Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “Too risky to telephone, “Alex said. “I’ll see him when I’m back in Tokyo. “Tommy would want to know, no matter what he reads in the papers, that England is on the move.”

  “He would,” Sarah smiled. “Bless you, Alex. Tell him the kids miss him. And so do I. Say our house is empty and lonely without him.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: JUNE, 1944

  I was fond of Sarah. Everyone was. There are people no-one can ever dislike. She and Tomihisa Hashimoto were like that; always cordial and popular, the kind of people who belonged to each other and no war should ever separate.

  As it happened, Tommy arrived by train two days later, missing his wife and kids, deeply concerned by the news on the radio and in the papers that the attempted invasion of Europe was a defeat. The impression given was that complete catastrophe had overtaken the landings. There were reports of bitter arguments between America’s General Eisenhower and Churchill, and that the whole venture was a debacle. We were able to assure him that if D-Day wasn’t yet a success, it was certainly no debacle.

  We really knew little more than the first news, for we were reliant on the French Ambassador for information. No-one was quite sure where his sympathies lay, whether he was secretly for de Gaulle or for the Vichy government who appointed him. We did know he was reluctant to spread news too frequently. Word of that would infuriate the secret police. It was one thing to have a shortwave radio under cover of diplomatic immunity, quite another to advertise this fact too widely.

  This gave me an opportunity to say I’d drop in on his next door neighbour and Head of Chancellery, Henri Daubigny, as soon as he arrived, as he’d be bound to know the latest details. It didn’t fool Sarah or Tommy for a moment. They roared with laughter, and asked why I didn’t just enlist his daughter Odette as my emissary for daily reports.

  Does everyone here know I fancy Odette? I thought I’d been subtle, but apparently not. “Listen,” I said, for they were good friends, “I don’t even know how she feels about me. We haven’t seen each other since last year. All we did then was meet for coffee, play some tennis, and I took her to the club dance.”

  “We remember,” Sarah smiled. “The pair of you looked good in the mixed doubles, and you danced beautifully.”

  “Pity about the dancing this year,” Tommy added. When I looked blank, he asked hadn’t I heard? A new government edict has just been released. All dancing is henceforth forbidden, as it is considered to be a depraved Western practice.

  Jacques Clermont easily won the tennis final. Prominent among the spectators was an attractive blonde, who applauded his every winner. During the match she was the object of much speculation, for local gossip had quickly established he had arrived with her before the tournament, and they occupied adjoining rooms in the deluxe wing of the Mampei Hotel.

  Poor Cecile, Alex thought, and wondered how it was, in their closed community, that no-one knew he had a working wife to keep him in a style like this. He reflected that they must also have private means, for her wages would hardly pay for the blonde, let alone the adjoining rooms. And then he recalled Kimiko saying the family had made Clermont an allowance.

  “I might as well get up and quietly tiptoe away. You wouldn’t even notice,” said Odette petulantly, and he turned with a guilty start to where she sat alongside him.

  “Sorry,” Alex said, “I was thinking …”

  “I could tell. You were miles away. Thinking of what?”

  “That even if I hadn’t ricked my ankle in the semi-finals, I couldn’t have beaten Jacques. Not the way he played today.”

  “Nobody can beat him,” Odettee said, “which proves you were miles away, because that’s what I was saying moments ago.”

  “Oh, were you?”

  “I was. And I also said that if there was no war, people think he’d be good enough to qualify for Wimbledon.”

  “That’s optimistic. From hard courts of Karuizawa to the hallowed lawn of Wimbledon? He’s good, but not that good.”

  “Who’s the blonde? Do you think that’s his wife?”

  “I doubt it,” Alex said carefully.

  “Just this year’s blonde?”

  “Probably.”

  “He has one. A wife, I mean.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Someone.” She frowned, trying to recollect. “A friend of daddy’s, I think, met her at a dinner. He said she was quiet, rather mousy, not a bit like Jackie boy. Maybe a few years older than him.”

  “Listen,” Alex was anxious to change the subject, and tried to do so. “Are we still having dinner tonight?”

  “Don’t you think it’s strange?” Odette persevered.

  “What’s strange?”

  “Him having a wife, and none of us knowing her. Does he keep her hidden away, or what?”

  “Why would he do that?” Alex decided the conversation ought to end, and the sooner the better. “I’ve had enough talk about the glamorous Jacques. If you have ambitions in that direction, you’ll have to elbow that blonde out of the way. And I doubt she’ll go quietly.”

  “Of course I haven’t got ambitions. Honestly, you say the oddest things lately. They must be overworking you in that bank. You’ve become quite peculiar.”

  “Too peculiar for you to have dinner with tonight? Since I have to leave tomorrow.”

  “No, not that peculiar.”

  “Good,” Alex said as they exchanged smiles. “Is the Mampei restaurant grand enough? I’ve booked a table for us.”

  “Nice. Even my father will approve of us going to the Mampei.”

  “Provided I don’t keep you out late, and bring you home as soon as dinner’s over. Straight home, no detours.”

  “I know he’s strict. He’s only being protective of me.”

