The Girl from Berlin--A Novel

by Ronald H. Balson

  “Natalia and her family lived in Pienza,” Giulia said. “I could see if any members of her family are still in the area.”

  “You know what confounds me?” Liam said. “With all the efforts to hide the owner, and a secret trust agreement, how did VinCo know about Gerda Fruman? She’s not listed anywhere. And how would VinCo know to open an estate just two weeks after her death? There’s way too many coincidences.”

  “And we don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “We do not.”

  “Something else that’s hard to believe,” Catherine said, “is that you’re still two chapters ahead of me in Ada’s story and that you stay up late at night reading it.”

  “You want something else that’s hard to believe? Last night I heard the violin.”

  “I knew it! I knew it!”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Bologna, December 1941

  Another year had come and gone. I hadn’t seen Kurt since Florence, but I did receive three letters. He took care not to identify me and his sentiments were expressed in general terms. He was doing well. German confidence was high. Kurt couldn’t tell me where he was or what he was doing, but he hoped his assignments would bring him back to where we last met. As always, he said he thought about me all the time and hoped to see me soon. He ended every letter with a sweet reminiscence of our night in that special hotel.

  I followed the war closely in the newspapers and on the radio. From the reports in the Italian newspapers, the Axis troops had conquered all of Central Europe and were on Moscow’s doorstep. North Africa was under Axis domination. The Mediterranean was an Axis fishing pond. There was reason to believe that the war could be concluded within the next year.

  For me, that was conflicting news. I hated the Nazis, but I feared for Kurt’s safety. So I ended up praying for the collapse and total defeat of Germany and everything it stood for, with the exception of a certain sergeant who worked keeping records of motor vehicles in an administrative office.

  Back in Bologna, the war was on everyone’s lips and everyone thought they had the latest news. They were mostly wrong, but Natalia, on the few occasions I saw her, actually did have the latest information. She was the first one to tell me about Operation Barbarossa—Germany’s invasion of the Soviet Union, which began on June 22. Within days we heard that Mussolini had also declared war on the Soviet Union.

  Natalia had a contact at the Excelsior Hotel in Rome, a part of her underground organization. She told me about a meeting at the hotel between the Japanese foreign minister and Mussolini on December 3. From what she understood, Japan was urging Italy to declare war on the United States in accordance with the Tripartite Pact. Natalia and her contact thought the request was odd and out of place—until four days later, when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

  Italy continued mobilizing its troops. We now had divisions fighting in Egypt and Libya. Italian submarines were patrolling the Mediterranean and the Black Sea, and the Italian air force, the Regia Aeronautica Italiana, was supporting the Luftwaffe. Many of the men in our social group were leaving: the Italians were being conscripted, and the foreign students were returning to their home countries. Some came from the Slovakia, some from Croatia and some from Hungary.

  The orchestra lost three members to the army, and a sign was posted announcing auditions for a bassoonist. Our travel dates had been curtailed, and although our performances at the Teatro continued, lead roles were often filled with stand-ins or members of the opera school.

  The days of pretending that it was someone else’s war were over. There was no more life as usual in Bologna. The economy was on a war footing. Many items were rationed or not available at all. Cosmetics were in short supply. Forget about nylons. Automotive supplies, like rubber tires and gasoline, were impossibly scarce. Abandoned cars were seen along the highways.

  We would frequently encounter injured or maimed boys returning from North Africa, from cities I didn’t recognize, like Tobruk, Benghazi and El Agheila. They would tell of fierce fighting and the German commander General Erwin Rommel, the man they called the Desert Fox. But they would also tell about the strong opposition from the British, Australian and Canadian forces.

  Maestro Gigli sent a letter to Sister Mary Alicia, informing her that he would not be appearing at the 1941 Christmas concert. In the envelope was a separate letter to me. “Although I regret not appearing in Bologna, it is still my intent to perform at Caracalla in June, and I would be pleased if you would attend as you have in the past,” he wrote. I replied that I would be honored.

