Chapter 9

Late January – early February 1965

Imbi complained when my alarm roused us at half-past five: no run this morning though as I was off to the swimming club. I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt but, along with my swimming things, I packed a skirt and top in my duffel bag; I needed something conservative for the book club – at least that’s what my anxious brain told me.

Mutti was up and making coffee as I finished a quick breakfast of Wheaties. “Enjoy yourself, Liebling.” She hugged me and I grabbed my sandwiches from the fridge, along with a pair of bananas from the fruit bowl.

At the pool, Lizzie bounced up to me, excitement flinging her blond plaits loose from the hairpins. “The competition schedule is out. There’s a competition here in two weeks.” She pulled me over to where she had left her towel.

I dropped my towel on the chair next to Lizzie’s. “Well, I don’t expect I’ll be swimming in a competition yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Lizzie quipped.

I smiled and helped her re-pin her hair.

A coach blew his whistle and the ever-enthusiastic Lizzie led me to where the junior team coach was organising today’s training. We started off with more Dolphin kick practice – I was getting the hang of this – and more drills: tumble turns, breathing rhythms, starts and such. I watched Lizzie fly through a 50m and a 100m swim: she was fast, beating some older girls. I was sure she’d be in the team.

They called the distance swimmers for a 400m race. As we assembled, I could see the other girls were all older than me. Lizzie must have seen my anxious face as she sidled up to me as we moved to our lanes.

“Don’t worry about it, Kal. Concentrate on what we practiced.”

I gave her a nervous smile and mounted my block at the end of lane of eight. After about half a length, all I could see of the girl next to me was the splash of her feet as she pulled away from me. I settled into the swim, pacing myself. I lost sight of the girl in the lane next to me until we crossed. Coming into the last turn, I felt good and pushed hard down the final length. Looking round after finishing, I thought I had come last, but as I pulled myself out, Lizzie ran up.

“Awesome, Kal. You beat a junior.”

“Oh, I thought I’d come last.” I looked across at the girl in the lane next to me who was still in the water, listening to a coach leaning over her. “Who’s that?” I asked.

“That’s Jacinta.” I heard the respect in Lizzie’s voice. “She’s our best distance swimmer – I think she’ll make the state team this year. She missed out last year because she was sick.”

“Oh, right. I don’t feel bad that she blitzed me in a single length, then.”

I was unsurprised I didn’t make the team for the upcoming competition, something that left me conflicted; I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I was enjoying the competitive swims at the club.

Lizzie and I walked out and she sensed my darkening mood. “Never mind, Kal. I know you’ll improve with training. You already are.”

“I suppose.” I sounded unconvincing to myself.

Lizzie rounded on me. “Don’t do that, Kal.”

I stopped, lowering my eyes. “Do what?”

“Put yourself down.” She grabbed my shoulder, pulling me to a stop. Her gentle shake turned me towards her. “You’re new at competitive swimming and you’re already good. Not making the team doesn’t mean you’re useless.” Fierce conviction blazed in her voice.

Our eyes locked and I could see a slight flush on Lizzie’s cheeks and then her voice softened.

“I’ve watched you at school. You stay in the background and you shouldn’t. You are the most interesting of my friends, curious about everything...” she stopped, searching for the right words. “Be yourself, not a ... a shadow person.”

We stood, looking at each other and Lizzie’s eyes dropped with embarrassment at her impassioned outburst.

I reached across and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “My experience of being noticed has not been good. I told you about the bullying at school in England.” Lurking behind that was my isolation in east Germany.

“Oh, Kal.” She took a deep breath and I saw determination fill her eyes. “But I won’t let that happen to you. I won’t.”

Her tram rolled up the street.

“Gotta go. See you at school.” She dashed across the road and we waved as she boarded her tram.

I watched her leave and wandered into the city. Several hours stretched ahead before the book club. I spent some time looking through shop windows at the fashions on display and found a bookshop to browse in. It had a small foreign language section – more French than any other language. No Polish books and I found nothing of interest in the scant German section.

As I glanced sour faced at the sparse shelf, a supercilious voice came from behind me.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

I turned, startled, to find a tall, spare, redheaded woman peering down at me through glasses with heavy black frames.

