Jeremy asked, ‘What’s that mean?’
‘You’re coming with us.’ The guard was standing by.
‘Like this?’ asked Jeremy. He was in pyjamas, as he had been for weeks.
‘You’ll be provided with suitable clothing.’
Jeremy moved towards the locker. ‘I’ve got some books and papers in there.’
‘Leave them.’
Jeremy reddened, heaved a bit for breath, then said, ‘I’d like to take leave of my friend, Mrs Candlemas.’
‘You’ll come with us without delay.’
Jeremy’s voice, always hoarse these days, only sounded a little rougher: ‘You’ll find those notes of mine useful.’
Inspector Ballywick’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘Indeed? I understood you were studying veterinary science.’
‘Yes . . . pigs.’ Jeremy set out for the open door, at which the guard stood waiting.
No Alfie out in the corridor. They headed the other way, to a room at the end, where Jeremy was set to changing into an outfit of slops. Thus attired, he was marched to an elevator. As soon as they entered, Ballywick took out handcuffs and reached for Jeremy’s right hand, cuffed it, and then his own left. Thus they descended, to come out of the hospital by a discreet back door.
A large black car was waiting, with a driver who wore the uniform of what was called the Commonwealth Peace Force, and number-plates that described it as being in the service of the Common Weal.
Away and through the tangle of masonry and frenetic human movement that had supplanted the groves of blue-gum and wattle and the little bands of corroboreeing freemen who had counted time not in pence but in the flowering and fruiting of trees and the spells in the spirit between incarnations. Jeremy may have been visualising the vanished scene, the way he looked out blank-faced on what stood for Human Progress.
Soon it was evident that once again they were on their way out to that replica of Dartmoor Jail standing amidst the sandhills near where Captain Cook started it all in the name of His Britannic Majesty, George III. Perhaps the mass of stone stood as something in the way of a monument to what it all really meant.
Again through those great doors that clanged shut on what would generally be opined the first attribute of the Nation sprung from Cook’s bit of petty thieving that Sunday, April 29, 1770, for the Royal Crook who employed him — Freedom. Again through the rigmarole of being signed over like other people’s property, then marched away by a warder with a face like a pig, again into that section reserved for prisoners of the King of England as deputised by Ministers of the Commonwealth of Australia rather than of this State called by James Cook, New South Wales, no doubt because of the collieries and miners’ hovels he dreamt would soon be standing smoking on its dreaming hills. Was Jeremy thinking such things as he trudged along with his porcine keeper? Or was he thinking: how many Departments of Administration are there in Hell, how many Deputies to His Satanic Majesty? Or: is this pig in the peaked cap carrying Trichinella spiralis in his fat flesh?
The block to which he was taken was uproarious with guttural voices raised in talk and song. A musical people, the Germans. It was said that each of the centres, now known to be established throughout the German-controlled regions of Europe for the systematic extermination of all Jews laid hands on, had its Liedertafel, so that the exterminators might indulge their simple love of music out of hours of duty.
The pig-warder halted Jeremy before a cell of which the barred door was crowded with fresh-complexioned blue-eyed rather handsome faces. He unlocked the door, shoved Jeremy in.
There were five men in the cell, young or youngish. They surrounded Jeremy, asking eager questions in German. He replied, ‘I don’t understand German.’
One asked, ‘Vot your nation ist, Meinherr?’
‘Australia.’
The blue eyes popped and stared. One ventured: ‘Vy for internment you are, yes, ven Awstrahlien you are, no?’
Jeremy shrugged. ‘I guess it’s because I really am, as you say, Awstrahlien.’
Fair brows rumpled in puzzlement. Then blue eyes exchanged doubtful glances. They asked no more questions. Nevertheless, it was with extreme politeness that they showed him the vacant bunk, even with the suggestion, that as he was an old man and disabled with that left arm, he choose whichever one he liked.
