 
HIROSHIMA SUNSET
Published by: John B Kelly

51 Roy Street, Donvale 3111 Victoria Australia

www.aquininebooks.com

Email: jb.kelly@optusnet.com.au

While set against the background of the Atomic bombing of Hiroshima and the subsequent deployment of British Commonwealth Occupation Forces in 1946, this book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents portrayed are the product of the author's imagination and are not real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons or real organizations similar in name and description, is purely coincidental.

First published in 2009

Copyright © 2009 by John B Kelly

Smashwords Edition 1.0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner, without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations contained in critical articles or reviews.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Author: Kelly, John Bernard, 1945-

Title: Hiroshima sunset / John Kelly.

Edition: 1st ed.

ISBN: 9780646511986 (pbk.)

Subjects: British Commonwealth Occupation Forces--Fiction.

Atomic bomb--Japan--Hiroshima-shi--Fiction.

Dewey Number: A823.

My thanks to the BCOF veterans interviewed, who gave of their time, their stories and perspective.

By the same author:

SATAN'S LITTLE HELPERS

ANDREA'S SECRET

SAINTS AND RELICS

# Hiroshima

# Sunset

Foreword

For the residents of Hiroshima, the 6th August 1945 was the day to end all days; the dawn of a new age of horror, when night came in the morning and the most depraved of all the weapons used in the war, was unleashed upon her unsuspecting people. As her citizens both military and civilian, went about their early morning activities, busily preparing for their day, travelling to work, riding in buses, travelling on trams, children on their way to elementary school, the temperature rose quickly to twenty-eight degrees centigrade. What began as a bright, sunny Monday morning, gave no hint to the death and destruction that was shortly to follow. At 7.00 am, fourteen year-old Masako Yamada cheerfully said goodbye to her mother and set out to join her school friends. Her class had been ordered to help with the demolition parties clearing fire breaks across the city in anticipation of American bombing. As she left the house, she heard the all-too-familiar sound of the air-raid sirens warning people of approaching aircraft. Masako looked up above to see a lone B-29 bomber streaking across the sky; not unusual, she thought; they were often seen running reconnaissance missions; no need to be concerned. Half a mile away, Dr. Kano had just finished breakfast and settled back on the balcony of his private clinic, beside the Kyo Bridge to read the morning paper. He too, looked up when he heard the sirens and saw the bomber passing over. Like Masako, he was not concerned. B-29's were passing over Hiroshima everyday, on their way to some other city in Japan. Twenty miles away on the island of Miyajima, Shigeko Suzuki sat with her parents in the kitchen of their home enjoying breakfast. In one way or another, some four hundred thousand people went about their normal routine that morning, most of them steadfast in their belief that Japan was winning the war, and that soon the soldiers would be coming home, victorious.

Above them, at 30,000 feet, Major Claude Eatherly, of the 509th Composite group, piloting _Straight Flush,_ radioed his weather report to the command pilot of _Enola Gay_ several miles to the south... _'Cloud cover less than three-tenths at all altitudes. Advice: Bomb primary.'_ That message sealed the city's fate and the lives of 130,000 people. Had the weather report been unfavourable, _Enola Gay_ would have proceeded to either Kokura or Nagasaki. On the ground, it was 7.30 am, _Straight Flush_ could no longer be heard or seen and the all-clear siren sounded, advising people that it was safe to resume normal duties. Few had even bothered to take shelter. Masako Yamada met up with her school friends and arrived at their prearranged location while Dr. Kano continued reading his paper on the balcony overlooking the Ota River.

To the south, and climbing to 31,000 feet, Colonel Paul Tibbets, piloting the aircraft he renamed _Enola Gay_ after his mother, was leading a group of three B-29's on the most important and by far the most expensive mission the United States had ever mounted. The Manhattan Project, first begun in 1942 and culminating in the production and successful testing of nuclear fission at a cost of two billion dollars, was about to change the world forever.

'It's Hiroshima,' Tibbets announced to the crew through the intercom. The long night's flight was over. Now, the months of intense training and the realization that this mission was itself historic in nature brought them all to a new level of anticipation. Each man aboard _Enola Gay_ was there for a specific purpose; each a specialist in his field. Thirty-five minutes later and within sight of the city, Colonel Tibbets set his course for the bomb run. As they approached from the east, Tibbets' group bombardier, Major Tom Ferebee, took control of the aircraft, piloting from the bomb bay, and manoeuvred the M-9B Norden bombsight, the most advanced of its kind ever constructed, into position. The target was the Aioi Bridge, so chosen because it was so easily recognized from aerial photographs, forming a perfect T-shape with the Ota River. Just minutes before release, Ferebee could see the city's suburbs appear beneath him as he made a slight adjustment to his delivery angle to compensate for the wind. At 8.15am local time, he flipped the switch that released _'Little boy'_ , a 9000lb uranium bomb, the first ever constructed, from the pneumatically operated bomb bay doors of _Enola Gay_.

Three minutes earlier, in the hills east of Hiroshima, the lookout at the Matsunaga monitoring post reported three high flying aircraft tracking west toward the city. One minute later, the air raid warning centre at Saijo confirmed the sighting and telephoned the communication centre in the bunker underneath Hiroshima Castle. From there a frantic attempt by a schoolgirl in the bunker to relay the sighting to the local radio station, in an attempt to warn people to seek shelter, was too late. When Ferebee reported that the bomb was on its way, Colonel Tibbets turned off the automatic pilot and immediately banked _Enola Gay_ sharply sixty degrees to the right. At the same time, the second B-29, _The Great Artiste_ dropped three aluminium canisters attached to parachutes, and its pilot Chuck Sweeney hard-banked to the left, both planes attempting to outrun the expected shockwave. The blast-gauge canisters dropped from _The Great Artiste_ would record vital information and relay details of the impact by radio signal back to the aircraft. The third B-29, Dimples 91, later renamed _Necessary Evil,_ hung back some 18 miles to the south ready to view and photograph the results using a slow-motion camera. The bomb dropped into the freezing air and began its deadly descent, set to detonate at 1850 feet, the height calculated by the scientists who built it, to inflict the maximum damage on the city of Hiroshima.

At ground level, just seconds after detonation, the impact was appalling. The temperature at the core reached greater than one million degrees centigrade, intensifying outward in a brilliant flash of light followed by a roiling display of electrically charged colours; reds, greens, yellows, purple. On the ground directly below, the temperature peaked at 3000 degrees centigrade, twice the heat required to melt iron. Those immediately exposed to the heat at the burst point were vaporized where they stood or turned into blackened, overcooked lumps of scorched char on the street. Within a one mile radius of the hypocentre, all manner of life and matter melted in the thermal heat, clothes disappeared from human bodies and skin fell away from flesh like wrapping paper from a parcel. Human organs liquefied, boiled and vanished. Later estimates suggested 50,000 people died in the first few seconds. Cats, dogs, birds, pets and insects of all description, all plant life simply ceased to be.

The shockwave followed; a force of high pressure, initially greater than six tons per square metre travelling in excess of 7000 miles per hour propelled its way across the city, destroying everything in its wake. It demolished Hiroshima's predominantly wooden structures in seconds, blowing out windows and sending splinters of glass into the seething fiery air, flying indiscriminately, piercing anything and anyone in its path. The shockwave thundered in all directions, setting fire to everything it struck, but even worse, carrying with it, the deadly neutrons and gamma rays, that would poison the air and ground for years. As the entire city was set alight, the radioactive particles spread their silent, invisible legacy.

Aboard _Enola Gay,_ Tail gunner, Sergeant Bob Caron watched in shock as the mushroom cloud climbed six miles high. As the cloud raced upward, Caron could see the shockwave materialize in the thermal heat and race toward the retreating planes now eleven miles away from the blast. Even at that distance and height, _Enola Gay_ experienced strong turbulence, as the plane shook violently and the approaching shockwave battered against the fuselage now caught up in the expanding force of energy. The mushroom cloud reached a height of 60,000 feet, a furious, boiling mass of fire radiating all the colours under the sun. On the ground eight miles from the hypocentre, tiles blew from roofs, windows smashed, homes were destroyed, and trees were incinerated. Everywhere fires started, catching residents in the foothills unawares as they came out of their homes to see what had caused the brilliant flash of light and the terrifying, thundering roar.

Then came the firestorm! As the air temperature soared, it rushed upward, sucking the oxygen along with it, leaving behind a vacuum. Cold air rushed in to fill the vacuum, creating a tornado that tore through the city at frightening speed dragging the fire, and the debris, as it hurled itself along, relentlessly and indiscriminately. Masako Yamada was two miles from the hypocentre, inside a lunch-room shelter at the time of the blast. She was thrown to the ground and lost consciousness for several minutes. When she awoke, she was underneath a pile of rubble, the city was in darkness, covered by a thick pale of black cloud above, and fires were raging all around her. Dr. Kano's clinic collapsed into the Ota River. He tumbled downward and found himself pinned between two wooden beams that threatened to either crush him or hold him steadfast such that when the tide rose, he would drown. Miraculously, both of them survived.

Across the Inland Sea on the island of Miyajima, Shigeko Suzuki and her parents were suddenly startled by the flash of light and a tremendous roar that rattled windows and shook the front door. She dived for cover underneath the table first thinking an unexpected typhoon had struck the Island. She waited until it passed, then ventured outside only to witness a huge mushroom cloud rise up above Hiroshima, some twenty miles away. Above the inferno, _Enola Gay_ flew out of the after-shock and made a left turn, Tibbets rewarding the crew with a panoramic view of the results of their months of long, hard training and the isolation experienced in the most top-secret of missions of the entire war. The crew crammed across to the starboard side of the aircraft, momentarily stunned into silence by what they saw. Ahead of them lay a further six hours flying time before returning to Tinian Island in the Mariana's. As the radio operator sent a brief message to Tinian, reporting a successful mission, the B-29 and its two companions, tracked south-east away from the devastation they had inflicted. Ninety minutes later and nearly 400 miles away, Tail gunner Bob Caron could still see the mushroom cloud. Amid the mixed cries of astonishment and wonder among the crew, Tibbet's co-pilot Captain Bob Lewis, scribbled in his log, _'My God! What have we done?'_

## 1.

Melbourne, April 2007

The sign on the double doors read BLM Publishing Pty. Limited and identified a small publishing house in the leafy eastern suburbs of the city. The initials stood for, Balwyn, Lester and Merricks, the names of the three partners in the company, but George Balwyn, the only active member of the trio always preferred George Balwyn and Associates. It was an example of this self-made millionaire, entrepreneur, turned philanthropist having his moment of superiority; a moment propelled by his own sense of importance and his perception that his partners were irrelevant in the day-to-day running of the business. The staff members closest to him agreed but were not persuaded with the suggested change of name. BLM was a respected name in the publishing industry, a name they had helped promote. To them, such a change would suggest their devoted efforts would be reduced to the superfluous. To most of them, George was self-assured and generous but also inclined to indulge in hubris; a man with incredible self-confidence, possessing astute judgement, and he knew it. He was also inclined toward the mysterious, never really explaining his intentions beyond what was necessary. To his staff, or at least those who knew him well, the latter explanation correctly identified the man who paid their salaries, but whom they found at the best of times odd, and when things weren't going so well, bordering on the eccentric. He had a good eye and ear for the right book though, and perhaps there was some truth in his attitude toward his inactive partners. They had helped finance the company, but took no active role beyond that. George also had a good eye and ear for finding the right people to work for him. He head-hunted his two most senior executives and gave them authority to head-hunt the people they thought would be star performers. And they did.

George grew up on a farm at Lillico, near Warragul in Victoria, where his parents struggled to keep food on the table. Childhood memories remained steadfast. Images of his father raising cattle and working the fields from five in the morning till nine at night were vivid. For days on end his only contact a wave across the field in the morning as he left for school and a wave on his return in the afternoon. In the distance, a man on a tractor returned the gesture, to reassure the boy that all was well. At night George listened to stories about the war and the part his father played in winning the peace. The war, his father used to say, made him old before his time. George was aware from a very young age that circumstances were harsh. It infused within him, an intense desire to make good, to succeed in life, to help his parents overcome and conquer the unforgiving landscape. Perhaps it was these early childhood experiences that helped mould his determination to first make good and then where the opportunity presented itself, improve the lot of the less fortunate.

His mother never smiled. George often felt that she was disconnected, not quite living in the present; always there, always caring, nurturing, but so serious, so intense and detached from the here and now. George's early observations of his surroundings, the bleakness of the countryside, and the severity of life on the land did not endear him to follow in his father's footsteps. Farming would not, he thought, be the catalyst for achieving his goals. He showed unusual promise at school and won a scholarship to University, graduating with a degree in Arts/Law. After a succession of jobs here and there, mostly associated with journalism, he joined the _Farmer's Daily,_ a small regional newspaper in eastern Victoria. In due course he became senior editor but left the paper after twenty years to start his own publishing business. He had an unusual flair for knowing what people liked to read and a talent for finding authors to write the kind of stories that would attract and stimulate the market. But he shied away from the idea of an autobiography, or commissioning anyone else to write about him. He felt uncomfortable when the subject arose from time to time. There were matters about his childhood, his parents, that would remain private; secrets that would remain so. The tabloid press were always showing an interest as were the glossy magazine editors with their paparazzi photographs on the front cover and some trivial story of how he walked from his apartment each morning to the local newsagent to pick up the morning paper. Riveting stuff! Now fifty-eight, and slightly overweight, he was in good health, gliding through middle-age gracefully. He never married. There was never enough time, he thought, never the opportunity, or if it came, he never recognized it as such. His parents had long since sold off the farm to the co-operatives, holding on to the house and a few acres, and living off the proceeds in retirement. George was a regular visitor. He had the means to set them up comfortably in the town, but they preferred to remain on the land, in the house where he grew up. He wondered why, but never pressed them. They seemed content, and that, to him, was sufficient. His life was very different from theirs and he would not want anyone to try and change his, therefore, he had no desire to change theirs.

But now, his mother was gravely ill, struck down with Alzheimer's disease and spending what were her final days in a nursing home. George drove back to the farm at Lillico each weekend and together with his father they kept her company as she lay, staring toward the ceiling of her comfortable but staid room, occasionally uttering words that had no meaning and struggling to recognize who was in her room. Each Sunday night he returned to Melbourne, exhausted from the weight of concern he shared with his father. Then, each Monday morning he returned to his office attending to the pressing matters of business.

As one passed through the front doors of BLM, into a deserted foyer and up a short spiral staircase, the relentless publicity machine that drives the industry rolled out its wares. The walls boldly displayed giant framed posters of the company's best selling novels and autobiographies, matched with glossy photographs of the novelists and non-fiction writers under contract. At the top of the stairs the impressive literary merchandising and decor continued against a light blue backdrop all the way to the reception desk ten metres away where Sarah Whelan sat surrounded by a pile of newspapers still to be circulated around the office. At her feet lay a small collection of packages, mostly unsolicited manuscripts that would never be read, while around her telephone switchboard, tiny little notes adhered here and there, constantly reminded her of all the outstanding matters needing attention. She was on the phone trying to organize a rescue mission. Sometime, during the night, an inventive and aspiring graffiti artist, had gained access to the building and cleverly spray-painted the word 'bolshevist' across the foyer wall. As benign as the addition was, the artistic standard did not meet with management's approval and the painters had been called to have it removed. 'Balwyn, Lester and Merricks' were, after all, a publishing house with a fair-minded reputation. One could tolerate the odd eccentric academic demanding a retraction now and again, or a disgruntled author whose manuscript had been rejected, but to compound the infringement with graffiti on the front door was an offence that could not be tolerated under any circumstances.

While Sarah Whelan was at her desk fingering her way through the yellow pages, down below, George Balwyn slipped into the building quietly. Dressed in his usual impeccable style, his grey hair adding a certain elegance to his dapper appearance, he took note of the graffiti splashed across the foyer wall, grinned with mild amusement and disappeared through a partly concealed door at the back of the spiral staircase; a door that was always locked; a door for which, only George held a key. The staff thought it was a storeroom but were never sure. No one, it seems, had ever set foot inside. They were curious about what was behind the locked door, the mystery door, as they referred to it. When things were not all smooth sailing, when George was in one of his moods, that's where he would go; disappearing for an hour or so, then re-appearing as if nothing happened. Nobody had ever seen behind the door, let alone entered. As time passed, the myth surrounding the mystery door developed its own momentum, helped by an ample contribution from curious staff members who devised anything from a secret meeting place with spies, to a love-nest with a famous personality. George knew of the interest his staff held for the mystery door and did nothing to dispel their curiosity. But when his senior editor Janet Ryan came to him with a proposal to send Amanda Blackburn to Japan, it wasn't his astute judgement or his eye for a good story that prompted him to agree. It was something else, and the reason could be explained behind the mystery door, in the contents of a secret file locked away securely in a safe.

In the senior editor's office on the first floor, directly above the defiled foyer, three people rested comfortably in swish, dark blue leather lounge chairs, around a glass coffee table away from the editor's desk, away from what might otherwise be interpreted as a business meeting. In fact it was a business meeting but one that required a more relaxed, and layback approach to the work at hand. Outside, muffled traffic noises could be heard while senior editor Janet Ryan was supervising her two junior editors. Janet was thirty-three, a former senior journalist at the _'Farmers Daily'_ who followed George Balwyn out the door when he offered her the opportunity to work with him in publishing. She was very attractive, very good at her job, and about to be married to a lawyer with political aspirations. The two junior editors Janet had called to the meeting were Amanda Blackburn and Martin Quist, and the three of them were working through their latest project. It was a novel about love won, lost and won back again in the noisy confusion of life and Janet wanted them to join her for an update and a reading. Amanda had recently re-joined the workforce after twenty-five years the dutiful mother and housewife. Martin was the young up-and-comer, keen, alert, ready for anything, determined not to allow the mature- aged lady with whom he was working to outshine him. As the three of them sat around the table, Martin continued reading.

'...... _It was five o' clock in the morning and he lay there, his mind focussed on the speckle of light that began to edge its way underneath the closed curtain toward the bed. It crept forward like a wave slowly edging forth, unstoppable, determined to remind him the night was disappearing, the day beginning. There was no sound, save the low murmur or was it the humming of Margretta still sleeping soundly. Soon, he relished, she would be brought out of her blissful repose, her dream, if she was having one, all of it about to be interrupted as he ran his hand over her buttocks, around her hip, her stomach and up yet further till he touched the softness of her breast, and she too would stir and slowly realize she was back in the land of the conscious. All in all, not a bad way for her to be brought out of it, but poor him. He had been lying there for the past two hours, wanting to sleep, waiting to sleep when sleep would not come. Poor him!'_

'This is crap', Martin said, looking up from the manuscript and removing his glasses as if to indicate he would read no more. 'Is this the best the author can do?' he asked. 'What's wrong with it?' Amanda asked, feeling quite miffed. It was she who had recommended the manuscript for consideration. 'It is lovely. It has sensitivity, realism. It's what happens when you wake up,' she said defensively. 'It's what might happen when you wake up and your husband gropes you, but all that crap about speckles of light under the curtain? Gimme a break!' 'My husband does not grope me for your information,' Amanda snapped back. 'We are separated.' 'I thought it was nice,' Janet said, in support of Amanda. 'Martin, you live alone. You're not qualified to comment. Anyway it's only one paragraph. Let's finish the chapter before we get hung up over one tiny mode of expression. Read some more please Martin.' Martin rolled his eyes in disbelief, but took up from where he left off, if not without a touch of the dramatic.

'... _..She stirred as he expected. It was as if a mental time-clock had activated itself from somewhere inside her brain moments before the clock itself would sing its depressing ditty and shatter the silence. She slapped her hand across the top of the clock shutting off the alarm and lay there motionless. At the same time their cat, Kaz, with a K, short for Cazaly with a C, and so named after the footballer, for her capacity to leap to extraordinary heights squealed as it sat impatiently at the front door desperate to empty its bladder upon the orange eucalypt at the bottom of the garden....'_

'There see? That's lovely,' Amanda interrupted. 'Anyone who has a cat will relate to that immediately and feel the warmth generated by the way the scene is described.' 'What! No cat door?' Martin asked sarcastically. 'Can't she afford a bloody cat door?' 'It's all in the plot, thickhead,' Amanda fired back. 'Okay that's enough,' Janet began. 'Amanda, I asked Martin to act as a sort of devil's advocate here, just to see how savage a reviewer might behave, although I didn't expect him to act like a pedantic little ass. Don't take this personally. I think it's good to see the negative side.' 'But the negative is so subjective Janet. If we allowed the subjective to rule our decisions we would never publish anything.' 'I once sat through a reading where the senior editor queried every phrase, wanted to change one character's sex and thought that sugar diabetes was a Greek wrestler,' Martin said, offering a small concession. 'I thought they were all like that until I came here,' he added. 'We don't allow the subjective to rule us Amanda,' Janet replied, ignoring Martin's comments about senior editors. 'That's why we have these sessions to overcome our individual subjective natures in favour of a consensus. That's how we come to a measured decision; one that's balanced.'

Amanda could see the logic. She was simply annoyed at Martin who seemed to take delight in being aggressive. She was relatively new to the world of corporate publishing, still trying to establish her credentials as an editor. She had already established herself as a writer, self-publishing two books. It was her books that helped win her this job. Such audacity! Self-publishing your own books! Fancy anyone having the temerity to spend three years sweating away at a labour of love, writing a book and then, when finding that no mainstream publisher would bother to read it, deciding to self-publish. The bloody cheek of it! Such impertinence! Amanda had been through all of that. It was such a revelation but also an exciting learning curve. Nothing good comes easily, she realized. If it's worth anything at all, it will be born of pain and disappointment. 'Don't take this personally,' Martin said. 'This is how we do things around here.' Amanda's sensitive nature had got the better of her. She had exposed her fragile emotions. Not a good start in a world where a display of emotion can be seized upon and devoured with all the precision of vultures in a feeding frenzy. All the more galling because the person who had elevated her emotions to the surface hadn't done anything of note; certainly not write a book. 'Perhaps I over-reacted,' she conceded. Another mistake! Never apologise! It's a sign of weakness and the circling vultures will use it as an invitation to land at a time of their own choosing. 'Still, when you look at the situation objectively, my reactions are just as important,' Amanda proposed, assertively. 'How so?' Martin asked, hoping for a slip-up. 'They counter and stabilize excessive negativity,' she added cleverly. Well done! That shut him up, the prick! Martin did not respond. He wasn't sure if he had been trumped and while tempted to test the new editor further, thought better of it. 'Okay let's take a break for morning tea and start back again at ten-thirty,' Janet Ryan said, aware of Martin's tendency to niggle a new-comer. 'I'd like to have a look at chapter five and get your views on whether it needs some re-structuring.'

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. All things considered, the meeting had gone well. It was her first editing job with the firm and this book was her first big test. Not that she thought her reputation was on the line. Not much! She may have been an author in her own right, but she was smart enough to realize that mainstream publishers were not overly impressed with the nerve that self-publishers displayed. To them she was a minor but nevertheless threatening distraction to them; rather like the fly that keeps buzzing around one's head refusing to go away. Annoying, not critical, but still looked upon with tentative misgivings. It was a little unnerving.

'Amanda, can I have a quick word with you in private before you go?' Janet asked. 'Sure,' Amanda answered, taking a quick side-glance at Martin as if to suggest that a private audience with the senior editor gave her the edge over her protagonist. 'Martin, perhaps you could check to see if Sarah has arranged with some painters to remove that piece of graffiti from downstairs when you go to morning tea. George will have a fit if it's still there when he comes in.'

A few moments later the two ladies were alone and an eerie silence swept across the open office as several of the staff headed for the sandwich bar around the corner.

'I had an unusual phone call this morning,' Janet began.

'What about?' Amanda asked innocently. 'A man called. He said his name was Quentin Avers. Do you know him at all?' Janet asked. 'No. Not by that name anyway,' Amanda replied. 'He had an unusual request. He said he wanted someone to tell his story. He said he had read your book, _'Coming to Terms'_. He said he liked the way you told the story of the old man, and he asked if he could commission you to write his story. Are you sure you don't know him?' Amanda was stunned. Someone from out of the blue had sought her out to write a story? How far had she come in such a short time? She, who only five years ago was but a shadow of her present confident, sophisticated self; once so easily intimidated, full of self-doubt, always seeking the approval of her husband before taking a bold step. And now she was actually being sought after.

'No Janet. The name means nothing to me.'

'Okay,' Janet replied. 'I just wanted to make sure this wasn't a back-door job. Forgive me but it wouldn't be the first time someone in the industry conveniently arranged for a friend to appear with a book proposal.'

'Really,' Amanda answered, struggling to absorb Janet's words.

'Yes,' Janet replied, 'it happens. Anyhow, I told him that we didn't do unsolicited autobiographies, but he persisted. He said he had a story to tell and that at the very least we should listen to what he has to say. He insisted however, that he would only talk to you.'

'I certainly don't know anyone by that name,' Amanda replied.

'I suggested to him that he put his request to us in writing, giving a brief description of the nature of the story, but he said no, he would only talk to you and offered to pay for one hour of your time.'

'I'm not sure if I should meet a total stranger under those circumstances,' Amanda said.

Despite her new found poise, Amanda was still cautious. Five years ago, she was a woman with an appalling lack of self-confidence, haunted by self-doubt, unable to present with any flair, unable to convince herself she could even attempt, let alone achieve simple challenges. She was a highly conservative woman, slow to change and anything slightly complex frightened her; like electronic banking, PIN numbers and computers. The thought of a machine telling her what to do was too confronting. Preparing an evening meal and driving a car were difficult enough. When the children became self-sufficient, able to take care of themselves, her husband, James, suggested once that she make herself available for volunteer work at the local hospital. She recoiled at the very thought of it, gripped by her lack of self-belief, a fear of failure and what people might think. Unemployed, unskilled and now relieved of the burden of child care, Amanda felt incapable of venturing out into the big wide world for fear it had all passed her by.

'Well, I'll leave it up to you. Have a think about it and get back to me sometime today. I have the man's number. If you are uncertain about meeting him, you can bring him here, otherwise I suggest a place out in the open, in broad daylight, where there are plenty of people around,' Janet said. Amanda thought the matter through.

Five years ago, she would have run to her husband and lay the responsibility of deciding on him. That would have been the easy way out and the safest. In those days, Amanda felt threatened outside the confines of her house and family, thinking that a new world order had assembled in her absence and laid down instructions designed specifically to dissuade engagement with the mature-aged worker. In reality the opposite was true, but Amanda's mind-set had solid foundations, built up over all those years of self-doubt. As her son and daughter constantly demonstrated their skills in the new technological age in previously unheard-of subjects such as Information Technology, Multimedia and Information Systems, Performing Arts, Business Finance, Creative and Fine Arts, she wondered whatever happened to History, Geography, and English Literature? Had they been consigned to the back-blocks of intellectual development? Where did good-old Algebra and Geometry fit into the new scheme of things? Were they too, buried somewhere in the new maths or absorbed into something more in keeping with the super technological space and cyber age? And so, with a continuing sense of inferiority, carrying a bucket-load of fears, relying on an outward display of bravado that was not only obvious to anyone she engaged with, but which exposed her fragile nature to prospective employers, Amanda hung her head, waved the white flag and simply stopped trying. That was five years ago; before a stunning discovery brought about a monumental change.

As she absorbed Janet's news, she realized her initial doubts were the legacy of her old life. 'Of course I will see him,' she answered boldly. 'You set the meeting up if you like. I'm at your disposal,' she added confidently. 'Great,' Janet replied. 'I'll call him back and arrange for the two of you to meet.'

2.

The two elderly ladies were waiting expectantly at the front gate, dressed in their matching floral dresses and broad brimmed hats protecting them from the harsh sun. They looked every inch the twin sisters they were, and tugged at each other's arm as they noticed the car coming up the street. 'Here he comes,' Penelope said excitedly, to her sister Evelyn. The taxi driver swung the car into the driveway pulling up alongside them; the two women motioned forward and climbed into the back seat.

'Afternoon ladies. Where to?' the driver asked. 'We are off to Bundoora,' Penelope replied. 'To Coventry House. I'm sure you've heard of it?' 'Sorry,' he said. 'I haven't. What street?' 'It's at No. 5 Power Avenue,' Evelyn replied, reading from a scrap of paper she retrieved from her handbag. 'Okay,' the driver answered, satisfied they knew where they were going. 'That's fine. We'll get there I'm sure.' Thus the journey began, the driver performing a faultless u-turn in the driveway of the retirement centre and turning left out onto King Street. 'My sister and I are off to visit our brother at his new home,' Penelope volunteered. 'That's nice. I'll go along Grimshaw Street and you can direct me from there,' the driver replied. 'Oh, we've never been there,' she answered.

'No problem. I'll look it up,' the driver replied.

'I thought you would have heard of it. Coventry House, named after the famous general in the Army.'

'No,' the driver answered, 'never heard of him. Which war?' 'Oh I think it must have been the second.' 'Why?' 'I don't remember the first. Do you Evelyn?' 'Do I what?' 'Remember General Coventry.'

'No. Did we meet him recently?'

'No, he's dead. He was in the war. They named Coventry House after him.'

'Oh, that's where we are going now isn't it?'

The driver, fresh and alert, thought the two ladies a little loopy, and quickly decided they would be of no help whatsoever in helping him locate Power Avenue in Bundoora. As the traffic lights changed to red, he reached for his street directory and looked it up.

'Have some bad news for you ladies. There is no Power Avenue in Bundoora.'

'Oh, it must be Power Street then. Number 5.'

'Sorry, no Power Street either. No Power anything in Bundoora.'

'Oh dear, but I wrote it down on this paper.'

'Where did you get the information from?' the driver asked.

'From my teledex,' Evelyn replied.

'And from where did you get the information to write it in your teledex?' the driver asked, now somewhat uncertain whether the two passengers had the slightest idea where they were going.

'I can't remember,' she replied.

'That's funny,' her sister Penelope said. 'I always thought it was Pascoe Vale, not Bundoora.'

'Hold on a moment then,' the driver said, as he checked for Power Street in Pascoe Vale. 'No, nothing there either,' he said. 'I'd better stop and check with someone.'

They continued driving through the Greensborough shopping centre, onto Grimshaw Street. They passed the Police Station and the driver wondered if he should go back and check with the men in blue but dismissed the idea. As they continued along he thought to find a public telephone box and look up the address in the phone book. The only public phone he found revealed one trashed phone book. _'Vandals,'_ he thought. He decided to pull into the next service station. At least they would have a phone book and he could look up Coventry House, but there were no service stations along the route and he was fast approaching the T-intersection at Plenty Road when he noticed a Real Estate agent's office near the corner.

'I'll check here,' he said to the ladies as he pulled over. 'They'll know. Don't drive off and leave me stranded will you?' he joked. The two ladies in the back seat chuckled.

Inside the Real Estate office a pretty young lady sat behind the reception counter.

'Good afternoon,' the driver said. 'I need some help. I have two elderly ladies in my taxi who have no idea where they want to go. We are looking for Coventry House. It's supposed to be some kind of a Retirement Village or something like that.'

'Oh yes,' the young lady replied. 'I know where that is. Turn right here at the intersection go through the shopping centre and when you get to Greenhill's Drive, turn right. The place you want is just there.'

'Wonderful. Thank you,' the driver replied and returned to the car.

'All's well,' he said to his passengers. 'It's just down the road. No harm done.'

The journey through the shopping centre was quick and uneventful and as expected, when the driver arrived at Greenhill's Drive, just opposite, the sign read, _'Bundoora Retirement Centre.'_

'Is this it?' Penelope asked.

'I think so,' replied the driver, 'although I don't see any sign that says Coventry House. You wait here and I'll go and check.'

After negotiating the security code, he entered the reception area and asked the lady in the office if this was Coventry house.

'No, I'm afraid you are at the wrong facility,' the manager replied.

'I have two elderly ladies in the cab and they have no idea where they want to go, except that it's a retirement village called Coventry House in Power Street, Bundoora. There is no Power Street in Bundoora and I don't know what else to do,' the driver pleaded.

'Coventry House is in Bower Street Bundoora, driver. It's just up the highway, back toward the city, on the right.'

'Bloody hell. Not even the local Real Estate office knew that. Thank you. I'll look it up in the Street Directory.'

The driver returned to the car, where the ladies waited patiently.

'Bower Street ladies! B for Bower, not P for Power! Write it down, so you can update your teledex.'

'Is it in Bundoora or Pascoe Vale?' Evelyn asked as she rifled through her handbag for a pencil and paper.

'Give me strength,' the driver muttered.

'You have been very helpful driver. My sister and I appreciate your concern and your effort. We are going to see our brother who has just moved in here,' Penelope volunteered.

'It's nothing,' the driver replied. 'You would be surprised how many times I pick up people who have no idea where they are going. But we generally work it out.'

The journey finally came to an end as the driver pulled into the portico of Coventry House.

'That'll be twenty eight dollars ladies.'

'I wonder, could you return in an hour and take us back home?' Evelyn asked.

'Er, yes fine, I can do that for you,' he answered.

'What is your name, driver?'

'My name is Costas,' he replied.

'Thank you Costas,' Evelyn said, as she handed him the money. 'We will see you here in an hour, then.'

Both women struggled out of the back seat, adjusted their dresses, straightened their hats, gave the driver a polite wave and entered the foyer of Coventry house.

With the help of the receptionist, Penelope and Evelyn Maclean found their way along the east corridor to their ageing brother's apartment and knocked on the door.

'Come in,' they heard him call, and entered to find Ronnie Maclean, resting in a comfortable armchair in front of the television set.

'Hello Ronnie, how are you? All unpacked and settled are you?' Evelyn asked. Ronnie shifted awkwardly in his chair, grimacing slightly as the pain increased.

'Hello, you two. Yes, I suppose so. Don't mind if I don't get up do you? Can you get me a glass of beer while you are up? It's in the fridge. The glasses are in the cupboard above the kitchen bench.'

'Yes that's all right. Leave it to us. Would you like a drink Penelope?' Evelyn asked. Penelope nodded as she leaned over to kiss her brother on the forehead.

'Have you heard anything from David?' Penelope asked.

'No, nothing yet. I doubt he would have had time to do much. He only left yesterday.'

'When does he arrive in Japan?' Evelyn asked.

'He'll be in Vietnam and Hong Kong for a while. Then he flies to Tokyo. He doesn't know the country well, and he has Margaret with him so it'll take him a while to get down to doing the business.'

'Well, he'll be fine, I'm sure,' Penelope said, confidently.

'I should be there with him,' Ronnie said, 'letting him do the heavy work but guiding him. I'm sure Quentin Avers is arranging something. If David doesn't get there first, Avers will claim it all, and you two and David will get nothing.'

'There, there,' Evelyn said, 'don't worry about that. We are all too old to be concerned about what we get. It's the justice of the matter that we care about, not the money.'

The three of them continued talking just as they did every other time the sisters visited their ailing brother. Now that Ronnie had been safely resettled in a facility providing 24 hour care, the sisters were relieved of much of the responsibility they had assumed over the past year and with it, the stress of caring for an aged relative. They were five years his junior, not young themselves, but in good health. Ronnie was a private person and over the years, had not spoken much about the past, about his overseas service in Japan as a member of the occupying forces.

It was not until a few months earlier, that his memories of the past were revived. While still at home one day, he received a large envelope in the mail. The envelope contained a journal with an anonymous account of certain events that occurred while he was in Japan in 1946. It was written by a fellow soldier, who, for reasons as yet unknown to Ronnie Maclean, chose not to identify himself. But the contents made it necessary that Ronnie discuss the matter with his sisters. When he read the journal, his fading memory found new life. Matters long ago consigned to the archives of the brain were suddenly dug up and thrust forward, motivating him to take action.

One hour later, the taxi driver, Costas, drove in underneath the portico at Coventry House where the two elderly ladies, Penelope and Evelyn were comfortably seated, and waiting outside.

'Oh thank you for being so prompt, Costas.' Evelyn said, recognizing the driver from one hour earlier. 'We were hoping you might come early, so we sat out here waiting.'

'Well, at least for this trip I don't have to ask where you are going, do I? See your brother all right then?' Costas asked.

'Yes, but he was very tired, and we had to let him sleep. It's been a very difficult time for him having to move. But at least he's settled now and won't have to worry about moving anymore.'

'In the nursing home is he?' Costas asked.

'No, he's in an apartment. But if he has to go to nursing care level, they have that available here, so we won't have to worry about moving him again.'

'How old is he?'

'He's eighty,' Evelyn answered.

'Not a bad age,' Costas replied.

'Yes, he's been through a lot and just getting this far is a blessing.'

'In the war was he?'

'It depends on which war you are talking about,' Penelope replied. 'He spent time in Japan, in the post-war period. He was also in Malaya and Vietnam.'

'Career soldier?'

'Yes. He was with the British Commonwealth Occupation Force in Japan. They were there to assist in the dismantling of all the Japanese weaponry. He was stationed near Hiroshima after they dropped the atom bomb.'

'Hiroshima! Wow! That would have been something to see,' Costas said.

'Yes, it was, and perhaps he saw too much of it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Our brother is dying of Leukaemia. We think he developed the disease from radiation exposure when he was there. He was planning to go back this year but decided it was too much. His son David, our nephew, and his wife are going there on holiday soon. They have a long list of places our brother has recommended they visit. We'll hear all about it when they return.'

## 3.

It was two days later. Amanda Blackburn arrived early and first noticed him walking along the gravel pathway through the gardens, flanked by the brilliant yellow autumn elms that fashioned a glow underneath their stunning foliage. The glum, grey sky above set a stark contrast to the dazzling array of colour below; the spacious lawns displaying a deep green, upon which children played with their friends in the shadow of the Shrine. He walked toward her, upright and steady, but head drooped downward scanning the gravel as if navigating his way a few metres at a time rather than absorb the panorama ahead. He was perhaps sixty, she thought, and wore an overcoat and hat despite the mild nature of the morning. She wondered momentarily what on earth she was doing here, meeting a total stranger under such unusual circumstances. As he came closer to her, he raised his head as if aware all along that she was there. The park bench identified by the crack in the concrete leg was exactly where he said it would be.

'Amanda Blackburn?' he asked. She nodded. 'Mr. Avers, I presume?' she responded.

'Thank you for meeting me,' he began. 'I know you must think this is probably a waste of time,' he said, as he sat down on the park bench beside her, taking care to leave a space between them so as not to make her feel uncomfortable.

'Well, yes it might be, but then again it might not,' Amanda answered confidently, not wanting to betray any sign of her inner doubt. 'I won't know that until we talk and anyway it's a lovely morning, the sun is shining and you have given me an opportunity to escape the office, so at the very least I'm well disposed to talk with you.'

Mr. Avers grinned. 'I'm glad you feel that way. I liked your book. You write well. You have a certain style that appeals to me. You write plainly and without fear, and not too much literary la-di-da.'

'Thank you for that,' she replied, 'although I'm not sure if the literary writers of the world would appreciate you referring to their work as, la-di-da.'

'Have you ever found when reading a book you suddenly become aware that you have failed to absorb the entire paragraph you were just reading?' he asked.

'All the time,' Amanda answered, keen to share her experiences with someone who articulated clearly and intelligently.

'It's because of all the la-di-da,' Avers answered. 'So often, writers get carried away and begin to indulge in their own romantic notion of what someone should enjoy reading, when in fact, all they are doing is alienating the reader from what should be both an enjoyable experience as well as informative. You did that very well in your book. You wrote forcefully, without fear, on a subject that few would be willing to risk their careers. That's why I was attracted to you. Fancy anyone having the temerity to suggest that we de-criminalize the drug trade. Not only that, but go the whole hog and recommend governments take over supply and distribution. That's gutsy. That's why I asked if you would see me.'

'What a pity more people didn't read it. It didn't actually cause a flood of protests did it?'

'I read it. And I liked what you said.'

'It's a fairly simple equation to me,' Amanda said. 'All I wanted to get across was the simplicity of the debate. Surely it's not that hard to work it out? Fifty years ago, 3 out of 4 adults in Australia smoked cigarettes. Today, less than one in four is a smoker. Did we achieve this result by making cigarettes illegal? I don't think so. We achieved this result through education and rehabilitation! If we were to de-criminalize drugs, and take all the money we currently spend on law enforcement of illegal drugs, and transfer that into the education of our young and the rehabilitation of existing users, I cannot see how we would be any worse off trying to stem the tide than we are now. Our existing laws and the enforcement of those laws are a proven failure. Nothing will stem the tide of illicit drugs better than an educated, well informed public. That doesn't mean to say that no one will die of an overdose in the future. Of course people will continue to die, just like they die from cigarettes and alcohol. But when you consider the number of people who die from cigarette related diseases today, drugs are less destructive. And maybe, just maybe, in 50 years time, fewer people will be interested in taking them.'

'You don't need to tell me. I agree with you,' Quentin Avers answered quickly, wondering if Amanda was going to stop. Amanda wanted to ask him more about his impressions of her book. It was a momentary lapse of professional conduct and she checked herself.

'Well, I'm guessing that you didn't ask to meet me to talk about my book, so what is it you want, Mr. Avers?'

She looked at him closely as he drew breath and reached into his coat pocket producing an envelope.

'I have a story that needs to be told and you were recommended to me,' he began. 'It's about my father. He is the victim of a great injustice and I want you to correct the record. Someone has written something about him; about his exploits of sixty years ago. Their account is wrong. It is accurate to a point but has drawn the wrong conclusions. I have all the information you will need and I will guide you through it all, but were I to simply tell you now, it wouldn't mean anything. It would amount to nothing more than a hollow denial. So, I want you to discover the truth for yourself without any prompting from me. I want you to write the story and I will pay to have it published. So, what do you think so far? Interested?'

Amanda was momentarily speechless. She stared at the man sitting alongside her. She had never seen him before, knew nothing about him, and yet could not resist the allure of something quite thrilling about him. She observed him. It was his deep blue eyes that captivated her. The eyes revealed so much. Look deep into the eyes of anyone, she once read and the truth of their intentions can be detected. Even the most experienced trickery can be detected in the eyes. A slight watering, a blink at the wrong moment, a glance away; each movement can reveal an attempt at deception. She studied his eyes. He held firm his appearance, a soft, gentle, even sad, but penetrating gaze. He gave off none of the tell-tale signs with which she was familiar. She decided to persevere, although still wondering what on earth she was doing there.

'Well,' Avers prompted, 'what do you think?'

Amanda gathered herself together.

'I don't know what to think,' she replied, trying to collect her thoughts. 'You said I was recommended to you.'

'Yes.'

'By whom?'

'It was one of those serendipitous things,' he lied. 'I was looking for a way to respond to allegations made about my father. I attended a book launch, thinking that I might find someone to do it. I met a woman there who offered to help me. By a strange coincidence she had read your work too, and suggested I contact you.'

'I had no idea I was that popular,' Amanda said, half embarrassed, half joking. 'I thought I was coming here to discuss a biography. Perhaps if you told me a little more about your story, I would be in a better position to consider it.'

'No, it's not a biography. I'll tell you everything you need to know, bit by bit. If I tell you too much to start, you will begin to form your own conclusions too early and that would be unfortunate. But, before you decide I have to tell you that it won't be easy. It won't all be smooth sailing. You will be delving into some shady areas of the past, interviewing people who may not appreciate your good intentions; people who might be inclined to shun you.'

'Shun me, why?' Amanda asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

'I don't know! They may try to frighten you off somehow. I can't guarantee that you would be welcome,' he added, slowly, with a wry smile, trying not to frighten her. 'But what I can promise, is, that if you can get the story written and published in its entirety, beyond a point where it could be denied, you might become very rich or,' he paused momentarily, 'maybe you won't, but you will be doing an extremely important service to a large number of people and you may even be acclaimed as a celebrated author.'

That last reference ignited her imagination, not so much with the promise of money as acclaim within the literary world. But this time as he spoke, Amanda studied the man's eyes once again, searching for a flaw, hoping _not_ to detect anything. This time also, she listened to the sound of his voice. It was not, as she had experienced elsewhere, full of bravado, confidence and arrogance. Avers spoke with a degree of humility, even melancholy, as if, he himself, were the victim of the alleged injustice.

'And what will you gain, Mr. Avers? Will you become rich too? Is that what this is all about?' she asked, testing his unassuming nature.

'No,' he replied quietly. 'I will not get rich. Just paying for you to do the job will be a serious drain on my finances.'

'Then why are you asking me to do this?' she queried.

'That question requires a very long and complicated answer. Let us, for the moment, say that my reasons are both legal and honourable, and if you are successful then the most important thing achieved beyond both your elevation to fame and my personal satisfaction, is that justice will be served.'

