Soldiers in Hiding

by Richard Wiley

  Kazuko took the sensei’s arm and the sensei took mine. The mayor of Tokyo was there, standing just next to us, and when he gave a little nod Nakamura went slowly up the steps and disappeared into the cabin of the plane. We could see the faces of the crew in the windows of the cockpit, but Ike, if he was truly alive, was alone in the body of the aircraft, waiting for his commanding officer. Everyone became extraordinarily quiet, as if listening, trying to hear what was being said on the inside. Who knew what the man had been through? Probably he was afraid and this old commander of his was coaxing him, telling him that everything would be fine.

  After ten minutes had passed those of us down below began having a little trouble maintaining ourselves. The sight of Nakamura had undone me as much as the news of Ike, yet I could not concentrate. I was in pain and was getting cold. Was I having an attack of some kind? The sensei, as if directing everything, was sitting in his canvas chair again, and I wanted to ask him for it, to sit down myself.

  When Nakamura finally did reappear I expected him to have another man wearing another old uniform by his side, but I was wrong. Nakamura was followed by a man who was heavy, not gaunt. The man was dressed in a fine Filipino shirt and was followed by a woman and by three pretty children, all of them wearing the same stylish clothes. Was this Ike? If so, he’d been darkened by the sun until he no longer looked Japanese at all. He didn’t have a sword to surrender as one of the other returnees had had. Rather he carried two large coconuts. He smiled and held the coconuts high above him when he saw the crowd that had gathered. The tea teacher poked me in the ribs with his finger and sat up straight. “Surely this is the beginning of a new trend,” he said.

  The crowd had been ready to applaud but when they saw this man coming down the stairs they all stood still. His robustness, his clothes, and his obvious well-being, made the major standing next to him look old and silly. The woman and children stayed close to the man, looking out at us with a little fear. And when they got to the dignitaries who stood at the bottom of the stairs, he, Ike, peered boldly into each face, giving one of the coconuts to the most important-looking of the group. For the first time in hours I felt the need to smile, but Kazuko began to tremble at my side and I could see that, as yet, none of the irony of the way her brother looked had hit her. In a moment she stepped forward, placing herself directly in his view.

  “You are my brother,” she told him. “My name is Kazuko. Do you remember me?”

  The man looked at Kazuko carefully, but kept his remaining coconut between them.

  “Mother and grandfather are dead,” Kazuko said. “Jimmy is dead too. Teddy Maki and I are married now. We have a little boy named Milo.”

  Ike frowned, I thought, when Kazuko mentioned me. He looked back at Nakamura and forward into the crowd. Finally I raised my hand a little, catching his eye, and for a moment he lost some of his robust tropicalness. When I stepped forward the tea teacher and Milo did too.

  “Hello, Ike,” I said.

  “I thought you were dead,” said my wife’s brother.

  The official government greeters smiled at this exchange, but quickly called us to a set of standing microphones when it occurred to them that there would be no nationally televised embrace. Everyone was in shock. The mayor of Tokyo spoke, but so briefly that I missed what he said entirely until he looked at Ike and asked, “Would you like to say something? All of Tokyo welcomes you home.”

  Ike was standing between Kazuko and me but when he realized that the mayor was talking to him he stepped right up to the microphone. The coconut that he carried made him look like a foreign dignitary, an ambassador, an emissary of some kind.

  “No, thank you,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Though thank you very much for asking.”

  Among the dignitaries was another recently returned soldier and I realized that what the television company had hoped for was a kind of panel discussion, an instant exchange of views between these two men. But though Ike smiled at the mayor he would not talk and soon the television commentators resorted to interviewing people from the general public, asking randomly for opinions. I don’t know about the others but it was clear to me, even in my weakened condition, that Ike’s appearance was really too surprising. If this was truly Ike, what had he been doing down there? What had been going on? I saw Milo’s black car edging its way toward us and when I pointed it out to the mayor he was relieved to be able to order the way cleared so that Junichi could come to our rescue. The mayor was waving his hands around above everyone. Good old Junichi, I felt like saying.