It was difficult to imagine that such as these, who would behave with courtesy and kindness so spontaneously, should become as barbarous as the news showed their nation to be these days. That these were no different from the rest of their countrymen was evident from their gloating over the news coming in of the success of the German soldiery in their rape of innocent neutral Norway. Either as right, privilege, or by means of bribery, every edition of every newspaper was brought in to them. The only prohibition on them was use of radios, perhaps because it was feared they might call in paratroopers from twelve thousand miles away to free them. But the newspapers were enough to keep the place resonant with their Hoch, hoch, hoching and their singing of Horst Wessel and Deutschland Uber Alles.
Those with Jeremy let him have their papers, but were too polite to discuss the good news with him.
VI
Those Happy Huns were soon gone — to sing out the rest of their conviction that the Fatherland truly was Above All, behind barbed wire. Their places were taken by a less numerous and mostly quite unexuberant bunch of what were described as Suspected Enemy aliens. These people called themselves Czechoslavs, Austrians, Hungarians, Letts, Finns, Switzers, with anything but sympathy for the German cause, and well might have been telling the truth, the surly way they took their confinement.
For reasons best known to the authorities, Jeremy was not locked up with these new prisoners, although included with them at exercise. With the clearing of the place of the happy ones, he had been moved to a small cell and left to himself. He was also left to himself in the exercise yard, but now by his fellow prisoners, who since he was not a foreigner, treated him like one. He was not alone in this respect, there being a number of young Australians awaiting Special Court for failure to comply with the demands of the National Register of Manpower, under which they were liable to compulsory military service at home. Some of these were just artful dodgers of any kind of authority, but a goodly number genuine haters of war and bureaucracy. There was no difficulty in learning their business, because their exercise was mainly vociferation. Obviously they regarded Jeremy as a spy. Just as obviously he was unconcerned about their attitude, using all time allowed for exercise for that purpose, so that he returned to his cell always exhausted.
He was comfortable enough in his small cell, thanks to Mr Melrose, who saw to it that he had better clothes and bedding and food than was issued, and newspapers and books. He never got back his notes on Diseases of Pigs. Mr Melrose said that he had learnt that these had been confiscated under suspicion that the purpose of the study might be sabotage of the pig-raising industry of the Nation. He stopped Jeremy from laughing over it, declaring, ‘You must learn to regard the official mind objectively. It’s that you’re up against. If you want the acquittal I’m sure I can get you with my strategy, you must accede to any suspicion levelled at you as quite properly conceived, and answer it with due respect to the powers of your accusers, even while denying guilt according to the law. In short, old man, Don’t Give Cheek. You are dealing with power where it is valued for its own sake. Please, Mr Delacy, mark my words.’
Through the agency of Mr Melrose, he was able to keep in much closer contact with Lily Lagoons than would have been possible through communication properly controlled by prison rules. All was well at home. Two matters of great importance had been attended to satisfactorily: these the re-registration of leaseholds and of permits to keep Aborigines on the place. Fergus Ferris had done this with Power of Attorney vested in him for this very purpose. Jeremy had asked Melrose to call on him as the one truly intelligent person in the country to be relied on in the circumstances. It seemed a strange choice to make,
in view of Fergus’s poor showing of responsibility in their early dealings. However, Fergus turned up trumps. As he reported frankly to Jeremy in communication smuggled in by Melrose, the commission suited him well. Because he was not doing so good in his aviation business, since the Air Force had established a base at Palmeston and for sheer practice flying were depriving him of official flights that had meant much to him, he needed to watch expenses. Therefore, taking advantage of Jeremy’s need of him, he had established himself at Lily Lagoons, at once to save board and lodging and the too-ready availability of convivial companionship, and to be nearer the points that favoured him in bush-flying. In his droll way, he said he was Earning his Oats by keeping the racing team up to training for next Beatrice River Races. Everybody was expecting him home for the Races, he said, and that included Rifkah and Prindy, still at Leopold Mission and happy enough and intending to be over for the festival. A report of special interest concerned a visit to Lily Lagoons by Inspector Ballywick, with a warrant of search. Fergus himself had transported the Inspector, picking him up at Boulder Creek, where he had left the mail plane. So secret had Ballywick made his mission that he had never discovered his, Fergus’s connexion with the place. He had gone through all of Jeremy’s books and papers and removed some of the latter, most of which concerned animal diseases. Fergus had been able to compile a list of all that was removed. Apparently no one in the country, except those at Lily Lagoons, knew that the man had been there. Fergus had taken him back to meet the plane at the Boulder. The only indication to what Fergus called The Wurruld that anything untoward was happening was the sudden descent of troops from Palmeston to transfer the big military radio from Lily Lagoons to Beatrice Homestead. It had been pretty well established in gossip circles that Jeremy was away on secret military service for his patron, General Esk, and was virtually Officer Commanding Northern Force. Then came the nationwide news that General Esk had resigned as C-in-C and gone back to England. Next it was announced officially that OC Northern was Brigadier Chivvy, formerly merely Commandant of the Palmeston Garrison. The Finnucane of the Finnucanes was fairly hopping with thwarted curiosity. It was rather a strain standing up to the quizzing, Fergus wrote, especially when it was plied with such sublety and so much free grog. He would be glad when Jeremy was back to relieve him of it, even if it did mean his having to go camp elsewhere, say with Ali Barba.
