The Last Double Sunrise

by Peter Yeldham

  The call came half an hour later. Professor Farina answered the phone and was told to go to his daughter’s address in the Via Appia Nuova at once. He would find Luigi Revira there. Or perhaps only his body. The professor was told he was being watched and if he attempted to call the police he’d never see his daughter alive again. When he hung up he was sweating and his hands were shaking.

  “What was that call about?” Sofia had come in as he hung up, and could tell from his expression something was wrong.

  “Beatrice,” was all he was able to say. Giovanni was in his seventies, a mild-mannered professor who’d never experienced anything like this.

  “She’s in trouble. What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve got to go to her apartment.”

  “Why, Giovanni?”

  “To find Luigi. They’ve got Beatrice. That was the message.”

  “Call the police.”

  “No, we can’t do that.”

  “For God’s sake!” The look on his face scared her. “We must call them!”

  “I can’t stand here talking to you, Sofia. They said go at once. If we call the police we’ll never see her again.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “You’re in no fit state to drive,” she insisted, and for once he was unable to dispute it.

  Luigi had a vicious pain in his head and it felt as if someone was shaking him. Then he realised someone was shaking him, and quite fiercely. It was Sofia, telling him to wake up for God’s sake, while her husband told her to go easy. That was when he remembered what had happened.

  “Where’s Beatrice?”

  “That’s what we want to know,” Sofia said.

  Suddenly the back door was kicked open and the same two men reappeared.

  “The professor—and his wife,” said the one with a Calabrian accent who seemed to be the leader. “That’s even better. Just the journalist granddaughter and we’d have nearly all the family.”

  “Where’s our daughter?” Sofia tried to sound aggressive but screamed as the other slapped her hard across the face.

  “Just shuddup,” said the Calabrian. “She’s with Luca and he kills her unless lover boy here tells us.”

  “Tells you what?” asked Luigi.

  “Where you took the last bunch of yids.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Of course you do. You and the girlfriend spend all your time hiding Jews. Our friends in Berlin don’t like it. Luca don’t like it either. Neither does Il Duce. Luca’s never cared for Beatrice, so he’ll enjoy killing her nice and slow. Then we kill the professor and his wife, until you tell us where to find the children of Abraham.”

  “You’re animals,” Giovanni Farina said receiving a vicious punch in the stomach that sent him crashing backwards to the floor. Sophia knelt beside him alarmed. “He’s an elderly man,” she vainly protested.

  It made the Calabrian laugh scornfully. “Elderly now, dead real soon.” He turned to the other man. “Use the phone. Tell them we’ve got the two parents as well. We’ll get back every damn Jew they’ve hidden. The Nazis will give us an iron cross for this day’s work. Go’on, call them. Pass the word to Luca.”

  “Luca,” said Luigi, still dazed from the blow but trying to get to his feet, “the same Luca Pascoli who posed as a friend of the family?”

  The Calabrian kicked out at him. Luigi tried to grab his leg but got kneed in the face. The gun in assailant’s hand was just a foot away from Luigi’s head, the Calabrian wanting to shoot him but he knew Luigi was the one person he could not kill, not until they had the information. So he aimed the gun at Sofia, who screamed as he fired a shot into the floor beside her, inches from her face.

  “Luca was never a friend of this family,” he told them. Just then the damaged door was pushed open and Salvatore entered. The Calabrian grinned. “And here’s another comrade who’s no friend of your fucken family. Even if he did once belong to it.”

  Salvatore gazed at the scene. He seemed satisfied; Luigi still dazed on the floor, Giovanni barely conscious from the blow, Sofia beside him looking very frightened, as well as shocked at his sudden appearance.

  “Almost a family reunion, Gastone,” Salvatore said to the Calabrian, while the other man hung up the phone.

  “Luca’s not there. So I left a message for him.” He reported this to them both but Luigi could tell that Salvatore was now in charge. This was apparent as he asked where they had taken Beatrice, telling them it was stupid, not the smart way to play it at all.

