In the back row. It was Frances.
Afterwards, when there were cups of coffee and trays full of biscotti and cannoli and sfogliatelle in the reception room, Iliana found her friend. Respectfully dressed in a black jacket and trousers, Frances looked like the middle-aged schoolteacher she now was. Her hair was sensible and sat on her collar. She wore glasses, pale pink lipstick and a string of pearls around her neck.
‘I’m so sorry about Domenica,’ Frances said. ‘It’s such awful news.’
‘Thank you for coming.’ Iliana held her arms open and the two women hugged each other, a long history in their embrace.
When they finally let go, Frances searched Iliana’s eyes. ‘How are you all coping? It must have been dreadful for the family. For Massimo and the boys.’
‘Oh, it’s been very hard. The past two years when she was in the nursing home? Just awful. The boys are heartbroken. But,’ Iliana said as she crossed herself, ‘at least she’s at peace now.’
‘Yes, of course. And Massimo? How is he?’ Frances asked quietly.
‘Go talk to him. He’d like to know that you’re here.’
‘No, I wouldn’t want to intrude. Not today.’ Frances dropped her gaze and Iliana thought how useless it was to feel guilty about being in love with someone. If ever there was a time to tell her secret, this was it. She held out her hand and Frances put hers in Iliana’s grasp. ‘Frances, look at me.’
When Frances did, Iliana sighed. ‘I know.’
Frances stared at her.
‘Massimo told me.’ Iliana slipped an arm through Frances’s. ‘Come for a walk with me.’
She led her out the big front doors and into the car park. They walked through the front gates and down Catherine Street. The sun was warm on their faces, the wind was at their backs. Frances clearly didn’t know what to say, whether she was going to be accused and banished.
Iliana looked up the street and began her story. ‘When Domenica went into the nursing home, Massimo finally talked to me. Really talked to me. For the first time ever in our whole lives. I think he was angry about her sickness, about what had happened in their marriage, about the boys having to go and visit their mother with dribble on her chin and people wiping her … wiping her you know what.’ Iliana shivered. ‘It was a long story he told me, Frances, and you were in it.’
Frances met her friend’s eyes.
‘You were there at Bonegilla, at Cooma, and later. For all those years you were together and it was a secret. Even from me.’
‘It had to be.’
‘You know what’s funny? Back in 1974, when we had that reunion at your old place? I asked Massimo to come, not because I thought I was going to go into labour or anything—remember I was about to burst with Sonia? I asked him along because I knew how unhappy he was. I thought seeing you again would make him happy. And then I find out all these years later what happened between you two.’
‘You surprised both of us that day. I remember that. And Tom came. He’s retired now, you know. He and Sally have moved to Bath. It’s quite lovely.’
‘Did you visit them when you were over there?’
Frances nodded. ‘I stayed with them a week before I went to Paris and then on to Rome and Athens.’
‘Did you throw a coin in the Trevi Fountain for me?’
Frances squeezed Iliana’s arm. ‘I did.’ It hadn’t been Massimo’s coin, the one he had given her at Bonegilla. She still had it in her jewellery box. That was too precious to waste a wish on, one she knew would never come true.
‘So, you see, I realised that if I hadn’t invited him, nothing could have happened. So maybe it was my fault.’
‘Oh, Iliana. You must think I’m awful. I do, you know? For someone who thought herself so smart, I’ve made some terrible choices. Keeping a secret from you was one of the biggest.’
‘At first, I was angry about what the two of you did. But now, I’m older, I think I understand better. People are complicated. We do things for honour and responsibility and to keep face with people. And when you are lying there in your coffin, like Domenica …’ Iliana crossed herself. ‘What does all that matter?’
‘You and your family were so good to me all those years ago. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘You will always be part of my family, Francesca.’
Frances smiled at the memory of being called that. ‘I loved him, Iliana. I really did.’
‘And you still do, don’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘I never did figure out how to stop loving him.’
‘Massimo told me that you said no to him when he asked you to marry him back in Cooma.’
