Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms

by Anita Heiss

  ‘Half-castes?’ Hiroshi asks, shaking his head, a look of confusion on his face.

  ‘That means you had to have one white parent and one Aboriginal parent. They call you half-caste and as long as the medical officers are happy that you have one white parent, then they’ll let you enlist.’ Mary wishes now that she had talked to Jim whenever she saw him, because then maybe she would have a better understanding of the camp, of the war, an ounce of what Hiroshi had experienced and what Aboriginal men experience too. Sometimes, when she talks to Hiroshi, she feels incredibly knowledgeable about life and at other times she feels like she knows very little.

  ‘So you must be white to fight for Australia?’ Hiroshi asks.

  ‘That’s what it seems like,’ Mary says.

  ‘But why would Aboriginal people fight in an army for a country that doesn’t really want them? I don’t really understand.’

  ‘Firstly, this is our country Hiroshi, our land, so we are still fighting for our land even if it doesn’t really make sense.’ In fact, it doesn’t make sense to Mary as she says it out loud – Wiradjuri fighting for their land here and overseas. ‘Aboriginal people are loyal to this place, it is our home. I think some of our men might want to prove that we are as good as the Europeans who have come to live here and then go to war. Our men are strong and brave and courageous like other men. Our men are warriors.’ Mary’s pride comes through as she speaks. ‘Some Aboriginal people think that if we fight in the war then maybe the government will treat us all better when the war is over.’

  Mary doesn’t know how many Aboriginal men served in the First World War, only what she hears when the Elders meet at her house and talk about how men came back and were still discriminated against when it came to getting jobs and housing. Even Jim said that discrimination had got worse while he was away at war.

  ‘My dad says that the only reason Blacks were part of the war was because the army needed more manpower, so they recruited our men into the labour corps. Or that maybe they thought they’d get more food than the rations we get here.’

  There is silence as both consider her words.

  ‘Hiroshi,’ Mary says finally, in a way that makes him weak with the need to make her smile more, make her happy, ‘I need to know why you broke out of the camp. Being down here must be worse than being with your friends and having three good meals and daylight and playing baseball.’

  It is a genuine and fair question but Hiroshi doesn’t know where to begin. He pauses to think how he might tell her that dying for the Emperor is honourable.

  ‘It will be very hard for you to understand, Mary, because I think your people and the Australian soldiers are very different to my people. To what Japanese soldiers and people generally believe and how we are expected to behave.’

  ‘I want to understand,’ she says softly. ‘I want to know why you broke out and why some of the Japanese soldiers killed themselves.’ She cannot imagine what would make someone want to end their own life.

  Hiroshi takes a deep breath and then speaks slowly: ‘In the Japanese army there is a code, a law.’ He is taking his time as he tries to find the words to simplify what is a very complex thing for someone who is not Japanese to understand. ‘We have a set of morals we must live by. It is called Senjinkun.’

  ‘Sen-gin-koon,’ Mary sounds it out slowly.

  ‘Senjinkun simply means that you must live, fight, die. That it is dishonourable to be captured by the enemy. Mary, it is dishonourable for me to be in Cowra. At the camp, and even here, do you understand that?’ He shakes his head. ‘I shouldn’t be down here with you. This is just as shameful – hiding like this.’

  Hiroshi feels tears well in his eyes and he sees Mary’s eyes start watering up as well. He doesn’t want to upset her but this is an important conversation they need to have.

  ‘So it is dishonourable to be a prisoner of war like I was, like I still am. This –’ he waves his hands around the space, with the tin bucket in the corner and a ratty old pillow and blanket, ‘– this brings shame on my family.’ He moves closer to Mary. ‘Please, I am grateful to be alive and that you are protecting me, but the Senjinkun is about the duty I have as a Japanese soldier to act with loyalty to the Emperor.’

  Mary imagines the Emperor is like the prime minister who runs Australia.

  ‘To show your loyalty to the Emperor and love of your country, you must die with honour rather than live with the shame of capture. I am living with shame right now.’ He hangs his head as he repeats, ‘Shame.’

  ‘You are not living in shame. You are not captured, you are alive and preparing to see your family again.’ Mary is angry as she says this. She doesn’t understand any of what Hiroshi is saying although she is trying to. She moves closer to him but does not touch him. Her voice softens as she says, ‘I understand you didn’t want to be a prisoner but three meals a day, and your friends and baseball, has to be better than this daily darkness and loneliness, and better than killing other innocent men at war. And surely it has to be better than death?’ She looks into his eyes, seeking an answer.

  Hiroshi says nothing. He knows she doesn’t understand and he can’t see the point any more in trying to make her. The code is what it is. It is something the Japanese are raised with and will literally die with.

  ‘I am glad you escaped. I am glad you are here, safe.’ Mary’s voice has a quiver in it.

