She picked up the bulky letter waiting for her and in a nervous moment felt it might be bad news. Ignoring this dismal thought she hastened to open the envelope and three letters spilled out! There was instant relief seeing at least one in Carlo’s handwriting. He had also sent a sealed letter that said: Silvana, please forward if possible. The third was in an envelope with just her name on it. Curiosity prompted her to open it and read this first.
Dear Beatrice,
We were able to send this from Naples in southern Italy. Now Allied troops are there, it should reach you much sooner than Carlo expected. Please forgive the informality, but I feel I know you because he spoke so often of you. His own letter will tell you how we met and became friends and how he spent the last weeks of the voyage in our ‘comfort zone’. He was a most welcome guest, great company, much in demand to sketch our portraits and I love the painting of Sydney’s Harbour Bridge that he gave us as a parting present. I hope we meet you one day as we plan a reconciliation with Carlo when this awful business is finally over.
Best wishes,
Ted Gallagher (First Officer, HMS Royal Star)
What had been a gloomy day became a delight. She took time to linger over Carlo’s letter, the pleasure of its surprise arrival bringing her close to tears. It had been several months since the sight of his handwriting, and the sincerity of Ted’s letter was heart-warming. She felt a flood of happiness at knowing he’d been among friends and sat with moistening eyes wondering where he’d gone after landing in Sydney. But this letter had been written on board the ship before his arrival. It did not reveal the one thing she still longed to know— which part of that vast country he’d be sent to.
Silvana was clearly on his mind. Beatrice read those last lines of his letter again: If by chance you should ever see the girl I sketched at the Villa, her name is Silvana. Tell her I often think about her. He certainly was thinking of her, with that message and a sealed letter as well, in the hope Beatrice knew where to send it. That night when Luigi came home she showed him the letters.
“It’s amazing after so many letters going astray, his friends were able to send us one posted in Italy,” was Luigi’s reaction. “If only that ship was still in the Mediterranean and returning to Australia, we could surprise Carlo with a prompt reply.”
“What a lovely and impossible thought,” said Beatrice, showing him the sealed one that Carlo hoped she could deliver.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“Try to find her,” she said.
“If I wasn’t otherwise engaged, my love, I’d help you.”
She knew what he meant. They were always careful now, because of the warnings about bugging devices. The German S.S. were renewing pressure on the Italian military to arrest all Jewish soldiers. Luigi was organising for a group of them to flee to a safe haven he had waiting for them.
“Be careful, amore mio,” she whispered to him in bed that night. “No more risks please, my love.”
He kissed her as if to allay her fears, but she knew risks were inevitable. The latest outrageous demand from Berlin had been a complaint about lacking understanding of the Jewish question in Italian military circles, and how they must decontaminate their ranks. But when Italian soldiers were threatened, their army comrades took risks to ensure they were not sent to die in places they’d heard about, places with strange names like Belsen and Auschwitz.
The following day Beatrice went back to the Villa Medici, attempting to find Silvana. The guard from Palermo remembered her from previous visits but was unable to help. “I don’t see her for long time,” he said, “not since the corporal report your son to Blackshirts. Jealous, he was. The girl like your son best. She came back to see if Villa is open. She want to find him.”
I wish you’d told me, Beatrice thought, but there was no point in saying it. Once the army got him, what hope was there? She needed to confide in someone and thought her father might be at home, as the university was in recess. It was a Thursday, one of the afternoons when her mother ran the bookshop she part-owned, so he’d be alone. Even better, thought Beatrice, but repressed this. She and Sofia were more friendly since the end of the marriage. Neither of her parents had been fond of Salvatore but her father never showed it, whereas Sofia could not conceal it. That summed up the difference; Beatrice tried not to have favourites but had always known whom she loved the best.
He was absorbed in a thick book when she arrived.
“My darling girl, splendid timing. Just when I was ready for a coffee.”
