by Judy Nunn
‘In a way I am from Milano, yes,’ he answered carefully. ‘I lived there for many years, but it was never my home. I come from the mountains.’
His considered response had clearly intrigued Lucky, who forgot that he’d finished his beer and had been about to get another. ‘Where in the mountains?’
‘I do not know. I can remember only the snow, and the mountain peaks so high they block out the sun. And in the spring, the rocks and the grasses and the flowers, and the pine forests in the valley below. And I can remember the goats.’
He didn’t want to dwell upon the goats. During the occasions when jagged fragments of memory returned, the goats were the clearest image of all. Pietro liked the goats, but he didn’t welcome them when they became too vivid – when he could see their teats and feel the rubbery warmth in his hands as he milked them – for such clarity invariably preceded a seizure. He could never remember what images followed the goats, but when the fit had passed, he was always left with a sense of horror.
Through his shirt, Pietro fingered the sturdy piece of leather strap which rested against his chest, an automatic gesture. He always wore it on a thin length of twine around his neck. When he felt a fit coming on, he would place it between his teeth so that he would not bite through his tongue.
‘I cannot remember my home, or my family.’ His tone became matter-of-fact. It was never wise to become emotional, and he did not intend to tell Lucky about the fits. ‘I can remember nothing but the Convent of the Sacred Heart where they took me when I was eleven years old. I was told that I had been wandering the streets of Milano living on scraps from rubbish bins in the alleys behind restaurants and cafes. I don’t know how I got there, and they told me that I could say nothing but my name, Pietro, over and over. It was many months before I spoke any more, they said.’
Pietro was gratified by Lucky’s avid attention – he had wanted to impress his new friend – but he didn’t wish to sound sorry for himself, so he smiled. ‘There were many war orphans at the convent, and they played us music on the gramophone, so I called myself Toscanini.’
‘You must forgive me, Pietro. I am too nosy, I always have been, it is a flaw in my nature.’ Lucky had seen the flicker in the boy’s eyes as he’d embarked upon his story, and he chastised himself. There were many on the Snowy who had pasts they did not wish to revisit. The boy had been traumatised and he should not have pushed him. ‘I am sorry.’
‘But there is no need to be,’ Pietro insisted, surprised by Lucky’s obvious remorse. ‘I wished to tell you my story.’
‘One day I will tell you mine, my young friend.’ Lucky grinned as he rose, tapping a finger to his bloodhound eye. ‘How I came by this, eh? But for now, I will get you another beer.’
Ever since that night, Lucky had taken Pietro under his wing. He had encouraged him to attend the English classes held in the mess hall two nights a week, and Pietro had applied himself diligently. And when Lucky had invited Pietro to the home of his friends, Miroslav and Vesna, he had encouraged the boy to practise his new language. Pietro had been shy at first, but it had been Vesna who had put him at his ease.
‘My English is too bad,’ she had said, and when her husband had laughed, she had demanded, ‘Why is wrong?’
‘My English, too, is bad,’ Miroslav had corrected her.
‘Yes, most bad,’ she had agreed. ‘So we is practise together, Pietro.’
It had been easy after that, and Pietro had become good friends with Vesna as they clumsily helped each other master the language.
She told him her background. She was Serbian, she said, and Miroslav was Croatian, and they came from towns just a mile either side of the border. But they hadn’t met in the old country; they had met in Australia eighteen months before.
‘All my life Miroslav live two mile away,’ she laughed, ‘and I meet him first week I am in Brisbane.’
Miroslav had been in Brisbane for three years when they’d met and, having served out his two-year Displaced Persons contract, had received his accreditation as an engineer. They had fallen in love the moment they first met, Vesna said, much to the disapproval of their respective families. Miroslav’s brother, who had also emigrated, had severed all ties with him.
‘The Serbs and the Croats,’ she said, ‘is much hate. But for Miroslav and me, we leave this behind. We is Australia now. Is new life here.’
