Twilight of Gutenberg

by Hitoshi Goto

  When I felt so inclined, I would sometimes drop by the music halls on rue de la Gaité. The Spanish style dance I saw from the upper gallery of Bobino is even now imprinted on the back of my eyelids. Of all the singers, Marie Dubas was to my taste. It was as though a woman from a Mucha poster had been imbued with life and was dancing before my eyes. She was some distance from me, but her heavy sensual musk perfume wafted up to my seat. She often fluttered her right hand as she sang. The movement of her long, slender fingers was voluptuous, but supremely graceful.

  The library and my apartment-cum-studio, private art classes, the familiar cafés of Montparnasse, the buzz and bustle of rue de la Gaité, conversations with hawkers whose carts were loaded with vegetables and fruit… this was my life in Paris.

  †

  Then it was 1939, the fateful year for Europe. The cogwheels of history kept turning, and I was inevitably caught up in it.

  My painting style had gradually been starting to take on a well-defined form. I placed importance on my formative experience in art while also giving free reign to inspiration, and was gaining some acclaim as a Western-style artist who made quite extensive use of ukiyo-e techniques. In Western art there was a sense of mastering nature, whereas I think for Japanese people there was a strong sense of treating nature with love and affection. This could be illustrated by the difference between objecting to the chorus of cicadas as being noisy, or capturing the spirit of it as revealing the essence of the season. I wanted to express this in my painting, too. I hadn’t intended to paint Western-style art imbued with a foreign sensibility, but my use of colour appeared to be rather unfamiliar in Europe. My paintings probably corresponded to the taste of Europe’s high society for the exotic. Small but well respected art dealers in Paris, Zurich and Munich began enthusiastically selling my works. My name became quite well known, at least amongst the wealthy classes of France and Germany, and I no longer needed an allowance from home. At last I felt I could stand on my own two feet. Now the red wine I loved to drink was from the well-known chateaux of Haut Medoc.

  Before dawn on 1 September 1939, Germany invaded Poland. World War II had begun.

  I heard about it on a newsflash on the radio. Germany insisted that it was a counter attack against invading Polish forces, but even an amateur like me knew that was a lie. It was clear they had been meticulously preparing for this day, otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to repel a supposed invasion by Poland so quickly. It was nothing other than an act of aggression on Germany’s part.

  I recalled Prime Ministers Daladier of France and Chamberlain of Britain going to meet Hitler in Munich the previous year. As a result of that meeting, Sudetenland had been ceded to Germany in exchange for a brief period of peace. At the time I had simply been pleased that war had been averted, but now I realised it had been a terrible mistake. This time Britain and France immediately declared war on Germany. However, I couldn’t understand why they didn’t immediately attack Germany from the west in order to ease the crisis in Poland. France was protected by fortifications along the Maginot Line, said to be impregnable, and probably didn’t have the guts to actually attack. Some Polish residents in Paris protested, but in the end the army didn’t make any move. When all was said and done, France probably felt that it wasn’t their concern. And so Poland was left to its fate.

  After war was declared, there were clear changes in our daily lives. Anxiety was written all over the faces of people on the streets of Paris. The city was the same, but its characteristic free and easy atmosphere was less evident, I felt. The French people clearly hadn’t wanted this war. And the fact that the gaity of the streets at night disappeared under the blackout made the war feel much closer. There weren’t any air raids, but we never knew when the German bombers might come. In Poland the Luftwaffe’s Stuka dive bombers were fitted with sirens that wailed as they attacked. Their flying range was apparently not very long so Paris was probably safe from them, but still it was unsettling.

  More and more Japanese residents were deciding to leave. I, too, considered going home, but after a while I decided to stay. Although France and Britain had declared war on Germany, there was no sign of conflict on the border between Germany and France. Autumn came and the horse chestnut leaves changed colour and fluttered down, and roasted chestnuts were sold on the streets, but still the Luftwaffe didn’t come. The whole of Paris, me included, was enveloped in a strange sense of relief.

