IT was hot in Rome that August—the sort of heat that hangs in the air, gradually stifling energy until people move about more and more slowly like toys that are running down. The Piazza Colonna, usually one of the capital’s busiest squares, lay beneath the full glare of the sun and on this particular day was almost deserted. Occasionally a horse and carriage clattered over the cobble-stones, the driver mopping his brow, too hot even to crack his whip, but that was all.
I crossed the square and went into a café to read the day-old Times which had just arrived. The German press attack on Poland had begun and the news from Berlin was exactly the same as the year before, only this time you substituted the word Poland for Czechoslovakia. The Italian waiter knew English and made several attempts to read over my shoulder. Then he came out into the open, apologetically: “Is there any news? Here in Rome it’s sometimes difficult to know what’s going on.”
I told him the German press attack on Poland was increasing.
“Oh, we know all about that. But real news,” he said anxiously. “Is there going to be a war?”
I replied that if the Germans invaded Poland I was certain England and France would fight—and asked him what he thought the Italians would do.
“Heaven knows. We don’t want a war—least of all fighting with the Germans. I was wounded in the last war fighting against the Germans. I can’t forget that. At heart, most of us are for the English and French.”
I was surprised by his outspokenness. I don’t know whether or not he reflected the general opinion of the moment, but his remarks certainly showed a change of heart from the Rome I had known another August four years before.
August is always Rome’s dead season; but in 1935 the ghost of war was walking and the air was tense with apprehension. Then, the cafés on the Piazza Colonna were crowded. Heads were bent over newspapers and every now and then you overheard excited snatches of conversation on potential British air raids, key positions in the Mediterranean, Italian land defence. I remembered the bookshops along the Piazza plastered with photographs of Abyssinia; the soldiers ready to embark for Africa, strolling through the streets with boots laced halfway up their legs and strange-looking brown caps that pulled down over their faces as protection against the desert sands; the cinemas that advertised films on the horrors of Ethiopia. The films always ended with pictures of the Italian Army—flashes of marching feet, tanks, aeroplanes, warships, then Mussolini, strong and dynamic, addressing his people. I remembered the excited applause he got.
On October 3rd the Abyssinian invasion began, and on October 6th the League of Nations declared sanctions against Italy. The following week I interviewed Mussolini.
It was the first interview I had ever had with an important statesman. The capital was overflowing with experienced journalists trying to see the Duce, and it never occurred to me that I had any chance at all. Certainly I was unqualified for it. I had come to Rome to write a few descriptive stories for the Hearst papers, but my knowledge of foreign affairs was negligible. One night at dinner, however, I happened to meet Dino Alfiero, the Minister of Propaganda, who told me that he, and he alone, had the authority to control the interviews Mussolini gave to the foreign press. I begged him to arrange for me to have one, but never expected he would. When he rang up the next morning and said Mussolini would see me at six o’clock in the evening, I was appalled. He added that I could have no written questions and the conversation must be ‘off the record’.
I hadn’t the faintest idea how one went about an interview and had a ghastly premonition I would find myself tongue-tied. I was so nervous I couldn’t eat any lunch and all afternoon racked my brain for the proper questions to ask. As the hour approached, I grew more and more unhappy. It was dark and rainy, and as I drove to the Piazza Venezia the automobile lights flashing on the wet pavement and the sound of the wind seemed to lend an eerie emphasis to the occasion. The fact that I was to talk with the Napoleon of the day, at a moment when he challenged the peace of the entire world, seemed to me stupendous.
I walked into the Palazzo, past two Blackshirt guards with rifles, and presented my card of admission to the attendant. He led the way up a long, curving, marble staircase, through an iron framework door, and down the length of two rooms—rooms decorated with early Renaissance paintings and furniture; rooms not only alive with the forces of Fascism, but rooms that breathed the air of 1455, when the palace was built by a handsome young cardinal from the Venetian Republic who wanted a residence from which he could watch the horse-races on the Corso.
I was shown into a small reception alcove and told to wait. The silence of the vast, empty rooms around me was broken now and then by the echoing whispers of attendants, the soft mysterious sound of bells. Every now and then uniformed men passed by and gave me the Fascist greeting. After a wait that seemed interminable, an attendant in a black swallow-tail coat announced the Duce was ready to see me. He led me into a huge room with a high lofty ceiling. At the end, far, far away, was a desk with a man behind it. I walked towards him, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor. Not until I had gone three-quarters of the way did he look up. Then he rose from his seat.
