‘It has been a very long time indeed.’ He reverted to English. He hadn’t spoken German for years, it was too dangerous; he’d even trained himself to think in English. No matter: his desire was plain in any language. ‘I’ve thought of you often.’

He crossed to the gramophone and turned the music down. It played softly in the background, but to Ruth it still sounded strident, taunting her with the past.

‘I’ve longed for this moment,’ he said softly as he sat in the armchair opposite hers.

Everything about him was suddenly frighteningly familiar. Indeed, as he’d spoken in his mother tongue, she’d wondered how she hadn’t recognised his voice earlier. She was amazed, too, at her sense of calm. The horrified shock of her recognition had brought with it panic and the urge to flee, but she just felt numb. She remained motionless, the cup on the floor beside her, the coffee still seeping into the Persian carpet. There was no escape from Klaus Henkel.

‘I’ve missed you, Ruth,’ he said.

She tried to ignore his look of tenderness. ‘How did you do it?’ she asked. ‘How did you so change yourself?’

‘I had expert help from a friend,’ he said dryly. ‘His work served its purpose, but it robbed me of my youth. Whereas you, my dear,’ he looked her up and down admiringly, ‘you are more beautiful than you have ever been.’

‘Why are you doing this, Klaus?’

He thrilled to the sound of her voice saying his name.

‘Doing what?’ he asked in all innocence.

‘Why are you exposing your identity? Why are you risking yourself like this?’

‘Risking myself? With you?’ He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘But you would never betray me, Ruth.’

‘And why not?’

He rose from his chair, bemused by the question. She loved him, that was why not. Perhaps she didn’t yet realise the force of her love, but she must surely understand that she was caught up in the web of his life, that she belonged to him.

‘I saved you, Ruth. I preserved your life. I’m the very reason you’re alive.’ He crossed to the sideboard and picked up his brandy balloon. ‘I saved you on the ramp at Auschwitz. I saved you from the ovens and the hard labour that would have killed you. And I saved you from the Russians who would have defiled you like the pigs they are.’ He took a swig of his Cognac.

He was mad, she thought. Had he forgotten their last night together? Had he truly forgotten how vilely he himself had defiled her?

‘And the times we shared, remember? They were so precious.’ He put the glass down and again circled behind her chair. ‘Can’t you see them now, those quiet nights – just you and me, and the music?’ He started to hum along to ‘Barcarole’, still playing in the background.

Yes, Ruth thought, she remembered. Just as she remembered the smell of burning flesh, and the thousands of emaciated, dying people, and her daughter dead on the ramp, and Mannie’s murder …

‘Stop,’ she said. She could see him in the mirror, his hands poised over her shoulders.

‘Of course.’ He stopped humming and dropped his arms to his side. It was too soon, he realised. She was not ready yet. But he would wait – he had all the time in the world. He turned off the gramophone and returned to his chair.

What did he want from her? Ruth thought. In his insanity, he appeared to believe she belonged to him. Did he honestly expect her to remain silent, to become his personal property again?

He studied her over the rim of his brandy balloon.

‘It’s all come as rather a shock, hasn’t it, my dear?’ he said understandingly. ‘But have no fear, I will not rush you, I’m willing to wait.’

She was looking at him in a guarded, mistrustful way, rather like a cornered animal, he thought. She must understand that there was no avenue of escape.

‘I will wait for as long as it takes, Ruth. I’m a patient man. But in the meantime I advise you to do nothing rash.’

The cold, steel-blue eyes were unwavering. It was more than a warning, she realised – it was a threat.

‘Should you feel the desire to share our secret with anyone,’ he continued, ‘you would be placing that person in mortal danger.’

She did not avert her eyes, but stared back at him in silence. Good, he thought, she was getting the message. He polished off the last of his Cognac and sat back comfortably in his armchair instead.

‘I lead a quiet life in Cooma,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I like it here. But I have found it wise not to call attention to myself; there are people from the past who live in these mountains. I have already eliminated one threat, and I would do so again without compunction. I will not allow myself to be placed at risk.’

