I’ve tried, but . . . The old man hesitates. They’re fighting a lot. I don’t think she’s listening to him. Anyway, he’ll be away for a few days next week, so perhaps we can talk to her then and have some more success. She’ll need the companionship.
Where’s Günter going?
Down to Marrinup.
Alice gives her grandfather a sharp look. Why?
I think he just wants to see what’s become of the place. Sort of a letting go of the past, I imagine. He can get a ride down on one of the timber lorries.
Alice goes quiet. It is strange to think of Günter and Francesca fighting. They always seem so sweet and close when they are together. She wonders for a moment about herself and Erich, and if perhaps it is a good thing that he had to go, but she dismisses the thought, suddenly angry.
I must go. Doctor Alexander takes a while to climb to his feet.
Are you all right, Grandfather?
Yes, dear. He reaches down and rests his hand lightly on the top of her head. Alice can feel his fingers pressing down through her hair. There is little weight behind them now. I’m fine. Just feeling my age, that’s all.
I’ll walk home with you.
Goodness no, not at this time of day. Besides – he chuckles lightly – don’t be offended but I think even I can probably get there faster than you, nowadays.
Alice laughs too, hauls herself off the step and follows him inside.
After he has left she goes into her room and gets out her journal. It is starting to look a little tattered and worn and Alice carries it back outside. Sitting under the porch light, she reads through the entries, right back to the day she started writing, in the late afternoon of July fifth, sitting among the flower gardens in the prison camp. She looks back at those early pages, at the words written before she knew she was pregnant. She reads the longing, the pain that she poured out.
By the time she finishes reading it is getting late, but Alice picks up her pen and starts to make a list.
Boy. Johnathon, Paul, Erich.
Girl. Emmaline, Elsie, Matilda.
In the hot night she stares at the six names. She thinks about the baby, its family – both those here and those gone. After a long time she circles two names. If it’s a boy – Paul. If it’s a girl – Matilda.
And looking at the name, she wonders how Erich’s sister is going. She wonders when the next letter will come and what news it will bring. She no longer writes to him every couple of days; now it is usually about once a week.
The moon is rising out of the eastern sky. It slips into the air above the hills, painted bloody by the smoke of distant bushfires, and it seems too big, too close to be real. It is hard to imagine that this same moon was looking down on Germany just a few hours ago. Alice wonders if Erich, wherever he is, sat like this and watched the moon last night.
In the camp during the war she used to listen to Erich and Stutt and Günter talk to one another about the places and people they knew back in Germany. It was like listening to the guards discussing their lives back in Perth. They talked about the same things, in the same way. They told the same ribald jokes and made the same digs at one another. And the news; when Broome and Darwin were bombed, people in sleepy little Perth were digging bomb shelters in their backyards and filling them with supplies. It seemed as though Germany and the war were only just around the corner.
But then the war ended and Erich left, and the world seemed to grow again. Germany once again became something, somewhere distant. Somewhere lost to her.
Tonight, even the moon seems closer.
23 January 1947
The letters arrive in the morning post. Alice immediately recognises the familiar creamy white envelopes and spidery handwriting and tears the first one open then and there, standing by the letterbox.
He has her letter. He knows about the baby. He is happy.
The news comes rushing over her like a tide and she needs to sit down.
In the kitchen she pours herself a cup of tea, sits at the table and then reads the first letter again. Slowly this time.
He is delighted at the prospect of being a father, but he is also terribly sorry for having put her in that position. Of course he will come back to Australia and marry her as soon as his sister is fit to travel. The two of them will come together, so that the baby will have a father and an aunt.
The warmth of the tea sits inside her like a solid, comforting lump.
There is more, much more. News about Germany and Mathilde and the progress of her TB. He has hopes of getting her into a specialised hospital. He has managed to track down a little of his family’s money, which is lucky. He is looking for work.
The second letter lies beside her. The same type of envelope, the same handwriting, the same address. Without examining it, Alice pulls it towards her and opens it. The first words leap from the page.
Dear Doctor Alexander,
I hope that this letter finds you in good health, and that you are not displeased to hear from me . . .
Stopping, Alice looks at the envelope again. It is addressed to her grandfather, care of her. For a moment she hesitates. She should simply slip the letter back inside and deliver it to him. But she cannot help herself. She reads the next lines: I would like you to know that I received Alice’s communication yesterday, and am ashamed that I cannot be there to do the honourable thing. I do hope that this has not altered your judgment of me and would like to reassure you that I will be returning to Australia and to your grand-daughter as soon as it is reasonably possible for me to do so. My sister, however . . .
Alice stops herself. She slides the letter back into the envelope and re-seals it as best she can.
The walk across to her grandfather’s takes an age now, as she has to stop and rest a number of times. When she arrives Günter meets her at the door. He is on his way to work.
What are you doing here? I thought you were going to Marrinup this week?
On the weekend, he replies. Friday afternoon go down, Sunday come back. That way not miss any work.
