by Di Morrissey
The jeweller squinted at it through his eyepiece. ‘Dear me. Yes, it needs cleaning badly.’ He spoke passable English with a thick accent. ‘There is an engraving here.’ Nina was silent as he turned the ring, gave it a rub with a soft cloth and looked at it closely, hunching his shoulders. He laid the ring on a square of black velvet on the counter. ‘This is a family ring? Your family, Madame?’
Nina hesitated. ‘I believe so. My grandparents came from here. It belonged to them. I’m not sure how they acquired it. It could be a piece they bought which came from another family. It’s a family crest, I take it?’
‘In a manner. If it is your family, I would be discreet about showing it around. I have a log of family crests and insignia that could prove helpful.’ He turned to the small, cluttered cubicle behind the counter, shuffled a few delicate-looking instruments, papers, boxes and an electric engraving tool to one side and reached for several books and folders on a shelf. He began thumbing through the pages, checking the ring frequently through his eyepiece.
Nina waited for a moment or two, then said, ‘I might just go into the bookshop next door. I’ll only browse for a bit.’
‘Take your time, Madame. I’m sure I can identify this seal.’ He didn’t lift his eyes from where he was scanning lists of what looked like small etchings.
Nina smiled to herself. Everyone was telling her to take her time when inside she felt a constant sense of pressure to keep moving. Maybe the old jeweller could tell her something that would add another fragment to her family story.
She almost lost track of time among the leaning towers of old books. When she returned to the shop, the jeweller was busily drawing an enlargement of the crest on the ring, which he’d polished and now shone on the black cloth.
‘Oh, that looks wonderful. Thank you so much,’ exclaimed Nina, picking up the ring and slipping it back on her finger. ‘And what have you found?’ She reached in her handbag for her notebook and pen.
‘Indeed, I have found something, Madame,’ he answered in a low voice. He put down his pencil and motioned for Nina to sit on the chair drawn up at the counter. He leaned across it to speak to her, his face serious, his voice still very low, almost conspiratorial.
‘Madame, it is as I thought. So I would advise you to be very careful about identifying your family. I presume you are a visitor here?’ Nina nodded curiously. He continued, ‘My family are German Jews, my wife is Croatian. We escaped from Germany and settled here. I lost many of my family.’ He seemed to shake himself and return to the present. ‘Family is important, yes?’
‘Very. That’s why I’m here. To try to find out more about my grandparents.’
‘You know a little . . . yes?’
Nina read into the simple question his real question. Did she know about her grandfather’s secret life? It seemed this man had some answers. She decided to confide in him. ‘Yes. I think my grandfather led something of a double life. He was a physician doctoring the rich and the high-ranking officials while working for the resistance movement. After the war, he was forced to move from his home here. I have just visited . . . where their house used to be.’
The old man nodded, pleased she had told him about her grandfather. ‘The name attached to this crest is Bubacic. One of the old, elite families. After the war, Dr Bubacic was hailed as a hero by the people. But not by the communist government. He was one of those who wanted democracy for our country and so his name was featured on The List.’
‘What list is that?’
‘A list, circulated by the old government, of names of people Tito saw as having the potential to undermine the order of things – to him, they were possible traitors and spies.’
‘My grandfather was none of those! He was a hero for helping the partisans to fight the Nazis, and I’m not surprised he wanted democratic rule for his country.’
‘It’s different now that Tito is gone,’ said the old jeweller. ‘But I warn you, this period in our history is still a very sensitive one. Croatia today has the chance to rebuild and open itself to the world again as a major tourist destination in Europe. Some people do not like interference with things they think are better forgotten.’
‘I just want to find out more about my family, but do you think this could be dangerous? Surely after all this time and with Tito’s communists no longer in power, times are very different.’
