A Dictionary of Mutual Understanding

by Jackie Copleton

  Those first few days Yuko kept her distance as did he, but they were two caged animals prowling around the pen. She caught him watching her sometimes, staring at her as if she were a riddle to be solved. She had her own questions, ones that had gone unanswered for too long. Why had he not contacted her? Why had he sent no word? Why was he back now? The gossip did the rounds quickly. Sato had been posted abroad for a couple of years, had been up north somewhere and had been seconded to the medical college, which was desperately short of staff. His reputation proceeded him and the nurses frothed around the handsome doctor with the disarming smile and flirtatious manner.

  ‘I count the days as they pass. Jomei has been back two weeks. I try to ignore this desperate need to be near him. Instead I scour the death lists in the newspaper to reassure myself that Shige’s absence from those pages is a sign he is still alive. He has to be, for Hideo, for me, for him. Every day that I don’t see his name, I tell myself, stay true, have faith, be strong. But some days all I can imagine is a rotten body abandoned in a jungle. This morning as Hideo prepared for school, he asked, “Is Daddy dead?” I looked at him, shocked by his bluntness. What a question for a son to ask. What could I say? “No, he’s just away somewhere being brave, he’s being a soldier.” Hideo scratched his nose. “Tadashi’s daddy is dead.” I passed his clothes to him. “Tadashi must be sad.” He nodded and clambered into his shorts. When I arrived at the hospital later that morning I heard Jomei had been called to the prisoner-of-war camp near the foundry. He needed an assistant and there was no shortage of volunteers. I watched the chosen nurse talk with him before she disappeared into the changing room to collect her belongings. He left the building and, iron filings to his magnet, I followed him. “Take me instead, Jomei,” I said. He looked at me, cautious. “Why? You made it clear to stay away.” I could not tell him of the lonely nights passed and those still to come. I could not tell him of the nightmares I have of Shige’s death. I could not tell him my body has forgotten the touch of another’s hands. Instead, I said, “I need to feel happy today, Jomei, just for a few hours. Spending time with you used to make me happy. Let’s see if it still does.” He looked at me, silent. I don’t know what he saw.’

  When they arrived at Fukuoka 14 Camp the prisoners stood in groups behind wire fences, emaciated and burnt by the sun. Some grunted words at Yuko, or whistled, but most said nothing, their wide eyes watching in silence. Sato and Yuko passed two men emptying latrine cans onto the officers’ tomato plants, the fruit as big as apples. Two hundred prisoners had arrived days earlier, all of them survivors of a cargo ship, which had been sunk as they were being transported to Japan. Injured men needed treatment before they joined the other POWs working at the Mitsubishi foundry. The camp commander led Yuko and the doctor to an examination room and the first patient was brought in, limping from a hernia. He was young, British, a shock of red freckles across his nose. Sato talked to him in English and the boy began to undress, blushing as he glanced at Yuko. He eased himself onto the table and lay back and she placed gauze over his eyes. Beads of sweat lined his upper lip. She took his hand in her own, squeezed his bony fingers and Sato began to operate.

  ‘I don’t know how but I kept myself from shaking as I passed instruments and administered medicine. We worked in silence, in synchronicity. I took pleasure from watching his hands work and listening to his broken English. When had he learned to speak the language? The afternoon was a perfect moment, a dream realised after eight years of hoping for it. Dusk had fallen by the time we left the camp. We stood outside the gates and Jomei asked if he could drop me off anywhere in the taxi when it arrived. I did not plan what happened next. I’m sure I acted spontaneously. Hideo was staying with my parents that night, I had some free hours. Did he want to have a drink with me? “I thought we might be friends,” I told him. He reached for a cigarette in his pocket and repeated the word as he flicked open the lighter. “Friends? Can we be friends? You think it likely?” I told him possibly, if we try. “What would your husband think?” I felt shamed by his words. Who was he to judge me? I started to walk away but he called out, “OK, one drink. I know a quiet place.”’

  They took a taxi to Maruyama and the buildings and paving stones seemed much dirtier than she remembered. The lanterns that advertised the bars still shone, but the paper was torn, grubby, lopsided. They passed prostitutes who flashed their red under-kimonos as they called out to a group of sailors, gleaming bright in their navy whites. Yuko and Sato walked down a less frequented alleyway to a black entrance painted with a white chrysanthemum. The dull thud of a gramophone began to leak through the walls as they climbed the stairs. They reached a door decorated with a poster of Greta Garbo as Mata Hari.

