I pulled back and his eyes were wide, like a horse about to bolt. And finally I realized the thing I had missed from the day he came home. Somehow I had overlooked it completely. He was not bitter, he was not confused, he was not resentful. This man was terrified.
PERHAPS THE MOST ASTONISHING THING is that no recording survives. Ichiro Soga visited factories, schools, and city hall. There are photographs at each place: grainy 1962 newspaper quality. There are news reports, stories, and letters to the editor. Yet not one inch of motion pictures remains, nor one minute of audiotape.
Thus is the warrior’s voice lost for all time. Eyewitnesses, interviewed later, speculate that it would not have mattered. Soga did not speak to people directly during his visit. Whenever someone addressed him, his son Yoshi would translate into Japanese, Soga would lean close to whisper a reply, which Yoshi would then deliver in a strong, clear voice.
“Factory is most industrious.” Or “Coastal landscape is most beautiful.” Or even, “Hot dog is most delicious.”
This latter pearl of diplomacy occurred during the Azalea Parade, which, as the organizers had hoped, enjoyed record attendance that year. To appease critics of Soga’s invitation, festival boosters did not invite him to march in the parade, give a speech, or sit behind the red-white-and-blue bunting on the reviewing stand.
Instead Soga joined the local audience, standing among loggers, fishermen, and their families, and, while a reporter stood near, accepting one teenage boy’s offer of a classic boiled American hot dog, striped with yellow mustard.
Elaine Howell was crowned 1962 Azalea Queen. Her court included not only the runner-up princesses, but also five former queens. They rode in open convertibles.
One woman came forward to address Soga in Japanese. The Pilot reported that he listened closely to Lizzie Hinks of Mount Emily, who had learned some phrases during her college years in New York City. Soga bowed to her, but as ever, did not answer directly. Instead he whispered to Yoshi, who replied in English.
Later Soga toured a plywood plant. He attempted to play the bagpipes and laughed at his lack of musicality. He strolled the beach, still wearing black wingtips but exclaiming through his son at the beauty of the dramatic rock formations offshore. He spent an afternoon in Azalea Park, where he praised the abundant flowering rhododendrons. To the great amusement of a gathered crowd, he struggled to understand the purpose and operation of a parking meter.
On Sunday he and his wife attended Christian services. While Ayako knelt during prayers, head bowed, Soga stood at the back, tape recording the hymns.
If the critics of his visit confronted him at any time, there is no record. The Pilot makes no mention of any incidents. In one photograph of the parade, Donny Baker III lurks in the background. A blur of black and white, his arms-akimbo body language nonetheless conveys scorn and disapproval. Apparently he minded both his manners and the sheriff’s warning, and kept to himself.
There was one misunderstanding, however, in the parking lot after the religious services. Apparently Yoshi, translating for his father, described the house of worship using the word “shrine,” which prompted a passing member of the congregation to speak up.
“This is a church, not a shrine. If you want to see a shrine, go to the woods where your lousy bomb went off.”
The speaker of those words went unidentified, but their effect was immediate. Soga asked many questions about what the man meant. Jaycees and churchgoers attempted to change the subject, but Yoshi persisted on his father’s behalf. Yes, there was a monument where his last bomb fell. Yes, it was a memorial.
Within the hour, Soga and his family rode in a black Ford at the rear of a six-car motorcade, vehicles inching along a rutted road, their destination a small clearing at the edge of the woods. As people disembarked the mood was somber, lacking the bemused chitchat that had characterized the rest of Soga’s visit.
A trail led into the woods. There was some confusion about who should go first, what protocol to observe, until several Jaycees led the way. Soga insisted upon going last.
When they reached the monument, a pillar of mortared river rock with a bronze plaque on its face, Soga whispered to his son. Yoshi read the words aloud.
