A separate file contained photographs and sketches showing the uniforms of ultranationalist militias in Ukraine, Croatia, Latvia and Lithuania. Ted stared at the photos, hoping to discern something in these faces that might mark the men apart, or hint at the evil they had committed, but they looked disappointingly normal. You could pass them in the street or stand beside them in a shop and exchange the usual pleasantries, not suspecting what they’d done. And perhaps if circumstances had been different, they wouldn’t have done any of those things and would have gone to their graves without ever discovering what they were capable of. Perhaps we should be grateful to them, Ted thought, for revealing how much darkness lurked beneath the superficial civility of everyday life.
He closed the file and stared into space.
‘Makes you wonder about humanity, doesn’t it?’ Harold’s voice booming in his ear made Ted jump.
Overwhelmed by the accounts of the massacres, Ted had almost forgotten to ask about the issue that had been uppermost in his mind when he’d made the appointment — the request by the Yugoslav government to extradite some of their war criminals from Australia.
‘Well, like practically everything else in life, it’s political, and politics is a dirty business,’ Harold said. ‘Yugoslavia’s government, which happens to be Communist, has requested the extradition of members of a fascist group that fought against them. But because our government has found a use for these bastards, and disapproves of the Yugoslav government, they’ve found it convenient to regard their request as an internal political matter and not a war crimes issue.’
‘And what do you think?’ Ted asked.
‘It’s no secret that the Yugoslav Communists are dying to get revenge on these fascists. But we know for a fact that some of the members of the Ustashe who migrated here are plotting to train in secret so they can regroup, rearm, attack Yugoslavia and reinstate their fascist regime. But when we try and warn Australian authorities about it, they laugh at us. They reckon we’re just parroting the Yugoslav government’s propaganda.’
Harold spoke in such a rush that Ted’s head was spinning, and he was still trying to absorb what he’d been told as he walked slowly down the stairs. The lane outside resounded with carefree laughter as students with art folders under their arms headed for the Lincoln Inn Coffee Shop and disappeared through the narrow entrance leading to the basement. The sun had already slipped behind the office buildings, which cast long shadows on the street as offices began to empty at the end of the day.
Ted looked around for the fellow who’d been watching him behind his newspaper, but he was nowhere to be seen, perhaps gone to report on his visit to the Anti-Fascist Society. Ted patted his jacket pocket for the notebook and felt the blood racing in his veins. Now he had enough material for a hard-hitting article about the government’s attitude towards war criminals.
Back in the newsroom, Ted spent the rest of the afternoon writing a story about the rising divorce rate, another of Gus’s pet themes, probably because his wife had left him, Ted supposed. It was a relief to switch from war atrocities to a social issue. The article was based on his interview with Dr Ewart White, a prominent medico who wrote an advice column in the Women’s Weekly. Dr White always blamed women for the problems they were experiencing with their boyfriends or husbands and advised them to be more feminine, less demanding and more conciliatory. As Gus concurred with Dr White’s views, he’d told Ted to interview him.
According to Dr White, the biggest problem in most marriages these days, apart from the demanding nature of women, was sexual incompatibility, a topic most women as well as men were too embarrassed to mention. There was widespread ignorance about sex, and classes were urgently needed to give couples some basic anatomical and physiological information so that they could learn how to give each other pleasure instead of disappointment and frustration.
Gus liked the sexual angle of the story, and envisaged a headline screaming SEX CLASSES NEEDED FOR MARRIED COUPLES. Ted typed the last word just before five-thirty, called for the copyboy and rushed out of the office to meet Lilija.
She came running into his arms and he scooped her up and covered her face with kisses. He’d spent much of the day looking into the darkness, and an evening with Lilija was just what he needed to restore his faith in humanity.
Chapter 41
In the silvery light of morning the tramlines gleamed and quivered. It seemed to Sala that these were the veins of the city, connecting its main arteries. Unlike her life, where everything was pulling apart. And the only stable thing in her life, her marriage, had become the most uncertain.
