Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms (6 page)

‘Ah, I see,' Mary says, but she doesn't really understand and she walks towards the lantern. ‘I will see you tomorrow,' she says, ‘with more food.'

‘I will see you tomorrow,' Hiroshi repeats, already counting down the hours and minutes to more contact with the outside world. With Mary and her food. Maybe tomorrow he will ask for the newspaper, but right now he is grateful for the girl who is simply being kind to him.

8 A
UGUST
1944: P
RISONERS
E
SCAPE FROM
C
AMP

A number of prisoners of war escaped from the internment camp at Cowra at an early hour on Saturday morning. The district is being thoroughly patrolled by members of the military and police forces.

Individuals may attempt to secure assistance and evade capture. Any person approached for help in this way should immediately inform the military or police authorities.

Mary reads the
Cowra Guardian
spread out on the large oval dining table she is supposed to be polishing. Mr Smith is out and Mrs Smith is having a lie down – she has a headache. Mary assumes it's from having to live with Mr Smith, because he'd give anyone a headache. She keeps reading and learns that the censorship authorities have said that the media are not to report anything about the breakout beyond the statement issued by the prime minister, which is yet to be released.

Any person approached for help should immediately inform the military or police authorities
. Mary rereads the line and knows how much trouble her family will be in if anyone finds out about Hiroshi. Mary knew enough about her family's history to know why her parents were hiding him. She also knows her parents would never go to the gundyibuls – ever. It was the gundyibuls who took her mum's sisters and brothers away years ago. No one knew that the police had the power to do that, they thought only the Welfare Board stole children. But since that day, when Mary's mum was only a child, Joan had said she would never help the gundyibuls with anything.

Mary memorises as much of the information as possible to report back to her parents before she finishes polishing the table and repositions the paper exactly where she found it. The locals rarely have newspapers in their homes and if someone manages to get their hands on one, it gets passed around, which means sometimes the news may be days old by the time they get to read it. As she recounts the facts in her head, Mary feels like a spy – a good spy – even though she knows the Japanese are doing evil things in the war, they are Allies with the Germans, who are doing bad things in Europe. But still she wants to outsmart the authorities. She knows enough to know that war is tragic. It rips families and nations apart. War scars the bodies and minds of innocent individuals forever. Mary is pretty sure nothing good has ever come of war, but she can't help feeling a little grateful for war bringing Hiroshi to Erambie. Hiroshi has already made her life more interesting.

On the way home, Mary bumps into Aunty Marj, who is standing at the front of her hut, alone.

‘Hello, my girl, how was King Billie today?'

‘Oh, all right, I guess.' Mary prefers not to talk about the Manager at all, and she wonders why her Aunt doesn't call him John Smith in front of her like her father does.

‘You be careful walking around this place alone, now, you know about that breakout, don't you?'

‘Yes, Aunt, Dad told me.'

‘Well, those Japs, they're a real threat to Australia.'

‘Yes, Aunt.' Mary is anxious to move on and not talk about anything related to the Japanese.

‘They are the most dangerous of all the enemy forces,' Marj whispers. ‘And it's us against them.'

‘I better get home, Aunt.' Mary kisses Marj on the cheek and walks away.

‘Mum, Dad,' she says as soon as she gets home. ‘I have some news.' She wants to tell them before she forgets what she's read.

The three of them sit at the kitchen table as she shares her news in a low voice. ‘The military authorities have said that the escape happened at two am on Saturday but they don't know yet how many prisoners broke out.' Mary looks at her father, who says nothing.

Joan parcels up Hiroshi's food. ‘We don't have much for you to take down tonight, Mary. There's nothing in the garden and only a small bit of damper, and a tiny apple Sid dropped in. It'll have to do.' She hands the package to Mary. ‘There's nothing from Fred, and I reckon that's because he's worried about Marj getting suspicious. Here's a jar of water, the lid's on tight. Get him to drink it while you are there so you can bring it back.'

