Beneath the Southern Cross (54 page)

‘Don't be silly, it belongs here with you.' Caroline could sense her grandmother was upset. ‘It's only a year's contract, Gran, I'll be back in nine months.'

‘It's a whole new career for him, Caroline,' Kathleen said brusquely, angry with herself at the fresh threat of tears. ‘If your husband needs to stay in Melbourne for his job, then you and Emma must stay with him.'

‘Of course we will if needs be. And if that's the case, then I'll come and see you once a year, and you can come and see me. Heavens above,' she laughed, trying to cheer her grandmother up, ‘Gene works for General Motors-Holden, and this is the age of the motor car, Gran, we're only a drive away.'

Kathleen successfully quelled the tears. ‘Yes, of course you are,' she said, ‘but I still wish you'd take the book.'

‘No, Gran.' For some strange reason Kathleen was being maudlin, and Caroline would have none of it. ‘Hannah's journal belongs here,' she said adamantly. ‘With you. In this house.'

They always took turns in bossing each other about, they had for years.

‘Yes,' Kathleen agreed, knowing her granddaughter was right. ‘It belongs here with me,' and she put the book back down on the table. ‘Are you all packed? Tim'll be here any minute.'

‘I'm all packed.'

‘Good, then I'll put the kettle on, we'll have time for a quick cup of tea before he takes us to the station.' Kathleen busied herself at the stove. ‘And fetch the biscuits, will you, Tim likes those short-bread ones.'

Kitty Kendall was with her father when he arrived. ‘You didn't think you'd get out of this town without a proper farewell, did you?' she said to Caroline as she opened the champagne she'd brought. Since the night at Henri's she and Caroline had become firm friends. ‘Here's tofriendship,' she said. ‘The lifelong kind.'

Kathleen laughed and chatted with Tim and Kitty. They drove together to Central Station and waved at the train as it disappeared down the track, and all the time she told herself she was being foolish. But try as she might, she could not dispel her fears. And
later that day, alone in her little house in Woolloomooloo, Kathleen De Haan gave in to her tears, convinced that she would never see her granddaughter again.

‘Now tell me, Artie,' Ron Benson asked, ‘what sort of job would you like?'

Arturo studied the employment officer for a moment or two. The man seemed friendly enough, certainly, and his use of the diminutive was an attempt to sound casual and obliging. A number of Australians he'd met had told him Arturo was impossible to pronounce—‘the way you say it anyway, mate'—so he'd accepted Artie as a gesture of friendship. It was certainly preferable to wog, wop or dago, terms with which he'd become all too familiar over the past year.

But Arturo could sense the man's disinterest, he'd seen it before. ‘If I tell you what it is I would like, that would make a difference?' he asked.

The Italian was being neither insolent nor rebellious, Ron Benson realised; there was no impudence in his eyes, no sullen tone to his voice. But his question, which was more of a statement, was challenging. He was clearly an intelligent young man.

Tall for an Italian—but then he was probably from the north, and Ron was accustomed to dealing with the more stocky southerners—he had a certain style. He was well mannered and his English was excellent. In fact, apart from his obviously Italian appearance, which could hardly be helped, the bloke seemed exceptionally well assimilated.

There was something about Arturo Farinelli that commanded respect, and to his surprise, Ron found himself telling the truth.

‘No,' he said, ‘it probably wouldn't make any difference, but
they tell us to ask you what job you'd like. I suppose because it makes us sound good.'

Arturo nodded. At least they understood each other. ‘So I go where you send me.'

They sent him to the Snowy Mountains, to work on the Hydro-Electric Scheme.

Arturo Farinelli had emigrated in 1949, heeding, along with thousands of his fellow countrymen, the irresponsible advice of Italy's Prime Minister, Alcide De Gasperi, who exhorted Italians to learn a foreign language and emigrate. Italy had no employment for its workers and Australia beckoned as a friendly, hospitable land. A land of endless wealth and limitless prospects.

It was all propaganda, they were shocked to discover. The Australian Immigration Department had spent much money and effort in order to attract European migrants, but upon their arrival, very little was offered by way of assistance. Like many, Arturo was quickly disenchanted, but he did not scrimp and save for his fare home like so many others unable to accept the sordid conditions and the isolation. Arturo had no intention of running back to his starving country, his tail between his legs. If the Australians would not come to him, then he would go to the Australians.

Ron Benson was right. Arturo was intelligent. Observant and quick to learn. He had taught himself the basics of English before coming to Australia, and he quickly soaked up the classes at Bonegilla, the former internment campwhich had been hastily converted for temporary migrant accommodation.

