by Anita Heiss
‘This land, here where we are, around town, all of Cowra, and where you were up at the camp –’ Mary struggles to find the words to explain the enormous size of Wiradjuri land. ‘All the land around this area for hundreds of miles belongs to Aboriginal people. This is Wiradjuri land. You are called Yamato; we call the original people here Wiradjuri. Aboriginal people.’ She puts a hand to her chest. ‘Have you heard of Aboriginal people before?’
‘Yes, I have read the word in the newspaper but I do not really understand anything about the people or what Aboriginal really means.’
‘Erambie is a place where Aboriginal people live, it’s thirty-two acres in size, so sometimes we just call it 32 Acres. It’s a mile from town, so you probably ran about four miles or more to get here.’ Mary isn’t sure about the distance or if he understands everything she is saying, or if she is going into too much unnecessary detail, but she keeps talking because she rarely gets the chance to talk about being Aboriginal or living on Erambie to anyone who’s white, even though she knows that the Japanese aren’t really white. She thinks they are yellow too, because that’s what the newspapers and people in town always say, even though Hiroshi doesn’t really look yellow to her. She too wonders how many colours of people there are in the world.
‘We live on the land in the hut that you were hiding under. It’s known as Number Sixteen. Most of the people living here are Wiradjuri people from around this area. Most of the families are local but others have come from Tumut, Brungle, Griffith and Yass, also Wiradjuri country. Some people have married into the Erambie community. My Uncle Kevin reckons some people come to Cowra searching for the good-looking women here. He reckons we are famous for them.’ Mary blushes. She doesn’t want Hiroshi to think she means she’s good looking.
‘We have a boss, a Manager called John Smith. He tells us what to do, where we can go. He decides whether we can leave here and who is allowed to visit, who we can marry, what time we have to be at home, if we can go to the city.’ Mary lists all the restrictions in one breath. ‘So it’s kind of like being in a prison, like you were up there, because we have rules and regulations with someone in charge to boss the “captives” around. Like POWs, Blacks are constantly supervised, checked and rechecked, we have little or no income and much of our food is given to us. They’re called rations.’
Hiroshi is overwhelmed with all the information about the other prison camp Mary lives in. He’s also a little surprised the girl talks so much to a stranger, a Japanese soldier, but thinks maybe the people at this place are very different to other places. She is not like Japanese women who would never give so much information to a stranger, and certainly not a man. But he is thankful for her openness, making his circumstances just a little less tragic.
‘Do you work?’
‘I work for Mr Smith. I clean his house and help his wife, Mrs Smith. Most of the women here do domestic work, washing or cleaning at people’s places. My mum works at the convent and the church. Sometimes I help her if there’s lots of work to do. It’s all they think Aboriginal women are good for.’
Mary sounds angry, and Hiroshi wonders if he asked the wrong question. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘I have to go,’ Mary says abruptly. ‘My mother will probably be cranky with me for staying here too long.’
Hiroshi nods. ‘Please,’ he says pleadingly, ‘can you bring me a newspaper, so I can read?’ He doesn’t say he wants to know about the war, and he doesn’t consider how it will be possible to read in the dark, but he asks anyway. ‘A newspaper will give me company,’ he adds, which is not a lie.
Mary doesn’t know if it will be possible, so without promising anything, she says, ‘I’ll try.’
As she walks at speed back to the hut, Mary has already worked out a plan to get Hiroshi a newspaper. She will ask for the newspaper at the end of her working day and tell Mrs Smith that she wants to practise her reading. It’s only a part-lie because she will read the newspaper before passing it on to Hiroshi – and the more she reads, the better she will get.
When Hiroshi is alone again he thinks of the Black people of Cowra and how he hadn’t heard about Aboriginal people when he was at university, but then he never heard much of anything of Australia before. The talk with Mary forces him to think about the Ainu people, the Indigenous people of both Japan and Russia, but in Japan they don’t get talked about much. He wishes he had taken more interest in what he’d read in the paper while at the compound. Hiroshi is just as confused about the issue of heritage and people with Ainu backgrounds as he is about Australian people. He doesn’t know that the Aboriginal people of Cowra don’t get talked about much either.
