“You know him?”
“I know him, yes.”
Rosie said, “This Bruno Abato is really unhappy with Tomas. He’s making all kinds of threats—”
Nonna waved her hand dismissively. “Tomas will work it out. I am not worried.”
“He plans to tell people, especially your workers, that you are all fascists and that Tomas was with the Blackshirts and—”
“Oh, no, no, no.” A look of panic flashed across Nonna’s face, but she quickly recovered and feigned nonchalance. “Abato is angry with my Tomas and he will do what he can to make his life very difficult. He will lie. He will cheat. He will do whatever it takes but we will not let him get to us. We will stand strong.” Nonna’s lips trembled.
“But there’s a photo of Tomas with the Blackshirts—”
“Nonsense!”
Rosie jumped then regained composure. “It’s true, Nonna, I saw it with my own eyes.”
Nonna looked past Rosie’s shoulder, as if making sure there were no extra ears nearby. Her face was stern. “When a difficulty arises, the Contis face it with boldness and courage. This Abato is like a sail—full of wind.”
Rosie wasn’t so convinced.
* * * *
Rosie and her father sat on the verandah, the black night marred by rolling clouds. Thunder roiled in the distance and flashes of lightning lit up the mountains. A warm breeze rustled the trees. The air felt damp, the scent metallic.
“Looks like a storm is imminent.” Her father had his eyes fixed firmly on the brewing turmoil.
“It could still pass,” she said, not holding out much hope. “So…”
“Bartel,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. I know you had good intentions to find him but it was a crazy idea. No amount of money is worth jeopardizing your safety.”
Rosie lowered her eyes, feeling like a schoolgirl being reprimanded by a teacher. “I thought…”
“I know what you thought and”—he patted her hand—“I admire your tenacity and your heart. I’m glad you let the police deal with it.”
“But the money—”
“He’s in custody now, so we just have to wait to find out what the full story is. Chances are he’s spent every cent.” Her father could easily have clung to bitterness or sadness, but instead his tone was one of resignation. “I have no idea how we are going to get all the cutting done.”
“I can help.”
“You have helped in so many ways, Rosie. You’ve taught me a lot. Your strength to take on every situation without collapsing is incredible. I am proud to call you my daughter.” Hesitation ran across his face.
Warmth and affection flooded through her. “And I’m proud to call you my father.”
He looked away briefly and Rosie detected he was forcing tears to stay at bay.
“You’ve always been my dad.”
Her father rested his hand at the back of her head and he pulled her close. Rosie leant against his shoulder. “We’ll get through this.”
“I should have found Bartel earlier,” she mumbled.
“It’s not your fault. You have gone above and beyond for this family.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
“Iced tea?” The door creaked open and her mother appeared with a large tray of glasses and jug of tea with ice and lemon. She placed it on the small table and Rosie stood to let her mother sit down. “It’s all right, I’m happy to stand, darling.”
“How are you feeling?” Rosie asked tentatively.
Her mother’s lips managed to kick into a small smile. “I’m getting there.”
For the past few days Rosie had noticed her mother seemed less dazed. Happier. Maybe…just maybe… Perhaps Rosie was being too hopeful, reading into things that possibly weren’t there.
“Where’s Alex?” Rosie asked.
Her mother poured tea into three glasses. “He’s sound asleep on the couch—with his work clothes on.”
Rosie looked at her father and they both raised their eyebrows, their lips twitching.
“Oh, you may think it’s funny but I’ve just spent all day cleaning that living room.” Her mother’s tone only sounded half-annoyed. She handed a glass to Rosie, who stepped forward to take it.
“Thanks,” she said.
The wind picked up dramatically and the rustle of the trees became more intense. Rosie leant against the railing and sipped tea while she gazed out at Tulpil stretching out before her. To subdivide it, even in a small way, would mean losing a piece of her family’s history forever. How many years had family members toiled in these fields? How many babies had been born within these walls? How many dreams had been fulfilled and how many hopes had been dashed?
She sighed. There had to be some way to preserve Tulpil as it was. The way Tulpil should be.
“You know…” she started, but her voice trailed off when she noticed an orangey-yellow glow in the distance. The light appeared to be in the small gully that led to Il Sunnu. As she watched it, the light grew brighter and spread wider. “Oh no.”
Her mother stood next to Rosie, her eyes fixed on the same light. “What is that?”
Her father coughed and Rosie helped him up. With his walking stick, he moved over to where Rosie’s mother stood.
“Is that…” He narrowed his eyes. “A fire? What are those idiots doing? It’s too bloody windy. And anyway, why would they start with that field?”
Her stomach churned. “Mum, call Sergeant Gavin!”
Rosie ran into the house, grabbed her keys and bolted to the ute. She could have called the Contis but by the time it took to raise the alarm by telephone she could be on their property and banging on their door. The tires spun in the gravel as she shoved the vehicle into gear and accelerated down the driveway and onto the main road. To her left, the dark fields glowed brightly as the wind pushed the flames toward the Conti’s house.
Rosie sped down Tomas’s driveway, arrived at the house and slammed on the brakes. She ran up the steps, yelling, “Fire! Fire!”
