Heritage (55 page)

Maarten indicated where they were to sit and, as Lucky pulled out Peggy's chair and sat beside her, the brief look she gave him spoke multitudes. He had told her that Maarten was a lonely man, and she understood what he meant now. Maarten Vanpoucke longed for more than company, she thought. He longed for another world.

‘Forgive me,' Maarten said, seating himself beside Ruth, ‘but with just the four of us I thought we'd keep the meal simple, Australian style, and forgo an entrée. But I promise Mrs Hodgeman will make up for it with dessert.'

Kevin poured a taste of wine for Maarten, and Mrs Hodgeman unveiled the platters – eye fillet already carved, glistening pink, and roast vegetables laid out decoratively in rows. As she started to serve, Maarten swirled the wine in the glass, held it up to the light, sniffed it and gave a satisfied nod.

While Kevin filled the guests' glasses with the utmost care, the conversation from the lounge room continued.

‘The best thing about the Cooma Show,' Lucky announced, ‘is the ball. I'm sorry, Peggy,' he said in mock apology, ‘but you can keep your prize heifers and wood-choppers and showjumpers. For me, it's the ball.' He grinned at her. Remember, his eyes asked, remember when you invited me to the ball and flaunted our relationship the way you did?

‘Yes,' she said, her eyes answering that she remembered vividly. How could she forget? ‘The ball is always exciting, particularly if you're fond of dancing.' They'd danced till they were ready to drop that night.

The intimacy of their exchange was quite obvious to the others, but of far greater interest to Maarten was Ruth's reaction to it. She was happy for Lucky, he realised as he glanced at her. She was actually happy that her husband had found a new love. The two had severed their ties completely: she was free. Maarten felt exhilarated.

‘You must come along with us, Ruth.' Peggy hauled herself back to the conversation, a little flustered, aware that she and Lucky had been eminently readable. ‘We could invite Rob Harvey and make up a four.'

Behind his spectacles, Maarten's eyes flashed angrily. How dare the little schoolteacher interfere, and who was this Rob Harvey? Of what importance to Ruth was he? He distracted himself by examining his glass of wine, giving it a swirl, another inhalation.

‘Rob Harvey and I are just friends,' Ruth gently corrected Peggy. She wanted no misunderstanding – she wasn't ready to be paired off with anyone yet.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, I thought …' Peggy realised that in her flustered state she'd been rather tactless, so she decided to make a joke of it. ‘Just as well,' she said, ‘he's a terrible dancer.'

‘So I gathered.' The women shared a smile. It was another reference to the night they'd met and they liked each other for it.

Maarten's anger turned instantly to elation. Ruth had been sending him a message – she wanted him to know she was unattached. She was already attracted to Maarten Vanpoucke; the chemistry they'd always shared was making itself felt.

‘I'm very fond of dancing myself,' he said, smiling at the schoolteacher; he forgave her now. ‘In fact, I'm quite an expert in the tango.' He turned to Ruth. ‘But they probably don't tango in Cooma,' he said, intimating a worldliness they had in common. She must have noted that the two of them were a cut above the others: the schoolteacher was crass, and for all his style Lucky had developed a common Australian streak.

‘I don't tango, I'm afraid,' Ruth said. ‘I never learned how.' Maarten seemed to be inferring they shared a love of the tango, she thought. It was rather odd.

‘Ah well,' he smiled forgivingly, ‘perhaps I can teach you. I've learned from the best – no-one tangos as they do in Buenos Aires.'

‘Oh, you've been to Buenos Aires?' she asked with interest.

‘Yes, I worked there briefly after the war for a Dutch medical centre,' he replied. He wondered why he'd brought up Buenos Aires; he'd never spoken of the place since he'd been in Australia. Probably just to impress her, he thought. But it had paid off, he'd caught her attention.

‘I've always wanted to go there,' Ruth said. ‘Is it as colourful as they say?'

