The Allied politicians declared it was all too complicated. Both the British and the Australians said there was nowhere near enough shipping and it was therefore impossible to move so many Italians home. Added to this, Whitehall, Washington and Canberra all opined the war in Italy was far from over. The new Italian leaders had wasted time in rant and rhetoric while the Germans had seized the day, almost commandeering their former ally with a flood of new battalions to control key areas. They took over Genoa, Verona and all the roads into Rome, sought out the resistance, rounded up Italian military who were now the enemy, massacred thousands and sent thousands more to work for them as slave labour.
In the streets of the capital, S.S. groups were under orders. There were empty trains waiting to take Jews to death camps, and angry demands from Berlin to speed the process. The S.S. were no longer seen in their uniforms, or identified by insignia badges. Now they roamed the streets posing as labourers, tradesmen, mechanics, postmen or office workers. Beneath the nondescript clothes, hidden in brief cases or shopping bags, were weapons to kill or capture. The orders given by Himmler in Berlin, were to find and eliminate all the undercover groups. Eliminate, but make them talk first.
“It’s getting too dangerous,” warned Sofia.
“We know it’s dangerous,” Beatrice answered.
“Then give it up. You’ve helped, done your best. Stop while you can. Put your energy into getting Carlo home.”
“We can’t get him home, Mother,” said Beatrice, “but we know he’s safe. He’s even being encouraged to paint. I miss him like mad, but I’m happy for him to be there. Meanwhile French and Italian Jews are in danger all over this city. We helped them to get out of the Campagna camp and find shelter in the mountains. But there’s more to do yet.”
“Can’t you persuade her?” Sofia asked her husband.
“When could I ever do that?” replied Giovanni, changing the subject to ask if she’d had any news of Salvatore, since the overthrow of Mussolini.
“Not since I met him outside the city postal centre. But Luigi heard that he and his friend Luca Pascoli were kicked out. They were working for the S.S. Did you know that?”
“We’d heard rumours,” Giovanni admitted, “but I always hoped they weren’t true.”
“I’m afraid they were. Luigi found out. In fact Salvatore worked for the Nazis long before that. Carlo even saw it in the Australian newspapers.”
“You mean when you were still living with him?”
“Seems like it. He and that slimy bastard Luca, who kept dropping in unannounced for dinner. Both friends of Il Duce. I wonder how they feel about their friend now that he’s a guest of the Nazis?”
It was still a much discussed topic in Italy: Mussolini relieved of power and imprisoned by order of King Emmanuel, rescued in a night raid by German troops. He was now installed and protected by them in northern Italy, trying to form a new fascist movement. But his followers were few; the gloss had gone from his crown.
“And what about the young model?” Sofia asked about Silvana. “Has she married her actor yet?”
“I believe it was postponed,” said Beatrice, wishing her mother would not refer to her in these terms. “She’s a young actress now and has a name, Sofia. She’s called Silvana.”
Sofia ignored the rebuke. “I thought the wedding was meant to be ages ago.”
“It was delayed. Her fiancé got a big role in a new film in Spain. I think they’re planning it now for midsummer, but I’m not sure of the date.”
“Was the girl really in love with Carlo?”
“I don’t think they had a chance to establish that.”
“Perhaps a lucky escape for him, Bea.”
“That’s an odd thing to say. You’ve never met Silvana.”
“You never arranged for us to meet.”
Ask yourself why, Beatrice wanted to tell her, and almost did. She refrained just in time, and left before she said anything worse.
“Why,” she asked Luigi that night “is my mother so intent on disliking Silvana? Is it because she posed in the nude?”
“The ways of your mother are beyond strange,” Luigi said, ducking a cushion she threw at him. “And there’s a letter arrived from the subject in question.”
“From Carlo?” she asked hopefully, but he shook his head.
“From Silvana. It looks like her handwriting.”
Beatrice opened it and read the short message enclosed, with a smile.
“Do you want to hear this, Lu?”
