In Search of Anna

by Valerie Volk

  It was these same contacts and their pride in their background that was helping me in my search for Kurt. Little by little, person by person, I was uncovering the events of two years before.

  The Lindners had taken me to the German Club and the welcome had been warm and genuine. Often in those weeks I visited the splendid clubrooms in the heart of the city, where Skat was the most popular pursuit, just as it was back home. I found it comforting to see the players gathered regularly, intent upon their cards. The Melbourne German ladies whiled away many afternoons there.

  I suspect they viewed me with suspicion—this woman who had travelled alone from the homeland. Not at all suitable for a lady! Yet as I sat at one of the small tables where the groups of three players earnestly peered at their cards before making a bid, they were friendly and sympathetic about my mission. My story intrigued them.

  I had been introduced to Frau Ursula Polkinghorne, the matriarch of the Skat players, and I found myself one day playing with her and her daughter. A formidable pair, stout and commanding, and after I had won my round on a foolhardy bid, they looked at me with grudging respect.

  ‘You play a skilful game, Frau Werner,’ the older woman commented. ‘You deserved that success. Have you had similar good fortune with your search?’

  ‘It is difficult,’ I admitted. ‘No one seems to know of my son.’

  ‘You must meet Dr Menge,’ her daughter decreed. ‘If anyone can help you, it will be him.’

  They were right.

  ‘You are his mother!’ said Dr Menge, when the friends I had made led me to the Deutscher Krankverein, the German Sick and Relief Society founded in 1861. It was not the only organisation supporting needy and unemployed Germans, but someone recalled the story of a young lad cared for by that group.

  Dr Menge remembered it well. It had been a brutal beating, and as he told me of the injuries my son had suffered I felt a sick anguish. If kindly people had not found him and taken him to the hospital, if there had not been German nurses in the hospital who discovered his background from whatever remained in his pockets, if there had not been an organisation like the Krankverein to undertake his care, my search might well have ended right at this moment.

  Except that it would not have been ended well. I knew that if my only discovery had been his grave, my own life might also have stopped. There would have been nothing left to live for.

  Recovery, Dr Menge explained, had been a long slow process. But, gradually, bones knitted together, and torn flesh healed. Other damage, they feared, might have been permanent.

  ‘His ears will never be the same again. In one ear the hearing is almost gone—the blows to the head have left it beyond repair—but the other has recovered remarkably well.’

  ‘Gott sei dank,’ I breathed. ‘Thank God.’

  ‘For many months he seemed to remember nothing of his past. There was no sudden return of his memory. Little things came back to him piece-by-piece. Once he was physically stronger, we found him simple work. There was building at the German church, a new manse for the minister. We talked to Johann Koch, the architect, who is one of our members, and he persuaded the good Pastor Herlitz to take him on as a labourer.’

  ‘But he knows nothing of building. He was an engineer, a steam man.’

  Dr Menge’s face showed sudden comprehension. ‘That explains many things. For many months he seemed to have little memory of any sort of work he might have done. He showed no expertise. Until the exhibition.’

  ‘But wasn’t that many years ago? No, I remember. There was another one, just last year.’

  ‘Yes. The second one; it has just finished. Pastor Herlitz took Kurt when he and his family visited the new exhibition not long after it opened. Last August it would have been. A little over a year ago. They were very kind to him, and treated him like one of their family. He is a good man, Pastor Herlitz, though he has some difficult members in his flock.’

  ‘But the exhibition?’ I prompted.

  ‘It was the moment a curtain lifted in your son’s mind. The exhibition included so many trades and activities. It was bewildering: so many countries throughout the world. Displays of goods in many fields—I think we were all astounded at the range of goods and products. I was amazed at the medical equipment on show.’

  I listened with impatience. ‘But Kurt? What has this to do with my son?’

  ‘We thought for a few minutes that he was lost, but then there he was. Standing, totally absorbed, in front of models of steam boilers. It was a Melbourne display; in fact it had won a gold medal for the manufacturers. The rest of us had little interest in it but Kurt was fascinated, his memory switched on. He knew who and what he was.’

