by Derek Hansen
‘What’s the matter?’
Colombina looked around the table and saw concern in all the faces. ‘It’s nothing really. It’s just one of those things Mario was going to get around to before he died. He always said he was going to get some of the sodium cyanide he used to kill rabbits with when he was here. He just never got around to it. It’s a wonder our cat hasn’t joined him, poor thing.’
‘Slow down,’ said Stan. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m sorry. Up on the peninsula where I live there are a number of feral cats. There’s plenty of bush and parkland for them. One of them—a huge black-and-white thing—has moved into the bush behind us. Honestly, you’d think its sole purpose in life was to torment my cat Smokey. If he goes outside after dark that feral brute is on to him straight away. I spend half my life at the vet. Last time Smokey nearly had one of his ears torn off. There was blood everywhere. Great chunks of fur missing.’
‘Where’s your cat now?’ Gwenda, Stan’s wife, was clearly caught up in the tale, concerned not so much for the cat as for the effect of its misadventures on Colombina.
‘I’ve left him at the vet. He’s happy enough to stay there. It’s like his second home. If I left him with my neighbour he’d be dead by the time I got home. It’s hard to appreciate how vicious that black-and-white monster can be.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ chipped in Stan. ‘Parks and wildlife reckon they can pull down the smaller breeds of wallaby.’
‘You’re going to have to do something, Stan.’
Colombina tensed. This was it.
‘Oh, could you, Stan?’ She turned her eyes on him, wide and full of hope.
‘What do you want me to do? Sit on your back porch with my rifle? That would wake your neighbours!’
Colombina laughed and turned to Gwenda, as if accepting that there was nothing they could do.
‘You could let her have some of that poison, Stan.’
‘Good grief, woman, that’s not something you hand over like a cup of sugar. It’s a restricted substance. If something went wrong there’d be hell to pay.’
‘Honestly, Stan. All we’re talking about is enough to kill a cat. Colombina will be careful. It’s not as if she’s going to leave it lying around.’
‘I dunno. Like to help, Colombina, but that’s dangerous stuff.’
‘That’s all right, Stan. I tried to get some in Sydney and got the same answer. Smokey will just have to learn to live with the beast. Me too, I suppose.’
‘No you won’t!’ Gwenda was on her feet. ‘Stan Dwyer, tomorrow morning you go down to the shed and get some of that poison for Colombina. I’ll give you a tin to put it in. And not just one dose in case the first one doesn’t work. If there’s any left over Colombina can just flush it down the toilet.’
‘It’s okay, Stan, you don’t have to.’
‘Don’t suppose it’ll do any harm to give you some.’ Stan and Gwenda were typical country people to whom words were a means of communicating, not the stuff of idle chatter. And Stan was smart enough to know that Gwenda had just communicated with him. Some country women don’t speak up often, but when they do they like to be heard. Nevertheless, he saw fit to reiterate his warnings. ‘Be careful with the stuff, for heaven’s sake. Always wear rubber gloves and destroy them afterwards. The same goes for the spoon and bowl you use to mix it. You shouldn’t put it down the toilet either but I guess that amount won’t matter. Look, just kill the bloody cat and get rid of what’s left. And don’t tell anybody where you got it from or they’ll have my—’
‘Stan!’
‘You know what I mean.’ Stan turned to Colombina sheepishly.
‘I know, and thank you.’ She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek.
‘I’ll be honest, I don’t even know for sure if I’ve got any sodium cyanide. It’s not something we use much any more, except for white ant. Strychnine and arsenic are the go nowadays. I’ve probably got some somewhere. Always give you some strychnine anyway. That do you?’
‘I’d prefer sodium cyanide. That’s what Mario was going to use.’
