And I say, who will care for others, if not idlers?
There’s another traditional Japanese custom that people follow at this time of year. Families who experienced bereavement at any time during the year are not supposed to receive any New Year’s greetings. They notify all their friends and relatives so that they don’t receive any cards.
Two days before Christmas, the sisters order a beautiful Christmas tree; they ask the flower shop to deliver it to their door. They plant the Christmas tree in the middle of the lawn, covering nearly a third of the outdoor space. They’d originally planned to plant the tree in a pot in their sitting room, but because the room is so small and the space under the ceiling so low, they decided to plant it outdoors. Now the sisters have a lot of work to do, going in and out of the house, decorating the tree and buying fancy and unique toys. They are so excited and happy. They spend most of their daytime hours arranging the small objects perfectly on the Christmas tree. In most families, this is the work of the children. The sisters seem to enjoy it, the ongoing reminder of the importance of the holiday, the fun of the decorating.
I ask them over the fence whether they’re planning to host a big Christmas party at home. Sister Shibata answers yes. She says that they hope I can join them for the party, and she asks if I might help them make Chinese jiaozi, dumplings, for their guests as the main dish. Sister Yamamoto quickly brings a pen and writing pad and asks me to write the shopping list for them so that they can prepare the necessary wheat flour, meat, vegetables, and seasonings. I say that I will prepare and bring jiaozi as my donation and gift to the guests. The sisters are so happy and excited, clapping their hands like children.
It’s Christmas Day. In the morning, I go out to buy two heads of cabbage and a kilo of minced meat. On the way back, walking up the slope, I meet with the postman, heading toward our building. We know each other; he’s learning Chinese in a language class downtown and is always eager to practice his Chinese with me. He says, in Chinese, that there is a letter for me and also a postcard for my next-door neighbors. While he talks, he hands me the letter. I take it from him and see the clean white postcard for my neighbors. The message, printed in size-three bold black characters, reads clearly:
Due to the sad and sorrowful bereavement over the loss of our loved one this year, we regret that we will not send New Year’s greeting cards to you. Please accept our apologies.
And beneath that, in smaller characters:
Our elder son, Kamo (aged 43), passed away in May this year. We appreciate and give our hearty thanks to all for the kindness and generous help offered to him while he was with us. We remain in prayer. Please accept our best wishes and may God bless you.
Heisei, Year 14, December
The card is signed:
Shibata
Kamo. Kamo. Is that the man Kamo, who used to come often to help the sisters?
The postman points at the postcard and says in Chinese: “Letter for master. Death of the sun.”
I tell him, it is not the master—this letter is from her husband. And it’s not “sun,” but “son”; it says that her son, Kamo, died.
The postman nods and says, “Yes, her son, Kamo.”
He tries to pronounce the Chinese “er” () for son, but he always pronounces it “e.” I have no time to care about that. I just want to ask him for sure: whose son?
He says, “Obasan.”
“Please speak in Chinese,” I say. “Which obasan do you mean?”
He shows me the postcard and points at the two Chinese characters there: Shibata (). He clears his throat, stammers several times; he still cannot speak out the family name of Shibata in Chinese. Finally, he switches to Japanese. He says, “It is Sister Shibata’s son, Kamo. He died of leukemia.”
Suddenly my head feels numb. No wonder Kamo hasn’t come around for the last six months or so. He died last May of leukemia. I can’t help but think of the sisters—how brave and strong they are! Although they endured such enormous misfortune and unbearable sorrow, they remained so steady, calm, and quiet. They’re like a silent stream drifting downhill; undercurrents and eddies, ups and downs, flow beneath the happy surface. From above, no spray arises; all appears calm and even. What strong characters they must have to act like this; how tough and stoic they must be. These happy sisters, enduring such a heavy burden on their shoulders, and yet they stand straight as the juniper tree, not bending a bit. Even now they are preparing for their Christmas party, inviting relatives and friends to come over and enjoy.
