Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

I shook my head. “Before any of it started, the army itself insisted that Japanese Canadians were no threat to national security. Most of these people were born here. They’ve never even seen Japan. The orders came from prejudiced politicians. Why, the things I’ve read from them make them sound like Nazis discussing Jews. That’s how much they hate the Japanese. Get this: the Japanese Canadians are basically paying for their own confinement. The government seized all their assets: they sold their fishing boats, their farms, their cars, their businesses, and their homes just to pay for locking these innocent people up. And nobody’s talking about releasing them anytime soon.”

“You have that look in your eye,” Ian said. “Well, I can add to that a little. I read that the families of the British POWs, the ones who had been living in Hong Kong before the Japanese invasion, were all put in Stanley Barracks, near where D Company took their last stand. So they’re basically in a camp as well. There’s no food, and the buildings are practically demolished. Perhaps there are some parallels to draw from that in, say, a long-form piece? Mr. Hindmarsh would probably go for it.”

I nodded, toying vaguely with the idea. The car raced past the sleeping fields, but my mind still peered through the barbed wire of the camps. Three years of war. When would it end?

Ian cleared his throat. “So, the shackling debacle?”

I returned to the notes in front of me. “Yes. Right. So this is all about Churchill demanding reciprocity. Since most of the Stalag VIIIB POWs are Canadian, the Bowmanville camp is under orders to get back at Hitler by shackling a hundred of their five hundred German prisoners. Of course, the German prisoners here want no part of that, so they’re fighting back.”

“How long’s this been going on out here?”

I flipped back a page. “It started this morning.”

“It’ll probably be over by the time we get there.”

“I doubt it. They’ve called in reinforcements.”

After a while we reached the outskirts of town, and Ian nodded ahead. “There it is,” he said. “It used to be a reform school for boys. Built back in ’27.”

He turned onto a tree-lined gravel road surrounded by farmers’ fields. A white, two-storey building with a red-brown roof came into sight, and Ian slowed as we neared it. The guard, a man in uniform who looked to be in his midfifties, held up a hand, and we pulled over.

“This is it?” I asked as the guard approached. “No gates or fences?” Up ahead I could see long, plain rows of barracks surrounded by fields. “This hardly looks like a prison. Look! Cows!”

Ian stuck his head out the window. “Good morning,” he said. “Ian Collins and Molly Ryan from the Star. And this is our photographer, Freddy Morris. We’re here about the shackling incident.”

“Corporal Griffen,” the man said, shaking Ian’s hand. “Yes, I’d been informed you were coming. I’ll take you to the main building, but I have to ask you to be cautious.” His eyes flitted to me. “We have five hundred POWs here, and hostilities are ongoing.”

I frowned. “Is it safe?”

“Oh yes. Most of the prisoners have barricaded themselves inside the mess hall in the main building and we have them locked down inside. There are a few locked inside their own houses as well, but we have them covered.”

He indicated where Ian should park, and once he had, the four of us set off at a brisk walk toward the main building.

“Can I answer any of your questions while we walk?” Griffen asked.

I asked about the fields and the cows, and he told me they had ten acres for farming. “Cows, chickens, pigs, whatever you want. The planting fields are out back. Why waste such glorious land?”

“Indeed!” Ian replied. “And you’re saving the government money by feeding yourselves, to a certain extent.”

“Exactly,” Griffen replied.

I took in his white hair and moustache, surprised to see someone his age guarding the camp. I’d assumed guards would have to be fighting age. “How did you come to be stationed here?”

“We’re all members of the Veterans Guard of Canada: veterans of the last war. Too old to fight, but fine for guard duty.”

That explained his age. “There’s not a lot of outside security, I’ve noticed.”

“Why leave? Most of these fellas have it better here than they’ve ever had it before. Bacon and eggs for breakfast, fresh bread every day, full, hearty suppers…”

“Jeez. They eat better than us. Can the public come for supper?” Ian asked. “What do you think, Miss Ryan?”

That was my cue to say something witty to lighten up the conversation and keep the guard talking. I smiled. “Mr. Collins, if you ate here, there’d be nothing left for the rest of the men.”

Griffen chuckled and continued the tour, pointing out the nine guard towers and the separate, well-maintained barracks for prisoners, as well as the ones for the Canadian guards. While Ian asked questions, I took notes, and Mo snapped photos of the camp.

Griffen pointed past the barracks. “Sports field over there, then they have the lake during the summer, and even a pool.”

“Lake Ontario?” Ian asked. “That’s pretty wide open. Don’t they escape?”

“You might think it’s crazy—I did at first—but the prisoners are required to give their word of honour that they’ll come right back, or else they can’t go.”

“Their word of honour?” I exclaimed. “From Germans?”

Griffen shrugged. “Like I said, they have it good here. Plus, where would they go? We’ve never had even one try to break out. Right now, of course, we’re having some problems with them, but it’s under control. Usually they’re out in the yard, playing soccer, baseball, whatever. The games are pretty competitive. Reminds me of my old days in service: navy versus army versus air force. In the evenings, some of them put on weekly plays. We even gave ’em musical instruments. Their band performs every Saturday night, both classical stuff