“Over four hundred men,” says the Commandant proudly.
The four officers look around the compound once more. They run their eyes over the rows of cells and their many barred windows. Captain Eaton sees their backs stiffen a little and suspects they have been in small cells before, and they know what to expect of them.
Then Captain von Müller turns his head towards the gates. He hears the sound of many feet approaching. Men in shabby work clothes are walking up the road to the gate, holding shovels and tools in their hands, with ugly white canvas hats on their heads.
“What is this?” asks von Müller. “A reception committee of your countrymen? Come to smash down the walls to send us back to Holsworthy?”
The Commandant says nothing until the first of the men have reached the gates and stand there, lowering their tools and staring at the four new arrivals. He waits until he can see the unease in the four officers. Waits until the crowd has built to a menacing size, far outnumbering the guards. Then he says, “Captain von Müller, lieutenants Wolff, Bärr and Kat, these are your countrymen, not mine.”
The Emden officers are handed over to Herr von Krupp for a tour around the prison. He thanks the Commandant with a sharp click of his heels and leads the men around the walls. At every corner it seems there is an internee, aged or overweight, waiting to shake hands with the sailors.
Herr von Krupp leads them through the kitchens. Through the infirmary. Introduces them to Dr Hertz. Shows them the washrooms. The workshops where the internees mend clothes or shoes. The hall where the orchestra practises. The cell where Herr Herausgeber produces the newspaper, and finally into the great hall where he sits them at a table with coffee and buns waiting for them.
Captain von Müller is polite, but his fellow officers appear less tolerant, and finally the youngest lieutenant, a tall man with very close-cropped blond hair, says, “Yes, yes, you have shown us everything except our quarters. Will you show us them please?”
“Forgive me,” says Herr von Krupp. “You are undoubtedly tired after your journey and would welcome a rest before dinner. Let me escort you myself.” He waits for the four officers to rise and leads them down one cellblock—to the far end, where two cells have recently been emptied of brooms and buckets for them.
“We are expected to make our own furniture and beddings,” explains Herr von Krupp, “but we have proved quite enterprising in this, even charging the authorities for our labours.” He smiles as he talks, as if this is a victory over the enemy to be proud of. “But of course we won’t expect you to have to make your own furniture. We are honoured to provide this to brave German officers like yourselves.”
“Yes, yes,” says the Lieutenant. “Thank you. I would like to rest now.” And he strides into one of the cells and closes the door. Von Müller and von Krupp look at him through the bars and von Müller says, “Lieutenant Wolff finds that incarceration brings out the worst in him, which you may find too.”
“I’m sure he will find that he is only amongst friends and comrades here,” says von Krupp.
“Yes,” says the Captain. “I’m sure that if he finds nothing else in this godforsaken outpost he will at least find that.” Then he bows a little to von Krupp and opens the door and goes into the cell with the young lieutenant.
The officers don’t emerge from their cells again until dinnertime when Herr von Krupp personally escorts them into the dining hall. He has members of the athletics club ready there to take control, and when the four new arrivals enter the hall all the internees rise and applaud them. The officers look self-consciously at each other and ask Herr von Krupp to please ask the men to stop.
Herr von Krupp nods and strides to the front of the hall, holding up his hands for silence. The applause dies down and he says, in a strong voice, “Gentlemen, we are honoured to have heroes of the German Empire amongst us. I trust they will find our humble meals fitting and our entertainment worthy of the sacrifices they have made for the Fatherland.”
All eyes then turn to Captain von Müller. The internees stand by their places, waiting for his stirring words. Waiting for his fine speech. But he simply says, “Please do not treat us any different from the rest of you.” Then he sits at the table. The internees stand there for several long moments before they too begin taking their seats again.
Doctor Hertz sits opposite Captain von Müller, as if he has important things to discuss with him. But before he can say anything, Herr Herausgeber squeezes himself onto the end of the table, and asks, “What news from the front?”
Captain von Müller stares at the editor as if he has said something quite preposterous. “I hear there is going to be a big push any day now,” Herr Herausgeber insists. “I hear our troops are preparing for the final assault that will carry them all the way to Paris. I hear they have created new guns that can reach London from Berlin.”
