Who other than the British Lion could liberate Italy? Winston Churchill had become a legendary figure during the Second World War. He had shown nerves of steel, and was certainly not afraid to watch over the streets of the Medici City from the small apartment where he was hiding. A bomb had just gone off, and its echo had resounded across Florence. Winston Churchill was not afraid. This was child’s play for him; a game of chess in which he knew every secret from pawn to queen. He put his eye to the telescope and observed the white smoke rising in the distance, mingling with the timid clouds in the blue sky. The sun was safe, pure white and hot, and no bomb could dim it. Flames licked over the walls on the adjacent street. The smoke was turning black, and thick. Cries rose up, and people ran, jostling and shoving. Another detonation sent blasts of rock and dust billowing through the tiny streets. This time it was not a bomb; probably a gas canister or a jerrycan of fuel. The wind blew gently over the debris that covered the pavements; book pages, wicker chairs, children’s toys. A woman threw herself from a window. No-one caught her. She got up and ran off, limping. A man walked into a burning apartment, then came out with his arms full, coughing violently. The fire spread gradually across the city. Handfuls of German soldiers stole through the streets with composure, no doubt feeling invincible.
Winston Churchill enjoyed war, especially when it involved crushing German troops. “This won’t look like a post-card,” he thought, “in true life, little ever does.” Two Germans fell to the ground under fire from the Allied machine guns. The bridge exploded and collapsed as they watched on. The history of Florence during the Second World War is a tale of two halves: Italy had allied with Nazi Germany, but after Mussolini’s fall the Florentines had turned to the British and Americans. Florence had been the cradle of fascism, and became its primary victim up until its liberation by the British Army. Churchill had told Albert Kesselring, the commander of the Axis forces in Italy, that he would not give the Nazi army an inch. Churchill ordered Florence’s bridges to be destroyed, with the exception of the Ponte Vecchio. The first explosion had rung out two days previously, and was described by the Italians taking shelter in the Palazzo as an earthquake. A crowd had gathered and begun chanting: “Ponti, Ponti!” The Florentines loved their city more than anything, and the Ponte Vecchio was sacred to them. It could not be destroyed.
Winston Churchill set his telescope on the table. He could hear bursts of machine gun fire; this was now routine. He picked up a bunch of grapes. The month of August was hot in Florence. One of the men offered to close the window, but Churchill refused. He wanted to take a nap, and preferred to allow the breeze to come in. Since the outbreak of the war, he had not slept well; just twenty minutes every four hours. Only a cigar could calm him. He lay on his mattress, watched over by his body man. He thought about the next tactics for the war and future orders to be given, like a chess player. These days, he was the kingmaker. Only he knew the queen’s every movement, and where her compass pointed. When the king was taken prisoner, the war would be over. The soldier listened to the lion snoring. A bomb had just gone off. The explosion rocked the city of Florence, but the lion did not open his eyes.
Twenty minutes had gone by. The soldier woke Churchill, who rose with difficulty. He took up his telescope and looked out over the rooftops of Florence. It was a beautiful town. “Very large explosion while you were at your rest, sir,” the soldier informed him. Winston Churchill lit a cigar, and a few moments later, responded: “I never sleep. I merely think.”
Alan Alfredo Geday