Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  PETER YELDHAM

  DRAGONS

  IN THE

  FOREST

  First published by For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd 2015

  www.forpitysake.com.au

  10 8 6 4 2 9 7 5 3 1

  Copyright © Peter Yeldham 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission. For permission contact the publisher at info@forpitysake.com.au.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This edition © For Pity Sake Publishing Pty Ltd

  Book design and Typesetting - Ryan Morrison Design – www.ryanmorrisondesign.com

  Original art and cover design - John Cozzi

  Mr Yeldham’s portrait - J.Crew photography – www.jcrewphoto.com

  Printed by On Demand Pty Ltd, Port Melbourne VIC

  National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

  Yeldham, Peter, author.

  Dragons in the forest / Peter Yeldham

  9780994448514 (paperback)

  9780994448507 (ebook)

  French-Japan-Fiction.

  World War, 1939-1945-Japan-Fiction.

  Historical fiction.

  A823.3

  Also by Peter Yeldham

  Above the Fold

  A Bitter Harvest

  A Distant Shore

  Against the Tide

  Barbed Wire and Roses

  Glory Girl

  Land of Dreams

  The Currency Lads

  The Murrumbidgee Kid

  CONTENTS

  Preface

  1 Karuizawa: November 1941

  2 The Enemy

  3 The French Bank

  4 Winter Diary Entries

  5 A Matter of Trust

  6 Kimiko

  7 A Substitute For Milk

  8 A Dangerous Lunch

  9 A Very Private Affair

  10 A Small, Safe Country

  11 The Summer of ’44

  12 Saipan

  13 A Bird’s Eye View

  14 A New Abode

  15 The Emperor’s Forest

  16 Suzuki

  17 Odette

  18 Merry Christmas

  19 Hibiya Park

  20 Slash And Burn

  21 Evacuation

  22 The Road to the Mountain

  23 A Helping Hand

  24 The New Nazi

  25 The Spring of ’45

  26 Return to Tokyo

  27 Cecile

  28 The Hirohito Hotel

  29 Kamikaze Days

  30 The Sound of Thunder

  31 An Enemy of the State

  32 August the 15th

  Afterwards

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PREFACE

  Some years ago I spent a weekend with Alex Faure and his wife Winifred, to research part of his life that spanned the war years with Japan, from 1941 to 1945. Alex is French, but was born in Japan of a French father and Russian mother. He grew up in Yokohama. In his last year at school and about to go to Harvard University in America, the war broke out and prevented this.

  He spent the entire war years in Japan, where he was classified as a neutral foreigner, and told me of his amazing life there when American planes were bombing Tokyo into ruins. My publishers at the time, Pan Macmillan wanted me to give the story an Australian flavour, so with some concern, but with Alex’s permission, I added some fiction to his life. The book was published as “Land of Dreams” in 2002, and later republished by Penguin.

  But I always felt it was a great pity I’d been persuaded to add fiction to what was an exciting and authentic story. So here is the original manuscript, with excerpts from Alex’s diary documenting his survival as a gaijin — a European — in wartime Yokohama and Tokyo, and later when all foreigners were forced to take up residence in the unique mountain retreat of Karuizawa. It was here that sex became the only game in town for this colony of neutral Europeans, as the chances of invasion became closer, and threats to use the men and women as hostages threatened their lives. This is how Alex Faure, a schoolboy from the age of nineteen, lived just a step ahead, but always endangered by the wartime laws and the Kempetai police, while romancing girls in the bars of the Ginza, and seeking dragons in the enchanted forest.

  Peter Yeldham

  2015

  1

  KARUIZAWA: November 1941

  The streets of the resort were empty, the air chilly with the onset of winter, the town unnaturally silent. There were no voices, no sound of bicycles or the shared laughter of their riders in the twisting lanes. From the verandah of the house he could see far off mountain peaks, their tips powdered with snow against a gloomy sky. The landscape was bleak; peach trees bare of blossom, the slender birch abandoned by birds who would not return to nest until the spring.

  For most of his life Alex had known this village. He and his friends had chased dragonflies and collected cicadas here. Since childhood it had been a haven; each July they’d migrated to Karuizawa in the long school vacation. Perched in the hills 1,000 metres above sea level, its idyllic climate had seen it transformed from a rustic community to a privileged retreat of chalets and villas, a place for him of summer memories. He had never been here at this time of year, with the gardens deprived of colour and gaunt trees stripped of their foliage.

  The only familiar feature was the distant conical-shaped volcano that dominated the view. Over a century and a half ago it had detonated in a fierce eruption, and the resulting lava field — called Onioshidashi, the devil’s discharge — had become a popular tourist site with its monolithic shape, like a moon crater. The volcano still erupted at times, but as if exhausted by old age it was a mild effusion sprinkling nothing more dangerous than a cascade of sand. It was a comical sight to see people huddled beneath umbrellas, taking shelter from this almost invisible discharge. But today there was no sign of people, and the volcano known as Asama-yama lay slumbering.

