Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  One thing I’m glad about. That we made these regular visits to the Brothers, and brought them food. We could see how much it meant to them. Last year our teachers were a group of old bastards who gave us too much homework, and we thought of them as enemies. Whereas in there — as prisoners — they became our friends.

  Meanwhile, more news on that little swine Roland Doumic. He’s switched from Mitchiko to an older tart. She’s supposed to be 35, and so pleased to get a randy and experienced 14-year-old that she lets him do it for free! So he no longer has to cadge lunch, and in fact stays at school during the break, smirking to himself while being admired by the younger boys, and visits her each afternoon on his way home.

  Each afternoon. Filthy beast!

  The little glutton!

  The introduction of rigid food rationing seemed to confirm Alex and Claude’s belief that the war might last longer than expected. Certainly a great deal longer than newspapers or politicians were predicting. Rice had already been rationed in Tokyo and all the main cities. Now most other foods, including fish, eggs, miso, tofu and meat were all placed on a strict coupon system. The neutral foreigners learned to their dismay the coupons were only for Japanese nationals, but Alex’s mother was unconcerned. Despite so much of her life spent in the country, she disliked most Japanese food, and rarely allowed it to be served in the house. She was also very vigilant of all home-grown vegetables.

  “Awful stuff,” she said. With her strong Russian accent she found the word “excrement” difficult, so she demanded to know how anyone could possibly eat food grown in human shit. “They call it fertiliser. But it’s really just pure shit. How can you enjoy eating food that’s grown in such a way?”

  Since meat was virtually unobtainable, they lived on a diet of fish their cook obtained through the black market, plus simple items like bread and jam that were not high in local demand. On weekends they bought fruit and vegetables in the country, but these had to be brought home and scrubbed thoroughly, to remove any trace of the offending fertiliser to his mother’s satisfaction.

  Other changes occurred. Each household had to become members of a neighbourhood association known as the tonarigumi, under the control of the police, where neighbours kept watch on each other and reported any infringements, like a beam of light slipping through black-out curtains, or even a lack of patriotic fervour. It developed into something insidious; a network of informers spread from each precinct and village across the entire country. These silent accusations, complaints and anonymous allegations began to make people afraid to speak their minds.

  Alex and Claude, once inveterate moviegoers, went only once more to their local cinema, but did not enjoy the experience. All American and British pictures were now banned. The days when they could admire Gary Cooper in Beau Geste, or see films such as Stagecoach or A Farewell to Arms, were over. On this final visit there was a crudely made local war movie, a propaganda film with the action set in China, plus the inevitable newsreels showing Japanese victories, which stirred the packed cinema into standing to cheer and shout “Banzai! Banzai!!”

  The audience then sang The Warship March, the unofficial naval anthem that had been played to announce victories ever since Pearl Harbour, entirely drowning the commentary — which scarcely mattered — as the screen showed a succession of enemy soldiers surrendering, enemy ships sinking, and enemy planes being shot down. Halfway through the tedious film, Alex and Claude stumbled out. There were murmurs at this, and someone shouted they were unpatriotic. Fortunately, the dark cinema concealed the fact they were foreigners, or the fervent jingoism might have provoked a more vehement reaction.

  ALEX’S DIARY: JUNE, 1942

  Today we finished school. At long last we have graduated. We’ve had a final assembly, heard speeches, sung hymns, and been told to go out into the world and prosper, while at the same time making the Marianist Brothers feel proud of our achievements. But what achievements? How can we achieve anything if there are no jobs for foreigners? Mama has told me there’s barely enough money to live on and even that won’t last much longer. The house rent is paid for three more months, but after that our money will come to an end.

  If not at first, but gradually, Alex and his sister became aware their mother spoke as if the war and the resulting shortage of money was almost entirely the fault of their father. “He used to be more careful. Made plans ahead. But to leave the Kobe office in the hands of a manager, and only three months’ supply of funds. It was not how your father behaved before he met that woman.”

  It upset Mathilde. “She shouldn’t blame Papa. He didn’t start the war.”

  “She’s frightened,” Alex tried to calm his sister from this family discord. The last thing they needed was recriminations. He reminded his mother of the situation, the way it had been explained to him in Karuizawa.

  “He had to leave, Mama, or be arrested. Then everything would’ve been confiscated. He tried to send money from Saigon, but nobody knew the speed of the Japanese victories. Sending funds became impossible.”

  “If he’d never met her, it would’ve all been possible.”

  There was little else Alex could do to console her. But the following month she came home full of optimism, saying everything might change.

  “There could be a job for you, Alex. Today I have lunch with the French Consul’s wife, and she tells me their bank in Tokyo might consider taking on a junior clerk.”

  Junior clerk, Alex thought, without much enthusiasm.

  “The head of this bank,” his mother enthused, “is aristocratic. The Count Savignan de Champeaux, who wishes to interview you.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “Of course he doesn’t know you. But that is why you must write to him, so he will know you before anyone else hears of it. If you apply for a private appointment, my friend the consul’s wife assures me it is, what is the expression they use? In the bag.”

  In the bag, Alex thought. I’m sure I’ve heard that before, but to preserve the smile on his mother’s face he agreed to write to him at once.

