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What the Traveller Saw
Eric Newby
This outstanding collection of pieces, illustrated with his own superb photographs, is a unique record of Newby’s travels all over the globe – and a lasting tribute to lost and fading worlds.One of the funniest and most entertaining of all travel writers, Eric Newby has been wandering the by-ways of the world for over half a century.Admired for his exceptional powers of observation, Newby’s genius is also to capture the unexpected, the curious and the absurd on camera.Since his very first journey in 1938, Newby’s quest for the unknown and the unusual has been insatiable. Whether on a dangerous canoe trip down the Wakwayowkastic River, with the pastoral people in the mountainous north of Spain, or visiting the exotic archipelago of Fiji, nothing escapes his eye for unlikely or amusing detail.A rare combination of travel writing and photography, What the Traveller Saw is an exhilarating record of Newby’s humourous adventures over the years.
ERIC NEWBY
What the Traveller Saw
Dedication (#ub2a4da1c-424a-52c3-9207-58c1bff41878)
TO WANDA – AS ALWAYS
Contents
TITLE PAGE (#uca600117-7193-5067-8a43-3772a72dac7c)
DEDICATION (#u9756c259-f852-5d47-aa96-2fb7f2e776fd)
INTRODUCTION (#ufa231202-5e11-50f0-a6a0-165cfdca2451)
Round the Horn Before the Mast (1938/39) (#u741bda72-6c91-5932-b86a-c8fd7990d14a)
Home from Home (Italy 1942) (#uddf262b4-ee51-5a45-b126-4b4af79287d1)
Across the Oxus (Kabul – Moscow – Vienna 1956) (#u11102a7c-a02f-5ae1-81ee-36b00fd84de5)
The Edge of the Western World (Ireland 1960) (#uec083655-0c33-577f-9c98-b6a10a4fa98a)
Round Island (Scilly Isles 1963) (#ud4d0f100-fc49-5fac-8726-298cdfb9ef9f)
Mother Ganges (India 1963) (#ucc4cbb56-5657-5779-997a-2720bd47b7d2)
Set in a Silver Sea (Great Britain 1963) (#litres_trial_promo)
A Queen’s Ransom (Crossing The Atlantic 1965 and 1972) (#litres_trial_promo)
Travels in the Cévennes Without a Donkey (France 1965) (#litres_trial_promo)
Not Such a Promising Land (Israel 1965) (#litres_trial_promo)
Castles in the Air (Spain 1965) (#litres_trial_promo)
Visions of a Battered Paradise (Turkey 1966) (#litres_trial_promo)
Treetops East (Africa 1967) (#litres_trial_promo)
Deep in the Heart of Arabia (Jordan 1968) (#litres_trial_promo)
Where Europe Ends (Portugal 1969) (#litres_trial_promo)
Morning of the World (Bali 1969) (#litres_trial_promo)
Way Down the Wakwayowkastic River (Canada 1969) (#litres_trial_promo)
Inscrutable Islanders (Japan 1970) (#litres_trial_promo)
A Bubble in the South China Sea (Hong Kong 1970) (#litres_trial_promo)
In the Realms of Yucatan (Mexico 1971) (#litres_trial_promo)
Divine Archipelago (Fiji 1971) (#litres_trial_promo)
Journey to the Centre (Australia 1971) (#litres_trial_promo)
On and Off the Shores of the Spanish Main (West Indies 1972) (#litres_trial_promo)
Imperial Outing (China 1973) (#litres_trial_promo)
Heart of Darkness (Sicily 1988) (#litres_trial_promo)
PLATES (#litres_trial_promo)
INDEX (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR (#litres_trial_promo)
COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER (#litres_trial_promo)
Introduction (#ulink_a8ea5f7b-b55f-58ec-8c88-f8523607f5e2)
MY FIRST CAMERA was a pretty feeble affair. This much was obvious, even to me, when I received it as a present on my seventh birthday. It came from some far-off place I had never heard of up until then. I think it was Lithuania, but there were lots of places I had never heard of at that time. This camera took pictures the size of the smaller sort of Lithuanian postage stamp – that is, when it took any at all – with ludicrous results. It came in a carrying case made of cardboard, together with three rolls of film, and when these were used up the only way to get more was to buy a return ticket to Lithuania.
