The Last Double Sunrise Read online

  THE LAST

  DOUBLE

  SUNRISE

  PETER YELDHAM

  First published by For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd 2017

  www.forpitysake.com.au

  10 8 6 4 2 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Peter Yeldham 2017

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission. For permission contact the publisher at [email protected].

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This edition © For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd

  Book design and typesetting – Ryan Morrison Design – www.ryanmorrisondesign.com

  Original art and cover design – John Cozzi & Ryan Morrison Design

  Mr Yeldham’s portrait – Jess Crew

  Printed in Australia by Griffin Press – Accredited ISO AS/NZS 14001:2004

  Environmental Management Systems Printer.

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

  Yeldham, Peter, author.

  The Last Double Sunrise / Peter Yeldham

  9780995363250 (paperback)

  9780995363267 (ebook)

  Artists-Italy-Fiction.

  Prisoners of war – Australia – Fiction.

  World War, 1939-1945-Prisoners and prisons, Australian-Fiction.

  World War, 1939-1945-Prisoners and prisons, Italian – Fiction.

  World War, 1939-1945 - Fiction.

  Praise for Peter Yeldham

  ‘Peter Yeldham’s historical fiction pedigree is one of the best in the country.’

  SUNDAY TELEGRAPH

  ‘Epic reads that are totally absorbing.’

  SUN-HERALD

  ‘The master of the Australian historical blockbuster.’

  DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘Yeldham has a strong reputation as a historical novelist as well as a writer for film and television. Dragons in the Forest will no doubt make that reputation stronger still.’

  DOROTHY JOHNSTON

  ‘Above the Fold is a big-hearted novel…anyone who enjoys reading about post-war history in Australia will be delighted.’

  GABRIELLE LORD

  ‘Written with meticulous detail, Above the Fold is an engaging story spanning a tumultuous period in Australian history.’

  NICOLE ALEXANDER

  Also by Peter Yeldham

  Dragons in the Forest

  Above the Fold

  A Bitter Harvest

  Barbed Wire and Roses

  To my Grandson, Pete, who was there from the first page.

  While this novel is set in real places and references some actual events, all characters are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to any person whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: Italy 1918

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part Two: Nine Months Later

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Part Three: Cowra….And Then

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two: The Last Double Sunrise

  Epilogue

  About This Book

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  PROLOGUE

  There were no trucks. He knew from the angry faces and complaints that it would be a fiasco. Fuel was rationed and the vehicles were needed for more important transport, so the squad was lined up with their meagre belongings and marched across the Hampshire Downs in the sweltering heat of a summer day. They passed through Newbury, then small villages where the children giggled on their way to school and pointed at them. Young women pushed prams. Others with shopping bags stared in brief appraisal. A few shrugged, there was a rare smile, an occasional hand lifted in what might have been a consoling wave, but the majority watched them go with grudging satisfaction. They were on their way to somewhere else and good riddance to the lot of them.!

  The shoppers carried string bags that appeared to contain very little food, for it was rigorously controlled; the shops were often the site of arguments over the severe rationing. But at least these villagers could take comfort at the view of others worse off. This was the expression conveyed by most watching the sweat-stained squad trying to stay in step but already dragging their tired feet in oppressive discomfort.

  They were being transferred to some other place and no one knew where that might be. Almost certainly a worse dump than the shambolic camp they’d come from. They reached Basingstoke in the afternoon fed up, tired and thirsty, expecting something to eat and drink but it had been delayed. Or else forgotten. Or sent to the wrong place, another rumor declared.

  “Not the faintest bloody idea,” was the expected reply from the uncaring sergeant-major in charge, who wished he was in the western desert or the army in Abyssinia, in fact almost anywhere but here. “Just fucking shut-up or there’ll be nothing at all.” He left his armed corporal on guard and sought refuge in the railway station bar where there would be a cold beer and facilities.

  It was soon established their truck with the rations had been in a road accident, so there’d be no food or drink until later. By then the train would have moved them to Southampton Dock, so the chance of any food was fast diminishing. But then came some surprising information to lift their spirits. Finally they learned the destination; they were being transferred to Austria.

  The welcome news swept the exhausted men. Rumor concluded it must be an exchange deal. A shipload of them in return for senior officers.

  Or the swap of some important politician. Their thirst and hunger forgotten, they discussed this startling report. Austria! Unbelievable, wonderful! They would be in friendly allied territory. They could easily cross the border and find their way home; they speculated on how to do this with renewed hope.

  The sergeant-major heard it, and nearly choked on his pint of bitter in the Basingstoke brasserie. “The stupid bastards.” He liked a joke and this was one for the sergeant’s mess when he got back to camp. “The silly sods think they’re all being shipped to Austria. They’ll get one hell of a shock when they end up in Australia!”

