Palace of Tears

by Julian Leatherdale

  The sky begins to darken to a velvet blue as the storm clouds roll away to the east, propelled by a wind that drives the heat off the cliff tops. Monika sits on the front step of her new bush home.

  She watches the line of fire from the next valley snake up the far ridge. Its fiery glow lights up the patch of sky above the ridge and she can smell the smoke. She prays that the fire will not descend into this valley overnight and race up the steep gully beneath her while she sleeps. Hunger whines in her belly but, thankfully, fatigue dulls the pain. It has been the strangest day of her short life.

  The night is still except for the creaking of frogs. She turns her weary gaze to the sky. She sighs and her soul is unburdened for a moment at the sight of the Milky Way making its steady progress over the horizon, a river of incandescent white with its countless shining droplets of stars. I must tell Mama and Papa about this, she murmurs before nodding off to sleep.

  ‘So, I think you know what this is,’ said Mrs Richards from Child Welfare. Monika was well acquainted with this plump, cheery woman with her Brillo steel-wool hair, large cotton print dresses and cardigans with pearl buttons. She made herself comfortable at the formica table. Monika heard the cushion of the chair exhale and its hollow, chrome legs creak under Mrs Richard’s ampleness.

  That morning, Sister Kate had helped Monika into her blouse and skirt and escorted her downstairs for her interview. Every night, just before they turned the lights out, it was Sister Kate who gave her an injection. It had been three days since they took her baby away and she had drifted on a becalmed sea, fogbound and silent.

  Now the day of truth had arrived.

  Monika sat down opposite the almoner and Mrs Richards put a one-page form on the table between them. She turned it around so Monika could read the printed text. Mrs Richards had a pleasant, singsong voice that made everything sound simple and straightforward.

  ‘Now, as I have explained to you, this is the consent form. As a Justice of the Peace, I am empowered to witness the fact that you have signed this form, fully informed of what your signature on this document means. This form is the basis for an adoption order by which a court will transfer all parental rights from you, the birth mother, to your child’s adoptive parents. The adoption order means you are no longer your child’s legal guardian and will be totally and permanently deprived of all parental rights. In the interest of the child’s welfare, you will have no contact for the rest of its adult life. Do you understand?’

  Mrs Richards had gone over all these details before, explaining how Monika’s decision, while painful and difficult of course, was an act of ‘true love’ and self-sacrifice, ‘ensuring a better life for your baby than you could ever provide’.

  Monika folded her arms across her chest. ‘I want to see my baby,’ she said, ‘before I can decide.’

  Mrs Richards sighed. This was a not-uncommon bump in the road. Tedious but able to be negotiated with her usual professional patience and care. ‘I think that is a very bad idea. It will only make things much harder for you, my dear.’

  ‘Why has nobody let me see her? I just don’t understand.’

  Monika began to feel agitated. She turned her back on the almoner and squared her shoulders. Mrs Richards coughed. She went to the door, opened it and called down the corridor in her loud, cheery voice. ‘Sister Kate! Are you there?’

  The sister came running. Squeak-squeak-squeak.

  The almoner resumed her seat. ‘There, there, dear,’ said Mrs Richards, patting Monika on the arm. ‘I understand exactly how you feel.’ She turned to the sister. ‘Miss Fox is quite naturally upset. Can we give her something to help her calm down a bit?’

  ‘Of course.’ The nurse smiled and hurried out.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Monika,’ said Mrs Richards. ‘I’m prepared to bend the rules. But you have to agree to what I ask. This is for your own sake, you understand? If you sign the adoption papers today, then I will make sure you can see your baby.’

  ‘I – I don’t know. I want more time to think about it,’ said Monika, standing up and then sitting down again. She was confused, angry, lost.

  Sister Kate returned with a paper cup of water and a pill held in her open palm.

  ‘I don’t even know if she’s a girl or a boy,’ mumbled Monika, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I want to see Rosie.’

  The sister winced at the use of a name but Mrs Richards gave her a warning look. ‘Of course you do, poor child,’ crooned the almoner. ‘Here, take this. It will make you feel better. We can work this out. Sit down.’

