Nine
When Billie returned to the office with the weekend papers, her thoughts swirling with speculation about the mysterious “Frank” and the girls Shyla was worried about, she found Sam looking triumphant and a touch fresher for the extra cups of tea he’d made himself.
“Don’t tell me. You found our missing page?” Billie guessed.
“Sydney Morning Herald, Thursday, November 21, 1946,” he said, holding up the newspaper in question. A section was ripped out of a page on the right-hand side.
This narrowed their focus even better than an entire missing page. “This is the only possibility?” she asked.
“Well, this is the only thing ripped out of these papers,” he said, his face falling a little, doubtless imagining another tedious run through soggy newspaper.
“Excellent work. And that gels with what the boy Maurice told me about the date. I’ll get you to head to the library and find out what was on that page,” Billie said.
“I have it here,” he said to her surprise. Again, her assistant’s smile was triumphant. He held up a wrinkled copy and her eyes widened.
“Nicely done, good sir. What is it? Do tell.” She hurried over to his desk.
“It’s an advertisement for an auction that’s running this weekend. We still had our copy of that edition.”
He passed her the paper and she ran her eyes over it. Georges Boucher Auction House. This was not what she had been expecting at all. An auction? “How fascinating. I think we’ll have to attend this tomorrow.” The advertisement featured photographs of antiques and jewelry. A carved sideboard. Rings. An unusual necklace. It looked like high-end stuff. Why would it interest the boy, let alone enrage him?
“I suppose we ought to look into this George character and his business,” Sam said.
Billie laughed softly. “Georges,” she said, using the correct French pronunciation. “We’ll need the library anyway,” she decided. “Head there now, please, and research this Georges Boucher. Find out what you can about when he came to Australia and what his story is. I want a physical description, too,” she said. “Meanwhile, I’ll visit the fur shop. I feel like there’s some element missing in the story Mrs. Brown told me.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll see,” she said, leaving it at that.
She bade her assistant adieu and strode into her office, making her way to her modest corner balcony, where she opened the doors, a fresh breeze blowing in with the sounds of the city below. She stepped out and leaned against one of the two Roman-style pillars, gazing out over the top floor of nearby Station House, which was connected to Daking House by a small safety bridge, and the bustling Rawson Place and George Street below. It was humble as balconies went, with barely enough room to turn around, but it was one of only three balconies on the sixth floor, and only half a dozen in the whole building, the rest being on the first floor. It had been a favorite contemplation spot of her father’s. Naturally she’d saved this spot for herself when necessity meant subletting the other offices.
Seconds later, Sam appeared among the foot traffic below, strolling along the footpath in his trench coat, soon blending into the moving crowd. In a few minutes she’d take the lift down herself and walk to Brown & Co. Fine Furs shop to see what else her clients could tell her. In the meantime, she continued to watch the moving streetscape, her mind on Shyla’s unexpected request, and on the thin doorman and his expression when he’d realized he’d been seen talking with her. It bothered her, that expression. There was something there, she thought. Something.
Far below on George Street, eyes watched her—eyes that did not approve of the woman in her high tower.
Brown & Co. Fine Furs was located in the grand Strand Arcade building on George Street. The last of the great shopping arcades built in Victorian-era Sydney, it still held appeal after the ravages of the wars it had survived, if the crowds Billie saw milling around were anything to go by.
As Billie stepped inside the arcade, the hustle of the main street fell away and she saw that little had changed since she’d last ventured inside. As always, it was cooler within the arcade than on the street. Patrons strolled slowly on the patterned tile floor, looking in the timber-fronted shop windows at jewelers working with fine tools, at cobblers repairing shoes, at racks of fine clothes, and at milliners arranging tilt hats of the latest style. She picked up the scent of a florist before turning to see a beautiful display of dahlias, gardenias, roses, and little plain daisies in pleasing arrangements. Leaning her head back and holding her brimmed hat, Billie looked up at the vaulted ceiling of tinted glass panes that hung high above the two farther levels of shopping, each level lined with cast-iron balustrades, the shops announced with oval, hand-painted signs propped up on curved Victorian iron posts.
