Empire Day

by Diane Armstrong

  Hania stood there, not knowing what to say.

  ‘You seem troubled,’ he said.

  She took a deep breath. This was much harder than she’d expected. ‘I’m Jewish,’ she said.

  The door opened with a soft click and the priest came out. He stopped and looked at her so intently that she felt he could read her mind.

  ‘I’m Father Keegan,’ he said. ‘Would you like to come to the presbytery? We can sit down and talk without being disturbed, and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’

  A cement path lined with straggly petunias and wilting dahlias led from the church to the presbytery, a small brick building behind a weathered paling fence. Inside, a round-shouldered woman with a scarf tied over her grey hair sprang up from the couch where she’d been reading the parish newspaper and hurriedly grabbed her feather duster.

  ‘Could I trouble you to make us a cup of tea, Mrs O’Reilly?’ the priest asked. ‘With some biscuits, please.’

  As Hania sat down on the edge of a stuffed armchair, she noticed that the flowered material on the couch was threadbare in places, the sideboard had the corners chipped off and the armchairs didn’t match, as though the furniture had come from a second-hand shop.

  While they waited for the tea, Father Keegan kept chatting. ‘I’ve only been here at St Xavier’s for six months, and I’m still making terrible mistakes and getting myself into all kinds of trouble,’ he chuckled. ‘Only last Sunday I didn’t recognise Mrs Fennelly and called her Miss Doyle, which wasn’t very smart, seeing she had the five children with her!’

  He gave Hania a conspiratorial look. ‘New beginnings are hard, aren’t they?’

  As he told her about his problems, Hania began to relax. She sensed that beneath the light-hearted chatter, he was letting her know that he understood how she felt.

  Mrs O’Reilly’s heavy tread made the room vibrate, and a vase nearly fell off the sideboard as she came in with a tray and placed it on the small glass table. She filled their cups from the pot, which was covered by a tea cosy crocheted from multicoloured wool, and set down a flowered plate of Iced Vo-Vos, then left.

  As Hania sipped her tea, she studied Father Keegan. Unlike the old grey-haired priest she remembered from Poland, he was young and handsome, with brown hair parted on the side and regular features that reminded her of her favourite film star, Errol Flynn. But it was his boyish manner that surprised her the most.

  Biting into a biscuit, he said, ‘I can’t decide whether I like these or Anzacs the best. Which ones do you like?’ and soon they were chatting about their favourite biscuits.

  After they’d finished their tea, Father Keegan pushed away his cup and reached for a cigarette. He lit it, then sat forward and asked where she came from, and whether she was having a hard time at school on account of being foreign and speaking with an accent.

  ‘Is it hard to make friends here?’ he asked.

  She shook her head. Apart from turning around to stare at her each time her unpronounceable surname was read out at rollcall, and giggling at the funny way she pronounced some words, the other children were nice to her. Once a girl from another class had called her a ‘bloody reffo’ but Hania’s friends had told her off and she’d never said it again.

  He looked straight into her eyes. ‘So will you be telling me what’s on your mind now?’

  Hania twisted her handkerchief around her thumb several times before she spoke. ‘I want to become Christian,’ she blurted out.

  She thought he’d be shocked, but he simply nodded, as though it was the most natural thing in the world for a twelve-year-old Jewish girl who spoke with a Polish accent to come and see a priest about changing her religion.

  ‘Have you talked about this with your parents?’ he asked.

  She shook her head vehemently. ‘There’s only my mother, and she wouldn’t understand.’

  She didn’t tell him that if she had dared to mention such a thing, her mother would have become hysterical. She would have ranted about dead relatives, persecution, heritage, and probably Auschwitz as well.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to go on, so she added, ‘I can’t talk to her about anything.’

  ‘Mothers are sometimes like that, to be sure,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I always found it hard to talk to mine. I never thought she really listened, or tried to understand me.’

  He took a puff of his cigarette, closing his eyes as he inhaled. ‘I’m interested to know why you want to convert. Will you tell me?’

