The Girl on the Via Flaminia, written by Alfred Hayes in 1949. A scorching melodrama, it would have made a great play on the stage… but far ahead of its time in the views portrayed. The young Italian adults (Lisa, Antonio & Nina) with their underlying rage at their being captive first to Germany, then to their “liberators” the Allies, as well as their own institutional injustices (the Carabinieri and the Magistrate) present a different aspect to the undersides of war. A rather stunning novel, by an American who served in Italy in 1943 as one of the occupiers…
The Set. “In one of the apartment houses in that section of the city where the Via Flaminia crossed the Milvio bridge there was a flat in which a family known as the Pulcinis lived. It was a flat of six rooms, and the dining room which was large had been converted by the Signora Adele Pulcini into a place where the soldiers came at night for wine and eggs. — The soldiers called the Signora Adele Pulcini “Mamma.” And one night, toward the end of December, as the war unknowingly was coming to its hoped-for end, two soldiers were sitting at the big mahogany table in the Pulcini’s apartment, drinking wine. One of the soldiers was a short, wiry, middle-aged aged English sergeant, and the other was an American, a young American… “How did I wind up in Italy?” he said to the English sergeant. “I wanted to go to France. My old man was in France in the last one. You ever go with a French broad, sarge?” —“Listen, sarge,” the American said. “Know what they can do with Europe? All of it? Fold it three ways and ram it.”
Robert —Lisa. “Perhaps he should have boasted he was. The boys always said they were. The idea was to make them think you were even if you weren’t. That made it easier, too, when they thought you were rich. And, of course, the point was to make it as easy as possible, and not to waste too much time talking. Just talk to them enough to make it easy.” — “There’s a big villa at Anzio,” he said. “In the pine wood. Do you know it? I guess it belongs to some duke. The duke has quite a library. Or he had. He probably doesn’t have it any more.” —“The lieutenant was cold. He was feeding the duke’s nice Latin manuscripts into a cozy fire.” “It must be wonderful,” she said, standing there. “What?” “To be an American,” she said, “and to be the conqueror of Europe.”
Antonio. —“thought I would enjoy the war? I thought it would force me into a heroism, and to be a hero, even a reluctant one, is an attractive idea. But how wrong I was; war is the opposite of men working together. It is more than ever only men trying to save themselves separately.”
Lisa —Robert. “Cute,” the girl said, pronouncing it. “What words they use for endearments. Babbee, darling, cute. What a language for love. Everything is said with the teeth. The, the—“ she said, showing him how the tongue had to click against her teeth in order to say it. — “Italian is soft,” she said, “and musical. And the language says exactly what it means. The,” she said again, contemptuously. “What is it? Masculine? Feminine?” “It’s neuter,” Robert said. “The,” she said. “In Italian nothing is neuter. The article agrees with the noun. Masculine or feminine.” “I don’t think things should be neuter either.” “I mean the language,” she said. “I don’t,” he said. “I mean everything.” — “I have nothing to go to church for.” “Well, people go to pray.” “I’m in anger with God.” — “You don’t trust anybody, do you?” Robert said. “You don’t think anybody keeps a promise.” “Words don’t make flour,” she said. “What’s that? A proverb?” “Do you have a proverb about happiness?” “Only that God sends flies to the starved horse.” —“What are you thinking about?” “Niente.” “You’re so quiet you must be thinking about something.” “About God,” she said. “God?” “Yes,” she said, in the darkness. “That He has a lot to forgive me, and I have as much to forgive Him.”
Ugo (Antonio’s father. “ sometimes I think that whatever happens to us after the war, whatever happens to Italy, what we become, will all be because of the things that are happening to our young now...and they are not good things, Roberto: they are very bad. To have no work, to have no faith, to have nothing they can take pride in, to have nothing they really love.... — “What are you, Ugo?” “A kind of socialist who is more of an old man than he is a socialist. You see, in Italy, we’re always a kind of something. Not the exact thing, like the Germans or the English. But only a kind of, with many shades.” — “There was once a woman who had three children. They were named Benito, Victor Emmanuel and Italia. When she was asked why she had named them so, the woman answered: Because Benito eats all the time, Victor Emmanuel sleeps all the time...and Italia...” “Italia,” he said, “weeps all the time.”
Robert. “things were complex. The being lost, the nights in a long room where somebody shouted in his sleep, or somebody cried, or somebody coughed, that was complex. Thinking was complex. Thinking what a gun was doing in your hand. Why you went on and on when there was no apparent and true reason why you should go on and on. Why at no point you resisted. — I wanted to have a house I could come to, and a girl there, mine. I wanted it as simple as that, as simple as it could possibly be. And I thought I would just be exchanging something somebody needed for something I needed. Something somebody wanted for something I wanted.”
Ugo. “What a hard people you are,” the old man said. “What a sentimental people you are,” Robert said. “In Italy,” the old man said, “we say: when the wife sins, the husband is not innocent.”
Robert becomes the unknowing husband, caught in the melodrama— not innocent. A good short read. Rather extraordinary for 1949… I think.