Here there were small displays of British and American cigarettes and sometimes other NAAFI articles on sale every few yards along the pavement, and youths in twos and threes were always ready to make a proposition of some illegal nature. Sometimes the police swooped and caught some of the black marketeers, but their activities were too prevalent for them to be completely curtailed. Occasionally there was a scare, such as one afternoon when we noticed that all the vendors of American and British cigarettes were hastily packing up their trays and suitcases near the arches of the Porta Pinciana and shuffling rapidly away. Soon, several jeep-loads of carabinieri, armed of course with rifles and bayonets, were driving through the arches, obviously searching for prey. One or two of the jeeps had a man in civilian clothes on board, who had apparently been made captive, but he did not appear worried about it. A few hours later, the raid over, the illegal sales would be taking place just as openly as before, the carabinieri having satisfied their honour and replenished their stock of cigarettes. There was also a lot of currency trafficking in those days, and although I never personally witnessed such a deal, I did hear of a case where an Italian concluded a settlement in the street (perhaps in the Arcade, a favourite meeting place of spivs and such like). After his settlement, the Italian immediately discovered that all the notes in the packet he had just received (as it happened, English pounds) were fakes, except for the one on top. He quickly shouted for the policeman to come and arrest his customer, calling him loudly, ‘rogue, thief and scoundrel’. The man was arrested and his accuser was then asked to substantiate his evidence. It was then discovered that the latter had also given fake notes, Italian ones, in exchange for the sterling, so he was also arrested and the two racketeers were conducted along to the police station together. On another occasion, when the Italian government decided to make a determined effort to end the black market, there was a strike of black marketeers, and they even paraded through the city in protest. For some days it was impossible to get the precious fresh eggs previously bought, though dearly, on the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, but it all seemed to peter out. Although much of the trade at that time was termed ‘black market’ many people would actually regard as ‘free market’, so that it was well-nigh impossible to ban it without seriously imperilling the food supplies of the city. And so the black market continued and flourished, and today black and white are merged into one – but what the exact blend is only an expert could say!
Another day I accidentally became mixed up in a Communist procession, again on my way home from the office. It was coming up the hill from the Piazza Barberini and my path joined it at the beginning of the Via delle Terme, as we all crossed Via Venti Settembre. The crowd seemed very jolly and good-natured, perhaps rather untidy and some ragged, but the red scarves and the kerchiefs looked fresh and new. The procession surged along filling the whole road, pavements included, and as they were going in my direction, bearing aloft flags and rough banners with such captions as, ‘Fuori gli alleati’, ‘Vogliamo il pane’, ‘Evviva i communisti’, ‘A morte il Re!’ and others, I had no alternative but to walk along beside them and soon found myself swept along with the tide. We surged on, I with my Army haversack over one shoulder, encountering one or two curious glances, but trying to look as unconcerned and detached as possible. Presently we came to the great entrance of the Grand Hotel, where several important-looking personages were rather nonchalantly watching the performance of the sansculottes. I caught the gaze of one or two of them momentarily alighting on me with a slight air of surprise, but by this time I almost felt part of the show, and chin well forward I carried on as khaki left-wing until we came out into the Piazza Esedra, and here I was able to branch off on my own. After all I did not want to be arrested by itinerant military police as a political demonstrator, thereby breaking King’s Regulations and becoming liable for court martial!
Politics in Italy are indeed a matter for conjecture. One of our civilian drivers informed me one day that he was an anarchist. ‘But why?’ I asked him. Anarchy to me suggested Trotsky, spies, subversive activity and in fact everything that was the antithesis of the pale, thin, kind little man at the wheel. ‘Because, Signorina,’ he said, ‘I wish everyone well and I believe everybody should help everybody else.’ Noble sentiments, but why anarchy? Further questioning revealed him to be certainly democratic in outlook, but as far as the accepted meaning of anarchy goes, an anarchist only by virtue of his own words. If all anarchists were like this man, then doubtless the world would be a happier and more peaceful planet.
Politics, the black market and the existence of an enormous and heterogeneous refugee population in Italy, especially Rome – all these things produced some queer manifestations at times and one of the strangest was perhaps the case of Marcus Brewster, who was a sort of Sidney Stanley, and of the same race. At the outset of my stay in the hotel I had noticed a pretty, very smart woman of about forty, rather French and ‘fluffy’ looking, who was always lunching and dining with one or more British officers, usually two or three, and frequently different ones. She changed her escorts as she changed her modish hats – almost daily – although there was one captain who seemed more in favour than all others. Sometimes a large stout man in civilian clothes would be seen dining with the group, but not often, and he seemed overshadowed by the lady’s gaiety and that of her other companions. She was perhaps rather skittish for her age, but attractive, vivacious and extremely smart and sophisticated.
After I had been working for some weeks with the commission I gradually became aware of the presence of a big, stout, greasy-haired serious man, who called fairly frequently and was usually closeted for an hour or so with the GSO II. He seemed a person of some influence and importance, and I learned that his visits concerned the provision of transport for civilian helpers, for whom he acted as representative, or go-between. Invariably, this individual carried a large fat briefcase. This was Marcus Brewster.
