Songs of the Murray Mallee.

Cliffs of the Murray River.

Riccardo and Rosaline.

#3...A New Generation.

Driven to even further places,

Into the Adelaide Hills they went,

To Lobethal, named valley of praise.

To Hahndorf to join their others,

Further East to Hamilton, Victoria,

Where verdant fields and fruitful crops.

Set up their Lutheran Faith and churches,

On more rich and promising pastures.

Still they, these tenacious pioneers

Stepped off ship with their families,

Stern determination of a surviving peoples.

Nothing could deter their ambitions,

Then came the wars,

Then came again the oppression,

Then came again the name changes,

Towns named of German favour,

Family names of German ancestry,

“Department of Nomenclature” opened,

A ludicrous absurdity of a spiteful government.

Forced German names to French.

Rhine River becomes The Marne,

Rhine Villa becomes Cambrai.

Hahndorf becomes Ambleside.

Steinfeld is twisted into Stonefield.

Sedan remains Sedan..

The French name chosen by German folk,

In mockery of French defeat there.

So Sedan remains unsuspected,

One parliamentry fool calls for Tanunda to be changed,

Unaware that it is Aboriginal, not German,

Mockery of the department of nomenclature,

Mockery of the government historical knowledge.

But the family names change,

Umlauts are dropped,

Letters in names are erased,

Anglo first names used to ameliorate hate

Of anything resembling German.

Then came the second world war,

Then came suspicions much deeper,

Then came recriminations,

Then came arrests,

Then came the internment camps.

*

He was interned as an “enemy alien”as soon as he stepped off the boat at Outer Harbour, Himself and any Italians that came on “The Rina”, departed Genoa 1939…Riccardo was given a choice, he could be interned in a camp in The Riverland, or, because he was a skilled mason, he could go to Darwin where workers were required to prepare the town for military deployments for a possible theatre of war..

Riccardo chose Darwin

He worked on the wharfs there till the town was bombed out by the Japanese and the citizens were evacuated..but not Riccardo..he had to have permission to travel, so the man where he lived asked, would he stay in the house there and look after his chooks…and he said yes, he would..but then there was no food to buy so Riccardo ate the chooks..one by one..and it haunted him many years later so he asked for forgiveness in solemn prayers for not looking after the man’s chooks..

Eventually, he was given permission to travel and he made his way down south through the outback, through Leigh Creek and Copley and the mid north untill he turned up at the Italian charcoal burning camp owned by a Mr. Foxx and run by Riccardo’s cousin and sponsor who brought him to Australia in 1939..The camp was inland from the Murray River near Blanchetown, where many more Italians were interned to cut the mallee and burn for charcoal for use as fuel in the trucks and cars that couldn’t get petrol to run them on account of the war.

*

What dignity the Great Depression,

Had not destroyed, tyrannical Government did.

Unity and community not only victims,

The mechanics of war machines,

Perfected the motor tractor.

Horse farming was then broken,

Horse trades were dismantled,

Gone the harness makers,

Gone the saddlers,

Gone the blacksmiths with the farriers.

Gone with their families from the towns.

Gone in almost the blink of an eye.

Come then the diesel tractors,

Come then the motor mechanics,

Come then motor garages centre,

Of the town’s chattering activity

Alongside church and hotel.

Gone also were the town bands,

Gone the church choirs,

With them went the cultural songs.

With them went small bakeries, butchers,

Haberdashery….gone,

Saddlery….gone,

Day labourers….gone.

But the smell of petrol and diesel remain.

And the lending banks came to town.

Like the parasites they ever are.

And compound interest came into farmer’s lives.

Tooling-up is expensive,

Family farms were regretfully mortgaged,

Bad years for cropping came and went,

Families mortgage payments came due and went,

Family farms became bank hostage,

Families became hopelessly indebted,

Families then went to bankrupt.

Whole era drew to a shuddering close.

Enter this community the wily Cornish,

Enter also the carefree Irish,

*

It wasn’t the most salubrious welcome home for the prodigal son when he turned up at the Moonta, Yorke Peninsula, home of his parents. He returned from his speculative jaunt to Sydney where he intended to start a new life away from the copper mines, the blacksmith forge and the horses..for Rick had trained as a blacksmith, his Cornish family along with many other Cornish people were brought from England to work the copper mines at Moonta…But Rick never grew to like the town, the work or his trade..

