Fireshadow (6 page)

Eight

Vinnie

As the protective envelope of forest closed around him again, Vinnie began to shiver. The phone call had frightened him. He was back in the months of pain he was trying to put behind him.

Waking in the hospital had been the worst moment. The impersonal click and quiet beep of the machines had been the first sensations to worm their way into his consciousness. Then the light, the subdued glow of a night lamp, and the harsher glare of the fluorescent-lit passageway outside, all muted by thin, blue privacy curtains. Finally the grunting snore of his father, slumped in a nursing chair at the foot of the bed. Sleeping and waiting.

Then the pain. Rolling across him in waves somehow both distant and immediate. Awareness of sheets held aloft by frames, of raw skin constricted by thick, tight pressure, of fuzziness, of one eye and half his head swathed in slimy bandages, of not being able to think through the fog, to see, to breathe . . .

Sleep again. Then daylight, oozing in through a narrow, wall-length window. Through it, the distant clock tower of the university was framed against an overcast sky. And his mother by the bedside, reading a magazine with the distracted air of someone looking at words and pictures on a page but not seeing anything. He'd studied her, then, for a couple of moments, confused and disoriented, but at the same time, for the last time, secure.

Finally, speaking, his voice croaky after a week unconscious. Tears. Nurses. Doctors. Dad. Noise and bustle. Temperatures and readings. Injections and pills. And then the moment when the world fell apart . . .

‘What happened? Where's Katia?'

Now, though, crunching along the track, shadowed again by the black cockatoos, memories of that other world grew slowly remote, and Vinnie could feel his perspective changing with every step. Of course they weren't missing him. That was impossible. The house, his home, had been dead from the moment Katia drove the car off the road. His presence served only to remind his parents of what they had lost.

He knew he'd have to go back eventually, of course, but when he did it would be on his terms, not theirs. Just as he'd left. And it wouldn't be Vinnie who returned. Not old Vinnie, anyway. It would be . . . someone else.

The afternoon grew warmer; his t-shirt became damp against his skin, especially where the straps from his pack rubbed. He stopped by the edge of the path and removed it, stuffing it into an outside pocket, liberated by the sensation of warm air on his exposed body. A couple of flies buzzed at him as he re-shouldered the pack, one landing on a wrinkle of grafted skin that ran horizontal across his chest. Vinnie flicked at it, stirring it into a gentle frenzy. He knew that his body was becoming healthy and fit below the patterned discoloration of scars and grafts. As he walked, he toyed with the idea that his markings were a camouflage, allowing him to blend like a lizard or a snake into the surrounding bush, helping him to hide from the world, from the predators.

It was a false hope, of course. The marks set him apart, made him different, and would never be anything but scars of isolation. Who would accept or care for someone damaged like he was? He'd heard the men outside the shop, had seen the look in the woman's eyes at the refrigerator.

Swinging through the early afternoon, though, with the faint-est stirrings of a breeze cooling him and his load bumping gently at his back, Vinnie allowed himself to drift away into a reverie of better times lost.

The clearing stood still and silent, much as on the afternoon he'd first arrived. As usual, the world seemed to hesitate for a couple of seconds when he entered the scarred landscape and began to pick his way down the terraces. In the gentle warmth, with his sweat cooling on his naked chest as he walked, Vinnie meandered towards his camp.

Drawing near to the silent campervan with its attendant dome tent, Vinnie pondered for a moment the whereabouts of its occupants. He'd seen not a sign of them that morning, and the camp still seemed deserted now. The memory of the girl – Helen – sitting with him by the fire stirred something in him, and veering his course slightly carried him closer to her camp site.

As he drew parallel to the tent his calm was paralysingly shattered as the zippered opening drew itself upwards, and Helen emerged, blinking, into the afternoon light, not two metres from where he stood, exposed.

For a moment everything seemed far away, as though he was viewing the scene through a mirror of distance. Filtered, hazy objectivity removed him from the sensation of the girl's stare, the almost physical itch of her gaze as she examined his ravaged torso, bare of hair, etched with healing scar tissue and tracked with the remains of sutures. For long moments, she allowed her eyes to travel across him as he stood, livid in the sunlight.

‘Vinnie, hi.'

His mind was numb, a fog of naked discomfort and embarrassment.

‘Been into town?'

God! Why didn't she say something about it? Why wouldn't she comment?

‘Good walk?'

It was as though she didn't see him. See what he was. He could feel colour rising in his cheeks and neck.

‘There was a ranger here about half an hour ago, checking up on the place, making sure we're doing the right thing.'

‘Huh?'

