Suitcase of Dreams

by Tania Blanchard

  ‘He’s trying to get fit, now that he’s sitting behind a desk all day,’ said Claudia from the corner of her mouth. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t drop dead of a heart attack.’

  I tried to hide my smirk, sneaking a look at the small pot belly Franz had developed.

  ‘I heard that,’ he said with mock outrage, ‘but I’ll be trim and back to my old self by the end of summer, just you see.’

  ‘Yes, we will see,’ said Claudia, frowning slightly. His face did look very red and I wasn’t sure it was just sunburn.

  We walked in silence for a few minutes. I found the pounding of the surf soothing and energising at the same time. I drifted onto the soft sand, my feet sinking in, burning. ‘Oh, that’s hot!’ I exclaimed and quickly tip-toed back to the firm, wet sand. The cool water rippling over my feet was a welcome relief.

  Franz now walked between us. ‘So, what are you talking about?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Nothing important,’ said Claudia, kicking water at him.

  ‘Thank you, my sweetheart. That’s lovely. Shall I return the favour?’

  She stepped back immediately, staying out of range.

  ‘We’re so lucky to be able to enjoy such beautiful beaches,’ I said.

  ‘Speaking of which, have you heard back about your citizenship application?’ Franz asked.

  I shook my head. ‘No, still nothing. I’ve rung a couple of times to find out how much longer it’s going to be and all I’m ever told is that it’s being processed, that it will take as long as it needs and to be patient. Erich’s tried as well but he received the same answer.’

  ‘Has he now?’ Franz’s eyes were piercing blue and razor sharp.

  ‘How long since you lodged the applications?’ asked Claudia, her frizzy hair flying around her round face.

  ‘Since the end of May.’

  ‘Over five months?’ Franz’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Ours only took three months.’ Franz and Claudia had been naturalised in July.

  ‘I know that look. What are you thinking?’ asked Claudia sharply.

  ‘You know that the firm I work for often deals with political activists and has contacts in high places.’

  Claudia and I glanced at each other and I could see that she was worried too. Franz worked in civil rights law. He and Erich had had many heated discussions on the best way to tackle the problems they saw on a day-to-day basis.

  ‘One of Erich’s union colleagues has been denied citizenship, and his family back in Greece were questioned about his communist activities in Australia. He’s been refused a re-entry visa back into Australia if he wants to visit his sick mother in Greece.’

  ‘Surely he must be involved in illegal activities to be treated like this?’ said Claudia.

  Franz shook his head, blond hair falling across his brow in the gentle breeze. ‘He’s done nothing illegal as far as we can tell. He’s a passionate advocate for migrant rights, just like Erich. The only difference is that he’s a member of the Communist Party.’

  ‘Reds under the bed,’ I whispered. I found it hard to reconcile what Franz had just told me about withholding the freedoms of a man whose only crime was to fight for the rights of others that were as synonymous with Australia and its reputation as the land of opportunity as the sand, ocean and blue sky around us.

  ‘What’s this got to do with Erich?’ asked Claudia.

  ‘He’ll be tarred with the same brush, just by association. We know of another activist who’s been denied citizenship repeatedly and we fear it’s because of his known links to communist members. Migrants are the ones who are most at risk, who have the most to lose.’

  ‘Does Erich know?’

  Franz stopped walking, looking apologetic as he placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘He didn’t until I told him, but he refuses to listen.’

  ‘Surely you can understand?’ I said. ‘You know what it means to him to try to make a difference and he feels that he’s finally making headway. He’s so proud of the role he played in the Bonegilla incident.’

  ‘I know, but with that success comes exposure.’

  ‘So you’re saying that their citizenship applications might be held up while Erich’s investigated,’ said Claudia.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But Erich’s done nothing wrong,’ I said.

  ‘I know, Lotte, but it’s not worth the risk,’ said Franz. ‘You have to tell Erich to step away from this, at least for a while . . . if not for himself, then for you and the children.’

