The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “Not for the huns, not with Hitler screaming his guts out every time you turn on the radio, but the Italians were mostly decent sort of people. Owners of fruit shops or restaurants, some of ‘em. A whole lot were born here, or else lived here a long time. Most had young families. I dunno why anyone would think they could be spies. The government got that wrong, I reckon.”

  The driver was middle-aged, friendly and informative. He worked for a trucking firm hired to convey prisoners on each arrival, and told Carlo the camp they were going to was new, it had only been established earlier this year. It was really a farm being used as a temporary holding place because of the rush to take all the extra POWs from England. And a bit remote, he warned them, about forty miles out of Griffith, with all the land in that particular district belonging to a single owner.

  “We just deliver or pick up,” he explained, “but I’m told it’s pretty strict, which won’t surprise anyone around here. The head honcho used to be a boxer, then a prison warder. Big noise in this town nowadays. He got lucky a year or two ago, married a sheila with deep pockets.”

  “Deep pockets?” The expression puzzled Carlo.

  “It means rich,” said Gianni.

  The driver grinned. “Rich is right. Tiffany Watson’s worth a fortune. She owns a spread half the size of Tasmania. And a vineyard.”

  “A vineyard?” ‘This had to be a coincidence,’ Carlo thought.

  “Gets some of your mob to work out there, so I hear. Been picking out blokes with farm or vine experience. All in the cause of making her mongrel of a husband richer. Bit of a joke, how he rips off the system.”

  Carlo tried to quell a moment of alarm over the direction the driver was pointing. “You don’t mean him?” he hoped, indicating the angry man with the broad-brimmed hat.

  “Who else? Tommo Thompson. They used to boo the bastard when he was fighting in the ring. Liked to go up against easy opponents and belt them in those days. Still likes to beat up any poor bugger who gives him trouble.”

  There was a shouted order that ended their discussion. Thompson was in full voice, now in possession of a megaphone.

  “You lot in that final group. And it means you two English-speaking geniuses. Get in that truck or be left behind, and if you are then we’ll send the police with cattle dogs to muster you.”

  “Don’t cross him,” was all the driver had time to say, before leaving them and climbing into his cabin, while Carlo and Gianni struggled to find space in the last overcrowded truck.

  Thompson waited until all the POWs were packed on board, then walked up and down with the megaphone to offer his idea of a welcome.

  “Let’s get things straight from day one. My name is Thompson, and I run the camp where you’ll work. And don’t make any mistake—I said work. No sitting around getting fat, if that’s what you hoped for by surrendering. You’re Eyetie prisoners of war, and Geneva says we have to treat you properly. Which means you’d better behave properly. Or else trouble. Any attempts to escape, you’ll end up in jail, if you don’t get shot first. Shooting’s easier, less paper work! AND no mucking around with local girls. Anyone caught in bed with a sheila goes to prison. Alcohol is forbidden, drunkenness is a crime. You’ll get a list of the other rules later. We won’t need translations,” he added looking directly at Carlo and Gianni, “it’s all in Italian, so there’ll be no excuses.”

  Tommo Thompson got into his car, a sleek American Buick with tail fins and whitewall tyres. The convoy of trucks began to follow him, the captives wedged uncomfortably in the back of them, unable to avoid the heat of the sun as well as being forced to share the fumes of the charcoal burners.

  It certainly does not bode well, thought Carlo.

  It took over an hour on the winding dirt road after they left the town. The land was flat with rows of distant gum trees, and for much of the time the terrain was neatly fenced but empty. No sign of stock or any human activity until the vehicles reached a timber bridge that crossed a stream. There the convoy took a right turn onto little more than a farm track now, going past paddocks where flocks of sheep were grazing. For the first time a few minutes later they saw signs of life, a truck with bales of hay, after that a tractor in another paddock, then a few men at work repairing a cattle yard. They paused to raise hands in a greeting, as another man with a rifle slung on his shoulder gestured at them to resume work. Plainly these were some of the Italian prisoners and a guard. When they saw more workers and another supervisor in the next field, they realised with relief the uncomfortable ride in the heat was almost over.

