Discovery

by Douglas E Roff

  “I do, Mr. Bennett. Of course, I do. And I sympathize with your predicament but, as I said, the items haven’t arrived here at our Tucson processing facility yet. As much as I’d like to just give all this dusty old stuff back to you, I simply can’t. Not just yet anyway. There are legal issues as I’m sure you can understand, you being a lawyer and all. But I promise, we will get your things returned to you just as quickly as we can.”

  “Alan, we both know that you already have these items in your possession. I’ve seen the auction documentation from Apex Storage in Tucson where my uncle stored six forty-foot shipping containers in a climate-controlled warehouse. These are the materials I’m looking for. The materials we want back were shipped here from Chicago to Apex five years ago. I understand the shipping containers were then routed to your receiving facility near the Tucson Airport, at least according to the shipping documents we obtained from Apex.”

  “Sal, I don’t know what to tell you and maybe you just have better information than me. I’m not much more than a glorified clerk and all I know is what I’m told. And I’m told that the shipment of Lot 721 has not yet arrived at our facility here in Tucson. Maybe if you could give me your contact at the shipper, I can follow up for you. Do you have a number where you can be reached?”

  Sal didn’t answer, instead saying, “Alan, to be candid, I don’t think you’re being honest with me and I fail to understand why. These items don’t belong to you so you need to take immediate steps to restore them to me. I’m trying to be polite but I’m afraid I really must insist. Otherwise we will have to thrash this out in court and I’m sure you know just how messy and wasteful that whole process can be. So please, help me out here and return my things.”

  “I’m really very sorry you feel that way, Mr. Bennett. I mean I have an order of the Probate Court clearly stating that Lot 721 is now the property of Southwest DL Holdings, LLC. Southwest in turn is a non-profit organization associated with the DataLab Acquisitions Group, which is the acquisitions arm of the US federal DataLab Project. I’m afraid you’ll just have to contact them and sort this out. Really, as much as I’d like to, I just can’t help.”

  The tenor of Sal’s voice suddenly changed. “I think you’re trying to mislead me Alan, at least that much is clear. I’m afraid there may be severe consequences for your unreasonable failure to cooperate. This is private family matter, I guess you could say, and my family can be both generous to a fault with our friends and hideously unpleasant to those who jerk us around. I suggest it would be in your best interests to be our friend. What do you say, Alan? Friends?”

  Alan was expecting some blowback. He had been told that threats might be part of the assignment.

  “Family business? Really? You mean like what? A mob family, the Addams family, or the royal family? Are you threatening me, Mr. Bennett? Do I need to call the authorities? It sure sounds like I do. The project I work for is a federally funded program. Are you sure you want that kind of federal trouble?”

  “I don’t think you’re going to call anyone, Alan. No reason to, really and, after all, what’s the complaint? Some old fart lawyer called you to get back some dusty old family mementos and got a little testy? C’mon Alan, what are you going to do? In mean, in the end you’re the only person who is going to suffer here, so help me out. We’ll pay you generously for your cooperation and nobody needs to know. How about it?”

  “Mr. Bennett, I think you just have bad information. I’d like to help, I really would. And I could sincerely use the ‘compensation’ you mentioned but, for a lawyer, you seem not to understand the law particularly well. Even if I had your stuff, which I don’t, I would have to do a mountain of paperwork to unwind what has already been done. I have a Court freakin’ Order releasing this dusty old shit to Southwest DL Holdings, for shipment via Tucson Freight and Transport to our processing center here in Tucson. You must understand that as a tiny cog in a huge wheel, there is little I can personally do to help you out. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “OK, Alan. I get that you are in a spot here and we need to come to an understanding about what is at stake. So, let me explain a few other background details, then we can reach an accommodation, I’m sure. Agreed?”

  “Well, you certainly have my attention. But I’m still not sure where all this is going. Or even where it can go.”

  Sal Bennett said, “Then, let me try explain.” Perhaps then you will see your way clear to helping me get back the things that are rightfully ours.”

  “Happy to listen, but just know there are some things I cannot control. But, do go on.”

  Chapter 3

  “My family is very old; indeed, our lineage is ancient. Branches of our family exist around the world, on every continent and in virtually every country. We are a proud bunch and aside from our genealogy, we are no different than any other family living anywhere else in the world. But we are unique in one respect: we record our family history, the events taking place in them, our view of them, and of course our deepest, and sometimes, darkest family secrets. Every family has secrets; wouldn’t you agree Alan? Perhaps even yours.”

  “And my hand moves ever closer to hanging up. Relevance please?”

  “I digress. Apologies.”

  “And did you say that you have family all over the world?”

  “Yes, everywhere.”

  “Asia, Africa, South America? Colors of the rainbow?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “How unusual. Sorry to interrupt. Please continue,” Alan said.

  Bennett continued, “In 1905, as Europe and the world edged closer to the Great War, the scions of my family made a fateful decision and the one that brings us together today. Before then, each branch of our great family maintained individual records of local family history. Books, diaries, manuscripts, documents of every sort and variety, all written down and stored in one place for each and every branch, everywhere located in the world. Everything, every single item was identified, categorized and preserved with due care and attention. Nothing was ever lost or went missing and rigorous family protocols were established dating back well over a thousand years to ensure one thing: complete family privacy. And secrecy, of course; that was a given in my family. Our family secrets are of vital concern to no one else on this planet.”

