Saving Italy: The Race to Rescue a Nation's Treasures from the Nazis (25 page)

With Christmas approaching, millions of soldiers began preparing for another holiday apart from loved ones. On his second Christmas abroad, Keller tried to explain to Kathy the perspective the war had brought him:

Dearest:

Today is Christmas and my first thoughts are with you and Deane. . . . As I write the roar of tanks and heavy vehicles is in the air. . . . Some boys will eat a turkey leg in a pup tent or in a foxhole. Some will die this day. . . . I have seen so much human misery that anything better will seem pretty wonderful. Also I believe that I have a better idea of what counts in this world and what does not. What counts is very briefly told and all the rest is so much froth to be blown away in the lightest puff of wind.

At that moment, Keller noticed an Allied P-38 fighter passing overhead. The war was not over, perhaps far from it. But the sound of soldiers singing brought forth a final thought.

Downstairs the radio has just come on and someone is singing a Carol. Shades of Michelangelo and Giotto and Ghirlandaio, and Michelozzo and Arnolfo di Cambio. This is my Christmas—a big one filled with the highest ideals man is capable of, experienced by you and me and Deane.

All my love, Deane.

*
About $1,700,000 in 2012.

SECTION III

VICTORY

Absolute secrecy is essential to a successful surrender.

—
OSS CHIEF MAJOR GENERAL WILLIAM J. DONOVAN,
MEMORANDUM TO THE PRESIDENT
OF THE UNITED STATES

21

TROUBLE IN THE RANKS

JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1945

B
y late January, the Allied armies had Nazi Germany trapped in a vise. As one senior U.S. official observed, “Now it is not a war for [German] supremacy but a war of survival.” General Eisenhower’s forces had penetrated Germany’s western border, from Switzerland north to the Netherlands. The Soviet offensive launched on January 12 had propelled the Eastern Front nearly three hundred miles westward—from the Vistula River in central Poland to the shores of the Oder River marking the German border. To the south, Kesselring’s frontline divisions and Wolff’s rearguard soldiers formed the last lines of defense against the U.S. Fifth and British Eighth Armies. The question of who would win the war seemed decided. The question now was how much longer the fighting would continue.

The momentum of Germany’s December 16 surprise attack in the Ardennes Forest had long since dissipated. Eisenhower had been right in his assessment. The Battle of the Bulge had presented a moment of great opportunity, and the Allies seized it, crushing Hitler’s troops. By the end of January, between eighty and a hundred thousand German soldiers lay dead, wounded, captured, or missing. German General Friedrich Wilhelm von Mellenthin later commented: “Our precious reserves had been expended, and nothing was available to ward off the impending catastrophe in the East.” Hitler’s armies would never again gain ground.

The Battle of the Bulge also cost the victors dearly. Official reports listed 19,246 American deaths. More than four times that number had been wounded or were missing. Altogether, Americans suffered 108,000 casualties. In stark contrast, the British, whose forces were positioned away from the battle, suffered fourteen hundred casualties; two hundred British soldiers were killed. Prime Minister Churchill noted that it “is undoubtedly the greatest American battle of the war and will, I believe, be regarded as an ever-famous American victory.”

In October 1944, Deane Keller had received news that he was being considered for the Bronze Star. General Edgar Hume requested that he submit a written summary of his work with Allied Military Government. The prospect of the medal lifted his spirits considerably. But eleven days later, Keller wrote Kathy to inform her that it would not be his. “Do not be too disappointed, for I am not. . . . If I were any less sure of why I am over here I would be upset and discouraged.”

Once again, Keller hedged his true feelings in an effort to spare his wife. He was, in fact, very disappointed. He remained convinced that his failure to receive the medal would diminish his standing in the eyes of Yale University’s leaders: “If I had gotten the award I’d probably be a full-professor by June 1945. Without it I am nothing to them. . . . I’ll be told, ‘Well, after all, you were away two years’, or whatever it will be, ‘and others carried on for you.’ . . . Many men profited at Yale in the last war by staying home and there is no reason to believe they won’t in this.”

After more than a year away from home, what Keller needed most of all was a friend. While standing in line for mail in Florence one very cold December day, he found one. Charley Bernholz was about to lose his job. He had been the driver for Colonel Edward B. Mayne, Chief of Staff for AMG Fifth Army, who, relieved of duty, would soon depart for England. Keller arranged for Bernholz to become his driver and assistant. Charley’s experience with operations at AMG headquarters proved as helpful as his knowledge of the Italian roads, and his easygoing manner contrasted with Keller’s intensity. The Yale professor quickly realized he had gained a trusted companion. “I don’t care much about a lot of things,” he wrote Kathy, “but a few friends are needed.”

