Sweet Bitter Cane

by G S Johnston

  ‘Well, it must have been good,’ she said, ‘if you remember it.’ Her smile bloomed.

  And he smiled too. ‘Mum always said you eyeties knew ‘ow to cook.’

  ‘She was a kind soul.’

  He breathed deeply. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble. They shouldn’t judge everyone the same.’

  She suddenly felt suspended, unable to speak. Tears came to her eyes. She felt no embarrassment, no ability to stop them, and let them roll onto and down her cheek.

  ‘How are you keeping?’ she said.

  He lowered his eyes. ‘Dad died a few years back.’

  ‘I’m sorry. If I’d known …’

  He raised his lips to a smile. Flavio and Mauro descended the stair behind her.

  ‘Better get going,’ Jim said. He handed the box to Flavio.

  ‘Thank you for these,’ she said. ‘I’m most grateful.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll bring ya some more.’

  She hesitated. ‘We’re just about to eat. Would you like to stay?’

  He licked his lips. ‘Would I! But I can’t. Gotta get back to the little ones.’

  He was now father and mother to his younger siblings.

  ‘Another time?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, I reck’n.’ He looked to his feet. ‘All things will pass, Mum always said.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sure she was right.’

  He turned, that same loose gait so particular to this country, which seemed that evening to reiterate his claim there was nothing that wouldn’t pass.

  Flavio carried the box into the kitchen.

  ‘What kindness,’ Amelia said. She breathed deeply and served the pasta onto large open bowls to help it cool and carried these three on a tray to the table. She’d only just sat when they heard a car approaching.

  ‘Who’s that now?’ Flavio said.

  She looked at her watch. It was after eight at night. Peeved, she rose from her chair and marched to the door. She heard the car stop in the gravel yard, the gate open and close. Perhaps young Jim Harrison had changed his mind. That would be it. How lovely. Flavio came to her side. She opened the door.

  But two men stood before her. They were police officers. One was Sergeant Boyle. Her pulse quickened.

  ‘Good evening,’ Boyle said.

  ‘How can I help?’ Amelia said.

  ‘Are you Amelia Amedeo?’

  She winced. ‘You know I am.’

  ‘I have a warrant for your arrest.’

  The words fell on her. He handed her the document. Flavio stepped between them.

  ‘What for?’ Flavio said.

  Boyle ignored him. ‘You’ve been charged as an enemy alien. Will you come with us?’

  ‘Now?’ Amelia said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve just served dinner,’ Amelia said.

  ‘I can’t help that.’

  ‘I have a business to run.’

  ‘That’s of no concern.’

  ‘I have a five-year-old child. The housekeeper is away. I have no husband. I can’t just leave her.’

  ‘Then, if you insist, you’ll have to bring her.’

  She looked at the two men. ‘You must allow me some moments. You will wait outside.’

  The two men stood their ground, as she did. But she won. They retreated, allowing her five minutes, which she told them would be ten, at the least. She closed the front door.

  ‘How can they arrest you?’ Mauro said.

  ‘They have a document.’ Anger lodged in her throat. ‘I’ll not be dragged out of here. I’ll go with them.’ She turned to Flavio. ‘In the morning, contact the solicitor, tell him what’s happened. I’m sure this will be resolved. But it will take some time. Lucia will be back in about three weeks.’ She swallowed hard. ‘You’ll just have to cope till then.’

  Flavio turned to her. ‘Then leave Ilaria with us.’

  She shook her head. ‘You can’t care for her.’

  She went upstairs, took her small portmanteau and a larger case and in a fevered state packed clothes, some changes for Ilaria. What would they need? She ran to her turret, grabbed her dictionary, some pens and ink and paper, envelopes and stamps. Her only defence would be the written word, and she would damn well exploit them to the fullest.

  She went to Ilaria’s room. Tonight, of all nights, she’d fallen sound asleep, unaware of anything. Should she leave her? But they were boys, only boys. They’d be hard-pressed to care for themselves. It was dangerous to leave Ilaria. And how long would she be away? Italo had been in prison for nearly two years, and there was no sign of his release. She pulled back the covers.

