Echoes

Echo.

"Same?"

"Yes."

The golden fluid splashed in the dim light, an practised hand stopping just short of the edge.

"David?"

"I'm fine."

"Like hell you are!" Louise tossed aside a lock of hair and cast a furious glance at his glass. "What's with the alcohol, anyway?"

"I like it."

"I didn't come here to watch you make a fool of yourself."

David raised the glass to his lips. The molten stream bolted down his throat, bouncing inside the chest. He drew in the smoke-filled air and looked at Louise defiantly.

"I'll take a taxi," she declared.

"Fine."

David put down the glass and waved goodbye to the barman. He pushed past the figures twisting on the polished floor and marched unsteadily outside.

The engine turned over and coughed, then a fine vibration rattled the body. David sat waited a while, watching the dials rise to battle stations. He reversed slowly, realizing he was too drunk to drive. Vision slightly afloat, he steered through a narrow street jammed with cars, the roar of the party fading behind him.

Hair thrown back, he wound down the window to let the icy air bathe his eves with relief. The breeze rushed past his sweat-soaked body and filled him with a numbing aroma of dawn.

A horn brought him back to life. David looked at the lights in the mirror and took off into the darkness. Streets flashed past, intersections charged towards him. Wheels slid to a halt only to charge into the empty distance. A sense of direction pointed him home through the winding side streets.

He took a corner and stayed in low gear to charge into a hill with a deafening roar, but slowed down seeing flashing lights in the distance. He discerned a faded Beetle, a slender figure slowly pushing the car towards the curb. Levelling with the Beetle, he wound down the window.

"What's the story, Miss?"

Blonde hair flanking the tall cheek bones, her eyes were wide in the dark, small mouth curved with annoyance.

"Out of petrol."

"There is a station about a mile from here."

"I know. I'll just get this thing off the road and walk there."

"Can I give you a lift?"

"No thanks."

He shook his head and pulled over.

She looked at him with a frown, but opened the door; the street lights reflected off her long thin arm as it strained against the hinge.

"Thanks."

"I wouldn't like my sister to run out of petrol here."

"Do you have a sister?"

"No," he chuckled at the thought. "I'm the only child my parents could stand."

Her laughter melted into the tortured hymn of the freeway, as he steered off the side lane, charging through the traffic towards the rectangular beacon of the service station.

"This is a nice car," she said as they slid to a stop at the pump. "Yours?"

"No."

"You are in luck." The short man in dirty overalls held up a plastic can and marched towards the pump. They watched him fill it and ram the nozzle back in place.

They drove back slowly, the petrol can resting between her knees, its opening sealed with her palm. David pulled up behind the Beetle and got out, taking the can. Pouring the wicked fluid down the empty entrails of the tank, he sent an accusing look in her direction.

She watched him pour the last of the petrol.

"Thank you."

"No problem."

He waited until she started the engine and pulled away.

****

The morning mist hung over the grass, flanked by squat campus buildings. Hints of sunshine indecisively pierced the frosty air and played on the crystal remains of the night rain. Not a breath of wind stirred the tree tops shrouded in mist.

David walked to the cafeteria along the winding path. He caught himself holding back his stride as if his restlessness could disrupt the serenity of the dawn and start the inexorable grind of the day a moment too soon. He stared into the cobbled path lined by round lights, their glow dying in the first light, and thought of the day he would no longer walk it.

There were few people in the cafeteria. He sat down with a rancid coffee, gathering strength from its warmth. A fear of the unknown stirred somewhere below the surface of his morning calm.

Mid-term. Five months to the end of the year.

Then he will really know.

"The knight in a shining car!"

"The maiden with a bad fuel gauge!"

Her slender figure was enveloped in a thick jumper. Flaxen hair fell to the shoulders as she bent to put her cup on the table.

"What do you study?"

"Law. I think." He made a face.

"Don't like it much?"

"No."

"Why do it?"

"Don't know. You?"

"History."

She waved to a group of people and hastily got up.

"I'll catch you later."

"At lunch, perhaps?"

"Why not? She smiled and looked at him with an amused expression. "What's your name?"

"David. And yours?"

"Erica."

****

He reached over and took the briefcase from the back seat and trudged towards the back door through the garden.

"Hi, Mum."

She turned around and sized him up with a momentary glance.

"Hello."

"How's your day been?"

"Busy. And yours?"

"Coping."

He took a plate and sat down to look through his mail, periodically dipping the fork into the salad. When the plate was empty he got up and headed to the fridge.

"Enough now, " she pleaded.

"I'm a growing child."

"What will become of you, though?"

"I'll end up married, with two cars, one point five kids and a mortgage."

She slowly shook her head and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

"Go and do some work. You should be a rabbi - all words and no action."

******

He saw Erica emerge from the narrow door of the lecture theatre, her fragile figure a startling splash of red in the soft grey light of the day.

"Hello, David."

They ran across the busy street and walked towards the restaurant awkwardly.

"What history are you studying?"

"European."

"What for?"

