Wojek had heard he was to be denied entry into Australia when his P & O liner Orontes, en route to Australia, had docked in Bombay. He had then paid a large sum of money to the British India engineer to take him aboard the Sydney-bound Dilwara, as a stowaway. Because of Wojek’s unshakeable commitment to the cause, Bill had reluctantly agreed to become a party to his plans.
Bill glanced at a clock on the wall. It was 6.00 pm. The engineer said he had given Wojek a fake seaman’s identification card which he would use at exactly 9.00 pm to get him past the guard’s shed at the entrance to the wharf. After that, the engineer said, Wojek was on his own.
At 8.55 pm, Bill sat in the front seat of an old delivery van in the dim glow of a street lamp just outside the wharf gate. Exactly five minutes later he saw a tall figure emerge from the shadow of the Dilwara and walk briskly across the dock to the gate. The guard in the shed looked up from his newspaper just long enough to wave the seaman through.
Bill glanced up and down the dark street anxiously. It was empty. He started the engine of the van and drove over to the man and pulled up beside him. The tall man stooped down and put his head in the passenger side window.
‘Mr Travis.’
‘Yes.’
‘I am Wojek.’
‘Get in.’
Wojek was a much younger man than Bill had expected, with strong features and a wide easy grin. The Pole opened the door, threw a small suitcase into the rear of the vehicle and climbed in.
Bill held out his hand. ‘Welcome to Australia. May I apologize for the attitude of the Immigration Department, Mr Wojek.’
‘There is no need, Mr Travis,’ Wojek said in broken English. ‘The department is merely doing its job. Our job is to try to get their masters to realize that we are not subversive activists to be feared, just… how would you say… just mates… wanting to halt an evil ideology that one day might destroy the freedoms we enjoy in our countries ’
Bill drove away, checking the rear-view mirror as he went. At the end of the street he checked it again. He thought he saw a shadow on the roadway behind him, perhaps a vehicle with no lights. He quickly swung left and drove through the huge Pyrmont wool sheds heading for Surrey Hills. He checked the mirror again and saw the lights of a car behind. It was a big black saloon, not the type of vehicle generally seen after dark in the dock area.
‘Is everything all right?’ Wojek asked nervously. ‘Are we being followed?’
‘I don’t know. That car could belong to anybody, I suppose. But I thought I noticed it travelling without lights a little way back.’
‘How far are we going?
‘Not far.’ Bill checked the mirror again. ‘Perhaps a mile and a half.’
As they left the dock area behind and drew closer to the city the traffic increased. Several times Bill looked again for the black saloon but saw no sign of it. He began to relax.
‘We have prepared a room for you at our headquarters, Mr Wojek. We thought if we were to run into any trouble it would be the last place the authorities would look for you.’
Wojek laughed wryly. ‘It’s ironic that we need to hide from our friends and our countrymen now, in order to try and safeguard their freedom in the future.’
They drove on in silence, leaving the Haymarket behind and crossing over Elizabeth Street into Surrey Hills. Minutes later, Bill turned into the dimly lit street where the League’s headquarters were located. There was little traffic now and it was only by chance that he noticed another black saloon, similar to the one he had seen earlier, pull out slowly from a side street with no lights on.
Bill slammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. ‘There on to us, Mr Wojek. That’s two unlit vehicles in less than two miles.’ He looked in the rear-view mirror. The sedan was behind him, still with no lights showing. But as the speed of the van increased, the head lamps of the car came on, as it too was forced to accelerate or get left behind. Then, Bill was shocked to see the heads lamps of a second car light up behind it.
Bills heart was thumping as he roared past the safe house with the two vehicles in hot pursuit. Wide-eyed and white-knuckled, Wojek braced himself between the dashboard and the door as, tires screeching, and swaying wildly, the van raced through the neighborhood.
Bill’s pursuers doggedly kept him in sight and he realized he could never outrun them. By now every available police vehicle for miles around would be cordoning off the district. His only hope was to lose them long enough to dump the van and for Wojek and himself to hide somewhere. But where?
