Heritage (56 page)

‘He drove me.'

‘Oh good.' She lit the gas stove and plonked the kettle on the burner. ‘Would you like some breakfast?'

‘No, thank you.'

Peggy turned to face her. ‘Are you all right, Ruth? You look tired.'

‘I didn't sleep well,' she admitted. ‘For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about Pietro. I mean, having met him that time at Dodds, and after our discussion about Violet last night … it all kept preying on my mind …'

‘Yes, I can imagine that it would.' The subject was never far from Peggy's mind.

‘Where did he come from, Peggy? Why did he have nightmares about a priest who wanted to kill him?'

‘Lucky's the one who can tell you,' she said, as he appeared, doing up the buttons of his shirt. ‘Lucky knew him better than anyone.'

‘Tell you what, about whom?'

‘Ruth wants to know about Pietro.'

‘Why?'

She'd known he would ask, but she couldn't tell him the truth – she'd be risking his life, and Peggy's too.
Should you feel the desire to share our secret with anyone, you would be placing that person in mortal danger.
But she had to know about the boy.

‘It doesn't matter why, my darling.' Peggy didn't find Ruth's interest strange at all. It was understandable that Ruth would be moved by the tragedy of the young couple she'd met. She was, however, a little concerned by the urgency of Ruth's interest, which had prompted a visit at eight in the morning. The boy's death had obviously triggered some real distress in her, she thought. Peggy nodded encouragingly at Lucky; there was no reason why they shouldn't talk about Pietro.

Lucky didn't mind; if it didn't bother Peggy, then it didn't bother him.

‘Where did he come from?' Ruth asked, thankful that she'd first broached the subject with Peggy, and that Peggy had so easily paved the way.

‘Northern Italy, the Alps.'

‘Where in the Alps?' She wanted to fire the questions at him. Near the border? Near the Brenner Pass?

‘He didn't tell me, he didn't know. Pietro was traumatised as a child and he had no memory of his early life.'

Traumatised as a child? She waited for him to continue.

As Peggy poured the tea, Lucky told Ruth everything he knew about Pietro: the presumed death of his parents in the war and the loss of his memory; his homeless existence in the streets of Milan; and his upbringing in the Catholic orphanage.

‘When was he discovered in Milan?' she asked, sipping her tea, trying to give the impression that she was calming down – they must surely have wondered at her mental stability after barging in the way she had. But all the while she was sifting through every piece of information Lucky gave her.

‘In 1945, when he was eleven years old. It was just after the war.'

The same time as Klaus was making his escape from Germany.

‘He couldn't remember his family,' Lucky continued. ‘He couldn't remember anything from his childhood except a hut in the mountains and goats.'

Lucky recalled the way the boy had spoken to him. ‘Rosa,' he'd said, ‘she is my favourite, I help her to have her baby.' It had taken Pietro some time to tell him about the goats, he remembered.

‘I presume his father must have been a goatherd,' he said rather abruptly. He didn't want to talk about Pietro any more, and he wondered why Peggy was encouraging the conversation. But then women were women, he thought, they needed to sift through everything and share it among themselves; perhaps it was a part of the grieving process.

‘And the nightmares?' Ruth prompted him gently, longing to cross-examine him, but sensing his reluctance.

‘What about them?'

‘You and Peggy said he had nightmares.' She looked at Peggy, who nodded.

‘Yes, that's right. Snow covered in blood, a priest who wanted to kill him …'

‘Of course, the priest,' she said, exchanging another glance with Peggy. ‘What did he recall of the priest?'

Lucky found it strange. Why was Ruth interested in such detail? Morbid curiosity wasn't like her at all.

‘Nothing much, a man in a cassock … the sound of the priest's voice calling his name … the man's eyes. Pietro believed the priest was evil.'

Ruth's mind was working frantically, adding it all up. Could the nightmares be a flashback to the boy's traumatised past? Had Pietro encountered Klaus Henkel as a priest all those years ago? And if he had, why would Klaus have wished to kill the child?

‘I wonder why the priest wanted to kill him,' she said.

