My Italian Adventures

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

  One Sunday that summer I was able to go over on a visit to Turin. We were going to see a German driver mechanic, attached to our unit, who had recently been seriously injured in a motor crash and taken to hospital in Turin. We found him comfortable and well cared for and then went to call on an Italian colonel, a friend of the Allies. We stayed half an hour or so and saw a large number of dogs, for the colonel was interested in breeding. Later we partook of a glass of vermouth in the Salotto, whose windows were closely shuttered to keep out the noonday sun. Next we went on to lunch with Susan, who was working for the American Consulate in Turin, and some other consulate girls, mainly British. Susan had had a tough time in the war, having been interned by the Italians and not always kindly treated. She had escaped in the end and made her way to Vatican City, where she joined the Rome Organisation and performed very useful and dangerous work, organising the escapes of other people, military and civil. She was pretty, gay and charming and it was hard to imagine her in a grim concentration camp, or fleeing and hiding for her life – but she had experienced just that, and risked death in finding her way to the Vatican. The English girls she lived with probably did not know her history, as it was through men who had been in the Vatican with her that we had heard it and she never mentioned her escape; indeed, despite her terrible experiences, she seemed without a care in the world. So we had a cheerful lunch party and sat in the sunny garden afterwards, where creeping roses enshrined the house, and large purple clematis peered exotically from the walls. On that occasion Turin appeared to me to be a beautiful city – clean and spacious, embellished with trees and gardens; and as a backdrop to it all the high Alps, very near and white and sparkling, against the fresh green of the foothills. We went back to Milan in the late afternoon, crossing a wide and roaring torrent, grey like glacial rivers, and I noticed the brilliant green of the trees, which by midsummer would almost certainly have lost their pristine freshness.

  I was by this time beginning to discover that Milan had its own charm and advantages, outweighing in some ways even those of Rome. All ‘Milanesi’, either born or by adoption, of course consider that their city is unsurpassed and are rightly proud of its historic monuments, its Scala Opera House and the fine modern parts of the city. But Milan is primarily an industrial city and therefore has similar problems to all modern industrialised areas: unemployment, shortage of housing and poor quality accommodation for many workers, lack of money and, in the days of the Occupation, often lack of food. At one time, the sindaco (mayor) personally went out into the country to ensure supplies for the city in order to avert civic disturbances, which were not unnatural in the dislocated state of Italian industry during the immediate post-war period. Although shortages and other difficulties tended to make Milan a fertile breeding ground for Communists at that time, the Milanesi seemed to be hard-working, honest and patriotic, with the odd exceptions, of course – but Communism is unlikely to gain much serious ground in a country as intensely and fervently patriotic as Italy. ‘L’Italia’ is almost a religion for Italians, and ‘pro patria mori’ no mockery, but a religious creed. They did not fight in the desert, because they were not fighting for Italy, but for their traditional enemies the Germans, and their own leaders lacked cohesion and inspiration. With the right leaders and a cause they feel to be just and patriotic, Italians are probably as brave as anyone else – the achievements of the partisans and the Committee of Liberation testify to this.

  Sometimes of an evening we would go down to the rowing club, of which one of our section was an honorary member, to see what was going on. It was a great social centre, where we could boat and bathe, and at night, dance and listen to music, as well as drink some bright-green fizzy drink with a liquorice taste. The club, needless to say, was alongside the canal, as Milan has no river, and it had a terrace with tables and chairs and a large garden, where one could dance and sit among the trees, festooned with fairy lights. Occasionally we went to the other side of the canal, to a similar place, though not a club, aptly named ‘Bellaria’, where an excellent orchestra played. These places were not expensive, and the entertainment they provided could be enjoyed by almost anyone at least once in a while; there seemed to be far more democracy about Milan than for instance in Rome, where available pleasures tend to be mostly for those with a substantial sum of money to spend.

