The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  “What a disappointment,” she sympathised on hearing how Mussolini’s declaration had led to the locked gallery doors. A short time later she said his seizure by the Blackshirts and being forced to join the army was really terrible.

  “Not the luckiest days of my life,” he agreed. “I felt on the top of the world, then down in the gutter. I was a lousy soldier, and not very dismayed to be taken prisoner,” he admitted, surprising himself by how much he felt able to confide in her.

  There was much more she wanted to know but by now they had passed the main homestead and were approaching the POW barracks. It was empty with all the others still out in the fields at work, so she waited in the car while Carlo went to collect his few belongings. A duty guard came to ask her why a prisoner-of-war, this captured enemy soldier, was being allowed to leave like this? She promptly said Carlo Minnelli was an artist and hardly deserved to be called an enemy soldier. He would now be billeted at the main homestead to do some painting at her own request.

  The guard was a new employee and unimpressed. “Does your hubby know of these arrangements?” he asked her.

  Tiffany, who disliked the expression ‘hubby’ as much as she resented the condescension, suggested if he wanted to keep the job he’d best remember she, not her husband, was the owner of this place. And if he had a problem with that, he could pack his bags. Carlo emerged in time to hear this and to see the guard make a stammering apology. When they drove off she was smiling broadly. “I think that sorted him out,” she said.

  “Beautifully,” Carlo answered. It was clear they’d made a lot of progress since her diffidence of the previous days.

  “He was like the white men drinking in the front room, believing women like me should be in the back parlour.”

  “A paid-up member of the misogynist society.”

  “Absolutely.” She was clearly pleased at the accord. “In these country areas there are lots of those. My father was one. I’ll tell you about it someday, when we know each other better.”

  Progress indeed, he thought. The brief journey back to the house was made in relaxed silence. Carlo carried the purchases up to the studio, then she helped him arrange the adjoining bedroom and its connecting bathroom. It felt unreal after so long to be doing simple things like placing his toothbrush and paste on his own private wash basin. It was a joy to just look around his tiny kingdom and contemplate the prospect of washing with soap beneath a shower where he could turn on a tap for hot water. And to think he’d be able to use gentle rolls of toilet paper and not have a black bum from pages of the daily newspapers. Mundane treats, but sheer luxury to Carlo; he could only wonder how long he might enjoy this opulent alternative?

  Perhaps it was the guard’s intervention but as he distributed his sparse belongings in the room, he remembered a vital and critical fact. Thompson did not yet know about these arrangements, unless it had been discussed and agreed during their previous sleepless night. But he doubted that. Her bull-necked husband almost certainly did not know about the studio or the nest next door. What did the British call it? A pad, that was the word. So what was likely to happen when Tommo Thompson, pugilist and a former prison turnkey found out, not just about the studio, but about the pad? Tiffany seemed unconcerned, or at least made no mention of it. By now Carlo knew her well enough to be sure if this had been agreed with her husband, she would’ve said something.

  While he tried to set up the studio, she went downstairs and returned with a tray containing coffee plus a lunch of tasty tomato and cheese sandwiches. The maid who’d been dusting in the hall that morning arrived with two chairs for them, this time acknowledging him with a shy nod. She and Tiffany had a brief discussion outside the room while he adjusted the easel. He heard nothing of the exchange, except Tiffany’s one word, danke, as the girl left. From that he assumed she was German.

  “Do you have many staff?” he asked while they sat eating. The bread was soft and fresh, a stark contrast to yesterday’s stale POW offering.

  “Just Sigrid. I don’t need a house full of servants. She’s rather special.”

  “From overseas?”

  “Germany. She’s Jewish. Her parents were arrested on Kristallnacht, and have never been heard of since. She came here as a refugee. I hope she’ll think of this as home in time, because everyone in her family has vanished.”

  “Poor girl. Has she been with you long?”

  “Since my father died. Nearly two years now. He arranged her passage to Australia on one of those big liners that became hell ships like the Dunera, filled with people just desperate to get away from Hitler.”

  “We heard talk of those concentration camps, ever since the Nazis came to power.”

  “I hate the bloody Nazis. What’s it like in Italy for Jewish people?” she asked.

  “There’s never been any real problems or vocal anti-Semitism. But my mother thinks it’s likely because of the Berlin agreement. She says Mussolini’s raving mad for making us allies with Hitler.”

  “Your mother sounds nice. Would I like her?”

  “I think you would. Not my father. He’s right-wing, a devoted fascist.”

  “That tells me you dislike his politics. But do you also dislike him?”

  “Sometimes I do…it’s not easy.” He told her about his last birthday party and the evening after it. “Watching him go upstairs to that room where he’d slept alone for so long, I think we all felt sorry for what had happened.”

  He told her of the secret portrait of Salvatore and the time he’d spent on it. How it had been the painting that helped him gain the scholarship, the best work he’d done, and how he’d wanted his father to see it, but it was locked up in the Villa Medici until the end of the war.

  There were lots of questions Carlo wanted to ask her but felt they could wait; he wanted to avoid being too intrusive. It was Tiffany who wished to talk more about his life in Lombardy and she brought the conversation back to his years with his father on the family vineyard.

