by Dick Rosano
Marisa couldn't have gotten this close to the Nazi officer without his men's help. Or so she thought at first. But it was really Bernhard who had enabled her to stand before him at that moment, a gun raised to shoulder height. Without the colonel's selfish pursuit, he might have retained his soldiers' trust and protection.
But they had already decided that Bernhard was the traitor, and they stood motionless as the wounded but furious German officer raised his pistol to confront the woman who had slept in his bed.
Another shot rang out from Marisa's pistol and Bernhard's face erupted into fragments of bone and crimson blood, his arm caught only halfway to full height. Marisa had finally evened the score: for her sister, for all the other women he'd violated, and finally, for Italy.
Chapter 48
Sins of the Father
The maid tending Martin's room found his body the next morning.
As she had done every morning, on that day Analisa knocked at his door to make his bed and check the bath towel in the simple room that he occupied. Hearing no sound from within, she gently turned the handle and let herself in.
Martin was lying face down on the worn rug in the center of the room. His arms were splayed to the sides and his short hair was matted with coagulated blood. She screamed and ran from the room, down the steps and into the street as she called for a doctor, asking for help in the monstrosity that awaited in the hotel room above.
The sun was up and most of the people in Altamura were already about their business. Carlo was walking by the building when Analisa ran out into the light with a panicked look on her face. She grabbed him by the elbow, told him what had happened, then realized she was talking to another foreigner. As she ran past him to the piazza to get help Carlo slipped in through the open door of the hotel.
He entered Martin's room with some apprehension, having grasped the woman's plea, and looked down at the lifeless body of the young German whom he had befriended.
Martin's skull appeared crushed as if he was struck forcefully with a blunt object. Death probably came quickly, and Carlo made the sign of the cross as he stepped over the body.
After a cursory examination, he could tell that there was nothing he could do. Except for one thing.
Carlo remembered the journal, and Martin's secretive handling of it convinced Carlo that the journal contained information that was somehow the cause of Martin's death. He quickly examined the room but couldn't locate the book anywhere. Some of the bed was pulled apart, and the drawers to the dresser were open, so whoever did this to Martin was probably also looking for the journal.
Carlo sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room.
“If the killer didn't find it,” Carlo thought, “where would Martin have hidden the journal?”
At the sound of approaching footsteps from the stairwell, Carlo tensed up. He had to find the book before he was discovered there, or else he would have no other chance. He pushed aside the pillows, scattered Martin's clothing on the floor, lifted the rug and looked behind the curtains.
The footsteps became louder and closer.
Carlo pushed an art book off the nightstand to see what might be in the drawer. The book clattered to the floor and its leaves spread open. Martin's journal was pressed between some pages of the art book, pages that had been hollowed out to hold the journal.
Carlo lifted the journal quickly and shoved it into his pocket. He knew that Martin's presence in Altamura was not taken kindly by the villagers and in a moment of indecision, Carlo decided that the existence of the journal needed to be kept secret for a time, while he considered what its contents meant to his friend.
Carlo then closed the art book and returned it to the book shelf, thinking that the next person to search the room would find it but that would give him some time to make it to the street.
The police were too close to the hotel room door for Carlo to leave the building unnoticed. As the police watched, he stepped unsteadily out of the doorway as if hung over, covered his mouth as if he was going to vomit, and let them pass by.
Carlo stepped onto the sidewalk and looked around. There was the usual crowd, and he instinctively touched his pocket to ensure that the journal was still there. Then he turned down the street and onto another narrow avenue to escape the crowd.
The villagers ignored him, except for a tall man in the shadows across the street from the hotel where Martin's body was found.
Chapter 49
Piazza Veneto
In Altamura's Piazza Veneto that evening, the talk in all the cafés turned to Martin's murder, and his connection to Colonel Bernhard, then to the Germans back in the war. Carlo listened to the talk, and the whispered sidebars, and partly understood what the people of Altamura were feeling.
“He was another invader,” said one man. “The Germans raped our village 70 years ago and, apparently, they weren't satisfied. So they sent this man.” He waved his arm in a menacing gesture toward the window of the now-empty room where Martin had stayed.
Carlo, Gia, and Arabella met that night, departing from their customary passeggiata but not dropping from the conversation that captured everyone's attention that night.
“He probably deserved it,” said Giovanna, but as soon as she said it, she regretted her words. They were harsh, but so were the Italians' feelings about the German invasion during the war, a memory still fresh.
Arabella recalled the civil uprising in Matera, triggered by the jewelry store that the German soldiers allegedly had tried to rob back in 1943. And she recounted other stories of homes and possessions confiscated by the Nazis, townspeople abused, animals slaughtered for the Germans' meals, and the women who were leered at – or worse – during the occupation.
“That's what they were like. The arrogance!” she nearly shouted. “They thought that they could take anything, anybody.”
“But that was so long ago,” said Carlo.