Billie pulled off her round smoked sunglasses and contemplated her surroundings with shrewd eyes. This was a strangely tranquil place. Busy but never bustling. Something about the design, she supposed, or the businesses that set up shop here. The Brown & Co. Fine Furs shop was down a large staircase just in front of her, announced by a tasteful painted timber sign propped up on a stand of swirling ironwork. Yet amid the tranquility she felt eyes drilling into her back—a feeling she was rarely wrong about. She turned the sunglasses in her hands, pretending to clean them with the edge of a scarf in her handbag, and the reflection showed a man who had entered the arcade, his hat pulled low, watching her. She tucked the glasses into her handbag and looked around in one simultaneous movement, but by then he had his back to her, his attention apparently drawn elsewhere. Nonetheless, out of habit she memorized the texture and color of his well-tailored gray suit, his slightly crumpled fedora, his height against the shop-front windows, the black hair above his collar, shot with strands of gray. He was heavyset and moved away before she caught a glimpse of his profile, his face. Then he was gone, just another stranger back on the street outside.
Billie walked down the steps toward Brown & Co. Fine Furs, detecting the distinctive smell of a furrier—that variety of animal odors and tanned skins particular to the trade. Alone, a fur coat did not usually have much of a smell unless it had been cooped up and become musty or rancid. But when several furs were crowded into a shop, there was an undeniable mix of scents, though here, as with other fine fur shops, it was not unpleasant. A vase of deeply scented wild roses added another, sweeter odor to the mix. A bell tinkled to alert the shopkeepers to the presence of a new visitor.
“Mrs. Brown?”
Billie’s client was busying herself with a display, and she snapped her head up, as if jolted; her startled doe eyes fixed on Billie. Today the woman wore the same suit, the same fine mink stole, the hairs brushed down and gleaming, but her hair was tucked under a turban of brown and emerald green, knotted at the front and secured with a circular brooch encrusted with diamantes. It suited Mrs. Brown. But despite her show of style, the past day had not been good to her, it seemed. Dark circles were forming under those uncertain brown eyes, and the lines of worry on her face seemed yet deeper.
“Oh, Miss Walker,” she said, and scurried over. “Is there any news of our boy?” Her tone was heart-wrenchingly hopeful.
“Nothing yet,” Billie replied gently. “We hope today may be fruitful. Perhaps I might speak with you and your husband for a short time?”
“Of course,” she said, though with a hint of uncertainty.
Looking around, Billie noticed how widely the garments were spaced on the racks. The Browns were putting up a good front, but it wouldn’t surprise her if they didn’t have a lot of stock. They certainly wouldn’t be alone if that was the case. The importation of luxury goods like fur pelts had been banned in New South Wales in 1942, as was the manufacture of new luxury garments, though Billie believed the ban on general fur manufacture had been relaxed to account for utility items and a shortage of warm clothing. Having previously focused on importing luxury pelts, Sydney’s furriers had become creative about using rabbits, goats, sheep, and even water rats, said to loosely resemble mink, to make garments. She recalled her mother commenting on all the curious “new” animals used by the trade, and it was through those eyes that she surveyed the coats on display.
Mrs. Brown seemed to catch her thoughts. “We get new stock in next month in time for Christmas. We’re organizing a display with Father Christmas and the reindeer.”
“How charming,” Billie said.
A man of perhaps fifty emerged through a door at the back of the shop. “This is my husband, Mikhall,” Mrs. Brown announced. He walked over and shook hands with Billie. Mr. Brown was perhaps five foot eight, and slim, but with a rounded belly. His hair was curly, what remained of it. His shoulders sloped and he appeared to be shy, his eyes meeting Billie’s for just a moment. Next to him, his reserved wife seemed a bold and forthright person.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have much English,” Mr. Brown said in a heavy accent, perhaps a touch ashamed of the fact. “I try, but it’s not so good.” His accent was certainly much more pronounced than his wife’s, who had clearly worked hard to dampen it. It was a German accent, Billie noted.
As Billie sat with the pair of them in the administration office, it soon became clear why Mrs. Brown had been the one to come to Billie. Her husband was not at all confident conversing in English, even with his wife there to help him along. Mikhall managed to speak of coming to Australia in late 1936, and how grateful they were to escape Europe and what was happening there. He backed up his wife about their only child, saying what a “good boy” Adin was, and how pleased they’d been to get him to safer shores in Australia.
