My Italian Adventures

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

  We eventually arrived at the farmhouse, a large sprawling building, with several outhouses. Bruno drove into the yard and we got out of the Chev and went in at the main door, a solid wooden door with two halves to it, which led into a rough passage with doors leading off it on either side. Several small, ragged children immediately appeared, with bare grubby feet and cheeky elfin faces, lit up with smiles. A young woman, also poorly dressed, but sturdy and well-made, led us into what could be best described as the parlour, a small room, simply furnished with a table and wooden chairs, with photographs, presumably of the family, on the walls. Prominently displayed were the portraits of a group of fine young men. Another daughter-in-law arrived and soon the farmer himself appeared, grey-haired and rather bent, hale still, though showing naturally enough some traces of strain in his tense rugged face. In all, the company soon numbered six or seven persons, which included the CO, a young man – doubtless an apprentice or farmhand – the old farmer, three or four youngish women and myself. The children were left outside in charge of a girl. The family were all plainly and rather poorly dressed, but they were kind, courteous and hospitable, and there was a simple and spontaneous dignity about them. The certificates were presented, amid handshakes and in an atmosphere somewhat charged with emotion, and the enormous sum of lire was paid and signed for. This sum was the highest allowed by the commission’s directive, and in comparison with the loss of manpower sustained by the farmer and consequent loss to the farm, it was not very much; but it would help, both in buying new implements, and in replacing livestock taken by the Germans, and also of course in buying necessities for the young growing family. Perhaps the bambini would soon be wearing shoes. It was, however, as always, with the certificates of merit and thanks that the Cervi family were most pleased, and each daughter-in-law collected that of her husband, except for one or two absent at that time. The CO made a short statement, similar to his usual speech of thanks, with great feeling and sincerity – and how difficult it was to express what would seem adequate appreciation in the face of such a ghastly and utter bereavement. But the little group seemed gratified, and Farmer Cervi’s reply came straight from the heart, and symbolised so much of the truly heroic sacrifices made by Italians in many different parts of Italy on behalf of fleeing Allied soldiers: ‘L’abbiamo fatto per umanità’, he said, ‘Erà il nostro dovere da cristiano.’ (‘We did it for humanity; it was our duty as Christians.’) In that tiny crowded room, among those sorely tried, rather shabbily dressed peasants, a creed had been expressed that transcended war, race, colour and even religion. There was no complicated reasoning – just simple logic and one of the oldest tales of mankind: our men had been in trouble and they had been succoured. Not even the shadow of death had frightened the Cervi family into betraying those who had taken refuge with them. Hospitality was a sacred duty and Christianity imposed its obligations, willingly recognised and accepted. One day, when those little boys I saw running round barefoot on that cold January day and regaled with NAAFI fruit-drops are grown up, I hoped they would all be fit and strong and build up the farm as their fathers would have liked it, and I hoped they would prosper and carry on the traditions of their family, for they could not inherit nobler ideals.

  I felt a lump in my throat as I waved goodbye to the children and their mothers, for the whole party came to see the ‘Colonnello’ off. Neither the CO nor I spoke much on the way back, and I looked hard out at the snow and felt very glad that the Cervi had been paid a really considerable sum of money – it might not go far towards rebuilding all they had to re-build, but it would help, and they deserved it so very, very much.

  After that, the CO was scheduled to meet the Bishop of Pontremoli, and to reach that town it was necessary to cross the mountains to the west of Bologna. It was very snowy when we started out and Bruno was most unwilling to make the attempt, and grumbled and protested until the CO told him in no uncertain terms that we were going to Pontremoli and that was that. At this, the old rascal lifted both hands dramatically from the steering-wheel, with total disregard for the snow-caked road we were travelling along, and declared with meaning, ‘Sì, sì, porterò il Signor Colonnello fin’ a Pontremoli anché sì devo portaro sulle mie braccie.’ (‘Yes, yes, I will take the Colonel to Pontremoli, even if I have to carry him.’) After thus letting off steam, Bruno became resigned to the inevitable and replaced his hands on the wheel, permitting himself from time to time some almost inaudible guttural grumbling, as was his wont.

