A schoolgirl in her uniform was walking along the sidewalk. Since it was too early for school to be over, I wondered if she was cutting classes. I again recalled the girl who’d asked about the baby. For too many years, I had closed my eyes to the truth that should never have been forgotten. Perhaps that’s why I had reacted so negatively to her frankness. With this thought, I tried to settle down. But I couldn’t.
After my father died, my mother and sister lived together in peace. I pictured my sister just after she turned sixty. She had light skin and few blotches or wrinkles, probably because she never went outside. When she was emotionally stable, she looked much younger than her age. I disliked that I looked so much older, due to the daily pressures of my life. On the other hand, I knew that I was the happier one, though I always felt guilty about that.
As soon as I graduated from high school, I moved out just like my brothers. Apart from O-bon and the New Year holidays, I rarely returned home. Though my father didn’t yell as much as before, he was as unpleasant as always. I hated seeing him drunk and out of control. What I hated even more was how he looked at my sister. His look was a mixture of anger, disgust, scorn, hatred, and every other negative emotion you could imagine. Just thinking about that look made it impossible for me to remain calm.
My mother told me on the phone that my father’s attitude changed after my sister had learned how to operate a sewing machine and started earning some money at the dressmaker’s next door. I was happy to hear that, but when I visited for the New Year holidays, I could see that he hadn’t changed at all. In fact, his hatred seemed to have increased.
At my father’s wake, I lifted the white cloth from his face and looked at his closed eyelids. I’ll never have to see that look again! I thought. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew that I was secretly pleased. However, I was more of a coward than my father. He had never run away. Certainly, his behavior was unforgivable, but he had faced my sister and his own powerlessness every day. That’s why he suffered and sometimes became violent. I, on the other hand, merely escaped. Pretending not to notice my mother’s and sister’s suffering, I buried my memories in my heart. Even after my father’s death, I used the pressures of daily life as an excuse for avoiding them.
With my father gone, I no longer had anything to fear. Yet I never once visited my mother and sister. During O-bon and the New Year holidays, I scolded my children for wanting to stay there and took them back to our apartment in central Okinawa. Even when talking with my mother on the phone, whenever she asked if she should put my sister on, I always said no and avoided talking to her. One day, my younger brother called and said that he wanted to put my sister in an institution. He explained that our mother was growing old and our sister was mentally unstable, so my mother couldn’t take care of her anymore. I had noticed the problem much earlier, but made excuses to avoid saying anything. I felt ashamed of myself.
My mother stubbornly opposed putting Sayoko in an institution. Saying that she’d look after my sister herself, she insisted that we call and cancel the admission application that my brother had gone to so much trouble to submit. This really annoyed us.
—What’re you saying? said one brother. You can’t even look after yourself!
—The place has nice scenery, said my other brother, and everyone will look after her with kindness. If she ever gets sick, she’ll be in good hands. And if you want to see her, we’ll be happy to take you. You’ve nothing to worry about.
With tears in their eyes, my brothers scolded and cajoled my mother. But no matter what we said to soothe her, she continued to berate us for sending her daughter away. Unable to control my temper, I yelled:
—Why do you only think of her? Always her, and never us! What more do you want us to do? You can barely even walk and can’t even take care of yourself! When there’s trouble, it always falls on us! Who do you think will look after her when you die? Don’t you appreciate anything we’ve done? Have you ever considered us at all? We’re your children, too, you know!
When I’d finished shouting, I broke down in tears.
The bus passed through the gently undulating hills. Beyond the sugarcane fields, I could see the green woods, a few houses, and the ocean. I remembered hearing that sixty years ago the ocean was black from all the US warships and that this area now covered with sugarcane and houses had been scattered with the dead. That meant that beneath these green leaves fluttering in the breeze were piles of bodies. I could sense the foul odors and groans oozing from the decaying corpses and leaking out between the stalks. The smells and sounds reminded me of my sister’s body odor and mutterings as she cowered in the back room.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Sayoko had been talking to her baby. I first realized that about a month after giving birth to my first child. One night, my baby wouldn’t stop crying, so I pressed my breast to her mouth to soothe her. What if she were taken away from me? I thought. For the first time in my life, I could imagine the extent of my sister’s pain. And then I suddenly knew what sort of things she’d been muttering.
