She gave Ted a long, penetrating look. ‘You are a journalist, you want to understand the world, so I will tell you this: if it could happen there, it could happen anywhere.’
Her words disturbed Ted so much that it took him a while to gather his thoughts. ‘If it ever came to it, would you be prepared to testify against him?’ he asked.
‘And go through all that horror again?’ she said. ‘You do not know what you are asking. You are asking me if I want to go back to hell.’
‘But you might be the only person in Australia who could give evidence against him. Wouldn’t you want him to answer for what he did?’ he persisted.
She sighed again. ‘I thought when I came to Australia I was finished with the war. I wanted to look forward. But the past lives on in us, no? Well, if they need my testimony, I will give it.’
Ted didn’t realise he’d been holding his breath until he let it out.
On the doorstep he remembered to ask her about something that had puzzled him ever since he had come across her letter.
‘What made you send the letter to the Anti-Fascist Society?’
She shrugged. ‘It was fate. When I came out of a tearoom in a small street behind the Hotel Australia and saw that man, I was so shocked that I almost collapsed, and I had to lean against a building. When I moved away, I saw I was leaning on a plaque of the Anti-Fascist Society. I decided it was a sign, so I wrote to them.’
She gave him a crooked smile. ‘What do you think about this, Mr Browning? Do you believe in fate?’
She surveyed him expectantly while he struggled with a reply. He knew he owed her an honest answer, but the truth was too complicated to unravel and too painful to contemplate.
‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. He thanked her for the interview and left.
Ted’s face had a greenish hue as he walked beside Lilija along the dappled paths of Hyde Park two days later. The sun was about to set on this pleasant evening in late summer, and people walking through the park after work stopped and pointed at the boughs of the acacias and eucalypts glowing in the sunset.
The beauty of the evening was lost on Ted. Holding Lilija’s hand more tightly than usual, he led her to his favourite corner of the park, a recessed secret garden, where sprays of violet wisteria spilled from a trellis above the benches and perfumed the air with its delicate fragrance.
He cleared his throat a few times and clasped her hand so tightly that she pulled away from his grip. She had come straight from the hospital, and with her hair pulled back into a knot she looked more beautiful than ever. He was panic-stricken as he looked at her. Perhaps he didn’t have to tell her. He could tell Gus his investigation hadn’t produced anything concrete and continue seeing Lilija as though nothing had changed. But he couldn’t base his life on pretence and lies. There was no way out, and he knew it.
‘Ted, something is wrong, I feel so,’ she said in her lilting voice. She pressed against him and stroked his arm. ‘Tell me. What is it? I did something to make you sad?’
He gazed at her with such intensity that she looked alarmed.
‘Lilija, I don’t know how to say this. I know it will be a big shock, but there’s something I have to tell you.’
She stiffened, and from the anxious way she looked at him he realised that she thought he wanted to break it off, that he didn’t want to see her any more.
Putting his arm around her shoulders, he drew her closer. ‘It’s not about us. It’s about your father.’
‘He say something bad to you, yes?’
Ted had rehearsed this scene in his head a hundred times but the reality was much worse than he’d imagined. He took a deep breath and squeezed her hand so hard that she cried out.
‘Lilija, listen. You know you said your father fought in the Latvian army, that he was a war hero? Well, that isn’t true.’
She drew away, frowning. ‘I do not understand. What are you talking about?’
He was squeezing her hand again. If only there was some easy way to say this. But that was like wishing you could hurl a brick through a window without shattering the glass.
‘Your father wasn’t an ordinary soldier fighting the enemy in battle. He was in the Arajs Kommando.’
She looked at him uncomprehendingly and he realised he’d have to tell her the brutal truth.
She sat very still while he spoke, but he could feel that she was simmering with anger.
When he’d finished, her face was white and taut. ‘I do not believe you!’ she burst out. ‘You lie. My father never do that. I will not listen.’
She stood up and he pulled her down again.