  He wondered again why he and his father had come here. It was like a ghost town; the Mampei Hotel closed, restaurants vacated, their tables and chairs stacked away, and holiday houses locked until the summer. Before that time local farmers would make them ready, ensuring gardens were weeded and lawns cut before owners arrived from Tokyo, Yokohama, or distant Shanghai. Within days of this influx there would be invitations exchanged to parties and dances, likely partners picked out for the chance of a summer romance, and from June to August the tennis courts would be crowded, and the town thronged with bicycles. Everyone in Karuizawa, the very rich, the diplomats, even the various embassy staff and their ambassadors all rode bicycles, for the terrain was flat, the streets sinuous and far too narrow for easy access by cars. It was curious to be here without the bike riders or the sound of their bells. But if this winter visit felt unusual for Alex, the strangest part of it was being alone like this with his father.

  In the living room of their cottage was a rarely used fireplace. Alex helped his father to gather wood in the large forest directly behind their house; it evoked memories, for this woodland had been his private playground as a child, where he’d vividly imagined that wild animals and dragons roamed. H
e and his father stacked the wood then lit a fire.

  “Good to see the place again. Far too long since I was last here. Ever since your mother and I chose to go our separate ways.”

  Hardly “chose”, Alex thought, but he said nothing. It was more than three years now since all their lives had changed. In that time he and his sister had seen little of him. The combination of distance, their mother’s hostility, their father’s devotion to the new woman in his life and his preoccupation with business had made regular encounters difficult. So the sudden invitation to take the mountain train to Karuizawa and spend a few days together, had come as a surprise. One not welcomed by his mother.

  “Karuizawa? Why?” was her first question.

  “I don’t know, Ma, but I’m going.”

  “Ridiculous. Who in their right mind would choose to go up there in winter? It’ll be freezing.”

  It was indeed — freezing. Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass Buddha, he thought, and grinned at the prospect of telling this to his friends when he returned to Yokohama.

  “Everything all right at home?” his father asked.

  “Yes, father. How is it at your home?”

  Edward Faure, about to rebuke him, reminded himself his son was soon to be 19. Entitled to make such a remark.

  “Peaceful,” he said, with a trace of a smile. Recalling the anger and uproar of his parents’ separation, Alex returned a smile. “But certain things are happening, which is why I needed to talk to you. We may not have another chance to meet like this.”

  “What things?” Alex asked.

  “I’m sure you know there’s going to be a war.”

  “We know there are rumours. What we don’t know is whether to believe them.”

  “Take my advice,” his father said, “believe them.”

  “When? How long before it might happen?”

  “Soon. No-one can predict for sure. But you’ll be safe. As French citizens, you and Mathilde will be classified as neutrals.”

  “What about Mama?”

  “She’s French by marriage. White Russian by birth, and therefore considered stateless. If any petty bureaucrat tried to make trouble, my money would be on her.”

  “Mine, too,” Alex said, and they both laughed. The room was becoming warmer. It was companionable in front of the fire, the late afternoon darkening outside, the wood crackling in the hearth.

  “I’m going to ask you to break the news to her and your sister that I’ll be going to Saigon.”

  “Another business trip?”

  “No. Rather more permanent this time,” his father said.

  “Permanent?” Alex was startled. “You surely can’t mean that, Papa. How long will you be away?”

  “I don’t know. Certainly for as long as the war lasts. I haven’t any choice, Alex. I have to leave Japan.”

  “Why?”

  “To avoid being arrested. I don’t mean by ordinary police. I’m talking of the Tokko.”

  Alex felt a chill. The Tokko, the special high police, investigated major crimes against the State. They and the Kempeitai were feared organisations with unlimited power, akin to the German Gestapo.

  “Papa, for God’s sake, I asked you why?”

  His father hesitated for a moment.

  “In 1939, when war broke out in Europe, I formed a group to keep watch on German shipping in Kobe Harbour.” He saw Alex’s startled expression, and smiled. “Nothing spectacular, but we tried to help. When France was overrun and General de Gaulle became leader of the Free French, this came to his attention. You remember he appointed me his representative in Japan?”

  “I remember. But nobody took the idea seriously. Not even you!”

  “Who said?”

  “You did. You told everyone you were an ambassador-at-large without a portfolio or an embassy.”

  “I had to give that impression. It was one of de Gaulle’s typically grandiloquent gestures. But I assure you I did take it very seriously.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He sent me proof of terrible things happening under the German and Vichy regime in France. So I had little choice. For months I’ve been circulating a newsletter for members of the Free French all over the Far East. The security police suspect this. Each day I’m expecting they’ll arrest me. Ingrid is terrified.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Alex said softly. Until that moment he’d had no idea. All of a sudden he felt inarticulate but strangely proud of his father.

  “Up here seemed the best place to talk about these matters. And I did want to spend some time with you … just in case we don’t see each other again … for a while, I mean.”