Tears flowed from my eyes. I took a handkerchief from my purse and wiped my cheeks. The kindergarten-aged girl leaning over the seat in front of me was staring in wonder. When I smiled at her, she whispered to her mother, sitting at her side. The mother looked over the seat, nodded in apology, and then corrected her daughter. That brought back the memories, as I used to do the same thing. The bus entered a commercial district, and the girl and her mother got off. I got off two stops later, at the bottom of a small hill.
At the top of the hill was the nursing home where my sister lived. Climbing the three-hundred-meter incline wasn’t easy for an old lady like me, but the distance was too short for a taxi, so I always walked. This was my sister’s third institution. She spent over ten years in the first one, a care facility for psychiatric patients. After that, she moved to an institution for the elderly. The staff wasn’t very attentive, so she moved here about two years ago. There were many applicants, but my brother knew one of the administrators. Without that connection, our sister would’ve had a long wait. This facility provided around-the-clock nursing care and had ties with the nearby hospital, so we could leave Sayoko in their hands without worry.
Before her death, my mother had burned up most of her savings caring for my sister. After another several years, her money was completely gone. The construction company where my brother had worked for many years went bankrupt, and he now struggled to make a living as a security guard. My other brother owned some restaurants, so he provided the funds for our sister. After graduating from high school, he had started off as a dishwasher, but now he had three of his own restaurants in Naha. The financial burden of my sister must’ve been heavy, but he never once complained. Though my brothers never said anything, I knew they agonized over what to do for my sister.
Climbing the hill took about fifteen minutes, with two breaks to rest my aching knees. I entered the front gate and passed through the garden, abloom with well-pruned weeping forsythias. The entranceway was lined with planters overflowing with red, orange, and purple flowers. When I got there, I took another break. Then I passed through the automatic doors and entered the vestibule. The air conditioning felt nice, but the peculiar smell bothered me. It wasn’t an offensive odor; it was that overly sanitary smell you find in hospitals. No matter how many times I came here, I could never get used to it.
I wrote my name in the visitor’s registry and headed up to the second floor room that my sister shared with three other women. My sister’s bed was under the window at the back. Today, rather unusually, she was nowhere to be seen. An old woman was sleeping in the bed on the opposite side, but the other two women were out. I went to the head of my sister’s bed and looked at the three pictures taped on the wall. Shortly after moving here, she had started drawing at the suggestion of one of her caregivers. All three pictures were drawn in crayon with dark, somber colors. Dark green, blue, and purple had been layered to create the impressi
on of being deep in the woods. The pictures were similar but had some subtle differences.
The top right picture was the cheeriest of the three. Bright green and yellow were scattered here and there, but a section stretching from the middle to the right had been colored over in black, forming what looked like a hole. As I stared at the tenaciously scribbled over area, I got the creepy feeling that it really was a hole, sucking up everything that drew near. It occurred to me that a similar hole was in my sister’s heart—and in mine, too—always making us feel scared and nervous. Suffice it to say, the picture didn’t cheer me up in the least.
The picture to the left was the most somber one. Thick lines of dark green, purple, navy blue, dark brown, and black covered the entire page. The section from the middle to the top left was filled with a dark red circle, corresponding to the black circle in the other picture. Dozens of spirals scribbled with a crayon, the circle at first reminded me of some kind of fruit. But then I thought it might be the evening sun, visible through the trees. After a while, however, it seemed to have transformed into the eye of a glaring serpent, or even a pool of blood. The picture was as creepy as the first one.