  “From me?”

  “From anyone.”

  “But especially me. Is it something I said?”

  “No, I think it’s something I said.”

  “What on earth did you tell him?”

  “That you were sweet — just the sort of boy he must’ve been when he was young. He said if that was true, it made him feel very worried.”

  They both laughed.

  “He’s a bloodhound. No chance of us being alone together … and by that I mean properly alone …”

  “We’ll get a chance.”

  “Not this year. We’ll soon be too old to care.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said softly. “We might’ve found a way, if you’d just stay longer.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Even a little while longer?”

  “I’d lose my job.”

  “That damn bank. Don’t you hate it?”

  “Only sometimes,” Alex said. “Particularly now.”

  Particularly with the bogus charade of morning greetings on his first day back, and the senior staff so artificially polite. Ribot with a limp handshake and a fleeting smile that seemed to cause him pain it was so acidic. The Sardine saying stiffly how quickly the time had passed, as if by implication wishing Alex had remained away longer. Pierre Laroche giving a brusque bonjour accompanied by a forceful handshake. Laroche was one of those who shook hands with other men as though it was a personal test of strength, and enjoyed the satisfaction of making his adversary wince. Alex hardly noticed. In his mind was the grubby image of the chief accountant in pursuit of Kimiko, his hands taking every opportunity to grope her.

  He exchanged polite bows with the Japanese staff, the oldest of whom expressed a hope the mountain air had been beneficial. He’d never had the pleasure of seeing Karuizawa, he said, but heard it was a fine place much enjoyed by the foreign community. Alex felt grateful for his old-fashioned sincerity, then saw Mademoiselle Patou coming to meet him.

  “Alex, I hope you had a good holiday. How’s your ankle?”

  He didn’t ask how she knew. Her husband doubtless kept in regular touch by phone, to make sure she was safely in her place. He doubted if Clermont would care, except for his financial need.
>
  “Much better thanks, Mademoiselle,” he said, and thought it prudent to elaborate. “I hurt it playing tennis. But I had a fine holiday. And I’m envious of my sister and mother staying another month.”

  “Lucky them. I believe the weather was perfect.”

  “Wonderful. Warm sunny days and cool nights.”

  “Sounds heaven,” she said. “The Count’s due at 10. He wants to see you as soon as he arrives.”

  She gave a brief smile and moved away, a small trim figure, the high heels she invariably wore clicking on the marble floor. An elegant sparrow he’d thought when they first met. A wounded sparrow he now realised.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said impulsively, and she turned, inquiringly. For a precarious moment he almost blurted the truth about Jacques and the blonde, but sanity returned. “I’d just want to say it’s nice to be back … and to tell you how well you look.” She was gazing at him astonished, and he improvised desperately. “I mean, you’ve always made me feel welcome here. Right from the start. The day I was so early, remember?”

  “Indeed I do. You were keen. It’s no fault to be early.”

  “Anyway, you really do look well, so I just wanted to say that. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” she said, so softly he could barely hear her. “No, I don’t mind. Thank you very much.”

  He wondered if he was imagining it, or if she was walking more briskly towards her office. Imagination, he decided, because his first thought had been that she was upset and about to cry.

  The Count appeared to be in one of his expansive moods. After ordering coffee for them both, he said there were urgent matters that had arisen during the past few weeks, some requiring instant attention. Alex knew this meant several currency transactions to Switzerland and there would be some late nights ahead for them both. What he was not expecting was the Count’s next words.

  “Things are changing. Normal daily business across the counter in the banking chamber is decreasing every month, and will do so until the end of the war. As a result, I’ve been forced to contemplate some staff changes. Certain redundancies, I’m afraid.” He looked across at Alex. “Not you. They’ll be announced in due course, but you can rest assured you won’t be one of them.”

  After a moment of relief Alex wanted to ask about Mademoiselle, but had to remain silent as the servant brought in their coffee. By then he decided it would be unwise to speak. But the Count studied him carefully and when the servant had left, asked what was troubling him?

  “Nothing,” Alex said.

  “Come on,” the Count said. “We know each other better than that. What’s the problem?”

  “Mademoiselle Patou? It’s none of my business, Monsieur, but…”

  “You’re quite right, it isn’t your business,” the Count said, “although I have to wonder why you asked?”

  “No particular reason,” Alex replied.

  “That won’t do, Alex.”

  “I worry about her.”

  “I see.”

  The Count was thoughtful. Alex took refuge in a gulp of coffee, and wished he hadn’t. His mouth felt scalded.

  “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”

  “I just like her, Your Excellency, and hope she won’t lose her job.”

  “She won’t lose her job. I can promise you that. Now in return you may as well be honest with me. How much do you know of her domestic situation?”

  “Quite a lot,” said Alex after a pause.

  “Who else realises it, here in the bank?”

  “No-one, as far as I know,” he was able to truthfully say.

  “Is Mademoiselle aware that you know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well,” the Count took a careful sip of his coffee, “that seems to dispose of that. She’s had a rotten life — still does have in fact — but she’s a most capable secretary, and we both like her. Can we leave it at that?”

