Heritage (3 page)

‘You are permitted to pack one suitcase. You have three minutes,' he ordered.

‘We are packed already,' Mannie said. He knew where Samuel and Ruth kept the suitcase. They had been prepared for such a moment for the past two years.

One of the SS men accompanied him into the bedroom and watched while Mannie slid the suitcase out from under the bed and took Ruth's coat with its Star of David from the peg behind the door.

Mannie didn't know why he was doing what he was doing. Perhaps it was to assuage his shame as a Roman Catholic, although he was sure his death would serve little purpose. Perhaps it was his love for Ruth and his instinctive desire to protect her. Who could say? He only knew that what he was doing was right, and that he was prepared to pay the price.

He draped the coat over her shoulders and Ruth, in a state of shock, allowed him to guide her to the door. Mannie glanced back briefly at the body of his friend, the stream of Samuel's blood now gathering about one of the legs of the dining room table. Then, both oblivious to the officious barking of the Oberleutnant, he and Ruth stepped out into the hall.

‘Juden raus! Raus! Schnell! Schnell!'

The Gestapo officer switched off the light and pulled the door closed behind them. How he wished the man would shut up.

They came from everywhere. Within a matter of months, the mountain work camps and townships of the Monaro rang with a cacophony of unfamiliar accents and languages which confused both the locals and the hundreds of their fellow countrymen who had flocked to the area looking for work. Even city-bred Australians, who'd bumped into the odd ‘Wog' and considered themselves relatively sophisticated, were confounded. They were outnumbered by the Europeans, and bewildered by the sudden onslaught of foreign accents and the sights and smells of strange foods. Garlic wafted from the kitchens of the Italians; the Poles and the Czechs ate evil-looking, thick sausages; the Germans downed sauerkraut by the bucket-load; and the Norwegians, incomprehensibly, relished soused herring and pickled rollmops with their beer. The previously sheltered Australians didn't know what to make of this avalanche of new sensations.

It had been on August 1, 1949 that fifty-three-year-old William Hudson was appointed Commissioner of the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Authority. ‘Ahead of us lie many years of toil, numerous obstacles to be surmounted and, I have no doubt, many disappointments,' he announced in his radio broadcast to the nation. ‘But these are what make the achievement worthwhile. The nation has accepted the Scheme and if I judge Australians rightly, we will see that it goes through.'

The people of Australia listened in awe as Hudson unfolded the plans for the massive construction scheme, the most ambitious ever to be undertaken in their country.

The waters of the Snowy River were to be diverted from their path to the sea by a series of tunnels under the Great Dividing Range. The waters would be channelled westwards into the Murrumbidgee and Murray Rivers, whose flow would be regulated by the provision of two main water storage areas, Jindabyne and Adaminaby Dams. The Snowy Scheme had two principal purposes: the irrigation of dry inland areas, and the creation of a massive source of electrical power. As the accumulated waters were diverted through the system of tunnels and reservoirs, the energy generated by their movement would be stored at various stages in power stations where it would be converted into electricity. It was estimated that the Scheme would require the construction of approximately fifty miles of aqueducts, ninety miles of tunnels, sixteen large dams and seven power stations.

Commissioner Hudson set about the task with all the energy and commitment for which he was renowned. Overseas contractors were employed, not only for their engineering expertise and the supply of heavy equipment and vehicles, but for the construction of temporary ‘townships' at the many work sites.

The Snowy Scheme was to be a long haul – twenty-five years in all – and men couldn't live in tents forever, especially during the bitterly cold winter months.

Most important to the success of the Scheme was the supply of workers, both skilled and non-skilled. An undertaking of such magnitude demanded legions of workers along with the hundreds of specialists required and, with a population of only eight million and a critical post-war shortage of men, Australia had to look overseas for labour. The call went out.

The Australian Government's offer resonated throughout war-torn Europe and was answered in droves. Those whose lives had been destroyed by the ravages of war felt a new world was opening for them.

The Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Authority considered the combination of so many nationalities a potential danger and initially established separate camps for the local and migrant workers. An ‘Aussie' camp and a ‘New Australian' camp were erected on opposite sides of the Snowy River, just downstream from Jindabyne. The latter quickly became known as ‘Wog Camp', the Aussies choosing to ignore the official term ‘New Australians', referring instead to their fellow workers as Reffos, Balts, Wogs, Krauts, Eyeties, Dagos and any number of other derogatory titles.