‘Okay … okay …’
Colombina drove home on Saturday so she could prepare a meal to take to Heinrich the following day. It was a vastly different Colombina who made the return trip, and even the Dwyers remarked upon it. For the remaining three days of her stay, with her prize safely stashed in her suitcase, Colombina had finally relaxed. The homestead had rung to sounds of laughter and she’d entertained them in the evenings by reading to them. It seemed she’d lost none of her old skills, and even the Dwyer children crept from their beds to crouch in the gloom of the corridor and listen spellbound to her voice. She was better than the radio and, in the Dwyer household as in many country homes, radio still held sway over television. Colombina captivated them with her charm and her energy. No one could have guessed the real reason for her visit.
She rose early on Sunday morning and began to organise lunch for herself and the old man. For once she decided to prepare a simple Italian meal. She drove down to the Avalon shopping centre where she bought some fresh artichokes to boil and serve with a hot lemon butter dip, and some fresh baby calamari to serve over spaghetti with oil, garlic, olives and small pieces of fresh tomato. Even though Heinrich’s stomach was gradually becoming more and more accustomed to her cooking, she still liked to keep her sauces relatively simple. Besides, it was so much easier when she could prepare the meal all at once in Heinrich’s kitchen.
Now that she had the means, she was in no hurry to kill him. She could bide her time and think the whole process through to cover herself in the event of an autopsy. She’d also need to come up with a recipe that used lots of almonds. She loaded her car and set off for number fifty-seven Blaxland Street. In a strange way, she was looking forward to seeing the old man again, to watch his face light up in anticipation of the meal. How was it possible, she wondered, to like somebody and yet hate them enough to kill them? She pulled up outside his house and banished all such thoughts from her mind. She was visiting as a friend. That was the role she had to play. She was visiting a likeable old man called Heinrich, not the Oberstleutnant. She took the food from her car and walked up the narrow path to his front door. She made a mental note to call the boy who mowed his lawns because the grass between the pavers was growing dangerously long. The ginger lilies were in bloom and she paused long enough to inhale their scent. She rang the bell and listened for his uneven footsteps advancing down the hallway. She rang again and waited. She began to grow concerned. He wouldn’t have gone out, not when he knew she was coming. The arrangements had been firm. She rang again. This time a voice called out, not from inside the house but from the house next door. Colombina turned and saw an elderly, grey-haired woman leaning out from her front window.
‘He’s not there. He’s gone. The ambulance came for him last Wednesday. Those Meals-on-Wheels people sent for it. He’s gone.’
FOURTH THURSDAY
If Lucio had been concerned about a resumption of the debate over his untimely slip of the tongue, he needn’t have worried. Once more Neil was his unwitting ally. He was late. Lucio kept the conversation to small talk while they awaited his arrival. And when he finally showed up, any hopes Ramon may have entertained of questioning Lucio were quickly dashed.
‘Today lunch is on me.’ Neil shook his companions’ hands and flopped down on his seat. His face was flushed and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face.
‘No. We each of us always pay our own way. It avoids complications.’ Ramon was not pleased and made no effort to hide the fact. ‘However, we would be delighted to accept an explanation for your late arrival. We waited as long as we could. You have missed the whitebait fritters.’
‘I’m sorry. Just got a bit held up. Nothing I could do.’ Neil tried to look contrite but failed miserably. He turned to Milos. ‘I’m sorry, okay? Just one of those things.’
‘Why didn’t you call us on that dreadful phone you insist on car
rying around with you?’
‘I was using it. I tried to ring you from the car but I must have been in a shielded area. Phone wouldn’t connect. Don’t tell me you were worried about me.’
‘We were concerned, but not for you. For our storyteller. Look at him. It is a difficult story for him to tell and your lateness doesn’t make it any easier. He clearly wants to get his story going before Ramon has a chance to cross-examine him again. I’m not sure what’s going on between them, but they’ve been poor company. They are like disillusioned lovers, no?’
‘No, Milos.’ Ramon snapped at his friend. ‘I came expecting to hear Lucio’s story but so far that pleasure has been denied me. My frustration is only that of an audience deprived of its promised entertainment.’
‘You see what I’ve had to put up with? For once, Neil, I’m pleased to see you. Very pleased.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’m pleased to see you too, Milos. These two can get stuffed. Nothing’s going to spoil my day, in fact, it couldn’t be better.’