  When it finally became apparent that there would be no more ceremony, a large group of reporters surged from behind the restraining ropes, their hands and voices raised. But Junichi was too quick for them. He opened the doors from the inside and we were able to slide into the car, locking the doors before the reporters had a chance to ask even one question. It was crowded in there, with the unexpected addition of the woman and children, but we managed. Ike’s unhappy wife was forced to sit on my lap, and the sensei kept grabbing at the children, pushing them closer and closer in around their father. I couldn’t see much of anything, but I could feel, from Junichi’s acceleration, that we had passed through the gate and were on the road outside. Kazuko began sobbing quietly next to me. Her brother’s coconut was in her lap and was changing color in spots as her tears hit it. Everyone tried to adjust themselves for comfort. My body was betraying me but I was glad, for the moment, to be sitting down. Soon we were joined by a police escort and traffic was stopped, leaving the reporters even farther behind.

  This was very ironic! Here we were, riding in from the airport, a whole foreign family on our laps! I could see Ike’s wife’s face by then and it wasn’t happy. She kept her eyes on her husband and was trying, unsuccessfully, to keep at least part of her weight off my thin legs. Several times I thought I would speak, since the silence was becoming unbearable, but it was my son’s new uncle who finally broke the ice. I could see him clearly after the shifting of bodies. He leaned forward and lit a cigarette, a roll or two of belly riding up over his tightly buckled belt. He spoke in a language I didn’t understand and then said in Japanese, “Teddy Maki and I were in a fierce battle in the middle of the jungle in the middle of the night. We were being fired upon from above. Guerrillas were hiding in the trees, so we all dove for the underbrush and began shooting back.”

  “I thought you were dead then,” said my voice, but Ike waved his hand.

  “I stayed where I was, digging myself into the dirt, all night long. When daylight came I could hear the guerrillas walking over me, firing occasionally into the immobile bodies that they found. I thought Teddy Maki was among them. I am here today because I chose not to return their fire. I dug as far down into the earth as I could, that’s all.”

  When he spoke of immobile bodies I tried to shift mine, but the woman on top of me would have none of it. She was pretending I wasn’t there.

  “I thought you were dead when the firing stopped,” I said.

  “I waited in the ground until I could hear nothing of the guerrillas and until darkness fell once more,” said Ike. “I remember it was very difficult to get back out of the ground and I had the ironic thought that I would die by my own quick hands, that I would not be able to free myself from the vines and foliage above. When I was able to stand, however, I didn’t know which way to turn, didn’t know which way was back or which way the guerrillas had gone. I found bodies, but they had been stripped of their weapons and rations. I was afraid to cry over them for fear that the sound would bring the enemy back. So I simply walked away from the scene of the battle without having fired a shot. I stayed in the jungle for nearly six years after that. I’m not proud of it, but I wanted to tell you the truth.”

  If I had not been so uncomfortable, so out of sorts, I might have laughed. But while her brother had been speaking, Kazuko had been crying, and both of my legs were hurting from the weight of the woman. The tea teacher seemed happy enough to have two of the ch
ildren on his lap, though. His voice came from somewhere to my right asking, “What happened next? What happened during the six years? What happened after?”

  “I had no idea,” said Ike, “that so much time had passed. I found a cave to live in and I camped, often, at the edges of villages, so that I could go in at night to hunt chickens, to lift garden vegetables from the soil. For months I tried to keep track of time by counting, but soon everything ran together. I would find myself standing on a path somewhere, not knowing whether one night or two had passed since last I stood there. I became accustomed to the sound and shape of the jungle but I rarely saw the moon—the canopy above was as thick as the soil beneath.

  “For the first months I kept a vow of total silence, never uttering a syllable, never forgetting how I had come to be there. But later it became my purpose to lurk at the outskirts of the villages, often crouching at the backs of huts, listening to families speaking to each other. I memorized intonations, replaced my dormant Japanese grammar with bits of their own. And by the time I had sense and security enough to come out of the jungle and into their midst I had stolen clothes and had learned a few words and phrases, enough of their language for me to fool them, if I was careful, into thinking that I was a simple man from somewhere nearby.”

