The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  The damage was intensive; most of the wooden barracks and several administration blocks were ashes. Three Australian guards were dead and the Japanese body count was already over two hundred. Many were still missing and Army recruits from the Cowra infantry training camp were assisting police and troops to search the district. The Italians were told to carry on with what they did as usual, which meant Carlo was preparing for a class when Walt said Major Morton asked to see him urgently.

  “Can you go to this address?” Morton asked. “It’s your mate, Devito.”

  “I hope it’s not the breakout, Sir. The Japs and their knives.”

  “No, I think it’s more of a domestic matter.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes.” Morton raised an eyebrow. “Over to you, Carlo. It’s a few miles out of town. I’ll loan you a truck if you haven’t forgotten how to drive.”

  “I’d better walk, Sir. It’s been over four years. But thanks for the offer.”

  After Carlo left, the Major sat thinking about his POW Artist. The bloody war—four years out of his young life, wasted years for all of them. But Janet had certainly been spot-on with her estimation of this one. He’d had a couple of tough moments lately. The ban on his painting, then the story about his father. Whether true or not, it had been widely circulated. Carlo had tried to weather it, but Morton knew him well enough to realise it had not been easy. A few sly looks and a casual harsh word could be painful to endure. They were strange friends, he and Gianni Devito. The attraction of opposites. He wondered what sort of mess young Devito had got himself into, and why he’d sent for help.

  It was a long walk to the Martin farm; following the directions he’d been given. Twice he passed Japanese prisoners being escorted back, a passive group of four and then a larger bunch of ten, giving no trouble to the two young trainees from the military camp who smiled and waved at Carlo.

  “No problems?” he called to them.

  “Meek and mild,” the younger one who looked barely eighteen called back. “They’re all hungry and tired.”

  “And cold,” shouted the other trainee. “All their warm clothes are on the barbed wire, the poor buggers.”

  The captives gave no sign of understanding, nor did they glance at Carlo as they trudged wearily back in the direction of the camp.

  The Martin Farm was a surprise. The homestead was a substantial house surrounded by a number of large sheds and milking facilities. A fleet of trucks with the insignia MARTIN’S MILK were parked in a large galvanised car port. Beyond the buildings paddocks stretched for a long distance, each containing grazing cows. Slightly more than a dairy farm, Carlo thought, this place where Gianni had made himself at home. It clearly supplied milk for the whole district. If the pretty face he could see looking at him out of a window was the girlfriend, then Gianni was doing rather well for himself.

  But the girl did not seem happy; in fact she looked as if she was in tears. At an adjoining window was Gianni, now staring at him too. A different room and not a happy face, either. Carlo waved, but there was no answering wave. Just a shake of the head, then a gesture of both hands that looked to be defeatist. What the hell was going on? Were they in the same room, or different rooms? And why were they gazing out like bereft lovers?

  Oh my God, he thought. The silly sod has been caught. The door behind him was not just shut, it must be locked to prevent him from emerging. Hence the hand-signals, and the reason for the sad face of the girl in the other window, which belonged to another room.

  That was when the farmer came out to meet him, along with a woman in her forties. She had an attractive face so like the girl’s that she must be her mother. She looked upset.

  “My wife, Cynthia,” he said. “I’m Joe Martin.”

  “Carlo Minnelli.” He shook hands, first with the wife then Martin.

  “You’re the POW Artist,” she started to say, but the farmer frowned at this friendly approach.

  “It’s not about that, Cynthia,” he was quick to remind her, “it’s about his friend. We have a situation here, Mr Minnelli. Nothing against you, but I need to clear up a serious matter.”

  “How can I help, Mr Martin?” He decided to use the same formality.

  “In Australia friends often share thoughts about close friendships with the opposite sex,” Martin said, which seemed an odd start to the conversation. “I wonder if it’s the same in Italy?”

  Carlo had a moment to try to decipher exactly what this meant. He did his best to appear rather puzzled, then turned to look back at the house and the two faces watching out separate windows. He had to take a guess, but it was not hard to read the situation knowing his friend as he did. Gianni had fucked up, big time. Carlo made himself sound slightly fractious.

