The Secret of Altamura: Nazi Crimes, Italian Treasure Page 3

  Gustave was disappointed to learn about the young man's family history, but not surprised by the well-known crimes that had been committed in the name of Aryan supremacy.

  “My grandmother gave me a journal that he left, a small leather-bound book in which he listed all his acquisitions. The journal describes the piece, the place where it once resided, and the day that he took possession of it. I have been working from this journal, piecing together my grandfather's movements, and attempting to locate each of the pieces that he stole, trying to find the rightful owners. Sometimes, the art belongs to a church and, if it wasn't bombed out during the war, I can return the work to the pastor. Sometimes, the art belongs to a family. That's the hardest part, because so many people were killed or uprooted during the war that it's harder to find them than it is to find the churches that he looted.”

  Martin's mind wandered back to more satisfying memories of the art pieces that he had found and returned. He had averted his eyes from the questioning looks on the faces of the young priests taking possession of the paintings and small sculptures, not wanting to let the guilt shine through his eyes.

  “Sometimes the work of art wound up in another's possession where it has remained so long that it is nearly impossible – legally, anyway – to wrest it from its current holders.” Martin and Gustave were both painfully aware of the long-running court battles fought by the victims of these crimes to regain personal possessions that had been taken by the Germans decades before.

  Martin struggled most with this last category of theft, knowing that he had limited resources or legal power to return those to their rightful owners in Italy.

  Gustave laid a hand on the young man's arm. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing, sir. But I want to continue my quest, I want to make amends for my grandfather's sins, and find a way to return the art and other possessions that he stole from the Italian people.”

  “This was difficult for you to admit,” Gustave assured his protégé, “and I'm sure even more difficult for you to live with. Go, Martin, find these great works, but keep me posted. Art is truly a world in itself, and finding great works that can be returned to their proper place does us all a service. We don't have to own the pieces ourselves.”

  Chapter 7

  A Long Stressful Night

  Martin drove the short distance through Berlin to his home. He pulled the car to the curb and parked, but sat for some time without exiting the vehicle. He reached into his briefcase and withdrew his grandfather's old journal, thumbing through the pages, glancing occasionally at the descriptions of the stolen art.

  Then he flipped back in the book to the final pages that contained notes of a great treasure in southern Italy. Anselm Bernhardt had only rumors to go on, and the contents of the cache were not even well laid out, but the old colonel's desire poured forth from the words on the page. Martin stared long at the entries, wondering what his grandfather was after.

  Finally, he put the journal back in the briefcase and stepped out of the car. Martin had already decided to talk to his wife about this tonight, as he had told his mentor at the museum. He didn't doubt Gustave's sincerity; the atrocities of the Nazi regime were facts the German people had dealt with for decades. They were ashamed of them, but also convinced the Third Reich didn't reflect the true German spirit.

  Still, facing the sins of the past was not going to be easy. Martin was particularly upset that his country's disgrace was deeply linked to his own family. Now he had to raise this issue with his wife.

  Margrit was the sweetest woman he had ever met. She possessed a simple charm and grace that drew him to her from their first date. She believed in the goodness of human beings and was the very antithesis of the evil spread by her countrymen during World War II. In fact, it was precisely this natural benevolence and good nature that would make it so difficult for Martin to tell her what his grandfather had done.

  She knew that Martin's family had been heavily involved in the Third Reich. She also knew that Anselm had been a colonel in the Nazi army. But her knowledge of his life and career was limited to the colonel's assignment as an art expert, charged with collecting great art and protecting it from the ravages of the war.

  Margrit hadn't been told that Anselm was a thief; that his requisition of great art was for felonious purposes, not protection; nor that he had deceived his superior officers by keeping many of the artworks for himself.

  And she didn't know about Anselm's rape of Italian women or about the black leather book where he recorded the theft of Italian art as well as young women's honor.

