Forgiveness Read online

  Yosuke and Tomi were devastated to see Susanne’s studies interrupted. It was, to them, the worst theft possible. Susanne read anything and everything. She loved to learn; she took in new knowledge like Pat took in fish from the sea.

  Mitsue was supposed to go home on account of the curfew, but she was trying her best to console Susanne, so she decided to stay the night. It was the first time she had slept in her old house since she got married. After dinner, she helped Mary with the dishes while Yosuke and Tomi spoke with Susanne in the living room. Susanne finally went to bed.

  As the dishes dried, Mitsue watched her parents hugging outside Susanne’s bedroom. They were both crying. Education was the most important thing they could give their children. It was their only way forward, their only way up. But now their little girl, the most intellectually gifted of their children, was being robbed of her chance. Yosuke believed that the only thing that couldn’t be taken away was what you put in your mind.

  On her way home the next morning, Mitsue stopped at a store to order the boxes they needed to take their things to the prairies. The boxes were wood, about three feet by two feet, and no more than three feet high. Some stores in Little Tokyo were only selling boxes now—that’s all anyone wanted. Boxes and food. Each person was only allowed to bring 150 pounds, which added up fast. The government suggested packing blankets, a sewing machine, and cooking supplies. That was close to 150 pounds right there.

  Scarcity leads to tough decisions. Should they take family albums or extra rice? Letters from family in Japan or an extra blanket? They were in survival mode and didn’t have the luxury of being sentimental. You couldn’t eat pictures, and letters wouldn’t keep you warm on a cold winter night unless you burned them. They packed up the belongings they were leaving behind and took them to the Japanese centre. Each family was allowed a small storage area. Every last picture they had was packed into boxes, along with family heirlooms and letters. They put their kimonos into boxes too. Yosuke and Pat packed their fishing nets. What they needed to survive came with them. But their hearts were put away and stacked in the Japanese centre. It was an appropriate place to house their hearts.

  Once each family had filled their allotted area with what they were leaving behind, the men of Celtic came to board up the building and lock it up. It wasn’t until they put a chain along the front door that the families understood this was a goodbye. Those families on Celtic Lane—the Osekis, the Nakamuras, the Uyedas, the Ishikawas, the Nagatas, the Yamamotos, the Endos, the Omotanis, the Adachis, the Kadonagas, the Yoshiharas, the Shintanis, the Mikis, the Minamimayes, the Yasudas, the Charas, the Kanos, the Marumotos, the Yamashitas, the Shintanis—were one extended family. They gathered for a final photo before leaving.

  Mitsue Oseki (front row, far right) outside the Japanese-Canadian Centre in Celtic, Vancouver

  Yosuke locked up the family house. Mitsue went back to the boarding house to help Wari pack up. Hideo and Hanpei were boarding up the windows. So many buildings in Little Tokyo were like that by then, boarded up and empty. They packed what was needed into the boxes that Mitsue had ordered. Hideo carefully nailed each one closed. Mitsue had made sure to get at least one that had a tin lining so they could take rice, since they were not sure if they’d be able to get rice once they reached the prairies. Hideo had to help Mitsue pour bag after bag of rice into that box. He wrote Sakamoto in Japanese kanji characters on each box.

  Mitsue did take one thing for herself, though. She just couldn’t leave her wedding pictures behind. After Wari and Hanpei went to bed, she hid the photos, folded up in blankets to keep them safe and sound. Mitsue told Hideo what she had done and he didn’t say a word. He just walked over to the box, put the lid on, and nailed it shut. Then he smiled and went back to his own packing.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ralph’s War

  Ralph clung to the side of the hill. He took one last look back at his rifle and dropped his knife.

  Scanning the trees, he peeked over the cliff and saw five men standing up. One man’s shirt was completely blood soaked and he held his right shoulder with his bloodied left hand.

  They were out of options. A megaphone from across the valley made that clear. “The war is over. I give you safe passage to surrender. Do not die.”