“If it’s fit for my tender ears.”
“Listen,” she said, and read aloud. “My intended has requested one more postponement of our wedding as he’s in yet another film. Request denied this time as his career seems more important than our marriage. The wedding is now officially off. Let’s have lunch.”
“Is that all she says?”
Beatrice laughed. “It’s all she needs to say. I do love her. I must tell my mother. It’ll frighten the shit out of her, the thought of Silvana on the loose.”
“You love her cheeky wit,” said Luigi, “but does she love Carlo?”
“I’ll have lunch and find out,” Beatrice promised.
“I honestly don’t know,” Silvana said frankly. They were in a small restaurant near the Borghese Gardens. “I could be, but how can I tell after so long? That first time when I posed, we were hot for each other. He looked at me a lot.”
“He did a terrible nude study,” Beatrice smiled, “obviously his mind was on other things.”
“So was mine,” Silvana admitted. “Then I rescued him from that bloody corporal. Even hotter for each other then. We were desperate to get into bed. But he fell asleep, exhausted the poor darling. I was a nude model, now I can call myself a moderately well-known actress. Three good roles, and a bigger one coming up. Am I the same person as I was then?”
“Of course not,” Beatrice sighed. “Four years since that time. How could you know your feelings for him? I was wrong to even ask.”
“No, you weren’t. I’d like to see him again and find out how I feel. But after so long we’re definitely different people. I just wonder how long it will be before I actually see Carlo again. And how we’ll feel…”
“The war must end, but I doubt if it will be this year. Maybe next. You can’t put your life on hold, but I’ll give you his address if you want it.”
“Yes please. I’d like to write and see if he writes back. The woman in that portrait he did is rather special. Perhaps he’s in love with her?”
“Being honest, I don’t even know that, Silvana.”
“I’ll write and ask.” She gave an impish smile. “Best way to find out, Beatrice. Trick question, young Carlo. Do you fancy her or not?”
“Don’t expect a quick answer,” Beatrice said, doubting if Silvana knew the length of time it took for letters to reach Australia, let alone receive a reply. It was mid-winter there. It could be Christmas before she heard.
There was other news now on front pages and in radio bulletins, instead of his father’s link with Mussolini. The momentous day Rome was liberated, then the D-Day landing and a plot to kill Hitler. Its failure brought a fierce reprisal on the Wehrmacht officers involved. They were hung on stretched wire, a protracted and painful death, while their Fuhrer pronounced it providence that he was spared to continue his essential work, eliminating Jews and ruling the rest of the world.
That European summer in London was terrorised by a new weapon, a jet propelled missile called the V-1. Launched from the Pas de Calais, these aerial assassins the British called ‘doodle-bugs’ arrived with hardly a warning and exploded seconds later. They killed indiscriminately, causing death in schools, hospitals, children’s playgrounds, retirement centres or streets full of people. There were reports of a bigger version, the V-2 with a longer range that could reach anywhere in Britain. The war, which had seemed about to end, was a long way from over with most of Europe still to be regained.
“A hell of a long way to
go before they’ll pack it in,” was the estimate of James Sherman, who’d been in the trenches in 1918. “Some big battles to be won before a loonie like Adolph will believe he’s beaten. He’ll use his Hitler Youth, kids of twelve or thirteen in the front line, rather than go down in flames. Another year if we’re lucky, two if we’re not.”
Carlo knew the truth of what he was saying, but started to feel dispirited. His father’s name had at least vanished from the newspapers, but some nights he lay awake recalling their conversations, coming to the conclusion he’d been working for, and was secretly financed by Mussolini. There were times when there seemed to be lots of money, most often after occasional meetings with Luca Pascoli. What made him feel angry and disgusted was the thought of the job being a secret pursuit of Italian Jews, while pretending to empathise with his wife’s hatred of anti-Semitism. If true, it made his father a very shallow character, and there was another link in the chain. Pascoli was a noted anti-Semite and his father’s closest friend.
