Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  There was no time to make considered choices. Everything felt as if it happened within moments. The thunder of the planes overhead became a roar that rattled buildings and seemed to shake the earth. All around them, in whichever direction they looked, incendiary bombs had started to fall like rain. But this rain contained a brand new type of lethal assault weapon, each making a shrill and terrifying sound in their descent, spewing flames as literally thousands of them plunged earthward.

  Within seconds it was impossible to tell which way was safe. Alex and Carl began to run for their lives. There had been many raids, but never one like this, never with so many aircraft so low, unleashing such devastation. The high-explosive and phosphorus bombs were now being used to deadly affect, along with the non-stop thousands of other incendiaries. The heat was so intense it was hard to breathe, and there was a toxic smell of sulphuric acid. People ran; to remain still was to die. Alex and Carl fled with them; it was a stampede and there was no alternative except to run or be trampled on by those behind.

  Most of the houses in streets they ran through were blazing. Sparks were flung into the air, swept by the wind and igniting other buildings. As they paused for a moment, to recover their breath and search for the best direction in which to run, everything within sight was on fire. Thick wooden telegraph poles along the streets burned like kindling, as overhead electrical wires crackled and melted. A man with a push-cart full of his possessions tried to run across a park pursued by a firestorm — and just when it seemed he was safe, a cluster of high-tension wires were swept off their poles, trapping the cart and electrocuting him.

  Hideous images were encapsulated in fleeting moments of sheer horror. A child engulfed in a ball of fire, her screams turned to whimpers of despair before she died. A mother with a baby on her back, both of them coated in flames, as she flung herself into a canal. A stationary fire truck, with four firemen sitting upright and dead in it, asphyxiated and charred beyond recognition. There were other grisly sights. Hundreds of dead in the streets were shrivelled so utterly by flames that their blackened bodies had shrunk to the size of children. It was no longer possible to tell whether they had been men or women.

  The streets were now full of people driven berserk with terror; hysterical crowds, panicking as they tried vainly to search for shelter. Some headed for parks, believing that open space was safest, but found them full of dead. Some made for underground railway stations, so crowded that it was difficult to breathe, while others fled for the river, believing water must be safe. But the water was boiling; the Sumida and the canals were choked with corpses. Even the public swimming pools were filled with burnt and scorched bodies.

  Time lost all meaning for Alex and Carl. On at least a dozen occasions they thought they must surely die. Their skin felt raw from the heat, their eyes inflamed from sparks and ash. At some period during the night — it seemed like hours later — they were fortunate enough to stumble across a roadside ditch. At first sight in the glare of the firelight it was full of people, but with a shudder they realised that all of them were dead.

  “What the hell do we do?” Carl asked.

  Alex took a deep breath, wrapped his scarf around his face and pointed. They burrowed their way into the ditch among the charred corpses, using them as a bulwark while trying not to be sickened by the smell of burnt flesh. Overhead the waves of bombers kept on coming, for what felt like hour after hour. Just when it seemed Alex and Carl could no longer bear the putrid stench, they began to realise the intensity of the raid was easing.

  In fact, it was moving across the city to other areas that had been carefully selected for similar destruction. The leading planes dropped their markers to outline the parameters of each target, before thousands more clusters of bombs were unleashed to demolish the districts of Nihonbashi, Kanda, Asakusa and the Ginza.

  Dawn rose on an exhausted and wounded city. There was little visibility; the air was thick with swirling smoke, and an acrid haze stung the eyes. Shocked and bewildered people tried to cope with the full horror, as daylight began to reveal the extent of the death and damage. Whole streets of houses were nothing but cinders, and flurries of wind containing the ashes of what had been human beings blew into survivor’s faces like a dreadful immolation.

  Volunteers were trying to set about the task of collecting bodies from the Sumida River. Men waded into the narrow canals retrieving corpses. Little groups stood and gazed at the embers of what had been their homes. Some even found pails and tried to splash water on the smouldering wreckage; inwardly knowing that it was hopeless, but needing to do something other than give in and submit to despair.

  Many people were still frantically combing the streets, looking for parents, relatives, friends or, worst of all, searching for their children. A few doctors and nurses tried vainly to treat the most serious burn cases, but had little in the way of medical supplies other than mercurochrome and bandages. In Sumida Park pits were dug, and kerosene poured on piles of bodies to cremate them before disease began to spread.

  Carl was concerned about the welfare of his grandfather, and what might have happened to him during the night. He decided he must return to the house in Azabu as soon as possible, and felt he should arrange to get him away from Tokyo. They both knew Hugo Kranz was stubborn and would take a great deal of convincing. Alex promised to join him later in the day, after trying to reach the bank and find out what had happened to it. Then they would combine efforts and do their utmost to persuade Hugo to leave. Providing of course, although neither said it, that Hugo was still alive.

