Erich’s eyes glittered dangerously with a strong emotion that I couldn’t identify. ‘If you’d only listen to me, I can explain what I mean.’
‘What’s there to explain? It’s bad enough the Australian government made empty promises but now you’re asking me to stay where we’re obviously not appreciated, where we’re treated like second-class citizens? I had hoped that we could leave this nightmare soon but now you’re saying we should stay? How could you do this to me?’
‘Will you at least hear what I have to say? I’m doing everything I can to make this situation better. It’s not what I wanted either, but it’s what we have to do. Can’t you see that? We’re staying and we will make this work. That’s final!’
I glowered at him, wanting to hit him, wanting to run away, wanting to be anywhere but here. ‘You’ve made your point. Now leave me alone.’ I pushed off the covers and swung my legs over the side of the bed.
Erich seized my arm to prevent me from rising.
‘Let me go.’
‘Lotte, we’re in this together, you and me. I’m only trying to think of a way to make everything better. I won’t force you to do anything, but if we can talk about it, we can make the decisions we need to.’ The anger had gone out of his eyes and I saw a hollowness I hadn’t noticed before, a desperation mingled with deep pain.
I nodded, unable to speak, but remained rigid on the edge of the bed.
‘I don’t think I can start again.’ His voice caught. ‘I’ve done that too many times now. We have to make this work. If we set ourselves a goal, a certain amount of savings within a time limit, it might help us both manage a little better until we can set up our own home.’
‘Two years . . .’ I whispered. It was my mantra as I worked like a zombie in the factory. Tears welled in my eyes. Two years was what I had been working towards.
‘I blame myself for what’s happened to us but we can’t go back after two years. We’ll never have enough money saved to start again. I’m sorry.’
I bowed my head, letting the tears fall. He was right. Returning to Germany could never have been a reality.
Erich sat beside me, his cool hands soothing my burning face, and wiped the tears away. ‘It pains me to see you working like a dog but we’ll both have to work hard until we’ve saved for a home. After that, I don’t want you to have to work any more.’ He paused. ‘I won’t be returning to study . . . we’ll never get there otherwise.’
‘So you don’t want to be an engineer?’
‘Of course, but is it worth it now? Who knows how long it’ll be until I’ve graduated? Besides, I’m getting older, I’ll be at least fifty by then, and nobody can guarantee me a job when I’m finished. It may be all for nothing anyway.’ He suddenly seemed to deflate, his spark spent in trying to convince me we had to stay.
‘We’ve done everything right. We deserve more than this.’
‘I know, but we’ll turn this around and make a success here.’
I couldn’t help but feel resentful. We were never going to get what we wanted. However I had been so focused on what this move had cost me that I hadn’t recognised how deeply it had affected Erich. To give up on his dream of working as an aeronautic engineer again was like tearing away a limb – it stripped the identity and pride from the man who loved his profession. What was a man without his work? Coming to Australia was Erich’s chance to find himself again, but it had all been for nothing.
My fury dissipated and was replaced by guilt and regret. Whatever I felt I had lost, Erich had lost so much more. We’d had so much hope for the future when we sailed into the harbour at Fremantle. How much more did we have to sacrifice to have the chance at a decent life for our family?
‘Let’s not make any decisions about university until we’re in our own place,’ I said.
‘I’m happy if you and the girls are happy,’ he said softly.
That night I dreamt of the Bavarian Alps I had visited in my childhood. I ran and laughed, carefree, finally jumping into the safe embrace of my mother’s welcoming arms.
*
‘I’ve joined the union,’ Erich said one evening not long after our argument. The girls were in the bathrooms, washing before dinner. ‘I know we can’t really afford it but I couldn’t stand back and watch how people like us – migrants – are treated any longer. I think it’s maybe the only way to see change.’
‘What made you do it?’ I asked, taking his jacket from him. ‘Was it that journalist the other night?’
He nodded. ‘After the engineering firm, I’d had enough but didn’t know if the union was the right way to go. That journalist made me realise I had to do something. I don’t care if I’m called a communist. Name calling is the least of my problems.’
A journalist and photographer from the local paper had visited Villawood and asked if we’d mind if they took our picture for an article they were writing about immigration. Erich struck up a conversation with them and discovered that the intended slant of the piece was that immigrants’ lives in Australia were much better than that in their homelands and there were myriad opportunities for us in our new home. Learning that made me so angry, given the situation we were in. Our reality was being glossed over, if not ignored entirely, by their story and I knew that if we’d tried to enlighten them, we’d be viewed as ungrateful New Australians. It was common to hear Australians tell some migrant not satisfied with some aspect of their life or misunderstanding a custom or way of doing things to ‘go back to where you came from’. Honesty was a fine line for us to walk.
‘Have you told Franz?’ I asked.
‘Yes. He reminded me of the risk of sanctions. The government owns us for two years. They can easily move anyone they see as troublesome to a worse job or location.’
‘You mean like being a member of a union?’
