British Character and the Treatment of

German Prisoners of War, 1939–48 Alan

Malpass
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British Character and
the Treatment of
German Prisoners
of War, 1939–48

a l a n m a l pa s s
British Character and the Treatment of German
Prisoners of War, 1939–48
 Alan Malpass

British Character
and the Treatment
of German Prisoners
of War, 1939–48
Alan Malpass
Sheffield, UK

ISBN 978-3-030-48914-4    ISBN 978-3-030-48915-1 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-48915-1

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 Acknowledgements

It brings me great pleasure to thank all those who have supported me in

writing this book. I must begin by thanking my PhD supervisors, Matthew
Stibbe, Robbie Aitken and Tony Taylor. Their comments and advice
throughout my PhD as well as their continued support while I adapted it
into this book has been invaluable. While at Sheffield Hallam University, I
have been fortunate to work alongside excellent historians who have
helped me shape my thoughts and encouraged me throughout. For all the
conversations and help that they have provided over the years I am
indebted, especially to Merv Lewis, Peter Cain, Rodger Lloyd Jones,
Nicola Verdon, Kevin McDermott and Matthew Roberts. My thanks also
go to all the past and present members of the humanities postgraduate
group at Sheffield Hallam, in particular, Ben Wilkinson, Adam Gilbert,
Michael O’Donnell and Joe Stanley. I would also like to thank my editors
at Palgrave and the anonymous reviewer who helped me realise the broader
significance of my work and improve the overall quality of my manuscript.
For use of their archival material, I am grateful to the Trustees of the
Mass-Observation Archive, University of Sussex. My family, as always, has
been a constant source of support. Mum, Dad and Laura, thank you for
everything. Finally, I must express my upmost gratitude to Jess for her
tolerance and endless reassurance.

v
 Contents

1 Introduction  1

2 Characteristic Decency or Dangerous Sentimentality?

British Treatment of German POWs, 1939–43 31

3 Atrocities and the Limits of Civility: British POW

Treatment 1944–45 71

4 Rubbing Shoulders with the Ex-Enemy: Fraternisation and

Marriage107

5 ‘A Blot on Our Fair Name’? Indefinite Detention and

Exploitation147

6 After Liberation: Migration and the Memory of British

POW Treatment177

7 Conclusion197

Bibliography207

Index223

vii
 Abbreviations

ICRC International Committee of the Red Cross

LST Landing Ship Tank
MAF Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries
MO Mass-Observation
MOL Ministry of Labour
POW Prisoner of War
RAF Royal Air Force
SEN Save Europe Now
SHAEF Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force
TNA The National Archives
YMCA Young Men’s Christian Association

ix
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction

‘So I walked quickly towards the German, who was limping alongside the
hedge in the direction of the house. When I got near him I put on my
fiercest frown and looked as stern as I could’.1 In July 1940, Mrs Evelyn
Mary Cardwell recounted how she had confronted a German airman who
had bailed out their Junker 88 and landed nearby the house on her farm.
Although the German towered over her, he was obviously shaken by the
ordeal. Cardwell ordered him to hand over his gun, hold up his hands, and
she marched him down the main road. Around half an hour later, a group
of soldiers took charge of the German. The story made front page news
and the following day it was reported that Cardwell would be awarded an
Order of the British Empire (OBE) for her services.2 Cinema audiences
applauded newsreel segments reporting Cardwell’s exploits, along with
other stories at that time of people ‘doing their bit’.3 Cardwell was report-
edly the first woman to have captured a German in Britain during the
Second World War; her story may have been the inspiration behind the
1940 propaganda short Miss Grant Goes to the Door. Sisters Caroline and
Edith Grant are forced to deal with two Germans when they arrive at their
cottage. Alone, the sisters manage to thwart a German spy masquerading
as a British officer after taking revolver from the wounded German para-
chutist lying dead on the sofa after bailing out during an air raid. Produced
by the Ministry of Information, the short dealt with the threat of invasion
and aimed to encourage calm and confidence in the public. It was favour-
ably reviewed by audiences who approved lifelike narratives over clumsy

© The Author(s) 2020 1

A. Malpass, British Character and the Treatment of German
Prisoners of War, 1939–48,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-48915-1_1
2 A. MALPASS

propaganda.4 Perhaps also lending inspiration from Mrs Cardwell’s

exploits, the titular heroine of the hit 1942 American film Mrs Miniver
calmly confronts a German pilot near her home. Something about the
composure in which these women—both real and fictional—dealt with
the German enemy spoke to the character of the British people.
The connection between behaviour shown towards captured Germans
and ideas of Britishness was made explicit a few weeks later. On 14 August
1940, during the highpoint of the Battle of Britain, an exchange between
two British women and a German pilot who had been shot down in south-­
east England was reported in several newspapers. When approached, the
downed pilot asked Mrs Betty Tylee and Miss Jean Smithson: ‘Are you
going to shoot me now?’ Tylee answered, ‘No, we don’t do that in
England. Would you like a cup of tea?’.5 This article might well have been
lost within the wider reportage of enemy planes shot down and the
destruction suffered during the intense raids that day. Yet, this anecdote is
important to dwell on. It suggests a connection between ideas of British
character and the treatment of enemy prisoners of war (POWs). The offer
of a warm beverage implied a lack of animosity and an understanding that
the enemy, now captured, was out of the fight. The assertion that in
England, Tylee probably meant Britain generally, that captured enemies
were not shot out of hand by murderous civilians chimed with the obser-
vations of George Orwell in his infamous essay, The Lion and the Unicorn,
published five months after the article in the press. He noted that charac-
teristic traits of the English were ‘gentleness’ and ‘respect for constitution-
alism and legality’.6
Analyses of national character were numerous during the war. As Paul
Addison writes, ‘It was mainly through a ceaseless flow of anecdotes that
the English defined themselves: stories that were often funny, sometimes
true and frequently picked up and printed by journalists’.7 Reports of Mrs
Cardwell’s and Mrs Tylee’s meetings with downed German pilots demon-
strate how aspects of British character were exemplified in the treatment of
enemy prisoners. British Character and the Treatment of German Prisoners
of War, 1939–48 explores the connections between ideas of national char-
acter and the treatment of POWs in Britain during and after the Second
World War. Scholars working on other contexts have highlighted that how
nations handle captured enemies has been a marker of national identity
and differences between captor and captive. ‘The treatment of POWs’,
Rotem Kowner argues in his study of Japanese attitudes towards captured
enemies, ‘appears to be an excellent indicator of one’s identity since it
 1 INTRODUCTION 3

reflects self-images, the identity of one’s reference group and the attitude
to it, as well as the national priorities and ambitions in times of constraint’.8
David Dzurec has similarly observed that published narratives of the mali-
cious and callous treatment of American revolutionary POWs by the
British allowed those fighting for independence to differentiate themselves
from their colonial masters. The suffering of Americans in British captivity
was shorthand for the nations struggle against Britain.9
The focus of British Character and the Treatment of German Prisoners
of War is the varied attitudes held towards German POWs in Britain and
the public judgement of the government’s handling of their imprison-
ment. It examines how the issue of POW treatment intersected with other
debates in British society and culture during and after the 1939–45 con-
flict. Exploring the contours of public opinion towards British POW poli-
cies, how the public understood and reacted to the way in which the
government handled their captivity, this book resituates the figure of the
German POW and the issues relating to his captivity within the context of
wartime and post-war Britain. It demonstrates that the behaviour shown
towards the enemy was a reference point in which notions of what it meant
to be British were signified and questioned. In this way, this book is more
concerned with the attitude of the people rather than the views of policy
makers and the prisoners themselves. This is a cultural history of the
Second World War and post-war period, using the lens of POW treatment
to view attitudes towards Britishness, the German enemy, and the political
and social issues Britain faced during the period. It demonstrates how the
issue of POW treatment was not an isolated one, bound up in diplomatic
exchanges and confined to the perimeter of the camp, but rather how it
intersected with numerous broader debates and concerns.
From the outset of the Second World War there was a belief in Britain
that the nation treated enemies it captured with civility and had gathered
a reputation of integrity when dealing with POWs in its charge. Writing
for the Yorkshire Post in 1939 a journalist explicitly connected POW treat-
ment to the ideals which Britain was fighting for:

Our reputation for good treatment of prisoners of war is too valuable to

lose. Were we to abandon it, we should be renouncing those ideals of
humanity and fair play which we have gone to war to defend. Our camps for
prisoners of war must remain altogether unlike the Nazi concentra-
tion camps.10
4 A. MALPASS

Here, the treatment of POWs was thought of as a marker of essential val-

ues. It provided a concrete context in which abstract notions considered
to underpin British character and culture could be demonstrated clearly.
Britain was civilised in its treatment of the enemy, as evidenced by Mrs
Tylee who rather than attempting to kill the German pilot offered the
defeated enemy a cup of tea. Inspired by the exchanges described earlier,
this study concerns itself with how German POWs and the standard of
their treatment in British hands were represented. The purpose of relaying
this information to the British public in newspapers and newsreels was not
just to keep people abreast of the presence, condition and use of enemy
captives. The way in which their conditions, handling and situation were
portrayed fed into the border construction of British national identity dur-
ing and after the Second World War. This representation did not, however,
go uncontested, and in the following chapters, the comments and con-
cerns of the public are highlighted and evaluated. What becomes clear is
that despite disagreements, there was a general understanding that the
British dealt with captured enemies in a civil manner, one which was
rooted in ideas of essential British characteristics. Whether this was some-
thing to be championed or a mentality which would only serve to under-
mine the effort to effectively fight a second war against the German enemy
was a source of debate. Furthermore, the contrast between the British
treatment of German POWs and the treatment of British and
Commonwealth troops in German captivity was used as a marker of
national difference between the two nations during the 1939–45 conflict.
As such, the analysis of the debates in the pages of the press over POW
treatment provides a lens through which to explore social, political and
cultural values of the British people during the war and attitudes towards
the German enemy. The extent to which POW treatment was thought to
reflect British self-image and character, how attitudes changed over time
within the shifting wartime, post-war and emergent Cold War context is
the focus of the following chapters.

