“My name is Sister Izumi. You don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”
Sumiko looked up. Sister Izumi had a round face and small crinkly eyes. A few short strands of black hair peeked out from the sides of her head covering.
“Do you?”
Sumiko shook her head.
“I didn’t think so. Well then, you should come with me.”
“Where?”
“It’s not too far. You can lean on me if you’re feeling weak. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Sumiko thought about the police who were still in the station. It wasn’t a hard decision to make. She extended her arms toward Sister Izumi, who pulled her up to standing position and gripped her tightly against her side.
“Come, I’ve got you. You won’t fall. We have to take the train.”
Sumiko fell asleep on the ride. She woke briefly just when the train was pulling into Yokohama station, and then a second time when Sister Izumi shook her. “We’re almost here. It’s the next stop.”
They got off at a small town somewhere close to the sea. Sumiko couldn’t see the ocean, but she could smell the salt air.
“Are you rested?” Sister Izumi asked. “We have a short walk but then we’ll be home.”
“Home?”
“Home is the orphanage.” She smiled, and her crinkly eyes disappeared into the crests of her high round cheeks.
The orphanage was located at the top of a steep hill, and when they reached the gate, Sumiko was exhausted. She looked back over her shoulder at the dirt path they had just climbed. It was lined on both sides by rows of tall bamboo trees that curved inward toward each other, swaying gently in the wind. From this perspective the trees appeared to form a long narrow tunnel. At the far end, at the bottom of the slope, she could see a pale circle of light.
As if reading her mind, Sister Izumi spoke. “We call this the Tunnel of Separation.”
Sumiko felt a breeze brush her cheeks. The air no longer smelled of the sea but of something else, something fresh and clean like pine trees and flowers. As soon as she stepped through the gate, Sister Izumi locked it behind them.
33
The arrival of colder weather forced Kondo Sensei to alter his moonlighting schedule completely. Instead of staying overnight in Love Letter Alley, as he had in the summer and early fall, he switched to Sundays, working all day and into the early evening. All the letter writers came earlier in the day and left earlier, as did their customers. Kondo missed the rhythm of summer, missed meeting his customers in the middle of the night when both of them had been able to conduct their exchange under the protective cover of darkness. Darkness brought anonymity, and anonymity supported dignity both for the women who came to purchase his letter-writing services and for the letter writer himself. They could all pretend they were someone other than they were. But the weather changed that. No one wanted to sit outside in the cold at night.
Some of the letter writers, like Yamaguchi and Tabata, grouped together, huddling around a charcoal hibachi that one of them had bought. They invited Kondo to join them, but he always politely declined and now they didn’t bother anymore. He knew he had a reputation as a bit of a snob. The professor, they called him, sarcastically, not just sensei but kyoju—Professor Kondo—as if he put on airs like the faculty member of a big university. But he preferred to be left alone, and he liked his isolated spot in the Alley nowhere near the front, where the others clustered. They liked to joke about the content of the letters they were asked to translate or to write. Not another one of those! Oh, these women are all the same! Kondo wanted to avoid that kind of shoptalk. If he began demeaning the women who asked for his services, where would it end? Wouldn’t he only be demeaning himself?
“Just a few weeks before the Americans have their Christmas. This is the best time of the year.” Yamaguchi rubbed his thumb against his fingertips to indicate that lots of money could be made. “Be prepared to put in long hours but it’s worth it. All the bar girls are getting letters and every letter needs translating.”
“Is it mostly good news or bad?” Kondo asked.
“What do you think?” Yamaguchi laughed outright. “The Americans start feeling guilty when Christmas rolls around. They get more letters from home than usual, they even get presents. If they’re married or engaged to someone back home, they feel bad about having a Japanese girlfriend, so they decide they better make a clean break. As for the ones who’ve already gone back to America, they feel guilty about what they did here and if they weren’t up front with their girlfriends before they left, they figure they can digest their Christmas dinners better if they’ve gotten things off their chest. We do our best business at this time of year. Everyone’s writing letters back and forth. Even the lousiest translator can make a bundle.”
Kondo did not say anything to Yamaguchi, but recently he had begun thinking about quitting the Alley. While his schoolteacher salary was still too low to survive without supplementing it in some fashion, he’d heard about GIs who were interested in studying Japanese in a serious way, not just to pick up bar girls but because they liked Japan and its culture. They would pay well, exceedingly well. Besides, it looked like the Americans would be here forever. Maybe it was time to try to make friends, or if not friends, then to strike a truce.
An incident earlier in the day had added to his sense that maybe he was becoming unsuited to this type of work.
