“Otto Brandt,” he says as they shake hands. “It would be a pleasure, Bob.” Brandt hears the relief in his own voice at being stopped on a lonely road by a uniformed official just to witness a wedding.
“You beauty,” says the bridegroom. “Well, we’re just up the track there. Start up the ute and I’ll show you where to go.” He leaps on the bonnet, perches himself on the spare wheel and directs Brandt to a gap through the trees.
Brandt starts the engine and the ranger points the way, guiding him along a rough track to the official park ranger’s bungalow with the blue Australian flag straining in the wind against a stark-white pole. The dwelling is set in a wide clearing where three grey wallabies are cropping the fresh grass under a water sprinkler.
Still following the ranger’s directions, Brandt parks his Land Rover at the side of the house. As he gets out, he smells the scented needles of an Australian pine and hears the sweet musical gurgle of a creek as it trickles through clumps of maidenhair ferns and watercress.
A white sheet partly clothes a trestle table on the lawn. Brandt notes the plain government plates and cutlery waiting to receive portions of a small cake with white icing. On the veranda, a trap set up for electrocuting bugs and mosquitoes is suspended from the rafter like a black chandelier.
A card table adorned with a free-standing silver cross serves as an altar. Two wedding certificates, a silver ink well, a blotter and two pens have been neatly set out on a purple cloth spread over an upturned tea chest. The certificates are held down from the wind by the leather-bound Register of Weddings.
Near a weedy rock garden, a plough disc set on flat stones serves as a barbecue, and resting on a stump is an ice bucket with the necks of four bottles of sparkling wine poking up like the funnels of the Titanic.
Another uniformed ranger has run out an extension cord from the veranda and is attaching it to a gramophone. ‘That’s Dave Rushworth,’ says Bob, “my best man – he’s my boss and our only guest.” Dave is a tanned, fit-looking man in his forties.
Brandt hears someone breaking up branches for firewood and turns to see an elderly man wearing a dog’s collar and a pre-war grey suit. He comes over slapping the bark dust from his trousers. “You’re going to be our witness?” he asks.
“Yes, I have that honour,” says Brandt. The minister fixes him with a long stare and Brandt has to restrain himself from looking away.
“You must be on the Snowy Scheme,” he says slowly.
“I’m a blasting engineer.”
“That’d be right. I could tell straight away you’d be on the Snowy Scheme. There’s something about you blokes. You walk like heroes, as you’ve a right to, but you’re all a zac short of a quid.”
Brandt looks at him with incomprehension. “Short of a quid?” he says. One thing you can never say about the Snowy men is that they lack spare cash.
“By that I mean you’re all off yer rocker,” explains the minister. “You take maniacal risks, and I’m the bloke who should know. I’ve buried too many of your cobbers over the past years. But good on yer, mate. I suppose the human ceiling is raised just a bit higher for men like you and I dips my lid to you ’cos you’re doing bloody great things for Australia. You’ve found something bigger to do in the world beyond the petty concerns of your private lives.”
For a second Brandt allows himself to feel pride – quelled at once by the thought of what these people would say if they knew his past.
The minister looks round at them at them all. “Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, we have our witness, so let’s get started.”
*
The service is brief. “Look into each other’s eyes when you say your vows,” says the minister. “Come on, Bob – you too, Jill. Don’t look at me, just repeat to each other what I say.”
Brandt swallows and closes his eyes. An inner anguish is seizing him; a feeling of vertigo. He has a vision of the porthole, and the ghastly bride clinging to the hull and staring all the while at him with that one green eye.
And then there’s the subject of vows altogether. His marriage to Brigitte brings its usual pangs but it also reminds him of another sacred vow he made on a spring day in 1938, in the Felderhermhalle in Berlin:
“I vow to you, Adolf Hitler, as Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich, loyalty and bravery. I vow to you and to the leaders you set for me, absolute allegiance until death. So help me, God.”
He remembers that, soon after the war, he had heard on a Viennese radio station that ex-Obergruppenführer Krüger had committed suicide. Was that ‘absolute allegiance until death’? And if it were, why did Krüger not recommend it for Ernst Frick as well?