‘More so. More colourful than one can imagine.' He would take her to Buenos Aires, he decided. He would take her anywhere in the world she wanted to go.

‘Do start, everyone,' he said. He would have preferred to have continued his personal conversation with Ruth, but Mrs Hodgeman had served them all and left the room.

‘A toast.' He raised his glass. ‘To old friends reunited, and to new friendships forged.'

It was a strange toast, enigmatic, but to Lucky and Ruth very pertinent and their eyes met briefly as they raised their glasses.

‘To friendship,' they all said.

The meal and particularly the wine dominated the conversation, Maarten insisting they try the Burgundy after the Bordeaux, and there was a German Spätlese to go with the dessert – individual crème caramels. Mrs Hodgeman had done herself proud.

They were all quite mellow as they retired to the lounge for coffee, port and petits fours. Maarten turned on the gramophone and Chopin's Nocturnes playing quietly in the background.

‘Not for me thanks, Kevin,' Lucky said as the young man offered him a port.

‘A Cognac perhaps?' Maarten asked; the women, too, had declined the port.

‘Coffee's fine, thanks, Maarten.'

‘Ah well,' he gestured at the Cognac bottle, ‘it's just me then,' and Kevin fetched a brandy balloon from the cabinet.

When they were all settled with their coffees, Maarten leaned back contentedly in his armchair. ‘The king of all instruments,' he said, referring to the piano now playing Chopin's Nocturne in G minor. They all agreed and it led to a discussion of music.

Peggy's tastes were eclectic. She rather liked modern music, she said. She was very fond of jazz, and blues, and even some country. But she couldn't quite come to terms with the latest rock and roll craze.

‘There must be something in it, I suppose, to drive the youth mad the way it does, but I'm afraid its attraction escapes me. I'm probably too old,' she smiled. ‘It just sounds like noise.'

Maarten had feigned attention, but the schoolteacher's views held no interest for him. ‘And what sort of music do you like, Ruth?' he asked.

‘I'm very fond of Italian lyric opera,' she said, ‘particularly Verdi and Puccini.'

As she said it, Lucky could hear her favourite aria from
La Bohème
, Ruth's true, sweet voice singing Rachel to sleep.

Ruth looked at him and knew exactly what he was thinking. Samuel was remembering. For a second or so they shared thoughts of Rachel, before Ruth quickly returned her attention to her half-finished coffee.

The moment had gone unobserved by Peggy, but not by Maarten. He had seen all too clearly the raw, tender exchange. No, no, he thought, we will not have that. We will have no rekindling of old flames. Their love was dead, a thing of the past: he had the claim on Ruth now. And he had power over her too. She simply needed to recognise it.

The evening was wearing a little thin, Maarten decided. He wanted Lucky and the schoolteacher to go. He needed to be alone with Ruth.

Skolling the last of his Cognac, he stood, brandy balloon in hand, and crossed to where the drinks sat on the sideboard.

‘Are you sure I can't interest anyone in a nightcap?' he asked, holding up a bottle and looking a query at them in the sideboard mirror.

As he'd anticipated, the offer prompted their departure.

‘No thanks, Maarten.' Lucky rose from his chair. ‘I think we'd better be on our way.'

The women also stood.

‘So soon?' He turned to face them. ‘What a pity.'

‘Thank you for an excellent evening.' Lucky shook Maarten's hand.

‘Yes,' Peggy agreed, ‘and do thank Mrs Hodgeman for us. And Kevin too,' she couldn't resist adding.

‘Of course, thank you so much for coming.' Before Ruth could offer her thanks, he turned to Lucky. ‘You walked, you said?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘But Dodds is in the opposite direction.' How convenient, he thought. ‘You must allow me to escort Ruth back to her hotel.'

‘No, no, we're more than happy to do that, aren't we, Peggy?'

Peggy nodded.

‘I'm quite capable of walking on my own.' Ruth smiled.

