by Iris Origo
The news of the sinking of the Athenia has been given in such a manner that people say, “God knows who really did it! It’s certainly a very convenient piece of propaganda.”
Today Antonio has been called up as an officer in the reserve. His regiment, which was in Albania, is to be re-formed in Florence, and he is to go there tomorrow.
SEPTEMBER 7TH
Yesterday we went to Florence, and Antonio joined his regiment. 1000 soldiers are leaving for Albania – not, however, additional troops, but to relieve men returning on leave. Great muddle over getting the troops equipped. Nothing but straw for them to sleep on (the barracks being overcrowded), a shortage of boots and clothes. Crowds of weeping women waiting to say goodbye outside the barracks door.
SEPTEMBER 8TH
Each necessary war-restriction measure is preceded by articles in the daily press, showing that such measures are really conducive to the well-being and comfort of the public. Thus, just before the sale of coffee was forbidden, long medical articles appeared, describing the deleterious effects of coffee on the nerves and constitution: “wine is far less harmful”. The meat rationing was preceded by similar articles in praise of vegetarianism; and now the abolition of private cars is accompanied by long articles in praise of bicycling!
SEPTEMBER 9TH
Meanwhile the mot d’ordre is optimism, and a complacent calm. The leading article in the Corriere della Sera sets the note: “Since the bulletin of the Council of Ministers has expressed, in unequivocal terms, Italy’s decision to take no military initiative, the life of the nation has resumed its normal rhythm. The schools will open at their regular date; the farm-work has all the labour that it requires. Commerce and affairs in general have not suffered any serious disturbance. The great transatlantic liners sail as usual from our ports.” As to the future: “However this conflict may develop and terminate, it is clear that the last traces of Versailles are wiped out forever. Europe must take a new shape.”
These phrases, in slightly different words, are echoed by almost everyone I have met. Many would echo, too, I think, the remark of a Fascist young woman this summer: “A good Italian’s duty now is to have no opinions.”
Last night the BBC announced the decision of the Cabinet to found its policy on the supposition that war will last three years or more. Here the news is received with incredulity and dismay.
Antonio’s half-sister Lily, and her husband, Karl von Hertling (an old cavalry officer) have arrived for a short visit. Both he and his wife, as Bavarian Catholics, are intensely anti-Nazi. They refer to the Brown-shirts as die braune Affen13, and to Hitler as “the sleep-walker” and “the lunatic”. They complain bitterly, too, of the way in which every career – except the army – is closed to everyone who is not a member of the Party. They are indignant over the persecution of the Christian churches, both Catholic and Protestant, and speak with great admiration of the Protestant pastors, who, they say, have shown on the whole a greater courage in resisting the régime than the Catholics. Karl, moreover, though not himself free from anti-Jewish prejudice, declares himself horrified by the treatment the Jews have received. After the first pogrom in Munich, he said everyone was ashamed – and when, for a few days, even the bakers were forbidden to supply Jewish customers, the people of Munich (especially the poor) secretly provided them with food. Nevertheless, when I ask him “What proportion of the people you know share your views?” and his wife cries, “Everyone!”, he says gravely, “No, no, my dear. You only mean, everyone in our little circle.” He goes on to say that in his opinion most of the pratiquant Bavarian Catholics, especially those belonging to the aristocracy, and some of the peasants, are hostile to the régime; so are most of the intelligentsia, and in the Army, before the war, about half of the officers – especially the older men. But the great mass of the middle classes (especially the schoolmasters, small officials, government employees, etc.) are quite solidly and uncompromisingly pro-Nazi. So are many of the working men.
They have brought with them their only son, Lupo – a boy of nineteen, incredibly like Antonio in appearance and mannerism – but deeply depressed. Once, when we are alone together, he says to me that his whole life has been a nightmare, since his parents did not dare to enrol him in the Hitler Jugend. He is convinced that he will be killed as soon as he is called up.14
During all the early stages of our conversations both Karl and his wife were very nervous, keeping their voices low. “We wouldn’t talk like this at home,” they said, “hardly even in our own house.” “Yes, it’s too dangerous,” added his wife. “The other day in Munich I was in a tram, and some people began to say something against the Führer. I got out at once and walked home. I wasn’t going to run any risk of being mixed up with them!”
We walk home down the Lungarno in silence. Suddenly Karl burst out: “But how can people help believing? Day after day, year after year, every paper gives us the same news, preaches the same doctrine. Plenty of people say, ‘We don’t believe what’s in the papers: it’s all a pack of lies!’ But all the same something sinks in. We’re bewildered; we’ve got to believe in something…”
I think of the phrase quoted in Nora Waln’s book: Ein Schlaf-wandelndes Volk. Wandering now in a nightmare – a nightmare in which we are all caught up.
