Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  Gerda sounds far too upbeat as she refills her glass of Chianti from the carafe. “I’d say we accomplished our mission, Julia. We came, we asked, we got an answer. Now we know who our composer was.”

  “Francesca sounded doubtful.”

  “The name fits, the address fits. It must be Lorenzo Todesco’s. It sounds like the family’s all dead, so I think we’re safe recording the piece. When we get home, let’s get to work on a quartet arrangement. I’m sure Stephanie can come up with some lovely harmony on the cello.”

  “I don’t know, Gerda. It feels wrong, recording this waltz.”

  “What’s wrong about it?”

  “It’s like we’re exploiting him. Profiting from his tragedy. There’s such an awful history to this music, I wonder if we’re asking for bad luck.”

  “Julia, it’s only a waltz.”

  “And the man who sold me that waltz gets murdered in Rome. It’s as if the music leaves a curse on everyone who touches it or hears it. Even my own daughter.”

  Gerda is silent for a moment. She takes a sip of wine and calmly sets down the goblet. “Julia, I know it’s been rough for you these past few weeks. The problems with Lily. Your fall down the stairs. But I don’t think that has anything to do with Incendio. Yes, the music is disturbing. It’s complex and powerful and it comes with a tragic history. But it’s just notes on a page, and those notes need to be heard. That’s the way we honor Lorenzo Todesco, by sharing his music with the world. It gives him the immortality he deserves.”

  “What about my daughter?”

  “What about Lily?”

  “The music changed her. I know it did.”

  “Maybe it just seems that way. When things go wrong, it’s natural to look for an explanation, but there may not be one.” She reaches across the table and places her hand on mine. “Go home, Julia. Talk to Rob. You two need to sort this out together.”

  I look straight at her, but she avoids my gaze. Why has everything suddenly changed between us? If even Gerda has turned against me, I’m left with no one on my side.

  We are silent as we leave the restaurant and walk across the Accademia Bridge, back to the neighborhood of Dorsoduro. Despite the late hour, the streets are alive and throbbing with noise. It’s a warm night and the hip young set is everywhere, loud boys with untucked shirts, carefree girls in short skirts and halter tops, flirting, laughing, drinking. But Gerda and I don’t exchange a word as we veer away from that busy street and turn down a far quieter alley, toward our hotel.

  By now Rob probably knows I’m in Venice. A look at our online accounts would tell him I’ve withdrawn cash at a Venice ATM and I’ve just used my credit card at a restaurant in San Marco. There’s no way to keep those kinds of secrets from an accountant; he’s an expert at following the money. I feel guilty not returning any of his phone calls, but I’m afraid of what he’ll say to me. I dread hearing him tell me that he’s reached his limit. After ten years of marriage, a good marriage, is it possible I’ve lost him?

  At the far end of the alley is the faint glow of our hotel sign. As we approach it, I’m still thinking about Rob, about what I will say to him and how we can survive this. I don’t notice the man standing in the doorway. Then a silhouette, broad-shouldered and faceless, suddenly detaches itself from the shadows and moves in front of us, blocking our way.

  “Julia Ansdell?” he asks. Deep voice, Italian accent.

  Gerda says: “Who are you?”

  “I am looking for Mrs. Ansdell.”

  “Well, this is entirely the wrong way to go about it,” Gerda snaps. “Are you trying to scare her?”

  As the man moves toward us, I back away until I’m pressed against a wall. “Stop it, you’re freaking her out!” says Gerda. “Her husband didn’t say it would be done this way!”

  Her husband. With those two words, everything becomes shockingly clear. I look at Gerda. “You—Rob—”

  “Julia, honey, he called me this morning, while you were still asleep. He explained everything. Your breakdown, the psychiatrist. They’re trying to get you home to the hospital. He promised not to upset you, but then he sends this asshole.” She steps between me and the man and pushes him away from me. “Back off now, you hear me? If her husband wants her home, he’ll just have to come here himself and—”

  The gunshot makes me freeze. Gerda stumbles against me and I try to hold her up, but she crumples to the ground. I feel her blood, warm and wet, streak down my arms.

