Nationalism, Italy and the Exhibition of the Holocaust: Findings of a Study on the Recently built Museums of Campagna and San Donato

1 Introduction

Several authors, including Hannah Arendt and Primo Levi, have argued that the Holocaust was an event of such magnitude that it would not have been possible without widespread collaboration between Nazi Germany and governments, individuals, groups, and organisations in other countries. More recently, scholars of the Holocaust such as Omer Bartov (1998) and Dan Stone (2022), among others, have written about the “widespread complicity in collaboration and what Philippe Burrin has called ‘accommodation’ during the Occupation” (Bartov 1998).

Collaboration is a complex term encompassing both active and passive forms. Here, it will suffice to say that active collaboration may include (but is not limited to) actions such as participating in Nazi-political parties, engaging in many forms of economic cooperation with the Nazis, joining paramilitary groups that conducted internal repression against Jews, and assisting in the identification and location of Jewish populations (Bishop 2006; Bitunjac and Schoeps 2021). Passive collaboration, which is an even more intricate concept, refers to facilitating or tolerating efforts towards extermination, disregarding or acquiescing to discriminatory laws and regulations, exhibiting bystander behaviour (i.e., witnessing atrocities without intervening or reporting them, see Goldberg 2017), indirectly participating in economic collaboration, or simply failing to act on the knowledge of atrocities (Morgan 2018). Both, passive and active collaboration occurred in most countries occupied by Nazi Germany.

This paper concentrates on how Italy’s collaboration with Nazi Germany in the events of the Holocaust is represented in two museums: the Memory and Peace Museum Giovanni Palatucci Study Center (near Salerno)^[1] and the Museum of the Twentieth Century and the Shoah in San Donato Val di Comino (Frosinone).^[2] There are several reasons for focusing on this subject. Firstly, although there are numerous scholarly studies on the Holocaust, only a minority examines the relationship between collaborationism and public history, which has been referred to as the way historical information and events are interpreted and presented to the general public (Basaraba and Cauvin 2023). This study attempts to fill, albeit partially, the existing gap in literature by focusing on two newly built museums that have not been subject to previous studies. Another factor at the core of the choice of these two museums is that, while built in different regions and times, they present many similarities. Both museums focus primarily on the positive experiences of the Jews who were interned in Campagna and San Donato, emphasising the unique goodness and hospitality as a defining characteristic of their communities.^[3] These positive representations draw on the idea that these communities were (and still are) rooted in Christianity and Catholicism, and evoke the Christian spirit of hospitality and goodness as the spirit guiding their actions. Both museums depict fascism as a deviation from this norm, a foreign entity, and a destructive disease. In Campagna, the convent of St. Bartholomew hosts the museum, and its exhibition is about the institutional role of the Church, which together suggest a deep connection to this institution.^[4] Also in San Donato, the stress is on Catholicism, but rather than focusing on the Church’s institutional role, this museum focuses on San Donatesi’s Christian compassion at the core for improving the lives of the Jews interned in San Donato. Both museums represent an ever-positive narrative of heroic figures who represent the best of Christian Italian values. This study challenges these representations bringing critical data on collaboration, which previous studies have investigated and evidenced, between the San Donatesi and the local fascist institutions (among many, the mayor^[5] and the police), or between the Church and the fascists in Campagna.

Rather than being a unique characteristic of these museums, the existing literature on the subject, including other works in this special issue, supports the thesis that positive representations are a common trend in Italy’s political post-war memory – the topic of collaboration is often avoided. The systematic under-recognition of Italians’ widespread collaboration with ruling fascists and Nazi Germany, particularly in relation to the Holocaust, has resulted in a failure to raise collective consciousness on this issue (Perra 2010). Hence the distorted perception of Italy’s and Italians’ role in the Holocaust that has continued to feed the myth of the “good Italian” versus the “evil German,” encourages, among others, revisionist histories (Perra 2010). This study argues that such a trend seems to continue to this day. The museums examined here represent yet another missed opportunity to communicate the Holocaust in Italy through a lens challenging the myth of “Italiani brava gente” (Italians are good people). It adopts a long-term perspective and draws upon theories of nationalism (in particular Banti’s phases of Italian nationalism (Banti 2000) to argue that the convergence of nationalist and religious elements in these two museums is not coincidental, but has been linked to these elements as foundational components of Italian nationalism since the 19th century.

2 Theoretical Framework

Museums, including Holocaust museums, are deeply connected to their socio-political and economic contexts (Posocco 2022). They are tied to their national territories, governing political forces and national histories, and they have always been involved in various national and sub-national formations (Bennett 2015, 68) reinforcing the idea that they are an inherently political phenomena (Anderson 1991).

The first museums emerged across the 18th and 19th centuries, during the age of empires and kingdoms, but with the rise of the nation-state system, they were highly influenced by, and adapted to new national settings; i.e. the disintegration of the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Empires after the First World War led to the formation of numerous nation-states that restructured previously existing institutions, including museums, to the new national standard. This is well-documented in various case studies and literature (Aronsson and Elgenius 2015; Hong 2011; Ostow 2008; Rampley, Markian, and Nòra 2020; Vickers 2007). Museums became part of the factory of national emotions (Bourdieu 2014) fostering national homogeneity by cultivating common culture, symbols, and values (Guibernau 2000; Macdonald 2003).