“In memory of Elise Mitchell, Age 26, Dick Patzke, Age 14, Jay Gifford, Age 13, Edward Engen, Age 13, Joan Patzke, Age 13, Sherman Shoemaker, Age 11, who died here May 5, 1945 by Japanese Bomb Explosion.”
And below that: “Only Place on American Continent Where Death Resulted from Enemy Action in WWII.”
Soga spoke to his son, who asked the assembly: “Who were these people?”
“A Bible study group,” one of the Jaycees said. “And the minister’s pregnant wife.”
Yoshi murmured to his father, who stiffened. After a moment he bowed at the waist till his head was even with his belt buckle. He remained in that position, facing the ground, for several full minutes. The Jaycees shifted from foot to foot, but no one spoke.
At last Soga straightened, his face flushed, and he directed a speech to the monument. He went on for several sentences, bursts of words between long pauses, after which he bowed as deeply again. Yoshi waited till his father had returned to an upright stance before speaking.
“My father says, ‘I had not known anyone died. I was ignorant of this fact. It was war. Terrible things happened on both sides. But this woman, these children, a religious group? It is a shame on my conscience. It is a stain on my honor.’ ”
By the time Yoshi finished translating, Soga had already marched back down the trail. When the group hiked to the trailhead, they found their guest inside the black car, all of its doors and windows closed.
THAT NIGHT, THE LAST OF SOGA’S VISIT, the chamber of commerce hosted a farewell dinner. This time he was the guest of honor, his place card at the head table with Jaycees president Mike Moran, the group’s public information officer Rev. Del Roth, and at the far end, the mayor of Brookings, C. F. Campbell.
Soga did not leave a written record of his thoughts during the U.S. trip. Nor had he confided to family members, at least as they recalled in later interviews. Therefore, there is no way of knowing what his plans were on that evening. Photographs from the event confirm, however, that he arrived at the reception carrying a suitcase, which he subsequently handed to his son.
Did the boy know he was playing the role of Okuda, wingman to his father? Did the former bomber pilot intend a dramatic, unexpected blow? The 1962 Jaycee equivalent of an attack at dawn? A sudden self-sacrifice in the name of ancient honor? History leaves only speculation.
During the cocktail hour, while the Americans downed drinks and enjoyed raucous laughter, Soga moved from person to person in the crowd, bowing wordlessly. His wife remained near, Yoshi hovering on the other side, but whenever people spoke to Soga, at all times he caused his son to reply. It seemed he would go the entire trip without addressing a single American directly.
There was a hubbub in one corner. Soga happened to be nearby, among local clergy. Someone was angry. A photo from the moment shows Soga turning in the direction of Donny Baker, whose nose is inches from that of a uniformed sheriff’s deputy, and whose finger is pointed at the Japanese visitor. Donny’s shout brought the rest of the room’s conversations to a halt:
“Are you saying this Nip bastard has more of a right to be here than I do?”
Soga crossed the distance between them so quickly, his son had to bump past two people to remain close. Bowing, Soga spoke and Yoshi translated. “Is this a local citizen I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting?”
Thus did they stand face-to-face. Donny reached for something inside his jacket, but then he scowled at the deputy and jammed his hands in his pants pockets. Scrutinizing the members of the Soga family from head to foot, he pointed with his chin. “What’s with the suitcase? Gonna fill it with silverware?”
Yoshi did not re
ply. Meanwhile the deputy made his decision. “You can stay, Donny, but you’d best behave yourself.”
“Or what?” he replied, though he was backing away. “Or you’ll do what?”
The mayor’s wife appeared, informing the Soga family it was time for everyone to take their seats. The murmur of conversation recommenced.
There were speeches and jokes, an exchange of gifts. Yoshi stood at the podium and read into the microphone from notecards filled with Japanese characters. He said he spoke for his whole family, then thanked the community for its welcome and generosity. In the middle of his remarks, Soga rose from his chair.
Yoshi turned to his father, the speech trailing off. Fortuitously, a reporter for the Pilot sat just below the head table, a photographer stood near, and thus was the sequence of events memorialized.
