Move the Mountains

by Emily Conolan

  ‘O… of course,’ you say, realising you sound stilted. You feel suddenly desperate to get out of there. Frieda rises from her seat, and you stumble past her and scurry from the room. You collapse into your bunk, relieved that no one else is in the dorm yet. It’s only then you realise you left your map and calculations back on the table.

  You feel ashamed and teary. What’s wrong with me? you berate yourself. Frieda saved me, and I ran away because – what? – she’s German? The war wasn’t her fault. She would have suffered too.

  You think how hard it must be for the ex-soldiers on both sides, who had to face the enemy in battle every day; who had to kill them or be killed. Now everyone is supposed to forget the past and share this new land you’re headed towards, Australia.

  You realise that you’ve brought more along with you on this journey than just your luggage: your fears have followed you as surely as if they’d been invited.

  You’re not welcome here, fears, you tell them firmly.

  YOU’RE GLAD THAT the boat journey takes six weeks because you need that time to practise English, and to your great delight, there are lessons on the boat! You also need the time to get used to being away from home, and to make friends.

  Every morning when you wake up, you remember the smoking ruin of your home, and how much money you’ll need to earn to pay for Mamma’s new house. You don’t regret not taking Mr Dawe’s offer, and you often remind yourself: There will be better things in Australia.

  You have decided that this boat is your cocoon – you came aboard a caterpillar, and will leave it a butterfly. Your first step away from your old self is to make friends with Frieda, who has continued to be just as friendly to you as she was that first night. She claims she thought you ran out of the room that first time you met simply because you felt seasick, not to get away from her, and you love her for it.

  ‘Have you noticed there is less and less food?’ she asks you at the end of the first week. You have definitely noticed: there wasn’t much to begin with, but now it seems all the passengers are being served half rations. ‘It’s not enough, is it?’

  ‘Maybe … we’ve eaten most of it already?’ you say uncertainly.

  ‘Impossible,’ she replies brusquely. ‘We’re only one week from Europe; they can’t have planned that badly. Surely they have a lot, so why don’t they give it to us?’

  ‘Let’s look around,’ you say. ‘We can do a bit of spying.’

  You immediately regret your choice of words. Why did I have to bring the war and spying into it? I’m such an idiot!

  Luckily, Frieda laughs and loves the idea. ‘But this time on the same side, for the whole time, all right?’ She elbows you in the ribs. She’s reminding you that the Italians and Germans actually started the war on the same side, before Italy joined the Allies. It’s awkward, but you’re relieved she likes your idea.

  THE JOINT GERMAN–ITALIAN spying mission gets off to a slow start. Frieda, who is a trained doctor – which impresses you hugely – starts offering free health check-ups for passengers and compiles data on everyone’s weight and health. You act as a translator for her Italian patients. People are complaining about the lack of food, and Frieda is worried.

  By the end of the second week, a serious case emerges. An Italian couple from Florence have a two-month-old baby who’s become sickly and weak.

  ‘I don’t think my breastmilk is enough for him,’ the mother says, and you translate. ‘He’s always so tired and irritable. My husband gives me his share of food, but we’re so hungry.’

  Frieda checks the mother, and finds her dangerously underweight, and her baby not nearly as alert or strong as he should be.

  ‘There may have been a problem before they came on board the boat,’ she mutters to you after they’ve left, ‘but I’m worried about that baby. He and the mother need a lot more food.’

  Now you’re angry. You can’t help but think of all those babies back home whom Mamma couldn’t save. Well, what if there’s something you can do this time? What if you can save this one?

  The next day, you’re on the side deck with Frieda, when you see none other than Mr Bob Dawe, the American, slipping in the back door of the kitchen. You and Frieda peek through the doorway to eavesdrop.

  The cook is holding a huge baking dish, filled to the brim with food. As he hands it to Mr Dawe, he mutters: ‘They’re complaining – the passengers, I mean. They’ve noticed.’

  ‘Who cares?’ snarls Mr Dawe. ‘Half rations won’t kill them.’ He tries to take the dish from the cook, but the cook holds on to it.

