The Rape of Europa (46 page)

It was into this milieu that Bernhard von Tieschowitz, who had replaced Count Metternich in Paris as Director of the Kunstschutz, arrived on October 31, to set up a similar organization for Italy. According to von Tieschowitz’s first reports, all was for the best in the best of possible worlds, and “an atmosphere of confidence between the interested parties of both nations was established.”
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Soon the German and Swiss press began to carry regular stories on the German rescue of the Italian patrimony. Within a few days von Tieschowitz had appointed a permanent head for the Kunstschutz, a Professor Evers from Munich, who would arrive in a few weeks. Arrangements were begun to bring the contents of the nearest
ricoveri
back into the city. On November 15 the Vatican declared itself ready to receive the first shipments, and trucks were commandeered by von Tieschowitz to bring back the contents of the Palatine Museum, the Borghese Gallery, and various Roman churches.

During all of this, von Tieschowitz constantly reassured arts officials that the “initiative and direction of action will lie with the Italians, while, apart from the direct protection of works of art and of the immovable things in the zones of operation, the Germans will limit themselves to collaboration in the executive phase,” pointing out to them also the “political
significance of this double action.”
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The Italians, suspicious of ultimate German motives despite the folksy atmosphere, continued to urge that the Tuscan deposits too be brought to the Vatican. Though transport would be dangerous, they suggested that the priceless things could be marked with red crosses, be moved at night, or be guaranteed by an international agreement of some kind.

Small seminarians help the Germans move art into the Vatican.

While these discussions were in progress, Ambassador Rahn, on November 10, went to Hitler’s Eastern Front headquarters to try to persuade him not to defend Florence, which in existing German plans was the pivotal point of the so-called Arno defense line. Hitler vaguely agreed only that Florence should be “protected” and that it was “too beautiful to destroy.”
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But Rahn did report to von Weizsäcker at the Vatican that the Führer had issued a special order that “those works of art which we owe to the genius of the Italian Nation are to be returned to the open cities of Florence and Rome, where they can be protected from terror bombing and safely preserved for Europe.”
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The matter seemed decided. The next day von Tieschowitz told officials in Rome that the Tuscan works should be concentrated in Florence. The Romans did not agree with this policy, and all during November and December deluged their Florentine colleagues with calls and letters pressing their case. But the German will prevailed. If the Italians had had any doubts that their nation was an occupied one, they were now enlightened.

And daily there were other disturbing reports. German soldiers had raided the Cathedral of Gaeta and the lovely Villa Lante at Bagnaia, endangering its frescoes. They had forced their way into the Castel Sant’ Angelo, which was being used as a staging area for the objects from the
ricoveri
, and turned the gardens at Tivoli into an ammo dump. Most worrying was the refusal, despite repeated urging by von Tieschowitz himself, of the Hermann Goering Division to return the Monte Cassino shipment they held at Spoleto. Italian curators were not allowed to check the condition of the paintings; even the SS art historian appointed by Kesselring claimed that he had not been allowed to inventory the cases, and could only report that they were properly sealed.

With constant badgering from von Tieschowitz, who ultimately appealed to Kesselring himself, the recalcitrant Goering Division finally agreed to return part of their holdings. Von Tieschowitz ensured that they would do so by announcing this fact at a press conference. The actual delivery was to be occasion for a full-fledged propaganda and media circus. The transporting trucks were to arrive “with solemnity” at Castel Sant’ Angelo, after stopping for photo opportunities at the Coliseum and other suitable sites. The whole thing would be filmed for distribution in the Reich. Italian officials suspected that this ceremony “had a political reason, particularly after the accusations of filching made … on the British radio and the German desire to point out that these are false.” The Romans were ordered to attend the ceremony, but only as “testimony to the act of reconsignment.”
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Everybody wore their best uniforms. There were speeches, and some four hundred cases were duly unloaded for the cameras.

The only trouble was that the Naples pictures were not included. These arrived in a subsequent shipment on January 4, 1944, and were received with equal ceremony at the Palazzo Venezia. It was noticed immediately that fifteen crates were missing. The German commander of the convoy explained that two trucks had been damaged by machine-gun fire, and would arrive shortly. The nightlong vigil of Italian custodians waiting to receive them was in vain: the pictures never came. Indeed, they never would, for they had already arrived at Reineckersdorf, the headquarters of the Hermann Goering Division outside Berlin.
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The timid Professor Evers, who by now had arrived to take von Tieschowitz’s place as Kunstschutz chief, not being inclined to jeopardize his life, refused all access to the storerooms. The Italians would not know which pictures were missing until the Allies liberated the city.

Although Hitler had declared his wish that the Italian national patrimony remain at home, he did not include the inventories of the four great German institutes in this category. Two of them had been chartered after World War I by the Benedetto Croce Agreement (part of the hated Versailles
Treaty), which required them to stay in Italy in perpetuity. This only made the Führer more eager to return them to the Fatherland. Ambassador Rahn, during his visit to the Wolf’s Lair, had urged his chief to allow the collections, which contained many works of art as well as valuable books, to remain in Italy as an emblem of German prestige.

