The Translation of Love

  12

  Matt began putting in extra hours on the weekends to help deal with the backlog of translations. It was strictly voluntary, of course, but as a newcomer to the section, he saw it as an opportunity to improve.

  “Are you crazy? Who the heck are you trying to impress?” Sab shook his head in disgust. “Just because Old Man MacArthur works seven days a week, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

  Matt mumbled something about needing to catch up on a few things. In truth, he enjoyed working during the off-hours. He especially liked it when he and Lieutenant Baker were in the office alone, as they were this Sunday. The room was quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional question he posed about some word or phrase and the lieutenant’s soft-spoken comments.

  The letters addressed to MacArthur were a completely different sort of beast from the bureaucratic memos and documents that Matt had translated in his previous position in the Press and Public Information Section. Everything he dealt with here was unique, each letter suffused with the soul and individual personality of the writer. Many missives continued to haunt him long after they had passed through his hands.

  Haikei Makkaasaa Gensui-sama,

  Dear General MacArthur,

  I am Sachiko Mizumasa, humble citizen in the new postwar Japan. We Japanese people are grateful for your wise rule.

  I am a widow, and I write to ask for your kind intercession in the repatriation of my only son, Private First Class, Tadayuki Mizumasa, of the former Japanese Imperial Army, XX Infantry, XX Unit, who to this day remains in Indonesia and unable to return to the homeland. The reasons for the delay in his return are entirely unclear. I have previously made inquiries to various Japanese officials and ministries, but regrettably no one has been able to offer assistance in any form. He was sent directly to the front on his eighteenth birthday, a mere boy barely able to take care of himself.

  It is the height of impertinence to interrupt the busy schedule of someone like yourself, preoccupied as you are with many affairs of state and the running of our country, but I beseech you to intercede and hasten the return of my son. Please forgive a mother’s unabated concern. He is my only child. I am alone and anxiously awaiting his return.

  Yours faithfully,

  Sachiko Mizumasa

  Tokorozawa, Saitama Prefecture

  Matt was told that his job was to translate—to take the Japanese words on the page, turn them into English, and pass the finished product on to the higher authorities. He knew that there was no chance this letter would be answered; at best, it would simply be filed. In fairness, really, what could be done? One soldier among thousands, stranded, alone. It would be impossible to follow up on all requests, even in cases where the information was more precise and useful than in this one. At the same time, though, Matt understood that the writers of these letters depended on him to render their pleas into English. A mechanical translation would not do. They needed someone to speak for them, and Matt resolved to become their voice—their best, their clearest, their most persuasive voice. That was the job of a real translator.

  The letter he was working on now was not even signed, yet it was composed with such poetry and grace that Matt desperately wanted to do it justice. He wondered if he was up to the task.

  Dear General Douglas MacArthur,

  The spring breezes have given way to hot summer days and much rain. I fervently pray that Your Eminence will enjoy good appetite despite the heat. In summer it is our custom to partake of sweet grilled eel on the hottest day of the season in order to strengthen the body and thicken the blood. Many more hot days lie ahead, I am afraid. If I were not such a poor man, it would give me greatest pleasure to treat you and your esteemed family to a traditional dinner of Japanese grilled eel, but alas it has been many summers since I have been able to enjoy such a feast myself. I live from day to day with memories of meals past. These memories feed my hungry stomach and provide me with the will to continue. My dear children, unfortunately, are too small to have any memories except of hunger.

  Sincerely,

  A Japanese citizen

  “Come here, Matsumoto. You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?”

  Matt was just finishing his translation when Lieutenant Baker called him over to the large plate-glass window. From here, they had an excellent view of the crowds who lined the street to watch MacArthur being driven back and forth to General Headquarters. The onlookers came every day, no matter the weather, but Sundays generally drew the biggest crowds.

  “Imagine standing in this heat just to catch a glimpse of MacArthur’s car. Look how orderly and patient they are. Sometimes I just don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Sir?”