'Is this story confined to Australia?'

'No, it goes well beyond our boundaries. You will have to travel some distances.'

'Why me?' Amanda asked, now uncertain and slightly intimidated by the whole idea.

'I told you before. I like the way you write.'

'No, that's not good enough,' she interrupted. 'You must have a more significant reason than that. There are plenty of well known, highly respected investigative journalists who could do a better job than me. Why me?'

'You just answered your own question,' Avers replied.

'How?'

'Nobody knows you,' he answered. 'You will be able to move around freely, without making your real intentions immediately obvious. There is much you will learn without revealing what you are really after.'

She paused, her thoughts whirling erratically in her mind. The excitement was intoxicating, the mystery, and the romantic notions, all racing though her body. She wanted to say yes, but caution prevailed. She needed time to think things over.

'I take it, you expect the company I work for, to publish and distribute the story?' she asked.

'As I said, I will pay for it to be published if necessary, but if you do it well, I'm inclined to believe that your employer will be more than happy to publish it themselves,' he replied.

'Then I will need to discuss it with them, first.'

'That's fine with me. I would expect that. But it has to be you that I work with. They can't nominate anyone else.'

Amanda felt a surge of confidence and relief. The confronting nature of Quentin Avers' proposition was now balanced with transparency. Her employer would be part of the adventure. That aspect introduced an element of safety that was missing earlier. She would be on assignment so to speak, reporting regularly, keeping others in the loop. That sounded better.

'I'll have to talk with Janet,' she added.

'Janet?' he queried. 'You mean the lady I spoke with on the phone?'

'My boss,' she replied.

'It's important that as few people know about this as possible,' he replied. 'Janet should be the only one.'

'I expect she will have to clear it with Mr. Balwyn, the owner of the company.'

Avers was silent as he seemed to digest this additional request. 'If that is necessary, then okay, but no one else. I will be covering all your expenses. You will have to give anyone else in the firm some other reason for your secondment,' he added.

'Okay then,' she said, drawing breath. 'I'll speak with Janet and get back to you.'

'You'll need this,' he said to her, handing across the envelope he held in his hands.

'What is it?'

'It's a cheque for five thousand dollars as an advance on expenses.'

'I'm not sure I should take it just yet,' she said, cautiously.

'Take it. It's all in good faith. If you decide not to go ahead, you can tear it up.'

'And when do I get some idea of what the story is all about?'

'As soon as you agree to do it!'

'And what if we agree and then somewhere along the way we decide we don't like it and don't want to continue?' she asked, trying to cover questions that she knew Janet would ask.

'You can walk away and forget the whole thing. But frankly, I don't expect you will. Do you have a current passport?'

'Yes. Where am I going?'

'Japan. Ever been there before?'

Once more, excitement gripped hold of her and she struggled to keep her emotions in check. _'Could all this be real?'_ she thought. All she wanted to do right now was race back to the office and blurt out all she had been told to Janet.

'Er, no, I haven't,' she answered. 'What's in Japan?' she asked, vaguely disconnected; her mind now centred on how quickly she could set up a meeting with Janet.

'Lots of Japanese,' he replied, observing her detached, starry-eyed expression, and the nature of her question.

'Sorry,' she answered, 'I was just thinking ahead. I think I need to take a reality break here. All this is beginning to sound a bit too much. I don't suppose you will be telling me what Japan has to do with all this just yet, will you?'

'No,' he answered shaking his head, smiling. 'I don't want to fill your head with too much at this point. You have a decision to make first, and you clearly need some time to make it, so I will let you go. Contact me again when you decide. You have my number.'

'Okay then. The number I have is a mobile number. Do you have a landline number as well?' she asked, hoping that she might establish some base, something solid under foot that would help identify the mysterious Mr. Avers.

'Not for you. And I say that for your own benefit, not mine. It is better that you know as little about me as possible for the time being. The integrity of the story depends on that.'

'Then I'd better go back to the office and report to Janet. I'll call you back sometime later then,' she said, gathering her thoughts together and standing up. 'After the proposal has been run past Mr. Balwyn, that is.'

'That's fine. I'll wait for your call. Please take the envelope. It will help expedite matters should you decide to go ahead. If you don't proceed, you can just tear it up.'

Amanda paused briefly, then, considering her options, took the envelope and placed it in her pocket.

'Until later then,' he said, as he turned to leave. He did not offer to shake her hand or engage in any further small talk. She watched him. He did not turn back but continued along the pathway past the Shrine of Remembrance toward St.Kilda Road. She continued watching, trying to concentrate on him but confused and bewildered and deeply energized.

Quentin Avers kept walking until he reached the western side of the shrine and then made his way across the grass to the footpath along St. Kilda Road and finally to a waiting car.

'Did you get a photo of her?' Quentin asked the man in the driver's seat.

'Yes, like to have a look?' the man replied passing over his digital camera.

'Okay, that's a good shot. She's the one. If all goes to plan I want you to shadow her and keep her out of harm's way. Will you be ready to leave by the 17th of April?'

'Yes, I can manage that,' the man replied.

'Good. Let's get back to my office and I'll fill you in on the detail.'

## 4.

Of all the opportunities that Amanda had recognized during her life, none thrilled her more than the assignment she was being offered at this moment. She was exhilarated, and when hidden from anyone she thought she might know, carried on like a half-drunk teenager, skipping and jumping along as she hurried back to the office where she blurted out the entire story to Janet. Janet listened intently, making allowances for Amanda's exuberance and thinking it rather refreshing that someone in her employ could demonstrate such energy and high spirits. Rather than try to make any recommendation on the feasibility of such a proposal, Janet immediately rang George Balwyn.

'Are you free? I need to talk with you.'

'Come up,' he answered.

Taking Amanda with her, Janet headed for George's office. The two women entered, Amanda still bubbling with excitement.

'Come in and sit down ladies,' George said cheerfully. 'What's on your mind?'

While Janet filled George in on the call she received from Quentin Avers, Amanda watched George for any of her favourite tell-tale signs. He listened to Janet, occasionally stroking his chin and nodding. Janet then handed over to Amanda who could barely restrain herself as she related the detail of her meeting and the proposal put to her. George took a few moments to absorb all that he had been told. He took it seriously. He always took wild and weird stories seriously. Many a good book had their genesis in similar circumstances. He stroked his chin thoughtfully once more.

'So, what do you think we are looking at here, some sort of exposé on crime, corruption, or some political scandal?' George asked, staring across his desk at Amanda, while Janet Ryan looked on. 'Do you think this Avers fellow is genuine or just out on an ego trip?'

Amanda looked uncomfortable. This was new ground for her, facing up to the reality of the hard questions from her employer. This was the first time she had been invited into George's office. It was plush, with beige coloured carpet, soft leather furniture, and eye-catching paintings on the walls. The office portrayed all the hallmarks of power and success. It was intimidating. She glanced across to Janet for support.

'Mr. Avers was not very forthcoming in his discussion with Amanda, George,' Janet said.

'Has he given you anything in writing?' George asked.

'No, he said he would tell me more, once we agreed to do the story,' Amanda confirmed. 'He's given me a cheque for five thousand dollars as an advance, so I guess that's a good indication of his determination. He says I'll need to travel to Japan.' Amanda spoke of Japan quickly as if it were incidental. She feared George might be frightened off at the prospect.

'Japan? Jesus, he isn't on much of an ego trip is he?' George blurted out sarcastically.

'When you think about it, there's not a lot of risk here, George,' Janet continued. 'We are being paid for our time even if it's wasted. We can pull out of the deal at any stage. If Amanda is in any way uncomfortable about continuing she can say so, and we walk away. On the plus side there just might be something in it. I think it's worth going the next step to find out.'

'There must be some way we can find out more about our Mr. Avers,' George said as he continued to stroke his chin, suggesting a discreet enquiry. There were a multitude of ways to learn something, but most of them involved some kind of personal contact, and George wanted to avoid that. 'Okay,' he said, after a moments thought. 'Let's go the next step. But I want to be kept informed of everything that happens, daily, if not hourly. Contact Avers and tell him we will treat this as an ongoing assignment for Amanda, but that we reserve the right to pull the pin at anytime we choose. Amanda, you report to Janet, and inform her of everything you are doing. Avers will probably want progressive reports and drafts of what you have written. I want to know where the story is heading before you agree to go to Japan, and I want to be on the mailing list of every draft, every piece of paper you give Avers after that. We take this one step at a time. Is that understood?'

Both women nodded. For Amanda this was exhilarating. An assignment such as this was something she dared only to dream about.

'In the meantime,' George said, 'I will see what we can find out about our mystery man.'

That afternoon, when all the staff had left the office, George Balwyn retreated to his mystery room downstairs and retrieved a telephone number from his files. The man he called was a private detective, James Bayswater, a trusted confidant who had carried out work for him previously.

'James,' he said cheerfully, when the phone answered, 'it's George. I have a little job for you.'

## 5.

Amanda sat at the table against the window in the restaurant, her eyes glued to Quentin Avers, her mind swimming in a sea of wonder and intrigue. What benefactor had overtaken her world and placed her here, receiving instructions from some agent of the arcane? He sat opposite, speaking softly, passing note upon note across to her as he rambled off her itinerary. She nodded dutifully as he spoke, trying to absorb all the instructions he was spinning out, pretending they were things she already knew from months of hard training as if she'd just graduated from spy school. It was the detail she paid most attention to, the nuts and bolts of her journey. These she absorbed carefully.

'On the 17th of April,' he began, 'you will fly to Tokyo on a 9.30 am flight out of Melbourne with Qantas. You will arrive at Narita International airport around 6.30 in the evening. It will be dark and I don't want you trying to find your way into Tokyo at that time. Just getting through Narita will be harrowing enough. You are booked into the Marroad International for the night. It is close by, and they have a hotel shuttle bus you can catch at stop 27, just outside the main entrance to the terminal. The following morning go back to the airport and take the train into JR Tokyo Station. Spend your first day in Tokyo. I have included in your documents a 30-day rail pass voucher which you will hand in at the station for a proper pass. It will take you anywhere you want to go for the next month using JR rail. The second day you will travel to Hiroshima. You take the Shinkasen, the bullet train. One leaves every 40 minutes or so. It gets you there in less than five hours. However, on your first day in Tokyo you need to make contact with someone.'

Lunch time crowds were passing by outside, but she didn't notice any of them. It was all so exciting and stirring. She should have been afraid, she thought, but she wasn't. Somehow the overpowering charisma of this man, who was sending her into the unknown, overtook any sense of fear. Likewise, the reassuring knowledge that her employer, George Balwyn and Janet Ryan, would be tracking her every move, helped to maintain a calm exterior and inward confidence. But over and above that, she was ecstatically aroused. She had never been to Japan.

'What about a visa?' she asked.

'You'll be going as a tourist for a stay of less than 90 days so you won't need one,' he answered.

'What about the language?'

'I've included a Japanese phrase book in the package. Just learn the obvious one's...hello, good morning, afternoon, do you speak English, thank you, that sort of thing. You will always find someone who speaks enough English to help you. The Japanese are very friendly, very helpful when asked.'

'Who do I meet and where?'

'When you arrive in Tokyo, stay on the JR line and find the platform that will take you to Ikebukuro station. It's a busy place but don't be intimidated. Don't allow yourself to be overcome by the mass of people rushing everywhere. Follow my directions and you will find your way to Rimi Rykoban. It's a small traditional Japanese-type accommodation house not far from the station. When you get there, ask for Yoshiko.'

'Yoshiko?'

'Yes. Tell her you are from Australia, and that Quentin sent you. She will look after you and get you on the train to Hiroshima the next day. Ask her anything you need to know. Keep her phone number handy in case you need to call her.

She will also arrange for you to meet your contact in Hiroshima. Write everything down as you see and hear it. I want you to live the experience, feel the energy as you move around, and use your writing skills to articulate exactly what is happening.'

'All of this is very well, Quentin,' Amanda interrupted, 'but you still haven't told me what you actually want me to do. I think I'm entitled to know a little more about why you are asking me to do this.'

He paused for a moment as if unsure what to say.

'Quentin,' she said assertively, 'I need to have some idea why I'm doing this. I've been prepared to go along with you up to this point, but there's just so far one can stumble along in the dark. Sooner or later you have to confide with me.'

'Isn't the lure of the story enough? Haven't your people given you permission to proceed? Why can't you be satisfied with that for the time being?'

'My people are concerned for my safety. They have a right to know.'

'I'm concerned for your safety too. The less you know at this stage the more you will learn through your own experiences,' he countered.

'I still need more. I need to have something that will satisfy me and them that this proposal is not the product of some silly geriatric fantasy.'

'Is that what you think?'

'No, I don't. But if my safety is an issue here I think I have a right to know if the reason is worth the risks.'

Deep down he knew she was right. Deep down he realized he had to give her something more. He looked at her, wondering if she had what it takes, wondering if in fact it would be too much for her, if the reasons he was drawn to her, were little more than an exaggerated impulse that over-shadowed his good judgement. He had brought her this far, and didn't want to risk losing her trust. Equally, he did not want to jeopardize the mission.

'Have you ever heard of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force?' he asked. Amanda looked at him blankly and shook her head.

'No,' she answered. 'Is it something well known?'

'No, sadly, it's not very well known at all. After Japan surrendered in 1945, the Americans moved in, assumed control and occupied the country. They allocated a part of the responsibility of dismantling the Japanese military to the British Commonwealth Occupation Force which was a force made up from various units from Great Britain, India, New Zealand and Australia. The Australian contingent was the largest and given responsibility for what was known as the Hiroshima Prefecture. My father, Derek, was a part of that force. For years afterwards, he never spoke of what he did there. Only recently, when he was diagnosed with leukaemia, did he start to open up and tell me things. I suggested that he put everything down on paper. That's when he told me about the journal.

'The journal?' Amanda queried.

'Yes. Someone else it seems, had written a journal. Unknown to me at the time, my father had received it anonymously from a fellow member of the force.

'What sort of a journal?' Amanda asked

'He didn't tell me at first, but as the leukaemia gradually worsened, he showed me what he had been given. It was an account of events as they unfurled during the early part of their stay in Japan. After I read it, he then began to tell me things, refuting some of the claims made in the journal. He also told me other things before he finally passed away. I wrote down everything he told me. It's a very complicated story, and I will give you the journal today so you can begin reading it and familiarizing yourself with what has been written. The crux of the matter is that my father disputes the assertions and the negative claims this other person has levelled at him. I want you to investigate the claims, interview the people who knew him and learn the truth.'

'Who is this other person?' Amanda asked.

'That's part of the problem,' he answered. 'The author hasn't identified himself. But it's the content that is more important. We are not sure if it was written to either frighten or blackmail my father. He said it could be one of a number of men. Whoever wrote it used the alias Ned Kelly. It was a bit of a joke around the units that if anyone got into trouble with the Japanese, they would say their name was Ned Kelly, so that when the authorities came looking for them, they would find it very difficult to track them down. My father remembered an incident with some starving Japanese where one soldier tried to supply food from the supply depot. When my father sought to identify who it was, they said his name was _Nedkelly-san_.'

'Sounds like a typical boys club,' Amanda interjected.

'Yes, I suppose it does,' Avers replied, relaxing a little. 'They did get up to a bit of mischief at times. He remembers some of the events described in the journal but not all of them and he isn't sure who he was with at different times. I will be up-front with you and tell you that he was involved in some black market dealings. Once you read the journal you will understand. I don't want to burden you with too much information at this stage or with my take on things; and I don't want you to start developing any pre-conceived ideas based on what I tell you. I want to let your reading of the journal do that. There is one other thing, however.'

'What's that?' Amanda asked.

'I also want you to recover something for me; it's a small item my father wants returned to its rightful owner. It's a Meijji artefact. I want you to recover it from a safety deposit box at the Bank of Japan in Kyoto,' he said.

'Who do you want me to return it to?'

'Her name is Masako Yamada. My father first met her when he was part of the occupation force stationed at Ujina, the port of Hiroshima. He was attached to the repatriation centre where non-Japanese were returned home and Japanese soldiers brought back from the Pacific islands. At Ujina, they were processed, de-mobilized and allowed to go back to their homes. My father was stationed at Kaitaichi, about ten miles from Hiroshima and travelled to Ujina every day.

'What was that like?' Amanda asked, suddenly imagining something quite depressing.

'It was a primitive place when he arrived. The accommodation at Kaitaichi was appalling. They were set up in empty warehouses and facilities were very basic; no heating, no windows even, and no latrines. But that was nothing compared with the plight of the Japanese civilians. They were in a terrible state. They were in many cases, homeless and starving, and relied on the occupation force for food and the most basic supplies. Most of them were _hibakusha_ , bomb affected, badly scared and suffering radiation sickness. Masako was a _hibakusha_. You will need to acquaint yourself with the circumstances surrounding the bombing of Hiroshima. It will give you better empathy when you meet Masako.'

'What's to know? It brought about Japan's surrender, didn't it?'

'That question is too simplistic. The decision to drop the bomb in the first place was highly political, given that Japan had already offered to surrender months beforehand.'

'I didn't know that.'

'It's true nevertheless. And if you use the time between now and when you leave to research that very subject, I think you will be quite shocked at what you find.'

Amanda found herself feeling quite disturbed at what she was being told, especially if it were true. On the other hand, if it wasn't true, then her interest in associating herself with Quentin Avers would be questionable.

'Why can't you go there, and get this artefact yourself?' Amanda asked.

'I'd like to, but there's no point in me going just for that. I'm getting on a bit and the rest of your trip will not be easy. There will be a lot of travelling, and I suspect some strenuous walking. My health is not the best and I don't feel I could handle it,' he answered, and added, 'but also because there is a story to be told, my father's story. It's an important story, not just for him or me, but for the world and no one would listen to me, anyway. You are the one to tell the story.'

'When did your father die?'

'Two months ago. I only learnt of the existence of the artefact a couple of days before he died and the story that goes with it. My father was a member of the 34th Infantry Brigade. He and a friend, a fellow soldier were given an item of interest to take care of, when they were in Hiroshima. They thought it might be radio-active, and said they would take it to their people to find out.'

'What happened to it?'

'They took it back to their base at Kaitaichi and made some enquiries. Then they were told that items found in Hiroshima were not to be collected, stored, or hoarded and no one should touch anything or keep anything found there, so rather than return it, they waited until they were on leave, and hid it in a forest near Kamakura. Then sometime later, it was dug up and put in a locked canister and then in a safety deposit box in the Bank of Japan in Kyoto. I have a key I will give you that will open the canister.'

'How did you come by this key?' Amanda asked.

'My father gave it to me. He told me that Masako has the key to the main safety deposit box.'

'What? Are you saying your father has held on to this key for the last sixty years?'

'No, he has been back to Japan on a few occasions, but the last time was about ten years ago, so he's had it since then. I will give you more instructions when you arrive in Tokyo, and there will be others who will help you, but that is all you need to know at this stage.'

'Is the artefact likely to be radio-active?' Amanda asked cautiously.

'No. All the evidence suggests not. But, we believe my father's leukaemia was caused by his exposure to atomic radiation. This artefact may have caused it, but proving that would be impossible now,' he answered.

'Okay, as long as you are sure?' she persisted.

'Yes, you have nothing to fear in that respect,' he said slowly, hesitating, but deciding that Amanda should know at least one other part of the problem.

'There's a strong chance that the person who wrote this record or his agents are lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting to see what happens.'

'Why?'

'Because it's possible there is something else enclosed inside that other container.'

'Like what?'

'Well, like money I suppose,' Quentin answered.

'What? Money that has been sitting there for the last ten years, you mean?'

Quentin shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know. It's possible.'

'So, will the key you have, open the container with all the money in it?' Amanda asked.

'Yes,' Quentin replied vaguely, 'if there's any money there!'

Suddenly the prospect of adventure and perhaps some small element of danger mixed together in Amanda's thoughts. The idea was potent and irresistible. She checked herself inwardly, not wanting the adventurous girl within to display a disconcerting immaturity.

'When do I get to read the journal?'

'I was hoping you would ask,' he answered, flicking open his briefcase and retrieving a large brown envelope.

'Here it is,' he added, passing the bulky envelope to her. 'As a writer yourself, I guess you know what it means to put your innermost thoughts down on paper, and then ask someone to read it.'

'Yes, I do. It places you in a vulnerable position, which can be uncomfortable, but you don't care. You long for an opinion, hoping, expecting that the person reading it, won't find too much wrong with it.'

'This is not for publication,' he said. 'This is for you to absorb. It's your primary research document. You may use as much of it as you need in your story of course, but the story will be yours.'

Amanda took the envelope and held it in her hands. 'I'll need an email address to keep in touch with you,' she said. He nodded to her, feeling relieved. At last she was acting as if she was ready to go. She was behaving as if she would take on the assignment.

'Yes, I will have everything you need delivered to your office before you leave. Can I take it that we are agreed then?'

Amanda didn't want to sound too anxious in her reply. She hesitated a moment before looking back at him and nodding her head.

'Yes, Quentin. We are agreed. I'll also do my research and acquaint myself about the decision to use the Atomic Bomb.'

Quentin Avers heaved a sigh of relief. He had placed a great deal of faith in asking Amanda to be his agent. She on the other hand was hugely excited and trying desperately not to show it.

'Then let's drink to it,' he said, raising his glass.

'Let's,' she agreed, raising her glass.

As they toasted the success of their plans, little did they realize that seated across the other side of the restaurant, someone observed their every move; a lonely figure, partly hidden behind a newspaper, unable to hear the conversation, but nevertheless vitally interested in their meeting together. From the moment he observed them raising their glasses together, he knew that Amanda had agreed. From this point on, he would shadow her. The anonymous man with the dark rimmed glasses had learnt all he needed from Derek Avers. Amanda was now his primary objective.

## 6.

That night, Amanda arrived home from the office, tired and mentally taxed to her limit. She placed her briefcase on the dining room table and headed straight for the kitchen pantry where she kept her limited supply of alcohol. She was not a regular drinker, but the enormity of the assignment she had committed herself to, with all its ramifications, was only beginning to dawn on her, and while her enthusiasm for it never wavered, it was exhausting just thinking about it. Perhaps a few stiff drinks would help relax her, she thought. She poured herself a whiskey and dry, and sat down on the comfortable sofa. Ten minutes later she was fast asleep.

Two hours passed; it was the purring sounds of her cat Missy curling itself around her legs that woke her. She came to, slowly, dragging herself from the sofa. She made for the kitchen to the delight of Missy who sensed her dinner was only minutes away. Amanda fed the cat but lacked any appetite herself. She made coffee and was about to turn on the television when she noticed her briefcase and remembered the journal. She settled back on the sofa, confident she would not fall asleep and retrieved the brown envelope from her briefcase. Taking a few sips of coffee, she opened to the first page and began to read.......

THE FOLLOWING STORY DETAILS EVENTS AS THEY OCCURRED WHILE I WAS A MEMBER OF 67TH BATTALION, 34TH BRIGADE, OF THE BRITISH COMMONWEALTH OCCUPATION FORCE, 1946.

LET THOSE WHO READ IT, TAKE HEED.

JAPAN 1946

Platoon sergeant Derek Avers stood portside shivering in the bitter cold as the SS Stamford Victory sliced its way between the islands of Shikoku and Kyushu and entered the Inland Sea of Japan through the shipping channel and past several smaller islands off the coast of Honshu. Wrapped tightly in his Khaki greatcoat and non-issue gloves and scarf, he stared in awe at the snow-capped mountains on the surrounding islands and recalled images of the warm tropical winds and soft golden sands he had enjoyed just one week earlier at Morotai. The end of the war had given him some well earned respite. Until a few weeks ago he had time to enjoy the luxury of a warm tropical beach with nothing to do. Now, as Kure Harbour became visible, the cold hard reality of the week-long voyage was evident. Spending part of his day lying in the sun without the fear of mortars and shellfire raining down, were over now. The war was over too, but there was still a job to be done and the biting cold breeze, the icy waters and a sombre feeling deep down, reminded him that as long as he wore a uniform, there was always a job to be done. He strained his eyes toward the distant shore hoping to see movement of some kind; a car on the coast road, perhaps someone walking on the beach doing something normal and innocent. That's what he hoped for after five years of war. He wanted to see life as it was back home in Kyneton where people went about their business, unhurried, casual, enjoying themselves; something normal. For the past five years all he had known was the fighting, the jungle missions, the search for the enemy, the sleep deprivation, the fear of exploding mortars and the rifle shots fired indiscriminately into the darkness. Now he longed for less anxious moments and days, where he could still serve his country without the constant threat of surprise attack. The idea of someone innocently running along a beach, with perhaps a dog in pursuit would help restore fond memories of earlier days. But it was not to be. The coast was too far away for signs of any visible activity, forcing Derek Avers to clear his head, attune his mind to the role of a soldier of an occupation army and mentally prepare for the rigors of a northern winter. Sadly however, there was a dark side to Derek Avers, a side I was soon to discover and one that would haunt me for the rest of my days.

Alongside Derek, stood Private Ronnie Maclean, and I, two young and newly trained but untried soldiers, members of 67th Battalion, 34th Infantry Brigade, who felt we were on the adventure of a lifetime. I looked out onto the calm of the Inland Sea with almost childlike curiosity, and wondered why it was called such. It looked and felt more like a bay, well protected from the Pacific Ocean to the west, and the Sea of Japan beyond the islands on the eastern side. I pulled the collar of my greatcoat tight around my neck to shield myself from the freezing cold wind and wondered what lay ahead. Ronnie Maclean did the same. At just eighteen, we had enlisted; he on his birthday, but the war was over before we finished basic training. This posting was the only opportunity offered to us, our only opportunity to serve in the Royal Australian Infantry, and even though we were not technically going off to war, a matter about which our parents were silently grateful, this was for us an adventure thus far unparalleled in our short lives. We had attached ourselves to Derek Avers, whose stories of fighting the Japanese in the jungles of New Guinea had captured our imagination. Derek and Ronnie came from the same town in Victoria and one discovered he vaguely knew the other, despite an eight-year age difference. Each night after dinner following training lectures in the ordinary mess, the men gathered in the cramped sleeping quarters of the ship. The battle hardened diggers would roll their own cigarettes and tell their stories, each one a personal account of where they were, what happened, who got killed, who survived.

Ronnie and I absorbed their experiences with awesome wonder and looked to these men of the newly formed 67th with boyish admiration. When Derek Avers spoke that first night at sea and then casually referred to his girlfriend 'back home in Kyneton,' Ronnie realized he was the man who worked at Presswell's Stock and Station agents in Main Street. He couldn't wait to introduce himself as Horrie Maclean's son, who bought his supplies at Presswells. Derek knew Horrie but not Ronnie. It mattered little. From that point on, Ronnie had adopted him as a de-facto older brother for the rest of the voyage up from Morotai and having Derek as his platoon sergeant only reinforced the attachment.

'We're here sarge,' Ronnie said, as he looked out across the sea toward the coast. 'At last!'

'That we are, son,' Avers replied. 'That we are.'

Derek Avers' reference to his girlfriend back home caused me to think about the girl I had left behind; my Elaine. We had been together for several months before my posting and we vowed marriage to each other on my return. With all the excitement of the journey, I confess I had not thought much of her until then, but now, out here, her sweet scent, her happy smile, her laugh, all the reasons I loved her began to return and I hoped that she would be proud of what I was doing.

As our transport vessel Stamford Victory glided swiftly into Kure Harbour, the three of us watched with apprehension as we passed the desolate hulks of one ship, and then another, then a submarine, all remnants of the once formidable Japanese Navy that lay exposed, destroyed and deserted. The great battleship Haruna with its deck barely above the water triggered a helpful reminder of the terror rained down upon this essential wartime port by American B-29's the previous year. Other ships including the aircraft carrier Akagi were strewn about the harbour and gave testament to the savagery of war and the uncompromising waste of its aftermath. Along the shoreline twisted steel and rubble strewn for hundreds of yards, lay dumped and abandoned as if all hope was lost. On the hillsides behind the port, deep bomb craters could be seen across an expanse devoid of vegetation.

'Jesus, will you look at that,' Ronnie said, stunned at the extent of the damage.

But not everything was destroyed. There in the harbour too, the majestic aircraft carrier, Hosho undamaged, now in service to repatriate defeated Japanese soldiers from their far flung postings in the Western Pacific, the Dutch East Indies and New Guinea. Some thirty miles around the coast lay the port of Ujina, servicing what remained of the city of Hiroshima after the devastating impact of the first Atomic Bomb dropped six months earlier. The world was still in shock at the enormous damage one bomb could cause, but mostly oblivious to the plight of the Hibakusha, the bomb-effected residents who survived the A-bomb, only to then experience its insidious after-effects. The world was divided on the morality of President Truman's decision to use the bomb. The world was told that the bomb hastened an end to the war, avoiding the need for an allied invasion, thus saving half a million American lives. When General MacArthur arrived in Japan, information concerning the effects of the bomb was censored; little of the suffering, the radiation sickness and the horrific scars, which thousands of Japanese civilians developed in the aftermath, were allowed to reach the outside world.

'Time to get ready lads,' Derek said to the two of us. 'We'll be going ashore soon. It's time to get your gear together and wait for the order to assemble on deck.'

'Yes Sarge,' we both replied, excited and eager to stand on Japanese soil. This was the first time either of us had been out of Australia and with almost child-like response, we went below deck to prepare for disembarkation.

Neither Derek Avers, nor Ronnie Maclean or I, knew anything of the after-effects of an atom bomb, and no more about Hiroshima than what we had read in newspapers. We were here as part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force. We had volunteered to be part of the occupation force, sent to dismantle the Japanese war machine, or what was left of it. We knew nothing of the suffering experienced by the civilian population. On the contrary, we had listened to first-hand accounts by prisoners-of-war of the atrocities committed by the Japanese in Burma. Our minds were pre-occupied with what we believed to be an uncompromising and ruthless enemy and the apprehension we felt as we waited for the Stamford Victory to dock, was how we would view the Japanese people in the light of those accounts. How would we react to the people whose soldiers had been so brutal to POW's, whose military might we had now come to dismantle? What emotions would we experience dealing with the civilian population of this once fierce enemy? Kure was the largest combined dockyard, ship building yard and naval arsenal in Japan. It was once the headquarters of the Japanese Navy and was now headquarters of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force. How ironic, Derek Avers told us one night, that he, who felt the sting of the Japanese fighting machine in the jungles of New Guinea just twelve months earlier, staving off what was thought to be part of the enemy's push toward Australia, was now part of a force that had come to the very heart of their inner sanctum; not as guard or warden but as a benevolent and compassionate protector. We were not an invasion force. Japan had surrendered. This was part of a protective force, under Australian command reporting directly to the Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers, General Douglas MacArthur. The 67th Battalion, 34th Brigade was assigned to an area within the Hiroshima prefecture, an area on the island of Honshu which included both the largest Japanese naval base and the location of the world's first unleashing of atomic power on human beings.

For Sergeant Derek Avers, dropping the bomb provoked an odd reaction, one that generated mixed feelings and some degree of uncertainty as to the morality of such an act. But, he cautioned us not to allow our emotions to interfere with our duty. As an experienced soldier, he would allow it little freedom. He was here to do a job, and that's exactly what he would do. From the moment he volunteered to join the newly formed 67th Battalion at Wewak, he wanted to go to Japan, to see his former enemy in their own environment. He wanted to see the enemy at home, in the hope that such an experience would help answer the irritating questions that continued to disturb him; questions that went to the heart of a nation's desire to expand its territories at the expense of other nations, and take advantage of their weaknesses, their vulnerability. Why did a people support its leaders' policies to invade a foreign country, and to do so with such brutality? These were deep and penetrating questions, out of bounds to the frontline soldier, intent on staying alive, with thoughts of doing his duty, obeying orders and little else. But from the time of the Japanese surrender and the cessation of hostilities, Derek Avers began to relax and reflect on what had transpired in his life over the past five years. And because he possessed an enquiring mind, one that searched for reasons to explain events, his mind flowed quite naturally to the source of this incredible conflict, wondering what it would be like as a soldier on the side of the aggressor. Surely, they were just like him, were they not? Ordinary men and women seeking a peaceful life, enjoying its simple pleasures? How did they feel when an authoritarian government ordered them to take up arms and become aggressors? Did they respond out of nationalistic pride, cultural respect, unwavering in their belief that the call of the motherland must be put above all else? Did they ever question the wisdom of their leaders' decisions? Perhaps it was cultural, Derek had told us, during many briefing sessions. Perhaps the stories he had heard were true; that Japanese loyalty to the emperor did come first. Perhaps, but now that he was here, he would pursue this nagging, vexing, mind-probing subject and hopefully satisfy his appetite for answers. It had been a long time coming, from Presswell's in Kyneton to the shores of Honshu. The M.V. Manoora brought him from Boram to Morotai. That's where I first met him; where the Battalion boarded the Stamford Victory to bring us here to Kure where the real work was about to begin. Derek Avers looked forward to the task at hand, intent on doing his job as effectively as he could, but also intent, he told us, on discovering for himself, a deeper significance to all that had passed thus far, not the least of which included what happened at Hiroshima six months earlier. These things he confided to both me and Ronnie Maclean. That is why I found it so hard to reconcile his altruistic intentions with what later became a rapacious appetite for personal gain, and apparent lack of concern for the hopeless plight of the civilian population that we were soon to meet.

By contrast, Private Ronnie Maclean and I thought little of the deeper questions. We were too young to venture past the obvious. Japan had surrendered and we were part of the Occupation Force that would disarm them and restore their lives to pre-war peace. We sailed fresh faced and eager from Australia to Morotai weeks earlier to take up our posting and be part of the 1122 troop contingent on the American transport vessel. We had avoided the horror of the war by virtue of age, but our enthusiasm for what lay ahead surpassed the average war-weary veteran; what lay ahead would define our lives, we thought. By the time the battalion assembled on the deck for general parade dressed in full battle order ready to disembark, our excitement was at fever pitch. A small gathering of Japanese workers lined the wooden docks; their curious eyes fixed on the new arrivals dressed in Khaki and wearing the slouch hat. They watched proceedings in silence, their faces devoid of expression as the battalion members filed down the gangway onto the dock. Any thought we had of thronging crowds waving excitedly, welcoming us as liberators, was quickly put aside. Their mood matched the dilapidated, decaying, crumbling port that was once the pride of the Japanese Navy. Ronnie and I stuck close together and were two of the first of the ordinary soldiers to step onto the wharf. I felt a tingling sensation, with the adrenalin running, the excitement of the moment overtaking all else. I was not expecting a hero's welcome. I didn't expect the Japanese workers to wave, or shout or clap their hands. I didn't know what they would do as our platoon assembled on the wharf. But what did happen surprised me. There was nothing. No response whatever, except for the blank, expressionless stares from the fifty or so workers who took a break from their duties to watch this latest arrival of foreign occupiers assemble and prepare to take up residence. As Australian naval officers in charge at the port issued directions, Ronnie and I put our personal thoughts aside for the moment and studied the faces of the Japanese workers. They were mostly middle-aged to old men, shabbily dressed, wearing no more than dirty trousers, well-worn shirt open at the top revealing an equally dirty singlet, and each a jacket to protect them from the cold, but each with a look of moribund resignation, or was it hopelessness? We couldn't tell.

'Look at 'em,' Ronnie said. 'They look like zombies. What's the matter with them?'

'Look around you,' I replied. 'The whole port is a disaster area. There's not a decent building in site.'

A soldier in front of us was more astute. He had seen that look before in New Guinea.

'They're hungry,' he answered. 'They might even be starving. They're not getting enough of the right food. The Japs are suffering. These ones are probably the lucky ones. They get fed by us.'

'Jesus!' Ronnie exclaimed. 'I never thought of that. These blokes don't look anything like the enemy we were told about.'

The soldier who spoke of their condition was Private Len Patterson, and like most soldiers, had not yet heard the full extent of what conditions were like. But he had heard that the Americans had literally bombed dozens of Japanese cities back into the dark ages, and that homelessness and starvation were widespread.

'How far is Kaitaichi?' Ronnie asked

'How the fuck would I know?' Patterson replied. 'How far is the nearest brothel? That's all I want to know.' Private Len Patterson's predilection for brothels was something I would be more familiar with, in the weeks ahead.

Once our platoon was assembled on the wharf, Sergeant Avers reported to his platoon commander, Lieutenant Kelty, who ordered him to lead us away. It began with a one mile march through and around the wharf area of Kure to the railway station. As we marched, we could see the devastation around us. Kure had been bombed ferociously and little of anything still remained intact. Buildings reduced to rubble, vast areas littered with twisted steel; huge concrete blocks lying one on top of the other. From there a ride in rail trucks where, along the way, Japanese civilians lined the route, women in traditional kimonos, with children strapped to their backs, men in tattered clothing, some still in army uniform. It was all they had; poverty and starvation evident in their appearance, their eyes; a pitiful sight, and all around them the shattered remnants of a once mighty military and naval fortress and residential area.

'The poor bastards,' Ronnie said, as he watched each man and woman pass him by. 'Why can't they get any food to eat?' he asked.

Kaitaichi wasn't far; less than half an hour from the wharf at Kure along the coastal road. We tumbled off the rail trucks and surveyed the surroundings. This was where the 67th Battalion would live while it carried out its duties; although a first impression was anything but positive. It resembled a deserted storage plant, long since vacated. A vast flat expanse, just above sea level in front of an assortment of run down, dilapidated timber warehouses erected over a concrete base floor.

'Don't look so glum lads,' Sergeant Avers said, as he noticed the look of disbelief on the faces of his platoon members climbing out of the trucks in front of the sheds. 'We'll have this place fixed up in no time.'

'Where's the barracks?' Ronnie Maclean asked, his mouth wide open, his eyes searching for something beyond the rows of warehouses, expecting to see a row of huts at least, a kitchen, anything that resembled what he had come to accept as minimum army standard.

'This is it soldier,' Avers replied. 'Try to view it as if you suddenly found yourself victim of a shipwreck, washed up on a deserted island in the Pacific somewhere. Treat it as an adventure.'

As he spoke, our platoon commander, Lieutenant Kelty approached and Sergeant Avers immediately called the platoon to attention.

'Stand easy men,' the Lieutenant called out, and gave us the depressing news. 'I realize the conditions of the quarters we will be occupying are a bit rough, but it will not be for long. Bedding, heating and mess provisions will be provided as additional supply ships arrive. Hot showers are almost set up. Supplies from support vessels are on the way. In the meantime we will simply have to put up with it. You will be living off ration packs for a short time, so I urge you to make do. We will get some sort of heating in here as quickly as possible. I suggest you do what you can to make the most of it. That's all, sergeant. Take over, would you?'

As we filed into the west end of the empty warehouse, morale took a further dip. No doors, no windows, no heating and a great gaping hole in the roof.

'How the fuck does anyone expect to make the most of it here?' Private Patterson asked. 'Make the most of what? There's nothing here, not to mention a bloody great hole in the roof.'

'We'll get a tarpaulin over that in a day or two,' Avers said, looking up through the roof at a clear blue sky. 'Could be worse, you know,' he added.

'How so?' I asked.

Avers looked at me curiously. 'It could be snowing son. Did you ever think of that?'

'No,' I answered glumly.

'What did the Japs use this place for sarge?' Ronnie Maclean asked.

'Storing stuff, by the looks of it. I think it was an ordnance depot of some kind.'

'I thought we were taking over the American barracks, Sarge. They wouldn't have put up with this,' I protested.

'Don't know anything about that, son,' he replied.

'A bloody Jap warehouse! And now we're the ones getting stored in it, are we?' Ronnie snapped.

'Don't worry lads, the C.O. will work out something, if I know him? Just pick out a plot for yourself and call it home for the time being.'

For all the initial excitement a posting to Japan seemed to offer, the condition of the sheds at Kaitaichi brought home one of the grim realities of army life. Suddenly and quite brutally, images of a comfortable bed in a warm heated barracks, with the wafting aroma of breakfast seeping through the doors and windows from the nearby kitchen were blown away. Images of recruit training at Puckapunyal flashed before me, the luxury of a roof over my head, regular hot-cooked meals, and hot showers. Things I had started to take for granted, vanished. I dropped my gear and went outside. Where was the kitchen, the latrines, showers? And what was I doing wearing summer uniform, khaki drill trousers and shirt, brown boots and gaiters, in a freezing cold place like this? My reaction was not an isolated one. One by one, soldiers began murmuring to each other about the conditions, as if the victors were being treated worse than the vanquished. Sergeant Avers was a battle-hardened man, and alert enough to quickly pick up on the effect the surroundings were having on his men. He realized his initial remarks were not going to be enough for them to accept without complaint. He left us briefly and made overtures to Lieutenant Kelty quietly, thus dragging the young lieutenant back into the discussion. Kelty once again reassured the men, assuring us the situation was only temporary. He promised us, he would take the matter up with the C.O. who, he guaranteed, would 'sort this shambles out quickly'.

'What can the C.O. do, sir?' Avers asked, as the two left the shed.

'I haven't got a bloody clue, sergeant, but keep that to yourself,' Kelty replied. 'But knowing him, he'll think of something. Just keep a lid on things for a day or two,' he said, as he headed toward Company H.Q.

That first night as each man tried to settle down on a concrete floor, scrounging what newspaper and cardboard we could find to act as a makeshift mattress, morale was low. The evening meal the previous night on board the Stamford Victory was a distant memory. Our first evening meal at Kaitaichi was iron rations, made up of bully beef, biscuits and coffee or tea heated from our own one-man stove and fuelled by tiny solidified kerosene blocks. There were several card games in play as soldiers tried to pass the time knowing that sleep would not come easily.

As I lay there on a concrete floor that first night, looking up at the stars through the gaping hole in the roof, I wondered if Sergeant Avers' reference to the snow might develop into an unintended prophecy come true? My thoughts drifted back to where we were a week earlier. While on Morotai, lack of activity beyond plucking papayas off the trees led to rumblings of discontent at the delay in departure. The battle-weary soldiers should have been sent home to rest, see their families, undergo specialist training, while proper facilities were constructed at Kure. Waiting for General MacArthur's all-clear to sail, prompted the troops to organize a protest march, led by the non-commissioned officers in company formation. Some say it was the first time a brigade ever led a protest march, but in the end, it got things moving, or at least that's what they thought. The response from brigade command was to offer those who wished to return to Australia the opportunity to do so. Some did but most stayed. Now in Japan, the brigade had arrived, or at least some of it, and the restless soldiers were back on overseas duty and for many, it was a good feeling. But so sub-standard were our living conditions that something had to be done. This was not something to be tolerated by any self-respecting occupation army.

After a few days adjusting to solid ground again, our Battalion C.O. Lt. Colonel Jackson, always a man up to the challenge and ready to take matters into his own hands, was determined to have no more of it. On the third morning after dress and inspection parade we were assigned our duties for the day. Our task was to locate and disassemble munitions. And there were tons of it. The nearby hills were littered with caves and tunnels the Japanese used as factories to manufacture and store their munitions, explosives, even torpedoes. The islands of the Inland sea were a repository of ordinance. My early role as a driver was to check dirt roads and tracks as suitable thoroughfares to transport confiscated weaponry back to Kure for destruction. The larger stores were marked on maps that were then sent to bomb disposal units for demolition. But being the army there was also drill, in preparation, we were told, for a number of upcoming events being organized both for the benefit of some visiting British and American officers, and possibly a show of local strength; everyone knew the army loved a parade of some description and any excuse would do. But at least we were back into some kind of routine after weeks and, for some, months on Morotai, waiting for the move north. A few days later, the Taos Victory arrived into Kure Harbour with more soldiers and more supplies. Perhaps now, I thought, we would have something decent to eat and to wear and with little action happening on the accommodation front, our C.O. decided to take matters into his own hands.

One morning very early, Colonel Jackson paid a visit while we were on the parade ground. Sergeant Avers was asked to requisition a jeep and pick up both him and the battalion intelligence officer at H.Q. in fifteen minutes. As I had been assigned to the driving pool, Avers, looked around and signalled to me. Fifteen minutes later we were outside H.Q. ready to transport the C.O. and the I.O. who knew a dash of Japanese, to wherever they wanted to go.

They came out of his office and jumped in the jeep.