  I was not surprised. If anything could have got through to Kurt’s flickering memory, it would be steam.

  ‘From there,’ Dr Menge continued, ‘his memory returned and he started to make plans for the future.’

  ‘Plans. What sort of plans? Do you know?’

  ‘I am truly sorry. I do not know what happened. My wife died at that time. I was occupied and lost sight of the young man. Not long after I heard he had gone.’

  ‘I am sorry about your wife,’ I said quietly.

  He shook his head. ‘She had been ailing for many years, and was in a hospital for months before her passing. It was a merciful release.’

  Maddening and frustrating. To feel that I was so close and then to see the door close again.

  ‘This is hard for you, Frau Werner. I wish I could help you further.’

  ‘Who else might know more? Who would he have talked to? Did he have friends here?’

  ‘I think you will need Pastor Herlitz. He is the one most likely to help you.’

  ‘I need also to thank you, doctor, for all you have done. Without you Kurt might not have survived the beating he had—I do understand this, and I am grateful.’

  He looked embarrassed. ‘I would like the opportunity to be of further help. Perhaps I might call upon you next week, after you have seen the Pastor, to help you plan the next part of your search?’

  For a moment the thought crossed my mind that Dr Menge might be motivated by more than simple helpfulness, then I took myself to task. Anna, I chided, do not delude yourself. Just because one man on a ship found you attractive does not mean that others will also think you have appeal. And he has been a widower only a year.

  Yet the idea of further contact with that undeniably hand­some man, with his piercing dark eyes and neatly shaped black beard was not unwelcome.

  ‘We will take you to meet the Pastor after the Sunday service,’ suggested the Ohlenrotts, when I told them of my conversation with Dr Menge. ‘Do you mean that the young man we saw working on the new manse construction was your son? That is an amazing chance.’

  ‘Not so amazing,’ said Trudi. ‘Our community is very close, and our members look after each other.’

  Sadly, Pastor Herlitz could not give the help I was looking for. He had known and cared for Kurt, but had little sense of where he might be now.

  There was a hint of disapproval in the minister’s words as we sat in the office of the bluestone church. Until the new manse was complete, this was where his business was conducted. The morning service was over, and I commended him on both the church, less than twenty years old and replacing the first church they had outgrown, and the congregation with its full-throated singing of German hymns.

  ‘Many of our members would like an English language service in the Sunday evening,’ he replied. ‘They say it would appeal to our younger people. Yet for most of us it is important to preserve our mother tongue.’

  ‘The organ is particularly fine.’

  ‘A donation from two sisters in our membership. The Lord has blessed them with worldly wealth, and they believe in returning some of it to the church.’

  ‘About my son. Do you have no idea where he has gone?’

  ‘I expected him to confide his plans to me. Unfortunately, he did not.’

  The dis
approval was obvious now. ‘He talked about a wish to go northward. Someone had told him there were German settlements in Queensland, and he seemed interested in these.’

  I thought of this vast continent with dismay.

  ‘That is so far.’ My voice trembled, and he looked at me with pity.

  ‘He planned to find work along the way, and he looked forward to seeing more of the land.’

  So like Kurt, I thought. Seeking adventure. Moving on. No concern for the rest of us!

  ‘Did he not send a letter to you? He was concerned lest you should be worried, and he had planned to write. He truly did think of you.’

  ‘Oh yes, there was one letter—and I can now see why there was nothing for so long. All that he could say was that he was travelling north—’

  ‘That is what he told me he intended.’

  ‘—working as he went. He talked of the border area between Victoria and the next colony … is it New South Wales? A possible destination.’

  I touched my pocket, where Kurt’s last letter, ever more crumpled and stained, sat in my pocket like a talisman.

  Pastor Herlitz was adamant. ‘It is thoughtless of him, and I am disappointed. However, he suffered greatly after the beating. Who knows? It may have affected his mind more than we know.’

