My Italian Adventures

by Lucy de Burgh

  Guglielmo, like Marcello, became very popular with everyone in the mess. He was cheerful, happy-go-lucky and extremely patient. Often single-handed, he would wait on a room full of impatient officers, and then dash to and fro with ancoras, his crêpe-soled shoes squeakily covering several miles during the meal. After he had been with us for a few months he was called up – that is, after the end of the war when the Italian Army was reorganising itself. He disappeared for two or three weeks and then reappeared and offered his services again as waiter. ‘But what about your military service?’ the mess secretary asked him. ‘Oh, non fà niente,’ replied Guglielmo cheerfully, ‘they will come for me when they want me.’ As far as I know, they did not come for him, and he was able to remain with the unit until it was disbanded – always helpful, conscientious and a favourite with everyone. In due course, he mastered the English language very adequately, and was usually to be seen at all unit entertainments, and especially at the cinema shows. Marcello, on the other hand, knew little English and seemed to acquire little. But no-one in the kitchen appeared to have any difficulty in understanding anyone else.

  By now Heinz had been joined by two compatriots, one a major, who volunteered to work rather than do nothing behind prison bars. They were all ‘good’ prisoners, though of course had little liberty in comparison with the ‘co-operators’. Wolfgang was a wonderful worker, diligent, polite and thorough. He always seemed to be washing up and doing the dirtiest tasks, such as scouring greasy cooking-pans or paring vegetables. I was astonished when I discovered that he was a major. There was no arrogance about him, even though he was also quite an eminent lawyer, so I heard. If he did everything else as well as he performed his domestic duties, then he must have been efficient par excellence. I occasionally gave the prisoners a few cigarettes, for they had a very small ration, and whatever one gave them they were profusely grateful for.

  I heard from my friend David that my successor in the messing office had lost her heart to Wolfgang. It did not surprise me, only that it should be noticed. But then David was an incurable romantic, and very much in love himself – so he confided in me one day – with an ATS girl. However, she did not return his affection, and he eventually married a little Italian girl from the village down the road. I think the AT missed a nice boy, though I doubt if they were really suited.

  Meanwhile, I had a problem of my own to face, also of a romantic nature. For some time Heinz had been making little pastries, in different shapes, but always with a preponderance of hearts. Beyond admiring them like everyone else, I had thought nothing of the matter, until one day he asked me if he might speak to me alone. ‘Yes, of course,’ I said in German, knowing that we would not be overheard, ‘come into the mess.’ To my astonishment, he said at once, without any introduction, ‘I want to ask you to become my wife.’ I was completely caught off my balance, and wondered if he were serious. But his further entreaties proved beyond a doubt that he was really proposing to me, and that I was caught in a romantic ‘embarrass’, as one might say. I made the usual excuse, that I had a fiancé in England whom I had promised to marry after the war (heaven forgive me for lying), but Heinz was not at all satisfied with my refusal, and after that day I felt uncomfortable each time I went into the kitchen, catching him watching me as I did the rounds. Once or twice he thrust small notes into my hand as I passed him, unobserved, I am sure, by anyone else. But the situation was awkward enough. And the number of pastry hearts increased as time went on. I knew that if things continued like this, I should have to ask for Heinz to be moved, or I should have to resign as messing officer, which I was very loath to do. But it would be complicated explaining at a mess meeting why I wanted to be rid of Heinz, for he was very popular and no-one could ever say he was a bad, or even an indifferent cook. However, fate took the decision out of my hands, and once again the die was cast without my having to make any far-reaching decision about the matter. In the meantime, Heinz assured me in his notes that he was quite certain that he would marry me one day, come what may.

