by Greg McGee
And it would have if the Slovenians hadn’t appeared, still doggedly following their trail and closer than they’d imagined. There was a moment of shocked recognition, from which the Slovenians recovered first. Two of the Republican soldiers went down before they got behind the hut. Even then the Republicans outnumbered the Slovenians by about ten and their firepower and the fact they had cover soon drove the Slovenians back, leaving one of their number lying beside the track. As the Slovenians retreated a couple of the Republicans dashed sideways from the hut, then another two. The Slovenians, afraid of being outflanked, quickly melted away, pursued down the track by the gung-ho Republicans. They could hear the crackle of small arms becoming more distant.
Harry was looking at one of the fallen Republicans, a tallish smudge of grey and bleeding red on the clearing floor. ‘He might be about the right size. These are shot.’ He was indicating Don Claudio’s brogues. The stitching had separated from the upper along the instep of his left foot.
Joe pointed out that if the Republicans came back and found their dead comrade’s boots missing, there might be consequences.
Charlie was anxious too. ‘First village. I’ll get you some boots. Sure thing.’
Harry let the corpse keep his boots and they continued down the trail the Republicans had appeared from, adopting a new formation: Harry led because he reckoned that was where the danger would come from now that the Republicans and Slovenians had neutralised each other. Charlie was man in the middle, ready to chat if they met any potentially friendly Italian civilians, and Joe brought up the rear.
Watching Charlie and Harry in front of him, Joe wondered whether Harry had realised there’d be no more mingling with Italians, no more pretending to the Germans that they were civilians. Harry, still wearing his scarf and cap, looked like a brigand with bare calves and strange shoes. Charlie looked most like an ordinary Italian, albeit a filthy one, in jacket, loose trousers and buttoned-up shirt, and Joe was still comfortably lost in Bepi’s coat. But the rifles and the belts of ammo looping from both shoulders and crossing chests changed everything. They were now partigiani and if they were caught by the Germans they’d be shot, regardless of whether their true identities were discovered.
* * *
Early in the morning they left the wooded hills and began moving through cultivated fields, many just ploughed, which gave no cover, but were divided by hedgerows and clumps of trees that had turned but hadn’t yet lost all their foliage. The three men were ravenous and thirsty but the first farmer they approached ran away before Charlie could strike up a conversation. After that they were more cautious about being seen as they moved constantly west. By midday, on their last legs, they broke into a stalle that was separate from the farmer’s house. Joe milked three cows. They’d already been milked that morning but he managed to get the best part of a gallon into the bucket.
Late in the day they found an isolated hut which a farmer used to store field implements, hoes and rakes, so that he didn’t have to carry them out every day. Inside was a small sack of spuds that had been half eaten by rats. They dumped their arms and ammo inside and when Charlie whined to light a fire Harry said yes. Thoughts turned to what could be cooked, besides the spuds.
At dusk Joe and Harry left Charlie to set the fire and made their way back about a mile to a compound they’d seen that had chickens and geese. Smoke was curling from the chimney of the farmhouse so there was little likelihood of anyone coming out into the yard unless they made too much noise.
Joe let himself into the chicken run and looked for the fattest, slowest hen. As Ida had taught him to do, he put a calming hand on the centre of the bird’s back, where the softest feathers were. She relaxed and quietened as he picked her up in the crook of his elbow, holding her feet, and carried her out of the pen. Harry had been looking through the implement shed for an axe or a knife but had found neither. Joe was about to suggest they take the hen back to the hut where they could slit its throat with a bayonet, when Harry put his palm over her head, his fingers under her neck, and flicked his wrist so that she corkscrewed on the end of his arm. She squawked once and was dead, her head almost separated from the body.
Back at the hut, Joe plucked the hen and gutted it with a bayonet. They roasted it over the fire on a spit and wolfed it down with spuds cooked in their jackets in the embers, then tried to lick and wipe the chicken fat off their hands and faces.
