My Italian Adventures

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

  The drive up north was uneventful and I renewed my acquaintance with the delightful willow and poplar country of the Plain of Lombardy, and so on to the marshland near Venice. I spent a few days in Venice, resplendent in its ‘Easter Bonnet’, and visited among other places the glass-making island, Murano, reminiscent of Holland with its inland waterways, small houses with curved roofs, and be-clogged inhabitants. We passed the sea-girt cemetery, with its dazzling white walls and tombs, and drank in the pure air of the lagoons and the exhilarating sea breezes, cradled in a rocking gondola on the blue sea. I had met up with old friends in Venice, on their way home, en route for Villach, but I did not envy them. We had a jolly reunion and I wished them Godspeed and good luck for Civvy Street, but I was personally glad to be staying and to have the chance of getting to know more of Italy, which is like the inexhaustible cruse – the more you drink of it, the more you want, and yet there is no end to what it will yield to the thirsty one.

  The last two days of my leave were spent at the officers’ rest hotel at Cernobbio, on Lake Como, whence I had managed to scrounge a lift, and my main memory is one of masses of pink, blue and mauve hydrangeas, more wisteria, lilac, roses, of course – in fact a whole carnival of flowers – and Lake Como in spring must be one of the most charming of all places. The little white houses with their freshly painted shutters looked dainty and inviting, and soft breezes stirred the lake into small ripples.

  Everything was light and airy – but I barely tasted this Eden-like atmosphere. On Whit Monday I phoned my CO, who gave me permission to remain there for the day, but I had to report for duty next morning. I had managed to get the day off for Bank Holiday, but after that work would begin again in grim earnest. I began to have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, what we used to call a ‘match pain’ at school, and to wonder what it would be like in Milan, where I would be the only English girl at the section and would once again be planted in a strange hotel-mess, among fresh faces and have to make a completely new set of friends. I would be far more in the company of the CO than before, and would have to be continually on my toes. I began to wonder if I should live up to his known high standards, or whether I should beat an ignominious retreat, accompanied by a confidential letter to GHQ, as one or two others had already been known to have done.

  But I tried to banish such qualms from my mind and enjoy the last day of my leave, during which I met several friends from Milan and we went out in a boat on the lake. Everyone was very jolly and told me not to worry, so I began to think that perhaps after all things would not be so bad, and that I should somehow manage without Judy and the sergeant at the Hotel Continentale, not to speak of the Signorine Giulia, the maestro, the telephone operator in Rome, and dear old Anna, who swept out the passages and cloakroom and was always ready for a chat, and so touchingly grateful for a few lire ‘per comprari una tazza di caffè’. Her widow’s pension was 1,000 lire a month, then worth about 30s after the post-war collapse of the lira, and the tragedy of many Italians at that time was that no pensions had been raised in proportion to the rise in the cost of living and the devaluation of the lira. Anna worked very hard, cleaning our offices. Her hair was greying and wispy and her face patient and careworn; she wore a plain black calico dress, coarse black stockings and an ancient pair of black slippers. In winter, this attire was augmented by an old and rather shapeless black woollen cardigan. Her expression was one of gentle resignation, but she always had a smile and a cheerful word – ‘Cosa vuole, signorina,’ she would say, when discussing the current difficulties of living, ‘è la Guerra.’

  27

  Milano!

  I t was exactly at 10.30 a.m. on Tuesday 23 April 1946 that I clocked in at 2.3 Section, Allied Screening Commission, situated in Via Seprio, No. 2, in Milan. The house was tall and fairly spacious with a small garden in front, now little more than a wilderness. There was a small terrace giving on to it, overgrown with creepers and convolvulus that formed a shady arbour for sitting in on the rare occasions that one had time to relax in an arbour. There was a large office where the various officers attached to the section and the acting CO had their desks, and a small admin office. Then there was a sort of anteroom (literally) which contained a Welfare ping-pong table; a small sitting room for the officers led off this, with brown stained floorboards, not much polished, and a number of somewhat faded and dingy chairs and a sofa. Next door was a dining room with a nice oak refectory table and a good dresser and chairs, and a hatch leading into the kitchen – this was the most normal and respectable-looking room of the house. Next to that was the bedroom of Luigi, the Italian cook. The offices were on the mezzanine level (i.e. between the basement and first floor), and above them, on the first floor, were the sleeping quarters. The small flat above them was inhabited by the inevitable custode, and was approached by an outside stairway, which I never explored. Below the mezzanine, were the sleeping quarters and mess for drivers and one or two male civilian personnel. No women lived on the premises, though an Italian woman came each day to clean, make beds and do washing.

