Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  In the same tone Jeremy said, ‘There were some very good Jewish officers in the First AIF, the best of them, Monash, of course . . . finally considered the best of all the Allied officers and the man who beat Hindenberg and finished the war.’

  ‘It was the Communists who beat us, old man . . . Jewish Communists.’ Schroeder laughed. ‘That’s probably how Monash cashed in . . . he knew what was going on inside.’ When Jeremy went red, Browny M clapped him on the shoulder. ‘No offence, Dig. I know how you feel about Jews. We’ve all got our own opinions . . . and cobbers like us mustn’t fall out over ours. Let me tell you about that first Aussie I met after the war . . .’

  It was at Cologne, he said: ‘I was still in uniform . . . as most of us were, because we couldn’t get civvies. I happened to come down to the river one day to take the ferry . . . and just missed it by a whisker. You know how strict Germans are about regulations. Gangway up . . . so verboten to board . . . not like here!’ He laughed: ‘Watch any ferry at busy times here . . . and half the passengers do the long jump . . . often into the drink . . . ha, ha, ha . . . the good old careless Aussie!’

  He went on: ‘Well, there was an Army of Occupation sentry on the wharf . . . an Aussie, cocked hat and all . . . rifle and bayonet. There was also another passenger just missed, ahead of me, an old woman with bundles. When the Aussie saw the man at the gangway wave the old woman off because the whistle had blown, he yelled, “Hey . . . fair go!” Of course they only stared at him. But that was too much for him. Seeing me near him, he said, “Here, Jerry, grab this,” and tossed me the rifle. Then he rushes to the boat, shoves the gangway back in place, and says to the old woman, “Go on, Auntie . . . go for your life.” Ha, ha, ho, ho! You should’ve seen those Jerries’ faces! Apart from breaking the Verboten, there was a sentry leaving his post, and maybe most astonishing of all, shoving his arms into the hands of a disarmed enemy . . . and a common soldier doing it to an officer! But to me it was so Dinky-di Aussie that I roared with laughter. When he came back for his rifle he growled at me, “What’s so bloody funny?” I explained . . . spent hours yarning with him. When he was relieved, we went off together to a boozer . . . and boozed and talked Australia till we finished up crying in each other’s arms.’

  That wasn’t the only tale or talk of Browny Schroeder’s that caused Jeremy to stare at him, surely wondering over the man’s strange duality. There could be no doubt about his Germanness. He fairly gloated over the atrocious warfare being waged in the cause of the Reich that will Live a Thousand Years, as he was fond of saying, parroting his acknowledged Führer. He whooped for joy over the reduction of the ancient, innocent, and lovely city of Rotterdam. His only excuse to Jeremy’s protests being, ‘Well, the Dutch should have come in with us in the first place. They could have been our allies. Now, for first rejecting us and then defying us, they’ll be our slaves.’ Yet this philosophy didn’t apply to the Russians, who made all this glory possible by Coming In With Us. Every German knew, Schroeder declared, that as soon as continental Europe and Britain capitulated and were ready to follow their conqueror-friends, the Sub-human Bolsheviks would be eliminated, along with the Nonhuman Jews. Jeremy said nothing to that, but seemed to be searching for some expression. Perhaps it was that one he had learnt from Kurt Hoff, the man they had castrated under the solemn edict of the Nuremberg Laws of Shame, the phrase turned into one horrible guttural word in the Germanic style of oral gymnastics — Irrenation — Nation of Lunatics!

  While the other Herrenvolk were marched off singing to await acknowledgement of the world’s homage elsewhere, Mr-Herr Schroeder remained with Jeremy, sure enough soon to be moved to much better quarters, and to take him along, too.

  The new place was situated in a block remote from all the rest. It was even a pleasant place, despite its bars. It comprised half a dozen roomy cells comparatively comfortably furnished, with its own exercise yard, which they were able to use at leisure, because they were the only occupants and while locked within the block itself were not locked in their cells. There were even decent toilet facilities. As they soon found out, it was the section that had housed condemned prisoners awaiting execution. This fact tickled Browny’s sense of humour. You could see why when, true to his prediction, his Brünnehilde came to spend a day and a night. Both said next morning that now they would be able to boast to their friends that they had slept together in a Death Cell.