"Fun, I suppose," she laughed. "I don't care. Daddy pays, and I like it."

"Great things, parents."

David held open the door, his glance sliding across her long figure. There was a graceful continuity in her movement, perfection spring-loaded and ready to uncoil.

The restaurant was small and crowded. An eternal blanket of smoke hung under the ceiling, slowly ushered outside by a distant fan. Stained paintings touted abundant Italian cuisine, underscoring the aroma rising from the tables. Apocalypse spilled from the kitchen with white-shirted waiters, as Erica and David were shown to a table.

His face sealed by indifference, an elderly man took their order and brought them a bottle of the sour house wine. David raised the glass to the light. Erica smiled hesitantly, but toasted it with hers.

Although hungry, both ate slowly and deliberately. As he poured the rest of the wine and returned the empty bottle to the ice bucket, he saw the men at the next table leer at Erica. He knew what they thought and found himself enjoying it.

Coffee. The warm fog enveloping his brain was scattered by the powerful bitterness of a fresh brew. He grabbed the bill and insisted on paying. Erica smiled and let him.

Cold air brushed their faces as the heavy door closed behind them. They crossed the road and walked towards the library.

"Lectures?" she asked.

"No. Home."

"Thanks for a great lunch." She grasped his elbow and planted a quick kiss, pulling away before he could react.

"See you, Erica."

He watched her disappear into the library and headed towards the car park.

****

As he walked into the kitchen, he heard mother's agitated voice.

"Jack is the best salesman you have!"

"I don't care," father's voice replied with tense finality. "I won't tolerate such behaviour."

"How will you cope without him?"

"I don't know and I don't give a damn."

"Hello." David strode into the crossfire.

"Hello, son." Father was visibly grateful for a change of subject. "How's study?"

"OK."

"David!" Mother suddenly remembered." This girl, Erica. She rang."

"Thanks."

"Who is she?"

"A girl at uni. Why?"

"Strange name for a Jewish girl," said father quietly.

David hesitated.

"Listen," father's voice trailed away with bottomless fatigue. David heard this note a few times when father recalled Treblinka. "Don't do this."

"What are you saying?"

"It's very simple. I didn't spend four years loading corpses into the ovens so you can soil my name."

******

They walked through the park on a stormy day, the ocean wind tearing at their clothes. Heavy light clung to the bare serenity of the trees. Erica reached around and drew him close. He shuddered, but continued to walk beside her in silence, his body burning with the warmth of her arm.

They sat down on a damp bench overlooking the expanse of the park. Staring at Erica's golden hair, he thought of the centuries he defied.

"Tell me," she insisted.

He told her. She sat motionless, tense with attention and concern. The cold sun disappeared in the clouds, leaving the earth somber and harsh in its wake. Tall breeze caressed the trees, old leaves fluttering to the ground. Their whispers filled the air with a desperate rustle.

******

"Tell me about this Erica."

David turned around, then dropped his pen in a slow, deliberate motion.

"She's a friend."

"Is it serious?"

"No, mother. Nothing is serious."

"Why can't you be like normal people?" mother shook her head. "What have you done with Louise?"

"Precisely nothing. Louise is a platonic nag."

"If only you knew how much you upset your father."

She left before he could form a reply.

******

He unfastened the belt, watching its black band slide across his lap. Unease gripping his chest, he looked over the house - a brick facade, brimmed by a neat lawn. Sparse azaleas protruded from the lush greenery, overshadowed by a massive oak, its branches still naked against the blue sky.

"I have to," he thought.

There were hurried footsteps as he pressed the bell. Greying blond hair tied back to reveal her tall forehead, she looked exactly like Erica.

"I'm David."

"Hello. Come in."

Textured brown carpet swirled among clean white walls. The room was dominated by a massive old fireplace below an ornately framed landscape depicting a mountain lake.

Erica ran out, untying her apron. She kissed David and motioned him to sit down by the fire, emerging from the bar with two glasses. They sat on the thick carpet waiting for Erica's father.

Shortly after one a new Volvo pulled into the driveway. Erica rushed to the front door and came back with a grey, powerfully built man. David got up, taking in the weathered face with a heavy chin crossed by a faded scar. Blue eyes seated deep beneath pale brows slid across David's body.

"Good to meet you." They shook hands, his strong grip lingering around David's hand.

The table was set with cold meats and salads. David took the pork and placed a few slices on top of his coleslaw. Erica's father poured wine into large glasses. There was no toast, and David tasted the bubbling liquid.

It ran down his throat, drowning uncertainty. He saw suspicion evaporate from their eyes, and a moment of awkwardness passed.

"It's a good wine," said Erica's father. He reached over and topped up David's glass.

David felt them liven up, his intoxication blended into theirs. As the afternoon stretched on, the conversation sparkled. Erica's father ran a car yard and talked at length about cars. The light in the window turned to lead.

"Where have your parents come from?" asked Erica's father. The alcohol slurred his speech, and the words were now stamped with a distinct guttural character.

