by Judy Nunn
‘And then I look up, and I see him.’
‘Who do you see, Pietro?’
‘I see the priest.’
‘Really? You saw a priest?’ Maarten noted it in his report.
‘Yes, and the priest he is evil. The priest, he has done something very bad, this I know. But I cannot find out what is this bad thing the priest has done. And now I dream of the priest. Three weeks I do not sleep good – every night I have such dreams.’
‘Tell me about your dreams, Pietro.’ The boy was becoming agitated, he noted.
‘I am under the house,’ Pietro said. ‘I am drowning in blood. The blood it is choking me. I run away from the blood. I run and I run through the snow, but the snow it is red – everywhere is blood.’ The revisitation of his nightmare was painful and he pressed his fingers to his temples as though to ease the pressure.
Elbows on his desk, chin resting on his hands, Maarten studied the boy closely. Knowing Pietro’s personal background as he did made this the most fascinating case he’d ever encountered. Interesting that three weeks of nightmares had not triggered an attack, he thought. The boy was prepared to meet his trauma head on, which was extraordinary. And his obvious determination to regain his memory was paying off: he was certainly on the right path. The nightmares were very close to the truth, after all: the boy had been under the house at the time, there had been a lot of blood and he would certainly have run through the snow, possibly even happening upon his father’s body. How very, very interesting, Maarten thought.
‘And all the time in my dreams, the priest he is calling to me,’ Pietro said; he was clearly now in a state of distress. ‘He calls and he calls to me. “Pietro! Pietro!” The priest he wishes to kill me. I try to run away from the priest, but I cannot.’
He buried his face in his hands, the images returning with fearful clarity.
‘And I see the priest’s eyes. Always there is the priest’s eyes,’ he said. ‘They are evil, and they look into me. Every night I see them.’
He fought hard to blank the image of the priest’s eyes from his mind. The doctor had said nothing for such a long time now, and Pietro felt ashamed that he’d so lost control of himself. He took a deep breath – he must make sense for the doctor.
‘I fear the priest,’ he said, sitting up straight, taking his hands from his face, determined to get his facts right. He was about to say, ‘This is why I do not sleep good,’ but he stopped. The doctor was staring at him over the rims of his spectacles. The doctor’s eyes were burning into his face – they were evil. The eyes of the doctor were the eyes of the priest.
Pietro started to shake, his whole body quivering. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the doctor’s.
‘What is it, Pietro? What’s wrong? What are you feeling?’ Was the boy about to have a seizure? Maarten wondered. Had talking about his nightmares triggered an attack?
Pietro stood abruptly, the chair nearly toppling over. He backed away, shaking his head in fearful disbelief, his eyes still locked with the doctor’s.
‘You have the eyes of the priest!’ he said.
Good God, Maarten thought, how very unexpected. The boy remembered him. It was the last thing he’d expected.
‘Come, come, Pietro,’ he smiled as he stood, ‘this is just your imagination, you’re becoming hysterical.’
The boy continued to edge away from him as he circled the desk.
‘You must calm down.’ Maarten placed his hands firmly and reassuringly on Pietro’s shoulders. ‘There, now, that’s better,’ he said as the boy stood motionless, although he could feel him quivering. ‘We don’t want to trigger an attack now, do we?’
Pietro shook his head. The doctor’s manner was comforting and the eyes that smiled at him from behind the spectacles were benign and concerned. It was his mind playing tricks on him, he thought, as it had before when he’d imagined the doctor had the eyes of the priest – he remembered telling Violetta. ‘But the doctor doesn’t have evil eyes,’ Violetta had said, and he’d agreed with her. So why did he still feel such fear? Why did he fear the doctor the way he feared the priest?
‘You’re upset, my boy, I want you to lie down.’
Pietro allowed himself to be led to the examination bed and he lay down as the doctor instructed.
‘Close your eyes, breathe deeply and try to relax,’ Maarten said. ‘I’m going to give you something to calm you down.’
