by Susan Toscan
La Strada Da Seguire: The Road to Follow
Susan Toscan
First published 2015
'© Susan Toscan
All rights reserved. No part of this printed or video publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.
Editor: Julie Athanasiou
Designer / typesetter: Working Type Studio (www.workingtype.com.au)
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Creator: Toscan, Susan, author.
Title: La strada de seguire = The road to follow / Susan Toscan ;
Julie Athanasiou, editor.
ISBN: 9780987410429 (eBook)
Subjects: Immigrants--New South Wales--Griffith--Fiction.
Italians--New South Wales--Griffith--Fiction.
Italian Australians--New South Wales--Griffith--Fiction.
Griffith (N.S.W.)--Social life and customs--Fiction.
Italy--Emigration and immigration--Fiction.
Other Creators/Contributors:
Athanasiou, Julie, editor.
Dewey Number: A823.4
Acknowledgements
In writing this book, I acknowledge the influence and impression made on my life by three amazing, strong and sensitive women: my grandmother, my mother and my Italian mother-in-law. They lived through a time in history that was as unique as it was difficult. They all strived to be independent and outspoken before it was fashionable, and their only motivation was love for their families.
For a novice, writing this book has been challenging to say the least. I have learned so much, and I thank my editor for her patience and careful consideration of the story that I wanted to tell. I hope that I have achieved my dream to write a wonderful, engaging story about ordinary people living in extraordinary times.
I give my sincere thanks and appreciation to my friends and family, who assisted me in the early stages of writing this book. Bev and Henry Lawrence, Marie Catanzariti, Pat Mittiga, Julie Valeri and Jenny Jackson—I thank you all for your constructive criticism and your never-ending love and support.
My husband, my children and their partners have all given me continued encouragement through the writing process. Their belief in my ability to write this book has been my greatest motivation.
Note from the author
on the actuality of events:
Even though a large proportion of the book is written from real life experiences some of the facts have been embellished to enhance the story. The Australian and Italian families featured in this book are fictional but based on real people whose names and identifying details were changed to protect the privacy of individuals. The storyline is tied to real events during World War II but with fictional development.
Prologue
Michael: February 1941
Michael approached the small farmhouse that he and Agnes had shared since the year after they had married. As he walked the short distance up the familiar dusty road from the spot where the bus had let him off, he looked around at the flat landscape that surrounded him. He could not help but admire it. The fruit trees and vegetable gardens made the countryside look green and lush. He breathed in the fresh, clean air and took pleasure in the tidy farms belonging to his neighbours, who had become his good friends over the years. It seemed to Michael that his spirit was renewed every time he came home. The friendliness and peace that were part of living in this remote area healed his soul, and he needed that now more than ever before in his life.
He noticed Frank Messera working on his tractor and walked over to the paddock fence. On seeing Michael, Frank stopped the tractor and ran over to welcome him home with a hug. “So good to see you home, Michael! Things have not been the same without you.”
“Thanks, Frank. I’ve missed you all as well. How is the family?”
Frank rubbed his work-weary face and looked at his neighbour intently. Michael could see the worry in Frank’s eyes. No words were really necessary between these two friends. Frank was like a father to Michael and was very aware of how the young man felt about leaving his family.
“The family are all good, mate. But Maria, she cries a lot these days. She’s very worried about you and Steven and our family in Italy. These are hard times. All the young blokes are joining up, and the farms are neglected.” Frank shook his head, looking frustrated. “Now we’re expected to carry the load while everyone’s away fighting, but there just aren’t enough of us to do all the jobs to keep the farms running at full capacity. We are not young anymore.”
Michael patted Frank’s shoulder. “I’ll get home now, mate, but I will come over for a beer and catch up with your family tomorrow.”
“See you soon then, Michael. Love to your family.” Frank waved as he made his way back to his tractor.
Michael felt a stab of despair as he watched the older man climb slowly back onto his machine. These people all worked so hard. They took such pride in their own houses and farms, and at the same time, they were trying to help out their friends and neighbours whose sons had joined up. Women, as well as the older men, were doing more on the properties throughout the region, but even so, many farms would not be able to survive without further help.
Michael continued on his walk home. He had a sense that he was absorbing everything, trying to imprint every detail onto his mind. As he arrived at the gate to his small house, he sighed. The sadness of having to leave all that was familiar and loved overwhelmed him.
Michael knew that within a week he would be boarding a ship to a faraway place to fight in a war that everyone had prayed would never happen. The war had started almost two years ago. He had delayed joining up for as long as he possibly could, but his conscience would not let him wait any longer to enlist. He was sad beyond words. His uniform was new, and he was uncomfortable. He had completed his army training a few days ago: a torrid six months spent learning the skills necessary to stay alive and survive in a hostile environment. He had found it very difficult to come to terms with the fact that killing other men would be the rule, not the exception. Michael had been home only once during that period—he couldn’t imagine what it would be like once he left Australia’s shores, not knowing when he would get home.