There was room on the earthen floor for the three of them, Charlie in the middle, Joe and Harry on either side. Joe, nearest what was left of the sack of spuds, was woken by sounds that he couldn’t place. When he opened his eyes he saw a rat the size of a small possum looking at him with a half-eaten spud in its claws and chicken fat bubbling in its nostrils.
35
They left the hut at dawn and kept moving west through low rolling hills with cultivated fields and plenty of cover, keeping the saw-toothed range to their right and the snow-capped giants in front. Harry hadn’t mentioned Switzerland this time, or any plan at all.
During the morning it began to rain and the mountains disappeared. They trudged on for a while until a cold wind got up and icy water came at them horizontally. They took shelter in a dense copse for about an hour, but had to move again when big drops began to fall from the trees. They were soon wet through and very cold. Warm shelter overnight to dry themselves and their clothes was the only possibility left.
They hauled themselves along in such cold misery that Charlie stopped talking to himself. They passed the odd farmhouse and towards dusk knew that they had to choose one and take their chances. Joe thought of Bepi’s Chi lo sa and worried that they might strike a family Harry considered likely to betray them to the fascists. The way Harry now was, Joe couldn’t see him just shrugging and walking away, leaving them alive. Joe shivered at the prospect but knew they would have to do something soon. At that moment the rain thinned and he saw, in front of them, a town that appeared to be sitting on a low cloud over the foothills. It had to be Gemona.
They were so tired, hungry and wet that there was never any question, though Joe did try to rationalise putting the Bonazzons and Zanardis in such terrible jeopardy. That it would be for only one night. That they had no other choice, it was life or slow death. That even in his guilt and misery the thought of seeing Donatella lifted him.
By darkness they were close, and Joe took the lead down familiar farm tracks through the empty maize fields and skeletal vines towards the cobblestoned square bounded by the two houses. When they were fifty yards away, Joe handed his rifle to Harry and asked him and Charlie to stay right where they were until he called them in.
As Joe walked forward he saw lights on in both houses, but the sound of raised voices was coming from the Bonazzons’. He turned that way and crossed the end of the stalle, where he’d been hidden by Harry what seemed like an age ago. He heard a couple of muffled steps behind him before he was hit hard on the back and fell to the ground. Another figure came running from the entrance arch and he was grabbed by the arms before he could rise and dragged towards the front door. There must have been an exchange with the people inside because the door opened and he was thrown inside to sprawl on the flagstoned floor.
The first voice he recognised was Bepi’s, identifying his coat before he identified Joe. Then Donatella was there, with Bepi, helping him to sit up. There were a dozen men, including Bepi and Gigi, in the big room, and two young women, one of them Donatella.
Bepi and Donatella were explaining who Joe was to a man in a loose red shirt who looked much older than his photograph in the bedroom above. The left side of his face, from his hairline down into his collar, resembled loose plastic. Whatever had burnt him had taken his ear too. The way he held himself, very straight and still, made it difficult to tell at first that his left sleeve was empty.
Luca gazed down at Joe, now sitting up with Donatella on one side and Bepi on the other. Even without the photo an
d with all the disfigurement, Joe could see that he must be Donatella’s brother, the same wide face and dark eyes, though his were much fiercer. Donatella had said her brother was twenty-four, but they must have been punishing years. The big creased forehead that pressed down on Bepi’s brow was making itself felt on Luca. He had stubble and a moustache and something else that Joe had seen in the eyes of the veterans in Maadi and sometimes in Harry’s too — a glazed look, as if they were focused on something or somewhere a long way off.
Bepi said something to Joe in dialect, then realised his mistake and repeated it more slowly in Italian. ‘This is my son, Luca.’
Turned on Joe, Luca’s eyes were disconcertingly direct, no politeness, drilling for defects, full of contempt. Standing now, wet and dripping, Joe wasn’t sure what to do. Luca made no effort to offer his hand, only nodding at Joe as he asked, ‘Vuoi combattere i fascisti?’ Do you want to fight the fascists?
His lies had carried him this far, thought Joe, through three different deaths to this last-chance refuge. He was in no position to tell the truth. ‘Sì, certamente,’ he said.
