“Where is he, Carl? I’ll come and visit.”
“No, we’re taking him to Shimoda. Sophia’s got a house there and she wants to look after him. I’m driving them down in his Cadillac, leaving tonight if we can get through.”
“Give him my love. I hope the burns are as minor as you’re trying to make out.” There was a pause, and Alex thought the line had failed.
“They’re not minor at all,” Carl said. “But the hospital is full and no-one has time to spare for an old man. Besides, he wants to be with her. And if anyone can keep him alive, she can.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Yes. Shock, mostly. Not so good at his age … but we’ll manage.”
“Carl, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Except maybe a favour for me.”
“Anything.”
“When are you leaving for Karuizawa?”
“Tomorrow or the next day. As soon as I can get away.”
“You know my Datsun?” Alex was about to say everyone within hearing distance knew his tiny Datsun, but he remembered how Carl treasured the car. “I’m worried about it. I wanted to move it to some place away from the air raids, but I have to drive grandfather. Can you take it with you to the mountains?”
“Me?”
“Find a garage for it. Up there at least it’ll be safe from bombs or being burnt. It’s parked in the shed, behind our house.”
“But Carl …”
“The keys are under the back steps. There’s a tank of petrol I’ve saved, plus a one-gallon tin I bought on the black market. It’s enough to get you there, I think.”
“Carl, hang on, I’m trying to tell you something.
“What, Alex?”
“I haven’t got a driving licence.”
“Oh shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Look, things are in such a state that I doubt if that’ll matter. As long as you can drive.” After a pause, he asked, “You can, can’t you?”
“Well, sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?”
“I had a few lessons, when my dad had a car before the war. But not since then. That was nearly six years ago.”
There was a longer pause.
“Are you there, Carl?”
“Yes.”
“I thought we’d been cut off. What do we do?”
“Bugger it. I’m thinking.”
“Well, don’t think for long. This line may not last. It’s lucky you got through.”
“Listen … if a bomb hits our place my car is finished anyway. I’ll take a chance, if you will.”
“Right,” Alex agreed, although it hardly sounded like a vote of confidence. “By the way,” he said, “you’d better remind me of something? I’ll have to back it out of the garage, won’t I?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So how do I find reverse gear?”
That was the moment when the line failed. He was unsure if Carl heard the question, but there was clearly no hope of knowing the answer. He would just have to hope he could find reverse on his own.
The streets were still littered with ash and broken glass. No attempt had been made to clear up the debris or take precautions against a further raid. The few people in the vicinity appeared dazed and still numb, as if barely able to understand what had happened. So much of Nihonbashi and the Ginza lay in ruins but the police station was still standing.
“A driving licence, Alex-san?” Suzuki’s eyes flickered uneasily behind his glasses, disconcerted at Alex’s surprise arrival there. Several police officers were in the room and a uniformed inspector watched them from his desk. They were far enough away for their conversation not to be heard, but Suzuki was nervous. “For a licence you must take a test.”
“All I need is a temporary one.”
“But can you drive a car?”
“Suzuki-san,” Alex said, “would I coming here to ask this if I couldn’t drive? Could you imagine me doing such a thing?”
“Of course not. It’s just that today is a bad day. After the air raids, police are very angry and upset. All foreign people are under suspicion. My inspector, he is even now observing the two of us very closely. He might wish to know why you need to drive a car.”
“But you’re in charge of foreigners, not your inspector.”
“True,” Suzuki nodded, after considering this.
“You make all the decisions. And I’m on your list.”
“Also true,” Suzuki agreed.
“So you should be the one who decides if I’m allowed a licence. Because you’re in charge of me. Isn’t that correct?”
“It sounds correct,” Suzuki said. “Let me think about it.”
“I can’t. I haven’t got time to let you think. I have to meet Count de Champeaux at the bank, because we’re moving.”
“Moving?” Suzuki was startled. “Moving where?”
“Away from Tokyo.”
“Where? When?” He was clearly agitated by this news.
“To Karuizawa. I expect to be leaving tomorrow or the day after. But naturally, I won’t tell your inspector that.”
“Indeed I hope not!”
“After all, you need to keep me on your list.” He was aware that Suzuki had begun to look at him discerningly. “If you do decide to give me a licence, you could bring it to the bank later.”
“If I decide.”
“Yes. It would be a duty call. We could even have a farewell whisky together.”
“Not whisky. Not on duty. Maybe sake.”
“I’ll get a bottle. I’m sure the Count hasn’t taken all his cellar with him. We’ll drink to happier times.”
“This temporary licence? One month?”
“Perfect,” Alex said.
ALEX’S DIARY: MARCH 10th, 1945
It’s late afternoon, and the French bank feels strange and empty. The Count de Champeaux has gone from the building, cleared his personal effects, taken the two attache cases full of money, and been driven off in the Daimler by his chauffeur to collect his Vietnamese mistress, Moustique. He fears there may be another raid tonight, and wants her safely outside the main city area before it happens. I was made to promise that if there is a raid, or even an alert, I’ll go down to the trench with the Frankensteins and take shelter until it’s over.
