by Dick Rosano
On the brief ride to the cliffs, Arabella and Giovanna told stories about the people who lived in the Sassi and how the civilization in the caves had flourished for many centuries. They also talked about the lifestyle of the people, how the homes had been modernized over the years and how the Italian government had evacuated the dwellings in the 1950s.
“Today there is renewed interest in the Sassi,” said Gia. It was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site and, suddenly, the Italian government decided that the caves are not so bad after all.” Both women laughed at this.
“Why are you laughing?” Carlo wondered.
“The government decided after the war that people living in caves didn't represent the kind of modern society that they were trying to build in Italy. So they forced people to leave,” said Gia.
“Now,” continued Arabella, “they think cave dwelling is good for our local economy, so they're telling people to move back in!”
“Well,” Giovanna said, “not exactly. The government has allowed some tourism agencies to rebuild the caves as hotels and restaurants. It's pretty good, actually, but there won't be a civilization like the Sassi again.”
When they arrived at the caves, the women conducted a tour that they were very familiar with, introducing Carlo to the homes, churches, and communal areas of the Sassi. They told him how people lived, how they survived, and how they extended the complex labyrinth of caves throughout the mountain.
“What about the treasure?” Carlo asked.
Both women stopped their running narrative to look at Carlo.
“There is no treasure,” Arabella said patiently. “There were rumors of this here, in Altamura, and the Germans thought they could find it and steal it from us. The Germans, like Anselm Bernhard.”
“But there really wasn't any treasure,” Gia said. “He tore up many of the caves, broke up the stone altars in some of the churches, and scattered the people who lived there, forcing them to move into other caves, while he ransacked their homes.
“What did he find?” asked Carlo.
“Nulla,” was Arabella's terse reply. “Nothing,” she said again, the pain causing her voice to crack.
Chapter 30
Back to Café Rosato
Carlo was on his own that evening, as Gia had more tutoring to do and Zia Filomena stayed at home to help Cristiano with some chores.
He was drawn to the piazza where most of the people spent their evenings, and spied Martin Bernhard sitting alone at a café table. Carlo decided that the man deserved a chance, so he approached his table.
Martin had been badly hurt by the women's treatment the previous day, and he recognized Carlo as their acquaintance, so he was reluctant to engage him in additional conversation.
“May I sit down?”
With a long sigh, Martin nodded yes.
“You said you are an art collector. That's very interesting; could you tell me more about your work?”
Martin brightened a little at Carlo's approach, and he launched into an excited narrative about his education, his work, and the trips he had made to Italy to find and restore old artworks to their rightful owners. At one point, he bowed his head when he realized that further discussion would require that he return to the subject of his grandfather, but Carlo had been attentive and seemed to appreciate Martin's mission.
“I lived my whole life not knowing what my grandfather had done,” Martin began. He was staring at his hands folded on the table before him. “A few years ago, my grandmother was dying, and she told me of the evil things that Anselm had done, the way he treated the Italian people, the way he mistreated the Italian women.
“And she gave me his journal,” he added. “I had never heard anything about this, and I knew nothing of a journal. But my grandmother asked me – no, made me promise – to restore our honor by making reparation for his awful deeds.”
He looked at Carlo, his eyes expressing both resolve and shame.
“I can't do anything for the women that he violated, and I can't find all the art that he looted, but I have found some and restored them. As I promised my grandmother.”
“Why are you here?” Carlo asked.
“In his journal, my grandfather had many notes about a great collection, one valuable beyond imagining, hidden in a town in southern Italy. He spoke of caves and churches, and there were some notes that indicated that he had been to Altamura.”
“Obviously,” said Carlo and, with that, Martin understood that everyone here knew that Anselm had been to Altamura.
“Yes, obviously,” he said with resignation.
“But that doesn't explain why you are here,” persisted Carlo. “You said you are trying to find the artifacts, the collections, that your grandfather stole and restore them to their rightful owners, right?”
Martin nodded.
“Well, if he never found what he was looking for, here in Altamura…why are you here?”
Martin's mind wandered back to the evening spent at home, when he had explained to Margrit the purpose of his many trips to Italy. And he recalled with some shame his own thoughts while standing alone at the window of the study. He was pure in his desire to make amends for his grandfather's crimes, but the thought of undiscovered treasure raised the hair on his neck and forced him to confront dark hints of his own greed.
Martin had not put it in such words, but he had to admit that Carlo's challenge was a strong one. From the time he received Anselm's journal, he had wondered about the treasure of Altamura. And while he searched throughout Italy for other stolen goods, returning some to the grandchildren of the original Italian families who owned them, he contemplated the great mystery surrounding the artworks and gems that his grandfather sought here in the south. But if Anselm had not found that great fortune, and the absence of any record of such a find in the journal suggested that he had not, Martin couldn't completely resolve his own obsession with Altamura either.
Had he inherited his ancestor's wickedness?