  Christmas passed with no change on the western front. According to press reports, German propaganda loudspeakers were ceaselessly boosting morale against war-weariness from the other side of the border. It wasn’t a Blitzkrieg, but a so-called Sitzkrieg, or Phoney War. People began to throng the cafes in the Champs Élysées just as they had done in peacetime. It was as if Parisians had forgotten the war. I didn’t know why, but the war appeared to have receded. The impregnable Maginot Line must have been effective, I thought.

  Amidst this strange ongoing peace we entered 1940, the year commemorating the 2,600th anniversary of the founding of Japan, which was celebrated not only at home but among the Japanese community in Paris. On 11 February, Empire Day, a grand ceremony was held at the Japanese Embassy in Paris. An invitation arrived even to my lodgings in Montparnasse. Ambassador Sawada gathered many French people as well as Japanese residents, and entertained us lavishly with Japanese sake, champagne and wine, a luxury hardly credible for wartime.

  †

  However, the peace didn’t last for long. Germany made another move, this time on the western front. First they invaded Denmark and Norway. This time I realised the peace had been fake.

  The attacking Germany army crossed the Belgian and Dutch borders on 10 May 1940. After that things happened fast. The supposedly impregnable Maginot Line was quickly penetrated by a surprise attack through the Ardennes Forest from the direction of Luxemburg and Belgium. The newspapers had declared that the forest was impassable for German tanks, but the damage was done. The British and French forces were routed by the German’s famed Blitzkrieg tactic.

  The German Panzer divisions advanced towards the English Channel with astonishing speed. I was no military expert, but I could see that the direction of the German onslaught was completely different from the last war. The allied forces were trapped and gradually cornered into a corner of the continent at Dunkirk, and barely managed to escape to England.

  With no time to rest, the German forces advanced southwards from Belgium, and headed straight for Paris. It was by now clear that the French troops were helpless before their power. There was uproar on the streets as citizens began fleeing southwards.

  There was also a notice from the Japanese Association in Paris urging us immediately to return home due to the imminent German assault on Paris. Women and children were evacuated to the health resort of Biarritz near the Spanish border, probably due to its close proximity to the port towns of Marseilles and Bordeaux where ships from Japan could dock. It was rather ironic that in these tense times the designated refuge was a famous health resort.

  The time when Paris would be caught up in battle was approaching. Many of my fellow countrymen still left in the city decided to return to Japan. The great artist Foujita, too, left Paris together with his wife towards the end of May. I later found out they’d sailed on the Fushimi Maru. The next ship to dock, the Hakusan Maru in June, took my remaining fellow countrymen away, including Taro Okamoto and many other artists.

  All of a sudden the Japanese community had upped and left, but still I couldn’t bring myself to go.

  On 12 June, the proclamation of the French government declaring Paris to be an open city was posted all over the city. This meant that street fighting would probably be avoided, and I was greatly relieved at the thought that the Parisian streets would remain intact.

  On 14 June the German forces finally occupied the city. It was the first time I’d seen the German military since the Berlin Olympics four years
earlier—and now they were in Paris. Out of curiosity, I went to visit an acquaintance’s apartment on the Champs Élysées. Opening the shutters a crack, we had a clear view of the German forces passing before the Arc de Triomphe. Their smart helmets were far more eye-catching than those worn by the Imperial Japanese Army. Motorcycles with sidecars led the way, followed by open trucks carrying soldiers, tanks, armoured vehicles, and infantry and cavalry bringing up the rear.

  I wasn’t French, and couldn’t consider myself a true Parisian, but I had come to love the city during the years I’d been living here. The haughty Parisians hated to see it shackled and intruded on by outsiders, and their pride had been left in tatters. From this day swastikas hung all over the city, including on the Eiffel Tower.