Tomas’s father, Cosimo, was the first to answer the door. He scratched his belly, turned on the verandah light and squinted. A second later his eyes opened wide and he yelled at the top of his lungs while running toward the worker’s barracks.
“What is this noise?” Nonna appeared in her nightgown, her gray hair in plaits.
“There’s a fire down near the riverbank and it’s spreading.”
“What?” Nonna hastily donned her cardigan and boots. “You have seen Tomas?”
“Isn’t he with the Clarks?”
Nonna shook her head. “No, he returned an hour ago then someone called him and he left. I thought it was you but…” Nonna clutched Rosie’s arm. “What if it was Bruno Abato?”
“We’ll worry about that later. Get Beatrice and go to Tulpil. The wind’s blowing in the opposite direction so you’ll be fine.” Nonna hesitated and Rosie pointed at the car. “You need to leave. Now.”
“But—”
“Just get yourselves to safety. My parents will look after you.” Her father hadn’t swayed in any way with his view on Italians but given the situation…. Nonna shouted into the house and a second later Tomas’s mother, Beatrice, appeared.
“Please, you need to go,” said Rosie.
“You come with us. This is dangerous.” Nonna pleaded.
“They’re going to need as many hands as possible. It’s your job to get to safety.”
Nonna grabbed Rosie’s arm. “You must come.”
“No.” She stood firm. “Now please, leave.”
Nonna glanced at the growing flames then hurried to the ute. Beatrice was frozen to the spot. Nonna said something and Beatrice shook her head, as if waking from a stupor. The women got in the ute and took off, the vehicle stopping and starting, the red lights of the brakes flashing on and off.
The air crackled as the smoke grew thick and the stench of burning cane and debris filled Rosie’s nostrils. In the past, she’d loved that burnt caramel smell but now it brought nothing but fear. If they didn’t control this fire, the Contis would lose their entire crop. There would be no way they could cut all that burnt cane and process it before the sugar disappeared. The cane would be useless and their livelihood for the season destroyed. Rosie glanced behind her. They could even lose their house.
Rosie pulled out a handkerchief and dunked it in the nearby water barrel. She placed it over her mouth and tied the corners in a knot at the back of her head. Picking up a hessian sack that had been hauled out of the shed by one of the workers, Rosie sprinted toward the fire, quick on the heels of Tomas’s father and the other men. She joined them in a tight line, using the hessian sacks to contain the flames. The irrigation system pumped furiously but it couldn’t contend with the raging heat.
Rosie’s skin prickled and her lungs burned. She had to quell the panic that wanted to make her run. There was no way she’d leave now, no matter how dangerous it was to stay.
The dried leaves and grass only added fuel to the fire. Strong gusts lifted the burning debris and deposited it in other parts of the field, creating spot fires that meant the group had to break off and put them out before they took hold. The intense smoke stung her eyes and they watered relentlessly, but she pushed on, refusing to allow the blurred vision to stop progress. Pops and crackles surrounded them, the ground exploding in random spots. Foxes, toads, cane beetles, rabbits and snakes fled the cane, their homes destroyed by the flames. A fox brushed her leg as he bolted past, his tail singed.
The muscles in Rosie’s arms ached, her chest felt like someone was sitting on it, and her skin, like it was suffocating. Her clothes clung to her body, making movement difficult. Sweat trickled into her eyes, mixing with the ashes and dust.
In the distance, a trail of headlights sped up the driveway then pulled over to the side of the road. Figures jumped out of the cars, dragging blankets, hessian bags, buckets…whatever they had handy to fight the blaze that was dangerously out of control. As the new arrivals took their place throughout the fields, Rosie recognized a few familiar faces: her brother Alex, Sefa, Loto, other workers who had left Tulpil in dispute, Sergeant Gavin, Minister Jack, Reg from the pub, Mr. O’Reilly from the service station, Stephen Channing from the bank. The townsfolk had turned up in droves and the determined look on everyone’s faces told her Il Sunnu wasn’t going down without a fight.
Alex drew up beside her.
“Where did all these people come from?” she shouted over the crackling and hissing.
“Dad.” He smashed the hessian sack onto a spot fire.
“What?”
“He called Lorraine to get the word out. You know how fast the town grapevine is. And when he asks, people listen, right?”
“True enough.” Rosie bashed the hessian against burning debris. “But why? He doesn’t like the Contis.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Alex wiped his forehead and left behind a black streak. “Dad said no farmer deserves to suffer something like this.”
She managed a smile, despite the dire situation.
Alex moved away, concentrating on an area that had gotten further out of control.
A loud pop pierced her ears and sparks flew in front of her. Rosie instinctively threw her arms in front of her face and ducked. Strong hands pulled her to a standing position and she looked up to find Tomas staring down at her, one side of his face blackened.
“What are you doing here? It’s not safe!” Tomas yelled over the growing inferno.
Rosie removed the handkerchief that had dried out and was now a useless barrier from the smoke.
“We are beating this bastard!” She swung her arm back then smacked the hessian hard on the ground, extinguishing the flames.
“Get out!” he boomed. “It’s too dangerous!”
