Liliana Lucia Destination Australia

By Liliana Lucia Belardinelli

Based upon the reminiscences of a woman, now living in Australia, who grew up in Malta, Italy, North Africa, Germany, back to Malta and then to England between 1929 and 1949 – twenty years, only a score. Yet it is an historical record of events described as they took place during periods of family crisis and world problems, and as they were observed by that young person. It is also the story of her personal developments as she grew from childhood to adult life in that context. It is therefore, not only an account of those events and of the people who lived through them, and who were shaped by the circumstances of crisis of war and after war, but also how daily life goes on in such times.

By 1947 she had grown into a stunningly lovely young woman and her capacity for strength in adversity, her innate sensitivity and thirst for knowledge were her dowry in the difficult times of her young life.

The circumstances and place of Liliana's birth were somewhat unusual. Her mother was of Danish-Irish parentage and she was an independent youn lady. She Visited Rome in 1925, where she met Arnaldo Belardinelli scion of an aristrocratic family, a dreamer and patriotic idealist.

In 1927, against all odds they were married. They lived in Malta at first and tehn a couple of years later Liliana was born in Valletta. Arnaldo became involved in the turbulent political activities of that period. On Christmas day in 1934 he was arrested and imprisoned. Liliana and her younger brother were sent to Rome in the care of their grandparents. In December 1936 for the amnesty on the occasion of King George VI ascension to the throne, Arnaldo was released from gaol and the little family was reunited in Rome.

The years of war were the framework of Liliana's growing up. She was not cosseted or protected, but experience at first hand the full catastrophe of misery, and close shaves, surviving turbulence and struggles. For her it was a time of active speculation and romantic awakening and while growing into a young woman, she found life an arousing and complex advanture, mainly because of the value placed on cheerfulness, compassion, and love amongst all kinds of people. It was an education of great value, although the memories she says, have the flavour an an inconguous, bizarre, almost surrealistic journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liliana Lucia Belardinelli
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310369452

Liliana Lucia Belardinelli

In her early childhood, Liliana L. Belardinelli lived through the intrigues of Maltese politics. The evening of Christmas Day 1934 her father Arnaldo Belardinelli was arrested.Liliana, who now lives in Australia, has a degree in Arts from Melbourne University and first became interested in discovering the truth about her father’s trial when the fifty years clamp on information was finally lifted in 1986.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Too young for politics

I am venturing into my past. It is a journey of discovery, a revisiting of emotions and feelings that were once experienced, registered in my memory, yet not fully understood. It is an examining of details of a young life and putting them into an historical perspective, for the history of the period is already yellowing in library books.

Life itself is a journey, it has been said before, so that my going backward into the past is still very much a moving forward into new growth, new developments, new energy and emotions - a continuation.

It all began with the trip, the holiday of a lifetime, taken by my mother in 1925, the Holy Year. She went to Rome of course on such an important occasion for Catholics, calendars, and tourists.

Here was Mary Olga, 25 years old, beautiful, talented, unmarried, eager for life that she felt was passing her by, in the company of a young married friend, Mrs. R. Barbara, chaperone and confidante, arriving in crowded, bustling Rome. There were some difficulties with the accommodation booked, so they turned for assistance to a patrician Roman family with plenty of room at their place. The only son and heir, Arnaldo Belardinelli, 18 years old, grey-eyed, romantic, slender, eager to be of help, took on the task of instructing and enlightening the young ladies in the appreciation of the Roman scenery. He did not speak English, they did not speak Italian, but that is only a minor detail.

All holidays come to an end, and yet, are often just a beginning. Arnaldo returned to his military service and started learning English in earnest. Mary Olga returned to her father's house in Malta, and consulted her heart and her novenas to see in fact if her spinsterhood days were to be over. Two years were to pass, much letter writing, and more novenas. They were married 19 June, 1927 in Malta at Valletta.

Cavaliere (Sir) Pico Belardinelli, archaeologist and map maker of the distant lands of Africa, genteel and aristocratic in his ways, accompanied by the Nobildonna Giulia Filippini- Speranzini, small, elegant, vivacious and self-willed, his wife, came to be witnesses and honoured guests at the wedding of their son to this foreign, older lady in Malta.

