Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  It created extreme tension in the town. The more successfully the war turned in favour of the Allies, the more careful all foreigners, but especially the French, had to be. For the Kempeitai were keeping a rigorous watch.

  “It’s dangerous to even smile,” Alex complained. “If we laugh they want to know why. What the hell are we going to do?”

  “Keep playing tennis, and riding horses,” Claude said. “The worst thing that can happen to us now is to become restless. That’s when we start getting into trouble.”

  It should have been an idyllic existence in an enjoyable resort, but most people had already been forced to remain too long. They thought of themselves as confined in a luxury internment camp, prisoners who had to supply their own food by buying it on the black market, and who, since cash was no longer of value, had to trade by selling clothes, jewellery or other treasured belongings for meat and vegetables.

  With the approach of warm weather, filling the time became their growing problem. One could only play so many games of tennis, or ride so many horses. Cards, except for the few addicts, became monotonous. Dances were still prohibited as a Western vice. It was difficult, with each day so similar, not to succumb to apathy and depression. But there were some who discovered a recipe for making sure the days passed blissfully. The way to avoid boredom was sex. In this spring of 1945, promiscuity flourished like never before. Affairs were frequent and adultery replaced tennis as the favourite game in town.

  “I just don’t believe it,” Odettee said, as a golf ball bounced through the thick shrubbery and landed near them. “You promised me …” she started to say furiously, then they heard the sound of approaching male voices and snatched frantically for their clothes. They were in a different part of the golf course that Alex had assured her was safer, this time not encumbered by the sleeping bag in the warmer weather. But with no time to get dressed, they hid naked in the thick foliage, and Alex winced as blackberry thorns scratched his bare bottom.

  “Ouch!”

  “Shut up,” she whispered as the voices came nearer. “Where are my pants,” she muttered. “I haven’t got them.”

  “Nor have I.”

  “Good heavens,” came a cheerful male voice from the other side of the bushes, so close that it shocked them. “My ball has landed on a pair of girl’s knickers.”

  “Lucky you,” his partner chuckled, “take a free drop, and we’ll treat it as a hazard.”

  Odette gritted her teeth as they heard the club hit the ball, then the partner said, “what are you doing with the pants?”

  “Putting them in the golf bag. Expensive lace underwear. I might as well take them home to the wife.”

  “You’re joking,” the other replied,

  “Not at all. She’d look rather fetching in these. She hasn’t strolled around the house indecently déshabillé since pre-war Paris.”

  “But is she going to believe you found them on the golf course. I’m damned sure my wife wouldn’t.”

  “Ah, good point. Perhaps not. Still, seems an awful waste to leave them. Finders keepers. I’ll give them to my new girlfriend instead.”

  They roared with laughter. Alex and Odette stayed frozen after the whack of a club hitting the ball, waiting for the golfers to move away.

  As soon as it was safe to talk Odette was furious. “Give them to his girlfriend! Did you hear the bastard?”

  “I could hardly not hear him. Who was it?”

  “The Portuguese attaché — who just happens to be having an affair with one of my best friends. She’ll recognise them. I must’ve been raving mad, letting you talk me into the golf course again. You promised we’d be safe.”

  “I found out your father was not playing today. That’s all I promised. We should’ve been safe, it’s hardly possible for anyone to slice a shot so badly from the last tee. I can’t help it if they’re all such lousy golfers.” He grimaced, and felt his backside tenderly. “Bloody thorns pricked me on the bum.”

  Odette pulled on the rest of her clothes. “Don’t you talk to me about pricks,” she said.

  ALEX’S DIARY: MAY 10th, 1945

  It’s over! The war in Europe is over at last! Sarah has been cycling to all the friends we trust, with a message from the Ambassador. It’s official. Admiral Doenitz, who proclaimed himself Fuhrer since Hitler’s death has signed a document of unconditional surrender. The ceremony took place yesterday.