  Suddenly the hotel door swings open and I hear two men laughing as they step out of the building. The gunman turns toward them, momentarily distracted.

  That’s when I run.

  I sprint instinctively toward lights, toward the safety of crowds. I hear another gunshot, feel air whistle past my cheek. I dart around the corner and see a café ahead and people dining at outdoor tables. As I race toward them, I try to scream to them to help me, but panic has made my throat close over and almost no sound comes out. I’m certain the man is right behind me so I keep running. People glance up as I tear past them. More eyes, more witnesses, but who is going to stand between me and a bullet?

  The Accademia Bridge is the most direct way out of Dorsoduro. Once across it, I can join the larger crowds in San Marco, lose myself in those eternally celebrating throngs. And I remember seeing a police station there.

  The bridge is just ahead. My passage to safety.

  I’m only a few paces across it when a hand grabs me, yanks me to a halt. Whirling around, I’m ready to scratch at my attacker’s eyes, ready to fight for my life, but the face I see is a young woman’s. It is Francesca from the Jewish Museum.

  “Mrs. Ansdell, we were just on our way to see you.” She pauses, frowning at my panicked face. “What’s wrong? Why are you running?”

  I glance back, frantically scanning faces. “There’s a man—he’s trying to kill me!”

  “What?”

  “He was waiting at the hotel. Gerda—my friend Gerda—” My voice cracks into a sob. “I think she’s dead.”

  Francesca turns and speaks in Italian to a bearded young man who’s standing beside her. With his backpack and scholarly spectacles, he looks like some earnest graduate student. The man gives a grim nod and hurries off in the direction of my hotel.

  “My colleague Salvatore will see what happened to your friend,” she says. “Now quickly, come with me. We need to get you out of sight.”

  16

  December 1943

  When you cannot see where you are going, when you do not know your final destination, every hour is its own eternity.

  Night had fallen, and with all the shades closed, Lorenzo could no longer tell in which direction their train was moving. He imagined fields and farmlands beyond the window, small villages where lights glowed in houses and families sat at supper tables. Did they hear the faint clack of the train passing by? Did they pause, forks halfway to their mouths, and wonder about the people aboard the train? Or did they simply continue with their suppers, because what went on beyond their walls was none of their concern, and what could they do about it anyway? This train, like all those before it, would move on, so they break bread and drink wine and carry on with their lives. While we pass by like ghosts in the night.

  His arm had gone numb, but he didn’t want to move it because Pia had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder. She had not bathed in days, and her long hair was clumped and greasy. How proud she was of her hair, how she liked to stroke it back over her shoulders whenever a fine-looking boy passed by. Would any boy look at her now, with her hair dull and stringy, her face so thin and pale? Her long lashes cast shadows that looked like bruises under her eyes. He pictured her toiling in a work camp, shivering in the cold, growing ever thinner and weaker. He kissed the top of her head, and instead of her usual fragrance of rose water, he smelled sweat and dirty scalp. How quickly humans are reduced to wretchedness, he thought. Only a few days without food or beds or baths, and the fire has gone out in us all, even Marco, w
ho now sat slumped in despair.

  The train suddenly lurched and ground to a stop. Through the closed shades, he saw the cold glare of platform lights.

  Pia jerked awake and looked up at him with drowsy eyes. “Are we there? Is this Fossoli?”

  “I don’t know, darling.”

  “I’m so hungry. Why don’t they feed us? It’s wrong to make us go so long without food.”

  The train doors squealed open and voices shouted: “Alle runter! Alle runter!”

  “What are they saying?” Pia’s voice rose in fear. “I don’t understand what they want us to do!”

  “They’re ordering us to get off the train,” said Marco.

  “Then we must do what they tell us.” Lorenzo picked up his violin and said to Pia, “Stay close to me, dearest. Hold my hand.”

  “Mama?” Pia called out in panic. “Papa?”

  “Everything will be fine, I’m sure of it,” said Bruno. “Just don’t call attention to yourself, don’t look at anyone. We must simply get through this.” Their father managed a weak smile. “And we must stay together. That’s the most important thing. Stay together.”

