The Last of the Bonegilla Girls Page 18

  ‘Stefano! Giovani!’ she called. ‘Dinner is on the table.’ There were quick stomping footsteps up the hallway and her younger brothers slammed into their seats.

  ‘No, no. You two,’ Iliana said, pinching their ears. ‘Wash your hands before dinner.’

  The boys were used to taking orders from their older sister but made a point of rolling their eyes at each other before racing to the bathroom, chattering in English. Iliana envied them their friendship and their easy way with a new language. They were doing well at Cooma Public School and had found playmates from a dozen different nationalities. She wished she had such chances to practise her English.

  The front door opened and closed and there were heavy boots on the floorboards. Her mother lifted her chin and smiled. ‘About time they are home.’ Iliana took a whole loaf of bread to the table and sliced it, passing pieces to her little brothers, who began to wolf it down hungrily.

  Massimo came straight to the kitchen. The work on the scheme, tunnelling through solid granite rock, was wet, noisy and smelly, and he still wore the dust and grime of his day underground. He stood in the doorway, his heavy coat over one arm.

  ‘Ciao, Mamma,’ he said. ‘Sorry for being late.’

  ‘Clean up,’ Agata replied. ‘Then come and sit down.’

  There was something in his voice that made Iliana look over at him. Tears pooled in his dark eyes, streaking the dirt on his face. She dropped the bread knife with a clatter on the table.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she gasped. ‘Is it Papà?’

  He held up a hand to calm her. ‘No, he is here.’

  ‘Then what?’ Agata demanded.

  Massimo breathed deep. ‘Someone died in the tunnels today.’

  Agata crossed herself three times and began to pray. Massimo walked across the room to his mother and rested a hand on her shoulder. He wouldn’t kiss her until he was washed up. ‘It was Angelo Zocchi, Mamma. There was a rock fall up ahead in the tunnel. The ambulance came but it was too late. Papà saw it.’

  ‘Oh, my Giuseppe.’

  Iliana’s legs had turned to rubber. She pulled out a chair and fell backwards into it.

  ‘Papà wasn’t hurt. He is all right. But Angelo was a friend. We have worked with him for more than a year. He died for nothing.’ Massimo’s voice broke and he wiped his tears away with a shirtsleeve. ‘Something has to change. They throw us in the tunnels and don’t care if we die. Workers are being killed to make a dam for farmers, did you know that? Italians. Greeks. Poles. Norwegians. Croatians. Yugoslavs. People came here to make a better life for their families, not to be killed working all day and night.’

  Agata began to cry. Her little brothers watched their older brother, their mouths agape.

  ‘Massimo.’ Iliana pushed back her chair and went to her brother, throwing her arms around him. She didn’t care that he was filthy. She felt the tension in his shoulders, the bristling of his body when she tried to comfort him. But she wouldn’t let go.

  ‘I’m going to talk to the union,’ he said. ‘We can’t stand for this. Angelo has a wife and five children. Five! How long before this happens to someone else? What if that was Papà or me?’

  ‘Massimo,’ Agata cried. ‘Don’t you dare say such a thing.’ She crossed herself again.

  ‘Being silent won’t save men’s lives, Mamma.’

  ‘Please don’t make trouble,’ she urged through her tears. ‘You don’t want to lose this job. Or make problems for your father.’

  Massimo eased out of Iliana’s hold and went to his mother, clasped her shoulders. ‘I won’t make trouble.’ He kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘I will go and speak with your father. Iliana, you and the boys eat.’

  Iliana suddenly wasn’t hungry. ‘So many children,’ she said softly. She passed her little brothers another slice of bread then looked up at Massimo.

  ‘Tomorrow, there will be a collection for Angelo’s family,’ he said gruffly. ‘Imagine it, Iliana. A new country. Five bambinos. You don’t even know English and your husband is dead.’

  Tears clouded her vision. She reached for Massimo’s hand and squeezed it. ‘You will tell me what I can do to help and I will do it.’

