First published by Allen & Unwin in 2019
Copyright © Text, Emily Conolan 2019
Copyright © Cover illustration, Sher Rill Ng 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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ISBN 9781760294946
eISBN 9781760871901
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Cover design by Karen Scott and Sandra Nobes
Text design by Sandra Nobes and Karen Scott
Set by Sandra Nobes
Vintage map on pages 278–279 © Lukasz Szwaj/Shutterstock and NZ map © dikobraziy/Shutterstock
Photo of Emily Conolan on page 284 © Nick Tompson
www.emilyconolan.com.au
To my Zia Rosella, for all the energy you have given this book. Grazie mille!
CONTENTS
Warning
Author’s Note
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
Fact File: Women in World War II
Fact File: European Migration after World War II
Fact File: The White Australia Policy
Fact File: The Snowy Scheme
Fact File: Women’s Rights
Fact File: Mental Health and Treatment
Did That Really Happen?
Journey Map
Acknowledgements
About the Author
WARNING : YOU MAY DIE WHILE READING THIS BOOK.
When you read this book, you are the main character, and you make the choices that direct the story.
At the end of many chapters, you will face life-and-death decisions. Turn to the page directed by your choice, and keep reading.
Some of these decisions may not work out well for you. But there is a happy ending … somewhere.
In the Freedom Finder series, it is your quest to find freedom through the choices you make. If you reach a dead end, turn back to the last choice you made, and find a way through.
NEVER GIVE UP. GOOD LUCK.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DEAR READER,
If you had a time machine and could meet anybody in human history, who would it be? Maybe you think of the big names, like Cleopatra, or William Shakespeare. I think it would be just as interesting to meet the ordinary people of those times – like one of the workers who built the pyramids, or who swept the floor at the Globe Theatre. We can only find out about most of these eras of history through writings and artefacts left behind. But the period in which this book is set – the tail end of World War II, and the decade after the war – is still within living memory for some people today, and it’s those people who have inspired me to write this book.
It was my own aunty, Rosella Dossi, who told me a family story I’d never heard before about an airman who was shot down over Italy and hidden in nearby caves. Following the scent of a good story, I met distant family members I’d never spoken to before, such as Joe and Dan Quinto, and heard their stories of being among the first Italian migrants who went to Australia after World War II. I also visited parts of Australia I’d never been to, and met the amazing people living there who told me tales from that era as gripping as the best fiction. My deepest thanks to all those who shared their stories with me. You can find their names in the back of this book.
I’ve always aimed to show history honestly, and this book is no exception. At the time when this story is set, racism was rife. The dangerous theories of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party had led, during the war, to the murder of millions of Jewish people, Roma people and people from other minority groups. The world was still reeling from the aftershocks of this atrocity. Yet despite this, racism existed in Australia after the war too, including towards dark-skinned European migrants.
As you read this story, you will encounter racism, such as hearing ignorant characters say that migrants are ‘dirty’ or ‘too thick to learn English’, or using the taunt ‘wog’ – a very racist slur in the 1950s against anyone from Southern Europe or the Middle East. (These days in Australia, the word has been ‘reclaimed’ – some people who are from Southern Europe or the Middle East will happily use it to describe themselves, though it’s probably best avoided if you aren’t from those backgrounds. It is still an offensive, racist word in Britain.) Racism was not okay in the 1950s, and it’s not okay now. We have come a long way in fighting it, but we still have a long way to go, and I hope being honest about our history will help us to achieve a better future. On this note, thank you, too, to the wonderful writer, museum curator and Indigenous Literacy Fund Ambassador Dr Jared Thomas for his editorial advice on the Indigenous references in the book.
Another big problem from the 1950s was sexism. Before World War II, women were expected to get married, have children, and be housewives, but during the war they were asked to take on challenging new roles – as mechanics, farmers, spies and more. Once the war ended, society expected them to go back to being ‘just’ housewives instead. In these sexist times, women were often not considered as capable or clever as men, which was very frustrating for many women – including the character in this story. (Don’t worry – in the story, you’ll have the chance to prove these beliefs wrong!)
People with mental illnesses or disabilities were also not always treated with the respect and kindness they deserved in the 1950s, which is explored in the story too. My thanks to Amelia Padgett, Josh Santospirito and Alice Downie for their reflections on the mental health scenes, based on their lived experiences.
It’s really a gift that we can still learn about World War II and everything that happened after it from the living memories of those who were really there. There’s a treasure trove of stories in every family that we don’t even need a time machine to access – just some curiosity to ask and listen. From the wonderful people I met while I was writing, I’ve learnt how having a strong sense of purpose can help you to overcome suffering and find freedom. I’ve learnt just how powerful a multicultural society can be when we work together. I’ve made deeper connections with people in my family because I reached out to them and asked to hear their stories. I’ve learnt how important it is to listen to all the living histories around us, while we still can.
