the hell off this driveway.”

  “Seriously, Liam. It’s a lot of money. Go and talk to your wife.”

  Liam shook his head. “I can’t believe you interrupted my dinner for this bullshit. You’re a dirtbag, Lenzini. And you’re trespassing. If you don’t get off the land, I’m going to throw you off.” Liam turned and started walking up the driveway.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Lenzini called. “VinCo will never let you win. They will stop at nothing to win this case. You’re in way over your head.”

  * * *

  “WHAT DID HE WANT?” Catherine said.

  “He wanted to pay us two hundred thousand euros to drop the case and he’ll throw another fifty at Gabi.”

  “Bastard. I’m sure that’s how he got rid of Santi and Giangiorgi.”

  Liam smiled. “They were cheaper.”

  “I still don’t understand why this is so important to VinCo,” Giulia said.

  Liam shook his head. “Lenzini said something odd. He told me we couldn’t win the case with an unemployed boyfriend and a broken-down old lawyer.”

  “That would be Berto and Hernandez.”

  “Right. And then he said we won’t have the registry book and we won’t have the contract. What is that all about?”

  “Registry Book 143,” Giulia said.

  “I know. But what contract?”

  Catherine shrugged. “Maybe he means the deed.”

  Liam shook his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. We have the deed. He said the contract.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Bologna, December 1938

  As the year was drawing to a close, we had two more performances of Puccini’s Tosca. In an effort to end with a bang, Maestro Vittorio was working us very hard. “Giacomo Puccini’s family lived near mine in Lucca,” Vittorio told us. “I met the great man when I was a boy. He loved fast cars, well-tailored clothes and his cigars.” The orchestra laughed. “He even attended a performance of Tosca here at the Comunale in 1906. Before my time, of course. But here’s the point: we need to stay true to his vision. We must respect his verismo style—his real-life characters, their passion, their violence and their romance. Puccini speaks directly to the heart, and we must convey his emotions to our patrons. He is the last in the chain of great Italian opera composers. Who knows if there will ever be another?”

  Although Tosca takes place in Rome, in the year 1800, the subject matter seemed very timely and unsettling to me. It hit home. In fact, the entire story of Tosca frightened me a lot. It tells the story of Baron Scarpia, a ruthless chief of police, in command of a deadly force of malevolent guards. He imprisons and murders his opponents on a whim. To me, Scarpia is strikingly similar to Kleiner or Heydrich and his SS. The two lovers, Floria Tosca and Mario Cavaradossi (read here, Ada and Kurt) are Scarpia’s targets and they don’t stand a chance against his wickedness. It is hard for me to sit in the orchestra pit every day and watch the opera unfold. There are just too many parallels.

  The opera’s most heart-wrenching moments take place in the final scene. Scarpia has tortured Mario and sentenced him to death by firing squad. Moments before the execution is to be carried out, Mario bribes his jailer to give him a paper and pencil to write a farewell letter to Floria. He reminisces on the nights they had together and bemoans his fate. He will never see Floria again. His song, “E Lucevan le Stelle” (“And the Stars Were Shining”), is a tearful sonnet in homage to their star-crossed romance. The verse ends with:

  My dream of love forever disappears.

  The hour passes, and I die in desperation.

  And never have I loved life so much.

  And there’s not a dry eye in the house. Mine included.

  Playing in the BSO was a dream come true. So was playing in the Bologna Christmas concert series. It was a giant step in my career. This year, we received notice that Beniamino Gigli would be singing eight numbers: three opera arias, two Christmas songs and two Neapolitan songs, and his encore would be “Je Crois Entendre Encore,” his signature aria from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers. He owned that aria. Our ensemble rehearsed the scores in anticipation.

  The San Petronio Basilica was sold out for his performance. The giant structure was festively decorated with thousands of candles, wreaths and ribbons. Gigli’s entrance was met with a standing ovation, which did not quiet for several minutes and not until he calmed them down with a gentle wave of his hands. He delivered his arias beautifully. Perfect in pitch and modulation, smooth as a glass of milk. Each number was met with roaring approval. The audience was in awe, as was our small ensemble.