“Umm ... well, I’m looking for Die Blechtrommel ... umm... The Tin Drum by Günter Grass.”

“We have it in English, but not in German.” She peered at me over the rim of her glasses. “That’s a ... difficult book in English. Are you sure you can handle it ... in German?” Her voice suggested its unsuitability for a young girl.

I was trying not to shrivel under her gaze. “I expect so.”

She sniffed her disapproval and her eyes narrowed, trying to intimidate this girl in front of her who wanted to read a book beyond her years. I flushed under her frowning gaze but returned the stare, unwilling to submit, thinking about what Lizzie had said.

After some seconds, she sniffed again. “Well, you might find it at the foreign language bookshop, near the corner of Elizabeth and George Street.”

“Thank you.” I moved to walk past her.

“We have a children’s section. You might find something more ... suitable ... there.”

I walked past her. Lizzie would have been proud of me – I think.

I looked around at Brisbane’s unfamiliar cityscape as I walked. I still half-expected to see an older cityscape scarred by war. That had been true of Leipzig and Canterbury and to a lesser extent of Lancaster. Here in Brisbane, almost everything was less than a century old and most buildings much younger. Many of the buildings pretended to be older through their architectural style. It felt strange – almost hypocritical – as the buildings reached for more ancient roots to cloak themselves in the respectability of age. And they were unscarred, with no wounds familiar from the catastrophe that had engulfed Europe. The people in the streets differed from England, let alone east Germany; They exuded a more relaxed, more casual attitude in their movements and dress, the young people in particular.

After walking through this disconcerting environment for twenty minutes, I arrived on the corner of Elizabeth and George streets and spotted the bookshop’s narrow frontage.

Entering was like being loosed in Aladdin’s Cave; the shop was stacked with new and second-hand books in ramparts of bookshelves separated by narrow valleys full of shadow. A musty, delicious, bookish smell pervaded the air. After searching past several languages, including what I took to be Chinese, I found the German shelves. These held several books, new and second-hand, by Grass, including Die Blechtrommel. I pulled a battered second-hand copy of that off the shelves, hoping it would be cheap. As I wandered to the front of the shop, I noted the Polish shelves; I’d have to ask Mrs Kowalczyk for recommendations. The large Russian section stopped me.

Were there a lot of Russians in Brisbane?

I smiled at two books side by side – Война и мир and Анна Каренина – Tolstoy’s classic novels War and Peace and Anna Karenina. Mutti had often mentioned these. I reached up and started pulling Anna Karenina from the shelf.

A voice arrived beside me. “You speak Russian?”

Lost in myself, I jerked in surprise, losing hold of the book. We juggled it between us on the way to the floor before the white-haired owner of the voice dropped it. We both ended up kneeling, eyeing each other, the book lying between us.

The man rescued the Tolstoy novel, brushing its cover with a gentleness speaking of love and respect. “I’m sorry, young lady. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you all right?”

I gathered up my Grass and gave the old man an embarrassed smile. “I think so.” A knee had hit the floor rather hard and I stood up, rubbing it. “I’m sorry – I shouldn’t have jumped like that.”

“Please come and sit down and I’ll get you something to drink.” He glanced at my knee with concern.

I followed him through the shop to a chair beside the counter, limping a little.

Handing me the Tolstoy, his eyes again flicked to my knee. “I think we could both use a cup of tea.” Before I could reply, he pulled aside a curtain and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

I checked my knee. I could see bruising, but no other visible damage. Sitting waiting, I opened Die Blechtrommel: I should have some idea of the book before I walked into the book club. I heard a kettle whistle and soon after, the man appeared with a tray carrying a beautiful teapot, with matching cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug.

“Here we go.” He put the tray on the counter. “Shall I be mother?”

“Thank you.”

“Milk – or would you prefer it black?”

I noticed slices of lemon on a saucer and remembered the tea that Willi’s mother had served us. “Is it black Chinese tea?”

“Why, yes. You’ve had it before?”

“Mmm...”

“Black with a slice of lemon, then?”

“Yes, please.”

