As he got older, he began to ask more questions about his family and the massacre on Monte Sole. I found it very difficult to talk to him about these things, and only gave him curt answers and so I suspect he asked his mother for more details.
Moreno, according to his school reports, was considered an average student and therefore had decided not to stay on and try for university. So, when the time came for him to leave school at the age of eighteen and find a job, he was delighted. It didn’t take him long to find work. A large estate outside Bologna was looking for an estate warden, and to his delight, he was successful. His job was to control the wildlife on the estate that could endanger the farm stock; foxes in particular. He was also to prevent poachers stealing fish from the river, and laying traps for the wild animals, and because he loved the countryside so much, this was his dream job and I was happy for him. Maria was also happy as it meant he would continue staying at home, at least for the meantime.
It was early in 1980 when Moreno and I had our first real conversation about the events on Monte Sole. It was after our evening meal and I was sitting at the table enjoying an espresso when Moreno said, ‘Papà, I went with some friends to Monte Sole yesterday and I visited Marzabotto. We also went to the cemetery at Casaglia.’
It was strange hearing those names from my son’s lips, and I wasn’t sure what to say in return. I looked at Moreno in silence as he continued. ‘I understand, Papà, that you still feel the pain of what happened, but I wanted you to know that I also feel the pain. It was my family as well.’
He got up from his seat and hugged me. I felt the tears well up from deep within me and I cried on his chest like a baby. This was my twenty-year old son telling me that he felt the pain as well, and that I wasn’t alone in it anymore. I had carried it for thirty-six years, and it’s true what people say that a burden shared is a burden halved. I cried on his chest as I had never cried before. What had been bottled up inside of me came flooding out in a torrent of tears. I found that I was now able to talk to him about the massacre in a way that I could not with anyone else because it was also his family, his blood, as well as mine, that was spilled that fateful day. Even though my son and I had always been close, this was a new bond being forged between us. A bonding of two men joined by a common tragedy and I have to say it did help me a little further along the road.
I was in the habit of visiting my local market once or twice a week when my shifts in the hotel allowed it. I liked to cook with fresh vegetables and various rare cuts of meat that were sometimes difficult to find in the shops. I also enjoyed the banter with the stall holders and I usually passed some time talking to some of the local people I knew. One day, as I was standing at a stall waiting to be served, a stranger pushed his way past me and began shouting, quite aggressively, in broken Italian to the stall holder. Old Franco, the stall holder, had apparently made a mistake with the stranger’s change and he was now enraged. I had known Franco for many years and I knew that he was as honest as the day is long. I listened to the stranger’s accent and realised that he was German. I could see that Franco was quite shaken by the verbal abuse the German was giving him so I decided to intervene. I tapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Please don’t shout at the old man like that, it’s obviously just a mistake.’
The German turned to face me and with anger filling his eyes said, ‘What the hell has this to do with you? This old thief owes me money, so just clear off.’
He gave me a shove which moved me back a few feet. The thought ran quickly through my head: the days when Germans could come to Italy and act like this are over. I’ll teach him a lesson.
A red haze came over me and, before I knew what I was doing, I sprang forward and struck the German with two powerful punches to the face. He went down and I stood over him and said, ‘Don’t think you Germans can come to Italy and do what you want anymore. If you need more convincing, then just stand up.’ I peeled a few lira notes from my pocket and threw them at him. ‘This should cover Franco’s mistake. Take it and go home.’ The German just lay there on the ground looking at me in amazement, but he had the good sense to stay down. I turned and walked away. My mind was churning. Did I hit him because of his attitude to Franco, or did I hit him because he was a German? Would I have been so angry if he had been an Italian?
I reckoned that there was a mixture of both in there, but the one thing I couldn’t deny was that I enjoyed thumping him.
At last, the news that I had been hoping for came through. I had passed my civil service exams and had been accepted as a junior administrator in the department of employment in Bologna. The salary was a lot more than what I had been earning as a waiter at the Principessa, including my tips, and it meant that we could now afford things that we never could before. Another factor was I would not have to work crazy shift hours in the hotel anymore. When I told Italo that I was leaving, I could see that he was sorry to lose me, however we promised to keep in touch and to meet regularly for a coffee or a glass of wine at one of the many bars in the city.
It was a Saturday morning in 1984 when we were having a morning coffee together in a new Café not far from the city centre when we saw in the newspapers that Reder had written an open letter to the Italian Government apologising for the atrocity on Monte Sole and asking for forgiveness from the Italian people. This was followed up over the next few weeks by a campaign orchestrated by the Catholic Church and the Austrian Government to have Reder released back into society. Italo and I watched this develop with great interest. We even discussed if Reder was released if we should attempt to kill him, or whether he had paid enough for his crime with the thirty-three years to date he had spent in prison. It was only idle talk, but it brought to my mind Hans Kuller. If I could find out where he was, then I would go there and kill him with great pleasure and without a moment’s hesitation.
Italo seemed to voice my thoughts, ‘Would you kill Reder if you had the chance?’
