every day and always will.
He is the living dead.
THE LIZARD AND THE HARE
At midnight when the house was quiet,
when Oma had settled
into a fitful slumber,
we crept past her open door
and entered the study.
The thawed hare had warmed.
We couldn’t risk
Aunt Hilda sniffing it out.
We needed to hollow it like the lizard,
remove the innards, disembowel.
We needed a longer, sharper knife.
The pocketknife was too short,
the skin of the hare too thick.
We’d blunted the blade
on our jewelled bird.
We flicked on the desk lamp,
filled the room with a yellow glow
and hunted through drawers
until we found Father’s fishing knife,
its blade glinting in the light.
Back in our room, we operated
like surgeons.
Sliced open belly,
removed entrails,
scooped out brain & bone & eyes.
At 3.00 a.m. we wrapped
the slippery mass in an old dress,
rolled it up into a neat parcel,
tiptoed down the garden path,
and placed it in the incinerator.
MOTHER MEMORY IV
They carry the box,
the tiny coffin,
down the aisle
of the church.
Mother moans
and Oma sobs.
The coffin is shiny
and as white
as Mother’s face.
Her dark-circled eyes
loom like giant
black moons.
RESURRECTION I
Lottie! Zeit aufzustehen! Up, up!
I opened my eyes.
Strong sunshine
seeped through the blinds.
Oma peered at me through
a criss-cross of lines.
I yawned and stretched
and Oma smiled.
The lines in her face
changed shape and direction
and I caught a glimpse of
small white teeth.
Up, up! Beeil dich! Hurry!
We are going out!
She walked to the door,
turned, sniffed the air,
frowned.
Then continued on her way.
Father was reading the Advertiser,
a steaming cup of coffee
at his elbow.
He glanced up and nodded
as I entered the room.
I sat at the table and ate,
listened to the sound of my teeth
crushing cornflakes.
I thought of the skinned hare
and wondered how I might tackle
the resurrection.
Lottie, Father said,
nodding at my half-eaten cereal.
Hurry now. We are going
for a long drive to the Riverland.
COUNTRY
Annie and I played
I Spy with My Little Eye
in the back of the car.
We passed S and T (spindly trees)
Y and P (yellow paddocks)
and G and S (many grey sheep).
Oma and Father sat silently
side by side, until
Oma clucked or tutted,
adding little bird nods
to something she saw
and Father grunted.
The road was dry dust, red rust.
The R (for river) snaked
in and out of view,
with reflections of chalky yellow cliffs
glittering in the water.
We stopped at Blanchetown
where the river was studded
with dead trees posing
like ballet dancers
playing Statues.
LUFF DIE
We drove on through Waikerie
to Wiggly Flat and
Kingston-on-Murray.
We followed long snaky roads
watched the RM’s (River Murray’s) brown water
slipping in and out of view.
Luff Die, Oma said. Luff Die.
A strange prickly stillness descended
as the car slowed and
Father flicked the indicator.
Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick.
Luff Die. Oma pointed a twisted finger.
Luff Die—Love Die?
Luff Die—Love Dies?
Annie shrugged her thin shoulders,
chewed her bottom lip
till a bead of blood glistened
like a tiny jewel.
Father’s frown filled
the rear-vision mirror.
Sharp vertical lines divided his eyebrows.
Oma muttered indecipherable words
in German and English
as we rolled along the dirt track.
LOVEDAY I
The car stopped at a fenced area.
Father opened the door,
eased himself out of his seat
and stared at the untidy scrub.
Oma hobbled around the car
shook her head. Luff Die. Luff Die.
He should not have been here.
Nor you, nor Bernard.
It has mostly gone. Our huts
have been carted away, Father said.
It’s still here, Oma replied. Still here.
The sadness…die Traurigkeit.
I can feel it, Annie whispered.
The air is heavy with ghosts.
The birds sing only sad songs.
The ground swallowed many tears.
Oma wiped her eyes.
It was not always bad for us, Father said.
But it was unfair. Unjust.
Ja. Unjust. Oma repeated. Ungerecht.
LAKE BONNEY
From our upstairs window
at the Barmera Hotel
we watched Lake Bonney
change from blue to pink then red,
mirroring the sky at sunset.
