My Italian Adventures

by Lucy de Burgh

  Signor Fabrizi never got his work permit for England. When last heard of, he was veering dangerously towards Communism. He could not get work in his own trade, and after passing several months in England, staying with an ex-Army captain, he knew enough of the language to do some translations for a Communist newspaper when he returned to his own country. This appeared to be the only work he could find, and it looked as if all the pro-British sentiment he had nourished ever since he had worked for the CLN (Comitato di Liberazione Nazionale, the Italian partisan movement) during the war was being forgotten in a new-found enthusiasm for Communism, which it seemed he almost had to embrace in order to live.

  Sometime during the summer the personnel of the commission had been enriched by the addition of the somewhat ‘fantasmagorical’ Captain L’Amour. This gentleman enjoyed a quite deserved reputation for gallantry, of both types, for he had been awarded a Military Cross for his valour behind the enemy lines, and in addition he had the reputation for being a sort of Casanova – living up to his name, in fact. His appearance helped him, for he was literally ‘tall, dark and handsome’, ‘the answer to a maiden’s prayer’. Amongst the Italian ladies of his acquaintance, he was often known, needless to say, as ‘Capitano Amore’.

  The day I was due to fly back to Rome dawned dull and cloudy, though not actually very cold. At the airport, I met the above-mentioned Captain L’Amour, who was, like me, reporting back to Rome. After hanging about for an hour or two, in which there was nothing to do but drink a cup of coffee at the buffet and watch our fellow passengers, it was announced over the loudspeaker that the planes would not fly that day – presumably the visibility was too poor. So we all clambered into the omnibus which was waiting outside and trundled back to the city, to the Capodichino building, where the air offices were.

  Hubert L’Amour lived up to his reputation and carried my bag back to the YW, which was fortunately not far off. On the way he told me how uncomfortable he had been during his stay in Milan, dossing down in the transit mess, which was just a small flat, and what a rough-and-ready place it was. ‘I suppose,’ he said, with an enchanting smile, ‘you couldn’t be very nice to someone and get me in at the YW, could you?’ I thought for a moment. ‘There are already two captains and a lieutenant colonel staying there,’ I said, ‘though why I don’t know, but perhaps one more captain wouldn’t make much difference.’ In fact, I had been quite amazed to see male inhabitants of the YW – the shortage of accommodation was evidently producing strange anomalies in military life. There was an attractive blonde lady among the superintendents at the club, and I suggested Hubert might try his charm on her; but in practice it was not necessary, as I managed to put his case successfully. He did, however, persuade the blonde superintendent to change a cheque for us – on my book – as we were both almost without money and unable to obtain any. I fortunately had a cheque book, otherwise we should have been in a very difficult position. There was no longer a field cashier in Milan, which was by now off the Line of Communication, and, as our stay was unexpected, finances were becoming Problem No. 1. Anyway Hubert changed my cheque, but took charge of the cash for the time being. I believe he was afraid I would hurry out to the shops, having nothing much to do, and spend it all on stockings or cosmetics.

  We had not been in the YW for more than an hour or so when an ex-colonel and his wife turned up, on holiday from London. For a few moments I thought they were going to ask me to get them put up in the YW too, but they managed to solve their accommodation problems in the end and I heaved a sigh of relief. The colonel had earlier been with our commission and I had frequently been stationed with him. He told us that his wife was longing to see something of the nightlife of Milan, and insisted on our accompanying them to a nightclub that evening, although Hubert was not very keen. And so off we went to an exotic underground place, with magenta-coloured plush chairs and sofas, dim lights, a thrumming jazz band and lots of ‘ladies’. An Italian Marchese turned out to be an acquaintance of Hubert’s and joined our party for a bit but, having bought us all flowers and champagne, he drifted off and later I saw him surrounded by a crowd of what I would have called ‘grisettes’, after which he seemed to become involved in some sort of brawl. But our party was very pleasant – and the colonel’s wife, on her first visit to Italy, was entranced with the atmosphere, and thoroughly enjoyed herself. I was more than a little shocked at the behaviour of our acquaintance, and suspected Hubert was too, for he went home early and refused to take me to have lunch with his friend next day, as we had been pressingly invited.