The boy, Ruth thought, sickened by the sudden realisation. He has the eyes of the priest. That’s what Violet had said. And with a jolt she realised that Klaus Henkel had escaped Auschwitz in the guise of a priest. She remembered seeing the cassock, the identification papers …

‘You killed Pietro,’ she said in a whisper.

‘The young Italian?’ He gave a light laugh. ‘Oh my dear, what a fantastical notion. Why should I? I didn’t know the boy.’

Yes, of course, she thought, why should he kill Pietro? What danger could the Italian have been to him? But what had he meant when he’d said that he’d eliminated one threat? Was it simply to frighten her? If so, he’d succeeded.

‘No, no, the boy was epileptic and had a weak heart,’ he said dismissively. He was pleased that he’d made his point, that she’d understood his warning was no idle threat. He rose and crossed to the sideboard to pour another Cognac.

‘I once held your life in my hands, Ruth,’ he said, looking at her in the mirror as he poured his drink. ‘It’s interesting to consider that you now hold mine in yours.’ He turned, smiling. ‘Well, that’s perhaps a little melodramatic of me, but you could certainly make my life uncomfortable. If you were to report me, the Australian Government would do nothing – you have no proof – but I would be forced to leave Cooma, and I don’t wish to do that.’

He returned to his chair and leant forward with his elbows on his knees, his full focus upon her as he cradled his glass in his hands.

‘You don’t want me to leave either, do you, Ruth? 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.’

He could see the acceptance in her eyes; she knew it was so, and it pleased him.

‘Take me home, Klaus.’

‘Klaus,’ he said, with nostalgic longing. How he loved the sound of his name from her lips. But sadly, he would have to forgo the luxury of hearing it – it was too dangerous.

‘That name is foreign to me these days, Ruth,’ he said. ‘It is a title I no longer respond to. I am Maarten Vanpoucke, you must remember it always.’

‘Yes. Take me home, Maarten, I’m tired.’

‘Of course you are, my dear, it’s been an evening of surprises, and surprises are always tiring, are they not? Come,’ he said, and she couldn’t avoid his hand as he helped her to her feet. ‘We won’t walk, you’re too weary. I’ll drive you home.’

He was the Dutchman during the short drive to Dodds. They talked about mundane things; he asked her about her work and she amazed herself by responding normally.

‘You cannot surely intend to remain here,’ he said as he escorted her from the car to the hotel’s front doors. ‘It’s most unsuitable. Please allow me to arrange proper accommodation for you.’

‘The Authority already has,’ she said. ‘I’m moving to a small house in Cooma North on Tuesday.’

‘Then allow me to assist you. I shall drive you to your new home. What time would be convenient, mid-morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. I shall collect you at … shall we say ten o’clock?’

She nodded.

‘Have no fear, my dear,’ his smile was one of supreme confidence, ‘I’m prepared to be patient. You must get to know me all over again. As I told you, I’m willing to wait.’ He kissed her hand, and his lips lingered a little longer this time.

‘Goodnight, Ruth,’ he said.

‘Goodnight, Maarten.’

It was well after midnight when she let herself into her poky upstairs room. She made no attempt to sleep; she didn’t even bother to undress and get into bed. She sat on the hard wooden chair and thought about Klaus Henkel.

For a while she dwelled on the past. It was impossible not to. He’d brought it back as raw and fresh as if it were yesterday. But after hours or perhaps minutes of tortured memory – she couldn’t tell – she forced the horrors aside. There was no point in reliving them. She’d done that many times, for many years and it had nearly destroyed her. She was harder now, and tougher – she must not allow him to lead her down that path. She must think about today, and tomorrow, and her new life here in Cooma. She would not let him cheat her of that life. She had run as far as she could run. She would run no further. And she would certainly not run from him.

She stood and opened the window, peering out at the black sky. It was a moonless night, the air was still, and the street below deserted, with not a soul in sight, but she wouldn’t have noticed if there had been. She was thinking how cowardly she’d been to refuse to testify as a witness at the Nuremberg trials. She’d been working for the Americans at the time. It was a protected life – the Americans looked after their staff well – and she’d been in a haze, wishing to avoid at all costs the harrowing experience of reliving terrible memories by testifying. But she’d followed the trials avidly. She’d been surprised to discover that Ira Schoneberger had given evidence.

