by Iris Origo
The main points of this speech were subsequently reprinted on leaflets dropped over the Italian towns, entitled ‘Out with the Germans—or fire and steel’.
JULY 30TH
Yesterday, at the first meeting of the new Cabinet, the Camera dei Fasci e delle Corporazioni was officially dissolved. No political parties may be formed and no political activities are to be permitted, until four months after the end of the war, when a constitutional parliament will again be elected. For the present, Italy remains under martial law.
Simultaneously comes the news that the liberation of political prisoners has begun. The ‘Special Tribunal for the Defence of the State’, instituted in 1926 by the Fascist regime, is suppressed, and its duties will be taken over, during the war, by military tribunals.
V., arriving from Ferrara, brings tales of rioting in some of the northern cities. In Milan, he says, many Fascists have been killed or beaten up by their old enemies; there is still shooting in the streets. In Ferrara a leading Fascist, who had shot a boy of twelve for singing Bandiera rossa, was attacked by the boy’s relations, and only saved his life by jumping into the canal. There have been similar incidents in Turin, Bologna, Genoa and Florence—and numerous strikes in factories, where the workmen refuse to go on working under Fascist foremen. The Fascist Party secretaries throughout Italy have been arrested—partly for their own protection—and the prefects are under temporary arrest in their own houses.
A broadcast this morning warns the Italian people to mistrust ‘false and unfounded rumours of sensational events, which are evidently being spread by irresponsible and unpatriotic individuals, who wish to create a disturbance of the peace’. These rumours—as they have reached us here—include the suicide of Hitler and the desertion to the Russians of the thirty Italian divisions in the Balkans.
Gayda is removed from the Giornale d’Italia, his place being taken by its founder, the Liberal Bergamini. [12] The Lavoro Fascista changes its title to Lavoro Italiano. All the papers, of whatever political complexion (including the republican and socialist Lavoro of Genoa, the Stampa, etc.) publish appeals to Italians to celebrate their new-found liberty by discipline and unity—and not to forget, in their delight at internal changes, that the enemy is still at their gates.
JULY 31ST
The papers announce that all railway and post-office employees are to be ‘militarised’. All Fascist provincial secretaries, vice-secretaries and squadristi are to be called to the colours—this last a most popular measure.
Demonstrations in the various towns continue, and today the BBC (quoting the Swiss papers as its authority) affirms that they are not only against Fascism, but for peace. ‘Marshal Badoglio’s Government, however,’ it adds, ‘has given no sign of implementing the Italian people’s wish for peace.’
Undoubtedly the majority of the Italian people do want peace, but how many, in order to obtain it, are prepared to break with Germany and to submit passively to Allied occupation I have no idea.
AUGUST 1ST
Today the BBC announces that the lull which has lasted since July 25th is over: the bombing of Italy will begin again. Throughout the night Radio Algiers has broadcast this news to the Italian people, warning them to keep away from factories producing war material, and from airports, railways, etc. So now we are once again expectant.
Meanwhile the Italian radio broadcasts a denial of the news given by the BBC of serious riots and demonstrations in Italian cities, of the occupation of Trieste and Udine by German troops, and of sabotage by the railway workmen of northern Italy. Here, in the depths of the country, we have no means of knowing what the facts are.
AUGUST 3RD
Yesterday I went to see the B.s (ardent Liberals) who have recently arrived from Rome. To the tale of Mussolini’s downfall they add the following details: on leaving Palazzo Venezia at three a.m. on Sunday morning, after the meeting of the Grand Council, the Duce went home, still firmly convinced that under no circumstances would the King dispense with his services, and later in the morning asked for an audience. In the afternoon he went to Villa Savoia, and offered his services to the country once again. This time, however, they were refused. What took place at the meeting between the two men, who were alone, is not known. What is certain is, that when Mussolini came out and looked around for his car, the officer on guard at the gate requested him instead to enter a Red Cross closed ambulance, in which he found his doctor waiting. And so he drove quietly away—from Villa Savoia and from power.
The B.s believe that Badoglio’s Government has had every intention from the first moment of making a separate peace, and is now playing for time. So convinced are they, that they have already made arrangements for their young nephews and nieces to leave the Veneto, which (since they presume that a German invasion would ensue) would become a battlefield. They are certain that, as soon as war is declared against Germany, innumerable volunteers will flock to the colours. Another friend, on the contrary, expressed his conviction that the spirit of resistance in the country against the Allies is increasing daily. The truth is that we none of us have the faintest idea of what is going on behind the scenes—everyone interprets such events as he has heard of, in the light of his own desires.
