The Long Journey Home

by Cecily Blench

  ‘Are there any seats available?’

  ‘We can find you one,’ he said, swatting at a fly.

  ‘You can?’ she said disbelievingly.

  ‘Later today, or tomorrow perhaps – once the old and sick have gone – as far as Dinjan or Dibrughar in Assam. Are you travelling alone?’

  ‘No, with a Burmese woman, a government employee. Shall I write our names down?’

  He shook his head. ‘The only seats available are for Europeans, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘I don’t make the rules, miss,’ he said wearily. ‘Your friend will have to stay here for now – she may get a seat when all the Europeans have been taken. Could be a while, though. If you want the seat, fill this form in.’

  Kate stared at the paper in his hand and found herself backing away. ‘I’ll come back later.’ He shrugged and turned to the next person in the queue.

  As she strode out of the hut, Kate felt a bubbling rage seeping through her body. Most of her anger was directed at herself; she should have foreseen this. It was how things had always been, yet suddenly it seemed an outrage that Myia’s life might be worth less than hers simply by a chance of birth. For a brief moment she had been tempted to take the seat but knew that she would not be able to live with herself. There had to be another way.

  ‘What is it?’ said Myia as she returned.

  ‘No seats,’ said Kate shortly. ‘Not for some time, they say.’

  Myia nodded, observing her closely, but said nothing. The next plane approached not long after. Once again the runway was cleared as it circled and finally came in to land; again the crowds of people flocked around it.

  Kate watched a tall young man run towards the plane, carrying a baby and pulling a small girl along behind him by the hand. The child was stumbling and lolling and was obviously sick. They vanished into the crowd.

  It looked like chaos from a distance, but there seemed to be some sort of organisation to the madness. People were shuffling around, presumably being given orders, and occasionally figures could be seen ascending the steps and entering the aeroplane, many of them carrying or dragging others.

  She saw the man emerge from the crowd. He was now alone. Were his children crammed into that little plane without their parents, bound for a mysterious country? How would he find them again?

  He waited alone on the edge of the crowd until the engines started and then slowly walked away, glancing back often at the scene behind him, sometimes waving, in the hope that his children might see. As he passed a few yards away from her, Kate saw that he was wiping his eyes on his sleeve, his face scrunched with misery and relief.

  The noise of the plane grew louder and the crowds were once again moving away from the runway, knowing that their time had not yet come. Kate, still watching the young father with pity in her heart, felt a nudge from Myia.

  ‘Look.’

  ‘What?’

  She peered towards where her friend was pointing. In the sky to the south a black shape was growing larger by the second, a whining noise getting louder.

  ‘Is it the Japanese?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Myia, squinting, and Kate looked around wildly at the people on the airfield. Others were starting to notice and shouts broke out as frightened people began to stream in all directions, running this way and that as they sought to guess where the first attack might fall. The airfield had no shelter except for a few ramshackle huts in the distance and a series of protective trenches, set well back from the landing strip.

  There was hardly time to panic. In less than a minute the plane was upon them, followed swiftly by another, and Kate and Myia crouched instinctively as the shadows passed over them. The sound had stopped; they seemed to be gliding silently, like birds of prey.

  There was a wail nearby, and Kate saw the young man looking around in horror and disbelief, clutching his face as he watched the plane above him heading towards the runway where his children sat. Then he began to run.

  ‘It’s too late,’ said Kate, ‘it’s too late!’ Looking up, she saw the shape of the plane almost directly overhead. There was the faint sound of gunfire now – the soldiers on the airfield had obviously started firing, but the plane was huge and it seemed absurd that men with guns could do anything to stop it.

  As if in a dream Kate saw the man running hard towards the runway, could almost feel the straining of his lungs as he hurled himself along, the blood beating in his ears. He was twenty yards from the British plane when the firing started, a furious rattle of machine gun fire that instantly punched holes in the wings and body of the aircraft. People all around were running, mostly away from the plane, but he and a few others went towards it, their grief and anger driving them on.

  But it was already beginning to burn, a thick plume of smoke rising into the air, a creaking noise coming from somewhere. The man was almost upon it when the plane exploded, sending smoke and burning metal into the sky, making the earth tremble.

  Kate found herself thrown backwards, the force of it like nothing else she had known. Winded, she lay on her back, her ears ringing, and idly watched the smoke drift upwards.

  24

  Magway Region, May 1942

  Edwin sat in darkness in the back of the truck as it bumped along, feeling another man’s shoulder jolting against his each time they hit a rough patch in the road. He could not remember the faces of the men around him.

  A few days into their walk he and Patrick had fallen in with two Indian families, also heading west. One night, sleeping in a damp barn a hundred miles west of Mandalay, they were violently awoken by a great shouting and the door banged open. His heart beating wildly, he watched as a dozen Japanese soldiers appeared.

  They had been betrayed by nearby villagers who had seen them arrive the night before. Edwin and the three other men were taken outside, hearing the howls of fear from the women and children left behind. The soldiers tied their hands, pushed them into a truck that was already half-full of prisoners, and suddenly the escape from Burma was over.

