Pennies For Hitler

by Jackie French

  Suddenly he remembered the last poem Papa had ever told him. It was short, so short he could remember too the translation. He began to speak, tentatively at first; then it seemed like the poem knew its own way from his mouth. It felt funny to have to say a poem about peace so loudly.

  ‘Quiet touches the treetops,

  The breeze hardly breathes

  Through the leaves;

  The tiny birds are silent in the forest.

  Wait …

  Soon you’ll be at rest too.’

  ‘I … I’m sorry it doesn’t rhyme.’ He hoped the Peaslakes didn’t ask him who had written it. They’d be shocked to know it had been written by a German. Might even — he bit his lip — suspect there was something strange about him. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it at all.

  ‘Poems don’t have to rhyme. It’s a good poem,’ said Mr Peaslake. ‘Poems have to make you feel in here.’ He banged his fist against the tweed jacket above his heart. ‘That’s what matters, not the rhymes. “The tiny birds are silent” — yes, that’s a good line.’

  Mr Peaslake looked out the window. The trees had changed to fields while they’d been talking. He stood up and grabbed Georg’s suitcase. ‘Next stop’s ours.’

  This station was even smaller than the others. It had flowers too, in boxes and baskets and in long beds on either side of the yellow-painted ticket office and waiting room.

  They climbed a set of tall metal stairs that led over the tracks and waited at a bus stop, where they ate lamb and pickle sandwiches and slabs of fruitcake, sweet and buttery, that Mrs Peaslake produced from her handbag. Georg wondered if it had a small universe in it, as well as food and balls of wool and the handkerchief she’d used to wipe the soot smuts off his face and Mr Peaslake’s. The bus finally muttered along under more of the strange hanging trees.

  The bus was half full. Old or middle-aged men lifted their hats — old hats with hair-oil stains or worn fingerprints at the edges where they lifted it; and women in comfortable floral dresses and straw hats murmured greetings. They stared at Georg with curiosity and friendliness as the Peaslakes got on, Mr Peaslake still holding Georg’s suitcase and coat. They found two seats at the back — one for Mrs Peaslake and Georg and the other for Mr Peaslake.

  Georg gazed out more intently now. This was the country where he had to live: strange untidy country, its fields too big, not rectangular enough. The cows stood a long way away beside ponds that looked ragged and unkempt too. Even the trees didn’t have enough leaves. Their bark looked torn and tatty.

  Georg got the feeling that this was a land that didn’t care about people. The grass was brown and the green of the trees was faded. Every colour looked slightly wrong — even the too-rich blue of the sky.

  He glanced at Mr Peaslake, hoping he wouldn’t break into poetry again. It would be embarrassing with others in the bus.

  But he didn’t.

  The bus rounded the corner and suddenly he could see the sea, vivid and sparkling, the waves white-capped as they rose and fell onto a slip of beach.

  It was the first truly beautiful thing he had seen since Sydney Harbour. The bus trundled past a headland and they lost sight of it, then there was the ocean again, a glimpse, then gone. He craned his head to catch a final look.

  Mrs Peaslake touched his hand gently, then withdrew it when he jumped. ‘Like the beach, do you?’

  He’d never been to the beach. Never seen it except for the day the ship left Southampton. But an English boy would be expected to have gone to the beach, so he nodded. The memories of playing in the water at the lake’s edge shone through the dimness of the last year and a half.

  ‘Good swimmer?’

  ‘No. I can’t swim.’

  ‘Soon teach you. The beach is only ten minutes’ drive from our place, though we have to walk it now with petrol so scarce. Get the sea breeze at our place too. You’ll need a jumper if there’s a southerly.’

  Georg didn’t know what a southerly was, but he nodded anyway as the bus drew to a stop.

  He saw a dozen houses, brick or wooden bungalows with verandahs and not much garden, a small stone church, a single shop and two of the long untidy fields before a tiny wooden building painted dull yellow. It had a sign that said ‘Bellagong Public School’.

  Georg stared at it. It was so small! How could a real school be as little as that? His classroom back in Germany could have sat on it and hidden it completely.

  No proper playground, with swings or a slippery dip, just ground worn to dirt by many feet. There was a big tree — a normal tree, not an Australian tree — in the corner and three ponies peering over a wire fence.

