St Kilda Blues (29 page)

Sarah was buried the next day, in accordance with Jewish custom. Israel was half a world away and there was no way they could possibly be there. If there was anything good to be said about the situation, it was that Charlie Berlin had been spared the awfulness of having to arrange a funeral and choose a coffin for his only daughter. There was nothing for him to do apart from sit in stunned silence and listen to Rebecca's weeping. Maria from next door brought them food but he couldn't remember eating. Later he would remember visits from ministers and priests and a rabbi. He couldn't remember hitting anyone so he guessed that he hadn't and that surprised him a little.

There was a dusty bottle of sherry in the glass-fronted crystal cabinet in the living room and he'd stared at it for a long while. Sarah came up behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You know I wouldn't want you doing that, Dad,' she said in her soft, familiar voice. ‘You should remember what you told me about Pip.' When he turned around there was no one there. His mind was foggy and he couldn't understand what she'd meant about the dog. For a time he expected a visit from the ghosts of his crew but they'd long since left him to get on with his life while they got on with their deaths.

It was Alice Roberts who stepped up, taking charge of the house and of Charlie and Rebecca. She kept them fed, found vases for the flowers that were being delivered on what seemed like an hourly basis, sorted through the sympathy cards and admitted or gently sent away visitors according to Rebecca's requests. The kettle seemed to be constantly boiling on the stovetop, trays of sandwiches and plates of cakes and scones appeared as needed and just as quickly disappeared.

And it was Alice who suggested that a memorial might be a good thing – nothing fancy, just a gathering where people could come and offer condolences and drink and talk as they would after a funeral. It was perhaps seven days after the telegram had arrived when the house was suddenly full of neighbours and friends and acquaintances and strangers. There was ice for the beer in an old concrete washtub someone had dragged out of the shed. The kettle was refilled constantly in a futile attempt to keep up with the demand for tea and eventually a large electric urn appeared, though it made little difference. Plates of freshly cut white bread sandwiches circulated amongst the guests and trays of party pies and little sausage rolls from the local bakery filled the oven.

The men arrived with freshly polished shoes and wore their darkest suits out of respect, though jackets and ties were peeled off quickly in the building heat of the afternoon. The women wore hats and gloves and sympathetically patted Berlin's arm until he almost couldn't stand it. The men shook Berlin's hand and shook their heads and said nothing, which was the Australian way in times of great sorrow. Then, also in the Australian way, they separated quickly, the women finding the kitchen and the men the beer.

Lauren was there, helping in the kitchen, and there were other young people too, kids of Sarah's age, school friends, people she had met in her after-school job at the doctor's surgery, and friends she had made at her Jewish youth group. Rebecca was calmer now – too calm, he thought, though he was glad the weeping had passed. He initially regretted throwing away the sleeping pills the casualty doctor had given him but knew she would have rejected them if he had offered.

The traffic in the street and up and down the driveway was constant. The boy from the local florists would come on his bicycle, deliver his order, grab a sandwich and a soft drink before peddling off to return almost instantly with another carrier basket full. Flowers came in bunches or in arrangements, the cards carefully marked and put aside by Alice so thank-you notes could be sent later. Some names Berlin knew, most he did not. There were flowers from the Collins Street photographers Rebecca worked with and former staff from the long-defunct
Argus
newspaper. A too-ornate arrangement from Mr Bolte was delivered by his official Rolls Royce.

The flowers from Gerhardt Scheiner arrived in a delivery van painted with a South Yarra address. Berlin was tempted to take the floral arrangement, beautiful as it was, to the backyard incinerator and set it on fire. But the incinerator was surrounded by drinkers needing a place to rest their glasses and he didn't want to make a scene. Scheiner had his own problems, he knew that. While his daughter was in as good shape as could be expected physically, they'd heard she had lapsed into a catatonic state. Gudrun Scheiner now lay in her bed in an expensive private hospital staring intently at the television, whether it was switched on or not.

