Goodbye, Mr Hitler

by Jackie French

  But that is not why I hope that you will come here. I am not German now, and I was never English. I am Australian. My family is here too. They will be your family as well. In England we have only Aunt Miriam and her little flat, but here we have a big house with plenty of room for you too. In a few years I will probably get a scholarship to go to university, which will pay enough for me to stay in Sydney at a college. Mud is certain to get a scholarship too. We are ridiculously intelligent, Mud says. You will like Mud very much. Her real name is Maud, but that is a long funny story I will tell you another time. You will really like Mud.

  Please, come here. If you ask me to, I will come to England. But I am happy here, and you will be too.

  Here is a photo of us all last Christmas. I love you. Mud sends her love too, and Auntie Thel and Uncle Ron and Mud’s mum and dad and brothers.

  Love,

  George

  She looked at the photo again. She wished yet again for colours but, even without them, you could see the sky was blue and cloudless, not endless grey. The verandah was deep, the woman elderly but wearing a good dress with pearls; the man grey-haired, in a shirt and tie but no coat. But they were primitive in Australia, she knew that . . .

  She had not been able to get a passage on a ship to Australia yet. The places were reserved for soldiers and war brides, not mothers. And Georg should come to Oxford. He would get a proper education there. What university did Sydney have?

  A good one, Miriam had said. Miriam knew these things. Miriam wept for her lost brother; wept each night when she thought her sister-in-law was asleep. But she had said too that Georg should not come here.

  Australia was his life now.

  Her son had a life.

  If she were to have a life again, it must be there.

  Chapter 29

  FRAU MARKS

  VOYAGE TO AUSTRALIA, FEBRUARY 1948

  She shared a cabin with three other women, a two-berth cabin forced to fit four. She spoke little, but listened to their chatter: war brides, married to Australian airmen or soldiers who had been stationed in England, fallen in love and married there. They were going to love, marriage, children, happiness, decades holding hands each night or holding conversations over breakfast.

  Their lives were in front of them. Hers had emptied, bit by bit. All that was left now was Georg.

  George. She had to call him George. His whole childhood had been taken from her, even the name she and Simon had chosen for him. Stolen from her, given to these people in Australia, who she could not hate for they were good people who had given her son joy.

  How could she talk to these young women, chatting of lipsticks carefully saved for the moment they met their husbands again, setting each other’s hair, resewing their old dresses to make their trousseaux?

  Her clothes were Miriam’s, made to fit her by a little refugee dressmaker in a room that sweated damp; a refugee like her, head down at her sewing machine as if she were sewing a new life, not just taking in clothes to fit a too-thin woman.

  ‘Don’t take them in too much,’ Miriam had said. ‘And leave decent seams — you can let them out when you put on weight.’

  Would she put on weight? Probably, even on this ship with its potatoes and corned meat for every meal. But could she ‘put on’ life?

  She didn’t know.

  A thin, blue-green line of coast appeared between the sea and sky. The other passengers shrieked with excitement. She stayed numb.

  They docked at Fremantle. The sky was the wrong colour, the light too bright, though that might be the reflection from the sea. She didn’t go ashore. Georg — George — was still a continent away. She had no curiosity to see country she’d never see again.

  Along southern Australia; now there were white and rust-coloured cliffs, a pod of whales. Not long now. She thought: I should be excited. She was not. She felt like a surgery patient where too much had been removed to feel that what was left was real.

  Melbourne, where again she could have gone ashore for half a day but didn’t. She stayed on board, glad of the cabin to herself. Then more blue-green coast, a too-small gap in great brown cliffs but the ship managed to fit through, the shock of a calm harbour, peninsulas of trees running down into the sea, and surprisingly tidy streets of houses and ferries bobbing on the waves.

  Had she expected convict huts? Farms? She realised she had not even tried to find out about Sydney. Reality was not this world of light and fishermen wearing shorts in dinghies waving at the ship, excited women on the deck waving back. Reality was camps in battered Europe, her friends still hungry, starving . . .

  She blinked, to try to see the shining harbour, but all she saw was them. She had wired money to yet another contact of Miriam’s, to give to the Wolchekis and Schmidts, to buy them extra food, if it could be had. For she had money now, not just the jewellery and papers she had hidden at the hospital. The driver had taken her to her house, their house, hers and Simon’s and Georg’s. It was still there, even the flowers in the garden; and, when she knocked, Gudrun answered the door.

  They stared at each other, sister to sister, one in a good suit — faded but still good — with pearls, the other in clothes carefully resewn from grey rags and fallen-out hair that had not yet grown back, fingers like a skeleton’s with half the nails worn away.

  Frau Marks said, ‘This is my house.’ Because this was the woman who refused to shelter her and her son, who had spat at her for marrying a Jude.

  ‘Our house was bombed,’ said Gudrun.

  They did not hug or kiss or cry. Nor did they reproach each other. It was as if a vast wall of emotion had built up between them, so big that if either showed anger or fear the whole great structure would tumble and flatten them both.

  ‘I have the title deeds to this house,’ said Frau Marks.

  ‘We have nowhere else to go.’ It was not quite a plea.

