by Iris Origo
AUGUST 21ST
Once more, with the Sicilian campaign ended, we are embarking upon a period of suspense. At Quebec, the Allied leaders are, presumably, making their plans; in southern Italy and in France air-raids are increasing. The common citizen sits and waits—but with an ever-increasing dread of invasion and diminishing hopes of peace.
AUGUST 30TH
Quebec is now over—and certainly no statement has come to raise our spirits. The bombing of southern Italy (as well as the more severe attacks on Germany) continue, and the only speculation left to us is what point of landing the Allies will choose: Naples, Civitavecchia, or Tuscany. What we do not know here, in the depths of the country, is what is happening in the towns. Certainly in the north there seems to have been more trouble than in Tuscany. From Turin the mother of one of our children, who works in a war factory, writes of continual rioting in the streets and frequent strikes, of troops and machine-guns in the streets. V., too, coming from Ferrara, says that the workmen there are completely out of hand; they refuse to work under their previous foremen or to observe working hours, and many of them have struck work altogether. ‘What’s the use?’ is the universal cry. We are only waiting.
From Rome comes the rumour of a Fascist plot to seize the government once again, in which Cavallero, Starace and Muti are said to have been the leaders—but with German backing. All are now arrested, and Muti, in attempting to get away, was shot. Badoglio is said to have made a strong protest to the German Embassy.
A cryptic letter from Rome says that ‘Victoria (England) has had the permission to stay near Civitavecchia very soon’. From this I conclude that the Allies’ landing near Rome is to take place with the Italian Government’s consent and that the consequent seizure of the city will be followed by capitulation. There are still, however, the German troops in southern Italy to be reckoned with—not to mention those in the north.
Most people have now got to the point of exasperation where almost any news would be welcome; anything is better than this prolonged expectation.
SEPTEMBER 1ST
The radio announces that General Cavallero has committed suicide, ‘unable to survive the dishonour of betrayal’. [14] So also has Frontoni (the head of the Infant Welfare organisation, who was one of the administrators of Ciano’s enormous, ill-gotten fortune). The arrest of ex-Fascist leaders is now in progress, pending an inquiry into the methods by which their large fortunes have been acquired. Ciano, however, and Grandi have been allowed to escape, though Ciano’s fortune has been seized.
It is difficult to overstate the depth of the depression that has overtaken the members of this unhappy country. While the majority of the people want nothing but peace, and the Army is clearly demonstrating its reluctance to fight, the intransigence of the Allies’ terms is only equalled by the firmness of Germany’s refusal to remove her troops. Whatever happens, Italians now realise that their country must become a battlefield; and their only choice (if indeed it still is one) is merely whether they shall remain half-hearted participants or passive spectators. There is a bitter irony for listeners here in the exhortations of the BBC to the Italian people to rid themselves of the Germans: so might one urge a sheep to rid itself of a wolf.
SEPTEMBER 2ND
Today the Pope’s appeal for peace falls here upon ears only too thoroughly converted. But I fear it will cut little ice elsewhere.
SEPTEMBER 3RD
The long-drawn-out suspense is over: British and Canadian troops of the Eighth Army landed this morning at Reggio Calabria. The invasion of the mainland has begun. We hear the news from the BBC at eight a.m. and it is confirmed by the Italian bulletin at one p.m.
SEPTEMBER 4TH
A friend writes: ‘There is a patrimony common to all humanity, made up of decency, sensibility and civilised behaviour, which is every day diminishing and will soon be bankrupt. I envy the only people whose hands are still clean, the Swiss, with ideologies which are reflected in the simple acts of everyday life.’
SEPTEMBER 6TH
A letter sent by hand from Rome informs me that a second landing is expected within the next ten days, ‘in your part of the country’. (Civitavecchia? Grosseto? Piombino?)
I spend the afternoon blackberrying with the children, and reflect (without really believing it) that within a fortnight this peaceful scene may look very different.
