Red Day

by Sandy Fussell

  “It’s her job to be helpful.” Kenichi sits at the computer. His fingers fly across the keyboard. “I’ve found Shin’s name on the list. I’ll click through and his record should tell us the cause of his death.”

  I lean over his shoulder for a closer look. Great-nan’s photo of Shin is displayed as well as another one of him in uniform, taken on the day he was interred at the Camp. It’s definitely the same person.

  The sound of taiko drumming floods the room as the floor tips sideways. I’m falling. I grip the back of Kenichi’s chair. My forehead is stretched tight. My stomach churns.

  I see Shin huddled in the corner of a hut. Candlelight casts shadows on the wall and a waft of cherry blossom and mould tickles my nose. He looks into the distance, but he doesn’t see me. His eyes stare blank and empty. I cling to the chair so hard I can feel the whiteness in my tensed knuckles creep up my arm.

  It’s cold and my fingers ache. Even inside the hut, Shin is wearing a thick overcoat, the collar upturned flush against his neck. His body shakes. He wipes his forehead. The cloth in his clenched hand is sodden with sweat.

  I feel sick. This time I know something awful is about to happen.

  “What’s wrong?” Kenichi’s voice sounds far away. I feel the chair swivel under my hands. The vision disappears. Kenichi’s head is in front of me, blocking the screen.

  “I saw him. You don’t have to tell me how he died.” My voice shakes. “I read in a library book that prisoners who were too ill to escape took their own lives so they could still die honourably, like the others who attempted to escape.”

  Kenichi nods, saying nothing because no words are enough. He turns back to the computer and opens another window on the screen. “I’ve found a list of all the recaptured prisoners. It should have the other soldier’s name on it.” He leans back in the chair. “It’s very long.”

  “Does it say where they were captured? Great-nan Elsie’s farm is called Komollow. It’s an odd name so should be easy to find.”

  “All Australian names are odd. I’ll sort by place name.”

  That’s a fair comment. I think all Japanese names are odd.

  He doesn’t have to scroll far through the redisplayed alphabetical list, clicking through to a scan of an original handwritten document. It’s hard for me to read at this angle. I adjust my glasses to focus on where Kenichi is touching the screen. The first name is Daichi and the surname is Okano.

  Kenichi looks at me.

  “Never heard of him,” I say. “Shin was the one in the photo, but another man gave it to Great-nan Elsie.”

  “Yes. I’m surprised the Historical Society didn’t cross-check this list when they verified your Great-nan’s photo,” Kenichi says.

  “It never occurred to anyone there might be two men involved. Not even Mum thought of it. What else is there?”

  “A bit about where he came from, which is sure to be false because it says here Daichi was an officer, with a military reputation to protect. It’s probably not his real name.”

  Just great. Another complication.

  “If we start with the names we know, we might find out if they’re right,” I say hopefully.

  “There’s another loose end. None of the information on either record connects Daichi to Shin. They weren’t even sleeping in the same hut.”

  I can hear footsteps. “Someone’s coming. I wonder who that might be checking up on us.”

  Miss Beadle walks in the door with two glasses of iced water balanced on top of three spiral bound books. I knew she wouldn’t be able to stay away.

  “Research is thirsty work.” She puts a glass down beside me and hands the other to Kenichi. “Are you making any progress?”

  “We’ve confirmed Shin died during the breakout from self-inflicted wounds, and we’ve discovered the name of the other soldier. If it’s his real name,” Kenichi says.

  What is he doing? I glare but he keeps talking.

  “A man who said he was Okano Daichi was recaptured at the farm belonging to Shallot’s great-nan.”

  “Marvellous. You must continue researching and keep me informed. I’ve found three more books for you. They’re not in the library catalogue but I can let you borrow them if you promise to be careful with them.”

  “We will,” Kenichi says.

  “They’re local writers, not commercially published. Important family projects by people who value family connections.” Miss Beadle glowers at me while placing the books in front of Kenichi.