“In my research,” Martin replied, “I studied the Monuments Men, a unit made up of American and British soldiers, and some French, whose responsibility was to prevent damage to art works and monuments during the war, the Second World War. They were in the battlefield, sometimes ahead of the fighting, trying to identify these artifacts and historic buildings and rope them off so the fires of war wouldn't consume them.
“The onslaught of military fighting threatened these so-called 'monuments,' but the unit didn't think about the theft and damage that my German predecessors had already committed – the priceless paintings and sculptures that the German army had already absconded with.
“One of the Monuments Men wrote to his wife back in the States: 'The Germans have behaved very badly, and in the last days of their occupation, savagely. From here, now, they do not look like a simple innocent people with criminal leaders. They look like criminals. And I wonder how long it will take to get them to live fairly with the rest of the world.'
“I am of the next generation of Germans,” Martin continued, “and I am trying to live fairly with the rest of the world by making amends for sins of my fathers. How long will it take?”
Chapter 31
Dinner with Arabella
Their conversation stumbled a bit after that, but returned to simpler subjects when Martin asked why Carlo was in Altamura.
“I am an Italian-American. I live in St. Louis, and we were raised to respect the Italian traditions. But St. Louis is so far from here, and I wanted to learn more about true Italian life. A friend introduced me to the Filomena family, and they agreed to host me for a few weeks while I learned more about life in southern Italy.” He laughed a bit and then admitted to Martin that he was also learning to make bread.
Martin laughed. “To make bread?”
“Yes, well, I would like to learn more about it, and besides, I'm also learning to make wine. But my real reason for coming to Altamura was to learn to live like an Italian, to understand why they think the way they d
o, and to try to understand how I think and how my family thinks, and to come to terms with how Italian life and culture has affected my life.”
“That's a big quest,” said Martin. “And I thought I was the only one looking for great treasure!”
Both men laughed and continued a light conversation that covered their preferences in food, wine, college education, and the politics of their respective countries. Without returning to the painful memories of his grandfather's life in Italy, Martin explained that he had come to love the country and its people.
“I studied Italian in school. Many of the German children do that, or learn some other foreign language, but the sound and rhythm of the Italian language intrigued me,” he explained. “I'm not particularly good at it. I can understand more than I can pronounce myself, but it's good enough.
“Italians are passionate and warm-hearted,” Martin continued. “They accept each other and newcomers equally, and I have always felt welcome when I visited the cities across the country.” With some introspection, he added, “But mostly in the northern part of Italy.”
Carlo furrowed his brow, trying to understand what point Martin was trying to make.
“The northerners are more accustomed to us Germans, Swiss, and other Europeans. The south is more insular, more protective.”
“And poorer,” added Carlo.
“Yes, poorer. And maybe the economy affects their traditions, their beliefs, and their outlook on the world. Southern Italy is more rural, more agricultural, than the north. And life is lived closer to the edge…”
“And closer to the earth,” suggested Carlo.
“That too. And maybe given their history of invasions and exploitation, the southern Italians are more suspicious of outsiders. They don't trust us as much.”
Carlo kept his thoughts to himself, but he didn't doubt the warm reception he got when he arrived. So Martin's conclusion that the southerners were less trusting of outsiders seem to relate to him, not Carlo.
They talked until the liter of wine was gone. Martin said he had to return to his hotel room. He rose, shook Carlo's hand, and departed.
Carlo sat there for another moment, replaying their conversation. He still had some wine left in his glass, another robust Primitivo that was so common in this area, and sipped at it slowly while he considered what his German friend had said.
“Do you always drink alone?”
Carlo looked up and smiled broadly at Arabella. She was a beautiful sight and he quickly rose to offer her a chair.
Arabella arrived in the piazza after Martin was long gone. Carlo decided it was best not to say who he had been talking to before her arrival. Instead, he pitched his questions about Italian culture to this lovely woman seated across from him.
“My family is from Toritto, and Palo del Colle, not far from here,” he began. “So we are from the Mezzogiorno, like you. But we are different.”
“Different? From us?”
“No,” he laughed. “Different from other Italians.”
“Sì, un po',” she nodded, “a bit, but not that much. Italians have always been special people, and you're right that the people of the north seem too European, and the people of the south seem, well, what do I say, too Italian.”
Carlo laughed, enjoying her inability to describe her tribe as anything but the true Italian.
“In my research,” he explained, “I learned that most of the Italians who came to America were from the south. In the time from 1880 to 1920 – well, more than that, but that was the primary time – millions of Italians flooded into the United States. Nearly all of them were from the south.”
“Sì, it's true,” Arabella offered. “But this is because the people of the Mezzogiorno are – well, were – very poor. During that time, there were famines, droughts, and continued insulation from the governing north, and we didn't have anything to hope for. We left, we went to South America and the United States, looking for jobs to feed and clothe our families.”
Carlo noticed that Arabella spoke of the immigrants from southern Italy as 'we,' as if the time nearly a century ago was being lived by the people of Altamura even today.