'Let's go for a ride soldier,' the Colonel said to me, and the four of us were off. We travelled down the road a short distance toward Hiroshima when we came upon the Nippon Steel Works, and the Colonel ordered me to pull up outside. Enlisting the support of the attendant at the gate, he and the I.O. walked around the perimeter and then signalled for us to follow as they ventured around the side. At the rear of the main building there were living quarters set aside for the steel workers. The attendant showed us inside. The state of these barracks made my mouth water. They had bunks, they were very comfortable, and heated. Outside, there was a communal shower and toilet block; this was heaven compared with the sheds we had been assigned further up the road. The Colonel took a good look around and then with the I.O. acting as interpreter, asked the attendant to take him to whoever was in charge. The attendant pointed toward a door of the main building and the Colonel went inside. Minutes later, he came out again followed by what seemed to be the senior management of the steel works.

'I am requisitioning these barracks for our battalion sergeant,' he said to Avers. 'Your platoon can be the first. I want you moved in by tonight. Let's get back so I can brief all officers and get things underway. I want to get on with it, before anyone tries to change my mind.'

'Yes sir,' Avers replied, obviously delighted at the prospect.

'Will it be the whole brigade sir?'

'Christ no,' Jackson replied, 'just our battalion. There's only room for us.'

'Begging the Colonel's pardon sir, but can you do this?' Avers asked.

'I promised the management we would feed the workers one hot meal a day, everyday. They thought it was a good deal. They will increase their output with a fitter, healthier work-force and get the protection of the Australian army as a bonus. We get decent quarters, a kitchen, improved morale and a reasonable parade ground; a good deal all round, wouldn't you say?'

'No argument from me sir,' Avers replied.

'Ask Lt. Kelty to report to me immediately we get back. You round up your platoon, get a truck and move in,' he said. 'I'll brief Lt. Kelty.'

It was as simple as that. One foul swoop on the unsuspecting plant and the place was ours. Not a shot fired. Brilliant, I thought. We all climbed back into the jeep. I couldn't wait.

'And let's get an Australian flag flying out the front,' the Colonel added, as we drove out the front gate, back toward the Kaitaichi sheds. The man's mind was on fire, blazing with plans.

'What about the workers, sir. Are we going to kick them out?' the I.O. asked.

'No. They stopped using the barracks before the war ended, for fear of being bombed. Only a handful came back to them after the war. The management will find alternative accommodation for them. I think they were more interested in the free meal.'

We arrived back at the Kaitaichi sheds and dropped the Colonel and the I.O. off at H.Q., and then returned to find Lt. Kelty. He was sitting on the floor of the shed, trying to write up routine orders. Sergeant Avers told me to go requisition a truck and return as soon as possible.

'I'll fill the boss in on what's happening,' he said. By the time I returned, fifteen members of our platoon were standing by the sheds, all geared up and waiting. With a short explanation from Sergeant Avers and a 'carry on', from Lt. Kelty it was an orderly scramble onto the truck with several more trucks coming up the rear and more soldiers ready to climb aboard. It felt like a race to get there before any other battalion got word. And there was no way we were going to let pass the opportunity that had come our way!

Amanda looked up at the clock. She had absorbed much of the story so far, but felt compelled to ring Quentin Avers about an obvious anomaly. She reached for her briefcase to find his mobile phone number and rang.

'I hope you don't mind me ringing this late, but I have read the first few pages and there's something odd.'

'What is it?' he asked.

'The person who wrote this was one of four people who went to look for better accommodation in Kaitaichi. He was the driver. Didn't your father remember who he was?'

'I thought you would ask that. The answer is, no. I spent some time talking to him about that, but he just didn't remember. His memory hadn't been the best for some time, but even so, he said that there were many occasions when he requisitioned vehicles and had different drivers at different times.'

'Oh! All right, thanks,' Amanda said. 'I just thought I'd run that past you.'

'No problem. Please call me anytime if you get stuck on something. And by the way, there's something I forgot to mention. Masako will want to know that you are the person I have sent. She will ask you for some proof of identity.'

'That's a bit spooky, isn't it?' Amanda chuckled.

'Yes, but I want her to be sure who she's speaking with.'

'And what do I say?'

'You are to say that Dr. Kano has no more penicillin.'

There was a pause.

'Is it all right if I write that down? I might forget it.'

If you must, but keep it secure.'

'I will,' Amanda replied as she scribbled the message down.

'Okay I have that. Is that all?'

'No, not exactly. Before you go there's someone I want you to meet.'

'Who?'

'His name is Ronnie Maclean. You may have seen him mentioned in the early part of the journal.'

'Yes, I did. He seemed to be a close friend to your father.'

'Yes, he was. They served together in Hiroshima. He has also received a copy of the journal.'

'And he's still alive. Is he well?' Amanda prompted.

'Only just. He's in a nursing home at the moment. He's not expected to live much longer, but it would be beneficial for you to speak with him before you go.'

'Yes, I would like to meet him, if you can arrange it.'

'I will,' Quentin replied. 'I'll call you at the office in a day or so if I can arrange it.'

After saying goodbye to Quentin Avers, Amanda needed to eat something or midnight would be upon her before she'd then find she did not want to eat at all. She went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and found a frozen dinner that must have been there for months. The activity woke a sleeping Missy who thought that maybe there was something there for her too. The chicken parmagiana took five minutes to cook in the microwave, another ten minutes to eat and Missy reluctantly settled for some dry biscuits before drifting back to the sheepskin rug on the floor in front of the gas heater. Content with the chicken parmagiana and now with a cup of hot chocolate in hand, Amanda returned to the sofa to continue reading. The meal however, changed all that. She began to feel sleepy and decided it was time to get ready for bed. There was still much to arrange and a normal work schedule to attend to before she would depart for Japan. But her imagination had been set alight by what she had read thus far. She looked beyond the account in the journal and realized how little she knew of this occupation force, and how little she knew about Hiroshima.

## 7.

For the next few days, every time she had a free moment, Amanda trawled through libraries and newspaper houses searching for information that would give her some insight as to the events surrounding the decision to bomb Hiroshima. She googled the internet for websites posting anything that would help her piece together the facts. She found it difficult to accept Quentin Avers' assertion. The notion that dropping the Atomic Bomb was not justified on military grounds, that somehow political considerations could have triggered such a decision was _anathema_ to her. Surely not! Only a madman, a Hitler, a Stalin, a Pol Pot, could do such a thing. She spent all her spare time reading, absorbing everything she could find on the subject. Several books and de-classified Pentagon documents together with a host of historical analyses later, her worst fears were confirmed. Several website descriptions of that cataclysmic morning of August 6th 1945, and its horrifying aftermath for the victims dramatically captured the extent of the broader devastation.

Amanda was shocked enough at the vivid nature of eye-witness reports expressed on some websites she perused. But that was only the beginning as she then turned her attention to the books she had borrowed from the library and information downloaded from the internet. Information that told the political side of the story; the story that had somehow been erased from the international conscience, the story that had been covered up, and then, when it could no longer be concealed, was glossed over, then mollified with a spin so sickening to the morality of human kind, it overshadowed accounts of Japanese atrocities in Burma.

The initial justification for dropping the bomb, carefully presented as it was, offered a dramatic shortening of the war, avoiding a land invasion of Japan. Up to one million American lives would be saved, it said. It had to be done, it said. The Japanese would fight to the last man, they said. They would never surrender. As Amanda read report after report, she found it resonated with a more recent invasion of another country, to capture and destroy certain non-existent weapons of mass destruction. But just as the propaganda smoke-screen shielded the truth about Iraq, Amanda realized the same process had been employed post-war, by President Truman about Japan. For in truth, the Japanese had offered to surrender. They knew they were defeated and for them, the war was over except for the fighting. They had no navy left; they had no air-force. Their supply lines were cut, depriving their soldiers in the field of both food and ammunition. Moreover, their people at home were starving. Document upon document, diary upon diary, revealed attempts by the Japanese to end the war. Those same documents also revealed a puzzling lack of interest by the US administration to respond beyond continuing to demand a total and unconditional surrender. But most troubling of all to Amanda, they revealed unmistakeably, that Truman knew the Japanese wanted to surrender, he knew he could end the war without dropping the bomb, and without the need for a land invasion. He had been petitioned by the scientists who built the bomb not to use it. He had been cautioned by several senior US military leaders including General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who were also aware that Japan had wanted to surrender. But Eisenhower cautioned Truman further. He did not want the United States to be the first country to use such a weapon.

Yet, President Truman gave the order anyway. _'Why?_ Amanda thought. _'Why would he do that?'_

During that week she saw Quentin Avers once more when he called for her at the office and drove her to Coventry House. There, she set eyes upon Ronnie Maclean, who looked even older than his eighty years. He looked frail and wasting, his thin, bony structure a testament to his illness. He sounded incoherent, often gasping for breath. His two sisters, Penelope and Evelyn sat quietly in the background while Amanda and Quentin sat at his bedside and the three of them spoke briefly.

'I hope you find what you are looking for,' he struggled to say. Amanda nodded. 'I'll do my best,' she said reassuringly.

'Japan will be very pretty this time of year, with the spring blossom out,' he said, resting his head back on the pillow.

Quentin had found Ronnie when he launched his own investigation after he received the journal. He wanted to know who wrote it, and in the process learn more about those mentioned and more detail surrounding the events described. And Ronnie wasn't the only one he tracked down.

Amanda's visit ended almost as quickly as it had begun, but it gave her a vital shot in the arm, a determination to take on the assignment and give it all she had. Meeting a veteran of the occupation force filled the vacuum where personal experience normally resided. Now she could go to Japan with the image of one of the men in whose footsteps she was following, firmly imprinted on her mind. It was exactly the confidence boost she needed. Ronnie Maclean however was not in need of a confidence boost. He had a different agenda. The motive behind his son going to Japan centred on personal gain, not vindication of a fellow soldier. He was sending his son David to Kamakura, convinced that past spoils of war remained safely hidden in the forest, buried there sixty years earlier. Gold!

'When David contacts you,' he said to his sisters after Amanda and Quentin had left, 'give him all the remaining information you have. Make sure he takes something large enough to safely carry the artefact and conceal it from preying eyes. Tell him to go early in the morning. Many tourists use the track during the day. Tell him to follow the directions carefully or he may miss the point where he is to leave the track.'

'Ronnie,' Penelope asked, 'are you really sure the vase would still be there? It's been sixty years. Surely someone would have reclaimed it by now.'

'Of course it's still there. I should have dug it up five years ago when I went back. It's been forgotten I tell you; a vase with several gold ingots inside waiting to be found again.'

'But how do you know Len Patterson hasn't been back too and claimed it all for himself?'

'Because he would have told me, that's why. He would have shared it with me.'

'What about Derek Avers though?' He might have reclaimed it years ago, or given it to someone else.'

'He had so much money floating around everywhere, he wouldn't remember what he did with it and wouldn't know where half of it was,' Ronnie replied.

Ronnie's sisters were highly sceptical of the notion that a Meijji vase containing several gold ingots, buried in a forest sixty years ago could possibly be there after all this time. They were of the opinion that this was more the ravings of a sick man, confused over time, and often delirious, but such was the passion Ronnie displayed once having received the journal and noting the specific mention of gold, that they were unable to dissuade him. The prospect of their nephew traipsing through a strange forest with a pick and shovel following directions that were vague at best, did not sit well with them. It was, to them, pointless, but if David Maclean was willing to give it a try, then who were they to argue?

Ronnie Maclean had chosen a difficult life after serving in Japan, remaining in the army, signing on to become a career soldier, and rising eventually to the rank of Warrant Officer.

He served briefly in Korea after which he took on the task of drill instructor for new recruits at Puckapunyal. He married a sergeant's daughter and although the marriage failed after five years he was devoted to his son David. He was a victim of wanderlust and always felt the call to distant places. It was the Malayan Emergency that saw him once again on overseas service for which he received a 'Mentioned in Despatches'. Then, in 1968 he was sent to Vietnam, a posting that affected him such that he was unable to serve again in any leadership role. While on a search and destroy mission with 7th Battalion RAR, his platoon engaged the enemy coming under fierce mortar attack in thick jungle. He suffered shrapnel wounds to the head and was evacuated by chopper under fire. Repatriated home, he recovered but was never the same again. He saw out his army days in minor clerical roles until his retirement. The head wounds affected his speech, and his cognitive ability. He was constantly in and out of Repatriation hospitals for the next twenty years. His sisters, Penelope and Evelyn, were his principal carers for the latter part of his life and particularly during his confinement following the diagnosis of leukaemia. It was then the journal arrived in the mail with no information as to its origins. His son David was retiring from work and about to go on an overseas trip with his wife Margaret. When they mentioned that Japan was on the list of countries they planned to visit it triggered a mechanism in Ronnie's erratic brain recalling events long since forgotten; events surrounding the disposal of gold ingots purchased for cash that Derek Avers arranged as a means of disposing of bundles of awkward notes.

He remembered that Len Patterson had been selected for the job of disposing of the ingots and Kamakura had been chosen as the preferred location. Kamakura was a popular place for soldiers on leave, famous for its many Buddhist monasteries and shrines, notably the Kotokuin, a giant Buddha set in beautifully landscaped gardens, a place of spiritual refuge for war-weary Japanese civilians living in Tokyo less than an hour away by train. Beyond that, Ronnie's memory was blank. To him, the passing of time was something his mind was unable to process. He was able however to give David some reasonably accurate instructions on where to look. When dictating to Evelyn, his description sounded quite plausible:

' _Outside the Shrine Park turn right on the roadway until you come to an earthen stairway just before the road tunnel on the right hand side of the road. Follow the track. When you come to a clearing and you see a clear view of Mt. Fuji miles away to the south, walk twenty yards into the woods until you come to a large Matsu pine. Dig on the south side of the pine.'_

David thought it an amusing adventure; something to tell his grandchildren. He did not expect to find the Matsu pine let alone any ingots. But when Quentin Avers offered to arrange and pay for the accommodation both in Tokyo and Kamakura, he agreed to go.

## 8.

It was the day before Amanda was due to leave. On arriving early at the office, she received an unexpected call from George Balwyn asking her to come immediately to his office. George sounded very official as if something had happened. Amanda looked toward Janet Ryan's office for moral support but Janet had not yet arrived. Dropping her briefcase at her desk she wasted no time walking upstairs wondering along the way if she had done something wrong. After knocking timidly, she entered the spacious office and obligingly followed George's wave of the hand as he beckoned her to be seated. George had a visitor. Another man dressed in a dark blue suit, sat opposite the large oak desk. George Balwyn looked across at his visitor, then toward Amanda.

'This is James Bayswater,' he said to Amanda. 'James has been doing a bit of detective work on our Mr. Avers.'

Amanda nodded and greeted the detective.

'Excellent,' she replied very professionally, and listened intently as the private detective gave George Balwyn his report.

'Quentin Avers is sixty-two,' James Bayswater told them. 'He lives in Kew, an early retiree. He was a former general manager of a seat belt manufacturing company supplying the local market. One of his last projects before retiring was to successfully negotiate an export contract to supply seat belts to Japanese car makers under some local content offset program initiated by the government.' George Balwyn took notes. 'We can assume therefore that he has been to Japan at least once probably more than that,' he interrupted. 'Yes,' Bayswater replied. 'Since retirement he has been an active anti-nuclear advocate, and author of something called the Hiroshima Myth.'

'The what?'

'The Hiroshima Myth. It's not a book. It's sort of a blog, a reflection on how the war ended. It has never been published in book form but he emails it out to anyone who shows any interest. You can read it on his website,' Bayswater explained.

'What is it about?' George asked.

'In 1945 the United States dropped an A-bomb on Hiroshima without warning. Over one hundred and forty thousand people died. Many of them suffered horrifying injuries and sickness for days and weeks afterwards, before they died from the effects of radiation. Not content with that, two days later the Americans dropped another A-bomb on Nagasaki, killing over 73000 people.'

'Yes, I know about Hiroshima,' George said pensively.

'Within weeks of the bombing the war was over,' Bayswater continued. 'President Truman justified the bombing on the premise that the death toll would be less than if the war continued on, and the allies had to mount an invasion of Japan. He reckoned that dropping the bomb saved half a million to a million American lives. It's a hotly disputed claim and subject to all kinds of debate, but that's what he said.'

'Effectively he was saying that it was better to kill a whole lot of Japanese in one hit, rather than have a whole lot of Americans die later on. Is that what it boils down to?'

'Yes, er, I suppose so. I haven't read all of it, but what Avers suggests is, that the bombing itself wasn't necessary and that Harry Truman should be tried posthumously as a war criminal.'

'I've been doing some research of my own on that subject,' Amanda spoke up. 'There's good reason to think that dropping the bomb was more of a scientific experiment, than a serious attempt to end the war.'

George looked across at Amanda somewhat surprised at her comment and momentarily distracted. He quickly regained his train of thought.

'Do you have a copy of this blog?' he asked Bayswater.

'No, but I can get it for you if you like,' Bayswater replied.

As George was about to answer, there was a knock on the door and Janet Ryan appeared.

'What is it?' George asked.

'It's about Amanda,' she replied. 'She's leaving in the morning. I can't seem to find her.'

'She's here with me. Come in.'

Janet entered the office to see Amanda sitting on the couch.

'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize.'

George nodded. 'I called her in earlier. This gentleman has been able to give us some information about our Mr. Avers.' He turned to Bayswater. 'Thank you for what you have done. I'd like a copy of the blog you mentioned and I'd like you to continue checking. Give me a call when you have something. If you don't mind showing yourself out, I have something else to attend to.'

James Bayswater nodded and left the office leaving Janet to close the door behind him. Both women sat in front of the oak desk.

'Well, what do you make of that?' George asked Amanda.

'He's right about the 'Hiroshima Myth' part.

'What do you mean?'

'Everything I have read on the subject over the past few weeks suggest that there is much more behind the bombing of Hiroshima than what we have been told.'

'It's to be expected when 'freedom of information,' documents are released,' George agreed, not wanting to engage in a political discussion. 'Learn as much as you can, but don't let it interfere with your primary purpose.'

Amanda nodded.

'So, do you have everything you need?'

'Yes, Mr. Balwyn. I have everything I need.'

'What about money. Has Avers given you spending money?'

'Yes I have plenty of money, thank you.'

'Okay, well, we have learned a little bit about our friend and it appears he has had some business in Japan before, so we will have to accept that he knows what he's doing; a bit of an anti-nuclear disciple by the looks of it. However, I don't want you to put yourself in any difficult situations. I don't want any late night, dark alley rendezvous' with strangers. I want to know where you are at all times. We are practically on the same time zone save an hour or so. I want to be able to call you whenever I feel like it, so don't turn your mobile phone off at any time, understand?'

Amanda nodded. It was not so much what George was saying as the paternal concern he displayed while saying it. Amanda felt re-assured, as if help was only a phone call away. 'If you need any help from us don't hesitate to get on the phone, okay?' Amanda nodded. Then with his customary wave of the hand, George indicated the meeting was over and both women left his office.

## 9.

That night, Amanda double-checked everything. Her only previous overseas trip was a short holiday in Fiji. That was before 9/11, when being invited to sit in the cockpit of a Jumbo 747 for a few minutes was not unusual. It was a different story now, with micro-restrictions in place limiting the size and contents of her toiletries; everything had to fit in a transparent zip-lock bag. So much extra care to ensure baggage security, needed to be considered. Finally, with everything arranged and nothing to do except go to bed and sleep, she settled herself with a cup of hot chocolate, nestled under the covers and continued with the journal about Derek Avers.....

The move to the Nippon Steel Works was a huge moral booster. By the time it was complete, enthusiasm for the real work at hand was high. Soldiers had adjusted themselves to their new barracks, regular patrols of the civilian area had started and a routine of drill and general cleaning was in progress. One morning, Lt. Kelty asked for a vehicle and driver to take him to Hiroshima. It was more out of curiosity than duty; he just wanted to have a look at the place, to see what damage had been done. I was given the task and picked him up outside battalion H.Q.

'We're going into Hiroshima private,' he said to me. 'I think we'll take the inland road and come back via the coast road. That should give us a reasonable picture of what happened.'

'Do we need any protection sir?' I asked him.

'What for?' he replied.

'I'd heard that people are getting sick in Hiroshima sir,' I told him.

'Where did you hear that?' he asked.

'There was a woman at the front gate yesterday asking for some cleaning work. We had to send her away, but she was asking for medicine for the bomb sickness,' I told him.

'I didn't realize you could speak Japanese, private?'

'I don't sir. I tried to memorize some of the basic phrases on the ship coming up. But she spoke a little English. She said people were sick. When I asked how sick, she said, hair fall out, gums bleed, diarrhoea, dark purple spots on skin. She asked for penicillin for the doctor down the road.'

'What doctor?'

'She said his name was Doctor Kano, I think. He runs a clinic close by. She said he was trying to get penicillin from the occupation army.'

The Lieutenant was silent. He seemed deep in thought.

'I suppose they would be suffering a shortage of supplies. I'll take a note of that and see what I can do. Where is this clinic?'

'She said it was down the road a bit, toward Hiroshima,' I told him.

'Perhaps we'll see it along the way. Let's go.'

We set off down the road and after we had gone no more than a mile or two, we passed by a sign outside a modest building. Written in English, the sign read, M. KANO, M.D. MEDICAL AND VENEREAL. 'There it is, sir,' I said. The Lieutenant took note.

'Medical and venereal, eh,' he said. 'I guess he would need penicillin wouldn't he?' The Lieutenant then pulled out a notepad and wrote something down.

'I suppose,' he began, thoughtfully, 'human nature being what it is, and even with a strict 'no fraternization' policy, men are men the world over, and where there are men, there will be women to provide a service.'

'I guess that's the way of it, sir,' I said with a grin.

'Well, in that case, if our Dr. Kano is looking after the good health of the girls, he will need all the penicillin he can get, won't he?'

'Yes, sir,' I replied.

'You'd better pull over and I'll see if he's home.'

I pulled up the jeep in front of the house, and Lieutenant Kelty jumped out.

'Wait here private,' he said, as he marched up to the front door, knocked and went inside.

About a half hour later, he emerged, smiling and shaking hands with a convivial looking gentleman in his fifties. The two of them looked as though they had done a deal as the man handed the Lieutenant two bottles. They said goodbye, and Lt. Kelty returned to the jeep, taking care not to drop the bottles.

'Suntory Whiskey,' he said. 'Nice fellow,' he said, as he carefully wrapped the bottles in some towelling.

'We need to see that he is supplied with a few things.'

'Would this be your first fraternization, sir?' I asked cheekily. The Lieutenant grinned. 'Let's go private.'

As we continued on, crossing over a river, it was impossible not to notice the poverty and destitute circumstances of the local villagers. People huddled together outside wooden huts, with neither running water nor power. Young children, barely five years old, dressed in flimsy shorts and shirts, or dresses and only a jumper over their top to protect them from the cold. They were wandering the streets, searching for something to eat. Old men stood motionless as we passed by, as if waiting to be interrogated or arrested, we thought. But no, they were hoping we would give them some food. As we continued on, the road became less populated and we noticed fewer buildings. More and more, we saw damaged wooden houses, some leaning to the left and right as if blown by a great wind. Increasingly, the amount of rubble on both sides of the street mounted up, and yet more damaged properties; these clearly having suffered from fire damage. The Lieutenant asked me to drive slowly lest we hit someone or something. People were not moving quickly; they appeared lethargic, morose even, their faces while devoid of expression, unable to hide an unmistakeable look of hopelessness. Then, we saw increasingly, make-shift shacks, put together with anything that would give shelter. But before we had a chance to take stock, the buildings were no more and we came upon a sight so staggering that we found it difficult to believe. As far as the eye could see, perhaps as much as four or five miles, all the way to the inland sea, a vast area of devastation. It was as if we had entered a land of ruin, where everything that was ever there before, had been reduced to a twisted, mangled wasteland of metal, rubble, ash. As we drove along a badly broken bitumen road, with buckled tram lines down the middle, burnt out trams had been thrown metres off their tracks and lay on their side along the roadway and across flattened rubble where shops used to be. We drove past row upon row, street upon street of burnt out, flattened, ash and debris. Only the odd ferro-concrete structure was still partly standing, but completely gutted inside; the rest a black, ashen wasteland of destruction. The Lieutenant told me to stop.

'Where is Hiroshima?' I asked.

'This is it,' he said, his own shock and disbelief apparent.

'But,' I said, not wanting to correct him, 'there's nothing here, sir.'

'I can't believe one bomb could do this,' he uttered, as we passed the remnant of a car that lay as if partially melted away, with the front vaguely resembling a collapsed cauldron. Here and there, a makeshift hut came into view, where a family member returned to claim the land where once stood what was his house, before the bomb. Then, as our consciousness gradually adjusted to absorb the enormity of the cataclysm, we passed a huge camphor tree, uprooted, and burnt out, its eerie root system, trunk and branches, now a blackened silhouette against a white concrete building behind it. We noticed more makeshift huts, put together by residents unable to find anywhere else to live. We passed by in silence, but inwardly, felt sickened at some of the injuries sustained by people, whose faces were horribly disfigured from burns. Others, who could only walk with the aid of an improvised crutch, were huddled over their support, trying to move away from our car, and revealing huge growth lumps on the backs of their necks.

We continued on, through this blackened landscape, until we came to a bridge and turned left, where a large ferro-concrete structure stood, its dome roof still intact, but the building itself gutted within. Driving slowly, parallel to the river, we continued to see people trying to re-establish themselves in makeshift huts with no more than a piece of corrugated iron placed on top of wooden supports, to protect them from the cold and rain.

'That must be Ujina down there; the port area,' Lieutenant Kelty said, pointing to some buildings about three miles away, but clearly visible, with nothing standing in between to block our view. 'Some of us will be working down there,' he said. 'That's where the Japanese soldiers, returning from the Pacific, are being repatriated. My God, if any of them live here, look what they have come back to! How are they going to feel?'

'Did we do this, sir?' I asked without thinking.

'What do you mean we, private?'

'Us, sir,' I said, 'the allies. Did we do this?'

Lt. Kelty did not answer at first. He looked across to the other side of the river, toward the mountains, where the scene of devastation was the same; total destruction on an unimaginable scale.

'I suppose we did,' he answered finally, 'if you want to put it that way. But, I don't know if those who made the decision really knew what they were doing. How could anyone imagine doing this, and still give the order?'

Unable to continue concentrating, with her eyes demanding sleep, Amanda marked the spot, put the journal on the bedside table, turned out the light and went to sleep. Tomorrow morning would come soon enough; she could continue the story on the plane.

## 10.

The following morning she sat nervously in the departure lounge at Melbourne Airport and gazed out the spacious double-glazed windows in front of her. Boarding time was still an hour away but the sheer excitement of the journey compelled her to leave home earlier than she had planned. With her luggage checked in, her boarding pass in hand, all customs and immigration checks completed, she sat there in an almost deserted departure lounge sipping coffee unable to control a hundred thoughts racing across her mind. The Airbus A330 that would take her to Japan sat on the tarmac outside, its left wing almost touching that of a Jumbo alongside, while another Jumbo taxied in, looking for its parking spot. As she sat there waiting her thoughts turned to the past.

Five years ago, she was a shy, retiring housewife and mother, consigned, she thought, to the mire of domestic servitude, plagued with a bag-full of self doubt. Her role in life had been reduced to servant to her family who gave every appearance of taking her for granted and even despising her for the insipid manner in which she complied with their every wish. Each morning, after the recurring ritual of preparing breakfast for her family, ensuring all their needs were met, and watching as one by one, they went out the door, she would settle down to look to her own needs. Here she savoured her own time, having her breakfast, reading the morning paper, before the ritual began again, washing the dishes, making the beds, and cleaning up the house, before heading to the supermarket, or the chemist, to re-fill her own dwindling supplies. Each afternoon, she would bury her head in the never-ending parade of soap-operas on television, watching the beautiful people ensnare their lives in episode after episode. There were the love knots, and business deals, the forever plotting behind the back of the overbearing mother-in-law, the uncle tycoon, and the long-lost son or daughter who miraculously returned from what was believed to be a tragic death while off on a mysterious overseas trip. She even felt a desire deep down to be like them, to escape from the dreary day to day boredom of home duties looking after a husband who worked long hours and two adult children who gave no indication of ever leaving home. Why should they? Life was too easy at home. How often did she receive a late afternoon call from the office, to be told by her husband's secretary that he would not be home for dinner and don't wait up? How often did she believe it?

And so, there she often sat each evening, alone, repeating the afternoon television ritual, only this time the action had moved to quiz shows like _The Great Temptation_ and half-hour sit-coms such as _Seinfeld,_ which only reinforced her belief that she was wasting her life away, caught in a never-ending, motorized domestic rut. She longed to be someone different. It took some time to realize that if she wanted to _be_ different, she needed to _do_ something different. It came upon her, not as the penny drops, but in an illuminating bright flash from the heavens. It came upon her, as the champ on ' _The Great Temptation'_ faulted on a question she thought was simple. It came upon her that doing something different wasn't that hard. In fact, it was staring her in the face: _a Quiz show!_ Why not apply to be a contestant? She knew she was smart. She was well educated with a degree in literature. She knew the answers to most of the questions. More importantly, she knew the answers to the questions that even the champ didn't know. She could be on television. That would be different!

From that small psychological revelation, her life changed. She applied for the preliminary test, a sort of entrance exam, where she correctly answered forty out of fifty questions which eventually led to the invitation to appear as a contestant on national television. On her first night, she was introduced as a happy housewife, something that infuriated her. She didn't dare show it, but the put-down made her all the more determined to make an impression. The incumbent was going for the lot, a massive half a million dollars in cash and prizes, and to everyone's shock and disappointment, she beat him easily. Her photo appeared in the papers, she was the giant-killer. Could she go on and succeed where he failed? She won the next four nights, had amassed over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash and prizes and then, out of the blue decided she had come as far as she needed. This whole exercise for her was not about winning, not about money. It was about learning. And what she had learned was more satisfying than all the prizes the show had to offer. She learned that she didn't have to be anybody's doormat. She learned that she was as good as anyone else, and on a good day, better than most; at the very least she knew as much as anybody else. She became her own woman, a woman with an opinion, and to her surprise, people wanted to listen to her. Her shock voluntary departure from _'The Great Temptation'_ created its own mystique, its own seed of curiosity and invitations came thick and fast from morning chat shows on television and radio, all wanting to know about the lady on the quiz show who knew when to walk away. People wanted to know more about this unusual person who turned her back on the opportunity to win a million dollars. She did the rounds of the media for a week or two, and then as quickly as her fame gathered momentum, the public's appetite began to contract, and she became yesterday's fairy-tale. Another lesson learned. Don't trust fame. Don't believe what they write about you. It won't last.

The exit from public interest was a blessing. She now had the opportunity to be herself again, only this time she would take a different path. Included in her prizes, was a home computer, printer, scanner, fax machine combination. She had won a home office. This was the jewel in the crown. She would learn to use a computer, hook up to the internet. She would write a book, use her skills to be productive and gain a feeling of creativity, the likes of which she only previously dreamed about. Her first book was rejected. This, she decided was unacceptable. There were plenty of books on the market that by any independent assessment could be considered trash. She decided she had as much right as anyone else to have her trash published too, and if she couldn't find a publisher to put it out there, she would do it herself. Her first book received a degree of free publicity other writers could only dream about, and sales not only covered costs, but returned a modest profit.

In the meantime her husband and two grown children learned that their needs, their expectations had been consigned to the 'do-it-yourself' basket in the kitchen and the laundry, complete with instructions on how to operate the washing machine; instructions she typed up on her new computer. Amanda Blackburn was her own woman, and if her family weren't ready for it, they would learn the hard way. Her life had been transformed. In the end, they didn't see it coming.

While Amanda sat there waiting for her boarding call, George Balwyn was in his office taking a telephone call from his father at Lillico. On first hearing the news, he went numb, then experienced a moment of relief that it was all over, before hanging up the phone and weeping uncontrollably. His mother had passed away quietly that morning at the nursing home.

## 11.

## Tokyo

Yoshiko stood patiently at the reception counter while the new arrivals removed their shoes, unloaded their back packs, downed their suitcases, rearranged their clothing and fiddled through their pockets to find their passports and accommodation notices. She had seen it a thousand times before, but each time brought with it a new perspective. These travellers to a new country, trying their best to look sophisticated and sure of themselves but inwardly nervous and unsure; always betraying themselves one way or another. The elderly couple approached her, the man asking the same question she was asked several times each day.

'Hello, do you speak English?'

'Yes I do,' she answered with a distinct American accent which took the couple by surprise.

'We have a booking for three nights. The name is Maclean. Mr. and Mrs. David Maclean.

Yoshiko glanced down the booking page in front of her and ticked off the new arrivals.

'Welcome to Tokyo,' she said. 'Could you fill out these details please and I will need to see your passports,' she added, handing a registration form and pen across the counter.

The couple had arrived from Hong Kong on the next leg of an around the world tour, two weeks into a long awaited retirement. They had travelled by train from Narita airport, and found their way through the complexities of the Tokyo subway network, to Ikebukuro station more by good luck than good management. Feeling tired but immensely proud having overcome all challenges thus far, they completed their registration and handed over their passports. The young Japanese girl smiled and thanked them.

'Where did you learn English?' Mr. Maclean asked of her.

'In America,' she answered. 'I studied there for three years.'

'You speak it very well,' he complimented her.

'Thank you. Your room is not available until three o' clock. You can leave your luggage in the cloakroom and remain here on the ground floor if you wish. We have a common room along the hallway and you can use the kitchen to cook and prepare refreshments. My name is Yoshiko. If you need any advice or directions I will be happy to help you in any way,' she said, as she handed back their passports.

The Ryokan was a simple three level accommodation house catering for budget-conscious travellers who were satisfied with the bare essentials in lodgings, but wanted to experience something imbued with the atmosphere of traditional Japanese culture. They also wanted somewhere cheap enough to allow them to see Tokyo, and still have enough money left over to spend on food. The interior of the building was dark, with exposed oak timber, thick beams from floor to ceiling, and polished floorboards reverberating to the sounds of people moving about in the adjoining common room.

David Maclean thanked Yoshiko and the couple took their luggage to the cloakroom. Opening the door they gasped to find it nearly full of suitcases, backpacks, and a varied assortment of luggage all stored and waiting to be collected by other guests at three o' clock. They found room to store their luggage and made their way to the common room where a number of guests had gathered to relax, watch television, or plan their time while others prepared light refreshments in the kitchen and meals area. A young boy sat in front of the television watching but clearly unable to break through the language barrier. He flicked frantically with the remote control as he searched for something he might recognize. His parents sat quietly reading. The Maclean's entered the common room and spent a few moments familiarizing themselves with these strange new surroundings. Margaret Maclean was not a gregarious person, not one to rush to introduce herself. She looked around and her eyes set upon a notice board. It was a welcome distraction and she quickly moved across to see what information was available. David Maclean smiled at the Caucasian woman who looked up briefly while rummaging through her back-pack.

'Hello,' he volunteered, taking a chance that she would understand.

'Hi, how are you?' she replied in a thick North American accent.

"Very well. Just arrived,' he replied.

'Are you English,' the woman asked.

'Australian,' David replied.

'I'd love to go there sometime,' she answered.

Margaret Maclean was preoccupied with the notices and read one very strict rule prominently displayed on the board: "No socializing permitted in the rooms. Any such activity would lead to immediate eviction." _'Fair enough,'_ she thought. The rest of the notices comprised employment opportunities in teaching English and seemed to be targeting young people.

' _Oh to be young again,'_ she thought. _'To start out again and travel the world, picking up a living here and there. Oh, to be young again.'_

David Maclean felt peckish and realized they had not eaten since being served breakfast at Narita.

'Is there somewhere we can get a bite to eat?' he asked the woman with the back-pack.

'Did you come in by train?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'Then just go back toward the station and you will find any number of places to buy a sandwich or something,' she answered. 'There's a supermarket quite close if you want to get something for breakfast tomorrow. It's a lot cheaper than buying from the restaurants and hotels.'

'Thank you,' he answered.

'What are your plans?' the backpacker asked.

'We are going to Kamakura tomorrow,' David Maclean replied.

'Great. You'll love it,' she replied.

'Thank you,' David said. Turning to his wife he said, 'I think we will go for a walk, Margaret. We'll find something to eat and perhaps try to find the Meijji Shrine. That should fill in the time until we can check in.'

At reception, Yoshiko was tending to some paperwork when she heard the familiar ring from her computer, announcing the arrival of email. The message was brief: _'Has Amanda arrived yet? Q.'_

She sent an instant reply: _'Not due until tomorrow. I will email you as soon as she does. Y'_

At three o' clock The Maclean's returned to the Ryokan and Yoshiko handed them each a blue and white Yukata, a bath gown, and a small towel, together with a key to their room. Upstairs, the rooms were small and basic with a Tatami-matted floor, a futon, a small table, and a cupboard for storing clothing and personal effects. Guests shared common bathroom facilities located on each floor. Rooms were for sleeping only. In keeping with most things Japanese, the house was impeccably clean and maintained by diligent and polite staff.

'Did you bring towels?' David Maclean asked.

'No, I thought they would provide them, his wife Margaret replied.'

'Well if this is a towel,' he said, holding up the cloth he received with the Yukata no bigger than a napkin, 'I'm afraid we'll have to go out and buy some.'

'I'm used to having our own en-suite,' Margaret said, looking around the room pensively. 'I think I'll take a look at the shower and toilet facilities.'

'Don't worry dear. It's only for one night. We'll be staying at a proper hotel tomorrow in Kamakura. I don't know why Dad arranged this place for us. His mate Quentin Avers is paying for it so I guess he must have suggested it.'

## 12.

Seated in the second back row of the plane, with an empty seat beside her, Amanda looked out the window and marvelled at the beautiful, thick, white clouds below. This was how heaven had always been portrayed; an endless sea of white cloud, with angels playing harps, and grateful souls saved from the everlasting fires of hell wandering around aimlessly, wondering what to do with themselves, without so much as a shopping mall anywhere in sight. Oh well! The plane had taken off on time and was now somewhere north of Townsville. This was not her first time in a plane, but it would certainly be the longest flight she had ever taken. She had eaten, taken a short nap, and become bogged down watching a movie that was difficult to follow for the noise of the engines outside reverberating throughout the cabin. With people moving past her going to and from the toilets, and the occasional discussion going on at the rear of the plane between flight staff, she decided to give up on the movie and continue with the journal from where she left off the previous night. Not knowing who the author was, captivated her imagination and aroused her curiosity more and more...

My journey to Hiroshima with Lt. Kelty was an experience I will never forget. It was impossible to gauge how one bomb could render a landscape so vast, so utterly wasted. And images of people so badly dis-figured and starving haunted me every night until seeing them on a regular basis daily, helped establish some kind of mental immunity to their condition. But as we found our footing, the days and weeks moved along briskly. I made a point of learning a new Japanese word every day, in preparation for when it would be necessary to deal with the locals directly. The Brigade was subject to a strict non-fraternization policy, but still contacts had to be made both with those who were employed by the force and those with whom we had to liaise with regularly. Many Japanese were employed to act as interpreters, translators, civilian office personnel. They were excellent workers and probably appreciated the opportunity to have regular food more than any monetary payment. It would, however, have been pretty naïve of H.Q. to think that a non-fraternization policy was going to prevent relationships forming between some of our soldiers and Japanese girls. After a few weeks of general duties, lots of drill, some basic training courses, and one or two parades to welcome some top brass from the U.S. Military, and the occasional Australian politician, life as an occupation soldier settled into a routine where I was assigned to the Repatriation Centre at Ujina, located about ten miles or so from Kaitaichi, on the coast, just to the south of Hiroshima. We took over from the Americans. It was a stark place; just one main building. The area was partially affected by the Atom bomb, and in need of renovations, but it served its purpose. I acted as both clerk and driver. As February moved into March, then April, the weather became warmer, and we moved into summer dress.

Our summer uniform consisted of Khaki Drill trousers and shirt, brown boots, gaiters, webbing belt and straps. We thought we looked pretty sharp with our slouch hat and puggaree, brass buckles and hat badges with brass Australian insignia. As the work became more routine however, it also became somewhat boring. Our facilities did not improve much; in some cases we were not that much better off than the locals. Latrines were makeshift, food was ordinary, and there was no entertainment, except for the occasional film. The men were lonely, missing their families back home, their wives and girlfriends. This obviously led to seeking out female company and in most cases that meant prostitution. I had the occasional letter from my Elaine back home, but that only made the time drag even more. Brothels became more prevalent; one sprang up directly across the road from Dr. Kano's clinic. Venereal disease became rampant, although it wasn't clear who gave it to whom. Dr. Kano, having an assured supply of penicillin from our base took care of the girls, and our M.O. treated enlisted personnel. But it wasn't long before the V.D. movies were being shown in a vain attempt to stem the flow. It didn't work.

Working with the Navy at Ujina, we were processing returned Japanese soldiers, whose homecoming from various parts of the Pacific was anything but victorious. Viewed by the poor wretches who came off those transport vessels, I suppose we looked like an elite force. They, on the other hand looked tired, dispirited, underfed and confused. Having to identify themselves to Japanese government staff in the presence of foreigners on their own soil must have been de-moralizing. Being processed for re-entry under the watchful eye of a former enemy would have for them, represented great loss of face. But each one was treated as an individual with respect, understanding and compassion; that is what we did, and they said they felt the better for it.

Every day, Japanese soldiers were being returned home from their postings in the Pacific. They came back from Singapore, the Philippines, New Guinea, the Dutch East Indies and other locations where the Australian Military supervised their surrender. At the end of the war, the Japanese had some six million personnel posted outside Japan. Now they had to be brought home. Every day a new ship arrived, met by our Navy personnel and an Australian infantry company. Every day the returning Japanese disembarked down the gangway in submissive silence. Those who came down first, held in their hands a white linen sash and a box containing the cremated remains of their fallen comrades, who would later be laid to rest at the Yasakuni Shrine in Tokyo. They were then relieved of all badges of rank and marched from the dock by unit past the two pillars of Ujina Gate, each pillar with a message to welcome them. The message on the left pillar read, 'Let's do things firmly, cordially; don't lose heart; keep up your spirits.' While on the right, the message read, 'Repatriates, thank you all for suffering such hardship; you have all suffered such hardship.'

As an additional gesture, they were also welcomed by girl volunteers into the centre where they were processed. Some were clearly relieved it was all over and smiled at the girls. Others took it more seriously; unsmiling, stern, not at all sure if they were being viewed as heroes or a defeated rabble. Their belongings were checked and scrutinized; prohibited items confiscated, each soldier underwent a medical examination, was inoculated, then made to strip and dusted down with DDT. At the end of the processing, they were fed a hot meal. Probably the best news for them was being told they were no longer soldiers; that they could now go home to their families and resume their civilian lives. They were then given a rail warrant, transported to the railway station and, quite impersonally, left to make their way home.

At the same time as the Japanese were coming home, we were sending Koreans, Manchurians and Chinese, either captured during the war or brought in as forced labour, back to their countries; as one contingent arrived, another left on the same vessel. As such, the centre became something of a cultural crossroad, with the Sea of Japan, the main gateway to freedom for all.

It was against this background that I first saw Masako. She was standing by the Ujina gate one afternoon. It was a restricted area, so how she got there I do not know. A company of Japanese soldiers had just arrived from Singapore, and were marching into the repatriation depot for processing. She was watching each of them closely as they passed by, obviously searching for someone: a brother, husband, friend. Perhaps she had received word that someone she knew had landed back in Japan, perhaps she was there purely on speculation, I didn't know. She was dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, with a veil covering her head, so much so, that it was difficult to see her clearly. I watched as she scanned the faces of each man passing by. As the last of the soldiers marched into the depot, it became clear that whoever she was looking for was not there, and so she left. I thought little of it until the next day at around the same time another ship was returning personnel, and I looked out the window to see her lingering at the pillar once more. This time, the veil on her head was hanging partially to one side, and I could make out from a distance the look of anguish on her face. Again this day, as with the day before, the person she was looking for, was not in this group either. This time she did not leave immediately, but stood at the gate, perhaps thinking that another group would come through shortly. I checked the admission sheets for the day, and knew that no more were expected until tomorrow. The look of disappointment on her face was obvious, such that I decided to try and help her. I went outside and approached her calmly. She saw me coming toward her, and began to walk away. I called out, 'Konnichi wa, o-genki desu ka,'

She stopped and turned toward me, bowed and replied,

'Konnichi wa,' I said, 'Can I help you?' She smiled demurely and replied, 'Wakari masen.' I didn't understand her, or she I, so I offered by way of gesture, to take her inside where an interpreter could help her.

