Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms by Anita Heiss Page A

which also means that he and the other Japanese soldiers think they are better than the Italians.
    The Italians were held in A and C Compounds and the hardline fascists were held in D Compound. He doesn’t want to tell Mary that even though the Japanese enjoyed operas and dramatic performances in B Compound every month, the Italians were thought to do it better and had their own opera society and band. It irks Hiroshi that the Italians also played soccer and created their own field to play on.
    Hiroshi also partly resents the fact that the guards always considered the Italians cheerful. ‘Why aren’t you more like the Italians?’ he’d heard more than once. He’s never seen it, but knows the Italians had building skills and many were artisans back home. Unlike the Japanese, the Italians had turned their camp into a place like their home country: there were garden beds between the mess halls, and the men used their skills as cobblers to turn old car tyres into sandals to sell in the community.
    Either way, it is not easy to explain the reality of life in the POW camp with Mary here in front of him with eyes wide and a warm smile that could make any man soft in the heart. He just wants to see her smile more. ‘I think they are called saxophones.’ He gestures to blow into a pretend pipe-like instrument and fingers imaginary keys.
    Mary loves her father’s banjo playing, and Uncle Muddy on the piano accordion is fantastic and when the Williamsboys play their guitars, it’s like a party, but something new, something from another country, that is special, and her face lights up.
    â€˜The guards told us the Italians, they play something called a mandolin . . . it is like a small guitar,’ he says, gesturing to indicate the size of the instrument.
    â€˜My Uncles play the mandolin too, but gee, it would be wonderful to see the Italians play it. I guess they have different songs,’ Mary says cheerfully.
    Hiroshi knows that she simply does not understand that nothing about the Italians is wonderful.
    There has been silence between them now for the longest time, both lost in their own thoughts of Italian prisoners of war.
    â€˜It’s time to leave,’ Mary suddenly declares. ‘But before I do, I have a surprise for you.’ She watches Hiroshi’s face as she hands him the writing materials. Mary has shown initiative and told Mrs Smith she wants to practise writing. This has landed her a notebook and two pencils, which Hiroshi gently takes with both hands.
    His heart wells with happiness and gratitude but also the fear of penning the truth of his existence to his parents, even though he doesn’t expect they will get to read it.
    As she walks through a gentle mist that will later turn into a heavy downpour, Mary is proud of the charity she is offering Hiroshi and hopes the notebook gives him something to pass the time in the long hours he is alone in the shelter. She also hopes that Mrs Smith doesn’t ever ask to see the notebook again, because that will require another lieand she has already lost track of how many lies she has told in the last month. She’s glad that even though she has been baptised, she has never been expected to go to confession at St Raphael’s, because she would need to be in the confessional for a very long time. While her mother would like to go to church more often, Mary is glad that Aboriginal people from Erambie only go to church on special occasions like weddings and funerals.

    By the dim light of the kerosene lamp, Hiroshi begins to write, but it is far harder than he thought it would be. He is already feeling the heartache and pain of the words he must pen to his parents. It takes him almost an hour before he can write something other than the opening greeting. But then the words flow and so do his tears.
    Dear Mother and Father,
    I know this letter will come as a shock. I know that you have been told I am dead,