Playing With Fire

by Tess Gerritsen

  My throat closes over and suddenly I am sobbing with relief. My daughter loves me. My daughter has always loved me.

  “Everything you’ve been through,” says Rob, “can be explained by the seizures. By the tumor.”

  “Not everything,” says Francesca. “There is still the matter of Incendio, and where it comes from.”

  I shake my head. “Oh God, I’m so confused I don’t know anymore what’s real and what’s imagined.”

  “You didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill you. The man who shot your friend.”

  I look at Rob. “Gerda—”

  “She’ll be fine. She made it through surgery and she’s recovering,” he says.

  “So that part was real? The shooting?”

  “As real as the bodyguards who are now stationed outside your door,” says Francesca. “Europol is investigating, and if what we suspect about the Capobianco family is true…” She smiles. “You’ve brought down the man who could have been our next prime minister. Congratulations. My colleagues at the museum think you are a hero.”

  It’s a victory I hardly feel like celebrating, because I’m thinking about a far more intimate enemy, the tumor that is now incubating inside my brain. An enemy that so skewed my reality, it made me fear the people I love most. I think of how often I’ve massaged my aching temples, trying to soothe what was growing and swelling inside. An enemy that can yet defeat me.

  But I’m no longer alone in this battle because Rob stands beside me. He has always been beside me, even when I did not know it.

  Francesca packs up her laptop. “Now then, I have work to do. Statements to prepare, documents to file. We are going to do a thorough search of the archives for everything we have about the Todesco family.” She smiles at me. “And you have a job as well.”

  “Do I?”

  “You need to get better, Mrs. Ansdell. We’re counting on it. You’re the one who started us down this road. You must be the one to tell the story of Incendio.”

  21

  Eight Years Later

  On Calle del Forno, a new plaque has been mounted on No. 11, where Lorenzo and his family once lived. It bears a simple inscription in Italian: “Here lived composer and violinist Lorenzo Todesco, who perished in the death camp at Risiera di San Sabba, October 1944.” It says nothing about Incendio or Lorenzo’s family or the circumstances of his final months at San Sabba, but there’s no need to. Tonight, the new documentary about his life will be shown to the public for the first time. Soon everyone in Venice will know his story.

  They’ll know my story as well, because I’m the one who found Incendio, and tonight, at the film’s Venice premiere, my quartet will perform the music. Though Lorenzo’s body was long ago consumed by the flames of San Sabba’s crematorium, his composition is still powerful enough to change lives. It brought down the man who might have been prime minister. It alerted me to the meningioma that was once growing in my brain. And this evening, it has brought an international crowd into the university auditorium at Ca’ Foscari, to watch the film Incendio and to hear the waltz that inspired it.

  Backstage, I feel eerily calm despite the noisy chatter of the audience, which we can hear through the closed curtain. There’s a full house tonight, and Gerda’s so excited she keeps drumming her fingers against the back of her violin. I can hear our cellist standing behind me, nervously fussing with her black taffeta skirt.

  The curtain rises and we walk out onto the stage and take our seats.

  In the blinding glare of the stage lights I cannot see the audience, but I know that Rob and Lily and Val are watching from the middle section, the third row, as I lift my bow to my violin. No longer am I afraid of this music, which once ignited electrical storms inside my brain. Yes, it comes with a haunting history, and death has followed it from one century to the next, but it bears no curse, carries no misfortune. In the end, it is just a waltz, a long-delayed echo of the same notes that Lorenzo Todesco once played, and it is beautiful. I wonder if Lorenzo’s spirit can hear us play it. Do the notes that fly from our strings somehow cross dimensions and find him wherever he now dwells? If he can hear us, then he knows he’s not forgotten. And that, in the end, is what we all hope for: to never be forgotten.

  We come to the final measure. The last note is Gerda’s, and it is high and sweet and heartbreaking, like a kiss blown to heaven. The audience sits stunned and silent, as if no one wants to disturb the sanctity of that moment. When the applause comes, it is thunderous. Do you hear that applause, Lorenzo? It comes seventy years too late, but it’s all for you.

