by Iris Origo
During my visit several acquaintances, who belonged to an association for helping British prisoners (guiding them in the hills from one band to another, and furnishing them with clothes and arms), were suddenly arrested—betrayed by a spy to whom they had idiotically entrusted the driving of an ambulance in which some of the prisoners had been hidden. Consequently all the members of the organisation whom this spy happened to encounter are now under arrest—and the others are afraid that their names may be given away too. Among those arrested are several whose share in the work was very slight and whose motives were unpolitical—kindly, naive people, with English connections or friends, who wanted to ‘help the boys’—and scarcely even realised the danger they were running. One elderly man, whose only share was to allow some of the clothes to be deposited in his house, has suffered a most brutal examination—after a night in the punishment cell—which is so narrow and low that one can neither stand up nor sit in it, but merely squat. His wife came to us, begging for candles, since all his life the poor man has been afraid of the dark. One little boy of twelve, who had helped his mother in guiding the prisoners in the hills, on going one day to his aunt’s house, opened the door to find an S.S. man standing there, who pointed his revolver at him, and took him in charge. Eventually he was allowed to go home, where he reported all that had occurred, and his aunt’s arrest, with complete self control and clarity—only that night, as he was going to bed, his mother noticed that his pants were moist. He blushed. ‘When that man pointed his revolver at me, I couldn’t help it!’
While the S.S. are thus engaged, the Germans are continuing the rounding-up of all the Jews. All who can have escaped to the country, or are hiding in friends’ houses—but many have been discovered. Even those who were lying in bed in hospital, and some old men and women of over seventy, were hunted down, while the houses of those who had previously been left alone have been burned or looted.
And now a new cloud hangs over the city: tomorrow is the last day on which the young recruits of the 1924 and 1925 classes must report themselves to the Fascist Republican Army. Many, of all social classes, will not go—but now the threat is that their family will be arrested in their stead. Some are in hiding in the country, some have got faked doctor’s certificates—some are already on their way to join the Allies. But what will happen to their relatives, no one yet knows. O. (a colonel in the Air Force, who has joined the Germans) said that some ‘examples’ are to be made, as a warning to the rest—and told me the following story. An officer in the Navy, who had been compelled to sign the declaration by which all officers who happened to be in Rome after September 8th undertook to remain at the disposal of the Fascist Government, had failed to report and was in hiding in his own house. The Germans, knowing that he was there, went to fetch him. His wife opened the door—no, she said, her husband was away; she did not know where he was. As she was talking to them her little boy came into the room. ‘Very well. Your husband won’t report himself. We’ll take the boy instead.’ The father, who was hiding in the next room, heard them, came out and gave himself up—and was shot. With stories such as these in their minds, the new recruits are awaiting their turn.
I asked O. about the fate of the Italian prisoners in Germany. ‘Those belonging to the Air Force are all right,’ he said triumphantly. ‘We’ve succeeded in getting them all back here.’ ‘You mean,’ I said, ‘all those who have agreed to join the new Fascist Army?’—‘Well, naturally.’—‘And the others?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Beside such human tragedies as these, it is impossible to attach much importance to the fact that our house, the Villa Medici, together with most of the other villas on the Fiesole hill, has been requisitioned by the German Staff. I try, however, to pull various strings to save it, on the grounds of its historic interest and beauty—but fail completely, only succeeding in obtaining permission to remove the most valuable furniture. When I arrive to sort the furniture the first lorry-full of German soldiers has already arrived, and are installing a telephone in the old chapel. They are perfectly civil and ask for one piece of furniture only: the piano. ‘One of our officers,’ they say, ‘ist ein berühmter Komponist. He has composed an opera about Napoleon!’ I agree—and receive permission in return to shut up the drawing-room, with its eighteenth-century Chinese wallpaper. They also let me take away the linen, glass and china—all of which, in many similar cases, have been requisitioned. As I go from one familiar room to another—all now full of German soldiers—I have a strong presentiment that this is the end of something: of this house, of a whole way of living. It will never be the same again.
During my week in Florence we had five or six alarms—but no one pays much attention to them, except as an inconvenient interruption to whatever one happens to be doing. So profound is the Florentine conviction that the Allies mean no harm that when at Pontassieve several ill-aimed bombs missed the station entirely and fell in the midst of the little town, the population merely remarked that they must have been German planes! [28]
The bulk of hatred, however, which is gradually accumulating against the Fascists is formidable—and may find expression in a terrible manner, when the time comes. Already in the Romagna and Emilia—where, at all times, political feeling runs high and violence comes easily—there have been episodes of revenge. At Ferrara the head of the Fascists has been assassinated; at Mercatale, a small village in the Romagna, a Fascist factor was shot by a group of partisans who came to fetch him in his house, stole his horse and some wheat, and left his corpse in a farm house with a bullet through his head. Throughout the Romagna and Emilia, arms are hidden in cellars and farms—some of them brought back by officers from Jugoslavia and smuggled down the Po in barges by night. Jews or anti-Fascists who have as yet escaped arrest have bought German uniforms (from Austrian deserters) and propose to make use of them when the retreat takes place for their own private revenge.