  The Christmas concert went on, but without any star soloists and only for one night. Though the city was gaily lit for the season, festivities were reserved. We were more fortunate than Central European states. The battles were far from our borders. There were no bombing raids, no reason to have blackouts or to run to air-raid shelters.

  Because we had fewer performance dates, and thus fewer rehearsal dates, I was able to spend more time with my mother. Traveling into Tuscany still remained an idyllic delight. Mama was totally absorbed in her farming and her vineyards and she looked marvelous. She was oblivious to the war.

  It was so peaceful at the villa. I spent my days practicing and learning new pieces. Mama would ask me to sit on the veranda and play melodies while she worked in her flower gardens. On those occasions, it was hard to fathom that a war was going on all around us. It was also hard to conceive that our Jewish brethren were being corralled into ghettoes and forced into slave labor. In those days, the wolf was far from our door.

  As December was drawing to a close, we were visited by a neighbor, one who owned the vineyards directly to the east. She told us that it was the custom among some of the landowners to celebrate New Year’s Eve together and this year she was hosting. Since we had never come before, she wondered if the two of us would like to attend.

  Mama was thrilled. She hadn’t met any of her neighbors, and it was an opportunity to make new friends. “You will meet families that own the farms all around you in every direction,” the woman said. “Bring something good to eat and a bottle of your estate wine.” Mama promised to bring a pie. I offered to bring the music.

  The hosting villa was very similar to Mama’s house. Perhaps all these houses were built for tenant farmers when the church owned the land. There were six different families at the party. They all knew one another and were happy to welcome Mama into the group. Everyone brought a bottle of their own estate wine, specially wrapped for the occasion. They were all farmers just like Mama, and everyone lived within a few kilometers. Naturally, the dominant topic of discussion was this year’s crop and all the nuances that went along with bringing it in.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Bologna, June 1942

  I was preparing to leave for Rome, to perform in my annual June concert with the Rome Opera Orchestra and Beniamino Gigli, when Natalia knocked on my door. I hadn’t seen her very much over the previous six months. Natalia confided to me that she and her compatriots were busy trying to find homes for Jewish refugees flowing in from Italian-occupied territories like Croatia and eastern France.

  “I’ve been traveling,” she said to me, “and I’m exhausted, but I have a situation, and if you’re willing, you can help. I’ve been to Rome too often lately, and I think I’m arousing suspicion at the Excelsior Hotel. Tomaso is the head of catering and one of our best resources. He comes into contact with key military and political officials all the time. I need to get a message to him right away.”

  “And you’re telling me this because I’m going to Rome in two days?”

  “Exactly. We can get you a room at the Excelsior. You wouldn’t arouse any suspicion because you’re a famous artist performing at Caracalla.”

  “I’ve never stayed at the Excelsior. It’s way over my budget.”

  “We’ll cover it.”

  It made me a little nervous, but it was kind of exciting. “What would I have to do?”

  “Just check into the Excelsior, find Tom
aso and hand him an envelope.”

  “Maybe this is a dumb question, but how do I find Tomaso?”

  “He works in catering, Ada. Be resourceful.”

  I was willing, but I must have looked tentative, because she said, “Ada, this is really an important time for us in Italy. Just last month, the Americans started providing assistance to the British in North Africa. The Germans are overextended, and the Italian army is in shambles. Soon the tide will turn. Italians don’t give a damn about the Nazis or their war. Our country doesn’t really support Mussolini—I hear it everywhere I go. You get that sense too, don’t you, Ada? When the time comes, we must be ready here on the home front.”