  They didn’t ride horses at Australian schools, did they? He’d fall off!

  ‘School on Monday,’ said Mrs Peaslake, as the other passengers filed off the bus. The Peaslakes made no move to join them. ‘You’ve got the weekend to settle in.’

  Georg realised that he had no idea what day of the week it was. The only day that had been different on the ship was Sunday, when there were no lessons and a longer prayer service. He asked, cautiously.

  ‘It’s Friday,’ said Mrs Peaslake. She looked at the watch on a chain around her neck. ‘Four thirty. You’ll be perishing for your tea, I expect.’

  The bus jerked forwards again, around a corner past the houses, around two more corners and along barbed-wire fences, more brown and white cows looking up curiously as they passed. They pulled over, although there was no sign of a bus stop.

  Mr Peaslake lifted Georg’s suitcase and coat, then let Mrs Peaslake and Georg precede him down the aisle and out onto the roadside. ‘Thanks, Harry,’ he said to the driver.

  The bus pulled away, and turned back to what Georg supposed was big enough to call a town.

  He looked at what was going to be his home, for a while anyhow.

  He had hoped, somehow, that it might be like home — his real home — with its attic bedroom, its neat hedges, the quiet library of Papa’s books.

  This was big and messy.

  At first all he could see was garden: shaggy green bushes in a hedge along the front; a red-painted gate that opened to a path with garden beds on either side; and tangled yellow and red flowers.

  And then the house, two steps up to a wide verandah, with a sagging old sofa on it and a sprawl of windows on either side.

  He supposed the house was a bungalow, but even though it was only one storey it looked too rambling to be called that. It seemed to have grown, rather than been built. It didn’t fit into any category of ‘house’ he knew. Poor people lived in cottages or dirty rooms in tenements. Kings lived in castles. People like his family lived in neat two-storey houses or proper flats like Aunt Miriam. But this was much too big to be a peasant’s cottage.

  He had only just taken it in when there was a flurry of woofing. Two dogs bounded off the sofa down to the gate, jumping and grinning, their tails wagging in delight. They were big, brown and shaggy with long black noses.

  Georg stepped back warily. The dogs he had known before were small ones who trotted neatly beside their owners. These looked like wolves. Australia had wild dogs, didn’t it?

  ‘Are … are they dingoes?’

  Mrs Peaslake laughed. ‘Bless the boy, no. Down, Samson! Delilah, behave yourself. I said down, girl! Down! This is George. George, put your hand out, so they can sniff it. That’s right. You can pat them if you like.’

  ‘Down!’ roared Mr Peaslake. The two dogs reluctantly lowered their tails onto the path. Georg offered a hand cautiously.

  The dogs stood to sniff his hand, quieter now, though their tails still wagged like they were practising semaphore. They weren’t quite as big as he had thought. Their bouncing had made them seem larger.

  He reached out carefully and patted one on the top of its head. Its fur felt like Tante Gudrun’s velvet cushions. The dog sat again, staring up at him adoringly.

  ‘Now if you give her a biscuit she’ll be your friend for life. Come on. Both of you,’ said Mrs P
easlake. ‘You must be starving for your tea.’

  Chapter 19

  BELLAGONG

  The front door opened to a wide corridor with a floor of wooden boards and a carpet runner. There were doors off either side. The house was at least as big as his back home, but curiously unfinished: no carved woodwork, no paintings on the walls.

  The dogs galloped past them, ears flying, into a room beyond.

  ‘Lounge room’s in there.’ Georg caught a glimpse of a room overstuffed with floral-covered chairs, flowered wallpaper and a fat sofa, with crocheted antimacassars on the back of every chair in every colour possible, and a tall, battered-looking piano, its top covered in framed photographs.

  ‘There’s the dining room, but we’ll eat in the kitchen tonight. That’s Mother’s sewing room. Don’t mind the mess. Kitchen here.’ Georg peered into a cramped room with a wooden table, most of its paint scrubbed off the top, a dresser with plates and cups, and a giant black stove, lace curtains and framed photos on the walls.