  As he walked slowly across the street and up the stairs to their apartment, Martin struggled with how to tell his wife about his family's past. She knew of his travels to Italy but only the same short version that Martin had given Gustave before that day, to explain the several trips to Italy over the preceding three years. Now that he had decided to clear the air with Margrit, ask her forgiveness for the deception, and hope that her goodness would prevail, he could only hope that she would understand and not conclude his grandfather's character flaws were part of his own makeup.

  He reached for the doorknob of their apartment, turned it clockwise, and pushed the wooden door open. The aromas of the night's dinner enveloped him and, as he closed the door behind him, he heard the soft notes of Chopin's Sonata in B flat minor. Margrit liked to listen to the classics, Chopin most of all.

  The aromas created by Margrit's cooking and the soft sounds created by Chopin soothed Martin's spirit for a moment. He greeted his wife with a kiss on the cheek and wrapped his arm around her waist while looking over her shoulder to see what was on the stove. Margrit smiled but then saw something in his eyes that troubled her.

  “What's the matter, darling?” she asked.

  Martin shrugged, content for the moment to put off the sordid conversation. He helped Margrit set the table and serve the food. After they both sat down at their little wooden dining table in the room, she stared expectantly at him while he poured the wine, but waited quietly until he offered the reason for his mood.

  “I met with Professor Gustave today,” he began. Martin stuck the tines of the fork into the food on his plate, stirred the peas around a bit, then continued.

  “My grandfather, Anselm Bernhard, you know who he was?”

  “Yes, of course. What about him?”

  “My grandmother, his wife, gave me a journal that Anselm kept during the war.”

  “Okay, but she died three years ago. What does the journal say?”

  “Anselm kept it as a diary of sorts. You know he collected art from around Italy during the war.”

  “To preserve it, right?” That was the story Margrit wanted to believe but she suddenly flushed and a sense of dread enveloped her.

  “He wrote down all the works of art and other items he took from the Italian people. He stole those things, Margrit, he wasn't trying to protect them from the war.”

  She paused.

  “Did he keep them?” she asked in a voice slightly above a whisper.

  “What?”

  “DID he keep them? The artworks?” she pressed.

  “Yes, well no, not all of them. He kept some and sent truckloads to Berlin for the Führer, and the officers of the Third Reich.”

  Martin took a sip of wine and swallowed hard.

  “My grandfather did not engage in any of the slaughter, but he is not blameless, either. My grandmother read his journal and learned there was more in there than just the description of stolen art. Included were references to women…women that he had affairs with while he was in Italy.”

  “He was having affairs? He was married to your grandmother at the time! He was unfaithful?”

  Martin wished that he could call it 'just' adultery.

  “These weren't exactly affairs,” he began, taking a deep breath. “War is no excuse for what he did, but invading armies often abuse the victims of the invasion.” He knew he was beating around the bush, so he tried again. />
  “Anselm Bernhard took the spoils of war, art and women, for his pleasure. He stole the art and forced the women to sleep with him.”

  Margrit stared at Martin, but he couldn't meet her eyes.

  “I didn't know anything about this until just before Grandmother's death. She had the journal and she read through it, discovering the crimes her husband had committed. She kept his secret all these years but, when she was very sick, she told me about Anselm's conduct during the war.

  “She said, 'Martin, I can't return what he stole from these women, but I want you to help me return the art he stole from their families.' She gave me the journal and told me to study it carefully. She wanted me to know about his debauchery. She wanted me to hate him. But Grandmother also said she wanted me to develop a firm resolve to repair what my grandfather had done to the people of Italy.

  “For the last few years, on my trips to Italy, I have found some art and I have been able to uncover the church or, in some instances, the families that deserve to be compensated, and I have done so.”

  “Have you met any of the women?” Margrit asked. It was not an unexpected question, and Martin was prepared.

