Read Pennies For Hitler Online
Authors: Jackie French
The last flies of autumn buzzed sleepily against the windows as he and Mud were working their way through Chapter Eight
of the Little Red Maths Book in their seats at the back of the classroom.
‘Hey, Missus?’ Big Billy bashed on the door, the branches he’d been collecting for firewood in the school paddock in his hands.
Mrs Rose glanced out nervously at the sky. But there was no sign or sound of Japanese planes. ‘What is it?’
Big Billy wriggled his finger in his ear, looked at it to see how much wax had come out, then lowered his voice, though the whole room could hear it anyway. ‘Telegram boy, he went to the Peaslakes’.’
Mud gave a small cry, instantly bitten off. Every other child was still. Telegrams might be good news: the birth of a baby; Mud’s brothers safe; a soldier coming home on leave. But they could be bad news too.
‘How do you know where he was going?’ asked Mrs Rose sharply.
‘Asked him as he rode past,’ said Big Billy.
Georg found the room staring at him.
‘George, I think you had better get your satchel and head off home,’ said Mrs Rose quietly. ‘Yes, Mud, you too. And George … if … if it’s bad news, could you tell them —’ Her voice broke. Georg realised that Mrs Rose must know Alan Peaslake. Everyone in the room knew him.
Except for him.
He didn’t wait for Mud. He simply ran out the school gate and down the footpath, past the paddocks, the cows watching curiously, in through the faded red gate then round to the back.
It couldn’t be bad news. It might be good — that Alan had been posted back to Australia maybe. Or had been wounded, but not badly.
He ran towards the kitchen door.
Then he heard the howl.
It sounded like a dog. For a moment he thought Samson had got his foot caught in a possum trap. The howl came again. It was Mrs Peaslake.
It was as though there was a wall between him and the kitchen door. He couldn’t breach it. He couldn’t walk into their pain.
He knew he had to.
He put his satchel down, then began to walk, one step, two steps, into the kitchen.
Mrs Peaslake sat with her head on the table, her face hidden, her hands limp in her lap. He had never seen them lying still before. Her breath came in strange sharp pants.
Mr Peaslake held her, his face expressionless, the tears falling from his chin onto his blue gardening shirt, his nose leaking snot unheeded. They must have been weeding when the telegram boy came. Mrs Peaslake would have given the boy a piece of cake to thank him for riding here. She would have waited till he was gone to open it.
The yellow telegram lay on the table. He glanced at it.
I regret to inform you that your son, Lieutenant Alan Peaslake …
No need to read the rest.
The empty space at the table seemed to get bigger until it filled the room. The dogs lay where he had left them this morning, their heads on their paws.
Had they known? Had Mrs Peaslake known in some deep part of her as well?
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. Would they want him to go? To leave them to their grief?
Mrs Peaslake looked up. She held out her arms. Her hands drew him close. And suddenly the three of them were hugging, crying.
Then Mud was there, and she was hugging too. Crying for so many things, perhaps: for her brothers in danger; just as he cried for Mutti and Papa, for the world he’d lost, for the hurt to those he loved now. It hurt more to cry together but at the same it was better too.
28 MAY 1942
The vicar came on his bicycle that afternoon. Georg looked out through the window as the vicar leaned his bicycle on the fence and walked up the path. The Peaslakes sat side by side on the sofa, staring at nothing, or memories perhaps, the photos of Alan all around. There will never be another photo of him now, thought Georg. Mrs Peaslake’s hands were still and empty.
Out in the kitchen Mud’s mother bustled with the pots, getting a dinner that probably no one would eat, but desperate to do something, anything to help.
Georg answered the door before the vicar knocked. He looked tired. How many visits like this has he made in this war? Georg wondered. The vicar’s daughter was a nurse up in Singapore, Mud said, and he hadn’t heard from her since Singapore fell.
Did the vicar think of her every time he made a call like this?
‘Good afternoon, George. I’m so very sorry for your loss.’