She sensed that her relationship with Szymon held the key to her future. She still hadn’t decided whether to enroll in the part-time course that would qualify her to be a medical technician, or to take the plunge and study medicine. It was already mid-January, and she’d soon have to enroll, but she couldn’t make that decision because, without Szymon’s financial support, she had no hope of studying medicine. The threads of her life were bound together, and she was entwined in the centre, incapable of untangling the knots.
Beryl, who now regarded Sala as her mate, often grumbled about her husband as she changed into her pinafore and picked up a broom and feather duster. ‘Me old man’s a real bugger,’ she often said. ‘Rolls home drunk of a night after closing time, goes to the races on Sat’days, never takes me nowhere, and won’t do nothink round the house, not even mow the bloody lawn.’
From what Beryl said, Sala got the impression that Australian men weren’t considerate husbands. They went to the pub after work and drank until the doors closed at the uncivilised hour of six o’clock. On Saturdays they went to the races with their mates, on Sundays they went to the footie, and the rest of the time they hardly talked to their wives unless they wanted sex which, from what she’d heard, they performed without much thought for their wives’ pleasure. But when Sala asked Beryl whether she’d ever thought of leaving, the older woman put her hands on her hips and stared at her in amazement. ‘Leave ’im? What for? He’s no worse than what the rest of ’em are. And I’m no spring chicken. Where am I goin’ to go, and what’ll I do on me own after all these years?’
If there was one person who got Beryl more worked up than her husband, it was the Leader of the Opposition, Robert Menzies, to whom she referred by his nickname, Pig Iron Bob. ‘Got his nickname ’cos he wouldn’t sell iron to the Japs. Only good thing he ever done,’ she used to mutter as she sloshed a mop across the lino floor. ‘The enemy of the working man, that’s what he is. Give ’im half a chance and he’ll ban the unions before you can say Heil Hitler.’
In the world according to Beryl, Chifley was the hero of the working class, but she was shrewd enough to mistrust his promises as well. ‘A greedy lot of double-crossing parasites, the lot of them,’ she’d scoff.
Sala enjoyed Beryl’s tirades and learned a lot about Australian politics from them. This morning Beryl had been sounding off about the newspapers, which blamed the miners’ union for the recent power cuts, describing their leaders as power-hungry despots who refused to negotiate.
With her soapy arms akimbo, Beryl had held forth about the exploitation of the workers by the greedy capitalists. ‘If it wasn’t for the ruddy unions, little kids’d still be goin’ down the chimneys and crawling in the mines,’ she’d said.
Sala was waiting at the tram stop, thinking about Beryl’s views on politics, when she looked up and saw Alex walking towards her, swinging his leather briefcase. Ever since their chance encounter a few weeks before, she’d often imagined running into him again, and castigated herself for daydreaming like a silly schoolgirl. But the unhappier she was with Szymon, the more she longed for Alex. He was the kind of man she should have married, the exact opposite of Szymon. Suave, cultured and dangerously attractive.
He was standing so close to her that she could smell the brilliantine on his smooth dark hair. When he bent down to greet her in the traditional Polish manner, first pressing his
lips to her hand and then to both cheeks, she was embarrassed and excited at the same time.
‘You don’t have to go straight home, do you?’ he murmured, his warm lips brushing against her ear.
He was squeezing her arm as he spoke. ‘It’s a sin to waste such a beautiful morning. Have you been to the Botanic Gardens? Let me take you there.’
The prospect of spending an hour or two with him made the blood rush to her cheeks. She didn’t hesitate.
They strolled along the winding paths of the Botanic Gardens, past herb gardens and lily ponds, until they found a secluded bench under a giant strangler fig whose matted roots hung down like uncombed tresses.
Alex put his arm around her shoulders and, gazing into her eyes, murmured, ‘You’re a very sexy woman. I’d like to take you to bed and make love to you.’
