St Kilda Blues

by Geoffrey McGeachin

  The travel agent had given them a quote for both tourist and first class and the price difference was staggering. Even the cost of the tourist tickets was astronomical. But Rebecca was set on seeing where Sarah was buried and she was the one who finally brought up the fact that there was enough money in the account they had started years ago to pay for their daughter’s wedding one day. Berlin ached at the memory of a sixteen-year-old Sarah declaring she would never ever get married and the money could be better spent on buying her a car when she turned eighteen.

  The Qantas woman held up the piece of paper. ‘It just says on the telex that the difference between tourist and first class was paid and to reissue the tickets. It’s lucky we had some spare seats in first. I wasn’t sure I’d catch up with you for a minute there and we don’t want to delay the plane.’

  ‘Do you know who paid for this?’ Was it Lazlo? Berlin wondered. It was something he would do.

  The girl looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand again. ‘The telex says Scheiner Constructions – it’s a Melbourne company, I believe. Everything is completely in order so you can go up the front stairs. I hope you have a wonderful trip.’

  Berlin briefly considered tearing up the tickets right there on the tarmac but changed his mind. It would just make things too complicated and besides, it was going to be a very long trip and if it made Rebecca more comfortable he would just live with it.

  The steward at the top of the stairs checked the ticket and boarding passes. He led them down the aisle to two seats on the right-hand side, took Rebecca’s small suitcase and overcoat and Berlin’s red vinyl bag and put them into the open overhead shelving. He showed them how to use the seatbelts and offered orange juice or champagne. Rebecca was seated by the window and she shook her head. Berlin said that he might have a drink later.

  Initially they were the only people in first class but then more couples had joined them. The ladies were wearing skirts and jackets and the men business suits. One of them referred to the steward by his first name. The men had all nodded to Berlin politely.

  Berlin’s seat was wide and quite comfortable. The door to the cockpit was open and he could see the pilot. Leaning out into the aisle he saw the co-pilot in his seat and a man at another station inside to the right. The men were busy, and the pilot, who looked to be about fifty, had an air of confidence about him, which Berlin appreciated. They were good at their jobs too, the take-off smooth and comfortable. The jet turned over the city and the Harbour, and over Rebecca’s shoulder he could see the bridge and tiny figures on scaffolding working on the shells of the still unfinished Opera House.

  But now it was the middle of the night and he was walking towards the cockpit, like one of the boys and girls from tourist class who had been shepherded down the aisle by a hostess to visit the cockpit earlier in the flight.

  Berlin stopped at the open cockpit door. Hughie took a seat facing a panel of instruments just to the right of the door. Navigator or flight engineer? Berlin wondered, but didn’t ask. The cockpit space was cramped, with the pilot and co-pilot seated side by side. On his Lancaster the right seat had been a simple fold-down bench where Wilf, his flight engineer, had been seated on take-off to assist with the throttles. There was a another seat behind the 707 pilot, currently empty. On the Lanc that was the area where Garry the Canadian had his curtained-off navigator’s perch, and next to him Mick worked the radios. Somewhere forward, beneath their feet, Harry the bomb aimer filled in his time watching for night fighters in the nose turret and helping spot waypoints for Garry until it was time for him to stretch out over the bombsight and guide them in on the target.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is Charlie.’

  Berlin stepped into the cockpit. The pilot turned around and awkwardly put out his right hand. ‘Brian Hargraves, pleased to meet you Charlie. The sleepy fellow in the other seat is Damian. We just keep him here in case we urgently need someone to counteract my good looks.’

  Berlin smiled at the joke. Hargraves was good-looking, there was no disputing that. About Berlin’s age, chiselled features and a face marred only by a subtly pockmarked forehead. Most people would take the marks for residual signs of youthful acne, but Berlin had seen scarring like it before.

  The seats occupied by the two pilots looked very comfortable. Berlin remembered the sheet of steel he had sat on in the Lanc, sitting on his parachute for a somewhat softer ride but glad the steel was there beneath him when the hellish flak and searchlight belt, that was the Kammhuber Line, appeared out of the blackness ahead of the bomber stream.

