A Thousand Stitches

by Constance O'Keefe

  “I’m so grateful for all you’ve taught me. I wish you a safe trip and a long and happy life with Evelyn. Take care of yourself, Roger.”

  By this point, although I was a little surprised at myself for using his first name to his face, I wasn’t at all surprised at my impulse to do so. I was comfortable with the Americans, happy to be speaking English so much, my mother tongue, as I was now thinking of it, and taking pleasure and a sense of accomplishment from my work. I had begun reading everything I could get my hands on about language teaching.

  Roger’s successor was John Bolunkly, a civilian on temporary assignment. I did the same job with him, but his style was even more casual than Roger’s. After a few months, he was replaced by Bill Scott, another civilian. Bill was a little less than a year younger than I was. He had majored in psychology and joined the Navy immediately upon graduation. The Navy sent him to its language program in Boulder. His Japanese was already fluent when he arrived in Matsuyama, and got better with each passing day. So my job was much easier—except when it was harder. Because Bill wanted what he said in public officially to be flawless, he still had me translate. Occasionally, after I finished, he would look at me, give me his special wry smile, and say, as quickly as he could so no one else would understand, “Hey, Sam, that’s not what I said.”

  I spent a fair amount of time studying up on the educational terminology we worked with every day. And I continued to read as much as I could on language training. Bill was very helpful. He shared everything he had learned from the Navy, made sure I knew about everything published by the Occupation on language education, and lent me all of his books. I still have some books on language pedagogy that he had his sister send us from Berkeley, where she was studying. Working with Bill, I was sure that I had found my life’s work. Teaching language was, for me, challenging and thrilling. Watching my students realize that they were not just memorizing dull formulas and phrases, but acquiring and mastering the skills to actually communicate with other humans, was a great joy. Giving them the confidence to do well was my challenge.

  With Bill, I also worked on the comprehensive reorganization of the Japanese education system. The work we began that year, under the direction of General HQ in Tokyo, became part of the complete reform of the system that went into effect in 1948. Japan adopted an American-style system of six years elementary school, three years junior high school, and three years high school, followed by four years of higher education. New school buildings were built all over the country; textbooks were completely rewritten. English became an elective starting at the junior high level. It was a time of change, creativity, and a certain amount of turmoil. I loved it.

  It was about the time that Bill arrived that things changed at home. I arrived home from work one night and was surprised to find Mother was waiting in the genkan. She took my arm and walked me up and down the road in front of the house. “Isamu, darling,” she said, “I have the most wonderful news.”

  The whole situation had me unsettled. Mother’s obvious excitement was making me apprehensive. “Yes,” I said hesitantly.

  “It’s Kayoko. She’s pregnant. It’s such wonderful news for our ­family.”

  I was searching for the appropriate response when she continued, “I guessed. She wasn’t ready to tell you—or anyone—and she is very nervous and worried, but it’s such wonderful news. Everything will be fine. She’ll start feeling better soon, and then she’ll look forward to the baby as much as I’m looking forward to being a grandmother.”

  By the time we walked back into the house, I realized that Mother was right. I was thrilled at the prospect of a son. Mother and Father joined in my excitement, but Kayoko was adamant. When we were alone she stubbornly insisted that she wanted an abortion. “There’s not enough room in this Ishii house,” she said. “How am I supposed to raise a child here? There are only two rooms plus that antiquated kitchen. I won’t do it.”

  The topic was still under unpleasant discussion when I got an urgent call at work one afternoon. Mother was calling from an obstetrician’s office downtown, and told me that Kayoko had had a miscarriage. Mother found her bleeding and in great pain that morning. Mother’s nursing skills and her resourcefulness were both on display that day. She took care of Kayoko and wangled a ride into town from the only neighbor who owned a car. When Mother brought her home, Kayoko was even quieter than usual. I sometimes wondered what went on in her head, but there was no way for me to know or to figure out what had really happened. Her only topic of conversation was the impossibility of our living conditions; it was all she ever talked to me about.

  Events far beyond our control were pushing us in directions we could never have anticipated. Land reform was Kayoko’s unexpected salvation. The new Agriculture Reform Laws required absentee landlords to surrender their lands to the new agricultural cooperatives, so Father was forced to sell the lands he owned to the Ishii Village tenants. The proceeds were just enough to finance a new house in town. It was our final farewell to Ishii. For many years I would mourn the loss of the old house with the thatched roof, the soft, warm tatami, the vegetable garden, the fields, and the stream. My life was to be in cities, but memories of the sweet country ways of Ishii were always with me.