  ‘My little one. We must go.’

  Ilaria raised her sleepy head, screwed up her face.

  ‘Where?’

  If only she knew. ‘Somewhere special. Come.’

  She dressed her, the child a floppy doll. But she didn’t cry. They were both too stupefied. She carried her downstairs, the child’s legs clutching her waist. The boys carried the two cases to the entrance hall. She turned to Flavio.

  ‘You must run the farm. You know what to do. You’ve done it before.’ She turned to Mauro. ‘Help your brother. Do as he asks, without question. Contact Maria. I know we have differences, but she’ll help you. And continue to help the other women. They’ll help you in return.’

  She looked from one boy to the other, their faces full of concern. What else should she tell them? They would need to do their own cooking and washing, and they had never done such things. They would find food, somehow, when they were hungry. The men banged on the door.

  ‘Your father and I love you. And we trust you. God bless you.’

  She took Ilaria’s coat from the hall cupboard and then her own. She hugged each boy, inhaled their scent. They kissed their sister and then her. She opened the front door and passed the men with no acknowledgement, straight on to their car.

  At the Babinda police station, many Italian women had been arrested, possibly ten. The women stood, guarded in the corner of the station’s antechamber.

  ‘What’s your crime?’ Amelia said to Elena Moretti.

  ‘I sent too much gold to Italy.’

  There was Teresa Garofalo, Anna Nanni, who had both signed a pledge to join the women’s fascist organisation. Maria Burattini was there. In fact, the school was the most condemning issue. But she was most surprised to see Maria.

  ‘But you’re Australian,’ Amelia said.

  ‘I’m suspected of having fascist sympathies.’

  She stared at Maria. She couldn’t help herself. If Maria had been arrested on such a charge, the gravity of the situation was worse than she’d imagined.

  After at least two hours, during which Ilaria sat quietly at her side, it was her turn to be interviewed.

  ‘You have publicly demonstrated your support for fascism,’ the police officer said. ‘You canvassed women to join a women’s fascist organisation.’

  ‘That was to facilitate opening a school.’

  ‘An exclusively Italian school.’

  She breathed. ‘Be that as it may, the internal squabbling laid all the plans to rest. It never happened.’

  ‘You sent your wedding ring back to Italy. You helped raise considerable amounts of money to support the Red Cross in Abyssinia and the house of Fascists Abroad in Rome. You’ve communicated with Europe via another address.’

  Ilaria whined. ‘Be quiet,’ she said. ‘We will soon go home.’

  But she spoke in English and Ilaria didn’t understand. It would be foolish to speak Italian in front of this man. Ilaria, perhaps stressed by the harsh tone of her voice, continued to whine.

  ‘We spoke of this misunderstanding,’ she said to the officer, ‘and even so, the letter was innocent.’

  ‘But it established an illegal line of communication. What was the purpose of your travel to Italy?’

  She would be careful with her words, not let her anger speak. ‘We have family there. We wished to see them.’

  ‘How l
ong have you lived in Australia?’

  ‘More or less twenty years.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He came fifteen years before me.’

  ‘Why, after all these years, would you pick such an inopportune time to travel to Italy?’

  She knew what he was alluding to, but she persisted. ‘It was between the planting and the harvest—’

  ‘Don’t be smart with me. The whole world was on the brink of war. It could be misconstrued.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘A show of your support for Italy. Do you deny you’ve sent large sums of money to Italy?’

  Her anger, laced with fear, rose. ‘What are you talking about? I have no money to send since the Australian government took it from our bank account.’

  He handed her a list of dates and transactions. They went back many years, almost the full time of her life in Australia, money sent to Pina. She tried to calm the agitation.

  ‘Is that a crime now – for a son to care for his mother?’

  ‘You deny they were sent to buy Italian government bonds to support Mussolini?’

  She paused. Did he know something she didn’t? ‘What she did with the money was her concern.’

  ‘There are reports you visit poor British-Australian households.’

  ‘As far as I’m aware there’s no segregation.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘They’re poor. I take food.’