The picture below the other two wasn’t there last week, so it must’ve been drawn and taped up recently. In this one, a horizontal blue line about two centimeters wide was drawn above dense woods of green and purple. The blue created a unique impression. In the bottom right corner were two strange figures drawn with a brown crayon. At first they looked like foreign letters, but on closer inspection, they seemed more like human figures, crouching and cuddled up to each other. At least that’s what they looked like to me. Were they hiding together in the grass? Were they searching for something? Or were they just trying to keep each other warm? Drawn with small curves and crooked lines, the figures seemed to have wandered into the woods and lost their way. Assuming one was my sister, who was the other? Was it her child, all grown up? Considering that possibility, I gazed at the thick blue line. Suddenly, it occurred to me to look outside.
The nursing home was on the top of a hill, so the ocean was clearly visible. The water looked gray because of the clouds blocking the sun. Beyond the sugarcane fields, stretching out along the coast, were beefwood trees that had been planted to protect against tsunamis. From this angle, the ocean was above the trees. I realized that the blue line, which I had assumed was the sky, was probably the ocean. As I stared down from the window, I spotted Sayoko standing on the edge of the lawn with her hands on the railing, facing the ocean. I placed the bouquet on the bed and hurried off to see her.
When I called out, she flinched and slowly turned around, just like the shy girl at the junior high school. Realizing that I had scared my own sister, I felt annoyed at myself for being so careless.
—Did I surprise you? I’m sorry about that.
As if responding to my voice rather than to my appearance, she nodded and smiled. Saliva dribbled from the corners of her mouth, filled with brown teeth. When I wiped her chin with my handkerchief, she thanked me in a quiet voice and started looking at the ocean again. In spite of the clouds, it was still quite warm, so I was worried about her physical condition. Who knew how long she’d been standing there, without a hat or a sunshade? Even so, I was happy to see her getting outside for a change, instead of lying in bed as usual.
—What’re you looking at, Sayoko?
Without responding, she kept staring straight ahead. I stood next to her and leaned against the concrete handrail, which had been painted to look like a tree trunk. Then I looked in the direction she was staring. The sugarcane was gently undulating in the sunlight. The leaves and slender branches of the beefwood trees were swaying, too. White waves rippled along the coral reef, and I could hear the rhythmic rushing in the distance. We were the only ones in the yard, and the nursing home was as quiet as if everyone were fast asleep. My sister’s short, gray hair was disheveled from the wind, which had blown over the sugarcane and up the hill. There was a twinkle in her eye, and then she smiled. Staring at her face, I couldn’t remember the last time she looked so peaceful. Suddenly, her lips moved, and she seemed to say something.
—Huh? What?
Still staring at the ocean, she didn’t answer. But her words echoed in my ears, together with the faint sound of the breeze.
—I hear you, Seiji.
ROBERT HIGA [2005]
Dear Mr. Arakaki,
I would like to express my sincerest appreciation for your kind letter. Actually, I already heard about Okinawa’s plan to honor Japanese-Americans who served as interpreters during the Battle of Okinawa. About a month ago, one of my former army buddies called and told me about it. Like me, his parents were born in Okinawa, and we served together there during the war. He’s excited about attending the awards ceremony and asked me to join him. I was pleased to hear that we interpreters will be recognized, but I couldn’t give my friend an answer.
I’m deeply grateful that you’d like to submit my name as an honoree. But to tell the truth, I also feel embarrassed. Well, let me stop beating around the bush and get to the point: I can’t accept your kind offer. I know it must sound as if I’m spurning your goodwill, but I just can’t accept. I’m not being modest. I simply can’t permit myself to receive such an honor.
Let me tell you my reasons, as it would be rude to decline without doing so. I should probably explain to my fellow interpreters, too, since my refusal might reflect negatively on them, but I’d like to ask you to keep this confidential. Please don’t ever tell the others. If you can’t agree to this, please don’t read any further. I apologize for not leaving you any choice, but I trust that you will honor my request.
