After Darkness

by Christine Piper

  Mori’s expression turned stony. ‘Yamada, get rid of them—quickly.’ He turned to me. ‘Stall the group so they don’t see what’s happening. We can’t have them knowing about the trouble with the haafu. They’re an embarrassment to us all.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ said the officer closest to us.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Before we start the film, there’s something else we wanted to show you . . . The vegetable plot. We’ve planted some tomatoes, pumpkins and celery.’

  ‘But that’s back near the shrine,’ the major said. ‘We’ve already seen that.’

  ‘Yes, but there are some other plants Mr Mackenzie might be interested in—’

  A squall of voices sounded from the direction of the seats.

  Locke swung his head. ‘What in the devil is going on? Perry, see what’s wrong, will you?’

  Lieutenant Perry dashed towards the commotion, his long legs scissoring.

  ‘So, shall we go to the vegetable garden?’ I prompted.

  ‘No, no. We’ve already been there,’ Locke said.

  Mr Mackenzie smiled. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘It’s getting dark,’ Locke said. ‘Mr Mackenzie needs to set up the projector soon. You’ll have to show him the vegetable plot another time.’

  I hung my head as we walked towards the seats. Johnny was sitting with four others near the projector. I recognised the stout bodies of Charlie Khan and his younger brother Ernie; the half-Thai pair from Perth were Johnny’s constant companions. To their right was Ken Takahashi, a teenager born and raised in the Dutch East Indies by Japanese parents. The new haafu, whose name I didn’t yet know, sat next to Ken. He slouched in his seat, eyes darting between Yamada and Hoshi, who stood silently in front of them. Yamada clenched his jaw, a line of shadow appearing along his cheek.

  ‘Johnny Chang,’ Major Locke said. ‘Should’ve known. What’s the problem this time?’

  ‘No problem, no problem,’ Hoshi said, waving his hands in front of him as if he was shooing away a fly.

  ‘They won’t get up,’ Perry said. ‘These are the seats for Mr Mackenzie, us and the mayor’s party, and they won’t get up.’

  ‘Oh, no need to worry about me,’ Mr Mackenzie said. ‘I can stand up. I’ll be at the projector most of the time.’

  ‘No!’ Mori’s voice was shrill. Everyone turned to him. ‘You are our guest. You must sit. We have seat for you.’

  ‘Settle down,’ Johnny said, standing up. ‘I’m more than happy to give up my seat for him.’ He walked towards Mr Mackenzie, hand extended. ‘Johnny Chang. Nice to meet you. I want to thank you for coming all this way. If only there were more people here at camp like you, being locked up would almost be pleasant. Please, take my seat.’

  Mr Mackenzie shook Johnny’s hand and laughed. ‘Why, thank you. Australian, are you?’

  ‘Australian born and bred. Lived in Broome all my twenty-seven years.’

  Mr Mackenzie’s features clouded. ‘Then why . . . ?’ He glanced at Locke.

  ‘Then why am I in here?’ Johnny said. ‘Good question. I’m an Australian citizen, just like you. Only my mother’s Japanese. But I was arrested—’

  ‘Now’s not the time, Johnny,’ Locke said. ‘Everyone’s waiting for Mr Mackenzie to start the film. If you want to air your grievances, you have Dr Morel of the Red Cross for that.’

  Johnny drew his lips in tight. He muttered something about injustice.

  Major Locke took Mr Mackenzie by the arm and led him to the projector. ‘A lot of these half-breeds are upset about their internment. But we didn’t make the decision, we just have to uphold the law. It’s not up to us to decide who’s a security risk and who’s not . . .’

  Johnny’s behaviour had almost ruined the evening. Mori and Yamada would not let him off lightly for the disgrace he had caused. I took a few steps towards him, about to say something in reproach, but then I realised an argument was just what Johnny wanted. Instead, seeing one of the carpenters standing nearby with a gift for Mr Mackenzie, I moved towards Mori to get his attention.

  We approached Mr Mackenzie as he was bending over the projector. I cleared my throat. ‘Mr Mackenzie, the Japanese of 14C would like to thank you for coming such a long way. We are grateful for the kindness of Australians such as you. As a token of our appreciation, we would like to present you with this gift.’