For clarity, nationalism, the ideology underpinning the nation-state system, national emotions, and national identity is intended here as something that goes beyond left and right ideologies. As a grounded ideology, it permeates our world of nation-states (Brubaker 2015; Malešević 2019) with “banal” everyday national symbols (Billig 1995) creating a shared sense of belonging. Subliminal national symbols (such as flags, symbols on currency and language made of “us” and “them”) circulate society, infiltrating state institutions like schools and museums. This phenomenon is widespread, with Italy being no exception.

It is possible to identify five phases of museum development in Italy, each corresponding to a phase of nationalism that affected the museum institution. Mario Banti (2000) highlighted the first three phases of Italian nationalism: (1) the era of national formation within the Kingdom of Italy (1861–1870), (2) the period of national imperialism (starting in 1885 when Italy landed soldiers in Massawa in East Africa), which transitions into (3) the phase of fascism (1922–1945). After 1945, it is possible to identify two further phases. Phase (4) is characterized by the appeasement following the Second World War and the general rejection of fascism as an ideology alien to “Italianness.” In terms of temporality, this phase roughly coincides with the First Republic (1946–1993) (Lepre 1993). The 5th (and current) phase is marked by the resurgence and growing consolidation of right-wing forces (detailed below), some of which inspired by fascism, within the Italian political and cultural landscape. These forces have capitalized on widespread discontent stemming from globalization and its outcomes, such as new waves of immigration. One might suggest that this phase broadly coincides with the Second Republic (1994–present) (Bobbio 1997; Patriarca 2001).

The first phase of national formation saw Italian nationalism constructed through various institutions (including museums) stressing a common language (and words such as patria [fatherland] and nation), the nation both as a sovereign community and as a state-nation with specific constitutional institutions, and symbolic figures and narratives rooted in Italian cultural memory, especially Catholicism (Banti 2000). New nation-states, including Italy, built or repurposed museums to house this selected “national” heritage, often aiming to create a national identity (Breuilly 2009; De Caro 2003; Kaplan 1994). The archaeological ruins of classical Rome were utilized to celebrate a sense of Romanitas and golden age, which persisted throughout different phases of Italian nationalism (Follo 2013; Troilo 2022). This heritage was also used to justify Italian imperialism (the second phase of nationalism), particularly in North Africa, where Roman remains symbolized former domination (Trümpler 2008).

Italian fascism (the third phase of Italian nationalism), an ultra-nationalistic, racist, and expansionist ideology developed after the First World War, viewed Italy as the successor to ancient Rome, using this narrative to justify imperialism (Kallis 2000). This led to the creation of museums in the 1920s and 1930s, i.e. the Museo della Civiltà Romana, which emphasized Roman heritage (Bertolino 2011; Beth and Cosmo 2017).

An important point is that fascism was built on the preexisting elements of Italian nationalism, Catholicism, among others, while bringing new ones, especially (1) a greater emphasis on the biological and racial aspects of the nation, (2) a greater emphasis on the idea that the nation is seen as a historically perpetuating “stock” unified by the idea of a will to exist and to be powerful, (3) the state as the main driving force for the nationalization of the masses, (4) and the introduction of national identity as strictly intertwined with the concepts of family, sacrifice, and the glorification of past and future greatness (Banti 2000). These elements wormed into the museums built in this era, and as this study points outs, they still influence museums in the present.

Fascists worked strenuously to achieve reconciliation between the Italian state and the Catholic Church, ending the Roman Question^[6] with the 1929 Lateran Pacts. These were agreements between the Italian state and Pope Pius XI. Mussolini also had his wife and children baptised, gave money for the restoration of churches, ordered that there be crucifixes in Italy’s courts and classrooms (Sale 2019), and commissioned the Via della Conciliazione (Road of the Conciliation), a road linking the Vatican City to the heart of Rome. These developments were also at the core of clerical fascism, when (some) politicians from the ranks of the Partito Popolare Italiano – the party founded by Don Luigi Sturzo, which represented the return of Italian Catholics to active political life after long decades – joined the Fascist party. By “clerical fascism,” we refer to an ideology that merges the political and economic doctrines of fascism with clericalism (Eatwell 2003).

The reconciliation played a crucial role not only in the fascist ventennio,^[7] but also in post-Second World War Italian nationalism. In fact, after the fall of fascism, the merging of forces rooted in a new Italian nationalism, which included Catholicism, manifested in various forms, notably in the Christian Democratic Party (DC) governing Italy continuously from 1946 to 1981. This partly explains the presence of a Catholic narrative in a number of Holocaust museums built in the post-war era in Italy, including those investigated here. Catholicism was and remained an integral part of Italian nationalism not only reflected in the DC, but also in right-wing parties and ideologies (i.e. some elements of Berlusconi’s party, Forza Italia, claim roots in Catholicism and Christianity).

Most importantly, the persecution of Jews during the Holocaust in Italy took place amid a pacified alliance between the Roman Catholic Church and the fascist-led Italian government. Although individuals within the Catholic Church undoubtedly endeavored to save the lives of thousands of Jews (Zuccotti 1996), Catholicism also played a key role in officially establishing the subordinate status of Judaism and other religions (Sarfatti 2006).

In 1940, the Italian government opened around 40 internment and concentration camps.^[8] The Risiera di San Sabba in Trieste was also an extermination camp (Becattini 2022) run by the Nazis, but “on the upper floors were quarters for German, Austrian, Ukrainian and Italian SS troops” (Holocaust Historical Society 2019). The attitude of the Italian fascists towards Italian Jews changed drastically in November 1943, after the Congress of Verona. Before this day, Italian Jews had been facing numerous restrictions, such as bans on marrying Italians, employing Aryan domestic workers, and practicing certain professions like notaries or journalists, with severe limits in all intellectual fields. However, the Italian state had previously refused to surrender Italian Jews to the Nazis, effectively preventing their annihilation (Sarfatti 2000). In the Salò Republic the fascist authorities declared them to be of “enemy nationality” and began to actively participate in the prosecution and arrest of Jews. According to Liliana Picciotto (2011), the activity of fascists and Nazis together led to the killing of around 7500 Italian Jews.