AUGUST 4TH
Letters from friends, commenting on recent events. M. G. V., the wife of a young diplomat, writes from Rome: ‘I would not have missed the last few days for anything in the world. Every day life becomes more interesting. We are all waiting … for what, no one knows … The curfew is very strict and not agreeable in this weather—but it may last a year! We all go to bed in the deepest darkness and silence, with an occasional gun-shot in the night. Daily life is normal, and every face smiling. It is as if we had at last succeeded in holding up our heads again. Fancy! by Monday morning there was not a single Fascist left in the town! And then everyone is kinder, more humane, more polite!’ On the other hand, another young woman, who works in our office, writes that she feels hopelessly confused and bewildered. ‘Not for nothing have I been brought up for twenty years under the Fascist regime. I can’t yet realise how it is possible to live under a Liberal Government.’ Finally yet another (once an ardent Fascist) writes: ‘I can’t tell you what I have been feeling. Surprise, hope, fear, disgust at some of the revolting performances of the mob, then hope again, doubts, fears … I have only one desire, the same that I have had through all these last months: to save Italy’s honour. The task of the King and of the Government is terrible and I pity them. Forgive me if I can’t say more.’
The daily press, for years practically unreadable, has suddenly become interesting again. Most of the papers are again edited by old Liberals who are also experienced journalists, and many different shades of opinion find expression in their columns. Most of the articles are very moderate in tone, and even those that most rejoice at the return of liberty are prodigal of warnings as to how that blessed state must be defined and safeguarded. ‘Our liberty will only be safe when we shall no longer need to talk about it. As soon as possible let us leave this vague expression and pass on to practical problems: for then only will freedom have life,’ writes U. Morra in the Popolo di Roma.
A number of German tanks drive down our road to the Val d’Orcia (only for manoeuvres—as yet) and in the evening, going into the kitchen, I find two German soldiers and an interpreter sitting there; they have come to ask if they can buy a sheep. The interpreter is a quiet, civilised man, the head of a small business in Milan, where he has lived for many years. He comes from Hamburg, where his father and mother were buried beneath the ruins of their house in 1941; and he now has had no news of his three sisters there. Later on six other German officers come tramping up the garden path. All are very young, but all have been through the Russian campaign; they are now quartered at Città della Pieve. At ten o’clock we all go indoors, to listen to the news. One of them looks round the library: ‘What a lot of English books you’ve got!’ ‘Yes,’ says Antonio, ‘my wife is an Englishwoman.’ There is a moment
’s silence; then we all laugh. But as we go on talking, I wonder how many more such German officers have come into this country in the last ten days—and whether, by their coming, Italy’s fate is not already decided.
The tone of British propaganda since the fall of Fascism has caused much resentment, with its insistence on ‘unconditional surrender’ and its bland assumption that peace at any price will be welcomed by the Italian people. The Italians feel that they have succeeded, at a considerable risk, in ridding themselves of Fascism, thus kindling a spark which may start similar conflagrations all over Europe—and that the Allies, who for years have been urging them to this course, have now shown that they are utterly indifferent to the liberty of Italy, except as a stepping-stone to Germany’s destruction. An article in the Corriere della Sera of August 5th reflects this feeling: ‘Our enemies went on repeating that they were fighting against Fascism and not against Italian people. Fascism has been overthrown. What have they to offer to Italy? Nothing but a vague promise of generosity, a threadbare velvet glove over the iron hand of “unconditional surrender” … Many of us, in those unforgettable days, hoped for clearer statements, which would forecast a consciousness of a new, united Europe, more certain of equity and justice …’
Fully to understand the Italian attitude in this matter it is perhaps necessary to look back and realise how widespread is the conviction among Italians that the war was a calamity imposed upon them by German force—in no sense the will of the Italian people, and therefore something for which they cannot be held responsible. Recently I came across my diary for June 1940, in which, when Italy’s entry into the war appeared inevitable, I tried to explain to myself the reasons which, psychologically, had rendered possible the fundamentally false position of the Italian people. [13]
‘Is it possible,’ I wrote, ‘to move a country to war against its historical traditions, against the natural instincts and characters of the majority of its inhabitants, and very possibly against its own instincts? Apparently it is possible. In a people as profoundly individualistic and sceptical as the Italian, eighteen years of Fascism have not destroyed the critical spirit, and this is allied to an inborn fluidity and adaptability which causes them (now as in the past) to interpret all general statements and theories in the light of the particular occasion, and thus to attach no undue importance, in the field of politics, to abstract formulas or absolute doctrines. Thus most Catholic Italians (though not all) in these last twenty years have not allowed themselves to be unduly dismayed by the abstract claims of the Fascist doctrine that the rights of the State should prevail over those of the Church, but have been content to accept the fact that, in actual practice, it has been easier in the last twenty years than in the fifty years of intense anti-clericalism after 1870, to bring up their children in a Catholic atmosphere at home. They are prepared to yield in principle, where they can gain in practice. And it is this same fluid adaptability (which can be interpreted by those temperamentally opposed to it as a cynical opportunism) that has rendered possible the German alliance. The Axis, regarded purely as a temporary policy of self-interest, forced upon them by the “intransigent” attitude of the democracies, has been accepted by a people which, in accepting it, yet has not modified its instinctive antipathy for Germany, and for the barbaric and brutal aspects of the German Weltanschauung.’