  When his last selection, “Gesu Bambino,” had ended, he left the stage to thunderous applause and shouts of “Encore.” We sat in our seats and waited for him to return, knowing he would come back to sing his Pearl Fishers aria.

  After a few minutes, he returned to the stage, all smiles, nodding to the audience’s adulation. He calmed the crowd until there was utter silence for his trademark, “Je Crois Entendre Encore.” Then he nodded, and the cellist and I began the introduction in 6/8 time. The entire aria is sung in a high register, but when Gigli hit and held that high B, it was as effortless and as sweet as music gets. He bowed several times to a standing ovation and left the stage, but the applause would not stop. “Encore!” they shouted.

  Gigli returned. He bowed appreciatively to his adoring fans, thanked them again for coming to the concert and walked off the stage, but the adoration would not stop. The crowd did not leave, and they continued to shout for more. Now we had a problem: we hadn’t rehearsed any other songs. Finally, to roaring applause, Gigli came back onstage, turned to the ensemble with a smile and a shrug, and said, “I guess we better do another. Do we know ‘E Lucevan le Stelle’?” The members shook their heads, all except for me. I had been working on Tosca for a month. “I can follow you,” I said.

  “I should have known,” he replied with a smile. “Let’s begin.”

  It was another crowning moment I shall never forget. Gigli was widely recognized as the foremost Tosca tenor in the world. I wished my father had been there, but I held his violin and it played beautifully. In a way, I felt like Papa was guiding my fingers and laying the bow on the strings with a perfect touch. We finished, Gigli walked over to me, laced his fingers in mine and raised our hands up high. We bowed together.

  Following the performance, at the post-concert party, Gigli took me aside. “I met your father once,” he said, “when I sang in Berlin. He was a fine musician. I heard about his passing and I am so very sorry for you.”

  I thanked him and pointed to my instrument. “This is his violin,” I said.

  “You do it honor.”

  I wanted to say something in response, but my lips were quivering.

  “Miss Baumgarten, next June I am performing Rigoletto at the Baths of Caracalla. Are you familiar with the venue?”

  “Not really.”

  “It is the summer home for the Rome Opera. Anyway, I am also giving two solo concerts. I would like you to play in the ensemble for my two concerts. Are you available?”

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Yes, I am.”

  “I shall contact you.”

  I was breathless. Gigli wanted me in his ensemble. “I am humbled, Maestro. Thank you so much.”

  “Miss Baumgarten, your technique is exquisite. You should be proud, not humbled. I will see you in June.”

  Who’s that walking on air? That would be me.

  Two days later, I joined Mama, Franny and Natalia at the Romitti home in Pienza for a Chanukah dinner. Mama and Naomi had fried enough latkes to feed the Roman legions. The candles were lit, the prayers were said and dinner was served. Lots of food and laughter.

  It was readily apparent that Mama and Naomi had formed a solid friendship. Each effusively complemented the other. Mama made great latkes, Naomi made wonderful brisket, this one sautéed delightful vegetable
s, that one made delicious soup, both of them created delicious cookies, and on and on. All accompanied by Matt’s wine, a silky Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

  We were sitting in the living room, all of us too stuffed to move when Mama first floated the notion of life in Pienza. The oblique way in which she addressed the subject was very Friede-like. “It’s so peaceful down here, don’t you think, Ada? I sure enjoy the pace of life, the markets, the friendly neighbors and, of course, the Romittis.”

  I agreed.

  “And the town is so charming,” she added.

  I agreed.

  “We can’t move to Vienna anymore. And now that Papa is gone, I’m afraid America is out. This might be a good alternative for us, don’t you think?”

  Naomi jumped right in. “Oh, what a wonderful idea.”

  No doubt, this had been expertly choreographed for my benefit. Pienza was too far for me to live and commute to Bologna. But for Mama? Why not? It was a great solution.