  Before this delicate situation had arisen, I had changed my office job. Jacky had made two or three journeys away for a short leave and to Caserta about her imminent posting to India Command. During her absence, I had stood in for her as PA. I usually found these times very harassing, as I was not only working for the colonel while still officially the major’s PA, but also keeping an eye on the mess, and sometimes paying the girls and generally looking after their affairs. At Jacky’s final departure, however, the latter job was taken out of my hands, and I officially became the colonel’s PA, giving up my job with the major. It was towards the end of March when Jacky went off in a whirl of goodbyes and good-lucks. She was obviously delighted and more than keen to be on her way, not because she had disliked the job I was stepping into, but because she was completely single-minded at that time, with one thought in her head, to rejoin her fiancé. We heard many months later that she had succeeded, and that they had been married in Delhi during John’s leave from his squadron. But she was in India some time before that happened, because leave, even to get married, was not easy to obtain in those days. I had enjoyed working for the major – in fact, I found that I enjoyed every job, and usually looked with trepidation at a new one, which eventually I got used to and liked just as much, sometimes more, than its predecessor.

  One incident that enlivened this period has always remained in my memory for its incongruity, and it was also my first experience of the vagaries of the Italian telephone system. Major Walsh was putting through an urgent and important call on security matters to a superior and exalted officer in AFHQ. I heard him say ‘Hullo, sir, Walsh here’, and then his tone and expression changed. From being grimly official, his face lit up, and he said, ‘Buongiorno, Signora, come sta? È vero? Come mai?’ (Good day Madam, how are you? Is that so? But how come?) And the conversation then went on, ‘As I was saying, sir, before we were interrupted, the fact of the matter is … Si, va bene, Signora, ma non deve parlare con questa linea, è privata militare sa, vuole lasciare, per favore, Signora.’ (yes, all right Madam, but you shouldn’t use this line, it’s a circumscribed military one, please get off the line, Madam). This time his voice was not quite so caressing, and a small frown creased his smooth forehead. He went on, ‘I am extremely sorry, sir, some Italian woman keeps butting in … Ho già detto, Signora, che lei non deve parlare con questa linea, non mi interessano per niente i suoi bambini …’ (As I have already said, Madam, you must not use this line, I couldn’t care less about your children …) This time his tone was menacing and he was clearly annoyed. ‘I can’t get rid of the damned woman, sir; she won’t hang up. Just a moment, I will try the exchange before we get any further … one moment, please, sir … Non parlavo con lei, Signora, è ridicolo, vede, sa benissimo che questo è un telefono militare, lasci subito la linea, no, non, la cognosco, lo sa bene, basta, basta, Signora, fa bene ad andarsene. Grazie a Dio.’ (I wasn’t speaking to you, Madam, this is absurd; look, you know perfectly well that this is a military line, get off it right away, no I know her, you know that well, stop it, stop it! Madam, you’d better clear off. Thank God.) By this time red, perspiring and longing to let himself go, but respecting the lady, he tapped violently on the apparatus with the receiver. ‘Hullo, exchange, Major Walsh here, look here I’ve been interrupted ten thousand times in my call to Colonel Wooton by some stupid Italian woman who keeps on chipping in. Get me another line will you, and quickly, the Colonel won’t wait for me.’ And then at last he got through to AFHQ and apologised once more for the interference. All this time, I was quietly filing some letters and managed to keep my face composed, although inside I could not help seeing the humour of the episode. Later, I was to learn far more about the humour, and the exasperation, of long-distance telephoning in Italy.