During the First Republic, museums showcasing the Holocaust emerged, whose narrative was influenced by the dominant political forces like Christian Democrats, Socialists, Republicans, and Italian Communists. While, after the war, the form of nationalism that had flourished under Mussolini weakened, it did not vanish entirely, later re-emerging in neo-forms attached to parties such as Movimento Sociale Italiano, founded in 1946 by Giorgio Almirante, Pino Romualdi, and other former representatives of the fascist regime; Alleanza Nazionale, founded in 1994 by Gianfranco Fini with President Ignazio La Russa (today’s President of the Italian Senate); and Fratelli d’Italia, which emerged in 2012 from a split within Berlusconi’s Popolo della Libertà. A new left nationalism (Chazel and Dain 2021) also emerged from the anti-fascist forces of the Second World War, including (but not limited to) Palmiro Togliatti’s Communist Party and his “Italian Way to Socialism,” which advocated Italy’s self-determination and sovereignty taking advantage of narratives and symbols rooted in national culture, myths, and traditions. It is important to remember that it was Togliatti, Minister of Justice in 1946, who was tasked with addressing fascist crimes, and prioritized reconciliation over justice (Saporito 2018). Togliatti’s extensive amnesty, which went down in history as the “clean sweep,” pardoned these crimes, preventing public acknowledgment (Franzinelli 2016). This influenced museums such as the M. della Liberazione in Rome (1955) and the Museo al Deportato in Carpi (1955), both established and managed by political forces associated with that same perspective.

The term, “Second Republic” (1994–present), denoting the latest phase of Italian nationalism, was initially used by Giorgio Almirante in the 1980s. Almirante, previously chief of staff at the Ministry of Culture during the Salò Republic, envisioned the “Second Republic” as a centralized presidency, akin to France. While his vision did not materialize, the era saw significant changes in Italy’s political landscape, most notably the political reorganization of right-wing nationalist forces. This resulted in a coalition, which included the neo-fascist Alleanza Nazionale, emerging from Almirante’s party and winning the 1994 general election – a first since the Second World War.

The legacy of fascism significantly influences Holocaust museums in Italy, perhaps not in terms of the narrative, but tensions at museum inaugurations, threats from extreme neo-fascist factions against Holocaust museums, as well as proposals from these factions to build museums for victims of the Titoist communists’ war crimes that illustrate this impact (Becattini 2022). This issue is not exclusive to Italy. In some European contexts, there is an increasing tendency to equate Nazi and communist crimes. For instance, under Viktor Orbán, Hungary has constructed museums such as the House of Terror, which emphasize the crimes of the communists while downplaying those of the fascists (Posocco 2022). It has been suggested that this comparison between communism and fascism, which is widely debated, undermines the Holocaust’s historical specificity and its foundational importance for the EU (Subotić 2019; Uhl and Forrester 2009). While not delved into extensively here, the rise of right-wing parties (such as Orbán’s in Hungary or Meloni’s in Italy) is connected to this trend, which merits further investigation, with museums serving as an insightful lens into the matter.

3 Methodology

The content of this article is based on a qualitative research methodology, through the observation of museum exhibits, analysis of transcripts in both Italian and English, audio-visual materials, historical analyses, and one-on-one interviews with museum staff.

Museum visits and subsequent interviews with museum personnel were conducted on the same days, in the museum in Campagna on November 10, 2022, and in the museum in San Donato on October 2, 2022. This research began with exhaustive documentation of every object in the museum using photography and video. Each exhibit was analyzed meticulously, considering its contextual significance. The interview approach was open-ended, promoting free-flowing discussions on previously unexplored facts and events. In addition, the research delved into specific points raised by the interviewees and presented further inquiries, which are pivotal to the investigative process of social research (Douglas 1976). Moreover, to provide a comprehensive understanding of the context in which these museums are situated, it was crucial to investigate the historical events that characterize the place where they were built. This becomes particularly pertinent when considering the argument that it is exactly through the inclusion of certain historical evidence and the exclusion of others that these museums can craft their nationalist (and localist) narratives.

4 Christian Ethno-Nationalism: The Memory and Peace Museum Giovanni Palatucci Study Center in Campagna

4.1 The Palatucci Affair and the “Different Story” of the Campagnesi

After the promulgation of the Racial Laws in 1938, the fascist regime chose the two ex-convents of St. Bartholomew and “Immacolata Concezione,” located in the small village of Campagna (nearby Salerno), as internment camps for Jews (Capogreco 2004, 227). Campagna, with its surrounding mountains and a single narrow access road, was an ideal location for imprisonment. From June 15, 1940, to September 19, 1943, the St. Bartholomew convent held 588 prisoners, making it one of the largest internment camps housed in an existing building (Capogreco 2004, 228). The prisoners had been captured in Italy and came from various countries, including Germany, Austria, France, Britain, Italy, and also Poland, and Czechoslovakia (Centro Studi Giovanni Palatucci 2023).