Bob and Jill hold their tiny reception under the silky oak, a vast blossoming tree that daubs its clouds of orange and gold into the sky like a wet-on-wet painting. Dave pours the minister another glass of sparkling wine, then squats down on the grass, bow-legged like a Buddha, and lights his cigarette.
Bob turns to Brandt. “What about your future, Otto? I s’pose when you’ve finished your contract you’ll shoot through.”
“Shoot through?” The term conveys nothing to Brandt, except that it makes him uneasy.
“What I mean, mate, is you’ll be going back to Germany.”
“I am not sure,” lies Brandt. He knows full well that returning to Europe can never be an option for him. He crushes a gum leaf in his hand and catches the scent of eucalyptus oil. “I have an ethical problem about remaining in Australia. Germany is in ruins and I think I should return to help rebuild it.” His words may deceive but the sentiment is heartfelt, and he can see that it strikes a chord in his listeners.
“That’s where you’re wrong mate,” says Dave. “We need you right here in Australia. Don’t you worry about Germany, she’ll be right. The Yanks will get behind her with their big money. That’s because they have to. Germany’s backyard fence is the Iron Curtain. Uncle Sam wants a buffer zone and he’s prepared to pay for it. But, over here, it’s different. We have to do everything ourselves. There’s only seven million of us in this country and we need as many good white migrants as we can get. There’s the big Yellow Peril to our north and most of them are Commos, too right they are. No, Otto, we need you to stay right here, mate. By the way, do you live in one of the Snowy camps? What sort of quarters have you got?”
“I live at Island Bend, but I’m lucky; I’ve been promoted, so I’ve got my own cabin and—”
Dave interrupts him. “No, mate, not good enough. Get yourself a place of your own. Buy a few thousand acres.”
“You mean around here?” The idea has never occurred to him.
“Well, maybe not in the state park, you can’t do that, but nearby. Strewth, Otto, this is one humdinger of a place to live, and farming properties are cheap, very cheap. During the Depression there were a lot of foreclosures in these parts. Some places haven’t been lived in since the 1930s. I’d say it’s a golden opportunity for you, mate.”
“It won’t be plain sailing,” says Jill mopping up a small splash of champagne from her wedding dress. “You’ll miss the greenness of Europe – and the old-world animals – but not the rabbits.” They all laugh. “But seriously, Otto, you’ll love the wildlife. Most people I’ve met from overseas tell me how everything over here is so strange for them. You only have to kick over a stone – even the bugs are different.”
“It’s a bonzer new country, mate,” says Bob. “A young country.”
Brandt picks another leaf and folds it carefully between his fingers. “So, you’re telling me Australia is a chance for a man like me to make a fresh start. Is that how you see it?”
“Exactly, mate. Too right I do. I think—”
Jill interrupts him. “Are you married, Otto?”
“No.”
“Perhaps not such a good thing over here,” says Bob. “People talk. You need to get yerself a sheila and have k
ids. Put down some roots.” He reaches across to grasp Jill’s hand.
From the forest there’s a snap like a rifle shot and Brandt swings around.
“Only a whip bird,” says Jill. She looks at his startled face and smiles.
“Anyway, as I was saying, Otto,” says Dave. “Get yourself a stake in the land. Be part of us. We’re not called the lucky country for nothing. It’s the best place in the world to live.”
“But how would you know, Dave? You’ve never been outside Australia?” Jill’s eyes are mischievous.
“Well, it just is. What say you, Reverend?”
The minister nods. “Well, I have travelled a bit in my time and I have to admit that Australia takes some beating.”
“Well, you never know, I might make a go of it after all,” says Brandt. “I’ll certainly give it some thought.”
“Righto, just you do that,” says Dave. He shakes Brandt’s hand.
“I hope you will,” says the minister. “Good on yer, Otto.” He and Bob shake his hand too.
