Teresa: A New Australian

by Abela, Deborah

  Also in the New Australian series

  Bridget

  Kerenza

  Sian

  Frieda

  May Tang

  Teachers’ notes for Teresa are available from

  www.scholastic.com.au

  For Nanna Teresa, a brave and strong woman I never had the chance to meet

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also in the New Australian series

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also in the New Australian Series

  Copyright

  ‘I know you’re out there, Jerry,’ Teresa whispered. ‘But you’re never going to win. Not against the might of the Allied Forces.’

  The young girl scrambled over piles of jagged stone and rubble. She crouched low, keeping her head down and her eyes peeled. She was good at evading the enemy, and in all these years of war had never once been caught.

  Then she saw it.

  The smallest movement behind a bombed car. The enemy was getting into position, ready to attack.

  She darted across the street and hid near the boot. The car was twisted and black and reeked of smoke. She held her palms together, aimed her pointer fingers like a gun and jumped out to claim victory.

  ‘Gotcha! Take that, you dirty –’ Teresa lowered her hands. ‘What are you doing?’

  A young boy crouched on the footpath cradling a small bird. ‘Her wing is damaged.’

  ‘There’s no time to think about birds when we’re at war.’

  George got to his feet. ‘I bet with a little care, she’ll be able to fly again.’

  Teresa sighed. George was no good at playing War. ‘As long as you know this means I win.’

  ‘Okay.’ He smiled. ‘You win.’

  ‘Good.’ But she wasn’t finished lecturing him. ‘We always have to be prepared, you know that. The Germans could bomb us again at any time.’

  He gently patted the bird.

  ‘I’ll be prepared, I promise.’

  ‘Teresa!’

  ‘That’s Nanna. I have to go.’

  ‘Will you help me look after her?’ George cried.

  As she ran she called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t I always?’

  Once, Teresa would have run home on footpaths crowded with families, past houses filled with the smells of cooking and streets of buses and horses pulling carts loaded with vegetables. Now the buses were gone because there was no petrol, there was barely anything to eat, and most of the horses had been moved to the island of Gozo.

  Far away from the war.

  She ran past the damaged walls of the post office and around a crater left by a bomb. She was out of breath by the time she rounded the corner into her street and reached Nanna in the kitchen.

  ‘I thought I’d have to collect the rations by myself.’

  ‘I was playing with George.’

  Teresa grabbed a cloth, dipped it into a small tin of water and began cleaning her hands.

  ‘How is he?’ Nanna asked.

  ‘Good, but he’s no good at playing War. He always gets distracted and I win.’

  ‘What was it this time?’

  ‘An injured bird.’

  ‘He’s a good boy.’ Nanna smiled.

  ‘But we have to be alert, Nanna.’ Teresa rubbed her face and her words became muffled. ‘We’re at war. You said that yourself.’

  ‘How long have you known George?’

  ‘Since I was a baby.’

  ‘And how often have you played games with him and won?’

  Teresa shrugged. ‘A lot, I guess.’

  Nanna took the cloth and cleaned the marks Teresa missed. ‘I think it’s all the time.’

  ‘That’s because I’m taller.’

  ‘You don’t think he lets you win?’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Teresa took two bowls from the cupboard.

  ‘Because you like to win and he likes to make you happy.’

  ‘No, it’s because I’m better at sneaking and spying.’

  ‘He likes to take care of you.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Even the bravest people need taking care of sometimes.’ Nanna kissed Teresa on the forehead. ‘Let’s go or they’ll run out of food by the time we get there.’

  Their street had been one of the lucky ones. In the three years since the war in Malta had begun, they hadn’t been attacked, but some of their neighbours hadn’t been so fortunate.

  Nanna bowed her head as they passed bombed buildings with washing lines strung from one broken wall to another. When Teresa looked even closer, she could see crumpled blankets and pillows. Sometimes even dolls. For some families, there simply was nowhere else to live.

  When they came to the church, Nanna made the sign of the cross and gave a deep, weary sigh. The front doors had been blown from their hinges, so you could see past the pews and all the way to the altar.

  ‘Your nannu and I were married here, and then your mama and papa, and when you were baptised, you wriggled so much you slapped Father Raymond on the nose. We stood in silence until Father said, She has a good right hook.’

  She laughed and wiped away a tear. ‘They can destroy our buildings but they can never take our memories.’

  The line at the Victory Kitchen snaked through the ruined streets. It was one of many set up by the government to feed the hungry people of Malta, who waited hours every day for their one chance to eat. Teresa never knew what they’d get. Sometimes it was stew and other times they had sardines or beans or even goat, which was often stringy with strands of hair still attached. But it was food, and Teresa felt her legs weaken and her stomach grumble at the thought of eating.

  ‘How is little Miss Teresa today?’

  Mrs Vassallo pinched her cheek.

  Her mama had always taught Teresa to respect her elders. Even the ones who annoyed her by pinching her cheek.

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’

  ‘And how is your mama?’

  ‘She’s working at the hospital a lot.’