‘We wouldn't hear of it, my dear,' Maarten insisted. ‘Please do allow me – a stroll in the night air would do me the world of good.'

‘Thank you,' Ruth gave in with good grace, there was no other option, ‘it's very kind.'

‘Not at all, I'll just see Lucky and Peggy to the front door.'

‘We can see ourselves out,' Lucky said.

‘I insist.'

Lucky and Peggy said their goodnights to Ruth, and Maarten ushered them out onto the landing, turning back at the door.

‘I won't be long, my dear,' he said, ‘pour yourself another coffee.'

She sat, resigned; she didn't want another coffee.

Peggy left with the distinct impression that Maarten was interested in Ruth. Poor Ruth, she thought. The man was so detestably arrogant.

Through the open door to the landing, Ruth could hear the three of them talking as they walked down the stairs. Then the talking stopped and she heard the front door close.

She wanted to go home; she was weary, but she suspected the man would pursue further conversation.

It appeared she was right.

‘Now, where were we?' Maarten asked as he closed the door behind him. ‘Ah yes, that's right, Italian lyric opera …'

She stood. ‘I really think it's time I left, Maarten, I'm rather tired …'

‘Of course, my dear, of course, just one quick coffee and then we'll be on our way, I promise.'

He poured her a fresh cup from the jug on the coffee table, and Ruth sat again, feeling irritated. The man was becoming wearing.

‘Personally I find Italian tenors a little brassy, and sopranos on occasion too shrill,' he said, pouring himself another Cognac, ‘but I do believe there is no instrument finer than the human voice, particularly when joined in perfect harmony.'

He studied her in the sideboard mirror as she sipped at her coffee. How glorious she looked, he thought, sitting here in this room which so perfectly suited her. It was where she belonged.

‘I'm a great admirer of choral arrangements,' he continued. “‘Va Pensiero”, the chorus of exiles from
Nabucco
– quite splendid.' He took a swig of his Cognac. ‘Verdi, Ruth …'

She looked up at the mention of her name, and he smiled at her in the mirror.

‘… as you said, one of your favourite composers.'

She returned his smile politely. ‘Yes, it's a beautiful piece of music.' She would allow five minutes, she decided, then she would leave with or without him.

He placed the brandy balloon on the sideboard and crossed to the gramophone, replacing the Chopin record with another.

Good God, she thought, did he expect her to sit here and listen to music with him all night? She'd said she wanted to go home. The man's arrogance was extraordinary.

‘I'm particularly fond of close harmony groups,' he said, ‘so long as they're good, of course.'

He took off his spectacles and placed them in his pocket. If the boy had recognised him, he thought, then surely she should. All she needed was a little prompting.

The needle found its groove on the record; there was a slight scratchiness to start with.

He moved behind her chair, watching her in the mirror as the music began.

Ruth leaned forward to place her cup on the coffee table, deciding she would leave right then.

Schöne Nacht, du Liebesnacht …

She froze. The Comedian Harmonists.

O stille mein Verlangen …

‘Barcarole'. Of all pieces, why had he chosen that?

Süsser als der Tag und lacht …

She looked up at the mirror and saw he was standing directly behind her.

Die schöne Liebesnacht.

He was smiling, and the eyes that met hers were the eyes of Klaus Henkel.

The cup clattered to the polished wooden floor, coffee spilling onto the nearby Persian carpet.

‘
Es war eine lange Zeit
, Ruth,' he said.

‘It has been a very long time indeed.' He reverted to English. He hadn't spoken German for years, it was too dangerous; he'd even trained himself to think in English. No matter: his desire was plain in any language. ‘I've thought of you often.'

He crossed to the gramophone and turned the music down. It played softly in the background, but to Ruth it still sounded strident, taunting her with the past.

‘I've longed for this moment,' he said softly as he sat in the armchair opposite hers.

