The whole location was bigger than he’d expected, seventy acres in size. Standing outside the main buildings he could see the thriving gardens where some inmates grew their own vegetables. The makeup of the camp and its facilities was totally different to his experiences in the three years since being taken prisoner at Sidi Baranni. The site here was originally only for Italians but since Pearl Harbour had been expanded to include Japanese captured in the Pacific and New Guinea. After a small intake in the first year of Japan’s success the number of captives had increased as the war turned in favour of the Allies. That was when the camp had been split into four, with the Japanese in B Compound placed in between the two Italian sectors.
“They’re bad news in there,” said Gianni, who sought out Carlo soon after hearing of his arrival. Gianni was working at a dairy farm about a mile outside the camp. The tolerant attitude at Cowra towards Italians allowed him to occasionally assist the farmer at nights, and stay over in a room provided by the friendly family. Carlo was surprised to find he ate with them, and sometimes listened to the radio at night with them. Gianni said the Italians were lucky; most of the guards and administrators were cordiale, but not towards the Japanese occupants of B compound.
“Why not? What do you mean by ‘bad news’?” asked Carlo.
Gianni pointed to a few lounging listlessly in the sun on an area where they’d erected a baseball net. “They hate it here.”
“Well, I don’t suppose any of us are meant to really love it,” said Carlo, “but it’s the best I’ve seen.”
“It’s altogether different with them. They regard the act of surrender as a disgrace. To the Japs it’s dishonorable. Some of them even give false names, so their families back in Japan will never find out they were captured. And they scorn us for our easy attitude, the way we’re prepared to work on farms in the district. They can’t understand how we manage to get along with Australians, or even worse, make friends with some of them.”
“That’s a bit extreme,” said Carlo, thinking of the friendship he’d achieved in just a few days with Janet Sherman and the Major, as well as his mates among the crew of the Royal Star.
“They don’t think like us. Some try to commit suicide because of their shame at being captured. They don’t like me working where I’m well treated. They’d certainly never understand you,” Gianni said to him. “They’d be derisive and bewildered at the way you meekly knocked on the army’s front door in Griffith, and said “Hello, I’m Carlo from darkest Lombardy, deep in the heart of Italy,” and then applied for lodgings here.”
“You haven’t changed,” said Carlo laughing. “I came with a letter from the Major in Griffith, verifying I was delayed by legalities in a court case.”
“Yes, but why did you do it, Carlo? Even I can’t help wondering why. You could have stayed there; free to keep shagging Tiffany— available now her bastard of a husband is in the slammer.”
“I didn’t shag her,” Carlo vainly persisted. Would anyone ever believe him? The answer was clearly ‘no’. So why not give up the futile denial? But that would be tantamount to trumpeting it to all and sundry, and for Tiffany’s sake he had no intention of doing that.
“I’d like to believe you, Carlo old mate. But I can’t!”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s impossible! You’re such a lousy liar. You painted her portrait, you were a witness for her, you lived in the house all that time, and we both know she’s as sexy as Lana Turner—or Mae West. So don’t try to fool me with bullshit. You shagged each other’s brains out, which is why you were silly enough to come here instead of staying with her—because you didn’t have a single brain cell that was still working in your favour!”
Gianni chortled at his own wit. Carlo tried to dismiss it as a torrent of envy. “Give it a rest, Gianni. You’re the one not using your brain,” he said. “The army would soon have had me listed as missing and then AWOL before much longer. I was just fortunate to meet Major Sherman and his wife.”
“Don’t tell me you shagged her, too.”
“For Christ’s sake, shut up. She’s a friend, a bit older than my mother. So just give it a bloody rest.”
“I apologise about Mrs Sherman. But I don’t retreat on Tiffany.”
“Then go to buggery,” said Carlo.
“No thanks. Rather go to my job on the farm. No arguments there.”
Carlo was surprised. “You sound as if you like it.”
