Return to Hiroshima

by Bob Van Laerhoven

  Yori nods almost imperceptibly. She mumbles something.

  “What?”

  “It felt like longer. She confided in me.”

  Rokurobei wraps his hands around her neck. “Is she dead?”

  Her voice is little more than a whisper: “I don’t know. I told you: she was gone when I woke up. I was afraid of Reizo and I...”

  “My men are on their way to the German photographer’s hotel. We’ll soon know if you’re lying.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “What should we do to kill time while we wait?” He lifts Yori’s chin with his right thumb and when she looks at him he moves his face closer. “If Mitsuko is no longer alive, are you going to tell me how smart and cunning my daughter was? Are you going to tell me time and again how you lay in each other’s arms on the mattress and lamented your fate together? Doing that, are you going to bring colour to my old age?”

  Yori undergoes a remarkable transformation. She stands on the tips of her toes, throws her arms around Rokurobei’s neck and looks him deep in the eye.

  “Are you going to tell me then, superior spirit, that from now on I’m your daughter and that you love me deeply?”

  102

  From Mitsuko’s notes in the metro cellar

  I don’t know how long I’ve been here.

  My body is losing moisture drop by drop, slowly but surely.

  I’m imprisoned in a giant press, squeezing me, shrinking me.

  My eyes are bulging.

  My world has closed in on me.

  All the monsters that ever haunted my imagination have locked me in.

  I can hear them muttering.

  Words of peace.

  Words of pain.

  And that I’ve never really been myself.

  In their eyes I see the reflection of my father.

  And the things he has done.

  Every child wants to know who his father was, sooner or later.

  Something my father once said has stayed with me all my life: “We are the biggest liars the world has ever known. Lies were fed to us at the breast and we grew up with them. We should ask ourselves why.”

  My father is the irrefutable king of the born liars. Why? I’ve asked myself that question so many times. I only found the answer when I read Colonel Tadao Masamada’s military logbook. During the war he was commander of a secret Unit 731 complex on Okunoshima Island. The log was with the baby I discovered in my father’s chest in the miners’ changing rooms.

  Based on the notes in the logbook I was able to put together a picture of my father, give it shape and colour. But how can I be sure I’m not also an inhabitant of the kingdom of lies just like him?

  103

  Okunoshima Island – Unit 731’s secret laboratory complex –

  September 26th 1944 – Prince Norikazu and Colonel Tadao

  The boat arrived after midnight, following a short trip across the Seto Sea from the port of Hiroshima. Colonel Tadao Masamada had informed a few trusted members of his elite troops to expect an important visitor. The men stood to attention on Okunoshima Island’s modest pier waiting for him to disembark. The colonel had warned them not to move a muscle when the Ishibashi-no-miya came ashore. They were to accompany his highness without delay to the ro cells and hand him over to the senior physician, Dr Kenshin.

  The colonel, aloof and efficient with ruddy and gleaming rural features that betrayed his Okinawa origins, had concluded: “If the serene one speaks to you, you must address him with the title heika. Do not look him in the eye. He doesn’t like it.”

  The soldiers guarding the Unit 731 installations on Okunoshima were well trained, loyal to the Japanese emperor and ready to give their life for him. They stood in attendance, motionless, as ships delivered Chinese pinyins, mostly from Manchuria, and the occasional American prisoner of war to Unit 731’s secret underground complexes. They knew what was going to happen to the maruta and joked among themselves about the “blockheads” and the amount of “juice” they would provide. The underground complexes were referred to as ro cells, square concrete blocks divided by a broad underground corridor, women on the left, men on the right. As with the construction of the laboratory complex commissioned by Unit 731 in China’s Pingfang, the Suzuki Group had done an excellent job on Okunoshima. The complex had every modern convenience, including automatic shutters in the event that one of the maruta succeeded in starting a fire, and lifts capable of carrying several stretchers at a time when the prisoners were ripe for dissection. The suffering endured by the maruta had no effect on the guards and lab technicians. None of them flinched. They were used to tapping the blood of prisoners until they died or injecting them with infectious pathogens and then an array of other substances to see what would happen. They subjected the prisoners to extremes of cold and heat and exposed them to all sorts of toxic substances. They injected poisons and then tried to stimulate their immune systems with exotic substances. The reactions they triggered were often extremely bizarre and almost always incredibly painful.

