by David Vernon
An Alien Hand.
— Jenny Kingsford
When was he going to learn to keep his big mouth shut? One minute Lukas Eisenberg was gulping down a long colonial at the local pub, the next he was being dumped in the oxblood dust of Holsworthy Internment Camp. He gazed out from the workshop verandah. Struth, the place was miserable.
There was row upon row of long, narrow, iron-roofed wooden huts with canvas walls rolled up or pulled out as awnings, drooping like a prostitute’s caked lashes. The other internees around him wilted in the heat at roughly made tables and stools. Guards dotted the inner barbed wire fence but the camp was mostly left to the internees to run, although a large cobra of a watchtower reared over the dismal camp waiting to spit venomous bullets at any man that attempted to cause trouble or escape. Luke hadn’t meant to cause any trouble.
What was the country coming to when a man couldn’t have a go at the Pommy Top Brass for getting so many of their boys killed over there? Yes, his parents were German but Luke was a born and bred Aussie and he still held to his opinion that the Poms had led them up the garden path at Gallipoli. It was obvious to him that the Poms couldn’t organise a piss in a brewery, let alone a war. Luke wasn’t some bloody alien for saying so. It didn’t mean he was hoping Fritz would win.
Luke hitched his dungarees up and turned his attention back to the chair he was making, banging a section of blackbutt so hard it split. Bugger. He flung the hammer down and flopped against the wall listening to the whir of cicadas and mournful call of an open mouthed crow waddling along the barbed wire. Sweat had formed rivulets down Luke’s back making his flannel shirt stick like fly paper.
That Johnson wouldn’t know what a German alien looked like if it bit him on the arse. No matter what Johnson told the coppers. What about him over there in his starched naval uniform? Now, he was really a German alien. Luke had been keeping a close eye on him. He’d been in there every day working on a model of his German ship, the SMS Emden. It’d been a dangerous Raider until the HMAS Sydney had sunk it back in November, 1914. Pretty game sitting there carving out its glory on enemy territory.
Long tapered fingers worked, delicately carving tiny ridges along one of the three funnels, two already attached to the deck. Blazing royal blue eyes held steadfast as the German worked, hunched over the workbench. Luke admired the intricate detail, down to a teeny seagull perched on top of the flagpole. Luke’s own fingers itched to run along the smooth contours of the model. He used to make models too, for his son. He’d be four soon. Luke’s chest tightened and ached.
He sucked in his breath. No doubt about it, this man was talented. The German raised his head and their eyes locked. The German’s eyes softened to a robin’s egg blue and his generous lips tipped up a little as he gave the slightest nod. Luke gave a tight smile in return, hauled himself up and found a small piece of cedar to carve. It didn’t take long. Should he do it? He gave the carving one last rub and sauntered over to the German who was once again lost in his creation.
Luke cleared his throat and put out his hand. The German’s eyes popped like a startled horse then he grinned, taking the tiny life boat carving and adding it to the line next to the funnels.
“Thank you, it’s perfect. My name is Robert Maas,” he said in perfect English as he put out a hand.
Luke hesitated. He’d come this far. He shook the offered hand.
“No worries. Thought I might give you a hand. It beats sitting around getting rusty with barbed wire fever. You’ve done a beaut job, Robert.”
Luke licked his chapped lips and jangled his pockets. Time he was off to the Cafe Stacheldraht.
“Well, I’m drier than dingo’s donger, you want a pot?” Luke asked. He laughed when Robert’s knitted brow melted into a raised eyebrow.
“A dingo’s?”
“I’m thirsty … off for a beer,” he explained.
“Oh. Thank you but I’d like to finish the funnel.”
As Luke was about to pass the last row of huts a shadow crossed his face. The oppressive summer air smelt like stale tobacco and sweat. Although dressed in the same flannel shirt and dungarees, the man in front of him didn’t resemble the other internees. It wasn’t that he stood only as tall as Luke’s chin or his greasy curls and hook nose that made him seem unusual. Under hooded lids, his eyes were glowering. Penetrating Luke to his core.