‘You’ve got to listen. Your father’s the one who’s been telling you lies. One day it will all come out — do you want to be the last person to find out? Do you want to go through life believing lies?’
‘They are not lies!’ she shouted. ‘You do not know my father. He is good man. Honest man. I believe him, not you.’
Ted took out the photograph she’d given him and pointed to the armband on her father’s sleeve. ‘See that? That’s the armband of the Arajs Kommando. I checked it out.’
She stared at him. ‘You checked? You used my photograph to spy on my father? Why you did this?’
Ted tried to put his arms around her trembling shoulders but she pushed him away.
‘I wouldn’t lie about something like that. I love you, and I’d give anything for it not to be true, but it is.’
She was glaring at him, and her eyes burned with resentment. ‘How you know this? If not you lied, then other peoples lied. Communists hate my father so they made up this story. Why you told me this?’ she hissed. ‘You hate my father, yes?’
He tried to imagine how he would feel if someone were to tell him that his own father hadn’t died a hero at Tobruk but had really been a mass murderer. Like her, he wouldn’t believe it, and like her, he’d try to find reasons why someone might have invented such a story. He would recall how kind and gentle his father had been, and how he’d admired his integrity, just as she was doing now. He’d be furious with anyone who tried to smash one of the foundations on which his life was based. Would the identity of the bearer of such news shake his faith in his father? He sighed. Probably not.
Lilija had turned her back to him, clenching her fists, and when he placed his hand gently on her shoulder she shook it off.
‘I know it’s very hard for you to listen to what I’m telling you. I’d feel exactly the same. But I’ve met a woman who recognised him. He was in charge of a death squad —’
She didn’t let him finish. Eyes flashing with scorn, she said, ‘And you believe her lies! Why is so important to you to say terrible things about my father, why?’
He tried to explain that he didn’t have a vendetta against her father. ‘Please believe me, I wish none of this was true, because the last thing I want in the whole world is to make you unhappy.’
But as he spoke, he had a hollow feeling of defeat in the pit of his stomach. It didn’t matter what he said or what evidence he offered, she would refuse to believe it. And she’d hate him for saying it.
In a hoarse whisper, he pleaded, ‘What will it take for you to believe me?’
With an angry gesture, she grabbed her bag and started to walk away.
‘Lilija, wait!’ he shouted.
An elderly couple strolling arm in arm along the path glanced at him sympathetically, and the woman whispered something to her husband as they walked past.
Ted sprinted towards Lilija and caught up with her in three strides. ‘Please don’t go!’ he pleaded.
She turned towards him. ‘Leave me alone!’ she cried, and he watched as she hurried from the secret garden and disappeared.
With a groan, Ted sank onto the bench and kept slamming his fist into the wooden seat until he could no longer feel the pain.
Chapter 49
Ted was at his desk trying to cobble together a story about the problems that old-age pensioners and young mothers were ha
ving with the ever-increasing power cuts. It was part of Gus’s current campaign against the striking unions, but he was overwhelmed by his heartache over Lilija and, to make things worse, the other reporters were going hammer and tongs about the situation in the coalfields, and he couldn’t concentrate on the problems people had trying to cook their meals and wash their clothes. A child in an iron lung had died in hospital as a result of a sudden power cut, and Gus was pressuring him to find some heart-wrenching story which would outrage the readers, but all he had was a succession of people whingeing about the inconvenience of the gas and electricity rationing. He was fighting the urge to run out of the newsroom and go straight to Lilija. He’d fold his arms around her and press kisses on her face and she’d realise how much she loved him …
The daydream came to a sudden end. Gus was in the newsroom, ranting about one of his pet themes, the delayed construction of a hydro-electric scheme in the Snowy Mountains. ‘That bloody premier of ours should stick a pin into his bum, wake himself up and get on with the job,’ he was saying. ‘He reckons it’s gonna take twenty years and cost a hundred and sixty-six million pounds, but I reckon we won’t see it in our lifetime.’