  “Yes, please,” Alex said.

  “Good,” the Count nodded, “So if I may continue …”

  “I apologise for interrupting, Monsieur.”

  “What I was going to say,” a steely gaze warned Alex not to interrupt again, “is that sometimes it takes an absence to establish a person’s worth. I’ve been conscious of how much I depend on your assistance. The work you and I do is keeping this bank open and viable. So, as I’m proposing to cut our costs, I’ve been considering our structure and the matter of your remuneration. That’s the word you like to use, isn’t it? Remuneration?”

  Oh God, Alex thought, now we get to the crunch. This is what it’s about; a reduced salary. Just when Mama is starting to run out of money.

  “I’m planning to give you an increase.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir?”

  “Anything wrong with your hearing, Alex? An increase. I think, for all the additional work you do, and the extra time spent here — 150 yen a month seems more reasonable.”

  Alex blinked. He opened his mouth to try to express his gratitude, but absolutely no sound emerged.

  ALEX’S DIARY: JULY, 1944

  I’ve written to tell Mama, who is delighted. She wrote back admitting her money has virtually gone, so it’s a relief to her that they can depend on me. Which they can, although it does put an end to a thought in the back of my mind, that perhaps I might propose — and if she said yes — become engaged to Odette.

  I’m sorry some of the older Japanese clerks have been retired. But no regrets that the Sardine has been told the bank no longer requires his services. Henri Sardaigne departed a bitter man. The Count offered him a decent redundancy as well as a good reference. The Sardine accepted both without gratitude. He said he can never get a new position in Japan, as he can’t speak the bloody stupid language, and the only place he was qualified to work in was the French bank. The Count has destroyed his life, he announced to anyone who cared to listen. His wife would feel humiliated.

  Several of the young typists said — deliberately loudly — that the Sardine had never mentioned a wife when he had kept pestering them to sleep with him.

  12

  SAIPAN

  It was reported as being a small base of no importance. Nothing but limestone atolls, reefs and jungle, was how Japanese newspapers referred dismissively to Saipan in the Northern Mariana Islands, when they announced a tactical withdrawal in August 1944. The announcement neglected to mention this was another in a chain of the enemy’s island conquests, which over the past 18 months had won back Guadalcanal, regained the Solomons as well as the Marshall Islands, and now stood poised a great deal closer to the shores of their own divine homeland.

  Few among the public knew of this tightening embrace. Tiny islands on maps made small news, but they were often strategic. Saipan was a prize, but no report gave the real reason for the costly attack to secure it, nor mentioned the thousands of Japanese lost in its defence. No word leaked out that this particular island contained several airstrips, each of them large enough to take the new B-29 Superfortress bombers, or that these aircraft had a range that might enable them to fly to the industrial cities of Japan and perhaps even to Tokyo itself. Such a possibility would have been ridiculed.

  “Are you sure of this?” Alex asked his friend Tomihisa Hashimoto. They were in a park in central Tokyo, the safest place to have this discussion.

  “Absolutely,” Tommy said. “I’ve told Sarah she’s to stay up in Karuizawa with the children.”

  “But what about their school?”

  “Bugger school. I want my kids alive. I can’t talk to any Japanese friends about this because I’m never sure who I can trust. Some still believe in Yamato-damashii, the spirit of glorious sacrifice for the Emperor. But the war can’t be won, Alex. You and I know that.”

  “Why are you so certain there’ll be air raids?”

  “Because of Saipan. When I was there years ago it had a good airport. Lots of jungle around it but chop that down and the largest planes could take off and land.” He p
aused and looked around carefully. “And there’s something else. The government has ordered us to impose a limit of 3000 yen insurance, on any claim for war damage regardless of the amount of cover.”

  “Can you do that? Legally?”

  “We do what we’re told. National security makes everything legal. It’s highly confidential, so not a word.”

  “You mean, if a building’s insured for a million..?”

  “Tough luck. It gets paid 3000.”

  “Say it was the Imperial Hotel? Are you trying to tell me..?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s protection against too many claims for fire damage, all coming at once. What does that suggest to you? To me it suggests air raids and property going up in flames.”

  “It does,” Alex said. He agreed to say nothing, but could not help thinking of the French bank’s frail building in the heart of the city.

  After this, the rumours about Saipan began to grow. Ships that straggled back to mainland ports contained survivors who knew the details of the heavy casualties. By early September the government censorship bureau had dramatically altered its tactics. It not only conceded that the Marianas had fallen, but ordered newspapers to carry a translation from America’s Time magazine, which reported that women on the islands had committed suicide, plunging off cliffs to their deaths rather than surrender to the invaders.

  Editorials stridently declared that even the enemy must now realise the intensity of zealous Japanese patriotism that would bring their enemies undone. America and its allies could hardly ignore this demonstration of supreme sacrifice for the Emperor, which was a precursor to Japan’s ordained victory. People were assured that the longer the war lasted, the more certain the indomitable national spirit would prevail — and in the face of it the American will to fight would collapse in inevitable disarray.