Chapter 10

Early February – early April 1965

The rhythms of school percolated into the rest of my life. Running and swimming were the fundamental beat in my continual search for a calm centre. However, the deceit in my life produced jarring cross-rhythms ... and the aching holes left by Willi and Lili remained. As much as I could, I poured out my heart in my letters to Willi, but the circumlocutions and words unsaid gnawed at the fraying edges of my mind. I talked with Mutti, but it was not the same. I longed to talk freely once again with Willi, but I dared not do so with Lizzie.

Despite being the youngest member of the German Book Club, I felt accepted – or my continued presence no longer raised eyebrows. But I’d gleaned nothing of interest for Mr Franks. I hoped being in the German book club was enough to satisfy him. I was searching, without success, for ways to move more fully amongst the wider club membership. At the Polish club, I always arrived early for class. Mrs Jaworski took advantage of this by asking me to assist her in the kitchen and sometimes in the office. It was there that I found an old membership list discarded in the wastepaper basket when she sent me to empty it into the rubbish bins. I folded it and slipped it into the waistband of my skirt until I could hide it in my bag. It was a small thing, but it made me feel like an actual spy. This delighted Mutti and we created cards for each member – or added their membership details to existing cards. She could now supply to Mr Franks a full name and address for Jan Drozd, the communist sympathiser – along with the membership list.

I enjoyed my hours with Aunt Anastasia. She was such an interesting person, full of stories from her well-travelled life. Every Saturday, I went there straight from swimming and stayed until it was time to head to the German Club. Learning Russian at a reasonable speed would be difficult, but I had seen Willi ‘learning’ German with me when he already knew it. I wanted to tell Willi about this in my current letter. I ended up writing, “I’m having the same problem learning Russian as you had learning German.”

At Aunt Anastasia’s flat, I learned how to make tea the Russian way – in a samovar – and serve it in crystal tea glasses held in podstakannik, metal tea glass holders. Aunt Anastasia’s samovar and matching podstakanniki were of gilded bronze, decorated with a relief of St George killing the dragon. It had been a wedding gift to her great-grandmother and was, I guessed, as valuable as it was beautiful. I learned that the tea set we had used the first day and the ‘every day’ dinner service were Meissen China, from Dresden. Mutti explained that the bombing of Dresden in February1945 had destroyed most of the moulds for Meissen ceramics. Aunt Anastasia’s tea set and dinner service were probably irreplaceable. I tried not to be nervous, handling such precious items, but there was always a slight tremor of trepidation.

At school, I was now a fixture in Lizzie’s group, but she still chided me for the way I remained quiet, listening, but speaking rarely. I was joining in more, but always had a book in one of my languages if the conversation drifted off somewhere I found uninteresting. I suppose my close relationship with Lili and our shared secrets had kept us apart from others at school in England. As a Stasi child in East Germany, I couldn’t make friends. But in spite of my hidden world and strange background, I was finding things in common with the other girls; we were all teenagers enjoying the increasing freedom the ‘swinging 60s’ brought us. We enjoyed music and all loved the Beatles. Two of the girls in Lizzie’s group had acquired tickets to see them live in Brisbane the previous year, which still caused some envy within the group. The study habits I had gained with Willi and Lili meant I kept pace with my schoolwork, including Maths. I had been hiding behind Willi in this, but was now finding my way, although not at his level. This meant I could sometimes help members of the group, who were slowly becoming my friends. They gave me help now and then, particularly with the baffling Australian slang that peppered their speech outside of school. Why does ‘crook’ mean sick here in Australia?

At the swimming club, I still had not made the team, but I was improving. Coach was pushing me into the 800 m and 1500 m practice events at the club, although under sixteens didn’t compete at these distances. I found the 1500 m a real stretch and came in a long way last the first time I tried it at the club. The 800 m surprised me – I beat an under-eighteen girl, but she’d probably not been pushing herself. I’d been to two competitions as a 400 m reserve and helper and had watched Lizzie collect a second and a third in the 50 m race she delighted in. With the club pushing me to the longer distances, I increased the length of my morning runs. Frequently, I saw Euan standing watching me as I clocked up the circuits, but he was gone before I finished.

Did talking with me stir terrible memories for him?

Each Thursday I brought home the Polish newspaper, which we searched through, gradually expanding our index cards. Despite the information we were amassing, we had turned up nothing of interest beyond Jan Drozd. On Saturdays I brought home the newspaper from the German Club which we subjected to the same treatment. At the end of February, we were sitting on the veranda late one Saturday afternoon, the heat and humidity building towards storms in a day or two. Mutti was idling through the latest German newspaper before we started pulling information from it when she jolted upright.

“What is it, Mutti?” I cradled Imbi as I stood and peered down at the paper open before her. On the page was a photo of a group of middle-aged men standing on a jetty, admiring a large fish.

