From camp barracks to living free in Australia part III

 Part III of the Binkevicius family journey to Australia.

The views of Italy were very pleasing to us. As the train stopped at one station, we could see the largest bunches of grapes hanging from vines just a few meters away. We eagerly scanned the stations to find an Italian selling fruit or wine, but we were out of luck. There were no vendors in sight, and we couldn’t run to the station cafeteria because the train was being guarded by policemen. They would disembark whenever the train stopped, standing watch on the platform. Despite this, our people exchanged some friendly words with them, as if they were old acquaintances.

The station buildings in Bolzano were magnificent. The Italians seemed determined to build beautiful, representative stations, and they were still following through with this campaign, even during Italy’s difficult economic times. We saw many stations under construction as we travelled. It appeared that they wanted to leave tourists with a positive impression, and perhaps the ongoing construction was also a way to provide jobs for the unemployed. It was clear that the Italians had significantly improved their means of transportation in their tourist-friendly country. The coaches, buses, and railway carriages were all superb, spacious, and comfortable, and many of the trams were luxurious.

When the train stopped in Bolzano, some curious Italians wondered who we were. They exchanged brief words with us through the windows. One Italian even bought a donut and handed it to our daughter through the window, a small but kind gesture.

As the night settled in, we felt a sense of regret, because we still had a long journey ahead through the Italian Alps, and it would soon be too dark to see them. The views had been so captivating, and it felt as though there was too much to take in during such a short time. It would have been better to have had more time to savour the sights, to prolong the enjoyment. But as nightfall approached, we had no choice but to accept the darkness.  We reluctantly went to bed, knowing that by morning, we would be in Senigallia. Our train, like the "Flying Dutchman," sped through the night at a breakneck pace, not bothered by the encroaching darkness.

I woke up to the rays of dawn streaming through the window. We were stopped at an empty platform at the beautiful Bologna station. It was both a pity and a regret that we had passed so many places in the dark without seeing them. Now, there were no mountains or plains, but instead, more towns, houses, and buildings. The predominant colour was a yellow-grey, and the houses mirrored that hue. Only two-wheeled carts drawn by oxen, donkeys, colts, or horses were visible. In the fields, orchards and vineyards stretched out, with more corn than other crops. We watched everything with wide eyes—everything was new and interesting.

Many castles passed by, often perched on hills, surrounded by towns. We passed through Rimini, Castel St. Petri, Faenza, Cesena, Pesaro, and Mondolfo-Marotta. Near Rimini, the Adriatic Sea finally appeared, still partially hidden between houses and trees, but it was there. As we approached Senigallia, the Adriatic Sea revealed its full beauty. Along the shore, summer cottages and beaches unfolded before our eyes. Unlike other places, there were no wooden houses in Italy—only brick buildings. In some parts, the train ran incredibly close to the sea—just 50 meters away. We could see sporting yachts and sailboats gliding across the water.

As we neared Senigallia, our people, aware that the journey’s first destination was imminent, distributed the last of their bread and biscuits to the workers at the stations. Some Italians contributed a few loaves of bread, carrying them in their hands like firewood, pleased with the unexpected generosity.

Finally, our train pulled into Senigallia station. It was a small, newly-built station, surrounded by police guards. We slowly disembarked and loaded our belongings into trucks. The journey to the camp took about 8 minutes, passing through a beautiful seaside resort town with numerous kurhacs, palm trees, flower gardens, and beaches. People were swimming in the sea, dressed in colorful summer clothes and sun-kissed from the warm weather.

The Senigallia transit camp was located right on the seashore, with the beach just a stone’s throw away. The main building was a former Italian naval school, surrounded by several barracks. We were assigned two bunk beds on the second floor of a kurhaus. Our room could accommodate 50 people, and from the balcony, we had an incredible view of the Adriatic. The sea was something extraordinary, a spectacle of colours—blue skies met a greenish sea that lightened towards the horizon, with a bright sandy beach stretching out below.

We followed the order to visit the warm washroom "bačka" and then went to eat. We quickly sold a few packs of cigarettes for 100 lira, which allowed us to buy some delicious peaches, pears, and oranges. Their prices were 50, 80, and 100 lira per kilogram. We bathed in the sea several times; the water was very salty, and when we dried off, we could feel the salt crystals on our skin.

The food we received was typical of an Italian recipe: pasta, vegetable salads with potatoes, legumes, and onions. We also had coffee made from powder. Although the meals were light, we really appreciated them, especially in the heat. In the evening, with friends like Mr. Sedalis, we drank white wine, which turned out to be weak and poor-quality. We never quite got the “cheer of peace” we had hoped for after the hardships of our journey.

Afterward, we went for a walk along the seashore, admiring the beauty of the sea. In the distance, we could see 13 lighthouses twinkling on both sides of the coast.