It is Sunday afternoon. My window looks out over the Lungarno, which is crowded with soldiers. They look just what they are: rough, awkward country boys dressed up in ill-fitting uniforms. One, a little older than the rest, has spent the whole afternoon lying on the strip of grass at the water’s edge, playing with his baby daughter and now, as they come back, (the child steadying herself by clutching one of his fingers) I see that he has made her a chain of dandelions. On the pavement, a little further on, a cheap photographer is doing good business. Two gawky, grinning young privates pose for him, leaning against the parapet. Two others, one with his arm around a pretty girl, the other with his mother, are looking at the photographs taken yesterday. “Sì, è proprio lui!”15 A less martial, more homely scene could not be imagined. Then the radio in the room behind me blares out the latest news: bombs falling on Warsaw, refugees escaping. Will these men be taking part in similar scenes?
SEPTEMBER 11TH
Today the Hertlings have had a wire from home: Keinerlei Nachrichten.16 Their three nephews, all in the army, were called up to their regiments on August 21st and since then they have received no word of news from any of them, not even a field postcard. Yesterday, thinking that perhaps it was the post in Italy that was delayed, they sent a wire to their sister in Germany, to which this is the reply. Moreover, Karl added privately to me that he knew beforehand that the boys would not be allowed to write and that even if one of them should be killed or wounded, his parents would probably not be notified for a long time, nor would they be allowed to wear mourning. After an outburst of rage against the inhumanity of the régime, “It’s clear,” he added naïvely “that curses don’t work, or Hitler would long since be dead.”
By the same post they hear from their daughter, begging them to buy her shoes, stockings, gloves, soap and a woollen dress, since she can buy none of these things at home. They assure me that when they left Germany on August 20th no one believed in the
possibility of war. They thought that Hitler would succeed in obtaining Danzig and the Corridor and were told that no one would intervene.
SEPTEMBER 16TH
News from Turin indicates the importance attached to keeping the public calm, even at a risk to their security. The Prefect of Turin has just been dismissed. His crime is “to have aroused the fears of the civil population” of Turin and of other towns near the French frontier by evacuating the school-children and sick people of the region. This he did, in lack of any official instructions, in the last days of August, when everyone believed that Italy would be drawn into the conflict, and it was clear that these towns were likely to be the first objective of the French air-force. But now the Prefect is dismissed, and Starace, having summoned t
he gerarchi of the district, has made a fine speech, recommending a resumption of normal life as the first duty of every citizen.
Here is an illuminating story from Rome, told me by someone who was present. On the night of August 31st there was a dinner-party and after dinner the assembled guests, gloomy and anxious, were expecting Ciano. When at last he arrived, he was beaming. “You can set your minds at rest,” he said. “France and England have accepted the Duce’s proposals, France in a spirit of enthusiastic and whole-hearted collaboration, England on general lines; their answers have been communicated to the Führer, and tomorrow morning the news of the general distension will be made public. So go to bed tonight with your minds at rest!” The guests followed his advice, and woke the next morning to the news of the invasion of Poland! Neither the Duce nor his son-in-law were told of it until two hours before the event. Since then the word Axis has practically disappeared from the Italian press.
SEPTEMBER 17TH
Today comes the news of the German ultimatum to Warsaw and that of the Russian invasion of Eastern Poland. Today the sinking of the Courageous.
SEPTEMBER 19TH
All the afternoon I have been listening to Hitler’s speech at Danzig. It contains, even according to the Italian version of the news, one recognizable lie: the statement that France and Germany had accepted Mussolini’s proposal of a peace conference, while England refused it.
SEPTEMBER 24TH
“The Pilot has spoken” – that is the headline that many papers have given today to the Duce’s long-awaited speech, of which the first part simply amounts to, “Don’t speak to the man at the wheel.” The rest is given to an echo of the German thesis that Poland having been “liquidated”, Europe is not yet really at war. War can yet be avoided by the realisation that it is “a vain illusion to maintain, or worse still to reconstruct, positions which history and the natural dynamism of peoples have condemned.” Italy is to maintain the policy outlined on September 1st: the Italian people are to prepare themselves for any event, to promote every effort for peace, and to work and wait in silence.
For the last week or so the sense of uneasiness and uncertainty has been increasing. From Rome came persistent rumours of the Duce’s illness and of the King’s threat of abdication. Anti-Fascists spread the news of a military dictatorship. There were speculations about a neutral bloc with the Balkan powers; there was anxiety about Russia. It was repeated that more troops had sailed for Libya and were massed on the Egyptian frontier, and that the air-force, as well as the navy, were still mobilised on a footing of active service. There was more open criticism than has been heard for years (especially in military circles) of the Fascist gerarchi. In Antonio’s regiment the officers were required to sign a statement that they had taken note of a circular containing the order: “Be silent, and do your duty.” Now, with the Duce’s speech, there is a sudden détente. In the cafés and in the restaurants that evening, people looked more cheerful; men greeted each other with, “Well, at least we know where we stand!” Once again, one is made aware of Mussolini’s immense personal ascendancy.