  How long they drove for, none of them could say. They were allowed out of the van occasionally to relieve themselves and given water but no food. At last the truck stopped and they were left for hours, listening to muffled voices in the distance.

  Finally, after nightfall, they were released. Edwin clambered out of the truck, his eyes struggling to focus. They were in a dusty yard, edged on one side with rough buildings and on the others with a tall wire fence.

  They were locked in an empty room with a high ceiling. Water was brought, and then a platter of glutinous rice to share, which they wolfed down. Then they were left in darkness.

  ‘What do you think they will do to us?’ asked one of the men in the blackness of the room.

  ‘They will kill us,’ his friend replied flatly, his voice sounding strained.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Patrick, somewhere to Edwin’s left. ‘I think they will keep us prisoner.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘They may make us work. When Singapore fell they took thousands of men prisoner. The rumour is that they are using forced labour to build new roads and railways in Siam.’

  ‘But will they do that in Burma?’ asked the first man doubtfully. ‘What use is Burma to them?’

  ‘It’s the road to India.’

  ‘What of our families?’ the questioner asked. No one replied and he said heatedly, ‘Perhaps they are already dead!’

  ‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘No, they can’t be.’

  But Edwin thought of the rumours he had heard about the fall of Singapore and Malaya and felt a surge of horror. He recalled the story of a group of Australian nurses who had been ordered by the Japanese to walk out into the sea, away from the shore, and who were then shot in the back as they struggled through the surf. For a moment he thought of Kate and was reassured to think she was probably somewhere safer by now, though his dreams that night were of blood washing up on a sandy beach, a woman’s shoe b
obbing empty in the shallows.

  *

  Edwin was already awake when the Japanese returned early the next morning. The door was opened with a scraping of bolts and he saw two young soldiers standing outside, another group further along the corridor.

  He recognised the nearest one as the translator of the day before. He looked more like a student than a soldier, his eyes gentle behind round spectacles, his black hair parted in the middle. He stepped forward and grasped Edwin by the shoulder.

  ‘You come with us, Mr Clear.’

  Too tired and frightened to resist, or to wonder why he was being singled out, Edwin found himself being marched through corridors between the soldiers, who did not speak any further.

  They reached a door and, after knocking, the men pushed Edwin into the room. Behind a large desk sat another soldier. The man, close to middle age, sported a row of medals and was clearly deeply respected by the younger men, who had both bowed upon entering.

  He spoke in Japanese, and the translator immediately relayed his words in English.

  ‘Major Sakai says welcome, Mr Edwin Clear. He hopes you had a pleasant journey and good sleep.’

  Edwin looked incredulously between the two men, but the only thing he could say was, ‘How does he know my name?’

  He half expected someone to hit him, but the young translator bowed his head and spoke to Sakai in Japanese. The older man shrugged and lifted a suitcase onto the table. Edwin recognised it as his own.

  He watched Major Sakai lift his belongings out of the case and lay them out on the table. There was little of interest in there, he thought, until he saw the map being unrolled. He remembered shoving it in there when he and Patrick had abandoned the car. Sakai examined it for a moment and held it up.

  ‘Major Sakai says what is your profession?’

  ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘That is why you are in Burma?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Edwin. It was not quite the truth, but somehow being a teacher seemed safer than being a government employee – and after all he had been a teacher once. It seemed a long time ago.

  ‘You are soldier?’

  ‘No – a teacher. As I said.’

  ‘Have you ever been soldier?’

  ‘No.’

  Major Sakai shook his head and looked irritated.

  ‘Why you have this map?’

  ‘We were trying to get to India.’

  ‘It is government map. Why you have it?’

  ‘I borrowed it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I could get to India.’ Edwin felt himself sweating heavily. He had no idea what they wanted of him and he worried that even with few secrets to tell he would somehow say the wrong thing.

  The major growled something in Japanese and the translator said, ‘You are spy.’

  ‘What? Of course not. I’m a civilian. I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Who are the other men with you?’

  ‘Friends.’

  ‘More spies?’

  ‘Civilians. Men with wives and children. You saw them.’ Edwin felt his heart thudding. ‘Where are their families?’

  ‘That is not your concern. They are safe.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  But they would say no more on the subject. They questioned him further and Edwin could see they were dissatisfied with his answers, but he knew he didn’t look much like a spy. It was only the map that had made them suspicious.

  When they grew impatient, he was pushed face first against a wall, his heart pounding, hearing shouting behind him, then he felt the agony of a heavy stick slashing down, over and over, against his back. More questions were barked at him, but he could not provide any different answers and at last the beating stopped. His back throbbed and stung and he could feel blood seeping into his shirt.

  He was sent back to the cell and, a little later, Patrick was taken out. He reappeared after two hours, hobbling, his nose broken and bleeding profusely.

  ‘What happened?’ whispered Edwin, aghast, as Patrick sank onto the floor beside him.

  ‘They found my papers,’ he muttered. ‘There wasn’t much of anything useful, but it was enough to make them suspicious. They beat the back of my legs and my spine, trying to make me give something up. I asked them if they’d heard of the Geneva Conventions but that just made them angrier.’

