Frauke Bolten-Boshammer - A Diamond in the Dust

A DIAMOND IN THE DUST

First published in Australia in 2018 by

Simon & Schuster (Australia) Pty Limited

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Frauke Bolten-Boshammer and Sue Smethurst 2018

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Cover design: Christabella Designs

Cover photograph: Chris Magnay Photography, www.magnay.photos

Internal design: Christabella Designs

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Land of Forrests, Fleas and Flies,

Blighted hopes and blighted eyes

Art thou hell in earths disguise?

Westralia.

Allan Deuchar

To the spirit of the people who have called Kununurra home

APRIL 1981, PERTH

The flight attendant raised an eyebrow as she locked eyes on our tickets.

Do you know what Kununurra is like? she asked smugly. I suppose it was understandable shed be curious about anyone with a one-way ticket to the most remote part of Australia especially a young couple who barely spoke English, with three small children in tow.

As she placed our luggage onto a trolley, already piled high with newspapers, sacks of flour and bibs and bobs of machinery, I lifted the baby a little higher on my hip, confidently pushed a stray brown curl off my face and summoned every ounce of false bravado to plaster a smile across my face.

The stubborn German blood that ran through my veins was not prepared to give even the slightest hint of the crippling fear that had stolen my sleep since my husband Friedrich dropped a bombshell six months earlier: we were moving to Australia.

Flights from Perth to the outback were a rarity, and so were passengers on them. Flight MV 392 from Perth to Kununurra via Derby, known as the milk run, delivered much-needed supplies to the remote cattle stations and tiny settlements that dotted the vast desert. For the people who lived there, it was a lifeline to the outside world.

There was no fancy cabin service, no message from the captain to sit back, relax and enjoy the flight. We were cargo, of the human kind, to be delivered to the furthest part of the desert.

With our tickets checked, eleven-year-old Fritz and ten-year-old Margret raced across the tarmac and up the metal stairs to find their seats, while the last of our luggage was placed into the cargo hold. We didnt bring much with us. The thick woollen coats and hats needed to survive the winter at home were packed into the attic of our farmhouse in Seedorf, in Northern Germany, awaiting our return. A handful of suitcases and the clothes on our back were all we would need for our adventure.

We were on our way to one of the most remote and isolated areas of Australia, possibly the world. A crocodile-infested corner of the outback, eight hours drive from the nearest major town. Our new home was to be a farm Id not seen, in a place Id never heard of, with a name I could hardly get my tongue around, 3200 kilometres from Perth, on the border of the Northern Territory and Western Australia; in the middle of nowhere.

I buckled myself in for the ride of my life.

The state of Schleswig-Holstein, where I was born and raised, is known for its picturesque rolling hills, rich green fields and secluded lakes that look like scenes straight from The Sound of Music . I confess to getting a little homesick every time I see that movie.

My mother was the love of my fathers life. They got engaged on the eve of the Second World War, and when he was enlisted to serve in the German army they wrote more than four hundred love letters to one another to keep in touch.

Every one of my fathers notes began, My darling Lotte! Our thoughts return to each other. There are pages and pages in the most perfect pen, sharing tales of life in the trenches. My mother would write back, offering comforting words from home. They married when he was home on leave, but the honeymoon had to wait because he was shipped back to the front line. They hated being apart.

After the war, my father returned and they began their married life living and working on my grandfathers farm in Neuheim. Then along came my brother, Juergen, in 1943 followed by my sister, Dorte, in 1945. I was born Frauke Seemann on 3 October 1947. Frauke means little lady.

Not long after my second birthday, my mother, Liselotte, died from cancer. She was just thirty-four years old. I never knew her, and it breaks my heart to this day that I have no memories of her that are my own. My memories belong to others, recollections borrowed and cobbled together from stories and snippets I begged my family to share. With their help, Ive pieced together a patchwork picture of her, a treasured image Ive locked away in my heart.

I have one precious photo of us together, a fading black-and-white picture that sits in a frame in my bedroom. I wake to her face every day. She was very sick from the cancer when the picture was taken. Thin and pale, she shows no resemblance to the robust German women of my family, but Im grateful for that one image; it gives me something to cling to.

My father, Johannes, was bereft when she died. Her coffin was lined with her favourite flowers, so she was buried resting her head on a thick bed of dark red and crimson carnations. When the coffin was sealed, huge garlands of flowers were draped over the top. My brother and sister and I werent allowed to attend her funeral we werent even told shed died until after she was buried. We never got to say goodbye.

In his eulogy, my father proudly declared that they had a great love which grew every day, and called her his dear partner in life. He recalled how sad it was to say goodbye to her in the rare times he was home on leave during the war. It was difficult for me never knowing if we would see one another again, but her silent prayers, her bravery, her love; everything contributed to me surviving the war.

In the final hours of her life, she squeezed his hand while he tenderly cradled her, until death was stronger and she no longer had the strength to defeat it, he told the congregation.

Years later I was told that he broke down in tears reading his final words: My only wish is that the children and I could see you just one more time. Ive read his eulogy many times; its clear he adored her. I believe his heart and his spirit were broken the day she died. He kept a lock of her hair with him for the rest of his life.

After she died, we barely spoke about my mother; it upset my father too much. Whenever one of us would mention her, hed cry. We could see how sad it made him; he was heartbroken. We didnt want to upset him too much, so we just stopped talking about her. It was like she never existed.

My father struggled to look after us without a wife; at that time it was not considered a mans job. He was a very traditional man, a stout German farmer whose role was to provide a home for us, a roof over our heads and food on the table and he did all of that, but he struggled to show us love.

What we craved most was affection, a fathers gentle hug, someone to wipe away the tears and tell us everything would be okay, but he was trained to keep a stiff upper lip and soldier on. Thats what he expected of us too; he sternly reinforced the belief that children were to be seen and not heard.