I remember too, Mother's strength of will which led to my salvation. She would say this strength was from her fox mother. In some way this is accurate. She had at least animal instinct of love for her child.
Ume-chan, you are now three years of age. (Mr. Wada's note: “We Japanese mark age from moment of conception.”) You are slow to speak, but doctors say not to have concern and recall for me that you were also late in your walking. I think you are like the slow growing gingko, a long time to make such a strong tree. Some day when you are grown, beyond my need of care and perhaps when I have died, you may find this writing, which I am making today in Mother's old tea ceremony house in Hiroshima. In case I have not told you full circumstance of miracle which saved you and I together, you may learn this part of your history in this my writing to you.
It was so sad, Barbara thought, Michi-san convincing herself that Ume would have a normal life. And here she was, in Ume's place. Prickles rose on her arms and along the back of her neck. She looked back down at the page.
Your father Kenzaburo was a good man of whom you may be proud. Though he had no taste for war, he bravely accepted his fate to be a soldier. Before war he had been a professor of botany at Hiroshima University. In the only letter I received from him he described foliage and seeds in jungle of Guam. His superior granted him permission to return home to Hiroshima some days in spring of 1945 and it was then you were conceived. In July of that year he died of dengue fever on Saipan, though it was some time after end of war before I learned this.
Barbara tried to visualize Kenzaburo—there had been no picture of him on Michi's butsudan that she could recall.
“My daughter, as you will know by the day you have found this writing . . .” Barbara re-read the sentence again.
My daughter, as you will know . . . Hiroshima met its end on August 6, 1945 at 8:15 A.M. In one instant, the city I had known was changed to hell.
I was living with Kenzaburo's mother in the center of the city, an area called Castle Town. That morning I was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Mrs. Nakamoto was outdoors in back of the house tending to some chores near the storehouse. I was unwell with nausea symptoms of early pregnancy and had tarried in preparation of rice and beans. Our maid Yuko once gave me a piece of lemon to suck when I had some nausea as a young girl. I remember closing my eyes to think of a slice of beautiful fresh lemon as I stood in the kitchen that morning. The memory of lemon was the last one of my normal life.
Barbara turned to the next page, the papers trembling in her hands.
Of bomb falling and house collapsing I have no clear memory. Perhaps some slight recollection though this may be from what Mother later told me.
Ume-chan, this is miracle story I wished to tell you. Mother—your grandmother Chie—had two weeks before the bombing gone to stay with her elder sister in Kaidahara. Father had insisted her to do this, as there was much uneasiness as to the fate of Hiroshima. Though it was the military capital, Hiroshima had not been bombed. There were many speculations about why this was so. Some thought some important American may live in the city, maybe even a relative of President Truman. Others believed that the Americans may be saving Hiroshima as place for their villas after the war since it is very beautiful place. But Father and Mother had dread of attack upon our city.
In Kaidahara Mother had strong visions each day of her mother, whom she believed was now a wise spirit fox. Though I think this was her own intuition, she was convinced that her fox mother was warning that her child Michi and unborn grandchild are in grave danger and she must go to them.
On the morning of August 6 she took early train from Kaidahara and then a streetcar from the station to house where we were. Mother had just stepped up onto porch of the house to call out “Good Morning” when the bomb fell. She had called out “Oha-,” but before she can say “yo,” there was a huge boom and flash of light and the house collapsed. The porch shingles fell on her, but she was able to get free. If she had been inside she would have been buried beneath the heavy tiles and roof beams as were you and I. Though I do not recall crying out, Mother said she could hear my weak, “Mother, Mother” and— with her fox mother providing her strength, she said—she was able to free me from the rubble. She put me across her shoulders and ran toward river. I was not conscious. She has described that all around the houses were flat, as though crushed by huge giant's foot, and many were in flames. The sky was dark as night and there was thick greasy smoke. People lay on the ground, dead, or softly moaning. Some were scorched so black Mother could not recognize their faces. Others stood in shock or moved like sleepwalkers. Many people leapt into the river to ease their burns. Mother's face and hands were burned but she did not realize this for some days.
Barbara closed her eyes for a moment; the scene was as vivid in her mind as if it had been etched there. She forced herself to continue.
I can remember being at edge of river with Mother pouring water over my face. She found a large branch and put me on it and began to push downstream. There was an awful stench of something like sulphur. All around in ghostly silence people cried out “Mother, Mother.” I thought I was not awake but in some terrible nightmare. Perhaps I did go to sleep then. I do not remember the military officer who spoke to mother. He was standing at attention beside the bank though his uniform was in shreds. He had a hole in the side of his body and was holding his intestine inside with his hands. Mother said he looked directly at her and told her she would be wise not to stay in river. Since I did not recall him and because his presence was so commanding Mother later decided that this was her fox mother in the disguise of a soldier. Other evidence she said was that after she took me up onto the bank he had disappeared. Whatever the case, we have survived and did not drown in river like many others. We then passed a night which I do not recall and which Mother said was too terrible for words to describe.
