Suitcase of Dreams

by Tania Blanchard

  ‘We came here to start over, to have a new life, but it seems that our controlling family members are intent on dragging us all back to the restrictions of our past. He has to go too, Claudia.’

  ‘I know,’ she said sadly. She was trapped and could do nothing about it except stand by her husband’s side and support him. Franz, like Erich, would do what he thought was best but it didn’t make it any easier on us. It seemed that we were the strong ones who held up our husbands and families. Despite their best intentions, they were the ones causing us to suffer. I thought about Mutti, seeking her freedom, and for a moment I wished I were in her shoes.

  ‘I thought I was coming here today to ease my conscience about asking my mother to leave. I haven’t been able to sleep, worried I’ve done the wrong thing – been too harsh on her.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Mutti has to find her own place in this country, just as you and I do. I almost envy the freedom she has to choose what she wants but I also know that asking her to go was the only decision that would allow me to find my place. I have to manage the troubles I’m having with Erich on my own.’ Since our confrontation about the threatening letter and Erich’s refusal to quit, the safety of my family only seemed possible if I left and took the girls with me. It was a horrific thought, one I could barely contemplate. But I knew I had to try everything I could before I walked away.

  ‘You don’t mean that your marriage is in real trouble, do you? You belong together.’

  ‘What if love isn’t enough, Claudia? What if Mutti’s right? If the danger to my family doesn’t stop? That’s Erich’s doing. He put us through that, he put us at risk.’ I shut my eyes briefly, swallowing my tears, trying to pull myself together. ‘I still don’t feel safe. I can’t stop looking over my shoulder, I jump every time there’s a knock at the door. I have to put my children first.’

  ‘Lotte, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Go home and tell Erich that your mother’s decided to live in town with Hilde. I’m sure without your mother constantly looking over your shoulders, you’ll find that things settle down. Give yourselves some time to breathe. You can find each other again.’

  I nodded, overwhelmed. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’m just drained. I never imagined doing something like asking my mother to leave. Suddenly everything seems unmanageable.’

  ‘We understand each other, Lotte. Maybe we should do this more regularly or maybe even see a movie once in a while? It might do those men some good to see what it’s like without us for an evening.’

  I laughed shakily. ‘Let’s do that.’

  *

  We were watching the news on our new television a month before Christmas when we learnt that the American president, John F Kennedy, had been assassinated.

  ‘This will cause shockwaves across the globe,’ said Erich, leaning back on the lounge, legs stretched out on the carpet square under the coffee table, as if he still relished the extra space and calm since Mutti had left.

  But I wasn’t really listening. I was watching Jackie Kennedy in her blood-smeared dress, her expression of uncomprehending horror and shock. She had lost her husband and the father of her children. None of us knew when our time was up and although Mutti was fit as an ox, she wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe it was time to patch things up with her.

  I went to see Mutti at her flat. It was lunchtime and my mother’s day off.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ She stared at me a moment, her blue eyes like ice.

  ‘All right. For a moment. I have to go to work.’ I nodded and bit back my retort, following her into the tiny lounge area.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes please.’ Mutti’s good manners to a guest were automatic, even to me.

  She moved to the kitchen and put on the kettle. ‘What do you want? Don’t ask me to come back to your place, because I won’t.’ She put two cups and saucers on the bench, refusing to look at me.

  ‘I know, and I’m not here to ask you to. I just wanted to see you . . . I miss you.’ Her stony expression softened. ‘Did you see Jackie Kennedy after her husband was assassinated?’

  Mutti nodded and frowned, placing a teaspoon of instant coffee into each cup.

  ‘Life’s too short, Mutti. We’ve been through so much together and always come out the other end. I don’t want to fight with you any more.’

  Her shoulders sagged. ‘What you did was unforgivable. I’ve only ever wanted the best for you yet you disregard and ignore me.’ She sighed. ‘You did me a favour really. It was time to stand on my own two feet.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Really I am . . . but you pushed me too far. You have to let me stand on my own two feet too.’

