Working out of a back room in Assisi’s San Quirico convent with two other Jewish refugees hiding there, Maionica took up the task of finishing the false identity documents that Brizi had created. (In time the three men would expand their operations to include creating fake drivers’ licenses and ration cards.) He carefully affixed the photographs that Niccacci had given him to the blank documents. Using an old southern Italian telephone book, one of Maionica’s partners picked out the names of people from regions already under Allied control to match the seals created by the Brizis. Working together, the three men typed the new names onto the identity documents with an old typewriter and forged signatures where needed.
When they were finished, the documents looked ready. In a moment of inspiration, Maionica decided that they were missing two things. The first was a House of Savoy stamp, the imprimatur of the Italian royal family that he had seen on many older identity cards. The problem was that these seals were too detailed to be carved quickly by hand, and too rare to be carried by most typographers. Desperate, he visited several print shops in the local area. When he finally found one that carried the stamp, he stole it and used it to place an impression of the Savoy coat of arms on the identity documents and licenses.
As a final touch, he devised a scheme to add one more authentic element to the false cards. He daringly ventured out to a nearby house where several Italian soldiers had taken up residence and persuaded them to sell him the postage-stamp-like tags from their drivers’ licenses. Amazingly, many soldiers agreed to his offer to earn a few extra lire, probably since most couldn’t drive during the war anyway. With a piece of damp blotting paper, Maionica peeled off the tags and soaked them in bleach to dissolve the ink that had been stamped over them when they were originally authenticated. Once they were dry, he glued them to the false licenses and identity documents that he was making. “I put three- or four-year-old tags to give them more authenticity,” he later explained.
When the documents were finally completed, Maionica would hand them over to Father Niccacci. He had no idea whom the monk would give them to, or where they were going. (It was only after the war that he discovered that many were being smuggled into Florence in the frame of Gino’s bike). From there, Niccacci would either give the documents to Gino directly or pass them along to the mother superior of the San Quirico convent to hold. In the meantime, they would be hidden until the cyclist came back to pick them up.
Gino’s return to the monastery played out much like his earlier trip, but his arrival at the San Quirico convent caused more of a stir. “He would arrive with his bicycle and would ask for the mother superior,” explained Sister Alfonsina, who witnessed Gino’s arrivals firsthand. “I can still see him. He was strong and had short pants.” Another nun, Sister Eleonora, also spoke with him and heard his voice. But she never saw him because, like the majority of the convent’s other nuns, she had forsworn contact with the outside world. Instead, her interaction with Gino was limited to what she heard when she was stationed behind the convent’s ruota, a wooden wheel where items from the outside world could be placed and retrieved, without the attending nun having to see or touch the person on the other side.
With the false identity documents collected and safely hidden inside the frame of his bicycle below his seat, Gino would set off again for Tuscany, hoping to make it home during daylight hours. Given the danger of violating the curfew, a crime punishable by up to a year in prison, it was undoubtedly the least suspicious time for him to make his way home. It was, however, not without its risks. One frightening episode happened when Gino stopped by a café in Bastia Umbra, near Perugia. He left his bike propped against the wall and went inside for a coffee. Something nearby attracted the attention of an Allied plane flying overhead, and it shot a short burst of machine-gun fire in the general direction of the bicycle and the café. The pilot could have been reacting to anything, but Gino was convinced it was the chrome of his bicycle shining in the sun that had drawn the attack. From that moment on, he got in the habit of dirtying up his bike before riding on it so that it wouldn’t be so reflective. For someone who was so meticulous about caring for his bike, this felt “sacrilegious,” as Gino’s son would say later.
Attacks by air, however, were less of a threat to Gino than the land patrols. In the cities, uniformed soldiers could stop anyone at any time for any reason at all. In case the rifles, grenades, and other weapons the soldiers regularly carried didn’t evoke enough fear, a newspaper column advised Italian civilians to take these situations seriously: “If you are stopped on the street by any military patrol who says to you ‘who goes there?’ stop immediately, give your name and last name and wait for the patrol leader. Then, upon request, you can show them your documents. Be careful not to make any sudden moves.”
In the countryside, these patrols would take the form of roving groups of German and Italian soldiers on trucks and motorcycles. They routinely stopped civilians and searched homes, looking to thwart the partisans smuggling weapons to use in guerrilla attacks. If Gino heard them from afar, he would duck onto a side road or find anywhere he could to hide in a hurry. Once he even dove into a ditch as he saw the headlight of a military motorcycle approaching him on a dark road.
Gino recoiled from these encounters because so many of the soldiers seemed blinded by their poisonous ideology. “I was neither hot nor cold about politics. It wasn’t my trade,” he said. “I wanted to be a man of sport.” But that had become impossible by the fall of 1943. When he was riding with the documents in his bicycle frame, a stop at a military checkpoint filled him with dread because it meant his work could be uncovered.