“I do. Good food. Really nice people. I even went to church with them once.” He enjoyed the reaction this created. “Hey!” he said as the prelude to a new thought arrived. “Tell you what, Carlo. There’s a Catholic priest at their church. You could confess to him. Do you good to free yourself from those porkies.”
“Those what?”
“Porkies. Pork pies.”
“What the hell are you are you talking about? Does he run a restaurant, this priest who serves pork pies?”
Gianni roared with laughter and almost doubled-up with mirth.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are, mate. Time you caught up with the local rhyming slang, sport. I’ll have to teach you. Pork pies means lies.”
They both laughed as Carlo bowed and sarcastically thanked him for the translation.
“See you tomorrow,” said Gianni. “I’ll give you another lesson in the local lingo.”
“I suppose there’s no escape,” sighed Carlo with a grin.
TWENTY-TWO
There were fireworks lighting the sky above the mid-west town of Cowra—exploding cascades and rainbow rockets as well as whiz bangs, jumping jacks and bouquets of Roman candles—all part of a celebration to mark the arrival of 1944. For Carlo it was one of several new experiences, his first antipodean Christmas and now the changing of the year on this warm midnight of an Australian summer. At the same time in northern Lombardy there would be snow and skiing on the mountain slopes behind the vineyard. He had a moment of wondering what had happened to the vineyard since his father had sold it. A letter from his mother had told him of their chance meeting in Rome, and so the vines belonged to someone else now. He felt no dismay about that, but the memory of the place brought back thoughts of the eagles seen from his bedroom window in spring and summer, most of all the one he’d painted for his sister Gina. She’d be partying at the newspaper office in Milano, although not yet—their clocks were eight hours behind eastern Australia, or was it nine? He expected his mother and Luigi might soon be dining with friends at a favourite restaurant, unless the stories of raids and open attacks on civilians in Rome by German troops were as bad as reported. That would ruin the unique city life. He hoped the next letter from Beatrice would ease his mind, and tell him it was not as bad as reported. Or was it now impossible to reveal any news about what was taking place there because of the Gestapo and secret censorship?
The truth of what was happening in all of Italy was becoming harder to believe, as startling rumours were confirmed then denied, before again being substantiated. Had Benito Mussolini really been rescued from the partisans by German troops on the orders of Adolph Hitler? Was it possible all the rumours were true, that Italy had secretly surrendered to the Allies and the army had formed units of anti-fascists to fight the Germans? No one really knew what to believe, they were so far away from Europe.
Whatever was happening there, in Cowra they were still prisoners of war in this well-structured camp, so different to what he’d known in England and his brief experience at Griffith. Thinking of Griffith and Tiffany for a nostalgic moment, Carlo reflected that only his friend Gianni had any idea of what had taken place there. And the less Gianni said about it the better!
Just as well he wasn’t here tonight, Carlo thought. It was his kind of audience, they’d relish hearing Gianni’s story about his time with Tiffany. But Gianni was at the dairy farm, the farmer and his family had invited him to celebrate with them. He often spent time there which showed how harmonious was the relationship between Co
wra citizens, Australian guards and their captives.
Nothing like that existed with the occupants of the Japanese compound. Around him the clamour of applause for the brightest rockets was a stark contrast to the hostile silence in their dark sector. It was strange. He’d always believed festivities like this were highly popular in Asia, but no one there was watching tonight, unless it was from behind darkened windows. Even the constant lights along The Broadway did not reveal any spectators. The Japanese on the other side of the wire seemed resolved not to enjoy any celebration while in captivity.
There were constant rumours in the camp about them; how their massive victories in the first year of the war had led to problems with over-extended supply lines and how the American aircraft carriers had made destructive raids on their bases at Guam and other island strongholds like Saipan. There was concern among the Japanese at Cowra that their prisoner compound would soon be over-crowded; it was already close to full capacity.
