The Occupation of Joe

by Bill Baynes

  Aiko points to her son and shrugs. Why him?

  Joe points to Sam and flexes his bicep. “Strong.”

  Sam grins, as he sits again, holding his sister on his shoulder. The woman is watchful.

  Joe points to Sam and taps his head. “Smart.”

  Aiko nods.

  Joe points to the boy and then to himself. He sweeps one arm in a wide semicircle, then the other arm in the same way. He shows me all around.

  She sits back and glances at her son.

  Something has been decided. Joe can feel it. He has passed some test and then he, himself a parent, gets it. She wanted to know why he was involved with her son. She wanted to make sure his intentions were honorable.

  He points to the boy, nods, and smiles. She returns his smile.

  There’s nothing more to say. Joe would like to sit and stare at her for a while, a long while, but he knows he can’t do that. He looks at his watch. He stands and holds out his half-full cup.

  Aiko stands and takes the cup. She murmurs something he can’t understand. Thank you? I hope I see you again? She bows again to the American.

  “Joe-san,” she says softly.

  A pang of … what? He doesn’t know. He ignores it. God, she’s lovely.

  “I … I am pleased to meet you,” he says. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

  He puts his hat under his arm and clicks his Navy regulation heels together, scrunching up the mat.

  He bows to the woman and nods to the boy. He executes a brisk about-face on the slippery straw and departs, the sharp slap of his steps fading as he descends the stairs.

  7

  Isamu

  Mama hands Isamu a meat thing from the bag Joe left and takes a polite bite of her own, grimacing at the taste.

  “I guess Hana-chan drove him out,” he says.

  “He was no match for her,” Mama says.

  They share quiet smiles, amused by the American’s abrupt exit.

  “Do you have any idea what he said before he left?” Mama asks.

  “He kept repeating the same motions,” Isamu says, waving his arms to mimic the American’s gestures. “He seemed to want something.”

  “What could we have that he needs?”

  “Something else to drink? I don’t think he liked the tea.”

  Mama laughs out loud.

  She changes into her blouse and pantaloons, wets a rag and gets down on her hands and knees to clean the mat where Joe walked without removing his shoes.

  “He’s different than I expected,” she says, scrubbing a muddy stain, “but I think you will be okay with this man. He has nice eyes.”

  Isamu is relieved that she feels better about Joe. He’s not sure of his own feelings. The young naval officer fascinates him. He likes his uniform, the way he holds himself, his officer’s bearing. He fills a room.

  Like Father did.

  The American is larger and stockier than Father, and, with his wide eyes and his moon face, he’s “monster” ugly. Yet he’s different than the other officers. He seems to be more affected by what he sees around the city. He seems to care more than the others do.

  Is he the enemy?

  He resents that the Americans are in his country. He blames them for the terrible conditions in Tokyo and he fears what else they will do. But he is thankful for the food and he’s comfortable with Joe, his easy manner and personal warmth.

  Isamu continues his regular excursions. It’s getting colder. He can see his breath most mornings. He’s glad Mama gave him back his scarf.

  He makes a deal with the owner of a charcoal shop to get coals in exchange for scrap lumber he scavenges on the scorched lots. He manages to recover enough to keep the ice off the inside of the room window.

  It’s hard, dirty work that often takes him inside abandoned buildings. He comes upon several frozen corpses, all of their clothing removed. In one unoccupied shelter, he finds a dead man still wearing shoes.

  It’s too bitter to go barefoot any longer. They almost fit. Close enough to wear.

  He searches all the way to the shipyards. When he sees Joe every day or so, he stashes the sandwiches under the scrap wood. Without the cap, he has nowhere else to hide them.

  “Say hi to Aiko,” Joe says the first time he meets him after his visit to their home. He lifts an imaginary cup and grins. He gives Isamu some chocolates.

  Two days later, he hands the boy nylons, clearly not for him. Another time, British tea. That brings a smile from the boy. He and Mama use the gifts for barter, except for the candies. Those they eat greedily.