Yet encounters were almost inevitable, particularly on the outskirts of cities like Florence, where one had to use specific roads to enter the city. So Gino was forced to devise his own way of coping. When he was flagged by a patrol checkpoint, he pulled over. “Documenti prego”—“Your documents, please,” the soldiers would say. One military man might scrutinize Gino’s face closely as another inspected his papers. If they hadn’t identified him already by sight, most soldiers instantly recognized his name. If Gino thought they would believe he was still a soldier, he could feign he was doing his old work as a bicycle messenger. If any knew to ask why he no longer served, he could explain that he had resigned to focus on training and winning races that would bring Italy greater glory (betting they wouldn’t be aware that all races had been suspended). While many soldiers had been pressed back into service after the Germans took control, or then labeled deserters if they refused, Gino was able to avoid either scenario because the military officer who had eventually processed his resignation papers was a cycling fan.
It was no surprise that Gino found many sympathetic strangers, if not impassioned fans, among the soldiers that worked the patrols in Tuscany and the neighboring region of Umbria. Young conscripted servicemen had been some of his most enthusiastic supporters at his races as he rose to fame in the late 1930s; in the intervening years he had befriended countless other military men in these parts when he worked as a military messenger.
At the checkpoints they still searched him, of course, but, without any bags or weapons on his person, he appeared fairly harmless. Once their suspicions had been allayed, the members of the patrol were freed for a moment from the anxieties of the war to delight in the novelty of meeting one of their nation’s most famous sports celebrities. Gino recognized this interest and coyly played to it. Low-ranking privates were delighted with autographs or a well-delivered joke in toscano, the distinct local dialect proudly paraded as the badge of Tuscan authenticity. For patrol leaders or any other authorities with a penchant for playing armchair cycling experts, Gino could indulge their pontificating with a sympathetic ear and a few flattering remarks. As his exchange with the soldiers ended, Gino mounted his bike again, with the documents still safely stowed away in the frame. He continued to the city of Florence, where the distribution of the false identity cards could begin.
Most were ha
nded over to one of the cardinal’s assistants, who either passed them along to another trusted confederate, or personally hand-delivered them to the intended recipients. Such was the case of the Frankenthals, who became the Franchis, and only found out in the months after the war ended that Gino had brought their false documents to Florence. In rarer cases, refugees received their documents directly from Gino. It was in this way, for example, that the Goldenbergs staying in Gino’s apartment discovered their new alias. It would be several years before they learned the incredible details of how their identity cards had been manufactured.
As impressive as the whole counterfeiting relay was, however, mistakes did occur. On one occasion, Gino had gone out to Lido di Camaiore to deliver a set of false documents to the Donatis, a Jewish family from Florence hiding in this Tuscan coastal town. Everything had been arranged beforehand, but when he arrived, the Gentile woman who was sheltering them panicked. Worried that Gino’s arrival or delivery of the documents might endanger her own family, she turned him away at the door. Although she would continue to help the Jewish family for the rest of the occupation, they would have to live in daily peril without any identity cards.
The fact that the counterfeiting operation was located in Assisi would prove to be an important asset to the rescue network. Without industry of any kind, the town had little strategic value that might cause it to be targeted by either the German or Allied air forces; the proximity of nearby farms and related amenities like the Niccacci family grain mill meant that food shortages were less acute. Taken together, residents were spared some of the most vicious violence and famine that terrorized the rest of the country.
Yet in their own way, these small comforts were also risks insofar as they made it easy to lose sight of the dangers lurking in the town. The reality was that the German army and Italian Fascists were never far from sight in Assisi. Spot searches of homes occurred; the risk of being betrayed by civilians seeking monetary rewards was an invisible but omnipresent one. As the weeks passed into months and the rescue network found its own rhythm, it was easy to get complacent.
On a cloudy morning in early 1944, Trento Brizi learned the danger of such complacency firsthand. He was working alone on the latest batch of identity cards in the back of the shop, and he had forgotten to draw the curtain separating that area from the front. He was surprised when two uniformed German soldiers entered the store. He swallowed hard. I’m caught, he thought. They have seen me and now they’re going to arrest me. Terrified, he walked over to the soldiers to accept his fate.
In broken Italian, one of the soldiers politely explained that they were hoping to bring home images of Saint Clare to their wives. Trying to contain himself, Trento could barely control his shaking arm as he found two wood carvings. The soldier spoke again and asked the price. “Nothing, a gift from Assisi to our German friends,” Trento responded. They thanked him profusely, smiling as they left.
Inside Trento, something snapped. The pressure of making the false identity documents had finally worn him down. A small oversight had almost seen him arrested for a crime that routinely resulted in execution. He could risk his life no further. He knew he had to visit Father Niccacci immediately to tell him of his decision to resign from the effort. He hid his work, left the store, and raced down the cypress-dotted hill to the monastery.
When he arrived, another monk let him in the side door and asked him to wait in the courtyard. As he stood there, he caught sight of Father Niccacci talking to a stranger in a room across the way near the front door. He was a young man with dark hair, combed back, and he was leaning against the handlebars of a bicycle. He was wearing shorts, and the muscular build of his legs was obvious even from where Trento was standing. I am sure I have seen this man somewhere before, Trento thought.
