He sighed as he went out into the night, dim now, with Igulgul up to some mischief in the clouds. He entered his den, poured a brandy, settled down in his armchair, opened the envelope. It contained a single typewritten sheet:
THIS INFORMATION IS FROM AN OFFICIAL SOURCE AND IS COMPLETELY RELIABLE.
Report on histories and political activities of Communist Party Agents, Kurt Kaufmann and Rebecca Rosen, posing as Jewish Refugees from Germany, being sought by Commonwealth Immigation Authorities for illegal entry into Australia.
KURT KAUFMANN, 45, born Stuttgart, Germany, Jewish origin, Doctor of Medicine, member of German Communist Party from 1929, actively opposed to National Socialist Regime. He was arrested first 1933 in connexion with Reichstag Fire. Escaped from prison and fled country, but soon returned to continue Communist activities. Subsequently arrested and imprisoned on three other occasions, escaping each time with aid of Communist machine, finally in 1937, when smuggled out of Germany, to conduct subversive activities in various European countries in guise of dispossessed Jewish Refugee. Eventually travelled with other agents of Commintern to South America, organising Communist Cells wherever Jewish Refugees were being admitted. In May 1938 he left Mexico, and under the name of Dr Hoff boarded a ship coming through the Panama Canal bringing Jewish Refugees to Australia. Aboard this ship was a young woman, later identified as Rebecca Rosen.
REBECCA ROSEN, age about 22 born Leipzig, Germany. Father Jewish, mother Christian. Father, Gershon Rosen, theatrical producer, mother second-rate actress. Subject was reared by father’s Orthodox Jewish parents. Father exposed as high-ranking undercover Communist with suppression of German Communist Party 1933, and fatally shot while resisting arrest. Subject suspected as involved in father’s activities and imprisoned. She spent five years in various corrective institutions in Germany. At length her escape and flight from Germany were engineered by Communists, under whose direction she travelled through Europe and to Middle East in manner similar to that of Kaufmann, her job chiefly to make things easier for her superiors by seducing officials. Became known in dossiers of various Intelligence Bureaux as Red Rifkah. Red-haired, very beautiful, and possessed of innocent-seeming girlish charm. Joined Kaufmann on voyage from Central America to Australia.
With connivance of Australian Communist Party, many members of which are Jewish and former refugees, these agents formed a team for the establishment of Communist Cells in remote parts of the Australian Continent, as Kaufmann had done in South America, The names and histories of their associates in this apparatus are also known.
Jeremy had been sitting with the screed on his knee for some twenty minutes, occasionally taking a sip of brandy and reading the thing again, but mostly staring blankly at his bookshelves — when the latch of the outside front door clicked, followed by light steps in the passage. His eyes turned to the open doorway of his den, which in a moment framed Alfie, clad in pyjamas and blue silk dressing-gown. She stopped, meeting the grey stare. He did not speak. She swallowed, muttered, ‘I had to come, Jeremy.’
Still he didn’t speak. The black eyes dropped to the paper on his knee. ‘You’ve read it?’
His face remained as stony. She began to enter slowly, saying, ‘I want to help you, Jeremy.’
She stood before him. He picked up the script and handed it to her, still looking into her eyes. The eyes began to swim. She mumbled again, ‘I want to help you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said coldly.
She asked, ‘May I sit down?’
He nodded, waved to the other chair, but did not rise.
‘May I have a drink?’
Now he rose and got another glass. ‘Brandy do you?’ he asked.
‘I always drink brandy now . . . please, more than that. I’m pretty used to it now. Drink a fair amount down there. One needs it.’
As he added water to her stiff drink he asked, ‘Why?’
‘Why do you drink brandy?’
‘“The subtle alchemist”, I think I told you once.’
‘Well, I do for the same reason.’ She tossed it off at a gulp.
‘I thought you’d be happy . . . with your fame . . . and your fine-feathered friends.’
‘But not you. Give me another.’
He gave her a small one, ignored her plea for more. She tossed it off as quickly as the other. She said, ‘You’re still not happy, either.’
‘Says who?’
‘It’s plain to see. I was told you were in love, too.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘A journalist never tells. Please, another drink . . . I can take it.’
He poured her a small one. She swigged it at once again.
‘You haven’t learnt to drink it.’
