Saving Italy: The Race to Rescue a Nation's Treasures from the Nazis (28 page)

Three days later, Hartt learned that Cagiati had sent a message to one of his operatives near Venice, instructing him to make contact with Professor Ludwig Heydenreich or Carlo Anti and obtain information concerning “disposition of works of art, and arrangements made to prevent their evacuation to Germany or at least an attempt made to trace the movements of these treasures.”

Cagiati gained a new title on March 27: Officer in Charge, N. Italy City Teams. Through the fall and winter months, he had built a reliable network of OSS Special Operations teams, some sixteen in all, operating behind enemy lines. The new title formalized his role. Two of his key men in the field—Don Guido Anelli, “the flying priest,” and Pietro Ferraro—had already been pressed into service on unrelated missions. Cagiati limited Anelli’s initial assignment to gathering information about the location of the works. Ferraro, an Italian partisan leader who, like Anelli, had been parachuted behind enemy lines in July 1944, received instructions to make contact with the Patriarch of Venice, as well as like-minded members of the Kunstschutz, and obtain what information he could.

Hartt’s entrepreneurial effort created another serious rift with Keller. On March 18, while Wolff was in transit to Switzerland for his second meeting with Dulles, Keller received orders to report to Allied Force Headquarters in Caserta for a weeklong assignment helping to prepare the monuments component of Fifth Army’s planned occupation of Austria. By the time he returned to Florence, Hartt had devised a plan that, from Keller’s perspective, allowed him “to chase all over the place at will, hunting art treasures.” That his subordinate had pursued an idea, without regard to military protocol, left Keller fuming. He wasted no time in writing DeWald: “I hope you won’t mind if I write very frankly about a situation that has bothered me for some time, aggravated by another instance of it today. . . . I knew nothing of the OSS business and was somewhat embarrassed to have Fred in on the know, contact made and full of it.”

Although Keller’s frustration was understandable, in point of fact Fred Hartt had set in motion a series of events that had brought new manpower to the hunt.

AFTER RETURNING TO
his headquarters from the second meeting with Dulles and the “military advisers,” Wolff once again turned his attention to the artwork. At the time, Wolff and Gauleiter Hofer had reached an understanding that neither would make decisions about the art without the other’s consent. But Hofer’s alliance with his fellow Austrian—SS General Ernst Kaltenbrunner—meant he couldn’t be trusted. Others shared Wolff’s opinion. General Director of Fine Arts Carlo Anti had long believed that, “in view of Hofer’s anti-Italian feeling there was reason to be very anxious for the fate of our works of art,” noting that even Dr. Ringler “confessed to me that he felt unsafe.” Hofer apparently distrusted Ringler because he was Catholic and not a Nazi Party member.

Meanwhile, Wolff’s secret discussions with the Allies had begun to complicate his working relationship with Langsdorff. Unaware that Wolff had ulterior plans for the treasures, Langsdorff had urged Ringler to press Hofer to allow an Italian supervisor at the repositories. He expected Hofer to agree readily. Instead, Langsdorff was surprised when he received notice on March 21 from Ringler that “the Gauleiter in agreement with
Obergruppenführer
Wolff had refused to give permission for [Superintendent of Galleries of Genoa] Morassi’s journey for the purpose of permanently controlling the treasures. . . .” Wolff’s sudden and unexplained shift confounded Langsdorff. Weeks would pass before he would understand the reason.

Gauleiter Hofer wasn’t the only perceived threat to the art. The nearby population had little reason to defend Italian patrimony; most considered themselves Tyrolean. Dr. Ringler wrote Langsdorff to inform him that “the farmers are tired of this endless standing guard [at the repositories] and [complained] that nobody was at their farms taking care of the fields. One did not understand this effort of precaution, if at the same time our art in the Reich is going under.” Carlo Anti bluntly summarized the risk: “Dangerous are the South Tyroleans, and not so much the Germans.”