Her grandfather is sitting at the table in the kitchen, doing a crossword. Francesca is trying to help, but crossword puzzles are still a little beyond her.
Alice! This is a surprise. What brings you over?
This. She hands him the envelope. I’m sorry, I opened it accidentally. It arrived at the same time as another one and I thought they were both for me. I haven’t read too much.
That’s fine, he tells her.
She watches his face intently as pulls the pages out and reads them. Behind his moustache he gives little away. Can I ask you a favour? he says finally.
Of course.
I should like to write a reply to him. There are things I need to tell him. Would you be able to give me his address?
Alice writes it on the back of the envelope and her grandfather smiles and pats her hand.
Thank you, dear. You have nothing to worry about, you know that, don’t you? He’ll be coming back as soon as he can.
I know, she tells him. But looking into his eyes, she senses that there is something more.
Alice . . . he begins, but stops. She waits. You understand that his sister’s tuberculosis will require quite some time to recover from? Alice nods. Good. Provided you know. Your baby might even be one- or two-years-old by the time Erich and Mathilde can get back here, but it would be unfair to ask him to come any sooner.
Grandfather, I know. Alice stands and kisses the old man on the top of his head.
I’m sorry, dear. I should understand you better by now.
The park is empty on her way home and Alice stops by the playground, remembering the first time she met Anne. It was only a few months ago, but it feels like an age. Her pregnancy seems to be stretching forever through the dusty months of the Perth summer, and she can’t even recall the last time she felt
light on her feet, or clean or cool.
Her grandfather’s words ring in her ears. Your baby might be one-or two-years-old by the time Erich can get back here. She told him she understands. And she does. But still . . .
There is a part of her that doesn’t want her baby to miss its first two years of having a father. There is a part of her that doesn’t want to be an unmarried mother for that long either. She is also scared. Already, after only six months, she can’t properly remember him. What about him? Can he remember her? And how will it be after two years?
Re-reading her journal the other night, looking over those early pages, Alice was shocked to discover how she felt when she read back what she had written. She was embarrassed. Embarrassed by the rawness of the emotion. By the desperation. By the longing. Embarrassed that she should have felt that dependent on him, on anyone.
She doesn’t feel like that any more. How will she feel in two years?
A couple of pelicans are soaring languidly overhead, riding a warm column of air high up into the sky. Alice watches them, faintly envious of their freedom, their detachment from the earth. Nothing holding them in place. They are so high it looks as though they could angle off now in any direction, to any place they choose.
Alice makes a decision.
She will not wait for him.
Not for two years.
No. As soon as the baby is born, as soon as it is old enough, the two of them will get on a ship.
They will go to him.
That night Alice sleeps better than she has in months.
1 February 1947
Günter is back from Marrinup. When Alice asks him about the trip he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Things seem even more strained between him and Frannie. They no longer smile and laugh at each other, even in company, and she has become pale and withdrawn. The hot nights are uncomfortable for everyone, but especially for a baby, and Claire cries a lot, so neither of them is getting very much sleep. When they arrive with the car to pick Alice up for her weekly swim, though, Günter is in good humour.
I tell you a funny story, he begins.
Yesterday, after work, he had gone to the pub with the other men from the mill. It seems that most of them have managed to overcome their differences with him and they are now getting along well. In the pub, while he was drinking his beer, someone grabbed him on the shoulder. A policeman.
And so I turn around and look and who do you think it is that I am seeing?
Günter is laughing in anticipation. He doesn’t wait for Alice to guess.
Guard Thomas! Erich’s good friend! Except now he is in a police uniform and he is trying to arrest me for being ‘illegal alien’!
He seems delighted at the term. Illegal alien, he repeats, still laughing. Even Francesca, behind the wheel, giggles a little. She’s obviously heard this story before.
And so now I am telling him that, no, I am sponsored Australian, with passport and everything, but he is not believing me and is trying to take me to police station when Jim from the mill taps him on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, officer, but I don’t think you should you be drinking in a pub while on duty!’ he says and all the men laugh and say for him to ‘piss off!’ and he turns very red and goes then.
Now Alice can’t help laughing herself. I wish I’d been there to see it, she tells him.
Ja. It was very funny, he replies. Still . . .
Günter becomes serious. They have to make a stop on the way to the beach, he tells her, at the police station, to show their passports and immigration papers to the sergeant to prove that they are legally allowed to be back in Australia.
But why?
Ach . . . He makes a tiny hand gesture. Still there are some prisoners, Germans who escaped, in 1946, you remember?
Alice remembers. I thought most of them were recaptured.
Most, he agrees, but still, one or two . . . He says nothing more, but there is a sly expression on his face.
Günter, Alice asks slowly, do you know something about this?
He doesn’t answer, just throws her another grin and a wink and it might be her imagination but his right hand seems to be making a small tapping gesture on the seat between them.
