My Italian Adventures

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

  On Martedì Grasso, however, we could not find any form of transport to take us down to the Orso, which must have been two miles away, so we walked there instead. It was very pleasant to pass through the narrow streets where people were celebrating at small cafés, with frequent bursts of music and occasionally the distant crashing of breaking pottery, of which we had been warned. On Shrove Tuesday, the Romans throw all their chipped and broken crockery out of the windows into the street below – and woe betide the unwary passer-by!

  We found the Orso crowded that night and upstairs the dance-floor was so packed, chiefly with Britishers, that one could hardly move. A lot of people were wearing paper hats and there was a general air of jollity. The bar was crammed with unattached officers and every seat was taken. It was at the Orso, I had recently learned, that some members of the Rome Organisation, the parent of our commission, used to dine, with German officers eating peaceably at the next table. The Rome Organisation was formed by escaped prisoners and internees, who took refuge in the Vatican, and while there organised a vast escape network with the help of many brave and enthusiastic Italians. Many contacts had to be made and arranged with persons in the city of Rome, and so it was that the Orso, on the opposite side of the Tiber to the Vatican, but conveniently near, became a sort of trysting-place; and right under the noses of the Gestapo some of the very men they were hunting contrived to carry on their dangerous work undetected. Chatting with the barman, he told us of the breathtaking moments he had witnessed, but no-one was ever caught in the Orso and the signatures of some of the bold characters who so gaily courted disaster can still be seen in a small frame in the bar. On the parchment lampshades are scrawled names originating from half the countries of the world, and from both hemispheres.

  The British-sponsored clubs normally closed at eleven, but remained open until midnight at the latest for special occasions such as Shrove Tuesday, and so in deference to the Italian fiesta, the Orso opened late on that occasion. We decided there must be more to see, that the Italians would never close down so soon, and so we wandered back on foot the way we had come, but left an hour early, as it was too crowded to dance. I had heard exciting tales of Italian soirées that went on almost all night, and a friend had told me how his hostess had once been truly offended when he had pleaded that for reasons of duty he must leave her party at 4 a.m. Italian hospitality is unbounded, and its generosity is only equalled by its gaiety and cheerfulness. But despite our conviction that the Italians would not relinquish the festivities until the early hours of the morning, it took Jonathan and me some time to find the sort of show we were looking for.

  Our first port of call was the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Club in Via Nazionale, and here we found great celebrations in progress. How it was that we eventually found ourselves outside what seemed to be a cinema in the Via Quattro Fontane is still a mystery to me, but we heard the sounds of music, and asked the doorman what was going on. ‘C’é un ballo,’ he replied, ‘Volete entrare?’ We went into the hall, and saw a vast room full of people in evening dress, some of them dancing on the stage, others sitting at small tables around the edge of the room or on the balconies. We decided that this was the place for us, and we were soon dancing on the stage too. It is impossible to relate all the details of that amazing night: how there was only one other Englishman there, how friendly the Italians were and how welcome they made us, how before long we found ourselves drinking champagne with a gentleman in exquisitely cut tails and a white tie worthy of Savile Row, and how we were all toasting the Allies, ‘Inghilterra and l’Italia’. And how Anna Magnani came and sang on the stage and was greeted by a thunderous roar of applause, and was listened to with rapt attention throughout. She was not so famous then outside her own country as she later became, but I had the impression of a buoyant and vigorous personality. She wore a powder-blue evening dress, rather low-cut, and her hair was long, in accordance with the prevalent fashion.

