Saving Italy: The Race to Rescue a Nation's Treasures from the Nazis (35 page)

By December 1, 1945, there were no Monuments officers left in Italy. All responsibility for monuments and works of art by that time had been turned over to Italian authorities. The formal work of the Allied Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives Subcommission in Italy—which had numbered twenty-three American officers and enlisted men and seventeen British officers—had concluded its business. Only then did Keller get his promotion. The triumphant news became bittersweet after the discovery that General Hume had submitted the recommendation fourteen months earlier, a month or so after Keller’s gallant work at Pisa’s Camposanto, but then failed to follow up on its status.

On May 24, 1946, after two and a half years of military service overseas,
Major
Deane Keller was finally on his way home. His letter to Kathy and Dino, written from the port of Bremerhaven, Germany, brimmed with enthusiasm: “Dearest Ones: I’ll be on the boat and near home when you get this. All is ready to clear. They say it is a good ship. . . . Next thing will be a telephone call and next will be me looking you and Deane in the eye!!!” He didn’t return home empty-handed: in addition to the Order of the Crown of Italy and the U.S. Legion of Merit, Keller also received honors for his service from England (Member of the Order of the British Empire), and the Vatican (Order of St. John Lateran), among others.

Keller resumed teaching at Yale, becoming a full professor with tenure in 1948. But the world was changing. In 1950, leaders of Yale’s School of Fine Arts swept aside what they considered an old method of teaching, steeped in the tradition of the Beaux Arts, and embraced a more expressive and experimental mode of art theory. Modern artists, with their abstract and conceptual use of color and shapes, had captured the imagination of collectors and the viewing public. Robert Rauschenberg and Cy Twombly, among others, would become the new rage. Their former professor, Josef Albers, took the helm at Yale’s Department of Design. Keller continued teaching art to graduate students of other schools at Yale, but he was no longer allowed to instruct advanced graduate art students.

Through this bitter adjustment, Keller remained a creature of habit and discipline. He taught class in what he referred to as his “uniform”: dark slacks, white shirt with sleeves rolled up, and tie. He rarely mentioned his service overseas. One of his students, a fellow veteran named Leonard Fisher, shared Keller’s view that “the guys who really mattered were the guys who didn’t come back, because they were all buried in the ground. So how could you talk about your experience over there?” Keller did have a constant reminder: his uniform hung proudly in a corner of his classroom. Fisher noted that Keller “tried to hide his humanity and soul with his gruffness, but those of us who had served in uniform could see he was a pussycat underneath.” Each day he ate lunch at the same time and place, reading the
New York Daily News
; people always knew where and when to find him. For years it was The Pub on Chapel Street, where the waitresses didn’t bother bringing him a menu, just his standard lunch: beef bouillon (he called it “beef tea”) followed by vanilla ice cream smothered with coffee.

During the 1950s, Keller became Yale’s unofficial portrait painter, capturing the likenesses not only of numerous school officials but also of other prominent figures, including Senator Robert A. Taft, whose portrait hangs in the Senate Reception Room of the Capitol in Washington, DC. In 1959, he briefly considered the idea of collaborating on a book with his wartime driver and lifelong friend, Charley Bernholz. They settled on a working title—
Charley and the Captain
—and exchanged a few letters about it, but little more. Keller painted a portrait of Charley wearing his army uniform and service medals. In the background is a map of Italy with a five-pointed figure over Anzio, representing the battle in which Charley earned his Bronze Star.

The Kellers welcomed a new addition to the family in 1950, a son they named William (“Bill”). By that time, the relationship between Keller and Dino, now ten years old and called “Deanie” by the family, had become intensely close. Drawing had been the medium of their communication during Keller’s years overseas; this continued once he returned home. Dino’s growing interest in art proved a welcome distraction from Keller’s disappointments at Yale.