Axis POWs in Britain 1939–48

The presence and distribution of the Italian and German POWs held in
Britain has been the subject of numerous studies. Here, a brief outline of
the main development of British policy and movement of POWs is pro-
vided. Between the outbreak of war in September 1939 and the opening
of the Second Front in June 1944, there were few German POWs held in
 1 INTRODUCTION 5

Britain. During the eight months of phoney war, beginning with the dec-
laration of war by the western Allies and roughly ending with the German
invasion of France and the Low Countries in May 1940, Luftwaffe pilots
and Kriegsmarine crew were sporadically captured in and around the
British Isles. By 18 December 1939, there were 250 in British hands.11
Before being transported to camps, POWs were interrogated. The
Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre (CSDIC) was initially
established at the Tower of London, before moving to Cockfosters and
later Beaconsfield in Buckinghamshire. Over the course of the war, infor-
mation gathered from POWs became increasingly valued by intelligence
services.12 Pre-war planners anticipated that only a small number of enemy
POWs would be held in Britain, and two sites were initially requisitioned
by the War Office to act as POW camps. Officers were held at Grizedale
Hall in the Lake District, Cumbria, while of other ranks were accommo-
dated at Glen Mill, a disused cotton mill in Oldham, Lancashire.13 Policy
was altered in light of the catastrophic military defeats resulting in the
Dunkirk evacuation between 26 May and 4 June 1940 followed by the fall
of France on 25 June.14 The decision was taken, suggested by the newly
established Home Defence (Security) Executive, to remove enemy aliens.
POWs were also shipped to camps in the Dominions including Canada,
South Africa, Australia and New Zealand as they too were considered a
security threat at a time when invasion was feared.15 While the practice of
transporting enemy aliens was stopped after the Arandora Star sinking,
consignments of POWs continued to sail for the Dominions.16 Transported
to the extremities of the British Empire, the number of German POWs
held in Britain remained small.
In contrast to the flow of German POWs away from Britain, there was
a steady influx of Italian POWs from 1941.17 It is worth briefly discussing
policy towards Italian POWs as their fate was intertwined with their
German equivalents. On 10 June 1940, Italy joined the German invasion
of France during the latter stages of the campaign. Benito Mussolini’s
decision to declare war subsequently expanded the conflict into the
Mediterranean theatre. In North Africa, British forces successfully repelled
initial Italian advances into Libya. The copious numbers of Italian POWs
made for logistic and administrative problems. At the same time, labour
shortages in Britain were becoming acute. In an effort to alleviate both
these problems, Italian POWs were shipped to Britain and set to work in
agriculture. While German POWs were perceived as bellicose fanatical
Nazis, Italian POWs were considered docile.18 An almost insatiable
6 A. MALPASS

demand for their labour soon followed; noting the British ‘addiction’ to
their labour, Wylie quips that the Italians were ‘more useful to Britain’s
cause in the wheat fields than the battlefields’.19 The number of Italian
POWs employed increased steadily to 108,000 by D-Day and peaked at
162,000 in June 1945. With the capitulation of Italy in September 1943,
the use of Italian POW labour was complicated. Although the flow of
Italian POW labour was cut, Italian POWs already in Britain would not be
immediately repatriated. In order to continue to employ them, a ‘co-­
operator’ status was introduced. Italian POWs were offered this status,
and in exchange for their continued employment—their remit being
expanded beyond agriculture to work directly associated with the war
effort—co-operators were offered increased freedoms and payment.20 At
the same time, Italian co-operators were billeted directly onto farms,
reducing transport costs. Furthermore, removing them from camps cre-
ated space for prospective POWs taken during the forthcoming invasion
of Normandy.
During the Normandy Landings on 6 June 1944 and the subsequent
breakout, substantial numbers of German POWs were taken by Allied
forces. Initially, with no space to hold them in France, POWs were shipped
across the Channel to Britain. Having already agreed to share captures
between them under the August 1943 50:50 agreement, a number of the
German POWs were quickly transferred from Britain to the United
States.21 With future of Italian POW labour uncertain, the possibility of
employing German POWs was explored, an experimental group being put
to work in agriculture in two counties. The need for labour outweighed
security concerns and German POWs were increasingly employed from
summer 1944. Demand for labour would not recede with the end of the
war against Germany, and British-owned German POWs were transported
to Britain from camps in Canada, the United States and Belgium to bol-
ster the workforce.22 The security restrictions that had hampered the pro-
ductivity of German POW employment were scratched in May 1945 after
the unconditional surrender of Germany, and in August 1946, the num-
ber employed in the United Kingdom peaked at 381,000.
During the Potsdam Conference that took place between July and
August 1945, the aims of denazification and democratisation were agreed
by Allied representatives. In Britain, the need to design a programme of
political re-education for German POWs was already been made clear in a
cabinet memorandum circulated on 18 December 1939.23 However, with
the priority being winning the war, the issue was set aside until September
 1 INTRODUCTION 7

1944 when a scheme was approved by the cabinet. POWs were inter-
viewed to assess their political sympathies, a process known as ‘screening’,
and accordingly segregated into one of three groups: ‘white’ (anti-Nazi),
‘grey’ (in-between) and ‘black’ (ardent-Nazi). Re-education sought to re-­
orientate German POWs along democratic lines. The programme included
discussion groups, lectures, films and other activities which provided a
space in which the POWs could challenge their pre-existing beliefs rooted
in Nazism. In September 1946, the German POW population peaked at
402,200. At that time a scheme of general repatriation was introduced at
a rate of 15,000 POWs per month, later rising to 20,000. In July 1948,
apart from escapees still at liberty and serious infirm cases, the repatriation
of German POWs was completed.

Historiography
The product of conflicts from antiquity to the present day, Pieter Lagrou
reminds us that POWs ‘are a universal phenomenon of warfare’. Changing
military tactics which saw increased mobility led to a substantial rise in the
number of military prisoners taken during the two World Wars.24 Over
time, popular imaginings of POWs centred predominantly on heroic tales
of escape have been demystified. For decades after the Second World War
this image was perpetuated in Britain by the ‘Colditz industry’, but as
Simon Paul Mackenzie has demonstrated, the realities of British POWs in
Nazi Germany were far more complex.25 There is now a vast literature on
the experiences of POWs and how they fared within the camps of the First
and Second World Wars. In general, it is accepted that German POWs
held in Britain between 1939 and 1948 were treated by and large in accor-
dance with international law and fared far better than their counterparts,
notably those in Soviet hands.26 In their memoirs, ex-German POWs look
back on their captivity in Britain fondly, as a time when they forged friend-
ships and rebuilt their lives after the devastation wrought by war.27
Given the lack of attention paid to German POWs in Britain, the first
wave of studies concentrated on policymaking and the handling of POWs
by the British authorities. In his chronological overview of British policy
towards German and Italian POWs, Bob Moore pinpoints the turning
points which transformed the demographic of the POW population in
Britain. Moore argues that the usefulness as a labour source was a primary
factor shaping British policies towards them.28 Certainly, examining the
employment of German and Italian POWs, Johann Custodis demonstrates
8 A. MALPASS

that both groups ‘made significant contributions’ to wartime and post-war

agriculture.29 In addition to their economic output, studies have also
focused on re-education policy. In Group Captives, Henry Faulk, who was
a key figure in the process, outlines the British re-education programme.
Examining the results from a sociological perspective Faulk deems the
policy successful.30
Diplomacy has been placed at the forefront of recent studies of POWs.
In Prisoners, Diplomats, and the Great War, Richard B. Speed surveys their
treatment during the conflict in Europe and the United States. He con-
ceptualises the ‘liberal tradition’ of captivity, the view that captured ene-
mies are not chattel property but protected persons. This view was codified
in international law, notably in the two Hague conventions of 1899 and
1907. Despite the unforeseen pressures of total war, Speed contends that
Britain, France, Germany and the United States treated their POWs rea-
sonably well.31 Commitment to the liberal-tradition of captivity was dem-
onstrated by the ratification of the 1929 Geneva Convention.32 As in the
1914–18 conflict, the stipulations of international law were interpreted
differently during the Second World War and negotiations between bel-
ligerents sometimes broke down. Comparing their treatment across the
theatres of war during the Second World War, Mackenzie asserts that the
‘mutual hostage factor’ was an important restraint on POW mistreatment
in the western theatre.33 This influential essay inspired subsequent studies
to adopt a comparative approach, exploring negotiations between govern-
ments in an attempt to pinpoint the factors governing POW treatment.
MacKenzie’s argument that reciprocity was a key influence in POW rela-
tions has been nuanced in subsequent works. In Confronting Captivity,
Arieh Kochavi suggests that racial considerations played a role in Germany’s
treatment of captives. Notwithstanding times when it was breached, the
observance of the 1929 Geneva Convention regarding Anglo-American
POWs contrasts sharply to the brutal extermination policies carried out in
concentration camps. While Kochavi’s analysis of diplomatic correspon-
dence is sound, a deeper consideration of the cultural context of policy-
making is required to explain the disparity in the treatment of different
captive groups.34 Vasilis Vourkoutiotis similarly argues that the sufferings
of Allied POWs in German hands were not deliberately caused. The
German High Command was committed to the stipulations of the Geneva
Convention, but individual commanders, administrative breakdown
towards the end of the war and Hitler’s personal involvement resulted in
violations.35 Drawing on the field of international relations, Neville Wylie
 1 INTRODUCTION 9

analyses the intricate diplomacy Britain and Germany played to safeguard

their servicemen in enemy hands. He has shown that reciprocity could also
mean an escalation in POW mistreatment.36 In their assessments of the
1942–43 Shackling Crisis both Kochavi and Wylie note that the British
authorities had to be mindful of public opinion during the reprisal cycle,
and a public distaste of meting out punishments upon defenceless captives
eventually led Churchill to unchain German POWs. This suggests that
innate cultural aversions played a role. Although not concerned with
POWs, Jeffrey Legro has argued that the restraint shown between Britain
and Germany during the war was due to deep-rooted cultural beliefs
within their military commands.37 The cultural restraints and attitudes
expressed by the British public towards POW treatment is a central con-
cern of this study. Both Kochavi and Wylie suggest this in their assess-
ments of the 1942 Shackling Crisis whereby the British authorities had to
be sensitive to public opinion which would not condone the chaining of
German POWs in retaliation for the manacling of British POWs in
German hands.
The phenomenon of captivity was not confined to the wartime period,
and extended beyond 1945. Homecoming, reintegration and memory are
themes central to the essays in Prisoners of War, Prisoners of Peace edited by
Bob Moore and Barbara Hately-Broad.38 Immediate repatriation was just
one of ‘the spectrum of possibilities’ POWs faced at the end of hostili-
ties.39 In contrast to the immediate liberation of Allied POWs, the repa-
triation of German POWs from Britain was not completed until 1948.
During this time their continued employment intersected with the post-­
war migration and the recruitment of foreign labour, notably the arrival of
European Voluntary Workers.40 German POWs featured in Inge Weber-­
Newth and Johannes-Dieter Steinert’s socio-historical exploration of
German migrants in post-war Britain.41 Their study has shed light on atti-
tudes expressed by the British public and non-governmental organisations
towards German migrants. After outlining British policy towards German
migrants in the context of post-war labour needs, the study goes on to
explore several aspects of the migrant experience. Having interviewed ex-­
POWs and migrants, the authors examine conceptions of self and others as
well as recollections of their reception. They discuss the eventual relax-
ation of the fraternisation regulations near Christmas 1946 which created
the opportunity for ex-enemies to meet one another and forge relation-
ships beyond the workplace, noting that Christians and ex-military per-
sons were two particular groups which reached out to German POWs.
10 A. MALPASS

