Butterflies and Demons. Eva Chapman

Holocaust survivors, even though most of the population had voted against it. It was, after all, the Christian thing to do, and there were so many ‘dirty’ jobs they could usefully carry out: like excavating the brown coal up at Leigh Creek, so that South Australia did not have to rely on the eastern states for black coal. Or hacking at hard baked clay in the blinding heat, in order to assemble hundreds of miles of pipelines so precious water could keep the lawns of Adelaide green. She and Willoughby had examined the spartan Nissen hut up at Leigh Creek, where Hungarian refugee, Magdalena Leolkes, had made the best of a grim situation while her husband excavated coal. Magdalena felt honoured by the Governor’s visit and spruced up her hut so it looked as immaculate as possible. Lady Norrie was spared seeing how the nappies that hung on makeshift lines immediately turned black with the coal dust that pervaded everything. But Magdalena wasn’t complaining. At least she wasn’t in a tent, nor forcibly separated from her husband, as was the lot of most other Displaced Persons.

      But as Lady Norrie arranged her roses, she saw something far worse than three children crammed into a corner of a stinking hot hut while a pot simmered on a wood stove – so terrible she nearly dropped her vase. Horror of horrors – there were some people on the immaculately green front lawn of Government House. They looked like peasants. They certainly weren’t British.

      ‘Oh my God. It looks like they are spreading out a blanket for a picnic?’

      With great urgency, she called for the servants.

      Tatiana had at last persuaded Ivan to have a Sunday off and take her and Svitochka on a picnic. She wanted to go to the Botanic Gardens, which she heard were full of European trees. The trio entered what they thought was the Botanic Gardens – it was beautiful and green – full of the magnificent firs and oaks which Tatiana really missed. Choosing a charming spot surrounded by beds of flowers, she started to lay out the picnic: her homemade plaited bread dredged with poppy seeds; chunks of Polish sausage; dill cucumber; piroshki stuffed with cabbage. But scarcely had she taken out the flask of cold black tea from her basket, when she was startled by shouts. People were running towards them gesticulating wildly. Svitochka looked up in alarm. These people seemed very upset. Many unrecognisable words tumbled over the picnickers. Tatiana and Ivan looked to Svitochka to translate.

      ‘Botanica Gah-den?’ she carefully formed the difficult words.

      ‘No, no, no, this is Government House! You must get out immediately. The Botanic Gardens are further up North Terrace.’

      Tatiana, thinking this another attack on her being a New Australian, refused to budge.

      ‘No, Mama,’ implored Svitochka. ‘This is where the Governor lives. We must leave now. This is not the Botanic Gardens.’

      Again, she felt humiliated as they packed up their picnic and were hastily shooed out.

      But not all outings were this fraught. John Martin’s Christmas Pageant had been the highlight of Svitochka’s life so far. John Martin’s was the name of a large department store in Rundle Street, the main street in central Adelaide. Its owner, Edward Hayward, decided to start a pageant in 1933 as a pick-me-up during the Depression. For generations of South Australians, Christmas came to town on the day Santa waved from his pageant float and made his triumphant waddle into the Magic Cave, (conveniently located in the centre of John Martin’s toy department). Every November an explosion of colour, music and magic was foisted onto the wide clean streets of Adelaide. Svitochka was in seventh heaven, squealing with delight as huge clowns swooped dramatically over her head, giant ladies floated serenely past and every conceivable fairytale unfolded upon mammoth floats before her very eyes.

      March 1952 marked the end of two years that the alien family had landed on Australian soil. Tatiana and Ivan now received exemption certificates, which meant they were released from compulsory labour. Even though Tatiana didn’t really love Ivan, she consented to marry him because he had promised to buy her a house. Their days of living in other people’s houses to other people’s rules were soon to be over. Tatiana bought a beautiful crepe dress and stunning hat and gloves from John Martin’s. Svitochka, delighted to have her hair liberated into curls, wore a white lace dress. Katherina and her husband Kurt were the witnesses. Ivan, bothered that his beautiful betrothed thought money grew on trees, reluctantly shelled out his hard-earned cash. Playford’s ideal immigrant had bust his gut working double shifts at Holden, and had scraped together enough overtime pay for a deposit on a house. It was at number 17 Pudney Street, Hendon, and only a ten-minute bike ride from the Holden factory.