Keller considered Charley, a Bronze Star recipient and veteran of the Sicily and Volturno campaigns, a true hero. His citation from Lieutenant General Mark Clark described how Bernholz had risked his life in Nettuno after a German plane attacked an ammunition convoy and set it ablaze. “Private First Class Bernholz rushed to the scene of the bombing and removed a severely wounded driver from the danger of exploding ammunition.” Only after Charley had returned to the burning wreckage to check for other wounded personnel did he seek safety.

Having a close friend improved Keller’s outlook. He and Charley decided to paint a Fascist slogan—“
Me ne frego
”—on their jeep. It meant, “I don’t give a damn.” This was the first time in sixteen months that Keller had held a paintbrush. The addition of Bernholz—as driver and professional photographer—also enabled Keller to pursue in earnest an idea he had been mulling for several months: the creation of a pictorial history of AMG Fifth Army. The idea received quick approval, and on January 10 Keller added this new responsibility to his regular duties as Monuments officer for Fifth Army.

An early assignment involved Keller and Bernholz observing and photographing the execution of an Italian spy. Early in the morning of January 11, 1945, the two men waited outside Florence police headquarters, in the darkness of the empty Piazza della Signoria. Moments later, they accompanied British officers and a priest to the old Le Murate prison for the identification of the prisoner. The small motorcade, led by a hearse, then proceeded to a quarry northeast of the city. Upon arriving, the men climbed out of the vehicles and unloaded the prisoner. Keller counted about twenty British military police present.

Some were digging holes with picks for the gun rest which was shoulder high with a rest for the kneeling position. Ground was frozen. Lights of a jeep were used and flashlights. At 15 paces the chair was set up. The legs were reinforced on all four sides . . . making it impossible for the chair to topple over. . . . Behind one pile of rubble the firing squad of 6 . . . stood banging feet and hands to keep warm. The officer in charge had them march up to the firing line for a rehearsal. . . . The officer said the only command would be “FIRE” which he shouted at the top of his voice. . . . The prisoner wore a pale blue sweater and gray trousers. His head and the tip of his nose was covered with a heavy white bandage. Over his heart, about 8" square, was a white cloth. He was accompanied by the priest to the chair. Hands tied behind his back. He was seated and secured by the M.P.s and Major Langford and other officers, one of whom slipped and fell. The priest stood on his left talking to him. . . . The firing squad had already taken their positions at the gun rest. The priest remained by the side of the prisoner until someone ordered him away. The firing squad took their rifles and made ready. All officers, on-lookers, grouped in back and the sides of the firing squad. After the priest had stepped aside, perhaps 4 seconds [later] the prisoner said: “Posso dire qualcosa?” [“Can I say something?”] No audible reply was heard, but time was given for the following statement from the prisoner: “Evviva l’Italia, Evviva gli Alleati, spero che gli Alleati vincano” [“Hurray Italy, Hurray the Allies, I hope the Allies will win”]. No command was heard but the volley was fired, one blast. The prisoner had been sitting straight, facing the squad. His broad chin and jaws shown [
sic
] pale but distinct. The white bandage, and square patch over his heart was bright. The light was not too bright, but these targets were clear. He slumped back immediately, his knees sagged apart and his head fell back, completely inanimate. He must have died instantly. . . . The M.P.s untied the knots and a coffin was brought from the hearse. . . . The chair, blood stained, was put in the truck and all left the place.

Bernholz took photographs of the execution, some twenty in all. Keller later made a rough sketch showing the kneeling soldiers shouldering their weapons moments before firing. His drawing captured the solemnity of the scene; standing alone, perhaps uttering the prayers of the last rites, was the figure of the priest. It was a gruesome beginning for the pictorial history project, one that Keller wished to forget, but it foretold the chaos and settling of scores that lay ahead in Italy.

On February 1, Keller received official notification that he and six other AMG officers would receive a citation—not the one he hoped for, perhaps, but one of considerable distinction: Knight of the Order of the Crown of Italy. Keller’s commanding officer, General Hume, made a point of emphasizing that “without exception they have all rendered service under fire. It is understood that this is a combat award.”

Two weeks later, Keller supervised the return to Florence of a bronze statue of Cosimo I de’Medici and his horse, completed in 1594 by the Flemish master sculptor Giambologna. In August 1943, local art officials had disassembled the eight-ton statue and moved it on an ox-drawn cart to the villa at Poggio a Caiano for safekeeping. Getting it back into the city had become a matter of urgency. With reconstruction of the railroad bridge nearing completion, there soon wouldn’t be enough clearance for Cosimo and his steed to pass.