“And, most importantly, make sure you become an Australian citizen,” says the minister, as Brandt takes his leave of them. He pauses by the house to look across to the east where a wash of late afternoon sun has given the mountains an orange glow.
Yes, it is a good country, he thinks to himself. And owning a farm around here a man could hide from the world for the rest of his life; alone, that is. He hears a crackle from the veranda and sees a blue spark as something is electrocuted in the bug trap.
7
It’s already dark as Brandt follows the old prospector’s road threading upwards to the alpine zone. Through the headlights, he glimpses the reflected eyes of wild animals. Are they kangaroos, wallabies or wombats? He regrets that, despite his time in Australia, he is still so ignorant of the natural life of this strange continent.
The brittle arc of a sickle moon throws up grotesques of lone mountain trees, their tops groomed to flatness by centuries of high winds.
When he reaches the alpine zone, he halts the vehicle on a ridge and, despite the cold, climbs out to look up at the Southern Cross poised low over Mount Kosciusko. Minutes later, he drops his gaze across the valley to another ridge where a dingy string of yellow lights marks the perimeter of Island Bend Camp.
What is happening to him? Camp! Even the word itself evokes horrors of gathering intensity. How quickly colour fades from the past, how, more and more, the memories smudge into blacks and whites and greys, like the newsreels.
*
It is spring in 1943 when a newly promoted, Ernst Frick is overlooking a concentration camp in Galicia from the balcony of its Kommandant, Obersturmführer Kurt Huber.
Frick is stationed there for a week in order to complete a technical course on the hygienic disposal of corpses.
“It’s become a serious problem,” says Keller, a pasty-faced SS Unterstürmführer whose triangular mouth was set at the bottom of his face, rather like a toad’s. “It’s becoming more acute because we are still using engine exhaust gas for exterminations on an impossible scale. The burial pits are overflowing with thousands of corpses, which swell up and rise above the surface. Sometimes they explode, and you can imagine the stench; God, you can smell it two kilometres off. We desperately need to find an industrial method for disposing of the bodies immediately after death.”
Keller goes off to meet another Lieutenant at the bar and Frick takes the chance to go out onto the balcony.
Kommandant Huber’s villa has a wide balcony separated from the noisy reception room by french windows. Standing, deep in thought, Frick is startled when Kommandant Huber himself taps his shoulder. Frick clicks his heels, springs to attention and salutes. Huber holds a glass of schnapps, which is shaking in his soft pale hand. Huber’s face is orange and puffy like a ripe clementine. A paunchy colonel has come out onto the balcony with him.
“Ernst, I want you to meet SS Standartenführer Köhler,” says Huber.
Köhler returns a tired salute, then addresses the Kommandant. “A pretty villa you have, Huber. I see your balcony is new.”
“Yes, Ilse designed it to give us a view of the garden… and, of course, to provide an observation deck for me to oversee the camp.”
Köhler then turns to Frick. “And what of you, Sturmbannführer? Are you on leave?” The man knows full well that he’d be on leave if he hadn’t been ordered to attend this damned course.
“Yes, Herr Standartenführer.”
“Is not your beautiful wife with you today?”
“No, sir, but I have stolen Brigitte away from Berlin for a week. She begged me to bring her – but I’ve left her in Lvov.” He doesn’t like Köhler talking about his wife. “Brigitte has not been to Galicia before. We have a room in the Chopin Hotel, and she and my daughter are sightseeing. Today, I think they are visiting the Vynnykivisky. Tonight, I’m taking them up to the castle.” Frick changes the subject. “Will you be doing the course yourself, Herr Standartenführer?”
“Haven’t you read your briefing, Frick? I’m one of the main presenters.” Köhler laughs. So does Huber, but it sounds forced. When Köhler stops laughing, Huber stops too and nearly chokes himself. He gulps down some more schnapps, which sets off a coughing fit. This brings Ilse Huber hurrying out dragging their little daughter by the hand.
Köhler takes Ilse’s arm. “Don’t you worry about your husband, my dear. He’ll survive us all. And whom do we have here?” He stoops and lifts up the child. “What is your name, Fräulein?”
