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.On the day of my arrest, however, it was clear that the struggle between destruction and renewal, man and nature—whatever one wishes to call it—was drawing to a close.Although a few figures strolled along the main road, without the Japanese population and their businesses, the town was a shadow of its former self.The rusty signs, broken railings and faded curtains in the windows of the restaurants and stores—those elements that had once stood as examples of the town’s life force—had become relics of a glorious past.I knew then Broome would never be the same.We reached the edge of Japtown, and people stopped to stare at us.The sun, so bright and clear, continued to shine.Mr Ong was standing outside his store and saw us.Suddenly self-conscious, I ducked my head.Taylor saw me and smirked.Someone called out my name, and I looked up and saw it was Billy, the Malay who’d got into a fight with the Japanese diver my first year in Broome.He was on the upper verandah of Mrs Yano’s boarding house, crouched over a washing pan.He waved and shouted something at me that I couldn’t understand.I nodded and smiled, conscious of Taylor’s grip on my arm.We turned onto the dusty expanse of Carnarvon Street, where scattered iron-roofed buildings baked in the sun.There was only a short stretch of road until the police station.On our left was the Japanese Association; the hedge of pink and white oleanders that bordered the verandah was in full bloom.Ahead of me, on the far side of the road, was Ellies’ cafe.I remembered when Sister Bernice and I had had our surprise encounter there on the day of the Emperor’s birthday.I remembered the rhythmic thunk of the fan overhead and the sweet smell of malt.The smoothness of her skin.The way it crinkled around the corners of her mouth.Those memories converged and overwhelmed me, and that is the only explanation I can think of for what I did next.Nostalgia got the better of me, and without thinking I veered off course and started towards the cafe.I do vaguely remember hearing someone shouting behind me, although for some reason I didn’t think it was directed at me.I was in a kind of trance, at the mercy of my desire to go inside one last time—a desire so strong it was almost primal.I suppose I thought if I looked at it again I’d be able to preserve the moment in my mind—a memento of my time with Sister Bernice.I continued across the street at what seemed to me a regular pace, but I was told later I had actually broken free and run from Taylor and Cowie.I was almost at the shop’s verandah, the black, curlicued sign just discernible, when I felt a force on my back.My legs buckled.Pain shot through my left shoulder and dirt invaded my mouth.Someone—Taylor, I found out later—was upon me, cursing in my ear.‘Don’t you try to get away from me.Quit moving, you bloody Jap!’It’s possible I suffered a concussion when I hit the ground, for when I lifted my head everything swayed.I recall fragments of images—a man’s chin, the surprised eyes of a woman staring down at me, someone’s sun-pink hands disturbing the collar of my shirt.There must have been quite a crowd.Then something hard struck the side of my face.Warm metallic liquid flooded my mouth.Time stretched out, like ripples on the surface of a lake.I later learned I was only unconscious for a few seconds, but into the space images floated up, one after another, enough to fill an hour-long reel of film.My mother’s grey-streaked hair.Kayoko’s ebony comb on her dressing table at home.The rich red sand of Roebuck Bay.Lily-white folds of fabric.We did the right thing, didn’t we? Harada’s question came back to me, an echo in that silence.I don’t know.I just don’t know.Loveday1942I woke on Saturday to the chatter of men.The walls of the hut creaked and the windows glowed white.Two glorious days without work stretched ahead of me.At the last minute, Hayashi had offered to do my shift on Sunday, the day of the baseball final.‘You deserve it.You’ve been working harder than anyone else.’ I had refused at first, but he’d insisted.‘Wasn’t the baseball competition your idea? It wouldn’t be right without you there.You can cover one of my shifts another time.’ So I thanked him for his generosity and promised to return the favour.During my two days off, I planned to tend the garden near the Buddhist altar.I’d planted some purple-tinged long grasses that I’d picked up on our trip to the river several weeks earlier, and I wondered how they were coping with the frost.I also needed to check on the baseball trophy—I’d asked Sawada and a few of the other craftsmen to make something for the winners.On the hut doorstep, I stretched my arms.A brisk wind tugged at my jacket and lifted my hair.I looked up.The sky was opaque.It was a strange colour—a shade I’d never seen before.Murky, like the river on an overcast day.I wondered whether a storm was approaching, but there were no discernible clouds in the sky.A haze seemed to hang in the air, making everything appear pale and blurry.Beyond the fence, the trees seemed to quiver in the distance.I heard a shout from the gate.An army truck trundled into camp, lurching to a stop on the other side of the birdcage gate.Men spilled from the back and fanned out along the fence.Johnny and the others had returned from Melbourne.I was eager to know if their appeal had been successful.They’d want to celebrate, if so.I wondered if Yamada would allow them to have some of the sake hidden beneath the latrines.The men began filing into our compound.I cut across camp to meet them, weaving between the few remaining rows of tents, the canvas flaps jerking in the wind.Johnny, Martin and Andy were the last to enter.They trudged along the path, shouldering their rucksacks.I was about to call out to them in greeting, but then saw the expression on their faces.Their mouths were slack, their eyes downcast.Johnny’s swagger was gone; his shoulders were slumped.Their appeals must have been rejected, but I couldn’t imagine why.Surely at least one of them would have been granted a release?I caught up to them on the path.‘How was it?’Johnny didn’t look up.Andy frowned.Martin glanced at me, his mouth tight.‘Not now.’ He shook his head.‘You weren’t successful?’ I asked.Johnny’s head snapped up.‘What do you think, Doc?’ He glared at me.I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.‘It was a bloody waste of time.Those frocked-up arseholes were against us from the start.’ He strode away, each footstep raising a cloud of dust.‘He’s been in a foul mood since the decision,’ Martin said.‘What happened?’‘We were in there for about fifteen minutes each and they asked us about ten questions [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]