by James Webb
“Marquis Kido is now in jail.”
“Yes,” she said, staring acutely into my face, as if for clues. “He is no longer the lord privy seal. We were told this.”
“And I must leave Japan in two days.”
“For good?”
“Yes.”
Her face fell. She ran a hand along her chin and then behind her head, grasping her long hair. “May I tell you that I will miss you—very much, Jay-san?”
“I will miss you, too.” I felt disloyal to Divina Clara saying it, but it was the truth. She looked quickly at my face as if there might be more to what I was saying, but my eyes told her that there was not. “The lord privy seal—I’m sorry—the Marquis Kido—is worried that you might—have some problems since he is in jail and I will be gone.”
“I will not have many problems,” she said carefully. Her voice had become silky and flat. “And when he returns, I will be fine.”
“He is worried that there might be some retaliation against you, since I am an American. Since we were lovers.”
She smiled slowly, her eyes filled with an accepting sadness, and I knew that Yoshiko had indeed been on a kamikaze mission. “Japanese men do not like that.”
“He said that I might be able to help you.”
“Yes,” she answered. “You might help me.”
I took out my wallet, opening it. “Yoshiko, I don’t have much money, but—”
“No!” Her hand insistently closed the wallet and held it firmly. “You must never give me money.”
I quickly understood that I had threatened to shame her. “I’m sorry, Yoshiko.” I put the wallet away. “How can I help you?”
She stared at me for what seemed to be a long while, her very silence taking on an unusual power. And then she decided. “Please lay back on the bed, Jay-san.”
Hesitantly, I stretched out on the bed, resting my head on a pillow.
“Now, you must hold me.” She climbed into my arms, resting her head on my shoulder. I could feel her relax. Her eyes closed. She began running a hand over my stomach and chest. “When I am very old I will look back and remember you like this.”
We lay still on the bed for a long time. Finally she spoke again. “If you wish to help me, then you must make sure my superiors understand that I did not make you happy.”
She felt warm and comfortable alongside me. I could not deny my feelings for her, and I felt badly for the turmoil I had brought into her life. “But you did make me happy, Yoshiko.”
“No,” she said, now looking cleverly up into my face. Her lips were smiling but her eyes were pleading. “I have brought great shame upon myself, Jay-san. I did not carry out the lord privy seal’s wishes that I bring you comfort and recreation.”
And then I understood.
The next afternoon I visited the restaurant where I had first met Yoshiko, seeking out the older geisha who had then greeted me at the door. The restaurant had not yet opened for dinner, but she bowed deeply to me as I entered, recognizing me immediately.
“You are here to visit Yoshiko?” she asked knowingly.
“No, elder sister,” I said. “I wish to speak to you in Yoshiko’s presence.”
She watched me for a moment, confused and mildly frightened. Then she gestured with a hand toward the kitchen area. “You will please follow me, sir?”
Yoshiko sat with five other geisha in a small side room near the kitchen. The girls stood when I entered, then bowed. A few of them were smiling expectantly at Yoshiko, who was feigning a deep surprise at my unannounced arrival.
I wasted no time. “Elder sister, tomorrow I will be leaving for the Philippines. I wish to thank you for the kindness and the courtesies you and your staff have given me over the past few months. But I must also be honest with you about my deep disappointment. I did not bring up this matter before, because I believed it might cause the lord privy seal to lose face. After all, it was he who selected Yoshiko to be my—escort, and cultural adviser.”
The older woman was now looking harshly at Yoshiko, knowing that I had in some way been displeased. And in the other girls’ faces I could see surprise and even fear. But Yoshiko was now staring hotly back at me, as if with open dislike.
“I must tell you first,” I continued, “that I found Yoshiko to be highly intelligent, and an expert in explaining all manner of Japanese customs and traditions. And also, I cannot deny that I found her to be beautiful. With the right man, she will no doubt be a wonderful mistress, or even a wife.”
