The Noon Lady of Towitta (6 page)

Whereas in Germany spinning was with flax, the tradition was adapted and continued in South Australia by spinning wool instead. Aunt Giscelia was the local
Kantorka,
leading the singing and teaching others the many songs she knew. She took over the role from Katie-Lizzie, her aunt. I was sure she never reached the end of her huge stock of songs for we always seemed to be learning new ones. It was these ‘foreign ways' that made us different, but we would not relinquish them. We continued to cook in our own way, to tat, crochet, knit, sew, spin, weave, sing and paint hard-boiled eggs at Easter. We loved to hear the old family songs that were laments about lost love or nature.

It was through folktales that our hopes and desires took root. At night Pauline and I would tell each other stories that included dwarfs, dragons and other nightmare-inducing creatures. One of the scariest creatures of all was the waterman, or in Wendish, the
wodny muz
, who lurked outside the house waiting to entice us into the massive underground water tank or some other forbidding watery place. Fortunately, some of the more frightening tales involving this creature who wished to lure children to watery graves couldn't happen in Towitta through lack of water. Despite this, Mother was in constant fear that we'd drown in the water tank even though it was kept covered with corrugated iron. We had no need to fear rain, rivers or lakes, but we were terrified of the water tank, a death trap, and the place where horrible creatures of the night lurked. We laughed and gasped but the thrill of being alive when so many of the fairytale characters had been killed, stayed with us long after the story was told.

On wild nights when the wind moaned and howled around the farm, I might whisper, ‘Watch out, Pauline Schippan, I can hear the Noon Lady coming, she's coming to get
you
.'

This witch, the Noon Lady, also known as the Woman of Midday or
Mittagsfrau
, was very much like the
wodny muz
or the
Ztynjedobry
who also harmed children and babies in horrible ways. It was well known by Wends that when a small child wandered into the bush and disappeared, the horrible witch had stolen the child for herself. As far as we were concerned, it was pointless setting a black tracker onto the 40 trail of a missing child. You couldn't escape the witch's power if she had her evil eye on you. Even when she didn't actually take a child she'd leave little signs of her visits. Freckles were stamped on the uncovered parts of a child's body when their parents turned away for a moment. Pauline and I couldn't ignore this witch for we witnessed an event caused by her evil when we were young.

Sister Kathleen interrupted to ask, ‘This is the truth, Mary?' I looked at her, ‘Would I make it up?'

All Wendish children know she takes babies away if they are neglected or not baptised immediately after birth. Although my parents had seven children, I know there had been another baby and when I was about nine it was taken away by the witch and replaced with a changeling. I remembered Mother cried a lot, she kept asking Father if the Noon Lady would strike again. Pauline and I heard snatches of conversation, mainly in hushed but anguished tones and whispers between the aunts long after the event. I heard Father curse the witch, telling Mother, ‘It won't happen again if we're careful.'

From what I could make out the Noon Lady had done a swap and left her with a ‘no good' creature – half animal, half human, with a big head and swollen belly, that would never live a normal life – a changeling. Mother wept, ‘Oh my poor little baby, where has she taken you?'

But we knew. We stood rigid with fear watching Father pick up the writhing tiny creature and run with it from the house on what was a rare stormy night. I can remember clutching Pauline's hand and I couldn't take my head out of her apron, I was terrified. But Pauline was so fascinated that she dragged me to the kitchen door and outside where we saw Father take this monstrous-looking creature out into a paddock, scattering and startling a large mob of emus that gathered around the farm when food and water were scarce. We watched him put down his oil lamp and drop the squirming changeling on the ground next to it and then he killed it with a spade, shoving the blade through its neck.