My next camera was a No. 2 Box Brownie, an Easter present from my parents when I was about ten, bought from a Mr Powell who had a photographic business on the seafront at Swanage, Dorset. I was mad about birds in those days, and it was with a copy of British Birds and How to Identify Them (or some such title) and this camera, which had a fixed exposure of approximately 1/25th at f/11 (the shutter sounded like a portcullis falling), that I attempted to photograph them. As a result, I had, until recently, a large collection of negatives and prints, 3¼ × 2¼ ins, of the boughs of windswept trees and Purbeck drystone walls from which the birds I was trying to photograph had already flown away. Nevertheless, I loved my No. 2 Box Brownie.
My first precision camera, and one of the best cameras I have ever possessed, was a Zeiss Super Ikonta; a tiny, folding, bellows camera with an F.3.5 Tessar lens, a Compur shutter and a coupled rangefinder which took 16 pictures on 3¼ × 2¼ in roll film. This was the camera I took with me in 1938 on a round-the-world voyage. I didn’t have an exposure meter, but by using something known as a Burroughs Wellcome Exposure Calculator, which came in the back of a diary, I got some surprisingly good results, considering how little I knew then, and know now for that matter, about photography. I tried very hard with my sea pictures because I knew that war was imminent, and I had a premonition that it would mean the end of the big sailing ships engaged in the Australian grain trade, and the way of life of the men and boys who sailed them, and I was right. During the war, I took a lot of photographs on the coast of Syria, where life was still very primitive, but when I was captured the authorities in Malta went through my baggage before sending it on to my next-of-kin, and so I never saw these pictures or my Super Ikonta again.
My next chance to take pictures in outlandish places came in 1956 when I travelled through the Hindu Kush. Photographically, the expedition was a disaster. In the course of it an Afghan tribesman who was in charge of the pack horses allowed the one which was carrying all my exposed film to enter a lake and swim across it. As a result, when the film was developed, the negatives looked as if they had been processed in some sort of thin soup.
This is the problem with photography. It is inimical to travellers and to travel. It takes ages to do it properly. You can wait days, months, even years for a crescent moon to appear over the Taj Mahal, and then the camera goes wrong. If a modern one, the nearest place it can be repaired is Hokkaido, Japan. Even there they probably won’t repair it. They will simply ‘replace the unit’, and to do so will take at least six months, for a large part of which it will be stuck in customs. If the camera doesn’t go wrong of its own accord, you yourself will inevitably drop it. Now that the exposure meter forms an integral part of the camera (only the most sophisticated photographers have separate meters any more), you score double by breaking both. Having done this, the only thing to do is to drop the remains in a deep river and tell the insurance company that someone stole it, otherwise your claim will never be settled. If any of these things happen to you, and you are relying on your camera to take photographs suitable for publication, it can seriously endanger your peace of mind. You therefore need several cameras, just like the professionals. Amateurs almost always have only the one.
After this photographic débâcle in the Hindu Kush, nothing happened photographically until 1962 when Wanda and I descended the Ganges in various sorts of boats. On this journey we both took pictures for the book I was going to write, if we survived, sharing (what folly!) a single Pentax between us, a Weston exposure meter, and using what was then a new colour transparency film called Kodachrome X. Kodak were so pleased with the results – surprised would be more accurate – that they put on an exhibition of our photographs in Kingsway.
One of the further troubles with having a camera is the lengths to which you must go to avoid pictures entirely devoid of human beings. You always have to run on ahead. In the Hindu Kush, it was in order to photograph the caravan approaching, at around 16,000 feet, that I was left at such a height, feeling utterly lifeless. On the Ganges, for the simple purpose of photographing the boat, Wanda and the boatman, I disembarked, only to find I was in danger of being left alone in the middle of Hindu India as the boat sped away down some rapid. But if you don’t run on ahead or go ashore on such journeys, you will end up with pictures of endless mountain ranges and endless reaches of water, and never a person in sight.
Much more important to me than cameras, either on the Hindu Kush or on the Ganges, were my journals; because all that I have ever really needed to record what I needed to record has been a notebook, and one of those Staedtler pencils with a long lead and a sharpener at one end which I always have to be careful not to lose. A pencil is better than a pen because when the paper gets wet the ink runs and the writing becomes illegible. On the Ganges, which was pretty wet, I used as a log book a Gujarati account book with a red linen cover and yellow paper bought in Chandi Chowk, Old Delhi. This I filled with such monumental observations as ‘9.50 a.m. Left Bank. Saw a tree’, and some miles further on, ‘10.45 a.m. Right Bank. Saw a cow’. From such modest beginnings it soon became a tome stuffed with information, some of it curious, a lot of it useless, but something without which I knew that I would never be able to write whichever book I was planning to write. Just as I had kept a log book in the sailing ship without which I could not have written The Last Grain Race sixteen years later.
