As the men waited, stamping their feet and swinging their arms to keep warm, Berlin checked the sky for any breaks that might give respite from the sleet and snow. Sunshine would be welcome to warm their freezing bodies but it would also make them easy targets for roaming Sturmoviks, the Russian aircraft responsible for their burnt-out lodgings and the rocketed trucks and tanks they passed along the road. The grey sky and snow-covered landscape merged seamlessly at the horizon, meaning they would at least be safe for the first part of the day.
Behind the barn a stand of fruit trees stood leafless and forlorn. Among the bare branches ravens were waking from rest. Berlin watched them, fat and sleek, eyes glinting, feathers shimmering through the winter mist. They would breakfast at their leisure while he starved, filling their bellies without the usual raucous squabbling over every morsel. It was a very good time for carrion eaters.
Around mid-morning Berlin heard gunfire from somewhere ahead of the line of POWs that was slowly shuffling westward. Single shots, spaced – pistol or rifle fire – not the steady, constant rumble of the Russian artillery far behind them. Sleet was falling again and the prisoners kept their heads down. Berlin squinted into the distance and could see the guards at the front of the column beginning to force the prisoners off the roadway and into the snowdrifts.
An order was coming down the line, passed from one guard to the next. Berlin could hear the word ‘Juden’ repeated. The guard for their section began pushing men off the road with his Mauser rifle, which he held horizontally at chest height. The POWs protested, groaned, resisted, preferring the ankle-deep slush of the roadway to the knee-deep snow of the drifts.
A thin, dark line appeared over the crest of the hill ahead, moving slowly towards them. As the figures drew closer they separated into two groups and Berlin heard an angry murmur from the POWs in front. On the right was a shuffling, stumbling line of people dressed in ragged striped tunics and pants, and in the middle of the road, out of the worst of the muck, was a smaller group dressed in black uniforms.
‘Those bastards look like the fucking SS.’ It was a shivering airman standing behind Berlin who spoke. He spat into the snow for emphasis. ‘And them others, I think they’re bloody four-be-twos.’
The German guards kept their backs to the column of Jews and SS men and Berlin wondered if they were more concerned with looking away from what was happening on the road than keeping an eye on their prisoners. Most of the SS men Berlin had seen since his capture had been neatly turned out in tailored black uniforms, but this group looked tired and angry, their clothes crushed and dirty. They carried rifles and holstered pistols or MP40 machine pistols, and several had whips or clubs.
Berlin was shocked at the condition of the shuffling, silent Jewish prisoners. Some wore battered shoes or wooden clogs but many were barefoot or simply had rags bound around their feet. Their clothing was threadbare – thin, tattered trousers and a shirt or tunic, some open to the wind and showing gaunt, skeletal torsos. Their hair was close-cropped or shaven, their vacant eyes sunk deep into sockets above protruding cheekbones. Berlin realised with a jolt that many of these walking scarecrows were women.
More shouting from near the front of the POW column and Berlin could make out a figure beside the road, someone who had fallen out of the line of Jewish prisoners. The man was on his knees, head bent forward. An SS soldier lifted his rifle and fired a single shot from about a foot away. The body jerked sideways and went limp, a red smear appearing on the snow near the head. The POWs were shouting now, screaming in anger at the SS while the camp guards nervously tried to calm them down.
A figure in the silently shuffling column opposite Berlin stopped and stared across at the POWs. It was a woman. She looked like she had just woken from a deep sleep and her eyes locked onto Berlin’s. He found he couldn’t look away. She must have been very beautiful once. She still was, despite the filthy striped tunic, cropped hair and drawn face, her lips blue from hunger and cold. How old was she? he wondered. A Jewess. The word ‘Jewess’ had intrigued him since he had first found it in Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe in the Essendon Public Library when he was ten. A real Jewess, his first, here among the filthy slush and detritus of war on a lonely Polish back road.
