Most, accustomed to indoctrination, believed it. Those in doubt found it better to remain circumspect. Alex, commuting daily from Yokohama, often thought about his friend Tommy Hashimoto’s prediction, and wondered if it had been too pessimistic. No air raids took place, although there were some false alarms that caused chaos. Several times commuter trains to Tokyo were stopped, with passengers ordered to evacuate until sirens sounded the all clear. It meant Alex was often late at the bank where he had taken over Henri Sardaigne’s work, but most of the staff had similar problems.
It was an afternoon in late October when the enemy planes finally did appear. Like General Doolittle’s raid two-and-a-half years before, they came from the south east but, unlike that brief adventure, this was a sky that invoked fear; massed silhouettes of four-engine bombers, the kind of sky the Germans had become accustomed to in places such as Hamburg and the Ruhr, but which was new here. The aerial armada broke formation near Hiroshima and battered the industrial port of Kure, while the remaining squadrons flew high above the Inland Sea to bomb Kobe.
Ground communication tracked them turning to the south, and duly reported the raid was over. They confidently confirmed that only minor damage had been inflicted. It was hardly minor in the port of Kure, where many cargo ships were sunk and harbour installations were burning. No-one was yet aware that another flight of Superfortress bombers was crossing Mikura-jima, on a direct approach to the heartlands of Yokohama and Tokyo.
When the sirens went off, nobody in the bank showed any sign of panic. In Tokyo they merely thought it was another practice drill, for there had been several in the past two weeks, and there was talk that the next alarms would be a full-scale rehearsal of what to do in the unlikely event enemy planes could penetrate the secure anti-aircraft defences of the city. The bank staff put aside their work without undue alarm, and obediently filed out to the shelters behind the building. These were no more than slit trenches; three in all, two of them for the Japanese staff and one for the French. It was then they saw the formation of planes like ungainly giants etched against the sky.
Alex stared. From every bomber there appeared a long trail of what seemed to be smoke. Some of the Japanese stood beside the trenches, cheering, clapping and pointing, their excitement eclipsed by any thought of fear. The American aircraft were on fire.
“Hit by fighter planes,” one shouted.
“Or by our guns on the ground.”
But they continued, untroubled, unstoppable. Then the bombs began to fall, and everyone instantly knew it was not smoke they’d seen. They dived into the trenches, even though the bombs were far away, nearer to the harbour than the Ginza. Later they would come to learn these trails that spilled behind the aircraft were slipstreams, exhaust fumes vaporised by the height the B-29s were flying. An altitude too high for fighter planes or the reach of anti-aircraft guns, the Superfortresses were like mighty birds of prey throwing shadows across the city, while they rained incendiary bombs in a cascade of terror and death.
Sometimes after this the bombers came by night. It was far worse, Alex thought, to be woken by the sirens, to hesitate between the choice of fear in a warm bed, or comparative safety in the cold, wet trench in their back yard. Huddling there with his mother and sister, as well as being crowded by Cook-san and her daughter, Junko, now 10 years old and no longer sustained by her mother’s milk, joining with Cook-san to complain and abuse the Americans as barbarian murderers. Like all her compatriots the cook was still convinced they would win the war; anything else was unthinkable.
Other people were showing their belief in different ways. There were growing signs of an impotent anger. In the Ginza Alex saw a stars and stripes flag painted on the pavement for people to walk across and spit on. In shop windows there were small rag dolls — called Roosevelt and Churchill dolls — bought by women’s defence groups, who said it was training for home resistance as they skewered the dolls with bamboo spears. People were becoming more aggressive, but no less optimistic that their destiny would still be to dictate peace terms as the victors. As Alex confided to his diary: No shower of bombs will ever change their minds about that.
ALEX’S DIARY: NOVEMBER, 1944
Today was hell day with three raids. It’s not always the danger that matters; sometimes it is the aggravation, the sheer stress it causes. The first raid came as we were packed in the commuter train to Tokyo, when a flashing red signal light brought it to a grinding halt. Doors slid open. Alarms were blaring, guards yelling to get out, take cover, and we struggled out of the train to watch the formation as it flew high overheard. I doubt if the pilots even looked down. We were never their target.
It took a long time to get passengers back in the carriages and, without pushers to help, it became a bruising bad-tempered business. Everyone arrived at Tokyo station in a filthy mood.
The second alarm was at lunch time. Just as we were in the dining room, ready to dip into something special. The Count had managed to buy some black market cheese, and Mademoiselle had taken over cooking to make a fondue. It smelled delicious — then the siren went. We wanted to stay, but the Count said wardens might report us. It wasn’t a proper raid at all. Just reconnaissance planes, but the sirens went off regardless. By the time this was established, the fondue had congealed into a gooey mess.
The third raid was later; that same night, just after I’d gone to sleep. This was a real one. Bombs fell in Yokohama, and we had to spend the night in the trench. It also started to rain, just to top off the day. But the following morning was worse. I am too dispirited to record it in my diary.