I now know why I was given my increase, the unexpected bonus of an expense account. I’m the one left in charge here for the next two days, the one who must break the news to the Japanese staff that they no longer have jobs, and pay them each a month’s wages. Not really very generous, not for some of them who have worked here for several years, but the Count was in no mood to hear my views on this; in fact he insisted it was all they would expect. I’m also the lucky one who has to tell Monsieur Laroche he is redundant. I have an envelope with a reference for him and a cheque for six months’ salary. The Count said he felt sure I’d be able to handle the situation competently. We both know this is not true. Pierre Laroche, chief accountant, is going to be mightily angry at being given his marching orders by a junior clerk, which is what he considers me.
Couriers have been sent to each employee’s home, in the hope they are still alive. If they don’t appear, I’m to seal their wages in envelopes, and leave them with the secretary to the managing director of the Bank of Japan. Frankenstein will tell them where to collect what is owing to them.
Perhaps Laroche won’t arrive until I’m gone. It would be an immense relief not to have to administer the order of the axe to someone who dislikes me as much as I dislike him.
“To Friendship, Masao-san.”
“To friendship, Alex-san.”
“And thank you for the driving licence.”
“I only have one request. Please do not have an accident.”
“I’ll try not to.”
They touched their earthenware sake cups together in a last salute, and drank.
“I’ll miss you,” Suzuki said. “Even though you will stay on my list a
s still being here, it won’t be the same. I will miss our chats. I may even miss the whisky.”
“The war will end. We’ll be back.”
“But when the war is over, then I am no longer in charge of foreigners. No longer in charge of anyone. I may even be put back on traffic duty. And besides, Japan will lose the war.”
Alex was careful not to respond. Suzuki gazed steadily at him, with what seemed like a hint of reproach.
“You know we will lose, Alex. I’m not high security or Tokko police, or the Kempeitai. You can trust me.”
I have to say this, Alex thought, and I may regret it.
“I do trust you, Masao. And yes, I think the war is lost. I only hope that someone realises Japan must surrender, and not ask everyone to die.”
“You mean The Emperor?”
“I most assuredly don’t mean Santa Claus.”
Suzuki thought about this. He looked serious, then he finally nodded and managed a smile.
“Next Christmas,” he said, “you and me, we make a celebration again.” He bowed, then looked up and smiled. “Maybe we can celebrate peace and the gift of being alive.”
22
THE ROAD TO THE MOUNTAIN
It was bitterly cold in the trench, and as the night crept on and the city burnt around them, the only thing they could see were flames and scarlet-coloured skies through shifting shrouds of smoke. Despite the conflagration, the chill of the damp clay trench became intense. The holes in the earth behind the bank had never been intended as proper shelters; they had been hastily excavated to conform to local regulations at a time when air raids such as these were unimaginable.
Bombers flew overhead like fearsome giant vultures, using the same low-altitude pattern of attack to unleash their incendiaries indiscriminately. Huddled in the freezing trench, knowing that for all its discomfort, it would be suicidal to leave here and go back to the penthouse, Alex felt sure the raid dwarfed the ferocity of the previous night. He began to believe the Count’s assertion was correct; that the objective of this bombing was intended to create terror and crush morale rather than destroy any particular installations. Earlier in the night, before the alert sounded, electricity had been restored for a brief period and he had heard the NHK national news on the radio. It was no longer possible to conceal the extent of the air raid. But a communiqué put out by the Office of War Information said Tokyo was the only city attacked the previous night, and admitted the death toll had been high.
The bulletin typically became a call to arms, as the announcer went on with his prepared script: “The enemy is trying to destroy this city as completely as the earthquake did in 1923. What they fail to realise is that the nation survived and rebuilt from that biggest of our many large earthquakes. And if they try to burn our land and homes, we shall survive and rebuild again. We will endure and return fire with fire. For the sake of His Imperial Highness, Japan is committed to uniting all corners of the world under one safe roof.”
“Bullshit,” said Alex to the radio, as the statement concluded with a martial fanfare. This was abruptly terminated as the electricity failed once again and the lights went out. It was still pitch dark an hour later, when the generator-powered sirens had begun to wail their warning. And since then, what remained of the city had endured a relentless and sulphurous inferno.
Towards morning, the cold became so intense that Alex’s legs began to cramp. At the other end of the trench he could hear one of the children whimpering. The Frankenstein family were closeted in a tight group, separated from him by their own choice. He wasn’t sure if the troubled child was F Major or F Minor, and felt ashamed he had never taken the trouble to learn their proper names. But the family lived apart, and other than the father’s appearances at work, they had always seemed to strictly avoid all contact with the staff. He heard their mother trying to comfort the boy, using the name Yoshi. That must be Yoshiaki, he thought, and managed to hoist himself painfully out of the trench. He crawled to where the caretaker, his wife and two young boys were crouched in equal misery.
“Yoshi, are you all right?” he asked. There was a startled silence.
“I’m cold and I’ve got the cramp,” Alex said, and could faintly make out the four faces staring up at him. The children had never met him, and seemed surprised a gaijin could speak their language.
