Suitcase of Dreams

by Tania Blanchard

  ‘You’re not going and that’s final,’ said Erich.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Greta, her face red with fury. She pushed back her chair, scraping it against the slate and left the house without a backwards glance, slamming the door.

  *

  With Greta’s announcement fresh in my mind, I put the plans of our trip to Germany on hold, but I kept the itinerary so that I could book it when we were ready. I’d had the idea to try to plan the trip around Erich’s sixtieth birthday, but postponing turned out to be a wise move, because Mutti moved back in with us not long after the party.

  Rudi had passed away suddenly from a massive heart attack. Mutti was devastated. She’d delayed the wedding and now they would never get the chance to live together as husband and wife. Hilde insisted that Mutti stay with her but Mutti was already packed in preparation to go to Rudi’s, so, at my suggestion, she came to live with us again. Erich wasn’t excited about the idea but I could hardly deny my mother. She was barely able to function as memories of Vati’s passing merged with her fresh grief, and she spent days at a time in bed. Her behaviour reminded me of when we’d received news of Willi’s death, when Vati and I had to coax Mutti from her bed and slowly back into life. Those days had been very dark for us all. At least now I wasn’t grieving too and I had Erich and the girls to support and help me.

  Unpacking Mutti’s boxes for her while she slept one Sunday afternoon, I came across a photo of Heinrich. It was the last photo I’d taken of him during the war. I’d carried it with me during the months he’d been on the Eastern Front. It was a good photo, one of my best. It had been taken in spring, the new blossoms hanging like jewels on the delicate branches. We were engaged then.

  As I gazed at his boyish grin in the faded photo, that day in the Englischer Garten came back to me. He was lying on his side, resting on his elbow among the meadow’s spring flowers, casual in dark slacks and white shirt, sleeves rolled up and collar open at the neck, revealing the smooth hollow at the base of his throat. His blond hair fell over his forehead, and his face was relaxed, though his blue eyes were intense, the grin loosening the tightness I had seen for weeks in his square jaw.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I’d said, bringing the camera to my eye, making the adjustments automatically. Capturing the true essence of him was a miracle of the moment.

  I shook my head and sighed at the memory. They were carefree days that were long gone, but I sent a swift thank you to God for them and my time with Heinrich. He had been a dear friend and my first love.

  I knew Mutti corresponded with him at Christmas but I never asked after him. Some things were best left in the past, and ours was a complicated history. Looking at the young man in the picture with hope in his eyes, I prayed that life had treated him well. I put the photo back in the box and decided to leave the rest of the unpacking to my mother. It would be good to have something for her to do . . . And I had no desire to disturb the ghosts of the past.

  21

  1971

  Greta had her way in the end. Despite the government beginning to withdraw Australian troops from Vietnam in November, civilian surgical teams still moved in to support the local population. It didn’t make sense to me that civilians were sent in to a deteriorating situation as their support and security were leaving. Erich and I argued at length with Greta about the folly of her decision, about the risk she was taking, but it made no difference.

  After a rigorous screening process, she was selected for the team. She had the courtesy to come home and tell us. Erich was irate, forbidding her from going and telling her she wasn’t welcome at home if she went.

  ‘How could you say that to her?’ I yelled at him after Greta had left. ‘Now she won’t want to come home.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll wake up to herself,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘Don’t you see that it’ll make no difference? She’s just like you, passionate and focused on what she believes she has to do. She’ll go anyway, and all you’ve done is push her away.’

  ‘I’m nothing like that! I’ve always put those I love ahead of my own agenda, ahead of my own needs. You, of all people, should know that.’ He pushed past me, stalking out the door to the shed.

  I sank to the chair. He didn’t see it, wouldn’t see it, because if he did, he’d have to accept how painful it was to be on the other side and acknowledge the pain he’d caused me.

  Mutti didn’t help. ‘How can you let her go and throw away her life? Remember when you wanted to go to the front and work as a military photographer? I forbade you, and Vati arranged for you to work as an office girl. We made the decision for you and kept you safe. Now it’s your turn.’

  But Mutti still didn’t understand the anguish I’d experienced from being denied the opportunity to follow my dream and my passion – how that decision she’d made for me changed the course of my life forever.

  Greta was very much like me too, I realised. We didn’t stand a chance against the force of her will.

  I understood Mutti’s fear, but it was pointless to argue with her, I’d learnt that much. Greta had to make her own way. All I could hope for was reconciliation between her and her father, and that she remained safe and came home to us whole and not traumatised.

  It was a chilly spring day when we farewelled our eldest daughter at the new international terminal at Sydney Airport. Johanna, Mutti and I shed tears of sadness and worry, but also of pride. Greta’s matron had explained to us what an honour it was for her to be selected because only five or six nurses were chosen nationally for each team.

  I hugged Greta tight, not wanting to let go, memorising the feel of her, the sound of her voice, in case this was the last time I’d ever see her.

  ‘I understand why you’re going,’ I whispered to her. ‘You have do what you have to do – what makes you happy. I’m so very proud of the strong, caring woman you’ve become, but keep yourself safe, don’t let the things you see get to you, and you come home to me.’

