Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms (10 page)

Mary is rolling her eyes as her Aunty Marj is rambling, but no one can see her. She wishes that if her Aunt had something to say, she'd just say it.

‘Rummy,' Ivy says, putting her cards on the table, taking the pennies from the middle and saving Joan and Mary from any more of Marj's blathering.

Marj gets up in a huff at losing. ‘Where's my tea?' She starts fussing with the kettle and looks out the back window. ‘Who's that?'

Mary panics – her Aunt has spotted Hiroshi. She looks out the window and sees him roaming the yard with his shoes off. He's smiling like he's enjoying the touch of the dried grass under his feet.

‘Fred, Fred!' Marj is squealing hysterically. ‘Fred, come quickly!'

Mary drops the kettle on the floor, it's all she can think to do to distract Marj. ‘Argh!' she screams, although the hot water has not hit her.

‘What have you done, Mary?
Fred!
' Marj yells.

Ivy, Joan and finally Marj make their way to Mary's side, trying to clean the water up, as Fred walks in.

‘What is wrong, woman, a man can't have a quiet smoke with the other fellas without you bellowing across the mission? Everyone can hear you.'

‘Outside.' Marj motions to the back door. ‘Look outside!'

By the time Fred gets to the back door, Hiroshi has gone.

‘We saw you today,' Mary says with a hint of anxiety and anger in her voice. ‘Walking around up there.' She points to the outside world. ‘You can't do that, Hiroshi, it's too dangerous.' There is desperation in her voice as she recalls her Aunt Marj calling out to Uncle Fred.

Hiroshi hangs his head like a chastised child. ‘I am sorry,' he says softly. ‘I am sorry.'

Mary doesn't know what to do. She wants to touch his arm gently, to apologise for her tone, but she knows that would be inappropriate. But she needs him to understand how reckless his actions were. ‘Hiroshi, not everyone knows you're here. If other people see you they will call the police. Why were you up there?'

Hiroshi sighs and smiles. ‘The fresh air, Mary, the soft grass, the sunshine and blue sky.' He looks around the dark, damp space. ‘I am going a little crazy in here. I can only smell myself and feel the dirt. I just had to go outside. I am sorry.' He hangs his head again.

‘We will figure something out, I promise.' Mary puts her hand on his shoulder, hoping the action is more sisterly and less intimate than a touch to the bare skin of an arm or hand.

O
n 1st September, Mary reads a war bonds advertisement in the
Guardian
out loud to her parents. ‘“Journey's End for a Japanese,”' she begins, and they all peer at the newspaper and the photo of a plane plummeting into the ocean. They listen intently as she continues, hands wrapped around their mugs of black tea. ‘“Crashing into the sea, with its torpedo undischarged, the Jap torpedo plane is yet another we won't have to worry about on our way to Tokyo. This sort of thing has been happening on the sea, on the land, and in the air, from the time that our bonds provided the equipment our men needed to beat the Jap wherever they met him.

‘“We will have to down thousands more planes like this, sink more Jap ships, and dig many more Nips out of foxholes before we win victory. We've got the men to do it – and all that we have to do is to see that they have the equipment that the job needs.

‘“Our money has been fighting – and it has to keep on fighting until victory is won. Make an advance subscription to the Second Victory Loan.”'

When Mary stops reading, the three Williams all feel the same level of discomfort at the language the paper uses – ‘Japs' and ‘Nips' – and even though they feel uncomfortable with it, no one really knows how to voice their opinions. Banjo has been called a ‘Black bastard' on the job, and Joan has been referred to as a ‘Black gin' more than once; it is language that is normal in town, but normal doesn't mean it's right or that they remain unaffected by it. Either way, name-calling, such as that in the newspaper, is not something any of them approve of.

‘Even if I had the money, I wouldn't donate to war bonds,' Joan says, taking another sip of tea.

Banjo blows smoke through his nose and says, ‘Fat Bobbo was talking about the “yellow peril” at work the other day. Apparently, we're supposed to be concerned about the possible threat of hordes of Asians heading our way.'

‘I understand some of our mob are upset, we can't just ignore they bombed Pearl Harbor, or what's happened in Malaya.' Joan pauses. ‘It's all horrible. The Newtons will never get over Bibby not coming home.' She shakes her head and swallows, starting to cry. ‘Everyone is angry, everyone. It's only natural people are going to be afraid of the Japanese. What are we doing, Banjo? Maybe Kevin was right.'

Banjo stands as fast as his dodgy leg will allow and puts his strong arms around his wife.

Mary knows her parents nearly always agree on things, and if her mother is having second thoughts and wants to
turn Hiroshi in, then her father will most likely go along with it. She says nothing.

‘Love, Hiroshi may be a Japanese soldier, but he has done us no harm. We are doing the right thing.'

Joan nods into his chest.

When Mary sees Hiroshi waiting patiently that night, the story, its disturbing language and the image of death that accompanied it are forgotten, and she is glad. She feels like a food angel, and has brought with her some jasmine from the Smiths' garden. She hopes it will help to make the small space smell better in light of Hiroshi's recent escape into the fresh air and daylight.

In only a month they have reached a place where silence is comfortable but rare, where the exchange of food and a newspaper is secondary to the exchange of a smile or a warm glance, where the sound of Hiroshi's voice brings peace to an existence that is far from peaceful.