  “I don’t think we’ll mention that to Tommo,” she said, “he’s always on the search for people with experience of vines, but you mustn’t work for him.”

  Carlo was about to ask the reason for this when she said, “I think I’d better tell you now, we’re going to have some aggravation this afternoon. My husband is not going to be pleased. But whatever happens, it’s much better if he does not know anything about your family vineyard.”

  “Will it make a difference?” Carlo was puzzled.

  “Perhaps not. It’s just best for him not to know.” As if to convince him she said, “The vines on this property are not mine, Carlo, and the less said about your past experience, the better. Will you trust me on this?”

  It felt like some sort of conspiracy, but he had to trust her and assured her he would. She thanked him and went to collect her camera, for he’d spoken of wanting to begin by taking a few photos of her. After this he did a rough pencil sketch. As the time passed he began to notice her change of happy mood to a feeling of unrest. It soon became more noticeable, a strained afternoon with a heightening tension. The easy pleasure of their shopping jaunt and her relaxed enjoyment of the day seemed to fade into awkward silences. It began to affect him; their conversation became stilted, as if they both felt they were waiting for something unpredictable, like a storm. Neither of them, least of all Carlo, could have foreseen the violence of that storm when it happened.

  His arrival home was marked by a loud and cheerful tooting of the horn in the Buick but within moments this transformed into a vocal rage and then a violent physical assault. Carlo had never seen fury like it. Tommo was at first incredulous, then fiercely angry at being told about the studio. But that was nothing compared with what happened when he came upstairs to see the neat and adjacent bedroom.

  “Who the fucking hell decided this?” he bellowed, and without waiting for an answer he slapped Tiffany’s face with such force it almost knocked her over. Then he grabbed her, not to save her from falling, but so he co
uld punch her with his closed fist. “You must be raving bloody mad,” he viciously spat the words at her, along with a stream of saliva. He kept on hitting her and as Carlo tried to prevent this, Thompson swung and belted him with a wild blow that knocked him right across the room and crashing against the easel. He was there in a flash, holding the tripod threateningly above Carlo as though to impale him with it. Instead he turned and hurled it through the window. Glass shattered and flew everywhere, with Tiffany frantically trying to shield her eyes and dodge the lethal slivers.

  Yelling more abuse at her, Thompson lashed out and hit her again, then went into the bedroom and smashed that window as well, throwing Carlo’s bag and contents outside, then ripping the quilt and sheets off the bed to hurl them in the same direction. All the while he kept shouting abuse at Tiffany, calling her a cunt, a dirty bitch, a stupid spoiled slut, hitting her continually, all his feverish malevolence focussed entirely on her. Carlo made another attempt to stop him, only to be sent reeling again as Thompson dealt him another savage blow. He then resumed his attack on his wife, this time shaking her body ferociously while he continued his stream of abuse at her. She was hurt and screaming out for help, until everything abruptly changed.

  As Tiffany managed to break free of him, Carlo saw Thompson stagger as though he’d been hit. Trying to understand what happened, he managed to get to his feet and saw Sigrid was in the room with a canister, spraying the contents of it in Thompson’s face. He reeled, clawing at his eyes as if he was blind. Still dazed, Carlo realised Thompson was now almost helpless, his abuse becoming incoherent, his hands trying to protect his face as the spray tormented his eyes. He swayed and stumbled, still shouting angrily. Carlo could just make out the torrent of vitriol now directed at Sigrid.

  “Stop it you little German bitch or I’ll kill you,” he screamed, but she took no notice, charging at him with the spray and getting dangerously close. He tried to grab her but over-reached and fell backwards to land heavily on the floor. She gave a shout of triumph. “I should’ve used this when you tried to rape me,” she yelled back at him. Carlo saw her toss the metal canister aside and pull out another from inside her dress.

  The fresh spray engulfed Thompson, but he got to his feet, blundering forward and trying once more to reach her. That was when Tiffany tripped him and he crashed to the floor again. She snatched the spray from Sigrid and stood over him to direct a gust into his face. He was gasping for breath and unable to get up this time.

  “Call the police,” she said to Sigrid.

  “I have.” Carlo heard her reply to his surprise. When on earth had that happened, he wondered? Everything had seemed a blur to him from the first of Thompson’s blows.

  “Did he really try to rape her?” he asked Tiffany.

  “A week ago,” she said. “That was why we got these.” She gave him the canister. “If he even moves, give him another dose. Don’t let him get up.”

  She left them alone for a few moments and returned with a length of thin chain and a padlock. Thompson was too weak to prevent her from securing it tightly around his legs. A surprisingly short time after this, they heard the approach of police sirens.

  SEVENTEEN

  The charges of attempted rape and his savage assault were sufficient to hold Thompson overnight until the major case could be investigated. It did not take long. All the next day trucks were queueing to load and take away the contents of what was found in the storage barns and sheds of the vineyard. A fleet of police cars stood guard until each place was emptied of flourishing green pots. Some had grown to a great height, others much smaller and trim. From a distance it looked as if they were either healthy shrubs or Christmas trees. There were literally hundreds of these marijuana plants cleverly blended as camouflage in the acres of vines. It was, as the police said, a skilful and effective operation. The large vineyard was ten kilometres away from the main road and far out of sight. It was further disguised by fences of barbed wire and official signs that forbade entry, making it identical with the rest of the POW camp.

