Spirit House

by Mark Dapin

  They were dressed in black wetsuits and carrying surfboards. The tallest smiled excitedly at Jimmy, and asked, ‘Could you please say the way to Bondi Beach?’

  Jimmy rubbed his chin, then looked up at the clouds. The Japanese surfers followed his eyes.

  ‘First, you’ll have to cross the road,’ he said.

  A garbage truck bellowed down towards the sea. Jimmy motioned them to step out in front of it.

  ‘Quick!’ said Jimmy. ‘Speedo! Speedo!’

  But the surfers held back until it had passed. They trailed Jimmy across the street, to the bus stop near Greco’s.

  ‘Now,’ said Jimmy, ‘you’ve come a fair bit out of your way, I’m sorry to say. You’ll have to take the next bus back to Central Station.’

  ‘But the driver –’ protested the taller boy.

  ‘Didn’t know anything, mate,’ said Jimmy. ‘Probably just got off the boat.’

  The 380 bus came crying up the hill.

  ‘Quick,’ said Jimmy. ‘Jump on! Speedo!’

  The surfers climbed on board and headed west towards the city.

  Greco’s walls were decorated with a mosaic of blue and white tiles, which made pictures of the sea god Poseidon, a mud crab, and a Greek flag. We joined a short line and ordered two battered gemfish. Jimmy pointed out a poster of whitewashed villas looking out to the Mediterranean, on the wall behind the counter.

  ‘This shop used to be owned by a Jewish bloke,’ he told me. ‘A fat fella who came out from the East End. They called him Alfie the Eel, because they were supposed to eat jellied eels in Stepney, but he didn’t sell eels in Australia. You can’t get them, and nobody wants them.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, though,’ said Jimmy, still staring at the poster of the Greek island, ‘Alfie was born and bred in London, but he didn’t paper his takeaway with pictures of Nelson’s Column. A lot of the shops along here used to be Hungarian, or German or Polish Jewish, but you didn’t see the Danube or the Rhine or the bloody Baltic Sea on the walls. They used to say the Jews had no loyalty to the places they lived, but they didn’t spend all their time dreaming of going back where they came from, unlike every other bugger who stepped off at Circular Quay. All you see in our shops is postcards of the Dome on the Rock, a bloody mosque.

  ‘Everybody loves Israel these days,’ said Jimmy, ‘but nobody wants to go and live there.’

  A Greek sold us our fish and chips in foam boxes with plastic knifes and forks wrapped in paper napkins. Jimmy liked to have pickles with his chips, but they only had vinegar at Greco’s. Jimmy squeezed the plastic bottle so it spurted like a hose.

  The chips were crunchy, hollower than I remembered. I used to come to Greco’s with Dad. When Shabbes was out, we’d drive to Bondi and buy a bag of fresh bagels, and stop on the way home to pick up a fish dinner. I didn’t understand what had happened to those days, and why I couldn’t have them still.

  ‘He’s a good bloke, your dad,’ said Jimmy. ‘I wish he’d come around.’

  ‘He’s too embarrassed,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not him that should be embarrassed,’ said Jimmy.

  Dad didn’t drink but he used to see Jimmy for a frame of snooker on a Sunday, and they’d talk about football and cricket, and me and Daniel, and business and the news. Dad stopped coming to the Club when Mum left him for the Dark Man. He thought everyone would laugh at him, but really they were all sad for him, and would only laugh if they went down to the car park and saw the stupid yellow car he’d bought.

  ‘I lost a son-in-law,’ said Jimmy, ‘with everything else.’

  ‘Everyone’s still here,’ I told him. ‘You’ve just got to start talking to each other again.’

  He pulled down his cap.

  ‘When’s your dad coming to pick you up?’ he asked. ‘I need to have a word with him about the window frames.’

  I wondered if he was joking.

  ‘I’m staying with you,’ I told him.

  ‘He might be able to tell me what kind of glue to use,’ said Jimmy. ‘Your dad knows that kind of thing.’ He smiled to himself. ‘The boring cunt.’

  Jimmy finished his chips and threw the box into the bin.

  ‘Time to go to the Club,’ he said.

