Burning Fields

by Alli Sinclair

  “He’s been missing too long.” Her mother sniffed. “We’ve already lost Geoffrey.”

  “You believe in miracles, right?” Rosie gently moved back, placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

  Her mother gave a reluctant nod.

  “Then let’s not give up hope for Alex.”

  “I just…” Her mother choked on a sob.

  “I know.” As time passed, the likelihood of finding out what had happened to her brother dwindled to nothing more than a sliver of hope. All they knew was that as a member of the Royal Australian Air Force, he’d been flying with Britain’s Royal Air Force bombers when they liberated parts of western Europe. He’d been involved in the bombing of Dresden in Germany in 1945. The authorities had said he’d returned safely and no one had seen or heard from him since. Rosie refused to think the RAAF had made a mistake, but as time slipped by, hope faded. If he had survived, why wasn’t he at Tulpil right now, teasing Rosie and making her laugh?

  Rosie hugged her mother tighter, then gestured for her to take a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ll make you a cuppa, then I’ll finish making lunch.”

  “But—”

  “No arguments.” She followed this with a smile.

  “Thank you, my sweet girl. I’m so glad you’ve come to visit. How long will you be staying?”

  “There’s…uh…something I need to talk to you about.”

  Rosie’s mother clutched her fist over her heart. “Oh no. I thought you looked pale. And you’ve lost weight.”

  Rosie sat on the chair opposite and held her mother’s hands. “Mum, I’m fine. I just want to stay at Tulpil for a while.”

  “What have you done?”

  “I haven’t done anything!” Straight to it being Rosie’s fault. No surprises there. “As much as I love Brisbane, I’ve missed the country. I’ve missed you and Dad.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes, shoved her hand in her apron pocket and clutched something small. “You haven’t been at your job long enough to take leave.”

  Rosie got up and returned to making tea, hoping her mother wouldn’t pry any further. Although it wouldn’t last long as eventually Rosie would have to come clean, though if she could avoid the subject for as long as possible…. Maybe now was the time to mention the other reason for her unannounced arrival at Tulpil.

  Rosie poured the steaming water into the pot and let it steep. She took a deep breath. “Mum, I’m concerned.”

  “About?”

  “About Dad. He’s not getting any younger. Neither of you are.” She paused, waiting for her mother to object, but instead she was met with silence. “I love you both dearly and I worry. So, I was thinking that I should stay here—indefinitely. I can help Dad with the books, go into the field if we need more hands on deck—”

  “Rosie, you know what the answer is.”

  “From what you’ve mentioned in the letters, it’s been a hard couple of years and I’ve been away so long, it would be nice to help out. Besides, you told me he’d been to the doctor a few times, and Dad never goes to the doctor.”

  “Just regular checkups, sweetheart,” her mother said quickly.

  “He wouldn’t go unless something was serious.”

  Her mother stared out the window where the eucalyptus trees rustled in the light breeze, sending a magnificent, fresh scent into the kitchen. “You have no reason to worry.”

  Heavy footfalls down the hallway signaled the arrival of her father. He stood in the doorway, his large frame filling most of the space. Clearing his throat, he glanced at the papers in his hand then at Rosie. “You were right.”

  “About?” She knew exactly what he meant.

  “About the accounting.” His cheeks flushed red. “I am sorry for not listening.”

  Rosie didn’t dare look at her mother as she suspected she was thinking the same—hell had frozen over.

  “Thank you, Dad.” She twisted her lips and debated whether to push the envelope further. “Let me do the accounts for you. There are so many other things you need to do and as numbers are my strong point—”

  “No, Rosie.”

  “Dad, please. You can go over it when I’m done to ease your mind.” She wiped her hands on the tea towel.

  Her father opened his mouth then closed it quickly. Frowning, he ran a weathered hand across the back of his neck.

  “Thank you, but no.” His chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. “Bartel has already been helping me with keeping on top of the men’s tallies and paying suppliers.”

  Bartel, the South African foreman, had been her father’s right-hand man for almost a decade. Rosie’s father had always kept the finances to himself, stating he didn’t want anyone to know the family’s financial business. The fact her father was willing to hand over the accounts to Bartel told her what she’d already suspected—her father wasn’t coping with the workload any more.

  “Why Bartel?” she asked.

  “I trust him.” Her father held up his hand, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Rosie, it’s just that this is not the work of women.”

  Determination set Rosie’s jaw hard as she willed the tide of rising anger to wash away.

  It was no use.

  “This ‘women’s work’ and ‘men’s work’ is ridiculous. If someone is capable of doing a job, it shouldn’t matter what gender they are.”

  “Rosie—”

  “The government was more than happy to employ women—for less wages—during the war to do ‘men’s work,’ yet as soon as the war was over we were expected to go back to our kitchens and secretarial pools.”

  She glanced at her mother, whose lips were drawn into a thin line. “You know this isn’t a reflection on you, Mum.”

  “I’m happy doing what I’m doing. I know you don’t want the same. You’ve lived a different life to me, Rosie. And yours is only just beginning.”

  Her father tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. Finally, he looked directly at Rosie. “The farm is no place for you. I love having you here, but your life is in Brisbane.”

