As a veteran of high-level negotiations in Japan, Hiranuma was admirably suited for the job. At eighty, he had miraculously survived many decades of the in-fighting that typified his nation’s politics. An artful, wily tactician, the baron had lost little of the zealot’s fire he showed in his earlier career. Then he had been an ultranationalist, a strict constitutionalist, lending his support to various patriotic societies whose avowed purpose was to strengthen the Imperial institution. As a leader of the Kukohonsha, a rightist organization, he wielded tremendous influence on formation of cabinets in the turbulent years that followed World War I. By 1927 he managed to cause the overthrow of the reform-minded Wakatsuki cabinet and the establishment of Giichi Tanaka, an Army general, as Premier. From that point on, Japan’s policies were increasingly determined by the militantly ambitious groups within the Army, and Hiranuma learned to repent his action.
In 1939, Hiranuma was made Premier. As often happens, the office helped tone down the man’s reactionary tendencies. He tried to slow the Army’s drive to expand into China and elsewhere but failed. Though he worked most of his life for continuation of the Emperor system he in no way wanted the dictatorial monster that emerged from Manchuria in the guise of the Kwantung Army, which slowly spread its tentacles throughout the Government. Compared to this army, Baron Hiranuma was a flaming symbol of reform. Disillusioned, he continued to combat the military even after the Army forced him out of power. Terrorists tried to kill him in 1941. In the same year, he opposed war with America. When Tojo came to power as Premier, Hiranuma went into eclipse.
As the long war came to a close, he once more began to play a pivotal role as he struggled to shore up the Imperial institution and protect it from extinction. Hiranuma saw the necessity of convincing the warring factions within the government to agree on some form of answer to the Allied Powers.
The Big Six, their aides and Hiranuma waited twenty-five minutes in the underground shelter before the door to the Emperor’s quarters opened and the Divine Ruler walked in, accompanied by an assistant. Hirohito moved quickly to a straight-backed chair at the head of the table and sat down. His subjects bowed to him and sank back into their seats.
All of them were dismayed to see that their Sovereign’s hair was unkempt, hanging down in disarray on his forehead. His harried look was hardly that of a godlike leader.
Hirohito cleared his throat and waited for the meeting to begin.
The Emperor was not an impressive figure. Short-statured, bespectacled, he was shy to an extreme. His right cheek was marred by a nervous tic. His chin receded. His shoulders twitched. His voice was high-pitched. Yet to millions of his subjects he was a divine being, beyond worldly criticism, safe from any comparison to a mere mortal. The introverted, ineffectual-appearing Hirohito was nothing less than a direct descendant of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu.
Born in 1901, Hirohito had been brought up in a traditional pattern. His world was ruled by advisers, who saw to it that the young prince was indoctrinated in the mystical origins of his ancestors. Even he had trouble digesting the myth. In his teens, he clashed with Professor Shiratori, a history instructor, over the legend of his succession. Declaring that it was biologically impossible, the youthful Prince refused to accept the teacher’s thesis. Shiratori was thoroughly alarmed and reported Hirohito’s blasphemy to court advisers, who brought in Prince Saionji to reason with him. This aged relative was a poor choice; he did not believe the ancestral lore either. Saionji worked out a compromise. As long as Hirohito kept his suspicions to himself and did not upset the popular image of the Imperial family, no harm would be done. The masses could still worship the Emperor and find in him a strength of purpose. Hirohito agreed not to rock the ship of state. He spent less time with his history professor and more in the study of marine biology, at which, in later years, he became a world-renowned expert.
As Crown Prince, he shocked the conservatives at the court by insisting on taking a trip to Europe. Never before had a Japanese heir apparent ventured out of the country. Over strenuous objections, he traveled to London, Paris and Rome where he was thrilled by his glimpse of Western life and enjoyed the companionship of such men as Edward, Prince of Wales, who also would inherit an Empire.
