My Italian Adventures

by de Burgh, Lucy; Hodge, Mary; Hastings, Max

  Just back from this scene of ant-like activity, stood the Basilica of San Giovanni Laterano, a magnificent Renaissance church, with marble colonnades inside, and statues of the saints on the pinnacles of the facade. Ahead of us was a flight of steps leading up to a mosaic, a picture of Christ and the Apostles. The steps were very worn and rounded, as if they had been much used. I learnt later that they were the famous Passi Santi, or Sacred Steps, and that on a certain day each year the faithful mount them, kneeling, to supplicate for forgiveness of their sins.

  There was so much to take in that one could not immediately form more than a fleeting impression of the scene, and it was not long before we had hailed a jeep and were hurrying on, deeper into the city, which was already beginning to fascinate us with its pulsating hidden life. We drove along a narrow and rather slummy street and then came out into an open once more; to the right of us were gardens on a slope and to our left the Coliseum. We did not need to have the Coliseum pointed out to us. It was there, just as one had always imagined it, only bigger and more massive, with its truly colossal blocks of stone and solid archways. We drove on, and another arch appeared to the left, and next to it more Roman ruins, which we learned afterwards were the Forum. To the right were yet more ruins and then a hill, with ancient houses and towers on it – the Aventine, as we later learned. It was then we caught sight of an amazing thing: in the midst of all this grey, pinky or rose-coloured stone, simmered something white as snow and dazzling in the sunshine. ‘We call that the wedding cake,’ said our driver casually. It was the Vittorio Emanuele Monument. I have heard many heated arguments about it, both for and against; it does not tone in with the rest of Rome, but because the city reflects the architecture and designs of so many periods and cults, there seems no reason why even the pre-1914 era should not have its monument. It is glaring, brutal and magnificently constructed, with some very fine sculpture. It can be seen from all the main parts of the city, its white roof towering nakedly above the rest, Roman, Romanesque, Gothic and Baroque. It is an integral part of modern Rome, just as much as Mussolini’s famous stadium and the gorgeous modern railway station both fit in with the city’s galaxy of architectural styles, worthy representatives of the Fascist régime, probably the best things that remain of that singularly undistinguished period of Italian history.

  The Vittorio Emanuele Monument fills one side of the Piazza Venezia, the square already mentioned, where Mussolini made his speeches from a balcony on the first floor of the Palazzo Venezia. Opposite was another huge palazzo, and this building was taken over by the Allies as the seat of their government in Rome: the Rome Area Allied Command. Here the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes hung side by side, and a mixed staff of British and Americans worked together to ensure the smooth functioning of the civil administration of the city, as well as the complicated maintenance of the Rome Garrison, the many ‘leave’ hotels, and the numerous and varied units situated in or around the city, such as Field Security, which checked on all undesirable or suspicious persons. It also included the staff of our own unit, doing special work, for we were under the War Office for our Intelligence directives, but under Rome Command for our administration. In that building many battles were later to be fought on the subjects of unit transport, fuel and stores of all kinds, as each unit tried to secure the best available for its own personnel, especially when the grimness of winter came upon us, and we discovered that Italy was not all sun, fruit, wine and song. But that was yet to come, and we were now sweltering in the heat of an almost tropical midsummer.

  We skirted the piazza, whose centre was converted into a military car park, and took a long street leading out of it, opposite the ‘Wedding Cake’, and found it was called the ‘Corso Umberto’, ‘corso’ being Italian for boulevard. There were stone buildings on either side, mostly in Renaissance style, with tall windows covered with iron grills, and sturdy oak doors studded with nails. We soon came to a square with a minaret in its centre. This was to the left of the Corso, and here on the right another wide boulevard turned up. We ascended this, noting with surprise how devoid the streets were of all civilian activity. By contrast there were numbers of troops, both English and American, strolling about, looking into the closed windows of the shops, or some of them talking to a few girls, who wore their hair very long and flowing, and most of them sporting the fashionable wedge-heeled shoe, which had not yet appeared in England. War and Occupation did not seem to put the Italian women out of fashion, or cause them to lose any of their dress sense.