They continued to stare at each other, the Jewess standing quietly as the column moved slowly past her. A young SS officer, not more than twenty, was suddenly at her side, screaming. Berlin had enough Kriegie Deutsche from the camp to understand the words: ‘Move your arse, you filthy Jew cunt.’ The SS officer took his pistol from its holster, pulled the slide to cock the weapon and placed it against her temple.
‘Please, oh please keep moving,’ Berlin begged her silently. Behind her, in the distance he could see a raven circling. Closer, in painful detail, he could also see the silver death’s-head insignia on the soldier’s cap, the silver SS flashes on his jacket collar and a small scar on the corner of his angry mouth. The third finger on the soldier’s right hand, the hand holding the pistol, was missing above the second knuckle.
‘Please just keep moving, keep going.’ Berlin was willing her to move with every ounce of strength he had. But the Jewess just smiled at him, a wondrous smile, deep and serene, as if to say, ‘I chose my time. Remember me. You are my witness.’
Berlin saw the soldier’s finger tighten on the trigger, the slide move back and the empty brass shell casing eject, tumbling end over end away from the gun. There was no sound, and then the girl was gone.
He continued to stare at the place where her face had been. The puff of smoke from the muzzle had been whisked away instantly by the chill wind. All around him the POWs were screaming at the SS officer, but to him their mouths worked silently. Berlin studied the steely grey sky and felt the wind and watched the raven circling, and he knew he would love the Jewess for all of his life.
‘… Charlie?’
Rebecca was staring at him. ‘Charlie, are you okay?’
Berlin looked around. The sky was clear but rain clouds were building on the western horizon and a chill wind was starting to blow. He pulled the overcoat tighter at the neck then thrust his hands deep into the pockets. ‘It’s getting late, we should be heading back to town.’
On their way they passed Bellamy’s trouserless militia and Berlin’s face was blank as he studied the line of shuffling, dispirited, miserable men. Rebecca glanced across at him and turned her eyes back to the road. The temperature always fell quickly around sunset on an autumn evening but right now there was a deep chill inside the Austin she couldn’t quite put her finger on. But she knew as she looked at Berlin she’d never seen a more wounded man in her life.
THIRTY-THREE
Vern Corrigan knew his business. He looked into Berlin’s face when he ordered the first whisky and then glanced under the bar to make sure there were a couple of full bottles standing by. He also checked that the iron bar was handy. Corrigan had seen that same look before, in Whitmore’s eyes, and it always ended in trouble.
They shared a table, Rebecca nursing a gin and tonic and Berlin drinking whisky after whisky. He made polite conversation and drank. They ordered dinner and Berlin drank while they ate it, and then he drank some more and became silent. Behind the bar Maisie had started to keep a tally on a pad but Corrigan tore off the page, screwed it up and threw it away. Ten or twenty drinks, it made no difference. He would charge the local police double whatever was needed to pay for the booze and extra for the damage, and his brother would sign off without any questions.
Around nine a bloke who was old enough to know better decided Berlin ignoring the pretty girl at his table was a sign she might be available to someone who showed a little more interest. Rebecca shook her head as he approached the table, trying to warn him off, but he was either too drunk or too thick to recognise the signal.
The third time Rebecca said she wasn’t interested, Berlin put his drink down, stood up and quietly asked the bloke if he was deaf or just plain stupid. The man was a head taller than Berlin and a few p
ounds heavier – and a very bad judge of character. Five seconds after the obscenity left his mouth his back was hard up against the wall on the other side of the dining room, feet desperately struggling to find the floor and Berlin’s forearm jammed tight across his throat, cutting off his oxygen supply.
The whole room watched, and waited for Berlin’s right fist, poised above his shoulder, to smash down hard into the terrified face. But he held the punch and kept his left arm in place until the choking man’s hands came up slowly in surrender. Berlin released his hold, letting the man slide slowly down to the floor. He walked back to his table across a silent dining room.
