The Tin of Secrets Read online

The Tin of Secrets

  Copyright 2013 Steve Wilson

  Central Train Station

  Sydney

  Hundreds of commuters streamed off the various city-bound trains, making their way briskly though the turnstiles and beyond to their workstations, cash registers and clients. Many flowed around the old cleaner with his long handled dustpan and broom picking up the litter no-one ever dropped but appeared nonetheless. No-one knew his age. Nor did they care. He was punctual, gladly carried out menial tasks that would have driven younger workers to distraction and, most importantly, did so for a paltry wage. Since before anyone could remember, every couple of years, he would smile and sign a contract or wage agreement without even a cursory glance. Even when his State Government job was outsourced and he has handed off to the contractor, he didn't complain about his conditions dropping off. He was just glad to have regular work. Senior management or the unions weren't concerned. He was one of those invisible people that toiled away in the background of most large organisations.

  He made his way to Platform 1, the interstate arrivals. The nine AM from Melbourne was characteristically late. This meant that he would have to sweep the concourse as passengers arrived. This, he would happily do in order to keep to his precious routine. He skirted around the periphery of the platform, crowded with newcomers and welcoming relatives, picking up random wrappers, flyers and newspaper lift-outs proclaiming 50% off everything in store. He came across a blob of chewing gum, residue from the last of the mindless slobs now that the smokers had been driven outdoors. He pulled a piece of flat, hard plastic he kept for just such an occasion from his pocket and commenced scraping up the offending substance.

  A female voice behind him called "Issa?" A flood of adrenaline went through his body. He had not heard the Estonian name for father in many years. He stopped breathing and his heart rate accelerated. Like a child he remained motionless, hoping the question was not directed at him. "Issa, is that you?" came the voice again. Who else would she be talking to? How many other Estonian fathers would be on Platform 1? He stood up and made to shuffle off, head down, as if the question were not directed toward him.

  The woman walked around and stood in his path. "Excuse me, is your name Endel Hektor?"

  "No. I em sorry," he replied in a thick Eastern European accent that he could not shake after sixty years. He looked up and saw a woman in her late fifties, dressed in clothing befitting her age, complete with scarf and a diamond brooch above her breast. Clutching her hand was a curious child who was sensibly dressed, before that age when brand labels held sway over practicality. He stared momentarily into the woman’s eyes and saw his eyes, in his wife's face. For the second time his breathing stopped. After what seemed like an eternity staring at each other, he broke the spell, dropped his gaze and said "Sorry, sorry, I do not know this person," and shuffled of as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

  Behind him he heard the child ask, "Nanna. Who was that?"

  "Someone I thought I knew dear."

  The old cleaner finished up as quick as he could and for the first time in many years, he knocked off early. As he rode home on the 442 bus to Balmain he cradled his old vinyl Qantas bag in his lap with his gnarled, calloused, shaking hands and stared out of the window at nothing in particular.

  He got off at the Rozelle bus stop and shuffled down his tiny inner suburban street. The occasional resident called their usual "Hello Arthur" to him and he replied with a nod and rictus like grin as if to say sorry, I'm not up to talking today. When he arrived at his small flat at the rear of a small federation style house on a block of land not much larger, he ignored his usual rituals. No glass of beer in front of the telly with his shoes off today. No one way conversation with Miiko the cat. Instead he went directly to his kitchenette, pulled out his pots and pans from under the bench and pulled away some timber slats from the back of the cupboard. He then reached into the void and pulled out an old, tarnished, rectangular tin and placed it on his old formica kitchen table.

  After checking the door was locked and the curtains drawn he opened the tin and pulled out the contents. A yellowed envelope containing faded black and white photos as well as parchment like news clippings were underneath an oily rag wrapped around a World War Two German Luger pistol. He placed the pistol to one side. It made a loud, ominous thud on the table. He examined the photos with his shaking hands. There were four photos of a family at Adelaide's Glenelg Beach, all wearing bathers popular in the early sixties. A beaming ten year old version of the woman he saw today and a skinny five year old boy were posing in front of their parents; one, an attractive, dark haired woman; the other a tall, lean, serious father. Another, older photo depicted five teenage boys in ill-fitting German SS uniforms, staring arrogantly at the camera, arms draped across each other's shoulders. One of the newspaper clippings, dated 1965 featured a similar picture. Key words he made out in the c lipping were SS, Nazis, Estonians and arrest. After all of these years the article still struck terror into his heart. The last clipping was dated a year later and had his picture underneath a heading mentioning a police search. He put his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably for what felt like an eternity.

  Estonia 1944

  The five teenage boys posed for the camera, trying to look as soldierlike as they could. Although a nationwide conscription was taking place, due to the looming Soviet advance, many young men who would be normally too young to enlist were eager to fight the hated Red Army. Many were old enough to remember the brief but brutal Soviet occupation three years previously. In fourteen year old Endel's case, his father was deported to Siberia for reasons he never fully understood, leaving him to help with the farm rather than attend school. Like many Estonians, he initially welcomed the Germans as liberators and, although they were harsh masters, the Nazi regime was mild in comparison to the Soviets.

  A month after the photograph was taken, three of the five boys were dead, courtesy of the Red Army's artillery. Endel found himself retreating with his anti-aircraft unit through Latvia toward Germany proper. His desire to fight for Estonia's freedom was now crushed by the new Soviet occupation. His objective was now to survive and that meant heading west. The following six months were shambolic, with German units redeploying, splitting and amalgamating due to the tenuous grasp the High Command had in the dying stages of the war. Endel eventually found himself in an Estonian infantry unit briefly guarding the northern approaches to Berlin before the Eastern Front collapsed. Anticipating the Soviets reaction to their treachery, the Estonians joined the desperate scramble west in order to surrender to the Americans or British.

  The Americans treated them well considering the circumstances, provided that they weren't SS. There was a thorough program of weeding out former SS soldiers, regardless of whether they were associated with the Holocaust or not. Rumours persisted that many had been summarily executed in response to previous atrocities. Endel managed to slip through this net due to his young age. After a year in POW camps in Germany and Belgium, the Estonians were released and shipped to Germany. Endel and many boys his age had now become exiles living in a foreign country with no family support, education or prospect of work. Fortunately many were taken into Displaced Persons Camps, where small Estonian communities sprang up. Endel kept to himself and did not strike up any friendships for fear of being identified as a Nazi collaborator. By 1947 Endel and thousands of his countrymen were allowed to migrate to Australia and he found himself in Adelaide the same year.

  Once again Endel found himself in a foreign land, with little support, no prospects and a bare grasp of the language. The little amount of English he learnt at the camp did not prepare him for "Strewth!" and "Stone the bloody crows!" As with many European migrants he picke
d up labouring work at the Adelaide shipyards. This suited him just fine and in the company of Poles, Lithuanians and Latvians he slowly integrated into Australian life. When he turned twenty he met Ania, a Polish girl he married within the year.

  Life, finally, was good for Endel. They had two children in the following years and had made a down-payment on a cottage in Rosewater. He remained in low skilled labour for many years and did not crave any advancement. He was a law abiding citizen, paid his taxes and was a good husband and father.

  Then one day in 1965, his past caught up with him.

  Never one to read newspapers he spied a copy of the Advertiser open