  We presently arrived at the Piazza Barberini, where several roads converged and where a fountain with stone figures stood in the middle. But it was dry and only a shallow layer of dirty water covered the bottom of the basin. Here the Hotel Bristol-Bernini had been taken over by the American forces for their Red Cross Club and PX. I never discovered what the magic letters ‘PX’ stood for, but the most wonderful things came from there. To the Italians it must have been symbolic of Santa Claus. Here then our friendly jeep driver left us and we turned left, up a long hill called the Via Vittoria Veneto, with lime trees on each side, whose shade we were only too glad to enjoy, for it was about three o’clock, zero hour in the summer heat. We wandered along and gazed in the shop windows, but found nothing to buy as all were closed, and everything was too expensive in any case. We did discover a hairdresser, and I made a mental note of its whereabouts, for we had no hot water and washing one’s own hair was going to be somewhat of a bind. Hairdressers at least were not expensive, as yet.

  We arrived at the top of the hill and came to another ancient gateway, very similar to the one by which we had entered the city. This turned out to be the Porta Pinciana. We went through it and into a beautiful park with tall pine trees. We did not venture far, but noticed several vendors of what must be black market cigarettes. We also heard the already familiar, ‘Mees, sell cigarette’, whispered after us as we passed. We were in search of somewhere to have tea, but the one or two requisitioned hotels we came across were American, and Americans, it seemed, did not go in for afternoon tea. In the end, we entered an Italian café, which we learnt later was forbidden at that time, and there the proprietor was most obliging and gave us tea with water ices. He had no milk or cakes of any sort. There were hardly any customers, for trade had not recommenced, and many Romans were still out in the country, on their farms or at their seaside villas (if these were still inhabitable) or with relations. A great exodus had taken place, as although Rome had been declared an ‘open city’, many had feared the retribution of the Germans and had fled with a few belongings in case there should be widespread destruction. But the trek home had already begun, as had the enormous influx of refugees of many nationalities, which has been one of the city’s greatest administrative problems ever since.

  The population is said to have gone up 2 million since the war, and not much building has taken place since, owing to lack of materials. Small wonder that there are actually people living in caves, in Roman ruins or even out in the open. After we had rested for a time in the pleasant cool of the café, we strolled down the hill once more, waving at Toby, whom we caught sight of coming in an open truck with an assorted collection of soldiers. He must have hitched in too. Some of the passers-by looked at us rather curiously, and we realised that we must be amongst the first of the women’s services to come to Rome. We found a lovely shop that sold combs, powders and perfumes. It was wonderful to buy a real tortoiseshell comb, and quite cheaply compared with English prices.

  The shadows were lengthening, and the city was beginning to wake up from its afternoon siesta, but it was time for us to think of getting a lift back. We discovered that just in front of the Vittorio Emanuele building was the best place to pick up a vehicle going our way, and without difficulty we found transport and were soon on our return journey. I felt dazed and astonished, to think that I had actually at last visited Rome, of which I had heard so much, which my parents had visited ten years earlier, and of which I had read in history les
sons. It gave one a sort of exhilarated feeling, but we knew that we were indeed in every sense on the fringe. We had lifted the cup to our lips – and to experience Rome is like drinking from the magic cup that had no dregs, and from which one could never drink too much.

  10

  Mädchen in Uniform

  T he next day we unpacked all our files, typewriters, stationery, index cards and a host of other equipment necessary to the running of the office. My new boss arrived, and seemed quite pleasant and very businesslike. He set about a complete reorganisation of the work he had been given, and in view of the fighting then taking place, his work was of great value. He had an enormous large-scale map on the wall, showing the daily, almost hourly, progress of the battle, which Tony adjusted as each fresh report came in. Among my jobs was that of map curator, and this I found most interesting, and incidentally it taught me quite a lot of geography of which I had not even dreamt before. Some of the maps were illustrated in such beautiful colours, translucent blues and bright greens, that it was a real pleasure to handle them, and I became very proud of our collection, which grew progressively larger as time went on and was quite a library by the time I had to hand it over to someone else.

