War in Val d'Orcia

by Iris Origo

  FEBRUARY 13TH

  Mr. Churchill declares that ‘while all battles, as they approach their decisive phase, are anxious’, he feels ‘no especial anxiety’ about the Anzio battle. I wish I could share his feelings.

  It is odd how used one can become to uncertainty for the future, to a complete planlessness, even in one’s most private mind. What we shall do and be, and whether we shall, in a few months’ time, have any home or possessions, or indeed our lives, is so clearly dependent on events outside our own control as to be almost restful. For of course everyone else is in the same boat. Refugees from southern Italy bring tragic tales of the results of the ‘scorched earth’ policy, carried out by the Germans in their leisurely retreat. Not only the small towns, but the farms and the crops have been destroyed—in addition, of course, to the havoc already brought by bombing. There is no reason to think that central Italy will be spared a similar fate—the only uncertainty left to each of us being whether or not we shall happen to be on the road of the advancing or retreating armies. Our friends the Caetani, whose home is at Ninfa, in the middle of the present battle, and the Senni family, who live on the road between Grottaferrata and Rome next to a large airport, are at any rate already in the thick of it. Those of us who live farther north are still uncertain of our fate. The Gh.s, living on the coast thirty-seven miles from Livorno, will be obliged to leave their house (like all the rest of the civilian population) if there should be a landing on the Tuscan coast; meanwhile they already have German officers in the house, cannons in the garden, and troops in the village. E., whose house is situated just above a tunnel between the main road and the railway from Florence to Bologna, is in an equally precarious position. So is everyone who happens to live near a railway (even in as small a town as Poggibonsi) or on a main road. Nevertheless, practically all landowners have chosen to remain on their properties until they are actually bombed or turned out, together with their peasants, who have no other choice. Most of us have buried our jewels and papers, walled up some reserves of wheat, potatoes, oil and wine, and hidden some of our best furniture, books and clothes in the more remote farm houses, and now are sitting tight. In our particular case, if ever we are forced to move, we shall have with us, in addition to our own two small children, the twenty-three refugee children, including a five-months-old baby—no simple matter either to transport or feed.

  Schwester Marie and Iris with refugee children

  Meanwhile daily life holds nothing worse than isolation and boredom. For the last three days we have been snowed up, and can reach neither Montepulciano nor Chianciano: the telephone is broken, and we have often no letters or papers for five or six days together. No trains are running either on the Arezzo-Chiusi or Siena-Chiusi line, and Chianciano’s only link with the rest of the world is a bus to Siena three times a week. So we build snow castles with the children, go for long walks, try to feed and clothe the people who come to us for help, listen to the radio (but much less than one would expect, and with an odd indifference, even when the news is such as is likely to be vital to us), re-read all our old books—and wait.

  I have spoken of the immediate hazards: the more remote ones are of course even greater. Though each one of us in his inmost heart believes that he and his family will survive (through some privilege which we certainly could not account for) certainly no one can make a guess as to what his future life will be. Shall we have any money left, or work for a bare living? In what sort of a world will our children be brought up? What should we teach them to prepare them? Can any peace or order be restored again in this unhappy, impoverished and divided land? And when those who, like myself, have relations and friends in other countries, are able to hear from them again, what news will we receive? Three weeks ago—after four months of silence and anxiety—I received the news of my mother’s death in Switzerland, eighteen days after the event—in a letter from a stranger which had been smuggled across the frontier. When letters begin again, how many other such pieces of news shall we all receive? Which of our close friends and relations are already dead, or will die before we meet them again? And, even among those who survive, what barriers of constraint and unfamiliarity will have arisen in these years—not only of physical separation, but of experience unshared, of differing feelings and opinions? What ties will survive that strain?

  FEBRUARY 15TH

  Yesterday the Abbey of Monte Cassino, fourteen centuries old, was destroyed by Allied bombs—to the accompaniment of a flood of radio propaganda from both sides. The Allies state that they refrained from damaging the Abbey until the Germans began to use it as an armed fortress; the Germans deny it. The Abbot states that German soldiers came out of the ruins; the Germans, that the Abbot, some of the monks, and many refugee women and children from the town below, were still there. Most of the precious library has been saved.

  FEBRUARY 16TH

  Yesterday and today Rome has been bombed by the Allies—in order to obstruct the passage of German troops. Radio Roma states that there has also been machine-gunning of the civilian population, including three cars from the Vatican on their way to the bombed quarter. Three days ago the great villa at Castelgandolfo adjoining the Pope’s palace, which was filled with refugee women and children, was hit by Allied bombs. The radio controversy about Cassino continues, the pot calling the kettle black. What appears to be true, from a statement signed by the Abbot himself, is that twenty monks and about a hundred and eighty civilians perished in the ruins.

  Two other prisoners who have escaped from the bombed train at Alerona were waiting for me in the wood this morning. They are two Americans, who have been living for three days in one of our farms where their uniforms are being dyed: and now they are planning either to go to the coast and ‘somehow’ get a boat to Corsica, or else to walk up to Piemonte and get into France across the Alps. I point out the difficulties of both courses, and they decide to go south instead. They belong to the Eighth Army, and were captured at Venafro.