  Browny F was just as unbrown as her corn-silk-haired spouse. She was very handsome, in the too-smooth-faced German woman’s way, and inclined to be naughty. She played up to Jeremy to the point of coquetry. Anyone knowing him would easily have guessed he didn’t like it. Still, he took it in good enough humour not to give offence. Doubtless, harsh experience and wise Mr Melrose had taught him that it was too dangerous to give offence to those Well In as to the ones they were Well In With. Just how Well In were this pair was revealed by the fact that, simply on Jeremy’s telling the man that he was troubled to hear from Mr Melrose that Alfie Candlemas was in the women’s section of this same jail Brünnehilde had secured her release. Brünnehilde told him that she had visited Alfie, found her deeply distressed by news that her father was at death’s door and she could not go to him, and promptly reported the matter to the right quarters. Alfie had been freed on bond put up by Brünnehilde herself, until called to trial. She had gone to Melbourne. Jeremy could hardly do other than express his gratitude.

  Brünnehilde came with the news of Alfie’s release in a particularly happy mood, not merely by reason of her charity, but because her visit coincided with the Battle of Dunkirk. She and her Bruno were convinced that Britain would capitulate in a matter of hours. She brought a radio set with her, so that they might follow the battle, Ball-for-ball, as Browny M put it in good Australian cricketing cant. They had the bilingual advantage of being able to hear the versions of both sides, the BBC’s and Radio Berlin’s. While Browny M himself took the dogged British resistance for granted and as something of a joke, his Brown Bird eventually became so exasperated as to resort to vehement German — ‘Einredung!’ she kept screeching. Browny M explained to Jeremy that the word meant Self-delusion, that his little girl, being German born, was a realist, and couldn’t see how anyone could consider themselves invincible in flight. It rather spoilt that Brown Bird’s Loving of which Bruno had spoken slyly and the pair had said they would be able to boast later as having taken place where others had had a Honeymoon with Death, because All Through The Night Browny F kept the radio playing that idiotic refrain of Englandische Einredung. She departed next morning somewhat jaded, leaving behind the radio, prison rules to the contrary in that respect notwithstanding.

  Thus were Jeremy and his Cobber Browny M able to keep up the Ball-for-ball vigil. There could be no doubt about the fantastic goings on at Dunkirk and beyond, with the versions of both sides to hear. Finally Bruno himself got exasperated, but did his shouting in good Aussie English: ‘The stupid bloody ning-nongs! Can’t they see they’re rooted? Running home in motor-launches and rowing boats! You wouldn’t read about it! The stupid bastards don’t have to surrender. They only have to capitulate. Then they can take an honourable place beside us. What’s wrong with the British? On the one hand they own up they’re effete . . . yet they listen to this bullshit of Churchill’s about fighting on the beaches, in the streets. Tell me what’s wrong with the British, Jerry . . . it beats me!’

  Jeremy said, ‘You’re not dealing with the British now . . . but with the English.’

  ‘British . . . English . . . what’s the difference?’

  ‘Enormous . . . but don’t ask me what it is . . . I don’t belong to the breed.’

  ‘Anyway . . . this dog Churchill’s not English. He’s half American, which means half mongrel!’ Browny ground his teeth over that in a very un-Australian way.

  When it was over and the BBC announced it as a Famous Victory, winding up the broadcast with the song — We are the Boys of the Bulldog Breed, who made Old England’s Fame, po
or Brownie was stricken. ‘Now we’ll have to wipe ’em out,’ he said miserably. ‘I didn’t want that to happen.’

  It was soon after Dunkirk that the war-song There’ll Always be an England was introduced. Browny heard it through once, expressed his contempt for both English sentiment and musical talent, and declared that it should be silenced whenever played, which just then was pretty often. A couple of times it came on while Browny was on the WC. Then, despite his shouting for the Damn Thing to be switched off, Jeremy even turned it up a little:

  There’ll always be an England, while there’s a country lane,

  Wherever there’s a turning wheel, afield of standing grain.

