Erich nodded and, returned to his pages. Now, however, he found it difficult to concentrate on words and diagrams. His mind returned again and again to their conversation. The truth was he was enjoying the study, the challenge of learning, and in a foreign language. His English, which had already been passable, was improving by the day. And his medical skills, the feeling of seeing infection vanish, wounds healing, of watching the patients, his patients . . .
Erich dragged himself from reverie, from daydreaming.
In some cases, (see appendix 1.5) cauterisation is the only effective method of both infection control and . . .
The door slammed open, admitting a rush of cold air. A guard rushed in, agitated.
‘There’s been an accident.’
Doctor Alexander rose from behind the desk, calm and unflustered in the face of the man’s anxiety.
‘What has happened?’
‘They’re bringing him in now, they’ll only be a couple of minutes.’
‘Good. What happened?’
‘I didn’t see it, only his leg, it . . .’
The door swung again and Stutt entered, followed by two German prisoners bearing a stretcher between them. On the stretcher the prone figure of Günter groaned in agony, at the very edge of consciousness, his right leg a bloody twisted pulp.
Five
Vinnie
The campervan, its sides smeared with a fine coat of reddish-brown dust, had parked near some low scrub on the terrace about fifty or sixty metres from Vinnie’s camp. He watched from the shadows of the trees as two figures went about the business of setting up their own camp site. One, a girl, was engaged in the process of putting up a small dome tent nearby, while the other, older, more ponderous in movement, unfolded chairs and a table, installing them under a brightly striped canopy which extended from the side of the vehicle.
What were they doing? Vinnie knew that the camp site was public, but still he felt invaded, violated, by their bustling presence. He knew they would see him, look at him, notice the scarring and wonder to themselves, or worse, ask questions.
He toyed with the idea of packing up his own camp and moving, but as he lurked indecisively the intruders finished their setting up and settled into the two chairs. Vinnie skirted down the terraces choosing a path that would keep him as far as possible from the campervan and its occupants.
Back under the deep shade of the pine tree, he felt more comfortable. Already his camp site had acquired the easy familiarity of ‘home’ and belonging. He rekindled the fire, boiled some water, and made himself strong black tea with his lunch. The morning’s walk had left him feeling hungry, and the taste of the tinned fish and dry biscuits seemed somehow intense. After rinsing his knife and plate in the creek, he crawled into his tent and lay on his sleeping bag.
Through the open flap he could see the other campers clearly. The girl, perhaps a little older than himself, the man elderly. They seemed at ease in one another’s company and the quiet noise of their conversation, the words indistinct, floated across the clearing. The girl was more active, climbing into the campervan on several occasions to fetch things for her companion. At one point she remained inside for some minutes, before Vinnie saw her bring out a steaming cup, placing it on the table beside the old man. As she did so, he reached out and touched her arm lightly in a gesture which, even from this distance, Vinnie could read as affection. He felt a sudden stab as he tried to recall the last time his father had reached to him in that way.
Katia had always been the favoured child. The loved one. His dad made no secret of that. The eldest, the first born, the focus of his love. She had always been the smartest, and the brightest. When she received the letter inviting her to study medicine, his dad had cried. Actually wept. His father the bricklayer, who for his entire life had espoused manliness and toughness as though they were the only virtues a man could hope for, had tears in his eyes like an old woman.
‘I always knew you were the one who’d make this family something.’ He had held her at arms-length, looking into her face. ‘Knew you’d lift us up.’
There’d been no such discussion when Vinnie had been accepted for the apprenticeship program at the nursery. ‘Plants? Why waste your time on fucking plants, mate? Set yourself some real goals. Look at your sister, for God’s sake. You’ve had the same opportunities as she has, and you’re not stupid. Why don’t you want to go to uni?’
And the old Vinnie had looked at the floor, crimson with anger, and not said anything. Not to his father, not to Katia. His rage wasn’t directed at them, but at himself. At the weak little part of him that was unable to stand up, and be counted for who he was, who he wanted to be.
Then the accident and that dark little seed had opened. Self-doubt, self-loathing was given months and months to grow and flower and had blossomed across the side of his face, killing the old Vinnie. In its place now this new one. This creature born in the flames of cowardice. It was no wonder his father couldn’t bear the sight of him. No surprise at all that whenever they were alone in a room together the conversation would wither and die into awkward silence. The gap which had always been between them was an ocean now, or a wall. Enormous. Impenetrable.
‘You let your sister burn.’
The words had been uttered only a couple of nights ago. Three months home from the hospital. Three months back in the house. Three months of being a shadow, dead, detached, watching his parents torn apart from both him and one another by unshared grief and agony. Something inside him had snapped. The plate had shattered where he hurled it, leaving a smear down the wall, and he’d screamed at them, both of them, and at the world.
‘Fuck! Why won’t you talk to me? Why?’
And for a brief period time had stopped, stood still and listened with grave attention, while his father had looked him in the eyes.