"Poland."

A strange expression clouded the wrinkled forehead.

"I was in Poland once. A long time ago."

There was a fleeting movement as Erica's mother sat up, her, eyes aflame with agitation. She looked at her husband, who reclined in his chair. He stared at his glass seeming not to notice.

"Pathetic roads. Misery and dirt."

"It would have changed now, " said Erica quickly. "It was so long ago."

"Yes." His face suddenly cleared, as if the alcohol suddenly evaporated from his body.

"Anyway," he said quietly.

Erica got up and rolled down the blinds. David watched her dart through the room, turning on the lights in sudden silence.

"Let's clear the table," said Erica's mother.

Everyone got up with a handful of dishes. David carried a large bowl into the kitchen. Erica's father put down his load and turned on the lights. The fluorescent tube flickered and died. He flicked the switch again and shook his head with annoyance.

"Erica," he called out. "Do we have a spare?"

"Yes," she said. "I'll get it."

He pulled out a stepstool and mounted it with surprising agility, reaching up to unscrew the cover. A sprinkling of dust landed on his shoulders.

"Please change first," said Erica's mother curtly.

"Yes, right," he mumbled, wiping the dust from his face. Without stepping down, he unbuttoned the shirt with his clean hand, revealing a singlet over a muscular torso. His wife took away the shirt, rolling her eyes at David.

Erica came back with a new tube. Her father took it and reached up. The tube glowed as he gently pressed it home with his stubby fingers. David picked up the cover and handed it to him.

He saw it at once. The powerful arms were extended upwards, muscles taut beneath the pale skin. There was a faded tattoo in the fold of the left armpit.

B+.

He looked into the man's face, imagining how it looked then: covered in dust, steel helmet pushed off the sweating forehead, the panzer bouncing on a pathetic Polish road. Erica's father traced David's gaze, and his face froze. Erica and her mother turned and saw it too.

Without a word, David rushed out of the house.

******

"I understand you have some information," the gaunt Israeli sized him up with a long stare.

"A man by the name of von Gernitz."

"Not here." They climbed a row of carpeted stairs into a narrow corridor. The Israeli opened a door to a tiny office crammed with books. He motioned David to a chair in front of the desk and took the opposite seat.

"How did you meet this von Gernitz?"

"I 'd rather not say."

"Fine. What makes you think he was SS?"

"He has a partly erased tattoo," David pointed to the spot. "Where SS tattooed their blood group."

"Right." The man wrote down the details and slowly nodded.

"What will you do now?"

The fleshy mouth tightened. "This guy would have changed his name ten times. Somewhere in Europe there's a tombstone with his real name on it. They cover their tracks to perfection, you know."

"Isn't there anything..."

"Like what, young man? A German of the right age with a funny scar - you are a lawyer, yes? Is that evidence? Who is he? The real von Gernitz was probably incinerated in the Dresden bombing or something. I can bet my life there's never been a von Gernitz in the SS, ever."

David's mouth contracted in anger.

"Don't even think about it," said the Israeli. "These people are not to be trifled with."

"Neither am I," said David hoarsely.

"Perhaps," the man sheathed the pen. "But without a proper investigation, how do you know what he is guilty of?"

"An SS trooper?"

"Yeah. Could have been a clerk in headquarters. A mechanic. A cook. Even an honest soldier. Fought and bled like everybody else. Victim of the system - just in a different way."

"I can't accept that," said David.

"I understand," said the man sadly. "But I can't protect you from the consequences."

*****

He held the receiver close to his cheek, still panting from the sprint out of the kitchen. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead onto the desk.

"David?" Erica's voice was hoarse and painfully strained. "David!!!"

There was a long silence, punctuated by static.

"What's going to happen?"

"I don't know." he caught his breath. "Goodbye, Erica."

Drained beyond emptiness, he replaced the receiver.

*****

"Are you ill?" asked his mother with suspicion.

"I don't want to discuss it."

"Ah." She smiled secretively and left. He rubbed his face and kicked off the blanket.

*****

David looked at the house as the earth readied for rain. The sun breached the heavy cloud, its bronze light gravid with pain.

He could see the bare rooms through the windows. The grass had overgrown, junk mail spilling from the letter box. David saw a neighbour size him up with a questioning expression. Returning the man's stare, he slowly walked back through the uncut lawn.

He quickened his step as the first harbingers of rain brushed his face and got into the car as the rain escalated to a downpour. Droplets pounded the ground, dissolving the caked surface and washing away the past.

Wipers waded uselessly through the torrents sweeping across the windscreen, a blur severed by vertical columns of rain.

He felt the pain grow duller, leaving a vague film of numbness.

******

Father was studying the paper in the lounge. He looked up briefly.

"Hello, son."

"Hi. Is it working out?"

"It is, actually," father lifted the tired gaze. "You?"

"OK."

David went to his room. He stared into the garden, watching the raindrops dance their first and only descent to earth.

1982

ECHO.DOC Created on 29/08/01 22:10

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Echoes