He woke cold and stiff and could not quite shake off that feeling of having turned into granite until he was moving around the prison walls, waiting for the sunlight to arrive and set the world to right once more.
After breakfast and roll call, Arno stands by the front gate, mingling with the other men and waiting for the guards to arrive and free them. Some of the older men have towels on their arms, ready to go down to the beach. Some have building equipment, ready to continue repairing their villages. The remainder have shovels and barrows, ready to continue work on the monument. The three groups stand slightly apart from each other, not meeting the eyes of anyone not in their own division, but all staring impatiently out beyond the gates.
Arno, standing with the bathers, looks around to see which group the Emden officers have joined. But they are not to be seen. Perhaps they have found that the internees are not the fellow countrymen they have claimed to be, he thinks.
Finally the guard emerges from the stone guardhouse and stares at the men. He is the big red-headed boy. He can see the anticipation on their faces. Their eagerness to get out of the prison. He shakes his head a little and mutters something to himself, then slowly unlocks the gates, fussing over the ancient metal key, fitting it just so, and turning it carefully. Then he steps back and lets them swing the gates open and stream out, ungrateful not to even thank him for his efforts. He shakes his head again and returns to his duties.
Arno follows the internees, letting them surge ahead of him. He stops and looks out at the wide blue ocean and shields his eyes. He turns his head slowly to take it all in and sees that the day is different already for there is a ship out there near the horizon. Probably a cargo ship from Sydney, he thinks, though it is too distant to be certain. It could be anything. He takes several deep breaths and lets the scent and taste of the land and the sea fill his senses. Feels he is again in a world that he understands.
The Emden officers emerge from the prison a short time later, escorted by a single guard. He walks some twenty paces behind them, his rifle slung over his shoulder, paying more attention to the thin cigarette he is smoking than to the four men. They stroll to the end of the headland and look down on the remains of the breakwater. Then they walk along the western side of the prison and looked down on the beach. They see the old men walking briskly on the sand and see one man swimming out far into the bay. Then they walk around the eastern wall where the men are repairing their huts.
Herr Herausgeber sees them and strides over. “Welcome to our small German village,” he says. The four officers regard the huts and backdrops curiously, waiting for Herr Herausgeber to tell them more. But instead he guides them over towards one hut and then calls for Herr Dubotzki and tells him to fetch his camera. He tells the officers he would like him to take a photograph of them.
They look at the each other, as is their habit, and Lieutenant Wolff shrugs his shoulders, and then Captain von Müller agrees. Herr Herausgeber sits them on the veranda of one of the restored facades. It is a small alpine café and they sit at a wooden table and Herr Herausgeber places empty beer steins in front of them. Lieutenant Wolff lifts the stein to his lips, pretends to drink, and then says, “This beer has gone off. It is at least twenty years old!” The other officers laugh. Herr Dubotzki returns and fusses and moves his camera around, saying he has to get the light just right. Then he asks some men to refit the backdrop that had not been rehung behind the cafe. The four officers turn in their chairs to watch two men raise up a painted scene of alpine mountains behind them, showing tree-covered slopes topped in snow.
“What are you doing?” asks Lieutenant Wolff.
“Creating the photograph,” says Herr Dubotzki. “It must look just right.”
“It must look just right like what?” asks Lieutenant Wolff, examining the drab-painted background behind them.
“Like Germany!” says Herr Herausgeber. “We will give you each a copy to hang on the walls of your cell, and you can imagine you were in Germany.”
The four officers look at each other again. “Make an extra print to send to the Commandant at Holsworthy then,” says Lieutenant Wolff.
“That’s good,” says Herr Dubotzki, looking at the backdrop. “Now can you all turn towards the camera.” The officers look towards him. “I can see four naval officers sitting at an outdoor cafe in the southern mountains,” he says, describing the scene he is looking at through his lens.
But the four officers, looking out past the photographer, see dark prison walls, a wide blue bay, bounded by a headland covered in thick bushland and gum trees.
“Think of Germany,” says Herr Dubotzki. “You must think of Germany or it will show in your eyes.”
The four officers squint a little as they stare out beyond the camera, but they have not yet learned the art of delusion like the internees have.
Arno emerges from the sea and looks at his watch. 9.42. He shivers and shakes the water from himself. He wishes the sun had more warmth. Then he dries himself and dresses before making his way back up to the prison. He pauses at the top of the slope to watch the internees hauling rocks up to the monument on the top of the hill. And he wonders how many years it might take before it is worn down by the forces working against it, like the breakwater.
The four Emden officers pause when they have reached the front gate again. “Where should we go now?” asks Captain von Müller. And Lieutenant Wolff points to the top of the hill. They nod and set off. Their guard pulls a long face and follows them.
Von Krupp is quick to wave to them when he sees them coming. “Guten Morgen,” he calls, before they are even within hearing distance. He waves again until the four men change their course a little and head towards him.