‘Possibly . . . but more for being involved in industrial action.’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ I hung his jacket in the tiny wardrobe, wondering how the government could punish those who spoke out against inequality. That’s how things had begun in Germany. A shiver of fear rippled through me but I refused to believe that Australia was unjust. Erich was doing nothing wrong. Joining the union was his way to find his place and make sense of the world we now found ourselves in. He felt the dislocation more acutely than I did, but maybe he had the right idea. Maybe I wouldn’t settle until I found my place in this strange new country.
‘Mind you, Franz fully supports any organisation that’ll help migrants and understands why I had to do it. He can’t risk it, of course. Once he practises law again, I know he’ll support workers’ rights in any legal battle.’
‘So what’s next?’
‘I go to my first meeting next week. I’ll get a feel of the group and see how it all works. The time for sitting on my hands is over.’
My arms slid around his waist and I kissed him on the lips. ‘I know how much doing nothing was suffocating you. I don’t care what others call you. You’re a good man.’
‘It feels good to take a stand,’ he murmured, kissing me back before the girls returned to the room. ‘Are you working tomorrow?
‘No,’ I said. It looked like the casual work was beginning to dry up. I’d had only three days of factory work this last week.
‘Good. I’ve found you something better.’ He stood there grinning like the Cheshire cat, arms folded on his chest.
‘Better?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘The photographer who was with that journalist was kind enough to give me some contacts at photography studios in the city. I followed them up and when I mentioned you were European-trained, one of the busiest and most prestigious studios in Sydney jumped at the chance to talk to you.’
I stared at him for a moment. After all these years of dreaming, wishing and waiting to practise my passion, was it finally going to happen? My heart began to race.
‘Photography? You’ve found me a photography job?’
He nodded, l
ooking very pleased with himself. ‘Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?’
I rushed into his arms and he caught me with a whoop of surprise. I hugged him with all my might.
The following day, I met the owner of the photography studio in Sydney, Mr Baker, and he explained that he required my colouring and retouching skills. Apparently the abilities I had acquired were very sought after because the sort of training I’d had in Germany was still hard to find in Australia.
I’d trained as a photographer during the war at the prestigious Bavarian State Institute for Photography. It was because of Vati, who had seen my passion for photography, that I was able to do the very expensive but one of the most respected courses in Europe. All I’d wanted was to work as a military photographer on the front, but after losing my brother at Stalingrad my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Instead I’d worked as a secretary in the Luftwaffe, where I’d met Erich. After the war, when Germany was in chaos, there hadn’t been an opportunity for me to find work as a photographer. Now, finally, I had a chance.
‘Can you show me some of the techniques you learnt?’ Mr Baker asked eagerly.
‘Of course,’ I replied, my heart hammering as I wondered if I could show enough skill after years of no practice. We moved across to the retouching table where he had left a number of negatives and photographs.
‘What would you change in this photograph?’ He handed me a portrait of a young woman. I looked at it carefully but it was easy to spot what needed fixing.
‘I’d get rid of the dark rings under her eyes, the stray hair on her face and shoulder, the wrinkles in her dress and sharpen her figure. It looks a little indistinct or blurred to me. Her face requires softening . . . I’d remove the blemishes and smooth her skin. Then this area is underexposed and needs to be lightened and this area darkened to provide contrast,’ I said, pointing to the parts of the photograph in question.
He nodded. ‘Very good. That’s exactly what I would do. Now can you show me how you would accomplish this?’
Willing my hands to remain steady and the butterflies in my stomach to still, I moved the mirror to increase the light and began the work on retouching the negative. It was quite a process: sometimes involving delicately applying dye, alcohol or graphite powder, rubbing down with abrasives, etching with a retouching knife and finally the use of fine pencils. Suddenly I was immersed in the work and my nervousness fell away. I was in my element as I explained each procedure, and answering Mr Baker’s questions. We progressed to the colouring of a photograph with a variety of paints and brushes. This was something I’d always been good at.
Finally I was done and I was happy with what I’d achieved. I was relieved to find that I hadn’t forgotten a thing.
‘Your work is of a very high standard, Mrs Drescher. You most definitely have an eye for detail, colour and for perfect proportion. I’d like to offer you some work.’
I smiled, barely containing my joy. I could hardly believe it. I wanted to wrap my arms around his portly middle in gratitude.
‘Unfortunately, I can’t give you full-time work but perhaps you’d like to take whatever retouching and colouring work I have for you. You could pick it up from here as required, complete it at home and then return it to the studio when you’re done. Is that something you’d be interested in?’
I was disappointed that it wasn’t full-time work but working from home meant that I could fit it in around any other casual work I could get. Best of all, I could be home in the afternoons with the girls.
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘When do you want me to start?’
Finally, after fourteen years, I was working in photography. Not doing exactly what I’d hoped for but it was a foot in the door, and with any luck it would lead to some studio work. It was exhilarating. The dream of one day owning my own studio became a real possibility once again. More than that, it gave me hope that life in Australia could be good for us.
