A Bitter Harvest

by Peter Yeldham

  ‘Name?’

  The constable was middle-aged. In years past, the summer of 1909, he had been a paid picker at the Muller’s harvest, and a guest at the feast of thanksgiving. Now he stared at Stefan and repeated the question.

  ‘Name? We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Stefan Muller.’

  ‘Put your hand on the Bible. Do you, Muller, solemnly swear not to take up arms, or engage in activity against the interests of this country or the British Empire? Say — I so swear.’

  ‘I so swear,’ Stefan said, hating the other’s enjoyment. ‘Louder please.’

  ‘I so swear.’

  ‘Be sure you remember it. Now wait over there with the others. Next.’

  ‘Am I an enemy alien?’ Carl asked his mother.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she said quite sharply, anxious because Stefan should have been home long since. ‘You were all born here.’

  ‘Our name’s still Muller. At least mine is — and Maria’s.’

  ‘Carl, stop it,’ she snapped, then regretted her tone. She kissed his cheek. ‘Sorry. I’m worried.’

  ‘They’ve been a long time.’

  ‘Too long. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t let me. He said I’d get too angry. I told him the trouble with him is — he doesn’t get angry enough.’

  They were still waiting. Crowded together, standing. Some of the women were in tears. The men were seething with a helpless and growing impotence. The afternoon sun was hotter, and no one had been given food or drink. One inadequate latrine had been unable to cope with the numbers, and many stood with close to bursting bladders rather than face the queue and the smell of the primitive toilet.

  Finally Lucas appeared, flanked by Sergeant Delaney.

  Two men had refused to sign, he told them, and were already on their way to gaol. Stefan knew the two. Brothers who ran a business sharpening ploughshares. Solitary, obstinate men who refused to speak English, and made no secret of their hope that the Fatherland would win. He had little sympathy for them.

  ‘Now the rest of you listen carefully,’ Lucas said. ‘You have sworn an oath, and don’t you forget it. From now on, you are all officially prisoners of war.’

  A wave of puzzled murmurs became a storm of outrage, as they began to realise what he had said. Prisoners of war. The anger grew into a tumult of protest. This was the final indignity of an infamous day.

  ‘Be quiet.’ Lucas’s voice sliced through the hubbub until he had their attention again. ‘Shut up and listen. The government is prepared to be reasonable. You are all granted parole.’

  Parole?

  They tried to translate it in their minds. Parole meant what?

  First they were summoned, made to sign an oath and told they were all aliens, even though they were naturalised. Then they were categorised as prisoners of war, and now they were paroled. As they became silent, some comprehending, others still grappling with the complexity of it, there was no relief in their faces. There was just confusion, and a great deal of anger.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ Lucas looked down at them from the dais with impatience. ‘Don’t you even understand English? You’re on parole. You can go home.’

  ‘For how long?’

  Without having to turn around, Stefan knew it was Gerhardt.

  ‘For as long as you behave,’ Lucas said. ‘Any trouble and you go to prison.’

  ‘Without a trial?’ Lucas stared at him.

  ‘Sergeant, what’s this man’s name?’

  Stefan could hear Eva-Maria murmur in German, pleading with him to shut up, for God’s sake. Not to bring attention to himself.

  ‘My name is Gerhardt Lippert,’ Gerhardt said.

  Lucas left the platform, and pushed through the crowd, until he reached Gerhardt. He stared long and hard at him, then looked at Eva-Maria and Stefan, on either side, intent on remembering them.

  ‘You listen to me, Mister Gerhardt Lippert. Did you say trial? We don’t need trials. All we do is revoke your parole.’

  ‘Which has been unlawfully imposed.’

  ‘Unlawfully?’

  ‘Of course it’s unlawful. We’re on parole, but we’ve committed no crime. If that’s your so-called British justice, it’s just a heap of shit.’

  They thought Lucas was going to strike him. Instead he kept staring at Gerhardt. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and his eyes were like ice. Stefan knew the policeman was never going to forget this.

  ‘Harry,’ his grandfather was unusually diffident. ‘I’d like you to hear the news — that is, I feel you should be first to know …’

  ‘What news, Grandfather?’

