A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  Grossmutter had not welcomed Stefan and Elizabeth. She had bitterly frowned upon their arrival, as if fearing she might be dispossessed of her tiny room. Her objections were silenced only when she found out this new great-nephew and his Ausldnderin wife would not be dwelling in the house.

  Elizabeth still graphically remembered that day. Stefan had found directions while she rested in the hotel, and after the publican had given her a drink of milk and some food, they set off towards the farm. They had come down the dirt track to a rusty wire fence and a broken gate. A box beside the gate was painted in faded creosote with the name RITTER. She knew at once it was an impoverished place. A lone cow searched for grazing. A tethered goat bleated. There were rows of vines, stunted and stripped of their grapes. The wind was soft, but bringing a breath of heat from the desert to the north, like a whispered warning.

  As they approached, several children appeared from the field to peer at them. A woman came out of the small wooden house, joined a moment later by a man in work clothes. Both seemed to be in their forties. There was no trace of welcome in their faces, only a careful appraisal and a guarded hostility. And soon afterwards came the realisation that none of them spoke English. She had stood by helplessly, while Stefan and his uncle had a long and heated exchange in their native tongue. It became an argument, in which Stefan seemed to be protesting, and Uncle Johann began to shout. Then he abruptly hurried away.

  ‘What is it?’ Elizabeth was very weary. She could not recall ever feeling so discouraged. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Everything,’ Stefan said. ‘It seems he never wrote and said he had a prosperous farm. My aunt lied. He’s always been poor here. Always struggling. It was a struggle to send me thirty-seven pounds for the boat fare — and he wants it back.’

  In her state of mind she did not understand what he meant. ‘Wants it back?’

  ‘Or else I work here and pay it off.’

  ‘And live where?’ she asked.

  ‘In there.’

  He pointed at a shed, the kind where cattle might be kept, or else farm equipment. The walls and roof were unpainted sheets of corrugated iron. She walked across to it and went inside. There were no cattle, but chickens had roosted here. Pellets of their faeces lay on the dirt floor. She felt, more than anything else, more than her incredulity or disgust, a sense of exhaustion and defeat. She was aware of Stefan beside her.

  ‘He said there’s no room in the house. I told him this is not fit for habitation, and that we’d leave.’

  ‘How can we leave?’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’m tired — and we have no money. None at all. At least until the baby is born, we have to stay here.’

  She was disturbed from her reverie by the creak of the rocking chair on the verandah, and the old woman’s complaints. She realised Heinrich was still crying. Leaving the milk, and covering the pail to protect it from flies, Elizabeth went into the shed to pick up her son.

  It was still a primitive coop, and she and Stefan had done little to make it a home. To them it was a temporary shelter, and one they would not live in for a moment longer than necessary. Or so they reassured each other, almost every night after he came in exhausted from work, cultivating and pruning the vines, often too tired to make love to her although she wanted him, needed this comfort desperately — and later when he was lean and toughened by the physical work, and eager for her, then it was too close to the birth — even then they would lie in each other’s arms and plan that once the child was born and Elizabeth recovered, they would leave here, tell Uncle Johann the debt was repaid, find other work and somewhere better to live, far from this awful place and these unforgiving people.

  But it had not turned out that way.

  She was deeply unhappy, and had been from the first day, after the lack of welcome, the appalled realisation of where they were to sleep, and the ordeal of their first meal with the Ritters. She had been aware, as Uncle Johann said a long incomprehensible grace, and afterwards when the greasy Dicke suppe was served, of the entire family watching her with a steady speculative stare. It was alien to her way of behaviour, and disturbed her. There was not only Grossmutter and Aunt Anna’s critical gaze, but all the four children, from fifteen-year-old Clara to seven-year-old Kurt, watched her with a scrutiny that made her feel exposed and uncomfortable. Only Uncle Johann, head down and spoon shovelling, showed no interest, as if his prime concern had been solved by the appearance of Stefan, and he could now begin to recoup the investment of the passage money. Which he had assuredly done. Stefan worked from sunrise until dark, with barely time to wash and sit at the table before the food was blessed with the same interminable Lutheran grace.