We must tell our story, Ruth. She could hear his voice still. She hadn’t really believed him at the time; she’d known it had been another ploy to inspire in her the will to live, but it had worked. It had saved her. And Ira, the greatest survivor of them all, a man despised by his own kind, a man who’d turned everything to his advantage in order to live, had proved to be a man of his word. She’d admired him for it. She admired him still. More than anyone she’d ever known. It had been Ira who had saved her, not Klaus Henkel. And she could hear Ira’s voice as if he were with her now: You owe it to them, Ruth, you owe it to them all.

But what can I do, Ira? she thought. The Nuremberg trials are over, I have no proof – the Australian Government could do nothing, Klaus himself said so. If I attempt to expose him, he will simply disappear to another place, another town, another identity – he will be untraceable.

She closed the window, the room suddenly cold.

The boy – had Klaus killed the boy? She had no proof of that either, but she needed to know. She sat on the wooden chair again, adding up every fragment of information she’d gleaned. She didn’t know why but the boy preyed on her mind. Had Klaus killed Pietro?

She retraced his steps, one by one. Klaus Henkel had left Auschwitz in the guise of a priest, but he hadn’t remained in hiding within Germany as many had, and as she had supposed was his intention. He’d fled to Argentina, a common destination for Nazi war criminals. No-one tangos as they do in Buenos Aires. But how had he made his escape from Germany? Via Switzerland or Italy?

The Brenner Pass, from Austria into Italy, was one of the favoured routes of Odessa. The boy was Italian. Where did he come from? Why did he dream of a priest who wanted to kill him?

She ran her hands through her hair, clutching it, pulling roughly at her scalp, trying to feed information to her brain, but there was none to be had; she’d reached a dead end. There was only one other who could help her piece the jigsaw together – at least she hoped he could.

Outside, the first rays of dawn were streaking the sky. Ruth gathered her robe and toiletry bag and stole quietly down the hall to the bathroom where she ran a hot bath and lay in it, her mind now a blank as she filled in the hours.

 

Lucky and Peggy had just made love. It was eight o’clock in the morning and she would shortly get up and cook them breakfast. They would probably eat it in bed and make love again. Sunday was Peggy’s favourite day.

There was a knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Who would be calling on her at this hour on a Sunday?

Beside her, Lucky stirred, still half dozing. The knock persisted and he sat up.

‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

‘I’ll go.’ Peggy put on her dressing gown and walked to the front door.

‘Ruth,’ she said, surprised.

‘I’m sorry, I know it’s early – do you mind if I come in?’ It had been easy to get Peggy’s address, she’d asked at the hotel – everyone knew where the schoolteacher lived in Murray Road.

‘Of course. Please, come in.’ Peggy tried not to look flustered as she ushered Ruth inside, but her call to Lucky was one of warning. ‘Lucky, Ruth’s here.’ She hoped he wouldn’t appear too obviously dishevelled.

But he did. He hadn’t heard her warning call, and he walked into the small lounge room having pulled on a pair of shorts, bare-chested and bare-footed, hair awry and obviously straight out of bed. Peggy was aware that she was no better herself, in her slippers and dressing gown, her long hair loose about her shoulders.

The two of them felt decidedly self-conscious.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Peggy asked, pulling back her hair.

Both their appearance and their embarrassment appeared to have gone unnoticed by Ruth, as did the offer of tea.

‘Forgive me for dropping in unexpectedly like this, but I wanted to talk to you.’ She meant Samuel, but she addressed them both.

‘Of course,’ Peggy said; Ruth looked tired, she thought. ‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll put the kettle on.’ She signalled Lucky to get dressed, and as he disappeared into the bedroom, she led Ruth through to the kitchen.

‘I’m sorry we left you alone with Maarten last night,’ she said, filling the kettle, ‘but he didn’t give us much option. Did he keep you there for a chat? I had the feeling that he wanted to. Or did he walk you home straight away?’

‘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.

Then he turned again to Ruth, concerned. ‘My dear, you’re not well.’