  FEBRUARY 17TH

  Today a new sort of fugitive has turned up: three Austrian soldiers who have deserted from the German Army at Anzio and are trying to get home. One is still in uniform: the other two have their uniforms in a bag, and put them on whenever they travel by train, changing into civilian clothes when tramping. Their chances of getting home seem very poor, and if taken they will of course be shot. I show them a map and give them some food. Antonio, who knows German much better than I do, says that only one of them is an Austrian. If the German front breaks we shall no doubt see many others like them; but will it break? Today there is news of fiercer fighting on both sides; perhaps it is to be the ‘decisive battle’ which we are all awaiting. All night we hear German planes flying overhead.

  FEBRUARY 18TH

  Bring back a ten-days-old baby from the Montepulciano hospital: Giovannino. His mother is suffering from septicaemia and cannot nurse him, and (owing to the general lack of food and the number of refugees at Montepulciano) it is impossible to find either a wet-nurse or cow’s milk. So we have brought him back here and have made him a cradle in a large basket in the nursery. He is a miserable little scrap, with sores on his legs and in his mouth from starvation, and I only trust that we may be able to save him. Schwester Marie is being angelic about all the extra work, saying (as indeed is true) that it is as much war work as any other. [2]

  FEBRUARY 19TH

  Bad news yesterday. The Fascist Government—presumably under pressure from the Germans—orders that recruits of the 1922, ’23, ’24 and ’25 classes, called to the colours, those who do not report within a fortnight will immediately be shot. The sentence will be executed on the spot where they are captured, or at their own home. Moreover, a police circular (of which a copy has been sent us by the Maresciallo of Pienza) states that all landowners who shelter, or allow their peasants to conceal, recruits of these classes on their property, will be considered directly responsible.

  FEBRUARY 20TH

  The fighting on the Anzio beach-head conti
nues, each side having brought up heavy artillery. The situation appears to be unchanged—the advantage, if any, being to the Germans. More of their planes fly over us in the night.

  A young man who has just come back from Rome says that fresh material for labour-camps in Germany is being collected in the following manner: Fascist or S.S. troops appear suddenly in one of the main streets, cut off a section, and arrest all the men in that section between the ages of sixteen and fifty-five. They are marched off (without even being allowed to send a message home) and never seen again.

  FEBRUARY 22ND

  Go for the day to Montepulciano and help to serve lunch at the communal kitchen started by Bracci, the Mayor, at which four hundred people are given lunch daily in two shifts. They usually get soup or macaroni, followed by vegetables or chestnuts, with a piece of bread of fifty grammes, and meat once or twice a week—all for half a lira—and a glass of wine for an extra half lira. Today, being Shrove Tuesday, there was a slice (smallish) of roast beef in a plate of macaroni, followed by a small slab of chestnut-cake—and a glass of wine free. All this in addition to the usual scanty food ration, which thus remains available for the evening meal. The food was well cooked and hot, the rooms clean and cheerful. Everyone who has applied—whether evacuees or the poor of the district—has been admitted. An admirable enterprise.

  Hear Churchill’s speech to the House. The part referring to Italy will be heard here with feelings not unmixed. No one can view with indifference the prospect of the rest of Italy suffering the same fate as the district between Naples and Rome. Nor is it exactly comforting to hear the references to ‘Hitler’s intention’ of making Rome a second Stalingrad.

  FEBRUARY 27TH

  A peasant from a remote farm on Monte Amiata, Fonte Lippi, came to see me, bringing with him a letter from three of our POWs, who (after having lived for four months hidden in this man’s farm) set off in January to try to rejoin their own troops. There were four of them, but when they got near to Cassino one of them was captured, and the other three have now returned, worn-out and ragged, to the same farm. Their note says: ‘We realise that this man has robbed himself and his family to keep us,’ and begs me to help him in any way that I can. The peasant’s story is remarkable. He took in these four Englishmen at the beginning of October, when they were obliged to leave here, and fed and housed them—disregarding the danger as well as the expense—for over three months. Then the Fascist militia of Radicofani (having been warned by a spy) came to search his house and threatened to shoot him for harbouring enemy aliens. They came in the middle of the night and turned the house upside down, but della brava gente (some good folk) had given the warning two hours before, and the prisoners had escaped into the woods in time—returning again to the farm the next day. ‘We just couldn’t turn them out,’ said their host. ‘They had become a part of the family—and when at last they left, my old woman and the children cried.’ But meanwhile they had eaten up all the family’s flour—everyone was going short—and at last, in January, they had set off—only to return again a fortnight ago. The farmer went to his landlord to ask for some more wheat, but he refused, saying that he knew it was needed because the man had helped Allied prisoners. ‘So much the worse for you.’ The Englishmen have tried to join up with one of the bands on Monte Amiata, but their leader has told them to stay where they were for the present, as he too is short of food. (All the hopes of these bands are set on another Allied landing nearer here.) Finally, in despair, the peasant has come to us. He has also provided the Englishmen with clothes, at his own expense, and all he is asking for it is some wheat so that his family will not go hungry, and, if possible, some boots for his guests. We are providing the wheat (two quintals)—which will be taken down to the valley at night in the cart of one of our farmers who can be trusted—and there transferred to this man’s ox-cart. Boots are as unprocurable as the crown jewels, but I have sent Antonio’s last pair of shoes, some socks, cigarettes, books and playing-cards (for the men do not now dare to stir out of the house) and some money.

