‘Did your mother know?’
He shakes his head. ‘But she must have sensed something was wrong, because I barely talked to my father again after that. She never even asked me why.’ He looks at me. ‘She was quite pathetic, my mother, I am ashamed to say.’
I can scarcely believe I have so misjudged this man who had tried to protect my mother, his friend.
‘Are you my sister?’ He looks at me.
So, he had also been wondering, but for much longer than me. I put my hand on his forearm.
‘No, I am not your half-sister. My father was my mother’s boyfriend. The German man.’
‘Oh.’ He looks again at the floor. ‘Yes.’
I cannot tell if he is relieved or not.
He opens his mouth to speak, but then shuts it as he did at the start of our conversation.
I tap my hand on my wrist. ‘I’d better be getting back. I’ve left Ellie alone at home.’
‘Yes. You go. Thank you for coming to see me.’
‘Thank you for the missing doll. Nina had given the rest of it to me as a girl and I’d always wondered where that piece was. It’s Ellie’s now, the matryoshka. I’ll let Helena know it’s all back together.’
I am at the door. ‘Does she know you knew? That you saw?’
He shakes his head.
‘Do you want me to tell her?’
‘If you like. Tell her I am sorry.’
Abdhul’s immigration interview date is approaching and, with Abdhul’s permission, I write a letter to the immigration minister, providing Abdhul’s name and boat number, which seems key to how refugees who arrived by boat are identified. The notion reminds me of the tattooed numbers on the arms of Holocaust survivors. I retell his story then provide a United Nations statistic from a recent report I find online, which states that in 2014, 3699 civilians have died in Afghanistan due to the war with the Taliban. More than 6849 civilians have been injured. Using my maiden name to sign, I write:
According to the UN, this is the highest number of deaths and casualties recorded in Afghanistan in a single year. This fact alone, Minister, highlights the ongoing risks for asylum seekers like Abdhul being returned to countries such as Afghanistan.
Please, Minister, I appeal to you not to send him ‘home’. He is now a family friend and is making a valuable contribution to this country, just as my mother, Dr Helena Barsova, an award-winning cardiac surgeon in Sydney, who arrived in Australia as a refugee, and my father, a talented cabinet maker, also a former refugee, have done.
Yours sincerely
Dr Sara Barsova
I find myself staring at the picture of the burnt-out lot across the road, the remains of the dwelling where Reginald Forster died and where Michael, his son, rebuilt the house for himself and his ‘pathetic’ mother. I put some homemade chocolate biscuits on a plate, take the photograph from the wall, wipe the dust from the top of the frame, and cross the street, leaving Ellie briefly alone again, safely in front of the television.
I hand Michael the framed picture and he stares at it.
‘I’m not sure if you might want this. I mean, you rebuilt your home from the ruins.’ I point to the burnt-out shell. ‘That was quite an achievement. I guess that’s a happy ending, of sorts.’
He holds the image, apparently lost in it. ‘There are no happy endings.’
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard a bleaker statement.
‘Sorry.’ I’ve overstepped the mark. His father died in this ruin, I remind myself. For all I know his remains are in the picture somewhere.
‘You got out in time. You and your mum.’ I offer a small smile, which he doesn’t return.
‘Yes.’ He looks me in the eye. ‘We got out.’
I cannot bring myself to say that I am sorry about his father. It is not what I feel. I turn to go, then remember the biscuits, which I give to him.
‘I baked them this morning,’ I say.
‘I locked the door so my father couldn’t get out.’
I face him again, unsure I’ve heard correctly. ‘Pardon?’
He is still immersed in the photograph.
‘After what he did. I locked the door. He did not deserve to live,’ he says.
I don’t want to hear this. ‘Oh God.’
‘I told Mum I had to go back inside because Dad was still there, getting money from the safe, which he was, but I didn’t help get him out. I hit him hard, then locked the door behind me. I told Mum the flames were too bad to save him.’
Finally, he looks up. He shows me his burned forearms, which used to frighten me as a child. I don’t know what to make of what I am being told.
‘Does anyone else know?’ Surely if he wanted justice, he would have shared this with someone. ‘My mother?’ He did it for her.
‘No. I have told no one. Only you.’
He looks as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders, and I feel it now on mine. Should I leave and tell the police? This man killed his father, yet I cannot help but think that Reginald Forster got what he deserved. And it is not as if Michael Forster hasn’t also paid for his crime. I can’t even look at his burned arms. He has shut himself away all these years, framing pictures of perfect families, and has not even been doing much of that of late. The paint is starting to peel off the outside of his house.
I turn to go. ‘I have to get back to my daughter.’ I pick up Helena from the airport while Ellie is at school and notice she is looking happier than I have ever seen her.
‘I’ve contacted the hospital here and they have work for me a week a month. I can help you out a bit with Ellie if you like.’
‘Mum …’ I pull the car over and, when I look at her, see that she is concerned.