  Next morning, we duly reported at Capodichino, and were driven out to the airport with the same crowd of fellow travellers as the previous day, and the same news was given us after about two hours’ delay –‘no flying’. So back we went again. I was just standing in the hotel vestibule, when I heard a rich fruity foreign voice enquiring something of the hall porter, and turned round in time to catch sight of the tall, rather strapping shape of Liesel, a Dutch welfare worker, and a beaming jolly sort of person. I invited her to meet me later for coffee, as we had not met for some time. She was a great personality, and very popular with everyone in Welfare. After she had gone I suddenly realised I had only about 100 lire left, and had to ask Hubert for some money. He doled me out about 200 lire, rather grudgingly I thought, but I decided that 300 would be more than enough. I met Liesel and we each had two cups of coffee and two cakes. When it came to the bill, I did not have sufficient cash, for it was nearly 400 lire! I felt a fool and secretly cursed Hubert, telling myself that if this was what marriage was like, then celibacy would be preferable. So Liesel paid our bill after all, and I sent back the money to her later from Rome. She just laughed at my predicament in her comfortable Nederlander way and said, ‘Ja, that does not matter, do not think of it.’

  In revenge, partly, I made Hubert, by gentle persuasion and constant reference to the subject, escort me to the famous Piccolo Bar that evening, of which I had heard so much. It came up to expectations, with alcoves where one could talk undisturbed, blue-and-white striped silk upholstery, subdued lamps on the polished tables, and small roses in vases reflected in the polish. The waiter brought us dainty glasses of vermouth and saucers of nuts and olives. One could hear the distant throbbing of a small orchestra, and presumably there was a restaurant down below. We had arrived at about eight o’clock, but it was not until nearly nine that the bar started to fill up and an ‘arty-crafty’ set of people drifted in and talked with sophistication and savoir-faire. There was an array of long hair, beards, long slender cigarette holders and other hallmarks of the artistic and literary élite. There was something a little Chelsea-esque and a touch of Kensingtoniana about the habitués of the Piccolo Bar. After surveying the scene for half an hour so, we returned to the YW and I spent the rest of the evening listening to the musical trio there, who played for long periods to small and sometimes nonexistent audiences, but never flagged in their enthusiasm and were always delighted to oblige with ‘request numbers’.

  Next morning our plane really did take off, and we reached Rome safe and sound after an exceptionally comfortable journey. When it was heard that I had stayed at the YW with Hubert L’Amour, there was general amusement, though I hoped it was not after this very comradely occasion that he went into the bar of the officers’ mess, and passing one hand over his noble brow, was heard to remark in a blasé drawl, ‘These women, how they plague me.’ Sometimes I think he enjoyed being plagued and even invited it – at any rate he liked the Casanova legend which had grown up around him. Earlier on, during the summer, he had presented me with a portrait of himself, an almost life-size head-and-shoulders photograph, and a masterpiece of the art, as only Italian photographic art can produce. He gave me the choice of about a dozen prints, of varying sizes, but I chose the largest and most handsome and asked Hubert to inscribe it, which he did, again gallantly. It was impossible not to wonder quite how much he was tongue-in-cheek. On the occasion of our short sojourn in Milan, the Casan
ova aura seemed to vanish, and he was courteous, charming and perfectly natural, but the moment we were reabsorbed by the unit in Rome, Casanova reappeared at once, almost like a protective armour, and the very next day he was showing passport photographs of himself to me and the assistant PA, asking us which he should have printed and promising us copies. Of course we begged him for copies and said we insisted on having them, and of course he acceded to our requests, so I then had two photographs of him – but his character still remained an enigma.

