St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(40)
‘We couldn’t do that even working together, could we, Laz? And once she talked Rebecca round, that was that.’
Lazlo reached across the table and put his hand on top of Berlin’s. ‘I worry for her, Charlie, I have concerns.’
‘You and me both. I suppose the only good thing is the fighting is over and she’s on the winning side.’
‘But Charlie, Israel didn’t win, have you not heard?’
Berlin stared at his friend. ‘The Israelis crushed the Arabs in just six days, Lazlo, remember? It was in all the papers and on the TV news. I don’t think you could have missed it.’
‘Joke with me again if you like, Charlie, but you know what a Pyrrhic victory is, yes? I looked it up. That’s a victory that can actually be in the long run a defeat.’
Berlin heard the note of real concern in Lazlo’s voice. ‘I’m sorry but I’m not following.’
‘I sit in this café in June and listen and with my sleeves rolled down no one knows I’m a Jew. For the first few days all I hear is how the poor Jews are suffering, how they are outnumbered and boohoo, it is so sad for them. And then unexpectedly it’s over and the Arabs armies are smashed to bits and their air forces destroyed. Israel is victorious, she has beaten her enemies and expanded her borders and suddenly it all changes. The talk is quickly all about how pushy these damned Jews are, and who do they think they are to be so aggressive? You mark my words, Charlie; in the long run no good will come of any of this.’
THE DESERT, Late afternoon
Timing was important now. It would be safest if it was done just on dusk. Brother Brian had told him trucks usually avoided travelling at night because of the danger of a collision with a big kangaroo in the darkness. Night driving was also dangerous because of the generally poor condition of the roads, which were hard enough to navigate safely in daylight. There was nothing he could do about the flames; they were necessary and should pass quickly enough. As for the smoke, the sunset breezes would dissipate that quickly, blending it into the darkening sky and then hiding it completely in the night-time blackness.
He waited, sitting in the relative coolness of the lengthening shadow on the eastern side of the car. The dagger was in his right hand. He twisted it around, watching the play of light on the blade and the tip, feeling both comforted by its presence and also excited by its potential. He ran the index finger of his left hand along the flat of the blade, along the blood groove and over the words engraved on the blade: Meine Ehre Heiβt Treue.
A few months earlier he had carefully copied the words onto a scrap of paper and taken them to Brother Frederick. Brother Frederick was German, with a thick accent and thicker arms and a propensity for sudden outbursts of anger. The man was in charge of the blacksmith’s shop with its fiery forge and anvils and heavy hammers, and he cared for the half-dozen draft horses that pulled the farm machinery. These were the only living creatures on the mission that he treated with any kindness, and it was only fear of their keeper that kept the boy from contemplating the possibilities of his dagger and a full-grown horse.
The boy warily explained to Brother Frederick that he had found the words in a book in the mission library and wondered what they meant. Brother Frederic had run his thick, callused fingers almost reverently over the paper, over the words. He’d whispered, ‘Meine Ehre Heiβt Treue: then held the scrap of paper gently to his chest. over his heart.
The boy pressed him. ‘But what does it mean?’
The response in Brother Frederick’s heavily accented English was a little difficult for the boy to follow.
‘It means “My Honour is Loyalty”, child. It’s all about brotherhood and a glorious, wonderful time now gone, a time of great men and an even greater leader.’ Brother Frederick was smiling, which was something the boy had never seen him do.
‘You mean like King Arthur?’
Brother Frederick was suddenly red-faced, angry, screwing up the piece of paper and tossing it onto the floor. He leaned over the boy. screaming, flecks of spittle spraying from his lips and hitting the boy in the face
‘King Arthur? King Arthur? You talk to me of King Arthur? King Arthur was a Gott verdammt Britisher. I spit on the British and I piss on the stinking Americans dogs and their masters, the Jews.’
The boy had turned and fled and he tried to steer well clear of Brother Frederick after that.
He stood up and stretched. He’d dozed for a good while and now the sky was a darker blue and the shadow of the car reached out almost to the edge of the clearing. Brother Brian’s wristwatch told him it was close to five, close to the moment. A constant buzzing noise from inside the car told him even the approach of night hadn’t slowed the activities of the flies. The boy smiled, knowing they had a surprise coming very soon.
SEVENTEEN
‘What can you tell me about the SS, Laz?’
The question was totally unexpected. Berlin watched Lazlo watching him as he tried to make sense of the sudden change of direction in the conversation.
‘Their uniforms were nicely tailored, yes, but for my taste the colour was a little sombre. Total black is hard to carry off, Charlie, unless you carry a gun too. The presence of a gun definitely tends to stifle any sartorial criticisms. And they are not good guests at parties, from what I hear. You want to take all the joy out of a Bar Mitzvah, Charlie, you invite the SS.’