Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  As they headed out, followed by Eddy, Ernest shouted, ‘Vy you let ze momzer boss you? Speet in ’is eye!’

  Fergus only grimaced. But Eddy demanded, ‘What he mean Momzer?’

  Fergus exchanged a glance with Prindy. He grinned. ‘You tell him, mate.’

  Prindy looked at Eddy. ‘That a turkey.’

  With a whoop of laughter, Fergus snatched him away, leaving behind the dining-room awhoop and bewildered-looking Eddy in the doorway.

  Up the street a bit, Fergus said, ‘We’ll go back to the kite . . . and nip over to Con Cullity’s and have lunch there.’

  So they went back over the Ridge, chased Billy’s donkeys and the Cullity goats out of the way, then landed so as to pull up right before the pub. Great was the astonishment of those watching from the verandah when they saw who had come to them out of the blue. They rushed him. Bridie and Billy had to fight the Reffoes for him, and then each other. Everybody won, really, since he spent most of the time he was there sitting on the bar playing the flute for them.

  The wind dropped as Fergus had predicted. However, Fergus, by then roaring with the rest, everything from Shlaaf Mein Princeling to The Road to Gundagai, didn’t notice it. He finished up in the huddle, now bellowing in sleep, on the front verandah, with Igulgul smirking as he dropped down to the deserted goldfields. Prindy spent the night with Billy in his waggon.

  They were so slow in getting away next day, what with Fergus’s hangover and the reluctance of everybody to lose them, that the wind was up again, and now blowing from the North, which would make the going slower still. Fergus made his headache worse with having to work out whether his fuel would last the journey, and finally had to abandon the job to Bridie. There was much embracing and some shedding of tears at parting. Fergus was lucky in having a co-pilot and easy navigation in the form of the Telegraph Line. He spent much of the flight asleep. In fact he only took the aircraft off the ground, and put her down again at Lily Lagoons.

  It was nice to be home again, and with such a droll tale to tell, but spoilt a bit by finding Clancy still there. As Fergus muttered to Prindy when they saw him, ‘We’ll have to do something drastic to get rid of that bastard for good.’

  VIII

  In the lounge that Sunday evening, after coffee and brandy and the news session, it was not Jeremy or Rifkah who suggested the walk, as was invariable if there was to be walking, but General Esk. He came out with it quite suddenly, looking at Jeremy and Rifkah with what was more than a smile: ‘Shall we walk?’ Both blinked, then turned towards Fergus and Clancy, who from scowling suddenly brightened. But as if anticipating it, Esk also turned to the young men, saying quickly, ‘If you don’t mind, chaps. This’ll be my last night with ’em for quite a while. Be off South in a week or so, don’t y’know. You can drop in any time . . . eh what?’ Even wooden Malters looked surprised. Nan’s and Kurt’s eyes widened with watchfulness. Although there could hardly be objection, Esk acted as if to forestall it, rising quickly and going to Rifkah, giving her his arm while still she sat. Slowly she rose to take it, looking at Jeremy. Esk turned the toothy smile again on Jeremy. There was certainly objection in the expression that met him. Undaunted, Esk turned with Rifkah and headed for the door. Jeremy drew a deep breath, heaved himself up and followed.

  Igulgul, at his fullness, well up the sky already, held the world bewitched. Not a sound in the world, but for the soft heartbeat of this odd little part of it — Home, a-home, home, home! A great cloud that filled the northwest sky blazed like a wall of scrolled silver. The General, manoeuvring to get Jeremy to take Rifkah’s other arm, exclaimed, ‘By jove, what a perfect night! But all your nights are perfect . . . even in a storm, as I saw the other night. How shall I ever get used again to the poor little drizzly pale nights of my native heath?’

  The others made no comment. Still in command, he swung them towards the mangoes, saying, ‘Let’s go take a look at the horses, what? Must say a chin-chin to my dear old Rory.’

  Still no comment. Esk cleared his throat: ‘Ah-hum! Sorry for the way I went about it, but . . . well . . . you did bring Clancy along last night, and you avoided the toddle I proposed this afternoon . . . and, really, it’s most important that I speak to you both together, and with complete frankness.’

  They went on and through the jet and silver of the mangoes in silence. Emerging, Esk turned to Rifkah. ‘I know, my dear, that you never knew Ernest Boch or any of his people before they came here. However, I feel certain that you know what they represent.’ He paused. As she didn’t answer, but only stiffened on his arm, he asked, ‘Is it any use asking you are they Communists?’

  She answered breathlessly, ‘Nozzing do I know of zem.’

  He nodded to the distance. Then turning again, swiftly, he asked, ‘Are you Communist?’