  “No, I haven't looked for them. Such crimes cannot be wiped away by my actions. He is paying for them in hell.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I will return to Italy again. I have found notes in the back of the journal, oddly separated from the rest of the notes alluding to a great treasure that my grandfather hunted for, maybe never found – a cache of immense value hidden in a rocky plateau area called “the Murge” in the heel of Italy, near a town called Altamura.”

  “If he didn't find it, why must you look for it? It must be safe,” Margrit said.

  “Yes, probably, but his notes have raised my suspicions. Instead of a streaming narrative, the notes on the Murge are cryptic, drawings, and some writing in Latin, Italian, and even Hebrew. It's obvious that this held a special interest for the old bastard, and I want to be sure that he didn't find it and hide it somewhere.”

  “Are you sure you're not as obsessed as your grandfather?”

  Magrit's question startled Martin, and he looked down at the napkin on his lap, somewhat embarrassed that his wife would cast doubt on him.

  “Yes, I'm sure. But I want to find the treasure of the Murge nevertheless.” And now even he doubted his motives.

  With that, Martin rose and left the table, having barely eaten his dinner. Margrit knew her husband was a good man, and that he was grappling with this strange and troubling information, so she said no more.

  He wandered off into the office at the back of the apartment, then stood by the window peering out into the darkness. Martin thought back to Margrit's words, about whether he was just as obsessed as Anselm about the treasure in southern Italy. He had been quick to respond; a delayed reply would have left his wife suspicious of his intentions, but Martin had more trouble denying it to himself.

  Chapter 8

  Bustling Through Da Vinci Airport, Rome

  Carlo's return to life all'Italiana began at Rome's Da Vinci Airport. Also known locally as Fiumicino, it is a crossroad for both American and European travel, where the Old and New Worlds seem to greet and shake hands. The bustle of commerce, the jostling of foreign visitors, cigarette smoke mingling with perfume, espresso, and Italian food leaves an indelible impression on everyone who passes through its terminals. Arriving here on an international flight is almost like stepping out of a wormhole of time into a world that was at once mysterious and exotic, yet familiar and comforting.

  On the tracks of the inter-city train that connected the airport with Rome itself, Carlo lifted his luggage onto the waiting car. The hiss of the train announced its intention to embark, as the wheels slowly creaked into motion. It was a calm twenty minute ride to Rome Termini, the train station that served as the hub for transportation into and around the city. Recovering his bags, Carlo disembarked from the car and walked toward the exterior of the public arrivals area. He stepped out onto the curb and gazed at the ancient buildings what circled the train station in a welcoming embrace.

  Carlo took a moment to gather it all in. His last visit to Italy was four years earlier, but he still had powerful memories of the trip. Now, he couldn't resist smiling as he watched the people rushing by; listening to the distinct sounds of this ancient city that blended church bells, car horns, pop music, and police sirens; and he breathed in the scents of Italian urban life. The intimate words shared between a passing couple seemed to be whispers to Carlo himself, welcoming him back to a world that he knew was so different from his home in America.

  After letting it all sink in, Carlo walked the few blocks to the hotel he had used during his latest stay, the Hotel Venezia on Via Varese.

  In America, the streets around train stations are not always the most attractive. But in Italy, as in the rest of Europe, the neighborhoods surrounding these centers of transportation nearly pulsate with the melodies of daily life. So Carlo had chosen a hotel that was within walking distance to restaurants and commerce, dispensing with the need for a taxi.

  Once he deposited his luggage in his hotel, Carlo washed up quickly in the hallway bathroom then, feeling suddenly rejuvenated, returned to the streets to soak in the atmosphere of Rome.

  His hotel was only a short walk from the Coliseum, ground zero for ancient Roman life and, most definitely, for every one of Carlo's visits to the city. Tickets had been required for many years, a feeble attempt to control access and, thereby, limit pedestrian damage to the ancient site, but security had tightened since Carlo's last visit, including bag checks and posted guards, a fact he deeply regretted since he liked to begin his return to Italy with a thoughtful meditation on the upper deck of the amphitheater.

