by Iris Origo
APRIL 18TH
Two very odd days in Rome. We arrive there on a lovely spring morning. In the Villa Borghese Judas trees and wisteria are glowing under the great pines; pretty girls are wearing their new summer dresses; every hotel is packed with visitors. Outwardly Rome has never seemed more beautiful, more prosperous or more gay. But as we drive up to the Excelsior, we get a first slight shock: two German soldiers in uniform – tall, gawky, wooden-faced peasant boys – are standing on the steps. The passers-by stop, stare, nudge each other: “They’re from the German military mission” – “Yes, this time they’ve come without bombs!” – “Nonsense, they’re only the grooms of the Horse-show officers”.
An underlying current of uneasiness, of discontent, is everywhere. At the hairdresser’s I ask for the daily paper. “Here it is, madam; but you’d better hold it with the tongs!” In the cubicle next to mine a Swedish diplomat’s wife – oblivious of the fact that voices raised under the dryer carry far – is unbosoming herself to the manicurist. “We’re dining tonight at the German Embassy. And perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake up to the news that those swine have invaded my country!”
At a large dinner party that night at the American Embassy similar conversations are going on in undertones. “Yes, but the Admiral said to me…” – “Well, but everybody knows that the Navy are the only real fire-eaters! Besides, they’re the only people who are ready.” “Italian landings in Corfu… Tunis… Dalmatia…” “Twenty-five German divisions at Innsbruck. No, twelve more in Vienna.” “What about Croatia?” – “Nothing in it.” “Well, I know for a fact that Stojadinovi …” “Anfuso sent an official denial to the Ambassador this morning!” “Yes. Quite so. He also sent a similar denial last year forty-eight hours before Albania!” “Anyway, Ciano’s rule is over. He’ll be sent to take Balbo’s place in Libya…” “No, the Viceroy’s in Ethiopia… Balbo’s too anti-German to be welcome here.” “The only hope is the Vatican.” “Nonsense, the Pope can’t do anything. But the King. The Army would still back him up, if only he’d be firm.” “He’s too old; he’s under the Duce’s thumb.” “Not at all, it was he who kept us out in September. The Duce’s been fuming ever since. For the first time in his life he had to give way, and he hasn’t got over it yet.” “The Prince of Piemonte…” “My Polish cousin…” “My uncle in Belgrade…” “My brother-in-law in Budapest…” They say, they say, they say… Meanwhile, in the intervals of the anxious, inconclusive chatter, Walt Disney’s new film is shown: Pinocchio. The audience simulates an unconvincing childishness. “Too enchanting! Don’t you adore old Geppetto? And Jiminy Cricket!” – “My congratulations, Mr l’Ambassadeur! A wonderful piece of American propaganda!” And so, still chattering, we make our farewells.
This section of Roman society – the “smart”, cosmopolitan world – is mostly anti-German, with the exception, it is rumoured, of a few well-paid informers of the secret police, the OVRA, mostly women. But its reasons for being pro-English – a taste for English country life, English tweeds, guns and riding-boots – are hardly such as to cut much ice with the Duce. Indeed these people, whom he despises, rouse him to his most violent outbursts of rage.
For one thing is certain. Whether the tone of the press is intended to intimidate or bluff the Allies, to reassure Germany, or to arouse the bellicose spirit of the Italian people, there can be no doubt about Mussolini’s own attitude. Whatever his sympathies may have been in the past, they are now wholly pro-German.
APRIL 21ST
Popular rumour had fixed upon today – the anniversary of the foundation of Rome – as a decisive date. Indeed an old Tuscan peasant woman, credited with the gift of prophecy, had actually committed herself to three dates:
a) a snowfall on April 10th
b) her own death on April 16th
c) Italy’s entry into the war on the 21st
The first two came true, but the third date has brought nothing more exciting than a mild statement by Mussolini that “Work and Arms” must be the slogan of the Italian people.
