Jeez! said Bob. I sure hope not!

  I think it’s unlikely, I said, though the thought had troubled me from time to time, in the wee small hours.

  They treat us pretty well, said Bob, except for not enough food.

  The high shrill note of a whistle pierced the air, and one of the guards was rounding us up to go back inside. Quick as blinking, the boys had disappeared, slid down off the wall, back on their own side, like two seals slipping off a rock into the sea.

  After that the boys were there often, not every day, but two or three times a week. Some of the other prisoners spoke to them, but we had made first contact and they looked out for us. They were happy to tell us the story of their family. Their father had been in the Russian army, and after the revolution he had escaped to Shanghai. There he had met and married their mother, set himself up as a trader, eventually moving here to Kobe and opening a general store.

  Sounds like quite a guy, said Bob.

  Again the boys looked pleased, proud of their old man.

  Bob and I spoke about it later, agreed that the father must indeed be quite a character. A Russian Jew, ex army officer, a trader moving easily from China to Japan.

  Soldier of fortune, I said.

  A bit of a swashbuckler, said Bob. Mind you….

  What?

  I suppose anyone reading about our lives might find them kind of exotic, don’t you think?

  I never swashed a buckle in my life, I said. Or buckled a swash for that matter.

  Still.

  One evening, when we’d been let out for a breath of air, the boys appeared, peering over the wall, and there between them was their father. He gave us a wave.

  They call me Sid, he said. It’s a kind of nickname and it’s easy to say. So you’re Bob and you’re Reg?

  Right.

  The boys told me about you. Said you were all right.

  Glad to hear it, said Bob. We like them too.

  They did tell me you don’t get enough food. I mean, who does these days? But looking at you, I see what they mean. You look like shit.

  Gee, thanks, said Bob.

  But we looked at each other and saw that he was right. While we kept to each other’s company we could ignore the weight loss, the clothes hanging looser with every week that passed, the sagging flesh, the general air of exhaustion. But the gaze of this emissary from the outside world cast a harsh light on us, stripped us bare.

  No more than this? We owed the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. The thing itself, unaccommodated man. A poor bare, forked animal.

  Here, said Sid, and he threw a small package to land at our feet. He was keeping a look out, making sure there were no guards in sight, and he signalled us to pick it up.

  Bob tore off the paper, found two sandwiches filled with a kind of fish paste, two rice balls and a sweet beancake. We stuffed the food in our pockets and Bob threw the paper back over the wall.

  Be careful, said Sid. I deliver little packages for the officers and the guards, you know, cigarettes, canned food. So they pretty well turn a blind eye. But like I say, watch out.

  Before we could thank him he had slipped off the wall, the way his boys always did, and he was gone, and the whistle was calling us back inside.

  We shared the spoils, Bob apologising because he knew I couldn’t eat the fish. He ate one of the sandwiches, gave the other to a prisoner who had been poorly. I gave the same man one of the rice balls and ate the other myself, following it with the beancake. It was an unexpected feast, and I offered a prayer of gratitude to Hotei the god of good fortune.

  I was sitting on my palette bed, reading a book of Suzuki’s essays when I heard a commotion outside in the yard – voices raised, shouting and laughing. Bob stuck his head round the door, a huge grin on his face.

  You have to come NOW!

  I laid down the book and followed him outside where it seemed every single prisoner had gathered, watched by the guards who had taken up position along the wall, standing to attention, their rifles shouldered. A truck had backed in at the main gate and the more able-bodied internees were unloading its cargo of boxes.

  Red Cross! said Bob, as the men ripped open the boxes to reveal their treasures – items of clothing, canned foods, dried fruit, books and magazines, cigarettes…. There was one large box marked Hershey which was packed with chocolate bars. The young man opening it started laughing, beyond himself with disbelief and delight.

  Unbelievable, said Bob. It’s like Christmas, Thanksgiving and everybody’s birthday rolled into one!

  One of the Americans, an older man by the name of McNulty, took charge and organised the distribution. In spite of the excitement and high spirits (or perhaps because of them) everyone was very well behaved as they queued for their allotted share. As far as possible we all received the same, and it would be up to us to barter and trade. So I wasn’t bothered at being handed packs of cigarettes and cans of beef. I knew I could readily exchange them later for the dried fruit, powdered soup and those precious Hershey bars.

  When the clothing was handed out – trousers, sweaters, workshirts – a few of the men started trying them on. Because everyone had lost so much weight, most of the garments were too big. Two of the younger men started clowning around in them, then they both squeezed into one outsized shirt and marched up and down, making everybody laugh – even the guards till their commander called them to order. The two young men were assigned to clear away the empty boxes and the rest of us were dispersed, back to our quarters, hoarding our booty. As I turned away with my own stash, I looked up over the high wall to the house next door where the two boys, Alex and George, were looking out of their upstairs window, no doubt hugely entertained by the whole business. I waved and caught their eye, held up one of the chocolate bars and pointed to it, and at them, and I mimed throwing it to them.

  In the evening Bob and I did our circuit of the yard, and sure enough the boys were there on the wall, looking out for us.

