He just nodded. I didn’t think he cared.
Chapter 61
Jossie Wallachia
Friday, 21 October
The spring weather was starting to penetrate the city, and I was in Bourke Street Mall trying to while away a week of leave. I didn’t do leisure well. I was standing in the middle of a three-deep crowd, listening to a busker — all electronic canned music and a lot of Bob Dylan — when I saw her.
The long, golden hair had recently had the attention of a skilled colourist and stylist. The perfect makeup accentuated her high cheekbones, dramatic eyes and wide, generous mouth. She wore a classic, tailored, black pantsuit that, even if I had been inclined to buy it, would have cost me two months’ salary. It was offset by a creamy, ivory silk blouse and the highest of black heels. Her jewellery was understated-tiny diamond ear studs and a pendant with a single ruby. Her beauty was magnetic, more so that not long ago I had seen her in a sharply different context. I had to talk to her.
Moving to her side, I touched her arm lightly, distracting her from the singer. ‘Bett.’
She turned to me questioning, then her face lit up in recognition.
‘Little Miss Detective.’ Then to my surprise she kissed me. She smelled expensive. ‘Is it really you? How good to see you.’ The same cultured, educated voice, still husky from a lifetime of smoking, although the long fingers that rested on my arm were no longer stained with nicotine, and the manicure was recent. ‘Can we get a coffee? My treat this time.’ She took my arm.
We found a teashop and Bett went through the ritual of ordering her Earl Grey tea while I settled for a cappuccino.
‘You look wonderful, Bett. What’s going on in your life? Where are you living?’
‘With my mother in the family home in Caulfield. Yes, I know you’re shocked, especially after the way I spoke about my parents and relatives and their religious ways. But this is what happened. Do you remember Hobie’s funeral and the Polish woman who sang that Catholic prayer over his coffin? ’
‘Yes, Professor Nadia Godlewski. I remember it well.’
‘Well, it started something for me. Something about traditions. Seeing Hobie buried alone in a country he never really adopted, so far from the homeland that he’d fought for and written about, that he loved. And no one to bury him except strangers, with only one person to pray for him in his own language. It felt terribly lonely. I loved him, you know, Jossie.’
‘Yes, Bett, I know.’
‘Then to find out that it was his own son who killed him. What a terrible thing. Without Hobie around to talk to, sleeping in that park began to feel desperate. I was desolate without him.’
‘Dangerous too.’
‘Yes, when I look back I see that it was very dangerous, but as you know I wouldn’t admit it. Then the Rabbi from our synagogue tracked me down — don’t ask me how — he came to the park and found me. I was ashamed, so conscious of how I looked, dirty and sleeping rough. He told me that my father was dying.’ Bett paused for a moment to sip her tea. ‘I was just in time. I turned up on their doorstep two hours before he died. Mother didn’t comment, just brought me in. “You’d better have a bath, Elizabeth,” was all she said.’
Bett smiled wryly at the memory. ‘Seeing my father dying and remembering Hobie made me want to turn back to my religion. It was quite sudden and unexpected. I didn’t want Papa to die without the dignity he deserved. I wanted him to have all the respect that came from our history. So we did everything to the letter. He was a good Jew, one of the last of the Dunera boys, but a great Australian too, a philanthropist. Mother and I anointed and dressed the body, lit the candles and recited the blessing. He was buried the next day with all the correct observances, and after that the family sat Shiva for him for seven days. There are all kinds of regulations around Shiva, and we fulfilled every one of them. I was proud of that. I felt that we’d given him proper honour.’
This was a different Bett, claiming her Jewishness, no longer in retreat from it and resenting its hold on her.
‘Now I’m in the twelve month period of mourning for a parent, so there are restrictions around what I can do. I’m the only child, so although it’s supposed to be a son who recites Kiddush for a parent, I’m doing it for my father every day until the mourning period is over.’
How interesting life is, I thought.
The simple, spontaneous act of Nadia Godlewski singing a traditional prayer for Hobie had opened up in Bett a stream of memory that brought her back to her family and religion.
‘Are you going to keep living with your mother?’
‘Oh yes. She’s well enough but frail. I couldn’t leave her alone. When she goes, I’ll observe all the rituals for her just as she’d expect. We’re getting on well, though. We need each other.’
I was genuinely glad for her, glad that she was safe and happy. ‘I’m so pleased we ran into each other, Bett. I’ve often thought of you and hoped you were okay.’
‘Yes, I’m more than okay. I’m happy. Jossie, I was wondering about Hobie’s granddaughter, that lovely girl. Would you bring her to see me, just once? It would be a last chance to talk about Hobie.’ She scribbled an address and phone number on the page of a small notebook, tore it out and pushed it toward me.
‘Alison’s had a frightful year, Bett. As you know her father’s in jail for Hobie’s killing, and her mother recently died. She has exams and holidays coming up. Is it okay if I talk to her about this next year, when her life is more settled?’