‘You let your sister burn.’
His mother released a small gasp of . . . what? Shock? Fear? Consent? Her fork dropped from slack fingers, clattered onto the china. And his father, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, had lifted a hand to his mouth, biting hard on a thick, calloused knuckle. A trickle of crimson ran across his hand and arm and slowly dripped, mixing with the bloody red of the sauce on his plate.
And Vinnie had not replied. He was not angry or hot or mad, but in a moment of cold clarity he knew that tonight was the night. He would leave – run. He could not stay here any longer. And later, when his father had crept silent into the darkness, Vinnie had feigned sleep and listened to the shambling apology with deaf ears. And a few hours later he was in the cabin of a logging truck, driven by a silent Samaritan into the solitude that he craved.
‘You let your sister burn.’
Those words. The calm, sad, almost wistful tone in which they had been pronounced didn’t hide the anger behind them and they were seared indelibly into his memory. Vinnie knew that even as the vivid welt on his face slowly faded and healed, the scar of that quietly spoken sentence never would.
August 1943
‘Erich, I’d like you to meet my grand-daughter, Alice.’
The girl stepped from where she had been standing by the fire. At first Erich hadn’t noticed her. He’d run through the door into the warm dimness of the hospital, shaking droplets from the back of his uniform jacket.
‘Hello.’
Her voice was soft, clearly shy. Erich stared.
‘She’ll be here with us for a while. My son-in-law is away overseas, and my daughter, her mother, is quite ill at the moment, so Alice will be staying with me while her mother recuperates.’
‘Good morning.’
His accented English surprised her, his voice so much deeper than his youth implied. The greeting hung in the air until the doctor spoke again.
‘We should have a fairly quiet day today, Erich. This might be a good opportunity for you to catch up on your study. Alice mi
ght be able to help you with some of the more difficult English.’
Erich considered the girl. She was sixteen or seventeen, no older. Her dress was simple and her dark hair hung to the middle of her back, tied with ribbon. He had to remind himself that she was the enemy, this child, despite her pretty eyes and smile. As much a part of the enemy as that guard, Thomas.
‘I am sure I can manage, Doctor.’
‘If you say so. I can find other things to keep Alice busy.’
From his bed, Günter moaned. Erich nodded.
‘How is he?’
‘Still not at all good, I’m afraid. If by some miracle he stabilises today then we’ll move him to Perth, but I’m thinking we’ll have to remove the leg here.’
The big German had been caught and mangled beneath a falling tree. For two days they had kept him dosed on morphine, bathing the misshapen limb with massive amounts of antiseptic.
‘We cannot save it?’
Doctor Alexander shook his head sadly.
‘No. The infection is wreaking havoc. I’m certain that gangrene is already setting in.’
Erich had noticed the sick, sweet stink of infected flesh the moment he’d entered the room. It took him back to Africa, to the camp where he’d watched men rotting alive until finally, mercifully, the shock killed them.
‘What can we do?’
‘Very little. The rain has potholed all the roads to the point where trying to truck him out would almost certainly kill him, but at the rate infection is setting in, if he hasn’t stabilised by this evening the leg will have to go.’
‘How?’
The doctor handed him a thick textbook.
‘It won’t be pleasant, I’m afraid. I’d like you to familiarise yourself with chapter twelve of this today. It will tell you everything you will need to know about rough amputation.’
‘Rough?’
‘We have only morphine and basic tools. This morning I’m going to find a suitable saw to cut cleanly through bone. I imagine that one of the small timber saws will do the job. I’ll ensure that it’s sharpened, and you’ll need to sterilise it this afternoon.’
‘How?’
‘Start by putting it in the fire for half an hour, in the coals, then into boiling water. No point in starting a new bout of infection when we try to cut out the old one.’
‘Does he know?’
Doctor Alexander shook his head.
‘I haven’t let him regain consciousness enough to tell him.’
‘What about Stutt?’
‘He knows.’ The old man’s voice was flat.
Erich crossed to where Günter lay, sunk in morphine. His leg beneath the sheet was flattened, misshapen. What must he be dreaming? Erich wondered. Günter had spoken several times about a young wife back home and a farm owned by his parents. What dreams had died with that falling tree?
‘There is no other choice, Erich.’ The doctor observed the young man closely. ‘If we want to save his life, the leg needs to go.’
‘Of course, Doctor.’
‘I’m going to find that saw. Keep an eye on Günter.’
Erich nodded, and the doctor eased himself up.
‘If there are any problems, shout from the door – don’t leave the patient. I’ll be sure to stay within earshot.’
He crossed to the bed, rested his hand on the soldier’s forehead, his voice a whisper, ‘Hold on there, Günter, hold on.’
Erich wondered if the soldier could even hear the words, let alone comprehend them.
The door closed, and without the doctor’s presence the hut seemed strange, different. This was, Erich realised, the first time that he’d been left alone there.
