Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms

by Anita Heiss

  It’s hard for him not to think about what he would be doing back in the camp.

  Hiroshi spends the long hours waiting, thinking about how he is going to survive, where he is and what will happen if he is caught. He wonders if he should try to escape again, but what opportunities will there be to get home to his family? He feels guilty about not being the warrior his father wanted him to be. He knows he should already have committed suicide, but he still doesn’t see this final action helping anyone – himself, his family or the Emperor.

  He is full of regret about dishonouring his family, about how his mother will already be mourning him, believing that he is dead. He wishes he could write to her and tell her he is alive, that he will return one day.

  He wishes too that he could at least read the newspaper as he did in the camp, if not to the others then at least to himself. Because of his English skills he was one of a few men granted the privilege of reading the newspaper to the men in B Compound. It also meant he knew what was going on in the war, but now he is so lost. He wants to know what has happened to his countrymen, where the war is up to, what chance he has to get home to his family. As a matter of priority he wants to know how many are dead, and if his best friend Masao is still alive. He wonders if he should ask the girl if he can have a newspaper when she reappears. It would be a greedy act, asking for something beyond the shelter and food they have already provided so generously, but the newspaper will hold some answers that the girl might not have; answers to questions he doesn’t even know if he should ask. But even the girl’s presence makes him uncomfortable.

  Hiroshi is confused about where he is, who the people hiding him are, why they are feeding him and whether or not they are Australian. They don’t look like the soldiers at the camp, who were mostly white. He saw one brown soldier and sometimes he’d see a dark person make deliveries to the compound, but here the two people he’s met – the man and the girl – have both been very dark. He is suspicious as to why these dark people are helping him and where they actually come from.

  3

  Thoughts of the man under the ground help Mary get through the day working at the Smiths’ house. She has been thinking as hard and fast as Hiroshi, and she has so many questions she wants to ask him. The mundane chores are done automatically: make the beds; wash the clothes; sweep the floors; help Mrs Smith cook; clean up after the Smith children, Catherine and Carmichael. The two children are at school all day but Mary is responsible for walking them the three miles to and from St Raphael’s, because it is too far for Mrs Smith to walk. Mrs Smith is very English, and an elegant English woman does not walk in the street that distance, or so Mr Smith told Mary when he first gave her her list of duties. Some people think that working for Mr Smith must be the worst job in the world, but it gives Mary more freedom than others, as she gets to go into town every day, even if it’s only to walk to the school and back. Sometimes she even sees the Italian prisoners riding bikes through town, throwing lollies at kids and grownups. She always grabs a couple if she can, and gives them to her sisters. The domestic duties and the long walks twice a day, five days per week, coupled with living on rations, means Mary is thin, very thin. But she is fit.

  Mrs Smith likes Mary, and will often send her home with leftover food that she is never to tell Mr Smith about. Mr Smith is the opposite of his wife – if Mary is there at mealtimes she must sit in the kitchen and wait until the family is finished before she clears the dishes. She is never to sit at the same table as the Smiths to eat – or the tables of white people generally, she is told.

  Before she leaves the Smiths’ house, she hears the wireless being turned on and Mr Smith telling everyone to be quiet. She stands silently as ordered and listens with the others to a well-spoken man reading the news.

  ‘An international incident has occurred in Cowra, in the central west of New South Wales. One thousand, one hundred and four Japanese prisoners have escaped. It is not clear how many have been captured, how many are still at large, and there is no tally on the death count as yet. There have been many reports of aircraft converging on Cowra from Parkes and Wagga. It is believed the aircraft are British-built Spitfires and Australian-built Wirraways and that crews are hunting prisoners of war who have escaped from the Cowra Prisoner of War Camp.’

  John Smith grunts and leaves the room, mumbling something about the ‘Japs not winning the war’. Mary doesn’t take much notice – she is very tired, as she is after most days spent at the Smiths’. Tonight, though, there is exhaustion mixed with the nervous adrenalin that has been bubbling away inside her at the thought of seeing the stranger again.

  When she walks in the door, her mother has just finished wrapping a boiled potato and some more damper for ‘the hidden one’. This time at least the logistics of getting to the bunker are sorted: she knows how to slide the sheet of corrugated iron gently to minimise noise, how many rungs there are on the ladder, where the lantern is situated on the wall. The family’s faithful mirri, KB, is walking with her tonight, and she hopes he doesn’t bark.

  As Mary lights the lantern, Hiroshi waits patiently, standing still, trying to silence his anxious breathing. He is as grateful for the human contact as he is for the food that she carries. She hasn’t looked at him yet and as she gets the parcel from under her coat, he says, ‘Hiroshi.’

  She looks up in surprise at a word she’s never heard before.

  ‘My name is Hiroshi,’ he says, pointing to his nose. ‘Hiroshi.’

  ‘My name is Mary,’ she replies, handing over the food with the tiniest hint of a smile and a blush.

  ‘Mary,’ he repeats. He wonders what the name Mary means. It sounds a little like the Japanese name Mari, which means ‘truth child’. He hopes Mary is named so because she is a truth child.