On March 21, Wolff set out by car for Kesselring’s headquarters, known as
Adlerhorst
(Eagle’s Nest), a complex of bunkers that had served as Hitler’s command post and residence during the five weeks of the Ardennes offensive. Because of Allied strafing, a drive that should have taken him five hours consumed a day and a night. Upon arriving at headquarters, near the spa town of Bad Nauheim, about twenty-five miles north of Frankfurt am Main, Wolff learned to his astonishment that Allied forces were just ten miles away. The deteriorating situation on the battlefront had forced Kesselring to begin evacuating his headquarters less than two weeks into his new assignment.

With field telephones ringing and Kesselring barking orders to his commanders, Wolff found it difficult to conduct sensitive discussions. Battlefield conditions supported Wolff’s argument for an early surrender, but Kesselring refused. “The idea is a good one for Italy,” Kesselring informed Wolff. “But it cannot be carried out by myself for the Western front. I am too new in this command.” While Kesselring wouldn’t surrender his forces, he did agree to instruct his replacement in Italy, General Vietinghoff, to act in support of Wolff’s plan.

Satisfied that this was the best possible outcome under the circumstances, Wolff prepared to return to Italy. On March 22, however, he received orders to report to Himmler. Ignoring Kaltenbrunner’s request was one thing; ignoring direct orders from Himmler was an entirely different matter. Wolff telephoned one of his intermediaries in Milan and instructed him, using a prearranged code, to deliver a message to Dulles that he would be delayed several more days. After another harrowing drive, during which his driver frequently pulled their car off the autobahn to hide from enemy planes, Wolff finally reached Berlin late that evening.

Wolff had known Himmler since 1932. During most of that time, they had been very close. But in 1943, Wolff sought (and received) the Führer’s approval to divorce his first wife. She and their children had brown hair and brown eyes, leaving Wolff “feeling guilty of having wasted his Nordic attributes.” German historian Jochen von Lang humorously observed: “If the schoolboy Karl had paid more attention in his biology classes in high school, he could have avoided this misfortune; it is a law of heredity that dark dominates over blond.” Wolff’s mistress, however, had already given birth to their blond-haired, blue-eyed son, and Wolff wished to marry her. Himmler strongly objected and was furious when Wolff went over his head to Hitler. Wolff’s transfer to Italy later that year restored their collegiality. Himmler resumed using his affectionate nickname, “
liebes Wölffchen”
(dear little Wolffie), for the man he considered “one of his closest and oldest associates,” and would later refer to Wolff as a man “whom I have come to love as a friend.” Wolff remained circumspect. Himmler was his superior, and he could be as coldhearted as the situation warranted.

The relationship between Kaltenbrunner and Wolff was an entirely different matter. As head of internal security and the Gestapo, Kaltenbrunner also reported directly to Himmler. Kaltenbrunner viewed Wolff as a rival and coveted his long-standing friendship with Himmler. His continual prodding of Himmler to dismiss Wolff made the two men enemies. The struggle among the three highest-ranking leaders of the SS had, since 1942, been defined by competitiveness, pettiness, and vanity. The only thing binding them was their loyalty to the Führer.

Himmler and Kaltenbrunner had been informed by General Wilhelm Harster, head of the SS Police in northern Italy, that Wolff had met with Dulles in Zurich on March 8, but they seemed unaware of his second meeting on March 19 in Ascona involving the Allied “military advisers.” While Wolff had ready explanations for the first meeting with Dulles, the second meeting constituted treason because of the presence of enemy military personnel. As the conversation progressed, however, it emerged that Himmler’s chief complaint was that Wolff had contacted the Allies without his prior knowledge or consent. He expressed jealousy that his former adjutant had been so successful reaching a person of Dulles’s high position. The problem soon became clear: three men each had his own survival plan. Only one would succeed.

Aware that Himmler and Kaltenbrunner were criticizing him for his initiative and success, and confident of his good standing with the Führer, Wolff suggested they all meet with Hitler and inform him of the breakthrough with Dulles. While this appeared to be a risky gambit, Wolff knew that Himmler, always nervous when confronting Hitler, had fallen in his disfavor. The gambit worked. Himmler and Kaltenbrunner quickly made excuses, saying such a meeting with the Führer would be ill-timed. For the moment, Wolff had deflected their inquiries.

