“Mein Gott!” one old man mumbles. Then he swallows very hard and feels his heart beating against his ribs. Wonders if he is going to die. Hopes it won’t be before the end of the performance.
Pandora’s dance continues. She comes to the front of the stage again, her arms floating out from her, and then she turns and twirls, moving back to the centre stage, going through the motions of the first woman exploring her new body. Each time a little bolder. Each time a little firmer. Each time she steps a little closer to the box at the side of the stage. The dim kerosene lamps throw shadows across the back of the stage as she dances. Huge dark shadows of her lithe figure, that twist and turn and move like some spectral fantasy in the men’s minds.
Finally, she is next to the box and stops dancing. She reaches out and touches its lid. Runs her hands along the surface as if it is warm and pleasurable. She begins caressing the box. Running her fingers across it. Bringing her body up close and letting her hair fall upon it. Then she bends down and kisses the lid. Once and then once again. Then she places her hands on the clasp.
The hall is silent. Some men are sitting on the very edges of their chairs. Others have their hands in their laps, feeling the tingling need there. Pandora turns her head and for the very first time looks directly at the men in the audience. The feeling, for many of them, is like being shot in the sternum. Then she throws the lid of the chest open wide.
A sudden heavy drum beat sounds. A quick pow-pow-pow. Pandora reaches in both arms, deep into the chest and lifts something out. She turns her back to the audience to shield it. It is the evils that will plague the world, they know, and yet every man there wants to see what it is.
Then she spins and holds it aloft for everyone to see. It is a large sheet of paper. Blank paper. Some at the back lean forward and whisper, “Was ist es?”—what is it. Try to see if there is anything written on it. But there is nothing.
And Pandora’s eyes smile as she steps forward and turns it slowly around to reveal it is a photograph of herself—which she holds out to the audience, offering it to them. Offering herself to them. At first nobody moves. Then one man in the front row stands up and makes a snatch for the photograph. The man beside him is only marginally slower and grabs the first man to stop him getting it. Then two men from the second row are jumping over their chairs to get there. Men up the back call out and stand to their feet. Push their way forward.
Suddenly the hall has become a battle-field. Men are shouting and locked in hand-to-hand combat, scrabbling to get to the front. Scrabbling to claim Pandora’s prize. Some men scream at others to stand out of their way. Others push chairs aside. Some duck below the swinging limbs of larger men, while carefully edging forward. All of them are trying to get to the front of the hall where the photograph is. Where Pandora has been.
For Pandora has long since fled the stage. And the precious photograph—the source of all the world’s evils—has been ripped to shreds by the many frantic hands that are fighting to grab hold of it.
Sergeant Gore walks past each of the six men and examines them closely. As if they are on parade. They stand stiffly to attention. Eyes forward, staring above the Sergeant’s head, paying no heed to the drop behind them.
“Good,” the Sergeant says. “Very good.” He walks back along the line and turns to address them. “The Commandant has been talking to me. Called me in for a little talk. Let me know there are concerns at how things are going over in France. Concerns about what’s being done for the war effort here. Has let me know just how serious it is.” He pauses. “You won’t find this printed in the newspapers. They keep this type of information away from the populace. Wouldn’t want to panic them. But I know I can trust you each with it.”
He watches as pride expands the men a little. “But I’m also telling you this so you’ll know how much extra effort you are going to need to put into your training. It might be that you are called upon to become the last line of defence for this corner of the Empire.” He pauses again. Lets the words sink in. Then he says it again. “The last line of defence.” Then, “And that is what we are going to practice tonight—fighting with your backs to the walls. Single hand-to-hand combat.”
Private Gunn is a little confused. Why has the Sergeant gotten them out here at night time to stand atop the small cliff if they are meant to be fighting against a wall? But he has learned enough not to question him. Learned to wait for the lesson to become apparent.
“I’m not going to tell you the rules, and I’m not even going to tell you where I will start, but I will attack each of you, one by one, and you must see if you can retain your footing on this land without being pushed off.”
Now Private Gunn gets the point of it and turns to look at the Sergeant just in time to see him shoot out one arm and push Private Cooper off the edge. He was still standing at attention and Private Gunn hears his faint calls of alarm and surprise as he tumbles down the slope to the beach below.
“You never know when a surprise attack might come, nor where it might come from,” says Sergeant Gore, and he feints at Private Smythe, who throws up his arms, but then the Sergeant kicks at the legs of the man next to him, catching him off balance, then he pushes him quickly over the edge too. Sends him tumbling to the sands below.
The Sergeant straightens up slowly. Watches the men carefully. Only four left now. All still standing at attention. But their eyes are on him. “Diversionary attacks aren’t always what they seem,” he says. He stands squarely in front of Private Strap. Looks at him. Dougie Strap licks his lips and shuffles his feet a little. Unsure whether he is allowed to lift his hands up yet. The Sergeant walks in close to him. Private Strap licks his lips again. Is thinking about what the Sergeant said about numerical supremacy. Wonders if they’re meant to attack him in a group and are meant to overwhelm him that way. But he isn’t sure. So he waits for the Sergeant to make the first move. It is one he doesn’t expect. Sergeant Gore spins his head towards Private Gunn, as if to catch him doing something. Dougie Strap turns his head too. And he thinks for a moment that his mate is coming to help him. Is going to grab the Sergeant from that side. But then he feels the fist in his chest. Feels it knocking him backwards. Feels himself sliding down the slope, unable to keep his footing. Falling. Hitting his head. Again and again. Landing with a thud in the sand by his two comrades. They help him to his feet and pull him clear. “Watch out,” they say. “There’ll be somebody else coming down in a moment.”
