Guilt and Atonement Theme Analysis

Now, from my own position at the edge of the river, I thought of […] waking up in the darkness of the ocean. I considered the slender divide between our perceptions of life and death. And how one life could be valued over another.

My past failings as a doctor became clear—not just with Stan, but also in Broome and in my previous experience in Japan. I had been wrong to leave the kindness of the human touch to Sister Bernice and others. In keeping my silence, I hadn’t exercised the very quality that makes us human: our capacity to understand each other.

But for all [Sister Bernice’s] outward calmness, I sensed something had changed. She still conversed with me and occasionally brought me black tea—although she herself never used the cup I gave her, which pained me—but there was a coolness to her now. She had closed a part of herself to me.

Sister Bernice gazed at me. “Don’t you realise what this means? We’re at war with Japan now. You mustn’t stay here. It isn’t safe.” Perhaps mistaking my silence for shock, she continued to speak. “They’ll come for you—they’ll put you away. You should have left a long time ago.”

Her face was creased in anguish. I felt a great tenderness towards her at that moment. “Thank you for your concern, Sister, but you need not worry—I have prepared myself for this outcome.”

It was a dreadful kind of waiting. Time entered a new dimension—not exactly slow, but a state in which I sensed everything more keenly. I detected the sharp scent of metal in the air, I felt each drop of sweat beneath my shirt, and I observed how the shifting light at dawn and dusk seemed to hide more than it revealed.

Despite my efforts, everything was in ruins. Why could I never do anything right?

Images crowded my mind. Stan, all alone within the kaleidoscope of sheets. Kayoko in the hallway, her luggage at her feet. It was all so clear to me now: somehow, I always failed the people I cared about. [….] As long as I got to the infirmary in time, everything would be all right.

Yamada stared at me, looking deep into my soul. A feeling of shame rose up through my body, filling my chest and throat. As much as I wanted to deny it, I know he was right. My refusal to believe Stan had prompted his deterioration. For that, I couldn’t forgive myself.

The ceremony was originally intended for only a small group of Stan’s friends—mainly the Australian-born Japanese and me—but that afternoon more than thirty people lined the path that snaked through the garden. For someone so quiet, Stan had many friends.

In the coffee shop, a dark figure came towards me. My heart fluttered when I realized it was Kayoko. She wore navy monpe trousers knotted above her waist and a matching coat. In the unfamiliar clothes, I hardly recognised my wife. Grey threaded her hair. Her cheeks had lost their fullness and her mouth was tight. We sat together, the hum of conversation surrounding us as we shared fragments of our pasts. She smiled when I told her about releasing the lanterns in Broome and the baseball competition at camp. She described the friends she had made at the factory where she worked, assembling munitions parts.

I’d clung to the ideal of discretion, when it was courage—and forgiveness—I’d needed all along. My silence had been weak.