‘I didn’t want to keep the baby. I couldn’t have back then.’ Frances lifted her chin up, closed her eyes to the sun. ‘I found him, you know.’
Iliana turned to her, shocked. ‘Your baby?’
‘His name is Craig and he’s a farmer near Albury. He’s very happy. Married with a baby. He always knew he was adopted and had no interest in finding me until he became a father himself. He’s lovely. A quiet country man.’
‘Craig,’ Iliana said. ‘That’s a good country-boy name.’
‘I got to give him a name, you know, when he was born. That was one thing I was allowed to do. I named him after your brother and my father. Massimo Reginald. He asked me about that, the strange names on his birth certificate. I told him I named him after someone who wasn’t his father, but who was a very good man. And he got a kick out of knowing his grandfather used to run Bonegilla. Can you believe he married a girl whose grandparents were there, in the camp?’
‘Life is like a big circle sometimes, don’t you think?’
The two friends stopped and Frances exhaled deeply. A lifetime’s worth of secrets shared meant she felt lighter on her feet. ‘The secrets we keep, huh?’
‘So much wasted time for both of you. For everyone. So many years gone.’
Frances shrugged. ‘I made my choice. I wouldn’t make it the same way now. You know I wouldn’t. But it was a different time. In some ways, it feels like ten lifetimes ago, not one.’
‘It’s not too late, you know,’ Iliana said.
‘For what?’ Frances asked.
The two women stopped in the middle of the street. A car beeped its horn and they scuttled to the other side of the road. Iliana took her friend’s face in her hands and looked at her, direct and true.
‘He’s never stopped loving you either, Frances.’
Chapter Forty-eight
2018
Twenty-five-year-old Sophie Greene parked her car in the neat, landscaped car park of the aged-care facility where her oma, Elizabeta, lived.
She swiped her access card at the front door, walked the long corridors to the lift and exited on the first floor into a light, spacious foyer. To one side, there were sofas arranged so residents could sit together and chat over a cup of tea or coffee in the warmth of the sun streaming in from the windows. On the other, there were sliding doors to a courtyard rooftop garden with a triangular sun shade.
Sophie always hoped she might see her oma sitting there, a smile on her face, her hands busy knitting, but Elizabeta had never walked these corridors. She hadn’t ever sat on the sofas chatting with her fellow residents. She hadn’t felt the sun on her face for two years now. She didn’t walk. She couldn’t talk. She was small and frail, a ghost of the person Sophie had known. Her oma had been going downhill for a couple of years before the crunch point had come. Her increasing forgetfulness and confusion had made her more anxious and angry, and Sophie’s mother Luisa had finally decided Elizabeta needed more care than the family could provide. There were assessments and medical appointments and forms to fill in and, finally, a bed had become available. It was a lovely facility with kind and caring staff.
That didn’t stop Sophie from wishing she’d never set foot in it.
She made her way down the corridor, past residents’ rooms. There were names on each door to personalise these spaces and she whispered them to herself as sh
e walked past.
‘Mrs Gertrude (Trudy) Bierbaumer. Mr Miroslav Horvat. Mrs Bogdana Gwosdz.’
Had any of these people been at Bonegilla with her oma? Sophie smiled to herself. Wouldn’t that be funny? To spend her last days living among the people she’d spent her first days in Australia with. Her oma had told her stories about coming to Australia. About Bonegilla. How strange the food was—‘All that mutton’—and how her own father hadn’t eaten lamb for twenty years after they’d left. Sophie had heard how cold it was, and how happy they were to finally leave and come to Adelaide. Her warmest stories were about her friends, the women Sophie’s mother Luisa had called Auntie Iliana, Auntie Frances and Auntie Vicki.
Sophie found her grandmother propped up in her recliner chair, the kind with wheels and a vinyl covering, like a souped-up wheelchair, positioned near the windows overlooking the garden, so she could look out into the world beyond the glass. It could have been a brick wall instead of a lush garden. She wouldn’t know the difference.
Sophie dragged a dining chair over to her and sat down. She reached for her oma’s hand. Her paper-thin skin was so transparent Sophie could map out the veins.
