People nearby laughed. Volkmann was typically dismissive.
“Smart bastards,” he said. “You two were always so busy trying to be smart. In school I thought you were both pathetic.”
“We used to speak highly of you, too,” Alex said.
Behind his counter a duty constable methodically stamped the documents. The slow line moved up a few paces.
“What have you done lately, Volkmann?” Claude asked. “I mean apart from being the same insufferable pain in the arse.”
“None of your business.”
“You’re right. It’s not. Forget I asked.”
“As a matter of fact,” the Swiss was unable to let this show of indifference pass, “I thought it was known my father heads a committee of the International Red Cross in Japan. And for the past year I’ve been his principal assistant.”
“You do sound important,” Alex decided.
“I am,” he said, ignoring the mockery, “since I virtually run the show.”
“Bravo. And got the job on merit. No nepotism, not from rich old Swiss daddy.”
“Get stuffed,” Wilhelm said to Alex. “We all know you’re as poor as a church mouse since your father skipped. You’re bound to be jealous.”
“What a charmer,” Claude said. “What a bloody turd.”
They had their permits stamped, and headed up the street to the railway station, glad to leave him behind.
“Funny, running into him again after all this time.”
“I could do without running into him at all,” Alex said.
“It’s just that I heard something about the Red Cross from one of our journalists,” Claude said.
“How do you mean odd?”
“Peculiar. He was going to chase up the story and let me know. I’ve heard nothing, so it was probably a rumour. Our office is full of rumours, half of which turn out to be bullshit.”
“Those are the ones that get printed as the news.”
“Absolutely right.”
“So tell me about this one. Even if it is a rumour.”
“Well, it seems as if … “
“Hey, you two! Buenos Dias!”
The voice was unmistakable. Teresa Rodriguez had once been Claude’s girlfriend, and the following term Alex’s, when they were all aged 14 and she had attended St Maur’s Convent for girls. In those days she had straight hair and braces on her teeth. Now she had long flowing hair, and the vivid looks of her mother who was a Spanish beauty. She was also engaged to be married.
After greeting Teresa, all other talk was suspended. The platform was full of friends and cheerful chatter. Then, within moments the train arrived, and they were crammed into a carriage by the gloved hands of the pushers. Private conversation was impossible, and when they reached Tokyo there had been delays and the train was 10 minutes overdue. Claude had to sprint to catch the underground, as the press office where he worked was on the far side of the city.
“Tell you about it next time,” he called as they parted, which was to be longer than either of them anticipated. Claude went to Korea to interpret for a French film crew making a documentary, while Alex had troubles to occupy his mind. The International Red Cross rumour was promptly forgotten, and did not surface until long afterwards. By then the world had changed.
ALEX’S DIARY: MAY, 1944
Ingrid is dead. Ingrid Krause, my father’s mistress who loved him but could never marry him because the church would not allow it, has died in Indochina, at a place called Dalat where Papa has a villa in the hills. She’d contracted tuberculosis six months after they arrived there, and had been ill for the past two years without any of us knowing. My mother, who had every reason to hate her, for once was silenced.
Mathilde and I feel a sense of loss. We’re sad for Papa — and sorry for her because she was too young and full of life for this. We are appalled the church was unforgiving of her to the end, and the local priest had refused her the last rites. When our father’s anger made him change his mind, the priest arrived too late.
The news came in a letter smuggled out of Indochina by my father, who managed to bribe a member of the crew on a troopship bringing wounded soldiers back to Yokohama. It had been written weeks earlier, for the ship did not return directly to Japan, but went first to Okinawa and the Philippines. The sailor who brought the letter to the house said they had taken a great many wounded from both these places. Mostly victims of bombing raids, for the Americans are capturing islands from where their planes can fuel and mount attacks. Waves of bombers, he told us. And far more wounded, he said, than we would read about in the newspapers.
He apologised for being the bearer of sad news, walking off down the street, with a rolling motion of his body that sailors have, as if the dry land sways beneath their feet and only the sea is firm and unyielding.
