Teresa: A New Australian

by Abela, Deborah

  It was iced in dust. He looked like a ghost.

  Teresa clasped her hands and prayed.

  Other people had died during the bombings – people she’d heard of, friends of her mama or papa – but never anyone she knew.

  Father Raymond placed his fingers on George’s neck. Teresa wanted to yell at him to hurry up and tell them what they all wanted to hear.

  He looked up and smiled. ‘He’s alive.’

  The hospital corridors were lined with injured men, women and children slumped in chairs or lying on the floor. In the far corner of a room crowded with even more patients, George lay on a small bed. His head was wrapped in a bandage and his leg was in a cast. He looked so small. Nanna and George’s mother had fallen asleep on the floor, while Teresa watched his chest rise and fall, making sure he was still alive.

  Hours had passed and still George hadn’t woken. Teresa shifted from one foot to the other, determined to be beside him when he woke up. It was dark, and the only light in the room was from the full moon trickling in through the windows.

  Another air raid siren sounded in the distance, followed by the menacing hum of planes. The muffled thud of bombs punctured the silence. Lately, the Germans had started bombing even at night, determined to wear the Maltese down so they would surrender.

  ‘Stop being such bullies!’ Teresa hissed at the silhouettes of planes that flew past the moon. ‘For three years you’ve bombed us when we’ve done nothing to you. How can you –’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ George’s eyes flickered open.

  ‘You’re awake!’ She tried to keep her voice low so she wouldn’t wake the other patients.

  He frowned. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘In hospital. Your leg was broken during a bombing raid but the doctor said you’ll be fine and that you’re lucky I found you when I did.’

  George was trying to keep up with how fast Teresa was talking. ‘I’m in hospital?’

  ‘Yes, but why didn’t you go to the shelter when you heard the air raid?’ Teresa was trying not to sound angry.

  George thought for a moment before he remembered. ‘I was searching for something.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You’ll get even angrier if I tell you.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she whispered.

  ‘Promise?’

  She crossed her heart. ‘Promise.’

  ‘I wanted to find sticks to make a nest for the bird.’

  ‘You stayed outside for a bird! How could you when you –’

  ‘See?’ George knew her too well. ‘I said you’d get angry.’

  ‘I am not.’ She pouted. ‘I just have something very important to tell you and I’ve been waiting a long time for you to wake up. The King of England has given us a medal.’

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘No.’ Teresa frowned. ‘Well, yes. Sort of. He’s awarded the George Cross to the whole country. It’s the highest award for civilian bravery. He thinks the Maltese are the bravest people on earth.’

  Nanna stirred at the sound of Teresa’s voice. ‘Santa Marija!’ She woke George’s mother and they leapt up and began showering George in kisses.

  ‘My darling boy,’ George’s mother was crying. ‘We were so worried.’

  Teresa poked her head through the arms of the two women. ‘And the doctor said I had to look after you.’

  ‘To protect me from kisses or more bombings?’

  Teresa laughed. ‘Both, I think.’

  Teresa promised the doctor she would take care of George, and when Teresa made a promise, she always kept it.

  Whether George liked it or not.

  ‘Come on, George.’ Her hands flew to her hips. ‘You’re not working hard enough.’

  Every day she made him do laps of the street, climbing over small obstacles at first, then bigger. He became very good at moving around on his crutches, but Teresa was determined he become even better.

  ‘You need to be able to move fast whenever …’

  Bells clanged and sirens began to whine.

  ‘… there’s an air raid. Let’s go.’

  Teresa stuck close to George, making sure he didn’t trip or fall as they hurried to safety. Streams of people spilled from their homes and were swept along on a tide of quiet dread, scrambling like ants.

  It was already crowded in the underground shelter when they made it inside. A sea of people stretched into the furthest reaches. Some had become so scared of the bombings or had nowhere to live, that they’d moved in, bringing mattresses and suitcases and setting up small homes in corners and along walls. Others stayed because they were too frail or too sick to run.