Never shall I forget my first impression. Instead of the solemn black-uniformed dictator, a small stocky man in a light grey suit and a pair of brown and white sports shoes bounced forward to meet me. A word unassociated with the strong man of the masses flashed through my mind: dapper. He gripped my hand, flashed a mechanical smile and went back to his seat behind the desk. He walked with a peculiar strutting step—his head back and his chest thrown out—as though half his body was too large for the rest of him.
I soon realized that my worries lest the conversation should lag had been needless. He fixed his eyes on me menacingly, leaned across the desk and pointed a pencil at me, angrily.
“Do you think I’m a despot?” he rasped.
“Oh no,” I said weakly.
“Do you think my people admire me?”
“Oh yes.”
“Do you think I have led them to war against their will?”
“Oh no.”
“Do you think they believe in their cause?”
“Oh yes.”
“Well, then, go home and tell the people of America that. Go home and tell them I’m not the tyrant their papers make out. Go home and tell them that the Italian nation has a right to a place in the sun. That England and all her hypocritical statesmen can’t bluff Italy out of her just demands. That Italy is a great Power and as a great Power she fears no one!”
Here he banged the table. Then for the next ten minutes I was subjected to an angry tirade (in fluent but ungrammatical English) on the strength of Fascist Italy, the treachery of England, and the supreme idiocy of the League of Nations. I had the impression that his intimidating manner was all part of an act—the way he kept his huge eyes riveted on me, the way he waved his pencil and struck the table to illustrate his points. Instead of wondering what to say I began to fear the interview would be over before I’d had an opportunity to ask a single question. I finally decided to chance an interruption.
“Could I ask Your Excellency a question? If you dislike the League of Nations, why do you remain a member?”
Mussolini had been regarding me fiercely, but suddenly his manner changed.
“Because I’m a very clever man,” he replied almost coyly. “Politics is a difficult game and the way I’m playing it is my best chance to win. It’s not easy. I’m at war with fifty-two nations.”
He stumbled over the words ‘fifty-two’, and to make sure that I hadn’t misunderstood, jotted the figures down on a scrap of paper and held them up. “Cinquanta-due‚” he repeated.
“Do you think you can beat fifty-two nations?”
“I don’t know,” he smiled, still almost coyly. “But I’ll try. If the English have a right to an African Empire, we have a right to an African Empire. The Mediterranean is more our sea than theirs. My people understand and they are with me. You have seen the reception they give me?”
I told him that I had seen the crowds in the Piazza Venezia a few weeks before when he had given the signal that had started the war in Abyssinia.
“Good. Very, very good.”
I never knew whether he was referring to his speech or the fact that I had heard it, for he suddenly jumped up and I saw that the interview had come to an end. He walked down the length of the room with me, shook hands and the door closed.
I had not been impressed. Mussolini’s personality was too aggressive and flamboyant for my taste, and his arguments against England and the League so exaggerated they had failed to be convincing. But most of all I resented being told what to do. My reactions to his command to go home and tell the American people this, that and the other thing, was: ‘You can tell the Italians what to do, but, thank God, you can’t tell me!’
Although many people supported Mussolini’s case, there was very little logic about it. He was trying to justify Italy’s attack on Abyssinia on the grounds that the latter was not fit for League membership; yet it was Italy, and Italy alone, who had urged Abyssinia’s inclusion in the League of Nations—against Great Britain’s repeated advice. Mussolini had been hailed as a great man for having raised the standard of living in Italy (you still hear him praised for this), but conveniently ignored was the fact he had achieved it by such artificial means that from now on the nation must expand or burst. That is the great thing to remember about Fascism. It always lives above its income, relying on the scheme that when its capital is exhausted it can steal someone else’s money to keep the account square.
When I described Mussolini in an article, published in the Hearst papers, I said that if he had been born in a past era his fierce patriotism and intolerant ambitions undoubtedly would have carved him a great Empire. “These qualities,” I wrote,” were virtues yesterday, but are they to-day? Mussolini rides a high wave. I wonder whether its thunder will echo victory or catastrophe.”
Well, I needn’t wonder any longer.
* * *
Italo Balbo, the Air Marshal of Italy, was a very different type from Mussolini. On October 6th, the day the League of Nations voted sanctions against Italy, I flew to Libya and spent a few days in Tripoli. Needless to say, the situation was strained. The British Fleet was concentrated in the Mediterranean and when we reached Sicily our pilot announced we wouldn’t make the usual stop at Malta. Instead, when we neared Malta, the plane swooped down and cruised around for half an hour, while the wireless operator picked up the numbers on several British ships and radioed them back to Rome.