  A distressing affair at this time was the somewhat summary dismissal of Signora Pinto. I never really did fathom the business, for though the RSM accused her of stealing firewood, and swore he saw her take
some planks from the camp to the custode’s house, she promised me faithfully that she had never used wood, except when making a fire to burn our rubbish or to heat water for our laundry, and furthermore she would not dream of taking wood to the custode. She would certainly have been very noticeable, in her black dress, lugging planks through the gate, past the sentry-box, along the road and up the small path leading to the custode’s house, which was in full view of all our windows looking towards Rome. There must have been a misunderstanding somewhere. But the RSM was adamant and appealed to Major Walsh, and there was a somewhat heated discussion between the two men, the OH and myself, in which Major Walsh interrupted himself frequently to exclaim to the vociferate OH, ‘Silenzio, Signora,’ very sternly. My passionate defence of the Signora did not help her, and despite her loyal service to the ATS she was dismissed. The major told me frankly next day that he did not like her face, and I suspected this had something to do with her dismissal, for he had a reputation for liking pretty women. The sequel to this story was rather strange. When I met Signora Pinto a year later she told me that the RSM had been angry with her and was determined to evict her from the camp, because she had rejected his romantic advances, as at the time she had had a boyfriend, a private, who was demobilised shortly before her departure. According to her, the RSM had aspired to step into the private’s shoes, and when she had given him the cold shoulder, he took his revenge. This all seemed rather ‘fantasmagorical’, to use a word coined about that time and in frequent use in the mess. The stern RSM did not seem to have any heart at all, and it seemed ludicrous to think of him being crossed in love. The affair is still a mystery to me. Signora Pinto was given a recommendation, and was soon able to obtain another job with the occupying forces. To dismiss a civilian in those days might well be to inflict great hardship on him or her. Even more than the slender salaries, the good food and tea provided while working was of inestimable value to the civilian population in those lean times, when belts were very tightly drawn and bread itself was a luxury.

  By the time I had taken over Jacky’s job, and become used to it, spring in all its Mediterranean glory had dawned upon us. The sun was warm, but not unbearably hot, and the skies resumed their pure, unflecked azure. Everywhere were flowers, in the streets, in the window boxes, and on roof gardens. Of course there had been beautiful stalls of flowers around us all winter, but with the arrival of the warm sun and the exit of the icy breezes, which vanished as the snow disappeared from the mountain tops, the flowers seemed to appear fresher, more varied and numerous than ever. There were little almond and cheery trees blooming along the edge of the Via Veneto, where gardeners were carefully tending the grass borders, which had been neglected through the previous winters of poverty, starvation and Occupation. Girls were beginning to appear in gaily printed thin frocks, their long curls flowing down their backs, walking a little stiffly on the high wedge heels, still in vogue. Dressing in southern Italy is relatively simple, as you need very few winter clothes compared with a winter wardrobe in our country. Even in the mountains the cold, though it may be sharp, is short. In the north conditions are different, as the Allied armies had been finding, but in the south, especially in the plains, winter is not to be feared much. We had suffered from cold, it is true, but fortunately not for long. By March the days were appreciably warmer, and one could sit outside at midday without a battledress top and bask most comfortably in the sunshine. It was during March that it pleased RAAC to make us an allocation of fuel for the central heating, so that our building could be really warm and the very makeshift petrol-drum stoves dispensed with. We did have central heating for a week or two, but by then it was so warm that we nearly suffocated, and it was therefore abandoned. Still it was nice to know that we had not been forgotten, even if it had taken all winter and frequent visits of the administration staff down to Rome to produce the required commodity in time for Easter.

  It was on one of these mild spring days that Doc and I and one or two others made an expedition to the catacombs near the Via Appia Antica. It was very interesting and Doc showed an almost morbid interest in the skeletons and loose bones. We each carried a small wax taper to light the way, but what greatly annoyed me was that the wax spilt on my best gloves and they bore the marks of the catacombs forever and a day. There is something about the catacombs, with their decaying, desiccated bones and rabbit burrow passages that makes them heavy on the spirit. I should hate to be there at night.

  What interested me more was a visit paid at the same time to the notorious Ardeatine Caves, where the coffins of about 335 Italians still lay unburied. This story caused a great stir at the time. Before Rome was liberated, some Italians threw a bomb into the ranks of a German detachment marching along the Via Rasella towards the Via Veneto. Almost at once a cordon of SS was thrown round the whole area, and a whole crowd of Italian men and boys were arrested as a reprisal. Despite frantic entreaties from the municipal authorities and the crazed relatives of the victims, they and many others were shot on 24 March 1944, without even a farce of a trial, and their bodies, 335 in all, flung into the Ardeatine Caves, in front of which the execution had taken place. The caves were then sealed, and the hiding-place not discovered until after the liberation of Rome. This act of barbarism greatly incensed the Italians, and perhaps did more harm to the German reputation in Italy than any other single incident in the whole catalogue of atrocities. General von Mackensen, and Field Marshall Kesselring, C-in-C German Air Force at that time and acting Governor of Rome, were held personally responsible for the outrage, and were later tried as war criminals at Venice. They were sentenced to life imprisonment.