  ‘Pull up a pew, Charlie.’ Hargraves indicated the single seat behind his own.

  The seat was even more comfortable than it looked. Berlin clipped the seat belt tight at his waist and instinctively reached up for the shoulder harness straps then stopped himself.

  ‘What do you do for a crust, Charlie?’ Hargraves asked.

  ‘I’m a copper, down in Melbourne.’

  Hargraves turned to Hughie and winked. ‘Better keep a close eye on those instruments, old chap, wouldn’t want to get a fine for speeding.’

  Berlin was amazed at the number of instruments, dials and switches on the panel in front of the pilots, more on the roof above them and on the panel on the wall in front of Hughie. He scanned the instruments, looking for an airspeed indicator, and eventually found it. He whistled. ‘Four hundred and eighty knots, that’s impressive.’

  He realised Hargraves had been watching him as his eyes darted over the instruments.

  ‘Did some flying before we became a copper, did we?’ Hargraves asked.

  Berlin shook his head. Something in Hargraves’ face told Berlin the man didn’t believe him. Is there a mark, a sign we all carry? he wondered.

  Hargraves let it go. ‘I was on Liberators, B-24s, in the Pacific myself. Not a pretty kite, the Liberator, and a bastard to handle but as tough as Old Nick. Libs always got me home so I’ve got a soft spot for them. Kite like this could fly rings around them, of course.’

  Somewhere ahead in the darkness the flickering light of an electrical storm illuminated the underside of the clouds.

  Over the noise of the Lancaster’s four Rolls Royce Merlin engines Harry’s voice crackled in Berlin’s headphones. ‘Target dead ahead, skipper.’

  ‘Bit of weather ahead, skipper.’

  Hargraves turned back to the aircraft windshield and Berlin saw him casually check his seatbelt harness. ‘Thank you, Damian, I see it. We might think about getting ourselves a little more height. Don’t want things to get too bumpy and frighten the SLF.’

  Berlin glanced across at Hughie, who smiled. ‘Self-loading freight, Charlie. Not generally a term we use in front of the passengers.’

  Berlin unfastened his seat belt and stood up. ‘Looks like you’ll be busy for a bit so I’ll leave you to it.’

  Hargraves spoke without looking back. ‘Okay, Charlie, stop in anytime. We’re not going anywhere, they don’t allow us parachutes. Keep your seatbelt on tight, would you, and check your wife’s too.’

  Back in his seat Berlin checked that Rebecca’s seatbelt was fastened and adjusted the blanket again so it covered her shoulders. Through the cockpit doorway he watched as Hargreaves took the 707 upwards so gently that no one onboard, awake or asleep, would have noticed the change in altitude.

  Berlin’s trepidation at flying was easing now. He liked the 707, liked the gentle hiss of its engines at cruising altitude and liked that they were barely audible inside the plane. And he was confident in Hargraves, confident at having a man like that at the controls, a man with a pockmarked forehead. Tiny splinters from an exploding windscreen could cause those marks, peppering the forehead in the space between goggles and a flying cap. It was generally considered an injury not worth mentioning; if it was the worst the aircraft suffered and you could keep the blood off your goggles and see through the remains of the shattered windscreen you could still fly. And if you could still fly, there was always a chance you could make it home.
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br />   FIFTY-ONE

  The grave was on a low hillside with the Sea of Galilee in the distance. A grove of tall eucalyptus trees nearby gave the area a vaguely Australian feel, which Berlin found comforting. The flat stone had Sarah’s name lettered in both English and Hebrew with a Star of David carved underneath. A group of youngsters from the nearby kibbutz, friends of Sarah’s, had gone with them to the grave and when one referred to Sarah as a daughter of Israel Berlin felt first a flash of anger, and then pride. His big-hearted, exuberant daughter had been loved wherever she went.

