Pennies For Hitler

by Jackie French

  They marched two by two down the gangplank. Soldiers and sailors bustled about them, too busy to stare. Men in overalls carried toolboxes or manoeuvred bits of wood or metal. Some of them grinned as the children passed, and gave a strange two-fingered salute.

  The wharf looked old. Somehow Georg had expected it to be new. Australia was a new country, wasn’t it? They marched across it into a bare room and showed their passports to men in uniforms, who stamped them quickly with a grin and a brief welcome to Australia. Each passport had to be stamped, and their evacuation papers too.

  Some of the kids grinned back. Two of the littlest girls were crying again, hiding their faces in the big girls’ skirts. They got into line again and marched down the footpath.

  It was a grey footpath, like London’s. The warehouses on either side looked like England’s too. Only the harbour looked different from any stretch of water he’d seen before, glittering like someone had scattered it with jewels; and that too high, too blue sky was new as well. A tiny cloud was creeping into it now, looking timid against all that blue.

  At last they came to a big stone building. They marched into the foyer, their shoes sounding hollow on the marble, and then into a room beyond.

  It was a big room, with an arched ceiling, but Georg could only see the people sitting on the plain wooden chairs: couples mostly, but more women than men. They were old, young and in between. They looked eager and nervous and sort of hungry, and curious too, as they tried to work out which child was going home with them.

  He gazed back, embarrassed, and as nervous and curious as they were. He’d have to spend months with these people. Years … He shut his mind to that. The last war had gone on for over four years. Impossible to think he might be in exile, in double exile, for another three whole years.

  Which family was his? That woman with three chins and a smile? It would be good to go with her. Or that couple who both had big brown eyes like spaniels and an anxious look, like they wanted to be liked by their new charge too. Or the severe man with the red face, or the lady with a string of pearls and a black velvet hat with a veil?

  Miss Glossop handed a list to the chaplain. He began to read the names, one by one.

  They were doing it by age this time, he realised, not by the alphabet, the littlies first — he supposed so there’d be less chance of them crying, even refusing to go.

  ‘Frances Mayland.’ That was the name of the little girl clutching not-Elizabeth. She grabbed not-Elizabeth’s skirt in both fists, till not-Elizabeth gently unhooked her fingers and whispered something in her ear.

  Whatever she said, it worked. The girl took three steps towards the crowd, but by then the woman with three chins had rushed forwards and folded her in her arms. It must have been like being folded in a washing basket, as when she was released the little girl was almost smiling.

  More names. The red-faced man and his wife got a seven-year-old boy from two cabins down, who had twice tried to climb the mast, and suddenly the man’s face didn’t look severe at all, but happy, as he and his wife each took one of the boy’s hands.

  They were down to six children now, then five, then four. Georg stared at the dwindling cluster of adults in dismay. Were there enough people left for all of them? What if there wasn’t anyone for him? Would they send him back? There was nowhere to go back to. Aunt Miriam would have left London weeks before. She wasn’t even allowed to tell anyone where her office was now, so no one could ever find her. Maybe he’d have to stay in this bare marble room till the organisers hunted for another Australian who’d take a strange boy from England.

  Another name and another.

  At last it was just him and not-Elizabeth. And there was only one couple sitting on the chairs. They looked kind, but Miss Glossop had said that no family would take two children.

  He and not-Elizabeth exchanged a look as the next name was read out.

  ‘George Marks.’

  He was almost used to George now.

  He stepped forwards.

  It wasn’t the couple sitting down. They must be not-Elizabeth’s, he thought with relief, glad that she wouldn’t have to sit here alone, unclaimed.

  He hadn’t seen this couple in the crowd. They had been over by the door, out of sight behind the officials from the ship.

  They were older than he expected. This man was big, not just tall: not fat, but with big-boned hands and face. He wore a good grey suit and held a grey hat, and his hair was grey too. His wife’s hair was white, drawn up in curls around her ears under a tiny hat with cherries on it. She wore a dark blue dress, black belt, black shoes and gloves. Despite the gloves her fingers click-clicked nimbly at four thin knitting needles, with a rim of khaki cloth.