  I nodded, fear swirling in my belly. ‘I’ll talk to him.’

  ‘I don’t feel like going any further,’ said Claudia. ‘You go for another run and I’ll walk back with Lotte.’ She grasped my hand and glared at her husband. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lotte, but I had to say something.’ He looked at his wife’s thunderous expression. ‘All right, I’m going.’

  We watched him run back towards our picnic spot.

  ‘He means well, but sometimes I wonder if he thinks he’s still in wartime Germany, surrounded by intrigue and deception. The way he and Onkel Ernst behave at times, you’d think that they were spies or something. It makes me cross.’

  ‘Maybe he’s right. What if Erich’s really in danger and putting our life here in jeopardy?’

  ‘All you can do is talk to him and trust him to make the right decision. He’ll know if the risk is real.’

  A few days later, I decided it was time to talk Erich.

  It was cool in the workshop, the sound of repetitive buffing soothing. Fluorescent light illuminated the furniture sitting on the shed floor in various stages of completion. Stacks of timber lay to one side, the resinous perfume of freshly cut wood filling the air. Erich had shown me how each timber had a distinctive fragrance when I accompanied him to the timber yard. My favourite was red cedar, which he told me was often used for panelling and decorative features.

  Erich’s business was in its infancy but at least it was up and running. The insurance money from the accident had made it possible to buy the tools and equipment he needed for the specialist work he was doing – a variety of handsaws, planes, chisels, hand drills, carving tools and lathes and an old station wagon, a 1956 Holden FE Special, to transport timber, equipment and small furniture pieces. The work was labour intensive but well worth the effort. It didn’t take me long to discover that this was what he should be doing and I was so relieved. He was happy, his body was getting stronger by the day, and he was occupied. He walked without a stick now, although he’d always have a limp and stiffness in his knee. It was remarkable, really. Nobody had expected him to walk properly again.

  It was his eye for detail and design, and his practical and analytical skills combined with his creative flair, that made his pieces unique. The timber’s grain was always the feature, the surprising array of rich, luxurious hues of the wood enhancing each piece so that it not only served a practical purpose but was also a work of art.

  Reinhardt had kindly commissioned pieces that I knew he loved and he quickly spread the word of Erich’s superior craftsmanship among his well-heeled friends, associates and clients. Many of these were Erich’s first customers and now the small shed we’d erected was crammed with tools, equipment, partly finished items and various timber slabs and pieces.

  However, I wondered how long it would take for Erich’s business to make the kind of money we needed so that I could cut back on my work and spend some time with the children. They were growing up, and in a blink of an eye they would be adults.

  The sight of Erich stopped me in my tracks. He had his back to me and he was magnificent – shirt straining at his shoulders, the muscles of his arms rippling with each stroke across the timber table top, legs planted firmly on the concrete floor, strong and solid below the shorts that accentuated his shapely behind. My fingers itched for the camera, to capture him in this moment . . . but then I remembered my task.

  ‘We have to talk,’ I said.

  Erich stilled
and all I could hear were the sounds of small animals rooting through the underbrush, perhaps a possum or two hopeful for a few mouthfuls of tender greens from our vegetable garden. The slight sighing of the wind through the gum trees was punctuated by a distant bark from a dog on one of the neighbouring farms. Our German Shepherd puppy, Wolfie, was asleep in his kennel.

  Erich turned towards me. He looked tired, dark shadows lining his face in the harsh light, but his eyes were peaceful. ‘What is it, liebling?’ He smiled and wiped his hands on a small piece of terry towelling.

  I almost lost my nerve then. I didn’t want to fight but to say nothing would be burying my head in the sand.

  ‘I know Franz has spoken to you about the union. He tells me it’s not safe for you to continue your activism.’

  Erich closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again. He dropped the towel on the bench and came to me. ‘He’s a lawyer, Lotte. He sees things differently.’

