Heritage (58 page)

He threaded the tip of the needle into the vein and positioned his thumb over the plunger of the syringe, but he made the mistake of glancing at Ruth. Just one last look, that was all he wanted, and he was pleased at first. She knew what he was doing, and she was saying nothing. She was saving him, just as he had saved her at Auschwitz. He pressed the plunger, injecting the potassium chloride into his vein.

‘You're a coward, Klaus,' she whispered.

At the very last moment, she had robbed him of his dignity.

Nineteen fifty-six was going to be an important year for Australians. They eagerly awaited the much heralded arrival of television, and they anticipated with fervent and patriotic pride a plethora of gold medals at the Melbourne Olympics.

But in Cooma, life went on much as usual. It would be some time before they'd see television, and few would travel to Melbourne for the Olympics. They'd follow it like they did any major event, gathered around the wireless, listening to the ABC.

Progress on the Snowy continued. The fourteen-mile Eucumbene-Tumut tunnel ploughed its way relentlessly through the mountain, and new world records were set in tunnel excavation.

The water started slowly encroaching on Adaminaby. A dam wall over four hundred feet high would one day encompass a water capacity eight times as great as Sydney Harbour, and the doomed town would lie beneath a mighty lake.

There were changes in the workplace. Kaiser brought in thermoses to avoid billy tea breaks – and as fast as the Aussies busted them, the bosses replaced them.

For some there were events of more personal significance.

Cam Campbell and his sons won a record haul of ribbons and trophies in the Cooma Show of 1956.

Lucky married Peggy Minchin. Rob Harvey was best man and Ruth was Peggy's sole bridesmaid; Peggy hadn't wanted a fancy wedding. ‘I'd ask you to be matron of honour,' she said to Ruth, ‘but the matron of honour has to be married, I'm told.' Ruth kept the joke to herself; she didn't share it with Lucky.

But the most important event on the calendar for Violet was July 26, her son's first birthday.

Her mother Marge decided to make a party of that week's Sunday roast in order to celebrate the occasion. Just family and a few close friends – best to have it on a Sunday, she said, so the men didn't have to go to work.

This time they ate in the dining room, with the doors to the lounge room wide open in order to catch the heat from the open log fire. It was midwinter and it had been snowing heavily all morning.

With ten of them crammed around the eight-seater dining table, Marge wondered whether she should have got Dave to lift the kitchen table in as well. But no-one seemed to mind, so she stopped worrying.

She stopped worrying about the boys' table manners too. Dave and Johnno were paying no deference to the fact they were in the dining room, spearing their spuds and meat with their forks although she'd pointedly handed them the serving spoons.

Marge let herself to relax. Everyone was having a very good time, and she was basking in the compliments coming her way. It was an excellent roast, if she said so herself, but then it was so easy now she had the new stove.

She felt very much the proud matriarch as she looked around the table; her sons on either side of her; Cam at the other end. Violet was seated to his left, Maureen to his right and the baby was sleeping in his bassinet nearby. Cam would turn to rock the bassinet every now and then, no doubt hoping the baby would wake up and give him a smile.

‘Don't, Dad, you'll wake him up,' Violet said.

‘Sorry.'

God, but he was a sook of a grandfather, Marge thought.

Lucky and Peggy were seated on one side of the table, and opposite them was Ruth. Marge was pleased that she'd brought her friend Rob Harvey along – such a nice man. She hoped they'd get married; he was obviously dotty about her.

Marge liked Ruth immensely. Well, why wouldn't she? she wondered as she glanced at her daughter, happy and healthy. Marge Campbell was more indebted to Ruth Stein than words could possibly express. In bringing Pietro's killer to justice, Ruth Stein had saved Violet's sanity. Funny, she thought, how she used to have a bit of a set against Germans – only because of the war, of course – and now there were two of them sitting at her table. Well, she wasn't sure if Lucky really counted as a German. He'd hardly been one of the enemy – Lucky was a Jew. Fancy her grandson's godfather being a German and a Jew. Who would have thought it? But then her grandson was half-Italian, wasn't he? Who would have thought that too? My goodness, but the Campbell family was becoming sophisticated.

Marge stopped indulging herself, and tucked into her lamb, but she couldn't help feeling proud.