Tripoli was thronged with troops; there was the khaki of the colonial troops, the red sashes and fezes of the Arab soldiers and the grey-green of the Italian regiments. Along the main streets hundreds of Italian flags waved their red and green colours against tropical buildings, so white in the dazzling sunshine they almost hurt your eyes.
I had known one of Balbo’s secretaries in Paris; and the night I arrived was invited to dinner at His Excellency’s house—an exotic Moorish villa overlooking the sea. There were several army generals at dinner and in spite of the tense situation everyone appeared to be in high spirits. Balbo was a man with a rough, easy-going charm, a quick sense of humour, and was obviously adored by his followers. I remember noticing that, unlike most Fascist leaders, Balbo had no picture of Mussolini in the house. There were only pictures of the King and Queen, the Crown Prince and Princess. When I asked Balbo how he liked Libya he replied with a shrug of his shoulders: “Il faut l’aimer. Je suis un prisonnier ici.” I don’t know whether or not this was wholly true. Balbo’s life was agreeable and his job important; I suspect he rather liked to dramatize himself.
After dinner, the guests went out in the courtyard while Balbo gave an exhibition of night shooting, his favourite sport. With a rifle pointed towards the dark sky, he took pot shots at stray birds that fluttered overhead, half distinguishable in the moonlight. The performance struck a comic note, for although he failed to hit anything, his generals and officers stood behind him praising him and telling him what a wonderful shot he was. And behind them stood two huge black servants, one with a towel and one with a basin of water, for him to wash his hands when he had finished. These trusted servants were both Abyssinians.
One afternoon Balbo took me flying. I had always imagined that flying with the Air Marshal of Italy, the man who had led a squadron of Italian planes across the Atlantic and back again, would be a memorable experience. It was, but not exactly as I’d imagined. He took me up in a two-seater Berda, which was so old it could scarcely get off the ground. Once in the air the engine shook so violently I was sure the wings would fall off. The wind whistled through the cockpit, the machine bumped up and down uncertainly, and Balbo kept shouting, “Magnifique, n’est ce pas?”
The only thing that was magnificent was the view. As we rose in the air the Arab mosques turned into tennis balls and the village looked like an assortment of square white candy boxes. On one side there was the majestic sweep of the Mediterranean, and on the other the long white stretch of desert; in the west the sky was pink with a fading sun, and in the east a red moon had begun to show its shadow. Balbo suggested doing a few stunts for my benefit, but I managed to restrain him by inventing a weak heart. When I felt my feet on terra firma again I drew a breath of relief.
On looking back, those few days were an extraordinary interlude. Although the Italian ‘crisis’ was holding the world breathless, Balbo and his generals didn’t seem in the least alarmed by the possibility of war. They didn’t even appear to have much to do. In fact, Balbo suggested that I take a couple of days’ holiday and fly down to Gadames with him—a fascinating Arab village several hundred miles from the coast. Nothing would have induced me to get into the same plane with the Air Marshal again, and I told him I was sorry but I had to return to Rome. He argued for some time, then shook his head sadly: “I know. The trouble is, you don’t like my beard.”
There the matter rested.
* * *
It was so hot in the Colonna café, in spite of the heavy striped awnings and the electric fans, I went back to the hotel. Before I left, the Italian waiter said: “If we were to take our own papers seriously, it would mean war to-morrow. But I don’t believe it. Mussolini has a good head on his shoulders. I think he’ll keep us out of it.”
Many other people in Rome seemed to have the same faith. Although over a million and a half men had been called to arms and the newspaper headlines screamed startling developments, the capital showed little sign of alarm. You found the usual peaceful life: carriages moving slowly through the streets, people taking their afternoon siestas along the banks of the Tiber, café life as leisurely as ever. There was not even a rush for newspapers.
Italians in every walk of life went out of their way to demonstrate their friendship to English and American visitors, and for the first time I heard the Fascist régime criticized openly. A favourite joke that summer was the man who went up to the cab-driver and said: “Are you free?” “Of course not,” came the reply. “I’m an Italian.”
But more curious than the general unconcern was the lack of military preparation. In spite of the mobilization, no precautions were being taken against air attacks; the only marked activity was the energetic wave of building for the 1942 World Fair.
I had struck Rome at a bad week—even the officials I wanted to see were away—so I went down to Capri to spend a few days with Mona and Harrison Williams. It was heavenly there, swimming and lying in the sun all day, but I hadn’t been away long before the crisis took a new turn. Ciano had gone to Berchtesgaden to confer with Hitler and there were already rumours that the date for the war had been fixed. I returned to Rome on the same morning that Ciano returned from Germany, and the following day had lunch with him at Ostia.
