“I’d heard, and that is the only reason I said yes to this meeting.” When Abato looked at Tomas this time, his eyes held an inkling of sympathy. “I’m sorry about your grandfather’s passing. He was a good man.”
“Thank you.” Although it had been five years since his grandfather’s death, Tomas had never moved past the emotional trauma of losing the man he’d most admired. Politics had ripped away his grandfather’s life and, even though Tomas had promised his family he wouldn’t get involved, he couldn’t watch his people suffer any longer. When he’d heard about Abato on the underground grapevine, Tomas had to put himself forward.
“Normally I would suspect someone like you to be a spy, however my men have done their work and you check out.” Abato pointed to the empty chair. Tomas sat, trying not to get his hopes up. Abato tapped the desk rhythmically with a pencil. “This is not a stroll along the promenade. There is a very good chance you will die.”
“I fully understand this.” He’d contemplated this decision long and hard, but risking his life was worth it if Mussolini’s men could be defeated. He had no idea how, but it had to happen. There just couldn’t be more unnecessary deaths. Only recently, Tomas had visited his cousin in a small village south of Palermo. He’d unwittingly borne witness to the German’s decree that for every German killed, ten Italians would be shot or hanged; their innocence was of no consequence. The bodies of the school teacher and farmers had been left swinging for twelve hours in the piazza and later buried without ceremony or a priest. The experience had left an indelible mark on Tomas and, coupled with the untimely death of his innocent grandfather, Tomas had vowed to do whatever he could to rescue his people from murderous hands.
Bruno threw the pencil on the table. “You’ll be just like everyone else. No special treatment.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll endure harsh conditions—uneven terrain, starvation, storms, days without sleep.”
“I am committed to the cause.”
“We could use your engineering skills.” Abato lit yet another cigarette, the haze in the room growing thicker. “But I am not convinced I should take you.”
Tomas reached into his canvas bag. His shaking fingers clutched the wad of cash wrapped in a few layers of newspaper. Placing it on the desk he edged it toward Abato, who did a cruddy job of hiding his eagerness. He unwrapped the paper, stared at the lira and coughed. He laid a steady gaze on Tomas.
“I will take the money, but that does not instantly buy you a place with us. You have to earn it.”
* * * *
The rain had barely let up for three days as Abato’s men traipsed through the mountains. Tomas had grown accustomed to his feet squelching in boots and clothes clinging to his body. A constant headache plagued him, and he had no idea if it was from dehydration or a lack of salt—the commodity so precious that people would steal to obtain it.
They sheltered in caves and ravines when they needed sleep, using blankets and eating food they’d bought from villagers sympathetic to their cause. Tomas’s injection of cash into the group now meant they didn’t have to write promissory notes for the villagers to convert into money at a later date.
As they made their way up a narrow, slippery slope, Tomas’s mind wandered back to the first conversation he’d had with Abato. It made sense for Abato to question Tomas’s motives. Hell, Tomas had questioned them himself. Was it to assert his independence away from the family? He loved them, though their refusal to get caught up in the war being waged on their doorstep drove him crazy and pushed him to the point where he’d fought with them so intensely that communication had ground to a halt. Tomas had thought, given the circumstances of his grandfather’s death, his family would have done everything they could to see Mussolini and his supporters fail. Instead, they had retreated behind their thick double doors in their grief while the world outside spun out of control.
It dismayed him that Nonna, the one person who was always outspoken and renowned for doing the right thing, had shied away from her usual loud political rants. Instead, she’d withdrawn, choosing to sit in her favorite reading chair with a faraway look in her eyes. Since losing her husband, the fire in her belly had burned down to a few glowing embers.
Tomas reached the crest and started the descent on the trail snaking through the valley. They continued for another hour, the heavy, unrelenting rain smashing against his weary body. Eventually, Abato signaled they should take refuge in a cave hidden in a rocky outcrop. Tomas ate the last of the stale bread and observed Abato speaking quietly on the radio, his eyes darting around at the bedraggled band of men. It was a short, sharp, indecipherable conversation, and as soon as Abato signed off, he beckoned Tomas. Abato shoved a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth and drew his brows together. He chewed for some time while Tomas waited. Eventually, Abato spat a wad of tobacco against the rock. The black clump squelched and made a slow descent against the brown, uneven surface. Abato leant in close, the sour stench of tobacco permeating the cool air. “I need you to look after someone.”
“Who?”
“Someone important.”
“You want me to be a babysitter?” asked Tomas.
Abato raised an eyebrow. “There is a very fine line, Conti. You do not want to cross it.”
Even though he shared the same desire as these men to create ways for Mussolini’s soldiers to fail, Tomas did not fit in with this unruly group of men from impoverished backgrounds. Tomas wasn’t so naïve to think his life of privilege hadn’t skewed his view on the world. Sometimes he felt a sense of entitlement creeping in and he had to force it aside. Tomas needed to shut his trap.
Giving a curt nod, Tomas said, “Of course I will do as you ask.”
Abato leant in. “You need to look after my sister.”
“What?”
This request didn’t make any sense. He’d been with Abato for almost a week and not once did he mention family. Abato had made it clear that even though they shared history, Tomas was not to discuss their childhood—ever.
