The Secret of Altamura: Nazi Crimes, Italian Treasure

by Dick Rosano

  In the afternoon, Giovanna took Carlo along on her rounds of shopping, first to the butcher shop and then the open air market for dinner that night. Many of the ingredients they used for cooking were grown in their small garden, but gardens couldn't grow pig and cow, nor could all the herbs necessary for an Italian repast be squeezed into the several square feet that Zia and Gia cultivated outside their home.

  Carlo knew that Cristiano had a larger plot of land devoted to vines, but hadn't visited it yet.

  “Why don't you command some of Cristiano's vineyard for your vegetables and herbs?” he asked Gia.

  She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.

  “The vineyard is on the edge of Altamura, too far from the house, so growing anything there would require too many trips back and forth.”

  That sounded like a perfect reason to Carlo, but then Giovanna added, “Anyway, could you imagine my father giving up some of his vines so mama and I could grow onions?”

  Even a man dedicated to wine had to eat, Carlo thought, but he also knew that the vines were sacred to Cristiano. He chuckled at Gia's explanation, realizing that her father would never pull up a few vines when he knew that the women could manage with the plot they had near their home.

  Walking back from the market, Carlo asked Giovanna to tell him more about the people he had met, including Don Adolfo, Nino, and the others that he met at church.

  Every village has its rumors, secrets, and gossip, and these stories usually make for good conversation. So it didn't take long for Gia to dip into the tales of Sofina and Nino, and life in the convent.

  “Nino was born in the convent.” With this startling beginning, she had Carlo's full attention.

  “He is the bastard son of Sofina who lived in the convent. She was brought there incinta, 'pregnant,' during the war. Nino was born there and spent his first few years among the nuns, tended by his mother. But when he was about ten years old, it was no longer fitting for him to stay among the women living in the convent. Sofina tearfully agreed to have him live with the Cantone family, where he grew up.

  “He remained very quiet in the convent. Some people say it was the environment there that stole his tongue. Forse,” she said with a shrug. “Maybe. But he never really found it afterward. He has remained very quiet, 'a man of few words' as you Americans say, his whole life.”

  “He was born during the war?” Carlo repeated. “So he's about seventy?”

  “Sì, sì. He grew up with the Cantones but visited his mother every day and made himself useful by fixing things and doing chores for the nuns. He became very skilled with tools and machines, and Don Adolfo asked him to help also around the Chiesa.

  “Sofina died long ago, when he was still a young man, about twenty-five.”

  Carlo did some quick math and assumed Sofina had died about 1970.

  “Was she a nun?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Gia emphatically, shaking her head. “Her sin was too great to become a nun. She never took the vows or wore the habit, but she lived among the nuns until her death. Sofina was also a very skilled person, but her skills were with the garden.”

  Carlo listened intently, nodding his head.

  “The sisters said that Sofina could grow anything,” Giovanna continued, “and anything she grew was the best, the sweetest fruit, the most beautiful flowers, the biggest vegetables. They said the ground she tilled was blessed.”

  Gia paused for a moment, considering her next words.

  “But how can she be blessed,” Carlo interrupted, “She has an illegitimate child!”

  “Sex makes babies, and not all Italians are virgins.” She made this last comment with widened eyes.

  “But having a baby, well that part is hard to hide,” she added. “The church says we shouldn't have sex, but no one is listening to that part of the sermon. Some of the people in Altamura think it's not that Sofina had sex, or even that she had a baby, but it's who the father is that made her so ashamed.”

  Chapter 27

  Altamura, September 7, 1943

  The German convoy rumbled into Altamura in the late afternoon. Stepping out of the Kübelwagen, Bernhard put his hands on his hips and surveyed the piazza. He spun left then right, looking at the buildings that framed the square. His scrutiny was bold and possessive; it didn't take much for the townspeople to realize he was looking for the best home to seize for his personal use.

  Lace curtains were drawn; doors slammed shut. A little boy in a tattered shirt stood outside one shop, too young to be afraid of this invading force, until he was yanked inside by his frightened mother.

  Bernhard sneered at the attempts to shut him out. “Italians,” he said with undisguised contempt.

  “Hilgendorf,” he commanded, and pointing to a stone house in front of him. “Go in there and see what it's like. If you approve, come find me and I'll see if I agree.” Then spinning on his left heel, he added, “I'll be at the café.”

  The junior officer let himself in through the front door, with only a slight nod to the occupants and with little ceremony or respect for their privacy.

  The home was much like what they had seen in other Italian towns. Plain on the outside, but reasonably elegant within, even in this small southern town. Skillfully carved wooden furniture filled the rooms, lace curtains were mounted above heavy glass windows, and etched pitchers and glasses sat upon the table that was set for supper.

  Hilgendorf didn't carry himself with the arrogance of his commanding officer, but he didn't wait for the woman of the house to invite him into the other rooms. Ducking his head to clear the low doorway, he stepped into each of the four other rooms in the house. There were two bedrooms neatly kept, a sitting room with an ancient radio that looked as if it was one of the first invented. In the kitchen Hilgendorf was surrounded by the aromas of a freshly made minestrone and loaf of fragrant bread just out of the oven.