I thought for a moment. ‘He wasn’t on the mountain during the massacre. I know he did the planning and gave the order for the rastrallemento but he has served a long prison sentence as a punishment for that.’
‘What about Kuller?’
‘He’s a different matter. He killed unarmed civilians for pleasure, not just once but probably hundreds of times. He killed them in the most horrific ways imaginable, and he made no distinction between men, women and children. He deserves to be killed and if I could find him I would kill him without a second thought.’
‘It’s strange, Bruno, that we were killing these people legally during the war, but as soon as some Generals signed a piece of paper ending the conflict, our fight against them had to stop, even though some atrocities personal to us still go unpunished.’ He took a sip of his coffee as we sat together in a silence, only broken by the murmur of voices around us.
I was the first to speak. ‘The signing of that paper could change me from being a heroic partisan to a murderer in the eyes of the State. It’s all a matter of perception and timing. I believe that my quest for justice was thwarted by this so-called peace, and that I cannot personally find peace until Kuller has paid for his crimes.’
We held each other’s gaze for some time and I felt Italo’s eyes burn deep within me, until he finally spoke. ‘The Stella Rosa partisans who were killed that day were armed fighters and knew well the risk they took fighting the tedeschi, but the villagers were different. I knew many of them as friends.’ He stopped speaking for a moment as he choked up with emotion. ‘I promise you Bruno, if we find out where Kuller is, I will go with you to kill that piece of shit and, if need be, I’ll be prepared to be called a murderer by the State.’
We stood up and embraced each other as the tears ran down our faces, merging into one. I sometimes look back at that moment and think how it was so like the ancient initiation ceremonies of pricking fingers and merging blood to symbolise the bond of a familial blood line. We had always been friends but now we were as one, with the same desire to see
justice finally won for our friends and family.
Chapter 8
Kuller soon found a job in a small bakery not far from where he was born. The owner was someone Kuller knew from their Nazi party days in the city and who Kuller knew was still sympathetic to the extreme right wing ethos. He worked hard in the bakery and soon earned the owner’s respect. He was even offered a room over the bakery in the family house, which Kuller readily accepted.
He also saw an opportunity to ingratiate himself further by making advances to the owner’s daughter, who was not exactly a pretty girl. One night, when they were in the house alone, Kuller made his move and after a few drinks he seduced her. The girl, whose name was Gertrude, was so overjoyed at such a handsome man finding her attractive that she readily entered into an affair with Kuller. It wasn’t before long that she found herself pregnant with his child. Gertrude, with Kuller not far behind her, approached her father with the news. The father, being a pragmatist, realised that he had two choices for his not-so-attractive daughter. The first being a daughter with a child and no husband. The second being a daughter with a husband and a father for the child. He quickly gave them his blessing.
In Kuller’s eyes, there was no such thing as romance or love: only duty and honour and so he proved himself a good provider for his family. The baker, who was getting on in age, turned a blind eye to the occasional bruising he saw on Gertrude’s face and body. After all, what a husband and wife did in private was no concern of his.
For Kuller, the world around him had turned into something he despised. What with the partition of his beloved Fatherland into two separate countries and the Jews being allowed to return to Germany, he strongly felt the injustice of it all. Now the Jews even have their own country called Israel, which was supported by Americans and the United Nations. What next? A Jewish Chancellor in Germany?
The one thing that he really looked forward to was the quarterly gathering of his former comrades in the SS. The 16th Waffen SS Old Comrades Association. They met in hotels throughout West Germany and Austria with the strict rule that no outsiders were allowed to attend, especially members of the press. After one such meeting in 1978 in Frankfurt, Kuller and a few ex-comrades were drinking in their hotel bar in the city centre, and were still in celebratory mode after their meeting, when he saw a man wearing a Jewish skullcap walking past them in the bar. Kuller, fuelled by alcohol, threw all caution to the wind and attacked him. He never even spoke a word to him. He waited until he was just passing before he turned to face him and smashed his glass tumbler on the bar and thrust it into the Jews face, much to the amusement of his other comrades. The Jew fell to the ground in agony and Kuller, apparently not satisfied with the result of his unprovoked attack, stood on the man’s face grinding the glass further into his wounds. The police were called and Kuller was arrested. He was handcuffed and spent the night in a police cell. The following morning, he appeared before a Magistrate and pleaded guilty. He was given a three-year sentence. The Magistrate said in his summation of the case, ‘In all my years on the bench I have never witnessed such savagery. Your victim is permanently blinded by your attack and faces life as a disabled man. I am also appalled by your lack of contrition and I have no hesitation in sentencing you to the maximum sentence I am allowed by law to give; a three-year prison term to be served in all its entirety.’ Kuller showed no emotion as he was led away. There was a time in this country when I would have received a commendation for what I did! – he thought - Curse these Jewish vermin and their allies. They have deceived the world into thinking they are the victims of a conspiracy against them, when the truth is they are the ones who have formed a world-wide Zionist conspiracy to control the worlds banking systems.