  Meanwhile, the Scala had reopened with a special festival conducted by Toscanini, now back from America and reinstated among his fellow countrymen. It was said that he had declared that he would never conduct in the Scala again as long as the Fascists were still in power – now that they had gone, he had not delayed long in returning home and showing his enthusiasm for the new Italy. Thanks to the kind offices of the Chief of Police, who was a passionate music lover, quite a few tickets were made available to our section, and on one occasion he actually gave up his seat for me. It is hardly necessary to say that Toscanini’s reception was nothing short of wildly enthusiastic. I was much amused at his rendering of Rhapsody in Blue, which did not prove so popular with his countrymen as his classical performances, but which people said he felt he had to play to show gratitude for the hospitality he had received while in America.

  I went again, with two officers, one over from Verona and an Italian captain who was attached to ASC. I had expressed a mild desire to get Toscanini’s signature, but had not really considered the matter feasible. I was therefore somewhat taken aback when my English escort suddenly appeared in the interval with an Englishman in mufti, whom he introduced by saying, ‘Here is someone else who wants to get Toscanini’s signature.’ The man seemed very pleasant and immediately told me how he proposed to obtain the valued signature. It all sounded rather harebrained and I hesitated, but when the end of the concert came, I found my two companions only too anxious to hand me over to the stranger, and before I knew what had happened, they had said goodnight and I was being led into the purlieus of the great Opera House.

  We went up a long staircase, and down a long winding corridor, and at the end was a queue. It appeared that General Mark Clark was about to be presented to the great conductor. I was horrified and told my friend that in the circumstances it was quite impossible for us to stay, but he refused to budge and seemed positive we should achieve our goal. We managed to get closer and closer, but various officials were saying that the maestro was tired, and would not see anyone else, and after the general had left, it seemed more hopeless than ever. Signora Toscanini was there, looking very stern and warding off encroachers, and certainly she had justification, for her husband was looking very tired. Then, just as we were beginning to despair, luckily for me Toscanini somehow spotted me and spoke a word to the man next to him. It all happened in a moment, but my companion and I were then brought forward and introduced, and I was told the maestro would be pleased to autograph my programme, if I would leave it with my address. My friend was shown the same courtesy, but I felt that because the maestro had noticed me, the only girl and the only person in uniform still present, he had not wanted to disappoint me, and had prevented my being sent away. He was so courteous and charming, no wonder I went home on air! Two days later my programme reappeared at my hotel, beautifully inscribed and with a little note from his secretary. I was more than grateful to my new acquaintance for insisting on our persevering, for on my own I could never have obtained such a prize.

  Life in Milan was brightened for me by Aldo, the small, long-legged four-year-old son of the custode. Aldo was a regular visitor to the office, and he naturally came in for a good share of sweets and other titbits. He often came to me and asked to help and though there was not a great deal he could do, I sometimes found small jobs for him. Soon I quite missed him when he did not turn up and proffer his services, so seriously regarding me with his large, dark, solemn eyes. How grateful he was too, for the small rewards those services brought! I began to lay things aside for him and felt rather guilty if he came in and there was nothing available; a few little extras were a real treat in those da
ys of shortages and austerity. One afternoon I was suddenly aware of a small shadow at my side as I typed. After he had stood silently and patiently beside me for some time, I asked Aldo what he wanted: ‘Cosa vuoi?’ I said, without looking up from my work (what do you want?) ‘Quello che ha,’ he replied simply and quite naturally (whatever you’ve got). On this occasion it happened to be biscuits, of which he received several with customary gratitude and offers of assistance, which mainly consisted that day in carrying letters to the post clerk for stamping and dispatch. I missed Aldo when we left – like most Italian children, he was not only helpful and affectionate, but very well-mannered and carefully brought up.

  It was at the beginning of July that a public ceremony took place in Florence for the presentation of certificates to helpers in Florence and the country round about. The ceremony took place in one of the historic rooms of the Palazzo Vecchio, the ancient seat of government of the former Republic of Florence and also of the Medici dukes. The setting was perfect and the room was crowded with helpers and their relatives. The VIPs sat as usual on the platform, and included the brigadier commanding the Occupation troops in the area, the sindaco (mayor), Professor Pieracini, the Prefect of the Province, and others. There was a reception afterwards, and after that lunch at the section for special helpers and officials who had contributed towards organising the ceremony. There were the usual speeches, after the King’s Health had been drunk and Anglo-Italian friendship toasted. Afterwards everyone congregated in groups on the terrace, chatting and discussing the day’s happenings, or admiring the magnificent view of the city, pointing out the various monuments to persons like myself, only slightly acquainted with Florentine landmarks.