  ‘I know, Mutti. Grossmama told me all about you and wanting to work on the front and about Onkel Ludwig and Onkel Willi. I’ll be careful, I promise, and come home in one piece. I’ve got too much living to do.’ She hugged me tighter. ‘I’ll see you soon, Mutti,’ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Look after Vati.’

  Erich had come to the airport under sufferance, giving in to the constant pleas and demands from Johanna, Mutti and me. I knew in his heart that he was proud of Greta’s achievement, but their farewell was terse, the pair of them frosty with each other. He still hadn’t forgiven her for her decision to go and she hadn’t returned to the house in the months since her father’s ultimatum. He was still angry that she’d not budged – and I was angry that he’d deprived me of the chance to spend time with Greta at home before she left.

  ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself,’ I said disdainfully a few days later when I could bring myself to speak to him again. We were preparing for bed and I couldn’t hold it in any longer. ‘How could you leave things like that with your daughter? What if something happens to her?’ My voice caught in my throat.

  He was buttoning his pyjama shirt and turned to me. ‘I can’t do a thing to help her over there,’ he said softly. ‘She’s so young. What does she know about the world? I’m her father and I’ve done everything to protect her from harm, to prevent her from knowing war, to give her a future we could never have dreamed of, the opportunity to have a life of comfort and joy.’ He sank to the bed, distraught. ‘For Christ’s sake, we left our families and all we knew for that. I left my other children behind to give her and Johanna a future. How can she have such little regard for that and throw it all away?’

  He looked at me with anguish but I refused to comfort him – my own pain was too great.

  ‘My God, Erich, she’s a product of both of us! How can you have expected her to do anything else? She’s all grown up. We were living our own lives and making our own decisions at her age. You have to let her make her own choices
and believe that we’ve taught her enough. And I hope she can forgive you and that you get to see her again so you can apologise for your stupid and thoughtless behaviour.’

  Erich jerked as if he’d been slapped, then left the room without another word.

  I heard the back door close and knew he was going to the workshop. Good. He would think about what I’d said while he worked.

  *

  Greta was stationed at Bien Hoa for a nine-month posting. She sent us letters regularly. It became our ritual for me to read them out over the breakfast table.

  ‘It’s chaotic here but it’s the smells that remind me that I’m far from home – the incense, the diesel from cars and machinery, the rubbish on the streets and open sewers,’ I read one morning in October. ‘The hospital is near an American airbase and the soldiers there are our godsend, helping us with supplies, taking care of the security of the hospital compound and anything else we might need. It can get pretty noisy here with the aircraft taking off and landing nearby, shaking the buildings, but we’re getting used to it.

  ‘I’m learning Vietnamese as I go. The training at home was far from adequate and often we communicate with the locals with a few words and hand gestures, although we have an interpreter we use for the more important exchanges of information.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like she’s managing,’ I said brightly, lowering the page to look at Erich, Johanna and Mutti over my new reading glasses.

  Erich’s face was stony as he drank his coffee.

  ‘She doesn’t need to be there,’ muttered Mutti. ‘If she wants to nurse, there’s plenty to do here, right under her nose.’ I knew it was only fear for Greta that was making her grumble and that beneath it she was proud of her granddaughter and her bravery.

  ‘Well, I could never have imagined Greta going off and doing something like this,’ said Johanna, shaking her head in amazement.

  I nodded and looked at the letter again. ‘We see endless cases of injury from the war, of local civilians from the town and outlying villages as well as refugees from further north. They often require immediate and drastic surgery to save their lives. These people are often poor women and children surviving without their menfolk, who are fighting in this bloody war. Some we can patch up, but others’ lives will never be the same again and I wonder what will happen to them, unable to work, some requiring help to just manage their basic activities. It’s heart-wrenching but makes me more determined than ever to do what I can to help.

  My emotions were in conflict. I was horrified by what Greta had to deal with. Although I wasn’t a nurse, I had some idea of what she was talking about – I’d seen things like this before, during and after the war. This wasn’t the life I wanted for her. On the other hand, I was enormously proud of her having the courage to stand up for what she believes in, the endurance to continue day after day and the optimism and passion for never-ending and often thankless hard work. She was a strong young woman, and I prayed that she stayed that way and didn’t become disillusioned.

  ‘I know she’ll be great after how she helped Peter,’ said Johanna. ‘Those people are lucky to have her. Don’t worry, Mutti, she’ll be fine.’ She put her hand on my shoulder and kissed my cheek. Then she stared at Erich reading the newspaper and pushed her chair back without saying any more.

  Greta kept up with the letter writing. Sometimes the letters were hard to read – she had experienced such terrible things – but at least I knew she was alive and well. And I was overjoyed that she still believed in what she was doing after what she’d seen, grateful that she’d learnt so much about how other people live and also about herself. Of course I worried about her safety but I also worried about what this experience would do to her when she got home and settled back into ordinary life, how the trauma might come back to haunt her.

  ‘She’s working herself to the bone,’ said Mutti, one morning after I’d finished reading Greta’s latest letter, her breakfast untouched in front of her.