Suddenly they were in Waterloo, just off Botany Road. Emma’s house was very close. Bill tried to put the thought out of his head. He looked behind him. For the first time since Surrey Hills there was no sign of the black saloons. This could be his only chance. At the next intersection he spun the wheel hard into Emma’s street and drove to within fifty yards of the house. Then he braked hard, drove the van onto a vacant block of land and yelled at Wojek to grab his suitcase and run.
Bill’s limp slowed their progress but they still reached Emma’s house quickly. He saw the hall light was on through a small window above the door. With the coast still clear he dashed up to the porch and rang the bell. Emma opened the door almost immediately, on her way upstairs to bed. Bill pulled Wojek into the house behind him, closed the door and switched off the light.
Half an hour later Bill and Wojek were sitting at the kitchen table calming their frayed nerves with brandy, when a loud crash sent reverberations through the entire house. The stout lock on the front door was no match for the squad of six burly policemen who set their combined weight against it. When Bill and Wojek sought to escape through a back door off the kitchen, they ran straight into the arms of half a dozen more officers.
Bill’s thick police file had lead his pursuers to Emma’s house. He and Jo Wojek were taken to police headquarters and questioned into the early hours of the morning. Wojek was charged with illegal entry and Bill with being an accomplice to the fact. They were interviewed separately by senior police in the presence of Immigration officials and Commonwealth Investigation Bureau officers. Afterwards, they were taken to Long Bay Jail to be held incommunicado under special provisions of the National Security Act.
The officer in charge told Emma she was only spared arrest because of her invalid mother and small child. But he instructed her to make herself available for questioning at any time and ordered her to report to police headquarters every second day until further notice to confirm her whereabouts. And he cautioned her that if, during the course of their investigations, it came to light that she had been a party to Wojek’s illegal entry she would be charged with harboring an illegal alien.
The Wojek arrest made the front pages of the Sydney newspapers and controversy flared again. The local fascisti called for severe penalties for foreign agitators like Wojek and the banning of the Australian Anti-Fascist League, while more moderate Australians called for a fair go for everyone concerned. As public opinion swung behind the moderates, newspaper editorials supported the public’s demands for fair play, forcing the authorities to allow the league’s solicitors access to the prisoners held at Long Bay.
One individual who wasn’t complaining about a lack of fair play was the double-dipping second engineer of the Dilwara. When his vessel left Sydney, he had an extra hundred and fifty Australian pounds tucked in his wallet, the price paid by the Immigration Department for dobbing in Wojek.
*
The shrill factory whistle marking the end of a three-hour overtime period jolted Emma from her thoughts. Beyond her office window overlooking the factory floor, she watched as the three long rows of machine operators shut down their machines and prepared to leave for the day.
It was 8.30 pm, the time Emma usually left to go home. The large table in front of her, which served as her desk, drawing board, new design layout table and many other purposes was cluttered with untouched work. She looked into the small office adjoining hers. As always, Neale the Nib sat pen in hand, wo
rking through a mountain of paperwork. Emma got up and walked through to the bookkeeper’s office.
‘You look tired, Emma.’ Neale the Nib took off his glasses and ran a hand through his white hair. ‘Why don’t you go home?’
‘For all I’ve done today, Neale, I might as well have not come in at all,’ Emma sighed. ‘It’s this business with Bill and the police. I just can’t seem to concentrate.’
The lights on the factory floor suddenly went out as the last of the workers left the building. ‘Are you coming, Emma?’ The voice belonged to Iris. She stood waiting at the darkened factory door.
‘No, you go on, Iris,’ Emma called out. ‘There’s a few things I have to do here yet.’
Iris closed the door behind her. Neale the Nib shook his head. ‘You don’t have to stay, you know, Emma.’
Emma walked back into her office and fiddled around with things on her desk for a few minutes. Then, unable to concentrate she took her coat and handbag down from their hook .