None of these names seemed to overly bother the Europeans, though some new arrivals found the Australians' inability to distinguish between different nationalities irritating. Germans and Poles, bitter enemies in their home countries, disliked being collectively referred to as ‘Wogs', and Hungarians and Czechs were annoyed at being dismissed as ‘Balts'. But for the most part, the Europeans understood that the Australians' attitude was a product of insecurity and ignorance. Australia had no bordering countries, no immediate neighbours whose languages and cultures differed from their own. The European Snowy workers, unlike their counterparts in the cities, were not a lonely, stigmatised minority. They were not easily threatened. Buoyed by the strength of their numbers, they recognised the Australians for what they were: naive.

Cooma, the largest of the Monaro townships, with easy rail access from Sydney and Canberra, had been selected as the Authority's headquarters. Satellite townships of prefabricated houses and facilities were erected to the north and the east of the town. As the migrants continued to pour into the township, Cooma became a microcosm of Europe and proximity forced its local inhabitants to recognise and accept their new neighbours. In the nearby rural townships of Adaminaby, Berridale and Jindabyne acceptance was more gradual, with many of the townspeople fearful of the unfamiliar and ‘different'.

But it was the workers themselves who first forged the bond that slowly spread throughout the mountains and valleys and plains. Workers started referring to themselves simply as ‘Snowy men' and, although there was occasional friction, the Authority's fears of fierce racial disharmony proved groundless. Commissioner Hudson's policy from the outset had been one of assimilation, and his presence remained a daily driving force for harmony throughout the region.

By the early 1950s mobile houses were already replacing tents in many work camps. The prefabricated structures, built on sled bases and known as ‘snow huts', were transported to each new site as the work progressed. In areas where labour was required over a long period for a particular phase of the project, mobile settlements became townships with married couples' quarters and prefabricated cottages, and single men's huts and barracks. There were canteens, mess halls, and entertainment facilities, and an overall sense of permanency prevailed as ‘Snowy people' formed bonds that would last a lifetime. Communities flourished, gardens were carefully tended and the simplest of houses became nurtured homes.

 

It was to one of these townships that young Pietro Toscanini arrived in early 1954.

Twenty-year-old Pietro had been bewildered when he'd arrived at the picturesque railway station of Cooma and walked through the gates to the forecourt overlooking the town below. They'd told him in Sydney that he was going to the Snowy Mountains. But where were the mountains? Where was the snow? He'd anticipated a replica of his native alpine Italy, but all he could see were distant low-lying hills surrounding a vast plain, in the centre of which sat a shabby town with makeshift settlements sprawling either side. The heat, too, confused him. It was so hot that he was sweating beneath the fine wool suit he'd purchased before he'd left his home country. It was the only suit he possessed, the latest fashion with tapering collar and trouser legs, and he'd worn it to impress his new employers.

He'd been comforted, though, by the crowds of fellow passengers pouring through the gates into the forecourt, speaking all manner of languages other than English. He might have been in Europe, he'd thought, and he'd found it most reassuring. The several days he had spent in Sydney prior to his departure for the Snowy had not been pleasant.

‘We speak English here, mate,' he'd been brusquely informed when he'd tried to buy a beer in a pub. But hadn't the man realised he'd been trying to speak English? he'd wondered. He'd said ‘please' and ‘thank you', two of the terms he knew, like ‘hello' and ‘goodbye', and he'd since discovered that ‘bira' sounded very like ‘beer'. And then the man had looked him up and down and muttered a snide remark to the others at the counter. Although Pietro had been unable to understand the actual words, he'd known it was a derogatory comment on his appearance. Why? His new suit was far smarter and more fashionable than the shapeless baggy trousers worn by the men in the bar. Pietro had decided that the man, along with most of the other Sydneysiders he'd met, simply did not like him, and he'd wondered why.

He'd made friends on the train trip. Or rather the men who had spoken to him had made friends with him. Shy by nature, Pietro had not joined in the conversation, although the three were seated nearby and speaking in Italian. He'd unashamedly eavesdropped, though, relishing the sound of his mother tongue.

Two of the men, who appeared in their mid-thirties, were brothers. They had been chatting animatedly to each other and the third man had introduced himself to them. He didn't look Italian, but spoke the language fluently. It turned out he was a Czech from Prague, but his wife was Italian. His name was Frydek and he was a geologist, he told the brothers, but he would have to work two years as a labourer under the government's Displaced Persons contract before his qualifications would be accredited. He was going to send home every penny he earned, he said, so that his wife and baby son could join him.

