They close their eyes and listen for the beast. It has gone quiet. Perhaps circling around the walls trying to find another way in. Perhaps looking for faults or cracks in the old stone walls that it can use to climb them.
They open their eyes again and feel their hearts slowing. Feeling they are safe for the moment. They look about and wonder where all the other internees are. But the prison looks empty. Like they have arrived in a different era. Or moved into a different world, where they do not live in the prison.
But then they feel something stirring beside them. They feel the very walls starting to throb and come to life. And to their horror they see the beast pushing itself out of the stone walls, where it has perhaps lived all the time, a product of their boredom and fear and anger and desperation. And slowly it detaches itself and stands before them. It looks like Herr von Krupp, but larger. The face is distorted into a long muzzle with long sharp teeth. And the hands are huge claws. Each talon the size of a bayonet. The creature looks at them and howls, so close it stops their hearts beating. Then it reaches out one large claw and sinks its talons into the flesh of their necks.
Their blood-choked screams join the beast’s howl, echoing around and around the dark walls of their prison—until the dream fades away to nothing. Absolutely nothing.
9
Another Day
Arno Friedrich found Herr von Krupp’s body, early the next morning, lying where it had been attacked in the dream, in the shadows of the wall. He stared at the corpse, hoping it would fade away into the stone, as the light of the new day filled the sky around the prison. He could now clearly see the dark red of the wounds and the paleness of the dead man’s skin. The closeness of the corpse made him shiver and he was tempted to reach out and touch him—to see what the skin felt like and to try and detect if anything of the man was left there.
He was disappointed that he had witnessed another murder and still did not know who was conjuring the beasts that killed so savagely. He had shared Herr von Krupp’s terror at his moment of death but was not able to help him. And he thinks that perhaps he is seeing it wrong, that it is not the dreams of somebody else who creates the beast he sees, but what if he is witness to the last moments of the slain, who have conjured the beasts themselves? For where else does a man go at that moment of death, when one’s life ceases to be, or seeps out of the body, but into the shadows of dreams?
But if that were so, and he ever left these walls, might he suddenly find he was confronted with the dreams of the dozens and hundreds and thousands of men dying every single day? That would be unendurable and he would prefer this life of internment to it.
So many things he didn’t know, but it felt like all the clues were there in front of him, waiting for him to understand it all.
He then looks up and sees the guard in the southwest watchtower there, staring fixedly out to sea. And Arno wonders if he could be seen in the shadows of the wall there. He also wonders if he should call out to him and alert him to the killing. But instead he turns and made his way around to the infirmary, where there is a light on. Intern Meyer is there alone.
“Where is Doctor Hertz?” Arno asks him.
Meyer turns and looks at him. A little startled. “What’s the problem?” he asks.
Arno bites his lip and wonders whether to tell him. Then the doctor is suddenly standing behind him. “What is it?” he asks. A little breathless.
“Herr von Krupp,” says Arno. “He’s dead.” The doctor looks at Meyer. “Killed,” says Arno.
“Show me,” says the doctor, and lets Arno lead him back around the wall until Arno is pointing at the corpse lying there in the shadows. Doctor Hertz and Meyer both bend down to examine it, and Arno looks up to see that the sentry in the watchtower is now looking carefully down at them.
The general assembly is called before breakfast. Armed guards stand all around the yard and Commandant Fort walks back and forward as he talks to the men, fidgeting with his pistol holster. First, he announces the death of Herr von Krupp. Then he warns there will be an official inquiry into the killing. He warns that he has been made aware of power factions within the prison and that he will not tolerate such behaviour or provocations of violence.
Then he announces that all extra privileges will be cancelled or curtailed. There will be no more concerts in the evenings until further notice and no one will be allowed outside the prison walls anymore. All the internees will be treated as prisoners of war!
Arno takes a short sharp breath. The Commandant has said the unspoken word aloud. Has released it into the prison.
Then the Commandant tells his prisoners that before they consider forming a delegation to come and complain to him, that they should address such complaints through the American Consul in Sydney who represents their interests, who will forward their concerns on to him.
He then paces away, leaving the shocked internees to try and understand just how very much their world has suddenly changed.
“Hey, kid,” Lieutenant Wolff calls to Arno, and beckons him over to where he stands. Arno swings his way over to the officer. Men are wandering all around the prison yard, like ships without a rudder, no longer certain where to go at that time of the day.
“Yes?” Arno asks.
The Lieutenant stares at him a moment. Says nothing. Then asks, “What was your name?”
“Arno.”
“Ja. Arno.” He looks around the yard a bit and then turns back to him. “Tell me, what is that Nurse like?”
“What do you mean?” Arno asks.
“Do you think it’d be worth my while calling in sick tomorrow?”
Arno doesn’t know what to say.
“They tell me that nobody has ever gotten into her pants, but if anybody has, it would be you. Is that right?”
Arno feels the heat rising around his collar. Feels his blood rising like a king tide. He looks down at the ground. “She massages my legs and feet,” he says, stumbling over the words.