  However, now they were hopelessly nervous. The boat carrying the prince – they called him Rokurobei behind his back, the legendary demon with the neck of a serpent – had arrived. On the outside it looked like all the other fishing boats sailing the Seto Sea; the only difference was the absence of lights. But it managed to tie up alongside the pier with perfect precision in spite of the darkness. To the outside world, Okunoshima had to appear uninhabited. As a precaution, the Japanese high command had removed it from the maps several years earlier.

  The soldiers had heard vague rumours about the young man who was about to disembark. Their lieutenant Kitano knew a little more. That’s why his expression quickly turned serious when he caught sight of figures descending the gangplank. One of them towered at least thirty-five centimetres above the others.

  Kitano had never seen such a giant before.

  Nor had he seen anyone with such a long neck, supported by metal rings that at first sight appeared to be made of silver.

  * * *

  “Death is an absurdity,” said Prince Norikazu to Colonel Tadao. He folded his long skeletal fingers over his face as if he was greeting an invisible god. The colonel, descended from an ancient rural samurai family, greeted the prince according to protocol and took his place behind his desk, straight-backed and rigid. The prince had been living on the island for several months by this time and appeared to like his military host, but the colonel refused to drop his guard. Tadao tried to remind himself that the young man in front of him, a direct descendant via his father of Amaterasu, the goddess of the sun, was yet to turn sixteen. The prince spoke perfect classical Japanese, the Japanese of the sages. “The military doctors who busy themselves here with pioneering research should focus on the concept of immortality, colonel.”

  The colonel nodded politely. The ungainly young man in front of him surprised him by adding: “The Chinese emperors were more closely related to my cast than we will ever admit. In the course of China’s rich and mysterious history they set out to achieve immortality.” The young man looked down at his long, slightly crooked legs: “Magicians of every sort were summoned to the imperial court to make herbal preparations and magical potions, like Ling-zhi, the ‘mushroom of immortality’. Nothing worked, but they kept on trying. Their perseverance should be an inspiration to us. For the first time in history, colonel, science is capable of fulfilling the ambitions of the ancient emperors. Your work is being followed in the highest circles, the people who guide and advise the Emperor himself.”

  Colonel Tadao inclined his head at the compliment, but still wasn’t sure where the princely whelp was leading. It was hard to imagine a young man of his age being so obsessed and talking about it with such ease and fluency. Did his deformed body contain a prematurely developed brain? In the first months of his existence, the prince’s life had hung in the
balance and the wildest stories emerged about what made him so big. Perhaps his precociousness was a result of an awareness that he was the incarnation of a myth. Speculation was rife about the latter, ranging from the foolish to the insane. Colonel Tadao peered into Norikazu’s dull lustreless eyes and saw a determination nourished by pain, desire and hate. At least, that is what he suspected. The colonel had been raised in the old traditions, which meant he gave due consideration to the possibility that the boy in front of him may not have been entirely human. There was his imperial background to consider, the way he had floundered through his early years. There was Japanese society’s obstinate determination to be a race superior in every respect to other human beings and do everything necessary to reach that goal..

  “Your wish is our command, heika,” said the colonel.

  * * *

  The woman, young, Chinese, was lying on a dissection table, naked, hollow-cheeked and heavily pregnant. The powerful lights cast deep shadows under her eyes. She screamed at the top of her voice when a giant appeared above her in surgical attire, his face covered with a mask. Prince Norikazu turned to Dr Kenshin. There was something contrived about his movements, as if he had to think about every stimulus his limbs obeyed.