  Inside, beside a small wooden bar, two men stood dressed in blonde wigs, red satin evening gowns stained at the armpits and scuffed gold heels. The shorter and rounder one ran up to greet Sato. He gave Yuko a critical eye and introduced himself to her as Greta. His friend was called Simone. Greta led them past the other clientele, Mitsubishi workers and more sailors on leave, and found them a table near a stage. An old lady in a US soldier’s uniform placed two bottles of beer on their table. The opening bars of ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’ poured out of a speaker and Simone and Greta shuffled onto the raised platform. They began to sing the song in tortured English as they high-kicked their way across the stage. The audience clapped and Greta worked the crowd, sitting on Sato’s knee, wrapping a feather boa around his neck. Another song, ‘You’re the Top’, was followed by more beer, the brew weak and mouldy, but potent enough to provide the illusion of intoxication. The cabaret show clattered to a close with ‘What a Joy to be Young’ and Simone and Greta disappeared behind a silver lamé curtain, ripped down one side.

  ‘I asked Jomei how he had found this place and he said Greta had dragged him off the street. How had she and Simone avoided the attentions of the Kempeitai? He did not know. He said we could go somewhere else if I felt uncomfortable. No, I told him I liked the bar. It was so far removed from my own life. He ordered more drinks and I watched him pour cloudy yellow liquid into two glasses. I wondered how different the man in front of me was to the one I had known in Chinatown. I am so changed, how can he not be too? I had been a young girl and Jomei had been new and thrilling. I felt a similar excitement that night to be out in the city, drinking and laughing. For a few hours, I could be young again, not a mother, or a nurse, or a wife who might well be a widow. I wanted to get drunk, to lose myself. We downed the drinks and I poured more. I had conjured up nights like this one, many times, over the years. Jomei and I together once more, how it might be, how it might feel. I had imagined joy and fear and vindication. Our reunion would confirm that we should never have parted. Only we were different. I am not Cio-Cio-san. I am not even Yuko Takahashi. I am Yuko Watanabe. I reminded myself the man sitting opposite me in this cheap bar had abandoned me. How can I not be angry? But what I felt was more forgiving, more complicated. What about him? Maybe he felt nothing. I reached for more drink. The liquor loosened my tongue. We gossiped about which doctors were having affairs with which nurses. We knew to keep the conversation light.’

  She told him about training to be a nurse, the day she had been handed an amputated leg in a bucket and had tried to throw the bloody stump out in the garbage before a janitor pointed her in the direction of the incinerator. She felt flattered when Jomei laughed, more so when he told her she was skilled at her job. They moved on to tales of Hideo, the day he had stuck a wasabi pea up his nose, the morning she found him reaching for a fat black mukade centipede, drawn to its yellow legs and unaware of its bite, the expression on his face when he ate his first salt plum. The laughter felt good, a release of tension. She could feel herself unfurl, like a nadeshiko at dawn, pink and slender on a strong stalk. They never mentioned Shige.

  Carelessly they found themselves talking about Iōjima, the elderly couple who always squabbled on the ferry over to the island, the sound of t
he sea lice scuttling over rocks. Yuko cringed. ‘There must have been millions of them.’ Sato slapped the table in amusement and shouted above the second act of the stage show, ‘And remember the sea urchin? The way you kept clasping your leg, “Am I dying, Jomei? Am I?”’ She pouted. ‘I never said such a thing.’ Still she laughed, remembering the pleasure she had felt when he carried her in his arms. But Iōjima wasn’t just about Jomei. The island belonged to Shige too. Yuko stood up, excused herself and made her way to the toilet. She peered in the mirror. Her face was red with the alcohol, her eyes bloodshot. ‘Remember who you are,’ she said to her reflection. ‘Remember the pain this man caused.’ She walked back to the table, suddenly more sober.

