Fireshadow

by Anthony Eaton

  As the sun climbed and the shade in the clearing disappeared, Vinnie continued chipping away and scraping the dirt aside until eventually the stick banged against something solid and hollow, slipping off with a ringing sound.

  It was a box about the size of a small shoebox or large cigar tin, wrapped in rotting canvas that was torn where the stick had punctured it. It rested in the bottom of the hole, tied tightly with what looked like waxed twine or string, blackened with moisture, age and dirt.

  This was it. As Vinnie lifted it from the earth a cacophony of noise erupted from the trees around him, accompanied by the threshing of hundreds of black wings against the air, as the entire flock of cockatoos lifted as one and circled above him before dispersing again into the forest.

  Then Vinnie was alone in that strange, semi-silence of the daytime forest, turning the box over, examining it from all angles. There was nothing to indicate its origins or its intended recipient.

  Filling the hole took only a couple of minutes and then, gathering his discovery protectively to him, Vinnie set off back towards the Marrinup town site to deliver it.

  July 1948

  ‘And so this is to be our home?’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes, Erich. I like it very much.’

  Mathilde stepped into the tiny parlour. At this time of the afternoon the sun shone in from the west through the high garret windows and lit the sparse area in a warm yellow light.

  ‘I know it isn’t very big’ – Erich looked slightly embarrassed – ‘but it is all I can afford at the moment.’

  ‘It is fine. It is very fine.’

  The stilted, formal expression reminded Erich of the same words spoken by a different girl in a different place, and something inside him quivered at the memory.

  Mathilde explored the room, walking easily and unassisted. Here and there she ran her fingers across things – the rough surface of the wooden table, the back of one of the two chairs. At the mantelpiece she stopped and picked up the framed photograph, the solitary ornamentation in the room.

  ‘This is Matilda?’

  ‘It is.’ Erich came and stood beside her. ‘Her grandfather sent it with the letter informing me of the doctor’s death.’

  ‘She is beautiful.’

  The infant in the picture, no more than a year old, stared into the camera with a solemn expression framed by dark, curly hair. Her skin was unmistakably pale, and even though the photograph was black and white, it left the distinct impression that the eyes looking out from under those heavy lashes were a deep, almost iridescent blue.

  ‘Why did you not show me this before?’

  Erich sighed. This was old ground. ‘You know that I won’t change my mind.’

  ‘Yes, I do. As I have said many times, you are far too stubborn for your own good, brother.’

  ‘There are too many other considerations.’

  ‘I could come with you, now.’

  ‘I know. But now there are also my studies to consider. And Maria.’

  Mathilde crossed the bare floorboards and circled her arm around her brother’s waist.

  ‘There will always be a college of medicine for you to return to. There will always be Maria. I should very much like to see my niece, as you know.’

  ‘Perhaps. But not now.’

  ‘Then when?’

  ‘Later. Come, I will show you your room.’

  Erich guided her out into the narrow entry passage.

  ‘The kitchen is through here, the bathroom through that door there. I have set up my room in the attic at the top of the stairs, and yours is here.’

  ‘Have you been living in the attic all of this past year?’

  ‘No, of course not. I wanted to save you the effort of climbing those stairs all the time.’

  ‘Erich.’ She stopped him, mid-stride. ‘You know I am better now. Cured.’

  ‘I know, it’s just that . . .’

  ‘Then please don’t treat me like an invalid. I’ve had enough of it and if people are going to keep doing so then I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it. I want to move on now. Just like you should.’

  They looked at each other for many moments, but he dropped his eyes, refusing to meet the challenge in her words, and silently followed her into the room that was to be hers. After so long in the hospital, it felt strange to have a room that belonged to her. A private space. Once again, Mathilde made a slow circum-navigation, finally sitting on the single iron-framed bed beside the far window.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  She realised how nervous her brother really was.

  ‘Yes, Erich. It’s just lovely.’

  And he smiled, one of his rare smiles.

  ‘Good. I’ll leave you to get settled while I go and fix dinner.’

  And then she was alone. Mathilde lay back and closed her eyes, listening to the noises of the house, the water clunking through pipes, and beyond to the distant sounds of the city – a child’s bicycle bell, an occasional car, pedestrians passing in the street outside. The window showed a glimpse of treetops and blue and Mathilde breathed in the solitude, so rare and so precious after over a year in convalescence.

  A knock on the front door was answered by hurried footsteps. Maria was here. Mathilde listened to her brother’s murmured tones as he greeted Maria at the door and the two disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Maria, Mathilde reflected, was good for Erich. In many ways the nurse had saved him just as he had saved his sister. It had been her who had put him in touch with the professor of medicine at the university and her who took on the burden of nursing Mathilde while he did his study. And now it was Maria who, it seemed, was keeping him here – here in crumbling, post-war Germany, with its hardship and unemployment – and committing him to a life on the other side of the world from his daughter. Mathilde felt her eyes mist up, as they always did when she thought about the little girl.

