A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  In time she came to remember it was called antiseptic. Later, she realised the chrysalis was a bandage that encased her body. The muted voices became shapes, shadowy figures that smiled frequently at her and made consoling noises. She was able to recognise nurses, and sometimes she felt the chill of a stethoscope against her skin, and saw a man in a white coat who looked like Keith Hardy. Once every day they removed the cocoon, and spread a soothing ointment over her. The pain was intense, but they gave her morphine. She heard fragments of conversation — talk of burns, and how lucky to have shielded her face, or else it would have been dreadfully scarred — the hair had been singed, but it would grow back. She gleaned these facts from the quiet voices, tried to assemble them in her mind, but they made no sense.

  She kept asking for Stefan, but could hear no answer.

  Once when she woke she saw Carl sitting there. Another time she thought she saw her daughter, Maria, but knew it must be an illusion. Maria was at Sydney University, commencing a degree in medicine. She and Stefan were proud of her; Maria had received one of the State’s highest passes in her leaving certificate. She had come home for a brief two-week visit over Christmas and New Year to celebrate her father’s release, and by now would have started lectures.

  After a time she realised it was not an illusion. Maria was there; she began to comprehend that she was at her bedside every day, holding her bandaged hands, often helping to spoon feed her. Some nights before she fell asleep, she could see them both, Carl and Maria, sitting on either side of her bed. It was nice of them to visit her so often, but somewhere in the recess of her mind it began to disturb her. It seemed as if they were keeping a vigil.

  Finally, when it was agreed she was sufficiently recovered from the shock of the concussion, when the burns were stabilised and she was considered well enough to face the news — it was her children who told her that Stefan was dead.

  ‘It’ll take years,’ Carl said.

  There were some days when he could hardly bear to look at the devastation, the burnt and gutted sheds, the slashed vines, the rows of old stock uprooted and rimmed by the marks of tractor tyres, the additional shock as the poisoned vines began to die, their withered foliage making it a scene of such desolation that he felt total despair.

  ‘You’ve got years,’ Maria tried to tell him, although the violence and outrage of what had been done made her feel ill. She had grown up here, she and Carl, in neat order and symmetry, each year the vineyard expanding, additional land purchased, new sheds built, but through all of this never losing a sense of harmony, so that every acre purchased, each new building erected, all blended into a balance and serenity that had been her father’s great gift. He had created, from the small house and stunted crops she had seen in old photographs, a graceful landmark in this once peaceful valley.

  Now he was dead; his life’s work vandalised and in ruins.

  It had been, everyone said, the largest funeral the district had known. People had come, not just from the Barossa and Adelaide, but from all over the State. Among the mourners she had been surprised and moved to greet Miss Shillington, her former headmistress, and to see Charles Harpur, the solicitor, and a middle-aged Englishman, whose name escaped her, until she remembered it was Mr Barrington of the Gresham Hotel.

  There were many friends from her school days in Adelaide, most of them young adults now like herself, who had chosen to come to pay their last respects, whatever their parents might care to say. Maria spent most of the funeral service, and the rest of the endless day, feeling choked with gratitude and emotion for the people who had unexpectedly come to mourn her father. Most astonishing of all, David Brahm had driven halfway across the country from Sydney, to represent his sister, as he put it, since she and Harry could not be present, and to swell the family ranks.

  He had read it in the papers — for what would have been an obscure, unreported event had become headlines, with the death of a man freed from imprisonment, and the serious injury of his wife who had fought so long and hard for his release. She had met David just once before, but asked him to stand beside her, with Carl on the other side, as they were the only relatives.

  It was a sad irony, at such a massive funeral, that her mother was in hospital, still unconscious, while her grandfather and Hannah were aboard ship on their way to America. She had sent a cable to the Francis Drake Hotel in San Francisco, breaking the news but entreating them not to change their plans and return. Far better that they went to see Kate. There was nothing they could do here.