Now there are only three. Sergeant Gore is smiling. “Who’s gonna be next?” he asks. The three privates are looking at him, their concern clear on their faces.
Just to prove he can do it Sergeant Gore stands between two of them and sends first one and the other down the slope, shooting out a leg, and pushing at their torsos, tripping them over. First one side and then quickly the other. The men try and grab hold of him. Try not to fall. But they are too close to the edge. Too unwilling to fight back. They land on top of each other and call out in pain. Private Boote is certain his leg is broken.
Then it is only Private Gunn and Sergeant Gore. Facing each other on the small cliff top. Private Gunn tenses his leg muscles and waits for the Sergeant to come within reach. But the Sergeant is being cautious now. Gunn is much bigger and stronger than the others. A hulking country lad.
“Just you and me then, Gunn,” he says.
Gunn says nothing. Still at attention. Eyes on the Sergeant. He watches him move to the left of him. Then to the right. Gunn turns a little to face him each time. Sergeant Gore doesn’t like that. So he decides to handle him how the Generals always handled the enemy. Front on in full force. He leaps at Private Gunn and shoves with all his might. But Private Gunn is ready for him. The two men meet with a thud. Both pushing heavily. Chest to chest.
Sergeant Gore digs his boots into the dirt and heaves. But Private Gunn is like a brick wall. Refusing to be budged. He pushes back at the Sergeant, working his
arms to get hold of him. And the Sergeant feels his feet slipping a little. Feels Private Gunn’s strong arms encircling him. And Sergeant Gore feels a familiar stab of terror. Knows he is about to be surrounded. And he wants to call off the fight. Wants to fall to his knees and beg not to be hurt. But suddenly the ground behind Private Gunn gives way. One boot is suddenly slipping away into empty space. Then he is off balance. Sergeant Gore pushes mightily. Feels Gunn release his grip on him. Sees his arms waving in the air. Then hears him tumbling heavily down to the beach below.
The lesson concluded.
Arno is witness to a dream of Pandora that night. The man dreaming of her is standing in the dark, hidden in shadow, and Arno is trying to glimpse his face as he feels the passion and lust filling his body.
Pandora is dancing in a glade, dappled in soft light, oblivious to anyone watching her.
The sun is warm, even through the leaves and she is suddenly on the edge of a pond. She reaches out and tests the water with a toe. Then she bends over to reach out and brings a cup of cool water to her lips.
It pleases her and she begins undressing, to bathe in the pond.
She strips the light garments from her one by one, like removing veils, and casts them into the air, where they float like feathers to the ground.
The figure in the darkness is breathing heavily now, breath coming in heavy pants, as Pandora is piece by piece coming close to nakedness. But suddenly she stops and looks around. She has heard or sensed something. She clasps clothes to her bosom and takes a step away.
The man then steps out of the shadows and steps forward, becoming a beast, his features transforming quickly into a furry dark figure, filled with hunger for her body.
She screams and steps back into the pond as the beast pounces. His claws are like knives and his teeth are as sharp as daggers, but she is too quick for him. She dives into the water and the beast stops at the edge, howling in rage and frustration, as she is just beyond his grasp.
The beast turns and lashes at the trees and bushes, destroying the glade, and ripping her clothes to shreds, all the while screaming what he wants to do to her. Needs to do to her. But she is gone and the beast drops to the ground, panting as if he cannot breathe any more. Panting as if the desire is crushing him. Then he turns and slinks back to the shadows and is gone too.
Another dream of sexual frustration, but not of murder.
3
Another Day
Arno is waking along the wall before daylight, searching carefully for any trace of movement or sound ahead of him. But he sees nothing there today. No trace of violence or danger, or perhaps it is just obscured by the many dreams of passion that the dance of Pandora triggered in the men? He walks the walls and touches the cold stone and tells himself that if there is any danger about them, he will find it.
At breakfast Doctor Hertz is very late in arriving. The whole hall is waiting for him, but they know he has several new patients in the infirmary—cuts and bruises mostly, but also two broken limbs that needed setting last night. If the prison guards hadn’t broken things up there might have been more. The men sit quietly, some reliving the battle in their minds, some replaying their part in it so it might have turned out differently. Some whispering questions, questions, questions to those around them. And all awaiting the doctor to make his entrance.
Finally, he strides in, looking rather tired, and takes a seat at the end of one table.