Since 2008, the convent has hosted the Regional Museum of Memory and Peace – “Giovanni Palatucci” Study Center, a museum honouring local hero Giovanni Palatucci, a policeman in Fiume (now Rijeka, Croatia) from 1937 to 1944, who died in Dachau (Ballarini and Sobolevski 2002, 68). According to biographers, Giovanni, along with his uncle, Bishop of Campagna Giuseppe Maria Palatucci, reportedly saved 5000 people.^[9] Forging documents and visas, Giovanni purportedly helped Fiume’s Jews escape to the south, particularly to Campagna. He was declared a Righteous Among the Nations by Yad Vashem and awarded the Gold Medal for Civic Merit in Italy. Work on Palatucci was also carried out by the commission of the Primo Levi Center in New York, and the CDEC in Milan.^[10] However, recent studies question these narratives. Only two of the 272 Campagna prisoners were from Fiume (Ballarini and Sobolevski 2002, 69), moreover, Giovanni has been depicted as a fervent Nazi collaborator (Cohen 2013), and the bishop seemed indifferent to protecting Jewish prisoners.

For Cohen (2013), Palatucci’s legend was promulgated by the Italian government, Catholic Church, and Israel, each seeking to promote a heroic narrative for their own purposes. In the Vatican newspaper L’Osservatore Romano, Anna Foa admitted in 2013, that the number of Jews saved by Palatucci may need reassessment.

In 2015, Yad Vashem reaffirmed Giovanni Palatucci as Righteous Among the Nations, but the Washington Holocaust Museum maintained its 2013 decision to exclude him from its exhibition. Notably, ANPI, the leading Italian Partisan Association, keeps portraying Palatucci as a hero, avoiding to address his alleged Nazi collaboration.^[11]

According to the museum staff, the exhibit offers a journey of “memory and peace,” reflecting not only on Giovanni Palatucci but also on the unique history of the local community. It portrays locals as warmly receiving Jewish internees “as brothers and sisters.” This narrative is shared through leaflets, panels, and annual theatre performances titled “A Different Story,” which features symbolic imagery of Christian and Jewish unity (see Figure 1^[12], below).

Figure 1:

The flyer of Una storia diversa.

The museum emphasizes Campagna’s unique narrative of racial imprisonment, presented as a memory of the town’s exceptional kindness towards internees. The local people, including the police and the fascist governor, are depicted as benevolent Christians, untouched by the “disease” of fascism, according to museum materials.^[13] However, this is only half of the story.

Capogreco (2004) suggests that the Campagnesi, like most Italians, largely complied with the fascist regime’s demands. Moreover, the camp required services like electricity, which was provided at a favourable price by a local company, a fact that suggests indirect economic collaboration. In addition, the police restricted prisoners’ interaction with locals in 1941. So, the apparent friendly relations between locals and prisoners stemmed from a “black market trade” (Capogreco 2004, 228), and not “from interreligious dialogues,” as the museum staff sustains.

The museum highlights acts of kindness by the Campagnesi, such as providing room rentals to prisoners. However, this narrative overlooks the fact that Jews were displaced, separated from their families, and burdened financially. Furthermore, locals benefited from the rents.^[14] Despite better conditions in Campagna compared to other camps – which is an important factor, – labeling it a “memory and peace” journey goes beyond what is reasonable, logical, or likely based on the available evidence or facts. The museum attributes improvements e.g. an orchestra, library, and sporting events to local generosity; yet, Capogreco claims that these enhancements were thanks to the Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants (DELASEM), and not to local or ecclesiastical benevolence.

4.2 The Museum Exhibition

4.2.1 Memory and Peace Museum Giovanni Palatucci Study Center in Campagna

The Memory and Peace Museum Giovanni Palatucci Study Center in Campagna, located in St. Bartholomew’s ex-convent, commemorates the Holocaust and shares the stories of Palatucci and Campagna during the internment period. Managed by curator Marcello Naimoli, this museum aims to join the national circuit, and was elevated from provincial to regional status in 2010.

Recent updates to the museum include semi-holographic videos and “emotional” rooms designed for sensory impact, “often moving visitors to tears,” as underlined by the museum staff. This enhancement, funded by the Campania Region, accompanies support from the Municipality of Campagna and the Giovanni Palatucci Associations.

The “emotional rooms” summarise the written material found on the first floor, which features stories and photographs relating to the two Palatuccis and a positive view of life in Campagna at the time (from Figures 2–4 below).

Figure 2:

A portrait of Giovanni Palatucci.

Figure 3:

The portrait of Bishop Giuseppe Maria Palatucci.

Figure 4:

The good conditions of the prisoners, according to the museum.

The museum begins with four video installations, briefly outlining historical events like the 1938 Racial Laws, followed by Palatucci and Campagna’s narrative, “A Different Story.” Two immersive rooms depict prisoners Eugenio Lipschitz and Maks Tanzer’s experiences, emphasizing local kindness. The final two, smaller and unrenovated rooms are dedicated to the Holocaust. The imbalance in room allocation and presentation could have several (unintended) consequences.

Firstly, the museum’s limited allocation of space and resources to the Holocaust might trivialize its magnitude, risking diminished visitor empathy or understanding. Secondly, its focus on rescuers could overshadow the victims’ experiences and narratives. Lastly, highlighting Christian heroism risks reinforcing the “saviour” stereotype and undermining the role of Jewish resistance and resilience during the Holocaust.

The museum uses generic Holocaust depictions, for instance Anne Frank’s diary excerpts and victim artefacts, which, while emotive, may not foster critical thinking or effectively convey local history. By focusing on broad narratives, such as Anne Frank’s which is unrelated to Campagna, the museum misses opportunities to present unique local Holocaust stories. This could lead to an incomplete understanding of the Holocaust’s impact on the local community, and downplay local individuals’ involvement.

