Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  “I’ll tell them,” Laura said coolly. She looked at Lorenzo. “I’ll be back to pick up my bow on Wednesday.”

  “Miss Balboni?” the woman called as Laura opened the door to leave. “You really should take a look at Mr. Landra’s shop, down the road. He makes very fine instruments.” It was not merely a suggestion; there was the dark note of warning in her voice.

  Laura glanced back, a retort on her lips, but she said nothing as she walked out. She closed the door so hard that the bell gave a sharp clink.

  The woman followed her out of the shop.

  Lorenzo could not hear what was said between them, but through the window he saw the woman stop Laura on the street. Saw Laura give a contemptuous shake of her head and storm away. And he thought: How I’ve missed you. After five long years, we finally speak again, only to have it end on such a bitter note.

  He picked up Laura’s bow from the countertop. Only then did he see the folded piece of paper, which she had tucked under the frog. It had not been there earlier; she must have slipped it under the bow while he and the woman were talking. He unfolded the paper and saw what Laura had written.

  My house, tonight. Tell no one.

  —

  As instructed, Lorenzo told no one. He said nothing about it when his father returned to the shop after lunch, nor did he speak of it that evening, when his family gathered at the supper table for bread and fish soup, a meal cobbled together from discarded scraps that Marco had brought home from his job hauling crates at the market. It was a hard and dirty job that Marco was lucky to have, thanks to the fishmonger’s blatant disregard for the laws against hiring Jews. Throughout Italy, thousands of employers like the fishmonger continued to conduct business as usual, scornful of the new laws, willing to slip young men like Marco a bundle of lire for a hard day’s work. Five years ago, how different the future had seemed for Marco, who had dreamed of a career as a diplomat. Now he sat slumped and exhausted at the supper table, smelling of sweat and the permanent stink of fish. Even fiery Marco had been defeated.

  The years had beaten down Papa as well. Bruno’s clientele had dwindled to only a few customers a week, none of them in the market for a new violin. They purchased only necessities like rosin and strings, which hardly justified keeping the shop open, but six days a week, Bruno would be at his worktable stubbornly carving and sanding and varnishing yet another fine instrument that he could not sell. And when his dwindling supply of seasoned maple and spruce was used up, what then? Would he sit idle in his shop month after month, year after year, until he dried up and crumbled into dust?

  The years have changed us all, thought Lorenzo. His mother looked gray and tired, and no wonder. Since her father Alberto’s stroke four months ago, Eloisa spent every day at the nursing home spooning food into his mouth, rubbing his back, reading him books and newspapers. Alberto’s chair sat empty and waiting for his return home, but that seemed less likely with every passing week. Certainly there would be no more grandfather-grandson violin duets, no more shared tunes and musical games. Alberto could not even control a fork, much less a violin bow.

  Of them all, Pia was the only one whom the years had not diminished. She was blossoming into a slender, dark-eyed beauty who would someday catch many a boy’s eye, but at fourteen she was too timid to flaunt that beauty. With the schools now closed to her, she spent most of the week helping Mama with Alberto, or reading alone in her room, or daydreaming at the window—about her future husband, no doubt. That much about Pia had not changed; she was still the romantic, still in love with love. If only I can keep her this way, thought Lorenzo, protected from the world as it really is. If only I can keep us all just the way we are right now, together and warm and safe.

  “You’re so quiet. Are you all right, Lorenzo?” Pia asked. Of course she would be the one to notice that something was different; with just a glance, she always knew if her brother was tired or troubled or feverish.

  He smiled. “Everything is fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He just said he’s fine,” grumbled Marco. “He didn’t have to haul crates of fish all day.”

  “He does work. He has students who pay him.”

  “Fewer and fewer.”

  “Marco,” warned Eloisa. “We all do our part.”

  “Except me,” Pia sighed. “What do I do except mend a few shirts?”

  Lorenzo patted her on the cheek. “You make us all happy just by being yourself.”