  ‘I’ve asked Hannah to marry me.’

  ‘Have you really?’ Harry looked surprised and ingenuous.

  ‘I have. And I’m glad to say that she’s finally said yes.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Marvellous.’

  ‘You mean it, old son?’

  ‘I truly mean it, Grandpa. Congratulations.’

  William was pleased by the unquestionably sincere response.

  They had a celebratory drink together, then Harry left the house and went eagerly to the post office in Oxford Street. Smiling, he wrote out a telegram form to his mother, in his own ebullient style: HE HAS FINALLY POPPED THE QUESTION. HANNAH SAID YES. I’M VERY PLEASED AND HOPE YOU ARE TOO. ALL MY LOVE, HARRY.

  He asked for it to be sent at the urgent rate, and the friendly, middle-aged lady at the counter assured him it would be there later that same day.

  It was such good news, but the timing of it could hardly have been worse, Elizabeth reflected, although she could not blame her son for that. He had no knowledge of what was happening. Stefan and a group of friends had gathered at Oscar’s shop after they were allowed to leave the police station, and since the post office was just across the street, Eva-Maria had gone to enquire if there was any mail. The clerk, who knew they were neighbours, had given her the telegram.

  It had been almost dark before they’d arrived home: By then, Elizabeth had walked several times to the bridge over the creek to look along the road, for she was becoming increasingly alarmed. Once, Carl had accompanied her, and that was when Mr and Mrs Carson passed with a load of hay. They were driving a new truck.

  Doing well, Elizabeth thought. A new sulky and now a truck.

  Some people were not finding the war a hardship. The truck went past, and stopped. It slowly reversed until it was beside them. ‘Rounding up the huns, I hear,’ Carson said. ‘Good thing, too.

  Mob of traitors. I’d shoot ‘em.’

  ‘Mrs Muller,’ his wife taunted, ‘is it true, you’re gunna change yer name to Miller?’

  Elizabeth ignored her. It was her only way of dealing with people so offensive, and she waited for them to drive on, but before they could Carl ran to confront the dairy farmer.

  ‘Clear off,’ he said. ‘Clear off and leave my mother alone.’

  ‘Or what, sonny?’ Carson said.

  ‘Or I’ll beat the hell out of you, you great fat slob. And I could do it, too.’

  Carson assessed him, reluctant to back off from this threat.

  Mrs Carson was more realistic, aware Carl was taller and tougher than her husband. She nudged him.

  ‘C’mon, Jim. Leave her and her snotty-nosed kid. We might catch German measles.’

  They drove off.

  ‘To think you used to help them,’ Carl said bitterly.

  ‘We all make mistakes, darling. I must say, they seem in the money. That’s an expensive truck.’

  ‘Hadn’t you heard? Their dairy’s got a contract to supply army camps in Adelaide. Mr and Mrs Carson are going to do very nicely out of the war.’

  Gerhardt and Eva-Maria stayed for supper. He was still fuming, and she was trying to calm him. Elizabeth was shocked by the news of the day’s events, and felt surely what the police inspector had done was unlawful.

  ‘Not with this War Precautions Act,’ Gerhardt said. ‘It means the government can do what they li
ke. It’s called “prosecuting the war”, and it gives people like Mr Lucas powers they should never be allowed to have. He is not a nice man, that Lucas, believe me.’

  ‘We believe you,’ Eva-Maria said. ‘We just have to be careful.

  No fuss, nobody trying to be a hero. We work our land and attend to our own affairs.’

  ‘Put our heads in the sand like dogs in the manger,’ Gerhardt said, mixing metaphors in his agitation.

  When they had gone, and Carl had gone to bed, Elizabeth told Stefan the news contained in the telegram.

  ‘It was from Harry …’ she corrected herself, ‘Heinrich.’

  ‘Harry,’ Stefan said. ‘His life, his choice, so Harry it is. Also, it makes it easier for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. ‘Was today awful?’

  ‘Not nice. Let’s not talk about it. Please. Gerhardt’s done more than enough talking for all of us.’

  ‘Too much, you mean?’