  Pia kept her head down, her hand in Lorenzo’s as they shuffled off the train behind Mama and Papa and Marco. Outside it was so cold that their breaths steamed and swirled in the air. Floodlights shone down on the train platform, bright as day, and the detainees squinted, confused in the glare as they huddled together to stay warm. Pressed in on all sides, jostled by the crowd, Lorenzo and his sister were two lost swimmers in a sea of frightened souls. Behind him a baby screamed so loudly that he could not hear the orders shouted from the far end of the platform. Only when a guard stepped forward and began shoving people apart did he understand that they were to line up for inspection. As they shivered side by side, Pia continued to cling to his hand, afraid to be set adrift. Lorenzo glanced at Marco, standing to his right, but his brother faced straight ahead, chin jutting out and shoulders squared, as if daring the guards to intimidate him.

  As soldiers paced closer, moving down the line of prisoners, Lorenzo stared down at the platform. He saw a pair of polished boots suddenly halt in front of him.

  “You,” a voice said.

  Slowly Lorenzo lifted his eyes to see an SS officer staring at him. The officer asked a question in German. Lorenzo could not understand and shook his head in bewilderment. The officer pointed to the violin Lorenzo was holding. Asked the question again.

  An Italian guard stepped forward to translate. “He wants to know if the instrument is yours.”

  Terrified that they were going to confiscate La Dianora, Lorenzo’s grip tightened on the case. “Yes, it’s mine.”

  “Do you play this violin?”

  Lorenzo swallowed. “Yes.”

  “What sort of music do you play?”

  “Any music. Whatever is put before me.”

  The Italian guard looked at the German officer, who gave a brusque nod.

  “You will come with us,” the Italian said.

  “My family as well?”

  “No. Only you.”

  “But I must stay with my family.”

  “We have no use for them.” He waved to two soldiers who stepped forward and took Lorenzo by both arms.

  “No. No.”

  “Lorenzo!” Pia screamed as he was torn from her grasp. “Don’t take him! Please don’t take him!”

  He twisted around, trying to catch a final glimpse of her. He saw Pia struggling against Marco, who restrained her. He saw his mother and father clinging to each other in despair. Then he was dragged down a set of concrete steps and marched away from the platform. Still blinded by the glare of the floodlights, he could not see where he was going, but he could hear Pia screaming his name.

  “My family—please let me stay with my family!” he begged.

  One of the soldiers snorted. “You don’t want to go where they’re going.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “Let’s just say you’re the lucky one, you idiot.”

  Pia’s cries faded behind him as Lorenzo was marched down a rutted road. Away from the lights, he could now make out the high walls ahead of him. Against the night sky, ominous towers loomed like stone giants and he felt guards’ eyes staring down as he was marched through the gate. They crossed the courtyard to a low-slung building, and one of his escorts gave three hard knocks on a door.

  A voice inside commanded them to enter.

  Shoved from behind, Lorenzo tripped over the threshold and almost dropped La Dianora as he stumbled into the room. Crouched on the floor, he smelled cigarettes and wood smoke. Heard the door slam shut behind him.

  “Imbeciles!” a voice barked in Italian. The insult was not directed at Lorenzo but at the two soldiers. “You can see he’s carrying a violin, can’t you? I’ll have your hides if it’s damaged!”

  Slowly Lorenzo rose to his feet, but he was too terrified to focus on the man who’d spoken. Instead he looked everywhere else. He saw scuffed wood floors, a table and chairs, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. A single lamp burned on a desk, where papers were arranged in four orderly stacks.

  “What do we have here? Look at me.”

  At last Lorenzo’s gaze lifted to the man, and suddenly he could not look anywhere else. He saw brilliant blue eyes, a startling contrast to the man’s coal-black hair. Those eyes stared with such intensity that Lorenzo felt pierced to the spot. In every way this man radiated power, and on his uniform he wore his chilly insignia of authority. He was Italian SS. A colonel.

  One of the soldiers said, “This man claims he’s a musician.”