Sailor’s delight, Annie said.
But in the morning, it’s a warning.
We rose early and
walked the lake with Father.
The air was already hot,
the heated sand warmed our feet.
Broken eggshells and tiny tracks
from baby turtles
littered the shore.
Flocks of pelicans,
all angles and sharp edges,
unfolded themselves
and drifted across the smooth water
with coots and cormorants.
All of them honking, grunting
and gabbling.
Why did we stop at Loveday?
I asked Father as I followed him
along the sandy path,
his back peppered with flies.
It is a place of many memories.
Oma wanted to visit.
For her memories…of Opa.
Of Opa? I asked, baffled.
I thought back to Oma’s words—
He should not have been here—
and waited for Father’s response.
He stopped, turned to the lake,
and stared at the water for a long time,
before turning back to the path
and walking on in silence.
CORKS
Later, Annie and I bobbed
like corks
on our foam surfboards.
The womb-like lap of the lake
was like Mother’s soft heartbeat.
Father stood to attention
on the shoreline, watching.
The sun dried and tightened
the skin on our backs.
Annie’s bone-white body glowed
and her wet hair turned the colour
of scorched
wheat.
Mine, wet and dark,
had a tinge of burgundy.
My skin was the colour of dirt.
We held hands and drifted
to the middle of the lake
where we could hear
Father’s distress call:
Lotti…Lotti…Lottie!
We slow-paddled back
to the narrow shoreline,
to Father’s troubled face.
I told you to stay close.
Close to the shore.
His gaze held mine until
I lowered my eyes.
You should not swim out
that far on your own.
Sorry, Father.
I am a good swimmer.
Yes, Lottie, but I am not.
And I worry.
Father’s voice was as raspy
as sandpaper.
Come, get dressed.
We are going for a drive—
to the cemetery.
BARMERA CEMETERY
Oma walked up and down
and turned around in circles
like a little lost dog.
It was here. Somewhere. Ach.
They buried them all. Buried him.
There should be a Denkmal, a plaque.
Buried who? I asked Father.
Father did not look up.
He stared down at an unmarked grave,
slipped his hands into his pockets.
Opa was buried here, somewhere.
Later exhumed, reburied near the farm.
Tears trickled down the little ravines
in Oma’s cheeks.
Father wrapped an arm around
her bony shoulders.
The fire. The birds. My birds.
He is not here to see. At least, at least.
THE TURNING OF THE BONES
I remembered the word
‘exhumed’ from school.
Annie nodded. Exhume:
to dig up, unearth, disentomb.
Mr Morris told us of the rituals
and customs of the Madagascans
who celebrate their dead
in a ceremony called
the Turning of the Bones.
The cloth-wrapped bodies
are exhumed,
sprayed with wine or perfume
and danced with
while a band plays lively tunes.
Then he said: The traditions of our
own Aboriginal people differ
depending on clan and location—
some have a smoking ceremony.
We all turned to Jeffrey
whose eyes were empty
and unblinking, and his body
as still and calm as always.
Some lie their dead on a raft
cover them with native plants
and when the bodies have decomposed
they collect and scatter the bones.
Some people keep a bone.
Sometimes in grief they cut themselves.
They moan and wail, and as a show of respect
they do not speak the names of their dead.
LOVEDAY II
I imagined my Opa,
my grandfather
who I knew only
in black and white,
in old photographs—
his grave face,
his grey uniform,
his metallic gun,
his shiny medals.
I imagined Opa lying
beneath the earth.
Now he would be bones
and bits of cloth.
The earth, the worms,
the insects, the microbes
would have consumed him:
his skin, his muscle,
the finely shaped nails
of his fingers and toes.
In my mind I resurrected him.
I built him up,
filled him with stuffing,
dusted the dirt from his bones.
Remodelled the flesh,
the muscle, the sinew.
Rewired, reconstructed,
resurrected, rewound,
revised the present.
Rewrote the past.
THE APOSTLES
Father wandered away
with hands behind his back, followed
by a group of chattering birds—apostles.
He weaved in and around gravestones:
some tall (monumental), some small (inconsequential):
grey stone, black stone, and polished pink marble.