  In London and Paris there have been huge celebrations and all over western Europe and America people are going crazy with relief and joy. The BBC report said there are thousands in front of Buckingham Palace and the King and Queen are on the balcony with Winston Churchill. Thousands more are filling Times Square, and all over the world it’s being called VE Day.

  I wish to God we could celebrate, but we dare not. It’s ridiculous, but we have to hide our jubilation because we don’t know what happens now. In the past few days Kempeitai numbers have increased here. They don’t even try to conceal their presence, they openly watch us. And the rumours persist that we French cannot any longer be regarded as neutral. That in the echelons of cabinet, there is a heated debate trying to decide whether we should be classified as enemies and removed to internment camps.

  26

  RETURN TO TOKYO

  “What kind of news do you hear from your sources, Alex?” the Count de Champeaux asked.

  “Something different every day, Monsieur. Not even our diplomats really seem to know.”

  They were on the terrace of La Residence Mimosa, with its extensive manicured lawns and colourful garden spread out in front of them. Moustique, slim and beautiful with her light brown skin, high cheek bones and almond eyes, joined them. She was wearing a silk blouse, a mid-calf skirt and sheer stockings. As always she looked elegant. Alex admired and liked her. Since his return to Karuizawa two months ago, he had come to the house at least twice a week for meetings with the Count and Moustique had always made him feel welcome.

  “He worries too much,” she said to him.

  “We all do, Madame.”

  “Of course we do,” the Count said restlessly. “The rest of the world is now free to send their troops and ships here. So it can only be a matter of time. But how soon … and what happens in the meantime? Japan won’t give up like the Germans did. I’ve heard they despise Germany for its capitulation. To them it’s pure weakness. Look how they’re defending Okinawa, thousands dying each day rather than retreat an inch. Think how they’ll fight to save the homeland.” He looked at Alex. “You must realise they’ll never accept the term ‘unconditional surrender’. It would entail turning their backs on the Emperor.”

  “Perhaps,” Alex said, feeling this required an answer, “but meanwhile the Emperor walks in his lavish gardens and studies the flowers. Does he hear no air raids? See no destruction? Doesn’t he realise that women and children are being killed?”

  “It’s the Japanese way. He’s the Son of Heaven.”

  “Protected from the hell outside his palace walls.”

  “I’ve ordered coffee,” Moustique said in an effort to intervene, “because I don’t think either of you can solve the enigma of the Emperor or the people’s obsession with him. I can’t understand it, either. Not when it comes to a choice of people living or dying for a quiet man whom most of them have never seen.” She smiled and was about to leave them, then added, “I suppose it’s a bit like the Christian martyrs who’d never seen Jesus but were willing to die for him.”

  They both watched her walk back into the house, realising she had deftly defused their argument. They sat at a cedar table. A servant brought a tray with coffee. Only diplomats and the wealthiest people in Karuizawa now had servants. The farmers’ sons, those who’d gardened for visitors before the war, were now in the army, the daughters worked in munitions factories.

  The Count is probably right, Alex thought. The war will go on. They’ll defend Japan, until every son and daughter has given their lives for the “quiet man”. And if the Emper
or wished it to be otherwise, the intransigents in his ministry would prevent a passive message from being heard.

  The servant bowed and left. They drank their coffee and talked of other matters for a time. The Count had heard from Cecile Patou. Alex might be glad to know she’d found a good job, and also, months ago, had left her husband.

  “That’s great news,” Alex said, not revealing he knew the Count had arranged the job and helped her financially. “But must she stay in Tokyo?”

  “She insists. The job’s there, and she won’t give it up. Unfortunately her apartment was bombed, so we asked her to move into our house at Azabu.”

  “I hope she’ll be safe there.”

  “It has a strong air-raid shelter. She’s enjoying the garden. We have a bonsai cedar, 100 years old. I hated leaving it behind, but I’m sure Cecile takes good care of it.” He finished his coffee. “Now let me explain why I asked you to come today. I need your help, Alex. And your assurance that this is in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course, Monsieur.”

