Made to feel thoroughly rebuffed, he went in search of Odette to complain at being treated like some juvenile pest. She said she’d make him a cup of coffee, then whispered in his ear to wait around awhile, as the main servants were out and she’d had a rather good idea. Alex — feeling more cheerful when he heard the idea — gladly waited until her father had left the Chancellery for a meeting with the Ambassador, then they sneaked upstairs, locked the door of her room, and went to bed.
At the height of their passion, they heard ascending footsteps and then her mother’s voice on the landing directly outside the room. She tried the door handle. Fortunately it was locked, but it cooled their ardour quicker than a cold shower. She knocked again repeatedly, and through the door demanded to know where Alex was, because he had left his bicycle. By then he was squeezed beneath the bed, clutching his clothes, while Odette, in a dressing gown and clutching her head, was opening the door.
“Is he here?” she persisted.
“Who?” She put a handkerchief to her eyes, and gave a loud sniff. “If you mean Alex, we had a row. He’s gone off in a huff somewhere, I think for a walk on the golf course, and my head’s aching. Please go away.”
“Oh, my poor dear girl.” Odette managed to shut the door as her mother was saying, “We did try to tell you, he’s not right for you … I’m sure you can do far better. That nice young Volkmann boy, for instance.”
“Mother, let me sleep!”
“Of course, darling,” they could still hear her voice from the corridor outside. “When you’ve rested we’ll have a talk. I’ll make sure nobody disturbs you.”
Odettee stood listening to the retreating footsteps, then carefully relocked the door. She threw aside the dressing gown. Alex crawled out from beneath the bed.
“It’s safer in the forest,” he said.
“But sexier in here. Taking risks is really quite stimulating.”
They got back into bed.
“You’re right,” he said after a few moments, “it is sexier when unexpected danger lurks.”
It made her start to laugh, and he tried to hush her.
“If Mummy hears you laughing,” he whispered, “she’ll call out the French Foreign Legion.”
He had to clamp his hand across her mouth in time to stop her hilarity.
In Karuizawa later that week a raid was carried out on all known black market outlets. Having been warned in advance by a policeman on their payroll, no trace was found of contraband cartons of American cigarettes. However the barman of the Mampei Hotel was told that he had a choice; he was either a loyal Japanese or a treacherous and traitorous Hawaiian. The matter could easily be resolved; his citizenship would be cancelled, and he would be moved to an internment camp in the far north, or else he could reveal his source of supply and continue in his job as a popular barman. He decided his patriotic duty was to tell what he knew.
Another event occurred shortly afterwards. The Volkmann family packed up and left. Their chateau was locked and deserted, their Packard was last seen heading down the mountain road. By now the village grapevine had done its work, spreading rumours of odious and scandalous conduct, the theft of Red Cross parcels and an illegal fortune made out of this plunder. There was talk that Hans Volkmann had made a huge donation to charity, as much as four million yen some even suggested, and in return his son would escape prosecution.
Madame Daubigny heard the news; Claude made certain of this. She told Odette she was astonished. Wilhelm had seemed a nice young man. And so wealthy, although of course that was irrelevant. The Swiss, being stolid and unadventurous made good husbands, she said, and in her opinion he was far more suitable than Alex.
“If you say so, Mama,” her daughter replied, but pointed out that Alex was not in the habit of stealing from parcels sent to prisoners of war.
Her mother sighed and said it was all very confusing, and best to never trust anyone, especially men. She kissed her daughter, and said she was due next door at the Ambassador’s cocktail party. She paused before reaching his house and called hopefully back: “Are you sure you won’t come with me?”
“No thank you, Mama.”
“But what will you do, darling?”
“Probably go and read,” her daughter said.
“So much reading. It can’t be good for your eyes.”
She sighed again, and went to the Ambassador’s soirée, there to regale friends with the problems of a daughter whose head always seemed to be in books.
Meanwhile, Odette went upstairs to her room where Alex had accepted her dare to risk climbing the lattice on the back wall, and where he was already lying in her bed waiting for her.
Two weeks later, on a warm August day, the French Ambassador rode his bike around the village distributing news. Alex saw him approaching their house and thought he always looked as if he might fall off. He confided the thought to his sister.
“Poor old thing,” Mathilde said. “He misses his car and chauffeur, and all that luxury he had in Tokyo.” But the sight of him pedalling up towards their remote home clearly meant he was bringing a message of importance, so they walked down to meet him. The Ambassador straddled the bike as he tried to recover his breath.
“There’s a new sort of bomb,” he gasped.
They looked at him in astonishment. Alex wondered what on earth he was talking about, and why he had ridden all this way to discuss bombs.
“New, Your Excellency. What do you mean, new?”
“Don’t ask for details,” the Ambassador said impatiently. “I haven’t time and that’s all I heard on the BBC. It was dropped yesterday morning on Hiroshima.”
“I’ve heard of Hiroshima,” Mathilde said, equally puzzled by his visit, “it’s a seaport in the inland sea.”
“Not any more,” the Ambassador said. “There’s nothing left. The place is destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Completely in ruins. And most of its people are dead.”