  The two dogs flung themselves down on a braided mat by the stove. Mr Peaslake led Georg down the corridor past a bookcase full of books with faded covers and opened a door. ‘This is your room. The bathroom’s the last room down the hall. Put it in just before the war. Got a bath and everything. Dunny’s down the backyard.’

  ‘Dunny?’

  ‘Toilet,’ boomed Mr Peaslake. He put the suitcase down as Georg followed him in.

  Georg bit his lip. Poor people had outside toilets. He had never used one.

  But this didn’t look like a poor person’s bedroom. It was big, with wooden blinds closed against the growing darkness, and a wood floor. There was a battered wardrobe and chest of drawers, a small desk with a chair, a bed with a woollen patchwork comforter and, on top of that, a kite, the biggest Georg had ever seen.

  ‘Is … is this your son’s room?’ He wondered if he’d be allowed to fly the kite.

  ‘No, Alan’s is opposite. Just as he left it,’ Mr Peaslake added, a bit too firmly. As though while the room remained safe Alan Peaslake would be safe too. ‘No, this is yours.’

  ‘The kite too?’ asked Georg cautiously. He’d seen kids playing with kites, but never tried flying them himself.

  ‘Made it for you myself when we heard you’d be coming. Don’t suppose you like kites?’ The loud voice was hopeful again.

  ‘I’ve never flown one. I’ve always wanted to though.’

  Mr Peaslake’s wrinkles danced as he grinned. ‘Used to fly kites every Saturday afternoon with Alan, up on the cliffs in the sea wind. I made him a Chinese dragon kite for his birthday once. Got box kites in the shed as well as regular. We had a club when I worked up in Sydney. Used to make all kinds …’

  His voice trailed off. Perhaps he realised that Georg needed time alone.

  ‘You unpack,’ he said. ‘Tea’ll be ready when you are.’

  Georg tried to work out what the phrase meant. Was ‘ready when you are’ Australian, or an English term he hadn’t learned? At least here the Australians might think any mistakes he made came from being English.

  He opened the wardrobe and put his clothes away tidily, leaving his pyjamas out on the bed, then went down the corridor, following the sound of the voices to the kitchen.

  ‘… funny little thing,’ he heard the too-loud voice say. ‘Looks too scared to say boo to a goose.’

  ‘Terrible time for a child in London now,’ said Mrs Peaslake. ‘Good thing he’s out of it, at least.’ She looked up as Georg came in. ‘Here, have the seat by the stove.’

  The room smelled of cake and what he supposed was dog and of course of wood smoke too.

  Only servants ate in kitchens, but this kitchen looked like it was the most lived-in room in the house. Somehow it had changed with Mrs Peaslake in it. A white cloth with flowers embroidered at each edge covered the table. The silverware gleamed. Willow pattern plates stood on the bench by the stove. There were pots already steaming on the stove even though they’d only just arrived, and a black-topped loaf of bread was already cut. Mrs Peaslake put a cream jar filled with pink flowers on the table in front of him as he sat down, then turned back to the stove and bench.

  Her hands flew, swift and efficient, mashing, stirring, ladling food out onto plates. Georg wouldn’t have been surprised to see her knitting as well as cooking. But the wool and needles lay beside what he supposed was her place at the table.

  It was warmer now, he supposed from the wood stove. Mrs Peaslake must have damped it down when they went up to Sydney to collect him, then added more wood to the firebox as soon as they’d come in. The smell of a burning wood stove was the first thing that had reminded him of home.

  He looked up at the photos on the dresser. There was one of a man in an army uniform: their son. ‘Is that Alan?’ he ventured.

  ‘Took that just before he joined up,’ said Mrs Peaslake. ‘Enlisted the day he left school. Didn’t even tell us he was going to, just came back proud as punch. He’s a full lieutenant now.’

  ‘You told me.’ He glanced at Mrs Peaslake. There was more than pride in her voice, her face. Is my face like that when I think of Mutti and Papa? he wondered. Is there always a hint of fear behind my eyes?

  Mrs Peaslake put a plate in front of Georg. ‘I hope you like chops. We get our lamb straight from next door.’

  Georg had a vision of tiny lambs marching up to the Peaslakes’ back steps. The thought made him feel slightly sick. He thrust the image away and looked at his plate. Three chops, a pile of peas, mashed potatoes all buttery, boiled carrots.