At the beach, Alice gets out of the water early and makes her way up the sand to where Frannie sits on her towel. Günter is splashing in the waves with Claire, but the ocean still frightens Francesca, so she usually paddles for only a few minutes or stays out all together. A couple of young women make disapproving clicking sounds with their tongues as she passes, but Alice has given up caring. She fixes the two with her biggest smile. Good morning! And she pokes her swollen belly out in front of her as far as she can.
Not swimming? Frannie shakes her head and Alice sits on her towel beside her. The sun is hot and she can feel it burning her pale skin. Shall we sit in the shade?
There is grass below a couple of Norfolk Island pines a little up the beach, and they drop their gear there before settling in the speckled shade. Alice . . . Francesca’s voice sounds small, lost. How you are being so strong?
Strong?
Ja. All these people are looking at you always and doing . . . uhm – she makes a fierce frowning expression – doing this, and you still being brave and nice. How are you doing this?
Alice puts her arm around the Italian girl’s shoulders. Sometimes that’s all you can do, Frannie. Sometimes you just have to.
They sit silently for a while, watching Günter and his baby daughter splashing so much that a lifeguard paddles out to check on them.
You are missing him, yes?
Yes. But we’re going to go to Germany. Me and the baby, when it’s born. Don’t tell Günter or Grandfather.
No. She looks at Alice and there is a little envy in her expression. You are lucky. Germany is beautiful. Not hot. Green.
You don’t like Australia, do you, Frannie?
Australia is . . . very wild. Some people are nice. Günter is happy here. It is a good place for Claire, he says.
Günter hops into the shallows and waves at them. With a sigh, Francesca slips on her shoes and trots across the sand to retrieve Claire from him, so that he can manage to get himself out.
28 February 1947
Something is wrong. She knows it as soon as she wakes. The morning sun is slanting in through the eastern windows like always, the air is cool, and she can hear the magpies calling to the dawn. Everything seems normal, but even through her sleep-addled mind Alice knows that something is wrong.
She sits up a little in her bed and then it hits her.
Pain.
Not a stabbing pain or anything like that, but a dull, deep ache, heavy and insistent, deep inside. In her womb.
Mum! She calls before she lets herself think too much.
Her belly feels harder than it usually does, muscles tense beneath the skin. Her father rushes to get her grandfather. The baby is not due for at least another month.
Something is wrong. Lying, waiting, Alice is surprised to discover that after all these months she can suddenly remember Erich again. If she closes her eyes, he is standing there beside her in perfect clarity. I’m sorry, she whispers to the empty room.
What if he never sees his child?
Then Grandfather is there by the bed and he gets her to describe the pain and takes her temperature and sends her father down to the telephone to call for the specialist and tells her to be calm. This sort of thing isn’t unusual.
For a long time nothing happens. The morning stretches on and the day warms up and the pain doesn’t go away, but it doesn’t get worse either. Alice drinks a cup of weak tea that her mother brings her and tries to relax, like she has been told.
But whenever she closes her eyes, he is right there, as clear in her mind as the day after he left.
She dozes and in her dreams
they are back together in the hospital. It is winter and the fire is burning in the pot-bellied stove and they are holding each other. She wakes up to feel the cool hands of her doctor examining her.
How does it feel now? She tries to describe the pain. It might be her imagination, but while she has slept it seems to have changed, become more muted. The doctor puts a stethoscope to her belly and the round circle feels icy against her skin. Can you breathe in deeply for me? That’s good. Hold it, and now out. There. Thank you. His voice is calm, unworried. She draws some strength from that.
Has it been moving a lot lately?
She nods.
Good.
He mixes a white powdery substance in some water and gives it to her. Drink this. It’s just a relaxant and digestive. I think it will help. The fluid tastes chalky and slightly bitter.
He speaks to her grandfather, who has been waiting by the other side of the bed. I don’t think it’s anything too serious, he says. A little stress and perhaps a touch of indigestion. The heartbeat is still strong and regular and there’s no false contractions so I’m not too worried. I’d say she just needs to rest. He is talking about Alice as though she isn’t in the room. As though the baby belongs to someone else.
The two men shake hands, and the specialist gathers his equipment together, placing it back into his bag. Finally he talks directly to Alice. I want you to rest for the next couple of days. Drink plenty of fluids, especially in this heat, and then come into my rooms later in the week so that I can check everything again. I don’t think that at this point you have anything to worry about, but I’d like to keep a close eye on things.
With a nod to her mother and a handshake for her father, the doctor leaves, and a few minutes later the pain seems to subside a little further.
That afternoon Anne visits. She has left the kids at her mother’s. Are you all right? she asks. She is the first person today to want to know.
Alice describes the morning, and the pain, and the fear, and Anne nods sympathetically. She had a similar experience with Harry.
It’s so scary, I know, she says, and strokes Alice’s forehead with cool hands. But it’ll be okay. You’re strong. She thinks for a moment. Are you worried about the birth?
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