‘This man is Klaus Henkel.’ She walked right up to him, her announcement bold and clear. ‘This man is a Nazi war criminal.’

‘Ruth, I am your doctor, and your friend,’ he said reassuringly. ‘I am Maarten Vanpoucke.’ He put his arm around her, expecting her to pull away, surprised when she didn’t. ‘Now come inside and let me look after you.’

She allowed him to lead her away, glad that he was behaving true to form, as she’d presumed he would. Klaus always believed he had total control. He could have disappeared into his house and she would have been left to harangue the passers-by, embarrassing them, or perhaps making them apprehensive and fearful, but certainly appearing like a madwoman. This suited her purpose far better.

At the open gate, Maarten turned back to the gathering, most of whom were shuffling about awkwardly, pretending they hadn’t stopped to watch. He addressed Frank Halliday, although his words were intended for all those present.

‘Ruth is a patient of mine,’ he said. ‘She suffered cruelly at the hands of the Nazis. It is sad to see her so deeply disturbed.’

Frank nodded, feeling conspicuous and profoundly embarrassed. He felt he should walk on – he never got involved; he made it a habit to mind his own business.

Ruth delivered her final accusation directly at Maarten.

‘You are Klaus Henkel,’ she stated clearly for the benefit of those watching. ‘You are a murderer.’

‘Yes, yes, my dear.’ His tone was one of infinite compassion and understanding. ‘Now come along.’

He unlocked the door and took her inside, and those gathered in the street dispersed, muttering among themselves, agreeing that the poor woman was mad. But most were unsettled by the impact she’d had upon them.

It was not unheard of for some new arrivals in the region to display peculiar or confused behaviour now and again, and people were generally sympathetic. Most were also aware of the reported sightings of Nazi criminals throughout the world, and wondered how much of it was hysterical paranoia, part of the sad aftermath of the war. But here in Australia such demented accusations were an unexpected and disquieting reminder of the past.

Ruth was aware that they probably considered her deranged, but they had all witnessed him take her inside the house, she thought. And they would remember that.

The front door closed behind her and they stood in the hall. She said nothing as Maarten grabbed her roughly by the wrist, and she didn’t struggle as he opened the door to the left and propelled her into the reception area of his surgery.

Looking down at the front hallway from her carefully concealed position on the upstairs landing, Mrs Hodgeman found the doctor’s brutal attitude towards his patient a little surprising.

Maarten released Ruth, locking the door behind them, and roughly pushed her into his consulting room.

It was gloomy, with the drapes drawn over the bay windows, and he flicked on the switch of the overhead light. He locked the surgery door also and, taking off his spectacles, he tossed them onto the desk in a gesture of frustration and anger. It was only then he spoke.

‘Why have you done this? Why have you betrayed me?’

She was pleased that he’d dropped the pretence. The Dutchman had gone; he was Klaus Henkel now.

‘It’s over, Klaus,’ she said.

‘You think you can do it just like that, a few random words from a madwoman in the street?’ He grabbed her again by the wrist and hauled her to the bay windows, thrusting aside the drapes, careless of who could see. ‘Look. They’ve gone.’

She looked out at the street. The dozen or so had left and there was just the odd passer-by, paying no heed, but it didn’t matter, she thought. The harm had been done.

‘They don’t care,’ he snarled, pulling the drapes closed. ‘They want to mind their own business, as people do. Your little outburst meant nothing! Nothing at all, just the ramblings of a woman demented by the war. That’s what I told them, and that’s what they believe.’

‘I’m sure you’re right …’ Ruth felt supremely in command. He was sounding desperate and already he was cornered. She goaded him with the fact: ‘But word will get around, as it does in Cooma. You’ll be the centre of attention, and you don’t want that. You’ll have to leave town. The sooner the better, I would think.’

He’d known he would have to. He’d known it the moment he’d heard her call out his name. He wanted to kill her for it.

‘Yes, Klaus,’ she could see the murder in his eyes and she acknowledged it, ‘you’d better kill me, because if you don’t, I’ll follow you. I’ll follow you and denounce you wherever you go.’