  ‘A friend on the ship suggested I should advertise in newspapers in areas where he might be. There’s clearly no point in using the Melbourne papers. He is gone from here.’

  ‘We will help you find the papers you need. I agree with your friend. An advertisement is your best hope. Many people go missing in a new land. The papers are full of Missing Friends advertisements.’

  ‘You have been very helpful. And also, I understand, your wife and family. Would you please give them my thanks?’

  ‘I hope you will meet them soon. Today is very busy. I have a large confirmation class this afternoon. You will be in Melbourne for some time yet?’

  ‘I am filling in some of the gaps,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know what comes next.’

  I had written to Herr Eberhardt with my new address in Swan Street and I waited eagerly for his advice on newspapers to try. It came sooner than I dared expect, and with it a letter that was in no way improper, but made it clear he was hoping to see me again.

  We placed the advertisement carefully, as he had advised, in a weekly newspaper that he told us had a wide readership in the area—the Riverina.

  ‘Not just once,’ he had cautioned. ‘It can too easily be missed. You will be offered a package rate for six issues. Take it. If after six weeks there is no result, we may need to try further north.’

  And meanwhile? I set myself a target. My money would last me six weeks. I was assured I would have no trouble getting employment. If no response came in that time, I would need to work and save money to travel.

  I placed the advertisement as he had advised. Six issues, and it cost less than I had expected. A simple few lines.

  Missing Friends

  Kurt Werner of Schelesian, Germany,

  please SEND ADDRESS to your mother,

  175 Swan Street, Richmond, Victoria

  The typesetter had misspelled Schlesien, but I thought this would scarcely matter. I wondered if, in this country, I should have used the English ‘Silesia’ instead. Too late.

  I wrote to both Lydia and Hanna, but without mentioning my plan of employment. I did not want either of them rescuing me. I am an independent woman. I can take care of myself. Or so I like to think.

  Yet it was comforting in those next weeks to have friends and companions. I could go to picture galleries and shops with Margarethe. One could live on very little money if one did not buy much, I discovered. So we wandered through the big stores in central Melbourne with their dazzling displays, and I studied the fashions with interest. Cook and Co. in Collins Street had moved premises, and sought to entice new customers with their large advertisement for French and English millinery, lace visettes and dust cloaks, silk and muslin blouses, embroidered French robes, black lace scarves, sunshades and umbrellas—how Lydia would have loved this world.

  As she would have loved the fashion reports in the news­papers. Mrs Clark took daily papers, like the Argus and Herald, and together we shook our heads at the finery of the grand balls and evening soirees. Did the Governor attend? We always checked for the descriptions of the vice-regal costumes.

  ‘You should read the accounts of the fine dressing at the Melbourne Cup,’ she advised. ‘It was the week you came, though I doubt you would have known about it.’

  ‘I did get some sense of it,’ I admitted. ‘In the Coffee Palace all they could talk of was the horse racing, and what horses they would bet on.’

  She insisted on finding the following day’s papers, and we pored over the accounts of the clothes. Oh Lydia, I thought, you should be here for this.

  With the Lindners I went on excursions, like a trip on the brand-new electric tramway that ran from Box Hill to Doncaster—a wonder to behold. The tram had been on show at the exhibition, and now the local papers were full of this grand event, its inaugural journey. Is this the way of the future? And what will happen to all the horse-drawn trams in Melbourne?

  I scrutinised the columns in the daily paper, while the weekly Richmond Guardian told me each Saturday was happening in the area. For the shilling entry fee I could attend concerts and plays, and even Wirth’s Circus—such a display of gymnasts and acrobats as I had never imagined. Often, yes, with Dr Menge, who had come to see me in Mrs Clark’s parlour one afternoon, and had passed her eagle-eyed inspection. The Ohlenrotts spoke highly of him and approved our outings.

  ‘The doctor has had little enough enjoyment in his life, poor soul,’ said Trudi.

  ‘His wife was ill for many years,’ added Gerhard.

  ‘And not much happiness for him before that,’ Trudi commented, despite Gerhard’s rebuking look. ‘You know that is true!’