He landed in Sydney and immediately bumped into his future wife who also was rubber-necking on the marvellous sights..SHE, Alice, was in Sydney to join a convent, having had her heart broken by a lover she came out to marry, but who had got tired of waiting and married another..her heart was broken, but Rick’s was just then ignited and he waited outside the convent Alice had entered, patiently waiting for a sight of his new love, living off oranges and other fruits hanging over the convent wall..and bread and dripping secreted to him by the sympathetic nuns..till the Mother Superior, becoming alarmed at the handsome man hanging around the front gate of the convent, advised the novice Alice Jones that..;”Some of us are called to serve in the house of The Lord, Sister..while others are destined to shift in the world of men…”

A child followed soon after marriage and the young family made their way back to the family home of Rick Hocking, where he introduced his unannounced wife, new child and marriage and then promptly floored any remaining standing by informing his Methodist mother that he also had converted to Catholicism to marry his beloved.

“Oh faith!” she cried “Oh Lord God Almighty!” she lamented “He has brought The Pope into our house!”..

The young couple soon parted company from the ungratious family and made their way at the start of The Great Depression to camp with so many other in the “susso camps” along the Murray River.

*

Enter those Italians interned as enemies.

From that new world war.

Step into the picture a Cornish Tinker,

Step into the picture an Irish Mother,

Step into the picture an Italian mason.

Step into the picture the maiden he woos.

“Fair maiden” Riccardo calls “wither goest thou?”

Riccardo’s hand flat, inquisitory,

Like Italians do.

Rosaline instinctively understands,

Like maidens do.

“I go walking in the evening air, sir”,

She replies……He nods his head..smiles.

For this maiden was as beautiful as a rose.

As serene as a pasteled sunset,

As welcome to the Italian’s eyes as song to his heart.

“And a beautiful evening it is also, my lady”

“Yes…good sir…I mark how the evening light,

The pale pink of evening air throws gentle shadow,

On the soft, flowing waters of the Murray River.”

Rosaline dreamed to become a poet,

Riccardo just wanted to become employed.

“And you wander here every evening?”

“Yes, kind sir…for now is the time of my rest”

“From the big house?” Riccardo asks, pointing,

“From the station house” Rosaline replies nodding.

“From the Charcoal Burning camp, I come”,

“From the deep mallee of the Italians, come I”,

“You are then of the people of Italy?” she asks,

“Yes, fair maiden…I am of the Dolomites” he replies,

“You are one of the interned Italians?” Rosaline asks,

“I am of those same ones” Riccardo answered.

“I come to this place twice a week”, he tells,

“I come to this place for water of the camp” he tells.

“I come to this place for the pleasant scene” Rosaline says.

“Then when here next I come..” Riccardo says..

“Pray tell me you too may join me,

“In admiring the pale colours over tranquil waters”..

Riccardo smiled the smile of an admirer.

Rosaline blushed the blush of the admired.

“If good fortune allows, kind sir……I may.” she replied.

For Rosaline admired the form of this man,

Admired his calm confidence,

His strength of body,

Happy disposition.

“Addio till then fair maiden…addio!” Riccardo waves.

*

The Charcoal Burning Camp.

Rosaline’ diary..

“It Happened Nearly Day. . .The sun rises over the scrub and shows it is day, Magpies warble yonder, Galahs screech over the way…The camp begins to stir, the men are up and about, somebody waves a flagon…another a shout!

There is a clatter of dishes and mugs, campfires begin to flare, wood is cut and broken, cooking odours fill the air…Breakfast is over and done, a glass of wine is drank to ‘help one through the day’…Artini is off to do his cutting, his mighty axe on his bike slung…Gemano follows along walking and from him a song is sung.

The kitchen is cleaned and tidied, and mum is deep in her prayers, The children climb the trees, pretending they are steps and stairs…Edgar’s truck is ready and off to the scrub he goes, he takes so long out there, what he does, no-one knows..

Then all is still in the camp except the axes going afar, the children climb down from the trees and play around Mr. Foxx’s car…Then the clanging of iron tells that lunch is ready to have..

Lunch is over and done, and father takes his hat again, looks out to the heat and says..”I wish it would rain sometime.” Then off to work he goes..”lessons, children” mum calls, pencils are borrowed and lent.

NOW..at last I am free!

Off through the scrub I run, where sheep tracks only are seen, nothing but bush and the glaring sun..till all of a sudden I come to where an axe swings free and his watch hooked on a branch that stands nearby…Then the owner looks up of a sudden and gives me a happy smile..and says; “I hoped you would come”..and…..I stay there…quite a while…Then his watch from the branch is hastily taken down and we both heave a sigh..Quarter to twelve, oh my!…there is no time to waste..a kiss and I am gone so to be back before father’s work is done..I get back before him and panting I have not a word to say..the watch must have been slow (“you’ll have to put it on a touch, my lad”) I’m thinking..or we’ll both get caught and the game given away!

Then we wait for the butcher, who comes to the camp selling meat, he then goes to Blanchetown and gets there very late..We hear a curlew calling out loud to a faraway mate..