It may have been in March that some form of ‘flap’ developed about Marcus Brewster, and it appeared that he was in for trouble of some sort. I was not in a position to know just what was going on, but a word here and there, his rather more frequent visits to the office, some correspondence with GHQ – these all led me to put two and two together. Eventually one afternoon we heard that the said gentleman had been arrested by the Italians. It then transpired that he had sold for his own profit transport handed over to him for some monastery, and had also been involved in other disreputable transactions. Everyone was pleased that the net had closed in on him at last. But after a day or two it seemed that he had been released, having told his interrogators that he was working for our commission. A member of the Field Security (FS) came in great excitement to see our CO and asked why this man was working for us, as he had been wanted by both the Italian and Allied police for over a year. He had actually been handed over to the Field Security by the Italian police, to be dealt with as part of the Occupation troops! The CO remarked that it was strange that the Field Security had failed to locate Mr Brewster, since he had been living for the past few months in the officers’ transit hotel. ‘What?! Are you sure, sir, for some of our people live there?’ the FS man spluttered. ‘Check up for yourself,’ replied our colonel, ‘in any case some of my ATS are there, and perhaps they will identify the gentleman for you.’ When our GSO II asked me if I recollected this, the whole thing suddenly connected up in my mind. Of course the stylishly dressed lady was Mrs Brewster, but how on earth could she and her important consort be living at our hotel, where no civilians were allowed even to have a meal?! The answer is not known to me, nor the ultimate fate of Mr and Mrs Brewster, though on this occasion at least his case was strong and his alibis well-constructed. But the Field Security people must have felt a trifle foolish, as some of them had eaten for some time in the same restaurant, perhaps sometimes even at the next table to the Brewster pair, without any suspicion that they were sitting cheek by jowl with the man they were hunting, and whose description had been sent by si
gnal to London, New York and Paris.
Round about the same time I was lucky enough to see something of the Roman film world, about which so much has lately been written. It was on a Sunday afternoon, bright and sunny, when I was taking a siesta, Italian-fashion, when there was a knock on the door of my room and a Scots lady came in – it was only necessary for her to speak one word for one to realise her country of origin. She wanted to know if I could lend her a uniform temporarily, as she had been asked to take the part of an ATS officer in the film Teheran. She did not have a large part, but was to be the AT secretary to some top-ranking diplomat or service chief. I agreed to lend her a service dress uniform, which she tried on and found it fitted perfectly. She invited me to see her scene shot, and so on the following Saturday afternoon I found myself wedged in the back of a smart two-seater, on my way out towards Cinema City, to a different sector from the part I knew so well. This studio was near the Via Appia and the Catacombs of San Callisto. It was very interesting to see part of a film made, though how anyone can ever have sufficient patience for film work is a marvel to me. There was a magnificent set for one of the scenes, a Turkish house, complete with courtyard, balconies all round, a fountain in the middle, and cool palm trees. Pillars supported the balconies, under which ran a vaulted cloister, and everywhere the delicate fretwork, and even the characteristic minaret – the whole construction dazzling white. For a few moments we seemed to be back in the Kasbah again and then we were outside once more, among the wooden huts with corrugated iron roofs and other rather haphazardly arranged buildings, clustered together in a mushroom-like way on a muddy piece of ground, and these constituted the studio. It was not magnificent like some of the shattered buildings of Cinema City, but no doubt it was post-war and doubtless also it has played its part in putting the Italian films of today into the top rank of international cinema art.
26
Will Proceed to Milan
I t was towards the end of March that I heard rumours to the effect that I was to be transferred to Milan. It was said that the CO wanted to transfer the whole of his HQ to that city, now that most of the work south of and around Rome had been completed, and also because the bulk of the help given by civilians and partisans was in the mountains north of Florence or in the Plain of Lombardy. Eventually, however, the plan for such a complete removal was abandoned, for one reason because it was necessary to keep in constant touch with the British Embassy and with various Italian government departments and the Vatican. It was also partly on account of our civilian personnel, now thoroughly trained, but unable or unwilling to move their homes up north. It would have taken far too long to train new clerks in the complicated task of claim-processing and related matters, and in the inscribing of certificates, which was done by four or five Italian girls, who wrote a really beautiful ornamental script.
Nevertheless, the important and most numerous claimants were now nearly all in the upper half of the country and so the CO decided he would spend a good half of his time there, going round the sections and investigating the possibilities of an extension into Austria and other places. Pending the removal of any other ‘bodies’ from the HQ, I was naturally enough Victim No. 1. I say ‘victim’, for as time went on it became increasingly noticeable how officers and other ranks ‘kicked’, some quite volubly, when ordered out of the Eternal City. Rome seemed to exert a fascination over people, rather like a vast magic labyrinth – once you were there, you never wanted to leave, whatever the consequences. And so, on this occasion, when the CO told me I must be prepared to leave for Milan at any moment, although I had not the slightest doubt that from the job point of view it would be far more interesting and fruitful to go north, I was no more desirous of a transfer than I had been a year previously, when posted to Naples. In fact, I regarded myself as ‘sentenced’, but realising that from now on leave might well be out of the question for me, I took the opportunity of asking for a week off, not having had any leave since my return from home four-and-a-half months before. This was not at all long by overseas standards, but I reckoned, and it proved correct, that once I really got into the swing of the job, there would be no leave unless I wanted to throw in my hand, something that I was unlikely to do unless dismissed. It was already far too interesting for me to think of applying for anything else, and well worth any loss of leave or days off.
