Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Fights were common enough during the festival, with even general brawling on occasions. But there was something different about this, all those agreed who talked it over, something sinister, something suggesting that things would never be the same again. Some blamed the Communists, others the fools who had brought those Kruppsers here to cause provocation, a few those Jews for being here. None thought to lay the blame on Adolf Hitler or Josef Stalin or both. One thing there was general agreement on was the suggestion that the festival was as good as finished. Who wanted another day and night of it with this alien hatred amongst them?

  When the factions got tired of their slanging match, things went peaceably enough, even when boozing resumed with Finnucane’s opening his doors again. But that the end of the show was at hand and declared by an alien force, was announced by soldiers coming for a last drink, to say that they were under orders from the General to entrain next day at dawn.

  Next day, just before the military train left, Esk came down to the Lily Lagoons camp to take leave of Jeremy and the others, to say that he hoped to see them again soon out at their place, to deliver a message from Denzil to Prindy asking him to take charge of his prize pony for him, and to ask Jeremy to look after Red Rory, then to ask Kurt and Rifkah what their plans were. Jeremy answered for the Jews by saying that they were coming out to stay with him, while negotiations were made with Vaiseys and the Government in the hope that the old Russian Settlement might be granted them for their own mooted settlement. Kurt was in such pain at the time that he could not talk at all. Esk said they should call Dr Fox. But Kurt wouldn’t hear of it.

  As the military train pulled out of the siding, with Jack Tinball cockadoodling to the white campers on the up river side of the crossing, Sir Mark, with his aides, was standing out on the rear platform of the only passenger car on the train, waving to those downstream. The rest of the train was made up of stock waggons converted for the purpose, which as the General himself had said, was not simply to bring troops on an excursion but to prepare them for movement in emergency.

  A short while after the departure of the military train another locomotive was heard puffing up towards the bridge. It halted where the road running up from the causeway crossed the tracks. Pat Hannaford was seen to alight, to come striding down, to come heading for the Lily Lagoons camp. He hadn’t come to apologise, but to take Rifkah for that run on his engine promised yesterday. When Rifkah abused him for making the trouble last night, he snapped back at her that she was really the cause of it, since it must have been she who betrayed his confidence about the protest intended by his Comrades. ‘We were after them Krupp bastards, that’s all,’ he said. ‘If you hadn’t given the game away, only them’d’a’ got rough-’oused.’

  ‘Vot are you talkingk about . . . game and rough house?’ she demanded. ‘Trouble ist not game for Jews!’

  Pat sighed. ‘Aw . . . you don’t understand the English language . . . forget it. Now, how about this ride? The mob’s goin’ back today. I’ll be pullin’ out at ten.’

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Na . . . nein, nyet, non . . . any language you like . . . but No! Look at poor Kurt . . . from your doingk!’

  Taking a look at Kurt, grey faced and sweating in his tent, Pat did apologise and declared that he was going to get the doctor, whatever they said. He left them at a trot.

  Dr Fox was there within fifteen minutes. Grim faced he leapt out of the station utility, doctor’s bag in hand, came striding up to Jeremy sitting with Rifkah and Nan, grating, ‘I understand I’ve been called to attend to that Jew.’

  Jeremy answered shortly, ‘We didn’t call you, Fox. He evidently needs medical attention badly . . . but he wouldn’t have you called.’

  ‘Then why have I been called?’

  ‘It’s your job to find out . . . and don’t act like a pig.’

  Fox glared, then grunted, ‘Where is he?’

  Jeremy rose and led him to the tent. Fox eyed the stricken little man with distaste, snapping, ‘Well . . . what’s wrong with you . . . you’re supposed to be a doctor?’

  Kurt gasped, ‘Mein bladder, doctor . . . I haf stricture . . . pliss pass sound on me.’

  Still snapping, Fox said, ‘Syphilis or something, eh? Well, give’s a look at you.’

  Kurt was in pyjamas. Fox bent and slipped the bow of the cord, flung the flaps back to expose the loins, stared — stared — stared — whispered, ‘Christ!’

  Where Kurt’s genitals should have been was only rawish flesh with little tufts of pubic hair — no new injury this. The new was a greenish bruise on the swollen belly above.