  ‘I am twenty-five,’ he offers, and Mary thinks he looks much older, with lines around his eyes. She can even see a few grey hairs in the light of the lantern. He is very skinny but he has muscles. She thinks there is something attractive about him, although she is not sure what. She’s really only ever looked at the local Aboriginal boys, and never had a boyfriend, but tonight she notices what Hiroshi looks like.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asks, trying not to look her in the eye.

  ‘I am seventeen.’

  Hiroshi thinks Mary looks much younger than her years – she is slim and small like his sister.

  ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I have two sisters, they are young like you.’ Hiroshi stops there, refraining from telling Mary that because he is a prisoner it will affect his sisters: they may not be able to marry, they may be ostracised in their jobs, they will be made to feel ashamed of him. That thought is unbearable, but too personal to share with a stranger.

  ‘I have three sisters and one brother and lots and lots of cousins.’ Mary laughs but Hiroshi doesn’t know it’s because everyone at Erambie has a big family.

  ‘I am Japanese,’ he says with pride. ‘Yamato.’

  She giggles a little because she knows he is Japanese but doesn’t know what Yamato means. She says it back to him, hoping she’s pronouncing it properly. ‘Yah-mah-toe.’

  ‘Yes.’ Hiroshi relaxes his shoulders at the sound of Mary’s voice. It is soft and gentle and brings peace to his troubled mind. It is a voice that makes him feel safe and warm inside. But it is awkward, unusual for him, a Japanese man to be talking to a Westerner and a woman, in such close promiximity and about his personal life. But war makes a man desperate and he is just a man, and there have been no female voices for so long. No women to talk to, to look at, to smell, to share anything of life with. He becomes suddenly aware of how much he misses female company and the comfort it brings. Masao has been his only close companion since he’s been in Cowra, and now he could be dead. Masao, his loyal confidant in the camp, was true to the meaning of his name – righteous – and Hiroshi knows his friend would do what was morally right and commit suicide.

  ‘What is Yah-mah-toe?’


  ‘Yamato are the main people in my country. We are the people who come from Japan, not like other peoples who have settled there in many regions of my country,’ Hiroshi says with pride. Although he is ashamed of being a prisoner of war, he will always be proud to be Yamato. ‘The Koreans and the Taiwanese in my country are sometimes called Japanese but they are not Yamato. There were Koreans in the camp too, Mary. Here, in Cowra, and I think maybe the guards might have thought they were Japanese too. Some people think we look the same and so they say we are all one people.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Mary says, but she doesn’t really understand and she walks towards the lantern. ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ she says, ‘with more food.’

  ‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Hiroshi repeats, already counting down the hours and minutes to more contact with the outside world. With Mary and her food. Maybe tomorrow he will ask for the newspaper, but right now he is grateful for the girl who is simply being kind to him.

  8 AUGUST 1944: PRISONERS ESCAPE FROM CAMP

  A number of prisoners of war escaped from the internment camp at Cowra at an early hour on Saturday morning. The district is being thoroughly patrolled by members of the military and police forces.

  Individuals may attempt to secure assistance and evade capture. Any person approached for help in this way should immediately inform the military or police authorities.

  Mary reads the Cowra Guardian spread out on the large oval dining table she is supposed to be polishing. Mr Smith is out and Mrs Smith is having a lie down – she has a headache. Mary assumes it’s from having to live with Mr Smith, because he’d give anyone a headache. She keeps reading and learns that the censorship authorities have said that the media are not to report anything about the breakout beyond the statement issued by the prime minister, which is yet to be released.

  Any person approached for help should immediately inform the military or police authorities. Mary rereads the line and knows how much trouble her family will be in if anyone finds out about Hiroshi. Mary knew enough about her family’s history to know why her parents were hiding him. She also knows her parents would never go to the gundyibuls – ever. It was the gundyibuls who took her mum’s sisters and brothers away years ago. No one knew that the police had the power to do that, they thought only the Welfare Board stole children. But since that day, when Mary’s mum was only a child, Joan had said she would never help the gundyibuls with anything.

  Mary memorises as much of the information as possible to report back to her parents before she finishes polishing the table and repositions the paper exactly where she found it. The locals rarely have newspapers in their homes and if someone manages to get their hands on one, it gets passed around, which means sometimes the news may be days old by the time they get to read it. As she recounts the facts in her head, Mary feels like a spy – a good spy – even though she knows the Japanese are doing evil things in the war, they are Allies with the Germans, who are doing bad things in Europe. But still she wants to outsmart the authorities. She knows enough to know that war is tragic. It rips families and nations apart. War scars the bodies and minds of innocent individuals forever. Mary is pretty sure nothing good has ever come of war, but she can’t help feeling a little grateful for war bringing Hiroshi to Erambie. Hiroshi has already made her life more interesting.

  On the way home, Mary bumps into Aunty Marj, who is standing at the front of her hut, alone.

  ‘Hello, my girl, how was King Billie today?’

  ‘Oh, all right, I guess.’ Mary prefers not to talk about the Manager at all, and she wonders why her Aunt doesn’t call him John Smith in front of her like her father does.