  I hold her gaze. She can’t intimidate me. “Thanks for these.” I pick up the books. “We should be going. Mum might be waiting.”

  She won’t be. It’s not time for her to pick us up yet and she’s always on schedule, but I don’t want Kenichi spilling any more information.

  He slides a small tattered, sepia brown photo from his wallet and pushes it towards Miss Beadle. “This is my great-grandfather. He was a pilot, shot down on an island off the Northern Territory coast during the war. Do you think you would be able to help me find where he is buried?”

  Is that why he’s being so nice to her? He’s got his own reasons too.

  I want to help him with his problem, but I wish he didn’t just add one more complication to mine.

  Miss Beadle rubs her hands together like a comic strip villain. I can see she’s excited to discover a new piece of information.

  “Most Japanese servicemen who died in Australia are buried in the Cowra War Cemetery, even those who died recently. Five airmen are unnamed. He must be one of those. This is absolutely thrilling.” She’s so excited her voice is warbling like a magpie song. “We’ve been trying to find those last five names for decades. Can you leave the photo with me? I’ll send a scan off to Jayne. There are pictures for some of those men.”

  Kenichi nods. “His name is written on the back.”

  “I do so love historical adventures. Especially ones set in Cowra. Perhaps you would like to donate this photo to the Historical Society?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he says. “It’s very important to my family.”

  “I told you not to tell Miss Beadle anything,” I say as we head to the car park.

  “I had to tell her enough to keep her interested. She’s already been useful to us. She might even find my great-grandfather’s grave. I just hope she doesn’t lose the photo. It’s the only one my family has of Great-grandfather. My father trusted me with the original photo because he thought it might bring my search good fortune.”

  It’s hard to be irritated when I can see how worried he is.

  “She’s sure to try and con you into giving it to her again, but she would never lose it. Her whole life is probably labelled and filed away in alphabetical order. Every historical photo would be considered a treasured heirloom,” I try to reassure him.

  “My father promised Great-grandmother he would never stop trying to find where Great-grandfather was buried. He needs to come back home to us. I am Father’s only son, so it’s also my promise to honour. This is my best chance. I don’t want to fail.”

  I’m not the only one with family troubles. I take a risk and touch his arm and his sadness seeps into me. It is more than heartfelt. It’s bone deep. He doesn’t respond to my touch or my words. He probably thinks I don’t understand. It might help if I told Kenichi about Eli, but I’m not ready to talk about him twice in one day.

  In the car park, we sit under a tree to wait for Mum. Kenichi is quiet, drawing endless spirals in the dirt. It must be hard not knowing where his great-grandfather is buried. I leave him alone with his thoughts. I’ve got enough of my own.

  Mum visits Eli’s grave once a year, on his birthday. I know Nana Ruth visits because Mum comes home agitated when she finds other flowers there. I never go because I’m not ready to leave him there yet, but when the time comes, at least I’ll know where he is. I try to imagine what it would be like if I didn’t have a place to mark with Eli’s name.

  I pull two of the books Miss Beadle gave us from
my bag and hand the thickest one to Kenichi. It might distract him.

  “We could get started on these.”

  He opens the book, scanning and turning the pages as fast as I do. Pretty impressive for a second language. Aunt Mandy told me English is the hardest language to learn because it has so many rules, and even when you master all those, there are 472 exceptions to remember. Languages are easy for me because they’re about patterns. When the grammar is right, the sentences are balanced and anchored solid, instead of jumping all over the place. But I’m not interested in words, in any language. Maths is my favourite subject. And history is causing me a lot of trouble.

  “Why do you think Shin’s photo is sad?” I interrupt Kenichi’s reading.

  “Maybe because, like my great-grandfather, he died in Australia and never returned home to his family,” Kenichi suggests.

  “Lots of pictures in the Visitor Centre tell that story. None of them are sad though so it has to be something else. This is like a jigsaw puzzle with heaps of pieces missing.”