  Fox swallowed, muttered, ‘Who did that to you?’

  ‘I did myself,’ gasped Kurt, and where Fox’s eyes widened, added: ‘Nazis crush my genitals. I haf to cut off everyzing to stop gangrene.’ He gave a wobbly smile: ‘Not sooch goot surgery, I am afraid . . . but I haf only tobacco tin for job . . . and I am ver’ sick zen . . . in ze dead-house mit ze dead . . . zey zink I am dead, too.’

  Fox muttered, ‘The bastards . . . I wouldn’t’ve believed it!’

  ‘Ze bladder sphincter ist veak. I haf to be careful of stricture. I get kick last night . . . you see. You vill pass sound on me?’

  Fox tore open his bag, looked at Jeremy. ‘I’ll want a bowl and a bucket and towels and things.’ Getting out his instruments, he asked Kurt, ‘Do they do a lot of this sort of thing?’

  ‘If zey don’t murder uz zey sterilise uz.’

  ‘The girl?’

  ‘She is sterilise.’

  Fox said it with half a sob, ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Jeremy, coming in, remarked dryly, ‘Hardly a name to use before a man maimed like that by Christians, is it?’

  Fox, fishing out the curving silver instruments, muttered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Zey are not Christian,’ said Kurt. ‘Zey have renounce Christianity because Jesus was Jew.’

  ‘The mad bastards!’ muttered the doctor. ‘But bastards, bastards, bastards!’

  When it was over and Fox learnt what Kurt was going to do, he said he placed him in the hands of Jeremy, adding: ‘But call on me if you want me. I’ll be along like a shot . . . and, er . . . if you need any help medically, I mean when you’ve established your settlement . . . I presume you’ll be the doctor there . . . I’ll be glad to assist . . . with equipment and drugs and things, will have a word with the CMO. Well . . . I must be off. Flying that fracture of yours . . . the Pommy jockey . . . to Town. Couldn’t let him make the long journey by train.’ He held out his hand to Kurt.

  Taking the hand, Kurt said, ‘Danke, Dr Fox . . . goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye . . . Dr Hoff.’

  About half an hour later, Fox flew over the camp, dipped a wing. Kurt was out now, waving. Jeremy said to him, ‘I wonder did he have anything to say to the Huns when he got back? If I know Foxy when he’s got his Irish up, he did.’

  They had scarcely sat down again under the striped awning, when another utility appeared on the road, running down to them. As it neared, Jeremy said, ‘Speak of the devil!’ Behind the windscreen could be seen the two round bespectacled faces of the Kruppsers.

  The car halted at the causeway, the two occupants staring about. No one had seen them anywhere but at the Racecourse so far. The car moved again, swung in towards the camp. Again it halted. The driver called, ‘Vere is Mr Delacy?’ It was a strangely coloured face, pink yet pallid. Both men were youngish; in their thirties. Jeremy signed without rising. The driver opened his door and alighted, came loping. Quite a big heavy man, nicely dressed in some light material, wearing a panama hat. The other was following. The first man halted just short of the waiting sitting group, with glasses glinting to the quick movements of his staring from one to another. He removed his hat, bowed to Jeremy, saying, ‘Ve are representative of Krupp. You are Mr Delacy?’

  Jeremy cleared his throat: ‘I am. What can I do for you?’ Still he didn’t rise.

  The man bowed again, this time with more ceremony. His mate, s
omewhat similar in appearance and dress came up to him. The first said, ‘Ve haf communicate mit you to inspect your miningk.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ven can ve inspection make, sir?’

  ‘You’re making no inspection. I want no business with you. Now go to hell!’

  The man blinked. ‘Was meinen?’

  ‘I told you to go to hell . . . now go!’ Jeremy leapt up with a roar.

  ‘You haf been listen to zis Juden.’

  ‘Yes, I have . . . and I’ve seen things, too . . . things I’d never have believed civilised people could do. Now go before I become uncivilised and do the same to you.’

  The man raised his voice: ‘Zis Juden is liar and criminal!’

  ‘You talk of criminals?’

  ‘All Juden is criminal. Zey will you cheat and rob.’