He poured two cups, adding a slice of lemon to each, and passed one to me. “How is your knee?”

I looked down and gave it a rub. “Sore – I think it’s bruised.”

“Ah, I have something that may help.” He disappeared through the door behind the counter to reappear after a minute with a small bottle, which he passed to me.

“Put a few drops on your knee and rub it into the bruise.”

I looked at the bottle with suspicion. “What is it?”

“It’s witch hazel, good for bruises.”

I opened the bottle and dripped a little onto my knee. As it hit the warmth of my skin, a faint, earthy smell drifted up. I rubbed the drops into my knee. “Thank you.” I handed him the bottle.

“Young lady, we should introduce ourselves.” He smiled genially. “I am Lukas Caune, the owner of this little shop.” He spread his arms wide as if to envelop his kingdom, eyes twinkling at his grandiosity.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr ... Caune...?” I looked up, checking my pronunciation.

“That’s right – it’s Lithuanian.”

“I’m Karlota Miller.”

Mr Caune looked at the books in my lap. “And you speak German and Russian?”

I thought fast. “As I’m half German, of course I speak German. I don’t speak Russian – but I had a Russian friend for a while that taught me their alphabet. I was curious about the book. I like languages...” I dribbled to a stop, the lies fragile on my tongue.

“Hmm. You like languages. You speak English, and I presume, German well. Do you speak any other languages?”

I examined Mr Caune’s face. What could or should I tell him?

“Well, I’m learning French at school and I swapped languages with a friend from a Polish family in England. I’m going to Polish classes at the Polish Club.”

Mr Caune raised an eyebrow. “And you want to learn Russian?”

I shrugged. “I like languages and I’m good at them.”

As we talked, an assistant dealt with the purchases of a few customers and disappeared again into the shelves before returning. “Excuse me, could you help me with a customer?”

Mr Caune smiled at me, placing his teacup on the saucer with a musical clink. “Wait a minute – I may be able to help you.” He disappeared into the bookshop with his assistant, to reappear with a customer. He rang up the sale, thanked the customer and returned to me.

“I have an old friend – a Russian lady – who is mostly housebound and starved of conversation. Could you spend a little time with her each week, talking and learning Russian?”

I thought about how full my life was. “I don’t know...”

“Well, I’ll talk with her. Can you come here next Saturday?”

“I suppose.” I felt trapped.

“Excellent. How’s that knee of yours?”

I flexed it in front of me – it was still sore. “I’m sure it will be fine, thank you.” I stood up. “How much for my book?” I indicated the Grass.

Mr Caune picked it up, glancing inside. “You don’t want the Tolstoy?”

“No, thank you.”

“Perhaps in a few weeks.” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “Shall we say one and sixpence for the Grass?”

I pulled my purse from my duffel bag and paid him, putting the book on top of my lunch box to keep it away from my damp swimming things at the bottom of the bag.

“I’ll see you next Saturday?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. Thank you for the tea – and the witch hazel.”

I slowed my walk because of my knee, but it loosened up as I made my way down to the Botanical Garden. Sitting in the shade of a flame tree, I retrieved my lunch box and Die Blechtrommel from my duffel bag. With a sandwich in hand, I soon realised that this was a strange book – and why the bookshop lady had thought it unsuitable for a young girl. I was a little surprised that Mr Caune hadn’t said something.

After lunch, I walked through the botanic gardens to the ferry, catching one across the river to Christie Street. As I walked down Vulture Street towards the German Club, my anxiety rose. The butterflies in my stomach churning up my lunch. I stopped in front of a shop window for a minute to calm myself with some soft, deep breaths. I was resentful of Mr Franks and his machinations that had forced us into being his tools. Despite the warmth of the Brisbane summer, a shiver of revulsion ran through me. After a few more breaths, I peered at my reflection in the shop window.

Come on Kal – you can do this.

I did not mirror my reflection’s confidence, but resumed walking all the same.

Karin greeted me in the club foyer.

“You’re here for the book club?”

“Yes.”

“It’s upstairs, the first room on the left. You’re early, but I think there are some people there already.”

“Thank you.”