  3

  THE FRENCH BANK

  Alex reached Tokyo Station far too early for his appointment, so he walked leisurely towards Nihonbashi, taking several detours and attempting to pass the time by pausing to look in shop windows when he reached the Ginza. He found the bank without difficulty, for the directions in the letter from the Count’s secretary had been precise. He saw it from some distance away, a modest wood and stucco building that faced the canal. It consisted of two main floors, and on the third and top floor there appeared to be a tiny apartment with a roof garden. A brass plaque above the front door announced its name: Banque de l’Indochine. Nestled between the massive Bank of Japan on one side and a large department store on the other, it looked like a delicate miniature in comparison.

  It was a warm and sunny day, and he felt the vibrancy in this part of the city. The rhythm, the bustling energy lifted his spirits, which during the train journey from Yokohama had become dejected. After starting the day with eager anticipation, wearing his best suit and with the encouragement of his mother and sister to farewell him, he found the slow train with its packed carriages and stops at each station had swung his mood to one of growing anxiety. It gave him time to think. So much depended upon securing this job, if he was to help contribute to the growing problem at home.

  He could not help speculating on how his world had changed. A year or two earlier, with his background and academic qualification — let alone the almost forgotten letter from Brother Abromitis — jobs would have been plentiful. In those days it was the foreign trading firms themselves who sought staff, and those who spoke English and French were assured of employment. But now there was virtually no foreign trade, and the opposite was true. To obtain a job in this past year was like winning a lottery. He was here as a supplicant, grateful there had at least been an answer to his letter, trying to generate a feeling of optimism for the interview ahead.

  It was then
, crossing the canal that he realised he was still far too early; his appointment was for 11 o’clock, and in his panic to be punctual he had taken a train an hour earlier than necessary. It was not even 10.30. On the opposite side of the street he stopped and thought about this. He could go for a walk, but he didn’t know the district well, and if he was to lose himself in this maze of streets he might end up being late. On the other hand, he felt it was not very smart to remain where he was for long, standing there like someone surveying the place and perhaps arousing suspicion. It would hardly bode well for his chances, if a police car was summoned to question his motive for loitering here. So there was no alternative. Taking a deep breath, he tried to summon optimism, crossed the road and entered the bank.

  On the ground floor there was an entrance hall that led into the main banking chamber, lit by a battery of ceiling lights. He could see a modest counter at which were Japanese tellers. Behind the counter were a series of desks and cubicle offices. He was directed to one of them.

  “You do realise you’re extremely early?”

  The Count de Champeaux’s personal and private secretary was a petite Frenchwoman with sharp features that gave her a birdlike appearance. Neatly dressed, her nails and hair immaculate, she was like an elegant sparrow. It was difficult to tell her age. Quite old, Alex estimated, putting her in her late 30s, while agreeing that he was indeed too early, and asked if he should wait in the annexe. She wore a gold-rimmed pince-nez, and the tiny round glasses seemed to reflect the overhead lights, and made it difficult to read her expression. But after her mild rebuke at his premature arrival she appeared more friendly, and invited him to sit down.

  “You might even have done us a favour, Monsieur Faure.”

  A favour? He was about to ask how, but had no chance.

  “Please wait,” she said, and entered the adjoining office. Alex sat mystified, unable to hear what transpired. He looked about him. He could see her name displayed on her desk: Mlle. C. Patou. He wondered what the C stood for, and later found it was Cecile, but she was never called it. No-one apparently called her anything other than a formal Mademoiselle Patou.

  “You may go in.” She startled him because he had not heard her return. “Monsieur Le Comte had a meeting for 10.30, which was cancelled due to illness. He’ll see you now, and I can rearrange his later appointments. It’s a busy day, so your early arrival is welcome. And young man …”

  “Yes, Mam’zelle?”

  “Try not to fidget, and don’t look so nervous.”

  “No, Mam’zelle.”

  “And if you should come to work here, I prefer the more correct term of Mademoiselle.”

  “Of course. My apologies, Mademoiselle.”

  “Thank you. You’ll soon have to apologise to the Count if you keep him waiting much longer. And you’ll also upset my arrangements. Do go and knock on his door.”

  She sat and resumed work, as if his future was no longer her concern. Alex knocked and heard a distant murmur inviting him to enter. He stepped into the Count’s office, pausing with surprise, for it presented an astonishing contrast to the functional banking chamber, and all the other small offices. This was a huge, luxurious room, enhanced by a crystal chandelier, richly carpeted and decorated with impeccable taste. At the far end was a marble fireplace with an open grate, and near it stood carved bookcases and an ornate desk which he guessed must be a valuable antique.

  The Count Savignan de Champeaux was an impressive man who appeared totally at home in these opulent surroundings. He looked rather like the newspaper photographs of General de Gaulle, not as tall, but considerably more handsome and with a smaller nose. He was wearing an immaculate suit, and had about him an aura of aristocracy and old money. He rose and shook hands, inviting Alex to be seated, switching from a greeting in French to fluent English, as he hoped the train journey had been comfortable, the weather in Yokohama not unduly humid, and his family in good health. During these preliminary courtesies another door opened, and a servant appeared bringing a tray with coffee.

