Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  Foolishly, they hadn’t booked return tickets, as they’d left Australia with open plans, perhaps even entertaining the illusion that they had come home and there was no need to return to Australia. But at this outbreak, for the sake of the children, they decided to return much earlier than first imagined. With this decision, though, came an expensive flurry. Tickets to cross the world were harder to book, a rush of people crisscrossing the globe. Tickets, even those in steerage, became far more expensive, but they had to pay the price and deal with the cost later. Even then, though, the earliest available voyage was six weeks away. And with the seas already laced with mines, with passenger steamers converted to troop carriers, there was no certainty in a booking. Here it was, late October 1939, and they were only just underway.

  She looked from the water to Mount Vesuvius, lounging over the bay. The volcano’s fire had snuffed out, no longer smouldering or prone to ignite. She turned from the rail.

  They would be home for Christmas.

  This was the last she would look on Italy.

  The trip across the globe was contained – no great excitement and no great peril. On the main, the weather was agreeable. From Aden, the ship’s portholes were painted black so the ship’s lights wouldn’t alert enemy planes to attack. The ports they visited were hushed and muted; Colombo had nothing of the vibrancy Amelia had seen only a few months before, the sartorial flair of the men on the streets replaced by military uniforms.

  When they finally arrived in Brisbane, Italo suggested they stay a day or two, but she didn’t want to tarry; she had this great urge to be home, back with the children, on their farm. And she didn’t want to bump into Clara, if that were even remotely likely in such a large city. But they had some hours before their train departed, so they walked about the centre. Brisbane too had hunkered down, nothing on show except large flags hanging from the buildings, both British and Australian. For a weekday, the city streets seemed drained of people. The spans of the Story Bridge had met, but it was still under construction.

  That day, the trams weren’t working, so despite the heat they decided to walk to Roma Street Station. It wasn’t far, and they both agreed their legs could use the practice. But as they walked towards Queen Street, they could hear the noise of a great crowd. The street was lined with people, watching a parade of uniformed men. They stopped, unable to cross the street.

  ‘What is happening?’ Italo said to a man next to them.

  The man turned, jolted. He looked them up and down, at their latest European clothes, Italo’s dark mustard trousers and her shirt made from brightly coloured rayon. The man wore a dark suit, his brimmed hat a mismatched teal. Amelia guessed he was a bureaucrat.

  ‘It’s the Second AIF,’ he scoffed, as if this were obvious. ‘They’re leaving Queensland to go south for more training.’

  This explained the many flags they’d seen, hung for this celebration. Italo nodded, but the man continued to examine them. Amelia kept the corner of her eye on him, something untoward in his manner.

  ‘There are seventeen hundred men,’ the man said. ‘Once their training is finished, they’ll leave Australia for Europe.’

  Italo nodded, turned to Amelia and said in English, ‘I guess you’re right. We’d best be going home.’

  ‘Have these fools forgotten all the young men who died in World War One?’ she said, but softly and in Italian.

  To bypass the parade, they were forced to make a long detour, back as far as Creek Street and then across to Turbot Street, but eventually they arrived at Roma Street Station. Amelia was surprised – heartened, in a way – the station hadn’t been renamed.

  Nothing on the whole journey evoked the excitement she felt as the train came into Babinda. Her heartbeat surged. She pulled down the compartment’s window and hung out for a better vantage. She saw the children, three of them standing in a neat row, Flavio and Mauro, now clearly taller than his brother, and Marta between them. But they hadn’t seen her, although she waved a bright green handkerchief from the window. Lucia, her long grey hair pulled to a tight chignon, stood to the side, Ilaria in her arms.

  But when Amelia climbed down to the platform, Marta spotted her and ran. At first the boys, now both lodged in that time of youthful male reserve, moved forward like old men, but soon Marta’s enthusiasm infected them, or Lucia said something, and they ran.

  She knelt and caught Marta in her arms and pressed her lips to her forehead. Marta pulled her tighter. She looked up at the boys, who embraced and kissed their father. Ilaria stood beside Lucia, who was smiling, but, despite encouragement, Ilaria wouldn’t advance. She just pouted and held her poppet, screwed her left foot inwards. Amelia stood and Marta went to Italo.