  Afterward, in the greenroom, the four of us are delighted to find a bottle of prosecco chilling in an ice bucket. Gerda pops the cork and we toast our performance with the musical clink of champagne flutes.

  “We’ve never sounded better!” Gerda says. “Next stop, the London premiere!”

  Another clink of flutes, another round of self-congratulatory laughter. On a night when we honor the life of Lorenzo Todesco, it seems wrong to be so lighthearted, and this is only the start of the night’s festivities. Even as we pack up our instruments, the filmmaker’s party is already under way in the courtyard outside, an evening of dining and dancing under the stars. Gerda and the others are eager to join the celebration and they lead the way out of the greenroom and down the hallway toward the auditorium exit.

  I’m about to follow them out of the building when a voice calls out behind me: “Mrs. Ansdell?”

  Turning, I see a woman in her sixties, with silver-streaked black hair and dark, serious eyes. “I’m Julia Ansdell,” I answer. “How can I help you?”

  “I read your interview in the newspaper yesterday,” the woman says. “The article about Incendio and the Todesco family.”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a part of the story that was not mentioned in the article. The Todescos are all dead now, so there’s no way you could have heard about it. But I think you might like to know.”

  I frown at her. “Is this about Lorenzo?”

  “In a way. But it’s really about a young woman named Laura Balboni. And what happened to her.”

  —

  My visitor’s name is Clementina. She was born in Venice, and she teaches English in a local high school, which is why she speaks with such fluency. Gerda and the others have already left the auditorium to join the party, so Clementina and I are alone in the greenroom, where we sit on a lumpy sofa with faded upholstery. Clementina tells me she learned this story from her late aunt, who worked as housekeeper for a Professor Balboni, a distinguished musicologist who taught at Ca’ Foscari. The professor was a widower with one child, a daughter named Laura.

  “My aunt Alda told me this girl was beautiful and talented. And fearless,” says Clementina. “So fearless that, as a very small child, Laura once climbed onto a chair to see what was bubbling on the stove. The pot tipped and she burned her arms so badly that she was left with terrible scars. Yet she never tried to hide those scars. She bravely revealed them to the world.”

  “You said your story has a connection with Lorenzo,” I remind her.

  “Yes, and this is where our two stories merge,” says Clementina. “With Laura and Lorenzo. You see, they were in love.”

  I lean forward, excited by this new revelation. Up till now, I’d focused only on Lorenzo’s tragic end. Here was a detail not about his death, but about his life. “I didn’t know about Laura Balboni. How did she and Lorenzo meet?”

  Clementina smiles. “It was because of music, Mrs. Ansdell. It all started with music.”

  The music of a violin and a cello, blended in perfect harmony, she explains. Every Wednesday, Laura and Lorenzo would meet in Laura’s home in Dorsoduro, to practice the duet that they would perform for a prestigious competition at Ca’ Foscari. I picture the two of them, dark-eyed Lorenzo and golden-haired Laura, alone together for hour after hour, struggling to master their piece. How many sessions did it take for them to finally look up from their music stands and focus o
nly on each other?

  Did they realize, as they were falling in love, that the world was collapsing around them?

  “When the SS took control of Venice, Laura tried to save him,” Clementina tells me. “She and her father did everything they could to help the Todesco family, at great risk to themselves. The Balbonis were Catholic, but what difference does that make when it comes to matters of the heart? Certainly it did not matter to Laura, who loved him. But in the end, there was nothing she could do to save Lorenzo or his family. She was there, the day they were deported. She watched them marched to the train station. And that was the last time she ever saw him.”

  “What became of her?”

  “My aunt said the poor girl never gave up hope that Lorenzo would come back to her. She read and reread the letter he sent her from the train. He wrote that his family was fine, and he was certain the labor camp would not be so terrible. He promised to come home to her, if only she would wait for him. And for months, she did wait, but there was no more news.”

  “So she had no idea what happened to him?”