  “A lot of good that does.”

  “It makes all the difference, Pia.”

  Because you keep us hopeful, he thought, watching his sister climb the stairs to bed. Marco had left the table with little more than a grunt, but Pia hummed her way up the stairs, an old Gypsy tune that Alberto had taught them when they were children. Pia still believed there was good in everyone.

  If only that were true.

  It was well after midnight when Lorenzo slipped out of his house. The December chill had driven most people indoors and a strange mist hung in the air, a mist that stank of fish and sewage. Seldom did he venture out this late at night, for fear of encountering the thuggish Blackshirts who regularly roamed the streets. Two weeks ago Marco had stumbled home covered in blood, his nose broken, his shirt ripped to tatters by just such an encounter.

  It could have been far worse.

  Lorenzo kept to the shadows, slipping quickly through the smaller alleys, avoiding the lamplit piazzas. At the footbridge into Dorsoduro he hesitated, because crossing the canal would put him out in the open, with no place to hide. But this night was too cold and miserable for even the Blackshirts to venture out in, and he saw no one. Head down, his face buried in his scarf, he crossed the footbridge and made his way to Laura.

  These last five years, the grand house on Fondamenta Bragadin had called to him like a siren’s song, tempting him with a possible glimpse of her. Again and again he’d found himself standing on this same footbridge, lured toward the street he’d so happily walked on before. Once, he could not even remember how he’d arrived at the bridge; his feet had simply carried him there of their own accord. He was like a horse that knows its way home and will always turn toward it.

  Outside her house he paused, looking up at windows that on earlier visits had blazed with light. Tonight the house seemed far less welcoming, the curtains tightly drawn, the rooms dimly lit. He swung the brass knocker and felt the wood tremble like something alive.

  All at once there she was, backlit in the doorway, her hand grasping his. “Quickly,” she whispered, pulling him inside.

  The instant he stepped across the threshold, she closed and latched the door behind him. Even in the dim alcove he could see her cheeks were flushed, her eyes electric.

  “Thank God you made it here. Papa and I have been so worried.”

  “What is this all about?”

  “We thought there was still plenty of time to arrange things. But after that woman came into your shop today, I knew there was no time left.”

  He followed her down the hallway to the dining room, where he’d enjoyed such happy evenings with the Balbonis. He remembered laughter and countless glasses of wine and talk of music, always music. Tonight he found the table empty, with not even a bowl of fruit. Only one small lamp was burning, and the windows facing the garden were tightly shuttered.

  Professor Balboni sat in his usual chair at the head of the table, but this was not the dapper, cheerful gentleman Lorenzo remembered. This was a somber, weary version, so different that Lorenzo could scarcely believe he was the same man.

  Balboni mustered a semblance of a smile as he rose to greet their guest. “Fetch the wine, Laura!” he said. “Let’s have a toast to our long-lost violinist.”

  Laura set three goblets and a bottle on the table, but as Balboni poured, the mood in the room was far from celebratory; no, there was a grimness to his face, as if this precious bottle might be the last they would ever enjoy together.

  “Salute,” said Balboni. He
drank without pleasure, set down his empty glass, and looked at Lorenzo. “You were not followed here?”

  “No.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “I saw no one.” Lorenzo looked at Laura, then back at her father. “It’s going to happen in Venice, isn’t it? The same thing that happened in Rome.”

  “It will come more quickly than I expected. The armistice changed everything and now we sit in occupied Italy. The SS is solidifying control, and what they did to Jews last month in Rome, they’ll do here. Professor Jona predicted this would happen. That’s why he burned the community documents, so the SS wouldn’t have any of your names. He sacrificed himself to give everyone precious time to escape, yet your family is still here. Your father refuses to see the coming catastrophe, and he puts you all in danger.”

  “It’s not just Papa who keeps us here,” said Lorenzo. “Since my grandfather’s stroke, he can’t even walk. How can he leave the convalescent home? Mama will never leave without him.”