Twenty years old, Arnaldo was embarking on a new career with many aspects, or perhaps a number of careers in a variety of ways. There was his marriage career and his new business enterprise in the manufacturing of fine silk shirts and pyjamas which was to flourish under the name of 'Arnold's Manufacturing Company.' And then there was to be his political career. As a youth he had been interested and involved, in the street skirmishes of the political jostling for power, 'del dopo guerra' (the post-war period), in 1920 and 1921. This must have been a formative time for him where his idealism was born and nurtured so that it became the most important aspect of his life. His idealism and his love of Italy as a sovereign country in Europe, were to influence, together with the unpredictable and 'travolgenti' (tempestuous) events of war, the fortunes and misfortunes of the new famiglia Belardinelli.

Malta, this little island at the heart of the Mediterranean Sea, had a long and colourful history which inevitably had been turbulent and momentous. She had commanded importance within the corridors of power and a key role in history because of her geographical location and the magnificence of her natural harbours. Often invaded, all too often ravaged and enslaved, Malta passed from one power to another, and was practically always sacrificed to the cause of the day. My father passionately believed that Malta's destiny was to be re-united with its natural and rightful motherland, Italy, and he worked to free her from British exploitation and strategic grasp.

Malta had long been a pivot in the strategy for the defence of British interests in the Mediterranean, yet it was neglected.

Discontent and dissatisfaction reinforced the demands of Maltese politicians for a fair constitution. There were riots and cruel repressions. Finally in 1921 self government was established under a new constitution. Political life was very turbulent for some years and young Arnaldo Belardinelli found his way into the murky waters of the 1927 elections. Sir Gerald Strickland, who was dubbed as anti-clerical and pro- British, emerged as a major force. Still, with the tacit support of the reduced Labor seats, he managed to win a clear majority in the Parliament. Strickland was Prime Minister from 1927 to 1932. However, more political crises followed, causing Britain to revoke the Maltese political power.

...And then I was born in a fine old house in Theatre Street, in old Valletta, on 29 March, 1929.

The very beginning of anything at all that I can remember is a vague recollection, yet clear and vivid in some detail. I recall a painting in my mind's eye, a picture so typically Maltese in colour and subject matter: Mary, the mother of Jesus, in full-bloom technicolor, deep blue cloak, radiant complexion, an expression of doleful serenity, heart exposed, flames burning from it and there it is on the wall. And in front of it there is a shelf, and on the shelf there is a lamp, which is lit and it is flickering. And right next to it, a large wooden box, round, beautifully carved in a plain, smooth way to reveal the wood-grain, stained a dark brown. It contains talcum powder and a large, large puff used for the purpose of dispensing the talcum powder. It is hard to believe, but I recall the sensation of looking up and seeing this picture as, on my back, my little bottom being lifted up, I was powdered and freshly encased in a nappy, I suppose. But that is vivid in my memory, although it is like a nebulous thought crystallising in this particular image. So there it is, my very, very first recollection and I know it was in Malta, it was so real, so typical. I checked with my mother about the box and the shape of it, and she was so astonished that I knew that box for it was the box in which the talcum powder was kept, together with the large feathery puff.

To continue, here I am a little girl in a pusher. I remember being trundled along the sea shore, over a hard surface, right on the edge of the water and looking down - not feeling afraid, but just looking at the blue-green sea water washing over the rocks, and just being pushed along and being very happy. I remember many kind, helpful young women that took care of me at various intervals. They were always laughing loudly, and full of enthusiasm, and warm bodied, and I have an impression of their nearness. There was a little puppy, poor little thing. I have been sorry all these years that I may have caused some pain or probably some ear damage to that little animal, because I remember speaking very loudly in its ears, thinking that would teach the little puppy its name. I cannot recall what the name was, but I remember shouting it many, many times in the puppy's ears, and realising later it would have hurt the poor helpless animal. I did that sitting on the bottom steps, cool steps of what seemed to me at the time a grand, imposing staircase to the upper floors - this was in our large new house in Birkirkara, a little township a bit more inland.