  Baker turned to him. “Day after day, month after month. I worry they’d line up in an earthquake.”

  MacArthur resided at the American embassy with his wife and young son, only a mile or so away from GHQ. He was chauffeured back and forth between his residence and his office four times a day, seven days a week, punctual as clockwork: going in at ten thirty in the morning, returning for lunch at two, back to the office at four, and home for the night at eight. The whole country knew about his legendary work ethic and his unwavering daily routine. “I’ll bet the guy even shits on schedule,” Sab liked to say. The best spot to wait for his arrival was facing the entrance to the Dai-Ichi Building, where one could catch a glimpse of MacArthur as he emerged from his car, saluted his MP guards, and walked up the broad concrete steps. But the prize location was always packed, so most people had to be content with standing on the roadside and watching as his car drove by.

  “It’s amazing. What would you call this? Allegiance? Fanaticism? Devotion? Have you ever seen such devotion?” Baker spoke with sudden passion. “I’m curious, what do you make of it, Matsumoto? Would you do something like this? Would you wait for hours to catch a fleeting glimpse of the general who defeated your country?”

  Matt was flustered. “I don’t know, sir. No, no, of course not.”

  “Is it a simple transfer of allegiances after the surrender? I know some people think the Japanese worship MacArthur the way they did the emperor. If that’s the case, of course that’s wrong. We’re trying to establish democracy here. But, you know, I think I understand. Something else is going on, something deeper. What do you think?”

  “Sir? Um, I’m not sure.”

  “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it. Pitiful. They’ll cling to any hope. They’re desperate. Why else would they write so many letters?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Desperate,” Baker repeated, and then he sighed heavily. “Maybe it’s more than that, though. I wonder if I would have the fortitude, the courage, to do what they are doing. To pick up and carry on. It was a terrible war.”

  Nobody else would say things like that, Matt thought. Only Baker. He was the most unlikely officer he’d ever met, the most improbable man to be in the military. Matt couldn’t imagine him in action, those long delicate fingers pressing a trigger. How on earth had he managed to survive boot camp? It was just as well that he hadn’t had to face active combat.

  Almost as if Baker had read what was on Matt’s mind, he began to speak.

  “Do you know how I spent my time during the war?”

  “You were in Intelligence, weren’t you, sir?”

  “Yes. I translated written communication—letters we intercepted or diaries we came across. We were supposed to be looking for military secrets and clues about future maneuvers, but I never found anything of strategic value. Not a single thing.”

  Baker turned away, fixing his gaze on the window. Matt sensed that he wasn’t looking at anything in particular but just staring into space.

  “We’re all the same, Matsumoto, that’s what I learned. But I felt that the Japanese soldiers were more honest. ‘Mother, I long to eat your soup. I am cold. Mother, I am scared.’ That’s the kind of thing they wrote.”

  “It must have been hard work,” Matt ventured timidly, �
�translating during wartime.”

  Baker continued to stare out the window. “The diaries were the hardest, you know. Most of them were recovered off corpses. My job was to read the final entries of the dead, their last private moments. I can still remember some of their exact words. ‘I have diarrhea again. I dream every night of white rice. The pills no longer work. I cannot sleep anymore.’ Every other page had lines blacked out with censors’ markers.”

  Baker suddenly turned toward him, and Matt was conscious of their proximity, their faces only inches apart. For the first time he noticed that Baker’s eyes were green, not blue, and that they seemed to be flecked with bits of gold. Running along his left temple was a pale bluish vein, as thin and nearly invisible as a silk thread. It was moving ever so slightly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

  “Well, enough of this. Shall we call it a day, corporal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Before returning to his desk to pack up, Matt cast a parting glance out the window at the crowds. Baker was right. It was pitiful.