She looked up, about to stand her ground then noticed his left eye was swollen and completely closed. “What happened?”
“Never mind about that now.” He pounded the flames with hessian.
Another pop followed by shouting made them turn around.
“Oh god.” She covered her mouth with her sooty hand. “The fire’s headed for the house!”
Chapter 32
1945—Salò, Italy
Tomas sat at the table in the small office and rubbed his biceps. The air had turned unusually cold for this time of the year and his thin uniform did little to combat the weather. He checked his watch again.
Forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes he’d been in this dank room with no windows, waiting for his contact to appear. It had taken months of stealthy maneuvering through the partisan networks, training, falsifying documents and learning codes to get to the point of finally working with Mussolini’s army in the newly formed Italian Social Republic in northern Italy.
Things had moved swiftly after the Allied forces had arrived in Sicily. They’d fought the Germans valiantly, sometimes right beside the partisans, and with a country in turmoil and the Allies set to win, the monarchy had made the move to oust Mussolini. While the ink was drying on the newly decreed alliance of Italy with the Allies, the Germans helped Mussolini escape by setting him up in German-controlled northern Italy. The result: Tomas’s beloved Italy was now in a civil war that had turned the streets to rivers of blood.
Tomas fiddled with the rolled-up paper containing details of the construction of half a dozen bridges further south. No amount of training had prepared him for this moment. What disturbed him most, though, was that this was only a meeting with the contact who had gotten him this position. Tomas wasn’t even in the thick of it yet. How would he cope when he was amongst Mussolini’s most loyal?
Soon after Rachel’s death, Tomas had begun working with Spina in the noncombatant role they’d initially spoken about. Tomas’s knowledge of construction was second to none, and after initially helping in Sicily, Tomas found himself moving north.
Up until going undercover, Tomas had tried to contact Abato to explain what had happened to Rachel but he’d failed every time. Abato hadn’t attended his sister’s funeral, which was a small, sad affair with only Tomas, his parents and Nonna present. Rachel’s death had sent Abato deep into the mountains, leaving his group behind and cutting off all forms of communication. With every knock on Tomas’s door and every letter that arrived, a sense of dread took over, but not once did Abato get in contact. In the darkness of the early hours when insomnia struck, Abato’s last words rotated in Tomas’s head on an endless, torturous spool: If anything happens to my sister, I will hold you fully responsible. I will hunt you down. And I will kill you.
The door creaked open and in walked a tall, thin man with a head of thick, gray hair. Tomas had only been given Valerio’s name as a contact and now, while he studied this man who looked like a placid grandfather, Tomas wondered how Valerio could kill innocent people—the people he was fighting for—to keep his cover and get important information back to the partisans.
Valerio gave a curt nod. “Zini.”
“Valerio,” said Tomas, still not used to his new identity as Alberto Zini from Ragusa, Sicily.
“Come.” He cocked his head in the direction of the door.
“I thought we were—”
“Lieutenant Bandiera wants to meet with you now. They’re planning on moving south faster than expected. There’s word the partisans are gathering more members and we need to strike before it gets out of control.” Valerio peered over his glasses. “You have everything?”
Those three words meant so much more than anyone could ever know. All the training in obtaining messages and dispersing them through the networks had brought Tomas to this moment and he couldn’t afford to disappoint. Once again, his past failures forced their way to the front of his
mind but he pushed them into the dark recesses. He needed to be clear. Focused. Composed.
Tomas picked up the paperwork and followed Valerio down the hall and outside onto the piazza. Bright sunlight blinded Tomas for a moment and he held up his hand to shield his eyes.
“Come,” Valerio said.
Tomas fell into step as they crossed the piazza and walked toward the building that had been commandeered for the republic. He put his head down, concentrating on his boots as they travelled the cobblestones. Tomas kept in step with Valerio, who held his head high. Every so often Tomas glanced up to see people going about their daily business—women with young children, old men talking with friends, shopkeepers arranging their wares—no one seemed concerned they were living in one of the most volatile regions of Italy. A German stronghold, Salò had become a prime target of the Allies. It was only a matter of time…
They rounded a corner and climbed the stairs. The Italian soldiers blocked their path and demanded Tomas’s papers. Tomas handed them over, his hands steady while his insides were in turmoil. Valerio’s eyes told Tomas to keep his trap shut and follow his lead. The soldier handed back the papers and cocked his head in the direction of the door. Tomas breathed a mental sigh of relief while he followed Valerio to a large room at the back of the building. When they entered, dread and regret pulled Tomas’s muscles so taut a band of pain wrapped around his head. How the hell could he pull this meeting off?
* * * *
For the past week, Tomas had been working closely with the men assigned by Valerio. Nothing of note had happened so Tomas withheld sending messages because every time he did, he’d put himself, and others, at risk.
Another meeting had just finished and the men were talking amongst themselves while Tomas rolled up the maps. A moment later, a young man with a camera entered the room. The kid’s wide eyes reminded him of the young Italian soldier that Abato had slaughtered. Even now, after so much time, that image would not shake itself free. That, along with memories of his grandfather’s murder and Rachel’s death, remained in the present, torturing Tomas in moments of silence.
Burning Fields Page 28
