After Darkness

by Christine Piper

  ‘Don’t you think his plaque deserves a nicer spot?’ he asked.

  I looked around. ‘Where else would you suggest?’

  He surveyed the rest of the garden. ‘This place could do with a pond.’

  ‘I suppose we could do that.’

  ‘Only, I’m too old for that kind of work. You’ll have to do all the digging. But I can tell you where to dig and what shape it should be.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ll see how much I can get done today. But I won’t have another break from the infirmary for four more days.’

  Ohmatsu didn’t seem to hear me. He gazed at a spot on the ground. ‘And it would be good to have a bridge . . .’

  Using a shovel made from the lid of a powdered-milk tin, at Ohmatsu’s direction I started digging an area at the base of the dirt mound. The sun-baked earth hardly yielded beneath my makeshift shovel. I collected water from the ablutions block and spilled it over the area. I drove a wooden stake into the glistening patch, trying to break up the rock-hard ground. Despite the cool breeze, I became soaked with sweat. By lunchtime, I’d only dug out a depression the size of my head. Blisters had broken the the skin of my palms.

  I bumped into Martin on my way to the mess hall. His eyes widened when he saw me. ‘You look like you just crawled through a drain,’ he said, nodding at the stains on my shirt.

  ‘The garden—I’m trying to build a pond.’

  He lifted his brows. ‘Yeah? Sounds like a big job.’

  In the afternoon I walked back to the garden, hoping the water I’d doused the area with had softened the earth some more. As I turned the corner past the last hut, I saw Martin, Johnny, Charlie and Ernie standing near the vegetable garden, smiling.

  ‘We thought you could do with some help,’ Martin said.

  I stepped back. ‘Oh, really? But I didn’t expect—’

  ‘Just tell us what to do, before we change our minds,’ Johnny said.

  Ohmatsu smiled when he saw me approaching with the Australians. ‘Ah, some strong men to help you. Very good.’

  I showed them the stones that traced the outline of the pond. We only had two improvised shovels and a few wooden stakes. Johnny and Charlie started shovelling, while Ernie and I used the stakes to break up the earth. Martin went to collect more water.

  By the time the sun was low on the horizon, we’d opened up a three-foot-wide hole. Metallic flecks shimmered in the rust-coloured soil. We still had more digging to do to reach the line of stones, but we’d done most of it in one afternoon. I sat on a rock and mopped my brow with a handkerchief. Johnny leaned on a stake, smoking a cigarette. The tip glowed red like the sun’s fading rays.

  The court of inquiry took place in one of the administrative buildings at camp headquarters. I waited in the corridor for my name to be called. A small legal team had arrived from Melbourne that morning. Most of the windows in the corridor faced west, so it was bitterly cold inside the building. I breathed mist into the air. Johnny and I had arrived together. He sat next to me, his feet tapping a pattern on the floor. As we waited, he shifted back and forth, his hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs.

  After a few minutes, Private Davies entered the building, pausing in the doorway when he saw us. He had been suspended immediately after the shooting, so I hadn’t seen him for several weeks. He seemed a different man to the soldier I remembered. Shadows pooled beneath his eyes and cheekbones. His neatly pressed uniform hung loosely on his frame. He looked away from us. Johnny sat up and stared at him. I was certain he would say something, and I was about to warn him not to, but after a few moments he looked down at his thighs and unclenched his fists. Less than a minute later, the door opened and Johnny’s name was called.

  Davies slunk to an empty seat. The fingers of his right hand worried the clasp of his watch. He threaded the leather band in and out of the loop. In the wake of Stan’s death, I’d had many dark thoughts about Davies. But seeing him so wretched changed my mind. He couldn’t meet my gaze, and I realised even he was filled with regret.

