“Look at me.” His father’s eyes are clear, his shoulders relaxed. “This is British currency,” he says, placing one hand lightly on Matthew’s arm. “This will be valuable again after the war is over. Do you understand?”

Matthew nods.

“I want you to go into the plantation. You must be very careful and you must make sure that no one sees you. No one at all. Not the Japanese, not the workers, nor any children hanging about.” His father puts his cigarette to his lips, draws, then exhales, studying Matthew. “Count out the rows. At the thirtieth row, go to the thirtieth tree. I want you to bury this jar in that exact place. Do you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“Good.” His father stands up. He puts the jar into an old rice sack. “Take it now. Make sure that you are not seen.”

Matthew nods, his stomach tightening.

“Now,” his father repeats, his voice firm. “Go quickly.”

Matthew takes hold of the sack. He is surprised by its weight, but he swings it carefully over his shoulder.

“When you return,” his father says, almost as an afterthought, “stay inside the hut. Keep the door closed and wait for your mother. Everything will turn out for the best.”

The last of the day’s light is gone, but already he can see the moon, low in the sky. Matthew shifts the weight on his shoulders. He walks forward a few steps, then glances back. His father is outside, leaning against the hut, head bowed, and he reaches into his shirt pocket, withdrawing a handkerchief. He wipes his face and hands, then straightens his body and steps slowly, resolutely, away from the wall.

Matthew begins to run. When he reaches the edge of the plantation, he is breathing fast. Behind him, a truck rumbles along the road, and when he stops and turns he sees that the truck has come to rest in front of the hut and two Japanese soldiers are climbing out. His father goes to meet them. Matthew stands motionless. The leaves of the rubber trees shift in the wind and a light breeze cools his sweating body. He lowers his arm, lets the sack rest on the ground. The sounds twist around him, a bird or an animal crying, and from somewhere nearby, the acrid smell of smoke.

In the distance, he sees three distinct flares as cigarettes are lit; the embers are visible, though small as fireflies. Beside him, the plantation seems immense, unfathomable without the light from the kerosene lamps. He has never gone into it alone, and never when the lamps were unlit.

He walks into the plantation and the light of the moon dims. Beneath the canopy of trees, the darkness seems to press against his eyes, a blindfold, a weight. He walks on and on, touching each tree as he passes it. Something on the ground catches his feet, and he stumbles forward. There is a smell of vomit, of decay. When he puts his hands down, trying to steady himself, they are in water, something wet. His heart collapses inside his chest. He has lost count. Terrified of making a mistake, he retraces his steps. He finds his way back to the road, beyond the trees where the moon is once again visible.

Far away, the three embers glimmer in the dark. His legs, trembling, give way and he crouches on the ground. His entire body is shaking now, and he wishes that his mother would return, that she would light the last candle-end. A tiny flame glowing inside the hut to bring him home.

He does not want to disappoint his father, but he cannot step back into the trees. Breathing heavily, he lifts the sack onto his shoulder and stands. He walks in the direction of the hut.

As he draws near, he begins to hear their voices, softer than usual. A few seconds later, he is close enough to make out their words, but he stays hidden in the dense brush beside the road. They are speaking in broken Malay, sometimes changing to Japanese. He stops and kneels on the ground, almost behind the hut, hugging the sack to his chest.

The Japanese lieutenant is standing beside his father. Matthew recognizes him immediately, a man taller than all the rest, who, when he comes to the hut, brings meat and cigarettes. The lieutenant is speaking. He says that Australian soldiers have landed in the west of Borneo.

In his hands, his father is holding another jar, also filled with money.

“It’s over,” the lieutenant continues. “I don’t have a choice any more.”

His father’s voice is quiet, strained. “And the others who worked with me. I went into town. The offices are abandoned.”

“The others?” The lieutenant pauses, exhales a plume of smoke. He says, angrily, “What do you think happened to the others?”

The second Japanese soldier walks a few paces back, glancing into the open door of the hut. Matthew quiets his breathing, wills his body to become a part of the darkness. The moon traces the faintest light on the ground.

His father turns to face the soldier. “Come,” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “Take this money.”

The soldier laughs. “You see, we know you. That’s just what I expected you to say.”

“I thought you would have tried to leave Sandakan.” The lieutenant’s voice is casual. “I thought you understood; the most dangerous time is when war is over.” He drops his cigarette-end on the ground and puts it out with his boot. Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a box, opens it, and offers it to Matthew’s father. Two more cigarettes are lit.

The ember of his father’s cigarette wavers in the air, and for a moment his father gazes into the trees as if searching for something, an opening, a way to escape. His eyes rest on the patch of ground directly in front of Matthew. His father lifts his eyes, and Matthew knows that he has been seen. He wants to stand up and go to him. He begins to push himself up from the ground, but the expression on his father’s face, surprise, but something more, grief, incomprehension, stops him. His father closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they seem to burrow into Matthew’s body, holding him still. The lieutenant says quietly, “Where are your wife and son?”

His father does not answer at once. “My wife is with her brother,” he says finally. “I do not know where my son is.”

Time passes, and his father holds the lieutenant’s gaze.

The lieutenant looks towards the hut. He walks to the doorway, steps in, and disappears.

“Please,” his father says. “Take this money.”

The lieutenant re-emerges. He approaches Matthew’s father, taking the jar thoughtfully in his hands. His eyes drift over the trees. Matthew’s legs, frozen in a kneeling position, begin to tingle, and a wave of sickness causes him to bow his head, eyes watering. The lieutenant taps his cigarette and the ashes fall to the ground. “From what I hear, all of Tokyo is burning. There isn’t a building standing. It’s tragic, but this is the nature of war, and you and I, we are both on the losing side.” He pauses, looks down at the jar in his hand. “Maybe you don’t believe it, but I pity you. I’m offering you a choice. Come with us now. Let’s not do this here in the open.”

His father’s voice is low. “Everyone knows what happened here, this will not change the things that matter –”

The other soldier, standing by the door of the hut, has come forward. With a heavy movement, he swings his rifle into Matthew’s father’s back. His father is taken by surprise. He cries out in pain, falling forward on his hands and knees.

The lieutenant says something to the soldier, but Matthew cannot understand the words. His father crawls forward a little, then stumbles to his feet.

“I have done everything you asked. I’m begging you. I have a family –”

“I cannot help you any more.”

His father lurches forward and begins to run blindly towards the road. The soldier catches him easily and he swings his rifle up, where it remains for a second before he brings it forcefully down. His father crumples. His arms reach up to shield his head and Matthew can no longer see his face.