‘Of course. I’ll be there waiting.’ Then she stood and embraced me.
I watched her elegant figure weaving though the city crowds until it was swallowed up.
Sometimes in this job, things go right almost by accident.
Chapter 62
Trent Grierson
Saturday, 22 October
Going through the routine again, the scanner, the pat down, the dogs, showing my ID, getting checked off the approved list, and then going through to the big, cold visitors’ area with its hard plastic tables and chairs, everything immovable. Waiting for Harry to come through the door. I did this once a month.
I was the one who had been deputised to tell him about Bernie’s suicide a few days after it happened. I couldn’t read his face as we spoke. He asked a few questions.
‘Did she die right away?’
‘Yes, the paramedics said it would have been instant.’ I had rehearsed some simple straightforward answers.
He breathed deeply — a sign of relief, perhaps. ‘Did she leave anything?’
‘Only a letter for Alison.’ I wished I could have told him that she’d left a message for him, but I couldn’t lie.
‘Where’s she buried?’
‘In the family plot next to her mother.’ Short, sharp, straight to the point.
And then that was it. He said nothing more.
‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well, it was probably always going to happen; she was a sick girl.’
On this visit, nothing much had changed. His big frame shuffled through the door, and he came towards me, not exactly smiling, but pleased to see me, I thought.
‘G’day mate,’ he said as he shook my hand.
I no longer felt that fury towards him that I felt that Sunday when he helped me clear out the junk in his front yard. I would never understand what made him attack old Hobie, and maybe he didn’t understand himself, but all I felt for him now was pity.
Our regular visits were mostly silent, but I would keep going. It was another link between him and Alison. We exchanged information.
He seemed to be fine in jail, and was actually the ‘go to’ guy for anything mechanical around the prison. Not surprising, Leo said he could fix anything, although why he didn’t apply his skills in his own home was beyond me. He had even learnt to read and write in afternoon classes.
‘Basic literacy, they call it,’ he said. ‘One day soon I’ll be able to write Allie a letter.’ He grinned at that.
>
We talked about Allie. He longed for news of her, even though he talked to her on the phone every week. I told him what was on the news, and he passed on bits of prison gossip. He looked well. Today he told me that he worked out in the gym most days.
‘The food’s okay,’ he said.
Our silences weren’t uncomfortable. He was a silent man, but I sensed he was not unhappy.
‘Allie wants to come with me next time,’ I told him.
‘No! Not here. It’s too rough. One day they’ll send me to minimum security. She can come then.’
At the end, he shook my hand again. ‘Good to see you, mate. Thanks for coming.’
The security routine again, then out into the air, and through the Melbourne traffic home.
There were worse blokes than Harry. He was a victim of humanity’s thirst for war, just as his father and millions of others were. But Alison … she, I was sure, would rise above the bloodlust and cruelty that had stained her family. She would survive her history.
Chapter 63
Alison Brennan
Wednesday, 7 December
Last night was our school’s Presentation and Speech night.
We all had to be there in uniform to listen to the Principal report on the year, and to reward student achievements. The Year Eleven teachers lined up with the prizes for the best student in each subject. I watched Mr Jordan come to the microphone.
‘The Year Eleven prize for excellence in the study of literature goes to Alison Brennan.’
I felt a jolt of shock in my chest and became aware that Rosa, sitting next to me, was whispering, ‘Go,.. go.’
Trembling slightly, I walked up the steps onto the stage to shake Mr Jordan’s hand.
‘Really wonderful work all year, Alison,’ he said.
I looked out to the audience and saw Grandpa with Nadia, Leo and Trent. My family was applauding — they looked so proud of me. Then in the shadows at the back of the hall, I thought I saw two beloved figures standing near the exit — one tall, the other short and round.
Mum and Dad.
But no, it was just a flicker of light. For a moment I felt as if I was out of my body, as if this was happening to another girl, and then I just felt glad that the horrible year was ending, and that somehow I had come through it.
My prize was a big, heavy book, An Anthology of Australian Poetry since 1788.
This is for you, Mum and Dad, I told them silently, as I left the stage.
Chapter 64
Alison Brennan
Friday, 9 December
Today, school finished for the year.
I took flowers to Mrs Goodall, to thank her for the hours I’d spent in her office talking about my life. She gave me a card with a photo of a deep blue ocean and a single seagull flying above the waves. Inside she’d written, Fly in freedom into the wind, Alison. Your friend, Stella Goodall.
Tomorrow, Grandpa and Nadia were going to be married at the Catholic Church in Richmond, where there was a Polish chaplain, a friend of Nadia’s. I had a new dress and shoes, and Nadia said I should have a hat. So we went shopping together and I bought a straw hat with a small brim in the same blue as my dress. Nadia called it a ‘fedora’.
‘It looks lovely on you, Alison,’ Grandpa said, but after tomorrow I probably wouldn’t wear it again. I didn’t like hats.