  It was confirmed moments later by the name TIFFANY WATSON in dominant lettering above large entry gates. On both sides were high fences of thick barbed wire, and on it ivy and other climbers had grown to hide the property until the electric gates swung open. That was when they saw a palatial homestead bordered by flowering gardens, thriving shrubs and an apple orchard, as well as an oasis of green lawn encircling the whole domain.

  “Wow,” was Gianni’s comment. Carlo nodded a surprised agreement, thinking it was like the kind of luxurious sanctuary his father had tried to create, but had never been able to achieve. A young woman stood on the front verandah, a tall slim blonde in slacks and shirt, with a colourful scarf around her throat. Tiffany Watson, the lady with the deep pockets, was awaiting their arrival.

  “Wow, wow,” said Gianni this time, appreciative of females with both good looks and money.

  The Buick detoured to pull up beside the house where Thompson jumped out to embrace his wife. Carlo barely had time to glimpse her as the trucks all drove past, heading towards a remote cluster of buildings. From a distance it looked like a village of farm sheds. As they drew closer they could see these were compact wooden structures inside the security of another barbed wire enclosure.

  Six strands of wire, Carlo estimated, the approximate height of the tallest man, and able to rip the skin of anyone stupid enough to venture climbing it. Clearly this site had been hurriedly built for additional POWs. Even more security was evident; all the ground floor windows were fitted with iron bars. Surrounded by peaceful farmland it was like a prison in a prairie, Carlo thought, and while he liked the alliterative sound he had a feeling he was not going to enjoy living here.

  When their names were called and they were shown to their quarters, his worst fears were verified. The rooms were cramped; ten newcomers allocated to each modest-sized square dormitory, the metal beds spaced to allow barely two feet between each sleeper. The beds all had cheap spring bases without any mattresses. They were each given a blanket and told it was useful to lie on—it helped to soften the steel springs—until the blanket was needed for warmth in the winter. And these were real perishing winters, they were informed.

  “Then you gotta get used to them nice spring bases without the blanket,” said one of the guards, grinning at their dismayed expressions.

  “We’ve been promised some real mattresses, but don’t hold your breath,” a friendlier one informed them. After this the guards took them on a tour, to explain some more rules and revelations to the new arrivals. For a start they were shown an open shed with rows of cold showers in it.

  “Where are the hot showers?” Gianni asked, which produced a roar of laughter from the guards.

  “There aren’t any,” the one who enjoyed breaking bad news said. “This is a POW camp not a bloody hotel, mate. Hot water for so many is out of the question. And by the way, water’s rationed in this district. There’s been a drought. You get only one cold shower a week.” When this was explained to those who did not speak English, it was met with a shocked silence.

  The shower block was adjacent to a line of old-fashioned lavatories without doors. And no, in answer to an immediate enquiry again from Gianni, these were not flush toilets. They were metal containers kept disinfected by chemicals and the POW’s had to help clean them out each month when they took their turn on duty day. “What do you mean our turn on duty?” Carlo asked.

  “Once a month
you have a duty day. Three or four blokes at a time have to help prepare food in the cookhouse, then serve it in the mess hall, as well as cleaning the rooms and washing the dishes. In addition, of course, to cleaning all the dunnies.”

  “Not quite what you expected,” the friendly guard said.

  Not quite, they agreed.

  Carlo and the new influx learned a lot that first day. Any complaints about deficiencies were apparently met with a standard reply from Tiffany Watson’s hubby, that nothing was his fault; the camp had been meant to hold only forty inmates. Today’s arrival was far in excess of what had been expected. It doubled the number and made things difficult. There were plans to enlarge the facilities but the government was slow to fund the cost. Talk of bringing in caravans to assist with accommodation had been mooted, but if caravans were coming the guards said, so was Father Christmas.

