Dragons in the Forest

by Peter Yeldham

  “Have you ever seen such a bunch of miserable bastards?” Claude said, as Alex parked his bicycle by the tennis courts. “I hear they’re being rounded up soon, to be deported on a slow boat back to Der Farterland.”

  “The sooner the better,” said Alex, who remembered how his sister had been frightened by them and his own unpleasant experience of their menacing threats. The wearer of the SS cap and tunic was no longer seen in this regalia; Alex ignored him, but took silent pleasure in his forlorn and morose aspect.

  “Gothic bastards,” Claude called out to a listless group of them across the street, “Blots on the escutcheon. Gaggle of swine!”

  “It’s a gaggle of geese,” Alex said with a grin.

  “Herd of swine,” Claude shouted, undeterred.

  Dr Wittenberg went past, with a reproachful shake of his head and what might almost have been the trace of a smile.

  “They’re pathetic, just a bunch of cement-heads who hopped on the Nazi bandwagon,” Alex said. “Not even worth abusing. Let’s play tennis.”

  The courts were no longer segregated. The club secretary spent much of his time anxiously pointing out that it had never been his idea to give the Axis partners control of the courts; it had been orders from the local authority, and he had been forced to carry out their wishes. He tried in particular to impress this on Alex, who had been one of his star pupils in former years when he had earned extra income as a coach. He came now to watch them playing singles and applauded a smash as Alex won the first set.

  “Great shot,” he said. “Play like this and you might give Jacques Clermont a tussle for the Summer Cup this year.”

  The remark — and the realisation most people did not know about Clermont — was a distraction to Alex. Claude served and aced him, then went on to win the game and the next two sets.

  “Why didn’t you tell him about Jacques?” Claude asked as they showered afterwards.

  Alex said he wasn’t sure, admitting he no longer liked the secretary. He’d never felt the same about the man since the day he had rather smugly refused them a court to play on, even though most of them were empty.

  “He couldn’t help it,” Claude said.

  “I don’t know about that. I got the feeling he quite enjoyed telling us we couldn’t play.”

  “You know your trouble? You carry grudges.”

  “My trouble is, I’ve got a good memory. I remember how friendly he was with some of the Nazis like that bloody Herr Doktor while he was lauding it around the place.”

  “You need a drink,” Claude decided.

  They went to the Mampei Hotel and had a beer in the bar. The place was almost deserted. The barman, a Japanese brought up in Hawaii, was ineligible for military service because of his birthplace. Joe Ishi had instead profited as a bartender with useful black market contacts. But he was lamenting the lack of custom, now that the Germans could no longer afford to drink there.

  “It’s as dead as a whorehouse at breakfast time,” he grumbled, while he poured their drinks.

  “We always leave whorehouses before breakfast,” Claude said. “The girls can’t make a decent cup of coffee.”

  “And they burn the toast,” Alex said.

  “Comedians,” the barman muttered, and gave them their change. He asked quietly, “Want any cigarettes?”

  “Depends on how much, Joe.”

  “Usual black market price.”

  “Your prices are too high,” Claude told him. “The Korean has dropped his price 10 yen a carton.”

  “Because he’s selling shit,” the barman said. “Local muck, English Woodbines, crap like that. Mine are top brands and it’s a fresh consignment. Chesterfields, Lucky Strikes, Camels. As many cartons as you want.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Alex said.

  “Don’t think too long. They’ll all be sold tonight.”

  “How about a discount if I buy 10 cartons, Joe?”

  “American cigarettes, Alex, I don’t need to give no discounts.”

  It was true and they both realised it. They each purchased five cartons. Alex bought a box of Lucky Strikes for his mother and four boxes of Camels for her to use in an exchange for food. It was ironic his money could no longer purchase fruit and vegetables from the farmers, but cigarettes were currency. And they could readily be traded for provisions which was fortunate, for they had bartered all the clothing they could spare, and his mother had sold her last piece of jewellery. Alex was conscious of how she sometimes glanced at her left hand and its missing wedding ring. She had insisted on selling it, declaring that since the marriage was long over a piece of beef would be a better exchange.

  They sipped another beer while the barman went to his storeroom to collect the cartons. This abundance of cigarettes in a remote community like Karuizawa posed a mystery. It was a precious commodity elsewhere; why were they so plentiful here? No permits or coupons necessary; all that was required was enough money to pay the black market prices.

  There were several marketeers. Joe Ishi was the main source, but there were others. Even local stores had stocks for sale below the counter, reserved for their best customers. It was a situation they often pondered.

  “How are they smuggled in, Joe?” Claude asked, as he brought their wrapped cartons.

  “Now how the hell would I know a thing like that?” the barman replied, waiting for payment, then carefully counting it.

  “Maybe they’re old pre-war stock, eh, Joe?”

  “These are fresh,” Ishi declared.

  “But how do they get here?”

  “You guys ask too many questions. None of my business, or yours.”

  They finished their drinks and went out to their bikes. “He must know where they come from,” Claude said.