  “And the violin?” The Colonel glanced at the instrument case. “Is it in any condition to be played?” His gaze snapped back to Lorenzo. “Well, is it?”

  Lorenzo took in a shaky breath. “Yes. Sir.”

  “Open it.” The Colonel gestured to the table. “Let’s take a look.”

  Lorenzo set the case down on the table. Hands chilled and fumbling, he undid the latches and lifted the lid. Inside, La Dianora gleamed like polished amber, a jewel cradled in black velvet.

  The Colonel gave a murmur of admiration. “And how did you come by this instrument?”

  “It was my grandfather’s. And before that, his grandfather’s.”

  “You say you’re a musician?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prove it. Let me hear you play.”

  Lorenzo’s hands were stiff from cold and fear. He squeezed his fists to pump warming blood into his fingers before he lifted La Dianora from her velvet bed. Despite the long train ride and the cold platform, she was still in tune. “What would you like me to play, sir?”

  “Anything. Just prove to me that you can.”

  Lorenzo hesitated. What to play? He was paralyzed by indecision. Trembling, he lifted the bow to the strings and held it there, willing his hands to steady. The seconds ticked by. The Colonel waited. When the bow at last began to move, it was almost of its own volition, as if La Dianora could no longer wait for him to choose the music. A few weak notes, a few hesitant bow strokes, and suddenly the melody burst forth in full-throated song. It poured into every dark corner of that room. It made the air hum and the cigarette smoke dance in the shadows. He needed no sheet music to play this piece; it was permanently engraved in his memory and in his heart.

  It was the same music that he and Laura had performed at Ca’ Foscari, the duet that would always remind him of the happiest moments of his life. As he played, he could feel her spirit beside him, could remember the black satin dress she wore onstage that night and the curve of her shoulders as she embraced her cello. How her hair slid away to reveal a delicious glimpse of the nape of her neck. He played as if she were seated beside him. He closed his eyes and suddenly everything vanished but Laura. He forgot where he was, forgot his weariness and his hunger and his fear. Laura was his strength, the elixir that breathed life into his stiff hands, and every note he played was his heart calling out to hers across time, a
cross the desolate miles that separated them. His body swayed to the music, sweat beading on his forehead. The room that had at first seemed so cold now felt like a furnace and he was burning up in it, consumed by the fire that sizzled from the strings. Are you listening, my darling? Can you hear me singing to you?

  His bow came down on the final note. As it faded, the chill of the room seeped back into his limbs. Exhausted, he lowered the bow and stood with head down and shoulders slumped.

  For a long moment, no one spoke.

  Then the Colonel said: “I am unfamiliar with this piece. Who is the composer?”

  “I am,” Lorenzo murmured.

  “Indeed? You composed this music?”

  Lorenzo gave a weary nod. “It is a duet for violin and cello.”

  “So you are able to write for ensembles.”

  “If the inspiration strikes me.”

  “I see. I see.” The Colonel paced a circle around him, as if to inspect him from all angles. Abruptly he turned to the two soldiers. “Leave us.”

  “Should we wait outside, sir? You can’t predict what he might—”

  “What, you think I can’t deal with one pathetic prisoner? Yes, stand outside if you wish. But leave.” The Colonel waited, stone-faced and silent, until the men retreated from the room. Only when the door swung shut did he focus once again on Lorenzo. “Sit,” he commanded.

  Lorenzo placed his violin back in the case and he sank into a chair, so sapped by his performance that his legs could not have supported him much longer.

  The Colonel picked up La Dianora and held her to the lamplight, admiring her warm patina. “In the hands of someone less skillful, an instrument like this would be wasted. But in your hands, she comes to life.” He lifted the violin to his ear and tapped the back, listening to the rich resonance of the wood. As he set La Dianora back in the case, he spotted the collection of Gypsy music tucked inside the lid. He pulled out the book and frowned as he flipped through the pages.

  Lorenzo’s stomach tightened into a knot. Had the book been a collection of works by an esteemed composer such as Mozart or Bach or Schubert, he would not be apprehensive, but these were Roma tunes, the music of untouchables. He watched as the Colonel slid the music back into the case.