by Anita Heiss
Praise for Tiddas
‘Brisbane through jacaranda-tinted glasses, the river and a group of loud-mouthed, big-hearted girlfriends flowing through it. Generous, witty, a paean to BrizVegas, friendship and sophisticated urban Aboriginal life: only Anita Heiss is writing this new contemporary women’s story.’
– Susan Johnson
‘This enjoyable and human story is impressively interwoven with historical and contemporary Aboriginal issues.’
– The Sun Herald
Praise for Not Meeting Mr Right
‘Heiss creates the genre of Koori chick lit in Not Meeting Mr Right’
– The Sydney Morning Herald
‘Anita is Aboriginal Australia’s answer to Whoopi Goldberg.’
– Jackie Huggins
Praise for Avoiding Mr Right
‘Sassy, intelligent, strong, independent and brilliantly funny’
– Deborah Mailman
‘Black Chicks Talking meets Bridget Jones in this sassy, sexy novel.’
– Sunday Times
‘Great witty entertainment from a clever young Aussie author. More please.’
– Woman’s Day
Praise for Manhattan Dreaming
‘Captures all the wide-eyed excitement of Manhattan: the sights; the shopping; the history; and – of course – the men. It’s a contemporary romance with spunk.’
– Australian Bookseller and Publisher
‘With the classic romantic ending up the Empire State Building . . . this may well get you appreciating Aboriginal art and dreaming of life in the Big Apple.’
– The West Australian
Praise for Paris Dreaming
‘Heiss writes with flair and gives readers what they look for in chick lit as well as added political and cultural interest.’
– The Daily Telegraph
To all those who call Cowra home
Prologue
5 August 1944
Hiroshi is wide awake and waiting when the bugle sounds across the camp at two am. Not long after, a couple of gunshots are fired by a guard. It’s time to honour his Japanese heritage and no longer bring shame upon his family. It’s time to run with his countrymen and break free from the confines that have given him both refuge and grief over the last twelve months.
He rises, fully clothed, and becomes part of the chaos that consumes B Compound. Japanese soldiers are bellowing and running with frantic purpose to fulfil what they had all agreed to less than twenty-four hours before. They are breaking out.
Six hundred men sprint up the stretch of sealed road known as Broadway. It is lit up like the famous New York City street that Hiroshi knows little about, but he knows America because he is a fan of baseball. He also knows America is his enemy in the war he has fought and will probably die in. He knows he should die with honour rather than live with the shame of failure. Bringing shame on their families is what is driving these men to break out of Cowra’s prisoner of war camp.
‘Tenno Heika Banzai!’ men yell as they run. ‘Long live the Emperor!’ They are dressed in surplus Australian First World War uniforms. The uniforms are dyed maroon but most are faded, as the Japanese have boiled the garments to wash the much hated red out. Many of the men have blankets tied in strips around their legs and some carry baseball gloves they have made themselves. These will be used to protect their hands when climbing the barbed-wire fence. But blankets and baseball mitts will not be enough to protect them from bullets.
The screams of pride and duty are lost among cries of pain as some hit the ground, yelling, ‘Okasan!’ – calling for their mothers. They are the same shrieks Hiroshi knew in New Guinea. The war has come to them in Cowra.
Hiroshi is carrying a bread knife that has been ground down to razor sharpness. He hopes he won’t have to use it against anyone. He hopes he doesn’t have to use it against himself. He is not ready to commit suicide as others are, although he knows his obligations: a duty to the emperor and his family. He is running for his family, not only to save them from shame, save them from the pain of following Shinto rituals once they believe he is dead, but because he desperately wants to see them again. Some of his comrades are carrying baseball bats and heavy sticks as weapons, and while the Australian guards are caught off-guard, eventually gunfire will render bats and sticks as useless as the blankets and mitts.