  ‘It need not be said.’

  ‘Oh, you men. Women are more honest about things.’

  It was rare to hear a note of discord. They had a marriage and a companionship that made me realise how barren my life had been. No wonder I had clung to Kurt as I had. Too much, yes, I could see it now. So was I wise to still pursue him here? I had come too far to give up the search.

  I was not alone in wanting more. The advertisement columns in the personal sections were filled with advertisements for palm-reading, Tarot cards, astrological predictions, and then—for those prepared to be more direct in their approach—the Matrimonial Notices, like the thoroughly respectable lady, sensible, refined, no money, who desired correspondence with a gentleman of means and good principles, a bachelor, widower, town or country. That was, I thought, casting a very wide net …

  Dr Menge’s company was a pleasure, and again I blessed the education the Countess had given me. We listened to the Victorian orchestra’s afternoon performances in the Town Hall, and discussed the Weber, Brahms and Mendelssohn on the program, or commented on the Merchant of Venice in the city theatre. Even the Temperance Society’s productions, or Little Lord Fauntleroy, with Daisy Hopkins, the celebrated child actress in the title role, had their own perhaps unintended humorous moments.

  We talked easily, in a way as stimulating as my conversations on board the Elberfeld. This man too was interested in the bigger issues of the day, and thanks to Mrs Clark’s daily newspapers I knew about the debates over federating the colonies and the strong feelings that issue aroused. Dr Menge was interested in a world canvas, and we argued the merits of local organisations sending money to support the London Dockers strike—such questions were of no concern to others in my friendship group. With them I had other experiences.

  Kaleidoscope it was. Yet always the matter of why I was there, and what the next step would be. After four weeks I was becoming discouraged and my spirits were falling. So the suppressed excitement on Mrs Clark’s face did not alert me, when I returned from an afternoon visit to the Ohlenrotts.


  ‘The post has come,’ she said. Even then, I thought only of Herr Eberhardt. It was too soon for mail from Germany.

  ‘On the hall table!’ She almost pushed me toward it.

  A hand I could barely recognise, but the postmark made me draw breath sharply. The letter was from Albury, the biggest town in the Riverina.

  CHAPTER 20

  Albury, New South Wales, 1889

  Trains. No longer the cause of trepidation they had been. Once the sight of long platforms, ticket sellers’ windows and ladies’ waiting rooms had been daunting. And the grimy firemen who shovelled coal into the voracious fiery mouths of engines that belched black smoke against the clear blue skies had seemed escapees from Hades.

  No longer. I pondered the new worlds I entered. Worlds I had never contemplated. I could only shake my head in wonder at how my life had changed.

  So the thought of yet another sortie into unfamiliar territory brought only slight anxiety. What was more fearsome was the thought of what would await me on arrival. I distracted myself for a time thinking about trains, fascinated just as Otto had been by the way these powerful beasts could eat the miles and subdue the distances.

  Even more strikingly in this vast land, where the mania for building new rail tracks seemed to have reached unbelievable excesses. It worried Dr Menge, who shook his head with foreboding.

  ‘This country has gone mad. You would not know, Frau Werner, how the property prices have exploded during the last years.’

  ‘But people say there is an economic boom.’

  ‘We flood the land with investment money from England. We build railways as if there can be no limit on our expenditure. And everywhere people spend, spend, spend.’

  I was intrigued. ‘But this is Marvellous Melbourne. There is money enough.’

  ‘A fool’s paradise. It cannot be sustained. This bubble has to burst.’

  He was, of course, right. But for now my focus was not on economic problems. Granted my financial worries were growing, yet there was enough for the next stage of my travels.

  I thought about these things to push to one side the matter that had loomed over me since the letter arrived. Who am I deluding? The letter had become the focus of my life. This was what I had come for: to find this boy I loved so much. Boy? I had to think differently. Kurt was no longer a boy, rather a man of twenty-three years, an age by which his father and I had two children and many years of marriage behind us. But was he still the son who had left me so many years earlier?