Adelaide, South Australia
January 1950
Adelaide was smaller than Karl had imagined, more like a large country town than a city. He’d known all along that Australia was a hot, dry country. He had seen it for himself on the journey overland from Sydney and yet, as the train passed through the outskirts of the city, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed by the bleakness of the place. Small iron-roofed bungalows backed onto the tracks, tin sheds and chicken runs fighting for space in the dusty yards with parched vegetable gardens, washing lines, outhouses and voluminous steel rainwater tanks. Women carted watering cans to struggling plants; children ran barefoot in the streets. It was a far cry from the neat, happy families and white picket fences he’d seen in the posters on the Fairsea.
Hot, tired and grimy after two nights aboard the train, Karl and Luka made their way to the migrant hostel, their few belongings tucked under their arms. Situated near the bank of a river where people picnicked under shade trees and launched small rowboats onto the water, the building itself was stark and utilitarian, the room small, two hard iron beds with barely room to walk between them. The water flowing from the taps in the communal bathroom down the hall was brown and foul-smelling. After the crowded dormitory on the Fairsea, however, Karl welcomed the privacy of sharing with only one, and resolved not to let first impressions discourage him. Shoving his case under the bed, he heard the murmur of voices from the room next door, a low conversation between a man and a woman, and the higher, insistent voice of a child. English voices.
By mutual agreement, they lingered only long enough to wash the dirt of travel off their skin and then went out to acquaint themselves with the town. A short walk up the hill led them to the city centre where grey stone buildings, six or seven storeys high, housed banks and department stores, hotels and offices. The main thoroughfare was wide and generous, allowing for cars to park haphazardly in front of shops and restaurants without interfering with the slow-moving traffic on the road. Compared to the frenzied chaos of the cities in Europe, and the busy streets of Sydney, this seemed like a slower, quieter place indeed.
They peered into shop windows as they passed, taking note of a diner where the aromas drifting out smelled particularly alluring, a deli that sold Vienna sausages, a coffee house, a chocolatier. Several blocks down, Karl spotted a pawn shop on a side street advertising cash for goods and took the opportunity to go inside.
A variety of second-hand items filled the shelves to overflowing, from clay pots and iron fire grates to priceless vases, artwork and jewellery. Behind the counter sat an elderly man with a wispy ring of white hair around his bald pate, wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He stood as Karl approached, adjusting his suspenders with a snap.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said.
‘I have some items to sell,’ said Karl.
The man looked at Karl over his glasses. ‘Don’t you all. Well, let’s see what you’ve got.’
Karl drew out a string of pearls he’d selected prior to leaving the hostel. Although not a long string, each pearl was perfectly shaped and of uniform colour.
Luka gave a low whistle under his breath.
The man took them and examined them under the light on his desk, peering through his lenses intently.
‘I’ll give you three pounds.’
‘What?’ Luka gasped. ‘They are worth ten times that.’
The man’s gaze never wavered. ‘I’ve got lots of pearls,’ he said, gesturing to the jewellery case where several strings of pearls lay, all longer, but far inferior to the ones Karl had presented. ‘Luxury items aren’t in high demand at the moment. That’s all I can give you.’
When Karl hesitated he grew impatient. ‘You do understand English, don’t you? Three pounds, yes or no?’ He drew the last words out, long and slow.
‘I do understand English,’ said Karl, although to be honest, he struggled with the man’s accent. ‘Ten pounds. They’re worth far more.’
The man laughed. ‘Ten? You’ve got to be joking. Come back when you’ve got your head out of the clouds.’
The man had not attempted to return the pearls to Karl. ‘Eight, then,’ Karl said.
‘Four.’
‘Six.’
‘Four pounds ten.’
Karl shook his head. ‘Five pounds and no less.’
The man narrowed his eyes at Karl but nodded. ‘You drive a hard bargain, mate. Five pounds.’ He slipped the pearls into his cabinet and counted out five pounds in notes and coins into Karl’s hand.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Karl. ‘And good day to you.’
They exited the shop and Luka made a disparaging noise in his throat. ‘He’s a thief. You should have asked for more.’
‘He’s a businessman, and will get what he can,’ said Karl. ‘It’s enough.’