Ted looked over what he’d written about the power cuts and groaned. He couldn’t infuse any life into his article, which was weak and clichéd, and his head ached from lack of sleep. If only Lilija’s father was dead. The intensity of his hatred shocked him, but it was true. He had never wished anyone dead before, had never imagined that he could feel such malevolence. But he couldn’t deny it. If Paulis Olmanis died then all his problems would be over and Lilija would come back to him.
Gus had gone out, but an argument was raging about the coal strike. Predictably, Joe Black defended the miners. ‘Fair go!’ he was shouting. ‘Those blokes are fighting for a 35-hour week and better conditions.’
‘Listen, mate,’ the industrial reporter was jabbing his finger into Joe’s chest, ‘you’re dreaming. This is about union power, not miners’ conditions. What will their conditions be like if there’s a national strike and they’re all out of work? Hundreds of thousands of poor buggers will be out of work before this is over, and they’ll all hate the miners, but will those Welsh and Pommie bastards who run the unions give a shit? Not bloody likely.’
Ted was so absorbed in the argument that he didn’t pick up the receiver until the telephone on his desk had rung several times. He didn’t recognise the gruff voice that barked, ‘Is that Ted Browning? Got a message for you from Trixie. Wants you to pull your finger out and get cracking with that article you’re supposed to be writing about her. And another thing. That sheila you asked her about. It was Nola Wilson.’
Ted opened his mouth to say something but the line went dead.
The heated voices in the newsroom receded as Ted tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. It couldn’t be right. Pop Wilson’s daughter was a nurse, she couldn’t have anything to do with the callgirl who was shot dead in her Kings Cross apartment. Perhaps there was another girl with the same name. But the more he thought about the nurse who’d vanished and had been erased from her father’s life as though she’d never existed, the more plausible it became.
Although he was shocked by the news, he was also intrigued by it. He couldn’t understand how a respectable girl like Nola had turned into a prostitute called Scarlett O’Halloran, and he supposed he’d never know, but here under his nose was a true story with all the ingredients of a mystery novel. An attractive, decent girl who for some reason had become a callgirl and been murdered by a client. It sounded like the plot of a Raymond Chandler story, or the script for an RKO movie starring Humphrey Bogart, Edward G Robinson and Lauren Bacall. And here he was, spending his time writing about Kosy kerosene heaters, fuel-powered coppers, cold dinners and unwashed children.
He thought about Pop Wilson. Pop always had a friendly word for everyone, and he’d never given any indication of the pain he must have felt at the rift with his only daughter. Had she ever contacted him? And if so, did he know what she had become, or why?
Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Pop would have to be told. He’d have to identify the body which still lay on a cold slab in the morgue, unclaimed. Ted pushed his typewriter away, reached for the phone, dialled the Darlinghurst Police Station and asked for Detective Sergeant Mitchell.
‘Remember the callgirl who was shot in Macleay Street in June last year?’ he began. ‘Did you ever find out who she was?’
‘No, mate. Drew a blank. What’s your problem?’
Ted couldn’t keep the gloating tone from his voice. ‘I thought you’d like to know that I’ve found out who she was.’
‘Oh yeah? Smart guy, eh? Okay, spit it out.’
There was a tight knot in Ted’s stomach and a sour taste in his mouth when he hung up a few minutes later. As he sat at his desk, he could visualise the scene at Pop’s place when the police knocked on his door.
‘Are you Mr Wilson?’ the cop would ask. ‘Do you have a daughter called Nola?’
Pop would nod, his chest tightening, suspecting that he was about to hear the news he’d been dreading for years.
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ the detective would say.
Ted could see the smile freeze on Pop’s lips and his face blanch as he swayed on his feet and held the doorframe for support. He would ask the cop to come in and offer him a drink, which would be refused, and then with trembling hands he’d uncork the bottle on the sideboard and pour himself a glass of port, sloshing some of it on the carpet. Then he’d sink into the worn armchair in front of the mantelpiece facing the photo of himself as a lifesaver. He’d swallow the port, and in a dull voice he’d ask what had happened.
