A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  As we headed back to our barracks in the dark, I wondered if I would ever again experience the rising joy of a journey across water, and thought of all the wonderful ones I had made, even in my short life: the ship pulling away from San Francisco Bay, and then across the majesty of the wide Pacific, and my many ferry trips across the serenely beautiful Inland Sea with its islands floating and shining in the sun.

  We knew that our time in Izumi was limited. As we awaited our orders, we looked forward to our next assignments and took pride in the inevitability of our fates. But the mood of our elders, including the senior officers, was rather elegiac. The town wasn’t big enough for an officers’ club, but, as Lieutenant Takeuchi told us, the local people were very kind. I’m sure now that their affection had a great deal to do with their awareness of our fate. Even though they lived with the privations the war had brought, they were willing to share what little they had with us.

  The Sunday after our sailing excursion, local families invited the cadets on home visits. Kobayashi and I teamed up. It took us twenty-five minutes to walk to the home of “our” family. When we arrived, everyone was waiting for us: Mr. and Mrs. Tanaka; Reiko, the oldest daughter; two younger girls; a baby boy; and a maid. Kobayashi and I grinned at each other: lucky, lucky, lucky. Reiko was the prettiest girl in Izumi, no question about it.

  After a delicious dinner, only Kobayashi, Mr. Tanaka, and I remained at the table. I leaned back on the tatami and thought, this is a warm and wonderful place. The lovely Reiko brought another container of shochu.

  “Thank you, my dear. That will be all for tonight,” said Mr. Tanaka. I thought of my father, and his love of alcohol, as Mr. Tanaka filled my glass again. The local liquor was strong. It had a big, broad taste, like the oily local fish, like the white radishes as big as watermelons, and like the pungent purple potatoes.

  The next Sunday Reiko sat with Kobayashi and me at dinner and responded to our questions. I wondered then and I wondered over the next few weeks whether she liked me or Kobayashi better. But it didn’t really matter. We were short-timers. Short-timers in Izumi, short-timers in this life. That second Sunday, by the time Mr. Tanaka and I had finished the third container, I stopped thinking about Reiko and realized I had learned to love shochu. Kyushu really was quite wonderful. I only made it back to the barracks because Mr. Tanaka took me on his bicycle. My sober-sided friend Kobayashi trotted alongside.

  I was delighted when a letter from Mother arrived at the end of April announcing that she was setting out to visit me. She had been released from her nursing service in Zentsuji in March and was back home in Matsuyama. She wanted to see me before I was transferred somewhere far away, and she was coming by herself because Father had seen me since I had left Matsuyama.

  She traveled from Matsuyama across the Inland Sea to Oita by ferry, and by train to Izumi. I was shocked to see how thin she was. I was used to her being rather plump, and remembered Father’s loyal jokes about the unattractiveness of skinny women. Mother said that everything was scarce, especially food. She also brought the news that she and Father were moving back to the family home in Ishii Village because our Yanai-machi house in the city was going to be torn down to create a fire break. The city was expecting bombings. I was horrified. I had never imagined that the war would reach Matsuyama.

  Mother must have noticed my distress, but clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She reached in her bag and pulled out an old furoshiki that I could remember her carrying on shopping trips in Japantown when I was small. “Isamu dear, I have something wonderful for you.”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  She untied the furoshiki. It fell open, revealing a delicate white silk cloth with bright red stitches: a beautiful senninbari.

  “I saw that Shizuyama girl, Michiko, on the corner by the train station. She was asking passersby. I stopped to talk to her since you knew her at Bancho. Well, was I surprised when I learned that she was making it for you. How nice of her. I had her bring it round as soon as she was finished. It turned out quite well, didn’t it?”

  I took the long silk scarf and ran my fingers over the stitches. I thought of Michiko making the stitches and pictured her standing alone near the station asking others to take a stitch for her. I had wondered why I hadn’t heard from her. My last letter from her had arrived shortly after we began training in Izumi. Michiko had written it in late January, and it had been forwarded to me from Mie. I had had no answer to the letters I had written her about learning to fly, about our trip to Amakusa, about where I thought I might be going next, about how I thought I might never see her again.

