The next morning Takuya awoke just after nine. Nemoto’s wife was nowhere to be seen, and the grandmother was looking after the little girl. After eating a late breakfast he shut himself away again in his room at the back of the house. It was one thing to give them a bag of rice, but he knew there was bound to be a limit to how long they would be prepared to share their food with him. While the older lady seemed quite happy with his presence, it was clear from the wife’s expression that such feelings of generosity were not shared by all the family.
Occasionally Nemoto went out on an errand of one sort or another, but he seemed to spend most of his time sitting in the living-room next to the old shop part of the house. Whenever Takuya came through to see him, he quickly placed an extra cushion on the tatami mat and poured him a cup of green tea. On one such occasion, ill at ease about having mistakenly assumed that Nemoto’s being unmarried would make it easier to impose upon him, Takuya asked about the man’s family.
‘I didn’t know you had a wife and child.’
Nemoto looked down at the floor. ‘She’s my elder brother’s wife. He was killed during the war, so when I came back it fell to me to look after his wife and child. His daughter being so young … I felt sorry for her,’ he said almost in a whisper.
The man’s sincerity impressed Takuya, but more important, he now realised that the unusual situation the wife found herself in, losing her first husband and then being married to her brother-in-law, probably explained the hard, unfeeling look in her eyes.
‘Any sort of work is fine, but can you help me get a job? I want to be able to look after myself, to rent my own place,’ said Takuya. Nemoto didn’t seem too concerned about putting Takuya up a little longer, but his wife gave the impression that their guest was quickly outstaying his welcome.
‘Finding a place to live shouldn’t be a problem, but work is another story. My wife has a job at a new salt refinery, built just a few months ago, but she’s one of the lucky ones. There’s just no work here. The fishermen have no fuel to take their boats out on to the water, and you can see how I spend my time, twiddling my thumbs because I have nothing to sell. Some people loaded themselves up with dried fish and kelp and went to Kobe to sell it, but most of them had it confiscated by the police when they arrived at the port, so no one goes any more,’ explained Nemoto mournfully.
Takuya realised that he’d miscalculated the prospects of setting himself up in the village. There might be massive shoals of fish in the sea, but that counted for nothing if the fishermen lacked the means to get out on the water. It probably wasn’t only a problem of fuel, either. They were just as likely to be short of the tools of their trade as everyone else around them.
‘This is a fishing-village, so it’s as good as dead if the fishermen can’t take their boats out. All that’s keeping their hopes up is the rumour that special fuel rationing might be on the way. During the war hardly any fishing was done, so the fishing-grounds around here are full of fish waiting to be caught. If the fishermen can take their boats out, the number of jobs will start to increase. I doubt there’ll be anything where you could use your university training, but something will come up to get you by. You’ve just got to wait a little while,’ said Nemoto, trying to reassure his guest.
Nemoto was right; surely it wouldn’t be too long before fuel got through to the fishermen. With agriculture obviously going to take more time to recover, stimulating the fishing industry was the quickest way to relieve the food shortages. So the government must be endeavouring to get fuel to the fishermen to help them feed the nation. Once fuel reached the village, Takuya thought, it would surely come back to life, and Nemoto’s cash register would start to ring once again.
The request that he wait until then obviously implied an invitation to accept their hospitality for a little while longer, and this thought gave Takuya the fortitude he needed to endure the unwelcoming looks Nemoto’s wife would doubtless cast in his direction. With gruel served at virtually every meal, the sack of rice he had given to Nemoto’s wife should cover his food needs for at least a month. Takuya remembered that during their time in the army he had often shared his sake or rice crackers with Nemoto, so it was only natural that the man should help him now. As someone facing the prospect of death on the gallows, he must steel himself, he thought, and ignore the needs of others.
Takuya spent his days quietly in his room in the back of the house. Nemoto’s wife was working on rotation with the other women of the village, two days on, then one day off. On her days off she either went down to the shore to look for kelp or shellfish, or went up into the woods behind the village to look for wild vegetables.