  “I don’t understand, Mr Martin. Do you have anything against Gianni? Does the fact he always talks of wanting to marry your daughter upset you?”

  He saw Martin’s look of surprise, just as his wife turned to her daughter’s window. Her hands were clasped in what looked like a victory sign.

  “He’s actually said that?” Martin seemed in need of more confirmation. Carlo decided there was only one way to supply it.

  “I doubt if he’s shouted it around the camp,” he said, managing to sound annoyed, “but he’s told me often enough. Drives me mad, debating whether you’ll agree to an Italian son-in-law. It seems as if you’ve got doubts, so I don’t understand why I’ve been asked to come here and answer questions. But if you want the answer, he’s always talking to me about it. It’s nice to meet you even so briefly, Mrs Martin. My friend’s always spoken very highly of you.”

  He smiled at her, gave a brusque nod to Martin, and started to walk away.

  “I’m sorry,” he heard the farmer’s shout, then his wife’s voice, “So you bloody should be.”

  Carlo kept walking for some distance, hoping he’d done the right thing, then heard a truck and stepped off the road as it pulled up alongside him.

  “Hop in,” said Cynthia Martin. So he hopped in and by the time they reached Broadway they’d seen several other escapees being peacefully returned.

  “Were you scared by the breakout last night?” he asked her.

  “I was more scared Joe was going to shoot Gianni when he found them going at it hammer and tongs in the shed,” she replied.

  Carlo had to smile at the choice of words. She was certainly a lot nicer than her husband.

  “We get frustrated, Cynthia,” he said. “It’s a bit difficult when it’s a girl as good-looking as your Alice. He talks about her quite a lot to me. Were you angry at him last night?”

  “I’d only be angry, Carlo, for one reason.”

  “And what’s that?

  “If he ever put her up the duff, then ditched her. You might be his friend and mine, by telling him that.”

  “I will,” Carlo promised, but suspected Gianni already knew it. And guessed his mate had an ally in Alice’s mother.

  She pulled up at the entry gates, and thanked him for coming to sort things out so quickly. “Just between us, I’ll remind Joe that making love is not a hanging offence. He tends to forget what we got up to, back in the days when my Dad thought he was a real bloody no-hoper.”

  She laughed, and Carlo couldn’t help it. He leaned across and kissed her.

  “You’ve made another middle-aged conquest,” Gianni said back in the camp that night. “Alice’s mum has joined your fan club.”

  “Has she joined yours?” asked Carlo.

  “She was always on my side. Protection against Allie’s father. I thought he was gonna kill me last night and blame the Japs.”

  “He’d have got away with it, too.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Easily. All that gunfire.” Carlo could barely resist a smile. “A bullet up your arse would’ve been considered just another bit of Nippon payback.”

  “Don’t remind me. That gun barrel almost turned my hair a shade of grey. It’s not a thing to joke about and not to be ment
ioned to anyone else—if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. I suggest a deal. You forget about Tiffany, I forget the gun and where it was pointing. Do we have a deal?”

  “We do,” Gianni agreed. “Now…are you going to be the best man?”

  “Gladly. If you assure me there’s going to be a wedding.”

  “Looks like it. Joe and I are back to first names again. We went to the church and the priest is in favour. He phoned Major Morton who agreed it would be good for both country’s relations. Joe says if I marry Alice there’s a flat behind their house that could be ours. No more shagging in freezing sheds.”

  “That’ll be a relief to all concerned. Especially the bride.”

  Gianni nodded. “You got me out of big trouble, old mate, coming up with what he wanted to hear.”

  “It was a guess, but I couldn’t think what else to say. Just glad I was singing from the same song sheet. She’s a lovely girl.”

  “She is,” Gianni said.

  “That was a quick peace-pact with her dad.”