We hoped to get a good night’s rest after the last three sleepless nights in the carriage. We managed to sleep briefly but soundly. At 5 o’clock in the morning, my wife and one of our fellow passengers went to the edge of the sea to collect shells as souvenirs. They came back with a lot of them, some quite beautiful. In Senigallia, we went through a procedure where our fingerprints were taken for the necessary documents. Fingers were smeared with some kind of black ink. Even the children had to undergo this, and little Gražina had her fingers marked too. They took fingerprints from both hands twice separately, and then four fingers from both hands together. The whole process seemed foreign, almost Asian to us, and it felt strange.

At 5 p.m., we began to be transported to the station, in order of numbers, and placed in freight wagons along with our belongings. There were 22 people in our wagon, and there was enough space for all of us. The police allowed us to move around more freely on the platform. We went to wash up and visited the nearby fruit sellers by the fence. We bought ice cream for the children. The Italian policemen were friendly and joked with us. One of them, named Arata, got into our wagon and accompanied us to Aversa. He bought five portions of ice cream for my daughter, and Grazina shared it with the other children. Our son struck up a friendship with another policeman who spoke English. He even went to the station to buy some souvenir pictures of Senigallia.

At 8:45 p.m., the train finally left. It was getting late, and we were exhausted from the wait. The train left in the dusky evening, and it was a pity that we couldn’t see the areas we were passing through. We had no more than 1,000 lira left, the remainder from the sale of 1,400 lira worth of shoes that Rimas had received in the camp. Despite the darkness, my wife and I often stuck our heads out between the crack of the wall and door, trying to glimpse something in the train’s passing scenery.

An hour into the journey, we entered the Apennine Mountains beyond Ancona. The train wound mostly between the mountains, occasionally passing through residential areas. We stopped in the mountains themselves, and there were many tunnels along the way. The train was incredibly fast in places, and the high speed combined with the loud noise of the wheels made it feel like we were racing through the darkness. It was as if the train might crash into the mountainside or fall into an abyss at any moment. The banging and shaking in the freight car tired us, so we barely slept. Gražina and Rimas managed to sleep much better on the floor, using blankets, but for us, it was cold and hard.

As dawn broke, we could see the Roman suburbs in the morning light. The buildings were large and majestic. The ancient city walls, built by Julius Caesar, stood in the distance. Our train stopped at a suburban station, and after so many hours of travel, the people were eager to step outside for a moment. Men were shouting to women, and women were shouting back. Food was distributed in the carriages—half a loaf of white bread per person, half a loaf of fish-shaped bread, a quarter of a box of meat, and a couple of peaches. Soon, the train set off on a long journey, bypassing Rome in a circle a few kilometres away. The sun rose above Rome in a red circle, and it was truly a shame that we couldn’t see the city itself.  My thoughts drifted to the Basilica of St. Peter and Paul, familiar from postcards, and I imagined the Holy Father.

Through the open door of the freight car, the surroundings of Rome looked poor and miserable. The landscape was dry and dusty, almost like a desert. No trees were visible, and only a few poor brick buildings dotted the landscape, surrounded by small patches of corn, tomatoes, and grapes. There were vast areas of barren land left to the mercy of the sun. My wife told me, after reading, that poor Italians had set up "poverty" apartments in the openings of those ancient walls from Caesar’s time. Honestly, the surroundings of Rome gave me a depressing feeling, and I couldn’t help but feel disheartened. Although Northern Italy was fertile, the area around Rome seemed to be poor too. However, as we travelled further, our opinion changed.

From Littoria towards Naples, fertile land reappeared—cultivated fields and gardens, though the corn and grain crops looked weak and withered. In Germany or Lithuania, the same crops would yield a plentiful harvest, with multiple well-developed ears, but here they were impoverished, often producing only one. Italians planted a lot of hemp, or canapa, which they exported in large quantities.

We passed through Littoria, Formia, and headed towards Naples. Near Formia, where a large railway station was under construction, we caught sight of a beautiful island near the coast with a castle. The policeman accompanying us, Mr. Arata, explained that a prison had been established on the island, where criminals were kept. Here, we encountered the Tyrrhenian Sea, but it didn't seem as beautiful as the Adriatic. The route took us through several long tunnels, two of which were particularly lengthy. We spent 15 minutes in one, traveling at high speed. It was likely around 15 km long, and the air in the tunnel had a peculiar scent, reminiscent of a fruit cellar’s sweet odour.

Several policemen were assigned to accompany our train through Italy, which struck us as unusual. We also saw many policemen at the next camp in Aversa. Whether they were there to protect us from communist attempts or to maintain order with the displaced people, we couldn't say for sure. It seemed like the whole situation had been blown out of proportion, though perhaps we just didn't fully understand the dynamics of Italy.  At the stations we passed, we noticed that one or more policemen were always present.  At dusk, the carabinieri, armed with carbines and automatic weapons slung over their shoulders, became a common sight. It seemed the country feared a communist uprising, hence the large police presence. The policeman, Mr. Arata, told us that the police were above politics and didn’t engage in partisan matters.