‘Hi, Oma. How are you going today?’
Elizabeta’s face was wrinkled and pale. Her mouth was set in a permanent frown. Her hair, completely white now, was dishevelled and pushed back from her forehead, cut short so it wouldn’t be a bother. She’d had such beautiful red hair when she was younger, everyone said. There was no physical response to Sophie’s words or her touch. Oma didn’t blink anymore; her eyes were barely open, as if letting the light in was painful. Her twisted feet were clad in multi-coloured socks to keep her toes warm, even in the middle of summer. A crocheted blanket, a gift from Sophie, covered her lap, and a small pillow was positioned by the side of her head to stop her head lolling onto her chest.
The staff who walked the floors in their silent shoes, who cheerily engaged other residents with their friendly chatter and small talk, still spoke to her, but Sophie knew they hadn’t expected a response for twelve months now. But they talked to her anyway, which made Sophie so glad. It was as if they were holding onto the thought that even though a resident’s body had failed them, their mind might still be active.
‘Hi, love. Hi there, Elizabeta. Aren’t you lucky to have a visitor today?’
It was Carol, the salt-of-the-earth aged-care worker who looked after Elizabeta on the weekends. Her blonded hair was pulled back in a clip and fluffed at the top. Her warm smile was always welcome.
‘Hi, Carol. How are you?’
‘Can’t complain, Sophie. How is she today, the poor old thing?’ Carol peered into Elizabeta’s wizened face. Sophie held her hand.
‘Her cheeks are a little rosy, I think. Don’t you?’
Carol patted Sophie on the shoulder. ‘They are. I think she likes seeing you and hearing your voice. If you need anything, let me know.’
Sophie watched as Carol walked away. She searched Elizabeta’s face for a sign of something. There was nothing. But she had a little routine going with her grandmother. She came every Saturday afternoon and talked to her oma, filling her in on what she was up to, the gigs she had played that week, the weather. Perhaps this week’s story would rouse her. Sophie cleared her throat. ‘Well, Oma, I have some news.’
She waited for a reaction.
‘You’re going to be a great-grandmother. Or is that a great-oma. I’m pregnant.’ Sophie held her arms up in the air in a celebratory pose. ‘Yay, right? I’m so excited, but scared shitless at the same time. Bowen’s tried to get me to rest in case anything happens but what’s going to happen? I’m young. I’m healthy. I have excellent genes, thanks to you and Opa. And Mum and Dad, of course. Speaking of Mum, you won’t believe how excited she is. Can you believe she’s even started shopping for baby things? I think she bought a pram yesterday and I’m only twelve weeks.’
Sophie searched her grandmother’s face. Her voice was a whisper. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you, do you know that? Sometimes I think about it and it makes my head spin. If your mum and dad hadn’t decided to come to Australia all those years ago, I wouldn’t exist. If you hadn’t come, you would never have met Opa and Mum would never have met Dad and down it goes to me. And to my baby.’
Sophie pressed a hand to her stomach, still flat. ‘Please, Oma. Just blink or something. Can you hear me?’
She wished so much that her grandmother would look at her one more time.
Sophie sighed and looked around the room. There seemed to be so few visitors. ‘I went to Auntie Iliana’s funeral this week. Mum didn’t want to go to Sydney all by herself so I went too. It was … nice. Sad but nice.’
Was there a flicker just then, a blink of an eye, a breath?
‘It was nice to see Bianca again, too. Remember Bianca? Iliana’s granddaughter? The beautiful Italian one? I always wanted her big brown eyes. Anyway, she’s a trainee diplomat in Canberra now. Very impressive. And Bethany was there, Frances’s granddaughter. She’s a travel agent. And, oh, how can I forget Auntie Vasiliki’s granddaughter? Klio’s making documentary films about refugees.’
Sophie’s voice began to tremble. ‘You’re the last of the Bonegilla girls. Did you know that, Oma?’