‘You are okay with that, aren’t you?’ she asks. ‘I know there have been a lot of changes lately. Quite quickly. I’m trying to make things up to you.’
‘I’m fine with it. I’m really, honestly, very happy about it all. But I wanted to tell you something else. Something I’ve just learned.’
I take the small matryoshka doll from my handbag and give it to her, uncertain if she will even remember it.
‘Where did you find this?’ She is clearly moved, but also confused.
‘Michael Forster, from across the road. He says you two were good friends as kids. He hoped there might have been something more when you got older.’
‘Heavens. Poor Michael. He was a kind boy.’ My mother’s face hardens. ‘Nothing like his wretched father.’ She rolls the doll over in her hands. ‘But I don’t remember …’
‘You left it behind in a park.’
‘And he’s kept it all this time?’
I nod. ‘He hasn’t really moved on.’
‘But we haven’t seen each other in years!’ She looks out the window at a father and son who are changing a car tyre in front of us. ‘He was an exceedingly shy boy, quite sensitive. A social misfit, really. Not surprising given his parents.’
‘What do you know about how his father died?
‘Their house burned down in the fires. I’d moved away by then. He was trapped inside …’ She looks across at me, puzzled. ‘Why?’ She curls her hand around the wooden doll.
‘He was trapped, that’s true.’
‘What are you telling me, Sara?’
‘Michael locked the door so his father couldn’t get out.’
‘What?’
‘He hated his father. Because of what he did to you.’ I wait a moment. ‘He saw the rape, Mum. He came running but then Nina was there with the torch.’ I stop for a moment. ‘He would have testified, except Nina said it was she who was attacked, and Michael thought that was what you wanted everyone to think.’
Helena is shaking her head in disbelief. ‘I had no idea.’
‘That man who hurt you, his actions had a big ripple effect.’
‘Did Michael’s mother know any of this?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably not. Does it matter?’
‘Drive straight there. I want to see him. The poor ma
n.’
When Michael Forster opens the door, he sees me and my mother and takes hold of the doorframe. His white hair is standing on end as if it has been freshly washed.
‘Helena.’
She reaches forwards and embraces him. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I am sorry, Helena. I should have said something. I should have told the police what I saw.’
‘It’s a very long time ago.’
He asks us inside, and we sit at the narrow kitchen table.
‘I should have testified, Helena,’ he says. ‘I thought you didn’t want people knowing.’
‘My mother … It was her idea to tell the story that way,’ Helena answers him.
‘I know that now.’ He glances at me.
‘It’s okay.’ My mother leans across the table and pats the scarred back of his hand. ‘Please don’t punish yourself anymore.’
His eyes fill with tears. ‘I killed my –’
Helena holds her hand up to him, then taps his arm. ‘It was a type of justice what you did, I suppose. I can’t say I am sorry that he died.’
My mother pauses, then looks at me. ‘Nina didn’t say it directly, but I suspect she was raped, too, in the war. When she said in court that she had been raped, I don’t think she was lying. To her, Reginald Forster represented all men like that.’
Back at our cottage, my mother comments on Michael’s home and the lack of food in his kitchen, the lack of any kind of creature comfort.
‘He’s doing it tough,’ she says. She tells me she has an idea, and we talk it through on the walk down the hill to get Ellie from the school we both once attended.
Abdhul calls me while I’m at the meeting in Melbourne to tell me he has had his immigration interview. It was brought forward. He sounds happy.
‘And? Is it good news? How are you?’
‘I am too much good,’ he says. ‘They say they believe me. That I am Hazara. A refugee. They are going to give me a visa.’
‘That’s so wonderful. I am so pleased.’ I am standing outside the meeting room, a tea in my hand, grinning like an idiot. The hairs have risen on my arms.
‘Thank you, sister. Now I can visit my family.’
The thought of him returning to Pakistan, to the place his brother was killed, fills me with dread. ‘I know you are desperate to see them, but …’
‘We will make a good place to meet.’
‘And when can you apply to bring them here?’
‘Not for some more years. But I can see them, and I can come back. This is the thing that makes me happy.’
I cannot believe it has taken so long to get to this stage, but at least the threat of return to Afghanistan is no longer. ‘I am very, very pleased for you.’ Dale walks past me on his way to the bathrooms and raises his coffee cup.
‘Yes. And one day my beautiful wife and children will be here and you can meet. I will be so happy,’ Abdhul says. ‘If you want, my son and your daughter can marry. I would be happy with it if you are.’
He laughs at the long pause I make in the conversation.
‘Right.’ I say. ‘But it’s not the way we do it here.’
‘I know. But I wanted to tell you that. In our culture, we look after our children and then they look after us when we are old.’
‘Yes, there are good sides to that, but … Ellie will make her own life. She’ll decide who she marries. Who she loves. I can’t say anything about that.’ Abdhul stays quiet.
‘Listen, I’ve got an idea about a job for you. Actually it was my mother’s idea.’
‘Yes?’
