Suitcase of Dreams

by Tania Blanchard

  ‘Part of me imagines a life back in Germany. The money we’d get for this farm would be enough to build our dream house in the mountains. We could run a guesthouse and even have someone work for us. That way, we’d have an income and we wouldn’t have to work so hard. We could enjoy life a little more until we’re both ready to retire.’

  ‘You want to retire in Germany?’ I’d never expected this, never entertained the notion of what we might do when we were older.

  ‘I want us to live out our old age content and peaceful and I want to die on German soil.’ He met my eye then, and his vulnerability hit me in the chest like a physical blow.

  ‘I never knew you felt this way.’

  ‘Neither did I. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but I can’t get the idea out of my head.’

  ‘Retirement’s a long way off,’ I said automatically. ‘The children would have to be settled in their own lives . . .’ I didn’t want to go back to Germany to live. I could never leave my girls behind, no matter how old they were, but if Erich didn’t begin to feel settled here, how could I deny him? ‘Maybe we could plan a trip back to Germany to see everyone when Eva starts having children of her own.’

  ‘Maybe . . . but I suppose that citizenship doesn’t prevent us from going back at any time. Go ahead and get the application forms and paperwork together.’

  *

  About a month later, I arrived home to find Erich sitting on the edge of the lounge, staring at a sheet of paper in his hands. I’d worked late after a full day of studio sittings, helping Reinhardt and Otto put together the final selection of negatives and prints for a promotional shoot we’d done for one of our biggest clients. We were very proud of the final product and I was sure the client would be happy.

  I was managing the studio shoots on my own now without Otto’s supervision. Although they weren’t the high profile customers, I went to work each day excited to be behind the camera. I loved interacting with people, even the children who didn’t want to sit in a particular pose or the babies who squirmed on their mothers’ laps.

  ‘Lotte, can you stay late after your sittings?’ Otto had asked. ‘Vati and I can’t agree on the shots for the client and we have to make a decision by tomorrow. You’ve got a good sense of what works. We could really use your help.’

  They had wanted my professional opinion. I couldn’t help but smile whenever I replayed that conversation over in my mind. I was becoming a respected photographer and I couldn’t have been any happier.

  I noticed paperwork on the coffee table as I walked to the kitchen, where I hoped Mutti had left me something for dinner. I was starving and my feet ached. I checked the pots on the stove. Boiled potatoes and fried kidney and onions – it would do.

  ‘That’s better,’ I said, dropping onto the lounge next to Erich after I’d eaten, kicking my shoes off. ‘Everyone in bed?’

  ‘Uh-huh, we have the house to ourselves for a change,’ he said. ‘Here, give me your feet.’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s late and you look tired too.’

  ‘No, come on.’

  I shuffled on the lounge so that my feet were in his lap. I closed my eyes in bliss as he began to massage, working on the pressure points. When I was so busy, it was easy to forget that I wasn’t as young as I used to be. It was when I stopped that I noticed the aches and pains and how tired I was. I wondered how much longer I’d have to work this hard. ‘How did you know this is exactly what I needed?’ I groaned.

  ‘I’m a mind reader,’ he said softly. ‘Didn’t you know?’

  I smiled at that. He was so thoughtful, often surprising me with little acts of kindness and appreciation that always made me feel special and loved.

  ‘Are they the citizenship forms?’ I asked. I’d been expecting them in the post for the past fortnight and didn’t want to chase them up yet again.

  He nodded. ‘I only just opened the letter when you came in the door. I haven’t read them yet.’ He stopped massaging my feet and passed me some pages.

  ‘There’s a bit of work, but they look fine.’

  Erich picked up another page from the table and put on his reading glasses. I glanced at him – his shoulders had stiffened and he was engrossed in what he was reading.

  ‘What is it?’ I swung my legs down and sat next to him.

  He put the paper on the coffee table and looked at me, his brows furrowed with concern. If we apply for Australian citizenship, we renounce our German nationality.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We can’t hold dual citizenship. On becoming Australian citizens, our German citizenship’s revoked.’

  ‘You sure? It can’t be right. We were never told of this before.’

  ‘No, there’s no mistake,’ he said, passing me the papers. I quickly scanned them and found the offending paragraph.

  ‘I can’t believe it. Germany’s our homeland. It’s our identity. We shouldn’t have to choose!’ I was furious now, but there was nothing we could do about it.

  ‘No, we shouldn’t, but remember we’re doing this for the girls, for their future and for ours . . .’

  ‘But haven’t we given up enough?’ Erich’s arm was around me, his lips soothing against my hot temple as he tried to comfort me.

  ‘Nobody can take away how we feel about Germany, and the girls will always remember where they’ve come from. I don’t like this any more than you, but we have to decide what’s best for our family.’

  ‘Australia’s our home now,’ I said, decisively.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Erich, picking up a pen from the coffee table and writing his name on the form.

  Filling out the applications took time and I spent quite a few nights working on getting all the information together, leaving papers scattered across the dining table.

