Hiroshima Sunset

by John Kelly

When the A330 touched down at Narita airport, the tarmac was wet, although it had stopped raining. Amanda gazed out the window into the night, excited to see Japan for the very first time. It looked no different from any other airport except it was the biggest she had ever seen. The aircraft slowed to driving speed and taxied for what seemed ages. In fact it took fifteen minutes to arrive at a parking spot where the passengers were able to disembark into a lounge area and from there, directed to board a shuttle that would take them to Terminal 2. Once through immigration clearance and granted a 90 day visa, customs checks followed. An officer perused her passport once more and waved her through without checking her bags. From there it was out into the main terminal where, with the help of an English speaking airport officer dressed in a spotless blue uniform complete with white gloves, she was shown the way to bus stop number 27. While waiting at the bus stop for the shuttle service to her hotel, another officer also dressed in a spotless blue uniform asked to see her passport. Satisfied that all was in order, he smiled politely, bowing as he handed it back to her, and wished her an enjoyable stay in Japan. The shuttle bus arrived and she was on her way to the hotel. It had been a long, tiring journey and all she wanted now was a light meal, a bed and a good night's sleep. She decided not to read any more of the journal tonight.

  The following morning it was the sound of aircraft taking off and landing that woke her. She looked around her room, and gathered her thoughts. Yes, she was in Japan. Amanda remembered, and the thrill of it raced through her bloodstream. After breakfast she would travel to Tokyo and make her first contact with Yoshiko, at Ikebukuro. Yes! It was all happening. Her hotel room, she noticed, was much smaller than hotel rooms in Australia, but lacking nothing and spotlessly clean. She looked out the window to a semi-rural setting of open fields in the foreground, a forest beyond, a motorway on the right with the edge of the airport on her left. It was not the teeming masses of Japanese she had expected to see, and she had to remind herself she was sixty-four miles from Tokyo. Breakfast introduced her to a bevy of local foods as well as the standard western cereal and toast. The sight of local guests tucking into a variety of fish and vegetables using chopsticks took her by surprise as did the practice of her hosts bowing graciously each time she asked for assistance. Politeness was standard procedure here.

  Checking out of the hotel, Amanda took the shuttle back to the Airport and found her way to the underground railway station. At the same time, eighty-five kilometres away in Tokyo, David and Margaret Maclean checked out of the Rykoban at Ikebukuro and made their way to the station to take the train to Kamakura. Their journey would take forty-five minutes on a suburban train. David's principal concern was how he would acquire a pick and shovel. He wondered if Bunnings had found its way to Japan.

  At Narita, Amanda showed her JR Rail Pass and received a ticket to Tokyo. The train left precisely on time and once out of the Narita Airport complex, the lush green countryside opened up before her. Apart from the obvious difference in housing design, it seemed to her that she could have been anywhere. The journey went by uneventfully, but for the loud and unsettling voice of a young American woman who had made herself comfortable opposite an unsuspecting Japanese mother and daughter. She opened up a conversation with her, to the utter surprise of the Japanese woman, and went on determinedly; discussing everything from having babies to the sad position America now found itself relative to its presence in Iraq. Realizing that this trip was not a holiday, Amanda decided to continue reading the journal, partly because she needed to, but also to tune out of the distracting conversation going on in the next row of seats. She remembered that the author of the journal had acquired a crate of food for Masako and her friends and was on his way to deliver, unaware that he was being followed?.

  As I travelled down that road once more, the morning fog had descended and visibility was limited. Some of the bicycles on the road had their headlights turned on and I travelled slowly, so as not to alarm them. Concentrating as I was, I did not notice any vehicle behind. Looking out across the river where the fog rested neatly just above the water, there was a feeling of calm all around.

  When I arrived at the location I had been twice before, I slowed up, hoping to see Masako and therefore make this offering with as little fuss as possible. I had come to realize that while the Japanese were patient and amenable, they were also proud and accepting help from strangers, or worse, conquerors, would not come easily to them. As before, people stood staring, wondering what I was doing. I climbed out and approached a group of three. As I did they bowed courteously. I had come to realize it was a normal act of greeting visitors and I responded with a wave.

  'O-hay? gozai masu,' (Good Morning) I said.

  O-hay? gozai masu,' they replied.

  'Watashi wa Ned Kelly-san,' (I am Mr. Ned Kelly) I said, concerned that if all this effort backfired badly, it would be prudent to remain anonymous. I decided that Len Patterson's precautionary tactic had some merit. They nodded.

