Such is the infectious zeal with their project, that the first work party makes their way up to the headland that same afternoon. About fifty men, with wheelbarrows and carts descend upon the old quarry, where the convicts of the previous century had slaved away chipping off great chunks of granite for the breakwater. They gather up granite blocks, sweating in the late sunshine, cursing and abusing the heavy stone which skins their hands and cuts their fingers. Then they struggle up the hill with their burdens.
Others, up at the high point on the headland chose the exact plot of land, facing out to sea, and then others set to digging. Herr von Krupp strides around amongst the men, like the Kaiser inspecting his troops. He nods with satisfaction as they dig the foundations and oversees the first cart of granite as it reaches them. Smiles as they sing battle songs while they work.
By the time the sun is low behind them and the guards are calling them back into the prison, they have dug what resembles a fortified trench that is deep enough for a man to crouch in, with granite blocks piled around like battlements. The internees look at each other in great satisfaction and slap backs and rub blistered palms as they make their way back down the hill with the long strides of victory.
“A good start,” they say. “But tomorrow—tomorrow we will really make some progress.”
The guards stand in the watchtowers and at their barracks further down the headland, watching the Germans return to the prison, and once more they shake their heads. “Silly blood Huns,” they say, trying to put the increasing gulf between them into words.
Captain Eaton sits in his office late into the evening, drumming his fingers on his desk as if it might actually distract him from the news in front of him. The portrait of the King silently watches him, as if it knows otherwise. He has an official telegram from the Department of Defence before him. The Sergeant had hand-delivered it to him and stood to attention in his office, waiting for him to open it, as if he knew what was in it already. But the Captain had dismissed him, not wanting to share bad news, or his reaction to it, with anyone. For telegrams during times of war always contain bad news—the death of a family member or being dismissed from your post. When he opened the telegram though he was surprised by its content. New internees were being sent to him within a few days. Prisoners of war. Make preparations. Await further instructions.
That was all it said. He reads it over a few times to pick up the real meaning between the sparse words. Prisoners of war! He wonders who they would be. Officers, of course. Perhaps those from the German raider Emden, sunk in the Indian Ocean by the Australian cruiser Sydney at the end of 1914. The papers had been full of that story at the time, like it had been a major victory akin to recapturing Belgium or driving the Turks out of Gallipoli.
But military prisoners in the camp will mean significant changes to the way the camp is run. Stricter security. More discipline. Less access outside the prison walls. He will have to dust off the many memos he has received about enforcing stricter controls over the internees’ lives—limiting freedom of movement, ensuring no pro-German sentiments are being expressed in the camp.
He imagines a delegation from the Department of Defence will accompany the new prisoners to examine how strictly he has been following all the directives he has received to date, to ensure the prison is suitable for military prisoners. And they will not be pleased with what they find.
So that is the choice he now faces. Should he comply with the directives that have been sent to him, which will also please his wife, in restricting the liberties of the civilians under his charge—or should he risk the disapprobation of the Army and the Department by following his conscience? He drums his fingers on the desk again. If he does not follow the orders of the Army he will risk losing his position, but if he does, he will lose what he believes to be right.
That war could be so morally traumatic for one so far from the front confounds him. He would pray for guidance if he had been a man who found any solace in prayer. As a young man he had toyed with joining the church, drawn to its doctrines of forgiveness, before admitting to himself that he did not have the faith for it. The Captain scowls and wonders if the choices that the front-line officers have to make are actually any easier?
The sun has set and Arno stands by the prison walls under the southwest watchtower, watching the colour going out of the sky, and feeling the rock behind him turning chill and dark. He feels himself turning chill and dark too. There are too many changes to his world to keep up with, and he wishes he had the power to control them, to keep things as stable and safe as he once believed he could.
The nights are noticeably colder now with winter upon them, though the internees mock the winter here and say it has none of the strength of a German winter that toughens the soul. They say an Australian would never survive the chill grip of a real German winter. Arno shivers a little in the night air and wonders if he would survive one.