  Note

  11 Galeazzo Ciano, minister and son-in-law of Mussolini.

  34

  North of the Border Once More

  E arly one morning in December the CO rang me up at the office, where I was straightening out some files and making a few telephone calls and appointments, and said we were to leave for Austria the following morning, visiting the new section at Bologna and GHQ at Padua on the way. One of the majors travelled with us as far as Bologna. We went up Route 2 via Siena and stopped on the delightful main piazza for lunch at a small cosy-looking restaurant. In recent times the GSO II had been making great attempts to economise on various things, and officers usually took rations out on the paying and investigating trips, and sometimes exchanged these for Italian food, which might be more easily prepared on the spot. And so I, full of zeal for obeying the directive on economy, decided to try some exchanging of rations of my own, and offered the restaurant proprietor some cold cooked meat (not bully beef) in return for pastasciutta. While I was explaining this plan to the mystified man, my two senior officers decided that they did not approve of the marketing and ordered something from the menu; this arrived and was of course excellent. Whether anything was taken off the bill for the ‘baksheesh’ meat I handed to the proprietor I did not know to this day. After that, I concluded that I had obviously brought the wrong sort of rations, and as it was only very occasionally that we were eating in civilian restaurants, I thought it best to let well alone.

  We stayed in Bologna that evening, but as the section was full it was necessary to put up at the Baglioni Hotel, the transit mess, a very dark and, to some, dreary hotel on the main route through the city. Personally I never found the Baglioni dreary, but rather homely with its faded chintzes, heavy curtains screening the dining room, and small basement bar, which soon became warm and smoky. But dark it most certainly was, for the electricity situation in Bologna was still acute, the lights were liable to fail at any moment and the current was usually very weak. It was advisable to have candles, lamps or torches – or all three – in constant readiness and after getting to know Bologna on an earlier visit, I had formed the habit of carrying a candle in my handbag or pocket the whole time, which was all right as long as one did not lean against a radiator or too near a fireplace.

  For this trip we were travelling in the CO’s new Humber Snipe and to my relief we had a lance corporal driver, while Bruno stayed in Rome with the Chev, now allotted to the GSO II. It would not in any case have been practicable to take Bruno into Austria, as he might not have been allowed over the frontier.

  It was necessary to stay in Venice, as the CO had calls to pay, both there at the area HQ and also in Padua, at GHQ. I shall always remember that visit to Padua, for the riots were on, if one could call them riots. The streets were almost deserted on the outskirts of the town and most of the shops were shut. Everything was very quiet. We dropped the CO off at the financial advisor’s office and, as he was going on from there to the main building on foot, the driver and I had to get the car parked. By the time we reached the city centre, the pavements were packed with men, several feet deep, and there was hardly a woman to be seen. We stopped to ask one of a group of police, both military and civil, what to do. I got out of the car and crossed to enquire, eyed by the crowd of sullen-eyed civilians who packed the pavements several deep on each side and as far as the eye could see in every direction. I had heard tales of ATS girls having their skirts torn off and I was frankly nervous, though I pretended to be quite unconcerned; but, thanks be, no unpleasantness awaited me, nor when I went to the Hotel Regina for lunch, where I was to meet the CO and one or two other people. The doorway there was all boarded up, as the glass doors had been broken with stones. There was an atmosphere slightly resembling that of a state of siege, and everyone was extremely friendly and cheerful, a little like Blitz days again. At lunch there was great talk of the riots and of who had been injured. One or two officers had been rather badly beaten up, and that evening in the Danieli Hotel in Venice we saw a full colonel with a patch over one eye; a brick had been hurled into his jeep as he was quietly driving through the streets. Next day things seemed a little calmer, and the CO suggested that we should go into a local café for a rum punch to see what things were like and, much to our surprise, we were very well received, without a trace of hostility.

  On one of those evenings in Venice, I met an old friend and he took me out to a fascinating Venetian restaurant, named La Grappa d’Uva (‘The Bunch of Grapes’). There was of course music – and where in Italy is there not music, even if it is only an itinerant musician with a piano accordion, who threads his way in between the tables of a restaurant or café, playing request numbers when asked and collecting on a plate afterwards? La Grappa d’Uva was different from the places I had seen before, rather more like something German or Austrian, very welcoming, almost cosy, the sort of place where you did not need to dress in anything special, but could enjoy good food and wine, pleasant music and dance, and cast all cares to the wind. But the place had its own atmosphere, which it might perhaps be too bold to call typically Venetian and yet that is how it struck me, from the variety of fish dishes to the vivid colours worn by the women guests.