The fireworks resumed after a short break. Carlo moved to stand with a cheerful group of Italians watching the rockets like missiles over the town. He wondered if Janet and Jamie were outside their house on the canal to see a spectacle similar to this in Griffith. He was thinking what a great painting it would make, if he ever had an opportunity to put a display like this on canvas. He would have loved to talk about it with Janet, feeling they had a special link and how her enthusiasm had affected him. The friendship with them had begun with Jamie’s droll wit, but it was Janet who’d established even closer ties.
If there were fireworks in Griffith they’d be close to their house, so perhaps they had friends in to watch it. He often thought of them, ever since Janet’s note to say she’d sent a letter to his mother, hopefully reaching her in Rome in the next month or even earlier, if reports of a cease-fire were true.
If true, he started to speculate what might happen to him and the Italians in this camp and the others around Australia. He tried to estimate just how many POWs there were in this country. A few thousand at least, he felt sure, but perhaps even more.
Janet was thoughtful that night after they came in from watching the fireworks and heard the late news. First item on the radio was confusion about the Italian army’s possible surrender.
“It’s a shambles,” Jamie Sherman said, in answer to his wife’s question. “The Germans have read the signs and are taking over Italy. They’ve even freed bloody old Mussolini.”
“How will it affect the POW’s here?” she asked.
“If you mean Carlo, as I know you do, I’d say he’s as puzzled as we are. But it won’t bring a change. We’re still fighting in Italy, against Germans now.”
“But not against Italians. So why won’t it help the POWs here?”
“Because it would need an armada of ships to take them home, Janet. Do you know the number of Italian prisoners in Australia?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Eighteen thousand,” he replied.
She stared at him, amazed. “You can’t be serious!”
“I’m afraid I am. That’s the exact number. We haven’t even got a modest fleet, let alone the armada that would be required to move them back home. And don’t tell me it’s unfair, because I know it is.”
They settled down to listen to the rest of the news. In Europe there were hints of guarded optimism. The Russians were slowly advancing across Poland towards the German border. In Britain, armies were gathering for the long promised second front to invade Europe. And in the Pacific, Japanese forces in New Guinea and the Solomon islands were being isolated.
In home news there was a different battle in progress. A courtroom war, as Australia’s leading painter, William Dobell, was challenged over his winning portrait in the Archibald Prize. The Major dozed during a heated discussion about whether Dobell’s painting was a weird cartoon or a work of genius. Janet listened, wishing Carlo was there to enjoy the debate with her. When it was finished she nudged her husband awake, made him his nightly cup of cocoa, and started a conversation about something that had been on her mind all week.
“Jamie, I wish you ran the Cowra camp, my darling.”
“What a terrible idea. Why would you wish that on me?”
“Just a thought.”
“Brought on by what?”
“You do realise Carlo would’ve been studying at the Academy in Rome, if he hadn’t been snatched by the Blackshirts. What’s the point of shutting up a young man with his talent? If the war goes on as long as you say, it’ll be such an awful waste.”
“It will be, I agree. Apologies to Carlo, but Cowra is full of headaches with the Italians in twin compounds and unhappy Japs across the wire between them. There’s also a mix of fascists and Nazis in the fourth Compound. Not my idea of an easy life.”
He switched off the radio and headed towards the bedroom, then paused and turned thoughtfully to look at her. “But just supposing I did run the place, and Carlo Minnelli was one of my flock, what would I do about him? Tell me that, old dear.”
“Not so much of the ‘old’ thanks, Jamie. But since you ask, I’ll tell you what I’d love to see happen.”
A week later Carlo had a letter from Tiffany.
