Il Duce and His Women

by Roberto Olla

  At midday he leaves the Quirinale palace surrounded by excited crowds and goes to his hotel. There he spends the time until three in the afternoon making all the important decisions for government while not losing sight of the small details which, if overlooked, can often wreck large-scale projects. He sends a group of Blackshirts dressed up in full ceremonial rig as a guard of honour to keep an eye on the ex-prime minister Facta. He sends others to keep watch over all the main places of strategic importance as well as the offices of opposition newspapers both in the capital and elsewhere in the country. He communicates precise instructions to civil servants and prefects, appoints the ministers in his government, who by seven in the evening have already been sworn in by the King and taken up their offices, and then summons the head of the railways to his hotel room. Nothing untoward must be allowed to cause disruption. “Starting from eight o’clock this evening, I want you to organize the departure from Rome of the forty thousand men in the squads who are under orders from me to demobilize and send them back to their localities within twenty-four hours.” “But, Your Excellency, that is impossible! Not even in wartime could we do such a thing. We’ll need at least three days.” “I said in twenty-four hours. I do not accept the word ‘impossible’. Please make sure my orders are followed to the letter.” Then, swiftly changing demeanour, from authoritarian to benevolent, he gives the man a smile.38

  The Blackshirts, who thought they would take over the capital as they had Trento and other towns, had to swallow their disappointment and, as soon as their parade was over, get on the trains – there were sixty of them, with extra carriages attached – to go back home. It was impossible for them to disregard the demand for obedience and discipline. Many of them had never seen Rome before: underneath their brash triumphalism they hid the abashed amazement of first-time visitors to the Eternal City as they wandered round its sights: from the Piazza del Popolo they went to pay tribute to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, then climbed towards the Quirinale Palace; a short distance away was the station where the trains were waiting to take them back home.

  On 1st November, the following announcement appeared on the first page of Il Popolo d’Italia: “From today the new editor of Il Popolo d’Italia is Arnaldo Mussolini. I wish to thank warmly the journalists, contributors, correspondents, employees, workmen – all those in short who have worked so hard and so loyally with me to produce the newspaper for the benefit of our motherland. Mussolini.” Three swift moves: the formation of the new government, the assertion of control over the armed wing of the party, the handing-over of the newspaper to his brother, the only man he trusted without reserve. After this, he calmly went to parliament to obtain the vote of confidence in his new administration. “He entered the Chamber, at the head of his ministers, striding triumphantly. It seemed as though he were entering on horseback. From the benches and galleries on the right a huge storm of applause greeted him. The Fascists rose to their feet and started to sing their military marching songs. Mussolini stiffened as he stood to attention and repeatedly raised his arm in a Roman salute.”39 His speech began with a few formal phrases of introduction before he swelled up and launched himself: “With three hundred thousand young men armed from top to toe, determined for action come what may, ready, with almost mystical intensity, to respond to my command, I could have unleashed reprisals on all those who have slandered and blackened the Fascist movement.” But, he went on to say, although he could easily have routed his enemies, he had refrained from doing so. The reaction of the Chamber to these words was described by Emilio Lussu, who was a parliamentary deputy at the time and present at the scene: “A certain wave of relief ran round the room. Many a deputy nodded with approval, just like a man who is threatened with violence by someone who’s got a weapon placatingly nods and tries to calm him down…”40

  Mussolini probably didn’t even hear the muttering coming from the opposition benches. He took breath and jutted out his jaw and with his eyes blazing with menace threw out another challenge: “I could have turned this grey and out-of-touch Chamber into a military encampment. I could have shut down parliament by force and formed a government made up entirely of Fascists.” At this point, Lussu recalls, “the Leader of the Chamber lowered his gaze. A chill crept through the benches. A sudden vision hovered before us of Napoleon’s grenadier guards storming into the French parliament in the coup on the 19th of Brumaire. Consternation seized the dyed-in-the-wool lovers of public order and private tranquillity. There was a long silence.”41 Rolling his head back, with his chest puffed out, Mussolini suddenly continued: “I could have – but I have decided not to, at least for the time being.” “Again a sensation of relief ran round the benches, subsiding melancholically,” Lussu’s bitter account continues. “Once more there were nods of agreement. The ‘Duce’ was enjoying himself. Just like a cat which catches a mouse between its paws and, though it could crush it to death without more ado, holds it first delicately, then grips it hard, then releases it so it thinks it’s free, only to seize it and start all over again. Like the cat intoxicated with its drawn-out killing game, so the ‘Duce’ played with the Chamber.”42

  Mussolini could not have shut down parliament by force, not yet at least. He needed the votes of the deputies, but all who were listening to him took him at his word and believed him – or, it would be more accurate to say, surrendered their belief to him. Many years later, in Ludwig’s interview with him, the journalist, perhaps thinking of the mass mobilization of the young Fascists Mussolini had described as ready to obey him “with almost mystical intensity”, asked him whether, as he travelled on the night train to Rome, his sense of triumph felt more like an artist’s or a prophet’s. He thought for a moment about the question and then answered curtly: “Artist.”43