News from the North, too, is being given a slightly different colour. While there are still jibes at the Allies (as in the now familiar remark that “the democracies, true to their altruistic programme, have decided to fight to the last Norwegian – since now the Poles are wiped out, the Finns exhausted, and the Danes have preferred to stay out”) and although prominence and preference is still given in the headlines to the German version of the news, it has been impossible to conceal any longer that Allied troops have landed in Norway, and that a battle is taking place. Now propaganda has taken a slightly different form. “The violence and resolution of the British attack” says the Scandinavian correspondent of La Nazione, “show how great a blow the German occupation of Norway has been for England. London has decided to play a decisive card, and her decision to do so must clearly have been taken some time ago, since it is not the gift of the democracies to organize and send off so large an expedition in so short a time.” Great prominence is given to the German estimate of British naval losses; the cumulative effect of all this is inevitably considerable, and is now added to by other forms of German propaganda. Il Tevere, for instance, is well known to be in the pay of Germany; every railway bookstall has on sale a pamphlet titled “The truth about the Athenia” (i.e. the evidence that it was Churchill who sank it); and much popularity is enjoyed by what, at first sight, appears to be an Italian picture-paper titled Segnale, which is merely a special edition in Italian of the Berliner Illustrierte Zeitung “Signal”.
Meanwhile many of the English and Swiss papers (which arrive here freely, but of course several days late) not only report the Italian hostility to the Allies, but attempt to analyse their attitude. The Daily Telegraph of April 20th, for example, after commenting on “the insolent, and often menacing, tone of the press”, proceeds to contrast it with what is “really” felt and said by the Italian people – and quotes a working-woman saying “give me three lire worth of lies” as she buys her paper at a news-stall. Such remarks are, indeed, to be heard on all sides, but to attach any significance to them, even cumulatively, in the sphere of action is, to my mind, an illusion. Such comments, like the anti-Fascists’ bon-mots which circulate freely (one of the latest is: “What did the ‘Fascist martyrs’ die for? – For the Cause! – And what shall we die for? – For the Consequences!”) are a safety valve: they temporarily relieve the speaker’s feelings. But they go no deeper. What is deep – deeper than all dislike of Germany and German methods, than all criticism of present policy and anxiety as to its consequences – is the conviction: “We had no choice.” In all conversations with Italians (except for the extreme anti-Fascists) one comes up against the unshakeable conviction that Italy has nothing to hope for from the Allies. This belief, especially with regard to the Mediterranean question, is still the one that awakens the strongest feeling – and that has prompted the rejection of Reynaud’s friendly advances.
When however one asks, “But do you really think you will get anything better out of Hitler’s victory?” the answer is generally a grim shrug. “We can but try and see.” The more extreme Fascists go even further; they admit that Hitler’s victory would be temporarily disastrous both to Italy herself and to European civilization. “Perhaps for some years”, they say, “we’ll be nothing better than a German province.” But still, they maintain, Italy must now be on Germany’s side, because that – historically speaking – is the side of revolution, of the destruction of the old Europe. Most probably this war – the war to destroy the capitalistic imperialism of England and France – is only a preparation for a second conflict, in which the defeated countries, with Italy at their head, will in their turn revolt against German tyranny, and eventually unite to build up a new European order, in which once again (with both the old tyrannical powers destroyed) words like liberty and civilization may again have a meaning. In other words, the only glimmer of hope ahead is to be perceived after two wars (one to be fought by themselves, one perhaps by th
eir sons). A grim prospect.