Still Captain von Müller just stares at him.
“I hear they are amassing a fleet to sail to South East Asia to reoccupy German territories. You know the German raider Wolf is already active in the Indian and Pacific oceans, sinking allied shipping. The fleet will recapture German New Guinea and will sail right down to Sydney. They will sink the Australian navy ships and land on the shores of the prison here. Liberating us all.”
“You hear all this?” asks von Müller.
“We hear many things…” begins Herr Herausgeber, but von Krupp is now beside him, and cuts him off. “This is Herr Herausgeber, the editor of our camp newspaper,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” says Captain von Müller to him. “I have heard none of these things.”
Herr Herausgeber looks surprised. “You have not?”
Then Lieutenant Wolff leans a little over the table and bares his teeth as if he were going to bite him, and says, “We have been prisoners since 1914. We have been living in small cells on the Cocos Islands, then in several tropical backwaters, and for the last two years in that infernal heat and dust of Holsworthy—what news of the front do you think we have?”
Herr Herausgeber looks hurt. Then the Captain smiles to him. A weary smile. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I have heard none of these things yet, but if I hear of them now I will certainly let you know.”
Herr Herausgeber sits back a little and nods his thanks. “Danke.” Then he just sits there with his hands holding tightly onto the edge of the table, as if it were a life preserver, holding them all afloat in a wide rough sea.
Arno stands under the southwest watchtower as darkness descends. He touches the rock wall at his back and thinks of all the changes of that day that have distinguished it from any other. He thinks of Horst’s infection, which has not cleared up. He thinks of the Emden officers. Thinks of the way the internees are reacting to them. The way the guards are subtlety treating them all like military prisoners now. He thinks of the memorial to the dead. And he thinks of the way the truth about the deaths will be buried with them unless he can discover it.
He stands there with his back to the stone wall, and ponders what other secrets are hidden in the cold rock before leaning forward and making his slow way around his nightly circuit, seeing shades and shadows scuttle away in front of him, long before he reaches them, and wondering what unsettling things he might dream that night. Wondering if any two days will ever be the same again.
Dinner has been cleared away, and the hall readied for the evening concert. The audience sit waiting for the orchestra to gather. They know tonight will be special and the four Emden officers are seated at the very front of the hall. Herr von Krupp sits on one side of them and Herr Schwarz on the other. They keep leaning across and telling the officers that they are in for a pleasant surprise. The officers nod politely and look back and forward at each other, clearly not needing words between themselves.
Then the orchestra walks out and takes their seats, as solemn as if they are the Berlin philharmonic. Herr Schröder the conduc
tor then comes out and gives a short bow. Without a word he turns to the players and lifts his baton aloft. He holds it there a moment, then brings it swiftly down. Boom. The drum beats a single loud note and the strings leap in to follow it, thrumming strongly. The men in the hall smile. They know this one well. Wagner! The Ring of the Rhine Maidens!
The strings carry the rhythm, then the brass comes in—loud! The drums roll. The brass roars again—the sounds of the Germanic gods. The Emden officers smile. The strings take up the rhythm again. A fast beat like a forced march. Then the brass returns. Strong and stirring. The flight of the Walküries. The audience thrums with the music, letting it carry them aloft. Bearing them to the hall of the gods.
Now three maidens come on stage. Not the Rhine Maidens in their long flowing robes and hair that swims like the Rhine’s current—three tall women in ancient battle dress. They wear brass bustiers and helmets and carry swords or spears by their side. These are the Walküries, handmaidens to the gods, who will carry the fallen heroes up to the skies.
The four Emden officers sit forward on their chairs. Stunned. “Mein Gott!” says Lieutenant Wolff. It has clearly been a long time since he has seen women up close—and an even longer time since he has seen any women like these. The three Walküries stride around the stage and then step in close and clash their swords and spears together. Then they turn to the audience and hold their weapons aloft, as if challenging them. Then all too quickly they stride from the stage.
The drums are still rolling and the brass instruments blaring as they go—but the Emden men no longer notice the music. They sit transfixed in their chairs as if they have just seen a vision.