I wasn’t going to write to you, but then I thought it was churlish not to and I found out where you were from the army office in Griffith. I had a feeling it was all over that morning, and nearly did not go to my appointment with Ned. You might be amused to know you were right about him. Sigrid told me you suspected his intentions, which was shrewd on your part. He asked me to marry him, but I said no. It was a little too obvious he was after the dowry, but he recovered somewhat when I insisted he remain as my solicitor. The only one not a bit interested in my bank balance was you, but then you were carrying some sort of torch for Silvana. At least I think that’s the name you said one night in your sleep. Anyway, you know an awful lot about me, and I hope and trust it remains a closed chapter with you. It was nice while it lasted, Carlo. I mean it was for me, and I hope it was for you.
With fond, best wishes, and a little love,
Tiffany
P.S. The Major and I had a few sharp words. He wasn’t pleased with what I did with the list of POWs. Enough said! I’d do it again!
He replied that very same day.
I’m glad you wrote. It was the same for me, very nice, and you can depend on my promise that anything I know will definitely stay with me. I didn’t realise I spoke in my sleep, but she was someone I once sketched and might find one day after the war. You were someone I won’t ever be able to forget, but it had to end, and I wanted that to be before we both ended in trouble. The Major is a nice man, a real pussy cat, so we were lucky it was him.
Love,
Carlo
He posted the letter, and was wondering what to do for the rest of the day when he was startled to hear the loudspeaker request he come to administration. He thought it must be an error on someone’s part in the office. There could surely be no reason he was needed. His covering letter from Jamie had been accepted, his name added to the roll without attracting attention. So why was he being asked to report to the office?
“Report without delay,” had been the second call which made it sound even worse. He’d settled in comfortably by now, enjoying the camp’s amenities and apart from Gianni, there had been no embarrassing interrogations from anyone else about Tiffany or the court case. All he wanted now was a quiet life, until the war ended, then get on the first ship home. He sometimes contemplated a favourite daydream, how that ship might be the Royal Star with Tom, Stephen and Archie on board, welcoming him back to the comfort of the Wireless Room. Oh shit, he thought, hearing the speaker again.
“Minnelli please report to the office of Major Morton immediately,” was the next call, one that could no longer be denied. Five minutes later he was on parade before the commander of the Italian compound.
“Glad to see you’re still with us, Minnelli.” Major Alfred Morton was another regular recruited
for a desk job. Lean and fit, some years younger than James Sherman, he had imposing features with sharp eyes that studied Carlo just long enough to make him feel uneasy. The Major’s greeting and hint of sarcasm did not presage a friendly chat, perhaps the opposite. His language coach Herbie at Marlborough had a name for it—a bollocking, that was the word. Was this to be a bollocking from the compound commander? If so, what the hell had he done wrong?
“Sit down.” It was like an order, surprising his visitor who stood for a puzzled moment, then realised he’d been told to occupy the only available chair.
“You do speak English I believe, Minnelli?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Not deaf, I hope?”
“No, Sir.” Realising his delay to sit might have caused this impression he added, “Sorry, Major. I’m not used to being invited to sit down.”
Morton smiled at this, no longer looking so imposing. “Always a first time, Carlo. As is this.” He surprised his visitor, not just by using his first name, but holding up the local newspaper photo of Tiffany’s portrait.
“From Major and Mrs Sherman. Your work, I believe?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Carlo, in disbelief. “Did they send it?”
“It was actually Janet Sherman who sent it. But she and the major both speak highly of you. So how did it all come about?”
Carlo aimed for simplicity this time. “I did some paintings on the ship from England and Miss Watson asked me to do a portrait of her, Sir. Then the Major and his wife kindly invited me to stay, as there was no train. Mrs Sherman’s a painter herself and she was very kind and complimentary.”
“Nice woman, Janet,” said the Major.
“Yes, Sir.”
“She had an interesting suggestion by letter and was then on the phone to me last night. A determined woman as well. She reminded me there’s a theatre here sometimes. We use one of the mess huts in the Garrison area and put on plays. We have some enthusiastic actors but could use an artist to paint sets, and do placards to advertise the events and attract an audience.”
The Last Double Sunrise Page 22