This house must have been quite a place because, apart from being elevated from the street level with a kind of rampart, and a terrace above it, the entrance was large, and from it, one could see the arched way to the garden. The staircase was on the left; it led to bedrooms and also to a different part of the house altogether, because the shirt-making enterprise was located here, in the same building. I do not recall very much about the business, just large rooms, lots of busy people and the pleasant smell of the fabric being cut and worked, and the warm smell of oil from the machines all in a row. I was taken there only rarely, just to say hello to my mother who was in charge of all the activities.

I have been told that I fell terribly ill when just over one year old, and through the devotion and the care of my mother and some kind of miracle which averted the need for an operation on the base of my skull, I was well again. It was because of this episode, Mother said to me years later, that my little brother Luciano was born.

The garden had many orange trees; the beautiful perfume of their blossoms wafts in my memory. Often I was left there to sleep. There was a concrete pool in the garden, long and narrow, not quite a swimming pool in today's terms. Mother had it specially built, and I remember splashing around in it for that was one of the rare times I had the company of my mother. She was always so very busy, pre-occupied I would say, and that was why I was so often in the care of these nannies and servant girls. They always treated me with a kind of pity as well as care. One day I remember hearing a particularly sympathetic remark.

Poor little children, innocent. And now they have lost their father. (Innocent is a favourite appellation of the Maltese vernacular). I heard this very distinctly when it was said by the girls watching over us as we played on the front verandah. They probably thought I would not hear because I was jumping up on the base of the balustrade on alternate feet. It's strange how clearly I remember all the details of that moment: the feel of the cold rail I was hanging on to while I skipped from foot to foot, the small puddle of water on the terrazzo floor of the verandah, and the wet shiny road below.

That remark crystallised for me the events of the previous evening when some strange men interrupted our dinner. And then my father had to go with them. There was consternation all round and loud voices as we were hustled out of the room. Our Papà was not someone we saw very often, for he did not play with us, but we were conscious of his presence in his study surrounded by cigarette smoke, and we sensed the importance of his coming and going. Now we were very conscious of his having been taken away. Indeed, the next few weeks, or maybe months, were very confusing. We saw a lot less of Mother, and when we did she was either tearful or in a hurry. We were bundled off in the care of the servant girls, their warmth and kindness tempered with pity.

One morning Mother came to say that she would take me with her to see father. While she was doing up the buttons of my overcoat, she told me that we would be going to a very serious place, and not a nice one, and that we must be very careful what we said and did. I do not remember seeing father, perhaps we did not visit him after all, but I remember very clearly sitting on a hard tall chair, from which my feet did not reach the floor, next to my mother in a large, but cluttered room. The man behind the desk was very serious and talked at length while shuffling papers. He turned to me once and asked my name, then to my mother he said that I looked very intelligent and that I had my eyes everywhere, noting everything, just like her father.That made me feel rather proud, although I was not quite sure what he meant.

There were newspapers in the house, newspapers with large headlines, some words written in red, including our family name - Belardinelli. There was much talk in the house - talk of important dates, of important things happening, of going to see grandparents in Rome. What it all meant I could not know, for these were the vague, fragmented, uneasy impressions of a child nearly six years old, not really able to comprehend things such as arrest, prison, trials, let alone the politics and the 'imbrogli' of the time.

It was years later, mainly by listening to the conversation of grown ups, that I learned sketchy and often emotionally expressed details about the events that led to the loss of the house and of the business in Malta. I learned that there had been accusations against my father (but there never was a mention as to what exactly his activities were that led to accusations of espionage, and other more political kinds of crimes against the dominant power Great Britain). I discovered that there had been a trial, the results of which had been considerably mitigated by the enormous work my mother had done to orchestrate a defence. People by the name of Strickland* were implicated in some treachery through their involvement in the partnership in the firm of Arnold's Manufacturing Company; and that all assets and investments had been confiscated and a long term of imprisonment with hard labour was imposed on my father for something no one in the family seemed to consider him guilty of perpetrating.