  “It’s really quite unfortunate about her parents.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Isamu, I thought you were in touch with her. After the way she cried when I found her on the street with the senninbari. Both her brothers were killed in action, and now her parents are gone as well. Evidently her mother had tuberculosis for quite some time. I had no idea. What a danger for everyone who associated with them. It’s quite dreadful when you think about all the people in and out of that shop. The mother died in mid-February, and then within a week, the father had a heart attack. When she brought this to me, she said she was on her way to Kure with a group of her classmates to work at the Arsenal. I guess that little shop will be sold—if anyone will buy it.”

  In the afternoon we went to visit the Tanakas. I still have the photo. Mother sits smiling with Mrs. Tanaka. Kobayashi and I stand with Mr. Tanaka. Reiko, lovely Reiko, is in the corner. So young. We had a feast that evening. It was our last night in Izumi. Our orders had come through. I was assigned to Wonson, in South Korea, for further flight training. I wasn’t sure, but I thought it meant the Zero. But those of us assigned to Wonson were ordered to go first to Oita, on the opposite side of Kyushu.

  I got Mother on the train with us when we left for Oita. She chatted cheerfully during the four-hour journey and joked with my friends. I thought it was our last, precious time together, but Mother was focused on a different future from the one I knew awaited me. She had her eyes on a bride for me. I dismissed it all as ridiculous, as wishful thinking. But, of course, I didn’t say any of that. No mother wants her son insisting that he will soon be dead. I listened dutifully to what she had to say as I went with her to the ferry slip at Oita and waved as she set out for Shikoku, for the home I was sure I’d never see again.

  But thanks to another of fate’s surprises, less than two months later I was sitting on the tatami at home again. And Mother was talking. She was completely focused. She wanted it so much. I couldn’t, I didn’t want anything, so I said yes. What did it matter? I would be dead soon. But she would be happy now.

  “Yes, Mother. I agree.”

  The afternoon heat shimmered outside the Ishii Village house. After only a short time in Oita, my orders for Wonson had come through. I had leave for three days before we sailed for Korea—just long enough for me to make a trip to Matsuyama.

  The bustle and excitement of my surprise arrival had passed. But I wasn’t going to get the relaxation I was looking forward to. Mother had business for us to attend to. There was no breeze, and the sound of the cicadas and the sharp summer smells of the fields filled the house.

  “It’s a splendid match. You’ll be a fine couple. The Katayamas are a very good family. Their roots here in Ishii are as deep as those of the Imagawas. Kayoko-san’s grandfather was a close associate of your grandfather when he was mayor of Ishii Village. The doctors of their family and the mayors of our family have known each other and worked together for generations.”

  “Congratulations,” said Father.

  “I’ll have to leave the details to you,” I said.

  “That’s fine, my dear, but I do want you to see her again on this visit. After that I can take care of all the formalities. It’s unfortunate, but for the sake of the country we have to accept that it may be impossible for you to be present for the official engagement ceremony.”

  “I don’t have much time,
Mother.”

  Ignoring what I was saying, as I expected she would, she sailed on. “We’ll find the time while you’re here. Even though you probably don’t want to admit it, I’m sure you remember her well. If I can arrange everything, we could even have a ceremony and sign the register the next time you get leave.”

  She had started earlier that year, mentioning Kayoko in every letter. Now that she was back home in Matsuyama, she was thinking about the Imagawa family position there and my proper future. And as much as I had tried to tune it out, she had brought it up over and over again when she visited Izumi. She kept saying that she was sure I had the same good impression of Kayoko that she had and reminded me of the visit we had paid to her family two years earlier when she was home on leave from Zentsuji. At that time, Mother was consulting with Dr. Katayama about nursing techniques he was pioneering at Matsuyama Hospital, but I should have known better: she had been much too insistent that Father and I accompany her.