The brothers, Luigi and Elvio Capelli, were carpenters brought out by Legnami Pasotti's firm to join the hundreds of other Northern Italians contracted to build houses and barracks for the Snowy workforce.

The conversation had been in full swing when the elder of the two Capelli brothers, Elvio, had turned to Pietro. ‘And where are you from, my friend?' he'd asked.

Pietro had been embarrassed. He hadn't thought his eavesdropping had been so apparent.

‘Milano,' he'd stammered self-consciously. He wasn't really from Milano. Not originally. He was from the mountains. But how could he tell them that he could not remember the first half of his life? He hoped they wouldn't ask too many questions.

‘Ah, Milano,' Elvio had enthused. ‘We, too, are from Milano, what a small world, eh? Come and join us, what is your name?' He hadn't been aware of Pietro's eavesdropping at all, he'd merely recognised the young man as an Italian, and a Northerner at that, but he was aware that the boy was lonely, in need of company, and that he appeared a little shy.

Elvio was a sensitive man and, realising that Pietro didn't wish to be interrogated, he'd quickly reverted to general conversation; then, when they reached Cooma, he announced that they were all good friends and they must keep in touch.

‘We are to be based in Cooma,' he said to Pietro. ‘What about you?'

‘I don't know,' Pietro replied. ‘A work camp somewhere. It's called Spring Hill. I'm to be met at the station.'

They'd bade each other farewell on the railway platform, Pietro promising he would visit his newfound friends, and then he'd walked through the gates and stood on the forecourt, patiently waiting to be found by the person who was to meet him.

The crowd had dispersed until finally there'd been six men left, two chatting in Hungarian and the others, of indeterminate nationality, wandering about impatiently. Finally, an Australian in a grubby open-necked shirt, shorts and sandals, who had been lounging against a nearby Land Rover, walked up to them. He was carrying a clipboard.

‘G'day. You the blokes for Spring Hill?'

He'd ticked their names off the list and, together with the five other men, Pietro had been piled into the back of the canvas-covered Land Rover and driven through the centre of Cooma on his way to the work camp.

Cooma had intrigued Pietro. It was not large, but it was not at all the shabby town it had appeared from the railway station. To his right was a neat, green park where families picnicked and children climbed the railings of the small rotunda in the centre. The main thoroughfare was busy with traffic, the pavements bustled with people milling about awning-fronted shops and on either side of the broad, dusty boulevard stood graceful hotels with balconies of ornate iron lace.

Pietro barely had time to drink it all in before he'd found himself clinging to the Land Rover railings as it bounced its way over rough gravel roads towards the settlement approximately fifty miles from Cooma. The trip would take about an hour and a half, the driver had told them.

‘Good day for it,' the taciturn Aussie had remarked, ‘takes about four hours in winter when the weather's crook, and sometimes you have to wait until the snow-ploughs have been through.' Then he'd lapsed into silence.

The men – a German, a Pole, a Norwegian and the two Hungarians – had chatted jovially during the trip, mostly in passable English, and Pietro had been able to offer nothing more than his name and ‘how do you do', a greeting which he had mastered to perfection. The huge, blond Norwegian had slapped him on the back and said ‘You will be right, mate,' in a grotesque imitation of an Aussie accent and the others had laughed.

‘Welcome to Spring Hill.' The Australian who'd greeted them was a lean, fit man of around forty, with a pleasant smile, but a manner that clearly indicated his authority. ‘I'm your boss,' he'd said with a brisk handshake all round. ‘Name's Rob Harvey. You men speak English?'

The others had all nodded, and as the boss had clasped his hand Pietro had stared at the ground, shaking his head in embarrassment.

‘No worries, mate.' Good-looking kid, Rob thought, bit on the skinny side, though; he'd need toughening up.

Rob Harvey, Site Engineer, was responsible for overseeing all the work sites at Spring Hill, liaising with the Norwegian contractors, the myriad sub-contractors, and the Authority itself, namely Commissioner William Hudson. But, although well placed among the hierarchy, Rob chose to live in the ‘wages' camp with the workers, rather than the ‘staff' camp that housed the engineers and clerical employees. He liked to keep in direct contact with the men and take a personal interest in each of his workers.