‘I’ll go easy now. I only wanted to . . . to . . .’
‘What?’
‘To get the courage to . . . to beard the lion in his den.’ She giggled.
He poured for her again. This time she sipped. He sipped. They sat in silence for a long while, she staring at him, he out through the door. At last she asked, ‘What’re you going to do about these Jews now?’
‘What d’you mean now?’
‘Since you’ve found out what they are.’
‘I’ve known all along.’
‘That they’re Communists?’
‘That they’re Refugees.’
She finished her glass, and when he made no move to replenish it, boldly reached for the bottle and helped herself. He merely watched. She drank again, but more sparingly. She said, leaning forward, ‘Jeremy, darling . . . I told you I’d come to help you.’ He nodded, sipped his own drink. ‘Well, that’s true. When this thing’s published, I want you to be in the clear.’
‘Who’s going to publish it?’
‘Australia Free of course.’
‘What about libel?’
‘They haven’t a leg to stand on. This stuff is from the Commonwealth Investigation Service.’
‘What’re you doing with it?’
‘The paper got it somehow. I don’t know. It was shown to me because you were mentioned.’
‘I’m not mentioned there.’
‘That’s only what I copied about these people . . . for you. It’s a big thing. It involves the whole Communist plot. When I saw it I was shocked. I asked them not to publish it, till I’d warned you.’
‘What difference will warning me make, if they’re going to publish it?’
‘You could get from under.’ She drank again.
‘From under what?’
‘Suspicion that you’re implicated with these people.’
He drank, too. ‘But I am. They’re my guests.’
‘They’re notorious Communists, known to be here for subversive reasons.’
‘They’re here because I asked them. I met them at the Races.’
‘And they’ve been here ever since?’ The black eyes flashed. She swigged, declared, ‘Then it is true!’
‘What?’
‘That you’re in love with the girl.’
He went very red and swallowed on it, but answered in his usual calm way, ‘Well, what business is that of yours . . . or your lousy Fascist rag?’
She cried, ‘They’ve been getting at you, all right!’ She stared. ‘I didn’t think you’d ever make a fool of yourself . . . over a woman . . . oooooh!’ Her face crumpled, eyes filled. She dropped her head while searching for a handkerchief. He made no move to help. She wiped her eyes on the lapel of her gown, then shoved her glass out for refilling.
‘Sure you can take it?’ he asked.
‘Only one . . . but make it a big strong one, to last.’ Taking the drink, she sipped, sniffled, sighed: ‘I’ve expected such great things of you. Now’s the time for the great things. And . . . and . . . Oh, I just can’t believe it!’
‘What?’
‘That this girl . . . this . . . this foreign woman . . . this . . . this Red Rifkah, a . . . a Communist Jew-whore . . . could steal your great strength from you . . . like
Samson and Delilah.’
She sniffed back more tears. ‘Now’s the time Australians’re becoming conscious of themselves . . . their country . . . their nationhood. But the resurgence will have to be fought for. There are the enemies. Not only the British Raj now. There’s internationalism . . . International Communism. Already the Comms’re getting into it . . . into our nationalism, I mean. They’re sponsoring national literature . . . have a Book Society and prizes . . . have formed Eureka Youth . . . are going round the country singing the ballads of the pioneering days, marching with the Five-starred Flag . . .’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘You know very well why they’re doing it. There’s only one nation and one flag for them. The Hammer and Sickle’d be put in the corner of the flag to replace the Union Jack . . .’
‘What would your crowd put in . . . the Swastika?’
She drank again, looked like swigging, but stopped when he said, ‘Go easy.’
She looked at him fiercely. ‘That’s the sort of thing you could stop. It’s what’s wrong with the Movement, what’s spoiling it. The Chief’s a great man . . . a genius . . . but . . . but he’s not truly Australian . . . I mean like you. None of us are. That’s why we need you. I keep telling the others about you . . . keep saying: “Wait till you hear Jeremy Delacy!” Even the Leader. He doesn’t know the real Australia. He’s a scholar . . . a bookman. It’s theory with him . . . and most of them. What we want’s not politicians, but fighters . . . like you . . . like you fighting Vaiseys, Cobbity and Co., even the lousy Knowleses. It’s you we want, Jeremy . . . you with your power . . . your manhood . . . your honesty . . . your vast love of our vast and lovely land . . . Oh, Jeremy!’ Again the eyes swam, and the head drooped, and there was a searching for hanky. This time he produced his own handkerchief. She would have taken his hand with it; but he snatched it away.