Mutti’s eyes reluctantly moved from the newspaper to my face.

“Get the German index cards, please, Liebling,” she said, a tremor in her voice.

Had she recognised someone?

I carefully deposited Imbi on a chair and retrieved the box of German index cards from the bottom of the cupboard in the study. Mutti was sitting at the kitchen table when I returned, the newspaper folded with the photo and its caption displayed.

“Do we have a card for...” Mutti looked down at the picture. “I think it’s Hans Gruber.” She reread the caption. “Yes, Hans Gruber.”

I opened the box and looked through. “We don’t have any Grubers, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm ... this man,” she tapped the individual in the photo, “is SS Haupt Sturmführer Vogel.” Her voice was ice cold as she lifted her eyes to stare across the garden towards the playing fields and the stands of eucalypts surrounding them. Her lips pursed and eyes narrowed. “Vogel was at Ravensbrück for months in late 1944 and part of his duties was...” She glanced at me and assessed what she was about to say. “ ... overseeing the special prisoners – which included the English girls sent to Europe as spies.”

There was another long pause as Mutti revisited these hard memories.

“I went into the block one day, as usual, to empty the slop buckets, with an SS guard to open each cell for me. As I worked my way down the cell block corridor, I could see a cell door was standing open with no guard and my stomach clenched: they had executed someone. As we moved closer, I could see it was...” her voice caught for a moment. “It was one of the English girls. As I arrived at the cell, the door at the far end of the block opened, the one that led to the yard they used for executions. Vogel strutted in, replacing his pistol in its holster.”

Mutti picked up my hand, her eyes avoiding mine. “I don’t think I should tell you any more...”

I gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze ... and I guessed why this death was special, amongst the countless number she had witnessed at Ravensbrück. “He had executed Colette, hadn’t he? The girl I’m named for.”

Mutti’s eyes rose to mine, glittering with unshed tears. She took several uncertain breaths before continuing. “I didn’t move away fast enough. Vogel saw my face and grabbed my throat, pushing me up against the wall. I reached for the floor with my toes.” Her nose wrinkled. “I could smell the acrid explosives on his hand from firing the pistol. His eyes bored into mine, revelling in my sorrow. I’ll not forget his words or his icy, arrogant visage.” Mutti swallowed, fingers fidgeting at her throat. “He mocked me for mourning a spy ... and told me he looked forward to scouring the Reich free of communist ... rubbish ... like me.” Mutti’s eyes stared into the distant past. “When he dropped me, I staggered and fell beside the stinking slop bucket. He strode away, boot-heels smacking his arrogance into the concrete floor.”

We sat in silence for minutes, Mutti lost in her memories. I stayed silent beside her, concerned at the impact of this photo.

Mutti roused herself and reached for a blank index card to fill out. “Get the scissors, Liebling, and cut out that picture – but make sure there’s nothing important on the other side.”

I checked the reverse of the page: it was an advertisement. I carefully cut out the photo and brief article. “Are you sure it’s him?” I asked, staring at the picture. He seemed ... ordinary.

“Yes, it’s him.” Mutti’s flat voice showed no uncertainty as she glanced across at the photo in my hand. “Twenty years has done nothing to dim those memories.” There was a dark, merciless tinge to her voice.

I looked across at Mutti, startled by her vehemence. “You ... you hate him, don’t you?”

Mutti took a deep breath. “Yes.” She shook her head. “I thought I was past the hate, but seeing him enjoying a pleasant life here ... rekindled the hatred.” Her face was grim. “And I lectured Willi about not hating his father...”

“What do we do now?” Mutti’s conquest over the hatred of her Nazi persecutors was part of what defined her. We were in uncertain territory.

Mutti sat silent for a few seconds before turning to look at me, her eyes echoing her internal conflict. “I’m sorry, Liebling. I truly thought I was past this, but I can again feel hate’s slow and dangerous burn inside me.” Her eyes narrowed. “That man does not deserve a happy life – or any life.”

She let out a controlled breath and I saw her contain but not extinguish the sharp emotions.

“What we do now is try to find out more about this Hans Gruber in Sydney and those men with him.” Her face saddened. “And I must – fully, this time – find my way through this ... this miasma of hate – and root it out completely.”

I gave her hand a supportive squeeze.

You’ll find a way, Mutti ... won’t you?

As I ran the following morning, Mutti’s struggle with her hatred of Vogel kept pushing into my thoughts. Euan and Dodger appeared as I slowed, cooling down round the last part of my final circuit. This time he waited, and I walked up to him, regaining breath.

“Ye run ‘n breathe well, lassie. ‘Tis a pleasure t’ watch.” Euan’s broad Scottish accent was becoming more transparent to me, but I still had to listen with care.

