The Secret of Altamura: Nazi Crimes, Italian Treasure

by Dick Rosano

  “Did you know that during medieval times, the leaders of this fair city stole the bones of saints? Venice, spectacular though it is, centered its efforts on collecting relics from dead Christians – bones, hair, and the like, to attract God-fearing pilgrims.”

  Hilgendorf knew some of this, but remained silent, knowing that Bernhard would prefer to deliver the lecture himself.

  Standing up and stepping around the desk, Bernhard continued.

  “I don't know who was more dim-witted,” he smirked, “the collectors of these shards of anatomy, or the dullards who thought possessing them could bring everlasting life.

  Once Bernhard finished his soliloquy, he fell silent, ready now to learn the purpose of his junior officer's visit.

  “Commander Bragen has ordered that we hold the detachment here, or go no further south than Rome at this point.”

  The colonel considered the instructions, rubbed his chin, then turned back to his desk.

  “Why is that?” he asked.

  “There's more fighting in the south, and Bragen thinks that you don't like the battlefield.”

  Hilgendorf lowered his eyes, knowing that reporting a perceived weakness of Bernhard's was risky.

  “I'm fine with fighting,” the colonel replied stiffly, unable or unwilling to look his inferior in the eye. Bernhard shifted in his stance, and a random hand wave signaled his reluctance to take this conversation further.

  “But I see no reason to risk our lives for a battle that others can wage. Our job is to preserve the art works of this great culture for the Third Reich.” His sarcasm was not lost on Hilgendorf who knew Bernhard's selfish aims too well to believe that last phrase.

  “We'll head south toward Rome, through Perugia where Etruscan treasures abound, and collect what we can along the way. Prepare a communiqué to the Berlin office informing them of our plans.”

  Hilgendorf snapped his heels together and saluted “Heil Hitler.” Bernhard returned the salute absent-mindedly and ignored the lieutenant as he left the room.

  Chapter 4

  The Outskirts of Rome, June 2, 1943

  The villa Colonel Bernhard had commandeered for himself and his men was on a hill in the outskirts of Rome. It was a magnificent structure, which the German officer thought he was entitled to, with broad terraces looking across the narrow valley that separated the estate from the buzz of life in the Eternal City.

  The terrace that fronted the best view had with a stone portico, supported by great columns made of Carrara marble. A long wooden table and a dozen chairs served Bernhard when he desired to entertain his troops. This night he did, to celebrate the day's capture of this splendid villa and to allow the men the opportunity to remind the colonel of how popular he was among them.

  But the meal would have been incomplete without a bevy of young Italian women who cooked and served it. Not all these beauties would be handed to his men. Bernhard planned to choose his own, but he wouldn't mind if arrangements were made for some of the others to entertain his troops when dinner was over.

  Food was becoming scarce as the war raged on, and the women chosen to serve the German detachment knew this from personal experience. Bernhard pressed them to find ample servings for his men, a requirement that reminded the women of their own privation.

  Numerous magnums of wine and platters of marinated vegetables from the local gardens began the feast. The young women, like most Italian girls, learned to cook from childhood and were skilled in the dishes of Lazio. In this case, they were also supported by less lovely elders relegated to kitchen tasks.

  The evening began with bruschetta topped with fresh chopped tomatoes and slivers of red onion marinated in oil and herbs, a type of calzone colloquially called calascioni that was stuffed with ricotta, and a fried cheese side dish called provatura fritta. Filone, a regional bread that is a specialty in the environs of Rome, was used to sop up the juices of these dishes and soak up the prodigious quantities of wine the men consumed.

  Next came carbonara, a plebian dish with exalted flavors of pancetta, cheese, and egg, and was met with inebriated cheers around the table. A platter bearing garofalato, a richly seasoned pork roast scented with local herbs and garlic, was carried out to the table by the women. The scent of stewed onions, carrots, cloves and tomatoes was met with howls of approval from the now over-stuffed diners.

  As the food sated their palates and the wine loosened their tongues, the soldiers became more demanding of the women's attentions, some drawing the young ladies onto their laps and others leering intently at the scooping necklines of the well-proportioned waitresses.

  “Now you know,” said Bernhard, standing at the head of the table with a large wine glass in his right hand, “why the Romans were so fond of bacchanals.” With that ill-reasoned play to history, the colonel poured a healthy gulp of the red liquid down his throat, swallowed hard, and wrapped his left arm around the comely lady by his side. She smiled wanly, knowing what was in store for her, but careful not to resist in front of the lesser officers. Such behavior could draw unwanted ire from the man who seemed to think she belonged to him.

  As the evening wore on, the wine took its toll on the men. Some forced themselves on the women, while others retained some civility despite their drunkenness. In ones and two, the crowd around the table departed, leaving Bernhard and his chosen companion last of all.

  The colonel was not a brute, but he also did not consider letting the ladies in his company decide the course of events. He maintained a certain high-minded behavior, convinced that his superior bearing would impress any female in his presence, but he would nevertheless resort to power to command what he wanted.