  ‘Are you awake?’ A gentle knock at the bedroom door. Maria.

  ‘Yes.’

  The other girl entered. ‘Do you like the place?’

  ‘I do. It’s a little spartan compared with what I’m used to, but I guess that is my brother for you.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Maria laughed. ‘God knows I try to get him to brighten the place up, but he says he likes it this way.’

  ‘Too long in that prison camp, I imagine.’

  The women shared a smile. Maria was still in her nurse’s uniform.

  ‘And how are you?’ The clinical tone, the predictable question.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Mathilde tried to stop irritation from creeping into her voice. ‘Just fine. Cured, remember?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Maria laughed uncertainly. ‘Habit, I guess.’

  ‘That’s all right. How are things at the hospital?’

  ‘The same as ever. It seems strange without you there. You know you were our longest resident?’

  ‘I believe it was mentioned.’

  ‘Well, everyone misses you.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Maria sat on the other side of the bed, opposite Mathilde.

  She wore a hesitant expression, as though she was about to speak but was having trouble with the words.

  ‘Mathilde . . .’ She stopped.

  ‘Yes, Maria?’

  ‘Have you talked to him about his daughter?’

  Mathilde looked away, out the window to where a bird, perhaps a hawk of some sort, drifted high and distant on a warm updraft.

  ‘I’ve tried. But I don’t think he really listens to me.’

  ‘You know he does.’

  ‘Then why is he still here in Germany?’

  ‘Because he loves you.’

  ‘Really? I thought it might be because he loves you.’ Try as she might, Mathilde couldn’t keep the bi
tter edge from her voice. ‘You and his studies seem to be what he spends most of his time thinking about right now.’

  ‘Loves me?’ To Mathilde’s surprise, the other girl’s face took on a sad, almost wistful expression. ‘No. All I can hope is that in time he might learn to love me, but for the moment you and that little girl in Australia are the only two who can lay claim to Erich’s love.’ She paused for a moment, considering. ‘He is fond of me, certainly.’

  ‘Then why do you ask about the child?’

  ‘Because I don’t know if Erich has told you everything about it. About his’ – she searched for the right word – ‘situation.’

  ‘What do you mean? What situation?’

  ‘It’s really not my place.’

  ‘What?’ Mathilde gripped the nurse’s arm with a strength that belied her still frail appearance.

  ‘You should ask him. Your brother has been tearing himself apart for this last year, that’s really all I can tell you.’

  Mathilde let go of her arm and the other girl rose from the bed.

  ‘I must get back to help Erich with the dinner. It is good to see you finally at home, Mathilde.’

  The bedroom door closed, leaving Mathilde alone in the early evening light.

  Twenty-eight

  Vinnie

  ‘How did you work out what I was going to ask of you?’

  The old man turned the parcel over and over. His hands, Vinnie noticed, were shaking slightly.

  ‘Dunno. Just kind of figured it out.’

  The two of them sat in silence on either side of the folding table. Helen had taken the campervan into town to pick up milk and a few other bits and pieces.

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Buried in this heart shape on the ground.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’d forgotten them. How much like Günter.’

  ‘Them?’

  ‘The garden beds. The Italian prisoners built several of them on the outskirts of the camp.’

  ‘Why hearts?’

  The old man smiled.

  ‘They weren’t all hearts. There were also diamonds, clubs and spades.’

  ‘Cards?’

  ‘Ja.’ Even with the doctor’s accent, it was strange to hear the occasional German words creep into the conversation.

  ‘Familiar shapes, you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Was it difficult to find?’

  ‘Not really. Not once I thought about it. And I just had this feeling.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  The old man tugged absently at the string holding the canvas wrapping.

  ‘This will need to be cut.’

  ‘I have a pocket knife in my tent. Would you like me to get it?’

  ‘No. Not just yet.’ The old man shook his head. ‘This has waited for me for half a century now, and I am thinking that a few more minutes will make little difference. We will wait for my grand-daughter to return. She would be upset to miss out on this.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Arriving back at the clearing, the box clutched to his chest, Vinnie had had a moment of doubt. Had he done the right thing? Seeing the old man drinking tea at the table beside Helen’s tent, he’d hesitated. It had been the old man who had noticed him and had offered a welcoming nod.

  ‘Doctor?’

  ‘Yes, Vincent?’

  ‘Why didn’t you come back earlier? You knew this was here, right?’

  ‘I knew that it might be.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘I am ill. Helen has told you that, I imagine.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then, how do I put this? I am putting some ghosts to rest before I pass on. That is all, really.’