  'Watashi wa yatai,' (I am food stall) I said, pointing to the back of the jeep. 'Kenk? shoku, tabe masu,' (health food, eat) I said, gesturing for someone to help me unload the crate. The word 'food' resonated and they moved with me to the jeep. I pointed to the crate and again gestured for them to take it. They looked over the crate at the contents and their eyes told the story. There was a burst of commentary between them and a rush to unload it. It was as if the contents represented a wind-fall, a lucky break, call it what you will. They were elated to receive it and carried it back to an area behind a row of huts. I waited, unsure if I should follow. Then, one of them turned back toward me, calling out, 'Nedkelly san,' and gestured for me to follow.

  Leaving the jeep and walking behind I felt uncomfortably vulnerable, but satisfied it was safe. The scene I walked into however, shocked me to the core. There were perhaps a dozen people grouped in a common open area surrounded by the most primitive, even prehistoric structures assembled together from the most basic remnants of what had survived the bomb; mostly made up of charred, blackened timber, with the odd piece of corrugated iron sheeting acting as a roof over an earthen floor. A fire in the middle of the circle was the only heating available to them, and a cleverly constructed length of copper pipe, adapted from what, I could not tell, had been connected to the underground water mains. They had purposely ruptured the line to access clean water. But we knew that much of Hiroshima's water was contaminated. The people looked wretched, in tattered clothing, one of the men still in military uniform, and most of them scarred with burns to all exposed parts of their bodies including their faces; several were emaciated with some lying down inside the huts, too weak to come out. They just lay there and watched as the men lowered the crate of food to the ground. Despite their wretched state, there was an atmosphere of elation and joy as if their prayers had been answered. Over and above this scene of desolation was the smell. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced, and I wanted to cover my mouth and nose to shield me from it, but I resisted. It was a concoction of human excrement, mixed with heat, and sodden damp earth, all coming together to create an even more pungent vapour. I suddenly felt that I was about to gag, and I volunteered a coughing action to try and offset it. They did not notice. They were too busy, examining the food brought to them. I began to feel ill, and taking advantage of them looking the other way, I retreated back to the jeep and stumbled at the side, vomiting up my breakfast, and barely conscious of any movement about me. In my distressed state I did not see Sergeant Avers walk passed me toward the destitute community.

  'Remain here soldier, I'll deal with you shortly,' I heard him say.

  Regaining my composure I turned around to see another jeep behind me and I panicked. I struggled to my own vehicle, still feeling nauseous, jumped in and sped off as quickly as I could; it was hardly the action of someone who had performed a heroic feat; more one who felt the guilt of stealing government property and desperate to escape being caught; I was exercising an 'everyman for himself' option. I tr
avelled back along the road, this time less concerned for those cycling; I simply wanted to disappear, become no more than someone in the crowd. I suddenly felt disillusioned with the whole notion of saving the downtrodden. Who was I to mount such a momentous undertaking? Surely this was General Northcott's job. What could I do anyway, beyond render some small assistance to a handful of people, and even then, wasn't it only a short-term solution? Accelerating through the fog, down the road, parallel to the river, my thoughts began to stabilize, I became less erratic and by the time I reached the Aioi Bridge, I had calmed sufficiently to take stock of myself. I crossed the bridge, turned right and headed for Ujina. The best option for me right now, was to resume normal duties at the repatriation centre, and act as if nothing happened.

  But that's not the way it worked out.

  About an hour later, I was going about my duties in the main office. Another ship had arrived early and a company of the 67th Battalion was about to supervise their disembarkation. As I went about one or two routine tasks, I looked up to see Sergeant Avers walk through the front door. At first it seemed he was alone, then, to my surprise and fear, Masako appeared from behind his solid frame, looking very nervous. He ushered her through into the administration area, passed the Japanese staff busy at their desks and brought her toward the rear where a number of occupation soldiers, including me, were preparing for the latest arrival of Japanese soldiers.

  Without any warning, Sergeant Avers bellowed out sarcastically, 'Now which of you clever dicks goes by the name of Ned Kelly?' Everybody stopped in their tracks. The whole room went silent, as the Japanese staff stopped what they were doing and turned to see what the commotion was about.

  'Come on,' Avers persisted, 'one of you is masquerading as a bush-ranger. Which of you is it?'

  Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

  'Okay, have it your own way,' he said.

  'He then turned to Masako. 'Nedkelly san,' he said to her, pointing toward us.

  Masako appeared terrified and slowly looked over all of us as if she were the vital witness in a police line-up. She took her time, looking at each male person. I began to perspire. How could I expect her to behave? Avers had obviously bullied her into coming with him to the centre. Surely she would wilt under the pressure and point me out. Her eyes rested on each person briefly until she reached the person next to me. Then slowly she looked at me. I was about to step forward and put her out of her misery, when to my surprise, she turned her eyes to the next person, and then the next and so on. She then turned to Avers and shook her head.