  Alan interrupted, “This is going to be long isn’t it? Mind if I put you on speaker? It’s lunchtime and my fried rice is getting cold.”

  Bennett grunted assent and continued.

  “But, as I started to say, in 1905 the family elders, fearing a global conflagration on a scale never seen and wanting to take precautions, decided to move the bulk of our largest family library somewhere. Somewhere safe. We called this family collection our ‘Great Library’.

  Almost true. Plausible anyway, at least that’s what the lawyer thought.

  “As amazed as we are all now about rapidly evolving technology and communications today, so too did it appear to my ancestors in early 1905. Storing our individual family collections and being able to move them from one location to another quickly and ahead of invading armies, despots and intriguers of all sorts became increasingly problematic. Armies didn’t take weeks or months to move any more. They took mere days. Fearful of loss, my ancestors took definitive action following a decennial meeting of our family elders in London in that same year. Scouring the globe, they decided that the safest place on the planet was, in fact, close to one of the likely centers of the impending conflagration, yet so very remote from it. Over the next seven years, key parts of our various family libraries moved, bit by bit, to Italy. The family believed that they had discovered a region at the foot of the great Alps that was as far away from turmoil as one could possibly imagine. Imagination being what it is, it turned out they were wrong.”

  “Where was this?” Alan interjected.

  “A region we call Gensarii, the land of the Gens. Now Gensarii didn’t show up then and certainly doesn’t show up
now on any map of Italy but for very different reasons. Before 1939, Gensarii was simply our informal name for the region in a specific remote part of northern Italy. My people lived in a small sheltered valley, on both sides of an unremarkable river and in the surrounding hills and mountains. They referred to themselves as the “Gens”, a proud and ancient people, unconquered by the Romans, and ignored by virtually all of subsequent history.”

  Also, partly true, but mostly false. He continued.

  “But in 1939, the Gens people of the region just disappeared. Their homes and villages obliterated, the Gens inhabitants were methodically hunted down and presumed eliminated by the Mussolini regime. Nothing remains of its people, my ancestors, to this very day. And history failed to record this atrocity.”

  That wasn’t even close to the truth, but he was getting there. Slowly.

  The young grad student said, “Fascinating, as Spock would say. But why are we having this conversation? Not sure where you are going with your story or why you think this has anything to do with your present quandary.”

  “Patience, I’m getting there. But you must first understand how important our Library is to my family and why I’m taking such pains to recover what has been lost.”

  Bennett continued, “No matter the official version of events, the Gens did not, however, just disappear.

  As Alan continued eating his now barely warm Chinese food, he left his phone on speaker, and settled in to hear the balance of the obviously false and ridiculous tale. The tale that Bennett told was imaginative, as was the telling, thought Alan. It unfolded thus:

  In 1936, a man named Giovanni Francesco was flying in a training exercise near Lake Como, simulating reconnaissance missions he would soon be flying in North Africa. On board was a young lieutenant, Alberto Mori, a professional photographer in his civilian days, and a top flight aerial snoop for the fledgling Italian Air Corp. Someone, probably in Berlin, had decided that landscapes could be photographed, and intelligence gathered from an airplane and the looming war effort would require newly trained personnel with just such skills.

  By chance, they photographed the remote village of Gensarii. When Mori developed his film, and analyzed the results, he was astounded to learn that people, Italians, inhabited a region that was so remote that it had virtually been lost to what could then be called ‘modern history’. Though its discovery had seemed unimportant at the time, it nonetheless made its way into a report to his immediate superior. There it was noted only insofar as the war effort may have required conscripts at a later date. Fresh blood, so to speak.

  But not to Vincenzo Molinari.

  In late 1938, Vincenzo was a young colonel in the Italian Army, well-educated and well-connected. He was, after all, a distant relative and remotest of remote cousins to Il Duce himself. While Il Duce was blissfully unaware of this relationship, Vincenzo wasn’t. Nor was Vincenzo ignorant of the course upon which his distant cousin and that German fellow, Adolph Hitler, were about to embark.

  Vincenzo liked to plan ahead, and rather than use Gensarii as a likely source of illiterate conscripts, he decided that Gensarii was where he wanted to flee if things went badly for the Axis. After all, if Italy suffered defeat, who would be looking for anyone in the irrelevant and insignificant backwater town of Gensarii?

  So, when the report crossed his desk along with a hundred other meaningless files he decided to carefully craft his escape plan, just in case.

  As a man with few martial skills, but intense survival instincts, he first arranged to be transferred to the local garrison in Como, not far from the famous lake. He diligently mapped the area, paying special attention to the numerous small unrecorded and remote villages that dotted the border with Switzerland. His commanders were immediately impressed with his hard work and superior results, believing that Italy could not possibly lose a war with an army comprised of such men. And to think that Il Duce would think to send one of his very own family, to plan all aspects of victory, well it was enough to make any man proud. Besides, maybe the great dictator would even come one day to visit the garrison itself. These days, anything was possible. Even a visit from Il Duce.

