WAITING FOR THE DURIAN

“I’m sorry, Des.” Sunny choked out his words as he gently rubbed his son’s hand. “They won’t allow you to stay any longer.” Des lay still, weak and sweating from the exertion of his latest run to the latrine. He had tried to drink sips of water and eat the bits of dirt mingled with rice. He had suffered the slicing agony in his intestines, stood tall for as many countings as he could, watched his life’s blood flow from his bowels, knowing that time was his enemy. The allies were not coming, at least not in time for him. Sunny lifted him to his feet, guiding him toward the door. “No, please, I’m fine,” Des said, twisting feebly away from his father’s arm. He wanted to scream out with all his remaining strength—tell them he wasn’t ready to go there, that he would find the strength somehow to stand up. He would eat more, get stronger. But it would be useless. He had been selected to be separated from the others for their own good, not for his. His months of suffering had bought him a one way ticket through the hospital’s door. His father escorted him to the front of the dingy single story building. “I can’t take you any further,” he said, putting his arm around Des’s shoulders. He released him tearfully and watched Des disappear into the building. Inside, Des was shocked out of his pain by the stench and sight of the human misery around him. He was shown to a cot in the back of the open area where a sea of wizened men, shrunken to dryness, deprived of food and sympathy lay, waiting for their last breath to carry them out of their prison. Their expressions were mostly peaceful, as if their minds had already left their physical surroundings and could see ahead where they would spend eternity. Lying down, Des began to think of his mother, whose face he could no longer picture. For nearly two years he had spent every day with his father, living mostly on nothing but the stale moist air of this tropical prison and the dirt of the land mixed with a few grains of rice. He looked around him. His fear seemed to spark something new in him. He was unable to picture himself lying down like the others, passively waiting for death. He wasn’t like them. He was Des Woodford. He was a boy. He couldn’t die—not if he didn’t want it. Hadn’t he survived the sinking of the Chiang Bee, the days on the island, the capture of the Tappah? Hadn’t he fought for and won the durian? Had he not avoided capture countless nights as he crawled under the fence through the mud and dirt, searching for whatever morsels he could find to keep starvation at bay? A plan began to form within his mind. In the camp, he could have avoided the trip to hospital by showing his stool was free of blood for three consecutive days. Perhaps he could earn a reprieve from his sentence here in the same way. He spoke to Dr. Holvek, who was sceptical. “I suppose it is possible,” he said. “If you could go three days, maybe….” He trailed off, leaving Des hopeful. Under Des’s cot was a small pot for excrement. Each morning, the pots were emptied. Des came to learn that it was indeed possible to escape the back door of the hospital. Occasionally, other patients who recovered quickly enough, before succumbing to the utter starvation that went with having no food at all, could leave. He went to sleep that first night, his pains dulled by his mind’s preoccupation with the details of his plan. In the night, Des used his metal pot under the bed. He drank what liquid was provided and hoped for the best. In the early hours of the following morning, he slipped from his cot and carried his pot over to where an unconscious older man lay. The man’s breath rasped quietly amid the sounds of the other sleeping inmates. He did not stir as Des emptied half the contents of his own pot into the man’s own metal container. Next Des made his way along the floor so as not to be noticed, and checked the contents of several other pots until he found a couple of firm bloodless stools. He added these to the bloody contents of his own pot and returned to his cot. When Dr. Holvek passed by later, Des showed him the pot. Dr. Holvek examined the contents sternly. “This is your pot?” he asked in his thick Dutch accent. “Yes, I’m feeling a little better,” Des replied, careful not to claim too miraculous a cure. Dr. Holvek looked doubtful. “There’s still much blood here.” He shook his head and walked away. Des stared at Dr. Holvek’s back as he passed through the other patients. Some were dead and so were moved swiftly to their final destination out the back door.