Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “It’s now the rules, so don’t be a fucking idiot, Alex.”

  He decided there was no reply to that, and left the clubhouse. Across the street he saw a loitering group of young men with their swastika arm bands. Some wore Wehrmacht uniforms and one had an SS tunic and peaked cap, which he was never seen without. Alex realised this must be the one who had threatened his sister.

  All of a sudden there was an incident. One strutting figure moved and intentionally jostled a middle-aged man trying to hurry past. The man stopped, shocked by the deliberate contact, and clearly confused. The Nazi with the SS emblems walked close to him and spat into his face. There was the sound of shouted voices abusing him.

  “Juden! Filthy Jewish vermin!”

  Alex realised the man being reviled was their own family doctor, German-born Doctor Wittenberg. He and his partner, Doctor Plessner who was also Jewish, had both lived in Japan with their families most of their lives. As far as he knew, no-one had ever before demonstrated this kind of anti-Semitism towards either of them before.

  “Juden schmutz,” they chorused. “Juden schmutz.” Jewish filth, Alex assumed it meant. Doctor Wittenberg appeared dizzy, as if he might fall. They started to chant louder, enjoying his bewilderment, fuelling his fear of what was happening.

  Alex began to move towards them. He was not keen to be a hero, but this was obscene. He was only halfway across the street when Doctor Plessner came from the house where both men practised. Plessner did not say a word, he moved through the Germans, took Wittenberg by the arm, steered him away from the circle of chanting men and took him back to the house.

  Then the one with the peaked cap and SS emblems turned and saw Alex poised in the middle of the street. He nudged the others, and they all swung around to stare at him with threatening intent. It was as if — cheated of their sport by the unexpected rescue — they were determined to find a replacement. Anyone would do, and here was a prospect. Like robots they flung out their arms in a fascist salute. Then in unison so precise it seemed macabre — and was in fact quite threatening — they goose-stepped to where he stood. Alex had a moment’s choice of turning away in the face of their intimidation, or remaining. He felt it was too late to turn.

  “Sieg heil!” they shouted, and came so close that their breath was sour in his face. “Jew-loving shit,” they chorused.

  “We know you,” one said. “You’re on our list.”

  “Dirty yid,” another said. “We make Jews into soap.”

  “Put in a complaint about us. Report us,” they chorused in his face.

  “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!”

  They shouted it again and again, trying to incite him with the provoking chant. Hoping he would be induced to lash out, so they could retaliate. He knew what they intended. They wanted to make trouble, and hope he would start it. But then they became aware of an audience. The tennis players on the only court for residents had stopped their game to watch this. Other people, long-term residents, were starting to gather in the street. The disapproval was silent, but palpable.

  “We’ll remember you, you dirty French bastard,” the aggressors said, and swaggered away as if they already owned the town.

  16

  SUZUKI

  There was a bombing raid far to the west of the city, somewhere out near Mitaka-Shi. Sitting by his window in the dark, Alex could see the distant cluster of incendiaries burst into flames and knew they must be landing amid flimsy houses in densely populated streets. Sure enough, the sky was lit as an entire neighbourhood began to blaze. The wooden homes, some with paper walls, were easy targets and readily combustible when the B-29s came on their carpet bombing raids. They spread magnesium bombs primed with iron oxide and oil, or else a cocktail of petrol and high explosive. With these attacks of such lethal bombs in fragile housing estates, there were never enough brigades to extinguish the scattered fires.

  Some nights, during the worst raids, whole areas were engulfed. By the morning, streets where there had been rows of homes were nothing but ash. If the wind suddenly changed direction and the fires were swept with it, people were caught in the conflagration, trapped before they could realise their danger, and were literally roasted alive. Others sat helplessly amid the devastation, watching their houses reduced to cinders, impervious to the scorching heat. Alex had seen beleaguered families like this, dazed by their loss and numbed beyond pain.

