Barbed Wire

We live on a farm in the Wimmera, which is mostly flat, dry and desolate. However, we have ten thousand acres, bordered by the lake, the mountain and the road. On it we grow wheat and sometimes rapeseed when we have a demand for lamp oil or stock food. Our livestock is one thousand sheep, not to mention various ducks, dogs, chooks and other pets. The family consists of mama, papa and seven children - four brothers and three foster siblings - all boys. The property is surrounded by miles and miles of fencing, built by our ancestors and now repaired by our own hands. Like everything else on the farm it’s simple to make, dropper posts every thirty feet with three strainer posts in between each dropper; strands of heavy-duty wire at the centre, top and bottom ensure the sheep stay where we put them. We reinforce the top strand with barbed wire to discourage the dogs –wild and tamed, from jumping over them, or to prevent the cows from leaning against them on their way along the road.

The land is what holds us here; despite the weather being fickle, we like the constancy of farming life. It’s predictable. We boys have worked the farm all our lives and if we have children will pass the land on to them. My older brother, Abelard, started harrowing at eleven and was followed a year later by the twins Zelig and Bernard. As I am five years younger than the twins I did not have to begin harrowing so young but harrowing is only one job and there are many other chores to do. Life has been hard but there are also many good times.

The humans share a sandstone three-bedroom house. Inside the house everything is compacted into a small space and utilitarian. We have two sets of bunk beds in each bedroom, made of sturdy cast iron. “Built to last,” papa says, “like us, stolid and solid, German stock.” Although we too are self-contained and do not express our feelings well, our nature is such that our arguments are as long as the fences that surround our property and our grudges as sharp as the barbed wire that tops them.

I am the youngest and the smallest; my mama says I am delicate and I have the most artistic temperament of all her children, even the fostered ones. I am not afraid of hard work but I prefer to work inside.

It was because of this preference that Abelard and I had the longest argument in our long and contentious history, an argument that got me so riled that I forgot basic safety precautions and went to work on the fences without gloves. It was also because my heart was angry and my eyes blurred with trying not to cry that I slipped and cut myself on the barbed wire.

Each day we would go out and check the fence lines. They normally don’t need that much repair, but this spring too much fencing had fallen over and every time we checked, we had to fix or replace some. The drought had dried up the soil so much it could no longer hold strainers in place when the wind blew. Then the rain came in torrents and the droppers surrendered to gravity in the same way a defeated army gives in and gives up when victors overrun them. Abelard and I had been working on the fences for three days while Zelig and Bernard worked back from the other end of the farm and Helmut, Tom and Noel rounded up the stray sheep that had wandered on to the road. We were all tired from battling the winds and rain, I particularly so because I’m not built to work so long and so hard. Helmut and Tom had promised to come back when they had moved the sheep but they didn’t.

Papa was away at the wool board trying to get enough money to keep the farm going. Abelard, as the eldest, had agreed to fix the fences and take care of me while papa was gone. I had expected him to act like a man, to act like a big brother should but instead he expected me to work as hard as he did.

“Look for breaks! Don’t just stand there and daydream,” he shouted over the wind and rain. He pointed to a space where I’d missed a weakened strand and I watched in horror as it snapped, sprung back and nearly took out my eye.

“I wasn’t daydreaming. I’m hungry and cold. Can’t we stop?”

“We have to finish this section before we eat. Mayer, stop acting like a spoiled child; stop acting like a baby. The sooner we get this done the sooner we can all eat and be warm.”

“Fine!” I screamed as I stomped off, my mood as black as the clouds above. “Fine!” I yelled over my shoulder as I stormed away. “I’m going to work over there,” I pointed to the far distance just out of sight, “where I don’t have to listen to you boss me around. You’re not papa!”

I turned my back on him and when he stopped looking at what I was doing I slumped down and cried. Then after wiping away my tears, I stood and walked on. I began to check the fence line and I made sure I was still walking away from him. Soon I came upon another break. The sheep were still in the field but they looked as if they were ready to push against the fence and leave. I yelled at them, waved my arms and bent down to splice the wire as they backed off. The wire was slippery and the strainer swayed in the wind, pulling the broken fence out of my grip. This was too much! I took off my gloves to get a better grip and slipped on the wet grass. I saw the barbed wire cut deep but felt nothing until the blood began to flow. It was rich, dark blood that washed away in scarlet runnels as the rain diluted it. Then the pain began. I don’t know why I still clung to the fence when I fell to the ground in the grass and mud, but I did, and the sheep mingled forward bleating, drowning out my faint cries of, “Help, Abe, help. I’m hurt.”

