Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Perhaps generally they have . . . and it’s only the poor refugees, who’re half mad with suffering and afraid of more, who do things like that.’

  ‘Why not write just that, then? Why not write what you’ve learnt about Jews . . . or get the girlfriend here to tell you her tale and write it . . . and put a stop to it. It’s cruelling the Movement as it is. Alfie Candlemas’d see you got published. She’s one of the editors now. You say you’ll start reading it again on account of me. Others’ll do the same on account of you. I’ve said it could be a very good paper . . . could become the most powerful political force in the land. The same with the Movement. It’s only a matter of getting the few rat-bags out of it. I know the interest that powerful and intelligent people have in it . . . or did to start with. All it needs is men like you, without ulterior motive, with forthrightness, and sanity. After a bit of an introduction through the paper, all you’d have to do is go down and attend one of their inner circle meetings . . . Alfie’d get you into it . . . and I’ll guarantee you’d have the Bloke and his handful of Gauleiters out with the first show of hands. If you were to take on the leadership yourself . . .’

  ‘Hey, go easy!’ Jeremy laughed.

  But Fergus was serious: ‘I mean it. I’m thinking of myself, mainly. I’d like to be in on it, too. Under sane leadership, the Movement could have control of Australian politics within a year. People’re waiting for it. The country’s being run by Pommies from London, Commies from Moscow, con-men representing both sides within . . .’

  ‘I’m no politician, son.’

  ‘But for the adventure of it! It could start a revolution . . .’

  ‘Not an adventurer, either, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But you’ve got to do something to break this rotten racket. Look at these two cheats, the Coot, the Saint, knowing nothing about Aborigines, taking the thing out of the hands of the only man who does know anything . . . yourself. Look at Old Eskimo . . . a bloomin’ Pommy aristocrat, organising a war for us with the people who ought to be our best friends, our fellow Asiatics, the Japs.’

  When Jeremy didn’t respond, but only stared ahead at the golden lights of the homestead beckoning through the trees, the vague forms of limping, lolloping refugee things clumsily playing in the moonlight, Fergus said, ‘Sorry, Sir, if I sounded cheeky. I do respect you, Sir. It’s only . . . only . . .’

  Jeremy sighed. ‘That’s all right, son. I know I’ve got to do something sometime. Things’re pressing a bit hard. Might write something, as you say. But I’ll have to settle down a bit first. Been a bit hectic with all of you around. Used to quiet, you know. This’s a quiet place, really . . .’

  ‘Might be a bit too quiet. You miss what’s going on in the world.’

  Jeremy looked at Rifkah. ‘A lot of it seems to be worth missing, too . . . eh, Rifkah?’

  She answered, speaking to Fergus, ‘So true it is. You listen . . . you can hear zat loffly quiet.’

  Only the soft heartbeat of the place . . . Home, home, home, home! . . . and a distant mopoke calling that all was well.

  They went on some little way in silence. Then suddenly, with a rush of words that told of their being pent, Fergus asked, ‘Jeremy . . . would you much mind if I had a word with Rifkah alone?’

  The question halted them. Both Jeremy and Rifkah stared. Jeremy slipped free of the girl, she of Fergus. It was Rifkah who answered, ‘Vot is it you cannot say before Jeremy?’

  Fergus was at a loss, blinking, biting his lip. Jeremy came to his rescue: ‘Well, presuming that you’re not going to annoy the lady . . . why not?’ He began to move off.

  Rifkah said, hesitantly it seemed, ‘Jeremy . . .’

  He stopped and turned. When she said no more, he said, ‘See you later.’ He turned away, set off towards the house.

  Rifkah stared after him for a moment, then swung on Fergus. ‘Vell vot?’

  He reached to take her arm, and when she pulled away, said, ‘Only want to take your arm for a little walk.’

  ‘I vill not valk. You tell me here.’

  ‘There’s a lot to tell you.’

  ‘You said a vord.’

  ‘This’s the last chance I’ll have to talk to you . . .’

  ‘Ze General vill be on ze coast till end of year . . . and coming in here often.’

  ‘Fat lot of chance I get to talk to you alone, don’t I!’

  ‘You don’t vont to talk . . . only play-about.’