With his initial military training done, he had returned home to spend a few days with his family. He would soon catch the train that would take him and hundreds of other young men to Sydney. They would board a ship bound for what Michael believed would be hell on earth. He was told that his regiment would undergo further training when he and the others reached their final destination, but he didn’t know where that would be. He only knew that it would be a long way from his family, and his heart ached.
On the bus trip from Griffith railway station back to his home, Michael had reflected on the words the sergeant of his unit had spoken after training was completed. “All you blokes have done a good job over the last six months. Go home and see your families because it will be a long time before you see them again. Remember when you hold your children that you are going away to fight for them. Protecting their future and freedom is what we will be fighting for. Godspeed.”
Michael’s baby boy was only 18 months old, and his two little girls were five and three. His heart broke knowing that he was not likely to see them again for a very long time.
As he walked through the gate and into the pretty garden that Agnes had spent years lovingly planting and watering, he was greeted by screams of delight—such a wonderful sound—“Daddy! Daddy!”
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p; Frances and Patricia ran towards him, and he bent down and scooped them up, one girl in each arm. Michael held that moment for as long as he could; he would re-live that feeling of complete love and trust many times in the future. He felt that life was unfolding in slow motion, and he wanted to treasure every precious second with his family. Never had he felt his love for them so strongly, and he knew that he was loved in return.
Agnes was waiting inside the house. Her eyes were very red. “Hello, you. I’m so pleased you are home,” she said simply as she looked at her beautiful young husband standing before her in his army uniform.
Michael put Frances and Patricia down, but they held onto his legs and gazed up at him.
“Love you, Daddy,” said five-year-old Frances, her sweet little face full of innocence and love—such trust in those knowing eyes. “Daddy, why do you have those funny clothes on? They’re scratchy.”
“Daddy has a new uniform. I have to wear it when I go to join the army,” Michael explained with tears in his eyes.
Agnes had been watching this interaction intently. She was not sure how long she could hold back the emotion that she was feeling. She couldn’t comprehend that life without Michael for an unknown period of time was an imminent reality. She did not know how she was going to cope. They had already decided that after Michael had left, it would be best if she and the children moved back to the town of Griffith to stay with Agnes’s parents.
The thought of leaving their home and their wonderful neighbours made Agnes even more upset. Too much change had left her feeling out of control and angry. Not angry with Michael but with the madness that had engulfed their quiet life. Why was this happening? Agnes wanted to live in peace with her family and friends; she did not understand the actions of the fanatics in Germany and Italy that could possibly destroy all that she knew and loved.
She felt bad for the people in Europe—she knew that compared to them, she led a life that was reasonably safe. Agnes was aware that it was selfish, but she did not want her husband and friends to go away to fight in a war that really had nothing to do with them. Michael had explained that it was not that simple. Australia was aligned with Britain and, therefore, had to support Britain in its efforts to stop Hitler’s plan to take over Europe. But even so, Agnes could not come to terms with the fact that her husband and friends and so many others would be faced with unimaginable danger.
All members of the community were in a state of mindless acceptance. They did not want to send their boys to another terrible war, but the choice was no longer theirs to make.
Many of the young men from the area were going to war at the same time as Michael, including Steven, the husband of Agnes’s friend Renata. Steven was Michael’s business partner and his dear friend. When the time came to enlist, they decided to go together. It wasn’t easy for the men to tell their families that they had joined up, but Agnes was aware they believed their families would at least feel better knowing they would be together. She had seen Steven just yesterday. He had returned from training a few days earlier than Michael as his father had been unwell.
That night, after they put the children to bed, Michael and Agnes lay awake holding each other. They did not want to sleep. They had made love passionately, trying to express all of their feelings in their intimacy.
“How do I hold onto this when you are gone?” Agnes asked. Michael tried to reassure her, but he knew that she was as aware of the terrible danger as he was. He held his wife until she fell into a restless sleep and then sat in the children’s bedroom. He watched his children sleep peacefully. Would they ever understand what he was doing, and would they know that it was for them?
Still restless, Michael walked outside and looked at the night sky. The stars were incredibly bright. He knew that wherever he was in the world, he would always be looking at the same stars that his family saw. This gave him an odd sense of reassurance. He was clinging to anything and everything that would help him maintain contact with his family.
He walked around the small property—their home. Michael loved living out in the country. He loved the feeling of space and tranquillity that he experienced every time he came home. He remembered how shabby and overgrown the garden was when they moved into the house. Agnes had worked so hard to create a peaceful place for their family, and he had many happy memories in this garden.