  The funeral was now a memory. Their father was buried in the Lutheran churchyard, his grave still covered with new flowers each day, the chiselled headstone a bleak footnote to his life.

  STEFAN MULLER

  Born Augsburg, Bavaria, 1873

  Died 1918

  Loving husband of Elizabeth

  Devoted father of Harry, Carl and Maria

  Aged 45

  After she and Carl had broken the news to their mother, and tried to see her through the worst of the shock, Maria had sent another cable, this time to the Waldorf in New York, to say that Elizabeth was out of danger and recovering. Now she had to resume her own life; return to university, make up for all the lost weeks. She already knew how difficult that was going to be, without losing any more time. But first, she had to somehow help Carl, and encourage him to face the future.

  She did at moments wonder, since she was the youngest after all, why the weight of the past weeks seemed to have fallen so heavily on her.

  ‘You’ve got years,’ she repeated. ‘Time to remake it all.’

  ‘You think that’s easy?’

  ‘Of course it’s not easy. What do you want to do, Carl? Leave it a disgusting mess like this? Let Papa down?’

  ‘You and Harry,’ he said, ‘never cared much about this place. I look around and it breaks my heart.’

  ‘It’ll break our mother’s,’ she said. ‘Imagine bringing her home, to see such a ruin.’

  ‘There’s no way I can avoid that. Whatever you might say, I can’t do anything in so short a time.’

  ‘You can make a start,’ Maria told him. ‘Hire trucks and labour, remove the stumps and dead vines. Clear the place of debris. And don’t tell me people won’t work for us because of the war. Things are different now. Everyone’s ashamed. You might even get some volunteers.’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not. But I am counting on you. Once the place is cleared, start to plough and plant. Let Mum’s first sight of it make her realise you’re going to restore it to how it was. No one else can do that. You’re the only one.’

  ‘Do you really think I could?’

  He stood waiting for her answer.

  In some ways, she thought, I feel the older of the two of us.

  ‘I know you can. You’ll need money. Lots of it. The more men and trucks you hire, the faster the clean-up. Am I right?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Carl said. ‘But the money’s the problem.’

  ‘Why? There must be enough in the bank.’

  ‘There is. But first, probate has to be granted. The bank’s not going to give any money to me. It’ll all go to Ma eventually — but it takes months.’

  ‘Where’s the bank?’

  ‘Tanunda.’

  ‘What’s the manager like?’

  ‘A real bastard.’

  ‘My deepest condolences.’ The district manager, George Tunstall attempted to sound sincere, but only managed to remind her of the Charles Dickens character Uriah Heep.

  ‘We’re sorry you couldn’t come to the funeral,’ she said.

  ‘Er — yes. I was obliged to be in Adelaide.’

  ‘I mean that the bank failed to even send a representative.’

  ‘A regrettable oversight,’ Tunstall said, now taking a more careful look at the girl who sat in his office with her silent brother.

  She was smartly dressed. Even the boy — so typically German in manner — wore his best suit. In George
Tunstall’s world, that meant only one thing. They had come here to borrow money, and would soon be disappointed.

  ‘A tragic business. The loss of wine, apart from the destruction, must be incalculable.’

  ‘Loss of wine? Our concern was the death of our father.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tunstall said. ‘I daresay the place will be sold.’

  ‘No, Mr Tunstall,’ Maria said, ‘be assured the place will most certainly not be sold.’

  ‘Then who’ll manage it?’

  ‘My brother will.’ She noted his sceptical look, but merely said, ‘He’ll run the vineyard as he has for the past year, while my father was improperly detained by the government.’

  ‘Ah yes — quite,’ Tunstall said. ‘And what can I do to help?’

  ‘Permit Carl to draw cash or write cheques to the value of — shall we say — five hundred pounds.’

  ‘My dear young lady -’

  ‘You, I expect, are going to tell us it’s out of the question. Can’t be done. Correct?’

  ‘I’m afraid it can’t.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to make other arrangements.’

