After Darkness

by Christine Piper

  For years, I thought I would never be able to forget. But over time, the memories faded. The long hours I worked meant I was too busy to stop and reflect. Only once, in 1959, did the past threaten to overwhelm me. Mother was still alive then, and one morning she showed me a notice. ‘Didn’t you used to work for him?’ It was an obituary for Ishii Shiro. According to the article, the ‘former army general and gifted medical pioneer’ died a peaceful death at home, surrounded by his family. He was sixty-nine. I snatched the paper from her and demanded to know why she had showed it to me. ‘Because you knew him,’ Mother said. ‘I don’t understand—why are you so upset?’

  In the years after the war, I often thought of Sister Bernice. Once, on my way back from visiting Kayoko’s grave, I saw a group of Catholic missionaries, the nuns’ long black habits flapping in the March wind. I searched their faces for any resemblance to the pale oval countenance I remembered so well. Years later, when foreign businessmen and their wives became common in the city, seeing a particular sort of dark-haired Occidental woman would inspire nostalgia in me. By then, I was working at a hospital in Tsukiji, where many of the nurses were trainees, performing tasks with a fraction of Sister Bernice’s assurance and much less of her grace. Bernice sometimes used to appear in my dreams, her white habit stirring as she approached. She never judged me in those dreams. Her face, turned towards me, was always full of light.

  From the bottom drawer of my desk, I take out an envelope. In thick, calligraphic script it is addressed to ‘Dr Tomokazu Ibaraki, Harvey Camp, Western Australia’, but this has been crossed out and the address of my family home in Japan written next to it in pen. I reach in and remove the letter, now yellow and stiff with age. It crackles as I unfold it. Although it is dated January 1942, I received it in 1948, many years after I’d left the camps and returned to Japan. It must have been held by the censors and then forwarded to Loveday after my release. I will never know how it reached me, but the uncertainty of those thin, shaky lines, the writer’s hand pausing over the unfamiliar arrangement of letters, makes me think that perhaps Officer McCubbin received it and forwarded it to me.

  It was the only letter Sister Bernice ever wrote to me. When I first read it, I wept with regret. But in 1948, when I received the letter, I was still reeling from the shock of Kayoko’s death. Although I longed to reach out to Bernice, I decided not to, for fear of the memories it would release. Some things are best left in the past.

  And so the letter became a forgotten thing, like all the other mementos from that era—the wooden tag from the boy’s neck and my rusted surgical tools. For years, they gathered dust in a box among my files. It wasn’t until Emperor Showa’s death earlier this year that I thought of them again. On the day of his funeral, I watched the televised procession. Seeing the military men lining the wet streets, saluting the hearse as it passed, stirred something within me. I spent several hours searching for the box. When I finally found Bernice’s letter, I pored over the small, cursive script for hours. Reading and rereading, until I had committed it to memory.

  17th January 1942

  Dear Dr Ibaraki,

  First and foremost, I would like to apologise for my behaviour the other week. It was wrong of me to accost you at your home and question you. During my time at the hospital, you were kind to me in so many ways, so when I had the chance to return the kindness, I was disappointed you wouldn’t allow me to. My emotions got the better of me, and when I finally realised my error, you were already gone. I am truly sorry we never had the chance to say goodbye.

  There are so many things I would have liked to say to you. When we stood on the beach watching the lanterns and you told me about how you made them as a boy, I saw a part of you I’d never seen before. I was also grateful for all the books you lent me.

  Whenever I felt we were growing closer, you seemed to step away. I recall your irritation when I found the tag inside the book. We all have our secrets, and I did not wish to know yours, but I longed to be able to relieve you of your burden. I wish you had shared a little more of yourself.

  I would have liked to have said such things and more to you in person. Not doing so is my greatest regret. ‘When I kept silence, my bones waxed old through my roaring all the day long.’ (Psalms 32:3)

  I pray for your wellbeing, Tomokazu, and for all that has been left unsaid.

  Yours truly,

  Bernice

  I look up and the brightness of the lamp momentarily blinds me. Finally, Sister Bernice’s words open up to me. I’d clung to the ideal of discretion, when it was courage—and forgiveness—I’d needed all along. My silence had been weak.

