Heritage (5 page)

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.

Jim Sharman's boxers, despite their ludicrous claims to fame, were indeed professionals adept at choreographing a fight. They knew how to prolong the action and how to take a dive, and they always obeyed their instructions, the principal one being that no punter was to be badly hurt. Jim couldn't afford to lose his licence.

Pietro, Lucky and the Italians were among the first to enter the tent and took ringside spots beside the makeshift roped-off square in the centre. Erik's friends, keen to spur on their mate, quickly jostled their way to the front on the opposite side.

The tent was packed. Money rapidly changed hands as men laid bets on whether Erik would last three rounds. The other professional boxers, now clad in robes and doubling as bouncers, wandered the periphery of the ring keeping the crowd several feet from the ropes, while Jim stood in the centre bawling instructions.

‘Stand back, give them air, don't crowd the ring.' Then finally, as the mob settled, came the dramatic announcement: ‘And now let's hear it for … Patrick Murphy! Two-time All Ireland Champion!' The Italians and the Irish vociferously applauded Patrick Murphy as he stepped into the ring and danced about, gloved hands delivering forceful air-punches. The others reserved their applause for the local contender.

‘And here he is! Will he make the three rounds? Has he got the stamina? Let's hear it for our latest contender … Erik! The new Max Schmeling! All the way from Germany!'

Along with the Germans, the majority of men cheered their fellow Snowy worker as he climbed into the ring, but Luigi and his mates voiced their disapproval at the top of their lungs and, as the applause died down and the men went to their corners, the Italians continued to boo loudly.

‘Enough! Enough!' Jim eventually roared. ‘Give it a rest, give the boy a break, and let's commence …' A dramatic pause … ‘Round One!' He delivered the signal. The bell rang. The men came out of their corners and the fight was on.

Erik was fit and strong. Two years' heavy physical labour on the Snowy had brought him to peak condition and, having won a number of amateur boxing championships in his home country, he was not altogether inexperienced.

None of this went unnoticed by Colin ‘Patrick Murphy' Jenkins. The kid was an amateur, sure, he thought, but not your regular mug. In fact, Erik was just the sort of bloke who could land a lucky punch. Col blocked and sparred, buying time, watching the young man like a hawk and, when he sensed the audience needed a bit more action, he landed a right to the face. A glancing blow, not too hard, just enough to urge the kid and the crowd on.

The Italians cheered Patrick Murphy's punch even louder than the Irish, and Erik's friends countered by roaring encouragement to him in German. Then the other men gave voice to their fellow Snowy worker and the cheers of Patrick Murphy's supporters were all but drowned out. ‘Give it to him, Erik!' the men yelled. ‘Go on, mate, you can do it!' And, fired up by the crowd, Erik did.

It was just what Col wanted: the kid was suddenly behaving like a mug, giving it all he had. Col could read him easily and he feinted twice before allowing one of the blows to glance him. The kid was going wild, the Germans were cheering, the Italians booing, and if the kid didn't watch it, Col thought, he'd run out of steam well before round three. He held him in a clinch so that the kid could get his breath back, and the bell rang end of round one.

During the next round, Jim Sharman, refereeing in the centre of the ring, kept his eyes and ears open to the mood of the crowd, as he always did. The Germans and Italians were yelling abuse at each other now, but Jim didn't mind. It was what he loved most about the Cooma Show. Everywhere else, from the big Royal Shows of the cities, to the smallest of rural community fairs, everyone rooted for the local boy. Here in Cooma there was the added excitement of faction against faction – it was a good crowd-pleaser. He gave the secret hand signal to Col to cop a couple more punches. The mob could do with an extra thrill – Erik was fired up and they were loving it. Col dutifully copped two more punches and the bell rang end of round two.

Halfway into round three Erik had tired himself out to such an extent that even Col's clinches, designed not only to give the kid air, but to signal to the crowd that he, too, was tiring, weren't really doing the trick. The kid was supposed to make it through, and if something didn't happen soon, Col thought, the crowd would sense a sham.

The two of them danced clumsily in the ring, locked together, and Col looked over Erik's heaving shoulder for Jim's hand signal. A lucky punch, it said. He'd thought as much. It irked him, it always did, but this time more so than ever. He pushed the kid away, got in three sharp jabs, none of which, he knew, would do any harm, before leaving himself open for the uppercut. He pulled his head up and to the left, going with the punch so that it would do little damage. Then he dropped.

The fight was over, and Patrick Murphy lay on his back attempting to struggle to his feet while Jim counted to ten. Then, when he stood, seemingly unsteady on his feet, conceding defeat, the crowd went wild. The Italians jeered at the All Irish Champion, and the Germans and the others cheered Erik as Jim held his arm high, announcing the winner.

With jeers and cheers ringing around the tent, Col leaned against the corner post, pretending a fatigue he didn't feel. Bugger it, he thought. The kid'd earn an extra quid for winning the fight instead of just seeing out the three rounds, and he'd be a hero to his mates. Col wondered what his own mates in Sydney would say if he told them he'd thrown a fight to a bloody Kraut. They wouldn't understand, he didn't himself, it only ever happened in Cooma. But shit, that was part of his job, he'd had half a dozen fights already today, and there'd be more to go, so no point dwelling on it.

As the mob poured out of the tent fifteen minutes later, two of the Germans hoisted Erik onto their shoulders, unintentionally barging into the Italians as they did so, which annoyed Luigi.

‘It was set up,' he said to his mates, very loudly and in English, so that the Germans could hear. ‘The fight, it was rigged.'

There was a tense moment, as Erik signalled his friends to put him down and the Germans squared up to the Italians.

‘You are a bad loser,' one of Erik's mates said.

Luigi was about to come back with a further retort – he was in the mood for trouble – but Elvio interrupted. ‘It was a good fight,' he said. And then Lucky stepped forward.

‘Ja. Das war ein gute Kampf, mein Freund,'
he said to the Germans and he offered his hand to Erik. ‘
Sehr gut, Erik
.'

‘
Danke schön
.' Erik returned the handshake and the moment passed, the Germans agreeing with Lucky that it had been an excellent fight, chatting to him in their mother tongue, patting their hero on the back and eventually dragging Erik off to ply him with beer.