About the time of meeting the Russian girl in Terni, I met an Austrian in Rome. I was invited to her house, a beautiful place, not far from the Spanish Steps, and there we ate tiny cakes and drank tea – an English tea-party, where excellent English was spoken by the hosts, but where the atmosphere was utterly continental, and not really Roman. There was something strange about this family and I never fathomed the mystery surrounding them, even in my chats alone with the daughter, Daphne. Her mother was elderly and frail looking, and a complete lady. Her sister was married to an Italian nobleman, but was separated from her husband and had a keen interest in the stage. There were often artists at their house, and one would hear music and singing. Everything was refined and orderly. These émigrées were very kind to me and to many others stationed in Rome, and did their best to make us feel at home and enjoy something of the home atmosphere of which we had largely been deprived for so long.
I occasionally visited the dear little Signorine Giulia in Via Babiuno, and they allowed me to stay and strum on their piano if I had an hour to spare on a day or half-day off. I felt more truly at home with them than anywhere else, and when I moved into Rome proper, I called on them every Sunday and often drank a cup of tea with them, ate biscuits or smoked an occasional cigarette, for the old ladies were not averse to a little smoke and enjoyed English cigarettes. They also introduced me to Italian ones, which were coming back on the market again; the Nazionale were tolerable, but the other, cheaper, brands were said to be made from the thousands or millions of cigarette ends collected mainly by children in the streets, then stripped and dried off. This tobacco could be bought by the ounce (or gram) on the market, black or otherwise. It was piled high on trestle tables and sold like any other commodity – but I failed to see how it could have been at all hygienic. The other good brand was Macedonie – these or Nazionale were the ones we smoked, and the only ‘respectable’ types, at that time.
Another of my activities was of a somewhat different nature. Shortly before Christmas my CO (whose departure was imminent), presented me with a fine Luger pistol, at some time captured from the enemy. He explained that as I was staying on in Italy, I might need it. There was an ominous note in his voice, which seemed to hint at troubles to come, when firearms would spell safety. During this period a substantial number of people were prophesying serious civilian disturbances, particularly at the time of the referendum to decide the fate of the monarchy. But apart from any prospect of danger, never having possessed a firearm in my life or even handled one, except for shooting at moving artificial ducks at a fair, I was of course delighted to be the proud owner of such a charming little weapon, which fitted neatly into my ATS handbag and was light and handy. I received with it about fifteen cartridges. One Sunday afternoon, when all was peaceful and the local population was enjoying a well-earned siesta, I persuaded a friend to take me out to a deserted chalk-pit nearby and show me how to fire my Luger. At my first attempt I nearly shot off one of his toes, and so he quickly tried to teach me to aim and look where I was firing, which apparently I did not. Nevertheless, I greatly enjoyed the experience, though I found the noise rather worrying. But try as I would, I never convinced my escort of the necessity of my having further shooting practice. After that first day out, he was always too busy, so possibly he felt teaching me to aim was too big a risk to take, near as he was to his release date.
Finally, on 7 January 1946, I went to the commission for an interview with the second-in-command of my new unit. A day or two later I heard that I had been accepted and was to report on 14 January. I had asked for a few days’ grace to pack up and hand everything over. A day or two after this interview, Hugh Trent rang up from Caserta, where he was now a staff captain with GSI (X) (General Services Intelligence), the branch that dealt with officers’ postings and appointments. He understood that I spoke perfect French and explained that a vacancy for a French translator was soon to come up in the military secretary’s office, and would I be interested in it? I had the disturbing impression that my name was to be put forward as a suitable candidate, and felt as if a chasm had opened up and was about to swallow me, for Caserta seemed a sort of Devil’s Island, to be avoided at all costs. The thought of sitting and translating all day in an office miles from anywhere, absolutely bereft of the personal touch which interested me so much more than any form of staff work I had ever met, was appalling. Fortunately, my French was very rusty, as I had spoken it very little for several years and during my service had used mainly German and some Italian. I therefore immediately assured Hugh that while it was very nice of him to think of me, I definitely did not feel capable of doing justice to translations of a complicated and technical nature, that I had forgotten most of my French since learning Italian, and furthermore that I had just been taken on by the Screening Commission in Rome, where I would be required to utilise my knowledge of Italian.
