The Translation of Love

by Lynne Kutsukake

  Sumiko could stay at the orphanage if she worked. That was the arrangement Sister Izumi came up with to convince the other three nuns and Mother Masako that Sumiko would pull her weight. In exchange for doing the heavy chores, she was given food and a place to sleep. That was all she asked for. A place to be, a place to hide, she was grateful for that. Here she was safe. No one would ever think to look for her in a place like this.

  And she welcomed the work. She was asked to clean the floors, wash the clothes, cut the vegetables, cook the rice. The more exhausting and menial the work, the better as far as she was concerned, for it was then that she could truly lose herself in the grueling physical labor. The laundry—it mainly consisted of diapers and sheets—was endless. Everything had to be washed by hand in cold water using a wooden washboard and a harsh chemical soap designed to disinfect. When an ugly rash erupted on her hands and traveled up her forearms, she welcomed that, too. It helped, if only temporarily, to block out her memories of the night in the bar.

  The story behind the orphanage was this: In the last years of the war, the nuns had taken shelter in an old house on a large estate which, for reasons no one understood, had been abandoned. After the surrender, having nowhere else to go, they simply stayed on until one day, a little over nine months after the arrival of the Occupation forces, someone left a GI baby in front of the gate. Sister Izumi had taken it in. After that, word quickly spread that mixed-blood infants could be abandoned at the Tunnel of Separation, and the old house was turned into an accidental orphanage. Several times a month, there were new arrivals.

  It was assumed that children like this would face intense hardship in Japan, so the orphanage started keeping detailed records of each infant in the hope that overseas adoption might be possible. The information was written down on cards: weight, length, color and shape of eyes, color and texture of hair, color of skin. The reverse side of the card bore the final distinguishing mark. The sole of the baby’s foot was brushed with ink and pressed onto the card to form a “signature.”

  If any notes had been left by the mother, these too were carefully recorded.

  Please take care of my beautiful daughter.

  Look after my baby. He is innocent.

  More often, though, there was nothing. Alive for only a few hours, the infants already had such complex silent histories.

  To Sumiko, all the record keeping seemed irrelevant. One had only to look at the child, she thought, to see an entire personal narrative written directly on his flesh. Although some infants looked Japanese or almost Japanese, the majority were obviously konketsu, of mixed blood. Foreign but not foreign enough. Japanese but decidedly not pure. The story of their parentage—of their very conception—was plainly visible for all to see.

  Usually it was Sister Izumi who checked the gate early in the morning, but sometimes she sent Sumiko. The first time she came upon a small wicker basket on the ground, Sumiko was struck by the delicate pink handkerchief draped across the top. She peered down the path, through the mysterious tunnel shaped by the bending bamboo trees, but there was no one in sight. When she lifted the handkerchief, the baby she found wrapped in a clean white napkin was tinier than any baby she had ever seen. She didn’t know that any living creature could be so small. Its eyes were shut tight but its miniature mouth moved almost imperceptibly like a small fish kissing the empty air. Sticking the tip of her finger into the baby’s squirming mouth, she instantly felt the powerful tug of its sucking. It surprised her so much, she pulled out her finger. With that, the tiny baby parted its tiny lips and let out an ear-piercing cry.

  The furious force of that little mouth. Whenever she thought about the babies, it was that physical sensation she recalled. More than anything else, it seemed to symbolize their fierce determination to thrive. The odds were against them, but they persisted unaware. The instinct to survive was in all of them, Sumiko thought, and it started from the moment of birth. The babies were selfish. Everything they wanted was for themselves.

  That was how you stayed alive.

  You had to be selfish.

  “I’m sure you are aware of our need for more space.” Sumiko was called into Mother Masako’s office in late December and the conversation had begun in this meandering way. “As you know, the room at the end of the corridor is currently being used for storage purposes. If it were cleared out, it could easily be converted into another nursery.”

  Sumiko knew about the storage room. When the orphanage was first established, there had been such severe shortages that every sheet of paper, every scrap of tin, every piece of glass was saved for reuse.

  “There’s no one else I can ask. Some of the Sisters, if I may say, are most reluctant to part with old items.” Mother Masako cleared her throat and set her mouth in the mildest suggestion of a grimace.

  Sumiko nodded. She understood that this was a reference to Sister Naoko who, everyone knew, had a penchant—a compulsion—for collecting things. Every time she went out, she brought back something she had picked up off the street. “For the children,” she would retort whenever anyone challenged her. “It’s all for the children.”

  The string collection was useful, as was the box full of pencil stubs and the mismatched buttons. The scraps of fabric could be used for patches.

  “But those old newspapers…” Mother Masako shuddered. “We have to consider the danger of fire and other hazards. It would be very helpful if you could tie them up so we can sell them to the junk dealer.”

  When Sumiko went to the storage room, she could barely open the door wide enough to squeeze through. Indeed, the trouble was the newspapers, piles and piles, some as high as the ceiling. How could so much have accumulated? Sister Naoko had undoubtedly intended to sell them to raise money for the orphanage but had never been organized enough to do so.