Both of my parents are from Okinawa, so I have a decent command of both Japanese and the Okinawan language. I made use of those skills to become an army interpreter, and as you know, I was sent to Okinawa. My work consisted of questioning prisoners, sorting through documents confiscated from the Japanese army, and translating anything that looked important. Another one of my duties was trying to convince Japanese soldiers and civilians hiding in caves to surrender. I’ve already spoken to you about these things.
But there was another important experience I had in Okinawa, which I’ve always wanted to tell you about, but never could. If this opportunity hadn’t presented itself, I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it. It’s something I’ve never been able to forget, even though it’s painful to remember. I’ve never told anyone and have kept it buried in my heart all these years. Just to let you know in advance, it’s a long story. But I hope you’ll read to the end.
When I arrived in Okinawa, I didn’t join the battle in the south right away. For the first month, I was with a unit that landed in the north. As you know, the fighting in the north ended quickly. The Japanese forces stationed there were poorly armed and couldn’t withstand our assault. However, with all the densely wooded mountains, we had a tough time flushing out soldiers who’d fled to fight as guerillas. Even so, they were holdouts, poorly armed and lacking food supplies. As a result, they didn’t have the strength to carry out any organized resistance.
Even after the battle in the north was over, an intense battle still raged in the central and southern areas. Units needed to be moved to the front lines in the south, so it was urgent that we speed up our mopping-up operations and secure the area. As a result, I became extremely busy with interrogations and dealing with villages and civilians.
During that time, an incident occurred in one of the villages: a young fisherman stabbed and seriously wounded one of our soldiers with his harpoon. I immediately went there to serve as an interpreter under the command of Lieutenant Williams, the MP in charge of the investigation. The fisherman had disappeared, so we questioned the leaders of his village. At the same time, we conducted a search of the mountains.
The villagers were unexpectedly cooperative. Pacifying the locals with medical treatment and food had obviously paid off. The ward chief took the initiative in organizing villagers to help wit
h the search. Consequently, we easily managed to identify the cave in the woods where the suspect was hiding. The ward chief said the youth had acted completely on his own, without any ties to the Japanese army or the village. He told us that the youth’s name was Seiji, that he’d been violent and mentally deficient since childhood, and that he was viewed as being crazy. He explained that the boy must’ve been trying to become a hero by copying other kamikaze attacks. He even apologized and said he was sorry that one of our soldiers had been injured. Such excessively cooperative behavior made us suspicious, but checking against the testimony of other villagers, it became obvious that the guy had indeed acted alone, without any ties to the Japanese army.
Our troops surrounded the cave where the guy was hiding. With about a hundred villagers looking on, I took the megaphone and urged him to throw down his weapons and come out. The ward chief also said some things in the Okinawan language, but the guy still wouldn’t come out. On the lieutenant’s order, a tear-gas canister was thrown into the cave. After about thirty minutes, the guy staggered out while supporting himself with his harpoon. Suddenly, he yelled and raised his right hand. When we saw he had a grenade, we threw ourselves to the ground. Several shots rang out, and the guy fell on his back. Luckily, the grenade was a dud, so we escaped unharmed.
We took the guy to our military post, where first aid was administered. He had been shot in the shoulder and leg, but his life wasn’t in jeopardy. His eyes, though, had been seriously damaged by the tear gas. Because of the grenade, the lieutenant again suspected the involvement of the Japanese army and launched an investigation.
From this point, I’ll refer to the young man by his name, Seiji. We interrogated Seiji to determine whether he’d acted alone or on the orders of the Japanese army. Seiji always mumbled and never gave a proper answer to our questions. He spoke in the Okinawan language, but in a different dialect from my parents, and since he didn’t enunciate his words clearly, I usually couldn’t understand him.
In the Woods of Memory Page 18