  ‘We’ve just been there,’ I told him.

  Jimmy looked at his watch, which he hadn’t put on that morning.

  ‘I’m supposed to be meeting your father,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ I told him.

  ‘Oh, Saturday,’ said Jimmy. ‘A day of rest for the Jewish people, but business as usual for the mahouts.’

  He crossed Bondi Road carefully, looking both ways for elephants.

  ‘They must be Mohammedans or something,’ he said.

  *

  By the time we got back home Jimmy had forgotten about my dad and the mahouts and was back in the story about Townsville Jack.

  ‘Once Bathurst Billy had gone,’ said Jimmy, ‘I lost interest in everything. I still wanted to live, but not there and not then. I let my mind go back to evenings with Mei-Li on the blanket on the beach, and I wouldn’t talk to the other blokes because they weren’t there.

  ‘I didn’t work and I didn’t eat. I was angry with the army. I thought maybe if Callaghan had let us sign their piece of paper, the Japs might have gone easier on Bathurst Billy. But I wasn’t mad enough to die just to spite Callaghan, and you can only live in a dream for so long. One day my beautiful Mei-Li disappeared for me and Townsville Jack came back, as big and ugly as before but a little bit changed inside. Townsville Jack was only ever on the edge of being in the army, and the thing with Bathurst Billy pushed him over. He refused to go on parade, then he refused to be punished. I went along with him because I just didn’t care. We were walking through the camp, not doing anything we’d been ordered to do, when I had to dash to the dunnies. On my way back I saw Townsville Jack had walked past Callaghan, dressed in his pressed shorts and shiny shoes, and not bothered to salute him.

  ‘“You!” shouted Callaghan. “Soldier!”

  ‘Townsville Jack didn’t look around, because he didn’t think he was one.

  ‘Callaghan jogged up to him, still shouting.

  ‘“Step back,” he ordered, “and salute me.”

  ‘Townsville Jack cocked his head, and looked at Callaghan as if he’d gone berko.

  ‘“Do you know who I am?” asked Callaghan.

  ‘“An Australian prisoner of war,” said Townsville Jack.

  ‘“I am the commanding officer of Australian troops in Changi,” he said. “You salute the bloody Nips, so you’ll salute me.”

  ‘“I salute the Nips,” said Townsville Jack, “because if I don’t, they’ll beat my brains out with a bamboo pole.”

  ‘“Well, if you don’t salute me,” said Callaghan, “I’ll tear your head off with my bare hands.”

  ‘Townsville Jack almost squared up, but left his fists hanging by his sides.

  ‘“I’ve never seen an officer do anything with his bare hands,” he said.

  ‘Callaghan stepped forward – he was always game, I’ll give him that – but Sergeant Major Ramsay jumped between them. He told Townsville Jack he was on a charge. Townsville Jack let himself be arrested just to find out what would happen.

  ‘I came too, in case he needed a lawyer, or a cabinet maker. Ramsay and Snowy White escorted Townsville Jack to the orderly room, where Callaghan was already hearing charges against other prisoners who had been caught growing their hair or owning shoes.

  ‘An orderly clerk typed out the charge against him, that “contrary to good order and military discipline, he had refused to salute an officer”.

  ‘Callaghan asked Townsville Jack a lot of questions about awareness, like was he aware that he was still subject to military discipline, and was he aware that a soldier salutes the King’s Commission, not the bearer of the rank, and was he aware that any problem he might have with any individual officer in the room had no bearing on his responsibility to behave lik
e a soldier?

  ‘Townsville Jack told him he didn’t have a problem with any individual officer in the room, but he didn’t plan on behaving like a soldier now that he’d surrendered, because there wasn’t any soldiering to do any more.

  ‘“Were you conscripted into the army?” Callaghan asked. “Were you coerced? Did you, for instance, fall asleep in a dockside pub and wake to find yourself chained up in the hold of a troopship heading for Singapore?”

  ‘Townsville Jack shook his head.

  ‘“Well, in that case, you signed up for this. When the army says “fight”, you fight. When the army says “stop”, you stop. There’s one big war going on here, Private, not eighty-five thousand little ones. You signed up to serve your country, and that’s what you’re doing if you obey the orders of your commanding officer.”