  Alex shrugged; it was an enigma to them both. Neither felt compunction about buying on the black market; both their families had experienced difficult times in the past year through a lack of rations, and every packet was valuable in haggling for vegetables or rice. Or at times, with enough cigarettes to trade, even the rare luxury of fish or meat.

  “I doubt if we’ll ever know who’s behind it,” Claude said, “but someone’s making a fortune. Are you coming to the dance?”

  “What dance?” Alex asked.

  “Your sister’s dance, of course. At your house! Friday afternoon, when your mother goes to play cards, Tilly’s giving a dance.”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, she invited me. So presumably you’re included.”

  “I rather doubt it,” said Alex. “We’re not best friends lately. Besides, I thought dances were prohibited. Banned as a decadent Western custom.”

  “That’s why we’re all looking forward to it. Can’t wait,” Claude said, and rode off clutching his illegal cartons.

  ALEX’S DIARY: JUNE 10th, 1945

  My sister finally remembered to invite me to her dance. After all, it was my wind-up gramophone she wanted to borrow. She said a friend was bringing American records which were impossible to buy, including Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, the Dorsey Brothers and Harry James. I asked her what was wrong with French records. Edith Piaf, Maurice Chevalier and Charles Trenet. And by the way, who the hell was Harry James?

  She sighed and gave me one of her grown-up looks that she’d been practising. She didn’t want French singers droning on about love, she wanted a bit of rhythm — swing it was called — and Harry James was a trumpeter married to film star named Betty Grable — and why didn’t I know these important things?

  At 19, Mathilde was restless for a life outside this isolated enclave. I tried telling her Tokyo was a smouldering mess, and Yokohama probably the same. She wished she could see for herself, but was trapped here in this virtual prison — just when she was in the prime of her life. Soon she would be past it.

  I ignored the melodrama and tried to point out the prime of her life would last for a few years yet. And while I was dispensing elder brother advice, she should be a bit careful of some of
the opposite sex. Certain ones who hung around her, in my opinion, had only one thing in mind.

  “You should talk,” I was told. “You’re notorious, you and Odette.”

  “Come off it,” I said, “we’re just good friends.”

  “Is that what it’s called,” she said, with heavy sarcasm. “And anyway,” she said, “there’s nothing wrong with meeting boys.”

  “Not all are boys. Some are other women’s husbands on the prowl for a bit of skirt.”

  “Wow! Sounds promising!”

  “If they gate-crash your dance, their wives will complain.”

  “Great! We need some excitement, Alex.”

  That was when she asked if I’d be there. There’d be lots of girls, all her best friends looking for adventure, what’s more! There’d be the glamorous Octavia, the beautiful Alice de Tregomain, and the ravishing Spanish Juanita. With this display of loveliness, did I really have to bring Odette?

  “What’s wrong with her?” I asked. “Don’t you want her there?”

  “Not especially,” Mathilde said.

  Which was why I decided not to be at the dance, either. I took Odette to the cinema, which was a pity. Not for missing Tilly’s beauty parade — but because I might’ve guessed the truth about certain things a great deal sooner, if we’d gone dancing.

  29

  KAMIKAZE DAYS

  The pilots of the Divine Wind Corps seemed far too young. They were greeted with admiring cheers as they smiled and stood beside their aircraft like heroes. They were all specially chosen volunteers, or so the newsreel commentator informed the audience, who cheered even more as the young men obediently waved and, although they were on the flickering screen in the old hall that served as a cinema, many of the Japanese in the audience waved back to them, shouting words of encouragement. Alex wished he’d known what was on the program before having to put up with this.

  “How can they be specially chosen volunteers?” Odette whispered amid the enthusiasm around them.

  Alex hushed her, wanting to avoid attention. They were the only gaijin in the audience, and the packed cinema centre was mesmerised by what was on the screen. If it was heroic, it was equally horrific. An awesome and terrible new weapon.

  The planes they were to fly were specially designed and more than 800 of them had been built and were ready to strike the enemy. They were tiny aircraft, only big enough to take a crew of one. In the nose they carried a warhead that contained 1200 kilograms of high explosive. It was not possible for them to take off unaided; they were attached to a larger plane and launched in mid-air. Their maximum range was a brief 50 miles before sighting the target, then igniting the final rocket and diving into the enemy vessel below. They had no defensive armour, for they needed none. They were simply guided human bombs, which would impact on the decks of allied ships and then explode. Not a single one of these pilots would return from what was to be a glorious suicide mission.

  One of the youngest spoke to the camera, telling the audience it was a special honour to be selected for this duty. Already their comrades had shattered enemy morale, sinking aircraft carriers and battle cruisers. It would strike terror on the ocean. No ship would be safe against this new and devastating weapon; the US fleet would be forced to retreat or be destroyed and eventually, by losing control of the sea, the Americans would have to seek surrender. For this, he and his brother fliers would gladly donate their lives. They were the Squadron of the Divine Wind, he said, all dedicated to sacrificing themselves for the country.

  Alex and Odette left the cinema before the main feature film, disturbed by the propaganda newsreel. Although they’d heard about the Kamikaze pilots whose acts of self-immolation had recently made world headlines, the sight of the fragile aircraft and the extreme youth of the suicide fliers had shocked them.