11 AUGUST 1944: FOOLED AGAIN! REFERENDUM PROPOSALS WILL NOT GIVE ORGANISED MARKETING
Mary reads an article to her parents about a referendum Australians will vote on. It’s about the marketing of produce. She plans on giving the paper to Hiroshi later, although she has decided not to tell her parents what she has agreed to do; she knows her mother won’t approve. Just like the excuse she told Mrs Smith, this is not really a lie because she is just not saying anything. She rationalises in her Catholic mind that ‘partial lies’ for a good cause are a Christian act, just like feeding Hiroshi. Mary wishes she could get books for Hiroshi, but there are no books near her to be gotten. She knows there is a Literary Institute in Brisbane Street, but it’s not free to borrow books from there.
‘Bloody voting! If I had the right to vote, I’d vote out this blasted government and give us some rights,’ Banjo proclaims, distressed at the reminder that he has no rights to his own land.
Mary and her mother say nothing. They let Banjo wrestle with his own thoughts, knowing full well there is nothing either of them can say or do to appease him or change the reality for their mob, voting in a referendum or anything else.
When Mary makes her trek to the air raid shelter again, she has an apple and a jar of water to give Hiroshi. It seems like the food is already dwindling and it’s only been a few days. Theirs is the only family contributing regularly. The newspaper is stuck in the band of her apron and she’s hoping it doesn’t fall out as she walks faster than usual. She’s also got a wet rag for Hiroshi to wash with. Frost is due to set in overnight, and she wonders how cold Hiroshi must be every night with no fire and only one thin blanket. She starts to think about how she can get him something to make life in the shelter more comfortable. New clothes would be a start.
Hiroshi is waiting as usual. His strict, tall posture makes the moment feel more official than Mary had planned, or hoped for. ‘Um, I only have an apple for you tonight,’ she says, handing it over with the jar of water from her pocket.
Hiroshi receives both graciously, and for a fleeting moment he forgets everything about the day, about his own awkwardness and the reason he is there. The gesture of kindness overwhelms him. He’s spent the last hour listening for the sound of the corrugated iron sheet being moved as his signal to stand up in readiness for Mary’s entry. While he is eager for her arrival, he still feels the cultural awkwardness that any Japanese man would in the same situation, but wartime and desperation change the expectations and behaviours of everyone.
‘I have this for you too,’ Mary says, pulling the newspaper from under her coat and dropping the wet rag at the same time.
Hiroshi’s eyes light up as if the newspaper is a block of gold that will buy him freedom and help him travel back home. ‘Thank you,’ he says, then, ‘arigat-o. Thank you, in my language.’
He becomes completely preoccupied with reading the paper, hunger and thirst momentarily forgotten until Mary points to the jar. He gulps the water with a passion she’s never seen before.
He hands the jar back and they both stand there. He doesn’t want to talk any more, he just wants to read the paper.
‘I must go,’ she says and turns to the lantern.
‘Please,’ Hiroshi says desperately, ‘please can you leave the lantern on so I can read?’
Mary knows the bunke
r will be dark without it and she is torn. How will she explain the need for more kerosene when it runs out more quickly than expected? It doesn’t matter. What kind of person offers someone a newspaper and then leaves them in the dark? Not a Christian, she tells herself.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘I will see you tomorrow.’
‘I will see you tomorrow,’ Hiroshi repeats then adds, ‘arigat-o.’
‘Arigat-o,’ Mary says over and over to herself as she walks back home.
The next night, when Mary hands over a parcel of food, there is an apple and an orange. Hiroshi takes them enthusiastically, along with the newspaper.
‘Where in Japan are you from?’ she asks.
Hiroshi is surprised that anyone is interested in where he is from, and the question makes him homesick. ‘My home is Shikoku Island; it means four countries.’
Mary immediately wonders if Japan is divided up like Australia, with tribal land like Wiradjuri and Yorta Yorta land further south, but she doesn’t want to confuse Hiroshi by asking, so she just lets him keep talking.
‘There is Ehime, Kagawa, Tokushima and my home province is Kochi.’ Hiroshi proudly talks about his home. ‘Shikoku is Japan’s fourth largest island, and many men at the camp are from where I call home. Most of them went to the war in New Guinea.’