Bob Roberts had telephoned to apologise for his absence. His reward for helping to find the Scheiner girl was a promotion to heading a regional detective squad. The postings available were sunny, scenic Rutherglen in the state's northern wine-growing district, or Portland on the desolate southwest coast. Portland was known for saltbush, sheep shit and freezing winds blowing straight in off the Antarctic. They'd given him Portland, of course. While his undercover work with the now-defunct corruption inquiry was both laudable and commendable, it was also unforgiveable and he was a marked man for life. Right now he was down in Portland looking for a house so Alice and the kids could join him. Sunshine, as it turned out, was not a big fan of the bush.

Lazlo arrived in a gold, open-topped Mercedes-Benz sports car with the girl Maya beside him. He parked just down the crowded street in a spot recently vacated by the local doctor and his distraught wife. A gang of local kids gaped in wonder, the younger ones at the car and the older boys at Maya. Maya was dressed demurely given the event but she also drew stares from the men in attendance.

Lazlo hugged Berlin and held him for a long time. ‘There are no words, you understand that, Charlie. Nothing that can be said.'

The florist's boy was leaving after yet another delivery and Lazlo grabbed him by the arm. He gave him ten dollars and the keys to the boot of the Mercedes and minutes later the boy struggled back with a case of whisky. Lazlo stopped him on his way inside and took a bottle from the case.

‘It's the good stuff, Charlie, and people will understand if a man has to take a drink.'

Understand? Understand what?
Berlin wondered.
Understand that my daughter is dead in a foreign land that is beyond my understanding? Dead in a stupid accident? Dead on a mountain road when a truck packed with idealistic young kids just like her took a corner too quickly?

Berlin accepted the bottle just to make Lazlo happy and sent him inside to see Rebecca. He found a patch of shade next to Rebecca's car and sat down. He noticed that the front lawn had been mowed. When had he done that? Had he done that? The garden was neat, recently pruned shrubs stood tall. That can't have been Rebecca.

He heard a car turn onto the street.
Good luck with parking, mate.
There were cars down both sides of the road, down almost as far as the golf course at the end.

The person driving hesitated for a moment and then swung hard left into the driveway, his driveway.
Cheeky bastard.
Berlin stood up. It was a Holden sedan painted matt khaki and the licence plate on the bumper said it was army. He watched as a sergeant climbed out of the front passenger-side door.
Sent to tell me Peter couldn't get leave
, he guessed.

The sergeant was tall, lean and wiry, his face tanned. He opened the back door of the car and took a slouch hat from the rear seat. When he looked up and saw Berlin he put the hat on the roof of the car and started towards him. His pace quickened and then he was running. Confused, Berlin put his fists up, ready to take a punch. Then the man was on him, his arms around him holding him tight.

‘Oh, Dad, what are we going to do without our little Sarah?'

The grip of the arms holding him was strong, almost crushing. Peter stepped back and took his father's hands. Berlin stared at the boy. Had he grown taller in the army? He'd lost weight, that was for certain. And his tanned face was narrower, even gaunt, the skin void of the pimples that had plagued him since he was twelve. His hair was cut short too, and it suited him.

‘Sorry it took so long for me to get here, Dad, there was a mix-up with the communications. I was out in the bush, on a patrol. They pulled me back in and put me on the next plane home when my CO finally got the notification.'

The boy even spoke differently – concisely, firmly, and with a sense of authority. Berlin looked at the uniform, a short-sleeved khaki shirt with three chevrons, the trousers neatly pressed, the shoes polished a glossy black. A row of ribbons sat above the left breast pocket. There was another soldier standing behind Peter now, the Holden's driver. Two stripes on the shirt sleeve, Berlin observed. A corporal. He was young, too young for the army, too young for a corporal. His face was as pale as Peter's was tanned, and freckled.

‘You should introduce your friend.' Berlin instantly regretted the tone. This wasn't the Peter who had gone away, this wasn't his boy, his disappointment, his worry.

‘Oh sorry, Dad, this is a mate, Wayne. Wayne Collins. Wayne, this is my dad, Charlie.'

Berlin had never heard his son use his Christian name before. He liked hearing it.