  Surely this is a very creditable story. Much has been said in these times (and not least by the Italians themselves) about Italian cowardice and Italian treachery. But here is a man (and there are hundreds of others like him) who has run the risk of being shot, who has shared his family’s food to the last crumb, and who has lodged, clothed and protected four strangers for over three months—and who now proposes continuing to do so, while perfectly aware of all the risks that he is running. What is this, if not courage and loyalty?

  FEBRUARY 28TH

  Receive a bundle of letters from Rome. Life there—a month after the Allies’ landing at Nettuno—is not agreeable.

  German troops pass through the centre of the city (lorries, tanks and guns) from Piazza del Popolo down the Corso—the road of all the great invasions of the past. Allied planes circle over unceasingly, frequent dog-fights take place, but bombing, so far, has been limited to the outskirts of the city and the quarters near the stations. The bombing of the Castelli, however (Frascati, Castelgandolfo, Velletri, etc.), has been very bad.

  The peasants of the Ostia bonifica, which has been flooded, suddenly appeared in town with five hundred cattle, and are camping in huts in the Glori, together with the children from the Frascati nursery-school, while C. A. struggles to find food for both men and cattle. At Frascati the survivors—about three hundred and sixty people—live day and night in the shelter beneath Villa Aldobrandini, only coming out for two hours between five and seven to bake their bread. At Villa Senni, near Grottaferrata, the house is occupied by Germans, but the daughters of the house have refused to leave it and sleep in a cave on the property, together with about thirty peasants and some cattle. In Rome the streets are full of pitiful sights—refugees wandering in the streets, without food or shelter, and sleeping at night under the bridges or in the tunnel. Food is still obtainable by the rich, but at preposterous prices: a few communal kitchens have been started for the rest of the population (notably by the Vatican) but too few and too late. In the first days after the Allied landing many pro-Allies (certain that in a few days their friends would have arrived) took an active part in manning bridges or other preparations, or merely expressed their hopes with injudicious freedom: now many of them are under arrest or in hiding—or already executed. Most tragic was the fate of the patriot bands, who had for months been waiting for their chance in the woods and hills, and who succeeded (on the second day after the landing) in taking Velletri, hourly expecting the Allied forces to join up with them. But the Germans arrived in their stead and the patriots were wiped out.

  Making bread

  A friend writes: ‘The other evening I heard on the radio the account of Monte Cassino’s destruction, told by the Abbot, an old man of eighty. Without a single adjective, quietly, in a tired and saddened tone, he told the story as if it had happened a hundred years ago. It was terribly moving and I can hardly imagine what the Benedictines from that monastery, now scattered all over the world, must have felt in hearing that quiet, heartfelt account of the end of that source of civilisation—now, after fourteen centuries of religious life, buried for ever.’

  FEBRUARY 29TH

  A young officer—a shy, silent, melancholy Sardinian—has turned up with a letter from Don Remo—the parish priest of Sinalunga, asking us to give him shelter. His papers are in order (he is of the 1919 class) but he is very jumpy and restless—clearly suffering from shock, after having been through both the Russian and the Sicilian campaigns. We offer to take him in here, but he prefers to go to one of the farms.

  MARCH 2ND

  The Sardinian boy has gone off; he must get through the lines at once, he says, and join the Allies. We point out that he has now practically no chance of getting through. But he won’t listen: ‘Justice is on the other side,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to get through to them.’ We tell him that if he fails he can come back to us, and I give him a note for G.—a member of the Resistance movement in Rome. ‘This
is to introduce a friend of ours, who has been staying here and wants to meet Vittoria’ (England). He goes off through the woods in his shabby overcoat and worn-out shoes, a paper bundle over his shoulder.

  MARCH 3RD

  Letter from a friend near Livorno. The strip of land along the coast is now being flooded, and there are German troops everywhere. (Six months ago there was no one.) There is a good deal of bombing of towns and villages on the railway, and also much indiscriminate machine-gunning on the roads. ‘What will be left of this wretched country?’ a friend writes to me today. ‘Perhaps a few isolated houses in the woods or hills—all the rest destroyed. I don’t believe that the wars of the past, even with the pestilence and famine that they brought, were as destructive as this one. First we fought to save Africa, then Italy and her islands, then the peninsula, then each province in turn; then we struggled to keep our cars and our freedom of movement, then our houses and those we love—and no doubt we shall soon be thankful merely to save our skins.’