Georg nodded. ‘They’re in the lounge room,’ he said. He led the way.
Mr Peaslake stood as the vicar entered. Mrs Peaslake stayed crumpled on the sofa. ‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ said the vicar again.
His words must have been used thousands of times. Millions. But they still sounded true.
‘Thank you,’ said Mr Peaslake dully.
The vicar reached into his pocket. ‘Alan … Alan was a fine young man. We will all feel his loss. The world is poorer for his passing.’ Words that had been said many times too, yet still held truth as well.
He held out an envelope. ‘Alan came to see me on his embarkation leave. He gave me this to give to you in case he … well, he gave me this. He sent a postscript to it last month.’
Mr Peaslake’s hand trembled as he took it.
‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ said the vicar softly. ‘We can talk about the memorial service. The CWA will do all the catering and … We’ll talk about that later. George, could you see me out?’
‘No, George, please stay,’ said Mr Peaslake.
The vicar patted Georg’s shoulder, then made his own way out into the hall. They heard the door click behind him.
Mr Peaslake opened the letter.
‘Read it aloud,’ said Mrs Peaslake hoarsely.
Mr Peaslake’s voice sounded like iron. It sounded like Mutti’s had three years before, though his was loud and hers was sweet.
Dear Mum and Dad,
I’m leaving this with the sky pilot in case the worst happens over there. If you’re reading this, I hope that whatever happened was quick, but no matter how I got it, I’m going because I believe in fighting this war. Some of the boys around here enlisted for the adventure, but you taught me better than that, Dad. I know what war is, and what can happen to a man. I’m leaving for my country, for you, for everything I love.
I’m not saying I want to die. I don’t. I want to live, to meet a girl one day, have kids, show them how to fly a kite like Dad’s up on the headland, then eat Mum’s apple pancakes. That will never happen now.
I think I just want to say that I know I might have to give my life for my country. I won’t say don’t cry for me, but when you remember me, remember this as well. I am proud to be going. I hope you are proud of me as well.
Give my love to the paddocks and the hills. Tell the sea eagle that no one will ever fly a kite higher than him. You are the best parents any bloke could ever have.
My love to you always,
Alan
The clock ticked on the mantelpiece. ‘He always did have a way with words,’ said Mrs Peaslake softly. She began to cry, not the fierce breaking howls of before, but gentle tears that trickled. She let them fall, wiping her nose.
‘There’s another bit,’ said Mr Peaslake quietly. He handed another sheet of paper to Georg.
‘For me?’ This sheet was different from the first: pale brown, as though it had been stained with water and a bit crumpled too.
Georg glanced at the Peaslakes, then began to read it out.
Dear George,
I’m glad you’re there for Mum and Dad. Give them a hug from me. Give them a hug every single day, mate. The train is yours now. If you have kids, give it to them, and tell them it comes from me. Tell Dad to fly the dragon kite one last time, and then to let the wind have it.
Your loving brother,
Alan
It was only later that night, lying in his bed, the blackout shutters pulled aside to let in fresh air now the light was off, that Georg realised.
His country had killed the Peaslakes’ son.
Alan Peaslake had been in Egypt, facing a German army. And the Italians too, perhaps. But it was Germany who had started the war. If Hitler had never yelled the orders, if his countrymen had never followed, Alan Peaslake would be alive. Alan could even be in the bed next door now, down on holiday with his parents.
Instead they had a German boy: a boy who lied. A boy who was the enemy who had killed their son.
The enemy was him.
The whole town gathered at the memorial service. It looked strange as he and the Peaslakes rounded the corner to town: figure after figure all in black going up to the church like ants heading back to their nest. He hadn’t known there were so many people in the district.
There was no coffin. Georg wondered what happened to your body when you died so far away. Did Alan Peaslake have a proper grave? He couldn’t ask. He sat in the front pew with the Peaslakes on either side, and Mud’s mum on Mrs Peaslake’s other side, holding her hands tightly, and then Mud. Everyone from school sat in the back. Even Big Billy was in black today. Someone had found him a pair of shoes. He kept spitting on his hand and wiping it across his hair to keep it neat.