  That evening, Iliana sat in the living room on her own. Her parents had gone to bed early. The boys were in bed and Massimo had left the house shortly after dinner. She had a cup of hot milk, a blanket on her knees to warm her as the fire settled and glowed, and a stack of letters. They had been delivered to her father at work and he’d brought them home that night but in the commotion of the news about Angelo Zocchi’s death, they’d been forgotten until now.

  Four were from Italy, including one from her father’s uncle, Mauricio. Her father had been writing to his uncle, urging him to give permission for his four young sons to come to Australia. Four single men, with no wives and children to think of, and with trade skills, were a valuable commodity in a labour force still facing shortages after the war. Many Italians came to Australia to join their families and sometimes Iliana wondered if everyone in Italy hadn’t packed up and taken the journey to Australia on the Fairsea for a better life in Australia.

  She set that letter aside for her father. There was a letter from her aunt Antonietta, her mother’s sister, which she knew would make her mother cry when she read it. They had been in Australia for three years now and Agata still cried every day for her own mother and her sisters. Iliana had heard her sometimes. Agata would walk down to the back of the garden, sit on the stump of a dead apple tree, smoke a cigarette and sob. Coming to Australia had been a different adventure for her parents, she realised. They had abandoned everything and everyone they loved in their quest to find a new and better life for their own family.

  There were two more letters from Italy, which she shuffled into a separate pile for her parents and then her heart leapt when she saw her own name on three separate envelopes.

  She had letters from Vasiliki, Frances and Elizabeta.

  She hadn’t seen her Bonegilla friends since she’d left the camp in 1954, two months after Elizabeta had left with her mother to go to Adelaide. When Giuseppe and Massimo had got the word they had secured jobs on the Snowy Mountains Scheme, they too had packed up their meagre belongings and taken the train away from Bonegilla to begin their journey to Cooma. Vasiliki and Frances had waved her away, and Frances had given her a farewell gift: a copy of an Enid Blyton book she had used to teach the girls English. It was still on Iliana’s bedside table and she sometimes read the stories out loud for fun to her little brothers, but they had so often corrected her English and laughed at the way she said the words that she had stopped. She remembered the last time she had seen Frances. She had come to Bonegilla’s main gate to say goodbye and had cried and cried when they had climbed onto the blue bus to take them to the Bonegilla rail siding. She remembered that Massimo had said goodbye to Frances too, which she thought was a nice thing, that he was thanking Frances for everything she’d done for his sister. Iliana asked him later, when they were on the train, if he’d apologised one last time to Frances for putting her in hospital after hitting her on the head with that stupid soccer ball.

  ‘Si,’ he’d muttered and said no more about it.

  After they’d left Bonegilla, Frances wrote regularly, telling her all about where she was and what she was doing. She was in touch much more than Elizabeta and Vasiliki but Iliana put that down to the language. Sometimes it was hard to think in other people’s words and even harder to remember how to write them. It was Frances who told Iliana that Vasiliki had moved to Melbourne. That’s also how she found out that Frances had moved to Sydney to learn to be a teacher.

  They were spread all around the country now, the Bonegilla girls, scattered by the mountain winds that had blown through the camp.

  Iliana opened Frances’s letter first.

  Dear Iliana,

  I hope you are well up there in the mountains and not getting too cold at this time of year. I hope you have a very warm wint
er coat! I don’t know if Vasiliki has written to you to tell you her news? Or should I say, or write, “Vicki”, as she wants to be called now. It has been so long since we have heard from her but she has a good excuse. She has had her baby, a girl they have named Aphrodite. It’s the name of the Greek goddess of love and fertility. Isn’t that romantic? She writes that she is enjoying being a mother. I, for one, am very happy for her and her husband. I expect that her parents will be very happy to be grandparents.

  How is everything with you? I am well, still at teachers’ college but will be finishing quite soon and glad to know that I will be able to put everything I’ve learnt into practice in the classroom with real children.

  Please write and tell me your news and please don’t worry about your English. I have been learning Italian so please help me practise by writing to me in your language.

  I miss you very much and often think of our time together at Bonegilla. My kindest regards to your parents, and your brothers, Massimo, Stefano and Giovani.