There are a number of ways to escape: the prisoner of war camp is divided into four quarters, making twelve sides. Most of the men take Broadway, the road running north to south. A few others head along the unsealed road known as No Man’s Land. It’s too much of a risk to be in a smaller group. Safety in numbers, Hiroshi tells himself, just as he did when the men voted on whether or not to attempt an escape.
Only hours ago, each hut leader had ordered his men to vote. Hiroshi wanted to mark ‘X’ on the ballot; he didn’t want to do what he was now forced to do: run, risking death rather than the ongoing dishonour of being held captive as a prisoner of war. He knew there were other men who didn’t want to escape either, but they were not the majority. Like most of the others, he did the only thing he could with his ballot paper, voted in favour, and handed it over, yet he remained naïvely hopeful there would not have to be a breakout at all. The pressure was on all of them – they had only two options: die an honourable death or return home alive. Hiroshi knew that he must no longer bring shame upon his family, even if the stain of being held captive would still be there regardless.
Hiroshi does not like his chances of survival. Once it had been agreed they would break out, though, he knew he needed a strategy. If he could get out and away alive, then he would make sure he had the best chance at staying that way. He values his heritage and the traditions that come with being Japanese, but he values his life and the family he so heartbreakingly misses more. He will follow the river, because at least he can catch fish to eat if needed. If he can keep himself fed and alive then there is some hope.
Smoke fills the cold night air and Hiroshi’s lungs. It’s not the smell of log fires warming Cowra homes, though, it’s the burning of fear and hatred and the huts the men had stacked fire wood under and set alight as part of the breakout. Hiroshi is agile, lean, running with speed and strength but others aren’t as light-footed or balanced. He can tell by the way some of them are zigzagging that they are still affected by the home brew they’d drunk when saying their farewells in the hours leading up to this moment. Hiroshi hadn’t drunk any of the Cowra Masamune, named after the famous sake of Kobe. He said goodbye sober, wanted a clear head if and when the escape began. But his head is far from clear – it is filled with terror and turmoil about what will happen. Other men surround Hiroshi when he reaches the fence where the No. 2 Vickers gun is stationed, in the northeast corner near F Tower. The gun is mounted on a trailer and there are two Australian soldiers there firing rounds. Japanese soldiers fall and Hiroshi’s ears are filled with the cries of pain, which are somehow more deafening than the blasts of artillery. He tries to block the noise of the men who are already lying wounded.
His heart beats frantically as he looks around. With each step he imagines he will be the next to fall. He can’t see his closest friend, Masao, but he hasn’t got time to wait. He throws his blanket over the barbed-wire fence, scrambling up and over it quicker than others. He runs as fast as his legs will carry him. He runs like he did in his university days when his studies were mixed with sport. He runs like the child he was with his cousins, the very family he wishes he could see right now. He runs so fast he becomes conscious of his heartbeat, pounding like the taiko drum his father made him listen to when preparing for war; he knew the drums were used in past times to scare the enemy but also to issue commands. What do A
ustralians use to scare the enemy? What is their war cry? he wonders momentarily. But the beating of the taiko calls his mind to attention as if the drum is right in front of him, sending a message for him to run, to escape, and to be smarter than the enemy this time.
In minutes Hiroshi finds himself alone, already away from the compound, his friends, Masao, and the night seems suddenly darker. It’s the blackest night sky Hiroshi remembers seeing. There are millions of stars but the moon is low. He is grateful for that; less chance of being seen as he runs. A bead of sweat drips down his face and he slows his pace slightly, focusing his eyes on his surrounds, looking for a sign in the distance to suggest somewhere to hide. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but he knows he needs to keep moving – the only plan he has right now is to stay alive. He must find and follow the river and use it as a navigation point, perhaps to the sea. He doesn’t know the landscape, the geography, how far away the ocean that could carry him home is. Some of the men thought they could get to a port, but Hiroshi wasn’t so sure. He still isn’t.