  “I’d like to know why Daichi told your great-nan Shin’s name. It made her think that was his name and that was him in the photo. They must have looked similar because she didn’t notice the difference.” He pauses. “It’s a difficult puzzle.”

  We need information that’s not in any of these books. It’s not going to be easy, but I can do it, I think.

  “I’ve decided you were right at the cemetery. We need to talk to Nana Ruth. I’m going to ask Mum about it tonight.”

  “Do you think she’ll say yes if we tell her about Shin and Daichi?”

  “I hope so. Family history stuff is Mum’s favourite thing.”

  But it’s about more than history now. Since Lucy told me her nan had died, it’s more urgent than ever I see Nana Ruth.

  Kenichi resumes reading so I lean back against the tree trunk and close my eyes. Inside my head is green, sun-clouded and sleepy. The drum begins softly. The rhythm is soothing and my head isn’t hurting this time.

  I’m watching a woman walk towards a familiar barn. A few days ago I stood outside it with Kenichi. She’s wearing men’s trousers and a white cotton shirt, carrying a pitchfork. She turns, as if expecting to see someone watching. Can she feel my gaze, the way I feel hers?

  I almost recognise her face. She looks like Mum. She looks like Nana Ruth. And she looks like me.

  This time it’s not like looking into the Camp, watching the soldiers from a distance. This time it’s family and her thoughts seep into mine, as if I’m there beside her. I know what she’s thinking.

  She’s nervous and afraid. Elsie wants to hurry, but she walks slowly, in case someone is watching. Other girls are working in a nearby paddock. The wind flicks her hair into her face and she tries to wedge it behind her ears. Usually it’s a mass of curls, but she can’t be bothered spending nights in rollers with no one to run their fingers through the ringlets.

  She’s sad too. I feel her struggle to push away thoughts of Harry trapped in France, bunkered down in a trench somewhere. My Great-grandpa Harry. Most of the boys she knows are overseas fighting or in training camp getting ready to leave. She’s wishful because Saturday night dances have been replaced with late night knit-a-thons. All those army boots need a mountain of socks. She sighs, and murmurs. We knit and count our men, and every count is less than before. Dancing was a lot more fun for my great-nan, but there’s no waltzing without partners to swing.

  Now Elsie is thinking of another boy. His name is Jamie. She remembers him working his family farm with his dad, and how strong and handsome he looked, standing shirtless in the fields. Maybe I should stop listening in, but I can’t leave. Our connection is a metal forceps grip pinning me in place. Her thoughts are tossing and turning.

  Recent bad news has upset her. Last week Mrs Matthews got a telegram saying Jamie died, torn to pieces by enemy shrapnel. Elsie is thinking of Harry again. Worrying and wishing he was home safe.

  She’s proud of the work she does on the farm, lashing the hay bales and rounding up the sheep. Even mucking out the pig pen. Yuk! You wouldn’t get me doing that.

  I know the government needed young women to work in the jobs men left behind, but she’s angry because her father didn’t want her working like her friends. Sally who worked in an ammunition factory and Frances who pumped petrol. Elsie recalls a conversation with her mother. My great-great nan. I don’t even know her name.

  “William, dear. The neighbours are whispering,” she says. “Some say we think we’re too good to let our Else get her hands dirty.”

  Her father finally agreed to let Elsie work, but only on their farm. I can tell she loves it and she’s friends with the other girls who are working there. Some of them have boyfriends and husbands away at war.

  She stops at the door, looks around and hurries inside the barn. She’s anxious because the town is buzzing with rumours about dead men, mostly prisoners, but three guards, too. Mostly she’s worried because a guard from the Camp came and spoke with her father. He said that escaped prisoners are being rounded up, and if they see one they have to contact the military base immediately to let them know.

  My great-nan would never do that. If her Harry is ever a prisoner of war and escapes, she hopes a German girl is kind to him.

  “It’s Elsie,” she whispers.

