Fireshadow (18 page)

30 October 1946

Erich is back. He stands in the doorway of her home, in his uniform, clutching his hat. Alice tries to rise to greet him, but the weight of her belly is too much for her, and she can't rise from the chair.
Alice.
His voice is exactly the same as she remembers it. Accented. Formal. Like he is forcing his words through some kind of barrier.
I cannot stay, I am afraid. I need to get back home. Back to my wife. My ship is leaving soon and I must go now. Goodbye.

Wait!
she calls, but the doorway is empty. She struggles to get up but the weight holding her down seems to grow heavier and heavier, pushing her into the chair until the hard wood of the backrest is digging into her shoulders and the edge of the seat into the back of her knees.
Erich!
she calls, but the shout is futile and echoes through the empty house.

Alice?
Anne is there beside her.
Alice, get up. Go after him.
But she can't. The baby in her belly is too heavy, and Alice kicks futilely against the floorboards.
Alice, he's going . . .

She wakes to find late afternoon sunlight warming her face. Her mother is in the kitchen, the sounds and smells of her cooking wafting through the house. Alice rises and walks towards the noise.

Are you all right, darling?
Her mother looks up from her kneading, noting the sheen of sweat beading her daughter's forehead.

Yes. Just had a bad dream.

At the tank in the backyard, Alice sluices water onto her face. It tastes of tin and cold. Birds are playing in the leaves of the white gums that shade the yard and Alice lowers herself onto the back step, watching them. After a few moments her mother comes out and sits beside her. The flyscreen door bangs behind them.
Anne and the kids came by earlier, she says. They didn't want to wake you, though. I like her, Alice.

Me too, Mum.

Lately her mother has been a lot better. Since her father found work at the post office, since he stopped being around so much of the day, she has seemed less nervous, less tired all the time. He's changing too, Alice thinks. He still sleeps in the chair in the front room, but more often than not he turns out the light and the radio before he nods off.

I think it will all be fine, darling
. Her mother wipes floury hands on her apron.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am. Your grandfather is too.

I know.

In the house behind them the front door slams and her father's voice echoes up the hallway.

Out here, dear. On the back steps. How was your day?

Her father's day was fine. So was her mother's.

Her mother goes back inside and Alice watches the evening sunlight playing upon the white trunks of the eucalypts. The trees seem to glow an iridescent pink against the darkening, purple sky. A few pink and grey galahs flit past, crying to the sunset and reminding her a little of the way the black cockatoos used to haunt the camp in Marrinup.

She feels lost. She has a sense of marking time somehow and going nowhere. When she writes in her journal at nights, she is finding that she has less and less to say. As though her body and mind have somehow slipped away from her, out of her control. The days and nights crawl past, and Alice feels more and more detached from reality.

She knows she is having a baby, that there is a new life growing inside her, but somehow it doesn't seem quite real. She keeps expecting to wake up and find that her life is as it was before.

12 November 1946

The daily walk out to the letterbox has ceased to hold any anticipation. It has been so long with no word from Europe that it is easier to avoid the disappointment of silence by not expecting anything else. Now Alice goes out as she does every day, more from habit than for any other reason.

The card is in a white envelope, slightly yellowed and stained at the edges. The handwriting is unfamiliar, but the name and address on the front are hers. For a few long moments she doesn't register that this is what she has been waiting for, then she tears the envelope open, then and there, not even waiting to get back inside.

I am fine. I love you.

The first six words make Alice's mouth dry and her bladder loosen so that she has to dash inside to the lavatory.
The joys of pregnancy
, she thinks wryly, but she is smiling all the same.

His family home is gone. Bombed. His mother and sister also missing. No sign or word from either. He has found lodging with an old school friend and will write properly soon.

He is fine. He still loves her.

She has an address.

Still smiling, Alice hurries to her writing table and starts a letter.

25 November 1946

The days are getting hot now and in the afternoons Alice usually rests in an easy chair on the back porch, which picks up the sea breeze. She is asleep when her grandfather arrives and he wakes her with a light kiss on her head. His lips are dry, like old leaves.

How are you feeling?
Automatically he rests a cool hand on her forehead, feeling her temperature.

Fine. Fat.

You're only going to get bigger, for the next little while, at least.

I know.

It's a scary thought. Already her back aches if she stands too long, and it's difficult to get comfortable at night.

You have some visitors
. Her grandfather is smiling, and for the first time Alice notices that something is different about him this afternoon. More animated. There are voices inside the house.

Visitors?

Come along.
The old man helps her up, takes her arm and leads her through the flyscreen door, up the passage and into the front room.

The first person she sees is a young woman with dark, olive skin and long straight black hair. She is cradling a little baby, a girl, in her arms. Alice doesn't recognise her, but she knows the man standing by her side.

Günter!

Alice flings herself at the grinning man and throws her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance.

Oops!
He laughs.
Must being careful . . . my leg is . . . wood.
His English is worse than ever, rusty from lack of practice. Still, he stumbles through the introductions:
My wife, Francesca. Italian. Daughter . . . Claire.

Alice laughs.
Claire isn't a German name!
Günter smiles back.
She will not being German child. Being Australian!
There is pride behind his words.

Questions flood out. How did they get here? When did they arrive? When was the baby born? What is it like in Germany now? Did they see Erich at all? And Günter struggles through the barrier of language. Occasionally he has to stop and speak to Francesca in German or Italian, but slowly, with a lot of pausing and hand signals, he manages to provide answers.

On the steps of the back porch, with the cool breeze curling around them, he relates how he and Francesca left Europe again almost as soon as he arrived there. He tries to describe the destruction, the suffering, but words desert him, and all he can do is shake his head and make tiny, hopeless gestures.

