War in Val d'Orcia

by Iris Origo

  OCTOBER 4TH

  The Allies land at Termoli. They are now in control of the whole Gargano peninsula, but their progress on the western coast is still very slow.

  More details of the destruction committed by the Germans before leaving Naples—gas and electricity plants destroyed, water cut off, motor-buses and trams carried away. No doubt the same will happen in Rome later on. No single drop of oil is available for lamps. We succeed triumphantly in buying some acetylene lamps in Montepulciano—but have not as yet achieved any acetylene cylinders. Spend the day in packing linen, blankets, silver, etc., to be concealed in an attic which we will wall up in preparation for the German retreat.

  OCTOBER 7TH

  Allied progress imperceptible. Bologna severely bombed again.

  Antonio returns from Florence triumphantly bringing with him some acetylene cylinders. The town is occupied by the Germans, whose behaviour has on the whole been ‘correct’, but who are so much hated that all the misdeeds that they have not as yet committed are attributed to them, as well as those which they have. A certain number of houses and villas, including Villa Palmieri and Villa Papiniano, both belonging to English people, have been requisitioned by the German Command, who are also settled in the Excelsior and the other principal hotels. The shops have been emptied, but the soldiers pay (at an exchange rate of ten lire for one mark) for what they have taken. More serious is the requisitioning from all the chief factories—the Galileo, Pignone, etc.—of metals, machinery and precision instruments, and the directors have been warned that, before the arrival of the Allies, all machines will either be destroyed or taken to Germany. A similar warning has been given to the owners of the principal industries in Milan and Turin.

  Much as the Germans are disliked and dreaded, however, these sentiments are as nothing compared with those awakened by the members of the new Fascist Party—and with reason. Here is a true story. A few days ago, at the bar of the Excelsior, the radio played Giovinezza. One of the men present (a business man called Piaggio) remained seated. ‘Get up,’ ordered one of the Fascists. The other shrugged contemptuously. Whereupon the Fascist drew a revolver and shot him. Most of the other people in the room ran away, but some Germans picked up the wounded man and took him to the hospital, where he lay for some days at the point of death, having been hit in the kidneys. No one attempted to arrest the Fascist, who is still at large.

  OCTOBER 8TH

  Antonio makes a second trip to Florence, to fetch some more acetylene, and brings back surprising news: Contessa A. G., one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, and several other people with Court connections, have suddenly been arrested by the Fascists. Contessa G., most correct of old ladies, and over sixty-five, together with the others, has been taken to the women’s prison at S. Verdiana. No charge is specified.

  OCTOBER 9TH

  The telephone rings, to say that Bruno S., the son of our keeper, who was a Carabiniere in Rome (a boy of nineteen, to whom we are all much attached) is now on his way to … somewhere in Germany. He passed through Chiusi station early this morning, a prisoner, in a train full of other Carabinieri in the same plight, and succeeded in giving this message for his family to a porter on the platform. Poor child—his state of mind can easily be imagined—and now, that of his family. We send for his father and give him the news, and there is little that we can add in the way of comfort. There appears to be no way of finding out what will happen to these ‘interned soldiers’, as the Germans call them—and it is still uncertain whether they will be allowed to write home. Later in the day we hear that all the Carabinieri have been taken prisoner in their own barracks, which were surrounded in the early morning, while they were still in bed, and that the capital is now policed only by the Germans and by the Fascist militia.

  The Mayor of Chianciano, who has come up to tea, tells us that so far there is only one single member of the Fascist Party in Chianciano—the local Segretario del Fascio, a hotel-keeper called N. On September 1st he appeared in the Mayor’s office and declared: ‘Here, in your presence, I solemnly reconstitute the Fascio of Chianciano!’ but since that day no other member has joined him, and he says quite openly that, when the Germans leave, he will have to go with them. He cannot, however, be dismissed as harmless, since he acts as a spy for the Germans and has already enabled them to make several arrests.

