Where is Ciano? Dinner had been cleared away. Galeazzo Ciano had been expected. The houseguests nursed after-dinner drinks. On this last night of August 1939, the air was hot and still even this late in the evening. Just like always in Rome in the late summer.
But the city beyond the walls of the villa was already unrecognizable. Coffee had been rationed since spring. Workingmen paused now for a caffè corretto—a bitter chicory brew “corrected” with grappa. Irate housewives muttered words tantamount to insurrection as they waited in long lines outside shops, only to find there was no beef or butter. Private automobiles were forbidden, and a creaking bicycle passing through an empty street at night brought curious neighbors to peer out of darkened windows. Something anxious hung in the air. The businessmen in the salon that night knew that their office secretaries quietly kept gas masks tucked away in desk drawers, alongside their powder compacts and lipstick cases. People said to each other privately now that the real shortages were still coming.
Across Rome, all but the most fortunate felt the bite of austerity. In the grand homes of the wealthy and well positioned such as this one, with access to the halls of power, though, only the mood had changed substantially. The guests were gloomy and fretful, and they were focused on just one thing: Ciano.
Everyone in Italy knew Ciano.
Count Gian Galeazzo Ciano—his black hair slicked back and shining with pomade, his clothes elegant; foppish, vain, and ultimately foolish—was the second most powerful man in fascist Italy. He was the son-in-law of strongman Benito Mussolini, as well as Mussolini’s political heir apparent, and as the nation edged closer to the precipice of war that night, Galeazzo Ciano was also still the man in charge of the faltering international relations: Italy’s foreign minister.
A single question held Italy breathless: Would there be war in the morning? Ciano would tell them.
* * *
Only Benito Mussolini held more power, and war was not what Mussolini wanted, though he talked a good game. Mussolini had thrown his support behind Hitler’s Third Reich, and now, unless the Allies blinked, Italy risked being drawn into a German-led conflict that Mussolini knew Italians didn’t want and its military couldn’t manage. Still, Mussolini was optimistic. The Allies would bluster and moan. They would ultimately do nothing. They had done nothing when Hitler took control of Austria, then Czechoslovakia. They would not fight now for Poland.
* * *
Galeazzo Ciano was not so certain. In fact, Galeazzo had many doubts both about a war and about the Third Reich.
Since the beginning of the year, Galeazzo had been keeping a diary. The uncensored and indiscreet views he recorded in those pages did not paint flattering pictures of his father-in-law or the Germans. He despised in particular his German counterpart, Hitler’s foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop, a thin, cruel man with unsettlingly pale eyes, whose lust for power and political bootlicking earned him the contempt of nearly all who met him. The American diplomat Sumner Welles rather undiplomatically remarked of Ribbentrop that “The pomposity and absurdity of his manner could not be exaggerated.” One German counterpart remarked that “One could not talk to Ribbentrop, he only listened to himself”; another described him as “a husk with no kernel.” Here was the kind of man who plotted revenge simply because another hapless lieutenant’s name was mentioned before his own in some bureaucratic document or another. Already many in Hitler’s inner circle were eager to see Ribbentrop stumble. His fall from power would be welcome. In the pages of his diary, Galeazzo summed Ribbentrop up in two simple words: “revolting scoundrel.”
Ribbentrop, in return, hated Galeazzo Ciano. He hated the count’s casual aristocratic manner and his unabashed love of the English. He hated that Galeazzo did not feign deference and how he impertinently questioned the wisdom of the Führer. When the time for vengeance came—and he did love vengeance—Joachim von Ribbentrop would take great pleasure in destroying the Italian foreign minister.
If Ribbentrop was, in the view of the Italian foreign minister, a fool and a sycophant, Galeazzo Ciano had no illusions left about Hitler by the summer of 1939 either. Only weeks earlier, he had met with the Führer and returned, he confided dangerously to his diary, “completely disgusted with the Germans, with their leader…they are dragging us into an adventure which we have not wanted…I don’t know whether to wish Italy a victory or Germany a defeat…I do not hesitate to arouse in [Mussolini] every possible anti-German reaction…they are traitors and we must not have any scruples in ditching them. But Mussolini still has many scruples.”
