After Sister Kathleen had gone I slept fitfully, reminded about Bertha’s funeral that was to take place the day after the first inquest. By the time Sister Kathleen visited a few days later, I had relived the funeral night after night and felt distressed thinking or telling Sister Kathleen about it. But as usual she had her way of prising from me the stories that had remained locked away for years.
She was cheery and calm and, as always, this soothed my mind. Then she presented me with a small gift. ‘Look what I’ve brought you, Mary. I thought you might like this bottle of scent.’
‘Sister, you shouldn’t have. It’s rather wasted on me for I’ll never finish it you know.’
‘Now, Mary, I don’t want to hear that. You’re getting better every day. You tell me these family stories and take my mind away from the home – and frighten me half to death. So it’s the least I can do.’ And we both laughed, but uncomfortably so.
When we made ourselves comfortable in the enclosed verandah she reminded me that we had planned to talk about Bertha’s funeral. She blushed as she said this, suddenly realising that this was an indelicate thing to have said with my own death not far off. She also sensed I was overly tired.
‘So how have you been?’ she asked, keen to distract me from talk of funerals.
‘Not so good, I’m afraid. I am so exhausted. The last time you left I thought about Bertha’s funeral and it stayed with me for days, disrupting my sleep. I wish I could forget it but I can’t. So I’d better tell you about it, so it will leave my mind. But I do find it distressing talking about undertakers and funerals.’
‘You really don’t have to go through this, Mary.’
I’ve been reliving this for days, so I may as well tell you about it. I told you about the first inquest. The undertaker came the next morning as the funeral was in the Sedan cemetery in the afternoon. Mother was given permission to prepare Bertha’s body which had been laid out on her bed by Mrs Lambert. I was too nervy to help her and she never pressed me to do so. Bertha was dressed in her Sunday frock with one of Mother’s old lace collars wrapped around her neck to cover the gaping wounds. When the undertaker arrived in the morning he placed Bertha in a simple black painted coffin.
We all dressed up in our Sunday clothes for Bertha’s funeral. Father wanted Bertha in the coffin to be on display in the yard before we travelled to Sedan so everyone in the family and nearby neighbours could see her, if they wished. This was a Wendish tradition and was very important to Father and Mother and all our relatives. So after much discussion with Detective Priest Father had his way, despite the dreadful furnace-like conditions and the way in which Bertha had been brutally murdered by a stranger. I had not seen Bertha since her death and had no wish to look at her now she was placed on view. I found it too morbid. I think when Mother said that Bertha’s face was as pale as a ghost, it really upset me.
Being a Wendish coffin, the sides were folded down to show off the body but there was no sign to suggest how she had died. The troopers helped to keep the affair private. They fenced off a small area near one of the barns with posts and ropes so that it was difficult for anyone casually passing by the farm to see Bertha’s coffin from the roadway.
Our aunties and uncles arrived throughout the morning and joined us for an early lunch. Despite the intense summer heat, they had journeyed from Mount Pleasant, Eden Valley, Springton and Angaston to give us support for the funeral. Even my oldest brother Frederick had come back under the protection of one of the uncles from Eden Valley. Father and he had not spoken since the day he had left home, and despite the tragic circumstances Father refused to speak to him still. Frederick told me he was not in the least upset by this.
The coffin was transported in the undertaker’s carriage while Mother and Father followed. Frederick, Willy, August and I sat in the Matschoss’s cart; they were our neighbours. We always called Mrs Matschoss Aunt Martha because she was Mother’s closest friend. Several other families followed behind as we wended our way over the dusty roads in the face of a stinging gritty wind to the cemetery at Sedan. I could hear Mother sobbing and when I looked round I saw my aunties were weeping too, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs. Willy and August, who hardly spoke, had blank expressions on their faces like funeral mutes. They showed no distress whatsoever.
When we arrived at the windswept graveyard, enclosed by a low concrete wall and topped with barbed wire, a crowd of men trickled out of the nearby public house to look at the passing cortege. They removed their hats out of respect. No one needed to move closer for a look as the ceremony could be clearly seen from the pub’s shady verandah.
The ceremony at the graveside was painful. The service conducted by Pastor Schaerer was only minutes long for it was still over a hundred degrees in the shade. He was assisted by Pastor Heidenreich of Bethany. Father supported Mother, but I just clutched my only white lace hankie and dabbed my dry eyes. It was difficult for me to believe what was happening. I did not feel part of the funeral; it seemed to be taking place while I watched, distant and disconnected. The wind was so strong that the pastors’ voices were sometimes blown away.
When Bertha’s coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with the sandy dirt, the publican, Mr Meyer, his wife and other helpers brought trays of cold water and cordial for us to drink. Mother was at breaking point and beyond noticing what was happening around her, but Father seemed deeply touched by this kindly gesture, especially as he had a healthy dislike of public houses. Mrs Meyer gave Mother a comforting embrace and said, ‘We are all so sorry for you, Mrs Schippan.’
At these few simple words, Mother collapsed in tears and had to be lifted back onto the wagon. The rest of us followed and returned to Towitta at a brisk trot, despite the intense heat. No one spoke. Every now and again when there was a lull in the wind, Mother’s pitiful sobbing reached us. I clenched my jaw, looked straight ahead and thought of happier times spent in Adelaide and with Gustave.
Back at Towitta, Mother and I made tea, producing sliced cake for those few relatives who returned home with us. There was little talk. No one knew what to say without someone breaking down in tears. An auntie spoke to reassure me, ‘Now look here, Mary, the murderer will soon be caught and you’ll have nothing more to fear.’ There was much concern that I was in shock, terrified of the intruder turning up again. I said nothing.
Having told Sister Kathleen about Bertha’s funeral, it seemed there was nothing more to be said. I felt exhausted.
‘Let me help you, Mary,’ and Sister Kathleen led me inside and put me to bed.