Upstairs, I could hear voices coming through the open door of the first room on the left. I stopped in the doorway. A middle-aged man and a younger woman were talking, but the conversation ceased when they noticed me.

“Excuse me ... is this the book club?”

The woman glanced at the man and walked over to me. “Yes, it is. Can I help you?”

I swallowed. “Herr Steiner told me about it. I’d like to join, please.”

The woman lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “We’re reading a book – in German.”

“I know. I’ve got a copy of the book.” I swung my duffel bag off my shoulder and fumbled out Die Blechtrommel.

The woman glanced across at the man. “You speak German?”

I could see doubt on her face. “I was born in Frankfurt. My mother is German, but my father was English.”

The man walked across to us. “I don’t think the book club is suitable for someone as young as you.”

I dropped my eyes. “But Herr Steiner told me about it and suggested I come...”

A glance passed between the two people and the man turned to me. “I think I’ll have a word with Mr Steiner. Wait here, please.” He walked out and I heard him start down the stairs.

The woman looked at the book in my hand. “You’ve been reading it?”

“It’s ... strange...”

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “It certainly is.” She cocked her head to one side. “How old are you?”

“I’m fifteen.”

“And does your mother know you are reading that book?”

I paused, summoning a sheepish face. “My mother doesn’t know I’m here ... and I can’t show her this book.” I dropped my eyes. “She says we must become Australian now. She doesn’t let me speak German at home anymore, not since my father died and we came here.”

The woman lifted my chin with a finger. “I’m sorry to hear that...” Her eyes scanned my face. “I’m Miss Bauer, a German teacher. What is your name?”

“I’m Karlota – Kal – Miller.”

“Well, Kal. I’m not sure that you should read this book at your age. It has some ... adult ideas in it.”

“I know. I’ve read the first thirty pages.” Searching Miss Bauer’s face for some sign of support, I paused, seeking a way to influence Miss Bauer. “I understand the words, but I’m not sure I understand what the author is saying all the time.” The fear they might refuse my entry was rising.

Miss Bauer laughed. “Well, Kal, you wouldn’t be alone in that. It is a book that has many twisted threads and levels. That’s why we’re reading and discussing it in the book club.” She gave me a lengthy, appraising look. Footsteps approached the door and the man returned with two new people who walked past us further into the room.

Before the man could speak, Miss Bauer turned to him. “John, we should let this young lady, Kal Miller, stay. I think it would enhance our reading and discussion to have a youthful perspective.”

The man stopped. “Well, Mr Steiner is supportive of her staying. Although I have reservations about such a young person reading this book.”

Miss Bauer turned to me. “Well, Miss Miller, if you weren’t allowed to stay, would you still read this book?”

I blinked in surprise at this question. “Yes, of course. From what I’ve read, it’s complex but interesting – and I need to keep practicing my German.”

Other people were arriving. They glanced at our little knot of tension and went further into the room, sitting in the circle of chairs.

After sharing a look with Miss Bauer, the man turned to me. “Miss Miller, I’m Mr Fraser, the organiser of this group. Please come and sit down.”

I stifled a sigh of relief. I’d found my way into the German Club as we had promised to Mr Franks.

Several questioning glances came my way as Mr Fraser called us to order, but no-one objected to me being there. I pulled out a pencil and started marking the sections in chapter two that people talked about in German but sometimes in English. This allowed me to write names as I learned them, trying to memorise a description for Mutti and the index cards. The discussion – with some reading of sections of the text – went on for over an hour and was interesting. I had some reading to do, as the book club had now finished with chapter two and we were to read chapter three for the following Saturday. When the discussion broke up, we lingered over tea and biscuits after contributing sixpence.

I watched as people poured their tea.

Miss Bauer walked up to me. “You didn’t say anything today – but you were writing in your copy...” I heard the question in her voice. Miss Bauer was in teacher mode.

“When I have something useful to say, I’ll speak. But I’ll wait until we get deeper into the book and I understand more.” I gave her a diffident smile. “I was writing things to help me with the book’s themes, things to watch for as we read further into the book.”

Miss Bauer paused, inspecting me. “Where do you go to school?”

