by G S Johnston
She drove into Munro Street and slowed. From the police station a crowd of people spilled – Italian women, some children, no men of any age. She left the car, walked to the group. In silence, she joined their ranks. The building, this inert object, would offer no answer. She looked for Maria but couldn’t see her. It took some silent moments until she realised she stood next to Teresa Garofalo. They hadn’t spoken for years.
‘What’s happening?’ Amelia said.
‘No-one has any answers.’
Amelia stood in silence. All her questions were unanswerable. She moved away from Teresa, skirted the outside of the crowd towards the station’s door and managed to slip through. Inside were more people, more noise. She joined a queue, inched forward until she approached the sergeant on duty. He was a British Australian, Irish, she suspected.
‘Your husband is a member of the Babinda Fascist Organisation—’
‘This group hasn’t been active—’
‘We’re at war with Italy. Under regulation 20 of the Defence Act, he’ll be interned.’
‘Interned? Where will he be taken?’
‘At this stage, I’m not sure.’
‘How long will he be here?’
‘Who knows how long the war will last?’
‘And who will run the farm?’
The man looked at her and raised his eyebrows. He turned away from the broad counter, back into the depth of the station. She waited for him to return.
‘He has nothing,’ she said. ‘Can I bring him some clothes?’
The man sighed heavily, as if it were him who was bothered. ‘You can bring two small cases. I’ll try and get them to him.’
When she left the building, people were still outside. She didn’t stop and drove back to the house. Lucia was full of questions, but she ignored her and went straight to the office. Italo would be interned. He was a prisoner of war. A prisoner. But there were no grounds for this. This was a mistake. For the rest of the morning, she wrote letters, to the Italian consulate, to Vice-Consul Chieffi in Townsville, pleading for information and help. She sent a telegram to Flavio and Mauro at their hotel in Brisbane and ordered them to return immediately. She gave no detail and hoped they wouldn’t hear of the arrests, but no doubt there would be reports in the newspapers and on the wireless. There’d have been such arrests in Brisbane. And then it struck her – what if they’d been arrested? They were Australian, surely, born in Australia, but were there such borders anymore?
She made telephone calls, to the mayor of Babinda, to the police station, but no-one with any seniority would offer any information. And the Italian women of the valley telephoned her, just to tell what they knew, which was nothing of any great consequence except their fear.
She heard a car approaching and went to the front verandah. It was Maria Pastore. They hadn’t spoken for many years, beyond the most perfunctory salutations in the village.
‘I just came to see if you were all right,’ she said, walking through the gate towards the house.
‘Italo’s been arrested. Has Dante?’
Maria looked her in the eye. ‘Yes.’
Amelia gasped. Maria was born in Australia. Even that hadn’t exempted her Italian-born husband.
‘They’ve arrested all the members of the Babinda Fascist Organisation,’ Maria said.
‘These arrests had been planned.’
Maria nodded. ‘They’ve just been waiting for a reason to act.’
‘What will happen to them?’
‘No-one will say.’
Maria had to leave, as there were other women she wanted to check, but she would telephone if she heard any news.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Amelia said.
Maria turned back to face her. ‘We only have ourselves. It’s best to forget our differences. We should pull together, as we used to.’
Amelia could bring no response. There it was, all out in the open as if nothing had ever covered it over. Despite all the ill feeling Maria had towards her, in this desperate hour she was generous. And so should Amelia be, forgiving. There was now a greater threat. She tried to raise a smile, but there was little of it. Maria nodded and turned to the truck. How could they have come to this?
She packed two suitcases with Italo’s pants, shirts, underclothes and shoes, left Ilaria with Lucia and returned to the police station. Many people, mainly the Italian women and their children, spilled over the road. The officials refused to let her speak with Italo. They refused her any information, just presenting her with the blankest faces they could muster. But they accepted the suitcases, marking them with his name and a number, PWQ 7082. Outside, she stood in the distressed sea of people, stern faces meeting her eye, a small nod the only mark that they were united. No-one spoke. What was there to say? They remained in some silent vigil.
From the other side of the street, Amelia looked to the police station. It was only small, a weatherboard building on stilts. If they’d arrested every member of the Babinda Fascist Organisation, they’d arrested over a hundred men. They couldn’t hold them at the station for long. There just wasn’t room. And there was no other facility in Babinda they could press into service. They’d have to transfer some of the men, if not all. The trail of logic turned Amelia’s stomach. Where would they take him? North to Cairns? She doubted there would be any substantial building there. But it was late in the day. It seemed unlikely anything more would happen. She must leave him, much as she didn’t want to, though her presence there had no effect on him. She returned to the farm. She didn’t sleep. She hadn’t heard anything from Mauro and Flavio, so first thing in the morning she telegrammed again. And the telephone rang, over and over, with calls from the worried women of the valley. Aware the telephonists would listen, they were careful, always speaking in Italian. But no-one knew anything. What could they do? Who could they contact? One woman had heard that Vice-Consul Chieffi had already left Townsville for Sydney. He and the other Italian consular staff would leave Australia in the next few days.