  Before she knew it she was telling him about the day her mother had appeared in her life like the witch in a fairytale and abducted her from the Catholic foster parents she loved. By the time she’d finished, she was crying.

  ‘I was so happy there,’ she sobbed. ‘For once I was like everyone else. Why did she have to take me away?’

  He reached out to take another cigarette from the pack on the table but seemed to change his mind. ‘Terrible habit,’ he murmured, and turned his attention back to her. ‘I can see why you were so upset when your mother turned up, but you weren’t really like everyone else, were you? You only thought you were.’ He paused while she blew her nose. ‘I suppose your mother didn’t want to lose you after all she’d been through. You were all she had left.’

  ‘If she really loved me she would have left me there,’ Hania said sullenly.

  They sat in silence for a while.

  ‘So is that why you want to become a Christian?’ he asked. ‘So you can be different from your mother, or so you can pay her back?’

  She stared at him for a moment before shaking her head, and a note of irritation crept into her voice. ‘I’m sick of being Jewish, that’s all. I hate being different. Wherever we are, I’m always different from everyone else. I’m always worried in case people say something bad about Jews, and I can’t do what the other kids do or have the same holidays as they do.’

  As she spoke, she suspected that she sounded childish, not like a mature person embarking on a major life change.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he was nodding again. ‘I understand what you mean. It’s certainly hard to be different. Take me for instance.’

  She looked up at him.

  ‘I’m different from most people. All my brothers and sisters are married and have children. That’s what my mother wanted for me as well, but here I am, sworn to remain single, married to the Church instead of a woman!’

  ‘But you chose that yourself,’ she argued. ‘I didn’t choose to be Jewish and I didn’t choose my mother.’

  ‘Well now, that’s a very interesting point you’ve raised,’ he said. ‘Do we choose our lives or do our lives choose us?’

  She frowned, and he changed the subject. ‘Tell me about your friends.’

  When she’d told him about Meggsie, he said, ‘I wonder how Meggsie feels about being different.’

  She was frowning again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t got a father and he can’t walk. I’d say that makes him different, wouldn’t you?’

  The conversation seemed to be spinning out of control and she looked at him helplessly. She hadn’t come here to discuss Meggsie, and she felt that irritation again. Father Keegan seemed to be challenging her.

  ‘What I’m saying is that Meggsie is even more different than you are,’ he said. ‘And if you look around, you’ll see that everyone is different in some way. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose life is very easy for your mother, either, being a foreigner in a new country and bringing you up on her own.’

  Hania didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I know this isn’t what you came to hear,’ he was saying, ‘but we’re not put on earth to be the same as everyone else, in religion, ability, looks or anything else. Our Lord was different too. He was a Jew.’

  ‘But he became a Christian!’ she cut in.

  Father Keegan shook his head. ‘No, He didn’t become a Christian. He remained true to His Jewish faith. His followers called themselves Christians.’ H
e rested his gaze on her. ‘We’re all different, but I believe we’re here on earth to make the most of our differences.’

  At the front door he put his arm around her shoulders and said, ‘It was very brave of you to come and see me. But what you’re considering is a very big step, and you should think it over very carefully. If you still want to go ahead, come and talk to me again. But I’d like you to think about it this way: a bird might decide to live in a stable, but that doesn’t make it a horse.’

  With a wry smile he added, ‘And I should be warning you that in Australia many people don’t like us Catholics any better than they like you Jews.’ Then in a more serious tone he said, ‘But if you still want to convert, come and see me again. Even if you decide you don’t, whenever you have anything on your mind, don’t hesitate to come, and I’ll make sure Mrs O’Reilly gets in some chocolate biscuits.’

  Hania walked home slowly, dragging her feet. The elation she’d felt when she arrived at her decision had evaporated, and she felt as though Father Keegan had thrown a bucket of iced water over her. For all his pretence at being sympathetic and understanding, she felt that he had talked down to her and had given her a lecture. She was disappointed and embarrassed, and his suggestion that she was doing this to get back at her mother lingered uncomfortably in her mind.

