by G S Johnston
Clara’s face contorted in vexation. ‘I just don’t understand your support for these people. Can’t you see? He’s not talking about fascism as an ideology; he’s talking about indoctrination of children into a regime that runs on utter control, of all aspects of how people live, think and act.’
‘I don’t see he wants me to live, think or act in any way I don’t want to.’
‘This fury you have goes beyond that,’ Clara said. ‘Of all of us, all those years ago, you were the first to sound all praise for Australia. Australia is not a fascist country. I see around me the results of hard work and good fortune. You’ve changed, and I’m not sure I understand why.’
‘Don’t you remember,’ Amelia said, ‘when we left Italy, the smoke from Vesuvius? Italy smouldered. The war had snuffed her flame. You said I was a Bolshevik because I pointed out people were poor. These people, as you call them, canvas education for all. Prior to them, there wasn’t a way forward.’
‘But why do you care about that? We live here. We are Australian. And so are our children.’
‘I am not Australian. Every day, every time I open my mouth, I’m slapped across the face with it. You know how hard I studied English. Any book I could get my hands on, not a newspaper I haven’t pored over. And not a question I haven’t asked when I didn’t understand the smallest meaning. I slaved, much harder than I work to run this bloody farm. And I’m told by people I speak “so well”, as if it’s some bloody miracle. I speak English more correctly than half this valley.
‘But in some small way, every day I’m told to stay at heel. Stay with the Italians. Stay in my place. They ostracise the Italians and then blame them for keeping to themselves. There’ll always be a mispronunciation I’m reminded of. The shopkeeper will make a point of it.’ Amelia cupped her hand to her ear, screwed up her face. ‘“What was that? What did you say? Oh … flour”. How unforgiving they are. How I’m struck for such a sin as a pure vowel, as they diphthong and stretch and torture and strain their drawn, nasally tongues beyond recognition. All because they were born to an English-speaking family.’ She breathed out to steady herself. ‘I know they call me Mrs Minestrone – and they purposefully butcher the word. And they call me Mrs Kelly. Do they think I’m deaf? Do they think I don’t understand? They know. They just don’t care. I will not be washed away. I am Italian.’
Amelia stared into Clara’s eyes. Clara’s face relaxed. ‘I experience the same thing, but—’
Meggsy came to the kitchen with the remains of the morning tea.
‘Don’t you want to work as a teacher?’ Amelia said. ‘Earn your own living?’
Amelia had been too coarse, referring to Clara’s financial situation like this. They’d willingly supported her and the children, but this couldn’t go on indefinitely, and nor should it. Perhaps Clara needed to be reminded of that.
Clara breathed out. ‘Of course I do. But I just wonder at the cost of doing this. Now. Under these conditions.’
‘If there’s one thing cane farming has taught me, it’s that whatever the conditions, they are the prevailing conditions, and we must act accordingly.’
‘And if we want this school?’
‘If we want this school we must form a women’s fascist organisation.’
Amelia breathed fully and walked from the kitchen, away from Meggsy. Marta had been teaching her Italian, and she was unsure how much she understood. Amelia climbed the stairs to her office and closed the door. She spent the rest of the afternoon working, pushing this upset away. She couldn’t blame Clara for feeling uncomfortable with this close association, but if fascism was the way forward, then it was the way forward.
It was after dinner before she saw Clara alone.
‘Who will control this women’s group?’ Clara said.
Amelia pondered this. ‘I would be president. You would be secretary.’
‘Then to a degree, we could control the school, teach as we saw fit.’
‘Of course,’ Amelia said. ‘Once we have their support, we could distance ourselves.’
‘You’re proposing a fascist group in name only.’
Amelia thought of this. It would be a balancing act, but everything she’d done in this country had been on a tightrope. If this would win Clara’s support, she nodded.
