Playing With Fire (10 page)

“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 chinaware 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.”

“Why is he here?”

“I don’t know. That’s what frightens me. He seems to know far too much about us. He claims he wants to help, if only Papa will cooperate.” She turned off the light, and with the room now dark, she dared to open the curtain. Peering out the window she said, “I don’t see anyone in the street, but they still might be watching the house.” She turned to him. “You can’t leave now. It’s not safe out there.”

“I need to go home. I need to warn my family.”

“There’s nothing you can do for them, Lorenzo. Not tonight.” She paused as the sound of men’s laughter rumbled up from the dining room. “Papa knows how to handle this. Yes, he’s good at it.” She seemed to take courage from that certainty. “He can charm anyone.”

So can you
. In the darkness, all he could see was her silhouette, framed by the window. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many secrets he wanted to confess, but despair swallowed up his words.

“You have to stay here. Really, would that be so terrible?” she asked with a soft laugh. “To be trapped with me tonight?” She turned to look at him, and as their gazes met in the darkness, she went still.

He grasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Laura,” he whispered. That was all he said, just her name. With that one word, spoken so tenderly, he revealed all his secrets.

And she heard them. As she stepped toward him, his arms were already open to welcome her. The taste of her lips was as intoxicating as wine, and he could not have enough of her, could never have enough. They both knew that heartache would surely come of this, but the flames had already leapt beyond their control, fed by five years of separation and longing.

Breathless, they both came up for air and stared at each other in the darkness. Moonlight shone in through the gap in the curtain, illuminating one glorious sliver of Laura’s face.

“How I missed you,” she whispered. “I wrote so many letters, telling you what I felt.”

“I never got them.”

“Because I tore them up. I couldn’t bear the thought that you didn’t feel the same way.”

“I did.” He framed her face in his hands. “Oh Laura, I did.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

“After everything that happened, I couldn’t imagine that we’d ever be…”

“Ever be together?”

He sighed and his hands dropped to his sides. “Tonight, it seems more impossible than ever.”

“Lorenzo,” she whispered and pressed her lips to his, not a kiss of desire but reassurance. “It will never happen if we don’t imagine it first. So that’s what we must do.”

“I want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“And that’s why you stayed away from me.”

“I have nothing to offer. What can I promise you?”

“Things will change! The world may be insane now, but it won’t stay that way. There are too many good people. We’ll make it all right again.”

“Is that what your father tells you?”

“It’s what I believe. It’s what I
have
to believe, or there’s nothing left to hope for, and I can’t live without hope.”

Now he smiled, too. “My ferocious Laura. Did you know I was once afraid of you?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “Papa says I must learn not to be so frightening.”

“But that’s why I love you.”

“And do you know why I love you?”

He shook his head. “I can’t imagine.”

“Because
you’re
fierce, too. About your music, about your family. About things that matter. At Ca’ Foscari, I met so many boys who told me they want to be rich or famous, or they want a holiday house in the country. But those are just things to
want,
not things to
care
about.”

“And were you ever tempted by one of those boys? Even a little?”

“How could I be? I could only think about you, standing onstage that night. How confident you were, how commanding. When you played, I could hear your soul singing to mine.” She pressed her forehead against his. “I’ve never felt that with anyone else. Only you.”

“I don’t know when I’ll return. I can’t ask you to wait.”

“Remember what I said? It will never happen if we don’t imagine it first. So that’s what we must do: picture ourselves together someday in the future. I think you’ll look quite distinguished when you’re older! You’ll have silver hair, here and here.” She touched his temples. “When you smile, you’ll have handsome creases around your eyes. You’ll wear funny spectacles, just like Papa does.”