Just then, her veil fell away and I noticed grizzly burn scars on her neck and on the left side of her face. The corner of her mouth on the damaged side rendered her unable to properly open her mouth to speak. Her forehead too, was scarred but not as prominently as was her neck. Her hair-line was uneven, but much of what she had was combed to the left side to hide the neck. I judged her to be about fourteen years of age. She had very large eyes, accentuated by her frail, thin body. It was impossible to pretend that I was not disturbed by what I saw and my reaction caused her to quickly restore her veil. She also became self-conscious of her appearance and I was upset with myself for demonstrating such a lack of sensitivity, realizing all too late, that she was a Hibakusha, an A-bomb victim. She accepted my offer to come inside and through an interpreter, Shigeko Suzuki, a young Japanese woman working in the repatriation centre, I learned her name, and the reason she was there. She had been hoping that her brother would be returning home. Her parents and younger sister had perished when the Atom bomb was dropped. She had only her brother Tokuo, and he was unaware his parents and sister were dead. Masako had heard nothing of his status for several months, but as no notice of his death had been delivered to her, she continued to believe that he was still alive and that he would return home soon. She had been coming daily to the Ujina Gate in the hope that she could welcome him home and take him to her Uncle Mineo in the country. As she explained her presence, she became visibly weak and appeared on the verge of fainting. Shigeko quickly arranged a comfortable chair for her, and, taking me aside, said that she thought she was suffering malnutrition and asked if we could give her something to eat. While I had heard many times that the Japanese were a very docile people, and not ones wanting to cause any unnecessary bother, it still struck me how someone in her position would not be more demanding and difficult to deal with. She seemed constantly worried even in her pitiable state, that she was causing too much bother. I, on the other hand, felt annoyed that more was not being done to help her, and those like her. I made her some tea and offered her some biscuits; she looked at them strangely, but ate them both. The tea seemed to restore her composure. I suggested we take her to the cafeteria and see what we could find for her to eat. Shigeko's Japanese supervisor agreed although he clearly was not impressed with her and would have preferred she left the centre. Some Japanese showed limited sympathy for the hibakusha, something I found troubling. We were unable to help her find her brother, but we were able to offer her some Japanese food, made up from various kinds of meat and vegetables simmered in broth. She ate as if it were her last meal and when she felt more composed, I offered to drive her home. I called Lt. Kelty on the phone at Kaitaichi, and he gave me the all clear.

Travelling back with her, through the devastation that was Hiroshima, she sat in silence oblivious to the sight of the rubble, the twisted steel, the charred, blackened ruins and the makeshift huts; something I assumed she was all too familiar with. I asked her for directions to where she lived. 'Tooi desu ka?' ( Is it far?) I asked. She looked across and shook her head, then pointed. I followed her directions travelling slowly, mindful of the increasing flow of traffic, with each major intersection lacking any traffic lights and manned by military police officers directing vehicles in an orderly fashion. She led me along the river passed the burnt out remains of the Industrial Promotions Hall, then over the Aioi Bridge. There, we turned right, driving along an uneven road still ruptured from the intense heat generated by the bomb. I had to remind myself that we were less than one mile from the hypocentre, where just six months ago, all life vaporized in less than a second, at a temperature of more than 3000 degrees centigrade. After another two miles, Masako raised her hand indicating that we had arrived, but to what, I could not make out. I stopped the jeep and she climbed out, and turned back toward me, bowing graciously, saying, 'Dōme arigatō gozai mashita'. ( Thank you very much.) Without saying anything further, she turned and walked away toward a cluster of makeshift shelters, where other people stood, looking at me, curiously. I watched, as she disappeared behind them, and I momentarily studied their faces. It was difficult to comprehend their circumstances; utter ruin all around them, no electricity or running water, they existed from day to day, patient, and long-suffering, yet uncomplaining, drawing, I suspected, on all the spiritual resolve their Buddhist faith could assemble. In some, I could see the unmistakeable look of hatred for what had been done to them, and those who did it. Never before did I feel as helpless as then, and I wanted desperately to help them. As I reversed the jeep and turned for Kaitaichi, I was determined that no matter what minor rules I might break, I would do what I could. Food was the first thing that came to mind, and we had shiploads of it. Moreover, we had Japanese cooks at Ujina who knew what these people would like. I decided it was time to do a bit of horse-trading, otherwise known as, not-for-profit, black-marketeeing.

This was as far as Amanda read before falling asleep. She awoke some time later, when the plane jolted suddenly, hitting an air pocket. Conscious of movement around her, she looked up to find a little boy standing alongside her seat.

'Hello,' she said instinctively. The little boy responded. 'Hello,' he said, staring at her, benignly.

'What's your name?' Amanda asked.

'James,' he replied, and added quickly, 'are you going to Japan too?'

'Yes I am,' Amanda replied.

'My father is going to work there and I'm going to school,' he said, twisting his hands back and forth.

'And what grade will you be in?'

'Grade 3,' James replied. 'I'm nearly nine.'

'You look much older than nine, James,'

Just then a lady came down from the front and James looked up pleased to see his mother.

'So this is where you got to.' The lady looked toward Amanda.

'I hope he hasn't been bothering you?' she asked

'No, not at all. He's given me an excuse to take a break and go for a little stroll. Nice to meet you James,' Amanda said, as she undid her seat belt and got up to take a walk.

'I wonder where we are?' she asked the lady.

'I think we are north of the Philippines and a little to the south of Hong Kong,' she answered.

Amanda began walking down the aisle, toward the front of the plane. She passed row after row of passengers asleep, reading or totally involved in the movie of their choice; people of all ages, from the very young to the elderly, all with their own reasons for travelling on this particular flight, to this destination, on this day. Crossing through the galley over to the other side of the aircraft, she began walking back to the rear. This time she could see the faces of passengers. Some looked up at her, others were too pre-occupied. She wondered what mysteries lay hidden in the lives of all these people. How wonderful, she thought, if time permitted, to have the opportunity to talk to each of them, discover their reason for travel, and combine all their stories into one volume to be put away for a time when her next novel was ready to be written. When she returned to her own seat she was stunned to realize she had a mystery of her own to consider. There on the seat lay the journal where she had left it. But fixed on the open page with a paper clip, was a handwritten note. She picked up the journal and read the note...

' _This is an important document. Don't leave it lying around for anyone to see!'_

She swung round at once to see if anyone was watching. Who could have put it there? Who even knew that she was on this flight? What reason would anyone have to write her a note? Amanda slumped back into her seat, unsettled and feeling vulnerable. The thought that there was someone on this flight watching her, raised the bristles on the back of her neck. Was she being followed? Had Quentin Avers provided a minder to look after her? No, surely he would have told her. So, who could have put the note there? Her heart beat a little faster, and she reached for her water bottle to settle her fears. She drank, looked down at the note, then back up again, searching for some indication, something that might give her a clue as to who put this here. Everything seemed normal in front of her. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to offer a clue. It then occurred to her that possibly no one on the plane had put it there. Perhaps, she thought, Quentin put it there when he gave it to her, before she left, as a reminder, and she just never saw it. Yes, that must be it! The thought helped to calm her. She could not be certain, but it was plausible; more plausible in fact, than the notion that someone on the plane wrote and placed it there. Still unsettled, but feeling better for what seemed to her a rational explanation, she decided to continue reading. In a few hours, she would be in Japan, and there was still much to get through before she would be able to fully appreciate the nature of her mission. She removed the note, placed it in her bag and settled down to continue reading....

The black market was rife around the perimeter of Hiroshima where commerce, retail and residential boundaries fused together establishing some degree of normality. At Hiroshima Station, traders would supply almost anything for the right price; clothes, furniture, food, shoes, military uniforms, medicines, most of which came in from other parts of the country, by sharp minded, ruthless dealers always ready to take advantage of someone else's misfortune. Some of the goods were supplied by discharged soldiers keen to make a little money on the side. Other goods came from our own soldiers. It was, for some, a most alluring opportunity to cash in on a highly profitable venture. We were paid in yen and with an exchange rate of something close to fifty yen to the Australian pound, there was money to be made selling goods we bought at the canteen and realizing one to two hundred percent back on our money. There was even enough room to hire a middle-man, a Japanese local to do the trading for us; keeping us at arms length from the provost. At the same time it was common knowledge that many people, too poor to afford black market prices for food, were existing on dumplings made from horseweed grass, moulded together with flour grounded from acorns. It was our job to stamp out this sort of profiteering. Military police began regular raids on known areas, cracking down on, and confiscating contraband. We were both profiting and policing.

Initially, I thought if I discussed my wish with Lt. Kelty, to provide some food to some of the needy, he would simply say that it was not possible to look after everybody and tell me not to become emotionally involved with the locals. He was right of course, but that didn't help the way I felt about my experience with Masako. Even though I realized I might never come across her again, I still felt I could do something for the people I saw where I left her. I decided to try something relatively simple. Instead of heading back to Kaitaichi, I returned to Ujina, to the centre supply warehouse where incoming food was stored. When I arrived there, only Ronnie Maclean was on duty. We did not see much of each other during the day and I gave him a wave as I approached him, keen not to alert him to anything unusual.

'G'day,' I said. 'The sergeant at the officer's mess asked if I could pick up a sack of flour. The paperwork will come down in the morning.'

He thought nothing of my request, and pointed to the rear of the warehouse.

'Help yourself,' he said, indifferently. So I did, and fifteen minutes later I returned to the point where I had left Masako. Once again, the local population stood, motionless, staring at me. I hoisted the sack of flour over my shoulders and walked up to them. I was shocked at their scars and their emaciated bodies and began to choke as a bolt of coldness ran through my body.

'Is Masako here?' I asked, regaining my composure. They just looked at me.

'Masako,' I repeated. There was some confused chatter among them, and then one of them called out her name in a way I barely recognized. Moments later, she was there in front of me. She smiled. 'Konnichi wa,' she said. I nodded and placed the sack of flour on the ground.

'Watashi wa tasukete,' (I am help), I said, clumsily. She looked down at the flour and a half-naked man with keloids covering his back checked the contents and mumbled something to her. She smiled. 'Dōmo arigatō,' (Thanks), she said, and bowed. Then, those around her bowed and, instinctively, I bowed back at all of them, which caused them to bow once more. I realized this ritual could have gone on until midnight, so I smiled, gave them a mock Aussie salute and returned to the jeep. As I reversed, several voices called out, 'Dōmo arigatō, Dōmo arigatō.' As I drove away, I felt the best I'd felt all day. I thought this day more than any other, I had done something worthwhile and realized it would not be the last time I would visit them.

While returning alone to Kaitaichi, I wondered how I could continue to help Masako's community. It occurred to me that if Ronnie Maclean worked at the Ujina warehouse, he would know who was in control at the main warehouse at Kure. If I could establish some form of 'insider' help, it would make the process that much easier. I didn't know it then, but help was not far away, and a lot easier than I thought. On the way back, a mile or so from the Nippon Steel Works barracks, I was approaching Dr. Kano's medical centre. As I came nearer, a soldier was just leaving, heading back toward the barracks. I recognized his face; he was a member of our battalion, and I pulled up alongside him.

'Want a lift?' I asked. He nodded and climbed in.

'You work in the mess at Nippon, don't you?' I asked.

'Yeah,' he answered.

'Been to see the doc?'

'Yeah.'

'What for?'

'Got the fucking clap,'

'Shit, sorry about that. Why didn't you go to the M.O.?'

'I wanted to find out before they did,' he answered.

'You have to report it to the M.O. y'know.'

'Yeah, I know.'

Almost from the first day we arrived at Kure, prostitution became rampant. You might say it was an unintended consequence of the Army's strict non-fraternization policy, something most of us thought was foolish and not properly thought through. Whatever the Australian Government or our boss, Lt. Gen. John Northcott were thinking, the idea that we would not find some means of personal communication with the local population on a social level was just plain dumb. The policy didn't stop the brothels from spreading, one of which sprang up directly opposite Dr.Kano's medical centre. I think the top brass actually approved them.

'What's your name?' I asked.

'Patterson, Len Patterson. What's yours?' I told him my name.

'What did Kano tell you?' I asked.

'He said it wasn't that bad; a bit of Syphilis. I told him I'd have to go to the M.O. for treatment. He said he had penicillin but I'd have to pay for it. I told him the M.O. would give it to me for free.'

'Did you give him your name?'

'Not my real name; told him my name was Ned Kelly.'

'Why?'

'I had to tell him who the girl was. I told her my name was Ned Kelly. I didn't want her to come looking for me.'

'Well don't waste time. It has to be treated. You should go to the M.O. straight away.'

'Yeah, I will. Thanks.'

'You're in the kitchen aren't you?'

'Yeah.'

'Perhaps you could help me,' I suggested.

'How?' he asked.

I told him about Masako, and what I wanted to do.

'You don't need to go to Kure,' he said. 'I can give you what you want, have it shipped down to Ujina. Shit! I could even have it dropped off along the way if you want me to.'

'I wanted to get them some meat and fresh vegetables, some rice if that's possible, sugar and flour. Some frozen fish if there's any?'

'I couldn't do all of that in one hit. But, I could put some small bits together and take it down tomorrow. How many people do you want to feed?'

'I don't know. I'll find out more when I make the first drop.'

Where could I meet you?'

'How about on the eastern side of the Aioi Bridge?' I suggested.

'That's sounds okay. You realize if you get caught, you're on your own?'

I nodded. The prospect of 'getting caught' did not phase me, or if it did, not sufficiently enough to make me change my mind.

I wasn't quite prepared for such rapid progress, but it seemed that Len Patterson might already have been involved in something more than a bit of unprotected sex on the side. Perhaps others were too, I didn't know; I didn't care. Later that evening, we motored up to Kaitaichi, where food supplies from Kure had arrived the same day. We loaded up a large consignment and returned to the barracks at Nippon Steel. He took me to the back of the kitchen, showed me what he would load in a wooden crate for me as if it were consigned to Ujina. He marked the crate, and we made arrangements to meet the truck the next morning at the Aioi Bridge, where I could transfer whatever he had been able to smuggle and ferry it down to where Masako lived. Then he asked me to wait a minute or two until he could introduce me to the driver of the truck, a lance corporal. When the lance corporal arrived and we met, the instruction was simple. If any other driver came along the next day, I was not to approach them. I agreed.

The next day, I waited by the Aioi Bridge at the arranged time; several Army trucks passed by heading in both directions. Eventually the truck I was waiting for arrived and pulled up on the side of the road behind my jeep. The lance corporal jumped out and I joined him at the rear. He jumped up, under the rear flap, and I waited below. Seconds went by before he had manoeuvred the crate containing the food to the back and we were able to carry it together and place it in the back of my vehicle. Within no more than a minute, it was all done. In all of that time, not one word passed between us. It was clear to me that he had done this before, and it was business as usual. He then jumped back into his truck, and continued on to Ujina as if nothing happened. I then climbed into my jeep and took off across the bridge, turned right on the other side and continued to the point where I had taken the flour the night before.

What I didn't know then, was that when the exchange took place, another army vehicle was about half a mile behind and the driver, Sergeant Derek Avers, had taken note of something irregular going on. He was on his way to Ujina, but decided to detour and follow me.

Amanda was suddenly distracted by the arrival of early evening refreshments being served prior to arrival in Japan. The story had taken an unexpected twist and she felt she would wait until she was in her hotel room before continuing. She carefully closed the journal and placed it in her cabin bag, and settled in to enjoy some cake and fruit before her plane landed. She looked out the window and realized it was dark. The time was seven o' clock.

## 13.

When the A330 touched down at Narita airport, the tarmac was wet, although it had stopped raining. Amanda gazed out the window into the night, excited to see Japan for the very first time. It looked no different from any other airport except it was the biggest she had ever seen. The aircraft slowed to driving speed and taxied for what seemed ages. In fact it took fifteen minutes to arrive at a parking spot where the passengers were able to disembark into a lounge area and from there, directed to board a shuttle that would take them to Terminal 2. Once through immigration clearance and granted a 90 day visa, customs checks followed. An officer perused her passport once more and waved her through without checking her bags. From there it was out into the main terminal where, with the help of an English speaking airport officer dressed in a spotless blue uniform complete with white gloves, she was shown the way to bus stop number 27. While waiting at the bus stop for the shuttle service to her hotel, another officer also dressed in a spotless blue uniform asked to see her passport. Satisfied that all was in order, he smiled politely, bowing as he handed it back to her, and wished her an enjoyable stay in Japan. The shuttle bus arrived and she was on her way to the hotel. It had been a long, tiring journey and all she wanted now was a light meal, a bed and a good night's sleep. She decided not to read any more of the journal tonight.

The following morning it was the sound of aircraft taking off and landing that woke her. She looked around her room, and gathered her thoughts. Yes, she was in Japan. Amanda remembered, and the thrill of it raced through her bloodstream. After breakfast she would travel to Tokyo and make her first contact with Yoshiko, at Ikebukuro. Yes! It was all happening. Her hotel room, she noticed, was much smaller than hotel rooms in Australia, but lacking nothing and spotlessly clean. She looked out the window to a semi-rural setting of open fields in the foreground, a forest beyond, a motorway on the right with the edge of the airport on her left. It was not the teeming masses of Japanese she had expected to see, and she had to remind herself she was sixty-four miles from Tokyo. Breakfast introduced her to a bevy of local foods as well as the standard western cereal and toast. The sight of local guests tucking into a variety of fish and vegetables using chopsticks took her by surprise as did the practice of her hosts bowing graciously each time she asked for assistance. Politeness was standard procedure here.

Checking out of the hotel, Amanda took the shuttle back to the Airport and found her way to the underground railway station. At the same time, eighty-five kilometres away in Tokyo, David and Margaret Maclean checked out of the Rykoban at Ikebukuro and made their way to the station to take the train to Kamakura. Their journey would take forty-five minutes on a suburban train. David's principal concern was how he would acquire a pick and shovel. He wondered if Bunnings had found its way to Japan.

At Narita, Amanda showed her JR Rail Pass and received a ticket to Tokyo. The train left precisely on time and once out of the Narita Airport complex, the lush green countryside opened up before her. Apart from the obvious difference in housing design, it seemed to her that she could have been anywhere. The journey went by uneventfully, but for the loud and unsettling voice of a young American woman who had made herself comfortable opposite an unsuspecting Japanese mother and daughter. She opened up a conversation with her, to the utter surprise of the Japanese woman, and went on determinedly; discussing everything from having babies to the sad position America now found itself relative to its presence in Iraq. Realizing that this trip was not a holiday, Amanda decided to continue reading the journal, partly because she needed to, but also to tune out of the distracting conversation going on in the next row of seats. She remembered that the author of the journal had acquired a crate of food for Masako and her friends and was on his way to deliver, unaware that he was being followed....

As I travelled down that road once more, the morning fog had descended and visibility was limited. Some of the bicycles on the road had their headlights turned on and I travelled slowly, so as not to alarm them. Concentrating as I was, I did not notice any vehicle behind. Looking out across the river where the fog rested neatly just above the water, there was a feeling of calm all around.

When I arrived at the location I had been twice before, I slowed up, hoping to see Masako and therefore make this offering with as little fuss as possible. I had come to realize that while the Japanese were patient and amenable, they were also proud and accepting help from strangers, or worse, conquerors, would not come easily to them. As before, people stood staring, wondering what I was doing. I climbed out and approached a group of three. As I did they bowed courteously. I had come to realize it was a normal act of greeting visitors and I responded with a wave.

'O-hayō gozai masu,' (Good Morning) I said.

O-hayō gozai masu,' they replied.

'Watashi wa Ned Kelly-san,' (I am Mr. Ned Kelly) I said, concerned that if all this effort backfired badly, it would be prudent to remain anonymous. I decided that Len Patterson's precautionary tactic had some merit. They nodded.

'Watashi wa yatai,' (I am food stall) I said, pointing to the back of the jeep. 'Kenkō shoku, tabe masu,' (health food, eat) I said, gesturing for someone to help me unload the crate. The word 'food' resonated and they moved with me to the jeep. I pointed to the crate and again gestured for them to take it. They looked over the crate at the contents and their eyes told the story. There was a burst of commentary between them and a rush to unload it. It was as if the contents represented a wind-fall, a lucky break, call it what you will. They were elated to receive it and carried it back to an area behind a row of huts. I waited, unsure if I should follow. Then, one of them turned back toward me, calling out, 'Nedkelly san,' and gestured for me to follow.

Leaving the jeep and walking behind I felt uncomfortably vulnerable, but satisfied it was safe. The scene I walked into however, shocked me to the core. There were perhaps a dozen people grouped in a common open area surrounded by the most primitive, even prehistoric structures assembled together from the most basic remnants of what had survived the bomb; mostly made up of charred, blackened timber, with the odd piece of corrugated iron sheeting acting as a roof over an earthen floor. A fire in the middle of the circle was the only heating available to them, and a cleverly constructed length of copper pipe, adapted from what, I could not tell, had been connected to the underground water mains. They had purposely ruptured the line to access clean water. But we knew that much of Hiroshima's water was contaminated. The people looked wretched, in tattered clothing, one of the men still in military uniform, and most of them scarred with burns to all exposed parts of their bodies including their faces; several were emaciated with some lying down inside the huts, too weak to come out. They just lay there and watched as the men lowered the crate of food to the ground. Despite their wretched state, there was an atmosphere of elation and joy as if their prayers had been answered. Over and above this scene of desolation was the smell. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I wanted to cover my mouth and nose to shield me from it, but I resisted. It was a concoction of human excrement, mixed with heat, and sodden damp earth, all coming together to create an even more pungent vapour. I suddenly felt that I was about to gag, and I volunteered a coughing action to try and offset it. They did not notice. They were too busy, examining the food brought to them. I began to feel ill, and taking advantage of them looking the other way, I retreated back to the jeep and stumbled at the side, vomiting up my breakfast, and barely conscious of any movement about me. In my distressed state I did not see Sergeant Avers walk passed me toward the destitute community.

'Remain here soldier, I'll deal with you shortly,' I heard him say.

Regaining my composure I turned around to see another jeep behind me and I panicked. I struggled to my own vehicle, still feeling nauseous, jumped in and sped off as quickly as I could; it was hardly the action of someone who had performed a heroic feat; more one who felt the guilt of stealing government property and desperate to escape being caught; I was exercising an 'everyman for himself' option. I travelled back along the road, this time less concerned for those cycling; I simply wanted to disappear, become no more than someone in the crowd. I suddenly felt disillusioned with the whole notion of saving the downtrodden. Who was I to mount such a momentous undertaking? Surely this was General Northcott's job. What could I do anyway, beyond render some small assistance to a handful of people, and even then, wasn't it only a short-term solution? Accelerating through the fog, down the road, parallel to the river, my thoughts began to stabilize, I became less erratic and by the time I reached the Aioi Bridge, I had calmed sufficiently to take stock of myself. I crossed the bridge, turned right and headed for Ujina. The best option for me right now, was to resume normal duties at the repatriation centre, and act as if nothing happened.

But that's not the way it worked out.

About an hour later, I was going about my duties in the main office. Another ship had arrived early and a company of the 67th Battalion was about to supervise their disembarkation. As I went about one or two routine tasks, I looked up to see Sergeant Avers walk through the front door. At first it seemed he was alone, then, to my surprise and fear, Masako appeared from behind his solid frame, looking very nervous. He ushered her through into the administration area, passed the Japanese staff busy at their desks and brought her toward the rear where a number of occupation soldiers, including me, were preparing for the latest arrival of Japanese soldiers.

Without any warning, Sergeant Avers bellowed out sarcastically, 'Now which of you clever dicks goes by the name of Ned Kelly?' Everybody stopped in their tracks. The whole room went silent, as the Japanese staff stopped what they were doing and turned to see what the commotion was about.

'Come on,' Avers persisted, 'one of you is masquerading as a bush-ranger. Which of you is it?'

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

'Okay, have it your own way,' he said.

'He then turned to Masako. 'Nedkelly san,' he said to her, pointing toward us.

Masako appeared terrified and slowly looked over all of us as if she were the vital witness in a police line-up. She took her time, looking at each male person. I began to perspire. How could I expect her to behave? Avers had obviously bullied her into coming with him to the centre. Surely she would wilt under the pressure and point me out. Her eyes rested on each person briefly until she reached the person next to me. Then slowly she looked at me. I was about to step forward and put her out of her misery, when to my surprise, she turned her eyes to the next person, and then the next and so on. She then turned to Avers and shook her head.

'Can I have an interpreter here please,' the sergeant called out to the Japanese staff.' Shigeko Suzuki, the interpreter came forward.

'Can you ask her if she is sure that Nedkelly san is not here?' Shigeko nodded and spoke to Masako. Masako shook her head.

'No, the person you are seeking is not here,' Shigeko said calmly. Avers looked at Masako, and then scanned his eyes across each one of us standing there. He stood there in silence as if deciding what to do next. Finally, to the relief of everyone, he gave up.

'Okay then,' he said, and turning to Shigeko, he said quite compassionately, 'give her something to eat and drink and I'll arrange for someone to take her back.' It seemed as though Sergeant Avers' angst was not directed toward Masako and possibly not Nedkelly san, either, but at the degrading state of affairs the local population had to endure.

As Shigeko led Masako away toward the cafeteria, Avers turned his attention back on us. His mood had changed and his demeanour became quite conciliatory.

'Now, listen up. There is an epidemic out there among the locals,' he said. 'Some are in a truly pitiable state and do not deserve to be this way. Some are sick from an unidentifiable illness. We are here to try and help, but you must understand that civilian restoration is not our responsibility. The Japanese Government under the direction of General MacArthur, who is the supreme commander for the allied powers, are coordinating the relief effort. We are here to repatriate, not act as saviours. Raiding our food supplies to help isolated communities might seem on the face of it, meritorious, but it is not. It is counter-productive. If you want to be helpful, do your job, and don't become emotionally involved with the locals. That will only impair your judgement. If you think there is a better way of managing this prefecture, then by all means come forward and suggest an alternative to your superior officer. But for the love of Jesus, don't think you can become some modern day Robin Hood. The problem is far too large for that.'

Having said his piece, he turned to leave, but then stopped.

'Any drivers here?' he turned and asked. I raised my hand.

'See to it she gets back to where she lives, will you?' he said, pointing toward Masako in the cafeteria.

'Yes Sarge,' I answered. He nodded, turned and left. All eyes were upon him until he disappeared from view out the front door. There was a collective sigh of relief from the service personnel present, my relief greater than most. I considered myself fortunate to have been let off the hook, a hook I had manufactured myself, and it was difficult to know what would have happened to me had Masako pointed me out. But she didn't and having restored my composure, I began to wonder about Avers' reference to the unidentifiable illness many were suffering. We had all noticed over the short time we had been here that the Hibakusha were different from other Japanese. Quite apart from their scars and burns, there was lethargy, tiredness and many who had lost their hair. There were those who appeared unharmed but displayed purple skin rashes. Some even gave it a name: the A-bomb disease. We didn't know it at the time, but it was of course, the lingering effects of exposure to atomic radiation, which caused thousands of deaths in the days and weeks following the bomb. With some, however, the effects continued to linger and threaten, six months later, depending on the level of exposure. For the homeless, and the destitute who had nowhere to go, returning to where their homes once stood, was their only option. In most cases, these areas of Hiroshima were the most contaminated.

Once Sergeant Avers was out of the way I went to the cafeteria to find Masako. She was sitting at a table facing the window, eating a bowl of noodles mixed with vegetables and meat. Shigeko Suzuki was with her. I did not dare speak to Masako personally for fear that Shigeko would realize that I was Nedkelly san. So, I took Shigeko aside, and asked her to tell Masako, that I was designated to drive her home. Shigeko turned to speak to her, but Masako was not listening. While she had been eating, her attention had been diverted to the company of Japanese soldiers marching in from the wharf through Ujina Gate. She suddenly jumped up from the table and screamed, 'Tokuo, Tokuo.' She was pointing toward the soldiers. 'Tokuo, Tokuo,' she repeated. She became very excited and began to garble frantically.

'What is it?' I asked Shigeko.

'I don't know. Let me speak with her,' she answered. Moments later she called to me.

'It's her brother,' she answered. 'Her brother has come home.' Masako ran to the window and pounded the glass relentlessly, screaming out her brother's name, hoping to attract his attention, but to no avail. She then turned toward the rear of the building and ran toward the door.

'Stop her Shigeko,' I called out. 'That's quarantined. She can't go out there. Shigeko reached her and stopped her from entering the quarantine area, explaining that she must wait until the soldiers were processed. Masako listened but it did not calm her.

'Tokuo, Tokuo,' she cried. Shigeko struggled to subdue her and asked my help. Together we took her back to the table where she had been eating, reassuring her that if her brother had returned home, we would wait with her until he was processed.

## 14.

Amanda had become so involved in the journal that she did not notice the train entering the outskirts of Tokyo. It was the noise from other trains converging from other lines and now running on parallel tracks that caused her to look up about her. She peered across at carriage after carriage jam-packed with commuters. Everywhere, buildings crammed together, narrow streets, and in the distance taller buildings, neon signs, traffic banked up at intersections. At least they drove on the same side of the road, she thought. How difficult would it be to negotiate traffic coming from the opposite direction? All around, the unmistakeable signs of the rat race; pace, competition, rush, and yes, the teeming masses she had expected, cramming the sidewalks, darting in between traffic, but somehow in the midst of it all, order, discipline and unruffled composure. Then, unexpectedly, darkness shrouded in, as the train entered the Tokyo subway system; travelling more slowly, but intent on arriving precisely on schedule. When the train arrived at Tokyo station and finally came to a stop, Amanda gathered her belongings and stepped out onto the station platform. Somewhat weighed down by the weird nature of it all, she wondered how on earth she would cope. Trapped in the middle of the multitude all forging their way to the exit, she suddenly found herself in the heart of a broad concourse staring at a tsunami of businessmen in dark suits, white shirt and tie, surging toward her. With mixed emotions she allowed herself to be swept along in her own tsunami, rolling forward, bracing for the moment of impact. The two armies met but rather than collide violently as expected, they glided their way in and around each other with such harmony and precision, like two flocks of seagulls approaching from opposite directions and passing through each other with coordinated grace and demeanour. Once the first wave had passed, Amanda sought refuge and the help of an attentive rail assistant who pointed her in the direction of the JR line where she would connect to a suburban train that would take her to Ikebukuro. She followed directions to the letter and reached the correct platform, but could not determine on which side the train would come. She tried asking a young girl for assistance by pointing to the name Ikebukuro on her map. The girl appeared apprehensive when confronted by a western woman, but obligingly pointed to the correct platform. Feeling slightly intimidated, Amanda sat and waited for the train to arrive. When it did, the sight of people packed in like sardines did nothing for her confidence. The train doors opened automatically and passengers surged out as if relishing their release, but their places were quickly claimed by those waiting on the platform. Amanda threw caution to the wind and joined them. Barely able to squeeze in with her luggage, she stood, staring into the back of a black suit. Not game to move anything except her head, she cast her eyes over the length of the carriage. Unlike at home where silence reigned supreme, conversations were commonplace, but outdone by giggles coming from two schoolgirls viewing something on their mobile phones. Most passengers sat silently reading, others had their faces covered with surgical masks, a common practice by those suffering a cold or virus and concerned not to pass it on to others. Each time the train pulled into a station the same ritual occurred; a mass desertion followed by a wave of new patrons. When the train arrived at Ikebukuro, Amanda joined the deserters with the same relish, only to find exiting the station as daunting as Tokyo. The stream of people seemed endless. Above, at street level it was no different; a huge junction with retail stores crammed between narrow streets, neon signs everywhere, traffic winding its way through the surrounds, and people on the move, creating an exhilarating atmosphere for a newcomer. Amanda studied the map carefully, plotted her course and winding her way through a series of narrow lanes, successfully negotiated her way to Rimi Rykoban, a small, three-level building with an unpretentious, rendered brick exterior. Once inside, the mood changed to one of tranquil serenity. For the weary traveller, the silence was a blessed escape from the frantic activity outside. Approaching the reception desk, she took a deep breath, realizing that this was the real beginning. This was where the work would start. She would soon be briefed on what she had to do, and what she could expect by way of obstacles.

Yoshiko looked up from her desk, aware a guest had arrived.

'Hello, I'm Amanda Blackburn. Is Yoshiko here?'

'Hello Amanda. I'm Yoshiko,' she answered smiling. Welcome to Japan. I was beginning to wonder if you had lost your way. Can I offer you some tea or coffee?'

'Thank you, that sounds lovely.'

Yoshiko called for someone in the back room to take over while she helped Amanda with her luggage and ushered her toward the kitchen.

'We'll fix up your details later. Did you have any difficulty finding us?' she asked.

'No, not really. I just wasn't ready for the huge crowds at the station.'

'That's Tokyo, I'm afraid. It's like that everywhere.'

The two of them settled in the kitchen area, Yoshiko preparing coffee while Amanda sat at the extended meal table.

'This looks very cosy,' she said. 'Do you own it?'

'No, I wish I did. I'm here because I speak English and most of our clients are from America, Canada, Australia and New Zealand.'

'Where did you learn English?' Amanda asked.

'I studied in America,' she answered, pouring the coffee and handing a mug to Amanda. 'Do you know any Japanese?'

'No, I'm afraid not,' Amanda replied.

'It doesn't matter. You will be travelling to Hiroshima tomorrow to meet Masako. I have arranged for an interpreter to meet with you at your hotel. Her name is Mieko. She will be your guide while you are there.'

'So soon?'

'Yes, you have a lot to do. Masako is expecting you. You are the only one she will trust with the key.'

'I see?' Amanda said.

'When Quentin wrote and told her he had a key to a safety deposit box,' Yoshiko explained, 'Masako was taken by surprise and became very excited. She had long forgotten she held a key for that account. One thing you need to know is that Masako has become very forgetful, I'm sorry to say. She remembers some things very well, but about other things, she can be very vague.'

'She knows then, that Derek Avers has passed away?' Amanda asked.

'She has been told, yes. But don't be surprised if you have to tell her again. However, we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let's get you settled in your room. Then we can go out and have some lunch and we can talk and I can tell you what you need to know and what you need to do tomorrow.'

'Just out of interest, do you know of any reason why someone would be following me?' Amanda asked.

'No, why? What happened?' Yoshiko asked.

'There was a strange incident on the plane, where I was reading the journal Quentin gave me, and left it open on the seat to take a walk. When I returned to my seat, there was a message stuck on it, telling me to be more careful with it.'

Yoshiko looked at her dumbfounded.

'It's possible the note was already there and I didn't see it. I had been asleep, when a little boy woke me. Quentin could have written it and put it there before he gave me the journal, I don't know. I just thought I'd ask,'

Yoshiko shook her head. 'I don't think anyone was following you. There is no reason for that. Perhaps it is as you say. Do you want me to email Quentin and ask him?'

'Better not, at this stage. He might think I'm panicking. I don't want him losing confidence in me. Let's just keep it to ourselves for the moment.'

'Okay then. Let's go out and have lunch somewhere. I'll take you on the subway to Shikoku. We can visit the Meijji Shrine. That will give you some background to write about.'

In the excitement of it all, Amanda had almost forgotten her commitment to record and write the story of her journey. As she considered the process being mapped out, the process that would have her meet Masako and secure the artefact, she began to take notes. She had still not finished the journal and resolved to complete it as soon as possible, concerned that one might interfere with the other.

'Did you know that Quentin gave me a journal to read?' she asked Yoshiko.

'Yes. Have you finished it?'

'No. Not yet. I will have to spend some time doing that tonight, I think, and try to get through it. There's still a lot to go.'

'It would be good to finish it, before you meet Masako. She might otherwise say things that confuse you.'

'Have you read it?'

'No. I have only heard about it. It's all before my time.' Yoshiko answered.

'Do you know who wrote it?'

'No, but Masako does. She won't say who it is, but she knows. She loves Derek, but I think she is also protecting the person who wrote it, as well. We are hoping she will be a great help to you in setting the record straight.'

'I do hope so,' Amanda replied.

Yoshiko took Amanda out into the street and they walked back toward Ikebukuro station.

'Do you feel like something Japanese or would you prefer some western food for lunch,' Yoshiko shouted over the lunchtime din.

'I think I'd better stay with something western until I find my feet,' Amanda replied wisely.

Yoshiko took her to Beck's coffee shop outside the station where she settled for some simple but filling sandwiches and coffee.

'This city is so big,' Amanda said as they settled at a window bench. 'Yet everything seems to function so well.'

'There are over twelve million people here and another four million in Yokohama,' Yoshiko explained. 'And you can't tell where one city finishes and the other starts. It has to function, otherwise it would be chaos. That is not the Japanese way. Everything has to be controlled and planned. If we did not have our public transport system working efficiently, the whole city would come to a grinding halt, nothing would get done, the economy would suffer and there would be civil unrest. It has to work for our very survival. Our economy is what drives us. '

Meanwhile, thirty miles to the northeast, David and Margaret Maclean were happily taking photos of Kamakura's famous 13th century Great Buddha (Kotokuin), having slept soundly the night before in a western hotel. As much as the Rykoban in Tokyo was an interesting experience, both preferred the superior comfort of a modern innerspring mattress and en-suite facilities. They were out early on their first morning, planning to be typical tourists in this ancient capital that hosted the first shogunate government. Tomorrow they would follow Ronnie Maclean's detailed instructions along the winding track through the forest, in search of the Meijji artefact and the gold ingots. Today, tourists flock to Kamakura from all over the world, keen to see its shrines and temples, a trove of architectural gems, and wood carvings. David Maclean was keen to absorb all he could of the cities ancient cultures, but now that he was here, he was also excited about the prospect of fulfilling a dying wish for his father.

## 15.

That evening, quite early, Amanda settled in her room and lay down on her futon with no television, or radio. She felt quite at home amidst the bare surroundings; her focus was elsewhere. Wasting no time, she took up the journal and resumed reading, realizing that she would meet Masako very soon and given Yoshiko's remarks about her health, Amanda wanted to be as up to date as she could with the journal before the two of them met. At her last reading, she recalled that Tokuo had arrived at Ujina on a repatriation ship.

It was perhaps some two hours later, when Tokuo was de-mobilized, issued with his rail warrant and released from the quarantine area. Masako, Shigeko and I were waiting for him when he emerged. He was only twenty years old, six years older than Masako, yet the ravages of war, and a poor diet over the past six months gave him the appearance of an older man. Standing just five feet eight inches tall, with thick black hair, he looked gaunt and undernourished, but towered over Masako. The two of them embraced tenderly and Masako was unable to hold back her tears. Tokuo was trying to maintain the Japanese tradition of stoicism and hold his emotions in check. He looked curiously at Masako's burn scars and her distorted mouth. She then had the heartbreaking task of informing her brother of the deaths of their parents and sister, victims of the A-bomb. Tokuo's pain at the news was self-evident as he slumped to his knees, no longer able to hide his emotional frailty. He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly. Masako wept too. As I looked on from a distance with Shigeko, I suddenly felt as if the bomb was my fault. I felt like an enemy alien, sickened and ashamed of the brutality inflicted upon innocent civilians; a far cry from the excitement and youthful anticipation I felt months earlier when we first arrived in Japan. I must have shown my sadness to Shigeko in some way because she moved closer to me and took my hand in hers, offering comfort. It was not as if I was oblivious to the atrocities the Japanese were guilty of in Burma, or earlier in Nanking, China, where they murdered hundreds of thousands of soldiers and civilians who had surrendered to them. Somehow in my naivety, I thought we, the allies, were better than that. I thought we could demonstrate our commitment to human compassion in a way that they could embrace and adopt. Poor me! When I looked upon brother and sister crying for their dead parents, I realized we were no better than they; perhaps worse. We had split the atom and developed a way to exterminate people far more horribly and efficiently than they had ever done.

Masako waited for Tokuo to recover and then approached both Shigeko and myself. She spoke in Japanese and Shigeko translated.

'She says they are going to take the train to Kabe now. They will go to their Uncle Mineo's house and stay with him. She wants to thank you for your help.'

'Ask her if she would like a lift to the station?'

Shigeko spoke to Masako, who spoke to Tokuo, who shrugged his shoulders still numb from hearing the news of his parents' death. Masako then nodded.

'She would like you to take them to the station, yes,' Shigeko said to me.

'Okay,' I said. 'Let's load up and go.'

We loaded up Tokuo's belongings. Masako had nothing. I didn't want to ask but it seemed her stay with the community north of the Aioi Bridge was a temporary one, with nowhere else in the city to go. Now at least they could return to their broader family in Kabe. I took them toward Hiroshima station, but Masako began pointing me in a different direction. We drove up and down street after street of flattened and charred, destroyed properties, occasionally seeing some families trying to reassemble a makeshift hut where their house used to be. It was then I realized Tokuo wanted to see what had happened to the family home, and see where his parents had died. When we arrived at Masako's lot, it was a gut-wrenching moment. How they were able to tell where their house used to be, I don't know. The entire street was totally destroyed; nothing but blackened ash and rubble. Tokuo climbed out of the jeep and walked over to where the front door used to be. Masako followed him, and they joined hands, went down on their knees and stayed there for several minutes praying. Then, unable to contain their grief any longer, they broke down and wept bitterly, gripping each other for support. They spent a few minutes sifting through the debris and became quite excited when they came upon a vase that had survived the heat and the fire. It belonged to their mother. It was a small thing, but clearly of great significance to them and Tokuo wrapped it inside his shirt. When they returned to the vehicle, and we continued on to the station, Tokuo said nothing. Masako spoke to him but he did not respond. I feared at the time that when his sadness subsided, a groundswell of anger would rise up within him and take its place, and I wondered what, in the passage of time, he might be driven to do. At the station, I said goodbye to them, and watched as they walked through the still badly damaged main entrance. Their departure left me feeling empty inside, as if this chapter of my adventure had come to an end. Certainly the story of which I write had not finished, but that moment did represent the closing of one period and the beginning of another, as time would demonstrate.

I returned to my jeep taking a brief moment to scan the black-market traders who had set up their stalls adjacent to the station. I could but wonder how on earth the Japanese authorities could allow this blatant profiteering to continue in the face of such abject suffering all over the city. But there was nothing I could do; no matter how much it vexed me, so I returned to Ujina and to my duties, but my thoughts were with Masako, Tokuo and the citizens of Hiroshima, whose plight to restore their shattered lives seemed so hopeless and so far away. On arrival back at the Repatriation centre I saw Shigeko sitting on a bench outside the building. She was alone and as I approached her, I could see that she was distressed, although she was trying her best to restore her composure. When she saw me coming toward her, she looked away as if to say, 'I don't want you to see me like this'. Not used to the ways of the Japanese, I approached her to ask what was wrong. At first she did not wish to speak, as if such an action would be a sign of weakness. Then, taking a deep breath to help overcome her lack of self-assurance, she told me that after I had left with Masako and Tokuo, she had been reprimanded by her Japanese supervisor for showing too much compassion to the 'hibakusha girl' and that such demonstrations should cease, otherwise she would be allocated another less interesting posting. I knew her heart was in the right place whatever the Japanese way, and I told her so. I told her that I thought she was a credit to her country, performing an invaluable service for her people. She wiped her eyes and looked at me, and for the first time I found myself looking at her in a way I had not before. We sat there for several moments staring into each other's eyes, unaware of our surroundings. Her dark brown eyes reached out to me and I thought that she was asking me to be her friend, her confidant. Slowly and without forethought, I raised my hand to her cheek to wipe away a tear that sat there heroically, a testament to her frailty. It suddenly dawned on me how beautiful she looked. Instinctively, she raised her hand and pressed it against mine, and once again our eyes became transfixed. I cannot do justice to the intensity of thought and joy that raced through my body. Within the space of a mere moment, powerful feelings of sheer happiness filled my mind, and all earlier 'non-fraternization' warnings from Brigade HQ dissipated as if dispatched to the archives of insignificance. Here I was in a moment of tenderness toward another, and such regulations were a million miles away. She too, must have felt similar such enjoyment taking my hand and holding it tightly. Eventually, we realized something needed to be said. Holding each others' tender gaze and hands without some spoken expression could not go on forever. Eventually I spoke.

'Don't let them bully you,' I said. 'I will help you if you want me to,' I added, not knowing how.

She smiled, more I think because the silence had been broken rather than from the re-assurance, but we both continued to find joy in holding each others hands.

'Thank you,' she said to me.

At that moment two trucks arrived at the centre bringing soldiers on guard duty and supplies. It was probably the distraction we both needed, and I suggested to her that she go back inside and put the matter behind her. She nodded in agreement.

'I will wait for you later when you finish for the day,' I said.

She smiled. 'Yes,' she said, nodding her head. I watched her go, and felt such a strong protective feeling inside. None of the soldiers disembarking from the trucks seemed to notice anything wrong, and I joined them in the process of unloading the supplies. As I thought about the encounter I had just experienced with Shigeko, thoughts of my girlfriend Elaine back home surfaced, and the promise of marriage we made together, when I returned home. Suddenly confusion set in, and I wondered if that was what I still wanted.