My father, being cautious in case the letter did not reach us, was guarded about the situation in Indochina. He only said there were certain problems; the business was not doing as well as he had expected, and he had difficulties. Ingrid’s illness had been a long and painful time, and left him feeling a great deal older and very lonely.
He wished he could see Mathilde and me again, but knew it was not conceivable as long as the war lasted. It was a sad letter and that night I sat down to write to him instead. Late that night I was still gazing at the same sheet of paper, with the few feeble words on it.
“Dear Papa, I was very sorry to receive your sad news, brought today, and we send our sympathy in your time of grief.”
The rest of that night, while trying to write something apt, I went through my collective memories of my father, from growing up in our family home at Kobe. Trying to retain his dignity the day Mama found out about Ingrid. Most treasured perhaps, the brief time we spent together in Karuizawa, and watched the firelight while he told me about his activities and the security police. By dawn I’d managed a page, and by then I thought of a way to send it to him.
“No, I’m sorry, Alex,” the Count was unusually apologetic, but quite adamant. “It’s out of the question. Far too dangerous.”
“Sir, it’s the diplomatic bag. Nobody will open it.”
“You think not?”
“How could they? It’s sacrosanct.”
“Not entirely. This bag goes directly to the French Office in Saigon,” the Count replied, “who will certainly be interested in mail addressed to your father. And will assuredly open it, as his name is on file there.”
“But this is just a letter of sympathy. I knew her, and despite all the family problems, I liked her. Why can’t I express my regret?”
“Because the question will be asked, how did you come to know of her death?”
“I had a letter from my father.”
“And how did he send it? Not by regular mail, because they would stop his letters. Which means he smuggled it out.”
“But how would they know? And why stop his mail?”
“He’s under suspicion, Alex. He’s been watched by the High Police for years. I made it my business to find out.” He eyed Alex for a moment. “In fact, he was lucky to leave Japan before being arrested. But perhaps you already knew that.”
“Yes,” Alex said, after a moment. “I knew. I had to lie to you.”
The Count nodded, unsurprised. He gave a faint smile.
“I don’t blame you for your family loyalty. But if those in Saigon realise you’re using the diplomatic bag to write to him — no matter how personal the reason — then your name goes on a file. Which I can’t allow, because it makes us vulnerable.”
“Us?”
“First you, perhaps others in the bank, then me as well. At the least we’d have question marks against our names. If that happened, we could never use embassy channels again. So there could be no more transactions with Zurich. Which would mean, before long, the bank might have to close its doors.”
ALEX’S DIARY: MAY, 1944
Is he being alarmist? Truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve put the letter
to my father in the back page of this diary, and one day I hope it will be possible to give it to him, and explain why it could not be sent. The Count was perhaps thinking of his own self-interest, or that of the French bank, but the message came through loud and alarming.
Papa is under constant police scrutiny. Even if I sent the letter by normal mail it would be intercepted and he would be questioned. They would find he had smuggled the news out to me, and perhaps he would be turned over to security police for interrogation. If he was able to smuggle out one letter, what else had he smuggled out? What other news, and to whom? There seems no logic to this, but since when have secret police been logical? I’ve heard of their methods, and what happens to people imprisoned in their cells. So no reply will be sent. Perhaps he’ll wonder why, perhaps he’ll assume his news never arrived or else, worst of all, that we didn’t care.
Please God, there will be a chance some day to tell him this, and to truthfully say that I’m sorry.
11
THE SUMMER OF ’44
Karuizawa seemed like an illusion, as if the war did not exist. The town was packed with visitors, the winding lanes lively with the ring of bicycle bells. It had always displayed the visage of a European resort, more like an alpine village than a Japanese town 100 kilometres from Tokyo. Sixty years earlier, a British Archdeacon of the Tokyo Imperial University had come on a walking tour to study the ancient Nagano road that was used by feudal lords and their retinues, and he built the first cottage. Over the years his compatriots and other foreigners, living and working in the Far East, had erected holiday homes and made it their own particular haven. In the summer of 1944, with half the world being torn apart, it felt tranquil and unreal.
