A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  ‘One hundred. He said he was doing me a favour.’

  ‘You tell him to go to hell.’

  It was not the first time the Carsons had bought land at cheap prices, after arrests. She wondered uneasily what Carson knew this time, and who so obligingly supplied his information?

  Stefan realised he was being kept waiting deliberately. It was at least an hour before Inspector Lucas strolled onto the police station verandah. By then the midday sun was directly overhead, the day was hot and still, and the galvanised iron roofheld the heat like a furnace. Stefan mopped sweat from his face, and nodded in greeting. Lucas said nothing, merely stood surveying him, a long and probing scrutiny. It was clearly a tactic he employed; from a position of authority he used silence to force others into speaking, and thus dominated them.

  ‘I came about my friend Gerhardt Lippert.’

  Lucas continued to stare. It had a disconcerting effect. Stefan knew he was expected to continue.

  ‘I gather he was stupid and unwise, but the remarks he made were in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘You were there, were you?’

  ‘No, Inspector. I was in Adelaide.’

  ‘Then how can you know about the remarks he made?’

  ‘I’ve been told.’

  ‘I’m surprised, someone like yourself, claiming friendship with this troublemaker.’

  ‘He’s a good man. He means no harm,’ Stefan said. ‘If there is any way you could give him another chance?’

  ‘Are you serious? You expect me to give him another chance to abuse soldiers who are protecting this country?’

  Protecting the country? By arresting a minister saying his prayers, Stefan wanted to reply — but knew he must not. ‘Perhaps I could see him?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  At least they were talking. Lucas appeared to have relaxed a little. There was even the trace of a smile on his last remark. Stefan felt encouraged enough to say, ‘Or if I could stand bail … ’

  ‘You can afford that sort of thing, can you? That’s right, of course — you’re the one with a daughter in college, a new car, and a big vineyard. Well, I’m sorry but the law won’t permit bail in these cases.’

  ‘What will the law permit, Inspector?’

  ‘The law won’t permit anything, Mr Muller. Not a thing.’

  ‘Then what’s to happen to Gerhardt Lippert?’

  ‘He’ll be imprisoned until the war is over.’

  ‘May I ask where?’

  ‘You may — but you won’t receive an answer.’

  ‘Then can you assure his friends that he’s safe? People are worried.’

  ‘Germans, you mean,’ Lucas said, and there was no mistaking the hostility. ‘Germans are worried.’

  ‘All of his friends would be greatly relieved if we knew he had not been harmed.’

  ‘That sounds like a threat to me, Muller,’ the inspector said. ‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

  ‘It sounded like it. A man of your standing, with your assets, it would be stupid to threaten people in authority. You could have your land confiscated. All sorts of awkward things could happen.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Inspector?’

  There was a silence. Stefan sensed, although he could never be sure, that there was a change in the policeman’s attitude. ‘Nobody is threatening anyone,’ Lucas said. ‘Your friend took on the army, who arrested him. They brought him to us.’

  ‘By ambulance? Why?’ Stefan asked.

  ‘They had no transport. Mr Lippert was being abusive and violent. It says so in the arrest statements. A troublemaker. As requested, we took custody of him, and last night we ordered a police van. He was transferred to Adelaide.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m glad you do.’

  ‘But last night,’ Stefan said, ‘I was on the road back from Adelaide. I didn’t pass a police van.’

  Lucas shrugged. He appeared unconcerned. ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘Between seven o’clock and nine.’

  ‘Ah, well. The police van left at ten.’

  ‘You could prove that, could you, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m sure there’d be paperwork, Mr Muller,’ Lucas said.

  ‘But you can’t — or won’t — tell me where he was taken?’

  ‘I’d have no particular reason not to — assuming I knew. But once he left here, he was out of our jurisdiction. It could have been Torrens or Langley Islands, or even interstate. Trial Bay or Berrima? There are so many camps.’ He sounded almost conciliatory.

  ‘Is there some higher authority I can see about this case?’