  This evening he was especially gracious. Perhaps it was the spectacular summer evening outside one of the world's greatest cities. Perhaps it was the wine. Most likely he was simply too consumed by his own sense of importance to let the moment descend rapidly into tawdry action.

  Bernhard stood at the edge of the terrazza with glass in hand, gazing across the valley to the lights of Rome. The young lady – whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn – strode up to his side. She was afraid of the man, but also curious. The German officer had a bit of class, and she knew that in wartime she could do worse.

  She slipped her arm into his and looked up into his eyes. Bernhard continued staring down on the city, but after several minutes drained the last of the wine and turned toward her. With a possessive smile, he wordlessly showed her that he was in command. She was now his prisoner of war.

  Chapter 5

  St. Ambrose Church, St. Louis, Present Day

  Carlo DeVito had spent his entire life in the suburbs of St. Louis. “The Hill,” to be exact, the neighborhood with a concentration of Italian-American families whose traditions and culture harkened back to the world of southern Italy.

  His family was certainly Americanized, but some habits remained. His father made his own wine together with other families on The Hill, and his mother preferred to fill her ample dinner table with dishes that were based on Italian ingredients and recipes. But Carlo had been born in America, just like his brother and sister, and he clung to the culture and habits of those less-Italian classmates of his.

  Still, the challenge of reconciling his native culture with America remained an intrigue for him. He was quieter and a more pensive than his siblings when he surveyed the gathered clan at the clamorous evening meals. He laughed hearing the old stories and familiar jokes of the uncles, and he tolerated the cheek-pinching of the aunts, but Carlo also wondered what were the essential ingredients of a real Italian family.

  Food, certainly; wine, music, and close family. These were all parts of the tapestry of life, and Carlo was thankful to have them all in his. He knew that his experience of growing up differed from many of his friends, and he wanted to be able to express it. But before he could express it, he needed to understand it better.

  Carlo had decided to take a semester off from classes at Washington University in St.
Louis. He would spend a month in southern Italy, staying with a family known to his own, and he would absorb what he could of the “Italianisma,” transforming his understanding of culture and – hopefully – coming home with a deeper comprehension of what it meant to be Italian. And with a better awareness of what his parents and uncles and aunts meant when they talked about the “Old Country.”

  On the morning of his departure, Carlo returned to the church where he was baptized and confirmed, and where he assumed he would one day be married before repeating the cycle with his own children. St. Ambrose was his parish church, but it was also his refuge. He didn't feel particularly religious for most of his young life, but he found that the somber silence of the chapel on Wilson Avenue gave him time to reflect on who he was, what he wanted, and how might a greater power be involved in deciding these matters.

  Just before eight in the morning he slipped through the heavy doors at the entrance and walked up a few rows of pews before choosing a spot that seemed right. Which row to sit in was a spontaneous decision, one Carlo made every time he was in church. Too far back and it felt like he was avoiding contact with God; too far forward and he felt like a sinner begging forgiveness. So he would let his mind wander and let his feet decide where he would settle, like a divining rod seeking water.

  This morning, he leaned against the cool wood of the seat, rested his hands on his knees, and stared at the image of the crucified Christ above the altar. The carved face looked pained, twisted by fever and mortal injury.

  Carlo's gaze swept the chapel. He had been an altar boy at this church and knew its nooks and crannies well. He knew that the entrance to the priest's sacristy was on the right, that the sign noting the day's hymns was beside the altar, and that the tabernacle used in the Holy Mass was kept locked.

  Carlo also knew that a small bone fragment from the body of St. Ambrose was kept in a reliquary on the right side of the chapel. It was a mere sliver of something that wouldn't be recognizable as human except by a trained scientific eye, but the Vatican had assured the diocese of its authenticity.

  It was the most cherished relic in the Church of St. Ambrose, although most of the parishioners had long since forgotten its presence in their midst.

  After a half hour of deep contemplation, Carlo made the sign of the cross, stood up and walked to the exit, planning to be back at his apartment in plenty of time before his sister and brother arrived to take him to the airport.

  Chapter 6

  Berlin, Present Day

  The young art collector was pacing the floor in the grandiose antechamber to the museum curator's office. Martin Bernhard was uncertain what to say or even think, but he needed time to explain once and for all to his boss, the curator, why he had been making so many trips to Italy.

  Martin was a product of the new generation of Germans who embraced a more modest style and peaceful temperament. It was as if this evolution of the national personality was part of the restructuring of the national psyche after the Second World War. His friends wouldn't describe Martin as shy, but he was quiet and thoughtful, traits that made some people mistakenly conclude that he lacked depth.

  Standing just under six feet tall with short cropped hair and blue eyes, Martin was the epitome of the new German society. His university education fitted him well for a successful career, and his dedication to art restoration brought him confidence in the cause and a sense of personal worth in his pursuit.