  A look of pain crossed Balboni’s face. “Your grandfather is one of my dearest friends. You know that. It breaks my heart to say this, but there’s no hope for him. Alberto is lost, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

  “And you say you’re his friend?”

  “I say this especially as his friend. Because I know he would want you to be safe, and it’s no longer safe in Venice. Surely you’ve noticed how many of your violin students have stopped coming to lessons? How many of your neighbors have quietly left their homes? Just vanished without notice, telling no one where they’ve gone. They’ve heard what happened in Rome. A thousand people rounded up and deported. The same thing happening in Trieste and Genoa.”

  “This is Venice. Papa says it won’t happen here.”

  “Even as we speak, the SS is compiling the names and addresses of every Jew in the city. They had a brief setback when Professor Jona burned all those documents, but your time has run out. That woman who came to your shop today, she’s almost certainly one of them. She was there to survey what’s to be confiscated. Under the November Manifesto, all property owned by Jews can be seized. The house, your father’s shop, none of it belongs to you, and they will take it any day now.”

  “This is what Marco has been saying all along.”

  “Your brother understands. He knows what’s about to happen.”

  “How do you know this is going to happen? How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I told him so,” a voice said behind Lorenzo.

  He turned to see the Balbonis’ housekeeper, Alda, the sour-faced gargoyle who always seemed to be lurking in the background. Five years ago, she had warned Lorenzo not to take part in the competition and had hinted darkly of the consequences.

  He turned to Balboni. “You trust her? She’s a Blackshirt!”

  “No, Lorenzo. She’s not.”

  “She knew what would happen at the competition.”

  “And I tried to warn you, but you refused to listen,” said Alda. “You’re lucky you got off with only a beating that night.”

  “Alda’s not a Blackshirt, but she does have connections,” said Balboni. “She hears things, about what the SS is planning. We’ve warned as many Jews as we can, but not everyone listens. Your father being one of them.”

  “The idiot,” the housekeeper muttered.

  Balboni shook his head. “Alda.”

  “He doesn’t believe because he refuses to believe.”

  “And who can blame him? Who can believe the SS would dismember a family in Intra? Massacre children at Lago Maggiore? Everyone thinks they’re just tall tales to make Jews flee the country.”

  “That’s what Papa thinks,” said Lorenzo.

  “Which is why it’s impossible to save Bruno. But we can save you, and perhaps your sister and brother as well.”

  “There’s no time to waste,” Laura said urgently. “By tomorrow night, you must be gone. Pack only what you can carry.”

  “Where are we to go? Do we hide here?”

  “No, this house is not safe,” said Professor Balboni. “My sympathies are too well-known, and I fear they’ll search us. But there is a monastery outside Padua where you can stay for a few days. The monks will keep you hidden until we can find someone to guide you to the Swiss border.” He placed a hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “Have faith, son. Everywhere in Italy, you’ll find friends. The challenge is knowing which people you can trust. And which you cannot.”

  Everything was happening too fast. Lorenzo knew that Marco would agree to leave, but how could he convince his sister? And Mama would never abandon her father, Alberto, in the convalescent home. He dreaded the wailing and arguments to come, the heartbreak and the guilt. Overwhelmed by what he would have to do next, he drew in a deep breath and steadied himself against the table.

  “So I must leave them to the SS. My mother and father.”

  “I’m afraid you have no other choice.”

  Lorenzo turned to Laura. “Could you leave your father behind? Knowing you might never see him again?”

  Her eyes suddenly shimmered with tears. “It’s a terrible choice, Lorenzo. But you have to save yourself.”

  “Could you do it, Laura?”

  She wiped a hand across her eyes and looked away. “I don’t know.”