  She kissed Mauro, then embraced Flavio and turned to Ilaria. She knelt, opened her arms, but Ilaria withdrew to the folds of Lucia’s dress. Chilled even in the heat of this day, she knew then how Paolo had felt twenty years ago, this bitter regret, this slap when Cristiano had withdrawn from him. But she had to pay this price, win Ilaria’s trust and then love. She went to Lucia, kissed her cheeks. It was only then it occurred to her that she reminded her of Frau Gruetzmann – her age, her blue eyes and her nature.

  ‘How you’ve all grown,’ she said, although Flavio hadn’t.

  ‘You all look so well,’ Italo said.

  Amelia’s grave worries lifted. She smiled and then began to laugh, which made them all self-conscious. Mauro asked questions of Italy and Italo began to answer. She stepped back. Marta was nine now, nearly ten, and boarding school agreed with her, refinement and dignity in her posture. She’d almost let go of being a little girl. And Mauro’s voice wavered, jumped between alto and basso, but she wouldn’t say anything to him about it.

  ‘Let’s go into Babinda,’ Marta said.

  ‘Bella,’ Amelia said, ‘we are tired. Let’s go home.’

  A wave of disappointment passed over Marta’s face.

  ‘And I can find your presents,’ Amelia said.

  Marta’s eyes bulged.

  Amelia felt calmer. They were all together. Nothing had been broken. Everything would be all right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Christmas came and passed, furiously hot. Flavio had managed the farm well, tended the growing canes with Italo’s care, everything on track for the September harvest. Amelia was pleased, and in the next few weeks she would book the cutters and reserve the mill, well in advance. Despite her absence, nothing had gone awry, and nothing could. At the end of the holidays, Mauro and Marta returned to boarding school but Flavio remained, as Italo still needed his help. And each day Ilaria kept her distance less and less. Amelia knew to give her time; it was all she could do.

  And soon the months began to pass again without any clear distinction. Since their return, she’d been unable to sleep well, their time in Italy disturbing, not at all what they’d hoped. Italy had been heralded as much changed, and indeed buildings had been built, and there seemed prosperity, and people were educated, but their views and recollections of events were often at odds with hers. Mainly, people were frightened to express their opinion.

  But they were home now, in her own bed, and yet even after six months her sleep was still disturbed, not by any recurring dream or concern, just some minor ill feeling. Instead of lying awake, she would rise and work.

  The cost of the whole journey had been high, that of the return voyage extortionate for a steerage cabin without a porthole. But after six months back in Australia, she blotted the wet ink on the ledger. Even after she’d paid out all the pressing accounts, they were just in the black.

  In the distance, just before dawn, the dogs began to bark. They were kennelled towards the main road, and something had disturbed them, most likely a possum, the scent alone enough to set them off. To blot them out she turned on the wireless on a small shelf to the side of her desk. As the valves warmed, an eerie yellow light rose from the rear of the machine, blending into her lamplight. The sun would soon be up.

&nbs
p; She looked over the figures. She’d even made some small way to paying off the mortgage for the new land. Whilst the finances weren’t where she wanted them to be, all the necessary payments had been made. Just none of the extra ones. She dated the ledger – the eleventh of June, 1940.

  A mosquito hovered over the page. She slapped her hand down, a slash of blood across the ledger. The insect had bitten her. She took off her glasses, rubbed her tired eyes. It was too late to consider going back to bed and sleeping.

  The dogs were still barking. She peered into the dark, her ghostly reflection moving in the glass. The declaration of war between Britain and Germany had made the whole area tense. Major bridges and oil depots were under armed guard. Two months back a young man, only eighteen, had been shot dead for not obeying a command to stop his van for inspection at the wharves in Cairns.

