Akira regarded him with red eyes and a face turned again to stone. “You, too, remain alive, then.”
“As you see.”
“This burden. How does one bear it? I . . . can’t . . .”
Kiyoshi held his breath against the youth’s odor and considered. Then: “Wash yourself. And get over it.”
“Easy for some of us. For you, I hear.”
“Your parents should be glad.”
“They’re humiliated in front of all.”
Kiyoshi considered the terrible truth they shared, then found himself muttering roughly, “They’ll recover. If they don’t, too bad for them! Who cares?”
The reddened eyes regarded him in judgment. “Some of us can say that.”
“I tell you, get over it!” But the spur that had driven him home by ship and rail, that had sent him into dealings with the black market and nets, suddenly evaporated.
For the next two days Kiyoshi laid on his futon. He covered his head with a towel and mumbled excuses whenever Mother tried timidly to rouse him. All the while, his mind obsessed between despairing shame and ideas for survival. When he did manage to sleep, he woke with the conflicting thoughts waiting to be thrashed over again. Occasionally, he tried to mourn his dead wife but her face kept fading. They’d barely known each other in adulthood. In her place drifted the challenging, merry eyes and smooth black hair of the sister—Miki—who would only laugh to see him thus. Yet he could not bring himself to rise.
At length his parents stood over him.
“We rejoice that you’ve come back alive,” declared his mother in her soft voice. “What else could matter to us as much as this?”
Father cleared his throat. “Return to life and be our son. I heard what you told Akira. You also, my Kiyoshi-san. Get over it.”
Kiyoshi removed the cloth from his eyes and sat up slowly. His mother wore a sunbonnet and apron. She must have come in from her endless plucking of beetles from the few precious cabbages and sweet potato sprouts they were able to grow. By now, he’d watched her do it several times, over and over in what was almost a ritual. Father held a ledger and looked down at him through thick glasses. His cheeks sagged with weary lines. Both watched him anxiously.
“Shall I bring sake to raise your spirits?”
“No, Mother, save it. Make me strong tea.” Kiyoshi glanced through a papered window that was partially open. The sky had begun to dim against darkened leaves.
“Is there supper? Is it that time?”
Seated cross-legged on the tatami around the low eating table, Kiyoshi gulped the strong tea like medicine. His own bowl had more rice and cabbage than those of his parents, as well as a small piece of meat not replicated in theirs. He divided the piece into thirds with his chopsticks and distributed it. “No, no, we’re not hungry.”
“Take it, Mother. You make me ashamed.”
Silence. They finished eating.
“So,” Kiyoshi declared at last. Another silence followed.
Kiyoshi shook the pot that now held mostly over-steeped tea leaves and drank the tea that remained—now cold and bitter. “So. We’ve been defeated. In disgrace. The Imperial Presence is proven not to be divine after all.”
“No! Don’t say that,” his mother exclaimed.
“And those of us not killed honorably . . . feel that we should be dead.”
“No. No.”
“I’m saying what’s in my heart, Mother. And Father. You may as well know it. Can you understand? Never mind. But everything they’ve told us for years turns out to be . . . shit.”
At the crude word Father snorted in what sounded like agreement, but Mother covered her mouth. Her shock chastened him, but he chose not to apologize. Too much now had to be said, before he lost energy again.
“You still have two boats, Father. The vessels of the Tsurifune family. Idle, rusting. No parts to fix them. No paint. No fuel to run them. What now? Let me tell you: There is more than little fish out there to be caught. You never see the big fish because they go off somewhere—black market, Tokyo maybe. We’d better do something for ourselves besides go hungry and hope for the best. We should get the boat owners together and forget the risk. I think the risk has gone. I’ll be the risk. If they arrest anyone, it’ll be me.”
“Oh no, oh no!” exclaimed Mother.
“Father. You tell me to get over it. So, also, you yourself. Go to the other owners, and bring them here for a meeting tomorrow.” As an afterthought he added, “Perhaps I’ll go to the house of Father Nitta and invite him myself.”