“Karina.”
From her scowl it is obvious that she detests being suspended in the air by this fat old man who reeks of cigar smoke and Polish vodka. Perhaps Köhler realises this too or, more probably, the child is becoming too heavy for him, because he lowers her down again and then, of all things, starts to interrogate her.
“How old are you, Karina?”
“She’s three, nearly four, Standartenführer,” says Frau Huber.
“Please… allow the child to speak for herself.” He turns again to Karina. “I asked you how old you are, Fräulein.”
“Three.”
“You have a beautiful house, Karina, Do you like your house?”
“Yes.”
“You have a beautiful garden to play in. Do you like playing in the garden?”
“No.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because the Jews are there.”
Köhler shoots an amused glance at the parents, then he turns to the child again. “I don’t understand, Karina. Why do you have Jews in your garden?”
“They have to work.”
Köhler looks down over the garden to where four men in striped overalls are digging out spring weeds. Karina rushes over to the railing and waves to the prisoners. Two of them give single waves back, then resume working furiously on the weeds.
“Mummy shoots them,” says Karina swinging around to look for her mother, but Frau Huber has disappeared inside.
*
Brandt hears the Island Bend generator start up, and he draws heavily on his cigarette. On the opposite hillside, the cabins begin to glow, but they are not bright enough to diminish the light of Venus over the western crags or the reddish moon to the south. He closes his eyes tightly, but fails to block out the images of what happened next at the Hubers’ villa.
*
Several more of the SS have drifted out onto the balcony. There is not a single rank below Sturmscharführer. What for God’s sake is the High Command thinking of? Are they all mad? Why, when the Third Reich is fighting for its very existence, have these senior officers been ordered to attend a training course on incinerating dead bodies?
“Mummy!” Karina squirms through the coppice of crisply ironed trousers and black polished boots to the smirking Ilse who’s arrived on the balcony cradling a small Flobert parlour rifle.
&n
bsp; “Time for the shooting gallery,” mutters Huber, as Ilse kneels down and steadies the rifle barrel on the railing. She closes one eye. All eyes turn to the garden below.
One of the Jews is an elderly man raking weeds along the path.
CRACK!
The Jew buckles and falls over.
CRACK!!
Frick can hardly believe it. In front of the child too. Dear God, help us. He stares down and sees blood splurging from the old man’s neck.
“Mummy! Quick, mummy, the other Jews are running away.” The dreadful child is leaping up and down in exasperation.CRACK! !
A second Jew falls over. Grasping his upper leg, he attempts to crawl towards the open tool shed. Another Jew, just a lad, runs across to help him.
CRACK! CRACK!
He too falls down, clutching his abdomen and vomiting blood.
The fourth Jew rushes towards the shed.
CRACK!
The bullet splits a thigh bone and he crashes down. All four Jews are now squirming in agony on the ground.
Frick grinds his teeth. He stares at his feet and holds his breath to avoid being sick.
“Good shooting, Mummy,” shrieks Karina, clapping her cherubic hands. A few of the guests raggedly join in until they are stunned silent by four loud cracks from a Lüger. The gardeners lay still. Huber clips the pistol back into its holster, then grabs the railing with clenched hands. His cheeks are rigid and greyish-yellow. He takes a crisply ironed white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the sweat from his forehead.
Standartenführer Köhler raises his glass. “Your good health, Kommandant,” he says in a loud but controlled voice.
“Good health, Herr Kommandant,” rumbles the sycophantic echo.
“Good shooting, Daddy,” says Karina running to give her father a hug.
Frick escapes inside and goes over to the drinks table, where an SS Hauptmann pours him another schnapps, which he swallows down without tasting it and then stares stupidly at the empty glass. How he loathes Frau Huber. He loathes her eyes, which never sit well with her perpetual smile: sharp, lustful eyes that slide from one man to another and especially to Brandt. He especially loathes her because he cannot fathom how she can expose her own small daughter to all this. He is sure that if the Führer knew what she was doing he would find it distasteful, quite distasteful.
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