There were changes, Alex realised. Some of the houses he’d known since his childhood had different owners, although not by choice. After the outbreak of war, homes belonging to families now interned as enemy aliens had been confiscated — or as the official decree phrased it — “acquired in the national interest without compensation”, and were leased or sold to wealthy Japanese. Fortunately the houses owned by neutral foreigners did not come under this edict.
It was noticeable there were more Germans, some renting or acquiring houses, while others lived at the Mampei Hotel. Many had worked for German firms or the Nazi government in places like Hong Kong, Manila, Borneo and Singapore, and been freed on Japan’s southward march. Unable to return home through lack of shipping, the Third Reich Embassy was instructed by Berlin to pay them a pension which allowed them to live in comfort, with the added status of being esteemed allies. Alex had heard some Germans express the hope the war would continue indefinitely; they had rarely enjoyed such luxury.
It was early June when, together with his mother and sister, Alex came to their modest cottage in Karuizawa for the first visit in two years. But no longer could they send word to the local farmer who had acted as their caretaker, and who would ensure one of his daughters aired and cleaned the rooms, while he tidied the garden. Those days were over. The farmer was fully engaged growing needed crops, and his daughters were working in the small factories making armaments. At least while the war lasted, house owners, except for the embassy people and the very rich, had to look after their homes on arrival.
But after that it was the same pattern all over Karuizawa, a touch of déjà vu as the summer visitors came up by train and settled in, oiling their bikes, pumping tyres, then cycling through the lanes to call on friends and issue invitations or renew friendships. Others visited the stables to book horse riding, or went to reserve courts at the tennis club.
Alex rode into the town, past the English bookshop with its sign CLOSED FOR THE DURATION. At the club he put himself down for the tennis tournament, then noticed among other entries was the name of Jacques Clermont. He idly wondered if his wife Mademoiselle Patou — Cecile Clermont as he had to avoid calling her — might be coming to Karuizawa, but she had given no hint of it. Besides, much as he liked Mademoiselle, he wanted to get away from all thoughts of the bank. He had requested and been granted three weeks leave. He envied Mathilde, now she had finished school, who would spend all June and July here with his mother, but even the prospect of three weeks vacation from the tension existing in the bank was a welcome relief.
He rode out of town in the direction of the Hanare Yama golf club. A picturesque nine-hole course, it was rarely used since the government decreed golf to be a decadent and corrupt foreign sport. But the French Ambassador and his Head of Chancellery, Claude Daubigny, and a number of other keen players had prevailed on the greenkeeper to remain there, and paid his wages privately. It was Daubigny’s house near the golf course that Alex was slowly cycling past — not with any intention to encounter the Head of Chancellery, but in the hope of seeing his daughter, 19-year-old Odette.
The house was closed and shuttered. The Daubigny family were obviously still at the embassy in Tokyo. Alex did a slow circle in the hope that he might be wrong, but nothing happened apart from the rotund figure of the Ambassador emerging from his house next door. He stared across at the lone figure on the bicycle with some suspicion, then recognised Alex and waved.
“She’ll be here next week,” he called.
God, am I that obvious, Alex thought. He cheerfully waved back, then leisurely cycled home. While he rode, his thoughts returned to the problem that troubled him at the French bank, how the jealously that had been simmering for the past few months, was daily becoming more overt.
The Count de Champeaux seemed sublimely indifferent to the way his senior staff resented the unique advancement of a junior clerk. They were unused to this; in their opinion, young men of Alex’s age were there to perform suitably menial tasks, writing out debit and credit advices, acting as relieving tellers, or running messages. No decent bank would tolerate the way they were being excluded and insulted by the Count, they continually grumbled — in favour of this schoolboy!