“But … wait on … how many bombs, Your Excellency?”
“One.”
“One? It can’t be one single bomb.”
“I’m not deaf, Alex. The radio said one bomb.” Before they could ask more he was gone, pedalling away to the next house to spread his news.
ALEX’S DIARY: AUGUST 7th, 1945
People collected in groups that night to talk about it. We were confused, but when it was confirmed the report was true we felt mixed reactions of shock and euphoria; horror at the thought of some monstrous weapon, hope that this must mean the end of the war. All over town there was the same mood; a feeling of a need to congregate together, to discuss it, to try to analyse what it meant — for now and for the future.
We’d heard more news by then, for in most embassies they’d been glued to their shortwave radios all day. It seemed there had been just one solitary plane, flying very high; it was strange, even stranger, that the bomb it carried had exploded in the air above the city and killed half of its people.
Claude came to our house with a book that had pictures of the Inland Sea, and photographs of Hiroshima. It said that it was considered a well planned city of 300,000 people, with fine streets and concrete buildings, made to withstand earthquakes.
Yet one bomb had destroyed all this. What kind of a terrible weapon could it be?
In Karuizawa, it seemed as if the people collectively held their breath. Every hour after the dropping of the bomb — they’d now heard on overseas broadcasts it was called an “atomic” bomb — there was an expectation that one of two things must happen. Either there must be a total surrender, for how could anyone contend with this kind of weapon unlike anything that had been used before, or else the police would begin to round up people, and the threats about foreigners that had been rumours all the year would become reality. But for 48 tense hours nothing whatever happened.
Then everything changed.
Suddenly, after years of bitter island battles, when it often felt as if the war would continue in indefinite
stalemate, word of dramatic events began to come with startling rapidity. Each few hours brought fresh developments, word spreading swiftly from neighbour to neighbour.
Claude came rushing to acquaint Alex and his family with a sensational BBC news flash. Overnight Russia had abruptly declared war on Japan.
“I can’t believe it,” was Alex’s stunned reaction
“I can,” his mother said. “Those Reds! Trust them to come in when the war’s almost over. To share the spoils. They have long memories, the Reds. They want to invade and get Manchuria back.”
“She’s right,” Claude confirmed. “Troops have already crossed the Manchurian border.”
“Of course I’m right. You young people think you’re the only ones with brains? I had brains before you were born.”
Mathilde was about to make a comment, then she caught Alex’s eye and smiled instead. Her mother saw it.
“You can smile. Bloody Russians! Joseph Stalin … Uncle Joe they call him. I could tell you what I call him, but it would teach you some bad language.”
“Would you say he’s a bastard, Ma?”
“Worse! I know some nice bastards. Uncle Joe Stalin indeed! He’s a Georgian. Never trust a Georgian.” She went to leave them, then paused remembering something. “He was going to be a priest. Imagine him, a priest!”
“I didn’t know that,” Alex said. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened? They found out how evil he was, and expelled him from the monastery.”
She was well pleased with the fact that none of them had known this, and told Claude to remain and she would make him coffee.
“Russia. That surely has to be the end?”
“Everyone thinks so.”
“Where did you hear it?”
“At the French Ambassador’s,” Claude said. “I was there half the night. It’s a madhouse, full of people listening to news on shortwave. And every expert giving his opinion on how long before Japan sues for peace.”
How long became the question on everyone’s lips. But if there were convulsions in the rest of the world, little in their daily lives seemed different. At least on the surface. The Kempeitai remained in Karuizawa, which made everyone uneasy; what purpose could they have here now? Meanwhile, the civil population was exhorted to work harder in munitions factories and prepare to resist the enemy should they dare attack Japan’s soil. This would be repelled with catastrophic force. Patriotic music was played continuously, while radio broadcasts reminded listeners of the brave pilots of the Divine Wind Corps and their exploits. According to the national radio NHK, the entire world was amazed by the valour of these young men of the Kamikaze squadrons. In contradiction, the BBC reported Japan had no more pilots willing to fly suicide aircraft, not even if ordered. The days of the Kamikaze, they said, were over.
“You could get very confused,” Claude said, “listening to local broadcasts as well as the shortwave. As if there are two entirely different wars going on.”
“And each side swears they’re winning,” Alex answered.
“So which side is winning?”
“Ours, of course. The Allies. It’s obvious.”
“Not to the loyal Japs. The fanatics will keep fighting, building more planes and making ammunition until the sky falls in.”
“In Tokyo the sky’s been falling in for months,” Alex replied. Cities are in ruins. Can they seriously believe anything but defeat is possible?”
“They believe whatever their Emperor tells them.”
“But they’ve never heard their bloody Emperor’s voice”.
“Makes no difference, Alex.”
“So what drives them? What makes them fight on?”
“Faith. Belief.”
“In the Son of Heaven, who they’ve never seen or heard?”
“How about God?” Claude asked. “Has anyone seen him lately, or heard his voice?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Americans always declare that God is on their side.”