He thought the time might be right to call Harry and Charlie in, but he was too late. They must have seen Joe being set upon and had worked their way forward while the lookouts were otherwise occupied. Harry came shouldering through the door, covering the room coolly with the semi-automatic, while Charlie followed with the rifle, yelling at everyone to step back and stay calm.
Bepi and Donatella stood up and moved back a couple of paces with everyone else. Luca stayed where he was, now right in front of Harry’s barrel, confused rather than fearful. In front of him was a man with German weapons and enough ammunition to hold off a platoon, wearing a cap with a red star and a tablecloth around his neck, but speaking English.
Harry pushed him in the belly with the Mauser. ‘Who’re you, sunshine?’
Luca’s eyes blazed and Joe could see things escalating rapidly. He told Harry that this was the eldest son of the people who’d looked after him, who’d saved his life, and pointed at Bepi and Donatella.
Harry looked around at the men and at Luca and smelled something in the air that he liked. ‘Ask him what this little shindig is in aid of.’
‘This is the Gemona del Friuli division of the Garibaldi Nationalist Brigade,’ said Luca when Joe translated the question. ‘I am its commander.’
‘Who the fuck are they?’ asked Harry.
Joe translated for Bepi, even though he knew Luca had probably understood the question. It seemed like a good way of keeping Harry and Luca from each other’s throats. There was a long silence as Bepi considered the question and looked towards his son.
‘Un po’ di riscaldamento,’ said Bepi finally, moving towards the cupboard where he kept his grappa.
* * *
Joe later thought that if Harry had any plan when he killed the Slovenians for their weapons, this must have been it: to meet up with a like-minded group who wanted to kill Germans.
The first thing Luca wished to know, after their glasses were filled, was whether Harry, Joe and Charlie wanted to escape from Italy or stay and fight, because if they didn’t want to fight, the Garibaldi Nationalist Brigade would commandeer their weapons, whether or not they agreed. Joe had noticed none of the men in the room were armed, and so had Harry. ‘Get your own,’ he said.
That appeared to be the answer Luca wanted to hear: to get three trained and armed soldiers into his group of well-intentioned and mostly middle-aged farmers and artisans.
The grappa seemed to burn from the inside and make them steam in their wet clothes. Even Joe had a second glass as Luca told them they were henceforth Italian. He’d arrange for a simpatico local priest to make forged identity papers under their Italian names. He raised his glass to Charlie. ‘Come ti chiami?’ What is your name?
That was easy. ‘Carlo Farinelli,’ said Charlie.
They all drank to Carlo Farinelli. Then Luca raised his glass to Harry.
‘Enrico,’ said Harry.
‘Rico,’ confirmed Luca. ‘We’ll think of your family name.’
They drank to Rico. When Luca raised his glass to Joe, out of deference he looked across to Bepi. Was Bepi prepared to countenance another Giuseppe in the group?
‘Gianni,’ said Donatella clearly, as if she’d been thinking about it for some time. The way she said it, it sounded like an American saying ‘Johnny’. ‘Gianni Lamonza.’
They drank to Gianni Lamonza and Joe, finishing his third shot of grappa and steaming like a locomotive, thought it was about as fine a name and as fine a christening as could be had. And to be given them by Donatella.
Luca had a question that was of great relevance to the Garibaldis. ‘How did you get your weapons?’
‘Courtesy of the Slovenians,’ said Harry, touching the red star on his cap.
‘Buoni comunisti,’ said Bepi approvingly.
Luca was incredulous. ‘The Slovenians gave you weapons and ammunition?’
Harry conceded that they’d needed a bit of persuading. Joe was fairly sure that Harry’s laconic irony flew right past Luca. He was less sure where the Garibaldis fitted into the political scheme of things but Bepi’s politics and the red shirt worn by his son might be a pretty good indication they were communist. Joe wondered what would happen when the Slovenians found out the Kiwi capitano who had killed three of their own was now fighting alongside their communist allies, the Garibaldis. On the evidence so far Joe thought it unlikely the Slovenians would just shrug their shoulders and say, ‘That’s life.’ If the Slovenians got shitty about the Garibaldis’ new recruits, how would that sit with Luca? Not very well was Joe’s guess.