Then the music stops and the conductor raises his baton once again. He brings it down quickly and the strings and brass come in together. The battle march of Siegmund the hero. On cue, he strides on stage dressed in armour and carrying a sword that shines and sparkles under the stage lights. He holds it aloft as the trumpets blare out a welcome for him.
He bows to the audience, to acknowledge them, and then out of the corner of his eyes he sees a soldier sneaking up on him. A man dressed in khaki, wearing a helmet that looks like a British tin hat. The man has a spear, and wields it like it is a rifle and bayonet. He tries to stab Siegmund in the back, but Siegmund is too fast and parries it away with his sword. Then another soldier enters from the other side and also tries to stab him in the back. But he wheels and parries him too. Then a third soldier enters. Lieutenant Wolff looks across at Captain von Müller, who does not seem to mind their poetic licence with the plot. He folds his arms and smiles.
The three soldiers have Siegmund surrounded now and are pressing him closely when the trumpets blare once more. It is flight of the Walküries again. Then one of the battle maidens strides in and throws herself between Siegmund and his attackers. She parries their blows with her sword and drives them back, giving him the opportunity to recover and attack while his enemy are disorganised. He strikes one down. Then a second. Then a third. They fall at his feet and he holds his sword aloft in victory. The trumpets and horns blare.
Then Siegmund the hero turns to Brünnhilde, the Walküre who has saved him. He takes her in his arms. He presses his face close to hers and looks into her eyes. He leans forward to kiss her and the audience leans forward on their seats too, arm muscles tensing where they imagine holding her. Then the drum rolls heavily again. The horns blare an angry sound. It is the rage of Wotan, father of the gods, for Brünnhilde has broken her vows to him never to interfere in a human’s battle.
Thunder and lightning rings out from the orchestra and Brünnhilde and Siegmund are struck and fall to the ground.
A curtain falls and the orchestra sounds the roar of the gods as the strings then carry the march of time onwards. The curtains lift and Brünnhilde is lying on a pyre of rocks. Her shield is on her breasts, and she is surrounded by a ring of imitation flames. The men in the hall stare at her in wonder, seeing just how beautiful and noble she is in death. And ashamed that they had ever deserted her for the seductive charms of Pandora or Salome, each man there tonight is willing to brave those flames to waken her with a kiss. But it is Siegfried who strides onto the stage. Siegfried the son of Siegmund, dressed as a Prussian soldier, in long white trousers, tall leather boots, and wearing a tall brass and silver military helmet, who bravely walks up to the flames towards the sleeping maiden within.
But the anger of the gods will not be denied and waves of drum rolls and trumpets blares the warnings of Wotan. Yet Siegfried will defy even Wotan to reach Brünnhilde, who has sacrificed her life for him. He waves his sword about him, banishing the sounds. Then he swipes at the flames and strides through them. He is beside Brünnhilde now and looks down at her sleeping form. He lifts her shield from her. Lifts her helmet, and finds long flowing golden hair that falls about her shoulders. He lifts her breastplate and sees the soft curve of her bosom. He gently reaches out and touches it. Runs his hands along her body. Touches her face. Her neck. Her waist. The men in the audience are breathing rapidly like the soft beat of the violins. Then he leans down and kisses her. Lieutenant Wolff licks his lips and crosses his legs. Can feel the heat around his collar. The desire in his loins. The hardening between his legs. And Brünnhilde opens her eyes. She sees her hero and sits up and presses her body to his. They hold each other in a tight embrace and the curtain falls as the final triumphant chords sound.
The audience all stand, clapping and stamping their feet, louder than any thunder and lightning. Louder than the anger of the gods. Each of them ready to fly up to the heavens with Brünnhilde by their sides.
Von Krupp turns to von Müller and asks, “What do you think, Captain?”
And von Müller is lost for words. He is still applauding. Then Wolff leans across and asks, “Who was that woman? She was exquisite. I must meet her.”
“You already have,” says von Krupp with a smirk. But the officers are confused. They don’t understand.
Now the curtain rises again and the players come out to take a bow. Wolff turns back to watch them. He looks at the three maidens and fastens his eyes on Brünnhilde. She smiles back at him. He wishes he suddenly had a bouquet of flowers to jump up onto the stage with to press into her hands. To press himself into her arms. To run his hands over her body.
