Il Duce is out of the picture.’
Doris waved his concerns away with her manicured hand, and swept out of the make-up room.
Isabella had never imagined Cinecittà being closed down. The idea that her career, something she had worked so hard for, should be brought to a halt by the war seemed unimaginable. She tried to envision a future for herself without the movie industry. She had three dependants now – her mother, her grandmother and her aunt. How would they all survive without her income?
Isabella buried her anxieties and once the studio sequences were completed, the cast and crew moved onto the location scenes to be shot at the ancient Roman Baths of Caracalla.
One morning, as they were about to shoot a scene and the film director called ‘action’, the sound recordist, listening through his powerful headphones, held up his hand. ‘Hold it!’
‘Cut!’ called the director. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked irritably.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the sound recordist, ‘but there’s some sort of engine noise cutting through – it’s a long way off, but I can definitely hear it. We’ll have to wait, I’m afraid.’
Within minutes, the engine noise was audible to everyone on the set. It soon turned into a roar as a large plane flew overhead, quickly followed by twenty, thirty, forty more, until the sky was dark with hundreds of aircraft. Moments later, there was a series of terrifying explosions and the sound of distant screams. Dust filled the air, and soon everyone was choking, coughing and rushing for cover.
This was the first time Rome had been bombed since the beginning of the war. The actors removed their costumes and rushed to their cars, all in a state of shock. The day’s filming was cancelled.
As soon as she got home, Isabella collapsed onto the floor in the hall in floods of tears. Her mother helped her to her feet. ‘Cara Isabella, what’s the matter? Come into the kitchen.’
‘Did you hear the bombing this morning?’ Isabella asked.
‘Of course I heard the planes; they flew over here. It was terrifying. The news is saying that there are thousands of casualties. It was an Allied bombing raid on the freight yards and steel works at San Lorenzo.’
Later that day, Giovanna and her sister were preparing supper, when the bombers returned. The women lay in terror beneath the kitchen table as the planes flew over, heading for their target.
The morning newspapers reported that Rome’s two airports had been hit. Although filming continued, everyone in the cast and crew was uneasy, braced for another attack. By the weekend, Isabella was exhausted, and on Sunday, after a quiet day at home, she listened to a concert on the radio to calm her nerves. But at ten forty-five the concert was suddenly interrupted by ‘a special announcement by the Commander of the Army, Marshal Badoglio’.
‘Italians!’ he declared. ‘By order of his Majesty the King and Emperor, I am assuming the military government of this country with full plenary powers. The war against the Anglo-Americans continues.’
Il Duce appeared to have been overthrown.
To Isabella, for whom life under Mussolini had been all she’d known, this seemed impossible. She rushed to the kitchen, where her mother was kneading dough on the table, the radio playing quietly in the background.
‘Did you hear the announcement, Mamma?’
Giovanna nodded.
‘Do you think Mussolini has really gone?’
Her mother shrugged.
‘Mamma, don’t you understand? What will happen to us now? To me? To the film company? It’s owned by the government.’
Her mother looked up. ‘We will manage,’ she said calmly. ‘We managed before, when we had nothing – do you remember? We can do it again.’
Over the next few days, the streets of Rome were filled with people surging into the piazzas. Isabella walked into town and was soon caught up in a throng heading towards Piazza Colonna. The crowds were singing patriotic songs and shouting ‘Down with Fascism’. Pictures of Mussolini on public buildings were torn down and set on fire. The protesters danced around the flames, screaming and whooping. Isabella returned home through the park, feeling frightened and disturbed by what she had seen. Rome appeared to be in a state of anarchy.
The phone was ringing in the hall as she let herself in. It was Elsa di Giorgi. ‘The studio is closed,’ she said, ‘We can’t get back in.’
‘Closed?’ Isabella felt as if her world was imploding. ‘I don’t understand, Elsa. What about the film?’
‘It won’t be finished for a while, I suppose,’ Elsa said phlegmatically.
Isabella began to cry. ‘I thought it was