‘There goes all the support they promised.’
Amongst the snippets of news, that piece cut her. She’d not heard of Chieffi for over three years, since she’d abandoned the idea of the school. She’d never really liked him, found him far too proud, puffed with authority. And he’d judged her for keeping an Australian girl to work. But she’d forgiven him these sins and had sought his help, no matter how much he offended her. Why had she done that? What end had she been seeking? An Italian school. All his small promises of help were only made for his own promotion. And now she knew the picture he’d painted of new Italy was far, far from the reality. She’d been a fool.
Clara had been right. She had sought to expunge her guilt over Flavio, carve herself a secure position in the Italian society of Babinda. But she hadn’t, and she’d lost Clara.
The day passed in a blur. Around three, the telephone rang, and she thought not to answer but hoped it might finally be some word from the boys.
‘Come to the police station.’ It was Maria. ‘They’re moving the men.’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know. Hurry.’
When she arrived at the station, a crowd of people had gathered. The police were keeping them at bay, but she could see at the back of the building the men were being loaded into large transport trucks. They were handcuffed. She saw Italo in the middle of a pack. She called out his name, but he didn’t hear, didn’t respond. So much shouting – how could he hear her? The trucks pulled away. The crowd followed on foot down Munro Street, then towards the train station, and when they arrived, the loading – herding, as if these men were cattle – had already begun. She called out his name again. She wanted to touch him, kiss him, but an angry sea of people separated them, and the train’s windows were barred like a prison’s.
‘Where are you taking them?’ people yelled.
The police were well briefed to say nothing, or perhaps they were simply uninformed, their faces blank.
Once
the men were loaded, the train started moving to the south, towards Brisbane. Amelia’s heart sank. Distance between them would make everything more difficult. But that, in the new Australia, seemed to be the plight of Italians.
‘Don’t come back,’ an Australian man yelled at the train.
And indeed, Amelia had no idea if Italo ever would. Above the crowd’s heads, some fool turned a broad and long cane knife in slow, menacing circles in the air, the blade occasionally reflecting the electric lights.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She returned to the farm at almost five in the evening. Once in the entrance hall, she made for the stair but stopped. She sensed something, another scent in the house, earth after rain. Flavio was home. Mauro too. They came from the kitchen to the dining room.
‘We came as soon as we could,’ Flavio said.
She felt made of stone, unable to move. Flavio walked forward. For most of his life, as he grew more and more to resemble Fergus, she’d resented him. And here he was; he’d come to her when she needed him. She raised her hands, embraced and hugged him. Mauro came and held her. She cried. She kissed both their foreheads. Mauro helped her to the lounge room and Flavio went back to the kitchen to ask Lucia to make tea. Ilaria returned with him and sat on her knee as she explained everything, every small detail she knew.
‘Don’t they see the irony?’ Flavio said. ‘I’m enrolling in the army.’
‘You must not do that,’ Amelia said.
‘But I want to join. I must now. Even more so.’
‘Who knows how long your father will be away? You don’t have any debt to this country. That’s been cancelled. You must both stay to run the farm. I can’t do it on my own.’
‘The family must come first,’ Mauro said.
Flavio swallowed hard, squared his jaw. He looked at Mauro and then back at her.
‘I’ll withdraw my application,’ he said. ‘What have you done to free father?’
‘What can I do?’ Her desperation was clear in her voice. ‘I’ve telephoned everyone I can. No-one will give me any information. The vice-consul has left Townsville. They’ve all fled.’
‘We should contact a solicitor,’ Flavio said. ‘Surely, he’d know how to free him.’
She breathed deeply. When had Flavio gained insight and wisdom? How could she have not noticed?
‘Thank you,’ she said, looking into the depth of his dark eyes. ‘I’d not even considered this.’
Lucia had prepared dinner and they ate it together. They left Italo’s place at the head of the table unset.
‘Where is Papa?’ Ilaria asked.
Amelia looked to the boys, to Lucia, but no-one could answer.
‘He’s away,’ Amelia said.
But this answer was wholly insufficient, and Ilaria began to cry. It was late in the evening, after her bedtime, and she was overwrought. Amelia lifted her, took her to her room and prepared her for bed. She read to her, stroking her hair, but the child resisted until she could no more and fell asleep.
Flavio met her as she descended the stair.
‘Will you come with me, to the solicitor?’ she said.
He regarded her, that same unreadable face of Fergus, but said nothing.
‘You speak English better than I ever will,’ she said. ‘It would help me to have you there.’
‘Of course.’
He walked the two steps to the landing on which she stood. They were at the same level.
‘We will survive this,’ he said.
Would they? What had happened was unfathomable. But she wouldn’t destroy his hope; she needed it. She nodded, reached out, touched his hair, still that colour of first dawn.
‘I feared your hair would darken with age,’ she said. ‘But you remain Flavio, the blond one …’
He leant towards her and kissed her cheek.