  'Can I have an interpreter here please,' the sergeant called out to the Japanese staff.' Shigeko Suzuki, the interpreter came forward.

  'Can you ask her if she is sure that Nedkelly san is not here?' Shigeko nodded and spoke to Masako. Masako shook her head.

  'No, the person you are seeking is not here,' Shigeko said calmly. Avers looked at Masako, and then scanned his eyes across each one of us standing there. He stood there in silence as if deciding what to do next. Finally, to the relief of everyone, he gave up.

  'Okay then,' he said, and turning to Shigeko, he said quite compassionately, 'give her something to eat and drink and I'll arrange for someone to take her back.' It seemed as though Sergeant Avers' angst was not directed toward Masako and possibly not Nedkelly san, either, but at the degrading state of affairs the local population had to endure.

  As Shigeko led Masako away toward the cafeteria, Avers turned his attention back on us. His mood had changed and his demeanour became quite conciliatory.

  'Now, listen up. There is an epidemic out there among the locals,' he said. 'Some are in a truly pitiable state and do not deserve to be this way. Some are sick from an unidentifiable illness. We are here to try and help, but you must understand that civilian restoration is not our responsibility. The Japanese Government under the direction of General MacArthur, who is the supreme commander for the allied powers, are coordinating the relief effort. We are here to repatriate, not act as saviours. Raiding our food supplies to help isolated communities might seem on the face of it, meritorious, but it is not. It is counter-productive. If you want to be helpful, do your job, and don't become emotionally involved with the locals. That will only impair your judgement. If you think there is a better way of managing this prefecture, then by all means come forward and suggest an alternative to your superior officer. But for the love of Jesus, don't think you can become some modern day Robin Hood. The problem is far too large for that.'

  Having said his piece, he turned to leave, but then stopped.

  'Any drivers here?' he turned and asked. I raised my hand.

  'See to it she gets back to where she lives, will you?' he said, pointing toward Masako in the cafeteria.

  'Yes Sarge,' I answered. He nodded, turned and left. All eyes were upon him until he disappeared from view out the front door. There was a collective sigh of relief from the service personnel present, my relief greater than most. I considered myself fortunate to have been let off the hook, a hook I had manufactured myself, and it was difficult to know what would have happened to me had Masako pointed me out. But she didn't and having restored my composure, I began to wonder about Avers' reference to the unidentifiable illness many were suffering. We had all noticed over the short time we had been here that the Hibakusha were different from other Japanese. Quite apart from their scars and burns, there was lethargy, tiredness and many who had lost their hair. There were those who appeared unharmed but displayed purple skin rashes. Some even gave it a name: the A-bomb disease. We didn't know it at the time, but it was of course, the lingering effects of exposure to atomic radiation, which caused thousands of deaths in the days and weeks following the bomb. With some, however, the effects continued to linger and threaten, six months later, depending on the level of exposure. For the homeless, and the destitute who had nowhere to go, returning to where their homes once stood, was their only option. In most cases, these areas of Hiroshima were the most contaminated.

  Once Sergeant Avers was out of the way I went to the cafeteria to find Masako. She was sitting at a table facing the window, eating a bowl of noodles mixed with vegetables and meat. Shigeko Suzuki was with her. I did not dare speak to Masako personally for fear that Shigeko would realize that I was Nedkelly san. So, I took Shigeko aside, and asked her to tell Masako, that I was designated to drive her home. Shigeko turned to speak to her, but Masako was not listening. While she had been eating, her attention had been diverted to the company of Japanese soldiers marching in from the wharf through Ujina Gate. She suddenly jumped up from the table and screamed, 'Tokuo, Tokuo.' She was pointing toward the soldiers. 'Tokuo, Tokuo,' she repeated. She became very excited and began to garble frantically.

  'What is it?' I asked Shigeko.

  'I don't know. Let me speak with her,' she answered. Moments later she called to me.

  'It's her brother,' she answered. 'Her brother has come home.' Masako ran to the window and pounded the glass relentlessly, screaming out her brother's name, hoping to attract his attention, but to no avail. She then turned toward the rear of the building and ran toward the door.

  'Stop her Shigeko,' I called out. 'That's quarantined. She can't go out there. Shigeko reached her and stopped her from entering the quarantine area, explaining that she must wait until the soldiers were processed. Masako listened but it did not calm her.

  'Tokuo, Tokuo,' she cried. Shigeko struggled to subdue her and asked my help. Together we took her back to the table where she had been eating, reassuring her that if her brother had returned home, we would wait with her until he was processed.

  14.