  I had only fragmentary memories of that visit: the hot sun in Yanai-machi, the long trolley ride. Mother in her best kimono, clucking at Father as we were getting ready to leave, “Don’t be so slow. Help me tie this obi. We can’t be late.”

  I did remember that Kayoko, who was almost three years older than I, was a terrible koto player. Like most proper young ladies, she had no education beyond elementary school and had spent the years since she left school helping her mother and studying flower arranging and koto, so she had been at it for quite a while. Her mother insisted on the recital after the medical business was concluded. As Kayoko knelt before the instrument and moved her hands across its strings, her father’s face wore one of those patient, indulgent parental looks. I kept my face under control by thinking about Yamamura-sensei and what his reaction would have been. Mother’s letters always mentioned Kayoko’s beauty, but I could only remember a narrow face and long, lank hair.

  “Fine, now that’s settled. Your father has been saving our ration for three months, so we have enough sake for all of us, and I’m going to start the fried chicken now. We’ll have a feast. We have lots to celebrate.”

  The next morning, I asked Mother for my old college clothes, but she insisted that I appear in public only in my uniform. I set off for the city to visit my old teachers. For a Navy officer, riding a bicycle was prohibited, so I had to walk all the way. I visited both Bancho and Matsuchu and saw a number of my old teachers. I know they wanted me to be safe and well, but all they could manage to say were the conventional exhortations to do my best for the Emperor and the country. But what I saw in their faces was the deep and sure knowledge that was mine too—the time left to me was very short. I regretted that Yamamura-sensei was not at Matsuchu that day; I had especially wanted to see him.

  On the long walk back to Ishii Village in the midday heat, I consoled myself with the thought that my death would mean the survival of my family and all the good people I had seen that day.

  Mother was waiting. We were going out again right away. I was to wear my uniform again. She had been making plans, and as she bustled about, she laid out her vision of the future. I would be serving in the Navy for many years to come. I would come home on leave again soon, and there would be time for the marriage ceremony. And then Kayoko would be a Naval officer’s wife. Still chattering, she rushed me out the door, and off we went to Kayoko’s aunt’s house, where my fiancée and I were to meet again.

  When we arrived, the four of us sat in Aunt Furusawa’s tiny parlor, which was crowded with examples of her craft work. I certainly didn’t know what to say; no one else seemed to either. I concentrated on the sashiko cover on the table, letting my eyes drift in and out of focus and letting first the squares and then the diamonds in the pattern float into prominence. I wondered if Aunt Furusawa helped girls and women work on the senninbari they made for their loved ones.

  Thinking of the senninbari offered an escape route, and I removed myself from the situation I was in by thinking about Michiko.

  Mother commented on how hot it was for mid-June. With that the older women launched into a conversation about how the rainy season should begin soon. Neither Kayoko nor I had anything at all to say. We sat and listened to Mother and Aunt Furusawa. Their conversation had drifted to textiles. Suddenly they stood and then disappeared upstairs to look at some special samples of iyo kasuri that Aunt Furusawa had bought at a local temple festival.

  My fiancée and I sat in silence. When I couldn’t bear it any longer, I said, “Your name is Kayoko, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you first hear about me?”

  No answer. I tried again.

  “Did you do well in school? Did you enjoy it?”

  Again no answer.

  “Do you know what a Zero fighter is?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a hobby?” Again, she looked down at the table. No answer. I gave up on the conversation. We sat again in silence. I looked at her closely. She kept her eyes cast down. After a long time, she looked up, caught my eye and quickly turned away again. The minutes ticked by. I wondered how much more of this I’d have to endure.

  Kayoko was visibly working herself up to something—she first seemed to brace herself, then wriggled in her place and finally whispered, “May I serve you some tea?”

  “Oh yes, please. By all means,” I responded, surprised that she could produce a sentence on her own.

