A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  When the program at Yale ended, I had a week before I had to be in Ann Arbor for my first classes there. I went to New York and saw all the sights and then went to Washington, where I stayed with Major Schneider, who insisted that I call her Shirley. I tried, with mixed success. She took time off from work. The first day we went sightseeing. The second day we stayed home and watched the signing of the U.S.-Japan formal peace treaty on television. Here I am, I thought, sitting in the capital of the country where I was born, my Mother Country—the country I considered my enemy for many years, the country I fought against—and I’m alive, well, safe, and prospering. As I watched Prime Minister Yoshida sign the treaty in San Francisco, I thought about all those who were gone—Kobayashi and Hayashi among the hundreds of thousands—and was grateful that I was not among them. Grateful for my new life.

  When I arrived in Ann Arbor, my first order of business was to introduce myself to Dr. Fries, who kindly agreed to be my advisor. I followed his suggestion and enrolled as a regular student so I could earn academic credit. I loaded up about twice the number of courses most students took and buckled down to study. At the end of the year, I was grateful that I had been earning credits. Dr. Fries suggested that I stay for another year and finally get a bachelor’s degree, but there were complications. The scholarship couldn’t be extended for another year, even though the GARIOA program would pay for my return passage to Japan if I managed to find a way to finance another year. Again, I was lucky. Dr. Robert Brown, a full professor who had sought me out earlier in the year for assistance with Japanese-to-English translations, had just received a grant and employed me as his research assistant. In addition to taking summer classes, I picked tomatoes and other crops on the farms outside the town. I was very proud when I received my B.A. in June 1953 and immediately set out for Japan. I wondered what awaited me at the Prefectural Board of Education and at home.

  The trip was quite comfortable—on a commercial liner. When we docked at Yokohama, I smelled Japan again—a mixture of takuan pickles and soy sauce—and realized that I had gotten used to the Campbell’s soup smell that surrounded me and reminded me of my childhood when I had arrived back in San Francisco after my years away.

  I sent a telegram from Tokyo, and Father was at the pier in Matsuyama. I got off the ferry, intoxicated, all over again, with the beauty of the Seto Inland Sea. “It’s wonderful to have you home,” he said. “We have sea bream for dinner. We’re celebrating.” He arranged for my trunk to be delivered and suggested that we walk home. “It’ll give you a chance to stretch your legs, and it’ll give me a chance to hear everything. Start with San Francisco. When we get home, there won’t be time for all the details I want to hear.”

  Dinner was delicious but conversation was strained. My feelings for Kayoko had not changed for the better; in fact they were slightly worse. Mother had no interest in stories from the States and only wanted to know about my plans for my future in Matsuyama. She mentioned grandchildren several times during dinner. I tried not to think about the child my wife had wanted to dispose of.

  The next morning, I went to the office and thanked my colleagues for tolerating my two-year absence. I learned that the in-service program had grown so large that a summer session had been added. I had a month to get everything ready. I was happy to jump into work, to do my part to support my colleagues who had filled in for me, and to have an alternative to the chilly atmosphere at home.

  The in-service session was a great success. We took over an old country retreat in a mountain town called Kuma, and two hundred students and twenty teachers had a wonderful summer adventure. The program continued for years, with the spring session in Matsuyama and the summer session in the mountains at Kuma. The programs were always exhilarating for everyone involved. The group photos show smiling teachers—and teachers of teachers. Everyone came away with a great sense of accomplishment.

  In 1955, I was invited to join the faculty of Ehime University. I was happy to do so and became an assistant professor in the English Department of the College of Education. About a month after I started and was still settling in, Dr. Robert Brown, the professor I had assisted at the University of Michigan, called from Tokyo. He had just arrived there to head the Asia Foundation and invited me to come to work for him. When I explained that I had just started a new job and couldn’t leave Matsuyama, his response was “Okay, if you can’t come to us, we’ll come to you,” and went on to say that the Foundation was willing to fund any project I considered beneficial for education in Japan. I did go to Tokyo to discuss this with him and his staff. Starting from that summer, the physical conditions of the in-service program improved immensely thanks to Foundation funding. We all still slept on tatami mats on the floor, but the food improved, we were able to paint and patch the old buildings in Kuma, and we could afford heating for the spring program.

  I also undertook regular missions on behalf of the Foundation to schools all around Japan, to give advice on curriculum innovations and suggestions on how to operate an effective in-service teacher training program. In the spring of 1957, one of those trips took me to the University of the Ryukyus in Okinawa, where I helped the school set up its first language laboratory. The University had an advisory committee of educators from Ohio State University and from secondary schools around the state. They were interested in my work and stopped in Matsuyama on their way back to Tokyo on their trip home that summer. They observed both the Kuma in-service session and the special English Language Training Center I had established at the University. The Center was, I believed, the logical next step after the in-service spring and summer sessions. It allowed junior and senior high school English teachers who were able to get a three-month leave of absence to focus exclusively on new pedagogical methods and on sharpening their own language skills.

  My professional life was full of challenges and successes. But my life with Kayoko was no better. I can’t live my entire life like this, I told myself. After the New Year holiday in 1960, I finally suggested divorce.