Focused attention is paid to gender issues in relation to encounters

between POWs and British women.
Recording the encounters between British civilians and German POWs
has been primarily conducted by amateur and local historians who usually
have some sort of personal connection with the captives. Pamela Howe
Taylor, author of Enemies Become Friends and The Germans We Trusted,
chronicled the friendships made between British civilians and German
POWs, her father having been a British priest, providing service to a POW
camp near their home in Lancashire.42 Studies of the POW presence in
particular counties and certain camps also offer some insight into the atti-
tudes of the locals to their POW neighbours, usually drawing on the mem-
ories of local people.43 Of particular note is Matthew Sullivan’s Thresholds
of Peace. Sullivan, himself having worked with German POWs in post-war
Britain, recounted the attempt of the captives to confront the political and
moral trials borne out of defeat in 1945. While focused on the re-­education
programme and the key individuals involved with it, Sullivan also described
the actions of British civilians who involved themselves with welfare and
aid for German POWs. He drew upon the philosophy of Iris Murdoch to
explain what he describes as ‘the myriad threads of peace’ knitted between
the British people and German POWs in post-war Britain. In The
Sovereignty of Good, Murdoch deemed courageous good deeds people per-
form against heroic odds a mystifying and central question in moral phi-
losophy. Following Murdoch, Sullivan suggests that those that sought to
do good for German POWs ‘did not see it as an act of will nor a moral
task’.44 That there were individuals and organisations in Britain that con-
cerned themselves with the welfare and conditions of German POWs out
of enigmatic inner virtuousness alone is not refuted. However, further
interrogation is required of this issue, especially the debates over what was
considered appropriate and the reasons people concerned themselves with
enemy captives.
There are few works that centre on public opinion and attitudes towards
German POWs during and after the Second World War. Their time in
Britain sits awkwardly with the conventional wartime/post-war chrono-
logical divide. German POWs, for instance, are absent in Paul Addison’s
The Road to 1945, while they are only mentioned fleetingly in Angus
Calder’s The People’s War.45 Furthermore, in studies of post-war labour
and migration, POWs are of secondary consideration. In regards to post-­
war histories of Britain, their presence complicates narratives of the
1945–51 Labour government. The retention of German POWs as forced
 1 INTRODUCTION 11

labour does not fit with the image of Britain moving towards a properly
constituted welfare state and work-force. Neither does this fit well with
the memory of the war. In his effort to dispel the ‘myth of the good war’,
James Hartfield writes that Britain, like the United States, ‘made defeated
Germans [POWs] slaves’.46 When the reason why German POWs were
kept after the conclusion of hostilities is highlighted—that Britain relied
on their labour, along with other foreign sources, in the early years of
post-war reconstruction—it complicates the self-image of the nation as the
liberator of Europe from dictatorship and tyranny. The logistics of repatri-
ating the hundreds of thousands of German POWs in Britain, in addition
to those held across the Empire, was a complex operation after the war.
Yet, the continued retention and employment of German POWs in post-­
war Britain was uncomfortable for many Britons at the time. The hypoc-
risy of preaching the virtues of democracy while the victorious nations
exploited the presence of the defeated enemy, setting them to work across
a variety of industries, was a contested issue in post-war Britain. People
expressed their concern that the use of ‘forced’ and ‘slave’ workers, keep-
ing men in captivity and separated from their home and loved ones for
months and then years after the conflict had ended, contradicted the val-
ues for which the war against fascism had been fought.

British Character and the Second World War

This study argues that the issue of POW treatment intertwined with
notions and debates of British national character during and after the
Second World War. ‘Wars’, Judy Giles and Tim Middleton note, ‘are obvi-
ous occasions when ideas about national identity become particularly vis-
ible’.47 The 1939 to 1945 conflict, in particular the events of
1940—Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain and the Blitz—is considered a time
when British cultural awareness reached a highpoint. The Second World
War, Richard Weight and Abigail Beach write, ‘heightened national con-
sciousness in Britain by creating the potentially inclusive, democratic sen-
timent of the “People’s War” and in doing so, it prompted a thorough
examination of what constituted British national identity’.48 Often, as
Barbara Korte and Ralf Schneider indicate, the idea of national unity needs
to be cultivated even after the fighting has stopped so that the involvement
of the nation in that conflict can be justified and the survivors can be com-
forted by the idea that their losses were not in vain.49 The Second World
War, Korte notes, ‘has engendered its own myths of Britishness’.50 These
12 A. MALPASS

mythological elements of the British Second World War narrative—par-

ticularly ‘standing alone’ against Germany in 1940, Britain’s ‘finest hour’
according to Churchill—have been interrogated by historians, most nota-
bly Angus Calder.51 More recently, the unravelling of British national
identity with the rise of nationalism in Northern Ireland, Wales, Scotland
and England has been a central concern in studies of Britishness.52
The image of Second World War Britain as a liberal and tolerant society
has been questioned in studies of civilian internment. For a time, unable
to reconcile mass internment with the narrative of liberal Britain defend-
ing democracy, it remained a marginalised subject.53 Former Isle of Man
internee Ronald Stent and journalist Miriam Kochan offer positive inter-
pretations of the experiences of the captives.54 However, the greater part
of literature has been critical. Brian Simpson disparages the system of
detention without trial, while Neil Stammers has gone so far as to argue
that with the suspension of many civil liberties, following the introduction
of the Defence Regulations, including 18B and the internment of aliens,
Britain ceased to be a liberal democracy.55 The internment of enemy aliens
sat uneasily with British notions of justice, and the episode has been
explored by historians to complicate British self-image during the Second
World War. As the title of the collection edited by Richard Dove suggests,
the internment episode was and is considered Totally Un-English.56 In her
unpublished doctoral thesis Zoë Andrea Denness argues that although
internment has been regularly used as a controlling measure during times
of conflict between the South African War until today, it is consistently
seen as ‘un-British’.57 Historians of military captivity in Britain during the
two World Wars have suggested that similar cultural forces were at play in
debates concerning the treatment of POWs.
Jay Winter has argued that the First World War had ‘clarifying effects’
on British national identity. ‘Englishness’ and ‘masculine “decency”,
moral rectitude and martial virtues’ became tantamount. Germanophobia
was crucial in the process of redefining pre-1914 ideas of British identity
during the Great War. Across popular and material culture, ‘English
“decency” was juxtaposed to German “bullying”’ and ‘English “fair play
and morality” to German “atrocities”’.58 Brian Feltman has suggested that
this perception was not confined to the fighting front, but ‘carried over
into the British treatment of German prisoners’.59 Heather Jones’s study
of violence against POWs in Britain, France, and Germany during the First
World War highlights deep cultural differences between the belligerents in
their treatment of military captives. In regards to the radicalisation of
 1 INTRODUCTION 13

POW treatment which Jones charts, she observes a British

exceptionalism:

Yet if there is a Sonderweg to emerge from this study, it is actually Britain,

where, throughout the war, violence against prisoners remained far less
acceptable than in France or Germany and where cultural constraints acting
against radicalisation proved particularly powerful.60

Assessing a letter to The Times criticising the lenient treatment of German

POWs in October 1918, Jones comments:

Yet, significantly, even in a letter demanding harsher prisoner treatment,

such as this, there is still a strong cultural disapproval of beating German
prisoners or starving them; the language is very much the high Edwardian
rhetoric of ‘fair play’, closer to the cultural ideals of British honour espoused
by the famous poem ‘Vitai Lampada’ by Henry Newbolt than the rhetoric
of wartime extremes.61

The young cricketer of Newbolt’s poem, by the second stanza a soldier, is

stirred to heroic action through schoolboy memories. The line ‘Play up!
Play up! And play the game!’ symbolised the view that the same sporting
spirit should inform the battlefield as much as the cricket pitch. ‘In
European history’, James Mangan remarks, ‘war has served sport and
sport has served war’.62 During the First World War, Colin Veitch argues
that ‘Sport was to maintain its ascendancy in the forefront of British
thought and expression throughout the remaining years of the conflict,
and continued to be used to typify the genetic strength of British man-
hood’.63 Assessing the place of sport within British society, Derek Birley
argues that the Newbolt spirit which Jones alludes to persisted beyond the
First World War.64 The notion of fair play in connection with the treatment
of POWs is explored further. Building on the research into British culture
and the treatment of POWs during the 1914–18 conflict, this study offers
observations on the extent to which such attitudes persisted into the
1940s. Certainly, by the outbreak of the Second World War, Britain had
cultivated an image of a fair and liberal captor in times of war. This was
not, however, always the case.
Looking back to the conflicts of the nineteenth century, embarrassment
was expressed by the reviewer of the findings of Francis Abell’s 1915 study,
Prisoners in Great Britain, 1756–1815. Abell aimed to validate the
14 A. MALPASS

accusations of non-English writers who accused the British of POW abuse

during the American Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars. ‘As an
Englishman’, Abell wrote in his introduction, ‘I much regret to say […] I
find that foreigners have not unduly emphasized the brutality with which
we treated a large proportion of our prisoners of war’.65 He singled out
the prison-ship system as a particularly barbaric and embarrassing aspect of
Britain’s treatment of POWs, writing that, ‘to the end of time this abomi-
nable, useless, and indefensible system will remain a stain upon our
national record’. The reviewer, writing during the Great War, was encour-
aged by the improvement in Britain’s treatment of POWs since the nine-
teenth century, which, he noted, ‘serves as a measure of the advance in
civilization made by the Anglo-German race in the last hundred years’.66
Britain cultivated an image of a fair captor state during the First World
War. The British treatment of POWs during the 1914–18 conflict upheld
what Richard Speed conceptualised as the ‘liberal-tradition of captivity’.
This tradition was codified in international law developed during the nine-
teenth century. Prior to the outbreak of the Great War, the fate of prison-
ers of war was thought to be a relatively happy time. In Europe, the view
of the prisoner of war was romanticised, and there was a distinct absence
of violence in artistic depictions of them.67 The excesses of total war tested
the liberal-tradition, Brian Feltman has examined how in the moment
between surrender and capture, a minority of British soldiers were not
beyond committing unlawful acts against German POWs.68 In 1919, two
scholars of POW treatment observed that the Great War had demon-
strated there was an urgent need to revise the status of prisoners of war
after the experience had highlighted the inadequacy of the regulations of
the Hague Convention.69
During the Second World War, everydayness and ordinariness were
central to the construction of British national identity and expressions of
character. Sonya Rose observed that ‘those who best represented Britain
at war were not exceptional individuals but rather were everyday, ordinary
people; those who were “doing their bit”’.70 John Baxendale similarly
argues that in the midst of all the destructiveness witnessed on the home
front, ‘the minutiae of ordinary life [became] all the more precious, a
source of national pride, and just as much as democratic instructions,
under Nazi threat’.71 Following the notion put forward by Rose and
Baxendale, that everydayness and ordinariness were central to representa-
tions of what it meant to be British, the physical gestures towards German
POWs recorded in newspapers and other materials can be read as
 1 INTRODUCTION 15

important symbols of Britishness. While donating a packet of Woodbine

cigarettes, cup of tea, or piece of cake to a German POW might well be
mundane at first glance, important messages are codified within them
which, when unpacked, can further understandings of the viewpoints held
by the ordinary citizen in wartime and post-war Britain.