When tea is over and done, and we, the dishes clear..”Hallo!…scusa mei” a voice calls, and his head in the doorway appears so we then play at cards..and not before long I receive a soft and gentle kick, and I nearly play the card wrong..and I often think and wonder if it was me he kicked by mistake, somebody else perhaps was it meant  to take?

Well…it is getting late and it’s time to say “Addio” and he smiles and goes his way…but one thing I will make sure, is that we will meet again tomorrow!”

*

A passing moment a lifetime make?

A moment’s passion a lifetime’s mistake?

An Italian from the Dolomites,

A maiden from “breakheart country”.

A Maiden from the Murray Mallee.

What can be their union?

What can be their fate?

Can a moment’s passion become a lifetime’s mistake?

Riccardo to speak barely a word of English,

Rosaline not knowing one word of Italian,

But they met and exchanged pleasantries,

As only such attracted, diverse strangers could.

For what speaks clear the language of love,

Better than those who are clearly loving..

So will we listen in to their idle talk,

With the knowing ears of that universal language.

As even their great difference in age vanished,

As even Madam Time is paused,

Her dead hand held fast as woman slips past,

With but a glance, a wistful smile,

To those who adore.

Touch not vain man lest the moment spoil,

To but gaze upon and weep with desire.

And so they met, this diverse couple,

And Rosaline taught Riccardo the song of echos

Off the cliff-face over the river,

And there they sang songs of love to each other,

As the afternoon sun dipped into the Mallee,

At first their songs were for their own laughter,

And then their songs were for their own tempting,

And then came songs for their teasing,

And then came the songs of their loving….

Tender songs whispering to the swirling waters,

Humming the touch of breeze to leaves of the gum trees.

He sang the folk songs of his people,

Rosaline sang the song of her liking..”Thora”

Riccardo sang into the deep echos..

“What a lovely girl as she does pass,

Oh how beautiful she steals my heart!”

Oh how well you dance, my bonny lass,

How you dance so well your part.

See the Wren in the tree,

How beautiful it sings, it steals my heart!

Come, bonny girl..come dance with me.”

The words reformed and reverberated to Rosaline’s ears,

As a deep swirl of manly delight.

And then Rosaline sang into the echos..

“Thy voice in mine ear still mingles

With the voices of whisp’ring trees;

Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles

At each kiss of the summer breeze;

While dreams of the past are thronging

For substance of shades in vain,

I am waiting, watching, and longing —”

And her lyrical voice thrilled Riccardo’s ears,

And filled his heart with longing.

Each to each they sang into the echos

Of the cliffs over the river,

Over the soft swirling calm of the river,

Over the evening light of the river,

And the reverberating echoes mixed their songs

Until the words blended together in soft harmony,

Until the words filled up with gentle beauty,

Until the words flowed back to their ears,

Each to each filling their hearts.

Each to each filling their desires,

Each to each the words filled their senses,

In gentle, joined ecstasy..

And their eyes met each to each,

And their hands joined touching each to each,

And their arms reached to hold each to each,

And their faces turned to each together

And their lips touched in a kiss…

Each to each…kiss to kiss,

Riccardo gazed in loving embrace to Rosaline and spoke;

“Oh woman..thine eyes alone would tempt,

Greater gods than man’s humble creation,

To lay a king’s treasure at thy feet,

Thy beauty, even if only beheld in mine eye,

Enough to blind the honest to thievery,

And if thou desires,

Let thee accrue the price or cost,

Beholden to no man’s pitiful measure..

For thine is the cup that pours the bouquet,

Let know that YOU will choose the bloodline,

Your body the time and place..no disgrace”

Rosaline pulled Riccardo close to her body,

So her breasts were hard against his chest,

She looked up into his gaze and smiled,

And then placed a drop of her saliva to tip of her finger,

And lifted it to the lips of Riccardo,

Who parted his lips and took her onto his tongue.

Rosaline took Riccardo’s hand and placed it on her breast..

And there under the fall of the evening light whispered;

“Come to me Ricci’..come to me..have me here..have me now.”

And so they lay together on the banks of that mighty river.

On the grassy banks of the gentle, swirling river,

Under the pale pink of the evening air on the river,

Under the soft evening glow by the water.

And the woman made her choice,

Her choice..glory or vainglory,

Time can grow jealous, men grow old,

Let her choose to look to either,

Heaven befits a granted grace,

And such beauty will reach even the heart of a stone,

But the moment loaned of a woman’s touch

Is enough for a wanting man,

To satiate his thirst for a sensual desire,

To satiate any longing hunger for Heaven’s Gate.

(Nb. This is a “work in progress and may be altered or added to at any time….J.C.)