  13

  Fumi had almost convinced herself that Sumiko really had given her the photograph. Here, this is for you. Keep this to remember me. But it wasn’t a present or memento. The truth was that Fumi had stolen the picture the last time her sister came home, kept it without really meaning to keep it, took it without knowing that she wouldn’t have a chance to give it back. But Fumi was glad she had taken it, so very glad, because if she hadn’t, she would have nothing of her sister. Even now, she found it necessary to stare at the photograph over and over to remind herself that someday Sumiko would come home.

  It frightened her that there were times when she couldn’t remember exactly what Sumiko had looked like the last time she saw her. Instead what she remembered was how she had heard her mother and sister even before she entered the house. She’d slid open the front door and stood in the earthen entranceway, listening to the sound of their weeping coming from the back room. Fumi, who had been let out of school early that day, sensed that she shouldn’t interrupt them.

  Her sister’s shoes were in the entranceway, and Fumi slipped her feet into them. She liked these shoes very much, shiny black pumps with heels so high she had to hold on to the wall to keep her balance. It was a funny happy feeling, being so wobbly. These were the shoes that Sumiko began wearing when she’d started working in the Ginza and moved away from home. Another object of fascination was Sumiko’s clutch purse, which sat on the narrow ledge just inside the entranceway. Fumi had seen it many times before; it was made of smooth red leather stamped with a pattern of shells. She had watched her sister flick the shiny oval clasp with her finger to open it, then snap it shut with another quick flick. The shutting sound made a satisfying click, crisp and final. Fumi picked up the purse and opened it. The purse was shallow and the smooth satin lining felt cool to the touch. She poked the contents with her index finger: a tube of lipstick, a cloth change purse, a single key on a chain, three identical hairpins with shiny glass beads on the end.

  “You did this for us. You know we’re so grateful.” It was her mother’s voice. “But I don’t understand why you can’t stop.”

  “Soon, Mother. Soon. Just a small debt to pay off. It’s almost over.”

  “I wish this had never happened. It’s all my fault.”

  “But it was the only thing to do. You were so sick, and then Father and Fumi.”

  “I’m better now. I don’t need any special food.”

  Fumi paused what she was doing with Sumiko’s purse. Her mother’s voice sounded more strident than usual.

  “But Mother, you have to keep up your strength.”

  “I’m better. I don’t need anything special. You don’t have to do this.” She began coughing.

  “There, you see. You’re still sick.”

  “Your father takes good care of me.”

  “Of course Father is doing the best he can. But the Americans have good food, and so much of it. Please don’t be stubborn.”

  For a long time there was silence and then there was more crying. Fumi went back to exploring the items in Sumiko’s purse. She picked up a small round mirror and examined her reflection. Then she took the sandalwood comb and ran it through her bangs. But the most interesting thing was what she found inside one of the zippered compartments. It was a photograph of her sister and another Japanese woman standing on either side of a tall American soldier. The soldier had his arms around both women, pressing them possessively against his body.

  “Mother, you remember Mrs. Watanabe at the end of the lane?” Sumiko’s voice sounded very sad. “How upset we all were when she died. She was so thin, so weak. Remember?”

  “Mrs. Watanabe’s daughter never went to work for the Americans.”

  There was another long silence.

  “I have a special treat today. I managed to get some sugar. Isn’t that great? And I’ve brought more cans of meat, too.”

  “It smells funny.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to smell. It’s what they call a processed meat. It’s better than eating rancid meat from the black market.”

  “We don’t want it.”

  “But you ate it before.”

  “I wish we hadn’t. I didn’t realize what you have to do…to get it.”

  “Please don’t worry. It’s not like that. I told you. It’s just dancing.”

  “With Americans!”

  “Everyone’s doing it.”

  “Those people killed two of your cousins, don’t forget. Look at what happened to the store. Burned to the ground.”

  “The war is over, Mother. We have to eat. We have to live. You have to live.”

  “But you look like—”

  “Please, Mother. I just dance. I keep telling you. And as for the way I look, everyone looks like this. Everyone wears American clothes now and those who don’t, wish they could.”

