Empire Day

by Diane Armstrong

  Like her attire, the decor of her lounge room was obviously intended to impress visitors with her wealth and sophistication. The room was cluttered with brocade couches, glass-fronted cabinets, cedar davenports, grandfather clocks and old paintings in heavy gilded frames.

  Taking a crystal decanter from the carved chiffonier, Trixie Slattery offered him a Scotch. ‘Go on, have one,’ she boomed. ‘It’s double malt, the best.’ She gave him a shrewd look. ‘You look like you need one. Did they tell you I eat young reporters for breakfast?’

  Although whiskey made him sick, he took a swig and tried to look as though he drank it every morning.

  ‘I heard you were a sensation in court the other day with your vegetables,’ he said, trying not to gasp as the peat-flavoured spirit hit his throat.

  She gave a loud wheezy laugh. ‘Made them sit up and take notice, didn’t I? Fucking hypocrites, they think they’re gods with their wigs and gowns, looking down on the rest of us.’

  She looked at her diamond wristwatch. ‘Get to the point. I haven’t got all bloody day. What do you want?’

  A few innocent questions about her life got her started on a monologue about all her good deeds. By the time she’d finished listing the gifts she’d made to children’s charities, the funds she’d donated for homeless men, and the accommodation she’d provided for deserted wives, she sounded like Sydney’s biggest philanthropist. He wrote it all down dutifully, nodding and making admiring noises while he wrote.

  But when he asked her about Scarlett O’Halloran, her bonhomie disappeared and she glared at him with her calculating little eyes. ‘What’s she to you? What are you really after? If you’ve tried to con me, I’ll fucking show you what happens if you mess with Trixie.’

  Ted swallowed the rest of his Scotch and thought about asking for a refill. He knew it wasn’t an idle threat.

  ‘I’d just like to find out the girl’s real name.’

  ‘And what makes you think I know? I’m not a fucking encyclopaedia on all the slags in Sydney.’

  At least she’d stopped yelling and threatening. Taking a deep breath, he plunged in, hoping not to provoke another violent outburst. ‘Well, she was in the same line of business as you, and knowing how influential you are, I thought you might have come across her.’

  ‘I’m not as black as what I’m painted, you know,’ Trixie said as she poured her third Scotch. ‘I’ve always treated my girls good and fair.’

  Fuelled by the whiskey, she went off on another tangent, this time to boast about her benevolence towards the girls in her brothels.

  ‘I’ve heard how well you treat your girls,’ he lied.

  She sat up, obviously pleased. ‘You’ve heard that, have you?’ Then her face darkened and her tone became menacing again. ‘Who’ve you been talking to? What are you really up to? I’ll get someone to rearrange that innocent-looking face of yours if you’re lying to me.’

  Being in Trixie’s intimidating presence had proved more nerve-racking than he’d imagined, and Ted was fighting a strong desire to end the interview and get out.

  He wished he hadn’t drunk the Scotch because his head was swimming just when he needed to think fast. He had to reassure her that he was on the level, but his head felt fuzzy. It was like trying to solve a maths equation during an exam when your mind was in a panic because the clock was ticking and time was running out. Only in this case the wrong answer could prove fatal.

  He calmed her down by saying there were a few more questions he needed to ask for his article. With the interesting life she’d led, had she learned anything over the years that she’d like to share with the readers?

  She nodded, obviously mollified. ‘Tell the sheilas they’d better make their own way in the world. You can’t rely on men. And never give nobody a second chance. They’ll do you if they can, so you’ve got to get in first.’ She glared at him. ‘That’s why no one doublecrosses Trixie and lives long to enjoy it.’

  She surveyed him for a moment. ‘I reckon you’re going to write a bloody good story about me, so if I find anything out about the dead bitch, I’ll let you know.’

  He was at the door when she called out, ‘And you can tell the bugger who writes about the courts that I’ll thank him not to harp on my fucking age.’