* * *
Mussolini equivocated. One moment, he was full of talk of war and honor and determined to prove to Hitler that he was as eager for imperial expansion as the Germans. The Italians were the heirs to the Roman Empire. He dreamed of a return to sweeping greatness. The next moment, however, reality pressed on Mussolini. Italy was not prepared for this kind of war, and he railed against the pressure the Nazis were placing on him. All that day, Galeazzo had been working feverishly behind the scenes to avert disaster and to prevent the conflict in Europe from exploding. A last-minute British agreement to a peace conference with the Germans took all evening to hammer out. It would solve nothing, but it would buy them some room to navigate. By the time Mussolini had been brought on board, Galeazzo was hours late for his dinner engagement.
When he strode at last through the doors of the salon, eager faces turned toward him, and Galeazzo Ciano smiled brightly. He was a showman. This was his stage. They could sleep well, he assured the guests laughing, confident: “set your minds at rest…France and England have accepted the Duce’s proposals.” The British had blinked after all. Of course. Appeasement was once again the word of the hour. There would be no war tonight. The guests chuckled and refilled their glasses before slowly wandering off to their bedrooms.
For a brief moment that night, Galeazzo was as relieved as anyone. It didn’t last. By midnight, the peace was unraveling again. Galeazzo was back in a ministry car, the smartly uniformed driver swerving through Rome’s narrow streets toward an office overlooking the storied Piazza Colonna. Someone passed Galeazzo a sheet of paper. There were quick steps in the corridor. Word was filtering in now over the diplomatic wires. Hitler was having none of a peace conference. The headlines for the morning papers in Berlin were already at the presses, announcing the German invasion of Poland. By dawn came word that Poland was falling. Galeazzo knew what it meant. Mussolini would not join the Allies. His friendship with Hitler would prevent Italy from taking up arms against Germany. But perhaps Mussolini could be persuaded to remain on the sidelines. In the tragedy that was coming, the only hope was somehow to keep Italy neutral.
* * *
For nearly a year longer—until June 1940—Galeazzo Ciano and his allies in Rome would manage that feat. Hitler knew perfectly well who he blamed for this stalling in Rome. He would later say of Galeazzo Ciano, “I don’t understand how Mussolini can make war with a Foreign Minister who doesn’t want it and who keeps diaries in which he says nasty and vituperative things about Nazism and its leaders.” Already those diaries were seriously aggravating Hitler.
In the end, Mussolini could not be tempered. He was at once too weak and too proud. Belligerence was too deeply ingrained in his character. At ten, Benito Mussolini had been expelled from school for thuggishly stabbing a classmate. By twenty, he had stabbed a girlfriend. By thirty, he was the founder of the Italian Fascist party, which rose to power by the simple stratagem of systematically murdering thousands of political opponents so there was no one left to oppose him. By forty, Benito Mussolini had wrested power from the king of Italy through the force of a cult of personality, an act that inspired a younger and admiring Adolf Hitler to attempt a similar Beer Hall Putsch in Germany. Within a year or two, by 1925, he cast aside any pretense and ruled as a fascist dictator, riding a wave of populist support, buoyed by invective and a swaggering, cocksure rhetoric of nationalism and nostalgia that exhilarated his followers and terrified his critics.
Machismo was at the heart of Mussolini’s claim to power. In the world that Mussolini had created, “real men” did not back down from a fight and “real Italians,” men who were heirs to the Roman empire that had conquered the world, conceded to no one. This created a political dilemma that was clear to him: “The Italians having heard my warlike propaganda for eighteen years…cannot understand how I can become a herald of peace, now that Europe is in flames.…except the military unpreparedness of the country [for which] I am made responsible.” Mussolini did not want war. But he would not lose face either.