Collins took off his slouch hat and shook hands with Berlin. His close-cropped hair was ginger.
Shouldn't he be called Blue?
Berlin wondered, and then wondered why he had thought that.

‘I'm really sorry, Mr Berlin, sorry we had to meet under circumstances like this. Peter's told me all about you, and your wife and Sarah. I'm really, really sorry.'

Berlin nodded. Nodding was what he'd been doing a lot of over the last few days. Everybody was sorry, that was what they said, or they said nothing or they crossed to the other side of the street to avoid him and to avoid having to say anything at all.

‘You should go and see your mother, Peter, she needs you.' He handed him the bottle of whisky. ‘Can you take this inside too, please?'

Berlin offered Collins a cigarette. The corporal shook his head.

‘No, thanks. Gave it up.'

Berlin lit his cigarette. ‘Me too,' he said. He was surprised to realise he was using Bob Roberts' lighter. ‘How long has Peter been a sergeant?'

Collins seemed surprised by the question. ‘About a month, I guess. Could have been an officer but he knocked back the offer of a field commission. Silly bugger could have been on the next plane out, nice and safe and comfy, doing the officers' course at Duntroon, getting turned into a shiny new second lieutenant, but he said no. Reckoned he'd just take an extra stripe if it was all the same to the army. Being a sergeant was good enough for his old man, he said, and that was good enough for him. Besides, he didn't want to leave the blokes. Said no to the MM too.'

Berlin felt ashamed that he hadn't even known Peter was a corporal.

‘MM?'

‘Military medal, didn't he mention it?'

‘He writes to his mother. I know he leaves things out, things that might worry her.'

‘I suppose we all do that. I suppose you did too, in your war, I mean.'

That was true. ‘What happened? With the promotion and the medal.'

‘Just an ambush that went a bit pear-shaped. We bumped into a bunch of nogs where there weren't supposed to be any, a big bunch. Our lieutenant and sergeant were put out of action in the first couple of minutes of the contact and the VC split the patrol. I got cut off with half a dozen blokes and Peter was an acting corporal so he sorted things out.'

‘Sorted things out?'

‘Formed a perimeter to protect the wounded, called for support then he went out and rounded up me and the rest of the blokes and brought us back inside the perimeter. At least, that's how he tells it.'

‘And how do you tell it?'

‘If I was writing the citation I'd have said overwhelming enemy force, intense fire, coordinated attack, outstanding leadership, heroic behaviour above and beyond – you'd know how it goes. Saved us from getting our arses shot off is the short story and there isn't one bloke in the unit that doesn't know it. Should have been a Victoria Cross not a recommendation for the MM, truth be told.'

‘Wayne.' Peter's voice came over the side gate. When they looked over the gate Peter was in the middle of the backyard, standing in the shade of a tarpaulin stretched over the Hills hoist. He had his arm around Rebecca's shoulder and they were standing together with Lazlo and Maya.

‘Wayne, come on inside, I want to introduce you to my mum.'

Berlin pointed to the pathway to the porch and the front door. ‘Probably easiest going that way. Thanks for bringing my boy home.'

Collins shook his head. ‘It's the other way round, Mr Berlin, Charlie. I'm only here because of him and that's the God's honest truth.'

Wayne Collins walked up to the front door and carefully wiped his shoes on the doormat before going in. Berlin had a sudden vision of the porch ten years back. He had come home from the local shops with a paper bag full of cakes and the long-gone Pip panting and straining on his leash. There had been two hearses parked in the street that morning, right outside his house. Berlin had panicked but it turned out it was just Lazlo in one of his many former lives, bringing someone round to meet him, someone with information on a case.

Lazlo had been standing on the porch waiting to greet him that morning, a cup of tea in his hands. He'd just had been studying Rebecca's framed pictures of Peter and Sarah in the hallway he'd said. Berlin remembered Lazlo telling him he was a very lucky fellow. Berlin also remembered something else Lazlo had said about the children, word for word, all those years ago.

‘Sarah will be a heartbreaker, and Peter will be a man, you mark my words.'