He continues to run to the sound of gunfire behind him and his mind moves at the same speed. The ground is hilly but not too steep. He remembers the mountainous terrain of his island home and the farmers to the north growing rice and barley and wheat. He knows there are farms nearby where the Italian soldiers used to work but he doesn’t know how many hills he might have to run up and down tonight.
Deep breathing turns to deep thought as Hiroshi’s own life flashes past in vignettes as if he is flicking through an old black and white photo album. Memories flood his thoughts like the tears his mother cried the day he left. All he can see are images of the people he loved, the people he still loves, the life he misses back home. Each lunge he takes into the darkness of the unknown town he is now running the outskirts of, brings new recollections. His heart is filled with pain and joy at the same time.
This is the last time he will see the compound, because he knows that whatever happens, he will not return to the camp. He can’t. He’s been a prisoner since June 1943 and he’s seen the four seasons come and go and start to come again. He’s heard the kookaburras in the gum trees at daybreak, and the barking owls at dusk, and enjoyed embellished stories about snakes in huts even though he’s never seen one himself. He’s been told there’s good fishing in the nearby Lachlan River, but that’s all he knows, and he’s prepared for even less.
Hiroshi trips, stumbles, takes a deep breath and looks around. He can see the twinkle of lights ahead of him and fires burning behind. He hears the faint cries of his countrymen and the ongoing ringing of gunfire. He starts to run again and tries to drown out the sounds of his heavy breathing and beating heart with thoughts of home, of why he wants to live, why he will risk both death and dishonour just to see his family again. He keeps running because he wants to hug his mother’s tiny frame once more and relieve her of the worry he knows she will have. His mother is kind and loving – unlike his father, who urged him to take his physical examination for the army on his twentieth birthday. At the time Hiroshi was at university studying English. He knew that he could get a reprieve until his studies were done but his father was not impressed and when he finally left for military camp at the age of twenty-two, his father put one hand firmly on his shoulder and said, ‘If you go to war, please die.’ Hiroshi knew what he meant. It is better to die with honour than live with shame.
This is why the memory of his mother and her peaceful approach to life has always remained the strongest for him. She detested war but could never express it; it was not the Japanese way. ‘Please come home,’ she’d whispered in her son’s ear the last time he saw her. It is for his mother that he continues to run until the fear of what is behind him and what is ahead of him makes him collapse.
Hiroshi begins to hyperventilate, panicking to the point of shaking, a wave of nausea causing him to gag and double over with cramps. He hears more gunshots but he is paralysed with fear, with the reality that he is alone and his fellow soldiers and Masao are probably dead. He slows his breathing and picks himself up like the soldier he was trained to be. He stands to attention and immediately begins quietly chanting the Senjinkun – the military creed – because he knows that is what he is supposed to do: ‘Strong is he who comprehends shame. Be always mindful of the reputation of your community and family, while making every effort to fulfil their expectations. Do not in death leave to posterity a stain on your honour by having suffered in life the disgrace of being a prisoner.’
He wasn’t prepared for the escape. Then again, he was never prepared for the capture – it was not something that was expected to happen to Japanese soldiers and therefore none had been trained in what to do if they were. It is why he had been like other soldiers and given information readily to the Australian guards, who had always treated him with respect, after some initial rough handling that was exacerbated by anxiety and distress.
Some of the Australian officials interrogating Hiroshi and the other Japanese soldiers had remarkable skills in the Japanese language, and this impressed Hiroshi, and made it easy for him to cooperate. Hiroshi wasn’t considered to be difficult or militant and mutual respect was shown between the captor and captive. Some of the soldiers were tricked though, manipulated by being offered a cigarette or sugary treat. Australian soldiers would get the information they needed by asking, ‘When was the last time you had sugar?’ and pushing a sweet towards them. The thoughts of the capture, the need for sugar, the memories of the sweet mochi rice cakes his mother used to make are all too real for Hiroshi. He can taste them now.
