Letter from my Father (15 page)

Henry had been sent to England at the age of sixteen, after Kristallnacht. Although he had been cared for by his mother's former governess and her brother, he was in reality on his own from the age of fifteen. During the War, his family was dispersed to North America, Australia and Europe. His mother, Erna, spent the War years in Switzerland and his brother, Ernest, in Switzerland and the United States. His father had made his way from England to the United States. It took twenty years before Henry saw his parents again.

The experiences of his youth may have accounted for his fierce independence, which he treasured in a way I found difficult to fathom. He told me that evening about his hatred of any form of regimentation. His habit of being late for everything stemmed from this feeling. Henry was a man who refused to be pushed into anything, who often made unilateral decisions about matters involving others, and who had to arrive at a decision in his own way in his own time. He seemed an unlikely candidate for being part of a committed couple, yet it was these very difficult qualities of his that
fascinated me. Unlike me, with my fear of incurring anyone's disapproval and my overwhelming desire to live in harmony, Henry welcomed and even relished confrontation.

I learned much later from a Canberra friend that he had been one of the Dunera Boys, young Jews from Germany who had been taken into detention by the British authorities as enemy aliens and sent to Australia on the
Dunera
for internment during the War. The Allied officers and men on the ship treated their passengers as enemies. They ridiculed them, looted their luggage and tossed it overboard. They constantly exerted their authority. When I asked Henry about the
Dunera
, he told me briefly about the many petty humiliations, which he did not want to remember. He did describe one episode where an officer grabbed his one and only pair of glasses and crushed them under his boot, leaving short-sighted Henry disabled for the rest of the voyage.

The
Dunera
and subsequent internment camp experience contributed to Henry's strong anti-authoritarian streak. Many of the young internees were, of course, eager to fight against Hitler and when that was discovered and recognised, they were allowed to join a non-combatant army corps. Those who stayed in Australia after the War went on to make significant contributions to Australia's public life. They became economists, philosophers and entrepreneurs. They brought with them a commitment to building a just nonracist society in their new world. Being a Dunera Boy came to be seen as a mark of distinction.

After the War, Henry had studied Economics and though offered attractive jobs with money-making potential, he chose to go to Canberra and become a public servant in the truly idealistic sense.

During that first evening together, I learned a lot about Henry. But we both knew we had just begun getting to know one another. We decided to meet again. The following day Henry returned to Canberra and after such a promising start,
I expected to hear from him again soon. But there was nothing – not a phone call, not a note. I tried to forget that for one wonderful evening I had felt the possibility of a strong mutual attraction. I was deeply disappointed, even though getting involved with an older man for whom being a Jew was not a significant part of his identity raised questions.

It was not until three weeks later that Henry phoned and invited me to visit his home in Canberra. I accepted. This was based on a strong impulse rather than a rational decision.

I drove to Canberra. I enjoyed the blueness of the hills on the approach to the city and its crisp air. Henry's home was part of a short, tree-lined street off the Common that surrounded the Lodge, the home of Australia's Prime Ministers. The house was barely visible from the street, and was angled towards the north at the back. The front was actually a grove of trees with a gravel path leading to a white timber gate. The large living room was grand, yet understated. Its walls were white and its floor black slate. A modern black and chrome settee and chairs provided an austere contrast to the large colourful Afghan rug hanging on the wall. This was the first thing a visitor saw on entering from a small, lavender-filled courtyard. There was a display of Gandhara figures on glass shelves, busts and heads of Buddha. I soon learned that these had originated in a region in what is now Pakistan. Henry had acquired them while working there as part of a Harvardbased team helping implement a five-year development plan. They were his most treasured possessions.

Across the hallway from the living room was the study, lined floor to ceiling with books. The dining room had a long Spanish-style wooden table with leather-upholstered chairs. The bedrooms and kitchen were untidy and in need of a fresh coat of paint and some repairs. The main white-painted bedroom had three small windows just below the ceiling, giving privacy but showing off the peaches loading the
branches of the tree just outside. The kitchen and a small family room, also lined with books, opened on to a larger courtyard at the back, surrounded by peach and lemon trees and shaded by a beautiful Japanese maple tree which turned red and gold in autumn. Big wooden planters were filled with jasmine and more lavender. A few steps up there was a swimming pool surrounded by a stone-paved area and also shaded by trees. They made necessary the continuous chore of removing fallen leaves from the pool, but they delighted the eye and the spirit.

Henry's home, including the grotty bits, exuded the confidence of an individual who knew how he wanted to live and was absolutely unconcerned with fashion. I had never visited anywhere like his home. It was a tranquil place. I loved being there.

Henry's daughter, Kim, lived with him during the week and with her mother Joan on the weekends. This would often allow Henry and me to have time together on weekends. Sometimes, however, Kim stayed with her Dad, and this presented problems for both her and me.

When I told my mother about this man I had met who lived with his eleven-year-old daughter and ninety-year-old mother, she replied:
Oy gewalt!
(In Yiddish,
Oh, horror!
) She did like to dramatise. His mother, Erna, would always join us for dinner when we ate at home and Henry would prepare a meal for her when we went out. I admired his devotion to his mother and daughter. But where would I fit in?

It was Henry's intellect that I found most seductive, along with his phenomenal memory. He could quote at length from Goethe or Shakespeare or Milton, refer to a particular view of Bertrand Russell or effortlessly quote contemporary philosophers. When an issue came up for discussion or in the newspapers, Henry's first response was often:
What would Plato have said?
His experience had led him to believe that the Ancient Greeks had thought about most important issues.