They haven't seen Erich. They probably passed in mid-ocean.

And, Alice
. . . Günter stops, searches for the right word, then gives up and simply reaches across and pats her lightly on the belly, the question in his eyes.

Yes, Erich
, she tells him and he laughs, the big, full, loud laugh she remembers so well.
But he doesn't know yet
.

It will be a surprise!
The idea seems to delight him and he translates the news to his wife, who also laughs.

The afternoon winds on and cools into evening, and they drink tea and talk. Her grandfather sits in the easy chair and eventually nods off. Her mother arrives home from shopping and is introduced. Günter startles her with a massive bear hug, and when she extricates herself she disappears inside to find food for everyone.

Where will you stay?
Alice asks. Günter gestures at the sleeping doctor.
Your grandfather is . . . agreeing . . . to . . . (what is the word?) . . . sponsor? We stay with him for now, until find house. Become Australians.

Alice looks at the old man. Did he know about this before today and not tell her? He is smiling in his sleep.

The front door bangs and her father's voice echoes through the house. Alice listens as her mother rushes down the passage. There is a whispered conversation. An explanation. Preparation.

When her father comes out onto the back porch, he is standing stiff and erect. It is a military stance. After so long watching him stooped and sad it is strange to see him this way.

There is a long moment of silence. Günter rises ponderously to his feet, scraping his false leg under him. Even with his missing leg, he seems to tower over her dad.

Dad, this is Günter and his wife Francesca, and their baby, Claire.

They look into one another's eyes. Ex-soldiers. Ex-enemies.

How do you do?
Günter offers a large hand and for a moment it hangs there and Alice thinks her father is going to refuse it, but then he returns the handshake.

Well. And yourself?

Good
.

The two men regard each other a moment longer. Then her father asks,
Where did you fight?

Italy. Then to Africa. Then to Australia for camping trip!

Alice's father laughs at that and the tension seems to slip out of the evening. They talk for a few more moments before he excuses himself to change out of his work clothes.

Sitting on the stairs again, Günter says something in German to his wife and the two of them smile.

What did you tell her?

It will be all right. Here. Australia.

Did you think it might not be?

Günter shrugs.

Soon, the baby is tired and needs feeding and sleep, and her grandfather and the new arrivals have to leave. Alice and her parents walk out to the front porch with them.

Thank you
, Günter says at the gate.

For what?

For your welcome
. He is looking at her father, who nods.

26 November 1946

There was a story in the paper this morning. An Italian market gardener was badly beaten in a pub the night before. He and his family have lived in Australia for thirty years. Alice shows it to Anne.

Günter will be all right, though
, Alice says.
He's . . . different.

I hope so.

They decide to give Francesca English lessons.

Anne asks if there has been any more news from Erich. Alice goes quiet for a moment before she fishes out the letter. It arrived in that morning's post and was the first since the card. This is a proper letter, though. Three pages of bad news.

Five thousand people executed at the same time as his father: families, children, friends of the conspirators. Five thousand. Too many people to imagine at once. The two women sit silently.

He is certain that his mother and sister are dead.

So will he be back soon?

I don't know. He needs to search first. He has to be certain.

But what about you?

He knows I'm alive.

Harry runs across. He wants an ice-cream on the way home.
We'll see
, his mother tells him.
Where will he look?

I don't know. He wrote something about a camp, but I couldn't understand it.

Has she told him about the baby yet?

Yes. I wrote straightaway. It'll be months before I get a reply, though.

Suddenly the distance between them seems too great and Alice finds herself starting to get teary. This hasn't happened for a while, and she wipes at her eyes, embarrassed in front of her friend.
I'm sorry
. . . she begins.

Don't be
, says Anne.
It's how we met, remember?

They both laugh at that.

Her grandfather is waiting at her place when she gets home.
Is it moving yet?
He nods at her lump.

I don't think so, not yet.

The two of them talk about Günter and Frannie. The old man is worried. He too read the story in the paper this morning and is afraid for them. To distract him, Alice tells him the news from Erich, and this time it isn't so hard to talk about.

That night, for the first time in weeks, Alice digs her journal out from under the bed and begins to write. She writes about Günter and Francesca and then Erich. She writes her loneliness and frustration, her fear and anger, her love, her hope. She spills it all out onto the page in black ink and when she is done it reads like a prayer.

13 December 1946

She is beginning to dread the letterbox. She recognises his handwriting now, and it seems that each little white envelope brings nothing but bad news.

His sister is alive.

Alice knows she should be happy. But she isn't.

His sister has tuberculosis. She might be curable. But it will be months, perhaps even years, until she can travel.

She is all he has left of his old life. Of his family.

And Alice knows she can't ask Erich to leave Europe. Not now.

In the afternoon Anne brings the kids around and they play in the backyard while Alice has another cry on her friend's shoulder. She is feeling pathetic at the moment. But it is so hot and she feels so bloated, and Erich is so far away.

You can't be jealous of her, sweetie. You just can't afford to let yourself
. Anne is right, of course, Alice knows.

She drinks her tea, calms down a little and by the time her mother arrives home she has got herself together enough to relate the day's news. Her mother goes very quiet.

That night the baby moves, properly, for the first time. Not just a little kick or a poke, but it seems to almost turn a somersault inside her. It leaves Alice gasping with a strange combination of joy and nausea, and she lies on her side on her bed, hands resting on her belly, and she talks to her child.

In the cool, late evening she tells the creature growing inside her all about its father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather. She talks about Marrinup. About the war.
About the Germany that Erich has described for her in his letters.

She tells her stories to her child in the darkness.