  “It’s smart enough. He’ll talk when we shoot these two,” Gastone replied, clearly chastened by the criticism.

  “Fucking rubbish,” Salvatore told him. “They’re not relatives; they mean nothing to Lieutenant Revira. Get his girlfriend back. Get Beatrice here, and watch this war hero fall to pieces and betray the Jews just to save her life.” When they both appeared indecisive, Salvatore shouted angrily, “Don’t stand there like bloody idiots. Just fucking do it!”

  Salvatore now sent the other man, whom he called Cesare, to bring her back and be quick about it. Speed was necessary. He told the Calabrian to settle down, find some coffee in the kitchen and bring him a cup. He took out his own gun and remained to watch the three prisoners.

  “Surely Salvatore, you can’t allow this,” Sofia pleaded.

  “Shut up, Sofia,” he snapped. “Your precious bloody daughter’s been playing stupid dangerous games. She always was a silly bitch, but not as daft as you. You’re the first I’ll have the pleasure of shooting, if Beatrice’s boyfriend won’t trade you for a truck-full of Semites.”

  “But she’s your wife!”

  “Another word and I’ll lose my bloody temper with you. Shut your stupid mouth. Or God knows what might happen. I might let Gastone take you next door and strip you. Find out what it’s like with a randy Calabrian up you.”

  Luigi remained silent, wishing Sofia would do the same and not provoke him, while waiting helplessly for the man called Cesare to return with Beatrice. It felt like an endless thirty minutes, before the back door of the apartment was pushed open and Cesare forced Beatrice to walk ahead of him at gunpoint. Her face reflected the shock of seeing Salvatore. He saw her reaction and smiled.

  “A surprise, Beatrice. And no, you can’t speak, not with that plaster. So you’ll have to listen to me for a change. It appears we might soon have our son back with us. The war’s almost over, because Adolph’s trying to defend Berlin with his Hitler Youth army of teenage boys. He’s blaming his generals and Nazi comrades, so there’ll be no medals for recapturing a few Jews. Someone forgot to tell these two, who got a clue from your letter to Carlo. Bloody stupid, boasting how you and the boyfriend helped them escape the camps.” He took out his revolver and pointed it directly at Beatrice.

  “Didn’t you know we’ve been scanning your mail for months?” he said to her. “It’s lucky I heard of this, and luckier the war no longer matters.”

  He turned to Gastone, who’d been puzzled, and was now fully alarmed at what he was hearing. The revolver moved a fraction from Beatrice, as he shot the Calabrian in the head. A second later he shot Cesare. Luigi was trying to sit up as Salvatore pointed the gun at him then smiled and put it in his pocket.

  “You clean up the mess, Lieutenant. Tell the police I saved your lives. If I upset Sofia, the perception had to be kept going until they brought Beatrice, and I’d been dying to give her a mouthful for years. In case none of you have heard, the partisans have killed Mussolini and his mistress Clara. Hung them up in the street at the Piazza Loretto in Milan. I daresay our daughter will be there to cover it as a good journalist would. She can also report my friend Luca was killed and hung beside them.” He showed no trace of emotion over this.

  “What else? A last message to you, Beatrice. Though I never wish to see you again, and I daresay you feel the same, I really couldn’t let these assassins kill you. Our children would’ve
been most upset.”

  Before they could say a word he walked out of there.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Newsflash: April 30th, 1945.

  Adolph Hitler is dead. Russian forces were outside the Chancellery in Berlin when the Fuhrer shot himself. His staff found him dead alongside the body of Eva Braun, whom he had married two days previously, and who had already killed herself by taking poison.

  It was VE Day—Victory in Europe—when Germany signed the surrender in a schoolhouse in Rheims, and the world celebrated. In Sydney the streets were packed with strangers hugging and dancing. Harbour ferries flew flags and tooted in triumph. In London, crowds assembled in front of Buckingham Palace and in New York they filled Times Square.