Images of the Germans

An examination of how the treatment of POWs reflected British self-image
during and after the Second World War must also concern itself with the
counterpart entity which also defines the self: the other. ‘Britishness’, Paul
Ward notes, ‘has always been in a process of formation’.72 Acknowledging
the complexity of national identity, whereby numerous ongoing processes
result in conceptions of what it meant to be British being in a state of flux,
this study is concerned with the creation of Britishness in relation to the
German enemy. This is not to suggest that national identity is solely con-
structed against ‘the other’. The contributors in Fighting for Britain? have
highlighted the internal construction of national identities during the
Second World War between the various nationalities which make up
Britain, as well as those who arrived from the Empire. These differences
are not disputed. However, against Nazi Germany the British, Paul
Addison states, ‘fought as one nation’.73 While he acknowledged that ‘the
so-called races of Britain feel themselves to be very different from one
another’, George Orwell argued that the differences between two Britons,
say English and Scottish, quickly evaporated when they were confronted
by another European.74 As Wendy Ugolini and Juliette Pattinson note,
‘Much of British national character was also being constructed in opposi-
tion to the humourless and militaristic Nazi, with the perceived British
characteristics of tolerance, cheerfulness and stoicism being widely cele-
brated’.75 While the Axis also included Italy and Japan, it was Germany
which was the foil to Britain. Certainly, hatred was directed to the former
two nations, poet A.P. Herbert famously calling to ‘Sock the Wops, and
knock their blocks’. Yet it was Germany which was, Angus Calder notes,
‘first and always, the real enemy’.76 The German people came to represent
all that Britain was not: malevolent, degenerate, vicious, deceitful, cold,
dishonourable and mechanical. In exploring attitudes and debates towards
German POWs and their treatment, this study offers new insights into
how the British people perceived Germans during and after the Second
World War.
16 A. MALPASS

Sources
This book draws upon a range of materials including official documents,
newspapers, newsreels, memoirs and sociological reports. With the objec-
tive of exploring public opinion and individual attitudes, popular sources
and the voices of the British people are privileged over an intrinsic investi-
gation of official documentation. The general outline of British policy
towards German POWs and the diplomatic relations between Britain and
Germany has been explored in previous studies. The administration of
German POWs produced a vast amount of official material, camp reports,
psychological and morale examinations and diplomatic correspondence,
amongst others. While this study focuses on public opinion and debate,
the cabinet records and other governmental files are utilised to understand
the executive decisions taken by the successive wartime and post-war gov-
ernments regarding German POWs. More importantly, the verbatim par-
liamentary debates recorded in Hansard are examined to consider the
public face of official policy, in other words how governmental decisions
were communicated to the public. In order to gauge public opinion and
gleam individual attitudes towards German prisoners of war and their
treatment, three sources are central: newspapers, newsreels and Mass-­
Observation (M-O) material.
Regarded as the first draft of history, newspapers are one of the most
significant published primary sources for historians. This is particularly
true of mid-twentieth-century Britain. This was a time when, as George
Orwell observed, the typical Englishman would settle down with a news-
paper after their Sunday lunch. Mid-twentieth-century Britain offered one
of the most competitive newspaper markets across the globe. The daily
circulations of the Daily Mirror and Daily Express—over four million cop-
ies—were unmatched. Around three-quarters of the population read a
paper every day. Newspapers not only brought the presence of German
POWs in Britain and the conditions of their captivity into the everyday
lives of the British public, relaying information regarding their numbers
and policies adopted towards them, they also provided a space in which
attitudes towards their treatment could be expressed and debated.
During the 1940s, Mass-Observation recorded attitudes of newspaper
readers. Their panel of volunteers were periodically asked between 1940
and 1948 to rank opinion forming influences in order of significance.77
During their period, the influence of the press declined. Wary of wartime
propaganda, personal experience was considered increasingly more
 1 INTRODUCTION 17

reliable than newspaper content. By 1944, the opinions of friends and

family joined books, personal judgement and personal experience as the
most influential influencers of opinion. It was not only the reliability of
newspaper content which came into increasing doubt over, similar pat-
terns of changing opinion were found with radio and films. In the view of
M-O, the war had a clear impact on attitudes towards the press which was
thought to be biased and often regarded as sensationalist. As a result,
there was an increased wariness towards newspaper content. Despite the
trustworthiness of the press being bought into account, this was consid-
ered a minority group and M-O still regarded newspapers as a powerful
former of public opinion in 1949. The power of the press to shape opinion
lay in the subtle absorption of opinion by readers who engaged with the
content uncritically.
While the majority of newspaper content is written by journalists, col-
umnists and editorials, newspaper readers also contributed in the form of
letters. In their research into the attitudes of newspaper readers, M-O
assessed the readership of correspondence columns, also known as letters
to the editor. It was found that the popularity of letters was proportionate
to their light-heartedness. In general, beyond the Daily Mirror and Sunday
Express which took advantage of this relationship, only a small proportion
of newspaper readers admitted to reading the correspondence columns.78
Certainly, the subjects who write letters to newspaper editors are not rep-
resentative of the wider readership. They are often more engaged in the
subject of their letter than others—or with newspaper reading more gen-
erally—and had the time to spend composing their letter(s). In some
cases, an individual may have written only once on a topic that irked them,
others were habitual letter writers. Debates between two or more occa-
sionally broke out, with replies and rebukes exchanged over several weeks,
sometimes months. All letters were subject to the scrutiny of the editor
they addressed, and ultimately the majority sent were thinned out through
selection. Yet, as a source they are still important despite these consider-
ations. Within them are insights into how certain individuals responded to
the stories they read and the events in their everyday lives. They engaged
with broader issues, speaking to political, social and cultural debates then
in progress. The frequency and quantity of letters indicates the importance
to newspaper readers of the particular topic they are concerned with.79
Like their printed counterpart, newsreels are also records which can be
read to understand the narrative of events presented to the public. A prod-
uct of the growth of cinema construction in the early twentieth century,
18 A. MALPASS

newsreels—a collection of selected news items on a single film reel—were

released twice a week in Britain between 1910 and 1979. Typically, they
were broadcast prior to feature films at cinemas and in dedicated newsreel
theatres in major cities. The five major newsreel companies all imitated
each other to a considerable degree, and the style and delivery of newsreels
mimicked newspapers. In regards to their audience, statistical surveys sug-
gest that by 1940, the average weekly attendance at the 4618 cinemas
open—a small number were closed during the Blitz—exceeded 21 million
and that around half of the population watched newsreels. In the late
1930s, the highest concentration of cinemas was in industrial areas of
Scotland, the North of England, South Wales and the Midlands, while the
lowest was in the Eastern Counties, Home Counties and the West of
England. The availability of relatively cheap tickets—around 1 shilling at
most—and the kind of programmes shown fostered a special relationship
with the working class. During the war years, there was an increased
middle-­class acceptance of the cinema, but this special relationship contin-
ued. The regular cinema attenders were from lower income groups.80
Newsreels, as a source of primary information about the events they por-
trayed, are of peripheral value. However, as records of what a very large,
socially important, and relatively little documented section of the public
saw and heard, they are of historical significance. Newsreels document
popular obsessions, and are a useful barometer of social change and popu-
lar awareness.81 Historical understanding and value is also found when the
production process is considered. It is not just the content that can be
examined: assignment and commentary sheets, as well as shot lists survive
which illuminate editorial practice.82 During the war, they were indeed
censored. The Ministry of Information recognised that newsreels, like
short films and documentaries, were useful, more so than feature films, for
direct, immediate, short-term information and instruction, particularly on
the home front. As negative propaganda, that is the control of informa-
tion, newsreels are comparable to other news media such as newspapers
and radio.83 The Ministry controlled footage, shooting, editing and cen-
soring the material provided newsreel companies. However, the newsreel
companies could interpret the footage to a degree, which the different
commentary for the same footage testifies.
The M-O archive located at the University of Sussex and accessible
through a searchable online database provides an essential source base for
historians of Britain.84 M-O generated a vast amount of material. There
were two principal sources from which material was gathered. The first
 1 INTRODUCTION 19

source was the volunteer panel, the 500 or so individuals who sent off
their diaries and responded directly to questions in M-O directives and day
surveys. These diaries were scoured for entries concerning attitudes
towards and encounters with German POWs. Some diarists made only
one passing mention of German POWs. Others regularly wrote of those
they had befriended. The second source of material was collected from the
M-O investigators who were paid to visit a variety of places to observe
people’s behaviour and eavesdrop. The material gathered was analysed
and then summarised, written up as File Reports. These reports formed
the basis of M-O publications and are used to gain an insight into public
attitudes towards various subjects during the war and post-war period.

Chapter Outline
The first two chapters of this study focus on the wartime period. Chapter
2 begins with the reportage of the capture of German POWs within the
first weeks of the war. The issue of POW treatment as an important marker
of cultural distinction between the British and the German enemy from
the outset of the Second World War is explored. The first section analyses
news coverage of German POWs in British hands during the ‘phoney war’
of 1939–40, highlighting press emphasis on the contentedness of German
POWs in British hands. This emphasis fed into the construction of Britain
as a ‘liberal captor’, not only upholding international law but demonstrat-
ing the civility of the British towards POWs. The chapter discusses the
legacy of the First World War and the contested memory of captivity dur-
ing the 1914–18 conflict, analysing the disagreement over extent of abuse
that British POWs suffered in German captivity and the aggressive mental-
ity of the German ‘race’. Next, the liberation of British sailors aboard the
German tanker Altmark in February 1940 is assessed. The blurring image
of Nazis and Germans in reportage of the Altmark and the deportation of
German POWs across the Empire after the Fall of France is highlighted.
Following this, the mooted-exchange of British and German POWs 1941
is examined. Here, British decency towards POWs in their charge was
again contrasted with German spitefulness as the latter pulled out of nego-
tiations leaving them stranded each side of the British Channel. The chap-
ter moves on to examine attitudes during the Shackling Crisis
(October–December 1942). I argue that public distaste for reprisals
against POWs undermined Churchill’s defiant stance whereby German
POWs in British hands were manacled in retaliation for Hitler’s to chain
20 A. MALPASS

British/Canadian POWs. Highlighting the similar aversion towards the

bombing of German civilians, I suggest there was a distinction in the
minds of the public between ‘ordinary’ Germans and the Nazi leadership.
Reprisals ultimately harmed the wrong people, a miscarriage of justice that
was distinctly un-British. The government, and Churchill, recognised that
public opinion would not agree to the continued manacling of POWs.
While incidents involving German POWs in British hands between 1939
and 1943 have been studied in isolation, this chapter, for the first time,
highlights the themes which connect them, namely British national iden-
tity. POW treatment formed part of the project of national identity con-
struction during this period, especially during the uneventful first few
months of the conflict.
Continuing chronologically, Chap. 3 develops a critical discussion of
changing attitudes between the invasion of Normandy in June 1944 and
the unconditional surrender of Germany in May 1945. This period differs
for two principal reasons. First, the war began to swing in the Allies’ favour
and thoughts turned to the post-war treatment of Germany. Second, with
the disclosure of the execution of British POWs from Stalag Luft III and
the liberation of the Belsen concentration camp, the British public began
to realise the extent of the atrocities committed by the Nazi regime. This
was a moment of crisis for humanity, one which tested the limits of British
civility and its reputation as a liberal captor. I argue that although more
vengeful ideas were expressed, cultural resistant towards POW abuse did
not break down altogether. While violent ideas, such as sterilising German
POWs, were articulated by some, the British knew they were unable to
carry out such acts. Understanding that France and the Soviet Union had
faced a far more brutal conflict and had been occupied by the enemy, the
British thought of themselves as too sentimental to mete out the real jus-
tice Germany deserved. Indeed, the combination of reports from Belsen,
British POWs subjected to horrific treatment during their ‘death marches’
across Eastern Europe, and the higher ration German POWs received over
British civilians resulted only in calls to set German POWs to work and to
cut their rations.
The study then turns to the two issues at the forefront of public debate
concerning German POW treatment. Chapter 4 focuses on the issue of
fraternisation between the British public and German POWs in post-war
Britain. It begins by considering the legislation which policed contact
between the British people and German POWs and how efforts to restrict
contact were made ever more difficult as the employment remit of German
 1 INTRODUCTION 21