  “I think it awful that all those people cheered them, and still believe the war can be won,” she said.

  “It’s worse than that,” Alex replied. “The commentary was a bunch of lies. They’re not volunteers. I heard it from Tommy Hashimoto.”

  “Heard what?”

  “The first pilots volunteered. Now they’re building so many of those aerial bombs they simply pick and order pilots to fly them. And anyone who refuses is shot.”

  “Oh God. That’s appalling. We should’ve gone to Tilly’s dance,” Odette said. “I honestly can’t think why we didn’t.”

  “Well …” Alex began to say, but she interrupted.

  “You wanted to see the damn movie.”

  “Not really. I wanted to spend the afternoon with you, not her giggling school friends. I had enough of them when they used to swarm all over the house in Yokohama.” He thought it sounded a reasonable lie, and hoped he wouldn’t have to tell her she hadn’t been invited.

  “Lots of our group were there,” she said, “Claude and Lisette, Alice, as well as several of my ex-boyfriends …”

  “Lucky we missed them.”

  “Don’t be like that. You also missed your friend Wilhelm, who was going to be there …”

  “Volkmann? You can’t mean Swiss Willie!”

  “Yes. They bought that huge house that looks like a French chateau. He said you were both in the same class at St Joseph’s.”

  “We were. But bloody Willie Volkmann was never a friend of mine. Quite the reverse. Spoiled, supercilious, he was an absolute shit. Got this cosy job running the Red Cross because of his father’s influence. What the hell was he doing at my sister’s dance.”

  “Obviously she invited him.”

  “Lucky we didn’t go. I’d have booted him out the door and ruined the party.” But he was left wondering why Volkmann had been there, and who’d invited him.

  “Swiss Willy? Oh yes, he was there,” Claude confirmed the following day when they played tennis. “Large as life, and twice as pompous.”

  “Is he a friend of Tilly’s?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I thought you knew,” Claude looked surprised, “he’s been lurking around her for weeks.”

  “I didn’t even know he’d moved here till I heard his rich father had bought that gruesome chateau. Why didn’t you tell me about him and Tilly?”

  “Why would I? There was nothing special about it.”

  “Are you sure?” Alex watched him carefully.

  “Look, maybe, just maybe I thought he was on the prowl for her. I wondered if I should warn her, but your sister is a pretty girl who doesn’t take kindly to advice — especially from us old people in our 20s.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Alex said.

  “He brought along all the American records and lots of sheet music. The bastard even played the piano and sang. Quite well, unfortunately.”

  “Trust him!”

  “Exactly. Very popular he was; all the girls thought he was great. Mine included. Since I can’t even play the mouth-organ or sing in tune, it ruined my day.”

  It was a week later that Alex found the sheet music. It was behind the piano, just a single song sheet that must have slipped down there and been forgotten. He was trying to decide whether to give it back to Mathilde or throw it out, when he noticed the imprint of the American music publisher and the date.

  He sat staring at it for a while, trying to work out what it meant. Then he took his bike and rode to Claude’s house. He asked Claude to remind him of the conversation with his journalist friend, one that had taken place some years earlier when they were queuing for their residence permits as neutral citizens in Yokohama.

  Two hours later he was waiting on the front verandah when Mathilde came home late that afternoon. There was a figure down by the front gate who had accompanied her home; while Alex watched they talked intimately, and then kissed. It seemed as if the relationship between his sister and Wilhelm Volkmann had progressed somewhat. He waited for her to reach the house.

  She was deep in thought and startled to see him. “Alex!”

  “Tilly, w
hat’s this?”

  He gave her the song sheet, and she glanced at it.

  “It’s the music of In The Mood. Where did you get it?”

  “Behind the piano.”

  “We were wondering what had happened to it.”

  “We? You mean you and Volkmann?”

  “Wilhelm,” she said. “His name is Wilhelm, or Willie.”

  “Not to me,” Alex said.

  “That’s no surprise. He told me you didn’t like him.”

  “It’s not a question of like or dislike. I’m just curious. Where did he get that sheet music?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s a popular old song, that was recorded before the war.”

  “Maybe,” Alex said, “but this is not an old version of it.” He showed her the imprint. “Look carefully at the date. July 1944, that was last year.”

  “So what?” She sound puzzled, slightly uncertain about the purpose of this scrutiny.

  “So how did it get here, in wartime? Look at the name of the arranger. It’s a new version that was published in Chicago. It says it there on the last page.”

  “I don’t know what all the fuss is about?”

  “Tilly, just use your brains will you? Think about it.”

  “You always used to say I was brainless.”

  “Well, you’re not. We both know you’re not. How would Volkmann get hold of sheet music that was published last year in America?”

  “Perhaps he has connections?”

  “How?”

  “Through his job?”

  “What’s his job?”

  “Stop it, Alex. You’re grilling me like a policeman.”

  “What’s his job?”

  “You know perfectly well. He works for the Red Cross.”

  “Runs it, he tells people.”

  “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”