  The neutral foreigners were in deep dispute about the bombing. In a disparate group with so many nationalities, a clash of opinions was inevitable. Some people, safe in Karuizawa, vowed it should be intensified; it was the only way to force Japan’s leaders to face the day of surrender. Others said it was inhuman, driven by vengeance and utterly without compassion. It was sending young bomber crews into the skies to become murderers.

  There was a third group convinced it would have a contrary effect, the Count de Champeaux among them. He had voiced it at lunch in the bank, where only four French staff remained. Mademoiselle Patou had declared her distress over the raids, and her concern that ordinary civilians were targets. Pierre Laroche had promptly taken an opposing attitude: the more bombs, the sooner the end, and the Japanese deserved it, he believed; they’d asked for it, they’d started the war, and now they were getting it back — in spades.

  That was when the Count spoke. “I wonder if the United States realises this kind of mass bombing only binds people with resentment and makes them stronger?”

  Alex decided it was a rhetorical question, and did not need a response. His own feelings were mixed. It was terrible to see what happened to people on the ground. What it was like up in the sky, unleashing the incendiaries, he had no idea. But in the city streets he kept encountering people damaged by these attacks, civilian casualties badly wounded or burnt. Not soldiers, they were rarely involved; the victims he saw were children, women and elderly people. Civilians who’d believed their leaders and listened to the militarist government who’d told them that one day soon they would own the world. Now they were bewildered, for they were starting to realise the world hated them.

  Alex had seen enough destruction for one night. He drew the blackout curtains across the window, switched on the light, and was about to read. The heavy knock on the door startled him. He had not heard the sound of anyone approaching on the stairs.

  “Who is it?” he asked, without opening the door.

  “Police,” a voice answered.

  Alex swiftly checked the blackout curtains were securely in place.

  The uniformed man was a short, rotund figure, with eyes that blinked behind steel framed spectacles. Completely dwarfed by the massive figure of Frankenstein, who had escorted him to the penthouse, they made an odd couple in the dim lighting.

  “He speak with you,” the giant caretaker said, and stood waiting to see what was going to happen next.

  The policeman gestured. Just a slight movement of his head, but Frankenstein knew he was summarily dismissed.

  “I’m downstairs,” the caretaker said to them both. “You have need, call me.” It was an attempt to save face, as he turned and went below.

  The policeman took out his identification, and held it for Alex to read the name. “Suzuki,” he said.

  “Please come in, Suzuki-san.” Alex stepped aside and Suzuki preceded him into the apartment. He took a form from his pocket which Alex recognised as his monthly travel permit, issued by the Yokohama precinct.

  “You are Alexander Faure?” He had difficulty with the French pronunciation, and the name emerged like “feuwer-ay”.

  “Faure,” Alex said.

  “That’s right. Feuwer-ay,” he repeated, and smiled.

  “Most people call me Alex.”

  “Ah so,” the policeman nodded. “Alex.”

  “It’s easier.”

  “Arigato,” Suzuki said, thanking him.

  There was a slight pause. The policeman gazed at the main room, while Alex tried to think of what transgression he might have committed.

&nbs
p; “So, Alex-san. You live in Yokohama?”

  “No. I live here.”

  “For how long?”

  “About two weeks. Nearly three.”

  Suzuki produced a notebook and a pencil.

  “Please, what exact date did you move here?”

  “November the 15th.”

  As the constable tried to record this in his book while still standing, Alex suggested it might be easier for him if he sat down. Suzuki promptly did so and thanked him.

  “Arigato.”

  “Do itashi mashite,” Alex gave the polite response.

  “So … the 15th,” Suzuki repeated. He frowned and shook his head as if this was a concern. “You live in this place alone?”

  “Yes.”

  He wrote this down, then said, “In Tokyo you need special permission for residence. You have not yet applied for this?”

  Alex was about to say he had no idea this was required, but second thought prevailed. “Not yet. I meant to come to the police office soon …”

  “In the Nihonbashi district, you must do this immediately,” Suzuki said. “It is most important. I am in charge of all foreign people. My duty is to check and find out who lives in my jurisdiction, and if I grant consent and allow you to stay, then I give the permit.”