POWs expanded after 1944. The German POW was re-humanised in the
gradual move away from the intense anti-German feeling of April–May
1945. Local newspapers reported on the activities in the camp and the
daily routines of the POWs. They were keen gardeners, loved animals,
enjoyed music and theatre. In many ways, they exhibited the characteris-
tics of Englishness which Orwell described, being pigeon fanciers and
flowers lovers. The confinement and continued expulsion of German
POWs from society was a significant divergence from the narrative that
Britain had liberated Europe from fascism. The treatment of POWs was at
odds with the values for which Britain had supposedly fought the war. In
the context of the Cold War and re-construction, concerns mounted over
the effect that continuing to ostracise German POWs would have on
German attitudes towards Britain and the corrupting influence of captivity
on British civil society itself. The chapter examines the increasing opposi-
tion towards non-fraternisation in press and parliament. The public
response to the sudden relaxation of the fraternisation ban at Christmas
1946 is assessed, including the Christian and humanitarian impulse implicit
in the invitations extended to German POWs to enter British homes to
share in the festive period. The analysis continues into 1947 when greater
freedoms were granted to German POWs to attend football matches and
cinema, and take unescorted walks into local areas. This chapter also
explores the news coverage of the trials of British women and German
POWs accused of breaking fraternisation legislation. The depiction of
young girls as foolish jezebels, tempting lonely POWs is highlighted.
Among those examined, this chapter focuses on the case of Werner Vetter
and Olive Reynolds and the public outcry his at 12-month prison sentence
pronounced in May 1947.
Chapter 5 turns to the second issue which vexed the British public:
repatriation. It begins by noting that despite the stipulations of the 1929
Geneva Convention, Britain was technically not obliged to carry out repa-
triation as a peace treaty with Germany had not been signed. While the
government refused to comment on repatriation plans, noting that the
POWs performed work of national importance, public opinion grew ever
more uneasy with the indefinite detention of German POWs. While there
were legitimate arguments that repatriation would take time organising
transport and that German POWs were materially better off in Britain
than in post-war Germany, the British public were troubled by the lack of
a repatriation scheme and the continued use of POWs as ‘forced’ labour.
The post-war treatment of German POWs was the antithesis of values for
22 A. MALPASS

which Britain had defeated fascism. Detaining German POWs indefinitely

was thought to be endangering future Anglo-German relations and, in the
emerging Cold War context, undermining the British image, pushing
German POWs and/or their families at home towards communism. In
particular, this chapter focuses on the work of Save Europe Now (SEN).
This post-war pressure group lobbied Prime Minister Attlee to draw up a
scheme of repatriation, arguing that the indefinite detention and contin-
ued exploitation of German POWs betrayed the values for which the war
against German had been fought. The chapter considers the role public
opinion played in influencing the Labour government to commence repa-
triation in September 1946. As tensions with the Soviet Union increased,
the post-war treatment of German POWs became a hotly contested issue.
With the first German elections being held at Land level in late 1946, it
was imperative that Britain project a positive image in Germany in order
to combat Soviet propaganda. Commentators including Harold Nicolson
argued that the indefinite detention of German POWs undermined the
position of Britain as the spiritual leader of post-war Europe. The indefi-
nite detention of German POWs and their continued use as ‘slave’ labour
undermined the image of Britain as a liberator and moral paragon to post-­
war Europe. It was thought that this vindictive treatment of POWs was a
symptom of the war’s corrupting influence on British society. The hopes
and fears for future peace in Europe were articulated in discussion of the
fate of German POWs. In the context of the emerging Cold War, the
indefinite retention and continued exploitation of POW ‘slave’ labour
undermined Britain’s role as the guardian of democratic values in post-­
war Europe.
The final chapter investigates the movement of ex-German POWs after
the completion of repatriation in 1948. Of the 25,000 who took up the
offer to work in agriculture for two years, around half decided to rebuild
their lives in Britain. The movement of ex-German POWs is placed within
the broader context of post-war population movements. I argue that
German POWs, like Displaced Persons recruited from European camps,
were an invisible migration. There was a far greater concern over the
arrival at the Port of Tilbury of the 492 Commonwealth migrants on-­
board the Empire Windrush in 1948. The chapter moves on to consider
the place of German POWs within British collective memory of the war.
Moreover, two films are analysed: The One that Got Away (1957) and The
MacKenzie Break (1970).
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Gelsi le si fece incontro e le parlò piano. La Giuseppina s’era
ricomposta, senza però allontanarsi dal letto; un istinto sicuro
l’avvertiva che quello era il solo asilo inviolabile per lei, e che
nonostante la protezione di Raimondi, l’indulgenza del medico, la
simpatia della servitù, se si moveva dal suo posto non avrebbe più
potuto tornarvi.
S’intese la voce della baronessa. — Come? Ha scritto e non è lecito
saper che cosa ha scritto?
— Oh — rispose il medico — per quello che può aver scritto!... Ha
fatto pochi segni confusi.... Del resto diede egli stesso la carta a....
quella giovine....
— Quella giovine ne capì il senso.... Doveva comunicarlo....
— Perdoni.... Secondo i casi.... In ogni modo....
E l’onesto dottore, animato da uno spirito conciliativo, si accostò alla
Giuseppina.
Ma ella, che aveva côlto una parte della conversazione era già sulle
difese.
— Quella carta?... No, dottore.... non la dò a nessuno.... Le giuro per
quanto ho di più caro che non c’è nulla che possa interessar
nessuno.... altri che me....
E cedendo all’affanno che la soverchiava, continuò: — Dio mio, Dio
mio.... Mi lascino stare.... che male faccio?... Per che ragione
credono ch’io sia qui?... Ho delle colpe, ho dei peccati tanti.... ma
questi sospetti non li merito.... Oh se quel poveretto potesse
parlare!... Mi difenda lei, dottore, lei ch’è buono....
Gelsi le fece segno di quietarsi, di tacere, e si accinse a calmar gli
spiriti belligeri della baronessa. Vedeva bene che non era lecito
insistere.... non c’era stata frode, non c’era stato artifizio, non c’era
stata violenza.... egli n’era buon testimonio, e il foglio si trovava in
possesso della signora.... di quella giovine, per manifesto desiderio
del cavaliere Achille.... S’era un segreto ch’ella voleva custodire
nessuno aveva il diritto di strapparglielo.... Egli l’intendeva
perfettamente, certe cose urtavano la suscettività della baronessa;....
ma come si fa?... A questo mondo bisogna tante volte sacrificarsi
per evitar guai maggiori.... e in un momento simile....
La savia perorazione fu troncata da un gesto dell’infermiere.
Le condizioni del malato peggioravano di minuto in minuto. Al
grande eccitamento di prima succedeva una grande prostrazione di
forze, e i polsi declinavano rapidamente. Ciò era stato previsto fino a
un certo punto dal dottore Gelsi; tuttavia egli supponeva la reazione
meno subitanea, meno precipitosa. Così pure non illudendosi
sull’esito finale, egli non aveva creduto a una catastrofe imminente.
Adesso invece si presentavano sintomi tali da giustificare i più gravi
pronostici, e il medico, dopo aver fatto tutto ciò che la sua arte gli
suggeriva, stimò suo dovere di metter sull’avviso la baronessa
Eleonora e gli altri parenti ch’erano alzati.
La Giuseppina non aveva bisogno d’essere avvertita da alcuno. Ella
vedeva, ella sentiva spegnersi a oncia a oncia quella cara vita per la
quale avrebbe dato con entusiasmo la vita propria.

VIII.

E di nuovo quella sera, come la sera addietro, l’intera famiglia era

raccolta in salotto. D’estranei non c’era nessuno; oltre ai Rudeni, ai
Quaglia, ai Minucci non c’era che il cugino Raimondi. Il dottor Gelsi,
dopo una visita fatta alle sette, aveva promesso di tornare fra le dieci
e le undici quantunque, pur troppo, l’opera sua fosse inutile; il
cavaliere Achille non avrebbe passata la notte.
Un attacco di nervi avuto nella mattina aveva prostrato le forze della
baronessa Eleonora. Ella aveva rinunziato alla lotta, e distesa su
una poltrona e con una boccetta di sali sotto il naso, si contentava di
gemere sul proprio destino e di querelarsi dell’immoralità di certe
relazioni che turbano persino la santità dei lari domestici.
Nondimeno, anche nella sua anima frivola ed egoista, vibrava di
tratto in tratto qualche nota sincera di dolore. Pensava alla sua
vecchia casa di cui fra poche ore non sarebbe sopravvissuta che lei.
Morti i genitori, morte le sorelle, moribondo questo fratello nel pieno
vigore degli anni. E lui, se lo ricordava fanciullo, biondo, ricciuto,
accarezzato da tutti, alquanto selvatico forse ma ragionevole e
buono. Perchè s’erano amati così tepidamente, perchè negli ultimi
tempi s’eran visti così poco? Di chi era la colpa? Eppure, ella non
poteva negarlo, in due o tre occasioni quando s’era ricorso a lui per
uscir dagl’impicci nei quali il maledetto vizio del giuoco di Borsa
aveva messo il barone James, egli aveva aperto il suo scrigno senza
farsi troppo pregare. È vero che, dando il danaro, protestava di non
voler immischiarsi in nient’altro. Non voleva ricever confidenze, non
voleva che gli domandassero consigli, schivava gl’incontri e non
incoraggiava le visite.... Ma già teneva l’identico sistema con tutti i
parenti.... Possibile a ogni modo che avesse lasciato un testamento
per spogliare la sorella, i nipoti, il suo sangue insomma?
Mentre la baronessa Eleonora piagnucolava sommessamente, gli
uomini tacevano. Darling movendosi sotto la tavola faceva ogni tanto
tintinnare i sonaglini del suo collare d’ottone.
L’incidente della mattina era stato, durante la giornata, esaminato
sotto tutti gli aspetti. Non c’era più nulla da dire e non c’era nessuna
disposizione da prendere. Quali pur fossero le due o tre parole
scritte dal cavaliere e da lui consegnate a Giuseppina, era chiaro
ch’esse non potevano avere un valore legale. Potevano contenere
un’indicazione, un nome; chi sa? S’era cosa importante la
Giuseppina avrebbe cercato di servirsene, e allora si sarebbe visto
quel che si doveva fare.
Fin dalle prime ore del pomeriggio il malato aveva perduto ogni
conoscenza. Non apriva gli occhi che a lunghi intervalli, e quegli
occhi erano vitrei, immobili; solo la Giuseppina s’illudeva ch’egli la
ravvisasse ancora. Ormai anche il braccio destro giaceva inerte, la
mano umida d’un freddo sudore non rispondeva più alle strette della
gentile mano di donna che tentava scaldarla.
Dinanzi a quel corpo che s’irrigidiva a poco a poco nella sinistra
fissità della morte la Giuseppina sembrava una statua. Non vedeva
che lui, non sentiva che lui. S’accorgeva appena delle persone che
entravano ed uscivano dalla stanza; le era apparsa come in un
sogno una nera tonaca di prete, come in un sogno l’era giunto
all’orecchio un mormorìo di preghiere ch’ella, macchinalmente,
aveva accompagnato con parole salite al labbro dal fondo della
memoria. Poi l’apparizione era svanita; era venuto di nuovo il medico
per andarsene via senza ordinar nulla. Adesso (da quanto tempo? la
Giuseppina non lo sapeva) il silenzio della camera non era rotto che
da un rantolo affannoso.... Ah, finchè quel rantolo durava, il posto
della Giuseppina era lì, sempre lì.
Al tocco dopo mezzanotte il rantolo cessò. La testa del moribondo si
scosse per ricader sul guanciale.
— È finito, — disse l’infermiere.
Finito?... Ma allora?... Allora era finito anche per lei.... Ella non
poteva più rimanere.
Raccolse le sue forze, represse i suoi gemiti, si alzò in piedi, baciò la
fronte del morto, baciò gli occhi, baciò la bocca, ahi tante volte
baciata, e prima che altri la cacciasse dalla camera e dalla casa, si
dileguò inavvertita per l’uscio dello spogliatoio da cui era entrata
circa quarantott’ore innanzi, appena saputa la malattia improvvisa
del cavaliere Achille.