The woman had arrived in the morning, shortly after he had set up his stall. He had been busy retrieving his stool and tangerine crate from his secret hiding place and arranging his brushes, ink, pencils, and paper when he looked up and saw her standing patiently in front of him. She had a freshly scrubbed face and long straight hair. Kondo was used to the heavy makeup and permanent-wave hairdos of the bar girls who usually sought his services, so he was surprised and also a little amused. Then he took in her figure. She was wearing a thin cotton smock that came down to her knees and billowed out as she shifted from one foot to the other. From the way the material fell around her middle, he guessed she was probably several months pregnant.
“You’re one of the English letter writers, aren’t you?”
“I am. How can I help you?”
“I have a letter from America. I just got it. Can you tell me what it says?” The woman spoke with elation. She reached up the sleeve of her smock and pulled out a thin blue envelope.
“You haven’t opened it yet,” he said, turning the envelope over in his hands.
“No, I came here right away. Someone told me there were people like you who would translate my letter. It’s an important letter, so it has to be read by a real expert.” She took the envelope from Kondo and tapped her finger over the address written on the back. “There, see? That’s him. It’s from him.” Kondo looked at the return address. All it said was Derek Smith, Omaha, Nebraska.
Kondo gestured to the tangerine crate. “Please have a seat, miss.”
“Thank you for helping. Thank you so much. It’s a very important letter. Did I mention that?” The woman slowly lowered herself onto the crate. Her legs were bare despite the cold, and on her feet she wore short split-toe socks and an old pair of wooden geta. Her ankles, he noticed, were very swollen.
“Are you comfortable?” he asked. “You don’t have to worry. It won’t break.”
She smiled at him and shifted her weight gingerly. “It’s cold today, isn’t it? Please excuse my appearance. I’m wearing so many layers.” She smiled at him again, even more broadly and excitedly, and wrapped her arms around her middle. Her cheeks were flushed. She almost looked drunk.
Kondo reached into his satchel for his wooden letter opener, carefully slit the top of the airmail envelope, and pulled out the letter. There were two pages of onionskin paper, as sheer as the wings of a butterfly. The man’s handwriting slanted backward, but it was neat and thankfully not hard to decipher. Some letters Kondo had worked on in the past were so full of spelling and grammar mistakes, he’d really struggled to fi
gure out what the writer was trying to say. He wondered if in America some soldiers had never gone to school. But this man was educated. His English and his message were very clear. Several times he called himself a sinner. He mentioned his wife and his two small children. He asked for forgiveness.
Kondo rubbed his temple. What on earth was he going to do with this? The woman was gazing at him sweetly, and it was obvious she had no idea what her boyfriend had written. She was expecting some other kind of news, not the bombshell this letter contained.
He cleared his throat. “You were probably waiting a long time to hear from him.”
“I’ve tried to be patient. I know he was very busy with all the preparations. He told me it might take a long time. There are lots of documents to file.”
“Documents to file?”
“Yes, for my papers.”
“Papers for…?”
“For bringing me to America.” She smiled at Kondo as if he were a little slow and she had to be patient with him. As if she had to indulge him, because he was not as lucky as she was.
He quickly dropped his gaze back to the letter in his hand. “Umm, I need to consult my dictionaries, I’m afraid. English is a very complicated language, and I don’t want to make a mistake. I’m sorry, but this will take a bit of time.”
“Of course. I don’t want to rush you.” The woman unconsciously rubbed her stomach. She leaned back as if to give Kondo more space to think. “I admire people like you who know English. I’ve been studying, but I find it so hard.”
He flipped open his dictionary, pretending to look up some words. He’d read hundreds of letters like this since he started working in the Alley. They varied in the names and details, but he knew the storyline cold. Upon returning to the States, the man found his hometown girlfriend still waiting for him. Upon returning to the States, the man went straight back into the embrace of his wife. Upon returning to the States, the man discovered a world of eligible young women more than happy to help a serviceman readjust to life back home. Kondo acknowledged to himself that those who took the trouble to write to their Japanese girlfriends were the decent ones. The others didn’t even bother.
The longer he worked here, the more aware he was of the power he wielded as a translator. He could translate word for literal word, each one like the blow of a hammer on tin to the listener. Or he could take it upon himself to soften the message. He could say that the man was sorry, when the letter contained no real apology. He could say the man felt affection, even when there was no explicit declaration of love. And if he came across phrases like I made a mistake. I never really loved you, it was just that I was in a strange country and feeling lonely, well, he would change that into something kinder. I was so glad that I met you. You helped me during my stay in a strange land, and you took away my loneliness. I will never forget you.
It wasn’t lying, not really. He never changed the essential message of a letter, although he knew a lot of the other translators did. They bragged that they made things up all the time because it often meant being rewarded with a nice tip. A happy bar girl was a generous bar girl, they liked to say. But Kondo didn’t believe in misleading anyone, not even a bar girl he would never see again. Dishonesty never helped anyone. Besides, a job should be done honorably. He was being paid to translate what someone else couldn’t read, and he owed it to them to respect their need for the truth. It was just like teaching his pupils—he never ever wanted to lie to them. Children didn’t respect you if you didn’t tell them the truth, no matter how hard it was. They were tougher than they looked. They could take it.