EMILY CONOLAN, 2019
No one leaves their house at night-time. That’s one of the Germans’ rules. Their soldiers and trucks are everywhe
re in Lenola. Their uniforms are so grey and crisp that they look like figures snipped out of metal. When they speak, it sounds to you like green wood spitting and cracking on a fire. It makes your skin crawl to watch these soldiers, and you wish they would go away… but they won’t. They’re here because Italy changed sides in the war, and then the Germans captured the whole country. Now, anyone who fights back is killed.
Mamma says they follow a leader called Hitler, and that he’s as bad as the devil. She says the Germans are only good for making rules and shooting people – but that one day the fighting will stop, and the soldiers will leave Lenola, and Papà will come home for good, to share your little stone cottage on the hills overlooking the town again.
You can’t imagine the war ending. It’s 1943, and the war is half as old as you are – you’re eight, and it started when you were only four. The war is older than your sister Giulia, and your brother Tommaso, and baby Alessandro. Maybe it will never stop.
Tonight a summer storm has woken you in the middle of the night, and you want to wake Mamma too so she can sing one of her songs, but you know she’s tired from always needing to wake in the night to feed Alessandro. You want to stop thinking about soldiers and the war, so you multiply numbers in your head, which makes you calm and happy.
Suddenly you hear another noise: the growl of a plane’s engine. You kneel up in bed and press your face to the small window above your bed. There’s a loud boom in the sky, and a burst of orange light. The plane’s been hit! It must have been an Allied plane: they’re the ones fighting against the Germans. A plume of flame trails through the sky towards the ground. One hit plane means three dead people: a pilot, a navigator and a gunner. You cross yourself like Mamma does when she prays and shut your eyes tight for a moment, trying not to picture the dead Allied soldier you saw last month when you were out on the hillside herding the goats.
Just then, you see something pale and semicircular, like a second moon in the sky, drifting down towards the earth. It’s a parachute, from the plane! It’s getting closer!
Your heart starts to pound. If you ever find a parachute, bring it home, Mamma told you once. They’re made of silk. I could sew us all new clothes.
You picture your new dress falling out of the sky; imagine how nice it would feel against your skin, and how envious the other kids would be, dressed in their scratchy old sackcloth clothes. You’ll be able to get it, if you’re fast. It’s going to land just over the next hill.
In a flash, forgetting the Germans’ rules, you’re tiptoeing out the door. Dawn is close, the sky aflame. You sprint barefoot across the hillside towards the sinking second moon – but there’s a silhouette of another kid running in front of you. Someone’s trying to beat you to it! You lose sight of the kid, then of the parachute as it falls below the trees, but you keep running.
Soon you hear a moan, low and guttural. You freeze. Usually, if a parachutist lands in enemy territory, they will slash the ropes to free themselves, quickly bury the parachute, then run and hide. But this one must be hurt. Your stomach lurches with fear, and you panic. Being out at night-time is enough to get you killed. Helping an injured Allied soldier is enough to get your whole family shot. You remember the gallows in the town square, where the German soldiers execute any Italians who dare to disobey them.
Then you hear a boy’s voice – a voice you know. It’s your cousin Mario. ‘It’s all right, I won’t let them get you,’ he’s saying. ‘Where does it hurt the most?’
You tiptoe over the crest of the hill and see a tangle of ropes; a swathe of silk like the skin on hot milk; a crumpled dark figure; and Mario kneeling over him. Mario looks up and sees you standing there.
‘Get down here!’ he hisses. ‘Now!’ You scramble over loose rocks, your hand against the hillside for balance, until you arrive, skitter-bump, at Mario’s feet.
The parachutist looks pale and sweaty. One leg sticks out at a bad angle, making you feel sick. He’s gripping his thigh and, under his hands, a dark stain spreads. He groans through clenched teeth. There is no sign of anyone else from the plane.
‘This is bad,’ you hiss at Mario.
‘I know. Shut up!’ he snaps.
‘That’s blood,’ you say, feeling a shiver of fear as you realise that the parachutist’s thigh bone must have snapped and pierced his skin.
‘I know. I said shut up, all right? Let me think!’
You hop from one foot to the other, glancing nervously at the lightening sky. If you stay, you might get caught by a German dawn patrol. They’ll be combing the hillside soon enough, looking for the plane they shot down. You want to help this man – and if you’re honest, you still want his parachute too – but you don’t think you and Mario can save him alone.
‘I’m going to get our mammas,’ you say, turning for home. Mamma is a midwife, used to the sight of blood, and Zia Rosa is strong as an ox. They can decide if it’s worth the risk to carry him home.