  Shortly after Tony’s arrival, we went off to the new Map Centre, which was right on the other side of the city. We drove in a Morris truck with a closed cabin, as there was nothing else available, and we two sat in front with the driver, it being so bumpy and dusty behind. It was an intensely hot day and we started off at about two o’clock. We went through the city to the Corso Umberto, and instead of turning right towards the PX we kept on to the end of the Corso, where it entered a large round piazza. On each side were sister churches, with shields over their doors, depicting the dove of peace with a leaf in its mouth, green and white on a blue background. To the right was a tree-covered slope leading up to the Borghese Gardens and, steeply rising from this, was a white stone terrace and balustrade. Ahead of us was yet another massive gateway in the walls. This was the Porta Flaminia, opening on to the Via Flaminia, and beside the gate was a very old stone church, Santa Maria del Popolo. There was not much traffic, and we bounded over the cobbles of the piazza and through the ancient arches, with now partially effaced Fascist slogans on the walls – ‘’Viva il Duce. Morteagli Alleati!’ (‘Long live the leader. Death to the Allies!’)

  The Via Flaminia is a great broad highway, which crosses one of the newest quarters of Rome, where there are some beautiful modern flats, cream, peach, pink and even blue, with window boxes, and small balconies or terraces, each with its little collection of flowerpots and cactuses. Finally we came to the Tiber, a green, muddy-looking river in the hot weather, wending its way sluggishly seawards; we turned right along its bank to the Ponte Milvio, the oldest bridge in Rome, very long and narrow, and for one-way traffic only. We crossed over and saw in front of us a rather modern-looking and not very impressive church. Now it was necessary to ask the way of some local inhabitants, and I being the only Italian speaker (if I could claim that qualification) was told to get out and make enquiries. After several minutes of inconclusive talking, shouting and gesticulating, we went on and questioned an old man tending large sunflowers in a small, dusty garden. We were getting our first experience of that almost universal response when one asks an Italian the way – ‘sempre Diritto’, straight on.

  A little further on, we turned left, up a steep and bumpy path, with no normal surface of any kind, and came to a large modern building with the usual signs of damage. In front, a neat, freshly painted notice stated, ‘No. 2 Field Survey Unit’. We went in, and found that the Survey people were in the process of unpacking and organising themselves. We managed to obtain some of the maps we wanted, and set off once more inside the by now stiflingly hot cab, and were soon out on the main road by the church, and driving along the north bank of the Tiber towards a wide, modern bridge. This we crossed and, for a change, drove right along the bank of the river. What a magnificent sight! First, we passed the clean-looking modern flats mentioned before, and then came to older houses, all with green window-boxes and sometimes grey-striped sun-blinds. To the right of us unfolded the panorama of the bridges, one by one, in the immediate background of which was Monte Mario, its greenery showing up the white houses and the gleaming white dome of the wireless station. Nearby, we could see the famous Castel Sant’Angelo, where Benvenuto Cellini was imprisoned, and from where Tosca hurled herself to her death, the Palazzo di Giustizia, with its tall ornate pinnacles, and then the dome of St Peter’s, rising majestically from the parchment walls of the Vatican City. Behind St Peter’s was the green hill of the Janiculum. Along the river banks on either side were the cool lime trees, whose shade made the road at least bearable, despite the reflection of the burning sun, whose scorching rays were deflected from the pavements, thus doubling the intensity of the atmosphere. The colouring was something never to be forgotten, a scene of vivid contrasts, the dark green of the trees and grass enhanced by the vivid brightness of delicate pink or peach of the sunlit buildings, the brilliant, untrammelled blue of the sky, in which not a wisp of cloud was to be seen, and the grey-green of the river.