  ‘We have reports you attempted to persuade them to fascism.’

  Her face contracted. What an accusation. She had no ready response. ‘I …’

  ‘Your English is perfect. You could communicate with them, coerce them to your way.’

  The bitter irony overwhelmed her. If she hadn’t learnt English so well she’d be accused of being a separatist. Because she had, she was accused of indoctrination.

  ‘We believe you’ve been sending messages to the Japanese,’ he said.

  Her mouth fell open. She felt dumbfounded. ‘What? How?’

  ‘From your house. From the roof of the tower. During the night. Flashing lights have been seen.’

  ‘Who said this?’

  ‘There have been reports.’

  ‘I work to run a farm. I can’t sleep because of the stress. How could I be signalling to the Japanese?’

  ‘The roof has a clear view towards the coast, to the ships offshore. Lights were seen flashing. A relay.’

  ‘This is ridiculous. Am I to bear responsibility for the Japanese attacks on Darwin?’

  ‘You support Italy. You support the Axis. It’s been noted your child doesn’t speak English.’

  She suppressed an urge to laugh, nervous as it would have sounded. What could she say to such absurd accusations? He looked at the papers on his desk, wrote something.

  ‘You don’t deny this support?’ He narrowed his lips.

  She glared at him. ‘Aren’t you Irish?’

  Boyle looked at her.

  ‘Even to my coarse ear, there’s still an Irish lilt to your voice, that lovely sing-song I’ve always enjoyed in your countrymen, that talks of leprechauns, of ghosts and forest queens. You cling to it. It reminds you of your father, who was surely born in Ireland. It’s part of who you are. Why shouldn’t I feel about Italy as you do about Ireland? You’re just lucky the Irish haven’t entered the war on the side of fascism.’

  He regarded her. ‘You’re true to the reports.’ He tapped his hand on a pile of documents. ‘A shrewd, cunning woman.’

  This was madness. But she saw no escape. ‘And that on its own would be enough to condemn me. Where will I be interned?’

  A half smile crossed his lips. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  She was taken to a cell at the rear of the building, with a single pallet bed with a hay mattress and a blanket, a can for a toilet, nothing more. She sat on the bed, placed her head between her hands. Ilaria stood in front of her, looking at her, her brow creased with confusion as a child’s should never be. Fortunately, the child had eaten. She hadn’t, but the nausea and stress quenched any appetite. She folded Ilaria into her arms. Her warmth was pleasing, soothing. Nothing she could say would change anything. The course was set by people far away.

  Fully clothed, she laid Ilaria in the bed and lay next to her. She covered them with the thin blanket. How these people could destroy lives with such flimsy evidence. She’d not quench her anger to sleep. A mosquito, lazy and loud, turned around their heads. She lay awake, waving it from Ilaria. It wasn’t a cold evening, but it would be long. Ilaria was exhausted and soon asleep, the one boon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The next few days were a series of claims and refusals. She asked to see her sons and was refused. She asked for information – how long they would be held, where they were being taken – and was told there was none. She asked to speak with the solicitor but was told it wasn’t possible. And in the evening, with no warning, the women and children were loaded onto a truck. At least their hands weren’t cuffed. Anna Nanni also had a young child. Ilaria paid her no attention. God knows where some of the other women’s five-year-olds were? Once the flap of the truck was pulled, the dark engulfed them. She held Ilaria tighter. Maria sat next to her. Amelia could see nothing outside the truck but had a sense of their movement.

  ‘They’re taking us to the station,’ she said.

  Maria raised her eyes to the truck’s ceiling, felt the sway and the jars against the road. ‘You might be right. We’ve just turned out of Munro Street.’

  After more turns and stretches, the truck came to a halt. The canvas flap was pulled back. They were at the station, unloaded from the high truck, stepping down a ladder. Amelia left Ilaria hanging onto Maria. When she was halfway, Maria guided her into her arms. None of the guards offered any help, not that she’d have accepted.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ a woman on the ground called to a guard, but he refused to acknowledge her, refused to answer her.