‘Have you been in Australia long?’
The girl. He’d forgotten her. Through his conversation with the doctor, she’d stood silent, watching. He shrugged.
‘Nine or ten weeks, I think.’
‘Where were you before?’
‘Africa.’
‘Were you in Egypt?’
‘No.’
‘My uncle went to Egypt during the Great War. He did his training there.’
‘I have never been there. I was in Libya.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Please, I would rather not discuss it.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
A heavy silence followed. Günter murmured, and Erich moved silently to the bedside.
‘What happened to him?’
‘A tree fell on his leg.’
Why would she not stop these questions?
‘It must be hard for you.’
She also moved to the bed, standing opposite, the fevered figure of Günter between them.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Living here, I mean. So far from home.’
Erich remained silent.
‘Paul, that was my uncle, used to say that the worst thing about the war was the distance. He wrote that it was like being on the moon or a star, being so far from familiar places. Do you find that?’
A shrug. ‘I do not let myself think of such things.’
‘What things?’
‘Home. Family things. There is a war and I am a fighting man, that is all there is.’
‘You must think of your family. Paul used to carry a photograph of my grandparents. They sent it home after . . .’ She turned towards the spluttering stove.
‘Yes?’
‘After he was killed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
‘Where did he die?’
‘France. A place called Flanders.’
‘And he was your uncle?’
‘I never met him. It was before I was born. Mother told me about him. Paul was her older brother, her only brother. Grandfather Johnathon’s eldest son.’
‘Grandfather Johnathon?’
She looked at Erich as though something was wrong with him.
‘The doctor, silly.’
‘Oh.’
The incongruity stunned him. The doctor’s son, killed fighting for his country, against Erich and Günter’s, over twenty years ago, before he or this girl even existed. And now, here was this old man, in the middle of the bush, himself fighting to save the lives of those who’d been – who still were – the enemy. His enemy.
Alice watched him closely.
‘He must hate us.’
‘No.’ She shook her head at him. ‘Grandfather’s not like that. He doesn’t hate. Just feels . . . I don’t know . . . sad. He doesn’t like to talk about Paul. You shouldn’t mention it.’
Outside, gentle splatters on the roof heralded more rain. The steps creaked and the old man returned clutching a vicious looking handsaw.
‘Right, Erich. Let’s get to work.’
Six
Vinnie
Twilight, the sky a blaze of crimson, stars winking into nightly existence between the branches with an intensity he’d never experienced in the city. Springy pine-litter soft and dry beneath him, Vinnie concentrated on one of the pinpoints. The immensity of distance was a distraction from dangerous, hypnotic memories stirred by the fireshadow.
Even with eyes and mind on the void above, part of him was still aware, still feeling the presence of the flames trapped beside him in their stone prison, the ring of rocks containing the licking fire much as a magic circle or pentagram might hold some primal power at bay. In the chill night the fingers of heat that stretched and caressed the tender skin of his face lent warmth but no comfort – the touch of a devil, he thought.
Crunch of footsteps on gravel. Sitting up.
‘Hi there.’
The girl from the campervan stood uncertainly a few feet away, outside the dancing ring cast by his fire.
‘Hi.’
<
br /> ‘Do you mind if I join you? My grandfather goes to bed early, I’m afraid.’
She loomed into his space, into his thoughts. Even in darkness, with only the flickering red and yellow glow for illumination, Vinnie was uncomfortably aware of her eyes – piercing, blue, probing, taking in his face, the scar.
He didn’t want this. Didn’t want the intrusion, or the judgment which he knew must follow. Didn’t want to be called to explain his presence in this haunted clearing. But could he refuse? Hers was the first voice he’d heard since the previous morning, and despite himself Vinnie was drawn to it, taken suddenly and unexpectedly by the idea of conversation – any conversation – with a stranger, with someone who didn’t know. Didn’t know him, didn’t know his family. Someone with no interest in the state of his mental health or his ability to ‘let go’.
The girl stood expectant, her weight nervous on one hip.
‘Sure, take a seat.’
A smile, hesitant. Should he be smiling?
‘I’m Vinnie.’
‘Helen.’
Pine needles crackled as she settled beside him, firelight skittering across her face, throwing half of it into deep shadow. Her handshake was so different from the sterile, professional touch of the nurses or the perfunctory contact of his parents.
‘I hope I’m not intruding. I’d finished cleaning up from dinner and really didn’t feel like reading – we’ve been doing that all afternoon – and I saw you sitting over here so I thought . . .’
‘Nah, that’s okay.’
The forest woke around them and a chorus of insects screeched at the night, bringing with it the rustle of predators and prey alike.
‘You getting away from it all for a while?’
‘Something like that.’ Drop the subject, his tone implied, but gently, and she did. ‘What about you?’
‘I volunteered to bring my grandfather here. He’s visiting from Germany.’
‘And he wanted to come here?’
‘He’s got his reasons.’
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