Hitler asked for an opinion from the institute directors themselves. Desperate to keep their organizations intact, but feeling sure that the proper response should be a fervent desire to return them to Germany, the directors, represented by Professor Bruhns of the Hertziana, based their request to stay on the “impossibility of arranging safe transport owing to the bombardments of all lines of communication.” This defeatist excuse so enraged Hitler that he ordered that the libraries be sent to the Reich immediately. Bruhns now returned to his Swedish friend, lamely explaining that the evacuation was necessary because of the dangers of Allied bombing. Sjoqvist did not make it easy for him: “On my questioning how such an hypothesis could be reconciled with the bringing to Rome of all the materials from Monte Cassino, he remained slightly embarrassed.” Somewhat more sympathetically Sjoqvist did note that he was sure Bruhns feared for the lives of his family if he did not comply.
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The Hertziana holdings were packed in early January 1944, and arrived at a “salt mine near Salzburg” a few weeks later. The other institutes did their packing as slowly as possible, vainly hoping that an Allied offensive would prevent shipment. The first carloads moved north as part of a troop train which was bombed while on a bridge; some cars fell into the river and others burned to ashes, but not the books. Subsequent transports also miraculously arrived in the Fatherland without damage. Hitler’s rage was now vindicated, but “his” libraries were doomed to several more weeks of harrowing adventure. As of March 4, 1944, some six freight cars of books, documents, photographic archives, and works of art still sat homeless on rail sidings in the Reich—while Bruhns desperately tried to find room for his treasures in the overflowing German refuges. In Rome no one was quite sure where they had ended up.

The landing at Anzio and the frontal attack on the lowering mountains around Monte Cassino, which the Allies had begun with such high hopes of a rapid advance to Rome, was stopped within days by the well-prepared German defenses and the dreadful weather. In mud and rain, freezing and constantly exposed to artillery barrages on the bare mountainsides, the Allied armies lay in misery with the windows of the great abbey looking down upon them. Little wonder that it soon became a hated obstacle and the symbol of their powerlessness to advance.

There was no question that the American commanders—aware of possible
propaganda effects and bolstered by Eisenhower’s orders—considered the abbey a religious and historic monument which should be protected; nor did they consider its destruction a military necessity. In fact, reduction of the building to rubble would only enhance the German defense network in which it lay enmeshed like a fly caught in the web. But the abbey had become more than a mere building.

Press reports in Britain and the United States focused on it more than any other of the many strong points and observation posts along the Gustav line. Repeated denials by Kesselring and von Weizsäcker that the abbey proper was being used by German forces were universally treated with scorn. Vivid reporting by Ernie Pyle and others told of the high casualty rate and truly ghastly conditions. C. L. Sulzberger of
The New York Times
declared on January 29 that “abstention from shelling Monte Cassino, about which reconnaissance has remarked the presence of many German vehicles, hampered our advance greatly since the whole hillside beneath it is defended.”

In England the situation was made worse by a series of debates on the protection of monuments in the House of Lords in early February, which began with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Chichester calling for restraint in the bombing of “the constellation of lovely cities, towns and villages in Italy.” Unfortunately, the Bishops had failed to point out in their speeches that such restraint should always be subject to military necessity. A furor ensued. The
Times
letter columns overflowed with missives from angry parents declaring that their sons should not give their lives for a building. John Maynard Keynes, the eminent economist, wrote to John Walker at the National Gallery of Art in Washington that he feared “public discussion of this subject has started off on the wrong foot, and people are getting badly confused about it… the issue is now viewed as one between dead matter and young living bodies.”
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Strong pressure to destroy the abbey was also forthcoming from the commanders of the New Zealand and Indian divisions whose troops would soon be ordered to take the mountain on which it stood. For days the issue was debated within the Allied commands, with the Americans and French against, and the British and New Zealanders for. Intelligence reports were studied, and the vaguest reports of a German presence taken as true. But in fact, no one really knew exactly what was behind the staring windows so far above them. Nor did anyone want responsibility for the decision; but it was finally taken by General Sir Harold Alexander, Commander of Allied Forces in Italy, on February 13.
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The next day warning leaflets were showered over the abbey to allow evacuation of the premises by the monks and civilians known to be inside.
Two days later wave after wave of bombers reduced it to a rubble heap. In the valley below, troops and reporters cheered at the sight. But the Germans entrenched round the abbey were unharmed by the bombardment, and now, as the doomed Allied troops attacking the next day would discover, moved into the ruins, which acted as a natural battlement on the mountaintop. The bombing had all been in vain: after terrible loss of life, and three more months of shelling, the abbey was finally taken on May 18 by Polish troops after the Germans had abandoned it.