‘Times have changed indeed. But for some whose families suffered, the need to see atonement made or perpetrators brought to justice, is very strong. If it became known that your grandfather’s personal records were still in the family, for example, it could be dangerous for you.’ The jeweller sighed. ‘Be discreet, Madame, and be very careful. Do not bring attention to yourself. Have an intermediary do the research you need,’ he advised.
Nina thought instantly of Lucien. Her plan to leave as soon as possible and return with him made even more sense. She reached for the sketch of the crest on the ring.
‘May I keep this?’ She was thinking of using it as an illustration for her article. Already her mind was skirting over the surface of topics to write about. The courage of people like her grandfather and what they had fought. How deep and lasting were these wounds and prejudices that kept flaring up like summer bushfires. No wonder so many migrants to Australia carried such passions and hatreds with them.
The jeweller rolled up his sketch and slipped a rubber band over it. ‘Good luck with your search. One should honour the past and the family. Shalom.’
It had been an intriguing, if disquieting, encounter. Nina hurried back to the hotel and rang the airline office at the airport.
‘I want to know when any aircraft will be able to leave Zagreb Airport. Any airline,’ she stressed in Croatian.
‘I do not understand you. Please repeat the question.’
Nina switched to English. ‘The bomb scare. When will it be safe to come out to the airport? I want to be on any flight. I have an emergency.’
‘I am sorry, Madame. What bomb scare? There are no problems here at Zagreb. Where do you wish to go?’
Nina felt suddenly very cold. Slowly she asked, ‘Are all flights departing on schedule?’
‘Certainly, Madame. Which airline are you travelling on?’
‘Never mind. I’ll come to the airport and make a booking. Thank you.’ Nina hung up, staring at the phone that suddenly seemed an enemy. Who else was listening? And how long had they been listening?
TAKE FIFTEEN . . .
Larissa caught Ali in the corridor. ‘Hi. Belinda tells me Nina rang. How is she? What’s she doing?’
‘My, how quickly people spread no news,’ said Ali dryly. ‘She’s planning on being away longer. Writing a story. For herself. Family archive stuff, I think.’
‘Oh. I wanted to tell her Miche is here and settling in well. Perhaps we’ll call her.’
Ali waved a hand. ‘Don’t bother. She has no mobile link and is setting out on the road. Said she’d check in when she had news.’ She moved quickly away. Ali didn’t encourage chatting in the hallways. And she certainly didn’t want to encourage Nina to keep tabs on the staff while she was away. ‘God, I hope someone shoots me if I can’t let go when my time comes,’ thought Ali.
Larissa watched her walk away with quiet fury. She knew very well Ali was trying to keep Nina at a distance. Ali didn’t want any of the staff passing on information about her antics. Not that there was anything major that would warrant complaining to Nina on the other side of the world. But it was clear to Larissa that Ali was intent on making a grab for power, profile and prestige. If only she didn’t try so hard and alienate those around her in the process, thought Larissa as she headed back to her office. Ali was clever at her job – and in how she achieved her objectives. But if only she could be softer, show a touch of vulnerability, show interest in those she worked with – or, in Ali’s mind, those who worked for her – and smile with real warmth occasionally, then relationships and the mood around the office would be more bearable. Ali c
oncentrated too much on schmoozing with the outside heavyweights, the corporate world (‘potential advertisers’), media chairmen (‘networking’), even Ian Marcello, Nina’s lawyer (‘defamation advice’), who Ali had charmed over lunch. These meetings were always casually mentioned to Dane at the Yellow Brick Road beauty salon and were then inevitably repeated in a social or business news column. And the impression given was that these senior gentlemen were always suitably impressed by Ali.
Over dinner in Victoria Street that night, Larissa told Miche how Nina was deep on the trail of a personal story.
‘That’s terrific. Claudia told me Nina was a good writer in her day, that she pushed it to one side to be an editor.’ Miche took a bite of her pasta. ‘Which reminds me that I should be starting on another story. Seeing as I’m working as a contributor. No stories sold, no money,’ she grinned ruefully.