  Whinging was a waste of time, they advised Carlo and Gianni to tell the others, because protests only got Tommo Thompson in a rage. The smart thing was to remain silent, or as one of them said, “Belt up and bear it.” The guards themselves were shitty about the situation, but most were too old for the army or for any of the better paid jobs in munition factories. They had to put up with it, and so should the POWs. They were lucky enough to no longer be in the front line or in any danger.

  “Not unless one of you young blokes tries to make a move on Tiffany, that is,” said another guard. “When it comes to his sexy rich missus, Tommo’s got a temper like a wounded tiger.”

  Carlo sneaked a glance at Gianni, who had already found much to admire about the trim blonde with a big bank balance. “So beware,” he said to him when they were alone later. “Keep your eyes off her.”

  “Mere speculation,” Gianni answered with a cheeky smile, “but by God she’s got some attractive assets, and they’re not all in the bank.”

  The reply made Carlo laugh, but they were soon to learn that any trouble with rich Tiffany Watson would involve Carlo himself, not Gianni. This occurred soon after lunch on their very first day. The signal for meals was heralded by the clang of an old church bell hanging from a rafter high on the cookhouse chimney. They had to form a line and were handed their first meal, a cold lamb sandwich with stale bread and a cup of strange tasting coffee.

  “Made from liquid essence and sweetened with condensed milk,” said the friendly guard. “You just can’t get the real thing these days.” Carlo and Gianni were among those who, after tasting it, opted for a glass of water instead. They both wondered if they had drawn the short straw with this privately run camp; there would be very little chance of invoking the Geneva Convention here. The man who’d singled them out made his own rules in this camp.

  That afternoon they were lined up for a visit by Thompson and his wife, when jobs were to be allotted. It was his first close look at the wealthy Tiffany, and Carlo judged her to be in her mid-twenties, considerably younger than her husband and impressively good-looking. Long blonde hair and green eyes. He knew the soft murmur of approval came from Gianni alongside him.

  ‘What would she be like to paint?’ he speculated. ‘Better in a dress than those slacks.’

  He abruptly stopped further appraisal, aware of Thompson’s sharp gaze once again fixed directly at him. ‘For God’s sake,’ he thought, ‘just because I spoke in English, or is there some reason for this peculiar focus…?’ That was the moment when he noticed Tiffany Watson was also studying him. He saw her pass a note to her husband. He glanced at it, looked speculatively again at Carlo, then beckoned him to come forward and join them.

  “Yes, you,” he said gruffly, as Carlo hesitated in confusion. “Wait over there,” he ordered, pointing to a spot that isolated him from the others before addressing the rest of the intake. He called out their names from a list he held, sometimes stumbling on pronunciation but expecting them to understand whom he meant, and listed their jobs that would begin after early breakfast the next day. Some would work on new fences, some with the sheep or cattle, a few with a background in wine making were to report to the vineyards. They’d be taken there by trucks as the vines were located ten miles away.

  Then the newcomers were dismissed, advised to study the rules and be prepared to start work the next day at dawn. Gianni departed after a perplexed glance. He seemed about to ask why Carlo was being forced to remain but Carlo signalled caution with a shake of his head, even though he was equally puzzled and wondering what was in store for him. He was left standing alone with Thompson and his young wife.

  FIFTEEN

  It was morning peak-hour in Rome, and the busy traffic street noises were drowned by the wail of sirens. Nervous pedestrians were constantly turning their heads to discover the cause, for the war had come violently to Rome and other cities in Italy. German troops were pouring in from the north, as the rumoured possibility of an Italian surrender to the Allies became likely. All over the country resistance fighters were gathering to combat the increasing presence of their former allies, while groups like the one Beatrice and Luigi Revira had joined were trying to prevent the Jewish pogrom that had been ordered by Berlin. But the sirens that morning were not German troops in pursuit of the resistance, they were a convoy of Italian army cars forcing the rush hour to give way.