Everything about him was suddenly frighteningly familiar. Indeed, as he'd spoken in his mother tongue, she'd wondered how she hadn't recognised his voice earlier. She was amazed, too, at her sense of calm. The horrified shock of her recognition had brought with it panic and the urge to flee, but she just felt numb. She remained motionless, the cup on the floor beside her, the coffee still seeping into the Persian carpet. There was no escape from Klaus Henkel.

‘I've missed you, Ruth,' he said.

She tried to ignore his look of tenderness. ‘How did you do it?' she asked. ‘How did you so change yourself?'

‘I had expert help from a friend,' he said dryly. ‘His work served its purpose, but it robbed me of my youth. Whereas you, my dear,' he looked her up and down admiringly, ‘you are more beautiful than you have ever been.'

‘Why are you doing this, Klaus?'

He thrilled to the sound of her voice saying his name.

‘Doing what?' he asked in all innocence.

‘Why are you exposing your identity? Why are you risking yourself like this?'

‘Risking myself? With you?' He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘But you would never betray me, Ruth.'

‘And why not?'

He rose from his chair, bemused by the question. She loved him, that was why not. Perhaps she didn't yet realise the force of her love, but she must surely understand that she was caught up in the web of his life, that she belonged to him.

‘I saved you, Ruth. I preserved your life. I'm the very reason you're alive.' He crossed to the sideboard and picked up his brandy balloon. ‘I saved you on the ramp at Auschwitz. I saved you from the ovens and the hard labour that would have killed you. And I saved you from the Russians who would have defiled you like the pigs they are.' He took a swig of his Cognac.

He was mad, she thought. Had he forgotten their last night together? Had he truly forgotten how vilely he himself had defiled her?

‘And the times we shared, remember? They were so precious.' He put the glass down and again circled behind her chair. ‘Can't you see them now, those quiet nights – just you and me, and the music?' He started to hum along to ‘Barcarole', still playing in the background.

Yes, Ruth thought, she remembered. Just as she remembered the smell of burning flesh, and the thousands of emaciated, dying people, and her daughter dead on the ramp, and Mannie's murder …

‘Stop,' she said. She could see him in the mirror, his hands poised over her shoulders.

‘Of course.' He stopped humming and dropped his arms to his side. It was too soon, he realised. She was not ready yet. But he would wait – he had all the time in the world. He turned off the gramophone and returned to his chair.

What did he want from her? Ruth thought. In his insanity, he appeared to believe she belonged to him. Did he honestly expect her to remain silent, to become his personal property again?

He studied her over the rim of his brandy balloon.

‘It's all come as rather a shock, hasn't it, my dear?' he said understandingly. ‘But have no fear, I will not rush you, I'm willing to wait.'

She was looking at him in a guarded, mistrustful way, rather like a cornered animal, he thought. She must understand that there was no avenue of escape.

‘I will wait for as long as it takes, Ruth. I'm a patient man. But in the meantime I advise you to do nothing rash.'

The cold, steel-blue eyes were unwavering. It was more than a warning, she realised – it was a threat.

‘Should you feel the desire to share our secret with anyone,' he continued, ‘you would be placing that person in mortal danger.'

She did not avert her eyes, but stared back at him in silence. Good, he thought, she was getting the message. He polished off the last of his Cognac and sat back comfortably in his armchair instead.

‘I lead a quiet life in Cooma,' he said pleasantly, ‘I like it here. But I have found it wise not to call attention to myself; there are people from the past who live in these mountains. I have already eliminated one threat, and I would do so again without compunction. I will not allow myself to be placed at risk.'

The boy, Ruth thought, sickened by the sudden realisation.
He has the eyes of the priest.
That's what Violet had said. And with a jolt she realised that Klaus Henkel had escaped Auschwitz in the guise of a priest. She remembered seeing the cassock, the identification papers …

‘You killed Pietro,' she said in a whisper.

‘The young Italian?' He gave a light laugh. ‘Oh my dear, what a fantastical notion. Why should I? I didn't know the boy.'

