Move the Mountains

by Emily Conolan

You and Mamma are hanging out the washing together one morning when you make your announcement. ‘Mamma,’ you say, ‘you’re going to need at least one million lira to build a new home, and I’m going to get it for you.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ she says, shaking her head.

  ‘No, it isn’t – I’m going to follow Mario to Australia. I’ll work on Charlie’s farm to make the money.’

  ‘As if university in Rome wasn’t enough, now you want to leave us and sail across the world?’ she cries. ‘You’ll never make it! Everything we do is doomed!’

  You don’t reply. Doomed or not, there’s no point arguing about it. You know what has to be done, and you’re going to do it.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, at the docks in Naples, Mamma hugs you tight and sobs. ‘Forgive me for being angry with you,’ she says. ‘If I can take the curse myself, I will. I’ll take all the bad luck for our family.’

  You feel like your heart might break. ‘Mamma, we’ll be all right,’ you insist. ‘All of us.’ And you almost believe it …

  She shrugs, her eyes downcast. ‘We’ll see,’ is all she says.

  As you kiss your mamma and each of your siblings goodbye, you try and imprint upon your mind the shape of their cheeks, the smell of their hair, the exact shade of their eyes. You want to squeeze them to your chest and never let them go. But then you hear the honk of the ship’s horn, and you have to turn and walk away.

  YOUR SHIP IS just beginning to heave and plunge as it reaches open water. The land is a distant brown smudge on the horizon. Your whole life was contained in that little patch of land, now getting smaller and smaller until it’s gone. How can something so important just vanish so quickly?

  You look down at your hands gripping the railing, your new flowery dress whipping in the wind. Mamma sewed it for you from a tablecloth, yet she made it with pride and care. You have no money left after buying your ticket, so everything depends on finding Charlie and Mario, or someone who’ll give you a job.

  With every rise and fall of the ship your stomach lurches with seasickness, excitement, or both. This is my life now, you tell yourself firmly, and you square your shoulders, feeling the wind blow your hair back from your face. It’s mine alone, and I decide what happens to me.

  That night, in the ship’s canteen at dinnertime, you find a quiet spot at a table in the corner, take out a pencil, paper and map, and begin to calculate your route, just as Charlie showed you all those years ago. One of the crew told you the speed of the ship earlier, and you worked out the direction the ship is travelling from the position of the sun as it set. You’re absorbed in your calculations, and only look up when a shadow falls across your paper.

  It’s a barrel-chested man with small glittery eyes and bristly white hair. He smells of sweat and cologne. There’s a little drip of gravy on the front of his white shirt. ‘Hi, honey,’ he says in English – but not Charlie’s English: this man speaks as though he has a yawn in his mouth that won’t quite come out.

  Maybe he’s American, you think, and you notice his belt buckle, which is gold and shaped like a bull’s skull, glinting under the overhang of his belly.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ he says, and without asking he jams himself down next to you on the bench seat, so that you have to edge up to the wall to avoid touching him. You’re trapped. ‘Well, looks to me like you’re doing some cal-ker-lations,’ he says, rubbing his chin and not even looking at the paper. ‘Aren’t you the clever one. My name’s Bob – Bob Dawe.’

  You stay silent. Perhaps he’ll think you don’t speak English.

  ‘You … speaky …’ – he mimes something that looks to you like a duck’s bill quacking – ‘Eeng-lish?’

  You almost burst out laughing, but just shake your head tersely.

  ‘Hah!’ he cries, elbowing you hard so that your pencil skids across the paper. ‘You musta understood me to reply, am I right?’

  You just want him to go away. ‘Okay. I do “speaky English”,’ you tell him.

  His eyes narrow, as if he’s not sure whether you’ve just insulted him. ‘Look, miss, d’you want a job or not?’

  You’re taken aback. ‘What job?’

  ‘I’ve got some business to do on this ship – nothing your cute little brain couldn’t handle, just a bit of adding and subtracting.’