  It must have been about four o’clock by this time and already the worst heat of the day was over and it was delightfully warm outside, even hot, but not too hot. A general invitation was extended to the CO and all members of the commission present to dinner with a distinguished ingenière and his wife. Eventually about six of us accepted, the rest already being bespoken and it was arranged that we should meet our hosts at a certain point in our own transport, and they would show us the way out of Florence by car to their country estate, where we would spend the evening. We duly met at about 6.30 p.m., and the sun was setting by the time we found ourselves well off the autostrada, going along a narrow road, not much more than a lane, with a burn running beside it through a wild and rocky valley, and with pastures rising fairly steeply on either side. Presently we turned a corner and came in sight of a stone-housed village, and the tower of an ancient castle rising beyond it on top of a veritable Mount of Olives. We sped through the bumpy village street, where hens scattered in our path and barefooted children smiled and waved. Then we climbed up the winding drive to the castle itself, in the wake of our hosts’ car, turning round steep horseshoe bends. Soon we were at the top and dismounted and entered the lower courtyard. We ascended an antique stone stairway leading to the first floor and were greeted by a very old gentleman – we learnt later that he was ninety-three. That was the proprietario, grandfather of the ingenière and great-great-uncle of his young nephew, still at school, who was also with us.

  We spent a delightful evening in this castle, kindly and hospitably entertained in true Italian fashion, with Italian food, most of it home-grown, the menu completed by home-distilled wine and liqueurs. While we were having coffee, one of our number, a squadron leader, formerly a member of the Sadlers Wells Opera Company, gave some exquisite renderings of Italian songs, such as ‘Santa Lucia’, ‘O sole mio’ and others, in a melodious voice. Later we danced to the gramophone, and our hostess, who was very gay and fond of company, joined her husband, also most hospitable, in pressing us to stay on, so that it was well past midnight when we finally prepared to leave this historic abode and our delightful hosts. This same castle had been the refuge of quite a bunch of our men during the fighting and even during the attack on Florence itself. They had lain hidden while German soldiers searched the whole building and the grandfather and his great-great-nephew watched, knowing that if the fugitives were discovered, they would probably all, Italians and Allies, be without more ado stood up against a wall and shot then and there. The castle was over 1,000 years old and must have witnessed many events, grave and gay, but it can have witnessed few more gallant and courageous than the heroic concealment of a large group of Allied soldiers by an old man and a boy, who held those men’s lives in their hands, but preferred to risk their own.

  We went back in two batches and Judy and I were in a jeep which lost the way. It then started to rain, or rather to pour, a heavy, thundery downpour, and as the jeep had no hood, we got extremely wet. So the evening finished in the early morning with somewhat of an anti-climax, but it in no way dimmed the recollection of the happy evening we had just spent; not even the acrimonious discussions as to which was the right way to take could do that.

  Next morning an SSAFA (Soldiers’, Sailors’, and Airmen’s Families Association) friend of mine joined me on her way to Rome on leave, and together we met the CO and his wife, and accompanied them to the opening of an exhibition of Florentine art treasure, sponsored by Professore Pieracini, the sindaco. The professore was not only a true friend of England, he was a great man, and had been imprisoned by the Fascists for daring to defy them. After the liberation of Florence, he was immediately released and reinstated as sindaco by the Allies. He was an enthusiast for the arts and was himself an outstanding writer, especially on the subject of the Medici family, his favourite historical theme. He had pressed our CO to attend the meeting that morning, and on our arrival he extended us a very cordial welcome and soon had the CO on the platform with all the other notables. I hoped he would not ask the CO to speak, representing the Allied Forces, as I did not at all relish the idea of having to translate a speech into Italian in front of an audience of about 200 distinguished citizens of Florence. I hoped Mrs Colonel might do it, as she spoke much more fluently than I did, and I tried to study some carved wall plaques very absorbedly and unobtrusively at one side of the room, though I feared the CO had spotted me. Fortunately he was not asked to speak, and so I escaped what would have been a nerve-racking experience. After an introduction by the professore, followed by a short speech by another Italian, we were all free to mingle and study the exhibits, an extremely interesting and varied collection. That afternoon we were back on the road for Milan and 4.30 p.m. found us at Bologna petrol point, where Yugoslav refugees worked in thick dust, refuelling military vehicles. Two hours later we were back in Milan itself.

