After Darkness

by Christine Piper

  I walked downhill for a few minutes, until I saw the guard booth at a fork in the path. I showed my letter from Kimura confirming the appointment, and after the guard checked his schedule, he directed me to a two-storey building at the end of the narrower walkway. The building was different to the others at the college: it was designed in the modern style, with a thick concrete exterior and a line of gleaming glass windows along all sides. The foyer was dimly lit, and carpeted with grey pile that gave way slightly with each step. Glass cabinets displayed photos of various army personnel, ministers and members of the imperial family. The receptionist told me to take a seat. I settled into one of the armchairs, the stiff leather sighing beneath me. After several minutes, I was directed to the second floor.

  I had pictured Major Kimura as a version of my microbiology professor: dishevelled with wild, unkempt hair. But he was nothing like that. He had a compact, well-defined frame. I know that he was in his late forties, but he had the air of someone much older than that. From his carefully combed hair to the sheen of the buttons on his uniform, no detail was out of place. Despite his academic standing, I realised I had been wrong to imagine him to be like one of my other professors; he was every inch the military man.

  Before I had finished bowing and introducing myself, Kimura called me forward and gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk. He held my documents in front of him in one hand, and with the other flicked through the layers. The stiff paper crackled, and I was embarrassed by their cheap quality.

  ‘So, Ibaraki Tomokazu. Top in your class in anatomy and physiology . . . ah, and microbiology, too, I see. Good.’

  He took the bundle in both hands, tapped the bottom edge once on the table and then laid the papers flat. He arranged his hands in a loose clasp on top of the pile. His fingernails were neatly kept: thin white crescents atop perfectly uniform pink ovals. I tried not to stare at them.

  ‘Professor Endo says you were one of his best students. Coming from him, I know that is no small honour. You certainly have impressive academic results—they alone are reason enough for me to employ you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘If I were merely looking to take you on as another junior doctor at the hospital, there would be no question—I would give you the job. But I am recruiting for a new research division, one that demands certain qualities in an employee. And these qualities I cannot determine from papers alone.’ He tapped the bundle with the tips of his fingers. ‘First, I want to know whether you will be a loyal employee; and, second, whether you will exercise discretion. Discretion, Ibaraki—do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course.’

  ‘And how do you suggest I determine that from our meeting here?’

  I lifted my eyes. His gaze was hollow. I opened my mouth, ready to declare my loyalty and discretion, but thought better of it. They would merely be words, and I felt that that was precisely what Kimura didn’t want. After a few seconds, Kimura sighed and leaned back in his chair, turning his eyes towards the ceiling. It appeared my silence had disappointed him.

  ‘How old are you, Ibaraki?’ he asked. ‘Twenty-four, twenty-five?’

  ‘Twenty-six, sir.’

  ‘Twenty-six?’ he said sharply, his gaze snapping back to me.

  ‘My father died when I was seventeen. I had to help my family.’

  Kimura’s lips twitched, but his expression did not change. ‘So, you are twenty-six. I ask myself: what does a twenty-six-year-old know about loyalty and discretion? For most young men, not much. Maybe he is loyal to his family, maybe he has seen his father go to war, seen him come back changed. But discretion? Few at that age have had the chance to understand it—truly understand it, as it’s not just about keeping a secret from one’s friends. Discretion takes time to show itself. How will a person conduct himself in ten, twenty years’ time? That’s what I need to know. But for me, it is almost impossible to judge.’

  The interview was not going well. I had hardly said anything, but I felt he had already formed an opinion of me from my appearance and from the papers on his desk, and I was powerless to change it. I thought about pointing out my loyalty to Endo in pursuing a career he had introduced me to, and somehow alluding to the discretion I had had to exercise in the wake of my father’s death, when my family had suffered financially. But then I realised he was right—there was no use trying to prove myself. To attempt to prove I was discreet would itself be an act of indiscretion.