It was done. At the Nitta house, the girl Miki was off visiting friends. Just as well, he told himself, disappointed.
Next evening, six men came to the house, one by one. Each gave a cautious look round before darting inside.
When they had all seated themselves on cushions around the low table, Kiyoshi waited for his father to take the initiative. Nothing happened. His mother brought tea and bowed herself away. They all sipped politely, all of them uneasy. On impulse, Kiyoshi took down the guarded single bottle of sake and emptied it with a half cupful for each. He raised his own cup to each man in turn, and with a “Kanpai!” forced them to drink.
“Yes,” he challenged, “You see that I’m alive. I failed to die heroically. Thus, am in disgrace, don’t you think?” Two of the men looked down. The others met his gaze, but their faces remained uneasy.
Kiyoshi turned to his one-time father-in-law. Indeed, as he’d noted sadly before, a man now wasted both in manner and body. “Honored Father Nitta-san. Your daughter, my wife, is dead. We’ve mourned together and I have . . . continued to mourn. Forgive me today while we speak of other things.” Munio Nitta clutched his cane and bowed with effort, as though his body hurt. He was one of those who had looked down.
Kiyoshi turned again one by one to the others. He’d known them all—only years before, but so long ago. There was Mr. Shoichi Hosono, former net fisherman, bent from some distant boating accident. He had always been bony and shrewd-eyed but was now more so in every way. The left side of his lip twitched upward in a permanent scowl. And Mr. Susumu Nojiri, another former fisherman, burly yet still with the same angry challenge that mobilized all his features and allowed for no disagreement. He alone held the gaze of young Tsurifune without faltering. And quiet Mr. Hitoshi Uchimura, the only one who still had some unlined flesh around his face and neck, as if he were still getting enough to eat. Once a clerk and never a man of the sea, Uchimura had saved his money and invested one after another in four fishing boats—at least one more than any of the others had. Had—at least in the past—even covered all possible circumstances by owning a hand liner, a small long liner, a crabber using pots, and a seiner. Lastly, representing his father Masashi Tamai—who had been taken by the authorities and never seen again—was his son Muritaka, a man in his thirties who had said nothing even in greeting. He too had been discharged from the army.
“We here are the six families of this town who once sent out vessels that returned with fish, crabs, and eels. What can we do to make this bounty return? Now, when the town lives on little but . . . radishes and mere minnows—and those only when we can get them.”
Nojiri, who had not relaxed his gaze, stated, “For this, we can thank those soldiers who failed to defend the homeland with that final dedication against the American devils.”
Kiyoshi felt afresh the dreadful shame. He so wanted to return to bed, but he forced himself not to look away. No one else spoke, not even Father. At length, Kiyoshi bowed slightly and continued.
“Therefore, the question is, what must be done to put our vessels back to sea?”
“Nice to talk about this, but beware!” exclaimed the former clerk Uchimura. “If the Americans know about us, they’ll try us for war criminals. As now happens in Germany, the papers say. Anyone who is the head of a company that did anything to help its people. They’ll call our business an atrocity and shoot us. Or worse.”
“We’re not a great zaibatsu making
guns,” said Kiyoshi. “Only little boat owners.” His confidence seemed to reassure them, but he wondered again what would happen if someone revealed the terrible things he himself had done to prisoners.
“What hope is there, even with all of us together?” Hosono demanded, his lip twitching. “The foreign devils now have it all. They plan to starve us. Sea of Japan that we once owned? The Russians just closed it to us. Worse, those pigs of Russians have grabbed our Kurils to the north. Stolen! Now our crab canning fleets have nowhere to go. So, therefore, if that’s from the Russians, what can we expect from the even worse Americans? They control all South Pacific waters. Took it from us island by island! And we can forget all the way east to their Alaska, which we once fished.” He peered around. “Waters of the harbor here. That’s all there is for us. Village boats. Whatever they pull up. Not much that I’ve seen. Pitiful!” Father, Nitta, and the silent son of Tamai all shook their heads in sad agreement.
“Yes, yes,” echoed Uchimura. “Pitiful.”