  “How could she possibly know? That letter from the train was enough to give her hope, because she believed he was bound for nothing worse than a labor camp. That was the reason why detainees aboard the train were encouraged to write letters and assure their friends that all was well. Here at home, no one suspected where the train was taking them. No one imagined they were bound for Poland, where they’d all be…” Clementina’s voice fades.

  “Did Laura ever find out what happened to him?”

  “No.”

  “But she did wait? When the war ended, she did search for him?”

  Clementina gives a sad shake of the head.

  I sink back on the sofa, disappointed. I had expected this to be a story of devotion, of lovers who remained steadfast even after war had ripped them apart. But Laura Balboni did not keep her promise to wait for Lorenzo. This is not, after all, the tale of enduring love that I had wanted to hear.

  “Well, you mentioned that she was beautiful,” I say. “I’m sure there was another man for her.”

  “There was no one else. Not for Laura.”

  “So she never married?”

  The woman looks past me, her eyes unfocused, as though I’m not even in the room and she’s talking to someone I cannot see. “It happened in May 1944. Five months after the Todescos were deported,” she says softly. “The world was at war and everywhere in Europe, there was death and tragedy. Yet it was a beautiful springtime, I’m told. The seasons don’t care how many corpses lie rotting in the fields; the flowers will still bloom.

  “My aunt Alda said that it was late in the night when the family appeared at Professor Balboni’s door. A couple and their two young sons. They were Jews who’d been hiding for months in a neighbor’s attic, but the SS was closing in, and they were desperate to flee to Switzerland. They’d heard that the professor was sympathetic, and could he shelter them for just one night? My aunt Alda warned him that it was too dangerous to let them stay. The SS was already aware of his political leanings, and they might raid the house. She knew it could bring disaster on them.”

  “Did he listen to your aunt?”

  “No. Because Laura—brave, headstrong Laura—wouldn’t allow the family to be turned away. She said, what if Lorenzo was standing on some stranger’s doorstep at that very moment, also pleading for sanctuary? She couldn’t bear the thought of him being turned away. She convinced her father to take in the family that night.”

  Dread has made my hands go cold.

  “The next morning, my aunt Alda left to go to the market,” continues Clementina. “When she returned, she found the SS raiding the house, kicking open doors, smashing furniture. The Jews who’d taken shelter with the Balbonis were arrested and later deported to a Polish death camp. And the Balbonis…” She pauses, as if she hasn’t the heart to continue.

  “What happened to them?”

  Clementina takes a deep breath. “Professor Balboni and his daughter were dragged out of the house. There, by the canal, they were forced to kneel in the street as public examples of what happens when you dare to hide a Jew. They were executed on the spot.”

  I cannot speak. I cannot even breathe. I bow my head and wipe away tears for a young woman I have never met. On the spring day that Laura Balboni was executed, Lorenzo was still alive. He did not perish in San Sabba until that autumn, when the girl he loved had already been dead for months. Though he could not have known she was gone, did he somehow sense her passing? As her soul departed, did he hear her voice in his dreams, feel the whisper of her breath against his skin? When he marched to his own execution, did he take comfort in knowing that he was also marching toward Laura? She had promised to wait for him, and there she would be, ready to welcome him on the other side of death.

  That’s what I want to believe.

  “Now you know the rest of the story,” Clementina says. “Laura’s story.”

  “And I knew nothing about her.” I take a deep breath. “Thank you. I would never have heard her name if you hadn’t told me.”

  “I told you because it is important to remember more than just the victims. We must also remember the heroes, don’t you think, Mrs. Ansdell?” She rises to her feet. “It was good to meet you.”

  “Mommy, there you are!” My eleven-year-old daughter comes running into the greenroom. Lily’s hair has come loose from her braid, and riotous blond strands fly around her face. “Daddy’s been looking all over for you. Why aren’t you outside with us? They’ve started the party in the courtyard and everyone’s dancing. You should hear what Gerda’s playing. It’s some crazy klezmer tune!”