Pietro vehemently agreed with her. He, too, was embracing his new life, feeling himself grow stronger with each week that passed. Just as the physical labour honed and strengthened his body, so the company of his fellow workers and the gradual ability to communicate strengthened his belief in himself.
But it was Lucky who had made the deepest impression upon him, for it was Lucky who had taught him to love the landscapes of his new country.
On a Sunday, several weeks after Pietro’s arrival, the two had travelled the countryside together in one of the Land Rovers to which Lucky appeared to have constant access. He had earned the right. He was Rob Harvey’s most valued foreman, not only because of his communication skills and his popularity with the men, but for the fact that he doubled as a motor mechanic. Although not officially qualified, there was very little Lucky didn’t know about cars. They were his obsession, and he would happily spend all his recreational time tinkering with engines that needed attention. Rob Harvey quite rightly considered it only fair that Lucky should have a vehicle at his ready disposal.
They had driven into the mountains and pulled up beside the banks of the mighty Snowy, and Lucky had painted the pictures in Italian for Pietro. Normally he insisted upon speaking English to further the boy’s education, but he’d wanted to communicate his passion.
‘During the snowmelt, Pietro,’ he’d said, ‘she roars down the mountain like herds of wild white horses. She is magnificent.’ He’d been silent for a while, before adding with a touch of regret, ‘I sometimes think it is sad that we are harnessing her.’ Then he’d started up the Land Rover and they’d driven still higher, to where the track ended and where, far above them, the craggy tips of the Snowies were clothed in white.
‘Your new mountains, Pietro. Perhaps not as high as your alps in Italy, but just as splendid, do you not agree?’ Pietro had nodded, and Lucky had said, ‘They are your home now.’
As they’d wound their way back down the track, Lucky had waved through the windows, an all-embracing gesture at the trees passing by. ‘Just look at them,’ he’d said admiringly, and Pietro had. They were so varied, he’d thought, different from the alpine forests he could still vaguely recall. Some were black and stunted, while the pure white trunks and graceful limbs of others shimmered in the sun.
‘The trees are like women, Pietro,’ Lucky had smiled. ‘See how the blackbutt bends? She looks plain now, but when winter comes she will accept her burden of snow with ease, for she is a contortionist and she knows she is pretty in white. And the snow gum,’ he’d added, with a mock frown of disapproval, ‘the snow gum is shameless. She is a hedonist, basking in the sun. She is white and virginal now, but in the early autumn, she will flaunt her summer tan and turn a deep shade of terracotta.’ He’d laughed out loud, thoroughly enjoying himself.
‘And now I will show you Monaro country. It is a good time of year for you to see it, before the snow covers the high plains.’
When they were back in the valley, his mood had again become serious. ‘You thought this land was barren when you first arrived, Pietro, but you were wrong. There are whole worlds that live in these hills and plains.’
And he’d driven Pietro through a landscape that made him breathless with its beauty and variety. A landscape of rolling hills and grassy valleys. Of escarpments overlooking vast, treeless plains where the orange heads of the kangaroo fronds mingled with the silver-gold of the native grasses to ripple in the summer breeze like a massive multi-coloured river.
‘It is so alive,’ Pietro said as they gazed across the plain. He was reminded of the children’s picture book Sister An
na Maria had given him for his thirteenth birthday, Animals of Africa it had been called. ‘It looks like a sea of lions’ manes,’ he said. The countryside was taking on a new life to Pietro as he viewed it through Lucky’s eyes.
Then they were in the granite belt, where huge mottled grey stone sculptures grew out of the soil, infinitesimally larger with the passing of each century as the ground was washed away from beneath them.
They wandered among the clusters of giant boulders strewn about the rocky plains, many the size of houses. ‘Perhaps, in a thousand years, they might be the size of skyscrapers,’ Lucky had mused. ‘But then perhaps they will be dust. Who can tell?’
Here and there, the countryside was dotted with the stamps of man’s intervention. The picturesque groves of imported poplars had been planted as memorials to fallen soldiers following World War I, Lucky had explained. Although they had a shorter lifespan than the indigenous trees, the poplars were nonetheless hardy, the mature tree sending up suckers and reinventing itself well before its demise, in order to ensure the survival of its species.
