Lunch with Mussolini

by Derek Hansen

  ‘I’m sorry, Cecilia …’

  ‘It’s okay, Mama … okay. You rest.’

  ‘No. It’s no good. I can’t take any more.’ She looked up at her daughter, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘What will happen? What will happen when your Papa comes home?’

  ‘I will talk to him. He won’t hit me. I will make him some food and read to him until he falls asleep.’

  ‘No! No, no, no, Cecilia.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘No, Cecilia.’ But Maddalena was too weak to argue.

  ‘Yes, Mama. Now let me help you to bed. Rest and get some sleep. I will take care of Papa.’

  Maddalena didn’t protest, couldn’t even if she wanted to. She let Cecilia help her up and lead her into the bedroom. Once her mother was comfortable, Cecilia began her preparations. She put away the sewing and the folded washing. She put a plate on the table where her father sat at mealtimes, with a chunk of bread, cheese and some olive oil. She picked up the newspapers her brothers and sisters had gathered that day, clipped out every story and photo of Mussolini and spread them around the table. Then she picked up the straw broom and swept the floor. There was little to sweep up because the floor was swept three or four times a day, and more often if needed. But that wasn’t the point. Cecilia swept what little dust there was up to the front door then, broom in hand, sat down to wait for her father. As soon as she heard his heavy footfall, she opened the front door and finished sweeping.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Sweeping, Papa.’

  Primo paused, uncertain whether to let her finish or just push past.

  ‘Come in, Papa. Mama has put out some cheese for you. Come sit down. I will fetch you a glass of wine.’

  Cecilia never gave orders and she was never the voice of authority. Her family, even her father, generally did what she suggested because it always seemed to be the most sensible thing. Her voice was always sweet and reasonable. Primo was nearly taken in, but then he remembered what it was he really wanted.

  ‘Where’s Mama?’

  ‘She was feeling unwell, Papa. She asked me to stay up and read to you when you came home. See? I have all these stories about Il Duce for you.’

  ‘Fetch your Mama.’ Primo’s voice had grown thick and was beginning to take on the sound Cecilia knew only too well.

  ‘Mama is not well, Papa. Here, drink your wine while I read—’

  Her father smashed the glass from her hand. He stood up, kicking his chair backwards so that it toppled over.

  ‘Fetch your Mama!’

  Cecilia stayed calm. She ignored the broken glass and the fallen chair. She smiled and stood her ground.

  ‘Papa, this paper has a picture of Mussolini and Hitler. Don’t you think Mussolini looks—’ She never finished the sentence. The back of her father’s hand caught her across the cheek and knocked her sprawling. Then her father was over her, dragging her to her feet, shaking her like a rag doll.

  ‘Stupid girl. I don’t want your newspapers! Did I say I wanted newspapers? I want your Mama. Your Mama! Not some pissy newspapers! Not some pissy wine. Why would I want more wine? I don’t want wine. I’ll show you what I want!’ He picked her up and carried her into his bedroom.

  Maddalena heard what was happening but was powerless to help. Her muscles failed to respond when she ordered them to get her to her feet. She’d left an oil light on for Primo so that he wouldn’t blunder into anything in the dark. Now she saw her husband burst through the doorway with Cecilia under his arm.

  ‘No, Primo! No!’

  ‘Don’t you worry, old woman!’ he yelled. ‘I’m not going to touch you. Who would want to touch you? Look at you!’ He threw Cecilia down onto the bed alongside his wife.

  ‘Who would want to touch you?’

  When Cecilia awoke the next morning she discovered she had become an outcast. No one would look at her or speak to her, not even her mother. Her brothers and sisters didn’t even look up when she finally came out of her bedroom. Of course they knew what had happened. In such a small house there were no secrets. Alfredo and Elio would have heard the whole thing. But why were they blaming her? What had she done wrong? All she’d done was protect her mother. She poured herself a glass of milk and sat down at the table. Her father slowly pushed back his chair and struggled to his feet. He grabbed his hat and old woollen pullover and, without a word, left the house. Alfredo reached across the table and slapped her face. He and Elio also got up and left.