They all were now looking at me with complete confusion. I forced a frown, stiffening as I stared at her, and putting my hands onto my hips. “But despite the lord privy seal’s personal encouragement to me, I found that Yoshiko had no interest in making love to me. And in fact, I believe she dislikes Americans.”
“No!” said the elder sister, having softened her visage but still seeming to be upset. “I am very sorry for whatever displeased you, Captain Jay Marsh. And I must tell you I am surprised by this report, since both Yoshiko and the lord privy seal had informed me that you were happy. But I can promise you that whatever the problem might have been, all of us like Americans very, very much!”
“Then perhaps she simply disliked me,” I said with finality. “Because—and I say this even though I know I am losing face—I tried many times to make love to Yoshiko. And she wanted nothing to do with me!”
The other girls were now laughing, their hands covering their mouths as if to hide their delight. Yoshiko continued to stare silently at me, her chin held high in mock defiance. The older geisha was frowning at Yoshiko, but her eyes were merry, and I could see relief in her face as well.
“Captain Marsh,” said the elder sister, “I promise you we will work very hard with Yoshiko to improve her attitude.”
All of them knew by now that I was pretending, but by the time I left the restaurant, Yoshiko’s esteem had soared in their eyes. How deeply she must have pleased me, and how much I truly must have cared for her, that I would take such pains before I departed to visit her fellow workers and reconstruct her purity! My strutting, blatant lie had lifted away any shame that might have someday been visited upon the gentle and loving geisha.
Yes, I had taken care of Yoshiko. But driving back toward my ryokan, the inconsistency of how I had done this left me troubled. For some reason I kept thinking of Father Garvey’s final admonition as I returned to my room and packed for my return to Manila. You cannot have love without honesty, Jay.
And I knew that it would be much more difficult for me to resolve this matter with Divina Clara.
CHAPTER 26
Two days later I was back in Manila, on my final military assignment. MacArthur, ever brilliant and sometimes cruel, had dangled the ugliest and yet most tantalizing of carrots before me. The very thing that I had told him should not happen would be the ticket to my freedom. Once General Tomoyuki Yamashita was dead, Jay Marsh could begin again to live, and yes, to prosper in a manner he had never before dreamed. MacArthur had handcuffed me to the proceedings, causing me to wish that they would simply end so that I could get on with my civilian life. Yes, this was MacArthur at his imperial best, making me wait impatiently for the very act I condemned in order to be personally set free.
And how quickly those next few weeks went by!
The supposed purpose of my presence was to report in detail each night to Tokyo, offering a summary of Yamashita’s trial. And so I spent my days in the crowded, oven-hot ballroom as the trial pressed relentlessly forward. The prosecution was winding up its case when I rejoined it. Victim upon victim was bearing scars and telling tales of Japanese atrocities, until the very word “atrocity” became mind-numbing, redundant, devoid of meaning or emotion.
Once the last mutilated child had exposed her wounds, once the last old man had told of the murder of his family, Frank Witherspoon began his defense. He started with General Muto, Yamashita’s chief of staff, who laid out in great detail the insurmountable problems of divided command,
poor communications, and lack of supplies that Yamashita had faced as the field commander in the Philippines. He introduced voluminous American army intelligence and operational reports that verified Muto’s testimony. He flew in seven character witnesses from Japan who described Yamashita’s great popularity among Japanese commoners and the frequent disagreements between the general and the imperial government over whether to fight the war at all and how to fight it once it had begun.
And finally Yamashita himself took the stand, speaking patiently and persuasively without notes for three full days, including an eleven-hour period of cross-examination. Through this whole interrogation the general sat at a stiff attention under the relentless lights in the witness chair. Sweat continually dripped down his face and neck, drenching his khaki uniform. Now and then he would reach over to a small table and take a long drink of water. Other than that, he remained acutely focused on his questioners, just as he had remained focused on the testimony of each witness during the prosecution’s case. Behind him the prosecution had placed a large map of the Philippines. The map was covered with more than a hundred red disks. Each disk represented the location of a major atrocity.
