This Scorching Earth

by Donald Richie

  "Oh, yes, you know I love salad," she said and even attempted that old quality which, back then, had been called vivacity.

  He helped her to salad, and behind him the enameled clock ticked on.

  "Something occurred today," he began slowly. Then he stopped, for their eyes had met, and hers seemed to be pleading to be spared, to be left in peace. And how old those eyes looked. He could not continue. "But, actually, it was of no importance."

  Her forehead became smooth and she smiled. "Oh, no, dear. What was it you were going to tell me?"

  "General Kean asked me to see him."

  "Oh, yes. Let me see—he's the head of your section, or division, or whatever, is he not?"

  "Yes, we were in the Philippines together during the war."

  "Oh, yes, I remember him well from the States—a most kind gentleman. He wears glasses, does he not, and—why, I remember perfectly now—we spoke several years ago—though just where does escape my memory. And—would you believe it?—we talked of nothing but dogs. Yes. That's right. Dogs. Imagine that. And he told me—why, I remember it as though yesterday—he told me that he owned a wolfhound that... what was it now? Oh, yes, of course—that the hound he owned was afraid of rabbits. Isn't that amusing, dear? Imagine—a Russian wolfhound, and it was afraid of rabbits." She laughed and tears of pleasure came into her eyes.

  "No, dear, that was General Grady, and he died, you'll remember, about three years ago, just after that time you remember so well."

  Her lower lip turned, both in pity and petulance. "Oh, of course. I don't rightly know what's the matter with me. I do so forget." She made an effort to collect her thoughts. "Of course—General Grady. Yes. And he's dead now. Yes.... Now, what about this other gentleman, dear?"

  Again he lost the courage to continue. "Oh, we just talked about old times. That's all."

  "Oh, that was nice. But, no—do tell me what you were going to say."

  What could he tell her, he wondered, she with whom he had shared everything—or attempted to? Sorry as he was for her, he could not tolerate her having any pity for him.

  "Come now," she said coaxingly. "I'm very interested in what you do—you know that, dear. Do tell me." And she smiled to show how interested she was. She blinked her eyes, and her head shook slightly. She was old—very old. Somehow older than he, though he was the elder, and her smile was that of a martyr awaiting the first blow.

  "Well, he just called me, and we talked about the Service and all, you know," he began, then stopped and ate a few bites of salad. Whatever else, he must be honest with her. It was often necessary to lie, to color the truth, to exaggerate or to minimize, but he had always been as honest as possible with her, and if he erred, it was only that, rather than allow the truth to hurt her, he had shielded her from it by refusing to speak at all. But now, when the truth would so please her—that part of the truth for which she had so longed—he found himself unable rather than unwilling to speak, for with it must necessarily come the knowledge of his position, of his detractors, and the true reason they were going home.

  "Well, you know, my dear, that I never asked to serve in Japan. But it became my duty—the duty of any soldier."

  She nodded slightly, her head bowed. It was, he thought, as though he'd cultivated disreputable friends and insisted upon intruding them into his household. Her disapproval of his connections with the Japanese, though unspoken, was always apparent. Her father would never have asked his wife to entertain at tea the Negro wives of the plantation hands.

  "Yes, dear," she said.

  "But once it became my duty, then I resolved to do it as best I could. Originally the Japanese were no concern of mine, any more than of yours, but now my duty is dedicated to them."

  "Yes, dear."

  He started to speak again, but this was not the truth. The truth was that he wanted more than anything else to love the Japanese, those people to whom he was dedicated, just as he loved his fellow-Americans—most of them. And in that he had really failed. He had only succeeded in feeling kindly toward them, and this was wrong, because all men are worth being loved, slave or owner, Japanese or American—there is in all men an inherent nobility which loves and can be loved.

  "Well, this is all actually beside the point, because when I saw Kean this afternoon, I learned ... I learned that..."

  He hesitated so long that his wife raised her head and, after waiting for the girl to remove the salad and disappear into the kitchen, said: "Dear, it's not bad news, is it?"

  He forced himself to laugh. "No, no. It's good news. Good. Just the opposite."

