“I’m not sure anymore,” Rowland replied.
“Look, Rowly, I just ran into a comrade from Melbourne. There’s a meeting tomorrow which I think we should attend.”
“We?” While he moved with Communists, Rowland was not a member of the faithful. Milton knew that.
“It’s not a Party meeting, old mate. MAWF is gathering to discuss Egon’s visit. They have a problem I reckon you could help with. I think we should go.”
Rowland frowned. The World Movement Against War and Fascism, while having a natural affinity with the Communist cause, did not belong to the Party. Rowland’s experience of German Fascism had seen him join the Australian branch of MAWF, though to date his support had been purely financial. He expected the problem Milton mentioned was also financial in nature. MAWF had invited Egon Kisch—a journalist and speaker of international renown—to speak at its National Congress against War and Fascism in Melbourne. Rowland knew Kisch personally, indeed, he owed the activist a great debt, and he looked forward to seeing him again.
“Ed’s train gets in early tomorrow morning.” Rowland glanced at his watch. “She’s probably already left for Central.”
“We could send word to the station master… let Ed know to take a room at the Albury Terminus and wait for us. She won’t mind… she can go to the cinema or shop for a new hat or something.”
“Or something, more likely,” Rowland said ruefully.
“I really think we should be at this meeting.”
Rowland nodded slowly. He trusted Milton’s instincts on matters such as this. Though Rowland Sinclair was not a Communist, he and the poet had, at heart, always been on the same side.
“Ed will understand,” Milton prodded further.
“Of course. I’ll book a call through to the Albury station tonight.”
2
WAR AND FASCISM
HENRI BARBUSSE SUMS UP (TO THE EDITOR)
Sir,— While all capitalist countries are in one stage or another of fascisation; in the process of being led, or of having been led, back to the barbarism of middle ages; while ideas and schemes of a fascist character are being flaunted abroad as Socialistic, e.g., the Roosevelt plan, claimed by the N.S.W. Labor Party Leadership as being synonymous with the ‘Lang Plan’—as a ‘socialistic road to prosperity’; while the fascist flame spreads in Australia with the proposed Disloyalty Bill, and a great class conscious movement gathers its forces in active opposition, your readers will be interested in the following from the pen of Henri Barbusse, eminent French writer, and noted leader of the world-wide movement against war.
“It is desirable that we draw up a balance sheet for 1933. Those who have been labouring under illusions, those who have been hoping that things would improve, those who have remained outside of our great world-wide movement, would do well to pause before this balance, and—reflect. The ten months of Hitler’s rule has been sufficient to convince everybody of the dangers that fascism brings in its train. His promises of better conditions have proved false one after another. Only the terror has proved real. In January, 1933, the eyes of the workers of the whole world were turned upon events in Germany. Everywhere the question was raised: Would the revolutionary unity necessary to smash fascism be at last set up? Tens of thousands of socialist and non-Party workers grouped themselves during that month around the revolutionary front. But they weren’t sufficient. To smash fascism more were necessary—the majority of the working class… We are headed again for a new world war…”
The Cessnock Eagle and South Maitland Recorder, 19 March 1934
The offices of MAWF were conveniently located on Bourke Street near Unity Hall which housed the offices of the Australian Railways Union, the Tramways Union and the Storemen and Packers Union. The premises were utilitarian: the furniture patched and hodgepodge—possibly scrounged from the homes of members. The space was cluttered with boxes and stacks of propaganda leaflets and paraphernalia. There were three desks, two with typewriters and what looked like an old rotary stencil duplicator. The bright colours of the political posters which adorned the walls were muted by what seemed to be a permanent haze of pipe and cigarette smoke. In one section of the office was a large wooden table which bore a history of past campaigns in smears of paint and ink. About this were gathered some of the nation’s most eminent writers, poets and journalists—the newly convened Kisch Reception Committee.