  PART ONE

  ITALY 1918

  ONE

  It was an unsightly place, twenty acres of parched ground strewn with the remains of shriveled vines, the fences rotted from the weather or broken by vandals. The shabby house on the property was a residence that might once have been an elegant manor, but was now threadbare with broken windows and peeling paint.

  “Position,” the agent said with his practised smile, �
��is what matters. Position, position — it always wins in the end.”

  ‘Utter crap,’ thought twenty-eight-year-old Salvatore Minnelli, but he refrained from saying it aloud.

  “You have my word,” continued the agent, “this is a true bargain. Santa Maria del Lago is the prize region of Lombardy, adjacent to the splendor of Lake Como, a place of true beauty and home to superb vineyards.”

  This time the client smiled cynically and shook his head. It produced a flurry of more plaudits from the salesman.

  “It has so many geographical advantages. The Alps to your north, the city of Milan to your south. Position means profit, a certain rise of value in a short span of time.”

  The agent spread his hands theatrically as if suggesting there was no other terrain in Italy with such possibilities. It was met with a shrug of indifference. He was about to give up on this stubborn customer but decided on one last appeal. Honesty was worth a try. Or partial honesty; he saw no need to mention the number of leaks in the roof, since to his relief it was not raining.

  “Signor Minnelli, I do admit it requires a small amount of tender and even loving care, but the possibilities are boundless. If I had the money I’d buy it myself. This property is just waiting to be rejuvenated.”

  “Rubbish!” Salvatore chose to speak his mind this time. “I might buy it, but…” He let the agent salivate for a moment. It was his fifth attempt to find a cheap vineyard with the pitiful legacy his father had left him, together with the meagre savings from his army pay. He had won enough medals to decorate a mantelpiece but they did nothing for his bank balance. He needed a property but was fed up with viewing shoddy vineyards and had lost patience. This one was at least near the lake and Lombardy was a good region. It would have to do.

  “I might buy it,” he repeated, “but at my price, not yours. So, if you take twenty thousand lira off the absurd figure you quoted, we might discuss a deal and see where it gets us.”

  The agent was delighted. Even with the markdown it was more than he’d expected. The owner had said to get rid of the damn place, whatever the price.

  Within days a newly-erected sign read: MINNELLI VINEYARD. In the next few months Salvatore toiled to rip out the dead vines and plant new ones. He painted the house, after repairing all the leaks in the roof. He was a man in a hurry to make friends with his wealthy neighbours, and gained their approval by restoring the ruined property that had long been a blemish on their district. The esteem led to popularity, which was what he needed. It would help achieve his first ambition, to seek a career in politics by standing for district mayor as a decorated war veteran. His other ambition was marriage to an ornamental wife. It was why he brought in workers to restore the house with new balconies and dormer windows, all to confer panache. He was not entirely sure what panache meant, but his years in the army had taught him that it was impossible to get anywhere without some style and a lot of bullshit— and his army friend and comrade Luca Pascoli had said panache was a polite word for all of that.

  He was eager to achieve these targets, despite knowing the new vines would take time to mature, and gaining popularity for mayoral nomination so soon could be difficult. As well, finding the kind of wife he’d envisaged, not only beautiful, but clever and sexy, could be challenging in this farming region. But as it turned out both objectives were achieved far sooner than he expected, and occurred in tandem on the same night. It was at a meeting brought by his friendly neighbours to propose him as a mayoral candidate that he met a young teacher of artistic studies, recently employed at the local school in Santa Maria.

  Beatrice Farina was nineteen. She came from Rome, the only daughter of a professor of history at Sapienza University, looking almost Scandinavian with blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She was slim and had a luminous beauty and a ready smile that enlivened her soft, appealing face. Since childhood she had hoped to be an artist, but after study at the Villa Medici she’d had to face the bitter truth of not being quite good enough to make it a career. Teaching was the answer, but as Rome seemed full of tutors she went to Lombardy. At the school in Santa Maria the headmaster took one look at her and offered the post, before she’d had time to give references or admit her tender youth.

  She was still relatively new when she visited the public library one night to do some research on regional folk lore. A placard informed her a meeting was in progress to support war hero Salvatore Minnelli as a candidate in the forthcoming mayoral election. As he was the centre of attention it was natural to look up from her research to briefly study him. She saw a tall, well-built man with dark hair and brown eyes, casually dressed in cotton trousers and an open-neck shirt. She liked that; he looked comfortable and at ease amid the others in business suits and ties.