‘Stop, no!’ cries Mario. He grabs your wrist. ‘I need you here – I think the two of us can do it together.’
‘Do what?’
‘Help him to Cat’s Mouth.’
The cave Mario’s talking about is only a few hundred metres from here, with needle-like rocks all around the rim, which is why it’s called Cat’s Mouth. The winding tunnels inside are known as the cat’s guts.
‘No, I’ll get our mammas to help,’ you insist.
‘We can’t wait that long!’ cries Mario. ‘By the time you get back, it’ll be dawn. Help me now!’
If you leave to get help from an adult, go to scene 2.
If you stay and help Mario, go to scene 3.
You break free of Mario’s grip and run for home. ‘I’ll be really quick,’ you cry. ‘I promise!’ Behind you, you hear Mario swear and the parachutist grunt in pain.
Your lungs are burning, but you push past the pain, also ignoring the rocks that bite at your feet. Every time your energy starts to flag, you remember the dark bloodstain and the parachutist’s anguish and keep running.
Everyone is just waking as you bang through the door. Mamma stares, astonished, then scrambles up off her bed, baby Alessandro still attached to her breast. ‘Where have you been?’ she demands.
‘An airman,’ you gasp, ‘was shot down in the night. Mario’s with him.’
Mamma turns pale. She hesitates for just a moment, and you know she’s thinking of the gallows in the town square too. But when she speaks, her voice is determined. ‘Giulia,’ she says firmly to your little sister, who’s peeking out from under her bedcover, Tommaso snuggled in beside her, ‘you mind the other children. I’ll get my things.’ Mamma hasn’t lost a mother or a baby in ten years, apart from the babies born months before their time. You know it was right to fetch her.
But, oh God, now you have to run back. You stumble, and Mamma takes your hand and yanks you along. The sun is rising and the clock is ticking: a troop of German patrol soldiers will have already set out. Finally, you and Mamma reach Mario and the crumpled figure.
The airman is wrapped head-to-toe in his parachute. He looks like a fly swathed in spider’s silk.
Why did Mario do that? you wonder, and then you see the blood all over Mario, and the tears running down his face. Your mamma takes him in her arms while you stand mute and exhausted.
‘You did everything you could, Mario,’ says Mamma soothingly. ‘You were so brave.’ She turns to look at you. ‘And so were you, my tesoro. But the parachutist … he’s dead.’
Your knees buckle and you start to cry, your sobs scraping at your throat.
‘The Germans will be on their way,’ Mamma says. ‘We have to go.’ She wraps an arm around your shoulders, and Mario stumbles beside you, grim and haggard. You leave the parachutist where he lies. If a patrol finds him, they’ll know someone cared enough to wrap him in his shroud. But they’ll never know it was Mario.
You finally reach home, safe from the soldiers’ patrol. ‘One day the war will end,’ says Mamma heavily
. ‘One day, you kids won’t have to suffer anymore, and our home will be peaceful and safe again.’
Whether she’s right or not, you know that you will never forget the airman who fell from the sky.
To return to the last choice you made and try again, go to the end of scene 1.
‘Okay.’ You nod to Mario, swallowing your fear. ‘I’ll stay. What do I have to do?’ He hands you a knife. ‘Cut his parachute off and tear some strips up for bandages. We’ll use the rest to carry him, like a hammock.’
You get to work with the knife, noting gratefully that there’s still plenty of fabric left for when this is all over – if you survive.
Mario is eleven, and he spends most of his time devising practical jokes, stealing food, and finding ways to drive you crazy. He’s tied your shoelaces together in church so you fell on your face when you got up to take communion; he’s tricked you into drinking muddy water, which he said was hot chocolate; and he’s spoiled plenty of games with your friends by pelting you with pebbles from a secret hiding place. He can run faster, fart louder, and spit further than you. You wish you could beat him, just once.
But here Mario is now, working seriously and carefully. He’s like the heroic army doctors you’ve read about, working in the field to save their men. He cuts away the clothes around the wound and ties the bandages you’ve made firmly in place. The parachutist is groaning and saying things in English. You catch him slurring an Italian word – is it ‘water’? – before his eyes roll back and his head drops to the ground.
‘He fainted!’ you tell Mario.
‘Oh damn, that’s not good. People can die if they lose too much blood. Help me roll him.’
Feeling shaky, you roll the man’s heavy, limp body onto the parachute. His arms flop like a doll’s.
‘Is he already dead?’ you whisper.
‘No, I can hear him breathing, but we’ll all be dead if the Germans find us, so hurry up.’
The parachutist is too heavy to lift, so you and Mario have to drag him along the ground. The parachute is slippery in your sweaty palms, and you think, This is ruining the fabric, then immediately berate yourself: Don’t be so selfish. Pull harder!
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