Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms (14 page)

Joan knows exactly what that means. ‘The stitching helps the shoes last longer!'

‘Apparently. So they are better than our own at doing the same job. It's not just the shoes, though,' she says, looking at her cards intently, ‘they are also good at lots of things.'

Ivy giggles. ‘So we've heard.' She winks at the ladies, who burst out laughing.

‘You are wicked,' Joan says.

‘I meant trades, Ivy,
trades
,' Marj says, putting her cards on the table. ‘
Apparently
, they are good plumbers, painters and carpenters too, and
apparently
they are good woodworkers.'

‘The Smiths have photos in wooden picture frames that the Italians made,' Mary says, ‘and Mr Smith has a chess set but he says no one around here is smart enough to play, so it's just for show.'

‘A chess set, that is fancy woodwork, your Banjo better watch out, Joan, or he'll be like the bootmaker,' Marj warns.

‘My Banjo is beyond compare,' Joan says adamantly, angry at the suggestion that anyone, let alone an Italian prisoner of war, is going to be a better carpenter than her husband. ‘No one is better than he is. Your hut was built by my husband, Marj, you might do well to remember that.' And she uncharacteristically throws her cards on the table.

‘No, I didn't mean anything by it, Joan. You know I know how good Banjo is.'

Joan can already hear the gossip mill working overtime tomorrow when Marj is retelling the story to others, but she doesn't care, because Joan knows what she knows.

‘Our men have a history of building here. Banjo's father cut timber too. The Welfare Board may have provided the nails and roofing iron, but our men provided the skills to build their homes.'

‘I've often said to Sid how fortunate we are to have Banjo do so much work around here for all of us,' Ivy says.

‘Who's that?' Marj says, getting up quickly and changing the subject. ‘Someone's out there, again. Fred!
Fred!
' she squeals. ‘Oh, where is that useless man?'

Joan and Mary are on their feet with Marj at the window, hoping it's not Hiroshi.

‘You do go on, Marj, always seeing things and hearing things,' Joan says, trying to move Marj away from the window.

‘It's Claude!' Mary exclaims. ‘He's smoking! He does it every night, hiding, I've seen him but didn't want to dob on him.'

‘Well, I guess he's old enough,' Ivy says. ‘All the other men do it.'

‘I'm sure his mother wouldn't approve.' Marj sits back down and picks up her cards. ‘And I'm sure she'll be hearing about it soon enough.'

Joan and Mary look at each other, hearts beating fast.

H
iroshi was at university when Japanese troops entered Peking in 1937, invading China in an attempt to dominate Southeast Asia. His father spoke passionately about how Japan should be the world leader, that even though they were a small cluster of islands, Japan was strong. His father fully supported Japan taking over other countries to increase its power and Hiroshi was sad when he realised his father wasn't concerned about his only son going to war.

At university, Hiroshi and his friends talked about Japan signing the Tripartite Pact and asked each other why Japan joined the Axis alliance with Germany and Italy – questions that were never really answered.

When a former general of the army, Hideki Tojo, became prime minister, his followers included Hiroshi's father, and Hiroshi became more nervous about the war. When Japan attacked the US Navy at Pearl Harbor, his father was more
than pleased that the strike sank many ships. Hiroshi's mother cried, though, because she knew her son would go to war. Hiroshi's father was proud to see his son off to die in a war that would, he believed, see Japan become a world leader. He flexed his muscles just like Japan flexed its military muscle, and he laughed at news reports about the destruction of Pearl Harbor.

In the shelter behind Mary's hut, Hiroshi sees his father's pride in one frame and in the next he sees other men from Shikoku Island. They are all on a ship on their way to the war. He is at war. He is in New Guinea and he is fighting for food, the food his government has not sent to sustain them as soldiers. He sees men bloodied and dying, dropping from gunshots. He is tired, aching from crawling in and out of trenches, from carrying his own body as well as those of injured Japanese soldiers. He is so tired when the Allies attack, he can't move. He can't fight. He looks around at his countrymen, all too injured or sick to save themselves from capture. Save themselves from the enemy. Some are begging to be killed. Some are biting their tongues off. Hiroshi's ears are filled with the sounds of grown men screaming in pain, yelling in anger, crying with shame and fear.

Hiroshi wakes with a startle and throws up. He is drenched in sweat and riddled with anxiety as he tries to shake off the nightmare. It's the same violent dream he has had over and over again.

As Hiroshi sits in the dark, he sobs like a child. The fear of war and the weight of witnessing so much death falls heavily on his entire being. His body feels drained of life although he is still breathing. For the first time – without thoughts of Mary
to soothe him – he wishes he had died in New Guinea or, better still, he wishes he could turn back the clock to before the war was declared, before Japan had become involved. Back to where the dread of the unknown did not destroy his sense of peace or his sanity.

‘I hope my sons never have to go to war,' Hiroshi says as he and Mary sit with their feet almost touching. He is wearing new pants and a clean shirt Mary delivered the day before, courtesy of Father Patrick. Joan had told the priest there was a visitor in need of trousers and a shirt. It wasn't really a lie, she told herself, as Hiroshi
was
a visitor and
was
in need of clothes. She did, however, set herself some penance that night, saying ten Hail Marys, an Our Father and a Glory Be to the Father, for good measure.

‘I was taught honour before shame. I had to say it out loud all the time,' Hiroshi says, as if such a statement is like a friendly greeting. He is not sad, he is not maudlin, he is simply thinking about the future life of the sons he hopes to have one day.