Now she looked fierce again. ‘And I come back here and find you throwing your life away on an alien whore . . . a Communist decoy-woman . . . a bloody Jewess!’
‘Steady,’ he murmured.
She tossed off the drink. They stared at each other for a moment. Suddenly she burst out, ‘What’re you going to do, Jeremy?’
He answered slowly, ‘Right now, my dear, I’m going to ask you to go back to bed.’
She gaped. He rose. She sprang up and seized him. ‘No, Jeremy . . . no . . . you’ve got to listen . . .’
He pulled her arms from his shoulders, held her off, saying, ‘You’re very tired . . . and you’ve had too much to drink. Beddo!’
She struggled to free her hands. ‘No . . . no . . . I’m determined to have this out!’
‘We’ve had it out, my dear . . . as far as I’m concerned.’
‘You mean you’re going to keep this Jew-bitch here . . . and ruin your reputation as an Australian . . . as a man . . . as a man of dignity?’
Gently he was pushing her back towards the door. ‘I mean I’m going to do exactly what I think proper according to my own ideas . . . without interference from anyone.’
She shrieked, ‘Except Communists . . . and Jews!’ She wrenched free.
He was breathing heavily now. She tried the little-girl tactic: ‘Jeremy . . . Jeremy . . . I want your help, too . . . I want . . .’
He growled, ‘What you want’s your behind slapped . . . and if you don’t go, I’ll call Nan over to make you!’
She shrieked again, ‘Nan . . . Nan . . . a black woman . . . and a Jewess! What kind of man are you, Jeremy Delacy?’
‘You’ve been talking as if you knew.’
She was panting: ‘I thought I knew . . . the man I could have made the Greatest of this Nation . . .’
‘You drink your brandy too quickly . . .’
He had her out in the passage, backing to the front door.
She kept on: ‘The man I could have made . . . with my own youth and beauty . . . but it’s . . . it’s . . . but even if I can’t make you what you ought to be . . . no, I’ll never let that ginger Jew-whore ruin you . . . no, never, never, never . . . Oh, Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, darling . . . don’t send me away!’ Her voice rose to a scream.
They were at the front door. He got it open. She was sobbing wildly now. He shoved her out, puffing, ‘Get a good night’s sleep . . .’ and shut the door in her straining face, snibbed the lock.
She hammered on it. ‘Jeremy . . . Jeremy . . . Jeremy!’
The lights in the annexe snapped off. She fell against the door, weeping. ‘Oh, oh, oh, oooooooh!’
Igulgul was in the trees, laughing, winking. She turned from the glare, whimpering, staggered drunkenly, went reeling across the yard towards the black and white bulk of the house.
Out of the shadows at the eastern end of the annexe another shadow came flitting, to stop at the glitter of the fluted glass of Jeremy’s bedroom window. A dark hand knocked gently. A soft voice called, ‘I get you drink o’ tea, Mullaka?’
The answer came muffled, ‘Okay, dear.’
Nan turned away and went hurrying across the yard, into the kitchen, to put on lights and stir up the fire, draw hot water and put on the kettle. Having got things under way, she stole through the dining-room and peeped into the lounge. Alfie was in an armchair, under a standard lamp, with a brandy bottle and a glass on a small table beside her. Nanago returned to the kitchen. She had the tea made and was placing the pot on the tray, when the screen-door to the dining-room burst open and Alfie entered. They stared hard at each other for a moment. Then Nan smiled. ‘You like cup o’ tea?’
Alfie blinked at the tray. ‘What you makin’ tea thish time night for?’
‘Mullaka like cup o’ tea time he not sleep good.’
‘How you know he’s not sleepin’ good?’
‘I see light.’
‘You were over there lishtenin’, weren’ you?’ Nan nodded amiably. Alfie exhaled heavily, brandily: ‘Ahhh . . . lubra lookin’ for tracks of other lubra . . . well, I’m not a lubra, see!’ She wheeled about, went back through the swing-door.
Nan raised her heavy brows, then picked up the tray and went out.