After the roast, Maureen helped clear away the plates while the boys poured themselves another beer – Peggy and Ruth declining the offer – and Cam opened the champagne for the official toast, which would accompany the special birthday cake Marge had made for dessert.

Thank Christ Lucky and Rob Harvey had both brought along more champagne, Cam thought. He'd forgotten Marge had expressly told him to buy some, although he'd laid on plenty of beer.

‘Will you put out the sweets plates, Vi?' Marge called as she followed Maureen into the kitchen.

Violet stood. ‘Don't you wake him, Dad,' she warned; she'd seen her father's eyes flicker again to the bassinet.

She left, only to return empty-handed barely a minute later. Cam thought she was checking up on him. He was rocking the bassinet and the baby was awake, and he expected another reproach from his daughter.

‘I didn't do anything,' he protested. ‘He just woke up.'

But Violet didn't notice. ‘It's stopped snowing,' she announced. ‘Come and look. Bring the champagne and glasses, Dad, we'll do the toast outside.' She picked up the baby and was gone. ‘Mum, Auntie Maureen,' the men heard her calling to the kitchen, ‘it's stopped snowing – come outside and look.'

They all joined Violet on the verandah where she stood with her baby in her arms, gazing at the virgin white landscape and the poplars draped in frozen lace. All was still and hushed, there was not a breath of breeze. The sun had come out and the snow that blanketed the valleys and the hills sparkled, fresh and unblemished, in the wintry light.

‘Isn't it the most romantic thing you ever saw?' Violet said.

Cam filled their glasses and proposed the toast to his grandson.

‘To Pietro Toscanini,' he said.

‘To Pietro Toscanini,' they responded as they clinked glasses.

The baby leaned back in his mother's embrace, arms outstretched as if applauding. He was only hungry and ready for his feed, but the gesture seemed appropriate.

‘To the new generation,' Ruth said.

‘To the new generation.' They drank to that too.

It was just the beginning, Ruth thought.

Rob Harvey slipped his hand into hers. He wondered what she was thinking.

She smiled at him. She would tell him later.

My thanks, as always and forever, to my husband, Bruce Venables, for his support, encouragement, and downright inspiration.

Thanks, too, to the pals and workmates: my agent, James Laurie; my publisher, Jane Palfreyman; my editor, Kim Swivel; Peta Levett and all at Random House Australia; Colin Julin; and my ever-supportive friends, Susan Mackie, Sue Greaves and Robyn Gurney.

For assistance in the research of this book, my sincerest thanks to Pauline Saxon, Robert Duncan, Denise Chapman of Epilepsy Australia, Warren Brown and Don Palfreyman.

I am indebted to all those who were so friendly and helpful during my first research trip to the Monaro and Snowy Mountains region, and would like particularly to thank local historian Frank Rodwell, and Viv Straw, the General Manager of the Snowy River Shire Council. Thanks also to Barry Aitchison and the pals to whom he introduced me: Keven Burke, Charlie Roberson, Fred Fletcher, Ellis Aitchison and Phil Zylstra of NPWS. And thanks to Leigh Stewart of Stewart's Gallery in Adaminaby and to Annette McGufficke of NPWS.

Among my many research sources, I would like to recognise the following:

Berlin
, Frederic V. Grünfeld, Time-Life International, 1977.

Homes on the Range
, Frank Rodwell, 1999.

Cooma, a Decade of Change
, Alison Howell, Cooma Monaro Historical Society, 1996.

The Snowy
, Siobhan McHugh, William Heinemann Australia, 1989.

Snowy Saga
, Oswald Ziegler Publications for Snowy River Shire Council, 1960.

Pseudo-epileptic Seizures
, Neil Buchanan and Jeffrey Snars, MacLennan & Petty Pty Ltd, 1995.

The photographs of George Miso, Hollywood Studio, Cooma.

‘The 1948 Massacre at Deir Yassin Revisited', Matthew Hogan,
Historian
, Winter 2001.

Justice Not Vengeance
, Simon Wiesenthal, Grove Atlantic, 1990.

The Plot Against the Peace
, Michael Sayers and Albert E. Kahn, Dial Press, 1945.