  Jeremy advanced on the two big men, his voice vibrant now, face and eyes blazing: ‘Will you go . . . or will I get a gun and kill you for the murderous evil bastards that you are?’

  The men exchanged glances and a muttered word or two. The man in the panama asked, ‘You vill make enemy of friend for Judische scheisse?’

  Rifkah leapt up, came crying in that strange hoarse tone of hers, ‘Deutscher momzer!’

  The man raised his hand to strike her. Up shot Jeremy’s arm and flung the hand down. Now he was shouting, ‘You dare . . . I’ll tear you to pieces, you square-headed bloody bastard!’

  The man looked ready to fight. But the other grabbed his arm, pulled him away. The man in the panama tried to speak again; but Jeremy silenced him, shouting, ‘I told you to get to hell out of it . . . now get!’

  The pair stiffened up, turned and went with ponderous dignity back to the utility. As they reached it, as if doing something long rehearsed, they swung to face each other, stiff as timber, raised right hands, cried out together, ‘Heil Hitler!’ Then without looking back at the camp they got into the car, started up, swung away.

  Jeremy, staring, muttered, ‘The bastards’re mad!’ He turned to the others, his eyes wide and wondering.

  Kurt shrugged. ‘It ist ze vay of ze German nation now — Ihre Nation. Ze mad Hitler haf drive zem all mad.’

  Jeremy exhaled heavily, ‘They must’ve been mad to start with. You can drive only unbalanced people mad, can’t you?’

  Kurt shrugged again. ‘I am not psychiatrist.’

  Jeremy looked at Rifkah, who was staring after the car wearing that strangely old look in so young a face. As the car crossed the railway she suddenly blazed, spat after it, crying hoarsely, ‘Momzer . . . Momzer!’ Then, turning to see Jeremy watching, she stared at him for a moment, then suddenly flung herself at him, her arms about him, shining head on his breast, gave way to wild weeping. He held her, murmuring soothingly. When it was over she drew away, sniffling, blinking, trying to smile, saying, ‘I am sorry to cry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because only I want to laugh.’

  ‘Well laugh . . . it’s only ridiculous, really.’

  ‘Ridiculous . . . vot ist?’

  ‘Something to laugh at. I see I’ll have to introduce you to Webster.’ ‘Who Webster ist?’

  He gave her a hug. ‘Leave it for now. But tell me what is Momzer?’

  She looked at Kurt, who grinned. ‘Ist like you call Bastard.’

  ‘I like the sound of it. Must try it on someone sometime.’

  It wasn’t long before he got the chance to try it on the very persons it fitted. They were having breakfast, when they heard the roar of an aeroplane in starting and run-up. A few minutes later the big Junkers came roaring over the township, with everybody out to see. Jeremy cupped his hands to it, roared up at it, ‘Momzer!’

  As the sound of it dwindled away northward like that of a passing storm, Kurt remarked, ‘Callingk name vill not stop zem in zere madness.’

  III

  The untimely withdrawal of the Townies from the festival was blamed on Superintendent Bullco, who was said to be in a state of panic over what might happen without the troops to back his policemen. Nevertheless, it was evident that the mob, with a load of booze to see them through the journey, departed without much show of reluctance. Nor was there regret expressed by those left behind, the Bushies, who even remarked how like old times it was without that howling mob. Thus the rest of the program was gone through, the Sports, with a chance at last for bushmen to win the three-legged race and catch the greasy pig and the rest of it: the Blackboys’ races, the dance in the night with room to swing partners in the vigorous old-time Bushie style, without having some Townie take a swing at you, plenty of space afterwards to fall down in and sleep it off with the mosquitoes getting drunk on your blood; and if you were young and unattached, with a bit of Black Velvet for a pillow. Just like old times.

  But hardly like old times was what Jeremy Delacy was up to. What was he up to, exactly? Many asked the question. Instead of going off on the usual bender, the Alcoholic Absolution, he had gone straight home, taking those Jews along with him. The Scrub Bull, of all people, getting interested in settling the country — and with Jews! Maybe Hitler and Col Collings and Constable Stunke and others of their way of thinking were right about Jews taking over if given half a chance. Or was it just the old Jeremy Delacy perversity, doing something that others were chary of? Or might it not be the Jew-girl? The old feller had an eye for the ladies, and they for him. Hmmm!