  ‘Why do you want to become a citizen?’ asked my mother one evening as she brought me a cup of coffee. ‘It’s not like this country has done you any favours. Besides, I thought you wanted to go back to Germany some day.’

  ‘I did once, but not now.’ I was tired and it was late. The children were asleep and Erich was at his first union meeting since the accident – our decision to become Australian citizens had reignited his interest in their work. ‘This is good for our family, especially the children. We want to be part of this country, and becoming citizens will cement our future here.’

  ‘It’s one thing to live here but another to become a citizen. You’re German first. How can you give up your heritage and tie yourself to a people who have no culture, no history?’ said Mutti irritably.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you think. Nobody’s asked you to become a citizen, so don’t worry about what we’re doing,’ I snapped.

  ‘Do what you want. You always do. I don’t know why I bother saying anything to you. I’m just good enough to look after your children but not to have an opinion on whatever happens in this household.’ She waved her hand and turned away quickly, but I’d seen the tears in her eyes and I knew that I’d hurt her.

  ‘Mutti!’

  ‘I’m going to bed. I’m tired.’

  I watched her walk away, my guilt warring with my anger. I understood that Mutti was upset because, to her, citizenship symbolised a rejection of everything important she’d instilled in me, but perhaps Mutti felt as though I was rejecting her too. But it wasn’t about her: it was about creating a future for my family. Leaving the past behind didn’t mean that I rejected my culture and nationality – it was part of who I was – but I had to decide how to give my children the best life possible, just as she had when she decided to divorce my real father when I was a child.

  *

  The house was quiet and empty. I’d slept in. I’d heard Erich come home in the early hours, tip-toeing not to wake us, but he was up again some time before me, most likely because of the pain and stiffness in his leg. I had no idea where Mutti and the girls had gone. It was rare for me not to hear the morning clatter of breakfast, the shuffling of feet and closing of doors,
but I had slept through it all. I was exhausted, bleary-eyed and dull-headed. Any wonder, I thought, as I padded to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, noticing that the bread, butter and jam had been left out.

  The previous day’s wedding had gone late and I had stayed until the end, taking photos of the bride and groom as they left the reception as a favour to Reinhardt – he was in Europe and they were family friends of his. With part of the compensation money, we’d managed to buy a little second-hand Volkswagen Beetle for me through the contacts Erich had kept at Lanock Motors. The treks into Liverpool, Campbelltown and Camden became short and pleasant drives and it was great to be able to use my own car for work on Saturdays, going straight to the appointments from home, rather than picking up a car from the studio.

  Normally Erich and I would walk together on a Sunday morning but the sun was high in the sky. I assumed he had let me sleep and had been out already. He walked twice a day like clockwork, pushing himself further each time to strengthen muscles that had withered after so many months of convalescence. He still had a bad limp but he was moving around with greater ease and could walk for longer with a stick. It wasn’t just about the physical, I knew, but the mental toughness and determination to not let his injuries get the better of him, as well as about dealing with the raw emotions he’d been experiencing since the accident. That was the beauty of the bush, it gave him the space to think and reflect, as well as exercise. I felt disappointed that I’d missed out on our time together walking down the back. We always returned to the house laughing or smiling, our cares and worries soothed, content and ready to begin the day.

  He was most likely working on a coffee table he was making as a surprise for Franz and Claudia. Ernst had brought him the timber after Claudia had been telling him about how much she admired the table Erich had made for our lounge room. He would be busy working all day. I didn’t mind. It kept him occupied and kept his mind off the pain, a form of rehabilitation in its own way. Something had changed in him since the decision to file our citizenship papers and he’d returned to the things that brought him joy and purpose.

  Sipping my coffee, I walked back to the front room and opened the curtains, wanting to feel the sunshine on my face. I stretched languorously like a cat, lapping up the rays of the sun, and closed my eyes, relishing the quiet and grateful for a few moments to myself.

  I decided to get a start on my ironing for the week. Mutti did a reasonable job on the children’s uniforms but I preferred to do my own and Erich’s clothes. Besides, I loved using the new iron that Erich had bought me. He insisted that I have the best he could give me. It was a Westinghouse steam iron that took out the wrinkles with ease and had a separate spray button to dampen the cloth where there were tough creases. I set up the ironing table.

  Erich opened the door and came inside, his face lined with exhaustion and pain. ‘You’re up,’ he said. ‘Late night?’

  ‘It was long. I couldn’t wait to get into bed and off my aching feet. Coffee?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  I went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. ‘What about you? You came in very late.’ I heard the chair scrape across the floor. He was tired because normally he’d berate the girls for doing that.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. I had to wait till George was ready to drive me home.’ I heard the sigh of relief as he took the weight off his leg. Although he could now drive short distances, I used the car most of the time and we couldn’t afford a second car as yet.

  ‘There were big celebrations last night. It looks like the nationwide union support’s made all the difference.’

  The month before, German and Italian migrants at Bonegilla had staged a demonstration against unemployment and migrant discrimination that had lasted for a week. They called for the right to work and demanded employment. Eleven people were arrested for rioting. Erich had joined the efforts to lobby support from unions across the country for those arrested men and increase the political pressure on the government until they were released, but also for the rights they were defending.