Photos show the pilot not bowing in the least, as he had during the entirety of his trip, innumerable times daily. To the contrary, he stood ramrod straight. He spoke to his son, quietly as ever, and Yoshi translated for all.
“On this day my foremost wish is to express gratitude. You good people of America have been most generous. Let us agree that we have made progress toward peace. This is our task on earth, and to teach these things to our children.”
The crowd applauded politely. Yoshi straightened, at attention for his father.
“That is not all.” Soga maintained his rigid posture. “I visited the shrine today. I learned the human consequences of my mission. Children, and a pregnant woman, died in a circumstance of worship. Thus do I also feel sadness and shame.”
The room had gone utterly silent. Donny Baker leaned against the back wall, scowling, shaking his head at every word.
“War does ugly things,” Soga continued, through Yoshi. “Its necessities turn good people into ugly creatures. In all nations this is true. All creeds, all races. Once fighting ends, both victor and defeated must choose: to deny what took place and resume life as before, or to acknowledge the moral consequence of what war required them to do. I belong to the second group.”
Moving a water glass aside, Soga placed the suitcase on the tablecloth. He pushed the brass clips, popping the spring latches open. He turned, facing not the assemblage, but his son—who continued to translate but in a wavering voice.
“In our culture, if we behave with honor, we bestow honor on our name, and family, and nation. If we cause dishonor, we must take responsibility, on behalf of our ancestors and for the sake of our children, to restore that pride and legacy. This I intend to do. Here. Now.”
He raised the top of the suitcase and brought out a bundle of cloth. Unwrapping the colorful silk, with a flourish he revealed the sword. People made noises of surprise. He lifted it above his head, displaying it to one side of the room, then the other: The handle had been restored, newly wound with fine thin rope that ended in decorative tassels. The scabbard had been polished until it shone.
Soga continued speaking to, and through, his son. “I am a direct descendant of samurai, most honored of Japanese peoples. This weapon has been in my family for nineteen generations. Four hundred years, more than twice as old as your good country. Today it has one more use to serve.”
Yoshi leaned toward his father with his mouth open. But the pilot silenced him with a raised hand and continued speaking. His son translated in stutters.
“This sword has shed blood many times. It could do so again tonight, and thereby return honor to the Soga name.”
He drew the blade, long and bright and slightly curved. Someone gasped. Soga held the sword in front of his face, tip pointed at the ceiling.
“But as I said, we must learn from wars. We must make our choice, to deny or to acknowledge. So it is that today my honored lineage will serve another purpose. Would the honorable Mayor Campbell please come forward?”
The mayor hoisted himself from his seat and worked his way behind the chairs. Soga’s posture was so straight, a photo from that moment makes him appear to be bending backward. The mayor seems to not want to stand too close.
Soga sheathed the blade and held the weapon out horizontally. “May this sword become a lasting sign of peace between people and nations.”
The mayor looked around, then back at Soga. “I don’t understand.”
Yoshi’s face was pinched with emotion. He leaned forward to explain. “It is a gift. This treasure of our family. He is giving it to you.”
The mayor rubbed a finger under his nose, glancing around.
“Thank him,” his wife called from down the table.
A nervous titter passed through the crowd. At last Mayor Campbell accepted the sword from Soga’s hands. He gripped it in one fist, turning to the microphone. “On behalf of the good people of Brookings, and Oregon, and the United States of America, I thank you for this unforgettable gift.”
The people begin to clap. Mayor Campbell held the sword high, and the crowd rose to its feet. Soga stood erect amid the applause. He glanced at his wife, who was weeping. He touched his son on the elbow, and the boy bowed.
Donny Baker rolled his eyes. “Give me a goddam break.”
Once the noise began dying down, Soga ushered his son aside. At last he stood at the podium himself. He cast his gaze over all of them, waiting until the room was quiet. Their faces were raised toward him. He bowed once more, as formally as ever. Then, lifting himself on tiptoe to bring his mouth to the microphone, he uttered a single word:
Shouri.