“Telepathy, Papà. I’ll put it on. What are you reading?”
“A book on Australian history. I thought if my grandson is coming back to dazzle me with knowledge about the Great Southern Land, I’d better brush up so I know what he’s talking about.”
“Let’s hope you get a chance to exchange it with him soon,” she said.
While they drank coffee she told him of the letters and her mission to find Silvana. “I remember what you said, Papà, about looking for a girl without knowing either her address or what she looks like. But I must give it one more try.”
“No wonder he did a bad sketch. His thoughts were otherwise engaged.”
“So are hers. She’s been back looking for him.”
“Lovebirds in the nest. I could be a great-grandfather.”
“Steady on, Papà. First we have to find her.”
“If she came back to the Villa, it means she may live nearby. The staff must know.”
“The Villa staff were all forced to flee,” she reminded him.
“I haven’t forgotten that. I sometimes wonder why they couldn’t have warned you or Carlo. Too busy fleeing, perhaps.” But moments later he looked thoughtful. “Bea, what was the name of your art tutor? That first one, who was so keen on you?”
“Francois?” she asked. “Do you mean Francois Fouquet? I expect he’s back in France. Why are you asking about him?”
“Your mother complains I never throw anything out. We’ll see if that’s true.” He went over to his desk in a corner of the room and started to pull out drawers and look in folders. She watched as scraps of paper and notes went into an untidy heap on the desk top and scattered on the floor. “Fouquet,” he muttered, “of course, I remember him now. Definitely had his beady eyes fixed on you.”
“Papà, I was sixteen.”
“I know, my poppet. That’s why I was so worried. Lecherous bugger, twice your age.”
“Nothing happened, or at least not very much. But it’s over twenty years ago so what are you looking for?”
“His address, of course. I made a note of it.”
“You what?”
“Made a note. In case the bugger talked his way into your tender arms. I wanted to know how to find him—if a confrontation had become necessary.”
Beatrice exploded with laughter. “Oh my God. I suppose you had Mamma keep a monthly check and watch for signs of morning sickness.”
“I had complete faith in you. It was him I didn’t trust. Or any of your boyfriends, in fact. But especially that Froggie.”
She was still giggling. “Poor Francois. He pinched my bum once and I slapped his face. Why didn’t you trust him?”
“Because my Aunt Mimi said he was just like me at that age. Bloody young sod, I thought. Made me worried. I couldn’t sleep for weeks.”
“You poor thing,” Bea said, unable to stop laughing. Until he scanned through a shabby notebook and held it up triumphantly.
“Listen to this, Bea. Fouquet, Francois.” He peered at the address. “70 Avenue Parques, Menton. There’s even a telephone number.”
“Incredible, Papà. But it’s surely out of date.”
“Worth a try, my pet. Menton’s in the French territory given to Italy. So we can phone.” He was dialling before she could prevent him.
“Good afternoon. Please excuse the interruption. I am trying to trace a Monsieur Fouquet who lived there. Pardonne Moi? Did you just say you still live there?
So I am speaking to Monsieur Fouquet? Is this correct? In that case, please hold the line.” With a grin he handed the phone to his daughter.
An hour later Beatrice parked her car across the street, and sat looking at the building, hoping Silvana still lived there. She locked the car and crossed the road. Her destination was apartment four, on the ground floor. It had been astonishing the way her father, with the help of his old notebook, had found Francois, who in turn had needed to look up Silvana’s in his old files, calling her back with the details. He’d been shocked to hear about Carlo, and hoped the scholarship would be open to him when the war ended. It had been strange talking to her former tutor, remembering how they’d once been close—far closer than her father realised or she’d admitted. She’d been five minutes away from losing her virginity at a New Year’s Eve party, almost down to the last bastion with underpants nearly off when loud shouts and cheering signalled the final moments of the old year and friends came searching, demanding she and Francois joined in a countdown to the new. At another party months later, a different young artist had taken Francois’ place and with it, her chastity. She sometimes wondered if Francois had ever forgiven her.