For the whole morning, I’m overcome with emotion; for the whole afternoon, I cannot calm down, my heart beating fast and sorrow in my throat. I think of Kamo, the pale young man. He was the son of Sister Shibata and he died before his mother. At her age, she lost her son. His grieving mother who is busy preparing for the Christmas party. Busy and walking about in the yard, smiling contentedly . . .
I begin to think about myself. Several years ago, back home in China, I had work-related conflicts and thought I was misunderstood; I even cried about it in front of several officemates. Upset and angry because I hadn’t been treated well, I seriously considered suicide. How impetuous I was.
The Christmas party at Sister Shibata’s house is good. Almost all the participants are elderly natives of Hiroshima. They are recognized at the national level as treasures in this city. These old men and women have come from all over the city to attend this party. It could not have been easy for them to come. Sister Shibata tells me that they organize a party like this every year, and each year, the number of participants grows smaller. These people are the stars in the sky, but they are falling down one by one. And today all these shining stars are gathering at Juniper Hill.
From all the way at the bottom of the hill you can see the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. But here in the sisters’ apartment, more stars shine. These are the stars that survived the atomic bombing sixty years ago. They are still alive.
The guests prove to be very talkative, happy and at ease. As the old proverb says, dew is water that survives the ocean. This group of people endured the miseries of Hell, fighting against the devils, escaping and surviving so many disasters. And yet, deep in their hearts, they are happy. They deserve the enjoyment of a happy life every day.
I’m working busily in my kitchen, preparing the minced meat and vegetables for the Chinese jiaozi. Sister Yamamoto has sent one old woman named Uchida to help me. Yamamoto tells me that Uchida has visited China before, so she must know how to cook Chinese jiaozi. But Uchida, this old woman who had jiaozi years ago once, has no idea how jiaozi are made, how to put the filling into the dumplings. She can keep me company, but she can’t help, because she doesn’t know what to do.
So Uchida stands by my side, talking to me. She says she was Yamamoto’s schoolmate when they were in senior high school. On the very day of the bombing, she and Yamamoto were together. The two were best friends; they shared the misfortunes and disaster, and together they survived the atomic bombing. She married four times in her life, Uchida tells me, so she has five family names. “Uchida” is the name of her last husband’s family. Her marriage is complicated and miserable, she says. Uchida tells me that women who survived the A-bombing could never have a good marriage.
I try to change the subject and ask about my neighbors, the sisters. She says that the sisters have experienced similar misfortune, if maybe a bit less than her own.
5
It was the evening of August 5, 1945. The dreadful alarm horn went on the whole evening. After a quick supper, all the people fled to the air-raid shelters.
It was August in Hiroshima, so it was stuffy and humid. The air inside the bunkers was no good at all—stuffy, hot, humid, moldy. People had to crowd on the wet floor in the cavelike shelters, hoping for the alarm to cease. Everyone wanted to go home and take a shower and rest. The morning of August 6 arrived, and the air-raid alarm finally ended. People started to head home, sweaty and tired. Years of continuous war had brought the wh
ole country of Japan into profound poverty and exhaustion; the feeling of war weariness was their constant companion. It was hard, not knowing when the war would end or what the outcome would be.
Hiroshima was home to the most important military base in Japan during the war period. Etajima Island in the Seto Inland Sea was the command center of the Japanese Royal Navy. The military factories and shipbuilding factories in Hiroshima were the backbone of military logistics and weapons supplies. Ujina Port served as the launching site of the Japanese forces; from there Japan could invade the Chinese mainland. Thousands of Japanese soldiers boarded military boats, fully armed, and traveled across the Japanese sea to fight for the emperor and for their so-called East Asia Prosperity Plan.
Meanwhile, thousands of bodies of soldiers who’d died in the war, their bone ashes packed in white cloth, were shipped back via Ujina Port to their final destinations, their family homes. The local residents were used to the quiet parade of grieving relatives walking to the cemetery, the familiar white packages in their arms, containing the remains of their husbands or sons.
