‘Sure,’ said Mrs Latter, swinging cheerfully back onto the middle of the road.
‘Really?’ asked Mark in surprise. He’d been sure she’d say, ‘No, everyone is as good as everyone else’, and then go off into one of her yelling matches. ‘Who, Mrs Latter?’
‘Men,’ said Mrs Latter with satisfaction. ‘They’re the worst group of people out there.’
‘But men aren’t a group or a race or…’
‘What are they then? Most crime is committed by men, most car accidents are caused by men.’ Mrs Latter counted off on her fingers, so the bus swung wildly again.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Anna muttered to Mark.
‘Men start most of the wars, and fight in them too. Most of the people in prisons are men. You just have to look at the statistics!
‘You know what I think?’ demanded Mrs Latter, then answered herself as no one spoke. ‘I think men should pay higher taxes to pay for all the damage they do. Women are naturally gentler, more cooperative… Move your rear, you great mug!’ yelled Mrs Latter, as the bus slowed down behind old Mr Hannon’s Holden.
Mrs Latter was still holding forth as the bus pulled in to pick up Big Tracey. Mark sighed, and opened his maths homework.
chapter nine
Questions
Mr McDonald was sitting at his table marking homework when Mark looked through the door.
‘Mark, what’s up?’ he asked.
‘Nothing… I just wanted to ask you something.’
Mr McDonald looked a bit nervous, thought Mark. Maybe he’d asked him too many questions lately, the sort that Mum and Dad couldn’t answer like, ‘How fast could God ride a bicycle?’ and ‘How did life begin?’ But he put his book to one side anyway.
‘Sure. Fire away,’ he said.
‘I just wanted to know…’ began Mark slowly. ‘I mean it’s silly but I was thinking. Do kids have to be like their parents?’
Mr McDonald frowned. ‘I’m not sure I get your meaning,’ he said.
‘Well, say someone’s father did something really evil like Hitler, or Pol Pot,’ he added hurriedly. ‘Would their kids be evil too?’
Mr McDonald looked relieved, as though he’d expected the question to be more difficult.
‘That’s a good question, Mark. No, they probably wouldn’t be evil too. I can’t think of anyone really bad in history whose children were as bad as they were. In fact, sometimes the opposite is true. Bad people often have good kids, and good people have bad kids.’
‘But we’re like our parents, aren’t we?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Mr McDonald. ‘Kids often inherit the same sort of temperament as their parents, and maybe the same talents. Like music for instance, or painting. But usually they do something different with it. A painter’s kid might become an architect, for example, if they inherited the same talent. Maybe that’s the best way to put it—you inherit your talents from your parents, but what you do with them is your own choice. And mostly kids do things their parents never thought of.’
‘So… so Pol Pot’s kids for example. They wouldn’t go round killing people?’
‘I don’t know if Pol Pot had any kids,’ said Mr McDonald.
‘But if he did?’
Mr McDonald hesitated. ‘Well, if they were in the Khmer Rouge—Pol Pot’s army—I suppose they might do the same sort of things. But if they were brought up somewhere else, then no, they probably wouldn’t do the same sort of things at all.’ Mr McDonald looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you ask Mark?’
‘I was just wondering,’ said Mark.
‘There isn’t any trouble at home is there?’ asked Mr McDonald carefully.
Suddenly Mark realised what he meant.
‘No! I mean, no, I’m not worried about Dad or anyone.’ Mark nearly laughed. As though Dad could do anything so wrong or evil that he’d be worried about it.
He thought quickly. ‘I saw something on Pol Pot on TV that’s all, and I wondered if he had a son and what he’d be like.’
‘Maybe he’d have decided to be a chef…or a banker…But he’d probably feel guilty and confused if he realised what his father had done,’ said Mr McDonald.
‘It wouldn’t be his fault, would it? All the murders his dad did?’
‘No,’ said Mr McDonald slowly. ‘It wouldn’t be his fault at all. Not unless he felt the same way as his dad did. Or maybe if he refused to face up to the evil things his dad had done… that would be wrong. If we don’t face up to things that were wrong in the past then we might do them again.’