Even the thought of losing the Gujarati account book filled me with apprehension, and then, one day, I did lose it. Waking up in what had been a church hall in Bihar in the middle of the night, plagued by rats, I realized that I had left it on the platform at a railway junction, miles away. Arriving there by cycle rickshaw in what was by then the early hours of the next morning, I found that there had been no cause for alarm. ‘Sir,’ said the ticket clerk, when he handed it over to me, ‘it is only a book of writing, of no value to anyone at all.’
The following year, in 1963, I went to work for the Observer as Travel Editor, and a large number of the pictures in this book were taken during that period, one of the happiest periods of my life, which lasted ten years. As a result, What the Traveller Saw essentially commemorates the past, and, in many cases, a world that has changed beyond all recognition.
Round the Horn Before the Mast 1938/39 (#ulink_f8ec242c-8766-5390-88cd-cd8fad781b9d)
THESE PHOTOGRAPHS form part of a large collection taken while I was serving in the four-masted Finnish barque Moshulu of Mariehamn in 1938/9, when she was engaged in the Australian grain trade.
As an apprentice in Moshulu I was bound by the Conditions for the Acceptance of Apprentices in Finnish Sailing Vessels. You had to be not less than sixteen years old and of strong constitution. Two doctors’ certificates were required, and one from a clergyman testifying that the applicant was of good moral character. My father had to pay the owner of the ship, Gustav Erikson, a premium of £50 for a year or a round voyage, whichever was the shorter. If I died, he was told, he would get a pro-rata repayment. The apprentice had to supply his own gear and was paid 150 Finmarks a month (about 10s. or 50p), but only at the end of the voyage, and less any deductions (I dropped a hammer overboard in Belfast before we sailed, and the cost was deducted from my pay). An able-bodied seaman got about 650 Finmarks, the sailmaker (because he was exceptionally experienced) about 1400 Finmarks, the steward about 2000, the mates from 1200 to 3000, and the captain about 4000 Finmarks (£20) a month. Not much for such a lonely position of responsibility. He was in his thirties. The oldest member of the crew was the sailmaker, who was nearly sixty.
Being an apprentice, I took nearly all the photographs during my free watch; many of them when I was done-in after long hours on deck, at the wheel, or up in the rigging. If I wanted to record the other watch working in rough weather, it required an effort of will not to fall asleep as soon as I went below, but to turn out again with my camera. Similarly uninviting was the prospect of keeping my daily log of the voyage up to date, which I did for some eight months, without missing a day.
What induced budding sailors to sail in Erikson ships in the 1930s, apart from a few inquisitive English speakers such as myself? The Finns were obliged to because they had to spend three years in square sail before going to navigation school in order to sit for a second mate’s ticket in their merchant marine. Numbers of Germans had to do the same in order to get in the time required by their government, until Hitler came to power when they had to serve their time in German ships. A great blow to the Germans was the loss of the Hamburg-Amerika Line’s Admiral Karpfanger, a four-masted barque sold to them by Erikson, which went missing in the Southern Ocean on her way to the Horn from South Australia with the loss of all 68 hands, including 40 cadets, in 1938 – the same year I joined the Moshulu. Norway, Sweden and Denmark had similar arrangements for their sailors, some of whom sailed in Finnish ships.
By the 1930s the grain trade from South Australia to Europe was the last enterprise in which the remaining square-riggers (by 1938 there was still only one ship equipped with an auxiliary engine) could engage with any real hope of profit, and then only if the owner exercised the strictest economy and at the same time maintained the utmost efficiency.
