The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “Why, Carlo?” asked the Major.

  “I’m a prisoner of war, Sir. Don’t you think it might be a bit tricky?”

  “I think you’re being too modest. It’s a hell of a good painting.”

  “It’s a matter of nationality. I might be the problem.”

  “There’s nothing about that on the entry forms. You could win this,” he insisted. “It’d be great for you and all your countrymen. Prove to some Aussies what a lot of us already know, that Italians are artistic people.”

  Carlo was unsure. He looked at Walt. “What do you reckon?”

  “If you don’t enter, the second best painting will win,” Walt said quietly.

  That was when Carlo took the entry form and signed it.

  Later that week the painting was crated and sent to Sydney where the entries would be judged the following month. There was a lot of interest in the Greenway prize, and when the newspapers started showing some of the popular entries, New Year’s Eve was regularly included. When the short list was published it was there among the small group of finalists.

  Carlo found himself wanting to know more about Francis Greenway. A bookshop in Cowra had a history on early Sydney, and from this he learned Greenway had been found guilty of forgery in England and sentenced to death. It was amended to fourteen years transportation and a year after arrival in the colony, Governor Macquarie appointed him Australia’s official architect. Under Macquarie’s patronage he designed buildings like Hyde Park Barracks, Government House and the Conservatorium, as well as the finest churches in Sydney, Parramatta and Windsor. Carlo even recalled it was Greenway who proposed a bridge across the harbour. But there were some in Britain who opposed him, claiming his buildings were too grand and too costly for a penal colony. Their chance came when Macquarie was ill and had to retire from office; Greenway’s enemies ensured he was dismissed. For the rest of his life he was ridiculed or ignored, dying in poverty and buried in a paupers grave.

  It was a sad ending to someone who so passionately wanted to improve the city around him. Carlo began to feel glad he’d been persuaded to enter this tribute in honour of such a man and while waiting for the outcome he started to concentrate on other work. He tried to stop thinking of Silvana, now in the fourth month of her marriage. He could hardly blame her; kidnapped before knowing her address, he had never been able to write and explain. To this day he could remember the interior of her small apartment but nothing else—not the street name or the number. She would’ve returned that day to find the apartment empty and him gone. Nobody would wait three years after an exit like that!

  There was a production of King Lear about to start rehearsal, and he did his best to concentrate on that. Faced with creating a set suited to Shakespeare’s masterpiece he decided on simplicity, a deserted moorland or heath instead of interiors, and was busy on this when there was an urgent call to attend Major Morton’s office. When he arrived there Morton was on the phone, in the middle of what sounded like a heated argument. The Major pointed to a chair, and Carlo had barely sat there as the call ended with the phone violently slammed down.

  “Fucking bastards,” said Morton, which presaged trouble, for Carlo had never heard him swear before. “I’m glad you’re sitting, because you’ll need to be when you hear this. They’ve banned your painting.”

  “Banned it?”

  “Disqualified.” He spat the word as if it was offensive. “On the grounds that the artist is an enemy prisoner-of-war. You were right, Carlo. Janet, Walt and I were wrong. We thought it was a fair and open competition for the best painting. Dammit, that’s what it should’ve been, since it was named for Greenway who did a lot for this country and was never thanked.” Carlo had never seen him so furious. “It should’ve been impartial; a homage to him, but this is a disgrace. The buggers shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

  “What can we do, Major? It’s their competition, their rules.”

  “That’s the point; it’s not mentioned in rules. It’s something they’ve made up; some jealous bloody artist has seen how the newspapers like your work and persuaded the judges to pull a fast one. They should be reminded we pride ourselves on being the country of the fair go. I’ll start the ball rolling with the Sydney Morning Herald,” he said, reaching for the telephone.

  Two days later the journalists came. Reporters from Sydney and around the state were admitted to the camp and escorted by Morton to where Carlo and Walt were creating a bleak stretch of moorland for Lear and his daughters. Most were impressed by the facilities in the camp, but one disagreed. Cedric Noad from the afternoon tabloid The Mirror, asked if Aussie prisoners overseas could expect luxuries like a theatre. He felt sure there would be nothing of the kind for those held in captivity by the Germans or Japanese. Major Morton replied this was actually a makeshift theatre in a recreation hut, so if the journalist felt it was a real theatre it only proved the skill of the artist concerned. “Who just happens to be the young man scurrilously treated, whose work is apparently banned on the basis of his nationality,” he said loudly to the media group he’d invited.

  Joshua Lansdale from the Herald was clearly against the ban. He made a point of complimenting Carlo on both his painting, and his illusion of King Lear’s domain. He doubted if many prisoner of war camps had what he’d seen at Cowra today, a band in rehearsal, a busy carpentry workshop making some delicate artefacts, sculptors in action, a recreation hut transformed into a theatre, plus a busy art centre and the good fortune to have a POW Artist like Carlo Minnelli to run it. Lansdale’s article in the next day’s newspaper ended with a tribute:

  This ban is a stupid and insensitive decision. If it remains then a lesser entry will win. It should be noted that Minnelli showed no trace of resentment. He did not believe it was personal or racist, and accepts whatever decision the voting panel makes. Meanwhile this talented young POW Artist intends to settle down to work on his next project. I look forward to it with interest.