His testimony remained simple and consistent. He had inherited this army, arriving in the Philippines only days before the Americans landed at Leyte. He was directing a complex mobile defense against insuperable odds. He had given repeated, explicit written instructions regarding the conduct of war and the treatment of civilians. Once the Americans landed in Luzon, neither he nor his top officers had the ability to make inspection trips to remote Japanese units. He had never been told of atrocities occurring, and he vigorously condemned the atrocities that had indeed taken place.
In the eleven hours of cross-examination the chief prosecutor, Major Robert Kerr, who in civilian life was an experienced trial lawyer, had been unable to break down any element of the general’s testimony or to find any inconsistencies or falsehoods. Finally in frustration he pointed to the map.
“Do you deny to this commission that you knew of, or ever heard of, any of these killings?”
Yamashita continued to stare at the prosecutor without emotion. He spoke emphatically. “I never heard of nor did I know of these events.”
“I find that impossible to believe.” Major Kerr paused dramatically, then pointed a finger at Yamashita and shouted into his face. “This is your opportunity to explain to this commission, if you care to do so, how you could have failed to know of these killings!”
He failed to know of the killings. This, in one sentence, was the entire case against General Tomoyuki Yamashita. Either he knew, in which case he was directly culpable. Or he did not know, making him criminally negligent and thus responsible for the climate that permitted the killings.
Speaking slowly through a simultaneous interpreter, for forty-two minutes General Yamashita explained in detail why he had not known. Witherspoon had already outlined the reasons, but Yamashita stated them once again, all the military considerations and human difficulties of his isolated, heavily pressured journey into the mountains near Baguio that were in one respect a complete validation of the American and Filipino forces who had done their duty so well and fought so hard to pressure and destroy the Japanese army. Finally the Tiger took a deep breath. For the first time he spoke with emotion.
“I believe under the circumstances that I did the best job that could be done. If I could have foreseen these things I would have concentrated my efforts to prevent them. If the situation permits, I will punish the people who did them to the fullest extent of military law. I absolutely did not order these things. Nor did I receive the order to do them from any superior authority. Nor did I ever permit such a thing, or if I had known would I have condoned such a thing. I will swear to heaven and earth concerning these points. That is all I have to say.”
The cameras clicked and rolled. The klieg lights finally went out. Those in the audience murmured and stood from their chairs, exhausted and relieved. Yamashita was escorted out of the room by his entourage of military police. The “trial” was finally over. All that was left would be the reading of the verdict at two o’clock the following afternoon.
It was December 6. MacArthur, with his penchant for anniversaries, had arranged for the verdict to be read to the world during a live, fifteen-minute radio address on Pearl Harbor Day. That night the twelve American, British, and Australian journalists who had covered every moment of the trial were polled by the International News Service in a secret ballot. Asked if the evidence presented at the trial warranted Yamashita’s conviction, all twelve voted Yamashita innocent.
Yamashita’s verdict came quickly, and it was no surprise to anyone. At precisely two o’clock on the afternoon of December 7, the gargantuan general stood at attention, facing the table of five general officers who had heard his case. Flanked by Frank Witherspoon and Colonel Hamamoto, his Japanese interpreter, Yamashita’s back was to the mulling crowd as General Russell B. Reynolds read the findings and the sentence of the military commission.
It was a grand, theatrical moment. The cameras clicked and rolled again. A clutch of microphones was just before General Reynolds. He cleared his throat, his furrowed face steeped in sober judgment. Manila Bay glimmered through the window behind him. In front of him the historic ballroom was packed with spectators and media. They whispered to one another, staring forward, craning their heads with a hushed excitement that normally might indeed have been reserved for the final act in a play.
Reynolds read his statement carefully, mindful of his worldwide audience. “General Yamashita, the commission concludes the following: that a series of atrocities and other high crimes have been committed by members of the Japanese armed forces under your command; that they were not sporadic in nature but in many cases were methodically supervised by Japanese officers and noncommissioned officers; and that during the period in question you failed to provide effective control of your troops as was required by the circumstances.”