  ‘Jomei seemed quieter too, subdued. We looked at one another. I could not avoid the question any longer. “Should we talk about what happened?” He took a long time to reply. “Does it matter now?” This angered me. How could he be so indifferent? I persisted. “What if the affair hadn’t been discovered? What then?” He grimaced as he swallowed more drink. “It’s impossible to say. It’s probably best not to think too much about it.” How could I not? Where would our lives have taken us if Chinatown had never ended in that way on that day? I felt foolish for expecting some kind of explanation, some show of regret. Mother was right, it seemed. He had not cared for me. I tried to conceal my hurt. I smiled, nodded my agreement. “You’re right. The past is better kept where it is. And look at us now. Two old friends catching up.” I clinked my glass against his. He gave me another wary, sad smile. “I’m surprised you even want to talk to me.” Why would I not? I had so many questions to ask. Now it was his turn to look confused. “When I saw you that first day in the ward, I thought about the letter, your anger. I thought you would be furious.” Suddenly I felt sick as I leaned forward to ask above the screech of Greta’s laughter, “Jomei, what are you talking about? What letter?” He said the words slowly as if he could not believe he had to repeat them. “The letter you sent after your wedding.” “How could I write a letter? I didn’t know where you were.” It only took seconds for us both to realise what had happened. Mother. I asked him what the letter had said. He just held his head in his hands for a long time. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. Let’s forget it.” I looked at him, appalled. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask her.” He considered this and reached for my hand. My desire was like a light bulb crackling to life in the dark. “You can’t. If you do, she’ll know I’m back in Nagasaki.” Our fingers intertwined. “Neither of us wants that, do we?”’

  Sato stood up, unsteady on his feet, and said he would walk her home. She held onto the edge of the banquette for balance and looked around. Greta’s wig had slipped even farther back as she loaded dirty glasses onto a tray with exaggerated care. They headed to the door and Simone waved a dishcloth in farewell. Outside the streets were wet with rain and the only sound was their feet on the cobbles. They traced the route along the river to the doorstep of her home, hidden behind a wall. Sato looked up at the two-storey house and sighed, as if resigning himself to his next disclosure. ‘The letter I wrote, it was an apology, for the way I left. I wanted you to know how sorry I was.’

  Yuko leaned against the door. ‘And you believed the letter you received back?’

  ‘Why would I not? The feelings were so heartfelt. Your mother left no room for doubt. I believed you hated me.’

  She sighed. ‘What if I’d seen your letter? Would we be here today, like this?’

  He stared off into space. ‘It’s too late to ask these questions.’

  Yuko said he sounded sad but angry too. What more could he expect? What more could either of them expect? Eight years is nothing to the world but something to the human heart.

  ‘Where did you go, Jomei? Where did you learn to speak English? Abroad?’ He shook his head, looked to the ground as if wrestling with some moment of confession. ‘Maybe I’ll tell you one day, Yuko, but not tonight, not now.’ She had one more question to ask then no more. ‘I loved you, Jomei. I learned not to over the years; at least, I thought I had. When I never heard from you, I decided Mother was right, I meant nothing to you. You never loved me. Is that true?’

  Sato shook his head and took her chin in his hand, tender with the truth. ‘Yuko, how can you say that? I’ve never loved anyone but you.’

  Not my letter, not their forced separation, not marriage, not even the war could stop what happened next.

  ‘We kissed on that doorstep, with caution and care. No more words were spoken. We had found one another again. I took his hand and led him through the house to my bedroom. Of course I thought of Shige but I stilled my mind long enough to see only Jomei in front of me. I could not resist him, I never could. He is my drug, my opium. Chinatown and Iōjima seem foreign countries. We are no longer those people. We are new and different. I am grateful for his return. The dawn is rising and Jomei has just left. We did not talk of love when we parted. We will not speak of love when we meet again. There is no need. He is the secret I stitch into my heart.’

  An Awakening

  Satori: In the Buddhist philosophy, spiritual enlightenment constitutes attainment of transcendental wisdom by intuitive insight. According to Zen sects, it is the realisation of Buddhahood inherent in human beings. They believe that the attainment of this wisdom will lead one to the state of freedom from karma and suffering (bonno), or to the state of nirvana (nehan), which is the ultimate goal of Buddhism.