  One afternoon, Joe gives him a double set of U.S. Navy dishes, including cups, plates, bowls, knives, forks, and spoons. Including the food and wood, it makes quite a load.

  He’s usually careful to vary his route to be purposely unpredictable, but he gets careless with his heavy load. He takes the shortest way home.

  It’s particularly gloomy. He can hardly see the sun. He can barely feel his hands. Isamu hurries to get out of the chill. He steadies his load with his chin.

  Suddenly shoved from behind, he sprawls on his face, his treasures tumbling into the ash and dust. Three bigger boys surround him, laughing loudly.

  “Look what we have here!” Kiro, a chubby kid shouts. “Lunch for everyone.”

  He kicks Isamu.

  “Thanks for bringing it to us, stupid boy.” Ato, a boy with a terrible burn on one side of his face, reaches down and cuffs Isamu on the ear.

  The third one, Takeo, yanks Isamu to his feet and shouts at him.

  “Where did you get this stuff? This is gaijin food.”

  “Leave me alone! Let me be!”

  The boy throws Isamu to the ground again. He curls into a fetal ball as all three kick him, stuffing their mouths with sandwiches at the same time.

  “Kuso! Who do you think you are?”

  “Stay away from here! This is our territory!”

  They pick up the wood, the food, and the ceramic dishes and walk away, leaving Isamu like spoiled fruit in the dirt. He crawls behind a discarded refrigerator and loses consciousness.

  He wakes hours later, teeth chattering in a cold wind. His ribs hurt whenever he moves. So does his head. His knee is scraped and twisted. There are cuts on his face, one eye is swollen shut, and a front tooth is missing.

  He manages to limp home, arriving just before dark. He’s wheezing and he can’t get warm.

  Aiko is horrified. She cleans and tends his wounds, weeping softly.

  Isamu sleeps for two days, wakes, and slurps a bowl of rice gruel and sleeps for another twenty-four hours.

  He groans and sits up, wraps his arms around himself gingerly. Mama puts a shawl around his shoulders and brings him a glass of water. Isamu drinks deeply.

  She serves another cup of gruel and he looks at her with his one open eye.

  “Is this all we’ve got, Mama?”

  “I haven’t been able to shop. I had to watch over you.”

  He gulps the soup and puts the cup down.

  “This isn’t enough.”

  “It will do for today.”

  Isamu coughs.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he says.

  “You’re not going back there,” Mama says. “I told you it was too dangerous.”

  “How do we eat then? What do we do for food?”

  The boy seems to have aged overnight. He sighs like an old man.

  “What, Mama? Trade our stove? Our sleeping mats? My sister?”

  Aiko gasps. Isamu laughs.

  “Don’t worry. She’s too young, even for the Americans.”

  “Dreadful boy, where do you learn such things?”

  8

  Joe

  It’s the day after Thanksgiving. Joe is still stuffed from Cookie’s feast. He sits at the crypto machine, listening to the electronic belches, decoding the daily messages. He’s cranky, claustrophobic amid the pulsing and humming technology.

  He hasn’t seen Sam for a week. Where is he? Every
day Joe grabs some sandwiches and takes the launch to shore, but there’s no one there to meet him. What’s going on? Is the boy all right?

  Did he do something to offend him or his mother?

  He wants to see her again.

  Not much was accomplished by his visit to Sam’s room. He wasn’t able to communicate with her. She didn’t really grasp what he was asking her. If he wants to help them, he’ll have to figure it out on his own.

  At least he’s found where they live. They aren’t squatting in some lean-to like so many others. But he could tell times are tough for them. It looked like they’d sold everything down to the bare walls. Do they have enough to eat? He wishes he’d been more observant, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  He wants to see her again.

  He can’t get her out of his mind. Tiny Aiko. Why is he in such turmoil? He’s alarmed at the intensity of his feelings, angry at himself, but he can’t stop them.

