by Valerie Volk
‘Write it as a story for our paper,’ suggested Herr Eberhardt, ever the editor. ‘That could be your ending for the tale.’
The long journey continued, and as the heat of the tropics abated after the equator had been crossed a new spirit revived among the passengers. It was still not calm travelling, for now the force of the westerlies had hit us, but this at least was bracing weather, rather than the enervating conditions we had endured. Even when swells were large and seas heavy, it was more bearable.
We now had respite; our south-east course and easterly winds had brought us a peaceful sea and warm sunshine. We stood on deck and watched the enormous numbers of flying fish, a diversion with their antics. It was almost like a show for our entertainment, and a welcome relief from the games and concerts we had contrived for ourselves.
In our cabin, like many others, tensions quietened as we were able once more to spend time above deck. Though our uneasiness grew over Ida, who ignored us and spent time with her new friends from the aft end of the boat. Frau Schroeder’s lips tightened every time she looked at the girl, and we tried to warn Ida to be more careful.
‘Why should I?’ she retorted. ‘She’s not my jailer. Though this feels like a jail. How much longer before we can get free?’
‘We still have some weeks before we reach Australian waters. You’ll be with Klaus soon. Don’t do anything to jeopardise that.’
Ida’s face reddened. ‘Just because I enjoy being with Siggi, it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It may mean something if you let it go too far!’ I could not keep the sharp comment back.
‘You’re not in a position to lecture me. We’ve all seen the way Herr Eberhardt looks at you. And you’re always together.’
‘There is absolutely nothing between Herr Eberhardt and me. And we are usually with other people. Working together. That is very different.’
The look on her face was disbelieving. ‘Are you sure?’
But I was not confident enough to answer.
The first engineer had recommended to Captain Sass that we set course for the distant land, the Chagos Islands, to pick up coal and, anxious as he was to make up some of the lost time, I think there was recognition that all would profit from a chance to leave our floating home.
We watched, fascinated, as the Elberfeld was manoeuvred with care through the narrow channel to a bay, where an English coal ship lay anchored about a thousand feet from shore. Further on a settlement lay, in among dense green trees.
Some of us chose to be transported across by natives in their small boats for a few hours exploration of the island. It was a surprise to me that so many refused the experience. Mothers with children—that I could understand—but the ones who gazed dubiously at the transport offered and decided to stay on the familiar territory of the ship? That amazed me, so eager I was to experience something new.
‘Ah, but you know they tell us that prisoners learn to love their chains,’ Margarethe murmured as we were helped across the planks to the waiting boats, more like large canoes. Clara had come, interested to find what sort of religious practices might exist on these islands, and Ida giggled as she lowered herself on to the cross benches in the boat.
I was less amused when, as soon as we had landed, I saw her disappear with Sigmund and his friends on a private sightseeing expedition. But this was soon forgotten in the fascination of the place, with its vast plantations of coconut palms, and the coco mill, operated by native workers with donkeys. Beside me, Herr Eberhardt was taking notes in his small black book, and I foresaw several newspaper articles emerging over the next weeks.
We gazed up the fifty-foot coconut palms, with natives scaling the trunks to collect the fruit from the top. Almost dizzying to watch their agile scrambles up and down. And the fruits! The oranges, dates, bananas, the ground with its melon vines—so sad that most of this fruit was not ripe, but at least we could try the coconut juice, when natives bored with sharp knives into the three small soft points of the shell after the husks were removed.
‘A sort of paradise,’ whispered Clara as we walked to the settlement with its houses and store and animal enclosures, as well as the hundred native huts.
‘Even,’ pointed out Herr Eberhardt, ‘an oil refinery. One could live here very comfortably.’
‘But the isolation?’ I queried.
‘It does not seem to bother the Frenchmen who own this island,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps they prefer the solitude to sociable life.’
‘It would not do for you,’ Margarethe laughed. ‘You would have no newspaper.’
‘There are more important things in life than a newspaper!’ he retorted.
As we neared the Australian coastline, I sensed a need to sort out my feelings. We were still producing the paper twice a week, and contributions came readily. Everyone seemed to enjoy seeing themselves in print, a feeling I could relate to.
‘You enjoy this work, Frau Werner,’ Herr Eberhardt commented one afternoon as we completed an issue.
‘Yes,’ I responded frankly. ‘I have found it very satisfying. To see the words I have written in print—and then, best of all, to watch the reactions of others as they read them. I could not have believed all these years that I enjoyed reading how much pleasure the writing also gave.’
‘I have very much enjoyed working with you. I have wondered if there would be any possibility of continuing our association after landing.’
‘Are you offering me work on your newspaper, Herr Eberhardt?’
‘That too, if you wish. But I had hoped there might be a chance of a closer connection. Anna—might I call you Anna?’
It had come. The moment I had felt hovering for many weeks. And still I did not know how I felt about it. This good man, for he was a good man, a man I liked and respected so highly. But more? Was liking enough?
‘Herr Eberhardt—’ his face clouded as he recognised the implication in my use of his name. ‘We are such good friends, or so I see us.’