  Not farmers then. Georg had seen farmers in Germany and they didn’t look like these. He had never known any old people — both his grandfathers had died in the Great War. Papa’s mother had died soon after he was born, and Mutti’s mother when Georg was only small.

  Miss Glossop came over to them. ‘Mr and Mrs Peaslake, I’d like you to meet George Marks. George, this is Mr and Mrs Peaslake.’

  She smiled at Georg. ‘I wasn’t able to find you a farm, I’m afraid, but the Peaslakes live in the country, at least.’

  ‘Bellagong,’ boomed Mr Peaslake, holding out his hand. The hand had calluses, and brown age spots on the back. For a moment Georg thought he was speaking another language. ‘Mother here comes from Bellagong. We went back to her family place when I retired.’ His voice was embarrassingly loud.

  Georg shook Mr Peaslake’s hand. ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘What’s that?’ boomed Mr Peaslake.

  ‘He said “Good morning”, Father. You’ll have to speak up a bit,’ explained Mrs Peaslake, still knitting even though she was standing up. Her voice was high and clear. ‘Father’s a bit deaf from the shelling in the last war. Bellagong’s just a little place, down on the south coast.’ Georg realised Bellagong was a town. ‘Our home is next to my brother’s farm. And we have chooks,’ she offered hopefully.

  ‘Hens,’ explained Miss Glossop.

  Georg realised that the Peaslakes were as nervous as he was.

  ‘Do you have a dog?’ He tried to speak loudly enough for Mr Peaslake to hear.

  ‘You like dogs?’ Mr Peaslake’s voice echoed in the nearly empty room. Georg wished he’d speak more quietly. People were looking at them.

  Georg nodded.

  Mrs Peaslake’s face relaxed. Her hands kept knitting as though she had forgotten they were moving. ‘Father, keep your voice down. You’re not calling the cows home now. Do we have dogs? Only two of the most stupid animals in New South Wales.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mr Peaslake, a bit more quietly. ‘They’re very well trained.’ He picked up Georg’s suitcase, and his coat too, before Georg quite knew what was happening.

  ‘Yes, they’ve trained us to let them out as soon as they say “woof” and let them hog the sofa,’ said Mrs Peaslake. She hesitated, then stopped knitting to give Georg a quick, efficient hug. Her hands seemed even stronger than her husband’s. She had stepped away before he could work out if he should hug her back. ‘You’ll need to keep your bedroom door shut or Samson will be on your bed.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Georg.

  ‘He snores,’ said Mrs Peaslake.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  A cloud brushed Mrs Peaslake’s face. ‘Just our Alan. He’s a lieutenant in the army. He’s overseas now. Don’t know where.’

  ‘Loose lips sink ships,’ said Georg, quoting the poster that warned everyone not to talk about army things.

  ‘We really don’t know where he is,’ said Mrs Peaslake, her voice carefully matter of fact. ‘But he’ll be thinking of us, when he can, just like we think of him. And there’ll be you now.’

  They shook Miss Glossop’s hand.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said to Georg. She leaned down and whispered, ‘I think you’ll be fine.’

  Georg nodded.
He felt scared, but it was a different sort of scared now. Not a frightened scared, but one that was almost hope.

  Chapter 18

  NEW SOUTH WALES

  They took a taxi to the train, Georg in the front seat by the driver ‘so you can see out’, looking at the buildings and the people, all a bit like London or, at least, how it had been before the bombs. Different too — wider, steeper streets and too much light and the people strode in a way that hardly anyone did in Europe, even the women in high heels and hats, somehow brighter and brisker than the women in London.

  The train station was like the train stations he was used to, echoing and big. But here no air-raid siren would bring a stampede of terrified people.

  The train was just a train too, chuffing and chugging and blowing steam and cinders that floated into the carriage when they went through the tunnels till Mrs Peaslake shut the window. Click, click went her knitting needles. The rim of cloth was turning into a khaki sock.