  I boarded the train for Rome, just a three-hour ride, but it seemed to take forever. I had the envelope in my violin case underneath my music. The conductor came by and took my ticket without a second glance. This certainly wasn’t a German train. It all seemed calm enough until a group of uniformed German soldiers boarded the train in Florence. Lately, it wasn’t uncommon to see German soldiers in their green uniforms or even the occasional SS officer in a black or gray uniform. As the war progressed, their presence increased. After all, they were our allies. The soldiers walked through the car looking for seats. One of them tapped me on the shoulder and motioned to the empty seat beside me. I nodded and slid over.

  “Good morning, Fraulein,” he said in German. “I see you are a musician.”

  I shook my head. “No sprechen Deutsche,” I said as clumsily as I could.

  “Italienerin?”

  I nodded.

  “Buongiorno,” he said in a heavy German accent, but with a big smile. He pointed to my violin case. “Violino?”

  I nodded.

  “Suonare canzone?” he said with a wide grin, and his eyebrows lifted. He wanted me to play a song.

  No way was I going to open my violin case and expose Natalia’s envelope. I shook my head. He chuckled. He asked me again and I shook my head again. He started to reach for my violin case and I grabbed it, stood up and walked to another car. He didn’t follow.

  Roma Termini, the central train station, was always crowded and bustling, but now there were more uniformed men than ever, both Italian and German. I hustled through the station and caught a bus to Via Vittorio Veneto and the Excelsior Hotel, the grandest hotel in Rome, the definition of elegance. I was not used to this level of opulence. The expansive lobby was a beehive of men in suits, men in uniforms and well-dressed women. All of them seemed to have a purpose to their walk or a clandestine reason for the seat they occupied. I looked around the lobby trying to imagine who among them were spies. Maybe all of them. Me included.

  I approached the desk to check in and the concierge said, “Welcome to the Excelsior, Signorina Baumgarten, we are honored to have you. Please allow us to arrange car service to your rehearsal today and your concert tomorrow night.”

  I was shocked. “Well, thank you,” I said. “How did you know?”

  “It is my business to know.” He snapped his fingers and a uniformed bellman appeared who took my bag. The concierge gave my room key to the bellman and gestured for me to follow him. “Enjoy your stay,” the concierge said. “Please let me know if I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant.”

  My room was on the third floor. The porter set my bag down and stood there waiting for a tip. I didn’t know how much to give him. A spy would know, I thought. I reached into my purse and gave him twenty lire. He twisted his lips, spun around and shut the door behind him. I guess that wasn’t enough. What did you get me into, Nat?

  I needed to get rid of Natalia’s envelope as soon as I could. I walked around the lobby looking for a sign that said “Catering.” I looked at the hotel’s phone directory, and I saw the number for catering, but I thought it was a bad idea to call and ask for Tomaso. I was also afraid to ask the concierge. What business would a visiting musician have with the catering department? For all I knew, the concierge was an informant for the Italian police or the secret service or, heaven forbid, the Gestapo.

  Then I got a very amateur idea. I wandered out to the lobby entrance where the bellmen were handling luggage. I picked out one young fellow who looked innocent enough and I said, “My sister is looking for a job. Do you know if the catering department is hiring?”

  He shrugged. “How would I know? I don’t work in the catering department.”

  “Could you tell me how to get to the catering director?”

  He shook his head. “All applications for jobs are taken by the personnel department on the second floor.”

  I smiled nicely and said, “I think I’d do better if I went straight to the director, don’t you?”

  He put a big grin on his face. “Oh, your sister, is it? I get it.” He pointed to his brain. “Pretty clever of you, I must say. Take the stairs to the basement level, go all the way to the right and ask for Tomaso.”

  Tomaso was a large man with a close-cropped beard. “Natalia asked me to see you,” I said.

  “Natalia? Who’s Natalia? That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “Is there another Tomaso in the catering department?” I said.

  He got a disgusted look on his face. “Jesus Christ, the people they send. Come with me.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me through the doorway.

  When we were in the corridor, he said, “We don’t use names. It gets people killed.”

  “Sorry. I’m not a professional messenger. I play the violin.”

  “Do you have something for me, Miss Violin Player?”