  We paired up with a young Italian and his girlfriend, one of whose fathers had treated us to the champagne, and soon we were all wearing fantastic hats and flinging streamers down people’s backs, hurling small multi-coloured balls about, bagging other people’s hats, blowing whistles or whirling rattles – and generally entering into the spirit of the carnival with a spontaneity of which personally I never believed myself capable. With the Italians, who are for the most part so natural, one somehow did not feel silly, shy or self-conscious; we all just behaved as we felt inclined, forgot our troubles for the time being and gave ourselves up to enjoyment free from inhibition and vulgarity. It was just complete fun, and everyone had a whale of a time. My feet began to ache and feel sore, but I still danced – we all danced and danced till we were nearly dropping. Then we revived our flagging bodies with long, thirst-quenching glasses of fresh lemonade and sat for a few minutes and chatted to some of the mamas sitting at the tables, wearing perky paper caps, guarding bags, drinks and ash-trays and exchanging discreet titbits of gossip as they watched the continuously revolving throng of dancers.

  At 4 a.m. I declared it was time for me to be going home. Jonathan would doubtless have stayed on, but I had a full day ahead of me in the office and so we bade farewell to our kind friends with many thank-yous and promises to meet again, and I eventually got back to the hotel at about 5 a.m. The next morning in the office the CO dictated me about twelve letters – perhaps he thought it would be a good thing for my Lenten period to begin with a penance – but anyway he kept me extremely busy all morning. By the end of it, my head was beginning to feel not a little heavy, with all the excitement and fatigue of the night before gathering momentum, so that the shorthand ciphers positively danced feverishly over the pages, and I almost wished I had never gone to the trouble of learning such hieroglyphics that became so horribly evasive if one felt slightly below par. Somehow I got through the morning, and met Jonathan and the boy and girl of the party at the ‘Flower Shop’, a recently reopened Italian café. They both seemed very fresh, whereas I felt by now distinctly jaded. They said they had been at the dance until 6.30 a.m., and both much regretted that we had had to leave so early! I regretted it too, but in view of the shorthand, perhaps it was just as well we had left when we did. I saw Elisabetta once or twice after that, but with the pressure of work and our own social life I eventually lost touch with her, as with so many other kind and likeable acquaintances – but I shall never forget that evening, and probably nor will she!

  By now, thanks to my greatly increased practice in Italian, I was acting both as paying officer and as interpreter for the CO, which job was becoming progressively more my own. I could get along fairly comfortably in the language, and could appreciate such an evening as that just described far more than would have been possible a year before. When Italian friends rang me up on the telephone now, I did not go alternately red and white and mentally translate one sentence, while they had galloped on ahead, which meant that my answers were already out of date when they finally paused, surprised by my inarticulateness, to enquire whether I had understood and whether I agreed with them. I invariably agreed. By now I could think at least to some extent in Italian, and the worst and most difficult period of learning it was over, but as I am only a very amateur linguist, so much remained to learn and be perfected that I decided to try to fit in some lessons. I was recommended by the Signorine Giulia to a friend of theirs, a Sicilian professor, who by reason of his upbringing, spoke with the soft accents of Tuscany. The Professore was a kind and charming teacher, but as time was too short and there was too much to be done at the office, the lessons were few and far between. There was a great deal to do at the commission and I was very glad when a WAAF officer, named Phyl, arrived from Paris to help in my department – but as she did not yet speak Italian, anything that needed translating or interpreting still fell to me and that suited me well, as it interested me the most.

  Judy was a keen horsewoman and was always trying to persuade me to go out with her to Passo Corese, a riding
-school about four miles north of Rome, where one could have an enjoyable afternoon riding a horse, even if one was as inexpert as I am. I went with her once and found the occasion most entertaining. Having asked for a quiet and gentle horse and been given one which was said to be ‘molto tranquillo’, I had somewhat of a shock, for my steed, having reached an open field and seeing the leading horses break into a canter, followed suit without warning. My efforts to calm him only stimulated him to further effort, and soon we were careering in a headlong gallop past the other horses down to a small valley, while I, with both stirrups flying, was clutching for dear life to the pommel of the saddle and praying to stay on the animal’s back, or rather neck. In time, however, he quietened down, and after that first outburst behaved with reasonable propriety. Unfortunately, such excursions were rare, especially when I found it necessary to utilise Saturday afternoons for putting the PA’s office into order – the weeks were beginning to fill up hectically, and there was rarely enough peace for filing, indexing and other routine tasks.