  ‘“How does this serve my country?” asked Townsville Jack.

  ‘“It maintains the dignity and cohesion of her armed forces,” said Callaghan, “enabling them to preserve their fighting strength and capability for the next occasion it is called upon – which, please God, won’t be before too long.

  ‘“You may be a prisoner, Private,” said Callaghan, “but I am not.”

  ‘“So go home, then,’ said Townsville Jack. “Go back to your wife.”

  ‘Callaghan tapped his pen on the pad on his desk.

  ‘“Do you know why I am not a prisoner?” asked Callaghan. “Because I’m still doing my duty. I’m preparing for the day when we’re all going to rise up and kick these Jap bastards off the island. Now, how do you plead to the charge?”

  ‘“Not guilty,” said Townsville Jack.

  ‘“Very well,” said Callaghan. “The court finds the defendant guilty as charged.”

  ‘Townsville Jack shrugged.

  ‘“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” asked Callaghan.

  ‘Townsville Jack shrugged again.

  ‘“I have spoken with the commanding officer of your unit,” said Callaghan. “He says you have an exemplary record in combat.”

  ‘Each time Townsville Jack shrugged, the movement of his shoulders was smaller.

  ‘“Why are you not billeted with the rest of your unit?” asked Callaghan.

  ‘“You’ll have to ask them,” said Townsville Jack.

  ‘“Two-shilling fine,” said Callaghan. “Dismissed.”

  ‘Townsville Jack got a name as a ratbag agitator,’ said Jimmy, ‘but he never agitated for anything as far as I can remember. He just wanted to be left alone to run his own race.

  ‘Eventually we settled down to life in Changi, because you get used to anything if it goes on long enough. We were bored and hungry and worried for our families. We spent most of our waking time waiting for letters that never came, that banked up in some Jap sorting office in a queue to be censored, so by the time you got a card telling you your brother was still alive, he was probably dead.

  ‘The Japs started paying blokes for working, and paying officers for doing nothing. I scrounged a few tools and the odd bit of wood, and set myself up as a cabinet maker, and every now and then a fella would come in and ask for something you’d never’ve thought anyone could want in a prison camp, like a sewing box or a footstool.

  ‘Either the concert party got better or even I got used to it, because I started looking forward to their music nights. The yodelling cowboy came down with beri-beri and, when he’d recovered, he’d lost his yodel, which almost restored my faith in God. But Townsville Jack kept me entertained more than any bloody comedian. He had a thousand yarns about larrikins and knockabouts, and blues and sheilas and the time he’d woken up naked in the nick, with a copper’s teeth in his knuckle and the smell of copper’s wife on his balls.

  ‘“Who was the copper?” I asked.

  ‘“A Townsville jack,” said Townsville Jack.

  ‘Christmas came and we were still behind barbed wire. The cooks made the best of it and gave us a baked dinner made of rice and Christmas pudding made of rice. They tasted like rice, but at least they looked a bit different. The Jews in the camp had Chanukah – it’s funny, but nobody ever said, “We’ll be home by Chanukah” – and Katz turned up to paint them.

  ‘There were about forty Aussie Jews, and one or two others who never declared themselves, but they had that look, you know. I think there were three hundred Pommy Yids, and a few Sephardic Dutch who’d been captured in Java.

  ‘Katz asked me to go along, and I didn’t have anything else to do that year. Myer was the usher – I hadn’t met him until then – and the service was led by a dentist. It’s funny, I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere there wasn’t a Jewish dentist, but I’ve never met a Jew with good teeth. There were Jewish doctors in Changi too, and a lawyer and an accountant – but those two weren’t officers and they died on the line. They’re not real jobs, you see. They don’t help men stay alive. Be a doctor, David. If the worst happens, a doctor’s always got a chance. But there’s no point being a lawyer, because you can’t argue with God. That’s where the Jewish people go wrong. They’re always trying to talk Him around.

  ‘I sat with a Pommy gunner called Raphael, who’d been a mathematician before the war. He used to play chess in his head, so he could’ve been anywhere – in Changi or walking on the Yorkshire Moors. We lit candles made from paraffin, and ate rice latkes, then danced and sang ‘Ma’oz Tzur’. I’m not a religious man, but I’ve had worse nights – although none of them were outside Changi.