  Mrs Richards handed her the water and pill and Monika swallowed it automatically with one quick gulp. She sat down again.

  ‘It’s natural for you to want to see your baby. But, for your own sake, you must be clear about your decision before you do so. Otherwise, it will just make the whole situation much, much harder on you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Monika blinked and nodded. She looked at the form again.

  ‘It’s for the best,’ prompted Mrs Richards, stroking her client’s arm. ‘I promise you.’

  ‘Where do I sign?’ muttered Monika, the taste of salt in her mouth.

  ‘Here.’ Mrs Richards handed her the biro.

  Monika H. Fox. It was done.

  She felt tired now, very tired. ‘Time for some rest,’ soothed Sister Kate. ‘You’ve had a big day.’

  The dream fast-forwards to the next morning. The sun comes up early. Monika is sitting in the cool of her brick hut watching the stars wink out as the sky grows light. She is so hungry that all she can think about is food but she knows she cannot roam too far on her swollen ankle. She’ll just have to sit out the heat of the middle of the day inside her hut. The air is filled with the acrid tang of bushfire smoke and the sky over the valley is white with its haze. But the fire hasn’t come any closer overnight. Maybe the wind has changed direction. Maybe the clouds will come back and drop their rain. Maybe someone will find her before the fire does. Maybe she won’t die today.

  She makes slow painful progress back up the track to drink her fill at the creek. She soaks her socks and her dress in the water and sucks on them back at her hut. Perspiration seeps from her temples. The heat is already oppressive with the sun still low in the sky. On the way back, she picks what she hopes are some purple geebung berries. She peels them the way Uncle Mel showed her and sucks out the sugary pulp. She hopes her memory is good and she hasn’t just poisoned herself. She wishes she’d learned some more blackfella bushcraft. She is like every other white person in the mountains – still a stranger in a strange country after all these years.

  She will be dizzy with hunger again in an hour or so and, if she has the strength and can bear the pain, she’ll creep back to the creek for another drink in the evening. As the sun reaches its zenith, she sits in her hut. She sings out loud. To keep her spirits up. To alert any searchers. To remind herself she is still alive.

  The songs she sings are from her parents’ record collection. Bing Crosby, Al Bowlly, Rudy Vallée, Cliff Edwards. ‘Singing a Song to the Stars.’ ‘It’s Only a Paper Moon.’ ‘I Love to See the Evenin’ Sun Go Down.’ She thinks about her father and mother all dressed up for one of their fancy parties at the Palace. She is resigned to the fact she is not as beautiful as her mother and sister, but she does have some of her parents’ smarts. She knows, even at the tender age of almost eight, that she is destined to be someone. Her father sometimes picks her up and swings her into the air in his strong arms, exclaiming, One day everyone’s gonna know all about Monika Fox!

  She looks up at the sickly feverish sky that pulses with the hypnotic beat of a thousand cicadas and the unremitting glare of the sun through white smoke. The odds of her survival do not feel good today. ‘If you let me live,’ she shouts to this cruel sky, ‘I promise to make my life extraordinary!’

  Monika was woken in the middle of the night by a tap on her shoulder. It was Sister Kate, holding an index finger to her lips to signal the nee
d for secrecy. She beckoned to her with the same finger. Monika had been dreaming about the bush, the fire and the stars, when she was lost as a little girl. She was still groggy from the drugs and unsteady on her feet as she slid out of bed. The sister put one arm around her waist and the other under her left arm to support her.

  ‘Be very quiet,’ the sister hissed in her ear. They moved along the corridor of the hostel as slowly as possible so as not to squeak on the linoleum. The lights were all out in the other dormitories and the black-and-white-checked floor was dimly illuminated by a pool of light at the far end of the corridor.

  ‘If anyone asks where we’re going, you need to use the toilet, alright?’ whispered Sister Kate.

  When they reached the bottom of the flight of stairs to the second storey, Monika realised something strange was going on.

  ‘Up here,’ said the sister, and they began to climb.