JUDY NUNN

FLOODTIDE

 

Judy Nunn's latest novel is a brilliant observation of turbulent times in the mighty ‘Iron Ore State' – Western Australia.
Floodtide
traces the fortunes of four men and four families over four memorable decades: The prosperous post-war 1950s when childhood is idyllic and carefree in the small, peaceful city of Perth … The turbulent 60s when youth is caught up in the conflict of the Vietnam War and free love reigns … The avaricious 70s when Western Australia's mineral boom sees the rise of a new young breed of aggressive entrepreneurs … The corrupt 80s and the birth of ‘WA Inc', when the alliance of greedy politicians and powerful businessmen brings the state to its knees, even threatening the downfall of the federal government.

 

An environmentalist. A wounded Vietnam War veteran. A hard-core businessman. An ambitious geologist. Each of the four who travel this journey has a story to tell. But, as the 90s ushers in a new age when innocence is lost, all four are caught up in the irreversible tides of change, and actions must be answered for.

‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune'

Julius Caesar
, William Shakespeare

1965

‘Beats me why you wanna go swimmin' with sharks.' The bottles of Swan Lager clinked as Tubby Lard took the cardboard box the kid handed him. ‘Only a dickhead'd go swimmin' with sharks.'

‘Yeah,' his brother Fats agreed from where he stood up the bow, ready to cast off. ‘You wouldn't get me down there for quids.'

‘Well, of course you wouldn't, you stupid bastard,' Tubby said, gunning the engine and yelling above the diesel's throb. ‘You can't bloody swim!'

Mike McAllister grinned as he stepped nimbly aboard the
Maria Nina
. It was good to see the Lard brothers again.

Tubby eyed the kid's backpack. ‘Haven't you got any scuba gear?' he asked.

‘At twenty feet I won't need it.'

Mike settled himself on the massive wooden, lead-lined icebox that doubled as a seat and trained his eyes on the distant low-lying rocky islands as the vessel pulled away from the jetty. It was a hot, steamy morning, barely a breath of breeze, the ocean like glass. A perfect day for it, he thought, excited by the prospect of what lay ahead.

Contrary to her name, the
Maria Nina
was no sea sprite. She was an old tub, thirty-eight feet long, stinking of bait and desperately in need of a coat of paint. But that was only her exterior. The brothers cared little for appearances; she was solid and reliable and her engine was meticulously maintained. The
Maria Nina
was a grand old dame of the sea.

Tubby and Fats Lard were cray fishermen who worked the Abrolhos Islands off Geraldton on the coast of Western Australia. During their respective early school years both brothers had been called Lardhead, but not for long, because both were good with their fists. Fred, the elder, had readily accepted Tubby as a substitute. Skinny as a rake, he was amused by the contradiction. Bob, also on the lean side and five years his brother's junior, was an avid jazz fan. He considered his nickname a tribute to Fats Waller.

‘Hey Einstein,' Tubby called from the wheelhouse, ‘get off your bum and put the grog on ice.'

‘Oh.' Mike jumped to his feet. ‘Sorry.' He loaded the beer into the ice chest. Beside him, Fats started baiting up the dozen or more hooks on each of the set-lines.

‘Want a hand?' Mike asked when the beer was stowed. Fats nodded. Fats Lard was a man of few words; it was Tubby who did most of the talking.

Mike and the brothers had met at the pub in Geraldton just three days previously. It had been early evening, a squally wind blowing in from the sea and alleviating to some degree the oppressive heat of a typical dry and dusty December day.

‘You're off the
Pelsaert
, aren't you,' Tubby said. He and Fats were lounging at the bar of the Victoria Hotel when the kid fronted up to buy a round for his mates.

‘Yeah, that's right. Three schooners, thanks,' Mike said to the barman.

Tubby eyed the kid up and down. Handsome young bastard – black-haired, startlingly blue-eyed – he should be in the pictures, Tubby thought. Fit too, but just a kid. ‘Bit young for a boffin, aren't you?' He glanced at the table where the kid's mates were seating themselves. They were early twenties he guessed. What were they doing aboard the
Pelsaert
?

‘We're students, up from Perth,' Mike said. ‘UWA.'

‘Ah, right.'