  ‘I’m the one who has to answer to them,’ he whispers. ‘I should be getting a share of the profits.’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ says Mr Dawe. ‘I can have you replaced faster than you can blink. Now keep your mouth shut.’

  Mr Dawe yanks the dish away from the cook and storms off and you and Frieda dart away as he heads for the doorway. You exchange excited glances, then follow him. Outside a first-class cabin, Mr Dawe balances the almighty food tray on one arm, fumbles for his keys, and—

  ‘Hey!’ he bellows as he catches sight of you. ‘Soup Girl and Math Brain! What are you doing in first class? Get out!’

  You run helter-skelter through first class, heart pounding and feet skidding, back to the women’s dorms where you know you’ll be safe.

  ‘Soup Girl!’ you gasp, rolling back on your bed.

  ‘Maths Brain!’ hoots Frieda, collapsing next to you.

  You laugh about your new secret-agent names until your sides ache. ‘This is serious, though,’ Frieda says eventually. ‘That mother and her little baby starve, while he eats like a pig.’

  ‘But he can’t be eating all the extra food himself,’ you say.

  ‘He’s keeping rations to sell for a profit,’ says Frieda. ‘We just have to prove it.’

  The next morning, you wake at dawn with a plan. You sneak through the heavy metal doors to the staff shower room, right down in the bowels of the ship. It’s a damp jungle that smells like sweaty socks, soap, hot farts and bleach. There are rows of damp wooden benches, farts and mounds of clothes heaped on the benches and hanging from hooks. The sound of gushing showers covers your footsteps.

  If anyone comes out now, I’m in huge trouble, you think as your hands move fast as mice, patting the clothes, waiting for that special clink that means – clink! – keys, a big bunch of them! You fish the prize out of the pockets of a pair of work pants. Then you dash out of the staff quarters without seeing a soul, up to the light and fresh air of the deck, where you show your treasure to Frieda.

  ‘What will they open?’ she asks, open-mouthed.

  ‘Anything, I guess,’ you say. ‘Maybe even private rooms like …’

  ‘… Bob Dawe’s!’ she crows, clapping her hands. ‘There might be some evidence hidden inside. But wait, it might be better to try them first on the storeroom. If the keys worked there, we could see how much food there really is.’

  ‘Soup Girl and Maths Brain are on the case,’ you say.

  Just wait till I tell Mario and Charlie about this.

  To go to Mr Dawe’s room first, go to scene 14.

  To go to the food supplies room first, go to scene 15.

  ‘I’m thinking Soup Girl and Maths Brain might have some unfinished business with Mr Bob Dawe first.’ You grin.

  Frieda winks. ‘You bet.’

  You hide near the stairs to first class, and when you see Mr Dawe stomp out of his cabin, you dash up the stairs and along the corridor.

  Clink. Jangle. Clink. You try key after key to open his cabin.

  Clunk… creak.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ you whisper to Frieda.

  ‘Yes!’ she cries. ‘You go in. I’ll be lookout.’

  Your heart is rattling like a runaway train as you step into Mr Dawe’s cabin. The room reeks of his cologne, plus a meaty fetid odour of unwashed dishes. There’s a rumpled bed with a pair of undies on it, and a desk piled high with scatter
ed papers and exercise books. You can’t see any stockpiled food, although there’s the greasy dish from yesterday, with a chicken bone and some chewed gristle in it.

  You concentrate on the books – that’s where you might find evidence. Your eyes fall on a scribbled page of calculations. As you read it, a bubble of excitement mounts in your chest. You run a trembling finger down the page. Here’s the evidence you were looking for.

  Total cost of food withheld: 6,000

  Mark-up of 25%: 8,000

  Captain: 3,000

  Me: 5,000

  He got his calculations wrong, you think scathingly as you read the page. It’s not that hard, Mr Dawe: twenty-five per cent of six thousand is one thousand five hundred, so—

  A piercing whistle makes you jump. It’s the alarm call from Frieda! Mr Dawe is on his way! You snatch up the page you’re looking at and dash for the door, hearing Frieda’s running footsteps and her voice as she desperately tries to distract Mr Dawe: ‘Oh! Sorry, sir, I’m lost. Can you tell me the way to—’

  You pop your head out of his cabin door, preparing to make a dash for it if he’s not looking but – oh no. He’s only ten metres away, and he’s looking right at you.

