Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms

by Anita Heiss

  Joan immediately wonders if he is the fella they are looking after. But surely not? She thinks fast, trying not to show any reaction, but camouflaging her emotions has never been a strength of hers. ‘So, what happened then?’

  ‘Well, all the screaming drew attention – I don’t know how you didn’t hear it, Joan.’ Marj looks at her with squinty eyes.

  ‘I was working,’ she says. ‘Go on.’

  ‘People were running from left and right, then King Billie appeared, of course, and that was it. The Jap was tackled to the ground and they took him back to the camp.’

  Joan’s heart is racing. It had to be Hiroshi. There’s been no other Japanese soldier around. She feels bile rise in her throat.

  ‘Was he in a uniform?’ she asks. The last clothes Joan sent down to Hiroshi were brown pants and a white shirt turned grey over time. He wasn’t dressed like a soldier.

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’ Marj looks at her suspiciously.

  ‘No reason, just wondered.’

  ‘You’re acting very strange, Joan Williams. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were up to something.’

  ‘Mary!’ Joan exclaims as her daughter walks through the door. ‘Don’t be silly,’ Joan says to Marj as she puts her arm around her daughter’s waist. ‘You’re always looking for some news, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mary, did you hear about the Japanese soldier here at Erambie?’

  ‘No, Aunt,’ Mary says, worry in her eyes as she looks at her mother. ‘But maybe Uncle Fred knows something.’ She points in the direction of her Uncle, walking into his own hut.

  ‘Yes, and if he doesn’t know, I better tell him,’ Marj says, turning and walking as fast as her stocky legs will take her.

  ‘I was so worried,’ Mary says. ‘I thought the soldier they were talking about had to be you. It sounds like there’s another one on the run. Or was – they took him back to camp.’

  Mary doesn’t notice Hiroshi’s distress, too busy with her own relief. But he is reminded of his friends, his fellow soldiers still in the compound and possibly still on the run. The captured soldier may have been Masao. He stands there motionless, eyes glazed over, looking at Mary but transported back to the night of the breakout in his mind. He wonders who the other soldier might have been, momentarily pleased that another had managed to remain on the run for so long.

  10

  29 September 1944

  Cherry blossom smile,

  Benika I miss you so . . .

  ‘No, no.’ Hiroshi is framing poetry out loud. Walking out the Haiku beat – five, seven, five – Benika on his mind and his lips. But is she in my heart? he asks himself. What about Mary? Mary my food angel. Hiroshi has taken to answering his own questions, desperate for conversation and the sound of something other than silence.

  Mother please forgive

  A soldier’s heart so homesick

  For his family

  Hiroshi’s thoughts are chaotic but all lead to his life back home. He collapses to the ground. I want to go home. I want to go home.

  He sits and breathes in the musty scent of the rotting wooden beams keeping the dirt walls and the roof in place. The smell of his waste lingers constantly in his nostrils, even though he empties his bucket every night. With the lantern off to save kerosene, he has nothing but his senses of smell and sound to focus on. He sniffs his armpits and is disgusted. At least at the camp he was clean. His clothes are ratty, dirty, worn, and the soles of his feet are rough. He can taste the dirt under his fingernails as he bites each one, trying to make them short again. He spits dirt from his mouth but the taste of filth remains.

  ‘Benika,’ he says out loud. ‘Where are you? Would you love me again, would you love me like this?’ He puts his head in his hands and weeps. Love, he thinks to himself. What love did he feel when his father sent him to war? What love can his mother feel for a man who is so cold?

  He stands up again. Pacing, he stretches one leg at a time behind his body to relieve the stiffness. He is not in control and wants to climb the ladder up to freedom. But he is not free. He is a prisoner and the only way he can feel free, can escape the torment of shame, is to make the decision of when to die. But it’s a decision that nowhere in his mind can he find the means of making.