“Pitiful what fish come to shore, you mean,” snapped Nojiri, and he turned to Uchimura. His tone brought the others to attention. “What kind of memorial is this to our colleague Tamai, who disappeared trying to help us all? Do you think it’s a secret, whose man it is that buys all the big fish before it gets to shore. Sneaks it onto the train at Sendai for sale on the black market?” Uchimura’s fleshy cheeks began to quiver. “What does that mean? I can’t help rumors. Rumors, that’s . . . all it is.” No one spoke. “What are you implying? Prove something if you can. I think you cannot.”
“The ration board in town should prove it. But there’s not enough money around to counter the bribes that have already been given.”
Instead of angry denial, Uchimura simply looked from one to the other of his peers. “What an implication. If somebody is doing this, nobody can prove it’s me.” Silence. “See here. If one man doesn’t see the opportunity and take it, another man will.”
Kiyoshi Tsurifune turned to his father, who as host reserved the right to intervene, but Father—his expression one of shock—looked away. Kiyoshi wondered if Susumu Nojiri accused unfairly, as he had just minutes before with his barb about Kiyoshi’s return. Or was this accusation real?
Their uncomfortable silence continued. Kiyoshi took a breath, and though he arched his back for increased stature and confidence, he forced himself to speak humbly. “With deepest respect to you, my experienced elders, please allow me to change the subject.” He bowed in turn to each of those seated around him. Nojiri inclined his head curtly, the others with apparent relief.
“Forgive my boldness. But what we should discuss, with everyone here of importance, is the future. Surely we still control the fishing water a few miles out from harbor. How many vessels do we have—do the six family enterprises have—that are seaworthy to fish in whatever of our poor nation’s territorial sea remains ours?”
“Poor? Never say that!” exclaimed Nojiri.
Suddenly Munio Nitta grasped his cane and waved it at Kiyoshi with unexpected levity. “You mean if we had enough oars to row them out? Hundred oars for each vessel, eh? I’ll start by donating two rotting oars abandoned against the side of my house. That does it. Off we go!” His outburst broke the tension enough that even grim Hosono chuckled and the belligerent Nojiri exclaimed “Ha!” in good humor.
“Fuel, young man, fuel!” continued Nitta. “Find me diesel for the engines, and my vessels can work a few miles offshore—even if we need to wipe rust off the first catch from the equipment that has been too long idle.”
“All very good,” said Hosono. “Except that the American devils want to starve us into submission. Count on it, they won’t let us leave the harbor.”
“Respectfully, about the Americans,” ventured Kiyoshi. “The ones I met, coming home from war were stern, but not unkind.”
“You’re young,” growled Nojiri. “Didn’t the war teach you anything? The Americans hate us as much as we hate them. They’ll do anything to destroy those of us they haven’t killed with their barbarous atomic bombs.”
“Respectfully. Not the ones I met.”
“Fool!”
Father at last raised his head. “I think that my son is not a fool, Nojiri-san. Maybe he’s seen more of Americans than the rest of us. Be generous enough to let him speak.” Nojiri shrugged permission.
Kiyoshi described the more reasonable of the Americans he had encountered on his journey home. The boat owners listened out of deference to Tsurifune Senior, although it was plain none appeared to believe what they heard.
Finally Nojiri himself declared: “Very well. Hear my proposal. Between us, we’ll find the money—not much—to send you to Tokyo. Out of respect to our colleague your father. See if some American who’s taken over our country can find us fuel for our vessels. And see what they plan to do about criminal trials, to reassure us. Ha! Go bow before this great General MacArthur—if he’s real and you can find him. If you dare! Then, young man, if you’re wrong, we’ll at least know which of us sees the truth. And then—.” He glanced at Uchimura. “Then, perhaps we’ll all decide to crawl like worms into secret black market deals and take our chances.”
OCTOBER 1945
Three mornings later, a freshly energized Kiyoshi prepared to set out for Tokyo. On impulse he started to put back on his blue denim—American clothing. The garments, now washed often, had lost their initial stiffness.
“Why this?” challenged his father.
