Then he leaned out over the edge and looked at the distance down to the ground. He measured it in his mind, then made his way back down from the watchtower and returned to his cell. There was so much to write down now. So many things.
And sitting there, listening to Horst’s soft sobs, he finds he is turning over memories like pages in a book. He remembers the long journey from the West to Sydney. Remembers arriving at the hot dusty camp at Holsworthy. There was a mass of men squeezed into the wire compounds there. Sixteen to a tent. Some were lucky enough to have unfurnished huts, sharing one pan to cook their meals and eating off the floor. There were Austrians and Turks and Germans all crammed in together—and even some Australians whom the military had deemed German, so as to intern them. Socialists mostly.
Holsworthy was hot and dry and dusty in the summer, and cold and muddy in the winter. They had to queue for hours for food and water, and had to dig their own latrine pits. Filthy stinking trenches with no cover nor privacy. Thousands of men squeezed into a small stinking barbed-wire pen. The strong victimised the weak. Stole from them. Bullied them. And the guards were just as brutal. Pricking them with bayonets if they disobeyed commands to work, or were too slow. Occasionally getting drunk and firing randomly into the tents at night.
It was like deliverance the day Arno and the other men were assembled and told they would be removed to another camp. Told they were specially selected. Then they were aboard trucks being ferried like cattle. Taken to the shores of that wide blue ocean—the Pacific. Just the size of it spoke of freedom to them. Then they were on the sea. And Arno Friedrich found he was not a natural sailor. The small vessel that carried them north from Sydney was flat bottomed and pitched terribly on the ocean. He was sick at the rails for most of the journey. Until they reached the calmer waters of Trial Bay. And when they finally arrived here, on an overcast afternoon, they could see the old castle sitting on the headland before them, like some Rhine castle from their legends.
The vessel carried them around into the bay and landed near the town of South West Rocks. The internees were off-loaded by armed guards, who cautiously pointed their rifles at them. These were the first Germans most of the local soldiers had ever seen, and they were not sure how to regard them without the pointed helmets and sharp-fanged teeth they’d seen in posters. They stood around looking more like lost travellers whose train had not appeared, wearing casual suits and holding suitcases. The guards coaxed them into columns and set them marching. People came from miles around to watch, as if it was some parade.
Small children jeered and threw rocks at them—which their parents only made half an effort to control. Probably wishing to join in, thought Arno, as he limped along on his crutches, trying to keep up with the column of men, having no desire to fall behind into the hands of the crowd.
Arno can remember it clearly as if he has often seen a photograph of the scene. A grainy shot of a long line of internees walking down a long dusty road carrying their suitcases and a few boxes—more like holiday makers than internees—flanked by the jeering locals, who stood there, shocked at the arrival of the Germans amongst them. Shocked at just how much like themselves they looked.
They made the final leg of the journey on foot—particularly hard for Arno. It was not until they got closer that they saw the castle for what it was—an old stone prison. Their new home.
Arno now puts his hands behind his head, and lies on his back, wondering if Nurse Rosa had been in the crowd on that day. He wonders what she thought as she watched the men dragging their old suitcases up the road? Wonders if she had seen him there amongst them?
Wonders if he ever asked her, would she tell him the truth?
And then, despite not wishing to, he is asleep. Arno dreams that night and it takes him a moment to realise that it is not one of the other prisoner’s dreams that he is sharing—it is a dream of his own. He is floating above the prison, as if he was lying on a cloud holding him aloft, and he is looking down and can see right across time and place at the same instant.
He sees the peninsula forming from the landscape at the same time that he sees the convicts of the old century toiling away to build the prison and the breakwater at the same time that he sees the German internees arrive to occupy it at the same time he sees the strong currents of the bay pulling away the breakwater and then the peninsula and then the prison. Dragging them all far out to sea.
And he sees the indigenous people of the area, the Dainggatti, long dispossessed, living in the abandoned prison, as he sees people with cameras crawling all over the ruins as he sees the prison crumble apart as he sees it being rebuilt, as he sees the internees come marching in, in a long column, as he sees them marching out again. And he sees the many people who have died there, and suffered there, and felt anger and pain and despair and imprisonment there, their lives draining out of them and seeping into the stone of the prison. And their spirits or thoughts or pain mix into a potent force of ill-feeling that then fights to emerge again. Fights to take form and do violence to those who are still feeding it. Those who are most afraid, most angry, most despairing.
And now he sees himself in the prison, as the creatures in the walls are close to finally escaping together to wreak havoc as despondency inside the cells rises to its peak. And he is searching for Nurse Rosa. He has to find her and save her. If he can protect her from the things that arise from the walls to kill people he will gain the power to protect everyone from them.