Most of the Republican Fascists (at least in this part of the world) are fully aware of the hatred they have aroused, and openly declare their intention, when the Germans retreat northwards, of going with them.
E., coming from Bologna, says that a large part of the town is now deserted—and that the part of the population which is still there is so much alarmed that the only streets in which anyone is to be seen are those which possess air-raid shelters. Alarms every day, and frequent small incursions. German troops everywhere. In their own village, Pianoro, a German chaplain—in uniform—says Mass alternatively with the parish priest—who does not hesitate to express his opinions (in Latin) to his colleague. Pointing at the swastika on the Chaplain’s uniform, Crux diabolo, he said. The Chaplain, glancing at the giggling choir-boys, answered non-committally, Crux Hitleri. Then, as the choir-boys went out, he added in a lower voice, Mala bestia.
From this village long columns of lorries start up the Futa Pass. ‘All day the columns go past,’ writes E., ‘rumbling and puffing up the hill—a sound which I shall always associate with this long season of anguish. Even when it stops it still goes on in my ears, and sometimes at night I wake up because I’ve heard it again in my sleep. Poor unhappy humanity, travelling and struggling and arriving nowhere—poor figli di mamma rumbling along the roads towards their death.’
NOVEMBER 25TH
Today is the last day on which the 1925 recruits must report themselves. Many of them have attempted a simple ruse: they have reported at their local Commune, have had their papers inspected and have been given a ticket for the town where they must report, and have set off—and then, on their way to the station, have scattered and disappeared. Their families accordingly can swear that their sons went off to report themselves and that they have not seen them again—while of course knowing perfectly well where the boys are in hiding. It seems, however, unlikely that so simple a device will work—especially as some of the boys have not been able to resist coming home again for a last glimpse of their families. Among them is Adino, the son of Gigi, our gardener—who returned to
his family last night and spent the day hidden in our garden. Gigi, when I pointed out that the boy’s return was very unwise, suddenly broke down completely and sobbed. Tonight after dusk Gigi will take him to another farm, belonging to a relation, where he is to be hidden—and then will return here, to await the consequences.
Chiusi was bombed severely at one p.m., the bombs just missing the railway lines, and hitting the station buffet and some adjoining houses. Sixteen or seventeen dead. The Germans must have received some warning, as they removed all troops from the vicinity of the station only that morning—but did not see fit to warn the civilian population.
NOVEMBER 26TH
At Campiglia the recruits of the 1925 class were rounded up yesterday by the local Carabinieri. At Pienza, the fathers of the young men who have failed to report have been taken by the Carabinieri and told that not only will they be kept in prison, but that the ration cards of the whole family will be taken away, until the boys turn up. At Chianciano a lorry-full of German soldiers, led by the local Fascist, N., went to a farm and arrested the father of the missing recruit—whereupon at the last moment, as the lorry was driving off, the boy ran out and took his father’s place. Now we are expecting a similar visit here, to Adino’s father and some of the farms. The feelings with which N. is regarded by the whole local population can easily be imagined—but, indeed, the hatred and contempt which everyone, of every class, feels for the Republican Fascists, the Repubblichini, is such that, by comparison, the Germans seem angels of light.
NOVEMBER 27TH
Daily the procession continues of the fugitives, the homeless, the old and the hungry. Today, in a single morning, I have interviewed the following:
(1) Three fugitive Italian soldiers, who, having walked all the way from France to south of Rome, were unable to get through the German lines, and now, returning here, hope to cut across the mountains by Todi towards the Adriatic coast, and then get through to join the Allies. They don’t need food or shelter—but only warm clothes, a pair of boots and a look at a map.
(2) Two other fugitives, Italian airmen from Albania—one suffering from bronchitis—who have already been captured twice by the Germans and have now walked down from Vicenza. They have given up all hope of getting through the lines, and beg to be allowed to stay on here and work, until the Germans retreat. We find a place for them at one of our farms.
(3) Four of the British POWs from our own camp who (unknown to us) have been living all this time in a cave not far from here, fed by the farmers. Now one of them has hurt his leg and the others have come to ask for bandages, warm clothes, and some books. Where are the Allies? they ask, and when will the war end? We provide what they need—except, alas, a satisfactory answer to their questions.
(4) More families of evacuees—one from Naples, one from Palermo and a woman from French Morocco—who have walked up from Chianciano. All people who originally had some little means of their own, but now have exhausted them. The Moroccan woman, moreover (after an examination at our ambulatorio) proves to be seriously ill with pernicious anaemia—and must be sent to the Siena hospital. They all want to know whether it is possible for them to get through the German lines to southern Italy. I can only advise them to give up the plan and wait.
(5) A destitute old woman from Chianciano, with five small grandchildren. They all need shoes and clothes.