  She went to the kitchen, and I relaxed for a few moments as I listened to the kettle rattle and then whistle. The ladies upstairs must have heard it too. They came downstairs chatting about the humble beauties of the local folk arts. The group reformed when Kayoko brought the tea cups and pot in from the kitchen. She served us with grace; it was obvious she had studied tea ceremony. The atmosphere relaxed a bit. Conversation turned to mutual acquaintances and Ishii Village characters. Kayoko giggled, but again didn’t have anything to say. I was bored silly and glad when we finally escaped.

  Mother continued to chat about Ishii Village and Kayoko as we walked home. I thought, she’s a nice enough girl, I’m sure. Typical, a nice typical, reserved, well-mannered Japanese girl. But not my type. I wanted someone curious, frank, and humorous. Michiko was like that, and flexible as well. But my stubborn mother had made up her mind about who was appropriate for me. But none of Mother’s plans mattered. Michiko was gone. I’d be gone soon, and I wasn’t coming home alive.

  When we got home, Mother asked directly what I thought of Kayoko. I kept my thoughts to myself.

  Mother, Father, and I had another feast that night but only one drink each: I had an early train the next morning. I successfully steered the conversation clear of Kayoko by talking about the Zero and what a great honor it was that I was going to learn to fly such a magnificent aircraft. I didn’t sleep well that night and thought about Michiko as I lay awake. I was probably anxious about the journeys ahead of me, and worried that I would never see Michiko again, much less have a chance to bid her farewell before my final journey.

  10. SAM

  Oita, Japan and Wonson, Korea, 1944

  It wasn’t until we arrived at Oita that we learned why our posting to Korea was delayed. The winter there had been especially harsh and the runway at Wonson needed extensive repairs. We would have to stay at Oita for at least a month and would start our fighter training there.

  We were now at the northeastern corner of Kyushu, on the shore of the Inland Sea. Shikoku was to the east. Oita Naval Air Corps (NAC), the airfield we were assigned to, was only a short distance from Beppu, Japan’s most famous seaside hot spring. We were thrilled that we were going to become fighter pilots, and we were excited to be close to the fabled resort; we found its honky-tonk reputation alluring.

  But we were deflated when we learned that there were no Zeros at Oita. Our training would start on Model 96 fighters. Since our days at Mie we had been talking about the Zero: a sleek, powerful, maneuverable engineering marvel. And now we were going to work with an outdated plane that h
ad had its heyday in the 1930s on the China front. Like the Model 93s we used at Izumi, the Model 96 was a sturdy plane with a big engine up front, a tail wheel, and non-retractable landing gear. The most obvious difference was that the Model 96 was a single-wing plane. Well, we told each other, looking at the clunkers, we have to make do—it’s all part of our contribution to the war effort. And we’ll learn fighter techniques.

  Oita NAC was a busy place. Hundreds of yokaren were in basic flight training, and the runway was being lengthened to accommodate the fighters that arrived with us. An army of construction workers, aided by high school and middle school students, worked long shifts.

  Our training repeated the process from Izumi: hands off first; hands lightly on the controls; flying with the instructor in the rear seat; soloing. But the speeds were much faster and the rates of ascent and descent much steeper. It was more dangerous, and discipline was tighter. Navy Spirit “injections” were frequent. But the discipline didn’t assure safety. In just one week, I saw one of the ground crew killed when he walked into a propeller, and watched as another plane cartwheeled on landing. The flames flashed immediately—brilliant and cruel. It was quite some time before the fire crew could even approach the plane. The NAC Commander, a remote and severe character, stood as the firefighters did their work. Watching him, I realized that it would be his job to write to the cadet’s parents.

  We had three or four Sundays free while we were at Oita. We were far from the mountains and the plains of Izumi, and its small-town atmosphere. Cranes were definitely not the biggest thing here. Beppu was a seaside city, but nature was remote—no one seemed to think about the beach. The local people were all in business and the local business was pleasure.

  Beppu called. Several hotels had been singled out for our patronage. The Navy designation entitled the hotels to extra food and liquor rations, and we ate and drank to our hearts’ content. We soaked in the warm waters.