The Secret of Altamura E-Book

Dick Rosano

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

It is 1943, and the Nazis control large parts of Italy. Colonel Anselm Bernhardt devotes his attention to stealing Italian art – and having his way with Italian women – but there is one great treasure that he covets even more.

In present day, his grandson swears to make amends for Bernhardt’s crimes, but is bitten by the same temptation. When he begins his search for the mysterious treasure in southern Italy, he discovers a secret that can change the course of history.

Based on historical events, The Secret of Altamura takes you back to the cloud of terror that hung over wartime Italy, and invites you to explore the secrets that were hidden from the Nazi invaders.

Leseprobe

The Secret of Altamura

Nazi Crimes; Italian Treasure

Dick Rosano

Copyright (C) 2016 Dick Rosano

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Createspace

This is a book of fiction inspired by real events. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedication

My career in writing would not have been possible without the love and support of my family -- my wife Linda and daughter Kristen.

This book is dedicated to them, and to the people of the Mezzogiorno, including my own family, their traditions, their culture, and the aspirations for their children.

“The evil that men do lives after them; …the good is oft interred with their bones.”

William Shakespeare

Prologue

There was no simple way to hide the truth, yet there was no simple way to share it either, especially with people unprepared to hear the full story. For centuries, the people of Altamura had been strong enough to survive intruders from other countries – and their strength would protect them during this latest invasion of plunderers.

This book brings their secret to light, telling the world the truth of what lies beneath.

But some names must be omitted, because the truth could bring on damnation and ruin.

Chapter 1 A Hotel Room in Venice, May 2, 1943

Alessia stood before the mirror and carefully applied makeup to her cheeks, lips, and eyes. She was a master at it; not professionally trained, just naturally talented. Tonight this talent was especially important although her hands shook as she moved the brush across her face.

As she completed her task, a tiny tear escaped from the corner of her left eye and crept slowly down her face. Soon, her eyes started to swell as more tears came, but she fought the urge to surrender and turned her attention back to the work of making her face one that turned heads in Venice.

Once finished, she faced the bed and pulled the wrinkled sheets up one by one. Her hands trembled a bit as she tied the ends of the sheets together. So Alessia worked slowly, carefully, checking to make sure the knots were strong enough to hold her weight.

Tears fell on her hands and the bedding, tears blackened by her mascara, an unnecessary flourish for a woman blessed with youth and natural beauty. Her thoughts were focused on her affair with a German officer, Anselm. He was powerful and persuasive, and she might have fallen for him anyway, but she had surrendered to him out of fear. Anselm was generous with treasures he'd taken from Venetian homes and churches. But his jewelry and other gifts only made her feel like a whore.

“He betrays me, sleeps with other women, and pillages my country. I should get my revenge,” she thought, conjuring up images of gothic mutilations. But her thirst for vengeance was not strong enough.

Tugging one more time on each of the knots, Alessia then tied one end of the sheets to the leg of the bed. Fearing that her weight would drag the furniture across the floor and swing her side to side below the ledge, she moved the bed up against the wall under the window, nudging its feet against the massive shoe molding of the ancient hotel.

She opened the window, pushed the shutters aside, and looked down into the canal below. The moon shined bright in a cloudless sky, and the brisk night air was refreshing, although its touch chilled Alessia's skin. Bells rang softly in the distance, some from churches, some from small boats passing in the night. A gentle mist hugged the water and spread over the channel below.

Alessia studied her city's panorama and peered beyond this canal into the labyrinth of those beyond. It was a scene familiar to her since childhood, but tonight she smiled only irreverently.

“Well, if the knots don't hold, I'll go for a swim instead.”

Alessia sat on the windowsill and swung her legs over the edge. The mist tickled her bare feet and raised bumps on her arms. Once more, she tested the strength of the knot, then tied the sheet around her neck. Resting her palms on the stone ridge and giving a determined push, she sailed past the ledge and into the air. The sheets quickly drew taut, and by the time her body hit the hotel wall, her neck was already broken.

Alessia did not go for a swim that night.

Chapter 2 Piazza San Marco, Venice, May 3, 1943

Colonel Anselm Bernhard stood in the piazza in front of the gaping doors of the basilica. His hands rolled into fists rested lightly on the leather belt of his uniform. His short-cropped blond hair, clean shaven face, and icy blue eyes topped a muscular and athletic body.