August 6 was a bright, clear day—blue sky with few clouds overhead. The Japanese call this a very fine day, or great fine day—just like the term in Chinese for a bright, clear day after snow. But that early morning, the weather was already hot. You’d be sweating after just a few steps in the open air.
The Yamamoto family left the shelter, heading for home. Father Yamamoto looked at the blue sky above and said, “No rain. Even a little rain would cool us off.” He turned back and looked at his wife and at his daughter Etako. Etako smiled at her father, saying nothing. Father Yamamoto waved at them, paused for a moment, and then started making his way toward the station. He was going downtown, where he was a teacher in a middle school. Etako’s mother, watching him leave, said her usual good-bye: “We’ll be waiting for you to come home soon.”
Etako was in senior high school. She would graduate soon. Today she looked forward to seeing her friend, getting together after school to do their homework and get some exercise. In her small handbag, there was a lunch box with some food that her mother had made for her the night before. The rice was a little bit rotten and had a bad smell. Etako dared not complain to her mother about it; she knew their rationed food was limited.
Her mother had packed the rice and green beans for Etako because the girl had physical labor to do today. Etako and her classmates had been busy working for some months already, disassembling and clearing away damaged houses. It was very hard and dirty work. They were asked to dismantle the easily flammable buildings and remove the furniture in order to avoid large-scale fires during the air raids. All this work was organized by the urban Hiroshima schools and carried out by the students. It was all done for no pay—no compensation whatsoever. Everybody was working while half-starving. The students talked about little else but food.
After saying good-bye to Etako for the day, Mother Yamamoto held her younger daughter, Yoko, in her arms and began to make her way home. Yoko had been sick with fever the night before and had cried throughout the night. Mother had to go find some medicine for her.
The family had stayed in the air-raid shelter for only a short time, but in Etako’s memory, it had been a terribly long time since they’d had any fun together. As an adult, when Etako thought of her family, her father, she remembered the vision of the air-raid shelter where they had stayed that morning. But for young Etako, the schoolgirl, it was a large family gathering that was recorded in her memory—a gathering in a place with a beautiful view and the feeling that nothing would ever change.
Etako and her classmate Uchida were assigned to go to the western region of Hiroshima and clean the dismantled houses there. She remembers it vividly even now. It was just after eight o’clock. She and her classmates arrived at the work site. Nearby there was a trolley-bus station where they could go to get some drinking water. The big clock in the station lounge was just striking eight. A trolley bus rushed into the station, full of commuters crowded onto the bus, impatient to get to work. The captain, standing at the back of the platform, blew his copper whistle loudly, warning the passengers to stand back.
Etako and her classmates finished their water and were about to leave the station when they heard an approaching fighter plane overhead. It was a B-29 bomber. Etako could tell it easily from its roaring sound. Because air raids were common at any time of day, the residents of Hiroshima had become experts in recognizing the planes flying overhead. They didn’t need to look up, only to listen; their ears could tell the type and model of every plane. Uchida stood at the station platform, pointing to the sky and shouting to her classmates: “Look, it’s the B-29 transformer flight. It’s coming again.”
Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked up into the blue sky. There were two big bomber planes flying over the city of Hiroshima from east to west. The silver planes were dazzling, almost too bright to look at in the morning sunlight. Everything was in mist. The students launched into discussions of where the planes had come from and where they might be going.
Bang! Suddenly a loud, heavy sound and a flash, a white flash of lightning. And there, rising in the sky, another sun, much bigger and more powerful, shining far too brightly over all the construction and the buildings, and then fading away from view. The students automatically covered their eyes with their hands. The flash was so bright and strong that it left them shaking, cold, on that August morning. It was a cold that penetrated their skin, sunk into their bones. That froze them.
Then they heard a shocking sound coming from the sky: a colossal explosion followed by a gigantic, black cloud. A wave of solid heat shot at them, a burning wave overwhelming their bodies, their senses. Blisters rose instantly on their arms, faces, bodies—and then the skin started peeling. Hardened and burned. You could see clothes on fire in the flaming smoke.