Mary is trying to imagine what Hiroshi’s home looks like. ‘Is the land like it is here?’ she asks.
‘I don’t really know what the land is like here, Mary,’ he says, not wanting to make her feel silly, but still compelled to tell the truth. When he broke out it was pitch black and after he was discovered under the hut, he took little notice of what anything looked like as he was rushed down the yard to the bunker. ‘But maybe if I tell you about my home you can tell me if it sounds the same?’
‘Yes,’ Mary says enthusiastically.
‘My island has very high mountains and steep slopes. Because it is so hilly there is not a lot of farming but we do have rice and vegetables, and we grow fruit.’
‘We have farms too, but we don’t have that many mountains here,’ Mary says. ‘We have Billy Goat Hill,’ she continues quickly, feeling a little silly saying it, because it’s just a hill, but she hasn’t been anywhere else to see big mountains. ‘Maybe when the war is over you will be able to see more of the land around here. My mum calls it God’s country.’ At that Mary is reminded that her mother will be counting the minutes. ‘I’m sorry, I really must go now Hiroshi, but we will talk again.’ Hiroshi offers a respectful nod of acknowledgement even though he is disappointed that their conversation has been cut short again.
As she walks back to the hut Mary is eager for the night to be over and the new day to start so she can look at the Smiths’ atlas. She wants to see how far Hiroshi’s home is from hers, what the fourth largest island of Japan actually looks like and if it is bigger than Australia. She also wants to know where New Guinea is. Mary is aware that she’s never even thought about other countries much before. Life at Erambie, working for the Smiths every day, means she’s missed out on a lot. But she now has a new found thirst for knowledge and for that she thanks Hiroshi.
4
Banjo has landed a carpentry job rebuilding a barn for a local farmer. It’s a big job and there’s a couple of other Aboriginal men and some local whitefellas there too. The Aboriginal men are chosen for the job because they are good craftsmen.
Working together provides a chance for the men to whine about their wives, talk about what’s happening in town, who’s playing the best football and today, most importantly to Banjo, to hear what people know about the breakout. There is still nothing in the papers but rumours are flying around town and, like everyone else, he has no idea how long the war will go on, so any more information he can get will be useful.
As the men put their woodworking skills into action and the smell of sawdust fills their nostrils, Bill, a local whitefella, starts to speak. Banjo’s ears prick up.
‘I hear they haven’t caught all those bloody Jap bastards yet,’ Bill says. ‘I’ve got the wife locked inside when I’m not there, and a bloody shotgun at the ready.’
‘Me too,’ another whitefella chimes in. ‘Bad enough they kill our men in action and treat them like dirt as POWs, but the nerve of them to break out into our town. Shoot on sight, I say.’
Banjo wants to say, It’s not your town, this place belongs to us, but he doesn’t want to draw unwanted attention to himself.
‘Us whites are smarter than those yellow bastards,’ Fat Bobbo says, ‘and so we should’ve known this was going to happen.’ He lights a cigarette.
‘Why?’ Banjo asks, ignoring the ‘us whites’ comment.
‘Cos it’d already happened over in New Zealand – a place called Featherstone. There was a mutiny over there. The Jap bastards just refused to work or follow any orders they were given, and when the fella in charge fired a warning shot, the Japs went crazy, throwing stones at him, and then all hell broke loose. But they killed forty-eight of the yellow bastards, so that’s good. Pity one of the guards died, though, and that was just unfortunate, as he was hit by a ricocheting bullet.’
‘Do we really know how bad they are?’ Banjo asks vaguely, sanding back a piece of wood.
‘Well, I know!’ Fat Bobbo fumes. ‘The Allies are being tortured right now as we stand here! They use our men as target practice. Target practice! God knows what else is happening there. And if you don’t reckon that’s disgusting, then that makes you a Jap lover. Are you a Jap lover, Banjo?’ Fat Bobbo asks accusingly. ‘The Japs are worse than the Germans, but they’re all in it together.’ Some of the other men nod in agreement.
Banjo can’t believe what he’s hearing but doesn’t want to say too much more for fear he won’t be able to argue well enough without raising suspicion.