  “We should look into it, Mama,” I said, which brought a wide smile to her face. If life in Pienza could lift her spirits, I was all for it.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Pienza, September 2017

  DINNER ON THE TERRACE was abruptly interrupted by Franco running up and shouting, “Signora! Signora! Fuoco!”

  Even Liam and Catherine knew he was shouting “Fire.” Franco went on to say that he had seen two men piling brush on the south perimeter. He was sure they were coming back with gasoline as soon as night fell. Now, he said, he sees one of the men hiding among the VinCo vines.

  “Give me your shotgun, Aunt Gabi,” Liam said, “and some rope and tell Franco to get the golf cart.”

  “I’ll get it,” Franco said.

  Liam looked at him quizzically. “You speak English?”

  Franco shook his head. “Maybe little.”

  “Call the police, Floria, and tell them to get out here. I’m going down there to stop them.”

  Franco drove the cart toward where he had seen the brush piles, stopped two hundred yards short and they quietly made their way toward the area. Two men were standing at the brush pile, spreading gasoline on the sticks. Liam and Franco snuck up from behind.

  “Tell these sons-of-bitches to freeze or I’ll shoot them,” Liam said to Franco, and Franco shouted the instructions. The two men turned to run, and Liam fired a shot over their heads. They dove to the ground.

  “Tell them to stay down,” Liam said to Franco. “Tell them I’m an American and we shoot arsonists.”

  The two men, who appeared to be unarmed and scared to death, did what they were told.

  Liam took the rope and tied their hands behind their backs. “Who sent you here?” he asked. “Who told you to burn Gabriella’s vineyard?”

  No answer.

  “Franco, tell them to answer me or the next shot is between their legs.”

  Franco relayed the message, and one of the men answered in Italian. Franco looked at Liam and shook his head. “He say, ‘Non lo so.’ He doesn’t know.”

  “Bullshit.” Liam cocked the shotgun. The man on the ground started crying. “Non lo so, Non lo so.”

  Liam lifted him up and backed him into a tree. “Who sent you?”

  The lights of a police car interrupted Liam, and two officers got out. Liam recognized Foresta, the policeman who stopped him from attacking Lenzini in August. The other was older and stockier. Franco explained the situation, how he saw them setting up a brush fire, how they stopped them as they were pouring gasoline.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Foresta said.

  “Give me a minute. I’m just about to get some answers,” Liam said.

  He smiled. “Afraid not. We’ll interrogate both of them back at the station. Evidence of arson is pretty clear.”

  “Here’s the thing, Officer,” Liam said. “If I can show that these men were hired by VinCo or its attorney, as I’m pretty sure they were, that would help us save Gabriella’s farm.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sympathetic, but I can’t let you do the interrogation. We’ll talk to them back at the station. They’re not going anywhere for a while. But this scenario you suggest, that VinCo is behind the attempted arson, is not logical. A brush fire like that could spread to many acres, including some of those vineyards owned by VinCo. Why would VinCo want to put its own vines in jeopardy?”

  “The damage to VinCo may be a drop in the bucket of their acreage, but it might totally destroy Gabriella’s farm.”

  “Does that make sense to you, Mr. Taggart? VinCo has won the court case. The judge has ruled that Gabriella must leave in nine days. The eviction order has already been placed in our office. Why would they want to burn the farm if they’re going to have it in nine days?”

  “There’s a last-minute motion asking the judge to postpone the eviction. We filed it two days ago, and it’s set for tomorrow. It’s weak, but we’re hopeful.” Liam shook his head. “I know it’s them. I don’t know why they want to destroy the farm they’re trying so hard to own, but I know it’s them.”

  * * *

  AT THE MORNING COURT call, the parties assembled before Judge Riggioni once again. “I have before me Gabriella Vincenzo’s motion to stay the eviction and reopen the trial,” he said. “I’ve read the motion, Avvocata Romano, do you have anything else to add?”

  “Signor Presidente della corte,” Giulia said, “I realize that you have entered judgment in this case, but you only heard one side of the case. We’re only asking for a level playing field where everyone gets to tell their side of the story. Signora Vincenzo was not represented at the trial.”

