So Far from the Bamboo Grove

by Yoko Kawashima Watkins

  MAP

  DEDICATION

  TO MY HONORABLE SISTER KO

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  TO CATHERINE WOOLLEY,

  who journeyed with me through the harsh time

  I could not have relived alone,

  my heartfelt gratitude.

  The publisher would like to thank Colonel William R. Corson (Ret.), coauthor of The New KGB: Engine of Soviet Power, who served in Korea during the Korean War, for his careful reading of the manuscript. We are also deeply appreciative of the help given by Dr. Clarence N. Weems, editor of Hulbert’s History of Korea. We extend special thanks to Jacqueline van Zanten, first reader.

  DEAR READER

  Since September 2006, there has been concern expressed by some people in the Korean American community regarding this book, so I want to start by saying that what I have written is a remembrance of my own life experience. My intention is not to hurt any individual or nationality, but rather to tell my story of survival in the midst of war, and offer my hope for peace.

  The Japanese occupation in Korea caused deep suffering, sacrifice, and anger. Then and during World War II, countless Korean people were victims. My book was never intended to be a defense of the Japanese. Readers will hear my mother voice her unhappiness with the Tojo government clearly and can draw their own conclusions about my school days in Korea and Japan. War in any country is always chaotic and terrible, brought on by events beyond the control of most people. Individuals, families, and communities on all sides suffer terribly and yet they still reach out and help one another, showing again and again the humanity of all people. In the book, I tell of the Korean family to whom we are forever grateful. At considerable risk to themselves, this family protected my brother, offering him food, shelter, and friendship. They saved his life.

  I am very sorry that the Japanese government has not apologized adequately for what happened during the occupation and the war and has never fully recognized the suffering of the Korean people. As a Japanese American woman, I would like to express my deep regret for the suffering and loss so many experienced.

  If we are to have peace and reconciliation in this world, I strongly believe there must be opportunities for understanding and dialogue. My own experience as a young girl escaping from one country to another casts light on the horror of war for all children in all places. Linda Sue Park’s When My Name Was Keoko and Sook Nyul Choi’s Year of Impossible Goodbyes give different perspectives that also help us understand the consequences of oppression and war.

  I work to pass on to the young people of the world an understanding of the cruelty, the horror, and the human cost of war. My prayer is for all people to live in peace together.

  —Yoko Kawashima Watkins

  CONTENTS

  Map

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Dear Reader

  Foreword

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Notes from the Publisher

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  NINETEEN FORTY-FIVE WAS A BAD TIME for a Japanese girl to be living in northern Korea. More than ever, the Koreans resented the Japanese, who had taken over their country and ruled it as their own. Now it was threatened by World War II. The Russians, who had outposts close to the Korean border, might at any time join their allies, the United States and England, in the war against Japan. And the Americans were already bombing industrial sites in northern Korea.

  Yet before the danger started, Yoko Kawashima had been happy in her home in a bamboo grove. One of her early memories is of her father bringing her a pair of canaries. Sitting before their cage, she carried on a long conversation with them, which she later turned into a story for school. When her classmates laughed and told her that people couldn’t talk with birds, Yoko insisted that she could and had. Even then she knew she wanted to be a writer, and of course she was pleased when her story was published in the local paper.

  She couldn’t know, however, that within a few short years she would be caught in the middle of a real-life story—so grim, so tragic that she would spend years of her adult life trying to get it down on paper.

  Yoko Kawashima Watkins, who now lives on Cape Cod, is married to an American and is the mother of four grown children. Her struggle to master English and to record the nightmare of her private war story is a demonstration of the persistence and will she showed as a little girl, escaping from Korea and learning to survive when—as she says—she was “in the most bottom of the bottom.”

  When this book was accepted for publication, a writer friend told Yoko that now she would be competing with other writers. Yoko said, No, she would not compete with anyone for anything. “I competed with life and death when young,” she said. “And I won.”

  Here is the story of her victory.

  —JEAN FRITZ

  ONE

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT ON JULY 29, 1945, when my mother, my elder sister Ko, and I, carrying as many of our belongings as we could on our backs, fled our home in its bamboo grove, our friends, and our town, Nanam, in northern Korea, forever.

  In darkness Mother checked windows and doors. I was eleven, Ko sixteen. I was very tired and my head was so dizzy I did not know which way I was heading. The cool night air swept my face; still my head was not clear. I saw Mother close the main entrance and lock it.

  “Now give me your wrist, Little One,” she commanded in a low voice.

  I was called “Little One” by my parents and Ko, but my older brother, Hideyo, always teasing, called me “Noisy One” because I often screamed when I was teased and when we frolicked in the house.

  My wrist? I hadn’t had a night’s sleep in two weeks because of the air raids. My head was very hazy.

  “Hurry!” Mother found my wrist in the darkness. She was tying a rope to it. “So I won’t lose you.”