  The back door was open and I could hear a kookaburra laughing in the distance. It was warm and the sun streaming into the kitchen made the room bright but still I shivered.

  ‘She’s doing what she has to do,’ snapped Erich.

  Mutti glared at him. He’d made no comment about Greta’s letters before now but at least this was something. I wanted desperately to heal the dissent that had come between Erich and Greta and consequently between us. Maybe I could talk to him.

  ‘I’m sure she’s learning a lot,’ I said.’ I looked at Erich, hopeful of another reaction or comment. He nodded grimly and said no more.

  Johanna was subdued too, sipping her tea and staring out the window to the bush beyond. I knew she was thinking not only of her sister but also of what Peter had been through. It had been a tough road to recovery for him and although he’d returned to music, playing in an orchestra and finishing his course at the conservatorium, he was often withdrawn and moody.

  Johanna had just finished her degree and had decided to apply for a veterinary position in the country. One of her lecturers knew about an opening in a reputable practice in Yass, specialising in the large animals she loved working with. It was about four hours away but an easy drive down the Hume Highway. She was due to start in January. It was a decision that surprised many, especially Mutti – but not me. I knew that, just like her sister, Johanna was never going to follow the conventional road. I was going to miss her but I was so very proud of her. She’d worked hard and done well in a male-dominated course. I knew she’d have her challenges in the country, where attitudes towards women were even more old-fashioned than in the city. It might take people a while to accept a female vet, especially on the farms, but she’d show them that she was equal to the task and as good as any man at the job.

  ‘What about you and Peter?’ I’d asked softly when she’d told us of her plans.

  ‘It’s over between us.’

  I’d opened my mouth to reply but she hadn’t let me get a word out.

  ‘It wasn’t Vietnam, Mutti. Things were never going to work out between us, we’re too different,’ she’d said, looking sad, but I’d wondered, as I did still.

  Claudia had told me how Peter would wake screaming in the night from nightmares. She’d had plenty of experience dealing with Franz and his trauma but this on top of it all was wearing her down. Peter just wasn’t doing well. At least Onkel Ernst’s passing a couple of months earlier gave her one less worry. Franz had seen him before he died but Claudia had refused to go. She’d worried about Franz, but he’d come home calm and at peace.

  ‘How’s Peter coping with the breakup?’ I asked her over our regular coffee.

  ‘At first he wouldn’t talk about it. Franz has been good with him, though. He seems to understand what he’s going through. I’m very proud that Peter’s finished his course and has been working. Nobody would know that he’s any different.’ She stirred her coffee absently. The strands of grey were more noticeable in her hair. ‘Franz told me that Peter doesn’t want Johanna to have to go through what I’ve gone through with him.’ Her voice caught. ‘He’s well aware that he’s damaged and refuses to let Johanna in. He doesn’t want her to get hurt. He wants her to lead her own life, to have a life . . . He loves her that much.’ Tears spilled down her face.

  I fumbled in my handbag to find a clean handkerchief and gave it to her while blinking my own tears back.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ We both knew that only time would heal Peter and he’d let someone in to see the person he’d become when he was ready.

  ‘No. Please tell Johanna how sorry we are. We were looking forward to her becoming part of our family one day.’ Claudia dabbed at her face again. ‘I hope she understands.’

  I nodded. ‘She hasn’t said much but I think she knows. They’ll always be friends.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll always be there to support each other.’

  We smiled.

  ‘How are things with the SOS?’ I asked suddenly, feeling guilt
y that I hadn’t been able to make the last few meetings. Between the studio and the effort I’d been putting into my fledgling business, perfecting my style so I’d been able to sell a small number of paintings and photographs mainly to clients of Erich, I could hardly keep up.

  ‘As busy as ever. As you know, most of the troops have been returning from Vietnam but they’re being brought home often in the dead of night. There’s no ticker tape parades for them, no huge hero’s welcome. I know that the public backlash against the war has been strong of late and the public reception to our soldiers’ coming home has become more hostile, but this is ludicrous.’

  ‘The government sent these boys to war,’ I said, indignant. ‘They should welcome them home as war heroes, proud that they’ve been fighting for their country, keeping us all safe.’

  ‘That’s the thing. Many people don’t see it as our war at all. It’s a war to be ashamed of, a war we shouldn’t have got involved with, a war that’s still continuing despite our best efforts. All people see on the news and in the paper is bloodshed – the destruction of Vietnam, dead civilians. All we have to show for this are our dead and maimed soldiers, traumatised boys who will never be the same again.’

  ‘What those soldiers have endured . . .’

  ‘Peter’s told me a little of what it was like. He said that they dream of coming home after their tour, proud of their service to their country. Most didn’t like what they had to do and will never forget the terrible things they saw, but it was what their country asked of them. All of that could be eased by the love and support of not only their families but the Australian public and government, who should also be proud of their brave and courageous service to their country. Instead, they’re whisked away at night like fugitives, criminals, for fear of being seen. All they feel is shame and what they suffered was for nothing.’