Thus for several more weeks.
Then suddenly this special department of the prison filled again with joyous Germans. These were the last permitted liberty, because of apparent harmlessness. Amongst them were some even Australian born and bred. This was the result of Hitler’s Blitzkrieg, whereby, in a matter of hours, simply by again flouting international convention and invading the innocent neutral countries of Holland and Belgium, the Germans were able to by-pass the impregnable Maginot Line built up over years to keep them out of France, and with their Panzers roll into that country practically unhindered. The newcomers arrived shouting, Nacht Paris!
Jeremy learnt what the shouting meant from one of the new men, who was locked up with him. A tall handsome man he was, in early forties, so far from being downcast by having the barred door shut on him, that immediately he grasped Jeremy’s hand and laughingly greeted him in German. When he got over his surprise in finding that Jeremy didn’t understand him, he introduced himself as Bruno Schroeder, better known to his Australian friends as ‘Browny’. He was Australian himself, ‘A Dinky-di Aussie,’ as he put it. On hearing Jeremy’s name he shook hands again, saying that he had read his articles in Australia Free, that in fact he had himself been a member of the Free Australia Movement. Laughing, he said he had dropped out of the Movement when it took to supporting Hitler. He roared over that, confessing that, like many another, he had been taken in by the Jewish-Communist lie that Hitler was a lunatic. He said, ‘They said that of Napoleon . . . and afterwards hailed him as a genius. But I tell you, Napoleon’s genius was nothing compared with this man Hitler’s. We’ll be in Paris in a week.’ He then explained that the cry, Nacht Paris had been the toast of every German regiment since the days of the Franco-Prussian War.
He went on excitedly: ‘That’s what brought me here. Although I’m Aussie born, I served in the German Army in the Last Turn-out. We used to toast it then . . . Nacht Paris! Lately I’ve been hearing it in broadcasts from Germany . . . and now that German victory’s certain, it’s proved too much for me. I couldn’t face my Australian and British friends without embarrassment. So I asked the Big Boys I’ve always been in with to intern me.’ He laughed: ‘Not as easy as it might sound. I belong to a rich and internationally famous family. The Big Boys didn’t like it. There’s a lot of riff-raff in the internment camps. Besides, I have a young family of my own.’ He laughed again. Just then he was laughing most of the while, so happy was he. ‘I had to tell ’em I’m a dangerous man to have at large . . . potential number-one saboteur. Of course you know Schroeders is a great chemical concern, being a chemist yourself. I’m a trained chemist, too. I told ’em how I could carry out first-class sabotage with bits of things out of the kitchen and the bathroom medicine cupboard . . . a bit of sugar and some throat tablets, a pinch of Condy’s and an ounce of glycerine . . . anything from sawdust to soap. They only laughed and slapped me on the back, saying they knew I’d never do anything like that.’
Dryly, if hoarsely, Jeremy asked, ‘Would you?’
‘Of course not! Aren’t I a Dinky-di Aussie? Would I want to hurt my own country?’
‘But you fought against it before. How’d that come about, when you say you were born and bred here?’