Pietro did as he was told, closing his eyes and trying to control his breathing. His fear threatened to overwhelm him and he could feel the tic of his left eye. But he must not fear the doctor, he told himself – it was foolish to fear the man who was helping him.
‘The transferral of identity is not uncommon among patients suffering anxiety, Pietro,’ Maarten said as he crossed to the dispensary. ‘The relationship between physician and patient is intimate, and occasionally patients tend to confuse their doctors with some demon figure they find threatening.’ He took the syringe and the vial from the cupboard.
Pietro didn’t hear the doctor’s words – he heard the priest.
You must not hide yourself away, Pietro. It is not safe for you to be alone when you have your attacks. You could harm yourself.
Pietro could see the priest. He held a piece of leather in his hands.
If you feel an attack coming upon you when you are alone, this is what you must place in your mouth. Do you understand?
It was the priest who had given him the leather strap.
Maarten took off his spectacles; they were irritating him and there was no need for them now. He glanced in the mirror of the dispensary cupboard as he filled the syringe. Strange that it was the priest’s eyes the boy had fixated upon, and that after all these years he’d recognised those same eyes. Remarkably perceptive too, Maarten thought. He remembered how, when he’d first seen the new face Fritz von Halbach had given him, the only thing he’d recognised in himself had been his eyes. And even then they’d been a different shape, he’d been dismayed to discover – his whole face was a different shape. He’d lost the aquiline bones of his youth, he was not as handsome as he had been, and he remembered wondering if it had been Fritz’s idea of a joke.
He put down the vial and tested the full syringe, giving it a tap, a brief squirt of potassium chloride coming out of the needle. It was a pity the boy had to go, but it was necessary. Pietro knew him, and although he could point no finger at the death camps, he was a definite threat. When he regained his memory, as it appeared he inevitably would, his story would arouse far too much attention. Maarten could not afford to be an object of attention. He could leave Cooma, of course, and the boy would be regarded as a simple hysteric, but Maarten had no intention of going anywhere. Not now that Ruth was here.
He continued to talk soothingly to the boy. ‘You must not be afraid of me, Pietro,’ he said, ‘I am your doctor, your welfare is of great concern to me. Rest assured that your fear is purely imaginary.’
The priest had also spoken to him in the same caring way, Pietro thought, and the priest, too, had pretended to have his best interests at heart. But the priest had wished to kill him. In his mind, the priest’s voice and the doctor’s voice started to blend.
‘I’m going to give you something to calm you down,’ Maarten said as he sat beside the boy.
The sudden realisation terrified Pietro. The doctor’s voice was the voice of the priest!
Then he heard the priest say, ‘It will hurt just a little bit to start with, but after that you won’t feel a thing,’ and he looked up in horror to find himself staring into the eyes of the priest.
‘Goodbye, Pietro,’ Maarten said.
The eyes of the priest were the last thing Pietro saw as the needle plunged into his vein.
The death of Pietro Toscanini shook the whole community. Even those who’d barely known him were shocked by the news. He’d been so young and handsome, they all said, just twenty-two years old – and word quickly spread that his young wife was pregnant. It was a traged
y, a terrible, terrible tragedy, they agreed. It seemed the boy had been epileptic, but how could you tell? He never looked sickly, he’d been fit and strong; but he’d died of a heart attack while having a fit. It was shocking.
On the day of the funeral, the men of Lucky’s team, all forty of them, swapped their shifts so they could attend the burial service. As word spread around the district, they came from other work camps and sites, those who’d met the young Italian at the pubs and dances in town. They came from the township too, and from neighbouring towns. Some of them hadn’t even known the boy personally, but they were mates of the Campbell family and they came for young Vi.
Nearly two hundred people were gathered at the cemetery, standing a respectful distance from the graveside, leaving room for those who’d been closest to the boy as the service commenced.