  We had each brought one of our bars, large, foil-wrapped. With unbelievable largesse, we threw the bars to the boys who caught them and disappeared.

  Greater love hath no man, I said.

  On occasion I have told the story of those days of internment and met with varying degrees of incredulity. Our guards were not kind, but I can honestly say that they were not cruel. At worst they were indifferent, but I certainly never witnessed any brutality.

  We had told those young boys, Alex and George, with an air of confidence and certainty, that the Japanese were not going to kill us. Apart from anything else, if that was their intention, they would surely have disposed of us before now instead of going to all the trouble of keeping us alive.

  Nevertheless, one night there was real fear as we were all woken from uneasy sleep by the guards ordering us to gather our belongings and get out into the yard. There was no explanation, other than that we were being moved. It was chaotic, prisoners stumbling around half asleep, pulling on clothes, throwing their few meagre possessions into kit bags. My services as translator were suddenly much needed as I relayed the instructions over the cacophony of voices raised in curses, deprecations, complaints. Once more the older man, McNulty, took charge of the Americans, managed to organise them to get outside and line up in ranks. I stuffed my books and papers into my old battered suitcase, packed in with the few serviceable garments I owned, my scroll reading Form is Emptiness, my little Daruma doll, for luck. Nana korobi ya oki… Seven times down, eight times up.

  Outside there was confusion, and apprehension. I found Bob and lined up beside him.

  What’s happening?

  The guards just say we’re being moved, to Futatabi.

  And where the hell is that?

  Who knows? I think the name translates as Second time…

  As in, Here we go again?

  Outside the gates a convoy of trucks had pulled up and sat with their engines running. The guards, their rifles once more at the ready, marched us out and we were loaded onto the trucks. The scene was curiously dreamlike, the flicker of the streetlights, the too-bright headlamps, the low growl of the engines, and above it, monotonous, the cry of cicadas. Looking back, I saw the boys, Alex and George, looking out from behind their upstairs window, waving goodbye.

  Camp Futatabi was on a hill at the edge of the city. Our new home was an old factory building converted into dormitories. It emerged that more prisoners were due to arrive, from Guam and elsewhere, necessitating the move from Mark’s House.

  I no longer had my own space – no little alcove where I could shutter myself away. I was in a long low-ceilinged room with thirty other men, the beds lined up in rows.

  Hear about the lonely prisoner? Chance would be a fine thing.

  The walls were high, but there was no barbed wire, no broken glass, no searchlights or electrified fences. From time to time the guards patrolled the perimeter, but most of the time they stayed in their quarters, indoors. In the beginning some of the younger prisoners would take advantage, grab an opportunity to scramble over the wall, but invariably they would come back after an hour or two of walking the streets.

  I asked McNulty one day if any of them had ever tried to go further, to get away.

  I think the first few guys thought about it, he said. You know, prisoner’s duty to try and escape and all that jazz. But think about it. It happened in Germany – I read about it. Guys would bust out, take the chance of being caught and killed. But that was it, there was a chance. Brits, Americans, Aussies…with a change of clothes they could blend in, keep their heads down, maybe just manage it. Here, they kinda stand out.

  Just a little, I said.

  Tall Caucasian guys, skin and bone, dressed in ragged clothes.

  And not speaking the language.

  Exactly. Plus we’re on an island. How they gonna get off it with nobody to help?

  No underground, no secret network, no partisans.

  Right. So what they gonna do? I guess the Japs just turned a blind eye and most of the guys got bored with the whole thing.

  Here for the duration, I said, and I realised I had no idea how long that might be.

  Tomiko was not in the habit of reading, beyond the pages of illustrated magazines. (She said I read more than enough for both of us!) But I asked if she might find out if there was a story behind the name Futatabi. She went to the local library, asked the librarian who found the answer.

  Behind our camp was a mountain and the monk Kukai had gone there to pray at a shrine before undertaking a journey to China to study the Buddha’s teaching. On his return he went again to the mountain to offer thanks. The mountain was then named Futa-tabi – Second time.

  I told Bob and he laughed.

  So it’s all about gratitude.

  Yes.

  Deep bow.

  Through autumn the weather had been mild, a beautiful season, right into November. I’d been told it would be colder through the winter, though not unbearable. But in January the temperatures dropped. The dormitories were freezing and it was a struggle to keep warm. I wore everything I owned, in layers – shirt and jacket, overcoat and a woolly hat Tomiko had brought me, pulled down over my ears. The constant diet of rice gruel had taken its toll, reduced our natural insulation against the cold. There was a pervading air of misery among the men. More prisoners sickened, a few died.

  I woke one morning sensing something strange in the light, a brightness that cast a faint yellow glow in the room. I sat up and realised it was snowing, and had been all through the night. In spite of everything I felt a lifting of my spirits, and I sensed it in the other prisoners, as they went to the windows to look out. Even the guards looked more relaxed, chatting to each other, laughing.

  I understood snow of this magnitude was a rare event and had brought the city to a standstill. It fell all morning, big flakes falling silently, snow falling and lying, snow on snow, falling endlessly into itself. There was no traffic. Nothing could come or go. We were isolated.