“This is to be our memorial to the fallen,” he says proudly, when they reach him. He points at the trench in the ground that is almost filled with stone. And he unrolls some drawings, having suddenly forgotten his well-rehearsed lines, showing what the granite monolith will look like upon its completion.
Von Müller leans in close to examine the work and smiles politely. The other three officers walk around watching the men digging and dragging rocks. Von Krupp then turns and waves his arm out over the ocean. “It is a glorious view, yes? From the front of the memorial you will only be able to see ocean. Not this accursed land and not this accursed prison.”
“Yes,” von Müller agrees. “It will be a fine view.”
“We will put the names of the fallen on tombstones around it,” von Krupp says. “Eckert and Peter.”
“How did they die?” Wolff asks him, stepping forward.
Von Krupp blinks. “Herr Peter had a bad fall and was mauled by sharks and Herr Eckert died of heart disease,” he says.
“That is really too bad,” says Wolff. And he looks down at the plans a moment. Watches the men working. Then asks, “So nobody has been shot or stabbed?”
Von Krupp narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?” He sees the men around him have slowed their working and turned a little to listen.
“And nobody has been blown to pieces?” Wolff asks.
Von Krupp tilts his head back. He thinks he knows now what the Lieutenant is getting at, for over 130 men died on the Emden when it was shelled by the Sydney. He knows that they were the officers’ close comrades who had stood beside them in battle. Wolff was reminding him that they were military men and the internees were not. “We are ready to fight for the Fatherland when it comes to it,” von Krupp says softly.
“Then why not kill the guard there?” asks Wolff, tilting his head towards the guard, who stands looking out to sea, not paying too much attention to his prisoners and their German gasbagging. Von Müller and the other three officers turn their heads a little and look out to sea too, as if they can see something way out there near the single ship on the horizon, letting von Krupp know they are not going to offer him any help, but neither will they side with Wolff ag
ainst him.
Von Krupp looks from Wolff to the guard. He also sees all the internees are closely watching him. He knows he has to tread very carefully, so he licks his lips and says, “We have been keeping ourselves in readiness. Waiting for men such as yourselves to lead us. To show us how it is done.”
“Yes,” says Wolff cheerfully. “We might just show you one day.” And he turns and walks down to the prison. The guard turns to see if the other three officers are going to follow him. Isn’t sure whether he should go after Wolff or not. He looks back and forward between them. Captain von Müller shrugs and follows Wolff, but says to von Krupp in English as he passes him. “Yes, they will certainly see this memorial from many miles out at sea.”
After the German officers are safely back inside the prison their guard reports to the Sergeant, who quizzes him as to what the four men have done, asking for every small detail. The guard tells him about the photograph and about the visit to the headland. The Sergeant has him repeat every detail of that twice, and then sits there stroking his chin for some time. He thanks the guard and then goes to his window. He has a partial view of the internees up there on the hill, toiling away.
He then he goes to the Commandant’s office, knocks before being bid to enter, salutes the portrait of the King, and repeats the story. Telling it as he sees it. Glad to have something to deflect the Captain’s questions about providing a murder suspect. The Commandant makes notes on a pad as the Sergeant speaks and also quizzes him on several points.
Then he in turn thanks the Sergeant and dismisses him. Then he curses quietly, wondering how he will get out of having to report this to the Department of Defence.
Arno stands in the yard and looks at his watch. It is 10.55. Almost time to be at the infirmary. But he is watching the four new officers. They stand in the yard together as if not sure where to go. As if quite lost amongst the close confines of the prison. Three of the men turn and go into the hall, and one stays there, smoking a cigarette, walking around and looking up over the walls, like he is searching for something. He comes very close to Arno and looks at him quickly. Arno says, “Guten Morgen. You are a sailor from the freighter Bummsen, yes?” But the Lieutenant doesn’t even respond to his jibe—just keeps looking up over the walls.
And then Nurse Rosa comes out of the infirmary. She waves to Arno and calls, “I’ll just be a minute. You can go in and lie down and wait for me.”
Arno sees the Lieutenant’s head snap around. Sees him stare at her. Arno raises his hand slowly and calls back to her, “I’m just coming.” He grips his crutches and tries to swing very casually past the Lieutenant. Arno sees his eyes are staring at the retreating form of Nurse Rosa fixedly. He sees the sudden fire in them, smouldering like a hungry beast, and that knowledge nearly trips him up.
Arno looks at his watch. 11.47. He stands in Herr Herausgeber’s small cell, looking at all the photos on the walls and reading over some of his articles lying around on the bench top. Nurse Rosa had seemed too distracted to talk much today. There was so much he wanted to tell her. About the officers. About Horst. About the photographs he had found. But she kept returning the conversation to their practiced lines, and then finally asked him if he could be quiet today. She didn’t explain more than that, just worked away on his feet in silence.