  By then he’d noticed her. For a few seconds—although it felt longer—they surveyed each other. She was unaware that most other men in the library were observing her, but Salvatore knew this. He noticed how she returned to her study, but moments later sneaked another brief glance at him. That was when he smiled at her. She saw the smile but busily tried to resume her research and did not know the meeting was over until he sat in a vacant chair beside her.

  “You must be the new arts teacher,” he murmured. “I’m Salvatore, who’d like to buy you coffee and find out if you’ll vote for me.”

  “I’m Beatrice Farina, and I’ve already decided to vote for you.”

  “How about the coffee?” he asked.

  “White, with one sugar,” said Beatrice.

  They soon became a topic in the region. Mothers with aspiring daughters were frustrated. The headmaster, Gaston Fabritzi, who had his own intentions toward her, was jealous and did not to vote for this opportunist. He spread gossip of their age difference: Minnelli was now thirty, she was almost twenty. When they married two months later, Beatrice said an eleven-year age gap was no problem for anyone so deeply in love. They spent a week of their honeymoon in Rome and a second hedonistic week on Capri. Ten months later their first child was born, a son they named Carlo, followed after two years by a daughter Giorgina.

  They were a happy couple. If the vineyard did not return large profits, it didn’t matter. Salvatore, having won his first term as mayor, was able to draw allowances from the regional budget. His inspection of local rules revealed there were generous amounts open to the occupant if claimed for costs relating to official duties. There were also some less legitimate requests for building licences that generated tax free bonuses. He was meticulous with the paperwork of these dealings; they allowed them to live in comparative comfort, as if the vineyard itself was a thriving venture. Only Salvatore knew otherwise; the vines were his means to a more distant ambition. He intended his son would one day grow up to run the estate while he moved to a more appropriate and powerful position in Rome.

  Beatrice had no knowledge of these political ambitions during the early years of their marriage. She helped him to win a second term as mayor, and lived a contented life with only one regret; the lack of any talented students in her class at the school. She tried to enjoy teaching them to paint but it was hard to be excited by the work they produced. Although art was compulsory for senior boys and girls, the sketches she had to mark usually resembled stick-insects rather than people. It was difficult to be judgemental, having been an artist herself she knew the pain of failure. It was not their fault they lacked creative flair; art could not be taught by rote. It was a gift and, as much as she wished she could bestow it on students, this was beyond her ability.

  When Carlo turned five he began to attend the primary class at the same school. The following year Beatrice’s father bought her a two seater Fiat, so she could drive him. Until then Salvatore had taken them both there each day in the vineyard truck. She’d listened to her son asking endless questions about their vines and her husband’s flow of answers. She was aware of a close accord between them and it became a common sight at weekends or school holidays—the small figure of Carlo following Salvatore among the vines to p
ull out weeds or learn pruning, filling a barrow with debris and wheeling it to the compost heap or incinerator.

  Because of this by the age of ten he was almost as well known in the district as both his parents. Salvatore was now planning to stand for a third term as mayor. Nineteen twenty-nine and thirty had been difficult years with the world depression, and additional costs as both the children grew; Giorgina, now called Gina, was at a young lady’s college and needed uniforms. Carlo was growing out of his clothes, shooting inches taller each year. His son’s liking for the vineyard had Salvatore dreaming of his own secret and very different future. It was then that he confided to Beatrice what he had in mind. They were in bed, naked after a very satisfying erotic encounter. He picked his time, knowing she was always compliant after sex.

  “Amore mio, I’ve been thinking about our future.”

  “What about it Sal?”

  “When Carlo leaves school, he’ll know more about this place than I do. He could easily take over the vineyard, if something better came along for me.”

  “Something better?”

  “Well, maybe a different kind of job. Remember how we always said I might try something new? If I did, this would be a perfect way to keep the property still in the family.”

  “It might.” She was still languid from sensual bliss, but puzzled why he had raised this matter at such a time. “What’s brought this on?” she asked.

  “Just thinking about us and the future. It’s hard work to run this place. I’m about to be forty.”

  “You don’t make love like someone almost forty,” she said, snuggling against him. Any other night he’d take this as a cue for a repeat performance. Tonight, it was an interruption he abruptly dismissed.

  “Forty next month,” he said, “and the clock’s ticking. I don’t want to be running this vineyard at fifty, when our son is a capable twenty-one year-old.”

  “Something new, you said? What does that mean, caro?”

  “Politics,” he replied. “I know we don’t always agree on government,” he said, aware that she did not share his enthusiasm for Mussolini’s rule, “but after a third term as Mayor I want something different. So, I’d like to feel sure that Carlo will be the future of this place. He’s keen, he loves the work, and I’ve taught him all I know. But at present this should be just for us. A private pact between you and me.”