  Yours sincerely,

  Frances

  Iliana put the letter on her lap. She was certain she had understood most of what Frances had said. Vasiliki had had a baby? She couldn’t remember knowing that she was expecting. The last time she had heard from Vasiliki was that she was newly married. But then, Vasiliki had always struggled more with learning English than she and Elizabeta had. Next, she picked up Vasiliki’s letter, ripped the top open and a small black-and-white photo fell onto the blanket on her lap. It was Vasiliki and a baby in a christening photo. She was wearing a formal dress with white gloves and a hat, and high stiletto heels. The baby was almost entirely covered in an elaborate lace dress, which draped almost to Vasiliki’s knees.

  Iliana peered at the photo, trying to make out her friend’s features. Vasiliki had grown up. The photo was small, less than two inches square, which made it hard to see much of the baby’s face, if she had much hair, or even if little Aphrodite looked like her mother or her father. There was no letter with it but Iliana didn’t mind. The photo was enough. She would put it on her dressing table, this photo of the first Bonegilla baby.

  Elizabeta’s letter was short and to the point.

  Liebe Iliana,

  I hope you are good. I am very busy with working in the cafe and helping my mother and father. I am engaged now. His name is Nikolas Muller and he is German. We will not get married for at least one year when we have money in the bank to buy a house. There are Italians here in Adelaide who grow tomatoes. They taste very good. There is one place to eat gelato and it is called Flash Deli in Hindley Street. I think of you when I go there after work on the way to the train station on North Terrace. I would like to go to Sydney on the bus to see Frances very soon. Will you come too?

  Elizabeta

  Iliana rested her head on the back of the upholstered sofa and stared into the embers of the dwindling fire. So there would soon be another wedding and Elizabeta would become Mrs Muller. That was a reason to be happy, Iliana thought. Such an event would bring some joy to a family that had suffered so much. They had left a daughter behind at Bonegilla, so far away from Adelaide that they couldn’t even visit her grave. Perhaps now there would be some happiness in grandchildren, something to lighten the days for Elizabeta and her parents.

  It would be another wedding Iliana would not be able to go to. And what of the talk of a bus trip to Sydney to see Frances? What if Iliana was forced to sit with some of the prostitutes on their way back to Kings Cross? Her parents would never let her go. Perhaps if Massimo went with her they would approve of it. She would have to ask him, once he was past the death of Angelo Zocchi, and then see if they agreed. Would he like a trip to Sydney to see the Harbour Bridge and swim in the ocean at Bondi? She knew her brother. He would not go. He would not leave their father unprotected at work.

  She would write to Frances and Vasiliki and Elizabeta on the weekend.

  As she drifted off to sleep by the warmth of the fire, her friends’ letters in her lap, Iliana dreamt of the perfect dress and the kind of life in which she would wear it.

  No one begrudged Angelo Zocchi’s widow when she got married the day after her husband’s year’s mind mass.

  She was marrying a Yugoslav, Miroslav, a man who’d worked with her dead husband. He’d paid his respects to her after her husband’s death and a love had developed between them. The Yugoslav had been lonely and wanted a wife. The widow needed someone to support her and her five children. The money the workers on the scheme had generously donated to her would only last so long.

  The Agnolis attended the wedding, a small affair at a Catholic chapel in Cooma. The bride had worn Iliana’s dress, the one she had coveted in Woolworths, but how could Iliana be angry about that? About a widow who wanted to be beautiful on her second wedding day? Afterwards, there was coffee, tea and refreshments at a local hallIliana and her mother and many of the wives of the Snowy workers had baked for days to ensure there was enough for everyone. Some happy news was welcome after the tragedy of Angelo’s death and, Iliana thought, only the most pious and pitiless would judge a widow who wanted a husband for herself and, more importantly, a father for her five children.

  There were many compliments on the cakes and there was joy all around for the new husband and wife. She tasted her first cup of tea and decided she didn’t like it. And, after everything was cleaned away, she walked home with her family to the little wooden home, full of happiness and joy at a new marriage

  When they turned the corner into their street, Iliana saw someone by the front door of their house.