The only contender for such a role by the time I joined his fleet was Gustav Erikson from Mariehamn, the capital of the Aland Islands in the Baltic, off the coast of Sweden, the owner of ten ocean-going square-rigged sailing ships. He employed no PROs to improve his image. One of the things that warmed me to him was that he was completely indifferent as to whether anyone liked him or not. It would have been as reasonable to expect anyone to ‘like’ the Prime Minister or the Inspector of Taxes as to like ‘Ploddy Gustav’, as he was known. He was only interested in his crews in so far as they were necessary to sail his ships efficiently (the majority who sailed in them had to whether they wanted to or not), and for that reason he ensured that crews were adequately and decently fed by sailing-ship standards (which meant that we were permanently ravenous and dreamt of nothing but food), and that the ships, which were rated 100 A1 at Lloyd’s but not insured (only the cargoes were insured), were supplied with enough rope, canvas, paint and other necessary materials to enable them to be thoroughly seaworthy.
He certainly knew about sailing ships. At the age of nine he was shipped aboard a vessel engaged in the North Sea trade. At nineteen he got his first command, and from 1902 to 1913, after having spent the six previous years in deep-water sail as a mate, he was master of a number of square-rigged vessels before becoming an owner.
Ships engaged in the grain trade would normally sail from Europe at the end of September or early in October in ballast, pick up the trade winds in the North and South Atlantic and, when south of Tristan da Cunha – more or less half way between South America and Africa – run before the westerlies in 40°S or higher latitudes, according to the time of year, across the southern Indian Ocean. The first landfall of the entire 15,000-nautical-mile voyage might well be the lighthouse on the South Neptune Islands at the entrance to the shark-infested Spencer Gulf in the Great Australian Bight, where the wheat was brought down to the little ports on its shores for loading. A good passage outward bound in ballast was around 80 days – we were 82 days in 1939 but Pommern was only 78.
It could be weeks or months before a freight was fixed. No pay was issued by the captain for fear that we might run away. As soon as freight was arranged, the ship would sail to the loading port; but first, miles offshore, the crew had to get rid of the ballast, shovelling it into baskets in the hold where the temperature was up in the hundreds fahrenheit, hoisting them out and emptying them over the side. It was not possible to jettison all the ballast at once, so one or more trips had to be made to the ballast grounds in the intervals of loading the cargo, which was frequently interrupted by the strong winds that blew in the Gulf. Except in one or two places where there were jetties, the ships had to lie offshore and load the sacks of grain into their holds from lightering ketches. A 3000-ton barque such as Moshulu could carry 59,000 sacks of grain, 4875 tons of it, which was what we loaded in 1939.
Even after waiting sometimes months for a freight, and then loading, which could take another six weeks, Erikson could still make a profit after a round voyage of 30,000 sea miles, 15,000 of them in ballast, even if it took some of his smaller barques 120 days or more to make the homeward voyage. The charterers were not worried; providing it was kept dry, grain was not a perishable cargo, and whoever happened to own it at any particular time on the voyage, for it often changed hands several times in the course of it, was getting free warehousing for his cargo.
The normal time of departure for Europe was between the last week in February and the end of March. A good passage home was 100 days, anything less was very good.
We sailed from Port Victoria, where we had loaded in company with the last great concourse of square-rigged merchant ships ever to come together, on 2 March 1939, bound for Queenstown (now Cobh) in Southern Ireland. Moshulu was 30 days to the Horn, well over 6000 miles’ sailing, and on 24 March, in 50°S, 170°W, she ran 296 miles in 23½ hours with the wind WSW (a day noon to noon in these high latitudes is only about 23½ hours).
She was only 55 days to the Equator from Spencer Gulf, and it seemed possible then that, having accomplished this feat of sailing, she might beat Parma’s great 83-day passage from Port Victoria to Falmouth in 1933. In fact she suffered a succession of baffling calms in the North Atlantic and was eventually 91 days to Queenstown, nevertheless making the fastest passage of the year in what was to prove to be the last great Grain Race. The slowest passage that year was 140 days by Lawhill, a very old Erikson barque.
In 1938 Moshulu was the biggest sailing ship afloat. Built in 1904 at Port Glasgow for the German nitrate trade as Kurt (she had a twin called Hans), she was also probably the strongest. She was 3116 gross tons and 335 feet long between perpendiculars. Her hull, standing rigging, and most of her masts and yards were steel. The three square-rigged masts towered 198 feet above the keel, higher than Nelson’s Column. Each of these masts crossed six yards, to which six sails were bent, a total of eighteen square sails; there were also seventeen fore-and-aft sails including five headsails. With all this canvas set, which was rare – we never set royal staysails – Moshulu carried 45,000 square feet of sail. The biggest sails, set on yards which were 95 feet long, were made from No. 1 canvas and each weighed more than a ton, much more when wet.
