The Diplomat’s Daughter

by Karin Tanabe

  Emi bent down, feeling very disrespectful, but having no other choice, and whispered, “Excuse me . . .” When neither husband nor wife moved, she cleared her throat, kneeled beside them, and spoke loudly. “Excuse me!” she nearly shouted, standing up quickly so that she would not be on eye level with her hosts when they awoke.

  Both roused, Emi stepped back and explained, before they stood up, who she was.

  “Emiko Kato, of course,” said Jiro Mori in a deep, sleep-filled voice. He removed four blankets and stood slowly. “I’m terribly embarrassed,” he said, bowing. “We must not have woken in time to pick you up at the train station. Yuka,” he added turning to his wife. “Were you not to rouse me when it was time to drive to the station to fetch Emiko?”

  Emi was shocked at the sight of Mr. Mori. Not because he was in his sleeping clothes—he was far too bundled up to make anyone feel embarrassed—but because he was very old, much older than Emi had guessed from the way her parents had spoken about him, and frighteningly thin. Even though she couldn’t make out the lines of his body, she could tell from his hollow face that he was gaunt everywhere. Emi had expected a distinguished gentleman, in good health, and just past retirement age. Someone very much like her father. Instead, the man standing before her, his head covered by the thick zukin, looked like he would be lucky to squeeze a few more months out of life.

  Looking flustered, Mrs. Mori stood, too, similarly outfitted, and gazed at Emi like she was a ghost.

  “How awful of us,” she finally said, bowing to her guest, who bowed back much deeper. “I was to stay awake until your train arrived, but it seems sleep got the best of me. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” said Emi. “I should have taken an earlier train. It was rude of me not to think of the time.”

  “You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Mori, stepping away from her futon and putting her hand on Emi’s. Despite all her layers and the presence of a just extinguished fire, her hands were stiff and cold. “I’m afraid we don’t have very much—we are at the end of our monthly rations—but there is some cold rice and fresh watercress.”

  “Oh, no,” said Emi, ignoring the hunger pain in her stomach as Mrs. Mori switched on a light. Emi turned around and took the onigiris that she had bought during the train journey out of her bag and offered them to her hosts. “I have some food with me. Please,” she said, handing one each to them, the last she had. “You must be hungrier than I am.”

  “Is this fish inside?” said Yuka, holding the paper-wrapped onigiri to her face.

  “Salmon,” said Emi as Mr. Mori started to smile.

  “Salmon!” he said laughing, until his shoulders started jumping. “Where did you find these? In Tokyo?”

  “Not far from,” said Emi, thinking about her train journey. “Don’t you . . . is there no fish here?” she asked.

  “Not salmon,” said Mrs. Mori. She bit hungrily into the onigiri. “But let’s not worry about that now. If you aren’t hungry, you must be very tired,” she said. “I will show you the washroom upstairs and Jiro will set up your futon by the fire. Or what’s left of it.”

  Emi couldn’t hide her surprise and Mrs. Mori revised her statement. “There are bedrooms upstairs—private rooms—but it is very cold and you might be more comfortable downstairs with us.”

  “If you don’t mind—perhaps just for tonight—I would like to sleep upstairs,” Emi said, thinking that the only people she had ever been forced to share a room with were her mother and the Kuriyamas, and that was the American government’s doing.

  “Whatever will make you the most comfortable,” said Mrs. Mori, finally untying her zukin. She started to walk up the stairs, very slowly, almost folded in half as she held on to the railing and made the short climb. Emi took one of her suitcases and followed the elderly woman up, one hand out in case she had to break her fall.

  Emi barely slept that night, despite the heavy blankets Mrs. Mori laid out for her. The cold coming up from the floor, even though she was in a Western-style bed, was nearly unbearable and when she walked to the bathroom in the morning, her hands were as stiff and ice cold as Mrs. Mori’s.