  ‘Those Germans keeping her busy, eh?’

  Mrs Azzopardi looked up at the clear skies. ‘There’s been no bombing today. Do you think they’ve given up?’

  ‘Something tells me the Germans never give up.’ Mrs Gatt laughed. She was always laughing. She said they needed to in order to make it through the war.

  The women lowered their voices and Teresa knew it was because she wasn’t supposed to hear, so she looked away and pretended she was thinking about other things.

  ‘A family in Saint Paul’s Street didn’t make it,’ Mrs Vassallo whispered. ‘Their house was a direct hit. One minute they were alive, then …’

  All four women made the sign of the cross.

  ‘And I heard the Germans sank another British supply ship.’ Mrs Azzopardi tried to hide her fear, but Teresa could hear it as clearly as church bells. ‘They say if more ships don’t arrive soon, there’ll be nothing left and we’ll have to surrender.’

  ‘Surrender?’ Teresa forgot she wasn�
�t supposed to be listening. ‘We can’t surrender! Malta is our home.’

  Nanna stroked her hair. ‘That’s why we’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen.’

  They reached the front of the queue, where nuns wearing white dresses and veils handed out bread and dished minestra from large pots. They moved away and sat on a small stone wall. Mrs Azzopardi stared into her bowl. The soup was watery, with a few peas and carrot pieces floating in it. ‘It’s not much of a victory, is it?’

  ‘We need to be thankful we have even this.’ Mrs Vassallo tried to be optimistic.

  Teresa’s bread was hard and smelt strangely of a musty old room. She picked out a bug that had been baked inside.

  ‘It’ll make the bread taste better,’ Mrs Gatt joked.

  ‘It couldn’t make it taste worse.’ Mrs Azzopardi screwed up her nose.

  Mrs Vassallo took a sip of her soup and nodded at a man in line. ‘Some people have it better than most. I heard that Joseph Muscat has been selling his melons at ten times the normal price.’

  Nanna scowled. ‘Most of us struggle to survive while he is making a profit.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Teresa cried. ‘He should be sharing what he has with everyone.’

  Joseph Muscat smiled sweetly at the nuns and even made them laugh. Teresa knew she shouldn’t, but when he took his food, she hoped his bread had an extra helping of bugs.

  In the distance came the familiar clang of warning bells followed by the whine of an air raid siren.

  People started to run.

  The women got to their feet and followed, hurrying to the nearest underground shelter. In the panic, Teresa was jostled aside and her bowl slipped from her fingers and smashed to the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, Nanna.’

  Her grandmother took her hand. ‘Come quickly!’

  A faint droning noise grew louder, like a giant swarm of bees coming closer. People poured from houses. The siren became more frantic.

  The German planes and their bombs were only minutes away.

  Teresa and Nanna inched their way in line to the entrance of the shelter. Since the beginning of the war, the Maltese people had carved a network of caves into the rocky ground to protect them from the onslaught. Some were bigger than others, but all of them were dark, airless places, full of quiet terror.

  Inside, hundreds of people were crammed on roughly made beds, squatted on crates or stood in crowded corners. Some hugged each other or cradled babies. Most held hankies or clothes over their mouths.

  Nanna sat on a wooden box and lifted Teresa on to her lap. ‘Get your handkerchief.’

  Teresa took the one from her pocket Nanna always made her carry. It acted as a mask and protected her lungs when the cave filled with dust. She covered her mouth and nose and waited. As the siren wailed in the background, she watched a mother lean over her sick child whose skin was covered in sandfly bites. They hurt and itched for days and if you got sick, your temperature would soar and you wanted to sleep all the time.

  There was another child crying and scratching her arms, which were covered in large red welts. A woman wiped her skin with water from a small cup. ‘Try not to scratch.’

  ‘But it’s itchy.’ The child’s face was a picture of misery.

  ‘I know, but scratching will only make it worse.’

  Teresa knew the child had scabies. Like so many others. Her mama told her it was common because of the lack of food and everyone living so close together.

  A nurse threaded her way to the child. ‘I have something that will help.’

  She took a tin from her medical bag and rubbed a foul-smelling ointment on the child’s skin. ‘It smells bad, but it will make you feel better.’

  All around them heads were bowed and lips moved in prayer.

  Teresa said her own. ‘Dear God, please don’t let the Germans win. Please don’t let them –’

  Sharp whistling interrupted her prayer. The first bombs had been released, followed by the anxious moments before the explosions.

  Then they hit.

  Teresa clung to Nanna as the vibrations shook the ground.

  There was another.

  And another.

  A clump of wall broke away and sand trickled after it. The light bulb swayed above them. Teresa shut her eyes tight and began reciting her times tables. ‘One by one is one, one by two is two …’

  It helped to focus her thoughts away from the bombs.

  ‘One by three is three, one by four is …’

  More bombs fell, one after the other, as if an angry giant was smashing his fists into their island.

  Teresa flinched with every one. ‘One by seven is seven …’

  Planes plunged and droned and released their bombs in a wall of explosions that rattled bones and teeth.