Suddenly the factory door opened again. Emma looked towards it, expecting to see Iris come back for something, or the night watchman making his rounds. But it was neither, and Emma and Neale the Nib looked on in amazement as a dozen or more masked men dashed into the building. Some held torches in their hands. All carried sledgehammers, iron-bars or five gallon drums.
Amazement turned to horror as they helplessly looked on while the masked men systematically worked their way down the rows of recently installed new equipment, wielding their iron bars and sledgehammers in calculated, carefully aimed blows designed to render every piece of equipment useless. Others set about smashing cutting tables, work benches, shelving, trolleys and hand tools, while those carrying five gallon drums poured chemicals on the large stocks of materials rendering it worthless.
Neale the Nib rushed out onto the factory floor waving his arms above his head and shouting in protest. One of the saboteurs quickly turned around and lashed out with an iron bar. There was a loud crack when the forceful blow broke the bookkeeper’s kneecap.
Emma stood frozen to the spot while the destruction continued until there was nothing of value left unbroken in the factory. Then, as quickly as it began, the raid was over and the masked men disappeared into the night, leaving behind them absolute devastation and Neale the Nib groaning in agony on the factory floor.
*
Emma was up all night. After getting Neale the Nib to hospital by ambulance and going to tell Iris and Joan what had happened, it was the early hours of the morning before she got to the police station to give a detailed account of the raid. A young man in a creased suit sitting on a hard wooden bench was the only other civilian in the station when she went inside.
After listening to Emma's complaint, the desk sergeant said. ‘That’s the sort of thing you must expect, miss, if you associate with Communists,’ The sergeant was the same dour officer Emma had been instructed to report to every second day at police headquarters.
‘What do you mean by that remark, Sergeant?’ Emma asked angrily.
The young man in the crumpled suit looked up from the bench in surprise.
‘Exactly what I said.’ The sergeant raised his voice above Emma’s. ‘Wojek’s a communist who’s broken the law by illegally entering Australia to preach Bolshevik subversion. I’d say the local fascisti took an interest in you and paid your business a visit. They’d think any factory run by Bill Travis’ girlfriend is bound to be full of commo’s. And so would I.’
Emma lost her temper. ‘I don’t care what you think, Sergeant,’ she snapped. ‘I just want to know what you’re going to do about it, and when?’
‘Look here, young lady.’ The sergeant closed the complaint book on the counter shut with a loud slap. ‘Don’t you get snotty with me.’
The young man got up from the bench and hurried over to Emma.
‘Is there a problem, miss?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the police reporter for the Sydney Chronicle. I couldn’t help overhearing you and the sergeant. Do you think your premises were vandalized by fascists?’
‘The sergeant here seems to think so. And he seems to think I employ nothing but subversives. As a citizen, an employer and a taxpayer I object to that.’
‘Don’t you think the police are doing the job the taxpayers have a right to expect? ‘
‘No, I do not.’
‘Then as a member of the free press, I think the public has a right to know about it.’ The young reporter hurried back to the bench and took a box camera from a black leather bag. He quickly raised it to his eye and the flashbulb exploded in brilliant light.
Still fuming over her treatment by the police, Emma headed straight back to Sydney Styles. She found Joan and Iris sitting despondently at the table in her office.
‘Where is everybody?’ Emma asked.
‘We sent everyone home,’ Iris said. ‘There’s nothing anyone could do—everything’s buggered.’
‘I phoned the insurance people like you told me, Emma,’ Joan said.
‘And?’
‘They said we’re not covered.’
Emma was stunned. ‘But surely you told them exactly what happened, didn’t you?’
‘That’s the problem. They said the policy clearly states that malicious damage isn’t covered. They said since the start of the Depression there’s been too many sabotage claims from business’s owners looking for an easy way out.’
‘The bastards! The rotten bastards!’ Emma slumped down in her chair.