‘He wanted to know about you, and I told him that you were just a bloke camping. Nothing unusual.'

Something in the way she spoke, the way she chose the words, managed to penetrate the haze of embarrassment.

‘Unusual?'

‘Yeah.' For the first time the girl looked askance, not meeting his eyes. ‘He was pretty interested in whether I'd had a close look at you. If you had any . . . distinguishing features.'

Vinnie lifted a hand to his face, unconsiously.

‘I told him I hadn't seen you close up, but that you seemed fine to me.'

She was looking directly at him now. Her hair glinted a reddish hue in the sun, her head tilted slightly to one side and a small wrinkle of concern creasing between her eyebrows.

‘I did the right thing, didn't I, Vinnie? I mean, you're not on the run from prison or anything like that, are you?'

‘No. I . . .' Words abandoned him.

‘Didn't think so. You look like you just need some time away from the world. That's right, isn't it?'

‘I gotta go . . .'

He pushed past, stepping off the path to get by her, and his shoulder and upper arm, still moist with sweat, brushed lightly against hers. The echo of contact coursed along his nervous system; his toes and fingers tingled with brief adrenalin. Then he was clear, walking, stumbling, almost running back to his tent, to the safe, tenuous privacy of those flimsy canvas walls.

September 1943

In summer, before the madness of war, his family would picnic in the nearby forest. Father, Mother, Mathilde and himself. Mother would pack food and they'd carry it deep into the woods, sometimes near a lake, and spend the afternoon there.

Erich studied the gnarled, reddish trunks that surrounded the camp. The forest was so different. Here, trees grew twisted and misshapen, prowling through undergrowth so thick and spiny that to venture into it without protective leggings was madness. Plants here would leap at you, snagging your clothes and hair, opening seams already ragged with wear. And the animals – the birds – it was as though they were laughing at you the whole while, screaming from the green shadows, mocking these strangers in all their alien hopelessness. Sitting on the hospital steps and looking out through the fence line, Erich longed for those warm summer afternoons in the forest, for trees that shed their leaves with the onset of cold, for the moist crackle of leaf litter below his feet.

‘How's the reading?'

Alice emerged from inside and gestured at the book which lay, ignored, on his lap.

‘Fine, thank you.'

She sat on the step beside him.

‘Grandfather says that Günter is getting much better now.'

‘Good.'

‘You should be proud of yourself.'

Erich shrugged. ‘I did what was necessary.'

Laughter echoed across the compound from the guardhouse by the gate. The girl's constant presence and chatter were irritating. It was as though she didn't realise the gap between them – that they were enemies.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘You. Are you all right? You've hardly spoken to anyone since the night we' – she hesitated – ‘since the night of Günter's operation.'

‘I am not the talking to people type.'

The girl stifled a small giggle and Erich threw her a sharp look.

‘I'm sorry. You sound so formal sometimes.'

‘I am sorry my English is not so good.'

‘No, it's not that at all. You speak beautifully. I just wish you'd relax a little. It would make everyone so much more comfortable.'

‘There is a war on. Comfort is not important.'

She was still smiling. ‘It's silly, don't you think?'

‘Silly?'

‘This war. Pretending that you're still fighting it, right out here in the bush. Don't you think it's a waste of energy?'

He stiffened. ‘Not at all.'

‘Well, I think it is.'

Erich stood, careful as he did so to keep his stance military and correct.

‘If you will excuse me, I should see if the doctor requires me.'

The door swung hard into its frame behind him.

Inside, Günter and the doctor were playing some sort of card game that they had managed to work out despite the language barrier. They were silent, yet communicating clearly through the slap of the cards on the table rigged beside the bed.

‘Erich.' Doctor Alexander looked up from his hand. ‘Join us?'

‘No, thank you, Herr Doctor. I will continue my study in here' – a disdainful glance back in the direction of the door – ‘where it is a little more silent.'

‘Something is bothering you out there?'

‘No, sir. It is just that I . . . just too noisy.'

Settling by the stove, Erich opened his book and made as if to read.

‘You know, Erich, it would be good for you to talk to Alice sometimes.'

‘Excuse me, Doctor?'

‘She would be a good friend for you here. Especially given the similarity in your ages.'

‘I am afraid that apart from that we have very little in common, sir.'

‘You might be surprised.'

Günter, lying and listening, asked in German, ‘You have found a sweetheart, no?'

Erich stared coldly at the man. ‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because she is the enemy.'

‘Ah, yes, that.' Günter shook his head in mock sadness.

‘And this from the boy who told me that he knew so much about love.'

‘That was just to make you eat.'