“Rachel?” Tomas whispered. Images of Abato’s pig-tailed sibling flashed before him. All he could recall was a smiling, freckled, fresh-faced kid who annoyed the heck out of Abato and Tomas at every opportunity. She’d have to be at least twenty-two by now.
“Yes, Rachel. How many sisters do you think I have?” Abato grumbled.
“It’s been so long…” Tomas couldn’t fathom Rachel as a young woman now. “How do you want me to help?”
“She’s been working on the ground, gathering information on the movements of the Germans and Mussolini’s men through her informants. She’s also done courier runs. It’s easy for her to move through the countryside without being detected.”
“I would have thought it would be dangerous for a lone woman out here.”
“She’s changed since last you saw her. She’s now more stubborn than ten of your nonnas put together.”
“Now that’s a feat.” Tomas smiled, but it quickly fell away.
“It’s no laughing matter.” Abato didn’t hide his irritation. “She’s been injured and is now holed up not far from here. I need you to get her back to Palermo.”
“But I’m not a medical—”
“You’re the only one she knows, apart from me. I’m changing plans so we can meet her in the next valley.” Abato lifted his chin in the direction of north.
Tomas nodded solemnly, somewhat disappointed he wouldn’t be continuing with the men on their mission to create a stronger underground swell. In a way, he felt like he was deserting them.
Abato motioned with his hand for the men to fall behind as they cautiously exited the cave and made their way into the fading daylight. The scent from the peonies followed Tomas as he fell in step.
Up ahead, he noticed Nino, the youngest recruit, and Sabato, the eldest, deeply involved in a whispered conversation. Tomas strained
his ears to hear what was said, but he couldn’t make out full sentences. Words like “weak,” “rich,” “untrustworthy” and “green” spun in the air, and it didn’t take long for Tomas to realize he was, once more, a topic of conversation.
At the back of the pack, Tomas slowed his pace and put more distance between him and the men. He tuned his eyes and ears to his surrounds, trying to pick up on the slightest hint of something out of the ordinary. His calves ached. Lungs burned. His breath came out in short, sharp bursts.
Leaves rustled in a bush between two large boulders.
Tomas stopped.
Another rustle. Almost undetectable.
He aimed the rifle at the bush, his shoulders tense, fingers clammy.
“Argh!” A scrawny body lunged at Tomas, who doubled over, hoping the attacker would lose control and fly over the top. Bony fingers clawed at Tomas’s shirt. Tomas crooked his arm and reached for the aggressor, yanking the strong, wiry body from his and throwing him to the ground. The figure jumped up and launched himself once more, but this time Tomas was ready—he blocked the attack with the rifle, using the butt to lay a bone-cracking blow to the attacker’s forehead. The assailant yowled, reeled back and placed a hand on his head. Even in the darkness Tomas could see blood oozing from the kid’s skull.
Jesus.
Kid.
He couldn’t have been more than seventeen.
Tomas pointed his gun at the teenager, whose hands were held up in surrender. Tomas then motioned for the kid to stand and he did so with difficulty, his emaciated body trembling in the Italian uniform that hung off him.
Tomas looked over to see Abato beside him, gun aimed between the kid’s eyes.
“What are you doing?” asked Tomas.
“What do you think? They’re sewer rats. If there’s one, there are others.” He cocked his head in the direction of the men who had fanned out and were now scouring the boulders and foliage alongside the track.
“Let’s just take him with us.”
“For what?” Abato waved the gun menacingly.
“Please, don’t kill me.” The teenager’s high-pitched voice was laced with panic.
Abato cocked the gun. “In this war, we take no prisoners.”
Tomas said, “Maybe he can tell us where the others are. He could—”
“If you won’t kill him, I will.” Abato spat a wad of phlegm at the kid’s feet.
“Please, I will tell you where my unit is stationed. I—”
“I’m not stupid. You’ll put us directly in the line of fire.”
“I promise you, I won’t.” His hands shook and his voice cracked.
Tomas had every reason to hate Mussolini and his army, but watching this young kid who had probably joined to save himself from starving…
“Abato, maybe—”
“Whose fucking side are you on, Conti?”
“Ours.” What kind of question was that?
“Look, I’m not wasting what little food we have on him. If we let him go, he’ll reveal our position and I don’t need to tell you what happens when he does.” Abato lifted the gun higher and aimed it directly at the center of the kid’s forehead. “One shot and this problem is gone.”
“One gunshot will bring their attention to us. These walls echo.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.” Abato put on the safety and shoved the gun at Nino, who wasn’t much older than the soldier.
The young soldier’s wide eyes travelled from Tomas to Abato and back again. With one deft movement, Abato reached into his pocket, pulled out a knife, yanked the kid’s head back and slit his throat. Blood spurted across Abato’s bare arm as he let the kid fall to the ground, a sick, gurgling sound punctuating the darkness.
Bile rose at the back of Tomas’s throat. His limbs froze.
Abato ripped the canteen from the dead kid’s belt and washed his hands and arms. “There’s always a solution to a problem.”