SEPTEMBER 7TH
Drive to Montepulciano. At the Siena cross-roads we are stopped by a barricade across the road; sentries from the Montepulciano garrison ask for our permits. Cannons, thinly concealed by branches and leaves, have been placed on points commanding the hillside and there are trenches around the hill beneath the road. For whom, we wonder, is all this intended? The little town is as crowded as on a market day, but now only with soldiers (the ‘Ravenna’ Division, recently back from Russia). A rumour has reached the B.s that the armistice has already been signed, and will probably be made public tomorrow or the next day. But what steps have been taken about the Germans is not mentioned. We sit on the terrace overlooking the peaceful valley, drink our tea, and speculate as to what will happen, if indeed this news is true. The doctor comes to call, and tells us that twenty-three of the Calabrian soldiers of the garrison have deserted in the last few days, on the pretext of returning home ‘to defend Calabria’.
SEPTEMBER 8TH
Drive for the day to Siena with Antonio, Schwester and the baby, whom I am still nursing. An exquisitely lovely, still morning; no sign of trouble anywhere, except an occasional plane overhead. But on the way we say to each other: ‘I expect this is the last of these jaunts.’ We drive through the familiar villages through which we used to pass on our way back from the Palio, greeted by cries of Chi ha vinto? Now all of them are full of troops, and the road is barricaded at S. Quirico and Buonconvento by soldiers, who ask for our permits. At Siena, a very odd day. Antonio goes to see the new Prefetto, Schwester and I go off shopping. At intervals I return to a friend’s house to nurse the baby, and we lunch with the A.s at the Cannon d’Oro. But all these familiar occupations are interspersed with startling news: the bombing yesterday of Naples, which has destroyed the whole centre of the town, the bombing of Frascati (C. A. tries to telephone all day, but cannot find out whether or not his house is still standing), and then, finally, the news that a great Allied convoy is already in sight of the Bay of Naples, and a landing imminent.
We drive back, saying: ‘Here it is at last!’ Naples today, and presumably Grosseto tomorrow. Then, as we stop at the Buonconvento barrier, we see that the soldiers are grinning from ear to ear. ‘Soon you won’t need these permits anymore!’ ‘What do you mean?’—‘Haven’t you heard? The Chaplain has just told us. Badoglio has spoken on the radio. There’s been an armistice. E’ la pace, la pace incondizionata!’ (The speaker, a small private, clearly thought this superior to any other kind of peace.) ‘Thank you,’ says Antonio grimly, and we drive on.
As we get nearer home and the dusk falls, we see bonfires blazing in front of the farms: the news has got here, too. And at eight-thirty p.m. we hear the official broadcast, and Badoglio’s proclamation: ‘The Italian Government, having recognised the impossibility of continuing an unequal struggle against overwhelming opposing forces, with the intention of saving the nation from further and graver misfortunes, has requested General Eisenhower, Commander-in-Chief of the Anglo-American Allied Forces, for an armistice. The request has been granted. Consequently any act of hostility against the Anglo-American Forces must cease on the part of the Italian Forces everywhere. They will, however, resist any attacks that may be made upon them from any other quarter.’
Immediately afterwards we hear the same news from the BBC, followed by Admiral Cunningham’s proclamation to the Italian Navy, telling them to sail their ships at once into Allied ports.
Outside the peasants are rejoicing, the bonfires continue, we hear sounds of laughter and merry-making. The household look at us with excited faces, in which delight is marred by a dawning
uneasiness. ‘What do you think will happen next? What about the Germans?’ What, indeed, about the Germans? Presumably they will at once occupy the chief Italian towns. Presumably, too, they will continue fighting at Naples, and later on form another line of defence along the Apennines. But what is to be the Italian part in all this?