  Some months later, I made another equestrian excursion with Judy. By then, riding facilities had been provided for the forces at Monte Mario, just outside Rome and near the Radio Station. I decided to be on the safe side and join in the beginners’ class – and it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience. Men and women had gathered there, all jumbled together, wearing all sorts of clothes, and of various ranks, types and even nationalities. I had heard that members of these classes sometimes dismounted and walked home, but I had not hitherto witnessed such a thing. We were up on the brow of the hill and had to go through a pine wood to get down to the valley again and back to the school. Several of the horses led their riders through the wood at a smart trot, and horsemen and women were coming off like ninepins, some of them re-mounting, if they could find their mounts, others just strolling gently back to the stables, and yet others leading their horses back by the bridle. No-one minded in the least what happened or what one did, and if someone had suddenly appeared riding back to front, I do not think any of the class would have registered astonishment. I managed to stay on quite successfully, but my horse unexpectedly dashed among the trees, and I missed one or two branches by a hair’s breadth. The animals apparently played certain tricks quite regularly on novices and got a lot of fun out of it, but I heard one sergeant muttering as he slithered to the ground and shook the pine-needles from his battledress, ‘I’m glad I’ve been in the Paratroops – this isn’t much different!’ There were one or two ditches in the wood too, which accounted for a few casualties. The instructors, Italians, were quite philosophical about all the queer goings-on, and altogether there was a haphazard, happy-go-lucky spirit about the beginners’ class which made it a comic-opera sort of affair that no-one need fear to join.

  For a time after Iris had gone, there was only Phoebe, the accounts officer, Judy and myself representing the ATS at our corner table. Before her departure, Iris had tried hard to persuade me to dye my hair. She said to me, quite casually, one day at lunch-time, ‘Why don’t you change your hair, have a different colour?’ Horrified, I said, ‘Surely you don’t mean dye my hair, do you?’ ‘Of course,’ she said simply, ‘When we lived in Rome before the war, I sometimes used to dye my hair, just for one evening, and it used to be fashionable to wear one’s hair the colour of one’s dress for the day. There were lovely pinks and blues. You would look very nice with fair hair. You should become a blonde.’ If she had told me it would have suited me to wear a ring in my nose I should scarcely have been more astonished, but I just said lamely, ‘But Iris, I’m a brunette, and I don’t want to be a blonde.’ She gave me a slightly pitying look – of course I know how unenterprising British women are often considered. But her Botticelli features relaxed in a smile and she just replied, ‘Oh well, of course, if you rather just remain as you are, dark hair is all right, only it is nice to have a change some days.’ If she did not convince me, she did, I am sure, convince Phoebe, as not long afterwards Phoebe’s fine dark hair became a coppery colour and from then on it was nearly always a dark auburn, or was it ‘Titian’? Anyway it was a shade that was becoming rather fashionable just then. The worst of such ‘tinting’ was that it could almost always be detected. Iris did not even succeed in persuading me to have my portrait painted, although she and her husband had an artist friend who, she said, would like to paint (or practise) on me – she even murmured something about nudes. But the idea of hours in a studio with an Italian artist, about whom I knew next to nothing beyond the fact that he was a very charming young man, did not appeal to me at all. Later on, the very same artist painted me a lovely little seascape of Fregene, near Rome, but that was quite different from my acting as an impromptu model. As with many English people, my Nonconformist ancestors seem to rise up at times and disapprove. Shortly afterwards, Iris and her husband gave a farewell party and she went off home and there was no news of her for a year or more, when I suddenly heard that she had had a baby girl. That must have made her happy, for she always seemed to be hankering after something, not just enjoying life as most of us were.