The order came unexpectedly. It was devastating and without any warning. All foreigners were to leave the main cities. It was being regularly repeated on the radio, and printed in the Nippon Times. In addition, the Yokohama police made visits throughout the district to warn residents. All neutral foreigners must leave and find refuge in country areas. Strictly for their own safety, the order announced, but the foreigners had other theories.
“They don’t want us to see the damage being done by the air raids,” declared Sarah Hashimoto.
Meanwhile the radio continued to reassure people. Repeated reports claimed that these air raids were the last desperate attempt by the evil Americans to win the war before they faced defeat; that there was discontent in New York and Washington against the fighting, and citizens there were ready to panic.
No reports about Japanese food shortages. Nothing about the confusion and anger among the civilian population of Tokyo and the main cities, at how the planes were now coming so regularly, or how the defences against them were beginning to seem so futile.
Alex was relieved for the sake of his mother and sister. For weeks he had been pleading with them it would be safer to go back to the cottage in Karuizawa. Neither of them had a need to remain in Yokohama, and they could live in a harmless town where no bombs would ever be dropped. There the only thing to fall from the sky — apart from rain — might be a discharge of soft sand from the volcano.
But that was before this sudden government order. Now there could be no choice, not even for him. They must close the house and go. The problem, to Alex, seemed insoluble, for while it would be the safest place for them, it was ultimately a catastrophe for the whole family.
How could they survive if he had to live in Karuizawa. How could he keep his job, if foreigners were not allowed to remain in the cities? Without his salary what would they live on? His mother’s jewellery had all gone. There’d be no way to earn a living in beautiful but remote Karuizawa. After more than two years at the bank, just when life seemed secure and the new salary so providential, it had come to a disastrous end.
13
A BIRD’S EYE VIEW
All morning there was turmoil and constant flow of despondent rumours in the bank. The Count was not in his office. If Mademoiselle Patou knew, she refused to say where he was or when he might return. Andre Ribot became enraged, saying he found it offensive and unbelievable that a mere secr
etary should keep the Assistant Manager of the bank in ignorance, and he fully intended to discuss her attitude with the Count de Champeaux on his return. And that he, as the senior member of the staff, was entitled to raise the question of what compensation the bank intended to pay them all, for the certain loss of their livelihoods.
“That’s premature, Monsieur Ribot,” she said placidly, trying not to lose her temper in the face of his belligerence, “because none of us yet knows what will really happen.”
“It’s perfectly obvious what will happen,” Ribot snapped sharply. “The bank will have to close. I’ve already sent my wife and family to our beach house in Shimoda, where I shall join her. It’s fortunate we have somewhere to go. I knew this was inevitable, once these filthy bombing raids began. What the Americans are doing is cold-blooded murder, with their indiscriminate attacks on civilian targets.”
“I’m sorry, I have work to do,” she told him, determined not to be drawn into this argument. It was a contentious matter. She knew she was among a minority in the bank. Ribot was openly pro-Vichy and she suspected he was aware of where her sentiments lay.
“Be sure I’m informed when His Excellency chooses to return,” he ordered, then added, “He will, I hope, be back eventually today?”
“I’ve no idea, Monsieur,” she replied.
Only to Alex, after Ribot stormed out, did she confide that Monsieur Le Comte was endeavouring to resolve the problem at a private luncheon with Prince Konoe.
“Konoe,” Alex said, managing to appear suitably impressed at this mention of the former Prime Minister, still one of the most powerful men in the land. Was he the holder of account 7305, Banque de Zurich he wondered, but not by the flicker of an eyelid did he betray a hint of this speculation. It was natural, he said, that the Count would know influential people among the ruling elite. After all, he moved in the highest diplomatic circles.
“I hope this stays strictly between you and me,” she said, and Alex had no difficulty in promising her that.
“Of course it can be adjusted,” Prince Konoe said. “The whole thing has been badly mishandled, which we’ve come to expect with the present fools in cabinet. The original concept, for reasons of safety, was that foreigners and their families should be moved. But those foreigners who have jobs or a business in Tokyo, are in a quite different category.”
“It was not made clear,” the Count replied. “It’s created confusion and anxiety. My staff are offering resignations, as they’ve been informed they cannot remain here or in Yokohama.”
“You must realise,” Konoe told him, “that if I was still in government, this bungle would never have arisen. Those who have regular employment are a minority, but they’ve been overlooked. Be assured I’ll see the matter is raised and rectified.”
“I’m most grateful.”
“As I am to you in various ways. We’re mutually obligated,” the Prince said. “Now, let us have refreshment with the delectable Moustique, while she allows me to visit your garden before we lose all of its beauty to the winter frosts.”
Moustique was at her elegant best. The Count felt very proud of her. The garden was virtually denuded of colour, the last maple leaves gone, the willow stripped for the winter, but a circle of coniferous pines stood in ceramic pots like a shield around the ornamental pool and its centre-piece, the dwarfed cedar tree. She paused beside it, knowing the former Prime Minister was a devotee of all uniquely Japanese arts — a student of Zen, a collector of netsuke, and an admirer of ikebana, the traditional art of flower arrangement. She indicated the peerless bonsai.
“Our private jewel, Highness. So tiny, yet more than 100 years old. Even without its leaves we can see the perfection, the shape of each branch so absolutely flawless. It’s quite beautiful, don’t you think?”