Moshulu could carry sail when a lesser ship would have had to heave to. In 51°S, 158°W on the way to the Horn, with the wind WSW, force 11, she was still carrying a foresail. Three hundred lines were belayed to pins on the pin rails on deck, or else were led to cleats or bitts. You had to know the name of each one in Swedish – the official language in which orders were given in the Erikson fleet – and be able to find the right one, even on a pitch-black night with seas coming aboard.
Half the foremast hands in Moshulu the year I sailed in her were first voyagers – the total complement was 32 – and although many of them were country boys with strong constitutions, all of them, including myself, found the work hard at first. An American wooden clipper of the 1850s, Donald McKay’s Sovereign of the Seas, 2421 tons, had a crew of 106. The work of handling the great acreage of sail, even with the aid of brace and halliard winches, was very heavy. Thirty-four days out from Port Victoria, two days after we passed the Falkland Islands on the way home, we started changing sails, bending a complete suit of old, patched fair-weather canvas for the tropics in order to save wear-and-tear on the strong stuff, first unbending the storm canvas and lowering it down to the deck on gantlines before stowing it away below deck. This was always done when entering and leaving the trade winds in the North and South Atlantic, four times in all on a round voyage.
While we were engaged in this work, it started to blow hard from the southeast; then it went to the south, blowing force 9 and then 10 from the south-southwest, when the mizzen lower topsail, a heavy canvas storm sail, blew out. This was followed by a flat calm and torrential rain. In the middle of the following night a pampero, a terrible wind that comes off the east coast of South America, hit the ship when it was almost in full sail, but because the Captain knew his job we only lost one sail.
In these twenty-four hours the port and starboard watches, eight boys in each, took in, re-set, took in and re-set again, twenty-eight sails – a total of 112 operations – bent two new sails and wore the ship on to a new tack twice, an operation which required all hands, including the kock (the cook), to perform it.
I was in the port watch. The starboard watch were very unlucky – everyone was unlucky some of the time; they spent eleven consecutive hours on deck, or in the rigging.
Strangely enough, I look back on the time I spent in Moshulu with the greatest pleasure, and would not swap it for the highest honours of the land.
Home from Home ITALY, 1942 (#ulink_bf347f80-7888-5970-beb6-fe784cba2a07)
OF ALL THE COUNTRIES I have ever been to, Italy is the one I feel and know and understand best, by which I mean that I know Italy intuitively rather than in the sense of having accumulated a mass of factual information about it. Its politics are impossible to understand and its history, apart from its artistic history, peculiarly baffling. One soon gets fed up with Guelphs and Ghibellines. I find that what really interest me most about Italy are its inhabitants.
I was twenty-two years old when I first set eyes on it through the periscope of a submarine. What I saw, against the sun in the late afternoon of an August day in 1942, was a low-lying coast shimmering in the heat, an undulating black line, like some minor tremor on the Richter scale, which might have been anywhere.
That night, when my companions and I hauled our canoes up out of the surf on this same coast, for the first time in my life – although I had travelled something like one and a half times round the world already – I found myself in Europe; that is, if you can actually call Sicily a part of Europe, or even a part of Italy. The important thing is that at that time I thought it was.
My impressions, because of how we had arrived, were somewhat different from those received by more conventional visitors. They were of a sandy shore with surf booming on to it, concrete blockhouses, barbed wire entanglements and, somewhere ahead of us, German dive bombers coming in to land.
After cutting our way through the barbed wire we met our first Italian living thing, an old white horse in a field. It was difficult to think of it as an enemy horse but if it had decided to start whinnying or galloping around it could easily have brought down on us a horde of the enemy. Instead, it preserved a benevolent neutrality and went on eating its dinner.
After this we became imbrangled in a vineyard in which I ate my first bunch of Italian grapes. They were not particularly nice as they were still unripe and had been recently sprayed with what I identified after the war, when I began to learn about grapes and wine, as copper sulphate.
There then followed an encounter with some very nasty dogs in a farmyard – savage dogs on long chains were, I was later to learn, a feature of most Italian farmyards – but after this, as we neared the airfield we had come to attack, we began to have our first encounters with European people, presumably Italians; dark figures who sidled up to us out of a darker darkness, emitting noises that sounded like, ‘Eh! Eh! Eh!’, and then, getting no reply, disappearing as quickly as they had come, no doubt as frightened of us as we were of them.