In 1965, while Dino was in Florence pursuing his studies in art, the family took its first trip to Italy, just as Keller had promised Kathy back in November 1944. They walked the streets of Naples, where Keller had purchased the street-vendor–made Fifth Army patch he had sewn on his own uniform; enjoyed seeing Duccio’s
Maestà
in Siena, which Keller had discovered among wounded soldiers in a makeshift battlefield hospital; and strolled across a peaceful Piazza dei Miracoli in Pisa as he described the horror of seeing the Camposanto without a roof, its storied frescoes shattered. The highlight of their visit to Milan was standing in front of the famous painting he at one point had feared “may be in ruins.”

In 1976, Keller suffered a stroke. Although unimpaired in thought, he had some paralysis on his right side that forced him to give up portrait painting. He stayed active and close to family, friends, and former students until his death in 1992. Kathy and Dino agreed to apportion his remains. She wanted to bury her husband in the family plot in New Britain, Connecticut, but Dino had another place in mind—one they’d visited as a family in 1965.

In May 2000, after eight years of effort, with the help of Enea Fogagnolo, Dino, Bill, and their spouses entered the Camposanto, where representatives of the Italian government, the United States Army, the Vatican, the City of Florence, and the Church of Pisa greeted them. (Kathy was too fragile to make the trip.) The American Consul General of Florence, Hilario Martinez, also attended. After they all gathered on the north side of the Camposanto, near the frescoes by fifteenth-century artist Benozzo Gozzoli, Dino placed the small urn, covered with the Stars and Stripes and a laurel crown, in the floor tomb.

Deane Keller had once said, “My years in the army were the most useful of my life. I loved the Italians and respected them. . . . we were just doing a job. We’re not so noble.” But those gathered to honor him knew otherwise. “He had the hand of an artist and the heart of an Italian,” one person later wrote. Pisa Mayor Paolo Fontanelli said, “The people of Pisa are bound to this figure, who used his military role to rescue a patrimony belonging to everyone.” An inscription on the white gravestone marking his final resting place ends with the Latin words “
Amicissimus ad amicus
” (The very dear friend returned to his friends). A local newspaper heralded,
”L’ultimo saluto al capitano Keller”
(The Last Goodbye to Captain Keller).

Dino returned home and continued his work as an artist and teacher, but he missed his father terribly. Sometime during the night of January 4, 2005, he died. Although the official cause of death was a massive heart attack, Dino’s wife, Dorothy, later recalled, “Dino died of a broken heart, it was like a wound that wouldn’t heal; a part of him died that day.” Bill added, “My brother mourned Dad’s loss to his death. He never got over it.”

The relationship between Fred Hartt and Deane Keller mellowed with time. True friendship eluded them, but a mutual respect of a defining shared experience materialized. In Hartt’s September 1945 transmittal letter to Keller that accompanied a copy of his final report on Tuscany, he wrote, “You are mentioned often and glowingly. I hope it will be something of a reminder, if you need one, of a long and fruitful period of cooperation between us.” Hartt could empathize uniquely with what Keller had endured upon entering the gutted remains of Pisa. “The heaviest, and in a way the most tragic job, fell to the lot of Capt. Keller,” wrote Hartt. “His report on the damage to Pisa . . . is the most appalling document of the whole history of MFAA work in Tuscany.” Even ten years later, Hartt wrote Keller, noting, “I don’t suppose anyone who didn’t go through the actual experience of fighting and persuading and maneuvering that you did can ever realize what it meant.”

In the end, Hartt and Keller were buried no more than fifty miles apart, the distance between San Miniato al Monte in Florence and the Camposanto in Pisa.

THE WAR IN
Italy and its contribution to the success of the Allied invasion of Western Europe can be measured in many ways. Sicily and the Italian mainland served as the testing ground that forged the MFAA operation in Europe. Sometimes the importance of the Monuments officers’ mission was measured by near misses (most prominently
The Last Supper
), in other instances by the things they saved, such as the Camposanto. The precision of the bombing raid on Santa Maria Novella train station, in the center of Florence, demonstrated new possibilities in the air campaign. However, the overarching achievement of the Monuments Men occurred at ground level, where the Allies won the loyalty of townspeople who watched these scholar-soldiers set about trying to repair their damaged churches and preserve their works of art.