  Kayoko was horrified. “No, never,” was her one and only response. Mother agreed with her, and Father too, by his silence. When I insisted, a huge family council took place. All the aunts and uncles got together to discuss the situation. The result: no divorce.

  I rented a small apartment. I lived alone and found that the life of a rebel was quite lonely. The only visitors to my apartment were my private students. Some of my colleagues at the university were understanding, and a few of them even went in a delegation to Kayoko to try to persuade her to agree to a divorce. They were unsuccessful. All they would tell me was that they had spoken with Mother as well as with Kayoko.

  By the end of the year, despite my loneliness, my resolve had grown. Kayoko couldn’t be the center of the rest of my life. Mother made it clear, via messages delivered by Father, that my presence was expected for the New Year holiday. The week before Christmas, I ran into Yamamura-sensei on Okaido. We stood and chatted for quite a while, and by the end of our conversation I had agreed to attend the Christmas Eve service at Reverend Graham’s old church, where Sensei’s wife was a congregant.

  It was dark and raining that evening, and I was almost late. I slipped into the last pew as the service began. The church was full and smelled of wet wool. The others passed a hymnal down the row and smiled as they shifted to make room. I enjoyed singing some of the hymns I remembered from Sundays in the Grahams’ parlor and found the familiar gospel story about the birth in the manger touching. The high point, however, was during the communion, when I sat in the pew and listened to Yamamura-sensei’s flute solo. I knew he believed no more than I did, but was convinced that he too found the experience peaceful, satisfying, and quite comforting. As I listened, I realized, once again, what a talented musician he was, and thought about how lucky I was to have him in my life.

  When the service finished, Sensei appeared at my elbow and said, “My wife sent me to make sure you join the reception in the church hall.”

 
We climbed up the steps to a wide room with a skylight. The ladies of the congregation had arranged tables around the edges of the room. Warm punch and sweet treats awaited us. It was very western-style and reminded me of post-lecture wine and cheese parties in Ann Arbor. Yamamura-sensei and I were met by an officious elderly gentleman, Morishita-san, who was clearly a pillar of the church community; he congratulated Sensei on his performance and made a vague, incomprehensible comment about looking for the Christmas star through the skylight. As he moved away, Mrs. Yamamura appeared at the top of the steps and walked toward us. “My dear, you were wonderful,” she said to her husband. “And I’m so happy you persuaded Imagawa-sensei to join us. Thank you.” Her broad smile was a Christmas present for both of us.

  Sensei announced that he would get us all drinks, and Mrs. Yamamura smiled her thanks, turning all attention to me as her husband started off across the room.

  “Isamu, I’m glad we have a minute to ourselves,” she said. “And I’m going to be direct, because I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say. I see that you met Morishita-san. His wife, who grew up next door to the Shizuyamas, told me that she ran into Michiko in Osaka last month. Since none of us had heard anything since the end of the war, and because I know how close the two of you once were, I thought you’d want to know. She had a little boy about five with her. She told Mrs. Morishita that she met her husband in the country when she was evacuated from Kure before the end of the war.”

  The rain had stopped. I walked home through the quiet misty streets, the cloying taste of the punch still in my mouth, thinking about Michiko. I wished her every happiness, but couldn’t help wondering how many others in Matsuyama knew. Sometimes I felt that my hometown was one giant conspiracy to keep me tied to the unhappiness of my personal situation. Perhaps even Mother had heard the news about Michiko. But, of course, she’d never breathe a word to me.

  By the time I reached my apartment, I decided that it would be best to stop fretting about what Matsuyama thought about me. I knew I should be very grateful for the genuinely kind affection of the Yamamuras. I unlocked the door, slipped off my shoes, got out the whiskey bottle, and poured myself a drink before I even turned on the heater. I’d manage the holidays, I promised myself as I took the first sip.

  The New Year brought a wonderful and welcome surprise. In February, I was invited to Ohio to establish an intensive English program at the university to train foreign students and prepare them for the rigors of English language instruction in the regular undergraduate and graduate programs. I decided to accept the offer and spent much of my time thinking about how I would be in the Midwest by the end of the year.

  And I thought a lot about Akiko Sato. She was the new secretary in the English Language Training Center. She had arrived the year before. After she was there about a week, she came into my office to ask me a question about her work. It was the first time we had spoken in private; it was immediately and overwhelmingly thrilling for me. As she said, “Sensei, I wanted to check with you about paying these invoices,” I was seized with the sudden and absolute knowledge that she could change my life. I know she felt something too, because she never again came into my office alone.

  Akiko’s job with the English Department was her first after she finished her own degree in English literature. She had come to Matsuyama to attend the university. Although she had a large family in her home town of Ukawa in the mountains of Ehime, she was alone in the city. Each day that followed I grew more and more aware of her. She was pretty, cheerful, and full of bright, open interest in language, literature, and teaching. When we returned to school after the holiday, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge that I was smitten. I determined to take action.