  Tying Ko’s wrist, she asked, her voice full of worry, “You did leave a note for your father?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “I left a note for Hideyo,” said Mother. “Oh, I hope he finds it and joins us. He can get in through his window. Now remember, no one knows we are leaving. No matter what, until we reach the train station, be silent. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Ko said again. I wanted to cry.

  Though we lived in northeastern Korea, we were Japanese. My country, Japan, which I had never seen, had been fighting America and Britain for four years. Because Father was a Japanese government official, working in Manchuria, I had grown up in this ancient town. We were fifty miles from the Manchurian border, and we were so close to the Russian ports, Vladivostok and Nakhodka, across the sea from our harbor. Father came home by train as often as he could.

  The shadow of war had been creeping across our peaceful village for months. The most horrible shock had come some weeks before. Mother and I were alone and I was practicing my brush-writing before going to my teacher’s house for a calligraphy lesson. Calligraphy is dipping a fat or thin brush in India ink and writing in script or in the square style of Chinese characters.

  I had finished my final copy when four Japanese army police burst in through the main door of our house, which only invited guests used, without taking off their shoes.

  A mean-looking policeman told Mother, “We are here to collect metal. Iron, bronze, silver, and gold.”

  Mother stood, bewildered, and he yelled at her.

  She gave
him Father’s treasured silver ashtray set. He threw it in a box and demanded, “More!”

  Mother brought her bronze flower vase that stood in the Tokonoma (alcove), where flowers were always elegantly arranged. She began to pull the lovely arrangement of irises out one by one, and the policeman pushed her, yanked out the irises and leaves, and dumped the vase and heavy metal frog inside into the box. Mother’s eyes were fixed on that box, but she was silent.

  The head one noticed Mother’s wedding ring and he demanded that. Then her spectacles, gold-rimmed, though she told him she could see nothing without them. They went into the box.

  Finally the head police picked up the Mount Fuji paperweight holding my calligraphy copy. That paperweight had been sent to me by Father’s mother. She said it had been passed on to my father from way back and she could still see my father, when young, using it to practice brush-writing. Through this Mount Fuji paperweight I dreamed of seeing the majestic mountain and imagined the beauty of my homeland.

  He glanced at my writing, “Bu Un Cho Kyu” (Good Luck in War), then left the sheet and tossed the paperweight into the box.

  I had stood there helpless, fists clenched, seething, and the iron weight smashing Mother’s important lenses released my fury. I jumped at the head policeman’s hand and bit it as hard as I could.

  He yelled, but I bit harder. He shook me off, pushed Mother away and made her fall. Then he threw me on the floor and kicked my side and back with heavy army boots that had hard soles with metal cleats. My head went dark. Somewhere in the dark space I heard Mother’s anguished cry. “Leave . . . leave!”

  When I awoke, Hideyo, Ko, Mother, and Doctor Yamada were around me. The doctor was a friend of Father’s who always treated his patients with a smile, but not this time. He gave me a shot.

  Mother was putting a cold towel on my back. Every time I took a deep breath my chest and side pained, and the doctor said I might have cracked ribs. He looked at me through his half-glasses. “No more frolicking, no more crossing the stream. You stay home until I say all right.”

  He turned to Mother. “I will call my optometrist friend and he will prescribe lenses for you. This is absolutely inexcusable of the military,” he said angrily. “The government must be desperate for supplies to make ammunition. Telephone me if a thing like this happens again.”

  His bald head was shining against the late afternoon sun, and in spite of my misery I remembered what he had said to Father once when he came to the New Year’s party—that he must invent a solution to grow black wavy hair.

  I was glad I did not have to go to school the next day. For a long time, school had been changing. We studied for only three periods, and the male teachers were wearing army uniforms. Women and girls had to wear the national clothes, by order of Japanese Prime Minister Tojo—khaki pants gathered at the ankles, simply designed long-sleeved blouses.

  For part of our school day we would do labor service for the army, collecting empty cans or going to the ammunition squadron to sort flawed bullets from large boxes, wearing stiff army gloves. I hated that work. Mother often said she did not like killing, and I felt I was helping the army kill people, even though they were our enemies.

  Whenever Father came home, he and Hideyo worked, digging a shelter in the thicket large enough for the whole family to crawl into.

  “Why, Father?” I asked.

  “Just in case of an air raid. It’s wartime.” He sent Ko and me to find tall thin bamboo shoots and tie strings around bundles of them, to make a cover for the shelter.

  He also told us to pack emergency rucksacks, with rice, dried fish, a mess kit, some changes of clothing, and a blanket each. He said these should be left at the main entrance so that if a raid came we could each grab our own and run to the shelter.

  For herself Mother prepared a huge double wrapping cloth. Besides emergency items she put in important papers such as our health records, insurance policies, and even report cards from school.

  I saw her sewing on her cloth. “What are you doing, Mother?”

  “I am making pockets.”

  “What for?”

  “For various things.”

  The pupils began digging ditches around the school in case an air raid came and we had no time to get home. I was given a shovel, but the handle was much taller than I and heavy. I could not dig that hard rocky ground. I huffed and puffed, just wrestling with the shovel.