  ‘You’ve seen me, Mr Muller. That’s as high as you get.’

  ‘Your superior? A superintendent?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucas said, ‘I’ve told you all I can.’

  He went back inside.

  Stefan walked away. He felt sick.

  It was false. Totally false. This man hated Germans. But today he had been almost docile, allowing Stefan to argue and contradict him. It made no sense. Unless — and that was what made him feel ill and afraid, unless Lucas had something crucial to hide.

  He was possessed of a terrible apprehension, and wondered if he should confide his fear to Oscar Schmidt. But Oscar was not good at facing reality. For the moment, until he could find out more, he would have to bear this alone.

  ‘We buried him,’ the superintendent said. ‘The coroner was difficult, but he finally agreed it could be called a heart attack. Brought on, mind you, by blows and the soldiers kicking him, which did not go on the death certificate. I’d like to hang the bastards, but we’re not allowed to say a word. How is it at your end?’

  ‘Under control,’ Lucas said. ‘I suspect Muller doesn’t believe a word I said, but there’s nothing he can do about it.’

  ‘Is he a danger?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Should we take him in? Invoke the emergency powers?’

  ‘With respect, Superintendent, I think it might be unwise.’

  ‘Really?’

  The voice on the telephone became cool. He was not a man who liked being given direction by subordinates.

  ‘Only a personal opinion, sir,’ Lucas hastily assured him. ‘We don’t want more rumours. Let this matter settle down for a while. If we need to act, I’d prefer a clear and obvious reason for Muller’s detention.’

  ‘Why is he different to any of the others?’

  ‘He has a wealthy and prominent father-in-law. He was a senator, and we don’t know how much pull he still has.’

  The superintendent thought about it. Perhaps’ his inspector had a point, after all.

  ‘If he does become a problem,’ he asked, ‘what then?’

  ‘No one’s influence would count in a more serious charge. For instance, provoking trouble. An act against the Crown. Then he’d be a menace, a danger to the country.’

  ‘But how would you be able to manage that?’

  ‘We have a dog on a leash,’ Lucas said.

  Some nights later, a motorcycle sped along the Nuriootpa road. It was late, and there were no other vehicles about. It turned into a gateway, and pulled up outside the milking shed at the Carson’s dairy. The rider remained on his machine, wearing a coat, his helmet and goggles forming a protective mask, as Carson joined him from the house. He listened carefully, as the rider spoke, explaining in detail what was to be done, the splutter of the two-cylinder engine covering the sound of their voices.

  Before he left, Carson gave the motorcycle rider a wrapped bundle of notes, payment for details that had led to the cheap acquisition of a local farm, the owner of which had been interned.

  Sergeant Delaney put the money in his saddlebag. He kicked the throttle of his motorbike, and rode away.

  Stefan felt a deep and growing melancholy, but he had to try to conceal it. He was convinced that Gerhardt was dead. It was terrible to feel this about his closest friend, and not be able to discus
s it, or to openly mourn him. He felt he could not tell Eva-Maria, because he was afraid of what she might be driven to do. Nor did he fully confide in Elizabeth. He feared her reaction, perhaps even more.

  It was a time of fear, as the war that everyone had said would be over by the first Christmas ended its second year.

  The initial surge of recruits had fallen to such an extent that the hastily promised quota of troops to the Empire was endangered. A referendum was called by the government, for the right to introduce conscription. It was fiercely opposed by a diverse group across the political spectrum, including Or Mannix, the Catholic Archbishop of Melbourne, and former Senator William Patterson, whose grandson, having by now received eight white feathers, could wait no longer.

  Two months before his twentieth birthday, he abruptly left university and joined up.

  Harry had expected an enormous row. Ready to stand his ground, he predicted a strident scene with violent objections, but he was wrong.

  They were at lunch when he walked in wearing his uniform. ‘Oh my God,’ Hannah said.

  His grandfather said nothing, only looked at him for quite a long time, with a strange expression. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said.

  He stood waiting for a response, but there was none.