Soon Takuya noticed that Nemoto’s family’s attitude toward him seemed to be hardening from one day to the next. The wife avoided eye contact, and the grandmother’s affable expression had disappeared altogether. Before he knew it, even Nemoto had less and less to say, and was clearly giving Takuya a wide berth by spending more time out of the house.
When eight days had passed since his arrival on the island, though he realised he was probably wasting his time, he asked Nemoto about his chances of finding a job. The family were finding it increasingly difficult to hide their annoyance at his presence, and this would obviously get worse the longer he stayed. He must find his own place to live, he thought.
‘Well, there isn’t …’ said Nemoto, looking down to avoid Takuya’s keen gaze.
‘If there are no jobs at the moment, can you find me a place to live, then? I don’t want to be a burden on your family,’ said Takuya, hearing a hint of sarcasm in his own voice.
‘A burden?’ Nemoto’s reply was barely audible, as though the thought had never entered his mind. But there was no doubt, thought Takuya, that Nemoto had been scolded by his wife for taking Takuya into their house, and was starting to regret making the decision.
‘It’s a very small village,’ said Nemoto, still looking at the floor.
Takuya stared at the man’s face, not quite understanding what he meant. Maybe this was a ploy to get the now unwelcome fugitive to leave his house.
‘There are hardly ever any visitors in the village, so word spreads pretty quickly when someone does come. Everyone here knows that you’re staying with us, and they’re starting to ask me and my family a lot of questions. I’ve said that you’re an officer from the same unit during the war, but …’ Nemoto lifted his gaze. There was a glint in his eye as he plucked up the courage to speak his mind.
‘I haven’t said a word to my wife or my mother about you being on the run, but it’s almost impossible to keep a secret on this island. I really don’t think this is the best place for you to hide. I’m honoured that you thought to come here, but I’m starting to worry about the risk involved for you,’ said Nemoto, his voice faltering at the end.
He clearly wanted Takuya to leave, but at the same time the genuine concern in his voice was unnerving. Takuya had not set foot outside Nemoto’s house since the day he stepped off the ferry, but apparently the whole village was aware of his presence. He had thought a remote fishing-village would be an ideal place to hide, but now he realised that in fact the opposite was the case. Obviously he would be a fool not to take Nemoto’s comments seriously.
Takuya pictured the heaving throng at the black market stalls in Osaka. He remembered shouldering his way through the crowd as hawkers on both sides of the narrow lane plied their wares in rough, husky voices. With each step he’d been jostled and pushed by those around him, but he recalled how losing himself in the crowd had produced a feeling of respite from the relentless tension of being on the run. Maybe he should seek refuge not in a quiet backwater but in a big city where he could more easily conceal himself.
‘When’s the next boat out? I want to leave,’ said Takuya in an emphatic tone.
Nemoto looked taken aback, obviously worried that he had offended his guest. ‘So soon? Please stay a little longer,’ he said, a look of dismay in his eyes.
‘No, you’re right. It’
s not a good idea to stay here,’ replied Takuya.
Nemoto implored him not to leave in such a hurry, but soon he gave in to Takuya’s persistence about the ferry, and got to his feet and left the house to check the departure details.
A wave of apprehension came over Takuya at the thought of what might have been a fatal error of judgement in coming to this village. No doubt the police search would be both wide-ranging and focused on places where Takuya would be likely to seek refuge, so the addresses of his relatives, friends, and those close to him during the war would become targets of investigation. Nemoto’s place would almost certainly come up eventually as a possible point of refuge for the police to check out. What on earth had made him come to such a dangerous place?
Now completely unnerved, Takuya looked furtively out of the window of the shop. A glum-looking old woman walked past with a young child clinging to her back. The sun beat down oppressively in the windless sky.
A few minutes later the glass door slid open and Nemoto stepped back into the house.