After the incident Rebecca moved into the empty lounge with her cup of tea. She listened to the radio and flicked through magazines, feeling just as alone as she had been at the table with Berlin. He was gone, she knew, off someplace she couldn’t follow or even understand. Rebecca was afraid, not for herself but for him. She had seen Berlin slip the pistol into his overcoat pocket at the robbery scene that first day, and she wondered if she should casually wander out to the hallway and check his coat.
She also wondered if she should go to his room and wait there. Wait in his bed to see if he wanted solace in her instead of the bottle. But something in Berlin’s eyes said that all the sex in the world wouldn’t ease his pain.
Berlin finally realised he was alone some time around midnight. The bar was empty, the barmaid gone, and the landlord was switching off lights. Corrigan walked across to the table with a half-full bottle of Haig in his left hand and a glass tucked under his right arm. He pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and put the bottle and glass on the table.
‘One for the road,’ he said. He splashed some whisky into his glass and filled Berlin’s up to the top.
‘You chucking me out?’ Berlin said.
Corrigan shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t even think of it, mate, but I’m off to bed.’ He tapped his glass against Berlin’s and downed the whisky in one swallow. ‘Turn out the lights if you can manage it, no problem if you can’t. I’ll leave you the bottle.’ He walked across the room and tossed a log into the fireplace. ‘It’s gunna get bloody cold in here when this fire dies, just so you know.’
The fire and the bottle both died around the same time. Berlin’s bed would be just as cold as the bar, but he remembered there was more whisky next to it. As he staggered to his feet he saw that Rebecca was asleep on the couch in the lounge. Someone had covered her with blankets and left a small radiator burning – probably Lily.
Why would she choose to sleep on the couch? he wondered. But she looked warm enough, and comfortable as he passed. He remembered where he was going and why and walked unsteadily towards the hallway. There was a lamp still burning on the reception desk and Berlin saw the outline of his overcoat on the wall rack. He stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister for support, thinking about the pistol in his coat pocket. Then he turned and took on the challenge of climbing the stairs.
The stair treads creaked and Rebecca stirred slightly. When her right hand confirmed that the eight cartridges from Berlin’s pistol were still wrapped in the handkerchief tucked underneath her body, she went back to sleep.
THIRTY-FOUR
A gentle knocking woke Berlin at about three in the afternoon. By the time he had managed to wrap a blanket around himself and stagger from the bed to the door, the hallway was empty. There was a tray on the floor with tea, toast and scrambled eggs. There was also a packet of Bex aspirin powders.
He vomited up the first mouthful of egg, making it to the washbasin just in time. After rinsing his mouth out with tea he switched to dry toast, which seemed a better option. The Bex powders were touch and go for a minute but he kept them down. Then more toast and tea. He sat on the bed wrapped in the blanket, holding his cup in both hands to stop the shaking. Jesus Christ, why was Sunday always such an arsehole of a day?
He didn’t trust himself to carry the tray down to the kitchen, so he left it outside the door. In the entrance hallway he slipped on his overcoat and felt the comforting presence of the automatic in the pocket. It had rained, but now the sky was clearing. Still enough cloud cover to cut out any glare, which was a good thing given how much his eyes were aching. He starting walking, feeling the damp gravel crunch under his feet. At the roadway he turned right.
Albury was as dead as a doornail, every shop on Dean Street locked or shuttered. Berlin walked up one side as far as the railway line and then back down the other. Crossing Olive Street, he looked up and saw the pale white finger of the war memorial on the hilltop ahead. He turned left to lose the sight.
St Patrick’s Church had stood at the corner of Olive and Smollet streets since 1872, according to the sign outside. The doors were open and it was starting to drizzle so on impulse Berlin decided to go in. The sonorous chanting of Latin, the smell of incense and the ringing of small bells assaulted his senses, and he wondered what he was doing there. Hell, he wasn’t even Catholic. He sat in the very back pew, pondering exactly how much dirt Saint Patrick must have had on the higher-ups in the Vatican to get every second Catholic church in the world named after him.