  The first part of the journey was not too bad, but it then became foggy and we found ourselves at the head of a small column of cars. I took turns with the CO in getting out and walking in front of the column, until the fog had cleared sufficiently to make this unnecessary. We were able to proceed a little more quickly now, and passed one or two vehicles digging themselves out of deep ruts in the road.

  On reaching Berceto, we were told that it was impossible to proceed further and cross the Cisa Pass, which was at an altitude of 3,415ft. There was nothing for it but to take refuge in the tiny hotel at Berceto that night, where several other motorists were likewise marooned. Bruno soon found friends among some other drivers and while he was having his evening meal, I could hear in the distance his wheezy voice telling all sorts of tales about the terrible life he was forced to lead, his hands meanwhile gesticulating expressively and his conversation frequently interspersed with the ‘Colonnello’, ‘Commissione’, ‘Maggiore’, ‘Signorina’ and so on, which gave away the fact that he was airing his many grievances. More I could not hear, though I guessed that he was honouring me with a large slice of criticism!

  Next day was sunny and the snow was melting a little, and so the CO and I set off on foot, for the pass was still not open and a snow-plough preceded us up the road towards it. It was midday when we left, after snatching a sandwich in the bar of the small inn and imbibing a tot of warming alcohol. The CO would not even allow me time to finish eating my sandwich, which was particularly delicious thick white bread, very fresh and crusty, filled with a huge portion of hot roast veal – the sort of thing my relatives at home would have envied. So we left Bruno in charge of the Chev, and amid goodbyes and murmurs of ‘Come mai!’ (‘Whatever next!’) from the proprietress and one or two other beleaguered travellers, we left Berceto in its little cradle on the hillside, I munching hard at my veal sandwich and afraid to ask for a second one, which I badly wanted. The Italians of course did not mind in the least being marooned in the hills, cut off from everywhere, for even the telephone was not working; they would just shrug and remark, ‘Pazienza,’ wait for Mother Nature to readjust herself and then cheerfully set off again, not in the least worried by the delay, be it half a day, half a week or maybe half a month. It is not in the British nature to be so philosophical, and I was heartily glad when the CO said he thought we might walk over the pass, and perhaps pick up a lift on the other side, down into Pontremoli. I had been worried, as it had been quite impossible to get through either to our HQ in Rome or to ring through to the Bishop’s Palace in Pontremoli to explain the CO’s delay. As it was, the hour for his interview with the bishop had already passed, but perhaps another could be arranged for the next day, or so we hoped.

  In spite of its discomforts, I enjoyed that walk. Halfway up to the pass we stopped at a casa cantoniera or state road-keeper’s house. Road-keepers were responsible for the upkeep of the roads along a specified beat, and their small, square, red-brick houses are to be seen the length and breadth of Italy. At this one, the keeper’s wife kindly invited us in and gave us a drink of water and some hot coffee, for which we were most grateful, for it was already about two o’clock and the going had been heavy. It seemed the head of the pass was not far off, and that was cheering news. After a friendly farewell we took to the road once more, but soon the weather worsened and by the time we reached the top it was sleeting very unpleasantly. At this point a car passed us; it had managed to come up the other side, though it was going to find its descent difficult. The
other side faced west and for this reason the thaw was more advanced here and the roads far more navigable, and we passed several cars and trucks laid up at the curb, bogged down by hard snow. The drivers were mostly huddled together rather disconsolately in the cabs of their vehicles, and one or two hailed us and enquired the time or news of conditions on the other side. They seemed to have spent the night in their vehicles, quite cut off from everything. My hair began to hang down, limp and uncomfortable in the drizzle, and I suddenly remembered with horror that I had left behind my hair curlers. The CO had told me I was only to bring one haversack, knowing my propensity for collecting luggage, and in my zeal to comply the vital curlers had been left behind. I would not see them again until Bruno saw fit to drive the Chev on to join us; in the present state of the weather that might be tomorrow, but if there was the slightest worsening, it would doubtless be too bad for Bruno.