  How brave she is, raising two kids on her own in such devastation. But she acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary. Two parents talking over tea. She concealed any personal distress and treated him with respect. He admires her.

  More than that, he desires her.

  He tries to be logical. It makes no sense to get involved with a Japanese woman. Orders have come in and he’ll be departing in about six weeks. Chourre is sailing on January 7. They’ll be stateside by early May.

  Plus he’s married. He tamps down a glint of guilt. He hasn’t done anything. All he’s doing is … what? … imagining?

  There’s no reason to think that she’s interested in him. She was the image of propriety, looking down, preparing tea to thank him for the food. That’s all. There was no suggestion of anything else.

  Was there?

  He hears her soft voice again: “Joe-san.”

  It’s just him. He’s randy as a goat. He hasn’t been with a woman for too long. He should take Wade up on his offer to go to the comfort stations.

  But there’s something else. He feels a link with Aiko, a leaning, a yearning he hopes might be shared.

  He knows he can’t let the “fellas” know about it. They’d never let him live it down. They’d never shut up about it.

  He rides the launch to shore, even though he doesn’t see anyone waiting for him. He’s got the usual bag of sandwiches. He’s decided he’ll leave it on the dock on the chance that the boy might get it later. If someone else finds it instead, so what.

  The seaman pops the engine into reverse as he docks and Joe watches the prop agitating the water. It looks like how his gut feels.

  As he reaches the pier, he makes out a small shape in the distance, moving slowly. Joe waits for what seems like a long time while the figure comes toward him between the rows of containers. It’s Sam.

  “Where have you been?” Joe sounds angry, but he’s actually relieved. “I brought sandwiches a bunch of times, but you weren’t here.”

  Then he notices his black eye and the cuts and bruises all over the boy’s face.

  “What happened to you?”

  Sam holds both hands up – big. He puts his hands around his neck. He punches the air. He covers his head and snuffles, starts crying.

  Joe is furious.

  “Psiakrew!” he says, reverting to Polish. Damn it!

  The boy thinks Joe is angry with him. He backs up two steps, three, and then collapses in tears.

  Joe kneels and puts his arm around him. He pats his back awkwardly with the hand clutching the sandwiches, and then stands back.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Still sobbing, Sam looks down and doesn’t respond. He doesn’t understand.

  “Where?” Joe waves his arm. “Was your mother there? Aiko?”

  The boy looks up at the name, shakes his head.

  Relieved, Joe mimes yanking something away from the boy. “What did they take?”

  The boy pretends to drink from a cup, to eat from a plate.

  “I wish I knew how to protect you,” Joe mutters, folding the boy back into his jacket.

  That night as he paces the deck on watch, Joe keeps reliving the scene with the boy. How maddening it must be for Sam. How difficult for Aiko. There must be something he can do.

  The grocer’s son comes up with a typical American solution. Maybe he can provide enough food so people won’t need to steal from them, at least in the short term. While he’s at it, maybe he can confer a sort of status on Sam and his mother that can serve to shield them.

  The next day Joe stops by the galley, where Cookie is peeling potatoes.

  “Something the matter, Lieutenant?”

  Joe shakes his head.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t mind me sayin’, sir, but you look pooped. Been pullin’ extra duty?”

  “Not sleeping great, that’s all,” Joe says. “It’s depressing out there.”

  “Not where I been goin’.”

  Cookie surrenders to wheezy, jiggly whooping. He’s not a slender man.

  Joe laughs tiredly, as the man hands him a couple sandwiches.

  “Say, Cookie, what do you do with the leftover food around here?”

  “Toss it overboard, most of it. Feed the fishes.”

  “How much of it is there?”

  “Not a lot. Usually a couple pails.”

  “Why not give it to the Japs?”

  “Rather not, sir.”

  “Why not? We’re just throwing it away.”

  “Lost a lot of friends, sir.”

  Joe nods. “Half the men in my OCS class. It’s been a long, ugly war.”

  “That it has, sir.”

  “But the people out there,” Joe gestures toward shore, “the women and children, they didn’t kill anybody.”