‘Hiroshi will be grateful,' Mary says, glad there is something to take so she can at least see him again. Her parents look at her in shock and she realises she hasn't told them she knows his name. ‘That's his name. He speaks English.'

‘What?'

‘Really?' Banjo says. ‘He never said a word when I found him and raced him to the shelter – I just assumed he only spoke his own lingo and when we walked down the lot, I just did this.' Banjo puts his finger up to his lips. ‘How good is his English then?'

‘I don't know, he just said his name was Hiroshi and that he was Japanese, Yamato. It means the original people of Japan. Like us, I guess.' Mary is surprised at how much she remembers and how interested she has become in wanting to know more. She is an intelligent and inquisitive young woman but having to leave school to work for the Smiths means there is a lot of education she's missed out on. What she knows about the world generally is what she reads sporadically in the newspaper.

‘You're not supposed to be spending too much time there, Mary. I told you, just deliver the food, get him to drink the water, be kind, and leave.' Joan will help Hiroshi but she doesn't want her daughter being anything more than hospitable. There is no need for it, and nothing good that can come of it. ‘You don't have to be friends,' she adds sternly.

Mary thinks her mother is overreacting, considering all she did was learn his name. She is a good girl, a good Catholic girl, she was even baptised at St Raphael's. Mary still says her nightly prayers without any prompting from her parents. Even so, sometimes she thinks that even her very Catholic mother can have some un-Christian ways.

Visiting Hiroshi is easier than the night before: she has a name now, she knows he speaks English. ‘Hello,' she says as she lights the lantern.

Hiroshi is waiting for her. The day has been long and lonely but he knew that at the end of it, she would come with food and with her caring face and kindness. And here she is.

‘Konnichiwa,' he says quietly. ‘It is hello in my language,' he says, patting his chest. ‘Kon-eech-ee-wa.' He sounds out the word slowly so she has a chance to hear it again.

‘Kon-eech-ee-wa,' Mary says, happy to learn a new, greeting. She smiles because she feels like she mastered it quickly. ‘I'm sorry, we do not have much to give you tonight, Hiroshi.' She likes the sound of his name – exotic, different, close to the sound of ‘hero'. ‘Here is some damper, an apple and some water.' She hands him the wrapped food and the jar she carried in her pocket.

Hiroshi bows with respect. ‘Please don't say sorry.
I
am sorry to be a burden, to take your family's food. Thank you for everything, the shelter.' He waves his hands to point out the safety of his surroundings, and although he wants to wait until she is gone to eat, he is starving and unwraps the food straight away. He sits down without looking at her. The food barely touches his tongue, is almost swallowed whole. It disappears so quickly Mary feels sorry for him, wishing she had more to give. He drinks and hands back the jar without her instructing him to do so.

‘Do you like the damper?'

‘This taste is new to me. It is –' he smacks together lips that are dry from the doughy food, ‘– is it a little bit sweet?' He isn't sure how to describe the taste. ‘Can I ask you something?' he says shyly.

‘Of course.'

‘Where am I?' He looks upwards.

‘This is Erambie Station,' she says. ‘Some people call it a mission, it used to be a reserve where Black people camped.'

‘Erambie,' he says.

‘Some people reckon Erambie means yabbie.'

Hiroshi frowns and repeats, ‘Yab-bee.'

‘My dad says Erambie means waterhole, because we are so close to the Lachlan River.'

‘Who lives here? Are they all . . .' He pauses. ‘Are they all like you?' He rubs the skin on his arm.

Mary laughs. ‘Yes,' she says. ‘Everyone who lives here is Black.'

Hiroshi nods, suddenly more interested in this place so close to the prisoner of war camp that has only Black people living in it. His experience with white people at war had been horrific, except for the guards in the compound, who, for the most part, treated him well. Other than that he knows that white people call the Japanese yellow people. He doesn't think he looks yellow. He wonders what other colour people might be in this country.

‘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.'