The experience gained in Italy transferred to Shrivenham, England, as the Allies prepared to invade Western Europe. General Eisenhower’s historic order concerning the protection of cultural property in Italy had been issued almost six months
after
the invasion of Sicily. Eleven days
before
the Normandy landings, a similar order was in the hands of his commanders. While the U.S. Army failed to address all the needs of the newly arriving Monuments Men, it did endorse their mission. This was certainly no accident. The trial-and-error experiences—and subsequent achievements—of Hammond, Keller, Hartt, Croft-Murray, and the others had paved the way.

Is it worth risking a person’s life to save a work of art? This question crossed the minds of the Monuments Men and others who safeguarded cultural treasures during wartime. Keller’s answer to this question made an important distinction: that of dying to save an object versus dying while defending a cause. Neither the methodical and cautious Keller nor the occasionally freewheeling and reckless Hartt wanted to lose his life, but both men accepted the risks because they believed in the cause.

The final words on the work of the Monuments Men in Italy should come from the man who served there longest, Major Deane Keller. Not only do they define a nation’s responsibility to respect cultural property, they also reflect the noble purpose for which these men and women served.

Since Fine Arts are not edible, nor do they give heat to the cold, light to those in darkness, or water to those who wish to cook and wash, a reason beyond the primal needs of man must be found for concern for them in wartime
. . . .
It is hoped by Capt. Keller that the work of this [Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives] Section has helped to sustain in the eyes of Americans and the Allies their sense of civilization and their sensibility for some of the greatest productions of the human mind and emotions. . . . To have been permitted to serve [my] country and in a small way civilization as an officer of a great Army with the mission of caring for a treasure belonging to not only the Italians but to the world at large is enough honor for one man.

*
The painting collection of the Museo Nazionale was transferred to the Capodimonte Museum in 1957.

*
The Last Supper
is not a true fresco, as it was painted on dry plaster, not wet.

*
As this book goes to press, a newly discovered painting by Leonardo—
Salvator Mundi
—is being offered for sale by a group of art dealers in the United States.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

B
efore emerging onto Centre Court at Wimbledon, players walk through a passageway beneath an excerpt from Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If,” which reads: “ . . . If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two impostors just the same. . . .” I thought of Kipling’s words almost daily during the research and writing of this book. The sacrifices made along this journey taxed my abilities in every possible manner. What a glorious challenge; what a worthy undertaking; but what loneliness.

Rarely are such achievements singular. I have benefited from the hard work and goodwill of many people, all committed to the excellence of this book and the sanity of its author. I am in debt to them all.

Elizabeth Hudson, my senior researcher, who has worked with me on all three of my books, performed brilliantly. Her attention to detail and superior project-management skills guided an extremely complex undertaking smoothly to completion. Watching her grow in this position over these past years has been a joyous experience for me.

Christy Fox has supported every aspect of the Monuments Men project, almost since its inception. For this book, she assisted with key archival research; located and then interviewed several key participants; and contributed to each phase of development. Her admiration of the Monuments Men and women has sustained this project, the work of the Monuments Men Foundation—and my efforts—through some difficult stretches.

My executive assistant, Michele Brown, exemplifies grace under fire, with a smile, every single day. I couldn’t maintain such a daunting schedule and heavy workload without her. Assisting her are James Early, who manages the Foundation’s extensive film and image database and its website activity, and Anne Jones.

Dorothee Schneider once again read thousands of German documents, and dozens of German-language books, to assess the most relevant details; then she translated them for my review. Through her contacts, we gained access to never-before-seen records that proved critical to deciphering these complicated events. My trust in her judgment speaks for itself. The newest member of our research team, Anna Bottinelli, spent countless hours in archives in Rome, Milan, and her hometown of Florence. She even conducted an interview while taking notes on someone’s porch in the rain! Both demonstrated patience with my endless requests for additional information. Credit also goes to Natalie Ward and Giulia Mezzi, who assisted us on this project.