  All the sheds were fitted with floodlights and heaters so the rich crop could be grown through the winter. Summer was no problem; the heat from the galvanised iron roofs germinated the ‘green ladies’ as the workers called them, enabling thousands of indoor plants to be harvested all year round. The product was exported to the thriving Asian and northern hemisphere markets.

  It had been set up only two years ago and had already proved a lucrative industry, needing only a small work-force. Just a team of trusted locals and well paid POWs to inspect for snails and other predators, as well as regularly fertilising the plants and ensuring the watering system was operating. The outdoor plants were even easier to manage; grown amid other compatible plants the verdant foliage was a natural cloak. Hundreds more pots were found growing this way. Experts were busy assessing the value of the crop, estimated at over twelve million pounds and counting.

  While all this continued, Thompson and those who worked in the vineyard were charged. Tiffany underwent some intense questioning and was warned she would be a prime witness when the case was heard. In view of the amount of money involved—although she apparently had no direct access to it—she was cautioned not to leave the district until the hearing. Thompson and others charged with him applied for bail; some of the minor participants were granted this under strict terms, but Tiffany’s solicitor was quick to point out that if the main accused was at liberty his client could be in danger. Thompson’s bail application was refused and he was remanded in custody until the hearing.

  The newspapers had a field day with front page headlines featuring these two well-known local names. The Federal Government came under criticism for allowing a temporary prison camp to be used for criminal profit, run by a person of unsuitable character like Thompson. The minister who’d appointed him was dismissed and all POWs were transferred away from the property now deemed unsuitable for use under terms of the Geneva Convention. With one exception, they were moved to the established POW camp in Cowra. The exception was Carlo Minnelli, ordered to remain in the district as a Crown witness until the case came to trial. This was not brought to the attention of the Department of Defence.

  Carlo was merely told by Tiffany’s young solicitor, Edward Frost, an application had been made for him to be available at the court’s jurisdiction. As a key witness he must stay within a safe place. If not, he could possibly encounter threats before reaching the witness box. Serious money was at stake here according to the lawyer who was adept at these headline phrases, declaring the respected name of Tiffany Watson was also at issue. Carlo had been the only observer of events, and could not discuss the case or his evidence with anyone. Frost, who preferred to be called Ned, told Carlo he could occupy his present residence until the trial was over. Carlo, who did not particularly like the assertive Ned Frost, was more than happy to accept this instruction

  Being a key Crown witness meant no removal to another camp until after the trial. It meant staying in the luxurious home, spending peaceful nights in the comfortable bedroom, starting properly on Tiffany’s portrait and even finding subjects to paint in the countryside. The case would not be heard until the end of next month, which was almost seven weeks away. Carlo was thrilled at the prospect, and surprised at the tolerance of his freedom. The following day as he resumed the portrait, he stopped pondering about his windfall. This was his second stroke of fortune after the bleak years of gunfire and imprisonment in the service of Il Duce. In view of the way he’d been ambushed, he felt as if his luck was almost even at last.

  Tiffany was not an easy subject. Unused to posing, she became restless after an hour or so. There were frequent phone calls from Frost, the solicitor, and she also hired a demolition group to remove all trace of the POW camp. They stripped away all the barbed wire fences, removed the TIFFANY WATSON sign above the entry gates, and brought in bulldozers to flatten and burn the dozens of wooden buildings.

  “Put it back the way it used to be,” s
he ordered, making numerous trips to the site to confirm that it was being done the way she’d commissioned. In between the times she sat for her portrait, she proceeded to tell Carlo of her life, her marriage, and how her father’s domination had led to all this.

  Her mother died when she was two years old and throughout her childhood a series of women had been the mistresses or temporary partners of her father. One had been a fiancée whom he never married. Others lived in their house for brief periods, under the guise of being called his secretary or her nurse. They were invariably young and good looking.

  “He was the kind of man who constantly needed a woman,” she told Carlo, “but failed to treat them well so relationships never lasted. He was attractive and when one woman left he found it easy to acquire a replacement. He needed them for sex and as exhibits to parade in public but they were never more than that. There was no true love between him and anyone of the opposite sex. His close friendships were all with men. He golfed with them, got drunk with them, and owned racehorses in partnership with them.

  “I was his only child, but being a daughter we were not close. We were forced to live together and never comfortable about it. I had an odd dream once—we were in a train crossing the Nullarbor, in a private suite when the train carriage split in two. He went west to Perth, and I went east to Adelaide. Our life was a bit like that dream.

  “At the age of twelve I went to boarding school, and had very little close contact with him afterwards. I spent holidays in the homes of school friends in the next six years, then went to Sydney University telling myself it was to better my education, but it was really to avoid going home to live with him. My father became rich with property speculation, and gave me money to travel overseas, which was an opportune reason for us not to meet too often.