“I think you have exquisite taste,” the Prince complimented her.
Behind them Count Savignan de Champeaux smiled. The Prince would stay to luncheon. Moustique would enjoy his company, flatter him and massage his ego. And the tiny cedar, the priceless gem in his garden, would have another devotee. Since he treasured it this always pleased him.
“You were magnificent,” he told her that afternoon in bed. The house was quiet, the servants retired to their own quarters, the Prince long since driven back to his office. Lunch had been entertaining and relaxed, with Konoe an amusing raconteur and Moustique an appreciative audience. The Count thought her a hostess without rival. Her wit and ability to converse equalled her instinct of those moments when it was best to remain silent. Yet even silent, she could dominate a gathering with her charm and breathtaking beauty.
“I’m a lucky man,” he murmured, and she smiled and slid towards him on the silken sheets. As he felt his senses stir, the bedside telephone rang.
“Bugger it,” he said. Moustique laughed at his deep sigh. On ordinary days, orders were automatically given for a servant to take messages. Today he picked up the phone, spoke briefly, then listened to what was being said while making polite monosyllabic responses. Finally, he expressed his appreciation and hung up.
“Konoe-san thanks you for the delightful lunch and your delightful presence.”
“He’s too kind,” she murmured.
“He’s also had a delightful afternoon, telling some of his political enemies what a muddle they’ve made of things. And he thanks me for bringing it to his attention.”
“I’m glad,” Moustique said, her body warm as she pressed against him. “Now where were we, when he rudely interrupted?”
Alex waved as the guard’s whistle shrilled, carriage doors were slammed; people broke from hurried farewells, the mountain train blew steam and, amid shouts of au revoir, auf wiedersehen and sayonara, it began to shuffle out of Tokyo Central Station. Every compartment was crowded with foreign families, most bound for Karuizawa with all the possessions they could carry.
Alex had managed to find seats for his mother and Mathilde after stowing all their suitcases. He assured her he’d tipped the guard to see there was a porter to help them when they reached the main station. It would be late at night when they arrived, and they had to transfer with their heavy luggage to the local train that went to Karuizawa and stopped near their summer house.
Summer house indeed! He remembered the night spent there with his father three years ago, and how cold it had been then. But this visit was not for a solitary night; this was until the war ended or bombing stopped, neither of which seemed likely in the near future, so there were at least five months of living in the cottage before the start of spring. Not that he’d said this to his mother, having had enough difficulty persuading her to agree to the less than welcome change in her life.
“You have to go. It’s compulsory to leave Yokohama, Ma,” he’d argued. “There’s simply no choice.”
“Up there in Karuizawa in winter? I’ll die of cold.”
“We’ll install a bigger fireplace.”
“Who’ll cut the wood?”
“I will, on weekends.”
“If you ever turn up.”
“I’ll turn up. Come on, you like Karuizawa.”
“In the summer. Nobody goes in wintertime.”
“Everyone will be there.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Well, the French Ambassador. Most neutral embassies will move there. German, Swiss, Irish, Brazilian, Swedish.” His mother had shrugged, unimpressed by diplomats. Alex persevered. “The Countess.” She’d yawned. He’d kept trying.
“Doctor Wittenberg …”
“Useful, if I get sick. Probably with pneumonia.”
“And Doctor Plessner.”
“I don’t need two doctors. Tell me someone interesting.”
“Odette Daubigny.”
“She’s your interest, not mine. Who else?”
“The Bonnards, and Paul Jacoulet …”
“Ah! Jacoulet!”
“He’ll definitely be there.”
“With the young boyfriends?”
“I expect so.”
“Korean boys. Always Korean, why?”
“I don’t know, Ma. Ask him.”
“Disgusting, the boys. You know that his mother was the only French woman — the only westerner — who was ever a geisha?”
Yes, Alex had replied, without reminding her how many times she’d told him. But she insisted on repeating the story most people knew; how as a child Paul Jacoulet had been brought up in the geisha house, a pet of the women who dressed him like a small replica of themselves, in their traditional makeup and distinctive kimonos. Now in his 50s, internationally renowned as a wood-block artist, he invariably wore — like a badge of recognition — the same heavy white powder, garish lipstick, and an elaborately brocaded kimono.
“I like Jacoulet!” His mother was suddenly cheered by the news. “He makes me laugh, and I can beat him at poker. We’ll play lots of cards in Karuizawa.”
While they spent the next few days packing, arguing over what clothes to take, and explaining to the cook they could no longer afford a servant — not only that, but they were having to give up the tenancy on the Yokohama house because of finances — Alex had written to Sarah Hashimoto, asking if she could arrange for a pot-belled stove to be installed in the Karuizawa cottage. He gave his mother money to pay for it, plus all he could spare for them to buy food. He promised to come for a weekend as soon as he was settled, watched and waved until the train was out of sight, then caught the underground to Nihonbashi. It was late, the bank was closed, but a light glowed inside. He knocked on the side door, heard bolts drawn, and the huge figure of Frankenstein filled the doorway.
Dragons in the Forest Page 13