W. W. Norton has been enthusiastic about this book from the outset. The company’s commitment to excellence and entrepreneurial approach to publishing perfectly suited this important project and book. Tom Mayer, my editor, provided a steady hand throughout the two years of writing and editing. On more occasions than I can recall, he encouraged changes that demonstrated attention to detail. He inspired me to write well. I am proud of our collaboration. Starling Lawrence read the manuscript with great enthusiasm. Simply stated, his comments made the book better. I also want to recognize others at Norton, including John Glusman, Jeannie Luciano, Bill Rusin, Elizabeth Riley, Nancy Palmquist, copyeditor Kathleen Brandes, and production manager Louise Mattarelliano. Special thanks go to Ryan Harrington.

People who work behind the scenes are essential to such an ambitious endeavor. I am grateful for the continued guidance of my skilled attorney and friend Michael Friedman, and the team at Foundry Literary & Media, particularly Peter McGuigan, Stéphanie Abou, Kirsten Neuhaus, and Matt Wise. Very special thanks go to Michelle Weiner, my agent at Creative Artists Agency. Michelle has believed in the story of the Monuments Men (and women) since reading
Rescuing Da Vinci
in 2006. Her unwavering efforts to find just the right production studio for a film based on my last book led us to George Clooney, Grant Heslov, and their team at Smokehouse Pictures.

The Trustees and supporters of the Monuments Men Foundation have been a constant source of encouragement. They supported my vision of how
Saving Italy
and
The Monuments Men
could be used to create visibility for these heroes and thereby help complete their mission. The announcement of the film has validated that approach. I want to acknowledge those who have helped nurture the Foundation—in particular, Tom and Kim Schwartz, Bob and Patty Hayes, Carol and Terry Wall, Edith and Peter O’Donnell, Aubrey and Katie McClendon, Jim and Nancy Edsel, Alfred Glassell III (whose late father was a World War II veteran), Claire and Jim Woodcock, Allen Cullum, and Mrs. Margaret McDermott. I would also like to thank two longtime friends of the Foundation, Susan Eisenhower and Dr. Bruce Cole.

Authors benefit from the ability to contact experts on short notice, sometimes making a large call on their time, on other occasions simply needing guidance on a particular point. Four people—Carlo d’Este, Keith Christiansen, Donald Miller, and Joe Persico—each distinguished in his respective field, agreed to read portions of the manuscript and share their comments with me. This book is better as a result. I am profoundly appreciative to each of them for helping me.

Those who provided less involved but important assistance during the writing include Joseph Robert White, PhD, Thomas Kline, Nancy Yeide, Ennio Caretto with
Corriere della Sera,
Thomas Rupprath, Dr. Guenter Bischof, and Joshua Weikersheimer. A special word of thanks goes to Dr. Birgit Schwarz, an outstanding scholar and accomplished author who has been generous in sharing her expertise on Adolf Hitler and his art-collecting ambitions. I also want to recognize the entire team at The National World War II Museum, especially cofounder and President Dr. Nick Mueller, Vice-President Stephen Watson, and its dedicated Board of Trustees, all of whom are committed to fulfilling the dream of the museum’s other cofounder, the late Dr. Stephen Ambrose.

This book wouldn’t have been possible without the sharing of information and guidance from the families and friends of some of the key figures in the story. Several fielded numerous questions and e-mails from me with the same level of devotion they showed to the memory of their loved one. What success attends this book I share with each of them. Space precludes a full listing of names, but I would be remiss in not singling out Bill Keller, Eugene Markowski, Dorothy Keller, Leonard Fisher, Lola Scarpitta Knapple, Lizzie Boo Llewellyn, Anthony Cagiati, Spencer Seymour, Margaret Hildson, Bryan Ward-Perkins, Walter Gleason, Charles Bernholz, Mareile Langsdorff Claus, Luigina Anelli, Sergio Giliotti, Anna Magrini, and my friend the late and dear Alessandro Olschki. Special thanks go to Ken Scott.