Of course there were lies too. Hiroshi, like many others, did not give his real name so that his family would not be able to trace him back to a camp. He would never be traced back to the prisoner of war camp in Cowra; he could never be known to have been a prisoner of war anywhere. That is where the shame would start. He lied about his position too. His university background meant he was an officer in the Imperial Japanese Army. He did not tell the truth about his rank, and therefore did not go to D camp with other officers, who did not break out. He claimed he was just a soldier – feeling it was better to be held back with his friends, with Masao, than be separated in an already shameful situation.
He knew the truth, though: in this bloody war, life in the compound was utopia compared to life on the warfront, to life in military training. The Japanese government had left their soldiers starving in New Guinea so they were forced to fight for food as well as fighting the enemy. Hiroshi respected the Australian soldiers who fed and treated them all well. He was still lean but he’d gained weight while in B Compound.
New Guinea is a lifetime away for Hiroshi as he hits the river where people are camping. The camp is under the railway bridge and near the quarry. There are about six huts strung out between the river and the road south of the bridge, and another four huts north of the bridge and a few more between the bridge and a fence line that Hiroshi can just make out. The huts remind him of the traditional wooden architecture scattered throughout Shikoku. He wonders if there are local fishermen here who cast nets into the river like the men do back home.
It is quiet except for a barking dog. He decides to run to the second set of huts and rest, because even though there’s no way of telling how long he has been running or how far he is from the camp, he knows it’s still not far enough away. He keeps moving with the little energy he can muster. He imagines running from one base to another, like he did playing baseball back in university and at the camp. He focuses on a specific point as if it is a base he is running to. Find somewhere to hide, he tells himself.
His clothes are soaked with the sweat of fear and exertion when he reaches the second group of huts, small like the ones in B Compound. He is exhausted and slows his pace in the hope he might find some refuge. He quietens his breathing and uses his military training to move like the kitsune, a spiritual entity with superior intelligence likened to the fox. He moves around the huts until he finds one with a verandah to cra
wl under.
The sun is rising just as Hiroshi’s eyelids fall, heavy. Anxiety and adrenalin have kept him awake till now, but he is emotionally drained and exhausted from running. He’s been alert for hours, and that too has been a strain on his mind. The cold and frost make it hard to feel comfortable. He wishes he had the warmth of the camp to protect him.
After what seems like only minutes he wakes to see first light. He smells tobacco and hears a man’s voice. He listens closely and thinks it’s strange there’s only one voice, before realising the man is talking to a dog sitting three feet from where Hiroshi lies. The dog sticks its head under the verandah and growls. Hiroshi panics, thinking it is one of the dingoes he’s heard about, and sits up abruptly. He hits his head on a wooden beam and groans loudly and the dog barks. He panics even more.
‘Shh, KB, you’ll wake everyone up. We don’t need the goothas running around yet,’ the brown-skinned, black-haired man with a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip whispers to his four-legged mate, who is making more noise than either the man or Hiroshi want.
The fella has long legs, but one doesn’t bend at all, so he struggles to get down low to see what the dog is growling at. The men’s eyes meet, Hiroshi’s full of fear, the other’s oddly full of warmth.
‘What have we got here then?’ the man says, blowing smoke into Hiroshi’s face, an inquisitive look on his own.
1
Four Aboriginal men who look older than their years sit around a small wooden table in mismatched chairs. It’s Banjo Williams’ home and he’s there with Sid Coe and Fred Murray, who both come from a long line of respected leaders in the community. Fred’s cousin Doolan Murray was a main leader at Erambie for twenty years and was the force behind setting up the school on the reserve. Since he passed, Fred has carried the mantle for the family. Fred and Sid work at the local cannery and King Billie, the Manager at Erambie, has a lot of respect for them, as does everyone else. Banjo is a carpenter and has built most of the furniture in the houses at Erambie as well as the verandah his family enjoys. He has done some work at the prisoner of war compound, but has had no contact with any of the prisoners first hand. Banjo’s brother Kevin, a drover and buckjump rider who works around New South Wales, is the fourth in the group.