  I handed him the envelope.

  “Good work,” he said. “Next time just order room service. I’ll know who placed the order. Don’t come looking for me. Now go.”

  I returned to the stairway and walked up to the lobby level. When I opened the door and walked across the lobby, I could have sworn the concierge was looking at me. I was a very nervous spy.

  My telephone rang at 2:00 p.m. It was the concierge. “Buon pomeriggio, Signorina Baumgarten. Your car is downstairs to take you to your rehearsal.”

  A large, black Mercedes was sitting at the curb, and a uniformed driver stood by the open door. I could get used to this. I slid into the backseat where Maestro Gigli was already seated and smiling at me. “Are we ready for a lovely concert?” he said. Then he added, “Tomorrow, right after the intermission and before I am to return to the stage, I would like an instrumental. Something rousing, full of life, to get the crowd excited and ready for the second half of the concert. I think it should be you. Do you have such a piece?”

  I had been working on Pablo de Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, the Bohemian airs—a real showstopper for violin and orchestra. I had studied it as an exercise for solo violin. It was a very tough piece, but I was getting good at it. “What about the Zigeunerweisen?” I said.

  “That’s wonderful, just what I had in mind. I will ask Bernardino to add the piece. I’m sure the orchestra has it in their vast repertoire.”

  Then it hit me and I gulped. A solo at Caracalla? The Roman Baths? Me on the stage with the Rome Opera Orchestra? In a ridiculously hard piece? My first inclination was to back out, respectfully decline, suggest that someone else should play it. But then I thought about my father, the last words he would ever say to me: “Never forget for an instant that you have all the tools, all the ability and all the talent that God ever gave to a musician. Show the world what you’ve got. You are my Ada, my prodigy.”

  “I would be honored,” I said, “and grateful for your confidence.”

  That afternoon, Maestro Molinari told the orchestra that they were adding Zigeunerweisen to the program. His first violinist almost had a heart attack until Molinari said, “Miss Baumgarten will solo.”

  The night of the concert, it was warm and clear. A million stars shone over the pines and Roman ruins. This event was one of the summer highlights of the Roman music scene, and I was to solo! After the intermission, when it was time for the second half of Gigli’s concert, I walked out to ent
husiastic applause.

  Molinari smiled at me, winked and quietly said, “Good luck, young lady.” I didn’t need luck. It was one of those days. I felt it in my bones. Everything was working.

  The piece starts with a bold orchestral intro. The eight-minute composition consists of four sections played without pause. The second section is technically challenging but with room for improvisation. The third has sweet, familiar Gypsy melodies and opportunities for a violinist to show off her passion and emotion. The fourth section is lively, an all-out race to the end—allegro molto vivace—with extremely rapid fingering, difficult runs and a left-hand pizzicato. I was loving it. I might have made a few mistakes along the way, but I don’t think anyone noticed. I finished in a flourish and bowed.

  “Brava, Signorina,” Molinari said as he smiled down at me. Then he tipped his head toward the audience. When I looked, they were all on their feet and cheering.

  The next morning, a copy of the daily newspaper was delivered to my room with a red rose. The paper was folded on page twelve to show the headline: “Gigli and Baumgarten Shine at Caracalla.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Bologna, February 1943

  Once again, tragedy had entered my life. My beloved conductor and the music director of the Bologna State Opera, Maestro Stefano Vittorio, had died. At rehearsal yesterday, he looked tired and disoriented. He stumbled while at the podium and shook his head as if to clear some cobwebs. When he started conducting again, he was out of sync, not at all in touch with the music. He was waving his arms erratically, almost flailing. We all looked at one another, knowing something was terribly wrong. We could see that he was struggling to hang on, to focus his mind, to bring it back to the present, to his orchestra, to the Teatro, but he was losing his hold. The here and now was leaving him. He tipped to the side and grabbed at the podium. Lassoni jumped up to help as the great man fell. He never regained consciousness.