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Tomodachi: Yesterday's Enemy

By Zillah Williams, Jeff Gifford

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Prologue
Japanese Garden and Cultural Centre, Cowra, NSW, Australia September 2014
I was a rookie journalist for a fairly well-known travel magazine based in Sydney. We were working on an issue centered on Cowra in NSW. In great high spirits, ve of us had piled into the company car and driven the four hours it takes to get there, booking in at a motel for the night. Our department boss arrived early the following morning in his impressive Volvo and, never one to waste company time, immediately called a planning meeting. We gathered at a fast- food restaurant and, after some discussion about what information was needed, were each allocated a job. Jim, our photographer, was a pro and didn’t need anyone to tell him what to do. e rest of us were to cover the local wine industry, accommodation on o er, and what visitors should expect to pay—things like that. Except me. He said I should research the Cowra Breakout.
I objected, saying a lot had already been written on the subject. e seventieth anniversary of the Breakout—the escape of Japanese prisoners of war from the detention center at Cowra—had been commemorated only a few weeks earlier with a lot of publicity. In which case, he said, I should look for a new angle. I tried to say it was impossible. ere couldn’t be a new angle. He frowned at me— glowered might be a better word.
“Get going, Andrew,” he ground out. “I expect a progress report by lunchtime.”
Seething, I got up from the table. e others carefully avoided meeting my eyes. I seethed some more. e boss was wrong. But he was the boss. Unfortunately, he was also my dad.
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TOMODACHI
I decided I’d make the well-known Japanese Garden my rst port of call. It’d be interesting to see it even though gardens weren’t my “thing.”
On arriving, I collected an assortment of brochures from the Cultural Centre and began wandering through the grounds. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I had imagined rows of garden beds with owers, but it wasn’t like that. ere were neatly clipped shrubs and mown lawns, picturesque lakes, waterfalls, and rocks. I got out my cell phone to photograph the owering cherry trees. A passerby, a woman, paused and struck up a conversation. She told me I’d just missed the annual Sakura Matsuri, saying it was a festival celebrating the beginning of spring.
“It was last week,” she said. “ ey had karate displays, sumo, kite-making, a tea ceremony, and other things. You’d have liked it, I’m sure. ey have it every year when the cherry trees are in ower.” She looked up at the pink and white blossoms. “ ey’re lovely, aren’t they?”
I agreed. ey really were. Even I could see that. e woman walked on, and I took my pictures before checking my watch. Surprised at how quickly the time had passed, I knew I should think of leaving.
Walking back the way I came, I saw an old man by a pond, throwing food from a paper bag to the koi carp. He had a slight stoop and sparse gray hair. e sh darted after the food in gold, white, and black streaks, thrashing the water into foam. e old man’s lips were moving. As I drew closer, I could hear him talking. I looked around, but there was no one nearby. He was talking to the sh, calling them by name! Unbelievable! Okay, when I was ve I’d had a gold sh called George, but that was di erent. Fish like these don’t have names—do they? Maybe he’s a sh whisperer—if there is such a thing.
He glanced at me with a smile and must have read my mind. “Stupid isn’t it?” he said. “But I come here so often I recognize some of them by their markings and give them names. Look over there,”
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TOMODACHI
he pointed to one of the larger sh, a white and gold monster. “ at’s Gina.”
“Cool,” I said. I watched for another minute or so and was about to go when the man scrunched up the bag, put it in his pocket, and wiped his hand on the side of his pants. “No more, fellers,” he said, addressing the sh. “No more today.”
e sh waited for a bit then swam away to do whatever it is koi do in their pond in a Japanese garden.
e man turned to face me. A slight breeze had sprung up and lifted strands of his thinning hair.
“It’s a peaceful place, this,” he remarked. “Don’t you think so?”
I nodded. “Except I’m here for my job. I’ve got an article to write about the Cowra Breakout.”
His eyes showed a icker of interest, and I thought he was going to make a comment, but he appeared to change his mind, saying nothing.
I was going to leave him then, but something made me hesitate. It just goes to show how a few seconds can alter the whole course of events. On an impulse, I asked, “Are you from around here?”
“Lived here all my life,” he answered.
I thought for a moment. “ en you know about the Breakout, I suppose?”
e hint of a smile lifted the side of his mouth. “You could say that.”
I thought some more. is man might be a good source of information—if he would talk to me. en again, he might not be— but it was worth a try. “Can I interview you for my article?”
He was slow to reply. He seemed to be looking over my shoulder. I turned to see what had caught his attention. A woman was coming along the path toward us. She reminded me rather of my mother— stylishly cut graying hair, sensible shoes, and a matching jacket and skirt.
“Hi, Dad,” she said as she reached us. She gave him a kiss.
“My daughter, Janice Adkins,” the old man said to me, “and I’m Ben Lewis.”
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TOMODACHI
I told him my name, and we shook hands all round.
“ is young man has just asked if he could interview me for an article about the Breakout,” he said to his daughter. “What do you think?”
Turning to her, I explained I was a reporter for a travel agency. “I’d appreciate any information your father could give me,” I said.
She smiled at me, her eyes twinkling. “I’m sure he’d be delighted.” She tilted her head in a question to her father, “Wouldn’t you?”
He grinned. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you come with us to the café and we can talk. We were going for co ee anyway. You’d need to get the story from both of us. It’s not just my story, you know.”
I wondered at this. What story did he have in mind? It was the Breakout I wanted to know about. Nothing else.
I hesitated.
“Got time?” he asked.
I made an executive decision. “All the time in the world,” I said,
pulling out my cell phone. “I’ll just let my boss know I’ll be late getting back.”

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