Although he did not seem totally convinced by these arguments, the matter was left in abeyance for the time being, but a nasty shadow loomed on my horizon for some weeks to come. I was wholeheartedly determined not to go to Caserta, even if it meant promotion and not going meant demotion. If I were forced to go, I told myself savagely that I would not renew my contract to service overseas for the extra year. Instead, I would try for a posting to Germany. But of course I knew perfectly well that I was merely a cog and a pawn, and that if the powers that be decided I should go, go I would. Small as my spoke was, however, I put it in for all my worth, but during my last few days at Cinema City I was on tenterhooks. This made my departure less of a wrench; once on the strength of the commission, Caserta would, I hoped, recede into the background. All the same, it was a little sad to say a final goodbye, even though with my CO’s departure my job had virtually ended.
24
A New Job – and a
Fresh Angle on Italy
I felt a little lonely and strange when I landed up at the huge transit hotel, the Continentale, near the station, where my future ATS colleagues lived. The men of the new organisation lived in requisitioned billets. The huge dining-room of the Continentale, with its small separate tables, nearly all filled by men and more men, and the ATs who lived an independent, almost civilian life, each with her own interests, contrasted at first unfavourably with the small, friendly mess I had just left, which as it contracted had become increasingly like a family party. On my second night there, some of my friends came down to cheer me up. They were very cheerful, but after the evening was over I felt more lonely and at a loss than ever. But doubtless in time one adjusts to almost anything, and I soon found a friend in Judy, who invited me to her room for a chat and showed me the sitting-room next door. This room was actually for all the ATs to share, but we only tended to use it if we were specifically entertaining someone. Friendship with Judy developed quickly – she was the most generous soul in the world, and from that time on things looked up: the new era had begun.
I moved into the hotel on the Friday night and began work the following morning. It was strange not to go to the office on a Sunday, for previously, even when there was less work to do as latterly, we had usually paid at least a token visit to the office on Sundays, though the Sabbath became more and more of a day off as time wore on. But the new commission, at least at its headquarters in Rome, worked normal regular hours: eight to one, and two to five, with Saturday afternoons and Sundays off. This seemed quite like civilian life again, apart from the fact that you never knew when overtime might crop up. At first, I hardly knew what to do with myself on the free Sunday. After a while I used it as a day for getting-up late, doing chores, attending services at the English church in Via Babuino, or paying afternoon calls on my dear Signorine Giulia, chatting and strumming on their piano for an hour or so. This performance usually made me feel homesick, and probably affected the other inmates of the block of flats with a different sort of sickness, but they were tolerant and never, to my knowledge, complained.
I felt rather ill at ease that first morning in the office. The CO
had at that time a male PA, a young lieutenant called Derek, who had been a POW in Italy and was engaged to an Italian girl. I was put in his office, and he went to great trouble, rigging up a desk and typewriter, for me, though as yet I had no notes to type. His fiancée frequently rang him up and they had long conversations, which I tried not to overhear but could not really avoid. I had been installed in the PA’s office with Derek, in place of a thin, dark lieutenant I had seen in there typing rather laboriously on the day of my interview, who had been relegated elsewhere, and it was some time before I recognised him again, or located his whereabouts. Indeed it was some time before I even found my way around the maze, almost a warren, of rooms, mostly on the first floor of a large block of offices in the Corso d’Italia, that big wide curving boulevard, tree-lined, which encircles the northern walls of Rome, taking several Roman gateways in its stride. This was the situation of our offices and from within we could hear the trams as they rattled and screeched along the Corso, with their cargoes of wedged-in human beings, the inevitable cluster of young men and boys hanging on to the back, waiting to join the scrum in the doorway at the next stop, or perhaps hanging on by one hand just for the thrill of it. The PA’s office faced west and did not have the view of the trams, but looked instead over towards the Giardino Borghese and the Pincio. We were not far from the Borghese Villa, and could see the dark umbrella pines of the gardens, in the evening black against a peach sky.