  Chapter 46

  Sala was dragging a mop across the beige linoleum floor in the corridor of the Jewish Welfare Society, sighing as she went. Thin and preoccupied, she slouched past Franka Feldman’s office, keeping her eyes averted as though avoiding her.

  Shortly after eight o’clock, Franka pushed back her chair, adjusted her thick glasses and walked over to Sala, who was bending over a bucket, her hands covered in suds as she rinsed the mop.

  ‘I’m just going to have some coffee,’ Franka said. ‘Why don’t you come in and have some with me?’

  Sala was too dejected to chat but, not wanting to be rude, she hung up her pinafore, took the scarf off her head and followed Franka into the office.

  It was quiet inside. There was no clatter of typewriters, scraping of chairs or murmur of voices.

  ‘We’ve got the room to ourselves,’ Franka said, pulling up a chair for Sala. ‘The typists haven’t come in yet and the director’s secretary is in his office, taking dictation.’

  She unscrewed her thermos, and steam rose towards the high ceiling as she poured out the coffee.

  Sala cupped the thick mug in both hands and blew into it. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but she was determined not to break down and cry like last time. She took small sips of the scalding liquid and responded to Franka’s chatter with monosyllables.

  ‘It’s getting harder and harder to get dinner ready these days, with all the blackouts and power cuts,’ Franka was saying. ‘I’ve bought a pressure cooker, but I don’t know how mothers with young children manage to bath them and do the cooking with all the restrictions. And they say that the trouble with the unions will get worse. How are you managing?’

  Sala made a vague comment. She’d read something in the papers about demarcation disputes between various unions, and threats of more strikes on the coalfields, but most of her information came from Beryl, who sided with the workers and blamed the capitalist system for all the problems.

  ‘But this government is Labor, isn’t it?’ Sala had ventured.

  ‘Look, love,’ Beryl had said, putting down her bucket and placing her hands on her hips. ‘It’s the system what stinks. Bloody politics. Ben Chifley was fair dinkum when he got elected. He tried to nationalise the banks but they wouldn’t let him. I just hope that when push comes to shove, he’ll have the guts to back the workers.’

  With an effort Sala brought her attention back to Franka’s question. ‘The power cuts don’t really affect me, because I don’t do much cooking,’ she said. She didn’t add that Szymon often came in late, after eating dinner God knew where and with whom. And as for her, she’d lost her appetite.

  Franka studied Sala for a time without speaking. ‘I can see you’re having a hard time,’ she said after a pause. ‘You haven’t been yourself for weeks. Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Not trusting herself to speak, Sala shook her head.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ Franka persisted. ‘Even if I can’t do anything, you might feel better if you talk about it. Sorry to keep on, but I know you don’t have any family here. It might sound silly but, because I hired you, I feel responsible for you, as if you were family. And I’m old enough to be your mother.’

  Sala looked down at her hands without replying.

  Franka blinked behind her glasses and said in a faraway voice, ‘I had a daughter once.’

  Sala looked up.

  ‘Her name was Rutka. She was our only child. In 1942, when she was eighteen, the round-ups in the Warsaw Ghetto were getting more frequent, and they’d already deported tens of thousands of people to Treblinka. Zenek, Rutka and I made a pact. We wouldn’t let them take us alive. Then, on a beautiful autumn day, the Nazis and th
eir helpers surrounded our building. We heard them shooting and yelling, and we knew they were coming for us.’

  Her eyes were fixed on something in the distance and her voice was so low that Sala had to lean forward to hear what she was saying.

  ‘We were calm. We’d said our goodbyes. The only choice left to us was how and when we’d die, and we weren’t going to let them take that away from us. Zenek had got hold of three cyanide pills, one for each of us, and we’d decided that as soon as they burst through the door, we were going to swallow them.’

  Sala waited, her hands balled into tight fists.