The student part made sense, Tubby thought, but hardly the vessel. He'd seen the MV
Pelsaert
tooling about the Wallabi Islands and upon enquiring had been told it was the State Fisheries' new research vessel on some sort of scientific expedition.

‘They give you young blokes a brand new boat just because you go to uni?' He exchanged a look with Fats who was equally incredulous.

‘Hardly.' Mike laughed. He didn't find Tubby's direct manner offensive, he sensed the man was genuinely interested. ‘We're here to do the hard yakka,' he joked, ‘the stuff the boffins aren't fit enough for.'

‘There you go, mate.' The barman placed the beers in front of him.

Tubby waited until the kid had paid for the drinks, then homed in again. ‘What hard yakka?' Tubby had an enquiring mind and his questions were invariably relentless.

‘We catch tammars.'

It was true. For the past five nights, from eight o'clock until two in the morning, the three students had raced relentlessly around East and West Wallabi Islands, lights strapped to their foreheads, wielding giant butterfly-like nets, the object of the exercise being the capture of the small nocturnal marsupials which would undergo study the following day. Keen athletes, the boys had been selected for their physical fitness.

‘Whaddya wanna do that for?' It was the first time Fats had spoken. He was no less interested than his brother, but he always relied on Tubby to lead the way.

Mike, torn between delivering the beers and not wishing to appear rude to the locals, cast a look in the direction of his mates. Muzza was lounging back with a smoke, but Ian, upon catching his eye, gave an irritated wave and a scowl that said ‘Hurry it up'.

‘The boys are getting impatient,' he said, gathering up the beers. Then he added, ‘Why don't you join us?'

‘Rightio.' Tubby didn't need any further invitation. He rose from his stool, grabbed his glass, and Fats followed. The brothers liked meeting new people.

They gathered at the table, Mike plonking down the beers, Ian pointedly making a grab for his. As Tubby and Fats garnered extra chairs, the boys shuffled around to make room for them. When they'd settled, Mike made the introductions.

‘Murray Hatfield, Ian Pemberton and I'm Mike McAllister,' he said.

‘Tubby and Fats Lard.' Tubby leaned across the table, offering Mike a gnarled hand. Ian snorted into his beer.

They shook all round, then Tubby raised his glass. ‘Welcome to Gero, boys.'

The others joined in the salutation, taking a swig along with him. Ian Pemberton sipped reluctantly. He was a classically handsome young man, despite slightly protruding ears, but his aquiline features so often conveyed disdain that the effect was invariably ruined. Ian was a snob.

‘How long ya been here?' Tubby led the conversation, seemingly oblivious to Ian's contempt.

‘A week,' Mike told him.

‘How long ya stayin'?'

‘Another week.' It was Muzza who replied. Like Mike, he was aware that Ian considered the brothers an intrusion – Pembo could be a real pain at times, he thought. Muzza was keen to follow Mike's lead. He always did. Just turned twenty, Muzza was two years younger than the others and Mike was a bit of hero. He gave one of his lop-sided, baby-faced grins. ‘We leave next Saturday.'

‘Good-lookin' boat, the
Pelsaert
,' Tubby said, Fats nodding agreement. ‘I've seen her holed up in Turtle Bay on East Wallabi – you boys livin' on board, are ya?'

‘That's right.' Mike flashed a warning glance at Ian, who was scowling at his beer, before changing the subject and asking the brothers about themselves.

They were cray fishermen, Tubby told him, ‘Born and bred right here in Gero.' Although Tubby did the talking, Fats joined in with nods to the table at large. Fats did a lot of nodding.

‘The Lards have been cray men for three generations,' Tubby said proudly, ‘comin' up for four soon.' Tubby was thirty-nine and his son barely ten years old, but the boy's future was carved in stone. ‘We scored the boat off Dad when he bought his new humdinger five years back, didn't we, Fats?' A nod. ‘The old man's sixty-three, still in the business, still goin' strong.'

Tubby drained his glass and stood. ‘I'll get another round, hey.' It wasn't a question and he was already gathering up the empty glasses.

Ian put his hand over his glass, which still had an inch of beer in it.

Muzza jumped to his feet before Pembo could refuse Tubby's offer. ‘I'll give you a hand,' he said.