On nights like this he threw off the bedclothes in a state of insomniac frustration. If only he’d known at the age of sixteen when he made his birthday declaration, thinking of the wasted years after that when he’d tried to placate his treacherous father by working with him. No wonder his mother had moved to a spare room and finally left him.
He wanted her answer to the letter he’d sent about this, but equally he wanted a reply about Silvana. Whenever his feelings about his father got too much, he retreated to wondering about her. Was she hitched? Tied to an actor? Roped to a Romeo? Hitched was an Aussie figure of speech, an apt expression like most of the country’s picturesque vernacular. It invariably led to an image that made him smile.
On restless nights trying not to think about his father he would attempt to guess where his slow-moving letter on these matters might be. Would it have sailed past Perth? Even reached Colombo on its way to the Suez Canal? If so, it would be there soon unless one of the new Japanese Kamikaze aircraft had sunk the ship and the letters it carried. It was a dreadful and ruthless weapon. A tiny plane with high explosives, and a teenage pilot pledged to never return. When a target was sighted he was released to steer his tiny craft towards it, blowing the enemy vessel and himself to eternity. The thought of his letter ending its existence and the lives of those who carried it was a cause of Carlo’s frequent insomnia. It was why he was still wide awake when the unexpected sound of two loud gunshots broke the silence of the night in Cowra.
“What the fuck was that?” said a voice from a bunk nearby.
The August nights in Cowra were fiercely cold. They froze the water in buckets that hung as fire hydrants outside the huts, and were almost enough to freeze the mind. Reaction was slow to the gunshots. Someone outside, beyond the wire of no-mans-land, started to shout. The words were indistinct but resembled a frantic warning in another language, presumably Japanese. Running figures were then visible in the lights along Broadway, after which windows were lit as sleepers awoke to check their watches and curse that it was only 2am.
“Where did those bloody shots come from?” shouted a bemused guard on night duty.
“Buggered if I know,” an annoyed and drowsy voice answered. By this time, some of the sluggish sleepers in the Italian compound were waking, as a loud bugle blast left them even more confused.
“Came from bloody B Compound,” another voice offered an answer, but the freezing night and bewildering hour had not helped guards or prisoners to grasp the situation.
“What stupid bastard is blowing a fucking bugle at this hour?” came an angry shout from another inmate in Carlo’s hut, rudely awoken by the blast.
That was when they heard the scream of massed voices and the single word BANZAI came like a threat across the wire. Within moments a flame rose in the night, and then another appeared beside it. Suddenly more blazing buildings revealed the scene, hundreds of Japanese running wildly from their barracks, carrying blankets and army greatcoats issued to protect them against the winter. Ignoring the freezing night they ran to the barricade, flinging these over the barbed wire as protection, making it possible to clamber across. Fires were now starting to blaze so quickly it was obvious they’d been fed with straw or an accelerant, and within minutes the scene was an inferno. Flames and smoke filled the air; sparks and embers fell outside the huts where Carlo and disbelieving Italians now stood, watching the destruction.
They could see those scrambling across the wire were well prepared with baseball gloves to protect their hands. Others were racing to reach the machine guns before the Australians could get there. Guards appeared with rifles and began shooting. Soon there were bodies on the ground between the burning huts and the escape route to Broadway. Then the main fuse box was smashed, and the Broadway lights went out. From that moment the scene became even more bizarre. Fierce flames made the whole compound a savage conflagration, far too dangerous to venture near it.
“Stay inside,” were the shouted orders to the Italians, as more shots were fired and the death toll among the escapees started to rise.
“Where the hell is Gianni?” Carlo asked Domenico, one of his students from the art class, who’d ducked outside to see what was happening.
“Didn’t come back tonight,” was the answer.
“Is he at that farm?”
“Where else?” was Domenico’s answer. “He said he was on a promise.”
“Oh God,” though Carlo, aware what it meant and knowing this could be real trouble. Domenico’s next comments made it even worse.