  I realized that seeing her face when I came through the door was absolutely the best thing in my day. It was hard for me to concentrate in the office. My colleagues noticed too. “Sam,” said Mori-sensei, a perceptive young teacher who had come to Matsuyama after studying in the States for three years, “you’d be a lucky guy to get a girl like her, but.…” He was, of course, referring to the Kayoko situation. I held my tongue until the summer, and just before I told everyone that I was going to take the position in Ohio the next year and asked for a leave of absence, I spoke to Akiko late on a Friday afternoon when the rest of the staff had left.

  When I finished speaking, I felt that I had handed her my heart. I was convinced she thought the same thing; she reached out toward me, cupping her hands, holding me in her gaze. Tears filled her eyes but she kept her focus on me and leaned forward as they began to spill. “Oh, Sensei, oh, Isamu,” she finally said. “What are we to do? How can I answer?”

  I wanted to take her in my arms, but with her words, she looked away, folded her hands in her lap, looked down at them, and said the words that thrilled and crushed me at the same time, “You are so precious to me. But, but…I have to think. I have to think what to do.” She shook her head and never lifted her gaze. I sat in agony. Here was a woman I loved, a woman I wanted to spend my life with. There was nothing I could offer her. She was right. She had to think what to do. She got up quietly and left. I spent the weekend alone with my books and my work, replaying our conversation over and over in my head. As I recalled her tears, the strength of the connection between us, and her look of absolute resignation as she turned away, I pictured Father turning away from me outside the gate to Mie and starting back to the train station.

  So I wasn’t really surprised when Akiko was not at her desk on Monday morning. After everyone was settled, the chief administrative assistant came to see me with a letter in his hand. “Sensei,” he said, “Akiko has resigned, and she’s left already. Her letter says that her sister, who teaches school in Tokyo, has had an accident and broken her leg. Akiko has gone to help her. I doubt that she’ll be back before the end of the year. I’m very sorry to lose her. She was a good worker, a good colleague, and a wonderfully cheerful person to have here everyday.” His words were kind; he knew exactly how I felt. I was grateful for his discretion.

  “Yes, we will all miss her,” I said, and turned to my work.

  The year in Ohio flew by. Establishing a program at a major U.S. university presented a challenge I was eager to test myself against. Working with students from all over the world was a new experience, one that yielded its own difficulties and its own rewards. I learned how to manage a classroom with Scandinavians, Latin Americans, and Arabs, as well as with Asians. My colleagues were kind, but loneliness was a constant companion. I wrote to Akiko every week. After I arrived in Ohio, Mori-san had kindly sent me her address in Tokyo. I suspect that he had it sooner but waited until I had left Japan because he knew she didn’t want to see me. I poured my heart out and told her about every new experience, every challenge, every triumph, and every failure. I also wrote about my childhood memories of San Francisco, and what I now thought about my early experiences in both of my countries. In these letters, I did the most thorough job I could of trying to figure out how I ended up eager to give my life for the cruel, false phantom of patriotism and loyalty the war had led us into. I wrote about my new experiences and my ideas for language training and promoting cross-cultural understanding. And how astonishing it was that I was alive to write about such things and how lucky I was to have work that made use of all my experiences.

  It didn’t matter that she didn’t answer. In the spring, when the end of my time in Ohio was in sight, I wrote about the cherry trees blooming on campus and how they reminded me of the evening in Tokyo we suited up for attack. I told her how I had left my papers to be burned, what I was allowing myself to think then, and what I thought about all of it with more than a decade’s distance and perspective. Two weeks later a postcard arrived with a picture of the cherry blossoms at Yasukuni Shrine in their full glory. The only message was Basho’s: Samazama no / koto omoidasu / sakura kana. I stood on my doorstep holding the postcard. Why did I have to meet this woman, this woman who strikes the perfect right note in everything sh
e does with me, even when she withholds herself from me because I’m not free to be with her?

  In my last month, three letters from Mother and one from Father arrived. Mother wrote about how everyone missed me, especially Kayoko, and how important it was to the family to have me back home in Matsuyama. Kayoko, she wrote, was willing to try again. When Father’s letter arrived—supporting Mother of course—it was clear that I had no choice. I wrote back to Father, told him I agreed, and sent details on my itinerary.

  He met me again at Matsuyama Port on a bright June day. Sunlight spilled from a blue sky and danced on the water as the ferry pulled into the dock. I told myself that I was happy to be home, and that sunshine and the beautiful day were part of a new beginning. Seeing Father’s dear face was a joy, but realizing that both he and Mother had aged visibly diminished my happiness and made me all that much more resolute to try to make everything work.

  I threw myself into my work at Ehime University, but found everything just a bit too small. Mori-san, who had filled in while I was away, had done a great job. At home, things were strained, and, to me, unreal at first. They improved to polite and perfunctory. Kayoko and Mother had no interest in hearing anything about Ohio. For the first few weeks, Father talked about San Francisco, where I had stopped on my way home, and made me talk about the flight, since this was the first time I had traveled across the Pacific by air, peppering me with questions and asking my opinions as a pilot. But after a few dinners where Mother’s only contribution had been, “Oh, is that so?” and Kayoko’s had been complete silence, Father dropped it.