  ‘You’re getting more a blackfellow every day . . .’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Listen . . . I’m serious. I want you to be my girl . . . to come away with me.’

  She laughed. ‘I vill be ze co-pilot . . . or stewardess for General?’

  ‘I mean when I’m finished with him. We’ll clear out of here . . . go to the Carolines . . .’

  ‘Get killed for spying!’

  ‘Don’t be silly . . . I’m friends of the Japs. We’d live in real style . . .’

  ‘Vot about Germans who own your aeroplane?’

  ‘You should worry about Germans!’

  ‘I vorry about you . . . for being silly boy.’

  ‘Then if you worry about me, you like me!’

  ‘Of course I like you . . . but as mein bruder.’

  ‘Now you’re being silly. I want a mate . . . a girl . . .’

  ‘Plenty of girl for you.’

  ‘I only want one . . . you. If you like we’ll get married.’

  ‘I am not goot for vife. I am sterilise!’

  ‘I don’t want kids. I want a mate. We could have a wonderful time together. I love you . . . if you want to know. Every day I love you more. You’re everything I want in a girl. You’re beautiful. You’re a sport. Yes . . . and you’re Jewish. I love you because you’re Jewish. It makes you different . . .’

  ‘Ze SA men vont Jewish girl for difference. It is crime for zem. Zey get big trouble for havingk Jewess . . . but zey do. Zey say it gif zem goot luck . . . seventy year goot luck . . . rub off ze Jew-luck, zey say.’

  ‘I know I’d be lucky with you. Look, I’ll get a Special Licence and marry you next time I come here . . . take you over to one of the missions and get the Missionary to do it.’

  ‘You are jitty. I cannot marry you.’

  ‘Because I’m not a Jew?’

  ‘Because I don’t vont any man.’

  ‘What about old Delacy?’

  ‘You speak like zat I go.’

  ‘Sorry. But what’s here for you? It’s all right now while it’s new to you. But you’ll soon get sick of it . . . the bush, the blacks. You believe the same as the old feller about leaving the blacks alone. Well, leave ’em alone. What do you intend to do . . . go and live with ’em . . . like Daisy Bates?’

  ‘I vont to help zem against vite pipple.’

  ‘They don’t want your help. Daisy Bates only follows them about. They probably don’t want her . . . or only what they can get out of her. Anyway, she’s just an old maid . . . run away from life. Like other old maids go looking after stray dogs and cats, she looks after stray tribes of blacks.’

  ‘I vill be old maid, too.’

  ‘You’re crazy . . . you’re what you call it . . . meshugeh, isn’t it? You don’t know what wild blacks are really like. You don’t know the wild bush. You’d be dead in a month from sickness . . . if they didn’t take you and rape you and then eat bits of you. I’m not going to let you do it. You’re going to be my girl . . .’

  ‘Come . . . ve go in now.’

  ‘No we’re not!’ He seized her, enveloping her protesting mouth with his own split one, grabbed at her fending hand and forced it behind her, forcing her back, back, with the greed of his mouth — and with his free hand began to drag up her skirt. She brought a knee up into his crutch. He gasped, released her, staggered, clutching at his genitals.

  She panted, ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘You bitch!’ he gasped.

  ‘It vos not hard I hurt you . . . but I am sorry, yes. You are all right
?’

  He nodded, getting control of his breath: ‘You’ve had ex . . . perience . . .’

  ‘Too mooch experience. But I am sorry to hurt you.’

  ‘’S all right . . . I asked for it.’

  ‘Still ve are friend?’

  ‘Still I love you.’

  ‘Still you are meshugeh. Come take my arm . . . but behave . . . or again I get rough.’

  He laughed slightly. ‘There’s no doubt about you.’

  ‘Vot is no doubt about?’

  ‘That you’re the girl for me.’

  ‘Ach!’

  A dull evening, with everyone wanting to get to bed, judging by the yawns. The Coot, that leader of men, led the way to bed by saying he’d like an early night for an early start tomorrow.