  She swallowed first, but answered readily enough, ‘I am not Communist.’

  ‘I don’t mean an actual member of the Party. You have worked for the Communists?’

  He waited for her. At length she answered, with difficulty, ‘My fader was Communist. I vos put prison for Communist and Jew. It vos Communist people save my life . . . not ze English!’ She spat the last.

  ‘I accept the rebuke, my dear.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I take it you have worked for the Party . . . because Communists never do anything for nothing.’

  ‘I do not vurk for Communist now. I am free.’

  ‘As I understand Communists, there is no getting free of them. If you’re not with us, you’re against us, don’t y’know . . .’

  Jeremy cut in, his tone quiet, but intense: ‘Tell me, Mark . . . is this an official interrogation?’

  ‘Anything but, dear boy. I tried to tell you that last night, when you rebuffed my attempt to broach the subject . . .’

  ‘Then, your purpose, please? I told you I wouldn’t have the girl badgered or embarrassed under any circumstances.’

  Esk cleared his throat again: ‘Hem . . . my purpose, Jeremy, is to avoid these very things. I’ve hinted to you already that I suspect Ernest and his people of being Communists planning to establish a Communist Cell, as it’s called. As I’m responsible for the defence of this country, I’m vitally concerned. I’m bound to have these people investigated. I want to spare Rifkah this . . . and Kurt . . . and you yourself . . .’

  ‘I don’t give a damn. When you hinted at it, I told you I’d prefer such people to those aliens who already hold the land and are only concerned with exploiting it and its people.’

  ‘But I do give a damn, Jeremy. You don’t understand Communists. Nor do you really understand this vicious Government of yours, which already regards you as an enemy, and will destroy you if it can. I told you I have reason to believe that the Communist Party is about to be declared illegal in this country, and have hinted at the danger to you of suspicion of involvement . . . Wait, please! I don’t doubt for a moment that what Rifkah has said about herself is true . . . she’s not Communist and wishes to be free from Communist business . . .’

  ‘She is free . . . and I’ll see to it that she remains so.’

  ‘Good for you! But, as I’ve said, you don’t know Communists. You mustn’t judge them by the poor local ignoramuses. If need be, you’ll both be used . . . and destroyed when you’re no more use. I repeat that my purpose is to save you this . . . both of you . . . because of my regard for you.’

  They were greeted by those sitting outside their houses in the Aboriginal quarter, and called back. They were silent till they reached the horse-yards.

  Esk said, ‘No doubt Kurt’s an active member of the Party . . . or he wouldn’t be entrusted with his special task . . .’

  ‘What task?’ demanded Jeremy.

  ‘My purpose is not to convince you of anything, but simply to warn you so as to help you. Please remember that I have had much to do with Jews and Communists, officially. I suspected Kurt from the first, when I met him at the Beatrice and had no idea that he would be likely to become involved with you. It wa
s his outright denial of Zionism. Although the average Jew is not a serving Zionist, and may even hate Zionism a bit because of the dangers inherent in it, he has a sneaking regard for it . . . well, it’s the essence of being a Jew, the return to Zion’s Hill. When a Jew denies Zion out of hand, he denies he’s a Jew . . . and, as Jews don’t usually do things by halves, this type will have taken on, in place of his Judaism, what will make equal demands on his capacity for community dedication, which in these days is Communism. After all, Communism, as we know it, is an extension of Jewish Socialism, which had its origins in the Haskalah Movement, the revolt of Enlightenment, the struggle against the tyranny of unworldliness that the Jew’s closeness to God tends to subject him to. At least Hitler is right in blaming Communism on the Jews. But if Communism had been left to the Jews to develop in their own way, as a faith, a science, and a brotherhood, combined, it could well have meant the salvation of mankind, the factual coming of the Messiah. Unfortunately, it fell into the wrong hands . . . into the cruel hands of people bred for ages in tyranny of their own making, whose tradition compels them either to tyrannise if they have the strength for it, or to accept tyranny as the right of the strong if they themselves are not . . .’

  Jeremy interrupted: ‘If Jewish Communism would be the blessing you say, why spoil a unique opportunity to establish it here?’

  ‘There is no such thing as Jewish Communism . . . except as expressed in the theory of Zionism, which can only be practised in the Holy Land. I told you that what the Jews had created in their own faith and brotherhood and intelligence had been seized upon by people who only know that might is right. Ernest and his company are the victims of those others. They came here not as Jews, but as Communists pure and simple, as members of the soulless Party, sent by the Party, which actually is Anti-Judaistic, since headed by as savage an Anti-Judaist as ever was, Josef Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili, rascal monk originally, now neo-Czar or all the Russias, and would-be Czar of all the world, so-called Stalin, or The Man of Steel. They are his minions . . . at the cost of having renounced their birthright as Jews. They pretended to come here as Jews, because that was seen as the opportunity to infiltrate them as seemingly innocent, hapless, homeless refugees from tyranny. What better opportunity than this to create the all-important Cell?’

