LA FOCE
By R. S. JENKINSON
IUR leading platoon marched along the hot, dusty road one afternoon in June, 1944, to occupy the Tuscan hill-town of Montepulciano. Battalion headquarters the previous night had been La Foce, a country house belonging to the Marchese and Marchesa Origo. The Origos, we understood, were taking refuge with a parry of about two dozen children in Montepulciano itself ; the Marchesa was an Englishwoman. On entering the town, my Company Com- mander at once made enquiries, and excited Italians directed us to the house of Bracci, the Mayor. Above the door was written "Kindetheim La Foce." We were admitted, and soon found our- selves drinking a very English cup of tea and talking with the English-speaking Marchese and his English wife. It was a charm- ing, touching welcome, and I remember the Marchesa saying—and how tired she looked!—" The old people of this town say they d3 not mind dying now that you have oome." There were still a few Germans in the town being cleared by our _troops, and our tea-party was rudely interrupted by severe German shelling, causing us :o take shelter in the cellar with the refugee children.
Soon I had to leave and go about my military duties. This " tea- party " was one of those- odd, unexpected little incidents of which the Italian campaign was so full. It stuck in one's memory. But one passed on soon enough—to further " liberations " and other striking and unusual occurrences. I do indeed remember hearing something of the heroic part played by the Origos in helping escaped Allied prisoners of war and other distressed and wandering persons. One was told, too, that La Foce was something of a model estate—a very interesting place ; and one or two of my brother-officers, I believe, subsequently stayed there. And how could one fail to be grateful that the Marchesa allowed the officers of our battalion to stay, when on leave, in the Villa Medici at Fiesole? As one looked down upon Florence in the morning from one's bedroom window, Giotto's tower and Brunelleschi's dome stood out from a sea of mist.
At last the war ended. We have returned home. A year passes. And then at the end of January this year Jonathan Cape publishes War in Val d'Orcia by Iris Origo (reviewed in The Spectator on February 7, 5947), her diary of those months so crucial for Italy— January, 5943, to July, 5944. This beautifully written, intensely interesting and most moving book takes one back to the Tuscany of three years ago, and fills in, poignantly, the background to the incident I have described. It reveals in all its intricate tragedy d.: reverse side to that which was seen by the Allies as they pushed their way slowly up the Italian peninsula ; it throws light upon subtleties in the Italian situation that were unheeded by too many of us ; it reminds us again of the multitude of individual heroic acts, the flashes of light in a dark landscape, whose gleam—perhaps alone among what were thought to be the successes of war cannot be dimmed in the dreary cynical aftermath of conflict. And we see again how invariably false it is to speak in generalisations—that the "Italians," for example, are such and such, or the Germans or Russians this or that. Particular acts of heroism and self-sacrifice are what ultimately matter, and one never knows where they will be found ; and there are no national frontiers between those who are prepared to help each other. In particular, Italy—a country (a fickle, traitor country, we have felt) upon which we have hurled so much abuse—has abounded in just these individual acts. For this reason, as well as for our cultural ties (once so openly acknowledged, now so often unheeded), a barrier must not again be raised between thz two nations.
It is easy for us—and reasonable enough—to blame the Italian people for allowing their country to enter the war against us (when
so many of them did not desire that war) and, going further back, to censure their initial acceptance of Fascism. It is easy to find fault with the vacillation and confusion that reigned in Italy after the defeat of the Germans in Africa. But a little imagination will enable us to see how agonising must have been the conflict of loyalties for self-respecting Italians, particularly during the latter situation, and this conflict—just exactly as it was—is most clearly delineated in the Marchesa Origo's book. The great thing surely is that there was such a conflict in the minds of Italians. Do we realise how fortunate we were in this country to have been spared the necessity of making up our minds, with the knowledge that, what- ever our decision, someone or something that we cherished would be betrayed? Whether we had to endure bombing at home, or risk our lives abroad, peace of mind at least could be ours. We could perhaps hardly be expected to understand the case quoted by the Marchesa Origo of an Italian who was an ardent anti-Fascist, yet a mayor under Fascist rule. But we must appreciate the difficult situation in which Italians found themselves, and recognise, and be thankful for, the fact that—amid all the treachery and cowardice that must always exist at such a time—there were men everywhere who strove heroically to do their duty, which often took the form of a strenuous effort in the Allied cause.
We may think particularly of those who sheltered escaped prisoners-of-war at risk of their own lives. War in Val d'Orcia is full. of such instances, and those who benefited by these acts of un- calculating charity have testified their gratitude often enough. We must see .that these links established between individual givers and receivers of kindness are forged into a strong chain between their countries. There is much that makes for enmity between nations— sometimes, indeed, particular crimes that are hard to forget, but more often generalisations that take no account of particular instances of kindness, sympathy and self-sacrifice, which are the life-giving entities upon which we should build.
This applies in varying degrees to all countries. But we are thinking of Italy and ourselves. And I would maintain that we and Italy have much to learn from each other ; that we need each other ; that nothing but loss will result from our alienation from each other. Just as, on entering the National Gallery from Trafalgar' Square, one may exchange the overcast skies of our chilly, northern capital for the warmth and brilliance that radiate from the paintings of Titian or Veronese, so does our native reserve need to be suffused by the warm open-heartedness of the Latin south. Nothing is easier than to point to the imperfections of the Italians—violent, unde- pendable we shall find them—but there is much of kindliness, of courtesy, of aesthetic sensibility and subtlety of mind that we may learn from them ; and perhaps we may impart in return a measure of that stability and reliability they so sorely need. A friendship or a marriage may be valuable not because each partner is faultless, but because each has some gift that the other lacks.
There is a great tradition of friendship between ourselves and Italy. May that tradition—amid the unrealities that assail our eyes and ears in the daily news—mot be forsaken! And our humble thanks are due to the authoress of War in Val d'Orcia who, together with her husband, has stood unaffectedly and heroically, through those long months of trial on her Tuscan farm, for all that makes for international understanding.
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