Heritage by Judy Nunn Page A

Cooma, Elvio knew that Dodds Family Hotel was Lucky’s favourite hangout, just as Lucky himself knew that the brothers usually drank with their mates at the Railway or the Cooma. The offer to meet at Dodds was Elvio’s unspoken apology for his workmates’ unfriendliness.
    â€˜Of course,’ Lucky replied. ‘I will be there in an hour.’
    When he’d gone, Luigi announced that he and the others were off to the Railway, but Elvio declined to join them. He would wander around the showgrounds until it was time to meet Lucky, he replied pointedly. ‘What do you say, Pietro? Shall I challenge you to a shooting contest?’ Pietro thankfully agreed.
    The Capelli brothers parted a little coldly. Luigi knew that Elvio was cross with him for his perceived rudeness to Lucky, but he’d intended no insult to Lucky at all. Lucky was their friend. Lucky was different. It was those other German bastardos he couldn’t abide.
    â€˜What was that about?’ Pietro asked, as he and Elvio headed off for the shooting gallery.
    â€˜Italians and Germans,’ Elvio shrugged. ‘They do not mix.’
    â€˜Here they do, don’t they?’ Pietro queried. He had not encountered any such friction at Spring Hill. ‘Here we are all Snowy men.’ He glanced back at the tent where Jim Sharman was once again touting through the loudhailer, his boxers lined up on the platform, Patrick Murphy having made a remarkable recovery. ‘We should have been backing the Snowy man in the fight.’
    Elvio smiled. At times Pietro seemed bordering on simple, he thought, which was not surprising given the boy’s sheltered upbringing, but his simplicity was refreshing in its innocence.
    â€˜You are right, Pietro,’ he said, ‘but people cannot change overnight. Some find it difficult to leave their hatred behind. I, too, have no liking for Germans,’ he admitted, ‘but it does not mean I wish to pick fights as Luigi does. That is an unfortunate part of his nature.’
    â€˜But you and Luigi both like Lucky,’ Pietro persisted, genuinely puzzled. ‘And Lucky is a German.’
    â€˜Lucky is different.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Lucky is a Jew.’
    â€˜Oh. Is he?’ Pietro had never met a Jew. Not that he was aware of. There had certainly been no Jews at the orphanage throughout his schooling, nor during the four years he’d stayed on at the Convent of the Sacred Heart as a gardener. And during his twelve months at the building site in Milano, there had been no Jews. But then perhaps there had been, he thought; how would he have known? And then it occurred to him that there must be many Jews working on the Snowy and that he’d probably met lots of them, it was just that nobody had ever bothered pointing them out to him.
    â€˜Does that mean that Lucky is not a real German then?’ he asked as they arrived at the shooting gallery, and Elvio laughed as he dug some coins out of his pocket.
    â€˜You ask too many questions, Pietro,’ he said, giving the money to the man behind the counter, who passed him two rifles. ‘Questions too complicated for me to answer.’ He handed one of the rifles to Pietro. ‘Here,’ he said in English, ‘my shout.’
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    In the Agricultural Hall, Lucky pushed through the crowds that meandered about the exhibits and flower displays, weaving his way as best he could towards the kitchen where he knew Peggy would be working hard with the team of ladies serving refreshments.
    The vast hall had seen better days but was still impressive. Upon its official opening in 1887, the pavilion had been described as ‘the finest in the Colony south of Sydney’ and over the years it had served Cooma well. Now known as the Agricultural Hall, it was not only a showground pavilion but a regular venue for balls and all other manner of social events. It was currently even serving as a temporary school. The