CHAPTER 13
“SO WAIT.” I closed the black binder on my finger. “You set that up, right?”
“In what regard, Nurse Birch?” Barclay Reed folded his hands in his lap. “What are you implying?”
I sat in the kitchen chair I’d moved to his room for reading. “When you used the word shouri earlier, repeating it. You were preparing me.” I laughed. “No way is this historical.”
“You’ve made your decision then? This book is a falsehood?”
“How can it possibly be true? You describe events that happened right down the coast from here, but I’ve never heard about them. You have the only mainland deaths in all of World War II, but somehow everyone forgot about it? And then this guy just gives away a sword that had been in his family for four hundred years? As a symbol of peace?” I set the binder on his bedside table. “Right.”
“The decision to surrender one’s weapon hardly originated with Ichiro Soga.” He sighed expansively. “There is a long and venerable tradition.”
That tone was familiar, how he stretched the word “long” as if it had three syllables. The Professor was hinting that he would gladly deliver a lecture on the topic. Those little talks lifted his spirits immeasurably, so I encouraged them whenever I could. “Teach me about it, please.”
“Cincinnatus, for example. George Washington.”
“I’ve heard of one of them, anyway.”
He raised an eyebrow at me. “Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus—after whom, inexplicably, the city in Ohio is named—was a Roman aristocrat of the fifth century B.C. When the Sabines and Aequi battled Rome and had captured the consul, the Senate declared Cincinnatus dictator. This decision granted him enormous military and political power, plus societal authority akin to that of a deity. He appointed a second in command, they mustered two armies, and in an attack on dual fronts that military strategists study to this day, they defeated the invaders and captured their leader.”
“Hooray for the home team.”
“Whereupon,” the Professor harrumphed. “Whereupon Cincinnatus abdicated, rejecting all power and glory, and rowed back across the Tiber River to his farm. Nineteen years later, when a senior official attempted a revolt, Cincinnatus came out of retirement to defeat the traitor, again promptly surrendering power afterward. You have not heard of him? More’s the pity, since it confirms that our culture has the attention span of a flea. But I’ll hav
e you know, the Romans considered Cincinnatus a model of civic virtue for fully five hundred years.”
It was all I could do not to sit back and put my feet up. Nothing pleased this man more than displaying his learning. “You said something about George Washington too.”
“Please tell me you know about his return to peacetime life.”
I shrugged. “Not much.”
“What manner of education do the schools provide these days? Establishing the first modern military that is constitutionally subject to elected civilian control represents unprecedented—”
“What about Washington?”
He frowned. “My digressions have been known on rare occasions to have instructive value, Nurse Birch.”
“I’m sure they do. But I also know your supper is almost ready, and I want to hear about Washington.”
“Supper.” Barclay Reed shook his head. “It is a fetish with you. Must a meal forever be thusly worshipped?”
It was no idle question. In the past few days the Professor had entered the wasting phase, his appetite waning just as cancer began consuming him more aggressively. Already under the blanket his hip bones were plainly visible, and his legs looked as thin as crutches. His face was drawn, sagging under the cheekbones as though some of his skin had melted.
Yet he’d skipped breakfast and barely picked at lunch. Now I had a tarragon chicken and pasta casserole baking in the oven. When I’d made it before, he’d gobbled two strapping helpings.
But dinner had a larger purpose than appealing to a patient’s taste buds. The more the Professor received sufficient calories, the longer he would live. In the wasting phase, the math was simple: Food equaled time. “Every ounce of nutrition we can pack into you today—”
“How appetizingly you put it.”
“—is that much more strength and stamina tomorrow.”
He tugged that tuft of hair again. It was becoming like a tic with him, his thumb and forefinger pulling on the widow’s peak. “Boring,” he sang.
The Hummingbird Page 18