Even though she has heard Hiroshi talk about honour and shame before, Mary still listens to his words because she believes he is wise, that he will do whatever he sets his mind to and that his sons will have a hero for a father. She is in awe of the man in front of her. He appears to be emotionally strong, like her father and Uncles, like the Elders she has
gained much of her knowledge and history from. And he is gentle and wise like her mother.

‘It is difficult in my country to have ideas that are different from the majority.' He is talking to Mary, but he is also saying out loud for the first time things he has thought for many years, opinions he could never share back home. Words that are so incredibly private to him – he is surprising himself with being so open, so honest with a young female foreigner. ‘Japanese people are forced to think and act the same. Wa wo motte totoshi to nasu,' he says, then translates: ‘Acting with harmony is of the utmost importance.

‘We should all agree in public, not be against each other. A person, a man, may have had a dream when he was young but it was beaten out of him.' Hiroshi is talking about himself, about his own dream, about wanting to be a poet, to use his university education to be creative, but knowing that the national conscience and expectations meant otherwise.

Mary looks at the man she is falling in love with. She wonders how the world can be so cruel. How governments can send innocent men to fight wars that never really have a winner. How can one country lock up another country's citizens as prisoners in compounds like the one in Cowra? Her Uncle Kevin said the Japanese were doing brutal things to the Australian soldiers. How could that be true when Hiroshi is so gentle? Mary doesn't want to believe it. None are better than the other, regardless of what her Uncle has said, but she could never say that out loud to the Elders.

She doesn't allow herself to think long about what the Nazis have done to the Jews, but she knows enough to realise
it has been horrific. She has overheard enough conversations in the Manager's house to know that the war in Europe is ugly. She knows that war is ripping lives apart, and there are men just like Hiroshi from many different countries feeling the same grief and trauma. She is grateful only for one thing that war has achieved: it has brought Hiroshi to her.

Hiroshi looks at Mary. She looks away, trying to think of something to say, something that isn't too gloomy.

‘Is it the same here, Mary, can
you
have dreams? Can
you
be different?' Hiroshi is hoping that at least outside of his homeland people have the freedom to dream, to live autonomously.

‘This is such a big question, Hiroshi. Of course you can dream in Australia, and we mightn't have to go to war training camps, but it is still hard to make your dreams come true, especially if you are Aboriginal.'

‘What kinds of dreams do you have?' Hiroshi wants to escape into the dreams of someone else just for a little while and experience a world removed from his own.

‘I dream about being able to live and work wherever I want to and not have to do as Mr Smith says. And I want to go back and finish school.' Mary has thought about all this before and is grateful for the opportunity to express herself without sounding unhappy with her lot, or ungrateful, because she knows her parents have given her the best life they can within their power. She doesn't want her parents to think she is not thankful for all they have done to keep their family together, but she does dream about the future and what might be possible for her as she gets older.

‘I dream about marrying the man I fall in love with without the Manager or the government telling me I can't.' She blushes, because she knows she is young, she knows that no one will ever understand that she has feelings for a Japanese soldier. She knows that he might not even love her back, but right now she can't imagine that she will ever feel like this again about another human being. She wonders if this is how her parents felt when they first met.

Hiroshi's eyes twinkle at her words about marriage, and his glance sends a rush through her body, which makes her blush again. She swallows and composes herself, and turns serious, hoping he has not noticed any change in her. ‘I dream about having the same rights as white people, so I can live a full life.'

Hiroshi wishes that the woman he is closest to right now could have all her dreams come true. She is the woman who has brought light into his daily darkness. The woman who has saved his sanity and his soul and, most importantly, his life. She has given him flickering moments of joy simply with her smile. He wants to be able to bring some happiness to Mary's life and wonders how it is possible with the regime she and her family live under, and the fact he remains a soldier on the run.

‘Is this dream possible, Mary?'

‘My Uncle Kevin says if we want to have what white people have, all the rights they have to go places and do things, get married, live where they want, or even to have just a little of what they have, then we must assimilate. There is a government policy to try to make us be like white people.'

Hiroshi looks confused.

‘It means we must
act
like white people. We must be more like them, even though we look like this.' She runs her hands over the dark skin of her cheeks. ‘But we will always be treated like we are Black, even if we try to pretend to be white.'

Hiroshi frowns.

‘I don't want to be
like
a white person, I want to be
me
but treated in the same way as white people are. But to get the same things we must not
act
Aboriginal any more. Whatever that means,' she says.

‘But I don't understand.' He still can't fathom what Mary is talking about, what she is going through, what kind of life the people walking around above him are living, having only spent minutes above ground when he first arrived, and a few moments each night when he empties his bucket in the lavatory.

‘Twenty years ago, the Manager actually expelled people from Erambie because he said they were too white to be treated as Aborigines under the Act. That means they weren't dark enough to be treated badly.'

‘What is the Act?' Hiroshi asks. Even with his good English, he is finding it hard to follow the complexity of Mary's words, while Mary is finding it difficult to explain what it means to live under the Act of Protection. Nevertheless, she continues with the same fire in her belly that she knows both her parents have, and most people at Erambie have too.

‘Where we are, this place Cowra, it is in the state of New South Wales,' she says, ‘and there is some government policy just for Aborigines who live in this state and it is called the
Aborigines Protection Act. If we want the rights of white people we can apply to be non-Aborigines and get something called an Exemption Certificate.' Mary motions to form a square.