Most importantly, the museum omits historical data on Italy’s role in the Holocaust, including the general support to fascism by the Italian population. The Racial Laws are presented on a small, crowded panel (Figure 5 below), which would benefit from a more accessible room arrangement for better comprehension of their historical significance (Figure 6 below).

Figure 5:

The poster that mentions the Racial Laws.

Figure 6:

The room with all the posters piled up.

4.2.2 The Role of the Church in the Museum

The exhibition, hosted in the convent of the Saint Bartholomew Church, centers on Christian values like hope and compassion. The key figures, Bishop Giuseppe Maria Palatucci and policeman Giovanni Palatucci, represent two of the most important institutions of the Italian nation-state in the ventennio fascista (fascist 20 years): the Church and the police. Let us not forget that fascism integrated Catholicism in the Italian state structure, making it the official religion of the state, reintroducing crosses and other Catholic symbols in state buildings. The display generally portrays the Palatuccis as heroes embodying Christian Italian values, elevating the Church’s status and focusing on moral rather than historical aspects. Similarly to the previous example, this emphasis risks downplaying the victims’ experiences during the Holocaust.

A significant concern is the exhibition’s inclusion of historically unsubstantiated material, such as the recreation of prisoners’ rooms (Figure 7), described as a “five-star hotel prison” by a curator. However, detailed information on another panel implies a different reality.

Figure 7:

The reproduction of a prisoner’s room.

Testimonies from prisoners Horst Wolff and Eugenio Lipschitz shed light on the camp’s living conditions, although this aspect was not included in the semi-holographic video. Wolff describes cramped rooms with three bunk beds and a lack of showers, prompting some internees to resort to using alcohol for hygiene. Lipschitz’s diary highlights the prisoners’ close quarters and mentions his significant weight loss (25 kg) during his time in Campagna. Another room in the museum recreates the small synagogue that the prisoners established in one of the convent’s rooms, as shown in Figure 8 below.

Figure 8:

The small synagogue inside the ex-convent.

The first floor of the exhibition showcases the convent’s synagogue and letters written by Bishop Giuseppe Maria Palatucci to the Vatican regarding prisoner Hoffman’s conditions. It is interesting to note what a curator of the museum said: “The Bishop always had the intention not to convert, but to make the prisoners aware of the Gospel and the beauty of the Catholic religion.” In this regard, prisoner Horst Wolff recalled (although, his recollection is not included in the museum exhibit) that when the bishop visited the camp, there were two groups of prisoners: the Jewish internees and those who had converted to Christianity; this division was used to provide more food to the latter group (Galluccio 2003, 145). This raises questions about the role of religious institutions and leaders during the Holocaust, the potential for, and problems of interfaith cooperation, and the various motivations behind the Church’s support for prisoners.

Iconic photographs of the Bishop are displayed, including images with figures such as Prince Umberto di Savoia and fascist officers. One photograph (Figure 11) shows Palatucci smiling with fascist policemen giving the fascist salute on the convent steps, where a banner welcoming the bishop is displayed (see from Figures 9–11 below).

Figure 9:

Giuseppe Maria Palatucci and King Umberto di Savoia in front of the Royal Palace in Naples.

Figure 10:

The Bishop with fascist officers in Campagna.

Figure 11:

A smiling Giuseppe Maria Palatucci on the steps of the convent.

The photograph of the Bishop with fascists raises numerous questions, many of which have been explored in literature on the Church and fascism during the Second World War.^[15] However, the museum does not utilise these sources’ insights, which could inform visitors about the complex intersection of these relationships.

The museum’s narrative aligns with scholars who assert that the Church prioritized self-preservation, diplomacy over morality, and generally avoided open opposition to the fascist regime (Ceci 2013; Phayer 2008). These are also the elements of passive collaborationism. In fact, the Church’s acquiescing to discriminatory laws and regulations, its bystander behaviour, and partly also failing to act on their knowledge of the atrocities (Morgan 2018), makes the Church a case of passive collaboration.

In the following excerpt from an interview with a high-ranking museum employee, a sort of hierarchy in saving human lives would justify the silence of Pope XII:

The Pope wanted to save more lives by not taking a stand. Catholics know that you invoke the spirit to make decisions dictated from above; at that moment, the Pope had to decide what was the lesser evil (Interview with museum personnel)

The reference to “the lesser evil” and a selection “from above” comes from a state institution, suggesting this being the official narrative of the state. For the sake of clarity, the museum does not mention the antisemitism that has underpinned the Church and empowered political antisemitism^[16] for centuries, the Jewish ghettos, and other forms of discrimination against the Jews perpetrated by the Church, which suggests an ever-positive stance of Catholicism on the part of the museum.

Indeed, the museum exhibits a defence of Pope Pius XII, “one of the most controversial popes in Church history” (Kertzer 2022, xxix), and the Church, coming directly from Giovanni Palatucci, the main protagonist. His legend is presented and glorified through video reconstructions and leaflets. Accompanied by loud music, the four videos in the first room explain the most important information about the policeman, his life, heroism and achievements (see Figures 12 and 13, below).

Figure 12:

The four videos, each with Palatucci’s portraits in the background.

Figure 13:

The portrait of Giovanni Palatucci captured in one of the videos.

These videos lack textual or biographical reference, and the names of those who testify to Palatucci’s heroism, mainly priests and/or locals, are missing. This lack of contextualization and identification of the testimonies raises questions about the credibility and accuracy of the narrative.