  Higher ticket prices and longer lines due to security killed that thought, but Carlo shrugged it off. He would stay overnight before catching a train to the south, so he would have time to visit other favorite haunts in Rome that usually made up his itinerary. Some of it would be rushed, and he didn't want to feel cheated of the time he could spend, so he decided to limit his attention to only a few Roman landmarks that day.

  He walked to a spot on a street above the Roman Forum that allowed an unfettered view of the ancient ruins below, and one that tour-book-toting tourists wouldn't discover on the pages of their guidebooks. He leaned against a crumbling stone wall and considered the ruined glory that stretched below him. Unlike the Coliseum, where events centered around gladiator battles and the slaying of prisoners and wild animals, the Forum was the center of government, politics, and commerce in ancient Rome. The buildings were gone, but many columns still remained along with the excavated footprint of great halls. From his lofty aerie, Carlo could easily make out the lanes and buildings that had once stood there.

  After contemplating that – and his own great luck to be once again in the Eternal City – Carlo wandered off in search of wine and relaxation. He took the long way around, circling Piazza Venezia to get a view of the massive, early 20th century monument to Italy's first king, Vittorio Emanuele II, that the Romans know call the “wedding cake” because of its balanced proportions, gleaming white façade, and strict symmetry.

  From there, Carlo passed through Piazza del Pantheon, smiling at the throngs of tourists who pushed through the doors of that venerable monument which for its 2,000 year history had variously served religious and public functions. The cafés that dotted this piazza were predictably filled with tourists. He continued on to his favorite spot in the city, Piazza Navona. That, too, was a magnet for tourists, but he couldn't resist its draw.

  Carlo knew that drinks and light snacks were cheaper served to the people standing at the bar, but he was feeling a bit of jet lag and willing to pay a bit more to sit down. Finding an empty table at Café Bernini on this long, oval piazza, he took a seat and waited patiently for some attention from the wait staff. Italians are famous for being friendly and accommodating people, a well
-earned reputation that waiters did not necessarily copy. Waiting at a table for service is a frequent problem, but it is an irritation only to those not expecting it. Carlo was prepared, so he sat relaxed and enjoyed the spectacle of Rome's daily life.

  A few moments later, a waiter appeared.

  “Buon giorno,” he said curtly, tossing a cocktail napkin on the table.

  “Campari and soda,” Carlo said, realizing too late that he resorted to English, but knowing the waiter would understand.

  “Subito,” said the man, spinning on his heel and retreating to the interior of the café.

  Then, just as quickly, he returned with a short tumbler of red liquid and a slice of orange. A little bowl of marinated olives completed the order and Carlo settled down to one of his favorite treats in Italy: an afternoon of sunshine, a chilled Campari, and Italy's native fruit – the olive – all complemented by the sights and sounds of the Romani in the piazza.

  After a short while and another Campari and soda, Carlo reluctantly gave up his seat. He knew that he needed a bit more time in the hotel to clean up and thought a brief nap before dinner would be therapeutic.

  Chapter 9

  Allied Forces Invade Sicily, July 1943

  Hell came to North Africa in June of 1940 when Mussolini declared war on the colonial governments there. The battles were fought mainly in Libya, Tunisia, and parts of Egypt. This was prior to the United States entering the war, so the British were left practically alone to fight the Italian army in a see-saw war that had battlefields and cities changing hands several times over a three-year period.

  In the months bridging late-1940 and early-1941, mounting losses suffered by the Italian army presaged a decline of Mussolini's campaign in North Africa. So Germany dispatched Field Marshall Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps to shore up the Italian invasion of the continent. Together, the Axis troops fought a long, costly battle against the British, whose forces were strengthened by the entry of the United States into the war in late-1941. The U.S. quickly deployed forces and weaponry to North Africa, pushing the German and Italian military into a series of crippling defeats that resulted in the surrender of the Axis powers on the African continent in the embattled city of Tunisia.