* * *
Galeazzo Ciano fought in every way he knew to keep Italy from entering World War II on the side of the Germans. From the rearview mirror of the twenty-first century, that much is maybe even valiant. For all that, though, it would be a stretch too far to claim Galeazzo Ciano as any kind of hero. He prosecuted other wars, against those far less equipped than France or Britain, with few scruples himself; he was widely and probably accurately considered, like his father-in-law, to have played a role in the extrajudicial execution of political opponents; he enriched himself in office, while much of Italy went hungry; his politics, even when anti-German or anti-Nazi, were not yet anti-fascist. He was, by most contemporary accounts, frivolous, indiscreet in his gossiping, and an incorrigible womanizer. Joseph Kennedy, then the US ambassador in Rome, observed of him in 1938, “I have never met such a pompous and vain imbecile. He spent most of his time talking about women and spoke seriously to no one, for fear of losing sight of the two or three girls he was running after. I left him with the conviction that we would have obtained more from him by sending him a dozen pretty girls rather than a group of diplomats.” The Americans were not the only ones to draw this conclusion. Galeazzo Ciano’s weakness for attractive women had also caught the attention of the Germans.
* * *
Still more would it strain credulity to claim Galeazzo Ciano’s wife, Edda, as a heroine in this story, although this is certainly a book about her and about the astonishing courage, intelligence, and resolve she demonstrated in what was to come.
Edda was also someone known in 1939 to every Italian. She had been known to every Italian for at least those eighteen years of Mussolini’s reign, first as the favorite eldest child of Italy’s autocratic ruler and a young hellion, and then, after the celebrity Ciano marriage in 1930, as the glamorous and flamboyant Countess Ciano. Twenty-eight on the eve of war—September 1, 1939, would be, as chance had it, her twenty-ninth birthday—Edda’s reputation was not a sterling one, and diplomats around the world were very much keeping an eye on her as well.
The British ambassador in Rome, Sir Percy Loraine, reported to Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain that spring that Edda “has become a nymphomaniac and in an alcoholic haze leads a life of rather sordid sexual promiscuity.” She drank too much gin and played poker for high stakes poorly. While Galeazzo spoke with a high-pitched, nasal twang and talked endlessly about his passion for antique ceramics—hardly the Mussolini idea of machismo—Edda scandalously wore men’s trousers, smoked, wore makeup, and drove a sports car while her husband rode along as passenger. While Galeazzo took to bed in a love-them-then-leave-them fashion so many of her aristocratic girlfriends that people in Rome simply talked of “Ciano’s widows,” Edda’s bedroom tastes ran to sporty and fit younger men like the aristocratic Marchese Emilio Pucci, a twenty-four-year-old Olympic skier and keen race-car driver (as well as, later, renowned fashion designer). No one is quite certain when their on-again, off-again liaison started. It probably began sometime in 1934 on the ski slopes in Cortina. By 1939, Emilio Pucci was back in Rome and once again seeing Edda, though no one supposed that Emilio was her only lover.
Why did foreign diplomats care so much about the dissipated life of the Italian foreign minister’s wife and Mussolini’s daughter? Quite simply: her influence with her father. Mussolini doted on his eldest child, and, unlike her husband, Edda was enthusiastically pro-war and pro-German. Galeazzo would later write in the diary that, at the crucial moment in the spring of 1940, on the eve of the invasion of Belgium and Holland:
I saw [Mussolini] many times and, alas, found that his idea of going to war was growing stronger and stronger. Edda, too, has been at the Palazzo Venezia and, ardent as she is, told her father that the country wants war, and that to continue our attitude of neutrality would be dishonorable for Italy. Such are the speeches that Mussolini wants to hear, the only ones that he takes seriously.…Edda comes to see me and talks about immediate intervention, about the need to fight, about honor and dishonor. I listen with impersonal courtesy. It’s a shame that she, so intelligent, also refuses to reason.
Italy entered the war at last on June 10, 1940, and threw in its lot with Hitler’s Germany. Galeazzo Ciano saw that it could only end in disaster. Edda conceded that it was a gamble. But Edda, like her father, thrilled to the show of boldness. Danger invigorated Edda. Besides, in the late spring of 1940 it very much seemed to both Edda and her father that Italy was putting its chips on a sure winner: Hitler.
It was the first of Edda’s brash wartime gambles. Only after it was too late would she come to understand that the stakes were higher than she had imagined and that trusting Hitler was a fool’s errand.