  "Well, then ..." She stopped, because the other girl had brought in the dessert and coffee.

  How could he tell her, he wondered. He could say that reports had reached Kean and that he, Colonel Ashcroft, was being investigated as a possible security risk. But that would never do, for his wife knew nothing of the world in which such things as this were possible—she was of the world where a man's word was his honor. Perhaps, then, he could temper it a bit. Kean had agreed that these preposterous charges were nonsense—but, after all, that's life, isn't it, and blessings often come in black-wrapped packages, and, every cloud has the silver lining. The result was what counted—the end, not the means. This way at least he could go home.. .. But, no, that would worry her, for she would then never understand what the charges had been and why, if men agreed a thing was preposterous, they should act as though they knew it were not. Finally, he might augment the truth a trifle. It was true that he was but five years from retirement. The Army changed, just as did life itself, and it was natural that a younger man, a major in his own offices, would be chosen, and really it was better this way because it was keeping it in the family as it were, the man in question knew the business of the section well, and ... No, that would not do either, for that caused the Colonel himself too much pain. And his wife would understand it not at all; she would ask if the major then would become colonel, and he would answer that it probably meant a downgrading in the table of operation, and she would find that very strange.

  But she would have found even stranger the truth that a major had, through circumstances partially of his own making and partially not, forced the hand of a general. And so he wondered what he could possibly tell her. All of the reasons happened to be true, and for one of the few times in his life, one of the Colonel's absolutes shone a bit less brilliantly than usual. Truth was for him a quality, like the air he breathed, almost a palpable object, like his hand before him, but now, for a second, it stood revealed as merely an opinion, or at best a series of opinions, true for one person or one set of circumstances, not true for another.

  "Apple turnovers! I've not seen these for years," he said, looking into his plate.

  "The Commissary got them in this morning. I waited in line for them. They'd just gotten them in."

  "How thoughtful of you, my dear."

  "Oh, nonsense, dear. I don't do half of what I feel I should. But, at least, they are good. I had a bite of one at tea time and found them surprisingly well made. Almost like those we had—now where was it?—oh, of course, in Williamsburg. You remember, Rand? Oh, how you disliked that place. You were so funny too. And you spilled the cream. Do you remember, Rand? Why, that must have been twenty years ago. And I wore that old organdy dress you liked so well, and after that we went to see your old professor at William and Mary, and had that lovely conversation about Shakespeare—or was it Marlowe?—I do tend to forget—and then, in the train, going home, we saw—"

  "But you're not eating any, my dear."

  "Oh, I'm not really very hungry." With one hand she pushed her hair into place, and with the other held the coffee cup before her mouth. "Well, and then in the train we saw—Oh, but I forgot. Your good news. Do tell me, Rand."

  Perhaps he could fight. It was odd he'd not thought of that. Perhaps he could defend himself against calumny and fight just as had his father and grandfather. They had been very brave men. But, then, they had fought with sw
ords. It had been an equal duel, and their adversaries had had no advantage. But now the weapons had changed. Telephones ... the word of mouth to ear ... the whisper and the innuendo. No, he could not fight as they had fought, his father and his grandfather. He could only retreat.

  "Rand, tell me!" said his wife, worried.

  "Well, when I saw Kean, I learned there was an opportunity for returning home—that was what he had wanted to see me about."

  "Oh, Rand! Is that the truth?"

  He smiled sadly and nodded his head. Yes, that too was the truth.

  "He reminded me that I have but five years before retirement and—he even mentioned you—said you might like the change. Is that true, Lilian?"

  "Oh, Rand!" she said, half between laughter and tears. "You know that's true. Oh, could we?"

  She stopped smiling and looked at him intently, pleading: "Did you say you'd go?"

  "Yes," he nodded, "I said I'd go. They're cutting orders for me now."

  "Oh, Rand, you don't know what wonderful news this is. Why did you take so long to tell me? Oh, I want to go so much!" She suddenly turned, one hand before her mouth, and said: "But, Rand, do you want to go?"

  "Yes," he nodded again, "very much."

  "Because if you didn't, why, then, you could just tell him..."