They were all in shock. They wanted to shout in pain, in terror, but the scene was silent. Their throats and their lungs were filled up with burning heat. The cloud exploded, grew exponentially, a giant mushroom. The fire-wind blew strong and hard, bearing down with unimaginable power, knocking down every building, every tree, everything that had been standing just minutes ago. They were all on fire, the city was on fire, everything . . .
Etako and her classmate Uchida were thrown down into a small drainage ditch under the side steps, and then the walls of the ditch collapsed on top of them. Deadly pieces of the station wall began raining down over them. They held each other tight, listening to the crashing sounds around them. They felt the trembling of the ground underneath them. They didn’t know if they were still alive or dead or in a nightmare, dreaming. Solid items were flying about over their heads. Shards of broken glass flew through the air like arrows, piercing everything in their path.
The two girls lay still in the ditch, their eyes closed, holding their breath. They felt like they were falling into a deep abyss, an underworld where menacing devils and beasts howled and growled, huge boulders rolling and slamming each other. They knew for sure that whatever was happening was unlike anything that had ever happened before in this life.
About forty minutes passed. They were awake. Alive. They struggled to crawl up from the ditch, seriously burned, wounded, blood on their arms and legs. They came up from that underworld to find that the world had entirely changed. Everything was different. All their classmates—everyone who’d remained above ground in the open square where they themselves had stood—those people were all burned to death, unrecognizable in their appearance and shape. Some had been killed by the flying glass-shard arrows, some hit by pieces of the building turned into jagged missiles. A few still writhed on the ground, struggling for their last breaths.
Burnt earth was exposed to them as far as their eyes could reach. No buildings remained standing. The trolley bus that had pulled into the station just before the bombing was now only an iron frame. None of its passengers had survived. The copper whistle that the captain had used to command atten
tion was now a sharp copper slice, embedded in a piece of tile on the crumbled station roof.
The skin of Etako’s arm came apart, the bleeding flesh sliced, exposed. It felt so alien that it wasn’t painful at all. She wanted to go and look for her teacher; she wanted to ask the teacher for permission to go home at once to see her mother and her little sister. She couldn’t find her teacher anywhere, only his wire eyeglasses frames, twisted into a curving shape, lying on the ground.
Etako’s home was in Yokogawa, just a few blocks away. She tried to run toward her home. On her way she saw many, many dead bodies floating in the Yokogawa River. Many heavily wounded people were running about, not knowing where to go for safety. Their eyes looked straight ahead, not thinking, only running, struggling.
And then, from a distance, Etako saw her home. It was no longer a home, only a pile of broken bricks and gravel. She ran toward it, the heap of smoking rubble. She fell upon it and tried to dig hard into the bricks with her bleeding hands, looking for anything recognizable.
At the spot where the kitchen might have been, she found the body of her mother. She’d been killed by a large, black pole that had fallen on the house; her cooking scoop was still in her hand. Her head had been hit directly by the heavy pole, breaking her skull to pieces. Her face was not there, not in any identifiable form. Her body was still slightly warm and soft. Etako gently shook her mother’s body, trying to awaken her from her deep sleep. Numb, in shock, Etako told her mother that she must wake up to care for little Yoko. If mother died, who would take care of her sister? And who would take care of her father? Her mother’s body was perched in a crawling position, arms splayed unnaturally. Etako tugged hard on her mother’s arms and legs, trying to help her into a more comfortable position. But she was unable to do so amid the rubble, and so her mother remained as she’d fallen.
Etako found Yoko, her little sister, at the hinge of their gate; she was alive. When the shock wave had struck the house, their Akita Inu dog, named Kamo, had stood over Yoko to block her from the shrapnel and debris. As he stood protecting the little girl, Kamo’s body was punched through with shards of broken glass. He didn’t look like a dog; he looked like a large wound. Later, when they cleared the site and removed Kamo’s body, they found that one large shard of glass had pierced his heart.
Old Land, New Tales: Twenty Short Stories by Writers of the Shaanxi Region in China Page 21