  “I see,” said Alex, who was growing increasingly anxious.

  “This permit you must carry with you at all times. That is, provided I grant it,” he stressed, making Alex feel even more concerned. “Also, if you leave the jurisdiction of Nihonbashi you must have a pass that allows you to travel. Have you travelled since moving here?”

  He was about to lie to avoid another rebuke, but realised Suzuki’s flickering eyes behind his glasses were watching him intently. As his job was the supervision of foreigners in his district — making rounds to check on this — he had most likely discovered Alex’s presence here from Frankenstein. And if so, the caretaker was aware he had been away the past two weekends.

  He nodded and said, “I went to the country, to Karuizawa to see my mother and sister. Nobody asked me for a permit.”

  “Then you were indeed fortunate. Or the train guard was most lazy.”

  “I did have a pass, issued last summer in Yokohama.”

  “But you no longer live there,” Suzuki pointed out, “so it would have been illegal. And if this had been discovered, it would mean trouble. Certainly a fine. Perhaps interrogation, or even prison. Rules are very strict these days. If you are a resident in Tokyo, your papers must say so, otherwise it is a serious offence.”

  Alex felt he had encountered a bureaucratic fantasy. The man was not aggressive; simply officious, with a petty regulation for all occasions. If Alex’s future was in Suzuki’s hands, he would have to carry permits for everything. Maybe an authorisation to visit a bar and try his luck with one of the girls. Permission to engage in sexual intercourse — and just before partaking of the said act, he would have to announce to his partner — “Here is my authority to proceed, by order of Constable Suzuki.” The idea of it made him smile, and then he realised that to smile in front of such an earnest policeman was probably a big mistake.

  “Amusing,” Suzuki suggested.

  “Well …”

  “I also think so,” the other surprised him by saying, “so many rules, too much strictness. Don’t you think so?”

  “But it’s the law,” Alex said carefully, determined not to fall into the trap of criticising the government. “So I must obey. If I come to the police station tomorrow, can I fill in the forms, and ask you to issue me with a permit to live here, Suzuki-San?”

  Suzuki frowned. “Not tomorrow.”

  “The day after?”

  “Certainly not. We fill in form now. You sign, I sign.”

  “We sign now?”

  “Indeed, now. Essential you have it. And each month I issue you with new one.”

  “And I collect it from the police station tomorrow? Correct?”

  “Not correct! I bring it here to you. That is my job.”

  “I see.” Alex was now wary of how co-operative Suzuki seemed to be. Almost cordial. The police were rarely this likable.

  “And with it a travel permit for Karuizawa when you wish to see your family,” Suzuki said. “Then nobody can give you a problem.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said. But he was puzzled. Most cops did not behave like this. Constable Suzuki worried him, and did not ring true.

  When Constable Masao Suzuki left the premises of the Banque de l’Indochine half an hour later, he was well pleased. Another name for his list. It was providential, a fortuitous circumstance, and a great relief. He counted his blessings, that after 18 years in the police force, the past four of them in this esteemed business district near the Imperial Palace, he had achieved such a favoured and pleasant position. All because of a simple piece of what at first had seemed like dreadful luck.

  He had been a traffic policeman so long that he had given up hope of becoming anything else. But one night on duty at one of Tokyo’s busiest intersections it had begun to rain heavily, and Suzuki’s glasses became so smeared that he had to stop directing the traffic while he tried to wipe them, and in doing so had dropped and broken them. Without his glasses he was virtually blind. It took only minutes to cause one of the worst traffic jams ever seen in that part of the city. After an hour’s total chaos ensued, police reinforcements arrived and he was replaced. An irate Superintendent decreed that he never wished to see or hear of this officer again. He should be sent to some violent district, where nothing good could happen to him.