When I awoke the room spun and I vomited all over the bedclothes of pale blue that were nothing like we had at home. I closed my eyes to stop the dizziness and heard my father murmur and another voice say, “We have to cut to stop the infection.”

Then my father’s voice, sounding full of pain, answered, “Alright, cut, but not too much.”

The world drifted away again and when I was next able to focus the first thing I saw was my arm raised and wrapped in bandages. It burned with an ache so deep I could feel it in the bone.

While I was in the hospital - and I was there a long time - Abe did not visit. Mama came everyday and read from the books I loved but could no longer hold. Bernie and Zelig came and fooled around so much the nurse yelled at them and then they laughed and left. Papa came sometimes looking awkward and uncomfortable. He only stayed a few minutes each time but still he came. Even Helmut, Tom and Noel came but Abe did not. I watched and waited for him everyday. I went from being angry to being sorry and he did not come to hear my words. Then the bandages came off and I got angry all over again. I held my hands in front of my face and compared them through watery eyes. My good right hand had five fingers standing tall, my left hand had three fingers then it went straight down. I could see the place where my finger and thumb had been and I could feel them although they were gone. The space where they should have been hurt. I cried for real then because I could not farm. I had not loved farming so much when I had a choice but now that circumstances had stopped me from farming I wanted to be able to choose whether to or not.

Abe was nowhere around when I came home. His bed was made but all his things were gone. Papa said he had gone away to find work in the city but I knew better. Months and months went by and I heard nothing. I spoke to mama about it and she said, “Your brother is not ready to deal with you or the accident. When he is, he will come home. Until then you will have to be patient. Write to him and that may bring him back.” So I wrote him letters and gave them to my mother to post. He returned them unopened. Then my anger burned again. “What right did he have to hurt me again, to act like the accident was not his fault?” Every time I tried to use my hand and failed, I blamed him. My anger did not fade away but burned hotter because he was not there to speak to me about what happened. I was angry all the time because work was so much harder now. I struggled everyday and papa would say, “Mayer, go and work in the house. Give your hand a rest.” When I looked at him I knew he was not concerned for me. He was uncomfortable around me because he had lost two sons, two workers, on the day I had the accident. Abelard was the better worker, the eldest and the favourite.

Finally, after more than one year, Abe wrote to me. He said he had been working as a mechanic but could not concentrate because he thought of me all the time. He wrote, “We need to talk. I will be home by Christmas.”

The rest of the letter was filled with chatty news. He had bought a motorbike and would take me for ride when he came back. He had a girlfriend but he was not serious about her. His boss never called him anything but Mr Schumann, and every time he did Abe looked around to see where papa was. I cried when I read the letter then I folded it carefully and put it in my pocket. It was eight weeks till Christmas; I could wait till then to speak to Abe. I did not write the words I wanted to say but I read the letter many times until it became dirty and creased.

Then, four days before Christmas, police came to our door. It was dark and the moon shone pale and silent through the doorway. However, the moon was not as pale as the colour papa turned when the police finished speaking. Then mama threw her apron over her face and began sobbing. Abe was dead. He had been riding home and the bike had skidded or he had gone to sleep - the police were not sure. He might have been okay but he hit the brick bridge, the only brick bridge from here to Ararat, and his back, neck and skull were broken when his helmet came off. Even then he might have survived but he was not found until hours later when it was too late. Papa went to identify the body and when he came back he looked as if he had shrunk six inches. He looked old - I had never thought of papa as being old before.

I took the letter out to the barn read it. This was the last communication I would ever have from Abe and as I read the words over and over, my tears blurred them and I muttered, “ Sorry, Abe. I’m so sorry. It was my fault, always my fault.” Then the ache in my hand that had stayed for the year became an ache in my heart that would never go away.