All that was in the future. The here and now was rejoining the war. A different sort of fighting but the same war. The way he looked at it, beginning his fourth shot of grappa as Gianni Lamonza, it was an acceptable price, to stay close to Donatella. But when he looked across at her, she was still looking at Harry. Joe tried to read the expression in her eyes, but couldn’t.
Treviso 2014
36
By one o’clock in the morning, Clare had read almost a quarter of the yellowing pages, but seemed no closer to her ultimate quarry, the woman behind the red door in Dorsoduro. And something else came to her out of the instructions her father had left her, and the phraseology he had used: There’s no excuse for what happened, but there is an explanation, though lawyers always say that . . . She remembered enough from her short career in the law to recognise a classic plea in mitigation, delivered after a guilty plea or verdict had been entered. The deed was done, the crime committed: there was an explanation, but no excuse, for what had happened . . . But what had happened? What was he talking about? What crime?
The instructions had obviously been prepared before he left New Zealand, so he couldn’t be referring to the mystery woman, surely. He might be referring to his loveless marriage, but that seemed a bit metaphorical for the father she knew, who had never once discussed that with her. After so much time and so much pain . . . What else could it be? And if it did tie into the mystery woman, why hadn’t she appeared in his diary? If there was no woman, Clare’s actions in Venice were beyond forgiveness.
She couldn’t help skimming ahead silently through the shoe-leather stuff that didn’t much interest her: the details of her father’s journey by train back through Gemona to San Pietro di Livenza, where he’d presented his letter from Arch Scott to Aldo, the proprietor of a bar in San Pietro, and had been welcomed like a long-lost son. Arch Scott had obviously warned them that a Bruce Spence was coming, that he’d seen this boy play, because San Pietro had offered him a playing contract as soon as he arrived. That much might have been anticipated.
San Pietro’s plans for their first season in Serie A were in turmoil because the man who’d been appointed coach had lost his wife in the Gemona quake, and had resigned. So Bruce was also offered a c
o-coaching role.
That meant learning Italian, so he’d enrolled in a six-week course at the Università per Stranieri in Perugia, down in Umbria, to fill in the summer before the rugby season started. His diary became even more patchy and irregular down there but there was the occasional interesting bit.
June 12 1976.
There’s a General Election coming. Went for a run early this morning before it got hot, up Corso Vannucci and saw buses full of policemen armed with Uzis pouring into the buildings either side. They reappeqred this arvo, creating a buffer between the neo fascisti rallying in the Piazza Italia and the communists rallying in the Piazza Repubblica. I saw armed cops in New South Wales on the NZU tour, but they were carrying holstered pistols, not waving sub-machine guns in your face. I saw the hammer and sickle flag waving in the communist rally and something that looked like a swastika amongst the neo fascisti. Politics is different here.
There was a lot of guff about his preparation for the coaching role, writing down what he remembered about positions he’d never played, sending letters to friends who had played those positions. Far from rousing her father from his coma, his words threatened to put her to sleep, lulled by the comforting hum of the hospital. But once he got back to San Pietro and began the serious business of coaching, it got more interesting and funny, as her father described trying to get to grips with his Italian team-mates.
September 2, 1976.
I need to tell the guys a joke in Italian, so they know I’ve got a sense of humour. Rifi dropped off two more giant bottles in rope baskets last night, one of red, Merlot, one of white, Pinot Grigio. Rifi’s own, he tells me. I’m finding my ability to speak and understand Italian improves by the glass. Rifi is a prop by position and by nature — it’s amazing how you can come to the other end of the world and find that a prop is still a prop. Rifi is the pure heart of the team, always a big smile, not interested in politics - he might be unique in that respect — has hands like plates from pruning vines and is desperate to make me laugh.. So last night after he dropped off the wine, he acted out a carabinieri joke, virtually no words, just slapstick. I got it!