Within two years after he returned to his cloistered world in the Imperial Palace, he married Nagako, a princess to whom he had been engaged for five years. In that period, he had seen her only nine times. Their betrothal had sparked warfare at the court as opposing factions jostled for the honor of supplying the bride for the next Emperor. Though Nagako was vilified by hostile elements, she persevered through the engagement period and married the nervous Prince on January 26, 1924. Slightly less than two years later, on Christmas Day, 1926, Hirohito became the 124th Emperor of Japan. His father Taisho, who had been insane during most of his reign, died, to the regret of practically no one at court. A man who spent his days in a world of unreality, who once sat gazing at legislators through a rolled-up newspaper “telescope,” Taisho had been a ruler in name only.
Now his eldest son carried on the royal tradition. Like previous leaders, he chose a new name for his reign. Hirohito called it Showa, which means Peace.
The new Emperor settled down to ceremonial routine, which marked the main function of his office. He and Nagako raised a family and he continued with his other love, the study of the sea. A retiring man, he watched passively as Japan fell under the sway of the militarists, whose acts in his name had terrible consequences. Hirohito could possibly have spoken out, but the Emperor of the Japanese people was not supposed to get involved in worldly intrigues. While he sat behind the gray walls of his compound, his subjects set the Pacific on fire.
Three years and eight months after Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Emperor of Japan saw visible evidence around him that his Showa reign was a mockery. Sickened and depressed by the appalling casualty figures, he began to insinuate himself into discussions of peace. Already he had insisted that Prince Konoye approach Russia with a bid for peace. Now, in the twilight of his Empire, he was ready to lend his authority to his faltering statesmen. Legend and history had bestowed power on him. Hirohito intended to use it.
Premier Suzuki stood up at the Emperor’s left and addressed the assemblage:
“I would like the Cabinet Secretary to read the Potsdam Declaration once more.”
The Secretary, bushy-browed Hisatsune. Sakomizu, quickly recited the terms laid down by the Allies, terms that every man in the room knew. Suzuki then outlined the difficulties in reaching agreement. In two previous meetings of the Big Six, opinion on the note was divided 3–3. In a cabinet session of fourteen ministers that afternoon, no harmony had been achieved. Six ministers were for peace providing only that the Emperor’s status was left unchanged. Anami, Umezu and Toyoda wanted this provision plus three others: Japan must be allowed to try its own war criminals; Japan must be permitted to disarm its own men in the field; and America must not occupy the Home Islands. They insisted on the last two to insure against friction between conqueror and vanquished. The five other ministers advocated peace with varying omissions of the conditions set forth by Anami, Umezu and Toyoda.
As Suzuki continued to describe the deadlocked discussions of that day, presumably for the Emperor’s benefit, General Anami sat glowering. Since he had come into the room, Anami had been building into a rage because of the presence of the guest, Hiranuma. Leaning over to Umezu, he whispered: “Hiranuma has no business being here. They’re trying to trick us, so let’s stand fast.” Umezu stared across the table at the elderly intruder and grunted agreement.
After his prefatory remarks, Suzuki asked Togo for his opinions. The Foreign Minister rose, bowed to the Emperor, and began to speak. He admitted, “It is disgraceful to have to accept the Potsdam Declaration. Yet we must.” Glancing from time to time at notes, he pointed out the folly of sitting still while Japan burned to the ground. His round spectacles glinted in the light as he fervently concluded, “We must accept the Potsdam Decl
aration with the sole condition that the Emperor’s status remain as it is.” He sat down.
Suzuki quickly stepped into the vacuum and asked Admiral Yonai for his opinion. The sleepy-eyed Navy Minister did not bother to stand. Staring straight ahead, he said quietly, “I agree with the Foreign Minister.”
Anami leaped to the attack. Pointing his finger at Yonai, he shouted: “Absolutely not! There is enough determination left in the armed forces to wage a decisive battle in the homeland. Unless all four conditions are met, there is no other choice for us. We will fight on.”
General Umezu swiftly echoed that determination, and added, “I have no objection to a decision in favor of accepting the Potsdam Declaration but the four conditions must be included.”