  Personally I was glad to be back, for I had toothache. All through June it had been getting progressively worse, and soon after the Florence ceremony it became unbearable, and long-distance telephoning was almost impossible. So the CO finally sent me, protesting somewhat, to the Army Dental Unit. When I reached it, I was told it was closed to patients until the following Monday. This was Thursday. On enquiring why, I was informed that it was in the process of being amalgamated with another dental unit, part of the retrenchment business again, and that there was a lot of reorganisation and paperwork to be done. On my pleading with the dental officer, he deigned to look in my mouth, but only to say he could find nothing wrong and that I must be imagining things. He just would not help, so I went back very disconsolately to the section.

  Mimi had already recommended an Italian dentist that she knew, and I had refused to visit him, dreading treatment from an Italian, but the following day the pain was so bad that I decided that nothing could be much worse, and asked her to telephone her professore. My fears were certainly justified, for though the professore was kindness itself, it soon became clear that Italian dentists expected to inflict agony on their patients. It seemed that two teeth had to lose their nerves and after several visits and what seemed like hours of enthusiastic and excessively painful drilling, the professore had extracted both nerves, holding them up triumphantly for me to see, patting me on the back and telling me I was a good girl. When I complaine
d that he was hurting me – a vast understatement – he laughed and told me jocularly that I was a fibber! Italian dentists were decidedly different from our own, both in technique and manner it appeared, but at least the visits were far from dull. The professore knew we were restricted for money and he never gave me a bill, but I took him plenty of good cigarettes and several bottles of Canadian whisky (every time I got a spirit ration). He seemed delighted with these, and as both had a very high value for the civilian population, who were short of such luxuries as good tobacco and spirits, doubtless they helped a great deal towards settling my obligations towards him.

  He also treated one of our Yugoslavs and an Italian captain. One visit on the part of the captain was enough for him; he refused point-blank to undergo any more treatment – the drill was too much for him. Later I had infra-red treatment to ease the pain, and this followed the extraction of a wisdom tooth, which took my professore a quarter of an hour, struggling and heaving, employing bigger and better pincers every few moments. By this time I was on quite friendly terms with him and he would sometimes offer me a glass of vermouth or an ice at the end of my visit, which was usually the last of his day, about 6.30 p.m., when I had finished in the office. We spoke of his villa on Lake Garda, and once or twice he asked if I would like to see it. Meanwhile, I was teased unmercifully by the section, who pretended that I was infatuated with the dentist and only went to him because I liked him. I could not imagine braving the dentist’s chair for any reason but dire necessity and indignantly fought off all insinuations. Finally one day I had a great shock. I was up for a few days in August after nearly two months of treatment, and the professore was giving me a check over. Suddenly, afterwards, as I was sipping the usual glass of vermouth, which he insisted on my accepting, he made a declaration, which righteously astonished and outraged me. He seemed very surprised at my amazement, and said he had not wished to offend. I took my departure immediately and for my last visit was accompanied by a lieutenant in uniform. Notwithstanding that, the professore managed to whisper in my ear that it was a shame that I did not trust him any more and various other protestations. He also begged me to use my (my!!) influence in assisting him to buy up a surplus Army vehicle. He greatly overestimated my importance, and though I made enquiries and did what I could, I did not achieve anything, for his case was not strong enough. At that time, only specially privileged persons had the opportunity and first choice when it came to surplus war stocks, etc., and as the professore had not been a ‘helper’ in accordance with the charter of our commission, we could not recommend him for priority. I did not see the professore again, which was perhaps just as well, but in spite of his ulterior motives, he was very kind and did not refuse help when it was really needed – and he gave us all many a laugh. My leg was so pulled about him and other matters that sometimes people would ask me if I had any legs left! Needless to say, about the professore’s ‘Declaration’ I said never a word. I had the last laugh that time.