  In the Cowra POW camp, where there had been several Italian peace treaties claimed but rejected, word spread that Italy’s war was over at last. After four years captivity for many, they could go home. However none of them knew it would take a vast armada of boats to transport them, or how protracted the process would be.

  Carlo rejoiced with Walt and a studio full of friends, then later walked to the house where he knew Winifred would be waiting.

  “Couldn’t have you celebrating alone, Win.” He opened a bottle of local wine he’d brought, while she selected two crystal goblets from a cabinet.

  “Here’s to peace,” she said. “I’d begun to wonder if I’d live to see it.”

  “To peace.” They touched glasses and drank the toast.

  “Did she ring you?” Win asked.

  He shook his head. He’d tried to phone her, but it was hopeless.

  “The whole world seemed to be ringing each other. No doubt the air force are all celebrating. I know the trainees in the camp near us are going crazy.”

  He’d passed the camp where he’d seen local girls rushing to join the wild revelries. In a moment of alarm his imagination ran to Julia being enticed by airmen in their smart uniforms with fighter pilot’s wings. It was a day for sexual adventures, nearly five years of war ended, millions dead, and the lucky survivors free to grab some pleasure. Someone who looked like Julia…she’d surely be the first target of the bloody airborne warriors.

  He realised that Great-aunt Winifred had picked up her lorgnette as if to study him more carefully.

  “The trouble with most creative people is their overworked imaginations, Carlo. It puts all kinds of nonsensical fancies into their minds. You’re worried about her being caught up in a few days of this frivolity.”

  “I’m not,” he tried to protest.

  “Of course you are,” she retorted. “You’d be a cold fish if you weren’t, and you’re not that. Just a hot-blooded Romeo concerned for his Juliet.”

  He smiled at that. “I personally always felt Romeo was a bit of a dill.”

  “So did I,” she said, making him laugh.

  “But I do miss being able to share this day with her. Or even just talk to her.” He didn’t tell Win that when at last he’d found a free phone box and managed to reach the base and ask for her, a fairly drunken male voice had said she was too busy having fun and hung up before he could answer.

  “Why don’t you have another glass of this nice wine and let me try,” she suggested.

  She filled his goblet to the brim and went to the phone where she had the number of aircrafts woman Sherman J., and all the details written down. When the phone was answered she used an authoritative voice to announce herself.

  “Just tell her this is her Great-aunt Winifred. I’m ninety two years old and at my age I hope not to be kept waiting for too long. Thank you, young man.” There was a startled pause. “Oh, you’re the Commander. I do beg your pardon, Wing Commander Curtis. Very kind of you to say so. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  She smiled at Carlo. “I got the Big Cheese. The senior fromage himself. How about that!” Carlo raised the brimming goblet and drank half of it to toast her. By that time Win had made contact, urgently beckoning him and busily talking.

  “Julia darling, Happy Peace Day in Europe, or whatever they’re going to call it. I’m well, my love. And you? Going crazy trying to get him? I’m sure he’s been going nuts trying to get you. Just a moment, darling, I think I’m about to sneeze…”

  She handed the receiver to Carlo.

  “She’s not sneezing. We’re going to empty a bottle of wine and talk of how much we miss you.”

  “Carlo!” It was a joyous shout that made his heart accelerate.

  “I’ve given your Aunt Win a new title. She’s another wonder woman. Chatted up the Group Commander and got through to you. I tried earlier and was more-or-less told to bugger off.”

  “I heard you’d rung. Some drongo hung up, so I was trying to call you back.”

  “A drongo, was he. I thought so.”

  ‘You know what drongo means?”

  “I do, my darling. He sounded very drongo-ish to me.”

  “I wish you were here, Carlo,” she said.

  “So do I. It’s a day we’ll remember as long as we live. We should be sharing it.”

  “That’s not my only reason. I wish you were here to tell you how much I love you.”

  “You do?” He could hardly say the words, the rush of emotion made him feel breathless and close to tears with sheer happiness.

