I was transferred from the horse stable lockup to Budapest and thrown on a boxcar train with hundreds of other POWs from all over. It was strangely reassuring – despite the terrible circumstance – to be among other men like me, but the boxcar was so crowded we couldn’t even lie down. We sat back to back, with our knees tucked into our chests, just so there would be enough room for everyone to sit down. The stench from all the sweaty bodies mixed with the soaked-in urine of the livestock normally transported in the car was almost more than I could bear. I tried to recall Chidori’s blossom scent to block out the putridness, but I couldn’t remember it. I could somewhat remember Inga’s talcum-powder scent, so I used that to get me through as the cramped train bumped and rolled along the countryside.
The train stopped twice a day to let us out to relieve our bladders. We were only given something to eat once a day, usually a bun with a slice of mouldy cheese. My throat was parched because we drank from a stream only once during the entire four-day trip. That’s all the guards got too. I almost felt sorry for them.
One British pilot fell ill during the journey and was so weak that he went into convulsions during one of the train stops. He vomited uncontrollably and soiled himself, so the guards shot him. We rolled away with him still lying next to the railroad tracks, and oddly, the thought that crossed my mind was that he was lucky to be out free in the fresh air and sunshine.
As night fell outside on the third night, I sat with my back up against an American pilot. The French-Canadian fellow next to me slumped over in his sleep and leaned against my shoulder while I nodded off to the rhythm of the rocking train. Out of the darkness of the boxcar, the dead British soldier appeared and stood in front of me. His eyes were missing and when he opened his mouth vomit spewed out. Then he collapsed in a heap onto my shoulder. I violently pushed his disgusting soiled and bloody weight off me.
Then the body punched me back, waking me up.
‘Sorry.’ I held up my hands in surrender once I was fully alert to the fact that I had acted out my nightmare on the poor airman beside me. I repeated, ‘Sorry, I was dreaming. I had a nightmare. Sorry.’
He did not appreciate the assault, nor accept the apology.
The entire boxcar woke from the ruckus, and the French-Canadian continued to shove me until someone said, ‘Cauchemar,’ to translate. His demeanour softened slightly once he understood, but he elbowed me once more for good measure.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled.
Although still furious with me, he stood down. Everyone else settled and propped their backs against each other. Fortunately for me, nobody had a lot of extra energy to waste on fighting. It quieted quickly and snoring filled the thick air a short time later. I struggled to keep myself awake so it wouldn’t happen again, but the sway of the train made it hard to stay alert. I drifted off and my head bobbed.
The wheels screeched to a halt at the break of day. My morale was so low I could barely drag myself off the train to get our one meal. The airman standing next to me could tell I was struggling, so he snatched my piece of bread from my hand and stuffed it in his mouth. I swung my arm and landed a weak slap across his jaw that made him spit it out onto the ground. Three other prisoners scrambled on their hands and knees to pick it up. They tore it apart in the frenzy like a pack of wild dogs, each ending up with only a few crumbs.
While the guards were distracted by the scrum, I scanned our surroundings for an escape. A densely forested area, not too steep terrain. My foot edged back. The other one followed. I inched away from the group, waiting for the opportunity to turn and make a run for it. One of the guards shot his Gewehr rifle in the air to get the attention of the prisoners squabbling over the food and then shoved them one at a time to load them back on the train. Nobody noticed me. It was my chance.
My inching widened into full steps backwards. As I reached the perimeter of the forest, bushes rustled and a voice behind me said in accented English. ‘You make run. I make dead.’
My eyes clenched shut, waiting for the crack of his gun and the blast to my back. The branches swished as he stepped out and approached me. The barrel of his gun stabbed into my back, but to my mixed relief he didn’t pull the trigger. He prodded me back into the train, then slammed the door closed.
We arrived at our destination in German-occupied Poland that afternoon and marched for two hours to a POW Stalag Luft camp.
Hell.
30 October 1941
Dear Diary,
There is such astounding beauty in the world – the sound of a wren calling to its mate, the aroma of cedar logs in the fire, and the geometric pattern the autumn chill paints on the metal of the tractor. Admittedly, I am particularly enchanted with descriptions of the minute exquisiteness of the world right now because I have just completed a collection of Robert Frost poems that I signed out of the library. I have always loved words but Mr Frost’s poetry has made me even more infatuated. He captures all of the wonderment and innocence in very simple elements of rural life, along with the isolation and desperation of grander universal sentiments. Wisdom and naivety in equal measures. Nature kissed with golden hues, roads not travelled, fences mended, being acquainted with the night, the brief overcast moment on an otherwise sunny day, and what to make of a diminished thing. I am entirely beguiled and aspire to write that well one day. More importantly, training myself to observe both the simple and extraordinary splendours around me helps bolster my hope and faith in God and the good in humanity, despite the evils that continue to occur.
Why would anyone would want to destroy the living artistry of nature? Why do men fight in wars? Why do they willingly commit murder of innocent people? Why do they revel in atrocities that reduce once-glorious places to rubble? I don’t understand the hunger for power that drives war. I could never hate something so much as to want it killed, especially not something pure of virtue.
To my absolute dismay, Tosh volunteered to join the Canadian Forces to prove his patriotism to the country. To my great relief, he was turned away with no explanation. I imagine, although Japanese Canadians fought for Canada in the last war, the Canadian military is no longer overly keen to train young men of Japanese descent to be soldiers. I am extremely grateful for that particular prejudice. Tosh is only angrier now because his loyalties have been prejudged and the government refuses to give him a chance to prove himself.
I should go now. Hayden is coming over for a visit later this afternoon and I have a few finishing touches to complete on the surprise I made for him. Well, truthfully, the surprise is more for me. He will likely not be as amused by it as I am, but he will be a good sport, especially now that it has become so very important to carry on with our lives with as much normalcy as possible.
For the record, I should note that a kiss from Hayden is worthy of a Robert Frost poem.
Chi