The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  With Natalia’s help and Maestro Vittorio’s attestation, I applied for and received the governmental certificate of Discriminati. That certificate, rare and valuable, permitted me to continue to live in Italy and work as a professional musician despite the Italian racial laws. I was declared “exempt” because of my excellent service to the country as an indispensable member of the Bologna State Opera Company. It also extended the exemption to my mother.

  Mama’s outlook was improving every day. She corresponded with Naomi on a regular basis. I was so grateful that Natalia had introduced them. We joined the Romittis for Passover seder in March. Pasqua Ebraica, they called it. The celebration of il matzo. Mama stayed with Naomi for an extra week, and she was more anxious than ever to find a new home near Pienza and her good friend. If and when Mama did find a house, it was my intention to remain in Bologna, where I had become comfortable.

  Although Italy had enacted racial laws, they were not rigorously enforced. As a result, many of us had developed a laissez-faire attitude. The laws were on the books, but they were haphazardly applied and didn’t really interfere with my day-to-day activities. Natalia thought my attitude was a mistake. “The racial laws call for the confiscation of Jewish property, yet many of our brothers and sisters have not secured their assets. It is only a matter of time until Mussolini decides that it is time to enforce the forfeiture laws. You and your mother need to act promptly.”

  I asked her what she meant. “Your father brought his life savings here at a terrible cost,” she said. “I believe that money is sitting at the bank in a safe deposit box, is that right?”

  I nodded. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t keep all that cash under my mattress.”

  “Your mother’s looking for a house. Use the money. Put it to work.”

  “But then it would be subject to seizure.”

  Natalia smiled. “There are ways. Find a house and leave the forfeiture problem to me.”

  It turned out it wasn’t so easy to find a house in Pienza. I wanted Mama to live in the city, near the Romittis, in a small, manageable house. Low maintenance. Mama and Naomi spent weeks looking for just the right house. The funny thing is, people seemed to stay put in Pienza. It was a stagnant real estate market. Families lived in their homes for generations.

  Mama asked me to join her for a midweek house hunt. She and Naomi had found a real estate agent, and she was going to schedule several appointments. Mama felt confident we would find something. I talked Natalia into going with me. I always enjoyed her company, but shopping for a house with Mama and Naomi Romitti was a lot more than I could handle by myself.

  Our real estate agent was Sylvia, a large jolly woman who wore colorful dresses and laughed in loud staccato bursts. We gave her our requirements, and she showed up with a clipboard of handwritten listings from several properties. “Do not despair,” she said. “I’ll find you a house because I am the best agente immobiliare in all of Tuscany!” That was followed up with a series of hoots.

  The first house she showed us was a four-bedroom townhouse right in the middle of old Pienza, a few steps from the Duomo. The stone exterior was charming, and the beamed ceilings were in relatively good shape, but the stairs were steep, and I worried about Mama in the years to come. Anyway, the house wasn’t available until the end of the summer, so we passed.

  The next house was located north of Pienza, thirty minutes in Sylvia’s car. It was a charming country house, with two terraces and a detached apartment. “Wouldn’t that be perfect when you come to visit?” Mama said. “Yes,” I answered, “but you don’t have a car. It’s a long way from Naomi on foot.” We passed.

  The next house was back in the city, but it really wasn’t a house at all. It was an apartment, no bigger that the Bologna apartment. We passed again.

  By late afternoon, we had seen six houses, we were all tired and Sylvia was out of options. We returned to the Romittis for a rest and a glass of wine. “I’ll tell her to keep looking,” Naomi said. “Something will turn up.”

  The next day, as we prepared to return to Bologna, Sylvia came by. “I know this isn’t exactly what you specified,” she said with a series of chuckles, “but I understand that a certain villa, fantastico, is available for the right price. It’s not advertised, but I know the seller, Signor Partini, and I know he wants to sell.” She smiled and patted herself on the chest. “That’s why you hire me! I know everyone in Tuscany! You’ll love this villa. It is perfetto—several French windows, stone fireplace, gorgeous veranda, very high ceilings and a spacious kitchen. Best of all, it sits on twenty-eight hectares of prime arable farm land, almost all of it planted with vines and olive trees. It’s a working farm.”