  Kimura leaned forward. ‘Ibaraki, why do you want to work for me?’

  I straightened in the chair. I had prepared an answer to this question. It was my chance to redeem myself in his eyes.

  ‘Since I was in my first year of university I have wanted to work for the Army Medical Hospital. Not only is it at the forefront of scientific developments, it would be an honour to serve His Imperial Majesty—’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no—you are telling me why you want to work for the army, not why you want to work for me.’

  I was stumped. I had not thought of an answer as to why I wanted to work under Kimura personally. Flustered, I tried to frame a credible response. ‘Well, because it is my dream to work under such an accomplished leader as you—to learn from your scientific rigour, and to follow your example.’

  ‘Yes, that is what I thought.’ His voice was soft. His hands, which had been clasped before him, now spread out flat on my papers in a gesture of finality. ‘That will be all. If I offer you the position, you will hear from me within a month. If you don’t receive a letter, you’ll know you haven’t been given the job.’

  I was crestfallen. My answer hadn’t pleased him. I tried to hide my disappointment as I thanked him for his time and said that it had been an honour to meet him. All the while, I was worried about what I would say to my mother. I got up to leave.

  ‘Wait.’

  I stopped at the doorway and turned.

  He was looking at one of my documents, frowning. ‘Your father was Ibaraki Shuichiro? The surgeon at Tokyo Hospital?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I knew him. I worked for him when I was an intern. Why didn’t you mention he was your father?’ A change had come over his face. The hard expression of seconds before had opened with curiosity.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t want to be indiscreet.’

  He looked thoughtful. His lips were pressed together, as if they held the germ of an idea. ‘Well, then, as I said, you will hear from me within a month if I decide to offer you a position.’ He dismissed me with a nod of his head.

  Loveday

  1942

  The kerosene lamp coated everything in a dirty yellow light. The aluminium plates, bowls and saucepans took on a dark sheen. Even the men who washed, chopped and stirred around me appeared almost black. Pale light crept through the open door and shutters but was too weak to reach the bench tops where we prepared breakfast. We jostled for space in the cramped kitchen. Between the chatter of the men, the burble of boiling water and the rhythmic thump of knives against wood, I caught snatches of a song. The voice of one of the old divers at the stove threaded through the din as he alternately hummed and sang an old folk tune. ‘No need to work through the night . . . Thinking of my home town, I talk to my loved ones in my dreams.’ He ladled beaten egg into the frying pan. It hissed, sending up a cloud of steam.

  Our row of tents was rostered to prepare breakfast for everyone in the compound once a week. I’d never been much of a cook—in Broome I had only ever prepared simple meals of rice, soup and grilled fish—so I set the tables, served the food and helped with the washing-up.

  Men crowded around the sink in the kitchen, so I went outside to wash three porridge-encrusted saucepans in the standing troughs next to the bins. Grey light filtered through the blanket of clouds overhead. My mind was still foggy with sleep. I plunged the saucepans into the water and began scrubbing them with a brush.

  ‘It’s Dr Ibaraki, right?’

  Johnny Chang stood before me, a towel
slung over his shoulder and his hands in the pockets of his shorts. He smiled. Although I’d seen him a few times from a distance, we hadn’t yet met face to face.

  ‘Yes. Johnny, hello.’ I wiped my hands on my apron.

  ‘Didn’t expect to see you here—a doctor rounded up with everyone else. And doing the washing-up, no less.’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I’m Japanese, just like everyone here. No special treatment.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not like everyone else here—I’m only half-Japanese, and they still collared me. Got a raw deal, if you ask me. What tent are you in? I’m surprised they didn’t put you in with me. There aren’t that many of us from Broome.’

  ‘I only got here a week ago. They put me where there was space. I’m in row eight, tent twelve, with some of the men from the Dutch East Indies—Sumatra, mainly.’

  ‘Yeah? You should come to our tent sometime. There are a few of us Aussies. Come and play a game of cards or something.’