I also heard the anecdotal episode of the spring onion. My father was always a fussy eater, that is he did not like any sauces or gravies, no onions or garlic for him, nor any salted fish or preserves, nor curries or peppered condiments of any kind. When he was in prison he was kept in solitary confinement and his hard labour was done in the library or similar place of work as befitted political prisoners. However, he did have a brief period of exercise each day under guard, in an enclosed garden. One day he noticed another prisoner working in the vegetable patch not too far away. The long bearded fellow, who seemed to enjoy a certain amount of freedom, eyed Arnaldo with interest, and after a few days began to make circumspect signs as if he had something to deliver to him. These careful manoeuvres went on for a number of days, intriguing my father considerably. He began to look forward to receiving whatever it was the man wanted to pass on to him, so that one day with careful strategy he managed to be close enough to him, with his hands behind his back ready to grasp the 'thing'. Success: in his waiting hand was placed fresh and green, a beautiful spring onion. Although Arnaldo detested onions, he courteously thanked his kind fellow prisoner, even if just with a wink and a slight nod of his head.

But now, because of my father's imprisonment, we had to move from Malta to Italy. My mother made arrangements for us to sail to Rome. I remember enjoying the excitement of travelling by ship to Italy. It was a new and cosy experience to be tucked in double-decker berths in the ship's cabin with my little brother, and my mother to cuddle us and to sing us to sleep. The next thing I remember is being in Rome, meeting my grandparents for the first time. Nonno Pico was beautiful with his elegant beard and magnificent moustache and his smiling eyes behind gold rimmed glasses. Nonna Giulia was more distant, organising and efficient, but, even for a child, it was very easy to sense that she was cold to my mother. They did not speak English, Mother spoke a little Italian. We children did not know any Italian at all because only English and a little Maltese were spoken at home. Nonno Pico had discovered that by shaking his head close to Luciano's face, he caused the little boy to laugh and giggle and say some incomprehensible words which made Mother and me laugh a little and reprimand him gently. Luciano would say, as he laughed, Ghandek rasek bhal hanzir, which in Maltese means unflatteringly, You have a head like a pig. Obviously it was not opportune to translate.

Mother had to leave us in just a few days and return to Malta to the heavy task of facing up to events there. A year or more later she returned to Rome with father when, under the amnesty for political prisoners on the occasion of the ascension to the throne of England of King George VI in December 1936, Arnaldo was released soon after and deported. He was sent directly from prison to ship, never to set foot on English held soil again - by order.

Learning Italian had been a priority. We learned quickly with the help of a private tutor, the dear, gentle, Signorina Monti. At first she used to spend the morning with us, later on we would go to her apartment, just a few minutes away, for more formal lessons, one at a time. The lessons, covering all subjects, were intensive in preparation for my enrolment into normal school at the level appropriate for my age. I liked going to the apartment of Signorina Monti. There was a great, big, grey cat with enormous yellow eyes, that liked to sit on the chair next to me at a round table which was covered by a heavy, fringed cloth, patterned like tapestry. The teacher was kind, but firm. I remember her round, smiling face, her blue eyes, and her pure white hair tied back in a bun giving her the appearance of a fairy godmother, which in some ways she was. On occasions we would see a young woman who lived in the same apartment, in the large room with the balcony, at the end of the corridor. She looked very exotic to us with her short cropped, bright yellow hair, dark rimmed glasses, and strange clothes. She smoked cigarettes through a long holder, and she was often seen handling the big yellowish skull that adorned her desk. She was a medical student; we were told she worked very hard at her studies. We were impressed, although it would be more correct to say that my little brother was frightened of her, and I made a mental note that, although I wanted to be a doctor, I did not want to look like that young woman.

* Interesting to connect a detail about an earlier position held by this gentleman in Australia of all places...

Hon. Sir Gerald Strickland GCMG (Lord Strickland) (1861 - 1940) was born in Malta, the son of a Royal Navy captain and a Maltese noble woman. He was appointed Governor of Tasmania (1904), Western Australia (1909) and New South Wales (1913). Strickland was granted leave of absence on 1 October 1917 and officially replaced 8 February 1918

My Italian Notebook by Gough Whitlam

CHAPTER 2

A particularly mixed schooling

What a task it must have been for my grandparents finding themselves parenting again, having these two somewhat foreign little 'orphans' in their home. We felt loved and wanted,