She was unaware that she'd spoken out loud.

‘I don't know,' Lucky answered, ‘nor did Pietro. But he was sure of one thing. He believed that the dreams were more than nightmares. He believed his memory was returning.'

To Ruth, the words hung in the air.
His memory was returning
. That was why, she thought. That was why Klaus had killed him!

I have already eliminated one threat, and I would do so again without compunction. I will not allow myself to be placed at risk.

It had been no idle threat. Pietro had recognised Klaus Henkel. Pietro had seen the eyes of the priest.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

‘Ruth, what is it? What's the matter?' Peggy asked anxiously. ‘You've gone as white as a sheet.'

Ruth stared at them both. She had an insane desire to blurt it out. The priest killed Pietro! The priest and the doctor are one man. His name is Klaus Henkel!

She stood abruptly. She needed to get away, she had to think.

‘I'm sorry, I have to go.'

Peggy and Lucky stood also, Peggy protesting that she must stay.

‘Come and lie down, Ruth, you don't look well.'

‘No, no thank you. I'm all right.'

She was already halfway to the front door, the two of them following.

‘At least let me drive you home,' Lucky said.

‘No, I want to walk.' She opened the door, but as she stepped out onto the verandah, he took her arm.

‘Please, Ruth, let me drive you, you're in no state …'

‘No!' She ripped her arm from his clasp. ‘Leave me alone!'

They were both taken aback by her vehemence.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, mustering her self-control, trying to adopt a semblance of calm to put them at their ease. ‘I'm very sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but please, Samuel,' she appealed to him directly, ‘please, I want to walk. I need to be on my own.'

Peggy and Lucky stood together on the front verandah, worried and bewildered as they watched her hurry away.

 

The jigsaw pieces whirled through Ruth's mind, and as she carefully sorted them, trying to put them together, she slowed her pace. She crossed Vale Street, oblivious to the passers-by on their way to the church just up the road.

Pietro had witnessed something as a child. The nightmares, the snow covered in blood, the priest calling his name – whatever he'd seen had been so violent and horrific it had traumatised him so brutally he hadn't even been able to remember his family. Why? And why would his parents have been killed in the war? They lived in a remote hut high in the Alps, far away from the bombs. His father had probably been a goatherd, Samuel had said. There were peasants in those regions who hadn't even known there was a war going on.

She came to a standstill at the corner of the street. Could Pietro have witnessed the murder of his parents?

She knew Klaus Henkel was eminently capable of such a deed. It was exactly what he would have done if he'd sought refuge with the peasants – he would have made sure he covered his tracks.

She resumed walking, mindlessly turning left into Bombala Street, certain of one thing: whether or not she'd guessed his motive correctly, Klaus Henkel had murdered Pietro.

As she came to the intersection of Commissioner Street, she didn't turn left towards Dodds, but crossed over and kept walking.

What was she to do? Pietro's murder could never be proved, but Klaus must be exposed. There were many whose lives had been lost or ruined by his hand, and he had to pay for that. He had to pay for all of them. But how could she do it? She had no proof of his identity, and if she reported him, who would believe her?

She halted briefly at the corner of Sharp Street. In the park opposite, children played, and, although it was Sunday and the stores were closed, the street was quite busy.

Turning left, she started to walk up the main road of town, slowly now, looking at the faces of the people she passed, faces stamped with the diversity of their origins. She listened to their voices, to the miscellany of languages and accents. A bunch of Snowy workers, in Cooma for the weekend and bleary-eyed after a Saturday night on the drink, were in search of a late breakfast at one of the cafes. Several smartly dressed European couples, the men no doubt experts employed by the Authority, passed her, walking briskly up towards Vale Street on their way to ten o'clock mass. People of all descriptions, locals and migrants alike, were popping into the nearby bakery for a fresh loaf, or into the newsagency for the Sunday paper.

So many nationalities, Ruth thought, and all living in a harmony they'd not known in Europe. They'd been at war with each other there, or they had been persecuted and driven from their homelands. Here they had found far more than sanctuary: they'd found tolerance. This was a new world where they could build new lives and create a new heritage for future generations, a heritage that meant their children's children would be born into a society free from hatred and intolerance.