  Georg felt somehow comforted by the familiar click, even if the way she held the needles was different from the way Mutti did.

  Mr Peaslake looked at him, as though he wasn’t sure what to say to a boy from so far away. ‘Have a look at this,’ he offered at last. Suddenly his teeth popped out of his lips, clacking together, then back in again.

  False teeth, thought Georg. He smiled, because that seemed to be what Mr Peaslake wanted him to do.

  Mrs Peaslake put her hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Just you leave the lad for a while, Father,’ she said close to his ear. ‘He’ll need time to take things in.’

  Georg nodded gratefully. He didn’t want to talk. Talking might mean explaining where he’d come from or where Aunt Miriam was now or what was his mother’s fictitious illness.

  The train chuffed above its rails, stopping at each station. A soldier got on, shoving his big khaki kit bag onto the shelf above the seat. He grinned at Mr Peaslake, as though he wanted to talk, even to an old man he didn’t know. ‘Goin’ home on leave. This your son?’

  ‘Eh, what was that?’ boomed Mr Peaslake.

  ‘Foster son,’ said Mrs Peaslake quietly.

  It sounded strange. He was a son already, and not the Peaslakes’.

  The soldier winked at Georg. ‘Look at this, laddie.’

  He crouched down on the floor of the carriage, rummaged in his pocket and drew out a handful of pennies, big and brown like the pennies back in London. His hands moved like magic. Suddenly all the pennies stood up on their edges, side by side, despite the jolting of the train.

  The soldier grinned. ‘Come on, laddie, knock ’em down.’

  Georg bent and touched the nearest penny. Suddenly they all fell into a long shining coppery snake on the floor.

  The soldier sat up. ‘Me younger brother loves that trick. No matter how many times I set them up he always wants to knock ’em down.’

  Georg tried another polite smile. He thought of Harris on the ship. Harris would have liked the fall of pennies. He’d have liked the clicking false teeth too.

  He wondered where Harris was now.

  The soldier got off at a station with a long flower garden and pots even on the platform. As the train slid away Georg saw a family run towards him, steps and stairs of children, a cluster of grown-ups, mother and father and aunts and uncles maybe …

  … and then they were gone.

  The train kept clacking, but the silence grew, despite that noise. Georg glanced at the Peaslakes. Mrs Peaslake was casting off her sock now. At least she had something to do.

  He looked out the window again, though it was still just more of the straggly green trees.

  Suddenly a voice thundered beside him.

  ‘There was a wild colonial boy,

  Jack Doolan was his name,’ roared Mr Peaslake. His face was expressionless, his hands at his side, his voice echoing in the emptiness of the carriage.

  ‘Of poor but honest parents,

  He was born in Castlemaine.

  He was his father’s only hope,

  His mother’s pride and joy,

  And dearly did his parents love

  The wild colonial boy.’

  ‘Don’t mind Father,’ whispered Mrs Peaslake. ‘He does like his poetry. He wouldn’t do it if there was anyone else in the carriage. He likes to recite to the beat of the train.’ And he’s trying to entertain you too, but doesn’t know how. The words could almost have been spoken. Georg and Mrs Peaslake looked at each other with understanding.

  ‘I … I don’t mind,’ said Georg.

  And he didn’t. The poem’s words were about someone else, but somehow they seemed to be about him too, about Mutti and Papa and things that were lost and might never be found again.

  ‘Come away me hearties,

  We’ll roam the mountains high,

  Together we will plunder,

  And together we will die.

  We’ll scour along valleys,

  And gallop o’er the plains,

  And scorn to live in slavery,

  Bound down by iron chains,’

  recited Mr Peaslake, a gleam of triumph now as he watched the interest on Georg’s face.

  That’s Aunt Miriam, thought Georg. And the air-raid warden and … and Jamie and the Joes and even Harris. That’s why they fight this war. They scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.