To my surprise I was granted the leave, which I had only half hoped for, and set off on 7 April, Palm Sunday, for Florence. I was quite exhausted, having attended an ORs’ dance and then having been invited to the sergeants’ mess the previous evening, not to mention leaving everything in order as far as possible in the office. I did my packing during the night, and was somehow ready for the road next morning at a fairly reasonable hour. I stayed the first night at our section in Florence and thought it the most beautiful place I had yet seen – and that was saying a lot after Naples and the Sorrento Peninsula. The section was not exactly in Fiesole, but on the road ascending towards it.
It was late afternoon when we reached Florence and the air was perfumed with the scent of flowers. Huge garlands of wisteria were draped from many of the houses and balconies, and I noticed for the first time what a strong scent wisteria has. The Angelus was chiming and everyone was out in feast-day garb. We crossed the city and found the road for Fiesole, after making a few enquiries. As we drove along, I noticed the roses in bloom everywhere, masses of them, red, pink, and yellow. It was more like an English June. The driver, an Italian, was loud in patriotic enthusiasm – in fact, he was enthusiastic about everything and delighted when I also enthused about his beloved Italy.
At length we came to a rather battered stone gateway and turned up a narrow drive which led to the section, which was housed in a typical Florentine villa. This property actually belonged to an Englishman, who was extremely irate at having his home requisitioned while he was spending the war in Switzerland. He had left his butler and factotum as caretaker and to keep a watching brief on the unwelcome occupants (we were not the first allies there: Americans and Canadians had preceded us, and before the Allies, the Germans had not allowed such a beauty-spot to remain unoccupied). From all I heard about the owner and his butler-spy, they were not the sort of people to derive much joy from other people’s pleasure, but I think that nearly all our men and women loved this villa and thoroughly appreciated its harmonious beauty. To me, it was really quite a fairytale place, with its cool distempered rooms, elegant furniture (what had been left), its piano, its small stone courtyard and above all its garden, with a lily-pond on the terrace in front of the dining-room window, its rambling roses of different colours, syringa and guelder roses. From the magnificent terrace, one could survey the entire city of Florence and in the immediate foreground other villas lower down, some of them wreathed in freshly blossoming creepers and shrubs; then again, its lower garden, with potting sheds and goldfish ponds, flowers, vegetables, vines and cypresses. There was quite a lot to explore, all encompassed by high stone walls. High stone walls like these, which seem to surround all Florentine villas, always mystified me, and I longed to place a small ladder against them and peep over to see what was happening on the other side. From beyond the walls, one could have hardly any idea of what was going on inside the grounds of our villa.
In April 1946, it seemed to me that everything was at its best. Olive trees clothed the slopes below us, and above us too, where the ground rose a few hundred feet more, towards Fiesole and Vincigliata, the castle from which General Carton de Wiart and five other British senior officers escaped in 1943. I remember the mystery which surrounded his escape, when it was said that the Italians allowed him to make a getaway in order to bring an offer of armistice terms on behalf of the Italian Army, who were tired of fighting with the Germans. Whether or not this is true, and in the light of more recent events it seems unlikely, no-one was supposed to know of his return to the UK. When he inspected us shortly afterwards at my unit in the UK, we were merely informed that an ‘unknown general’ was
coming. By a sort of bush telegraph, however, his identity was quickly established and most people knew whom to expect, though his eye covering and his VC were in any case unmistakable distinguishing marks.
The castle of Vincigliata looked attractive enough from a distance, with its battlemented walls and towers – I felt it would be almost pleasant to be confined to such a spot, if imprisonment was to be one’s lot. In the early morning the scene was bathed in sunlight and dewdrops. The olives seemed like silver daubs on the grey-green slopes, interspersed here and there with the black figures of watchful cypresses or the crenellated towers of the scattered villas. The roofs of Florence and the high octagonal towers of the Duomo and the Baptistery were lit up cosily by the morning sun. And on our terrace it was delightfully warm, but not too hot.
I did not on that occasion see much of the work of the section, as I arrived on Sunday evening and left on Monday morning. In any case, the staff, apart from the admin officer who was nearly always present, were mostly out paying or investigating, only returning to collect fresh lists and stock up with food and petrol. The admin officer supervised everything at the section, aided by a sergeant who helped to interview any claimants and looked after the correspondence. There was also an Italian typist, whom I did not see.
My Italian Adventures Page 31