It had been a deliberate plan, he realised. She’d made sure they’d all seen him take her inside; it was why she hadn’t resisted, why she’d played along with the game of demented patient. How very clever. And now she thought that, because there’d been witnesses, she was safe. But she wasn’t. He’d trusted her; she’d betrayed him and she would die for it.

‘So you wish to martyr yourself, do you, Ruth?’ he said disbelievingly. ‘How very noble.’

‘Perhaps I do,’ she answered. ‘If that’s the only way. Someone has to stop you, and it appears there’s only me.’

So she did wish to martyr herself, he thought. How very surprising. He was willing to oblige, but her death would not serve the noble cause she appeared to believe it would – he had no intention of being caught. Neither would he kill her because she posed a threat. He would kill her for the pure satisfaction of it.

‘And what makes you so bent on dying, Ruth? You’re young, you’re beautiful – it seems a strange choice.’

‘It’s meant to be, isn’t it? Fate, you said so yourself. But fate brought us together in order for me to destroy you, Klaus. There is no place for you here. You’re a Nazi and a murderer. There is no place for you anywhere – there never was. You and your kind should never have existed.’ She felt so strong as she said it. ‘You have innocent blood on your hands, Klaus. You have untold deaths to answer for.’

‘I do indeed.’ He laughed; he was starting to enjoy himself. ‘Oh yes, yes, indeed I do.’

Outside in the surgery waiting room, Mrs Hodgeman’s ear was pressed to the door. She’d let herself in – she had a key to every door in the house. She was appalled by what she was hearing. She left to fetch her son Kevin, and to get the gun that she knew the doctor kept in the locked drawer of his study desk; the drawer to which she also had access – she knew where he hid the key.

‘And you believe your death will destroy me, do you?’

Klaus was now finding the game most pleasurable. She was brave and noble, a zealot with a mission. How he would enjoy seeing her bravado crumble. How he would enjoy watching her beg for her life.

‘Yes, I believe so.’

It was as if she were teasing him, flirting with him; he found it titillating.

‘And how should I kill you, Ruth?’

‘Perhaps the same way you did Pietro,’ she said, wandering around the room. ‘This is where you killed him, isn’t it? Where exactly did he die? On this bed?’ She ran her fingers along the crisp white cotton cover. ‘How did you do it?’

She expected a denial; he would surely not admit to Pietro’s murder. But he made no denial.

‘I know that you killed him, Klaus.’ She was emboldened by his silence. ‘How did you do it?’

He smiled. Oh yes, he was enjoying this game. ‘Shall I show you?’

He raised an eyebrow when she didn’t answer. ‘I’m quite happy to show you, Ruth,’ he said, taking off his jacket and placing it neatly over the back of a chair. He took his time methodically rolling his shirt sleeves up over his elbows, then he crossed to the bench with its sink and dispensary cupboard.

‘In fact, I would very much like to show you,’ he said, washing his hands and drying them on the towel that hung there, ‘if that is what you truly want.’

She watched, mesmerised, as he lifted a vial and a syringe from the cupboard. Her bravado had deserted her, just as he’d known it would.

He looked at her in the cupboard mirror. ‘Potassium chloride,’ he said, opening the vial. ‘Very simple. A heart attack; it was soon over.’ He filled the syringe, noting with pleasure that her eyes were focussed upon what he was doing, and that she was terrified. ‘It will be a heart attack for you too, Ruth. I would like to assure you that you will feel no pain,’ he said, testing the syringe with a flick of his finger, ‘but I can’t be sure. What you will feel, however, is regret. Regret for the uselessness of your death.’

‘You’ll incriminate yourself, Klaus.’ She tried to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘You won’t be able to get away with it a second time.’

He laughed as he turned to face her. ‘A second time? Oh my dear, you underestimate me. I’ve eliminated many. Like Pietro, you have become just one more. But you must understand, Ruth, that your death will be of no consequence. It will serve no purpose. I will disappear as I have in the past, I will become another person. They will never find me.’

In the waiting room, Noreen Hodgeman fiddled frantically with the unfamiliar weapon. She knew a bit about firearms – she’d used a .22 and a .303 on many an occasion – but this appeared a most complicated piece of machinery.