Pamphlets and brochures present Giovanni Palatucci’s story, with the interviewee stating that these are extracts from past conferences on Palatucci, implying a scientific basis. On four occasions, these sources indicate Palatucci as faithful to God and the Nation; his sources of loyalty. The texts highlight that he was “trained and established in Christian charity,” he saw an image of God in everyone, including the Jews, who came to him for help.

When describing the crimes against humanity Palatucci is again depicted as “faithful,” this time to “his country.” Immediately afterwards, the text reaches its climax, defining, in the person of Palatucci, the Christian religion as an Italian ethno-nationalist trait:

In Italy, a country that had been forcibly subjected to an ideology that was not in keeping with its own culture, Giovanni Palatucci walked the path of the Christian tradition of his people and, though he always saw himself as a true Italian, he never abused anyone, and he recognised that everyone had a right to home and country […] An Italy divided in two dramatically expresses the disease of that sad period of time […] He [Palatucci] would have wanted to save Fiume as an Italian city and joined the autonomist movements that operated in the city: “I will be in Fiume”, he said, “as long as the Italian flag waves over the city.” (Extract from the museum brochure)

This excerpt paints fascism as a deviation from a naturally Christian population, suggesting Italians were forcefully subjected to it. It ignores evidence of substantial public support for fascism, including from Christians and Jews (the latter at least until 1938). The museum fails to recognize the atrocities committed by Italians in the name of the Madrepatria (the motherland). It vaguely refers to these crimes, from colonial wars to the Holocaust, suggesting that Palatucci’s Christian beliefs led him not to “abuse anyone,” implying tolerance of such actions as a “true Italian.”

The museum’s nationalist narrative peaks when it claims Palatucci was in Fiume to preserve it as an “Italian city,” a status officially acquired after the 1924 Treaty of Rome.^[17] Palatucci, a policeman at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, was committed to the cause until the “Italian flag waved over the city.” There is no mention that Fiume “rigorously implemented” the Racial Laws from 1938 (Bon 2004, 86–87; Simper 2018). Palatucci himself signed the last official report on Fiume for the Ministry of the RSI, dated July 26, 1944, in which he – who had taken charge of the Questura in April 1944 – talked about: “the partisan attack on the railway line to Fiume” and said that he was on the front line “to establish relations of trust and understanding with the German authorities,” because Alessandro Spalatin, is “incapable of a gesture of pride […] and does nothing to make him the Italian Prefect of Italian Fiume” (Ballarini and Sobolevski 2002, 67–68).

Palatucci was a nationalist, which the museum stresses over and over. And, as a nationalist, after 1943, he fought for Fiume until the very end, although the city was on Italian Socialist Republic’s territory and under German military occupation. This is precisely because, as the text emphasises, Palatucci was “faithful” to the Church and the nation as a good Christian soldier.

5 Methodological Localism: The Museo del Novecento e della Shoah in San Donato Val di Comino

5.1 A “Riace from Another Time” the Integration of Jewish Prisoners in the Community of San Donato

San Donato Val di Comino, a small village in the province of Frosinone, lies on the mountainous border between Lazio and Abruzzo. Located close to Cassino, an epicentre of the Gustav Line, the village hosted 28 Jewish foreigners interned from July 1940 to April 1944. The village has been called the “Riace of yesteryear” due to the welcoming efforts of the locals (Di Mambro 2021). Riace, a southern Italian village, became famous for integrating refugees during the term of former mayor Mimmo Lucano.

In 1944, five employees of San Donato’s registrar’s office, along with the silent agreement of Podestà Gaetano Marini, destroyed the original documents of the Jews and forged fake ones to help them escape. The story became famous in 2021, and since June 2022, the former registrar’s office has been housing the Twentieth Century and Shoah Museum.

On April 6th, 1944, Nazis rounded up 16 of the 28 prisoners, taking them to Auschwitz, where nine were immediately killed (Cedrone 2010, 48). On April 6, 2013, a commemorative plaque in front of the village hall was placed with a text written by survivor Katrin Tenenbaum who was imprisoned in San Donato with her parents (Figure 14^[18] below). A fountain in the shape of Italy is located nearby (Figure 15 below).

Figure 14:

Local artist Giulio Tullio made the plaque that reads: “From 1940 to the spring of 1944, the fascist regime imprisoned 28 foreign Jews in San Donato. There, they found hospitality and compassion. On April 6, 1944, 16 were captured by the Nazi occupiers and fascist collaborators. Sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp, only four returned. Among the victims, let little Noemi Levi, under 2 years old, be remembered.”

Figure 15:

The fountain close to the plaque.

Figure 14 represents the only place where one can find the word “collaboration” in San Donato. The museum staff we interviewed, referred to as Y, showed us the plaque before visiting the museum. According to Y, the plaque is “incorrect” as only one villager, a poor old alcoholic, whose name Y could not recall, had collaborated in exchange for alcohol.

Finding evidence of collaboration is challenging in the traditionally left-wing village of San Donato, which is currently governed by a centre-left junta despite the right-wing trend in the province. The community takes pride in its history of integration and fraternity, attributing the welcoming spirit to the Sandonatesi’s “nature” (Cedrone 2010). Others support this thesis, arguing that the Sandonatesi “protected the prisoners as if they were in a warm motherly cradle” given their “millenarian Christian spirit” (Vacana 2010, 117–122). However, this narrative is not always clear. While Cedrone mentions Germans discovering Jews hidden in Sandonato, Massa (2010, 93–97) suggests the 1944 round-up resulted from a local informant’s tip.