‘Mr McDonald…’ Mark had another question, but he could see that Mr McDonald was getting impatient.
‘Yes, Mark?’
‘The things Hitler did, or Pol Pot… all that genocide stuff. I mean could they have ever thought they were right?’
Mr McDonald looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘Sometimes people think they are doing the right thing even when it is bad. But with Hitler and Pol Pot…I just don’t know. Maybe they did think what they were doing was good.’
‘But how can we know we’re doing the right thing?’ cried Mark.
Mr McDonald shrugged. ‘I can’t answer that either,’ he said a bit helplessly. ‘I’d have to think about it. How about you ask your parents or Father Steven next Sunday. Sorry if that doesn’t really answer your question. I had better go and grab some lunch before the bell goes. No more questions then?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No more questions. Thanks,’ added Mark.
He supposed Mr McDonald had at least tried to give him answers.
The thought pestered him all through afternoon school.
People should do what they thought was right. But what if what you thought was right, was wrong?
Doing what everyone else did was no help either. If there was one thing that all that Hitler stuff showed, it was that most of a whole country could be wrong.
Had everyone back then really thought about things? Had they looked at the evidence—the statistics and stuff like old Mrs Latter was always spouting on about—or did they just believe because they wanted to believe, because they wanted to…
‘Mark! Are you listening?’ demanded Mr McDonald.
‘Er… yes,’ said Mark.
‘Then look like it,’ ordered Mr McDonald. ‘Now if you turn to page…’
There had to be some answer, thought Mark, as he opened his work book.
Someone must have an answer somewhere.
chapter ten
Friday Afternoon
The bus seemed slower than ever that afternoon. Even Mrs Latter seemed subdued, her grey hair limp under her hat, as though the argument that morning had used up all her energy.
The bus trundled through town, dropping off a couple of kids on the outskirts, then took the turnoff down to Wallaby Creek.
Mark watched the grey sky and the wet paddocks beyond. Feehan’s Swamp was like a mirror, dull silver reflecting bare willows and cold cows. Even the bitumen road looked a deeper grey.
He was sick of the rain. It wouldn’t be so bad if it actually did something, thought Mark, like a cyclone or a tornado or something. But this rain just sat there, as if it was too lazy to move. It wasn’t even proper rain any more. Just wet air, cold and bleak and boring.
‘Hey, did you get out the question on page seventy-six last night?’ demanded Bonzo beside him.
‘Sort of,’ said Mark.
‘I asked Mum, but she wasn’t any use at all. Didn’t parents ever learn anything at school? They can’t ever answer anything right.’
‘Yeah,’ said Mark.
Bonzo looked at him more closely.
‘Hey, are you alright?’
‘Sure.’ Mark sat up. Too much thinking, that’s what was wrong, he thought to himself.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ asked Bonzo.
Mark blinked. He’d forgotten it was Friday. That meant they couldn’t play The Game tomorrow morning. No more story till Monday.
&n
bsp; Bonzo nudged him.
‘Dunno,’ said Mark. Maybe the three of them could meet on Saturday or something, he wondered. But of course everyone would think that was really odd. He and Anna hadn’t spent any time together since they played together as little kids, and as for Little Tracey…
‘We could go for a bike ride,’ said Bonzo. ‘Dad could put the bikes into the back of the ute when he goes up to town and we could ride back to my place.’
Mark shrugged. ‘Sure. If the rain stops, anyway.’
Bonzo gazed out the window. ‘It’s boring when it rains.’
‘Bonzo?’ asked Mark suddenly.
‘Mmmm?’ Bonzo was still staring out at the rain.
‘What would you do if someone wanted to start a… a sort of army around here?’
‘You mean all us kids drilling with rifles and things to attack invaders? It’d be cool.’
‘But… but what if it wasn’t invaders. I mean, say if it was a politician who started it all, like Hitler started the Brownshirts, and they wanted us to attack people they didn’t like…’ Mark stopped. He didn’t know how to explain.