Alex knew of their envy. It was impossible to be unaware of it. What upset them was the realisation he was the sole person who worked with the Count on the private matters euphemistically known as “overseas transactions”. What these were they might hypothesise, and frequently did, but dared not speculate aloud. Having to accept that a junior had the Count’s confidence was a recurring humiliation. Even their ritual morning greetings were now constrained.
Andre Ribot was the most resentful. Since the sudden departure of Kimiko, for which he continued to blame Alex, he had become increasingly malicious. Just because this youth in his 20s could type and speak the local language, he continually protested, it was outrageous he should be so favoured, overlooking the fact Ribot himself had neither of these useful attributes. It was more than a year since Kimiko’s parting, but the antipathy had lasted, even intensified. Ribot and Henri Sardaigne — the Sardine — were almost as bad, constantly trying to find fault with their junior clerk’s work. Alex realised the situation was coming to a head. He had no idea where it might end, but tried to tell himself it would be a welcome respite to have three weeks away from the rapidly poisoning atmosphere.
It was their neighbour Sarah Hashimoto who brought them the news.
“They’ve invaded France,” was all she could say at first, as she joyfully hugged Mathilde then burst into tears.
“Who has?”
“We have, Alex. American and British and forces. You and me!”
“What?”
“Yesterday, June 6th. The Allies landed in Normandy.”
“Sarah, is it true? We’ve heard these rumours about a second front for so long.”
“It’s true,” Sarah said, and Alex knew it must be, and that she had heard it from the French Ambassador whose Karuizawa residence had a shortwave radio. Although these were illegal, Ambassadors were protected by diplomatic immunity, and if the authorities knew, there was little they could do about it.
“At long last! There’ll be resistance of course?”
“Ferocious resistance, according to the BBC. But they lande
d and they’ve established a few beachheads. It’s the beginning. I just wish I could phone Tommy and tell him.”
They all knew it was impossible. Tomihisa Hashimoto was at his insurance office in Tokyo, and there was every possibility that his line was tapped. Particularly as he had been head of a Japanese company’s London branch, where he had met and married an English girl. Sarah was now in her mid-40s, and they had two children, some years younger than Alex and Mathilde. She was at liberty because — realising that if war came she could be interned — she’d taken Japanese nationality as the only way her family could remain together.
But Alex knew where her sentiments lay. Sarah owned a tiny dog, a Jack Russell, which she had trained to do a dangerous party trick. Whenever she spoke the names King George, Churchill or Roosevelt, the dog sat up straight, looking eager and happy. If she uttered the names Tojo or Hitler it cowered and began to whine. Their friends laughed, but it upset Tommy, who worried that if it was to be reported she could be in serious trouble. No-one was to be trusted in these times, he insisted. Tommy would not want her to risk phoning him, not even with this special news.
“It has to be in the newspapers,” Alex said. “He’ll read it in the Nippon Times.”
“You know what he’ll read,” Sarah said, and quoted the kind of story they could expect. “A futile effort to invade France was made by the Americans and British, and easily repulsed by the German army. Huge allied losses followed.”
They all knew censorship had intensified, and it was often difficult to interpret what was happening in the outside world. Few risked possessing a shortwave radio, and embassy staff were cautious about imparting information. Because there were no air raids, people were easily convinced the war was still being won. Indeed, it might be, but Alex and his friends had learned to decipher phrases that, ever since the Japanese advance had stalled, were being used in the newspapers.
“A planned withdrawal to prepared positions,” meant a retreat. Like their Nazi partners in Berlin, the Japanese had learned the value of clever propaganda. This mass indoctrination meant marshalling all information outlets, all entertainment industries, filling the screens and newspaper headlines with the phrases that reassured people. “Victory News”, “Military Gods” and “The Sacred War” all became popular slogans. There was a sudden output of patriotic movies, using graphic scenes taken from planes swooping to attack the American fleet at Pearl Harbour, shots so vivid the audience felt as if they were in the cockpit, sharing the triumph with the pilots. Even the newsreels, always a favourite with the public, enhanced their images to the potent music of Wagner.
Dragons in the Forest Page 11