After several days of planning and preparation, a crane hoisted Cosimo onto the back of a truck. Moving the horse, far larger and heavier than the rider, proved considerably more difficult. The horse was standing in a prancing position atop a wooden skid, front and rear legs astride a crisscrossed stack of logs for stability. It took three and a half hours to pull the skid into position on the tank trailer, using a moving technique Keller described as primitive, “in the manner of a Maine back countryman moving a house with pulleys and tackle and a horse for the power.”

An American soldier named Smokey mounted the horse to lift the telephone and telegraph wires along the route into the city. As Smokey tried to straddle the hole where Cosimo and his saddle would normally be joined, Keller heard someone shout, “Captain, that horse is full of shit; them Dagos’ been crappin’ in it!”

Although the journey into Florence covered just fourteen miles, rainy weather and numerous stops stretched the travel time to an hour and a half. With Bernholz serving as traffic director, the procession arrived in the city at 3 p.m. Giovanni Poggi, Fred Hartt and
Lucky 13
, and a few hundred Florentines awaited them in the Piazza della Signoria. Keller noted that the climax of the trip occurred when “a driver of a
carrozza
[carriage] pulled by a horse at a trot, [raised] his hat and, beaming from ear to ear, [said]: ‘
Cosimo, ben tornato
!’ (‘Cosimo, welcome back!’).” Keller later recorded in his report the lasting impact of the return of Cosimo: “The implications of such a transport as manifested in the faces of Italians along the route and in Florence City proper make it on the contrary, a large and important undertaking in terms of giving pleasure to a people who have suffered.”

Within a week, however, sad news overshadowed the triumph of Cosimo’s return; Smokey had been killed in action at the front.

By mid-February, strain in the work relationship between Keller and Hartt became pronounced. A January 2, 1945,
New York Times
article by Herbert Matthews triggered a major disagreement. “The story of what has happened to the incalculably rich art of Tuscany [
sic
] cities during this campaign is one of the saddest of the war,” Matthews wrote, “but it is possible to report now, after four or five months have passed, that repair and protection work has made great strides under the supervision of a young American, First Lieut. Frederick T. Hartt, who is in charge of the work for the Allied Military Government.”

Several Monuments officers, including Keller, took offense, thinking Hartt had gone out of his way to garner press coverage without giving credit to his colleagues. Keller wrote to Kathy, telling her, “I am not alone in thinking that Hartt has gone too far in publicity for himself. All the rest are of the same opinion. He has made an ass of himself.” The unfortunate wording of Matthews’s article implied that Hartt was the lone Monuments officer on the case. Although Hartt later told Keller that he was sorry, that “he had forgotten to mention the names of others to this war correspondent,” the damage was done.

Keller also wrote Lieutenant Colonel DeWald, noting, “I know the Army feeling about publicity and I have avoided it. It tends to cheapen our efforts. The ones who fight and win the war are the ones to get it now. In the future, around the hearth at home there will be time to recount the brave deeds in liberating world masterpieces.” Harry Butcher, Naval Aide to General Eisenhower, once commented about how much his boss and General George Marshall “don’t like cheap publicity.” Even
Stars and Stripes
cartoonist Bill Mauldin noted: “Very few [soldiers] shoot off their mouths about their own heroism when the inevitable reporter from the home-town paper comes around to see them.” Hartt said he had merely wanted to get attention for the imperiled monuments, but Keller and the others hardly had the patience to see it that way.

Nor was this their only conflict. Keller and Hartt had another run-in over what Keller saw as a breach of protocol when Hartt appealed to Hume to overturn a judgment call made by Keller concerning
OFF-LIMITS
signs. Neither Keller nor any other Monuments officer doubted Hartt’s sincerity and passion for the job. And they didn’t disagree that some publicity about the role of Monuments officers might benefit their work. But they considered Hartt’s personal behavior reckless, and his disregard for army protocol an affront. Hartt, however, was taken aback by Keller’s criticism: “We always got along fine up till now, and I really feel a little hurt and let down by this incident, the first of its kind.”

Six days later, Keller contacted another of his superior officers to summarize his position on the publicity issue and explain his view about the
OFF-LIMITS
violation. Noting that “Lt. Hartt has done an excellent piece of work,” he then addressed both issues head-on: “Sunday morning last, I advised [Hartt] on two points in particular: That I will do nothing to jeopardize what good relations MFAA Section has with the combat soldiers (he wanted a protest from Gen. Hume over a violation of Off Limits signs, which seemed to me comparatively trivial) and the fact that an Army Officer should keep personal publicity at a minimum.”