Palace of Tears

by Julian Leatherdale

  The closest person Angie had ever had to a brother was Robbie. And now she loved Oskar with a fierce tenderness. When she thought about how helpless she would feel in this woman’s place, there came into her heart an unfamiliar feeling: compassion.

  She looked around at the soldiers on the platform. None of these feelings or insights relieved her anxiety or reduced the danger of her situation. The freckle-faced soldier also looked over his shoulder at the crowd of men who were growing restive.

  ‘Need any help, madam?’ a corporal demanded in a voice steely with suspicion. Angie saw hope rekindle in the woman’s eyes.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Angie whispered urgently, grabbing Freya’s arm. She knew her mother would want to make a scene, call the police, have the woman arrested. Mercifully, however, she seemed frozen, paralysed.

  ‘I really think you should leave – now,’ the young soldier implored.

  Angie seized her mother’s hand and hissed at her, ‘Come on!’

  The note of alarm in her daughter’s voice woke Freya from her trance. Without looking back, mother and daughter mounted the stairs from the train station to the footbridge and walked quickly home.

  CHAPTER 13

  * * *

  Lisa

  Katoomba, May 2013

  It was so cold, you could taste it in the air. Everyone talked confidently of snow. Lisa had spent the morning at the Ritz again: another round of Scrabble, her mother triumphant, celebrating with chocolates.

  Lisa met Luke for coffee in Katoomba that afternoon. He had texted her the night before asking if she had time for a quick catch-up. He had something he wanted to show her, he said, and it would be more interesting in person.

  They were gradually becoming friends, and had even shared a little personal history. Luke had grown up in the mountains, the only son of a local high school teacher and a council officer, both born overseas in Cyprus. Luke truly loved the Blue Mountains and had taken an interest in its history at Winmalee High and then as an undergraduate at UWS, joining the Blackheath Historical Society when he was only twenty-four. He was now in his mid-thirties, and was finishing his PhD at the University of Western Sydney. One of his supervisors had made introductions to the right people for this job as official historian with the Palace redevelopment.

  ‘How’s the diary going?’ he asked over their first cappuccino. They were both wrapped in heavy winter coats and scarves which they unfurled as the fug of the crowded cafe warmed their hands and faces.

  She knew how much he wanted access to her mother’s diaries and did not resent his persistence. Even though Monika had given Lisa power of attorney over her property at the insistence of her doctors and solicitor, Lisa was still struggling with the ethical dilemma of giving Luke carte blanche – especially on days when Monika seemed so present and mentally sharp.

  She was just beginning to realise, too, what the digging-up of family secrets would actually mean for her. She would be forced to confront her own past: her childhood, her parents’ failed marriage, her loneliness. Would she ever feel able to hand over the diaries and expose her own pain to the world?

  She studied the earnest, olive-skinned face of the man opposite as he tapped away on the keyboard of his laptop. She had made a commitment to unpeel this history without fear and wondered what had changed. Did she feel she would somehow be exposed if this journey of discovery brought up terrible, shameful secrets? Was it because, little by little, she’d begun to care about Luke’s opinion of her? She realised that she had slipped into the silence of her own thoughts. Luke was looking at her curiously.

  ‘Have you talked to your mother about any of this yet?’

  ‘No, not yet. Although . . .’ She decided to share one little secret. ‘I did something a bit sneaky this morning. I thought it was alright to test Monika’s memory. She was having a good day, seemed clearer, stronger, if you know what I mean. We played Scrabble and she beat me as usual. As I was packing up I put down some tiles just to see how she would react.’

  Luke smiled. ‘Interesting idea. And?’

  ‘I spelled out SPATZI, the name of the girl who had visited in 1936 – Laura’s friend from Germany.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. What happened?’

  ‘She went very quiet, distant, as if I was no longer there. I assumed she was trying to recall a memory. And then it came. A look of such terrible sadness. I felt so bad. But I thought I should seize the chance. “What is it, Mum?” I said. “What do you remember?”

  ‘And she said, “It wasn’t her fault.” And then she began to cry. Just a few tears. So I tried again. I felt like a torturer. “Who? Laura?” But she just shook her head and said, “It wasn’t her fault. Not at all.” Then she shut down. I felt as if I had spoiled our nice morning together. And for what? More mysteries.’ Lisa sighed.

  Luke fumbled with his cup awkwardly. She could tell he wanted to say something comforting or reassuring but didn’t feel it was appropriate. ‘Maybe Ulrich will be able to shed some light on this Spatzi. Has he been in touch again?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lisa welcomed the change of tack. ‘He’s very excited about meeting up and seeing the hotel. He’s making his travel plans right now. Apparently he’s a keen rock climber and is hoping to do some climbing while he’s here. Sounds an interesting guy.’

  Luke smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Well, I have something to show you I hope you find interesting. I followed up some details from the housekeeper’s letters – about Angie’s father, Frederick. Remember how Mrs Wells said he was interned at the German Concentration Camp at Holsworthy?’ He pulled out an ever-fattening sheaf of clippings and photocopies. ‘Well, the files on Holsworthy internment camp are not extensive but there are some interesting items in the archive. Including this.’