  Lieutenant Perry and another guard arrived, a portly man in his forties or fifties. I later learned he had manned the eastern watchtower at the time of the shooting. Although visibility was very poor the night of the dust storm, he had seen more than anyone else. He had spotted Johnny clambering over the outer perimeter fence near the southern guard tower, an incident that somehow the guard in that tower had missed. He immediately alerted the guardroom, triggering the siren. Then he noticed Stan standing next to the fence around the grounds of the infirmary, so close it looked as if he was going to climb it. He was about to shout to Stan to get back, but a dust cloud rolled in and engulfed him. Then he heard the two gunshots.

  Johnny was in the inquiry room for half an hour. When he emerged he ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘How was it?’ I asked.

  ‘Okay. I only told them the truth.’ He eyed Davies. ‘I’m going to go outside for a smoke. Back in a sec.’

  Davies had been called into the room by the time Johnny returned. He collapsed into the seat next to me, reeking of bitter smoke, and tipped his head back till it touched the wall. He folded his hands over his abdomen and settled in to wait until I had given evidence so that we could return to camp together.

  When Davies emerged, more than forty minutes later, he headed straight outside without looking at us.

  Perry was called next and I sighed, compelled to wait another half an hour. Johnny appeared to be asleep, exhaling long, noisy breaths. I went over my statement in my head. Stan had been depressed but his condition had improved considerably in the week before his death. He was no longer suicidal. His decision to write to Isabelle was evidence of that.

  What had he been thinking about as he stared at the sky? A better life with Isabelle? He had such a naïve, pure love. I’d had that feeling once. But now too much had happened to return to that.

  After some time, the door opened and Perry walked out. Soon afterwards, the other guard was called into the room. Minutes passed; he was in there for a long time. I grew agitated, wondering whether I would ever be summoned. Finally the guard exited and I heard my name.

  Inside the room, four men sat behind desks arranged in a horseshoe shape. Two were in uniform and the other two were in civilian clothing. A large black typewriter sat on the desk to my immediate right. The clerk gestured for me to take the seat at the front that faced the bowl of the horseshoe.

  The military man to my left clasped his hands over a folder. Silver flecked his hair. ‘Tomokazu Ibaraki, I understand you speak English—is that correct?’ I said it was. ‘Good. I am Major Donnelly. I am the chairman at today’s proceedings. This is the military lawyer Captain Gibson, to his left is his assistant Mr Quigley, and at the end is Mr Stott, who’s transcribing today’s proceedings. You’re one of the last people we’re questioning today. We’ll continue with proceedings tomorrow, before delivering our verdict.’

  Captain Gibson cleared his throat and sat up straight. His eyes were a pale brown, like the colour of dried buckwheat. ‘Please state your name, date of birth and profession.’

  ‘Tomokazu Ibaraki. March the twentieth, 1908. I am a medical physician.’

  ‘Do you promise to tell the truth to the best of your abilities?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I’d like to start with what you saw or heard on the night of the shooting. Lieutenant Perry told us earlier today that he came to the compound to get you, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes. It was a few minutes after the gunshots. I went outside after I heard them. I could hear a lot of men shouting, then I heard Lieutenant Perry calling for a doctor from Broadway. He let me out of the compound and we ran to the infirmary.’

  ‘And what did you see at the infirmary?’

  ‘I saw someone on the ground, face up, a few feet from the perimeter fence. I realised it was Stan.’ My voice quavered.

  ‘Stan—you mean Stanley Suzuki?’ Captain Gibson asked.

  ‘Yes. There was blood
on the front of his shirt. His body was still warm, but there were no vital signs. We rolled him onto his side and saw a wound on his back, behind his heart. The bullet must have entered his heart and—’

  ‘We already have a coroner’s report, Dr Ibaraki,’ Captain Gibson said. ‘Please just state what you saw.’

  ‘We placed him back down the way we found him. I noticed that his face and the front of his clothes were coated in dust, as if he had been standing outside for a long time. I waited beside the body until the ambulance came. It took about fifteen minutes. The blood flow had stopped by the time it arrived.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Ibaraki. Could you tell me why Suzuki was in the infirmary?’