‘I hardly even thought about the camp until the breakout,’ a whitefella named Johnno says. ‘I mean, why would I? It’s not like anyone ever heads this way. And the Ities are okay, I reckon. They do the gardening at my mates’ places, and I never heard of anyone having a problem with them.’
‘Yeah, the Ities are okay,’ Fat Bobbo says. ‘Everyone knows they’d rather be here than on the warfront, that’s no secret – they’ve got it easy. They make their own grog, they call it grappa, and they sing to the women, but I don’t reckon they’ll ever get any – can’t go past an Australian bloke.’ Fat Bobbo scratches the fat white gut that’s poking through the buttons of his stretched shirt as he speaks, as if he is the most prized possession a woman in Cowra could have. ‘But I don’t care about the Ities at all, they’ll be gone as soon as the war is over, and at least they’re growing fruit and vegetables and are working at the cannery too. They make good use of themselves.’ He sits down. ‘Now, the Japs, on the other hand, are animals, the whole race are terrible people.’
The other men nod in agreement, but even if they didn’t, no one is brave enough to argue with him because although he’s unfit, everyone knows he can pack a punch and would KO anyone he threw his fist at.
‘There was the bombing of Darwin, Changi, the Thai–Burma Railway, and the Sydney Harbour submarine attack.’
‘They are literally on our doorstep,’ Bill adds. ‘We should be worried!’
‘And think about Pearl Harbor,’ Fat Bobbo continues, looking specifically at Banjo. ‘You know about that, don’t you?’ Fat Bobbo thinks the Blacks are dumb and useless and sighs when Banjo gives no response. ‘The Japs bombed Pearl Harbor in 1941! They killed about two and a half thousand Yanks. It was the worst fucking attack in history.’
‘Where do you get all these details?’ Johnno asks.
‘I listen to the broadcasts on my wireless, it’s a Stromberg Carlson valve radio. It’s top of the line, probably the best wireless in Cowra. I hear the Japanese propaganda and Tokyo Rose too. All the anti-US stuff. So yeah, I listen to the enemy broadcasts – gotta keep one step ahead of those bastards.’
When no one says anything, Fat Bobbo goes on, preach
ing confidently. ‘This is shit we need to be on top of, chaps. We need to know about what’s going on in the world. How else are we going to keep ourselves safe from the yellow peril if we aren’t one step ahead of them?
‘The Japanese are the most hated race on earth and we need to fight them now, because they might invade here. They purposely crash their planes into ships. It’s called a Kamikaze attack.’ He does a nosedive with his hands and makes a splash and explosion sound. ‘They’ll do that to our ships just like they did with the Americans, and they’ll start in Darwin.’ Fat Bobbo is almost spitting, he is talking so fast and so passionately. He is a little scary to the other men, who still just listen and watch.
‘We don’t want the yellow peril here. We’re white Australia,’ Fat Bobbo states.
‘But,’ Banjo interrupts, ‘we’re not white.’
Fat Bobbo doesn’t correct himself, just shrugs his shoulders. ‘I reckon they should have electric fences at the camp and then the bastards can’t escape. Or at least they’d get electrocuted trying to!’ And he laughs his big, fat, belly laugh as if death by electrocution is hilarious.
Banjo is trying to contain the anger he can feel building up. He doesn’t want to get in an argument with the whitefellas and he doesn’t want to wind up the Blacks, but he’s willing to take the risk. He remembers the sad, gruesome site of the dead Japanese soldiers he saw the morning after the breakout and his own sense of humanity takes over. He wasn’t raised to speak with such hatred, and he doesn’t want to be around it. He wonders how the hearts and minds of some people have been poisoned to such extremes.
‘War is hideous, but we need to remember that soldiers, even the enemy, are human. They are men like you and me who do their best for their country. And the Japanese aren’t the only ones fenced in around here. Erambie,’ he says, and the white men roll their eyes. For the first time, Fat Bobbo starts to put his hammer to a nail. ‘All I’m saying is that, as far as I’m concerned, there are two prison camps in Cowra. And neither of us want to be where we are, living under someone else’s rules.’