  Cookie looks down.

  “If I asked you to save tonight’s leftovers for me, would you refuse me?”

  “No sir. Never do that, sir. Not if you want it.”

  “I appreciate it, Cookie. I’ll pick it up early tomorrow.”

  Over a later supper, he asks Doc to help with the delivery.

  “You’re not thinking this out, Joe,” Doc tells him. “These people, they’ll never get enough.”

  “They’re not like that,” Joe says. “They are good, modest people.”

  “What are they going to do when you’re gone?”

  “I’ve got to do something. I can’t do nothing.”

  It’s not a new dispute between them. Doc gives in because he knows that, if he doesn’t, Joe will try to do it by himself.

  Next morning there is more grub than Joe counted on, four big pails full. He needs a cart to carry them. Doc convinces Joe to cover the pails with a tarp so the food isn’t visible.

  “Don’t ask for trouble,” he says.

  They wrestle the pails and cart aboard the launch and offload them on shore. They’re sweating with the effort, despite the chill.

  It’s a twenty-minute walk to Sam’s room, if you aren’t pushing a heavy cart over muddy streets. Halfway there, a wheel comes off the cart. The men try to fix it, but they need a few tools. Doc trots back to the ship, while Joe waits with the load.

  A breeze blows off the water that cuts through Joe’s jacket. It lifts swirls of dust and ash across the crushed landscape. It disperses the odors of the food.

  The pails are full of beef stew, one of Cookie’s all-purpose meals that include every food group. They’re tilting, ever so slightly, because the front wheel is askew.

  Joe walks slowly around the cart, trying to be offhand and official at the same time. The street is mostly empty, though a few people go by, holding their wraps closed at their necks.

  Joe flaps his arms across his chest to stay warm, a piece of luck.

  That sound stops the first dog long enough for Joe to notice him. The mutt, a smallish spaniel mix, lowers himself into the rubble, ears perked.

  A second dog comes around a corner of a building. A third appears, arriving like the others from d
ownwind.

  Joe didn’t think there were any dogs left in Tokyo. He’d heard that people ate them. Apparently not all of them.

  Joe glances behind him. There are no dogs, but a couple children are standing in the street and watching.

  “Go away,” he motions with his arm. “Get out of here before you get hurt.”

  He picks up some clots of dirt and advances on the animals. Joe isn’t afraid of dogs. The streets of Schenectady were full of strays that sometimes formed packs when he was a boy. He’d learned as he made his deliveries to ride his bike right into them.

  “Yaahh!” he yells, hurling the dirt and picking up some stones and a four-foot board from the ruins. He runs a few paces forward.

  Four more dogs round the corner. They leak to the side, forming a semicircle around Joe.

  Apparently a lot of dogs weren’t eaten. Apparently a lot haven’t been eating.

  Joe retreats toward the cart, swinging the board. When the bravest dog advances, he takes a quick step forward and the dog stops.

  Joe continues backing up. Several dogs crouch and creep toward him.

  Joe looks behind him in time to see the older child, probably about nine years old, scoop a handful of stew into his mouth.

  “Hey!” he shouts.

  The child jumps down, grabs his smaller sibling’s arm and flees, leaving one pail uncovered. The smell gets stronger. Joe goes around the cart, keeping it between him and the dogs.

  Where the hell is Doc?

  The animals edge closer. There are eight of them, most of them medium-sized, the largest a mongrel the size of a German Shepherd. Several are salivating. It won’t be long before they charge.

  “Yaahh!” Joe screams.

  He puts down his board and hefts the open pail with both hands. Straining against the forty-pound weight, he shuffles sideways for about ten feet, drops the pail and kicks it over. Stew spills onto the street.

  Joe scoots back to the cart, picking up the board again.

  The dogs leap at the spill, growling at each other and wolfing down the beefy mess. They’re quickly down to dirt.

  First one, then another, and then all of them turn toward Joe, waiting behind the cart. He casts around for somewhere to run.