We spend the evening in grim silence. The German radio tells us nothing. Antonio can only think of the betrayal, the dishonour. Moreover, it is incomprehensible to us both why the Government—having clearly intended to take this step from the first—should have waited to do so until now, and like this. By declaring on July 25th that ‘Italy will be true to her word. The war goes on’, Badoglio deliberately and gratuitously took upon the shoulders of the new Government the heritage of the Fascist policy, which it could have disavowed; and by failing to close the Brenner immediately, he allowed the entry into the country of the large numbers of German reinforcements with which we—and the Allies—will now have to deal. [15]
SEPTEMBER 9TH
Wake in the morning to fresh news: the Allies have landed south of Naples. While we are still breakfasting, the A.s arrive. They have heard that the greatest part of their beautiful villa at Frascati (together with most of the little town) has been destroyed, and they are now on their way to Rome. During the morning the telephone (which strangely enough has not been cut) rings unceasingly, each time bringing further bad news. Rome, we hear, is already cut off, and a bombardment is audible along the coast (presumably preceding a landing). There is also firing between Rome and Frascati, where the German General Staff is quartered. There are four Italian divisions round the capital (these eventually prove to be six), but will they succeed in holding it? The A.s, who are determined to get home, are told that it is not possible; the Roman railway-line is cut at Monterotondo and the roads are blocked by the Germans, who are requisitioning all cars. I try to telephone to E., near Bologna (who was to have left for Rome tonight), but am told that the telephone lines with Emilia have been cut since early this morning; and at lunch time we hear that Bologna, Padova and Verona are already occupied by the Germans. There is a rumour of another Allied landing near Rome, but this is contradicted in the evening. The Roman radio continues to repeat Badoglio’s proclamation, but gives no other news; any other information reaches us by telephone, or from the BBC and the Swiss radio. In the evening we hear (by telephone) that the King and Badoglio have already left Rome, but hesitate to believe it.
I walk up to the castle and tell the British POWs about the armistice, and of their consequent liberation. Orders have come from the main POW camp at Laterina to ‘protect’ them from any German attempt to seize them; the protectors, in our case, being the seven small soldiers of the escort with their seven rifles, and the completely useless lieutenant, all of whom are on the point of leaving. Antonio explains the situation to the prisoners, pointing out that, although they are now free, they would be unwise to set off along the roads, where they would run straight into the Germans. As soon as the Allies land farther north, he says, we will at once let the men know, and they can then make their way across country to join their own forces. [16] The men agree that it is best to wait, and I promise them a map, so that they can become familiar with the lie of the land. Meanwhile we close the main door of the castle and show them a tower staircase at the back, by which they can escape in the night if the sentry gives the alarm. ‘We aren’t going to Germany if we can help it!’ they say. ‘But if only you’d arm us, sir!’—‘What with?’ Antonio replies. As we are leaving, four of them return from the fattoria, carrying a demijohn of wine. ‘Hullo, Ginger! Just in time to celebrate!’ And we leave them to it.
I look in at the Casa dei bambini where the children greet me shouting ‘Peace has come!’ I try to explain to them, without being alarming, that they can’t go home at once, and may not receive any letters for some time.
In the evening we hear of more fighting round Rome, but no details. Badoglio issues a second, explanatory proclamation.
SEPTEMBER 10TH
Hear by telephone that Chiusi is now occupied by German troops, who are in control of the railway and are requisitioning cars on the roads. The telephone with Rome and with the north is cut. No post; no buses to Chiusi; no papers. Our only source of news is now the radio. The distant rumble which we heard during the night turns out (according to the BBC) to have been the bombing of Grosseto by the Allies. We wonder whether it heralds an Allied landing. Meanwhile, in preparation for the passage of troops, we spend the morning in preparing a hidden store of wheat, potatoes, cheese, wine, etc., which we wall up or bury in various hiding-places. We also bury a store of petrol and take the wheels off the cars.
Later in the morning we walk up to the Castelluccio. The prisoners are spending the day in a creek nearby to escape the attention of any German troops that may be passing by, and we arrange with the lieutenant that they had better be moved tomorrow, in small parties, to scattered farms off the road. I give Corporal Trott a map of the district and also some Italian phrases for the men to learn by heart before they start off across country. ‘Where are the Germans? I am a freed British prisoner. I do not want to meet the Germans. Where are the British? How many kilometres?’ and so on.