  I rise to my feet. “I’m coming now, darling.”

  “So this is your daughter,” says Clementina.

  “Her name’s Lily.”

  They share a polite handshake and Clementina asks her: “Are you a musician like your mother?”

  Lily beams. “I’d like to be.”

  “She already is,” I say proudly. “Lily has a far better ear than I ever will, and she’s only eleven years old. You should hear her play.”

  “Do you play the violin?”

  “No,” says Lily. “I play the cello.”

  “The cello,” Clementina repeats softly, staring at my daughter. Although her lips are smiling, there is a sadness to the woman’s eyes, as if she’s gazing at the photograph of someone she once knew. Someone who has long since vanished from this earth. “I’m glad to meet you, Lily,” she says. “Someday, I hope I will hear you play.”

  My daughter and I emerge from the building into a velvety summer evening. Lily doesn’t just walk, but half-dances beside me, a golden-haired sprite in sandals and flowery cotton who skips across the cobblestones. We cross the courtyard, past groups of university students laughing and chattering in Italian, past a stone fountain where water splashes its own sweet melody. Overhead pigeons swoop like white-winged angels in the dusk, and I smell the scent of roses and the sea.

  Somewhere ahead of us a violin is playing klezmer music. It is a happy, raucous tune, and it makes me want to dance, to clap.

  To live.

  “You hear that, Mommy?” Lily tugs me forward. “Come on, you’re going to miss the party!”

  Laughing, I take my daughter’s hand, and together, we join the music.

  In memory of Michael S. Palmer

  Historical Notes

  It is hard to believe, walking in today’s Campo Ghetto Nuovo, that this serene Venetian square was once a place of such tragedy. Memorial plaques mounted on the walls of the square tell the heartbreaking story of the nearly 250 Jews in Venice who were arrested and deported in 1943 and 1944. Only eight returned alive. During these terrible years, 20 percent of Italy’s 47,000 Jews perished, most of them killed in death camps.

  As staggering as these numbers are, they pale in comparison to what was happening to Jews elsewhere in occupied Europe. In Poland and Germany and the Baltic, 90 percent of the Jewi
sh population was annihilated. In the Netherlands, 75 percent vanished into death camps, and in Belgium, 60 percent. Why did a greater percentage of Jews survive in Italy? What made Italy different?

  That issue preoccupied me as I wandered the narrow streets of Cannaregio, the Venice neighborhood where many Jews once lived. Was there something unique in the Italian character that made Italians disregard, even actively resist, laws that they felt were unjust? As one who is drawn back to Italy again and again, who’s fallen in love with its people, I wanted to believe that Italians are special. But I know all too well that every country has its dark side.

  That question of “What made Italy different?” is addressed in two excellent books: Susan Zuccotti’s The Italians and the Holocaust, and Renzo De Felice’s The Jews in Fascist Italy. Both authors agree that for Jews, Italy was different in many ways from the rest of occupied Europe. Well assimilated and physically indistinguishable from their neighbors, Jews easily blended into the larger population. Before the war, they held high positions in government, academics, business, medicine, and law. Forty-four percent of their marriages were to non-Jews. In every way, they must have felt fully integrated in Italian society; even Benito Mussolini’s mistress and biographer, the highly accomplished Margherita Sarfatti, was a Jew.

  But security is too often an illusion, and throughout the 1930s Jews gradually realized that even in Italy, the ground beneath them was transforming into dangerous quicksand. At first the signs were merely worrisome: the appearance of several anti-Semitic editorials in a number of publications, followed by the dismissal of Jewish journalists from the newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia. By 1938, the campaign against them had accelerated, leading to a succession of ever more onerous laws. In September 1938, Jews were banned from teaching or enrolling in schools. In November 1938, intermarriage was forbidden and Jews were cast out of state employment. In June 1939, they were banned from skilled professions, putting doctors, lawyers, architects, and engineers out of work. They could not own radios or enter public buildings. They could not visit popular vacation spots. Music composed by Jews could not be broadcast on the radio.