The unexpected directness of his words and the lust in his face shocked and thrilled her. Confused, she looked down, twisting the wedding band around her finger as she wondered what to say. His intimate tone and admiring glances were seductive, but an insistent voice in her head warned her to think what she was doing. It was wrong for a married woman to sit in a park with a married man, listening to flattery which could only end one way.
He was stroking her shoulder, lightly at first and then more insistently, and his expert hands slid down her back, promising more intimate and rapturous caresses.
‘What about you?’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘Do you want me as much as I want you?’
Before she could reply, his warm lips were pressing against hers, forcing hers to part, and as his tongue explored her mouth, she kissed him back with a passion she hadn’t felt for a long time.
‘I know a quiet little hotel in Kings Cross,’ he said in a thick voice. ‘Let’s go there.’
Torn between desire, conscience and common sense, she hesitated. This was the point from which there was no return. From the moment she’d met him, she’d dreamed of him being her lover, and now that her fantasy was about to come true she was elated, and tried to silence the negative voice in her head.
Her father, a keen chess player who believed that the game held the answer to many of life’s problems, used to say that before making any decision you should always think three moves ahead. Suppose she started an affair with Alex, what would the consequences be, and how would it end? He was kissing the nape of her neck, and her whole body tingled with anticipation. Why shouldn’t she succumb to this pleasure? She was still young and she’d gone through so much. Surely she deserved to have some joy in her life.
While Alex was checking in at the reception counter of the Federal Hotel, Sala pretended to study the painting on the wall in the neon-lit foyer. She heard him asking for a room with a view on the fifth floor, and as she turned around, she wondered if she’d imagined the smirk on the receptionist’s face as she handed him the key.
The old lift heaved to a stop with a lurch, and they walked to the end of the dimly lit corridor which smelled of cigarettes. Alex turned the heavy brass key in the lock and, as they entered the room, her eye fell on a large dark stain in the centre of the faded Axminster carpet.
The double bed, which took up most of the room, was covered with a shiny bedspread, and the fraying brocade drapes over the window had some tassels missing. Sala breathed in the musty odour of unaired rooms.
She walked to the window and looked through the dust-streaked pane. William Street stretched into the heart of the city, and beyond the office buildings the iron bridge they called the Coathanger spanned the harbour. Sala was wondering whether her heart would ever belong to this city, when she felt Alex’s hot hands on her shoulders.
He spun her around to face him and, edging her towards the bed, he undid the buttons of her dress. It slipped to the floor, and as she stood in her white slip, he held her closer and murmured, ‘You’re so beautiful.’
For some reason her eyes kept straying to the stained carpet, and in an effort to overcome her lack of responsiveness, he kissed her again, harder this time. ‘I’ve never wanted any woman as much as I want you,’ he whispered.
She was about to speak but he placed his hand over her mouth. ‘Don’t say anything. I know you want me too. We’re both adults, so let’s not waste this opportunity.’
His eyes were gleaming, and under his moustache his lips were full and red. She was excited by the lust in his face but there was something predatory in his expression, which thrilled and repelled her at the same time. It reminded her of an illustration she’d seen in a children’s book of the wolf trying to lure Little Red Riding Hood into the hut.
She heard herself say, ‘But what about your wife?’
The imperturbable smile was still on his face, and if he found her question disconcerting, he didn’t show it. Without speaking, he began to rake her arm from the wrist to the elbow in a slow, sensuous way that sent little spasms of pleasure through her body.
‘I have a wonderful wife and I’m sure you have a wonderful husband,’ he said after a pause. ‘So what? You can love more than one person. Love isn’t a limited commodity like butter, it doesn’t get used up.’ He tilted her chin so that she had to look straight into his eyes. ‘I knew the moment I saw you that we were going to be lovers. If we throw this chance away, we might regret it for the rest of our lives.’