During the next several days, the greatest threat to Wolff’s life turned out to be Kaltenbrunner’s reckless driving. On a foggy afternoon, while in transit to an appointment outside Berlin, Kaltenbrunner’s car veered off the autobahn into the soft grass and overturned—twice. Minor bruises aside, neither Kaltenbrunner nor Wolff was seriously injured. Before departing Berlin on March 27, Kaltenbrunner counseled Wolff against pursuing further contact with the Americans. Himmler was more direct, ordering Wolff not to leave Italy again.

Before returning to his headquarters in Italy, Wolff made plans to protect his family by relocating his second wife, their son, and her two other children to Munich from a small town on the Wolfgangsee, about twenty miles east of Salzburg. He intended to get them to a town between Innsbruck and the Brenner Pass, closer to his headquarters in Italy. “Wolffie” had witnessed Himmler’s ruthlessness on too many occasions to ignore the danger his surrender plan now posed. He finally arrived in Italy on March 29, exhausted, but with little time to rest before another crucial meeting, this one with Vietinghoff, Kesselring’s successor in Italy, set for the evening of April 1, Easter Sunday.

Wolff had originally asked Dulles for “five to seven days” to seek Kesselring’s consent, but two weeks had now passed. On March 30, Wolff had arranged for intermediaries to courier a message explaining the additional delays and, more important, to inform Dulles that he had obtained Kesselring’s support; he would meet with Vietinghoff in two days. With any luck, he expected to return to Ascona on April 2, perhaps even bringing the new German commander in Italy, Vietinghoff, and Ambassador Rahn, to meet with Dulles and the two military advisers.

This message encouraged Generals Lemnitzer and Airey, who had been sidelined from the war effort for two full weeks while awaiting Wolff’s return. They and Dulles marveled at Wolff’s perseverance and remarkable good luck. If it held, an early German surrender in Italy might be tantalizingly close. But on Monday, April 2, Wolff’s intermediaries appeared; Wolff did not. The meeting with Vietinghoff had taken place the previous evening as planned, but not before Wolff received a distressing phone call from Himmler, upset that Wolff had taken the precaution of moving his family. “This was imprudent of you,” Himmler informed him, “and I have taken the liberty of correcting the situation. Your wife and your children are now under my protection.” Himmler added that he would be making periodic calls to Wolff’s headquarters to ensure that he remained at his post—in Italy.

Far from protecting them, Himmler was holding Wolff’s family hostage. He also believed that Himmler intended to have him killed if he attempted another trip to Switzerland. Under the circumstances, Wolff could only send Dulles a message to explain why he had chosen to remain at his headquarters in Gardone rather than travel to Switzerland, as previously planned. Upon receiving this news, General Lemnitzer remarked, “It’s not half as bad as it looks,” but he was the lone optimist among the Allied team. Dulles summed up the majority view: “Wolff had not sent a single word . . . about what might happen next. All we could do now was send a message back to Wolff reaffirming our continued interest in a surrender.”

*
The British had their own code name for the “Sunrise” operation: “Crossword.”

*
Alexander was promoted to Field Marshal and Supreme Commander of Allied Force Headquarters in the Mediterranean in December 1944.

*
German scientists developed a series of ground-launched long-range weapons known as
Vergeltungswaffen
(retaliation), which were referred to as “V-Weapons.” These bombs, and later rockets, caused considerable loss of life and damage in England, where they were first employed.

24

COMPLICATIONS

MARCH 18–APRIL 27, 1945

W
hile Generalfeldmarschall Kesselring evacuated his troops from his military headquarters at Adlerhorst, Reichsmarschall Göring supervised the final packing of his art collection at Carinhall. Two shipments had already departed for Veldenstein in Bavaria; from there, the trains would travel to Berchtesgaden, where Göring also had a home. Some items had to be left behind, including the body of his beloved first wife, Carin, for whom the estate was named. (Göring arranged for it to be moved from its mausoleum and reinterred in the nearby forest.) Wanting to deprive the Red Army of such glorious spoils, Göring left orders for his home and its remaining contents to be destroyed when the enemy neared.