  A man crawls out from behind the straw bales. He’s short and dark, more like a boy than a man. Younger than her. He makes her think of Harry who looks so different. I see her memory of my great-grandpa. He’s tall and blond from the sun with a thick beard and a man’s work-worn hands.

  It’s not right how war makes soldiers of boys and men.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I wish I had more than a bit of cheese and a chunk of stale bread to give, but Father watches the food supply with eyes like a wedge-tailed eagle.”

  The man doesn’t answer but he takes the cheese and eats quickly, too hungry to check for mould or care that it’s stale.

  “Thank you,” he says, his words thick and stilted.

  “Mrs Dent on the property down the road said the prisoners killed themselves after they escaped, slicing their throats and their bellies. Mother says it shows how unhappy they were. My Uncle Angus insists that isn’t true, that they eat better food than we do and they’re well treated. He’s been working there since the Camp opened, but I think Mother is right. I know you are sad.”

  “Thank you,” he repeats.

  It’s probably the only English he knows. Elsie’s words don’t mean anything to him, but her actions tell him all he needs.

  Elsie smiles. She wants to reassure him he can trust her. He smiles back and gestures for her to sit beside him. She doesn’t hesitate. She’s not afraid of this enemy soldier.

  From his trouser pocket he produces a pencil and a piece of paper that he fills with Japanese letters. He slides a photo from his jacket and wraps the note around it. With a half bow, he stretches out his hand and presents the bundle to her.

  “You don’t need to give me anything. I’m happy to help.”

  When she tries to give it back, he pushes her hand away.

  Elsie unwraps the photo. “Is this your family? Is this your baby?”

  “Himura Shin.” He points to the man in the photo.

  “Thank you for this gift.” She helps reposition the bales that hide him. “I’ll bring more food tomorrow.”

  Great-nan Elsie tucks the photo and note deep in her overalls pocket.

  I wake to the sound of Mum tooting her car horn.

  “Time to go, sleepyhead.” Kenichi picks up my backpack and helps me to my feet.

  “How did it go” Mum asks.

  “We’ve got more questions than we started with,” I say.

  “It’s very confusing,” adds Kenichi.

  “Well as soon as you unravel it, and I’m sure you will, I’m keen to hear every detail.”

  I’m happy to be sitting in the back seat with Kenichi. I can’t wait until Mum turns the radi
o on to listen to the news and can’t hear our conversation.

  “While we were reading, I think I dozed off. I saw Great-nan Elsie in the barn with the soldier. He didn’t look like Himura Shin.”

  “That proves we’re right. The man who gave the photo to her was Daichi, not Himura Shin. We make a good team.”

  I lean back against the seat.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Wednesday is a see-saw day. It sits in the middle of the week and I can never tell which way it might tip. Maybe it’ll be a day where everything goes right or maybe it’ll be a day where things go wrong. That’s important this morning. My heart is doing crazy dance moves in shearing shed boots. I couldn’t find the courage to ask Mum last night, so I have to do it now or it will be too late. I’m not going to mention Shin or Daichi. I know that won’t help.

  Kenichi has gone to feed the chickens. There’s just me and Mum left sitting at the breakfast table. After being up so early, Mum likes to sit and read a few chapters while she eats breakfast and drinks her coffee.

  “Mum.” It’s a squeak more than a word. “I’ve got something important to ask.”

  She puts her book on the table, next to her half-eaten breakfast. “You can ask me anything.”

  Anything except this. I swallow as my throat constricts. “It’s about Nana Ruth.”

  The world is silent now. My heart has stopped completely.

  Mum picks up her book and resumes reading. I lean over and prise the book away.

  “You said anything, Mum. Did you know Lucy’s grandmother died this year?”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  Of course she did. This is Cowra, where almost everyone knows just about everything.

  “I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought Lucy would have. When she said nothing, I didn’t want to interfere.”

  “Do you know why she didn’t say anything?”

  Mum shakes her head.

  “Lucy didn’t want to worry me because I’m not allowed to see my grandmother. What if Nana Ruth dies too? We’ve already lost Eli.”