Isle of the Displaced

The year 1941 had dragged on. In February of that year the first contingent of the Afrika Korps landed in Africa and the series of see-sawing battles culminating in the defeat of Field Marshal Rommel at El Alamein began. In May, Addis Ababa fell to British troops, Haile Selassie was reinstated as Emperor of Abyssinia, and Mussolini’s African Empire, so recently acquired, crumbled to dust with the last of the Italian army in Africa under the Duke of Aosta surrendering to the British at Karen in Eritrea.

In June Germany invaded Russia and it became obvious even to the most ardent right-wing prisoners that an Axis victory was by no means a foregone conclusion. Indeed, the certainty of an Allied victory dawned with the USA’s entry into the war in December 1941. Strangely enough, all this made for a much more relaxed atmosphere in the camp. The extreme Fascists were no longer regarded with fear, the merchant navy officers relaxed control over their men, who as a result mingled more freely than ever with the so called Inglesi. Malusa and the threat of his little black book were now largely ignored, and the possibility of defeat in the war was openly discussed. Remarkably too, news of German reverses in the war, Luftwaffe losses over Britain, the sinking of the Bismarck, the defeat of the Afrika Korps, the losses at Stalingrad — all these were greeted with an almost cold indifference by the prisoners as if they were events unconnected with Italy’s presence in the war. It was almost as if such news was of no concern to Italians.

Slowly the tensions created by the destruction of the radio lessened, and each group kept very much to itself, thus avoiding the possibility of friction and conflict. Then, to the general delight of the prisoners, a weekly cinema show was introduced to the camp. This was an Army entertainment unit consisting of a 16mm projector with a supply of all the latest Hollywood productions, obtained for the camp through the good offices of the International Red Cross. Permission was given by the Camp Commandant for films to be shown once a week in the recreation hut, subject of course to the good behaviour of the prisoners.

The recreation hut bulged at the seams on the occasion of the first show, Captains Courageous with Spencer Tracy and Freddie Bartholomew. The audience, packed tightly into every available inch, sat and stood enraptured, for a short two hours, with the reality of their surroundings forgotten. The non-English-speaking section of the camp were not happy however, for the dialogue was meaningless to them, so I began the challenging and satisfying undertaking of doing a simultaneous translation of the films for the sailors. Approached by my little Sicilian sailor friend, Nardo, on their behalf, I drew up a petition asking for a second showing of each film for the benefit of the merchant seamen. This was agreed to and I sat surrounded by scores of sailors listening eagerly to my translation of the dialogue.

To five of the sailors in particular the cinema was a source of wonder and amazement. These were the crew of a fishing smack which had been fishing off the island of Ischia near Naples on the day of the outbreak of war. Sailing out of a fog bank they had come upon a surfaced British submarine which promptly made them prisoner, presumably in order to maintain the position of the submarine secret. Once back at Gibraltar they were transferred to a ship on its way home to Liverpool, where they were joined up with the Ettrick contingent for Canada. The captain of the submarine must have been a kind-hearted man, for he could just as easily have sunk them without trace.

It may seem incredible to believe now, but these five had never seen a cinema show, so remote were their villages of origin and so devoid of any form of outside entertainment were the lives they led in the Italy of 60 years ago. One in particular, Baldino by name, was particularly fascinated and his reaction at the first film show was quite remarkable. He prowled round the back of the screen to see if there was anyone behind creating the images in front and could not grasp the concept of the two dimensional quality of the picture, and strained to obtain other views of the images. Although Baldino was of average intelligence, a time traveller from the middle ages could not have been more mystified at this new marvel.

He became one of my best customers at the translation sessions, pushing his way to the front so as not to miss a word of the story and would pester me afterwards for detailed explanations of the plot. I took considerable pride in these translations. I tried to convey accurately in Italian the meaning of the dialogue as it unfolded and I found great satisfaction in the knowledge that the translations were very skilfully done. At that time Hollywood was producing many films of worth: screen versions of some of Dickens novels such as David Copperfield; biographies of great men of history such as Abe Lincoln and Juarez; period films such as The Hunchback of Notre Dame and romances of the Lost Horizon type, all of which gave excellent practise in simultaneous translation from good English into Italian. The pot-boilers of the day, the gangster films, the Westerns, and the musicals, were all very trite stuff, with dialogue so repetitive and banal that I could actually finish the actors words before they did. So I became somewhat proficient in the art of simultaneous translation, which led to an interesting time for me in the camp.