“It’s a weird world,” Alex said. “And it’s getting steadily weirder.”
ALEX’S DIARY: AUGUST 12th, 1945
Sarah Hashimoto came to our house yesterday. Instead of being elated like the day she had brought news of the D-Day invasion, she was in shock. Another bomb had been dropped, she said — this time on the city of Nagasaki.
She and Tommy knew the place; they’d been on a cruise that called there once. She remembered it had a beautiful harbour, and was situated in the far south of Japan, on the Island of Kyushu. We sat and talked about it for a long while. Sarah said that for years she had kept herself going by the thought of victory for the allies, but now for the first time in this war, she didn’t know what to think. She felt appalled. Now we knew how terrible the first bomb on Hiroshima had been, it seemed to her utterly wrong and inhuman to use another.
My mother disagreed. She argued it was necessary. Otherwise Japan would never stop this war without an invasion, and that would destroy the entire country and cost far more lives — on both sides. My sister was quiet during this, then she voiced a question. She wondered what kind of a man this new President Truman was, and if the thought of all those dead from a single bomb would trouble him? Do you think, she asked us, if he can sleep at nights?
Neighbours came in. We needed the comfort of each other once again — particularly those of us who were young — for this was a new world we were supposed to inherit, and with weapons like this what did the future hold? Or would there be a future? We sat talking until late, wondering how many more atomic bombs there would be, and when this awful carnage would end.
Early the next day came a plethora of other news. While the Russians were rapidly driving through Manchuria, determined to occupy as much of the country as possible before a surrender, the Voice of America reported that aircraft using the captured runways on Okinawa had spent the past days destroying what remained of the Japanese fleet. Battleships, cruisers and the last surviving aircraft carrier had all been sunk, as well as many submarines. The mercantile fleet, according to the broadcast, no longer existed.
In addition to this — and by far the most important news of all — the BBC reported that the Japanese cabinet was currently in meetings to consider if they could accept the terms of unconditional surrender. According to their Far Eastern sources, the Emperor was no longer in control of his homeland. It was therefore distinctly possible the war could be over within hours.
Claude and Alex heard this at the French Embassy and were among those who volunteered to help spread the word. The Ambassador said it was important that people be told to keep off the streets if possible, to remain at home and to stay calm. It might be a false alarm; nobody should celebrate prematurely. Claude went first to the two doctors, who promised to advise their patients. Alex covered most of the shops in the centre of town; asking the owners to pass word of the BBC report to their customers.
After that he went to the Mampei Hotel. Carefully avoiding the bar, he found Henri Barbusse, the Swiss manager in his office. They discussed the news and Barbusse agreed to circulate it to those guests he felt he could trust. He invited Alex to stay for a drink, but Alex was cycling to La Residence Mimosa, to give them the news. Neither was aware that Joe Ishi, the barman, had come to bring his weekly accounts to be checked, and had stood outside and overheard this.
Ishi returned thoughtfully to the bar. From a window he watched Alex ride away. Although it was rumoured de Champeaux had been the one who reported young Eisler’s actions to the authorities, the barman considered Alex equally responsible for the loss of his lucrative black market. Behind the counter was a telephone, available only for local calls. A local call was all he needed. He rang a number and asked to speak to Sergeant Shirai. Half an hour later, returning from visiting the Count and Moustique, Alex was arrested.
31
AN ENEMY OF THE STATE
His head throbbed and his cheek was raw and bleeding. The cell was small and dank. There was
no bed or furniture, just a malodorous slop bucket. A tiny barred window high on the wall beyond his reach shed hardly any light. He lay on the stone floor, doubting if anyone knew he was there. It had happened so fast, in a matter of moments, and they had picked their spot well; it was most unlikely anyone would have been passing there to witness the arrest.
He had been riding his bike home when the Kempeitai Sergeant and two men emerged from the bushes at the side of the road. Their appearance had startled him, but there’d been no order to stop, so he was pedalling past trying not to show concern when one of the policemen thrust a baton between the spokes on the front wheel of his bike. He was flung forward over the handlebars hitting the ground with a thud, and landing on the side of his head.
Dizzy and feeling concussed, he heard the Sergeant snap an order, and the military policeman handcuffed him. His bike, with the front wheel mangled, was tossed into the bushes, while the other policeman appeared from the shrubbery pushing a motorcycle with a sidecar. Alex was hauled to his feet, told that he was under arrest — charged with the serious crime of spreading lies about the Emperor and speaking against the war effort — then roughly bundled into the sidecar. He was forced down while the canopy was fastened tightly over him, obscuring him and making it difficult to breathe. After a short ride, still bleeding and feeling sick and dizzy, he was taken in the back of a building and pushed into a cell. Dimly he had heard the charge repeated, told he might as well plead guilty since the evidence was conclusive, then the door was slammed the bolt slid shut. Since then he had been alone.
“Have you seen Alex?” Mathilde asked when Claude arrived at their house later in the afternoon.
“He was going to the hotel, then to the Count’s place to pass on the latest news. I’m surprised he isn’t back by this time.”
Dragons in the Forest Page 29