They took the kites up to the headland after the sandwiches, the lamingtons, the scones and jam and hoarded tea in the church
hall after the service. Mud came too. Everyone seemed to take it for granted that Mud would be there, though her mum had gone back home.
The dogs had left the mat by the stove at last, had even eaten breakfast’s leftovers. But they too knew this walk to the headland was different. They didn’t snuffle after rabbits in the tussocks or pretend there were tigers in the stunted bushes. Instead they sat and simply watched.
They are on guard today, thought Georg. They can’t protect us from the things that hurt us — not these kinds of things — but they know they have to try.
Mr Peaslake handed Georg the big box kite. He gave Mud the one he mostly used. It was heavy for a girl, but Mud was … Mud.
He kept the dragon kite himself.
‘Can’t let the Nazis stop us, or the Japs,’ said Mrs Peaslake, and she meant much more than flying kites. ‘Alan was right.’
The wind roared and bit today, coming from the south. It tore the kites high above their heads, bit and spat at them.
Higher and higher they flew, till Georg wondered if they might almost reach to Heaven, so that Alan Peaslake could see them when he looked down.
The dragon kite bucked and taunted the wind. And then suddenly the sea eagle was there, appearing out of nowhere, or from under the cliff perhaps. Higher and higher it flew till it was above them, circling round and round as though it jeered at the human flights below.
Mr Peaslake gazed at the dragon blazing against the blue. He began to recite.
‘
Wrap him up with his stockwhip and blanket,
And bury him deep down below
Tell the world that a stockman lies dead here
In the land where no gumtrees will grow.
’
He was shouting at the sky now, at the wind, shouting as though his cry could be heard across the world.
It was almost the poem he’d read to Georg several times,
The Dying Stockman
. No one knew now who had written it long ago. But Mr Peaslake had changed it for his son.
‘
… There’s tea in the battered old billy,
There are scones laid out in a row,
We’ll drink to the next merry meeting
In the place where all good fellows go.
‘
And oft in the shades of the twilight,
When the southerly’s whispering low,
And the darkening shadows are falling,
We’ll think of our stockman below.
’
He let the string go.
For a second the kite hung there. Georg waited for the wind to rip it away, or maybe let it fall. But instead it began to tunnel through the air, beyond the cliffs, over the sea, heading north with the wind.
The kite and the wind were partners now.
Mr Peaslake looked smaller, now his poem was done.
Mud began to haul her kite in. Georg started to haul his in as well. He wondered if the Peaslakes wished that Alan were there instead of him.
No. The Peaslakes weren’t like that. They had love enough for both: for Alan and him too.
But the love was for the boy they thought he was: an English boy called George. Not a German, an enemy who’d lied to them for years.
How long had it been since he had used his real name? He was Georg!
Other kids had memories, stories about the day they started school, the flood that carried off the fences, the time they went to Sydney to the Show. He had memories, but none that he could share.
He could talk about things that had happened to a boy called George, in London and on the ship. But he could never speak of Georg and Georg’s memories of Mutti and Papa, of gargoyles in the quadrangle and cream cakes and Tante Gudrun and Onkel Klaus and the horror of that graduation day and being folded up in the darkness of the suitcase …
Even today, when all around him were sharing their hearts in their grief, he could not.
I’m not here, he thought. I am like the wind. I make the kite move, I puff and blow. But no one sees me.
All they can ever see is George.
It was growing dark and late when they left the headland, as though none of them wanted to haul the kites down in this last unacknowledged sharing with the man who was gone, and the boy that he once had been.
They trudged back across the tussocks down to the road, the dogs leading the way. No traffic passed them now — petrol was too scarce for any but the most important journey. Mud left them at her place: a subdued Mud. She hesitated at the doorway, then
ran out again. She hugged Mrs Peaslake, a sharp sudden hug, and then Mr Peaslake. She paused again, then hugged Georg too.