Grandpa asked me how I felt about him marrying Nadia. I meant it when I said I thought it was a brilliant idea. I could see that they were in love. When she was there, he followed her around with his eyes, and they were always giving each other secret little smiles. I liked Nadia a lot, but I was pleased when she said that she didn’t want to be a grandmother to me.
‘We’ll be friends,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be anyone’s grandmother.’
That’s good, I thought.
This year, I’ve learnt more about my mum’s mother than I ever knew before, and I found out that I had a Polish grandfather who was a poet during the war. Then Dad went to jail and Mum died. I didn’t want any more changes on the ‘relations front’.
On Boxing Day, Grandpa, Nadia and I were leaving for Poland for a three-week visit.
‘Not work this time, Colin, I promise,’ Nadia said. ‘I’ll show you my beautiful country, and I want you to meet my relatives.’
We were going to have an overnight stop in London on the way, and on the way back, spend a week in Paris.
‘I want you to see everything, Alison,’ Nadia said. ‘We’ll begin in Krakow — so many art galleries and museums, so much history. Then I want to take you to Warsaw, where your grandfather lived and fought, and where he wrote his poetry.’
We were also going to go to the Baltic Sea, although Nadia said it was going to be freezing, and we were going to see the palaces and grand buildings that had been restored.
And Auschwitz.
‘Horrendous as it is, it is important to know what was done to your grandfather’s people and millions of Jews. We’ll pay our respects to the dead there, and pray that nothing like that ever happens again.’
I was so excited. It was to be my first time on a plane; my first time out of Victoria, and my first overseas trip.
Before school started again, there would be time for a week at Golden Beach, for Grandpa and Nadia, me and Rosa.
On the side of my desk there’s a small cabinet with a fancy latch. I bought a padlock and key for it because I put all the things that were mine alone there. There were two beautiful shells that I found on the sand at Golden Beach; there was my grandfather’s book of poems; and there was the note Dario sent me through Rosa after we went ice-skating.
Hi Allie, I had a great time on Saturday. I hope you’ll go out with me again sometime. Dario.
I asked Rosa to thank him for the note, but I didn’t write back. I put it in my desk and I would think about it next year.
And now there was the seagull card I got from Mrs Goodall — and this:
Dear Alison,
It has to be this way. I can’t go on anymore, and I don’t want to. I was never strong enough for this world, so I tried to hide from it. But you are strong and brave like my dear mother. I want you to do everything I was too afraid to do. Please don’t forget me. I loved you, but I couldn’t give you a good life. Finish the rug we were making together. Maybe you’ll show it to your children when you tell them about me.
Darling, I hope when you do that, your words are kind.
Your loving mum.
I had unfolded and folded the note so many times that it had started to crack along the seams. I did finish the rug — two hundred squares. Nadia, Rosa and I stitched it together bit by bit, and now it lies across my bed, warm and colourful.
Maybe one day I will have children and I can show it to them, telling them about their grandmother, who, for all her pain, loved me the best she could.
Yes, Mum, my words will be kind.
I won’t forget Mum, or Dad either. When he comes out of jail, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for him.
Chapter 65
Alison Brennan
Tuesday, 20 December
It was the week before Christmas, and today was my seventeenth birthday. Rosa was coming later, and we were going Christmas shopping. Nadia was making a birthday cake and Rosa was going to stay the night.
Tonight I was going to tell her everything — the whole story. She deserved my trust, and I knew now that she wouldn’t judge me.
It was early. I was making a cup of coffee when Grandpa came into the kitchen.
‘Ah, you’re awake. Happy birthday, darling,’ he said, kissing me. ‘Wait here. I have a gift for you.’
He returned to the bedroom and came back with a small parcel, which he put on the table in front of me. He seemed nervous, excited and a bit jumpy. ‘I didn’t think anything could have survived that fire,’ he said. ‘The place was just ash, everything gone. But the contractors I hired to clean out the rubble found it, and they were honest enough to give it to me. It was in an iron b
ox, that’s what protected it. It was probably lost for years in that house. I’ve had it cleaned and re-strung. Open it, dear.’
I tore away the paper and opened the box. Inside was a soft, black velvet bag. I opened the bag and drew them out gently — big, lustrous, gleaming pearls, with a hint of the pink Broome sunset glowing on each round surface.
References
A Mathews, M Gelder, D Johnston, Agorophobia: Nature and Treatment, Tavistock Publications, London and New York, 1981.
J Oppenheimer, Private Demons: The Life of Shirley Jackson, Fawcett Columbine, New York, 1988.
R Lukas, The Forgotten Holocaust: The Poles under German Occupation, 1939-1944. Third Edition, Hippocrene Books, New York.
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About the Author
Dr Kathleen Engebretson is a teacher and academic. She wrote her first novel, Red Dirt Odyssey, while living in a caravan in the Kimberley town of Kununurra. The Blooming of Alison Brennan draws on some of her experiences as a secondary school teacher. Details of her fiction and academic publishing can be found at http://www.kathengebretson.com/
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