IX.

Due giorni dopo, i Quaglia, i Minucci e il barone James Rudeni,

pacatamente e decorosamente afflitti, accompagnarono fino al
cimitero la salma del loro amato congiunto, nè occorreva essere
profondi psicologhi per legger loro in viso sotto il lutto ufficiale dei
parenti la soddisfazione intima degli eredi. Il cugino Raimondi,
l’ottimo cugino Raimondi, s’era apposto al vero. Il cavaliere Achille
non aveva lasciato testamento; nei suoi cassetti frugati con la
massima diligenza non s’era trovata neanche una riga che
accennasse a disposizioni prese pel caso di morte. D’altra parte
nessuno s’era fatto innanzi a vantar diritti, e per conseguenza la
sostanza del defunto stimata quasi un milione andava divisa in tre
parti tra la baronessa Rudeni, come sorella, e i due giovani Minucci
e Quaglia, come figli di sorelle premorte. Era proprio il meglio che
potesse succedere. Perchè dato un testamento, anche a favore della
sorella e dei nipoti, ci sarebbero state certo delle prelevazioni da fare
per legati, per beneficenze, ecc. Così invece non c’era nulla di
obbligatorio e dell’elargizioni che si fossero fatte avrebbero avuto
lode soltanto gli eredi. Ed eran preparati a farne in congrua misura e
la sera stessa sarebbe comparsa ne’ fogli cittadini una bella lista
d’offerte. Ma sicuro, bisognava onorar la memoria del caro estinto,
bisognava mostrarsi generosi coi poveri. La maggior compiacenza
che dà la ricchezza è quella di giovare ai diseredati dalla fortuna.
Quei signori erano pieni di nobili sentimenti. Il barone James,
prendendo il braccio dell’ottimo cugino Raimondi, gli aveva detto, in
nome proprio e dell’Eleonora rimasta a casa indisposta, che si
sarebbe domandato consiglio a lui su quel che si doveva fare per la
servitù. Gente così affezionata al padrone! Gente che lo aveva
assistito in quel modo! Non c’è dubbio che il povero Achille, se
avesse avuto tempo da far testamento, se ne sarebbe ricordato. Ma!
Come si muore! Oggi si è sani come pesci, domani.... patatrac.
E i giovani Minucci e Quaglia avevano anch’essi tirato in disparte il
cugino Raimondi per sentire da lui in quali condizioni restava quella
ragazza.... quella Giuseppina.... In quanto a loro.... seppur la zia non
voleva saperne.... non sarebbero stati alieni.... per una volta tanto....
dal fare un sacrificio di qualche migliaio di lire.... s’intende che ciò
non doveva costituire un precedente.... la ragazza non aveva diritti
da accampare, s’intende.... era così per un impulso spontaneo.... In
somma Raimondi aveva capito le loro idee; si regolasse da
quell’uomo cauto e savio ch’egli era.
Raimondi aveva lasciato dire per creanza, ma poi aveva dichiarato
che la Giuseppina sarebbe morta di fame prima d’accettare un
centesimo, che la proposta l’avrebbe offesa, ch’egli non avrebbe
certo osato di fargliela.
E i due cugini s’erano guardati dall’insistere, contentandosi di
esternare la loro ammirazione pel disinteresse che si riscontra
talvolta dove meno si supporrebbe. A ogni modo si sarebbe potuto
discorrerne di nuovo dopo la cerimonia.
All’ultimo momento l’avvocato Rizzoli pronunziò brevi ed acconcie
parole in nome dei congiunti troppo turbati da compiere essi
quest’ufficio pietoso; un altro signore aggiunse un saluto per parte
degli amici, e la bara fu calata nella fossa. Allora, sul triste margine,
risuonò un ululato di cane. Era Bibì. O come mai era capitata in
cimitero? In che barca s’era nascosta? L’allontanarono a forza,
volevano prenderla, ma essa sguisciò via fra le tombe. Sul tumulo si
deposero parecchie corone, fra cui tre splendidissime delle famiglie
Quaglia, Minucci e Rudeni. Poi altre strette di mano, altri sospiri e
condoglianze e ringraziamenti, e il corteggio si sciolse.
— Caro Raimondi, — disse il barone James, quando fu presso alla
riva del cimitero, — se avete moneta spicciola date un soldo a quel
povero vecchio che tiene la gondola..... Io non ho più rame in tasca.

· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·

La Giuseppina era venuta prima di tutti e aveva aspettato

pazientemente in un’altra parte dell’ampio recinto. Se si fosse unita
all’accompagnamento funebre l’avrebbero frustata come Bibì; ma già
ella stessa non voleva unirsi a nessuno, voleva esser sola a pregare
ed a piangere. S’inginocchiò sulla terra appena smossa, tolse di
sotto alla mantiglia una semplice ghirlanda di semprevivi e la collocò
fra quelle ghirlande sfarzose dai lunghi nastri di seta nera con ricami
d’argento.... E pianse, e pianse, e pianse. E pregò pace a lui ch’era
stato così buono, a lui che poche ore innanzi di morire aveva con la
mano tremante scritto quelle due parole adorabili: Giuseppina mia.
Perchè il misterioso foglio che aveva tanto sgomentato i parenti non
conteneva di più.
Ed era questa l’eredità di Giuseppina.
Non l’unica però.
Ella credeva di esser sola e non era. Accanto a lei Bibì raspava la
terra e guaiva. — O Bibì, povera Bibì! — esclamò la Giuseppina. —
Tu gli volevi bene.
Se la prese in grembo e la portò via seco.
 IL NATALE DI NINETTA.

I.

Era la vigilia di Natale più fredda che si ricordasse da gran tempo in

Venezia. Da tre o quattr’ore nevicava senza tregua, una neve fitta,
sottile, che messa in giro vorticoso da un vento gelato batteva con
un suono metallico sui muri delle case e sui vetri delle finestre.
Grave, impettito, solenne, col capo coperto da un berretto gallonato,
le mani strette in un paio di guanti di pelle di dante, e la maestosa
persona chiusa in un lungo soprabito dai bottoni d’argento, il signor
Barnaba, il guardaportone della nobile famiglia Costi, passeggiava
su e giù per l’ampia entratura del palazzo, illuminata da un gran
fanale a gaz che pendeva dall’alto. Di tratto in tratto si suonava alla
porta della riva. Allora un gondoliere andava ad aprire, ed il signor
Barnaba, senza perder nulla della sua gravità diplomatica, moveva
incontro ai nuovi arrivati, faceva loro un inchino silenzioso, e li
accompagnava fino allo scalone di cui s’affrettava a richiudere
l’uscio a vetri appena essi avessero posto il piede sul primo gradino.
Qualcheduno veniva anche dalla parte di terra, ma erano persone di
minor conto, almeno agli occhi del signor Barnaba, uomo incapace,
sebbene spesso radicale in politica, di accordar la sua stima a della
gente la quale non aveva gondola propria o non prendeva una
gondola a nolo con una serata simile. E la faccia diplomatica
dell’eminente funzionario si atteggiava a un sorrisetto ironico
mentr’egli aiutava quei disgraziati a scuotersi di dosso la neve e
riceveva l’ombrello dalle loro mani intirizzite.
— Che tempo, caro Barnaba, che tempo d’inferno! — esclamavano i
poveri diavoli fatti espansivi dalla consolazione di trovarsi finalmente
al coperto e dalla dolce prospettiva del pranzo che li aspettava.
— Brutte feste di Natale, — soggiungeva il signor Barnaba con la
sua voce di basso profondo. — Peccato!
— E l’ombrello non serve a nulla.
— Già, col vento.
— In gondola dev’esser peggio ancora.
Nonostante quest’asserzione di quelli che venivano a piedi, la
maggior parte degli invitati venivano in gondola. Del resto, non erano
mica molte persone, una ventina al più. Si capisce che per la vigilia
di Natale non si potevano invitare a pranzo che i parenti e quelli tra
gli amici intimi che non avevano famiglia.
Dallo spiraglio dell’uscio della portineria una fanciulla di undici o
dodici anni, magra, pallida, freddolosa, assisteva non vista al passar
della gente, guardava con ammirazione quelle belle signore
incappucciate (almeno ella se le figurava belle), quei signori avvolti
nelle morbide pelliccie, quei bimbi e quelle bimbe (oh quelle bimbe
sopratutto) così ben coperte, così ben vestite, con quei mantellini
dalle tinte gaie come doveva esser la loro vita, come doveva esser la
loro anima. E quand’esse erano scomparse a’ suoi occhi ella le
seguiva con la fantasia; le seguiva su per lo scalone, nelle sale
tiepide, dinanzi alla tavola scintillante di lumi, di cristalli, d’argenteria,
dinanzi all’albero di Natale carico di tanti regali preparati apposta per
loro.... O perchè ci dovevano esser dei bimbi così felici e degli altri
invece che stentavano il pane e non avevano da aspettarsi che i
rimbrotti e le busse?