Katrin Tenenbaum’s plaque might have referred to this episode that locals have forgotten. Perhaps we will never know. When the interviewee was asked to explain these words, it emerged that the text of the plaque and its author were not well received in the village: “I do not know why Tenenbaum wrote about fascist collaboration on the plaque, but we must avoid ‘throwing mud’^[19] at the Italians. In this village, there were no informers.” The protective attitude towards Italy’s past reflects the principle of national priority (Posocco 2022), which makes it difficult to criticise past mistakes.

6.2 The Museum Exhibition

Claiming that the 2022 opening of the Twentieth Century and Shoah Museum is a response to Katrin Tenenbaum’s plaque highlighting collaborationism may be provocative, but it could hold some truth. The museum primarily aims to celebrate the registrar’s office employees’ heroism and local hospitality. This narrative strategy, similar to the museum in Campagna analysed earlier, incorporates the Holocaust memory while maintaining an ever positive local narrative.

The exhibition follows a chronological narrative criterion to tell the story of Sandonatesi in the 20th century. The furniture is new and well-maintained. Each room has an interactive screen with glass showcases containing original historical documents. Often, these showcases are divided “politically:” one for left-wing memory and one for right-wing memory (Figures 16 and 17 below).

Figure 16:

The drawer with fascist material, such as a propaganda comic strip.

Figure 17:

The other drawer with communist material, such as a party membership card with an original drawing by Renato Guttuso.

Although the first two introductory rooms focus on the Sandonatesi traditions in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, they include references to the fascist period and stress the traditional left-wing ideology of San Donato. In the first room, there is a poster dedicated to Giuseppe Romita, one of the “fathers of the Italian republic”. Romita is elected as a local hero because, in 1932, he designed the school of the village and drew a silhouette giving a fascist salute with his left arm instead of his right (Figure 18 below). According to our interviewee, this is proof of the leftist tradition of the village.

Figure 18:

The silhouette with the raised left arm is slightly on the left.

The leftist narrative of San Donato, which is framed as a positive element by the museum, becomes more insistent in the second room titled “Sandonatesi abroad.” This room exhibits two posters: one lists the sovversivi, “subversives” from San Donato, and the other titled “From the Fascist Era to the Post-War Reconstruction Era,” underlines that in 1922, many Sandonatesi abroad adhered to fascism. This slightly off-topic point implies that the adhesion to fascism was very broad, reaching even abroad, but not in San Donato.

Regarding the systematic denial of fascist consensus in San Donato, our interviewee affirmed that “there were (and are) no fascists there.” However, absolute statements are rarely bulletproof. In fact, during our interview, Y contradicted himself by acknowledging that the fascist consensus was consistent everywhere in Italy, even in San Donato, by saying the same day that “in Italy, we were all fascists.”^[20] Despite inconsistencies, Y passionately defended San Donato’s reputation, showing Jewish hiding places and presenting a personal view on collaborationism. According to Y, it is unfair to defame lower-class Italians like the Sandonatesi, since real collaborationists were powerful figures like “fascist industrialists and Henry Ford,” who faced no repercussions post-Second World War. Y argues that those distant from power, surviving amid poverty, should not be deemed collaborators. As evidence, Y mentions a shoemaker who repaired shoes for locals and Germans, and “possibly informed Germans about hiding Jews.” Y does not consider this collaboration due to the “shoemaker’s hardships, akin to the Jews’.”

The positive narrative of Sandonatesi stretches to a room highlighting German and Italian antisemitism. Displayed are the 1934 Italian editions of Hitler’s Mein Kampf, The International Jew, and an issue of La Difesa della Razza, Telesio Interlandi’s racist journal (Figures 19 and 20 below). The aim is to illustrate that significant collaborationism was institutional (and distant from San Donato).

Figure 19:

The case with racist publications.

Figure 20:

The issue of “La difesa della Razza”.

Much of San Donato’s consistently positive narrative could stem from a misunderstanding of “collaborationism,” potentially due to Italy’s history of avoiding this topic. Post-war Italian governments dodged it, purge trials failed, and Togliatti’s 1946 general amnesty prevailed. The transformation of many intellectuals from fascist supporters to anti-fascist veterans post-war, and the self-redemptive portrayal of the fascist period as a “temporary disease” further illustrate this trend.^[21] Moreover, the “top-down” disregard for recognizing Nazi-fascist collaboration has diluted the concept of collaborationism. The distortion of historical events, the softening of events of collaboration, and myth-making have resulted in memory skewed by influences like the Church, nationalism, and in San Donato’s case, “localism.”^[22]

In a narrative based on localism, the line between anecdotes and historical events is even thinner. In fact, here we find a rather interesting mention of the relationship between the Nazis, the locals and the internees in the forms of romantic encounters.^[23]

In room 4, posters (Figures 21–23 below)^[24] serve to represent anecdotes. The museum highlights the inherent Sandonatesi values of simplicity, hospitality, and Christianity, and showcases local heroes who exhibited solidarity towards internees and soldiers. Notable figures include priest Donato Di Bona, known for his active parish aid, and Podestà Gaetano Marini. The exhibition suggests inherent goodness in San Donato and that salvation is universal. In the section thanking the locals, it acknowledges 70 men and 40 women, including two committed fascists, Gaetano Coletti and Cesare Fabrizi (Figure 24), for their assistance to ex-prisoners.

Figure 21:

This is the image for the poster “Everyday life with German troops”. Above: an image of San Donato and German Lieutenant Fridolin von Senger und Etterlink. Below: “5th Mountain Division Medical Service”.

