My Italian Adventures

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

  In the hotel I met ‘Nanny’; that was not his real name, but I christened him that, because when we met he was in charge of somebody’s baby and seemed to be perfectly at home baby-sitting. Nanny asked for a lift as far as his unit at Carno, near Pontebba, not far from the Italian side of the border, and so he joined our party for the return journey to Villach and so on. Before we left Graz, I had almost my only really severe rebuke for lateness from the CO, delivered in stern and stentorian tones in the crowded vestibule of the officers’ hotel. Everyone looked up and it was with flaming cheeks that I meekly hurried through the swing door and out to the car for our departure, hoping someone else could be thought to be me, but knowing it must be well-nigh impossible. I was always in very good time after that!

  On our way from Villach back to Italy, we had just crossed the frontier and were proceeding at about 30mph in the snow, when a large khaki-coloured charabanc hurtled round a corner unexpectedly, not nearly enough on its own side. Before anyone could say ‘Jack Robinson’, the beautiful Humber Snipe, affectionately known as the CO’s ‘Fire Engine’, was straddling the road completely, blocking all traffic, and very much down on the port side, where the front wheel had been wrenched off, hub and all. I was too surprised even to gasp, but in a moment we were all out inspecting the damage. Fortunately, no-one was hurt, but the car was in a very bad way indeed and, worse still, traffic was already beginning to assemble on either side of her. It was obvious that in a few moments violent hooting would start up from both directions – already small, rather ominous toots were warning us, like an orchestra tuning up before the overture. Nanny and I hurried back to the frontier post, after a few expostulations, and reported the matter to the MPs, who at once telephoned for a breakdown gang. The Maltese driver of the charabanc overtook us here and entered into more rude and angry arguments, swearing that he had been travelling at only 20mph, and producing other similar fairy tales in a very aggressive manner. He kept to his stories later on, even when questioned at a Court of Enquiry, but it was obvious that if he had been telling the truth, the accident would not have occurred. It was a clear case of conscience, but as someone said afterwards, ‘Well, he was an ENSA driver, so what do you expect?’ Hardly fair on ENSA, but ENSA, UNRRA and all the other ancillaries of the Occupation forces were mostly regarded with some measure of suspicion, probably in the main unfair.

  Meanwhile Nanny and I left the Maltese driver, still vociferously protesting his innocence and our guilt, and after we had made our report, I got on to the phone to our section in Bologna for a car to meet the CO at Udine. Nanny said he could send us on from his place as far as that. We then walked back to the Humber, to find it alongside one bank of the road and traffic able to pass it in one direction at a time. The CO and Lance Corporal Smart, having thus achieved a partial clearance of the route, were filling in time with a little shooting practice against a pine tree; and we all then had to wait some hours before the breakdown gang arrived, hauled the nose of our vehicle on to a huge crane affair and towed us along in state at an angle of about 30 degrees.

  The poor old Fire Engine was never resurrected to my knowledge, but remained in the enormous Surplus and Worn Stores dump at Udine, among the mountains of scrap that cluttered various disused vehicle parks, still to be found here and there in Italy. Meanwhile the CO went back to using his Chev again, which after all had rendered more service than any – but much grief was felt over the loss of the Fire Engine. Several months’ hard work had been put into extracting this splendid vehicle from an economy stricken ‘Q’ branch at GHQ – and then a miserable ENSA bus had hurtled round a corner in the snow and ‘Goodnight, Humber Snipe’. The MTO almost went into mourning. In fact that winter was hard on transport altogether, for ‘Sunny Italy’ decided to show the remnants of the Allied troops what she could do by way of a really cold winter, and there was snow even in Rome, and for the towns of the north – in Bologna, for instance – there was snow for quite two months.

  We reached Bologna from Udine in a 15cwt, and made the journey down to Rome via Ricione in the same way. The Futa Pass and the other pass to Florence were more or less closed on account of the snow – one could risk them, but there was no guarantee of finding them open. I was secretly rather glad that we were not going to attempt the hairpin bends with drops of several hundred feet which occurred quite often on these mountain roads – in the prevalent snow and ice it would have been quite a hazardous journey, and I felt one crash was enough for the time being. The pass over to Spoleto was high enough, but the drops in general were not as sheer as on the other two routes. All the same, I was glad enough to get back to Rome, where preparations for Christmas were in full swing.