  “The French Ambassador has heard a majority in cabinet are ready to declare the French personae non gratae and intern us with the Australians, British and Americans. We’ve all heard these rumours, but this is from a reliable source. People are starting to resent Westerners living in what they think of as luxury, while food and most things in their daily lives become harder to get. We’re only a few thousand in number, but if they were to round us up and march us off to internment … there’d be photos and headlines in the papers, it’d be popular on the newsreels … you see what I’m getting at?”

  “A morale booster. Taking minds off what’s happening in the war.”

  “Internment may not be so terrible, but it presents you and me with a major problem. Really several problems, all related. For a start, there’s too much money in this house to hide it safely. God knows how we’d stop that being confiscated. We couldn’t even use the Embassy. The Ambassador will most likely be interned as well. So will his Head of Chancellery …”

  And his daughter, Alex thought. Recalling the distress of the Marianist school teachers in Yokohama, he doubted if the Count realised how demeaning internment could be.

  “It also means we’re totally out of touch with Zurich and Geneva. If there was correspondence about any of the Swiss accounts arriving by diplomatic bag, I’m sure all mail would go straight to the security police.”

  “Certain to,” Alex said.

  “The correspondence might refer to numbers, but they’d soon realise we’re the people who know the numbers. And their logical next step is to learn who owns the accounts. The Kempeitai would insist on names. I hear they have unpleasant ways of finding these things out,” the Count said.

  Before Alex could reply, Moustique emerged from the house. She wore a smart tennis dress and carried a racquet.

  “This seems a serious conversation, darling.” She kissed his cheek. “I hope there’s nothing wrong?”

  “Just banking talk, my dear. Serious people, bankers, as you always tell me.”

  “Enjoy your game,” Alex said.

  “Thank you, Alex. Odette Daubigny is in the doubles. Isn’t she a friend of yours?”

  “Yes. I hope you win.”

  “Shall I tell her that? She’s on the opposite side.” She laughed and went to a bicycle rack. They watched her wave and ride gracefully away.

  “I also must protect her,” the Count said. “If they felt she had even the slightest knowledge …”

  “But what can we do?”

  “Use every scrap of influence, to persuade the cabinet not to make this decision. We’ve never discussed it, you and I, but you may know that Prince Konoe is a close friend.”

  “I … did form that impression,” Alex said tactfully.

  “I managed to reach his secretary by telephone, early this morning. I said I hoped to send a message, not to be given to anyone except the Prince himself — and by you personally.”

  “Me..?” Alex was startled.

  “You, rather than me, in case he’s under scrutiny. Your visit will create far less attention than mine would.”

  “Am I taking him a written or verbal message?”

  “A letter. A list of names. The Prince knows some. Other names might surprise him. I’ve pointed out the danger to these important people if this proposal goes through. I want him to talk to those he can trust. In particular the War Minister, and two of the cabinet. That’s a useful trio for a start. Plus industrialists who might have influence at cabinet level.”

  “When do you want me to leave?”

  “I’ve taken you for granted, but you can refuse if you wish.”

  I don’t think I can refuse, Alex wanted to say, and we both know it. But he simply shook his head.

  “When do I go?” he asked again.

  “The Prince will be in his office tomorrow, expecting you. So you should leave by tonight’s train.”

  Tokyo was like an endless scrap heap of rubble and corrosion. From the train window he could see the devastation; it began in the outer suburbs, and seemed to continue interminably. Vast patches of scorched land disfigured the view where once houses had clustered; too many tiny fragile houses in close proximity that had been so easily destroyed.

  How many air raids had done this? Someone had told him it was 100, but half the damage had been inflicted in the raids of March the 9th and 10th. How many incendiaries had caused these miles of wasteland? Millions, people said. He knew from bitter experience on those two raids alone, that bombs had dropped unceasingly for most of the night from a sky that seemed full of planes.