  When they parted, Alex attempted to make his way across town. It was slow progress, because many streets were still burning, and emergency crews were trying to cordon off areas they might be able to save. He passed a telephone exchange, where there had once been a row of public phone boxes, now only identifiable because of their coin containers that were fused into blocks of metal. He continually met exhausted and terrified people asking for news about other parts of the city. Did he know about Sumida-ku? Was it true that Fukagawa was completely destroyed? What news about Shinjuku? Was Tokyo station hit? Were there any trains running? Had the Royal Palace or Imperial gardens been bombed?

  Amazingly, when he reached there, the French bank was untouched. It stood so diminutive alongside the massive Bank of Japan building and dwarfed by the Mitsukoshi Department Store, all three of them intact. Alex let himself in the back door with his key and headed for the penthouse. He met the Count coming down the stairs, each relieved to see the other.

  “Thank God you’re safe,” the Count greeted him. “I was worried when I heard you hadn’t come back here last night.”

  Alex explained he had been with Hugo Kranz’s grandson, as the families knew each other, and spoke briefly of the fires they’d escaped and the macabre hours spent in the ditch. He asked anxiously about the Count’s house. “We were only streets away from where you live in Azabu, but we couldn’t get back to Carl’s house. A lot of the district seemed to be on fire.”

  “We were lucky. There were dozens of incendiaries in our street, but one of the brigades that was still operating managed to put the worst of the fires out. Everything’s covered with ash and cinders, but mercifully everyone in the household is safe.”

  “How did you get here?” Alex asked, “Surely not by car?”

  “Part of the way,” the Count said, “but it was impossible. I walked the rest. There’s practically nothing left of the Ginza. I felt certain the bank would be destroyed.”

  “I thought so, too. It’s a great relief.”

  “But only a temporary one. We have to make some quick decisions, Alex. I expect there’ll be more raids, possibly as soon as tonight.”

  They arranged to meet in the Count’s office for breakfast. Alex went upstairs to shower. There was no electricity, but at least there was still a cistern on the roof which provided running water. He threw off his clothes, stained and polluted with the stench of the bodies in the ditch. His face and hair
were grimy with soot. He withstood the shock of the freezing cold water, and scrubbed until his flesh tingled, then dried himself and felt the relief of changing into clean clothes.

  He looked around his small and pleasant penthouse. It had been such a sanctuary for the past five months. Despite the war, he had spent some of the best times of his life here. He had become used to the luxury of living in the very heart of downtown Tokyo, with the Ginza on his doorstep; free to come and go as he pleased, and enjoy its lively allure. Well, the Ginza was gone and much of the charm of the district would be lost with it. He wondered how much longer his life in this haven would continue. Not long, he feared, and went to join the Count in his office on the ground floor.

  “No croissants,” Savignan de Champeaux said, as they sat down to coffee and toast. “I’m afraid the baker’s dead. His shop was fire-bombed and he had no time to get out.” He appeared emotional, and badly shaken by this news. “I didn’t know it until a few minutes ago. So many thousands killed, but the death of one makes it so personal.”

  And of course it did, Alex thought. The death of a man they had known, who was skilled at his craft — like the glimpse of the burning child, or the mother with her baby on her back — made it highly personal. The others were just vast heaps of corpses. Shocking and grisly to witness, but there was a limit to anyone’s capacity to mourn. You could feel angry or repelled by the piles of bodies in Sumida Park, but not a personal sorrow or grief, not for so many thousands of anonymous people.

  “It was a dreadful night,” the Count said.

  “It was barbaric,” Alex replied. He was aware he and the Count de Champeaux had very different aspirations for the outcome of this war, but after a night of such incessant terror there no longer seemed to be opposing sides. They were all victims of man’s capacity to be heartless and inhuman.

  They discussed what had to be done. Staff could hardly be expected to arrive, even if they had survived the raids. The bank should remain shut for the day, and urgent arrangements made to transfer the contents of the strong room to a safer storage. A direct hit could demolish the buildings and everything it contained.

  “We have to find somewhere more secure to deposit all the currency. It’s the only asset that will keep the bank solvent when this war is over. Though God knows when that might be.”

  “Surely it can’t be long,” Alex said, feeling it was no longer possible even for the Count to believe in Japan’s victory.

  “You think not, Alex? If you’re saying this country can’t win, last night has made me agree. I daresay that was the purpose of such a raid, not only to burn and kill, but to crush morale. If so, it was a highly efficient exhibition of compassionless destruction, but the war won’t be ended by bombs or fires. It can only end if and when Hirohito decides it should. That’s where America fails to understand the Japanese mind. They’ll go on fighting until there’s no-one left, if their Emperor tells them that surrender is dishonourable.”

  Alex had his own forthright views about the divine right of an Emperor to let his people be slaughtered, while he sat aloof in the sanctuary of his palace. But this was no time to express them.

  “You’d better get a suitcase packed,” the Count told him. “Ready to move out of here in the next 24 hours. I’m not staying in Tokyo any longer than necessary. This building’s being shut, and I’m paying the staff off.” It was not unexpected, but the sudden pronouncement dismayed him. “Laroche will go. And all the rest of the Japanese staff. The Frankensteins can remain in their quarters as caretakers.”

  “And me?”

  “I didn’t mention you.”

  “No, Monsieur Le Comte, you didn’t.”