  Frau Marks nodded. ‘But you agree, this is my house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you will pay rent —’ and, as Gudrun opened her mouth to speak, ‘when you are able.’

  And then she left, walking in her grey dress that had been rags, trying not to shuffle in her too-big shoes, back to the English driver and the English car.

  She had discovered that in England too Simon had property and money from his parents’ estate. She had known Simon’s family was well off, but like most women had left all money matters to her husband.

  She did not know if the inheritance was enough to keep her secure for all her life. Money had new meaning in this post-war world. Nor could she turn the property into money, not in the chaos of post-war England. But there would be enough, she thought, to buy a small house in Australia, for Georg to study whatever he wished, and money to send to the Wolchekis and the Schmidts.

  The ship veered. She could see the docks now, the crush of people.

  And suddenly she was here, not there. Excitement beat like a drum, her heart too big for her still-thin body. Was Georg on the wharf?

  She tried to push her way up to the railing, but she was still too weak. At last she gave up, went back to her cabin and fetched her suitcase — she had no trunk — and took her place in the line. Another line after so many lines. But would there be life at the end of this one?

  She didn’t know. She didn’t know. If she shut her eyes, she could still hear chanting, ‘Jude, Jude . . .’ still see Simon fall, see the children huddled in the cellar, see Sister Columba lying on the wooden bunk, her blistered arms around Johannes.

  She had not even lit a candle for Sister Columba, nor even prayed for her. It was as if her soul was dead. The only warmth was hatred.

  The line inched forwards. At last she reached the gangplank. Her case was heavy in her hand. She walked, head down. Do not attract attention; do not look up. Do not meet their eyes. It took nine months to bear a child. A lifetime to love them. The two years in England had not been long enough to undo six years of terror and loss. Nor were they long enough to reclaim a
life.

  ‘Mutti!’

  Frau Marks lifted her eyes.

  Her son smiled back.

  Her son was a blue-eyed toddler, waddling towards her; he was the proud boy in his cap, off to school; the stoic, frightened child she had last farewelled.

  Here stood a handsome young man, his hand held tightly by a young woman with tanned skin and badly cut hair and green eyes that challenged the world.

  Her son. All of them her son. The girl’s other hand held one half of a banner, Welcome, Mutti! and, in smaller letters, Welcome, Mrs Marks! The other end was held by an elderly man in a good suit, next to an elderly woman well dressed in gloves and hat and handbag and wearing pearls. And all of them smiling, smiling, so happy and rejoicing, so . . . so clean . . .

  And she was dirty. Not with the filth of one camp, finally washed off, and the grime of another, where washing was restricted to once a week, but with a soul that was black with hatred, raw with pain. She could not step forwards, hug this handsome boy, the boy who looked at her with love.

  She shut her eyes, saw herself grab shears, the kind for pruning hedges. She hacked at the hatred in her soul, fast and frantic, let it fly back across the ocean to the land where it belonged.

  She opened her eyes, put down her suitcase, opened her arms, her heart.

  She held her son, her loving son. She held her son with love.

  Chapter 30

  JOHANNES

  GERMANY, MAY 1948

  ‘Dear Doktors Wolcheki and Johannes, I hope that you are well, and that my parcels and letters to you have arrived. I have been concerned not to hear from you, but did receive a letter from Herr Schmidt, who assured me he had heard from his wife and daughter that you are well and still at the camp . . .’

  Mutti glanced at Vati. Vati shrugged. Parcels sometimes arrived, but none had come especially for them. With Germany starving, bombed and desperate, most packages were stolen long before they reached those they had been sent to, especially DPs.

  But this letter had not come with a parcel, so it had got through.

  I have settled more happily in Australia than when I first wrote to you. The accent is strange — Australians swallow half their words — and their only cooking is boiling vegetables and grilling or roasting sheep, sheep and still more sheep, chops and legs and shoulders, and the sausages are mostly bread, not meat, even in this land of meat, and taste of nothing. Yet they are kind. Indeed, I have met nothing but kindness since I have been here.

  I have been living with Georg’s foster parents as I explained in my last letter, though I must call him George now, as that is the name he has chosen. But soon he and his friend Maud will go to the University of Sydney. George wishes to study law and Maud to study psychology. I have decided, therefore, to buy a small house, near the university, where they can stay with me.

  My late husband’s father left property for us in England, and I was also able to find the valuables I had hidden when I fled my home in Germany, after my husband was killed. My sister-in-law, Miriam, is also most generous, as she says we are the only family she has and she thinks of George as a son. My son, it seems, is very rich in family, and that family have extended their arms to me too.

  Now George’s Australian family wish to extend those arms to you. When I told the Peaslakes about you, Mr Peaslake told me firmly that they wish to sponsor you — all three of you — to come to Australia. If you have a sponsor, then you may get a permit to come as a family.

  I wrote to Miriam, explaining your situation. She works in the government and has influence and connections. I told her you had met while doing post-graduate medical studies at the University of Edinburgh. She was able to get copies of your graduation documents and, due to the kind work of Mr Peaslake, I attach a letter from the Medical Board of Australia that states that, given your UK postgraduate qualifications, you will be permitted to practise medicine in Australia, provided you can pass an exam in English. I am sure that as you passed the university exams in Edinburgh, your English will be more than adequate for Australia!