Keeping his eyes out for any movement ahead of him or behind him, he slowly limps forward and ponders how much of this world of internment that he thought he understood has been kept hidden from him. Then he sees a figure ahead of him and stops. A man is standing there, as if waiting for him. Arno looks at him carefully to see if it is a guard, or perhaps Doctor Hertz, but the figure is too thin and is standing there with his head bowed. Arno takes a cautious step closer and the figure looks up at him and then throws its arms up in alarm and leaps back into the shadows of the wall.
Arno, just as startled, steps back and hits his head against the wall. And he feels a momentary rush of fear, as if sharing something with that dark figure. But then it is gone and he is alone by the wall, thinking he has come close to understanding something but has failed to grasp it.
The guard in the watchtower above him glances down into the prison yard and sees some movement along the dark wall. He leans out a little to peer more closely. There is somebody down there in the shadows below him, he thinks. He grips his rifle a little tighter and raises it. Stares into the blackness. Cautious. Like he remembers staring out into no man’s land each night while on watch in France. Eyes flickering between every imagined darkened movement. Looking for the ever-possible signs of a German raiding party, creeping forward to slit his throat in the dark. Being attuned to danger keeps him alive.
He leans a little further out still, and one foot touches the bottles at his feet and two clink together. It makes him jump. It sounds to his ears like the sound of a gun bolt being drawn. Then reason catches up to his imagination and he lowers his rifle and breathes out quickly. He watches the figure below increase his pace and seeing the strange gait carry him around the corner of the cellblock, he recognises the figure. It is only that mad cripple, limping around the walls again. Somebody ought to put a stop to that, he thinks.
Scheherazade dances onto the stage that evening and tells the men that the play to be performed for them will be accompanied by the full orchestra performance—a piece by Richard Strauss—the Opera of Salome the temptress.
The internees applaud politely and the Commandant, seated down the back of the hall, recrosses his legs and looks to the soldier on his left who has given him a full and detailed description of the performance of the previous evening. He does not wish to close the theatre down, but it may be time for a bit of judicious censorship, he suspects.
Scheherazade spins on the spot and says to the men, “Salome was the dark opposite of Scheherazade. I dance and tell stories to evade death—but Salome dances and tells stories that lead to death.” Then she spins again and reaches down to the hem of her dress, lifting it over her head in one quick movement, revealing a new costume beneath. A full dark dress, with glittering gems and diamonds around the bodice. Her head is adorned with light veils. The face veil very short. More of her eyes can now be seen. Darkly outlined in kohl and her lips are full and dark red. Her movements change too. She now leads with her hips more. Holds her arms out wide as if inviting an e
mbrace. Shaking her shoulders and breasts more. Smiling to the men in the audience in an enticing way.
The Commandant recrosses his legs yet again, then sits a little further forward on his chair. He is distracted by trying to imagine his wife dancing for him like that. The small orchestra begins the overture as the other players emerge onto the stage. King Herod is dressed like an Arabian king—but in khaki. His wife, Herodias, is by his side, and some assembled Roman soldiers stand about them. Their daughter, Salome, dances rather than walks onto the stage. King Herod and his wife, heavily made up in theatre face paint, wave to the company around them, holding goblets in their hands, enjoying themselves. But Salome dances away from them, to the side of the stage, where there is a prison door. She leans in, full of curiosity, and then inside of the cell is lit. There is a tall man inside, head lifted up to the heavens. He is wearing the costume of Siegfried, the German hero, but everyone knows he is John the Baptist.
Salome is intrigued by this man. Her body language, the commandant sees, shows that never has she seen such a fine and noble being, unbowed by the powers of Rome, and unbowed by the lustful cruelties of her stepfather. She hums a melody and sways her hips back and forward as she walks around the cell, admiring the man’s body from all angles.