Figure 22:

Above: best wishes of the 5th Mountain Hunters Division. Below: Allied Soldiers’ Christmas.

Figure 23:

An excerpt from poster: “Integration of the internees”.

Figure 24:

The poster “Help and assistance for the ex-allied prisoners” with the photograph of Cesare Fabrizi on the left.

Room 5, themed on Sandonatesi during the war, exudes strong nationalist symbolism. It features posters honouring local Medal of Valour recipients, a case with military artefacts and Italian flags. Also displayed is a 1926 leaflet calling Sandonatesi to a monument unveiling in honour of the First World War soldiers, with patriotic slogans e.g. “The bright future of our beloved Homeland” and “Long live the King! Long live Italy!” (Figures 25–27 below).

Figure 25:

The case with military repertoires, an Italian flag with the Royal stem, and a statue from Italian colonisation in Africa.

Figure 26:

The 1926 leaflet for the inauguration of the monument.

Figure 27:

The poster’s different layout does not change the narrative pattern.

The apogee of the local narrative is room 7, “Registry Office. The Allies: 1944–1945.” In 1944, this room was originally the office; now, it displays the furniture of the time (Figure 28 below).^[25] The first poster, titled “The heroic acts of the registry office employees,” presents a drawing with the portraits of six people, five plus the mayor, and recounts their actions for the last time in the exhibition (Figure 29 below).

Figure 28:

Room 7 reproduces the atmosphere where the employees created fake documents to save the Jews.

Figure 29:

Top to bottom: Maddalena Mazzola, Donato Coletti, Carmela Cardarelli, Gaetano Marini, Pasqualina Perrella, Rosaria De Rubeis.

The last poster of the room is dedicated to the Allies. Our interviewee spent considerable time on it, as the memories of the elder Sandonatesi are not positive: “they have a better memory of the Germans than the British” as they did not “disrespect” the inhabitants by “throwing away leftovers from lunch and dinner.” Our interviewee is aware that the Germans, whom the older Sandonatesi praise because they “gave chocolate to the children,” were the same ones who rounded up the Jews protected by some villagers; while the Allies, generally called “the English,” fought to free the country from an occupier and a totalitarian regime. Yet, he did not contradict the local view that Nazis were not entirely bad. This is reflected in “The negative memory of the British” section, especially in the “Cohabitation with the winners” poster.

7 Conclusions

This article has examined two recently built Holocaust museums in Italy: The Museum of the Twentieth Century and the Shoah in San Donato Val di Comino, and the Memory and Peace Museum Giovanni Palatucci Study Center in Campagna. It employed qualitative methods, such as in-depth interviews with museum staff and analyses of texts and audio-visuals, viewed through the lens of nationalism theories.

The main findings suggest that both museums present an overly positive narrative of Italy’s role in the Holocaust, particularly in the cases explored here, emphasising the favourable conditions of Jewish internees in Italian camps compared to those in other countries and contexts, while overlooking problematic evidence, particularly regarding the various forms of Italian collaboration with the Nazi forces before, and during the Second World War. Regarding Campagna, the article highlights an alarming lack of criticism, reproducing the myth of the “good Italian” versus the “evil German” already present in other contexts and emphasised by other scholars. A similar element is present in San Donato, although, interestingly, the local narrative points to the positive relationship between the Nazis and the population.

Both museums exhibit narratives of “nationalism” and “localism,” often presenting dichotomies of “us” and “them” in line with Billig’s concept of banal nationalism (1995). The “us” narrative is both Italian and local. It glorifies heroic (Italian) Christians in two small towns saving Jews, perpetuating the stereotype of the “saviour” and the passive Jewish victim. Fascism is represented as a foreign ideology incompatible with Italian Christian civilization. This aligns with Mario Banti’s phases of Italian nationalism, as outlined in the theoretical framework, which highlight the important role of Christianity and Catholicism in shaping Italian identity long before fascism. The museums analyzed in this study suggest that the (Christian) ideological element continues to influence how Italians represent their national identity, and their national past.

On the “them” side, both fascism and Nazism are present, although neither is strongly exhibited. The space given to the horrors perpetrated by these ideologies and the forces that represented them is very limited. This is a problematic choice made purposely by the curators of both museums. For example, in Campagna, only two rooms are dedicated to the events of the Holocaust, which are smaller than the others, and have not been renovated. This article pointed out that this imbalance in space allocation and presentation has several negative consequences. The first is that it trivialises the Holocaust by diminishing the scope and scale of the tragedy. This could lead to a lack of understanding or empathy towards the Holocaust and its victims. The second is that it shifts focus away from the Jewish narrative and emphasises the national, local, and Christian ones. In other words, these museums no longer solely focus on the Holocaust, but rather provide an opportunity to showcase the town, the nation, and the Church. In the case of Campagna, the fact that the museum is housed within the ex-convent of St. Bartholomew represents another problematic element related to an exhibition highlighting the story of Bishop Giuseppe Palatucci and his policeman nephew, Giovanni.

In San Donato, a particular sectarianism within the local community, which could be referred to as “religious parochialism,” is less evident but still present along with the more civic/local and national identity, which are not always in harmony. The museum exhibits a strongly political and politicised narrative. The left-wing ideology, which the locals and the museum highlight as one of the town’s characteristics, is portrayed positively, highlighting the tension between the national (fascist) and local (leftist) identities. This should be seen as further evidence that the museum, including the Holocaust museum, can often be a privileged place of political and cultural, not just historical, contention.