On March 28, the Naples masterpieces stolen from Monte Cassino arrived at their final destination—the Nazi repository at Altaussee, Austria. Miners placed deep inside the labyrinth of tunnels thousands of paintings, drawings, prints, sculpture, furniture, and tapestries, many destined for Hitler’s Führermuseum.

Two weeks later, eight wooden crates belonging to Gauleiter August Eigruber arrived in two shipments, each weighing eleven hundred pounds and marked
ATTENTION!—MARBLE—DO NOT DROP
. Once again the miners hauled these new arrivals through the narrow tunnel passages, but on this occasion they had received the odd order to intersperse the crates throughout the mine rather than place them together. Had they known that each crate contained a bomb, not a piece of marble sculpture, these instructions would have made sense. Eigruber—like Wolff, Himmler, and Kaltenbrunner—had his own plan. Rather than allow the works to fall into the hands of “international Jewry,” he would destroy the salt mine and every priceless work of art stored inside.

ON APRIL 3,
Fred Hartt read the first reply from Cagiati: “We have received the following message from the field: ‘Anti stated to the Patriarchate of Venice that the works of art in the Alto Adige are in good state. Has asked that they be brought to the [Doge’s] Palace in Venice. .
 
.
 
. If possible give us some indication of the chief works of art missing.’”

Cagiati’s man had at least narrowed down the location of the repositories to the Alto Adige region. Hartt knew that the Alto Adige, for all practical purposes, was German Reich territory—more than two hundred miles north of Florence but nestled along the Austrian border. Although Cagiati reported that the works were “in good state,” his cable said nothing about whether they were safe. Some news was better than none at all. Hartt promptly provided Cagiati with the list of missing objects.

The message had come from Cagiati’s operative, Pietro Ferraro, a partisan leader with extensive contacts in Venice. Ferraro had initially shared the optimism of the Superintendent of Venice, Professor Ferdinando Forlati, who believed that Carlo Anti’s efforts to transfer the Florentine collections to the historic Doge’s Palace—for more than a thousand years home to the chief magistrate of the Republic of Venice—might actually succeed. But Anti had been pleading with Langsdorff to transfer the artwork for eight months without result.

In late February, Anti had contacted the Superintendent of Milan about moving the art to St. Moritz, Switzerland, a location close to the repositories that could be reached via roads deemed safe from Allied air attacks. This proposal proved sufficiently encouraging that Langsdorff and other Kunstschutz officials traveled to Milan on March 5 to discuss the matter; all agreed that a transfer to Switzerland was the best option. However, Langsdorff stressed, “A decision in this instance is predominantly of a political nature, and could only be effectuated by the Führer and the Duce together.” Sure enough, the following day Anti heard the proposal had been refused.

On April 4, Anti had written Langsdorff in an effort to guilt him into giving custody of the works to the Italians. “All your efforts to take these masterworks away from the dangers of the battle zone . . . are undone by multifaceted opposition against our direct custody of the repositories of the Italian State.” Anti then offered to send a vehicle to transport the art. He also informed Dr. Ringler that “the Italian state held him personally responsible for any damage to the deposits in the case of a collapse of the German Army.”

By April 15, with U.S. Fifth and British Eighth Armies advancing north, Anti had exhausted all possibilities. Cagiati received this disappointing news from his operative, Ferraro: “It is feared by the Germans themselves (those who are friends of the arts) that these works of art will be at the last minute removed or ruined in the haste of removing them by the SS or the [Alto Adige inhabitants]. The Germans themselves believe that the proposal to send . . . a body of Italian guardians and an Italian superintendent, will not do much in the crucial moment against SS or [Alto Adige] forces, but anyway it would be better than nothing.”

With both repositories located less than fifty miles from the Austrian border, SS forces could truck some of the objects northward on a moment’s notice or destroy them out of spite. Under the circumstances, Cagiati could only confirm that the art was still there and then post observers, perhaps even armed partisans, to watch over it until Allied forces arrived. He needed someone who could move inconspicuously. Perhaps a priest?