Premier Suzuki switched tactics. Ignoring Admiral Toyoda, he asked Baron Hiranuma to give his opinion. Toyoda was left with his mouth open.
Hiranuma rose to assume a role he relished. Immediately he baited Shigenori Togo: “Why did Russia declare war?”
Togo hotly retaliated, “Russia had no intention of being a mediator. It wanted to get into the war.”
The devil’s advocate continued to press for details. “Russia said that on July 28 the Japanese Government refused the Potsdam proposal. Is it true?”
Togo patiently replied, “No, we didn’t refuse.”
“Then why do they say so?”
Togo shrugged and answered, “It’s all in their imagination.” For himself, the Foreign Minister was speaking the truth. He had not rejected the Potsdam Declaration. Suzuki’s “mokusatsu” speech had caused the damage.
After several more questions to Togo on the various conditions put forth by the two generals and Admiral Toyoda, Hiranuma addressed the war faction directly: “You said you had the means to continue the war but air raids come now every night and day. Do you have the means to defend against the atom bomb? I wonder.”
General Anami did not answer. He was still annoyed by Hiranuma’s presence at the meeting, and he was also plagued by a sobering thought which had been with him since morning. Osaka intelligence officials had informed him of their interrogation of the captured American fighter pilot, Lieutenant Marcus McDilda. The pilot’s marvelously embroidered lie about the size and design of the atomic bomb, its inner workings and other details did not impress Anami as much as the information that Tokyo itself might be the bomb’s next target. McDilda had been discussed seriously at the morning’s meeting of the Big Six, for no one could deny that this obscure American pilot might be telling the truth. It was an appalling possibility.
Umezu instead responded to Hiranuma’s question:
“We have a new plan and hope for good results. Regarding the atomic bomb, it might be checked if proper antiaircraft measures are taken against the planes.”
Hiranuma asked Toyoda if the Navy, too, had a plan. The admiral agreed that it did, adding: “We wanted to use our planes against the American fleet but in preparing for homeland defense we couldn’t. From now on, we’ll attack.”
Hiranuma called on Umezu to account for the Army’s contingency plans against invasion. Haltingly, Umezu replied: “Our biggest problem is weapons production. That is the major deterrent to completion of beach defenses.”
“What about the Tokyo area? Is the Kujikuri Beach ready?”
“No.”
“What about the division that is supposed to be guarding it?”
“The equipment for that unit will not be available until September 15.”
An undercurrent of dismay ran around the table. Anami and Umezu shifted uncomfortably.
Hiranuma pursued the military men on several more points, then suddenly asked in disgust, “How on earth can you believe it is still possible to continue the war under the existing conditions?”
Anami, Umezu and Toyoda sat dumb.
The baron finished his fact-finding mission with a warning to the group about the danger of a leftist revolution by the masses. He said, “I’m worried about keeping the public peace—”
Suzuki interrupted: “I am too. The people are uneasy.”
Hiranuma continued: “Therefore, I think that some form of answer should be sent to the Allies. Perhaps negotiations on the conditions imposed by the Army and Navy might even be appropriate—”
Suzuki interrupted him to let Toyoda speak. The admiral recovered from the onslaught by Hiranuma and launched into an explanation of the military position, which he felt could salvage some sort of honorable terms from the Americans. His chief fear was that the Army would revolt if not catered to in the last emergency, and he wanted to do as much as possible to help General Anami keep a firm grip on his staff. The four conditions were a necessary prerequisite to that stability.
The opinions had been given. Now the moderator, Kantaro Suzuki, prepared for his own master stroke. Since early in the morning of the ninth, just after the news of the Russian entry into the war, he and the Emperor had shared a secret with Togo and Marquis Kido. At 7:30 A.M., he had gone to the palace and agreed with Hirohito that the Potsdam Declaration must be accepted that day. Suzuki had told the Emperor that he would be needed that night for the last thrust. Then he had outlined a course of action. “I will make sure that there is no final vote taken in any meeting in the morning or the afternoon sessions.” Though a consensus would be ascertained, no formal ballot would be taken until the Emperor could be ushered in to break the stalemate. Hirohito was only too willing to be an active participant and the stage was set for a dramatic move.