Amanda stopped reading as she became aware of some movement in the corridor. Outside, a man stood at her door. Slowly he raised his hand to knock, but hesitated then changed his mind and walked away. Amanda wondered if it was simply someone using the toilet, or was there a prowler outside. She remained silent, not daring to move, listening intently. After several moments passed without any further sound, she put it down to her imagination and continued reading....

It was around five-thirty that afternoon when I met Shigeko again outside the centre. I had been held up briefly when Sergeant Avers, who had returned from inspecting troops boarding the train for Tokyo, advised some of us that we would be going to Tokyo next week for ceremonial guard duty. My mind was miles away from anything about Tokyo. I had been thinking of Shigeko all afternoon, and occasionally catching her attention as each of us went about our duties. When she caught my eyes, she smiled, and then quickly looked down, appearing embarrassed, not wanting to attract anyone's attention. Neither one of us was sure what was going on between us, but deep down I realized my feelings for my Elaine back home were compromised. When work finished, Shigeko must have slipped out quietly. When I saw her, I didn't know what to do. She smiled as I approached and remained demure and sweet, but not demonstratively so. 'Are you feeling better?' I asked. She said she did feel better. 'Would you like to have something to eat or drink,' I asked. She nodded but said, 'not for long though. My ferry will be here soon.'

'Where do you live?' I asked.

'On one of the islands off the coast,' she answered.

'Which one?' I asked.

'It is called Miyajima. It's over that way,' she said, pointing toward the Inland Sea. 'I catch the ferry each day. It is a very peaceful trip, allowing me to meditate.'

We began walking toward the port and I could see a ferry approaching from the west. 'Is that yours?' I asked. She looked across the water. 'Yes,' then, after a short pause added, 'there's a small kiosk just down here near the wharf.'

We walked toward the kiosk as her ferry came closer. As we did, I took her hand in mine, gently, and she responded squeezing my hand. I looked at her and she turned toward me but quickly bowed her head down submissively, as if not wanting to appear forward. My heart was filled with great joy. I had never considered the likelihood of meeting someone while on service, and my mind was so consumed with this woman, that I barely realized what was happening.

'Where were you when the bomb exploded?' I asked.

'I was at home,' she answered. 'There was a blinding flash, and then a roar so loud and then a huge cloud of smoke rose up over Hiroshima. Everyone at home was very frightened. We thought it must have been hundreds of bombs all dropped at once. We could not believe it was just one. In the afternoon some of the survivors were brought to Miyajima for medical treatment. They looked horrible; their faces all black and blown up like a balloon, and their flesh exposed. No one slept that night.'

We each drank a cola together before it was time for her to board. I wanted to go with her, but that was impractical. Not familiar with the ways of the Japanese, I took her hand in mine, and moved toward her as if to kiss her. She moved back, and whispered, 'not here, not in public.' Then, as if to show that I should not be discouraged, added, 'I have Saturday off. Perhaps we could meet and spend part of the day together. You could come to my island.'

'Yes,' I said. 'That would be nice.'

'It would be wise if we did not meet during work,' she said. 'I do not want to anger my superiors any further.'

I agreed, although I didn't like it. Shigeko was performing a vital service for the occupation forces, and any suggestion that she be cautioned on some misguided, cultural interpretation of her behaviour, wasn't fair. But Saturday was only two days away, and the idea of spending a day with her away from work, away from disapproving eyes, was intoxicating. Brimming with anticipation, I let her hands slip from mine and she walked off toward the ferry, briefly turning her head back toward me as she found a seat and settled inside.

The following day, Friday, was like torture; seeing her in the office and pretending as if there was nothing happening between us. I found it difficult not to track her every move, wondering if I should risk speaking with her. But, work intervened and I was called to undertake some driving assignment. As difficult as I found it to be, I kept away from her, expecting that at some point she would come to me and tell me how to find my way to her house on Miyajima. She did so, not by speaking to me, but by leaving a note in an envelope with my name on it at the reception counter. The note was brief.... 'I will wait for you where the ferry docks on Miyajima at ten tomorrow morning.'

My heart raced when I read it.

The following morning, thrilled at the prospect of spending the day with Shigeko, I dressed in my cleanest uniform, wishing that I had some civilian clothes to wear. I drove to Ujina and boarded the nine o' clock ferry. As I watched Ujina disappear behind me, the water sparkled in the sunlight; it was a balmy spring morning and for the first time I felt that I was more than just a soldier of occupation; for the first time I felt as if I was a part of my surroundings, if only a small part. Then I noticed other Australian soldiers on the ferry, seemingly as a small group, but making eyes at some Japanese girls opposite them. It soon became obvious that they were all together but not wanting to seem so. At the other end of the ferry, some Indian soldiers from their engineering base near Kure sat, enjoying the ride. I realized that I knew nothing about Japanese propriety and thought it would be prudent not to get ahead of myself with Shigeko, but let her guide our first outing together as she wished. The Inland sea was calm and the ferry made good time even if it seemed to lumber through the water.

Water Transport units from the base workshops at Point Camp near Kure, were also heading for the island, bringing with them demolition personnel. As we approached the island we came upon a stunning red Shinto shrine that seemed to float upon the water. One of the soldiers called out, 'There's the Torii gate.'

'What's that?' another asked.

'It's the entrance to the Shrine of Itsukushima, the abode of the gods,' he answered.

It stood majestically on the water, a Japanese-style timber structure, rather like the entrance to a fortified command post, except there were no fortifications to be seen; only a narrow inlet leading to several adjoining buildings both in and around the waters edge, against the backdrop of a dense green hillside that seemed to rise straight out of the water. I felt a thrill as we passed by. I felt as if I was transformed in time to another place, away from the ever-present scenes of misery and destruction that haunted Hiroshima.

As the ferry docked, the Australian soldiers became impatient to disembark and shouted obscenities at the pilot as if they owned the craft. They pushed in front of everyone else except their girlfriends, and one jumped off before the ferry had tied up properly. They were not a good example of the way in which we were instructed to behave. Shigeko was waiting at the pier a little further on. She looked different; clothed more casually in a pretty dress, not the official navy blue skirt and white blouse girls wore at the repatriation centre. The soldiers wolf-whistled at her and I felt angry. She ignored them, smiled and waved when she saw me; the soldiers unsettled me, but she was more relaxed and friendly.

'O-hayo gozai masu, Michael san,' she said, as I came off the ferry.

'O-hayo gozai masu,' I replied.

Amanda paused for a moment. 'Michael,' she thought to herself. 'Our mystery writer's name is Michael.' She continued reading...

'Welcome to Miyajima. This is a holy place you have come to,' she continued. Then she took my hand in hers. 'Come, we shall give thanks,' she added, and began walking. Not far from the waters edge stood a small circular, wooden structure where people had gathered to pray. In the centre, sitting on a wooden block surrounded by sand there was a small statue of the Buddha around which strong-scented incense burned, and people absorbed by waving it toward their faces as they prayed. I watched as Shigeko prayed. She looked so lovely and my heart felt such a longing for her that any spiritual significance she was trying to display was lost on me. When she finished she turned to me and took my hand once more.

'Come and meet my parents?' she said, as we walked, and then, added respectively, 'It is expected.'

The notion caught me off-guard but I was more than happy to oblige.

It was a short walk across a street and down a narrow lane filled with timber cottages, mostly dark brown in colour, where residents were busy moving up and down, to and from the shops, situated close to the pier. The area was very shabby, and dilapidated, hardly better than slums but there was no damage evident; no signs of any bombing. Miyajima was however a place where large concentrations of munitions had been stored by the Japanese military, and our engineers were de-commissioning bombs and shells at various locations on the island. Here, as elsewhere, ordinance was dismantled and destroyed, and then the cordite piled up and set alight.

'Do your parents speak English?' I asked.

'No,' she answered, 'but don't worry. Just smile and look pleased to see them.'

She took me to her parents' house. It was a simple wooden structure, as I expected, and impeccably clean. Her mother and father were waiting for us and when Shigeko introduced us in Japanese, they bowed in traditional style and I returned the compliment. Everyone giggled as if my actions were unexpected, but all the same, appreciated. They beckoned me through sliding doors into their washitsu room where we sat on the floor on tatami mats and drank tea at a low table. Her parents were incredibly polite and seemed only concerned with my comfort, offering me a cushion upon which to rest in case I found the floor too hard. Then they disappeared and left us alone.

'Your parents are very friendly and polite,' I said.

'They think you are an important person come to inspect some of the weapons being destroyed,' she answered.

Her remarks took me by surprise.

'Don't they know that we are friends?' I asked.

She shook her head.

'They would not approve,' she answered, and added, 'do not be troubled, it is a cultural matter; nothing to worry about.'

At the time I was too young to realize the significance of her words and left the matter to her good judgement, something that would later haunt me.

'When you are ready, we can go,' Shigeko said. 'My mother has packed us a lunch and I can show you our island. Can you ride a bicycle?'

'Yes,' I said. 'I can drive a tractor too,' I added jokingly. She laughed as if slightly intimidated, her manner delightfully warm.

'Then you can ride father's bicycle,' she said. I looked at her longingly and realized that I was falling in love with her, and while conscious of all the complications such a relationship would encounter, not the least of which was working with her at the repatriation centre, it seemed then, that I didn't care.

We rode out down the lane, our lunch basket strapped onto the front handlebars, two young people seemingly without a care in the world. We rode through the main street adjacent to the pier, and back toward Itsukushima Shrine. We stopped a small distance from the entrance to the shrine and she paused at what seemed like a wayside altar, where incense burned. There she knelt in prayer for a few moments, her head bowed, her hands joined together. Then, at the completion of her prayer, she lit a small candle and placed it in the sand around the incense, and clapped her hands three times. It was an outward display of her faith and I found it very refreshing, when compared with the atheistic state of affairs in our battalion compound. She turned toward me smiling, and beckoned me to absorb myself in the fragrance of the incense. I stepped forward awkwardly and she waved the incense around and over my head. I felt a purifying influence, warm and alluring in a spiritual sort of way. Then, as if this brief moment of reflection was no more than a brief distraction, she said, 'Let's go,' and we were on our way again.

We followed a track through a forest where deer roamed freely. I watched her as the wind streamed through her hair. When she turned to look at me, her hair blew across her face and left an image that would stay with me to this day.

As we rode, gaps opened up between the trees and I caught glimpses of the inland sea, where remnants of a defeated nation's naval past lay wasting in the water. But for that stark reminder, and the occasional explosion of ordinance being conducted at the far end of the island, I could have been on a deserted tropical island, just Shigeko and I, alone together.

Along the way we stopped at a smaller shrine and Shigeko explained some of the rudimentary principles of Buddhism, much of which I found similar to the Christian faith, but more importantly, just good human values.

'It is the quest to discover who we really are,' she said to me. 'If we disregard the material distractions all around us, if we put the pursuit of wealth to one side, we are able to concentrate on the true depth and understanding of our being.'

'How do you do that?' I asked.

'There are many traditions, many ways to seek the mind of the Buddha. Meditation will enlighten one's mind to what is right for each person who seeks the mind of the Buddha; unless we come to meditation with a clear mind though, true realization is impossible.'

These things I took seriously, but not too seriously. I was after all a young man of western culture who had been taught to regard oriental religions with suspicion; dark even and mysterious, and I was not about to complicate matters further by trying to learn a new faith. I did want to learn more about Shigeko though and allowing her the time and freedom to express herself by whatever means, was, I thought, a good learning path for me. Her calm, relaxed state of mind contrasted sharply with the present state of her country. Her country's future was now under foreign control, but this did not trouble her. I attributed this to her faith.

Further on, a few miles deeper into the forest, we rested beneath the pines. For our lunch, Shigeko had prepared small sandwiches with tomato and cheese as well as soft cake. She told me to light a small fire and we boiled water in a saucepan and she made tea. Afterward, we lay on a rug together staring up beyond the tree tops into the beautiful blue sky. We lay there listening to the breeze rustle through the tops of the trees and watched as the branches swayed gently to and fro. Then, I felt her gentle touch as she nestled closer and took my hand in hers. I turned my head toward her and our eyes met in loving expectation. Slowly we edged forward, both longing to express our feelings more physically. We kissed on the lips, softly at first, neither willing to appear too eager, and then more fervently, more confidently as we responded to each other's wishes. She rolled on top of me and we grasped each other, wrestling for more satisfying experiences. Somehow in the joy of that brief encounter, Shigeko and I found each other crossing that first hurdle of uncertainty. How long and how far this might have continued is difficult to say. We were totally absorbed in each other and may have continued much further but for the rustle of nearby shrubbery that disturbed our privacy and brought us to a halt. Slightly startled, I turned my head toward the sound. There, just a few feet away stood a Doe that had wandered from its mob and was as surprised to find us as we were to find her. Rather than shoo off the Doe and return to a more frenzied, passionate fling, it seemed a better idea to continue to enjoy the day together. We tried to entice the Doe with food but she would not allow us too near. Then, suddenly another explosion, rocked the ground beneath us; a detonation of munitions much louder than the first, such that it frightened the Doe and caused it to bolt away. It frightened both of us too, and shattered the notion of being alone on a deserted island. So we dusted ourselves down, packed up the remains of our lunch basket and continued on our bikes, this time fulfilled with the joy of mutual affection, even devotion. Each time we stopped to take in the panoramic views of the inland sea, we kissed, cuddled and caressed, at times completely unaware of others occasionally passing by.

After that wonderful day, we saw each other on every possible occasion, either at the Repatriation centre, stealing tender moments in a tiny storeroom, or wandering along the beach out of sight at lunchtime, and after work at the dock where she boarded the ferry to go home. At the Repatriation Centre there was the endless eye contact from across the open expanse of the office. You might say that while we kept our romance a tightly-guarded secret, we were inseparable until, one day, when inexplicably, she disappeared.

Amanda dropped the journal onto her lap. For the most part she had felt a flicker of delight as she absorbed the first sparkle of young love. It relaxed her. This strange story unfolding as it was with great uncertainty, had developed a soft dreamy edge, a beating heart and she allowed her romantic side to anticipate a joyful outcome. But the sudden forewarning of Shigeko's disappearance sent a painful jolt through her body. No longer feeling calm and serene, she felt concerned for what she was about to discover. There were only a few pages of the journal left and she was determined to continue reading and finish them.

One morning as I saw her ferry approaching, I went to the dock to meet her. I waited in joyful anticipation of seeing her emerge, smiling, happy, along with the other commuters. As each person filed down the plank way, I looked for her inside expecting that at any moment she would appear. But she didn't. She was not on board. Disappointed, I returned to the centre. I assumed she might not have felt well, and had decided to take the day off. That day I felt incredibly lonely and strange as if half of my being had been detached. I could barely contain myself the next morning as I waited nervously by the dock for her ferry to come alongside, trying to avoid the Provost NCO who may have thought I was acting suspiciously. Again, she was not there, and my heart sank. What had happened? I drew strength from the fact that it was Friday and resolved to take the ferry to Miyajima the next morning. When I arrived at her parents' house they were clearly not pleased to see me. The mother spoke abruptly in words I did not understand. I left the house and with some difficulty, located an English speaking shop-keeper in the main street and returned with him to the house. From the shop-keeper I learned Shigeko had gone to Tokyo to stay with family for a while and that I would not be able to see her anymore. I was devastated. I asked why, and that only made the mother angrier. The next day, Sunday, in a fit of desperation I travelled to see Masako at Kabe to ask if she could come back to Ujina and make some enquiries as to where in Tokyo, Shigeko might be. Always I struggled through the language barrier, but always we found someone to help. She agreed and returned with her brother Tokuo on the Monday. I introduced her to a young staff member at the centre in the hope that she might learn something of Shigeko's whereabouts. Someone at the centre must have known something. The disruption I caused did not meet with the approval of the Japanese supervisor, but I thought, 'Stuff him.' Finally, Masako came through for me. Through another interpreter she told me what I needed to know.

'I have an address for you,' she said. 'I can't be sure, but I have the impression that Shigeko is pregnant and she has been sent away to have her baby,' the interpreter told me.

Suddenly I felt faint. I must have turned white with fear, shock, whatever, it doesn't matter. The interpreter suggested I sit down while I absorbed the news she had relayed. My only thought was to go to Tokyo, find Shigeko and learn the truth for myself. I thanked Masako and asked her if there was anything she needed. Her answer was so odd that I asked the interpreter to repeat it. 'She said that Sergeant Avers san was taking care of them,' the interpreter said. I didn't know what she meant but so consumed was I, learning of Shigeko's whereabouts, I didn't pursue the matter any further. That afternoon when I returned to barracks, I sought out Lt. Kelty and requested guard duty assignment to the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. I was due to go anyway and had only avoided going earlier because I was classified as essential staff at the Repatriation centre. Lt. Kelty approved my request and within a week I was on my way to Tokyo.

When I arrived at Hiroshima station, nothing, it seemed, had changed. The black market traders were still openly selling their goods at inflated prices, seemingly immune from any kind of policing. On the train, I came across Pte. Len Patterson, the soldier I had picked up on the road some weeks earlier outside Dr. Kano's clinic; the soldier who had helped me provide food supplies to Masako and the impoverished community she lived with while waiting for Tokuo to return from the war. Patterson had also been assigned Imperial guard duty and we kept each other company on the trip. Somehow my curiosity got the better of me.

'How's the V.D.?' I asked.

'No problem,' he replied. 'All fixed.'

The journey to Tokyo took about twelve hours, stopping frequently along the way. As we passed through Osaka, the damage inflicted on the city by American bombers was evident. Not so, Kyoto which seemed relatively untouched. The train itself was surprisingly modern; better than the trains at home, and fitted with a dining car and sleeping berths. The military carriages were at the rear and identified with a white horizontal stripe painted the length of the carriage. No Japanese civilians were allowed to enter these carriages. When the train arrived at Kyoto, Len Patterson and I were sitting in the dining car having dinner. I sat by the window scanning my eyes across the crowded platform where people rushed to and fro, coming and going, some carrying suitcases, some mothers carrying babies and other young children following behind. There were other military personnel, British, Indian and American, all either coming or going somewhere. The Americans always looked smarter; their uniforms more appealing. As I gazed out the window, I suddenly became aware of a small Japanese boy standing directly below me, looking up at me as I ate. He looked at me and then at my food. The expression on his face was unambiguous. He was thin, terribly thin. His face long and narrow, his hair untidy, his clothes were tattered and dirty. He looked longingly at my food and I realized why. He was starving. This pathetic young boy, perhaps an orphan, perhaps here every day in search of something to eat, was slowly starving. I wanted to give him my dinner but I could not open the window. Suddenly the train started to move off again. I pointed back toward the door of the carriage, quickly picked up what remained of my dinner, grabbed some bread off Len Patterson's plate and raced toward the door. The boy followed me. The train was now gathering speed as I swung open the carriage door. The boy was running alongside the train, with a look of desperation on his face, living in hope that he would soon have something to eat. I passed the bread and the plate of food, nothing more than potatoes, some carrots and gravy with a small amount of roast lamb. He took the plate from me and immediately stopped running. I looked back to see him devour the food as if it were his last meal. For all I knew it might very well have been. This small incident left me felling sick. The thought of children being uncared for, so desperate that they would scrounge for food at railway stations was so dispiriting, I could not think of anything else for miles. Soon, darkness closed in and I returned to my sleeper and went to bed. The following morning the incident with the little boy was still vivid in my mind, but it was trivial compared with what awaited us when we arrived in Tokyo. As we entered the outskirts of the city, square mile after square mile had been laid waste by incendiary bombing; bombs made of jellified petrol. During 1945, American B-29's in their hundreds flying at night and at low level, set the city alight and created a firestorm that raced through vast areas destroying the mainly wooden structures and allowing the dry winds to carry the fires across the city killing tens of thousands of people. The bombings continued through the night until dawn in some cases creating fires so hot they produced their own wind force, syphoning oxygen from the air and suffocating residents. As we entered this wasteland that was until then, the third largest city in the world, we were shocked to see entire neighbourhoods destroyed and makeshift huts and shelters everywhere, housing thousands upon thousands of people, many emaciated, in the most primitive of conditions. Clearly they were sick and in many cases, starving. It was a sobering site and the true extent of the destruction was probably a greater calamity than Hiroshima. We continued through this devastation, suburb after suburb until reaching the city centre where the damage was less severe. Here some buildings remained untouched and doubtless were quickly commandeered by the Americans to administer the country. We left the station and boarded trucks waiting outside that took us to Ebisu Barracks, about four miles from the city centre where we were informed that we were now a part of 4 Company of the Tokyo Guard Battalion.

As our company commander explained our duties to begin at 6am the next morning, my thoughts were elsewhere, with Shigeko and I struggled to remind myself that I was still a soldier on duty as a member of an occupation force and it was always to be a case of duty first. But in the devastation that was Tokyo, I wondered how on earth she was coping, if indeed she was pregnant, and how she was feeling having left Miyajima, her work, and me without any explanation. My army mate, Len Patterson and I were billeted together at the Ebisu barracks and little did I know then, that he was there with a separate agenda too. I was soon to learn that his penchant for contraband had reached new heights, and that I would find myself inextricably linked with him in my quest to find Shigeko.

That evening, the company commander informed us that our khaki webbing, our gaiters, belt, scabbard, rifle sling and shoulder straps all had to be coloured white. Apparently our appearance on parade had been judged dreary when compared with the Americans; or at least those with whom we shared guard responsibilities. Whitening the webbing was the short term answer designed to transform us and give us the appearance of an elite force.

'Don't use bleach,' the commander cried out. 'It wrecks the stitching. Use Blanco. It'll do the job.' Blanco was a soluble whitener that when applied onto the webbing left a coat of soft dry powder.

'Why do we have to compete with the yanks?' Patterson whispered to me. 'Everyone knows we'd beat the crap out of them in a fair fight.'

'Image,' I replied. 'Image is everything to these blokes. We hate playing second fiddle to the Americans. We don't only have to be the part, we have to look the part as well.'

'The yanks always look the part,' Patterson replied. 'They couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag, but they have the money, the buying power, the fire power. They only have to dress smart and they frighten the shit out of the enemy.'

That night after mess, we settled down to the job of transforming our dull khaki webbing belt and straps into the dress parade standard the top brass wanted. The Blanco supplied to us, did the job effectively but was messy to use and took hours. I spent most of the time thinking of Shigeko and wondering when I would get the time to look for her. Tokyo was still a very big city. The address Masako gave me was all I had, with no idea where to start.

'I wonder if we'll get any time off,' I said to Patterson.

'We'd better. I've got things to do, people to see.'

Len Patterson always gave the impression he was a man on a mission. I had the distinct impression his commitment to the army, to our role in Japan, ran a poor second to other matters at hand, to personal gain, to any available business opportunity.

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Nothin', he replied, without conviction.

'I need to find someone,' I confided. 'I don't suppose you know anyone who could help me get around this town do you?'

'Depends what you want,' he replied.

'I have an address. Is there anyone here I could ask in confidence, like how to find this place?'

'Perhaps,' he replied carefully. I knew that when he said, 'perhaps', he meant a qualified yes. He spoke the way he always spoke when something was in the wind.

'Perhaps we could help each other,' he suggested.

Immediately memories of the last time he helped me came rushing back. He was onto something big, and probably illegal, but if he could help me find Shigeko, I didn't care.

'I don't know what you're up to,' I said to him, 'but as long as it doesn't get me shot or thrown into prison, I'll help you if I can. I'm here to find a girl. I may have got her pregnant and she needs my help. If you know someone who can help me find her, I'll help you in any way that I can.'

'How the Jesus did you get a girl in Tokyo pregnant? Was it by remote control?' he asked.

'She's been sent here by her parents. They're too ashamed to keep her at home,' I told him.

Patterson looked at me for a moment then nodded his head. 'Okay. Give me the address you have and I'll see what I can do,' he said. I had no idea what I was letting myself in for, but I decided that if sleeping with the devil would help me find Shigeko, then so be it.

Amanda turned to the next page noting that she was almost at the end.

Taking part in the Imperial guard seemed a contradiction in terms. But in reality it was a great honour. There were many on the allied side who thought Emperor Hirohito should be tried for war crimes as it was he who sanctioned the war and urged his generals to press on and obliterate the enemy. In the end though, it was he who instructed them to surrender. For the first time ever, the Japanese Emperor, the man considered to be a god among his people, spoke directly to them via radio and told them that their nation had been defeated. The Allied powers agreed that a successful reconstruction of Japan depended on the cooperation of the Japanese people. With that objective in mind, they chose to allow him to remain head of state and to ensure his safety, they maintained a ceremonial guard at the Imperial Palace. Over many weeks and months it evolved into a daily tourist attraction as both American soldiers from the 1st. US Cavalry Division and Australian soldiers took up their posts with a daily ceremonial changing of the guard. It was with great pride that I participated in this moment in history. I felt it to be of enormous significance; a message to the world that good will always triumph over evil, and that in victory, the forces of good can demonstrate compassion and compromise, not strangulation or humiliation. But all this time, while I acted out my soldierly duty, my heart was in another place, a place of longing for the woman that I loved, the woman that may be carrying my child.

It was on the evening of the third day in Tokyo; we were off duty for 24 hours and I had seen nothing of the city. I had seen Len Patterson earlier in the day. He said he was going to Kamakura to deliver something and that he would be back around six in the evening.

'What is it this time?' I asked, knowing it would be something illegal. He looked at me for a moment, grinned broadly. 'Ever seen gold before?' he asked.

'No,' I answered. He then delved into his pockets and brought out some gold ingots about an inch wide and two inches long.

'Take a look at these,' he said. I looked at them and asked, 'Where did you get them?' He said they were an investment. Then he told me he might have some information for me later in the day about Shigeko. I offered to go with him to Kamakura but he said it would be better for me to stay in Tokyo. That evening in the mess he approached me.

'I need your help,' he said. 'Tonight, we have to relocate some material. There will be someone who can give you some information about your girlfriend. We have to leave here in an hour. Be outside the barracks guardhouse. I will meet you there.'

The very thought that I might see Shigeko sent a bolt of adrenalin racing through my body. I knew Len Patterson was up to some kind of mischief but if he could lead me to her, whatever he wanted me to do was worth the risk. One hour later I was waiting outside the barracks when a truck covered with a tarpaulin emerged from the compound. The rear flap opened and he called out from inside.

'Get in,' he said softly.

I jumped up and two other soldiers hauled me in. The truck then moved off out into the night.

'We are going to another base,' Len said, 'an American base, where we will be loading some boxes. After that we will transfer those boxes to another set of vehicles. When we get to the American base, you don't say a word to anyone. In fact don't even look at anyone. Just carry the boxes to the truck, okay?'

I nodded. 'Then what?' I asked.

'That's it. That's all we are doing tonight,' Len said to me as I settled myself on the crusty wooden seat.

'What's in the boxes?' I asked. Len hesitated momentarily as he glanced at the other soldiers.

'Medical supplies', he replied, 'bound for Hiroshima.'

I didn't believe him. Medical supplies sounded like a euphemism for anything and everything, but that was not my first concern.

'You said you knew something about Shigeko?' I queried.

He nodded. 'All in good time,' he answered. 'First, we deliver the merchandise.'

'Okay, you're the boss,' I said.

'No,' he answered. 'Derek Avers is the boss.'

This admission came quite casually, almost as an after-thought and I paid almost no attention to it. I was only interested in finding Shigeko. But it was something that I never forgot.

We travelled for about twenty minutes before coming to a halt. Then the truck reversed. I heard voices outside. Everyone in the back was silent as if waiting for the signal to emerge. We waited in silence perhaps for five, even ten minutes until finally someone from outside pulled the flap back and said, 'Now.'

Len jumped out and told the other two soldiers in the truck to stay while beckoning me to follow him. It was dark. Len and the American soldier who pulled the flap back shook hands and I followed them to where several pellets of supplies sat in a corner of the yard. Then we began to load the truck using only torch lights to guide us. The whole operation took no more than fifteen minutes, while the American soldier stood guard. It was as plain as day that this was an illegal shipment of US Government property, but the sheer efficiency of the operation was so impressive, I just did as I was told. Not for a second did I flinch from the task at hand, all the time motivated by the expectation that I would soon be re-united with Shigeko. When the loading was complete, the American soldier handed Len a manifest of the goods, they shook hands once more and we climbed back into the rear of the truck. With the flap secure, we were travelling once more, rumbling along, through the war devastated streets of Tokyo. Len sat beside me, and spoke as if I was his little brother and he was responsible for my wellbeing.

'We are going to stop again shortly. You get ready to jump out. You have fifteen minutes,' he said. 'Fifteen minutes,' he repeated. 'That's all. I don't care what your plans are with this girl, but right now you have fifteen minutes and don't even think about bringing her with you. We'll wait for you further up the road.'

I struggled to come to terms with what was happening. How were they able to find her? What sort of an organization was this? How deep, how broad did their plans extend? My mind was on fire with a lethal mixture of anticipation, uncertainty, and confusion and rather than ask questions I tried to steady myself and concentrate on what I would say to Shigeko. I had not expected matters to come to a head so quickly and in truth I was caught by surprise. When the truck stopped, the flap opened up and I looked out onto the street and a strong aroma filled the air. It was like the smell of campfires, after cooking; a mixture not immediately attractive but neither was it unpleasant. It was dark and difficult to see properly. Len placed his hand on my shoulder.

'She's in there,' he said, pointing to a house on the other side of the road. 'We'll be up there by that signpost. Remember, you have fifteen minutes. Don't make me barge in and drag you out.'

I nodded and climbed out, watching as the truck continued up the dark narrow street. I had no idea what part of Tokyo I had been brought to. The street was quiet. Lights shone out from some of the houses. The truck stopped and the driver turned off his headlamps. I walked to the house across the street and knocked on the door.

I find what happened next difficult to describe, such was the emotion I felt. An elderly lady answered the door. I said Shigeko's name and she invited me into the house, taking me to the rear, out the back door and across a small courtyard to a bungalow situated in a corner of the property. There, Shigeko stood waiting, tears welling up in her eyes. She ran toward me and threw her arms around me clinging tightly as if determined never to let me go. I held her for some time, the sweet smell of her hair, her body captivating me, her delicate arms hanging on to me for dear life. Through her broken voice she thanked me for finding her, and thanked me for coming to take her away. I held her tight for a few moments but then I broke off gently and explained to her that I could not take her with me, that I was in no position to care for her.

'But you will come back for me, Michael?' she asked, her eyes filled with hope. I could not bring myself to say no. I saw deep within her an expectation that she was about to leave, that she had concluded there was some likelihood we would be together from this moment on.

'In a few days,' I said, without thinking. It was all I could offer her.

'We are having a baby,' she said, and it was then I knew I could not desert her, but I had no idea how to overcome the difficulties that would confront us. There was a strict non-fraternization policy and I had broken that already. How was I to manage this predicament?

'I need some time to work things out,' I said to her. 'I have to get help from our people.' While I said 'our people', I didn't know who 'our people' were. Then in a moment of calm I resigned myself to be adopted by the black marketeers, for if they could not help, surely there was no one else. After all, she was having our baby, and somehow that took priority. Whatever I could do, would be driven by that fundamental reality.

'Are you being looked after here all right?' I asked.

She nodded. 'The woman who let you in is my aunty and she agreed to allow you in when a soldier came asking for me. In return, he offered food. Food is so scarce. People are starving. Housing is limited, the bombing, the incendiary bombing. Anyone who still has a house is very fortunate. My aunty will most likely write to my parents though and tell them you have come,' Shigeko said.

'Don't worry. I will find a way for you to leave here soon. Trust me. Be ready to go at a minute's notice. The next time I come, I will take you with me, I promise.'

My words helped her calm down, her body once tense and frightened, relaxed and rested in my arms. I had made her a promise and she trusted me, although at that point I had no idea how I would keep my word.

I left her there with a promise to return and the only person I thought could help was Len Patterson. As I walked briskly back to the waiting truck, my fifteen minutes up, my mind focussed on him. Clearly, there was something about him and his activities that, in my naivety, I was missing. But right now, he was the man, the only man, and having seen Shigeko, and aware of the circumstances she had been forced to accept, I was prepared to do anything he wanted, if he could secure her safety.

And there, quite abruptly, it ended. Amanda went back over the pages to see if she had missed anything. Surely there was more. What happened to it? She wondered if some had some been lost in transit. Had Quentin Avers not given all of it to her? How could it possibly end here? Where was the rest of it? She flicked through the manuscript hoping some loose pages would fall. She lay back confused, trying to recall a moment or place where any part of it might have been mislaid. Was this connected to the mystery note she found on the plane? How could she have been so foolish as to leave the whole thing lying on the seat while she went for a walk? Quentin had warned her that there might be others interested in the artefact she was supposed to return to the rightful owners. Feelings of guilt began to haunt her, feelings of failure. She had not even arrived in Hiroshima yet and already she had messed things up. Too restless to sleep, she went downstairs and made herself a cup of tea. The kitchen area was empty, quiet, and peaceful. Everyone else had retired for the night. Her mind then focussed on Shigeko and what happened to her. Had Michael come back and rescued her as he promised? What happened to the baby?

As Amanda continued to muddle through her disordered state of mind, forty kilometres to the north, David and Margaret Maclean sat in bed together in their hotel room at Kamakura discussing their plans for the next day. Earlier, after completing the rounds of tourist spots to visit, they followed Ronnie's instructions and found the entrance to the hiking course track that would lead to where the gold ingots were buried. They entered the forest to gauge its degree of difficulty and soon discovered that the rough terrain and steep climbing would be too much for Margaret to handle. They decided that David would attempt the search the next morning, alone.

## 16.

Hiroshima, April 2007.

Amanda emerged from Hiroshima station the next morning to a bustling, modern, retail and commercial area serviced by buses, taxis and trams. Coming from Melbourne, where trams were dear to her heart, as they were to all Melburnians, this was a welcome sight. Her hotel was within walking distance and she turned right along _Johoku Avenue,_ parallel to the river, walking underneath the elevated roadway and around the bend for a short distance. It was late afternoon as she walked, and the traffic was intense. The vibrancy of the city, the people, the noise, the unceasing activity, juxtaposed with the constant realization that this entire area was completely devastated by a nuclear bomb some sixty odd years ago. This thought was at the forefront of her mind, such was the strange nature of the position in which she now found herself.

At the hotel reception, there was a message waiting for her.

' _Mieko Murata will be pleased to meet you in the hotel restaurant at 4pm.'_

She looked at her watch. It was 3.45pm. Just enough time to freshen up in her room. She thanked the receptionist and headed for the lifts. As soon as she was ready, she made her way down to the restaurant.

Mieko was waiting, sitting at a table with a small sign that read _'Amanda'._ The two women eyed each other, smiled, and Amanda made her way across to the table. Mieko rose up and bowed, Amanda held out her hand. There was instant warmth between the two women as they greeted each other. Meiko was in her early thirties, small and very attractive with straight black hair, large eyes and red lips. As they sat, a waiter came to the table and they ordered drinks.

'Did you have a good journey?' Mieko asked.

'Yes,' Amanda answered. 'Public transport in Japan is incredibly efficient and punctual. Every time I catch a train, it is always exactly on time. That is something I am not used to.'

'We must have a reliable train service. There are so many of us in a relatively small area. We cannot all drive our cars everywhere. It is already bad enough on our roads.'

'Does the system ever break down?'

'Oh yes,' Mieko confessed happily, 'Sometimes! It is good, but not perfect.'

'This city seems so vibrant, so alive,' Amanda said, looking out the window. 'It is hard to imagine what happened here sixty years ago.'

'I was not born then,' Mieko reflected thoughtfully, 'but my grandparents were, and their recollections are still very vivid; they remind us constantly. My great-grandparents perished that day. Every year on the 6th August, family members write the names of loved ones who died from the bomb on paper lanterns. They then light the lanterns and set them adrift upon the seven rivers. Nothing here is more than sixty years old except the land and the rivers.

'I'm sorry. I didn't realize you're family would have suffered so.' Amanda said.

'Don't be troubled,' Mieko replied, 'it is to be expected that you will find descendants of bomb victims here as well as those still living.'

'Yes, of course,' Amanda acknowledged.

'Today, Hiroshima represents re-birth, and human recovery, but there is still much collective grief,' Mieko continued. 'It is a stark reminder of what could happen again, unless all peoples of the world take heed. Before we go to see Masako, I would like to take you to the Peace Park Memorial Museum. There you will gain an appreciation of what my grandparents and Masako endured both at the time the bomb was dropped, and subsequently.'

'You are a friend of Masako?' Amanda asked, jumping straight to the point of the meeting.

'Yes, I know her. Masako is a _hibakusha_ , that is _'bomb-victim.'_ She is entitled to free medical benefits. I once worked at the Red Cross Hospital and came to know her there. She lives here in Hiroshima, in an apartment on the same block where her parents used to live.'

'Does she know we are coming?'

'Yes. Quentin Avers has been in touch with her. She knows that a person from Australia is coming and wants to visit her.'

'Does she know that Derek Avers has died?'

'She has been told, but her mind is not all that good. She will probably not remember. Perhaps you could tell her again, but don't be surprised if she becomes upset.'

'When do we go there?' Amanda asked.

'We will go there first thing tomorrow. But now, I would like to take you to Peace Park.'

'Is it far?'

'No, not at all; just a short ride on a tram.'

'Oh, lovely. I wanted to take a ride on a tram.'

'Then shall we go?'

Minutes later, the two women emerged from the hotel, and boarded the tram at the depot outside Hiroshima station to the Peace Park Memorial Museum. It was a short ride through the retail centre of the city, which could have been any city in the world; such was the nature of modern life where every available space was taken up with advertising. It was on buses, on shop windows, atop buildings where neon frames displayed the latest in fashion, food and communication technology. Further along, past a number of office buildings the tram stopped at _Genbaku Dome Mae,_ and Amanda glimpsed for the first time, the chilling sight of the Industrial Promotions Prefectural Hall, the A-bomb Dome as it is known locally. Situated alongside the Motoyasu-gawa River, near the Aioi Bridge, there is nothing elegant about the ruin. This evocative four-storey structure with a faded green dome, surrounded by a beautiful azalea garden is the last remaining remnant of what was a ferroconcrete and brick construction, standing almost directly below the hypocentre. Now a World Heritage listed site, and left unrepaired but for internal reinforcements that hold the structure in place, its haunting, grey, gutted frame sits in stark contrast to the surrounding commercial environment. The two women left the tram, crossed over to the footpath and stopped in front of the Dome. It stood there, a silent memorial to the horror experienced that terrifying morning in August, 1945; a memorial also, to the physicists who unlocked the secrets of nature, and trusted their discoveries to the politicians. A disquieting chill passed through Amanda as she suddenly felt the souls of tens of thousands of victims reach out and warn her of the ever-present danger of history repeating itself. The two women walked slowly around the building and stopped to study the information presented at one end where photographs reveal how the building looked before the bomb; and with each photograph, a description of how events unfolded that day. After several minutes reading the story, Amanda chose her words carefully.

'I have spent many hours,' she said, 'in a variety of churches over the years, and I think I can say without fear of contradiction, that I have never felt a sense of the spirit, as strongly as I do right now. I don't quite know what that means, but what I feel right now is stronger than any previous church experience.'

Mieko nodded thoughtfully. 'Perhaps what happened here transcends all such mystical experiences, because it impacts upon us as something so real and recent and immoral.'

'Perhaps,' Amanda agreed conditionally, 'but how are we to know?'

'Come,' Mieko said, 'let us cross the river and walk through the park to the Museum.'

The Peace Park nestles comfortably between the Honkawa and Motoyasu-gawa Rivers. The two women strolled unhurried, side by side under a clear blue sky, the setting sun reflecting its flickering light through the trees. It was a quiet reflective stroll, as Amanda absorbed the poignancy of the moment, and the realization that she was walking on sacred ground. Minutes later, the park made way for the three low-level buildings that fronted _Heiwa Odori Avenue,_ all three of which constitute the Memorial Museum. Just inside the front entrance, a plasma screen television ran continuously, a film demonstrating the awesome power of an atomic explosion. Amanda stood there alongside other visitors and jumped in shock as she watched the bomb detonate and the shockwave expand out horizontally and vertically with lightning speed.

The frightening all-powerful force shatters the gentle, reflective nature of her walk through the park. Further inside, the museum displays a huge model of the damage to the city, which she finds even more disturbing. Around the walls, murals of Hiroshima before and after together with its history, challenge her perspective and her balance. The exhibits of human suffering are chilling; the statistics of heat intensity, the shockwave, the radiation, the stark nature of burns received, eye-witness accounts, all firmly stamp their images in her brain. There is a concrete slab with the shadow of a crouching human still visible, stark records of the deaths, a large clock stopped at eight-fifteen, the precise time the bomb exploded, as well as a life-size model of _'Little Boy',_ the name the Americans had given to the bomb. As if to bring home to the visitor the personal nature of the suffering, there is a collection of household goods, tattered clothing, burnt and bloodied, and an assortment of photographs of post-bomb chaos. The intensity of the exhibits is all too convincing. How can mankind continue to build and store weapons that wreak such obscenities? How can more and more countries covet ownership? What is this animal called human yet capable of? The questions come thick and fast; but sadly, not the answers. Out of respect for the victims, the two spend the rest of the day at the museum. Amanda wants to leave, go out into the fresh air and re-establish her sense of worth. But no, she stays, determined to see it all and let it all cement itself in her memory. At the end of it, there is an opportunity to record one's impressions in a visitor's book. The book is full of comments, mostly expressions of deep sadness, shock and dismay; occasionally an anti-American reference. Amanda cannot think of anything to write. Eventually, she scribbles, _'Such is the foolishness of man, that if all leaders of countries that possess nuclear weapons were to come here, still, nothing would change.'_

Outside, in the fresh air, the two women walk back through the park toward the A-bomb Dome. Amanda's mood is quiet, reflective. She tries to compartmentalize everything in an attempt to better understand. It is Mieko who speaks first.

'They didn't have to do it you know,' she said.

'I know that now?' Amanda agreed.

Do you know of the politics involved?' Mieko asked.

'No, I haven't looked into that,' she answered.

'Dropping the bomb wasn't necessary,' Mieko began. 'Japan wanted to surrender anyway. They offered to surrender five months earlier. The Americans knew that. They also knew that both our navy and our air force were all but destroyed. They were flying bombing missions over our cities with no impediment, no anti-aircraft fire to stop them. They said the bomb was to end the war, to avoid a land invasion, to save American lives, but that wasn't the real reason. They had already won. There were other reasons why they decided to use the bomb. It was a political decision.'

'How was that?' Amanda asked.

'Those people of the 509th Composite Group had been training for months beforehand, both in America and then later, on Tinian Island in the Marianas, long before the bomb was even ready. Their commander, Colonel Paul Tibbets knew at least eight months beforehand, probably longer, what his mission was going to be. When Truman and Stalin met at Potsdam in July 1945, Truman told Stalin they had the bomb and were going to use it. Stalin showed little interest. He already knew they had a bomb. Secret soviet agents had been passing on details from the Los Alamos test site in New Mexico. Truman knew the Russians were about to attack the Japanese in Manchuria and the Americans didn't want them getting a foothold in Japan. They didn't want the Russians to have a say in the post-war occupation of Japan. They were afraid Japan might fall to communism. Japan was also afraid of the Russians and communism. So when Togo, the Foreign Minister, asked just one condition of the surrender: to allow the Emperor to remain on the throne, the Americans could have brought the war to an end right there and then. Instead, Truman refused and deliberately delayed discussing the matter, insisting on unconditional surrender. He had already given the order to drop the bomb a week before the Potsdam Declaration. When they issued the Potsdam Declaration there was no hint of what was to follow if Japan did not comply. It was an ambiguously worded statement designed to delay a Japanese response. They didn't want Japan to surrender before they had a chance to use the bomb. Truman wanted the bomb to be a warning to the Russians; to show them America was superior, with superior weapons. Almost everyone in the US administration, had recommended that Japan be given a warning; that they at least be given some warning of what would happen, something unmistakeably clear. Even General Eisenhower cautioned Truman against using it. But Truman didn't listen. He took the advice of just one man, his secretary of State, James Byrnes. He gave the order without any warning of the nature of the weapon they were about to unleash. He gave the order, ' _Release when ready_.'

He was prepared to sacrifice hundreds of thousands of Japanese civilians to warn-off Stalin. There was a ghoulish desire to see what damage the bomb was capable of; to see what it could do. That is why Hiroshima was chosen. The city had not been bombed before. The city was not previously damaged.'