Yes, of course, she thought, why should he kill Pietro? What danger could the Italian have been to him? But what had he meant when he'd said that he'd eliminated one threat? Was it simply to frighten her? If so, he'd succeeded.

‘No, no, the boy was epileptic and had a weak heart,' he said dismissively. He was pleased that he'd made his point, that she'd understood his warning was no idle threat. He rose and crossed to the sideboard to pour another Cognac.

‘I once held your life in my hands, Ruth,' he said, looking at her in the mirror as he poured his drink. ‘It's interesting to consider that you now hold mine in yours.' He turned, smiling. ‘Well, that's perhaps a little melodramatic of me, but you could certainly make my life uncomfortable. If you were to report me, the Australian Government would do nothing – you have no proof – but I would be forced to leave Cooma, and I don't wish to do that.'

He returned to his chair and leant forward with his elbows on his knees, his full focus upon her as he cradled his glass in his hands.

‘You don't want me to leave either, do you, Ruth? Of all the places in the world fate could have chosen to bring us together, it was here in Cooma. Don't you see, my dear? It was meant to be.'

He could see the acceptance in her eyes; she knew it was so, and it pleased him.

‘Take me home, Klaus.'

‘Klaus,' he said, with nostalgic longing. How he loved the sound of his name from her lips. But sadly, he would have to forgo the luxury of hearing it – it was too dangerous.

‘That name is foreign to me these days, Ruth,' he said. ‘It is a title I no longer respond to. I am Maarten Vanpoucke, you must remember it always.'

‘Yes. Take me home, Maarten, I'm tired.'

‘Of course you are, my dear, it's been an evening of surprises, and surprises are always tiring, are they not? Come,' he said, and she couldn't avoid his hand as he helped her to her feet. ‘We won't walk, you're too weary. I'll drive you home.'

He was the Dutchman during the short drive to Dodds. They talked about mundane things; he asked her about her work and she amazed herself by responding normally.

‘You cannot surely intend to remain here,' he said as he escorted her from the car to the hotel's front doors. ‘It's most unsuitable. Please allow me to arrange proper accommodation for you.'

‘The Authority already has,' she said. ‘I'm moving to a small house in Cooma North on Tuesday.'

‘Then allow me to assist you. I shall drive you to your new home. What time would be convenient, mid-morning?'

‘Yes.'

‘Excellent. I shall collect you at … shall we say ten o'clock?'

She nodded.

‘Have no fear, my dear,' his smile was one of supreme confidence, ‘I'm prepared to be patient. You must get to know me all over again. As I told you, I'm willing to wait.' He kissed her hand, and his lips lingered a little longer this time.

‘Goodnight, Ruth,' he said.

‘Goodnight, Maarten.'

It was well after midnight when she let herself into her poky upstairs room. She made no attempt to sleep; she didn't even bother to undress and get into bed. She sat on the hard wooden chair and thought about Klaus Henkel.

For a while she dwelled on the past. It was impossible not to. He'd brought it back as raw and fresh as if it were yesterday. But after hours or perhaps minutes of tortured memory – she couldn't tell – she forced the horrors aside. There was no point in reliving them. She'd done that many times, for many years and it had nearly destroyed her. She was harder now, and tougher – she must not allow him to lead her down that path. She must think about today, and tomorrow, and her new life here in Cooma. She would not let him cheat her of that life. She had run as far as she could run. She would run no further. And she would certainly not run from him.

She stood and opened the window, peering out at the black sky. It was a moonless night, the air was still, and the street below deserted, with not a soul in sight, but she wouldn't have noticed if there had been. She was thinking how cowardly she'd been to refuse to testify as a witness at the Nuremberg trials. She'd been working for the Americans at the time. It was a protected life – the Americans looked after their staff well – and she'd been in a haze, wishing to avoid at all costs the harrowing experience of reliving terrible memories by testifying. But she'd followed the trials avidly. She'd been surprised to discover that Ira Schoneberger had given evidence.