  “It had to be, Carlo. Before he finds out she’s pregnant.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The report of the Cowra breakout was in headlines, but by government decree details of nationality or the number of fatalities were not published. A coronial enquiry some months later revealed 231 Japanese had died with more than a hundred wounded. The high number of suicides included bodies along the train line, where they had thrown themselves to avoid recapture. The burnt and ruined huts could no longer provide adequate shelter; emergency tents were brought in, but soon afterwards the survivors were moved to the southern prisoner-of-war camp near the town of Hay.

  By then Gianni Devito had married Alice Martin, with Carlo as his best man. The farm was brightly decorated; a large crowd of local friends and Italian prisoners attended, and the bride looked both beautiful and slim enough to satisfy the most perceptive eyes. Cynthia, the bride’s mother, said she hoped for a grandchild as soon as possible.

  Two months later the announcement of Alice’s pregnancy was a new cause for celebration. Whenever Joe Martin tried to calculate the months or bring up the matter, his wife promptly changed the subject. She asked Carlo to do a portrait of the happy couple and one of the baby when he or she was born in the new year. Despite his protests she insisted on paying for the work.

  “But I don’t have a bank account,” he maintained, wanting it to be a gift.

  “You do now,” she said a week later, having been to the Commonwealth Bank, where the manager seemed in doubt whether it was legal for an enemy POW to have a bank account. Before Cynthia could decide to switch their large account to the opposition bank across the main street, he proved flexible enough to change his mind on the issue.

  “It’s in a savings account, Carlo, and here’s your pass book.”

  “She’s the real guvnor in this family,” said Gianni. “Do what she tells you,” he advised. “I always do.”

  In November came a letter for Carlo, postmarked Rome. Dated in July it had taken four months in transit.

  Dear Carlo,

  Your mother came to see me because I’d written to tell her my wedding was off. He changed the date twice because of getting a role in another film, so I decided he loved his career more than me. He keeps ringing, and proposing again, but I’m not sure if I love him enough. It’s awkward as we’re cast in the same new film and even have some love scenes together. I don’t know if you’d heard but I’ve become an actress and been in three films already. I saw the portrait you painted. Hot stuff, very pretty girl. I told Beatrice I’d ask if you’re in love with her. So are you? It’s been so long and we’re different people but I sometimes wonder what would’ve happened with us. Will you write and tell me what it’s like in Australia? It’s good you’re being able to paint. Bea was really excited about that. She said a friend sent her a newspaper where they called you the POW Artist, and that you entered a competition, but didn’t know if you won or not. Do write back and tell me when you think you’ll be home. That is unless you are madly in love with your Tiffany

  Lots of good wishes,

  Silvana. Xxxxx

  He was going to write back that afternoon, but started to wonder what to say. It was like a letter from someone he hardly knew. They’d only met twice. An hour when she was his first live model and he was entranced by her nudity, then a night when he’d fallen asleep while in the middle of talking to her. He’d carried this concept of her in his mind, but had never been able to recall her clearly enough to even do a sketch from memory. He felt a need to talk to someone about it. By chance there was also a letter from Janet Sherman, saying they’d spoken to Alfie Morton about allowing Carlo to come for a visit. He was able to use the administration phone to call her and arrange it for the next weekend.

  “So at long last you got a letter from her, Carlo.”

  “Long is the word, Janet. Four months it took to deliver.”

  “Good heavens! Was her wedding postponed or cancelled?”

  “Postponed, I think. It’s hard to tell from this letter. Either she’s changed, or I have. I’m not sure if I remember the nude figure or just the excitement of the first girl who smiled at me in that special way. At least I think it was a special way.”

  He could hear her laughter. “You do sound confused. Looking forward to seeing you.”

  He took the early Saturday morning train and arrived at Griffith station before noon. Janet had said she’d meet him, but he persuaded her the timetable was erratic, and he’d gladly walk. It would give him a chance to buy her flowers.