Little by little, I was beginning to come to terms with staying. I enjoyed my trips into Sydney, getting off the train at Town Hall station and looking around the shops before picking up my work and heading back to Villawood. Although Sydney was only a young city compared to those in Europe and quite without the sense of culture and sophistication that long history brought with it, like my home, Munich, it was still a city I loved. It was fresh, vibrant and full of life, and there was a much greater variety of shops than in the suburbs. I enjoyed walking to the studio rather than jumping on the tram or catching the train along the new underground Circular Quay loop. Then there was the magnificent harbour and Bennelong Point, where the new Sydney Opera House would be built. I was amused that a Danish architect had produced the winning design. One day I would look out over Sydney Harbour after attending an opera or concert, I decided.
*
Erich attended a mass meeting of a number of trade unions at the Sydney Stadium. He was so excited to hear what other groups were doing, to hear plans to improve the lives of workers, and he came home full of nervous energy. Even though it was late, I could tell that he wanted to talk – he wouldn’t sleep until he’d expressed his thoughts and shared the evening’s events. I sat down at the table stifling a yawn. It had been a long day and I was just about ready for bed.
‘I know the push of the meeting was to improve workers’ wages overall and to lobby for women’s wages to be equal to men’s,’ he said, sipping a cup of scalding coffee, ‘but migrants put up with the lowest wages of all and these need to be brought into line with the standard wage. I talked to other members and delegates about how migrants often can’t get good access to housing and as a result are discriminated against with the high living expenses they have to pay, whether in the hostel or out in the community, and I explained how in most households women have to work to help make ends meet. They work as hard as men and they’re paid even less than migrant men for the same work.’
‘Nice to see you’ve noticed that,’ I said cheekily, waking up significantly.
I felt strongly about women in the workplace. The war had changed the role of women forever and most of us were no longer satisfied to be just homemakers, rearing our children – we wanted to help out financially, gain some independence and a sense of worth outside of the home. It was only right and fair that women received wages that were equal to men, when doing the same jobs. What I couldn’t believe was that there was such a debate about the whole idea.
‘We heard stories of less than acceptable amenities and poor conditions on worksites: taps that don’t work or when they do no soap is provided; no chairs or tables to have lunch at; filthy floors; inadequately cleaned protective gear and non-existent safety measures.’
‘That’s disgraceful.’ I poured milk into my coffee, and saw Erich grimace from the corner of my eye. ‘What?’
‘I told the delegate that migrant workers should be treated like ordinary Australians.’
I snorted. ‘What did he say?’
‘One of the members he was with asked me why I believed they deserved to be.’
‘No!’
Erich nodded. ‘I didn’t get angry but reminded them that migrants like us have become a big part of Australian culture since the end of the war. We might seem different and be called derogatory names, but we want what most people want – to work and earn a living and to actively contribute to the community.
‘But I had to give them something to relate to, something they’ve seen in their everyday lives. I talked about the Italians with their love of coffee and the coffee houses they’ve set up all over Sydney and the Greek cafes with their fish and chips and hamburgers that bring customers from miles away. They work hard and give Australia something new and exciting, but they’re called dagoes and wogs.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘It’s only the tip of the iceberg, but I think some of them began to see what I was talking about.’
‘I’m proud of you for speaking up,’ I said, kissing him. It was only a small thing, but I truly believed that with every small
success, our hope that anything was possible grew and made us stronger, more resolute in finding our place and making our mark on this young nation.
5
Franz and Claudia moved out in August, renting a small house in Liverpool, closer to the door factory. The hostel had been no help to them in finding accommodation and they’d been searching for months for something appropriate. I was upset to see them go, as were the children, and Erich lost his commuting partner.
We visited them one Sunday not long after they moved and it was wonderful to see how well they’d settled in. The house was small, especially with four children, but certainly bigger than their rooms at the hostel and they had their own kitchen and bathroom. Most of all, they had privacy and the freedom to do whatever they wanted.
‘Have you found a good butcher?’ I asked Claudia. Franz was showing Erich the backyard where the children were playing on a small patch of grass.
‘The butcher isn’t bad but the delicatessen is better. Lots of Europeans go there and I’ve found I can generally get what I want. It’s funny what you hear, though, with the shop assistant only being able to speak English. The other day a German woman in front of me wanted a pound of almonds. She couldn’t speak English well at all and must have looked up the English translation for mandeln. What she didn’t realise is that there are two different translations in English. So she asked the shop assistant for a pound of tonsils, rather than for a pound of almonds.’
I burst out laughing. ‘What did the shop assistant do?’ I asked.
‘He looked at her very strangely and muttered how these “New Australians” have some very odd ideas and why would he stock tonsils in his shop? Other people in the shop looked quite shocked and I heard someone whisper “savages”. He was about to turn away in disgust while this woman looked on, bewildered by his reaction, when I stepped in and explained that she actually wanted almonds, and he served her begrudgingly. When I explained to her the error, she was absolutely horrified!’
Suitcase of Dreams Page 5