He nodded. ‘We are, and I had hoped we might be more. Since my wife died, and that is now five years, I have known no one I felt I wished to share my life with. I had not expected to feel this again—’
I broke in. ‘But you know I have made this voyage for one sole purpose, to find my son.’
I had told him the story of my search, though little of my earlier life. I think he had sensed that my marriage was not happy, but had tried not to pry. Equally, I had the feeling there was much left unsaid about his own.
‘Perhaps in the future, when you have found your son?’
I did not wish to leave him with false hopes.
‘Can we not remain just as we are? Good friends, who care for each other’s wellbeing? I think that is all that I can offer you.’
‘I understand what you are saying. But please do not close the door on this matter. Perhaps one day, Frau Werner, you may feel differently. I would like to feel that you might contact me again in Sydney. I am a patient man.’
‘I would not wish to lose a dear friend. Can we be as we were?’
‘Of course. And I would like to offer you my help in your mission. If I can assist you in any way … What do you know of your son’s whereabouts?’
I told him more fully of Kurt’s experience in Melbourne, and the beating he had received. Of the help from members of the German Club, and his plan to work his way to Queensland.
‘But you thought he was making his journey through the border with New South Wales—perhaps that should be your first field. That, and the German Club.’
‘I plan to take lodgings in Melbourne and begin from there. I have a little money—enough to last a few months—then I must seek employment.’
‘I will check the local newspapers. If there are regional publications, that should be your start.’
‘You mean an advertisement?’
‘Yes, they will be certain to have a column for seeking missing persons. I will be able to help in Sydney, where I am based, if he has come that far. Le
t me check what newspapers are in the border area for you.’
We had slipped back into easy conversation, and the awkward moment of his avowal had passed. I knew I would value his help.
That night I lay awake a long time, pondering the day. Had I made a mistake I would regret for the rest of my life? I seemed to be rather good at those. What more did I want in life? He would have helped me with my search for Kurt, and I would have had the security of life with a man I could live with happily.
My thoughts ran in circles. But I am still young! On this voyage I had come to see myself with new eyes, and realise the promise of life ahead. I still had yearnings, and I could not accept that the feelings I had shut down in all those years with Otto would never have the chance to live again. I wanted more. More than a comfortable growing old.
In this clear weather, the nights too were lovely. We walked on deck, and gazed at the starry southern sky. Clara pointed to the bright stars forming a constellation.
‘They call it the Southern Cross,’ she informed us. ‘I have been told that where I am going the stars are peculiarly brilliant. I look forward to that. It makes me feel closer to God.’
Margarethe was more interested in the two white clouds that seemed to consist of many small stars. She pointed to them for Clara, who nodded.
‘The Milky Way. See, in the middle there is a round dark-blue spot where not a single star can be seen. Like a life without faith.’
‘You are really going into the right work for you,’ Ida’s tone was spiteful. ‘Every word you say you bring God into it.’
Clara was unperturbed. ‘Because he is,’ she said serenely.
I envied her this quiet certainty about her life. My own was far more troubled. But then, Ida’s life was less sure than it had been. That night, I listened as she slipped out of her lower bunk and dressed hastily in the dark. I wondered what to do. As she reached the door, I called softly.
‘Are you ill, Ida?’
‘No, just going up on deck for a breath of fresh air. This cabin is too hot at night.’
‘Alone? Let me come with you.’
I knew this would not be acceptable, but I was half out of my bunk before she could respond. The other two slept on.
Her voice was sulky. ‘I won’t be alone. Siggi has asked me to come and see the stars with him.’
‘Come here, child. Sit down with me a moment.’ She did seem no more than a child. She was younger than my daughter.
‘You are going to lecture me, aren’t you?’
‘No, my dear, I’m not. I’m going to tell you a story. It is so easy on a romantic dark night, when the stars are shining and a man you like is close, to let things happen that later you regret.’
‘You don’t understand. You’re old. I’m young and I’ve been cooped up here like one of the animals in the hold. And Siggi makes me feel alive.’
‘I wasn’t always this age, Ida. And I do understand. But I also know just how easy it is to do something that changes your life. Think about it.’
At least she was silent, listening.
‘You are missing your Klaus. You are missing that feeling of being loved and cherished. That’s something we all want. But don’t look for it in the wrong place and risk losing what is waiting for you.’
I had not meant to tell anyone, ever, about the old days with Kurt in the pine forest. And certainly not someone like Ida. But I did tell her, about myself and my feelings, and even of the child I had lost. I found myself wanting to make her see just how a life could be shaped in unplanned ways. I will never know how much she really understood of what I was saying, but she did not go to Siggi that night. And in the days ahead she was less often to be found with the young men.
I had not realised that Margarethe had woken and heard, but some days later she spoke to me.
‘Please don’t be angry with me, dear Anna. I could not help overhearing you with Ida. You did so well to tell her your story.’
‘I hope this has not altered your opinion of me too much. I value your respect.’