  ‘I did defer it for a long time. When they bring in conscription I’d be called up, anyway.’

  ‘You’d better tell Mrs Forbes to set you a place,’ Hannah said, because William did not look as if he was going to speak, but clearly Mrs Forbes had been informed of his arrival, for she entered and laid out cutlery for him on the linen tablecloth. He smiled his thanks, but no one said a word until she was gone.

  Harry sat down. He wished there had been a protest. Some of his grandfather’s ranting and raving would be a great deal more comfortable than this.

  ‘I said I’m sorry, Grandfather.’

  ‘I heard you,’ William replied. ‘I also heard you say there’ll be conscription — well, you’re wrong. There won’t be.’

  ‘People are going to vote on it.’

  ‘They’ll vote No — if commonsense prevails.’

  ‘What about patriotism, Grandpa?’

  ‘It’s still the last refuge of a scoundrel,’ William declared with relish. ‘We’re going to beat that Welsh bastard. Conscripting the young to go and fight his war is an outrage.’

  ‘If you feel that strongly about conscripts, then you really can’t object to volunteers.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ was all he said, as the maid brought in Harry’s lunch. When she had gone, William folded his napkin, and stood up.

  ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘But if the volunteers get killed, it’s an awful waste. It leaves a gap in the lives of people who love them.’

  ‘I won’t get killed,’ Harry said quietly.

  ‘Did you, by chance, have the courtesy to advise your mother and your father?’

  ‘I wrote to them two days ago.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d accept a commission, if I managed to arrange it?’

  ‘I’d rather do it my way, Grandfather. Like everyone else.’

  ‘Bugger it,’ William said, and paused in the doorway as if he wanted to say more, but for once could not find the words. ‘Bugger it,’ he repeated, and walked out.

  Harry tried to eat his meal. He looked up at Hannah. ‘Don’t cry, please, Hannah.’

  ‘Who’s crying?’ she said, eyes wet. ‘When do you report?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Harry said.

  Six weeks later he was gone. They were allowed a two-day final leave. At dinner the last night, Harry admitted they were untrained, but there was an urgent need for reinforcements, and the voyage and a brief time in England would be spent making them into soldiers.

  William said this was bloody insanity, and promised he was going to do his best to prevent Prime Minister Billy-bloody-Hughes from dragooning others into being cannon fodder.

  Hannah asked him to please not use that term. It was a phrase she kept reading, and it distressed her.

  William apologised. If Harry had only allowed him to arrange a commission, he wouldn’t be marched off like this, to an infantry troop so clearly unready and ill-equipped.

  Was his grandson quite sure he couldn’t exert some influence and get him at least one pip?

  Harry said he was certain — and if he had second thoughts it was too late. He told them he had written again to his parents, and would write to his sister from somewhere romantic, like Cairo.

  It had been a strange time for the Mullers. A series of small incidents, not all happening at once, but extending over several months. Nothing to put a finger on, but they made Stefan uneasy.

  An irrigation hose cut. A window broken. A fence dismantled, allowing neighbouring cattle to invade the burgeoning vines. Amid these nocturnal events — they did seem to happen at night — came the disturbing news about Harry.

  ‘I always knew it,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I just hoped the war would be over before he could join.’

  ‘Such a waste,’ Stefan brooded. ‘Giving up his law studies.’

  ‘He’ll go back to it — afterwards.’

  But neither of them felt comfortable discussing it. They we’re acurely aware of the casualty lists. The news from the trenches in France had grown progressively worse. Thousands of lives sacrificed to gain a few metres. Thousands more lost when the same metres were retaken. Elderly generals in warm greatcoats and braided caps, playing lethal chess; a deadly endgame with the youth of so many nations.

  In their own distant world, other things were happening. Risible, ridiculous things.