We were shocked. Pauline dragged me back inside. I still can't quite believe what I saw. I suppose Father must have buried it somewhere so that only he knew of its whereabouts. By this time, Pauline and I were sitting together on the sofa. I wouldn't let go of her hand. When Father returned, he looked wild and murderous. He didn't utter a word but rushed to retrieve the family Bible and we all cowered and trembled while he sat at the table leafing through the pages for relevant passages. He then ranted, loud and menacingly. All the time Mother was wailing with grief in the bedroom. It was a pitiful sound and of course it set us crying hysterically, for I thought Father might take one of us out there next, especially if we were to disobey him. As if this wasn't bad enough, I can remember the angry-sounding emus had positioned themselves outside the house making their dreadful drumming sounds from deep in their throats while tapping on the windows with their beaks. I thought of the evil eye as they tapped and stared in at us with their piercing eyes.

Sister Kathleen leaned over to me and took my hand, ‘You've lived with that all your life, Mary? I can't believe that anyone could behave that way. That was murder what your father did.'

She paused to draw breath, then asked, ‘Did your mother really believe that stuff about the witch?'

‘Oh, Sister, but of course she did. We all did. We still do.'

I told her all my sleep problems dated from this violent event and that I began to have terrifying nightmares where I would wake each night and feel a heavy weight on my chest. As I struggled to see what caused it I spied a stunted goblin type monster sitting on me – the changeling perhaps. Even when it moved from my chest to the corner of the bedroom I was totally paralysed with fear.

Sister Kathleen didn't know what to say at first. She shook her head in disbelief and walked around the verandah adjusting her cap. Then she said, ‘I've heard about this type of nightmare but I never knew people really had them. I thought they only happened in books. I just don't know what to say, but I won't be able to sleep now. Mary, I know you are a good storyteller, but I know you didn't make this up. I'm sorry, I have to go now, and it's my day off tomorrow. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

She led me back to my room and gave me a reassuring pat on my arm before leaving me.

6

A few evenings later, Sister Kathleen called by before going on night duty. She found me sitting in my room knitting the tiny baby clothes that kept me busy. She drew up the spare chair, ‘Seeing you with those tiny booties, Mary, reminds me that we haven't spoken about the baby in your family, your youngest sister, Bertha. Can you tell me about her? I've heard bits and pieces, but I am curious to know what she was like. They say she was a very pretty girl.'

‘You'd best sit down and make yourself comfortable while I think a moment or two how best to tell you about her.' And soon I began.

When Pauline and I first shared the three-quarter iron bedstead, Bertha, being the youngest, slept in Mother's room on a makeshift bed. The situation changed when I went to work in Adelaide.

Bertha was a thorn in my side from the time she was born when I was ten-and-a-half years old. Father insisted she be named after Mother, Johanne Elizabeth, but she was always called Bertha. Pauline was the eldest, twelve-and-a-half years of age at that time. After me there followed a tribe of four brothers ranging from nine down to two years of age. There was no chance to catch one's breath or have a moment of peace with the work they made for Pauline and me. They were demanding, always hungry, grubby and naughty. From the time Mother thought we were capable, Pauline and I were placed in charge of looking after them. Although it was hard work, Mother was fair in her expectations of us. But this all changed with the arrival of Bertha.

Bertha was completely different to August and Willy who were different again from the older brothers, Frederick and Heinrich. And she was nothing like Pauline or me. She was the odd one in the family, a real spitfire who liked having fun by playing tricks or teasing her brothers to get her own back for terrifying her. Her fiery temper matched Father's and my own. Being the baby of the family, she was treated as one and got away with murder. When I returned from Adelaide I spoke to her in English, while speaking to Mother and Father in a mixture of German and Wendish. She wanted to be a schoolteacher when she left school so it was important for her to speak English fluently. I helped her where possible. My two years in Adelaide had greatly improved my spoken English, but I still couldn't read or write very well. Bertha was the smartest, too big and cocky for her own boots in our family. She took the most risks and regularly tested Father's authority.

When she was born after a crop of grubby boys, Mother drooled over her new baby love. Until Bertha's arrival, Pauline as first born and first daughter, was Mother's favourite. I couldn't help feeling jealous. Yet Pauline, who had more reason than me to feel jealous of the newest baby, was long-suffering and never complained. Pauline had room in her heart for all of us and if she felt the new baby had now become Mother's favourite, she never showed it. If anything, she added to the spoiling of Bertha and loved her like her own. But I never did.