  ‘We could hear their boots thumping up the wooden stairs. They were banging on our door, yelling for us to open up. Any second now. I held my breath and stared at the door. But nothing happened. The door stayed closed and a minute later I heard them running down the stairs. I sank to the floor and closed my eyes. “Thank God,” I kept whispering. “It’s a miracle. They didn’t come for us after all.” I turned around and saw Rutka sitting on the floor, propped against the wall. “Come on,” I said, “it’s all right, they’ve gone.” But she didn’t move. I was looking at her and I still didn’t know. Then I looked at Zenek’s face and I knew. Rutka hadn’t waited. She’d swallowed her pill. I heard someone screaming, screams that made the blood freeze in my veins, and I didn’t realise it was me.’

  Franka’s eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses, quivered and swelled. Her voice trailed off.

  Sala tried to swallow but her tongue was stuck to her palate and her breath was jammed in her chest.

  She remembered Zenek’s remark at the New Year’s Eve party. Now she understood his comment about the destructive power of grief.

  ‘It must be hard for you to talk about it,’ she said finally.

  ‘It is,’ Franka replied, ‘but not talking about it is even harder. I think about Rutka all the time. For the first two years I was in so much pain I thought I’d die. But you know, the sun keeps shining, the birds keep singing, and somehow life has a way of seducing you into staying alive even after you’ve lost the will to live.’

  ‘So does it help you to talk about it?’ Sala asked.

  ‘While I’m talking about her, it feels as if I’m bringing her back to life.’

  ‘What was Rutka like?’ Sala asked.

  Franka smiled. ‘A real livewire. Always laughing, teasing, joking, dancing around, never still. She wanted to be an actress.’

  ‘How did you get over it?’

  ‘I’ll never get over it,’ Franka said. ‘But when you look a ghost in the face and call it by its name, it loses some of its power to haunt you. When Zenek and I were asked to escort a group of Jewish orphans who were sailing to Australia, we were adamant we wouldn’t do it. We were paralysed with grief, blaming ourselves and each other, and the last thing we wanted was to be with children who’d survived. But sometimes the thing you dread the most turns out to be your salvation. Being with young people again was like coming into the warmth of a spring day after a frozen winter.’

  Sala’s eyes glittered with tears. ‘I admire you. You’re so brave and resilient.’

  Franka made a deprecatory gesture. ‘You know what resilience is? It’s getting up in the morning, making breakfast, going to work, coming home and cooking dinner. Managing to lead what people call a normal life.’

  ‘And you’re helping others,’ Sala broke in. ‘In spite of everything.’

  ‘Not in spite of everything,’ Franka said softly. ‘Because of everything.’

  On the way home Sala thought about Dr and Mrs Feldman and she contrasted their strength with her own emotional paralysis. Silence and solitude had done nothing to banish her phantoms. Perhaps it was time to confront them. She thought about Dr Feldman, who seemed to see into the heart of things. Perhaps he’d understand.

  Later that week, Sala sat in a tram that rattled along New South Head Road, and gazed at the succession of little bays, each one prettier than the last. Rushcutters Bay, Double Bay and Rose Bay. The water lapped gently against strips of sandy shore, launches bobbed in the marinas, and white yachts with their spinnakers billowing sailed across the harbour, tacking in between the wooden ferries.

  Suffused in the golden light of the summer afternoon, with seagulls screeching overhead and low wooded hills rising above the water, Rose Bay had the laidback atmosphere of a holiday resort, and for the first time since arriving in Sydney, Sala felt stirred by the easygoing beauty of this city.

  Alighting in Dover Road, she walked for several blocks until she came to a side street lined with brick bungalows. An elderly man standing by his front gate raised his hat in greeting as she passed. A few doors further on, a woman with a wide-brimmed sunhat tied under her chin was bent over a garden bed. She paused, trowel in hand, as Sala walked by, and smiled. ‘Good day for gardening, isn’t it?’ she said, and resumed planting.

  Sala slackened her pace. Now that she was almost there, she felt nervous, and wondered what she would say to Dr Feldman. ‘Come by all means,’ he’d told her when she’d rung that morning. ‘The university year hasn’t started yet so I’m home most of the time.’ If he’d been surprised by her request to see him, he hadn’t shown it. In fact, he sounded almost as though he’d been expecting her call.