  ‘At the age of sixteen years

  He left his native home …’

  That’s me, thought Georg. I was only ten. Twelve when I left Aunt Miriam. How could a poem be so different from you, but make you feel the right things too? Was this what Papa felt about his Schiller and Goethe?

  ‘And through Australia’s sunny climes

  A bushranger did roam.

  He robbed those wealthy squatters,

  Their stock he did destroy,

  And a terror to Australia

  Was the wild colonial boy.’

  Georg stared. This poem was about a THIEF!

  ‘In sixty-one this daring youth

  Commenced his wild career,

  With a heart that knew no danger,

  No foeman did he fear.

  He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach,

  And robbed Judge MacEvoy,

  Who trembled and gave up his gold

  To the wild colonial boy.

  ‘He bade the judge “Good morning”,

  And told him to beware,

  That he’d never rob a hearty chap

  That acted on the square,

  But never to rob a mother,

  Of her son and only joy,

  Or else he may turn outlaw,

  Like the wild colonial boy.

  ‘One day as he was riding

  The mountain-side along,

  A-listening to the little birds,

  Their pleasant laughing song,

  Three mounted troopers rode along

  Kelly, Davis, and Fitzroy —

  They thought that they would capture him,

  The wild colonial boy.

  ‘“Surrender now, Jack Doolan,

  You see there’s three to one.

  Surrender now, Jack Doolan,

  You daring highwayman.”

  Jack drew a pistol from his belt,

  And fired the wicked toy.

  “I’ll fight, but not surrender,”

  Said the wild colonial boy.

  ‘Now he fired at Trooper Kelly

  And brought him to the ground,

  And in return from Davis

  He received a mortal wound.

  All shattered through the jaw he lay

  Still firing at Fitzroy,

  And that’s the way they captured him —

  The wild colonial boy.’

  The carriage was silent again, except for the clack of the rails.

  ‘Well, what did you think of that, lad?’ demanded Mr Peaslake loudly.

  Georg tried to think what to say. Who were these people who made a poem that glorified a thief? But this thief h
ad been brave; and had only robbed bad people. At last he said: ‘I … I liked it.’

  ‘Good, isn’t it? Dinky-di too. Australian,’ Mr Peaslake added when he saw Georg didn’t understand. ‘One of Australia’s earliest poems.’

  ‘I reckon Father knows every poem in Australia,’ said Mrs Peaslake, casting on the stitches for another sock. ‘Recites them even in the bath. He’d tell them at dinnertime too if I didn’t stop him.’

  ‘You like poetry?’ Mr Peaslake looked at Georg eagerly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Georg. It was the right thing to say. Mr Peaslake’s face relaxed into pleasure. That poem hadn’t been the kind of poetry Papa had liked — the kind you had to think about or that made you shiver inside, not the story kind like this. But Georg liked it. Even — he thrust away a whisper of disloyalty — even more than Papa’s kind. ‘My father used to tell me poems. Every night before I went to sleep and other times too.’

  ‘Your dad’s dead, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Peaslake sympathetically. ‘And your poor mum is sick too?’

  Was that what Aunt Miriam had told the officials? He nodded, even though he wanted to yell ‘No!’ He hoped they wouldn’t ask how his father was supposed to have died or when, or what was supposed to be wrong with Mutti.

  ‘I’m sorry, lad. Well, I’ll tell you a poem every night too. How about that?’

  ‘Now you’ve started it,’ said Mrs Peaslake resignedly.

  ‘No, I really do like poetry,’ said Georg.

  ‘What did you say?’ Mr Peaslake held his hand up to his ear.

  ‘I do like poems!’ yelled Georg.

  ‘Tell me one of your dad’s then,’ said Mr Peaslake. He sat back, as though waiting for a treat.

  Georg stared at him. He knew lots of poems. But they were all in German. He had never bothered to learn an English poem, not by heart, although he’d read some.

  ‘Let the boy be,’ said Mrs Peaslake. ‘No need to go telling poems if you don’t want to, George.’ Her face clouded. ‘Sometimes remembering hurts.’