On their shared desk was an array of family photographs, many showing several generations. A faded black-and-white image of a cherubic, curly-haired baby, surrounded by adults, took pride of place in a large frame. “This is Adin?” Billie inquired.
“Yes.” Mrs. Brown did not elaborate, though it looked perhaps as if she wanted to. Her eyes welled up as her attention was drawn to the photo, and she turned away, holding back her emotions. “Happier days,” she said simply.
“Where was it taken?”
“Europe,” Mrs. Brown answered cautiously. She dabbed her eyes.
“And what about this photograph?” One of the small silver frames on the desk was empty, Billie noticed. She picked it up. “Where did this one go?”
The Browns seemed genuinely surprised by this. “I don’t know where it went,” Mrs. Brown exclaimed. “I hadn’t noticed anything missing. Mikhall?”
Her husband shook his head and said something to her in German in a low voice.
“It could have been like that for a time, he says,” Mrs. Brown explained.
“Where is mein Junge?” Billie thought she heard Mikhall mutter. He was clenching his fists now, evidently overwrought. When he looked up she caught the glittering tears in the corners of his eyes. Ashamed, he wiped them and looked down again, body hunched and tense.
Billie calmly put the empty silver frame back on the desk. “In peacetime, in places like Australia, most missing persons do turn up,” she began. “Most young people run away to a relative, a friend, or, if they’re Adin’s age, a lover.” Adamant headshaking from her clients followed this comment. “I do not judge,” Billie stressed. “It’s not my job to judge a client, be it someone seeking a divorce or parents looking for their child. Anything you can tell me about Adin—his personality, his interests, anything unusual you might have noticed recently—could help to track him down and return him to you. Was he acting strangely in the past week or so? Did anything seem different? His mood? His routines?”
There was the headshaking again, and when it stopped both of them looked at Billie with vulnerable expressions, eyes hopeful. They wanted her to fix this. They needed her to.
“We are telling you everything we can,” Mrs. Brown reiterated. “We just need you to find our son.”
Mr. Brown said something to his wife again in a low voice. “Yes, you should mind the shop, Mikhall,” she agreed, and he stood up.
“Just one more thing,” Billie said as the man got up. “What do you think your son might be doing at a place like The Dancers?”
At that, Mrs. Brown’s eyebrows pulled together. Husband and wife exchanged puzzled looks.
“It’s an exclusive club off Victory Lane. Quite a high-end joint,” Billie added.
“We haven’t any idea. It’s not the sort of place he would go. We’ve never been to such a place,” she said, as if that would discount his having been present.
“Well, it is the sort of place he would go, because he did, but I agree it was not his sort of club under normal circumstances. The doormen saw him out.”
“I don’t know of this,” Mikhall said awkwardly, shrugging. He continued his short journey out of the office, those sloped shoulders and bent head leading the way. The door closed behind him. The women were again alone.
“Mrs. Brown . . . May I call you Netanya?”
Her client nodded. “Nettie is what most people call me.”
“Well, Nettie, please call me Billie, if you like.” She leaned closer. “Anything you can tell me about Adin’s life, Nettie, your family life, might help reveal why he was at The Dancers, trying to get in there. Anything. And it stays between us.”
“Do you think he got into trouble at this dance club?” Nettie looked stricken. “What was he doing?”
“At this point, I don’t know, but I’m doing my best to find out.” Billie could see that Nettie was almost at breaking point. “What more can you tell me about your family? Were you involved in the fur trade back in Germany?” Billie prodded.
Nettie’s eyes widened as Billie mentioned Germany, and then the tension went out of her and she slumped in her chair. After a beat she closed her eyes and nodded. “Yes. It is as you guess. We are Germans. It’s not a secret but we do not like to advertise the fact.”
Billie waited for more.
“We came from Berlin in 1936. Adin was quite young then, and I was worried about what I was seeing. I knew we had to leave. Mikhall took some convincing, but not much. He does not adapt so well, as you can see. It wasn’t a good time to be Jewish. Not in Germany. Not anywhere in Europe. I was never very religious, but I am a Jew. I will always be a Jew.” She smoothed her skirt. “We took everything we could and started the fur company here in Sydney. It was our trade back in Germany, you see. My sister stayed, and my aunt and widowed mother. They shouldn’t have,” she said sadly. Her face was stoic as she spoke, but her eyes filled at the corners again. She was only just holding herself together.