  You loathe this man, but you think of the one million lira you need to save to send home to Mamma. You have nothing else to do with your time on this trip, and if your ‘cute little brain’ could earn you some money it might be worth spending time with this bozo.

  Just then a blonde girl a few years older than you walks by, carrying her dinner. She points at the man and rolls her eyes, as if to say: What a loser, right? You wonder if she might rescue you from this guy if you beckon her over.

  ‘You want the job or not?’ the man repeats, leaning closer.

  If you say you’ll take the job, go to scene 10.

  If you try to get away from him, go to scene 13.

  To learn more, go to Fact File: Migration after World War II, then return to this page to make your choice.

  You remember Charlie telling you about the Russian Night Witches, on their daring do- or-die missions. If they can do something so wild and glorious then so can you. Australia, here I come. It takes you another week to work up the courage to tell anybody your decision, though.

  ‘First university,’ wails Mamma when you finally tell her, out in the garden one morning, ‘and now the other side of the world! You were always so independent. I should never have let you go to school with all those boys!’

  ‘Mamma, that’s ridiculous,’ you argue. You know she’d like you to stay, but you also know your independence is not a bad thing, and that it has nothing to do with the boys you went to school with. ‘I’ll telegram Charlie on the same number Mario used; you know he’ll take care of me. This is a great opportunity to see the world, and I’ll make money to take care of you. Don’t let’s argue,’ you say, gently taking her hand.

  At that, she starts to sob, and you cry too.

  You take a deep breath and try to speak normally. ‘I’m going to Naples today to see about my ticket. But the boat won’t leave for another couple of weeks, all right? I’ll be home tonight to spend time with all of you.’

  ‘I’ll pray for you,’ is all Mamma can manage.

  You tell Giulia next, and see a flame you recognise ignite in her eyes at your news. Together, you tell Tommaso and Alessandro, whose eyes widen like saucers. You send them inside to help comfort Mamma, feeling glad you won’t be leaving Mamma alone, like Mario’s poor parents. But you’re more determined than ever to get to Australia.

  At Naples, you approach the shipping headquarters and look up the schedule for the sailings this month. There’s a tap on your shoulder and you spin around to see a well-dressed man, short and balding, clutching his felt hat in both hands.

  ‘Excuse me, signorina,’ he says, ‘but I noticed you were looking at these voyages. You aren’t thinking of sailing to Australia, by any chance?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ you say cautiously, wondering what he wants.

  He opens his palm to show two tickets, first class, with exactly the dates you were looking at printed on them. ‘My wife has fallen ill and we can’t go to Australia as we were hoping,’ he stammers.

  ‘Oh dear,’ you say, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the man and a flicker of hope that you might be about to get a really good deal. Could it be that your luck is finally changing?

  ‘We were hoping to sell them – not for the full price, of course, but I’m assured they can be transferred to another passenger’s name with very little trouble,’ he says, nodding towards the bookings office.

  ‘I only need one,’ you tell him. ‘How much?’

  ‘Would five thousand be too much?’ he suggests. Five thousand lira, to go all the way to Australia first class! That’s an incredible bargain!

  The money changes hands. You thank him profusely, wish his wife a speedy recove
ry, and hurry to the bookings office to have the ticket put into your name.

  But the bookings officer flips the ticket from side to side and snorts. ‘Miss, this is a fake,’ he tells you bluntly. ‘Who sold you this? I hope you didn’t pay much.’

  The whole world slows down for a few agonising seconds as you process what’s just happened. No. No. No, no, no! You stumble out of the office, your horror slowly turning to fury. There’s not enough of your card-game money left to buy another ticket. You cheated at cards to get the money, and now you’ve been cheated out of it yourself. Maybe it was all I deserved, you think bitterly.

  Then you reach into your pocket and your fingers brush something warm, heavy and round. Charlie’s golden compass. You smile. It’s valuable. There must be a pawn shop somewhere in Naples, you think, or maybe a jeweller will buy it. It would be so sad to part with it – but what other options do you have?