Violet was supported by her mother, who had an arm firmly around her waist; the girl’s eyes remained fixed upon the coffin which sat over the open grave, resting on two planks of wood, with straps laid out on the ground either side. Not once did her eyes leave the coffin; she seemed numb and uncomprehending. Beside her stood her aunt Maureen and her two brothers, Dave keeping a close eye on his sister after Maureen had murmured to him that she thought Violet might faint.
Cam Campbell, hands clasped in front of him, granite face unreadable, was barely hearing the priest as he embarked upon his litany. Cam was surveying the crowd – he had little time for religion.
He’d expected quite a few migrants would turn up, workmates of Pietro’s, but they’d come out in force, he noted. The boy had obviously been popular. He was pleased, too, to see that so many of his own mates had come along to lend their support to young Vi. But he had not anticipated such overall numbers, nor so many dignitaries and local identities. He was impressed. The Commissioner himself, William Hudson, was there, and Rob Harvey and others of the Authority’s upper echelons whom he’d met from time to time. He’d had occasional run-ins with them, certainly, but they were powerful men and he respected them. The Yanks were there too, representatives of Kaiser, and among the crowd were many people well known throughout the entire district: Bob and Rita Duncan, and Peter Minogue; Merv Pritchard and his copper mates; Frank Halliday with his two young assistants – even the famous Flash Jack Finnigan had turned up with his offsider, Antz.
Cam realised he was more than impressed as the priest droned on. He was moved. The migrants, the bosses and the locals had all come to pay their respects to the young Italian who had found a new life among them and who had met such a tragically premature death. It was a sign of the changing times, Cam told himself with a touch of guilt, and it was a sign that he should move with them. He glanced at Vi, and the telltale bulge of her belly. What a bloody shame the kid would be born without a dad, he thought. Pietro would have made a fine father.
Opposite the family stood Lucky and Peggy. They were holding hands and Lucky could feel her fingers squeezing his tighter and tighter. He glanced at her, but she did not return his look; head erect, straight-backed, she remained every inch the schoolteacher as she clutched at the lifeline of his hand. Peggy was being stoic, determined not to cry. But her heart ached for Violet, the little girl whom she’d taught who was now staring vacantly at the coffin, barely a woman, widowed and carrying a baby.
Luigi and Elvio Capelli, the brothers Pietro had met when he’d first come to Cooma, had also claimed a graveside position near Lucky and Peggy. Pietro was Italian, one of their own, and they would help lower his coffin into the grave. Karl Heffner stood beside them; it had been his ‘young cobber’ Pietro who had carried him from the tunnel and it was his right, too, to help lower the coffin.
Father O’Riordan was glad he’d agreed to conduct the service – it was the finest turnout he’d had for a funeral. Not that he’d considered refusing, of course – the boy had still been one of the flock, after all, even though his marriage was not recognised by the Catholic Church, as he’d advised the boy at the time. He had strongly disapproved of Pietro’s flagrant disregard for the doctrines of his faith. But what a grand tribute it was, he now thought as he reached the crucial point in the service; amazing that the boy should have so many mourners paying their respects.
Without drawing breath, he gave the agreed nod to Lucky.
Lucky had been awaiting the signal from Father O’Riordan, and he squeezed Peggy’s hand before gently extricating himself from her grip. It was time to lower the coffin. As he crossed and knelt by one of the straps, the Capelli brothers and Karl took their cue from him and crossed also, to kneel at their prearranged positions. Then, as the priest continued his solemn intonation, they took up the straps and stood.
Violet, whose eyes had remained riveted on the coffin, blind and deaf to all about her, was suddenly shocked out of her stupor. The coffin was moving.
Two men stepped forward and slid away the planks, then Lucky, Karl and the brothers started to lower the coffin into the grave.
Violet’s mind was no longer a blank – it screamed at the outrage. Her Pietro was in that awful wooden box, and it was being lowered into a gaping hole in the ground. ‘You can’t do that to him,’ her mind screamed. ‘You can’t do it!’ But it wasn’t her mind screaming at all, it was her voice – and she hurled herself forward to grab at the coffin, to stop it disappearing into the ground.