  35

  Last Roman Christmas

  O n 21 December a very large party was held for everyone in the commission – officers, sergeants, soldiers, civilian employees and their wives or other relatives. There must have been 200 to 300 people present. The mess was decorated with holly, mistletoe and flowers and looked very festive with coloured paper lanterns over the lights, bathing everything in a roseate glow. This also helped to disguise the wartime shabbiness of walls and upholstery; several years of Occupation had made redecoration priority number one for the proprietor, when at last his hotel would be de-requisitioned. But that evening no-one minded much, for there was a true Christmas spirit of friendliness prevailing. Some form of wine cup was served as the pièce de résistance with the usual sandwiches and some excellent fruit salad. Everyone turned out in force and the civilian band hired for the occasion did really excellent work.

  At 8.30 p.m. the CO and his family appeared, and it was at that time my job to translate into Italian the speech made by the CO, welcoming the guests and wishing everyone a happy Christmas and all the best for the New Year, with some references to the aims, spirit and achievements of the commission. This was the most nerve-racking experience I had during all my time in the Service, and not being UNESCO-trained, and in any case terrified of public speaking, even as an interpreter, I did not derive any pleasure from the celebrations until this dreaded 10 minutes was over. The CO did not speak very fast, but he ran his sentences into each other, or so it seemed to me, and I was afraid of forgetting what had been said before there had been time, or a pause, for me to put it across. I had been persuaded to drink a large glass of sherry beforehand to steady my nerves, although that did not help much; but everyone seemed pleased with the speech, and my ordeal over I was free to enjoy my evening.

  There was a spirit of Roman gaiety abroad that night, and frequent ‘Paul Jones’ helped to banish shyness and caused people to mix indiscriminately and unconventionally. The Italians were there to enjoy themselves and that they did, quite spontaneously and unaffectedly, as only Italians know how. A strange adventure befell our young soldier post clerk; he found himself dancing with a young woman in evening dress, whom he took to be an ATS officer, but who was in fact the colonel’s wife. There was a certain similarity of colouring and figure, and it was only the nods and winks of his pals that put him wise to the mistake. She was very amused, but he became very hot and bothered and kept well away from the CO’s office for several days after Christmas.

  Another strange incident arose as a result of this slight resemblance between Mrs Colonel and Junior Commander Winnie Winter, who had joined us few months previously from Paris, complete with closely cropped black French poodle. She obstinately refused to be parted from this dog, and even obtained special permission from the area commander to live out in a civilian friend’s house rather than live in the transit hotel without her pet, for dogs were taboo in the hotel. During this Christmas party, an Italian guest had approached her and after greeting her, had enquired, ‘And how is your little one?’ She, thinking naturally of the adored poodle, replied, ‘Oh, he’s very well, thank you.’ ‘Has he a good appetite?’ was the next question, to which she answered, ‘Oh, excellent, he eats everything.’ ‘I suppose you take him for walks in the Giardino Borghese?’ her interlo
cutor carried on. ‘Yes, he goes for a walk every day,’ Winnie said, wondering a little at the tone of tender solicitude. ‘And how do you take him?’ ‘Oh, he goes on a lead?’ said Winnie, inwardly remarking to herself that Italians wanted a great many details. But her questioner’s face seemed puzzled. ‘You English are too savage to your children.’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ returned Winnie. After more questioning and discussion, the situation was at last clarified and Junior Commander Winnie Winter was established as the owner of a pet poodle and not the colonel’s wife, mother of a beautiful blonde baby.

  I learnt that Christmas of the Italian custom of sending bunches or sprigs of mistletoe as a sentimental token at Christmas time. Our GSO II had many admirers among the women employees and he received the biggest bunch of mistletoe I ever saw, very attractively wrapped up in cellophane paper, tied with red ribbon and bearing a neat card of greeting. According to our English ideas, this seems rather an open way of showing interest in someone of the opposite sex, but in Italy it seems such things can be done and no-one thinks any the worse of one for wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve.

  The rest of Christmas passed off very pleasantly with the usual celebrations. Several people in the hotel threw small parties. Judy and I each invited a few friends in. I believe we had about three Christmas dinners each and it was a wonder that our digestions stood the strain. On Christmas Day we served food at the Other Ranks’ dinner and had dinner in our officers’ mess the same evening.