  There’ll always be an England, and England shall be free,

  If England means as much to you as England means to me.

  Jeremy’s excuse was that he wanted to get that bit about the Empire. As he said, ‘Nothing about the Commonwealth.’ It sounded reasonable.

  The Empire, too, we can depend on you.

  Freedom remains, these are the chains, nothing can break.

  There’ll always be an England, and England shall be free,

  If England means as much to you as England means to me.

  But was there need to turn up the volume? The look in Jeremy’s eye as he listened might easily suggest that he was even enjoying the idiotic song — or at any rate, the idiotic situation.

  Then Browny was made happy again, with the news that it was truly Nacht Paris. The Frogs had capitulated. The Supermen were marching through the Arc de Triomphe. He cried, ‘Gott . . . what a wonderful thing to march into a great city as a conqueror! If only I were there to share!’

  Brünnehilde was soon back, with so many good things with which to celebrate the victories that it took two warders to carry them in. Although Jeremy partook of the feast, he declined to join in the toasting, saying, ‘I don’t happen to be on the winning side.’ Challenged by Brünnehilde to declare his side, he replied with a shrug and a smile, ‘Just mine, I guess.’

  She also came with news of Bruno’s imminent release. Those he was In With had worked it out that all that was required in his case to meet National Security Regulations was his not permanently residing within one hundred miles of the sea during the duration of hostilities. What better example of the democratic flexibility of the laws of the Australian Commonwealth! To meet the conditions, Brünnehilde had bought an orchard in the Central Highlands, a beautiful and bountiful place, a bit run-down because its former owner was at the war and his wife had run off with another man, but the better for being so, since it made the purchase a bargain and would give them something to occupy themselves till the British came to their senses. Jeremy must come and stay with them as soon as free, as Alfie Candlemas would be doing also. As to getting his freedom, his cobber Browny would see what he could do to get things moving in that direction.

  A couple of days later Bruno Schroeder departed, leaving everything behind, so that Jeremy might continue to live in clover. However, the comfort lasted only a couple more days longer, perhaps because his patron had forgotten to leave some of his bounty with the jail authorities. Quite unceremoniously, Jeremy was bundled back to the old block. Still, it might have been proper contingency that was behind the move, since suddenly the place had become crowded again with entry of Italy into the war. Jeremy returned to the other block to find it uproariously Italian, but not in the happy way of its former occupants, despite the fact that Italians are also a singing people and were on the winning side. Certainly there were some shouts of Viva Mussolini! but the commonest were Bloddy Bastano! Evidently the Italians, always realists, saw no reason why they should be locked up simply through having belonged to the Australian Fascist Party, an organisation that had given them a bit of the dignity of their ancient origins to offset the humiliation of being called Dago by the low-class descendants of tribes their highly civilised ancestors had found as savages. They sounded angry almost to a man — Bloddy Bastano!

  However, Jeremy was not locked up with Italians. His cell-mates were three youngish men who were obviously Australian. Not that they declared themselves to him, nor even spoke to him except when necessary, and held their own conversations in his presence toned to the lowest possible key. He guessed that they were probably Communists, having heard on the radio that with the Fall of France, the Commonwealth Government, exercising its Punch-and-Judy powers, had declared the Party illegal and all confessing adherents of it liable to imprisonment. Apparently he had no more inclination for intercourse with them than they with him.

  He didn’t have to suffer his surly compatriots for long. One day there was Mr Melrose, to say that the Special Court would be convened this week, and taking him to the private room reserved for the purpose, finally briefing him in the conduct calculated to secure him acquittal. But perhaps even this had been fixed for him by ex-German Army Officer Bruno Schroeder in collaboration with those mysterious people he was obviously Well In With. Was it money that put Kapitan Schroeder in so powerful a position in such extraordinary circumstances? Money knows no frontiers, they say. Yet the Australians have that notorious weakness for lick-spittling foreigners of wealth or rank or note.