Clara held her gaze. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘What must we do?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The telephone machine hung on the wall, encased in a purpose-built booth off the main entrance hall, the large wooden case supporting the two bells at the top, the round piece mounted below, the grim straight line of the lectern a mouth. Marta continually laughed at it, calling it il uomo del muro – the man on the wall. The next morning, Amelia placed some notes on the lectern. She lifted the earpiece, wound the lever and waited for the operator to come on the line and connect her to Gino Grossi, the president of the Babinda Fascist Organisation. The line went quiet.
She had a chequered history with Grossi. He was a cane farmer, a Roman, from Rignano Flaminio. She found those born near the capital often bore an arrogance. Many years ago, during a harvest season, Grossi had seconded a gang of men she’d contracted. He was desperate and promised to pay them a higher wage. At the time, he’d left her in the lurch, down four strong men. But if he’d only listened to her, she’d have also let four more men go to him on the proviso that the following week he’d return the eight men plus his men. But Grossi was headstrong and wouldn’t listen to a woman’s bargain.
Yet in early 1930, Grossi was one of the first to complain publicly about the British Preference League; they were backed by the Australian Workers’ Union and stipulated the Italian cane farmers had first to hire their members, all British Australians. Once the British were fully employed, the Italians could employ ‘foreigners’ to fill any remaining positions. Grossi was infuriated Italian landowners couldn’t employ Italian cutters. And the British Australians had set pay and conditions. If these weren’t met, the unions could boycott the farmer.
The Italian royal consul in Sydney sent a vice-consul to Cairns, a Count di San Marzano. He toured the area, spoke publicly against the League. The Italian government was willing to help the Italian farmers. Hence the Babinda Fascist Organisation was formed, Italo one of the first to join, now with well over a hundred members. As austere as it sounded, largely it was a type of business league, the manifestation of a communal urge to help one another, as the Italians had always done before the unions and the Preference League came lording to the fields.
Signor Grossi came on the telephone line. She suspected the telephonist would listen to the conversation and so kept it to a minimum. She’d like to meet with him and any other officials of the organisation to discuss a proposal. He had the grace not to ask for details and suggested he and Antonio Burattini, the secretary, could meet with her in three days time. She proposed convening at her farm at ten-thirty on Thursday morning.
When she emerged from the booth, Clara was seated in the lounge room, reading a book. She told her of the proposed meeting.
‘He has a high standing in the community,’ Amelia said. ‘If we can convince him, we’ll have a powerful ally.’
‘I find it hard to accept he’s so against the union movement. A worker has to be protected.’
‘It’s not like Paolo’s situation,’ Amelia said, feeling the unintended smite.
Clara was still sensitive. And she had a right to be. Paolo’s death was a tragedy, and the way it had been dealt with by the employer, the Australian government, was criminal.
‘Farming can’t run to such a schedule,’ Amelia said. ‘When the harvest is ready, it must be done. And a lot of the Italian men didn’t want these enforced conditions. The cutting season’s short, only twenty weeks. If they got the work done at one farm, they could start at another. They just wanted to make as much money as they could. They’d have worked by moonlight. They might have worked long hours, but they were fed well and paid. The British Preference League just wante
d to block the Italians.’
Clara’s face turned to stone. Marta came into the room, begging Clara to go and see an excitement in the garden. Clara bounded to attention. She turned back to Amelia.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said.
Amelia seethed. Why did Clara reduce everything to an opposition, as if the Babinda Fascist Organisation were a foe, not a potential friend? So she poured out her thoughts to Italo that night, when they were alone in bed.
‘Give her time,’ he said.
‘She’s so prone to melancholy.’
‘She’s had a lot of change.’ He was silent. ‘We have each other. She’s lost that.’
‘She needs employment. The school won’t happen unless we’re totally committed.’
‘Then she’s your greatest ally.’
She failed to see how he could think this when Clara’s opinion vacillated. ‘How do you arrive at that conclusion?’
‘Her son will be a doctor …’
The statement caught Amelia off guard. ‘And? …’
‘Could you imagine such a thing in Italy?’