  ‘Today you’re not going to school. You’re coming with me.’

  Cecilia looked up at her mother, her bottom lip quivering as she fought for control. But her mother was not more forthcoming.

  ‘Give your books to Paola. She can take them back to school.’

  Cecilia turned to her sister but Paola wouldn’t meet her eyes. She couldn’t understand why the world had changed and turned against her. Sure, she knew what her father had done was wrong. But why couldn’t they all forget it and pretend that nothing had happened, like they always did? What was the difference? She’d seen her father naked plenty of times before. She’d even helped him bathe in the tiny tub when he came in from the fields dripping wet and covered in mud. As for erections … ha! Alfredo had turned fifteen. She could hardly remember when he didn’t wake up with an erection. Anyway, he seemed to take some sort of peculiar delight in making sure she saw it. But they all knew what had happened the night before and why. They all knew it was not her fault. Why couldn’t they just forget it? Her father hadn’t hurt her … well, not much, not like he hurt her mother. He’d only hit her once. She knew what she had to do when her father threw her onto the bed. She knew what she had to do so he didn’t get mad. She’d done nothing wrong. She squeezed her eyes shut but was powerless to prevent the tears from rolling down her cheeks and mixing with the milk in her glass.

  Lucio finished speaking and looked up towards the kitchen, looking for Gancio. It was their custom to take a coffee break in the middle of each day’s storytelling. Normally this was a cue for discussion, for the listeners to comment on what they’d heard. But today the audience was reticent, nobody keen to speak first. Naturally, it was Neil who finally broke the silence.

  ‘You wogs go in for a lot of that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, Neil,’ replied Lucio evenly. ‘No more than you bloody Aussies. No more than any other country in the world. What did you think?’

  ‘Neil doesn’t think, do you, Neil?’ Ramon turned to Lucio and reached for his arm. ‘Lucio, please don’t make the mistake of assuming Neil is human. He doesn’t think, therefore he isn’t.’

  ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Five coffees, five grappas. Let me put down the tray and get a chair.’

  ‘Gancio to the rescue. Jesus guys, it was just a joke. Maybe you have to be born here to get it. You weren’t offended were you, Lucio?’

  ‘I’ve been here long enough, Neil. When Italians take offence nobody is left in any doubt.’

  Neil and Milos made room for Gancio.

  ‘Okay … tell me the story so far. What have I missed?’

  Neil laughed. ‘What have you missed? Holy shit! Over to you Milos. You tell him.’

  ‘Nothing that you want to hear, Gancio. Your compatriot has kept us spellbound with his story—well told too, no?’ Milos looked around at the others for confirmation and got it. ‘Not his usual style. More the pity perhaps. His story has depressed me when I had hoped for a good laugh. Again, I have the painful suspicion that his story may also be true. If it is, Ramon, it is your fault and your legacy. Anyway, I’ll quickly bring you up to date. If I miss anything important, somebody jump in.’

  Gancio listened while the others drank their coffee and Lucio gathered his thoughts for the next part of his story. Milos was a good listener and had a keen ear for storyline and nuances. His précis was excellent.

  ‘Mother of God, this story better be true, Lucio. If you made up this story you should be ashamed. There are plenty of thin
gs you can make up that don’t involve things like that. That is terrible. But Milos has missed one thing out. The girl … when she is grown up she is called Colombina. When she is young she is called Cecilia. Cecilia who? Italy is full of Cecilias. What is her full name?’ Gancio finished off his grappa, and rolled it around his mouth.

  ‘Cecilia Silvana Ortelli.’

  Gancio choked as he was swallowing. He grabbed a paper napkin and coughed into it.

  ‘Ugh! Who gave you this grappa? Who gave you this shit?’

  The four friends stared at him, not least of them Lucio. They were all obsessed with lies and half-truths. Gancio hadn’t fooled any of them. He hadn’t choked on the grappa. Besides, the grappa was very good. Gancio’s grappa was always very good.