‘Like who? I still think it’d be cool,’ said Bonzo. ‘Maybe New Zealand would invade us or UFOs and we’d have to fight them and all dress up in uniforms and maybe ambush them like on that show on TV.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ began Mark.
Anna would understand, he thought, his eyes on Anna in the seat in front. Anna really thought about things. All he had to do was nudge her, and say, ‘How about you and Little Tracey come down to my place tomorrow afternoon and you can finish the story.’
But it would be embarrassing. He knew he couldn’t do it.
chapter eleven
Saturday, Sunday, Monday Morning
The flood smelt like wet socks.
Even the kitchen was full of the smell and it was stronger than the smell of last night’s pizza.
Mark shut the kitchen door—Dad must have left it open when he went out to check the pump was still out of reach of the flood—then sat down at the kitchen table. Behind him the radio sang out the tune that announced the news. Dad had listened to the weather report earlier and left the radio on:
‘…the genocide still continues. Eyewitnesses now say that the death toll may number several thousands, with the numbers still rising as government troops…’
Mark blinked. For a moment he had thought he was back in the 1930s, the radio talking about all the people that Hitler was killing.
But this was NOW. People were being killed NOW. He’d heard these reports before of course, but it had never seemed real… he’d never actually thought about it before.
The radio announcer was talking about something different. Something about land rights and…
‘Well, who’s ready for breakfast?’ demanded Dad happily, tramping into the kitchen in his socks and turning the radio off automatically. ‘I’m starved!’
Dad always cooked eggs and bacon on Saturday mornings. Saturday was the only day he cooked breakfast, and the only day they had eggs and bacon, too, with a sausage each and baked beans sometimes as well. Fried cholesterol, Mum called it, but she liked Saturday breakfasts too.
Dad dumped the plates down on the table and sat down.
‘Anyone want anything up in town?’ he asked, as he squirted chili sauce on his bacon. ‘I have to go up and get some more diesel.’
Mum shook her head. ‘I shopped last Thursday… well, maybe fresh bread. And milk. And shampoo, we’ve nearly run out. I’ll make a list.’
‘Dad…’ asked Mark suddenly.
‘Mmm,’ said Dad resignedly, sprinkling pepper over his egg.
‘Are people being exterminated today?’
Dad swallowed his food the wrong way. ‘Are they what!’ he choked.
‘Being exterminated. You know—like Hitler and the Jews.’
Dad took a gulp of coffee. ‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘But on the news it just said about people being killed in that place with the funny name.’
Dad shrugged. ‘Oh. That stuff. Can’t say I’ve been following it.’
Mark chewed for a minute. ‘Dad…’ he asked.
‘Now what?’
‘How did great-great-Grandpa get our farm?’
‘What? He bought it.’ Dad reached for the mustard and squirted some on his sausage.
‘He didn’t steal it from the Aborigines?’
‘No, of course not.’ Dad gave him a sharp look. ‘It wasn’t like that in those days, anyway. No one thought of it as stealing.’
‘Mark, your egg’s getting cold,’ said Mum.
Mark took a bite of egg. ‘But what if he did take it from the Aboriginal people…just suppose. It wouldn’t be our fault, would it?’
‘Who’s been feeding you all that stuff?’ demanded Dad, his face closed off in a way that Mark had never seen before.
‘I was just listening to the news, and someone said—’
‘The things they teach kids nowadays,’ said Dad, attacking his sausage savagely. ‘It’d make more sense if they taught everyone to mind their own business. Do-gooders poking their nose in where it doesn’t concern them.’
‘But Dad—’
‘Mark, give it a rest would you.’
‘But remember you told me that if we disagreed about anything we should talk about it. You said—’
‘Mark, that’s enough,’ said his Mum hurriedly. ‘Okay?’
Mark ate his egg in silence.
The rain stopped on Saturday night. The clouds that had stretched tight and grey across the sky shrank into mushrooms that puffed and waddled through the blue. The trees shone tiny diamonds across their leaves and the creek shrank slightly under its edge of foam.