  Many times Elizabeth felt she must write and tell her parents the truth; ask for help, confess it had all been a dreadful mistake. Yet she had not done so. A fierce pride, although she was loath to acknowledge it, held her back from this final admission of failure.

  She picked up the crying child, his small face mottled with rage, kissed him and smiled as his tantrum turned into a gurgle of recognition.

  ‘Little beast,’ she said fondly. Think you’ve won. Well, you have.’ She cuddled him, found a damp rag to cool his tiny brow, then wiped and changed him, and carried him from the heat of the iron shed into the shade of the flowering red gum, one of the few trees that had been spared on the property.

  Heinrich was a fair-haired, healthy infant with his mother’s intense blue eyes. He had been born on a wild night, when a violent summer storm and driving rain had delayed Doctor Boettcher, and instead the midwife from the local village had delivered him. The Ritter family approved of the chosen name of Heinrich. Elizabeth’s murmurs of dissent were only fleeting; Stefan was so thrilled with the baby and so proud, so hopeful he should be named after his dead father that she did not have the heart to voice her concern at her child being given such an alien name.

  Heinrich Muller, squalling lustily, was baptised in the oldest of Hahndorf’s Lutheran churches. The ceremony was entirely in German, and she had not understood a word of it. She had felt like a stranger watching a curious ritual in which her husband and son took part while she was a bystander.

  The baby moved inside her swollen body again, and she sat carefully on the ground, placing Heinrich in the shade of the red gum. She had not intended to become pregnant again, certainly not so soon. There would be little more than a year’s difference in the children’s ages.

  ‘It’ll be company for Heinrich,’ Stefan said, trying to console her, the day they first knew of her condition. The family gave one of their rare smiles of approval at this foreign girl their nephew had brought among them, while shaking Stefan’s hand in congratulation. To Elizabeth it seemed to imply she was now performing the function for which she was fitted, allowing her body to be the incubator in which offspring would be bred. At nineteen years of age, she was not enthralled by their biblical concept of multiplying mightily. She felt there had to be more to life than having her womb occupied annually to produce future farm workers.

  She had tried to explain this to Stefan. The night the doctor had confirmed it — she had insisted on this, although Aunt Anna had shaken her head at the expense — that night they sat on fruit boxes outside the shed. It was peaceful, with only the murmured rise and fall of Uncle Johann’s voice from inside the farmhouse, where an oil lamp glowed.

  ‘They are saying prayers for the health of the new baby,’ he told her. She made no response. The tension between them was tangible. He felt a deep guilt for bringing her here, aware of the stresses that were dividing them. Often he wanted to tell her to give in and write to her father, but knew if she did it would almost certainly mean the end of their marriage. Yet much more of this bleak life and that might happen, anyway.

  He looked towards the house, as the prayer continued. ‘I know they are hard, difficult people.’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘I am not excusing them, but all they have is their land — and their God. They’ve come to realise the land is
poor. It won’t produce good crops. They wonder, sometimes, if God looks the other way.’

  She wanted to ask if their God was as harsh and forbidding as they were, but instead she said, ‘I’m tired, Stefan. I’m going to bed.’

  He took her hand. ‘You don’t want this child, do you?’ She hesitated. The truthful answer was no.

  ‘I want us to have a chance. We’ve been saying for months we’ll get away from here. What hope have we, with another baby?’

  Despite the shade of the red gum, the air was searingly hot and Heinrich began to cry again. She heard the rocking chair squeak on the verandah, as the old woman, Grossmutter, gazed out towards her. The dislike, the malevolence was unmistakable.