He came to his favourite place, the swing that he had slung over a low branch of the old gum tree. The seat was an old tractor tyre, and the children loved it. He could picture the happy faces of his daughters impatiently waiting for a turn on the swing. “Push me higher, Daddy! I’m a big girl; I can go higher than Patricia.” And Patricia objecting strongly to Frances’s claims: “No, you can’t!”
Michael smiled as he thought about his two strong-willed little girls, so much alike in so many ways but both so independent. How would little Neil cope with two such outspoken sisters?
God, how can I leave them? Michael thought, How can I not be here to see them every day? Give me the strength to do what I have to do. Despair overwhelmed him. He let his tears fall.
At dawn, he went back into the house and lay down beside his wife. He would never take this simple act for granted again.
Part One
L i f e B e f o r e W a r t i m e
Agnes
It is the 18th of May 1935, and I am in the labour ward of Griffith Hospital trying to come to terms with the fact that I am about to become a mother. I turned 18 three weeks ago, and the enormity of bringing a child into the world is overwhelming me. Another contraction—why won’t they let my mother come in? I know that she is out there arguing with the supervisor, trying to convince the rather formal nursing sister to let her join me.
I can hear her raised voice coming from the corridor. “I know that I can help my daughter. Please let me in to be with her,” my mum, Elsie, pleads with the ward sister. From the response, it sounds like Mum might be wearing them down, and I am hopeful. “I will speak to my superior and see what we can do.”
Yet another contraction—I think that I am going to tear apart. God, how long does this take! I am not sure if I am talking to myself or if I am saying the words out loud, but I really do not care at this point. I try to get up; I want to walk around—anything to relieve the pain in my back.
Gentle hands stop me from getting off the bed. “Try to lie still, Agnes, and just work with the contraction,” a young nurse says patiently.
“My mother is outside the door. Please bring her in,” I plead as tears of frustration blur my eyes.
I try to explain, but again I am not sure if I am talking to myself. “Mum is a midwife, and she has delivered more babies than she cares to remember.”
Again I hear the patient voice. “The staff are trying to find a way around the rules of the hospital. The regulations do not allow family members into the labour ward.”
I have to laugh to myself; my mother is not a woman to follow rules, especially when it comes to her daughter and grandchild.
Over the course of the past month, Mum had been coaching me to prepare for labour. I feel like an idiot as the only thing I can remember now is her telling me is to try to relax between contractions, which at this point seems like the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. She said that it would help conserve my energy for the birth. Conserve energy? I just hope that I live through it! I am desperately trying to stay with the plan, and I find that it helps to think about something aside from the pain.
My mind wanders back to the day Michael and I got married.
I wish he were here; I do not even know where he is at the moment. He left a week ago to go back to the shearing shed beyond Coleambally. I know that he will be gone for at least a month.
Gosh, another contraction. Breathe, breathe. I really want to scream… In fact, I think I am screaming!
I ignore the young nurse’s instructions to stay on the bed, and I am now up walking around. It is not easy to move, but at least my back feels a little better.
I bend over the bed following another strong contraction, and the nurse rubs my back. I think that she has given up trying to tell me what to do. I don’t think that she has any children. I smile to myself—why would she, after witnessing this every day? Okay, try to focus, Agnes. We must be getting close to the end, surely.
I am once again working through a very strong contraction when my mother bursts into the room with a nurse in pursuit. Mum is here to stay, and no-one is making her leave. “Agnes, it’s all right. I will stay with you, darling. Let’s get on with bringing my grandchild into the world.” Elsie stares pointedly at the ward sister.
After a long discussion with the hospital supervisor, the staff finally agreed that Mum could stay, but she was told to keep out of the way. I had a giggle about that; there was no way that my mother was not going to be right where she was needed. I am so relieved when I see her that the tears I have been fighting start to fall. Mum knows that she has to stay strong for me, but I can see that she is struggling to hold her own emotions in check.
“Stay focused now, Agnes,” Mum tells me, “control your breathing and concentrate. I am right here with you.”
I clutch her hand; it is my lifeline, and I am not letting go. Poor Mum; I think that I must have crushed her fingers, but she keeps talking quietly to me, and somehow I find the strength to continue. It’s not like I have a choice.
Once again I am aware that I am screaming. “Mum, I need to push. And I think that I need to use the toilet.”
Mum makes sure that the midwife is happy with the position of the baby and then encourages me. “Darling, you just push that baby out. Bear down hard and visualise your baby in your arms—not long now.”
Even while I yell at her about how much it hurts, Mum continues talking calmly, reassuring me that it is all perfectly natural. I do not think that there is anything natural about this process, and I am convinced that my baby will be in there forever. The delivery room is alive with activity. The midwife is shouting at the other nurses, and I feel panic setting in. Mum, however, is amazing. She continues talking to me, telling me to just listen to her voice.