Finally she sings, “Lass mich deinen Mund küssen!”—Let me kiss your mouth!
But John the Baptist does not take his eyes away from the heavens and sings. “Ich will dich nich ansehn. Du bist verflucht.”—I do not wish to look upon you. You are accursed.
And, the Commandant sees, Salome’s eyes narrow. Her bottom lip pouts. Her head sinks low towards her shoulders and she spits at John/Siegfried. But she keeps circling him. Keeps admiring his body.
Then the king calls to her, “Salome.” And she turns to him, her face petulant as he sings, “Wie schön ist die Prinzessin Salome heute abend!”—How beautiful the Princess Salome is tonight.
She looks at him with disdain as he sings to her, “Tanz für mich Salome. Wenn du für mich tanzest, kannst do von mire begehren, was du willst, ich werde es dir begen.”—Dance for me Salome. If you dance for me, you may ask me for anything you desire, and I will give it to you.
Then she tilts her head to one side and looks at John the Baptist staring up to heaven. Looks at the King. Sees his lustful eyes on her. And she replies that she will dance only if he will grant her a promise. The King takes a long drink from his goblet and agrees. Then he takes a seat and awaits the performance. Salome steps slowly out of her sandals and pushes them aside with one foot. She waits for the orchestra to surround her with the slow swaying dance of the seven veils. Then she begins moving. First her hips. Wide circles. And then her arms rise slowly about her. Her pale hands like two small birds, rising above her and flapping gently. Then she ducks her head a little and begins moving. Slowly towards King Herod. His wife looks away, not pleased with the way her daughter is flirting with her stepfather the King. But King Herod is transfixed. He crosses his legs. Recrosses them and sits further forward on his seat. Swallows hard and his mouth falls open. It is clear that his wife Herodias never danced for him like this.
Salome keeps advancing slowly towards him. Following the waltzing flow of the music, smiling as she glimpses King Herod’s lust, then hides her face again. The two white birds fly in front of her features, masking her eyes as her hips move forward, closer and closer to the King.
Then she steps back and turns away. She dances a few steps from him and suddenly spins back. Takes one of the veils from around her head and shoulders, and unwraps it. She advances upon the king once more and drops the veil at his feet. Then she turns and retreats. Advances again. Lays another veil at his feet. A little closer each time. A little closer to the king’s reach.
He is now sitting fully forward in his chair, almost tipping from it, his hands gripping the khaki robes tightly about his throat. She retreats from him and advances seven times. Seven veils lay at his feet and she stands before him with nothing left to remove but her clothes.
Then the music stops—just as Salome is so close to him that he could reach out and cup her breasts in his hands. Press his lips into her belly button. Kiss her flesh and bite her on those fleshy hips that are now stilled before him.
Slowly he sits back in his chair. Blinks. Looks at the men around him. But does not look at his wife. He smiles. And Salome also smiles. Waits for King Herod to remember his promise, and he sings, “Was willst du haben?”—What is it you want?
And Salome’s hips sway just a little bit, as she replies, “Den Kopf des Jachanaan!”—the head of John!
Herod recoils from her request and says no, it cannot be. But Salome steps closer to him—closer within reach—and pointedly tells him he has promised it. Tells him that everyone has witnessed it.
Again Herod says he cannot. And again Salome steps closer. So close that Herod cannot breathe without tasting her perfume. So close he cannot turn his head in any direction away from her. So close he cannot deny her. He waves his hand in agreement, and then sinks his head into his hands.
Salome spins and her eyes have become narrow slits of vengeance. She calls to the guards who drag John from his cell and lead him off-stage. The heavy sound of an axe falling is heard and then one soldier returns with John’s head on a silver platter.
Salome holds the platter before her, as if mocking the remains of the great hero, and then she leans forward and kisses the lips of the severed head. The guards and Herod are so revolted, and Herod so appalled at how she has played him and what he has allowed to be done, that he orders them to seize her. The music crescendos and cymbals crash as they fling her into John’s empty cell. Then the lights dim. The play is ended.