  ‘Mary, Mary!’ he hears a child’s voice above calling. He wants to call for her too; for some company, some friendship, some conversation. He feels guilty about his growing interest in a girl so much younger than himself. A girl and a family who have treated him with nothing but respect and dignity, even within the confines of being underground. His gratitude is beyond the food that Mary brings each day, for it is her presence and her humanity that has nourished him more than any meal possibly could. He is indebted to the people of Erambie, although he has only met two. He is grateful for the family that has no doubt lied to others to keep his secret, to protect him.

  His guilt over his feelings for Mary and the goodwill he has been shown is compounded when his thoughts shift to the death and tragedy of the war that caused him to be here in the first place. He is overcome with grief when he is reminded that many of those he fought and was captured with are no longer alive.

  ‘The Jungle Book is showing at the Cowra Theatre,’ Mrs Smith tells Mary as the children jostle around them both. ‘The children have read the book many times,’ she adds, handing Mary a copy. ‘Rudyard Kipling is also one of my favourite poets, a poet of the Empire. I want the children to see this movie.’

  ‘I want to see the Old McDonald and Donald Duck cartoons,’ Carmichael whines.

  Mary doesn’t want to see the cartoons or the film. She doesn’t want to go to the theatre at all. It’s hard because she’s dark and is supposed to sit up the front while the Smith kids can sit anywhere they want. As always, she chooses seats as close to the middle as possible and the kids don’t know any different. The Donald Duck cartoons come on first, and then the film. It’s about a boy who grows up in the jungle, with animals for friends. Mary thinks the Indian actor who plays the boy hero, Mowgli, is very handsome.

  But it’s difficult for Mary to focus on the movie. She’s thinking about Hiroshi the whole time, trying to understand the spell she is under. Is this love? she wonders, because if it is, then it feels wonderful. Mary wants to know if love is also supposed to be full of anxiety and fear. And if the butterflies in her stomach will ever go away.

  Mary isn’t even aware if she is looking at the screen when there is some disruption next to her and Catherine pokes her in the side.

  ‘Shh, what is it?’ she asks. ‘I thought you wanted to see this.’

  Catherine whispers, ‘Carmichael just said that abos belong in the jungle.’

  Mary is disgusted but there is little she can do. She has never liked the Smith children because, compared to the Williams kids, they are over-indulged, have more than they need and are ungrateful for their privileges as white people. However, she also knows that the children just follow what their parents say, and Mr Smith is no doubt to blame, and has probably referred to the local Blacks in derogatory ways more than once. So she does nothing, because there is nothing she can do.

  But when they walk home she refuses to hold Carmichael’s hand in her own private protest.

  There is a strong stench in Hiroshi’s bunker. Hiroshi has become immune to it, and Mary tries to ignore it. She hands him a hard-boiled egg, some damper and the newspaper. He starts eating straight away. The occasional egg is protein but his muscles are weak; even though he’s been doing push-ups and trying to exercise, there is little muscle tone left in his arms. The damper is something his taste buds have grown accustomed to, and his stomach appreciates it, but he never feels full.

  ‘I can’t stay,’ Mary says with disappointment, ‘the Smiths are going into town for a meeting and I have to sit with Catherine and Carmichael.’

  Hiroshi doesn’t look up. He is grateful but preoccupied – he wants to see what’s in the newspaper, if there’s any more news about the other escapee
s. Any word about when they might go home.

  ‘I’ll try to come back later.’

  ‘Arigat-o,’ he says, already scanning the front page of the paper.

  As he always does, he turns each page quickly, searching for any war news before starting at the beginning and reading through the paper line by line.

  He stops when he sees a photo. He reads the headline: US MARINES BLAST JAPANESE’. There is no story, just the photo of a plane being shot down. The caption says: US Marine howitzer hurls shells into enemy positions on Guam Island, strategic base in the central Pacific, which was recaptured by American troops.

  The image is harrowing, and he wonders how many men have died. How many families have been ruined? How many Japanese felt proud to die with honour for the Emperor?

  He grabs his stomach, feeling like he has been kicked in the guts by a size 14 army boot. He slumps against the mud wall before hitting the ground. The war is still happening and rather than being there fighting, or even in a camp with other Japanese soldiers, he is hiding like a coward. Self-loathing settles in. He grieves for his own shame and that of his family.

