My Italian Adventures

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

  I enjoyed the visit to Austria. From the work point of view it was extremely interesting and a lot was achieved, but as an insight into conditions in the country itself it was very depressing. The people seemed despondent and hopeless, and in Vienna they looked pale and ill; certainly their prospects at that time must have been gloomy, to say the least, occupied as they were by four great powers, divided into quarters and short of all the necessities of life. Luxuries were non-existent. So much has been spoken and written about the difficulties of the Berlin population that it has been rather forgotten that the Viennese had to contend with an almost identical situation, although there was never actually a blockade imposed on the city in the same way. But out in the hinterland, in the Russian zone, conditions were the same as in Eastern Germany: removal of industrial plant and farming stock and machinery to the Soviet Union, disappearance of suspected or innocent persons, starvation of the inhabitants and a general paralysis of all community life. Perhaps by now things are better and more normal – one can only hope so, for the Austrians’ sake, but their problem is still as unsolved as the German one – both are inextricably involved in the game of power politics. Meanwhile, the men and women of those areas work, suffer and wait – perhaps they also dare to hope.9

  Notes

  8 This was Sir Ralph Anstruther of that Ilk, son of Marguerite de Burgh, the CO’s sister.

  9 In Vienna at that moment were also John de Burgh, then a major with the 16/5th Lancers, based at Klagenfurt; Sir Anthony Meyer, husband to LFA’s best friend, Barbadee, later the MP who stood against Margaret Thatcher as party leader in 1992; Michael de Burgh, her CO’s eldest son, then a captain in the 9th Lancers; and, managing a canteen for refugees, Marguerite (Madge) Anstruther of Balcaskie, her CO’s sister.

  29

  Italian Summer

  S hortly after our return from Vienna, towards the end of May, I was up in Rome again with the CO and this time, the work over, we left by car for Milan early one morning, setting off at 5 a.m. In order to be ready for this timely start, I asked the night porter to call me, which he did, with some strong tea made in a coffee pot. It was always a rush being ready on time; on one occasion the CO arrived early to pick me up, causing consternation to the Italian night porter and his assistant, and not least to myself, but the porter helped me to finish my packing and I was soon ready.

  It is a wonderful drive in the early morning, through the deserted silent streets of the city, still cool and shadowy before sunrise. We took Route 2, the ancient Via Cassia, past the ancient city of Viterbo and later past Montefiascone, a small walled grey stone town on a hill, with a long narrow drive mounting up to it. It is said that long, long ago a bishop was making a pilgrimage to Rome and being very thirsty, stopped at what is now Montefiascone for a drink. The water was so perfect that it seemed to the bishop like wine and he christened the place Montefiascone. Later on, it also became known in Italy for its wine, though not of course like the internationally famous wines such as Orvieto, Capri or Chianti. I dozed off, to awaken as we sped swiftly along the edge of Lake Bolsena, now shimmering in the morning light, for the sun had slowly crept over the hills to the east and was bathing everything in its pinkish early morning glow. We climbed up and up, through wild and barren scenery, culminating in the Norman keep of Radicofani Castle, a forbidding reminder of the inter-state wars of the mediaeval and Renaissance periods in Italy. We then descended the winding road until we reached the olive groves again, and the softer countryside and square, red-roofed farmhouses heralded the approach of Tuscany. I went back to sleep, jolting along in the back of the Chev with the baggage, a parcel of dry sandwiches and a cold rissole on my knee. (I never understood why the Hotel Continentale always included cold rissoles in their haversack rations, but they must have been familiar to hundreds of officers, who must have found them equally unpalatable, though Italian children usually liked them!)

