Madame Fiocca (Heroes of War #2)
Chapter 1
February 1933
T he RMS Aorangi II surged forward, its engines thrumming steadily beneath me, as I cast a wistful gaze at the receding shores of New York. The figure of the lady in verdigris, the Statue of Liberty, diminished on the horizon. Lost in reverie, I tried to imagine the emotions of those who had fled persecution, catching sight of her iconic silhouette for the first time from the frigid waters of the Atlantic, relief swelling in their hearts, worry lines softening into hopeful smiles. In their eyes, I could almost see a flutter of butterflies as they beheld the symbol of freedom, safety, and renewed hope, etched against the skyline.
I, too, had fled—though not from persecution, but from the confines of a life that had become unbearable. At sixteen, I left home. Life had turned upside down the day Dad left. I loved him, adored the bones of him. He always found time for me, scooping me up in his strong arms after a day’s work, spinning tales that made me giggle, singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as we danced around the room. Every morning, he’d go off to work, and every evening, I’d wait by the garden gate. Until one evening, he didn’t come home. As I swung on the gate, Mum hollered at me to come inside for the twentieth time, and Gladys, my older sister, marched outside, scowling as she dragged me indoors by the hand.
‘Dad’s gone to America,’ Mum muttered, something about him making a film of the Māoris. I didn’t understand back then.
‘When will he be back?’ I asked, but she’d already wandered off. I found her sitting at the kitchen table, the Bible open before her, a frown etched deep in her face.
‘He’ll be back home in a few months,’ she snapped, lowering her bulging eyes to the scriptures.
Her coldness stung, and I missed Dad’s warm embrace even more. At night, I’d lie awake, listening to the creak and groan of the staircase, hoping each sound might be him returning home. My elder brother Stanley said all houses squawked in the night as they cooled down, but to me, it felt like our home was mourning too.
We lived in a lovely spacious house in Sydney, having moved from our native New Zealand when I was two. With five older siblings, I often felt lost in the crowd, except when Stanley was around. He always made time for me, though his service in the navy meant he wasn’t home much. One day, I noticed that the gilt-framed picture of Mum and Dad on their wedding day had vanished from its place on the oak dresser. No one said a word, and Mum became even more distant, retreating deeper into her Bible. That was when I realised Dad was never coming home again. A wound opened inside me, a hollow that ached, and I cried myself to sleep night after night. Ever hopeful, I would swing on the garden gate in the evening, looking out down the street, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of him. Life carried on, the Galah birds screeched as they settled in the Jacaranda trees in the evening, and I never saw Dad again.
One day, while I played in the garden, Stanley called me over. ‘We have to move, Nancy,’ he said. ‘To a new house, not far from here.’
‘But I don’t want to leave this one,’ I protested. How would Dad find us if he came back?
‘It’ll be okay, I promise.’ Stanley hugged me tight, swiping the tears from my eyes. ‘Be a brave girl, Nance. Help me pack your things.’
But it wasn’t okay. Life with Mum became unbearable, so I ran away at sixteen, found work as a nurse in a mental asylum, and eventually returned to Sydney at eighteen. I managed to find a job and a place to live, scraping by while dreaming of seeing the world. Then, a letter from Aunt Hinemoa arrived out of the blue. ‘Thinking of you,’ she wrote, with a cheque enclosed for two hundred pounds—a lifeline. Mum never approved of her sister, who had run off with a whaling ship captain. Hinemoa was the black sheep of the family, much like me, I suppose. So, like her, I left Australia to sail around the world. Canada, New York, and England beckoned.
New York was everything I’d imagined and more, bustling with life, nightclubs, and a river of alcohol flowing despite Prohibition. I’d never drunk so much, yet rarely felt the effects. And snow! I’d never seen snow before—icy flakes landing on my lashes, the taste of cold on my lips, my toes frozen through my boots. Leaving was bittersweet, but England beckoned, and with it, a new life studying journalism in London.
Onboard the Aorangi, life was pure opulence, like a stately home at sea, with grand lounges, sumptuous chairs, furnishings and real open fires. It was heaven to be waited on, a far cry from the life I’d left behind. Australia had never felt like home. Maybe travel was in my blood. I was born in New Zealand, with Māori and Huguenot roots on Mum’s side, British on Dad’s. A blend of cultures and histories. Was it any wonder I never quite knew who I was?
* * *
We docked in Liverpool on a grey, foggy day; the weather matched the dreary mood that had settled over us as we sailed along the Mersey. Mist slipped overhead, mingling with chimney smoke, and draped itself over rows of drab buildings and homes, casting a sombre frown over the city. As we approached the dock, the fog lifted just enough to reveal a splendid building with a clock tower, and further along, a majestic statue of King Edward VII on horseback.
The port teemed with life. Carts stacked high with wooden crates rumbled by, while men hauled trolleys laden with sacks, their efforts straining ropes taut. The whinny of horses cut through the air, thick with the scent of manure, while the clickety-clack of trains echoed from the overhead railway.
A man hurried past with a little girl in tow, their hands clasped tightly as they dashed for a tram. The sight jolted my memory, and suddenly I was back in Sydney, swinging on the garden gate, waiting for a father who would never return. A tender lump formed in my throat, and I turned away. Mum had been so hard on me after Dad left. Later, I learned the bitter truth—Dad had sold the house out from under us, leaving us with nothing. Though I still adored him, that didn’t excuse his actions. He was a bastard.
The porter loaded my luggage onto the train as I settled into the first empty carriage I found. The platform buzzed with activity, and soon enough, people filed in behind me. An elderly couple took the seats opposite, followed by a tall, thin woman who darted in like a minnow, a little girl trailing behind her. Despite the bustling scene, I wasn’t afraid of journeying alone. Home had been a lonely place, and I’d been forging my own path for so long that solitude felt like an old friend. In it, I found peace and strength.
As the train lurched forward and the countryside blurred past the window, the steady rhythm of the wheels on the tracks seemed to lull the carriage into a calm. Before long, the little girl drifted off to sleep. When she cried out in her dreams, her mother instinctively reached out, brushing a kiss across her brow, and an ache gripped my chest.
Mum had never shown me such affection, her growing obsession with the Bible consuming her more each day. Her idea of comforting words came as recitals of biblical verses—usually condemning me in the process. She often told me I’d go to hell for this and that, and for a long time, I believed her. But as I grew older, I began to see that religion had become her refuge, a place to hide after her world collapsed. Life hadn’t been easy for any of us.
I turned my gaze to the window, watching the English countryside flash by, and willed myself to focus on the future. The past was a heavy burden, best left behind. Resting my head against the seat, I closed my eyes, seeking solace in the gentle rhythm of the journey.
When the train pulled into King’s Cross, I waited as the others disembarked, taking in the bustling station. London! Well-dressed ladies strutted across the platform, people jostled their way through the crowd, and a group of soldiers stood around a pile of kit bags, their uniforms crisp in military khaki.
Stepping off the train, I felt the city’s energy wash over me like a wave. I hailed a cab to the Strand Hotel, where I’d booked two nights, the thrill of London pulsing through me. Soon, I’d begin my studies at the School of Journalism—Nancy Wake, reporter-to-be. It felt right, a career with the promise of travel and adventure, with Paris shimmering on the horizon. And I was determined to see Paris.