They did have some common traits; both were first generation Australians; both were athletic, and charismatic, with a penchant for leading rather than following. Together they fooled around, with no serious intention, as marriage was not an option due to differences in religion, ethnic background and social standing. My father, in fact, was engaged to another woman whom his mother approved of. Refusing to be cast aside and allow religion to dictate their lives my mother announced that she was pregnant. It’s here that my parent’s stories start to differ. My father always makes the joke: ‘Annika, you’re so patient it took you eighteen months to leave the comfort of the womb.’ My mother, of course, rejects the truth of this, but does acknowledge that she had an abortion prior to her marriage.
My father was one of four boys and he very much wanted my mother to provide him with a small tribe of sons. I can remember him telling me, when I was much older, how disappointed he was that his firstborn was a girl. I would later have the last laugh—out of all of the children he fathered I was the one who stood out. I was everything he wanted in a child: brains, looks, personality—only I had tits.
My father was a businessman on an international scale, which meant that as children my brothers and I were globetrotters. With every new job came a new country and a new language to be learnt, which I loved. From as far back as I can remember I have always loved learning; I counted pieces of knowledge like stamps that needed to be collected. My father loved to teach, so he was always happy to encourage my precociousness.
My mother never showed signs of stress. Not coping was not an option—she was the ultimate survivor. When we were young there were always biscuits on the table and a beautifully prepared dinner every night, pancakes or waffles for breakfast. My childhood was very much a Norman Rockwell painting: smiling well-dressed children and parents. My brothers and I were all incredibly well-behaved, courteous children, and the very thought of stepping out of line and displeasing our parents never entered our heads.
My family moved back to Australia when I was seven. By then I spoke three languages, had three brothers—Dieter and twins Geert and Haans—and a silver spoon firmly planted in my mouth. But the reality was that my family was struggling for money. Because of my mother’s background she felt that perception was everything so inevitably we moved in to a leafy, tree-lined suburb way outside our means. I’ve often asked myself why my parents had a nice house in the right suburb but couldn’t afford to give their kids uniforms or textbooks. The right suburb of course was all white. There were no unpronounceable names in roll call in my school, so my accent and background stood out like dogs’ balls. I quickly developed a very thick skin to my classmates’ taunts; in fact, I accepted that not only was I different, I was superior.
There was one person who took an interest in me, though. His name was Bob and he was the father of a child in my brother Dieter’s class. He was fifty and even though he was on the pension, he would regularly come to our house bearing gifts like jewellery and perfume. His wife had run off and left him with the kid. He would wait for me at the bus stop every morning before school, which was a twenty-minute walk away from his home. He would hold my hand and guide me onto the bus. He scared me. He frightened me to the point that I wouldn’t go out of the house on the weekends. Sometimes I would even hide under my bed in case he was outside at the window, which was often the case. I didn’t know what to tell my parents.
I began feigning illness because I didn’t want to see Bob waiting at the school fence. On one occasion, he called me at home to check on me. I was so afraid he would come over that I began banging my head against the telephone receiver and said that there was something wrong with the phone. Then I hid under my bed. Mum was over at the next-door neighbour’s and what was initially a fleeting suspicion soon became a frightening reality when Bob knocked on the door armed with painkillers. He invited himself in and put the tablets beside a glass of water.
Mum walked through the door to see a strange man in the house and demanded to know what was going on. Bob quickly left the house, and I told Mum the whole story while she just stared at me speechless. When I had finished she walked very purposely to the phone. Dad returned home particularly early that day, but he didn’t stay for dinner. Instead he paid Bob a visit. I was never told how the visit went but Bob never bothered me again.
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