  Tokyo had never been a beautiful city. It had none of the grace of Kyoto. Too damaged by the 1923 earthquake; then haphazardly rebuilt. But Alex had liked it; living in Nihonbashi he had enjoyed the allure of the Ginza and the maze of back alleys that had been his domain. Now, watching through the smeared window, the city seemed squalid: like a vagrant down on his luck, all vestiges of pride stripped away.

  There was nothing to delight the eye. The buildings that remained standing looked insecure, ready for their own demolition. The rail terminus at Ueno Station had been extensively damaged. Passengers were forced to use makeshift platforms that caused long delays. Alex had a wallet full of cash expenses; the Count had written down the Prince’s office address, and advised him to take a taxi. Doubting this would be possible, he was surprised to see cabs with charcoal burners waiting outside the station concourse. He hailed one, and asked to be taken to a street near the National Diet Building. He left the cab there and walked a block to his destination.

  If the Prince was surprised at the youth of the messenger the Count had sent him, he gave no sign of it, greeting Alex with a cordial handshake and asking him to sit down while he read the letter. Konoe had been in politics for 25 years, a member and then president of the upper house of the Imperial Diet, and three times the country’s Prime Minister. Replaced by General Tojo in the months before the outbreak of war, and now considered politically in decline, he still had influence in parliament.

  He read the letter carefully, and glanced at Alex.

  “The Count says he trusts you. Do you know the contents of this letter?”

  “Approximately, Your Highness.”

  “Approximately?” Konoe smiled. “I like your tact. Tell him I agree it would be a foolish and rather pointless act, at this stage of the war, to antagonise the French community. They’re our valued friends, and have been for many years. I won’t commit a statement to paper, but you may assure him I will do my best to oblige. And thank you for making this long journey.”

  Alex started to rise, assuming the meeting was over, but the Prince gestured for him to remain.

  “Tell me, how is Karuizawa?”

  “Very crowded, Your Highness,” Alex said.

  “I imagine so. But I miss it. Did you know I had a house there?”

  “My father told me.”

  “Your father? Do I know him?”
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br />   “Edward Faure.”

  “Ah, yes. The silk merchant. Is he … in good health?”

  It was a euphemism in these times for asking if he was still alive, and Alex nodded.

  “To the best of my knowledge. He’s been in Saigon since just before the war began.”

  “And your mother?”

  The Prince, Alex realised, had a politician’s aptitude for detail, and knew a great deal about his family.

  “She’s in Karuizawa with my sister.”

  “Russian, I seem to remember?”

  “White Russian, sir,” Alex said with equal guile, knowing that Konoe was known for his outspoken anti-communist sentiments. And as if realising this, the Prince broadly smiled.

  “The only hue of Russian I care for,” he said, and after again shaking hands sent regards to his friend the Count and Mademoiselle Moustique, and wished Alex a comfortable and safe return journey.

  When he left the Prince’s office, there was a sound he had not heard for months. The chilling wail of an air raid siren. As there were no planes visible, and people in the street seemed to be ignoring the alert, Alex assumed there had been a raid the previous night, and this was an aircraft on a reconnaissance mission, sent to make a record of the damage. It was strange how people became intuitive about such things and he recalled the pattern of the winter when, bedevilled by alarms, he and other occupants of the city had in some instinctive way known when the sirens signalled true raids, and other times when there was no real danger.

  But whatever this warning presaged, he knew the alarm would delay all the trains, as they would not leave until an all-clear was signalled. It prompted a thought that had been in his mind ever since the Count proposed the trip. He decided to visit the French bank, and perhaps even stay the night in the penthouse. Some of his clothes were still there, as well as other possessions that had been too difficult to transport the day he went to Azabu to pick up the Datsun. He had hoped to return for them in the car that day, but the delays and streams of refugees had made it impossible.