  The nursery was in near total darkness. The room fluttered with the delicate rhythm of sleeping infants, a soft cyclic hum of breathing. Sister Kate tugged Monika gently along the row of cribs. Monika could feel the young woman, not much older than herself, shaking like a leaf. If she was discovered breaking the rules like this, she would probably be expelled from the hostel.

  ‘Mrs Richards is a liar. She is sending your baby away tomorrow,’ murmured the sister. ‘Here she is.’

  They stopped at the third crib from the end. Sister Kate took a torch out from her pocket and shone it off to one side so only the pale edge of its circle of light fell on the sleeping child in the crib. Monika looked down.

  The baby was swaddled tightly but she could see her face clearly. A head of charcoal-black hair, a chubby pink oval, flickering eyelids as translucent as petals, a broad nose, dimpled chin and surprisingly large mouth. Monika’s heart ached at the sight of this perfect fusion of her and Brün.

  ‘Have they given her a name yet?’

  ‘Peggy,’ said the sister, checking the chart at the end of the bed. The torch went out. ‘We have to go. I’m sorry.’

  Was it better or worse that she had seen her daughter? That she knew what she looked like and what her name was? Was it kinder or crueller this way? As Monika walked back through the darkened nursery, she could not possibly say.

  As the sun begins to slide down the western slope of the sky on Monika’s second day in the bush, she hobbles slowly along the cliffline away from her hut. It takes her hours and she has to grit her teeth against the throbbing pain in her ankle. It is this sprain, she realises, that will be the death of her as she will never be able to walk out of this bush, even if she can find her bearings.

  Having drunk her fill, she crosses the creek again and makes her way back up the rise to the ridgeline to see if she can spot any movement of people in the distance. She prays that search parties are out today looking for her. She has kept an ear open for any shouts or whistles bouncing off the cliffs. Apart from the rise and fall of the cicada song and the squeals of parrots, she has heard nothing.

  In the distance she sees a rocky knoll and heads in its direction. Every five minutes or so she stops and cups her mouth for a loud ‘coo-ee’. The view is breathtaking: a sparkling sea of gums in the molten afternoon light as far as the eye can see. In front of her, there is a steep descent to a pillar that stands alone, split off from the main plateau. Several skinny gums grow there, looking forlorn, as if aware of their pathetic isolation on this narrow island of rock. Thor’s Head it is called on the map, though Monika doesn’t know this. Even so, she feels drawn by its sublime beauty. She imagines scaling to the top to stand, arms outspread in the dying light of sunset, screaming her name into the valley. A final shout of defiance. ‘Monika!’

  If nobody finds her today or tomorrow, she will surely die. A handful of berries and creek water don’t fill her belly for long and she can feel herself growing weak. Her ankle is the size of a cricket ball. The drum of cicadas bores through her skull like a drill. Her head is splitting and the skin on her face and arms, blistered and red from sunburn, pulses waves of heat.

  She knows she is in deep trouble when her vision begins to blur. All she can think about is lying on the ground and not moving anymore. Even the idea of ants crawling over her inert body is not enough to dissuade her from curling up in a ball on the sand and stones and clutching her temples to still the incessant buzzing inside her head. Maybe if she lies still long enough, the pain will go away.

  And then she hears a faint cry, off to the right. ‘Coo-ee!’

  She shakes her head in disbelief. The cry comes again, but fainter this time. Moving away. Dear God! She must not let them escape. She will never catch up with her busted ankle. This is her last chance.

  She stumbles to her feet, dizzy, unsteady, wincing in pain. She is determined not to die. Not today. She cups her mouth and hopes her voice has not withered in her parched throat. She replies as loudly as she can. ‘Coo-ee!’

  The cries ricochet back and forth, overlapping as the other caller gets closer, Monika’s growing hoarser and more desperate. ‘Over here! Over here!’ shouts a male voice and Monika hears boots crashing through the scrub close by.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, casting her eyes to the sky, as a man in a dark-blue uniform appears in front of her. Now, at last, she allows herself to cry. She has been given a second chance. To make an extraordinary life.