* * *
That Germany would lose the Second World War was not obvious. For the next two and a half years, in fact, it looked very much like Edda Ciano and Benito Mussolini had been right, at least on balance. The German and the Italian empires expanded steadily. By the end of 1942, Mussolini controlled large territories on the eastern Adriatic, in northern Africa, and on the Mediterranean, including areas taken from neighboring France when it fell to the Axis in 1940. Hitler’s Third Reich had reached its greatest extent of the war by 1942 and ranged from Eastern Europe to Norway and Paris. Continental Europe, with the nominal exception of Free France, was effectively divided among three dictators: Hitler, Mussolini, and, on the Iberian Peninsula, Franco.
But Galeazzo Ciano saw the tide turning. He had seen in 1939 that joining Hitler could only bring disgrace and defeat for the kingdom of Italy. The year 1942 had not been easy for the Axis powers. The United States had entered the war, and there had been setbacks and frustrations for Hitler. Galeazzo remained convinced that Mussolini was leading the nation to disaster, but he mostly confided his worries now to his diaries. He already knew better than to say what he thought too openly or too often. He had witnessed the fate of another of the war’s prominent skeptics, Pietro Badoglio.
Galeazzo and Pietro Badoglio had been rivals for more than a decade, tussling for power and influence, and neither was above backstabbing the other. They didn’t hate each other with the same passionate intensity that Galeazzo reserved for the German foreign minister, Joachim von Ribbentrop, but there was plenty of antagonism. Galeazzo had used the power of the secret police to amass a wealth of embarrassing and compromising information about Pietro Badoglio. Badoglio knew it. One day, that was a score he too would settle.
Still, Galeazzo Ciano and Pietro Badoglio agreed on one thing: Mussolini was giving foolish military orders and fighting a war that was unwinnable and unworthy. Badoglio had unwisely shared that view with Mussolini one time too many and was passing the war under house arrest at his lavish villa outside Rome, stripped of his military command and with a pampered pet poodle for company. Galeazzo recorded his thoughts privately and was careful to lock up the papers each night before leaving his office. The best thing: simply to keep quiet.
In his private recollections, however, Galeazzo was unsparing. Still foreign minister, he had a front-row seat to Italy’s unfolding tragedy and maintained a clear-eyed view of both his German counterparts and his father-in-law’s foibles. He was privy to state secrets. His private depictions captured the Nazis in all their brutish malevolence.
Hermann Göring appears in the pages of Galeazzo Ciano’s diaries as a pathetic child, desperate for praise and baubles, but the only Nazi with any touch of vulnerability. “[He] wore a great sable coat,” Galeazzo wrote of Göring in February 1942, “something between what automobile drivers wore in 1906 and what a high-grade prostitute wears to the opera. If any of us tried a thing like that we would be stoned in the streets. He, on the contrary, is not only accepted in Germany but perhaps even loved for it. That is because he has a dash of humanity.” Hitler, depicted as not just a bully but a tedious blowhard, is chided for giving endless, self-congratulatory speeches, which bored everyone. “Hitler talks, talks, talks, talks,” Galeazzo confided that April, wryly noting: “Mussolini suffers—he, who is in the habit of talking himself, and who, instead, practically has to keep quiet.…the Germans. Poor people. They have to take it every day.” Ciano’s archrival, Joachim von Ribbentrop—sniveling, backstabbing, glad-handing—appears as a man who makes a fool of Hitler. But it is Mussolini who comes across in the most unflattering light of all: a puppet dictator, afraid to stand up to the younger man who once held him up as a hero and who now treated Mussolini as a pawn in a large game of world politics—and like a pawn, expendable.
Above all else, in the diaries Galeazzo chronicled, blow by blow, the political squabbles in the Third Reich’s inner circle as Himmler, Goebbels, Göring, and Ribbentrop vied among themselves for power and influence with Hitler, as well as the Germans’ relentless pursuit of war simply for the sake of domination and plunder. In the hands of any one of those Nazis, Ciano’s diary had all the power of a weapon. It had the power as well to strike a mortal blow against Mussolini in the eyes of the Führer.
Galeazzo Ciano, scribbling away, was oblivious to the danger. He wasn’t discreet either. He was an inveterate gossip, incapable of keeping a secret, especially from a pretty woman. He carelessly chatted about his diaries to everyone from foreign diplomats to his father-in-law. And even as tensions between Italy and Germany grew explosive, he kept writing.