  I started to shake my head. “How far is it from the city, Sylvia? Mama doesn’t have a car.”

  “She doesn’t need one. It’s on the SP18 bus line. There is a bus stop practically at the end of the driveway, twenty minutes from Pienza!”

  Mama was excited, but Natalia and I were both befuddled. “Mama, what are you going to do with a farm? You need a little bungalow in town. You cannot undertake the management and upkeep of a farm.”

  “And that’s what is so meraviglioso about this property,” Sylvia said. “It comes with tenant farmers who have lived there for years. You will be an impresario, Signora Baumgarten. They will take care of the land and your villa. You will live like a duchess!”

  “Really? I’d like to be a duchess, Ada.” She nodded sharply. “I want to be a duchess.”

  “Mama,” I sighed. “This is not for you.”

  “Who says? I want to take a look. Set it up, Sylvia.”

  Need I say more? Mama fell in love with the property. The villa was right out of a Tuscan fairy tale. The caretakers had farmed the land for generations. Their grandparents had worked for the church that once owned all the land in the section. It was only a few hundred meters to SP18 and the bus came by four times a day. The caretaker had a horse and wagon and frequently went into town. If Mama needed to go to Naomi’s, he would take her and pick her up. The price was doable, and we would have sufficient reichsmarks left over.

  “I’m going to name my villa,” Mama said. “After all, I am now a duchess.”

  I laughed. “What are you going to name it, Duchess?”

  “Villa Baumgarten, of course.”

  We set a date for the closing. In the interim, we would have to get a lawyer and a notary. The purchase would take place at the villa.

  Natalia took me aside. “She can’t call it Villa Baumgarten and she can’t even own it,” she said.

  “I’m confused,” I said. “We have the money.”

  “The Italian racial laws. They call for confiscation of Jewish property. Remember, I told you I could take care of the forfeiture problem. Many Jews I know, especially my freedom fighters, are putting their property in the names of others. They designate non-Jewish Italians to hold property for them. I am going to tell my father to do the same thing. Before Mussolini takes our house, we will sell it to a non-Jew. And by sell it, I mean, let him hold it in his name for our benefit.”

  That was the first time that Natalia have ever admitted to me that she was with the underground. That was a risky admission. Freedom fighters were considered rebels and were hunted by the Fascist police. It showed how much she trusted me.

  “I’m not comfortable with some stranger owning my mother’s house,” I said.

  “It’s done all the time. It’s all by contract. You convey the property to a non-Jewish nominee, and the nominee will hold it for you until you want it. There is an avvocato in Bologna who will prepare the papers,” Natalia said. “He is a good man. His name is Hernando Hernandez. He will also arrange for the nominee, what Italians call a designata.”

  “Hernando Hernandez? Are you serious?”

  She smiled and shrugged. “His family comes from Spain, years ago. He is helping many of my friends hide property before the Fascists take it.”

  “And he will provide this desig
nata for Mama’s property?”

  “He will do it all.”

  On May 15, we all met at the property. The group included Signor Partini, the seller, Mama, Sylvia, Natalia, Naomi, Hernando Hernandez and a man named Carlo Vanucci, who would serve as the designata. Signor Vanucci was a close friend of Signor Hernandez, and he would be paid a fee to take title to the property as nominee. Mr. Hernandez wrote an agreement whereby Mr. Vanucci would hold title in his name for as long as Mama wished. Signor Vanucci would deed the property at any time on Mama’s instructions. She need only ask. If Signor Vanucci were to die, or if Mama died, the agreement provided for further transfer rights.

  The papers were signed, the money was paid and prosecco was poured in celebration. My mama, the Duchess Baumgarten, was now the owner of a villa with a twenty-eight-hectare vineyard! Matteo had a new camera and we all posed for pictures. There we were: Sylvia, her arm around Vanucci; Mama standing next to Naomi, her new best friend; and all of us with our glasses held high.