  I knew from Sato’s letters that he learned to speak English in China. No wonder he did not tell Yuko where he had gone after he left Nagasaki. His silence just proved the moral coward he was. Confessions to a dead woman are meaningless. In 1937, he and Natsu had moved back to his home town of Kumamoto, a few hours east of Nagasaki. His father-in-law had found him a position at a hospital, where he specialised in immunology, specifically in organ transplantation. Four years passed before the war caught up with him and he was dispatched to Shanxi in the north of China. He was part of a medical team preparing doctors on their way to the front line. Some of the medics had never seen a bullet wound or had never had to treat mass cases of dysentery, typhoid or tuberculosis. Sato was expected to help make them battle-ready.

  On my first day in the operating theatre my superior, Masaru Hayashi, told me we would run through some basic surgeries, while a group of ten doctors observed. He would lead and I would assist. Two guards brought a Chinese prisoner to the room. He was young, in farmer’s clothes. The nurse told him to lie on the table and she administered anaesthesia to his spine. ‘Can you feel your legs?’ she asked but he did not reply. Next she tried to give him chloroform and maybe then he realised what was about to happen. He began to struggle and some of the men held him down until he became still. Then we began our procedures, first with the removal of his appendix, next a leg and finally we lacerated his bowel and tried to repair it. When he was dead we let the men practise dissections. My hands were shaking as I scrubbed down. Hayashi noticed and this embarrassed me. As he left for the canteen, he said, ‘It gets easier, don’t worry.’ Yuko, he was right.

  This might have been his war had it not been for a visitor to the hospital at the start of 1942 who went by the name of General Shiro Ishii. Sato had shown the general around the facilities and, a month later, a letter came and, as instructed, he took a train to Harbin city. The stench of manure in the streets from the horse carts was overpowering as he walked to the bus station past opulent carved facades and shining domes built during the time of the Russian tsars. The trip to the village of Pingfang, past fields of red sorghum, took an hour. Inside an innocuous-looking building of yellow stone with a red-tiled roof a professor from Osaka led him through his induction: division one researched the bubonic plague, cholera, anthrax, typhoid and tuberculosis; division two developed warfare and field experiments; division three was the factory that produced biological agents in artillery shells; division four made other agents; division five looked after tr
aining; the last divisions were responsible for equipment.

  The professor told Sato he would be placed in division one. He opened a filing cabinet thick with files and explained how their patients came marked for special deportation as ‘die-hard anti-Japanese’ or ‘incorrigible’. Most were Chinese civilians but sometimes enemy soldiers were used. He said the locals had been told the site was a water plant or a lumber facility. The professor rapped the metal cabinet with his knuckles. ‘These are our little logs.’ Sato had ended up at what was officially known as the Epidemic Prevention and Water Purification Department of the Kwantung Army. He and his colleagues called it Unit 731. Here his knowledge of immunology and transplantation was tested to its limits. If Shanxi had been the descent into hell, Pingfang was the final destination.

  At first he only worked on animals. He administered shots of cyanide, nitric acid and strychnine nitrate to rabbits and made notes on their seizures. But a month after he arrived he was given a security pass to two buildings inside an inner court, separated from the rest of the complex by an iron gate. Here he found bacteriological scholars from prestigious universities who showed him their studies, explained what they had learned, what hypothesis they hoped to test next. He watched researchers culture bacteria or breed fleas. He helped technicians, naked apart from white gowns, flash red lights in black rooms to coax the fleas into the dark of a waiting cylinder. The parasites would then be released in cages among rats infected with the bubonic plague. Later the prisoners would be selected. Every night he took baths in disinfectant, his skin stinking and bleached, but his mind could not be so easily sterilised.

  I told myself this was science, the advances made would benefit all humanity. Breakthroughs in medicine take extraordinary measures. I tried to see the prisoners used as one might those lab rats. But I could not escape the question, how to live with all the suffering we inflicted? How to face the memory of those shouts of ‘Japanese devils’ from the prisoners when we came for them? The screams followed by silence. How to live with all that knowledge we acquired? I promised myself one day this would be over. I would take what I had learned and leave. And I did but I could never forget. What would you have said had I told you who I truly was that night on your doorstep? You could not have loved the man I was and so I hid the devil from Pingfang from you. But I cannot undo these deeds. The monster is me.