  Ralph and the rest of the Canadians emerged with their hands in the air and followed the sound of the megaphone down the hill. As the enemy came into view, the Canadians were astonished. The Japanese had moved in under cover of darkness. The fight had been thirteen against three hundred.

  Two very young-looking Japanese soldiers ordered Ralph and six other men to line up against a rock wall and to stand in place with bayonets pointed at their faces. Both soldiers had fresh blood on them. Japanese soldiers were everywhere. Many stopped and gave the Canadians a hard look.

  The commander stood atop a small mound. He still had the megaphone in his left hand. He stared at the men for some time, then drew his katana sword. He took slow, short steps towards the prisoners, never once breaking eye contact with them.

  Three Japanese soldiers all had their guns drawn. Their backs to the wet rock wall, each Canadian watched the bayonets closely, knowing the Japanese would save their bullets. The commander stood three feet in front of them, gripping his sword. He went down the line, asking each for his name and rank. Ralph was the last in line.

  “Ralph Augustus MacLean, Lance Corporal, E30382.”

  “Where are you men coming from?”

  Nobody responded, prompting the commander to raise his sword to his waist. The curved blade caught the light through the trees.

  “Palm Villa,” someone down the line said. “We were based out of Palm Villa.”

  This brought a smile to the commander’s face, which in turn left a knot in the stomach of each of the seven men. They knew very well what his smile meant.

  The commander looked over his shoulder and gave an order in Japanese. He was through with these men. He sheathed his blade, turned, and made his way into his tent. The three guards and their bayonets stayed put.

  With nothing more for the Canadians to do or say, exhaustion took over. Too weary to care, Ralph leaned against the rock wall and promptly fell asleep. He had barely closed his eyes in three whole days.

  He awoke to a guard tying his wrists with barbed wire. He was ordered to his feet and told to move. The other men, tied to one another, were moving now too.

  And so began the march. They made their way down a long and winding trail that cut through the heavy brush overgrowth. The men walked in single file with their hands out in front of them. They were careful to stay as even as possible; any jerking action caused the barbed wire to cut deep and elicited groans down the whole line. The situation was difficult for the soldier who had taken shrapnel across his right shoulder. The others tried to keep him alert and on his feet. The guards would yell bloody murder if the men slowed down, stumbled, or spoke. They let their bayonets do most of the talking—raising them to face level whenever there was a missed step or when a groan slipped out.

  Three miles down the trail, the front guard belted out “Halt!” as he turned and raised his right hand. All the men stopped. He lowered his hand and ordered the men to sit down on the side of the trail. They tried their best to do so, but the wounded man’s legs buckled, sending him sprawling while the other six grimaced in pain. Ralph felt delirious. He had not had any food since the two bites of corned beef days earlier. He had not had any water since then either. The men looked at each other. They were all thinking about water. The white spit at the corners of their mouths betrayed their desperate thirst.

  As they looked around, one of them gestured with his chin across the trail. Five men, hands tied together with barbed wire exactly as they were, lay slumped over. Each had a bayonet gash to the stomach. Their deaths must have been slow and horrific. Even in death, their faces could not hide their torment. It was as if they were still screaming. Some eyes were open, some were shut. Ralph scanned them, looking for
a familiar face, dreading that he’d see one. His companions all thought the same thing at the same time. Were they about to be stabbed to death?

  In Ralph’s mouth was the metallic taste of fear. It was as if he had eaten nails. Three guards emerged from the bush. One was doing up his zipper. The fourth was walking past the dead Canadians, inspecting them with disconcerting familiarity.

  “Fuck,” one of the captives whispered. Another was breathing heavily. Panic was setting in. Ralph flashed a cold stare down the line. He said nothing but the look meant, Easy, boys. Let’s not lose our heads here.

  “Up!” the guard yelled once he’d closed his zipper. The fourth guard sauntered over, his eyes as dead as the fallen Canadians. The seven men all watched his bayonet. It was clean as a whistle. His pant leg, however, was caked in blood. He slowly walked over to the man at the end of the line. No one looked at his face. He moved on to the second, the third, and the fourth. The fifth man was the wounded one. The guard stood beside him for an eternity. The man kept his head down and his hand shook as he gripped his wounded arm. Ralph—who was standing next to him—closed his eyes and offered a prayer. The Japanese soldier spit and moved on—past Ralph and the seventh Canadian.