Men languished at Bonegilla, situated near Albury on the Victorian–New South Wales border, while they awaited employment, frustrated and helpless in their isolation. Many had young wives and families to whom the dank huts were depressing, the ill-taught English lessons confusing, and the stink of cooking lard in the canteen and the fatty taste of mutton foreign and abominable. The standard of teaching was so poor that Artie and Nick Steriakos, who had lived in London for three years and spoke fluent English, coached the less fortunate.

Artie and Nick the Greek became very good friends and shared their confined space amicably. Surprisingly enough, most of the migrants did. Arturo was constantly amazed at the lack of conflict between the many nationalities gathered at Bonegilla. Italians,
Austrians, Greeks, Czechs, Poles, Russians, the most devout and the most orthodox of Catholics and Jews, all had no trouble getting on together. Yet, when they were sent out to work as seasonal labourers on nearby properties, the Australians' antipathy was palpable. What were they afraid of?

‘Are they frightened of us?' he asked Rube one night.

Artie had the greatest of respect for Hermann Rubenstein. Rube was a very cultured man, a concert musician. Or he had been at one time, many years ago, a violinist with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra no less. Now retired, he was a music teacher by trade. At least he had been, he said, until Hitler had decided otherwise.

Rube knew everything, or so it seemed. It wasn't that he was showing off, Arturo knew that, he just liked to talk. Well, to him and Nick. Rube would talk about any subject under the sun to him and Nick. Apart from himself or his family. And Artie and Nick knew why, they'd seen the tattoo on his wrist.

Hermann Rubenstein was a Jew, a Pole from Warsaw, and he'd been through all that the Holocaust had to offer. Except death. His own anyway, the daily prayers he'd made in that direction having remained unanswered during his final weeks at Auschwitz.

Rube could have told them such stories. He could have told them about the ghettoes and the stand that the Jews of Warsaw had taken. He'd been a leader then and proud of it. He could have told them about Eichmann's Final Solution. The term mystified Rube, it sounded so pure. It should have referred to the clarification of a long-lost algebraic formula, not to the extermination of a race of people. He could have told Nick and Artie about the cattle trucks. And the gas chambers. And more. Much more. But he didn't. And of course Nick and Artie didn't ask him.

But that was all behind him now, and Rube had decided that he would not give up after all. He was going to Melbourne, he told Artie and Nick, where he would teach music. There was a big Jewish community in Melbourne, and he'd heard that Melbourne was a civilised city. More or less. By Australian standards.

Nick wasn't interested in Melbourne. Nick the Greek was going to Sydney. He had a cousin there who owned a fishing boat. As soon as he'd made some money he was going to join up with his cousin, ‘and we'll have a fleet of boats, you just wait and see'.

With the exception of Nick and Artie, Rube kept fairly much to
himself, which was a pity really, Arturo thought, because he spoke six languages and could have been helpful to the others. He suggested as much to Rube.

‘No, Arturo,' was the blunt response. Rube felt no obligation to assist the peasant migrants with their problems, they must fight their own fight as he had his. ‘It is good that you help them with their English, but I am too old, I have taught enough.' Which was strange, because several times a week he gave Artiewriting lessons, Artie having never mastered the art of writing English. It was because of the talks, Artie realised. Rube liked the talks that went with the lessons.

So, tonight, as Arturo sat with Hermann Rubenstein and Nick Steriakos on the benches outside the camp theatre, watching the Italians throw bocce balls, he asked Rube. ‘Why? Why are the Australians frightened of us?'

‘Human nature,' Rube said, sipping the black, treacly coffee he always drank from the tin mug with his initials on the side. ‘We are different. People fear that which isdifferent.'

‘But we are all different here at Bonegilla,' Nick argued, ‘and there is no friction between us.'

‘Europe is our bond.'

Artie wasn't buying that one. ‘How can you say that, you of all people? Europe has been at war for centuries. We have been torn apart by our differences.'

‘Exactly. That is our bond.' He drained his coffee and dabbed at the grey-bearded corners of his mouth with his pocket handkerchief. ‘This country has never known war upon its own soil, God forbid that it ever should. But we have, and it draws us together. Perhaps Australia does not wish to shelter the war-wounded like us, perhaps we are reminders of the fact that hatred and persecution exist, who can tell,' he shrugged, ‘but we are most certainly different.'

‘Australians have been as isolated from us,' Rube continued, ‘as we here at Bonegilla are isolated from them.' He gave a cynical shake of his head. ‘You think that you feel animosity out here in the country? Just you wait until you get to the city, my friends. They will insult you in the streets, they will not want you as their neighbours, they will not welcome your children in their schools.'

Nick cast a dubious glance in Artie's direction. The perennial
optimist, Nick did not choose to believe Rube's dour predictions.