  “They tell me you can speak Chinese, doctor. What is she saying?” Norikazu’s voice was hoarse and callous, but calm.

  The doctor looked up at the bushy eyebrows atop his eminent guest’s sunken eyes. The prince’s head was square, angular. His jaws were heavy, his nose broad, and deep sockets formed what seemed like battlements around his lifeless eyes. It was better not to look into those eyes.

  Dr Kenshin replied stiffly: “She’s saying: kill me, but please let my baby live.”

  “An emotion as honourable as it is remarkable. The willingness to suffer pain for a creature she has never seen, and without knowing whether its life will be miserable or prosperous. I would be more inclined to call her reaction ‘instinct’, especially coming from someone of an inferior race.” In spite of his youth, the prince was verbose and slightly pompous when he spoke. At the same time there was often a hint of sarcasm in his words, giving them an ambiguous and ominous air. His hands were folded over his belly. “The baby is destined for our first experiment using large doses of growth hormone in combination with mushroom extract prepared according to the ancient Chinese texts,” Dr Kenshin explained. “When we injected the same cocktail into newborn mice it improved their physical defences, bodily measurements and lifespan by thirty-three percent.” The prince nodded and leaned over the woman. “Tell her she can die in peace. Her child has served a noble purpose.”

  The doctor’s words were still fresh on his lips when the prince took a scalpel and cut open the Chinese woman’s belly with a single powerful swipe.

  104

  Hiroshima – Adachi’s apartment near the Peace Tower

  – Takeda and Becht – March 15th 1995

  As they get out of the car in front of Adachi’s house, Beate Becht says: “Do you think it’s true? What Reizo Shiga last wrote on his computer?”

  Takeda scowls. “We know in the meantime that the boy wasn’t firing on all pistons and that he suffered from delusions of grandeur.”

  “But that last sentence: I have her underground and no one is more mine than she.”

  “A stretched metaphor? His writing was pretty pompous stuff. And even if there’s some truth in it, it’s too vague. Where do you start?”

  Beate nods but isn’t completely convinced. “What a situation. No wonder we’re confused. And by the way, I’m still trying to figure how it’s possible for a senior police functionary like your boss to work so openly with criminals, even if one of them has imperial blood.” She punches Takeda playfully but unexpectedly in the ribs. “And you, the fugitive inspector, drive through Hiroshima as if there’s nothing going on.”

  Takeda forces a smile. “Have you ever seen a big police presence in the city? Hiroshima has to keep its image come what may. It’s the ‘City of Peace’, a symbol for the entire world. ‘Cover Up City’ would be closer to the truth. And don’t forget, the Japanese police force is the most corrupt and least efficient on the planet. Corruption here has historical roots: after the Second World War, Japan was left a broken, defeated nation, plagued by famine and scarcity at every level. The black market was the only way to get what you needed. It was run by gangs who had acquired weapons and influence during the war. The police helped them to construct an ‘underground Japan’ to save their families from starvation.” Takeda notices that the front door of the house isn’t locked. Nothing unusual. Adachi’s inclined to forget when he’s been drinking. “And underground Japan is much more important than the straight face we present to the world. We bow to one another, respect each other’s station, but that’s because we’re afraid that others might catch a glimpse of our shady inclinations. And because we’re afraid, we’re forced to cultivate a sense of superiority towards other peoples, a conviction that we’re smarter and stronger. There’s a reason why we’ve become a people of hidden extremes. Where else in the world could someone like Rokurobei avoid the media for decades?”

  “But that’s it,” says Beate. “There’s something not quite…”

  The inspector rattles on without waiting for her to complete her response: “Why are we so good at hiding whatever doesn’t fit the picture? We’re sick to the teeth of ourselves and of the enormous demands we place on one another. Our much-vaunted culture is rooted in greed, not just at the material level, but at the level of who we are and the way we present ourselves.” Takeda glances over his shoulder at Beate Becht who’s following him up the stairs. “Sorry for the tirade, but it’s a hobbyhorse of mine because I’m half foreigner.”

