A Mistake
Linea Jantz
Kalgoorlie, West Australia 1934
There’s a lot of people with something to say about Edward Jordan that never knew him, that never even lived in Kalgoorlie. Maybe you’ve read the papers and have some opinions already…
Now, I’m not saying that Ted was a saint — none of us are saying that. No honest soul could deny that he held liquor like a bucket shot full of holes. But he was a good man.
Even a good man can make a mistake.
…
I worked with Ted. Even buried in Mother Earth’s stopped up bowels, he could get the mines roaring laughter up to the sunlight. He was golden on the football fields, wore the black and white beside the Osmetti brothers — anyone could tell you what fine players they all were! Our proud Mines Rovers.
After the fever took my beautiful Bonnie and our youngest…and me with a daughter still to raise…those were dark times. One day Ted caught up with me as we were leaving work, not making a spectacle of it, but a hand clapped on my shoulder —
“Ivan! How’s your daughter doing?” he asked quietly.
“Ah, well…as good as can be expected, I reckon.”
I could feel my chest tightening, the burn aching behind my eyes and at the back of my throat. Ted fell into step beside me. I just hoped the darkening twilight would protect my dignity if the sting at my eyes turned a little liquid. Why was he so chatty?
“Well, uh, the boys and I took up a collection — I’m a father too, Ivan — we’re so sorry for your loss. Here’s a little something to help take care of your little girl.” He pressed a wad of money into my filthy paw.
Now to this day I doubt there was any collection. I’m not exactly a popular man; a hulking Croatian with a mood dark as the pits we drilled. But sure I thanked him. I’d say he didn’t know what it meant to me — but I think he did.
You could see the man loved his family. Captain of the volunteer fire brigade, protecting his community. But I’d see him at the bar in the evenings. Some men get a devil poking at them when they drink.
I was at Mrs. Gianetti’s hotel that night, the night all those reporters been skulking around asking about. Honestly, Claudio showed more restraint than I could have managed in that situation. But probably he was fond of the bloke too. I wasn’t paying attention at first until voices started rising.
“...you still owe me for two bottles last night. And I know how that window got broken,” the barman was saying. Claudio Mattaboni’s good people. He wasn’t being mean or nothing. Just stating some facts.
Ted bought a couple drinks but then he started pushing, “Come on, Claudio — tick up two pots for me.”
Claudio refused to give him more beer on credit, so Ted and his friends headed off to another hotel. Claudio and I made eye contact and kind of shook our heads. I thought that was the end of it, but of course Ted didn’t know when to quit — on the football field or on a night out.
Ted stumbled a bit as he came back in the door. Claudio had just drawn a pot for another patron and set it down on the bar. Ted grabbed the man’s beer with a cheery, “I’ll pay you some other time!”
“For Pete’s sake, Ted!” Claudio snapped, yanking the other man’s drink from his hand.
Some of the beer sloshed into Ted’s face, which reddened. Ted shoved at Claudio’s hand.
The barman huffed a sigh and pushed him outside. “Go home, Ted.”
But of course Ted came back in an hour, shouting at Claudio, “Come outside and have a fair go, then, why don’t you?!”
So Claudio goes outside and from what I hear clocks Ted on the nose. Some other Italians tried to chase Ted off. I think a stone or two might have been thrown though none hit him.
I was wondering if the excitement was over for the night when Ted came back again, this time trumpeting at Mrs. Gianetti for “a fair go”. Claudio has always been protective of the widow and he was done. He walloped Ted on the forehead. The miner crumpled to the pavement. Claudio called the police to let them know a man had been hurt, and they took Ted to the doctor.
Well, unfortunately, as hard-headed as Ted could be, his skull was apparently abnormally thin. He died at the hospital the next morning.
Of course we were all stunned and busted up about it. Ted had a heart of gold. No one wanted things to end that way, least of all Claudio.
But what surprised me is that walking home from work that day dark looks were being directed at me. I’d catch snippets of young men grumbling —
“...foreigners murdered Edward Jordan…”
“...stealing our jobs…murder…”
“...foreigners always get the good jobs. You know they bribe the shift bosses…”
I’m no stranger to grief, as I’ve said. I know when you’re hurting you look for someone to blame, to fight. I decided it was a good night to stay home.
That evening a crowd started to gather in front of Mrs. Gianetti’s hotel. The setting sun glowed flame red across plate glass windows framed in iron. It was eerily quiet. A few “foreigners” were in the bar but sensing danger, slipped out the back door.
A stone smashed through the front window, shattering glass over the bar.
Hundreds of young men streamed through the front door, vaulted the bar to reach the choice spirits. Bottles smashed across the floor, champagne bottles foaming at the mouth, whiskey drooling from jagged glass jaws snapping beneath heavy work boots. The men hurled chairs against mirrors and paintings, splattered broken furniture and walls with methylated spirit. They set the curtains ablaze, angry flames casting their shadows long and ominous across the destruction.
Women and children joined the looting. The crowd ballooned to a thousand rioters.
Ted’s former fire brigade arrived to battle the flames consuming the saloon and gnawing at the hotel. Some of the rioters discovered Mrs. Gianetti’s beautiful new Ford sedan in a garage and set it on fire. Expecting the petrol to explode, the crowd streamed to the opposite side of the street.
Trying to save the home on the western side of the garage, the fire brigade turned their hoses on the flaming mass of metal. The rioters jeered and yelled.
To keep the crowd back, the brigade turned a hose on the rioters. They stampeded, turning their rage on some constables who were attempting to save the wrecked hotel from further depredation. The howling crowd peppered the police with bottles and stones. A rioter managed to sever one of the fire truck hoses with an ax. The hotel writhed in flames.
I heard the shouting outside first. Moments later a rock crashed through the window. My daughter screamed.
“Da-addy!”
My heart howled as I ran for her, scooped her to my chest — so small, wailing into my neck. I smelled smoke.
Like our neighbors, we ran for the brush. Flames glared from all sides. A couple lucky souls fled on bicycles into the flicker of firelight dancing with that red Australian dust. Gunshots snarled from the dark.
“I’ve got you, honey. I’ve got you,” I whispered into my daughter’s hair.
It took three days and the arrival of two hundred out-of-town policemen to quell what came to be known as the Kalgoorlie Race Riots. Men I worked beside for years destroyed and looted over eighty “foreigner-owned” homes, hotels, and shops.
You know, my neighbor — well, former neighbor now, I guess — has lived in Australia for twenty-six years. He married an Australian woman. He fought in their army in the War. But apparently, he still isn’t “Australian”. His house is ashes and twisted metal now, just like mine.
I stare down at my huge miner’s mitts that built this house; the boards smooth beneath my wife’s admiring fingers as she laughed up at me.
God, I miss her. Still.
Why did I bring my family to this place?
A small hand slips into my calloused palm. I look down to meet my daughter’s eyes. She squares her little shoulders, determined to be brave. She squeezes my hand encouragingly. My smile is a bit shaky but it’s there.
Even a good man can make a mistake.
Linea Jantz has worked in a wide range of roles over the years including waste management, medical records, paralegal, and teacher. She is wildly interested in reading about history, nature, and the human capacity for endurance and compassion. Her writing is featured or forthcoming in publications including Pamplemousse, The Dyrt Magazine, The Spokesman Review, Singletracks, HamLit Journal, and NonBinary Review. Her poetry was featured in the ARS POETICA juried art exhibit at Blowing Rock Art History Museum and has received a nomination for Best of the Net.