The man walked to the main door, mounted his bicycle, and sped off. Father Niccacci started walking toward Trento. Trento was barely able to keep his surprise in check as he realized exactly who the man was.
“But Father, isn’t that man—”
“Yes, Trento, he really is the great racer Gino Bartali,” Niccacci said, interrupting him. “For pity’s sake, do not tell anyone that you saw him here.”
Stunned, Trento listened as Niccacci offered a little more explanation to wipe the surprised look off his face. “It will please you to know that some of the documents you prepared have been brought to Perugia and to Florence by [Gino] himself,” Niccacci continued. “Speaking of which, Trento, how is your work going?”
“Good … good,” a starstruck Trento stammered in reply. “By all means, tell Bartali that soon he will have to pedal with more identity cards. And tell him to train well.”
Trento returned to his store. Later he reflected on the singular importance of that moment in his decision to continue making counterfeit identity documents. “Yes,” he said, “the idea of taking part in an organization that could boast of a champion like Gino Bartali among its ranks, filled me with such pride that my fear took a back seat.”
9
Free Fall
Florence devastated by war, circa 1944.
(photo credit 9.1)
AS WINTER WITHDREW AND spring crept into its place, the Florence that Gino had learned to love as a boy was fast mutating into a monstrous, unrecognizable place. Every day the newspapers displayed lengthy columns written by the German commander in Florence calling Italian workers to German factories. “Germany offers you work, pay, and well-being. Accept!” But few Italians were willing to uproot themselves for a gluttonous war that was devouring men and supplies at an alarming rate. In Florence, twelve thousand workers went on strike, and scores of walkouts occurred in many other towns throughout Tuscany as well. Protests often elicited brutal reprisals, and several workers who went on strike or refused to do national service were executed publicly. Coupled with the increasing frequency of air raids, such brazen violence made most Italians even more fearful and skittish. Living amid a hungry and angry populace, each day seemed to carry a heightened risk of careening out of control.
In this surreal spring of 1944, Adriana Bartali was distracted by dramatic news of her own. She was pregnant. At any other time this news would have been a source of unconditional celebration for the Bartali family. But with war rations dwindling to the point that many Florentines were malnourished if not starving, these tidings shepherded staggering worry alongside profound joy. Even a celebrity like Gino struggled to track down enough provisions to feed Adriana, their two-year-old son Andrea, and himself. The shelves of the neighborhood stores stood empty and their ration allotments continued shrinking. Olive oil—that treasured staple of any Italian housewife’s pantry—no longer appeared regularly, if at all, and when it was available, a quarter-gallon could cost up to a month’s salary for a civil servant. Meat had become so scarce that frequently just bones were doled out. But bones could be used to make soup. What passed for bread, however, had become barely edible: a lumpy mixture of potatoes, maize flour, and insects. With an unborn child to consider, the Bartalis’ quest to find enough food became even more pressing.
Grappling with her news, Adriana was less worried than might be expected by the fact that her husband had been disappearing over the winter for days at a time. Certainly she had questioned Gino several times about where he was going, especially as there had not been any races since the spring of 1943. Gino never answered, however, so Adriana stopped asking. Time would reveal this silence as one of Gino’s most generous gifts to her. Considering her self-described “anxious personality” in even the happiest of days, her fragile state during the war may not have withstood discovering all the risks her husband faced. Moreover, this enforced ignorance helped to shield her from recrimination by the authorities. In the event of Gino’s arrest or interrogation, the less she knew, the less culpable she was likely to be found.
Adriana’s distress would only have increased if she knew that Gino had been drawn ever deeper into the relief effort. Gino was now also gathering food a
nd clothing for the growing number of Gentile refugees fleeing bombed parts of Italy to shelter in the Vatican and elsewhere. As Niccacci and others helped small groups of Jewish refugees move closer to the Allied line in the south, Gino was asked to scout out parts of the route. He agreed, and rode as much as 270 miles from Florence to report on the placement of German checkpoints. In time, Gino met some of the human smugglers who would sneak the Jews into Allied territory, and was soon negotiating the fees for their services. When a German patrol killed one of these smugglers and arrested another, it was Gino who discovered the news and then relayed it to Niccacci in Assisi.
Down the road from the Bartalis on Via del Bandino, the escalating violence also made the Goldenbergs very nervous. In the spring of 1944, Giorgio Goldenberg’s mother decided it was time to retrieve her son from the Santa Marta boardinghouse and have him join his family hiding in Florence. She was right to be worried. Unbeknownst to her, Germans had been arriving unannounced at the boardinghouse hoping to seize any hidden Jewish children. To find them, they brought all the children out into the yard and compelled them to recite a litany of Catholic prayers. Fortunately, Mamma Cornelia had anticipated as much and taught them the requisite prayers. And if any did happen to forget a phrase, they needed only to look beyond the soldiers where she stood silently mouthing the words to make sure that no one tripped up.
Road to Valour Page 15