“She is exquisite,” he says again.
Then the players take off their helmets and wigs. Von Müller stops clapping. And Wolff’s face turns dark. He no longer sees Brünnhilde. He is staring into the face of Jacob Meyer.
Von Krupp slaps him on the shoulder. “What do you think of that?” he asks.
But Wolff knocks his hand down. “This is an insult!” he says. “You have insulted the German military with this deception. You have denigrated yourself. You have no dignity. An insult!” he shouts loud enough for all the men in the hall to hear, and then he leads the four officers out of the hall.
Private Simpson, in the guard tower, hears the applause suddenly stop. Hears a single shout of anger. Watches the four German sailors march out of the hall into the yard. Stop. Realise they must go back through the hall to reach their cellblock. Turn in consternation and wave their hands in the air.
He smiles to himself. He has seen the same look on the faces of new guards who have watched one of the internees’ concerts without being told beforehand. He shakes his head a little and smiles to himself. Poor old Fritz, he thinks mockingly. But it would have been a hell of a bigger surprise if any of those German sailors had gotten one of those beauties back to his cell for a bit of slap and tickle. That would have had them more than just stomping confusedly around the prison yard.
Sergeant Gore looks around carefully. It is dark out tonight and the air is chill. But the enemy are out there somewhere ahead of him. His guts are churning and he feels his bowels loosening. Feels the cold fingers of fear inside him, trying to claw their way out through his insides. But he won’t allow it.
He crawls forward a little on his stomach. His rifle is held close. He thinks he can see a man crouching ahead of him, but then sees it is a log. He breathes in and out quickly to still his heart. But it has little effect. He feels the churning in his guts again. The fear trying to get out his arse now.
He rolls over to the bushes and urgently drags his trousers down. It was like this at Gallipoli, he thinks. An urgent need to shit every time he faced battle. Dysentery, he’d tell his officer. Bad case of dysentery. And why should anybody doubt him? Everybody had it sooner or later. But for him it was every time they had to go over the top.
He squats in the mud and shits. Rivers of it. Shit and blood and guts all pouring out of him. He can’t believe it. He wants to scream. But doesn’t want them to hear him. It’s his cowardice emerging from him, he knows. Stinking and slithering about him. He tries to get to his feet, but slips. Falls in the filth. Tries to rise again. Falls face down. Is suddenly drowning in it. Trying to lift his arms. Trying to call for help. Then the flare goes up. And he’s illuminated there in the stink of his own cowardice as he’s surrounded by soldiers of both sides. All staring at him in disgust. Raising their rifles at him. All of them. Preferring to shoot him than to help him.
Then he sits up and shouts aloud! Grabs the blankets and throws them from the bed. Sits there a moment panting until he knows he has been dreaming.
That same dream again.
8
Another Day
Arno Friedrich makes his way around the prison walls early the next morning, wondering whether the sky is actually a different shade of blue today. It has been a long night. Horst is still very ill and is still refusing to go to the infirmary. He still coughs and talks in his sleep. And Arno woke up many times in the night, disturbed by so many different dreams, as if they are all seeping out of the walls together now, like the prison walls were crumbling under their assault. There was Sergeant Gore’s dreaming of dying in blood and shit. Another dream of a child being stolen by the devil. An erotic fight with Brünnhilde. And another dream of walking in a dark forest, holding a tall man’s hand tightly, then losing him. Of being a child—alone and afraid. Sitting on a cold stone wall, like a row of tombstones. Then another dream of the prisoners of the old century, carting rocks out onto the breakwater, trying to lay a path right across the bay, piling the granite blocks up high like battlements that they hid behind when enemy soldiers attacked them with machine guns. Then he was looking up to see enemy ships gathered on the horizon, firing at them, and as the men at the battlements fell their bodies were piled onto the breakwater, as blocks of stone. And Arno was one of them. But then he was a part of a wall facing into a thin cell, looking at photographs of a corpse on the thin bunk. Herr Eckert. Herr Peter. Himself.
The Years of the Wolf Page 16