‘Bing Crosby,’ Molly explains to Yukio despite his lack of understanding. ‘Dottie Drake plays Bing all day in the hair salon. I’ve always liked “Pennies From Heaven”. It’s a song about sky gifts. Bing says the clouds are filled with pennies and whenever it rains, the coins fall from the sky. So you shouldn’t be afraid of storms because them storms are what shake all the pennies from the clouds, and actually we’d be wise to walk outside with our umbrellas upside down.’ Molly has a thought and it stops her in her tracks. ‘Do you reckon the hair salon is still there, Greta? I hope Dottie got out before the bombs hit.’
Greta keeps her head down, searching a rock platform now for thicker logs. She moves closer to Molly.
‘You reckon anything’s left at all back in town?’ Molly asks. ‘Do ya reckon anyone got—’
‘Molly, shut your trap for a second and listen to me,’ Greta whispers. ‘When the fire starts, you give this feller a nice big can of that corned beef in your bag. We’ll get him nice and cosy and the minute he drops off to sleep, we’ll grab that gun and run like hell.’
‘I don’t think he’s gonna hurt us, Greta,’ Molly says. ‘He’s a good one. I can see it all over him.’ Molly looks over her shoulder to the stream, where Yukio is staring at the water, distant and frozen in his thoughts. ‘He’s just sad, that’s all,’ Molly says. ‘I think he wants to help us.’
‘He’s a loop at best, and the worst ain’t worth thinkin’ about,’ Greta says. ‘You just stay awake and wait for my signal.’
‘“Fat barramundi”?’
‘No, Molly, the signal isn’t gonna be bloody “fat barramundi”. It’s gonna be me grabbing you by the arm and silently dragging you away from the strange-fruit Jap flyboy. You follow?’
Molly nods.
‘You just be sure to stay awake,’ Greta says. ‘Got it?’
‘Got it,’ Molly says.
*
Full stars shimmering in a night sky framed by the canyon walls. A thousand pinholes of silver light breaking through a blanket of black. A frog croaking somewhere wet. Cicadas in the ghost gums, the kind they call the northern double drummer, creating their great wall of sound. A crackling fire on a flat rock by the canyon stream, and on one side of that fire sits Greta Maze with her knees tucked up to her chest and looking through the fire at the Japanese pilot sitting on the other side, who’s scooping salty wet beef from a roughly cut open tin. And soundtracking all of this night sky, star-wrapped scene is the relentless snoring of Molly Hook, the obnoxious nose and throat rattle of it bouncing between the canyon walls.
Greta assesses the snoring girl and rolls her eyes. Molly lasted thirty minutes by the fire before she was dead to the world and now she sleeps, deep and loud, turned on her side on the flat rock, knees pulled to her chest for warmth, arms over her shins. It’s cool and getting cooler in the bottom of the canyon.
Greta turns back to the pilot. He’s still stuffing his face with soggy canned beef, licking his fingers. No helmet and goggles on his head now. His hair is black and militarily cut, short and neat. The pistol rests on the flat rock by his right knee.
Yukio notices Greta staring at him. He stops eating. He offers her the open can of beef. ‘You?’
Greta shakes her head, looks away, repulsion in that head shake.
Yukio turns to Molly. The brown-haired girl who likes to talk is finally speechless, yet she makes noise even in her sleep. He smiles. He sees that she is shivering in her sleep. He places his near-empty can of beef down by his side and stands and walks softly over to her.
‘What are you doing?’ Greta asks, protectively. ‘Get away from her.’
Yukio does not stop. He unbuttons his flight jacket. It’s rust-coloured, made of a cotton and silk blend, thick and heavy. A blue chrysanthemum has been stitched into the jacket sleeve, the sacred mark of the Japanese naval aviator. He wears only a plain white T-shirt now, tucked tight into a thick brown military belt and pants. The shirt hugs his body and his body is all bone and muscle. A body of pure military means: lean, fit and useful. He kneels down and gently lays the flight jacket over the gravedigger girl. He walks back to his place at the fire, picks up his soft leather helmet – fur-lined and insulating – then he walks back to Molly and, carefully lifting her head up briefly from the slab of hard sandstone, gently slips it onto her head. Molly gives a loud snort, turns over onto her other side, instinctively pulls the welcoming jacket tight around her body, and nestles into the flight helmet.
Yukio nods. He offers a half-smile as he turns back to Greta. ‘Ii ko da,’ he says. Greta stares at him, puzzled.
He looks back down at Molly. The brown-haired girl has a good heart. He points at her. ‘Ii ko da,’ he says again, tapping his own heart.
Greta nods with a vague sense of understanding.
Yukio nods.
He sits back down by the fire opposite Greta and warms his hands. A long silence between the man and the woman, no sound but the cicadas and the crackle of burning eucalypt logs.
Yukio taps his chest. ‘Yukio,’ he says. He taps his chest again. ‘Yukio.’
Greta nods. She taps her chest reluctantly with her forefinger. ‘Greta,’ she says.
Yukio repeats the name. ‘Greta.’ He nods and taps his chest again. ‘Yukio Miki,’ he says.
Greta takes a pained inhale. She nods, tapping her chest. ‘Greta Maze,’ she says.
‘Greta . . . Maze,’ Yukio repeats.
He taps his chest again. ‘Yukio Miki . . . kara . . . Sakai . . . Japan.’
Greta nods. ‘Greta Maze . . . Sydney . . . Australia.’
Yukio nods, smiling. ‘Sid . . . inny,’ he says.
Greta nods. She slides her backside closer to the fire, lies down on her side, rests the side of her face on her