“Is it true that, in America, Italian food is all pasta, sauce, and pizza?” she asked.
Carlo couldn't completely contain a chuckle.
“Not altogether. Yes, the Italian food that Americans first discovered was like that, but now we have learned to make better Italian food, more varied, with seafood, beef, truffles, and more.”
“Hmmm,” Arabella hummed. “But the pasta, sauce, and pizza…these are the foods of the Mezzogiorno. Americans discovered Italian food by eating the favorite things of our people.”
“Sì,” Carlo responded. “The first Italian food in the U.S. was more like the south prepares.” He wanted to repeat his assertion that Americans have become more sophisticated in their taste for Italian food, but he realized that this wasn't what Arabella wanted to hear, so he kept silent.
She sat quiet for a moment, seemingly absorbed with the notion that her culture and its food were America's first acquaintance with the land of her birth.
“This is good,” she said after a bit of time had passed. She took a sip of wine and nodded. “This is good,” but Carlo knew she was applauding the influence of the Mezzogiorno on America, not the ruby liquid that slid down her throat.
Chapter 32
Armistice, September 8, 1943
Church bells tolled with great animation, even though it was not an hour when the bells normally rang out. Conversations were just as animated, whether at the café in the piazzas and town halls in many Italian towns, or on the highways where cars had clustered at the roadside restaurants as their drivers argued about what they had heard.
An armistice between the Italian government led by the Italian general Pietro Badoglio and the Allied forces had been announced.
Before this day such a development was unthinkable. But since the dismissal of Mussolini, rumor had it that the Italian government had been negotiating with the Americans and the British to surrender. On this glorious day in early September, the deal that had been kept hidden from the public was finally announced.
Italy was free from the German yoke. Free, but not unencumbered. There were many regiments of the Third Reich still in Italy and the Badoglio government had agreed to cooperate with the Allied forces in driving them out. So a country that had surrendered to the invading army of Allies must now contend with the anger of occupying German forces.
* * *
Back in Altamura, the German soldiers crowded around Hilgendorf as Bernhard entered the room. Their whispered comments were suddenly squelched, and the colonel proceeded past them into the room he was using as a command center.
Just behind their commanding officer, Marisa emerged from the same doorway. But unlike the colonel, she approached the men with a smile, making friendly talk, and teasing them about their uniforms and sidearms, artfully playing the seductress with her compliments and light touches on the arm of a few men.
Soon, one of the soldiers spoke to her in a stage whisper.
“It's true, isn't it? The Italians have surrendered.”
Marisa follow such events closely and was quite certain that the news was true. Just as she was certain that these men had been led into a deadly trap by their own commander.
“Sì, it is true.” But she didn't try to console them. She continued her innocent flirting, secretly focusing on their comments and concerns. After a while, she returned to the conversation.
“Colonel Bernhard told me that you are almost finished with the mission,” she said. Marisa emphasized the “almost” to remind the soldiers that their colonel was not yet ready to leave the area.
“Almost finished?” said one of the soldiers. “We must leave now!”
Hilgendorf could sense the rising mutiny but stayed silent, trying to gauge what he could say and yet remain neutral.
Another soldier chimed in, “It is very dangerous here. I don't
want to die with an American bullet in my back.”
“Why in the back?” asked Marisa. “Why turn your backs and run? Besides, Herr Colonel says it's not time to leave.” She paused for affect. “I don't think you'll ever be able to leave until he says so.”
She knew that Bernhard's obsession with the secret treasure would make it impossible for him to pull the detachment out and head north to safety. And she suspected that the soldiers were also coming to that opinion.
The Germans began muttering words of hinted rebellion and vengeful murder. At one point the suggestions became so violent that Hilgendorf excused himself from the group.
Marisa smiled, knowing that the soldiers were beginning to see Altamura as their last stand, unless their colonel could be convinced to leave. Or until they solved the problem themselves.
Surrounded by angry men muttering treasonous words, Marisa let her thoughts drift back to the night before. She had maintained her role as the seductress, even as Bernhard laid his hands upon her body, and she smiled derisively at his self-congratulatory love making. When the colonel had fallen into a deep sleep, Marisa padded softly around the bedroom looking for a gun to silence the bastard once and for all. She knew the sound of the gun's report would alert the neighbors, but they would protect her. And given her afternoon ploy with the German soldiers, she didn't expect them to arrest her.
Marisa slipped her hands under Bernhard's uniform jacket handing on the door. Finding no weapon there, she sifted through his clothing stacked neatly in the campaign chest at the foot of the bed. A rustle from the bed clothes froze her in her quest, but Bernhard's labored snorts convinced her that he was still asleep.
Marisa stood to survey the room and consider her alternatives. There were knives in the kitchen, but she feared an attack that might not be completely successful at first moment. She couldn't bear to let him slip from her assault and be undone herself, dying before she could complete the revenge of her sister's demise. As she peered around the room once more, a whispered voice awoke her senses.