  When Monika woke the following morning, she sensed a familiar presence on the other side of the cotton curtains. Sister Kate, who was about to finish her night shift, yanked them aside to reveal Laura sitting in a blue chair, her hat in her lap. She looked pale and fragile but calm. She smiled nervously at her daughter.

  ‘Are you alright, my sweet? I have missed you so much.’

  ‘Oh, Mama,’ cried Monika. ‘They’re taking my baby away.’

  Laura scooped up her daughter in her arms. She hugged her tight to comfort her like she used to when she was small and frightened from a terrible nightmare.

  ‘Then we must stop them,’ her mother said. ‘If that’s what you want.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible, Mrs Fox,’ said a loud voice behind them. It was Mrs Richards. ‘Monika has given her consent and the adoption order has been issued. The child has already been collected by its adoptive parents.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ shouted Monika, before realising that she could not possibly know this. Sister Kate’s face drained white and she looked at Monika in terror.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar, Miss Fox?’ said Mrs Richards, her habitual cheeriness now replaced by a crescendo of anger.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Monika almost choked on the words. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Just as well. Official visiting hours are not until midday,’ said Mrs Richards, glaring at Laura. ‘But as you’re here now, you can take your daughter home. The Department of Child Welfare has no more business with her.’ The almoner walked off briskly, her face still burning red with indignation.

  ‘Your father doesn’t know I’m here,’ explained Laura as she helped Monika to dress. ‘But I couldn’t leave you alone any longer. I’m sorry, my love.’

  Laura kissed her brave daughter on the cheek. She helped pack Monika’s suitcase and together they walked out of the brown-brick building where, upstairs in the nursery, baby Peggy still lay sleeping.

  CHAPTER 30

  * * *

  Lisa

  Katoomba, June 2013

  Lisa sat at the coffee table with an empty wine glass. Her mother’s manuscript and the photo of Brün lay in front of her. It was late and she had begun to drift off to sleep when the phone rang. Could it be Luke, leaving his meeting at the Palace?

  ‘I hope I didn’t wake you. I checked the time zones so it wouldn’t be too late.’ She didn’t recognise the caller at first. A young male voice with soft, round vowels rolled between precise consonants. A German accent. Her mind stirred. Ulrich.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. Nice to hear from you. I got your email. How are you, Ulrich?’

/>   ‘Please. All my friends call me Ulli.’

  Ulli was ringing to confirm that he was due to arrive in Sydney on Friday morning. He had reserved a room at the Carrington Hotel for three days. It was just as well as the entire town of Katoomba was booked solid for the Winter Magic Festival that weekend. ‘I should arrive late afternoon. Can we meet at the hotel?’

  ‘Sure, no problem. We can have a look at the festival, if you like, and then have dinner. I was thinking of inviting my friend Luke – he’s the historian I mentioned. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. That will be great, Lisa. Thank you. I am looking forward to it. And to meeting Monika, too. See you soon.’

  Lisa climbed into bed. She propped the photo of Brün against the stack of books on her bedside table and stared at it, wondering at the coincidence that this photo and a story dedicated to her mother’s secret lover turned up the same week a young man arrives from Germany, claiming a connection with her family. Lisa’s eyes closed and she tumbled into a night of long strange dreams.

  It is summertime at the Palace. Everyone is here. Monika and Lottie are down on the terrace with their rifles, shooting gramophone records. Adam is in the empty casino, dressed in an evening gown and floral hat, dancing with Laura, both lost in each other’s eyes. Wrapped in a white robe, Adelina lies on her deckchair outside the spa, reading a psychic magazine. Freya is in her garden, painting in the shade. Freddie and his boys haul large blocks of ice that sweat in the blazing sun. There is a marquee on the lawn and musicians. A party.

  ‘Where are all the guests?’ Lisa asks Uncle Alan, who brings her a big bowl of ice-cream and jelly. It is her sixth birthday and he has invited her to the Palace for a treat. Her brother, Tom, will not be coming today, nor her father, Michael. As usual. And then she sees something odd in the distance. Four children standing on the track leading down to Sensation Point. Two boys and two girls. There is a forlorn air about this group, a sense they have been deliberately excluded from the celebrations.