  There were four cars, their sirens now suppressed as the two leaders came to a halt opposite a coffee lounge. The target was a neglected building across the street with FOR LEASE signs on its windows, and here the other two cars turned off to cover the back exits. With armed soldiers running to stop possible escapes, the main force swarmed past what had been the reception desk on the ground floor. One elevator was immobilised, the other occupied, the stairs now fully blocked with troops as they were joined by three men in plain clothes, Luca Pascoli in charge of the raid with Salvatore Minnelli, and their informant, the owner of the building who silently led them and their team to the abandoned offices of the defunct magazine on the top floor. The owner had been arrested and interrogated, until confessing it was here that meetings of the group against anti-Semitism had regularly taken place. Not only taken place, but a meeting was actually underway at this very moment, according to the information forced from him.

  The trap was shut: Luca was calmly confident. This secret group had been operating from here over the past year, hindering attempts to round up Jews, and the owner had been persuaded to change sides or serve a very long term in gaol. Pascoli gestured total silence to his squad. He could hear the murmur of voices, both men and women inside. They had all possible escapes blocked, and he felt entitled to enjoy a moment of anticipation before the ultimate triumph.

  He and Salvatore had been after this group for almost a year, ever since Italy’s allies in Berlin had demanded they do their duty, and round up all Jewish escapees from Germany. Himmler, the Reichsfuhrer, was furious at the lack of action and demanded the Campagna concentration camp be filled to capacity. From there they would be transferred to secure destinations like Buchenwald and Belsen. Hitler himself had taken Mussolini to task at the passive approach of Italians on the Jewish question. Even the Italian army, he fulminated, contained Jews.

  This morning’s raid would change all that. Luca would be rewarded with a promotion. Salvatore was secretly hoping his wife’s lover would be caught in this raid. He had no hard evidence, but suspected that some army officers were involved in this. At the same time he shied away from the possibility that Beatrice could be a part of the group they were about to arrest. He knew her capacity for causes, and her anti-Nazi opinions, but surely she wouldn’t be rash enough to be involved in this alliance. Despite their broken marriage, he hoped not. Arresting his own wife would bring awkward questions; even if he could prove innocence of her activities since their separation, it would not enhance his status.

  That was when Luca Pascoli gave the agreed signal. In a flash his men used a battering ram to smash the door open, brandishing guns and shouting to all those inside they were under arrest. Salvatore led the charge.

  The
n everything stopped. They all froze as they realised the room was completely empty. There was nobody in it to arrest. Just a large disc on a machine playing some sort of recorded radio drama, with the male and female voices they’d heard still speaking.

  On the other side of the street, at a quiet table in the back of a coffee shop, Luigi read his morning copy of La Stampa while watching the uniforms return empty-handed. He saw the squad cars filling with disappointed troops and driving away. The only three people in mufti were an angry and frustrated Pascoli and Salvatore, along with the wealthy owner of the shabby building, the man who’d been prepared to betray them. It was Luigi who’d suspected his disloyalty, and found out in time to call off their meeting and set up the recorder. He waited until they had all gone, then paid the bill, left a tip for the waitress, and went home to Beatrice.

  When she heard the door she managed to stop trembling, and ran to hug him. “Who was it?”

  “The owner of the building. Don’t worry, he’s only got a phoney list of our names.”

  “Don’t ever take risks like that again, my darling.”

  “We had to find out. There’s other news. Luca Pascoli seemed to be in charge…and I hate to tell you, but you were right about your husband.”

  “It’s no surprise. I had a feeling about it. He was always an anti-semite, just as he was a secret Blackshirt for most years of our marriage. I was the idiot who never realised it.”

  Carlo stood watching the last of the prisoners-of-war leave after Thompson’s dismissal, aware of Gianni’s face expressing his mystified concern as the door was shut. The huge mess hall felt larger with just the three of them, Tiffany Watson, her short-tempered husband, and himself. The pair took seats at the long table without inviting him to do the same, so he had no option but to remain standing. He felt inwardly provoked by this casual discourtesy. Remembering what the truck driver had said about vineyards, could this be anything to do with them finding out his family had owned one? Would he be forced to work on it? Why was he singled out like this? Carlo waited for some further outburst from Thompson, but it was the wife who broke the awkward silence.