Page 80 of Sisters Under The Rising Sun
Norah painstakingly copies out the scores on scavenged scraps of paper. She asks Ena if she will sing the final song with the backing of the orchestra. Her beautiful soprano voice will complement the orchestra’s performance of the ‘Faery Song’,fromThe Immortal Hour. Humbly, Ena agrees.
That piece, too, is written up and copied by hand, over and over. With no access to the original sheet music, Norah’s eidetic memory for musical scores astonishes everyone.
‘None of us expected to be still here for a second Christmas, yet here we are,’ Nesta announces to a roomful of nurses. ‘We won’t have a feast and none of us will get presents, but it’s still Christmas and I think we should mark it.’
The girls exchange glances.
‘What do you suggest?’ Jean asks.
‘Well, I’d like to just sit here together for a while,’ Betty says.
‘Maybe some of us would like to share what a typical Christmas Day was like back at home,’ Vivian adds.
‘That’s a lovely idea, Vivian. Why don’t you start?’
‘Well, the first thing I remember about my childhood Christmases is that they were always bloody hot in Broken Hill.’
‘Of course they were, Bully! Tell us how it was,’ Betty calls out.
‘You’ll never believe it, but my mum still insisted on upholding the English tradition of serving a hot roast meal in the middle of the day, followed by an even hotter steamed pudding. There were just the four of us – Mum, Dad, my brother John and me. Dad was a real trooper and ate everything Mum put in front of him. John and I whinged about the heat and shoved the food around our plates. But we knew if we wanted to get our Christmas presents, we’d have to eat up. Which we did, with a little help from Joey, our dog, who hid under the table. Dad used to catch us, but he never said anything, just gave us a wink now and then. What I wouldn’t give to be sitting around that table, no matter the temperature, no matter how hot and overcooked my mother’s food was, and believe me, it was.’
The following day, the camp is filled with the sounds of children playing, sharing the simple games and toys lovingly made for them. Norah sits under a tree with Ena and Margaret watching June playing with the other children.
‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ Margaret asks.
‘It’s time,’ Norah says.
‘Time for our voice orchestra to show you what we can do,’ Ena quips.
‘Tomorrow it is then,’ Margaret says.
‘We have something special for you tonight,’ Margaret tells the assembled women, agog to hear this highly anticipated performance. ‘Even I have not been permitted to hear all that we are about to witness. After weeks of rehearsal, I want to introduce to you the one and only Norah Chambers. Norah felt there was something missing from our entertainment programme. With some amazingly talented women, she has created for you … a voice orchestra. Please welcome them for the first, but not the last, time.’
The performance is to be held in the camp’s central clearing. The crowd parts as Norah’s orchestra make their way through the eager women.
Norah organises her singers into a semicircle and the audience cheers and applauds with enthusiasm.
Her back to the audience, Norah mouths soothing words of encouragement to her singers, before slowly raising her right arm.
Norah Chambers, captive of the Japanese Army, barely surviving in the jungle of Sumatra, closes her eyes. Norah Chambers, composer, conductor, opens them. Slowly, she lowers her arm and the clear, soulful opening notes of the largo from Dvorák’sNew World Symphonysweeps over the first rows of women, arriving in an explosion at the back. As the piece gathers momentum, rising and falling, up and down the scale, the audience gasps in disbelief. The singers, their eyes fixed on Norah, following her every gesture, do not falter. Held by the beauty and strength of this music, written in a time and place unimaginable to the audience … in this moment, they are free.
As she drops her arm, Norah’s head bows, eyes close. The silence in the clearing seems to last an eternity. She turns to the sound of one person clapping and then, all at once, the women erupt into applause and cheers, wiping away the tears that began to fall from the very first note. Her orchestra is weeping too, hugging one another.
Margaret steps up to the front, biting back her own tears, but trembling with the emotion another musician feels when they have heard something extraordinary. She embraces Norah, who slumps in her arms, overcome with emotion.
‘Encore, encore.’
The calls for more do not end. Norah looks at her orchestra, her eyes questioning. The women all nod, ‘yes!’
‘Chopin?’ she asks.
Again, the women nod.
Margaret once again holds up her hands. That is all that is needed to silence the audience.
‘I believe it is going to be Chopin?’ she says, looking at Norah, who smiles.
‘Ladies, I give you the “Raindrop” preludeby Chopin,’Margaret announces, stepping away.