Kevin crept quietly back into the room. ‘I phoned them,’ he whispered. ‘Merv Pritchard’s on his way.’

‘How do I work this bloody thing?’ she hissed.

‘You cock it like this.’ He showed her how to clasp the toggle bolt between finger and thumb and pull it back. He’d seen Nazis do it in the pictures. Kevin loved going to the pictures, he especially loved American war films, and he’d always had a very good memory for details.

Klaus walked towards Ruth with slow deliberation, relishing her terror and his role as executioner.

‘I do not kill you because you are a threat, my dear. I kill you because you have been disloyal to me. You betrayed the pact we had, you and I.’

She backed away as far as she could, then felt the edge of the bed behind her; she could go no further.

‘I kill you, Ruth, because it gives me pleasure to do so.’

He reached out for her. She dived desperately to one side. He grabbed her by the wrist with his left hand, the syringe in his right.

Behind them, the door was thrown open. Klaus turned.

In the open doorway stood his housekeeper and her son.

He curled his fingers around the syringe, secreting it in the palm of his hand. ‘What is the meaning of this, Mrs Hodgeman?’ he said, outraged. ‘Can’t you see I’m with a patient? Get out at once.’

But Noreen Hodgeman extended her arms, the pistol held unwaveringly in both hands. Looking down the sights of the barrel, she aimed directly at his head.

‘Let her go,’ she said.

Klaus released his hold on Ruth’s wrist, and Noreen Hodgeman took several paces into the room.

‘I heard what you said and so did Kevin. You killed that boy. You’re a murderer.’

He wasn’t listening to her. The weapon that was trained on him was his own SS army-issue Luger. Did she know how to use it? he wondered. Was it cocked?

She could see him studying the gun; she knew exactly what he was thinking.

‘Oh it’s cocked, all right,’ she said, ‘you can bet on that. Kevin showed me how.’

Klaus glanced at the simpleton son who’d also stepped into the room.

‘He’s not as stupid as you think,’ she added.

‘How very clever of you, Kevin,’ he said. The boy was big and probably quite strong, but he could finish him off easily with the needle. If he could only tempt the woman a little closer so that he could grab the Luger from her. ‘And you too, Mrs Hodgeman.’ He took a step towards her.

‘Stay right there,’ she ordered. Noreen wasn’t having a bar of it. She stayed very still, the pistol unwavering, her eyes trained steadily on the pistol’s sights.

‘Very well.’ He backed away and perched casually on the side of the desk, watching her for the slightest movement. She would falter soon; such a stance and such concentration were tiring.

‘You’re a bloody Nazi too,’ Noreen said. Her Leonard had died at Tobruk fighting the bloody Nazis, she thought, and all this time she’d been working for one! Poor Len’d roll in his grave if he knew. ‘I heard that part as well. Kevin and me, we’re witnesses.’

‘Good for you.’ He was pleased she was talking. The more she talked, the more her concentration would falter.

Ruth didn’t dare say a word. She could sense he was ready to pounce, and she knew he still held the syringe in his hand, but she couldn’t risk distracting Noreen Hodgeman’s focus.

A car screeched to a halt outside.

‘That’ll be Merv Pritchard,’ Noreen said. ‘Go and let him in, Kevin.’

Kevin did as he was told.

They’d called the police, Klaus thought as he watched the boy walk out into the waiting room. Of course they’d called the police. Why had it not occurred to him that they would?

There was no way out of the surgery, except through the door that led to the hall. As he heard the front door open, Klaus knew there was no escape.

Noreen Hodgeman’s concentration finally faltered. She was surprised as she peered down the pistol’s sights to see him, shirt sleeves still rolled up above his elbows, casually cross his arms as he perched on the side of the desk. He was accepting his fate very calmly, she thought. He was a cool one, she’d give him that much.

They’d hanged them at Nuremberg, Klaus thought. No military execution, no firing squad. They’d hanged them like common criminals. And that was just what they would do to him. Goering had had the right idea, he thought as he pumped the muscles of his left arm and felt with the fingers of his right hand for the vein. Goering had escaped such an ignominious death.

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.