My Italian Adventures

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

  37

  Winter Journey

  I mmediately after the film, the CO undertook a longish and fairly far-reaching tour of Northern Italy, the main purpose of which was to visit various important claimants, and also to pay a periodic visit to GHQ and the ASC Section at Bologna. I accompanied him to carry out my usual duties of general factotum and secretary, and more especially this time to act as interpreter, for few of the Italians we had to interview spoke English.

  Our first stop was at La Spezia, a large port badly damaged by Allied bombing, where the CO interviewed several claimants and was introduced to various prominent local personalities, such as the prefecto, the sindaco and a leading journalist, to whom he gave an account of the commission’s work. Much of our work everywhere depended on successful co-operation with the Italian authorities, and almost without exception they were found to be helpful, courteous and interested. A British major, who was the Press and Information Officer in La Spezia at that time and a member of the British Embassy Staff from Rome, and who had himself fought with the partisans in the mountains of the Province of Massa, made most of the arrangements for this visit. He gave a lunch party, to which he invited among others the sindaco, a Communist, and a violently anti-Communist count. But there was no friction, even though someone was wearing a red buttonhole, and the party was highly successful, probably due to the skill and obvious popularity of the host. As far as our commission was concerned, it was sometimes necessary to remind the Italians that we were not interested in their politics as such, but only in what they had done for Allied escapees; to them it sometimes appeared a little strange that their most ardent political enemies were received with equal cordiality by members of the commission, but impartiality was, and had to be, our watchword; to get involved in Italian internal politics would have been fatal.

  From La Spezia we went on via Chiavari to Genoa. In Chiavari, the CO presented a certificate to an Italian lady whose husband had been shot for helping a prisoner. She lived in a tiny clean flat in a pleasant villa, not far from the seashore. It was all so orderly and peaceful that the tragedy underlying the purpose of the visit seemed incongruous and almost incredible – only the photograph of the deceased man, his medals and the expression of wistful resignation on the face of his widow suddenly made everything live again in that quiet room, as in a low serious voice Signora Tommaso told us the story. The visit was concluded with a small cup of black coffee and then we were outside again, breathing the fresh sea air of Chiavari, which seemed a charming place, with avenues of orange trees, pink and white villas in luxuriant gardens and a particularly sunny and sheltered position.

  It was very different when we had to journey into the mountains to present a certificate to a priest, who lived so far off the beaten track that it seemed almost the back of beyond, in a minute mountain community with only one narrow road linking it to the outer world. In Genoa there were other claimants to be seen and the American consul to be visited in connection with the provision of passages and visas for deserving Italians who wished to emigrate. The commission’s scope was wide, covering many fields of activity, but obtaining priority passages was no easy task, when thousands upon thousands of refugees from all parts of Europe were clamouring to emigrate, especially to the USA or Palestine.

  From Genoa we went on to Turin, where there were more visits to be paid, which included one to a man and his wife who had been living in their summerhouse in Valle d’Aosta in Summer 1943, when suddenly the quiet valley was practically invaded by British, Australian and New Zealand prisoners, all hoping to cross the Alps into Switzerland. This Italian family, with others, worked tirelessly to provide food and boots for these footsore and hungry men, and to arrange for guides to pilot them over, or at least up to the pass at the head of the valley. From there, they had only to cross the wire and find their way down to freedom – but the path to freedom was perilous and not a few perished before they reached safety. Nevertheless, thanks to the very valuable help rendered in Valle d’Aosta many ex-prisoners evaded a further and probably more rigorous term of imprisonment in Germany. All this good work was carried out under the very nose of the Gestapo.

  It was very strange to go from Genoa to Turin in January; it was like going from spring to winter. On the Riviera the sun was shining all day and it was warm and sunny, sufficiently so to sit out of doors quite comfortably at midday. As one climbed gradually out of Genoa, the air became colder and colder and finally, after Alessandria, there was snow on the road and it was bitingly cold. The journey from Turin to Milan was worse still, the air bitter and the road surface unpleasantly slippery. Turin itself seemed a different place from the verdant city I had seen the previous summer. A permanent fog now enveloped everything, rather like a London pea-souper and shops and houses burnt continual light. There was no view, for this dense foggy atmosphere blanketed streets and houses alike. Every house seemed to have a small pipe issuing from some window on its facade, and these pipes rose for 6ft to 10ft upwards and then stopped, capped by a small cowl. They were all emitting smoke clouds, which swelled the fog. Frozen mounds of old and beaten-down snow lined the streets, the air was icy and the fog caught at one’s throat. People crowded the cafés, drinking steaming cups of coffee or rum punch with slices of lemon. The more crowded a café was, the warmer and jollier it seemed to be. Keeping warm seemed of necessity to be the prime occupation of man, woman and child. The shops looked attractive and inviting and prices were reasonable. Food of course was dear, but there did not seem to be such a shortage now. Food probably rationed itself by its cost, for the people did not look too well-fed and one could not but suspect that there must have been quite a lot of privation and hardship, in spite of the well-filled shops and busily puffing chimneys.