“I’ve had to increase the length of my runs. The club wants me to swim 800-metre and 1500-metre races.”

Euan frowned. “They’s a fearful ways t’ swim.” He looked me up and down. “Reckon ye need to bulk up, lassie. There’s no’ much meat on ye.”

I laughed, self-conscious of my lack of breasts. “Most of my friends are worried about putting on weight.”

Euan frowned, shaking his head. “If’n ye goin’ t’ swim they fearsome distances, ye need resairves.” He emphasised the last word, richly rolling the ‘r’s. “‘Tis like runnin’ a marathon.” The rolled ‘r’s stressed those words too. “Ye can be a wee bit wiry, lass, but no’ skinny.”

I could hear his vehemence. This was something to think about, along with everything else. I was about to turn away when I blurted out, “Did you hate the soldiers you fought against?”

Euan’s head came up and he gave me a questioning look. “Now, why would ye be askin’ that?”

I looked down at my shoes, embarrassed, scuffing them in the loose grass. After a few seconds of silence, I looked up.

Euan had a gentle smile on his lips. “Is ye havin’ trouble on account o’ being Gairman, eh?” He eyed me thoughtfully for a moment. “No, not hate, lassie.” He shook his head. “They was jus’ poor buggers like us. We didna’ hate each other – least ways not truly hate.” He gazed into the past for a second or two. “T’were more like ... respect.” He muttered to himself for a moment. “There was terrible stories told about ‘em, but they was rubbish.” He chuckled. “‘Spect they was told how wicked we was.” But his voice became more serious as his eyes returned to mine. “Some of your lot did terrible things in the last set to, but most of ‘em was rounded up and dealt with, I reckon.”

Dodger snuffled against his leg and Euan reached down to caress an ear. Dodger raised his head at the touch and I could see the deep affection between them.

“What if one wasn’t?” The question slipped out before I could grab it.

Euan looked at me sideways. He was bent over his dog, eyes holding mine, weighing my worth. “Then, lassie, I reckon ye need to think on’t afore ye speak.” His gaze pinned me. “There was wicked things done, I ken that, but ... rippin’ off t’ scabs now, after twenty yairs ... there’ll be much pain.” He looked away for a moment, before his eyes returned to mine, bright and strong beneath the frosty hedges of his eyebrows. “Aye, much pain an’ precious little good to come fra’ it.”

We gazed at one another for a few seconds before Euan unbent himself and turned away. “You think well on’t, lassie.” His voice came to me over his shoulder as Dodger waddled to catch up to his sudden departure.

I did not know what to say and stood there watching him for several heartbeats before I set off for home at a gentle trot.

Mutti and I must talk about Vogel.

When I finished showering and put on a sarong, I found Mutti in the kitchen sipping coffee. She was cutting slices of Schwarzbrot while the radio played music. I pulled out the cheese and spreads we liked and poured myself a cold milk.

“How was your run?”

“Good thanks. I met Euan again.”

Mutti gave me a querying look.

“The Scottish man who was a runner before the first war.”

“Ah, yes. Do you see him often?”

“Once or twice a week and we’ve talked a few times. Today I think he wanted to talk to me as he waited for me to finish my circuits.”

“What did he want?” Mutti’s voice was wary.

“He’s worried I’m too thin – particularly now I’m swimming longer distances.”

Mutti gave me a sideways glance. “Have the swimming coaches said anything?”

“No ... but I should ask them.” I stopped, unsure of how much to say. “Euan said it’s okay to be wiry but not skinny.” I rushed on. “Do you think I’m skinny?” I looked down at my chest where my breasts had, it seemed, stopped developing.

Mutti smiled. “You look fine to me, but I wouldn’t know about swimming. Ask the coaches. They’re supposed to be the experts.”

“Good idea.” I munched on a slice of bread, spread with the lime marmalade Willi had introduced us to in England.

“What are you going to do about Vogel?” My mouth seemed to have a mind of its own this morning.

Mutti carefully placed her coffee cup on the saucer. Faint lines appeared around her eyes and mouth.

I blundered on. “Euan said we should think hard before we do anything.”

“What?” Mutti was aghast. “What are you doing, sharing our secrets with a stranger?”

I could hear the anger rising in her voice. But as I explained the conversation, I saw Mutti’s hackles settle.

“So, what was your friend’s advice again?”

“He suggested I think long and hard before speaking to anyone about ... such a person.”

Mutti’s face was stony.

“He said that there would be much pain and little good come of it.”

Mutti reached for her coffee cup, looking over the rim at me as she sipped. “Liebling, you must be more careful.” Her coffee cup chittered nervously as she placed it on the saucer. “Once again, you’ve said something that might make people ... wonder about us. We cannot afford to be discovered – again.”