  ‘You be careful walking around this place alone, now, you know about that breakout, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt, Dad told me.’

  ‘Well, those Japs, they’re a real threat to Australia.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt.’ Mary is anxious to move on and not talk about anything related to the Japanese.

  ‘They are the most dangerous of all the enemy forces,’ Marj whispers. ‘And it’s us against them.’

  ‘I better get home, Aunt.’ Mary kisses Marj on the cheek and walks away.

  ‘Mum, Dad,’ she says as soon as she gets home. ‘I have some news.’ She wants to tell them before she forgets what she’s read.

  The three of them sit at the kitchen table as she shares her news in a low voice. ‘The military authorities have said that the escape happened at two am on Saturday but they don’t know yet how many prisoners broke out.’ Mary looks at her father, who says nothing.

  Joan parcels up Hiroshi’s food. ‘We don’t have much for you to take down tonight, Mary. There’s nothing in the garden and only a small bit of damper, and a tiny apple Sid dropped in. It’ll have to do.’ She hands the package to Mary. ‘There’s nothing from Fred, and I reckon that’s because he’s worried about Marj getting suspicious. Here’s a jar of water, the lid’s on tight. Get him to drink it while you are there so you can bring it back.’

  ‘Hiroshi will be grateful,’ Mary says, glad there is something to take so she can at least see him again. Her parents look at her in shock and she realises she hasn’t told them she knows his name. ‘That’s his name. He speaks English.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Really?’ Banjo says. ‘He never said a word when I found him and raced him to the shelter – I just assumed he only spoke his own lingo and when we walked down the lot, I just did this.’ Banjo puts his finger up to his lips. ‘How good is his English then?’

  ‘I don’t know, he just said his name was Hiroshi and that he was Japanese, Yamato. It means the original people of Japan. Like us, I guess.’ Mary is surprised at how much she remembers and how interested she has become in wanting to know more. She is an intelligent and inquisitive young woman but having to leave school to work for the Smiths means there is a lot of education she’s missed out on. What she knows about the world generally is what she reads sporadically in the newspaper.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be spending too much time there, Mary. I told you, just deliver the food, get him to drink the water, be kind, and leave.’ Joan will help Hiroshi but she doesn’t want her daughter being anything more than hospitable. There is no need for it, and nothing good that can come of it. ‘You don’t have to be friends,’ she adds sternly.

  Mary thinks her mother is overreacting, considering all she did was learn his name. She is a good girl, a good Catholic girl, she was even baptised at St Raphael’s. Mary still says her nightly prayers without any prompting from her parents. Even so, sometimes she thinks that even her very Catholic mother can have some un-Christian ways.

  Visiting Hiroshi is easier than the night before: she has a name now, she knows he speaks English. ‘Hello,’ she says as she lights the lantern.

  Hiroshi is waiting for her. The day has been long and lonely but he knew that at the end of it, she would come with food and with her caring face and kindness. And here she is.

  ‘Konnichiwa,’ he says quietly. ‘It is hello in my language,’ he says, patting his chest. ‘Kon-eech-ee-wa.’ He sounds out the word slowly so she has a chance to hear it again.

  ‘Kon-eech-ee-wa,’ Mary says, happy to learn a new, greeting. She smiles because she feels like she mastered it quickly. ‘I’m sorry, we do not have much to give you tonight, Hiroshi.’ She likes the sound of his name – exotic, different, close to the sound of ‘hero’. ‘Here is some damper, an apple and some water.’ She hands him the wrapped food and the jar she carried in her pocket.

  Hiroshi bows with respect. ‘Please don’t say sorry. I am sorry to be a burden, to take your family’s food. Thank you for everything, the shelter.’ He waves his hands to point out the safety of his surroundings, and although he wants to wait until she is gone to eat, he is starving and unwraps the food straight away. He sits down without looking at her. The food barely touches his tongue, is almost swallowed whole. It disappears so quickly Mary feels sorry for him, wishing she had more to give.
He drinks and hands back the jar without her instructing him to do so.

  ‘Do you like the damper?’

  ‘This taste is new to me. It is –’ he smacks together lips that are dry from the doughy food, ‘– is it a little bit sweet?’ He isn’t sure how to describe the taste. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says shyly.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where am I?’ He looks upwards.

  ‘This is Erambie Station,’ she says. ‘Some people call it a mission, it used to be a reserve where Black people camped.’

  ‘Erambie,’ he says.

  ‘Some people reckon Erambie means yabbie.’

  Hiroshi frowns and repeats, ‘Yab-bee.’

  ‘My dad says Erambie means waterhole, because we are so close to the Lachlan River.’

  ‘Who lives here? Are they all . . .’ He pauses. ‘Are they all like you?’ He rubs the skin on his arm.

  Mary laughs. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Everyone who lives here is Black.’

  Hiroshi nods, suddenly more interested in this place so close to the prisoner of war camp that has only Black people living in it. His experience with white people at war had been horrific, except for the guards in the compound, who, for the most part, treated him well. Other than that he knows that white people call the Japanese yellow people. He doesn’t think he looks yellow. He wonders what other colour people might be in this country.