‘The King didn’t like the idea of having a Jew command the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.’ Harry had heard it at division headquarters. ‘C’mon, skipper. Are you serious?’
‘Absolutely. His Majesty said, “But the man’s a Jew. A bloody German Jew, to boot”
General Monash’s father had come from Bavaria. Harry had met the general only once, when he was promoted to captain, and saw no reason to raise their common German heritage. He wondered if Monash’s father was alive, but doubted it — and whether he might have been interned if he had been. He rather doubted that, too.
‘It stinks,’ Marry Renshaw said. ‘Why?’ Shortland asked him.
‘Because the fucking King himself comes from Germany. He’s a hun like those buggers over there.’
Harry moved away from them. He had been back in the line a month, and still unable to fully comprehend the news Kate had given him. His father was interned. Somehow — even if they had always been remote and estranged — he had to write to him. He had tried several times, but now he realised he must. Johnno’s law would catch up with him soon, and not to have written, knowing the truth, was unthinkable.
He sat in the corner of the sodden dugout, and took a pad and pencil from his pack. There was a fountain pen somewhere, but it had long since run out of ink.
My dear father … he began — and wondered what else he could say.
THIRTY THREE
William had never known total defeat. Not like this. Not the humiliating and thinly veiled indifference of bland bureaucrats, to whom he was no longer a person of importance, merely the relative of an internee, importuning for his release — while also asking questions about another missing alien, claiming he was possibly killed by troops who had arrested a pastor of the Lutheran church.
He could sense their disbelief. What date did this occur, he was asked? What was the name of the minister? He consulted Elizabeth and her friend Eva-Maria Lippert, and provided the authorities with the details.
Nothing whatever known about the matter, the army replied so promptly that William knew no real enquiry could have taken place. He asked if he could interrogate the troops concerned in the pastor’s arrest, but was told they were serving overseas. When he said he doubted this, since they were militia and not A.L.F, he was asked to meet with a colonel, who informed him the army was not in the habit of lying, and the men had volunteered for service abroad and were no longer in Australia. If he wished, the colonel said, he should put his concerns in writing, and the area officer would consider if it required further investigation. He was left in no doubt that there was more important work to hand — a war to be won — and his intrusion with these questions was a waste of the colonel’s and everyone else’s very valuable time.
During this period of frustration in Adelaide, his few moments of pleasure were the meetings with his granddaughter, Maria. He was startled by her resemblance to Elizabeth. It was not merely that they looked alike — he already knew that from her photographs — but her expressions, the sound of her voice, everything was like turning back the clock to be confronted with a perfect replica of Elizabeth at that same age. It was uncanny.
He and Hannah tried to appear encouraging, when they spoke to her of attempts to secure Stefan’s release. Maria was upset — she had not told her friends or teachers, and it was affecting her school work. She was trying to concentrate, knowing failure to get into medical school would only cause her father additional distress. But it was difficult, she said, and she was feeling very insecure. It was clear Stefan’s imprisonment had come at a critical time in her life.
Maria came with them, when he and Hannah went to spend a few days in the Barossa, where he marvelled at the transformation of the vineyard. The once shabby house on a twenty-acre patch had become an elegant home blending into the landscape, and surrounded by well-built storage and fermentation buildings, some of timber and others of stone. There were neatly clipped rows of vines terraced all the way up the hill, and on the land acquired beyond. The original block he had given them had grown to over a hundred acres, and everywhere the nurtured bushes were flourishing, bursting into new growth. He walked the property with Carl, who was eager to show him everything. William was impressed by the tidiness, the obvious love and care that had been lavished on the place.
‘So who’s looked after it, ever since your father … ?’
‘I have,’ said Carl.
‘Without help?’
‘We can’t get help. Mama sometimes insists she and I prune the vines together.’ He smiled. ‘I manage, but it would be a lot harder without the watering system that Pa said you gave us.’