  “I really do.” There was a pause. “Are you there, Carlo?”

  “I’m here. Will you say it again?

  “I love you. I’ve wanted to tell you for weeks, but I hoped we’d be together, wrapping our arms around each other when I did. And I have more news.”

  “That’s the best news I’ve ever had.”

  “Wait for this bit. I might be there soon. I’m trying for an accelerated discharge so I can be there for your birthday on June the tenth, when you turn twenty-six. I want that to be the start of our life together.”

  He gave the phone to Win a few moments later and when he sat down his eyes were moist. He watched her speak for a few more minutes, then hang up. She refilled Carlo’s glass, gave herself a tiny refill and sat down beside him.

  “Happy?” He nodded, but she looked puzzled. “Why the tears?”

  “It’s never happened before. I think it’s inherited from my mother. At moments of great happiness she cries. When I painted her portrait the first time at the age of thirteen, she liked it so much she sobbed and couldn’t drive the car.” He was torn between laughter at the absurdity of this and the tears that moistened his face. “This is the best day of my life. She loves me.”

  “Of course she does. She loved you months ago. I wanted her to tell you then, but she was intent on waiting. Determined to make sure this time that it was for real.”

  “One promise, Win. Please don’t tell her I was so happy that I sat and bawled my eyes out.”

  “She’d be flattered. Thrilled.”

  “I’d look such a goose.”

  “I don’t think so. But if you insist, I promise I’ll keep it a secret that your tears watered our wine. On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to help me finish the bottle, so I can tell people that you and I got nicely sloshed together on Victory in Europe Day.”

  There was an air of confusion in the camp during the next two weeks, with many of the Italians demanding to be repatriated. The most heated were the small group of right-wing extremists, still stunned by the killing and public display of Mussolini’s corpse in Milan. Some were insisting they be sent home in the hope they could join a new faction his survivors had started, unaware fascism was now repugnant. The exposure of the death camps, the cold and murderous extermination of so many million Jews, had appalled the world. Nazis were being rounded up and held in prison for the Nuremberg Trials as war criminals. Those with enough money and contacts fled to refuge in South America.

  Carlo felt detached from these world events; he spent the fortnight in a state of quiet happiness that he’d not believed possible, and each day woke with the thought it was another sunrise closer to being with her.
Each few days he sent her a brief letter enlivened by a loving drawing, or the pair of them in a cartoon. She wrote back making plans to be in Cowra by June the 10th. That day began to assume all kinds of significance: his birthday, exactly five years since Italy entered the war and he’d been deprived of his scholarship, and the day by which she hoped to be free from the WAAAF. She would come to Cowra and Major Morton would surely free him for a few weeks, so they could drive to Griffith and make plans. VE Day might signify Victory in Europe, she wrote to Carlo, but LC Day will be our own Love in Cowra Day.

  And then, just two weeks before this, something happened that made all their romantic plans impossible.

  THIRTY

  Jason Chapman was a federal politician, and current Minister for the Arts. He’d been the creative impetus behind the Greenway Prize the previous year. A neat dresser with a brisk youthful air about him, he was with Major Morton when Carlo received an urgent request to join them. Chapman was in his late thirties, a junior minister with prospects, said to be highly regarded by Prime Minister Curtin and the power brokers in the Labour Party. He greeted Carlo with a firm handshake and the smile he used to great effect on the hustings, expressing his apologies for the banning fiasco of the previous year.

  “It was out of my control,” he explained. “I had my staff select the board, and because of their eminence they had carte blanche. I did try to argue the decision but by then it was all over the press and too late. However I have some exciting news, Carlo. I had a cable from the Villa Medici in Rome. Since the Italian surrender all the French staff are back, the paintings are in place, and they want to celebrate restoration with a big opening ceremony. And they want you to be there, along with a lot of leading European artists, as a symbol that all is back to normal at the Villa—the young man who won the major prestigious scholarship the day the war began is now returning to claim it.”