“The Americans might be more willing to talk to me. It shows that I’ve made connections with them. That I’m not just a mere, defeated—”
“Have more pride! What are you pretending? Face them as a proud Japanese!”
Chastened and quickly shamed, Kiyoshi changed clothes. When he boarded an early train in Sendai, he wore a suit purchased for him long ago in times past. The jacket smelled musty and it hung loose around his shoulders. Without a belt to hold them up, his pants bunched uncomfortably from the weight he had lost.
At the station in Tokyo, nothing at first seemed changed from his passage through the city nearly a month before. Haggard and restless people still squatted virtually knee to knee in any open space. But now, the odor of filthy human bodies made him clap a hand to his nose. It was much worse than before, back when he had stunk as much as they. He had come this far back to normal!
From the station entrance a month before, he had watched a breeze kick up black dust and fan still hot embers from buildings burned to ash by the bombs. Everything had been flattened and still smoking. Now he looked at ground more akin to the colors of earth than that of ash, and primitive structures now rose from it. Men and women moved everywhere. They had begun to rebuild their houses, using half-charred boards and with a strange mix of sandbags, petrol cans, wire, and pieces of twisted metal. Vegetation was already twisting around some of the hovels. Two children ran, playing, from a doorway in one of the structures.
The concrete troughs had been swept to reveal pavement and roadways. Streets had opened and were now crowded with pedestrians and honking vehicles. Further off in the orange haze, the long cars of a tram snaked between buildings—some in shards and some apparently intact.
People! That was the great difference between Tokyo and the small town he had just left. And not just the ragged Japanese on the floor of the station. People were everywhere, knotted along the opened roads where they seemed to move in slow motion, in competition with the vehicles. Some of the women wore traditional kimonos in bright colors: women both old and young. They were no longer dressed all in gray and hiding away as they had been a month before. Even customers could be seen gathering around makeshift stalls. Kiyoshi could see into one stall where a man held out a sheet of rusted metal. Another displayed bicycle wheels. Steam drifted from yet one more, perhaps coming from a boiling pot.
Along the sides of the main street and against one wall of the station, there slumped scatterings of Japanese men in the poorly made and poorer fitting brown shirts an
d wrapped leggings of former soldiers. Some merely stared, some stood by with small items to sell. A few men sat with an open hat at their feet. Walking in groups separated from the Japanese, who made space around them, were American soldiers in their khaki and American sailors sporting dark blue. They strode confidently in uniforms that were both tight-fitting and clean. Some stopped and pointed cameras in every direction, even boldly into the faces of approaching Japanese—who, of course, shied away.
A loudspeaker along the side of the station blared voices alternately in English and Japanese. Occasional shouts and laughter accompanied the crackling transmission. Kiyoshi clutched his traveling bag tightly lest someone steal it and walked toward these refreshingly human sounds. A cluster of people, all men, stood shoulder to shoulder. Americans in uniform and Japanese—together. Standing high above them on sets of boxes, were two American sailors, and opposite them were two Japanese civilians. One man in each pair held wads of money and the other a pencil and notepad.
At an enthusiastic statement from the loudspeaker—which included the English word “Tigers,” Kiyoshi recognized—many of the Americans cheered and waved their arms. Several Japanese joined in when the translation followed. Others groaned loudly. The men holding money disappeared amongst an array of hands, while the markers scribbled notes.
“What’s going on?” Kiyoshi asked of a Japanese on the sidelines.
“Shhh! Why did their great southpaw ace Newhouser fumble? Run just made. Bad for Tigers, bad for me.” He pronounced “southpaw ace” in English.
“Baseball, is it?”
“Of course. World Series in city of Chicago. Detroit Tigers and Chicago Cubs, deciding game. Shh!”
“Haha!” exclaimed a different Japanese, who accompanied the first, in a voice that could barely contain his glee. “Clearly now, Chicago Cubs will win the entire World Series today. The great pitcher Hank Borowy shall see to that, as he did three days ago—and you, Hito-san, will pay! Soon you’ll be forced to pay me our wager.”
WARRIORS Page 9