  I shift in my seat. Hunger gnaws my stomach, but there is no time to eat. I reach for my writing pad and turn to a new page. The paper, at first glance crisp and white, on closer inspection bears the indentations of my pen pressing onto the page before it—ghostly lines, the almost imperceptible grooves of the past.

  I imagine Mrs Ono’s shock when she reads the paper next week. She might miss her morning walk in her hurry to call her friends. No doubt I’ll be the subject of gossip for weeks. My go friends, my former hospital colleagues—everyone will be surprised to learn that mild-mannered Ibaraki did something such as this. My heart flutters when I think of my sister’s family. Her grandchildren are of college age and might be taunted by their friends. But I will explain why I had to do it. In time, it will be worth the shame. I hope they understand.

  I pick up my pen and begin to write. At first, the words come slowly, as I hesitate over every phrase. But soon the sentences start to flow.

  ‘Dear Editor, My name is Ibaraki Tomokazu. I used to work at the Epidemic Prevention Laboratory within the Army Medical College in Tokyo. General Ishii Shiro was the head of our organisation. I am writing to you in the hope that you will publish my letter, because there is something the Japanese people should know.’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Annette Barlow, Christa Munns and the rest of the team at Allen & Unwin for their expertise and enthusiasm in bringing my novel to fruition. My thanks also go to my mentors Debra Adelaide and Delia Falconer for their guidance and faith in my work.

  I gratefully acknowledge the assistance of the following organisations: the University of Technology, Sydney; the Japan Foundation Japanese-Language Institute, Kansai; the Ragdale Foundation (and the family of Alice Hayes); Virginia Center for the Creative Arts; Varuna, the Writers’ House; Bundanon Trust; the Copyright Agency; and the Department of Industry, Innovation, Science, Research and Tertiary Education.

  I would like to thank those who shared their time and wisdom to assist my research: Yuriko Nagata, Yasushi Torii, Shigeo Nasu, Norio Minami, Kazuyuki Kawamura, Masashi Hojo, Mary and Peter Jarzabkowski, Evelyn Suzuki, Maurice Shiosaki, Mutsumi Tsuda, Pearl Hamaguchi, Rosemary Gower, Max Scholz and the late James Sullivan. Also: Pam Oliver, Noreen Jones, Trevor Reed, Marie-José Michel, Mayu Kanamori, Robert Cross, Robert Rechner and family, Mary Rosewarner, Ken and Heather Wilkinson, Dorothy Wise, the Broome Historical Museum, the Adelaide Migration Museum, Tatura Museum, Bill Ballantyne, Malcolm Thompson at the National Railway Museum and the staff at the National Archives of Australia.

  I am indebted to friends, family and colleagues who provided feedback on the first draft: Carlos Mora, Aditi Gouvernel, Elizabeth Cowell and my parents. Others who gave input along the way include Kevin Maruno, Kim Jacobson, Jo Quach, Marina Gold, Patrick Boyle, Kevin O’Brien and the fiction feedback group, Samantha Chang and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop summer class of 2011.

  Most of all, I am grateful for the support of my family. My mother deserves a special mention for her tireless translation work. My father and sister gave much-needed encouragement and advice. My heartfelt thanks go to my partner, Kris, who gave feedback at all stages and endured my frequent absences, and returned it with patience and love. I hope it was worth the wait.

  To write the scenes set at Loveday internment camp, I consulted military records held by
the National Archives of Australia and the Australian War Memorial, and material written by or featuring interviews with former Japanese civilian internees. Yuriko Nagata’s Unwanted Aliens, Susumu Shiobara’s memoir in the Journal of the Pacific Society, and the internment diary of Miyakatsu Koike were particularly helpful. Interviews I conducted with former internees and their relatives also shed light on living conditions and the emotional experience of internment. Rosemary Hemphill’s The Master Pearler’s Daughter provided valuable insight into life in prewar Broome. For the scenes set in Japan, I referred to books and articles by witnesses and historians such as Yoko Gunji, Sheldon Harris, Hal Gold and others.