  There was an Italian waiter and general stooge, a small nervous man called Cesare, who had been interned and sent to Germany, though I could never quite discover why. But he was innocent of any crime, unless being Italian was a crime, and perhaps to the Germans it had been regarded as such. I soon noticed him, for he was everywhere, polite, obliging and always working, invariably clad in a white waiter’s jacket and bow tie. His sad eyes, sometimes red-rimmed from strain, for the prison camp ordeal had left his nerves temporarily shattered, shone with devotion to duty and enthusiasm for his task. Other staff included an Italian secretary, a countess from a fabulously wealthy family, who had determined in the teeth of severe domestic opposition that she would defy tradition and work for the Allies, come what may. She was the Italian link, together with the interpreter, for the work of the section. The interpreter, Erwin, was a German anti-Nazi, who had also been imprisoned for being a freethinking schoolmaster who refused to disguise his views, and had been liberated when Germany was defeated. These two did all the many translations, drafted letters in Italian and typed them, sometimes interviewed claimants, answered telephones, and together performed an essential and important task. The only officer constantly on the spot was the admin officer, at that time a young man from the Tank Corps, affectionately nicknamed ‘Zimmy’, on account of his somewhat Germanic surname. Perhaps he was originally from the Teutonic lands, for he possessed some of their qualities of character, including a scientific disposition, much given to serious speculation and experiment. His main source of inspiration during my time at the section was a large box camera, about a foot square, which he would earnestly perch on a tripod, and then burrow underneath a black velvet cloth and presumably take photographs – presumably, because in spite of his various sorties with this massive photographic apparatus, and his endless discourse on its marvellous properties and potential, no-one ever saw a photograph taken by Zimmy. When I took a snap of him with my much simpler camera, a sort of cloud seemed to emanate from his head – ‘his astral body’, as it was jokingly described. But Zimmy rhapsodised about his machine; it was his hobby and his child, and it kept him out of mischief and everyone else amused.

  The Milan Section was a very busy one, and there was a constant stream of people, officers coming in and going out on investigating and paying trips, claimants, and others passing through or merely there temporarily or on occasional routine inspections from Rome. I was not to live, or even do most of my work, in this hive of activity, but in the hotel reserved mainly for the Allied Commission, the very beautiful Albergo ‘Principe e Savoia’. Apparently it was formerly ‘Principe di Savoia’, but when Mussolini established his régime, it became unfashionable and even unpatriotic of hoteliers to be too royal in their choice of names, and so it became ‘Principe e Savoia’, so that no democratic-minded person could suspect the proprietor of royalist sympathies. The hotel itself could not have changed much. It was on a great
piazza, about a quarter of a mile long, with trees and green sward on either side of the road and in front of the buildings. When I arrived, the horse chestnuts were just bursting into bloom and their white candles blossomed for some time, snowy amid the bright greenery of the foliage. Lilac and laburnum bushes were also in bud, and somehow the scene reminded me of home. When we had breakfast the windows would be wide open on to the grass and towards the piazza and the sun streamed in, cooled by a slight breeze. The air was so far deliciously fresh. I was at first obliged to take a room on the inner courtyard, as the hotel was very full, but after a week or two I managed to change and was given a small room on the north-west with a glorious view away over the plain towards the Alps, whose white shining peaks I could discern on all but a very misty day, which seldom occurred. There was a balcony, and after returning from the office I often sat out on it, writing or mending, watching the sun set slowly and the mountains gradually merge into the gloom.