  The sun had barely risen and the house was quiet when Emi returned to her room, which she soon saw was the Moris’ bedroom. She tiptoed over to their dressers, afraid her steps might make the floor creak, and looked at the photos in silver frames positioned on top. She smiled and picked up one of Jiro Mori. He was in his late fifties or early sixties, very distinguished, and standing by a shiny race car on a gravel road. Wearing a handsomely cut 1920s-style suit, he did suddenly remind her of her father. The photo next to it was of Yuka Mori in New York City, though the photo was taken many years earlier, as revealed by her age and clothes. Emi put the frames down carefully, got dressed as quickly as she could, and made her way silently downstairs, only to see the two forms still under the blankets, unmoving. In the light of day, she saw that the sparsely decorated living room was handsomely done in a traditional Japanese style, with low tables and thick pillows for resting on. But it had all been pushed aside to make room for sleeping and a pile of firewood wrapped in a leather sleeve.

  Not wanting to disturb her hosts, Emi slipped out the front door and headed, she hoped, into town. Once down the Moris’ muddy lane, she was on the slightly wider road that she had come down with Ayumi. All around her were tall pine trees, thick and full, next to bare maple and larch trees. The dirt was drier and packed down on the road and Emi picked up her step, the sound of birds, more birds than she’d heard since she’d been interned in hotels on the East Coast, helping to wake her up. It was a peaceful, brisk thirty-minute walk into town, and Emi soon spotted the shopping street and headed to Evgeni’s store. She hoped he was there at such an early hour, as she wanted to thank him and his wife for their kindness.

  There was hardly anyone about, just a few men in a horse-drawn cart and some older Japanese women sweeping the stoops of the stores. Emi slowed down and watched the horses, their smell reminding her of the animals in Crystal City.

  She turned her eyes away as one of the horses lifted his tail to relieve himself, but soon saw all the Japanese women who had been sweeping run over to the horse and start scooping up his dung.

  “Kōzan!” one woman screamed, laying her claim to the dung and batting away another’s hands.

  “We are much hungrier in my house than you are,” she heard another say.

  “They don’t eat it,” said a man’s voice over Emi’s shoulder. “They use it to fertilize their tiny vegetable gardens. Manure is very hard to get now. So when the horses go, the women start running.”

  Emi turned around and looked at Evgeni, his thinning blond hair dirty and pressed to his scalp.

  “I was hoping to see you,” said Emi, smiling.

  He gestured for her to follow him and put his key in the door of his store.

  “You made it to the Moris’ all right?” he asked, turning on the lights.

  “With you and your wife’s help, I did,” said Emi, thanking him.

  “We were happy to help,” he said. “There’s quite a lot to learn about survival here. It’s a strange town now that it’s overrun with foreigners. Many people, not enough food. You will learn in time where certain things hide—watercress, mushrooms, and strawberries in the summertime—and how to eat down to the bone. It’s not ideal, but it’s war.”

  Emi was formulating a response when she heard the store door open and a young white woman came in, closing the door loudly behind her. To Emi’s surprise, Evgeni spoke to her in Japanese. Emi tried not to stare, but the sight of two Caucasian people speaking to each other in Japanese was too much for her. When there was a pause in conversation, Emi interjected and asked Evgeni why they were speaking Japanese.

  “It must look strange to you,” said Evgeni. “Especially since you are new to Karuizawa.” He gestured to the young woman, vibrant and pretty despite her layers of thick clothes. “This is Claire Ohkawa. Claire Smith Ohkawa. She’s married to Kiyoshi
Ohkawa, who works at the Mampei Hotel. She is Australian and doesn’t speak Russian, and I don’t speak much English. But we both speak Japanese. Quite well, I’d like to think.”

  Claire bowed to Emi, but Emi just blurted out in English, “You are Australian?”

  “And you speak English!” said Claire, reaching out and wrapping Emi in an excited hug. “Oh, English!” she exclaimed. “Come and have a cup of tea with me at the hotel,” she said. “I haven’t spoken English in weeks.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Oh, please don’t say no,” Claire interrupted her. “You must be new here or I would know you, and I know Karuizawa very well. We can be most helpful to each other, I’m sure of it. Come with me, I beg you.”