  “Why are you both pushing me away?”

  “Why do you want to stay here when you’ve made your life elsewhere?” he asked. “Farm life is not for everyone.”

  Ever since she could remember, her father had told anyone who’d listen how farming kept this country going, that city folk would starve without farmers. Her father had trained his children—including Rosie—in working on the cane farm. Why would he turn his back on her now?

  She straightened her spine. “I have skills—really good mechanical skills—that I could use around here. Times are changing, Dad. Society’s expectations are changing.”

  “Look”—her father stepped forward, his expression soft once more—“I want you to be happy, Rosie, but there is no reason for you to get involved with the business. You’re already twenty-seven and no man wants a woman who—”

  “Uses her mind? Knows how to fix a tractor?”

  “Rosie…” He let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Seriously, Dad, What’s the problem?”

  He ran his fingers through his thinning hair and closed his eyes briefly. The late afternoon sun shining through the kitchen window highlighted his ruddy complexion where the lines had multiplied and grown deeper over the past few years. “I’m not saying no to upset you. I am the first person to admit you have a talent with numbers. It’s just that you’d be surrounded by men all day and—”

  “Why would it be any different? I’ve known a lot of the workers since I was a kid.”

  “But you’d be working with people outside Tulpil who don’t treat women with respect. This world is not as cheery as you believe it to be, and I don’t want your heart broken because of it.”

  “I am not naïve, Dad,” she said quietly. “If i
t was Geoffrey or Alex who wanted…” She let the words trail off, appalled at bringing her brothers into the argument. Rosie looked at her parents, a cloud of sadness gathering in the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

  “We all miss them,” said her mother.

  “I’m going to the office.” Rosie’s father turned on his heels and strode out the room, his heavy boots echoing down the hallway. When he slammed the door, the plates on the kitchen wall rattled.

  Rosie stared at her mother, who cradled her teacup in her hands.

  “You have nothing to say?” Rosie asked.

  “I wish you wouldn’t push him like you do.” Her mother took a sip from the porcelain cup.

  “Why are you so afraid to stand up to him?”

  “I’m not, honey.” She placed the cup on the saucer. “I just know how to play my cards. It would serve you well to learn the same.”

  Exhausted, Rosie went over to the bench and started shelling the peas, angrily tossing the tiny green balls into the bowl. Perhaps if she told her parents why she was so keen to put distance between her and Brisbane…. No. She could barely admit it to herself, let alone her parents.

  Rosie needed to find a way to stay at Tulpil—somehow. As her beloved grandmother had always been fond of saying, “Work hard, love honestly, and trust the world will steer you in the direction you need to go.”

  Rosie now knew the direction she was headed, and hoped she could break through the obstacles.

  Chapter 3

  1943—Palermo, Sicily

  Tomas Conti strode up the narrow cobblestoned street of Sicily’s capital, Palermo, under the cover of darkness. It had been eight hours since notification of the meeting and every single minute since then had dragged by as if he had a ball and chain around his ankle. This had been his normal state since the war had started. For a country that was once prosperous, it had tumbled into tragic ruin with too many countrymen witnessing suffering and death—more than anyone should experience in five lifetimes.

  Mussolini and his fascist government now held the good people of Italy hostage. Since the creation of the Axis Powers, Mussolini’s control had generated class discrimination, politics divided friends, obliterated trust, and left a trail of starving families in its wake. Informants, bullying fascists, and the deaths of innocent people created a chaotic world where hope didn’t exist and the future was darker than the night sky.

  Today, though, Tomas planned to do something about it.

  Up ahead, he noticed two of Mussolini’s soldiers talking with a couple of Germans on the street corner. They smoked cigarettes, guns casually draped over their shoulders—like no one would dare challenge them—despite Palermo being a city crippled by rising tensions. Tomas kept his head down and walked past the men.

  “Where are you going?” barked the Italian soldier.

  Tomas’s heart bashed against his chest and he tried to remain composed. There was no possible way they could know his plans, but it wouldn’t stop them harassing him. “I am visiting my friend who is ill.”

  “Papers.” The soldier held out his hand.

  Tomas obediently reached for his identification papers and gave them to the soldier, who scrutinized them then gave them to his colleague, who did the same. A thin layer of sweat coated Tomas’s body and he prayed they didn’t look at him too closely. Tomas had been stopped countless times since Mussolini’s men had taken up residence and he’d gotten used to it, but today was very different and he didn’t trust his body not to give him away.

  “Address,” said the soldier.

  “It is on there.” Tomas pointed to the papers.

  “Where you are going, you imbecile,” spat out the other Italian soldier. The Germans looked on, amusement in their eyes.

  “Via Napoli, 39.” The lie fell from his mouth with ease. Panic set in a moment later. What if they escorted him to make sure? He’d just given them the address of his dentist.

  The two Italian soldiers commenced a hushed discussion, casting furtive glances at Tomas, whose body was in flight mode. Only last week he’d lost his friend, Antonio Rosso, who’d been shot for lying to a soldier.

  Tomas studied the men. Although there were four of them and they were armed, he was a few inches taller. His long legs would give him a distinct advantage should he need to run, as long as he made the break before they drew weapons.