  Here and there on the hills stood the black outline of a cypress tree, like a sentinel pointing up to the sky. We came to a fascinating little island in the river, crammed with houses of all shapes and sizes. Passing some Doric columns and other Roman remains, we skirted another amphitheatre, similar to the Coliseum, but which had been put to practical use – the upper part had been filled in and converted into flats. We then descended, past the Capitoline Hill, to the Piazza Venezia, and thence past the Coliseum to San Giovanni. By that time I was parched with thirst, and everything I had on seemed to be glued to my body. I was very relieved when Tony said we would stop for a refresher. We sat outside a café on the Piazza San Giovanni and drank lemonade, made with fresh lemons, and for a wonder with plenty of sugar. After that we felt better and continued on our way, but by now the cream houses and the grey aqueduct were once more bathed in the sunset rays, and the houses on the Alban Hills seemed almost to wear haloes as they reflected the warm glow of the afternoon, offset by the dark green of the woods and fields.

  Our office was soon enlivened by the arrival of a young captain, also from Algiers, called Jimmy. He was very cheerful, talked a lot, and seemed slightly bohemian to my mind. He was the most untidy person I had ever met, and as I was responsible for tidying up the office my job became twenty times more complicated after the arrival of Jimmy, who could not tolerate that anything he was working on should be touched, or, as he put it, ‘tampered with’. One day I could stand it no longer, and I had one gorgeous tidy-up while Jimmy was out searching for Roman pottery, his favourite hobby outside his work. When he came in, he had one look round and then let go a flow of expletives liberally sprinkled with good strong language. It was as if a hailstorm had come down in the heat of the Roman afternoon. For once I was nettled, and before I knew what had occurred, I was soundly berating Jimmy for speaking to me in such a fashion, and then unknown to both of us, the colonel walked in, and I suddenly turned round and saw him, looking more than a little amused, and stopped as suddenly as I had begun, feeling rather foolish. But the colonel was both just and gallant, and as Jimmy was already known, in fact notorious, for his difficult ways, he was soon put in his place and in fact took it very well. The funny thing was that I really rather liked him, though at other times I detested him, for his sarcasm in particular. He was often trying to persuade me to go out hunting for Roman pottery with him in the evenings after dinner, but it was intensely hot, and I did not fancy the gravel pit next to the even dustier main road, where most of his best finds were discovered, though to my mind none of them were much catch. Still, Jimmy wanted to take up archaeology seriously after the war. He also collected old enemy weapons, and presented me, in addition to pieces of pottery, with a number of martial souvenirs, helmets, an old bayonet, which later became very useful for hacking up firewood, some machine-gun bullet
s, and most important, a Teller mine, which he promised he had freed from all important fuses. Heaven knows why I believed so naively that he had really done all that was necessary to make the landmine harmless, but I did, perhaps because Tony seemed quite unperturbed by it. It was grand to possess a landmine as a souvenir, although it became somewhat of an embarrassment later on and nearly got me into serious trouble, by which time, of course, Jimmy had returned to Algiers.

  Meanwhile we had acquired a sergeant, Entwhistle, in the office. He was a good type, though he was a little suspicious of women officers, but we got on very well and he really was an excellent worker. He had worked with Tony in Cairo and so they were already a team. Jimmy eventually departed, as neither Tony not Sgt Entwhistle could get on with him, they both being such tidy beings. Although I was sorry to see him go, there was more order and harmony in the office after he had left. The Teller mine was meanwhile relegated to a cupboard, and luckily it was on my afternoon off that the machine-gun bullets blew up in the secret waste incinerator! Entwhistle, profiting by my absence, had had a field-day, tidying up, and though no-one knew how the things got among the secret waste, I had my suspicions. Fortunately, despite the spray of bullets that emanated from the furnace, no-one was even grazed – luckily, as an enquiry would have been awkward, to say the least.