Destruction of Innocence
A True Story of Child AbductionBy Rosalie HollingsworthiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Rosalie Hollingsworth
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-2504-1Chapter One
July 26, 1973 En route to Argentina
The airliner raced over steep, rugged Central American Mountains still covered with ash from recent volcanic eruptions. For days, nature's havoc had painted the heavens with bright, hot ash. Millions of shining particles remained suspended in the atmosphere. The residue that nature had left behind mocked the radiant, western sunset. I tried to focus my attention on the alluring crimson drapery to the east, but no matter how hard I tried, this beauty could not erase my despair. My mind kept centering on the race to find my missing daughter, Triana. I wondered if this search would ever end. I had first lost her when she was one-year-old, and it took me eight months to find her. This time she had been missing for over two years. I would search for her, and would do so until I found her, if it took my entire life.
For a few brief moments, the soft voice coming down the narrow aisle replaced my thoughts of Triana and my desperate search for her. I looked up, trying to focus my eyes on the stewardess. The crowded cabin had already darkened as the sun hurried toward the west. It was difficult to make out the young woman's features.
"I'm sorry," I replied, "I didn't hear what you said." "You looked as if you were about to drop off to sleep," the young woman said hesitantly. "I thought you might be more comfortable with a pillow and blanket."
Touched by her concern, I forced a smile but shook my head. "Thank you. No, I don't feel like sleeping. Maybe later."
Reality dimmed my smile. Even the power of the majestic sky had provided only a brief respite. My life had been a single grim reality my child had been kidnapped. My daughter had been barely seven when her father, Franco, had abducted her this last time; now she was nine. No passing stranger could understand my pain and determination; only devoted parents in similar circumstances, out there wondering whether they would ever see their child again, alive and free from harm, could understand.
Some of my friends were unsympathetic about my drive to recover my child. "You don't know what you'll get back, or if she'll even want to come back. Her dad wouldn't harm her. Leave her with him, go on with your life," one friend encouraged.
What would I find when the plane touched down in Buenos Aires? I had no assurance that Franco, Kitty and the three children would still be in Argentina. Perhaps it was already too late. With his almost superhuman ability to elude me, Franco may already have fled to another country, even another continent.
If they were in Argentina, how could I find them when a powerful, international detective agency had never found even the slightest trace of them? I had a lot more at stake and a lot more fortitude. I would find my child. My child had breathed life into the dry corners of my heart. The love my parents had denied me, I had given without reserve to Triana, and this gave my life meaning, self-worth and purpose.
I wanted to comfort Triana, protect her, to wipe away her tears and hold her when nightmares haunted her dreams. I desperately longed to explain why we had been kept apart. Losing her had left me isolated and overwhelmed by loss. I could neither change my own childhood nor rewrite the past. The only thing I could do was save my daughter's life. But the months and years were slipping away. Time had become my enemy.
My only clues to Triana's whereabouts were the names of an obscure city and a distant Catholic church, which seemed pitifully meager information on which to base this search. For one terrible moment, I felt hopelessly inadequate for the job that lay ahead. What if I failed?
No, I told myself. I won't fail. I'm stronger than Franco, more determined. This world is not big enough for him to hide in. No matter how hard Franco tries to keep me from my daughter, I will find Triana and bring her home.
The young flight attendant provided a blanket and pillow for the passenger in front of me, and then glanced in my direction. An expression of alarm crossed her face as our eyes met. It was a moment before I realized that she saw the slick of tears across my cheeks.
"Are you all right?" she asked quickly. "Perhaps a glass of water or ..."
I so desperately wanted company in my misery that, for a moment, I wanted to reveal everything to her, as if this stranger would have the time to listen to me and could somehow help me. Her words trailed off as I wiped away my tears and composed myself. "I'm fine, really," I said. Reassured, the young woman moved on to other passengers. I turned back to the window, staring down through the approaching darkness and the volcanic ash to the foreign land below.
When I had discovered that Triana might be in Argentina, I began to research South America, a continent that previously held little interest for me as a student. I learned that five hundred years ago Francisco Pizarro had destroyed over a million Incas with his small army of men. This army had come to plunder the untapped riches of the hemisphere, to wrench treasures from the virgin soil and the natives. The Spanish destroyed over half the populations of the Incas and the Aztecs through war and disease ruthlessly destroying entire cultures in their lust for riches, power and glory as they moved southward.
Argentina, a country about one-third the size of the United States, was a land of towering, snow-capped mountains and endless plains, of bustling modern cities coexisting with tiny rural villages. It was a country that had remained virtually unchanged since the conquistadores claimed much of North and South America for their Spanish king. I could not help but feel that no Spanish king or general, no mercenary soldier had ever fought for anything more precious than I did now.