  ‘This is all supposition of yours . . . born of hatred of anything that opposes your own form of wanting power over the minds and bodies and possessions of simple people!’ Jeremy said it so forcefully that Esk looked at him startled. Both turned from each other hastily.

  After a moment General Esk said huskily, ‘It isn’t simply supposition. I’ve already had some investigation made. I didn’t want to say that. I’ve told you this is completely unofficial. All that I want to do is what I think proper as a friend . . . to see that you people aren’t hurt.’

  They went on in silence towards the race track. Jeremy spoke first: ‘If you supposed that Kurt was sent here to establish a Communist Cell, why didn’t you say something sooner?’

  Esk was silent. They came up to the race track gate. Jeremy pressed: ‘Well, Mark?’

  Esk still had time to delay the answer, because horses in a bunch came whickering to greet them. Stroking an extended snuffling muzzle, he murmured, ‘I assumed that you could deal with it yourself.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you let me?’

  Esk breathed deeply: ‘Because of your involvement with Rifkah.’

  Rifkah looked at him with great eyes, drawing a shuddering breath. He looked down. She turned to Jeremy, who was staring at her. For a moment they stared into each other’s moon-luminous eyes. Then suddenly, with hands and lips she reached for him, clung to him, but as he began to put his arms about her, broke away from him, and with a sob, turned and ran away, back towards the homestead. The men stared after her. The quiver of her shining head, the jerking of her silken slender shoulders, told of wild grief restrained. She vanished in the shadow of the horse-yards.

  Esk looked miserably at Jeremy. ‘I’m sorry, Jeremy.’

  Jeremy swallowed, took a moment to ask, huskily, ‘What for?’

  ‘For hurting . . . both of you.’

  The horse Elektron was stretching his glossy black neck for his master’s hand. Stroking, Jeremy muttered, ‘All in a good cause, though, isn’t it?’ Esk didn’t answer. Jeremy drew a deep breath, and exhaled it harshly: ‘Your bloody Commonwealth!’

  He slipped through the rails.

  Esk leaned over the gate. ‘Jeremy, I assure you that’s only a small part of the purpose now. The enthralment can do neither of you any good. It can only steal your remaining manhood . . .’

  ‘Which you want to press into your Imperial service!’ As Elektron shoved against him, Jeremy grabbed his mane at the withers, heaved himself up onto his back.

  ‘Jeremy . . .’

  For answer Jeremy dug a heel in the glossy flank to turn the horse, then kicked with both. Elektron leapt into a gallop. The other horses snorted, swung, stared at the racing pair, shot off in pursuit. Esk, staring at the receding cloud of silvery dust, sighed. For a while he hung on the gate. Then, sighing again, he turned and headed towards the homestead.

  The Moon was close to the zenith and that mighty cloud when Jeremy returned. Coming through the mangoes, he saw Fergus on the driveway, as if coming from a lone walk in the other direction. Fergus waved and hastened his step. Jeremy only half waved, and hastened his own step towards his quarters. There was a light in the room that the General still occupied in the annexe. Jeremy went to his den. He had just got out the brandy bottle and settled in his armchair, when Esk appeared in the doorway.

  The two men eyed each other in silence for a while. Then Esk said, in subdued tones, ‘Sorry to intrude, Jeremy . . . but I don’t intend to do anything about the girl . . . or Kurt.’

  Only a blink of the grey eyes.

  Esk swallowed. ‘I said I’d already done some investigating. They were only inquiries about the settlement business. There is an authentic settlement scheme . . . but it’s for the far northwest. I saw some of the principals over there. They know nothing of anything’s being done over here.’

  Another blink. Esk added: ‘My inquiries were discreet, I assure you. Anything I do about Ernest and his people will be the same.’ His stiff lean face quivered ever so slightly. ‘That’s all, Jeremy . . . except to say again, I’m sorry . . . Goodnight!’ He withdrew.

  Jeremy blinked again, then opened his mouth, and called after the retreating steps, ‘Mark!’

  The steps stopped. A moment of hesitation. Then they returned. Jeremy rose as Esk reappeared in the doorway. He asked, ‘Care for a nightcap?’