  Why do you hate us? Elizabeth thought despairingly. We came here with such hopes, wanting to give so much affection to you. All we asked was to be a part of your family. And what did you give us in return? No welcome and this silent hostility. You spoilt it, old woman, you and your daughter and Uncle Johann. We came here wanting to be happy — we hadn’t any money and we were hungry, but we loved each other and life was fun. And then you frowned and spurned us and ruined it. Why ? Why do you sit there hating me?

  The thought of writing to her parents kept recurring and she kept rejecting it.

  Lately, William often stayed for dinner. He now cared little for what Edith thought, and she asked no questions. They rarely communicated, except at breakfast or when he had to entertain political associates at home. Apart from these occasions, they lived their own lives, little more than silent acquaintances in a house much too large for them.

  It was so different here. He still marvelled at how warm and decorative Hannah had made the bijou house. He grew to realise and appreciate her intellect and social graces. She could discuss politics, knew the arguments for and against the federation of the states, and that the forthcoming referendum would mean political in-fighting and crossing of party lines. It could be a time of opportunity for William. She had begun to subtly interest him in the theatre. On her advice he made donations to a new ballet company, and invested in the theatrical venture started by the American actor, James Cassius Williamson. She pointed out that local interest in drama had been kindled by the visit of the great Sarah Bernhardt, and to be a modest patron of the arts would do no harm to his political ambitions or his public image.

  In this way Hannah contributed to his life. He was immensely proud of her. He wanted, above all else, to be seen openly with her, but this seemed to entail a risk to his position. He felt he didn’t care. In the name of love he was prepared to give up all he had striven for.

  ‘I sometimes think Edith would be relieved if I moved out.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I used to be fond of that house. Now it’s not much more than an empty shell.’ She watched him, knowing of his loneliness since Elizabeth’s elopement. ‘I really wonder if a political career is worth it. Sometimes I want to say, “To hell with it all,” and come and live with you.’

  ‘You know what I think, William?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you should stop talking, and take me to bed.’

  Later, lying entwined and tranquil, he raised the matter again.

  It was Hannah who convinced him it would be foolish. ‘You’d lose everything.’

  ‘People do get divorced these days,’ he argued.

  ‘Not if they want a public career, and high office. You surely don’t intend to stay on the back benches once Federation comes.’ She smiled at him. They were both aware of his ambitions. ‘So, no divorce, no scandal, my darling. I’m content, William. I’m very happy, believe me.’

  ‘I hope so. I lost Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear to lose you.’ It was simply spoken, not a declaration of any kind, yet it moved her deeply. She felt its truth. Those who knew his past reputation would have been amazed at this absolute sincerity.

  Around midnight Hannah saw him out. An oil lamp lit the front courtyard. She adjusted his tie, then kissed him gently on the lips. There was something she wanted to say, and she wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.

  ‘Write to her,’ she said.

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Elizabeth. Write and say no matter what, you love her.’

  ‘I can’t,’ William said. ‘I think of her every day. I try not to, yet I do. But writing is like … like forgiving. I can’t do it.’

  Heinrich was asleep in the shed. Elizabeth found a pad and pencil and sat beneath the red gum. She moved slowly, clumsily, her body more swollen, and felt fatigued by the summer heat. She carefully headed the letter: Hahndorf December 12th, 1898.

  Dear Papa, I feel I must now tell you the terrible situation in which we find ourselves, and to ask for your help … It would be so easy, she thought, then regretfully tore up the page and began again:Dear Mama and Papa, I am sorry I have not written for so long, but we have all been busy. We work hard here, but we enjoy it. She looked down the paddock at Stefan in the distance, stripped to the waist as he vigorously swung a pick, and resumed her letter. Stefan is well, and so is Heinricb, who will soon have a brother or a sister (I hope) as I am expecting again in March. I will write and give you more news then. I send you both my greetings for Christmas and the New Year. Your loving daughter, Elizabeth.