  Well, I thought, if he’d taken a total vow of silence in the jungle he was certainly making up for it now. I couldn’t see Junichi but I could tell from the way the car slowed that he was lost in the story. It was just the kind of thing that he would find fascinating. Milo’s new uncle took a breath and continued.

  “I stayed in the village for a short time, working for pennies, slaughtering and cleaning hogs. I saved my money, slipping back into the jungle at night to eat what was free and to rethink my strategy. When I had enough saved for bus fare, when I had enough for a few days’ lodging, I waved good-bye to my employer and boarded a bus for Manila. And once there I immediately found a job. A small theater near where the bus stopped was in need of a janitor. When I saw the advertisement I began to remember my days as manager of a jazz band and wondered if entertainment there would be anything like it had been in Japan. And after that things just happened naturally. From working as a janitor I got to know actors and soon I began to act and soon after that I began to teach the acting methods I had perfected while developing my disguise as a Filipino. In truth I may never have returned to Japan, but I fell ill and even a fine actor cannot fight disease. When I was sick, they tell me, I did nothing but shout and rant, all in Japanese. My wife and children prayed so hard for my survival that when they heard my strange babbling they thought I was speaking in tongues. But when they sent for the priest the priest said, ‘Wait a minute.’ He had had some wartime experiences of his own, I guess, and recognized the language for what it was. And so I was found out. My wife was angry for weeks after my recovery but my children took it with a shrug. ‘Daddy’s Japanese,’ they told each other. I could hear them practicing saying it in the hallway outside my sickroom. ‘Daddy’s Japanese.’ There are only so many ways to say that, you know. If you don’t believe me try it sometime. Acting is hard. Vocal range is everything.”

  I laughed once and Ike reached over and put his hand on the cheek of the woman on my lap. The woman held back. She pushed a wisp of hair from her face, but she held back, and I could tell quickly that she was far from being adjusted to the idea that all these years she had been married to a Japanese, no matter what her husband said.

  “Anyway it took me a while to convince my wife that what I did was in no way intended as a ruse against her. Many sections of the Filipino population are still strict in their hatred of Japan. Yet after she found out she insisted that she had known all along. Something about the way I walked, she told me. Something about the way I brought food to my mouth.

  “You know,” said Ike, “when those other two lost soldiers came back to Japan before me I read about them in the Manila papers and shared in many discussions about what fools they had been. My friends and I laughed at them. We looked closely at groups of Japanese tourists with their cameras and flags. ‘Could these be the same people who once so easily conquered us?’ we asked each other. I wonder what my friends thought when they read about me.”

  I was about to respond, to say something nice to him, when Junichi did something unprecedented. He turned halfway around in his seat and spoke. “I am sure it made them think twice about the nature of Japanese people,” he said. His voice was clear and strong but deeper than it was in private, and I suspected that he was lowering it to try to impress my brother-in-law. The car didn’t waver on the road when he spoke, but for the first time my resolve did, my ability to view the situation lightly. Where was I to find a constant if not in Junichi’s demeanor?

  “Well,” said Ike, “I don’t know why those others stayed away as long as they did, but for me it was accidental.” He swept his hands around the car at the tinted windows, but I knew what he meant. “My first and clearest memory,” he said, “was that of burying myself in the foliage of the jungle and weeping. I am sure the guerrillas who hunted me could hear my sobs. But sound, in the jungle, is odd. It is not always possible to discern the direction from which it comes.”