  “Move!” he yelled. The march continued. A minor miracle.

  By nightfall, they reached their destination. As they crested a large hill, they saw a mass of men making their way into a large structure like a coliseum. It was too dark to know for sure, but Ralph thought he had seen it before. As they made their way down towards it, the structure came into focus.

  They entered, the bright yellow and red lights still shining brightly announcing the Happy Valley Race Track. The irony was painful.

  A stench hit the seven men as they reached the bleachers and the track revealed itself. Men were laid out everywhere. Some were dead, some still alive. Ralph’s eyes searched in vain for a medical station, a water line, or a mess hall. The lead guard just motioned with his rifle butt for them to move down the stairs onto the track. They made their way onto the field, stepping gingerly around the bodies, living and dead. Still bound, they had to be careful not to trip and send their whole line sprawling.

  Each face they saw offered a dreadful story of defeat, terror, or death. Mostly the men were numb. Sheer exhaustion had dampened their ability to feel, to think, or to act. Without saying a word, the seven men found a clearing large enough for all of them. They lay down in unison. Ralph stared at the sky. It was a cloudy humid night. He offered a Merry Christmas to no one in particular.

  As night fell in the Happy Valley Race Track, the war seemed to be over. But the men’s battle was just beginning.

  Boxing Day brought little reprieve. Ralph awoke to a shot of pain up his left side. One of the men in the middle of the sleeping pack rolled over in his sleep and the three men to his left paid the price. They writhed in pain as the barbed wire dug deeper into their wrists.

  Some of the prisoners were marched to the streets surrounding Happy Valley Race Track and ordered to clean up the bodies. They were given matches and told to build a fire. The bodies betrayed their brutal demise, wrists tied, eyes gouged, ears sliced off. These men had died in the worst of ways. As the fire grew around them, the scarred bodies returned to the fetal position. They hissed, blackened, and burned.

  Amid death, there were unexpected tales of survival. One man came in on a stretcher with maggots falling out of a gaping hole in his face. He had been captured, tied up, shot several times, and left for dead in a ditch. Another poor soul was carried in by a fellow Canadian soldier. He was unable to walk because his private parts had been mutilated by Japanese bayonets. That these men had survived without medical attention for days on end was simply miraculous. The search parties that found them spread the stories; they were rays of hope. If those guys could survive, anyone could.

  Then came the news: the Canadians were to be at the western exit at eight o’clock that night, ready to ship out to North Point Camp. All hope ended there.

  The men were loaded onto cargo trucks. Canvas enclosed the entire cabin, leaving them in pitch black. Ralph closed his eyes and let his utter exhaustion sweep him away. He awoke to a sudden stop that slammed him into the fellow sleeping beside him. Moments later, the back door dropped open.

  “Out!” was the order.

  Ralph got to his feet, back hunched. He was not sure if he’d slept for twenty minutes or twenty hours. The sunlight burned his eyes as he jumped off the truck. He put his hand up, blocking his face. He took five steps past a barbed wire fence.

  “Ralphie!”

  The voice was unmistakable. Ralph opened his eyes, glad he could blame the tears on the hot sun.

  “Ralphie, jeez, I thought you were a goner. A goner for sure!” Deighton said as he hugged his friend.

  The sight of transport trucks rolling into North Point’s main entrance was the only thing that could put a smile on the POWs’ faces. As Ralph looked around, his stomach sank. He saw garbage strewn everywhere in the parade square. Body parts, just limbs and torsos, were piled up at the other end of the camp. As the smell of rotting flesh hit him, he doubled over and threw up.

  “I know. The smell is terrible. They hope to have it dealt with this week.” Deighton was apologizing as if it were a messy living room. “Come on. I’ve been saving you a spot to sleep.”