I do not wish to imply that I consider Italy’s intervention on the German side as inevitable, but only that the psychological or reasonable arguments against it, produced by optimistic observers, seem to me unconvincing. Military events alone, with their economic consequences, will decide. Had the German invasion in the North indeed been as successful as the German and Italian press claim, Italy might be in by now; a bold and (even temporarily) successful German move in the Balkans might produce the same result. Public opinion is being prepared for it, and I believe that at this moment the country – in spite of all contrary current of feeling – would march. Incontestable Allied successes, and above all, a prolonged demonstration of Allied determination and force – these alone might change the picture. Then, on the crest of the wave, and not now, would friendly approaches by the Allies be timely and effective. But perhaps by then the Allies will not feel inclined to make them. And that, to those who still love the Italian people, and believe in the part they could play in the reconstruction of civilization – that will be Italy’s tragedy.
MAY 6TH
After Norway – what? Every country in Europe is waiting. If the Norwegian campaign has not increased the Italians’ liking for Germany, it has certainly increased their respect and fear. The cult of violence flourishes on success. So – what next? Switzerland? Holland? Belgium? Sweden? Rumania? The Caucasus? Every day brings fresh rumours, and with them the conviction that Italy too will be in before the end of the month. The real war is coming.
MAY 10TH
It has come. Belgium and Holland are invaded this morning. We hear the news by telephone, from the station-master at Chiusi, our electric light having broken down so that we have no radio. All the day we wait for more news: then in the evening a friend arriving from Rome brings some papers. The news is given without comment; the German, French and English bulletins are printed. In the evening, the news of the mobilisation of Switzerland.
MAY 13TH
For the last two days Italians have been trying anxiously to interpret the tone of the press, for a clue as to what line this country is going to take. For two days the press and radio have been colourless. The German version of the Belgian invasion is given in full, but there is no official comment. The Osservatore prints the Pope’s telegrams of condolence to King Leopold and Queen Wilhelmina, and also an admirable article in which the facts are clearly and unequivocally set forth. For forty-eight hours Italian public opinion veers away from Germany; this, it is felt, is really too much. Then once again the mot d’ordre is given. On Sunday the 12th the principal buildings in Rome are adorned with large posters, titled “The collapse of the democracies”; the front page of every paper is filled by a full report of “the iniquities” by the British contraband control; and today the anti-Allies campaign is in full cry. At the same time Italians are warned against “an ingenious renewal” of the feelings of sympathy for Belgium in 1914. The present circumstances, they are instructed, are entirely different. Belgium and Holland have allowed themselves to be influenced by “the intrigues of the plutocratic powers”, so that no one can wonder that Germany felt obliged “to remove this last thorn from her side”.
In Rome, bands of students “demonstrate” outside the Allied Embassies, and young toughs hang about the news-stalls, to snatch the Osservatore from its purchasers. In some cases a regular street fight ensues. A young Fascist, who is heard talking French in Via Veneto with the daughter of a foreign ambassador (they had no other language in common) is hustled off to the Questura and deprived of his Party membership card.
I go up to Florence, to see whether it would be advisable for my mother, who is English, to leave. But the advice of both the US and the British embassies is still “No hurry.”
MAY 14TH
In Florence the atmosphere is very tense. The papers unite in magnifying every German success; they announce “the annihilation of the Allied air-force, 323 planes destroyed in one day!” The announcement of the fall of Liège and the occupation of Holland is accompanied by long articles on the exploits of the German parachutists, and hints at further sinister “secret weapons”. In town, I find the streets plastered with posters: “England’s collapse”; “Woe to those who accept England’s help”, “Not Hitler, but Churchill, has missed the bus”; etc. The French and English Consulates are both guarded by troops, and as I enter the French Consulate, a procession of students – most of them schoolboys – appear, singing and waving banners inscribed “Down with British piracy”. The crowd, however, watches them with an ironic eye. “First they organize a students’ demonstration,” says a shopkeeper, as we stand in his window looking on, “then they send troops to ‘protect’ the Consulate from the students; and at 11 o’clock, when it’s time for the boys to go back to their classrooms, the troops will be sent home too. Buffonate!”1 And so indeed it was. One small boy, our doctor’s son, was so naïvely unaware of what was required of him that he followed a malicious friend’s suggestion and shouted “Long live the holidays!” – was overheard, severely reprimanded, and sent home in tears.