  Teresa led George through the crush of bodies and heat and found a small space on the floor. She sat protectively by George’s plastered leg, making sure no one knocked it.

  They took out their hankies and they waited.

  Teresa hated being underground. It was dark and damp. Each breath seemed clogged with dirt and made her feel as if she was suffocating.

  Or being buried alive.

  ‘I’ll never get used to being down here.’

  George could tell she was frightened. ‘It’s only until the raid passes.’

  Candles threw flickers of light on the walls and over weary and drawn faces. The air was filled with fearful whispers and the smell of bodies, most not very clean because of the lack of water. Groups of women huddled together on boxes mending clothes to take their mind off the bombings, which were lasting longer than ever before.

  Not far from them, Father Raymond led a prayer. ‘Please Lord, we pray for the men and women who risk their lives for ours. Protect them from our enemy so that Malta will endure.’

  A chorus of Amen lifted into the ceiling and echoed off the walls, followed by repeated rounds of Hail Mary and Our Father.

  Teresa couldn’t concentrate on her prayers. ‘Do you think our papas are okay?’

  ‘Of course they are.’ George’s voice was edged with doubt.

  As soon as war was declared on Malta, Teresa’s papa had signed up as a gunner, which meant he fought behind huge cannon-like guns aimed at the skies, prepared for when the German planes attacked. He lived and worked with the British and Australian soldiers and came home whenever he could, but it had been weeks since they’d seen him. George’s papa had joined the British Navy.

  ‘When did you hear from him last?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘Two months ago. The British won’t let him say much in his letters in case the Germans read them, but he told us not to worry.’

  It was then the whistling of the bombs began. And the terrible moments of waiting until they hit.

  The first ones were always the worst. Not knowing how bad the bombardment would be or when it would end.

  Teresa held her hanky to her mouth and began her times tables. ‘Five by one is five, five by two is ten …’

  The air raids had a strange rhythm to them, like an orchestra building to a crescendo. After the sirens, there was the buzz-sawing of planes, which cut through the sky. Next was the booming drumbeat of the anti-aircraft guns, the screaming whine of the diving bombers and the whistle and pounding explosions of the bombs.

  ‘Five by five is twenty-five, five by six is …’

  The earth shuddered, rubble cascaded and glass smashed.

  It happened again and again, like a storm of raining bombs. The next one felt as if it exploded just above them. The entire cave shook.

  Clouds of smoke and ash were drawn in by the ventilating fans, making the air even harder to breathe. Some people had gas masks, but many simply covered their faces with sleeves or skirts. The nurse made her way through the shelter with a flask of water and began wetting hankies, which made it harder for the dust to get through.

  Teresa thought about the Great Siege and tried to be brave, but the crashing and thundering wouldn’t stop. ‘George?’

  ‘I’m here.’ He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Keep saying your tables.’

  ‘Five by t
en is fifty …’

  They crouched together listening to the bombing and the feverish murmur of prayers and clicking rosary beads.

  ‘Marija Ghinni, Gesu Ghinni.’ It was repeated over and over again. ‘Help me, Mary. Help me, Jesus.’

  Babies wailed and small children cried out for their mothers. Panic began to seep into the shelter. For some, it was too much, and they began to sob. Even some of the men.

  Earlier in the war, the Germans had used bombs that hadn’t made much of an impact, because Maltese homes are made of stone, not wood, but now they had better bombs called parachute mines.

  Bombs that could reduce a home to rubble in seconds.

  Like the one that struck next.

  Teresa and George were thrown forward. Teresa landed hard and struck her head, while above them came the roar of crumbling stone as buildings collapsed.

  A shower of grit spilled from the roof and the shelter filled with a thick, choking haze. Teresa drew in an anxious breath, but it scratched and tore at her throat. She felt around for her hanky in the dark.

  Terror welled in her like a fever. She tried to cry for help, but her mouth was clogged and all that came out was a strangled wheeze. She tried again and again. Her chest squeezed in pain.