How much that, then ostensibly lonely, shore had since changed (in fact it was swarming with German as well as Italian soldiery), was evident when I returned to it a couple of years ago to find a rather low-class seaside resort with alberghi and pensioni forming a continuous barrier along the shore, which, if they had been there some forty-five years previously, would have been much more difficult to negotiate than wire entanglements, while the long pipes which now ran seawards from them would have ensured that we were engulfed in sewage even before we set foot on the shore.
The following morning, having spent some hours swimming about in the Mediterranean, and failing to re-join the submarine, with Mount Etna, our first Italian volcano, smoking away overhead, we were picked up by the first Italian fishermen we had ever seen who were sufficiently kindly, having saved our lives, to make unthinkable the idea of banging them on the head and trying to get to Malta in their boat.
And as we chugged into the harbour of Catania I had my first sight of an Italian city beside the sea, as I had always imagined it would be, just as Rex Whistler might have painted it, with baroque domes and Renaissance palazzi, all golden in the early morning sun.
We were hurried off the boat and up through narrow streets to a Fascist headquarters with a picture of II Duce on the wall where, minus our trousers, which we had lost at sea, we met our first Blackshirts. They consigned us to a fortress in the moat of which one of their number, more excited than the rest, said we would be shot at dawn the following day. In spite of not knowing until some time later that this fate had befallen a previous party, we believed him. But we weren’t shot. Instead we were taken to Rome and kept prisoners in the barracks of a posh cavalry regiment. Here we tasted our first, real Italian food. It came from the officers’ mess and was delicious, pasta and peperoni, and our first Italian wine. From the window of my room, which was high up under the eaves and very hot, all I could see of Rome was an officer exercising a charger of the tan in a courtyard. A whole decade was to pass before I would again visit Rome in August.
In the spring of 1943, about nine months after I was captured, a number of us were sent to a rather superior prison camp situated in what is known as the Pianura Padana, the great plain through which the River Po flows on its way from its source in the Cottian Alps on the French frontier to the Adriatic. This camp was in a disused orphanage on the edge of a large village called Fontanellato, which is now very close to the Autostrada del Sole, and the nearest city was Parma on the Via Emilia, the Roman road that runs through the pianura in an almost straight line from Milan to the Adriatic.
There, once a week, parties of us were allowed to go for route marches in the surrounding country under a general parole that we would not try to escape, but we were nevertheless still heavily guarded. The route chosen deliberately avoided villages.
We walked along flat, dusty roads on which we rarely saw a motor car, only cyclists and carts drawn by oxen; past wheat fields, fields where what resembled miniature forests of maize (Indian corn) were growing, in which I longed to hide myself and make my escape. We marched along the foot of high, grass-grown embankments, known as argine, built to protect the land from the torrents that at certain seasons poured down from the Apennines into the nearby River Po, and also from the Po itself, a powerful, dangerous and unpredictable stream.
We also saw fields of tomato plants that when ripe would be used to make salsa di pomodoro, sugar beet, groves of poplars, the trunks of which, soaring up overhead, were like the pillars in a cathedral, endless rows of vines which produced the naturally fizzy red wine known as Lambrusco. And we saw rambling, red-tiled farmhouses, some of them very large, with farmyards full of cows and pigs and ducks and geese and the inevitable savage dog on a running wire. And there were barns, sometimes with open doors, through which we could see big, mouth-watering Parmesan cheeses ripening in the semidarkness. We were permanently hungry and it was strange to think that, apart from the meals I had been served in the cavalry barracks in Rome, I had never eaten a proper Italian meal in Italy – all the food I had eaten in the prison camps had been cooked by British cooks.
On these walks we saw very few people, probably they were ordered to make themselves scarce. Most of those we did see were contadini, bent double working in the fields and all wearing straw hats with huge brims to protect themselves from the fearful heat of the sun. Sometimes they waved but because of these hats it was difficult to know who waved, men or women or both. Others, women and girls mostly, seen momentarily through half-closed green shutters on the upper floors of the farmhouses, also waved a bit apprehensively. No one was obviously unfriendly. And in all these expanses of pianura there was not a tractor to be seen.
