Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms

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

5 August 1944

H
iroshi 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 Australians 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.