I fought to control my emotions and the lump that crept into my throat whenever I thought of Triana. In the twenty-five months and twenty seven days since Franco had kidnapped our child, Triana had never been out of my thoughts. Even as I slept, nightmares of Triana-dirty, homeless, and starving-haunted my sleep. Every glimpse of a child of Triana's age brought back feelings of helplessness and despair. What had happened to her? If I could only know that she was well and happy! "Oh God, help me find my child; let me know that she is alive and safe," I prayed. I imagined the first heart-piercing moment when I would squeeze her tiny body in my arms, her face against my own, mingling our tears of happiness. Best of all would be the moment when I would take Triana's small hand and place it against my own abdomen to feel the new life growing there.
"I'm going to have a baby, darling," I would tell her, watching for her expression of delight. "Perhaps you'll have that sister you always wanted.
"Remember how you were always asking me for a little sister?" I could only hope that Triana would feel joy at the idea of a new sibling. A sudden chill passed through me as I remembered the bitter disappointment of each miscarriage. I wanted children so badly, but had lost each baby in the first trimester. Nine failed pregnancies. Franco had never been concerned. On the contrary, he seemed relieved. To him, it was another problem solved. To me each miscarriage had been the death of a life. Now I was scarcely three months pregnant, a dangerous time for me, especially since the recent illness I had suffered in Rome.
A letter from Kitty, Franco's new wife, addressed to Lea, her sister in Montana, contained the first real clue I had received since the day Franco and Kitty had abducted Triana and Kitty's two daughters, Amber and Emily. That letter propelled me from California to Rome. The return address read, Convento Ara Coeli, Scala dell'Arco, Capitolina, Rome, Italy, in care of Father Emmanuel Romanelli. The trip to Italy, difficult and disappointing as it had been, had provided this one tiny clue to Franco's whereabouts, which had put me aboard this plane. My husband, Stan, and close friends had advised against my going to Buenos Aires, fearing that the long, exhausting trip might be too much for me. "Wait until the baby is born," each had said. As if a few more months wouldn't make that much difference. Knowing where my child was, how could I wait? I knew that Franco would never stay in one place long enough for me to give birth to this baby.
I had carried Triana to term and I would give life to this baby, no matter what. Yes, I understood I would have to be careful. I thought of Stan, now in Montana for the summer, with his sons from his previous marriage. Was it only seven months ago that we had exchanged our vows? The baby I was now carrying signaled a new beginning for Stan and me, as well as for Triana. I clung to the belief that at last I would have my family together, a whole family, a loving family.
As a child, I had been a dreamer, the source of my survival in a house of constant turmoil and pain. Now, as an adult, I still held fast to some of those same dreams. Dreams of a happy home life, one of laughter and of love. But until Triana was brought home, the complete fulfillment of my dream would not be absolute. A single day's delay could mean never finding her.
I turned from the window again. The cabin lights had come on, and the flight attendants prepared to serve dinner. I stretched my legs, trying to work out the cramps that had developed from my fixed position in the small seat.
Suddenly, I felt prying eyes on me. I glanced around and found a middle-aged man watching me from his seat across the narrow aisle. A smug grin covered his face, which I did not understand until I realized I had exposed my thigh when my skirt had slipped up above my knees. He seemed to gloat over his stolen glimpse. I blushed, feeling vulnerable, and tugged at my skirt. I suddenly wished I had accepted the offer of the blanket.
I stiffened with a familiar fear as the man got up. He took a few unsteady steps towards me, and I slipped deeper into my seat. As he leaned over, I could smell the nauseating aroma of cigarette smoke, rum and a strong, vaguely feminine cologne. For a moment, I thought I would vomit.
"We both seem to be traveling alone, Seora," the man said. "Perhaps you'll join me in a drink before they serve dinner." This was not a question but a self-assured statement of fact, spoken in English with a heavy Spanish accent. On his large frame and over his potbelly hung expensive but outdated clothing, reminding me of a Spanish crook from an old swashbuckler movie. I guessed him to be either a businessman or a petty government official.
"Leave me alone, please," I said, trying to keep the rising anger from my voice. "I don't want a drink or any company." He draped one plump arm over the seat back and leaned closer, letting his eyes roam over my rigid body. I felt trapped and helpless under his penetrating eyes.
"You appear so lonely, Seora," he went on, grinning at my obvious discomfort, "and so sad. A woman as beautiful as you should never be lonely or sad." He laughed, as if he had said something witty. I saw only a stalking animal ready to devour its prey. He fished into his pocket, producing a gold lighter to relight the cold ash of his cigarette. A sudden puff of strong smoke floated over my head. My stomach churned.
"Please leave me alone or I'll ring for the flight attendant," I warned him.
His smile was replaced by an expression of incredulity that I had no interest in him.
"As you wish," he replied coldly. He straightened up, muttered "fucking bitch," and moved toward the front of the plane.
