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.

‘You Italian?’ he’d queried, looking Pietro up and down, and Pietro had finally raised his eyes and nodded.

‘I’ll put you on Lucky’s team – Lucky speaks every lingo under the sun. Come on, I’ll show you blokes your accommodation.’

From that day on, Pietro’s life had changed. He loved Spring Hill. He’d expected tents. The interpreter in Sydney had explained to him that he was going to a ‘work camp’, and a work camp meant tents. But Spring Hill was a town of eight hundred people. There in the wilderness, among the red gums, the blackbutts and the silver birch, with the mountains forming a backdrop and the river flowing nearby, were streets and rows of neat, prefabricated staff cottages with front verandahs and gardens. And the adjacent camp, although less sophisticated, was equally impeccable, with lines of barracks and single cabins, ablution blocks, a huge mess hall, and a wet canteen where the men gathered over their beers at night.

Pietro had been allotted the end room in a line of barracks, and he kept it in pristine condition. Of a similar size to the one-man cabins, the rooms in the barracks were small, each housing no more than an iron-framed bed and a tallboy and lowboy made of plywood, but Pietro was inordinately proud of his new home. He’d acquired blue curtains for his window, an orange bedspread for his pallet, and a small blue mat with orange trim for the floor so that everything matched. They looked quite new, although they weren’t.

‘They is old, Pietro, I am soon throw them out, please you take them,’ Vesna had insisted in her colourfully broken English.

It was Lucky who had introduced him to Vesna and her husband, Miroslav, who lived in one of the staff cottages. They were Yugoslavs, and Miroslav was an engineer. Pietro had been surprised and a little overawed when Lucky had taken him to their home, but then Lucky had done so much for him. It seemed sometimes that Lucky had adopted him and, although there was only sixteen years difference in their ages, Pietro had quickly seized upon Lucky as the father he couldn’t remember.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Lucky had said over their beers in the wet canteen on Pietro’s third night.

Pietro had worked hard for the past three days. He’d wanted to. Language barriers appeared to present little problem to the others, the men communicating with gestures or yelling for others to interpret if necessary, but although there were a number of Italians among the forty-man team, Pietro had found it difficult to join in the general camaraderie. His natural reserve had made him reclusive. So he’d decided to prove his worth another way. He would show them that, despite his slight build, he was strong. Strong and not afraid of hard work. And the work had been very hard.

There were many work sites around Spring Hill. The first of the Scheme’s major projects, the Guthega dam, power station, three-mile tunnel and interconnecting steel pipeline, was due for completion the following year, and the race was on.

Assigned to Lucky’s team, Pietro’s job had been in the smaller of the tunnels, loading the skips after firing. The aqueduct system, designed to pick up the maximum run-off from tributaries feeding into the Snowy River, required many miles of tunnels, far smaller than the massive ones through which the river itself would be channelled. The run-off water would eventually be piped through these tunnels into the nearby dam already nearing completion.

The face was drilled with jackhammers, the holes loaded with gelignite, then fired. An hour later, after the ventilating system had cleared away the fumes, the workers reentered the claustrophobic tunnel, barely two yards high, and with hands and shovels they collected the debris, using spalling hammers to break up the rocks too big to lift. Then they pushed the skips along rail tracks to the spoil dump outside.

‘Come on, Pietro, tell me about yourself,’ Lucky had again prompted in Italian when the boy had remained silent. ‘You’re a hard worker, I can see that much,’ he’d added encouragingly. ‘What’s your background?’

Pietro had looked self-consciously around the wet canteen, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the unintelligible conversation of men. A card game was going on in one corner and, in another, men were laying bets on an unknown wager; no-one was paying them any attention.

‘I worked for a year on a construction site in Milano,’ he’d said, then returned his attention to his beer, hoping the simplicity of such a reply would suffice.

But it hadn’t. ‘So you’re from Milano?’ Lucky appeared most interested.

Pietro had been impressed by the man from the moment he’d met him, as most people were. Lucky was far more than a foreman: he was everybody’s friend. A German, he also spoke English and Italian fluently and seemed to have a passable knowledge of any number of other languages, which made him a bit of a mystery. But he shrugged off enquiry, simply saying, ‘I have an ear and an interest.’