  “I would want her to make that choice,” said Professor Balboni. “In fact, I would insist on it. These last few weeks have been deceptively quiet. That’s why your father believes you can all survive by simply keeping your heads down and making no fuss. But time is running out and the arrests will soon start. I’m telling you this because I owe it to my friend Alberto, and because you have a musical gift that should be shared with the world. But the world will never hear you play if you don’t survive this war.”

  “Listen to Papa,” said Laura. “Please.”

  Someone pounded on the front door, and they all snapped to attention. Laura shot her father a look of panic.

  “Take him upstairs. Go,” Balboni whispered. “Alda, clear away the wineglasses. We want no sign that we’ve had a visitor.”

  Laura grabbed Lorenzo’s hand and led him to the back stairs. As they scurried up to the second floor, they heard more pounding on the front door. Heard Balboni call out: “What’s all the fuss, is the house burning down? I’m coming, I’m coming!”

  Laura and Lorenzo slipped into a bedroom and pressed their ears to the closed door, straining to hear what was being said downstairs.

  “Police business, at this time of night?” Professor Balboni’s voice boomed out. “What is this all about?”

  “I apologize for the late hour, Professor Balboni. But I wanted to warn you about certain developments.” It was a man’s voice, low but urgent.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Balboni.

  “I understand why you might not trust me. But tonight it’s vital that you take me into your confidence.”

  The voices faded as the two men moved into the dining room.

  “What will happen to you if the police find me here?” whispered Lorenzo.

  “Don’t worry,” Laura answered. “Papa can talk his way out of this. He always does.” She touched her fingers to his lips. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To help distract our visitor.” She shot him a tense smile. “Papa says I’m clever at that. Let’s find out how clever.”

  Through the closed bedroom door, he heard her footsteps creak down the stairs to join the two men in the dining room.

  “How naughty of you, Papa! Didn’t you offer our visitor any refreshments?” came her cheerful voice. “Signore, I’m Laura, Professor Balboni’s daughter. Can I pour you a glass of wine? Perhaps you’d like cake and coffee? Alda, why don’t you bring us a tray? I don’t want our visitor to think we’ve forgotten how to be proper hosts.”

  Though he could not hear the man’s responses, Lorenzo heard Laura’s laughter, the bright clatter of chinawar
e and Alda’s footsteps moving back and forth between dining room and kitchen. With her entrance, Laura had managed to transform a stranger’s alarming intrusion into an evening of cake and conversation. Not even a policeman could resist her charm. Now the visitor was laughing as well, and Lorenzo heard the pop of a wine bottle being uncorked.

  Neck aching from crouching too long at the door, he straightened and massaged away the soreness. For the first time he looked around and realized he was in Laura’s room. It smelled like her, bright and floral, lavender and sunshine. There was a cheerful disorder to the space, her books stacked haphazardly on the bedside table, a sweater tossed over a chair, a vanity table cluttered with creams and powders and brushes. He touched a brush, its bristles tangled with blond strands. He imagined stroking that brush through her hair, like sifting through gold.

  The bookshelves were filled with charming Laura clutter. A collection of porcelain pigs, arranged in a group as though in porcine conversation. A ground-down cake of cello rosin. A bowl with tennis balls. And more books; how Laura loved her books! He saw volumes of poetry, a biography of Mozart, a collection of plays by Ibsen. And a whole shelf of love stories, something he had not expected. His fierce, no-nonsense Laura was a reader of romance novels? There was so much he did not know about her, so much he would never know, because tomorrow night, he would be fleeing Venice.

  The thought of never seeing her again made him press his hand to his heart, the pain as real as a blow to the chest. To be standing here in her room, breathing in her scent, only made the anguish worse.

  From downstairs came the sound of her voice, sweetly calling out: “Good night, signore! Please don’t keep Papa up too late!” Then up the stairs she came, humming a tune as she climbed, as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  She stepped into the bedroom, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it, her face brittle with tension. At his questioning look, she gave a sharp shake of the head.

  “He’s not leaving,” she whispered.

  “What’s your father going to do?”

  “Get him drunk. Keep him talking.”