  “She’s innocent enough,” said Evgeni in Japanese, and Claire opened the door to let them both out, pulling her scarf up to cover her nose and mouth.

  “Your husband is Japanese?” Emi asked Claire after she had explained to her why she spoke English and what she was doing in Karuizawa.

  “Yes, Kiyoshi,” said Claire. “He is and I love him, and I love it here. I never want to return to Australia. Not that it is even an option. It’s true, it was much better in Japan before the war, but it will be like it was again. Soon, I hope. And Karuizawa is different from the rest of the country. The war hasn’t hit us as hard here. There are food shortages, like anywhere, but everyone says we won’t get bombed and I believe them.”

  “Who is everyone?” asked Emi, and Claire made a circle gesture with her hand indicating the town.

  “I’ve endured a bombing,” she added. “I was in Tokyo during the raid in ’42. Everyone says it wasn’t much, but it was still something to me. I was walking right down the street in the Ginza. The American planes were flying so low you could almost see the pilots’ faces. And you know the strangest thing? They dropped notes from their windows. Some of them said, ‘I love you.’ I picked one of those up off the ground and waved it at the pilots. I still have it. It just shows you who is dropping bombs—little boys who don’t know any better. If they had ever spent time here, in this great country, they wouldn’t drop bombs on it.”

  “Do you think it’s so great?” Emi asked, surprised to hear a foreigner speaking that way. She knew that many Japanese diplomats’ wives who were foreign felt very isolated when they were in Japan.

  “I do,” said Claire enthusiastically. “Especially Karuizawa. Your father was right to send you here. You’ll be much safer than if you were in a big city. If the Allies were to bomb Karuizawa and kill us all, it would be an international incident. There are so many foreigners from so many countries, like me. And then there are the Jews. A Jewish family owns that store right there,” said Claire, pointing to a home furnishings store that didn’t seem to have anything to sell but blackout curtains. “And while there isn’t a lot of food, if you buy on the black market and befriend the right people, there is a little.”

  “If you befriend the Germans, you mean,” said Emi as they made their way to the Mampei Hotel. They paused in front of it, and Emi admired its façade. With its crisscross brown wood details on a white stucco background, it looked more Austrian than Japanese.

  “I didn’t say that,” Claire replied before they walked in.

  “I speak German,” Emi admitted. “So I feel I might give in to the temptation of securing myself some bread, even though I would be very angry with myself for taking from the Germans.”

  “Why? The Germans aren’t so bad. Some of the soldiers are quite handsome,” Claire declared.

  “They may not be so bad when they are in Japan, but when they are in Europe, they are inhumane,” said Emi.

  “Maybe these Germans are different,” said Claire, seeming unmoved by Emi’s words. “They don’t bother me.”

  Emi stayed quiet as Claire gestured to two empty seats in the lobby. “Is it funny to be in a Japanese hotel full of Europeans?” she asked, as they watched the Caucasian men hurry through the hotel.

  “No,” said Emi. “The strange part for me is to be back in Japan during a war. I’ve spent very little of my life here and it’s always been a peaceful, beautiful place to return to between postings. Now it feels as if I’ve come back for good, but nothing is the same. I miss what it used to be.”

  “Me, too,” said Claire, telling her about the latest rations. “The Japanese and the foreigners sometimes get different food, but lately it’s all measly portions and practically rotten. The bread that is rationed to foreigners isn’t made of flour, but potatoes. And many say it’s half potatoes and half wood pulp. That’s if you’re lucky enough to get a light-colored loaf. The dark loaves—they’re not what the Germans eat. I’ve been told that ours are made of black flour and ground-up silkworms. And then the meat in the rations is almost inedible. Every cut I’ve been given was nearly rancid. So now I eat the Japanese rations, just like you. I don’t think the government will poison their own people’s rice. And I’ve been in Japan so long I prefer rice to bread anyway.”

  Emi nodded, horrified. She would ask the Moris what they were surviving on when she returned home. As Claire went on, Emi half-listened as she observed the people starting to fill the lobby. Most of them looked like diplomats, but there were also many Japanese, the majority in the very casual Western clothing that had grown in popularity during the war. They looked nothing like the well-heeled foreign visitors Karuizawa was known for. Emi wondered if those days would ever come back, or if this would be the look of the new Japan.