  A week later, when it was announced the ban remained in force and his entry was officially withdrawn from the Greenway Prize, Carlo donated the painting to his friend Janet Sherman. In a radio interview he made a statement to say he was disappointed but the panel of judges were entitled to their decision. By then the newspapers had adopted the name Lansdale had given him, and from that time Carlo Minnelli became widely known as the POW Artist.

  The campaign over the disqualification of his painting had divided the press, and given him more publicity than he had ever expected. The community reaction was favourable. Australians liked winners, but they also appreciated good losers. A number of leading artists including William Dobell and Namatjira praised the painting, saying that art prizes should not be politicised like this. Newspapers were inundated with letters, most of them suggesting his entry would probably have won, but applauding his dignity in the face of his treatment. There were a lot of letters from young women simply addressed to ‘The POW Artist’, offering themselves as models or hinting at some other kind of participation. An established gallery in Sydney expressed their interest in showing any of his future work.

  “It was a disappointment for us,” Major Morton said in the officers’ mess, “but it did no harm for the status of Italian prisoners in this country.”

  “You’ve come up smelling of roses again,” declared Gianni. “If shit hit the fan, you’d be the only one who wouldn’t need a shower afterwards.”

  People were still chuckling over Gianni’s remark, when one of the tabloids came out next day with a headline that no one expected.

  FATHER OF POW ARTIST WORKED FOR MUSSOLINI SECRET AGENT REVEALED

  It is now revealed that much acclaimed POW Artist Carlo Minnelli’s father worked as a secret agent for the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini for many years, and moved into a position of power when the dictator declared war in 1940. Minnelli was a comrade and friend of the dictator when they served in the First Word War. After the war he bought a vineyard in Lombardy, was three times elected
local mayor, and worked undercover with other wartime associates converted to the fascist cause. Today, with Mussolini deposed from power, rumours exist that Minnelli and other agents have been recruited by the S.S., the extreme Nazi organisation whose objective in Italy is to round up all Jewish Italians still at liberty. This newspaper attempted to reach Carlo Minnelli for a comment, but he was unavailable for an interview.

  It was like a thunderbolt. When Carlo saw the story he simply could not believe it at first. But it had a sickening feeling of authenticity. Those days working in the vineyard, the talk of fighting in Austria, his father’s close friend Luca, the number of fascist Blackshirts at his twenty-first birthday party. There were too many details that ticked boxes, making it difficult to deny the accusation. On the other hand, avoiding interviews gave it credence, so in the end he had no option.

  “Is it true?” he was asked, by a succession of print and radio journalists.

  “I don’t know,” was his only answer because, truthfully, he did not know and had never given it a thought. But so much of the story was accurate that it was possible. It was a time when he needed contract with his mother or Gina, either of whom might’ve been able to supply answers. But all he could do was shake his head and point out he’d grown up knowing nothing whatsoever about this side of his father’s activities, even if it was true.

  “I worked with him most days in the vineyard,” he said, “and I know he was the local mayor three times. If he did work for Mussolini before I left home, it certainly must have been without my mother’s knowledge, because she violently opposed Il Duce’s politics and couldn’t stand the man. She also had a difficult marriage with my father and has since separated from him.”

  Over the next few weeks he learned to cope with varying reactions. There were some covert fascists in the compound who tried to recruit him. A few art students resigned in protest and some, whom he considered friends, were abruptly aloof. Gianni and Walt were supportive. Major Morton let it be known that whatever his father may have done, it had nothing to do with Carlo. Janet phoned to lend support, but coming so soon after the banning of his painting, it was a savage double blow.

  Despite the mostly favourable press comment, Carlo had been more hurt by the ban than he revealed. From not wanting his work to be entered, he’d been persuaded and then thrilled when it was short-listed. It was the first time he’d been judged against other artists and, for a time, it had seemed he might even win this nation-wide competition. The disqualification on the basis he was an enemy combatant left an embittered feeling. Surely paintings or any creative work should not be rejected on the grounds of nationality. It was jingoism, as bad as the First World War banning of music by Bach or Beethoven.

  But resentment was futile and he tried to suppress the feeling with hard work. He was now spending more time painting than if he’d completed his three year scholarship at the Villa Medici. He rarely stopped to think about the irony of it, he was too busy. Despite some resignations the class size had steadily increased. There were now two student groups; the small former shed was often overcrowded and Walt had to take groups of them outside to sketch in fine weather. He was fully engaged with students, and they’d needed to take on another assistant.

  In the autumn of 1944 it felt as if everyone in the entire Italian compound was gainfully employed. The relationship between the Italians and their guards was even more amicable and prisoners went out unsupervised each day to jobs on farms, orchards or timber mills. No such dispensation was allowed to German or the many Japanese POWs.