  I missed Iris a lot after her departure, for she had been my friend for two years and we had seen a great deal together. Fortunately, with her job added to mine, even though hers was considerably diminished and nearly finished, I had plenty to keep me occupied and fortified against homesickness or melancholy. I did, however, often feel rather lonely after work was done for the day. I would hasten down for a cup of tea at the Catholic Women’s League canteen, later transferred to the magnificent Palazzo Volpi, on the corner of Via Venti Settembre and Via Quattro Fontane, and would then explore the streets and shops of Rome. I did not have much to spend, but it was fascinating just to wander along, looking in the shop-fronts, reading the signs, studying the newspaper office windows with their photographs and captions of news, watching the people bustling to and fro or sitting at the cafés, the complicated traffic and voluble drivers, the myriads of cyclists, the young men carrying their girlfriends side-saddle on their cross-bars, a form of transport that never ceased to astonish the British. In general, I was simply drinking in the atmosphere of Rome, mostly quite unnoticed myself, an observer on the fringe of the city’s flow of life, and yet temporarily part of it and bound up with it, and doubtless influenced by it. One day a woman actually asked me the way. She did not seem to be aware that I was not an Italian or even to notice my uniform, which greatly amazed me. Occasionally people asked me if I were Italian, on account mainly, I think, of my dark hair. They would comment, ‘È proprio un tipo italiano, Signorina.’ I realised this was a kindly compliment.

  On Sundays, often rather a lonely day, I used to squeeze into one of the trolleys outside our hotel, and whizz along in it to the Piazza di Spagna, and there alight prior to attending service in the Garrison Church, the British Church of Rome. It was still run by the military and mainly for them, as an Army chaplain was still there and the civilian clergyman had not returned, or been re-appointed. I remembered that on Armistice Day, as a great idea and an example of Allied co-operation, it had been decided to ask the Americans to allow their military band to play the music, accompanying the organ. In practice, however, the organ and the congregation accompanied the band, for they played so fast and furiously on their brass that no-one could keep up with them, and drowned most of the singers too with their enthusiastic and somewhat syncopated rendering of the hymns. Even ‘God Save the King’ seemed to ‘swing’ slightly, though not in the least disrespectfully – and as for the ‘Stars and Stripes’, it sounded like Gershwin at his best.

  On other Sundays I would wander through the Pincio Gardens or along the banks of the River Tiber – in Rome one can never be really dull, there is such an inexhaustible variety of sights, sounds, colours and persons to hold one’s interest. Meanwhile, shopping began at last to have a more practical interest for us, because around this time the rate of exchange was altered from 400 to 700 lire to the pound. For a long time the so-called ‘black market’ rate had s
tood at 700 or even higher, and every time we were paid our 400 lire, as regards purchasing power we were really being done out of 300. Perhaps the idea was to discourage the Forces from buying anything outside their own clubs or the NAAFI, but naturally everyone wanted to buy some of the lovely things now displayed in the shop windows and send them home: silk stockings especially, and coloured silk scarves, were favourite presents for mothers, sisters, wives and sweethearts. Anyway the financial authorities, perhaps the British Treasury – who knows? – at last decided that the Army had done penance long enough and deserved a break, so they gave us 700 lire to our pound. Most people immediately dashed out and bought whatever they could find, for it was certain that prices would go up before long, which of course they did – and very shortly afterwards.

  From then on, the lira steadily rose – or should one say sank? – until by spring 1947 it was quoted on the black market as high as 2,500 lire. Each time there was an official devaluation, there was extra work for all admin staff, as pay had to be adjusted and all NAAFI prices went up to keep in step with the change. But the free market was always ahead of the officially fixed one, and when things began to improve, it also reflected the downward trend of the lira, though unfortunately for the Italians, this was very slight. By the early 1950s, it was more or less stable, at about 2,000 lire to the pound. The black market, or street monetary transactions, were still going on very actively in Rome in 1946, and often as I walked back from the office in the late afternoon, I would hear voices murmuring behind me, or from out of dark doorways, ‘Mees, shange stairleen’, or still, ‘Mees, sell cigarette?’ Sometimes one was openly accosted with the request for ‘Sterline’, and a lot of slightly shady business seemed to be going on at the top of Via Nazionale, on Piazza Esedra, and round about that area, which lay on my path back from the office to the Hotel Continentale.