Outside in the cold, midnight blackness the four engines rumbled steadily, taking the aircraft to its destination. Inside the plane Berlin was wide-awake, restless. In the window seat beside him Rebecca was sleeping, or he hoped she was. When she was awake she took little interest in her surroundings and she had only picked at the three-course meals served to them on fine china by white-jacketed Qantas stewards. The food, like the service, was restaurant quality but even Berlin had little stomach for it. The cocktail trolley had been a temptation but he knew even that was never going to numb this particular pain.

He undid his seatbelt and stood up. Ahead of him down the narrow aisle was the first-class galley and beyond it the cockpit. He turned the other way and walked towards the rear, past the curtain and the bulkhead that separated first class from the tourist section of the 707. There were three seats on either side of the centre aisle, as opposed to the two-by-two seating in first class. Every seat was taken and the overhead storage shelf that ran the length of the cabin was packed with folded overcoats, hats, make-up cases and small suitcases.

Most of the passengers were sleeping, seatbacks reclined and pillows and blankets arranged in whatever manner worked for them. Lights from several of the overhead consoles illuminated passengers who were reading or smoking or having a late-night drink and a game of cards.

There was a bump and the aircraft lurched. Berlin stopped, hands on the seatbacks either side of the aisle to steady himself. This was about where the mid-upper Fraser Nash turret would be, with Jock scanning the skies for night fighters, his twin .303 machine guns sweeping the blackness in bold arcs. Berlin looked down at the carpeted floor. Underneath him he guessed was the cargo hold, full of suitcases and mailbags and freight. A better load than the 14 000 pounds of incendiaries and high explosives he had carried inside his Lancaster. He moved on towards the rear, towards what would have been Lou's lonely, unheated outpost.

There was no tail gunner here, of course, just a couple of sleepy hostesses, who smiled and looked up at him inquiringly from their seats. First class passengers were looked after by male stewards in white jackets and black bow ties, and tourist was the same, with the addition of the two young women in their aqua uniforms. He told them he was fine, just having trouble sleeping and refused the offer of a whisky.

Lou would have loved the company of a couple of pretty Aussie girls at his freezing outpost but they would have needed helmets and goggles and coats and gloves. Especially gloves, since the centre glass panel of Lou's turret had been removed for better visibility and bare skin would freeze instantly on contact with the metal casing of the turret or any part of its four Browning machine guns.

There was a sudden sloshing, gurgling sound from one of the aircraft lavatories. Not long out of Sydney and after they reached their cruising altitude, a first-class passenger had complained loudly about the cramped space in the lavatory. Berlin had shaken his head, remembering the Lancaster's toilet facilities, the detested Elsan, a metal barrel with a wooden seat. It was set out in the open, in the centre of the fuselage, back by the crew entry door towards the rear of the bomber. In turbulence, waves of noxious chemicals sloshed about inside, the stink strong enough to kill any but the most urgent need to use the evil thing. The crew avoided it where possible, aided by a real and ongoing fear of flak and night fighters that puckered sphincters tightly shut. Besides, getting out of a heavy flying suit was awkward, and the cold at 20 000 feet shrivelled a man's cock, and with testicles already drawn up tight against the body in terror of impending death by cannon shells or fire or explosion the whole exercise was demoralising and emasculating.

The lavatory door opened and a man stepped out, a shaft of light from the small room cutting across the floor. He was wearing the Qantas aircrew uniform and he smiled at Berlin.

‘Can't sleep? The girls offer you a nightcap?'

Berlin nodded.

‘You're up in first, right? Mr Berlin, is it?'

‘That's right. Charlie.'

‘Come up front and stick your head in the cockpit if you like. My name's Hughie. You can have a chat and a look-around to pass the time. Hopefully someone up there is still awake too.'

He winked to show Berlin it was a joke and Berlin followed him up the aisle, pausing briefly in the first-class section to adjust the thick woollen blanket draped over the sleeping Rebecca. He was glad for Rebecca that they were in the comfort of first class for the long trip even though they had originally been booked in tourist.