And so, day after day, it goes on—an unending stream of human suffering. And it will yet be worse.
NOVEMBER 28TH
Antonio returns from Florence with the news that the Jew-hunt still continues. Last night they searched even the convents, hunting out and capturing the last poor wretches who had taken refuge there, including even a two-months’ baby, which had been deserted by its panic-stricken mother. A new law has now declared all Jews to be enemy aliens, and their property, consequently, is confiscated, while they themselves are being deported, in sealed vans, to ‘concentration camps’. Some will not arrive there. When the closed vans of one train which left Rome on Friday were not opened until Tuesday at Padova, one of them contained the corpse of an old man, another a newborn baby. No one was allowed to get out, and the train went on to Germany.
Every Italian I have met, irrespective of political opinion, is horrified and disgusted by this brutality—which is equalled by that of the new Republican police. At Palazzo Braschi (their headquarters in Rome) young men armed with whips stand about openly in the courtyard. We are being governed by the dregs of the nation—and their brutality is so capricious that no one can feel certain that he will be safe tomorrow.
NOVEMBER 29TH
Two exhausted Italian soldiers turn up at night at the clinic—one with a temperature of forty degrees Centigrade. Both have escaped from a German concentration camp near Mantova and are utterly terrified and worn out. They drop asleep on a wooden bench the minute they sit down on it—and we put them straight to bed.
NOVEMBER 30TH
The 1925 recruits—seeing their parents threatened with imprisonment, and the whole family with the loss of their ration cards—have mostly decided to report themselves. Only a few, in the most lonely farms, are still hidden. Today in Siena the streets are filled with columns of young recruits, marshalled by Fascist officers, marching glumly to the station. They will hardly form a very satisfactory army.
Lunch at Siena with a young man (an officer of the Pinerolo military school) who has escaped from a train, which was taking him as a prisoner to Germany, by lowering himself under the axles and remaining motionless between the rails as the full length of the train passed over his body. When the train had passed and he became visible he was machine-gunned by the police on the train, but miraculously escaped being hit.
DECEMBER 2ND
One of the two soldiers who arrived three days ago is now recovered and we send him to pick olives in one of our farms. The other is much better, but suffering from shock. He wanders about the clinic at night in his sleep, crying, ‘Mammal Mamma! They’re going to arrest me!’ and saying that he must find a bicycle to escape from the Germans. Both he and his companion are from Calabria—peasants with very little to say for themselves, and a look of bewildered, animal fear in their eyes.
DECEMBER 4TH
In the late afternoon I am told that a signorina wants to see me. A fair young woman, in towny but muddy clothes, comes in and immediately breaks down, crying and trembling—‘I don’t know how to begin’. ‘Begin at the beginning’, I suggest. ‘Where do you come from? What is your name?’—‘That’s the trouble—our name is X.!’ Light dawns on me, and then the rest of the story pours out. She and her father and mother—all Jewish—who had come to Chianciano for the cure, gradually found their position in the pension untenable—and two days ago, having received a warning, ran away, spending the first night in a convent and last night in our woods. Her clothes, indeed, are muddy and she seems utterly exhausted. ‘You are our last hope—for God’s sake take us in, hide us.’ Her father and mother, whom she has left hidden in a room in the clinic, give me more details—including the danger incurred by their brother who was an employee of an Anglo-Italian Society in London. They have been Catholics since 1913—but, that, they well know, will not save them. We consult as to what can be done for them, and meanwhile put them up for the night.
DECEMBER 6TH
Antonio spends the day in driving from one village to another, trying to find a safe shelter for the X.s. At last, through the Bishop of Pienza, a hiding-place is found for them in a remote convent—and we take them there.
DECEMBER 7TH
Start evening classes for the elder refugee children, who have got beyond the elementary school stage: V. teaches them mathematics, physics and science; Signorina G., Italian and history; I, English and Latin. Life is returning to the medieval pattern: as the outside world is more and more cut off, we must learn, not only to produce our own food and spin and weave our own wool—but to provide teaching for the children, nursing for the sick, and shelter for the passer-b
y.
DECEMBER 10TH
Antonio returns from Florence, where arrests still continue and everyone is exceedingly jumpy. The Republican S.S. has instituted a reign of terror. The house near San Gallo, where the questioning takes place, and from which moans and screams are heard by the passer-by, is now called the Villa Triste. Personal vendettas or mere capriciousness lie beneath many of the arrests—as well as remarkable carelessness. One unfortunate old Sienese landowner of seventy was fetched one day by some young Fascist hooligans, beaten and tortured at the Villa Triste to extract an admission that he was involved in a Communist plot of which he knew nothing, and finally put in prison. When at last his family succeeded in speaking to the Questore, and inquired what charge there was against him, they were told that his name had been found on a list of addresses in the pocket of a Communist: ‘Look, Francesco B.’—‘But his name is Giuseppe!’ protested his family—and so at last the poor old man was set free.