II.
Dopo le sette non venne più nessuno e il signor Barnaba poteva
ripromettersi qualche ora di quiete e riposare alquanto dalle sue
gravi fatiche. Rientrato in portineria, egli non era più l’uomo dalla
faccia decorosamente ossequiosa che i padroni e i visitatori erano
avvezzi a vedere; come per incanto la sua fronte s’aggrinziva, le sue
sopracciglia si corrugavano, le sue labbra prendevano
un’espressione amara e disgustata, e la sua voce di basso profondo
acquistava delle note stridule ed aspre. Gli è che il signor Barnaba,
intimamente convinto che la società non rendesse giustizia ai suoi
meriti, accumulava nella giornata una buona dose di fiele, ch’egli poi
distribuiva in equa misura tra quelli che avevano la fortuna di
avvicinarlo nell’intimità. Non che fosse proprio cattivo il signor
Barnaba, ma era un povero cervello in cui le più matte idee
cozzavano insieme. A volte pareva più aristocratico d’un
Montmorency, a volte, specie dopo la lettura dei giornali, diventava
giacobino e comunardo. In tutt’e due queste fasi, sua moglie, la mite
e timida siora Marianna, aveva le sue grandi tribolazioni. Perchè
quando suo marito faceva il demagogo ella temeva che le pazze
sfuriate di lui arrivassero all’orecchio dei padroni; quando invece egli
s’atteggiava a conservatore, a persona rispettosa delle regole
gerarchiche, ell’era sicura ch’egli avrebbe finito col trovar l’equilibrio
del suo spirito applicando una sua massima favorita: — La
subordinazione è giusta, ma bisogna rifarsi sui più deboli delle
umiliazioni che ci tocca subir dai più forti.
E il signor Barnaba si rifaceva particolarmente sulla moglie e sulla
Ninetta, ch’era quella bimba di cui abbiamo parlato prima. La Ninetta
non era nè figlia nè parente del signor Barnaba e della siora
Marianna: era una povera orfana, la quale veniva di mattina e di sera
a prestar dei piccoli servigi in portineria, ricevendone in compenso la
colazione e il desinare ch’ella portava nel suo tugurio e divideva con
uno zio, abile operaio, ma giuocatore e beone, il quale l’avrebbe
cacciata di casa s’ella gli si fosse presentata davanti con le mani
vuote. Non era una vita allegra quella della Ninetta, palleggiata fra la
brutalità dello zio e la pedanteria meticolosa e loquace del signor
Barnaba, ma ell’aveva indole buona e tranquilla e sopportava la sua
sorte disgraziata con infinita pazienza. Del resto, i suoi umili uffici al
palazzo Costi, oltre ai vantaggi economici le procuravano anche
qualche momento di svago. Già le tre camerette della portineria,
sebben piccole e scure, erano una reggia al paragone di quella
specie di magazzino umido ov’ella passava la notte. E poi c’era la
distrazione della gente che veniva a far visita, dei barcaiuoli che
apparecchiavano o sparecchiavano la gondola, dei padroni e delle
padroncine che uscivano di casa o rientravano lasciando dietro di sè
quel profumo acuto che hanno i signori, come la Ninetta soleva dire;
senza tener conto delle volte in cui per risparmiar la fatica al signor
Barnaba la bimba saliva lei stessa le scale e portava nel piano nobile
un’imbasciata, un pacco, una lettera. Allora, se le riusciva di dare
una capatina nelle stanze, ella ridiscendeva rossa rossa in viso con
l’impressione di esser stata in un soggiorno di fate.

III.

Quella sera il signor Barnaba era più bisbetico del consueto. Egli
non sapeva capacitarsi che la vigilia di Natale un uomo suo pari,
anzichè goder la sua piena libertà e banchettare gli amici, fosse
costretto a misurar per lungo e per largo l’androne di un palazzo e
ad aprir la porta a una ventina di parassiti d’ogni età e sesso. Il
mondo era proprio fatto male, e ci voleva una rivoluzione per
rinnovarlo ab imis fundamentis. — Per fortuna il 1889 non è lontano
e quello sarà un gran centenario.
La siora Marianna sbarrò tanto d’occhi, e il signor Barnaba
soggiunse con disprezzo: — Ecco ciò che vuol dire non avere
istruzione, non aver letto nulla.... E doveva toccare a me un’oca
simile!.... Il 1889 è il centenario del 1789.... l’anno della grande
Rivoluzione francese, quando s’è tagliata la testa ai re, ai nobili, ai
preti....
— Zitto! — gridò la siora Marianna spaventata.
— Ma che zitto! — replicò il consorte. — Qui nessuno mi sente.... E
se anche mi sentissero e volessero far i gradassi... sono un uomo
capace di anticipar di qualche anno il centenario, io.... E il primo che
deve pagarmela è il signor Schmaus, il mastro di casa.... quel
tedesco petulante che cerca il pelo nell’uovo.
A questo punto, nello spirito del signor Barnaba accadde
un’improvvisa reazione in senso conservativo, ed egli trovò che,
quantunque ingiustamente, il signor Schmaus era suo superiore in
ordine gerarchico e non aveva tutti i torti di voler rifarsi sopra di lui
delle risciacquate di capo prese dai padroni. Ma, come il solito,
l’indulgenza verso i superiori rese il signor Barnaba più aspro
cogl’inferiori. Se il signor Schmaus si rifaceva sopra di lui, il signor
Barnaba aveva ben il diritto di rifarsi su qualchedun altro.... — È
come nelle fabbriche, — egli diceva fra sè con bella similitudine. —
Le pietre che stanno in alto pesano sulle pietre che stanno abbasso.
— In omaggio al quale principio, egli strapazzò la moglie, strapazzò
la Ninetta, e finalmente, guardando di punto in bianco l’orologio,
ordinò alla fanciulla di fare un salto al chiosco più vicino per
prendergli il Secolo che doveva essere arrivato.
La pietosa siora Marianna arrischiò un ma....
— Che c’è? — ruggì il signor Barnaba.
— Niente.... niente.... Però la Ninetta ha da andar presto a casa
sua.... e con questa neve... farle fare una strada di più....
Il marito diede un pugno sulla tavola. — Ah vorrei vedere anche
questa!... Per un po’ di neve.... Come se fossero sassi.... Via,
signora delicatina.... si metta il suo scialle e non perda tempo....
Marsch!
La siora Marianna non fiatava più, ma guardava la Ninetta in un
certo modo come a dire: — Abbi pazienza. È una bestia e non
intende ragione.
E la Ninetta ubbidì in silenzio. Staccò da un chiodo lo scialletto di
lana che le copriva appena le spalle, guardò con un sospiro le sue
scarpe rattacconate, si fece dare un soldo dal signor Barnaba,
aperse a fatica il portone e uscì in istrada. Nevicava sempre,
nevicava fitto, e il vento s’ingolfava nella calle con un urlo lungo,
sinistro, somigliante a un gemito umano. Mal difesa dalla sua
vesticciuola leggera, la povera fanciulla sentiva il freddo penetrarle
nell’ossa, e studiava il passo segnando una piccola orma sul
candido lenzuolo steso per terra.
La distanza dal palazzo Costi al primo chiosco di giornali non era
mica grande, ma quella sera, con quel tempo, con quelle vie
solitarie, pareva alla Ninetta di dover percorrere un deserto
immenso. Lungo tutta la via ella incontrò appena un paio di persone,
imbacuccate nei loro cappotti, bianche e mute come fantasmi; solo
attraversando un Campielo chiamato Campielo dei morti (ce n’è più
d’uno di questi Campieli in Venezia e il loro nome deriva dall’esservi
stati secoli addietro in quei luoghi dei piccoli cimiteri) la ferì il
miagolio lamentevole d’un gattino perduto in mezzo alla neve.
Quando poi credeva di esser giunta alla meta, le toccò un’amara
delusione. Il chiosco era chiuso, forse a cagione del tempo, forse a
cagione della festa. Che partito prendere? Tornarsene indietro a
mani vuote, o andare in cerca d’un altro chiosco a rischio di trovar
chiuso anche quello? Però in quel punto ella sentì gridare in fondo
alla strada: il Secolo, appena arrivato il Secolo. — Secolo, — ella
gridò ripetutamente, correndo dietro al rivenditore. Ma questi non la
intese o non le badò, nè a lei riuscì di raggiungerlo, finchè un
passante impietosito che aveva la fortuna di possedere un vocione
non ebbe tuonato due volte: — Ehi, del Secolo, siete sordo? — Il
rivenditore si fermò con malagrazia, prese il soldo dalla mano della
Ninetta, tirò fuori di sotto il soprabito un numero del giornale, e dopo
averlo dato alla fanciulla si allontanò rapidamente ripetendo come un
pappagallo: Appena arrivato il Secolo. Con molte notizie il Secolo.
La Ninetta rifece il cammino di prima senza trovar anima viva, senza
udire una voce umana che rompesse il silenzio; bensì nel Campielo
dei morti suonava ancora, ma più rauco, più flebile, il miagolìo del
povero gattino smarrito, e una forma nera si dibatteva nella neve.
 IV.