They had flown up to Sydney from Melbourne in an Ansett-ANA 727 jet to connect with their Qantas flight to Europe. It was Berlin's first flight in an aircraft without propellers. In Sydney, boarding was a short walk over a concrete tarmac shimmering in the February heat. The smell of burning kerosene from jet engines had irritated Berlin's nose. A line of elegantly dressed passengers had snaked ahead of them, walking towards a Qantas 707, its tail painted bright red with ‘V-Jet' lettered in white.
We could all be going to the theatre
, Berlin had said to himself, apart from the fact that a number of hatted and gloved female passengers were carrying oval make-up cases. Berlin was wearing his best suit, and the summer heat of Sydney already had him sweating.

He'd looked at the two engines he could see suspended on pylons under the severely swept-back starboard wing. Was the numbering system the same? he'd wondered. Was he looking at engines three and four or one and two? Passengers at the head of the line were starting to climb a mobile stairway at the rear of the aircraft, the entrance to tourist class, when he'd heard a woman's voice calling from behind them.

‘Mr and Mrs Berlin, Mr and Mrs Berlin.'

The woman who had done their seat allocation inside the terminal was running after them, waving some papers and holding on to her hat with the other hand. Had he left his passport on the counter? He touched Rebecca on the elbow. She hadn't heard the voice calling for them and was surprised. The local doctor who was treating her had found nothing physically wrong but had diagnosed depression, which was not news to Berlin. They stepped out of the line and waited.

The woman was out of breath when she caught up to them and took a minute to recover.

‘We just got a telex from Melbourne. Can I see your tickets, please?'

Berlin searched through the red vinyl bag the travel agent had presented to him with great ceremony when he had paid their fares. The bag had a white handle and white piping round the edges and white lettering identifying the carrier as a Qantas V-Jet passenger. Apparently the bag was a prestigious item to own, though the travel agent had no idea of what its acquisition had actually cost Charlie and Rebecca.

The tickets had baggage claim checks stapled to the front and were quite bulky. Flight QF759 was making stops in Perth, Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, and there was a page for each leg of the trip. The Qantas ground hostess was holding a printed sheet and two new tickets. She exchanged the documents, making sure to give them back the baggage claim stubs.

‘You've been moved up to first class. These are your new tickets. Please board by the front stairs.'

A glance at the front stairs showed they were empty.

‘I don't understand.'

‘You'll be in first class right through to Athens and from there to Tel Aviv on a local carrier. Everything is in order.'

‘No, I mean we only paid for tourist class. Why are we in first?'

The travel agent had given them a quote for both tourist and first class and the price difference was staggering. Even the cost of the tourist tickets was astronomical. But Rebecca was set on seeing where Sarah was buried and she was the one who finally brought up the fact that there was enough money in the account they had started years ago to pay for their daughter's wedding one day. Berlin ached at the memory of a sixteen-year-old Sarah declaring she would never ever get married and the money could be better spent on buying her a car when she turned eighteen.

The Qantas woman held up the piece of paper. ‘It just says on the telex that the difference between tourist and first class was paid and to reissue the tickets. It's lucky we had some spare seats in first. I wasn't sure I'd catch up with you for a minute there and we don't want to delay the plane.'

‘Do you know who paid for this?'
Was it Lazlo?
Berlin wondered. It was something he would do.

The girl looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand again. ‘The telex says Scheiner Constructions – it's a Melbourne company, I believe. Everything is completely in order so you can go up the front stairs. I hope you have a wonderful trip.'

Berlin briefly considered tearing up the tickets right there on the tarmac but changed his mind. It would just make things too complicated and besides, it was going to be a very long trip and if it made Rebecca more comfortable he would just live with it.

The steward at the top of the stairs checked the ticket and boarding passes. He led them down the aisle to two seats on the right-hand side, took Rebecca's small suitcase and overcoat and Berlin's red vinyl bag and put them into the open overhead shelving. He showed them how to use the seatbelts and offered orange juice or champagne. Rebecca was seated by the window and she shook her head. Berlin said that he might have a drink later.