It was perhaps the next day we made our way to our house. I remember thick smoke from houses on fire and piled up corpses by side of road. Many persons walked like ghosts along the roads staring straight before them. People lying on ground called for water but we had none to give. By the side of the road I saw a mother holding a dead baby to her breast. This made me think of you, Ume-chan. I put my hands on my belly and prayed for your safety.
“We ran up our street in Koi.” Seiji had mentioned Koi. Barbara read on more quickly. “Though many houses were destroyed a few were spared. We found our house badly damaged but the teahouse—I remember Mother's joy to see this—was unharmed. All plum trees had lost their leaves, black on the ground. We cannot find Father, sister Haru or brother Shoichi. Mother ran next door to neighbor...”— Would that have been Seiji? Barbara wondered—“and learnt that Father had gone to search for Haru and Shoichi, who had been working in fire lane, and for me.
There was the rumble of a truck outside—we went out to see bodies, some live, some dead, being taken to Koi Elementary school grounds. We joined a flood of people heading up the hills to Mitaki temple. There we found water but no food for many days. Eventually Father came, bearing Shoichi's body; of Haru there was no trace. He was relieved to see me, as he had found my in-laws house on fire and Mrs. Nakamoto lying in the yard, her body skeleton and ash.
We cremated your young uncle Shoichi and put some ashes into one of Mother's tea bowls. Mother collapsed from grief and from that time on was in hospital. For weeks afterward we attended to Mother and continued to search for Haru-chan. Finally Father said we must accept that she has been incinerated in the blast. There were many months when my despair was very great. Sometimes I thought I would not continue to live, were it not for you growing inside me.
Barbara took a long breath as she turned to the final page.
Ume-chan, you were born the next February, not long after Mother's death. Father had by that time gone to stay in Kaidahara while our house was under repair. He had insisted me to come, but I refused. Still I was searching for some evidence of Haru-chan. I took my meals with the Okadas
next door. Mrs. Okada had been blinded in blast and I was able to be some help to her. Okada father was missing, also young daughter Itsuko. Some days the Okadas“ son Seiji and I roamed the city together, looking for some sign of our lost relatives.
At night I slept in the teahouse. One morning I was too tired to rise. I thought I am too weak, perhaps I am dying. The possibility that I may not find Haru before I die caused me to begin crying. But then there were huge pains in my belly. Sei-san heard my cries and ran to teahouse.
Sei-san must be Seiji; his aunt had called him that.
His mother was at Red Cross hospital, he said, but he will help me. He ran away and soon returned with a bucket of water, strips of cloth, and a blanket, which he laid over us.
I thought perhaps you would not come forth alive, Ume-chan. You had moved very little in my belly. When I heard your cry I was pierced with joy. Your birth was more a miracle than the blossoming of plum trees in our desolate landscape.
Seiji Okada was present at your birth, Ume-chan. He knelt beside us as I first held you to my breast. In that moment of assisting us, Sei-san has become a man.
Barbara stared down at the page, then at the black chairs, the streaked window, the two students playing Go. Everything seemed unreal, a thin surface that could be peeled away. The waitress came slowly toward her. She dropped money on the table and fled. Her feet carried her to the train.
In a daze she returned to the campus, walked into Sango-kan and up the stairs. The building echoed with her steps. In her apartment, she stood in the kitchen, holding the strands of bead curtain around her. It was unbearable to be alone. She turned and ran across the hall to knock on Miss Ota's door.
22
Dear child, what is it? Please come in.”
“Michi-san,” Barbara said. “The reason I knew she was a survivor of Hiroshima was from some writing she left to me.”
“Ah.”
“I just had part of it translated—what happened—on that day.
How could she go on after that?”
Miss Ota led Barbara into her apartment; they sat at her kotatsu.
“Nakamoto sensei would be most touched by your response to her writing,” Miss Ota said. “Indeed, I am touched as well.”
Barbara thought of Seiji, how he turned away from her as he read Michi's story. “Why didn't she leave it to a Japanese friend— someone who'd be closer to the experience?”
“Perhaps she hoped to enlighten you. As it seems, she has done.”
Barbara put her head in her hands. Miss Ota went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of sherry.
“Thank you, Miss Ota. I don't know what I'd do without you.”
“Your acquaintance is a comfort to me as well. A bright spot in my life.” She sipped at her drink. “Not many people now living are aware that I was born in the state of Texas.”
“Texas!” She couldn't imagine Miss Ota in Texas.
“My father was an agricultural specialist doing some work in plains of western Texas. We returned to Japan in my high school days. After I graduated from Kodaira College I went on to Cambridge, where I spent a number of years, though I never felt myself entirely at home. So you see I have always been a bit like the ugly duckling, not quite at ease in Western world or Japan.”
Barbara nodded. “I see.”
Miss Ota took her hand. “Now, will you kindly keep me company for the evening meal?”