The other internee laughed in a low rumble with humour that failed to meet his eyes.
“Sorry.”
He didn’t budge an inch. Luke made a wide berth, looked over his shoulder and saw a vulture’s gaze fixed on him. The hair prickled on his neck.
It turned out that nasty piece of work he’d dubbed Snake Eyes was one of the ‘Black Hand Gang’, right mongrels they were. They terrorised the camp for months; even stole the tin of cigars he got for Christmas — the ones that smelled like cherries. It wasn’t the best way to bring in 1916. The Black Hands ran the joint now and Colonel Sands didn’t lift a finger to help. He was lower than a goanna’s belly that one.
Luke sat on his bunk and lifted the ripped brown paper package, grinning when he spotted the Arnott’s biscuit tin. He pried the lid open and inhaled the spicy scent of Mary’s delectable fruit cake seeping from folds of calico within. Mmm. He licked his lips and frowned. They tasted salty. How could a silly cake bring a man to tears?
“Give it ʼere.” Luke flinched at the gravelly voice and his heart fisted. No way was he giving up Mary’s cake. It was Snake Eyes flanked by a pair of Mallee bulls.
Luke’s fingers trembled until he clenched them onto the precious tin. He spotted a clear run through the canvas opening and his sinewy muscles fired. He bolted for the café, just staying ahead of the thudding boots. Nearly there. Sweet Mary and Jesus. Luke slammed straight into someone. Blue eyes widened as strong arms steadied him. It was Robert. He shoved Luke behind him and crouched down, ready to pounce.
“This is not your fight, Fritzy.”
The three gang members stopped puffing and Luke saw the glint of metal. He put his tin down and stepped next to the German sailor. “Leave him be.”
One of the goliaths took a swipe at him but Robert moved with grace, leaving the lump flailing about in thin air. Luke ducked a fist and it was on. He grunted as a fist jammed into his gut and he collapsed into the dirt. Chalky dust coated his tongue and he coughed as he yanked himself up. Twisting his torso he released a powerful jab that found its target.
“You’re deb!” Snake Eyes threatened as he gripped his spurting nose. A flash of metal and Luke sucked his stomach in just in time. The blade ripped through his shirt.
Robert gave a shrill whistle and the captured crew of the SMS Emden stood by their mate.
“We’re the White Hand Gang and we’ve had enough,” Robert stated.
Snake Eyes gave a sardonic grin but beads of sweat glistened from his brow.
Luke joined them. “We’ve all had enough.”
Twenty men herded the Black Hand Gang members all the way to the picketed front gate of the Camp. Soldier guards silently watched on as many of the internees, having gotten wind of events had turned up to see what the White Hand mob had in mind.
“Over the top with them!” Robert ordered. Under a wail of protest the German sailors lifted the heavy men and dumped them over the top of the gates. A mighty cheer echoed through the flats of the camp.
“These men of the Black Hand Society have got what they deserve, there are more to come,” Robert said as he raised his fist.
“My oath, let’s go round up the others,” Luke yelled over the din.
“Where’s Portman?” Too right, that ring-leader was about to get his just desserts.
Colonel Sands waved his guards back and stood like a Boer War memorial statue. Only his murky green eyes moved until they caught Robert’s and he gave the slightest of nods. Luke clapped Robert on the back. Things were looking up at last. He knew a bloke who could carve like that couldn’t be all bad, even if he was an alien. He might ev
en save your life one day.
The facts:
During WWI, almost 6 000 men of German and Austrian descent were imprisoned in the dust bowl of Holsworthy Internment Camp. The Black Hand Gang were a group of criminals that terrorised the camp in 1915 and early 1916. A group of sailors from the SMS Emden vowed to put an end to the violence and rounded up the key members of the Black Hand Gang and threw them over the barbed wire fence. Luke Eisenberg is a fictional character but Robert Maas was a real sailor who did make a prize-winning model of his beloved ship, the SMS Emden.