  It was discussed at Finnucane’s, where it was remembered that the last seen of him, he was walking with the girl in the moonlight, she clinging close to him, with red head shining, laughing merrily at something he was telling her. His yeller Missus? She’d be out lookin’ for tracks at daybreak, eh? That caused a great laugh, went up and down the Telegraph Line, out on the Flying Doctor Network. It was an old joke of those parts. Aboriginal women with a stake in a whiteman’s affections always took a quick look for the tracks of rivals round his camp.

  Even old friends discussed it doubtfully. Tom Toohey and his wife, Billy Brew, the Cullitys, saying they’d found him markedly changed the last day or two of the Races. That old savagery was gone. He’d only laughed at the shenanigans instead of declaring them part of the lousy national character. And how angry he’d got whenever the subject of ill-treatment of the Jews came up, how he’d dealt with those Huns from Krupp’s, out of whom he could make a fortune! They knew better than to talk of Nanago’s looking for tracks. She was never a jealous one, they said. In fact, she seemed as happy as he with the Jew-girl.

  But it had been discussed at Finnucane’s; and so the Wurruld came to hum with it; the Scrub Bull’s taken to the Scrub again — but this time with a lovely young Jewess!

  14

  I

  That close-linked walking in the moonlight, one glimpse of which roused such widespread interest, was continued in comparative privacy at Lily Lagoons as long as the Moon of that September showed of early evenings, which was long enough for it to become a kind of ritual needing no light but that of the stars. But what a blaze that was just then, from the Scorpion, the Eagle, the Winged Horse, the Cross, the Milky River in the depths of which dwelt Old Tchamala, to name but a fraction of it! For whatever reason they clung so close, it was things like the stars they talked about, astronomically, astrologically, mythologically according to several mythologies; or about possums that shinned up stringybarks at their approach and made comment on them in what sounded like apologetic little coughs; or tiny phalangers sailing squeaking from limb to limb above them; or koodooks, or bats; or the curlews who came to expect them and went dancing along the dusty road ahead calling, Kweeluk, Kweeluk! but not with the usual note of anxiety for disembodied souls in danger through too hastily wanting to live in the flesh again; instead joyously, it seemed, as if here in the flesh were something like what souls knew in the Nirvana.

  It could only mean that they were in love. But there are all kinds of love.

  Every evening, after a token listening with the others to the radio news session following
the meal, they sallied forth, always the same way, southward, through the big white gate, down the long white road. Seldom did they speak of the news, even though the world at large was sitting with ears glued to radios worrying about what would be the outcome of all this running to and from Munich, accepting promises of peace and threats of war, threatening and wheedling in return, those who ran the world. Did those who ran the world do it for the world’s sake or their own? That was the only sort of comment they made on what they had heard. The Jews were catching it wherever the Germans went; and they were, the Germans, going further and further beyond their legitimate boundaries; and the Jews of the world were screaming about it; that is those outside those boundaries, because the screams of those inside could not be heard. But when Rifkah spoke of Jews it was concerning the lovely simple things of Jewish life: the festivals, the foods; the Seven Candles, the tiny hut of the Feast of Succos; Chuppah under which one must stand to be truly wed; the Mikvah — the ritual bathing after menstruation; Rosh Hashanah, the New Year; the Passover; her silly sweet old Bubbeh in the Sheitel or wig she must wear instead of her true hair because a woman’s hair is a snare to a man’s holiness; her gentle old Zaydeh, in his kopple intoning over Oneg Shabbat, the meal you sat down to after two stars had come out on Friday night. Never of the persecution. Jeremy talked of the Irish, or the lovely ritual of the Catholic Church, but never of the meanness, the cruelty, the hypocrisy behind it all. He talked of the Aborigines, of their customs, their mythology, the perfection of their lives as children of Nature, not of the frightful reality of their dispossession. Both talked of horses, because she was eager to know the beasts. She was learning to ride, under the tutorship of Prindy, her mount as yet old Bay Rum Betsy.

  Why the idealisation of everything? Was it because they had found each other in complete despair of the realisation of anything but disillusion?