Aprilia Furrow

If Benito Mussolini was worried last week by the mounting costs of his African war or the continued resistance of the Ethiopians, he gave no sign of it to a hundred foreign journalists who motored out with him to what used to be the Pontine marshes, are now rich wheat fields and model Fascist towns. In the past six years three of such towns have been built (Littoria, Sabaudia, Pontinia), all following the same basic plan, and all equipped with a town hall, parish church, school, police station, Fascist headquarters, cinema, sports field and playgrounds before the first private home was built. Last week's ceremony was to trace the boundaries of the new town of Aprilia.

Wolf-fed Romulus was supposed to have founded Rome 2,689 years ago by plowing a furrow round the seven hills with a span of oxen. Repeating the same gesture, Benito Mussolini in full-dress uniform strode across a vast field to where a brand new tractor plow was standing near a crowd of spectators. First came a speech with clenched fists, outthrust jaw, harsh voice, sweating brow.

"The furrows of Aprilia," bellowed II Duce, "are made in the victorious time of our African enterprise, the 14th year of the Fascist era, and the 160th day of the unfair economic siege against Italy which increases the disorder and misery of the world.

"Today's ceremony demonstrates that our will is methodical, tenacious, and indomitable.

"Aprilia will be inaugurated Oct. 29, 1937.

"On April 22, 1938 we shall found the city of Pomezia, which will be dedicated Oct. 29, 1939. Only then will our work be completed and new victories will be added to those which the Italians have attained." "Doo-chay! Doo-chay!" chanted the crowd as the imperial mask cracked and Benito Mussolini beamed with pleasure. Leaping to the driver's seat of the tractor, he threw in the clutch, sent the machine careening off in a 100-ft. circle to mark not the boundaries of Aprilia, but the foundation of Aprilia's town hall. Above the clatter of the engine he roared with laughter at secret service men, stumbling through the mud, breathlessly trying to keep up with him.

A bevy of deep-bosomed young women in the striped skirts and handkerchief headdresses of the peasants of the Roman Campagna broke through the guards, nearly mobbed the Dictator. All their noses were carefully powdered and some had lacquered finger nails. II Duce was delighted. From one he took a bunch of flowers; another he chucked under the chin; at a third he cocked a roguish eye. In the best of moods he invited all the foreign correspondents present to lunch. In a body they moved on to a dusty little trattoria whose proprietor, trembling with excitement, rushed from house to house for extra supplies. The little inn's solitary waiter nearly died of stage fright.

Still expansive, II Duce plumped himself down at the head of a table between two women reporters, one from France, one from Germany, unbuttoned the top of his tunic, banged on the table with a spoon, shouted for food. He lolled on the table, leaning his head on his fist, twisting his head back and forth toward each of his guests. A messenger rushed in importantly, pushed an official message under II Duce's nose. II Duce glanced over it with a sleepy look, waved the messenger away. Eventually a mountain of spaghetti appeared. News to the foreign Press was the fact that II Duce is a dunker. With fine appetite he absorbed two plates of spaghetti and a helping of roast beef with peas. Into his glass of red wine he dipped crust after crust of coarse bread which he sucked appreciatively.

"The darkest clouds have rolled away," said he with a wave of his fork. "Final settlement of the war in Africa will be possible after the next session of the League of Nations in May."

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