So Arno has come to talk to Herr Herausgeber instead. He wants to ask him what he knows about some of those photos. What else he knows about Herr Peter and Herr Eckert. What else he can tell him about the Wolf Pack. He suspects that Herr Herausgeber knows enough to help him identify the killer in the camp, but is just too distracted to see it.
But Herr Herausgeber is not there.
Arno looks carefully at each photograph on the wall and tries to reconcile what he sees in each one with the men he knows. They seem so different. Black and white men on the beach or in the cellblocks. Men in the yard. Queuing for breakfast. Sitting in the alpine village. Dressed as sailors by a backdrop of a ship. Posing as women. So much fantasy. Like Herr Herausgeber’s editorials, he thinks.
Arno then wonders how people would think of them all, many years from now. He imagines people might be standing like this, examining the flat black and white people in the pictures who looked like they were carved out of the flat black and white rock walls behind them. He reaches up and runs his fingers over the many photographs there before him, and suddenly plucks one from the wall. It is the photograph of Pandora that Horst had in his cell. And Arno holds it up very close, looking carefully at the eyes and the curve of the face behind the veils. He is certain there is something very familiar to it, but unable to quite place who it is.
Then there is a noise behind him. He turns around and sees it is the Sergeant of the guards. He stares at Arno with a look of suspicion on his face, as if he knows what he is up to. As if he has come to apprehend him. But he says, “I am looking for Mister Herausgeber.”
“He is not here,” says Arno. “I was looking for him too.”
The Sergeant frowns, as if he is doesn’t trust what Arno has said, then says, “Tell him I want to see him.” And is gone.
Private Gunn is sitting in the guardhouse with Private Cutts-Smith. He doesn’t like his company, and even looking at that red scar across his face makes him shiver, but he knows the shift will pass soon enough. If he just keeps still and shuts up it’ll be all right. But it’s hard not to talk to another bloke right there beside you. So he’s taking his rifle apart again. Cleaning and checking each part. Reassembling it carefully. Determined not to talk too much. Not to get on Cutts-Smith’s nerves.
“Whada ya reckon of them new Huns?” he says eventually.
Private Cutts-Smith looks at him, turning the good side of his wounded face to him. “They seem a bit strange to me. Seem to keep to themselves too much. But so would I if I was dumped into this mad-house.”
Private Gunn smiles, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Private Cutts-Smith doubts it very much.
“You know what I heard?” asks Gunn.
“What?” asks Cutts-Smith.
“I heard there’s gonna be trouble about them.”
“What trouble?”
“Amongst the Huns.”
“Says who?”
“Says the Sergeant.”
Private Cutts-Smith looks at him hard, the scarred side of his face framing his glare. “What kind of trouble?”
“Don’t know rightly. Something about different factions amongst them.”
“Bull!” says Private Cutts-Smith. “They all keep together too much.”
“Well,” says Gunn, “the Sergeant has got us keeping a close eye on them. He’s even got contacts amongst them. Spies, if you like. He reckons the Huns aren’t as united and all chummy as you might think. Reckons the new blokes won’t put up with some of the rot the others are carrying on with. Reckons these officers were trouble-makers in Holsworthy. Reckons there’ll be trouble here.”
Private Cutts-Smith stares at him and thinks. Private Gunn tries to look away from the scar and looks down to his rifle again and keeps taking it apart.
“So you’re determined to be ready for ’em with your rifle all in bits again are ya?”
But Private Gunn doesn’t answer. He just keeps his head down and starts reassembling his rifle, and wishes he’d never said anything in the first place.
Lunch is mutton and tomato soup. The weary builders and workers eat without talking. They are feeling the tiredness in their arms and legs. Feeling the ache of muscles long unaccustomed to hard work. They flex their biceps and stretch their backs as they sit there. And they smile at the pleasure of it.
Herr von Krupp is again seated with the Emden officers, although he no longer tries to make conversation with them. He concentrates on his meal while Herr Schwarz leads the discussion. “We have been training,” he says to the four men. “We call it an athletics club, but we are readyin
g ourselves for the day of action.”
“How many men?” asks Wolff, not taking his eyes from his meal.
“Twenty-two,” says Schwarz. “Strong and well-disciplined.”
“And what is this day of action you refer to?” Wolff asks, still not looking up.
Schwarz looks at Wolff and then looks around the table, as if the answer has been there before him a moment ago and has suddenly disappeared. “Why—for the day we are needed,” he says.
“Needed for what?” asks Wolff.
Schwarz looks pained. “Action,” he says.
Wolff nods. “Do you drill with guns?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you have weapons?”
“We have other things,” says Schwarz in a low voice. “And we control the camp with them.”
Now the Captain looks up. Looks genuinely interested. “But who controls you?” asks Wolff. “This aristocratic dandy here?” he gestures towards von Krupp.
The Years of the Wolf Page 17