  FIFTY

  Pienza, September 2017

  “THAT’S IT!” LIAM SAID, his head on the pillow, Ada’s manuscript in his hand.

  “What?” Catherine mumbled. “What’s it? It’s not even eight o’clock.”

  “The nominee agreement. That’s the contract. Aren’t you reading Ada’s story?”

  “I am, but I’m only at the part where her father died.”

  “You need to read faster.”

  “Excuse me, but I’ve been pretty busy with legal work as well. I read but I take my time and digest the words.”

  “Well, digest this: Hernandez’s father arranged to deed the property to Carlo Vanucci in 1939. Vanucci was a nominee for the benefit of Friede Baumgarten, Ada’s mother. Jews were asking non-Jews to hold property for them so the Fascist government wouldn’t confiscate it.”

  Catherine sat up. “And of course, there would have to be a nominee agreement.”

  “Exactly. There was a nominee agreement drawn up by Hernando Hernandez, I guess he was Giuseppe’s father. It provided for inheritance rights.”

  “That’s fabulous. If we get that agreement, it’s enforceable against all subsequent owners. Liam, it’s all true. Vanucci would have been the title holder in 1939, and he certainly didn’t deed the property to Quercia. Quercia never legally came into title. Fabio was right. Someone put Quercia’s name in the book. No wonder Gabi wanted us to read the story. The answers are in there. Maybe Gabi doesn’t understand it.”

  “I don’t think there’s much that Gabi doesn’t understand. I think it’s pretty clear, Gabi can’t talk about it. It’s too painful for her. She wants us to deal with it.”

  Catherine leaned over, grabbed Liam and kissed him hard on the lips. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Mmm. I like where this is going,” Liam said. “Good morning to you too.” He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her onto his chest.

  “Maybe we should wait,” she whispered. “This bed has squeaky springs.”

  “Gabi’s a sound sleeper.”

  * * *

  “WE HAVE TO GET to Bologna,” Liam said, as they walked out to the veranda. “Hernandez may have the nominee agreement in his files. I’m going to call Giulia.”

  “If he had the document, wouldn’t he have shared it with us? Why wouldn’t he tell us that Vanucci was a nominee?”

  “I think I know why. Lenzini told me, ‘You won’t have the contract.’ Now I’m sure he meant the nominee contract, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Lenzini had it destroyed. Let’s pay a visit to Hernandez and find out.”

  Catherine dialed Giulia’s cell phone and left a message on her voice mail. “If she doesn’t call me back, I think we should go ourselves, right after breakfast. Hernandez speaks English. Let’s call him and make an appointment.”

  “No, I don’t want to warn him. Let’s just drive up there.”

  “It’s a two-hour drive and he may not be there.”

  “He’s there, I guarantee it. He’s puttering around in his garden like the Godfather. If he’s hiding something, and we call him, he’ll disappear. I prefer to drive up there and surprise him in his garden. A classic Liam tactic.”

  “Okay, but no more kumquats.”

  * * *

  HERNANDEZ LOOKED UP FROM his pruning and said, “I told you everything I know. You wasted your time coming back here.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that Vanucci was a nominee?”

  “What is the word you use— ‘nominee’? I don’t know that word. I told you Vanucci said he had to deed the land to Vincenzo, that it was his obligation.”

  “Don’t know the word ‘nominee’?” Liam said sarcastically. “Then how about designata? Don’t play games with me, Giuseppe.”

  “Who do you think you are? You cannot barge into my garden and order me around. I don’t have to tell you anything. Good-bye.” He waved his arm in a dismissive fashion and bent down to continue his pruning.

  “Forget it, Liam,” Catherine said. “Judge Riggioni will give us a subpoena for Hernandez’s client files, and then he’ll force him to testify at the trial.”

  “I want his father,” Liam said. “I want Hernando Hernandez’s documents subpoenaed as well.”

  “My grandfather, not my father,” Hernandez said. “Leave my family out of this.”