Some of the Latin men I had met were as loving and sensitive as the man to whom I was now married. But this brassy, self-confident pig clearly felt entitled to whatever he wanted. I surmised that to him, women were mindless possessions, created to gratify and serve the emotional and sexual needs of a little boy shrouded in a man's body. Even though the year was 1973, and women were giving themselves to partners as heartily as at the height of the free love movement, I felt as though a time warp had sent me back to the Dark Ages, when women had no choices. What was I doing? I realized that I was putting myself in a situation where I would be alone among many men of this sort: swaggering, strutting males who would exploit me ruthlessly if I let down my guard. My confidence began to waver.
Hours ago, during the layover in Panama, from Los Angeles to Buenos Aires, I had felt a growing fear. It wasn't only the leering, cold-eyes of the officials who seem to devour me visually; it was also the presence everywhere you looked of the military, with their pistols and machine guns. The reality I faced was that I would have few rights in Central and South America. Unless I quickly learned to step around these men, to be elusive, to play their games, I could be in real danger. And whose side would these men take concerning Franco's kidnapping of Triana? In this society of patriarchal law and custom, I did not doubt that Franco would have the upper hand. Nevertheless, I hadn't come halfway around the world, over 12,000 miles, to be intimidated by men like this.
I rang for the flight attendant, declined dinner and requested a blanket. In a few moments, I was wrapped in soft wool, my eyes closed, my mind shutting out everything around me. However, I could not shut out the circumstances that had put me on this plane-I was surrounded by strangers, handicapped by a foreign language, en route to a place I had never seen, all in a desperate attempt to regain the daughter who had been stolen from me.
Chapter Two
October 1959 to October 1964 Portland, Oregon, Rome, Italy, Los Angeles, California
I met him at a restaurant where he worked as a waiter in Portland, Oregon. The handsome, slender man stood barely two inches taller than my five-feet-six. He exuded an air of pride and confidence that made my knees go weak. Franco Allatere was different from anyone I had ever met. With his olive complexion, liquid brown eyes, and wavy black hair, he reminded me of a young Rudolph Valentino. An impeccable dresser, he wore expensive, hand-tailored suits. He was a dreamer's answer to love and eternal happiness.
Franco delivered words of love and devotion so easily that he instantly swept me off my feet. "You are so beautiful. I love your body," he would say. "I've never met anyone like you before." There was none of the awkwardness I had known with other men. Franco was maddeningly self-assured, suave, conciliatory, and worshipping. He served the patrons with all the polish and sophistication of a crown prince. Franco always insisted that my friends and I sit at one of his tables, which I was more than happy to do.
On our first date, Franco treated me like a queen. He took me dining and dancing at the best restaurants in town. Before I knew what was happening, Franco made it clear that he was deeply and sincerely in love with me. I was inundated with gifts, beautiful flowers and expensive chocolates. But the best present of all was how he made me feel. I had become the most desirable woman in the world. Franco was the ultimate lover.
For a child whose early years were spent in shacks with outdoor plumbing, being pursued by someone as exciting and worldly as Franco overwhelmed me. My memories of picking my way through a chicken pen to my grandmother's privy in Oklahoma vanished.
Franco chose a glamorous setting to tell me about his background. He took me to a restaurant where the tables gracefully encircled a large dance floor. When it was show time, the dance floor magically parted and disappeared, revealing a huge swimming pool where, to my astonishment, a water ballet was enacted.
I already knew that Franco was an Italian citizen, but I was unprepared for the rest of his story. He had come to America as an adventure, he told me. He told me his great-grandfather had been an Austrian Count, a man of great wealth and position. Over the years, the great-grandfather had lost much of his wealth to gambling in Monaco and the pursuit of women. Franco's own father, who had died in the past year, had been a Doctor of Pharmacy. Of course, there was still money. Franco assured me there was both money and property. His mother Carmen, the Countess Allatere, now lived in Rome, awaiting her son's return to assume his duties as the Count Allatere. I hardly knew what to say when, six weeks after we met, he asked if I would marry him and share his exciting life. My fairy tale dreams were coming to life.
What I did not know, of course, was there wasn't a fairy tales life in my near future.
Had Franco chosen to tell me the truth about his family situation I would have married him anyway. I was mesmerized
Carmen's own parents had never married, but instead of complaining, Carmen's mother had raised her three daughters with devotion. Carman's father, the Marquis, was already married to an invalid and divorce was out of the question. For the most part, he spent all his time with his new family, but he unfailingly met his responsibility to his invalid wife. Carmen and her sisters lacked nothing money could buy, and they were taught to respect God and the Church. Carmen, the most devoted of the three girls, would have entered the convent had she not met Vittorio at the University. She was instantly captivated by his charm. Carmen and Vittorio married and bought a pharmacy on the outskirts of Rome. After several unsuccessful pregnancies, Carmen finally gave birth to Franco.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Destruction of Innocenceby Rosalie Hollingsworth Copyright © 2009 by Rosalie Hollingsworth. Excerpted by permission.
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