  I was fetched every morning, either in the CO’s car, or in whatever transport was available, and had my lunch at the section. Thus my new routine was soon established, but meanwhile, on that first morning, at 1030 hours, I felt rather nervous, and wondered how it would all work out.

  I was ushered at once into the ‘presence’, somewhat in fear and trembling, but I was received very kindly, and after a few moments put at my ease by a gin-and-lemon, for it was nearly time for elevenses. Tea was later brought in by the waiter Cesare, who of course was still unknown to me, but I noticed his neat white jacket and faithful demeanour at once. My work began within one minute of my entering the mess, which that morning the CO was using as his office until his own was properly established. Our colonel never wasted time. I was soon given some letters to take down and various papers to read and absorb, and although I had just stepped from the truck into harness as it were, I soon seemed to have the bit between my teeth and be chugging away at it. By the time that the colonel had announced that it was time for him to go home for lunch, I was left with a sheaf of letters to transcribe, telephone calls to make and arrangements for my own passage down to Rome by air next day to collect all the GSOI’s files, papers and various other documents of importance.

  At lunch-time a captain came in from Verona, tall and handsome, with an MC and bar (he was later awarded yet another bar to his MC). I was informed by the Contessa, who was known to everyone as Mimi, that this awe-inspiring personage was also reporting back to Rome for briefing and that he was to be my travelling companion the next day. I had lunch with him and about three others and we ate tagliatelle alla salsa di pomodoro. The Italian cook soon revealed himself to be adept at camouflaging Army rations. I discovered that Mimi had an enormous platterful of pasta in her office – it did not look very patrician, but in spite of her rather la-di-da English accent (she had Irish relatives), I found very quickly that she was a good sort and moreover extremely efficient, which at once commanded my respect. We were slightly suspicious of one another at first, but after a week or two, when the corners had worn off, we were on very amicable and co-operative terms, and eventually became firm friends.

  After I had put a call through to Rome and tasted the ‘sistema telefonico milanese’, I checked in at the hotel, was allotted a room and did some unpacking. Later, with Mimi, I went to the Allied Commission HQ, a huge block, almost a skyscraper, in the centre of the city. We mounted many floors in a lift, then foot-slogged through what seemed miles of passageway, to interview an American officer in an office with various Italian personnel, some in uniform, some not. Finally, we were given a large movement order, with my name and the MC’s upon it and various instructions relating to reporting to the airfield, the take-off and so on. The paper was headed ‘MTOUSA’, an acronym standing for ‘Mediterranean Theatre of Operations of the United States Army’. The Americans were even better than the British at this word-formation business, though we did not do badly, with LIAP (Leave in awaiting Python), LILOP (Leave in lieu of Python) and other such artificial designations. It did, however, seem rather disrespectful and unimaginative that the Supreme Allied Commander should be known in this letter language as ‘SAC’.

  Next day, the two of us left Via Seprio at about nine o’clock and I was agog with excitement, for apart from the return journey to England in a bomber the previous year, this was to be my first air trip, and my very first in a civilian plane. We joined a motley crowd at the airport, mainly civilians, and had our baggage weighed. We were not weighed ourselves this time, for which I was most grateful, for with all my Army kit on I always seemed to touch the scales at some totally inelegant and best-forgotten-quickly figure. We found ourselves among some Italian businessmen, an odd priest or two and perhaps one woman with her husband. There must have been about twenty of us altogether. We climbed up a tiny ladder into the plane, and were made to fasten our safety belts before the plane took off. It must have been about 10.30 a.m. when we finally got away, and this was good, for it was a fine day. On a cloudy or misty day, one might wait several hours and then perhaps be told there would be no flying until the next morning. I once heard a man expostulating violently with one of the airport officials on a day when the planes were not flying and the official explained, clearly and patiently, that much as he regretted the personal inconvenience the client might be caused, the authorities were nevertheless not going to take risks with their passengers’ lives, and that it was better to arrive a day late than not at all.