  From Venice the road up to Klagenfurt soon became snow-covered, and Klagenfurt itself was completely wrapped in white. Everything there was muffled and sledges drawn by horses or mules, with tinkling bells on their harness, seemed to constitute the principal form of civilian traffic. All military vehicles had chained wheels and there was much panting and blowing and stamping of heavy boots at the doors of offices, messes and canteens.

  From Klagenfurt we went on to Graz, where our section was now in full swing. The road was covered with thick snow, which had been ploughed regularly and on each side was piled high and frozen hard. We managed the journey safely, in spite of a skid, when we did a complete circle round on the road. It seemed we must crash into one bank or the other, but miraculously the massive and cumbersome Humber managed to right herself again. On each side, and as far as the eye could see, were pine forests, reaching up tier upon tier into the gloom; there was absolute stillness everywhere, broken only by the incessant crackling of icicles suspended from the heavily snow-laden branches of the conifers. It was the landscape of Grimms’ Märchen, and one could just imagine the little bearded dwarfs coming out of hollow tree-trunks as the short afternoon slid into a winter’s night.

  Graz seemed to be a pleasant little town, which had suffered quite a lot from Allied bombing, but not nearly so badly as Vienna. There was not a great deal in the shops, but the atmosphere was far lighter and happier than in the capital, in spite of an acute housing shortage among the civilian population, aggravated by the presence of a large Occupation force and their families. Captain Howard had everything running very smoothly with agreeable civilian personnel in his office. I had to do a certain amount of typing, translating and so on, but managed to see a little of the town and to purchase a wooden dog on wheels for the colonel’s baby as a Christmas present. The transit hotel overlooked the river and the towers and spires of the town. Most houses had eaves and gables, just like a scene from Wagner’s Die Meistersinger.

  In the hotel I met ‘Nanny’; that was not his real name, but I christened him that, because when we met he was in charge of somebody’s baby and seemed to be perfectly at home baby-sitting. Nanny asked for a lift as far as his unit at Carno, near Pontebba, not far from the Italian side of the border, and so he joined our party for the r
eturn journey to Villach and so on. Before we left Graz, I had almost my only really severe rebuke for lateness from the CO, delivered in stern and stentorian tones in the crowded vestibule of the officers’ hotel. Everyone looked up and it was with flaming cheeks that I meekly hurried through the swing door and out to the car for our departure, hoping someone else could be thought to be me, but knowing it must be well-nigh impossible. I was always in very good time after that!

  On our way from Villach back to Italy, we had just crossed the frontier and were proceeding at about 30mph in the snow, when a large khaki-coloured charabanc hurtled round a corner unexpectedly, not nearly enough on its own side. Before anyone could say ‘Jack Robinson’, the beautiful Humber Snipe, affectionately known as the CO’s ‘Fire Engine’, was straddling the road completely, blocking all traffic, and very much down on the port side, where the front wheel had been wrenched off, hub and all. I was too surprised even to gasp, but in a moment we were all out inspecting the damage. Fortunately, no-one was hurt, but the car was in a very bad way indeed and, worse still, traffic was already beginning to assemble on either side of her. It was obvious that in a few moments violent hooting would start up from both directions – already small, rather ominous toots were warning us, like an orchestra tuning up before the overture. Nanny and I hurried back to the frontier post, after a few expostulations, and reported the matter to the MPs, who at once telephoned for a breakdown gang. The Maltese driver of the charabanc overtook us here and entered into more rude and angry arguments, swearing that he had been travelling at only 20mph, and producing other similar fairy tales in a very aggressive manner. He kept to his stories later on, even when questioned at a Court of Enquiry, but it was obvious that if he had been telling the truth, the accident would not have occurred. It was a clear case of conscience, but as someone said afterwards, ‘Well, he was an ENSA driver, so what do you expect?’ Hardly fair on ENSA, but ENSA, UNRRA and all the other ancillaries of the Occupation forces were mostly regarded with some measure of suspicion, probably in the main unfair.