  After what passed for lunch – rice in a watery broth – they let us out as usual to exercise, let the cold air fill our lungs. The snow covered everything, lay two feet deep, and it made a silence over all the world, made all things new. Every sound – someone shouting, the bark of a dog – carried sharp and clear.

  The guards pointed to the main gate which they had opened, and they instructed us to go outside into the street.

  At first there was confusion. Were they about to move us again? Were we to be taken out and left somewhere to freeze?

  The guards looked amused, just kept directing us towards the gate.

  McNulty asked me to find out what was happening. I questioned the guards, addressing them with respect and deference in my most formal Japanese, and when I was certain of what they were telling me, I reported back to McNulty that we were being allowed out to enjoy the snow.

  They were letting us out to play!

  There’s a haiku by Basho.

  Come on!

  Let’s go snow-viewing

  Till we tumble down!

  And that was the mood. The men became like children, or perhaps adolescents, yelling and laughing, completely caught up in the exhilaration of it all as they gathered up cold fistfuls, lobbed snowballs at each other. Then very quickly, as if by some innate sense of organisation, they formed themselves into two groups, two warring factions. Each group built a wall of snow, three feet high, across the width of the road. Behind these ramparts they piled up an arsenal of snowballs and at a given signal they let battle commence, pelting each other across the few yards of no man’s land. (Snowman’s land?) The barrage was thick and fast, but one side was stronger – Mister Blockhead Olsen among them – and eventually they went over the top and charged the enemy position, kicked down their opponents’ wall and won the day.

  McNulty and I had stood back with a few of the other slightly older men and some who were younger but not strong enough to take part, all of us, nevertheless, taking vicarious delight in the whole thing, the sudden unexpected freedom.

  Mister B, said McNulty, for a pacifist you sure enjoyed watching the battle.

  Much as I enjoyed rugby as a boy, I said. Channelled aggression. Letting off steam. No harm in it at all. And look at the men, look at their faces.

  And it was true. By the time the guards called us back inside the compound, the whole mood in the place had lightened. I made a point of bowing to the guards, and McNulty did the same.

  When the first air raids came, I heard the planes drone overhead, the distant thump and blast as the bombs dropped. Bob said it would be a terrible irony to be blown to bits by the Americans. But I felt real fear, raw and gut-churning, for Tomiko and baby Harumi.

  I sat on my bed and chanted the Nembutsu, invoking the protection of the compassionate Buddha.

  I had translated another haiku by Basho.

  How admirable

  He who thinks not life is fleeting

  When he sees the lightning.

  How much more so when he hears the bombers.

  Namu Amida Butsu.

  Through the night I found it hard to sleep and when I did, fitfully, I dreamed. Tomiko was walking towards me out of a conflagration, buildings burning behind her. She carried Harumi who clung to her, crying. Tomiko was holding out to me a scroll, unfurled. I could see the lettering, the calligraphy, written in fire, but I couldn’t read it, I couldn’t understand. I woke afraid.

  The next day I was anxious and fretful, then one of the guards brought me a letter from Tomiko. It was not one of the days when visiting was allowed, so she had handed in the letter at the gate.

  The rented house had been damaged by a bomb-blast. By a miracle, Tomiko and Harumi were safe, unharmed. I thanked God, and the compassionate Buddha, who were one and the same. But the room housing my library, all my books, had been completely destroyed.

  That would be a waste, I thought, my work not yet done. But in the scheme of things – or the tale told by an idiot (you pays your money and you take your choice) – it was a small matter and of no great import. I sat on my bed, read and re-read the letter in Tomiko’s delicate script, a little flower-garden. I stared till it lost all literal meaning and the marks became images only, stylised representations of a tree, a house, the sun.

  All forms are burning.

  The images blurred and there were tears in my eyes. I stood up and composed myself and stepped outside into the yard. A single cherry tree had shed its blossoms on the ground. Of course it would be a cherry tree, with its myriad associations, its unmistakable resonance. Sakura. But this one was simply, resolutely itself, its bark and branches scraggy and dishevelled.

  I walked round and round the small space, stunned, numbed.

  I thought about my books and what they had meant to me. The crates I had shipped from London when Annie and I were hopeful and young. The volumes I had picked up in the market stalls in Korea, in the secondhand bookstores in Tokyo and Yokohama.

  Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Stevenson. Confucius and Dante, Arnold and Shaw, Thoreau and Burns. Emerson and Keats. Basho and Issa and Buson and Shiki. Eckhart and Blake. Spinoza. The Manyoshu. The Bhagavad Gita. The Bible. The Dhammapada. Milton and Lewis Carroll. Herbert and Vaughan. The Blue Cliff Record. All of Dickens. All gone.

  My papers and notebooks. My musical scores. Bach and Mozart, Haydn, Corelli. The recordings shattered, cracked, melted. Nothing left.

  I walked, round and round. And what came to mind was a haiku written by Ryokan after a burglar had broken into his shabby hut and stolen the few meagre possessions he had.