Cagiati sent Don Anelli three urgent telegrams requesting that he get to the Bolzano area as soon as possible and then make his way the remaining distance to the repositories. Anelli wanted to help, but he was already engaged in another OSS mission, code-named “Penance,” one of its many “morale operations” designed to engender friction between the Germans and Fascists through customized propaganda material. He would need assistance to reach Bolzano. Just as he had done four months earlier, Cagiati made arrangements for Don Anelli to be airlifted, this time to the Lake Garda area, then dropped by parachute into the Tyrolean countryside to begin his new mission.

ON APRIL 12, 1945
, radios around the world crackled to life. “We interrupt this program to bring you a special bulletin from C.B.S. World News. A press association has just announced that President Roosevelt is dead.” The president, who had held power for twelve years and thirty-nine days, had died from a massive cerebral hemorrhage while sitting for a portrait at the “Little White House” in Warm Springs, Georgia. The shocking news quickly reached leaders overseas. Writing to the First Lady, Prime Minister Winston Churchill stated, “I have lost a dear and cherished friendship which was forged in the fire of war.” General Eisenhower concurred: “We were doubtful that there was any other individual in America as experienced as he in the business of dealing with other Allied political leaders. . . . We went to bed depressed.”

But those in the bunkers beneath the Reichschancellery in Berlin greeted the news with jubilation and renewed hope. Friday the thirteenth seemed a day of deliverance for the Nazis. “My Führer, I congratulate you! Roosevelt is dead,” exclaimed Goebbels. “It is written in the stars that the second half of April will be the turning point for us!” Hitler, clutching a newspaper clipping, confronted Albert Speer and said, “Here, read it! Here! You never wanted to believe it. Here it is! Here we have the miracle I always predicted. Who was right? The war isn’t lost. Read it! Roosevelt is dead!” Perhaps the rift might open between the Anglo-Americans and the Soviets after all.

In a letter dated April 15, another high-ranking Nazi leader reacted to the death of the president. The recipient was American spymaster Allen Dulles; the sender was SS General Karl Wolff:

Honored Mr. D:

On the occasion of the passing of the President with whom you were so close and whose loss must have been painful to you in equal measure as a man and as a member of the government, I would like to express to you my sincere and deeply felt sympathy. . . . I want to assure you in this painful moment that I remain now, as before, convinced that a prompt cessation of hostilities is possible.

Himmler’s threats in early April succeeded in delaying, but not stopping, his former adjutant. Over the course of three meetings with Vietinghoff, Wolff had gained the support of the man who had taken over Kesselring’s job as commander of the German Army in Italy. But Vietinghoff still had concerns, in particular about points of honor.

Meanwhile, the once-mighty German Reich continued to disintegrate. Elements of U.S. Ninth Army reached the Elbe River on April 11 and now waited less than one hundred miles west of Berlin. Vienna fell to Soviet troops on April 13. RAF bombers continued their nightly pounding of Berlin while more than two and a half million Red Army soldiers massed east of the city. Himmler knew that Nazi Germany couldn’t be saved, but he remained confident that he would emerge as the reasonable choice to unite Germany and forge an alliance with the Anglo-Americans against the Soviets. But Wolff’s independent efforts with Dulles threatened his plans. On April 13, Himmler ordered Wolff to report to him immediately.

After avoiding the SS leader’s phone calls for two days, Wolff decided to face Himmler; he boarded a plane bound for Berlin. Before departing, Wolff relayed a message to Dulles, through one of his intermediaries, informing him of the trip and stating that there was “a chance to do something for the entire German people.” Wolff expected to return to Italy no later than April 20.
*
Only later did Dulles learn that the intermediary also had a note in his pocket from Wolff, a sort of last will that began, “In case I should lose my command,” requesting Dulles to “.
 
.
 
.
 
protect, after my death, if this is possible, my two families, in order that they not be destroyed.” Dulles and his associates expected the worst; Wolff had planned for it. “It appears that Himmler may now either eliminate [Wolff],” Dulles cabled Washington, “or attempt to use him to help Himmler himself establish some contact [with the Western Allies].”