There was so much she didn’t know about Elizabeta Muller, Sophie realised. Why hadn’t she been more curious about her oma’s life when her grandmother would still have been able to tell all her stories? She’d never been interested until now, but it was too late. She reached a hand up to her oma and stroked her cheek, papery thin and creased as if it had been ironed that way. What did she really know about this woman, who had loved her, fed her, cared for her and fought for her throughout her entire life? There would be no more sauerkraut or cherry strudel or spätzle. There were gaps in the story of her grandmother’s life that would now never be filled.
All Sophie had were potted family fables, disjointed remnants of memories: flour soup and picking wildflowers in the forest and a best friend who was in America and the long journey to Australia when a man in Egypt tried to buy her as his wife.
All the rest was a mystery. Sophie only existed because of this woman. Her history was Sophie’s history. Her DNA was in Sophie and would soon be in her child.
If only she’d cared enough before now to ask, ‘Who were you?’
Every day the old Greek man with the walking frame bustled over to her asking, ‘No taxi today?’ and every day she couldn’t tell him that no, there was no taxi today or tomorrow or any other day for any of them.
Elizabeta didn’t think about taxis or breakfast or lunch or activities like throwing and catching balloons or watching the midday movie or the traffic outside her window or the lush gardens of her aged-care home.
She smelled wild mushrooms, cupped in her hands, foraged from the earth, hidden under ferns, in a green, light-filled forest. She saw her basket filled with the white caps and promise of a delicious meal when she returned home.
She tasted her mother’s flour soup and smelled her shampoo and her father’s Old Spice cologne.
She saw her sister Luisa climbing gum trees at Bonegilla, crawling out onto spindly limbs, like a koala, her plaits looped over her ears and her face full of unbridled joy.
She saw a large book with pink and green and yellow countries divided by dotted lines and twisting rivers and mountain ranges.
She felt the cool waters of Lake Hume on her ankles and the pleasure of water splashing on her face.
She smelled the talcum-powder scent of her babies in her arms.
She tasted salty Greek food on her tongue.
She felt her husband giving her a ripe peach, the gentle furriness tickling her palm, and her granddaughter’s silky hair, like ribbons between her fingers as she plaited it.
Frances. Iliana. Vasiliki.
A breath.
A husband. Photos. Friends. Rice.
Mushrooms.
Shampoo.
Old Spice.
&n
bsp; Talcum powder.
A peach.
A breath.
About Bonegilla
If Australians have learned one lesson from the Pacific war now moving to a successful conclusion, it is surely that we cannot continue to hold our island continent for ourselves and our descendants unless we greatly increase our numbers. We are about 7 million people and we hold 3 million square miles [7.7 million square kilometres] of this Earth surface ... much development and settlement have yet to be undertaken. Our need to undertake it is urgent and imperative if we are to survive.
Minister for Immigration Arthur Calwell
Hansard, House of Representatives,
2 August 1945, pp 4911-4915
Arthur Calwell’s ‘populate or perish’ policy changed the face of modern Australia.
More than three million refugees and migrants, 1.5 million of whom were British, came to Australia between 1945 and 1975, almost doubling Australia’s population.
Between 1947 and 1971, more than 320,000 of them passed through the Bonegilla Migrant Reception Centre, a sprawling 320-acre ex-army camp on the River Murray in north-eastern Victoria, near Albury-Wodonga.
In the late 1940s, these people were Eastern European Displaced Persons from post-war refugee camps. In the 1950s, they were Assisted Migrants from throughout Europe looking for work and a new life. And in the 1960s and 1970s they were British migrants, or ‘ten pound Poms’.
Bonegilla became their temporary home while they were processed and until they found work.
It was to become Australia’s largest and longest-lasting post-war migrant accommodation centre.
One in twenty Australians have links to Bonegilla through migration of the post-war era.
Including me.
Author’s Note
While The Last of the Bonegilla Girls is based in part on the experiences of my own family, it is a work of fiction.
The Bonegilla Migrant Reception Centre did have a camp director at the time my characters lived there, but Reginald Burley is entirely fictitious.
The Last of the Bonegilla Girls Page 33