Amelia thought of Cristiano. What would his life have been there? Would he have been able to achieve this? She dismissed the thought. ‘He’s bright. He works hard—’
‘There’s no doubt, but Clara has fought to clear the way for him. Such a thing … at university, a doctor.’ He smiled. ‘Your school’s a noble idea. She’ll fight for you.’
‘She doesn’t seem to share the excitement.’
Italo looked at her. ‘She’ll come around.’
His face relaxed, was tender. He kissed her. She wanted to sleep. But a flicker ignited a heat she’d almost forgotten, and she returned his enthusiasm.
Three days later, Gino Grossi filled the lounge room. He was taller than Italo, broader and a much heavier set. He had a fair complexion, a reminder of his Roman ancestry, and sharp hazel eyes, but his hair had greyed completely, though he was only in his mid-forties. It surprised Amelia, especially when she’d first met him so many years ago, that he was unmarried. At first she’d suspected some sorrow, a death perhaps, or that he was a difficult man. But it appeared his unmarried status was merely the result of few women in the district, especially Italian women. His voice boomed with authority.
He was accompanied by Antonio Burattini, the secretary of the Babinda Fascist Organisation. He too was a tall man but slenderer. He was accompanied by his wife, Maria, who hadn’t spoken to Amelia for many years. Why had she come?
In Clara’s presence, an air came over Grossi, something Amelia had never seen before, making him gracious and gentler. There was a falseness to it, as if the gentility he portrayed came with effort.
Once they were seated, Amelia went straight to business and explained the idea for the school. She couched its objectives in succinct terms borrowed from Chieffi: the involvement of Italians abroad in Italy’s glory, that education for all was at the heart of the Italian government. She added they’d met with Chieffi, and he was supportive of the idea. Grossi was silent, his attention locked in his thoughts until he breathed out fully.
‘Let me first say what an admirable ambition this is. A school such as you’ve described will provide a service missing from the area, a great addition to our community.’
‘Clara would move here to take up the position of teacher.’
Maria Burattini wrote something in a notebook, her eyes beady and withdrawn to avoid Amelia’s.
‘It’s unfortunate you didn’t speak with us first,’ Grossi said. ‘The Babinda Fascist Organisation can’t support the formation of a separate women’s organisation as you’ve described. We derive our power from solidarity. Such an act, a separation, would be a dilution.’
‘But Chieffi was clear it had to be a separate organisation.’
‘I think you may have misunderstood him.’ He breathed out fully. ‘We’ve been encouraged to set up a women’s organisation but, to be honest, there hasn’t been the time or an idea to focus the interest. The school is perfect. We can offer you support and guidance, even financial assistance. But the women’s group would have to be under our control.’
Amelia felt out of her depth, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at Clara. And that infernal woman kept writing in her notebook. ‘What would we need to do?’
‘Firstly, you’d need to demonstrate there’s interest. The simplest manner would be a petition, signed by people willing to join.’
‘This should be an easy matter,’ Amelia said. ‘Many complain their children can’t speak Italian.’
Amelia looked at Clara, her face set stone.
‘From the group of supporters, you’d need to hold elections for a president, a secretary and a treasurer. Once these office-bearers were in place, we could acknowledge the group.’
Amelia heard the front door open. Italo came into the room, still dressed in his work clothes. He stood in the lounge doorway. He’d come from the field without washing, and it was only midmorning. He’d removed his work boots. Something was wrong. Amelia’s heart rate rose.
‘I just heard on the wireless,’ Italo said. ‘Haile Selassie has fled Abyssinia. The Italian forces have taken control of Addis Ababa.’ He paused. ‘Italy has won the war in Abyssinia.’
The room froze. This was momentous. Despite the League of Nations’ trade sanctions and the world’s condemnation, Italy had won. Amelia flooded with pride. Italy was an empire again.
‘This is a fine thing,’ Maria Burattini said.