He runs into the infirmary, but she’s not there. He sees torn strips of her uniform on the floor, with bloodstains on them. He must find her quickly. He runs out into the yard and calls her name. He turns his head this way and that. Sees blood marks on the grass. Tries to run and follow them, but with each step he gets lighter and lifts a little higher into the air. He stops and tries to sink back down to the prison. He has to reach her and save her. But he is too high now. The winds grab him and pull at him, dragging him back towards the land. Towards the dry centre of this vast country. Towards the distant land to the west where he grew up.
And his last view of the prison is of it falling apart as the nightmare beings split the stone walls to emerge. Arno knows he has failed to save Rosa, and will never hear her hidden stories. Will never discover her past. So he fights against the current of the dream and refuses to let it pull him away. He struggles back closer to the prison on the headland and see Nurse Rosa standing on the beach. Waving out to sea. Waving at a dark shape gliding in the water. A shark, he thinks. But as it comes closer it forms into the shape of a German raider. Bristling with soldiers. Tall ogre-like men in spiked German infantry helmets.
He is then standing on the beach beside her and is shouting at her to run. But his crutches sink into the sand. He struggles to get away but cannot move. Then the boat is beaching on the sand. Dark and flecked with blood. Soldiers leap off and grab them. Nurse Rosa and he are as small as children in their hands. They throw his crutches to the ground and two of the soldiers drag him back to the boat and hurl them in. Then the boat lurches and is back on the water. Speeding off towards the horizon. One of the soldiers presses a helmet and uniform to him. Flicks a jacket to him on a short stick. Orders him to dress. He struggles with the buttons and trousers. The soldiers look away. Turn their gaze far off to the north. Towards the Great War.
And Arno is struggling to hide his erection. To hide the dreams that have brought it. Of Nurse Rosa and he. Together on the infirmary bed. The sound of battle outside. But she is calm and smiling. His erect cock in her hands. She massages it. Pressing it against her starched white uniform. Squeezing it firmly in her fingers. Her breasts lifting as she breathes faster. Smiling to him. The sound of battle getting closer. The feeling building within him. Starting in his feet. Travelling up his legs. His whole body goes rigid. Nurse Rosa’s breasts and lips and uniform lying atop of him. His legs quivering. Like he’s running. But not getting anywhere. The battle is upon him. She is
upon him. And then he explodes.
11
Another Day
The explosion shakes the whole prison, startling everyone awake. Then guards are running through the corridors with rifles ready, ordering everybody to remain in the cells. Internees stand dazed in their doorways asking each other, “What was the noise?” “What is happening?”
The guard in the eastern watchtower, the only one to have seen the flash on the hill, recovers slowly and calls out that they are under attack. Other guards race to the other watchtowers. Looking out to sea. Looking into the bay. Looking for the shape of a ship there. Some guards at the guardhouse form a defensive formation in their pyjamas. Some face towards the prison. Some face out to sea. Waiting to be told what is happening.
The prisoners stand in their cells, looking at the nervous guards with rifles pointing at them, also waiting to be told what is happening. Everybody stands as still and as silent as the stone walls of the old prison, while light and colour slowly fill the world.
And finally the expectant guards can see there is no raider in the bay. No ships at sea. No holes in the prison wall. It’s another perfect day. Except for a faint wisp of smoke up on the hill on the headland.
Eventually the Sergeant leads a small squad up the hill. He sees the damage and reports back to the Commandant. The internee’s memorial has been destroyed. Blown up with explosives.
The Commandant, sitting squarely at his desk, considers this news, then asks the Sergeant if any of the guards have been responsible. The Sergeant quickly replies that he believes it to have been the work of men from South West Rocks. He says that he’s heard talk that they believe the monument is being constructed as a signal to German vessels and felt they needed to act if the Army would not.
The Commandant frowns. “We’d better tell the internees,” he says. “They will not be happy to hear this.”
“It ain’t their lot to be happy,” says the Sergeant. “They are internees.”
“They still deserve some right to preserve their memories,” says the Captain. The Sergeant is about to challenge him when there is a knock on the door and both men turn to see a young lad in uniform standing there. He is holding out an official envelope. “Top secret dispatch,” he says. “It came with the early train.”
Arno looks at his watch. 8.47am. He leans against the wall and looks at the men assembled around the walls of the prison. The Commandant is working his way slowly down the list in front of him.
“Weiss, Dieter.”
“Hier.”
“Wien, Ernst.”
“Hier.”
“Wurtz, Rudolph.”
“Hier.”
Over 400 men present and accounted for. Then the Commandant lowers his clipboard and looks out over the rows of faces. “I have an announcement to make,” he calls loudly.
The men shuffle a little. They already know what has happened. But they want to hear the official version of it. That it was an accident. That there will be no accusations until there has been an inquiry. That none of the guards could possibly have been involved.
But he says, “I have been notified this morning, by special courier, that the camp here is to be closed and you will be returned to Holsworthy before the end of this week.”
The Commandant carefully watches the effect of the words on the men. He sees some whisper the words in German to those standing around them. Sees one old man drop his head into his hands. Sees another fall to his knees. Sees the look of sudden pain he has caused them. He is familiar with the feeling, for he felt it himself when he received the orders.