  “This will do,” he said to no one in particular. By now, the woman's husband had been summoned and the couple stood stock still in the parlor waiting for the lieutenant to complete his survey. Hilgendorf addressed the couple in clipped Italian phrases learned as a schoolboy in Germany.

  “Colonel Bernhard needs this house. You will need to leave.”

  The man looked at him in disbelief, then turned to his wife. “Che cos'é?” he asked, with a look that mixed grief, anger, and incredulity.” The woman laid her hand lightly on his arm to calm him. She didn't nod or shake her head, but she peered intently into her husband's eyes, telling him with her silent reply that this German's words were not a request.

  The man looked back at the intruder with an expression that showed more anger than grief, but his wife squeezed his arm firmly to stop him from saying anything.

  “You should go now,” said Hilgendorf, knowing that he had to move these people along quickly before the confrontation turned ugly. Waving his hand toward the woman, he added, “But you will stay. Your supper is almost ready and the colonel is hungry.”

  Hilgendorf marched out the door to notify his commander that the house was acceptable and that his next meal would be served soon.

  After inspecting the house himself, Bernhard agreed that the premises would suit his needs well, and he invited Hilgendorf to take supper with him. After eating, the colonel cordially thanked the woman for serving his dinner, reminded her that he ate three times a day and that he would expect her to continue to feed him, but the rest of the time she should absent herself from the premises.

  Following the meal, Bernhard stepped toward the broad window facing the piazza below. He drew the curtains back and opened the window, lighting a cigar as he did so. With Hilgendorf, the two men looked out over the piazza and observed that the other German soldiers in the detachment had settled into tables at the café for their wine and food.

  “Is it true about the Italians surrendering?” Hilgendorf asked. He knew the question would not be welcome, but his relationship with the higher officer gave him more latitude to ask suc
h things than the other soldiers had.

  Bernhard didn't answer, but continued puffing on his cigar.

  Hilgendorf turned toward the colonel and asked again. “The men have heard rumors, rumors that Mussolini has been thrown out of power and the new guy, what's his name – Badoglio? – has surrendered. Is it true?”

  Without looking at the lieutenant, Bernhard blew out a long stream of thick smoke between pursed lips. “So, maybe, but that doesn't concern us.”

  “If the Italians have surrendered, aren't we in a dangerous place?” the young officer asked. “We're in the south, very far from the German border. How can we escape if the Italians and the Americans surround us?”

  Again, Bernhard didn't answer.

  Hilgendorf turned back toward the piazza and listened to the soldiers' laughter below. They didn't seem concerned at that moment, but when they brought their rumors to him in the afternoon, several of them had been ready to argue that they should quit the mission and return to the Fatherland. Hilgendorf agreed that this was probably the right thing to do, but he also knew that Bernhard's obsession with this new fortune he'd heard about would override his men's fears of capture.

  Hilgendorf waited in silence for a few more moments, hoping the colonel would add something, but he didn't. After a while, the lieutenant turned and left the apartment.

  After another moment, as Bernhard puffed on his cigar, he noticed a young woman walking across the piazza below. Her long hair and confident stride convinced him at once that this was Marisa. He enjoyed the view for a moment then decided to walk out to the piazza.

  The woman of the house was washing the supper dishes, but Bernhard exited the apartment without even looking at her.

  * * *

  Marisa never looked at the house that Bernhard occupied. In fact, she had spied him from the edge of the piazza before beginning her seductive walk past the cafés. She knew where he was and she knew he would see her when she passed by, and follow her.

  Chapter 28

  Café Rosato

  After a sumptuous dinner that Carlo had come to expect from Zia Filomena and her daughter, Gia took him to the piazza to find Arabella. After spotting her at a table, Gia and Carlo joined her.

  “Vino rosso?” Arabella asked, raising her glass.

  “Sì, sì, perfetto,” was Giovanna's ready response.

  The conversation proceeded easily and covered topics familiar to the young women.

  “Bianca is now working at the dress shop,” said Arabella. “Her mother doesn't like it, says that there was no reason to go to the university 'if you're only going to make aprons,' she says.” Both of the girls laughed at this, knowing that Bianca got her degree to please her parents, but they also knew that the young lady's hands could make beautiful magic with even homespun fabrics.

  Gia sipped some wine, held the glass up to the light, and thought for a moment. Signaling the waiter, she requested a plate of sweets and biscotti for them to share.

  “Too much wine, too little food,” she commented with a small laugh.

  Carlo contributed only occasionally, preferring to sit and enjoy the company. Gia had become like a sister to him since he was living in her house, but Arabella intrigued him.

  Her light hair appeared darker in the fading sunlight, but the brightness of her blue eyes was still alluring. Her voice reminded him of a trained actress's talent to use her voice to evoke different moods. Gia laughed at Arabella's story about the car that swept past her on the sidewalk that morning, and Gia added her own story of slipping between the teeming traffic on her way to the school.

  Carlo knew that Gia tutored children at the local school and could not join them at the ovens that morning. Her stories of the kids' behavior made Arabella laugh, and Carlo was able to observe and appreciate the spirit that bound these two women together.