‘Share your secret.’
‘That deal I was trying to put together up on the north coast. It’s a goer. Just got the green light from the local council. I managed to persuade them to change the zoning.’
‘Congratulations!’
‘Thanks, Milos.’
‘Congratulations from all of us.’
‘Thank you, Lucio. And thank you, Ramon.’
‘Perhaps after all we should allow you to buy us lunch.’ For the first time that day, Ramon allowed a small smile. ‘Provided you tell us how you managed to persuade the council to change the zoning.’
‘I did it the Argentinian way, Ramon. Plain brown envelopes. You’d know all about that. Now, what are we eating? When are we eating? I’m starved. Gancio, where are you, you miserable bastard? More food!’
Other diners turned to see who was shouting so rudely. They glared at Neil but he ignored them. Nothing was going to spoil his day. ‘Now Lucio, have you prepared your story for us today? The full quota. No trying to cop out like you did last week.’
‘Yes, Neil, I have prepared my story. All the ingredients are in place and I have been marinating them for the past seven days. All that is required now is for me to apply the flame.’
‘Tell me, Lucio, does your wife know this story?’
‘Jesus, Ramon, at least let him tell his story before you question him. Until the end last week you’d done all you could to give Lucio confidence. Why have you suddenly changed? You had a misunderstanding but that was cleared up. Why do you want to undermine him before he even begins? We agreed to indulge him a little longer, no?’
‘It’s okay Milos. It’s a fair question. Yes, my wife knows this story.’
‘Does she know you’re telling it to us?’
‘Yes, she knows.’
‘Does she mind?’
‘She trusts me. Do you?’
‘My wife also knows this story—so far, at least.’ Milos could sense another argument brewing and intervened. ‘She is intrigued. She asked me to pass on her compliments.’
‘Thank you, Milos.’ Lucio smiled.
‘Tell me, Milos, do you tell your wife the full story or a précis?’
‘If it is interesting, Neil, I tell the full story with all the details and subtleties. I have a very good memory for such things. If on the other hand, it is one of your stories, I do a précis.’
Neil laughed and the others joined in.
‘That’s it guys, lighten up. We’re here to enjoy Lucio’s story. To be entertained. Nothing more. Okay?’ Neil looked around the table for disagreement and found none. ‘Just don’t go and spoil my day, okay? Now, where’s our food? Gancio, you lazy bastard, where’s our bloody lunch?’
Chapter Nineteen
If the British forces had pushed on after the battle of Beda Fomm they would easily have taken Tripoli and the war in North Africa would have been over. Instead, despite intelligence which warned of the arrival of Rommel and two mechanised divisions in Tripolitania, Churchill ordered a large part of the British army and airforce in Libya to Greece. Given the speed and ease of their advance across the desert, the British High Command must have thought that the remaining forces would be sufficient to contain, if not overpower, the remaining Axis forces. It was typical of the sort of misjudgement which marked the course of the war and which many believe ultimately determined its outcome.
In Rommel, the British had an enemy of uncommon guile, courage and initiative. He was a master of the lightning thrust, the devastating penetration of the enemy’s lines in strength. He realised immediately that the opposing forces were weakened and their supply lines over-extended. He called his senior officers together—among them a newly promoted Major Eigenwill—and informed them of his intention to go on the offensive. Friedrich was stunned by Rommel’s audacity but couldn’t fault the logic. If he was stunned, how would the British feel?
So instead of shoring up defences around Tripoli as anyone else would have done, Rommel unleashed his tanks on the unsuspecting British who were using the lull in the fighting to do much needed repairs and maintenance. Why shouldn’t they? They had the enemy on the run. The last thing they expected was to be attacked.