They passed the general post office, and Karl made a mental note to return with his letters for Grete. He’d been unable to send any since boarding the Fairsea and she would be waiting to hear that he’d arrived safely. As to what or how much to tell her about why he was here in Adelaide instead of Sydney, he was unsure. He didn’t want to frighten her, but he had to tell someone, and Grete was the one person he could trust. He must be careful though. If the Russians found out what he had in his possession, Grete could be in real danger.
The sun was high now and the temperature rising rapidly. After their meagre breakfast en route to Adelaide they were both feeling the need for sustenance and deviated down another side street in search of food. They bought pastries filled with savoury meat and vegetables from a marketplace where the hustle of business and myriad of nationalities gave Karl a pang of homesickness. Hearing the mix of languages, Italian, Greek, Polish, even German, he had to stop himself from searching the faces for his mother as he had for so long.
Exiting the market, Karl glanced up at the cloudless sky. ‘The heat is making me thirsty. Shall we go back to one of those hotels we passed?’
‘Now you’re talking,’ said Luka.
The hotel was beautifully cool inside, the dim lighting in stark contrast to the brilliant daylight outside. The bar was near empty, with only a few other patrons, a group of businessmen having an animated and rather noisy discussion at a table in the far corner and an elderly man in a shabby suit sitting up at the bar.
Karl and Luka ordered beer and took their glasses to a small table near the window looking out onto the street. Karl sipped appreciatively, observing the slow-moving traffic outside. A tram came, stopped a short distance from the hotel, and several people alighted, including a family, a mother with five children. Perhaps that would be Grete one day, taking their children on the tram into the city for a day of shopping or a trip to the museum.
Karl drained his glass and rose to order another. As he waited, he saw the elderly man at the bar watching him. The man slid across to a stool near Karl, his hand gripped tightly around his beer. His face was unshaven, his stubble only a shade darker than the snowy white hair on his head. He brought with him the rank odour of an unwashed body that sent Karl’s senses straight back to the POW camp and the years after the war when a bath was a rare luxury.
‘I fought in the war, you know,’ the man said.
Karl inclined his head politely. The fellow was clearly far too old to have fought in the war.
‘The Great War. The war to end all wars.’ He took a drink from his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘We fought them Huns, sent them scurrying back to their own country, showed them who’s boss. And look what happened.’ He slapped his hand on the bar and looked at Karl expectantly.
‘That damned fool Hitler stirs them all up again,’ he said when Karl remained silent. ‘Fills their heads with notions of power and glory. World domination, a master race. And those Krauts, they believed him.’ He shook his head, lips pursed. ‘Didn’t learn their lesson the first time around, oh no. Off they go hunting and killing again.’ He took another drink.
Karl peered into the seating area where the bartender was clearing the dirty glasses from the group’s table. Luka watched him anxiously as the man’s voice rose.
‘Well, they’re going to learn it this time,’ he said. ‘We won’t let them get away with killing all them Jews. Those Nazis, they’re going to trial. And they’re going to hang. Hung a bunch of them already, locked ’em up.’
The bartender returned, and Karl gratefully placed his order.
‘Harold here beat the Germans single-handedly at Dernancourt, if you believe him,’ the bartender said as he went to draw the beer. ‘Didn’t you, Harry?’
‘Damn right I did,’ Harold said. ‘And I’d do it again if I had to, kill ’em with my bare hands.’ He drained his glass and let his hand fall heavily to the counter before leaning towards Karl and staring at him blearily. ‘You’re not a Nazi, are you?’
Karl took a step back, but the man waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Of course you’re not a Nazi. They’re not letting any Nazis in. Not here in Australia.’
‘Another one, Harry?’ the bartender said, setting Karl’s beer on the bench. He took Karl’s money and gave him his change, leaning in conspiratorially. ‘He’s harmless. Lost his grandson in France and hasn’t been quite right since, but he’s a good bloke.’
‘I understand,’ said Karl. ‘I’m sorry for it.’
He re-joined Luka at the table by the window.
‘He’s just an old drunk,’ said Luka. ‘Pay him no mind.’