So I wrote in 1940—and now Italy, with Fascism overthrown, is reaping the consequences of the disastrous alliance.
Meanwhile we hear that four more armoured German divisions have crossed the Brenner—among them, Hitler’s own élite division. It begins to dawn upon us that the choice—if indeed there ever was one—is already made. This autumn will not bring peace to Italy.
AUGUST 12TH
More German gunners arrive here for manoeuvres in the Val d’Orcia, and camp beneath Radicofani. Their officers inform us that they are there in order to be able to move rapidly towards whatever landing-point in Tuscany may be chosen by the Allies: Grosseto, Piombino or Livorno.
AUGUST 13TH
Rome is bombed again; the same quarter as before, near the station. Also, last night, Milan and Turin.
AUGUST 14TH
C. A., arriving from Rome, brings depressing news. According to his account, Badoglio’s Government did start out with a definite intention of making a separate peace, but (though this is difficult to believe) had no clear plan of action with regard to Germany. In the first four or five days after the coup d’état, the Germans were completely taken aback and bewildered—von Mackensen hurried off to Germany—and the German General Staff (at Frascati) had received no instructions. Decisive action on the part of the new Italian Government (seizing the German General Staff at Frascati, and closing the Brenner) might possibly have been effective; but instead it shilly-shallied for three days, awaiting Guariglia’s arrival from Ankara, and then embarked on diplomatic negotiations to persuade the Germans to retire from Italy of their own accord—a proposal which Germany did not even consider. Italy no longer has any choice: she will go on with the war, not because she has decided to, but because she must.
AUGUST 15TH
My birthday, which we celebrate together with Benedetta’s by having a children’s party. In the middle of Blind Man’s Buff a military lorry drives up and two German officers come clanking down the garden path. They belong to the division, encamped beneath Radicofani, which crossed the Brenner on July 28th. Their own company, however, is to go in a few days to Salerno—where, they tell us, the Allied landing is now expected. They deny that the first line of defence is to be along the Apennines; it is to be, they say, from Salerno to Brindisi, to prevent the Allies from cutting across Italy to the Adriatic. Several divisions, however, will still remain in Tuscany. As they sit, very correct and polite—drinking their glasses of wine and proposing a formal toast—I feel that they are the most highly specialised human beings that I ever encountered: the ‘fighting man’. Both of them (one from Mecklenburg, one from the Saar) are under twenty-five; both have taken part in the campaigns of Poland, France, Russia—and now Italy. One of them, risen from the ranks, commanded for six months a company of Russian deserters, who are now fighting against Russia (he says that there are now two hundred thousand of them) under German and Russian officers; the other was at Stalingrad. To one of them I say: ‘You must have gone into the Army straight from school.’ ‘No,’ he replies. ‘Schon in der Schule war ich Soldat. I belonged to the Hitler Jugend.’ We ask about the Russian front. ‘We’ll hold them back all right; we must.’ It is impossible to convey the depth of the conviction in his voice, both then and later, while he expounded to us the familiar doctrines which had been taught him: the needs of Gross Deutschland, Nordic racial superiority, the inevitability of Germany’s entry into war (in spite of all Hitler’s efforts to make peace with England), his pride in his country and his men, and above all his unshakable certainty, even now, of victory. He was not being a propagandist, but simply stating a creed, a creed to which he brought an absolutely single-minded, self-denying devotion, with no half-shades of humour, self-criticism or doubt. Add to this, admirable health, iron discipline, and the vigour and courage of youth, and arm and clothe such an army well—and the results are formidable; the results that Hitler intended to produce, and that fifty Mussolinis could not produce here.
AUGUST 17TH
Last night the first bombs fell in the Val d’Orcia. As we were sitting in the garden after dinner, we heard planes approaching and then saw their lights, between us and Monte Amiata. There were three distinct booms, and then we saw a fire on the mountain, above Campiglia, which smouldered for about half an hour before it died out. This morning we learn that the bombs (presumably dropped by some plane on its way home) fell near an isolated farm house, wounding three people.
A neighbour comes to tell us that on July 28th (three days after Mussolini’s fall) as he was travelling to Florence, the news spread down the train that an armistice had been signed. At Pontassieve flags and carpets were hangi
ng from the windows; at Florence the great bell of the Bargello had been rung; people were weeping for joy and embracing each other. But after half an hour the rumour was contradicted and the excited and disappointed crowd had to be dispersed by the police.
At Bologna, too, on one day of that week, a similar rumour had spread, and armoured cars were stationed in the squares, to prevent rioting. But now, day by day, such hopes are fading—and with them the short-lived popularity of Badoglio’s Government. Moreover, the King is now sharing some of the unpopularity which previously was directed against the Fascists. In the Romagna people are already clamouring for a Republic; at Terni, after the air-raids, the King was hissed by the crowd.
In the evening we hear that Messina has fallen; the Axis troops have been evacuated to the mainland. The Sicilian campaign is over.