  Father and I went to see my friend Maki, who was in the construction business. We arranged for a new Yanai-machi house to be built. Maki assured us that our plot there, where reconstruction was now allowed, could accommodate a two-story house. He went to work, and about six months later we all moved into our new home. There were four tatami rooms, a dining room, a study, a bath, and a large kitchen where the two housewives could work together.

  But part of Ishii came with us to the city. The children I had been teaching were not going to be deterred just because I was moving away. Nor were they deterred when I told them I had to start charging. They were willing to travel almost a half-hour by bike into the city for their lessons, and they were willing to pay. So my evening classes after my days at Ehime MGT continued, two sessions an evening, three evenings a week. The extra income was good as we pieced together a new life in the city. I had no idea at the time that this was probably the real beginning of my career, the beginning of work I would do for half a century.

  Bill Scott went home early in the summer of 1947. He had been accepted in a graduate program at the University of Michigan. As summer turned to fall, it made me smile to think of him crossing the campus kicking the autumn leaves, carrying his books, back to being a student. I knew he would be happy and successful. I wondered if he found anyone in Michigan to speak Japanese to.

  Bill’s replacement was Captain Shirley Schneider. Captain Schneider was much older than I and a rather stern personality. When I learned that she had been a high school principal in Saint Louis before she joined the army, I was not surprised. It was the first time I had ever had a woman boss, and they were rare enough even in the U.S. military, but I found working for her and following her orders easy. She was an expert school administrator and made great contributions to education in Ehime and neighboring prefectures. The improvements she put into effect earned her my respect, and the respect, even though it was sometimes grudging, of all the local Japanese officials.

  Once we had moved to Yanai-machi, things settled down at home. Kayoko seemed happier, but never said anything, one way or the other, to me. She and Mother grew even closer. I missed my own closeness to Mother, but I was so busy with work and with my nighttime teaching that I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. About this time, I found a book by Dr. Charles C. Fries of the University of Michigan entitled The Teaching and Learning of English as a Foreign Language. I was enthralled. Dr. Fries’ book supported many of the ideas I was developing on my own with my Ishii students. Persuading my students that learning English was the key to communication across cultures was easy to do at that point; watching the light in their eyes when one of my explanations made sense, when one of our drills gave them the confidence to speak to the Americans, was a great th
rill for me, and Dr. Fries’ book made me, I believe, a better teacher. On the evenings when the students and I were working in the study, Mother or Kayoko would come in halfway through the lesson with a tray, a big tea kettle, and a supply of cups. Mother would say, in English, “Good evening, everyone,” and would sometimes add “Gambatte” in Japanese, and “Good luck with your studies,” in English. Kayoko would just put the kettle and the tea cups down on the table, smile slightly, and leave. She never asked a single question about English, about teaching, about my interests. And her attitude made it clear that she had no interest in studying herself.

  Captain Schneider and I continued our work, and I had no idea of doing anything else. It was still interesting, and I was learning a great deal about education. However, one day early in 1948, officials of a school called Nitta Gakuen in the Matsuyama suburbs approached me. They were working on establishing a new institution to be called Matsuyama Junior College of Foreign Languages and invited me to join the faculty and teach English. I was flattered and interested in the job, but I told the officials that I couldn’t leave my job with MGT. They pressed. Finally, although I was sure the answer would be no, I promised to ask the U.S. military if they would let me take on the teaching as a second job. To my surprise, the answer was yes. Their theory was that the classroom work would make me a better translator-interpreter for educational matters. With this endorsement and with the confidence I took from Dr. Fries’s book, I began my work. My students at the Junior College were quite enthusiastic. My class was their first opportunity to learn spoken English. As I ran my students through drills and guided them through conversations, I often thought of Suzuki-sensei from Matsuchu and how thoroughly I had disgraced myself by embarrassing him. I looked back with the sympathy I had been too young and too naïve to have at the time.

  15. MICHIKO

  Osaka, 1945–1946

  As they walked away from Osaka Station, Michiko told herself that she would just forget what the two-day trip had been like. What was important was that Shotaro had been with her, had stood behind her, propping her up when she needed it, letting her lean back on him when exhaustion overwhelmed her.

  And now, after an hour of walking, they were approaching the neighborhood where Shotaro had lived. They had bought cups of tea from a vendor outside the station, and had eaten the last of the rice balls Shotaro’s aunt had packed for them. The sun wasn’t yet fully in the sky, but the heat and the humidity were pressing down on them.