  Sumiko started with the piles closest to the doorway and worked her way back into the interior of the room. Armed with a giant ball of string and a small pair of scissors, she began tying the newspapers into neat, uniform-size bundles. As soon as she had made a number of bundles, she took them out to a spot just inside the compound gate. The junk collector would be making his rounds of the area next week, his last visit before year-end. She was determined to finish by then. It would be a good way for the orphanage to start the new year.

  As she worked, occasionally a front-page headline might capture her attention and she would momentarily be distracted from the task at hand. Most of the news was about Occupation policy, about this or that reform or commission. There was land reform, there was education reform. But interspersed among the official announcements of progress were veiled references to worker rallies and hints of discontent. The Japanese press was censored, and you had to read between the lines.

  By the end of the week, she was close to finishing and not bothering to read the headlines anymore. She worked as fast as she could, anxious to get the task over with, already thinking about the upcoming celebrations at the orphanage. Although she’d never attended a Christmas festival before, she could tell by the exuberance of the Sisters that it would be very special. But then she thought about how that would be followed by the traditional New Year’s festivities and how she would not be able to spend it with her family. How she would never be able to spend Oshogatsu or any other holiday with her family again.

  She pressed her fists against her eyes to staunch any tears before they started. When she took her hands away, she knew she would not cry.

  She reached for the next pile of newspapers. To her surprise, they were in English. How had Sister Naoko acquired English-language newspapers? she wondered, and then recalled something Sister Izumi had once said. It wasn’t uncommon for babies to be wrapped in newspaper. Often it was the cleanest thing on hand.

  The quality of the newsprint was better than the Japanese newspapers, and there were many photographs. She flipped through the pages. There were pictures of GIs posing in front of Mount Fuji and of sailors waving from the decks of ships. Remarkably,
the newspapers were in relatively good condition. But when she picked up the next one in the pile and turned the page, her heart stopped.

  It was him. The photo was grainy but she knew him instantly. He looked different of course. His hair was close-cropped, he was clean-shaven and smiling. He had been alive then.

  She checked the date at the top of the newspaper. Ten days after it had happened.

  So it had been in the newspapers. Wada was right, the Americans knew. How could she have thought otherwise? They were Americans. They had power and they knew everything and they could do whatever they wanted. They would find out where she was, if they didn’t already know. When they came for her, the last thing she wanted was to put the orphanage in danger.

  Her whole being filled with a strange fog, and she could hardly see in front of her. Although she’d thought she was safe, she wasn’t. It had been an illusion. She hoped that Wada had made it to Hokkaido, that he’d taken on a new identity and made a whole new life. Because if the picture of the GI was in the newspaper, it could only mean the worst. A newspaper like this would surely only publish the worst.

  Sumiko stared at the man’s face, trying to will him to talk to her through the newsprint. Who are you? Why did you come to the bar? Next to his picture was a mixed-up jumble of abc letters, words that made absolutely no sense to her. The English words seemed to be taunting her, mocking her ignorance.

  Mingled with her cold fear, too, was anger and resentment. The Americans were free to write about whatever they wanted, weren’t they. She assumed this article was their version of the man’s death, of how he had died like a dog in a Japanese bar, of how the Japanese had attacked him, of how he was an innocent victim. Wasn’t that the sort of thing they would write? The more she scrutinized the paper, the more frustrated she felt. And then, amid the incomprehensible English letters, two words leaped out at her—Bar Lucky. A roar of blood filled her ears.

  Sumiko didn’t know how long she sat in the storage room. It could have been hours. It could have been only a few minutes. But when she finally decided what she needed to do, she experienced a sense of deep clarity. She tucked the newspaper into her sleeve. This she would not, could not, put out for the junk collector.

  That evening Sumiko did not take supper with the others. She said she was tired and needed to sleep. When everyone else went to bed, she crept into the tiny windowless room that Mother Masako used as her office and opened the wooden box on her desk. There was hardly any money inside, just enough to pay for the deliveries of milk and rice. She didn’t want to take it all, but there was so little she had no choice. She needed enough train fare to get back to Tokyo and a bit extra. She felt terrible, but she also knew that it was worse for Mother Masako to be housing a murderer.

  There was a large gray shawl in the storage room—one of the few items Sister Naoko had picked up that was actually useful—and Sumiko wrapped it around her head and neck. It was cold, and she was glad to have the shawl as she made her way in the dark through the long bamboo-lined passage—the Tunnel of Separation—and back into the world.

  35

  On the Sunday before Christmas, Nancy arranged two chairs in front of the big plate-glass window so she and Matt could have a special lunch looking out at the view. Today she was wearing a bright red blouse that Matt had never seen on her before, and her hair looked different, curlier and shorter. He wasn’t sure but he thought she might even be wearing some lipstick. She had packed rice balls wrapped in nori, black beans, vinegared carrots, and some tiny dried fish no bigger than the tip of a pencil. Matt’s contribution to the feast consisted of two bottles of Coke.

  Except for the giant “Merry Xmas” banner that hung on the front of General Headquarters, there were few obvious signs on the street that Christmas was just around the corner. Here the big celebration was New Year’s, and for most Japanese, Christmas Day was merely another workday.