  ‘Porca miseria,’ a woman yelled.

  They were left in the stationary train for over an hour. No-one could move from their seat. There was no food, no water and little air, the barred windows sealed, and no access to a toilet. All the Babinda women were held together in one carriage. Perhaps there were other women from other towns in the other carriages.

  The train jolted to motion, moving south. Ilaria sat on her lap, her eyes wide, devoid of any notion of sleep. Maria looked out the window, into the darkness.

  ‘I don’t judge you,’ Maria said.

  Amelia glared at her. Were they to be honest on this journey? ‘But you have, for so long.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Maria sighed. ‘But I was wrong. You’ll have to forgive me.’

  They rocked with the train’s motion. ‘I won’t deny what happened,’ Amelia said.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to fall for a good-looking man. Nor the last.’

  Amelia looked at Maria, who paid no heed to her glance, her eyes fixed on the dark outside the window. What had passed between them was no more than a shopping list, the fewest of words. But with no more words (because what good did they really do?), Maria took Amelia’s hand. Hers was rough and work-swollen, but the warmth allayed a small part of Amelia’s fear. And Amelia understood the meaning of the intimacy – in some unspoken part of Maria, there was a similar story.

  They travelled in the dark until they arrived in Townsville and then were offloaded and transported to Stuart Creek Prison. Maria carried their bags as well as her own, while Amelia carried Ilaria. It was a grim place, cold and without relief. She wanted only to leave there. They were shown to a walled yard. Ilaria’s eyes bulged at the height of the sunless walls. They were to sleep in the open.

  The next morning – if there was a clean division between night and day – they were moved again. For two whole days, they travelled to Brisbane and then to the camp at Gaythorne, a hulking place with mounds of barbed wire. Having visited Italo in Hay, she was forewarned wh
at these places looked like, but this was brutal. They were housed together in a long hall, rows of beds and small dressers. Ilaria refused to eat and fought off sleep.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ Ilaria said.

  ‘My dear, I’ll never leave you.’

  Ilaria glared at her as if she too understood that nothing was certain. Eventually, guided by the rocking motion in Amelia’s lap, she gave in to exhaustion. Amelia laid her in the bed, covered her.

  ‘Everything we feel, she feels more keenly,’ Maria said.

  ‘I shouldn’t have brought her.’

  ‘You had little choice.’

  If she’d had little choice at the farm, her options were now more reduced. But later that evening, Amelia wrote to Clara, asked her to come to the camp and take Ilaria. Whilst it would betray Ilaria’s wish, she would be happier with Clara than here. But the next day the women were moved again. Even if Clara had received the letter and came to the camp immediately, she would have missed them.

  In the coming days, they travelled through a relay of camps, all through New South Wales, the further south, the lower the temperature, especially at night. She swathed Ilaria in layers of thin clothes, but still she shivered. Bewildered, in the middle of the night they changed trains at Tocumwal and crossed the Victorian border to Shepparton, then on to Rushmore. They were then loaded onto buses, heavily armed soldiers everywhere, and driven away from the train.

  They were even more bewildered when around midday the buses drove through the gates of Tatura Camp 3, a large barbwire cage, but flimsy like all the others she’d seen. They wouldn’t keep a cow at bay but for the guns. The perimeter was much like at Hay, snarling wire fences separated by fifteen feet of no-man’s-land, coiled with endless large loops of barbed wire. High towers stood around the perimeter, all manned with armed guards. Amelia wondered at the regular spacing of the towers, a fixed rhythm, but then realised they were probably set apart the distance someone could shoot a gun with any accuracy.

  A roar went up as hundreds of men crowded close to the fence to see the new female arrivals, so fierce it was as if there’d been some warning women were arriving. They glared at the women, some waved and some blew lurid kisses, clutched their groins with a free hand. How could they behave in such a lude manner? She felt a new level of fear; surely, these men could overcome these flimsy gates? The noise frightened Ilaria and she began to cry. Amelia picked her up, tried to cover her eyes and ears. For the first time since her arrest, raw fear swamped her anger.