Milton facilitated the necessary introductions. Arthur Howells insisted they call him “Bluey” and explained that he, as a member of the MAWF executive, had been tasked with organising the Reception Committee. Among the gathering’s intellectual luminaries were novelist Vance Palmer and his wife Nettie, an established literary critic of considerable influence; the internationally lauded writer Katharine Prichard who it seemed had travelled from her home in Western Australia to be present; journalists Gavin Greenlees, Edgar Holt and John Fisher, son of Australia’s fifth prime minister; Percy Beckett and Antonio Falcioni who called themselves philosophers; and the artist Max Meldrum whom Rowland had met before.
In this assembly Rowland began to feel a little out of place. Clearly the intention was to receive Egon Kisch with a dazzling show of literary and artistic distinction. While the name of Rowland Sinclair was not entirely obscure, it was more commonly associated with scandal than anything else.
Milton did not seem burdened with any such awkwardness, but perhaps that in itself was the secret to being a poet without ever writing a line of original verse. He chatted easily to Katharine Prichard about socialist realism in literature and advised Vance Palmer on iambic pentameter.
Arthur Howells called the meeting to order, announcing somewhat unnecessarily that Egon Kisch had accepted an invitation to be the keynote speaker at the inaugural National Congress against War and Fascism. There was applause—heartfelt—and excitement.
For some time the discussion focused on how Egon Kisch would be publicised and promoted. John Fisher, who was currently on the staff of the Melbourne Herald, was given primary responsibility for press coverage. He accepted the role enthusiastically, vowing to pull whatever journalistic strings were necessary to ensure the Kisch campaign was afforded adequate publicity.
They spoke also of how Kisch would be entertained while he was in the country, to whom he would be introduced, at which venues he would speak and what sights he would be shown.
Through all of this Rowland said very little. He knew nothing about promotion and he didn’t really feel in a position to suggest how best to occupy the great man. In fact, he was beginning to wonder why Milton had insisted they attend the meeting. Rowland would happily have written a cheque for the cause without being privy to the deliberations.
It was only after these other matters had been thoroughly discussed that Arthur Howells raised a logistical problem. It appeared that Kisch’s ship would not reach port in Melbourne until the twelfth of November, thereby missing the National Congress. “As you can imagine, having the keynote speaker arrive after the congress is something of a difficulty.”
Many voices concurred that it was indeed a difficulty.
“We’ll simply have to change the date of the congress,” Katharine Prichard declared.
“And lose the impact of Armistice Day?” Fisher groaned.
“When does the ship actually reach Fremantle?” Vance Palmer asked.
Howells nodded. He was thinking along similar lines. “If Mr. Kisch disembarks at Fremantle and catches a train, we could get him here on time. It’ll be a close-run thing, but possible.”
Milton leant over to Rowland and whispered, “Rowly, what if—”
Rowland was ahead of him. “I could fly him,” he said.
“Fly him? Whatever do you mean, Comrade Sinclair?” Katharine Prichard spoke over the murmur of voices.
“In an aeroplane. I could fly across to Fremantle, meet his ship, and fly him directly to Melbourne.”
“May I enquire what manner of aeroplane you own, Mr. Sinclair?” Nettie Palmer said.
Rowland laughed. “My plane’s a Gipsy Moth. But I don’t propose to use her—she wouldn’t be much faster than the train.”
“Then what do you propose, Mr. Sinclair?”
“A twin-engine craft. It won’t be as comfortable as the liner but it will be a jolly sight quicker.”
“And you have such a craft?”
“I’ll get one.”
“An aeroplane… we can’t expect a man like Egon Kisch to come to Melbourne in an aeroplane!”
“I’m sure he’d prefer it to not arriving in time,” Fisher mused. “Under the circumstances, we can’t risk him missing the congress. It might also circumvent any visa issues.”
“Yes, of course!” Katharine Prichard leant forward enthusiastically. “Collecting Egon from Fremantle will mean he’s in the country before the government has a chance to ban him. They’ll think they have till he arrives in Melbourne to trump up some charge.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Palmer persisted.