On our way back we meet one of our peasants, in uniform, on his way back to his regiment from leave. ‘What am I to do now?’ he asks. He has just met some other soldiers in plain clothes, who have escaped from Bologna and Verona and who have told him that all officers and men who can do so are running away, while the rest are being put by the Germans into concentration camps and taken to the north. Later in the day yet other fugitive soldiers turn up.
At one o’clock we learn that Badoglio ‘is absent from the capital on a tour of inspection’ and that Caviglia has temporarily taken his place. This is the last Italian broadcast from Rome. At tea-time the BBC tells us that they are fighting around the city but we still do not know who is winning. In the evening the German bulletin informs us that the Italians have capitulated. German troops will occupy a thirty miles’ radius round the capital, and ‘will defend the City of the Vatican’. Some of the Italian troops in southern France have crossed into Switzerland, where they will presumably be interned, after which German troops have closed the frontier between France and Switzerland. Part of the other troops in Southern France are fighting against the Germans; others have already capitulated. German troops under General Rommel have seized all the important towns of Emilia, the Veneto and Lombardy—and are now marching upon Milan.
Walked up to the castle with Benedetta to say good-bye to the prisoners. They practise their Italian sentences (which, as taught by a Sicilian soldier to a Yorkshireman, acquire a very peculiar flavour) and examine the places on the map where I tell them there are German troops, and those where there might perhaps be an Allied landing. ‘We’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of escape, don’t you think?’ says one of the men. Then, lifting Benedetta on the table, they all sing to us: ‘Roll out the barrel’, ‘Tipperary’, ‘Land of hope and glory’—and finally, when Benedetta has blown them a good-bye kiss, ‘Auld lang syne’. As we come out of the castle we see, slowly winding up the valley road, a lorry full of Germans. Are they coming to fetch the prisoners? For a few minutes we all stand waiting, rather breathless—then the lorry takes the other turn, towards Chianciano. Less than an hour later, the captain of the Carabinieri at Montepulciano telephones to Antonio. Is it true, he asks, that we have got twenty German ‘Tigre’ tanks stationed here? Rumours move fast: in an hour, a single lorry has turned into twenty tanks!
SEPTEMBER 11TH
The morning news confirmed that Rome is now held by the Germans and that they have control of the telephone and the radio—but we hear that an agreement has been signed between General Kesselring and Count Calvi di Bergolo (the King’s son-in-law), who is now in command of the city, by which the German troops are to remain outside the capital. The same bulletin informs us that the King and Badoglio have now joined the Allies, thus leaving
the country without any government. In the morning I drive down to Chianciano with the children and hear fresh rumours of an Allied landing near Ostia—which, however, proved to be unfounded.
SEPTEMBER 12TH
A bad day. We wake to Marshal Kesselring’s proclamation, by which all the territory occupied by the Germans (which, except for a few pockets of resistance, is now the whole of Italy north of Rome) is placed under German martial law. Strikes or any other attempts at resistance will be tried by court-martial. Trains, telephones, and posts will be under German control; no private letters are allowed, and all telephone conversations will be severely controlled.
At eight-fifteen the BBC gives some of the terms of the armistice. The territory of Italy and Corsica are to be occupied by the Allies as bases. Airports and ports are to be defended by Italian troops, if necessary, until the arrival of the Allies. Italian troops in the Balkans and in France are to be recalled. Italian planes and ships are to proceed to Allied ports, and the Merchant Marine is to be put at the disposal of the Allies. British prisoners are to be freed and, if necessary, defended by Italian troops against any German attempt to recapture them. The Italian Government is to use its troops, if necessary, to enforce these measures.
Under present circumstances, these terms have an ironic ring—all of them (except that regarding the Navy, which has been scrupulously observed) being nullified by the debacle of the Italian Army. At Rome six divisions, fully armed and on their own ground, have been unable even to hold the capital against the Germans. In France, Italian troops have fled across the frontier, and those which have remained have now capitulated. In the cities of northern Italy there seems to have been some sporadic fighting, but here, too, considerable numbers of officers, as well as of men, have simply torn off their uniforms and fled. The first train to Rome yesterday passed through Chiusi packed with men even upon the roof, and today our woods are full of many others who have escaped on foot.