It was so hot in Rome no one worked in the middle of the day. At one o’clock everyone who could drove to the seaside, a few miles from Rome, and went swimming, returning to work about four o’clock. Prince and Princess del Drago invited me to go with them and we joined Ciano for lunch on the beach.
Ciano was good-looking, spoke perfect English, and was an animated and amusing conversationalist. But he had an air of unbelievable arrogance; you felt all the time that he was trying to imitate his father-in-law, even to the way he threw out his chest and strutted when he walked. Although I was longing to find out what had taken place at Berchtesgaden (the conversation was still a matter of the greatest secrecy) I didn’t raise the subject hoping that Italian indiscretion would give me an inkling of what had happened. Ciano guessed what was in my mind, for after lunch he took me for a motor-boat ride—one of the most uncomfortable rides I have ever had—and when we got about a mile from the shore dived off the boat and went swimming. Suddenly he bobbed up from under the water, his hair dripping over his eyes, and said: “I bet you’d like to know what I talked to Hitler about.”
“Yes, I would. But perhaps because I have a shrewd opinion he did most of the talking.”
“Well, don’t be too sure,” replied Ciano, irritated. “He is not the only one. I can make history too. When I think how many lives depend on my thoughts, it’s a relief to come out here for a few hours and get away from it all.” (You may not believe it, but that’s what he said.)
That night Ciano, the del Dragos and I dined together at the Hotel Ambassador. Ciano was treated like royalty. When he walked into the room everybody stared at him; the waiters bowed low, and acquaintances made exaggerated efforts to draw an acknowledgment from him. He was not oblivious to the effect he created; when he asked me where I’d like to go after dinner and I suggested a place with music, he replied that the crowds made such a fuss about him he had to be careful where he went; his father had just died and he didn’t want to make himself conspicuous.
He finally decided on a small restaurant a few miles outside Rome. When we climbed into his car he proudly called my attention to the bullet-proof glass: “If anything should happen to me, history might alter.” Although we arrived at the restaurant, we didn’t go in, for Ciano sent for the manager and asked if his favourite guitar-player was still there. “No, Eccellenza” (and here the manager’s voice took on an almost accusing note), “è mobilizzato.” (“No, Excellency, he has been called up in the mobilization.”) Ciano looked slightly taken aback, and we returned to Rome.
Ciano was careful to keep off all political subjects and had given me no indication of what was happening. The following day, however, I again lunched with the del Dragos, Ciano and Alfiero (the Propaganda Minister, who had arranged my interview with Mussolini), and an incident took place that told me what I wanted to know. Lunch with Ciano was always rather a comic affair, for a steady stream of waiters panted up and down the beach with huge dishes of spaghetti and buckets of red wine. As we were lying on the sand, under the shade of umbrellas, an elderly man and his daughter, both in bathing-suits, came down the broad walk. Ciano and Alfiero sprang up and went forward to greet them, but del Drago wandered off in the opposite direction. I was surprised to see Ciano making such a fuss over anyone, and when del Drago came back I asked him who the man was.
“General Dlugoszowski, the Polish Ambassador,” he answered. “I would have liked to have clasped his hand and told him we would save his country for him. But, alas, it’s too late. We can’t.”
So that was what had happened at Berchtesgaden. The Germans had fixed the date for war and decided to go ahead at any cost. No wonder Ciano found swimming a happy relaxation.
Although many people believed that Ciano and Mussolini held varying views on foreign affairs, I thought Ciano much too much of a lightweight to cross his father-in-law in a serious way. Mussolini still held the reins and from what I could learn was not a man to be influenced by anyone in making a decision.
I didn’t think Italy would come into the war at that time and wrote to that effect in an article in the Sunday Times. But I never doubted that the Fascist party was eager for a German victory and would facilitate one in every way it could. Dino Alfiero was one of the prime movers in this group. Before I left Rome I went to lunch with him and he told me whatever happened he didn’t believe England and France would fight. “But if they do,” he added, “it might as well come now as at some later date. Every now and then there comes a time in history when the lands of the earth must be re-divided.”
Italian foreign policy seemed to me even more contemptible than the German. It ignored the great civilization that had been its heritage, and contained not even a shellacking of principle; it was out-and-out piracy.
I learned there was no chance of interviewing Mussolini again and at the end of the week left for the south of France to spend a few days’ holiday with Freda and Bobby Casa Maury. On the day that I flew from Rome to Genoa, news of the German-Soviet pact burst upon an astonished world. There it was, the overture to World War No. 2. For the first time, the war odds were in Germany’s favour; Hitler was free to smash Poland, then turn his back on Russia and hurl his full striking force at the West in a final bid for European domination. Now nothing would stay his hand.