  ‘And the box?’

  ‘I really am not sure. I did not actually think it would still be here, after all this time.’

  ‘But you still came.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘Now, Vincent, we will wait for Helen to return from the town and we will see what is in this little bundle here. But before then I have some questions to ask of you, also.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, if you do not mind.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘You do not have to answer me, if it makes you uncomfortable.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Helen didn’t tell you?’

  ‘My grand-daughter is very good at keeping other’s business to herself. It is an admirable trait, I think. She takes a little after her grandmother in that way.’

  ‘Alice?’

  ‘Ja. Alice. She had an ability to listen to another’s life and see right to the meaning of it, really see where that person was, what they were thinking, why they were troubled. It is a talent I have never really been able to develop, I am afraid. My wife could do it as well.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Maria. We met after the war, when I was back in Germany.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘But this is not the topic. You were about to tell me what happened to you to bring you to this clearing in the middle of the bush.’

  ‘Don’t really know how to start. There’s not a lot to tell really. I was in an accident with my sister, she was killed, I got all this’ – he gestured at his face and neck – ‘and I just wanted to get away from all the stares, I guess.’

  ‘Who was staring?’ The old man was sitting forward.

  ‘Everyone. You can’t walk around lookin’ like this and not attract attention.’

  ‘So you run away from it?’

  ‘Nah. But sometimes you need time out, you know?’

  ‘Are you certain you are not running away? What do your parents think of you being here.’

  Vinnie shrugged.

  ‘They do not know?’

  ‘They know I’m okay. I called them.’

  ‘But they do not know where you are? Or why you are here?’

  ‘Nah. But that’s not really their problem, is it? It’s mine.’

  ‘Of course it is their problem, Vincent. They are your parents.’

  ‘You don’t understand all the background. There’s more to it than that.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  Vinnie shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t get it.’

  The old man’s blue eyes burned with an old fire. ‘Vincent, at your age I ran away from my parents to go and fight for my country, in a war that neither of them believed in. When I came back they were both dead. Do not assume that I cannot understand what it is to be a young man.’

  ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to look like this.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but I certainly know what it means to run from your problems.’

  ‘My dad reckons it’s my fault that Katia got killed.’

  ‘And was it?’

  Vinnie stared at the old man. His face, trained by years of being a doctor, surrendered nothing. The silence hung in the air while Vinnie struggled for an answer. None came, and he dropped his gaze to where an ant was struggling to navigate through dead grass.

  ‘Vincent . . .’ This time there was gentleness in the old man’s tone. Still expectant but less confrontational. ‘Was it your fault?’

  On the far edge of the clearing the campervan emerged from the tree line, bumping across the field in a cloud of red dust. Vinnie stayed silent. As the van pulled up in its customary place, Doctor Pieters reached across and gripped Vinnie’s wrist.

  ‘I think you should answer that question, Vincent. First to yourself, and then to me. Then you will know what and who you are really running from.’

  Vinnie stood and fled to his own tent, before Helen could come around from the driver’s side.

  July 1948


  ‘So, my brother, what is it you are not telling me?’

  Mathilde and Erich sat in the garden in the twilight.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Last night Maria came into my room and we had a discussion.’

  ‘A discussion?’

  ‘About you and your daughter.’

  Mathilde was aware of the sudden tension in the way her brother was sitting.

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘Very little.’

  ‘She had no right to say anything.’

  ‘Of course she did. Don’t be pig-headed. She only suggested that I needed to talk to you. That there were things you hadn’t told me.’

  ‘Even so . . .’

  ‘Don’t even think about taking this out on her, Erich. The girl loves you and you should appreciate that much more than you do. Even if you don’t love her back.’

  ‘This is not about love. It is about privacy.’

  ‘Do you remember me telling you once that I wouldn’t have you ruin your own life on my account?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Well, I did.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Erich.’ Mathilde shook her head despairingly. ‘Don’t you understand that if you have reasons for not going back there and you won’t share them with me then of course I will assume that I am those reasons?’

  ‘There is much more to it.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake tell me!’

  After a few moments Erich stood and walked into the house, leaving Mathilde alone in the tiny garden. She sighed as the door slammed.

  As a child Erich had been aloof, detached somehow from the rest of the family, but not like this. Since returning from Australia he was so distant, so hard to reach, almost as though he viewed himself as an outsider, someone untouchable.

  The door opened again and her brother re-emerged, a piece of paper in his hand.

  ‘Do you remember our discussion in the hospital gardens?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, this arrived a few weeks later. At the same time as the photograph.’

  He thrust the page into her hands. It was in English, typed, but still difficult for her to translate. He sat and waited, watching in calm, expectant silence for twenty minutes while she struggled through unfamiliar idiom and expression.

  ‘Do I understand this?’