‘I am right, you will see.' Rube eased himself up from the bench, it would soon be dark and he always went to bed early so that he would be asleep, or could at least pretend to be, before his room-mate retired. A young Finn, his room-mate was a pleasant enough fellow, Rube didn't dislike him, but he always wanted to practise his fractured English. Of course Rube could have told the young man that he himself spoke Finnish but, selfishly, he had neglected to do so, having little time for conversation which did not interest him.

‘It will change however,' he said. ‘In time.' He smiled his lugubrious smile, he hadn't really intended to be so depressing. ‘And it is my advice to young men like you to bring about the change. You are strong and resilient. You must embrace the Australians, and one day they will embrace you. One day. You'll see. Goodnight, my friends.'

Rube left for Melbourne shortly after that, and several months later, Nick went to Sydney. Artie stayed on for a while at Bonegilla, but it wasn't long before he too was off. To the Snowy Mountains.

Conditions for the vast numbers of unskilled labourers employed to work on the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme were not much better than at Bonegilla and much more dangerous—a man died for each mile of the tunnel's completion. But, a year later, Artie's decision to leave was not prompted by fear, he enjoyed the physical labour and the camaraderie. He would miss the many friends he'd made, but if he were to pursue his ambitions he knew he must leave.

Artie had forgotten neither Rube's predictions nor his advice and, in the Snowy, he had found himself surrounded by fellow migrant workers. If he was to embrace Australians and have them embrace him back, he decided, then he must risk the big cities. He decided upon Sydney.

A friend, a Calabrian from Terranova called Franco, gave him the address of his brother-in-law.

‘Luigi has been in Sydney for fifteen years,' Franco said. ‘He is very successful, he has a pastry shop in Leichhardt. He will show you about.'

Luigi was indeed successful. His was more than a pastry shop,
it was a miniature factory. He employed three chefs in his kitchen out the back and sold not only from his shopfront but also delivered regular supplies to a number of Italian restaurants and clubs, of which there were many in the inner-city areas.

A stocky man in his late thirties, Luigi was boisterous and likeable, and his greeting was most effusive.

‘Arturo,' he said, embracing Artie, ‘Franco wrote to me that you were coming, welcome to Sydney.'

He gave Artie a job as a kitchen hand and rented him one of the rooms above the shop. Luigi and his family didn't live on the premises, they had a four-bedroom house several blocks away.

Artie was grateful and the two men became good friends, Luigi enjoying their lively conversations and regularly inviting Artie to his home. ‘For some good Italian home cooking,' he insisted, ‘Australians know nothing of food.' A fact with which Artie readily agreed.

On his first visit to Luigi's home, Artie was astonished to discover that Luigi had never met his brother-in-law, Franco. He had married Maria only eighteen months previously. An arranged marriage, he had paid for her passage from Italy, having met neither her nor her family. He had, however, received a photograph.

‘And she is even prettier than her photograph.' He draped his arm proudly around the shoulder of his young pregnant wife, ‘I am not disappointed. She is beautiful, yes? Maria, embrace Arturo, he is a friend of your brother Franco.'

Maria shyly embraced Artie.

‘Hello, Maria,' he said. She looked so young.

‘Any friend of Maria's family is a friend of mine,' Luigi said giving Artie a slap on the shoulder. ‘We look after our family, don't we, Maria? Now you be a good girl and bring me my son.'

Maria obediently left the room to fetch one-year-old Alfio.

‘She is a good wife,' Luigi confided in Artie as soon as she'd gone. ‘A man needs a good wife and a family. We have been married only eighteen months,' he winked, ‘and already she has given me a son, and is halfway through carrying a second child.' He laughed boisterously. ‘I work so hard for so many years to make a success that I nearly leave it too late, but she is twenty-three years old, there will be many more sons. Iam a lucky man, do you not agree?'

Artie agreed, and dutifully admired young Alfio when he arrived, and later he ate a huge bowl of ravioli, the best meal he'd had in two years he truthfully told Maria.

Over the ensuing months, Artie befriended the young Italian woman. He felt sorry for her, he could tell she was desperately lonely. Luigi was a good man who worked hard and was an excellent provider, but he was an Italian of the old school. He never took his wife out with him when he socialised, he drank with his male friends at the Italian clubs and restaurants, and Maria was expected to fraternise with her own circle of female friends. But she had none. She spoke not a word of English, and Luigi, whose English was fluent, never bothered to teach her.

Artie did. ‘You need to speak English, Maria,' he urged. He'd been out to the shops with her—to help her carry home the groceries, he'd said, but he'd really wanted to see how she coped. She'd been fine at the fruiterer and the grocery store, she'd chosen the two that were run by Italians, but her embarrassment at the butcher's shop had been painful. The butcher was an Australian. She'd pointed at the tray of mince in the display counter, and when he'd picked up a fistful of the meat and said ‘a pound?' she'd flushed and nodded, and then accepted without question the change he offered from the note she gave him.