  ‘I hope not. Not if he does what’s sensible and keeps quiet.’ She poured them each a glass of wine, and they took it out to the verandah. The sky was a mass of bright stars. A crescent moon profiled the vines, the robust tendrils shorn of their fruit for another year. It was difficult to imagine a more peaceful place.

  ‘Fancy Papa marrying again.’

  ‘His long-time love.’

  ‘Yes, she is. That’s a nice way of putting it, Stefan.’

  ‘Would you like to be there?’

  ‘You mean for the wedding?’ She was startled.

  ‘If there is time? Would you?’

  ‘Stefan …’

  ‘Perhaps as a surprise. He’d like it.’

  ‘He would, but …’

  ‘Well, then — send a telegraph tomorrow. Find out when the ceremony is. No point in arriving if they are on honeymoon.’

  ‘But Stefan …’

  ‘We can afford it. By first-class sleeper, what’s more.’

  ‘That’s madly extravagant,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘First-class sleeping car, or you don’t go.’

  ‘Heavens,’ Elizabeth said, starting to feel excitement at the prospect. ‘You really do mean it?’

  ‘On one condition. Don’t stay so long as last time.’

  ‘I promise.’ She laughed. ‘A month, at most.’

  ‘Good. Time to see Harry. Meet his friends.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ She thought about it. ‘How wonderful. Stefan, how surprising and absolutely lovely.’

  ‘You should be there. He made all this possible. Perhaps not for me, but certainly for you. He would never let me repay him. So — when you arrive — tell him it is a wedding present from me.’ He smiled and added, ‘Unless you think it might spoil his day.’

  She leaned against him. She loved the feel of her face against his, the warmth of their cheeks touching, the quiet affectionate moments that later might culminate in lovemaking.

  ‘It won’t spoil his day,’ she said. ‘As for making all this possible, of course Papa helped. But you did it. You created what’s here. You made this vineyard.’

  ‘We did it together,’ Stefan said.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  ‘No fuss,’ William said. ‘Next week on the twenty-third. We’ll just duck off to the registry office.’

  Harry was dismayed. No, he thought, that’s too soon. That won’t work at all.

  ‘Aren’t I invited to this wedding?’ he asked.

  ‘My dear chap, of course you’re invited. And Mr and Mrs Forbes have asked if they can come as witnesses.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘That’s how Hannah wants it. And the next day, a discreet announcement in the Sydney Morning Herald and the Age.’

  ‘Would it be a nuisance to make it the twenty-sixth?’ ‘What’s wrong with the date we’ve chosen?’

  ‘I’ve got exams all that week,’ Harry said, hastily improvising a story that sounded plausible. ‘While you’re being married, I’ll be doing a paper on common law.’

  ‘Blast,’ his grandfather said, and telephoned Hannah, who said that if Harry was doing exams, then they could certainly make it three days later — since she wanted him to give the bride away. When he heard this, Harry asked to speak to the bride.

  ‘Hannah, did you know that sort of thing doesn’t happen in registry offices? They’re cheerless places. And registrars are mostly indifferent, rather seedy characters, like something out of Dickens. Fustian, that’s the word for them. You want some fustian Dickensian character to garble your marriage vows?’ He heard her laughter on the other end of the line.

  ‘Harry dear, whatever are you talking about?’

  ‘Some atmosphere, something to remember.’

  ‘You mean a church?’

  ‘What about the university chapel? The vicar and I play football in the same team. He doesn’t mind if neither of you are religious. He even thinks — I don’t know how you feel about this, but there’s a big silky oak tree just outside — he thinks it would be legal to be married there, provided you do all the signing in the vestry.’

  ‘A silky oak tree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the vicar plays rugby?’

  ‘Yes — he’s on the wing.’

  ‘It sounds perfect,’ Hannah said.

  A troop train was pulling out, khaki-clad youths waving and whistling, a crowd on the platform blowing farewell kisses and shedding tears, but apart from that Central Station had hardly changed at all. Still noisy and smoky, engines stoking up, hissing steam, guards shouting and whistling as doors slammed for departure. She could see the familiar billboards as her train crawled into the station. BEX POWDERS FOR HEADACHES; DOCTOR MACKENZIE’S MENTHOIDS FOR COUGHS AND COLDS; AEROPLANE JELLY; ARNOTT’S BISCUITS — PROUDLY AUSTRALIAN.