  A lot of passengers got off, and he glanced at people waiting by the exit, but neither Janet nor Jamie were there. He noticed a young woman in air force uniform, rather stunning was his first thought. She stood out from the small group with shoulder-length dark hair framing an attractive face, startling blue eyes, medium height and a slim figure in her blue outfit.

  She was looking for someone as she studied the arrivals, but her glance was focused on others disembarking from the train. He left the station and began to walk through the town. A few minutes later an open-topped car went past and he caught a glimpse of the blue uniform as he entered a small fruit shop where they sold flowers.

  The owners were Italian, a married couple who knew him from previous visits, complimenting him on his smart clothes, grey trousers, bright shirt and matching cashmere sweater.

  “Very elegant,” said the wife, and her husband chuckled and expressed a hope that the lady would appreciate the clothes with the same affection as the flowers. His wife gave him a nudge and told him to behave himself. Carlo left with smiles all round. It was the first time he’d worn this outfit, another nice legacy from the bountiful wardrobe that Tiffany had assured him her cousin would not miss.

  Ten minutes later he turned into the street by the canal. The first thing he saw was the same open car and two figures alongside it, the young woman in the blue uniform and Janet, having what looked like an animated conversation that broke off the moment she saw him.

  “A shambles,” she called out, quoting her husband’s favourite comment, “This is Juliet, who was going to save you the walk.”

  “I’m Julia,” her daughter abruptly emphasised the subtle difference in name, “who didn’t know you’d be wearing such smart civvies.”

  “She expected convict arrows, and a ball and chain,” said Janet, hugging Carlo as he gave her the flowers.

  “Apologies,” he said, “I didn’t know I’d be met.” He hesitated, unsure whether to shake hands. He’d never met their daughter before; at close quarters she was far prettier than he first thought, with a soft feminine face, the blue eyes were wider and brighter at close quarters, a small shapely nose and high cheek bones. She was startlingly lovely. “Is it Juliet or Julia?” he asked.

  “Julia,” was her swift reply, before Janet could answer. “Sorry about the mix-up,” she said, and abruptly went into the house leaving Carlo with his hand unshaken.
>
  “Oh dear,” said Janet.

  “Have I come on a bad day?” Carlo asked.

  “No, she has. Turned up unexpectedly after staying with friends. Had a rather final break up with a boyfriend quite recently. We hope it’s a permanent ending this one, it hasn’t been a very happy time for her, or for us I’m afraid.”

  “Surely it’s an awkward time for me to land on you like this.”

  “Oh no, please stay, Carlo.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Truly. This has been on and off like that radio serial The Lawsons. I just hope we’ve had the closing episode.”

  “And she’s Julia, not Juliet?” he asked, as it seemed a point of argument.

  “She’s Juliet to us. In our blissful innocence about twenty-three years ago, that’s what we christened her. But it’s Julia to the rest of the world. She’s sick of being asked the inevitable question—where’s Romeo?”

  “Particularly upsetting right now, I imagine?”

  Janet sighed. “Yes, poor darling. She’s being transferred to Queensland next week at her own request, and hopes never to see him again. We also hope that. Come on; let’s cheer ourselves up with a drink.”

  She raised a smile and tucked her hand in his arm, but he could tell she was distressed, so unlike the usual Janet. Jamie was in the living room about to open a bottle of white wine. He greeted Carlo and pointed to the painting. It hung on the wall behind their bar, so they were sitting on stools in front of it. “Our favourite spot where we can sit, drink and admire it,” he said. “Even talk about the artist.”

  “You’ve put it in a good place, Jamie.”

  “Overlooking the grog. The drongos who banned it did us a favour.”

  In answer to a questioning look from Janet, he pointed upstairs and put a finger to his lips. Janet mimed a question about eating, to which Jamie shook his head. Carlo gathered their attractive but difficult daughter was not joining them for lunch. So although there were four places set, it was just the three of them, and Carlo gave them news of his friend Gianni and the almost shotgun wedding. He had them in fits of laughter with an edited version of the part the gun had played in this when encroaching on Gianni’s backside, a comic sidelight to the violent loss of life that night.