Heritage

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Eli …’ She struggled to her feet, the child still in her arms. ‘… you must stop them …’ Speaking seemed difficult, she felt strangled, breathless in her urgency. ‘… they’ve gone insane … they’re murdering innocent people … women and children … you must stop them …’

  ‘I said put the child down.’ His voice was as chillingly expressionless as his face.

  She didn’t move.

  ‘Why?’ she asked, although his dreadful implacability signalled the answer. The slaughter was no mistake, she realised – Eli Mankowski had sanctioned it. In all probability he had ordered it.

  ‘The child is the enemy. He must die like the others. Put the boy down.’

  ‘Since when have children been our enemy?’ She could barely get the words out.

  ‘Every Arab is an enemy to the Jew, Ruth, you know that.’

  It was the voice of reason. He’d used it incessantly throughout her indoctrination. It had made sense to her then, but now it so repulsed her she was unable to respond. He went on, weaving his own demented form of magic, convinced he still had her in his power.

  ‘The boy will grow to be a man, Ruth, he will kill Jewish fighters, he will threaten our land. They must all die. The women who breed and the boys who become men, every Arab is our enemy.’

  ‘Only to madmen, Eli. Madmen like you and your kind.’

  She’d found her voice, and outrage lent her strength. ‘What makes you different from the Nazis, tell me?’ She spat the words at him. ‘You saw the extermination of your own people in Poland, you fought in the ghetto in Warsaw, you lived through it all, and now you and your kind wish to exterminate another race, so what’s the difference? Tell me that. What gives you the right? Which particular god made you superior?’ She realised that she’d been yelling, and the child was crying. She stroked his head, calming her hysteria as much as the boy’s alarm, aware of her own terrible guilt. The young pregnant woman, the mother with her mutilated baby, the woman freshly dead on the street beside her, whose child she clasped in her arms … she’d been a part of it all. The cause she’d believed in was responsible for this.

  ‘We are worse than the Nazis,’ she said. What right did she have to distance herself? She had been one of Eli and his kind. ‘What we are doing is unforgivable, and I beg you to put a stop to the killing. If you can,’ she added weakly. She knew it was impossible, she could hear the demented screams in the distance, ‘Obliterate – until destruction’, she had chanted the same slogan herself. ‘I beg you, Eli, do whatever you can to stop the slaughter.’

  He had remained unmoved throughout her outburst, it was impossible to gauge his reaction, and she could do nothing but wait and pray that she might have made some impact.

  Eli was bemused. Her passionate address had fallen on deaf ears, but he wondered how she had so escaped his control.

  ‘Put the child down, Ruth,’ he said.

  ‘And if I refuse?’ How could she have expected otherwise, she thought, and she clasped the boy closer.

  ‘I will shoot it right where it is and you’ll both die.’ He raised the Luger and pointed it at the boy, where he sat nestled against her breast.

  ‘Very well.’

  Slowly, she leaned down and lowered the little boy to the ground, his hand clasping tightly to hers; in his young mind the woman who held him was the only tangible thing in his world and he wasn’t going to let go.

  Her eyes fixed upon Eli and the weapon that was now trained on the child. She shuffled the boy behind her and, as she eased her hand from his, he seemed to understand. He buried his head into the back of her knees, clutching her trousers with both tiny hands, eyes squeezed shut, breathlessly still. He was hiding, the way he did when he played with his cousins.

  As Ruth stood erect and faced Eli Mankowski, the image of her daughter Rachel flashed through her mind. The queue on the ramp, ‘Links! Rechts!’ Mengele’s commands, the flick of his riding crop. She’d shuffled Rachel behind her in much the same way and, like the boy, Rachel had clung to her skirt with both hands. It hadn’t worked then, and she didn’t expect it to now.

  ‘You are aiding and abetting the enemy, Ruth. As a traitor, I could have you executed.’

  Again Eli’s voice betrayed no emotion, but she could see the flash of anger in his eyes, and the thought that she’d broken through his composure gave her a peculiar satisfaction.