  The wireless had warmed. She adjusted the volume, nothing more than static. She laughed. She was too early. They weren’t even broadcasting yet. But the dogs were upset. Very upset. Well beyond a possum. She heard engines. At first the sound was like a car’s, but it grew into that of some heavier vehicle, roaring. And then it rounded the hill, the headlights swinging onto the road.

  She stood. There were two vehicles in convoy, moving at some pace, at least as fast as the narrow road would allow. Who the devil was that? She put down her pen, took off her glasses and descended to the entrance hall. She could hear an insistent tread on the gravel path, many of them, the groan of the garden gate opening.

  She held her breath. The feet continued. They spoke no words. Who the devil? At this hour. There must be an emergency. The boys were in Brisbane. Flavio was making enquiries about enlisting. Something had happened to them. She opened the front door, stepped out onto the verandah. There were five men, dressed in uniforms she didn’t recognise, rifles strung over their chests. She lifted the lamp higher.

  ‘Is this the house of Italo Amedeo?’ the first man said. He stepped into the light. He was in his mid-forties and of higher rank than the other, younger men, with more colour on his epaulets.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  ‘Call him to present himself.’

  ‘What is this about?’ she said.

  ‘I am Italo Amedeo.’

  Amelia turned. Italo was standing on the lowest landing of the stair, dressed only in pyjama shorts.

  ‘Arrest him,’ the man said.

  Two younger men barged passed Amelia to Italo.

  ‘Arrest him? …’ Amelia said. ‘Why?’ Her voice was shrill.

  ‘Italy has declared war on the British Empire,’ the man said. ‘You’re now an enemy alien.’

  He held some document, a warrant. Italy was at war. It took some moments for her to comprehend this.

  ‘But we’re both naturalised British subjects,’ Amelia said.

  ‘I have my orders.’ He looked to the men on the stair. ‘Put him in the truck.’

  Amelia gasped. ‘I won’t allow it.’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Italo said. He raised an open hand to calm her. ‘I’ll go with you.’ He looked directly at Amelia. ‘There’s some mistake. I’ll go and clear this up.’ He smiled. ‘No harm done.’

  Amelia exhaled. Yes. Clearly, there’d been some mistake. This was the best course of action. The men forced him forward.

  ‘At least allow him to dress,’ Amelia said.

  The first man looked at Italo and shuffled about. ‘Go and dress,’ he said. ‘You two – don’t let him out of your sight.’ He turned back to Amelia. ‘I have orders to confiscate any firearms. You’ll also surrender any torches, wirelesses or cameras.’

  ‘Wirelesses? Torches?’

  ‘Get them.’

  The force of his voice frightened her. Why should she surrender these things? But Italo was right. These men were brutes. Now wasn’t the time for argument. She went to the lounge room and took the two rifles from the cabinet. She felt their power, that she could take on these men and perhaps drive them from the property. She laid the rifles on the entrance hall table, went to the kitchen and unplugged the wireless. Lucia would miss it, her companion all day while she worked. She’d not surrender her wireless. She needed some contact to the world. Thank God the boys weren’t home and Marta was at boarding school. Only Ilaria was upstairs, asleep in her cot. The man stood glaring at the landing of the stairs. Two other men blocked the front door.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she said.

  ‘Where are your financial records?’

  ‘What?’ A new wave of panic passed through her.

  ‘You can either show them to me or we’ll tear the place apart to find them.’

  She stared at him. Her father had always said to know when you were overpowered. Without a further word, she mounted the stairs. The man followed but then more steps started, three others carrying empty boxes. In her office, she positioned herself in front of her desk to obscure the work she’d just completed. The wireless glowed on the shelf behind her. She pointed to the old ledgers, which were largely obsolete. One of the men packed them into a box.

  ‘I can’t run the business without them,’ she said, as a distraction.

  ‘Where do you file your correspondence?’

  This had now entered the realm of farce, though she made no attempt to discourage him, just pointing to a filing cabinet. He nodded, and again a man opened the drawers and loaded the files into a box. Once this was done, he ordered the men to remove them to the truck. They marched from the room. The man left too, and she followed them onto the landing, closing the door behind them, and down to the entrance hall. She’d saved her current work. And the wireless.