  OCTOBER 10TH

  Today N. has performed a further good office for the Germans who are looking for billets, by bringing them here. They found the Castelluccio suitable for their purpose, and inform us that they will arrive here on the day after tomorrow with fifty lorries, about a hundred and fifty men and an officer. They will be quartered at the Castle, but have taken our garage as a workshop and repair-shop.

  We spend the afternoon in hurriedly packing up all that we wish to store away, and in preparing to move some of our refugee children into the villa, so that none of its rooms may be empty. We also warn V., whose son is in hiding here, and the B.s, who are planning to send us theirs, that this is no longer a safe hiding-place.

  The broadcasts of the Fascist Republican Party (from Munich) now begin, after the strains of Giovinezza, with the following remarkable statement: ‘I believe in God, Lord of Heaven and earth. I believe in justice and truth. I believe in the resurrection of Fascist Italy. I believe in Mussolini and the final Italian victory.’

  OCTOBER 11TH

  Our ‘thirty-two boxes, carefully packed, with the name printed clearly on each,’ are now ready, stored, and walled up. As the last brick was set in position, we began to remember the things we had omitted to put away, as well as to regret those which we have packed, but will probably need. It is, however, quite impossible to attach importance to any material possessions now. All that one still clings to is a few vital affections.

  Lately a few letters have begun to trickle through again, bringing news of friends in other parts of Italy. From near Bologna E. writes of the occupation of their village, Pianoro, by German troops. Her father, old General D. (now aged ninety) remembers the day, in 1859, when as a child of five, he saw the Germans turned out of Bologna. ‘Remember this always, my child,’ said his father then, ‘the Germans are gone for good.’ And now they are back again.

  From Florence N. writes that they have decided to stay on there with the children, bombs or no bombs. P. is convinced that the safest place is the very heart of the town—‘so we may move to my in-law’s house, in the shade of Arnolfo’s tower. I have no real grounds for taking any one decision rather than another, but perhaps by staying put in one’s own centre one can be of some use … When we go out we always expect (and frequently have) air-raid warnings, but one ends by leading much the same life as usual. For food we are still managing, but the expense is frightful. One feels escaping from one’s control everything on which one was accustomed to rely, and everything is so suspended that one is very conscious of one’s own littleness.’

  OCTOBER 12TH

  Here the German troops have come—and gone. Yesterday morning we saw the first motor-bicycle drive up, and a sergeant dismounted and said that he had been sent to meet the column, which had left Nemi at ten a.m. the day before. Then, as Antonio began to talk about arrangements, he grinned: ‘Yes, I know—but I’ve got fresh orders in my pocket. About turn!’ And indeed, as soon as the first lorries arrived, a few hours later, they were sent back to Nemi again. It seems an unnecessary expenditure of petrol, tyres and energy. We feel great relief, but do not expect to remain undisturbed for long.