  ‘It is within my rights to execute you myself,’ he said.

  ‘Then do it, Eli.’ This time she would meet her death with the child, she thought. It was right. She waited for the shot. She welcomed it.

  Eli was no longer bemused, he was dumbfounded by her defiance. He raised the Luger, training the sights directly between the eyes which were brazenly daring him.

  The pistol remained poised, Ruth remained motionless, and seconds ticked by like a lifetime as Eli realised that he couldn’t kill her. What was wrong with him? One gentle squeeze of the trigger, that was all it took. How had he allowed this to happen? How had she come to hold such sway over him? All the more reason to kill her, he told himself – if she lived, she would be a witness to his weakness. But the finger on the trigger remained as frozen as the woman who stood before him. He was powerless, and he detested her for it.

  He lowered the pistol, turned his back on her, and walked away towards the sound of gunfire.

  Ruth watched him go, half expecting him to turn and shoot her where she stood. But he didn’t.

  She gathered up the child and headed back towards the eastern side of the village. She had no plan, apart from getting the boy to safety.

  Across the street, standing at the corner of a narrow lane, she saw the two female fighters and realised that they’d witnessed the confrontation between her and Eli. She held the little Arab boy closer. Did they, too, think she was a traitor saving an enemy life? Were they as crazed as the men? They were armed; perhaps they might feel it their duty to kill the child. She didn’t look at them as she hurried by, but she felt vulnerable. She wished she still had her rifle, but she’d dropped it when she’d run to the woman’s defence.

  The two watched in silence as she passed.

  Several minutes later, she came to the junction where the pregnant woman had been lying in the street. The woman was still there, but others were gathered around her. They were placing her gently on a hessian cloth. The mother of the mutilated baby was there too, kneeling beside the pregnant woman, who was her sister. The mother was still covered in blood, but she no longer carried her baby. An elderly man standing beside her held in his arms the small bundle of the child’s body wrapped in cloth, and he was overseeing the proceedings with an impressive authority. The women, six in all, were gently keening but there was no sense of hysteria as four of them, upon his orders, grasped the corners of the cloth and prepared to carry the pregnant woman from the street.

  The man was the first to see Ruth. He barked something at her which she didn’t understand and all eyes turned towards her. The keening stopped, the women were silent, malevolent in their grief, condemning her.

  The man again barked the words, his tone even more aggressive this time, as he gestured at the boy she held on one hip.

  The hatred in the group was palpable and Ruth felt a rush of fear. They could kill her with ease. They could tear her to pieces and they had every right to do so.

  Carefully, she lowered the boy to the ground, but he refused to let go of her hand, grabbing it with both of his. She was unable to stand straight without pulling herself free from his grip, which she was reluctant to do.

  She looked over at the man. He gestured for her to bring the child to him. Clumsily bent over, with the boy still holding on with both hands, she led the infant to him.

  The man passed the small bundle of his grandson’s body to his wife who was standing beside him. Then he leaned down to pick up the boy.

  As Ruth relinquished her hold, the child started crying and reached out for her, but the man lifted him into his arms and spoke soot
hingly to him, stroking the boy’s head until the cries became whimpers.

  The women did not move; eyes flickering from the man to Ruth, then back again, all awaiting his command. He gave an order and gestured to the road which led out of the village to the east. Ruth was free to go.

  She avoided the guerrilla command post on the outskirts of the village and, as she left the township, she avoided the main road. For a long time she could still hear the sounds of gunfire behind her as she cut across the low rocky hillsides on her trek to Jerusalem.

  Maarten Vanpoucke continued to study the woman in the photograph.

  ‘When was this taken?’ he asked, peering closely at it through his spectacles.

  Lucky was puzzled by the question, and he wished Maarten would give the photograph back; he was not accustomed to sharing his photograph of Ruth.

  ‘At university in Berlin,’ he said rather shortly, ‘not long after we met,’ and he held out his hand for the photograph.