As the two of them left for the bar, conversation at the table ground to a halt. Ian drained his glass in sulky silence. Fats turned expectantly to Mike. His eyes, set deep in the crinkles of a face weathered well beyond its thirty-four years, appeared eager for another question or some sort of comment, but Mike was at a loss as to what to say. Tubby's potted history of the Lard family had been so succinct that no further question or comment came readily to mind.

But Fats wasn't seeking question or comment, he was seeking an answer. He'd been prepared to wait patiently for Tubby to bring up the subject, as Tubby no doubt would, although, in Fats' opinion, Tubby sometimes took a long time to get to the point. But as Tubby wasn't here now, and there was a hole in the conversation, Fats decided to ask for himself.

‘Whaddya wanna catch tammars for?'

Mike was relieved that Fats had started the ball rolling; he was unaccustomed to feeling socially awkward. ‘For study,' he said. ‘It's a research trip.'

Fats nodded, he'd gathered that.

‘We're earning extra money during the summer vacation,' Mike went on, ‘assisting in the research for a PhD student on a Fulbright Scholarship –'

‘What about the tammars?' Fats asked. He didn't really want to know about the scholarship part.

‘Well, they're remarkable animals,' Mike explained. ‘They thrive here on East and West Wallabi and we want to find out how. You see, there's virtually no fresh-water source on the islands, particularly on West Wallabi. There's no fresh water at all there, except for rain, of course …'

Fats kept nodding as the kid talked, taking it all in slowly, sifting the information. He hadn't known that tammars were so interesting.

Ian Pemberton looked at the cray fisherman, nodding like a metronome, and his irritation grew to boiling point. How dare the yobbos crash their party. How dare Mike ask them to the table. And look at him now! Good old Mike McAllister, everybody's favourite, giving his all to a retard who didn't understand a word he was saying. Ian wanted to deck him. What about the nurses they'd met last night? There was a party on at their flat, starting about now. What the hell were the three of them doing sitting here entertaining a couple of local cretins?

‘From an environmental point of view it makes them a very valuable source of study,' Mike said.

‘So what is it you do with the tammars?' Fats was fascinated.

‘
Protemnodon eugenii
to be precise,' Ian cut in, the disdain in his voice matching the sneer on his face.

Fats turned to look blankly at him, just as Tubby and Muzza arrived with the beers. Ian waited until the glasses had been placed on the table before once again addressing Fats, in exactly the same tone.

‘We study the water metabolism of genus
Protemnoden,
species
eugenii
, otherwise known as the tammar.'

There was a deathly silence. Tubby stared at the kid with the bat ears and the pointy face and the built-in bad smell under his nose. He'd sensed his antagonism the moment they'd come to the table, but what had Fats done to rile him? Fats might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was a good bloke, he wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, not unless the fly hurt him, and even then he had to be pushed. Tubby was about to challenge the snotty-nosed little prick, but someone else got in first.

‘Stop being a smartarse, Pembo,' Mike said good-naturedly. ‘Sit down, Tubby, there was no offence intended. Was there, Ian?' The question was pointed.

‘Course not.' Checked by Mike's warning tone and the threat of danger, Ian attempted a smile, which wasn't successful.

Tubby sat. Very slowly, his eyes darting about the group, like a cat ready to pounce.

Fats, too, looked around the table, aware of the sudden tension. He'd gathered that some sort of insult had been intended, and while he wondered what he'd done to warrant it, he wasn't particularly offended. But he could tell that Tubby was ready to do battle, and he was prepared to join in. Tubby only ever picked a fight when there was good cause for it.

‘I'm here on a dual study period myself,' Mike said to the brothers, as if nothing had happened. ‘Doing some advance research for my PhD next year, and the topic's right up your alley.'

‘Oh yeah?' Tubby said, distrustful. One word in the wrong direction and these little uni pricks wouldn't know what'd hit them. But he couldn't help himself, he was impressed by Mike. It was obvious the other two took their lead from him. Muzza wasn't a bad kid, but he seemed younger than the others and, Tubby suspected, a bit of a ‘yes' boy. As for the bat-eared snotty-nosed bastard …

‘And how exactly would your
advance research
be right up our alley?' he asked, his tone a dangerously supercilious imitation of Ian's.

Mike turned to Fats. ‘What do you reckon I'm studying, Fats?'