My eyes dropped in contrition. “I’m sorry. But I’m worried about you ... after yesterday.”

Mutti sighed, her face softening.

“Umm ... Have you decided what to do about Vogel?”

Mutti’s face hardened again, her eyes dropping to her hands. She shook her head. “No, I haven’t.” She looked across at me, uncertainty and frustration in her eyes. “I could speak about this with Mr Franks, but I do not know what he’d do with the information.” Mutti stopped and her gaze shifted uneasily around the room. “That means telling him could have unpredicable consequences for us.” She raised her eyebrows, grimacing. “It requires careful thought.”

I reached a hand out to hold hers.

Her face crumpled. “But if I do nothing about Vogel, that calls into question everything I’ve tried to do about your father.”

I heard the anguish in Mutti’s voice and scurried round the table. I hugged her as silent tears ran down her face. After some minutes, Mutti stirred and I reached a box of tissues off the worktop. Mutti pulled out a couple, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

“I’m sorry, Liebling ... I’ve made such a mess of things – wrecked your life...”

I squeezed Mutti’s hand fiercely. “No, Mutti. No. We’ve talked about this and that’s not true.”

Mutti dabbed at her eyes. “But...”

“No, Mutti.” I gave her a fierce look to reinforce my words. “My life now is much richer than it was or could ever be in east Germany. You haven’t wrecked my life, you’ve enriched it.”

“By dragging you half-way round the world, away from your friends?”

I shrugged. “Not all the enrichment has been happy ... but ... what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger?” My voice carried uncertainty about that aphorism.

Mutti laughed. “When did you read Nietzsche?”

“I haven’t – but that quote came up in discussion at the Book Club a week ago and I remembered it.” I smiled, grimly. “It seems to fit my life.”

I pulled my chair over beside her and sat down. “You know, there’s someone else you can speak to about Vogel.”

Mutti’s eyebrows moved into a confused frown.

I leant across and took her hand. “There’s always me, Mutti.”

“I suppose...” I could feel her reluctance to burden me further with this.

We sat in silence for a while.

“Everyone thinks love and hate are opposites. But I’m not sure that’s right.”

Mutti gave me a disbelieving look.

I stopped, struggling to grasp this indistinct idea. “Both love and hate are such powerful emotions – their opposite should be no emotion. Umm ... indifference?” I looked at Mutti to see if she understood what I was trying to say, but she remained silent. “I don’t hate my father ... I feel nothing for him.”

Mutti raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Nothing.” Frustration blossomed at her lack of understanding. I tried again. “I fear what he might do to us if he found us, but I’m indifferent to what happens to him.”

Mutti sat in silent thought before responding. “You mean I should try to be indifferent about Vogel?”

“Yes, but indifference doesn’t mean doing nothing. MI6 has your evidence, so we have taken action regarding my father, but those actions are not driven by hate.”

Mutti drew in a deep breath. “Hmmm – I need to ponder this.” She gave me a brief smile.

We passed the rest of the day quietly, in part filling in index cards from the German newspaper. I wrote some more to Willi, played with Imbi and read some more Grass.

Over the next few weeks, I worried about Mutti. She did not raise the Vogel issue, but frequently I found her, lost deep in introspection. I slipped away to give her space to think, but I could see she was struggling.

February gave way to March: the nights cooled and the humidity relaxed its sweaty grip. School, swimming club and my activities for Mr Franks continued without problem. March wandered quietly along on until everything that had happened a year ago at the end of the month crashed into me.

Easter was later this year – not until mid-April. Willi’s leaving for east Germany was associated in my mind with the Tuesday after Easter, which is why I confused the date. Our English teacher wrote the date on the board.

31^st March.

It stunned me.

Willi had left for east Germany a year ago today, triggering the terrible events that followed.

“Karlota?”

I blinked my way into the present, emotion churning through me. “Umm – yes Miss?”

Mrs Somerfield’s eyes were hard but softened into concern. “Are you all right, Karlota?”

Had she noticed the incipient tears in my eyes?

From the corner of my eye, I saw Lizzie’s worried face. I pulled in a steadying breath. “Yes, Miss.”

Mrs Somerfield’s gaze lingered on me before she spoke again. “Karlota, please pay better attention. Get out your grammar homework.”

“Yes, Miss.” I opened my workbook, giving Lizzie a sideways smile of reassurance.

When class finished, Lizzie waited for me. “What was that about, Kal? Mrs Somerfield called your name three times.”

“It’s all right, Lizzie. I was ... lost in thought...”

Lizzie gave me a quizzical look. “It must have been a serious thought to drown three calls from the teacher.”

I stayed silent as we walked to our next class. There was much I couldn’t talk about.

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Robert Hart

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