  On Boxing Day I went to a wedding just outside Rome in Quadraro village. One of the drivers on my former unit was getting married to an Italian girl and I was invited together with one of our commission drivers, who like myself had previously been in the same show. We borrowed a tiny Topolino, one of our CEM cars, and tried to locate the church, the Church of Scotland, but could not find it. We finally reached Quadraro when the wedding breakfast was already in progress, and were at once, to my embarrassment, shown to seats of honour next to the bridal pair, and given vermouth or white wine to drink and cakes to eat. I had the greatest trouble in consuming these, owing to the general excitement and the fact that we were at the head of the table and I never did like people watching me eat – yet our kind hosts kept on pressing us to eat and drink more. There was of course an army of relatives present, and altogether the company must have numbered about 150, seated round three sides of a rectangular table, old and young, mothers and fathers, and children of all ages. There was much drinking of healths and shouting cheerfully from one part of the table to another, and altogether the atmosphere was thoroughly cordial and delightfully unaffected. Then suddenly there was a loud bang, the bride looked worried and one or two girls shrieked. I tried to appear completely unconcerned, even when a whole series of bangs or small explosions took place. The atmosphere became smoky and sulphur gas seemed to be filling the air, so that one coughed and spluttered and could hardly see across the tables. There was a lot of screaming and shouting and one would have thought that some form of insurrection had started, but it soon emerged that several young men, evidently thinking that the party wanted warming up, had decided to let off some squibs under the tables. So there was nothing to do but to leave the fireworks to burn themselves out and move outside; but this was no hardship, for the sun was shining and it was warmer than many days in an English April. My companion and I were both very hospitably invited to stay for lunch, so I imagined what we had just had must have been elevenses. But we declined, knowing full well that lunch would last any length of time up to about six in the evening. So we wished the bride and groom the very best of everything, said goodbye to ‘Mamma’ and ‘Papa’, and with three girls as escorts and another car full of relatives as additional escort, drove back into Rome as far as the Piazza Barberini. I drew the line at arriving at the mess with two cars full of very elated civilians – that would have been frowned on, and I should have been asked why so many of them were travelling in the car with me. One of our passengers, an olive-skinned and very attractive girl, with large dark eyes, told me her ambition was to marry an Englishman, almost any Englishman it seemed, in order to go to England and because she liked them. ‘But perhaps you would not be happy in England,’ I said, ‘You would miss the sunshine and dislike the fog and rain.’ ‘Oh no,’ she replied, ‘I would not mind anything, for I should be so glad to get away. Here there is nothing for me.’ I never heard whether her dream was fulfilled, but certainly it was shared by many other Italian girls at that time, and for many Italians of both sexes England and America represented Utopia, to which they longed to go – and schemed diligently to reach.

  When we reached the Piazza Barberini, the other car drew up behind us and I went over to say goodbye to them. There must have been seven or eight people in it, including some children, and our three passengers still had to be taken on board for the return journey. They were soon squeezed in, for where transport is concerned in Italy the seemingly impossible is invariably accomplished. Hurst and I waved them off after many handshakes and cordial farewells. I learnt much later that when the wedding pictures came out, the bridegroom said, ‘Good heavens, I didn’t know the junior commander and Driver Hurst were at the reception!’ I asked often see the photos, but somehow never did, but the bridal pair sent me a card when on their honeymoon, which to a large extent compensated and which I thought was a charming gesture.

  The afternoon after this riotous morning I attended a crazy football match, officers versus ORs, as usual at Christmas time. This was held in the magnificent Foro Mussolini, the grand new stadium which is probably the principal monument commemorating the notorious Fascist era. The match was very exciting, not least so when two persons drove a jeep down the steps at half-time, dressed exactly like Jon’s ‘Two Types’, with the most glorious Desert Rat moustaches imaginable, made of straw, and quite 9in from tip to tip. This act went down very well with all present, and even overshadowed the bold action of an officer’s wife – a singer and a countess and a dramatic sort of person withal – who became so excited at a certain tense moment in the match, that she rushed down the steps on to the edge of the pitch, and kicked the ball on to the field, all but missing a scrum – fortunately for her immaculate hair-do and high-heeled shoes.