  Ike put his hand on Kazuko’s shoulder. “And when I came out of the jungle I was at my wits’ end,” he said. “I could not have gone on. When I tell the story now I make it sound easy, but it was not. The villagers nearby built a superstition around me. Because they had heard my wails coming across the trees they called me the sobbing ghost, the night crier. Once, for a short time, some of them built a small altar where they would leave food and spare pieces of clothing. I don’t think they ever knew I was Japanese. They thought I was touched and they felt that if they took some slight care of me, the fine fortune and good crops of the previous years would continue. Sometimes they caught glimpses of me, I am sure, but they never gave chase. It would have been so easy for them to catch me if they had.”

  Junichi had been driving slowly, but he had apparently timed it just right, because just as this man finished his story we turned off the main road and stopped in front of our house. The car was quiet, everyone either lost in some corner of the story or too uncomfortable to speak.

  “Is this the spot where the old house was?” Ike asked his sister when we finally did move ourselves out of the car. When he spoke to her he put his hand under her chin and turned her face so that he could see her better, and I didn’t like that. Nevertheless I stepped carefully over to his wife and said, “I am your husband’s brother-in-law. My name is Teddy.” But the poor woman only nodded, and I could see in her eyes some of the same discomfort I felt, so I moved away. I remembered from the war that most Filipinos spoke English so I knew that later I would be able to make her feel at home. Far be it from me to pressure, to try to make a woman talk if she didn’t want to. I had learned that lesson.

  Milo stood close to his uncle and Junichi did too. I was about to open my mouth, to make some kind of welcoming speech, but I was stopped by the sound of voices coming from the way we had come. The reporters had arrived just behind us and came around the corner, their sharp questions a meter or two in front of them. They had been speeding, I was sure, and Junichi had slowed way down, had forgotten his driving, had lost himself in the drama of this new man’s story.

  WHEN A MAN BUILDS AROUND HIMSELF THE FRAGILE cocoon of ordinary life, he is inclined to work toward its protection, even if he’s been expecting a change. Yet by the time our visitors entered the house the pain and discomfort I had been feeling in my arms and neck had extended into my lower back and legs; it was so pronounced that I could not even pretend to normalcy. I have often been prone to tucking a leg or an arm under me in just the wrong way. Yet it is not the sleeping limb which one dreads, but the awakening, the pain of that limb coming back to life. And the limb in question this time was me, my body, my self. I was awakening and I feared that I might pass away in the process. Death by waking up! Death by the past revisited! My wife’s old brot
her. Who would have thought him alive?

  For a day and a half after Ike’s miraculous return I tried staying with him, but it was impossible. I couldn’t talk to the man, could not bring myself to look upon him as the Ike of my youth, the Ike of thin exuberance and half-made plans. This man was a success, and he was Filipino, not Japanese. The idea of taking up some other national identity as an occupation, a professional practice, was not exactly new to me, but in my own case, at least my hard exterior had maintained itself, at least my basic melancholic self-disdain had survived intact. What was I to do? What was I to say to this foreigner?

  I found places in our vast house that I had forgotten, alcoves and cubbyholes that were the outcome of poor design but the vestibules of solitary thought. I could hear the others dancing tentatively at the edges of reunion, but I went to them only when directly called, spoke only when directly spoken to. I was sore of body and spirit, but most of all I was surprised. Throughout my period of self-examination there had been no augury of Ike’s return, no thoughts of him floating by with any particular regularity during the past months. True, I had fashioned a solitary life around the semisordid, but I was living my life through, I was law-abiding. Yet now this returner, this foolish parody of MacArthur, this little fat Ulysses, was making my body ache and would make me act. All those years, I began to realize, it was the weight of my failure in the Philippines that I had felt. Yet even now, after everything, I cannot say precisely what my failure was, what my correct action should have been. I had been a victim, like Jimmy Yamamoto, of the situation and of the times. But Jimmy had betrayed me when he died. He had somehow done his duty and I had been left behind, had turned from victim to victimizer with his death. It was all accidental, everything was. Everything that happened to me could have been turned to my advantage by the random altering of events. If Jimmy had not had chocolate to give, if the woman of that small store had not screamed so in the night, if war had not come upon the world, if Los Angeles had contained me, not given me the need to find home elsewhere…