Now he paused, looking slowly around the room before reading the sentence itself. “Accordingly, the commission finds you guilty as charged and sentences you to death by hanging.”
If this had indeed been a play, there might have been a round of applause for the perfect manner in which General Reynolds had portrayed a judge. But it was real, and instead the packed, sweltering ballroom fell into a hush, as if aware for the first time of the consequences of their public catharsis. Yamashita himself merely nodded silently and calmly turned to leave. He was escorted back to his prison cell, and later that afternoon was transferred to the Los Banos Bilibid, where he was to stay until he died.
But Frank Witherspoon was not done. The wiry, flame-haired lawyer marched lividly out of the building and filed an appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court. Among the charges in Witherspoon’s petition was the claim that “General MacArthur has taken the law into his own hands, is disregarding the laws of the United States and the Constitution, and has no authority from Congress or the president.”
MacArthur, hurrying to be done with Yamashita, just as immediately approved the commission’s sentence, wanting to hang the Tiger before the end of the week. On December 9 the secretary of war intervened, “suggesting” to MacArthur that he delay Yamashita’s execution until the Supreme Court decided on Witherspoon’s appeal. MacArthur, angry and imperious, radioed back to the secretary, who by law was his superior, refusing to take the “suggestion” and claiming that the Supreme Court did not have any jurisdiction in this “purely military” affair. And finally the secretary of war directly ordered MacArthur to stay the execution.
And so I would be stuck in the Philippines for at least another month, awaiting the actions of the U.S. Supreme Court. Once freed from the army, I would be trained in New York City under the guiding hand of Thorpe Thomas. More important, I would return home alone. This had not been my plan when I had flown happily back to Manila after my final meeting with MacArthur. Nor was it my choice. It simply became my fate. Or shall we c
all it the consequences of Father Garvey’s creed of honesty?
Perhaps for some of us every piece of good news has its price, because it all had begun with Thorpe Thomas. MacArthur’s investment-banker friend had flown down from Tokyo a few days after my own flight, then offered me a position with his firm after one lengthy dinner. Carlos Ramirez clearly felt that he had lost great face among many of his Filipino business associates. Even worse, he viewed my decision to join Thomas in New York as a betrayal, a rejection of the greatest gift he could have offered me other than Divina Clara herself. As the Yamashita trial sped by he grew increasingly hostile to me. In his eyes I had made promises as solemn as a wedding vow. I had violated the unspoken terms of his blessing, then humiliated him among his peers by rejecting full membership in his family.
Toward the end of the trial I learned that I would be required to return to New York for the first part of training by myself, and would have to wait several months before I could send for Divina Clara. Carlos became overtly suspicious, often visibly angry. He seized on this small turn of events to insinuate that I was again manipulating his family. Not even my offer to move up the wedding date could assuage him. Divina Clara was his favored child, the very jewel in his crown. It became clear to me that he no longer wanted a wedding at all. In his view our relationship was forever spoiled. Divina Clara was either going to be deserted as part of a lover’s hoax, a form of sexual poaching that would bring an even greater insult to his family pride, or to be gone from him forever, living in a country so far away that he probably would never live to see it. Suddenly I was no different than the Subic sailors who perennially made empty promises and sailed away, never to return. He abruptly announced that I could not stay overnight in their house anymore, a clear first step in breaking off the engagement.
We had not yet garnered the courage to tell him that she was with child. That night on the bench in her family garden, as the moon shone down on us and the perfumed air swirled slowly against our faces, we talked anxiously in hushed tones about how to tell him in the face of his fresh hostility. As we huddled and whispered, Carlos came repeatedly to the upstairs window, staring down at us with his arms folded in disapproval. And finally, awash in a logic driven from a place within her that I could not fully comprehend, Divina Clara decided that since the next day was Sunday, she would pray all night, so that in church God might provide her the answer.