And she didn’t flinch or shy away. She accepted it for what it was.
The following morning, Amelia and Flavio went to the solicitor’s office. Mr White was a lean man in his mid-fifties. He’d dealt with the contracts and mortgage for the new land, and Amelia had found him knowledgeable, trustworthy and efficient.
‘The men have been arrested as the government is concerned for actions of a fifth column. It’s happened all over the state, all over the country. My guess is they’ve been taken to Gaythorne concentration camp, just outside Brisbane.’
It had been built during World War I to house German merchant sailors arrested in Australian waters, but recently he’d heard it had been reopened.
‘It’s the only facility that can house the number of men they’ve arrested,’ he said.
‘How long will they be there?’ Flavio said.
‘They have a right to lodge an appeal. But unless we can establish a good reason for his release, he’ll be there for the duration of the war.’
‘He has a business to run,’ Amelia said.
‘I’m afraid that’s not enough.’
Amelia reeled at the bleak remark.
‘Don’t be discouraged,’ he said. ‘We must build with what’s possible. Italo is well-liked in the community, not just the Italian community. I advise you to obtain as many character references as you can, from people he’s dealt with in business and people he knows socially. If we’re going to free him, we need a broad base of support.’
She agreed to this and said she would start with Mr McDonald, the bank manager, and Henry Ling, the Babinda chemist and druggist. They would both speak well of him. At least it was something positive to do, rather than the endless hours of powerlessness.
That evening she wrote a letter to Marta, explaining all that had happened and that she was to concentrate on her studies, as her father would hope she would, and not to worry herself, as this wretched matter would soon be resolved. She searched a map of Brisbane and located Gaythorne. It wasn’t so far to travel. They couldn’t divide a husband and a wife. She would go, soon, demand to see him. But first she had to stabilise the farm and plant the seeds of his release. Whilst the boys had been involved in all aspects of the business, she couldn’t leave it to their giddy-headedness. She needed a plan for them, an explicit schedule, and to book the mill and the cutters.
And then she thought of Clara. They’d had little communication since their break, four years ago. Amelia’s pride hadn’t allowed it. The boys said they hadn’t seen her while they were in Brisbane, but she suspected they had. Perhaps Clara could go and visit Italo? Gaythorne wasn’t far for her to travel, and Clara had no argument with Italo. If anything, she saw him as a pawn, and his arrest proved everything Clara had heralded, primarily that Australia wouldn’t abide their involvement in fascism. And despite everything, Amelia trusted Clara to tell the truth of Italo’s condition.
She wrote a short letter, direct and to the point, telling what had happened, asking what she wanted, without emotion, no admittance of blame, no cadence of guilt, no appeal to anything but their history.
And so they began to wait. The solicitor kept them informed – there were no developments that would free him. She wrote a long letter to her parents, detailing the troubles that had befallen them, complaining of all the problems with the farm and the injustice of the situation. She placed the letter in an envelope and addressed this to her parents, but then placed this in another envelope and addressed it to a cousin in Switzerland. Before they left Italy, they agreed on this method of communication if Italy were to enter the war, to send the letters first to neutral Switzerland. Direct mail services between Italy and Australia would likely be interrupted.
And fortunately, there was one thing free of politics: the fields. Despite Italo’s absence, caught in its automatic cycle, the cane grew. And she thanked God with every prayer she could muster. If this were to fail, every difficulty would be magnified. And the boys hadn’t failed her; in fact, they continued to surprise her. They applied themselves to the tasks in a way she’d never seen. It was her first sign of hope that perhaps they could survive Italo’s absence
.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Amelia received a letter from Clara. At first it was confusing, but then Amelia realised Clara had already been to the camp without Amelia’s prompting. She knew the Italian men had been taken to Gaythorne, guessed Italo would be amongst them and had taken it upon herself to go to the camp. Although the officials wouldn’t confirm he was there, they did say she wouldn’t be allowed to see him, as she wasn’t a relative.
‘So you see, they’ve admitted he’s there. I’ve tried.’
The letter was both settling and unsettling. Clara’s letter contained no prelude to reconciliation and no emotion. She spoke of Italo as if he were an object to be found. And she gave no impression of the condition of the camp – how large it was, did it feel as if it was permanent or would he be moved again? Was this just her still holding a grudge, or were the conditions at the camp so horrendous she couldn’t report them?
Amelia wrote a brief note, thanking her for her trouble. If she heard more, she would write to Clara and perhaps she could go again to Gaythorne.
She also received a letter from the bank. It contained her cheque to pay their monthly account at Northern Builders Supplies. It was stamped in red, No Funds. A wave of anxiety lashed her. The cheque account always had funds. And it had an overdraft, which she’d never used. She’d not wanted such a facility, but the bank manager, Mr McDonald, had demanded she take it. She flicked through the ledger. There it was, the balance of two pounds, six shillings and four pence. More than enough to cover this piddling cheque. This was a mistake. Her anger rose, not so much at the error but at yet another item she had to put right.