  ‘Forgive me.’ The Dutchman smiled apologetically as he passed it to him. ‘I didn’t wish to be intrusive, it’s just that I couldn’t help admiring her. She is very beautiful, your wife.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lucky agreed, slipping the photograph into his wallet. ‘She was. Very beautiful.’ He felt embarrassed. He’d been impolite and he hoped he hadn’t offended the man.

  But Maarten’s attention was distracted. Mrs Hodgeman had appeared bearing a large silver tray.

  ‘Ah, the flan,’ he said, rubbing his hands together approvingly as the housekeeper placed the tray on the table. ‘Look at that, fit for a king. And a work of art, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Lucky did. The fruit flan was huge and looked like a stained-glass window.

  ‘I shall serve, Mrs Hodgeman,’ Maarten said, lifting the dessert plates from the tray, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ The housekeeper left beaming.

  ‘A small portion for me, Maarten, please.’

  But the Dutchman apparently was not listening as he carved a large section from the corner of the flan, lifted it with the cake slice and placed it ceremoniously on one of the plates.

  ‘Now tell me all about young Pietro – he’s in love, you say?’ He slid the plate across the table to Lucky.

  Lucky took a deep breath, preparing to embark upon both the flan and Pietro’s love affair. The night was losing its savour. He would have to demolish the flan or he would hurt Mrs Hodgeman’s feelings, and he would have to circumvent Pietro’s love affair, which had taken a complicated turn.

  ‘We’re lucky to have Lucky.’ Propped on one elbow, Violet played with the patch of hair on his chest – she loved the way she could twirl the hairs in the very centre into a perfect curl.

  ‘Maureen also,’ he said, ‘we are lucky to have Maureen.’

  It was unusually sweltering for early November, and their bodies glistened with the heat of the night and their own exertions as they lay entwined on the narrow bed in Violet’s little room on the back verandah.

  He ran his fingers over her skin, tracing the curve of her spine, relishing the feel of her breasts against his ribs as she cuddled beside him. The perfection of Violet’s body was a constant source of admiration to Pietro who spent every waking hour these days marvelling at his good fortune. To think that such a woman returned his love! He was the luckiest man on God’s earth.

  ‘It is me is lucky,’ he said, stroking the damp locks back from her face, running a finger over the freckles of her nose.

  ‘It is I,’ she corrected him in her schoolteacher voice. Violet was a stickler with his English – he’d asked her to be – and she made a game of it.

  ‘It is I is lucky,’ he said.

  ‘It is I who am lucky,’ she persisted, sounding very like Peggy Minchin, then she bent and kissed the perfect curl of hair on his chest, wriggling against him as she did so.

  It didn’t take much to arouse Pietro.

  ‘You also is lucky?’ he teased. But he corrected himself immediately: ‘You also are lucky,’ he said in all seriousness.

  Violet pretended to be shocked as she noticed his erection. ‘Again, sweetie?’ She always called him ‘sweetie’ when she was being playful or flirtatious; it was a term she’d picked up from the American pictures. ‘So soon?’ But she giggled delightedly as she lay back on the bed. Violet loved making love.

  And to think that such a woman was his wife, Pietro marvelled as he covered her body with his.

  Pietro and Violet had been married for one month, but this was the first weekend they had spent together since their marriage and brief honeymoon in Sydney. Pietro’s trips into town were less frequent now as he worked harder and longer, signing on for extra rosters in his determination to make as much money as he could as quickly as he could. He intended to buy a house for Violetta.

  Only Lucky and Maureen knew of their marriage. Lucky and Maureen had been their witnesses when they’d exchanged their vows at the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages in Cooma.

  It had been Violet who had suggested they marry in secret, and despite his initial misgivings, Pietro had finally agreed. Particularly when even Maureen had told him it was the only path open to them.

  ‘But I must seek permission of Violetta’s father,’ he’d doggedly insisted.

  ‘We’ve already approached him and he won’t have a bar of it.’ Maureen’s reply had been brutally honest – it was time to put an end to Pietro’s fruitless persistence.

  ‘A bar?’ He’d been confused. A bar was where men drank beer.