  A few hours later he hears the iron sheet move and panics. Mary has already visited once tonight, but she is here again.

  ‘Mary, what are you doing here? What is wrong?’

  ‘I just wanted to check you were okay.’ She pauses. ‘You seemed different today.’

  ‘I am good, thank you. Thank you,’ he says, grateful for the girl caring so much, but not wanting to talk any more, emotionally drained from the endless uncertainty. ‘But I do not want you getting into trouble.’

  ‘I must go, but I am glad to see you are good.’ She departs as swiftly as she arrived.

  Mary walks quickly back up to the hut where both her parents are standing in the kitchen with hands on hips.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ Joan says, straining to keep her voice low. ‘Going down twice in one night is just a silly and irresponsible thing to do. We can’t risk you getting caught. What were you thinking?’

  ‘He’s not well,’ Mary says.

  ‘Sick? What kind of sickness?’ Banjo panics. ‘The last thing we need is for him to get sick. It’s not like we can look after him down there if he’s sick.’

  ‘Not sick like that, Dad, sick like sad sick. His face is sunken and his eyes . . . Do you know what I mean?’ She looks at both her parents. ‘He is sad sick.’

  ‘My girl, there is nothing you can do about that. It is something that will come from being at war, from being locked up and from being away from family.’ Joan is hugging Mary. ‘But all we can do is keep him fed and safe right now, I don’t want you getting too close to him.’

  Mary says nothing.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’ Joan is straining not to raise her voice.

  Mary nods.

  ‘“13 October 1944: He’ll sink their ships . . . While you provide the means . . .”’ Mary reads the heading of an advertisement for Victory Loans to her parents, and her Uncles Sid and Fred. Her Uncle Kevin is back from droving but it’s his birthday and the men reckon that women and dancing will be on the cards. ‘He’ll find another heart to break too,’ Banjo had said earlier, sarcastically.

  Mary continues, ‘“Between him and Tokyo stands a Jap armada – but he and his mates are out to sink every Nip in the Pacific and Indian Oceans. We’ve a thousand times as many hearts of oak as Drake had. And we’ve got the ships for them to man. But we want more and still more ships. We want myriad torpedoes to blast every Jap from the ocean. But every torpedo fired costs 3,230 pounds. So lend, lend every pound you can muster to speed Victory. Invest in the Second Victory Loan.”’

  ‘I really hate those advertisements,’ Joan says. ‘Do you think anyone in Cowra actually supports them?’

  ‘Fat Bobbo!’ Banjo, Sid and Fred all say simultaneously, then laugh. It is the only moment there has been humour for some time when talking about the war. Although the war is no laughing matter, and they all know it.

  Mary doesn’t take the paper to Hiroshi; she knows that this kind of thing will only cause him grief. His mental stability is already questionable. She knows he feels guilt and regret and longs to be with his family, if not on the warfront. She wants to take his mind away from the misery that causes the grief, even if momentarily.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Smith asks Mary as she catches her flicking through a book from the shelves she should be dusting. Mary has to think quickly because she doesn’t want to get into trouble and be summoned to the Manager.

  ‘I would like to read some poetry,’ she says cautiously. ‘Since I left school I have nothing to read, just the newspaper, and that’s nearly always depressing.’ Which isn’t a lie. ‘You mentioned you loved the man who wrote The Jungle Book,’ she says, thinking on her feet.

  ‘Yes, dear, but this is also a very, very good collection you could read.’ Mrs Smith takes the volume from Mary, and runs her fingers over the title, The Man From Snowy River and other verses. ‘A. B. Paterson has written the finest poems you are likely to read, right here.’ She waves the book in front of the girl.

  Mary listens, grateful for not being caught red-handed in the throes of theft. But she is also interested in knowing more about the poet so she can share it with Hiroshi.

  ‘Do you have a favourite poem?’ Mary asks, impressed with her newfound ability to think and lie on the spot, ‘or is there a popular poem that I should focus on?’