Amanda listened as Mieko spoke and suddenly began to feel ill. _'She knows more than I do,'_ she thought. It was one thing to learn of the shocking human cost at the museum; quite another to hear of the goings-on within the US administration at the time.

'How did you learn this?' she asked.

'Over the years, I have made it my business to learn the truth,' Mieko replied. 'It is common knowledge now for those who have taken time to investigate the de-classified documents released. I have studied all the records of conversations that went on between the various leaders. They demonstrate clearly that politics, not lives, was the primary motivating factor. But few people care anymore. Even here in Japan, most would rather not know. It is not convenient. They don't want to do any damage to the present strong ties with the US. It was an act of barbarism. Dropping one atom bomb was a horror surpassed only by the holocaust. But to do it again at Nagasaki just days later, was reprehensible evil; and its legacy is the ongoing suffering that has continued and will continue for generations to come. Children born today are still at risk of major health problems; they are ten times more likely to have a deformity of some kind. Already second and third generation children are suffering serious genetic defects. They suffer debilitating heart problems, skin problems. There are still births, miscarriages, hair and teeth loss, and they are twice as likely to acquire cancer. All this happened because one man, Harry Truman, was seduced into believing that it was more important to send a warning to the Russians, to make them more manageable in Europe.'

'What of the victims today,' Amanda asked. 'Are they being looked after?'

'Yes,' Mieko replied. 'They receive free hospital care. But it took a long time for that to happen. Now, most of Japan wants to move on, forget the past.'

There was a long period of silence as the two continued walking. When they arrived back at the tram stop opposite the A-bomb Dome, Amanda turned to Mieko.

'Thank you for bringing me here,' she said. 'It is important that I have seen this.'

'I wanted you to see it. Yoshiko also wanted you to see it.'

'In some weird way I feel it makes us sisters,' Amanda said.

'That is good,' Mieko replied. 'So, as my new sister, you must come to my house tonight for dinner.'

That evening, Amanda accepted Mieko's invitation to have dinner at her apartment close to the centre of the city, where she lived alone. During the day she worked at the giant Fukuya Department store directly opposite Hiroshima station as a senior salesperson in cosmetics. They ate together quietly, their minds replete with images they had observed at the museum, sensing that the spirits of the dead had followed them home and filled the room with their corporeal presence. Seated comfortably on a tatami mat around a low table, they enjoyed a simple preparation of miso soup, some fish, and a side dish of vegetables. Mieko's apartment was furnished minimally, but clean and comfortable. There were family photos on the mantelpiece, a stunning print of a geisha in kimono on the wall, and a rug she bought in Istanbul. The CD's resting on the cabinet were both Japanese and western, with _U2_ and _Robbie Williams_ figuring prominently.

'You are not married?' Amanda asked tentatively.

'No, not yet,' Mieko replied, but I expect I will one day. I'm just not ready. What about you?'

Amanda rolled her eyes as she took a sip of her soup.

'It's complicated,' she answered.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

'No, that's fine. I'm happy to talk about it,' Amanda replied putting down her spoon. 'The problem is that right now, I'm not sure quite where I am in the marriage stakes.'

Mieko looked at her quizzically, unsure if she should press the matter. Amanda however, was willing to tell her everything.

'I left my husband and adult sons to fend for themselves,' she said quite proudly.

'Oh,' Mieko responded.

'Yes, sounds odd, doesn't it? The problem was that I was sick and tired of being used as a doormat. They just wouldn't lift a finger to do anything for themselves. They were just using me as hired help. Mind you it was probably my fault at first. I did do everything for them. But then through a series of events my life changed, and I realized that it was time I stopped. I thought I would show them that in this day and age, the way they were treating me was not acceptable in our culture.'

'Where did you go?'

'Some years ago my husband and I bought a two-bedroom unit as an investment. We rented it out and that covered the mortgage, and since then the capital appreciation has made it a sound investment. A few months ago, our tenant vacated the property and rather than find someone else, I decided to move in on my own. I wanted to see what their reaction was, and I wanted to see what it was like to live alone and not have to continually mop up after everyone else.'

'It sounds like you have put them on notice.'

'Yes, I suppose I have. The problem is I like it. I feel free, which makes the decision as to where we go from here very difficult. I'm still working my way through that.'

'Is where you live now close to your family?'

'Yes and no; too far to walk but close enough by car.'

'You are very brave,' Mieko said. 'For a Japanese woman to do that would mean she would have to go far away. Even then her husband would follow her and make her return home. For the husband it would be a great loss of face.'

'Well, I felt confident enough given that we owned the place and I always thought that they would come begging for me to come home and I thought I would, but with strict conditions.'

'Do you no longer love your husband?'

'Yes, I do. But I'm not convinced he actually needs me.'

'And now you have become accustomed to your new life?'

'Yes, awkward isn't it!' Amanda said as she burst out laughing. They both laughed heartily together; both comfortable with each other, both enjoying their independence and being able to share it with someone who could relate and understand.

'At least this way, if our relationship continues, we will be on equal terms. So, what about you?' Amanda asked. 'Is your family here in Hiroshima?'

'No, I come from Nara, near Kyoto. I have a degree in commerce and I want to pursue a career in retailing. Nara is a small city, very pretty but not enough opportunities, so I came here. I thought of going to Osaka or Tokyo, but they are too big and too expensive. Hiroshima is a good size and not as expensive.'

'What do your parents think of your moving here?'

'They want me to marry. It is difficult for them to understand why I am not willing to fit into the mould. But they welcome me warmly when I visit them.

'Where did you learn to speak English?'

'At school, I attended special English classes. My teacher was from Australia. I knew that to have a second language would be very beneficial, and English would be the best one to study.'

'Well, here's to independence,' Amanda said, raising her glass of Sake. The two of them continued their discussion into the evening on topics as wide ranging as their cultures. But in essence it all boiled down to one common denominator: Shopping!

Late into the evening, Amanda left and returned to her hotel.

## 17.

The next morning around ten o'clock Mieko returned and the two women took a taxi to meet Masako. As she sat in the back seat of the taxi, watching the people walking along the pavement, Amanda imagined that the 6th of August 1945 must have been somewhat similar, until the bomb was dropped. People going about their day, off to work, shopping, going to school, just doing all the normal things people do in the course of their day. Somewhat apprehensive that she had come to a defining moment in her journey, Amanda was nervous, but constrained when the taxi pulled up and the two women began walking toward a large residential complex. It was in a quiet street some distance from the main road and enjoyed a front courtyard where children were playing. Moments later, Mieko knocked on the front door of an apartment on the lower level.

'Hello,' Amanda said, when a young teenage girl appeared at the door. Mieko then spoke to the young girl in Japanese asking if it would be possible to speak with Masako. The young girl listened, and then left them standing with the door slightly ajar. 'She is her grand-daughter,' Mieko said to Amanda. She has gone to check. 'What did you say to her?' Amanda asked. 'I told her that you were from Australia, and that you wanted to meet with her.' Moments later, the girl returned and invited both of them into the house taking them along a narrow corridor to a room at the rear. There, an old woman sat in an arm chair and smiled tentatively as they entered. In a friendly exchange, Mieko greeted Masako and introduced Amanda, explaining to her, the purpose of their visit. As she spoke, Amanda listened intently and noticed the old woman's reaction when Mieko mentioned the name, Derek Avers.

'Derek,' she said. 'You know him?' she asked in a heavy Japanese accent looking at Amanda. 'No,' Amanda replied. 'His son, Quentin, I know. He asked me to come.'

Amanda looked into her eyes and saw the pain of memories revived by her visit. She was anxious both to settle Masako and not to impose upon her any more pain than necessary. She turned to Mieko and spoke tenderly. 'Could you please inform Masako that Derek Avers passed away two months ago after a short illness? Please extend to her our deepest sympathies.' With that Amanda drew breath as Mieko relayed the news to Masako.

The old woman looked longingly at Mieko, but as the news was revealed, she allowed her head to drop down in sorrow while her grand-daughter quickly knelt alongside and placed her arm around her shoulders to comfort her.

Slowly she lifted her head and revealed a lonely tear sliding down her cheek. She spoke to her grand-daughter. Mieko relayed her words to Amanda. 'She said he was the only one to love her after the bomb. Despite all her injuries and her scars, he was the only one who showed compassion, until the girl's grandfather came along. He was a good man. She often thought about him and wanted to see him again after grandpa died.'

'What was it like?' Amanda asked tenderly, anxious not to frighten her. 'What was it like the day the bomb was dropped?' As Mieko translated, Masako instinctively drew back allowing her body to rest against the back of the arm chair. She raised her hands to both sides of her face, slowly. At first she appeared reticent, shaking her head slightly. Mieko spoke quietly to Amanda. 'She seems unwilling,' she said. 'Many _hibakusha_ have been encouraged not to speak about it.'

'Why is that?' Amanda asked.

'We are in a difficult position. We know that we rely on the Americans for our economic and political stability. There is an attitude that silence is best. She probably doesn't want to talk about it.'

But Masako did want to talk about it. The question itself re-ignited the flash Masako first saw that morning and the memories so long suppressed. Her hands were still visibly scarred, and she ran them gently up and down her cheeks, the pain still visible in her eyes. She spoke in Japanese. To retell such horror could not be trusted in broken English. Mieko relayed her words slowly as a mark of respect for a _hibakusha_ , a true survivor, and one who had carried the horrifying images and memories with her over sixty years, images that would continue to haunt her for what years she had left.

'I was up early that morning,' Mieko said, repeating word for word, listening to the tone of Masako's voice, watching her, determined to have her words properly represented, properly reflecting the emotion of her voice, drawn from deep within. 'I left home early that morning. There had been an air-raid siren, but the all-clear signal had been sounded. We had been warned that bombing raids were to be expected. Hiroshima had not been bombed up to that point. Some said that it was because the Americans were going to use it as their headquarters when the invasion came. Others thought the Americans were protecting certain favoured citizens in the city. I said good-bye to my mother and father. School was suspended for the summer but there were no holidays for us. As part of my contribution to the war effort I was assigned to help load some of the rubble from the houses that were demolished the previous day to make way for fire breaks. It was a project that had been in operation for some time. It was shortly after 7.30. It was a beautiful morning; there was a clear blue sky. I crossed over the river and joined my school friends who had also been instructed to attend, perhaps twenty or so, I'm not sure.

'I was about two miles from the hypocentre. I was helping to pile up some timber in large heaps for when the trucks came to load it up and carry it all away. I heard a plane. It was only one plane. I thought nothing of it. B29's often flew over us on their way to other targets at Kure and Tokyo. There was a shelter across the street where we were told to go if we heard the air-raid sirens. We kept our lunch boxes and things there. It provided some protection for us when we stopped for lunch and it also had a washroom. It was a warm morning and the work was very hard for me. I took a short break and crossed the road to get a glass of water in the shelter.

'I had just got to the door and opened it when the _pika-don_ came. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and a huge roar of hot wind and I was thrown to the ground. The noise was terrifying. Houses on that side of the road collapsed and burst into flames. Debris was flying everywhere and it was incredibly hot. I was partly inside the shelter but I remember the building collapsing on top of me. Then it went dark, like the night. I must have lost consciousness for a time. When I became aware again, I looked up from where I was laying and realized a bomb must have hit the building, but I didn't think I was hurt. Then I heard people screaming. I climbed out of the collapsed shelter and the whole of Hiroshima was in darkness, underneath a huge cloud of thick black smoke. Across the road where my friends had been working there was nothing but dead bodies and fire. The sun had disappeared; everywhere, screams and shouting. I saw women covered in blood, calling out the names of their children. There were people walking past me, toward the river, their skin hanging from their arms, their flesh exposed and burnt, their clothes hanging from different parts of their bodies trailing after them. Some had lost all their clothes. Their faces were all swollen, bloated like balloons. I could not recognize anyone of my school friends I was working with. I climbed to my feet and felt dizzy, and then I felt an awful pain all over. I looked at my hands and they were all swollen in blisters. My shoes were gone, burnt, and my feet were also burnt. All around, the sky was dark and the ground was red, fires burning everywhere. Bodies lay everywhere. I decided to follow the others as they headed toward the river. I remember seeing men covered in blood desperately pulling away at burning rubble shouting out the names of their children, trying to rescue them from underneath the rubble. People were lying dead along the road and I had to step over them to continue on. At the river's edge, people were throwing themselves in, trying to get relief from their burns. The river was full of dust, debris and corpses. Most of those who went into the water never came out. Corpses were floating down the river and there was a dreadful smell. Others lay on the embankment, groaning in pain. I heard someone say we should try to get to the mountains. I thought of my mother and father across the river and knew I had to try to get home. The Yokogawa Bridge was on fire, but people were crossing over it running through the flames. I followed them. On the other side there were some trucks and soldiers loading people and taking them to a hospital. I climbed on board, but at the hospital there were hundreds seeking treatment; too many, it was chaos. There was no treatment except for someone massaging oil onto my burns. I became very concerned for my parents and my sister, so I left the hospital and began walking home.'

Masako paused and dropped her head. She was living the nightmare once more; the pain of re-telling her experiences of sixty years ago. She reached for her handkerchief and dried the tears flowing freely from her eyes. Mieko took her hand but said nothing. The room was silent; the only sounds, children playing outside in the courtyard. 'You don't have to go on,' Amanda said, leaning forward, placing her hand on her knee. Masako composed herself. 'No, I want to,' she answered. 'It helps to talk about it; so long ago, and yet still so vivid.'

'Did you find your family?' Amanda asked.

'I walked along the street. All the houses were on fire. I couldn't find my home. I went up and down the street before I realized I was in the wrong street. My family lived in the next street. When I got to my house it was burning. There was a man outside, sitting by the road. He was burnt and almost naked and his face was all swollen. As I came nearer, he looked up at me and said my name. Masako, he said. You are alive.

'I looked closely at him and realized it was my father. 'Papa, I cried, 'where is Mama? Where is Taeko? He just stared at me with a blank expression. Then he pointed toward where our front fence used to be and I saw two lifeless bodies, lying on the grass. It was my mother and sister.

'The feeling of shock at what had happened was compounded. At that stage we did not know what had happened beyond some sort of incendiary bombing. I walked slowly toward the two bodies, but I did not recognize them. It was impossible to tell who they were. I turned to my father and said, 'Are you sure?' He looked over toward them, and then at me, and could not answer. He just nodded his head.

'I don't know how long we stayed with them. Papa had dragged them from the burning house, but they were too far gone and died shortly after. We wanted to take them to some place where we could honour them, but there was nothing we could use to carry them and our need for water was very great. We had to try and save ourselves.

'We must try to reach Uncle Mineo, my father said. He was referring to his brother who lived in Kabe, at the foot of the Uebara Mountains. We knelt together on the ground alongside my mother and sister and said goodbye. We began walking. We were in shock. I shut out the feeling of pain and thought only of reaching Uncle Mineo. I knew we would get some help if we could reach him. It was a very long way; twenty, perhaps even thirty miles, but we were determined to reach him. As we walked, we passed hundreds of people, all like us, dazed, burnt, bleeding and desperate for water. It was horrifying to see so many bodies lying along the roadside. I thought constantly of my mother and sister and wondered how much they suffered. My father remained silent, still in shock. We passed a temple where some injured people had gathered to get medical assistance, but there was none. As we continued walking further and further away from the centre of the city, the damage to houses was not as great. There were still some fires, but people were not affected as badly and gave us water. Food supplies had been scarce for months and everyone was affected. Still, some were willing to give us some rice porridge.

'One lady insisted we rest while she gently rubbed some cream on our burns and bandaged them with some of her best white sheets that she tore to pieces. She said her daughter worked in a factory in the city and was very concerned for her safety. She offered us a place to lie down but my father said we must try to reach Uncle Mineo, and so, after thanking this kind woman, we continued on our way. Several times we had to stop to rest and each time the stinging from our burns became so unbearable that we forced ourselves to keep walking and that helped take our mind off the throbbing and the agonizing pain. After some time passed, I don't know how long we had been walking, we turned back to look at the destruction and saw huge pales of smoke over all of Hiroshima, and fires everywhere. I remember my father exclaiming there was only one explosion. What kind of a bomb could do all this damage he said. Later we came by a stream and drank some water, but each time we leaned over to scoop up water in our hands, the throbbing pain was excruciating. Late in the afternoon, as we continued on the road to Kabe, a farmer came by in his truck and offered us a lift. He gave us more food, although it was painful to eat. He told us that he had heard on the radio that a new kind of bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima, but didn't know what kind it was. We were very grateful for his kindness. He was very concerned for us and drove us all the way to my uncle's house.

'We arrived there around six in the evening. We were both exhausted and Uncle Mineo came running out of the house when he saw the truck pull up outside. Somehow, he sensed that it was his brother come all the way from Hiroshima. They were twins and would often joke that they knew what the other was thinking, or what they were doing. He and his wife, my Aunt Tatako took care of us. He arranged for the local doctor to come to the house. The doctor gave us both morphine and tended to our burns and he also gave us something to help us sleep. I don't remember much else about that first night. The next thing I remember was about three days later, waking up to find Uncle Mineo sitting by my bed with my Aunt Tatako. They gave me something to eat and I could see tears in their eyes as they fed me with soup and vegetables. I asked them about my father and they told me he had died during the night. Uncle Mineo was devastated. He had suggested several times to my father that our family should relocate to the country, away from the city. Surely, he used to say, Hiroshima would be bombed sooner or later. Better to leave now and be safe. But my Father never accepted his offer to live with them. Now Uncle Mineo was making the same offer to me. He and Aunt Tatako told me I could stay with them as long as I wanted to, that I could attend school in Kabe rather than return home. The doctor had told them my burns would heal in time but not quickly. I would need ongoing treatment and that I should stay in the country and rest. I was happy to accept their offer, although I wanted to return to Hiroshima to see what was left of my home. Uncle Mineo said he would go with me when I felt strong enough. While he was speaking to me a radio broadcast announced that another horrible bomb, the same as fell on Hiroshima, had now been dropped on Nagasaki just hours ago. A terrible fear gripped me when I heard the news. To think that the poor people of Nagasaki were going through the same ordeal we experienced was too much and I began to scream. Aunt Tatako put her arms around me and comforted me. How many more cities would they drop this monster bomb? When would we ever be safe? Were they planning to obliterate us completely? We all felt very afraid and helpless at the news.'

Amanda didn't know what to say. Up until a few weeks ago she had only heard the American version of the story. That version contained little or no reference to the personal suffering experienced in the streets of Hiroshima. The American version of the story was always linked to the shortening of the war and the lives saved by avoiding a land invasion of Japan. That story was always caked in the most subtle of ways with the notion that the Japanese got what they deserved. As horrific as the dropping of the bomb seemed, it was always presented in the most positive of terms. But now, here in that very city, Amanda herself, was forced to confront the personal reality, the personal cost of human life, the suffering, the legacy carried through subsequent generations of innocent Japanese children, the quality of who's lives was pre-determined long before they were even conceived. As Amanda sat speechless in the wake of this appalling disclosure, Masako rested, satisfied with what seemed a personal need to tell what she had experienced.

Amanda looked closely at this diminutive, elderly lady. In her mind she contrasted the placid, submissive demeanour she had encountered in her dealings with the Japanese over the past few days. She realized that these people, like all people, were fundamentally gentle and peace loving. It was their leadership that soiled this nation's image, not its people. When a nation's leaders mislead their people, all manner of acts are possible; all manner of atrocities. That is so of all governments. Even today, all manner of propaganda devised by the faceless ones inside the bureaucracy enable our leaders to put the case that a certain course of action is good for the country, when their real reasons are hidden. All governments are complicit; all are guilty. And it could be said that in 1945, the leader of the world's richest and strongest country was no less barbaric than Germany's leaders or Japan's leaders? Were all devoid of morality when it stood between their objectives and an otherwise more principled outcome? Clearly the American people had also been misled when given the reasons for unleashing this weapon against other human beings. Clearly the Japanese were trying to negotiate surrender. Clearly a dark and sinister conspiracy infiltrated the upper echelons of the US administration in the closing days of the war. Clearly President Truman was seduced into thinking that it was in the best interests of the US to drop the bomb rather than negotiate a conditional surrender with the Japanese; a surrender that would have produced the same result, without a land invasion, without further loss of life on either side, a surrender acceptable to all parties. Was Truman so short-sighted that he did not realize other nations would eventually develop this new technology, and that America's present advantage would be short-lived, thus placing the world in an even more dangerous position? Was this the story that Quentin Avers had sent her, Amanda Blackburn, at his own huge personal expense, to discover? If so, what did he want her to do? As Mieko pointed out, this was not exactly a secret. De-classified documents had already revealed the truth, several books had been written. Amanda recalled in her research, reading that in May 1983, the National Conference of Catholic Bishops in America tried to revive the nation's conscience by publishing a pastoral letter on war and peace where it urged Catholics to lead the way...

"We must shape the climate of opinion which will make it possible for our country to express profound sorrow over the atomic bombing in 1945. Without that sorrow, there is no possibility of finding a way to repudiate future use of nuclear weapons or of conventional weapons in such military actions as would not fulfill just-war criteria".

If such an influential body had been unsuccessful in changing popular opinion, what could one more lone voice do?

Masako had said enough on the matter. She sat back, and appeared somewhat exhausted for the effort expended in telling her story once more. But at the same time she was proud and pleased, and then almost as an after-thought said, 'But that is not the reason you are here, is it?'

Amanda was still in a state of distress herself, her mind racing over and absorbing all that she had heard. Her visit here was to ask Masako for the key to the safety deposit box in Kyoto.

'Er, I'm sorry, what did you say?' she said, looking at Mieko.

'She would like to know the reason for your visit,' Mieko said.

'Er, yes,' she said, collecting her thoughts. 'It seems almost trite under the circumstances, but Derek Avers' son, Quentin, asked me to come. He has asked me to seek your help in recovering a Meijji artefact. Apparently it is in a safety deposit box with the Bank of Japan in Kyoto and he says that you have the key.

'I will give you the key, but the Meijji vase is not there. It is at Kamakura, in the forest. It is buried there. The safety deposit box contains a map Derek drew that will lead you to where the Meijji vase is buried.'

'Where is Kamakura?' Amanda asked.

'It is about an hour from Tokyo by local train,' Mieko answered.

'Have you read the journal?' Masako asked.

Amanda nodded, but in the euphoria of the moment did not mention that it seemed to finish abruptly, that it was possible she had not read all of it.

'What about the Meijji artefact? How does that come into the story?'

'Tokuo found it among the ruins of our house. It belonged to my mother. It is not valuable, but when Tokuo found it someone warned us that it was radioactive and would not be safe for seventy-five years. _Maclean san_ wrapped it in thick cloth and placed it in one of the boxes in the shed. He fixed a lock to it and kept it separate from the other boxes.'

'Maclean? Ronnie Maclean? You know him?' Amanda asked.

'Yes, he came to Uncle Mineo's house often.'

'I just met him a couple of weeks ago,' Amanda said, quite excited.

'He is still alive?' Masako asked.

'Yes,' Amanda replied. 'What happened to the vase after that?'

'Sometime later, a week or so, _Maclean san_ gave the key to Uncle Mineo, and they buried the box at the back of the shed, and placed a marker above it, so we would always know where it was. Later, Derek dug up the artefact from the back yard and took it away. He told me it was buried in the forest at Kamakura. He didn't want anyone getting sick from the radiation. He then drew a map detailing how to find it, and placed it in the deposit box. It has been there ever since.'

'Why has no one bothered to bring it back here? Surely it is no longer radio-active is it?'

'No, I don't think it is. I'm not sure it ever was, but we did not know then. We believed what we were told.'

'But what is so important about it?' Amanda asked. 'If it is not worth anything, why does Quentin Avers want it returned?'

'I assume you are in contact with Quentin?' Masako asked.

'Yes, I will be calling him later tonight,' Amanda answered.

'Then I'm sure he will explain further as to what he wishes to happen. That is all I can tell you,' Masako said.

Amanda felt she had learned as much as Masako could tell her, but for one vital interest.

'What happened to Shigeko?' she asked.

'What do you mean?' Masako answered vaguely.

'Shigeko. The girl Michael, the writer of the journal fell in love with; the one who became pregnant and was sent by her parents to Tokyo.'

Masako hesitated as if collecting her thoughts, trying to remember.

'Oh the girl,' she started, 'I remember now. Tokuo brought her back from Tokyo and took her to Kaitaichi, to Dr. Kano. The doctor looked after her and helped to deliver her baby.'

'Where is she now?' Amanda persisted.

'I do not know. You should speak with Tokuo,' Masako replied.

'Were she and Michael reunited when Michael returned to Hiroshima?' Amanda asked, now starting to sound more like an investigative journalist than a guest. Masako seemed to struggle with the question.

'I don't know. I never saw Michael again. He never returned to Hiroshima.'

Masako's answer stunned Amanda. She was momentarily speechless. The visit she had looked forward to with such anticipation and from which she had learned so much about the dropping of the bomb, was loosing its depth. So much detail still remained unanswered.

'I think she is tired,' Mieko suggested to her.

'I don't suppose you have a photo or anything do you?' Amanda asked Masako.

'No,' she answered shaking her head. 'We had nothing like that.'

'And Tokuo? Where is he now?'

'Tokuo lives in Nara. He is old now, older than me,' she joked.

Amanda looked at Mieko for some indication of where Nara was situated.

'It's a short rail journey from Kyoto,' Mieko said.

Amanda realized that she needed to speak with Quentin Avers and try to learn more about her mission. She felt ill-prepared and insufficiently briefed to continue with Masako at this point.

'Can you give me the key to the safety deposit box?' she asked.

Masako nodded and signalled to her grand-daughter to bring her a box on top of a crockery chest.

Suddenly the grand-daughter spoke to Masako and reminded her of the code.

'Oh yes, I nearly forgot,' she joked, 'do you have some message for me?'

Amanda looked dumbfounded. 'Oh yes, the message! God what was it? I think I wrote it down,' she said, as she rifled through her handbag. After a few moments of extreme embarrassment, emptying out the entire contents, she found it, unfolded it and read, 'Dr. Kano has no more penicillin,' she said quickly, as if time were of the essence.

'Ah ha!' Masako said. 'You are not good spy.'

The comment broke the silence with laughter, mostly from Masako, who took delight in her own light-hearted remark.

'Take this to the Bank of Japan in Kyoto,' she said, handing over the key, 'together with the instructions inside the envelope. They will give you access to the deposit box.' 'Tokuo's address in Nara is there also, should you need his help.'

'I'm very grateful to you for seeing me today. Could I come to see you again, perhaps tomorrow or the next day? I would like to speak with my people in Australia before I go any further,' Amanda said.

Masako nodded but said nothing.

'Then I'll say goodbye for now, and thank you for all your help.'

As the grand-daughter led them to the front door, Amanda noticed a bronze insignia resting on a small table in the hallway alongside a small framed photograph. With only a brief glance, she did not recognize the two people in the photo, but she was sure the insignia was the badge of the rising sun, the official badge affixed to the slouched hat, worn by Australian soldiers during World War 2. She noticed, but avoided showing interest, hoping to have another opportunity when she returned the next day to speak with Masako once again.

## 18.

Outside, Amanda walked away from the house in silence trying to identify her unease. Something was not right; she could feel it.

Turning to Mieko, she said, 'How long would it take for us to get to Miyajima?'

'It's a ferry ride from further down the coast. But why?'

'And Kyoto?'

It's two hours by _Shinkasen_ in the opposite direction. What are you thinking Amanda?'

'I'm thinking that there is something not quite right. What am I doing here? There's a safety deposit box in Kyoto containing a map leading to an artefact that anyone here could have retrieved if they wanted to. Any radiation contamination has long since passed; even Masako knows that. Why have I been sent here to recover something so insignificant?'

Amanda thought deeply about the odd position she now found herself and lamented the missing pages of the journal.

' _What happened to them?'_ she thought. Then turning to Mieko, she said.

'I will go to Kyoto this afternoon and recover the artefact. I'll stay overnight and tomorrow morning contact Tokuo in Nara. Perhaps he will tell me something about Shigeko.'

'Why do you want to find Shigeko?' Mieko asked.

'Don't you see? She _is_ the story. I think that's the reason Quentin Avers wanted me to come here. The artefact is a ruse. He's leading me to a point where I will work things out for myself. If I find Shigeko, I will find out who Michael is, and what happened after she came back to have her baby.'

'Do you think Quentin wants to find Michael?'

Amanda thought for a moment.

'Yes, that's it. He wants me to find out who Michael is.'

'Why?' Mieko asked.

Amanda thought for a moment.

'I don't know,' she said, a little annoyed, but energized at the same time. This was exciting. A picture was starting to emerge from the haze that had engulfed her meeting with Masako. But as her mind ticked over the details she pondered, a plan began to emerge giving her reason for optimism. Finding Shigeko was also a personal choice. The tragedy of her story portrayed in the journal was reason in itself to pursue this line of enquiry, and perhaps lead her to finding the mysterious Michael.

'I need to go back to the hotel,' she said excitedly. 'I will pack a few things, ask them to find me a hotel in Kyoto for tonight, and then return here either tomorrow or the next day. I will contact Quentin tonight, after I have the artefact, and see what instructions he has. I won't tell him that I'm looking for Shigeko.'

'If you wish, you can stay with me when you return to Hiroshima,' Mieko offered.

'That's very kind of you. We'll see. Can you check on ferry times for Miyajima? We may go there when I return.'

'Yes, I will,' Mieko replied.

An hour later, she was in her hotel room dialling Quentin Avers mobile phone number. Melbourne time was two hours behind, placing the call at lunch time. When Quentin answered, the reception was as clear as if he were across the road.

'I'm in Hiroshima,' Amanda explained. 'I have spent the morning at Masako's house. She has given me the key to the safety deposit box and I'm preparing to travel to Kyoto this afternoon.'

'What did she tell you?' Quentin asked.

'She told me of her terrible experiences the day the bomb exploded and what they did after that. Quentin, did you omit part of the journal? Is there more than what you gave me?'

'No, I gave you everything. Why?'

'Because some of it is missing! It finished very abruptly. It only goes as far as Shigeko returning to Kaitaichi to have her baby; after she was sent to Tokyo by her parents. There is nothing after that.'

'There's not much more after that, don't worry?'

'It leaves things up in the air. Did you leave me a note inside telling me to be careful with it?'

'No. Why do you ask that?'

'Because when I was on the plane I was reading it, then I went to the toilet and when I came back someone had left a note telling me to take more care of it.'

'Are you saying that someone on the plane removed a section of the journal?'

'Well it looks like that. Who else knew I was going? Who else would be interested in the journal?'

There was only silence at the other end of the phone. Quentin Avers was momentarily stunned.

'I don't know,' he answered slowly.

'Quentin, What is so important about a Meijji vase? Masako says it's not valuable. It's a family heirloom, they have protected because that's all they recovered from the ruins of their home after the bomb. They only buried it because they thought it was radio-active.'

There was another long pause at the other end of the phone, a pause that made Amanda feel that vital information was being withheld from her. She quickly coupled that piece of evidence with the realization that someone on the plane had removed some of the journal while she was away from her seat, and began to feel distinctly vulnerable.

'Quentin, are you still there?' she asked.

'Yes, I'm here,' he answered slowly.

'What haven't you told me?'

'Nothing,' he answered sheepishly.

'Quentin, if you want me to help you, perhaps you had better tell me everything you know.'

'I need some time Amanda, time to work things out. I need to check out a few things and get back to you.'

'That's hardly good enough at this point, Quentin. What does it say in the journal that I have missed? What is going on here Quentin?' Amanda asserted herself as she detected a weakness in Quentin's voice.

'It's not important,' he snapped. 'I told you this would not all be plain sailing.'

'What have I missed reading in the journal, Quentin?' Amanda insisted.

'Go to Kyoto today. Recover the Meijji vase and take it to Tokuo in Nara. I will speak with you tonight. I have to check on something. Don't waste time asking questions that are not important right now. Just do as I ask. I will speak with you tonight.'

Amanda sat on the bed speechless as she heard the click at the other end indicating Quentin had turned off his phone. Momentarily stunned but feeling energised she packed all her belongings and made her way downstairs to check out of the hotel. While the lift descended to the ground floor, something Quentin said continued to trouble her.

' _Recover the Meijji vase and take it to Tokuo in Nara.'_

'How did Quentin know that Tokuo was in Nara? And how did he know that I would be able to find him?' she muttered to herself. 'Am I no more than a pawn here, doing someone else's dirty work? How dare he use me like this!' The thought that she had been deceived bedevilled her. It outraged her.

'I'm being used!' she blurted out, oblivious to the fact that the lift doors had opened and her outburst was heard half-way across the foyer. Unabashed, she strode across the foyer to the reception desk, explained that she had been called away and would be checking out.

'Could you possibly recommend a hotel in Kyoto for me to stay tonight?' she asked.

'Yes,' the receptionist replied. 'Would you like me to make a booking for you?' he asked.

'Yes please,' she replied. 'Two nights, if you would, and the following night I would like to return here.'

The receptionist nodded. 'You are busy lady,' he joked.

'Could I have a taxi to take me to the railway station?'

'The station is just a short walk from here. Don't you remember? Just turn left out the front door. It take just five minute.'

'Are trains to Kyoto frequent?' she asked.

'Oh yes. Go every twenty minute or so,' he replied.

'Thank you,' she said as the receptionist prepared her account.

Behind her, seated comfortably and reading a paper, a Caucasian gentleman kept watch. Dressed in a business suit and wearing dark rimmed glasses, he kept looking up to follow her progress. When Amanda's checking out details were complete, she turned and headed for the front door. The Caucasian gentleman followed her.

Minutes later, Amanda was crossing the plaza, avoiding the buses in front of Hiroshima station. Even in broad daylight, the neon signs were blazing away with a huge screen above the main entrance promoting the latest western movie. The plaza was always busy with commuters coming and going. Westerners were not uncommon here. Hiroshima was a popular tourist destination; the A-bomb dome and the Peace Park Memorial Museum clearly the main attractions. The Caucasian gentleman kept close behind her as she approached the ticketing office.

'I have a Japan Rail Pass,' she said, 'could I have a ticket on the next train to Kyoto, please?'

The ticketing attendant looked quizzically at her and replied in Japanese.

'Kyoto, today,' Amanda replied, having no idea what the officer said.

The ticketing attendant still unsure of what Amanda was asking looked confused. Amanda became a little flustered, turning around to seek help. Immediately the Caucasian gentleman stepped forward and spoke in Japanese to the ticketing attendant who understood him clearly.

'I hope I'm not being too forward,' he said to Amanda, 'but I have explained to the attendant that you want to take the next JR train to Kyoto. Is that correct?'

'Yes,' Amanda said. 'Thank you. Are you Australian?' she asked, noticing his accent.

'Yes I am.'

'Thank you very much. Are you travelling to Kyoto?'

'No, I'm on my way to Tokyo,' he replied.

'Oh well, thank you again. Aren't these trains wonderful, so fast and so comfortable?'

'Yes they are. They are so far ahead of us back home, it's overwhelming,' he replied. Amanda felt drawn to the middle aged gentleman and considered reasons to wait for him while he bought his ticket. He, on the other hand, offered no incentive for her, stepping up to the ticketing window and speaking once again in Japanese. Amanda waited that extra moment, then slowly made her way toward the station platform. To her surprise and delight, he caught up with her.

'Your train will be here in a few minutes,' he said to her, 'have a good trip.'

'Are you on the same train?' she asked.

'Yes, but I will be getting off at Himeji, about an hour or so north of here. What is your car number?' he asked.

'Oh umm, no.5,' she answered as she scanned the ticket.'

'Okay, just look for the markings on the platform, find No. 5 and that's where you get on. The doors will open right in front of you.'

'I'm very grateful for all your help Mr...er,' she replied, hoping to delay him an extra few moments.

'My name is Andrew,' he said. 'Unfortunately we are not riding in the same car. I'm further back. I hope you have a pleasant journey, Miss..er.'

'Oh! Amanda. My name is Amanda,' she said.

'It's nice to meet you Amanda. Are you going to Tokyo at all?'

'Yes, I will be...eventually,' she replied. 'I have to return here to Hiroshima first. I need to go to Miyajima, although I have no idea how to get there.'

'You take the tram to Miyajimaguchi station and jump on the ferry,' he volunteered.

'Oh,...that easy?'

'Pretty much! You'll love it. It is a beautiful island.'

'Right then, well, thank you again.'

'If you are in Tokyo and need any help, you can find me at this number,' he said, offering her his business card.

'How long will you be in Japan?' she asked.

'Oh I come here all the time. I'll be here for another fortnight or so.'

'Thank you,' she said, taking his card.

As he walked away, toward the other end of the station, she watched and thought how romantic a dinner for two in Tokyo sounded. She looked down at his card which read, _'Andrew Patterson: Accountant.'_

While his occupation sounded rather dreary, he was very handsome and, she felt, about her age. Perhaps she could find some reason to contact him. In any event, he had given her something to fantasize about as she journeyed to Kyoto.

If Amanda thought her morning with Masako was full of activity, David Maclean's was more so. His journey into the Kamakura forest was as much a test of mental endurance as it was physical. Equipped with a small pick and shovel he could barely hide underneath his rain jacket, he had set out early as advised by his father. The track was slippery from light rain that fell during the night. He wished he had come prepared with better footwear, but decided to continue in his joggers. He continually looked out to find a break in the vegetation in the hope of seeing Mt. Fujiyama toward the south, but it was overcast and no such opportunity presented itself. The hike was demanding and he rested often to take water. After a half hour's walking, he came by the turnoff to the Sasukeinarijira Shrine. Stopping to rest, he rechecked his father's instructions and realized he still had some distance to go. After a few minutes he continued on, stopping along the way to drink more and more water, thankful that his wife Margaret was not with him. She would never have been able to handle the difficult terrain.

Further along, the track widened and became flatter, much easier to negotiate. Yet another shrine came into view. This was the Zeniaraibenzaiten Shrine with a very welcome toilet sign. His consumption of water had taken its toll and here he rested once more. Finally, just when he was considering abandoning the trip and telling his father he was unable to find the gold, he came by a sign that read: _'View of Mt. Fuji'_ where a break in the trees left open a view stretching for miles to the south. The mountain could not be seen for the overcast skies, but that did not dispel his enthusiasm. His father was right. Ronnie Maclean's instructions were accurate. Now all he had to do was find the Matsu Pine. He looked down the slope and realized it would not be easy. His job was far from over.

## 19.

Melbourne, the same day.

It was a balmy Autumn afternoon in Melbourne; not one for closing oneself off in a dark windowless room peering at a computer monitor, but events were unfolding, important events and George Balwyn had a pre-arranged commitment. He had eluded having to explain his absence to Janet Ryan who was otherwise occupied on editorial matters. As quietly as he could be, he slipped downstairs and disappeared behind the mystery door before anyone noticed. Had any of his staff who were so curious about the activities behind the mystery door seen inside, they would have been bitterly disappointed. It was no more than another office with all the usual trimmings, a desk, some modest furniture, a filing cabinet, pictures of his mother and father hanging from the walls and a computer with a broadband connection.

George sat pensively in front of his monitor. He was reading an email advising him of proceedings far away in Japan. The email read...

Amanda Blackburn has arrived in Hiroshima and established contact with Mieko Murata. She is with Mieko and Masako Yamada as we speak. What do you want me to do

George considered the information passed on to him, clicked on the 'reply' link, and delivered a return message, then, took in a deep breath; his well-prepared plan was in play.

Several miles away, at Coventry House in Bundoora, Ronnie Maclean sat in bed while Penelope and Evelyn Maclean made use of the community internet service at the retirement home, typing off a reply to an email received from their nephew, David Maclean in Tokyo, David had written....

We are in Kamakura. Tomorrow morning I will go out alone along the hiking course. It is too rugged for Margaret.

And so it was that a confluence of greed, fear and self-righteousness had gathered between these otherwise good but distracted people, each of whom believed that their pursuits would bring some sought of closure to events that transpired over sixty years earlier in the squalor that was post-war Hiroshima. Quentin Avers sought to correct the dubious reputation that had surfaced concerning his father; a reputation that suggested he was a soldier of fortune, ruthlessly exploiting a downtrodden, starving people. Ronnie Maclean wanted something so long denied him, a bounty that would balance the scales however minutely and recognize his role in the events of so long ago. And there were others who wanted justice too. George Balwyn had never revealed to Amanda, his personal interest in having her travel to Japan. And then there was Andrew Patterson, the middle aged gentleman, who so conveniently appeared at Hiroshima station and assisted Amanda in procuring her ticket to Kyoto. All these people had been driven to distraction by the emergence of a journal written by a soldier named Michael, a soldier none could recall or identify, who, sixty years earlier, lived amongst the protagonists at Battalion HQ at Kaitaichi, who worked with them at Ujina helping process and repatriate millions of returning Japanese soldiers. Who was the mysterious Michael, the author of the journal and what had motivated him to initiate such a challenging undertaking so late in his life? And what became of his first great love, Shigeko and her baby?

There was only one person able to sift through this mire of intrigue and deception. Amanda Blackburn. Only Amanda would have the objectivity, and the investigative drive to rise above the petty jealousy, the secretive nature and personal aspirations of all the other participants. Only Amanda could bring a steady mind and good judgment to the cause, and avoid what might otherwise spoil a satisfactory outcome.

## 20.

Travelling on the _Shinkasen_ to Kyoto, Amanda allowed herself the luxury of sleep. It had been an arduous exercise listening to Masako and absorbing all she said. Trying to put the pieces together, making sense of it all, had taken its toll. Resisting the temptation to gaze out the window and enjoy the countryside unfolding before her, she closed her eyes and drifted off. Waking briefly during a short stop at Osaka, she opened her eyes and thought she saw Andrew Patterson, the man who had helped her at Hiroshima station, on the platform. Before she could focus correctly however, he was gone. She quickly dismissed the thought and chuckled as she realized that here in this heavily populated Asian zone, most European men looked the same. Thirty minutes later she was in Kyoto, the city of temples and shrines; this cultural centre once the national capital and home of the Emperor. Having already mastered the Tokyo subway, Amanda felt confident she could do the same in a city of just over one million people and quickly found her way to the Karasuma subway line and the train that would take her to _Karasuma Oike._ From there, it was a short walk to her hotel. Too late to visit the Bank of Japan, Amanda ventured out sightseeing on _Oike Dori,_ along a wide and spacious footpath, where ordinary Japanese were going about their business. Riding bicycles on the pavement seemed more popular than driving cars and easier to park with locking bays at almost every intersection. At four in the afternoon, school children impeccably dressed in navy blue or black uniforms, and let loose from the classroom, gravitated en masse to the shopping districts to meet with friends. Amanda followed them certain that they would lead her to some kind of shopping centre. Minutes later she was swallowed up in _Tagamachi Arcade_ which snaked its way almost endlessly interconnecting with adjoining arcades all full of galleries, movie theatres, and shops where local merchants offered everything from food, clothing, footwear and the inevitable souvenirs. At various points along the way, commerce gave way to small shrines where the elderly, in most cases, stopped to spend a few moments lighting sticks of incense, joining hands, bowing their heads in prayer and meditation, quite openly, unabashed as if it were a normal part of their outdoor activity. Just meters away, teenagers socialized at a Baskin-Robbins ice-cream parlour. The Buddhist faith was a way of life here, unlike the very private devotional nature of mainstream western religious belief. Despite the initial intimidation she felt in Tokyo, weighed down by the sheer mass of people, Amanda felt comfortable and safe here in this clean, well planned part of Kyoto. She realized too, that comfort and safety also prevailed when in Hiroshima. In fact, everywhere she travelled she felt safe.

Tagamachi offered a huge range of clothing stores, a window-shoppers paradise and Amanda took full advantage moving from store to store draping traditional Japanese kimonos across her front, trying on a variety of shoes, and hats. Rarely could she remember feeling so liberated.

Resting comfortably that evening, she woke the next morning with a feeling of anticipation. Today she would retrieve the Meijji vase and put at least part of this mystery in which she had found herself embroiled, to one side. Whatever significance the vase did represent, today at least, she would touch something tangible, something that if it could talk, would tell the story of that fateful morning in 1945. The visit to the Peace Park memorial museum brought her closer to understanding some of the associated suffering and Masako's graphic account as a first hand experience was chilling. But the vase would go further than that. It was a significant item of history, every bit as noteworthy as a Roman or Greek artefact. Not just because it was from the Meijji dynasty, but also because it had survived the first nuclear attack on mankind. In any exhibition of antiquities, it would be viewed as an important contribution.