  It was Frances Burley. She was sitting on her suitcase and when she heard them approaching she looked up.

  Her face was streaked with tears.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  1958

  Iliana’s mother hurriedly warmed a cup of milk and made a salami sandwich for Frances, who had been ushered quickly through the house and into the kitchen. The room was warm from the fire and the table was crowded. Giovani and Stefano stared at Frances as if she had landed from another planet. Giuseppe sat at the head of the table, his elbows down, his fingers linked, his lips pulled together tightly. Massimo sat at the other end, staring at Frances, as if he was wondering what on earth she was doing here, all the way from Sydney, with a suitcase and tears.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  He’d barely said hello to her and now his gaze alternated between the table in front of him or the clock on the wall above the fridge.

  The only sound was the glass rattling in the kitchen window and the roof creaking in the wind. No one spoke as Frances slowly nibbled at her sandwich. She kept her eyes down as she swallowed a mouthful and then seemed to surrender, placing the chunky bread on her plate. Iliana noticed that only the tiniest of bites had been taken out of it. A small half moon. Perhaps Frances didn’t like Italian food like salami or crusty pane di casa.

  Agata hovered in the kitchen, wiping the sink, folding and unfolding tea towels, fussing with the curtains over the window.

  ‘Your friend is not hungry,’ Giuseppe said to Iliana in Italian.

  ‘Perhaps she is tired from the bus trip,’ she replied.

  ‘Did you come on the bus?’ Stefano asked Frances in English.

  ‘Yes,’ Frances answered, her quiet voice almost lost in the room.

  ‘Where did you come from?’ Giovani asked, tag-teaming with his brother.

  ‘From Bega.’

  ‘Bega?’ Massimo straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin.

  ‘Yes. I am … I was a teacher there.’ Frances lifted a linen napkin and pressed it to her lips. The imprint of her pink lipstick remained there, like fallen petals from a spring rose.

  ‘Yes, your first job with children,’ Iliana remembered.

  ‘That’s right,’ Frances nodded

  Then Agata was behind Iliana, pressing against her back and looking over her shoulder at Frances’s plate. ‘What is wrong with her? Why has she come to see you?’
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br />   Iliana was relieved her mother’s question was in Italian. She answered the same way. ‘I don’t know.’

  Frances looked up from her plate and smiled sadly at Giuseppe, at Giovani and Stefano and Iliana. She didn’t look at Massimo.

  Frances pushed back her chair and the scraping of the legs on the wooden floor was loud. She stood. Massimo leapt to his feet.

  ‘Massimo,’ Iliana hissed.

  ‘Please, Iliana. I didn’t mean to upset your mother. Or your father. This was perhaps not the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m sorry. I will go.’

  Iliana quickly reached for Frances’s hand and held it in hers. ‘You will not go. It’s okay.’ She looked back over her shoulder at her mother, started in Italian. ‘Mamma, I’ll talk to her, and find out why she’s here. But I can’t do that with you all here hovering like crows.’

  Agata opened her mouth to speak but hesitated.

  ‘Boys,’ Giuseppe said. ‘Go into the living room and read your books for school. Massimo and I will go for a walk.’

  ‘Papà,’ Massimo started.

  Giuseppe placed his hands on the table and he stood. ‘Agata. Come.’ He cocked his head and she tsk tsked loudly but she moved to the door as her husband had directed. ‘When you find out what is happening, Iliana, you will come and tell me everything. Pronto.’

  ‘Si, Mamma.’

  Agata closed the kitchen door behind her. Finally Iliana was alone with Frances. Her friend’s mousy brown hair was short now, curled in waves and styled like all the movie stars, brushed up and away from her face. But she hadn’t put a comb to it since she’d arrived and it was messy and knotted at the back where her head had probably rubbed on the back of the bus seat during the long trip. Her face was pale, her brown eyes dull from her tears, and there was a pale outline of lipstick on her lips.

  Where should Iliana begin?

  ‘Thank you for your letters,’ Iliana said.

  Frances finally smiled and squeezed Iliana’s hand in return. ‘And thank you for yours. Your English is getting so much better.’