Italy at War and the Allies in the West | Page 5

for. To-day I do not make enough to pay my rent. But it
doesn't make much difference, for next month my class is called to the
colors, and in the spring my son, who will then be eighteen, will also
have to go."
No, they're not very enthusiastic over the war in Florence. But you can't
blame them, can you?
* * * * *
In none of the great cities known and loved by Americans has the war
wrought such startling changes as in Venice. Because it is a naval base
of the first importance, because it is almost within sight of the Austrian
coast, and therefore within easy striking distance of Trieste, Fiume, and
Pola, and because throughout Venetia Austrian spies abound, Venice is
a closed city. It reminded me of a beautiful playhouse which had been
closed for an indefinite period: the fire-curtain lowered, the linen
covers drawn over the seats, the carpets rolled up, the scenery stored
away, the great stage empty and desolate. Gone are the lights, the music,
the merriment which made Venice one of the happiest and most care
free of cities. Because of the frequent air raids--Venice has been
attacked from the sky nearly a hundred times since the war began--the
city is put to bed promptly at nightfall. To show a light from a door or
window after dark is to invite a domiciliary visit from the police and,
quite possibly, arrest on the charge of attempting to communicate with
the enemy. The illumination of the streets is confined to small
candle-power lights in blue or purple bulbs, the weakened rays being
visible for only a short distance. To stroll at night in the darkened
streets is to risk falling into a canal, while the use of an electric torch

would almost certainly result in arrest as a spy. The ghastly effect
produced by the purple lights, the utter blackness of the canals, the
deathly silence, broken only by the sound of water lapping the walls of
the empty palazzos, combine to give the city a peculiarly weird and
sepulchral appearance.
Of the great hotels which line the Canale Grande, only the Danieli
remains open. Over the others fly the Red Cross flags, and in their
windows and on their terraces lounge wounded soldiers. The
smoking-room of the Danieli, where so many generations of travelling
Americans have chatted over their coffee and cigars, has been
converted into a rifugio, in which the guests can find shelter in case of
an air attack. A bomb-proof ceiling has been made of two layers of
steel rails, laid crosswise, and ramparts of sand-bags have been built
against the walls. On the doors of the bedrooms are posted notices
urging the guests, when hostile aircraft are reported, to make directly
for the rifugio, and remain there until the raid is over. In other cities in
the war zone the inhabitants take to their cellars during aerial attacks,
but in Venice there are no cellars, and the buildings are, for the most
part, too old and poorly built to afford safety from bombs. To provide
adequate protection for the population, particularly in the poorer and
more congested districts of the city, has, therefore, proved a serious
problem for the authorities. Owing to its situation, Venice is extremely
vulnerable to air attacks, for the Austrian seaplanes, operating from
Trieste or Pola, can glide across the Adriatic under cover of darkness,
and are over the city before their presence is discovered. Before the
anti-aircraft guns can get their range, or the Italian airmen can rise and
engage them, they have dropped their bombs and fled. Although,
generally speaking, the loss of life resulting from these aerial forays is
surprising small, they are occasionally very serious affairs. During an
air raid on Padua, which occurred a few days before I was there, a
bomb exploded in the midst of a crowd of terrified townspeople who
were struggling to gain entrance to a rifugio. In that affair 153 men,
women, and children lost their lives.
The admiral in command of Venice showed me a map of the city,
which, with the exception of a large rectangle, was thickly sprinkled

with small red dots. There must have been several hundred of them.
"These dots," he explained, "indicate where Austrian bombs have
fallen."
"This part of the city seems to have been peculiarly fortunate," I
remarked, placing my finger on the white square.
"That," said he, "is the Arsenal. For obvious reasons we do not reveal
whether any bombs have fallen there."
Considering the frequency with which Venice has been attacked from
the air, its churches, of which there are an extraordinary number, have
escaped with comparatively little damage. Only four, in fact, have
suffered seriously. Of these, the church of Santa Maria Formosa