‘A fitting choice for a memorial to the dead,’ he’d said.
During the drive back to Spring Hill, Lucky had been aware that his passion for the countryside had been passed on to the boy, just as he had intended, and he was glad.
‘This land and its history are ancient, Pietro,’ he said, ‘as ancient as time itself. But as a civilisation, it is only just being born, and we are a part of that birth. The birth of this country is our own rebirth. It will nurture and protect us, and we will repay it with our love, for we are free here. Free of all that haunts us,’ he said meaningfully. He had not brought up the subject of Pietro’s past since their early conversation and he had no intention of doing so now. ‘Free to build a new life in a country without hate.’
The day had indeed had a profound effect upon Pietro. On their return to camp in the late afternoon, he’d felt light-headed and, with Lucky’s words still ringing in his mind, strangely reborn. It no longer seemed to matter that his childhood was lost to him.
Pietro Toscanini couldn’t remember a time when he had been happier. He belonged here, he thought. Here in the Snowy Mountains and the high plains of the Monaro. He was part of this country now, just as Lucky had said. And he would prove himself worthy of it. He would embrace this land. As Lucky had.
It was Saturday afternoon and Cooma was buzzing. Cooma was always buzzing these days, particularly on Saturdays. But this was no ordinary Saturday. This was Show Day Saturday.
For well over seventy years, Cooma’s annual two-day Agricultural Show had been a major social event for the entire rural community. In earlier times, farmers had walked their stock into town, proudly parading their prize cattle and sheep down the main street. These days the stock was mostly brought in by trucks. In the Agricultural Hall, wool and fresh produce were exhibited alongside the cakes and condiments and needlework of the ladies; in the ring, events from gymkhana and showjumping to wood-chopping and livestock parades took place non-stop, each duly followed by the presentation of coveted ribbons and prizes; and of course there were games and rides for the children.
Since the arrival of the Snowy Mountains Authority and its huge contingent of workers, however, the Cooma Show had grown into a far bigger and grander affair. The SMA itself had become involved. There were displays of heavy machinery and mining equipment and, in a specially erected tent, films of the Scheme were shown. But it was the Snowy workers themselves who had had the most impact on the show, as hundreds upon hundreds paid their three shilling entrance fee at the gate and poured into the Cooma showgrounds.
The ever-increasing crowds quickly attracted the attention of the travelling show circuit, and sideshows became a crowd favourite, as did the regular horse riders who travelled the countryside competing at all the rural shows, of which Cooma’s was the biggest. The Snowy workers, inveterate gamblers, were only too keen to place a wager on the rider of their preference in every event imaginable, from races to rodeo to showjumping, and even dressage.
For locals and new arrivals alike, the two show days of the year were a highlight, and this particular Saturday, March 20, 1954, was no exception. The 79th Annual Cooma Show was proving bigger and better than ever.
In the ringside stands, audiences cheered as sturdy horses cleared each newly raised bar. Wide-eyed children with sticky-pink fairy-floss faces wandered among gaudy stalls clutching kewpie dolls and cheap china statues. Mingling with the ever-present smell of fried sausages and onions were the more exotic aromas from the several European food stalls, and above the hubbub and the merry-go-round music of the calliope, the voices of the spruikers could clearly be heard touting the attractions of coconut stalls, shooting galleries and sideshows.
‘Line up! Line up! Is there a local boy wants to give it a go? Line up, line up and test yourself against the greatest fighting legends in the country!’
Of all the sideshows, Jim Sharman’s boxing tent was the most favoured by the Snowy workers. Crowds gathered by the dozens, all ready to lay bets on who’d make the requisite three rounds.
On a makeshift platform outside the tent stood several professional boxers, formidable men, strong-bodied in their satin shorts, tough-faced, defying challengers, and, as Jim Sharman continued to tout through his loudhailer, bearing the most ludicrous of names and claims.