  His eyes latch on to yours. He shoves Frieda against the wall, and you hear her cry out as she crumples. You run towards her, wild with fury.

  He catches you in his beefy arms and clamps a hand over your mouth. You bite down hard, he roars in pain, and you taste blood.

  ‘You little rat!’ he spits, dragging you into his cabin and flinging you to the floor. He slams the door behind him, and you hear Frieda screaming and pounding on the cabin door. You look around for a weapon and grab the closest thing: the desk chair. You pull it towards you.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bob Dawe yells. He kicks the chair out of your grip and puts his boot on your chest, pinning you to the ground. ‘I’m not letting you up until you tell me what the hell you’re doing in my room!’

  ‘The paper,’ you gasp. ‘On your desk.’

  As he turns to look at it, you wrench his leg sideways and roll out from under it. Dawe loses his balance, and grabs at the heavy metal chair. As he falls, he brings the chair down on the back of your neck.

  The crack of pain in your neck sends lightning down your arms and legs, and then they go totally numb. It’s as if your body belongs to someone else: you try to move, but nothing responds.

  ‘Let me in!’ screams Frieda. To your amazement, Mr Dawe steps back and slowly opens the door. His face has gone pale and he gazes at you in horror.

  The world starts to turn black, then bright, then black again. Sound jerks in and out, as though the world were a cracked gramophone record. Everything happens in bursts.

  ‘It was an accident,’ says Mr Dawe, and you hear Frieda’s cry. ‘The chair— The ch— It f—’

  The world blinks out.

  Then it blinks back in again.

  Frieda’s hand is on your face. She is sobbing and saying something in German, over and over again.

  The world blinks out.

  And in.

  ‘Can you feel that?’ asks Frieda. ‘Can you feel me squeezing your arm?’

  You see that she is holding someone’s arm: a girl’s arm, smooth and light-brown. It takes an eternity to realise it belongs to you.

  Her mouth locks over yours and she puffs air into your mouth. You feel it going into your throat, but there’s no feeling at all in your chest.

  The world blinks out.

  You feel her hand caress your hair.

  The world blinks out.

  To return to your last choice and try again, go to the end of scene 13.

  ‘Let’s go to the storeroom first,’ you say to Frieda. ‘I think it will help if we can gather evidence before we confront Mr Dawe or the captain.’

  At breakfast-time, the staff are in full swing: stirring, serving, washing and stacking in a noisy dance. Breakfast is a meagre bowl of the grey sludge they call ‘porridge’, which apparently the English think is a good breakfast food. They’ve obviously never come across espresso and crostata.

  You and Frieda step into the kitchen, heading for the metal padlocked door in the back corner. You try to walk confidently, like you’re supposed to be here.

  A shout from behind makes you jump. ‘Hey!’ says a burly cook in a Russian accent. He grabs Frieda’s arm. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  Frieda glances at you, signalling with her eyes: I’ll distract him, you go! But the stolen keys are in Frieda’s pocket, and you can’t take them without being noticed. You have to get Frieda free.

  ‘I’ve come for more porridge,’ you announce boldly and stride towards the vat.

  ‘Hey, no extras!’ shouts the cook, dropping Frieda and running after you.

  ‘There’s not enough food on this ship,’ you say loudly, and you’re pleased to see that your voice carries through the servery and out into the dining room, where many of the passengers turn to look at you. ‘I’m hungry!’ you say. Then you shout to the dining room in Italian: ‘Why do we have to eat this grey sludge every morning? Don’t these bozos know how to cook?’

  All the Italians, which is most of the passengers, roar with laughter, and the Russian kitchen crew looks angry and flustered.

  ‘Stop!’ shouts the cook in English, running towards you. ‘Stop, stop, stop! Get out!’

  The passengers are now all peering in through the servery. You hope that Frieda is taking advantage of this distraction to unlock the pantry.