  ‘I know. We’re too much alike.’ She smiled wearily and poured the water into the cups.

  ‘Can we try again? Maybe the distance is good for us. If we can respect each other’s lives, we can start talking.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She handed me my coffee. ‘Come and sit down then.’

  Slowly Mutti and I began talking once more. We gave each other the space that we needed and met once a week only for coffee at first. I was pleased to learn that Mutti was doing well on her own. Hilde was pefect company for her but she was spending a lot more time with Rudi. He was good to her and it made me happy to see her moving past the loss of Vati.

  I was more than a little envious when she told me that they had attended a special performance by the Australian Ballet where Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nureyev appeared together. Nureyev was Russian and had defected while on tour in Paris in 1961, causing an international sensation. The Soviet government kept a tight rein on its national icons.

  I sat, mesmerised, as Mutti described the once-in-a-lifetime performance and hoped that one day I could enjoy such things again.

  I told her about Johanna who was desperate to see the Beatles when they began their Australian concert tour. She had pictures of the English group plastered on the wall of her bedroom and begged me to let her go, but I’d seen the images of girls screaming and swooning at the sight of the four young men in Sydney, crushed against barricades and being trampled by the surging crowd. She was too young, only sixteen, and I refused. She was crushed and resorted to playing her one Beatles record over and over, and sat glued to our small television whenever the evening news was broadcast. I felt bad, but I was too busy to take her and there was no way she was going on her own. I realised that the older my daughters got, the more I understood my mother.

  The fight with Mutti had reminded me what I loved about Erich and in forcing me to defend him, it now made me realise I had to put any thoughts of leaving him out of my head and make things work. I still didn’t know from day to day if I was doing the right thing but, since the anonymous letter, he’d been making the effort to spend more time with us and that was a start.

  One Sunday we visited the famous blowhole in Kiama. Karoline had decided to stay home this time, making the excuse that she had a headache. I suspected that she wanted Erich and I to have some time together. Her hazel eyes were becoming cloudy with age but they missed nothing. She’d seen the distance between us and the frosty interactions that took place whenever Erich attended public rallies or spoke at large gatherings, especially with the recent Mount Isa strikes, where a significant number of migrants were involved in the fight for better wages and conditions for the first time. The worry that we’d be targeted again and our life made unbearable was constantly in the back of my mind.

  The girls were already at the viewing area, looking out over the sparkling ocean, waiting for the blowhole to erupt. The stiff breeze buffeted us as we walked past the lighthouse to join them and I pulled my coat closed, tying the belt tight. It was soft and warm, made from fine Australian wool and expensive. Erich had bought it for me as a surprise and had even made sure the colour was right, a fashionable pale blue. I adored it and wore it every opportunity I got. It wasn’t something we could afford but it was a little bit of luxury he could give me.<
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  ‘Let’s see if this blowhole is as good as everyone says,’ Erich said, smiling. ‘Then we’ll take the girls for fish and chips.’

  It was wonderful to see him so relaxed. The drive down the coast had been breathtaking, emerging from the windy road of the mountain pass cocooned by the lush green of the rainforest to the rugged cliffs and sandy beaches against the blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. We had stopped along the way at the lookouts to catch and photograph the snatches of the coastline through the trees.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day. We could sit in the park and have a picnic.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. It looks like there are some good rock pools too. Maybe after lunch we can go for a walk along the beach and let the girls wander through them.’

  I put my arm around his waist. ‘They’d love that.’

  The blowhole was as good as expected. The excitement on the girls’ faces as they waited for the swell to build and enter the cavern below us was priceless and I couldn’t help but pull out the camera and get some good close-ups of them. The shrieks of delight and surprise as the blowhole erupted with a deafening boom, showering us with icy cold sea spray, warmed my heart as I jumped back quickly to keep my camera and coat from becoming soaked with my eye still to the viewfinder and clicking furiously away. There were bound to be a few perfect shots among them to remind us of a perfect morning.