“That's the problem with you Americans. You say 'forgive and forget,' but it's not about forgiveness. It's about forgetness.” Then she and Gia laughed a bit at the new word.
“You don't understand,” Gia said to Carlo. “In America, you have too much.” Arabella nodded her head, and Gia continued.
“In America, if something is old, you throw it away and get something new.”
“And something better,” chimed in Arabella.
Gia nodded assent, and continued. “You throw things away that are too old, even your parents and grandparents.”
Carlo bristled at this, thinking that these women thought Americans were so cavalier as to discard their parents along with their possessions.
“We're not like that,” said Arabella, picking up on Gia's theme. “Italians live in the past and the present at the same time. For us, nothing is old, nothing is new. It's all just there.”
“What does that have to do with Martin's death?”
“It has to do with you, with Americans. In America, you have forgiven the Nazis, or at least forgotten them. We cannot.”
Carlo knew that Americans lived with the horrible consequences of the Nazi campaign against innocents. He was proud that his countrymen had refused to let the immorality of the time fade from memory, but he had to admit that Europeans lived closer to the atrocities than did the Americans.
They were quiet for a while, as they crossed over one street and began another one. Then, to cool the emotions, Gia slipped her hand through Carlo's right arm, and Arabella slipped hers through his left.
They smiled awkwardly, each entertaining thoughts about their own country versus the other. And they recognized the differences between America and Italy, and how different interpretations of history and culture could alter the way they looked at the world.
They reached Arabella's house and she said, “And that is why I could never move to America,” concluding the discussion for the night.
Chapter 50
A New Life
The Allied advance could be heard closing in on them, and the
German soldiers wanted to retreat to safer areas north.
Hilgendorf stood over the bloody body of his colonel, regretting the man's death but pensive about what it meant for his own survival. In wartime, bodies were buried where they were slain, although it didn't seem that Bernhard's body would be moved by anyone now, certainly no one from this town that he had abused so egregiously.
The lieutenant didn't want to tarry long enough to do so himself. However, it was customary to return to the family of fallen soldiers some memento of their life, so he withdrew the journal from Bernhard's pocket and slipped into his own uniform. Looking around, and sensing the sound of gunfire getting closer, Hilgendorf departed quickly and worked his way out of the city. The detachment of soldiers had scattered, some in twos and threes, each focused on his own survival.
At the end of a street toward the outskirts of the town, he stopped and looked back. “What did we do?” he wondered. “What have we accomplished by invading this town, stealing its food and valuables, and leaving its people worse off? Are we savages?”
He turned on his heels when he saw Americans filtering through the streets of Altamura. Conscience was a guide, Hilgendorf thought, but only when the body survived to listen to it.
Marisa stayed behind as the German soldiers fled Altamura. In the moments after she sealed Bernhard's invitation to hell, she shook and cried, overcome by the realization of what she had done, relief that her sister's tragic death had been avenged.
She had nowhere to go, and her recent behavior painted her as a putana in the eyes of the villagers, so she doubted that she would be welcome to stay in Altamura. The war produced victims of all stripes; Marisa was a survivor who was bent on settling scores for her sister's death, and she had had to do objectionable things to accomplish this.
The people of Altamura could see more in her eyes than could the German officer she had taken up with. His culture was foreign and he couldn't read her; the locals knew that she was – like them – a tragic victim of the circumstances who was only doing what was necessary in very difficult circumstances. They could tell that her performance of late was a ruse – a dreadful, revengeful ruse – and they knew that this is what some of them had come to. That some of them would repeat, as Marisa had, behaviors that the Church would look upon with disgust, but which the Italian people would use if needed to avenge wrongs committed against their families.
After a day of searching for food, shelter, and a way to survive, Marisa was invited by a forgiving family to take meals with them. The next day, she was offered a job in a restaurant in town. It wasn't long before the first hopeful smile returned to her lips, and she thanked the people of Altamura for giving her new life.
Chapter 51
Don Adolfo in the Piazza
Even in his old age, Don Adolfo was a spirited man, a healer, a preacher and to the children of Altamura, their favorite playmate. Whenever he would pass through the town, he would greet people with a wave and a cheerful “buon giorno,” and if there were kids among the crowd, he would pay special attention to them.
Don Adolfo could easily step into a street game of soccer – or calcio – and his kick was as solid as the youngsters who egged him on. Threading between two defenders as much as his old legs would permit, he would hear children cheer and received their pats on the arm when he scored a goal.
Secretly, the old priest believed that the goaltenders who faced off with him were letting him score on kicks that were sometimes too soft.
Patting heads and chucking their chins after the short interlude on the pitch, Don Adolfo would leave the kids to play with a lightened spirit.
It was easy to see him as part of everyday life in Altamura, but hard to see him these days as the years began to pile up and his shoulders began to sag. There would still be youthful swings at the soccer ball, but he moved more slowly each afternoon as he walked away from the game.