  Or so it seemed.

  Within months, Vincenzo had located the town of Gensarii, just where Mori said it would be. Mori, sadly, had been killed in an automobile accident in Rome just before Vincenzo left the capital. Giovanni Francesco got his fervent wish to see action in the North African front. He died in a mishap without ever engaging the enemy.

  Vincenzo was now the only man alive with any record or knowledge of the remote village and region of Gensarii.

  As Vincenzo approached the small enclave of Gensarii, he noticed that the villagers were neither very friendly nor outright hostile. But they leered at him as if he didn’t belong, which made him uncomfortable. And angry. But nowhere near as uncomfortable as they were going to be if he returned here with troops, he thought. He decided to poke around and see who was in charge.

  The village was little more than a collection of small rustic dwellings and a few public buildings. At the end of the main street, if you could call it that, was a Chapel. No doubt the Church had previously found this place, he thought to himself. More souls, more tithes. But beyond the Chapel, off in the distance abutting a rock cliff leading up to the mountains, was a Villa, and a very nice one at that. It was of typically medieval Italian design, with great walls surrounding the residence and its entrance barred by a great massive wooden gate. Trees were scattered throughout the interior, and a pleasant looking olive grove adjoined the back edge of the estate. Something else was back there too, it seemed, but he could not get a good view of it from where he was standing.

  Vincenzo pushed on, past the peasants going about their daily routines, in the direction of the Chapel. Fronting the Chapel was a small square, like any other small square in rural Italy. There were a few benches and a pitch for Bocce; however, no one was playing. As he moved closer to the square, the locals started moving away, as if he carried some sort of communicable disease. He shouted at them in Italian to stop but none heeded his words. They just hurried on, going about their business.

  They will heed his words very soon, he decided. Vincenzo would bend them to his will - or else. He could already imagine himself as master of the Villa and Lord of these miserable little insects. If they didn’t like his looks now, just wait. They would soon come to dread his appearance in the town square. He’d see to that. See to that personally and in excruciating and vivid detail.

  Moments later he arrived at the Chapel noting neither a Cross nor a Priest. Odd, these rustics are usually fanatically Catholic and dedicated “old” Christians he thought. Perhaps he would fare better with the gentry in the Villa, just beyond. Surely someone is in charge and can tell me who owns this lovely pastoral land.

  One day he’d make it his very own. Maybe not exactly as exciting and lovely as Rome, but Vincenzo as Lord of this little fief yes, he could envision that.

  He hardly had time to finish his thoughts when a man, about his age, and dressed in colorful but simple local attire, approached him almost without a sound. Vincenzo didn’t like that much, preferring to be aware of any imminent threat to his personal safety. He was startled by the man’s stealth and jumped when he spoke.

  It sounded vaguely like Italian but wasn’t. Vulgar Latin perhaps? Vincenzo looked at the man as if he had been insulted by the peasant’s lack of manners. Vincenzo replied in Italian, ‘Not sure what you are saying, my good fellow. Do you speak Italian?’

  ‘Of course, my friend, of course.” The man was quite jovial and friendly. Typical of these rustics, Vincenzo thought. The man continued, ‘We’re in Italy after all. Pay no attention to my poor manners. It is so rare for us to receive visitors here. My people sometimes fear the unknown. How can I help you? Are you lost?’

  ‘No, I’m not lost. Certainly not. But I’m here as a representative of the Italian people and, in that capacity, I’m taking a kind of ...
how do we say ... census of able bodied men. For National Service, you see. A great war is coming my friend; we must be prepared.’

  ‘Yes, war. It comes, it goes. But little does it affect my people. We have lived in this Valley and in these mountains for, well, as long as God has seen fit to allow. War doesn’t come to this Valley, nor as God fearing people, would we welcome it. It has nothing to do with us. I’m sure you can understand this.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but I don’t,’ said Vincenzo. ‘Did you not just say that we are all Italians? Do you not burn with passion for our beloved Italy? Are you so ignorant that you don’t see that the greatness that was once Rome is again at hand? We all have a role to play, even this little village. You sir, and all who make their home here, will submit to my authority without question or face the consequences. Am I clear?’

  ‘Yes sir, you are very clear. As clear as clear can be. I just fail to apprehend how that changes anything in this village. War will not come here and we, as a people, will not venture out to greet it. My people will go nowhere other than to tend our fields and roam our mountains. It is better for you to leave now. Have I made myself clear?”

  The man spoke with a sense of authority, in manner Vincenzo did not like. This pipsqueak, this bumpkin, could not be allowed to get away with insulting a relative of Il Duce, no matter how distant and attenuated that relationship.

  ‘You would do better to obey me now before I return to my garrison and make my report. After that, you and your villagers will be brought to heel. Of that you can be certain.’

  ‘If that is what comes to pass, then we will know our fate. Until then, God be with you. Good day, sir.’

  ‘One more thing, citizen. Who occupies the Villa? Who owns it?’