  ‘That’s not true. He works towards the same cause as you. He knows what’s going on, but he also hears things that you don’t. He knows about the communist links to the union, he’s told me about the risk to those associated with Communist Party members. Franz thinks that it’s affected our citizenship application, and that may only be the tip of the iceberg. You’re not safe and we’re not safe unless you keep a low profile. I don’t want to come home from work one day to find you gone, to hear that you’ve been deported and can never return to us.’

  Erich gently took hold of my wrists. ‘Do you really think I’d put you and the children in danger? How can you say such things after everything we’ve been through? Have you forgotten how we’ve struggled?’

  ‘Of course not! But why does it always have to be you? You’ve done so much for others and it’s time to look after your own family. Maybe you’ve forgotten about us.’

  ‘You know me better than that. I would never put anything before my family. Everything I do is for you.’

  ‘Then quit the union.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  My heart dropped like a stone. This was what I had been dreading. ‘But surely it’s time for someone else to take over the lobbying and activism,’ I pleaded.

  Erich gripped my wrists more tightly, giving them a shake. ‘Don’t you want an Australia that values the voice of all people, no matter where they’ve come from? Don’t you want a future for our girls where freedom of speech and equal rights is accepted as normal? That’s why we came here, isn’t it?’

  He dropped his hands and took a step away from me. ‘If I stop now, it will all have been for nothing. I’ll be worth nothing, undeserving of you and the children, and I couldn’t bear that.’

  I stood there stunned. I knew Erich was racked with guilt about the position he’d put us in. Nothing had gone to plan since we’d arrived in Australia, but how could he believe that the union was his only chance at redemption? Why couldn’t he see how our family was thriving despite the setbacks? And that by remaining on his path, he was threatening all he and I had worked so hard for?

  *

  The letter informing us that our applications to be made Australian citizens had been approved finally arrived a few weeks after our conversation. I was overjoyed, relieved and guilt-ridden at the same time. Maybe there had been nothing to worry about after all, and everything I’d said to Erich had been unnecessary, but I couldn’t take it back.

  The citizenship ceremony was held in the Liverpool Town Hall on a warm summer’s day in 1962 – January 26th, Australia Day. I was surprised to see how many people were being naturalised: the hall was full of citizens-to-be and their friends and family, everyone dressed in their Sunday best. Streamers hung from the lights and across the ornate ceiling.

  Despite her objections, Mutti had come to watch the ceremony, and she and I followed Erich and the girls down the central aisle, pushing our way through the crowd to find our seats. I held the small bible I’d been handed on entering the hall tightly, trying to still my shaking hands and ignore the rush of nerves. Were we doing the right thing, giving up German citizenship to be Australian? It was too late to change my mind – the official paperwork had already been done. I shifted in my seat, restless.

  Then I glanced at the girls sitting quietly between Erich and me, dressed in their best and looking beautiful. We were doing this for them. They were thriving in a way I couldn’t have imagined possible in Germany. Their future – and so our future – was here, and nothing else mattered.

  The mayor, recognisable by the chain of office that hung across his ermine robes, and the town clerk stood at the front next to the podium draped with the Australian flag, ready for the ceremony to begin. City officials and dignitaries sat in a row along the front of the stage, stiff-backed and solemn.

  Erich caught my eye and smiled, shining with pride. ‘Are you ready for this?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  He reached over the children and took my hand. His was firm and warm, his touch secure and grounding. ‘This is a new beginning,’ he told the girls and me. ‘Soon we’ll be Australians.’

  ‘I don’t know why you have to do this and give up who you are and where you’ve come from,’ Mutti huffed, more to herself than us. We’d had this discussion with her many times but she believed we were wiping out our past, the glorious past of our family and our homeland. That was unforgivable in her eyes.

  ‘She’ll be right, mate,’ said Greta louder than she needed to, grinning cheekily, as much for the occasion as to bedevil her grandmother.