Physically strong, Lucky would have been handsome, had it not been for the puckered scar on his temple that made his left eye droop like a bloodhound’s. Lucky had natural authority and an intense charm, qualities which had served him well when he’d arrived with the first batch of Snowy workers in ’49.

Looking up from his beer, Pietro had felt himself succumb to the keenness of the enquiry and the eager intelligence in Lucky’s gaze, which even the disfigured eye could not disguise. Perhaps he was merely flattered that a man such as Lucky would find him of interest, but Pietro had a sudden desire to admit to the mystery of his life. He had told others his story before. In Milano he’d made no secret of his memory loss, although he had not relished the discussion it occasionally invited. But during his job interviews, both in Italy and Australia, he had been careful to admit to none of his past, fearful that it would affect his employment prospects.

‘In a way I am from Milano, yes,’ he answered carefully. ‘I lived there for many years, but it was never my home. I come from the mountains.’

His considered response had clearly intrigued Lucky, who forgot that he’d finished his beer and had been about to get another. ‘Where in the mountains?’

‘I do not know. I can remember only the snow, and the mountain peaks so high they block out the sun. And in the spring, the rocks and the grasses and the flowers, and the pine forests in the valley below. And I can remember the goats.’

He didn’t want to dwell upon the goats. During the occasions when jagged fragments of memory returned, the goats were the clearest image of all. Pietro liked the goats, but he didn’t welcome them when they became too vivid – when he could see their teats and feel the rubbery warmth in his hands as he milked them – for such clarity invariably preceded a seizure. He could never remember what images followed the goats, but when the fit had passed, he was always left with a sense of horror.

Through his shirt, Pietro fingered the sturdy piece of leather strap which rested against his chest, an automatic gesture. He always wore it on a thin length of twine around his neck. When he felt a fit coming on, he would place it between his teeth so that he would not bite through his tongue.

‘I cannot remember my home, or my family.’ His tone became matter-of-fact. It was never wise to become emotional, and he did not intend to tell Lucky about the fits. ‘I can remember nothing but the Convent of the Sacred Heart where they took me when I was eleven years old. I was told that I had been wandering the streets of Milano living on scraps from rubbish bins in the alleys behind restaurants and cafes. I don’t know how I got there, and they told me that I could say nothing but my name, Pietro, over and over. It was many months before I spoke any more, they said.’

Pietro was gratified by Lucky’s avid attention – he had wanted to impress his new friend – but he didn’t wish to sound sorry for himself, so he smiled. ‘There were many war orphans at the convent, and they played us music on the gramophone, so I called myself Toscanini.’

‘You must forgive me, Pietro. I am too nosy, I always have been, it is a flaw in my nature.’ Lucky had seen the flicker in the boy’s eyes as he’d embarked upon his story, and he chastised himself. There were many on the Snowy who had pasts they did not wish to revisit. The boy had been traumatised and he should not have pushed him. ‘I am sorry.’

‘But there is no need to be,’ Pietro insisted, surprised by Lucky’s obvious remorse. ‘I wished to tell you my story.’

‘One day I will tell you mine, my young friend.’ Lucky grinned as he rose, tapping a finger to his bloodhound eye. ‘How I came by this, eh? But for now, I will get you another beer.’

Ever since that night, Lucky had taken Pietro under his wing. He had encouraged him to attend the English classes held in the mess hall two nights a week, and Pietro had applied himself diligently. And when Lucky had invited Pietro to the home of his friends, Miroslav and Vesna, he had encouraged the boy to practise his new language. Pietro had been shy at first, but it had been Vesna who had put him at his ease.

‘My English is too bad,’ she had said, and when her husband had laughed, she had demanded, ‘Why is wrong?’

‘My English, too, is bad,’ Miroslav had corrected her.

‘Yes, most bad,’ she had agreed. ‘So we is practise together, Pietro.’

It had been easy after that, and Pietro had become good friends with Vesna as they clumsily helped each other master the language.