He’d listen in silence, head bowed, then pour himself another drink, too numb to show any emotion but too distraught to stop the shaking of his hands. Perhaps he’d let out a soft groan and bury his face in his hands.
‘Are you all right, Mr Wilson?’ the officer would ask, and of course Pop would nod and say he was okay. Next, the officer would ask if he’d accompany him to the morgue. Too polite to refuse or ask for more time, Pop would rise heavily from the armchair, and with a disbelieving shake of his balding head, he’d take a shirt from the bedroom drawer and his old jacket from the hook in the hall, put on his felt hat, shuffle out of his house and get into the police car for the most terrible ride of his life.
The argument about the miners’ strike had fizzled out and, as usual, no one had changed their mind.
Joe Black stopped by Ted’s desk. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said. ‘We’re going to the Journos’ Club. Want to come?’
Ted jumped up. A drink was exactly what he needed. But before he could grab his hat, the sickly smell of Gus’s cigarette filled the newsroom.
‘How’s your war crime investigation going? Found lots of Nazis hiding in Sydney closets, have you?’
Ted shrugged and made a noncommittal response. His swollen hand ached, and he didn’t feel up to discussing war criminals. But from the expression on his boss’s jowly face, it was clear that Gus wasn’t going to be fobbed off.
‘Come into my office,’ he growled.
Gus flung himself into the large black leather armchair on the raised platform and, as usual, Ted felt like a schoolboy about to be hauled over the coals by his headmaster.
‘You’ve been wasting a lot of fucking time on this Nazi investigation of yours,’ Gus said. ‘I’m the one paying for that time, so I want to know exactly what you’ve come up with.’
Since his meeting with Anna Vestermanis, Ted had been in turmoil. The scenario that was unfolding before him with chilling inevitability was about to test his personal and professional integrity. After months of investigation, the scoop he’d always dreamed of now lay within his grasp. He sensed he had the power to reveal something of immense national and human importance. He could already see the headline with his by-line. WAR CRIMINALS AMONG US. No reporter worth his salt would bury such a story. But if
he wrote an exposé naming Lilija’s father, he would bury his dreams for their future together.
Gus knew he was following up a lead about a Latvian migrant who might have committed war crimes, but if Ted told him about his interview with Anna Vestermanis. Gus would insist on running the story immediately, and Ted needed time to reflect on the enormity of what he was contemplating. And he had to contact Lilija and let her know the story would soon appear. As he stammered an evasive reply, Gus cut him short.
‘Cut the fucking crap!’ he shouted. ‘You knew all that months ago. I want to know who these bastards are, where they are, what they did, when they did it, what they’re doing now, and what proof you have to back it up. Jesus fucking Christ, do I have to teach you the basic rules of reporting after all this time? I can’t figure out if you’re plain stupid or bloody incompetent.’
Ted sat in silence. He was tempted to defend himself by telling Gus about the interview with Mrs Vestermanis, but fear held him back. He needed more time.
Gus pulled himself heavily to his feet and leaned over the desk until his red face was only inches away from Ted’s. In a less belligerent tone, he said, ‘Look, son, we both know that our politicians don’t want to expose these Nazi bastards, so your only hope — and it’s a small one — is to present as much evidence as possible to back up your claims.’
Ted nodded, and assumed the conversation was over, but Gus said casually, ‘I suppose you’ve already talked to the Latvian bloke? Because you’ve got to get a quote from him even if you break into his house to get it.’
Ted fought a rising feeling of nausea. He opened his mouth to say that there was no chance of getting Mr Olmanis to talk to him as he’d refused to have him in the house or anywhere near his daughter, when he remembered that he’d never told Gus about his involvement with Lilija. A small voice in his head told him that now he had a way out which wouldn’t compromise his integrity. He wouldn’t be able to write the story because the man accused of a war crime would refuse to talk to him.
Empire Day Page 33