Eventually he stood at the foot of a grave
and said, I remember this man, Jimmy James.
He was a good man. An Aboriginal tracker.
He captured eight escapees
from the Loveday camp during the war,
then contracted tuberculosis and died.
I thought of Jeffrey.
I missed him and his quiet ways.
His gentle eyes and voice.
The apostles gathered at Father’s feet.
Hushed now, their dark grey heads still,
as if they were listening to his thoughts.
QUESTIONS
Oma stood in her corner
of the cemetery; Father stood in his.
Both heads were bowed,
deep in thought.
They are the colour
of grief, Annie said.
I did not know what she meant
by colour, but did not ask.
I had too many other questions
running through my head.
What did father mean: escapees?
Why did Jimmy James track them?
Was there a smoking ceremony
for Jimmy James?
Was his body laid out on a raft?
Were his bones scattered?
Did his people keep his bones,
moan, cut themselves?
Or are his bones, here,
in this plot, in a wooden box?
Is it okay for his grave to be named?
Will that disturb his spirit?
What of Loveday? What is Loveday?
Why were Father and Opa there?
Why was Opa buried here?
Why was he exhumed?
When was he moved?
I felt disordered, unmoored.
SKIRTING LAKE BONNEY
Father and I followed a ragged path
around the lake. My pace swift,
his long-legged, leisurely.
The sun slept behind woolly clouds.
The lake was flat and still and silvery
like a fine piece of silk.
Why? I asked Father, was Opa buried here
in Barmera? Why so far from Oma?
And what is Loveday?
Father took a deep breath
and a long pause…
Loveday was a camp,
an internment camp
for Germans, Japanese and Italians
during the War.
It was a place for internees
and prisoners of war.
It was my turn to pause.
Prisoners of war?
Why were you prisoners?
What did you do?
Were you bad? All of you together?
We are German and we—
Germany was
at war with Australia.
And Opa? Father, what happened to Opa?
Why was he buried in Barmera?
Father stopped walking,
looked out across the smooth lake
to the skeletal trees on the other side.
Opa was old, his health not good.
The nights were very, very cold;
he got pneumonia and passed away.
They buried all the prisoners
who died at Loveday
here in Barmera. And moved them later.
Father’s blue eyes moistened, and
the blue deepened and deepened
into cool, aquamarine lakes.
DANCING WITH GHOSTS
We ate dinner at right angles
in silence
around the teak-veneer table.
The hotel dining room was empty,
but for a couple sitting in a corner
holding hands.
The thick red carpet absorbed
the chink and clink
of our plates and cutlery.
I watched the lemonade bubbles
in my glass rise and burst.
Rise and burst.
Father sipped his beer,
wiped froth from his beard.
Oma said: This steak is good, ja?
Father smiled and grunted his
approval, but his eyes were focused
on the couple in the corner.
You see them, Annie whispered.
She is dark, he is fair—
Just like Mother and Father.
It was true, Annie was right.
Father sees it too, she said.
His head is dancing with ghosts.
MURDER I
In the morning
Father said we could not swim,
so we walked the lake perimeter
hunting for turtles and eggs,
but found none.
When we walked back,
Annie and I watched
a clatter of cockatoos,
a racket, a rattle, a jangle, a clank,
a clash, a bangle, a mangle
of flapping wings,
flared sulphur crests,
beaks pecking at one of their own
they had dragged off the road.
They nudged, screeched and tugged,
but the cockatoo lay still.
A battered wing
erect
like a broken flag.
One nestled into the body,
lay down next to its mate.
Murder, Annie said. It was a murder.
She nodded at the road,
to the passing cars.
We stood and stared and wept,
for the death of the beautiful bird,
for the death of their union,
for Father and Mother,
for Oma and Opa.
LIKE SLAVES
In the afternoon we returned
to Loveday.
Father drove the car around the grounds
and pointed things out to Oma,
who drank it in,
nodded and nodded
and swallowed back gasps.
Over there we grew poppies.
Here, the piggery.
Vegetables in that paddock.
The train transported prisoners
and produce.
You worked hard? Oma asked.
Yes, said Father.
Your vater, he work hard?
The Art of Taxidermy Page 6