‘What will we do?’ Iris asked after a few moments. ‘We can’t produce anything and the insurance won’t cover new equipment and we haven’t even paid off the gear that’s been ruined.’
Emma sat silently staring into the table for a long time. Then she stood up and said: ‘Listen. We’ve got a factory to run here. We’ve got commitments to keep and we’ve got bills to pay. We didn’t come this far together just to be beaten by a bunch of mindless damn fascists. Now, get some of our workers back and have them start cleaning up the mess. And get our equipment suppliers down here right away. Tell them I want firm prices for the repair and or the replacement of everything by later on this afternoon.’ Emma made for the door. ‘I’m going home now to see my family, change my clothes and have something to eat. And while I’m doing that, I’ll try and work out how we’ll get the money to pay for it all.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Emma arrived at the Redfern branch of the New South Wales Imperial Bank in the early afternoon.
‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible for you to see the manager today, Miss McKenna,’ the assistant manager said from behind the high grill on the counter. ‘Mr Wilkins really is a very busy man. Perhaps, I might be able to help?’
Emma sighed in exasperation. ‘No, I don’t think so. You see, my factory was vandalized last night. I must see the manager today to arrange a loan for new equipment.’
‘Oh, yes. Your Miss McKenna, from the clothing place. We heard about that. I don’t think the bank would be able help you in any way.’
‘I’m not interested in what you think.’ Emma said angrily. ‘I came here to see the manager and I’ll not leave until I do.’
Suddenly the harsh reality of the factory raid and its consequences hit home, and overcome with exhaustion, frustration and desperation, Emma stormed over to the door of the manager’s office and pounded on it with both fists. The office door was opened immediately by an aloof-looking elderly man, clearly annoyed that the calm, hushed atmosphere of his bank had been so noisily shattered. Without waiting to be asked Emma brushed past him into the office.
‘I must see you, Mr Wilkins.’ Emma said. ‘I’m afraid this can’t wait…’
The assistant manager trotted in behind Emma. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Wilkins, I told her she couldn’t see you today.’
Wilkins eyed Emma warily. ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’
‘It’s Miss Mckenna,’ the assistant manager said before Emma could reply
. ‘She’s from that factory that was ransacked last night. She wants to borrow money for new equipment.’
‘I see…’ Wilkins chose to go through the motions rather than risk another noisy outburst from Emma. He dismissed his assistant with a wave of his hand and gestured toward a chair. ‘Well, since you’re here, Miss McKenna, you may as well sit down.’ Wilkins sat down behind his desk. ‘Now, your business has never had any loan accommodations with the bank has it?
‘No, Mr Wilkins.’
‘Have you brought with you up to the minute, detailed financial statements.’
‘No, Mr Wilkins.’
‘And what security are you able to offer the bank? Have you any land titles, fixed term deposits, or any blue-chip stocks and bonds?’
‘No, Mr Wilkins.’
‘Then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do’. Wilkins rose to feet. ‘Good-day, Miss McKenna.’
‘But I have large and profitable regular monthly contracts from Bowes-Scott department stores,’ Emma said quickly. ‘And I employ a lot of people, some of whom are customers of this bank. And the reason I have no loans is because I have run my business well enough not to require any. Surely that is worth something?’
‘To you, perhaps, Miss McKenna. But certainly not to the bank. We require ironclad security. Has your business no cash reserves?’
‘Not enough to purchase new equipment outright.’
‘Have you no personal assets?’
Emma thought of the Fairchild account, as she had several times during the day. Suddenly it occurred to her that perhaps she could use the account as leverage with Wilkins without actually committing the money. At least it was worth a try.
‘I do have a substantial sum in a private account, Mr Wilkins.’
The bankers eyebrows rose. ‘With which bank?’
‘This bank, at the main branch. It’s funded by a family endowment,’ Emma said, trying not to be too specific. ‘I prefer not to use it for the equipment of course, but its existence does prove I have a sizeable and ongoing private income. It also shows that I’m frugal and reliable. I haven’t touched the account in years.’
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