  “Where is the nominee agreement?” Liam said sternly.

  “I never saw it.”

  “I don’t believe you. Where are your grandfather’s client files?”

  “In my office. I have assumed the practice of my father and my grandfather. But you will not find the designata agreement in the file.”

  “Who did you give it to?”

  Hernandez hesitated and then said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Catherine stepped forward. “Signor Hernandez, you said that you would do anything for Carlo Vanucci. Why wouldn’t you honor his promise to Gabriella? Why would you sully his memory? He’s being accused of giving Gabi a fraudulent deed. You know we’re telling the truth. Why don’t you produce the designata agreement?”

  “Because I cannot. It no longer exists.”

  “But it did exist—you know that. What happened to it?”

  Hernandez’s face began to redden. “You must go. I have told you what I can.”

  “You have told us nothing,” Liam said. “Who is putting pressure on you? Is it Lenzini?”

  Hernandez winced.

  “Okay, so it’s Lenzini. We can get you protection.”

  “Protection in Italy? Now it is you who knows nothing.”

  “I know you’re an honest man, Giuseppe,” Catherine said. “Do the right thing.”

  He lowered his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I know Carlo would want me to, but I won’t put his family or my family in danger. You can drag me into court in Siena, but I will say the same thing. My files have been purged and I will not testify.”

  “You won’t help us in any way?” Liam asked in final desperation.

  Hernandez thought for a moment and then said, “You will find nothing in the files. Nothing. Subpoena all the files you like, you can even subpoena the billing files, but you will find nothing. Now you must leave!”

  Liam looked at Catherine, smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Signor Hernandez. Buongiorno y grazie.”

  * * *

  BACK IN THE CAR, Catherine said, “What was that smile all about?” Then in a mocking tone she said, “Buongiorno y grazie.” She shrugged. “Really, Liam?”

  “He gave it to us, Cat. They purged his client files but not the billing file. Have Giulia issue a subpoena for Hernando Hernandez’s billing files for Friede Baumgarten and Carlo Vanucci. I’m sure you will see time billed for preparation of a designata agreement and a house closing in 1939. Whoever was threatening him only looked in the client files, not the office’s billing files.”

  Catherine threw her arms around Liam’s neck. “You’re amazing!”

  Liam raised his eyebrows. “Th
ere are no squeaky springs in this car, Cat.”

  “Oh my God, just drive.”

  Liam smiled. “We put it together brick by brick.”

  FIFTY-ONE

  Bologna, September 1939

  The BSO was performing Wagner’s Götterdämmerung on September 1, the day the world exploded. It was as if we were hired to record the soundtrack. Götterdämmerung, Twilight of the Gods, is the story of the violent collapse of Valhalla, consumed in a massive fire, signaling the end of the old order. We were performing it on the stage in the Teatro, while on the world’s stage a million Nazi troops were marching into Poland.

  Hitler attacked Poland without warning, in a lightning strike they called “blitzkrieg.” Britain and France declared war on Germany two days later. Russia entered the war two weeks later and moved into eastern Poland. Central Europe was on fire. And in Italy, everyone was looking to Mussolini. What was he going to do? Was he going to jump into the fray with his Axis partner? Was Italy going to declare war?

  Days went by and Mussolini did nothing. The papers recorded the news from war correspondents in Poland, and everyone was glued to the radio, but the fighting could have been a million miles away. It was on the other side of the mountains in Central Europe. For Italians, it was someone else’s war. They heard about it, they read about it and then they went about their business. For me, a German ex-pat, it hit home. It was exactly what my father warned me about.

  I decided to visit Mama and make sure she was doing all right. A train to Siena and a bus ride to Pienza transported me from the bustling city into a pastoral dream world. Lush valleys, dark green mountains and hillside vineyards were all bursting into a rainbow of harvest colors. I got off the bus at Mama’s property and walked up her long driveway to the villa.

  Guido, the head caretaker, greeted me. “Ah, Ada, welcome back, but your mother is not at home,” he said. “I took her into town to Signora Romitti. If you like, I can take you.”