Read Online Playing With Fire by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page A

Poland—”
    “It won’t happen here,” said Alberto.
    “You have too much faith in the regime.”
    “Do you really expect us to leave? Where would we all go?”
    “Portugal or Spain. Perhaps Switzerland.”
    “And how will we feed ourselves in Switzerland?” Alberto pointed to his son-in-law, who was clearly struggling to process this new upheaval in their lives. “Bruno has loyal clients. He spent his whole life building a reputation.”
    “We won’t leave,” Bruno abruptly declared. He sat up straight and looked at his wife. “Your father is right. Why should we leave? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
    “But these rumors,” said Eloisa. “Think of Pia in a labor camp….”
    “Would it be better for her to starve in Switzerland?”
    “Oh my God. I don’t know what we should do.”
    But Bruno did. This was his household, and although he seldom asserted himself, now he made it clear that he was in charge. “I won’t leave everything I’ve worked for. My shop is here, my clients are here. And Lorenzo has his violin students. Together, we can make do.”
    Alberto placed a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Good, we’re in agreement, then. We stay.”
    Balboni sighed. “I know it was a drastic suggestion that you leave the country, but I had to speak my mind. If events should accelerate, if conditions suddenly grow worse, there may not be another chance to leave. This could be the best opportunity you’ll have.” He rose from the table. “I’m sorry to have brought you this news, my friend. But I wanted to prepare you, before you hear it from anyone else.” He looked at Lorenzo. “Come, young man, take a walk with me. Let’s discuss how your rehearsals with Laura are going.”
    Lorenzo followed him outside, but the professor didn’t say a word as they walked together toward the canal. He seemed deep in thought, his hands clasped behind him, his brow furrowed.
    “I don’t want to leave Italy, either,” said Lorenzo.
    Balboni shot him a distracted look, as if surprised he was still there beside him. “No, of course you don’t. No one wants to be uprooted. I wouldn’t expect you to say otherwise.”
    “Yet you advise us to leave.”
    Professor Balboni halted in the narrow street and faced him. “You are a levelheaded boy, Lorenzo. Unlike your brother Marco, who I fear will do something rash and bring disaster down on all your heads. Your grandfather has always spoken highly of you. I’ve seen for myself that you have great promise as a musician, and as a man. Which is why I urge you to pay attention to what’s happening all around us. Whatever your brother’s faults, at least he sees the pattern that’s developing. So should you.”
    “The pattern?”
    “Have you not noticed how all the newspapers now speak with one voice, and that voice is raised against Jews? The movement has been building steadily for years. A newspaper editorial here, an official memorandum there. As if this is all a carefully planned campaign.”
    “Grandfather says it’s just ignorant people making noise.”
    “Beware the ignorant, Lorenzo. They’re the most dangerous enemy of all, because they are everywhere.”
    —
    They did not speak of the matter when Lorenzo came to rehearse the following Wednesday, nor on the Wednesday after that. He dined with the Balbonis both times, but their conversations over dinner were strictly about music: the latest records they had listened to. What did Lorenzo think about Shostakovich? Did everyone plan to see the new musical comedy with Vittorio De Sica? And how sad to hear that the distinguished luthier Oreste Candi had passed away in Genoa. It was as if they were trying their best to avoid talking about the storm clouds gathering over their heads, so instead they chattered about the pleasant and the trivial.
    Yet the subject still lurked in the room, as ominous as the grim face of Alda, who silently slipped in and out, clearing the table between courses. Lorenzo