  Hiroshi hears it and his instinct is to hold the woman in front of him, but he dare not. He must show respect both to Mary and to the man who first brought him down here. He knows he owes them his life.

  ‘I should leave,’ Mary says. Her parents will be furious at the length of time she’s been here.

  Hiroshi has a lump in his throat and his heart is beating faster than usual, reminding him of the night he escaped. He feels anxious about wanting Mary to understand so much that he can’t explain. He also wants her to know that the security and comfort and three meals a day, playing baseball and being with his friends cannot be measured against the happiness and comfort that the small length of time he gets to spend with her each day brings. He doesn’t think she will understand; he’s not even sure he understands himself. This is not anything he could ever have imagined or planned. None of this scenario is the Japanese way.

  As she heads back up the ladder, he simply says, ‘Arigat-o, ashita mata.’

  8

  8 SEPTEMBER 1944: 195 JAPANESE KILLED: BRUTAL MURDER OF OFFICER

  CANBERRA, Friday – A full, official account of the mutiny at a country prison camp in the early hours of 5 August, has been released by the federal government. Official reports state that more than 800 Japanese prisoners of war set fire to their huts and made a mass attack on their guards. Many scaled the fences and escaped. 195 Japs were killed, 108 wounded and 36 suicided . . . One Australian officer was brutally murdered by a party of Japanese.

  It’s the headline and story that everyone has been waiting for: answers to the many questions the Williams family and the Elders have. Mary has taken to reading the text out loud to them all as they sit with mugs of tea around the Williams’ kitchen table. It is something she feels more confident doing lately, and she wants to do more.

  ‘“The Japs completely ignored the machine-gun fire and many died of wounds from the hail of lead. Eighteen of the twenty sleeping huts in the camp, and two administration huts, were burned to the ground. The incinerated bodies of Japs were found in these huts.”’ She takes a breath and reads on, the others listening carefully. ‘“Many of the Japs who died were killed by their comrades. Only two Jap officers were among the casualties.”’

  There are tears in her eyes as her mother moves to stand behind her. She puts her hands on Mary’s shoulders. ‘You don’t have to keep reading,’ she says softly in Mary’s ear.

  Mary shakes her head, gently shrugs off her mother’s hands and wipes her nose on her sleeve. She takes a long breath and continues.

  ‘“Twenty Japs died from strangulation inflicted by them
selves or other Japs. Nine suicided by stabbing themselves and two by throwing themselves under a train.”’ Mary puts her hand over her mouth in shock, not believing what she has just read out loud.

  ‘Dear Lord,’ Joan says, putting a hand to her heart. ‘Why?’

  Banjo stands and puts his arm around his wife’s shoulder; they are all disturbed by what they have heard, by what is happening in their own town. Such violence, self-harm, killing of your own men is not something they have any experience of. The history of war on their land was understandable, but the suicides, the trains, that is something none of them, especially Mary, will ever understand.

  Mary carries on reading, fast. She is desperate to see if there is any mention of Hiroshi, if they are still looking for him, how much danger he might still be in. She is trying not to imagine any of the hideously violent scenes that the newspaper is painting with its words. She skips what she doesn’t think is necessary, reading only what she believes is relevant to the six people around the table.

  ‘“Casualties among Australian personnel were comparatively light. Sixteen of the wounded had attempted suicide before they were captured. All but a few Japs were recaptured the same day. No complaints as to their treatment had been made by the Japs. Camp conditions were in full accordance with provisions of the International Convention.”’

  Kevin typically bangs his fists on the table and yells, ‘No complaints! There wouldn’t want to be bloody complaints.’

  ‘Kevin!’ Joan chastises.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says to Joan and Mary but not the men. He’s still furious, though, and while he controls his language, he doesn’t hold back on what he thinks about the Japanese. ‘The conditions in that camp are better than here. And imagine if we burnt down our huts and shot white people. What do you think might happen?’ He looks at them one by one. ‘You all know exactly what would happen. These yellow bastards are unbelievable.’

  Joan walks around to Kevin and places her loving hands on his shoulders. ‘Are you okay to go on, Mary?’ she asks her daughter, who is still visibly upset, with flushed cheeks and tears in her eyes.

  Mary nods and continues, ‘“A report of the mutiny has been furnished for forwarding to the Japanese Government. The rest have been rounded up since then.”’ She stops, then repeats, ‘“The rest have been rounded up since then.”’ She bursts into tears. Hiroshi is safe.

  ‘They don’t know he’s missing,’ Banjo says, puffing his chest out. ‘We did it!’

  ‘That also means there could be more of the bastards on the loose. Dumb whitefellas can’t even count.’ Kevin shakes his head. ‘If the paper reported that one was missing and they couldn’t find him, then that would mean we’d done it, as you say, Banjo.’