“Yeah—I think I’ll get her to massage mine too. Afterwards.” He tilts his head and licks his lips, as if tasting something. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I’ll get her to do that too.” He looks back at Arno. “Okay, thanks kid. Put in a good word for me, okay. You owe me one, remember!”
Arno nods his head a little. He doesn’t want to agree, but says, “Sure.” And is immediately angry at himself for it.
“Thanks,” says the Lieutenant, and he then winks at Arno and saunters off.
Herr Herausgeber stops Arno as he passes the door to his cell, as if the editor has been standing there waiting for him all morning. He beckons with his finger for Arno to follow him inside. “Big news,” he says, with a bright smile on his face. Arno is tempted to keep walking, but follows him into his cell.
“There will be a big offensive in the next few days,” Herr Herausgeber says. “This is the one that will sweep the British troops out of their trenches and into the sea.”
Arno looks at him, unable to summon up the energy to confirm the fantasy today. Herr Herausgeber says, with great enthusiasm, “I’ll bet you wish you were at the front now, wearing the uniform of the Empire, fighting for the Kaiser, yes?”
Arno doesn’t answer, for he is thinking not of the glory of fighting for the Kaiser but of the stories of blood and slaughter that he has heard whispered in the cafes outside the walls. Soft words of bullets and gas and heavy feet bogged down by mud, unable to leap over the cracks and trenches in the ground. Words never spoken aloud in the prison, but spoken nevertheless.
“Yes,” he says. Then he turns away and runs his eyes over the photographs fastened to the walls of the office once more, and thinks the history of the internment camp is caught there. They show men lined up at the kitchen for breakfast. Men in the dining hall. Many of the actors in costumes. Tall proud Prussian grenadiers and guardsmen. And men staring listlessly at the camera
as they mope around the cellblocks. And one of them is probably of a murderer. He wonders if, when they finally catch him, they will look closely at the prints and say they could see it in his face all along.
Then Arno turns back to Herr Herausgeber and asks him, for the first time, “But what if these stories are wrong?”
And Herr Herausgeber smiles and wags his finger at Arno. “You are so mischievous,” he says. “I know it. I hear the things you tell some of the other men. But this,” he says, tapping his finger on the article he is working on, “is the truth, and you know it and I know it.” Then he lifts his hand and asks, “Do you know what else I have heard?” Suddenly whispering.
“What?” asks Arno, prepared for another fantasy.
“I have heard that a German raider has been sighted cruising up and down the coast.”
“A raider?”
“Yes. It is called the Wolf. It has sunk several ships already. And the authorities believe that somebody in the prison has a radio and is in secret contact with it. They believe that there is a plan to raid the prison. Land on the beach in the bay and liberate us all. Carry us back to Germany.”
Arno watches the editor’s face carefully as he talks. “A raider?” he asks again.
“Yes.” Then he lowers his voice even further. “If you talk to our friends from the Emden you might find they know more than they are letting on.” And then he winks, very slow and carefully.
“Is that what you are writing?” Arno asks him, indicating the article before him.
“Oh no,” he says. “This is a piece on the death of Herr von Krupp. Another very tragic accident.”
Arno turns some words over in his mouth, as if tasting them, and then says, “It wasn’t an accident. I found his body. He was killed by somebody in the camp. As were Herr Peter and Herr Eckert.”
Herr Herausgeber looks directly at him. Then says, “I’m quite sure you’re right.”
Arno blinks. Then again. “Then why don’t you write that?” he asks.
Herr Herausgeber shakes his head. “They would never let me print it.”
“The authorities?”
“They are the least of my worries.”
Then Herr Herausgeber lowers his head a little and looks at Arno over the top of his glasses. “Arno, my boy, things are rarely as simple or as obvious as they seem.” Arno nods his head a little, as if it is the first truth he has ever heard from Herr Herausgeber. “Think of it this way,” the elder man says, “many years from now, when this madness has passed us by, we will be nothing but a curious memory, like those convicts of the last century. And the only thing they will know of us will be from the records we have kept. The photographs. The newspaper. And so on.”
“But…” says Arno, pointing at the photographs and the columns of type strewn around, “It’s not the truth. It’s not how it is.”
“It’s one truth,” says Herr Herausgeber. “And it’s a truth that we can create, not one that is created for us.” He points at the Australian newspapers piled in the corner. Arno turns and looks at them. He knows what they say of the Germans. That they are raping and murdering. That they are barbarians. That they are set on destroying civilisation.
Arno turns back to Herr Herausgeber. “Or think of it this way,” he tells Arno. “You want to have legs that work like everybody else’s—it’s simple. Have Herr Dubotzki take a photo of you standing on the beach with the athletics club. You could be a runner. Forever.”
Arno thinks about that. He nods his head once more and leaning heavily on his crutches makes his way back out into the corridor.
Nurse Rosa turns and sees Lieutenant Wolff standing in the door. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yes,” says the Lieutenant, “My name is Wolff. Lieutenant Wolff.”