* * *
On New Year’s Eve in 1942, Hitler acknowledged to the German armed forces that it had been a challenging year and that challenges remained ahead of them. “Hitler looks tired,” Galeazzo noted. “The winter months in Russia have borne heavily upon him. I see for the first time that he has many gray hairs.” Hitler was tired, but he was also “strong, determined, and talkative.” “The year 1943 will perhaps be hard but certainly not harder than the one just behind us,” Hitler admitted to the troops, as he confidently predicted a decisive Axis victory on the near horizon.
One step in that renewed surge toward victory was a shake-up in the German security service at the end of 1942. The organizational structure of the Nazi regime was notoriously complex, but, put simply, the Reichssicherheitshauptamt or RSHA was the German main security office. It had been headed by Heinrich Himmler on a temporary basis since the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich in June. The head of the RSHA oversaw the operations of two sub-agencies, the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) and the Gestapo. The role of the SD was to ferret out enemies of the Third Reich. The role of the Gestapo, Nazi Germany’s “enforcer,” was to arrest and interrogate those enemies, and its tactics generally included torture.
At the end of 1942, Himmler was being promoted to minister of the interior and head of the German state police forces, and he delegated leadership of the RSHA to an Austrian lawyer-turned-SS-man named Ernst Kaltenbrünner. In January 1943, Kaltenbrünner, in turn, promoted a young would-be spy who, in the eventual assessment of US intelligence, would turn out to be “one of the outstanding RSHA operators of the war.” This young agent, elevated to the role of the executive head of foreign intelligence in Rome, a division known as Amt VI (Office Six), would soon be tasked specifically with dealing with the matter of Galeazzo Ciano for the Germans.
The name of this German spy was Hildegard Burkhardt. She was twenty-three in January 1943. She would come to be better known to history, following her marriage that spring to a high-ranking German officer named Gerhard Beetz, by her married name: Hilde Beetz. Hilde was exceptionally bright, and she had the advantage of more than usual beauty. According to government files, she had blue eyes and dark-blond hair, and stood five foot four. Unlike many German girls in the 1930s, Hilde had a fine education. At the gymnasium in her native Weimar, where only a handful of girls studied, she excelled especially in languages. She spoke fluent Italian and excellent English, as well, of course, as German. She was a member of the Nazi party.
Hilde had joined the intelligence services two years earlier, first as a mail clerk and then as a translator. She had moved quickly up to the role of executive secretary for a man named Helmut Löss, special assistant to the police attaché in Rome, whose office was part of a section focused on espionage at the Vatican, where a number of Catholic priests—including a man named Father Guido Pancino, who happened to be the confessor of Edda Ciano and her father—were positioned as part of the German network of SD informants. Hilde’s office tapped the phone lines in and out of the papal city-state.
Helmut Löss had a reputation as an excellent agent runner, and he was the first to recognize that Hilde, with her innocent face and sharp intelligence, would make a brilliant spy. On his recommendation, the “big boss,” Ernst Kaltenbrünner, made Hilde’s transition into intelligence work official, assigning her responsibility for organizing all the incoming and outgoing top-secret filings in the Roman foreign intelligence office, just as the German worries about Galeazzo Ciano were getting serious.
The first hints that Galeazzo Ciano was becoming a problem came across Hilde’s desk as the executive head of Amt VI in Rome almost immediately in her new assignment. People now said that the Italian foreign minister was refusing to give the fascist salute to German officers. There had been unsubstantiated rumors since the autumn of 1942 of an inside plot to depose Mussolini and whispers that Galeazzo Ciano was mixed up in it. The reports coming in now were more substantial: Agents were hearing that Galeazzo was working behind the scenes with a coalition inside the Italian Fascist party to overthrow his father-in-law and have him replaced with a new leader, a leader who would sue for peace with the Allies.