  ‘My dear girl-’

  ‘Mr Tunstall,’ she said, ‘I am not your dear girl — or your dear young lady. You are a bank manager, who, my brother tells me, is biased against Australians with German names. Names like Muller. You found it difficult to be openly unpleasant to my father because he had a large account — but you made sure you weren’t at his funeral.’

  ‘That’s a libellous statement,’ Tunstall said heatedly.

  ‘It seems like a statement of fact to me.’ She studied him long enough to make him uncomfortable. ‘So you can’t help us, by advancing money from the estate?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Even though it means we’ll miss the planting season, and lose a year?’

  ‘I’m afraid, Miss Muller, such details are not my concern.’

  ‘They should be, Mr Tunstall. Because you’re the manager of a bank in a wine-growing area. You ought to be concerned about vintners, and the future of their crops.’

  ‘I really think we’ve finished, Madam.’ He rose from his chair, but neither Maria nor Carl moved.

  ‘Not quite. I was warned you might behave like this, but didn’t believe you’d be so stupid. I’ll cable our grandfather, who is abroad but will advance the funds we need to restore the vineyard. When probate is granted, we’ll ask Mother to close her account, and change banks. A letter to head office in Melbourne will explain why.’

  Tunstall frowned and resumed his seat. ‘Let’s be sensible, Miss Muller.’

  ‘By all means. Your refusal to help us, your unpleasant and jaundiced attitude means our family cannot possibly leave money in an organisation with which you’re associated. We can’t trust you. Senator Patterson — my grandfather — banks with your head office in Sydney. You may not be aware, but he’s one of their major clients. He’ll close all his accounts. You can depend on it — I’ll persuade him. He’ll write to say precisely why he’s doing it to the bank’s Chairman, naming you as the reason.’

  She stood up and looked at her brother, who also rose. ‘Well, now I think we’ve finished, Mr Tunstall.’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ Tunstall said.

  ‘You watch me,’ Maria said, and Carl blinked; she was so exactly like a younger version of their mother.

  ‘All right, Miss Muller. Five hundred pounds, cheques or cash to the value of …’

  ‘Six hundred,’ Maria told him.

  ‘But my dear — er, beg your pardon. But Miss Muller …’

  ‘Six hundred.’

  ‘Very well. Six hundred.’

  ‘And you’ll make my brother welcome. See to it he’s treated with respect. Remind your staff, in case they’ve forgotten, that he runs the largest vineyard in this part of the valley. One single complaint, and we switch banks, like that.’ She clicked her fingers.

  The manager looked shaken. Carl was astonished, impressed. ‘Of course, Miss Muller,’ Tunstall said.

  As they drove out of town, Carl laughed.

  ‘Bloody marvellous. You were wonderful. Walked all over him. Silly old Tunstall didn’t know if he was Arthur or Martha.’

  ‘My guess is he might be Martha,’ Maria said, and Carl let out a shout of laughter. She was glad she’d been able to deal with the unctuous banker, and this new affinity with her brother made it even more enjoyable.

  ‘You’ll start hiring men and trucks?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Carl said. ‘When do you have to go back?’

  ‘Tomorrow, or as soon as there’s a train,’ Maria said. ‘But I promise I’ll be back again in the mid-winter vacation.’

  ‘To check up on me.’ Carl grinned, and with a sudden sense of surprise she realised he was handsome. She had always felt that of her brothers Harry was the good-looking one; they had so much in common, and Harry had a sense of fun, but today had brought her and Carl close together. It was extraordinary the way things happened: a winning encounter with a disagreeable banker had made them friends.

  They drove over the creek by the wooden bridge, and felt the same dismay as they approached the devastated property. The sheer magnitude of the task ahead of Carl made her feel discouraged. He slowed the car as they looked out at the uprooted bushes, and the shrivelled leaves of the poisoned vines on either side.

  ‘Once they’re gone, it won’t look quite so terrible.’

  ‘If you plant this season, how long before you can harvest?’

  ‘We’ll have a few grapes next year. But it’ll be at least three years before we can make decent wine.’ Three years!