  Mutti huffed again and turned to look the other way.

  Johanna decided to join in with the fun. ‘G’day, mate.’

  ‘Enough, girls,’ I whispered. ‘This is a serious occasion. Behave yourselves.’

  Both girls nodded dutifully, although I could still see the smiles on their faces.

  The mayor stood at the podium welcoming us and speaking about what it was to be an Australian citizen. I tried to pay attention but my focus wandered. Then it was time to stand and take the Oath of Allegiance. Hand on my bible, I read the oath from a sheet of paper, although Erich and I had already memorised it.

  And it was done. We were officially Australian citizens.

  Erich’s name was called and then my own and I followed my husband to the podium where the mayor handed me my certificate of naturalisation and shook my hand with his white-gloved one. Back in my seat, I stared at the piece of paper that made my daughters Australian citizens – that made them Australian. As minors, they were naturalised now because I was. Any children they had here would be automatically Australian. It was what Erich and I had wanted: a home for our children and particularly our grandchildren, where freedom of choice and the wide open spaces of this land were their birthright.

  We had a little celebration after. Franz, Claudia, Ernst, Anna, Peter and the twins, Suzanne, Tommy and little Joan, Reinhardt, Sabine and Karl, and Otto and his new girlfriend Cherie all joined us at home for coffee and cake. We were all Australians now, besides Mutti and Ernst. It was time to move forward and secure the future, not only for ourselves but for our children and their children. However, I knew the pull of Germany was still strong for Erich. He’d often pick up the framed photos of Walter and Eva on her wedding day and, more recently, photos of his new grandson. It made me sad to know that we would never have any more children and how Erich was missing out on being a grandfather. He’d missed out on so much with his oldest children. The months that we all lived under the same roof, although fraught with difficulty, had been precious for him.

  Erich’s mother was well into her seventies and he was sure he’d never see her again. Although he said nothing, I believed that upset him the most, especially watching me with my own mother. Karoline had lived with us in Germany and, although I didn’t always see eye to eye with her, we’d developed a good relationship. She’d gone to live with Inga, Erich’s ex-wife, helping her with the children. I knew Karoline was trying to make up for the years
she lost while in a Russian work camp after the war but Eva and Walter were grown now, and she’d written to Erich, telling him that she felt lost. She’d decided it was time to come to us, to spend the twilight years of her life with her only child and her younger grandchildren.

  It was unexpected news but I was pleased for Erich. I understood how he felt about seeing her again, to be able to hold her in his arms. I begrudgingly admired the courage it must have taken for her to make the decision to travel to the other side of the world at her age, to a country so different from what she knew, without speaking the language. Erich and I both had our concerns about how she would cope, but we were especially worried about how our mothers would get on – they were polar opposites: Mutti vivacious and social while Karoline was quiet and kept to herself.

  But Erich soon became excited and full of energy once more, working on plans to extend our house; it was too small as it was but with an extra person it would be impossible. Karoline’s application to immigrate would take months to process but they were months we needed. The money we had wasn’t going to cover the cost of building a new house as we’d originally planned, but our situation would be unmanageable without more space. We needed a room for Karoline, preferably at the opposite end of the house from Mutti, a proper kitchen and dining area, a bathroom with a shower, a bedroom for Erich and me, and separate rooms for the girls. Erich wanted to build a carport to protect the cars from the extremes of temperature but also so that I didn’t get wet bringing groceries in when it rained. We decided it was time to build a larger workshop off the carport for Erich’s business too. He needed more space, somewhere to work properly and somewhere presentable to meet his customers. Extending the garage seemed to be our only option.

  I knew his pride was on the line with his mother arriving soon. It was bad enough that he had to endure Mutti’s glares. Now that she had settled into Australian life and made friends, meeting them for coffee and cake, going out to the occasional concert with our family doctor, Dr Rodsky, and keeping her weekly lunch with Suzanne, she had become more vocal in her disapproval of our living conditions.