  You are walking down the street when a man steps out of a doorway and grabs your arm, hard. You gasp, and turn to see Carlos the card player. ‘Hello there,’ he snarls. ‘You’re a long way from Lenola.’ Your heart is hammering. You try to step back from him, but he won’t let go. ‘I’ve been thinking about you since our last game,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

  You twist out of his grip and run for it, fast as a rabbit, crashing into an outdoor coffee table and hearing the sound of breaking plates and screams behind you. You glance behind you to see Carlos right on your tail.

  You see an alleyway, swerve left, and sprint down it, only to realise it’s a dead end. Desperately casting about for a doorway, a ladder, a gate, you spy an open second-floor window above you and jump up onto the first-floor windowsill beneath it, hoping you can climb up. Carlos’s hands grab your ankles, but you manage to fight him off, kicking him squarely in the face. You hear him roaring and cursing you. You grab hold of the drainpipe with one hand and the top of the windowsill with the other and scrabble upwards. You’ve nearly reached the second-floor window when, with an awful popping wrench, the drainpipe starts to peel away from the wall. There’s nothing left to grab hold of. Your limbs windmill through space before you hit the cobblestones with a thump.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to the end of scene 7.

  You look away from the blonde girl, back to Mr Dawe. You can’t afford to be picky about your first boss, or to turn down money when you’re dirt poor. You’re wearing something made from a tablecloth, for goodness sake.

  ‘I accept,’ you tell him. ‘Adding and subtracting are no problem for me.’

  ‘Then you’d better add a little smile and subtract your suitcase from the dorm you’re in, ’cos I’m moving you to your own cabin in first class, baby!’ he crows.

  Oh no, you think. When you first came aboard, you envied the rich passengers in first class. But you’d rather not be neighbours with this man. ‘Thank you, but I don’t want—’ you begin.

  The smile vanishes. ‘In my country,’ he snarls, ‘polite people accept others’ generosity.’

  It’s clear he will take back his job offer if you don’t agree. ‘Uh, okay then, thank you … sir,’ you stammer, wondering what else this strange man may demand of you.

  Not that it isn’t nice up here, you tell yourself as you carry your battered suitcase down the plush corridors in first class. If I can work as much as possible and see him as little as possible, I’ll come out of this all right.

  That night, you write a letter to Mamma at your new desk, looking out a porthole to the moonlit sea and stars. You decide not to mention that your new boss is a bozo with a mercurial temper; Mamma needs to hear some good news.

  Dear Mamma,

  You won’t believe it, but within a few hours of leaving port, I’ve landed a secretary’s job for a wealthy passenger and a private cabin in first class!

  I know times have been hard for our family, but I’m starting to feel that I can change our luck for the better. Don’t you worry about the future, Mamma, because I’m taking care of it for all of us. I promise that I will send you everything you need and more.

  Can’t you just imagine the look on Charlie and Mario’s faces when I surprise them by showing up in Australia! I will think about it when I’m falling asleep, and of course I think of you, dearest Mamma, and Giulia, Tommaso and Alessandro too.

  The next morning, you’re woken by a pounding on the door. You open it a crack, and Mr Dawe barges in. ‘I need a key for this room,’ he huffs, hefting an armload of papers onto your desk.

  Uh, no, you don’t, you think in alarm, standing there in your nightie with the sheets clutched around you.

  ‘Now, your job for today is to go through these records, calculate the profit, and convert it into pounds. Can you handle that?’ You nod. ‘Twelve pence to the shilling, twenty shillings to the pound,’ he snaps and throws a newspaper page of foreign exchange rates at you. Then he stalks out.

  You dress hastily then get straight to it, poring over his books.

  There’s something very suspicious about this whole business, you muse. He’s trading in something, but he never says what. He seems to be moving huge sums of money in and out of different bank accounts all over the world, but they’re all under different names. How can he have access to them all?