  The judge held up his hand. “She was represented. Avvocato Santi was the attorney of record. Neither she nor her attorney chose to show up on the trial date to offer any evidence. That conduct usually speaks for itself. Normally, it means that there is no evidence to offer.”

  “As you say, that may normally be the case, but Gabriella’s attorney urged her to give up, not to contest. We believe he may have been influenced to say that. I do not believe that Signora Vincenzo understood the consequences of failing to appear. It didn’t mean that there was no evidence. In the one month that I have been her lawyer, and with the help of Avvocata Lockhart and Investigatore Liam Taggart, we have uncovered significant evidence and testimony that would show that things are not as clear as you were led to believe.”

  “Is that the evidence you refer to in your motion?”

  “Yes. The single most important piece of evidence for your honor to consider would be Registry Book 143,” Giulia continued. “But we have discovered that the book was stolen from the registrar by Fabio Lombardo, a clerk. We know that he illegally took the book after meeting with Avvocato Lenzini.”

  “We know no such thing!” Lenzini shouted. “It is true that I met with a clerk—I do not know his name—and I requested that he retrieve the book from the archives. And he did. And I saw the book. With my own eyes. That book, if it were here today, would prove that Quercia was lawfully in title for many, many years. I saw it myself.”

  “I do not believe that for one minute,” Giulia said. “We met with a person who actually saw the book in Fabio Lombardo’s home and will testify that the book does not contain the notation of a deed from the owner to Quercia. He will also testify that Mr. Lombardo accepted money from Mr. Lenzini to hide the book.”

  “Outrageous!!” Lenzini shouted. “Where is this person? Where is the money, where is the book? This is a slanderous accusation. She comes into court without a shred of evidence, without a single witness, and accuses me of tampering with evidence? Bribing a clerk? This young girl has no concept of the ethical responsibilities of our profession. She should have her license taken away.”

  “I can and will produce the witness if your honor will reopen the proofs and allow testimony. I did not name the witness in my motion for fear that the same people who killed Fabio Lombardo and who tried to burn Signora Vincenzo’s vineyard would seek to do the witness harm. It all points to t
he plaintiff, VinCo.”

  “Oh, please,” Lenzini said with a sneer. “Even if this unnamed person came into court and testified as Signorina Romano says, why would his testimony be any more credible than mine? I am an officer of the court and I saw the book. I am sorry we do not have that book, but we must not jump to bizarre conclusions. I understand it has been misplaced, and that would not be the first time in Siena history that a book has been misshelved or lost in the archives. Perhaps if we had that book here today, Signorina Romano would see that she is wrong. It would certainly show your honor that this futile and untimely effort to interfere with VinCo’s possession of its own land should be immediately dismissed.”

  The judge sat back. “Enough bickering. This is neither the time nor the place to argue about whose testimony would be more believable. Suffice it to say, there are many perplexing facts raised in Avvocata Romano’s motion. I am bothered by the fact that the registry book is missing. But missing evidence is not the same as admissible evidence. I am also bothered by yesterday’s attempt to burn Signora Vincenzo’s fields. Does that have something to do with this case? Perhaps the perpetrators, who are now in custody, will provide information to the police. We should give them that opportunity. I am not going to vacate my judgment. The judgment will stand, at least for the time being. I do believe it would be fair to postpone the eviction and give Avvocata Romano a little time to prepare her evidence. And here, I use the word evidence. Not theory, not supposition, not conclusions to be drawn from mysteriously missing books. Evidence. I will continue the possession order to September 30.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Bologna, April 1939

  The spring season had begun for us at the BSO, and once again we were hard at work. I remained in the second section, and I resigned myself that I would be there for the duration. I know Vittorio’s decision was motivated by political pressure and not by the measure of my performance. Over the winter months, while the company was on hiatus, I found part-time work entertaining in a restaurant. Even afterward, when we weren’t busy, I continued to appear and play popular musical numbers for Andrea’s customers. It wasn’t the “Meditation,” but it was fun, and the money was good.