  ‘When will they be returned?’ she said.

  ‘You’ll be issued with a list of what’s been taken.’

  ‘You’ve no need to do this.’ Italo’s voice came from above them. It was booming in a way she’d never heard. ‘I’ve lived thirty years in this country, and now you put me in chains.’

  The men started to descend the stair. Italo was dressed in corduroy pants and a shirt and vest. But his hands were fixed behind his back.

  ‘Look what they’ve done to me,’ he said. ‘I’m no better than a slave. The Italians are just the Kanaka. We’ve worn out our welcome and now we should be dealt with.’

  ‘Mamma, Mamma.’ Ilaria stood at the top of the stair, looking through the posts.

  ‘Va a letto,’ Amelia yelled to her.

  Ilaria started to scream.

  ‘Just put him in the truck,’

  ‘My sons are in Brisbane, one applying for the Australian army,’ Italo said. ‘How can I be your enemy?’

  They pushed him forward. He passed her. Their eyes met. He was scared. She’d never seen Italo scared. What could she say? What could she do to release the handcuffs? Ilaria screamed, high and piercing, but remained at the top of the stairs, clinging to the posts, propelling herself forward and back, her cheeks reddened and wet. Italo stumbled, his balance gone from his restricted hands. One of the younger men pushed him through the door, out into the dark. She followed, the group of five men now encasing him as he walked. She could hear Ilaria’s screams, but she had to help Italo. There were more men standing in the gravel yard. They shone torches in his eyes. One pulled up the rear canvas of the truck.

  ‘In there,’ one yelled.

  But there was just a single metal step, and without his hands he couldn’t pull himself up. Two men stepped forward, picked him up and placed him in the rear of the truck. It was only then torchlight illuminated the interior. There was Gino Grossi, Burattini, Manny Pellegrino, Enrico Garofalo and many others of the Italian men of the area. Their faces were white, their eyes held wide. All their hands were behind their backs. The guards chained Italo’s bound hands to the truck. Amelia gasped.

  ‘Where are you taking them?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘You can’t just take him.’

  But the men w
ere done. They closed the flap of the truck. The dogs barked on. The engines started. She heard the truck’s doors slamming, the gears engaging as the trucks moved. She stood still. The truck carrying the men came at her, but she wouldn’t move to help them leave. The truck stopped inches from her, the heat of the engine foul on her face. The gears ground to reverse, the truck moving back and then pulling away around her.

  She watched them, the sound fading, the headlights dancing on the hills. She could hear Ilaria. Once there was nothing to see, nothing to hear save the barking dogs, she turned towards the house. She crossed the entrance hall. The telephone rang. Ilaria screamed.

  ‘Cara, stai zitta,’ she yelled, but it had no effect.

  She walked to the telephone cupboard.

  ‘Tell Italo to run,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Hide.’

  ‘What? It’s too late. They’ve been.’

  The line went dead.

  She stood, unable to hang off the line. Who was that? What was happening? Ilaria howled. She dropped the receiver, ran up the stair and swept her up.

  ‘Signora Amelia.’ The voice came from the entrance hall. Lucia stood, her long grey hair dishevelled, her body crouched and tense. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Italo’s been arrested.’ She must go, follow them, find where they’d take him. ‘Take Ilaria.’

  ‘Nonna,’ Ilaria said.

  Lucia mounted the stairs and embraced Ilaria, familiarity calming the child. There were voices, from her office. She ran the stairs to the room. The wireless had come to life. Italy had joined the war.

  This news was new.

  She turned off the wireless. She should have surrendered this, but it now had a value far outweighing its purchase price. She unplugged it and hid it at the back of a cupboard.

  She drove out to the main road. There was no sign of the trucks. She got out of the car and looked at the mess of tyre tracks, some peeling off towards Babinda, some to the south. She couldn’t read this. It was impossible to tell which tracks were which, and which way they had gone. She’d go to the Babinda police station and demand information. She drove as fast as she dared. The day had only dawned; blushed chintz scrawled across the sky. Was the riddle of this day written there?