‘The opposite. I was so struck by what you said of our need, all of us, men and women alike, to be loved and cherished. I think perhaps you did not have it in your marriage.’
I nodded.
‘But perhaps you are finding it now with Herr Eberhardt?’
So I told her of our conversation, and my reluctance.
‘It would be a good match, and I like him very much. We could live together so well, so comfortably.’
‘But?’
‘But I do not love him. Nor, I venture to say, does he love me. Not the way I want. He is ten years older—that is no problem. But I am only forty-five, and I still want what I have had before, so many years back. I want to love, and be loved.’
The younger woman’s voice trembled. ‘Oh yes, I do understand. But I have never had this. Ach, there have been men interested, some. But no one who ever made me feel alive. And yes, passionate. Are you shocked at my talking like this?’
‘Of course not. I think this is what all women want, whether we admit it or not.’
‘Not Clara, perhaps?’
‘Clara has found herself with God, it seems to me. If she were in the Roman church, she would make a good nun. As it is, she has found a field of service that satisfies her. And who knows? She may find within it a man who shares her faith.’
‘So what will you do, Anna?’
‘I will go on as I have planned. I’ll search for Kurt—that is my first priority. And one day I may search for myself.’
CHAPTER 17
Victoria, Australia, 1889
The easterly gales off the Australian coast were so vicious at times that sailors on watch were tied to the mast. Waves lashed the decks and we were confined below closed hatches. Would this journey never end?
Then we were past Cape Leeuwin, sailing the waters of the Australian Bight. An air of anticipation seized us. Washdays on deck saw us preparing clothes for landing, chests were brought up from the hold and our tropical garments packed away, even though we knew we were heading towards the southern summer. It was hard to envisage, this reversal of the seasons.
‘Fancy,’ said Ida. ‘It will be summer and we will be celebrating Christmas. ‘Do you think we will have goose, like at home?’
‘More likely turkey,’ said Captain Sass, overhearing her. He seemed to be everywhere at once, checking all details on his ship before arrival. ‘These are British settlements, and their tradition is more often turkey and ham.’
There was great excitement when we saw Kangaroo Island. We had learned about these strange hopping creatures, which could bound over long distances and fight each other like grown men sparring. The island appeared as a long blue stripe on the horizon late one afternoon. Children ran gleefully along the decks, hopping like kangaroos—Clara had taught them about the native animals that they might encounter in their new homes. I did not point out that she herself was more likely to see these creatures where she was going than children in Sydney or Melbourne, where most of our passengers were destined.
Very early the next morning we entered the Gulf of St Vincent. On the right, the wooded heights of the coast of South Australia loomed attractively. Land was so welcome a sight. At the Semaphore, we waited until the pilot could come on board, but the sun had risen so the waiting was pleasant. About 7 am we arrived at the small harbour town, Port Adelaide, where the shallow water made it necessary for us to anchor a half hour out. The city of Adelaide, we knew, was a further two hours away, but with a good rail connection, so now began the unloading of goods by light barges, which continued all day in the still, oppressive heat that had descended.
Here we would part ways. There were tearful farewells with Clara and Ida in the cabin. We had grown close during these months at sea, and we knew that the chances of meeting again were slim. Letters would endure for a while, then busy lives would take over and our friendship would become a matter of memory. Treasured memory.
Even Ida, who n
ow, full of anticipation, prepared to board the harbour steamer that would take her to the landing point and re-unite her with her Klaus, was more pleasant.
‘I wish we could have seen him,’ I said, and her face lit up.
‘Oh so do I. He is such a fine figure of a man. I can hardly wait to get there.’
All thoughts of Sigmund seemed to be gone, and we kissed her and wished her well.
With Clara, it was harder. No one could tell what her life would be like in the centre of this vast land, and we promised that she would have our ongoing prayers for her safety and her work. She waved from little steamer—it seemed so small beside the Elberfeld—and settled her sedate black bonnet more firmly on her head as the wind lifted its ribbons. Then she too was gone.
‘You will miss your friends,’ said Herr Eberhardt as we prepared the final edition of our paper. We had heard of English ships creating an obituary page in the paper for passengers who departed at each port. So now Margarethe and I concocted mock eulogies for Ida and Clara. We avoided any mention of Siggi …
Captain Sass had invited members of the newspaper team to a farewell dinner that night in the cabin passengers’ saloon, where we dined on the fresh sea perch that had been caught that afternoon by fishing lines over the side. The bakery had produced a celebration cake, but the mood of the party was clouded by the sense of ending.
‘You have helped,’ he said, toasting us in champagne, ‘to make this very difficult voyage more bearable for us all. The ship—all of us, passengers and crew—owe you gratitude. You have helped unite us all, from the youngest cabin boy to the officers on deck, from the smallest children to the oldest travellers.’
In our minds was the thought of the bodies we had consigned to the deep, those who had not reached the end of our voyage.
We took more coal aboard and, once cargo was unloaded, set off in the mid-afternoon next day. At first fine weather prevailed along the coast and as we passed we could see the steep sandy hills and scattered farms of this new homeland. A few forest fires were visible.