  Chapter 35

  For the first few weeks after Meggsie had returned home, everyone had rallied round to help. Neighbours brought bowls of junket, pots of Irish stew or trays of Anzac biscuits, and even Mrs Adamson, who lived in one of the posh houses in Barton Street, surprised Kath by sending over a passionfruit sponge which the boys devoured at one sitting. Then there was that nervous foreign woman from across the road who thrust a bowl into Kath’s hands and scurried away. Kath had no idea what this strange dish was, and supposed it was some continental speciality, but she was touched by the kindness of someone she knew only by sight.

  But as time went on, most of the visitors drifted away, and apart from Muriel Noble and Verna Browning, no one came to see them. Kath’s heart ached whenever she looked at Meggsie but she did her best to conceal her distress. If only there was some cure. She thought about the article she’d read about the bush nurse who had found a different way of treating polio. It was probably a long shot, but she decided to make some inquiries about the clinic that used her methods.

  Skimming through the telephone directory in the phone box, she found the number of the Royal North Shore Hospital. The receptionist said in a businesslike voice that she didn’t know anything about a Sister Kenny or her clinic, but when Kath explained about Meggsie, she sounded more sympathetic. She asked Kath to hold on and a few moments later she returned to the phone with the clinic’s direct number.

  Kath’s fingers trembled as she dialled. The nurse who answered the phone explained that this was an outpatients’ clinic, but she did know of a nurse who had been trained there and who, as far as she knew, visited people’s homes. She didn’t know her phone number or address, but if memory served her right, her name was Joan Gately.

  Gately wasn’t a common surname, and scanning the columns in the phone book, Kath found a J Gately listed in Kingsford. Nurse Gately had a brisk, matter-of-fact manner and came straight to the point. Yes, she did home visits; Bondi Junction was not out of her area, and she charged seven and sixpence per visit, plus bus fare. In an unsteady voice, Kath thanked her and walked slowly back home. How could she have been stupid enough to think that she’d be able to afford private treatment?

  As it was, she didn’t know how she’d manage when her meagre savings ran out. Now that the Christmas break was over, she planned to do the rounds of local pubs and shops to see if she could get a part-time job. If she couldn’t find anything, she supposed she’d have to swallow her pride and ask Gran for help.

  Worn out and dispirited, Kath stood waiting for the gas copper to boil. Monday was washing day, and she was throwing shavings of Sunlight soap over the sheets and towels in the laundry tub when the doorbell rang. Monday was also rent day, so it was sure to be the rent-collector. Giving the bubbling water a quick stir with the broomstick to dissolve the soap, she took her moneybox down from the dresser.

  It was one of the few souvenirs left over from her childhood, a music box that her father had given her when she was ten years old. The music had stopped playing long ago, and the ballerina in the pink tutu no longer turned on her pedestal. The tutu was encrusted with years of dust and grime, and the fretted metal edge of the box had become tarnished, but Kath couldn’t bring herself to part with it. It was one of the few treasures she had clung to on that terrible day they were thrown out of their home and stood shivering on the pavement beside their bundles and their bedding. If Gran hadn’t come to the rescue, her parents would have become vagrants and she would have ended up in a children’s home, and Gran never let them forget it.

  Kath counted out twenty-five shillings and opened the door, expecting to see the rent-collector with his tan leather bag slung around his shoulder. But it was Mr Emil from next door, looking down at his shoes and holding his funny little hat in his hands.

  ‘How is the boy?’ he asked Kath, turning the hat in his hands as he spoke.

  Kath shrugged. ‘Much the same, I’m afraid.’

  Emil didn’t move or speak, and to break the awkward silence, she looked down. ‘I see your shoe is still in one piece. So you still have your sole!’

  ‘My soul?’ he repeated.

  He stood there and, not knowing what to do with him, Kath asked him to come in. She hoped that he wouldn’t be long because she still had the washing to do.