  ‘He had cut his wrist three weeks earlier. It was a deep cut, so it was taking a while to heal.’

  ‘Cut his wrist? How?’

  ‘With a piece of glass.’

  ‘So he did it himself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So it was a suicide attempt—he tried to kill himself?’

  I shifted in my seat and glanced at the clerk, his fingers pounding the keys. ‘Yes.’

  ‘In your medical opinion, was he suffering from melancholy?’

  ‘When he cut his wrist, yes. But his disposition had improved recently. The depression was only because of the bullying.’

  ‘The bullying?’ Captain Gibson’s voice was sharp.

  ‘Yes. He came to me in the infirmary about a week before he cut his wrist. He had an injured arm, and said some men had forced him out of the mess hall.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I bandaged his arm.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone about the bullying?’

  My throat was tight. ‘No, I didn’t think it was my place. I’m only a doctor—I try to stay away from camp disputes.’

  ‘But after he tried to commit suicide, surely you told someone then?’

  Everyone stared at me.

  ‘He was in the infirmary by then. I didn’t think it would happen again. I thought he was safe.’

  Captain Gibson whispered something in Mr Quigley’s ear. The assistant made a note.

  ‘Private Davies told the court he fired at Suzuki because he was climbing the fence. He thought he was trying to escape. Captain Christie said he saw Suzuki on or near the fence. Did Suzuki ever talk of escaping, or wanting to get out?’

  ‘He wanted to get out—but many people here do. He had a female friend he wanted to see. But he never talked about escaping. It sounds strange, but the night he was shot, I think he was looking at the sky. He was fascinated by it. I’m not sure why. I once saw him staring at the sky on a windy day, standing very close to the place where he was shot.’

  ‘But why would he be outside in such conditions unless he was contemplating escape?’

  ‘He—he was just looking at the sky.’

  Captain Gibson tilted his head. My chest felt hollow. ‘Dr Ibaraki, do you think Stanley wanted to die on the night he was shot?’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’

  The captain paused. He seemed to sniff the air. ‘I am asking you this because various people—both internees and officers—have named you as the closest person to Suzuki at camp. Is that a fair judgment?’

  I said it probably was.

  ‘How would you describe his relationship to you, Dr Ibaraki? A friend—is that an appropriate word?’

  ‘Yes, he was a friend.’

  ‘Well, if he was a friend, why didn’t you know how he was feeling the night he died?’

  I looked aside. My nose burned. I put a hand up to my mouth to try to suppress the feeling rising from within, but it was no use. I began to cry. Tears escaped and rolled down my cheeks. I took short whimpering breaths. It was as much a shock to myself as to anyone else in the room. No one said anything for a few moments.

  ‘Goodness, do you need a handkerchief?’ the chairman asked.

  I shook my head. I fumbled in my pocket and found mine. I pressed it to my eyes as the tears continued to flow. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ I said. I covered my face with my hands.

  Finally, the chairman spoke. ‘Captain, if it’s all right with you, perhaps we can resume tomorrow?’

  ‘That sounds like the best option.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m very sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  With a guiding arm on my elbow, the clerk led me to the door. Still holding the handkerchief to my face, I made my way down the corridor as quickly as possible.

  Johnny sat up. ‘You okay?’

  I moved past him, past the guard waiting in the seat and the guard at the door, and stumbled outside. I turned the corner. The sun was shining. I leaned my cheek against the building and felt the warmth of the sun-baked bricks. I closed my eyes as I heard footsteps approaching.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Johnny said. ‘Fuck, you’re a mess.’

  I drew a long, shuddering breath. ‘I could have helped him. I could have done something more. Not just for him. For all of them. Why didn’t I?’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Doc. That bastard Davies got him. There was nothing you could’ve done to save Stan.’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand. Not just Stan—all the others. I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped them, but I didn’t.’ I covered my face with my hands. My fingertips were hot and wet.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. ‘Shhh,’ Johnny said. ‘It’s not your fault. You did all you could. It’s not your fault.’