But Karl couldn’t get the man’s words out of his head. Even here, so far from Europe, people had paid dearly for the war. They had paid with their lives, and the lives of their sons and their grandsons. They had paid with their sanity. It raised questions in Karl’s mind. Questions that, until now, he had tried to suppress. People had disappeared. They’d been evicted from their homes, their businesses closed, ransacked, and no one had protested. Karl himself had had a cousin with a mental disability who had lived in an institution in Berlin. Just before Karl’s eighteenth birthday they heard he’d died of a mysterious illness. No one had questioned it.
‘Prost,’ said Luka, raising his glass.
Karl clinked glasses with him and took a long draught of the beer.
Even here in Australia he couldn’t escape the ravages of war. The mother on the tram with her children, where was her husband? Did he lie in an unmarked grave somewhere in Europe, along with thousands of others, including Harold’s grandson? Did she struggle to feed her children even now, with no husband to provide for them? Was she forced to work in a factory or a shop, take in sewing or clean the houses of the rich just to pay the rent?
Karl sipped his beer, staring out the window while Luka lit a cigarette, the ember glowing as he drew the smoke into his lungs.
He and Luka hadn’t spoken of their experiences during the war. Perhaps they were avoiding anything that might drive a wedge between the two of them, for they were a compatible pair and Karl had enjoyed travelling with Luka. He was an easy companion and the thought that he or his family may have suffered at the hands of the Nazis was unbearable.
‘This coal mine,’ Karl said. ‘Is it far from here?’
‘About half a day’s journey by bus, I believe.’
‘And do you think they have room for one more worker?’
Luka’s face broke into a smile. ‘I’m sure they do. It’s a mine. There’s always work in a mine.’
Karl nodded. ‘Then I have a mind to come with you. If that’s agreeable?’
‘I welcome it,’ said Luka. ‘It’ll be good to have a friendly face among the crowd.’
‘That’s settled then.’
They left the hotel and strolled back down King William Street towards the hostel.
‘We should stop in at the bus depot and see when the next bus leaves for Leigh Creek,’ said Luka. ‘I’m anxious to get there as soon as possible.’
‘As am I,’ said Karl. ‘I do have one other errand I must complete. It won’t take long.’
‘I shall find the bus depot then and meet you back at the hostel later.’
They parted company and Karl made his way back to the pawn shop they’d attended earlier. Tightening his grip on the satchel he pushed the heavy door open, hearing the bell ring above his head.
‘Come to buy back your pearls already?’ said the man behind the counter. ‘The price I gave you wasn’t a loan, you know. You’ll have to pay full price for them now.’
‘No, I don’t want the pearls,’ said Karl. ‘I believe you had several lock boxes for sale when I was here earlier?’
The man moved aside and Karl studied the three lockboxes on the shelf behind the counter, selected a strong-looking metal box with an intricate pattern etched on the lid.
‘You have the key?’
‘Of course.’
‘How much do you want for it?’ said Karl, turning the box to view it from all angles. Aside from a few scratches, it was in good condition, the lock strong and firm.
‘Five pounds,’ said the man shrewdly.
Karl stared at him with a flat gaze, put the box down and turned to go.
‘Wait,’ the man called. ‘All right. Two pounds.’
‘Ten shillings,’ said Karl, returning to the counter.
‘One pound ten.’
‘Fifteen.’
The man shook his head. ‘One pound five, and that’s my final offer.’
Karl studied the man. He’d been in the business a long time. He knew how to negotiate and when to stop. ‘One pound for the box, and a proposition,’ he said.
‘What kind of proposition?’
‘A profitable one.’
Karl slid his hand into his satchel and brought out a pair of pearl earrings, the matching set to the necklace he’d sold the man earlier.
‘I have some items that I wish to keep safe. They’re valuable to no one but myself, however I’m unable to take them where I’m going. My proposal is this: I give you these earrings in exchange for your storage of the lock box. For one year.’
‘Six months,’ said the man.
‘A year,’ said Karl. ‘At that time I will return. If I find the box and its contents safe, we’ll negotiate again.’ He smiled. ‘The pearls are only a small part of my fortune.’
The man studied him a moment longer. ‘Done,’ he said, and reached for the earrings.