  ‘What was the result?’

  ‘A call’s been made to end the misleading information on employment and wages that migrants are fed before they leave their homelands. Finally, there’s some understanding of the difficulty they encounter when they arrive.’

  ‘That’s wonderful! Congratulations,’ I said, remembering how devastating it had been for us to find no work and little support when we arrived. I set his coffee on the table and kissed him lightly before returning to the ironing table.

  ‘All they wanted was a chance to work. It was what they’d been promised before they immigrated.’

  A niggle of doubt wormed its way through me. ‘Do you worry about the association of communist elements with the union?’ I asked, Franz’s conversation with me echoing in my mind.

  He sipped his coffee before he answered. ‘The Communist Party supported the call of the unions. It’s the only party that’s against the White Australia Policy, so that makes them popular with migrant workers. They’ve been fighting for its dissolution for years. I have to say, I like some of the things they stand for, and the way they speak out against racism and discrimination against migrants.’

  ‘You’re not about to join, are you?’ I asked nervously, running the iron too quickly over the edge of the skirt where I held it taut and burning my finger. From what I’d heard, belonging to the Communist Party would only damage our chances at a good life here in Australia.

  ‘No, as much as I agree with their ideals, I don’t agree with their politics. The Communist Party spells trouble.’

  ‘And the communists in the union?’ I remembered what Franz had told me.

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. There’s no communist threat here. It’s all a figment of people’s imaginations,’ he said stiffly. ‘I just wish that Australians understood how lucky they are to be living in such isolation. They take their freedom and democracy for granted.’

  ‘Most Europeans understand how precious those things are.’ Many of us who had endured under single-party regimes and dictatorships knew the value of democracy very well. But I wasn’t utterly convinced that the danger of being associated with communists didn’t exist, be they figments and shadows or not, however, all I could do for now was watch and see.

  ‘There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,’ Erich said. He looked suddenly wary. ‘I’ve decided I want to make timber furniture.’

  ‘Really?’ I carefully placed the iron upright on the table. We’d talked through a number of options earlier and making timber furniture was the most physically demanding. ‘Are you sure you can manage that with your leg?’

  ‘I’ll manage just fine.’

  ‘But you don’t have trade qualifications. The work you do is beautiful, but surely there’s more to learn than what your father taught you? Will it make a decent living?’ The frustration and worry I’d held back for months bubbled over like boiling oil, searing and scalding, my tone harder than I could control.

  ‘Are you finished?’ he asked quietly.

  I nodded, too wound up to say any more.

  ‘I know everything I need to get started. Anything extra, I’ll learn as I go. I’m resourceful, remember.’

  Of course he was, and I was treating him like a child who didn’t know anything.

  ‘I made many of the pieces for my father, pieces that were of a standard with his work, and he was a master craftsman.’

  ‘But who will buy your furniture? Pieces are so cheap now.’

  ‘You’re right, but those pieces are made with inferior materials and won’t last as long. Mine will be handcrafted, solid timber that will last for generations. There’s always a market for quality craftsmanship. Ernst has some new contacts at the factory, timber merchants who are willing to sell to me at a reasonable price. All I have to do is expand my workshop and find my first clients.’

  ‘Is it what you really want to do? Are you sure?’

 
; ‘I’m sure. I’ve researched thoroughly and I know I can make a successful business.’ He squeezed my hand. I could feel the vibration of excitement running through him. ‘It’s something I know and understand. A niche business like this could do very well, and I can’t wait to use some of these Australian timbers. This is the chance we’ve been waiting for.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy then,’ I said, relief and concern swirling through me so I didn’t quite know how to feel. It made Erich happy, that was for sure, and he was definitely gifted, but I worried how he’d manage with his leg and whether we could survive on the income from this business. Then I let my doubts go. We had a way forward and I had to trust him.

  Erich took my face in his hands and kissed me soundly. ‘We’ll have to celebrate later, then.’

  13

  We joined Franz and Claudia for a picnic at the beach at Bulli. It was November and finally warm enough for the children to swim.

  Erich was enjoying the sunshine, too full to move, drinking beer with Ernst and talking about timber, while Hilde and Mutti sat chatting on a blanket on the edge of the sand under the shade of a Norfolk pine tree. Franz was searching for something among the bags. There were plenty of eyes on the children, so Claudia and I took advantage of the extra adult supervision to walk along the beach.

  We’d walked a couple of hundred metres along the shoreline, talking about our daily lives, Erich’s business, work at the studio, the difficulties living with Ernst, and the trouble Hilde and Mutti were having settling into Australian life, when Franz jogged up behind us.

  ‘Mind if I join you, ladies?’ he asked, panting. ‘I had to move after that big lunch but I can’t run any more, I’m puffed.’

  Claudia looked at me and I shrugged. ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘We always enjoy your company.’ Claudia snorted. ‘Well, most of the time anyway.’

  ‘I won’t outstay my welcome then,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’ll walk with you part of the way and then when I get up the courage or energy, I’ll try to run a bit more.’