  Chapter Four

  Colombina didn’t gasp and drop the photograph, nor did she cry out. She was always too much in control to do that. But she felt a chill throughout her body as if her blood had suddenly lost its warmth. She studied his face, so smiling and kindly—looking like everybody’s grandfather and not at all like a murderer.

  ‘Colombina? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen. Who is this man?’

  Colombina was one of the many volunteers who put themselves and their cars at the disposal of Warriewood Meals-on-Wheels, which provides low cost hot meals for those unable to prepare their own.

  ‘Heinrich Bose. He’s an absolute dear. Do you know him?’ Helen organised the rosters and had been standing in for absentees for so long, she’d got to know all of the recipients in the Warringah-Pittwater area. She knew all there was to know: who delivered to whom; who was diabetic; who was vegetarian and who was low-salt. All anyone needed to join her circle of acquaintances was a medical certificate or a referral from Homecare.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ In truth, Colombina wasn’t sure. Now that she’d had time to look at his photo, she began to perceive differences. It had been nearly fifty years. Of course he would have changed, and so would her memory of him. But there was something about this foolish old man in the Christmas party hat that had touched a nerve. Perhaps it was the impression she gained from looking at the whole of his face or the way he sat that was familiar. But there was nothing she could pinpoint, no one feature that said to her, ‘Yes! This is him!’ The more she studied the photo the more uncertain she became. She only knew she would have to find out, one way or the other.

  Colombina put the photo down on the table among the others. Most of the pensioners had been picked up by a bus on Christmas Day and taken to the community hall, where they could sit down to turkey and ham and roast potatoes as one big, happy family. But there were always some whose circumstances prevented them from going. Heinrich Bose was one. He had the misfortune to fall and twist his right knee two days before Christmas. There was no permanent damage, but old bones take a while to heal and the journey from bathroom to bedroom was all he could manage. So the kind men and women who volunteered to deliver meals that Christmas Day had taken party hats and bonbons with them, and stayed with their customers for an extra few minutes to help make their meal more of a celebration, and less like another lonely lunch. One of them also took a camera.

  ‘Who does his route?’ asked Colombina.

  ‘Let me see.’ Helen mentally consulted her list. ‘Bose … Bose … yes! John and Edna … the dynamic duo.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll have a word with them.’ Colombina turned to see how far her partner had got in loading up her car. ‘Oops! We’re ready to go. See you later.’

  Colombina climbed into the driver’s seat and smiled apologetically to her partner. But she didn’t engage in the usual small talk and gossip that made delivering meals less a chore and more a social occasion. She was too preoccupied. John and Edna were a legend in Meals-on-Wheels. Easily as old as many of the people they looked after, they’d hardly missed a day in fifteen years. Edna would deliver to one house, John the next and so on. Then, the following day they’d swap places so that both of them maintained a relationship with every one of their recipients. They were indestructible. If Colombina listed herself as a reserve for their route, it could be years before she’d have a chance to meet the man in the photo who called himself Heinrich Bose.

  ‘What do you know about John and Edna?’ she asked suddenly.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘I’m sorry Ann …’

  ‘Don’t apologise. As a matter of fact, it’s good to see you less than your normal, ever-cheerful self. Does me the world of good. There’s nothing more annoying than having a friend whose life is perfect.’

  Colombina laughed despite herself.

  ‘When people are perfectly happy—as you always seem to be—they become unutterably boring. They have nothing worthwhile to talk about. So suffer, babe. Join the rest of the world. Now, what was the question?’

  ‘John and Edna.’

  ‘More perfect people. Mind you, I suspect they’re into kinky sex and wife-swapping. They don’t smoke, don’t drink and don’t even swear at old men who wear hats and drive old Volvos. Nobody could possibly be as squeaky clean and civic-minded as those two seem to be. When they’re not doing meals I’ve seen them helping boy scouts across busy streets. They even take Sunday school at Saint Luke’s. Maybe when they get home from church they dress up in each other’s underwear.’