  On Boxing Evening there was a dance for the Other Ranks, and two days later a similar function in the officers’ mess. On the day after Boxing Day, however, work began again and when the New Year dawned, seen in appropriately to the strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’, we were hard at work again, for the commission was due to close down in 3 months’ time. Much work remained to be done and no-one quite knew whether the Treasury and other departments concerned would authorise an extension or insist on closing everything down, whether or not the work was completed. We had lost a lot of personnel of all ranks, and the gradual and steady reduction of Allied forces in Italy, together with the many essential services and amenities which they provided, made our task more difficult and complicated from the administrative point of view. It necessitated more liaison with the Italians, who were by this time quite coming into their own again. Italy was beginning to stand alone. The Prestito Nazionale was meeting with a magnificent response, and the new Risorgimento (reunification) was becoming daily more of a living reality. UNRRA had done its best, and ECA (Economic Co-operation Administration) was already present in thought, if not in practice. In the changing face of things, the commission still had its work to finish, as far as humanly possible. Unfortunately the elements were not on our side and weather conditions caused delays. But much was accomplished during the closing months, despite the many difficulties.

  36

  Onore al Merito

  D uring the latter part of 1946 the film Onore al Merito (or To Whom Honour is Due) was made by the Allied Screening Commission, in conjunction with the Press and Information Office of the British Embassy. Officers and other personnel of the Allied Screening Commission took part and contadini from the Abruzzi, the Aquila area, were trained to play Italian parts, which they
did with great skill and naturalness. In those days Rossellini had not yet produced his masterpieces, such as Open City or Vivere in Pace, but the acting by the Italian peasants in Onore al Merito was of the same high calibre as in those great full-length films; Italians are born actors, it seems, and completely lacking in self-consciousness or awkwardness. The film was designed to show, first, the work of the partisans and other helpers who risked so much for our escaping ex-prisoners; and secondly, to show the work of the Allied Screening Commission, sponsored by the British and American governments, in seeking out, thanking and trying to recompense those who had given freely of their property, and other assistance. Several scenes were shot in our office in Rome, including one of the CO interviewing an investigating officer reporting back from a duty trip.

  The story of the film was woven round one family who sheltered a prisoner, but were betrayed by a Fascist spy from their own village and thereby lost one of their members, shot by order of the Germans. The story was traced from the beginning when the escapee, after his plane was shot down, was wandering, ragged and hungry, through the countryside, sought by the German Occupation troops and Fascist police. He was taken in by the peasants, given food and drink, and lived with them for a time, until he went on his way to pass the Allied lines and join the Eighth Army in the south. The film ended with the mother, father and daughter visiting the cemetery, with its tall cypresses and elaborate white tombstones, to lay a few flowers on the grave of their son who as much as any front-line soldier lost his life in the cause of freedom.

  This film was first shown at the Spanish College in Aquila in November 1946, at the time of my detention in Milan owing to bad weather. I heard that it was a great success with the local population, and that the Italian amateur actors in particular greatly relished seeing themselves on the screen. For some of them it was even their first film show. It was officially shown in Rome in January, and there were three performances, for which rather elaborate invitation cards were issued in English and Italian: one performance was for members of the Italian government and official persons, members of the Diplomatic Corps and representatives of the Vatican; the second was for members of the Allied Army of Occupation; and the third for the Press, both Allied and Italian. Unfortunately, I developed influenza and was only able to attend one performance, as along with members of the embassy, most of the officers of the commission were automatically detailed to act as ushers and hosts. Signor de Gasperi was to have attended the first show, but to everyone’s general disappointment he was in America at the time. However, a great many Italian MPs were there and the film was very well received. My own chief thrill, apart from the discomfort of feeling ill, was that I had the honour of meeting Ignazio Silone, author of the famous anti-Fascist novel, The Seed Beneath the Snow. I had read this book in the early days of the war, being tremendously impressed by its fearless criticism of existing abuses, its vivid picture of Italian rural life and the squalid misery of the peasantry, and by its powerful literary style. The other two performances also went off well, the film was well reviewed in the Press, and was afterwards shown in various provincial cinemas in Italy; the soundtrack had been dubbed for this purpose. The film was also supposed to be shown as a documentary in England, but whether it ever reached the English public is, for me at least, a matter of conjecture. It was well received in Italy and I still have a newspaper report from Pontremoli (near Carrara), speaking glowingly of it. A very considerable amount of work was put into this film, both by the embassy staff and by the two press officers of the commission, ably assisted by Italian local authorities – and for a production almost entirely by amateurs it was a great achievement and a further example of the fruits of harmonious co-operation between the British and Italians.