  He shook his head. "No, it's all finished. I want to go—very much."

  She looked around the room, a bit dazed. "Oh, my, but I have so much to do. I must pack . . . and the silver and plate. Oh, Rand, it will be so different from last time—do you remember the last time? You know, I don't know if you knew it or not, but I was dreadfully unhappy."

  He nodded.

  "But, my lands, what am I doing here? I ought to be packing those old trunks this very minute and getting—"

  "There's plenty of time, dear."

  "But, Rand—" And she suddenly stopped, remembering, then said, very softly: "Do you realize, dear, that we'll be having Christmas at home? Just think—Christmas at home!"

  "Yes, dear, I thought of that."

  She stood up and accidentally caught her sleeve on the needlework stand. She looked down at it. "Oh, Rand," she called out, her voice young and happy, "just think—I'll never have to finish this." She looked at the half-completed needlework. "Never have to finish this," she said more softly.

  The girl was removing the dessert plates, but she was so excited she continued talking, forgetting to pat her hair into place and look out of the window. "Oh, Rand. Don't you just love our winters back home?" Suddenly she could no longer talk and began to sob. "Oh, I'm so stupid," she said through her handkerchief, "so stupid. Here I am so happy I could sing, and yet I'm crying like a big baby. But, Rand," she turned toward him, tears in the wrinkles around her eyes, "we will go, won't we? We really will?"

  "Yes, we really will," he said, and she, years younger than he was, stood up straight and patted her brown hair and smiled at him.

  The maid removed the coffee cups, and the Colonel said: "Look, dear, I still have to see about business until I'm relieved, you know, and tonight is the opera. I don't know if you're anxious to see it or not, but if you are ..."

  She made a girlish gesture with her hand. "Oh, heavens, no. Why, I just couldn't sit still. I'd not be able to hear any of the music. No. You go, because you must. But I'll be just as busy here, believe me, Rand. I'm going to have the girls get the trunks down, and I'll pack away those things we won't need. Like the winter blankets. Just think, Rand—we won't need the winter blankets!" She laughed again and then, coming to him, touched his cheek with her hand and said softly: "Oh, Rand. It will be better. It will be so much better."

  He nodded and closed his eyes. He had told the truth. And the clock struck seven.

  "There goes Colonel Ashcroft," said Dottie as the sedan paused for a stoplight. She and Mrs. Schmidt were standing at the Hibiya Park intersection. "I hope you don't mind this waiting," said Dottie. "He should be along any moment now."

  "Of course not," said Mrs. Schmidt. "I quite understand."

  "Isn't it absurd, though," said Dottie. "Here we are, standing on a street corner in the middle of November, in the capital of the whole Orient, right in the midst of the Occupation, and yet..."

  "And yet we have no place to go," finished Mrs. Schmidt kindly. "It is singular, isn't it? Of course, we could be sitting in the lobby of the American Club—I'm allowed there—but, frankly, I'd just as soon be standing here. It is dreadful thing to say, but whenever I'm in an Occupation building I always feel as though I'm in the presence of the enemy."

  "You are," said Dottie. "Look, it's awfully cold. Why don't we go to a Japanese coffee shop or something. I could stand a DR."

  "It's too dangerous for you, dear. Besides, didn't you tell him you'd meet him here?"

  "Yes, poor dear, it would be fairly dreadful for him to get a DR—officer and all. I guess this is the best I can do."

  "I don't mind. It's like something out of a marchen. What do you call them? Like the Babes in the Woods, you know. Just look around you. Isn't it romantic—almost gothique."

  Dottie looked through the trees into the park. By day it was dusty and bare, with little clumps of gray grass and groves of grayer trees. The little pond was drying up, and a pavilion built on one of the hills was in ruins. Now, at dusk, the trees seemed a blackish green, and the small knolls looked like mountains.

  Here and there were fires, for the park had become home to many who had no other. The faces of the vagrants hung above the twig fires which crackled in discarded oil tins. Below them, children slept huddled next to each other. A single dog sat silently, its muzzle outlined against the fire. No one spoke, and the only sound was the softened roar of the usual evening traffic.