  Milan was much the same as Turin, but not so cosy. It seemed cold and unfamiliar in its winter garb. The people seemed cheerful enough, though, and the meeting there with a small crowd of about twenty helpers was a very cordial one. In fact, the little cocktail party held by the CO lasted until ten o’clock, when our guests eventually departed.

  Padua followed Milan – and again the air, permeated by Alpine currents, was cold and cutting, and gusty blasts blew at one from alleys and arches. There were only administrative problems to be discussed here, and we were soon back on the road for Bologna to find winter more in earnest than ever. Padua had been cold and rather snowy, but Bologna was almost cut off. Huge piles of dirty and ancient snow lined the streets, but it seemed to snow regularly and at our section in Via Gandino, in the residential quarter of the city, the garden was constantly carpeted in fresh white. The section itself was housed, transport and all, in a slightly war-damaged villa that had once been a rather palatial and luxurious place and even contained a magnificent blue-marble hip bath of enormous size, as the wife of the former wealthy owner had been a particularly large lady. Now the many amenities of the place were not so obvious, as there was little fuel to burn; it was only warm in the cookhouse, which was in the basement and capacious and cosy, but some of the windows and doors were broken and electricity was scarce. Like many Italian villas, this villa seemed ideal for Italy when it was sunny, but when the snow came, well, that was just too bad and draughts and cold had to be suffered: ‘Pazienza, the sun will soon be here again’ was the attitude. The sun came, even sometimes when it was snowing, but unfortunately at night all froze again, including the water in the radiators, both domestic and of cars, and even the drinking water. In spite of everything, morale was good at the section, where hot tea, sawdust and a certain amount of alcohol all contributed to ward off Jack Frost.

  Mimi had managed to scrounge a complete set of battledress, even including a forage cap and ankle boots of American type – but she was so petite and dainty in it all that she was like a Tom Thumb soldier. She had moved down with the section and was billeted out on a nearby Italian family and seemed thoroughly happy, though for the first time cut off from home.

  The CO inspected the section and interview
ed some of the personnel. He then arranged one or two trips to claimants of importance in the Romagna area. Bruno was with us and as luck would have it, either fate or the weather seemed against us. Bruno, needless to say, was not greatly enjoying the weather and required frequent doses of his favourite beverage to keep warm and cheerful. On our first expedition the Chev developed engine trouble and we had to turn back. I did not understand mechanics, but it occurred to me that Bruno was too vague about the Chev’s troubles on this occasion. On later reflection, I wondered if he had manufactured them – certainly the road north was uninvitingly icy and the whole countryside covered in deep snow. Anyway, the Chev was figuratively speaking grounded, which probably meant that Bruno was free to pass much of his time with civilian cronies in the trattoria, keeping warm.

  Next day we set out again, this time in a jeep, and the CO drove himself while Bruno sat behind. The road surface was again glacial, but with chains and hugging the centre of the road, we made fairly good progress along the autostrada, though I felt an inward twinge of nervousness at the prospect of 20 miles or so of this skating process. But it finished sooner than expected, for all of a sudden we went off into a horrible, veering, breathtaking skid, in which we were all powerless to do anything but await the final swerve and crash. It seemed hours, but it must have been only a few seconds, before we plunged nose first into the deep ditch on the right of the road. The snow, several feet deep here, saved us. I more or less fell out of the right seat and was at once up to my hips in soft snow. The driver, seated behind, was unscathed but reeked of whisky from a broken bottle, which had been stowed away in case of accidents, for even the prospect of being snowed up was not beyond the bounds of possibility. The CO was jammed behind the driver’s seat and the wheel, and had badly bruised his legs and crushed his ribs. Within two minutes, some Italian motorists had stopped and a crowd had soon collected, all sympathetic and willing to help. The CO was helped out of the car, rather a painful process for him, and he and I were taken on to the next village by some friendly motorists, where we were told we would find a doctor and a phone. There I was able to make contact with the section on the phone and report the accident. We waited a while longer for the doctor, but he did not come, and in the end we decided to make our way back to the jeep. Within half a minute of venturing out again on to the treacherous rink-like road surface, I had slipped and sprawled flat, a neither dignified nor comfortable occurrence. One had to walk most circumspectly if one did not wish to make an undignified descent into a horizontal position. The houses were all tightly shut up and there was hardly a soul to be seen – the whole world seemed to be hibernating under its mantle of white. The air was sharp and at night must have been glacial; a not too robust sunshine was now the only redeeming feature, and in spite of it the sky was a uniform greyish colour, betokening more snow to come.