They walked to the crest of the hill and stood beneath the magnolia tree, so they could look at the land falling gently down to the creek on one side, and abutting the Lippert farm on the other. The vines ran in perfect symmetry. The soil between was ploughed and free of weeds. With the late afternoon sun slanting on the leaves, it looked like a picture postcard.
‘I never dreamed it could develop like this,’ William said. ‘It’s just remarkable.’
‘He worked hard. That’s why it’s so unfair, what’s happened. Do you think he’ll be released soon?’
William hesitated. This boy wanted the truth, not promises or glib false hopes.
‘I wish I could say yes, Carl. But I don’t have the influence any more. Our best hope is for this damn war to end soon, then they’ll all come home.’
After the brief few days, Maria was due to return to school.
William and Hannah drove her. It was goodbye; he knew he could accomplish nothing further by remaining in Adelaide, but promised they would visit again soon. Carl shook hands with them both, and kissed his sister. He stood waving as they left.
That night at supper, he said to Elizabeth, ‘It was strange, meeting my grandfather.’
‘I gather it wasn’t as bad as you expected?’
‘I always thought I’d hate him. But I didn’t.’
‘He’s not really very hateable.’ She smiled. ‘He doesn’t think Pa can get out.’
‘I know.’
‘Is it terrible in there? You didn’t say very much about your visit, Mama. Just that he was well.’
‘He is well. So much better than I expected. And as for being terrible — after all, it’s a prison camp, and so it’s rather strict and bleak, but he’s managing,’ Elizabeth said, hoping he believed her.
The letter arrived two days later. It was in pencil, with an accompanying note to Elizabeth, dated two months earlier.
My dear father,
I’m told you’re in a prison camp, accused of being some sort of enemy. What kind of people, in God’s name, are making this accusation? We have not been close, you and I, for which I apologise. I should have tried harder. Perhaps you should have, also. But an enemy alien? Are they all mad? You came to Australia as a penniless emigrant, met my mother, eloped with her and rejected what could have been an easy and an affluent life. I have to be proud of you, Papa. I am proud, and want you to know it.
Now I’m fighting in this wet and muddy corner of France, and I hear the news you are imprisoned as an enemy. I wish the people who did this to you were here, so I could point out the enemy to them. I could say — climb out of this dirty hole in the ground, look across the dead bodies and the barbed wire — the enemy are over there. They are mostly young — like us; sick and tired of death — like us; misled, lied to, provoked to war — just like us. Our enemy is not so different to us. Unlike yours.
Your enemy seems to be people who call themselves patriots, who insist they are on the side of the Almighty — for both sides in this insane war claim the allegiance of God. If God were half of what we were taught, he must turn aside in horror. I am appalled, Father — I am sad beyond words of mine, that the country you sought as a refuge and loved, the country that should be proud of your achievements, has done this to you. I have long been convinced — and we have these crazy thoughts here in this hellish place —
that I would die here. That I could not survive. Well, now I must. I must come home, first to make my peace with you, and after that to find out who is to blame for this outrage — and try to make them accountable.
Your son,
Harry
As battalion censor, he had cleared the letter himself, and it went back with the mail to headquarters. A week later it was on board a cargo ship, and six weeks after that reached Perth. It took another week to cross the Nullarbor to Adelaide.
Elizabeth read it and wept.
She knew she could not post this to Stefan. It was too precious, too important to risk someone intercepting or destroying it. Much as she feared the prospect of another visit to Langley Island, she must somehow obtain permission to deliver this in person.
Mr Harpur toyed with legal papers on his desk, apologetic with bad news. The photos of his two dead sons gazed at Elizabeth. She had heard, weeks ago, that Lieutenant Oavid Harpur of the Royal Flying Corps had been killed in action over the Hindenberg line. She had written to Mr Harpur at his office, rather than his home, grieving for this kindly man who had always hoped at least one son would someday become a partner in the family firm. She dreaded to think how Mrs Harpur might be feeling.