“Hello,” a voice said, and Beatrice saw a cheerful face. Long dark hair, grey eyes, and a signature smile. Carlo had talked about that magical smile. She hoped this was the right place and the right girl. It surely must be.
“Can I help you?” she asked as Beatrice realised she’d been staring.
“You can if you’re Silvana.” She felt so certain that she gave her the letter. “It’s from Carlo.” The expression on Silvana’s face was her answer.
“You’re his mother. Oh my God, you’re Beatrice!” she said. “You look like him. Sorry, I mean he looks like you! Whatever happened? I know about the Blackshirts, but…don’t say it’s bad news. Please don’t tell me that.”
“He’s alive, Silvana. It’s a long story. Not bad news but not particularly good either. Don’t cry,” said Beatrice, seeing the girl’s eyes filling with tears.
“Alive?”
“Truly.” She opened her arms and Silvana allowed herself to be held in a tight hug. “Please don’t cry,” she murmured gently.
“It’s such a surprise. I thought I’d never hear of him again. Tell me where he is and what happened. I’ve so often wondered. Please come inside.”
It was then, as Silvana gestured for her to enter, that Beatrice saw the ring on the third finger of her left hand.
Luigi guessed it had been a frustrating end to her search the moment he saw her.
“When was she engaged?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Just three bloody weeks!”
“That’s all. I’ll have to tell him, but perhaps I’ll leave that part out. A bit cruel letting him know it was only three weeks when he’s so far away.”
“A pity I didn’t find her three years ago. It might’ve been different.”
“You couldn’t, my love. None of us knew we’d end up finding her via my father’s old notebook.” She gave a wry smile. “Not even he knew, until today.”
“So what was she like?”
“Pretty, and very nice. I could see why Carlo was so keen.”
“You think it might’ve happened if he’d been here?”
“Perhaps. She thought it might. She was genuinely fond of him. Shocked when she came back to her apartment and found him gone, upset when she heard from neighbours about the Blackshirts and that creepy corporal. She kept hoping he might get in touch, but of course he didn’t know where to write. She’d even kept his suitcase with his clothes all this time. I brought it back with me and it was heavy. Imagine having to carry that through crowded streets halfway across Rome like Carlo had to that day.”
Luigi poured them each a glass of wine, raising his in a small salute. “At least you managed to find her. And liked her, I’d say.”
Beatrice nodded, and took a sip of her wine.
“I did like her. She wished his letter had arrived sooner. She had an occasional boyfriend but nothing serious, until this one. He’s a young actor in a movie with Vittorio de Sica and she has a small role in it. They’re to be married on New Year’s Eve when the film has its gala opening. De Sica is attending the gala—and the wedding.”
“Sounds like a big ticket event. Are you upset?”
“In a way it was no surprise. She’s too attractive to have stayed single for long. But I wouldn’t have minded—had it been Silvana.”
Luigi loved her. He knew when a remark cloaked disappointment, so he changed the subject, braved the Nazi’s new night curfew and took her out to dinner. Later that night Beatrice faced the painful task of writing to Carlo. It was November and she knew he would not receive it until after the new year, probably long after the wedding. Meanwhile, she felt the continuing frustration of not knowing which part of Australia he was in and whether he was homesick or happy.
She was not to know that Carlo was about to face a crowded courtroom, feeling as nervous as an actor making his first appearance on a stage.
NINETEEN
Gossip about the trial had been circulating through the Riverina ever since the raid on the vineyard, and news about the arrest of Tommo Thompson had made headlines. It was no surprise the district court was packed. The case had all the elements to attract public interest; the well-known Tiffany Watson and an unknown witness who had recently painted a portrait of her. The painting had been featured on the front page of the local paper, then the Melbourne Age and the Sydney Morning Herald, as well as being discussed on the regional radio stations. The artist had a foreign name but not much else was known about him, except that he was a key witness and had apparently been present at the time of Thompson’s arrest.