  The next day they were put in separate rooms. Edwin heard the two Indian men being taken away for interrogation, but he did not hear them return to their cells. The day after that he was taken outside by one of the soldiers, who manacled his hands.

  Squinting in the bright sunlight, he was led across the yard and made to climb into the back of a waiting truck, where an elderly priest and two young British soldiers already waited. His manacles were chained to the floor and they were left alone.

  ‘Where are they taking us?’

  ‘South,’ said the old man. He was short of breath and looked unwell. ‘One of them told me we were going to a labour camp somewhere south of Rangoon.’ His accent was Scottish.

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘What others?’ said one of the boys.

  ‘I came with three other men.’

  ‘They’ll probably be sent elsewhere,’ said the boy. ‘We arrived with half of our battalion last week and we’ve all been separated.’

  Edwin slumped against the side of the truck, hardly feeling the pain of the raw wounds on his back. More prisoners arrived, but he recognised none of them as they were pushed into the truck to join the rest. He watched three Japanese soldiers conferring and then two of them climbed into the front seats and the engine started.

  ‘I wonder what will happen to them,’ he said, almost to himself.

  The young soldier who had spoken shrugged, but the other leaned forward earnestly. ‘Sorry to say, mate, but I think you’d better forget about the others. Think of yourself. That’s all any of us can do now.’

  Edwin hardly knew anything about Patrick, knew nothing of the other two men except that they had families, and it suddenly seemed horribly unlikely that he would ever see them again. The truck rattled along. Through the glare on his spectacles he could see distant hills and, closer to the road, a patch of bright flowers in a field nearby. He closed his eyes and felt the metal burning the back of his neck.

  25

  London, April 1941

  It had been six months since the man in the West End had taken him inside and handed him a drink before getting down on his knees and reaching for Edwin’s trouser buttons. Edwin had stayed until the early hours, until the drink had begun to wear off, as had his desire.

  But he had gone back, once, twice, three times each month, prowling the dangerous, darkened streets of the West End and Soho, going further and learning more about himself each time. It was urgent, fumbling, sometimes rough, but more often surprisingly tender.

  It was astonishing to find this hidden world, populated by men just like him. Most of them wanted sex and nothing more, but occasionally he met a man who wanted to talk. They would share a few brief confidences and, in the dark, he heard the longing, the guilt about their families, the regret at having always to stay hidden, heard it mirrored in his own voice. Then the shame descended and he would hurry home.

  He had told Emilia that he was teaching extra classes for university applicants on the nights he was out and he wondered how much of it she believed.

  ‘How are the boys doing?’ she asked, as they sat opposite one another, eating the supper she had made. Edwin thought of the previous night’s liaison, with a boy who could not have been more than twenty, and felt a surge of nausea.

  ‘Oh, fine. Fine. How was your day?’

  ‘A bit horrid, actually,’ said Emilia, taking a forkful of fish pie. ‘Someone shouted at me in the street.’

  ‘Shouted at you?’ Edwin could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. How quickly they had become used to this new normal. London was under attack and here they sat, eating supper.

&n
bsp; ‘The usual abuse. He’d obviously come to Golders Green to find Jews to shout at. I heard him bellow at someone else further down the street. The war seems to be bringing home-grown fascists out of the woodwork.’ She paused, waiting for a reply, and then shrugged and went on with her meal. ‘I suppose they’ll be delighted when Hitler has bombed London out of existence.’

  Edwin thought of the end of the war. In his mind there was no doubt that the Allies would win. But what will happen to us, he wondered, now watching Emilia quietly eating her supper. What will we do? She sipped from the glass of wine by her plate. She was drinking more these days. Wine was scarce, but Emilia’s father sometimes brought them a bottle, and while previously it might have lain untouched for weeks, now she opened it almost immediately.

  ‘I had a letter from Adam. He’s in Port Sudan now. The fighting sounds rather fierce there at the moment but I suppose he’ll be all right . . . Edwin?’

  He tried to wrench his thoughts away from the secrets that were piled up inside him and thought of Emilia’s brother, far away, fighting in the desert. Adam would do more to protect her than he ever could.

  She had put down her knife and fork and was watching him. Her eyes looked red. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Edwin, what is it? Won’t you talk to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I feel anxious and distracted all the time. I suppose it’s the bombing.’ He kissed her cheek, feeling her relax a little against his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He wanted to tell her, more than anything, but knew he never could. Sometimes the guilt rose in his throat and he felt that he must say something or burst, but he could think of no words that were adequate for the task. He wondered if she was happy. He loved her, but it wasn’t enough.

  Sometimes, as he wandered through Soho at midnight and heard the sirens begin to howl, he wished that a bomb would fall and kill him and save both of them from a life of loneliness and deception.

  But over and over he escaped the gaze of the Luftwaffe and went home tired and ashamed, until suddenly there were no more nights left and he was standing in a quiet street in Golders Green as the smoke rose above what had once been his life.