  Mori stepped forward. He held out the wooden box and bowed deeply. Mr Mackenzie accepted the box and opened the lid. He took out a carved wooden chess piece, the cross-topped shape of a king.

  ‘A chess set. An entire chess set. Goodness, I’m touched.’ He brought a finger to the corner of his eye. ‘Did you make this?’ he asked Mori.

  ‘Mr Sawada here did most of the work.’ I motioned for Sawada to join us.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Mr Mackenzie said, shaking Sawada’s hand. ‘What a wonderful present. I’ll show it to everyone in the office. And my children will be delighted.’

  Sawada smiled sheepishly and asked me to translate for him.

  ‘He says it’s only small. If he had had more time, he would have made you something bigger.’

  ‘No, no. This is perfect. I can’t believe how intricate the pieces are. I’ll cherish it.’

  ‘People from the Red Cross have visited us in the past, but you’re the first outsider to come,’ I said. ‘It means a lot that an Australian would do this for us.’

  Mr Mackenzie nodded. ‘I wish I could do more. It doesn’t seem fair you lot are locked up in here, just for being Japanese.’

  As Mr Mackenzie returned to setting up the projector, we looked for a place to sit. The haafu had shifted along the row so that Major Locke and the two officers could sit next to Mr Mackenzie. There were two empty seats at the other end.

  ‘I’m not sitting next to them,’ Mori hissed. ‘We’ll sit on the ground. I don’t want a fuss. The formalities are over, anyhow.’

  Some internees made space for us on a blanket, and with a whirr and a flash of light, the film finally started. Some of the internees cheered. A kangaroo appeared on the screen, silently scratching through undergrowth, the slender feet of a joey poking from her pouch. There was hardly a sound except for the flap of the sheets as they caught in the wind and the occasional gasps and laughter from the audience.

  I looked back at the row of seats. Johnny’s arms were crossed in front of his chest. In the flickering light reflected from the screen, I saw his narrow eyes and the hard line of his mouth. The new internee appeared small beside him. His shoulders were drawn inwards, his hands pressed together and tucked between his legs. He watched the screen with such concentration I doubted he was enjoying the experience at all. I pitied him for having been swept up in Johnny’s trouble so soon.

  Darkness crowded the corners of the orderlies’ room as I sat on a chair. Grey light shone through the window; the sky was the colour of steel. The weather had put me in a sombre mood. I was thinking of Tokyo, of the cold empty mornings of my last weeks there before I had left for Australia.

  Shiobara walked into the room. ‘Excuse me, Doctor, would you mind coming to my ward? There’s a new patient with an injury.’

  The recently arrived half-caste who’d been sitting with Johnny the night of the film screening was at the front of the ward, holding his forearm as if he were cradling a child. I inspected the young man’s wound. A purple-red bruise spread from his forearm to his bicep. A gash furrowed his elbow, the flesh around it red and swollen and crusted with purulent exudate.

  ‘What happened?’

  He shook his head slightly. ‘They just . . . attacked me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘These four men. I was sitting in the mess hall trying to write a letter, and they came and told me to leave. They spoke in Japanese, so I didn’t know what they were saying at first and I didn’t move, and they just started yelling at me and grabbed me. One of them hit me with a tent pole. That’s how I got this.’ He nodded at the wound on his arm.

  I was s
urprised by what he said. Our camp was populous but everyone seemed to get along well. Mayor Mori saw to it that everything ran smoothly. I wondered if the altercation had anything to do with the stand-off at the film night. I’d heard several people complaining about the behaviour of the haafu that evening. I thought about pointing out the importance of maintaining face, but a lecture was not what he had come to me for.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Yesterday, after lunch. They were yelling something about a meeting, then they started attacking me. I thought I could leave the cut, but it blew up. Now I can hardly move my arm.’

  I took my time inspecting him. Building rapport with a patient had never been something at which I excelled. In Broome I had always relied on Sister Bernice. She only needed to speak a few words in her low voice to put a patient at ease.