  Rebecca was still in a fog and Berlin didn’t know what to do to help her. It was as if a part of her had simply been turned off, shut down. She ate sparingly and washed and walked and talked, and was suitably polite to those who offered condolences and took her hand and spoke lovingly of a Sarah they had known only briefly. But her spark was gone and he wondered if he was losing her. They were offered a room at the kibbutz for as long as they wanted to stay but after one visit Rebecca had had enough. Berlin saw that there were too many young people, all alive and vital, for her to cope with.

  They found a small hotel in the nearby town, a pensione, as the owner insisted on calling it. The village was old, older than Australia if you dated the beginning from 1788 and most definitely older than Melbourne. No one in Melbourne could see ancient groves of olive trees and Roman ruins in the far distance from their bedroom window as Charlie and Rebecca could. There was a small rooftop garden above the hotel and this became Rebecca’s sanctuary. Berlin would wake up to an empty space in the bed beside him and find her there, sitting, waiting for the dawn. He would bring her a breakfast of coffee, fruit and yogurt, but usually this was left mostly uneaten.

  To try to fill his loneliness he began to take walks, short at first but later he would pack a rucksack with water and apples and dates and dried apricots and walk for miles. It was becoming colder and an army surplus combat jacket found in a hall cupboard kept him warm. He would walk with no destination in mind, eat when he was hungry and then rest until he was ready to walk again. It was easy to hitch a ride with a passing kibbutz truck or army jeep when he was tired but he avoided this if he could because of the way people drove on roads that were often just tracks.

  The time before the telegram and the time after was slowly coming back to him. They had wanted to keep him up to date, because he was an inspector now and because it had been his case. He had listened to be polite but really didn’t care. The Victoria Police could find no records on Tim Egan, not even a birth certificate, and no match for his fingerprints. The same went for every other state. Publication of his photograph in newspapers and on television produced a boarding house proprietor from Carlton who said Egan was a tenant. A search of the upstairs single room produced nothing apart from several changes of clothing and underwear, a battered old brown leather bag and a black 35 mm Nikon F camera with a 50 mm lens and side mounted Metz flashgun. Berlin had nodded when he heard about the lens. Rebecca had been spot on, which hadn’t really surprised him.

  They’d broken through the rusted steel door of the torture chamber and the wooden outer doors of the old confectionary factory to get the bodies out. There were nine in total, more than expected, too decomposed for identification so dental records had been used. Three of the bodies were unable to be identified. A week into the investigation work lights being used by scientific police had overloaded a fuse board in the studio upstairs, starting a fire. The building burned for two hours before the walls caved in. After collecting a large insurance payout on his equipment, the Visual Beast packed up and returned to the US.

  The publication of Egan’s photograph and the newspaper coverage of his crimes produced reports from as far north as Darwin and as far west as Broome. These reports were added to information already gathered on missing teenage girls, producing a mass of paperwork that would take months to collate and organise before any investigation could start. But with Egan dead and an election coming, Berlin wondered if the government would be willing to provide enough manpower. Two policewomen were eventually assigned because, as the police commissioner noted in an interview with The Herald, ‘The girls are really a lot better at these kinds of clerical tasks.’

  Did any of it really matter anyway? Berlin wondered. Egan and the missing girls and Sarah and his crew were all still dead and always would be. But Gudrun Scheiner was alive, and that was something.

  The unmade roads and mountain tracks were hard on his shoes and one afternoon he found a cobbler in the town who would repair them for him. He also found a pair of used combat boots in a pile of unclaimed shoes that both fitted him and were already well broken-in for hiking. He bought the boots and wore them out of the shop. Across the street was a small camera store with an Agfa sign and a display window cluttered with sepia-tinted portraits and local scenic views. Berlin looked at the landscape photographs on display for several minutes before going inside.

  If the shop window was cluttered the shop itself was worse. More framed photographs covered the walls and dusty tripods and light stands made moving around difficult. There was a wall painted with a mountain scene where Berlin guessed they did their portraits. Boxes and crates were stacked up and from somewhere his nose picked up the smell of photographic chemicals. He swallowed hard. It was a smell he now associated with death and pain and blood.

  An elderly shopkeeper was waiting behind a glass-topped counter.

  ‘I think perhaps I need to buy a camera.’

