Hitler's Daughter

to put it—you inherit your talents from your parents, but what you do with them is your own choice. And mostly kids do things their parents never thought of.’

‘So… so Pol Pot’s kids for example. They wouldn’t go round killing people?’

‘I don’t know if Pol Pot had any kids,’ said Mr McDonald.

‘But if he did?’

Mr McDonald hesitated. ‘Well, if they were in the Khmer Rouge—Pol Pot’s army—I suppose they might do the same sort of things. But if they were brought up somewhere else, then no, they probably wouldn’t do the same sort of things at all.’ Mr McDonald looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you ask Mark?’

‘I was just wondering,’ said Mark.

‘There isn’t any trouble at home is there?’ asked Mr McDonald carefully.

Suddenly Mark realised what he meant.

‘No! I mean, no, I’m not worried about Dad or anyone.’ Mark nearly laughed. As though Dad could do anything so wrong or evil that he’d be worried about it.

He thought quickly. ‘I saw something on Pol Pot on TV that’s all, and I wondered if he had a son and what he’d be like.’

‘Maybe he’d have decided to be a chef…or a banker…But he’d probably feel guilty and confused if he realised what his father had done,’ said Mr McDonald.

‘It wouldn’t be his fault, would it? All the murders his dad did?’

‘No,’ said Mr McDonald slowly. ‘It wouldn’t be his fault at all. Not unless he felt the same way as his dad did. Or maybe if he refused to face up to the evil things his dad had done… that would be wrong. If we don’t face up to things that were wrong in the past then we might do them again.’

‘Mr McDonald…’ Mark had another question, but he could see that Mr McDonald was getting impatient.

‘Yes, Mark?’

‘The things Hitler did, or Pol Pot… all that genocide stuff. I mean could they have ever thought they were right?’

Mr McDonald looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘Sometimes people think they are doing the right thing even when it is bad. But with Hitler and Pol Pot…I just don’t know. Maybe they did think what they were doing was good.’

‘But how can we know we’re doing the right thing?’ cried Mark.

Mr McDonald shrugged. ‘I can’t answer that either,’ he said a bit helplessly. ‘I’d have to think about it. How about you ask your parents or Father Steven next Sunday. Sorry if that doesn’t really answer your question. I had better go and grab some lunch before the bell goes. No more questions then?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No more questions. Thanks,’ added Mark.

He supposed Mr McDonald had at least tried to give him answers.

The thought pestered him all through afternoon school.

People should do what they thought was right. But what if what you thought was right, was wrong?

Doing what everyone else did was no help either. If there was one thing that all that Hitler stuff showed, it was that most of a whole country could be wrong.

Had everyone back then really thought about things? Had they looked at the evidence—the statistics and stuff like old Mrs Latter was always spouting on about—or did they just believe because they wanted to believe, because they wanted to…

‘Mark! Are you listening?’ demanded Mr McDonald.

‘Er… yes,’ said Mark.

‘Then look like it,’ ordered Mr McDonald. ‘Now if you turn to page…’

There had to be some answer, thought Mark, as he opened his work book.

Someone must have an answer somewhere.

chapter ten Friday Afternoon

The bus seemed slower than ever that afternoon. Even Mrs Latter seemed subdued, her grey hair limp under her hat, as though the argument that morning had used up all her energy.

The bus trundled through town, dropping off a couple of kids on the outskirts, then took the turnoff down to Wallaby Creek.

Mark watched the grey sky and the wet paddocks beyond. Feehan’s Swamp was like a mirror, dull silver reflecting bare willows and cold cows. Even the bitumen road looked a deeper grey.

He was sick of the rain. It wouldn’t be so bad if it actually did something, thought Mark, like a cyclone or a tornado or something. But this rain just sat there, as if it was too lazy to move. It wasn’t even proper rain any more. Just wet air, cold and bleak and boring.

‘Hey, did you get out the question on page seventy-six last night?’ demanded Bonzo beside him.

‘Sort of,’ said Mark.

‘I asked Mum, but she wasn’t any use at all. Didn’t parents ever learn anything at school? They can’t ever answer anything right.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mark.

Bonzo looked at him more closely.

‘Hey, are you alright?’

‘Sure.’ Mark sat up. Too much thinking, that’s what was wrong, he thought to himself.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ asked Bonzo.

Mark blinked. He’d forgotten it was Friday. That meant they couldn’t play The Game tomorrow morning. No more story till Monday.

Bonzo nudged him.

‘Dunno,’ said Mark. Maybe the three of them could meet on Saturday or something, he wondered. But of course everyone would think that was really odd. He and Anna hadn’t spent any time together since they played together as little kids, and as for Little Tracey…

‘We could go for a bike ride,’ said Bonzo. ‘Dad could put the bikes into the back of the ute when he goes up to town and we could ride back to my place.’

Mark shrugged. ‘Sure. If the rain stops, anyway.’

Bonzo gazed out the window. ‘It’s boring when it rains.’

‘Bonzo?’ asked Mark suddenly.

‘Mmmm?’ Bonzo was still staring out at the rain.

‘What would you do if someone wanted to start a… a sort of army around here?’

‘You mean all us kids drilling with rifles and things to attack invaders? It’d be cool.’

‘But… but what if it wasn’t invaders. I mean, say if it was a politician who started it all, like Hitler started the Brownshirts, and they wanted us to attack people they didn’t like…’ Mark stopped. He didn’t know how to explain.

‘Like who? I still think it’d be cool,’ said Bonzo. ‘Maybe New Zealand would invade us or UFOs and we’d have to fight them and all dress up in uniforms and maybe ambush them like on that show on TV.’

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ began Mark.

Anna would understand, he thought, his eyes on Anna in the seat in front. Anna really thought about things. All he had to do was nudge her, and say, ‘How about you and Little Tracey come down to my place tomorrow afternoon and you can finish the story.’

But it would be embarrassing. He knew he couldn’t do it.