  ‘It’s badly bruised, but it’s not broken,’ I said. ‘The wound is infected. I need to clean and dress it.’

  I turned away to get the iodine and gauze. Someone shifted in their bed and coughed. Outside, the high-pitched squeal of a train could be heard—it must have been the cargo train bringing supplies from Barmera.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, turning back to my patient, ‘I do not know your name.’

  ‘Stanley Suzuki,’ he said. ‘But you can call me Stan.’

  ‘Are you new to camp?’

  ‘Yeah. Got here last week from the camp in Liverpool. I thought it would be better here, but . . .’ His face contorted. At first I thought he was wincing in pain, but as he began to draw noisy, stuttering breaths, I realised he was crying.

  Head bent, he massaged his brow with one hand. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Been a tough year. I’ve been transferred all around the place. I shouldn’t even be in here. I was in the AIF, you know? Did eight months in the survey branch before I was kicked out because I’m Japanese, even though I’ve lived here since I was six months old. First that, then they lock me up in Liverpool, and now this. Everything . . . it’s all gone to hell.’ His shoulders trembled.

  I began disinfecting the wound. Stan flinched when I touched him. His skin was hot, like the kaichu kairo pocket warmers I sometimes used in Japan. I unrolled the length of bandage and slowly wound it around his arm, careful not to knock the gauze.

  ‘Don’t worry, you will fit in here soon,’ I said. ‘I know from my own experience. It was difficult to meet people at first, but now I have many friends. You will, too.’

  ‘It’s different for you. You’re Japanese.’ He pressed his palm into his eyes.

  ‘Did you report the attack to someone?’

  ‘Just the guard at the gate. He said I should file a report with an officer.’

  ‘Why don’t you say something to Mayor Mori? He could give a warning. He’d want to know about this anyway. Or maybe Yamada can help. He’s the leader of my row.’

  ‘Yamada?’ Stan’s head jerked up. The skin around his eyes was pink and swollen. ‘That’s the name of one of the guys who attacked me. Johnny said so. I recognised him from the film night. He was one of the men who were standing in front of us when we were in the seats.’

  I let go of his arm. ‘Not Yamada Denkichi.’

  ‘I don’t know his full name. Short guy, grey hair. The one who stood right in front of us. You were there, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yamada Denkichi is a very good friend. He would never do something like that. He was the one who introduced me to everyone when I first arrived here. You must be mistaken.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, it’s him. The same Yamada. About fifty, tanned. Johnny said he’d had run-ins with him before. Said he was the worst of them.’

  All at once it became clear: this was part of Johnny’s plan to create havoc at camp. Due to jealousy or some personal vendetta, Johnny wanted to bring down the leaders of our compound, and he had somehow convinced Stan that Yamada was to blame for his attack. For all I knew, Stan might have inflicted the wound on himself.

  ‘“The worst?” Johnny told you that? I’m sorry, but I refuse to believe Yamada would attack another man. It is Johnny Chang you should be careful of. Do not let him influence you.’

  Stan stared at me without blinking. I heard the whistle of his breath through his nose. I grew uncomfortable under his gaze and reached for his arm to finish bandaging it. He finally spoke. ‘I’m not lying. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m not.’ His voice quavered.

  Although I sympathised with him, I said nothing. I hoped he would recover from the setback and find some better friends at camp. In silence, I wound the remaining length of bandage around his forearm and tied a knot at the end.

  Broome

  1938

  Something was calling me from the darkness—a pattern that roused me from slumber. I raised my head from the pillow, and the sound condensed. A tap tap tap on my door.

  ‘Hey, Doctor! You home?’

  I heaved myself from bed and shuffled to the entrance. A young man I vaguely recognised stood on the other side of the door. Was he Japanese, Malay, Chinese? It was difficult to judge from his broad shoulders, his nut-brown skin and the sharp angles of his face.

  ‘There’s been a fight at the Roebuck.’ His Australian accent caught me by surprise. ‘Some Japs and Malays got stuck into each other. One got his face cut up. McNally and I brought him here in my car. The other one’s walking over with the inspector and Rooney. Can we bring the first one in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I touched a hand to my rumpled nightshirt. ‘Bring him into the ward. I will be there in a moment.’