      Mrs Taplow donned her navy-blue gloves and hat, a stiff dark blue affair. Must look smart, she thought. She was on a mission. And dreaded it. But it was her duty to ‘Australianise’ these aliens as swiftly as possible.

      ‘Brush your hair, Trevor,’ she ordered. His frizzing hair did not take kindly to being brushed, insisting instead on forming little anarchic ridges that threatened the straightness of the side parting that his mother had so painstakingly instigated.

      ‘We must set a good example for the New Australians who have moved in down the road.’

      Sleepy lizards blinked as they walked along what was called ‘the back road’. This road skirted the railway line to the gates of the former Hendon Munitions works, now the Philips Factory. A variety of houses in Pudney Street backed on to this road, interspersed with empty blocks and a few back-enders. Because of a shortage of building materials and cash, many families built the back half of their house first, like the Portman’s at Number 19; next door to the aliens. Old Mrs Briggs had lived alone at Number 17 since Mr Briggs had died. Mildred bristled inside to think that reffos had bought this house.

      ‘I thought they lived in tin shacks?’ she spat at breakfast. ‘And where did they get all that money from?’ Albert quietly speared his bacon. Reffo rants were the norm these days. He didn’t need to answer the rhetorical question.

      ‘Up to no good, no doubt. Many decent Adelaide citizens can’t possibly afford to buy a house.’ The only reason Mildred had her own home was because she had snared Albert Taplow, who had lived with his cantankerous old mother and his spinster sister Lynette. Old Mrs Taplow died and Lynette moved out to live with a maiden aunt. Thankfully, Mildred now ruled the roost. She had to keep reminding herself of what was said at the last Good Neighbour Council meeting; these Displaced Persons were here to stay, whether she liked it or not. Premier Playford, she kept being told, was making South Australia great. And, as her special civic duty, she had taken on the responsibility of making sure this particular family was assimilated as quickly as possible.

      Mildred and Trevor turned left through the yellow shed that served as Hendon Station, and walked up the little side road which flanked No 17. As Mrs Taplow opened the front gate to the 1920s bungalow-style house, she gasped at what had happened to Mrs Briggs’ garden. The neatly laid lawn edged by rosebushes planted yonks ago by Mr Briggs was completely dug up. A man with a large nose was leaning on his shovel, his stained white singlet soaked with sweat. A little girl was jumping excitedly near where the man was digging, and shrieking in a strange language. They both looked up as the gate squeaked.

      Mildred and Trevor stepped gingerly up the path in between clods of earth. The wire screen of the front door creaked open and a blonde woman in a spotted dress stepped out on to the large veranda. She looked quizzically at the visitors.

      ‘Oh, how do you do? My name is Mrs Taplow, and this is Trevor. We live further up the road and would like to welcome you to Pudney Street.’

      The sweaty man looked blank but came forward anyway.

      ‘Helloia,’ he said, hand outstretched. The neatly gloved hand stayed glued to the dark blue handbag. His hand hovered awkwardly for a few seconds, as if shaking away a fly. He enunciated slowly.

      ‘Helloia. I pliz to mit you. Me Ivan,’ he pointed. ‘Zis Tatiana and zis Svitochka.’ Both introductees gave beaming smiles. Trevor was mesmerised by Tatania’s silver tooth as it flashed in the sun.

      Svitochka jumped up and down again, and excitedly pointed to something in the freshly dug earth.

      ‘Flog, flog!’ Trevor saw a large green frog leap towards the wooden fence. Trevor