My researchers and I visited dozens of archives, all of which housed valuable information included in this book. The following individuals merit special recognition for their assistance: Greg Bradsher at the National Archives; the staff of the Manuscripts and Archives Division at Yale University Library; Karl Weisenbach and his staff at the Eisenhower Presidential Library, especially Valoise Armstrong and Elinor Haas; Tom Czekanski at The National World War II Museum; James Moske at the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Jean Henry at the National Gallery of Art; Holly Wright at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art; Charles Greene and Shari T. Kenfield at the Princeton University Library; Padre Agostino Selva at Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan; Maria Liberatrice Vicentini at the Siviero Archive, Rome; Attilio Tori from the Museo Casa Rodolfo Siviero, Florence; Giuseppe Bentivoglio and Diego Guidi from the Opera della Primaziale Pisana; Alexa Mason and Ilaria Della Monica at Villa I Tatti in Florence; Ivana Novani at the archive of the Soprintendenza per i Beni Architettonici e del Paesaggio in Milan; Simona Pasquinucci at the Archivio Catalogo Beni Storico Artistici in Florence; Luca Brogioni and Francesca Gaggini from the Archivio Storico of Florence; Alessandra Giovenco from The Photographic and Historic Archive of the British School at Rome; Antonio Palladino from the American Academy at Rome. A word of thanks also goes to Pietro Bonardi and Marco Meschini.

The solitude of writing was assuaged by two places that provided measures of support and encouragement, each in its own way. The team at Al Biernet’s Restaurant in Dallas regularly provided me with the best-lit table in the restaurant when I needed a safe place to write, surrounded by people and noise. Thanks go to Al, Brad, Victor, Audra, Ellen, Nichole, Michael, and the Rachels.

For years I have been fortunate to spend time at the Palace Hotel in St. Moritz, Switzerland. I wrote a large portion of the manuscript there while conducting research forays across the Alps into northern Italy to key places in our story. Time spent in the Engadine inspired me. From the moment I arrived—with twelve boxes of research papers and dozens of reference books—everyone from senior management to the seasonal staff knew why I was there. Many had a sense of the challenge I faced, far from home. I thank them all, in particular my friend Giuseppe Pesenti, for acting as family during my many solitary months reading, thinking, and writing.

My friends cared for me during this long process, several at the most critical of times. Some preferred to cheer me on from the balcony; others played a more active role. My son, Diego, a gifted musician, constantly encouraged me, even when my work kept us apart. He remains my role model for selflessness.

My mom, Norma, and aunt, Marilyn Wright, are my biggest supporters. To them—and to all my friends—I extend thanks and my love, particularly to Michael Madigan, June Terry, Khanh Dao, Boyd Lyles, Drew and Susan Gitlin, Blake and Tom Stevenson, Linda and Mike Buchanan, Ken and Betty Boome, George and Fern Wachter, Ginger and Ian Russell, Alan Christopher, Rod Laver, John and Roberta McDonald, Martha Snider, Marco Bonini, Michelle Rapkin, Bret Witter, Mike Bylen, and Bobby Zorn. And to Simonetta Brandolini, whose leadership of the Friends of Florence organization makes her a modern-day “Monuments woman.” To Erin, and the memory of jumping in puddles.

I lament the recent passing of dear friends Dr. Ted Pillsbury, who would have been so proud of me for writing this book, and his wife, Mireille; and Mary Laver. Since the publication of my last book, five Monuments officers have died. I counted each of them as a “friend”: Robert Koch, James Reeds, Mary Regan Queesenberry, Seymour Pomrenze, and Mark Sponenburgh.

One other friend, a man I admire and love, deserves special mention: Monuments Man Harry Ettlinger. He and the other Monuments Men and women—the few still with us and those who have departed—remain the inspiration behind my continued efforts.