Dave caught her in time, grasping her around the waist and they both stumbled forward, Violet falling to her knees and Dave not letting go, terrified that she was about to throw herself into the grave.
As he helped her to her feet, her mother was quickly by her side. Violet had stopped screaming and she didn’t try to struggle. She was sobbing now.
‘Stop it, please!’ she begged, tears of anguish pouring down her cheeks as she looked around at the crowd, desperately pleading with them.
‘Don’t do this to him,’ she begged. ‘Please! Please, don’t let this happen! Please!’
Then, as she searched among the faces of the mourners, she saw the doctor standing directly behind Father O’Riordan.
Violet stretched out her arm, her finger pointing accusingly at Maarten Vanpoucke. ‘You killed him!’ she screamed. ‘You killed him! You killed my Pietro!’
Dave and Marge tried gently to lead her away, but her full hysteria was unleashed and she yelled dementedly, the finger still jabbing ferociously at the air, pointing directly at the doctor.
‘You killed him, it was you. You have the eyes of the priest – Pietro told me! It was you. You killed him!’
Her whole body was sagging from exhaustion, about to fall, and Dave and Marge half carried her away from the graveside. She wouldn’t give up: her voice, although weaker, was still raised in accusation. ‘You have the eyes of the priest, he told me. You killed him.’
Then Dave picked her up in his arms and carried her over to the car, Marge beside him and Maureen following.
‘Don’t worry, Cam,’ Maureen whispered to her brother before she joined them, ‘she’ll be all right, I’ll take her to the hospital, we’ll look after her there.’
Cam nodded, then glanced a directive at his younger son before redirecting his eyes to the proceedings. It was important that he and Johnno stay; the Campbell family needed to be represented.
But they could all hear Violet as she sobbed into her brother’s shoulder, ‘He killed him, he killed him – he has the eyes of the priest.’
There was an uncomfortable silence after the car drove off, all concerned for the tragic young widow.
Then Father O’Riordan continued with the service. But he was rattled. ‘The eyes of the priest?’ he was thinking. The poor girl was distraught in her grief; it was obvious, and she had his deepest sympathy, but it was most confusing. Why was she blaming him? What had he done wrong?
‘Ashes to ashes,’ he intoned as he poured the trowel of earth into the grave, then he paused, uncertain to whom he should hand the trowel; it was to have been Violet, or if the widow had not been able, then her mother.
‘Dust to dust …’ Father O’Riordan continued.
When he’d tipped the earth into the grave, Cam handed the trowel to Lucky; Violet had told him that the German was Pietro’s best friend.
‘… certain hope of resurrection to eternal life …’
As the service drew to its conclusion, the trowel was passed from one to another. To Peggy, the Capelli brothers, Karl Heffner, and finally to Johnno, each adding their own piece of Monaro earth to Pietro’s grave.
After the funeral, Cam stayed long enough to shake hands and accept condolences, then he and Johnno left for the hospital to check on Vi.
The others mingled. The men would shortly go to Dodds and get drunk as they always did after a funeral. There had been a number of funerals for Snowy men, and God alone knew how many more there would be before the completion of the Scheme. They all worked with the knowledge that accidental deaths were a part of their job, but there hadn’t been a funeral like that before. The unexpected death of one so young and the sight of his distraught young widow had affected them all, and they stayed, talking in muted voices about the sheer bloody tragedy of it.
Among several of the townsfolk – those who enjoyed a good gossip – there was a touch of sympathy for Maarten Vanpoucke.
‘Well, of course Vi would blame him,’ Mavis said, trying to sound sympathetic, but inferring a criticism. ‘I mean, her husband died in the doctor’s surgery, didn’t he, and it was so unexpected she’d feel she had to blame someone. But it’s a bit much to accuse him publicly like that. I’m sure the poor man did all he could to save the boy.’
‘For goodness sake, Mavis, listen to yourself,’ Vera snapped. ‘Poor Vi was hysterical; she was distraught with grief.’