  And the bombs kept falling.

  She was going to die in a dark, underground cave. She felt as if she was drowning in a wave of dirt. Her body sagged and her eyes began to close.

  ‘Teresa?’ George appeared through the dust on his hands and knees. ‘Breathe slowly.’ He held his hanky to her mouth. ‘Give the air a chance to reach your lungs.’

  Teresa wasn’t listening. She kept gasping for breath and couldn’t stop the cave spinning around her.

  Another series of bombs pounded.

  ‘Teresa!’ George shook her. ‘You have to listen to me. Breathe slowly!’

  Teresa met his eyes and did as she was told.

  ‘That’s better,’ George said. ‘Now you’re getting it.’

  He helped her sit up and she felt her panic fall away.

  As the air cleared, they saw how bad the bombing had been. Everything was slathered in a layer of dirt. Clothes, hair, faces, as if everyone had been turned into statues.

  The last explosions thundered and the planes grew distant. George and Teresa held each other tight.

  ‘Thank you, George.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For always being there.’

  His teeth shone bright against his grubby face. ‘I always will be.’

  When the all-clear siren rang, Teresa felt the relief sink into her like a warm shower.

  People got to their feet and began gathering their things. Teresa handed George his crutches and stayed close to him as they staggered outside. Stained a greyish white from head to foot, they looked like two small spirits walking out of the earth.

  The streets lay smothered by an avalanche of crushed stone. Wooden verandas above them were on fire, until they plunged to the ground in a blackened mess. Rooftops were gone and the front of apartments were torn away.

  They climbed over the waves of rubble, Teresa guiding George’s every step so he wouldn’t fall.

  At the square near their home, they saw a small crowd gathered in a tight group consoling each other and crying. As they passed, they saw a woman holding a limp child. His face was smudged with blood. The woman howled and cried and held him against her.

  Teresa stared at the bright red blood dripping on the woman’s dress. It was the only colour in a world of grey.

  ‘Come on.’ George tugged at her sleeve. ‘Let’s go home.’

  When they reached Teresa’s street, it was blurred with smoke and lit by pockets of flames. They took careful steps. The ground was gritty with crumbled stone. Teresa tried to recognise her neighbours’ houses and wondered if they even had the right street.

  Then she saw Nanna.

  Her heart jolted as if she’d fallen.

  Nanna’s forehead was bleeding, her hair was a tangled mess and she was coated in white. Teresa ran into her outstretched arms and squeezed her tight. ‘Are you okay?’

  Usually after a bombing raid, Nanna would hold Teresa and tell her everything would be fine, just as she’d done ever since the first day of the war.

  But this time she said nothing.

  ‘Nanna?’

  The haze began to settle, revealing something else.

  Teresa stood without a word. Her arms fell to her side as she tried to make sense of what she saw.

  Their home had been destroyed. The roof and most of the walls had collapsed. From the street, she could see right through to the backyard and the clothesline still hung with washing. She could see all the way into her bedroom, which was criss-crossed with wooden beams and crushed blocks of stone.

  It had been her home since she was born and where her mama had played as a girl. It was where her papa sang, where she blew out candles on birthday cakes and neighbours came for Sunday lunch.

  And now it was gone.

  Nanna held her hand to lead her away. She only made it a few steps before she looked at the broken street around her, realising they had nowhere to go.

  After their house was destroyed, there wasn’t much left to bring to George’s. Teresa found her schoolbag and packed it with a few old clothes and her father’s copy of Tom Sawyer. Her nanna and mama filled a small chest with a handful of belongings that had survived. Everything else was crushed or lay buried beneath the rubble.

  It was decided the adults would have the two bedrooms, while Teresa and George would sleep on the living room floor. Mama arranged cushions from the sofa and tucked sheets around them. It was getting dark outside, and with no kerosene left for the lamps, they’d become used to being in bed by sunset.