Jenny Kingsford lives in the Blue Mountains of Sydney with her husband, two children and cute cocker spaniel. She is a psychologist and uses sand play therapy to delve into the dark recesses of people’s minds and souls. Jenny’s passion for Australian history has been the driving force for her writing and she is currently working on her debut novel, A Soldier’s Heart.
A Micro Moment of History
— Judy O’Connor
There’s a man slowly walking down the main street of Lithgow on a busy Saturday shopping morning. The year is 1945. He wears a dark suit, waistcoat, watch and chain. Large shoes, feet spreading like inkspots on blotting paper. Despite a slight stoop, he has a certain bearing as he ambles along, one hand on the pipe in his mouth.
You couldn’t say he looks distinguished, certainly not sophisticated, but there’s something a bit different, a sort of importance. But it’s borderline, and could just as easily slip into ordinariness and make him the same as any of the battlers bustling in the street. People notice him and have no reservations shaking his hand, saying “gid’day,” cracking a joke maybe. There’s a slight ripple of interest as he strolls along, unaccompanied by any officials or companions.
Lithgow, in western New South Wales, is a workers’ town, surviving on the sweat and grind of railway men, coal miners and iron workers who have few industrial rights and still less money. It lies in the dip of a valley collecting mist and frost most of the year; the cold is bitter and, in a country of sun and desert, it sometimes snows.
There’s also the Small Arms Factory where men churn out guns and rifles when Australia’s in the grip of wars. Its history is grim. During World War I over 1500 men were employed producing 20,000 rifles and bayonets a year. The town sank under the unexpected influx; there was no sewerage, roads were dirt tracks and there were simply not enough beds. People resorted to over-crowded and sometimes condemned houses, tents and even crude humpies. Then when the big guns stopped and the war was over, the town suffered a massive slump as the biggest employer in town turned off its machines. There was an attempt at making other things — car parts, shearing sets, and even golf clubs and artificial limbs — but nothing equalled the profits of war and the number of jobs dropped to a mere 300.
But that all changed in 1939 when World War II broke out. A mixed blessing. While some men caught the steam train to Sydney via the zig-zag railway to enlist, others — including my father — were deemed by the government to be “essential manpower” and found themselves once again punching the Bundy clock at the factory. Accommodation again burst at the seams as the factory looked for 6000 men, this time to produce around 200,000 British Lee-Enfield rifles. Air raid shelters were built, following the Japanese submarines entering Sydney Harbour in 1942, windows blacked out, sirens installed and mighty 3.7-inch guns erected at either end of the Lithgow valley.
The men at the factory, my father included, work by bells — the first rings out across the corrugated iron rooftops, with their layers of coal dust, at 6 a.m. making sure the workers wake up. The next, an hour later, is to tell them to line up on the factory floor at their machines. Five minutes later, a supervisor sitting in a room above throws a master switch and simultaneously the rows of machines surge with electricity. Two minutes later, the next bell clangs and the men lean into their work benches on the production line and the factory is filled with the deafening sound of metal on metal. They work 12-hour shifts and sometimes a ‘doubler’. They are as mechanised as the machines, repetitiously punching the same conveyor belt and pulling the same levers, no skill required. Communism is getting a look in.
It’s the usual Saturday morning shopping scene as the lone man strolls along. Everything shuts at noon so there’s not much time for people to do their business. A bit of traffic, but it’s never a bother in a small town like Lithgow, even in the main street. Women are wearing drab hats and carrying string bags for their groceries. There are no supermarkets — everyone goes to the Co-Op. It started at the turn of the century as a way of saving money by getting rid of the middleman. People get a share of the profits, not by how many shares they’ve bought, but by how much money they spend. At first it simply baked cheap bread but soon grew and now trades in everything from food and livestock to clothes, hairdressing, dentistry and even funeral and blacksmith services. The birth of supermarkets, some twenty years in the future, would eventually kill off the Co-Op but no one knew that then.