  I awoke to the blare of trumpets, and starting up and looking out of the window saw to my utter astonishment horsemen clad in mediaeval dress, with broad-brimmed plumed hats, swirling purple cloaks, high boots and spurs, and protected by gleaming breastplates. They were blowing trumpets and horns as they galloped through the narrow grey streets of the town that we were passing through. We did not at all seem to belong to the picture, which was that of several centuries earlier, and I wondered for a moment if I were dreaming, or if I really had been here before. The virile music of the trumpets stirred the blood, and the charging horses, magnificent beasts caparisoned with almost oriental splendour, gave one a strange thrill. I gazed in admiration at the horsemen’s brilliantly coloured cloaks – purple, petunia and scarlet; and then suddenly it dawned on me – it was the Palio, that ancient Sienese festival, a sort of tournament modelled on those of old and a custom handed down from generation to generation. It was held each year in Siena, twice – I remembered that someone in Rome had murmured that some seats had been offered to our commission – and this must have been some form of dress rehearsal. The cavaliers vanished in a cloud of dust and we emerged from the narrow street, flanked by high shuttered houses, for it was still early, and passing under an ancient gateway, came out into a broad modern road. Soon we were once more on the highway, hurrying towards Florence, through that lovely Tuscan countryside, with its cypresses, olives and chateaux on the hills – usually low grey houses, with a battlemented tower, doubtless a lookout for marauding bands in earlier centuries, and doubtless also utilised for similar lookout work during the recent war. These Tuscan farmhouses or castelli, somewhat after the style of the English manor house of earlier times, are nearly always on the summit of a hill or rising, and stand out as a landmark surveying the surrounding country. Sometimes an avenue of cypresses leads up to them.

  We lunched at the Florence Section that day and a brief conference took place with the CO; there was always some business to be done. Then we pressed on, through the wild country of the Futa Pass, towards Bologna. Halfway between Florence and Bologna, in the midst of this rugged landscape, stand the ruins of what had once been the small village of Pianoro, nestling on the hillside. Now not one house was left erect. All except one were piles of dust, rubble and odds and ends of bricks and wood. No-one lived here anymore; the place was deserted, except perhaps for an occasional hen or a stray cat, scavenging in the rubbish. Pianoro was the name of this spot – known as the ‘Cassino of the North’. Its name seemed almost symbolic, so near is Pianoro to ‘piangere’ in Italian – to weep or lament. It was a place to lament about, for little could be done to rehabilitate it. Nothing could be repaired – a fresh village would be necessary. And where were the materials to come from? I never saw it reconstructed. It was always a ghastly, untended wound of war, one of the worst in all the tragic devastation of Italy’s countryside. Perhaps now there is a new Pianoro, just as there is a new Cassino.

  In Bologna, we stopped for a few moments before undertaking the flat run over the Plain of Lombardy, back to Milan, which we reached at about eight o’clock. On a subsequent occasion, when the CO had kindly given a lift to an Italian, the brother of the owner of the ASC’s requisitioned hotel in Rome, I found it necessary to ‘disappear’ in Siena. But ladies’ cloakrooms, except in the very modern hotels, were unheard of in Italy, and after a prolonged search I was so terrified that the CO would be fuming to get on with the journey that I finally stopped a respectable-looking woman in the street, explained my dilemma and begged for help. She kindly offered to take me to her own home, which fortunately was very near – a tiny flat, rather dark, but fresh and clean. I was extremely grateful, and presented her with a packet of ten Goldflake cigarettes to prove my gratitude, which she said would be very acceptable to her lawyer brother. When I eventually arrived back at the car, the Italian stood looking completely mystified and the CO frankly angry, but I kept a stiff upper lip and made the best of a bad job!

  On that occasion we had lunch in Bologna at the famous Pappagallo Restaurant, whose charming proprietor and his family d
id much of the work themselves – and their food did them great justice. The Signor Padrone always took the orders himself and has various ‘specialités de la maison’ which he recommended personally. The walls were lined with photographs of persons, well-known and otherwise, who had frequented the Pappagallo and found a real welcome there. It was my first visit, but I was to know the family better later; during a strike, when the waiters in accordance with union instructions were unable to do their work, the family took over, and cooked, served and washed up themselves.