  The soldier shoved the papers at Tomas, who took them and stuffed them back in his jacket pocket.

  “On your way.”

  Without hesitation, he took off down the street, turned a corner and headed for Via Napoli, 39. He ducked in the doorway and surreptitiously looked for anyone following. Convinced he hadn’t been tailed, Tomas set off and quickly walked the eight blocks to his original destination. He turned left into an alley, the stench of stale pee and rotting rubbish assailing his nostrils. The once-pristine streets had become rubbish dumps as the lives of people crumbled and terror ruled.

  Arriving at a bottle-green door at the end of a dead-end alley, Tomas halted.

  Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and rapped out the series of knocks he’d been given. Paint peeled away from the door and stuck to his knuckles.

  Silence.

  Should he wait longer before knocking again? Or had he gotten the place wrong?

  Raising his hand to knock once more, he stopped when a piece of wood slid to the side, revealing a square hole in the middle of the door. A pair of unblinking eyes stared back.

  Tomas gave a nervous cough. “It is an honor—”

  The mystery person held up his hand. A moment later the lock clicked and the door opened wide enough for Tomas to slip through. The octogenarian motioned for Tomas to follow. They travelled dark halls, the old man hunched over and leaning heavily on his walking stick. Tomas shortened his steps so he didn’t overtake his shuffling guide. They took a series of twists and turns and Tomas marveled at how a seemingly unobtrusive structure now housed a band of individuals willing to put their lives on the line to change the fate of their country.

  The old man stopped outside one of the many closed doors and quietly pushed it open, signaling Tomas to step through. Tomas did so and waited impatiently for his eyes to adjust to the muted light of the candles. Before him stood Bruno Abato. Aside from the bushy eyebrows and receding hairline, he still looked very much like he did when he and Tomas were friends in their teens: small and thin, with an oval face and a penetrating gaze. After Abato and his family suddenly left Palermo years ago, Tomas had often thought of his friend, his worry increasing after he’d heard the Abato family had lost money from poor investments in Milan. For the first few years Tomas had tried to find him but, until now, Abato had proved elusive. The nervous teen who used to rely on Tomas as protector had long gone. Before Tomas stood a man feared by many and sought by others because of the hefty price on his head.

  Tomas stepped forward to shake his hand. Instead, Abato enveloped him in an embrace and slapped him on the back.

  “It is good to see you,” said Abato, his voice deeper than Tomas recalled. The tailored clothes that Abato once wore—just like Tomas and the rest of the moneyed folks of Palermo—had been replaced by a khaki shirt and trousers. The material was faded but immaculately pressed.

  “It is good to see you, too.” Tomas’s eyes drifted to the spare chair in front of Abato’s desk. Though his legs ached after the long trek on foot across the city, he didn’t have the gall to ask for a seat. Abato’s greeting may have been warm, however too much time had passed to rest on the affections of a friendship from the past. Besides, he’d heard about Abato’s penchant for fighting doggedly and being tough on his men. Sitting because of tired legs would not help Tomas’s convince Abato he needed him.

  Abato sat, rested his feet on the desk and lit a cigarette.

  “I can’t believe it’s been over fifteen years—”
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  “Let’s not get into reminiscing, Conti. What I want to know is why you want to join the cause. You’ve never been political.”

  “Neither have you.” Tomas instantly regretted saying it. Just because they were once familiar didn’t mean they could be now. He cleared his throat. “War changes everyone. The pain and suffering caused by this dictatorial regime will continue if we don’t do something to end it.”

  Abato took a long drag. Acrid smoke wafted in tufts above his head. “That’s a fair point.”

  Tomas relaxed his shoulders ever so slightly.

  “Just because you want to join us doesn’t mean we’ll have you.”

  “I have skills you need. Remember my grandfather was an expert marksman? He taught me everything I know.”

  Abato butted the cigarette on the edge of the battered desk. He lit another, but didn’t offer one to Tomas. Once they’d shared apples, pastries and milk during afternoon snacks at each other’s houses. Hell, they’d even stolen sweets from the corner shop together. If truth be told, though, Abato did the stealing and Tomas participated in the eating.

  “Listen, Conti, there are many farmers we’ve recruited for our cause who are excellent shots, even if they don’t have formal training. Besides, there’s a massive difference between shooting at leisure and shooting in war. These country folk are outstanding at both. Also, the weaponry we have is not familiar to you.”

  “I realize I’ll be experiencing a lot of things that are new to me. However, it doesn’t lessen my resolve to fight for what is right—no matter the cost.”

  “I don’t want some rich kid sticking his nose in our business just because he’s bored. We might be underground at the moment, but we are growing. People have had enough of Mussolini being in bed with Hitler. Our country isn’t better for it, we’re lapdogs, which is why soldiers who desert Mussolini are joining our ranks. And as our countrymen’s discontent grows, so does our strength.”

  Tomas let the remark about being a rich kid slide. Although fully grown men, their relationship still held strong ties to when they were teenagers. Besides, their lives had changed so dramatically over the years that it was only right that Abato questioned Tomas’s motives. “I promise you, I have good reason to want to join.”