  He extracted a photocopy from the file. ‘A letter dated May 1919, six months after the end of the war. It’s from a group of internees at Holsworthy to the Minister of Defence complaining about the conditions of their internment and demanding some justice. And you’ll see at the bottom of the letter the signatories include a Mr Frederick Octavius Wood of Meadow Springs, New South Wales.’

  He handed her the letter and she read with growing horror about the conditions under which these so-called ‘enemy aliens’ – most of whom were actually Australian-born or naturalised citizens – were held.

  ‘We regret to inform the Minister that the barracks in which we are forced to exist are inferior to the housing usually provided for domestic cattle.’ The letter described cramped, primitive huts with no proper bedding or furniture, open to rain and wind in winter, over-run with vermin and choked with dust in summer. The internees complained of woefully inadequate food and medical care, the provision of only forty-two cold showers for six thousand men, the torment by bored, vengeful guards who bayonet pricked them or fired shots into the camp at random.

  All this and the mental strain of ‘Barbed Wire Disease’ these men endured with remarkable resilience, organising their own communal life with bakeries and butchers, cafes and restaurants, sporting and cultural clubs, even a theatre. But what chafed most of all was the injustice of their confinement. She read:

  That we unfortunate citizens should be interned for no other reason than that we happen to be of German descent or have German names seems inconceivable in an advanced democracy like Australia. It is to be wondered if all Australians who are descended from other than purely English ancestry are liable for such treatment in any future war.

  When Lisa had finished, she sat there mute, one hand cupped to her mouth.

  Luke looked up. ‘Quite a letter, eh? You have to wonder how many Australians have any idea this went on. Locking people up with no formal charges.’

  Lisa shook her head. ‘I’m shocked.’

  ‘There were camps in every state – and three in New South Wales – holding nearly seven thousand internees all up. Four and a half thousand of these were resident in Australia before the war started. It’s strange that Holsworthy, where the majori
ty of these Australian citizens were sent, was by far the harshest.’

  ‘Did the government do anything to improve their conditions after this letter? Was there an inquiry after the war, at least?’

  ‘No, it appears not,’ said Luke. ‘In fact, things got much worse.’

  ‘Worse? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when the war ended, it made sense that enemy subjects such as German naval crews and Germans sent from other colonies be sent home. But the public mood against what were now called “ex-enemy aliens” – Australian-born and naturalised German-Australians – remained hostile. These men were not going to be allowed to go back to their normal lives before the war. Far from it. Instead, there was a huge orchestrated campaign pressuring the government to have all internees deported.’

  ‘Deported?’ Lisa was stunned, confused, ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Put on ships and sent to Germany,’ Luke said, his face flushing with anger. ‘I know, it’s hard to believe. But the government did just that. They adopted a policy of compulsory deportation for all internees. And their families, too, unless their wives were British subjects before their marriage or their children were born here. Then they could choose whether to go with their husbands or stay behind.’

  It appeared to Lisa that Luke’s normal enthusiasm for the detective work of history had changed into something else: a deeply felt indignation at this forgotten crime.

  ‘There was an appeals tribunal but it was a farce. Out of more than a thousand appeals only three hundred and six were upheld. The whole policy was cruel and punitive. In all, over six thousand internees and their families were sent to Germany. Many of them did not speak a word of German and had no connections there, and most of them had never set foot outside Australia. Mind you, given the hostility and uncertain future they faced in Australia, Germany might have looked like a better choice at the time. But it’s still a shameful chapter in our history. Some have even called it an ethnic purge.’

  Lisa felt tears sting her eyes. Why did this move her so? How was she connected to this story? She didn’t really know, despite her conviction that the fate of Angie, the girl from the cottage, was in some way intimately bound up with that of her grandmother and mother.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lisa, I didn’t mean to . . .’

  Luke grabbed her left hand, still holding the letter on the table between them, and patted it. Then, seeming to realise what he had done, he quickly withdrew his hand and began to type again on his laptop.

  Lisa couldn’t decide if it was better to ignore what had just happened or acknowledge it. She was about to say something when he asked her a question instead.

  ‘Do you want to see him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Angie’s father. Freddie Wood.’

  She nodded. He turned his laptop around and she saw a black-and-white photo on the screen. It showed a man in his early fifties, his face lined but impassive, trying not to give away any emotion to the official photographer. On closer examination, a crease in his broad forehead just above his tired, deep-set eyes betrayed the ghost of a scowl. In the bottom third of the photo was a piece of white card with the numbers 5538 printed on it, which he held in his hand.

  ‘He looks – how can I put it? – wounded,’ said Lisa, feeling strangely calm as she contemplated the photo. It was as if, at last, there was something tangible, knowable about the mysterious Angie. ‘Do we know what happened to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luke, checking his notes. ‘He was deported on 3 June 1920 on the SS Maine bound for Bremen. I haven’t been able to find any further records of his whereabouts after that. I’d have to look into the German archives.’

  ‘And his family?’

  ‘I checked the shipping lists for that year,’ Luke said. ‘Two passengers, a Miss A. Wood and Mrs F. Wood, embarked three months later on the MV Koenig. Legally they could have stayed in Australia, but it appears they chose to go with Freddie.’