The men filtered back empty-handed. Some stared at the prone body blocking the pathway, while others stepped over the teenager, as if he didn’t exist. What the hell was he doing here? Wasn’t the whole point of this cause to join Italians together in an uprising against Mussolini? How could they do that when they slaughtered their own countrymen without an afterthought? The kid would probably have joined their cause in a heartbeat. Did this make Tomas and Abato and his men just as bad as Mussolini’s army?
Maybe Nonna was right. Perhaps he had no business in this war. Then he was bombarded by visions of suffering children and stories of women who had been raped and tortured by the forces. He owed it to the innocents, and his grandfather, to find the backbone to fight for what was right. Enough was enough.
Abato gave orders for the men to move the body and dump it in a nearby gully. They laid a bunch of dried branches over the top while Tomas used the rest of the water from the young soldier’s canteen to wash away the telltale blood.
“Move it!” Abato yelled and forged ahead while the men silently fell into line behind him.
Before Tomas took off up the trail, he snuck one last look at the makeshift burial of the young kid. War had many faces, none which were pretty. It forced people to turn against their fellow humans, take risks and fight in bloody battles where no one ever truly won. What kind of existence was this?
Chapter 4
Rosie shoved the wash stick into the copper and gave the sheets one more stir before depositing them into the concrete tub. Her best friend, Kitty, pushed back her blonde locks then rubbed her pregnant belly. Steam from the boiling water raised the temperature in the laundry under the verandah and sweat pooled at the base of Rosie’s spine. She turned on the tap, thankful there was still water in the tank, and let the water soak the washing. Kitty added soap flakes and together they started scrubbing the sheets against the corrugated board. Rosie’s hands stung, but she continued, regardless.
“You really don’t have to help. You could just rest.” Rosie wrung out the last of the sheets.
“Who else is going to make sure you do a decent job?” Kitty nudged Rosie, almost knocking her off-balance.
“Very funny.” With the back of her hand, Rosie wiped away perspiration and grabbed the heavy basket. They left the dark recesses under the verandah and walked into the blinding sun toward the clothesline. She dropped the basket with a thud that sent small clouds of dust upward.
“You better watch out or Cecile will make you do them again.” Kitty nodded at the sheets now streaked with red dirt.
“It’ll blow off when it dries.” Rosie grabbed the bucket of dolly pegs and started the tedious task of hanging the laundry. Kitty moved to hang the clothes but Rosie said, “No, no. Go and sit in the shade and I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Come on, Rosie! I’m totally fine!” To prove her point, Kitty grabbed some pegs and the nearest sheet. She gently slid the taut line to the left and the clothes moved along. “This pulley system is fantastic. I don’t have to move a foot!”
Rosie dropped a peg in the dirt, picked it up and rubbed it against her trousers. She reached for the sheet and it slid from her fingers and landed in the dust again. “Bother!”
Kitty laughed. “That’s not what you were thinking.”
“You know me too well.” Rosie picked up a sheet that now had burrs all over it. She shook it, but the prickly balls had well and truly embedded themselves on the thin cotton. “Argh! Stupid, dumb, household chores.”
Kitty smiled and reached for the sheet. With a few stylized flicks of the wrist the burrs flew off. “I’m impressed it only took you a day to create this pulley system. You have such a great head for maths and mechanics.”
Rosie sighed and handed the pegs to Kitty. “I can’t stand by and watch the world pass before me because I wasn’t born with a…you know.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” Kitty slid the line across and
hung the last sheet then wiped her hands on her apron. “Done.”
They sauntered over to the shade of the gum tree and sat on the bench Rosie and her dad had made when she was ten. Rosie picked up a leaf from the ground, held it to her nose and inhaled deeply. The scent always reminded her of Tulpil.
“The world isn’t passing before you, you know,” said Kitty.
“It feels like it is.” Rosie fiddled with the leaf and Kitty rested her head on Rosie’s shoulder.
Kitty prodded Rosie in the rib. “I’ve missed you.”
“I didn’t miss you.” Rosie prodded her back and winked. Their regular letters were never the same as heart-to-heart talks over cups of tea and Kitty’s famous tea cake.
In the distance, Rosie could hear the workers chatting, while they took a break from the intense heat of the midday sun. Their laughter and myriad languages had formed the background music of her life. She’d missed it so much.
Kitty sat up and faced her. “So why don’t your parents want you to stay?”
“They seem okay for me to stay for a while but that’s all. I thought they would have jumped at the opportunity to have me back.”
“They’ve found ways to work around you not being here, I guess, and now you’re offering to stay they probably don’t know what to do with you.”
“I’ve got plenty of suggestions.” Rosie leant against the bench and stretched out her legs.
“So”—Kitty adjusted herself on the bench once more—“when are you going to tell me what else is going on?”
“What?” It came out with force and sounded suspiciously loaded.
“Wanting to come back because you miss family and you want to check up on them is understandable—for a short while—but you spent the best part of a year writing about how much you love Brisbane. Then you stopped.”
“I was busy.”
“Nu-uh, something is up and I’m not leaving this alone.” Kitty held her hand on her lower back as she shifted position.
Burning Fields Page 4