  ‘He won’t let me marry you, Pietro,’ Violet had said, her tone as adamant as her aunt’s.

  ‘But he has not met me, your father. How can he …’

  ‘He’ll never let me marry you. Not for as long as he lives.’

  Pietro had felt rather stupid as he’d suddenly guessed at the truth. Why hadn’t it occurred to him earlier?

  ‘This is because I am Italian, yes?’

  Both women had nodded, and Pietro had been devastated. What did this mean? Sister Anna Maria had told him that if he ever wished to marry, he must seek permission from the father of his intended. Did this mean he could not marry Violetta?

  ‘So I will marry you without his permission,’ Violet had said.

  He’d stared at her, speechless, and Maureen had interceded before he could argue further.

  ‘Violet is of age, Pietro. It is her decision to make, not her father’s. And she loves you very much.’ Following her confrontation with her brother, Maureen had been impressed by her niece’s strength and resolution. Violet had grown up, she knew her own mind.

  ‘Perhaps, when you are married, my brother might come to his senses and learn to accept you as his son-in-law,’ she’d said. ‘In the meantime, I will help you in whatever way I can.’ Then she’d left them alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Will you marry me, Pietro?’ Violet had asked.

  From that day on, nothing else in the world mattered to Pietro. Violetta wished to be his wife.

  Back at the work camp he’d asked the Roman Catholic priest, who visited Spring Hill weekly to conduct the mass and hear confession, if he would marry them. But the priest had said no. Violet was not a Roman Catholic.

  ‘You cannot marry a woman who is not of the Roman Catholic faith, my son.’ Father O’Riordan had spelled out the rules in no uncertain terms; he considered Pietro a rather simple young man. ‘The Church does not recognise such a union.’

  Pietro hadn’t liked the priest’s peremptory tone.

  If Violet were to convert, Father O’Riordan had said, then they could marry. But it would take some time, he warned. Violet would need to be instructed, she would need to learn her catechisms, then she would be baptised, after which she would take her first Holy Communion.

  ‘You must be patient, my son,’ he’d said in what he considered to be an understanding manner; he could sense Pietro’s annoyance. ‘You young people like to rush into things, but marriage is not something to be taken lightl
y.’

  Both the comment and the priest’s patronising attitude had further annoyed Pietro. He did not take his marriage lightly at all.

  ‘I will ask someone else to marry us,’ he’d said abruptly.

  Father O’Riordan’s response had been severely reprimanding.

  ‘I must warn you, Pietro, if you marry outside the jurisdiction of the Roman Catholic faith, the Church will not recognise your union.’

  ‘Then that is how it must be.’

  Father O’Riordan had assumed Pietro’s rebellion was the result of youthful impatience, but he’d been wrong.

  Educated by the nuns at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, Pietro had never questioned the teachings of the Church. Now he did. God did not belong to the Roman Catholics, he thought. God was everywhere. God belonged to everyone, and everyone belonged to God. God would bless his marriage, with or without the sanction of the Roman Catholic Church.

  Violet, worried that he might regret his decision, said she would convert to Catholicism. She didn’t mind. ‘Really,’ she insisted.

  But Pietro had made up his mind. ‘God is not a Roman Catholic,’ he’d said, and he would not be swayed.

  Their honeymoon in Sydney had been the most thrilling event of Violet’s life. They’d caught the train in the morning, just an hour after the service at the Registry office and they’d held hands all the way. Violet was breathless with anticipation, admitting that she’d never been to Sydney before.

  Pietro had booked a suite at the Australia Hotel and when they had arrived in the early evening they had been exhausted.

  But after showering before dinner, they’d quickly discovered they were no longer tired. Nor were they hungry.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ Pietro said. He’d stepped out from the bathroom with a towel modestly tucked around his waist to discover Violet, who had showered before him, standing in nothing but her panties, surveying the selection of dresses she’d hung in the wardrobe. She hadn’t heard him – she was in a state of dilemma.

  ‘I don’t know what frock to wear,’ she said, worried. ‘I’ve never been to a posh restaurant before. Do you think it’ll be really dressy?’