  Something went wrong with the car on the day we were transporting the Italian gentleman to Milan and we were obliged to spend two hours of an intensely hot summer afternoon in Bologna. As usual between two and four, the streets were more or less empty, and all the shops closed. I could find no better amusement than to climb the tallest of the leaning towers of the city, the Torre degli Asinelli, which measures 318ft and is 4ft out of perspective, which latter fact gives the tower a distinct lurch when seen from a distance. The other tower, the Torre Garisenda, is 7ft out of perspective! I had realised that the Torre degli Asinelli would be something of a climb, but had not at all imagined it to be as stiff as it proved, especially in the prevalent heat. Once started, however, obstinacy made me determined to get to the top, which I eventually did, puffing like a grampus and with a dreadful stitch in my chest. The view was magnificent and far below I could see two tiny figures and others around them – the CO and Signor Trivulzio, talking to one or two Italians, I presumed. I descended gently, taking my time and reached the bottom, stopping on the stairs before leaving, to powder my scarlet nose; then, still very exhausted and my tongue hanging out, I tried to make a quick exit unobserved. But the CO and his companion were outside and looked somewhat surprised at my puffy and bloated face and sticky forehead. The Italian looked more mystified than ever and I learnt afterwards that he had remarked how curious English women appeared to be! I made a beeline for the nearest café, after a mumbled excuse and ordered ‘limonata fresca con ghiaccio’ (fresh lemon with ice), and had two more in the span of a few minutes, emerging a little refreshed to find the car drawing up. I was glad to relax for a bit on the way to Milan, and was very glad indeed that Signor who was sitting in the back with me did not find it necessary to make polite conversation, but proved his gallantry by immediately offering me an American cigarette.

  It was about the beginning of June that I persuaded the admin captain who was CO of the section that it was time for some form of entertainment to be organised for the handful of ORs, not to speak of the small collection of civilian personnel at Via Seprio. Eventually, everyone caught on to the idea and we got a party going, hired a little inexpensive band and turned the office into a ballroom. With assistance, we collected the refreshments from the large Army Catering Corps Section in Milan, who were most kind and helpful. The party went off very well, except that Cesare set fire to something in the kitchen. I happened to look through the hatch from the dining room during the interval, when we were all having refreshments, and to my astonishment saw that everything in the kitchen was glowing brightly, as if lit up by flames. I hurried out and found that this was in fact the case, and that some fat on the stove had caught fire and there was a fine blaze right up to the ceiling. Cesare was wrestling with the conflagration, complete with best white gloves and coat, but as he seemed to be rather ineffectual except for blackening his own garment, I somewhat unceremoniously pushed in front of him. Forgetting that I was also wearing a clean drill tunic, I somehow managed to get the blaze under control. Fortunately, just as this was happening a captain arrived on the scene and finished the matter off – the kitchen was out of danger, but everything was black, I was grubby and Cesare’s white rig-out had to be abandoned for the evening. That was all behind the scenes, however, and meanwhile everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves; we had made a pleasant cocktail and Mimi was resplendent in a long red evening gown, looking very smart and distinguée, and doing excellent work in helping to entertain the guests. We had one more such party, but after that decided not to hold any others, as it was impossible to find anyone reliable to look after the bar the whole time. Heavy losses had been made, because Italian women helpers poured out doubles and charged for singles, and made other such mistakes – doubtless quite innocently, but highly damaging to the pockets of the officers who later had to make good the deficit. The soldiers had brought girlfriends, and some ‘helpers’ had also been invited, so that a dual purpose was served. In this way, I met Signora Merla, the gallant little woman who sheltered a British officer in her house, and also threw a bomb at the German RTO’s office in Milan Station. When she heard that she was under suspicion, she rushed out and had her hair dyed. The Gestapo did eventually catch her and she was in prison for a few months, but fortunately escaped in the end-of-war confusion. She was extremely grateful for the modest sum the commission was allowed, according to its directives, to pay her, although with the cost of living as high as it was, the money cannot have gone very far.