  We were all laughing, Erich and the girls’ damp hair plastered to their faces, cheeks red from the cool breeze, eyes bright with joy.

  ‘That was fantastic,’ said Johanna. ‘Can we do it again?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ I said, putting the camera away. ‘There’s so much more to see. Let’s walk around and explore.’

  ‘I’m hungry. It’s lunchtime isn’t it?’ Johanna shot me a cheeky grin while Greta rolled her eyes in mock disgust.

  ‘Come on then,’ said Erich, clutching Johanna tightly to him. ‘You seem a bit scrawny. I suppose we’d better feed you up and not let you fade away to a shadow.’

  We sat on the grass under the tall Norfolk pines that overlooked the beach.

  ‘There’s nothing better than freshly caught and cooked fish, is there?’ Erich sighed in pleasure, shifting on the blanket to stretch out his stiff knee.

  He was right. The batter was light and crisp and the white fish soft, delicate and juicy. Even the hot chips were good, salty and crisp. White and grey seagulls crowded around, waiting for crumbs to drop, the more brazen ones venturing closer, trying to steal from the pile of chips at the edge of the blanket. Greta threw a chip across the grass and the flock of birds chased after the morsel, squawking and fighting for the prize until the victor flew away with the chip in its beak.

  ‘Give them another one,’ said Johanna, amused by the entertainment. Greta obliged and they took it in turn to see which seagull would claim the chip they threw, enticing the birds down onto the yellow sand.

  ‘They’re happy,’ I said, gazing across the beach.

  ‘They are. Are you?’

  ‘I am, sitting here with you and watching them laugh and have fun.’ I looked across to him, leaning back on his elbows. His face was clear of worry, the creases smooth and his eyes a brilliant green. I was suddenly transported back to the meadow on the day the war had ended when we’d stopped and embraced the moment, allowing our problems to drop away for just a little while. I had wanted to photograph him then, to capture the look on his face, the same expression on his face now. This was the man I had married. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m happy. I have you and the girls and your happiness means everything to me. I see now what you mean. These days are special, they remind me of what’s truly important and why we came to Australia in the first place.’ He leant across and kissed me. The salt on his lips and taste of fish in his mouth mingled with the wind sighing through the dark green branches of the trees and the gentle pounding of the surf. This felt like home. If only we could stay like this forever. Perhaps if we could remember this feeling whenever we felt adrift we would be all right.

  1965

  My newfound resolve wavered with the fierce government backlash to the Mount Isa strikes. The Queensland government declared a state of emergency. Picketing was outlawed and the use of banners and distribution of pamphlets had been restricted. This only made the unions more determined to fight for what they believed in. The government retaliated by giving the police unlimited power and the right to disperse any meetings, clamping down on protesters with further arrests. The environment was becoming more volatile by the week.

  ‘How can we live with a government that allows authoritative state rule, giving the police unlimited power to target whoever they like? Erich’s brows were low over eyes that glowed like coals. ‘It’s not too much of a stretch to that swastika the strikers painted. We left all that behind us, and I’ll be damned if I sit and do nothing.’

  ‘I know it’s what you have to do – but I worry for your safety.’ The usual conflict warred within me. Were we making any headway or was I wasting my time?

  He kissed the top of my head. ‘Finally migrant voices are heard at a national level but I have to continue the fight until this crisis is resolved for the sake of everything I’ve worked towards. I promise you that, when it’s over, I’ll step down from the union.’

  ‘Do you mean it?’ It was what I had wanted to hear for so long, I had to be sure.

  ‘I swear to you,’ he said, and I began to cry.

  *

  It was late afternoon and I was at Claudia’s waiting for Greta to finish studying with Anna. They were in their final year of school. Peter was practising the piano, the twins were watching television in the back room and I was chatting to Claudia in the kitchen while she prepared dinner.