“I’m cold, too” Yoshi said. “What’s the cramp?”
“It’s a pain in my leg. I can hardly walk. All my toes are twisted the wrong way, and the muscles feel as hard as wood.”
“Will they get better?” the boy asked.
“I hope so,” Alex said.
“You should walk, Faure-san,” Frankenstein said. “I think most of the planes have gone. You should exercise slowly.”
“Thank you, I’ll try,” Alex said, thinking this was one of the longest conversations he had ever had with the caretaker.
“I’ll walk with him.” Before his parents could object, Yoshi climbed out of the trench. He was the smallest of the boys, about eight years old as far as Alex could tell in the reflected glow of burning buildings.
“I’ll lean on you, Yoshi. You can be my walking stick.”
The boy giggled. They walked slowly up and down the yard for the next half hour. Once another squadron of Superfortresses flew overhead, and Alex grabbed the boy and they lay flat on the freezing ground, but the planes kept going towards the south and no more bombs dropped in the near vicinity.
An hour later it started to become light. Chilled and hungry people had already anticipated the all clear, and were leaving their shelters. The caretaker’s family went back into their basement home. Yoshi gave a shy wave to Alex, who waved back and called his thanks for helping him with the cramp. He went upstairs to the penthouse to finish the rest of his packing.
It had been, as Alex suspected and was soon to find out, an even heavier raid. In the earthquake of 1923, a total of 150,000 people had perished. In the bombing raids of these two nights in March, the first official estimates admitted the death toll far exceeded that of the earthquake.
ALEX’S DIARY: MARCH 11th, 1944
I needed a last look at the Ginza and went out into the streets early. It was more terrible than yesterday. The dead were scattered everywhere, charred corpses and mangled bodies that could never be identified, while the ruins of streets and buildings were still smouldering. It was like some gruesome scene from a stygian hell.
I felt sick. Disgusted with this insanity. If there was a God, surely he must be evil or dead. How could He allow things like this? Children’s bodies lying in the streets, other children’s faces haunted with fear? How could He condone men in machines flying over us and pulling levers — some of them doubtless liberal and educated men — unleashing this havoc and then going home to their base, to a waiting American breakfast. Would they even pause to think of the cruel devastation they had left behind? Or to them was it just another day’s work? Another mission?
The Mitsukoshi Department store had taken a direct hit, but remained standing. Its windows had exploded with the heat of the fires and shards of glass littered the pavement. The canal across the street, from where I had first seen the bank, was clogged with dead bodies. I stood and looked back at our quaint bijou building, so frail against the huge Bank of Japan, and wondered how many more raids it could possibly survive.
In the ruins of the Ginza, at the corner where Sumiko’s bar had been, a girl sat forlornly in the dirt; she was crying. The bar and the entire street of shops and secluded doorways had vanished. Nothing remained except ash and twisted struts that might have been window frames. “Aiko?” I asked, and she looked up, as if responding to the name. I couldn’t tell if it was Aiko; her face was burnt and blistered beyond recognition.
“Where’s Sumiko?” I asked.
“Dead,” she said between sobs, “the old bitch is dead.”
“Are you Aiko?” I said when she didn’t answer. “Don’t you remember me? Alex-san?”
She stared for a m
oment then turned away, as if she couldn’t bear to look at me. I went to an ambulance working down the street, and asked if they could help her. They didn’t even bother to reply. I was a Caucasian, my kind had done this, and today I could see the hatred in their faces. It was time to go, to join my mother and sister in Karuizawa, so I went back to the bank, to collect a suitcase and say goodbye to Frankenstein.
Then Laroche arrived, unaware there was no longer a job for him. When I handed him his reference and redundancy cheque he completely lost his temper.
“I refuse to be dismissed by a junior clerk,” he shouted, and was about to rip up the cheque until I pointed out it was signed by the Count, payable at the Bank of Japan, and if he ripped it up and anything happened to Monsieur Le Comte on his journey to the mountains, there wouldn’t be another.
“I know what’s been going on here,” he snapped. “And if the authorities were told, that would put an end to your career, you young bastard. And to his High and Mighty Excellence.”
“And you,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Do you think the Kempeitai are going to believe the chief accountant had no part in it? Don’t be thick, Laroche! They’ll have you inside their cells before you can protest, torturing you to find out how much you know. And I’ll swear you knew every detail. That, in fact, you were the main culprit. It was your idea. And since you don’t know the real names, you’ll shit yourself when you hear them, Pierre. Because you’re going to make deadly enemies out of some very important people.”
“There’s no need to talk to me like that,” Laroche said.
“There’s every need. Take your bloody cheque and get out, before I ask the Count to stop payment. Before I persuade him to inform every firm where you apply for a job that you’re unreliable, a slimy toad who likes to spend his time at the office getting a grip on the typists’ arses”
“I never liked the look of you, Faure,” the chief accountant said, his voice loud and hysterical, “From the day you came here you were trouble. I tried to tell the Count he was a fool to trust you, but de Champeaux is a weak man himself. A slave to that Vietnamese woman.”
Dragons in the Forest Page 21