“Rowly was taught to fly by Kingsford Smith,” Milton offered by way of assurance. “Egon will be in good hands.”
Both Vance and Nettie Palmer raised a number of further objections which were countered at first by Katharine Prichard and then Fisher. Howells joined the case for flying Kisch from Fremantle and, eventually, Rowland Sinclair’s offer was accepted.
“Success depends on utmost secrecy,” Katharine warned. “No one must suspect Herr Kisch will disembark in Fremantle.”
A general murmur of agreement served as a pledge of silence on the matter.
The meeting adjourned to the Swanston Family Hotel where they spent the evening in increasingly high spirits. There was a definite air of celebration—it was an optimistic party. After months of trying to make his countrymen understand the threat of German Fascism, Rowland was hopeful that Egon Kisch would meet with greater success.
Clyde joined them after having spent the afternoon checking over Rowland’s new car for himself. His eyes were bright as he described the automobile’s performance and for a time he and Rowland were immersed in praise of the Airflow.
“She’s built like a battleship, Rowly… an elegant battleship,” Clyde said. “I know you miss the Mercedes, mate, but she’s a worthy replacement.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing what she can do,” Rowland admitted.
“We’ll have to do that before we pick up Ed,” Milton warned. “Ever since the accident she wants you to drive like you’re bringing up the rear of an ANZAC parade!”
Rowland grimaced. Edna had become irrationally nervous about his ability to keep a car on the road. In fact, he’d purchased the Airflow with that in mind. He hoped the motorcar’s radical safety features—the all-metal body, the shatter-proof windscreens—would allay her fears to some extent.
They drank with the Kisch Reception Committee until the early hours of the next morning before finally taking their leave. The short walk in the bracing cold to their accommodation had a conveniently sobering effect, though it was hardly long enough to mitigate the effects of the evening entirely. Perhaps for this reason Rowland did not wonder overmuch about the message, awaiting him at the reception desk, that a Detective Delaney from the Sydney Criminal Investigation Bureau had telephoned.
Rowland was becoming increasingly frustrated. They had intended to leave for Albury first thing that morning but they had been delayed by paperwork, without which Carter could apparently not release the Airflow. It was nearly midday now.
“Did you telephone Delaney?” Milton asked as they waited.
Rowland nodded. “He wasn’t there—called away apparently. I wonder what was so important he had to contact me here.”
Milton grinned. “The police have spies everywhere, mate. The good detective probably wanted to know what you were doing at the MAWF meeting.”
“Possibly.” Rowland wasn’t sure. Delaney was perfectly aware of the company he kept. It was hardly cause for alarm.
Carter finally emerged to hand him the keys, diverting to engage Milton about the Rolls Royce in which he’d shown so much interest. “Thank you, Mr. Carter,” Rowland said impatiently. “I’m afraid we must be going. Mr. Isaacs will have to put off any purchases until our next visit to Melbourne.”
“Oh I see… perhaps I could just…”
“We have your card,” Milton said, smoothing his cravat. “As tiresome as it is, I’m afraid Mr. Sinclair is correct. We’ll have to make do with the Airflow for now. I must say, Rowly, it’s a bit common having to share an automobile, wot!”
Rowland ignored him, sliding behind the wheel and turning over the engine. The Airflow was a great deal quieter than the supercharged Mercedes had been, but there was no denying the power of her eight-cylinder motor.
On the open road outside the central business district, Rowland was able to open her up as he became accustomed to the way the Chrysler responded. A wistful knowledge that he would never drive his beloved Mercedes again gave way to an admiration of the Airflow. He looked forward to introducing her to Edna.
They crossed the border and drove into Albury just before sunset. The Airflow turned heads. People stared and pointed, children ran after the car and grown men surrounded the vehicle as they parked.
“Bloody odd-looking motorcar, Mister,” a youth observed as they got out. Emboldened by the first commentator, others offered opinions and asked questions. Some wanted to see the engine and have a demonstration of how the windscreen opened. Still buoyed by the drive and in the throes of newfound love, Rowland and his companions obliged in good humour. And so it was nearly dark by the time they finally walked into the Terminus.