‘There’s a boat leaving for Kobe in thirty minutes. The next one after that is the day after tomorrow,’ he said, kneeling down on the raised tatami mat.
‘Good. I’ll leave today,’ said Takuya, and went through to the room at the back, where he grabbed his laundry off a piece of string drawn across the room and stuffed it into his rucksack. Nemoto looked anxious as Takuya stepped back into the living-room, ready to go.
‘Why don’t you go on the next boat, two days from now? This is a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ said Nemoto frantically.
‘No, I’ll go now. Thanks for putting me up. Give your family my regards,’ said Takuya, sitting down to put on his shoes.
Nemoto went to the kitchen for a moment and returned with the bag of rice Takuya had brought. He placed it beside Takuya’s rucksack, saying, ‘Please take this with you. It’s unopened.’
Takuya turned to look at Nemoto. ‘I really am indebted to you. Keep it,’ he said pushing the bag back into Nemoto’s hands.
‘No, I can’t take it from you,’ said Nemoto, looking embarrassed.
Takuya started lacing up his shoes. He knew he would need the rice to keep himself going on the run, so he did want to take it with him if he could. Nemoto was prepared to give it back, and there was no good reason not to go along with that. Takuya stood up, knowing Nemoto had just stuffed the bag of rice into his rucksack.
‘You’re too kind, you know,’ he said, taking the rucksack from Nemoto and slinging it over his shoulder. He went outside and Nemoto followed, a couple of paces behind.
They walked down the road beside the river and crossed the bridge at the bottom of the slope. The water was running high so the tide must have come in. Half a dozen villagers standing on the jetty watched the two men approach. They smiled at Nemoto as he walked up to them. Takuya paid the fare to the man nearest the ferry and in return was given a piece of paper with the date and destination stamped on it in black ink. Holding the ticket, he turned and thanked Nemoto quietly for his kindness, and in response Nemoto stiffened to attention and bowed in military style.
The boat was brimming to the gunnels with passengers, many of them women and children. As Takuya threaded his way across the crowded deck to an empty spot near the prow, he wondered why so many of them were carrying such large loads of luggage.
The boat’s engine rumbled to life and the rope was pulled free from the wooden bollard on the jetty. Takuya stood and looked to where Nemoto was standing with the other men. He waved briefly and Nemoto responded with a less exaggerated bow. The boat’s horn sounded as the ferry moved away from the shore, and in moments Takuya had a clear view of the village and the hills behind it.
As he sat down again the reality of being a fugitive sank in once more. His uncle had wanted nothing to do with him, and his friend Nemoto had been able to offer safe haven for barely a week. Nemoto had been as honest and genuine as during their army days together, but an unemployed man with a family couldn’t be expected to feed another mouth. The fact that he’d returned Takuya’s rice unopened was a measure of his sincerity.
The thought of having taken back the bag of rice unopened made Takuya feel ashamed. They might only have served him rice gruel, but the knowledge that he had eaten their food for almost ten days and then come away with his own rice still untouched made him cringe with embarrassment. As he gazed out over the sea, his conscience troubling him, he caught sight of something glistening on the surface of the water. Almost instantly he realised that it was a school of flying fish, just like the ones he’d seen so often in the Uwa Sea offshore from his home in Shikoku. The noise of the boat’s engine had probably sent the frightened fish jumping out of the water, skimming the surface before disappearing again with a tiny splash. Once the boat rounded the cape the shimmering fish were no longer in sight.
Takuya pondered his destination. He now felt sure that it would be dangerous to rely on any of his army friends, so obviously he should seek refuge with someone the police would never connect with him.
Recalling the names of those who had sent him New Year cards, he remembered Fujisaki Masahito, a friend living in Kobe. Fujisaki had been one year behind him at university, and the fact that his father was originally from Takuya’s village had provided the two young men with something in common. The younger man had been exempted from military service on account of a bad limp, the result of a broken leg suffered in a fall down some stairs in his childhood. The New Year’s message had said that their house had survived the bombing and that Fujisaki was helping to get the family business running again.