‘Well, it worked, so what you said must have been correct. If a woman can look past something like a missing limb, do you really think a little thing like being her enemy will be a problem?'

‘What is he saying?' interrupted the doctor.

‘Nothing. He is being stupid.' Then he added in German, to make sure that Günter understood, ‘
Ein dummkopf
!'

‘Doctor . . .' Günter's English was halting and broken. ‘I tell boy to open his eyes, see past . . .' He paused, searching for the word.

‘See past?' Doctor Alexander prompted.

‘To see past war. See real people.' Erich thought he caught a wink pass between the amputee soldier and the old doctor. Günter was grinning.

‘That's good advice, Günter.' The doctor was smiling slightly himself. ‘Very good advice indeed. And he could start with my grand-daughter.'

‘May I be excused, sir. To the latrine.'

‘Of course.'

Alice was still sitting on the step, reading. Erich stormed past without a word.

In the latrine, he considered his anger. Why did they all insist on unsettling him like this? And Günter, who should have been his ally, was the worst – he'd forgotten about national pride, about the future of the greater Germany, everything taught at school and in the
Hitlerjugend
. What was the point? If his father were here . . .

Erich shook his head, stifling that line of thought before it had a chance to germinate. His father was half the problem. If Erich closed his eyes for a second his father was there before him, as clear as day, his uniform shirt, neatly pressed jacket dripping with decorations and commendations, the iron cross at his throat. How many times had Erich listened to his father speak of their family, and the pride in his voice as he told his son of the bravery of his grandfather, and of his own adventures during the first world war, and of the importance of being loyal to your country, of always being a soldier, even in peacetime.

This was his problem. This was what made him angry. If his father and all that he stood for was right, then why was he, Erich, so easily captured? Why was he in the middle of this ugly foreign forest, waiting for nothing and surrounded by weak men like Stutt and Günter? Worst of all, why was it their words sounded like they made sense?

Nine

Vinnie

The beer, cooled for a couple of hours in a plastic bag in the creek, was bitter and at the same time sweet as it trickled down the back of Vinnie's throat. Around him the night buzzed and he sat, listening, going over his meeting with Helen outside her tent a few hours ago.

She had startled him, true. He'd thought the tent empty, the camp site deserted, and if he'd known she was there he would have replaced his shirt and covered the scars before setting out across the clearing. But all the same, he hadn't expected, to feel so . . . so naked.

And he liked her. There was no denying it. She was the first person in a long time to make him feel complete again. She didn't seem to see the scars, didn't seem to notice, but he was pretty sure that was an act. Some people are good at that sort of thing. No, it was something else as well, something about the way she spoke to him. There was no bullshit, no pretence. Just conversation. That was the attraction.

He stirred the coals and sipped at his beer. The taste, familiar and yet distant, called up memories of the party, the music, people being thrown in the pool, Katia chatting to some guy in the corner, laughing, drink in hand. Vinnie could tell by the way she was standing, even from across the room, that she wasn't really interested, just making small talk.

His mate Johnno was trying to get him pissed, kept handing him bourbon and cokes which he didn't drink, leaving plastic cups half full of the sickly brown liquid on various window ledges around the house, pouring them into pot plants when no one was paying attention. He didn't feel like getting wrecked, not that night.

And later, when it started raining, everyone had come inside and couples were getting together in dark corners, and he'd watched the bloke who'd been chatting her up earlier lean in to his sister's ear and whisper. She'd thrown her drink on him and everyone had laughed. Then she'd flounced over to him and Johnno, wriggling her bum and putting on a show, but still angry, burning inside. If you didn't know her, you'd never spot it. Katia all over.

‘Let's go, Vin. We're out of here.'

‘Ah, come on, Kat, the night's still young.'

‘Bullshit, Vinnie. I'm going. You can walk home if you want.'

‘Nah.'

And then, in the car, trees and darkness whipping by the slick road, she was driving hard, but in control, like always.

‘Kat?'

‘What?'

‘That bloke, at the party . . .'

‘Asshole.'

‘What did he say?'

‘None of your business.'

Night-car-silence. The hum of the road. Silent swish of tyres on wet asphalt. Rush of slicing through the night. Accelerating into the corners.

‘You okay, Kat?'

She never answered. The cat, black and white and feral and caught in the glaring cone of the headlights, darted from the shoulder onto the black tarmac. Katia jerked the wheel, an instinctive, uncontrolled spasm of movement and then the car was sliding, slowly, so slowly . . .

‘Vinnie?'

Helen stood a few feet away. He hadn't heard her approach.