* * *
The telegram that blew everything wide open arrived in Hilde’s office sometime in the last week of January or the first few days of February. It contained top-secret intelligence intercepted from the American communication channels, and it confirmed the German suspicions about Galeazzo Ciano. The intercepted message had been written by a jovial middle-aged career diplomat named Allen Dulles, who had arrived in Switzerland in early November 1942, based out of Bern. A staunch Republican with a successful legal career and a failed congressional run behind him, Allen Dulles was ostensibly working as a special assistant to the American ambassador, though the Swiss newspapers soon reported that he was acting as President Roosevelt’s personal agent in the country. None of that was true. Allen Dulles was, in fact, working undercover as the head of the newly created American Office of Strategic Services (OSS), the precursor of the modern Central Intelligence Agency, run out of a ground-floor rented apartment in Bern’s picturesque medieval quarter.
The Germans would not discover the existence of the OSS until 1944, but they knew enough to be wary of this new arrival. Dulles exuded authority, and between his bearing and the rumors swirling in Bern, the Germans pegged him quickly as a government man whose movements and communications were worth watching. Surveillance paid swift dividends. In January 1943, the Germans broke Dulles’s transatlantic code. Catastrophically, it would be months before Dulles would realize all his top-secret communications back to Washington were being read by the Nazis. By then, it would be too late for Galeazzo Ciano. Allen Dulles would wonder later, when he learned his code had been broken, to what extent he was to blame—good and bad—for what followed.
* * *
The intercepted telegram was a secret communication to the State Department containing Dulles’s smoking-gun confirmation: A group of anti-German activists close to Mussolini did support a coup and could potentially deliver the Italian army and navy to the side of the Allies. Galeazzo Ciano, along with his exiled rival Pietro Badoglio, a man named Dino Grandi, and a number of prominent anti-war military leaders, were said to be among the party members plotting Mussolini’s removal from power and Italy’s exit from the conflict. Galeazzo, in fact, had covertly been in contact with the Americans as early as 1941, following Italy’s entrance into the war, proposing “the Duce’s overthrow and a separate Italian peace” to the Allies. Hitler ordered a copy of the decoded telegram sent to Mussolini in early February. When Mussolini read it, he understood immediately that Hitler expected action.
On February 5, 1943, within a day or two of receiving the intercepted American intelligence, Mussolini summoned his son-in-law to his office. There was no preamble. Mussolini was purging his cabinet. All of them were suspect. All of them would have to go. “What are you going to do now?” was all Mussolini asked. Galeazzo understood immediately that he was being fired.
Mussolini offered his son-in-law the choice of any number of other, trivial government positions, ideally located somewhere outside Italy, as a concession to family. “I [chose] to be Ambassador to the Holy See,” Galeazzo stubbornly recorded in his diary. The Vatican was a foreign country after all. “To leave the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, where for seven years—and what years—I have given my best,” he admitted, “is certainly a hard and sad blow.”
Galeazzo Ciano was not a man of keen political instincts. Had his instinct been sharper, he’d have had the sense to take his father-in-law’s advice and departed Italy that winter. If Galeazzo did not have the sense to flee, he did at least have the good sense to fret. One of his most loyal friends was a young woman named Susanna, though everyone called her Suni. She was the twenty-one-year-old daughter of Fiat industrialist Giovanni Agnelli—a household name in Italy—and came from one of the wealthiest families in Europe. While many of the Cianos’ other friends melted away after Galeazzo’s public demotion, Susanna stuck by him. She would remain loyal later too, even when it was perilous to care for Galeazzo and Edda. Susanna Agnelli recorded in her memoirs after the war that she remembered her visits that winter and into the spring to the Ciano family’s palatial residence in Rome: “Galeazzo had fallen into disgrace and was no longer the Foreign Minister,” she remembered. “He was worried, nervous, and plotting like everybody.”
* * *
A few days after his dismissal from office, Galeazzo was contacted by Mussolini again. He wanted to know from his son-in-law the answer to a different question, one that should have been even more ominous: Did the count still have his diaries, and were those papers all in order?
“Yes,” Galeazzo replied. “I have them all in order, and remember, when hard times come—because it is now certain that hard times will come—I can document all the treacheries perpetrated against us by the Germans, one after another.”
The answer might have placated Mussolini, but it was ill contrived to reassure the person who was really asking: Hitler.