The several weeks preceding the opening were frenetic with activity. With Toyoko to launch the enterprise were two Maidens, including Hiroko Tasaka, and two of “the eighteen”; but several other girls from the group also came up from Hiroshima to help her get ready. It was a hectic time and the “work force” had to stay up all night on several occasions to make last-minute adjustments; but there was a gaiety to the preparations, too, that came from a communal effort to complete a major task.
Long before the doors of the Phoenix Room at the Imperial Hotel were scheduled to open, a crowd had begun to gather. At noon, when the doors were finally opened, more people poured in than there were seats to accommodate them, so by the time the show began the walls at the back of the room were lined with standing spectators. Understandably, Toyoko was apprehensive about how her designs would be received, and throughout the show her eyes shifted from the models — [three Japanese and one American model] — parading through the room to the fashion editors scribbling in their notebooks. As her collection of nineteen pieces, ranging from trim career-girl ensembles to lavish ball gowns, was presented, the audience would burst into applause; but she was not convinced that they were not just being polite until the end, when she walked out on stage and was presented with a bouquet of flowers by the wife of the Mayor of Hiroshima, and heard an ovation that would be described in the next day’s papers as “thunderous.”
The press loved the story and played it up big, acclaiming Toyoko as a brilliant new discovery in the fashion world, a truly original Japanese designer who was capable of felicitously blending the simplicity of the East with the modernity of the West into an elegant style of her own. The New York Times reported: “Experienced fashion observers...declared that the Hiroshima Maiden surpassed current collections from Paris in the smartness of her designs.”
As for Toyoko, a headline in one of the American papers pretty much summed up how she was feeling: “HIROSHIMA MAIDEN” FINDS A DESIGN FOR LIVING. She still bore the scars that not even the most skilled American surgeons could erase after two years of trying, but she had been searching for and now felt she had found that deep inner certitude of self, which came from doing the work that gave her the kind of fulfillment that she sought in life. In interviews, when she was asked about America or the bomb, she would answer that questions about either came together in her mind with a single reply: The best way to repay those Americans who had given her a future, the best way to forget the nightmare of her past, was to devote herself wholeheartedly to her work.
For the first year or so that Toyo, Haute Couture was open for business, all went splendidly. Responding to the reviews that predicted Toyoko’s designs would set a new style for Japanese women, an immediate and increasing stream of customers filed into the shop to be outfitted. Her fashions were the rage that fall, and not just among a Japanese clientele; she also developed a large following of embassy people: French, Australians, and a number of Americans, including Ambassador Reischauer’s wife. The volume of work they were getting was so great that Toyoko felt the need to expand, and taking a loan from Ida Day to cover moving costs and the initial increase in rent, she relocated in a much bigger house adjacent to the popular Ginza District and spacious enough to allow her to take on three additional seamstresses.
For the first time since her home had been scattered across the scorched earth of Hiroshima and she had lost everything but her life, Toyoko felt she was living as she was meant to. She felt at home in Tokyo. In four years abroad she had had the opportunity to develop her intellectual tastes to a higher level of sophistication. She had become cosmopolitan in her outlook, and so independent and street-smart that her classmates joked that more than turning into a woman of the Western world, she had been made over into a New Yorker. Living in Tokyo made her feel like she belonged to the world. She was in constant contact with foreigners. She got together frequently with people interested in the arts who could discuss new trends, many of whom had been exposed to different cultures and progressive social ideas, such as the problems a woman faced earning her own way in a society dominated by men.
But all was not as it seemed. Despite a deluge of orders, the eager anticipation felt by the “work force” when Toyoko returned from America had melted into disillusionment. Where at first laughter, singing, and the constant chatter of gay conversation had filled the upstairs room, where the Maidens were sewing, like sunlight, now the atmosphere was gloomy; there was fussing and arguing; and Toyo, Haute Couture seemed haunted with hushed voices that stopped whenever Toyoko entered the room.
Trying to ascertain what went wrong and why is difficult. Some said the seeds of conflict were sown when the name of the shop was changed; that after that Toyoko seemed to lose sight of the original vision and be more concerned about making a name for herself; and they would cite as proof the fashion show, where she accepted all the credit and never once acknowledged the efforts or contributions of those who assisted her or mentioned their role in the undertaking. Some said that success turned her head; that after her spectacular debut she treated her assistants like maids, not Maidens, and instituted working conditions that were as austere as the apprenticeship system of feudal days. (As more and more orders came in, Toyoko expected them to put in longer hours, until they were working from early morning to late evening, seven days a week; on top of that she gave herself a high salary — 25,000 yen a month — but put everyone else on a 1,500-yen-a-month draw against commission, according to the finished piece.) Others maintained that nothing essential in her character changed; that as well as being talented and creative she had drive and ambition, which came into play more and more and eventually took over.