  Our companions were almost all talkative and friendly. As we climbed higher it became extremely cold and I was glad of my greatcoat and a rug. After about two hours we passed over Lake Bracciano, like a great jewel below us, and were soon within sight of Rome, and then flying over the Vatican, which glowed the colour of yellow ochre in the midday sun, and looked hot and dusty. The whole of St Peter’s was spread out before our eyes like a parchment map, and beyond it Rome, its streets, parks, gardens and monuments all clearly revealed as on a scroll. We crossed the entire city and finally hovered over a landing ground where there was much evidence of war damage, such as twisted hangars and burnt-out buildings, interspersed with piles of rubble, all clearly visible from the air – but one could also see the cheering signs of reconstruction going on. Soon we were bumping along the grass runway, while people came dashing towards our plane and a luggage wagon was driving up in our direction. My ears were uncomfortable and I felt stiff, tired and hungry, and so after we had descended from the plane I was sincerely glad to hear an Italian voice hailing us, ‘Buongiorno, Signore Capitano, Signorina, buongiorno’, and then, ‘E qui, la macchina, dove esta loro bagaglio?’ (‘The car’s here, where’s your luggage?’) It was one of the commission drivers, sent out to collect us, and soon we were out of the mutilated airport and racing through the rather untidy suburb traversed by the aqueduct, so familiar to me from my Cinema City days. This suburb, with its crowds of peanut vendors and others displaying their wares in the open, and hordes of cheery, grubby children, and windows draped with washing flapping against shell-marked walls – all this had not changed. I felt a sort of warm, comfortable feeling at being back in Rome, although I dreaded the next day and a half. But returning was like coming home.

  Meanwhile, present danger claimed our attention as we were driven at alarming speed through the crowded streets of the city, past the angry batons of police on point duty, round corners – almost on two wheels – and in and out of lines of trams, lorries, bicycles and all sorts of vehicles, both military and civilian. Occasionally, another driver would hurl invectives at our man in dramatic Roman or sometimes in caustic Cockney, Irish or Scots, and he would reply volubly in equally strong terms to his own countryman, or shrug and smile if cursed by an Ally – he never seemed to know more than the world ‘Sorrrry’ in English. One of our drivers was wont to turn round after such verbal skirmishes and report on it to his bewildered passengers, while the steering wheel somehow kept its course; or he would lean far out of the side window, bellowing abuse at a motorist who irritated him. It
was all part of the game. Melodrama is part of everyday life in Italy – and very often drama too.

  I was in the office all that afternoon and all the following day – it was just one hectic rush – and in between I did all my own packing and said a few goodbyes, including one to the dear Signorine Giulia, who gave me an address of relatives in Milan to look up, with many good wishes for my new environment. I was up early the next morning and 9.30 a.m. found the MC, Patrick and myself once more on the airfield, milling around the enclosure – very like a sheep pen – where expectant passengers passed their time. We were gazing somewhat casually at our fellow travellers and wondering how much longer we should have to wait before our names were called out over the loudspeaker, and together with twenty or so other people, be emplaned, our baggage stowed and ourselves strapped down. On this occasion there was some mix-up for we were not travelling in the same plane; in fact, I nearly got left behind, not having recognised the pronunciation of my name over the megaphone, but Patrick managed to get me to my plane just in time, a small twin-engine Savoia-Marchetti, with only a few travellers. It was so tiny that there was hardly room to get in at the aperture which was in place of a door, and I felt very dubious about it all. But the flight went well, I duly chewed gum and sucked fruit drops (both of which were supposed to be good when flying) and I met Patrick at the other end.

  That evening there was a small reception in the mess, to which the CO’s wife, newly arrived from the UK, was invited, along with one or two civilians, an Italian police chief and an English girl, looking very smart in black taffeta. I was quite startled at the way this girl quipped our colonel – none of the girls working for him would have dared to do such a thing. The evening was very pleasant and I began to think I should enjoy life in Milan.