His words were seductive, but they tripped off his tongue too easily. They sounded glib and insincere, and she sensed he’d said these things before, perhaps in this very room, to other gullible women. Like a pianist giving a well-rehearsed performance of a familiar piece of music, he’d struck the wrong note and ruined the crescendo he’d so carefully planned.
She felt deflated. Deluding herself about romance and passion, she had mistaken this cheap imitation for the real thing. What a fool she’d been. But what had she expected? Illicit trysts in a sleazy hotel room, deceiving her husband, and his wife, sneaking around and hoping not to be discovered. And then, looking several moves ahead, she saw herself being ditched for another paramour. Was that the new life she’d come here to rebuild?
‘Maybe you’re right and I will regret it.’ She had picked up her dress and was buttoning it hurriedly as she spoke. ‘I’m sorry if I led you on, but I just can’t do this.’
‘I think you’ll be sorry if you don’t,’ he said, and his smile looked forced. ‘We regret missed opportunities far more than our mistakes.’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps on my deathbed I’ll wish I’d said yes. But now I’m going home.’ She picked up her handbag and walked quickly from the room without looking back.
Instead of feeling a sense of triumph, she felt depressed, and when the tram conductor gave her his usual cheery greeting, she felt like crying.
There’s something wrong with me, she thought. I can’t live a normal life or have normal relationships. Why didn’t I die with the rest of my family? They were all better people than I am. What’s the point of living if I’m always miserable?
By the time she alighted from the tram, tears were flowing down her cheeks. When she turned the corner into Wattle Street, she saw Verna Browning sweeping the fallen frangipanis from her verandah.
‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’ Verna called out, but Sala just nodded and kept walking.
Resting her chin on the broom, Verna looked at her neighbour’s slow gait and downcast gaze. Something was obviously wrong, and Verna wondered if she should try to find out if Sally needed help. The last thing she wanted was to intrude, but Sally did look very upset. Maybe she needed someone to talk to.
It was hard to know what to do for the best sometimes, she thought, and continued sweeping.
A moment later Maude McNulty popped her head over the fence. ‘I read in the paper that the royal tour might be going ahead after all,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness the King’s got over his chest infection.’
In a confidential whisper, she added, ‘He hasn’t been the same since his brother married that awful Mrs Simpson.’ Although thirteen years had passed since E
dward VIII had abdicated and married Wallis Simpson, Maude McNulty couldn’t forgive him for giving up the English throne for a scheming American divorcee.
Verna nodded, wondering why her neighbour hadn’t found something worthwhile to do in the course of her long life except spy on her neighbours and collect useless information about the royal family. It was hard to imagine Maude McNulty as a young woman, but perhaps like Miss Havisham in the Dickens novel, she’d been jilted. Maybe that was why she’d never married or had children and had turned into such a misery.
Kath was rubbing Meggsie’s arms and legs when she looked out of the window and saw Verna talking to her next-door neighbour.
‘What’s the old bag been haranguing you about?’ she asked when Verna came over a little later. But she was too excited to wait for Verna’s reply. Pushing her thick auburn hair back from her flushed face, she said, ‘You know that nurse I found out about? The one that uses the Kenny method? I rang her up this morning and she’s coming next week! There’s enough money in that envelope to pay her to keep coming every week till the end of the year!’
‘That’s terrific, Kath,’ Verna said while Kath put the kettle on. ‘I bet that’s bucked Meggsie up.’
Kath’s smile faded. ‘When I first got him home, he was always talking about walking again, but he doesn’t talk about it any more. I think he’s given up hope.’
She placed the tea on the table but left hers untouched. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing bringing him home,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s just made things worse.’
Verna shook her head. ‘Don’t think that for a second. Of course you did the right thing. Anyway, this nurse will probably get him on his feet again.’
Kath didn’t answer; she didn’t want to tell Verna that she was close to losing hope herself. ‘What about your gran?’ Verna asked. ‘Are you going to let her know about Meggsie?’
Empire Day Page 28