There are worse commands he could be giving though, for he knows that at the end of the war the Government plans to assemble all these men again and deport them back to Germany. Some officer will have to break the news to them and watch their faces as they try and understand that. Perhaps some of them will think it a good thing and imagine that they will be able to find those Alpine cafés and fine operas of their memories—not realising that was a different world. Their country will be in ruins, having given up everything—its factories and farms and professionals and labourers, from the oldest citizen to the young child—to war.
The Captain takes a deep breath, so that his voice will not betray him, and says, “You will only be able to take what you can carry in your hands. You will have three days to be ready and packed. This is a direct order of the Department of Defence. That is all.”
He turns and walks back to his office and closes the door. Sits there as still as stone.
When Arno returns to his cell, he finds that Horst has discovered the rope he’d hidden under his bunk. He has thrown it up to the cell bars. Arno watches him for a few moments before understanding. One end is knotted into a noose. He swings forward quickly on his crutches and grabs the rope from Horst’s fingers. But Horst hangs onto it, as if it is a lifeline to something better than internment. Arno pulls and tries to jerk it out of his grasp as Horst tries to get the rope over his neck. He kicks at Arno to keep him back. Knocks one crutch away and Arno falls to the ground. But he is still holding onto the rope. Horst tries to lift the noose to his neck once more, but he has to lift Arno’s weight with it. Arno rises a little and grabs him by the arms.
“You don’t know what you are doing,” Horst protests.
“I am saving you,” Arno says. His purpose in this life.
“Saving me from what?” Horst spits and struggles more violently for a moment and just when Arno feels he is about to be shaken free, Horst stops and collapses to the floor crying. Arno falls on top of him. Lies there a moment and then drags himself clear. He gathers his crutches and stands up. “What are you trying to do?” Arno asks him.
But Horst does not reply. He stands to his feet and slumps onto his bunk. Crawls in under the blankets, like he is tunnelling to somewhere safer. Arno sits opposite him and says, “They say we will have our own compound at Holsworthy. Away from the others.”
Horst wriggles his head out a little and looks across at Arno. Shakes his head. “What does it matter?”
Arno shrugs. “Maybe it’d be different somehow.”
Horst pulls his head back under the blanket. “I don’t fear Holsworthy. Prison is prison.”
“Then what do you fear?” asks Arno.
Horst says nothing for a long time, then he emerges slowly with his book in his hand. “Look,” he says, holding open a page. Arno can see the letters and photos are pressed between the pages. He nods.
“Look,” says Horst again. Arno takes the book and looks at it. There are two small black and white photos. Badly taken. Strong shadows across the faces. They show a woman and three small children.
“Who are they?” asks Arno.
“I don’t know any more,” says Horst. “They used to be my wife and children. But I don’t know them anymore. I look at the photos and I read the letters, but it is like I can’t understand who they are. The faces are different in my mind. And they have grown so much older since I have been gone. They will come and see me in Sydney and will be ashamed of me. And I will look at them and will not know them.” He closes his eyes and turns his face to the cold stone wall.
Arno picks up the photographs and looks at the faces of the children and Horst’s wife. He tries to see their features, but they are not clear enough. Then he looks at the spidery Gothic script of Horst’s writing in the book. He reads a paragraph and sees it is a love letter. But not to Horst’s wife. It is addressed to Pandora.
Arno closes the book and lays it on Horst’s bunk.
Sergeant Gore is standing by the cold stone wall of the prison feeling the chill of rock enter his body. He closes his eyes just a moment and thinks he feels something else there. Something stirring. But of course it’s just his imaginings. An idle distraction from having to do what he has to now do. It is just rock after all.
He takes a small step away from
the wall. He sees the man he has been waiting for. The Sergeant beckons him over. It is Private Cutts-Smith, who wears the large scar across his face. He sees the Sergeant and gives him that familiar nod that veterans give each other. The one that says I know what you know. I’ve seen what you’ve seen.
But the Sergeant does not return the nod. He waits until the Private is standing before him and he says, “I know.”
“Know what?” ask the other man.
“I know it’s you.”
The Private makes no protestation of innocence. Makes no denial of knowing what the Sergeant is talking about. He just smiles. That twisted sort of smile you might see on the face of a soldier who has been in the trenches too long and has started to think there is some sense in the killing. Some redemption in it.
“It has to stop,” the Sergeant says. “You keep it up in Holsworthy and the MPs will hang you.”
The Private just shrugs. As if that is the whole point of it. To get caught and executed. To end it all.
The Sergeant shakes his head a little. “Just leave it all here,” he says. “When we’re gone no one will remember what happened within these walls. It’s another world.”
The Private says nothing, but tilts his head back and looks up at the sky, as if watching the slow-moving clouds up there.
“Tell me it’s going to stop,” says the Sergeant. “If there’s any more killings I’ll have to shoot you myself.”
The Years of the Wolf Page 21