Towards the end of 1941 I was given orders to type out a special order of the day for the notice board. This was an enquiry as to whether there were any fluent German speakers who might wish to apply for a position as an interpreter. In a few months Camp S, henceforth to be known as Camp 43, was to become a transit camp for German Officers and NCOs captured in North Africa until their transfer to camps further west.

The request went unanswered, for the only person who had any knowledge of German was Arturo Fonti, once a waiter in the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, and whose vocabulary did not stretch beyond basic kitchen matters. He would never have been capable of the type of interpreting required. So I volunteered for the job, despite the fact that I knew no German. I announced myself to the authorities as a fluent, although somewhat rusty, German speaker. I was on perfectly safe ground, for there was no one to put me to the test, so in the absence of any other applicants I was given the job and immediately set to work.

Declaring myself in need of practise and revision I asked for a dictionary, a grammar and a reader, all of which were unquestioningly supplied, and for the next two months I devoted every spare hour of the day to concentrated study. Declensions, genders and verb forms were committed to memory by a process of constant repetition. Each day I added ten new words and all their forms to my vocabulary. The reading book provided was a German translation of Salambo, a novel by Flaubert, which dealt with the semi-fictional adventures of a Libyan prince at the time of Hamilcar, the father of Hannibal. I laboriously translated the first page of the book, and the form of each verb and noun until the meaning of the sentences became clear. At the end of ten weeks of feverishly intensive work I had acquired a vocabulary of some 1000 words, and was able to read and translate the rest of the pages without a great deal of difficulty. There was one very big problem though. Apart from the contact with the German PoWs on the Ettrick, I had never heard a word of conversational German spoken in my life, so I awaited with some apprehension the arrival of the first contingent of prisoners. That day duly arrived, and I stood at the side of Colonel Duvar ready to put my newly-acquired knowledge to the test.

Preceded by a jeep armed with a rear-mounted machine-gun, an army lorry rolled into the courtyard. It stopped, the tailgate slammed down and the six occupants jumped out at the prompting of their guards. Still in their sand-stained uniforms of the Afrika Korps, with characteristic peaked caps on their heads, the German officers stood stretching their limbs, turning their heads with curiosity to take stock of their surroundings.

Prompted by Duvar I nervously stepped forward, cleared my throat, and proceeded to deliver my well-rehearsed speech.

‘Sie sind jetzt. . . you are now in Camp 43 in Montreal. This is a transit camp where you will remain until transportation is ready to take you to your permanent camp further west.’

The senior officer, a tall blond young captain, looked at me and then Duvar and let loose a stream of words in a rapid guttural accent. I did not understand a single word of it. I swallowed nervously, and ignoring Duvar’s enquiring glance, said slowly in German.

‘Bitte, sprechen Sie langsam. . . please speak slowly, I am an Italian internee and I have never heard German spoken. Please speak slowly and clearly.’

The astonished captain looked at me with an open mouth, and with relief I understood my first spoken German words.

In a very short time, by dint of spending as much time as possible with the German PoWs, and a continuing intensive study of the language, I became as fluent in German as I had originally claimed to be, and I eagerly awaited every new German arrival so as to put my newly-acquired skill to use.

I revelled in my duties, happy at the acquisition of a new language and I took intense interest in my conversations with these German soldiers who had actually fought in the battles which were constantly talked about and which had an important bearing on the length of time we might have to remain as prisoners.

The Afrika Korps soldiers all had one thing in common: the overwhelming certainty of a German victory and a completely sincere belief in the rectitude of their cause, which was, to hear them tell it, the liberation of Europe from Jewish capitalist imperialism and the winning back for Germany all territories stolen from her in the 1914-18 war. They were all fine young men with first-class technical educations and yet, as far as a knowledge of history was concerned, the equal in ignorance to the illiterate merchant seamen of Camp 43.

About six months into my career as an interpreter, I was summoned to Duvar’s office and instructed to hold myself ready for an important occasion, the arrival of a major of the Afrika Korps who would be housed at Camp 43 for a few days. I stood slightly apart from Duvar, looking up with curiosity and admiration at the figure who had just alighted from an army vehicle. More than six feet in height and wearing his battle-stained Afrika Korps uniform with authority, Major Haecker of the 15th panzer group, with his upright bearing and haughty look, more than fitted the bill of a proud hard-bitten German officer. The set piece introduction was gone into, but now with a confidence born of frequent practise.

‘You are in Camp 43. . .’, I began my monologue. Haecker towered a full eight inches over me. He looked arrogantly over my head, slowly surveying the compound, ‘. . .to your permanent camp further west’, I concluded.

‘What is this place, and who are you?’ responded Haecker. Ever the perfect interpreter, I translated for Duvar’s benefit, who replied, ‘This is an Italian internment camp, and your interpreter is one of the prisoners here.’