Initially they were the only people in first class but then more couples had joined them. The ladies were wearing skirts and jackets and the men business suits. One of them referred to the steward by his first name. The men had all nodded to Berlin politely.

Berlin's seat was wide and quite comfortable. The door to the cockpit was open and he could see the pilot. Leaning out into the aisle he saw the co-pilot in his seat and a man at another station inside to the right. The men were busy, and the pilot, who looked to be about fifty, had an air of confidence about him, which Berlin appreciated. They were good at their jobs too, the take-off smooth and comfortable. The jet turned over the city and the Harbour, and over Rebecca's shoulder he could see the bridge and tiny figures on scaffolding working on the shells of the still unfinished Opera House.

But now it was the middle of the night and he was walking towards the cockpit, like one of the boys and girls from tourist class who had been shepherded down the aisle by a hostess to visit the cockpit earlier in the flight.

Berlin stopped at the open cockpit door. Hughie took a seat facing a panel of instruments just to the right of the door. Navigator or flight engineer? Berlin wondered, but didn't ask. The cockpit space was cramped, with the pilot and co-pilot seated side by side. On his Lancaster the right seat had been a simple fold-down bench where Wilf, his flight engineer, had been seated on take-off to assist with the throttles. There was a another seat behind the 707 pilot, currently empty. On the Lanc that was the area where Garry the Canadian had his curtained-off navigator's perch, and next to him Mick worked the radios. Somewhere forward, beneath their feet, Harry the bomb aimer filled in his time watching for night fighters in the nose turret and helping spot waypoints for Garry until it was time for him to stretch out over the bombsight and guide them in on the target.

‘Gentlemen, this is Charlie.'

Berlin stepped into the cockpit. The pilot turned around and awkwardly put out his right hand. ‘Brian Hargraves, pleased to meet you Charlie. The sleepy fellow in the other seat is Damian. We just keep him here in case we urgently need someone to counteract my good looks.'

Berlin smiled at the joke. Hargraves was good-looking, there was no disputing that. About Berlin's age, chiselled features and a face marred only by a subtly pockmarked forehead. Most people would take the marks for residual signs of youthful acne, but Berlin had seen scarring like it before.

The seats occupied by the two pilots looked very comfortable. Berlin remembered the sheet of steel he had sat on in the Lanc, sitting on his parachute for a somewhat softer ride but glad the steel was there beneath him when the hellish flak and searchlight belt, that was the Kammhuber Line, appeared out of the blackness ahead of the bomber stream.

‘Pull up a pew, Charlie.' Hargraves indicated the single seat behind his own.

The seat was even more comfortable than it looked. Berlin clipped the seat belt tight at his waist and instinctively reached up for the shoulder harness straps then stopped himself.

‘What do you do for a crust, Charlie?' Hargraves asked.

‘I'm a copper, down in Melbourne.'

Hargraves turned to Hughie and winked. ‘Better keep a close eye on those instruments, old chap, wouldn't want to get a fine for speeding.'

Berlin was amazed at the number of instruments, dials and switches on the panel in front of the pilots, more on the roof above them and on the panel on the wall in front of Hughie. He scanned the instruments, looking for an airspeed indicator, and eventually found it. He whistled. ‘Four hundred and eighty knots, that's impressive.'

He realised Hargraves had been watching him as his eyes darted over the instruments.

‘Did some flying before we became a copper, did we?' Hargraves asked.

Berlin shook his head. Something in Hargraves' face told Berlin the man didn't believe him.
Is there a mark, a sign we all carry?
he wondered.

Hargraves let it go. ‘I was on Liberators, B-24s, in the Pacific myself. Not a pretty kite, the Liberator, and a bastard to handle but as tough as Old Nick. Libs always got me home so I've got a soft spot for them. Kite like this could fly rings around them, of course.'

Somewhere ahead in the darkness the flickering light of an electrical storm illuminated the underside of the clouds.

Over the noise of the Lancaster's four Rolls Royce Merlin engines Harry's voice crackled in Berlin's headphones. ‘Target dead ahead, skipper.'