Karl paid him the one pound and received a pawn ticket in exchange. He turned the key in the box and lifted the lid, finding its weight comfortingly solid. ‘If I may have some privacy . . .’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll be in the back.’
The man went through a doorway into the back room and Karl was left alone. Checking to see that no one was about to enter the shop, he slid the papers out of the satchel and quickly transferred them to the box, locking it securely and sliding the key into his pocket.
‘Sir?’ he called.
The man came out immediately, as if he’d been hovering at the door.
‘Keep it safe,’ said Karl. ‘I will return, one year from today.’
‘Yes, I know, one year. It’ll be here.’
Karl nodded, turned and left the shop.
~
Karl and Luka spent an enjoyable evening at the beach with the English family from the room next door and a young couple from Glasgow whose strong Scottish accents were almost unintelligible to both Karl and Luka, and cause for much hilarity as they struggled to communicate.
Boarding a tram, they arrived at the beachside suburb of Glenelg where the long sandy beaches and neat cottages held promise of the good life Karl had been searching for, with a burgeoning population of young families, both Australian and migrant. They bought piping hot fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and sat on the beach, watching the sun setting over the ocean. Grete would have fallen in love with the place and Karl described it in great detail in a letter to her when he got back to the hostel.
More difficult was deciding what to tell her of his experiences in Sydney and what he’d found in the satchel. He was desperate to tell someone, to share the burden of his knowledge. But, pen poised over the paper, he realised he couldn’t put any of it in a letter which would likely be intercepted by the new government of the GDR. And Grete . . . As much as he loved her, he wasn’t sure she would understand. The injustice of the art thefts would not sit well with her. It didn’t sit well with him. But what if she wanted to turn the documents in? That was something he wasn’t prepared to do. At least not yet. He hated to lie to her. It went against all his principles, but he had no choice.
Perhaps, once they were reunited, when he knew they would be together again, he would tell her. But for now, he must keep it to himself.
~
After only one night, Karl found himself packing his belongings once more. His arrival in Australia hadn’t been as he’d envisioned and he was sorry to be leaving the city so soon. Taking the small bundle of letters with him, he walked the short distance to the post office, finding, even at this early hour, perspiration forming on his brow. The postmaster greeted him with a smile.
‘Another warm one today.’
‘Yes,’ said Karl. ‘Is it always this hot?’
The man chuckled. ‘In January it is. It’s summer, mate.’ He squinted at Karl. ‘Been here long?’
‘No,’ said Karl. ‘Only a few days.’
The man nodded sagely. ‘Well, you’ll get used to it quick enough.’
Karl paid the man for the stamps and deposited the letters in the mail box outside. With an hour to spare before meeting Luka at the bus depot, he returned to the hostel and found a spot in the shade by the river to sit. From his satchel he took a pen and a fresh sheet of writing paper he’d bought at the post office.
Liebste Grete, he wrote.
He paused, staring at the slow-moving water before him, gently lapping at the grassy bank. A pair of black swans swam leisurely a few metres from shore, necks arched, imperious black eyes daring any to approach. On the far bank, children played near the water’s edge, a game of chase and tag that took them dangerously close to the slippery edge. Karl wanted to call out to them, to warn them back.
I sit on the banks of the River Torrens and am reminded of the day we shared on the River Saale before I left for military training. We were so innocent then, despite the war. I still believed we had a chance of winning, that perhaps my contribution to the fight would make a difference. You were afraid I would try to be a hero. We had no idea then of what was to come. If we had known, if we could have looked into the future, we would have cried out in terror. Could we have changed it? Most certainly not. Sitting here now, though, I don’t regret the past, for it has brought me to this country, and while it is harsh and unforgiving, it seems a good thing, a good place. There are rivers, and beaches and plenty of land, and I think of you, Grete. One day I will die here, and my body will be buried in Australian soil not German soil, and then I will truly be Australian.
As would she, but he couldn’t say that. He folded the letter carefully and returned it to the satchel along with the pen. Spotting Luka exiting the hostel he rose, and raised a hand in greeting.
‘The word is that ETSA requires fifty extra men to work the mine. You will not want for work,’ Luka said.
‘I’m eager to start.’ Slinging the satchel over his shoulder, Karl picked up his case and followed Luka up the hill towards the bus depot.