  Rebecca hadn’t brought a camera with her. She hadn’t taken a photograph since the night the telegram came.

  The shopkeeper smiled. ‘If you think that then I think that perhaps I can help you.’

  Berlin searched the comment for any hints of sarcasm but decided it was just the shopkeeper’s way of speaking.

  The man took a Kodak Instamatic from a shelf under the glass-topped counter and passed it across. The camera had just one button to press, he explained, and a lever to advance the film that came already loaded in a plastic cartridge. ‘This is a simple camera, even an idiot can use it.’

  Berlin shook his head and put the camera down on the counter. ‘It would probably suit me then, but I’m looking for something for my wife.’

  The next camera was a second-hand Kodak Retinette and again Berlin shook his head. ‘My wife is a photographer, do you have something more . . . professional? She didn’t bring a camera with her.’

  The shopkeeper tilted his head to one side. ‘A photographer without a camera, this doesn’t sound very professional.’

  The statement came with a shrug and a gesture of open hands and Berlin felt a flash of irritation. ‘I’m afraid she had other things on her mind when we left Melbourne.’

  The shopkeeper studied Berlin’s face before he spoke again. ‘You are the father of the girl, the girl Sarah? The girl from Australia?’

  ‘I am.’ Berlin still would not let himself say ‘was’.

  The shopkeeper put a hand on his chest. ‘Please excuse what I have just said, about your wife.’ He put the Retinette back under the counter and reached down lower. Berlin heard a drawer scrape open.

  ‘Perhaps this might be more suitable.’ The shopkeeper carefully opened a cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside was a camera case in rich, unblemished brown leather and inside the case a camera that looked almost brand new. The silver, brushed metal body of the camera was unmarked, as was the black leather inset front and back. The knobs and dials showed little sign of wear and the lens appeared to be in pristine condition.

  ‘A Nikon SP. A most professional camera,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Ten years old, yes, but as you can see, well cared for.’

  He handed the camera to Berlin. It was surprisingly heavy.

  ‘A camera very similar to the Leica,’ the shopkeeper continued. ‘The Japanese are good at making copies. There is a small light meter that goes with it, and also some filters.’

  Berlin sensed the camera was something that would appeal to Rebecca but it looked exp
ensive and the shopkeeper saw his hesitation. He took a folded piece of paper from the camera case, a receipt.

  ‘I bought it from the widow of a tank commander. I will give it to you for what I paid her, which was a fair price. This is not an item on which I care to make money.’

  Berlin looked at the receipt. ‘I’ll need to go to the bank and cash some traveller’s cheques. Will you hold the camera for me for a few days?’

  The shopkeeper put the camera back into its case and then rolled it up in the cloth. ‘Take the camera now and bring me the money when you have it.’

  Berlin sensed there was something else he wanted to say and waited. He almost knew what it would be when he saw the man’s face soften.

  ‘The girl Sarah came to my shop once, to buy a photograph I had taken, a view of the lake. She saw it in the window said it was a very beautiful picture and her mother would appreciate it. One could easily see she was a special child, a child of loving parents. Did she ever send the photograph?’

  Berlin nodded. ‘It came after . . . it came in December. Her mother also said it was a very beautiful picture, a picture taken with heart. It’s hanging on the wall of our home.’

  The shopkeeper turned to a shelf behind the counter and took five small cardboard packets from a neat stack. ‘East German film, ORWO, but not too bad considering. From me, a gift to your wife. She can bring it to me for developing when she has finished it off, or tell her she is also welcome to use my darkroom whenever she wishes.’

  Berlin left the camera and film on the dressing table in their bedroom but Rebecca didn’t comment on it. In the morning she was gone from their bed as usual but there was no sign of her in the rooftop garden. His rucksack and the Nikon and the film were gone too.

  It was just on sunset when she got back to the hotel and though they didn’t speak much over dinner he sensed she was different, happier. While she showered in the single downstairs bathroom he found the camera on the dressing table. There was a red filter on the lens and two of the rolls of film were exposed. The third roll was in the camera, half used.