  ‘Does Papa know about the house?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘We sent word to his commanding officer.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come home?’

  ‘If he can.’

  ‘He’ll be sad when he sees the house is gone.’

  ‘All he wants is for his little girl to be safe. Try to sleep.’ Mama kissed them both goodnight.

  Teresa lay on the cushions, trying very hard not to cry. ‘It’s all gone, George,’ she sniffed. ‘My bed, my books and pencils, everything.’

  ‘You can share what I have,’ George said.

  Teresa’s stomach cramped from hunger and her mind filled with the broken ruin of her home. She could hear Nanna crying quietly in the next room and the others trying to comfort her.

  She flinched at the sound of bombs in the distance. Her eyes scanned the room in the fading light. She wouldn’t sleep for hours, wondering if George’s house would be next.

  Teresa sat on the fence outside George’s home. A hot wind ruffled her dress and nudged at fairy-floss clouds drifting across the sky.

  In the street, people were sweeping paths and chatting outside houses, trying to go on as they had before the war. All hoping it would soon be over so everything could return to how it used to be.

  A soldier walking in the middle of the road with a bag slung over his shoulder sang a tune Teresa instantly recognised. It was a lullaby her papa had sung to her ever since she was a baby.

  Teresa smiled. She always struggled to stay awake so he would sing some more, but his voice was so soothing, it lulled her to sleep too quickly.

  But then she realised something else.

  The soldier was Papa!

  She jumped off the fence and ran. She wasn’t wearing shoes and the ground was hot, but she didn’t care. She leapt into his arms. He gathered her up in one swoop and twirled her through the air.

  ‘How’s my beautiful girl?’

  Teresa opened her mouth to answer but realised she was crying. She held on to him and sobbed. Her papa rocked her back and forth, just like he did when she was a baby.

  ‘Our house is gone.’

  ‘We’ll build a new one,’ he said. ‘Even better than that one. I promise.’

  As s
he cried into his shoulder he began to sing the lullaby again. His voice filled the street and made her feel as if she was floating. When they were almost at George’s home, he put her down and knelt before her.

  ‘You’ve grown since I saw you last,’ he scolded. ‘Did I say you could do that?’

  Teresa laughed.

  ‘There’s the smiley girl I love.’

  His face was drawn and his uniform hung from him. ‘You’re skinnier than before.’

  ‘Yes, but otherwise I’m fighting fit and just as handsome, don’t you think?’

  Teresa laughed again. ‘I do.’

  He wiped away her tears. ‘You go in first, tell everyone you have a surprise, and I’ll be right behind you.’

  Teresa turned and ran. ‘Mama! Nanna! You have to come quick …’

  The women raced into the hall. ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

  Teresa stood in the doorway, her face beaming. ‘I have a surprise.’

  Her papa stepped inside. Mama and Nanna started to cry. They stood for whole seconds before they rushed forward, hugging and kissing him.

  ‘How long can you stay?’ Mama asked.

  ‘They’ve given me special leave until tomorrow.’ He slipped his bag off his shoulder. ‘So we don’t have any time to waste. Who’d like to join me for a feast and tell me everything I’ve missed?’

  George’s mother set the table with her finest cloth. Nanna found a vase and Teresa and George wiped dust from the plates and cutlery.

  Papa unpacked his bag and everyone clapped. There were cans of vegetable and meat stew, dried biscuits and even a tin of herrings in tomato sauce.

  George’s mother squeezed lemons and mixed the juice with water and the last of her sugar ration to make lemonade.

  Before the war, the table would have been laden with lasagne, ricotta cheese pie, rabbit stew and freshly baked bread. This meal wasn’t much, but Teresa thought it was as grand a feast as if they were dining with the queen.

  There was a muddle of voices as everyone spoke at once, trying to remember all that had happened since they’d last seen Teresa’s papa. The bombings, finding George with his broken leg, who they’d lost, who was married and who’d had new babies.