Barbara lay awake much of the night, Michi-san's story running through her mind: Chie's premonition, the soldier by the edge of the river, holding his guts inside, the mother with a lifeless baby at her breast. Then Michi giving birth with Seiji's assistance. No wonder Seiji couldn't translate those pages on the spot. How petty her jealousy about Carol seemed now.
The next day after her morning classes Barbara walked through the woods to Takanodai, noticing for the first time that the trees were all fairly slender, none of the trunks of wider girth than the oak tree her father planted when they moved to Stone Street. This area had probably been heavily bombed in the Tokyo air raids. A devastated landscape lay beneath this tranquil green one, and beneath that, still another world.
She found Seiji in the restaurant eating lunch. Kimi was sitting across from him, the two of them talking and laughing. She stood by the door a moment, shifting the black bag from one hand to the other. When Seiji looked up at her his face changed, the smile suddenly gone. He said something to Kimi; she got up and scuttled off toward the kitchen.
Barbara sat down where Kimi had been. The plastic seat was still warm. They had been eating domburi, rice topped with vegetables and egg. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I wanted to talk to you. In private,” she added, as Kimi reemerged from the kitchen and began to busy herself behind the counter.
He stood, pushing back his chair.
“Don't you want to finish your lunch?”
He shook his head. She followed him out of the restaurant to the pottery. “Have you made some new pieces today?” she asked.
“Not today.” He lit a cigarette and began rearranging some tea bowls on a shelf.
She glanced toward the little room where they had made love; the door was closed.
“I've brought back Michi-san's 1949 papers,” she said. “I apologize for the other night. I was upset—about other things.” She took the roll of papers out of the bag and handed them to him.
He accepted them with a bow. “Thank you,” he said. “I think I caused the difficulty with my behavior. I have regret for this.”
“Shall we—read them together?” She couldn't bring herself to confess about having had them translated; she could tell by his face that he'd never forgive her. “Whenever you have time,” she added. He looked at her steadily. “Oh, Seiji, don't you want to see me anymore?”
He stepped forward and put his arms around her. She let the black bag fall and embraced him. He held her gingerly, the papers in one hand behind her back. “I want to see you,” he whispered.
“When?”
He was silent a moment. “Boso Pennisula is beautiful place. We could read papers there, also have lovers' patch up. Shall we make an excursion this weekend?”
“Yes.” She kissed his cheek. “You keep the papers until then. Maybe it would be easier to write them out.”
“If I have time I can do this.” They walked back outdoors and into the street. “Please wait for me at the Kokubunji taxi stand on Saturday at nine,” he said. “I will drive up for you then.”
Saturday was a warm spring day. They rode with the truck windows open, talking very little, occasional comments that did not develop into conversation. At Barbara's feet was the black bag, which contained some of the papers from the 1950s, should they have time for them. She kept thinking about the papers Seiji had brought with him. When he read Michi-san's story, she'd have to act as though she knew nothing about it. He was driving intently, staring straight ahead. He was also likely to be thinking about the 1949 narrative, Michi's experience, and his own, not wanting to relive it in the translation. People always had secret thoughts; at this moment they probably were having the same ones, except that he was unaware of her duplicity.
They stopped for a traffic light. An old woman was walking on the side of the road, bent over by an enormous load of sticks on her back. “Seiji,” she said. “The 1949 papers—did you write them out?”
He shook his head. “We can read together,” he said.
The drive to the Peninsula took only a couple of hours. They turned off the main highway onto a smaller road and were soon riding along a cliff beside the ocean. The water was a steely blue and flecked with whitecaps as far as she could see. Seiji pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road and they walked to the edge of the cliff. Huge waves buffeted the jagged rocks below them, throwing up spumes of white. The strong breeze blew her hair straight back and made her eyes water. She touched his hand; he wrapped his fingers around hers.
They stayed at an inn outside a small town. Across the ro
ad from the ocean, the inn had no view of water, as she'd imagined. Their room was tiny, with a dim overhead light and a flimsy table. She set her suitcase and the black bag in one corner of the room and followed the maid down the hall to a bath for one person. The water wasn't clean; there were a couple of hairs floating on the surface; she washed off and rinsed without immersing herself. When she went back to their room dressed in her yukata he was not there. He reappeared a half hour later, flushed from his bath, and sat down across from her at the table with a newspaper.
Dinner was tempura that was too thickly battered and not very warm. He drank most of the bottle of sake and then called for more. His eyes were red by the time the maid brought the futon.
They undressed without speaking and lay side by side. She reached toward him, put one hand on his chest. He rolled over onto her. His breath smelled strongly of sake. She turned her face away as he moved above her; it was over quickly. “I am sorry,” he said, “I am somewhat tired,” then rolled away and went immediately to sleep, snoring slightly. She stared up into the dark, her eyes stinging.
Plum Wine: A Novel (Library of American Fiction) Page 20