On April 17, Wolff endured a series of tense meetings—first with Himmler, then with both Himmler and Kaltenbrunner. Unbeknownst to Wolff, Himmler had been conducting secret negotiations with a Swedish diplomat, Count Folke Bernadotte, yet he unhesitatingly accused Wolff of treason for his efforts with Dulles. Wolff demanded that the three senior SS leaders meet with the Führer to discuss his entrée to the Anglo-Americans. This bold move by Wolff, the second round of such brinkmanship in less than a month, had the desired result—almost. Wolff got the meeting with the Führer, but once again Himmler demurred and ordered Kaltenbrunner and Wolff to go without him.

In the predawn hours of April 18, as the two SS men approached the Führerbunker, Wolff moved to protect himself. He told Kaltenbrunner that if he dared cast his meeting with Dulles in a negative light, Wolff would inform Hitler that he had, three weeks earlier, provided both Himmler and Kaltenbrunner with a full account of his contact with Dulles and that the two men had chosen to hide that information from the Führer. Before entering the building, Wolff turned to Kaltenbrunner and said, “If I am going to be hung, my place on the gallows will be between you and Himmler.”

Wolff and Kaltenbrunner had to wait while Hitler finished a military briefing. At its conclusion, they entered the map room for their meeting with the Führer and SS General Hermann Fegelein. Wolff found the appearance of the German leader appalling. Hitler was stooped. His eyes were tired and bloodshot and his right hand shook uncontrollably. But the Führer went directly to the point: “Kaltenbrunner has announced to me that you have started negotiations in Switzerland with the representative of Roosevelt, Dulles. What made you think of such an enormously arbitrary act?”

Wolff presented his best defense, reminding the Führer that during their February 6 meeting he had sought permission to pursue leads with the Western powers. Having done so, Wolff informed him that the door was now open. Neither Kaltenbrunner nor Fegelein said a word. Hitler seemed to accept Wolff’s explanation, although he criticized Wolff’s inability to consider how such actions fit into the much larger picture that only he, the Führer, could understand. Needing rest, Hitler informed the group he would consider the matter further, telling them to report back at 5 p.m.

When the meeting resumed, Hitler seemed a different man, filled with hope that the German Army could defend Berlin from the enemy for at least six to eight weeks, time enough for the Western Allies and the Soviets to split. The Führer ordered Wolff to return to Italy immediately and tell Vietinghoff to defend every inch of ground with the blood of his soldiers. Wolff should do nothing more than maintain his contacts with the Western powers: “They will come with many more offers . . . unconditional surrender . . . ridiculous!” Kaltenbrunner’s final words to Wolff reflected no such optimism: “Be sure no important civilian prisoners in your area fall into Allied hands. As the Allies approach, liquidate them.” With that, the meeting ended. Hours later, a very weary—and lucky—General Wolff departed a darkened Berlin on one of the last flights out of the German capital during the war.

Anxious to hear some news about Wolff, Dulles instead received a stunning telegram on April 20 from the Joint Chiefs of Staff in Washington, formally ending Operation Sunrise. “By letter today JCS direct that OSS break off all contact with German emissaries at once.” After six weeks of delays and excuses, the Joint Chiefs had concluded that the German commander in Italy, Vietinghoff, had no intention of surrendering his forces “at this time on acceptable terms.” It also mentioned “complications which have arisen with [the] Russians” and stipulated that Dulles should consider the “whole matter . . . as closed and Russians be informed.”

The death of President Roosevelt had deprived the Western Allies of the person most adept at dealing with the wily Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin. In the weeks leading up to the president’s death, Soviet diplomats, who had been promptly notified of Dulles’s initial meeting with Wolff, made increasingly acrimonious accusations that the Americans and the British were negotiating a secret surrender of German forces in Italy at the expense of the Soviet Union. Despite denials by the West, this was, at least in part, true. While Soviet representatives had formally been invited to participate in actual surrender discussions at General Alexander’s headquarters in Caserta, they had been denied the opportunity to send military advisers to the meetings, characterized as purely exploratory, between Dulles and Wolff.