  ‘There are two very famous poems,’ Mrs Smith says, flicking through the volume, looking for them. ‘Mr Smith occasionally recites them after dinner. One is obviously “The Man from Snowy River” and the other is called “Clancy of the Overflow”.’

  Mary makes a mental note to read those poems a few times over before sneaking the book to Hiroshi. ‘What does the A. B. stand for?’

  ‘Andrew Barton, but everyone calls him Banjo,’ Mrs Smith says as if she knows him personally. ‘His nickname as a child was Barty, but apparently when he started publishing his work it was under the name “The Banjo”, which everyone knows was adopted from one of his favourite horses. Can you imagine that, Mary, naming yourself after a horse? I haven’t heard anything more ridiculous in my life. But I do like his poetry.’

  ‘My dad’s nickname is Banjo too,’ Mary says excitedly. ‘He taught himself to play the banjo, that’s why, and he is the best player in all of Wiradjuri country.’ Mary speaks proudly, but Mrs Smith ignores her comment, almost as if she wants to ignore the fact that Mary and her family are Black, and continues to look through her prized volume. Mary is a little nervous now, but to her surprise the woman hands the Paterson book back to her and takes another book from the shelf.

  ‘You must read Henry Lawson as well, because, like Banjo Paterson, he is one of the best poets in Australia. It’s one of the first things I learned when I came here. They are not like our British poets Keats and Blake, but they are very good nonetheless.’ Mrs Smith’s eyes almost light up when she talks about her British poets, and Mary thinks that there is possibly something about her boss she doesn’t know. ‘I can’t imagine anyone ever writing more beautifully than these men about this country that is now my home.’

  ‘Do you mean I can borrow this?’ Mary asks, trying to hide her excitement but wanting to be absolutely clear about what Mrs Smith is offering.

  ‘Yes, I think it is very important for your education, Mary. There is history to be learned, my girl. You see, Henry Lawson’s mother, Louisa, helped get women the right to vote in Australia. She was what we call a suffragette. We owe her a lot.’

  Mary doesn’t point out that her own mother doesn’t have the right to vote yet – and neither does her father, for that matter – so she doesn’t owe Louisa Lawson anything. She just keeps her mouth shut; she wants the books and right now that’s all that matters. She feels an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude because she didn’t have to ‘borrow’ the books and that makes her feel even better.

  ‘In the D
ays When the World was Wide and Other Verses,’ Mrs Smith reads the title and hands the volume to Mary. ‘Lawson was born in Grenfell, which is not far from here, Mary, so that’s something to remember too. His inspiration may have come from these very parts.’

  Mary thinks it’s strange that Mrs Smith is so loyal to Cowra and wonders how she can forget about her own land in England so easily. Mary could never imagine doing that – she’ll always just love Cowra.

  She nods, takes the books with genuine gratitude and says, ‘These are wonderful, Mrs Smith. Thank you. I will read them over and over again.’ It’s not a lie; she will read them over and over before giving them to Hiroshi, so if Mrs Smith quizzes her she’ll have the answers.

  For the last few days when Mary has visited Hiroshi, he has been sad. He appreciates all the meagre offerings of food she has brought with her, but he barely tastes anything any more. It’s like his senses are failing him as he spirals into an emotional darkness that matches his surrounds.

  In some ways, he’s glad to be in a physically dark space so he can hide, withdraw into his even darker emotions and memories. Mary’s smile each visit offers only momentary flashes of brightness to his day, and he is struggling to remain sane with so much solitude, only his thoughts as company.

  When she descends the ladder, he notices something bulky under her dress that seems too big to be food. And he doesn’t even know if he could eat much more – while he is hungry, he is also nauseous, and wondering if there is any purpose in eating to stay alive.

  ‘Hello,’ Hiroshi says softly, standing, as he always does, out of respect, but with shoulders sagging.

  ‘Konichiwa!’ Mary responds, so full of life and energy Hiroshi is taken aback. He has not seen her this bright ever.

  He is grateful to hear his own language again, even the simple greeting that he had taught her weeks ago that she now feels comfortable saying. He immediately wonders what has happened to make Mary so cheerful – perhaps the war is over?