  One hot summer afternoon, just after lunch, the alarm was given in the mess; as it happened I had been back to my hotel and was just returning to the unit for post or messages. As I ascended the short flight of stairs to the mezzanine, I realised that something was up as voices were shouting rather excitedly and downstairs a small group of civilians were standing earnestly discussing something of importance, while a police car had drawn up outside and the engines of several other vehicles appeared to be running. As I neared the top of the stairs, I was nearly bowled over by the captain and his two Yugoslavs, hastening downstairs and, as far as could be seen, armed. This impression was soon confirmed, for closely upon their heels followed Zimmy, his black beret straight and purposefully placed square over his eyes, his head down and a tommy-gun clutched in one hand. I inquired what was the matter, but received only a grim monosyllabic reply, which conveyed nothing. In the distance I could hear the captain issuing sharp commands and Tom and Bertie (the Yugoslavs) answering eagerly ‘Si, Signor Capitano, subito Signor Capitano, va benissimo Signor Capitano,’ while the noise of engines being revved up rose to an angry crescendo.

  I hurried into the office and was told by Mimi that the CO’s Lancia, a small section car used by the CO in Milan, as it was handy and used little petrol, had been stolen in the lunch-hour in spite of the presence of a vigile, or Italian policeman on point duty outside the section. This was serious, for it meant that possibly the vigile might have turned a blind eye, though that seemed hardly probable in view of the well-known efficiency of the Milan police and the loyal help and co-operation they had always rendered us. More likely the vigile had turned in for a word with the custode and the practised thieves had driven off in a span of a few seconds, while his back was turned. Doubtless the coup had been carefully planned and a close watch had been kept on all movements at the section, so that the most favourable moment might be chosen, and this was certainly the quietest hour of the day, when everyone was indoors after lunch, sheltering from the intense midday heat.

  As Mimi and I were discussing all this there was an appalling screeching of brakes and clutches, punctuated by shouts, which attracted us both to the window, where we were soon joined by Cesare, Tina and Aldo, all very excited. Below us, all available manpower was crowded into the several vehicles of the section, about two jeeps and two trucks and a car, and all seemed to be armed in some way. The shrill voices of several small children who were watching the goings-on with keen interest added to the noise and general excitement. Now with a protracted grinding of brakes the contingent was off, and disappeared in a whirl of hot dust, leaving a growing crowd of spectators all airing their various opinions, illustrating their points with many decisive gestures at the same time.

  Mimi shrugged her shoulders, saying, ‘They’ll never find it – it’s a wild goose chase.’ Her use of English idiom was almost impeccable. But she was right; later in the afternoon, a disillusioned and thirsty group of men returned, and not a trace of the Lancia had
they uncovered. Even the efforts of the Chief of Police did not clear up the situation; the vehicle had gone, literally lock, stock and barrel. When the tension was over, and the loss philosophically accepted, the necessary Court of Enquiry held and all the numerous forms filled in, there was suddenly one day a telephone call from the Vigilanza Urbana or Central Police Station. The torso of the car had been found – wheel-less and robbed of everything of any value. On the front seat was a rude caption: ‘With compliments to the British’. The Lancia had been discovered abandoned on some waste ground in the suburbs of Milan. The guilty persons were never caught and brought to justice. It was just another instance of the pitting of wits sharpened by the rigours and restrictions of war and Occupation against the forces of law and order. But for us at the section it was an anti-climax: a running battle, even if it had caused the car to be pitted with tommy-gun bullets, would have been a far more delightful and interesting experience, and doubtless the Italian Celere, or Flying Squads, becoming very noisy and active at that time, would have been only too pleased to have joined in. It was a disappointment, but one soon healed by time and the pressure of events.