  * * *

  One of Adachi’s jazz cds is playing in the living room: Miles Davis in a set with John Coltrane. Over the years, Adachi has treated Takeda to more than a few evenings of whiskey and jazz. The doctor never once tried it on with him. They talked about life, love, death. Both men were the melancholy type, and both tried to hide it from others. Coltrane’s melancholy saxophone reminded Takeda that the police doctor was his only friend. His western-style living room is empty. The bright green display on his expensive Linn Mimik cd player – Adachi’s pride and joy – lights up when a new song starts.

  At that moment Takeda senses that something isn’t right.

  “What’s that smell,” says Beate, automatically lowering her voice.

  Takeda doesn’t smell anything out of the ordinary, but his nose has never been particularly sensitive. He looks into the kitchen and then makes his way down the corridor to the stairway leading to the upper floor of Adachi’s duplex. He looks up and can see the blue light of the sun bed. He knows Adachi is a sun worshipper. He wonders what happened to Yori. He climbs the stairs in silence and stands outside Adachi’s half-open bedroom door.

  “Daichi?”

  The indifferent hum of the sun bed.

  Takeda hears a noise and looks over the balustrade. Becht is in the corridor below looking up. Her face is a reddish brown in the light of the sun bed.

  “Burning flesh,” she says. “I smell burning flesh.”

  Takeda pulls his pistol and enters the room.

  105

  Okunoshima Island – Prince Norikazu and

  Colonel Tadao – morning, August 6th 1945

  It was very early in the morning, four forty-five, a turquoise sea, first light, a cloudless sky. Two men stood by the pier, which offered spectacular views of the mainland and the other islands scattered across the Seto Inland Sea. The pale light made the islands in the distance look like prehistoric hump-backed sea creatures.

  Colonel Tadao gestured in the direction of the mainland. “You’ll be safer there than here, heika. I’m convinced of it.”

  Norikazu grimaces. “I’m not safe anywhere, Koruzo.”

  The colone
l raised his chin on hearing his first name. “My men and I have sworn lifelong fidelity. You will be received on the mainland by people who will keep guard over you just as I have done.”

  “We’re losing the war,” said the colossal young man. “The propaganda machine is working harder than ever before – proud Japan will destroy the barbarian enemy! – but what does my uncle do, Prince Chichibu? He uses yakuza leaders to secrete Japan’s war treasures. We’re such a pompous people, Koruzo. We stash gold and artworks in caves and call this miserable escape we have chosen “the Golden Lily”.”

  The colonel bites his lips. “The Japanese imperial army will never capitulate.”

  “Nevertheless, the generals, or what’s left of them after the bombing of Tokyo, have ordered the evacuation of Okunoshima and the dismantlement of all the Unit 731 test plants. Just when we were working so hard to create the new human being. One more year, Koruzo, just one more year and we would have succeeded in improving the Japanese race.”

  The colonel grit his teeth. “Our knowledge will never go to waste, heika. We shall rise above this and begin anew.”

  “700,000 firebombs on the capital, Koruzo. B-29s like swarms of flies above the city. Tokyo’s canals full of bodies like chickens boiling in a pot. My father’s propaganda machine has been trying to use censorship and mail screening to disguise the facts, but they’re making a fool of themselves. We’re being cut to pieces. We can’t face up to American military superiority.”

  The colonel’s face remained motionless, although the words of the young man he considered the legitimate crown prince had touched him deeply.

  “When your father dies, heika…” Colonel Tadao fell silent.

  “I will not be emperor,” the eccentric prince continued, apparently unmoved. “Look at me, Koruzo. Who would accept such an emperor? And don’t forget, I am a creature of war and combat, not of an enforced and honourless peace. People still faithful to me at court inform me that father has washed his hands of me. I’m no longer a curiosity, an organism he wanted to study as if I was an object in that infamous botanical garden of his. Now I’m just an irritating liability.”