  ‘One by ten is ten. One by eleven is eleven.’

  On and on they struck. Each one felt bigger and more destructive than the last.

  By the time she’d begun her seven times tables, the planes turned away, leaving an eerie silence. No one spoke or moved. They couldn’t leave the cave until they heard the siren that gave them the all-clear.

  Teresa lifted her head and whispered in Nanna’s ear. ‘Will Malta surrender to the Germans?’

  ‘How can we? The Maltese people are some of the strongest and bravest on earth.’

  Nanna’s voice was like a warm blanket. Teresa snuggled closer.

  ‘We always have been. Right back to the Great Siege of 1565.’

  Teresa had heard Nanna tell the story a hundred times, but she always loved hearing it.

  ‘Malta was under attack from forty thousand Ottoman soldiers. With only seven hundred knights and nine thousand Maltese, the soldiers thought it would be easy to defeat us, but we fought back. After only four months, the Ottomans surrendered and Malta was saved.’

  ‘Can we do it again?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘If we show the same courage.’

  The people in the cave began to move and talk in hushed whispers, when a siren sounded from outside. Nanna’s shoulders sank in relief. ‘It’s over.’

  Teresa kept her hanky against her face. They held hands and followed the line of people stumbling into the daylight. It always took a few moments to get used to the bright sun again. Teresa looked up. The sky was clear and bright, as if nothing had happened, but the scene around them told a different story. The familiar street was almost unrecognisable. A grey haze lingered in the air.

  Teresa and Nanna stepped carefully past newly bombed houses, where walls had collapsed so they could see into kitchens and bedrooms. When the bombs made a direct hit, the house was nothing more than rubble, leaving beds and sofas out in the open. There was even a teddy bear sitting in a child’s cot.

  Men and women sifted through the rubble of their homes. They brushed off small trinkets and shook broken glass from photo frames. Others moved in a daze or took brooms and began clearing the streets.

  Nobody said a word. All they could hear were pockets of crying.

  It was when they were near their street that Teresa saw a woman running towards them.

  ‘I can’t find him,’ she sobbed. ‘He wasn’t in the shelter when the bombs started.’ Her shoulders shook and her eyes were wide.

  Teresa pleaded silently, don’t let it be true, please don’t let it be true, but then the woman said it.

  ‘George is missing.’

  Nanna held George’s mother by the shoulders. ‘Where did you last see him?’

  ‘He said he was going to play with Teresa.’

  ‘But I came home when Nanna called.’ Teresa’s voice was small. ‘Didn’t he come home too?’

  George’s mother shook her head. ‘He never goes far and he knows all the shelters. Where could he be?’

  Word spread fast that George was missing. People gathered from all around and Father Raymond gave instructions on where to look, so they’d search the entire village. George’s mother was to wait at home in case he came back.

 
; ‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Gatt whispered to Teresa. ‘We’ll find him.’

  The sun was low in the sky. The villagers moved off, calling his name.

  ‘George!’ Their shouts rang through the streets in waves. ‘George!’

  Teresa looked in all the places they liked to play. She knew he must be close, and that he’d be found any minute. He had to be.

  ‘George!’

  She searched behind stone fences and in sheds. She looked through broken shop windows in case he’d sneaked inside during the raid.

  Typical George, she thought. Worrying about a bird while the Germans dropped their bombs, without thinking he could be hurt or even …

  She shook the thoughts from her head and kept searching.

  ‘George! Where are you?’

  She listened for a reply or a call saying he’d been found.

  ‘Come on, George,’ she pleaded. ‘You’re no good at hiding, you know that.’

  Throughout the village, neighbours called his name. They tossed rubble over their shoulders and lifted planks of wood but still no one found him.

  ‘George!’ Teresa was beginning to get impatient. ‘You need to come out!’

  Tears blurred everything around her. She angrily wiped them away.

  It was getting darker. Long shadows crept over the village, sneaking into corners, making it hard to see.

  ‘Nanna thinks you always let me win. I told her it was because I was better at sneaking and spying, but I think maybe she’s right.’

  Her face was a streaming mess of tears and dirt. She tripped over a pile of rubble and fell heavily, scraping her knees and hands.

  That’s when she saw it.

  A garden wall had crumbled into the street and beneath it was a shoe. A scuffed brown shoe, just like George’s.

  She got to her feet and ran. She frantically grabbed at chunks of stone and threw them behind her.

  Please be alive! she thought.

  She saw a sock, then a leg, and when she lifted the next stone, she saw fingers.

  They were deathly still.

  She reeled back as if someone had pushed her and tried to scream but it wouldn’t come out. She tried again and again. Until finally she managed one deep breath.

  ‘He’s over here!’

  Everyone came running. Nanna lifted Teresa to her feet and held her against her stomach. She kissed her on the head while Teresa watched the men desperately clearing the broken wall. George’s legs were badly cut and bleeding. The rubble seemed too heavy for such a little boy. Finally, they could see his face.