“I hope to God he doesn’t run into any of the mob that escaped. They’re using knives and baseball bats to fight their way out. They’ve already killed two guards who couldn’t reach the machine guns.”
“Do you know where the farm is?” Carlo asked.
“No, I don’t, Carlo. And for Christ’s sake, don’t even think about being a hero. You’d get a bullet before you were past the gate.”
The fires became even bigger with bedding and everything flammable being used as fuel. The armed soldier on duty in the tower ran out of ammunition and had to watch helplessly as hundreds climbed over the wire and fled along Broadway to freedom.
In the next hour the fires slowly burnt down to a vast bed of glowing cinders. The entire camp was left in a thick haze of smoke, almost like dense fog with the occasional snap of a rifle being fired amid the gloom. After that until the dawn there was nothing but darkness and an awful silence.
“I love you,” Gianni whispered, as she began to moan and squirm beneath him, which he knew by now was a sign she was on the verge of orgasm.
“I’m coming, Gianni.”
“I know, baby, I know.” He increased his rhythm so they would reach a climax together. That was when he heard a footstep, and an angry rasping voice.
“Just quit now, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
It was her father, Joe Martin’s voice. Usually a friendly voice, but not tonight, standing a foot behind him with a shotgun poking his bare buttocks.
“Quit!” Joe snapped again.
That was the trouble. His ardour had gone down like a punctured balloon, but he couldn’t stop Alice. Alice couldn’t stop herself, either. At this stage of proceedings she had a few more seconds of ecstasy. Gianni knew you couldn’t turn that off, not his lovely Alice. He’d been there often enough to know it.
“Quit, you young bastard!” Joe shoved the metal point of the shotgun almost up his arse, which was a chilling experience.
“I have quit, Joe,” he said. “It’s Alice.”
This was totally the wrong thing to say. Gianni seemed to be putting the blame on his daughter and to Joe Martin, his daughter could do no wrong.
“You get inside the house,” he said to Alice in a much softer tone, as if it was not her fault that this dago they’d befriended had taken advantage. “I’ll sort this out. Be the right kind of night for it, seeing the Japs are running wild and guns are going off. He won’t be missed.”
“No, Dad
dy, please.” She reached for her pants and slipped them on, as if she needed to wear them before she could face him.
“Inside,” he repeated.
“I love him,” she said.
“Don’t talk rot, Alice.”
“We love each other,” Gianni said, risking a blow to the head. When it didn’t come he continued, “I’m here because I wanted to ask her to marry me.”
“Gianni…” Alice’s delight revealed astonishment she could not conceal. “If that’s a proposal, I will,” she answered.
“You bloody won’t,” her father snapped. He was a tall, strongly built man, a farmer all his life, with a son killed in the war and just the one daughter. He’d been quite glad to have Gianni work for him, becoming almost fond of the young Italian, until suspicion made him search the various sheds around the farm. He’d nearly given up, until walking into this barn to see Gianni’s bare bum and his daughter’s long legs wrapped tightly around it. His first impulse had been to kill him, but common sense prevailed. A murder charge would get him a long spell in gaol, or worse, a hanging.
“That marriage offer was bullshit. It took my daughter by complete surprise,” Martin said, after Alice had gone and they were alone.
“I wanted it to be a surprise. We just got a bit carried away.”
“We’ll see about that tomorrow. Tonight I’m locking the door. We’ll sort you out in the morning, you double-crossing treacherous bastard.”
The dawn revealed widespread death and acres of debris in the Japanese sector. Forty bodies were scattered in B Compound, many more lying dead along Broadway. A few who’d been only wounded by the gunfire had ended their own lives with a knife. In the buildings left standing, some unable to get out had hung themselves, while others had committed suicide outside the Camp with ropes around their necks, their bodies swinging from trees. There were even dead along the railway tracks and it became apparent that for many, the massive breakout had been pursuit of an honourable death, no longer enduring the disgrace of custody.
The Last Double Sunrise Page 25