All this is trivial enough, but the underlying uneasiness is deep. The wildest contradictory rumours are spreading.
MAY 15TH
The capitulation of Holland is announced with considerable Schadenfreude. On the same day a grocer in Florence receives a letter from a German firm – already offering him Dutch cheeses!
MAY 16TH
The press continues in the same tone. Most significant is Ansaldo’s article in the Telegrafo. This article, titled “Problema di Indipendenza”,2 presents Italy’s policy today as the logical sequence to the policy pursued in the Risorgimento and the last war. In the Risorgimento Italy – “partly by open warfare, partly by astute diplomatic manoeuvres” achieved her unity; in the last Great War she obtained a frontier on the Alps; now “the time has come to shake off the last yoke, that of the Anglo-French domination of the Mediterranean”. This is, to the best of my belief, the only theme likely to awaken genuine enthusiasm. The German alliance – except to a small circle of arrivisti3 – will always remain unpopular. But the tradition of the Risorgimento is in the Italian blood; if they can be made to see this war as part of the same struggle, they will fight.
Late in the evening comes the news of the fall of Louvain and Malines, the occupation of Brussels, and Gamelin’s dramatic proclamation: “The future of our country as well as that of our allies depends on the battle which is now taking place… The order is to win or to die. We must win.”
MAY 18TH
We return to the country. None of our peasants are called up yet. The incredibly beautiful weather, the fields of ripening wheat, the tulips in the garden, the woods scented with broom, form an almost unbearable contrast to the turmoil in the mind. The day is spent in listening to the radio. The Germans have reached St. Quentin, English and Belgian troops are still holding on the Schelde, the French on the Oise. No English papers or letters since the 10th.
William Phillips, arriving on Sunday, is pessimistic about the likelihood of Italy’s intervention. A month ago, he says, Ciano told him that the chances of Italy’s intervention were 50-50; yesterday he said they were 90%.
A charming story is being told in Rome. Last week the Mother Superior of the Casa della Divina Provvidenza in Turin (Don Bosco’s wonderful charity, which cares for over 300 destitute orphans, lunatics, cripples, blind people, etc.) came to Rome, much troubled, to ask the Pope what she should do with her charges in case of war. She was told that His Holiness would not receive her that day, but that meanwhile she could state her problems to one of his secretaries, and was ushered down a long passage into a small, dimly-lit sitting-room. As she sat there, waiting and praying, the door opened and to her stupefaction, the Pope himself entered, alone. She knelt and kissed his ring and then, still confused by his unexpected appearance, and hardly looking up, she told him of her perplexity and distress. When she had finished, he spoke: “Have no fear, my daughter,” he said
, “Go back to Turin; resume your work there. There will be no war.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and was gone. A few minutes later, having collected herself, the nun was about to get up and leave, when the door again opened and a priest came in, saying that His Holiness would be able to receive her tomorrow. “But I have seen him!” she cried. “He has just left me!” – “Impossible!” – The priest looked at her as if she had gone mad. The Pope, he said, had spent the last hour in the company of his secretary, in the Vatican gardens. She repeated the conversation. Then the priest took her to a long gallery, in which the walls were hung with the portraits of the more recent Popes. “Look at their faces: whom did you see?” he asked. After a quick glance, “That one” she replied without hesitation. It was Pius X, the simple and saintly Pope whose death, in 1914, was hastened by the outbreak of the last war. The priest nodded; she was not the first, he said, to whom the Pope had appeared in the last few weeks, and always he had brought the same message. The nun returned to Turin, comforted.
MAY 22ND
The Italian press presents the news of the break of the Maginot Line in the most catastrophic light. The Allies’ situation is said to be hopeless; Paris and London are described as being “in a state of panic” and British troops as hurrying in “a tragic race towards the Channel”.