Today also, she would travel to Nara, another ancient capital, but not for that reason. Here she would meet Tokuo, Masako's brother although she did not know what information he would give her. She did not know what his role was in her assignment. She was simply following Quentin Avers instructions, albeit feeling slightly uncomfortable about his evasive reaction to some of her questions. Still, whatever the outcome of her day, by evening, she expected to be better equipped to proceed.

What she did not know, was that she was not the only visitor Tokuo would have on this day.

Following a western breakfast of cereal and toast, Amanda took directions from the friendly hotel staff and set out for the address of the Bank of Japan given her by Masako. She arrived shortly before 10am and entered the modern office building. Presenting her authority to bank staff, she was escorted to a lower floor and taken into a long room reminiscent of a morgue save that the hundreds of deposit boxes around three sides were clearly too small to contain anything other than personal belongings. In the centre of the long room, a highly polished oak table and chairs completed the décor. Amanda seated herself while her guide wearing his spotless white gloves brought the deposit box to her and then left her alone. She quickly retrieved the key from her handbag and opened the box. To her shock and utter confusion, it was empty.

'What sought of comedy is this?' she uttered, her voice echoing around the room. 'What on earth is going on here?'

She sat there dumbfounded, trying to think the whole charade through. Who was leading her on here, she wondered. Did Masako know the box was empty? Did Quentin Avers know it was empty? If not, who had been here before her? Question after question invaded her mind until uncertainty graduated to annoyance. _'I can't work like this,'_ she thought to herself. _'I have to take control here. I have to do this my way.'_

She left the bank hurriedly; still smarting from whatever deception she had be lured toward and hailed a passing taxi.

'Train station please,' she said to the driver.

He looked at her and gestured that he did not understand.

'Shinkasen,' she snapped, not meaning to sound impolite but no longer interested in following the gentle tradition of kindness. It was now a time for leading.

'Hai,' the driver responded, understanding her intention.

The driver proceeded toward Kyoto station while Amanda collected her thoughts.

'Nara,' she said to him.

'Hai,' he replied nodding and added, 'Diabutsu.'

'Sumi masen?'(Excuse me?), she asked.

'Nara, Diabutsu,' he replied.

'Yes,' she nodded having no idea what he was talking about.

Five minutes later, the taxi arrived at the station and she decided to try her luck with the driver once more.

'Nara shinkasen,' she said to him.

'No shinkasen Nara,' he answered pointing to the regional platform. 'JR,' he told her.

'JR? You mean it's a local train to Nara?' she guessed.

'No shinkasen, Nara,' he repeated, pointing toward the entrance.

'Arigato,' she replied, paying him the fare. At least he had alerted her to some difference between the bullet train and the train to Nara. The rest she would discover at the ticket office.

The train to Nara was a regional train more in keeping with suburban trains Amanda was familiar with in Melbourne. Having just enough time to buy a sandwich she boarded the train and settled herself for a journey that would take forty-five minutes including several stops along the way; ample time for her to consider her position. She was coming to see Tokuo Yamada and felt uncertain as to how she would be received. If Tokuo was part of a black-market operation during the occupation, that meant he was probably working with Derek Avers at the time. Repatriated Japanese soldiers would struggle to find work; Tokuo would have been an easy recruitment target. Masako said Tokuo brought Shigeko back to Kaitaichi to have her baby. He must have some knowledge of what happened to her. Amanda reasoned that he would most likely be loyal to Quentin but at the very least he might explain what happened to her. These were Amanda's thoughts as the train pulled into Nara station.

On first site Nara appeared strangely untidy; the town square adjacent to the station was surrounded by a gaudy retail centre with an over-supply of neon signage and crass advertising. The bulk of visitors seemed to be heading for the street that climbed sharply, a street that was plagued with wall to wall souvenir shops. Amanda visited the information bureau a short walk from the station where an English speaking guide gave her directions to Tokuo's house .

'Better to take taxi,' the guide added. 'Too far to walk!'

Ten minutes later the taxi pulled up and the driver pointed to Tokuo's house, a dowdy wooden structure along a narrow street made less inviting for the power lines stretching from one end to the other. Television aerials protruded sideways in some cases seemingly hanging from weatherboards and fences.

'Could you wait for me?' she asked the taxi driver. He did not understand her until she gestured in such a way as to indicate her intention to knock on the front door. The driver nodded.

Amanda knocked nervously on the front door. For the next few moments she felt her life flashing before her eyes, uncertain as she was of her intentions, unsure of how she would be received. When the door finally opened a small man stood in the hallway peering out. He was perhaps eighty and fragile looking, with his white hair an otherwise redeeming feature, given his frail appearance. Amanda smiled at him.

'Are you Tokuo?' she asked. He nodded.

'My name is Amanda Blackburn. Derek Avers son Quentin asked me to visit you,' she said.

'Come in,' he replied in broken English. 'I have been expecting you.'

Amanda relieved and now excited at the prospect of learning more about that part of the journal she had not read, at once turned toward the taxi driver and waved him off.

## 21.

At his home in Melbourne, Quentin Avers paced across the lounge room floor, his mind near drowning in a sea of uncertainties. He even began to wonder why he had started the whole process of trying to clear his father's name. Who still remembered the events of 1946 anyway apart from a small number of ex-occupation veterans still alive? He knew his father was above suspicion. He knew Derek Avers to be an honourable man. And even if he had dabbled in a little bit of racketeering, was that really so bad? In a Japanese post-war vacuum so hopelessly disorganized, demanding ever more of its protectors, what was the harm? As the occupation forces re-established law and order, helping the homeless and the downtrodden regain their self-esteem, what harm was there in making a small gain here and there? Given the way his government today had ignored the occupation veterans their rightful entitlements, given how they had consistently refused to recognize claims for compensation for radiation exposure over the past sixty years, perhaps it was fortuitous in the long run that he had compensated himself. His father was a true patriot; he deserved better. He certainly was not a racketeer, but at the end of the day, who really cared?

As Quentin Avers' mind scanned a multitude of concerns, there was one thing about which he remained certain. If assets lay secreted anywhere or held in a bank in his father's name as was intimated in the journal, then he was the one entitled to it. Not, Ronnie Maclean, not Michael the mystery writer of the journal. If his father had left instructions for monies to be invested in some form, or used in a particular way, then any residual deposits plus sixty years of interest belonged to him. He was the rightful inheritor. But if it was true, why had his father not told him?

## 22.

Amanda looked into the eyes of the old man sitting across the room. He had a light frame, white hair and strong facial lines. His smile was genuine and his eyes welcoming. He sat on a Tatami mat pouring two cups of tea. Thinking back to the time she had been reading the journal she had developed a mental picture of what she thought the young Tokuo might look like. Now she was looking at the same person sixty years later and try as she might, she could find nothing in him that remotely resembled the man she had imagined.

'I welcome you to Japan, Blackburn _san_. I hope you have pleasant time while you are here.'

Tokuo ushered Amanda into the main reception room in his small traditional house. Around the room, delicate pottery stood proudly here and there, as well as a photo or two but otherwise the home was modestly furnished.

'Please, call me Amanda,' she said gently, surprised at the fluency of his English.

'Arigato,' he replied slipping into his native Japanese. 'You have come a long way,' he added.

'A long way for me, yes,' she replied. 'This is all very exciting, but I must not let my feelings get in the way of my assignment. I take it you know why I am here?' she replied.

'I know why you _think_ you are here. I know why the son of my friend sent you. I am not sure however that his reasons are well founded,' he cautioned.

'What do you mean?' Amanda asked.

'I do not wish to complicate matters, so I will let you talk to me as if I were an advisor. I think that would be the best way to help you. You should ask me whatever questions you wish and I will give you the proper guidance with my answers. Does that sound comfortable for you?'

Tokuo spoke confidently, but with a strong emphasis on words he struggled to pronounce. It prompted Amanda to pause for a moment. There was something in Tokuo's voice that told her to listen carefully to him, that he might be of great assistance to her. If he had worked for Derek Avers albeit in a clandestine roll, she quickly surmised that he was in a better position than Masako to advise her, as he would have been with all the people involved in the events of 1946.

'Yes, I think so,' she responded. 'Perhaps you can explain something at the outset. I went to the Bank of Japan today to retrieve what I thought would be a Meijji artefact. But when I opened the safe deposit box there was nothing in it. Can you help explain that?'

Tokuo grinned mischievously.

'Yes. The artefact is a family heirloom. It was removed some time ago. I have it here,' he said, pointing to a charming blue vase sitting on a table. 'It is of no consequence anymore. Avers _san_ thought to stash some money it in at one time and I can only guess that in recent dying state, his mind play tricks on him and he think the money still there.'

'But Masako also thought it was there,' Amanda claimed.

'She is silly woman. Her mind going strange,' he answered.

'So what happened to the money that he put there?'

'You know that the girl Shigeko had a child?'

'Yes.'

'It was Avers' _san_ wish that the child be looked after. He left money for her mother Shigeko to take care of her. Her mother was to have whatever she wanted. That was what the money was for.'

'Where is Shigeko now?' Amanda asked.

'She lives in the home of her parents on Miyajima. They left it to her when they passed away.'

'Then she was reconciled with them?'

'Yes, once they saw the child and realized that we were married, they no longer felt ashamed.'

'Married?' Amanda gasped. 'You and Shigeko were married?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't realize,' Amanda stumbled out, unable to conceal her surprise. 'Something like that never crossed my mind,' she said, apprehensively.

Tokuo handed her a cup of tea.

'Do not be troubled,' he said, reassuring her. 'When I brought Shigeko back from Tokyo I took her to Dr. Kano's medical centre at Kaitaichi. Avers _san_ had a good relationship with the doctor. He stored some of the goods we received from the Americans. He had lots of space and no one suspected him. When Avers _san_ learned of the accident he asked Dr. Kano to take care of Shigeko. He asked the doctor to make sure the baby was delivered safely, give the two of them somewhere to live and in return, Shigeko would work for him in whatever capacity she could.'

'Accident! What accident,' Amanda interrupted.

'I'm sorry. I thought you knew,' he answered.

Amanda shook her head. Tokuo explained.

'While I was driving Shigeko back to Kaitaichi, _Ned Kelly san_ , the father of the baby, travelled back to Hiroshima by military train. There was an accident. Train smashed into truck at a level crossing. The train ran off the rails and turned over. Many people were killed. It was terrible mess. _Ned Kelly san_ was badly injured. Apart from cuts, bruises and a few broken bones, he struck his head very solidly on some part of train and lost memory. Amnesia! He was many weeks in military hospital at Eta Jima and then sent home to Australia.'

Amanda gasped once more.

'You mean he never saw Shigeko after she returned to Kaitaichi?'

'No. She went to see him but he did not even recognize her. He did not know her. She was devastated. She thought that they were going to be man and wife. Instead he was sent home and she was left on her own. I feel great sorrow for her and tell my sister Masako that Shigeko was pregnant and I was the father. She went to ask Avers _san_ to help her. Avers _san_ went to see Shigeko and recognized her from the Repatriation centre at Ujina. He asked Dr. Kano to care for her.'

'What did she do for Dr. Kano?'

'She spoke excellent English, she even taught me. She was very helpful in negotiating supplies from the Australian camp and she helped nurse some of the girls Dr. Kano was treating.'

'Which girls were these?' Amanda asked.

' _Hibakusha.'_ Tokuo replied. 'You know _'Hibakusha?'_

'Bomb-affected people.' Amanda replied, nodding her head.

'Yes. Terrible injuries, burns, keloids, radiation sickness,' Tokuo said, dropping his head as if the very words he used to describe the injuries to civilians sent a pain of sadness through his heart. 'Dr. Kano treated them as best he could. He was dedicated to helping them. Avers _san_ always made sure he got whatever medical supplies he needed. Dr. Kano was happy to help care for Shigeko and give her place to stay. While she was there I saw her many times. I like her very much and I propose marriage to her. She did not love me but she was in difficult position. She wanted to make things right with her parents. Marriage to a Japanese boy would make everything right with parents. When baby girl born, baby looked very Japanese, so Shigeko say yes to marriage proposal. We stayed together for ten years, but it not happy. She missed _Ned Kelly san_ too much. We drift apart, but I help raise baby girl. We very close even now.

'Where is your step-daughter now?'

'You meet her in Tokyo first day.'

Amanda was once again taken by surprise. The only person she met in Tokyo was Yoshiko, the woman at the Rykoban.

'How did you know that? The only person I spoke to was Yoshiko? Is it Yoshiko?' she asked.

'Yes. Yoshiko is my step-daughter.'

'Quentin Avers arranged for me to stay there. Yoshiko was the first one I was to make contact with; the first to give me instructions. Quentin must have known she was Shigeko's daughter.'

'No, he didn't. He was in touch with me and was looking for a place for you to stay. I suggested Rimi Rykoban where my step-daughter work. It is cheap compared to hotel. He was happy to take my advice.'

'How did he know to contact you?'

'Over many years, Avers _san_ and I keep in touch. Avers _san_ keen to know how I was faring.'

'Then I still don't understand why his son Quentin has sent me on this journey.'

'You have read journal?' Tokuo asked, surprised.

'Part of the journal Quentin gave me is missing. Someone took it on the plane. What does it say in the journal?'

' _Ned Kelly san_ thinks that there is money stashed away from our dealings on the black-market. There is no money,' he said bluntly. 'It was all spent on the little girl; raising her, giving her a good education, making sure she had everything she needed, food, clothes all that sort of thing. If you have children Blackburn _san_ you will know what I mean. _Ned Kelly san_ does not realize this. He is disconnected. He has clearly regained most of his memory over the years, but he still doesn't realize we helped both him and Shigeko. If we are able to contact him directly we can explain this.'

'Then why do you think Quentin Avers sent me here? He told me he wanted to clear his father's name, but from what you tell me, there is nothing to clear. Surely he can't be all that obsessed with his father's reputation?'

'He is after the gold.'

'What gold?' Amanda asked, now more confused than ever.

'The gold Avers _san_ left with Shigeko when he was finally sent home. He told her to keep it safe. It was like insurance for her and baby in case the money ran out. Shigeko is only one who knows where it is.'

How did Derek Avers come to have gold?'

'He had plenty money at his disposal. Black market very profitable. He left some money for Shigeko and had the rest converted to gold. A good investment for the future.'

'But if Ned Kelly, I mean Michael, had been sent home, how would he know about the gold to make mention of it in the journal?'

'Not sure. I think someone tell him after he return home, someone he knew when he was in Hiroshima; another soldier I suspect. I think his memories gradually come back and he remembers some things. He seeks out past army friends and perhaps they tell him.'

'So as his memory starts to return, he contacts someone he was close to, who was also involved in the smuggled goods and learns what happened after he was sent home,' Amanda says, trying to fill in the missing pieces.'

'Most likely! But he has not yet learned about his daughter. If he had, he would not be trying to cause trouble.'

'And Quentin is trying to claim the gold for himself. Derek Avers must have told him about the gold when he first received his copy of the journal,' Amanda surmised.

'Perhaps! He maybe believes that someone else is also after the gold. He thinks that _Ned Kelly san_ is playing one off against the other. That is why you have been sent; to speak with Shigeko. _Ned_ _Kelly san_ sends copies of journal to others involved and that maybe why the son of my friend thinks everyone chasing gold.'

'Does anyone besides Shigeko know where the gold is?'

'The gold is deposited somewhere at Kamakura. Shigeko took it there for safe keeping many years ago. It is in one of the monastery's in the forest.'

'Was that mentioned in the journal?'

'No, _Ned Kelly san_ would not know this. There are many monastery's in the forest near Kamakura. Only Shigeko knows the exact location.'

'Wouldn't she be likely to hand it over to the son of Derek Avers?'

'Perhaps! But she doesn't know that _Avers san_ has died.'

For Amanda all the pieces were starting to fall into place.

'So Quentin thinks that I will be able to convince her to give him the gold,' she said, and added, 'how cunning of him. He gets me to do the dirty work. Shigeko gives me the gold, I deposit it with a bank here in his name, the bank converts it to cash and transfers the proceeds back to his account in Australia.'

'And what do you get?' Tokuo asked.

'I get the story,' she answered. 'At least that part of the deal seems to be straight-forward. You said that someone else might be after the gold. Do you know who?'

'I can think of a few. _Maclean san,_ Patterson, Kelty, they were all part of it. Perhaps they suddenly get greedy after all this time,' Tokuo chuckled.

'Or perhaps it is their children who are the greedy ones,' Amanda suggested. Tokuo chuckled once more.

'You seem to be enjoying all this,' Amanda said to him, 'as if it was some sort of game.'

Tokuo chuckled even more. 'They are silly,' he began. 'Shigeko is loyal to one person only, and that is _Avers san_. Now that he has died, she has no responsibility to anyone. She will decide what to do with the gold. I suspect she will donate it to some cause. She is devout Buddhist. Money means nothing to her. It is only means to an end, and during most of her life Yoshiko has been all that mattered.'

'Has she ever tried to find Michael?'

' _Ned Kelly san?'_

'Yes,' Amanda replied.

'Very hard for her to do that. She and I were married. All the time she look after Yoshiko, she expect _Ned Kelly san_ to come looking for her, so she stay at Miyajima. But he not come. Very hard for me, and very hard for our marriage. After we separate, she make enquiries but they lead her nowhere. In the end she stopped trying and get on with her life.'

'Was your separation amicable?'

'Amicable?'

'Friendly.'

'I would say, pleasant. There was no big argument. I was offered work here in Nara and it seemed right time to re-assess our relationship. It may sound strange, but we are still close. We share common memories and we both love Yoshiko as our own. Shigeko still seeks my advice on money matters and tells me what Yoshiko is doing. I keep in touch with Yoshiko as well and Yoshiko rings me every week.'

'Does Shigeko know Ned Kelly's real name?' Amanda asked.

'Yes, of course.'

'Do you?' Amanda pressed.

'Yes, but not my place to tell,' he laughed, 'I no tell.'

'Then what surname did she give Yoshiko?'

'Mine,' Tokuo answered. 'She is Yoshiko Yamada, he said very proudly.

Amanda felt certain that if she could meet with Shigeko and learn the true identity of Michael, the author of the journal, she would be able to join all the pieces together and unravel the remaining mysteries surrounding this fascinating story.

'Would Shigeko meet with me?' she asked Tokuo.

'I can ask her. But if it is only to help the son of my friend then I don't think she will want to help you.'

'Do you think that she would tell me _Ned Kelly san's_ real name?'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Because _Ned Kelly san_ holds a special place in her heart and to reveal his identity for little more than temporal gain would disturb the special nature of her relationship with him. In her heart she has attained a special state of mind, a kind of _nirvana_ , a purity of thought, a golden time, born of pain and suffering, and she would not dare do anything to interfere with that. It would for her, be a huge betrayal,' Tokuo answered.

'Even if she knew that he was now trying to stir up trouble?'

'We don't know why he does this? Perhaps if he knew current circumstance, he would act differently. Also, we don't know how much he remembers.'

'He remembered that he had made her pregnant?'

'Yes. Perhaps that is all and he feels anger in his heart. Perhaps he look for someone to blame after so long.'

'What would it take then, do you think, for Shigeko to reveal his name?'

'Only, if it were to compliment the memory of what they were together.'

'You are a Buddhist aren't you?' she asked Tokuo. He nodded devoutly, clapped his hands together and bowed his head.

'Can you help me understand these things better?'

Tokuo was taken by surprise. He remained silent as he searched deep into Amanda's eyes as if expecting to see the answer he should give her. What he saw was conflict, passion, and desire. What he saw was determination, drive, competitiveness, all the things he had seen during those years spent with the Australian and American soldiers, all the things that rendered the mind fruitless, a desert where unhappy souls wander in search of answers they cannot find, of anything to save them from death.

'You must allow understanding to come to you. Not by learning but by clearing your mind of all that blocks out the pathway to enlightenment. This cannot be found. You must allow it to find you.'

'How do I allow it to find me?'

'Through meditation,' he answered. 'It is not easy. It is not like sitting in church and listening to priest preaching, or reading from a holy book. It is to be open to the gentleness of the mind, to expel the forces of hate and retribution, of craving for material comforts. You must free your mind of all that prevents you respecting all living things and thus to embrace the beauty of every living thing.'

'I'd like to try,' she asked of him.

Again, he looked deeply into her eyes, and Amanda felt he was searching for her soul. Then he rose, offered his hand to help her up and said, 'come, we go to the temple and you tell me what you feel.'

'What temple?'

'Todai-ji Temple. Most famous in all Japan! Come we go.'

'What, right now?'

'Yes, it is not far. Come I show you.'

From Tokuo's house, the couple headed up the road, past Nara Park and the small lake where tourists and local residents rested after the long walk up the hill from Nara railway station. They cut across the gardens brimming with pink and white blossom, passed Kofuku-ji Temple and its eye-catching pagodas and followed what seemed a pilgrimage of believers and non-believers all pressing onward, come to view the world famous heritage listed structure. Along the way, much to Amanda's astonishment, deer roamed freely, unafraid, permitting tourists the luxury of touching and feeding. Souvenir shops plagued the final avenue leading to the middle gate, the final passageway to the great wooden temple wherein the giant Daibutsu made of gold and copper rested, its hands reaching out, sitting, meditating; the symbol of enlightenment of thought.

The very size alone staggered Amanda. 'It is the largest wooden structure in the world,' Tokuo told her. 'It has been destroyed by fire twice since first built in the eighth century C.E. and the present structure is only two thirds its original size,' he added proudly.

'It is stunning,' Amanda said as she walked alongside Tokuo toward the temple.

'Christians have their cathedrals. We have our temples,' Tokuo replied calmly. As they reached the top of the steps leading to the Great Buddha, crowds came and went, cameras clicking furiously. Children in school groups listened intently as their teachers gave them instruction, elderly Japanese stood in silent prayer.

'These people who pray here, are they enlightened?' Amanda asked Tokuo quietly.

'They seek enlightenment. No one person would be so audacious as to claim enlightenment. It is received, not claimed; and only after much time and meditation. While Christians seek an external god, we seek the god within us,' he explained. 'In truth, none achieve what they seek. It comes through progressive stages and in different forms.'

'You mean re-incarnation?' Amanda asked.

'Hmm,' Tokuo thought, 'it is complicated and requires much understanding from you before I can answer your question. Today we simply seek to be aware of our consciousness and its depth.'

'Well, I have to say I am inexpressibly impressed,' Amanda conceded.

'It is easy to be impressed with such a magnificent shrine, but those who come here to pray see well beyond the monument. They come in search of the way to their inner being. This vast building like all cathedrals is a means to an end. The real journey only begins here. If I can make analogy with _your_ journey: you could go to Shigeko and ask that she give the gold to the son of my friend. But would it not be better, to ask how you can help preserve the special relationship she enjoys with _Ned Kelly san._ '

'Would it not be better still if we could reunite them both?' Amanda asked.

'Yes, indeed, but surely _Ned Kelly san_ could have done that himself, rather than write a hurtful journal,' Tokuo suggested.

'Perhaps he is unable. Perhaps he is frightened. Perhaps the journal was his way of drawing others together to show him the way. Who knows! He might even be married himself and unable to reveal to those around him the pain he now feels.'

'Now you are speaking as one who is receiving enlightenment Amanda _san_.'

Amanda blushed as she realized at that moment her focus had shifted from her own desire to a deeper, more meaningful concern for someone else, and true to Tokuo's words, she did not seek it...it came to her. At that moment she realized too, the materialistic nature of Quentin Avers mission in sending her to Japan. Surely, she thought, the story required a deeper, more fulfilling outcome. And that outcome was not hers to manipulate; it was for Shigeko to decide.

'Let me go to her,' Amanda pleaded. 'I will leave it entirely to her. I will not ask for the gold, I will ask her to reveal what her wishes are, and I will do my best to help her. If you would trust me Tokuo, I promise I will not disappoint you.'

Tokuo had no difficulty trusting that Amanda would keep her word. He did not however, trust Quentin Avers, the son of his friend.

'Come let us return to my house and I will give you that part of the journal you have not yet seen. I know how it was removed from your belongings.'

'How?' Amanda asked as they descended the steps of the Todai-ji Temple and began making their way out amid the hoard of tourists and schoolgirls surrounding them.

'I had another visitor yesterday. He knew you were coming.'

'Who?' Amanda asked, quite stunned.

'His name was Andrew Patterson. Do you know him?'

'No,' Amanda said instinctively.

'He claimed he spoke with you yesterday at Hiroshima station.'

'Him!' Amanda said, recalling the brief encounter with the Australia man. 'He was so helpful to me. Who is he?'

'He claimed to be the son of Len Patterson _san_ , a former soldier and associate of mine who, it seems, is also on the trail of the gold.'

'Oh my God, I had no idea. I was quite taken with him. He gave me his card and also his address in Tokyo. He suggested I contact him when I returned there. What did he want from you?'

'He visit me as mark of respect for his father,' Tokuo chuckled. 'He funny man. His father funny man.'

'How on earth did he know who I was?'

'I would suggest Amanda _san_ that he was on the same flight as you, that he has been following you, and that he has been sent here by someone who wants to keep a close eye on you.'

'Who?' Amanda asked, 'and why?'

'Come, perhaps when you have the opportunity to read the remaining part of the journal, the answer might become clear to you.'

Amanda suddenly remembered the occasion with Quentin Avers at their first meeting. She recalled his warning that she would be delving into some shady areas, and some people may try to warn her off, even threaten her. Things had not yet reached that stage but an eerie chill crept up behind her and for the very first time since arriving in Japan, she felt uneasy. As Tokuo escorted her back to his house the image of Andrew Patterson haunted her. He must have followed her from the hotel to the station. Perhaps he was staying there. Who had hired him to keep watch? What was she doing that would be of such interest to anyone except Quentin Avers?

When she arrived back at Tokuo's house, she felt slightly more relaxed. Tokuo handed her his copy of the journal and offered more tea. Amanda thanked him, opened the journal to the part she last remembered reading. She decided to refresh her memory by re-reading a few pages first....

'But you will come back for me, Michael?' she asked, her eyes filled with hope. I could not bring myself to say no. I saw deep within her an expectation that she was about to leave, that she had concluded some likelihood we would be together from this moment on.

'In a few days,' I said, without thinking. It was all I could offer her.

'We are having a baby,' she said, and it was then I knew I could not desert her, but I had no idea how to overcome the difficulties that would confront us. There was a strict non-fraternization policy and I had broken that already. How was I to manage this predicament?

'I need some time to work things out,' I said to her. 'I have to get help from our people.' While I said 'our people', I didn't know who 'our people' were. Then in a moment of calm I resigned myself to be adopted by the black marketeers, for if they could not help, surely there was no one else. After all, she was having our baby, and somehow that took priority. Whatever I could do, would be driven by that fundamental reality.

'Are you being looked after here all right?' I asked.

She nodded. 'The woman who let you in is my aunty and she agreed to allow you in when a soldier came asking for me. In return, he offered food. Food is so scarce. People are starving. Housing is limited, the bombing, the incendiary bombing. Anyone who still has a house is very fortunate. My aunty will most likely write to my parents though and tell them you have come,' Shigeko said.

'Don't worry. I will find a way for you to leave here soon. Trust me. Be ready to go at a minute's notice. The next time I come, I will take you with me, I promise.'

My words helped her calm down, her body once tense and frightened, relaxed and rested in my arms. I had made her a promise and she trusted me, although at that point I had no idea how I would keep my word.

I left her there with a promise to return and the only person I thought could help was Len Patterson. As I walked briskly back to the waiting truck, my fifteen minutes up, my mind focussed on him. Clearly, there was something about him and his activities that, in my naivety, I was missing. But right now, he was the man, the only man, and having seen Shigeko, and aware of the circumstances she had been forced to accept, I was prepared to do anything he wanted, if he could secure her safety.

This was the point she reached previously. Now, she sat back on a comfortable armchair and began the final pages of the journal....

I climbed aboard the truck, my mind totally concentrating on Shigeko. We continued on in the darkness, through the desolate streets of Tokyo until we came to a stop once more. There, several men, both Japanese and Caucasian, waited alongside a civilian transport vehicle. With customary military efficiency, we began unloading our supplies, transferring them from one vehicle to the other. As we made the transfer I looked more closely at one of the Japanese men because even in the darkness I thought I recognized him. It was Tokuo Yamada, the brother of Masako. I was taken by surprise and tried to attract his attention, but he would have none of it, his mind totally committed to what he was doing. When loading was completed, Len signalled for us to climb back into our vehicle. I took another look across to where Tokuo waited. This time he was more receptive. Our eyes met and he nodded to me, almost a traditional Japanese bow. But no words passed between us. He pointed to the vehicle now carrying the supplies we had unloaded as if to inform me he was going with them. I nodded back to show I understood and climbed aboard our truck. There was some private discussion between Len Patterson and the men from the other vehicle, and then it was all over. The other vehicle departed, and we headed back to our barracks. On the return journey, I sat with Len. I said nothing about Tokuo, rather I explained the position concerning Shigeko and what I wanted to do. He sat quietly, listening to everything I said, nodding gently from time to time, and indicating that he understood all the circumstances. He sat there quietly for a few moments and then explained what he could do.

'There's a doctor in Kaitaichi. Dr. Kano,' he started.

'Yes, I know of him,' I replied.

'He is one of us,' he said.

'What do you mean, us?' I asked.

'He works with us. I don't want to go into the detail, and frankly, it is better that you don't know. But he needs help at his medical centre. He could use someone who can be trusted, and he could provide a place for your girl-friend to stay until she has the baby,' he explained. Does she speak any English?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'she speaks it very well.'

He paused for a few moments.

'Would she be ready to move in 48 hours?' he asked.

'Yes,' I said, holding back my eagerness which was about to burst out of my brain.

'Let me see what I can arrange. In the meantime, I will need your help again tomorrow night. Then we have to return to Kaitaichi on Saturday with the battalion. If we can help your girlfriend, she will need to go before then.'

'She'll be ready,' I said.

I joined the truck crew again the following night and the same procedure took place, moving supplies from the US base into the truck, driving some distance through Tokyo's desolate streets and once again transferring the supplies to a civilian truck. This time Tokuo was not among the civilian crew. When we were returning to base, Len Patterson spoke to me about Shigeko.

'We are arranging for your girl-friend to travel by truck to Hiroshima tomorrow. She will be escorted by one of our civilian locals. His name is Tokuo Yamada. He will look after her and see that she gets to Kaitaichi and Dr. Kano's medical centre where she will stay. You will be able to see her when we return to base at the end of the week.'

I felt like offering to spit-polish Len's boots for the remainder of the week such was the relief and joy I felt at the news he had given me.

'I don't know what to say,' I said gratefully.

'No need to say anything. In fact don't mention anything about this again.'

I suppose it's a stupid question to ask what we are doing here with all this?'

He looked at me. It was a look that said, 'if you haven't worked it out by now, telling you won't make any difference.'

I said no more on the matter.

The following Saturday we were to head back to Hiroshima. Guard duty at the Imperial Palace was over for us and a new unit had arrived and taken over. I was happy to leave Tokyo; happier moreover knowing that I would see Shigeko again and we could make plans. It was a depressing site looking at the incredible destruction we witnessed in the suburbs, and even more depressing to see the population trying to re-establish themselves, their homes, and their lives. Some had begun growing vegetables on tiny plots that would barely feed a family for a day when they were ready to pick; others just stared aimlessly as we passed by, the faces telling the same story of hopelessness I had seen the first day I arrived in Japan. It wasn't just Tokyo; in Yokohama the same story unfolded. It was only in the countryside that any real degree of normality returned. Here, farmers seemed more determined, more productive, with lush green fields full of crops near-ready for market. I wondered who would be their first port-of-call. Would the starving of Tokyo and Yokohama receive desperately needed food or would the black marketeers get their greedy hands on the supplies first and demand exorbitant prices for the most basic of human needs? Truly, I thought, the country was a shambles and it would take extraordinary resolve to overcome their present circumstances.

Sadly, that is as much as I recall with any clarity, except to say that I know something is missing. Forty years passed before my memory began to return. I have since sought answers but it is such a long and difficult process. I have tracked down those who were part of the scheme and have learnt of the wealth they amassed. Doubtless they have profited greatly. That is not as much my concern or interest now, as it is to learn what happened afterwards. I am told by one former member that I was involved in a train derailment and lost my memory. I recall nothing of that. The same member tells me that Sergeant Avers amassed so much money he could not take it with him when he came home. I am not surprised. I am told there is gold bullion buried in the forest at Kamakura.

Such greed carried out in the face of such suffering and starvation is strange to me. I am told that Masako holds the key to the location of this gold. I am told Ronnie Maclean was present and knows the precise location. Doubtless Sergeant Avers knows too, but he is sick and will never see the fruits of his crimes. If I have one wish it is to know what happened to Shigeko and if her baby was born safely. All these years I have been married to my Elaine and as memories of Shigeko have returned gradually, I have wondered what became of her. Elaine knows but says nothing. Perhaps I have spoken in my sleep, I don't know, but she has said nothing. Our relationship has been strained for these reasons and now she is not well. My son is my only hope now; he, and his emissary who searches for answers. But know this: Those who seek to claim what is not theirs will fail, and I give you solemn warning that it is within my sphere of influence to have this entire matter brought to the attention, not just of the Department of Defence, but of the broader community.

Let all who read this take heed.

Amanda let the journal rest on her knees as she considered the claims made.

'He says that his son is his only hope. His son and his son's emissary! Do we conclude from that remark that someone is already here searching on his behalf? Is he here following me, hoping that I will lead him to the gold bullion, or lead him to Shigeko?'

Tokuo looked toward her and with the wisdom of the years spoke softly, but emphatically.

'Those who seek riches for riches' sake will fail. That is all I have to say.'

Amanda placed the journal down and pleaded with Tokuo.

'Please let me go to see Shigeko. I will not ask anything of her. I just want to meet her and listen to what she can tell me. I want to learn from her.'

Tokuo paused in thought, and then eventually nodded his head. 'I will speak with her tonight. It is for her to decide. Come and see me in the morning and I will give you her answer.'

Next morning, Amanda did not have to wait long for Shigeko's answer.

'Yes, Shigeko would be pleased to meet with you,' Tokuo told her when she returned to his house shortly after breakfast.

'That's wonderful,' Amanda said, delighted at the news.

'I will give you her contact details and you can call her when you return to Hiroshima.'

Amanda clasped her hands together in anticipation. Tokuo smiled approvingly at her eagerness.

'As you have come this far, it would be unfortunate not to meet her. I am pleased for you. I am still doubtful however, that she will be willing to help the son of my friend if all he seeks is the gold,' Tokuo cautioned.

'The son of your friend will have to be very honest with me as well,' Amanda said. 'I have no intention of being a _mule_ here.'

'A _mule_?'

'It's a term used to describe a drug runner,' Amanda replied. 'If anything, I am more interested in re-uniting Shigeko with the father of her daughter than helping Quentin Avers.'

'If that is your intention, then I wish you well,' he replied.

'The young woman who met me at Hiroshima, Mieko, would she be able to come with me do you think?'

'It has been arranged. If you return to your hotel in Hiroshima today, she will contact you tomorrow morning.'

'Oh that's wonderful. Thank you very much.'

Then, sensing that this might be a final parting, Amanda paused. 'Will I see you again?' she asked.

'Let us leave that to our respective destinies,' he answered.

Amanda nodded, and the two of them shook hands.

'Goodbye for the time being,' she said.

'Goodbye Amanda _san_.'

He watched her walk away, down the narrow street toward the station and felt a sense of fulfilment. Amanda, he realized, was not a puppet of Quentin Avers. She was a person of integrity and would not allow herself to be used by anybody. His only reservation was that in his experience, people of integrity expend so much effort concentrating on the right path that they lose sight of their objective.

## 23.

Melbourne: the same day

'I still don't know how you did it,' George Balwyn said to a relaxed Janet Ryan as they enjoyed a quiet drink in the mystery room after most of the staff had gone home. They had just received advice from Amanda Blackburn that she was returning to Hiroshima that day, and would travel across to the island of Miyajima and meet with Shigeko the following day. Amanda had been diligent in her emails to Janet, making sure she reported her every move. Janet, in turn, relayed proceedings to George who anxiously awaited a daily briefing.

'Tracking down old soldiers is not exactly my strong suit, George,' Janet answered, 'but what with army records, the RSL, and Google, pretty much anything is possible these days.'

'Not to mention some excellent work by Jimmy Bayswater,' George replied, and added, 'do you think Avers is after the same thing?' George asked.

'Who knows? Perhaps he is. Then again, perhaps our Mr. Avers is an altruistic fellow who simply wants to right a wrong, correct the record as he says, and leave it at that.'

'I didn't know such people still existed,' George mumbled.

'How is your father?' Janet asked.

'He's holding up,' George answered.

'He does understand why I was unable to attend Elaine's funeral, doesn't he?'

'Of course. Don't concern yourself about it.'

'It has all worked out one way or another, hasn't it?' Janet said.

'Yes, I would say so, one way or another. Derek Avers reputation will be restored; my father's journal together with Amanda's assignment should make for a best-seller. In all likelihood, Maclean and Patterson's efforts will come to no good. Nobody can say we haven't been completely fair and above board.'

As the two architects of an ambitious plan sat basking in their achievements, believing that good planning would always produce good results, Janet's mobile phone rang.

'Janet, it's Sarah Whelan at reception.'

'Yes Sarah.'

'I have a Mr. Quentin Avers her to see you. Are you here in the building or have you gone home?'

It was the last thing Janet wanted to hear. Quentin Avers had no idea Janet Ryan was the same woman he met three months ago at the book launch where she offered to help him clear his father's name.

'HERE! Jesus. Wait..er what does he want?'

'He asked for either you or Mr. Balwyn.'

'Hold on just a minute.'

Janet had turned white. 'It's him. He's here.'

'Who?'

'Avers. He wants to see either me or you. He can't see me. He thinks I'm someone else. He'll recognize me. Christ! That would blow us wide open.'

'Don't worry,' George replied, calm and relaxed. 'Tell Sarah I'll see him. Ask her to show him into my office.'

Janet quickly regained her composure.

'Sarah, Mr. Balwyn will see him. Would you take him up to George's office and ask him to wait? Mr. Balwyn will be there shortly. And don't say anything else to him.'

'Okay,' Sarah replied.

As Janet turned to George she could see his mind was working overtime. 'What the devil does he want?'

'Maybe he simply wants to chat about how things are going,' Janet suggested.

'Maybe, but he could have done that with you over the phone. Why come here and at this time of the day?'

'Do you want me to stay?' Janet asked.

'Yes, you'd better stay here. I'll go see what he wants and come back. Don't worry, he can't hurt us. Make yourself at home.'

As George made his way upstairs he scanned his brain trying to think of anything that had been overlooked. To the best of his knowledge there was nothing. And, he thought, even if there was, how bad could it be? Minutes later, he entered his office to greet Quentin Avers.

'Good evening, my name is George Balwyn, and you, I believe, are Quentin Avers,' he said boldly.

'Yes,' Avers replied standing up. 'Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.'

'No problem, I was just winding up one or two things downstairs. Can I offer you anything? A drink?'

'No thank you. I won't stay long,' Avers replied.

'Then how can I help you?'

'I think it's more a case of me helping you, Mr. Balwyn.'

'Oh! How so?' George asked, somewhat intrigued.

'I'll cut to the chase Mr. Balwyn, and let me say at the outset, you are not going to like what I have to say.'

George Balwyn, not used to being the target of threatening language of any kind, moved uncomfortably in his chair.

'As you know,' Quentin Avers began, 'some months ago, my father received a journal in the mail, written by a soldier serving with him in Japan in 1946. The author of the journal did not identify himself, but made certain allegations as to my father's integrity and morality. Before my father died, he shared some additional information with me about that journal.'

'Like what?' George asked.

'Like who wrote it for a start. Like what parts of it were true and what parts were, shall we say either an invention or a fabrication? Did you really think you could fool him?' Avers replied, studying George's reaction. There was none. 'My father was ill Mr. Balwyn, but his mind was sound.'

'I'm sorry to hear about your father,' George Balwyn conceded.

'Spare me your hollow sympathy,' Quentin replied tersely, and continued.

'As a result of matters referred to in the journal, I decided to do a little investigating of my own. After establishing a connection between the author and Balwyn, Lester and Merricks, I tried to think up a scheme to draw the two of us together.'

'What connection are you talking about?' George asked. 'Don't be coy with me, Mr. Balwyn. It doesn't suit you. Without too much trouble I tracked down one or two soldiers who were a part of the 67th Battalion; Len Patterson and Ronnie Maclean to be precise. The BCOF veterans are a closely knit group, but then I'm sure you already knew that.'

'Do continue,' George said, ignoring the opportunity to implicate himself.

'Each of the gentlemen I contacted had also received a copy of the journal.'

'Really?' George asked.

'Then, lo and behold,' Quentin Avers explained, 'I happened to attend a rather lavish book launch. It occurred to me that this might be a way of finding someone to correct the record; having an alternative version of the journal written, so I went along thinking I might even meet a publisher.'

'Did you?' George interrupted, not liking where the conversation was going.

'Yes. As it happened, I met your employee, Janet Ryan, although that is not the name she gave me at the time. Funny about that! She seemed so willing to help, and I had hardly told her why I had come. When she recommended Amanda Blackburn, I thought, why not? I was happy to go along with anything at that stage. So I made an approach to Amanda's supervisor. And this was where your little scheme fell over, Mr. Balwyn.'

'I've no idea what you are talking about,' George interrupted. 'Don't you. Well let me explain. I'm a phonetician, Mr. Balwyn. Do you know what that is?'

George was momentarily stunned.

'Don't worry I'll tell you,' Avers continued. 'I recognize voices Mr. Balwyn. I have a gift for it. I have been retained by the police on occasions to help them identify criminals by their voice. When I spoke to Janet Ryan over the phone, I realized it was the same person who recommended Amanda that evening at the book launch.'

'Well, good for you,' George said sarcastically, as he tried to regain the high ground.

'When I realized that Amanda Blackburn worked for the same organization as Janet Ryan, it suddenly dawned on me that I was being courted, or should I say, set-up. Imagine how I felt when I realized the very people whose attention I was trying to attract, were actually shadowing me? It convinced me that there was more to the story than I first thought. I decided to go along with it.'

'Mr. Avers, I don't know what you're after, but at the end of the day, I don't care. There has been no crime here; no one has suffered, indeed, if it all goes to plan everyone will come out in front, including you.'

'Is that all that matters to you?'

'What matters to me is producing a best seller, one that people will want to spend money to read. That's my bottom line,' George replied confidently.

'Never let the truth get in the way of a good story; is that the way it goes?' Avers asked.

'The truth is subjective, Mr. Avers. Your truth is not necessarily my truth,' George snapped back.

'The truth, Mr. Balwyn, is what you believe. When you no longer believe it, it is no longer truth.'

'Spare me your backyard psychology. Tell me something I care about,' George said.

'Really! And what about your father, Michael Balwyn? Do you care about him? Is he included in your bottom line?'

'My father has just lost his wife of nearly sixty years. Of course I care about him.'

'I'm glad to hear it. How much do you really know about your father, Mr. Balwyn? How would you feel if it became known that he was the primary cause of the deaths of many innocent Japanese civilians?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'I'm not surprised. Your father lost his memory didn't he?'

'My father was involved in a horrific train accident that could have killed him. It deprived him of his memory for decades.'

'Yes, and perhaps it was just as well, considering that he caused it.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

'You'd better explain yourself Mr. Avers.'

'I will, but the bottom line Mr. Balwyn is that your father, in writing his journal, suffered a severe case of selective memory recall. Of everyone involved, you and your father are perhaps the only two people who don't seem to know what really happened.'

'Then perhaps you'd better tell me,' George said, banging his fist down onto the desk angrily.

Quentin Avers relished George's loss of poise.

'Could I suggest that if Janet Ryan is in the building, that she be invited to hear what I have to tell you? Let me assure you, Amanda Blackburn will learn the truth within the next twenty-four hours, and may or may not be sending an email with all the detail shortly afterward. Actually I'm not sure how Amanda will react when she discovers that you have deceived her; you and Janet Ryan. She's a smart lady. She may not want to have anymore to do with you.'

## 24.

On returning to Hiroshima, Amanda went straight to her hotel and nervously awaited a call from Mieko. Her journey had been full of surprises. Matters earlier accepted as fact could no longer be considered so. Other important pieces in the puzzle were omitted from the journal, perhaps not deliberately; perhaps conveniently, she could not know. Today though, was an important step forward and its events and aspects needed to be written down in detail. Rather than dine at the restaurant, she called room service and ordered a light meal allowing her to settle in for the evening and write down everything that had happened so far. Only a brief call from Mieko interrupted her writing. After making arrangements with Mieko to call for her in the morning, she settled down to write. It was nearly 2am before she surrendered to exhaustion and fell asleep.