  With the outbreak of war, the police had been ordered to compile lists of aliens in their region. Volunteers were required for this work, and Suzuki was ordered to volunteer. He was advised the work was temporary, and afterwards he would doubtless be drafted into the army. He tried to point out he was in his 40s, too old for military service; added to which his eyesight was too poor to shoot at targets, let alone the enemy, and he was medically unfit. No-one listened.

  But the swift roundup of Australians, Britons, Americans, Dutch and others within hours of Pearl Harbour was so successful, the authorities decided continuous surveillance must remain on the activities of every neutral foreigner. Even a watch should be kept on their current allies such as the Germans and Italians, for alliances could change, and today’s friend could easily be tomorrow’s foe. But there were no volunteers for this task, so Suzuki was transferred to Tokyo’s prestigious district of Nihonbashi. Instead of being forced to resign or drafted into the army, he was assigned the work that no true police officer wanted, the tedious monitoring of foreign residents.

  That had been his duty for the past three years. He was no longer likely to be placed on roster as a traffic cop. Nor sent on street patrols to face violent sections of the city. He simply kept lists of foreigners. His police colleagues were amused and secretly felt sorry for him, forced to do this tedious job. But to Suzuki it was not humdrum nor monotonous: it was an agreeable situation in a fashionable part of town, and he was a fortunate man. He hoped this fortune would continue for a long time. Today’s encounter with Alex-san was bound to help.

  Just as long as no-one found out the truth.

  ALEX’S DIARY: DECEMBER 6th, 1944

  I’m starting to wonder about Suzuki. He’s up to something. He came to the penthouse again today, after the bank shut. Yesterday he brought my permission to live here and a travel permit. Today he really had no excuse. He seemed a bit furtive — if a policeman can look furtive. He said he was in the neighbourhood to ensure things were satisfactory — and were they satisfactory? I said yes, most satisfactory — but he didn’t take the hint and leave. As if he’d just dropped in for a friendly chat. He told me he’d been in the force for 18 years, and was married with children. Two girls — he’d wanted sons, but now was glad because girls would not be drafted and forced to go to war.

  What did I think about the war?

  If that was a trick question I wasn’t going to ans
wer it. Nobody expresses an opinion like that, especially not to a policeman. He said it wasn’t going well, not well at all, not now we had the air raids and so much destruction. At least on that I felt able to reply that it was very sad, to see people maimed and killed, and their houses burning.

  But I felt nervous even talking about the war. And I had to get rid of him quickly. Any minute now the Count was expecting me downstairs. He was also expecting a guest, a cabinet minister with a bundle of cash that he wants sent to Switzerland. I don’t think the Right Honourable Minister would like to arrive and find himself face to face with Constable Suzuki.

  I had an inspiration. Maybe that’s it. Is he a spy on the activity of the French bank?

  The following day was the third anniversary of the Pearl Harbour and the start of the war, and that morning the chief accountant Pierre Laroche and Alex had their own private war. They had never liked each other. Their animosity dated back to the days of Kimiko, for Larouche blamed Alex for her departure, and Alex loathed the secret knowledge that the chief accountant had used his position to proposition and sexually harass her.

  It was a row that began quietly, with Larouche ordering Alex to copy ledger entries for the previous week, then complaining the work was not ready and too slow. He accused Alex of looking half asleep, as if he’d been out on the town whoring all night, and if he couldn’t do better he didn’t deserve the inflated salary he was being paid. Alex, who had spent most of the night counting notes until his fingers hurt, documenting a transfer of two million yen to Zurich on behalf of the Japanese Minister for War, was almost provoked into revealing this, but instead retorted that it wasn’t a good idea to publicly discuss his salary in front of the staff.

  It caused Larouche to lose his temper, and put in a complaint requesting the Count to either control his junior clerk or else dismiss him. Instead, that afternoon Laroche came to Andre Ribot’s former office where Alex now worked, accompanied by Cecile who waited while the accountant attempted to make an apology. Not an easy thing for him to do.