  She saw Harry running along the platform, trying to spot her, and she waved. He burst into the carriage as the train stopped, and hugged her, collected her suitcases, and shepherded her out past the other passengers, excusing the rush, but they had a wedding to attend.

  ‘But it’s not till tomorrow,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They don’t know that. First out gets a taxi.’

  She laughed, and insisted on taking her smaller suitcase, so she could link arms with him.

  ‘I’ve booked you into the Castlereagh Hotel for the night, Ma. We’ll have dinner, after you’ve settled in. I wish you could be at home, but it would spoil the surprise.’

  ‘And you really mean it’s going to be under a tree?’

  ‘Yes, my friend Tim’s managed to persuade the bishop. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  They were walking out through the colonnades that overlooked Belmore Park, where the hackney cabs plied for hire, when the pleasant middle-aged woman approached.

  ‘Excuse me’, she said. ‘It seems hard to realise on such a nice sunny afternoon, but we’re fighting for survival. And young men like you who refuse to volunteer are shirkers who put our country at risk.’ She handed Harry a white feather.

  That evening they had picked a quiet place for dinner, in Glebe Point Road near the university. Harry knew the Italian family who ran the restaurant. When he introduced his mother, they first expressed disbelief, then gave them the best table, and kept bringing small appetisers accompanied by smiles of approval.

  ‘It happens now and then,’ Harry said. ‘Usually the nice, well-educated women are the ones.’

  ‘How dare she,’ Elizabeth said. The incident had spoiled the pleasure of her arrival. She had wanted to remonstrate with the woman, ask if she expected to be defended by under-age boys, but the woman with her white feathers had walked swiftly away and been lost amid the crowd.

  ‘I look big enough and strong enough,’ Harry said.

  ‘But not old enough, darling,’ his mother said carefully.

  ‘Lots of my friends have joined up. Their parents gave them permission.’

  ‘A lot of young men went into the services, because they had no other careers.’ Elizabeth knew
she had to tread warily. To so many of the young, the distant war seemed like a chance of glory.

  ‘Grandfather refuses to even discuss it.’

  ‘He wants you to get your law degree first. He’s right, Harry. It would be such a waste …’

  ‘But you heard and saw that woman.’

  ‘I saw a well-dressed creature, with a handbag full of white feathers, who thinks she’s winning the war handing them out. If she’s so concerned, why isn’t she a nurse or working for the Red Cross?’

  The proprietor brought a carafe of his best wine, compliments of the house, for Harry Patterson’s molto bella mother. Harry told him this would be a test, because his mother and father owned a vineyard.

  The proprietor called his wife, to tell her this. He wanted to know where, how many acres?

  ‘About a hundred acres now,’ Elizabeth said. ‘We started with twenty. It’s in South Australia — in the Barossa Valley.’

  ‘Barossa? But they say many Germans are there.’

  ‘You have any trouble?’ his wife asked.

  ‘We try to avoid it,’ Elizabeth Muller said.

  At the end of their meal, and after effusive farewells, they left to walk to a tram that would take them back into the city.

  ‘Nice people,’ Harry said. ‘Brahm and our crowd go there for a meal most Friday nights. The family came from Naples about ten years ago.’

  ‘Lovely people. But so concerned about me going back to the Barossa — with all those Germans.’ Elizabeth sighed. ‘It just won’t go away, will it?’

  ‘Forget it, Ma. Just be happy. Tomorrow’s a special day.’

  ‘It most certainly is. Not everyone has a father getting married under a tree.’

  Harry laughed, and took her arm. They decided to walk for a while, since it was a lovely mild April evening.

  The Dardanelles is a bleak stretch of water that leads past Cape Helles and the Gallipoli peninsula in the direction of the Balkans and the Black Sea. On the morning of the 25th, at the time Elizabeth’s train reached Sydney, dawn broke in Gallipoli. The first light revealed troop transports that had crept in under cover of night.