I did not really know what I was supposed to do in Derek’s office, but he was very gallant and bought me cakes to eat with my mid-morning tea. This greatly embarrassed me, as I preferred to pay for my own refreshments and yet I did not wish to offend him. We were not very busy at first, as the CO was then at GHQ in Caserta and did not return for two or three days. Meanwhile, the question of my transfer there boiled up again, and one or two telegrams arrived, ordering me to report down there forthwith. No-one specially told me I was to pack up and be ready to move, but a lot of long-distance telephoning went on between Derek and Hugh (in Caserta) and conferences took place between our GSO II and Derek. I shall never fathom why the powers-that-be were so keen for me to be posted to GHQ; I was just a person on paper to them, so doubtless there was a good paper reason for my going there. Whatever it was all about, a furious battle seems to have been waged over my cowed head, in which the chief of all the ATS, the colonel of GSI (X), the military secretary’s department and even the C-in-C’s staff colonel took part. My new CO apparently badly needed a woman PA, who would not only take over the work of his male PA (as a sort of ADC and interpreter), but would also do his own clerical work, this at present being done by a corporal typist, ATS, who was about to go on release. When the CO travelled, he wanted his PA, complete with files and typewriter, to accompany him – which is what in the end came to pass. Meanwhile, he secured me to fill an establishment vacancy on his commission, and I heaved a sigh of relief; I felt sure the new job would prove most interesting, and Caserta once more receded into the distance. The flame did flicker up again once or twice more before the scare finally died down for good and I felt really safe. Until then, I was still on probation, and was not at all certain that I would eventually be a PA. No-one had told me that I would, but I was not worried about the future now as I was too busy learning all I could about the new job. There was a tremendous amount to learn – the more you came to understand the commission’s work, the more there seemed to be to know about it, and I very much doubt if many of its personnel ever really grasped the significance of its work as a whole, distinct from their own particular role and the routine settlement of monetary claims, which, viewed from the centre of the organisation, tended to obscure its more far-reaching aims and purposes.
I was lucky in my job in having work connected with every facet of the commission’s remit. I read through all the correspondence files and was shown each department, including a sort of library where dossiers on every single claimant, including those who were not actually given awards, were stored alphabetically, indexed and cross-referenced. This part of the work was done mainly by Italian civilians, some speaking excellent English, and was under the expert management of Franky, a half-Scottish Italian. All the civilian personnel had, of course, been thoroughly screened, but fortunately very little of this work was even ‘Secret’ and there was no ‘Top Secret’ material to be handled. ‘Confidential’ was the usual classification for anything not in general circulation.
I learnt that there were sections in the north – Florence, Milan and Verona – and that a mysterious person, who lived at Santa Margherita for most of the time, investigated claims in that area. Someone else had just been to Austria to submit a report on Austrian helpers, resulting in the recent closure of three sections by the new CO who was sweeping very clean, it seemed, and contracting the sections where possible. The closed sections were those at Turin, Treviso and Bologna. At about that time a ceremony took place in Milan for the presentation of certificates to helpers in that area – General Heidemann, Military Governor of the City, and many military and civil notabilities were present. Our colonel presided over the ceremony and gave an address explaining the purpose and function of the commission. Besides the presentation of certificates bearing the facsimile of Field Marshal Alexander’s signature, payment was made as far as possible in relation to the original disbursement of money, food and clothing, etc., in spite of an altered exchange, and sometimes clothing was provided to help in replacing what had been lost. Help for hospital treatment, recommendations and introductions for jobs, visas and travel facilities, transport, assistance with property damage and considerable payments, almost a life insurance, where one member of a family had lost his life – all these were among the many functions of the commission. Its main purpose, however, was to perform a ‘mission of goodwill’, to further the cause of Anglo-Italian friendship, which had flowered anew among the sacrifices and dangers shared during the German Occupation. A further purpose, perhaps small in relation to the whole scale of world affairs, but nonetheless important, was to foster the spirit of fellowship and mutual well-wishing as part of the cornerstone of future European peace and unity.