  After she had shifted her weight to peer out the other door, Emi noticed what looked very much like a piano nestled behind a shoji screen.

  “Is that a piano there?” she asked Claire, craning her neck further to confirm.

  Claire looked, too, and nodded.

  “Do you think I could play it?” Emi asked. “I’ve been desperate for a piano. I haven’t played properly in almost two years. Just a few times when I was interned in the United States.”

  Claire glanced around. “In cases like these, it’s better to just play and not ask, don’t you think? If you play well enough, I’m sure no one will mind. This town needs something nice to listen to instead of the sound of their own fears.”

  Emi, conscious of her newcomer status, walked over to the piano as Claire looked on. She pushed back the screen and uncovered the instrument, then without checking to see if anyone was trying to stop her, she positioned her hands and feet and played a piece by Beethoven, one she hoped was pleasing and familiar to the mixed crowd.

  When she was done, she heard clapping before she had even turned around. And when she did, she saw that many people had paused in the hotel’s lobby and hallways to listen to her.

  “Play another!” a Japanese man called out, prompting more applause.

  Smiling, Emi nodded and turned back to the piano, this time playing a more difficult piece by Mozart. When she finished, she laid her hands on the piano, feeling an elation that she hadn’t felt since she’d played with Christian by her side. She wished he were with her now. He would have liked to see her surrounded by people, clapping for her.

  When Emi stood up and turned to rejoin Claire, she was cornered by a German military officer who had been listening to her play from just a few feet away.

  “Good,” he said to Emi in strained Japanese. “Good, good.”

  At the sight of the swastika on his armband, her heart dropped.

  “Thank you,” she replied in Japanese, taking a step to the side to move around him. She was about to motion to Claire that she was going to leave the hotel, but Claire came and joined them, introducing herself and immediately offering up that Emi spoke German.

  “Deutsch, Deutsch,” she said, smiling at Emi.

  “Do you speak Deutsch?” the officer asked Emi, thrilled.

  She acknowledged that she did and curtly explained why, before trying to move around him again, but he put his hand on her shoulder to stop her.

  “Perhaps I have met your father,” the man said, switching
to his native language to introduce himself as Standartenführer Hans Drexel, acting German consul-general in Karuizawa. “You have such talent,” he said flatteringly. “You must play at our New Year’s party. The German New Year’s party. We can have this piano brought to my home and you can play for us.” He leaned closer and said, “You play so well, and a beautiful Japanese girl like you will be a nice sight for the officers. Please come. We can offer you hot food. Enough so you’ll be eating for hours. Until your stomach hurts.”

  Emi knew she should say yes, food was clearly never declined during war, but she did not want to play for the Germans. She was about to refuse when Claire said, “She will! Of course she will. And perhaps she will bring me back a little food, too. That is all anyone wants right now,” she said, looking at Emi. “Hot, plentiful food. So if you can promise her that she will play.”

  “Of course I can,” Hans said. “Then you will come, Emiko. Good. And you will uplift everyone’s spirits.”

  Emi could only shake her head yes.

  CHAPTER 24

  LEO HARTMANN

  DECEMBER 1943

  For the Hartmanns, whose acquaintance with Japanese people had been limited to the courteous, kindly, German-speaking Kato family and their embassy colleagues, it was hard adapting to a world where the Japanese were the oppressors, the enemy.

  Leo had at first tried to be polite to them, the occupiers, but when his friend Jin was spat on when asking for directions in broken Japanese, he had stopped. The men ruling Shanghai had nothing in common with the Katos. Leo explained as much to Emi in a letter when they first arrived, when their letters were reaching each other with ease. The last letter he had received from Emi was before Pearl Harbor but he still checked the communal mailbox outside their building in Hongkew, though he had no idea how Emi would even know they lived there. He still liked doing it, holding on to some hope that his past might still be part of his future. Most of that hope was gone, but checking the mail, that he could not stop doing.