Of course, not all the letters brought bad news. Some were filled with hope and cheeriness and ardent messages of love. Kondo saw many examples of tenderness and devotion against all odds.
“Did you know each other a long time?” he asked.
The woman blushed. “A while.”
“I’m guessing maybe not all that long, right?”
“Everything happened a little fast. We had just met and then he was ordered back to America.”
“That must have been hard.”
For a moment she looked like she might start crying, but when she spoke her voice was bright. “He said he would pray for me every night and that we’d be reunited soon. Never lose faith, he said. What we have is true love.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but does he know…?”
“Pardon me? I don’t understand.”
Kondo gestured with his hand clumsily toward her body, toward the bulk of her stomach. She looked so vulnerable that he immediately regretted his words. Her face, so young and fresh, did not seem ready for the changes taking place in her body.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The woman abruptly stopped smiling. “I’d like to know what my letter says. What does he say about my papers?”
“There’s nothing about any papers, I’m afraid.”
“You mean they’re not ready yet?”
“No, there’s no mention of any papers.” Kondo paused and took a deep breath before continuing. “I don’t think he intends to bring you to America.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m really sorry. I also have to tell you that he’s married. It’s in the letter.”
The woman’s face turned red, first a fiery bright red, then dark as old blood. “But we’re married,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“We’re married, I tell you! He made me put my hand on his Bible and his friend was there as a witness. He said we’d have a proper wedding ceremony when I came to America.” She put her hands over her face and began sobbing.
Kondo carefully folded the onionskin paper along the existing crease lines and tucked the letter back into the envelope. “I know it’s not much comfort, but you’re not the only—”
Abruptly she stopped crying and snatched the letter from his hands. “Uso tsuki. Liar! I don’t believe anything you say. You’re making it all up.”
“I’m sorry the letter—”
“You don’t understand English.”
“I can see how upset—”
“Fraud! You can’t read English. You made everything up.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“I’m not paying. You only tell lies.”
“That’s all right. I will waive the fee. I’m sorry the news wasn’t good.”
“You bet I won’t pay. I’m going to find a real translator, not a fraud like you.”
“Whoever you find will tell you the same thing.”
The woman turned to leave and as she did, her foot slipped out of her geta. The movement had been quick and violent, and she let out a short yelp, like a wounded animal. Kondo worried that she might have twisted her ankle.
“Are you all right?”
She bent over and picked up the wooden sandal. The strap between the toes had pulled right off. She stared at it with a strange glittering look in her eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked again. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“See what you made me do!” She waved the geta in front of him. “Look at this. The strap broke. Do you know how many years of bad luck this is!”
For a moment he thought she would throw her geta at him but instead she turned around and began walking away. It was a sad comical limp. He knew he had handled things badly, and yet he didn’t regret telling her the truth. There was no way to sugarcoat the contents of a letter like that.
That evening it took Kondo a long time to fall asleep. The woman had upset him more than he realized, though at first he didn’t understand why. Her situation, while sad, was not unusual. He’d translated many letters like the one she had received. But as he lay awake on his futon, he thought of another woman, a distant cousin, and he had to admit that something about the woman tonight reminded him a little of her. They had the same long thick hair, the same fresh-scrubbed face. He hadn’t thought of her in a long time.
She’d come to Tokyo from the countryside to work i
n one of the textile factories, first sewing women’s pantaloons and later gloves and uniforms for the military. As he was the only relative she had in the city, they would meet from time to time, and on her day off he would take her for walks in Ueno Park, where they strolled by Shinobazu Pond and watched the ducks. She always called him Uncle because he was older. Over time he realized that he had fallen in love with her but he knew he could not tell her. She told him about her fiancé, how he had trained to be a fighter pilot for Japan’s mighty imperial navy, how proud she was of him, how much she missed him. When she received news that he had perished in a battle in the Strait of Malacca, Kondo was the one she came to. They met in Ueno Park, and in front of the placidly swimming ducks, she’d cried into his shoulder, sobbing as he’d never heard any woman sob before. It was as if she were wringing out every ounce of water inside her, draining her very body of all its fluid. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He wanted to tell her that he was here. He remained. Couldn’t she see that? He would take care of her forever, if only she would let him.
After she had finished crying, she sat back and thanked him. For being the only one in the world she could talk to, for being so understanding and kind. He walked her back to her factory dormitory. They did not speak any more about what had happened to her fiancé. Instead, as they walked, they paid attention to the sounds of different birds in the high treetops. She stopped at one point to pet a stray cat, but it ran away. At the doorway to her residence, she bowed and waved goodbye to him. He never saw her again. A week later, her dormitory went up in flames during one of the firebombings. None of the factory girls survived.
34
The Translation of Love Page 20