Suitcase of Dreams

by Tania Blanchard

  Karoline spoilt Erich, making him lunch and bringing him cups of coffee at regular intervals throughout the day. She saw how stubborn he was, refusing to let his leg stop him from doing the things he wanted and how the pain wore him down, often making him gruff and uncommunicative by the end of the day. I knew he didn’t mind the small intrusions as it made him rest his leg and relax his iron will. Besides, they had a common interest in furniture making – his mother had worked in her husband’s store and had watched him make furniture on many occasions. It must have been poignant for her, watching her son take on the same occupation as his father.

  Karoline’s presence was good for Erich. He was able to reminisce with her, and although I knew how much he wanted to return to Germany, he seemed to accept that it wouldn’t be possible for a long while and took comfort in hearing every little detail about Eva’s and Walter’s lives from his mother. Sharing his experiences with her reminded him how much we’d achieved since arriving in Australia and how our family was thriving. And that could only be a good thing.

  But it didn’t stop Erich’s quest for change. Since the success he’d had with the Bonegilla incident eighteen months earlier, he’d become more politically active, lobbying government departments and determined to help push for new legislation to make discrimination against migrants more difficult to perpetrate. He was like a dog with a bone. The nature of his crusading had changed, putting him further in the way of the government, and my anxiety grew and grew.

  I knew I couldn’t stop him. His desire to help those unable to help themselves was driven by something much deeper than ego, pride and a man’s unerring belief in his own freedom and right to do as he pleased. It was something already within him, perhaps from what he’d witnessed through the war and fuelled by the helplessness and guilt he’d felt since we’d arrived.

  Rather than resent him for the time he gave to his cause and for the worry that always lurked in the back of my mind, I decided to join Sabine at her art class one night a week. If Erich could spend time pursuing his passion, then so could I. From the way she spoke of it at work, it sounded like a lot of fun, nothing too serious, but something new I’d enjoy. Once she saw I was interested, she encouraged me to come. A light-hearted atmosphere would give me space to breathe and bring me some much needed laughter. I could leave the household in the capable hands of the mothers for a few hours. When I told Karoline, she nearly pushed me out the door.

  ‘Go, have fun. Do something for yourself,’ she said. ‘It will be good for you.’

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner,’ I said to Sabine as I stood at the easel, sketching the bottle, glasses and fruit on the table and thirsty for more knowledge. I found that I understood the techniques the teacher was explaining to us and implicitly knew how to apply what I’d learnt to the paper beneath my hand.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ she said, gazing at my sketch. I’d quickly drawn in with some detail the figure of one of the women who sat waiting at the table. It seemed a good likeness of her. ‘You’re coming every week until you’re better than the teacher and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I mean it, Lotte. Promise me you’ll keep coming. You have real talent and you have to see where this takes you.’

  Perhaps it was something I could be good at, something that was just for me. I nodded slowly. ‘All right, I promise.’

  ‘Maybe one day I’ll be able to say that I knew you before you were famous,’ she said grinning. I dismissed her comment with a wave of my hand but something inside of me had ignited and I couldn’t wait until the next week’s lesson.

  Reading the newspaper in my lunchbreak one Friday in early February, I was shocked to see that another diplomatic incident was unfolding in Canberra. The First Secretary of the Russian Embassy, a man named Skripov, was being expelled after it was discovered that he’d been involved in espionage. My thoughts immediately went to Erich. Claudia and Franz’s warnings and the opened mail came flooding back to me. Evidence of Russian intelligence and espionage on Australian soil would only heighten the watchful eyes of ASIO, tightening the net around any suspected of dealings or association with communists.

  That newspaper article fermented in the back of my mind for the rest of the day while I smiled and calmly guided clients into the right position for that perfect photo shoot, so my blood was boiling when I finally got into the car, readying myself for a confrontation with Erich.

  He was in his workshop, sawing timber for a telephone table he was making.

  ‘Have you seen the newspaper today?’ I asked, standing in the doorway.

  He straightened, laying the handsaw on the bench beside him before turning to look at me. ‘No, what is it?’

  ‘A diplomatic incident with the Russian Embassy. The government’s deported one of the senior diplomats.’ I thrust the newspaper at him.

  Erich glanced at the front page. ‘Espionage?’

  ‘That’s right, and there’s hard evidence: photos, letters, packages, a transmitting device and testimony from an Australian agent Skripov cultivated. What would they want from Australia? We’re not exactly the centre of the world.’

  ‘Most likely anything to do with Australia’s military program and its projects with the British and Americans. There’s been a lot of opposition to the testing of long-range missiles at Woomera.’

  ‘That kind of information in Russian hands will only bring the world one step closer to outright war!’ The Peace Movement was against the missile project at Woomera and I understood that opposition – those of us who’d experienced the devastation of bombing raids could never condone the escalation of weapons development, but I’d never thought of Russian interest – communist interest – in such Australian projects.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Erich. ‘Who’d ever have imagined the state of the world this soon after the last war? The money that’s spent on these programs would be better spent improving the lives of ordinary people. It’s madness.’