She remembered the atrocities she'd lived through: Auschwitz and Deir Yassin. She'd seen Germans slaughter Jews and she'd seen Jews slaughter Arabs. She'd witnessed the very depths of man's inhumanity to man, and knew such evil did not belong in this new world. But there was a cancer living among them; a reminder of all they'd left behind; one who remained a menacing presence and who would kill without conscience if he perceived a threat to his safety. Klaus Henkel had no place here.

She reached Vale Street and turned left. She was circling back on herself now, but her choice of direction was no longer aimless. Maarten Vanpoucke's house was in Vale Street.

Ruth made her decision. She would confront him, and she would denounce him. If he had murdered Pietro because the boy had recognised the eyes of the priest, then he would surely have to kill her too; she was a far greater complication in his life than the unwanted attention the boy would have drawn to him. And if he were to kill her, he wouldn't be able to explain away her death with the ease that he had Pietro's.

She was very calm as she walked down Vale Street. This was her destiny, she told herself. Fate's purpose in bringing her to Cooma had not been to reunite her with Samuel, but with Klaus Henkel. Klaus himself had said so.

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.

Klaus Henkel's obsession with her would be his downfall.

She wondered if she were prepared to die; she'd hoped to build a new life for herself here. But then, remembering the part she'd played in the shame of Deir Yassin, perhaps she'd never been worthy of a new life. She quelled her fear. Her Lehi training was about to serve a purpose, she told herself. Like every true Lehi fighter she must be prepared to sacrifice herself for the cause – only this time the cause would not be the slaughter of innocents.

She crossed over Murray Street. The Catholic Church was to the right, just past Peggy's cottage; she'd completed the circle. She continued down Vale Street towards Maarten's house only a block or so away.

As she saw it up ahead, she was pleased to note that there were passers-by, some on their way to church, some heading into town. She wanted witnesses when she called him out of his house.

Then she saw the front door open and Maarten appear. Even better, she thought, and she slipped through the side gate to the narrow path that led to the tradesmen's entrance. From the side of the house, she watched him.

Maarten turned and locked the door behind him. He was a man of habit and punctuality. It was a quarter to ten on a Sunday and he would buy his newspaper, and then he would go to the little cafe on the corner opposite the park where he would take his coffee and pastry. He liked to be seated by ten.

He walked through the open front gate and into the street, pocketing his keys.

‘Klaus Henkel!'

He stopped as he heard the voice call out.

‘Klaus Henkel!'

The voice called again – loud, accusing; it was coming from close by. He didn't look around to see where she was. He made a pretence of checking his watch instead, while he searched for where she might be. He recognised the voice.

‘Klaus Henkel! Nazi! Murderer!'

People passing by slowed down and looked around, startled; the words were chilling and many recognised the name. Along with Adolf Eichmann and Josef Mengele, Klaus Henkel was one of the the most sought after Nazi war criminals; it was common knowledge, even to the Australians.

Maarten checked his pockets as if he'd forgotten something, then casually turned to retrace his steps.

Ruth strode out onto the pavement only several paces from him. ‘That man is Klaus Henkel!' She pointed an accusing finger. ‘That man is a Nazi and a murderer.'

Frank Halliday, who lived just around the corner and was walking down to the main road to buy the newspaper, gawped in amazement. That man was Doctor Vanpoucke, he thought. That man had been coming to his store for years – the woman must be mad.

From the upstairs balcony, Mrs Hodgeman looked down at the scene in the street below. It was Ruth Stein who'd come to dinner just last night. The poor woman must be mad, she thought.

Maarten's expression was also one of amazement. ‘Ruth,' he said, ‘what on earth is the matter with you?' He gazed around at those who had by now stopped to watch; there must have been a dozen or more. Several were locals who regularly saw him about town. They knew who he was and were obviously embarrassed, but too curious to walk on. Maarten smiled his recognition to them, particularly to Frank Halliday, a pillar of the community who had known him for years.