  On the Sunday afternoon that we went to the caves there were queues of relatives visiting the coffins, most of which bore photographs of the deceased, small tinsel hearts and crosses, laurel wreaths and a profusion of flowers. There was a hush in the grotto, and a heavy atmosphere of intense sorrow. I saw several poor women brushing away tears behind their thick black veils, for most of the women wore black. There were men and children, too, in the long procession. Outside the sun shone brilliantly, almost mercilessly, and inside it was cool and fresh with the perfume of the flowers, and quiet except for the soft murmur of the mourners’ voices, as they moved slowly from one bier to the next. We did not stay long, for one does not care to be a spectator to grief, and to linger would have made our brief visit an indelicate intrusion.

  At one time it was rumoured that among the others an Englishman had been shot, but this was later denied. To the Romans, without a doubt, this was the wartime tragedy that touched them nearest and affected them the most deeply.

  16

  Posillipo

  B ologna fell on 21 April, and on 25 April Mussolini and his mistress, Claretta Patacci, were ignominiously executed by the partisans and their bodies suspended upside down, together with the corpses of about six other leading Fascists, at a bombed garage on the Piazza Loreto in Milan. The mob threw rubbish and jeered at the mortal remains of their late leaders, and the partisans felt at least partially revenged for the torture and murder of many of their number. Milan fell to the Allies shortly afterwards.

  It was at about that time that our colonel called me into his office and asked me how I would like to go with him to Naples! I had heard rumours to the effect that the CO was to be moved there, and it was common knowledge that this would be a highly unpopular move, not only with the colonel himself, but with almost the entire personnel of the camp. He was very popular and took a real interest in the work and welfare of all under his command. I knew that without his integrating, kindly encouraging personality things would not be the same for the job nor for those performing it. The one good aspect was that the war was by now clearly drawing to a close and with it the operational phase of military intelligence. Henceforth our work would be more concerned with the Occupation authorities, civil populations and liaison with the Allies.

  When the colonel asked me whether I would like to go to Naples, I hesitated for a momen
t, and he went on to say that he was to be transferred there to the staff section that dealt with our work on Base HQ level, and wanted to take me with him to act as his PA, as before. Now for personal reasons I did not want to leave Rome, for as usual I had got comfortably ‘dug in’ there, but if the CO wanted me to accompany him, then it did not occur to me for one minute to say I would not go. In any case a refusal would probably have made no difference. He had been very good to me, and if he had expressed the wish or issued the order for me to go twenty times further, I would have acquiesced willingly, even though it did mean leaving my boyfriend of the moment. After all, as far as that was concerned, it was perhaps not a bad thing. I did not wish my heart to become seriously involved in any way, and to meet new people and breathe a fresh atmosphere was the surest way to prevent emotional entanglements from becoming too intense.

  We had twenty-four hours’ notice to depart, and I had to hand over both of my jobs, organise a farewell dinner for the CO and do my own packing. Most of the latter was done for me by Maria, and I should never have managed it without her. The dinner went off very well, and there was a riotous party to follow.

  We left the following morning at 0900 hours and the guards gave the colonel a farewell salute. They looked magnificently smart, with spotless white gaiters and web belts, every item of uniform and equipment neatly in place, rifles and bayonets gleaming with polish. It was a moving experience, for me the only such in my life, and I felt privileged to take part in it, however insignificant my part was.

  We did not have much conversation on the way down Route 7 to Naples. It was warm and as we sped over the miles south, across the Pontine Marshes, now re-drained, and along the coast with the turquoise blue sea on our right, I dozed with the fatigue resulting from our hurried departure.