“What do monks do all day?” That question popped out casually from one of the men in our group. We stood at the top of the stairs at the Abbey of Monte Cassino. Leaving our cruise ship early, we’d bussed for ninety minutes through the broad Liri Valley towards the mountain where the world-famous abbey stands.
Monte Cassino does stand today, but only because it was meticulously rebuilt after its complete destruction in World War II. The famous “Battle of Monte Cassino” was, in fact, a three-month siege in 1944 that slaughtered thousands of Allied soldiers from 30 nations. Many died as they attempted a treacherous crossing of a vast open valley and the raging Rapido River, today known as “The River of Blood.” The soldiers were visible each step of the way to German troops who strongly held the surrounding mountains.
What was the goal in this campaign? The Allies were attempting to breach the Gustav Line, a mountainous strong point in the German defenses that ran across Italy. Monte Cassino guarded the gap of the valley. Once across the valley, many more Allied troops died in the impossible ascent up the sheer sides of the mountain where the Germans were holed up inside of a series of natural caves. Intelligence, however, had mistakenly placed the German troops inside the abbey. Consequently, to end the deadlock, the abbey was bombed to smithereens.
It was not the first time this architectural treasure had been leveled. Since its founding by St. Benedict of Nursia fifteen centuries ago, it had been destroyed by earthquake and invading armies. Still, this destruction close to the end of World War II was particularly bitter.
The original fortress tower which had sheltered newly-arrived Benedict in c. 530 AD miraculously survived the 1944 bombing. Monks who clustered in that tower survived as well. But hundreds of people from surrounding villages who had sought safety in the abbey perished. Despite leaflets dropped by the Allies warning these citizens to vacate in advance of the destruction, most fled to the abbey in the belief that no one would bomb this sacred place. They were wrong.
From the height of Monte Cassino today, one sees a lovely, peaceful valley. Long cemeteries for Allied soldiers stretch across this valley. A cemetery for German soldiers exists too. But one special cemetery for Polish soldiers was placed up high on the mountain, near the Abbey, in tribute to the Polish army’s exceptional heroism late in the siege.
As we were ending our visit, a busload of young Poles arrived, reverently carrying a red-and-white Polish flag and huge sprays of red-and-white roses. A few in our group knew enough to understand the reasons behind these Poles’ visit, but most did not. So they were quietly asking each other, “Why are those kids carrying a flag?”
I suppose we shouldn’t expect an average group of American and British tourist to know the details of the battle or the extraordinary sacrifice made by the Poles. History fades. Furthermore, the folks on our bus tour were a “self-selected” group (my term): people who admirably cared enough about history to choose the somber visit to Monte Cassino, rather than a day of relaxing on the coast or shopping. So, cheers to them in every way.
Still, we have forgotten, while these young Poles have not. Few young Americans band together to visit battlefields and pay tribute to the heroism and sacrifice of those who died there. Instead, our culture militantly engages in a full-scale war of blame and destruction of our heritage. We condemn the situations we can safely and tidily analyze from the distance of decades or centuries. We pretend that we, of course, would have made better decisions and that the sacrifices of our ancestors were pointless or misguided.
Everyone now agrees that Monte Cassino should not have been bombed. But isn’t that easy to say today? We were not there, in the middle of war’s confusion. We did not face those decisions. No GPS or nifty cameras on drones were flying over to ascertain whether German troops were in caves or in the abbey. No weather satellites were anticipating that the little river would be swelled by flood-level surges because of heavy rains. No. People had to make the best decisions they could. Often they were right. Sometimes they were wrong.
Even with all of our technological tools and so-called “great modern” understanding, how well are we doing? Not very well, as we seem far better able to criticize the past than solve our present dilemmas that, if you’ve looked around lately, are just as drastic and dangerous. The future will not judge our current muddle kindly.
So, having said that, let me get back to the question my fellow-traveler asked: “What do monks do all day?” I waited for our guide to give either an answer explaining the rigors of the daily cycle of worship and the physical labor that each monk did, from the pre-dawn hours until late in the night (ora et labore et lege), or an even more inspiring answer about St. Benedict’s famous “Rule” and the role of the Benedictines in extending the tenets of Western civilization (literacy, social organization, justice, industry) across the Medieval world.
None of that came. Instead she said, “Well, they pray a lot.” That was it. The end.
The moment passed. We moved to the next area where something was said about the marble in the statues, the carving in the door, and soon we were departing. I looked back at the group of Poles as they left the church and headed towards the cemetery. I wanted to race away and ask if I could join them. If our whole group could join them. But, it was not my tour, and not my call. Still, I had to admire the Poles with their flags and their flowers, and their historical memory, and their knowledge that the past still has much to teach us.