  We learned which siren was an alert and which an all-clear. We were digging when our first air raid alarm came. The alert siren burst out; our teacher, Mr. Enomoto, shouted, ordering everyone to flatten on the ground. I heard engines roaring over my head.

  I had never seen an airplane, but when I looked up, I saw clearly: American planes in formations of three flying over us. Mr. Enomoto yelled at me to put my head down. His scream was angry and frightening. My heart raced, and, face down, I breathed heavily, my breath scattering the dirt around my mouth. When the all-clear sounded I wanted to go home, but we continued to dig.

  When I did get home I was exhausted, and I could not concentrate on my calligraphy lesson. My hands were still shaking from handling the shovel, and I could not hold the brush steady. My first air raid experience, and Father was not home! I felt very insecure.

  Even with the war upon us, my parents insisted that I continue with all my special lessons, not only calligraphy but The Way of Tea—an art of serving and receiving tea—flower arrangement, poetry writing and reading, and Japanese classic dance lessons. After that first air raid I asked Mother if I might be excused from all the extra lessons from now on and just be at home with her.

  “You mean to quit?” she asked.

  “I am not talented in any of my lessons. Besides, I am so tired.”

  “Your being talented or not doesn’t matter,” said Mother. “This learning will be useful someday. And the lessons help polish your mind. As for being tired, just go to bed early.”

  I thought back to the terrible news that had come from our homeland in April. The last school bell of the day had rung on a warm sleepy afternoon. We all stood and bowed to Mr. Enomoto and he returned the bow. He reminded us of our cleaning assignments. Then, pale and serious, he broke the news.

  “I am sorry to tell you, but American bombers have attacked Tokyo and the city is demolished. How many of you have relatives in that city?”

  A few classmates raised their hands. “I am sorry,” Mr. Enomoto said, looking at each one in turn. “The noon news was that almost all of the people are dead. Tokyo is a billow of fire.”

  Children began sobbing. I felt terrible for them, but I was relieved that my grandparents lived in northern Japan.

  I wanted to get home fast to be with Mother. How I wished we did not have those cleaning assignments, but my group, ten of us, had to clean the first graders’ classroom and their toilets, as usual.

  As soon as the cleaning was over I dashed outdoors. I took a shortcut home. As I ran down the grassy bank, sparrows rose suddenly and flew away into the high deep blue sky, humming as they went. The tributary of the Tumen River ran swiftly, bouncing around large rocks and leaving sparkling beads.

  I took off my shoes and stockings and stuffed them in my pockets. I walked in the shallow stream of the river, then straight into the bamboo grove, and ran all the way home.

  “Mother! Tokyo is demolished!” I cried.

  My family, unlike most in Nanam, had a radio. “I know.” Mother’s shoulders drooped. “I only hope the fighting will not spread to us.” She sighed deeply. “I’ve just heard that the army has established another division at the foot of Kyojo Hill.” That was only a mile from us. “Also, the Imperial Navy is docking warships in Rashin.” Thirty miles away. “And,” she went on reporting, “the army has taken farming land from the Koreans by force to expand the army hospital. Little One, the Koreans have established a group they call the Anti-Japanese Communist Army.” The Koreans were part of the Japanese empire but they hated the Japanese and were not happy about t
he war.

  “It’s terrifying,” Mother said.

  Then she changed the subject, away from war. “Your performing day at the hospital is tomorrow. Why don’t you practice before supper?”

  I was one of the children who had been chosen to perform for the wounded soldiers at the army hospital. Dancing lessons were something Father had decided Ko and I should take, and I detested them. I had to give up play time. My unwillingness showed in the many mistakes I made in steps or in lifting my leg when I should not, or skipping a turn. The teacher, Mr. Fukui, sang the difficult notes of the music, his voice quivering high and low as his freshly shaven head wiggled up and down.

  A khaki-colored army truck with a big red cross on the hood came to get our instruments and costumes next day. Mr. Fukui and Hideyo went with the truck, and Mother, Ko, and I followed in a taxi amid clouds of dust.

  The military base was off-limits to civilians and I was curious. We were halted at a gate by army police, then waved on. We came to a huge white building where Major Ryu, an army doctor, greeted us. He said all of the wounded soldiers had been looking forward to this day.

  There were other children backstage in a giant auditorium, here to show their talents in singing, poetry reading, and koto playing.

  While I was changing into my kimono costume I began to hear people entering the auditorium, and I peeked through the heavy curtains. Wounded soldiers, wearing white hospital gowns, came streaming in. Some wore slings, some walked with crutches, some, their eyes bandaged, were led by nurses. Some had no arm, or no leg, and what shocked me most was a man on a stretcher who had no arms or legs. I pulled Mother’s kimono sleeve, wanting her to look. She said she couldn’t, her heart ached.

  Suddenly I began to feel very nervous. “I don’t want to dance,” I whispered. My lips were dry from seeing all those wounded.

  “Are you nervous about making mistakes?” Mother asked.

  I shook my head. “A soldier out there has no arms or legs.”