The British government allocated £1 million and the Americans $1 million towards this financial compensation, but even these vast sums did not nearly add up to the sums spent by the Italians, who claimed justly on them as indemnity for loss of life and property and other catastrophes. And unfortunately, for at least a year, the British government postponed making a definite statement that the money would not be paid out of War Damages charged to the Italian government – in which case, of course, the work of the commission would have been in vain and nothing more than a cynical farce. Thanks to the hard work on the part of our CO and visits by him to the Foreign Office, Treasury and War Office when he was in England on commission business, the necessary statement at last came through: the money was backed by British sterling and had nothing to do with Italian war debts. From then on, the work of the commission received a new fillip. Its personnel knew that they were not labouring in vain, and the Italians knew that the British government, parsimonious and grudging though it might appear compared with their own generous acts of heroism and hospitality in the face of the enemy, was at least making some attempt to face up to its obligations and fulfil its promises, as contained in the Atlantic Charter and broadcast many times over the ‘Victory V’ BBC service before and during the German Occupation.
The one pity was that the work was concluded so hurriedly and that scant official recognition was accorded it by the British Army of Occupation, who consistently persisted in regarding the Allied Screening Commission (to give it its full title) a nuisance and a bunch of undisciplined cranks. Our CO, who took it over in autumn 1945, did his best to eliminate the natural hostility of the British military caste to anything out of the ordinary, but despite stupendous efforts on his part to enforce a more military discipline and keep a strict check on his somewhat unruly and individualistic personnel and heterogeneous civilian
employees, the suspicion and hostility persisted, though sometimes temporarily dissipated, until the end. Probably only with more backing from London could we have achieved a more stable position, but with three masters – the Foreign Office, the Treasury and the War Office – it was not surprising that sometimes things fell between three stools? After all, London was very remote and we were a very small sideline to the people in Whitehall. Meanwhile the British Embassy in Rome was busy with many other matters and gradually setting its house in order after the war. It may be that the officials there, too, regarded the claims business as unnecessary, or perhaps thought that they should control it themselves. The commission certainly laboured against great difficulties, but despite everything, it did achieve much good work, not only in settling claims and spreading the gospel of goodwill, but also in its own running, where British (from the UK and all the Dominions), Americans, Italians, both in uniform and mufti, and other civilians of differing nationalities, all worked amicably together as a team. ‘Every mickle makes a muckle’, and we passionately hoped that our work would contribute towards founding that Atlantic Union, without which our Western civilisation might be shaken to its very foundations, if not completely destroyed. And the collapse of Italy, which is the cradle of so much of that civilisation and the seat of the Roman Catholic Church, would be a world-tragedy. The question of Trieste was ever-present in those days, and who knows whether Field Marshal Alexander’s prompt despatch there of the New Zealand Division in the spring of 1945 may not have saved Italy at that time and made possible the creation of what is now an important bastion in the anti-Communist front? I have great faith in Italy and its new ‘Risorgimento’. It has risen from the ashes of invasion, defeat and a double Occupation with astounding speed, renewed vitality and a fervent patriotism and belief in its own destiny. Theirs is a patriotism free from histrionics and the overweening pride of the puppet Fascists, who together with their megalomaniacal Duce were the main cause of the Axis partnership and the disgraceful lick-spittling to Hitler, which culminated in the shameful invasion of Southern France in 1940 and all its terrible consequences for the Italian people.
My Italian Adventures Page 28