At 2:00 A.M., over two hours after the discussion began, deep under the streets of Tokyo, Suzuki did the unprecedented. He stood up in the humid room and said: “I believe that everyone has fully expressed his opinion but I regret that we did not come to an agreement. As it is a matter of great importance, there is no way left but to rely on the decision of His Imperial Majesty.” He addressed the Emperor: “Your Imperial Decision is requested as to which proposal should be adopted, the Foreign Minister’s or the one with the four conditions.” Suzuki had trumped the opposition, which had never expected the Emperor to speak. He had asked the 124th Emperor of the Japanese people to take the matter out of his subjects’ hands and decide the best course for them.
The only visible reaction in the room was an immediate stiffening in posture and sharp attention to the man at the head of the long table.
Hirohito rose. He began to speak slowly, as though feeling for the proper words.
“I agree with the Foreign Minister’s plan. I have given serious thought to the situation prevailing at home and abroad and have concluded that continuing the war can only mean destruction for the nation and a prolongation of bloodshed and cruelty in the world. Those who argue for continuing the war once assured me that new battalions and supplies would be ready at Kujikurihama by June. I realize now that this cannot be fulfilled even by September. As for those who wish for one last battle here on our own soil, let me remind them of the disparity between their previous plans and what has actually taken place. I cannot bear to see my innocent people struggle any longer. Ending the war is the only way to restore world peace and to relieve the nation from the terrible distress with which it is burdened.”
Hirohito was spelling the end for the die-hards; and in personally assuming the onus of breaking the deadlock, he was giving them a face-saving way out.
His face lined with grief, the Emperor continued: “I cannot help feeling sad when I think of the people who have served me so faithfully, the soldiers and sailors who have been killed or wounded in far-off battles, the families who have lost all their worldly goods, and often their lives as well, in the air raids at home. It goes without saying that it is unbearable for me to see the brave and loyal fighting men of Japan disarmed. It is equally unbearable that others who have rendered me devoted service should now be punished as instigators of war. Nevertheless, the time has come when we must bear the unbearable.”
There was absolute stillness in the tiny room. No feet moved, no sound escaped the lips of
the other twelve in audience.
The Emperor paused, then concluded, “When I think of the feelings of my Imperial Grandfather, Emperor Meiji, at the time of the Triple Intervention, I cannot but swallow my tears and sanction the proposal to accept the Allied Proclamation on the basis outlined by the Foreign Minister.”
Hirohito did not wait for a reaction, but rose from his chair and went to the door opened by his aide. He walked through it and was gone.
Eleven men remained with their own private thoughts, absorbing the import of his speech. The Emperor had spoken. He had supported the peace faction, recommending surrender on the condition alone that the Imperial status be preserved. No one raised his voice in either protest or agreement. There was no sound.
Finally Suzuki rose to his feet, his masterful plan accomplished. He quietly stated, “His Majesty’s decision should be made the decision of this conference as well.” No one disagreed. Then the Premier adjourned the group to a full cabinet meeting at three o’clock in the morning at his official residence. The meeting broke up and the participants made their way up the long flight of stairs into the night air of Tokyo.
At the top of the steps, a scuffle broke out. Silent through the whole meeting, General Yoshizumi, an aide to Umezu, lost his temper and rushed at Premier Suzuki. Trying to get his hands on the aged man, he screamed over and over, “Are you happy? Are you satisfied now?” As the bewildered Suzuki dodged his assailant, General Anami stepped between the men and wrapped his arms protectively about the old statesman. Yoshizumi was pulled away by other witnesses while Anami escorted Suzuki into the beautiful gardens in the center of Tokyo. Overhead, a brilliant moonlight brought even pine cones lying on the grounds into sharp relief. It was a perfect summer’s night.
The World War II Chronicles Page 13