  "Salvator Rosa might have well painted that scene," said Mrs. Schmidt, indicating the fire. "You know, a band of brigands in the mountains. Byron would have loved it. He would have called it picturesque, I believe."

  "I call it disgusting," said Dottie. "Particularly those children. I don't see why we allow it."

  "You can't mean allow them to use the park!"

  "Of course not—I don't see why we don't feed them. Oh, I've had it explained to me a hundred times. It's not the responsibility of the Army, and all that sort of thing. The Japanese government has to take care of them. But any fool can see the government can't do a thing. They're too poor. So, even now, people starve, and since it's nobody's duty, nobody does anything about it—except let them starve."

  Mrs. Schmidt turned so that her back was toward the cold wind. "That is not the worst of it, dear. These people think that America doesn't care whether they starve or not."

  "But we do, really. Individually, all of us do. At any rate, I do. I don't think there is a single person in the Occupation who doesn't think about these people and wonder if, maybe, it isn't up to them to do something for them. And really, Madame Schmidt, it's terrible, living here and feeling that somehow you're to blame for what's happening. Oh, around other Americans I always put on a big front. We all do that. It's funny—almost as though we're ashamed of showing some concern or showing that we feel sorry."

  "It's too bad that the official policy of the Occupation isn't like that," said Mrs. Schmidt. "But it's not. I don't suppose any occupation anywhere has ever had such a policy, or ever will."

  "God, it's cold!" said Dorothy. Then: "Funny, too—in America we wouldn't stand for it. We wouldn't sit by and let a child starve. But here everyone is so different; everyone's different."

  "I think all of us—I mean all of us whom you call 'foreign nationals'—know that it isn't that you don't care...."

  "Funny. This is the first time I've ever tried to say what I think about it. We just don't talk about it with each other. I don't know, but it's as though it was bad taste or something to talk about it. We always pretend to ignore it. But, believe me, we don't. We can't ignore it. Personally, I don't like the Japanese and never have and probably never will. But it's not because of what they did to us. I wouldn'
t like them if we'd never had a war—the men are too short and feminine, the women are too—oh, I don't know. But even if I don't like them, I still feel somehow as though I'm at fault, not them. . . . Oh, it's a crazy notion, I suppose, but you'd be surprised at how many people over here feel the same way. They don't say so, but I know they do."

  Mrs. Schmidt had never heard Dorothy speak with such conviction. She felt a little embarrassed, thinking ahead to the look she'd find in Dorothy's eyes when next they met, and said: "Perhaps, it's because all of you know you aren't really individuals any more. You're—what do you call it on the Armed Forces Radio?—you're 'representatives of America.' You know that these people are looking at you every minute expecting you to behave American, and so that's what you do."

  "I don't know how to behave American," said Dottie. "But I do know that Mrs. Kean once said she could never stop and give money to a beggar, no matter how much she wanted to, because she was the wife of a general and wives of generals couldn't do things like that. It's that sort of attitude that's so natural and yet so terrible. And the Swensons—you know them you said—they think they know all about Japan, but if you introduced them to any of those people by the fire over there, they'd be terrified."

  "So would you," Mrs. Schmidt reminded her.

  "Sure I would be," said Dottie. "I wouldn't know what to do. The only thing I could do would be to give them money, and that's not what I mean."

  Mrs. Schmidt was going to ask her what she did mean, but then decided not to. From previous experience she realized that when she was being sincere Dottie could think in an orderly fashion for only so long. After that her reflections became more and more personal, until finally they would cease to be understandable communication at all.

  "Oh, I don't know what I mean," said Dottie. She was tired and cold and wanted a drink.

  Mrs. Schmidt looked at the distant faces, suspended above the fire, and remembered Hibiya Park as she had first known it—in bright sunshine, swarming with children and ice-cream vendors. The gravel walks had been raked every morning, and on Sunday some band or other always gave a concert in the distant bandstand. During the war it had been brilliant with bunting and army uniforms. Now it was silent and cold, the pleasure pavilion on the rise of the hill in ruins.