Rowland took rooms for the three of them before enquiring about Miss Edna Higgins.
“We sent a porter to meet the train from Sydney as you instructed, Mr. Sinclair, but Miss Higgins was not on it.”
“Oh.” Rowland glanced at his friends.
Milton shrugged. “She probably missed the train, Rowly. You know what Ed’s like.”
“We thought that may be the case and sent a man to meet this morning’s train, sir. But Miss Higgins was not on that service either.”
“I see.” Rowland dragged the hair back from his face. “Might I trouble you to book a call through to Sydney?”
“Certainly, sir.”
The hotel manager invited Rowland to use the telephone in his office as Woodlands House was raised.
“What gives, Rowly?” Clyde asked when he emerged a few moments later.
Rowland shrugged. “I spoke to Johnston. He says he drove her to the station and watched her board. She should have been on that first train.”
“Why would she get off the train before Albury?” Clyde asked.
“Particularly as she expected us to meet her,” Milton murmured. They turned back to the manager. “The bloke you sent to meet the first train, is he here?”
The manager nodded, signalling a young man in a porter’s uniform. “Eugene! Here!”
“Shall I take your luggage, sir?” Eugene clearly assumed that was the reason for which he’d been summoned.
“No… actually yes, why not?” Rowland noted the manner in which the manager hovered. “We may as well settle in while we try and determine what has happened to Miss Higgins.”
The moment they were out of earshot of the manager, they questioned the young man.
“Are you sure Miss Higgins was not on that train?”
“I don’t know what she looks like, sir, but I had a sign with her name on it. Nobody came.”
“Were you at the station when the train arrived?” Milton asked shrewdly.
An awkward pause before the answer came.
“Just a few minutes after—Mrs. Harty wanted her bags taken up to her room straight away. She insisted, sir. I ran over to the station straight afterwards.”
“Well that’s it, Rowly,” Clyde said, relieved. “Ed probably took a taxi to another hotel before hookum here arrived. We’ll ask at the station.”
Rowl
and agreed. It seemed a likely explanation.
The young porter shifted nervously. “Will you be mentioning…”
“Don’t worry, comrade.” Milton braced the boy’s shoulder. “We’re on your side.”
Eugene looked confused.
“We don’t need to talk to your manager,” Rowland assured him.
They had Eugene take their bags up to their suites while they walked the block to the railway station. Being the end of the New South Wales line, it was a busy terminal. The platform was unusually long to accommodate the disembarkation of entire trains as the tracks changed to the wider Victorian gauge. They went straight to the station master’s office.
Rowland explained the situation to the assistant station master, a simply enormous man who pressed so heavily on the desk when he stood that Rowland was afraid it would collapse. “Oh yes, Bill passed your message onto me. Told me to make sure that Miss Higgins got it the very moment the train arrived.”
“So you spoke to her?”
“Well no… I didn’t fancy running around the platform trying to locate one young lady from possibly hundreds. It’s a big platform.” He tapped his brow. “I used my noggin.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Miss Higgins’ train had already left Central Station when you called and so I telegraphed Junee Station. Had them find Miss Higgins on the train and give her the message when the train stopped there.”
“And are you sure they did that?”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent. The station master at Junee telephoned to confirm that he’d handed the message to Miss Higgins himself.”
“Do you recall the exact wording of the message?” Clyde asked.
“Of course. It was not complicated. It stated that Rowland Sinclair was detained and asked her to wait at a hotel.”
“A hotel… not the Terminus?”
“It’s a hotel, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but did the message specify the Terminus?” Rowland’s patience was becoming brittle.
“Well no… one doesn’t like to favour one business over another…”
Rowland exhaled. “Very well. If Miss Higgins returns please tell her that Rowland Sinclair may be reached at the Terminus.”
A Dangerous Language Page 2