  “Not everyone. Not Mrs. Watanabe’s daughter.”

  “But that’s my point. Mrs. Watanabe is dead. She could still be alive.”

  “That’s the most disrespectful thing I’ve ever heard. Take your precious cans. How can I eat something like this? We don’t need it.”

  There was a long silence. Finally Sumiko spoke again.

  “How is Fumi?”

  Fumi froze when she heard her name.

  “She’s fine. She’s doing well at school.”

  “She’ll be starting middle school in April, won’t she. She must be looking forward to it.”

  “Yes, she is. Your father is so proud.”

  “Does she…” Sumiko paused, and when she resumed speaking her voice sounded hoarse. “Does she ask about me?”

  “Of course, Sumiko. All the time.”

  “Oh.”

  “You know how bad I feel, but it’s better this way.”

  “Yes, Mother. I understand.”

  “You know how she is. I can’t help but worry about her. I worry about you, too.”

  “I know.”

  “Please, Sumiko, you understand, don’t you.” Her mother’s voice dropped low. “Please, we agreed it’s better this way, didn’t we.”

  “Yes.”

  Fumi had been holding her breath, afraid to move, afraid to exhale. She thought her lungs might burst. She wanted to rush into the room and shout. “I’m here! Nechan, please stay with us. Don’t go away.” But her mother had started crying again, that small chu-chu-chu sound she made when she was trying really hard not to cry but couldn’t help it. She sounded like an injured bird.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not that we’re ungrateful…”

  “It’s all right, Mother. I understand. Please don’t cry.”

  “Why do you have to continue? Why can’t you just stop?”

  “This will all be over soon, I promise. Just a little longer. I have to make a little more to pay off a small debt.”

  Fumi heard a series of heavy thumps as if tin cans had rolled off the table onto the tatami mat. The paper-lined doors in the back
room banged against their wooden frame and the house shook slightly with the movement of feet. The inner door to the entranceway was flung open.

  Sumiko’s cheeks were bright red and there were dark circles under her eyes. “Fumi, what are you doing here?” she whispered. “Why aren’t you in school?”

  Fumi moved her hand to her waistband and slipped the photograph into the back of her pants. She held out the purse.

  “Thank you.” Sumiko took it from her.

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Soon.”

  “When?”

  “Shhh. I don’t know. Soon.”

  “Can I come with you? Can I visit?”

  Sumiko reached out and ran her fingers through Fumi’s hair, across her bangs and over the top of her head. She spoke in such a soft voice Fumi could barely hear her. “No. You have to stay here and go to school and take care of Mother and Father. You have to study hard. You understand?” She opened her purse. “Here’s a little money for you. Don’t tell Mother. You can keep it in case of an emergency. I’ll be back again soon.”

  After her sister left, Fumi crept into the house. In the back room, her mother was sobbing out loud, the disconsolate wails of someone who thinks that no one is around to hear her. Fumi hoped her mother hadn’t heard her come in. She climbed the ladder leading to the room on the second floor that she had once shared with her sister. She pulled out the photograph and examined it. It had been taken in front of the statue of the Great Buddha. Everyone knew the Great Buddha was in Kamakura. Who were those people her sister was with—the American soldier and the other Japanese woman? What kind of people were they that her sister now spent all her time with them and not at home with her family? “Nechan,” Fumi whispered as she ran her finger over her sister’s face. “Daijobu desu ka? Are you okay?”

  She studied the other woman again and decided she didn’t like her at all. She wasn’t as pretty as Sumiko but her clothes were more glamorous, brighter and tighter. Her shoes were higher, too. Worse, she was clinging to the GI-san in a funny, unnatural way. Anyone could see that the GI-san must like Sumiko better. He probably wished the other woman would go away. The photograph was small, and Fumi decided that snipping off just a sliver wouldn’t matter. With a pair of sewing scissors, she quickly cut the side of the picture. The other woman fell to the floor.