  “Hard to believe it’s Christmas again and I’m still here,” Nancy said.

  “Maybe it won’t be much longer.”

  “You think so? Oh, who knows.” She let out a deep sigh. “Anyway, let’s enjoy our lunch. I have to say it’s fun working in the office when no one else is around. Look at this view. I bet it’s every bit as good as the one MacArthur has from his office.”

  “It’s not bad.”

  “And below, all those people lining the route. Just for a glimpse of MacArthur. Say, do you suppose they can see us from here?” She stood up and began waving her arms back and forth in large sweeping motions as if she were practicing semaphore. The sleeves of her bright red blouse fluttered like little flags.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Who?” Nancy continued waving her arms.

  “MacArthur.”

  “Well, I really don’t know. He’s got one heck of a job ahead of him, I guess. What about you? What do you think?”

  Matt remembered that day on the marching plaza when MacArthur addressed the troops with a megaphone. Tall, vigorous, confident—a man who had total power and knew it.

  Matt wondered what it must be like living with a man like MacArthur—a man filled with restless drive and energy, a man perpetually on the alert and ready to go to battle at a moment’s notice. His much younger wife and his son, Arthur, upon whom he doted, were always by his side through war and peace—in the Philippines, in Australia, and now in Japan. Although MacArthur was by now in his late sixties, from the distance anyway, he exuded no sign of aging or diminution. What was it that gave him such a commanding presence—his stature, his leanness, his proud eagle-like nose? Maybe it was that leather jacket he favored or his dashing aviator glasses. Matt couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe it was just power, pure and simple. All he knew was that his own father was a decade younger and already he looked like an ancient grandfather. He could no longer stand up straight, either because his bones had crumpled or out of an unwillingness to look the world in the eye. His back and his spirit were both bent in an ever-shortening curve toward the ground.

  “Hey, how about that!” Nancy began jumping up and down. “You know, I think someone just waved back. Well, this is fun. There are two girls down there and they’re waving at me. Do you see them?” Nancy got up on her chair and waved even more vigorously. “Hello! Hello down there!”

  Matt looked where Nancy was pointing. The crowd was larger than ever. It felt as if half the city had turned out. In the front row, almost directly opposite their building, were two girls. Their heads were tilted back and they were clearly looking up in Nancy and Matt’s direction. One girl held her arm over her head like she was asking a question in class, while the other waved more conspicuously, carving a wide arc in the air with her arm. It was those girls! Fumi and her quiet friend, the ones who had given him the letter and the photograph. He was sure of it. He never imagined he would ever see them again.

  He took a deep breath. His rational, cautious mind told him to ignore the scene unfolding before his eyes. Just ignore it. He had nothing to say to those girls. They were part of a mass of desperate people, and it was best to stay away from desperate people. Nancy was still flapping her arms like an excited kid.

  “Oh, look at them! I know they line up all the time, but I’ve never had a view of the whole crowd from up high like this. It’s really something. That old goat, MacArthur, he must have quite a swelled head by now.” Nancy turned to Matt laughing. “Hey, are you okay?”

  To hell with it. It was better to speak now, before he had a chance to think. Before he had time to let his rational, cautious mind get the better of him.

  “I know this sounds strange, but I think I know those girls. I have to go out and talk to them. They have a problem. I promised to help.” Nancy was looking at him strangely, but he continued nonetheless. “I…please…can you come with me? Can you help me? Please.”

  She was still giving him the same funny look, but she nodded slowly. He smiled with relief. It was only then that he realized he had been tugging on the sleeve o
f her blouse.

  Nancy turned out to be a woman of action.

  Matt explained that he’d met the girls in the summer and that Fumi had wanted him to deliver a letter to General MacArthur. He showed Nancy the letter.

  “Nice handwriting.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Did you forward a copy to MacArthur?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a hopeless request. No one is going to pay any attention to something like that.”

  “But did you say you would deliver the letter?”

  “Well, I suppose I sort of promised. I felt sorry for them. I never thought I’d see them again. What would you have done?”

  She waved her hand impatiently in the air. “It doesn’t matter what I would have done.”

  “I shouldn’t have accepted the letter,” he said. “I gave them too much hope, false hope. So I should set the record straight, shouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not good to mislead them, to let them believe that MacArthur can fix their problems.”

  Nancy turned her head away. She seemed to be staring at a spot on the far wall. “Makes you think about all the letters we get here, doesn’t it. I’m not enthusiastic about typing up some of them, I think you know that. I don’t like to see people beg, even if they lost the war. But hope—I figure that hope is one thing nobody can have too much of, not these days. It’s what keeps most of us going.” In a soft, barely audible voice she added, “Giving someone hope is a good thing. Maybe you did those girls a favor.”

  Down below, the crowds were starting to disperse and move onto the road, but the girls were still in the same place. MacArthur’s car must have passed by.

  “You’ll come with me, won’t you?” Matt said.

  “What do you need me for?”

  “I don’t know. Moral support maybe.”

  “Okay, better not waste any time,” she said, starting to move toward the door. She didn’t even bother to put on her jacket. “Whatever it is you want to say or do, you can figure it out on the way.”