Our presence in the orphanage provoked lively interest among the inhabitants of our village, Fontanellato, and as the local cemetery was located alongside the orphanage large numbers of them, most of them women, both old and young (the young men were mostly in the armed forces), some of them on bicycles, took more numerous opportunities to pay their respects to the dead than they had done before we arrived on the scene. In fact I first saw the girl I was subsequently to marry on her way to the cemetery with a group of friends, all of them on bikes. I waved to her from one of the windows overlooking the main road. She waved back and I was shot at by a sentry who was careful to miss, which was a warning against looking out of those particular windows.
On 8 September 1943 the Italian government asked for an armistice. On the following day we all broke out of the orphanage with the connivance of the Italian commandant and took to the countryside to avoid being sent to Germany, which we did by a hair’s-breadth.
It was an extraordinary situation. Up to this moment, apart from various interrogators and members of the camp staff with whom we came in contact, few if any of us had ever spoken to an Italian since we had been captured. Now, suddenly, we found ourselves more or less surrounded by the sort of people we had seen working in the fields and riding bikes up the road to the cemetery, most of whom seemed anxious to help us, not, most of them, for any political motive, but because, as they told us, they too had sons and brothers away at the war, many of whom had not been heard of for a long time.
So far as I was concerned the first Italians I now met appeared in the following order: an Italian soldier who led me out of the camp on a mule because I had sprained my ankle and couldn’t walk (he then went off with it – ‘Vado a casa,’ he said, ‘I’m going home’); next were a farmer and his wife who hid me in their barn for that first night, who had a son and a daughter; then there was the girl to whom I had waved, by sheer coincidence, who brought me clothes, including one of her father’s suits – he was the village schoolmaster; there was a Sicilian doctor, a great friend of the schoolmaster, who arranged for me to be hidden in the maternity ward of the local hospital; then there was its mother superior and various nuns, an elderly male nurse called Giulio who looked and sounded a bit like a walrus, and Maria, a mongoloid child, a permanent member resident in this ospedale, who was immensely strong, highly affectionate and used to prove it by going through the motions of strangling me with one of her pigtails, creeping up behind me like a miniature Italian version of an Indian thug.
Until now my fellow prisoners and I had thought of Italians, rather arrogantly, more or less as figures of fun.
We were arrogant because this was one of the few ways in which we could vent our spleen at having been captured, and at the same time keep up our spirits, which were really very low. Before the armistice it is believed that, in spite of innumerable attempts to do so, only two allied prisoners of war actually succeeded in escaping from Italy. This was because Italians of all sorts and conditions were, and are, extraordinarily observant, and all the ingenious subterfuges, disguises and false documents which might have satisfied a German or an English official were hardly ever sufficiently genuine-looking to satisfy even the most myopic Italian ticket collector. It was not only officials. The kind of inspection an allied escaper was subjected to by other travellers in an Italian train compartment would usually be enough to finish him off.
Now, all of a sudden, these same Italians were risking their lives for us, and as I was passed from one helper to the next I began to feel rather like a fragile parcel on its way to some distant delivery point.
It was in this fashion that I arrived at a lonely farmhouse high up in the Apennines, more or less midway between Parma and La Spezia, the Italian naval base on the Ligurian Sea.
There, almost 2500 feet up on what was soon to become, with the onset of winter, the cold, northern face of this 800-mile-long mountain range that forms the backbone of Italy, I found myself suddenly transported, as if by magic, to a way of life that I had never imagined existed in Western Europe, and one that had changed hardly at all for fifty years or more. And there I worked for a farming family who had little enough to eat themselves, in this the third year of the war for Italy, without me to feed, and who lived in the constant, very real, fear of being betrayed by informers for having sheltered me and of being either sent to Germany as forced labourers, or shot.
The people who lived in these remote mountain communities were fighting to survive in an inhospitable terrain. They had always been short-handed. Even before the war, to make ends meet, many of these mountain men had gone off to work in the industrial areas of northern Italy, France and Switzerland, and even further afield, leaving their wives and children and the aged to fend for themselves as best they could, returning home at rare intervals. Some worked as itinerant knife grinders, others as navvies employed on such superhuman tasks as excavating railway tunnels. Some, more fortunate, had found their way to London where, having found their feet in the catering business, they had been able to send for their wives and families and open little cafés. Some of these men were interned at the beginning of the war and were subsequently drowned when the Arandora Star, the ship that was taking them and other internees to Canada, was torpedoed in the Atlantic.