Bernhard's stance and posture reflected the imperialism that his government wanted to impose on the world. He wore his uniform with pride; the razor sharp creases in his pants and the stiff material of the jacket signaled his exceptionality. That image was important for him to display to the soldiers in his command but also to the people of the cities and towns he laid siege to.

Facing the stone edifice of the Basilica di San Marco, Bernhard was clearly enjoying his latest conquest. The mist from the night before had cleared, leaving cool, crisp air on a pleasantly limpid morning. The colonel nodded his head at the basilica, as if he were engaging the great church in a silent conversation, when a young German officer walked up behind him.

“Sir, excuse me, but I have news you will want to hear… before others hear it, no doubt.”

“Did you know, Hilgendorf,” said Bernhard, “that Napoleon conquered this city?” Ignoring the young officer, he remained fixated on the glittering façade of the Basilica di San Marco. “He stole vast art collections from the weak Italians groveling at his feet, even these,” as he pointed up to the magnificent bronze horses at the apex of the church's entrance.

“He stole the horses of St. Mark's and sent them to his native Paris with the rest of the booty he had captured from conquered lands -- just as the soldiers of the Third Reich will do today, to glorify the German Empire.”

Hilgendorf knew about Napoleon's theft of the horses. He also knew that Italy had recovered them from France and that Napoleon was not a native Parisian but was born and raised in Corsica.

The lieutenant, who knew his commander's moods, saw that Bernhard was reveling in fantasies of his own glorification, so correcting his historical musings would be unwise. Hilgendorf was well trained and knew that, in the German army, commanders like Bernhard were rewarded for being ruthless and uncompromising, so contradicting the decorated war veteran's grasp of history would be risky.

Hilgendorf, though an underling, had achieved a high level of education before entering service to the Third Reich in 1939 and he had mastered several foreign languages in the process. The superior officer standing before him had several times dismissed this accomplishment.

“Only German will be necessary in the future,” Bernhard was quick to remind him.

The young lieutenant was taller and leaner than his muscular colonel and kept his light brown hair long enough to comb across the tops of his ears. He had romantic dreams of someday winning a beautiful bride, and in his youth had followed current fashions. Although now he maintained the clean shaven look German commanders encouraged, he still could have passed for a university student.

After a few more moments studying the bronze horses, Bernhard turned his head slowly and caught the young officer's eye. The colonel was not accustomed to being approached with an announcement that sounded like a warning.

“Well?” he asked.

“Alessia was found this morning hanging by her neck outside the hotel. She was dangling from the window, tied to a series of knotted sheets.” Hilgendorf paused to give his superior time to digest the news but, seeing no reaction, he continued.

“She was hoisted back into the room, her face was blue, and it was obvious that her neck was broken.”

Still no reaction. Hilgendorf wondered whether Bernhard's slow response reflected some concern.

“What would you like me to do, sir?”

“Do?” Bernhard uttered matter-of-factly. “What should we do when some stupid girl hangs herself? What business is it of mine?”

The young officer turned to leave, but then halted at the sound of his name.

“Hilgendorf,” Bernhard called out. “Go to her room and retrieve the gold necklace with the sapphires.”

After the young officer departed, the older man took an elegant black leather notebook from his uniform pocket, opened it to a marked page and made some notes. Then he slipped the notebook back into his pocket and returned to gaze on the magnificent basilica, a symbol of the city he had just occupied for the Third Reich.

Chapter 3 Doge's Palace, Venice, May 5, 1943

Two days after Alessia's suicide, Anselm Bernhard was in his office, leaning over an ornate 16th century desk that once belonged to a Venetian Doge, the chief magistrate of Venice. He held the glass shaft of a pen lightly in his right hand, absent-mindedly pointing it at the official documents arranged carefully on the surface of the desk. With a clear conscience, Bernhard embraced the theory of Arian supremacy because it suited his own personal desires. The Nazi regime's plans to conquer Europe included a loose alliance with Italy, and these same plans allowed him to use his position of influence to plunder the riches of the land.

