Free Bettany's Book by Thomas Keneally Page A

Hitler’s cinematographer, took when – long after Hitler’s fall – she came to the southern Sudan and to the cattle camps of the Dinka as to the cantonments of an African herrenvolk . The ivory rings which Riefenstahl had found so photogenic, the beaded vests which virgins had worn and from which their breasts protruded, and the sharp-edged bangles which men used for wrestling – none of it was visible in Adi Hamit. Leni should photograph them now, in their dust-impregnated T-shirts dimly marked with the logos of U2, the Chicago Bears, Celtic Football Club, Manchester United or the San Diego Chargers. Good people in Pittsburgh or Liverpool collected these shirts rendered obsolete for Western purposes by changes in marketing, sponsorship, or design, and sent them to clothe the refugees. The lines of scarring on cheeks and foreheads remained though, and the forked scars worn in the flesh of the temples. These last, Prim knew from Leni’s book, represented the hooves of cattle – in the case of the people of Adi Hamit, lost, confiscated or slaughtered cattle.
    Even so early in her African career, Prim knew how such places as Adi Hamit ran – she had visited a number of them near the capital. The Sudanese government, having helped create this troublesome third citizenry of refugeeism, settled those fleeing from the South around half-viable wells hidden away from the towns, at a distance which allowed a dubious balance of care and of denial of responsibility. The Sudanese Commission of Refugees sent their army-fatigue wearing officers out toadminister the camps and the distribution of food within them. Some NGO might supply a nurse, another might finance a well or a midwife. UN tents arrived, but their number usually lagged behind the needs of the emergency. And so sky-blue plastic tarpaulins provided the roofs for stone and brush shelters, built more arduously here than amongst the plenteous grasses and rushes of the Dinka refugees’ native earth.
    A stone building with a corrugated iron roof sported a Red Cross on its door and in front the standard long bench provided for patients, and a seat by the side window. Sudanese being inoculated traditionally came up to windows beyond which sat doctors or nurses, and presented their arms to the needle. Stoner’s truck drew into the clinic building’s thin shade and Stoner, Prim and the midwife descended. Abuk stood smiling, her splendid long head bare now, its temples marked by lines of ritual scarring. Home, said her wide eyes, despite all she knew. Stoner said he had to go off – to pay respects to the Commission of Refugees official who lived at the food dump. Abuk was Austfam’s responsibility, and Prim walked with her, squinting, toward the doorway of the clinic. From the screened-off rear of the structure, a little haggard woman in brown shirt, pants and sandals appeared. ‘Mother of God, it’s darling Abuk,’ she cried. There were enthusiastic embracings, salutations in Dinka and Arabic, translated into English by the white woman, seemingly for the benefit of Prim.
    ‘Yes, you will move into the tent right there by the clinic. Your mother, your son too. And any fellow who wants to talk to you better talk to me first.’
    The clinic nurse turned to Prim and shook her hand vigorously. ‘Thanks. Thanks a million. A few of the women are pretty close to term, so she’ll be very handy indeed. I’m Therese by the way. And you’re Miss Bettany from this Austfam crowd. Where’s that miserable bugger Crouch?’
    Prim told the woman that Crouch had gone back to Australia and then to Cambodia. She was expecting a replacement.
    ‘Aren’t we all?’ asked Therese, hustling Prim and Abuk into the darkness of the clinic. The part-office, part-surgery was dim and had that coolness of a place where at least the heat was restful. In one corner stood her old-fashioned bulky radio transmitter. In the other white cabinets with red crosses upon them.
    ‘It’s good to see