  “Will you leave soon?”

  “Very soon.”

  “What if they try to stop you?”

  “I’ll protest I’m neutral, and hope it creates a delay. Enough to give me time. It’s well known I have interests in Indochine and I’ve leased premises for a new company. I’ve spread the word I’m going to Vietnam to sign contracts, and select a manager. In other words, doing everything possible to make it look like just another business trip.”

  “They might come to the house — question the servants.”

  “They’ve been doing it. I’m sure the gardener is their informant. So I’ve told them all I’ll be back for Christmas. I’ve even made arrangements for a New Year’s Eve party by issuing invitations. If the Tokko feel I’m returning, they may wait to collect more evidence. In Saigon I hope I’ll be out of their reach. At least I have protection there — some useful friends in high places.”

  “When do you go?”

  “In three days time. A cargo ship from Kobe, sailing via Manila. I wish we could fly, but there are no available aircraft. And it might look suspicious, too much like running away.”

  “At least you can’t go by train,” Alex said, unable to prevent himself. His father smiled. It was an odd smile, with almost a trace of melancholy as he gazed at the fire.

  “You can’t forget that day, can you?”

  “Can anyone?”

  “It wasn’t exactly my finest hour,” Edward Faure said quietly, and Alex felt a moment of affection for him. Not his finest hour? It had been an awful and farcical day. The culmination of his parents’ 15-year marriage should have been a sad event; instead, it was an occasion more memorable for its outrage and absurdity.

  It was to be a secret and a surprise. Which it was, but not in quite the way anyone expected. His mother had spent a considerable time on the telephone and visiting the travel agent, finally confiding to Alex that it was definite. A cable confirmed it. His father had left Paris the previous day by train, which was to make a brief stop in Berlin, then cross Russia on the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow, and in six days time it — and he —would arrive in the port of Vladivostok.

  “And from there he takes the steamer to Kobe,” she said smiling, then cautioned him to secrecy as they heard Mathilde arrive home. It was to be a surprise for his sister’s 10th birthday, which happily coincided with the day of their father’s return.

  “Why are you both looking at me like that?” Mathilde had asked them, “Is something going on?” Their mother had told her not to be so silly; there were no secrets in this family.

  But it was a difficult six days, for Alex felt the thrill of his father’s imminent arrival, and judging by the way his mother behaved, humming tunes and laughing a lot, she felt the same. Meanwhile his troublesome sister kept constantly asking when Papa would be home.

  “I don’t know,” Alex had to say, “I suppose he’ll write and tell us when he’s finished all his business.”

  “But it’s been ages.”

  “He had lots of people to see in Paris and London, and several other countries to visit. I expect he’ll be back in about a month.”

  “A month! That’s unfair! He can’t! He’ll miss my birthday!”

  Alex was dying to demonstrate his superior status as an elder brother by telling her, but knew he had to remain silent. Dur
ing their father’s long absence they had each received postcards extolling the virtues of the luxurious train journey to Paris, and how vast the Russian Federation was, with all its republics being twice the size of the United States. Later they’d had postcards from Berlin, where he said he had seen a Nazi parade and heard Adolph Hitler speak, and how it was all very formidable, and in fact rather chilling.

  Alex managed to keep the impending news of the arrival to himself, and on the day in question his sister had been told they were going to a restaurant near the harbour for a birthday lunch. They had a window table with a view, and when she asked why they had chosen to come here, their mother said harbours were fascinating places; ships came in from all over the world, and one never knew who one might meet. It was about then the observant Mathilde realised there was more to this than just a lunch.

  Alex could remember every detail. The steamer arriving at the dock, the people disembarking, and all of a sudden a familiar figure that his sister recognised with joyous incredulity.

  “It’s Papa,” she’d said, and rushed forward to hug him.

  “Mathilde!” He’d been astonished by her arrival into his arms.“What a wonderful surprise!”

  “Darling, darling Papa! You’re my birthday treat!”

  By then Alex had noticed his father was accompanied by a tall, slim and good-looking lady, wrapped lavishly in furs. He also guessed his mother had noticed the lady, and that his father had not expected this family welcome. But he was doing his utmost to conceal this.

  “Marie and Alex!” He embraced his wife circumspectly and shook hands with Alex. Then he introduced the woman he’d just escorted down the gangway. “This is Fraulein Ingrid Krause,” he said, “we met on the train. Fraulein, may I introduce my wife and children.”

  The Fraulein said how delighted she was, as Monsieur had spoken so frequently and with such affection for his family. It was during this that a porter brought a large trolley laden with suitcases, all with labels, some belonging to their father and others to the lady. Marie Faure went and looked very closely at the cases, studied the labels on them, then turned and slapped her husband’s face.

  “You bastard.” She said it quietly, but both children heard her. “Met on the train, did you, you lecherous old goat? So why does her luggage have the same Paris hotel labels as yours?”