  Then one morning after breakfast he was informed that he was required to prepare himself for going to trial. This meant taking a shower, submitting to the prison barber, dressing in a new good-fitting suit of clothes no doubt provided by Mr Melrose. Within an hour of dressing up, he was called to the reception desk, there to meet again Inspector Ballywick, whom evidently he expected, since he seemed not to see him, but who showed a lively interest in his, Jeremy’s, appearance while the signing-over was being done. Handcuffs again, and the Black Car of the Common People. No word was exchanged between the manacled pair.

  Their destination was in the heart of the city, the great polished granite and shiny-windowed Commonwealth Office Block, the base of which is the head office of that most democratic of financial institutions in all the world, or so they say, the Commonwealth Bank of Australia. They stopped before a great doorway, above which was the insignia of the Nation: not the King’s Beasts as seen on State Government buildings, but the Kangaroo and Emu dexter and sinister of the Shield of the States atop which the Star of Hope in which the idea of True Commonwealth was conceived, the Star still preserved despite general acceptance of the fact that the brave conception resulted in bureaucratic abortion. Citizens of the Commonwealth hurrying by stared at the handcuffed man being hauled into the ostensible citadel of liberty, which looked so unlike court house or jail.

  Not so surprised was the uniformed Peace Officer on guard inside, who saluted and greeted the Inspector and accompanied him and his prisoner to the elevator, perhaps to ensure no funny business on the part of the latter. Escape would have been possible through glass swing-doors giving side entrance to the Bank. However, it would have meant taking the Inspector along, too.

  The elevator driver also saluted the Inspector, and talked to him about the weather, disregarding the prisoner. So up with a rush, to be let out somewhere on high into a cosy corridor, grey-carpeted, panelled in red Australian cedar and lined with glass welcoming-looking doors on which plain black lettering described what was behind: Attorney-General, Secretary of the Attorney-General, Ladies, Courtroom No. 1. The sort of thing one might expect in a well-ordered democracy, going to show either that the fiction of one still prevailed or a glimmer of Hope still shone in that seemingly dead Star.

  They were met by another Peace Officer, who took Jeremy off Ballywick’s hands, literally, and without recuffing him, escorted him to a room marked Private. It was a pleasant room, with nothing to show that it was used for confinement, except the fact that its glazing was reinforced with wire mesh and its good-quality furnishings anchored so as to prevent their use as weapons of assault. The door was locked on him. On the wide table was a stack of good-quality magazines and illustrated brochures, all the work of the Commonwealth Government Printer, and giving the same information, which i
n effect was what a pretty happy land was this Australia.

  Lost in a wonderland of lush forests and broad rivers, of verdant pastures dotted with fat cattle and sheep, of mines and factories whose smoking stacks seemed only to add to the purity of the blue and white above, Jeremy was roused by the unlocking of the door. It was Mr Melrose, just popping in to say all was well and that they would be in court in half an hour and, ‘Remember . . . don’t argue. Leave all that to me.’

  In half an hour the Peace Officer came. They went to Courtroom No. 2. It was a chamber not much bigger than a substantial drawing-room, into which it might easily have been turned by rearrangement of the furnishings. The Bench was merely a long table with three chairs, the middle one taller backed than the others and set beneath the Commonwealth Coat of Arms.

  Alfie was there already, seated at a table with Mr Melrose, who now looked more imposing in wig and gown. At another table were the Prosecution, two gentlemen wigged and gowned and Inspector Ballywick. In one of the comfortable chairs lined up behind, and adding just the right bit of colour to the place with the imitation violets encrusting her small hat, sat Alfie’s former servant, Mrs Marsh. Jeremy was handed over yet again, to Mr Melrose. He nodded to Alfie, murmuring, ‘Hello.’ She merely nodded in reply, but eyed him searchingly. A very different Alfie. Evidently she had quite recovered her health, was even plump. However that elfin look was gone, to be replaced by something still impish but perhaps cruelly so. Her black eyes, usually so frankly wide before, now had little wrinkles at the corners as if from being narrowed too often in such a look of suspicious quizzing as she gave Jeremy, and her full childish mouth had become tighter.

  Jeremy, seated, leaned across Mr Melrose to ask her, ‘How’s your father?’

  Alfie answered in a flat tone, ‘Dead.’

  Jeremy swallowed, momentarily at a loss for certain by the shortness of the reply. Then he said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’