‘Wild Billy Burrum Burrum, never been beaten!’ he declaimed of an Aboriginal boxer who dutifully squared up. The crowd gave a cheer – Billy was always popular. ‘And two-time All Ireland Champion, the one and only Patrick Murphy!’ Jim yelled, pointing to another who danced on the spot and jabbed the air with his fists, the Irish among the gathering applauding loudly even as they laughed and muttered to each other ‘what a load of shite’.
‘Name your man! Three rounds, ten bob a round if you can make it. An extra quid if you can beat my man. Who wants to prove himself? Do I have any takers?’
‘Go on, Luigi.’ Urged on by his mates, Luigi was about to put up his hand, but Elvio stopped him, flashing a knowing look at Pietro and Lucky, who both grinned. Luigi was always itching for a fight and it was always Elvio who held him back.
Pietro had eventually made good his promise to visit the Capelli brothers, whom he’d met on the train from Sydney to Cooma. He’d been reluctant at first, but when Lucky had promised he’d accompany him, he’d finally taken the plunge. Now, after several trips to Cooma and many a beer together, the four men had become friends.
At the showground, Luigi had met up with half a dozen workmates, also Italians employed by Pasotti’s and based in Cooma. Insisting on heading straight for Jim Sharman’s tent, they were disappointed now when Elvio stopped his younger brother from accepting the challenge. They themselves were not prepared to volunteer, but they would have liked to have seen one of their own in the ring.
A strong young man in khaki shorts and shirt boldly stepped forward. He’d come for the specific purpose of fighting, and he’d brought eight of his friends along to back him up. ‘I take Patrick Murphy,’ he called in a thick, guttural accent.
‘Brave lad! Good on you, mate!’ Slinging a comradely arm around the shoulder of the young man, Jim hauled him out in front of the crowd. ‘Here’s a local prepared to take on the two-time All Ireland Champion, let’s hear it for him!’ he shouted through the loudhailer, and a cheer went up. ‘What’s your name, son, and where are you from?’
‘My name is Erik,’ the young man said, and he waved to his mates who yelled back enthusiastically. ‘I am from Cooma.’
‘Course you are, mate, course you are,’ Jim said with boisterous approval. ‘But where are you from before Cooma?’
‘Kassel.’
‘And where’s that?’
‘Germany.’
There were more supportive yells from Erik’s friends, all of whom were German, and there were loud boos from another quarter – specifically the Italians, with Luigi leading the troops.
Pietro was surprised –
surely they should all be backing the Snowy man? – and he cast a quizzical glance at Lucky. But Lucky just shrugged.
‘Well, good on you, Erik. Good for you, mate!’ Jim grabbed Erik’s hand and held it high in a gesture of triumph as he addressed the crowd. ‘This brave young bloke is going up against Patrick Murphy, two-time All Ireland Champion! Chances are we have another Max Schmeling right here in our midst!’ he yelled, and the Germans bellowed at the mention of their own world champion. ‘Line up! Line up!’ Jim enthused, inciting the crowd. ‘Showing on the inside! Showing on the inside! The All Ireland Champion meets the new Max Schmeling!’ And, with a quick survey of the numbers gathered, he gave a nod to his man at the door of the tent, a further nod to his boxers and, clamping an arm firmly around Erik, he led him inside, still yelling through the loudhailer for the benefit of the crowd. ‘Come on, son, let’s show you the ropes! Line up! Showing on the inside! The All Ireland Champ meets the new Max Schmeling!’
Two other young locals, lined up earlier, were already awaiting their turn in the tent, but Jim decided he’d put Erik on first; the crowd reaction to him was excellent.
While the eager audience poured in, Erik was taken aside to be gloved by an assistant and Jim muttered his instructions to ‘Patrick Murphy’.
‘Let him go the three rounds, Col, I want to milk the crowd.’
Colin ‘Patrick Murphy’ Jenkins nodded his understanding; he’d guessed as much the moment the cheering and jeering had started.