‘I only heard officially yesterday. Since you’d written to say you were coming to Adelaide, I thought it best to tell you in person.’
‘They’ve refused to let me visit?’
‘I’m afraid so. They say last time you caused trouble, which we know is untrue. But I have no recourse — no way I can take them to any court to appeal. This is becoming an awful world, Mrs Muller.’
‘It is, Mr Harpur.’
She rose and looked out the french windows. Across the square were the sedate, fashionable buildings of the North Terrace. She did not see the view, filled only with despair.
‘A son wants to make peace with his father, and I don’t dare send the letter. Am I wrong? Do you think they’d let him read it?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Then how can Stefan know? Unless I take it in person, and read it to him. There’s no other way. I have to do this. It would mean so much to him to be reconciled, to hear what Harry says.’
‘When they turned down your application, I applied to visit, as his legal adviser, hoping I could convey the sentiments of the letter. But they rejected that. It’s grossly unfair.’
‘It is,’ Elizabeth said, ‘and I’m not going to accept it.’
‘But what can you do?’
‘Fight.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mr Harpur — not the remotest. They arrested my husband on false evidence, and I can’t contest that, because they’ll manufacture more lies to support their action. But I can challenge the concept that in this day and age, they can imprison a man and prevent anyone from seeing him. It’s not just unfair — it’s inhumane — and I’ve no notion how, but I’m going to fight it. I’m going to make them wish they’d never heard of me.’
Mr Harpur looked at her, and felt a stirring in his heart. It was impossible, of course, that she could achieve anything, but if he had been granted a daughter, he would certainly have wanted one like this.
Elizabeth waited most of the day in the cheerless room, one of many people sitting and waiting there. She read the magazines, all months out of date, then pondered over a copy of the Bulletin with one of Norman Lindsay’s vicious anti-German cartoons in it. She was truly puzzled by Lindsay. This Bohemian, this free spirit who painted so well had adopted the stance of British magazines, but gone far beyond the English cartoonists with his unrelentingly spiteful illustrations. His drawings had become a leading force in the widespread hatred of anyone with German ancestry.
My children, she thought, are victims of Mr Lindsay’s pen and ink.
It was all the more astonishing, because artists were generally supposed to be liberal, to have a measure of understanding. She felt that Lindsay was either well paid for his savagery, or had no real compassion.
Leaning back, she studied the notices covering the gaunt walls. CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. CONSCRIPTION — VOTE YES. BUY WAR BONDS. Elizabeth wanted to close her eyes. She was weary with waiting. At the reception desk, a middle-aged woman in charge sat endlessly knitting. A man carrying a bulky file came from an office. He enquired of the receptionist, whose needles paused to aim in the direction of Elizabeth. The public servant approached and introduced himself as an under-secretary.
‘I’m sorry you had to wait so long,’ he said. ‘The matter has been very carefully investigated. I regret your request to visit the prisoner is denied.’
‘I asked for an appointment with the Premier.’
‘There’s no hope of that, I’m afraid.’
‘All I wish to do is state my case.’
‘He’s busy. It’s completely out of the question.’ He returned to his office, without bothering to wait for her response.
Elizabeth left the building. There was a park opposite, and she sat on a bench there, wondering if she should go home. It was probably the sensible thing to do, but it seemed too much like failure. She thought of telephoning the school, to ask if Maria could have time off. For what? To console her mother, who could not cope with the complication of being married to the enemy?
Elizabeth shook her head angrily, determined not to allow herself to think in those terms. But what could she do? It was all very well to make brave statements to Mr Harpur, fine to declaim that she would fight, but how? And who would she fight?