Mary hands the paper over gently, as if there are only peaceful stories in it, and not the advertisement she has felt ill about while walking over. She thinks about the planes diving into the sea, glad that Hiroshi is safe from what is continuing in the Pacific. She carefully passes him a parcel of still warm rabbit stew.

‘Some of the young fellas caught some rabbits. Locals reckon that's why they're so good at football, cos they're quick on their feet when they chase the rabbits with sticks. Anyway, my mum makes the best stew around,' she says proudly, convinced Hiroshi will love it as much as she does.

‘Rabbit,' Hiroshi says. He has never eaten it but doesn't care, because he is hungry and eating far less than he did in
the compound. He opens the package and takes a mouthful, savouring the taste on his tongue, chewing the meat over and over again to make it last. ‘Mmm,' he says. ‘I have never tasted anything like this before, Mary. It is . . . strange.'

‘Oh,' Mary says, disappointed.

‘No, strange is the wrong word, it is different, it tastes different from what I know, that is all. It is different, but very good.'

‘What do you normally eat?' she asks, as Hiroshi puts another piece of rabbit to his lips. He swallows quickly so he can answer.

‘At home I ate rice and fish and vegetables.'

Mary's stomach begins to grumble. She would love some rice and fish and more vegies, something other than potatoes. All at once, if she could. She doesn't remember the last time she felt really full.

‘The Shimanto River where I live is full of shrimp and sweet fish,' he continues.

‘Fish from the river, like the river here?' Mary asks.

‘Yes, but we also get fish from the sea, and sometimes we don't cook the fish.'

‘You mean you eat it raw?' Mary asks, screwing up her face.

‘Yes, raw,' Hiroshi repeats. ‘We eat raw fish. And my father is from the Kagawa prefecture, and they eat udon noodles with soy sauce, so my mother makes that a lot too.' Hiroshi is talking about food like a man who hasn't eaten well for a long time. Mary feels as if she has never eaten well
ever
. Both their stomachs grumble and Mary's mouth waters at the thought of eating shrimp and udon noodles even though she has no idea what either of them are.

‘What about rabbit?' Mary asks. ‘And other meat?'

‘No, we don't eat a lot of meat, Mary, and definitely not rabbits. We have a story in Japan about rabbits.' Hiroshi thinks back to his childhood and the tale he heard that had been passed on from generation to generation for centuries.

‘I love stories,' Mary says.

‘If you look at the moon, when it is big,' Hiroshi says, moving his hands to make a circle.

‘Full, when it is a full moon.' Mary gestures to make a full circle too.

‘When it is a full moon, you can see a shadow where there is a rabbit pounding a mochi rice cake.' Hiroshi experiences a hunger pang at the thought of the glutinous rice cake he remembers enjoying most as a child, especially at Japanese New Year. He loved watching his mother pound the rice into a paste and then mould it into a special shape, usually a rabbit. When his father wasn't looking, she would create something else, like a cat or a star. ‘Autumn is the best time to look at the moon and see the rabbit,' Hiroshi says.

‘Really? I will look very hard at the next full moon and see if I can see the rabbit.'

They stare at each other for a few seconds, until both feel uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment and glance away.

‘It's time,' Mary says, disappointed that each visit seems to go faster than the one before. She climbs up the ladder.

On the way back to the hut, Mary looks at the sky in the hope of seeing the moon and the rabbit pounding the mochi cake, but the sky is blanketed in clouds and she sees nothing.
She will look again tomorrow and the next night, and keep looking until she can see what Hiroshi sees. She will search for the two stars also. She wants to see the same sky that Hiroshi has seen. She hopes they can both see the sky together one night soon.

The scent of jasmine lingers and soothes Hiroshi to sleep, but he is soon woken by a violent nightmare, drenched with sweat. The war bonds advertisement that caused Joan to cry has also brought to the surface Hiroshi's painful memories of his role in the war: the military training he endured with all the other eligible Japanese men between twenty and forty years of age. Hiroshi was glad that students like him were given a reprieve for the compulsory medical and that it didn't happen until after he had at least finished his degree. But it didn't matter how old he was or how long it had been delayed, the training still offered the same torture, the same physical and psychological trauma to each and every man. He knew some men who died in training and many more who were treated worse than in war. Some of the memories of training were fiercer than those of combat, because it was his own men inflicting the pain.

When Hiroshi passed his physical examination, he was classified as ‘adequate for soldier', and then ordered to enlist. He wasn't like Masao, who joined the army voluntarily at fifteen – Hiroshi was still at school and enjoying teenage life
when he was fifteen; he didn't believe in war, and he didn't want to be a soldier. He'd never once imagined being in the Japanese Army. He dreamt of being an artist, a writer; he loved poetry, he read poetry, he recited poetry, and when he was in the camp, he would occasionally write poetry.

In the dark of night, trying to bring peace to his mind, Hiroshi attempts to remember lines of his favourite works, the Haiku that he read in the library and with his girlfriend, Benika. His favourite Haiku poet had always been Japan's most famous, Bash-o, and he starts reciting out loud:

The smoke at the place

where, on this day of o'bon,

death, and life reborn

The words make him think of the burning huts at the compound. Even though he didn't help put the firewood underneath them, all the Japanese soldiers knew the plan to burn them down. He wonders how many of his own men died that night; if any managed to escape fully. He tries to believe that Masao is still alive, but there are no guarantees, and no news. His eyes well with tears that have been building for months, years – perhaps his whole lifetime. He sits there shivering as the cold air from above penetrates the shelter, the corrugated iron doing little to protect him when it hits his sweaty clothes.