From sitting brooding for some twenty minutes, with consumption of three stiff brandies and progressive rumpling of black brows, Alfie suddenly rose, snapping ‘Yes . . . I will too!’ She poured herself another brandy, downed it at a gulp, then started for the stairs. She stumbled on the first step, but was careful thereafter, deliberate, holding the rail. She was breathing heavily, through her nose, drunk, but with an occasional snort that betrayed deep anger. To the top, and round, swaying somewhat, bumping the walls, but being very careful, to Rifkah’s room. She took a good look at it, as if to be certain where she was, then jerked the screen-door open, letting it bang shut with its spring, as she groped for the light-switch. The light flashed on, leaving her blinking, swaying.
Rifkah woke at once, blinking like a startled child, raised on an elbow. Then as the dark-haired figure approached the bed, she sat up quickly, asking, ‘Vot is matter?’
Alfie, standing beside the bed, folded her arms, her red lips, then ground out, ‘S’you’t’s matter here, shister . . . get up!’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘Oh, yes you do . . . Red Rifkah!’
Rifkah stiffened, swung feet to floor, while not taking her wide eyes from the black ones goggling at her. She reached blindly for the dressing-gown folded over the back of the chair beside the bed. Alfie snatched it away. ‘Leave that ’lone. Get yo’ clothesh on.’
Rifkah rose, looked at the dark screen-door, muttered, ‘It is late night . . .’
‘Get yo’ clothesh on, Jew-girl. Yo’ goin’ out thish housh tonight.’
‘You are drunk.’
‘I’ll give you drunk you don’ do wha’ I tell you . . . you stinkin’ bloody Jew-whore!’
‘I vill call for help if you do not go.’
‘No one’s goin’ help you here . . . dirty Jewish proshtute. They know ’bout you now . . . wha’ you been, wha’ you here for
. . . an’ next thing police’ll be here to pick you up an’ chuck you out thish decent clean lovely country you preten’ you love . . . you . . .’ The drunken voice rose high ‘. . . you Jew Comm’nist lyin’ whore of a bitch . . . No you don’!’
Rifkah tried to slip to the door. Alfied pounced on her, with red claws extended. Rifkah screamed. ‘Scream, yo’ red bitch!’ screamed Alfie, slashing with one claw, grabbing at the red hair with the other. Rifkah fought back. Shrilling and wrestling, they fell over the chair, tangled on the floor. Alfie getting on top, hooked the claws into the distorted face beneath her, dripping her streaming bloody spittal onto it, was getting a knee into the soft belly — when her own dark mop was jerked up and back, and she found herself staring up into the dark distorted face of Nanago. She tried to turn on Nan. But male hands seized her, dragged her to her feet. Her rolling eyes looked into the grim face of Fergus. She tried it on him, but only to get her hands locked behind her, to be spun round, and rushed to the door and out.
Kurt and Prindy were at the door. They gave way, then rushed into the room.
Nan took Rifkah in her arms, kneeling beside her, stroking her hair, crooning to her in her wild-eyed sobbing distress, ‘All right now . . . all right now . . . she on’y drunk, dat one. De cat, she scratch you deep, but. Come on. Get up. I wash you face. We get Mullaka put you somesing make better. Come on, my little girl. Den I mek you nice cup o’ tea.’
Jeremy came to them in the bathroom, asking, ‘Everything in order?’
Nan answered, ‘Yas, Mullaka . . . want some medicine for scratch.’
Rifkah turned from him with a sob. He patted her shoulder. Nan said, ‘Dere, now, you see. Mullaka don’ tek notice dat one. I know. I been talk-about long o’ him. Come on, now . . . you stop crying.’
Jeremy said, ‘Don’t wash the wounds, Nan. It’ll spoil natural healing. I’ll get some Sulphanilamide.’
‘Got ’o keep dat pretty face,’ said Nan. Rifkah buried her head in the ready breast.
In Alfie’s room there were more tears, as Fergus, looking not a bit interested in the pretty things revealed, pulled off her pyjamas and dressed her in whatever he could lay hands on, while she lay sobbing on the bed. He shoved her shoes on, bundled her remaining clothes into her suitcase, then quite roughly dragged her to her feet and forced her to come out of the room with him. Down in the lounge he left her while he went to pack his own bag. When he came back, she was stretched out in an armchair, snoring. He slapped her awake, got her to her feet, marched her out into the darkness.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 153