One day, the holy padre seemed especially slow as he left the church. He stepped through the slightly opened wooden doors, and pull them closed with a practiced tug on the handle. But when he turned to face the sun and the steps leading down to the street, he winced at the light and held the rail of the steps tightly as he descended.
Don Adolfo shuffled down the street, mustering a smile to all he passed, but by the time he reached his residence, the nun at the door took him by the elbow and helped him inside.
At the door to his private quarters, the priest bade her goodbye and retreated to the familiar surroundings. The nun returned later that afternoon with a bit of food and drink, but when she saw the still body of her beloved pastor on the bed, she knew that he would not need anything on her tray anymore.
The nun hailed a passing villager and asked him to summon the other nuns. She told him that Don Adolfo was with the Lord, and that Nino would be required to help them prepare the priest for burial.
Over the next hour, a small crowd gathered outside the priest's house, peering into the open doorway and the window that the nuns had opened to allow the fresh air to enter, and Don Adolfo's spirit to leave. In that crowd, Carlo watched the women weeping. The men held their hats in their hands and wiped sweat – or was it tears – from their cheeks as they beheld their pastor one last time.
Nino had arrived by then and was handling Don Adolfo's body with care and love, his arms seeming to give the physical embrace that the other villagers could enjoy only spiritually.
Looking down on the old exhausted body, Nino spoke softly.
In both Italian and Latin, Nino said “Take the air and rise up, mio padre. The air is per te.” Nino seemed oblivious to the crowd, and paid no attention to the fact that his words were overheard.
It is the first time Carlo heard Nino use the familiar “te” with the priest. It was then he realized that there was a connection between these two men.
Chapter 52
La Chiesa dello Spirito Santo
Carlo tugged at the metal handles of the church door, drawing it open just enough to slip inside. It was mid-morning and most of the early prayers had been said, and the parishioners had departed.
He wanted to savor the deep quiet of the stone structure. The cool air welcomed him, the dim light cast by the candles on the altar lured him into a contented hypnotic state, and the stillness of the air rewarded him with a nonintrusive, uninterrupted peace.
He walked with soft footsteps down the stone aisle toward the altar, rested his hand on the endpost of the second pew, and settled into a seat there.
He looked up at the crucifix and realized that it was made in the same image as the one in St. Ambrose Church in St. Louis. Carlo turned his head left, then right, and smiled at the concordance of the Stations of the Cross. Even the holy water font reminded him of his home.
Carlo made the sign of the cross and folded his hands in his lap. He didn't pray as much as he reminisced about the people of Altamura and its region, Basilicata, and the hundreds of generations of Italians who had lived in the Sassi.
He thought about Martin, and his sudden violent death. About Don Adolfo, the kindly old man God had allowed to live a peaceful life into old age. He thought about the war stories he had heard of the Germans, and how the people of this gentle town persevered through war, famine, and hard times but could still participate in the evening passeggiata and enjoy the company of three or four generations gathered around the dinner table.
Carlo thought about Italian culture. He had come to Altamura to discover his roots, thinking that it was the dinner table, the food they shared, or the wine that they drank with gusto. In the end, he realized that Italian culture was about love and survival, about turning to, and shoring up the family you were born into. It was about sharing the secrets and the traditions, from trivial daily rituals to sacred religious ceremonies. And sometimes it was about revenge.
Italian culture was about the family, about the people, and about the bonds that held them together.
He remained there, in silent prayer, for some time, so long
that he didn't notice that Nino had appeared at the altar. The old man collected some prayer books left by the kneeler, checked the linens on the altar stone, and then turned to leave before noticing that there was a penitent sitting in pew number two.
Nino stepped down from the altar and approached Carlo, but just then the outer door of the church swung open. Giovanna appeared in the sunlit opening; Nino looked up at her, and then decided not to approach Carlo. He stepped lightly past pew number two, reached the back of the nave, and nodded to Gia as he exited the church through the main doors.
Giovanna strode up the main aisle and rested her hand lightly on Carlo's arm. He was surprised that the old man didn't stop to talk to him. At Gia's touch, Carlo rose to escort her from the church.
Chapter 53
Return to Berlin
Hilgendorf worked his way north over the coming weeks. First through the region of Lazio and its city, Rome. Up through Liguria, then the Piedmont region, finally into Switzerland and from there to Germany.
The men in the detachment had long since gone their own ways. He knew that was the way of things, and he also knew that moving along a route separately was the safest way for each of them to escape the advancing Allied forces.
In mid-October, he reached Berlin. He discreetly asked for information about Colonel Anselm Bernhard's wife – his widow. Hilgendorf knew that the German army was desperate for soldiers and he would get redeployed easily if his identity became known, or if the forces gathered around Berlin realized that he was retreating from the campaign in southern Italy.
So the young lieutenant kept to himself as much as he could. After a few careful inquiries, he was able to find where Frau Bernhard lived.
He walked up the steps to her second floor apartment and rapped lightly on the door.