The whole hall is watching him—even if their heads aren’t turned fully in that direction. They know what the men around him will ask him—the same question they have been asking each other last night and all morning—“Wer war Pandora?”—Who was Pandora? But nobody had known. The other actors didn’t know. Herr Schröder, the orchestra conductor, didn’t know. Even Herr Dubotzki the camp photographer said he didn’t know. He said he didn’t take the photograph she offered them. Told then that Doctor Hertz had taken it himself using his own small camera and that he had only requested that he develop and print it for him.
The men quizzed him over and over. Is there any way he could find out who she was? Did he still have the negative? Could he just make one extra print, perhaps, for a small fee?
Then somebody finally asked the unspoken question: what if Pandora had been a woman? A real woman. So many men had woken with a crick in their back from her having danced atop them all night long, but if she had been a real woman there would be no shame in their lustful dreams. The men looked into their porridge and think of that. So many had slept with the thought of her caressing them last night, that Arno felt she must now lived in the stone of the walls of the prison too, and perhaps she might balance out the nightmare beasts that live there, and prevent them from escaping somehow.
The idea of Pandora being a real woman started more questions. Who could it have been? Nurse Rosa? Surely not. One of the local women? Unlikely. They had to know! Who was she?
And then Doctor Hertz walked in. All eyes followed him, watching him sit down, watching the men around him question him casually, watching Doctor Hertz smile and slowly shake his head as the men about him frowned and placed their palms flat on the table and asked him again.
But he slowly shakes his head once more. The men clench their hands into fists and implore him. But he places his own palms on the table, shaking his head sternly and with finality. Then he rises, taking his meal, and walks out of the hall—taking their hopes with him. The men in the hall turn back to their own breakfasts, thinking that perhaps their porridge suddenly tastes a little bitter this morning.
After breakfast Arno is again standing at the prison gates looking at his watch. Again the guards are late. Again the internees stream outside when they are finally thrown open.
Arno, as ever, shields his eyes from the bright blueness of the ocean and looks around. So large. He breathes in the air of his native land and feels himself grow a little larger. Stronger. He turns his head slowly, looking for the smoking stacks of ships. Looking for anything new. Then he turns to make his way down to the beach. He has not gone far though when he hears sharp calls of excited voices ahead of him. The men closest to the beach are running down to the white sands, shouting and calling out.
He follows hurriedly and looks to where they are all pointing. There is something on the beach. Large and dark. A troop ship, is his first thought. But he checks himself and looks at the dark shape again. Sees it for what it actually is—a whale washed ashore.
Men around him are now shouting it out, “Ein Walfisch!” And like excited children they all run down to the sands to surround it.
By mid-morning almost all the internees are down on the beach. They are jumping in and out of the water, brandishing buckets and shovels and knives, eager to attack the dead whale that had beached itself in the night. Herr Kaufmann, a former New Guinea-based merchant, has declared the whale to be a sperm whale and its blubber worth a considerable amount if they flense it and boil it down. There is little they can do with the money, but the thought of it puts all the former businessmen into a state of excitement. And their excitement is infectious. Some men tally up rows of profit against the cost of transporting it to Kempsey or to Sydney, where it can be sold. Others look at the logistics of boiling down the blubber in the camp kitchens. The men could live on bread alone for a few days while it was done. And others try to oversee the organisation of the most able-bodied men into disciplined parties that will carve up the whale in small groups, flensing from one end to the other.
Once the word is out that they plan to skin the beast, men come running down the hill with any sharp implement they can find, ready to stick in and cut away any pound of flesh. Herr Kaufmann, who has appointed himself foreman for the whale flensing, based solely on his expertise in organising coolies on his plantation in New Guinea, shouts and rails at the men to no accord. They are quickly up to their arms in blood and blubber and digging deeper into the whale corpse,
in a disorganised frenzy. They peel away the flesh and letting the blood pour into the shallow water about their feet.
The whale had obviously beached itself in the night at high tide, and the men are working to claim as much of the blubber as is possible before the tide comes back in again in the afternoon, removing their sudden treasure. They work right through lunch, shouting and laughing, as the guards in the watchtowers look down and shake their heads at them. And as they work the waters slowly rise about their ankles.
Two guards have come down to the beach and sit down, up above the sands, in the shade of a tree, with their rifles across their laps. Never having seen the men so active nor so well armed—they aren’t sure what quite to do, and decided to keep their distances with a bullet in the chamber. Just in case.
The whale’s body, cut and bleeding, seems to be slowly deflating as the men work. Wheelbarrows are brought down from the camp and the blubber is loaded in and carted slowly back up the hill to the kitchens. Men have Sperm blood all over their arms and through their hair, but keep working, stripping back the blubber and loading it into wheelbarrows.
Sweat and blood and sunshine seep into their eyes, but they wipe it away and keep at the attack. They laugh for the sheer joy of the work. One of the men, Gerhard Rohlfs, has climbed upon the whale’s back and is cutting away the blubber there with a shovel, as if he is digging a shallow trench. He cries out suddenly, “I have found gold!” The men look up and laugh, shielding their eyes. And suddenly he is gone. They blink and wipe their brows and look again. His shovel is still there where he had stood but he is gone. Men walk from one side of the whale to the other to see where he has fallen off, but he is not there. He has disappeared.
The Years of the Wolf Page 8