‘You know you can stay with me as long as you want, Miche. It’s a company house, thanks to Nina,’ said Larissa. ‘I like having company . . . I miss Gerry.’
‘No chance he’ll come back?’
‘No chance. Lovely place to visit . . . but . . .’
‘He might come back and surprise you again. But in the meantime, thanks for the offer to stay,’ said Miche.
‘So . . . any ideas about a story?’ asked Larissa, keen to avoid the painful subject.
‘Hmmm, the Sally Shaw saga isn’t over. Did you see the report that she collapsed on the catwalk in Milan?’
‘Yes, it looked tragic. Are the stories that she’s on drugs true?’ asked Larissa.
‘Sadly, I’m sure they are. That started me thinking.’
‘About . . . ?’
‘About vulnerable young people, such as Sally, who come from a sensible, stable background and can still be taken advantage of. What about young people who come from alcoholic, homeless, addicted parents? What chance do they have of breaking the cycle? Making good? And further along the path . . . heading into dark woods here . . . what about kids who are victims of violence? The ones who have either been assaulted, abused, tortured or witnessed such things. What about them?’
Larissa sipped her wine. ‘That path could take you into frightening territory, Miche. But from what I’ve read, it seems those victims of violence cover it up best. Many do overcome childhood traumas, many don’t. Many don’t admit it. Consciously or subconsciously.’
‘Repressed Memory Syndrome? That’s been vilified as well as proven. Quite a few people have falsely claimed ghastly events happened to them, just to get themselves a bit of notoriety, fifteen minutes of fame, sympathy, whatever. Which is pretty sick in itself,’ said Miche. ‘In fact . . .’ she delved into her handbag for a notebook and flipped pages. ‘Listen to what a trauma specialist told me.’ Miche scanned her notes and then began to read.
Many people do hide their trauma. Some even forget that it has happened and the memories flood back many years later when they are exposed to something that has an association that triggers the memory. When the memories flood back, they are sometimes overwhelming and extremely difficult to cope with and it is possible that a person, who has managed reasonably well with his/her life up until that point, can break down with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, although it is unlikely to be diagnosed as that because many will not trust their memory. In fact, there is a huge debate right now based on the denial of adults who have been accused of child abuse, including sexual abuse. Some years ago they formed themselves into an organisation called the False Memory Syndrome Association. It has caused the genuine therapists great distress and some therapists have been implicated in uncovering false memories, and sometimes rightly so. It is extremely disturbing for those who have suffered to have their memories and traumatic experiences questioned and doubted. It is as bad for them as the perpetrators making them keep secrets and so on.
Miche closed her notebook. ‘So you see there is a lot to explore in this story.’
Larissa put her glass back onto the table. ‘It may be dangerously revealing for someone like you to explore this subject. Rather than an academic or a therapist,’ she said gently, wondering if Miche was aware she could fall into the victim category herself – a father who abandoned her, a mother who committed suicide.
‘It could be an interesting in-depth piece. Something to prove I can write about more than lightweight generation X and Y stuff, which is what Ali seems to think I should do,’ said Miche, pursing her mouth in distaste.
‘It could bring up a few uncomfortable personal issues for you, Miche,’ warned Larissa.
Miche didn’t answer for a moment. Then she gave Larissa a frank look, but the slight lift of her chin and set of her body gave an added determination to the lightly tossed remark. ‘It’s what I came here for. Confront the demons. Settle my soul. Something like that.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘No.’ A grin flickered.
‘But you’re going to try to find your dad?’
‘I guess that’s part of this whole issue, isn’t it?’
Larissa reached over to touch Miche’s hand that was gripping her glass. ‘Be sure. Ask yourself if it’s going to change your life for the better. Do it if it feels right. Whatever you decide, I’m here as surrogate aunty, big sister, Nina fill-in, whatever.’
‘Thanks, Riss. You’re so kind.’ Miche gave an awkward laugh to release the tension. ‘And you’re not even a relative.’
