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referred to as ‘Wogs’, and Hungarians and Czechs were annoyed at being dismissed as ‘Balts’. But for the most part, the Europeans understood that the Australians’ attitude was a product of insecurity and ignorance. Australia had no bordering countries, no immediate neighbours whose languages and cultures differed from their own. The European Snowy workers, unlike their counterparts in the cities, were not a lonely, stigmatised minority. They were not easily threatened. Buoyed by the strength of their numbers, they recognised the Australians for what they were: naive.
    Cooma, the largest of the Monaro townships, with easy rail access from Sydney and Canberra, had been selected as the Authority’s headquarters. Satellite townships of prefabricated houses and facilities were erected to the north and the east of the town. As the migrants continued to pour into the township, Cooma became a microcosm of Europe and proximity forced its local inhabitants to recognise and accept their new neighbours. In the nearby rural townships of Adaminaby, Berridale and Jindabyne acceptance was more gradual, with many of the townspeople fearful of the unfamiliar and ‘different’.
    But it was the workers themselves who first forged the bond that slowly spread throughout the mountains and valleys and plains. Workers started referring to themselves simply as ‘Snowy men’ and, although there was occasional friction, the Authority’s fears of fierce racial disharmony proved groundless. Commissioner Hudson’s policy from the outset had been one of assimilation, and his presence remained a daily driving force for harmony throughout the region.
    By the early 1950s mobile houses were already replacing tents in many work camps. The prefabricated structures, built on sled bases and known as ‘snow huts’, were transported to each new site as the work progressed. In areas where labour was required over a long period for a particular phase of the project, mobile settlements became townships with married couples’ quarters and prefabricated cottages, and single men’s huts and barracks. There were canteens, mess halls, and entertainment facilities, and an overall sense of permanency prevailed as ‘Snowy people’ formed bonds that would last a lifetime. Communities flourished, gardens were carefully tended and the simplest of houses became nurtured homes.
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    It was to one of these townships that young Pietro Toscanini arrived in early 1954.
    Twenty-year-old Pietro had been bewildered when he’d arrived at the picturesque railway station of Cooma and walked through the gates to the forecourt overlooking the town below. They’d told him in Sydney that he was going to the Snowy Mountains. But where were the mountains? Where was the snow? He’d anticipated a replica of his native alpine Italy, but all he could see were distant low-lying hills surrounding a vast plain, in the centre of which sat a shabby town with makeshift settlements sprawling either side. The heat, too, confused him. It was so hot that he was sweating beneath the fine wool suit he’d purchased before he’d left his home country. It was the only suit he possessed, the latest fashion with tapering collar and trouser legs, and he’d worn it to impress his new employers.
    He’d been comforted, though, by the crowds of fellow passengers pouring through the gates into the forecourt, speaking all manner of languages other than English. He might have been in Europe, he’d thought, and he’d found it most reassuring. The several days he had spent in Sydney prior to his departure for the Snowy had not been pleasant.
    â€˜We speak English here, mate,’ he’d been brusquely informed when he’d tried to buy a beer in a pub. But hadn’t the man realised he’d been trying to speak English? he’d wondered. He’d said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, two