  She had never written the truth to her parents, and knew now, despite moments of temptation and the knowledge that any plea would bring an instant response, that she never would. Her first letter, on their arrival, had avoided any details of their reception, and had dealt mainly with the journey. It had elicited a quick and agitated reply from her mother, who demanded to know if she was well. Was she happy? Were these people kind to her? Wouldn’t she reconsider and come home when the child was born?

  Elizabeth had replied, touched by her mother’s concern, but confident she and Stefan could manage to find their own way, so to stem the emotional flow, she had lied a number of times about their welfare and their living conditions. Now, nothing in the world would allow her to confess the bitter truth: that not since her first night with Stefan in the Clyde Street house, had she faced the future with such a sense of despair.

  EIGHT

  Edith Patterson was not prepared for how deeply she would miss her daughter. By nature rather reticent, she and Elizabeth had little in common, and from infancy she had accepted the fact that the child had always shown a preference for her father. When Elizabeth ran away she felt devastated; she felt in some way to blame, and often wished she could reverse time and change her attitude that night on board the ship — when she had looked down and seen her daughter dancing with the boy, slowly and sensually, as if, in some way, they were standing there making love.

  Now Elizabeth was gone and the house that had always been too large for her, was even bigger, and emptier. Edith felt bereft. She knew her husband had his politics, his business interests and his liaison in Paddington, but she had nothing. Not until the first letter. She had immediately replied to it, but had been perhaps too anxious or too intrusive, for there had been no reply for many weeks, and then a polite response giving no real answers to the many questions that troubled her.

  Now, at long last, there was another letter.

  William gave it to Mrs Forbes to hand to her. They were at breakfast sitting, like distant but polite strangers, at each end of the long baronial table that had never known dinner parties. ‘Heinrich is well,’ she read from her daughter’s careful hand. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘It was his father’s,’ William replied. ‘Read the rest of it.’

  She read on, and felt her heart stop. ‘Another child?’

  ‘In March, she says.’

  ‘How could she be having another child? She’s hardly more than that herself.’

  ‘Do you find anything at all strange about the letter?’ he asked.

  Edith had a moment of bitter anger. ‘I find everything strange about it. I find it strange that our daughter is called Mrs Muller — a
nd lives so far away with German people — and has babies we’ve never seen.’

  It was not the answer he hoped for. Though, to be fair, he didn’t know what answer that should be. He finished his cup of tea, and rose from the table, telling her not to expect him for dinner. The House was sitting late, and he would not be home before midnight.

  It had troubled him, and William was unsure why. He had left the letter with Edith, and felt constrained about discussing it with her again, or asking her for its return. One night, unable to sleep, he had gone downstairs to her private sitting room, found the letter in her writing desk, and read it again. There was nothing to concern him. So little news, really. It was like one of her daily snippets she had sent him while abroad, and yet … somehow it was not the same. Not like that at all.

  Hannah had been aware all week something was worrying him, and knew that he would tell her when he was ready. She made a jug of cold lemon drink, and they took their glasses outside to the garden. In the ornamental pots and window boxes, trailing petunias and dianthus created a profusion of colour. It was late in the afternoon, but the heat persisted. Humidity lay heavily over the city and the day was likely to end with a violent southerly buster.

  William sipped his drink, and felt in his pocket for the letter.

  He gave it to her to read.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ she said, recognising the writing from some of the correspondence she had been shown from their trip abroad. ‘Came a week ago. Dated well before Christmas, but it didn’t arrive until well after New Year. Makes you wonder what the damned postal service is coming to.’

  ‘Or else she didn’t get to town to post it.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ William said. ‘Who knows if they’re near a town?

  Probably out in the sticks. At any rate,’ he hesitated, ‘I don’t know why, but it worries me. Has for days. All morning, while we had that debate on whether to build a bridge across the harbour, all I could think about was — Lizzie. What kind of life she’s leading. What the child looks like. Dammit — she’s going to have another one. Read it.’