Billie swallowed. She herself had reported on the infamous Warsaw Ghetto for the Hearst papers. She recalled seeing children as young as six forced to wear the yellow Star of David on their clothing, identifying them as Jewish, which led to bullying and worse. It was no wonder the Browns had wished to save Adin from such a fate. No matter how successful the Browns’ fur business in Berlin might have been—and perhaps that was one of the reasons some of the family stayed in Germany—it would eventually have been seized by the Nazis along with all their property. The fate of Nettie’s family members in Germany was not difficult to guess.
“You changed your family name?” Billie asked gently.
Mrs. Brown nodded. “Braunstein was our name. We simplified it.” She searched Billie’s face for judgment, some hint of rejection, but found her unchanged, professional and steady. “Do you think that all this . . . matters?” she finally asked.
“No,” Billie said. “The name doesn’t matter, so far as your son’s situation is concerned, but knowing the family history may prove helpful. You managed to avoid internment, is that right?”
Nettie nodded again. “Yes. We had naturalized. ‘Alien nationals,’ they called us, but though we were no longer Germans we still had restrictions on our movements. We weren’t allowed to travel without notifying the Australian authorities, and we weren’t allowed to own a wireless or a camera, even for work. We had to pay someone else to take photographs of the merchandise. It was expensive. A hard time for the business,” Nettie reflected.
“I imagine so.”
“My husband was too old for conscription, Adin too young,” she added. “We registered the factory to offer the manufacture of fur-lined uniforms, to try to do our bit, and we did make several hundred when they were needed. Rabbit, mostly. For a time it looked like Mikhall would be sent to a labor camp, but it did not happen. The rules kept changing,” she said.
How terrifying it must have been to flee Germany only to have the government of another country, let alone neighbors and rival business owners, view you with suspicion, Billie reflected. It sounded like the Browns—or Braunsteins—had been luckier than some, and certainly luckier than their loved ones who had remained in Berlin. But Billie could understand now why Nettie had seemed cagey, as if withholding something.
She pushed back memories of the war—and Jack. Him running out from their position to intervene as a young Jewish girl, identified by the compulsory Star of David armband on her dress, was tormented by two older fair-haired boys, the boys pulling at her clothing and slapping her, calling her filthy names like rat and Judensau as she wept, terrified. The girl had finally been thrown to the ground, her clothes torn. Jack scooped her up like she was as light as a feather and dried her tears as the boys ran away. They’d been children. Just children. Already taught to hate with such violence.
Jack.
“Do you know why your son might be interested in an auction? Have you heard of Georges Boucher before? The auctioneer?” Billie asked.
At this Nettie appeared utterly baffled. “An auction? What was he thinking?”
“I’m not sure. Does anything in this advertisement ring a bell?” Billie pulled the folded newspaper clipping from her pocket and spread it on the desk.
Nettie barely glanced at the clipping, shaking her head, clearly flabbergasted, then ran a hand over her face, wiping tears that had started to form again. “Where would he get the money to buy things at an auction? Or to go to this Dancers place? What could he have been thinking?” She now raised her hands, palms to the ceiling. “Are you sure you are looking for the right person? My son, Adin?” she demanded.
“Yes, it is him,” Billie confirmed, unruffled by her client’s tone. “Can you look again?” she pressed, but the woman was shaking her head adamantly. “Do you think it is possible he is in debt of some kind?”
At this Mrs. Brown gasped. “No. How?”
“There’s nothing missing from the till?” Billie pressed, folding up the clipping again.
Nettie looked shocked at the suggestion. “I handle the finances, Miss Walker, and I assure you there isn’t a shilling out of place,” she said indignantly. The strength was back now. She’d have to be a strong woman indeed to get through what she had. And yet more strength was needed now, it seemed. No matter what the fate of her only child was, she would worry terribly until it was known.
Billie hoped there would be an easy, cheerful resolution to the case. She knew only too well the agony of not knowing what had befallen the person closest to your heart.