  We arrived at Montelungo as darkness was setting in, and the long hairpin bends in the road seemed endless and never-ceasing. We came to a trattoria with lights in the windows, and so we went in. There was an immediate hush and everyone turned round and stared, quite unashamedly. I was by then quite used to this continental custom, so after a brief stare back, I took off my soaking hat, coat, gloves and scarf and put them on a chair to dry in front of a large stove, where someone obligingly at once made room for us. There had been nothing unfriendly in the staring and before long someone entered into conversation with the CO. One or two partisans soon declared themselves. It soon transpired that they were friends of the major we had met in La Spezia, who had himself captained the partisans in this area. As soon as they discovered that the CO knew him there was quite a stir in the trattoria, and before long almost everyone present had joined in the discussion and much reminiscing took place and interesting information came to light. Thanks to these good-hearted people, a lorry driver offered us a lift down into Pontremoli, a distance of about 6 miles. I was more than glad, for my joints were stiff from the unaccustomed exercise and the damp and cold. The journey was finished in comfort, in the cabin of an enormous camion, in which I discovered there are even bunks, for a woman’s voice suddenly emerged from a sort of shelf behind the driving seat. I then looked round and saw that there were about four bunks behind the front seat, from which voices would suddenly join in the conversation, for all the world like disembodied spirits.

  The camion eventually reached Pontremoli at about 7.30 p.m. and we were obliged to stay there until the next day, at the Albergo Principe kept by a ‘helper’. What a cosy stove he had in his restaurant, from which warmth and comfort radiated. The proprietor himself was a kindly, friendly little man and was delighted to have the ‘Signor Colonnello’ under his roof. He already knew of the appointment with the bishop, and first thing next morning sent off to find out what had happened; in fact, he took charge of the ‘staff’ arrangements, for in this delightful personal way things are done – and very satisfactorily done – in Italy. Unfortunately, the bishop was not able to receive the CO that day, as he had been obliged to go out to one of his parishes on urgent business, and as Bruno actually turned up about midday with the Chev, smiling and smirking that he had come in ‘macchina’ whereas his boss had walked, we felt that the best thing was to hurry on to La Spezia without further delay.

  Major Watson was waiting for the CO very anxiously, as reports of the bad weather had been filtering through. Next day, we set off after a conference with the major and stopped en route at Lucca, where the nuns of the hospital, who had nursed many of our men when it had been a POW hospital, had also hidden some of their charges after the Armistice and connived at their escape. The nuns were paid a sum of money and also given a certificate of thanks, presented to the Mother Superior in the presence of a senior Sister. They were both delighted. The Mother Superior, who spoke good English, gave us coffee and chatted about old times with the CO, who had himself once been a patient under her care. She presented him to the Italian commandant of the hospital, which was now an Italian military one, and he took us round some of the wards. Everything was fresh, clean and airy.

  The last port of call was Livorno (Leghorn), and here the CO visited the American Salvage Section with a view to obtaining preferential permits to purchase salvage for helpers.

  After that we were soon back in Rome, where a final spurt of work was taking place at the commission’s HQ, prior to the closing down of the whole organisation on 31 March. Plans were being made for some form of continuation of the work under the direct auspices of the British Embassy, but as yet nothing had been decided. Meanwhile, hundreds of outstanding claims had yet to be settled and more claims were still coming in, as it takes so long for news from the outer world to reach some distant villages where life might almost have been on a different planet, so remote did they seemed from modern Italy – and yet even in those places British soldiers and others had taken shelter. Doubtless many of them are by now legendary figures and the stories of their escape and concealment will be handed down, gradually more and more embroidered, as part of village folklore; who knows what wonderful tales will be told a hundred years or more hence, when the escape of Private Smith, who was taken in and hidden by Signora Pola and her family, has become a part of local history just as much as incidents from the inter-city wars of the Middle Ages or the Napoleonic invasion?