We must tell our story, Ruth
. She could hear his voice still. She hadn't really believed him at the time; she'd known it had been another ploy to inspire in her the will to live, but it had worked. It had saved her. And Ira, the greatest survivor of them all, a man despised by his own kind, a man who'd turned everything to his advantage in order to live, had proved to be a man of his word. She'd admired him for it. She admired him still. More than anyone she'd ever known. It had been Ira who had saved her, not Klaus Henkel. And she could hear Ira's voice as if he were with her now:
You owe it to them, Ruth, you owe it to them all.

But what can I do, Ira? she thought. The Nuremberg trials are over, I have no proof – the Australian Government could do nothing, Klaus himself said so. If I attempt to expose him, he will simply disappear to another place, another town, another identity – he will be untraceable.

She closed the window, the room suddenly cold.

The boy – had Klaus killed the boy? She had no proof of that either, but she needed to know. She sat on the wooden chair again, adding up every fragment of information she'd gleaned. She didn't know why but the boy preyed on her mind. Had Klaus killed Pietro?

She retraced his steps, one by one. Klaus Henkel had left Auschwitz in the guise of a priest, but he hadn't remained in hiding within Germany as many had, and as she had supposed was his intention. He'd fled to Argentina, a common destination for Nazi war criminals.
No-one tangos as they do in Buenos Aires.
But how had he made his escape from Germany? Via Switzerland or Italy?

The Brenner Pass, from Austria into Italy, was one of the favoured routes of Odessa. The boy was Italian. Where did he come from? Why did he dream of a priest who wanted to kill him?

She ran her hands through her hair, clutching it, pulling roughly at her scalp, trying to feed information to her brain, but there was none to be had; she'd reached a dead end. There was only one other who could help her piece the jigsaw together – at least she hoped he could.

Outside, the first rays of dawn were streaking the sky. Ruth gathered her robe and toiletry bag and stole quietly down the hall to the bathroom where she ran a hot bath and lay in it, her mind now a blank as she filled in the hours.

 

Lucky and Peggy had just made love. It was eight o'clock in the morning and she would shortly get up and cook them breakfast. They would probably eat it in bed and make love again. Sunday was Peggy's favourite day.

There was a knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Who would be calling on her at this hour on a Sunday?

Beside her, Lucky stirred, still half dozing. The knock persisted and he sat up.

‘What's the time?' he asked.

‘I'll go.' Peggy put on her dressing gown and walked to the front door.

‘Ruth,' she said, surprised.

‘I'm sorry, I know it's early – do you mind if I come in?' It had been easy to get Peggy's address, she'd asked at the hotel – everyone knew where the schoolteacher lived in Murray Road.

‘Of course. Please, come in.' Peggy tried not to look flustered as she ushered Ruth inside, but her call to Lucky was one of warning. ‘Lucky, Ruth's here.' She hoped he wouldn't appear too obviously dishevelled.

But he did. He hadn't heard her warning call, and he walked into the small lounge room having pulled on a pair of shorts, bare-chested and bare-footed, hair awry and obviously straight out of bed. Peggy was aware that she was no better herself, in her slippers and dressing gown, her long hair loose about her shoulders.

The two of them felt decidedly self-conscious.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?' Peggy asked, pulling back her hair.

Both their appearance and their embarrassment appeared to have gone unnoticed by Ruth, as did the offer of tea.

‘Forgive me for dropping in unexpectedly like this, but I wanted to talk to you.' She meant Samuel, but she addressed them both.

‘Of course,' Peggy said; Ruth looked tired, she thought. ‘Come into the kitchen and I'll put the kettle on.' She signalled Lucky to get dressed, and as he disappeared into the bedroom, she led Ruth through to the kitchen.

‘I'm sorry we left you alone with Maarten last night,' she said, filling the kettle, ‘but he didn't give us much option. Did he keep you there for a chat? I had the feeling that he wanted to. Or did he walk you home straight away?'