By Craig Cormick
The Scene: A private nursing home by the sea. Two elderly men sit on chairs on a balcony, staring out over the ocean. In the rooms behind them, the walls are decorated with fine paintings by Rembrandt and Botticelli. Wagner plays softly on an old record player.
The first elderly man, Karlis, deeply tanned with silver hair, leans across to his comrade and says, "It's so peaceful here. It reminds me of the forests in Latvia."
The other man, Visvi, a little fatter and a little more bald, says, "Except that it was quieter there. More peaceful."
They both chuckle. Never tired of that joke. They look back out to sea.
"So", says Karlis. "What do you think about Konrad?" They've both been thinking it all day. They share all their thoughts, know just what the other is thinking about. "Do you think they'll get him?"
They've both seen the photos of him in the newspapers. The old man hiding behind an upraised palm as the media chase him into buildings. The young man in the SS uniform. And the same young man in civilian clothes, photographed for his Australian migration file.
"Maybe", says Visvi. "Maybe not." They know he spent nine years on appeal in the US courts. Know that with enough money you can stay on appeal almost indefinitely. Unless the media got you. Then the politicians would get involved. Then you could be thrown to the wolves very easily.
Karlis sighs. Visvi knows what he's thinking. Wishing for the old days again, when they had political support. Just for declaring themselves anti-communist. He looks out to sea and wonders how he might cheer his old friend up.
"They rang today", says Karlis.
"Who?", asks Visvi. But he knows.
"The dogs!"
Visvi turns and looks at him. Knows his dislike of the vicious animals that would hunt a man to death if they could. Waits for him to go on.
"The nurse took the call", says Karlis.
"Who was it?"
"The ABC." He says it like it's a curse. "Shooting's too good for them."
"What did she tell them?"
"That we were Lithuanian, not Latvian. And that we were dead."
Visvi burst out laughing. Nearly has a choking fit. Has to wave his hands in the air like he's surrendering.
Karlis own laugh turns quickly to a look of concern. He wonders if he should call the nurse. But finally Visvi wheezes, "Don't make me laugh so hard". He knows the media dogs have no interest in the dead.
"Konrad Kalejs should have been so clever", Visvi says. "Then he wouldn't be in the shit he's in now."
Both men nod. They've woken up at nights crying out sometimes. Dreamed they were in the Latvian forests. Dreamed they were standing in a large pit they had just dug. Dreamed they were naked. Covering their privates in the chill night air, staring up at the cold faces of the Simon Wiesenthal investigators. TV cameras pressing in behind them.
But they never shared that thought with each other.
"He was always too bold", says Karlis. "Claiming he had a letter from John Howard exonerating him!"
"He should have said Menzies", says Visvi. "No one would have thought to question that."
"Did he ever tell you how he got a job at Bonegilla in the identification section?", asks Karlis. "Gave out identification cards. Changed files for all his old comrades." He shakes his head in admiration. "But he never should have gone to America. He should have stayed here by the sea."
"But he became a millionaire", says Visvi.
"He didn't need to. We're all wealthy enough", says Karlis. "It wasn't the money. Any fool can become a millionaire selling real estate in America. He enjoyed the deception of it."
Karlis chuckles again. They'd both sold real estate in their early years in Australia. Like lambs to the slaughter they used to say.
"That's where he went wrong", says Karlis. "He should never have left Australia. If he'd stayed here, at the end of the world, no one would ever have found him."
"Joseph Mengele should have listened to you", Visvi says. "He wouldn't have had to live out his last years in poverty in South America then. He could have spent his time in some villa by the ocean in Queensland. Might even have run for state politics."
"But he was closer to the Fuhrer there."
They both laugh again. Never tired of the old jokes.
"Hey", says Karlis. "Have you heard the one about the Timorese militia man who applied for a visa to come to Australia?"
Visvi nods. Waiting for the punch line.
"He wrote on his form that he was a farm worker in Latvia between 1939 to 1945."
Visvi laughs, even though, over the years, he's heard the joke told about Kampucheans, Serbians, Rwandans.
"And here's the new bit", says Karlis, "The Australians let him into the country!"
And Visvi starts laughing louder. He laughs until his face turns red and he can't get the air into his lungs. Like he's choking. He leans forward on the chair, his fingers digging deeply into the arm rests. Tears in his eyes. And Karlis sees his friend fall off his chair and land heavily on his knees. As if praying for mercy.
And for the first time in many years Karlis feels fear. A fear of being alone in a hostile world. He wants to help his friend, but is frozen to the spot. Unable to do anything. He feels more vulnerably mortal than he has felt in decades.
"Nurse", Karlis calls feebly. His once strong voice a feeble whisper. But Visvi raises one hand to him, and takes a deep breath of air. After a few minutes is able to say, "It's all right."
But Karlis sits on the edge of his chair until his friend is seated again, is breathing normally again. Then Visvi says, "I feel like Christopher Skase", and starts laughing again. More carefully.
And Karlis smiles again. Then the two comrades sit in silence. Watch the shadows stretch out before them. Watch the sky slowly darken. This is their favourite time of the day. The evening of their life, they call it.
They could sit here forever like this, they sometimes tell each other. Sharing their thoughts. Clinging tightly to their arm chairs. Forever joking about their past. But forever trying not to think of their future.