She watched a group of children playing on a swing and a seesaw. Their excited voices bonded them, whereas she felt utterly alone. Even in the worst days, at the Ritter’s farm in Hahndorf, there had always been Stefan and herself; always the two of them. And at that time she had been nineteen years old and no matter how bad the present, there was always expectation of a future. At thirty-nine, she was no longer so confident of what lay ahead. Across the park, beyond the playground, she could see lines of delivery vans, where men were carrying out bundles of newspapers. It was a large Queen Anne building, with massive lettering across the facade: SOUTH AUSTRALIAN PRESS LIMITED. THE ADELAIDE HERALD. THE WEEKLY STAR.
She hesitated, then rose from the bench. What have I to lose? she thought, and began to walk towards it.
‘No,’ the secretary said, ‘I’m certain that you can’t see him. I really must insist you leave.’
‘I can hear you insisting,’ Elizabeth said tenaciously, ‘but I’ll wait and let him tell me.’
She had, by a blend of audacity and good fortune, walked right through the busy newspaper office without being challenged, and found the frosted glass door with JAMES BOOTHBY, EDITOR inscribed across it. But her luck had lasted only briefly; now his protective private secretary had discovered her, and in a moment would call for someone to eject her from the premises.
She turned as the door opened, and Boothby entered. At the sight of him, her heart sank. She had wildly hoped for someone young, who might be sympathetic. James Boothby was in his fifties, short, thickset and dour.
‘Mr Boothby,’ the secretary said, ‘I’ve told this person you can’t possibly see her without an appointment.’
‘That’s correct.’ Boothby did not even bother to glance at Elizabeth.
‘She just walked in here — and now refuses to leave.’
‘Then call the security people,’ he said, now turning to study her. ‘Do I know you, Madam?’
‘Not yet,’ Elizabeth replied.
‘Then please do as my secretary requested. You don’t look like the usual type of ratbag we get in here. I’m sure you wouldn’t want the embarrassment of being removed from the premises.’
‘I simply ask you to spare a few minutes to listen to me.’ She felt her courage evaporating with every passing moment.
‘I’m too busy,’ Boothby said.
‘My name is Elizabeth Muller. My husband is a prisoner on Langley Island.’
She saw the secretary’s face grow crimson with outra
ge.
‘Mr Boothby — I had no idea she was a German! I’ll call someone immediately.’
‘My father,’ Elizabeth continued rapidly, ‘is former Senator William Patterson. More importantly, my husband is a naturalised Australian, imprisoned on false evidence supplied by the local police.’
Boothby stared at Elizabeth. He ignored his secretary, poised at the door, awaiting orders.
‘False evidence?’
‘You’ve only my word for that, but please believe I’m not in the habit of lying.’
‘Patterson’s daughter? “Federation” Patterson?’
‘He’d enjoy hearing you call him that.’
‘Married to a German?’
‘Stefan was born there. He came here twenty-two years ago.’
‘When did you marry?’
‘Back then — twenty-two years ago. We have three children. We own a vineyard. If you’re beset by ratbags, Mr Boothby — I’m most assuredly not one of them.’
Boothby was by now well aware of this. ‘Look, I’m sorry. We were rather hasty, eh, Miss Bain?’
‘Yes,’ the secretary said, chastened.
‘And I deeply sympathise. I daresay there are many cases of injustice. No doubt about it.’
‘Then let me tell you — ’ Elizabeth began to say, but was interrupted.
‘Sorry, Mrs Muller. But it would be a waste of your time. This newspaper can’t show support for anyone with a German name.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally,’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t dare.’
‘Why not?’
‘We’d lose half our readers, have our newsstands burnt, and our windows broken.’
Elizabeth was genuinely shocked. ‘Are you saying you’re afraid?’
‘I’m saying yesterday, in France, a thousand Aussie boys died gaining a strip of land that may well be lost again tomorrow. It’s a dreadful war, Mrs Muller. If people are unfair and irrational about the Germans, who can blame them?’
‘I can,’ Elizabeth said.
‘I’m truly sorry.’ He sounded as if he meant it.
A Bitter Harvest Page 38