  Esk’s face quivered again. He cleared his throat slightly: ‘Hem! Well, yes, thank you, old man.’

  Jeremy waved him to the other armchair, and proceeded to pour the drinks. Taking his glass, the General raised it, saying, ‘L’chayim!’

  Jeremy responded: ‘L’chayim!’

  They drained their glasses. Jeremy set about refilling them. Esk sighed: ‘L’chayim . . . To Life! A perfect toast, isn’t it. No people enjoy life like Jews . . . and yet none have such restrictions on enjoyment. An Orthodox Jew doesn’t live by a mere Ten Commandments but Six Hundred and Thirteen . . . do you know?’

  Jeremy, sipping, shook his head. Esk went on: ‘I’ve presumed to understand Jews, but . . . well, thinking about it this evening, I see how little I do know. I suppose it’s the impossibility of knowing Jews that makes them generally hated.’

  Jeremy said, somewhat stiffly, ‘They seem simple human beings to me.’

  ‘There’s nothing simple about them, Jeremy.’

  Jeremy looked away. Esk was silent for a while, then asked, ‘May I talk, old man?’ When Jeremy looked at him quickly, he added: ‘About myself. ‘

  Jeremy took a swig first, then answered, ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘I’ve hinted to you of a marriage . . . well, not unlike your own . . . your first. I’d like to be frank with you about it
.’

  Jeremy nodded, but was wary-eyed. He placed the bottle where Esk could help himself. Esk replenished his glass, sipped, began: ‘As I told you, I married early in the war. Excitin’ times. Sort of thing I was bred to, don’t y’know. Pamela . . . daughter of a General et cetera, high-steppin’ filly . . . and war. I supposed I was very much in love. In the matter of marriage it’s so dashed hard to tell what’s made in heaven and what in the mind . . . By the way, would you know that the saying, “Marriages are made in Heaven”, is originally Jewish?’

  Jeremy shook his head. Still that wariness. Esk avoided the eyes, looked at the ceiling. ‘Clever Jews,’ he said. ‘They blame everything on Heaven . . . so there’s no arguing against it. Traditionally, of course, Jewish marriage is arranged, on very practical grounds. Their conception of love is something entirely different from ours. Mazzeltov, as they say to bride and groom, merely wishing them the best that may come out of it . . . with no illusions about the realities.’

  Esk drank, moved in his chair. Clearly he was beating around whatever it was he had to say. Jeremy, as if to help him, withdrew his gaze, turned sideways in his chair, hung a leg over an arm.

  Esk seemed more at ease. Settling himself, he went on: ‘Our illusions, Pamela’s and mine, lasted the war out. The product was our Lydia. Whether I had the capabilities to become a family man was never put to the test, because of what was revealed to us in our disillusionment of the difference of our conceptions of the meaning of family. My own family’s a pretty old one. But we’ve never been grand. We’re proud of our ancestry . . . rather, I should say, of our history, which is really only one of serving the Crown, loyally. We would have been Liberals always, long before there was any idea of what has come to be called Liberalism. That was what Pamela had against us most . . . against me, because she scarcely recognised my family. A Lily-livered Liberal. That was her filial denunciation of me. There was nothing worse to her. It was we Liberals who had betrayed the natural rulers of mankind, the aristocracy, of which we were hangers-on, to all the lousy things now crawling about the earth . . . the Lenins, the Ghandis, the Lloyd-Georges. I rather spoilt things by entering politics . . . at her behest. She wanted the world cleaned up. So did we all. But I didn’t realise that she wanted it put back the way it was, with a new Czar of Russia, a new Kaiser of Germany, the Delhi Durbah, and all that . . . and, of course, the British Labour Party declared a treasonable organisation and extirpated. I got into Parliament very easily. One of my relations, rather doddering, resigned his Conservative seat to me. I promptly went over to the Liberals. It wasn’t out of vindictiveness, I assure you. Things were bad. Men who had served under me, many of them hideously maimed, were begging in the streets, after all they had suffered to get rid of the very things Pamela wanted back. But it was quickly brought home to me that politics had no place for me. Parliament was exactly what it was meant by the name . . . Talk . . . the meeting place of the loudest talkers in the land. All talk. The General Strike sickened me. Nothing but Talk . . . while people starved. Shoot the strikers, shoot the bosses, at the two extremes, and us in the middle begging both sides to behave themselves like Englishmen. I resigned my seat and went back to the Army . . . largely because I saw extremes entering there, too: the Blimps were quite ready to shoot down the men who had so faithfully served under them. Fortunately, my super-Blimp of a father-in-law had placed me so well up in the service that no one could pull me down, except at the risk of causing a fearful row.’