  Chapter 12

  A Woman’s Influence

  The attendant had finished his stint in the park of the Villa Borghese, where his boss in the city’s parks department had had him posted as a punishment. That would teach him to get caught relaxing in a warm bar when he should have been on duty outside. After just a few days there he’d already had his fill of the dogs who did their business wherever they wanted, their rude owners getting their leashes in a tangle, the gangs of screaming urchins and mischievous girls – it only needed the most trivial incident to put him in a bad mood. So just imagine what he felt when he saw this bizarre-looking type at the steering wheel of a Torpedo with the silencer off, who wouldn’t stop roaring up and down the main avenue which crossed the park. Next to him in the streamlined sports car was another person who looked even odder. The previous Sunday the two had driven round the tree-lined avenues of the park with a lion on the back seat. Not just a very large cat, but a lion, or rather a lioness, to the amazement of all the people out strolling. Luckily she seemed fairly placid. Now once again they were roaring along in their convertible Alfa Romeo 20/30 HP. They must be super-rich to have a car like that, the warden thought: it cost at least thirty-five thousand lire, could go at a speed of 130 kilometres per hour, and consumed… who knows how much, with its 4,000-cc capacity. A short moment of peace and quiet as they disappeared, then back they were again, with that irritating exhibitionist at the steering wheel. Everyone in the park turned to look at him, especially the women and the young girls. He did a circuit three, four, five times – he seemed to keep his eyes fixed on that brunette with the big tits who looked at him adoringly every time he drove past her, as if she just wanted to run behind the car with her tail wagging. She was elegantly dressed, obviously from a “good” family, the warden thought. He was confident he could judge people by their appearances, he was used to seeing all types in his job. As he was crossing a patch of wet grass, he wondered what made a girl like that slaver after those two louts. Who knows how they’d made their money. Then he decided to intervene. He walked up the avenue while the two men in the sports car, a bit farther down, had slowed to an almost complete halt practically in front of the young brunette. The sound of the motor echoed a
mong the trees. Suddenly he heard its roar getting louder behind him. It had started on another circuit of the park, perhaps the final one, which would succeed in hitching the brunette on board. The moment had come to get his own back for the month he had had to pass in the damp park of the Villa Borghese. He turned round sharply to take his revenge and signalled to the driver of the car to draw in to the side of the avenue and stop. He gestured again to make him switch off the engine. Then he made his way calmly and deliberately over to the Alfa Romeo. A silence finally descended. It seemed as if all the people strolling in the park had come to the top of the avenue to watch the scene unfold. He gave a quick glance at the strange type at the steering wheel, who had one arm slung ostentatiously out of the window, while the man in the passenger seat was twisting and turning to get out of the car to meet the warden. The warden paid no attention to him. He took the pen out of his pocket and opened his pad of penalty forms. “Kindly give me your personal details,” he demanded of the driver. The answer momentarily stunned him. He lifted his gaze: his heart felt as if it had stopped beating, his hands were icy and his legs were tottering. No doubt about it, the driver was Benito Mussolini. The man who was accompanying the head of the Italian government in the car had made every effort to avoid this scene, but he’d been too late. Now he was talking rapidly to the warden, who was too astonished to hear him. He gave him his documents and introduced himself: Ercole Boratto, an official government chauffeur in the personal service of His Excellency Benito Mussolini, they were just taking the car for a spin, for a little relaxation in the middle of all His Excellency’s commitments – the government, the ministers, the reports, that kind of thing… Yes, the noise of the engine had been too loud… but His Excellency wasn’t to blame, no, it was his fault, the chauffeur’s, he should have remembered to put the silencers on before they set out. But the warden remained immobile and unresponsive. Some female shrieks emerged from the small crowd of onlookers. Boratto didn’t know what else to say or do. No one made a move. With one eye still on the brunette – who in the meantime had made her way to the front of the crowd to watch the unusual scene – Mussolini insisted he should pay the fine. The warden didn’t even have the strength to hold his pen. It took a lot of persuasion to resolve the situation, but finally Boratto convinced the warden that if he didn’t proceed to fine Mussolini the car would remain where it was. While the car was being started, he tried to reassure the warden – nothing would happen to him, he needn’t worry, he had only done his duty. The warden made his way unsteadily back down the avenue. He crossed Piazza del Popolo with one thought tormenting him: how was he going to explain to his boss that he had just fined Mussolini?

  Recalling his time as the Duce’s chauffeur, Boratto wrote:

  I was stopped innumerable other times by the police on account of all these contraventions until I decided to ask Mussolini to let me fit the car out according to the regulations, which he allowed me to do with a bit of reluctance, since he hated luxury cars with all their mod cons. When it was a question of his own personal car, he used to maintain that bumpers and windscreens were completely unnecessary. Was Mussolini a good driver? No. His attention kept wandering, he was unaware of potential dangers, and couldn’t steer skilfully, but nevertheless he thought he knew everything there was to know about cars. How many times did I have to step on the brakes just in time to avoid what would have been a certain crash!1

  When Mussolini came to power, Ercole Boratto thought that he would be transferred to another post. Right up to the day before Mussolini became prime minister, Boratto had been Facta’s official driver; with the Fascists now in power he was certain some Blackshirt from one of the squads would be given his job. As it turned out, Mussolini decided to retain his services and soon grew to like him. After the regime fell, Boratto wrote a memoir of his twenty years working for the Duce, drawing also on the private notes he had occasionally jotted down whenever he feared he might forget some details of the curious episodes he witnessed. Once the war had ended, he needed a new job, and the idea occurred to him that he might sell what he had written and buy a lorry on the proceeds. He offered the piece to several newspapers in Rome.