For Friedrich, the charge across Libya was like the blitzkrieg into Poland. The British put up poor resistance and were easily defeated. The Germans recaptured Agheila and Mersa Brega. Then, with the backing of two new Italian divisions, they forced the evacuation of Benghazi and sent the British forces reeling back to Egypt. By mid-April 1941, Rommel had control of all of the Libyan province of Cyrenaica except Tobruk, and stood on the border of Egypt. If they’d pressed on, they would have seized Cairo and the Suez Canal, and the Middle East would have fallen into German hands. Again, the war in North Africa would have concluded. But overstretched lines of supply, the bugbear of both sides in the conflict, now forced Rommel to halt, giving the British time to consolidate. It was a pattern that determined the ebb and flow of the battles that followed, as first one side then the other gained ascendancy, and they chased each other backwards and forwards across the desert.
The early successes in Libya did nothing to convince Friedrich that the war would be brought to a speedy conclusion or that Germany might ultimately win. When Rommel was forced to halt his advance on the Egyptian border, the fundamental weakness of their North African campaign became clear to him. They could not win without logistical support. Yet instead of sending them the tanks and fuel they needed, the Führer had chosen to invade Yugoslavia. How many fronts could they fight on at the same time and still win? Friedrich desperately wanted to talk to Gottfried in Berlin. But how? Young officers didn’t go over their commander’s head, and besides, his letter would never pass the censors. But if he could somehow get word to him, he believed Gottfried would be smart enough to read between the lines and recognise a plea for help. He decided to approach Rommel in the officers’ mess. The next question was how?
Both in the military and among the civilians in Germany it was an offence to spread doom, gloom or rumours, or to question Hitler or the invincibility of the German army. It was forbidden on pain of death. This edict also had the effect of suppressing comment and observations. Even when superior officers invited their staff to speak freely, few tempted fate. So Friedrich changed his way of thinking and converted his problems into opportunities. They weren’t stalled on the border of Egypt but poised on the brink of victory. They weren’t perilously short of fuel but engaged in vital preparations for the final offensive. Friedrich rehearsed his lines out loud whenever he could until he’d achieved the right amount of conviction. Then he went looking for his leader.
Unfortunately, finding Rommel proved difficult and Friedrich’s contrived optimism waned as the weeks passed and his frustration grew. Rommel divided his time between his headquarters in Benghazi and Tobruk, where the Ninth Australian Division remained stubbornly holed up, a constant threat to his supply lines. Twice—in May and in June—they were forced to repel British
relief columns trying to fight their way through to the embattled Aussies. June was well under way before Friedrich found the opportunity he was looking for.
‘Excuse me, General, may I have a word?’ Friedrich had picked his time well. For once, Rommel’s staff were engaged elsewhere and he was alone in his tent looking through a file of signals. The outcome of the campaign was hardly contingent on his not being interrupted.
‘Ahhh …’ Rommel paused for the briefest of moments. ‘Major Eigenwill. So talkative on the battlefield yet otherwise so reticent. Come in, come in. Please, sit down.’
Friedrich was not easily ruffled, yet he felt as overwhelmed as any schoolboy on his first visit to the headmaster’s office. He was staggered that the General recalled his name but more so by his informality. He had imagined himself standing rigidly to attention while barking out his request with all the enthusiasm he could muster. He’d rehearsed with this expectation in mind. Now he wasn’t sure at all how he should proceed.
‘Tell me, what is on your mind. You may speak openly.’
Friedrich’s heart sank. The dreaded invitation. What should he do? He was damned if he did and doomed to be thought an idiot if he didn’t. He decided to be himself and rely on his wit. He could be sufficiently ambiguous until he’d gauged which way the wind was blowing and its strength. Then he’d bend with it.
‘General,’ he began, ‘there are two ways of viewing our situation. An optimist would say that we are poised on the brink of victory, ready to seize the Suez and strike a potentially fatal blow to the British Empire. That is undeniably true. A pessimist, however, would say that the British too, are poised on the brink of victory with the opportunity to drive the German army out of North Africa.’
‘So tell me, Major,’ interrupted Rommel, ‘do you side with the optimists or the pessimists?’ There was no trace of humour in either his voice or his face. His eyes bored into Friedrich, unwavering. His strategy crumbled as he realised he could no longer sit on the fence.