  Surprisingly, the occupying soldiers bore no trace of battlefield mud or dust. Many were young, and they were clean-cut and well turned out. Visible beneath their helmets were their blue eyes and blond hair. To tell the truth, I thought they looked really smart. Their uniforms may not have been as fashionable as the French military’s, but they did really suit them.

  Prime Minister Reynaud ceded his position to the hero of Verdun, Pétain, and on 22 June a ceasefire was concluded at the Forest of Compiègne. Subsequently I often saw scenes with Hitler looking cocky and triumphant when I went to the cinema. Sixty percent of the land was now directly occupied by the German forces. The remaining forty percent was unoccupied, and as such was under the administrative authority of the French government, which had officially moved to Vichy. Paris, of course, was at the mercy of the German military.

  Day by day the number of soldiers on the streets of Paris increased. Important buildings and hotels were seized by the Germans. Even W.H. Smith’s on rue de Rivoli was appropriated for use by the German military and a large sign “Frontbuchhandlung” hung outside.

  It was during this time I saw Hitler in real life again. This time I didn’t just see him, I even spoke to him. That was on 23 June. I had awoken early, the clock by my pillow read six in the morning. It was a beautiful day. For the first time in ages I decided to go out sketching buildings, and headed for the Eiffel Tower. I had set up my canvas near the Palais de Chaillot with a view of the tower when three large Mercedes Benz drove up. As people watched dubiously, who should alight from one of the cars but Hitler! He was accompanied by a young, rather distinctive looking civilian with thick eyebrows.

  I sat holding my brush in blank amazement, as right in front of me Hitler took a commemorative photo with the Eiffel Tower in the background. And then, noticing me there with my canvas, he came over to me! I was not the only one to be startled. The aides and bodyguards with him were also taken aback. Hitler peered at my painting. His complexion was better than I thought. His trademark moustache looked ridiculous. He was surprisingly tall, and had a slight stoop. Still looking at my sketch, he asked, “Japaner?” I supposed he was asking if I was Japanese and nodded, and then he went away.

  It took a while for me to return to my senses.

  At first I didn’t know why Hitler had shown an interest in me, but then something occurred to me. Before he had become a politician, he’d set his heart on becoming an artist. In the end he hadn’t had the talent, but maybe he had a special appreciation for artists.

  In September 1940 the Tripartite Pact between Germany, Italy, and Japan was signed. I didn’t know whether it was auspicious or not for our country to form a military alliance with Germany, which was already at war, and Italy. One thing that was certain, though, was that my position in the war in Europe had been made clear.

  †

  1941 came. Japanese diplomats had moved to Vichy together with Marshal Pétain’s government, but I was summoned to the embassy in Paris by the staff left behind. A ship was being dispatched to evacuate all remaining Japanese people from Europe. I was informed that if I did not board this one, I was likely to be left with no way of returning to Japan.

  Even I began to seriously consider going home. I was reluctant to leave my friends in Montparnasse, but having been told it was my last chance I was feeling increasingly anxious. I started making preparations to leave, but then a telegram from Tokyo stopped me in my tracks. I was overjoyed to hear my sister, Setsuko, and her husband, Kenichi, had temporarily returned from the US to Japan, and were now headed for Europe.

  I had no means of knowing which ship they were arriving on, nor which day, but later Kenichi informed me it was the Asaka Maru.

  I also heard from Kenichi that the Asaka Maru was officially being dispatched to Europe to take Japanese people resident there home. However, in reality it was carrying a considerable number of naval officers charged with a major mission. It was a military secret so he wouldn’t divulge any more, but I wondered whether it wasn’t to spy on enemy movements during the voyage or acquire advanced technology or weaponry from the Germans.

  A few days after Empire Day, a telegram arrived at my apartment in Montparnasse. It was from my sister and brother-in-law, informing me they had arrived safely in Berlin.

  †

  Here I must confess something. I had turned my back on the war and continued painting, but I was also benefiting from the situation. As long as I was in occupied France I could move around fairly freely, although I couldn’t easily travel to other countries.