La siora Marianna aveva preparata una bella scodella di roba da

mangiare per la Ninetta, l’aveva coperta con un piatto, ravvolta in un
tovagliuolo e riposta entro un paniere, quando la bimba ricomparve
in portineria col giornale.
— In che stato sei! — esclamò impietosita la donna.
— Gran che! — borbottò il signor Barnaba che si dondolava sopra
un seggiolone di paglia presso il camino. — Per quattro fiocchi di
neve! La bella educazione che mia moglie avrebbe dato ai suoi
figliuoli se ne avesse avuti!... Gira di più la chiavetta del gaz, che non
ci vedo a leggere, — soggiunse il maestoso guardaportone aprendo
il Secolo. — Una fiamma sola! E piccola per giunta.... Questi padroni
sono d’una taccagneria....
Mentre il signor Barnaba succhiava avidamente il miele del foglio
lombardo, la siora Marianna parlava a bassa voce con la Ninetta.
— Mi fa pena che tu torni ad uscire con questo tempo.
— Non c’è rimedio....
— Se si potesse farti qui un letticciuolo provvisorio... per una notte....
Io credo che quell’orso, — e accennava a suo marito, — non ci
troverebbe a ridire.... E neanche tuo zio....
— No, no, — rispose la bimba atterrita alla sola idea di poter cedere
alla tentazione. — Se mio zio non mi trova a casa quando torna lui,
sto fresca.
La siora Marianna tentennò la testa. — Che peste questi uomini!
— Vado, — ripigliò la Ninetta, infilando il paniere nel braccio.
— Bevi almeno un sorso di vino, — insistè l’altra. — E gliene
mescette un mezzo bicchiere.
Finalmente, togliendo dalle spalle della fanciulla lo scialletto tutto
bagnato gliene prestò uno di suo, un po’ più grande e pesante. —
Me lo riporterai domani.
— Auff! La terminerete con queste smorfie? — saltò su impazientito
il signor Barnaba.
— Buona notte, buona notte, — disse la Ninetta. Ed uscì.
Uno dei barcaiuoli ch’era nell’entratura le aperse il portone di strada.
— E vai fino a Rialto?
— Sì.
— Bada che il vento non ti porti via.
No, il vento non la portava via, ma una tristezza invincibile le si
addensava sull’anima mentr’ella per la terza volta s’inoltrava sulla
via deserta. E di nuovo il suo pensiero correva involontariamente a
quei bimbi eleganti e felici ch’ell’aveva visti entrare in palazzo e che
adesso senza dubbio ridevano e saltavano davanti all’albero di
Natale. Non era invidiosa per sua natura; era buona, tollerante,
contenta di poco; i cattivi esempi non l’avevano ancora guastata....
Anzi la brutalità dello zio, brutalità cagionata specialmente dall’abuso
dei liquori, le aveva inspirato il ribrezzo dell’intemperanza, la
passione della vita sobria e massaia; e d’altra parte il freddo
egoismo del signor Barnaba ripugnava profondamente al suo cuore
disposto alla simpatia. Quella sera però ella domandava a sè stessa
se suo zio non avesse ragione di annegare i suoi affanni
nell’acquavite, e se non avesse ragione il signor Barnaba di mettere
in pratica a casa propria quella massima, da lui ripetuta dieci volte al
giorno, che bisogna rifarsi su qualcheduno. Rifarsi?.... Ma ella, per
esempio, su chi avrebbe potuto rifarsi? Chi c’era al mondo di più
debole, di più derelitta di lei?
Mentr’ella faceva tra sè queste considerazioni, gli orologi
cominciarono a batter le nove. Per solito a quell’ora ell’era già a
casa, prima che suo zio fosse tornato dalla bettola; accendeva il
lume, gettava un po’ di stipa nel focolare, e dopo aver preso un
boccone per sè lasciava pel suo caro parente il buono e il meglio
delle provvigioni portate seco dal palazzo. Una volta ella doveva
anche aspettarlo alzata e l’aspettava realmente, cascante dal sonno
o addormentata sulla sedia; poi l’era stata data licenza di coricarsi
alle nove e mezzo, e ne approfittava con entusiasmo, evitando in tal
modo di sentire, poichè chiudeva gli occhi appena messa la testa sul
capezzale, le divagazioni stupide e le frasi sboccate dell’ubbriaco il
quale finiva spesso col gettarsi attraverso la tavola e pigliar sonno
così.
Comunque sia, quella sera la Ninetta era in ritardo e le conveniva
affrettarsi.
Camminava con la testa bassa, rasente il muro, stringendosi
addosso quanto più poteva lo scialle, raccomandandosi l’anima nel
far gli scalini dei ponti, lasciando sfuggir un piccolo grido a ogni
sdrucciolone che dava, a ogni folata di vento che la investiva, a ogni
falda di neve che accumulata sulle grondaie, sulle cornici, sugli
sporti delle finestre, precipitava giù nella strada. Così arrivò a quel
Campielo dei morti che aveva già passato due volte e che doveva
ripassar nuovamente per recarsi a casa sua, e non potè a meno di
volger l’occhio verso la parte da cui pochi minuti innanzi, veniva il
lamento dell’infelice bestiuola implorante aiuto. Adesso non si udiva
più nulla, ma lì accanto al muro, dove la Ninetta aveva visto agitarsi
una forma nera, ella notò qualche cosa che si staccava ancora sul
fondo candidissimo, e bench’ella non avesse tempo da perdere, una
forza irresistibile la spinse verso quella cosa immobile, che (fors’era
un’allucinazione della sua fantasia) la guardava con occhi fissi e
vitrei. Non s’era ingannata.... Era il gattino di prima; freddo, irrigidito,
morto.... Morto davvero?.... Per un momento lo credette tale; poi,
chinandosi sopra di lui e toccandolo con mano paurosa, le parve che
nello pupille dilatate balenasse un raggio di vita. E nelle sue fibre di
fanciulla sorse un impeto di pietà e di tenerezza; e in petto le si
svegliò subitaneo e imperioso quell’istinto gentile che fa della donna
la protettrice naturale dei deboli e degli afflitti. Raccolse da terra
l’animale agonizzante, lo avviluppò nelle pieghe del suo scialle e
ripigliò il suo cammino. Non sentiva più il freddo, non s’accorgeva
del vento che le scompigliava i capelli; angustiata soltanto dall’idea
che il suo soccorso fosse giunto troppo tardi. Ah, non se lo sarebbe
perdonato mai.

V.

Arrivò a casa trafelata, col cuore che le batteva tumultuosamente;

ma quando, aperta la porta di strada, vide tutto buio e capì che suo
zio non c’era, fu sollevata da un grande incubo. Se c’era lui e s’ella
si presentava al suo cospetto con quella strana compagnia,
figuriamoci, egli era uomo capace di far fare alla bestia, morta o viva,
un gran salto per la finestra. Volesse pure il cielo ch’egli rimanesse
fuori per un pezzo! Ella trovò a tastoni i fiammiferi, accese un
moccolo di sego, e depose delicatamente sulla tavola il suo prezioso
fardello, incerta ancora se il calore ch’ella sentiva rinascere in quel
corpicino fosse altro che il calore proprio, ch’ella gli aveva trasfuso
tenendolo stretto alla sua persona. Ma il dubbio non durò molto.
Lisciato, accarezzato, stropicciato in tutti i sensi, l’animale non tardò
a dar segni manifesti di vita. Mosse la coda, stirò a una a una le
zampe, aperse languidamente gli occhi, mise un lieve miagolìo; la
risurrezione era compiuta. Oh che felicità fu quella per la Ninetta! E
la parola felicità non ci meravigli. Quando mai le nostre gioie e i
nostri dolori sono proporzionati alle cause da cui derivano? La
fanciulla era in estasi davanti alla leggiadra bestiuola ch’ella aveva
salvata. Era un gattino di cinque o sei mesi, dalle forme snelle, dal
pelo nerissimo, fino, lucido, vellutato; senza dubbio, appena si fosse
rimesso in forze, avrebbe avuto tutte le grazie che i gattini giovani
sogliono avere. Intanto si fregava intorno alla sua benefattrice e
pareva mansueto e riconoscente. — Caro, caro, caro! — esclamava
la Ninetta nel suo entusiasmo, baciandolo come un bambino. Lo
fece partecipare alla sua piccola cena; poi, spogliatasi in furia, lo
portò seco nel suo letticciuolo. Poverino! Aveva patito tanto freddo;
era ben giusto che si riscaldasse.
Di fuori continuava a soffiare il vento e a cader la neve, e nella
stanzuccia mal riparata giungevano i rumori sinistri della bufera;
tuttavia la Ninetta non istette molto ad addormentarsi. E sognò.
Sognò le belle bambine covate teneramente dagli occhi amorosi
delle mamme e dei babbi, le belle bambine che aveva viste lievi e
agili come farfalle ascendere lo scalone del palazzo; sognò d’essere
una di loro e di trovarsi con loro dinanzi all’albero di Natale,
abbarbagliata dallo scintillìo delle candele, dalla mostra dei balocchi
che pendevano dai rami come frutti maturi. Quand’ecco un gemito
lungo e pietoso salir dalla strada ove il tempo seguitava ad
imperversare. Ed ella si staccava dall’ilare schiera delle sue
compagne, lasciava il salotto tiepido e profumato, e correva
attraverso una fila interminabile di stanze giù per un labirinto di scale
senza poter mai metter capo a un’uscita.... Alla fine, si destò di
soprassalto. Era nel suo letto, rannicchiata sotto le coperte; il gattino,
rivolto a spira, faceva le fusa accanto a lei. La visione era svanita:
solo una cosa restava vera; ell’aveva salvato un essere che soffriva,
e questo pensiero le dava un’infinita dolcezza. — Bisogna rifarsi sui
più deboli delle umiliazioni che ci tocca subir dai più forti, — soleva
ripetere il signor Barnaba. Ecco, s’era rifatta anche lei, ma a suo
modo, un modo tanto diverso, e tanto migliore di quello che il signor
Barnaba suggeriva.
Era la mezzanotte. Lo zio era tornato a casa e lo si sentiva russare
in cucina. Dalle cento chiese della città l’allegro scampanìo del
Natale portava una soave promessa a tutti i derelitti del mondo.
 LA NIPOTE DEL COLONNELLO.

I.

Battista, già ordinanza e adesso cameriere del colonnello Annibale

Bedeschi, accese il lume, chiuse le imposte, tirò le tende, e poi,
mettendosi in posizione militare dinanzi al padrone, gli domandò se
doveva aggiungere dell’altra legna nella stufa.
— No, — rispose il colonnello, — non fa freddo. Andate pure.
Ma prima che l’altro richiudesse l’uscio dietro a sè gli fece una
interrogazione. — La signorina?
Battista tentennò il capo con aria grave. — Oh, signor colonnello, la
signorina è in gran faccende per quel dolce.... sa, quel dolce di cui
trovò la ricetta nel libro.... Anzi ho paura che oggi il desinare non
sarà pronto per l’ora solita.
— In causa del dolce?
— Appunto, signor colonnello.
— Che razza d’idea è saltata in mente alla Bice d’occuparsi di
cucina? — esclamò Bedeschi. — Ditele che appena può venga da
me.
— Appena può, appena può? — brontolò il colonnello quando
Battista fu uscito. — Avrei soggezione di mia nipote? Mi sarei preso
in casa un tiranno domestico?... Io che fui sempre uso a comandare
a bacchetta, io che conducevo la mia famiglia come il mio
reggimento?
Ebbe la tentazione di richiamare Battista e di mandare per suo
mezzo un ordine perentorio alla ragazza, ma se ne pentì. In fin dei
conti se la Bice faceva un dolce, questo non era un delitto, e se
facendolo ella portava un piccolo ritardo nel pranzo, questa non era
una sventura.... Era poi innegabile che la ragazza era un tiranno sui
generis, pieno di grazia, di dolcezza e di buon umore, incapace di
dire una parola sgarbata e di commettere una prepotenza. Senza di
lei il colonnello sarebbe stato ben solo, ed egli avrebbe avuto torto
marcio a lagnarsi d’averla accolta presso di sè quando all’uscir di
collegio ella s’era trovata orfana di padre e di madre.... E in fondo
non se ne lagnava, quantunque gli paresse di non esser sotto certi
rispetti più quello d’una volta, dacchè c’era la Bice.
Le mani sprofondate nell’ampie saccoccie della vestaglia, la testa
coperta da un berretto di seta nera sotto a cui spuntava qualche
ciuffo di capelli che avevano acquistato da poco il coraggio del loro
candore, il vecchio militare si mise a camminare su e giù per la
stanza, trascinando alquanto la gamba sinistra ferita nel 1866 a
Custoza. Era un uomo sulla sessantina, alto, con le spalle larghe, i
baffi folti e lunghi, lo sguardo franco e leale, ma un po’ duro e
imperioso.
Dopo tre o quattro giri egli si riavvicinò alla tavola, e inforcate le lenti
rilesse due telegrammi arrivati quel giorno stesso da’ suoi figliuoli
Vittorio ed Augusto, militari tutti e due, il primo nell’esercito, il
secondo nella marina. I telegrammi con gli auguri pel Natale
venivano l’uno da Massaua, l’altro da Nuova York. Nientemeno.
Antico soldato dell’indipendenza italiana, non ritiratosi dal servizio
che per motivi di salute, il colonnello Bedeschi aveva favorito,
accarezzato la vocazione del suo primo e del suo secondogenito, e
allorchè Vittorio aveva chiesto e ottenuto di andare in Africa e
Augusto s’era imbarcato per un viaggio di circumnavigazione di circa
tre anni, egli li aveva accommiatati con ciglio asciutto, dicendo loro
soltanto: — Fate il vostro dovere, ragazzi.
Tuttavia quella sera, nel rileggere i due dispacci arrivati da due sì
lontane e diverse parti del mondo, anch’egli, l’uomo forte ed austero,