Toyoko saw it very differently, of course. While she knew that many people were counting on the shop to provide ongoing employment to other Maidens, she did not take that to mean that a cooperative venture should necessarily provide uniformly for everyone. To her way of thinking, Toyo, Haute Couture was her salon, the fruit of her personal achievements. That was not to say that those who were assisting her were not an important part of its success or failure, just that she felt what was in her best interest would ultimately serve their interests. And while she would admit that perhaps she was more authoritarian than need be, Toyoko thought it appropriate to maintain strict control over the internal affairs of the shop, at least until the debts were paid off and profits assured. As for her salary, she felt she had worked hard against long odds to attain a higher position for herself, and she deserved a larger share.
There were other dynamics at work: In certain respects, Toyoko was a liberated woman caught between the pull of the Western ideal of personal fulfillment and self-expression and the traditional Japanese values of loyalty and harmony within the group, who found herself siding with the former. In the end she proved simply not to be a leader who was able to inspire a spirit of sacrifice in those around her, and one by one, beginning with Hiroko, the girls who had embarked on this venture with her exited with an alibi.
Throughout this period, Toyoko did her best to put a good face on what was happening, and managed to keep Ida Day from learning about the divisions, quarrels, and departures. Unable to interest any other Maidens in joining her and faced with a shortage of seamstresses, she worked out an arrangement with a design school in Hiroshima to send four of their promising students to live and work for her on a kind of internship program. The whole business dismayed her greatly when she let herself feel the weight of all the responsibilities that were hers alone, and when it got to be too much to bear, with no one to turn to, she started drinking again.
Then, in 1968, an intermediary approached her in the traditional Japanese manner on behalf of a widower from Hiroshima. Even though she felt strongly that women were entitled to personal and professional aspirations beyond those of a traditional housewife, she had never given up hope that someday a good man would come along, and believed she was capable of combining her career with a relationship. The official go-between was quite enthusiastic about the matc
h, and plans were being made when Toyoko entered Tokyo University Hospital for treatment of a digestive irregularity, only to have it diagnosed as rectal cancer.
It was not a cancer that had been statistically linked to radiation exposure, though the doctors said one never knew for sure about these things, but it was a serious condition and they recommended a colostomy, a surgical procedure in which an artificial anus was created through an incision in her side that opened into the colon. It was too drastic a decision for her to make on such short notice, and the thought of presenting herself to her prospective husband in that way was too embarrassing to consider. Instead, she agreed to undergo what she deemed to be a less radical procedure: the surgical removal of the cancerous tissue, followed by a series of radiation treatments. The results were extremely painful and required her to wear diapers thereafter, but in her mind that was preferable to the alternative.
The marriage proposal was put on hold during her illness and eventually withdrawn, which was just as well, she told herself, all things considered. After that, she made several return trips to the United States, proceeding on to Paris to observe the new directions that American and European couturiers were taking. It was all a part of keeping up-to-date, and what was eminently apparent was that haute couture was on the way out, and ready-to-wear clothes were coming in. Women just did not have the time to stand for hours of fittings; they wanted to be able to go to a single store and find everything they were looking for immediately. Changing with the times, Toyoko closed her shop and accepted a position with an Osaka clothing manufacturer designing a line of dresses that were then mass-produced. She also found the time to teach design at one of Tokyo’s better fashion institutes. She was shuttling between Tokyo and Osaka, making occasional trips to the States, until 1974, when the cancer came out of remission. This time there was no deliberation; it was a matter of life or death, and a permanent colostomy was performed.
When she went to Hiroshima to recover, she decided to remain so she would have family nearby in case of future complications. For years after that she continued to teach, design ready-made clothes and make custom suits for faithful clients. The fate of Toyo, Haute Couture would remain a sensitive topic. Though it eventually became a modestly successful enterprise, whenever it came up in conversation, she would bristle at the suggestion that it was a real might-have-been-that-never-was because of any fault or foible of hers. Her way of answering questions about what happened would be to admit that perhaps she had high expectations of others which could cause trouble when they went unfulfilled, but that the passing of haute couture from vogue accounted for the demise of the shop. However, when she attempted to interest others in the original group in starting up another custom dress business based in Hiroshima, it was clear that much trust had been lost in Tokyo.
Toyoko never married. There were relationships with men, and several more inquiries from intermediaries, but she remained a career woman, first, last, and always. Sometimes she would wonder if her dedication to the pursuit of one goal in life had denied her something important, but just when she would begin to yearn for a companion, or worry about growing old alone, or think about what her life would have been like if she had taken a different course, she would find herself listening to one of the Maidens who had devoted herself to motherhood talk about the compromises that had to be made living with another, and how lucky she was that she did not have family obligations, was free to travel, and had an occupation that gave her feelings of accomplishment.
Today, Toyoko lives in a modern apartment on the outskirts of Hiroshima. She removes her shoes at the door, but inside the furniture is Western and the paintings and prints on the walls are views of the world outside Japan. Her work remains the center of her life, but she also makes time for some of the traditional arts such as oil painting and writing haiku. She shows little interest in politics and shuns publicity except when it pertains to business. While she has a reputation as a successful designer in Tokyo, she is better known in her hometown as one of the Hiroshima Maidens.