SEPTEMBER 26TH
I am now in Rome, and have heard from the American Ambassador (William Phillips) about his visit to the King, to bring him Roosevelt’s “peace message”. As soon as it was cabled to him here, he called upon Ciano and asked him to arrange an interview with the King. Ciano was obstructive; the King was in his fishing lodge, he could probably not be reached for two or three days, and anyway, did Phillips realise that it was quite unprecedented for a message “of a political nature” to be sent directly to a sovereign and not to his Prime Minister? Phillips replied that he was sorry about that, but that he was catching the night-train to Turin. Ciano then said uneasily that he must consult his father-in-law, but reappeared a few minutes later to say, in a more cordial tone, that of course an interview could be arranged the next day. The fishing-lodge, when Phillips reached it, proved to be a dreary little group of villini – hardly more than wooden “frame” huts – situated at the end of one of the narrow, bleak and stony valleys of Piemonte, by a rushing torrent. Having lost his way, he arrived late, in a faint drizzle; the gate was opened by a sentry and in the middle of the drive a very small, shabby man in a brown overcoat was standing waiting, quite alone. It was the King. Following him into a bare little sitting-room, furnished in pitch-pine, Phillips democratically remarked how glad he was to have the opportunity of seeing His Majesty under such circumstances and not in a palace. The King’s weary, sad little face expanded in a sudden school-boyish grin: “I hate palaces!” The Ambassador then took out Roosevelt’s message and read it aloud; the King listened, his face expressionless. When it was finished, he made no comment of any kind; he would hand the message on, he said, to his Ministers. Then rising, “You must remember, Ambassador,” he said in a quiet, flat voice, “I’m a constitutional monarch, like the Kings of England and Belgium. I must refer everything to my government.” Taking his guest out into the rain again, he proceeded to tell him how many trout he had caught that season and to describe how beautiful the view of the mountains would be, were they not hidden by the mist; he showed great personal cordiality. But of the affairs of Europe he said no single word. Phillips came away with the impression of a tired, sad old man, who had been so often put on the shelf that he had lost the power – perhaps even the will – to affirm himself. On the other hand, the Prince of Piemonte’s position is becoming increasingly important. He is now on good terms with the Duce, and has won the respect and liking of the Army.
SEPTEMBER 28TH
A bad day yesterday: the Russo-German “treaty of friendship and interests” and the imposition of the pact on Estonia. Considerable uneasiness and much speculation as to whether, if there is a move towards the Balkans, Italy will be able to keep out. Open speculation, too, as to whether Russia’s arrival upon the scene might not be the deciding factor in a change of policy. Meanwhile the tone of the press is still very guarded. Yesterday’s Giornale d’Italia gives up its front page to a large and dramatic photograph of the Duce piloting a plane (apparently in a whirlwind), with a quotation from his recent speech: “The Italian people know that they must not disturb the pilot, not continually ask for information about the route.”
OCTOBER 3RD
For the last three days no one has spoken of anything but Ciano’s journey to Berlin, although no one has any information to go on. But I notice that even the most enthusiastic Fascists are beginning to feel doubtful as to whether any terms that Hitler is likely to propose (even under the moderating influence of Mussolini) could be acceptable to France and England, and even as to whether their acceptance would be conducive to the stable peace of Europe. It is also thought that Mussolini is not likely to weaken his prestige by presenting terms which he knows to be unacceptable.
OCTOBER 7TH
The “peace offensive” has reached its climax. Yesterday I listened to Hitler’s speech: the quiet beginning, the hysterical paroxysm of anger during the abuse of Poland, the actor’s sob in the throat at the end, describing the horrors of war, following upon peace proposals that cannot be accepted because – apart from everything else – they would not lead to peace.
The first comments of the Italian press are favourable. Hitler’s speech is given in full under the headlines, “Hitler reaffirms the German people’s will to peace”, and the leading article of one important paper begins: “The Führer’s has really been a great speech, not only for its convincing clarity but for the sense of deep humanity by which his words are inspired,” and concludes with an admonition to the democracies not to allow the few days which will be granted them for “a return to reality” to pass in vain. Private opinion fluctuates, most people intensely disliking the tone of Hitler’s speech, but many maintaining that his proposals could and should be considered.
OCTOBER 12TH
Meanwhile an unpleasant feature of the last few weeks – a consequence of the outspoken discontent and false rumours in September – has
been a recrudescence of bullying, by the more zealous members of the militia. Yesterday in Florence I found every shop window plastered with little notices, pasted there in the night: Il Duce ha sempre ragione;17 Il Duce sa tutto, vede tutto, – e ricorda tutto.18 More directly menacing were other notices in which the squadristi declared themselves to be as young, as vigilant, and as ruthless as ever: “The truncheon is not put away for good. Let those who have a bad conscience remember this!” These threats have already, in a considerable number of cases, been carried out. Nor is this the only result of local zeal. The president of a provincial corporation told me that a few days ago he received official instructions saying: “It is inconceivable that a good Fascist should wear the badge of the Azione Cattolica. If other forms of persuasion fail, there is always the truncheon.” The OVRA too is said to have been very active again, especially in the pursuit of Communists and Masons. In fact the Bogey-Man is with us again – (wearing the face, to Fascists, of a Communist, a Mason or a Jew; to Catholics, of Hitler or Stalin; to Liberals, of a member of the Gestapo or OVRA). And the chief Bogey-Man, Himmler, arrived in Milan yesterday.