  ‘Perhaps. If I have the time.’ I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching us. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m on breakfast duty. I have to finish cleaning before headcount.’

  He snorted and looked away. ‘Yeah, I know all about that. They’ve got us cleaning almost every day. Kitchen, crap house, tents—’

  Johnny’s attitude struck a nerve. ‘Everyone has to help out, Johnny. This is not a holiday, you know.’

  His features clouded. ‘You think I don’t know that? I’m more than happy to do my fair share. But they’ve got the boys in our tent doing everything—all the shit jobs that they don’t want to do. Just because we’re not like them. Because we don’t kiss their arse, worship their god, bow to their emperor. Tell me something: is your guy helping you out with the work?’

  ‘My guy?’

  ‘Your tent leader, what’s his name—friends with the mayor?’

  ‘Yamada?’

  ‘Yeah, him. Is he doing any of the breakfast duties with you today?’

  ‘No. But he is busy with other things. He is organising the canteen—’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying. He and Mori make the rules, but only rules that suit them. This camp’s run like a dictatorship, not a democracy. And it’s guys like me who suffer.’

  I struggled to keep my voice low. ‘I think you are being unreasonable. It is hard on everyone here. We are all trying to do our best and fit in.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘Well, if this is how you want to fit in, you can count me out. I don’t want to keep you from your precious cleaning.’

  He turned and stalked away, his footsteps flinging stones against the metal drums of the refrigerator. As I stared at him, my hands wet and my fingernails coated with porridge, I wondered why someone who’d run a restaurant in Broome was so averse to doing chores.

  I stood in the doorway and squinted at the sky. It was almost seven o’clock, but the sun seemed unwilling to make way for the evening. I’d already eaten dinner at the infirmary, but I was impatient to return to camp as the entertainment committee was staging their first play—Matsukaze, a famous Noh drama. With the major’s permission, a low stage had been built, and a young man from the Dutch East Indies who’d had some acting experience in Japan had been chosen to play the lead.

  The gate creaked. Matsuda appeared in the doorway, carrying his pillow and blanket for the night shift. I ushered him inside, keen to take him through what needed to be done so that I could hurry back to camp.

  The sky was pastel by the time I reached 14C, with not a single cloud in view. I heard laughter and chanting, but not the restrained chanting that usually accompanies a Noh play.

  ‘Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!’ someone cried.

  Inside the mess hall, a throng surrounded the stage. At first glance, I was reminded of summer parties during my university years, when my friends and I would join the other students and young couples who danced and drank next to the Tama River. But this was not the same. A dozen men in the middle of the crowd clapped and sang ‘Kimigayo’, the national anthem.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked someone near the edge of the crowd.

  ‘You haven’t heard? We got Australia again. Blasted all their planes. Dozens, they say.’ He beamed.

  ‘Darwin again?’

  Darwin had been bombed a few days before my arrival at Loveday, while I was en route from Perth to Adelaide.

  ‘Not Darwin. Somewhere else up there. I forget the name.’

  A chill passed through me. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘The Germans in compound D told the men in the gardening party as they were walking past their fence. We think they have a secret radio. They were the first to know about Singapore, too. You should ask the mayor, he just made an announcement about it.’

  Mayor Mori was standing beside the stage, clapping in time to the song. Secretary Hoshi stood next to him. I made my way towards them, weaving through the crowd. The clapping and the chanting rang in my ears. Faces turned towards me with hard expressions, grinning wildly.

  A hand touched my elbow. ‘Sensei, where have you been?’ Shadows danced across Yamada’s face.

  ‘At the infirmary. I just finished my shift. What’s going on?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ He grinned. ‘We attacked Broome this morning. Destroyed all their aircraft.’

  The blood drained from my face.

  ‘What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy?’

  I touched a hand to my cheek. My skin felt like rubber, not a part of me. ‘Sorry. I’m just surprised. I didn’t think they would get that far.’