She told him her background. She was Serbian, she said, and Miroslav was Croatian, and they came from towns just a mile either side of the border. But they hadn’t met in the old country; they had met in Australia eighteen months before.

‘All my life Miroslav live two mile away,’ she laughed, ‘and I meet him first week I am in Brisbane.’

Miroslav had been in Brisbane for three years when they’d met and, having served out his two-year Displaced Persons contract, had received his accreditation as an engineer. They had fallen in love the moment they first met, Vesna said, much to the disapproval of their respective families. Miroslav’s brother, who had also emigrated, had severed all ties with him.

‘The Serbs and the Croats,’ she said, ‘is much hate. But for Miroslav and me, we leave this behind. We is Australia now. Is new life here.’

Pietro vehemently agreed with her. He, too, was embracing his new life, feeling himself grow stronger with each week that passed. Just as the physical labour honed and strengthened his body, so the company of his fellow workers and the gradual ability to communicate strengthened his belief in himself.

But it was Lucky who had made the deepest impression upon him, for it was Lucky who had taught him to love the landscapes of his new country.

On a Sunday, several weeks after Pietro’s arrival, the two had travelled the countryside together in one of the Land Rovers to which Lucky appeared to have constant access. He had earned the right. He was Rob Harvey’s most valued foreman, not only because of his communication skills and his popularity with the men, but for the fact that he doubled as a motor mechanic. Although not officially qualified, there was very little Lucky didn’t know about cars. They were his obsession, and he would happily spend all his recreational time tinkering with engines that needed attention. Rob Harvey quite rightly considered it only fair that Lucky should have a vehicle at his ready disposal.

They had driven into the mountains and pulled up beside the banks of the mighty Snowy, and Lucky had painted the pictures in Italian for Pietro. Normally he insisted upon speaking English to further the boy’s education, but he’d wanted to communicate his passion.

‘During the snowmelt, Pietro,’ he’d said, ‘she roars down the mountain like herds of wild white horses. She is magnificent.’ He’d been silent for a while, before adding with a touch of regret, ‘I sometimes think it is sad that we are harnessing her.’ Then he’d started up the Land Rover and they’d driven still higher, to where the track ended and where, far above them, the craggy tips of the Snowies were clothed in white.

‘Your new mountains, Pietro. Perhaps not as high as your alps in Italy, but just as splendid, do you not agree?’ Pietro had nodded, and Lucky had said, ‘They are your home now.’

As they’d wound their way back down the track, Lucky had waved through the windows, an all-embracing gesture at the trees passing by. ‘Just look at them,’ he’d said admiringly, and Pietro had. They were so varied, he’d thought, different from the alpine forests he could still vaguely recall. Some were black and stunted, while the pure white trunks and graceful limbs of others shimmered in the sun.

‘The trees are like women, Pietro,’ Lucky had smiled. ‘See how the blackbutt bends? She looks plain now, but when winter comes she will accept her burden of snow with ease, for she is a contortionist and she knows she is pretty in white. And the snow gum,’ he’d added, with a mock frown of disapproval, ‘the snow gum is shameless. She is a hedonist, basking in the sun. She is white and virginal now, but in the early autumn, she will flaunt her summer tan and turn a deep shade of terracotta.’ He’d laughed out loud, thoroughly enjoying himself.

‘And now I will show you Monaro country. It is a good time of year for you to see it, before the snow covers the high plains.’

When they were back in the valley, his mood had again become serious. ‘You thought this land was barren when you first arrived, Pietro, but you were wrong. There are whole worlds that live in these hills and plains.’

And he’d driven Pietro through a landscape that made him breathless with its beauty and variety. A landscape of rolling hills and grassy valleys. Of escarpments overlooking vast, treeless plains where the orange heads of the kangaroo fronds mingled with the silver-gold of the native grasses to ripple in the summer breeze like a massive multi-coloured river.

‘It is so alive,’ Pietro said as they gazed across the plain. He was reminded of the children’s picture book Sister Anna Maria had given him for his thirteenth birthday, Animals of Africa it had been called. ‘It looks like a sea of lions’ manes,’ he said. The countryside was taking on a new life to Pietro as he viewed it through Lucky’s eyes.

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.