The leaders of the two countries, Adolph Hitler and Benito Mussolini, maintained a fragile relationship; but for the Führer it was only a charade. The privileges allowed the Italian Prime Minister were closely controlled by the Third Reich; the Italian people were not as easily smitten by the German dynastic plans.

But the coalition agreement carved out between Hitler and Mussolini created openings for German opportunists like Bernhard to take advantage of the relationship. With the presumed idea of supremacy, they could take what they wanted and justify it as “saving the disorderly Italians from themselves,” a comment that Bernhard would make frequently in front of his troops.

The Nazi officer paused in his study of the war communiqués before him. He stood up, peered out the window, and straightened his shoulders in an unconscious throwback to the lessons pounded into the unconscious memories of the German officer corps. His posture was erect; his expression steely; and his uniform was starched, snug, and adorned with an array of ribbons carefully positioned above both pockets of the jacket. His appearance underscored his conviction that Hitler was lucky to have him.

Bernhard never doubted his own superiority, and he offered little loyalty to the general cause of the Third Reich. He considered Hitler violent, mean-spirited and dangerously unpredictable with an inferiority complex that fed his erratic behavior. Bernhard had heard that the Führer could pin a medal on a soldier's chest one day and order him shot the next, if he even vaguely suspected disloyalty.

“Killing Jews?” Bernhard thought. “Simple stuff for a madman.” As for Hitler's “final solution” to exterminate the Jews, Bernhard had no opinion. The colonel frankly didn't care if people died, even the innocent ones as long as he wasn't expected to do the killing.

Art, money, and women were far more important to him. He could steal the art and money, and was willing to use his power to force the women into his bedroom. Given his personal agenda, his current position within the German power structure was perfect. He was assigned to confiscate artworks and other precious collectibles in Italy's private homes, churches, and museums, and ship them back to Berlin where they would be safely kept from “the disorderly Italians.”

At first, the assignment was simple enough. With the execution or forced exile of anyone opposed to the Third Reich, the only complication Bernhard encountered was his own greed. Giving all the art to the German regime seemed like such a waste. So, he unofficially modified his orders, judiciously setting aside a portion of the plunder for his own “safekeeping.”

The best of the art would adorn his private villa at the end of the war; some would be traded for the favors of the beautiful young Italian women who were brought to his quarters. And the remainder would be sent to Berlin – enough to convince his superiors to keep him in charge of this mission to search and seize Italy's wealth.

Bernhard's attention returned to the matters on the desk, his reveries interrupted by the sight of the black leather journal that sat among the papers. He had confiscated it from a shop in Venice, a city famous for such things. He lifted it in his left hand, turned the pages to an unused page, and inscribed some notes in penmanship that was a tribute to his fine education. The swirls, slants, and ascending strokes would have made a medieval scribe jealous.

Bernhard had taken a moment to pause and read back his latest entry when he noticed Hilgendorf standing in the doorway.

“Why didn't you say something?” said Bernhard, as usual treating his deputy with more tolerance than he did the other twelve men in his detachment.

“My apologies, Colonel. I didn't want to interrupt you.”

“Oh, it's nothing,” Bernhard replied, tossing the glass pen on the desk but carefully closing the journal and slipping it into his pocket.

Hilgendorf was not allowed to read the journal, but he was perceptive enough to know what it contained. He knew that Bernhard spent more time writing in it when he had acquired a new work of art or plundered another church, so he surmised the colonel must be keeping an inventory of the booty and how he came to possess it. The only other activity that Bernhard appeared to document was his liaisons with the women he either seduced or coerced. The lieutenant knew that Bernhard liked to keep notes on his women since he sometimes consulted the journal when boasting of what he considered a lady's finer attributes.

When Bernhard once described a woman as “a work of art,” the phrase convinced the younger officer that the colonel's other notes in the journal were reserved for the masterpieces he had stolen.

Bernhard was seldom interested in anything that Hilgendorf had to say. The young man, in turn, usually reported to his superior officer only when there was some official business to discuss. The colonel was growing less interested in the movement of troops, the success of the Nazi invasion of European countries, and the progress of Hitler's final solution. So before Hilgendorf could explain the reason for his visit, Bernhard decided to set the direction for the conversation.

“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.