“You’re one of the Emden men,” Nurse Rosa says.
“Yes. That’s right,” says the lieutenant, stepping into the infirmary room.
“How can I help you?” Nurse Rosa asks again. She holds a basket in her hand. Fruit and bread. She puts it down on the bench beside her.
“Were you going somewhere?” he asks.
“Nowhere special,” she says.
Wolff smiles. So she can see what big teeth he has. “I’ve got this ache,” he says. “And Arno tells me you’ve got the most sensitive fingers in the camp.”
“You are a friend of Arno’s?” she asks.
“Sure,” says Wolff. “We’re great friends.” He steps further into the room, takes off his cap and toys with it in his fingers.
Nurse Rosa watches him carefully. Not sure about him.
“He doesn’t have many friends in the camp,” she says.
“We’re both loners,” he says. “That’s the attraction I guess.” And he takes a step closer to Nurse Rosa. Turns the cap again. So she can see what big hands he has. “Ever feel that? Immediate attraction to somebody?”
She moves back a little. “Perhaps,” she says.
Wolff lays his hat down on the bench beside her. He can see her tense as he leans closer to her. “Arno says you’re the only person who can help me,” he says.
“Help you with what?” she asks.
“Some things aren’t easy to put into words,” he says, still smiling.
“Such as what?”
“Well,” says Wolff, “I could tell you you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen easily enough. I could ask you to run away with me. Break out of here together and sail away into the sunrise—far away from this stupid place—I could do that easily enough. But that’s not my problem.”
He watches her shoulders loosen a little. Watches the curiosity thread its way through her body. Watches her turn her head a little to regard him.
“So what is your problem?”
“This ache I’ve got.”
“Where is it?”
“All over.”
“What kind of an ache?”
“An ache for a beautiful woman,” he says, and steps up close enough to hold her. Stares into her eyes. Sees the red colour rising up her throat. Grabs her suddenly and presses his lips to hers. Stares into her eyes as he kisses her. Pushes his tongue just a little way into her mouth. Runs it across her teeth. Starts pushing one knee between her legs. Sliding one hand up her stomach towards her breasts. Feels her lack of resistance to him.
“Lieutenant!” snaps a sudden voice behind him. Loud and sharp. A voice full of command. And anger. Wolff breaks away and turns to see Doctor Hertz standing in the doorway. He glares at Wolff and at Nurse Rosa. She pushes herself away from him and tries to rearrange her red cap and her cape, straightening her uniform, but keeps her eyes down, refusing to look up at him.
There is deep anger in the doctor’s voice as he says to Wolff, “I think you should leave immediately!”
Lieutenant Wolff just smiles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Next time I’ll make an appointment.” He picks up his cap, winks at Nurse Rosa and strides slowly out the door, back out into the prison yard. Doctor Hertz doesn’t even turn to watch him leave, his fierce gaze is squarely on Nurse Rosa.
The Commandant has finally given permission for Herr von Krupp’s body to be buried on the headland. He had left the delegation waiting for over an hour before he even agreed to meet them, and then it was only on the condition that they not discuss the new regulations he was imposing upon them.
The men, led by Herr Schwarz, agreed and came straight to the point. They would like to be able to continue work on the monument and they would like to be able to bury Herr von Krupp under it. The Commandant wouldn’t give them an answer straight away and told them he would consider it. But he prefers the men were occupied at hard labour rather than getting up to trouble inside the prison, so he agreed.
He sits in his office now, beneath the icons of Empire, his shoulders bent. He has failed these men, he thinks. He has no
t protected them from the violence of the war. He has not even managed to keep them all alive. He suspects the next cable he gets from the Department of Defence will be informing him of his dismissal. Three deaths under his care, and no clear suspect.
Sergeant Gore has suggested to him that very morning that he needs an altogether tougher line with the internees if he is to protect his position. His advice was to conscript the internees into building the breakwater. Taking up where the convicts had left off. He told Captain Eaton that this will keep them too worn out for their concerts and their riots and fights, and that it will prove to the Germans who are the victors and who are the vanquished.
But the Commandant knows that those types of stories will eventually get into the press. The Department of Defence will be just as upset with him for that. So he agreed for work to continue on the monument instead, and he agreed that Herr von Krupp’s body could be buried there.
Not that different from toiling on the breakwater really, he thinks.
And he wonders how the internees here would be treated if men like Sergeant Gore were in command of them? For he knows there are far more men like the Sergeant in uniform than men like himself. He turns and looks out his single window of frosted glass, watching a figure walk past, body all distorted in little mosaic shapes of light. And he notes that even his own window has bars on it.
Lieutenant Wolff corners Arno in the yard after a desultory and quiet lunch. “Okay,” he says. “I think it’s time to tell me about your little escape plan.”
“What escape plan?” asks Arno.
Wolff shakes his head and leans closer to Arno. Presses him up against the granite wall. “Now I know you’ve got a plan,” he says.
The Years of the Wolf Page 19