‘You did such beautiful work framing that wedding photo of you and your wife, and the picture of Ellie.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you be interested in some paid framing? Family pictures. Graduations. That kind of thing.’ I imagine him at the workbench, looking at an image of a gleaming Australian family, a loving father and mother and children. Perhaps what I’m asking him is insensitive. ‘I don’t know if it’s possible, but there’s a man in the same street as us …’
‘Yes. I know which one. It would be good. Can you ask?’
I drop in on Michael Forster unannounced when Ellie is at school. I’ve taken some flex-leave from the uni this week to see my mother and to catch up on odd jobs, this one being front of mind. Michael opens the door and I am surprised to see him smile. He invites me inside and makes tea.
‘I have an unusual request for you,’ I say. ‘A favour, although I’m hoping it might be helpful to you, too.’
He reads me cautiously.
‘I have a friend here,’ I say, ‘a young Afghani man, who is really good with his hands. He was a master craftsman at home and can also frame well …’ I think of the watercolour that Sean gave me and decide to pay Abdhul to frame it for me whether or not Michael Forster takes him on.
‘I see.’
‘He is in need of a job, and is very pleasant. I noticed you aren’t getting as many customers as you used to. I hope you don’t think me nosy.’
‘People are buying everything online these days. I can’t compete.’
‘I’m sure it’s very difficult. And … Well, my friend is very good with people and could probably assist with that side of the business while you focus on your craft. He could do some making, too. I’ve seen his frames.’
I see him thinking it over. ‘I don’t know.’
‘What if he worked on commission, just taking a cut of whatever he makes? You wouldn’t have to worry about paying him a salary, as such.’
‘What makes you think he’d even be interested in working for a man like me?’
‘I’ve asked him. He’d love to.’
‘Well …’ He spins his mug of tea on the heavily dented table.
‘It was my mother’s idea. She’s met Abdhul and thought you might be able to help him.’
He looks up at me. ‘We can give it a try.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Jo Butler from Cameron Creswell Agency for her support of this book from the beginning, the wonderful team at Ventura Press (Jane Curry, Zoe Hale, Eleanor Reader and editor Catherine McCredie), Simon and Schuster and the following readers, although for many the book has changed much since the versions they saw: Dr Danielle Wood (for her mentorship courtesy of the Tasmanian Writers’ Centre and Tasmanian Regional Arts through the Commonwealth Government’s Regional Arts Fund), Dr Rosie Dub, David Lander, Melissa Graham, Anna Lloyd-Parker, Susan and Robert Bleakley, Jane Hinton, Caroline Skuja, Don McKenzie, Joe Bugden, Serguei Sokolov, Leonid and Helen Vasilyev, Olga Berkovsky, Dr Penny Yarrow and Sophie Hamley. Thanks to Dr Peter Grewe for answering my genetics questions, and Dr Robert Lagerberg for advice on Russian language. I am grateful to Arts Tasmania and the Australia Council for the Arts for literary grants. Heartfelt thanks, too, to my dear Hazara friend who will remain nameless here for his own protection, who welcomed me and my family into his community with such warmth, long before I had the idea to include in this book, with his permission, a fictionalised version of a Hazara refugee’s story. While aspects of the novel were inspired by accounts my friend generously shared, others are imagined, but informed by reports, such as those prepared by Anglicare.
As always, my thanks and love to Craig, Laura and Calum.
Sources
The short extract from Helen Thompson’s news piece ‘Study of Holocaust survivors finds trauma passed on to children’s genes’ (The Guardian, 22 August 2015) is reproduced courtesy of Guardian News & Media Ltd., drawing on research first published by Rachel Yehuda et al. in Biological Psychiatry on 12 August 2015. The cherry blossom study mentioned is the work of scientists at Emory University in Atlanta.
The reported Pakistan bombing incident is true, although the date of the actual incident was New Years Day, 2014. It is quoted with permission from an incident summary appearing in the online Global Terrorism Database © 2009–2017 based at the University of Maryland (National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Res
ponses to Terrorism). http://www.start.umd.edu/
The epigraph, an extract from the Gwen Harwood poem ‘Mother Who Gave Me Life’, is from Selected Poems by Gwen Harwood © John Harwood 2001. First published by Halcyon Press 2001. Reprinted by permission of Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd.
The United Nations statistics on civilian casualties in Afghanistan in 2014 were taken from UN News, 18 February 2015.
Photo credit: Jack Lloyd-Parker
Katherine Johnson was born in Queensland and grew up alongside the Brisbane River. She holds both arts and science degrees, has worked as a science journalist, and published feature articles for magazines including Good Weekend. She is the author of two previous novels: Pescador’s Wake (Fourth Estate) and The Better Son (Ventura Press). Her manuscripts have won Varuna Awards and Tasmanian Literary Awards. The Better Son was longlisted for both the Indie Book Awards and the Tasmania Book Prize. Katherine lives in Tasmania with her husband and two children.
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