He climbed to his feet, awkward and shambling, limbs moving independent of brain.

‘I won't stay. I just wanted to apologise for this afternoon. I . . .'

‘Nah, listen, I'm the one who should say sorry.'

Firelight sparked reflections in her eyes.

‘You sort of caught me by surprise, that's all. I didn't think you were in your tent, so I wasn't really ready to, well, you know, to bump into you like that. I'm sorry for runnin' off.'

‘Don't worry about it. Happens all the time.'

‘Really?'

‘Actually, no.' She laughed softly and for a moment they faced each other across the flames, then she moved to go.

‘Anyway, I wanted to come over and clear the air. I'll leave you in peace.'

‘You don't have to. Stay a while. You want a beer?'

‘You have beer?'

Vinnie nodded towards where the creek burbled in the darkness.

‘Chilled by nature.'

‘In that case, as long as you're offering . . .'

Helen eased herself down beside the fire, and Vinnie clambered through the shadows, retrieving another two cans from the cold, black water.

‘Here you go.'

‘Thanks. You look after yourself okay. Do you do this a lot?'

‘This?'

‘Camping. You seem to have it all under control.'

Vinnie shrugged. ‘Don't have a lot of choice. I've always been pretty good at lookin' after myself, though.'

‘So why here?'

Vinnie looked at her. Her face, half turned to the fire, picked up the red hue of firelight, and the blackness of the shadows.

‘It's . . . a bit personal.'

‘You run away?'

‘Yeah. But that's not my worry. Mum and Dad never gave a shit about me before . . .'

The silence of the night fell between them, until Helen spoke. ‘Before?'

‘I was in a car accident. With my sister. She was killed. That's how I got . . . all this. I guess I'm just trying to get myself a bit straightened out, you know? I'm pretty messed up.'

‘Do you miss her?'

‘Yeah. Of course. She was always lookin' out for me. But that's not why I'm here.'

‘It isn't?'

‘Nah. I ran 'cause, well . . .' A branch in the fire burst into popping sparks, interrupting him. Vinnie shook his head slightly. ‘Shit, I'm carrying on like an idiot.'

‘No, you're not.'

‘Whatever. What about you?'

‘Me?'

‘Yeah. What brings you and Grandad all the way out here to the middle of the bloody bush? You can't leave me wondering, you know. I'll suspect the worst.'

‘Nothing too sinister. A history project.'

‘History?'

‘Yeah. My grandfather spent some time in the POW camp here during the Second World War and he wanted to see the place again.'

‘Is that where you were this morning?'

‘Yeah. It took ages to get there and back again – he moves pretty slowly.'

‘What did he think of it all?'

‘Don't know. He doesn't say too much. He spent about an hour sitting on an old foundation and then we left again.'

‘He didn't look around?'

‘No. Didn't seem interested.'

‘Weird.'

‘Not really. He's not a young man. I think he just wanted to see the place. He wants to go back again tomorrow.'

‘I'd like to meet him.'

‘Come across in the morning and I'll introduce you, I should warn you though, he can be a bit bad-tempered, especially with strangers.'

‘Ah, well then, we'll see tomorrow, eh?'

‘Sounds like a date.'

‘Probably the only one I'm likely to get in the near future.'

Helen threw a strange look in his direction. ‘Why?'

‘Look at me. I'm not exactly Mr Universe.'

‘So?'

‘So, what girl's gonna be interested in me now? Looking like this.'

‘Plenty of them. You seem like a nice bloke.'

‘Yeah, with a face like half a prune.'

‘That shouldn't matter.'

‘Come on, you telling me you'd go for a guy with this sort of damage all over him?'

‘If I knew him and I liked him, yeah, I think I probably would.'

‘I reckon you're lying. People aren't like that. Women especially.'

‘I don't know what type of girls you've been hanging out with, Vinnie, but you should give some others a chance.'

‘Whatever.'

‘No, not whatever. You can't simply write yourself off to the rest of the world just because you've had some bad breaks lately.'

‘Bad breaks? Look at my bloody face, will you?'

‘I've seen your face. I don't mind it.'

Vinnie stared hard at her, trying to make up his mind whether she was making fun of him. ‘In that case, how about dinner?'

Helen laughed, breaking the tension. ‘Sorry, you'll have to work a bit harder than that to get a date with me.'

‘See? Told you. You're just like the rest of them.'

‘No, Vinnie, I'm not.' She drained the rest of her can and stood to leave. ‘But I reckon you are. See you tomorrow.' Walking away, she seemed to melt from firelight into darkness.