  They made their way through the camp. Deighton explained the layout as they walked.

  “We don’t have any toilets, so see there where that man is climbing up on that wall?” Deighton pointed to a stone wall to the far south end. “That’s our toilet. You just do your business right over the wall into the water. That’s where the smell is coming from. There must be a hundred dead Chinese just floating in that water. It’s terrible, Ralphie, they are all bloated and shot up. Lots of cattle in there too. The wounded guys tie themselves to that wall before they go so they don’t fall. If you fall in, there is no coming back.”

  The two of them made their way past a long building made of cinderblock.

  “That’s the mess hall. But it is shit,” he said in a hushed tone. “They are feeding us just mouldy rice. More maggots than rice, really. The only meat I have seen since I got here is half a fucking fish head. A fish head. I got one cheek and one eyeball—the rest just bone and skin. Eat what you can, Ralphie. It’s bad here. Real bad.” The end of the mess hall opened to a dirt square with a series of huts along the north perimeter. Ralph followed Deighton into one of the huts.

  “There are no beds. My spot is over there.” Deighton pointed.

  Ralph took three steps into the hut and felt two drops: one on his shoulder, one on his head. He thought it odd that there was a leak in the roof; it had not rained in the past few days. The raindrop on his shirt moved. He wiped his shoulder and his head. A few men down the way chuckled.

  Ralph looked up. The ceiling was alive.

  “Bedbugs. They are the scourge of North Point,” Deighton said. “Well, them and the lice.”

  Deighton took off his shirt. Red spots covered his torso. “Look at the seams of my shirt.”

  Ralph focused in the hazy light of the hut. He took a closer look and then snapped his head back when he saw a dozen bugs scatter on his friend’s shirt as they were exposed. At this, even Deighton laughed.

  “Can’t do a damn thing about ’em, Ralph. They are even rewarding us with smokes if we catch these bloody things. It’s no use. We just can’t beat these little buggers.”

  Ralph didn’t have a pack to throw down, so he sat down on the makeshift bedding to inspect it. It was held together by a thick canvas, but large holes exposed coconut shells, the hair sticking out like a ragged scalp.

  He and Deighton went out for a walk around the parade square in the middle of the camp. It was the only thing they could do, though they had to be careful to conserve energy. Deighton had been in the camp for three days and had lost a pound a day.

  The officers fared far better. They had their own cabin and were offered real
food and American cigarettes. Coffee, even. As the officers finished their smokes, they’d casually flick the butts to the ground, just as they would have done before the war. But their men would scramble on the ground for them. Ralph wondered, if it was this bad on day three, where would they be in a month?

  As dinner time rolled around there were rumours of meat. The men made their way into the mess hall, just an open room with a few tables. The kitchen consisted of three kettles and a transport truck hubcap that had been scavenged off the adjacent road. There was one large rice pot and no plates. The men lined up for one scoop of mouldy rice custard and a slice of rancid whale meat. No one knew if they were better off eating it or leaving it.

  There were no seats. Ralph and Deighton found an empty corner against the wall and slid down onto their backsides, careful not to drop any food.

  “Bon appétit, Garbage Can,” Deighton said, shooting Ralph a sly smile. The familiarity almost brought Ralph to tears for the second time that day.

  They ate in silence. The food tasted terrible. When they were done, they made their way back to their hut. The Japanese guards counted them off to make sure nobody had escaped, and then it was lights-out. Ralph dropped onto his bedding. He could feel it crawling. His stomach was in one big empty knot. He felt demonstrably weaker and he had only been on the grounds of North Point for fifteen hours.

  Ralph woke up the next day covered in bites from head to toe. He opened his shirt and peeled the seams back—there were the lice, nestled in.

  The men gathered in the parade square to be counted off and get some physical activity. The mess hall was serving more slop: mouldy rice and a three-inch square of bread.

  But at least the routine of Ralph’s new life had begun. In a strange way, he felt comforted by it. His clock was reset to army time. It beat the chaos of battle. Lice beat bullets. Sleep beat marching.