  Martin pursued his love of the Renaissance masters with a passion ever since his graduation from the university where he has studied art history. His grandfather, Anselm Bernhard, may have planted the seed of the passion Martin showed for art. Family stories of the old German suggested that he was also an art lover and his grandson was familiar with tales of the masterpieces that adorned the museums of the world.

  Martin was tall, but his wife, Margrit, constantly reminded him that bending over old paintings while peering through a magnifying glass would turn him into a crook-spined old man. Martin laughed at her but gave her an unmistakable look of love as he cocked his head to the side when she upbraided him so. Margrit was his greatest treasure. After dating so many young ladies in his youth, he knew she was the only one for him.

  He was in love with Margrit, but he was also in love with art. No detail escaped his attention, and his professors marked him as someone who would achieve great success in the field. But Martin's attention had turned to darker thoughts after his grandmother died, the precise moment when she revealed a secret to Martin that would change his behavior forever. The change was not evident to those around him – he hid the tension well – but he knew that the news he received from her on her deathbed would alter the direction of his life.

  Martin paced the antechamber waiting for Professor Gustave, a man who had been a great mentor for Martin and encouraged his research into the art works of Italy from the Renaissance onward. He had never questioned Martin's requests to return again and again to the country of da Vinci, Michelangelo, Rafael, and so many other masters over the past three years. Gustave considered Martin's contributions to the museum – and to his own understanding of the Renaissance – as ample payment for the young man's visits to the peninsula from their headquarters in Berlin.

  Gustave himself had a broader interest, focusing on the art works that emerged from churches liberated from the dark times of the Middle Ages. He found the primitive nature of some of the work to be revelatory, as if while staring at the paintings he could slip into the minds of the people who lived during that time and imagine their struggles, their fears, and their hopes.

  The curator was older now, and less likely to travel, but he encouraged Martin's pursuit of art and knowledge. However, even with his mentor's support, Martin was still concerned about explaining to his superior what he was doing. It would not hurt the museum; of course, it was personal. Still, Martin was loathe to admit to Professor Gustave what his family had done.

  The older man swung open the door to his office and welcomed Martin in. Gustave and his generation bridged the gap between Germany's war years and the present, and his appearance reflected this cultural evolution. Although he wore the rumpled shirt of a university scholar, he entered the room with an erect posture that bore witness to the presumed greatness of his race.

  The men sat at the table in the center of the room where coffee cups and Danish had been set out, and exchanged light greetings. They discussed the heat spell sweeping through Germany at the moment and other small news of the present.

  “I've been busy lately with my grandchildren,” Gustave offered with a little smile. “They have more energy than an old art collector has.”

  Gustave didn't notice Martin's mood, or give any indication of the level of concern that Martin brought into the room. After two sips of coffee and more light conversation, Martin looked down at the table and resisted the standard replies. Gustave tried once more to establish a familiar banter that usually occupied their meetings.

  “Did you know that my Eva…” but Martin interrupted him.

  “You know I have been spending a lot of time in Italy, sir.” Gustave nodded assent.

  Taking a deep breath, Martin continued.

  “Well, I believe it's time that I told you more about my activities, and shared more with you than I have so far.

  “My grandfather,” Martin stammered, then paused.

  “Umm, I mean my grandmother,” pausing again, now at a loss for words. Martin's right hand went to his tie knot, drawing it a bit tighter against his neck.

  Gustave patiently regarded the young man, his eyes full of concern, but he allowed Martin to take his time and begin when and where he wanted to.

  Finally, Martin said, “A few years ago, I sat with my grandmother in her home. She was old and frail, but her mind was sharp and her memory even sharper.

  “She told me stories about my grandfather that I had not heard before. Instead of stories of a brave officer's career spent struggling in a reprehensible militar
y culture of world war, she told me secrets about my grandfather's life that had been kept from everyone in our family.

  “Anselm Bernhard was a colonel in the German army, a member of the Nazi party, but a somewhat unwilling participant in those wartime atrocities that we all abhor now. It is true that he didn't engage in any of the war crimes that have been recorded, and my grandmother swore to me that this history is correct as it stands. But she also told me about his personal behavior – things that I never knew.

  “Anselm Bernhard loved great art. He knew it well,” Martin continued, “of course, not as a professional knows art, not like you, Professor. But he appreciated great art and was drawn to the treasures of Italy during the war.”

  At this point, Martin paused, taking a deep breath before continuing.

  “My grandfather confiscated many works of art belonging to Italian museums, churches, and families in the name of the Third Reich.”

  Gustave fidgeted a bit at this news, knowing full well that the German military had stolen countless precious artworks during the war. Nothing could compare to the horrible brutality of the extermination camps, but the professor was personally repulsed by the theft of treasures that his countrymen had committed in the name of all Germany.

  “He confiscated the art,” Martin continued, choosing a more official word rather than 'stole.'

  “He confiscated paintings and sculptures, sometimes even from private homes, and seized them for the German regime. But he…” and here Martin paused again, “…he kept many for himself. Some,” Martin whispered confessionally, “he gave to women he seduced while occupying their towns.”