  However, as Germany conquered most of Europe and public order was restored, at least on the mainland, the fact that Japan was allied with Germany ironically made it easier for me to move around. That autumn, therefore, I decided to travel to Italy.

  On the train from Paris to Venice, some editors from the Garamond publishing house were in the same compartment. They introduced themselves as Casaubon, Belbo and Diotakkevi. They could speak French fluently, so we enjoyed a lively conversation about the Knights Templar while partaking of the wine they had brought with them.

  Venice and Rome were magnificent, and I thoroughly enjoyed the depth of Italian culture, which outshone France.

  I’d been shocked by the invasion of Poland and the opening of hostilities on the western front, and I was again dumbfounded at the news in June that Germany had broken the nonaggression pact and invaded the Soviet Union. While I followed the irrepressible advance of the German forces as they overwhelmed Minsk and Smolensk and approached Moscow, summer was over before I knew it. In the middle of August 1941, as Europe’s short summer was coming to an end, Kenichi suddenly came to visit. I was delighted to see him again after so long, but I knew he had come in his capacity as a naval officer to request something of me.

  His request turned out to be that I should make utmost use of my being an artist to visit several places under German occupation on behalf of the Japanese government as a secret agent to sound out what the local people were doing. Japan was an ally, so the German army had taken a Japanese officer stationed there to observe various places including battle sites. However, what they’d showed him had been limited to the military aspect. As a naval attaché, Kenichi wanted to conduct a comprehensive analysis of the German occupation policy, especially how they dealt with the civilians of the occupied countries. For that purpose I, as an artist, was more use to him than a military man.

  It was true that I was fairly well known as an artist of some standing, and being from a country allied with Germany, I should be able to travel with impunity around Europe.

  After giving it some careful consideration, I indicated my acceptance. Delighted, Kenichi left Paris for Vichy, where Ambassador Mitani and various naval officers were stationed.

  Magnificent performances of Liszt’s Les preludes, now used for Nazi propaganda, were staged at the cinema. Around the time the weekly news began routinely reporting with pride the steady advance of the German army, I took a complete set of art materials and travelled to Holland, Belgium, and until-recently French territories of Alsace and Lorraine. What I saw there was probably only to be expected. With the exception of the pro-German part of the po
pulation that welcomed the Nazis’ fantasy of a new order in Europe, many people wore expressionless masks before the German army, but their eyes were full despair and rage. I captured this as clearly as I could on paper and delivered the results to the Naval Attaché in Berlin. I don’t know if my efforts were of any use. I was, however, clearly powerless to stop our country from going to war with America.

  In November I went on another of these trips around occupied territories. While I was keeping an eye on newspaper reports on the progress of the German forces advancing on Moscow, there was another piece of even more shocking news.

  On 7 December 1941, Imperial Navy aeroplanes carried out a surprise attack on Pearl Harbour.

  †

  This was also major news in Paris.

  My country, Japan, declared war on America and Britain, and the other two members of the Tripartite alliance, Germany and Italy followed suit, so the war was steadily escalating worldwide. I was still in Paris, and now there was no way for me to return to Japan, even if I had wanted to.

  From what I read in the newspapers, the Japanese military was steadily expanding its scope of military engagement, while German forces were at a standstill on the Russian front. However, life in German-occupied Paris was peaceful. Whenever the soft sunlight temporarily penetrated the midwinter thick veil of cloud over the city, I would take my sketchbook, leave my Montparnasse apartment, and get out and about.

  Meanwhile the fall of Singapore was widely reported, followed by news of Japan’s air attack on Colombo, Ceylon, and the occupation of Tobruk by the Deutches Afrika Korps under the command of General Rommel. From what I read in the newspaper, both Japan and Germany were proceeding smoothly with their onslaught, and talk amongst Japanese expats of them advancing into India or Afghanistan from either side and shaking hands there in the near future began to sound more credible.