  ‘It’ll be high alert now. Anyone at all associated with known communists will be scrutinised. Erich, you can’t afford to be anywhere near them.’ I loved him for his passion – he’d make a good politician and an honest one – but his fight against injustice was becoming dangerous.

  He frowned and I seized his arms, panic overwhelming me.

  ‘I think someone’s reading our mail,’ I blurted. ‘If you can’t listen to Franz or to me, then please listen to reason. What if you’re already being followed?

  ‘Lotte, Franz is well-meaning but he’s overreacting. Ernst told me Franz was a junior law clerk during the war. He was involved with the cases of people associated with the White Rose movement and in the 1944 assassination attempt on Hitler. According to Ernst, the hunting down and prosecution of those people has haunted him ever since.’

  I sagged, deflated for a moment, understanding what that might mean to Franz. I remembered the conversations Heinrich and I had had about the White Rose. He’d known some of them – medical students like him working together on the Eastern Front and studying at the University of Munich, good people – and understood their disillusionment with the Nazi regime. He had mourned their loss when they were executed by the Gestapo. How could our past, our history, not influence our future, who we were? Any of us who had lived under tyranny felt deeply about justice and freedom and many of us continued that fight here in Australia.

  ‘That explains a lot about his passion for civil rights.’

  Erich nodded. ‘The firm he works with now deals with a lot of backhanded negotiations, political manoeuvring and intrigue. Although the men they represent speak up about injustice and try to force change, they don’t work in the background: they’re openly defiant and make themselves targets for the government. After what he’s seen, of course he’s going to imagine the worst.’

  ‘And you’re not openly defiant? Don’t you openly oppose the treatment of migrant workers? Don’t you lobby for fair and e
qual rights and an end to discrimination?’

  He slammed the newspaper down on the bench. ‘I’ll never back down from these injustices, you know that, but I make sure that I’m smart about it. I don’t flaunt myself and I don’t agree with violence as a means of gaining attention. I’m only exercising my rights as an Australian citizen by using my voice to speak for those who can’t be heard. I’m in no danger. I know how to stay out of trouble.’

  ‘The communists—’

  ‘They have no real power in Australia, Lotte. Besides, the Communist Party is a legal political party that I have no affiliation with.’

  He stepped towards me and cupped my cheek. ‘Don’t worry, my darling. Nothing will happen to me, I promise. Our family is safe. Just trust me.’

  I only hoped that he was right, that he was careful enough. All I could do now was put my faith in him.

  15

  It was a cold autumn evening, the first that heralded the coming of winter, when I came home to find Erich sitting in the kitchen with a strange expression on his face, somewhere between thoughtfulness and bewilderment. The beer he had opened sat untouched on the laminate table, beads of condensation trickling down the bottle.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. This is it, I thought. The government had finally cornered him. ‘Has something happened?’

  Erich nodded. ‘What is it?’ I put my handbag down on the kitchen counter and slid across the lime vinyl of the bench seat, feeling sick to my stomach. I glanced at the electric cooktop and oven surrounded by a row of new white cupboards. There was dinner still to cook but it didn’t matter for now.

  ‘I received my biggest commission today. I’ve been asked to make a dining suite: chairs, table and buffet; all in top-grade timber, with possibly more commissions to come.’

  It wasn’t his union activities. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. My heart resumed its regular beat and my vision became sharp and clear again.

  ‘That’s wonderful. How did you get it?’ I was thirsty and took a sip of his beer.

  ‘Word of mouth . . . It’s a new customer but when I met him today, I realised I knew him.’

  He reached for the bottle and took a long swallow then looked at me, his green eyes round and misty with memory. ‘From my days in Silesia. I never thought I’d see him or his family again. In fact, I didn’t know if they’d survived.’

  ‘Did something happen?’

  He tipped the bottle to his mouth. ‘They’re Jews, Lotte.’ He let that comment hang in the air for a moment. Then he sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. ‘Vati was involved with a network that helped to get them out of Germany safely. He’d been helping local families to emigrate while I was still studying. It was only when I returned home to manage the furniture shop when he was ill with pneumonia that I discovered what he was doing and how deep his involvement was. I took over from him until he was well again and we worked together until I left Grottkau. As far as I know he continued long into the war.’

  ‘What? Why have you never told me this before?’ I whispered. I had never known Erich’s father. He’d disappeared in those final days of the war, fighting in Breslau with the Volkssturm.

  ‘At first it was dangerous for you to know and I wanted to protect you. Afterwards, we were struggling to survive. When we decided to make a fresh start in Australia, stories of our past seemed best left behind, along with those years we’d rather forget. We’ve been working so hard to secure our future since that I never thought to bring it up.’

  A sudden surge of irritation rippled through me. We’d been married for nearly eighteen years and this was an important part of his life that he’d kept from me. I had always been strong enough to hear the truth and had never shied away from it. I had told him everything.

  ‘But it’s no small thing.’