People window-shop at places like Manfolds, Bracey’s, Suttons Butchery & Bakery and, of course, most of the men will end the day at the Lithgow Workers’ Club, set up in someone’s house in 1887 by a handful of thirsty railway men and coal miners who had no time for licensing laws. It soon became the watering hole for workers weary after a long shift and hungry for a bit of cheer as the long frosty nights settled around them. As time passed and numbers swelled, it shifted to an empty hall near the railway line and now, thanks to the blind eye of the local copper, keeps its doors open around the clock.
The centre of activity seems to be the ‘chocolate wheel’ set up every Saturday to raise money for the local hospital. Someone calls out to the dark suited man: “Come on, Ben, have a go.” People gather around, a bit of excitement on a frosty morning. “Ya never know your luck, give it a go.”
The man is not known for spending money lightly, even the zack (sixpence) needed to buy a ticket on the wheel. He digs into his pocket, however, and comes up with the coin. The wheel is spun, flies around rapidly until the flap starts bouncing against the last metal prongs. It loses momentum and stops on a number. The man is surprised to see he’s won.
The prize is a huge cooked ham, weighing about five kilograms. He reaches out and takes hold of the thick string looped through the top of the lump of meat. It’s heavy and his shoulder drops momentarily as he takes the weight.
A tiny smile strays across his lips as he turns and continues his amble up the main street, happily swinging his bounty beside him.
“I always thought it was a strange thing to see,” my father told me years later.
There was Ben Chifley, the Prime Minister of Australia, and the local member for Lithgow who’d come for a visit, strolling along the street with a great big ham swinging from his arm.”
The facts:
This is an account of a true story that my father recounted to me. The Prime Minister’s visit and my father’s job at the Small Arms Factory are all true. My family and I lived in Lithgow for a number of years — I was actually born there. I have tried to convey a tale of Australian life that somehow typifies the times — working class town, hardships, wartime conditions and the unpretentiousness of both the Prime Minister of the day and the people of Lithgow.
Judy O’Connor left school at fifteen and wrote her first stories on the train travelling to and from work. Some years later, a story she wrote about being lost on a bushwalk, was published in a New Zealand newspaper and she was offered a job as a journalist. She went on to work for newspapers, magazines and other publications in Sydney and elsewhere. She has published and contributed to several books and won various short story awards.
Motherlines
— Melissa Coffey
I have my mother’s hands.
The memory is vivid of the day this was established, drenched in sunlight, in the midst of eternal-seeming summer holidays. I was fourteen. My mother and I had weathered the long drive down the Queensland coast with nothing but the glare and the radio for c
ompany. Managing not to miss the sign and the gravel-spattered road that limped off the inland highway. Lumbering like a wombat for hours over ditches and through clouds of cloying dust. The road finally gave way to a wild and mostly undiscovered coastal landscape, where my aunt and uncle had built a house with a huge rain-water tank and a power generator. Perched on a peninsula, the view from three balconies was of topaz-blue ocean.
Our secret summer place. Where we became less like city-dwellers, and more like the unruly pandanus palms that sprawled everywhere here, with salt-tinged hair and sun-singed skin.
On this day, my mother and I had taken the kangaroo-trails through spinifex grass to our favourite sunbaking beach. Laid out on our towels, we stretched up our arms and placed our hands palm to palm, middle finger to middle finger, to shield our eyes from the sun. They were a perfect match. Slender, fragile fingers. Nails that were long, strong and oval-shaped. Tanned, fine skin, gleaming tightly over knuckles, and, on the inside of the palms, myriads of deep lines, veined like sycamore leaves. People had often been startled by the insides of my hands, at the depth and profusion of lines, etched tracings of a life I could not have possibly lived yet. Old-soul hands.
“There are many stories here,” a palm-reader had once said to me, “Many stories.”
If my hands held the imprints of many stories, then so also did my mother’s. I had always been proud of the fact that I was my mother’s confidante. Ever since I was five, it had felt like she had shared everything with me, that between my mother and myself, there was no such thing as a story untold.