Grossi rose from his seat. ‘Il Duce is unstoppable,’ he said. A smile, spirited and broad, spread across his face. ‘Ladies, I hope you’ll understand, as president of the Babinda Fascists, there are things I must do. Now this momentous victory is secured, I can say more than ever we support an Italian school.’
He strode to the entrance hall as if there were a fire. Amelia followed him, handed him his hat and coat, and he prepared to leave. Italo opened the door.
‘I’ll be in touch about the particulars,’ Grossi said to her. He turned to Clara. ‘How long are you in the area?’
Clara stepped back slightly. ‘I’m not sure. But long enough to have this planning underway.’
‘Then, I hope to see you again.’
‘I’m sure we will, with this project.’
How curious he should initiate this. It was far too early for Clara, and Amelia knew she wouldn’t find a man like Grossi interesting. But with that, he left the house, with Burattini and his wife close behind.
Amelia looked at Clara and then to Italo. Both appeared perplexed by the hasty conclusion to their meeting.
‘I fear this will make our position in Australia harder,’ Clara said.
‘What do you mean?’ Amelia said.
‘Italy can no longer be considered an ally of Australia,’ Clara said.
The three stood in silence. Could Clara take no joy from this? Her expression was set hard. Then Italo excused himself, said he must get back to the field.
‘This is momentous news,’ Amelia said.
‘These demands by the Babinda fascist group are too tight,’ Clara said. ‘The school will be controlled.’
Amelia breathed in. What would ever lift this weight from Clara? She would have to remain calm.
‘On the contrary,’ Amelia said. ‘The enthusiasm for the victory in Abyssinia will help us. It will lend the school the support it needs from wealthy Italian people. And once the school is open, we can establish and maintain a distance.’
‘You seem so sure.’
‘I know these people. We must do what Grossi suggests, seek out women for the organisation. Once we have demonstrated this, we’ll have something to bargain with.’
A flurry of joy circulated the valley. In the market, Amelia saw pride in the Italians’ steps. The Italian Journal reported something long lost had been regained. And in quieter conversations, people wondered what else Mussolini would achieve.
While Amelia delivered food parcels to the area,
she and Clara carried their petition from Italian farm to Italian farm. Amelia had no idea how they would be received, but the women opened to her in a way they hadn’t for many, many years. They signed.
And when the word began to circulate, women came to her, seeking out the petition. Within a week, they had the signatures of over a hundred women, pledging to join the women’s fascist organisation. As a proactive step, they also took the names of people who would enrol their children. She wrote to Chieffi, affirming they had the interest of at least thirty pupils willing to pay five shillings a week for lessons. Whilst she’d always been hopeful, the warmth of the response surprised her.
When Amelia telephoned Grossi with this news, he was too busy to meet with them.
‘This weekend,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a celebration at the Italian Club for the victory.’
‘We’ll all be there,’ Amelia said.
‘Perhaps after this glorious evening, there’ll be more time.’
Of course, the celebration of the victory took all precedence, but did she detect something else in his voice? Amelia was busy. Always. But if something demanded her attention she would find the time to address it. This tardiness in Grossi carried something else. She wasn’t sure what. But she had no way to press him. She would just have to wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Italian Club was built on a small pocket of land near the bridge across Babinda Creek, which flowed from the boulders around the outskirts of the town and to the sea. The weatherboard building was like a church hall, finished off with a gabled corrugated iron roof. Amelia and Clara climbed one of the two sets of opposing steps leading to a small portico with a matching tiny roof, whereas Italo took the other side. They met in the middle, under the portico.
‘What a surprise seeing you two here,’ Italo said.
‘Go on with your foolishness,’ Amelia said, walking directly to the hall, but Clara stopped and laughed.
The hall was long, perhaps thin, casement windows along either side. At the far end, draped across the stage’s proscenium, was a large tricolour flag. The stage was set for speakers, a desk and chairs and more flags. Behind them an orchestra was arranged, as dancing and singing were requisite for any Saturday night at the Italian Club. Chairs lined the perimeter of the hall.