Haecker’s face grew slowly purple under his tan, and with the veins on his temples standing out, he choked out some words.

‘I refuse to stay here, and I refuse to have an Italian as interpreter!’ I duly translated. Duvar looked for a moment at his prisoner, then replied with a cutting edge to his voice.

‘You tell him that he is nothing more than a prisoner and in no position to demand anything. If he wants washed and fed he’s to do as he’s told, and until he’s ready to do so he can stand there and take root as far as I’m concerned.’

And with these words he wheeled round and marched briskly off. I took a great deal of pleasure in translating the words. The deflated major stood for a moment glancing around him, then realising the impotence of his position, stuttered, ‘Very well, but only under protest’ and was duly escorted off to his quarters.

That evening I received a call to present myself at the officers’ mess. There, seated opposite one another across a handsomely set dinner table were the officers of two opposing armies, on the one side the slim and diffident Duvar, and on the other Haecker, still in his battledress, but now washed and shaved and in a mellower frame of mind. I sat myself down between them and for the next two hours, during which the officers did justice to a magnificent meal prepared by Sampietro, I engrossed myself in translating for the two men. The talk ranged from politics and military matters to music, art and philosophy and after the meal was over I felt that I had done an excellent job.

Translation is very often a matter of conveying the exact meaning of the spoken phrase, often by the use of paraphrase rather than a word for word translation. I felt that I had achieved this very successfully and the end of the evening, quite exhausted, I was dismissed with a polite thank you from Duvar and a barely perceptible nod from Haecker.

The next day, as always, I started with some light exercises followed by a mile-long, ten-lap run around the compound. Having barely started the first lap I found my path blocked by the huge figure of Haecker.

‘You did a good job last night. What’s your name and where did you learn to speak German?’ After my answer there was a pause and then he continued.

‘Do you want to know why I despise Italians?’ and without waiting for a reply continued. ‘During an action in the region of Bardia I was in command of five panzers, 250 Afrika Korps infantry and 200 Italians of the Trento division with their officers. Because of strategic considerations I had to retreat, but began to run short of fuel. I then ordered two tanks to be buried in the sand with their cannon facing the pursuing British, who were about ten miles behind us, and left the 200 Italians with orders to stand and defend the position as long as possible.

‘I then continued the retreat with my own men hoping to regroup and refuel at a base about 15 miles further back. Had the Italians done their duty I would then have been in a position to inflict heavy casualties on the enemy with a counter attack. But what happened? As soon as the first English patrols appeared two hours later, the Italians raised a white flag and surrendered without firing a shot. The English were able to advance rapidly, outflanked my group and we were all captured. That is why I am a prisoner here today and that is why I despise Italians.’

I allowed a pause, then asked.

‘Why did you not leave some of your own men to defend the position if it was all that important?’

‘My men were too valuable to me. The Italians were expendable.’

There was no further conversation and I continued my run with the unspoken thought that the Italians had shown uncommonly good sense in the circumstances.

The major remained in the camp for nearly a week. His meeting with Duvar was not repeated, but occasionally he would seek me out for company and conversation. The war was sometimes discussed and strangely enough, unlike the junior officers of the Afrika Korps for whom I had previously interpreted, Haeker did not believe that Germany could now win the war.

On the day of his departure he pulled an Iron Cross from his pocket and tossed it to me with the words, ‘Goodbye. You can have this, I have no further use for it.’

Traffic through the camp was not all one way. Small groups of Germans, most of them Jews, occasionally arrived at Camp 43 on their way back to freedom in the UK from German internment camps further west. Although most of these could speak English, I would still be called upon to greet them and acquaint them with the rules of the camp. They were in the main professional people who had fled from Germany to avoid arrest by the Nazis and from them were heard incredulous tales of atrocities against Jews and political dissidents and of the existence in Germany of camps where such people were tortured and put to death. These stories were met with a great deal of scepticism. One tends to judge matters in the light of one’s own experiences, and there were many in the camp who dismissed the refugees stories as nonsense.

Their stories were made less believable by their own behaviour. Almost to a man they did nothing but complain about everything that had happened to them since the outbreak of war. As far as Camp 43 was concerned nothing was right. The food was not to their satisfaction, their accommodation was not to their liking, they did not see why they should have to mix with soldiers who were their sworn enemies, and so on and so on ad nauseam. The consensus of opinion was that if the tales they told about Nazi camps were true, they should then consider themselves fortunate and privileged to be where they were.

But then of course their stories were only too true, as was revealed when the full horror of the Nazi death camps became known in the months after the defeat of Germany.