  Arabella turned to Carlo to include him in the conversation.

  “So you are learning to bake our famous Pane di Altamura.

  “Well, yes,” he said. “I'm learning, but I doubt I could duplicate it yet.”

  “Well, you never will,” said Giovanna, “because the spirit of Altamura is only here.”

  They turned to the subject of the “spirit in the air,” the yeast cells that populate the areas they have already been propagated in, like the kitchens where the dough is prepared, the oven where the bread is baked, and even the small home wineries where the grapes are turned into wine. Carlo knew enough about winemaking to know that natural yeast clings to the ripening grapes in the field, and that unless you introduce something more specific and artificial, it is this yeast strain that will determine the path of the fermentation and the flavors in the final wine.

  “Everyone here talks about the 'spirit' as if there is something in the air that makes the bread and wine so good,” he said.

  The two women looked at him as if waiting for him to say more.

  “Of course there's something in the air,” said Arabella finally. Her look conveyed her confusion.

  “No, I mean the yeast,” he retorted.

  Giovanna let out a little huff of exasperation. “Well, sì, there's the yeast, but the spirit is with us in Altamura. That's why our church is named dello Spirito.”

  Carlo studied her and then Arabella. He wasn't sure whether they had simply translated the scientific explanation of yeast through metaphor to a sentient 'spirit,' but he had run into this before in Altamura. The people of this town were smart people and they knew that yeast cells initiated and prolonged fermentation, but they also were adamant about the 'spirit in the air' being something more than simple yeast cells.

  “For many years, Altamura has been a blessed place,” said Arabella. “We are rewarded with our comfortable lives, our culture, and our beliefs. We are watched over by a special spirit that protects us from evil.”

  Gia chimed in. “Ever since the war, when people from around the southern regions of Italy brought us their treasures, we have lived in the grace of God.”

  This was the first time Carlo had heard of treasures in Altamura, but he noticed that a stranger sitting at the next table had suddenly turned in their direction.

  “Excuse me,” said the man, “did you say something about treasure in Altamura?”

  Gia and Arabella regarded Martin suspiciously. Strangers asking about riches residing in their town made them nervous. Arabella spoke first.

  “Sì, that's what we said, but there are no treasures here.” She then turned back around to their table and tried to ignore Martin.

  “I am an art collector, and I have specialized in the art of Italy. I would be very interested in knowing more about art, gems, or other valuables that may be in Altamura.”

  Giovanna and Arabella looked at each other but didn't respond. Carlo was the one to break the silence.

  “My name is Carlo de Vito,” he said, rising to offering his hand to shake. Martin took it, and then introduced himself.

  “You are not from here,” Carlo continued.

  “No, I am German. I work at the Institute of Renaissance Art in Berlin and, like I said, I am especially interested in Italian art.”

  Gia then whispered something to Arabella. Their conspiratorial tone cut the men's conversation off. Martin thanked Carlo for his thoughts and turned back toward his own table.

  “Very interesting career, art history, that is,” Carlo said.

  Gia glared at him. “You know who that is, right?” Carlo shook his head 'no.'

  Arabella sighed, then explained to Carlo. “He is Bernhard, the grandson of the man who stole our property, raped our women, and killed our priest, Don Daniele, when he was here in 1943.”

  “How do you know that?” Carlo asked.

  “This is a small town, and we are a close community,” Gia said. “He clerk at the hotel told some friends that a man named Bernhardt was here, asking about art,” she added with a huff. “This Bernhard says he's an art collector, but maybe he just wants to 'collect' the rest of art that his nonno
didn't get a chance to steal!”

  Martin remained at the table behind her and he could clearly hear her words. He was shocked and embarrassed, but Arabella's passion kept him silent.

  “What treasure?” Carlo asked.

  “Never mind,” said Arabella.

  “No,” added Gia, “not just never mind. There has been talk of such things for many years, but no one has found it.”

  “But, what is it?” asked Carlo again.

  Gia shrugged her shoulders, and Arabella remained silent.

  Martin slid his chair out noiselessly, stood, and walked out of the café.

  Casting a glance over her shoulder at the German, Gia said, “He's a bastard. All the Nazis were bastards.”

  “Yes,” Carlo said calmly, hoping to offer some words to defuse the tension. “The Nazis were bastards, but he's not a Nazi. He's from Germany, sure, but the German people are ashamed of that era. This guy seems nice enough…”

  “Nice? Nice enough?” Gia blurted out. The bitterness that showed in her voice surprised Carlo, and he sat back in his chair.

  Arabella patted Gia on the arm to calm her, but then Arabella took up the argument.

  “He is Bernhard, the man who did horrible things to Altamura.”

  “No, he's not that Bernhard,” said Carlo.

  Arabella looked away, using her palm to wipe away tears that began streaming down her cheek. “He's the same. They're all the same.”

  Chapter 29

  Nothing

  Tempers had cooled by the next day. Gia even apologized to Carlo but reminded him that they would have nothing to do with the German.

  About mid-morning, Arabella picked them up in her car for some sightseeing. Carlo had asked about the Sassi and the plateau known as the Murge, and the two women decided it would be a nice day for a tour.