  The cottage the Feldmans were renting was the colour of the Toru gingerbread her mother used to buy every year in December. When Zenek opened the door, he seemed older and more stooped than the last time they’d met, and the clumps of wiry hair on either side of his pink skull were greyer than she remembered. Or perhaps now that she knew his story, she was looking at him more attentively.

  He ushered her into the small enclosed verandah which looked out onto the patch of grass in front. The medical books spread out on his desk were open at lurid photographs of diseased kidneys, and beside them lay a Polish–English dictionary.

  ‘I have to look up all the strange words I write down in lectures,’ he chuckled. ‘You’d be surprised how few of them I manage to find in here. English is a peculiar language, calculated to confuse and bewilder us bloody reffos. Have you noticed that hardly any of the words are spelled the way they sound?’

  She knew he was trying to put her at ease, but she was too tense to discuss the vagaries of the English language. He sat back in his chair and a large tabby cat crawled onto his lap. Encircling it in the crook of his arm, he stroked it and said, ‘This is Felix.’

  A moment later the cat jumped from his lap and sprang up onto the windowsill, its whiskers brushing against the glass. ‘Let’s have tea, shall we?’ Zenek said. ‘The coffee in Sydney is so terrible, I’ve learned to drink tea.’

  She was about to tell him about Repin’s Coffee Lounge but stopped herself. She didn’t want to think about Alex.

  Zenek padded down the hall in his tartan slippers, and a moment later she heard the clatter of cups and the hollow sound of water filling a kettle. While waiting for him to return, she crossed and uncrossed her legs, fidgeted with her bag, and got up and looked at the bookcase, but her eyes slid from one shelf to another without registering any titles.

  Zenek came back with a tray which he placed on the edge of the desk, pushing away the books to make room.

  ‘How brave are you?’ he asked in a jocular tone. ‘I baked some biscuits this morning but I think they’re like bricks.’

  As she bit into one of them, it broke off with a loud snap and they both laughed. They finished their tea, and in the silence that followed she tried not to fidget, knowing his heavy-lidded gaze was on her.

  He set aside his cup and looked straight into her eyes, making it hard for her to avert her gaze. ‘How do you think I can help you?’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know if you can. I’m so confused, I don’t even know where to start.’

  ‘Let’s see. Of all the things you’ve got on your mind, what’s worrying you the most?’

  ‘I keep wondering if I’m normal. I should be happy. I’ve survived the war, my husband loves m
e, and I’ve come to a good country where I can make a fresh start, but I can’t sleep and I’m miserable.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself. What was your life like before the war?’

  She took a deep breath and her face glowed as though lit by an interior lamp as she described the life she’d led with her adoring parents. ‘Then the war broke out,’ she said, and stopped. Now she had to be on her guard.

  ‘What happened then?’ he asked.

  She shrugged. ‘Everyone I loved was killed. Mama, Tata, aunts, uncles, cousins. I was the only one left.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  She bit the inside of her lip and looked out of the window. A woman was pushing a baby in a stroller while a toddler skipped beside her, singing. She turned back to Zenek.

  ‘A wonderful man saved me. He risked his life to hide me in his house.’

  Zenek was nodding. ‘What was he like, this wonderful man?’

  Again she seemed lit up as she told him how kind Ernst had been, and how he’d protected her, even from his wife.

  Zenek was studying her with that gaze which seemed to focus on nothing yet saw everything. ‘So here I am,’ she concluded.

  ‘Confused and miserable,’ he said.

  After a long pause, he went on, ‘You mentioned that you had trouble sleeping. Maybe you need barbiturates or sleeping pills, but I can’t help you with that. You’d have to go to a registered doctor for a prescription. Would you like to try that and see if it helps?’

  Taking pills was a tempting option, but she sensed he was testing her to see how determined she was to solve her problems.

  ‘I don’t think pills are the answer,’ she said. ‘I have strange dreams.’

  He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘The same dream, or different dreams?’