  First leg of the expedition was to be the crossing of that stretch of wilderness to Catfish, required to be done in the first day, according to the plan of campaign. Not such an arduous undertaking, it might be considered by some, seeing it was no further than the trip to Beatrice, with pretty well as good a road to follow. Still, with military operations you can’t leave anything to chance. Uneasy lies the head that bears command. So often did poor Fabers get up that night to go to pee, that round about 2 a.m. Fergus complained in a hoarse whisper as he passed his door, ‘For chrissake, Cootsey . . . why keep going to the bathroom? Can’t you piss in one of those fancy riding boots of yours . . . or Denzil’s lion-hunter’s hat?’

  Nevertheless, the expedition set out as planned immediately after breakfast. Its departure was somewhat in the style of the early explorers, who perhaps because of realisation that the odds were against their ever returning for it, had their heroic hour at the outset, escorted out of town by cheering crowds. Although there was no cheering for the Cootes Expedition, pretty well everybody turned out to accompany it as far as the top gate.

  Professor St Clair, evidently ignorant of Delacy family relations, in taking leave of Jeremy, asked if he had any message to convey to his son Clancy. Jeremy merely shook his head. But Denzil, overhearing and being near Rifkah, said to her with a sly smile, ‘You’d like your affectionate regards delivered at Catfish, I’m sure, Fraulein, eh what?’

  She answered shortly, ‘You know I like not ze catfish.’

  Denzil giggled, ‘Not kosher.’ Then as she moved away, he whispered to Fergus, ‘Not circumcised!’ With that he took hysterics, which the cold if inflamed eye of his new commander had to quell before the party could get under way.

  The Coot was properly condescending to Jeremy in taking leave, thanking him for his hospitality and help and promising to mention him in what he called The Appreciation he would be making to the Government. The Professor had nothing so encouraging to say. Taking Jeremy’s hand he looked rather sad, as if losing a friend. That this was the termination of unofficial dealings between them was surely presaged by his saying; ‘Goodbye, Jeremy . . . it’s been a privilege knowing you.’

  Then, with a snap of command and crack of stockwhips the Expedition was off, heading into the Never-Never. True, their progress would be checked from time to time by the General flying over them with Fergus. In fact Esk had offered to supply them with every need to make life easier, even a radio to call him, and their mail from home. But the Coot insisted on making it to the northern coast unaided by anything but the spirit of his own intrepidity.

  Perhaps Esk wasn’t thinking of Cootes so much as of his own untried men and the somewhat rickety old professor, as suggested by his saying to Jeremy, as they and the others rode back to the homestead, ‘Well, it’s to be hoped they make it safely.’ Then he had yet another try at talking Jeremy into going with him on this trip, or at least to promise to make another with him. He concluded with a sigh: ‘Sorry, old boy. Afraid I’ve rather pushed it ad nauseam. But I do assure you I share the sickness with you . . . although mine’s sickness of the heart. Leave it for now. I shan’t give up. I can’t, of course. But I do hope you’ll understand . . . and that it won’t deny me the privilege of your friendship.’

  There was more possession-yarning and promise-seeking further along the line of those trailing back from the brave departure. Fergus was at Rifkah again. Then, biting his lip as he set out to prepare his aircraft for flight, he hit on the idea of taking Prindy along, and while explaining the function of mechanisms he checked, talked about a wonderful trip they would soon make together, along with Rifkah, to Port Palmeston, and home again by way of the Queen Victoria River. Would Prindy like that? Vigorous nodding. ‘Right . . . then talk Rifkah into it, son. You reckon I’m a good bloke?’ Nod, nod. ‘You reckon I’m number-one?’ Fergus rumpled the fair nodding head. ‘Okay . . . you keep telling Rifkah that . . . Fergus is number-one!’

  The aeronauts waited for smoke-o, prepared in style for them by Nan and Rifkah as a send-off. The General took both females by the arms as they saw him to the luggage-piled utility, telling them how he had never been so happy in hostesses before: ‘I’m going to take the liberty to send you both a little something. I’m telling you, so’s you shan’t be offended.’ He kissed each on the cheek before they could reply, then was gone.

  Fergus also kissed them both, one of them so as to leave her breathless and cause the other to giggle. But that wasn’t the end of Fergus’s farewelling. Airborne, he came in over the tips of the mangoes, and banking, flung down a last kiss from his split lip with his fingers.