  38

  Nearly a Bad End

  A s far as Policy was concerned, the main work of the commission was completed; all that remained to do was to finish off outstanding claims and lay down the structure of the very small detachment that the War Office, the Treasury and the Foreign Office apparently decided (at an exalted level, of course) between them should stay on in Rome to carry on a further 6 months in order to clear up all outstanding matters – in actual fact even that time did not prove enough and as late as 1948 claims were still being made. However, according to the broadcasts over the Italian wireless and announcements in many Italian papers, notices in mayors’ offices and other means of publication, all claims should at the very latest have been made by the end of 1946, and that was already an extension. But in a country where the parish priest of a Tuscan village writes to the CO of the commission, telling him that he is at last trying to arrange for the construction of a road to his village, and inviting him, together with Field Marshal Alexander and General McNarney (formerly US Supreme Commander in Italy), not to mention Mr Winston Churchill, to become honorary members of his road-construction committee, it is certainly too much to expect that claims will not come in late. But the British have a rigid sense of time and D-day for the commission proper was 1 April 1947. After that it became the ‘Claims Commission’. All this was, however, still in the melting-pot in February of that year. Once the main lines of the new plan had been worked out, the CO left his second-in-command to go into the details of the organisation and himself concentrated on making more final Italian contacts, thanking the many organisations that had helped us, as well as dealing with a few remaining policy problems, such as the ever-thorny question of salvage and surplus allied transport, which was to be made rather more readily available to helpers than to the man-in-the-street.

  One of the CO’s trips at this time was to Affile, in the lime-growing hills of Romagna, where the majority of the people are poor and in need of almost everything. I well remember one woman who came to make out her case, saying she had not been paid enough. She was a hearty peasant in a plain long black calico dress, blouse and kerchief, her feet covered in sacking and thong shoes, her hair untidy under her black kerchief, her complexion rather tanned by the sun, but her eyes clear and the general appearance one of health and strength. She treated the CO, the sindaco and one or two other leading citizens to a long dramatic tirade on why she deserved more payment and made everyone laugh with her violent gestures and vigorous mode of expression. There was nothing to be done for her, as her case for a claim had already been investigated and she had not given sufficient help to warrant a larger payment (not to her dis
credit, she had given all that came her way). She received the explanation with great good humour and bore her disappointment like a philosopher. There was no reviling and not a sullen look. The peasants have much to bear, and on the whole they seem to be remarkably good-humoured and singularly lacking in bitterness. But those little overcrowded towns of the Romagna are in need of much – modern hygiene and sanitation, more work, less children, for there are too many mouths to feed, and on the whole better and more progressive administration. It is hardly to be wondered at that the peasants of the far south have at last taken, in some instances, the law into their hands; for resignation does not necessarily go on forever and it may become a fertile soil for Communists to sow in. Meanwhile the small contribution made by ASC may have helped just a little, by moral encouragement if nothing else. Doubtless the Italian government and the local authorities do what they can and perhaps now that Italy has made such startling progress towards recovery it will be possible for more to be done for these depressed agrarian areas. Goodwill, enthusiasm and diligence are rarely lacking in Italy, the climate is an almost continual ally and all these combined into a spearhead for action, armed and prepared by government backing and financial aid, should produce some really worthwhile amelioration in the lot of the townsfolk and contadini of southern Italy.

  Tivoli was another place where a small ceremony was held in the local town hall for the distribution of certificates to helpers. Here the mayor had done wonders in leading the people towards reconstruction and recovery: what had been a shambles of rubble and fallen masonry in 1944 was now a neat, clean and attractive main street, with one-storied shopfronts painted fresh pinks and blues. Most of the rubble had been cleared away and the people at the ceremony were tidy and looked well fed and neatly dressed. There was a new spirit in the air – the despair of nearly three years earlier had disappeared and there was confidence and hope on peoples’ faces. Italy was rising again: the title of the documentary shown alongside our film Onore al Merito was L’Italia Vivrà Ancora (‘Italy will live again’), and it was coming true. People often said to me when they heard I would soon be returning to England, ‘Lei farà della propaganda per l’Italia, Signorina, quando torn’ in Inghilterra?’ I always agreed heartily that I would – and as many of my friends can testify, I have kept my promise.