  I hurried to the closet and changed into a smock then entered the ward. I washed my hands and cleared a space around one of the beds.

  Constable McNally and the young man who’d knocked on my door shuffled in, swearing under their breath as they carried the patient by his arms and legs. He slumped in their grip, insensate as they manoeuvred him onto the bed. I paled at the sight of his injuries. He was coated in blood, still bleeding from the cuts on his face and his neck. I could hardly make out his eyes through the swelling on his face. Panic filled me.

  I turned to the young man. ‘Could you go to the St John of God convent and ask for Sister Bernice? I’ll need her help.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Please.’

  I tried to calm my racing mind, praying my training would come back to me. In the two months I’d worked in Broome I’d performed only a few minor operations, such as resetting broken bones, sewing cuts and removing abscesses. The biggest emergency had been a diver with caisson disease, and treatment required little skill on my part. There was an old decompression chamber on the grounds of Dr Wallace’s practice. He mainly treated the Britisher community, while I mainly treated the Japanese as I was paid by the Japanese association, but we worked together when required. We placed the diver inside it for twenty-four hours before checking on him, keeping him in there until his symptoms disappeared.

  I asked Constable McNally to assist me until the sister’s arrival. McNally held the patient down while I swabbed his cuts with a mixture of alcohol and iodine. As soon as I touched him, the patient screamed, his mouth wide open, back arching in pain, as if a current ran through him. When he settled again, I stemmed the bleeding on his neck with wadding.

  The distant hum of voices cut through the stillness of the night. Footfalls on the verandah steps. The creak of floorboards. And then Inspector Cowie and Constable Rooney appeared, gripping the shirt of a young man. I smelled alcohol on his breath when I inspected him. One side of his face was swollen, but I recognised him as one of the divers who often hung around the boarding houses in Japtown. He cradled his right arm to his chest.

  I addressed him in Japanese. ‘Your arm. Show me.’

  He turned his hand towards me. His knuckles were cut and grazed. Blood pooled in a deep laceration on his palm, but his wrist was unaffected. I directed him to a bed against the wall then went to the kitchen to fetch some ice.

  Inspector Cowie was hovering near the d
oorway, his face creased with concern. ‘The other one—the Malay kid—he doesn’t look good. Shouldn’t you start stitching him up?’

  ‘I—I’m waiting for the sister. I need an assistant.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t come?’

  I blinked. If she didn’t come, who would help me? I’d have to ask one of the constables. But they wouldn’t have the sister’s grace, nor would they be able to calm the patient like she could. I nodded, gave the ice to the Japanese diver, then started assembling instruments for the operation. My hands trembled as I thought of the last operation I’d been involved in in Japan, and its disastrous outcome.

  I was about to begin the procedure when I heard the rumble of a car along the road. Two doors slammed, then Sister Bernice walked into the hospital, her habit as smooth and neat as if it had just been pressed. I exhaled with relief.

  ‘I came as soon as I could,’ she said, moving towards the sink to wash her hands.

  ‘The cuts are non-arterial, but he is still losing blood,’ I said. ‘We should operate at once. Are you ready?’

  ‘Ready.’ Her brow furrowed in concentration.

  McNally crossed to the other side of the room to assist Cowie in questioning the Japanese diver.

  Sister Bernice shifted to the other side of the table to hold down the patient’s arm. I threaded the needle then dipped it in alcohol.

  ‘The neck first,’ I said, and Sister Bernice removed the wadding, then guided the patient’s face to expose his neck. Bright red blood spurted from the wound. I brought the needle close and then stopped. My hand was trembling. My mind was a jumble of images. A swollen node. Black dots on a child’s belly. I was unable to go on.

  ‘Hold his arm,’ Sister Bernice said. Then, without a word, she took the needle from me, leaned forward until her face was inches from the patient’s, pursed her lips and in one movement pierced the skin and brought the needle through it. The patient wailed, a sharp sound like the cry of a child. He sobbed in a language I didn’t understand, writhing under my grip.