  ‘Who else is hungry?’ you shout in Italian.

  A roar goes up from the crowd: ‘Me!’

  ‘Well, you might like to know that this cook here has been giving Mr Bob Dawe from first class enough food for a family of twelve, every day! He stuffs his face like a pig while we’re not even allowed a second spoonful of this muck!’

  The cook grabs you from behind in a headlock. The crowd boos.

  ‘Stop that! Stop it!’ shouts the cook.

  Another staff member roars: ‘Go back to your seats!’

  But a chant builds up in the crowd: ‘We want food! We want food!’

  You struggle, and the cook holds you tight.

  Frieda fights her way through the kitchen fray, struggling to lift up a leg of ham, which is fat and pink as a giant baby.

  ‘Look at this!’ she cries in English. ‘All the good food was stored in boxes at the back. They are stealing our rations and will re-sell them for a profit in Australia!’

  The passengers look confused, muttering among themselves, until a woman with a long dark braid jumps onto a table and translates Frieda’s words into Italian. As understanding spreads through the crowd, so does a ripple of outrage. The gate to the kitchen bursts open and passengers swarm in. A couple force the cook to let you go and pin him against the wall, and the rest start looting the storeroom. The scene is turning to mayhem.

  ‘Stop!’ booms a voice from the dining room, and you turn to see a giant of a man stepping through the crowd, his captain’s jacket barely able to stretch across the breadth of his shoulders.

  ‘We want food!’ shouts a voice from the crowd.

  Others back him up: ‘Yeah! Or we’ll take over the ship!’

  ‘First, you will return to your seats,’ commands the captain, and as a bubble of dissent rises, he goes on: ‘Then I will need ten volunteers to cook an enormous feast.’ Hands shoot up in the crowd. ‘You are hungry,’ says the captain, ‘and I know what that is like, because I fought with the Russian army, and we would have been happy to find a worm to eat.’

  ‘Have you been keeping rations from us, to sell later?’ you ask him.

  ‘Yes,’ the captain says, looking ashamed. ‘The American persuaded me I could make money for my daughter to go to school. But I didn’t know he would take so much, and when I protested, he threatened to expose me.’

  There are rumbles as the passengers translate this among themselves.

  ‘I have done wrong, but now I will make it right. Ton
ight we will have an Italian feast. You can use whatever you’d like in the kitchen.’ The captain smiles. ‘From now on, everyone will eat full rations.’

  ‘What about Bob Dawe?’ asks Frieda.

  The captain’s face is stony. ‘The police in Australia will be very interested in meeting him. He is a criminal for a long time, I am sure. Some of my staff are guards by his cabin door – he will not escape.’

  You and Frieda hug each other as you leave the kitchen, and are encircled by a sea of friendly faces and pats on the back. The mother with the sick baby runs up and kisses you on both cheeks. ‘He’ll get better now,’ she tells you with tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

  Go to scene 16 to continue with the story.

  By the time the ship finally docks in Sydney, you are elated. You’ll soon be seeing Charlie and Mario again, and you’ll be able to send Mamma’s cornetto back to her at last. While you know Mamma will be happy to have the cornetto back, you’ve realised it doesn’t mean anything to you anymore. Nothing that happened to your family after the war could have been caused by a missing tiny piece of jewellery. You’ve left those fears, and that guilt, behind.

  You look at Frieda’s profile, her hair blown back by the wind. Luck played no part in what we did, you think. We made our choices. We took control. Together, the two of you were powerful enough to foil a criminal plot. There’s no telling what you might conquer next.

  Sydney is not the first glimpse you’ve had of Australia – that came ten days ago in Fremantle, on the western coast of this vast country. From the deck now, you can see a huge metal bridge shaped like an upside-down grin.

  A pod of dolphins jumps along in the wake of your ship, shiny-backed and playful.

  This is going to be a good country, you tell yourself. I will be happy here. I will be successful here.

  ‘You’re sure you won’t reconsider?’ Frieda says. She accepted a contract for a position at Canberra Hospital before she set off on this journey, and she wants you to come to Canberra with her.