The opening day was mainly occupied with police evidence, details of the vineyard and the large amount of marijuana grown there, the illegal use of a POW camp and secret ill-treatment of those held there against all imperatives of the Geneva Convention. Then came the Crown’s first witness, nineteen year old German migrant Sigrid Bergholtz who had informed police of the accused’s offer to supply her with marijuana in return for silence about his assault and attempted rape. After her came a succession of mostly local workers who’d been employed in the vineyard by Thompson, all hoping to face a lesser charge by agreeing to give evidence for the Crown.
The next two days were as dramatic as the press and the public had been expecting. Tiffany had taken the stand and faced hour after hour of questions about what she knew, whether she had connived or financially supported the use of the vineyard as a sanctuary for growing and storing such vast qualities of an illegal drug. Being a future witness, Carlo was unable to sit in court during her evidence but he heard details from Tiffany herself. She had no problem with routine questions by her own counsel and was even composed facing the Crown Prosecutor. But there had been a ferocious cross-examination by Thompson’s eminent Melbourne barrister, Roger Montgomery KC. The Kings Counsel had become increasingly abrupt and angry at her denials of his persistent accusations. He declared she was the master-mind, or as he’d chosen to call her, the “mistress mind” behind everything; the drugs, the financial funding to set up the POW camp, and the deliberate ill-treatment of its prisoners. Carlo was given a detailed re-enactment of these proceedings at dinner that night with Tiffany and Sigrid, in particular how she’d parried his stream of aggressive questions.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you,” she had tried to say, when the silk had raised his voice belligerently, demanding she answer a question without any further prevarication.
“I am trying with some difficulty to answer…” she’d started to say again. This time he’d maintained her statement of “finding it difficult” was merely a ploy as any honest answer to his question would certainly establish her guilt.
“On the contrary,” she’d replied, “the difficulty that I’m experiencing, Mr Montgomery, is due to your persistent interruptions and the apparent belief that you have a licen
se to bully me.”
It had brought a round of applause from the crowded court and an angry order of silence from the elderly judge. Montgomery hoped for a ruling in his favour but His Honour had been sneaking looks of admiration at the witness and felt enough sympathy with her to rebuke the learned barrister.
“Counsel should try to contain himself,” the Judge had said and went on to add that while cross-examination was normal practice, bullying a witness was unacceptable in his court.
“Your Honour, if I may contest this ruling…”
“You may not, Mr Montgomery, if by contest you are hoping to disrupt me in the manner you are disrupting the witness,” the Judge’s gravelly voice was sharp in reply this time. “I feel sure she will answer if you will kindly allow her to finish what she is attempting to say.”
“I wish I’d been there for that,” Carlo said smiling. “What did you do?”
“Gave the barrister a hard stare and the judge a tiny smile to thank him. The dear old boy, he’d been sneaking little side-long glances at my tits. The witness box was quite close to where he sat, and I sensed a serious interest in the shape of my boobies.” Sigrid emitted a snort as she tried to stifle a giggle.
“It’s true, Siggy. He was definitely a cleavage man. He gave me a tiny smile back, then busily adjusted his wig. I think it was too large or else he was bald and it was about to slide off.”
This set Sigrid giggling again. “Poor old Judge,” she said, “he was really rather sweet.”
“An old darling,” Tiffany agreed. “It was clear the Silk had tickets on himself and there was a bit of a battle between them. Big Time Kings Counsel versus sweet old codger from the district court circuit.” She turned to Carlo, who was waiting to hear more. “I told the Judge there was a long explanation and I could not answer unless I was allowed to speak without being harassed. I felt this harassment occurred because my husband was a notorious misogynist, and his counsel was of the same ilk, unable to show any respect for women.”
The Last Double Sunrise Page 18