  Then silence, peace — only that soft heartbeat: Home, home, home, home! Nan and Rifkah looked at each other, smiled, kissed lightly, then sighing, hand-in-hand, went in to see to the great cleaning up after the departed guests.

  Walking that Tuesday night in the ritualistic style of old, Rifkah told Jeremy of Esk’s request for her help in inducing him to do what he wanted of him, however, without mentioning that veiled threat. But for the omission, Jeremy probably wouldn’t have chuckled over the information as he did: ‘Poor old Mark! So desperately does the decent Englishman believe that his decency is God-given for sharing with the rest of mankind . . . the Lesser Breeds Without the Law, as their imperial poet so simply and frankly called the rest . . . that he’ll come even at what he’d consider not decent in others to spread the gospel. That’s why they’re so dangerous . . . they’re so sincere.’

  She asked if there weren’t some wisdom in what the General was saying, some value in what he was offering. Jeremy answered, ‘He’s taking himself too seriously. He’s a political stooge himself. He realises that the Australian military brass is made up largely of confidence tricksters and up-jumped bullying louts . . . but doesn’t know that that goes for pretty well anyone who has power in this nation of con-men. Remember what young Fergus said about Cootes’s believing Esk will be out with the first change of Government. I believe that, too. But even if I didn’t, I’d still be chary of putting myself in his hands . . . because that means the hands of the Imperial Brass, whom I know only too well of old . . . and I’ll take a lot of convincing that they’ve changed. Of course he’s right in saying the peace of the world depends on the Pax Britannica. Any power that dominated the world would have peace . . . by not permitting war. Its troops then become policemen . . . as the British are in so many parts of the world at present. That’s what the Japs aspire to be, I suppose . . . super policemen. There’s money in it too, of course. Napoleon didn’t call the English a Nation of Shopkeepers for nothing.’

  ‘Vot if vor wit’ Japan?’

  ‘I can’t see them doing more in a hundred years than dominate Asia . . . which I think they’ve got more right to do than the Europeans dominating it now. They’d attack us, I’m sure, only if we were involved with someone attacking them, someone using Australia as a base, as Mark Esk wants to do. War with Japan’s our chance of true independence and nationhood . . . to make the decison whether or not to fight them, make it ourselves. It’d take an enormous expeditionary force to invade Australia . . . and the size of it and the slowness of its approach couldn’t match anything that we could put up if reasonably we
ll prepared. Our northern wilderness is our first line of defence. The Japs know that even better than we do. No . . . I’m wrong. Our first line of defence is our true patriotism, true love of the land, determination for true liberty.’

  ‘But vot about vot Cootsey and Professor vill be doing about ze blacks? Fergus is right, I zink, zat zey vill tek no more notice of you zan ozzer.’

  ‘Fergus is also right about that Free Australia thing . . . as our one hope of acquiring the integrity to deserve nationhood. I’m going to try it out. I’ll try ’em on that silly anti-semitism first. That should be a good test. If they accept what I say there’s hope . . . and I’ll go further.’

  She looked at him, her face looking oldish with trouble in the moonlight. ‘Vot vill you do about anti-semitism?’

  ‘Write an article for them condemning it . . . for a start as barbarity, from the things you’ve told me about your sufferings . . . then as an example of Australian lack of originality. Let’s concentrate on being what’s to the point, I’ll say . . . Anti-Britannic. What harm have Jews ever done Australia? Even those who’ve become leading citizens were the most honest and modest in power of anyone else we’ve had.’

  ‘Vood not it be better to leave out Jews for start?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Might only mek trouble.’

  He chuckled. ‘That Jewish fear of offending the stupid cowardly Goy, who actually does what he does out of fear. No . . . as Fergus said, the silly anti-semitism is what’s cruelling the thing. Australians at large aren’t a bit anti-semitic. Don’t forget we’ve got our own lost tribes to take out our meanness on. I’ll work on that . . . the ethos business. I’ll get to it right away . . . tonight. Glad of a night to myself. Might have a draft of it by morning. Then, if it’s any good, I’ll work on it carefully, and have it ready for next week’s train.’