  “You stay, of course.”

  “Stay?”

  “Naturally. You’re privy to the details of all Swiss accounts. And when I need to talk to clients who can’t speak French or English, what the devil should I do? You speak Japanese; I don’t. I can hardly risk an interpreter to discuss such matters, can I?”

  “But you said you’re leaving Tokyo, closing down this building, and getting rid of the staff.”

  “That’s correct. But the Banque de l’Indochine has to survive. It can’t simply shut its doors and terminate all its accounts.”

  “So where’s it going?”

  “Karuizawa.” He registered Alex’s astonishment. “Can you think of any other place? The majority of our remaining clients live there. The Ambassador is moving there, and his summer residence will become the French Embassy. Most of our real banking business is with them. You’ll be living there with your family — and I’ve managed to acquire a house there.”

  “I thought they were impossible to buy?”

  “Very nearly. But when you run a bank, you do have some advantages — like the ability to access almost unlimited resources. The property is called La Residence Mimosa. Do you happen to know it?”

  “Know it,” Alex smiled. “It used to belong to a friend of my father’s from Kobe. We played there as kids. It’s the best villa in the mountain district.”

  “Well, I’m glad to have your seal of approval. I’ll give you the details of the transaction, and you’ll record that the purchase was made legally with bank funds, and is on the books as an asset, being used as the temporary company office and my rent free living quarters. Is that clear?”

  “Completely, Monsieur.”

  “We’ll eventually be held to account by the directors, so it’s very important we keep strict and accurate records. You’ll be in charge of that. I want you to minute that from now on there will only be a staff of two; you and me. You will remain on your present salary, but record in the minutes that you will henceforth have an expense account of an additional 50 yen a month.”

  Alex gazed at him. “But there’ll hardly be any work for us to do.”

  “There’ll be work. I can’t imagine us attending the office and carefully keeping banking hours, but we’ll do what’s required, when it’s required. Even it if it is only a day or two a week.

  “But you’re giving me a rise?”

  “No, I’m giving you an expense account, Alex. And some seriously good advice. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Understand?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  ALEX’S DIARY: MARCH 10th, 1945

  A mean thought has crossed my mind, which I can only confide to my diary, then turn the lock so no-one else can read it. Is the Count proposing to give himself a large increase in salary, now that there are no other staff to pay? And is the new largesse to me a subtle way to clear the decks, so I’ll be on his side when our chairman and board of directors in Paris wish to know all the details of how we survived, and examine the balance sheets?

  I should dispose of this page because having written it I feel some shame. But if I tear out the page it will ruin the diary and loosen all the pages. So it must remain, and I must believe he is being generous, because now there are just the two of us to see Banque d’Lindochine through to survival. How very extraordinary it seems, that just less than three years ago I came here as a 20-year-old unpaid junior clerk. All because I could speak the language and learned to type. My father would be both pleased and amused, that after being certain I was to be released from my appointment, as the saying goes, or given the order of the boot, as another saying has it, instead I seem to have been promoted. Imagine it, second in command — even if there is only a staff of two.

  21

  EVACUATION

  The Count went next door to request that the manager of the Bank of Japan provide them with rental space in their security vault for the deposit boxes, which he asserted held taxation files and other documents. Alex by now had learned that bankers are accustomed to dealing with each other, and such fabrics of deceit are accepted practice. The boxes were locked and conveyed with the help of Frankenstein to one of the vaults in the adjacent building. The paperwork was concluded, the coded password placed in a sealed envelope, and Count de Champeaux took possession of the only keys.

/>   ALEX’S DIARY: MARCH 10th, 1945

  I was to note in our secret minutes that each box contained two million yen, and there were seven boxes. He also made arrangements with the French Ambassador that another three boxes, containing six million yen in all, would be deposited in the strong room of the Tokyo Embassy, where one of the Vice Consuls was remaining in charge.

  In addition there are two attaché cases, one packed with hundred yen denominational notes, and the other with United States dollars. These, the Count told me in strictest confidence, will be taken by him to Karuizawa as “operating expenses” — cash for any emergency. It seems as if we will be the smallest but perhaps the wealthiest bank in town.

  It was noon and Alex was alone in the main chamber of the bank when, to his surprise, the telephone rang. The line had been out of order all morning. The Count was clearing personal items from his office with the help of his chauffeur, who had spent the morning negotiating through road blocks and damaged streets.

  “Banque de l’Indochine,” Alex said, hurrying to answer it.

  It’s was Carl. “I’ve been trying to get through for ages.” He sounded stressed and Alex knew at once something was wrong.

  “How’s Grandfather Hugo?”

  “In hospital.”

  “Jesus, what’s happened?”

  “He’s got burns on his back and legs. Nothing fatal, but at 75 you don’t need some bastard dropping phosphorus on you. Sophia got him into hospital.”

  “Sophia? His Italian widow?”

  “Yes. She’s been wonderful. She stopped an ambulance and made them take him to hospital. She yelled at the doctors until they treated him. They weren’t keen at first, as no Europeans are popular today.”