September 1943

The signal for evening rollcall echoed between the buildings and back into the camp from the tree line. Erich, excused by the doctor's brief nod, stepped out into drizzle. It was almost dark and the parade area was lit in the pale glow of overhead lamps. The dispersed light turned the men into rows of ghosts, their features sunk into skeletal hollows and pools of darkness. Sodden greatcoats hung limply and disguised bodies.

In these conditions, rollcall always took longer. One of the guards would move along the lines, from man to man, double-checking the identity of each prisoner against the name called by Thomas – a precaution against a substitution, covering for an escape.

Not that escape seemed to be a huge consideration. In Erich's third week, the sirens had sounded and search parties dispersed, hunting for two men who had failed to return from their work assignment. Within a couple of hours the two had appeared at the camp gates, wet, cold, muddy and miserable. They had become disoriented in the forest on their way home and walked in the wrong direction for several hours until they came across a familiar track. Stutt had given them each a week in detention.

None of Erich's camp-mates seemed interested in the idea of escape, and Erich was too nervous to broach the subject. In any case, from what he remembered of his geography, Australia was a long way from anywhere.

‘Pieters.'

It was so unfair. So wrong that he should have ended up here, where there was not so much as an opportunity to return home, even if he managed to find a way out from the enclosure.

‘Pieters!'

On the other side of the fence, the forest still pressed in, thick and black, on the camp. If he were able to get to the other side of it, he still wouldn't know in which direction to head off. The roads would be too dangerous, too exposed for a man in a German army uniform.

‘Pieters!'

A hard slap stung across his face, cracking wetly in the silence, dragging Erich from his musings. Guard Thomas, young, pimpled and angry, stood directly in front of him, one hand holding the clipboard loose at his side, the other still raised to strike.

‘You bloody answer me the first time I call your name, understand, Fritz?'

Several of the men stiffened at the taunt, but none moved. Erich stared into the straw-coloured eyes and held silent.

‘I've got better things to be doing than wasting my time chasin' up and down just 'cause you're havin' a bloody day-dream. You get me?'

When Erich didn't answer, the young guard's hand flew again and Erich felt the salt tang of blood tickling his mouth.

‘I asked you a question. Do you understand?'

‘That will do, Thomas.' Stutt, having broken from his place at the front, stepped across and seized the guard's hand before he could strike Erich again. ‘I think that you have made your point quite clear. Erich will apologise. Erich?'

Meeting the senior officer's eye, it was clear that the request was really an order.

‘I apologise for inconveniencing you.'

‘Sir!' snarled the guard.

‘Excuse me?'

‘I apologise for inconveniencing you,
sir
.' The guard's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

‘I don't believe you have been commissioned quite yet, Thomas.' Stutt's quiet interruption raised a gentle snigger from the men standing nearby. ‘I think Erich's apology will be sufficient for us not to have to report this incident to the camp commander, don't you?'

Thomas refused to back down.

‘If he tries this again, I'll assume that he's covering some type of escape attempt and . . .'

‘If you strike one of my men again, Thomas, I'll assume that you are not familiar with the terms of the Red Cross guidelines for the treatment of prisoners of war.'

For a long moment the young guard and the older German officer stared at one another through the drizzle before Thomas wheeled and stalked back to the front of the parade, consulting his soggy list as he did so.

‘Reichman!'

‘
Ja
!'

Five minutes later the parade was completed and the men dismissed. Erich made to head straight towards his hut, but was intercepted by Stutt.

‘What was that all about?'

‘Sir?'

‘Why didn't you answer him?'

‘It was a mistake, sir. I was not paying attention.'

Stutt regarded him for a long moment.

‘And what were you thinking about that is so interesting it makes you fall asleep during rollcall?'

‘Home, sir. Of my family in Stuttgart.'

The lie seemed to satisfy the commanding officer. He relaxed a little.

‘That kind of thinking is fine for when you are in your bunk at night, Pieters, but the rest of the time you will need to remember that there is still a war on.'

Pathetic, thought Erich. Couldn't the man see how ironic it was? That kind of advice coming from a man who had made himself into nothing more than an Australian lap dog?

‘You need to be a little careful around Thomas, Erich.'

‘Why is that, sir?'

Stutt glanced quickly about.

‘He is not the most stable of young men.' He reverted to German. ‘Even the other guards keep him at a distance.'

This was true. Most of the other guards were either veterans of the first war, serving out their time here in the bush, or were recently returned from the fronts in Europe and Africa to recover their nerves somewhat before they were demobilised. Most were old and war-weary. Among them, Thomas clearly stood apart.

‘He didn't serve overseas, Erich. Not actively, anyway.'