  Banjo doesn’t reply.

  Kevin stares his brother down. ‘What is it you think you’ve achieved, Banjo, other than putting all of us at the table at risk of trouble from John Smith for supporting the Japanese?’

  ‘We outsmarted them, Kev. This isn’t just about protecting that soldier – it’s about putting one over the white institutions, the government, and the people in power who keep our people down. While we successfully hide Hiroshi, we are outsmarting them all. And that’s what I’m happy about. We have no real power anywhere, but in some ways, hiding that soldier proves we do.’

  Joan places a cup of tea in front of Mary, who is silent. She is churning with emotions: relief, happiness, hope. She wants to tell Hiroshi immediately; she wants him to know that he is safe, that they are not looking for him. That he is one step closer to getting home. Although she has no idea what the next steps will be or how they will happen, she knows Japan is a long way away and it will take money and plans. And the truth is she doesn’t want him to go. She just wants him to stay forever.

  ‘I’ll take the paper to Ryan’s Place so everyone else knows what’s going on,’ Kevin says, and before Mary has the chance to say no, her Uncle has the newspaper in his hands and is flicking through it. ‘I suppose this is good news for your man.’ He looks up and gestures to the other men and Joan, but his gaze lingers longest on Mary, until she looks away.

  ‘We all agreed to do this, Kevin, we must stay united,’ Banjo reminds his brother. ‘Don’t tell anyone. It’s not safe yet.’

  Mary has tears rolling down her flushed cheeks and her mother is soothing her. ‘I’ll take the food down tonight,’ Joan says, concerned about her daughter’s anguish, and now regretting they had put such responsibility onto her young shoulders.

  ‘No!’ Mary cries. ‘It is my job, I want to finish what I started.’ She no longer sees taking Hiroshi his daily food parcel as a job, it is something she is compelled to do. Something she wants to do. To keep him alive. To keep him sane through conversation. To fulfil her own emotional need to see him.

  ‘I am responsible for Hiroshi,’ she says, taking a sip from her tin mug. The war has stolen the lives of many men, but she will not let it steal her time with Hiroshi.

  As she looks up, her mother is watching her suspiciously. She is grateful that Kevin is looking through the paper and starts to read another headline, which captures the attention of the Elders and deflects anything her mother might have been thinking.

  ‘“POWs on Farms: More control sought by diggers.”’ He reads the headline out, skims the article quickly and explains simply, ‘Just something about Australians being sacked and Italian prisoners of war being paid less money. Some old fella at the Soldier Settlers’ Conference wants them all shipped back to Italy.’ He slams the paper down. ‘I’m with him. Ship every one of the bastards back to Italy, Japan, Korea and wherever else they come from.’

  ‘I think it’s fair to say that those men want to go back to their own countries,’ Sid says. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Kevin is slightly calmer now there is at least agreement with his own stand. He changes the topic with no warning. ‘I heard that William Cooper fella from down Victoria way lost his son in the First World War and reckons the sacrifices that Aborigines made was not worth it.’ He shakes his head. ‘Our mob are fighting for a White Australia, not an equal Australia.’

  The women are all at Marj’s for card night. She has the best table, a kettle and a wireless that they sometimes listen to. Marj is in fine form and although no one admits they like her gossiping, the ladies always look forward to hearing whatever news she brings to the game. It’s not long before she starts.

  ‘You know that experimental farm next door to the camp?’

  The others nod.

  ‘Well, there are girls there of that age.’ Marj winks to the other women who nod back in acknowledgement. Mary isn’t sure what they are referring to but listens anyway. ‘Well, some of those girls are supposedly having flings with the Italian soldiers.’

  ‘They are philanderers.’ Ivy laughs as if she is a young girl again too.

  Mary doesn’t know what that word means but guesses it has something to do with women. She wants to look it up in the dictionary at the Smiths’ place, even though she can’t spell it.

  ‘And as you know, I am not one to gossip, but someone told someone who told someone else who told me – and you know I don’t disclose names of those who share with me – and well, the bootmaker is really angry at the Italians because apparently they are really good at repairing shoes.’ Marj raises an eyebrow as if she’s not convinced.

  ‘Really?’ Joan asks, thinking about all the holey shoes and boots in her own family that need repairing but she has no money to pay a bootmaker. She wonders if it would be possible to get the Italians to fix them. ‘So what do they do that’s different?’ she asks, hoping the answer is they work for free.

  Marj keeps her eye on her cards as she speaks. ‘Apparently, and it’s all hearsay you understand, the regimental bootmaker glues the soles of shoes, but, and here’s the twist, the Italians glue the soles and sew them.’ Another raise of the eyebrow.

  Joan knows exactly what that means. ‘The stitching helps the shoes last lon
ger!’

  ‘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.