Speaking of Bertha brought back so many mixed thoughts. ‘It is so difficult to speak about her. You have no idea how much trouble she caused in the family. Although she was my sister, I can't say I showed her sisterly love.'

Sister Kathleen asked gently, ‘Would you like to call it a night? I can see you are tired.'

‘No, it's all right. I want to continue as I need to cleanse myself of these memories. I've carried it around for far too long.

When we should have been at school, Mother often kept Pauline and me at home to help with the never-ending laundry, cleaning, patching of worn-out clothes and preparation of food. Apart from this, we ran round after the boys changing their clothes, wiping their dirty faces and hands and feeding them. They were like naughty puppies.

As if this wasn't enough, Bertha was different. She grew up spoilt, disobedient and sneaky. If she cried she was nursed, if not by Mother, certainly by Pauline. When she demanded food, she was fed there and then. Whatever she wanted, she was given. While the rest of us were familiar with the sting of Mother's hand or Father's flicking whip for minor crimes, Bertha did not suffer these punishments. And while Mother spent hours besotted by the cute baby, we were given more chores. Whereas we whacked the boys if they misbehaved, smacking Bertha risked a clout from Mother, who reminded us, ‘I've told you before, I'll deal with Bertha.'

Nothing was straightforward with Bertha. Pauline knew how to manage her, but I didn't. She interfered in the brief amount of time I could have to myself. When I tried to sneak away for a lone walk along the nearby lane towards the creek, Mother would know and before I had walked far I'd hear her shouting, ‘If you're going for a walk, take Bertha with you.'

I'd reply, ‘Do I have too? It's not fair. I just want to get away from her so I can be on my own for a while.' I'd grumble with disbelief and irritation, but it was pointless disobeying for if I did so, I'd be forbidden to take a walk. Then she'd skip and run about me as we headed down the track, and chatter, chatter, chatter. All I wanted was a few minutes of peace now and again, but this was difficult when Bertha demanded my attention.

Apart from looking after the brothers or Bertha, we were given specific chores from an early age, and Father ensured we completed them. I looked after the pigs and the two cows while Pauline was responsible for the poultry and most of the cooking. Life on our farm was one of hard work and dreary routine. Father made sure we were never idle. We livened our existences any way we could and visitors were seen as a welcome diversion. However, not all were welcomed by Father.

And so I began the story of Mr Khan, the Afghan hawker.

7

Father never liked hawkers or travelling salesmen calling in at the farm. We believed this was because he was ashamed of our poor state. We looked forward to these colourful visitors because they distracted us from the gruelling and tedious farm chores and the feeling of isolation. Mother liked these visitors too and sometimes bought a comb, a new pair of scissors, cloth, ribbons or some miracle potion such as Sea Foam, a pink mixture that we were told cured anything and everything. The hawkers brought colourful wares for us to see and showed little knick-knacks and baubles that women liked, especially women so far from city shops. As the hawkers declared themselves fortune tellers as well, this was an added treat when Father was well away. We were eager to know what the future held in store for us. In our dull lives, they gave us hope by telling us our fortunes.

These travellers called often until Father suddenly took exception to one of the Afghan hawkers. Because of the heat and dust in summertime, and the long journeys between stops, Mother always offered a traveller a cool drink of water or some morsel that might be available. But one such day Father had cross words with Mr Khan, one of the hawkers, because Father believed he had been overly familiar with Pauline. Father saw their behaviour as flirting, and flirting as loose and immoral behaviour, especially if one of his own daughters was involved.

Mr Khan was tall and handsome, with sea-green eyes, and he cut a romantic figure in his flowing white robes, saffron turban and long black waistcoat. It was difficult to know how old he was for his black beard hid most of his face. From his white teeth and the slight crow's-foot wrinkles around his smiling eyes, I thought he must be only in his early thirties, an ideal age for Pauline. My eyes often lingered on him too, and when our eyes met, I was charmed.