  ‘The Japs never interfered with religious services. They never interfered much at all. They were too busy winning the bloody war. We had an idea what was going on because some of our blokes made radios. They hid them in walls and water bottles and called them “canaries” because they sang. The batteries were “birdseed”, bad news was “birdshit”. There was a lot of birdshit in that first year in Changi. We heard about the Blitz in London and the Siege of Sevastopol, Rommel at Tobruk and the Russians in the Crimea.

  ‘When the news wasn’t birdshit, it was bullshit. When you listened to Allied radio stations, you’d think the world was upside down, that the Japs had been driven back to Singapore from Darwin, and the fact that we’d all been captured was a trick to get behind Jap lines and eat all their bloody rice.

  ‘But rations were very short in the camp by then. Blokes started taking bigger risks for less. There was a craze for committing suicide, and four blokes in one barracks necked themselves in a week. It was against King’s Regulations, but the officers couldn’t figure out how to punish it.

  ‘My last cabinet-making commission was to make a chess set for Raphael, but I never saw him use it. By that time, he preferred to imagine the board. We might’ve made a quid here and there, but me and Townsville Jack were losing weight like everybody else. He had a thing for pies: when it rained, he used to make them out of mud, then line them up in a row to bake in the sun.

  ‘So when we heard the Japs were looking for volunteers for a building project, there were blokes fighting to put down their names. They had the idea that it might be a special offer, a once-only thing, and the Nips would never find anything else for us to do, so they’d leave us all in Changi to starve. The IJA were a bit sketchy on details, but they promised there’d be good weather and well-equipped hospitals, light work and plenty of holidays, and every bloody camp would have a concert party.

  ‘There was a rumour that we were going to build a railway through Thailand to Burma, along a route that’d been surveyed by British engineers who’d decided the whole thing was impossible. But there were also rumours that we were going to be traded with Australia for sheep and that Jesus Christ was coming back on a bike.

  ‘It seems funny when you look back on it now, but we thought the men who didn’t volunteer were bludgers, shirkers, afraid of hard work. The fit men were burning up to get a place on the line. They held sprint races to decide who would go. You couldn’t hold them back. Even the sick begged to be taken along.

  ‘When you’re already a pr
isoner, you don’t believe things can get much worse. What else can they take away from you? We never thought they might take our arms and legs.

  ‘Snowy White’s understanding of the Japanese mind made him decide to sign up. It was obvious why they didn’t set much stay by feeding blokes when we were just prisoners living the life of Riley, growing vegetables and racing frogs and listening to yodelling bloody cowboys, when their own men were fighting and dying in Burma. Why would they waste their resources doing any more than keeping us alive according to their international obligations – Snowy was very well up on the Japs’ international obligations – when we were eating rice that could’ve gone to their soldiers? In Changi we were useless to their war effort. But if we were working, they’d have to feed us, obviously, because nobody could be expected to build a railway on three cups of rice a day. If they didn’t keep us fit, they’d just work us to bloody death, and what would be the point of that? You had to look at it from their side. You had to think what you’d do in their position.

  ‘We weren’t just navvies, either. We had professional blokes, tradesmen, skilled engineers, everyone you’d need to build a railway, and we came from the country that had given trains to the world (he meant England). We’d be their logistics, their supply line, as important to their infantry as guns and grenades and those bloody silly boots. They’d probably put us on Japanese army rations and they’d certainly give us our Red Cross parcels.

  ‘As usual, our officers had the good oil on the railway work too. The Japs weren’t going to work us like slaves and starve us to death because that didn’t make economic sense. Everyone liked this argument. We were all economists all of a sudden.

  ‘Katz knew he wasn’t going to a holiday camp. “It’ll be a graveyard,” he said. But he was a gloomy bugger and nobody took much notice of him. He was only an artist, and what would they know? But he wanted to go anyway, because he’d had enough of Changi. He’d got camp life down on paper, he reckoned, and now it was time to see something else, to do his duty to the Australian War Memorial.