  While they drank this, the Count asked if there was any word of Alex’s father, and expressed a hope they would soon receive some comforting news from Saigon. He then took a sheet of paper from his desk, and a puzzled Alex saw it was the reference that the Cockroach had given him.

  “Brother Abromitis, your teacher at St Joseph College seems to have thought very highly of you. An excellent reference.”

  “Thank you, sir. But I didn’t send that …”

  “No. Apparently your mother felt I should see it. I gather she was encouraged in this notion by the French Consul’s wife.”

  Alex felt humiliated and acutely embarrassed. The Count smiled and handed the reference back to him.

  “Mothers do these things in an attempt to assist us, and they mean well. Brother Abromitis certainly meant well. I was most impressed.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Perhaps his mother had assisted him after all. Things were going smoothly. Fancy the old Cockroach helping him to get a job. But then he realised the Count was continuing.

  “But mathematics and school, while most important in our early lives, have no real connection with the world of banking. Of which you know absolutely nothing. Am I correct?”

  “Well, sir … I’m more than willing to learn …”

  “Of course you are, which is why we’re here, you and me. We need French nationals to handle confidential matters. We train them — so you’re back at school, in a manner of speaking — but this time learning the business of the bank. If you progress for six months, we’ll sit down again, and discuss the matter of a salary.”

  “In six months?” Alex began to feel a growing dismay.

  “Six months precisely. I’ll make a note in my diary.”

  “No salary … until then?”

  “I’m sure you understand. We don’t pay you to be taught. Tuition in banking is a privilege, and one we do not offer to all and sundry. You’ve come here to be trained for the future …”

  “The future..?”

  “Exactly. The long view, young man. We regard you quite differently to someone who begins work by accepting a small wage. They invariably end their working life still on that modest wage. Their whole attitude denotes the philosophy of a mere employee with limited ambition. No eye to the future. No career vision.”

  “Sir … may I just get this clear?”

  “By all means. Although I thought I’d made it abundantly clear.” The Count was relaxed, graciousness personified.

  I feel like an idiot, Alex thought, but I have to clarify it. There’s going to be hell to pay at home. Mama put such hopes on me getting this.

  “Are you offering me the job — but without remuneration?” He wondered if remuneration was the right word, but he was anxious to be delicate. Or did he mean diplomatic? He felt flushed and tongue-tied, unsure what he meant in that particular moment of disappointment.

  “My dear fellow,” Count de Champeaux said cheerfully, “the first matter we must establish is that you and I are not speaking of anything as crass as a job. What we’re proposing is to offer you a position. And by age-old tradition, the custom is that first you learn — then we assess your aptitude. As far as remuneration goes — as you so correctly label it — if you show the ability that I anticipate, then you’ll be well and truly rewarded.”

  “In six months,” Alex mumbled.

  “Precisely,” said the Count.

  “He told me it’s the system used in France, and many other countries. Apparently it’s traditional.”

  “Traditional Gallic graft,” his mother said. “What a lot of tripe the man talks. Damn his supercilious arrogance. He’s taken advantage of you, and expects you to be grateful.”

  “I must admit I was a bit surprised.”

  “You’re too tolerant, Alex. You should’ve been shocked. I most certainly am. I’m outraged by his impudence!”

  “I’d hardly call it impudence, Mama. I mean he runs the bank. Th
ose are his rules.”

  “Rules that you can’t possibly accept.”

  “I have to. There’s no work anywhere else.”

  “This isn’t work. This is slave labour, helping his wretched bank to make a profit. Don’t be hasty. Let me discuss this with the French Consul’s wife. Perhaps she can prevail on Monsieur Le Comte.”

  “No, Mother.” Alex knew it was time to be firm. He’d made up his mind. “It’s their custom. The only way to have a future is to accept the system — work to the best of my ability for six months, and hope he keeps his word at the end of that time.”

  “Trust the French to think of a procedure so uncivilised and unfair. Damned effrontery. How do I tell my friends you have a job that pays nothing?”

  “Don’t tell them. Besides, it’s not quite nothing. I get my train fares …”

  “Brilliant,” she stated icily.

  “And there’s a staff dining room where we can all have a low-priced lunch. I get mine free until I’m on a salary.”

  “How kind of them,” his mother said acidly. “How extremely condescending! And to think I wasted money on a postage stamp, sending him your reference.”

  The following Monday he began work at the French bank. After the experience of the overcrowded commuter train from Yokohama in the rush hour, he enjoyed the walk through the back streets. A brisk 10 minutes brought him to the canal and the building opposite with its gleaming brass plate. Banque de l’Indochine. His place of employment.

  It may be employment without pay, he thought, but at least I have a job. It was a matter of some pride in this difficult time. So far none of his schoolmates who’d graduated with him had found work. Most of them accepted the view that there would be no international trade, and therefore no jobs of any kind for foreigners until the war was over — whenever that might be.

  The doors of the bank were already open, and in the entrance hall a number of men and women were busily shaking hands. It seemed a formal and lengthy affair, as each person who arrived was welcomed by all the others.