  The CO was very shaken, so we stopped at a wayside trattoria, or inn, for a glass of wine and very soon the whole family and several guests had collected round us, where we sat sipping our wine in the kitchen – all were sympathetic and interested in our plight and many had personal experiences and reminiscences to relate. Quite a party developed, and I passed round a packet of State Express cigarettes, which were much appreciated. We could not remain long with these kindly people, and soon had to leave the warmth and friendliness of the trattoria for the cold open road. When we at last reached the jeep, walking almost at a snail’s pace, it had vanished, driver and all. The breakdown gang must have made double quick time and preceded us, but they should have come on to look for us, as the driver knew our destination. There was fortunately a considerable amount of civilian traffic on the road, and indeed the cars were almost the only signs of activity, so I stopped a motorist who gave us a lift into Reggio Emilia. The only room for me was on the running board, but this did not seem to matter; Italians are used to much stranger sights, and their transport is nearly always utilised to much more than its fullest capacity. We stopped at an inn in Reggio and I once more got on the phone and explained the situation – by this time I was beginning to be worried about the CO and did not want sole responsibility for his injuries. After this chapter of accidents, we had to stay some days in Bologna. I worked every day at the section and the CO remained in town recuperating. He could not however be persuaded to see the MO. So many COs seem to eschew anything to do with the RAMC, while of course recommending it to their juniors. But there was no persuading him, and so I concentrated on my work. Meanwhile someone else was having a nice little holiday, and that someone was Bruno.

  Doubtless Bruno was secretly and possibly overjoyed about the accident, as it meant we were obliged to remain longer in Bologna, and he had not much to do. He seemed to like Bologna, but for what specific reason I never discovered. In any case, he seemed to go rather peculiar at this time. It is not on record whether he had found that café-cognac was a warming and stimulating drink for the winter weather before he joined the commission, or whether the long drives and cold of the north caused his Roman blood to shout out for central heating – suffice to say that he was now finding café-cognac a very pleasant and convenient way of producing a sense of warmth and wellbeing. On one occasion when I was champing for a car to take me up to the section, the Chev was eventually found in the middle of a street, unattended, and Bruno was located in a nearby café, the inevitable café-cognac to hand, entertaining some cronies with tales of the English and their oddities and how it was the sindaco’s fault that he had found it necessary to park the Chev in the middle of the road. After that episode, Bruno’s days as the CO’s driver were definitely numbered, but a substitute had to be found and so he was kept on sufferance for a while longer. Meanwhile, his voice seemed to get fruitier or more laryngitical daily, and his obviously increasing consumption of alcohol made him more sure of himself, less obsequious and almost truculent. His dislike of my presence became more noticeable; at the same time my distrust of him and everything to do with him increased proportionately.

  As soon as the CO was better, we set off again to visit the Cervi farm at Gattatico, which had been our objective when the jeep skidded into the ditch. It was a case of third time lucky, for in spite of sunshine and a reasonably blue sky, the weather was really no better than before. There was some trepidation on my part when the Chev turned off the autostrada after Reggio Emilia and, balancing precariously on the rounded surface of a very narrow lane, advanced between deep dykes, whose exact depth and contours were hidden by piles of soft snow, while deceptive ruts, drifts and cart-tracks further complicated our progress. Even the turnings were difficult to find, and sometimes only a signpost warned one of a transversal. As we penetrated deeper into this land, where there was hardly a house for miles around and the only vegetation consisted of small dwarfed willows weighed down with snow, the roads became narrower and the dykes wider (or so it seemed to me) and we slithered along, veering first to the left and then to the right. Several times it was necessary to stop and enquire the way, but the Cervi farm at Gattatico was well-known, and we were able to follow our directions without much difficulty – although to be truthful, it is a wonder how, for in that white tablecloth country everything looked alike.

  On this occasion the CO was going to pay a vast sum of lire and present certificates to the father of seven sons, each of whom had been shot by the Germans for refusing to betray the whereabouts of some British and American prisoners, concealed on their farm. The father and mother had also been arrested, but had likewise refused to give away the refugees. The mother had died of shock after the tragic and brutal execution of her family and only the father remained, with several daughters-in-law and a brood of small children, to carry on the work of the farm and keep alive the spirit and tradition of those who should have inherited it. Needless to say, this case was unique among the 100,000 dossiers of the commission.