For Kuller to be in the disciplined environment of a prison was no great shock or ordeal. Because he had spent many years as a disciplined soldier taking orders, he felt no great discomfort meeting the requirements of the prison regime. His fellow inmates were unsure of how to approach him at first because of his obvious size and strength, and he simply became known as “the quiet man” to the prison population. Kuller’s approach to prison servitude was simply to do his time and to do it without bitterness. He was guilty as charged but in his eyes, he couldn’t understand all the fuss surrounding the attack: after all, it was only a Jew he had assaulted.
He took to physical exercise as a duck takes to water. He found it the perfect release for his pent-up frustration at being cooped up in prison.
One afternoon, as he was training, a new guard he hadn’t seen before came on duty in the gym. Kuller watched as he made his rounds introducing himself to all the inmates exercising there. When he came to Kuller he stopped and said, ‘Hello, what’s your name?’ Kuller looked at him and stopped his training on the barbells. ‘My name is Hans Kuller, guard. What’s yours?’
The guard gave a smile and said ‘My name is Guard Cohen.’
Kuller stared at him with obvious hatred in his eyes. ‘Are you a Jew?’
The Guard’s smile vanished as he said, ‘Is that a problem, Kuller?’
‘It certainly is, I didn’t think we had missed any of you bastards so it’s a surprise to find one left.’
Cohen moved closer to Kuller and said, ‘Remember, Kuller, the roles are reversed now. I’m in authority here, not you bloody Nazis.’
Kuller smiled at him, ‘How could I forget, Guard Cohen. Just watch your back.’
Cohen turned on his heels and walked out the gym.
Later that night, Kuller heard the sound of voices gathered outside his cell. His instincts told him it meant he was in trouble. He had just stood up to face the door, when it opened and Guard Cohen stood there with three other guards. Cohen turned to Kuller’s cellmate and said ‘Take a walk with the guard; we want to have a chat with your friend.’ When the prisoner had left with his escort, Cohen turned to Kuller saying ‘Is there anything else you would like to mention about me being Jewish, you piece of shit?’ Kuller laughed in his face, ‘Pity your people didn’t show the same bravery when they went to their deaths like lambs.’
Cohen and his two companions entered the cell and closed the door behind them. They then set about Kuller with their batons, taking care not to hit his face. The blows fell on his shoulders, sides and midriff until Kuller fell to the ground winded and in pain. He never cried out or asked them to stop the beating. It just wasn’t in his makeup to ask for mercy. Cohen then kicked him a few times in the groin, just as a parting gift.
When they had finished with the beating, Guard Cohen stood over Kuller and said, ‘Is there anything else you would like to say, Kuller?’
Kuller slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position and looked Cohen directly in the eye before saying, ‘No Guard Cohen, I’ve said all I ever want to say to you.’
Cohen and his friends left him on the floor and locked the cell door after them.
When his cellmate came back, he asked Kuller what had happened to him. Kuller stared at him before answering, ‘I fell off the top bunk and I think I must have broken a few ribs.’
Word soon got round the other prisoners that Kuller was a marked man with the guards. He never told anyone what happened that night, and he never gave an opinion on any of the Guards. He just bided his time for an opportunity to strike back.
As he lay in his cell, he worked on a plan and finally after a few days he was ready to put it into action.
Every morning, at the beginning of the working day, the prisoners had to stand outside their cells for inspection by the guards, and Kuller had worked it out that it was Cohen’s turn to inspect the prisoners every fourth day. His cell was on the upper floor at the end of a row beside a metal staircase leading to the ground floor, and on the appointed morning when Cohen was inspecting the prisoners, Kuller was standing waiting on him approaching him. When he did, he briefly stopped in front of Kuller and said, ‘Well, is there anything you would like to say to me?’
Kuller just shook his head and just stared at the ground.
As Cohen walked past him to use the stairway, Kuller timed his move to perfection. He stuck his foot out in front of Cohen’s legs, causing him to stumble and fall head first down the staircase. He bounced a couple of times off some metal treads and lay on the ground with his neck sitting at a strange angle.
Kuller could see that the fall had killed Cohen outright. The prison authorities interviewed all the prisoners on the upper floor and asked them what they had seen. No one had noticed anything unusual and certainly hadn’t seen Kuller’s leg trip the guard. When Kuller was interviewed, he told them he had seen nothing except Guard Cohen flying past him down the staircase. The prison authorities held an official enquiry into the “accident” and even though they suspected Kuller’s involvement, they couldn’t pin anything on him. The official verdict on Cohen’s death was that it was accidental and that no prisoner was involved. Kuller kept quiet on the “accident” and never even hinted to anyone that he had anything to do with it. In his own mind, he thought thatmust be the only benefit that democracy offers, that you are innocent until proven guilty.
Once again, the prison grapevine told the story that he had killed Cohen and that the other prison guards involved in the beating would be next.
Legacy of Sorrows Page 7