Best Australian Yarn: My Aussie Birthday by Avalea Curtis

The musty smell of smoke filled my lungs with each inhale. The rythmic chugging sound of the train reverberated through the eerie stillness. The engine roared and smoke billowed into the dimly lit sky. This was my chance, my life depended on it. That too, of my family. I couldn’t give up. The sound of that train signalled the start of a journey that would change my life forever.

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I woke from my nightmare and could feel perspiration beading on my forehead. The darkest experiences of World War II in my beautiful homeland, Lithuania, etched into my memories. Despite the passing of many years, the trail of suffering and despair that Hitler and his merciless regime inflicted, continued to haunt my sleep. Taking a deep breath, I let my mind drift into a cloud of gratitude. It was a special day; May 21st. Once only dreamt of, I was surrounded by luxuries; a beautiful home, creature comforts, my wife, June and our daughter, Lynlea. A familiar smell wafted in the air, instantly recognisable. On the bedside table, June had left a steaming mug of tea and a piece of Vegemite toast to coax me from slumber. Knowing that I would get a telling off if I “forgot” to make the bed, I cheekily pulled up the doona, to conceal the crumpled sheets underneath. In the distance I could hear the music from the outdoor shed as June did her aerobics.

“Daddy!”

I heard Lynlea’s sweet voice from the living room as she played with her dolls.

“My darling!”

I swooped Lynlea into my arms to greet her goodmorning, taking in her sweet smell and ruffling her hair. She went back to playing with her dolls. I went back to listening to the comforting, familiar sounds of my life today, humming a song of sunshine. Though filed away, were the memories and sounds of my past…

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My mother called from the next room. The walls incredibly thin in the temporary housing we were residing in. I pretended not to hear.

“Algirdas! Come here this instance!” Now she had her grumbles on.

As a child of 10 years, I was vulnerable to my mother’s smacks, so I cautiously walked down the hallway, my threadbare socks muffling the thud, thud of my feet. It was war-time, and our farmhouse now occupied by ruthless soldiers, forced our family to live crammed into a few rooms of a ghetto. My mother and father’s conversations revolved around the harsh reality of feeding and clothing our family.

Mother stood on her tippy-toes, reaching up to the top shelf. She stretched right to the back of the cupboard, and pulled out a worn slipper. She carefully peeled back the sole to reveal crumpled notes. Mother set five notes aside on the wooden table and advised me to spend wisely before returning the slipper.

The racket at the market was always a comforting sound for me. The smell reminded me of life on the farm, before war had extinguished our family dreams. For a small moment, I felt normal amongst the crowd of people and market stalls. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t noticed the lingering footsteps and watchful eyes behind me. As I paused to take in the chaos of the market, out of the corner of my eye I caught an unwelcome glimpse. My heart began to pound. I fled around the corner and didn’t dare look behind me.

I could feel the uniformed soldier in pursuit, the pounding of his heavy boots on the cobbled path, becoming louder as he closed in. I suddenly felt hands roughly grasp my shoulders from behine. I gasped.

“Don’t move.”

As I was spun around, I came face to face with the soldier from the market. His breath, reeking of stale alcohol. He demanded my details.

I told him, “My name is Algirdas Baikauskas.”

“Papers!” he barked.

I shook my head. He looked at me menacingly.

“No papers?”

The soldier lifted his hand, as if to retrieve his gun. A sudden drama unfolded on the street, momentarily capturing his attention. It gave me just enough leeway to break free and escape. I sprinted back through the market square, pausing only to snatch two loaves of bread. Dirty, hungry bodies lined the sidewalks. The cries of children echoed through the air. The stark reality that is war. So visible. Everyone, in some way, a casualty.

As I reached the corner of my ghetto, the street was quieter than usual. No army barking orders at the children playing chasey. It was peculiar. I cautiously pushed open the gates as a loud screeching noise sounded in the distance. I ran to our room, no sign of my family, instead clothes strewn all over the floor, beds and furniture upturned. With a sudden realisation, I knew I had only moments.

I sprinted from the ghetto, heading to the train station. The platforms were bare as the carriages pulled away, still within view. I ran with all my might! I could see the train, every detail, the engravings in the iron, the icy condensation dripping from the rails. With sheer determination, I ran with speed that I didn’t know I possessed. This was the only chance to remain with my family. I lunged for those iron handles and held for dear life for the 150km freezing cold journey, a testament to my sheer desperation.

At a stop, I made my way into the carriage. By some act of God, my mother found me. Shivering uncontrollably, her arms wrapped around me, she promised to never let me go again. My sister Danute, and my father were also on the train, too stunned with fear to speak. Crammed like animals into a carriage lined with hay. It was the longest of journeys. Men, women, and children shuffled to the corner of the carriage to relieve themselves, deprieved of dignity. Nothing left but self-preservation. The journey was unbearably long and as we arrived at a displaced person camp, we were harshly directed by the soldiers.

“Women, children- here. Men – over here.”

The soldier pointed in two different directions. We kissed my father goodbye. I clung to my mother and Danute as we moved to the designated area.

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In the camp, we slept in bunk beds, with nothing more than a scratchy blanket. Food was scarce. Our days in the camp became weeks, the months slipping away through the grasp of time.

Australian soldiers were next door training, and through the fence, I watched them with curiousity each day. One day the Aussies waved and came over to give me some food; a weird sticky, brown concoction spread onto bread. I tentatively took a nibble and gave a strained smile. The Aussie soldiers laughed. I laughed with them as they gave me a thumbs up. I had forgotten the joy that laughter can bring. Each morning the Aussie soldiers smuggled me half a “Vegemite” sandwich. I shared it with my mother and Danute to dull our incessant hunger. The Aussie men had given me happiness and hope. They had shown me kindness, which I could never forget.

As the months passed, the friends I had made in camp begun to leave. Yet still my family remained. Others had received invitations to migrate as countries provided refuge. Finally, our invitation arrived to begin a new life, with offers to move to Canada, South Africa or Australia. The Aussie soldiers had shown us true character and raised our spirits when dark clouds loomed. So we chose Australia as our lucky country.

We caught a train to Genoa, Italy and boarded a ship bound for Australia. We passed through the Suez canal. The journey was long and we were separated from one another. On 21st May 1949, we finally arrived in Fremantle. As the boat anchored, I stood on deck carrying nothing more than a small backpack of belongings. I stepped onto unfamiliar land with a mix of hope and trepidation. I felt grateful to leave behind the past and was ready to embrace the possibilities ahead. I admired the beautiful land that graciously offered us a new start, a place to call home.

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I drifted back and in the stillness, stood basking in the sounds of my Aussie life. I gave quiet gratitude to my lucky country for the abundance of blessings it had shared.

I heard the familiar creak of the flyscreen door opening, and looked up.

“Junie?”

“Happy birthday, Algirdas.”

I leant in and kissed the forehead of my freckle-faced, Aussie wife. Lynlea wrapped her small arms around our knees. Our morning embrace; our way of saying we loved each other. I smiled. Despite enduring such hardship, I stood now with a full heart.

It was time to celebrate. It was a special day, May 21st. My Aussie birthday!

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This story is in memory of my late, Great ‘Old’ Grandad, who would share his cold toast and vegemite with me, and sing, “You are my sunshine”. I have dedicated it to my Old Granny and Granlea who share Old Grandad’s stories often. It is his journey from Lithuania to Australia that gave my family the life we have today. We love you to the moon and back, Old Grandad.