“I started at Girl’s Grammar this term.”

She nodded. “That’s a school with an excellent reputation. And you want to study languages?”

I shrugged. “Perhaps. I’m better at languages than I am at Maths...”

“Don’t neglect your Maths,” Miss Bauer smiled. “Are you studying any languages other than German?”

“I’m not studying German at school. They don’t teach German and anyway, my mother won’t let me. I’m studying French...” after a moment’s thought, I added, “And Polish at the Polish Club.”

“Polish?” I could see the surprise on her face. “Why Polish?”

I smiled in return. “In England, I swapped languages with a Polish friend as we did our homework. It seemed a shame to let it slide.” I glanced up at her. “My mother doesn’t know about the Polish Club, either.”

Miss Bauer’s conflicting feelings about this deception ran across her face. “Let’s get a cup of tea,” she said.

I noticed a small stack of newspapers on a side table, Die Woche in Australien, the Week in Australia. I put my tea down and picked up the top copy from last week.

“Ah – you’ve found the German newspaper, I see.” Mr Fraser came up beside me.

“Are these old copies? Can I take some to read to get a German perspective on Australia?”

“Hmm ... I don’t think you can take these. They’re here for members to read. You can buy copies downstairs.”

I gave him my best doe eyes. “I don’t have enough money to buy copies ... aren’t there old copies that would get thrown away?”

Mr Fraser pursed his lips. “Umm ... yes. Let me see what can be done.” He walked across the room. He talked to Miss Bauer, who glanced across at me and slipped out. I folded the newspaper and put it on the stack and finished my tea, glancing round the room, putting names to faces and rehearsing their description.

A few minutes later, Miss Bauer returned, several newspapers clasped under her left arm. “These are for you, Kal. I’ll see if I can get a copy of the paper for you each week.”

“Thank you.”

Miss Bauer paused, her face serious. “I am feeling rather conflicted about this. After all, you are deceiving your mother about continuing with your German – and Polish.”

She stopped, expecting me to respond, but I did not know what to say. I hadn’t thought of how it would look to others because Mutti knew all about it.

Miss Bauer seemed to mistake my silence for embarrassment. “Well – I think your mother is...” She came to a stop, searching for the right way to talk about my mother, before continuing in a gentle voice. “ ... is ... misled about making you stop your languages. I am prepared to support what you are doing.” She gave me a hard look and her voice tightened. “Are you certain your mother would stop you if you told her what you are doing?”

I stared down at my shoes, trying to think what to say. After a few seconds, I looked up. “She’s a wonderful mother,” I paused, grimacing. “But she’s been through a lot recently, losing my father and moving to a new country. I hope I can tell her what I’m doing sometime ... when we’ve settled in.” Our eyes engaged and I let my anxiety show. “We’ve only been here about four months.”

Miss Bauer squeezed my shoulder. “And all this is difficult for you as well, isn’t it?”

I stayed silent and Miss Bauer gave me a sympathetic look.

“We’ll see you next week?”

“Of course.”

I was feeling quite disturbed by the level of deceit I was engaged in and left, managing a polite nod to Mr Fraser as I did. On the trolleybus and tram going home, all the threads of this week drew together. The lies I had to tell, the new school and its demands, losing Willi and Lili, being here in Australia ... everything coalesced into a stomach clenching nausea. I fought to control it all the way home. I rushed into the house past Mutti, scattering Imbi as I dumped my duffel bag in my urgency to reach the toilet. My stomach emptied in one vile, lurching cascade and I crouched retching over the bowl, tears streaming down my face.

“Kal, Kal. What’s wrong, Liebling?”

I half heard Mutti’s voice, but felt her caring hands stroke my hair. I glanced up at her but couldn’t speak, as my stomach was still churning. I leant over the bowl again, dry retching as my stomach had nothing more to give. Mutti must have left for a moment as a cool, moist cloth wiped my face and arms enfolded me. After a while, I stirred and flushed the toilet.

“Careful, Liebling.” Mutti supported me as I stood. “Let’s get you lying down.” She guided me to my room and pulled off my shoes once I was on my bed. “Stay there.”

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