The place was empty apart from the first few rows and, given all the available space, he wondered why anyone would want to slide in next to him.
‘Seeking solace, Charlie, or are you here for confession?’
Rebecca was wearing a long raincoat and she had a pale blue scarf tied over her head.
There was a noise off to one side and they both turned to look. A woman came out of a confessional booth.
‘You can understand why so many Micks are attracted to the police force,’ Rebecca whispered.
‘I don’t follow.’ Berlin was feeling sick and his head was starting to ache again. Why hadn’t he put some of the Bex powders in his pocket?
‘The Catholic Church and the police have a lot in common. They’re both about people sinning and then confessing their transgressions in a very small room.’
She had that right. Sticking a sinner in a small room with a couple of burly Irish cops was always the easiest way to get a confession.
‘Back in Ballarat during the war our local Catholic church had so many confessions on Sunday mornings that the priests just sat on chairs a couple of feet apart with lines of Yank soldiers going out the doors. They even hauled an eighty-year-old priest out of retirement to help handle the overflow, and some of the boys used to tell me they’d make up the most outrageous stories just to see how he’d react.’
Berlin smiled. He was thinking of some of the things the boys got up to while training in Canada. He stopped smiling when he remembered how many of them were dead and gone.
‘Of course, some of those young soldiers had a lot of confessing to do, Charlie. We had our fair share of shotgun weddings back then, and unmarried girls taking extended holidays to visit interstate relatives. And there were the girls who jumped in the local creek or wound up dead in an alley from a backyard abortion gone wrong. It wasn’t all beer and skittles.’
Berlin was only half listening. He nodded his head from time to time to show interest but even that slight movement made him feel sick. After a while Rebecca stopped speaking and then some time later he heard the shuffling of feet. He looked up and people were making their way out of the church.
‘The mass has ended, Charlie,’ Rebecca said in a solemn voice. ‘It’s time for us to go forth and sin no more.’
When there was no one else left in the church they stood up and he followed her outside. The Austin was parked just across the street.
Rebecca pulled the scarf from her head and shook her hair to loosen it. ‘Want a lift back to the hotel? It looks like it could rain again.’
Berlin glanced at the sky and shook his head. ‘I’ll be right, I need a walk.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. Besides,’ he said, ‘it’s a very small car and I’m not sure I smell so good.’
Rebecca smiled. ‘That’s one of the t
hings I like about you, Charlie – you are a master of understatement.’
It was dark and drizzling when Berlin crossed the river. His hands were in his pockets and his collar was up. He was starting to feel a little better at last and thinking perhaps Lily had something on the stove that he might be able to keep down. And he’d need to borrow her polish box to do some work on his shoes. Was Lily Catholic like Rebecca? he wondered.
And what was he? ‘Presbyterian’ was typed on his air-force papers and his fiancée had given him a small gold cross to wear with his identity tags – dead-meat tickets the boys had called them – but what was he now? Not Presbyterian, that was for sure. Berlin’s God had died along with his crew in that fireball over the docks at Kiel. Berlin had tossed the cross, the identity tags and the engagement ring he’d saved so hard to buy into the Yarra on a drizzly Melbourne night just like this.
His head was starting to clear and he walked a little faster. Rebecca, church, sin and confessions were on his mind as the lights of the Diggers Rest came into view through the drizzle. But mostly confessions. Just before Rebecca had slipped into the seat next to him, Kenny Champion had left the confessional, and the young soldier looked like a very unhappy man.
THIRTY-FIVE
Berlin called Melbourne at half-past eight on Monday morning and got Hargraves on the phone.
‘So nice of you to call, DC Berlin, you’ve been missed.’
Hargraves made the comment loudly, obviously for the benefit of the other men in the office. Berlin heard laughter and some derisive hooting.
‘How was Chater’s wedding?’ Berlin wasn’t actually all that interested but he really didn’t want to talk about the motorcycle gang and his weekend.
The Diggers Rest Hotel Page 13