  The hunger returned: hunger he hadn’t even known he’d lost.

  Samson and Delilah leaped to their feet as the food was put on the table, tails wagging, slight slobber on their lips. Delilah nudged Georg’s leg with her nose.

  ‘Down!’ roared Mr Peaslake.

  The dogs took no notice. Georg tried to imagine dogs at the table in any of the neat homes he’d known in Germany, or Aunt Miriam’s flat. He couldn’t.

  ‘There’s apple crumble for pudding,’ said Mrs Peaslake.

  ‘You like apple crumble, don’t you, George?’ asked Mr Peaslake.

  He looked so eager that even though Georg had never eaten apple crumble (although he thought he might have seen it on menus in London cafés), he said yes.

  He ate what he could. It was all good, with sort of bright flavours — the food on the ship had all tasted the same — but he was too tired to eat the giant portions on the plate. Samson and Delilah stared at him, their expressions saying, ‘We are good dogs and so we won’t grab the chops from your plate but when you are finished we’ll gobble what’s left.’

  ‘Look at the lad. He’s half asleep. Come on, George, I’ll run you a bath while you finish up your crumble.’

  The bath was big and deep. The only baths on the ship had been tin tubs filled with salt water that left your skin dry and itchy. There had been no time for baths during the air raids and hot water had been in too-short supply to have a deep bath anyway the last year.

  He lay in the hot water till it cooled, then listened to it gurgle down the plughole. He hesitated.

  He needed the toilet, the — what had Mr Peaslake called it? — the dunny. But it was in the backyard. It looked dark and strange out the window and he had no idea if a dunny was like the toilets he had known.

  At last he urinated down the plughole, running the water over and over and hoping the Peaslakes wouldn’t guess what he had done, then wrapped himself in the towel. Mrs Peaslake passed his pyjamas to him as he padded past the kitchen door. ‘Just stuck them in the oven for a minute. That’s the beauty of a wood stove.’

  They felt wonderfully warm. He slipped between the thin cotton sheets and then discovered a hot water bottle in a woollen cover in his bed.

  Mr Peaslake stuck his head in the door, the dogs at his heels.

  ‘Ready for your poem?’ The booming voice didn’t sound as loud here as it had in Sydney, as though the fields outside absorbed it.
r />   He wasn’t sure anything else would fit in his brain today. But he nodded.

  Mr Peaslake sat on the bed, his weight making the mattress sink. ‘This one’s called The Man from Snowy River, by a bloke called Paterson. It’s a good ’un. Alan always loved it.’

  ‘There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around

  That the colt from Old Regret had got away …’

  It was a good poem, and a long one, about an Australian boy who managed to round up wild horses when the adults failed. A poem that told a story, just like the last one.

  Somehow the poem made him feel better. It wasn’t like Papa telling him good night. But it was as though his brain had been given a signal: you can rest. In a funny way the poem had made him feel he really was in Australia too.

  ‘Good night, laddie.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Peaslake.’ He tried to speak loudly but without shouting. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ boomed Mr Peaslake. ‘We’ve all got to do our bit against the enemy.’ He grinned. ‘You’re one of the best bits.’

  Mrs Peaslake appeared behind him, a book in her hand. ‘Thought you might like to read this before you drop off. It’s about a kookaburra called Jackie. You’ll hear them laughing in the morning.’

  ‘Kookaburra?’ He stumbled over the word.

  ‘They’re birds. Laughing Jackasses they’re called too. You’ll know them when you hear them.’ She hesitated, then dropped a kiss on his forehead. ‘We’re so glad you’re here, George. Turn the lamp off when you’re ready to sleep.’

  ‘And don’t you worry, lad,’ said Mr Peaslake. ‘You’re safe here. And we’ll have the Jerries on the run soon. You’ll see.’

  Mrs Peaslake turned off the overhead light and shut the door as she went out. He heard the dogs’ toenails click along the hall behind them.

  He picked up the book and looked at it. Not too young for him and just the type of book he wanted to read too. A book about an Australian bird.

  He lay back on the pillow. It was all a boy called George could ever want: the kind people, the big dogs.