  Lisa exhaled. So that was it. The story of Angie and her fateful role in the Fox family drama. The answer to Monika’s singsong riddle: Whatever happened to Angie, poor Angie? Whatever happened to her? She had played her part and exited the stage to disappear into the chaos of a defeated Germany.

  Lisa felt a pang of sadness at saying goodbye to this mysterious girl. Part of her did not want to let her go so quickly and easily: a niggling doubt lingered in her mind that this was, in fact, the end. But she had no reason to doubt Luke’s findings. The historian had his head down, still checking his notes, possibly avoiding her gaze.

  ‘Luke?’

  He looked up again. Lisa smiled at him warmly and placed a hand over his.

  ‘Thank you.’

  CHAPTER 14

  * * *

  Angie

  Liverpool, November 1918–January 1920

  On the Monday that the war ended, the streets of Liverpool were filled with loud soldiers, cheering, laughing, howling with a kind of hysterical glee, many of them just off the trains from Sydney where jubilation reigned. The tension had been building for days.

  The newspapers had prematurely announced the signing of an armistice the previous Friday and Sydney came to a virtual standstill as thousands poured out of offices, shops and warehouses, yelling, waving flags, banging kerosene tins and blowing hooters. Armistice Day itself repeated these scenes of exultation as waves of people surged through the streets of every capital city and town and hamlet, an ocean of happy humanity, singing, whistling, shouting, hugging, dancing.

  On the Wednesday of that same week, a big crowd turned out on the streets of Liverpool to watch a parade led by the mayor, the commander of the training camps and the troops of the Light Horse battalions. The Liverpool civic band played martial airs, hymns and patriotic songs while banners were held aloft of famous Australian battle names and the single word: PEACE.

  Freya and Eveline had debated whether they should risk showing their faces. ‘You of all people have a right to be there,’ insisted Freya. ‘John laid down his life so this day would come.’ It was a persuasive argument. The only catch was that Eveline refused to attend without Freya and Angie. So in the end, all three women – with little toddler Greta riding on Angie’s back – joined the celebrations. Angie was reassured by the presence of so many police officers; surely they wouldn’t allow any trouble to spoil the jubilant mood. Surely the public appetite for revenge had been sated by the resounding military victory.

  Angie scanned the crowd, hoping to spot Astrid or Oskar. They had not seen each other for weeks as Oskar had to study for exams and Astrid was trying to catch up on lessons with her newly repaired violin. Angie missed them both.

  Amid the whooping mass of people, she saw a wounded soldier standing silently at the roadside. He was surrounded by a knot of his mates, all shouting. Noticeable for his crutches and the trouser leg pinned to where his left leg had been amputated at the knee, the soldier was also conspicuous for another reason: the expressionless mask of his face, a startling blank among all these cheering men.

  When she had heard the news of the armistice, Angie’s heart had soared at the prospect of a new life for her and her family, as if they would finally wake from a long nightmare. But now she wondered how many others there were like this lone soldier in the crowd, already staring into the vertiginous uncertainty of their future and contemplating what this war had cost them. She knew the war’s end would bring little comfort to her father and the other internees at Holsworthy for some time. A two-line report in the morning paper had stated that ‘no German internees would be released until the results of negotiations at the Paris Peace Conference are known’, and who knew how long that would take?

  Freya and Angie visited Freddie the following Sunday. They came bearing their care packages now almost as offerings to assuage their guilt that they were free while he still wasted away behind barbed wire.

  Angie hated to see how Freddie’s habitual calm and good cheer had deserted him as he was swallowed up by depression. It was
like watching a man drown slowly. He did his best to hide the fact his hands shook, but he could not hide the thinning of his hair and his weight loss, so he joked about them instead.

  ‘They called me grandad when they brought me here,’ he chuckled bitterly. ‘Looks like they were right after all.’

  Freya tried her best to be cheerful during their visits with Freddie. When he fell silent or became sullen, she would chide him gently, lowering her voice so the guards couldn’t hear. ‘Come on, Freddie, we’re not going to let these bastards win, are we? Hang on, my love. This will all be over soon.’ After every visit, however, Freya came away muttering, ‘We must get him out of there – before it’s too late.’

  Far from fading away, hatred against enemy aliens was reaching fever pitch. Freya read the endless letters to the papers and reports of resolutions at meetings of the British Medical Association and Returned Soldiers’ and Patriotic Citizens’ leagues. They all called for the mass deportation of internees, Australian-born or otherwise.

  The women of Rose Street refused to believe the government would seriously consider such a possibility. Even so, they wrote letters, pleading to be reunited with their husbands and resume their lives as good and loyal citizens who had never broken any laws. But then, out of the blue, a letter arrived from the Department of Defence. It informed every internee’s wife in New South Wales that deportation was indeed possible and that, if her husband was deported, she and their children would have to accompany him. That was unless she was a British subject before the marriage; then she had the right to remain in Australia as did any of her Australian-born children if they chose to do so. Those who were being ‘repatriated’ were allowed to take five cubic feet of luggage per person and no more than fifty pounds in cash.