  ‘You know the latest edict?’ Stefan asked. ‘Every place with a German name is to be obliterated from the map.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s in the paper. All dangerous, unpatriotic names must be changed. The government says Hahndorf must be called Ambleside. Mount Kaiser Stuhl is to be Mount Kitchener. Krondorf has become Kabminye. Heidelberg is most unsuitable. It is now Kobandilla.’

  She started to smile.

  ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Rhine Hill is gone — changed to Mons. Seppelts is not Seppelts any more. It’s Dorien. They were going to change Tanunda. Too Germanic. In the nick of time, they found out it’s Aboriginal.’

  ‘They’re all crazy,’ she said, laughing, yet knowing this was not funny; it was out of control. Blind prejudice, becoming blinder.

  ‘Also,’ he said, ‘I heard they wanted to abolish Barossa. It was considered a seriously Prussian name.’

  ‘And is it?’

  ‘No — it’s Spanish. It means a hill of roses.’

  ‘I like that.’

  They spent most of the morning in the fermentation shed, where they bottled some of last summer’s stored vintage. Elizabeth enjoyed the days when they worked together. She packed a basket for lunch, and they walked up to the crest of their property, to the magnolia tree, where they spread a rug in the shade. The view was spectacular. They could see their land right down to the creek, and the paddocks beyond belonging to the Lippert farm, where Carl was spending the day ploughing for Eva-Maria. She had insisted on returning home to live, refusing financial help, accepting occasional work by Carl, on condition she fed him. Knowing his appetite, Elizabeth said she might be the loser, but was relieved her friend had begun to plan for the future, and decided not to sell the farm. Although they tried not to discuss it, the feeling of dread about what had happened to Gerhardt remained.

  She lay with her head pillowed on Stefan’s lap, as she gazed up at the canopy of the magnolia, with its large dark green leaves and creamy white flowers that heralded the spring and lasted throughout summer. Someone before them had planted it here, positioning it perfectly on the hilltop, but it had been only half this size when they first arrived. The tree — like their children, like themselves — had grown and matured.

  She was thirty-eight years old, and had now been married to Stefan more than half her life. If it were not for the
war, there would be only one shadow on her happiness; the lack of accord between her eldest son and his father, and the actual feeling of dislike between the two boys. Carl and Harry would never be the same sort of people; their upbringing had been so entirely different, but she wished they could at least be friends. She tried to imagine where Harry was, this minute. On his way towards Aden and the Suez, perhaps, crossing the same ocean where she had flirted with the officers, and fallen in love with the thin-faced young man from Augsburg in Bavaria.

  Elizabeth wondered if there were people in Augsburg with sons at war, as fearful about the future as she was?

  She sat up, determined to stop this kind of thinking. Stefan helped her pack up the lunch basket, and he carried it as they linked arms and began to make their way down the slope towards the house and the cluster of sheds behind it. Then he paused.

  ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  He pointed, and she saw it. Way below them, near the road.

  It seemed to be a figure, like a scarecrow, but too far away to be distinct.

  ‘Perhaps Carl put something up, to keep off the birds. I’ll have a look.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Elizabeth said.

  When they drew closer it was a scarecrow, or appeared to be. It faced towards the road. Unsuspectingly, they circled the figure to look at it. The buzz of blowflies should have been a warning. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ Stefan said, with shocked disbelief.

  Elizabeth thought she was going to be sick.

  The front of it was a cruel and lifelike dummy of a hun figure, gross and barbaric like the savage newspaper cartoons, with a bayonet stuck in its midriff, from which animal entrails and blood spilled out. The blowflies were feeding on the blood, and swarming all over it.

  Then she was sick. She felt the rush of bile into her mouth, and could not control it, as she retched and fell to the ground on hands and knees, turning from the sight, from the grotesque savagery; feeling terrified and revolted.

  Stefan picked her up, heedless of the vomit staining his shirt, holding her tightly. She could feel his body against hers, racked by shudders, and realised he was sobbing with a helpless rage.

  Oscar was cleaning the window of his shop. He saw Stefan’s car pull up across the street. He waved, but Stefan did not respond, as he took a hessian bag and went towards the police station.