  OCTOBER 13TH

  Drive to Montepulciano, and find the whole little town much agitated. Late yesterday evening a lorry full of Germans arrived there, arrested all the men in the club and all those that they encountered in the street (including my hair-dresser, who was going home from his work) and kept them in the police-station all night. This morning they released those that they did not want and took three away with them; four others are still under arrest at Montepulciano. It appears that all those arrested belong to a
list of anti-Fascists, furnished by local Fascist spies. Entering the little town, one has a strong impression of bewildered anxiety and fear. Half the population is shut indoors, while the rest stand about in little groups, whispering fresh tales (mostly totally unfounded) of German cruelties or Fascist regulations. Everyone has something to fear, or thinks he has—which, after all, comes to the same thing. In the B.s’ drawing-room, where we sit huddled round the radio, each member of the party has some private source of anxiety. M. B. herself is tormented by anxiety for her two grown-up sons (officers in the Army and Navy) whom she hourly expects to be arrested and implores not to leave the house—for her younger boy of nineteen, who might be taken away for Arbeitsdienst—for her brother, a leading anti-Fascist in the Veneto, whose house near Padua has been requisitioned—and for her husband, who, as Podestà of this town, is likely soon to get into trouble. Signora T., her guest, is equally anxious about her anti-Fascist husband, who, when she last heard of him, was in hiding in Rome, staying in a different house every night—while her eldest son is in the same position as the B. boys. The grown-up sons are fuming to leave at once and take their chances of getting through the German lines, to join the Allies: the younger ones are fretting at the restriction of their life indoors. A neighbour comes in: her husband, the captain of the Carabinieri, is in an even less enviable position, since the Carabinieri in the province are daily expected to share the fate of their comrades in Rome, and in many small towns have already run away. Here, however, the captain is still sticking to his post. As each new person comes in, the others ask eagerly: ‘Have you any news?’ One caller has heard that at Foligno bands of escaped British prisoners, with Italian soldiers and officers, are conducting a regular guerrilla against the Germans. (Two British prisoners who came through La Foce yesterday, too, told me that they had been accosted by an Italian officer who invited them to join a similar band.) Another repeats an anecdote which has been told her by her maid, who has just returned from Arezzo. Some German soldiers went into a bar and asked for a drink. ‘Wish it may poison you!’ muttered the barmaid, as she handed it to them. ‘No, no!’ replied the soldiers good-humouredly in excellent Italian. ‘Don’t give the poison to me; keep it for your chief and mine!’—So we sit and whisper, and presently a British broadcast in Italian announces sensational news: Badoglio’s proclamation that Italy has declared war against Germany.

  OCTOBER 15TH

  It is now five weeks since the armistice. Italy has nominally four governments (the Germans in the north, the Allies in the south, the Fascist, set up by the Germans, and the Badoglio Government, supported by the Allies) and two armies: that of Graziani and that of Badoglio. In actual fact the only effective governments are two: that of the Allies in the south and that of the Germans here—wherever there are enough troops to enforce it. Elsewhere each little town or community rules itself—fairly successfully, since there is (at least in this district) a temporary truce to party politics and a general feeling of unity in confronting the general misfortune. The great majority of the Army is in hiding; the police are under arrest, or are expecting to be arrested. Mussolini and Badoglio alike are merely distant voices off stage.

  What are the Italians feeling about it all? Those whom I have seen fall into four categories. First there are those who (even if not pro-Fascist or pro-German originally) are profoundly shocked and humiliated by what they consider to be the King’s and Badoglio’s betrayal, and by the manner of its execution. They feel that neither the Fascist misrule nor the Germans’ behaviour can justify this betrayal nor retrieve the national honour—and some of them have disregarded the orders of their superior officers and have joined the German forces.

  More numerous, however, are those who feel like the writer of the following letter: ‘What I feel is this: ours has been (without wasting time over various excuses which won’t affect the judgment of the world at large) an unforgivable betrayal. On the other hand they (the Germans), with their unlimited meannesses, dirty tricks and double-crossing, have forfeited any right or chance of getting allies. So I won’t fight on their side—nor, since we have been guilty of betrayal, against them, although I think them disgusting.’ Practically all the other officers in the writer’s regiment (one of the best in the country) share these sentiments.

  At the other end of the scale are the anti-Fascists who (even if uncomfortable about the King’s and Badoglio’s personal conduct) desired and approve the armistice, welcome the declaration of war—and await the arrival of the Allies as friends, liberators and benefactors. Some of these have already attempted to join the Allied forces: others are organising (together with some of the fugitive British prisoners) guerrilla bands and local sabotage in the parts of the country still occupied by the Germans. In this part of Italy, so far as I can discover, the number of these partisans is as yet comparatively small: in Piemonte, I am told, they are numerous and armed, and are in hiding in the mountains until the time comes, with the approach of the Allies, to launch an attack.