The cast rise together and bow to the audience. And the audience rises and applauds them, loudly but well behaved. The Commandant rises with them, taking his hands from their firm grip of his khaki lapels, and also applauds. Then when the clapping is slowing, he nods to the men next to him and exits the hall, perhaps the only man there not thinking of the beauty of Salome—but rather of the folly of Herod.
Heavy rain has begun lashing down upon the metal prison roof in the night with a sound like a thousand horses charging across a plain towards them. Arno wakes to the sound and looks at his watch. It is exactly midnight. And he writes in his diary—the Witching Hour. It is the first heavy rain that has fallen for some months and it falls with a fury they have never previously experienced.
Arno eventually falls asleep again and a dream comes to him from Herr Schwarz—the leader of the athletics team. He is a young boy lost in the woods, and is afraid of the dark and afraid of snakes and spiders and lizards, and afraid of other creatures that he could not even begin to identify. But when there is a crackling of branches behind him, it is not an animal that emerges, but an old woman. She sees the young boy and her face breaks into a gap-toothed grin.
“Hello,” she says. “What is your name?”
But the boy is too afraid to answer her.
“Don’t be afraid of me,” she says. “I was once young and beautiful.”
Then he tells her that his name is Hans.
“I once knew a little boy named Hans,” she says. “He was my house guest, but he did not behave very well and he and his sister pushed me into my oven to burn, and then ran away.”
The young boy does not know what to say to this. “Are you a witch?” he finally asks.
And she bursts out laughing. A shrill laugh that makes his legs tremble and his stomach shrink in tightly.
“No, I am not a witch. I am a princess. But I have lived alone in these woods for many years for having done something very bad to a man I loved. But love makes you mad sometimes.” She looks at him to see if he understands—but can see that he still thinks she might be a witch.
“If I was a witch I would not be so friendly,” she says. “If I was a witch I would kill you and cook you up and e
at you.”
“What would you kill me with?” the boy asks softly, because it needs asking.
“I would cut off your head with a knife like this,” says the old woman, and lifts the cloth from the basket she is carrying, and pulls out a large bayonet and laughs as the boy runs off into the darkness.
6
Another Day
By morning’s light it is still raining heavily. Arno stands in the hall and watches the men fetch their breakfast quickly and huddle together at the benches, feeling the chill damp wind enter through each barred window. Then they hurry back to their cells, to crawl back under their blankets. Some men remain and stand in the main doorway, staring out into the yard, watching the rain bombarding the dirt and turning it slowly to mud. Then they too wander away.
Arno has stood in the doorway to the hall since before 7.00 that morning, staring out at the walls, feeling that deep need within him to walk over and touch them. Just to see if he can find any traces of a dream of the murderer. Or any indication of further violence.
Yet he doesn’t move.
Some men come hurrying across to the hall, having been rounded up by their Lutheran Minister, Pastor Fischer. It is Sunday today, and he has been going from cell to cell to rouse the men to attend his service. He is a pale-faced man with a chin in full retreat from his mouth, ill-suited to ministering to the demands and troubles of so many men. His dreams are often filled with memories of life in the seminary, which was the only time in his life he felt particularly close to God. Not since leaving its confines has he felt the same. And truth be known, he would prefer to spend his time in isolation, writing on theology. But that is not the world he now lives in—and it shows in his inability to even draw men to his services on a rainy day. But it is hard to sustain faith, yet alone the routines of belief in this world. Very few men have followed him and Arno watches them assemble on the benches of the make-shift place of worship, and bow their heads. The sound of the Pastor’s words are drowned out by the rain beating down upon the prison roof—and no one fully hears his preaching of hope and the need for faith during times of adversity. Arno watches him struggles on though, perhaps believing that his words are bringing some meaning to somebody, even if only himself.
The Years of the Wolf Page 13