‘That’s why it’s easier,’ smiled Larissa.
Miche thought more about her story idea. She rang a psychologist and the trauma therapist again and realised she had tapped into a deep well of behaviour patterns, an emotional landscape of quicksand with cause and effect that went from the hidden events of childhood, which remained unacknowledged, into adulthood. It intrigued her. The more she thought about Sally, the more research she did, the more she found that even in an apparently well-adjusted, easygoing, happy-go-lucky country like Australia there were dark threads of suffering children. There was the issue of the stolen generation of Aboriginal children. These youngsters, mainly of mixed blood, were for decades until the seventies, forcibly removed from their families to be ‘assimilated’ into the white community. There were also stories of sexual abuse in church schools and institutions – individual stories now being talked about that had been hidden for years. There was childhood trauma of all kinds from violent parents, sexual abuse and sheer neglect.
What interested Miche was the idea of how these children had coped, or were able to ignore traumatic childhoods and, in many cases, become high achievers or lead normal lives. But then, what was perceived to be normal? We all keep secrets. But the pain of children who had been victims of violent crime, who felt shame, who worried they too could exhibit the same tendencies, who felt damaged and different to their friends . . . what had it done to them? Or did they live in such denial it changed their whole personality?
As the specialist told her, ‘Their need to keep secrets and not to tell the truth sometimes affects their way of being in the world, in the way they live their lives. They can be notoriously difficult to work with as they are unpredictable, have trouble with interpersonal boundaries, can be tragically unhappy and are frequently economical with the truth. They are often those who make multiple attempts at suicide – largely unsuccessfully – and when they go into therapy, they are extremely hard work for therapists.’
What led them to therapy? Who were they? How can society help them? Or was ignorance bliss? How many would repeat the cycle?
Miche put together an outline of these thoughts, the types of people she’d like to interview, where the story might lead and how she saw the relevance of the story. She had the feeling she was dipping her toe in deep waters and that once she disturbed the apparently calm surface, other people might find the courage or strength to come forward, to drag their dark secrets into the sunlight and let them go. Once one person stands up and shares an experience they’d been too ashamed to admit, it eases their burden and others tend to fo
llow suit, relieved to know they are not alone.
She rang Belinda to make an appointment to see Ali, confident this would be a story that would suit Blaze.
Belinda came back to her. ‘Ali says she is a bit swamped. Talk to Bob Monroe, he’s features editor.’ Belinda was pleased to see Ali delegating work. ‘He’s very attuned to ideas, Miche, and he loved your piece on Sally. We all did.’
Bob listened, made a few notes and asked questions. ‘Where are you doing the research? Which specialists do you have who are willing to talk and quote case histories on the record? What’s going to make a reader want to read, and keep reading, this story? Who are you going to use to tell their personal story?’
Miche was prepared for most of Bob’s questions and rattled off her answers. But the last two weren’t so easy. ‘How do you ever know what interests people at any given point in time? I can only go on instinct.’
‘Hmmm.’ Bob tapped his pencil against his teeth. ‘It needs a more personal angle. Shame we’ve done Sally. You’ll need to find someone, probably someone in therapy, who’s willing to share what they’re dealing with.’
‘That could be hard if it’s something horrific and violent,’ said Miche.
‘The personal story doesn’t have to be along the lines of “My Father Was an Axe Murderer”. Maybe something readers could identify with more easily. Someone unravelling the tangles in their life.’
Miche was thoughtful, then said slowly. ‘What about me?’
Bob reacted openly, his surprise unconcealed. ‘You? You fit into this category? In what way . . . if I may ask?’
‘Well, it’s not as traumatic as the theme of the story, but it could be a springboard to those deeper waters,’ said Miche. ‘I’m thinking of looking for my father. It might turn out he’s not alive, not in Australia, he could be in jail, could be a boring suburbanite or a university professor.’