  Emil followed Kath into the cramped kitchen and wondered how she managed to cook and feed her boys in here. Plates and bowls were stacked up in the sink and on a dresser whose cream paint was peeling off. A strip of sticky orange flypaper hung from the light globe. As he watched, a fly landed on it and buzzed as it tried to extricate itself.

  Waving her arm in the direction of the dirty dishes piled up in the small enamel sink, Kath said, ‘Excuse the mess. I haven’t had time to clear up after breakfast.’ There was a strong smell of laundry soap and bleach, and she jumped up. ‘Back in a minute,’ she said.

  Through the open door that led to the back of the house, he watched her pulling clothes from the copper and feeding them through the wringer. Ever since he’d seen the ambulance bringing Meggsie back home, he’d been thinking about the boy and his mother. Although he felt let down by her underhand behaviour in reporting him to the police, he still wondered how she was managing, and how the boy was getting on. But there was another reason why they were constantly in his thoughts, one he had tried for a long time to block from his mind: the boy was about twelve, the same age Heinz would have been.

  He waited until Kath came back into the kitchen, and while she was wiping her soapy hands on a tea towel he stammered, ‘Can I see the boy?’

  When Meggsie saw who it was, his stomach lurched and he felt sick. He knew why Mr Emil was here. Now it would all come out, how he’d sneaked out of the house that night to spy on him, and then written the anonymous note that had got him arrested. Mr Emil would tell him off, and his mum would be upset and angry. He closed his eyes. If Mr Emil thought he was asleep, maybe he’d go away.

  But when he peeped, he saw that Mr Emil was looking at him with a strange expression, as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there. Meggsie steeled himself for the scolding and waited, so Mr Emil’s question took him by surprise.

  ‘Is it maybe disappointing to be home again?’

  No one had asked him that before, and he had to think how to reply.

  ‘It’s real boring. I hate being in here when all the kids are running around outside, but I hate being out there as well because I can’t play with them.’ He swallowed. ‘They call me a cripple.’

  He stopped, not wanting to sound like a whinger, but Mr Emil didn’t contradict or say anything to cheer him up. He was nodding as if he understood.

  ‘Do
you sometimes dream that you can walk?’ he asked.

  Meggsie’s eyes lit up. This was something else no one had ever asked, something he’d longed to talk about, but the people who came to see him didn’t know what to say to him, and he didn’t think they’d want to hear things like that. They were either embarrassed or else they felt sorry for him and avoided the one subject that was always on his mind.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘They’re my best dreams. But then I wake up and it’s all bad again.’

  ‘And then you wish you could go back to sleep and keep having that wonderful dream,’ Mr Emil said.

  Meggsie nodded, wondering how come Mr Emil knew so much about his dreams which, like magical time machines, sucked you back into the past only to drop you back into the present with a horrible thump.

  When Kath put her head around the door a few minutes later to rescue Meggsie from their strange visitor, she found them deep in conversation, although she couldn’t imagine what this peculiar foreigner could possibly say that would interest her son.

  Walking with Emil to the door, she said, ‘Thanks for dropping in. I can see that Meggsie really enjoyed your visit. Please come again.’

  He hesitated for a moment, then he said, ‘Thank you. I will come. But tell me please. Why you did write a letter about me to the police?’

  She stared at him. ‘Me? Write a letter to the police?’

  This was the second time she’d been accused of writing a note about him, and she wondered if the old busybody across the road had told him she’d written it.

  ‘What on earth makes you think I’d do that?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think so your son told you what he saw.’

  Kath frowned. ‘Saw what? Can you tell me what this is about?’

  By the time he’d described Meggsie’s nocturnal escapade, it all made sense. The childish scrawl, the paper torn out of an exercise book, and the melodramatic message that sounded like something from a Boy’s Own mystery.

  ‘I never wrote that note,’ she said, and from the look on his face she realised that he’d figured out who the writer was.