  Finally there is the great mass of the Italian people, who hold none of these extreme opinions—but ‘tira a campare’. [24] Profoundly disillusioned, cynical, tired, fully conscious that more suffering and privations still lie ahead, they are a defeated nation—and the only universal incentive still left is that of self-preservation. Those who have some sons of military age are engaged in hiding them: those who took part in any of the activities of the Badoglio Government are in hiding themselves; those who have any valuable possessions are concealing them too. Everyone, on a larger or smaller scale, is struggling to obtain the minimum of necessities to support life this winter: food, fuel, light, clothes, boots, medicines. Since it is evident that the Germans are taking away many of these objects, the hatred of them is increasing, and the arrival of the Allies is awaited with impatience and high hopes—hopes so high that it is difficult to believe that disappointment will not ensue. Everyone, however (whatever their political attitude) realises clearly that every additional week of German occupation increases the country’s impoverishment and prolongs the period of suspended action. Whatever prospects the Allies may have in store for us it will be better than the present state of affairs—since then it will be possible to begin again. So we sit and listen to the BBC, which reports five miles’ progress, eight miles’ progress (‘a tedious business’ says the announcer, and we agree) and go on waiting.

  OCTOBER 16TH

  Antonio goes down to Chianciano and returns with the news that at Magione a German captain, as he was driving through a wood, was shot at and killed: he was buried yesterday at Chianciano.

  In the evening a Moroccan soldier turns up here, an escaped prisoner from Laterina. He can speak only a few words of English and Italian and is very completely lost—travelling north, although he says he wants to get to Rome. We give him food and shelter for the night and point out the road to the south. ‘Me ship,’ he says. ‘Me not swim.’ Very slight are his chances of getting home again.

  An ominous short paragraph in the Corriere della Sera refers to the treatment given to the Italian soldiers who are imprisoned in Germany. They are not considered prisoners of war, but internati (i.e. directly under the control of Himmler), but the Fascist Government will ‘attempt to obtain a mitigation of fate of those who are willing to fight on the side of the German Army’. Poor Bruno!

  OCTOBER 17TH

  An eventful morning. As we are walking back from church, we hear four or five shots nearby, in the direction of the Dopolavoro, and a minute later are told that a German lorry has just gone by. Antonio walks down the road in the direction of the shots, while I send the goggling children indoors and the nurse gets the bed in the clinic ready. After a few minutes Antonio returns saying, ‘It’s nothing’—but adds to me in English, ‘It’s some Allied POWs firing, presumably at some Germans, as there’s a German lorry on the road. When I reached the turn an Allied soldier shouted to me: “Get out! Germans here: we’ll shoot!”’ Half an hour later Antonio walks down the r
oad again, and this time finds two very shaken Germans standing by their lorry, which is lying in the ditch. What has happened is this: the Germans (a sergeant and a driver) were coming slowly down the road, when they met four American soldiers. They stopped the car and the Americans fired six or seven shots (those we had heard), shooting the windscreen to pieces, hitting the radiator, and only narrowly missing the two Germans, whom they then forced to get out of the car and stand in the ditch with their hands up while they searched and disarmed them. This was going on at the very moment that Antonio appeared at the turn of the road, but the lorry was between him and the Germans, so that he did not see them, though they saw him—and thought, they afterwards said, that he was the leader of the partisans. The Americans then emptied the petrol tank, pushed the lorry into the ditch, removed the crank—and disappeared into the woods.

  While this was going on and Antonio had gone down the road a second time, V. (who with his son was hurrying up to hide in a remote farm) told me that the Moroccan prisoner who arrived last night was still hiding in the woodshed, so I hurried there to warn him to get away before the Germans came back to search the place. No one was in the shed. I called in English and French, ‘Come out.’ No answer. But I had the feeling that someone was there, in the pig-sty beyond the shed. I went into the yard, in front of the sties, and called again. Then, very cautiously, a black head appeared behind the gate-bars of one of the sties. ‘Jerries, tedeschi,’ I said. ‘Bang! Run!’ The ragged figure stood up. ‘Tedeschi? Me English!’—‘Yes, I know. Go! Allez!’—‘Me English. Sank you!’ And he was off into the woods.