Toyoko has not forgotten how she suffered during those awful years after the war, and there are bitter disappointments that still torment her. But when she reflects upon the life she has led as a whole, she is able to say, without irony, that what she has done with her life in many ways fulfills the dreams she had for herself as a younger woman. Her work has been a kind of salvation, giving her the status and satisfaction that she feels would have been hers if there had been no such thing as an atomic bomb. In the sense that she has realized her ambitions, she is able to say she has prevailed over her destiny.
*
As a dressmaker who knew how difficult it was to mend a hole or tear in a fabric, Hiroko Tasaka had no illusions that it would be any easier to repair skin. Her facial scars still held a frightening attraction for strangers, but after twenty-seven operations — fourteen in Japan, thirteen in the United States — she was reconciled to the fact that the best that was humanly possible had been done, and she was prepared to face life with realism and a cool courage.
Nevertheless, just in case she forgot that as a handicapped person she would have to put up with attitudes that did not equal her own in maturity and objectivity, after a year of preparation and a passing grade on her entrance examination, she was almost rejected by the graduate school of her choice on the basis of an admissions bias that favored physically attractive applicants. It took the beneficent intervention of Helen Yokoyama, who spoke personally to the principal and pointed out the public relations benefits the institution that accepted a Hiroshima Maiden would accrue, to open to her a place in the Tokyo Design School that she deserved on her own merits.
Harry Harris proved as relentless in the continuation of his courtship as she was intent on completing her training. His letters came with faithful regularity, sometimes two or three a week, and although they were usually short on sentiment and long on the mundane details that made up his existence, there was never any doubt that the object was still matrimony. She enjoyed hearing from him, but just before classes started she wrote that she did not want to divide her attention. The next two years of her life would be devoted exclusively to her studies, and this would be her last letter. Not one to be discouraged, he wrote in reply, “Do what you have to. I’ll wait.”
As she had it planned, when she graduated she would go back to Hiroshima where she had been promised a teaching position at her old sewing school. Before that could happen, however, Toyoko Morita returned to Tokyo and asked for her help. It was not what Hiroko wanted to do, but knowing that Americans had put up the money and were counting on this venture to create opportunities for other girls hurt by the bomb, it was what she felt she ought to do.
Many of the diverse problems and complications that arose were of a type too petty to enumerate; the issue for Hiroko was simply that she expected to be working with Toyo, not for her. Nor were the tensions of the situation eased by the fact that Toyo paid herself a high salary, while Hiroko received a commission based on the completed work, which was barely enough for her to live on.
A year was her limit. She was a designer in her own right, and she was anxious to open her own shop. Making as tactful an exit as she could under the circumstances, she took an apartment in Hiroshima and went about looking for the right business opportunity. She found a shop easily; on her way to the grocery store one day she made a wrong turn that took her past a row of storefronts, one of which was empty. When she went into the shop next door to find out if it was still vacant, she found herself talking to the owner, who rented it to her on the spot.
She named the shop Dress Room Miyuki, after the temple where she went to pray for a sign that coming back to Hiroshima had been the right decision. At first she depended on orders through family and friends, but when word got around that her work was superior and her rates reasonable, she began to add new customers. Business expanded so rapidly that at one point she had six seamstresses working for her full-time.
Five year
s had passed since her return, and Hiroko was doing what she thought she had always wanted to do. She was even teaching sewing classes during the evenings and on weekends, her lifetime ambition. Yet, there was an unresolved feeling inside. She had noticed it when she first returned from America and was living at home with her mother. Something was missing that she had grown used to when she was part of an American family: the sense of completion brought about by having a man around the house. It was a feeling that had left her home when her father died; and it was a feeling aroused by the letters that kept coming from Harry Harris.
She had made the sensible decision to return to Japan, but his marriage proposal had never lost its grip on her imagination, and now she felt his steadfast devotion pulling on her emotions. Inwardly, she reasoned that if she were Miss Japan it would have made some sense for him to wait and hope for her to change her mind, but since beauty was not a factor, the man must truly love her. And knowing that someone felt that strongly about her after five years apart, with thousands of miles separating them, created a force she found increasingly difficult to resist.
If she had still been in her twenties, it would have been an easier decision to head off, by herself; as it was, she was thirty-three, and it seemed the older she got the more reasons she could think of for not making a major change. She did not really know this man; they had never even been together outside the hospital. He was not very well educated; that was evident from his letters that were as full of misspellings and grammatical errors as her own were when she wrote him back. And marrying a foreigner entailed more risks than marrying a fellow countryman, which itself offered no guarantees of happiness. She felt it would be foolish, too, to abandon a career just when it was beginning to provide her with a secure livelihood.
But a sweet decency radiated from Harris’s letters that made her feel a good heart was more important than an educated mind, and against the protestations of family and friends, Hiroko wrote Harry a letter accepting his proposal. No one knew how it would come out, but as she rationalized it to herself, even if the marriage failed, the regrets would not be as great as those that would linger if she never took the chance.
Hiroshima Maidens Page 23