  Reading her thoughts, he reassured her, ‘We’ll manage. I can fence off some of the river flats, to run cattle. Pity of it is, we had a fortune in stored wine they destroyed.’

  ‘Was it insured?’

  ‘Nothing was insured.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Insurance companies all stopped taking our business when the war broke out.’

  Near the house there was a loitering figure. Carl stamped on the brakes, and the car came to a halt.

  ‘Who are you?’ he called. ‘What do you want?’

  He was a farm worker, a young man — little more than a boy.

  He looked nervous and poised to run. Maria noticed there was a suitcase on the ground beside him.

  She asked, ‘We’re looking for people to help. Have you come for a job?’

  The young man shook his head. He glanced apprehensively at Carl. A head taller, Carl who had sat silent at the bank was a dominant figure here, suspicious and aggressive.

  ‘Why are you hanging about? Where do you come from?’

  ‘I’ve been working at my uncle’s, over at Rowland Flat.’

  ‘Who is he? What’s his name?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I’m leaving there. I just come to tell you something before I went.’

  His fear was palpable. Maria sensed he was terrified of Carl.

  ‘My brother won’t hurt you. Tell us, whatever it is you came to say. please tell us.’

  Still he hesitated, eyes flickering from her to Carl.

  ‘Is it about all this?’ Carl asked him, indicating the carnage.

  His voice, as if taking his cue from Maria, was less demanding.

  ‘They said — we’d just mess up the vines. That it was unfair him getting out of Langley Island, while others were left to rot …’ He tried to step back, as Carl’s hand reached for him.

  ‘Jesus, don’t,’ he cried.

  ‘You fucking little shit.’ Carl held his shirt with one hand, as he bunched his fist and hit him in the mouth. ‘You killed my father.’

  ‘Carl!’

  Maria shouted in time to prevent the youth being hit again. ‘Maria, he was one of them.’

  ‘I said you wouldn’t hurt him. Let him go.’ When he did so reluctantly, she said to the boy, ‘Your lip’s cut. I’ll bathe it for you.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I just want to
tell you and leave here. Only keep him off me.’

  ‘I’ll try. Who’s your uncle?’

  ‘He wasn’t the ringleader.’

  ‘You tell us his name,’ Carl said softly, ‘or no matter what my sister promised, I’ll take you over there and beat the living Christ out of you. Then I’ll put you in the dam and drown you.’

  Maria felt a shiver. He sounded as if he meant it.

  ‘Tell us,’ she asked again. ‘Who’s your uncle?’

  ‘Wolfgang Mannkopff.’

  ‘I know him,’ Carl said. ‘Now the others.’

  ‘Please,’ the young man said, ‘nobody meant to kill anyone. It started out like — we’ll show him — mess up his vines — it started like that. Only this man, he wouldn’t let us stop. He brought the petrol, and equipment, even a flame-thrower. When we broke into the buildings and saw all the wine, we didn’t want to do it. He said it was too late to stop — even then, I swear, nobody knew your father would come back when he did …’

  ‘Who was this man?’ Carl asked him.

  ‘I don’t know his name.’

  ‘You’re going to have to do better than that.’

  ‘I swear I don’t.’

  ‘Was he German?’

  ‘No. My uncle and the others were. Not this one.’

  ‘You were there, without even knowing who organised it?’

  ‘My uncle said for me to come along — an extra man. I don’t even know the names of most of the others — for God’s sake believe me.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Maria said. He turned to her gratefully.

  ‘I wish I’d never gone. I feel sick. I had to come to tell you.’

  ‘He had petrol drums and a flame-thrower,’ Carl repeated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he from the army?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because there were milk churns in his truck.’

  ‘Milk churns?’

  ‘We mixed the poison for the vines in one.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Carl said. ‘So that’s who it was.’

  They sat and talked about it, after the youth had made his last frightened apology, and gone. Maria thought it was simple; they would go to the police and give them the evidence.