  ‘Where’s your fighting spirit, hey?’ Yamada’s grip on my elbow tightened. ‘Aren’t you glad we got the bastards who arrested you? Do you want to stay in here forever?’

  I forced a smile. ‘Of course not. Long live the Emperor!’

  ‘That’s more like it. I know you’re not all posture and politeness like they say.’ He winked. ‘A month more and it could be all over. These Australian fools with their fat bellies and their rusty guns could soon be our prisoners, and they’ll be begging us for mercy.’

  ‘Were there any civilian deaths?’ I tried to keep my voice steady.

  ‘Too early to tell. We’ll have to check the newspapers for the rest of this week. The mayor has already talked to the cleaning committee.’

  Although our compound was supplied with newspapers each week, all the articles relating to the war were cut out by the censors. While cleaning the guards’ barracks one day, one of the internees from our camp noticed the guards kept copies of old newspapers in a pile near the latrines. From then on, whenever a cleaning group was sent to the barracks, they always returned with sheets of newspaper with articles about the war hidden in their clothing.

  Mori stepped onto the stage. The chanting stopped.

  ‘Today’s victory reminds us of the strength and skill of our great nation. So too does the artistry of our people. We’re lucky to have among us many talented artists, who have been practising for weeks to bring you tonight’s production of Matsukaze. Let us continue the high spirits by giving them your full attention.’

  I searched for the others from Broome. I couldn’t see Johnny, nor any of the other Australian-born men. Harada was still in the infirmary. I glimpsed one of the divers from Harada’s tent, a young man they called Shinpo. Turned away from the stage, his face held the light that spilled from outside. Our eyes met. He looked away, as if acknowledging me would give his feelings shape.

  Yamada called out to me, touching the empty chair beside him. I yearned to be someplace else, away from his constant gaze.

  The flute’s thin, haunting melody snaked around the room, silencing the chatter. The travelling priest appeared, his wooden mask adorned with tufts of dry grass.

  My thoughts were with all my friends in Broome—Sister Bernice, Dr Wallace, Constable McNally, Sam Male, the McDaniels, and even laundry owners such as Ang Pok. Surely they would have been evacuated? The uncertainty made me feel sick.

  At this
time of year, Broome would be steamy, a constant heaviness in the air. If it had been before the war, the town would be thrumming with activity. Some of the divers would have just returned, either disembarking at the port or coming overland from elsewhere in Australia. Japtown would be bustling with old friends reuniting and ships’ crew buying supplies to finish repairs. But now, with the war under way, no doubt the area was almost deserted, with only the Chinese businesses open. Perhaps even they had left, too.

  I thought of Sister Bernice in her white habit, her head bent in prayer, the dark line of her lashes forming two perfect crescents.

  The percussionist tapped out a pattern on his drum, the tsuzumi sounding its distinctive twang. The ghosts of the two sisters appeared, wearing masks that bore the suggestion of eyes, brows and lips in thin black brushstrokes. The figures glided in their long white robes, skirting the shore, circling each other as they lamented their lost love.

  I tilted my head to the side, away from Yamada and from the light coming into the mess hall. The outline of the shapes on the stage blurred, merging into one another and becoming diffuse patches of light. I was glad for the pocket of darkness that hid my tears.

  Broome

  1938

  ‘That’s Broome there, three miles southeast.’

  I looked to where the deckhand was pointing. A pink spur of land crested with green rose out of the milky blue water. My pulse quickened in my throat. For days, I had been aching to disembark. Ever since we’d set sail from Singapore and navigated the tropical waters of Java, the air thick with humidity, I’d dreamed about stepping off the undulating deck onto the islands we passed. As we had travelled further south, we left the archipelago and all around us there was nothing but sea, only increasing my yearning to set foot on land. But now that I’d reached my destination, the prospect of alighting in this alien place—what would be my home—sent a wave of panic through me.