Knowing him allowed me to enter the vastly different world of Canberra's intellectual and political élite. The first time Henry took me to dinner at the Commonwealth Club we met another Dunera Boy, one of the country's leading economists. They discussed a man standing across the room, to whom they referred as a
lightweight academic
. That's what they would call me, I immediately thought. I had neither published books nor taken part in national debates. I remarked that they were standing next to another such person.

On that first visit to Henry's, he took me to meet his friends Les and Dulcie. Les had been the last Administrator of Papua New Guinea, before its independence and Henry had worked closely with him. I soon found that many of Australia's top public servants had at one time worked in PNG and that they still formed a tight group committed to, and understanding developing countries. My background and interest in history and politics allowed me to participate to some extent in their discussions, but most of the time I was lost. They seemed to know everyone, including Bob Hawke, soon to become Prime Minister. At times I felt like a peasant from the provinces. But I took it all in, full of awe before these
important people.

During his time in the Economics faculty at Melbourne University, Henry had loved to debate politics. He had made friends with equally passionate fellow students, most of whom now held influential positions in Australia's public life. He had met the artist Arthur Boyd, who had offered him a painting or two in exchange for some tax work. Henry had refused, needing cash for his weekly rent, little knowing that Boyd's paintings would a decade later be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Later in our relationship, when Henry and I visited Melbourne and stayed at the Athenaeum Club in Collins Street, we met and spent long leisurely evenings and extended days meeting and talking with his friends. Though I relished
these encounters, I initially held back in conversation, though I gained confidence with time. In fact, I made a discovery. Henry's friends accepted me with all my differences, my accent and not being part of the Canberra scene.

I began to spend weekends in Canberra. We entertained Henry's friends, academics at the research schools of the ANU or his mates from the upper levels of the Public Service. I also renewed friendships with Daniel, who was now a Professor of Composition at the Canberra School of Music and Julia, an ardent feminist who had been a school friend and fellow student of History at Sydney University. It was good to spend time with people who knew me as more than Henry's girlfriend. I invited them when we entertained.

Entertaining à la Henry was quite different from the way I and my friends did it in Sydney. As a rule there were no invitations a few weeks ahead and no carefully-planned meals. I would arrive in Canberra on Saturday around noon, and Henry would suggest that we invite people for dinner that night or for lunch the next day. I would protest that they were unlikely to be available at such short notice.
They either are or are not,
he would say blithely.
We just ask them.
Often as not, they were happy to come.

Then there would be the rush to the markets. Henry concentrated on getting a big piece of beef to roast. Choosing, then carving it was one of his favourite activities. He would also choose the accompanying wine and cheese. Salads, vegetables and fruit were unimportant to him and could easily be skipped, since he had no time for ‘rabbit food'. I, however, insisted on their place on our menu. His friends' enjoyment of my culinary additions eventually convinced him that they were not out of place in a meal. Copious amounts of red wine were consumed, especially when we were invited back to some of Henry's friends' houses, and I often wondered about the shrinking brain cells of many of our public figures.

I was stimulated by this new world. There was no doubt that I was fascinated by Henry with his erudite mind and savage wit, and that there was strong mutual attraction. But what about Henry the man, Henry as a potential life partner?

If there was one quality in him which I especially loved, it was his streak of frivolity. He had an uncanny ability to be totally engrossed in his work, pacing up and down for hours, dictating lengthy documents on to his tape recorder for his secretary to type and then within minutes of finishing, becoming playful. Lightness and enjoyment were important dimensions of his life, and he very quickly detected they were not a natural part of my make-up. In fact he had commented to Kevin and Renata on our first meeting that he liked me, but considered me too serious.

He set about changing this. When he called me in Sydney to enquire about my day, his first question was:
Have you frivelled today?
Once in Sydney, as we drove to my home from a concert at eleven o'clock, a time when I was more than ready for bed, he asked what I felt like eating. I confessed that I rarely asked myself this question, especially so late in the evening. What would he like?
Some smoked salmon with caviar and iced vodka
was the immediate response. Only one place could provide this so late at night, the Hungarian-owned Hunters' Lodge in Double Bay. We ate there with a Gypsy band playing in the background. It was a perfect evening, but one I would never have consciously desired.

Some years later we went on holiday to Hamilton Island. Our cabin had a terrace opening directly on to the beach. I immediately started unpacking, putting things away and reading the brochures about what was on offer at the resort and planning what we would do. And Henry? He entered the cabin, put down his bag, changed into shorts and sat on the terrace in a comfortable lounge chair, totally relaxed and deep into his book as if he been there all his life. Mundane
tasks could wait. He taught me to ask myself:
What is it that I want to do?
before throwing myself into action.

His sense of playfulness extended to his love of adventure and anything unpredictable. One evening in Canberra as we went home after dining at the Commonwealth Club, he suggested that we take a short-cut. All we needed to do was climb over a fence or two. I grudgingly agreed. I was wearing high heels and a good dress. Somehow, somewhere, Henry lost his way and we found that the wall we had climbed enclosed the grounds of the French Embassy. There was only one thing to do, he decided: get down on our hands and knees and crawl along the wall to the entrance, then run out when the sentry was at the far side of the gate. So here was Henry, the well-known economist, and his academic friend from Sydney, mother of two adult sons, crouching and moving along the wall in the dark, hearts beating, fervently hoping to avoid being caught. We managed to get out.

On another occasion we were walking along a bush track near Pearl Beach, Henry wondering where it was taking us and not really enjoying the walking. Then the signposts suddenly disappeared and we no longer knew where we were or how to proceed. It was getting dark and I started feeling anxious. Henry suddenly came alive. He loved this kind of challenge. He found where the sun was, examined the terrain, defined the direction from which we had come, and plotted our next move. He loved every moment of being lost. As soon as we found our way out, he again lost interest.