  ‘He promised me he’d stop after Mount Isa and I know he will,’ I said, ‘but it’s been dragging on for weeks. Every time he goes out, I wonder if he’ll come back in one piece or if I’ll get a phone call to tell me he’s in hospital, and I worry about the girls too. There’s only so much the police can do—’

  ‘Stop that infernal racket!’ I stared at Claudia in shock.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s just Onkel Ernst. Sometimes he comes in from work cranky and all he wants is quiet. He’ll settle down in a minute.’ Her smile was half-hearted.

  Peter continued at the piano.

  ‘I said quiet!’ shouted Ernst in the next room. ‘I’ll push that blasted piano out the window if I hear another sound.’

  Claudia dropped the wooden spoon on the bench and hurried into the lounge room. I stopped in the doorway to see Ernst hovering over a cowering Peter.

  ‘Enough,’ said Claudia, getting between Ernst and her son. ‘You know Peter has to practise. He wants to be a musician one day.’

  ‘It’s bad enough he plays the cello, but does he have to play this, too? Didn’t your husband learn his lesson from his father? Music is nothing more than a hobby, not something you can make a decent livelihood out of. If the boy spent more time at his studies maybe he could be a lawyer like his father and me.’ Ernst glared at Claudia, swaying as he stepped away.

  ‘You’re drunk. Go and sleep it off and leave Peter alone. It’s none of your business what he does.’

  ‘Is that so?’ He stared at them a moment and then caught sight of me in the doorway. He shrugged and turned away. ‘I’m just an old man. What would I know? Knock on my door when dinner’s ready.’ I watched Ernst walk down the hallway and heard the heavy thud of his door as it shut. Claudia had her arms around Peter, who looked shaken but not surprised.

  ‘It’s all right, Mutti,’ he said. ‘Sometimes the piano sets Onkel Ernst off. Vati said it’s because of something that happened during the war when Onkel Ernst made Opa stop being a pianist and Vati had to go to law school instead of the Conservatorium.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. He has no right to treat you that way.’ She brushed the blond hair from his forehead.

  ‘Nobody’s going to stop me doing wha
t I love.’ His blue eyes were defiant and determined.

  She kissed his head. ‘I know. Finish your practice and wash up for dinner.’

  Back in the kitchen, I watched Claudia return to her cooking for a minute.

  ‘Is he always like that?’

  ‘He’s worse when he’s drunk, which seems to be more often these days.’ Her hands were shaking but I sensed that it was with anger rather than fear.

  ‘Do you want me to stay until Franz gets home?

  ‘No, he’s on his way.’

  ‘What did Peter mean about Franz’s father?’

  ‘He was a concert pianist. All I know was that he stopped performing rather than abandon the Jewish musicians and conductors he worked with. Ernst convinced him that it was better for Franz to do law and took him under his wing. His father only ever taught after that and the family was nearly destitute. Franz supplemented the family’s income until well after the war. As for the rest, I don’t know. There’s more to it but Franz won’t speak about it to me.’

  I touched her on the arm. ‘I’m sorry, Claudia.’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Me too.’

  Claudia’s troubles made me pensive. She was also in a difficult situation. I was sure neither of us had ever imagined our lives being this way and I began to wonder when Erich and I had started drifting apart.

  ‘I can see how upset you are,’ Karoline said to me one day while Erich was away on union business.

  I looked up. She had been sitting quietly in the corner reading a German classic for her book club, Effi Briest by Theodor Fontane. Karoline couldn’t speak English very well and was reticent to go out on her own. We’d finally persuaded her to become involved in a club that discussed novels written in German. She felt at home there, speaking with women like herself, and having a particular book to read each month and sharing her views on it gave her an interest outside the house. Besides, I think she was also pleased to give us time to ourselves.