  You should be contacted by the Australian Embassy shortly — indeed, you may have already been contacted, as I know how unreliable the mail can be.

  Australia may be strange — even the trees are the wrong colour, more grey-blue than green. But much of it is beautiful, and it is safe and far away from horrors. I think you will be happy here, as I am now. Mr Peaslake wishes me to say that he and his wife would be happy for you to stay with them, if you wish to practise in a small country town. But if you wish to live and work in Sydney, I would be most happy for you to stay with me for as long as you wish. Housing is in short supply here and it is easier to buy a house than rent one. But be assured that there will be a home and jobs and a welcome, whatever you decide.

  From your affectionate friend,

  Frau Marks (Nurse Stöhlich)

  Chapter 31

  JOHANNES

  GERMANY, FEBRUARY 1949

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said to Helga.

  It wasn’t enough. He wanted to hug her, hold her, stay with her forever. Because even if they were sailing to freedom now, this was still the belly of the ogre where anything could happen, and only Helga was the rock that never changed, kind Helga with the gentle hands, Helga with a mind that hunted like his own, Helga, the always friend.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Helga tightly, as if she too refused to cry.

  But she would come to Australia too, one day. Australia was a big place, but they would find each other. They had found their families before in the chaos of war and its aftermath. They would find each other again.

  Frau Schmidt pressed a parcel into his hands, wrapped in many-times-used brown paper. ‘A new shirt for you, and one for your father. A pretty dress for your mother. All from new fabric too! You must look good on the ship.’

  The tears that prickled behind his eyelids began to flow, but to wipe them would just show everyone that he was crying. How many hours had Frau Schmidt and Helga worked in secret to make these for them? How many loaves of bread, sausages and hunks of cheese would they not eat, to give them clothes made of new material?

  ‘We will see you in Australia,’ said Mutti, in her new coat made from an old blanket, embroidered at the collar and cuffs. She too seemed near to tears. ‘Surely they will let families come soon. And if they don’t, we will persuade the Peaslakes to send permits for you.’

  ‘By Christmas!’ said Johannes desperately, his cheeks cold with tears. ‘We will see you by Christmas!’

  He and Mutti and Vati clambered into the truck, sitting with its exhaust steaming among the snowdrifts. No suitcases, but brown-paper parcels at least, instead of the ragged bundles they had come with. Hunger instead of the starvation they had felt back then. Apprehension instead of terror. This was better. It must be better!

  Why then was he so afraid?

  The truck stopped at the railway station. Hands helped them down. Johannes followed Mutti and Vati along the path through the snow to the railway platform.

  He stopped. Terror fell like a black blanket. He could not go on. He shut his eyes.

  ‘Johannes,’ whispered Mutti.

  No! Cattle cars and bodies. The stench of corpses rotting, of days-old faeces, of women and children crushed together, the dreams from his delirium . . .

  ‘Johannes,’ said Mutti again softly, and he could hear the fear in her voice too.

  Suddenly it was as if Helga held his hand, as she had held it through so many horrors. He opened his eyes. No cattle cars. Just ordinary railway carriages, with proper seats, and even a buffet car serving coffee. Vati showed the tickets the Australians had sent to them to the conductor, who opened the carriage door.

  They sat, on bench seats of real leather, their embarrassing brown-paper parcels up on the luggage rack among the proper luggage.

  The train moved.

  Past the platform, past snowy meadows and evergreen forest dappled white. A deer looked at the train curiously, then bent to eat.
/>
  Villages, old, unscarred. Villages, with makeshift houses rising from the rubble. A conductor in a uniform came along the passage. He opened the door to their compartment.

  Johannes froze. The conductor was going to order them out. To a cattle car, further down the train. Make them get off at the next station, go to another camp, a labour camp . . . It had all been another trick to get them to leave the DP camp with no fuss or argument.

  ‘Dinner in half an hour in the dining car,’ said the conductor.

  White linen tablecloths. A proper soup spoon. Thin clear soup, not even any turnip in it. They would starve, on soup like this, all the way to the ship to Australia waiting at Naples!

  Mutti picked up a roll of white bread from her side plate. Johannes hadn’t noticed they each had one. She broke off a piece and spread on butter. Real butter.

  The waiter took the soup plates. He brought back other plates, filled with food.

  Johannes had forgotten that meals could have more than one dish. He had to remind himself how to use a knife and fork, instead of just a spoon.

  ‘Goulash,’ said Mutti wonderingly, taking a mouthful. There was so much meat, covered in sour-cream sauce coloured deep red by paprika and served with noodles. He felt slightly sick from such rich food, but could not stop eating.

  The waiter took their empty plates, then came back again. ‘Cherry strudel . . .’ whispered Johannes. Just as they’d had at home.

  He glanced at Mutti, saw her tears. She buried her head in Vati’s shoulder. Vati held her, hugged her, took Johannes’s hand across the table. Cherry strudel . . .

  Mutti glanced at the other women in the buffet car. ‘I wish I had gloves,’ she whispered. ‘A proper hat.’