A police investigation would never trace him there, and as it was a big city he would have the advantage of being able to lose himself in the crowds. Takuya was inclined to pin his hopes of finding safe haven on Fujisaki, but having been turned away by his uncle and then having to leave Nemoto’s house made him cautious. Wherever he went, it would be a struggle for people to ensure their own survival, let alone take on an outsider. And needless to say, being a fugitive was not going to help.
Gripped with anxiety, Takuya gazed out over the water until the glare off the sea made him squint and look away.
As his New Year card had suggested, Fujisaki’s house was in a residential pocket of Kobe which had largely survived the ravages of the fire raids. Takuya had visited him twice during his university days, and the house looked just as it had then. He approached the house but went on past it, then stopped to lean on a lamp-post at the next street corner. After standing there nonchalantly for some time he turned back, but walked past once again without lifting a hand to open the latticed door.
He crossed the street and again paused under a lamp-post, this time turning casually to look towards the Fujisaki house. He could see strands of light leaking out from the edges of the blinds covering the windows. Because of his friendship with Fujisaki at university, Takuya felt sure that as long as he made the right approach and offered his bag of rice he could get them to put him up for at least a fortnight. But he wasn’t so confident of Fujisaki’s reaction if he told the full story about executing POWs and being on the run from the occupation authorities.
Memories of his time at Nemoto’s house flooded back. Even with such a sincere former subordinate he had managed to last only eight days. Takuya tried hard to prepare himself first for astonishment and then for consternation at his unexpected appearance, feeling a foreboding he hadn’t experienced when he’d left home for Osaka and then Shoodo-shima. At first the prospect of being tried by a victors’ kangaroo court had made him determined to elude detection at any cost, but now, after a mere ten days, he was starting to flinch at the thought of relying on others. He felt preyed on by a mental weakness which would have been unthinkable in his army days.
Fighting back the anxiety, Takuya remembered the pride he had felt in being a lieutenant in the Imperial Army, and shuddered to think of the pathetic figure he cut standing there under the lamp-post. He stepped off the footpath and walked a
cross the road to the house, stopping in front of the latticed door to the entrance before reaching to open it. Obviously it was locked from the inside, as it wouldn’t budge.
He knocked lightly on the door frame. There was no reaction from within the house. When he knocked once more, a little louder, a light was switched on inside the glass door of the entrance.
‘Who’s there?’ came a voice which Takuya recognised straight away as Fujisaki’s.
‘It’s Kiyohara. Remember me from university?’ said Takuya timidly.
He heard the scuffing of shoes over the concrete floor inside the entrance before the latticed door opened in front of him.
‘Kiyohara san!’ said Fujisaki, astonishment coming over his bespectacled face as he stood silhouetted by the electric light behind him. Takuya felt himself wavering as to what to do next. Obviously he would be invited inside, but he knew in his heart that he must explain himself before imposing any further.
‘Can we talk out here? I want to tell you something,’ said Takuya.
An incredulous look on his face, his friend stepped out beyond the latticed door and followed Takuya down the road. Takuya stopped and waited under the lamp-post for Fujisaki, who stared speechlessly at his unheralded guest. Takuya looked earnestly into Fujisaki’s eyes and explained that he had fled from his own home after being cited as a war criminal, and that he had gone to Shoodo-shima but had to leave for Kobe to escape the little fishing-village’s prying eyes.
‘Can you put me up for four or five days, just until I find somewhere to hide? I’ve got some rice so I can feed myself,’ said Takuya. But deep down he wanted to say a couple of weeks, or even a couple of months.
‘You executed Americans? They’ll hang you for that, won’t they?’ said Fujisaki with a hint of fear in his eyes.
One Man's Justice Page 11