  Informers for various secret services can be found in most newspaper offices. A source named “Dusty” – a curious name for a spy – informed agent CB 55 of the Office of Strategic Services, the predecessor of the Central Intelligence Agency, of Boratto’s document. Unknown to its author, it was microfilmed, and copies were sent to Washington and London. It contained no special information, only a thoroughgoing demolition of the myth of Mussolini, but the secret services in every country are interested in everything and report on everything, producing vast quantities of documents which serve to justify their existence and their high salaries.

  Boratto describes the most hidden aspect of the multifaceted Mussolini, one which the Fascist gerarchi didn’t see and not even his wife and mistresses were privy to. Boratto’s working day began at 7.30 in the morning, because Mussolini always liked to drive down the Via Appia through the countryside outside Rome. They returned in time for breakfast. Then there were the drives in the park of the Villa Borghese or the outings to the countryside beyond the city. “During these excursions, if we came across some isolated inn (and there are many in the countryside round Rome) he would stop and order a glass of white wine. He would drink a little from the glass, in little sips, as if to savour it better, insisting I drink a glass with him, and then he would order me to pay, since he never carried any money.”2

  As time went on, the seaside became the favourite destination for these outings. When Mussolini saw that the road to Ostia didn’t go as far as the sea, he had one of the period’s most up-to-date motorways built. As he confessed in his interview with Ludwig: “When I’m tired of men, I go to the sea. I should like to live always by the sea! Since I can’t, I turn to animals instead. Their instincts are like those of humans, but they never ask anything of us: horses, dogs and, especially, cats (they’re my favourite animal).”3

  Admiration for Mussolini’s sporting prowess was also part of his myth. For this witnesses were needed; solitary horse rides in the country were not much use, but the crowded riding track in the Villa Borghese was – it was where Rome’s fashionable middle classes congregated. Ercole would drive him there and then had nothing to do but wait and watch: “Some of the gerarchi were good riders, but there were many who didn’t know how to handle a horse. Mussolini belonged to the second category.”4

  In his chauffeur’s severe judgement, the myth of Mussolini the sportsman was practically baseless. He could hardly stand on skis and had difficulty in completing a descent; he was applauded on the tennis court, but only because he was the Duce, not because he was a good tennis player; he was an aggressive swordsman and sometimes got the better of his opponent, but only because he was used to fighting duels – his fencing style left a lot to be desired. “In short, Mussolini was no good at sports, even though he forced himself to practise so many of them. It was obvious he was passionately interested in physical education, but he did not have the right qualities perhaps to practise himself.”5

  No one of course risked undermining the myth with some inopportune comment. Normally there would be an admiring crowd for some display of his sporting “skills”, after which Boratto would pick him up in the car and take him back to get dressed for his political appointments. It was Boratto who drove him to the Chamber on 16th November 1922, when, after he had taunted the deputies with the “military encampment” speech, he won the vote of confidence with 316 votes in favour. There were only thirty-five Fascist deputies, but Mussolini declared his government was “beyond, above and opposed to parliamentary dispensation”, drawing its strength instead from its popular support. Many believed him, too many surrendered their belief to him, as we have already seen. The leaders of the parties and parliamentary factions, accustomed to complicated and long-drawn-out negotiations and secret agreements, were ill equipped to deal with the sudden new rhyt
hm of political events.

  On 24th November Mussolini’s majority in parliament voted to give him full power to re-establish order in the country. On 9th December he travelled to London for the conference on the German war debt and reparations. Il Popolo d’Italia reported:

  The head of the Italian government, wearing the Fascist badge in the buttonhole of his frock coat, is introduced into the presence of King George in a private sitting room in the palace. The monarch, wearing a suit, is alone. Bukinghan [sic] Palace is as silent as a church; the hours ring out solemnly from a tower. All the windows are closed. The marble façade is blacker than the Colosseum or the other ancient monuments in Rome. The colonnades, the imposing architecture of the different buildings which make up the palace, the internal gates, the isolation, the sentinels standing to rigid attention almost as if in a religious trance, everything gives off an air of solemn austerity, of a closed and impenetrable place. The head of the Italian government remained in conversation with the King of England for nearly twenty minutes; their conversation was cordial and touched on various current political issues.6

  Mussolini’s visit to London was also an opportunity for his mistress Alice De Fonseca Pallottelli to meet him. She held a joint Italian and British passport and spoke both languages fluently, and as a fervent nationalist was keen to support the Fascist cause abroad. She met him when he arrived at Victoria Station, taking her small son Virgilio along with her; Mussolini seems to have treated the little boy affectionately. During the four days he stayed in London, therefore, the new head of the Italian government was not without female company.