  I’m not sure how long we stood like that, the two of us beside the administrative building in the sun. We stayed there until my tears were dry and my breath became even once more. Johnny fetched the guard. Then, with his palm against my back, Johnny led me back to camp.

  The court found that Stan had been shot while attempting to escape, but that Private Davies had failed to issue the appropriate warning, failed to notify other guards and used excessive force to deter Stan, leading to Stan’s death. There was no mention of Stan’s mental state. Private Davies was suspended without pay indefinitely. I was glad they found Davies guilty of negligence, even though his sentence seemed light, considering he took a man’s life. They were mistaken in their judgment of Stan, though. I knew in my heart he hadn’t tried to escape.

  Johnny was given fourteen days’ detention for escaping. As he had already served twelve of those, he only had to spend another two days in the cell. On the second day, the guards let him out before the evening meal.

  At headcount on Monday morning, Locke told us he’d be returning to camp later that day to make an announcement. My thoughts immediately turned to the prisoner exchange program. Whispers broke out among the lines of men.

  ‘Silence!’ Locke shouted, slapping his crop against his thigh. ‘All your questions will be answered this afternoon.’ But the murmurs persisted.

  During breakfast, the mess hall was abuzz with chatter about the possibility of returning to Japan.

  ‘I dream of eating manju and seeing the peak of Mount Fuji again,’ said Watanabe, who sat opposite me.

  ‘What about your wife?’ Ebina said.

  ‘No—she can wait,’ Watanabe replied, and broke into laughter.

  ‘Sensei, what about you? What do you miss most about Japan?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, there must be something,’ Watanabe pressed.

  And then I remembered. ‘The sea. I miss the sea in Japan. The beaches of my boyhood. They’re so familiar to me.

  All the orderlies were concerned about missing the announcement while we were on our shift, so we asked the guard at the gate to fetch us when he saw Locke approaching. The day dragged on. Although I tried to put the idea of exchange out of my mind, I couldn’t help but dwell on it. Thoughts of the future filled me with fear. Where would I work? Who would employ me after my dismissal from the laboratory?

  The sky darkened and the first stars glimmered. Still we heard nothing.

  ‘Maybe it’s not happening today,
’ Matsuda said as we packed up at the end of our shift.

  We trudged back to our compound. Dinner had finished an hour earlier, but hundreds of men were still in the mess hall, talking.

  ‘No Major Locke yet?’ I asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Ebina said. ‘We don’t think he’ll come till tomorrow.’

  Someone shouted from the direction of the gate. We fell silent, straining to hear.

  ‘Locke!’ the voice cried. ‘He’s coming!’

  The hall exploded with activity. People dashed to their huts to tell their friends. I jumped up to take my place at the other side of the table, sending a chair clattering.

  Major Locke and his retinue marched into the mess hall as internees were still arriving from their huts. He carried a leather satchel bulging with paper.

  ‘Everyone stand on the south side of the room,’ he said, indicating the wall behind me. ‘Just find a place as best you can.’ He repeated the directive as more and more internees entered the room.

  There were far too many of us to line up neatly in the narrow corridor along the wall; we bunched around the tables and chairs and fanned out between the rows.

  ‘Quiet, please. Do it quietly,’ Locke said in response to the chatter that erupted.

  Locke unfastened the clasp on the satchel and removed a roll of paper. The hut was so quiet I could hear the rustle of the pages.

  ‘According to an arrangement with the International Red Cross, it has been decided that some internees and prisoners of Japan and the Allied countries will be exchanged at the neutral port of Lourenço Marques in Portuguese East Africa,’ Locke said. ‘Only those internees whose names I am about to call out will be allowed to return home on the next exchange boat.’ He paused to allow the interpreter to speak. A hum of excitement rose from the crowd.

  ‘When you hear your name, move to the opposite side of the room,’ he said. ‘Hiroyuki Ikebata.’