  You shrug, and get down to work. You need the money, and so long as he leaves you alone with your calculations, you won’t complain.

  On the third day, Mr Dawe gives you a long list of food items and quantities. ‘Today’s job,’ he says. ‘Halve all the quantities of food on this list, and work out how much they’d sell for based on this list of prices.’

  You finish the task quickly and don’t question it, until the next week, when he sends you down to the kitchen to pick up a case of red wine from the cook.

  By the back door to the kitchen, you see the blonde girl again – the one who rolled her eyes at you that night Mr Dawe first approached you. This time she’s shouting and waving a finger at the Russian cook, and you marvel at her nerve.

  ‘Why are we on half rations?’ she yells in English. You can spot her German accent straight away and it makes you shudder. You can’t help but remember all those months you spent during the war, when German troops had taken over your very home. You can see Mamma’s tear-streaked face and hear her words: The Germans are only good for making rules and shooting people. You shake yourself out of it and concentrate on what the blonde girl is saying.

  ‘There are three hundred and twenty people in the second class, and we are starving on what you give us – starving! It’s not possible we have run out two weeks into the voyage – or if we have, you must admit it, and go to the nearest port for more!’

  Half rations? you think, remembering the list of food items you had to halve and calculate the profit on. You peer past the cook to see what’s in the food stores. Rice … salami … oats … tinned fish … all the items you were halving.

  So that’s what Dawe’s up to, you think. He’s going to keep back half the food that these passengers have already paid for, and sell it in Australia for profit!

  You almost say something to the blonde girl, but decide to keep your mouth shut until you’ve figured out your next move.

  Are they really starving? you think as you climb the stairs to first class without the wine, feeling shaky. Was this my fault? No, I was just doing what I was told. I didn’t know the consequences.

  But now that you do know, you realise it gives you an advantage over Mr Dawe. You’re pretty sure withholding rations to sell for profit is illegal – and the captain is probably in on it too. Mr Dawe must have thought you were too naïve to figure it out.

  Now, you could either take those numbers to the angry blonde girl downstairs and give her some evidence to back up her claims, or … and you get a little shiver of power as you think this … you could blackmail Mr Dawe into giving you a share of those profits. Less than twenty per cent of that total you calculated would be enough to pay for Mamma’s whole house by the time yo
u reached Australia.

  You wanted to make your fortune, a quiet voice reminds you. Why work for crumbs when you could take a slice of the cake?

  What will you do?

  To try to persuade Mr Dawe to give you a share of his profits, go to scene 11.

  To take the books downstairs and expose Mr Dawe’s scheme to the blonde girl, go to scene 12.

  All right, you tell the little voice inside you, this is where I get a share of the wealth. You’re a bit worried about the passengers in second class – it’s horrible that they’ll be on half rations – but you don’t think anyone will actually starve. In wartime things were so scarce that you got through many days on just hot water and boiled cabbage.

  You think about how to approach Mr Dawe. You’re doing something illegal, and if you don’t give me a share of the profits, I’ll report you. Being able to say that to this arrogant man is going to feel so good. Not just a cute brain anymore, am I, Mr Dawe? you’ll say with relish, and the first thing you’ll do in Sydney is send home all that money to Mamma. Justice will be served.

  IT DOESN’T GO quite like that. The next time Bob Dawe comes into your cabin, you make the speech and watch his face turn red. But instead of throwing up his hands and begging for mercy, he leaps up from his chair, enraged. You have only half a second to realise your mistake before he slams you against the wall, pins your throat with one hand and rips the accounts book away from you with the other.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he spits, his eyes glinting. ‘You thought you could bully me? Who’re you going to run to, princess? Who’re you going to tell about my bad old plan?’

  ‘The police!’ you splutter, feeling dizzy. The back of your head is throbbing, and his hand is hot and tight at your throat.

  He lets out a scornful laugh. ‘De poleece!’ he mimics. ‘Look out the window! What do you see?’ He pushes your head towards the porthole. ‘What’s there?’