The following morning Mieko called for her as arranged and the two ladies took the tram along the coast to Miyajima-guchi Station where they boarded a JR ferry that took them across to the island of Miyajima. The journey across the water took only fifteen minutes, the tide was in, and Amanda's attention was distracted by the captivating sight of the Torii gate which seemed to float on the water as it guarded the entrance to Itsukushima Shrine, a hallowed landmark housing many important cultural treasures. So captivated by the Torii Gate, Amanda did not notice the elderly lady with the dark glasses and head covered, sitting at the back of the ferry.

Walking slowly, Mieko guided Amanda a short distance through the Edo styled village, along streets cluttered with souvenir shops underneath a canopy of tangled overhead electricity wires. They turned up a narrow side street and arrived at the front gate of a house hidden by a high brick wall.

'This is it,' Mieko said, turning to Amanda. 'Are you ready?'

The lady inside was waiting. Now in her mid-eighties, Shigeko Suzuki looked thin and frail but assured both her visitors she was in good health and more than able to care for herself. She had prepared a light meal for her guests and appeared excited at the prospect of talking about those dark days of 1946. Her house was small but comfortably furnished and renovated to include the latest appliances; none of which her parents who left the house to her, ever enjoyed. She ushered her guests to the main room and bade them sit down.

'You have met my daughter?' she asked of Amanda.

'Yes, I have,' Amanda replied, 'although I wasn't aware of that at the time, she added.

'We did not want to overwhelm you too early into your visit,' Mieko explained. 'But now you are ready to be told everything.'

'Yes,' Shigeko said, nodding her head. 'You will be the voice we have longed for people in Australia to hear. You will tell the story as it really happened.'

'There is yet much to tell you,' Mieko chipped in, 'and we have an additional surprise for you.'

'Oh, what is that?' Amanda asked.

'Masako is here too. She still has much to tell you.'

Almost on cue, Masako appeared from the kitchen smiling and ready to pour tea. Amanda was unable to hide her astonishment and rose to embrace her.

'Did you not think you would see her again?' Shigeko asked.

'Things have happened so quickly of late, I didn't know what to think,' Amanda answered. 'Did you know about this?' she asked Mieko.

'Masako was on the ferry,' Mieko laughed.

The initial moment of Masako's appearance was not unlike that of a surprise party and it passed just as quickly. Amanda realized however that to be teased in such a light-hearted way, by people she barely knew, was an honour. It was their way of showing their confidence and trust in her. Once tea was poured, the three ladies settled once more. As the conversation circled its way toward the journal, Amanda decided that she wanted other matters cleared up first.

'Shigeko,' she began, 'Tokuo spoke to me yesterday of a train crash involving Michael. Can you tell me what happened?'

Shigeko paused momentarily, as if to summon her internal resolve. 'It was all a horrible mistake,' Shigeko began. 'When my parents learned that I was pregnant, it was a matter of great shame for them. I had been sent to my aunt's house in Tokyo. I had no opportunity to see Michael before I left and I did not think I would ever see him again. But Michael found me when he came to Tokyo to participate in the Imperial Guard. He had arranged for Tokuo to call for me at my aunt's house and drive me back to Kaitaichi. Michael was also returning that same night to Hiroshima with sections of his unit on the train. I had packed my things and slipped out of the house without my aunt knowing and was waiting for Tokuo at the top of the street. When the truck arrived, I was so pleased to find both Michael and Tokuo in the truck. Michael said he had received permission to travel as far as Nagoya with us and would re-join the train there. It was wonderful of him to do that; it made me feel so much better and the journey was so nice. We laughed and joked together and even Tokuo was laughing even though he didn't know what we were saying to each other. We took it in turns to teach some English words to Tokuo. He asked me how to say 'put petrol in tank', so I taught him and he kept saying to himself, 'put petrol in tank, put petrol in tank', for the next hour or so. In the back of the truck Tokuo carried two fuel drums with enough petrol to get us back to Kaitaichi. Tokuo would stop when he needed to refill the tank and run a hose from the drum to the tank on the side of the truck, all the time saying to himself in a deep voice, 'put petrol in tank'. We arrived in Nagoya very late at night; Michael was taking a turn at driving, and we were very hungry. Tokuo said there was a place he was told where he would be given some food for us, so Michael followed the directions Tokuo gave him and when we arrived, Tokuo turned to Michael and said, 'you put petrol in tank,' and laughed as he walked off through some narrow streets to get the food. Michael tried to do it, but he wasn't able to siphon much petrol out of the drum. He was afraid he would swallow some petrol. He got some of the fuel into the tank but not very much. Then Michael and I became preoccupied with each other. We were very happy that we were together again and spent some time together in privacy. When Tokuo returned we had to take Michael to the station as the train was due to arrive, and he didn't want to be late. It took us some time to find the station. There were no signs anywhere. There was so much of the city destroyed by bombing and there was no one to ask directions. We drove around for some time until we found it, but wasted a lot of petrol. We didn't know the tank was nearly empty and Michael didn't remember to tell Tokuo that he was only able to siphon a small amount. Michael and I said goodbye at the station as the train was pulling into the platform and Tokuo and I left to continue driving through the night. About fifteen minutes later the truck engine started cutting out. We were approaching a railway crossing and Tokuo said he thought we were out of petrol and asked me if Michael had filled the tank. I said I wasn't sure. He said he would drive the truck over to the other side of the railway crossing, where he could pull over safely and see what was wrong but the truck stalled while we were on the crossing. It just stopped. We both jumped out to push it over the line, and almost got it clear but it just rolled back again. Suddenly, a train came around the bend. The driver of the train slammed on his brakes and there was a shrill screeching noise as the train began to slow, but it was too late. Tokuo and I barely had time to jump clear. The train crashed into the truck and oh my, Amanda, it was awful.'

As Shigeko spoke, not another sound was heard, the detail of this event so captivating Amanda's attention as it did the other two ladies.

'Then what happened?' Amanda asked.

'The train pushed the truck along for ages and then it exploded and then the train ran off the rails. The noise was terrible, the screeching of the metal, the crumbling of the carriages. I could hear people screaming inside and some of the carriages rolled over. We were so frightened, we wanted to run away and pretend it didn't happen, but then I saw the white band around the rear carriages and I realized it was a military train and I realized it was probably the train Michael was on. Tokuo and I ran to the last carriage which was laying half on the track and half in the gravel. People who lived near the tracks came running from everywhere and tried to help. Tokuo climbed into the carriage. Soon we heard sirens as police and fire trucks came screaming toward the wreckage. The sirens, the blazing lights, the fire, it was as if the war had returned and the area had been bombed.

'Did you find Michael?' Amanda asked.

'Tokuo found him lying unconscious on the floor of the carriage. Pretty soon American ambulances from a local barracks arrived and they took the injured soldiers to their own hospital. Both Tokuo and I went with him. We stayed there all night, sleeping in a corridor. The next morning we were told Michael was being air-lifted to the Australian hospital at Eta Jima. We saw Michael briefly but he was semi-conscious and did not recognize us. There was little else we could do but find a bus that would take us back to Kaitaichi.'

'Was there an investigation into the crash? Did they question Tokuo about what happened?'

'There was an investigation, but they never discovered the real cause. Tokuo did not tell anyone that he was driving. If he had said anything he would have exposed all of the work they were doing and incriminate many, many people. We left the next day and no one knew who owned the truck, it was so badly burned there was nothing left to identify it. The inquiry determined that the driver of the truck must have perished in the explosion. Everything in the truck, all the supplies Tokuo was bringing to Dr. Kano's medical centre was destroyed. Nothing was saved. Fourteen people died that night. I still have nightmares sometimes when I recall that night in my sleep.'

'When you arrived back at Kaitaichi, what happened then?'

'Tokuo took me to Dr. Kano's medical centre. He was expecting us and when he saw us walking up the road without the truck he realized something went wrong and sent one of his girls to find Avers san.'

'Derek Avers?' Amanda asked.

'Yes, Derek. He knew what happened. He had been told that the Americans were bringing some wounded soldiers back who had been injured in a train crash near Nagoya the previous night. He came quickly to the medical centre and learned the whole story.'

'And what of you, Shigeko? What happened with you at Kaitaichi? Did Dr. Kano look after you as promised?'

'I was given a room to stay. Dr. Kano examined me. He said everything was fine. Tokuo came everyday to take me to the hospital to see Michael. Derek arranged for a transport boat to take us across to Eta Jima. But Michael did not recognize me. He had lost his memory. He just stared at me as if I was a total stranger. The doctors at the hospital said he would be returned to Australia in a few weeks. Then one day we went to the hospital and he was not there. He had been taken that morning and put on a ship back to Australia.'

'If Derek knew who you were, he must have known who Michael was which means he knew who wrote the journal. Quentin told me his father didn't know.'

'You are correct,' Shigeko answered. 'Derek knew and I am sure his son Quentin also knew.'

'So,' Amanda sighed. 'That's another little deception I have to question Quentin about. Anyway, what happened then?'

'Then after a few days settling in, Dr. Kano gave me work, to pay for my accommodation. I was keeping stock of goods coming in and going out.'

'What goods?'

'I didn't realize it at first, but they were stolen from the occupation armies; American, Australian, British. There were a lot of clothes, and food and some machinery. I was told to say nothing. Tokuo came often, sometimes to pick up, sometimes to drop off and.....'

And what?' Amanda asked coyly.

'Sometimes, he came to see me,' Shigeko answered with a cheeky grin.

'And that was the beginning of your relationship with him that led to you getting married?'

'Yes.'

'And your baby Yoshiko was born, and you were re-united with your parents.'

'Yes.'

'Did it bother you that you were involved in a black-market operation.'

'Oh no, not when I realized what it was being used for.'

'What do you mean?'

Mieko suddenly interrupted. 'I think this part of the story should be told by Masako,' she suggested, and turned and spoke Japanese to Masako sitting alongside her.

Masako nodded, and began to speak with Mieko translating as she went.

'Good,' Mieko said, as she picked up on Masako's words. 'Now, I will tell you that part of the story you do not know. When the Australians came here six months after the bomb, I had moved down from Kabe to wait for my brother, Tokuo to come home. There was nowhere to stay but with a small community who had set up a camp near the river. I went to Ujina everyday for weeks waiting to see if my brother Tokuo had arrived on one of the ships. One day I met a very kind soldier called _Nedkelly san._ He took pity on us and brought us food. That is when I met Derek Avers. He was a sergeant who came to our camp one day when _Nedkelly san_ had brought food. Derek Avers was shocked to see the way we were living and promised to help. He also seemed shocked at my injuries, but said nothing about them. He asked me to come to Ujina and point out who _Nedkelly san_ was. He said stealing food had to be stopped. But when we got there I couldn't betray the kindness I had received, so I pretended that _Nedkelly san_ was not there. Derek left me there to have something to eat and arranged for someone to take me back. While I was still at Ujina, Tokuo arrived on a ship. I was overcome with joy and when Tokuo was processed and allowed to leave, _Nedkelly san_ took us to the station. When we walked onto the platform to board the train for Kabe, Derek Avers was there supervising some soldiers who were travelling to Tokyo to guard the Imperial Palace. When he saw me, he asked what I was doing. I told him about Tokuo and that we were going to my uncle's house in Kabe. He looked at me strangely for a long time. I first wondered if he might not let us go. He asked me where he could contact me if he was able to help in any way. I told him where Uncle Mineo lived. Then Tokuo and I boarded the train and returned to Kabe. A week or so later, another soldier arrived at my uncle Mineo's house. His name was _Maclean san_. He said that Derek had sent him. He brought some sacks of flour for us. He asked if there was somewhere in the area that they could store some food for us, as well as a few other things. He said they would be happy to pay rent for a small place. My uncle offered him a shed at the back of his house rent free; no need to pay. _Maclean san_ inspected the shed and agreed. He gave the flour to Uncle Mineo, and then unloaded some boxes, placing them inside the shed and fixing a lock to it. After that, _Maclean san_ was a regular visitor, sometimes bringing boxes to the shed, sometimes taking boxes away. Always, he gave Uncle Mineo a sack of flour. Then one time Derek Avers came with _Maclean san_ and he and Uncle Mineo had a long discussion in the house. After that, Uncle Mineo started taking boxes from the shed and going off in his truck. Then he would come back hours later, with more boxes that he would store in the shed.

'Was he working for Derek?' Amanda asked.

'They were doing business,' Mieko translated, nodding her head.

'What was in the boxes?'

'There were all sorts of things; food, clothes, cigarettes, crockery, tools, liquor. Derek was trading with the black market people at Hiroshima station raising money to buy medicines to help the victims of the bomb.'

'How do you know that?' Amanda asked, not without a hint of scepticism.

'Derek made sure our local doctor always had everything he needed. Uncle Mineo supplied him everything he asked for. Our local doctor was the one that arranged for me to go to Osaka and have a number of operations for my injuries caused by the bomb. He did not charge us. Derek paid for it.'

'How many operations did you have?'

'Four altogether. The surgeon in Osaka tried to have me included on the list to go to America; the ones they called the 'Hiroshima maidens' but I missed out. Perhaps I wasn't considered bad enough, I don't know.'

'Were your operations successful?' Amanda asked.

'As good as anyone could have hoped for at the time, I think. They would never have happened if it wasn't for Derek. That is why I loved him. He gave me so much and asked for nothing in return.'

'I see,' Amanda said, realizing that this was the reason Quentin Avers wanted to restore his father's reputation. She realized that while Derek Avers may have engaged in some black-market practices, he was doing it for Masako; to help her, not to line his own pockets. He was in some ways, a hero.

'I was not the only one,' Masako continued. 'There were a number of girls and boys who went to Osaka and Tokyo to have operations. Derek paid for them too.'

'Where was he getting all the merchandise, to supply the traders at Hiroshima station?'

'Some of it was Australian army supply; some of it was American. When he went to Tokyo, he met up with some American soldiers who helped him. Some of the boxes in the shed had 'US' stamped on them.'

'Did he tell you the Americans were helping him?'

'He told me that General MacArthur would not allow any information about the bomb to be broadcast to America or Australia. They were worried there might be a public backlash. Some American soldiers were very disturbed about this and felt as though they had to do something to help. It wasn't until much later that I realized Derek was part of a much larger ring of servicemen who took it upon themselves to do something positive.'

Turning to Shigeko, Amanda asked, 'why do you think Michael wrote the journal in the first place?'

'I fear he is angry and regretful,' Shigeko answered. 'I fear as his memory has returned and he recalls our love affair, he has become confused. And because he was unable to leave his wife and son, it has frustrated him. So he tries to deal with that by writing about it.'

'How do you know he has a wife and son?'

'I have known for some time now. Derek told me a few years ago,' Shigeko answered.

'Who is Michael?' Amanda asked.

'Don't you know yet?'

'No.'

His name is Michael Balwyn. He is a farmer and his son runs the publishing company that employs you.'

Amanda's jaw dropped suddenly, her mind in shock, as the truth was revealed. She stared aimlessly, momentarily paralysed.

'Oh my God, is that true? How long have you known this?'

'I told you before, Derek told me a few years ago,' Shigeko replied.

'And you never tried to contact him?'

'No, that would not be fair. He married his childhood sweetheart. I was there only for a short part of his life, a lonely time for him, far from home. I was devastated when I saw him in the hospital at Eta Jima and realized he did not know me. I felt for my baby, and for a time I even considered ending both my life and that of my unborn. But Tokuo gave me such strong support and all the time he was helping me, I still thought that I would be reunited with Michael. But that was not a rational consideration and I realized as time went by, that Michael and I were not meant to be together. Besides, he could not have lived here in Japan and I don't think I could have lived in Australia. And of course, Tokuo was paying much attention to me and was willing to accept my daughter as his own. Our marriage did not last but he was a wonderful father to Yoshiko.'

Amanda sat back slowly, her mind trying to absorb all that had been told to her.

'I think we all need to go for a walk,' Shigeko said. 'Let us go to Momijidana Park, where we can feed the deer. Then we can go to lunch at a restaurant, before all the tourists arrive. Amanda, have you ever tasted Okonomi yaki?'

'No,' Amanda replied.

'Well,' Shigeko said, 'it's high time you did.'

'What's it made of?'

'Oh, some cabbage, pork, noodles and eggs wrapped up in a pancake. You cannot come to Japan and not try it.'

'Okay,' Amanda said, 'if you insist.'

'I do, and as we walk and eat together, I can talk to you about how you can write your story in a way that will help Michael overcome his bitterness.'

'Did you know that his wife Elaine was in a nursing home?' Amanda asked.

'No, I didn't. I'm so sorry to hear that,' Shigeko replied.

'Does it make you want to see him again?' Amanda asked.

Shigeko did not answer immediately.

After thoughtful consideration she said, 'If I thought it would help him, I would. But I do not wish to bring anyone pain.'

## 25.

George Balwyn sat half slumped across his office chair, resting his left hand on the desk, thrumming his fingers as if playing the same notes on a piano over and over again. His once brilliant plan had now gone pear-shaped. Not only did Quentin Avers know almost as much about the plan as he did, Avers seemed to know a lot more. Avers' research appeared to be better than his own, a matter that stunned him and hurt him deeply. Soon, he realized, Amanda Blackburn would know the truth too, and would likely be coming home confused and angry. He could perhaps pretend that it was all part of his plan for her undergraduate training in preparation for a great future in the publishing industry, but he knew she would never fall for that. Andrew Patterson and David Maclean would be coming back soon too, and they too, would want answers. Andrew Patterson was a dark horse. George thought he had him in his back pocket. Now he wasn't so sure. Some of the information Quentin Avers acquired could only have come from Patterson, George surmised. Had they done a deal? David Maclean would want to know why he was sent on a ridiculous treasure hunt through the forests of Kamakura for gold bullion that didn't exist. But most of all, George considered the injustice he had committed against his father. After encouraging him to write the journal in the first place, George then made some changes to heighten the drama. He included references to Derek Avers that were harsh and untrue, knowing that he was dying and litigation was unlikely. He included references about gold bullion to sweeten the attraction; all this, to embellish a blockbuster account of a little known part of Australian history. However, he had not counted on the tenacity of Quentin Avers. The news of the train crash came as a complete surprise. Nothing in his father's records or memorabilia contained any such account. It seemed the army wanted to keep the matter quiet, assuming they even knew of his involvement; a case of the less said the better. But if Michael Balwyn was inadvertently responsible for the carnage, then that was a major stumbling block. George had wanted to present his father as a hero. If Amanda Blackburn learned of the crash as George assumed she would, then it would have to be written as it happened. That small matter compromised George's plan for the way the story was to be told. The book was still there to be written, it could be salvaged but at what cost? Was losing his father's respect worth it? Perhaps his father might never find out. Perhaps, he could shelter his father from the truth; after all, Michael Balwyn would be eighty-one this year. Did it really matter?

Yes, it did. And George knew it. The book could only be written as fact, and that meant vindicating Derek Avers and elevating him to whatever stature was appropriate; even hero status. Whatever Amanda Blackburn uncovered would have to be incorporated into the story no matter how benign. It might not become the blockbuster George had hoped for, but at least it would be accurate. He owed that to his father. In the end, it looked very much like Quentin Avers had triumphed; he would clear his father's name and in the process relegate George's father to a failure.

## 26.

'You deceived me,' Amanda said, when Quentin answered his phone. It had been the call Quentin was dreading.

'Yes, sorry about that,' he answered rather timidly, recognizing Amanda's voice. 'Are you all right?'

'You lied to me Quentin.' Amanda repeated, determined not to be distracted by some phony act of concern.

'Perhaps you'd better tell me what you are referring to,' Quentin asked.

'You knew all along who wrote the journal, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'You didn't trust me.'

'How could I tell you that the author of the journal was the father of the man you work for?'

'He lied to me too. And I suppose Janet was in on it as well; everyone has lied. No, I take that back. Shigeko hasn't lied, neither has Tokuo or Masako. But you and that snake I work for have been playing a game with me,' Amanda rattled off, annoyed, and frustrated.

'We have both been deceived Amanda. The only difference is, I knew what that snake was up to. I had to play along with him or see my father's reputation go up in flames. My intentions were honourable, my means were questionable, but the outcome will be a just outcome and you will be the one to deliver it.'

'He won't publish the story; not when it portrays his father as a bitter twisted old man.'

'His father doesn't have to be portrayed that way. George Balwyn is the one who is twisted. His father was just a sad old man searching for answers. Surely you can see that now?' Quentin pleaded.

Amanda said nothing. Moments passed in silence as she fought to control her anger.

'What are you going to do now?' Quentin asked.

'What am I going to do, you ask? I'm going to spend a few days here with Shigeko, writing as much as I can and then I will come home.'

'Have you been in touch with George Balwyn in the last day or so?' Quentin asked.

'No. I haven't. I don't plan to, either. I'll avoid him like the plague. I want to put as much space between me and him as possible; Janet too. I want to decide how the story will finish, without any undue influence. And, if he doesn't like it, too bad.'

'There's something you need to know,' Quentin began.

'What?' Amanda answered abruptly.

'George Balwyn's mother died last week.'

There was a pause at the other end. Amanda was momentarily silent.

'Elaine?' she queried.

'Yes.'

'How is Michael?' she asked, more restrained.

'He's okay, bearing up I guess.'

'Well, it doesn't change anything.' Amanda replied, reasserting her fury.

'What do you mean?' Quentin asked.

'I mean that now it's my turn to dangle the strings, Quentin. Now it's my turn to hold back the truth.'

'What do you plan on doing?' Quentin asked.

'I will contact you when I'm back in Melbourne. Goodbye.'

'Did you recover the Meijji artefact?' Quentin asked.

But it was too late. Amanda had hung up the phone.

## 27.

For the next few days, George Balwyn and Quentin Avers sweated on the impending arrival home of Amanda Blackburn. Their greatest concern was that as a consequence of their mismanagement, they no longer held any control over her. Their supervision of the outcome had been usurped and, in their minds, Amanda had now become a loose canon. Effectively, she could now write her own story, one that might serve the intentions of neither, and one that she could write freelance and self-publish as her own. She could even implicate them in trying to engineer their own outcome; a position both men found extremely uncomfortable.

One week passed, and in all that time Amanda Blackburn had forsaken communication with anyone in Australia. No one knew where she was or when she would arrive home. Telephone calls and ever frantic sounding emails from BLM Publishing produced no response. The longer the agony of not knowing, the greater the fear loomed at the offices of BLM, and at Quentin Avers tiny upstairs office in a small shopping centre in the outer suburbs. What was she going to do? What had she already done? When the news finally filtered through that she was back and on her way to Lillico, bypassing both George Balwyn and Quentin Avers, it sent a shudder through both of them.

Nestled comfortably at the end of Copelands Road and set against a backdrop of rolling hills, paddocks and large gum trees, a lone farmhouse stood peacefully in an area where cattle were grazing and cottage industries produced mouth watering chutneys, and gourmet jams. It was a quiet, scenic area, an ideal location for Michael Balwyn to see out his remaining years albeit now on his own. The literary antics of his son had largely gone unnoticed with the more pressing state of his wife Elaine's health his major concern. But now, Elaine had passed away; as much a relief as it was a painful, sorrowful experience. Her death was no surprise; he had been told to expect it. Once he finished writing his journal, he was unaware of any embellishments subsequently included later by his son George; in fact he thought little more of the journal at all.

There were moments of course when some of the detail in the journal intervened and memories of his life with Elaine took him back further than he had anticipated to a point where he would also see the face of his first true love, Shigeko, and recall their special time together. But that was normal. It did not compromise his love for Elaine. If anything at all, it enriched him for the experience, appreciating the privilege of loving two women unconditionally. There were moments however, when the pain of not knowing what had happened to Shigeko haunted him. During the early 1950's as the BCOF commitment was gradually scaled down and soldiers came home, the question of bringing their Japanese spouses with them was a highly emotive issue. When the Menzies government finally approved the entry of Japanese war brides, the numbers that came were far greater than anyone expected. The press were largely negative in their reporting of BCOF's recreational activities in Japan, and revelled in stories of immoral conduct citing the abnormally high incidence of venereal disease among members. Many returning servicemen felt they were being viewed with suspicion and treated as social outcasts. Vietnam veterans experienced this same strange invective twenty years later. Michael Balwyn could not help but notice this absence of gratitude and wondered if his and Shigeko's fate was perhaps a blessing in disguise.

On the day of Amanda's return, he was sitting on the veranda looking out toward the small hill where the road snakes its way over the ridge down into his part of the valley. He always knew when George was coming. So quiet was the area, the sound of the car carried across before it appeared at the top of the rise. This time it was not one car that caught his ears but two, and when they both appeared at the rise, he quickly realized neither belonged to George Balwyn. _'Visitors,'_ he thought, _'better put the kettle on.'_

Visitors were rare for Michael. The local sales representatives knew he was no longer active, that the house was now annexed from the farm. The last visitors he had seen were well-wishers following Elaine's passing, and they had since stopped. So it was reasonable that Michael's curiosity was aroused, and even more so when one car stopped short halfway up the driveway, as the first came into the yard. As the kettle started to whistle, Michael watched as the male driver climbed out and immediately walked around the other side to help as another man, a very elderly man, climbed out from the passenger side. At first he did not recognize either but as both walked toward him, something about the elderly man triggered his memory and he cast his mind back in time, over sixty years. He was not certain, but something inside gave him a hunch. Only when the man spoke was he sure.

'G'day, you old bastard! Wrecked any trains lately?'

It was Len Patterson, smiling broadly as he made his way across the yard.

'This is my son Andrew,' Len continued. 'He's just been from one end of Japan to the other looking for you.'

'Len?' Michael Balwyn asked, as if to be sure. 'Len Patterson?'

'Who'd you expect? General MacArthur?' Len quipped.

'What the devil are you doing here?' Michael asked, as he walked forward to greet him. The two men embraced briefly and then looked at each other.

'You look shithouse,' Len said.

'So do you,' Michael replied. 'Have you still got the clap?'

'Actually, I never did. It was part of my cover-up.'

'And I believed it,' Michael laughed.

'So, could you spare an old soldier a cup of tea mate?' Len asked.

'Sure, come in. Who's in the other car?' Michael asked.

'Well, old mate, that's what we've come to talk to you about. But first things first, let's have a cuppa and talk. I hear your wife passed away recently. I'm sorry; mine did too, a couple of years ago. It's no fun,' Len said, as the two walked inside leaving Andrew standing alone. Moments later, the other car moved forward and swung into the rear yard. Amanda Blackburn emerged and joined Andrew Patterson.

'How did it go?' she asked.

'Pretty good,' Andrew replied, 'neither dropped dead from fright. Now they're in there drinking tea.'

'I guess we'll have to give them a while to get reacquainted. You don't think it'll take all night, do you?' Amanda asked.

'You never know with old soldiers. But I'm sure Dad will get around to the guts of it fairly soon.'

The 'guts' of it took half an hour. Len Patterson allowed time for the two of them to chat over old times, about their lives since Japan, and for Michael to settle before he began explaining the reason for his visit. When he finally broached the subject he began with the events surrounding his receiving a copy of Michael's journal in the mail, only to later discover that Derek Avers and Ronnie Maclean had also received a copy.

'I never sent anyone a copy,' Michael said, surprised.

'I know that mate; your son did.'

'George?'

'Yep. The problem was, he added a few things and that got everyone a little peeved.'

Michael sat in silence as Len explained pretty much everything that had happened since.

'Your boy has been a little naughty,' Len said at the end. 'Nothing good comes from mixing a potion of fantasy into a glass of truth,' he added. Michael looked confused.

'There's a lady I'd like you to meet. She works for your son, or at least she did. She'll probably get the sack after all this, but she will explain things to you better than me. Can I ask her to come in?'

'She's here?' Michael asked.

'She's waiting outside as we speak,' Len replied.

'Well, let's bring her in.'

As Michael spoke, his telephone rang and he rose up from his arm chair to answer. Len rose up also and signalled to Amanda and Andrew to come inside. Following the revelations from Len Patterson the phone call was not unexpected. In fact, given the circumstances, Michael thought it was right on cue. It was George Balwyn calling his father and sounding slightly sheepish.

'Everything all right Dad?' he asked.

'Sure son, why would it not be?'

'I'm in the car heading down your way. I'll be there in about half an hour, Dad. I need to have a chat with you; explain a few things about that journal you wrote. I have some exciting plans, Dad.'

'Oh, what sort of plans, son?'

'I think we can use it; incorporate it into some kind of novel.'

'Sounds very interesting,' Michael replied,

'Has anyone else turned up today, Dad?' George asked.

Michael turned toward the door as both Amanda and Andrew entered the room.

'Er, no,' he answered, 'should I be expecting anyone?'

'No, not really. Just asking. Anyway, I'll explain all about the journal when I get there.'

'Okay son, drive carefully and I'll see you soon.'

Michael replaced the receiver, and looked across the room feeling a sudden surge of adrenalin. He realized he was enjoying what was happening around him. He felt something of a drama unfolding, such was the intrigue, the manipulation and a definite strategy being played out before him, one that his son would find slightly embarrassing and who would arrive shortly and be forced to explain. _'Yes,'_ thought Michael, _'I'm going to enjoy this.'_

The gathering in Michael's front room looked more like a deputation of local counsellors for the aged, but for his old army mate Len Patterson. Len's son Andrew and Amanda might well have been calling to explain the benefits of retirement centres rather than seeking to reprimand Michael's son. But it made little difference; either way, they were company for the old man, company now more welcome since the passing of Elaine who, despite their problems, he realized he missed very much. It was two years into their marriage, shortly after George was born that Michael's memory improved enough to recall his affair with Shigeko. He delayed telling her for months afterwards. Finally he decided to confide with Elaine and confess his affair with a Japanese girl while away, and that, in all probability, he had another child, a Japanese child. Elaine did not receive the news well, and given the anti-Japanese sentiment that existed during that post-war period, fuelled by an ever hysterical media presenting them as sub-human, she struggled to cope with the truth of it all. Knowing her husband had a Japanese child living in some other part of the world haunted her constantly; any suggestion that he make enquiries concerning the child's welfare was scorned. Elaine became distant and cold such that baby George became the centre of her all-consuming attention. While not denying Michael his natural inclinations, she never allowed herself to fall pregnant again. Michael had paid a huge price for holding back what he should have revealed earlier. Michael, never again unfaithful, was left to ponder his deceit. And so, as the years passed George was over-indulged and ill-disciplined in every way imaginable. The all-too-obvious result had him believing he could do anything and get away with it; a trait he carried into his later life as a publisher. Therefore, Michael realized as he faced Amanda Blackburn, that whatever scheming activity short of criminal negligence George had concocted, it would not have surprised him in the slightest.

'And so who is this attractive young lady I see before me?' Michael asked, brimming with anticipation.

'Mr. Balwyn, my name is Amanda Blackburn. I am currently employed by your son, although that may be short lived.'

'Well,' Michael said in reply, 'don't think too badly of yourself. You certainly wouldn't be the first to run foul of him. Please take a seat. Is there anything I can get you?'

'No thank you. I don't wish to impose upon your generosity in seeing us.'

'You can get me a whiskey, cobber, if you have one?' Len begged.

'I think I can handle that,' Michael chuckled.

As Michael poured Len his whiskey, he concentrated on Amanda. 'So, what has my son been up to?' he asked her.

It took perhaps twenty minutes for Amanda to roll out the bizarre sequence of events that took place from the day she first met Quentin Avers in the gardens by the Shrine of Remembrance, her discussions with Janet Ryan and George Balwyn, reading the journal, the trip to Japan and the people she met. She held back telling Michael about Yoshiko, and also her meeting with Shigeko, preferring to concentrate on the peripheral matters such as the fate of the gold ingots. But Michael was too alert to allow her such latitude. He was about to speak when out of the corner of his eye, he saw through the front window, a car come over the rise raising more than a little dust as it came down the hill.

'Well, well, more visitors,' he said. 'Haven't had this many people here since the funeral. My, my, it looks like George.'

A bolt of adrenalin ran through Amanda's body. She had been dreading the moment she would have to face him. Little did she realize that George had been dreading the thought of facing her.

'Well, now that's he's arrived we can sort all this out,' Michael said.

'Sounds good to me,' Len Patterson volunteered.

'But first,' Michael asked Amanda, 'while you were in Japan, did you meet a lady by the name of Shigeko?'

The question took Amanda by surprise and her lip quivered and she hesitated.

'You did, didn't you?' Michael pressed gently. Amanda was not ready to explain yet. But in the end she gave in.

'Yes,' she answered.

'How is she?' Michael asked lovingly.

'Amanda paused for a moment and then answered directly.

'Perhaps you might like to ask her that yourself?'

Michael faltered slightly.

'What do you mean? Are you saying I should go to Japan to see her?' he asked.

'Actually, she's a little closer than that.' Amanda replied.

Michael stared at her, his heartbeat increasing with anticipation.

'Where?' he asked.

'Outside in the car,' Amanda replied, pointing toward the door, to the parked car outside. At the same time, George Balwyn drove into the yard.

## 28.

There were now three cars in the driveway.

As soon as George Balwyn received word that Amanda was on her way to see his father, he knew he had to get there first. He also knew that he would need some partisan testimonial to help his case and in a moment of panic chose to make his peace with Quentin Avers. If he agreed to Quentin's demands, he thought, and gained his support, it would soften any blow Amanda might land his way. George believed the two of them could develop a strategy along the way. When he contacted Quentin and explained what he believed had happened, Quentin agreed to come with him to Lillico. Beyond that, Quentin promised nothing.

When George drove into the yard, he pulled his car up ahead of the others but Michael Balwyn, his heart pulsating furiously, looked to just one as he stepped outside the house and peered down the pathway. Expecting the worst, George jumped out of his car ahead of a more casual Quentin Avers and quickly approached his father. Despite his wealth and status in the corporate world, he was still the son of his father who at the end of the day commanded more respect and consideration than George could ever muster for himself. He quickly took note of the traffic in the yard and surmised his parlous position.

'Dad, don't worry, I can explain everything,' he pleaded. It was a child's plea for compassion in the face of undeniable misdemeanours, all the more pathetic coming from someone nearly sixty years of age. But Michael passed him by, barely hearing him, barely noticing him.

'Not now son,' he said, his concentration fixed firmly elsewhere.

Almost simultaneously, two figures emerged from the rear car, one a middle aged lady quick to assist the more elderly one. As Michael walked toward them, he did not notice the sixty years of life's journey that had turned the more mature lady grey, bespectacled and wrinkled. He saw only her. Shigeko stood there smiling, waiting to greet the man she once loved with a passionate expectation. She too, looked past his ageing features, some hair loss, a sun-wearied complexion, a slight stoop, to see only the dashing young soldier who first comforted her, then consoled her and later won her heart on Miyajima Island a lifetime ago. They walked toward each other until close enough to embrace, but resisted momentarily to absorb the tenderness of the moment. Yoshiko, still clutching her mother's arm, looked upon the man she now knew to be her father. Her emotions were broiling with intense fervour. Nevertheless, she would not allow herself to speak. It was not her place to speak. This was her mother's moment in time; her time would come later. Michael wanted to speak but struggled to clear the lump in his throat and hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes. It was Shigeko who took control of the moment.

'Michael,' she said simply, softly, tenderly.

Michael wavered erratically, his arms trembling, his head nodding and shaking intermittently. It took time but eventually the words he searched for so desperately, finally came.

'My love,' he replied, unable to conceal his distress.

Shigeko held out her arms and beckoned him to come to her. He responded, moving forward and enveloping her. There, they remained for what seemed another lifetime; such was the warmth of the welcome each passed to the other. Yoshiko moved away and allowed them their special moment together. Amanda came from the house and stood by Yoshiko, who by now had also lost her emotions to the poignancy of a truly tender moment, the nature of which was utterly lost on both George Balwyn and Quentin Avers. The two men mumbled together asking of each other what was happening; George impatient for his opportunity to explain himself, Quentin not knowing. Amanda turned to both men and glared with a furious hush, turning her eyes to the house and leaving them in no doubt as to where she thought they should be. They responded in kind, George grudgingly accepting that his long rehearsed day in court had been sidelined, by matters far more important than his petty antics, at least for the moment.

The embracing couple allowed the tranquillity of the moment to linger until Michael found his voice again.

'Forgive me for deserting you,' he said, attempting some explanation for his sixty-year silence. But Shigeko would not hear of it. She quickly placed her fingers across his lips and shook her head gently. 'There is nothing to forgive, Michael.'

'I should have come back for you,' he said, accepting all the guilt.

'You were ill. You did not know what happened. When you became well enough, it was too late. Life dealt us a cruel blow but we both survived. You must not be troubled.'

Her tenderness, her understanding, was extraordinary, a product of her faith, a faith that never deserted her, even in the face of despair.

'Do you remember that first day you came to my island and I told you about the Buddha and the path to inner peace?' she asked him. He nodded although he did not remember.

'All things,' she continued, 'are a journey to a greater understanding. Both you, and I, are better people for what we have suffered.'

'How am I better for leaving you?' he asked.

'Leaving me was not your intention,' she replied. 'You were trying to rescue me. Matters beyond our control took over.'

He looked upon her, astounded by her compassion, grateful for her understanding, for he was a simple man, a product of his time and place in the world. He realized too, that her inner depth of spirit went well beyond his own and he yielded to her superior wisdom.

'I never stopped loving you,' he said.

They embraced once more before Shigeko turned toward Yoshiko, now brimming with anticipation.

'Michael,' Shigeko said proudly, 'this is Yoshiko, my daughter.' She then waited a moment, allowing him to absorb her words before adding, 'your daughter.'

For Michael this was too much. He sobbed as he looked at Yoshiko, a mature woman, and saw her likeness to Shigeko. He held out his hand toward her, beckoning her to him, and Shigeko. She came, the tears running down her face. The three of them grasped each other and all wept. Amanda too, could not restrain her emotions.

' _This,'_ she thought to herself, _'this makes everything worthwhile. No book could ever replace this.'_

## Epilogue

### Ten days later

'Could someone please explain to me what became of the Meijji artefact?' The question came from David Maclean.

'You should ask George about that,' Amanda answered.

'George, what have you got to say about that?'

'I don't know what you are talking about,' George replied, unconvincingly.

'Perhaps I can put everyone out of their misery,' Andrew Patterson suggested, as all eyes in the room centred on him.

'George was very clever when he re-wrote Michael's journal. He put a different ending on each of the three copies, just to confuse those who weren't sure of exactly what happened with the artefact. Ronnie Maclean's copy was different from Derek's copy which was different from my father's copy.

Ronnie's copy had precise details as to where the artefact could be found. Those details came from my father, Len. But Len forget to mention one vital fact. George didn't know that my father not only buried it, he also dug it up and put it in a safety deposit box and some years later, arranged for it to be handed over to Tokuo.'

'So all that traipsing around the forest at Kamakura was a waste of time?' David protested.

'Did you not like the forest Mr. Maclean?' Shigeko asked.

'I must have shed three kilos for the effort,' he answered.

'What about the gold?' Michael Balwyn asked.

'There was no gold,' Andrew replied. 'I knew that much. That is why I removed some pages from your journal, Amanda. I didn't want you running off on a wild goose chase. You needed to focus on the facts.'

'But my father told me there were some gold ingots,' Quentin said.

'There was originally, but he had long since converted them back to cash to help pay for some of the medical expenses of A-bomb victims. He probably had forgotten about it,' Andrew replied.

Len Patterson sat there quietly allowing his son to satisfy everyone's need for answers. When his opportunity came, he explained it his way.

'Michael wrote his journal,' he began, 'but his son decided to make it more interesting. He saw dollars in a good book and made a few changes, hired a private detective to find the people mentioned and sent out copies expecting that he would set a cat amongst the pigeons. He was right. Quentin Avers took the bait but fortunately for him, located me first. George had already contacted me and asked if I would be his shadow. I was the only one who knew the whole story. I said yes to George, but I didn't trust him. There were too many anomalies in the journal. I guessed that he had altered it. So, Quentin and I worked together.

'We wanted someone inside BLM to work for us while George thought I was working for him. We heard about Amanda and Quentin made the contact. Amanda was the one unknown factor. She was smarter than all of us. In the end, I think we'll all be winners. George will have his book, but Amanda will make sure it's the real story, not some piece of heavily edited fiction.

'And it won't contain any la-di-da,' Amanda chipped in, giving Quentin a side glance.

'Any what?' George asked.

'La-di-da, George,' Quentin answered. 'It's what good books could do better without.'

'Don't follow you,' George replied.

'Didn't think you would,' Quentin answered.

'If I may be allowed to continue?' Len asked.

'Continue what?' George asked a little confused.

'As I was saying when I was so rudely interrupted,' Len proceeded, 'Amanda has her story, and having Shigeko and Michael reunited is a bonus. Yoshiko now knows her biological father, which doesn't threaten Tokuo in any way. The importance of the world knowing the extraordinary contribution Derek Avers made to the _'Hibakusha'_ is what we should all feel good about. If anyone's reputation or ego has been put out of place, we'll put that down to collateral damage.'

The reunion took place at the bedside of Ronnie Maclean at Coventry House nursing home. It was the first full assembly of the competing parties since the gathering at Lillico. Penelope and Evelyn Maclean had sought permission from the management to hold what she called an old soldiers' reunion.

'What war did they fight in?' the manager asked of her.

'They were part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force,' Penelope replied proudly.

'What occupation?' the manager asked.

This was 2007, and the question, _'What occupation?'_ lingers long in the minds of thousands of soldiers who volunteered to join BCOF. Those that are still alive, that is. The question of the effects of residual radiation on the health of occupation veterans who served in Hiroshima, still remains a sore point. Particularly with those who arrived there in the winter of 1946, just six months after the dropping of the bomb.

As Ronnie Maclean lay dying in his bed, his body surrendering to the insidious, energy draining effects of leukaemia, and Derek Avers, now dead and buried from the same terminal condition, the selfish concerns of their children had now given way to the broader issues. Questions about who did what, why and when, in the final analysis seemed trivial. Quentin Avers realized his efforts to restore his father's good name stemmed not from a poorly worded journal but his anger at successive Australian governments' indifference to the chronic allergies and infections suffered by his father throughout his life; allergies he attributed to radiation exposure. Despite a litany of cases presented to the Department of Veterans' Affairs, seeking compensation, all efforts have been in vain despite the lack of any comprehensive health study ever being undertaken. Ronnie MacLean's efforts to have his son, David find the missing gold ingots, had more to do with his disillusionment; his country, he felt, had deserted him. He wanted something to show for his service. He wanted to be remembered for something. Anything! Michael Balwyn wrote his journal for the same reason. He had given up any hope of ever seeing Shigeko or his Japanese progeny again. He wanted to have the event on the record in the hope that after he had passed on, his son George might show some interest.

Amanda sat at the back not wanting to interfere with the recollections and reminiscing of the warriors of 1946. Shigeko, Michael, Ronnie and Len shared their stories together while she, George, Yoshiko, and Quentin looked on. One thing had been resolved. They would all travel to Japan within three months to do it all over again, this time allowing Tokuo and Masako to take their rightful place in the league of players. There, they could all rest in the knowledge that for them, the sun could finally set on their Hiroshima.

When the party broke up, Evelyn and Penelope ushered Yoshiko to the front door, dying to ask what it felt like to wear a kimono. Quentin walked out alongside George, explaining what is meant by literary la-di-da, while Shigeko and Michael strolled hand in hand down the corridor. Amanda took a gamble and invited Andrew Patterson to dinner, while David Maclean delayed his departure, anxious to spend a few private moments with his father.

'A good day, Dad?' he suggested.

'Yes, son, it was a good day.' Ronnie replied, buoyed at having been reunited with old mates.

'All's well that ends well, I suppose,' David added.

'Yep,' Ronnie agreed, resting his head on the pillow.

'Hold out your hand for a second, Dad,' David posed.

'What for?' Ronnie queried.

'I have something for you,' David answered.

Ronnie slowly brought his hand out from underneath the covers and unexpectedly felt a load of heavy metal weigh his hand down.

'What have we got here, son?' he asked.

'Take a look, Dad,' David answered.

Ronnie slowly brought his hand up to eye level, and opened out his fingers to reveal two bright gold ingots shining in the fluorescent light.

'Well, stuff me,' Ronnie chuckled, 'I thought Len said he moved them all to a safe deposit box.'

'Not all of it, Dad,' David replied, as he winked at his father. 'Not all of it

131