  Colombina laughed. Ann was outrageous. But in among her ludicrous assertions and speculation, Colombina sought to glimpse a ray of hope.

  ‘Are they very religious?’

  ‘No more than Jesus was. I hear they even say grace for their customers.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Yeah, but I wouldn’t put it past them. When those two croak, God will roll out the red carpet and organise a choir of angels to receive them.’

  ‘Then let’s hope they’re wearing their own knickers.’

  ‘Colombina!’

  Colombina appeared calm but inside she was in turmoil. She thought she’d escaped the war and Italy forever. But what if Heinrich Bose was the Oberstleutnant? What would she do then? She thought of her mother standing back to the wall facing her executioners, and used the injustice and the bitterness she harboured to steady herself. She decided to question the old couple about Heinrich Bose. Undoubtedly they’d know all about him. She’d quickly learned that old, lonely people love nothing more than to tell their life story. In her heart she hoped she was wrong about the old man. After all, the chances of her mother’s murderer turning up nearly fifty years later just a couple of streets away from where she lived were, well … if not impossible then so remote as to make no difference. Besides, she’d found the peace and contentment she’d hungered for all her life and was loath to see that destroyed. She clung to the hope that she was mistaken. Perhaps a few innocent questions would settle everything. But the problem was, if the impossible had happened and if Heinrich Bose really was the Oberstleutnant, then she had no choice. She would have to make him pay for his crime. God as her witness, she would make him pay! But she also accepted the need for caution, for the control that had served her so well. John and Edna might inadvertently put him on his guard. She couldn’t let that happen.

  The following Tuesday, Colombina was first to arrive at the Warriewood centre. She knew John and Edna always came early. That would be the best time to talk to them, before the food was ready for loading. She watched as John turned his car around and backed it up as close to the entrance as possible. No matter who arrived first, that space was always left for them.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’

  ‘Hello, Colombina. You’re early.’

  Colombina took a close look at the old couple smiling up at her. Their eyes radiated health and energy, and they had a sprightliness most sixty year olds would envy. Yet she knew both were closing fast on eighty.

  ‘Have to be early to beat you two. You deserve a medal.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ John and Edna laughed away the suggestion, but were nonetheless pleased to have their efforts reco
gnised. ‘We’ve nothing better to do.’

  ‘Yes, but five days a week … Don’t you ever need a break?’

  ‘No, we look forward to it. Gives us something to do. Something worthwhile.’ John put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and squeezed gently.

  Colombina groaned inwardly, but persisted.

  ‘But surely there must be times when it’s inconvenient, when your duties here clash with doctors’ or dental appointments?’

  ‘We try and work around those,’ cut in Edna. ‘Though there have been one or two times when we’ve had to get Helen to stand in for one or other of us.’

  ‘Why Helen?’ Colombina knew exactly why they always asked Helen to cover for them. They’d adopted a proprietary interest in their recipients—‘their people’—and didn’t want just anybody going around to them. Yet she sensed an opportunity.

  ‘They know Helen,’ said John. ‘That’s important.’

  ‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Colombina. ‘Anyway, if you ever need help on any days other than Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember me. I can’t think of anybody I’d like to help out more. Helen knows how to contact me.’

  ‘That’s very, very kind of you,’ said Edna.

  ‘Very kind,’ agreed John.

  ‘Oh well, dinner’s ready. Off to work.’ Colombina congratulated herself on her manner. She’d been kind, thoughtful and charming and not shown any of the tension she’d felt. And she’d planted the seed. She’d keep buttering them up and maybe one day she’d get the call. What else could she do?

  Offering to cover for the dynamic duo was not the smartest thing Colombina ever did. Helen immediately interpreted that as an offer to go on stand-by should anyone else fail to turn up on their rostered days. Every week she got called up to cover for somebody but it was never the call she wanted. Occasionally, she was forced to interrupt her bowls day at the Newport Bowling Club, and sometimes her canasta afternoons. But no matter what else she had on, she always obliged Helen and responded to her call.