Sunday night the rain began again.
At least we had Sunday free, thought Mark gloomily, as he listened to the rain on the roof; the thud, thud, thud and the droop, droop, droop where it dripped from the eaves. Finally, he dozed.
He dreamt of the creek, and the flood smashing its way across the rocks. He dreamt that Hitler was across the creek, but this Hitler wore jeans and his haircut was modern in spite of the moustache under his nose that looked as if it was sticky-taped on.
Hitler was making a speech. And suddenly there were people all around on Mark’s side of the creek, listening, cheering.
‘Go away,’ Mark yelled to them. ‘It’s a silly speech! Can’t you hear it’s silly.’
But his voice made no sound.
There was Ben on his motorbike with a swastika on his arm, and Bonzo in a uniform, and even Little Tracey was saluting Hitler too. Bonzo just wanted excitement and Ben didn’t think about things at all and Little Tracey would do what her friends…‘But he’s wrong!’ cried Mark. ‘Can’t you see he’s wrong!’
But they were laughing and cheering and excited, and no one was listening to Mark. They were wading into the creek, into the flood. They’d be washed away, thought Mark, and anyway, they shouldn’t be there at all. It wasn’t their farm and Dad would be angry with all the strangers on it, and the radio was talking about people being killed in that place in Africa, in Europe, in Indonesia, and Hitler was laughing, laughing, laughing…
‘You are all my children,’ screamed Hitler. ‘None of you really care. None of you question. You are all Hitler’s children!’
‘Go away,’ cried Mark again. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?’
And suddenly he must have woken, or half woken anyway, because he was in bed and the people were gone. He rolled over, and pulled the doona up to his head, and this time he slept deeply.
The dream had almost vanished at breakfast. Only the flavour of it lingered inside his head.
‘Mum?’
‘Mmm? Do you want muesli or porridge this morning?’
‘Porridge,’ said Mark. ‘Mum, if Hitler came back now…’
‘You’re not still on about Hitler are you?’ asked Mum, measuring the rolled oats into the bowl. She slipp
ed it into the microwave and pressed the button. ‘You’ve got Hitler on the brain lately.’
Mark watched the bowl spin round and round inside the microwave. ‘Well, not Hitler then. But someone really bad, like Hitler.’
‘Oh Mark, not more questions. It’s too early!’ protested Mum.
‘But Mum, what if everyone thought the really bad person was right! Like all the German people thought Hitler was right?’
Mum took the bowl from the microwave and stirred it, then put it back again. ‘I don’t think all the German people thought Hitler was right,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget it was a totalitarian country.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘It means Hitler controlled the radio and the newspapers, so no one was allowed to say anything he didn’t agree with. And if you tried to speak out you were sent to a concentration camp.’
‘Did people protest?’ asked Mark.
‘No idea,’ said Mum. ‘I suppose so. Here you are.’ She passed him the milk and brown sugar.
‘Mum, if Hitler had been in power would you have protested?’
‘Of course,’ said Mum absently.
‘Even if it meant going to prison.’
‘What? No, I don’t suppose so. Mark, I’m just not interested in stuff like that. Alright? Just eat your breakfast.’
Mark sprinkled the sugar over his porridge, making sure it spread evenly over the whole bowl, with just a few hard lumps dissolving in the middle. ‘What I mean is,’ he said, swallowing the first spoonful and blowing on the next. ‘If everyone—or almost everyone—thinks something is right, but you know it’s wrong, what do you do then?’
Mum sighed. ‘For the love of mud… Eat your porridge. Okay?’
Mark shrugged and took another spoonful of porridge. There was no point keeping on if Mum had had enough.
He wondered what it would be like to have a mum who loved answering questions. A mum who really liked thinking about things.
‘That’s a really good question, Mark,’ the imaginary Mum would say. ‘My first reaction is to say, “Mind your own business.” But that’s the wrong answer, isn’t it?’
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