  In the Italian sector the band rehearsed and gave regular concerts, the choir entertained local audiences who came in droves to enjoy the rich sound of their voices, and in the workshop skilled carpenters created astounding miniatures of famed Roman ruins like the Coliseum and the Pantheon. The theatre was busy with actors clamouring for roles in new plays, for which Carlo spent half his time designing sets and posters. A busy routine of art classes and long hours devoted to his own paintings kept the occasional unfriendly remarks about his father at bay.

  Major and Janet Sherman came to visit Cowra and Carlo joined them for dinner. Jamie was worried about the overcrowding in the Japanese Compound, and relieved to hear two machine guns were to be installed.

  “A Vickers and a Lewis gun,” he said, “and not before time. Ever since some Japs attempted an escape in New Zealand last year, this mob have been toey. There’s to be a transfer to another camp soon and just as well, because it’s jam-packed in B Compound. The sooner numbers are reduced, the safer it will be.”

  Janet turned the discussion to the story about Carlo’s father, hoping it had not affected him. He found he was able to talk openly with them about the problem, even discussing his disquiet that it might be true. It was a considerable relief to confide this and their support moved him deeply. It had been a tough few months.

  “I’m grateful to have friends like you,” was all he was able to say.

  “You’re the friend,” replied Janet. “That painting in our living room, it’s the talk of the neighbourhood.”

  “Definitely raised our status,” Jamie said with his usual grin. “The papers said some nice things about you. In fact, they gave you more space than the winner. There was a big rap from Bill Dobell.”

  “He and Namatjira, that was a thrill. But I’m glad it’s over. One day I’d like my mother to come to Australia and see that painting. She and Luigi.”

  “That would be nice. Are you pleased about Luigi?” Janet asked.

  “Very pleased. Mamma is in love. I’m really happy. After all the tough times she had with my father, she deserves a new life.”

  “Mamma is in love,” Janet repeated. “What a sweet thing to say. Our darling daughter Juliet should take note, but we’ll leave her out of this.”

  Carlo knew their daughter had a difficult relationship. She was with the air force, so he assumed it was to do with one of the pilots at the airfield where she served. He noticed how Jamie swiftly changed the subject.

  “What about your love life, Carlo? Any news on that front?”

  “None at all, Jamie.”

  “No thought of re-establishing a previous liaison?”

  “No. We wrote goodbye notes to each other and I thought she might marry her lawyer, but she’s way too smart for fortune hunters.”

  “Strangely enough, I didn’t mean that particular young lady. Your mum’s letter to Janet mentioned an Italian girl. Silvana? Is that her name?”

  “Silvana, yes. She got married,” Carlo answered. “We lost track of each other during the past three years. End of story.”

  “When, Carlo? When was she married?” Janet asked, looking puzzled.

  “New Year, Mum said in a letter. Although it was past tense by the time I got the news, long after the wedding bells had finished chiming.”

  “But that can’t be right.”

  “What do you mean, Janet? Why can’t it be right?”

  “I thought her wedding was postponed. Or else cancelled.”

  He looked surprised. “Silvana’s wedding?”

  “Yes. When Beatrice wrote to me early in January. She’d scribbled a PS at the end of the letter. Some delay or other. She gave no details, just said she’d write and explain it to you.”

  “Postponed or else cancelled?” Carlo asked.

  “Yes. Silvana was considering one or the other but this was months ago.”

  “I didn’t get a letter about that.”

  “You should’ve by now, even with military postage what it is,” said Janet. “Perhaps it went astray.”

  Postponed or cancelled. He felt an urgent need to find out the truth. Postponed simply meant delay and disappointment. Cancelled meant there could still be hope. There was a world of difference between those two words, and no quick or easy way to find out.

  May 15th, 1944

  Dear Mum,

  This is what Australians call their mothers, and I’m picking up their habits along with colourful
sayings and slang. I’m painting a great deal, and—don’t laugh—trying to teach students. Two important questions: the first, do you know if dad ever worked for Mussolini before the war? A newspaper here claims he did. Second question: Janet thinks one of your letters to me may have been lost. After your meeting with Silvana, you wrote to say she was to be married on New Year’s Eve, but Janet thinks it didn’t happen and may even have been cancelled and you were going to tell me about it. That’s a letter I didn’t get. It’s frustrating to be so far away and not to know. I did have hopes there once, but gave them up after the news you sent. Please let me know the answer when you’ve read this. I’m otherwise well and busy in my studio, thanks to Janet the best possible place for a prisoner-of-war to be. Just wishing I knew about Silvana. Having met her, I’m sure you realise why.

  Love to you and Luigi.

  Carlo xxxxx

  He posted it knowing it would take two months at least. And the same for her reply. His heart sank at the thought of not knowing the answer for so long.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In Rome, false alarms, turmoil and confusions were constant. The war was officially supposed to be over; Italy had surrendered and in secret, signed an agreement with the Allies to fight against invading German troops. For those with captured sons, brothers or husbands sent overseas to distant places like Australia, it seemed only logical they should now be returned. Thousands signed appeals for this to happen without delay; Beatrice, her daughter Gina, her parents and Luigi Revira among them. But in the POW camps, where letters arrived slowly and news was often distorted, they knew almost nothing of this.