‘I’ll explain that later. We’ve plenty of time to talk. I want to get things organised here. By the way . . . my Aussie friends call me Browny. I’d like you to . . . and I’d like to call you Jerry . . . ha, ha . . . I supposed you feel more like calling me Jerry, eh? But, to tell the truth, I find my German friends rather stuffy. That’s why I asked not to be put in with’em. I don’t want to talk war. The damn thing’s nearly over. I’d rather talk chemistry. Suit you?’
‘My word! How are you on the new Physical Chemistry. I’m a bit out of date on that.’
‘Right up my alley, mate! Speaking of Phys. Chem . . . our Company’s very interested in that Tantalium of yours. We’ve found traces of radioactivity in the ore.’
Jeremy looked surprised. ‘What do you know about my ore?’
‘We process for Krupp’s.’
‘I dropped Krupp’s long ago.’
‘I know. But it won’t be wanted for war soon. I’d like to research the stuff here . . . with you. Radioactive materials are going to be in great demand. Our German scientists are on the eve of harnessing nuclear energy, do you know?’
Schroeder was most up to date in his chemical knowledge, and eager to share it. He even paid warders to procure him chalk and ignore the fact that he made blackboards of the tarred lower halfs of the cell walls. He said, ‘You can’t do justice to chemical formulae, except on a blackboard.’ As it would take another coat of tar to erase his merely wiped-off masses of hieroglyphs, it would be interesting to know what subsequent inmates made of them, and even more the effect on the suspicious authorities. When they moved to the spacious and cosy quarters that Schroeder boasted those he was Well In With would soon see provided for them, perhaps Inspector Ballywick moved straight in after them with a cypher expert.
Schroeder reckoned it would be about a month before capitulation of the Allies would effect their release. Optimist though he might seem, he certainly had sound knowledge of what was taking place in Europe, as evidenced in the tardy revelation of the truth of things in the news. Like those other Happy Huns, Schroeder had all the papers delivered at the cell-door. Along with them also came the best of food, and even a little beer and wine, all of which Browny shared equally with his cobber, Jerry. The good things were sent in by Schroeder’s wife, Brünnehilde, or Browny F as he called her. Jeremy would be meeting Browny F, the Female of the Species, as Browny
M explained — ‘And, oh boy, oh boy, what an F of the S is she!’ — as soon as they had accommodation fit to receive her. Then, said he, and broke into song in a very pleasant tenor, to explain the prospect: ‘All through the night, you will hear two Brown Birds loving . . . ha, ha, ho!’ He said, ‘Of course you’ll be sharing the new quarters. with me. I’ll fix that . . . just the two of us . . . with Browny F along to brighten things up occasionally. Although she’s as German as Brünnehilde the Valkyrie, there’s nothing stuffy about my Brown Bird . . . unless, well . . . ho, ho, ho! But speaking of German stuffiness, I must tell you the yarn about the first Aussie I met after being a German by compulsion from August 1914 to November 1918, and how proud it made me feel to know I was an Aussie, too.’
The man’s story of that period of his career was to the effect that, after boyhood in Australia, where his father represented the Schroeder Concern, he had been sent to Germany, for tertiary education and induction into the firm as both executive and technician, such being the family tradition. When the war broke out, as an Australian, he said, ‘Naturally I wanted to get stuck into it. Never thought about Australia coming in. We Aussies are naturally warlike people, like the Germans. I only thought about fighting the Frogs and the Poms. Matter of fact, I don’t think the Dinkum Aussies of the AIF gave two hoots in hell who they were fighting, so long as they got stuck into it. That’s the way I felt about it. And I’ll tell you this . . . if I wasn’t sure Germany was going to win this Turn-out, I’d offer my services to the Second AIF.’ He laughed. ‘Wonder how they’d feel about taking someone who’d been an officer on the other side before . . . even if he could claim to be a native son?’
Jeremy said dryly, ‘I understand they’ve taken quite a number of men who held German commissions like you . . . and were German born.’
Schroeder grinned: ‘Jews, eh?’ Then he added: ‘They won’t be much good to ’em.’
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