  Erich shrugged. ‘Vati considered it his duty, what any decent human being would do to help a fellow neighbour. But we had no idea how far things would go . . . It’s remarkable how many families my father and his acquaintances helped, families that still live and breathe today.’ This was a part of Erich’s life I knew so little about, but he didn’t see how his omission might have upset me. It was just something that he had done many years ago, before he had known me. As much as it annoyed me, it wasn’t worth arguing about now.

  He leant forward, his elbows on the table, frowning. ‘Julius Berlowitz and his family had been planning to leave Germany before my father fell ill. But before their travel plans could be finalised, the Nuremberg Race Laws came into effect and travel became a dangerous and difficult thing. We were finally able to get them safe passage to Switzerland, where the next stage of their travel plans would be made. He told me that they finally made it to Australia in 1937 . . . He asked after my father, of course.’

  ‘That’s unbelievable.’ A hot flame of pride coursed through me. I had always known that Erich was a compassionate man, courageous, a man of principle who felt called to protect not just those he loved but those who were unable to protect themselves. Now I understood where these traits had come from and a sudden realisation slotted into place like the final piece of a puzzle. This was why he was fighting so hard for migrants. It was personal for him. I wished I had known him then. I wished I had known his father, who had put the needs of others above his own safety.

  He passed me the bottle and I took another sip, enjoying the bitterness lingering on my tongue.

  ‘Berlowitz is retired now. He went back to university to get his law degree and eventually set up his own firm in the city, which his son now runs. He’s just built a new house looking out over the bush in Killara and wants to furnish it with handcrafted items.’ His expression turned wistful again. ‘Apparently he had some of my father’s pieces in his home in Grottkau. He told me that he had never seen a finer craftsman than my father but that my furniture not only shows expert craftsmanship but artistic flair. I did learn from the best.’

  ‘How did he hear about you?’

  ‘Through Franz, of all people. Franz works for his firm and told him about my work and Julius put two and two together . . .’

  ‘Really? Isn’t it a strange world?’

  ‘Yes. He’s promised me more work, more commissions in fact, and knows a number of people who would be interested in my pieces who are prepared to pay for quality craftsmanship and original design.’ He looked at me with wonder. ‘I think our fortunes have just improved. If this eventuates, we can start to make a good living and you won’t have to work so hard.’

  I kissed him and his arms enfolded me as he held me tight.

  ‘That’s so wonderful, my darling,’ I said. So often, the long arm of our past touched us with cold fingers and the harsh reality of what had been came flooding back, but today it brought a golden light and a happy ending.

  *

  Work was busier than ever for me. Business at the studio was growing and Reinhardt had to employ another photographer. Marion was young and relatively inexperienced and it often fell to me to supervise and mentor her. With appointments so crammed through the day, the few minutes I could spare with her here and there never seemed enough. I remembered how it had been for me when I’d started and made time after work to instruct her on the finer points of the European training I’d received.

  ‘Hi, Otto.’ The sound of what I knew was a school bag, thudded on the floor in the lunchroom. Another followed close behind.

  ‘Hi, girls. How was school?’

  ‘All right.’ It was Greta. I heard her slam her books on the table. She still had homework even after spending the afternoon in the school library while Johanna was at athletics training.

  ‘Your mother’s going to be a little while yet. Do you want some toast?’

  ‘Yes, I’m starved.’ I smiled before turning my attention back to Marion. Johanna was always hungry these days. She was slim and willowy but I was sure she had hollow legs. At fifteen she was as tall as me but still growing. The girls were growing up and time was passing u
s by. All I wanted to do was spend the evening with them, to capture the very ordinary moments of a school night before they were gone.

  ‘That will do for today, Marion. Practise these techniques as much as possible to improve your skills. You’ve come a long way already.’

  ‘Thanks for taking the time to help me, Lotte,’ she said, packing up her equipment.

  ‘I’m glad to help. See you tomorrow.’

  I went to the lunchroom to find Johanna munching on hot buttered toast, Otto smoking a cigarette while waiting for the kettle to boil and Greta’s dark head bent over her school books.

  ‘Thank you, Otto,’ I murmured as I cupped Johanna’s cheek in greeting and gazed over Greta’s shoulder at her work. He was like family to us and often looked in on the girls on the days that they stayed late with me, feeding them or helping with homework when he could.

  I kissed her silky hair. ‘How are you, my darling?’

  ‘Not good, Mutti,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got an essay due tomorrow and I haven’t started.’

  ‘Why have you left it to the last minute? What were you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘She was with her friends,’ said Johanna with a mouth full of toast. ‘She went down to the café to play the jukebox with them.’

  Greta’s head jerked up, her face contorted with outrage. ‘How would you know?’

  ‘Amanda’s sister told us when she came to pick her up,’ she said smugly.

  I glanced at Otto, who raised an eyebrow wryly. He’d seen enough to understand teenage girls by now. Instead of getting upset, I took a deep breath. Even moments like these were times to treasure.