  About ten minutes earlier, Shotaro had said, “It won’t be long.” They trudged along in the heat, Michiko wondering how hard it was for him to walk such a great distance, but knowing that if she asked his only answer would be to assure her that he was fine and say that his real worry was that she was doing too much, because he knew she was still so weak from her illness.

  The ten-block-square area of rubble had expanded, but they didn’t fully realize that until they reached their goal. “Oh,” he said. They stood and looked at where the Miyazawa home had been.

  “Right there,” he said, “on the left edge.” He was pointing at a fenced compound. Inside there were a few rickety newly constructed buildings—really shacks made of scrap wood—but the fence looked quite serious. A sign announcing “Keep Out” in large stern characters leaned sideways against the entranceway. In smaller letters it referred to the kempeitai. Even though the sign was valuable—in just the walk from the station they had learned that anything still intact was valuable—no one had touched it. It was under the nose of the loutish men loitering at the gate. A few of them were young, with greased slick hair, but most of them were tough-looking, thick-bodied middle-aged men, about a dozen in all. Three of them sported sunglasses, and lurid tattoos were visible on the forearms of the one wearing a short-sleeved shirt.

  “Well,” said Shotaro, “at least it’s clear that we won’t be staying here anytime soon. The kempeitai may be gone, but gangsters—no, we’re not going to tangle with them. I wonder what the Americans will make of them.”

  Michiko stood in the hot sun, trying not to cry for him and for his family. She grew fearful when one of the thugs walked over to where they were standing. Feeling Shotaro ease his stance, letting his arms fall loose at his sides, she willed herself to relax.

  “Hey, buddy, whatcha looking at?”

  “We just stopped to try to get our bearings. We’re looking for Tozawa University Hospital.”

  “For that you’re gonna have to have eyes that can see to the Western Paradise.” The gangster laughed. “It got it just about a week before we began enduring,” he said, with sarcastic emphasis on the last word. He flashed a yellowed, leering smile.

  “But it was that way?” Shotaro asked, pointing beyond the far side of the compound.

  “Sure was.”

  “Thanks,” said Shotaro, taking Michiko’s hand and starting off again, in the direction he had pointed.

  “You be careful now,” the gangster called out behind them. There seemed to be some real solicitude mixed with what was, no doubt, his usual tone of sarcasm and menace.

  Michiko forced herself to match Shotaro’s confidence as they walked away, but it wasn’t until they had gone a full two city blocks that she spoke. “Shotaro, is there anything you can do? Your family’s property is inside that fence.”

  “I think that for now, we just keep walking. We have to find our own future.” As he said this he stepped to the side of the road and picked up a twisted scrap of metal about two feet in length. He poked at the ground with the twist of metal and tried it as a cane—but it was too short. “Let’s go look at where the hospital was and then decide what we’ll do next,” he said, taking her arm and slipping the scrap through his belt so it sat on his hip like a shortened samurai sword.

  In another ten minutes they reached the site of the hospital. Part of the entrance, with its name engraved over the gate, still stood, and about ten feet of the front wall was still intact—the bombing was still recent enough that scavengers hadn’t carried off all the bricks. Although the hospital site was on its way to becoming just another part of the rubble plain that stretched in every direction, there was still evidence of what had been there—a smashed and twisted refrigerator for specimens, and the remnants of a sunken auditorium. When Michiko asked, Shotaro told her that it was the autopsy amphitheater and said, “Death used to be special. We dealt with it with reverence and with science. We never should have had to grow so used to it.”

  They were walking around the perimeter of the ruined hospital when they heard someone calling, “Miyazawa-san, Young Master Miyazawa!” They turned to see a tiny old woman running toward them, her brown berry face crinkled into a wide smile.

  “O-Hana?” said Shotaro.

  “Yes, it is you, isn’t it?” said the old woman, her geta clomping on the broken pavement.

  When she caught up with them, she reached up to Shotaro. “I’m an old lady, so I have no need for decorum any longer,” she said to Michiko, as she hugged him.

  With O-Hana’s arms still wrapped around him, Shotaro looked over the old woman’s head at Michiko and shrugged, his eyes lively with amusement and affection. “O-Hana, may I present my fiancée, Michiko Shizuyama?” he said. The old woman waved an arm at Michiko but didn’t let go of Shotaro.

  “O-Hana has worked at the hospital as long as I can remember,” he said to Michiko. “I met her the very first time my dad brought me here.”

  “Always the best, always the best,” O-Hana said as she stepped back and looked up at Shotaro. “Dr. Miyazawa and Young Master Miyazawa. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss. I can see that you know how special he is.”

  “O-Hana, what happened here?”

  “Well, it finally happened to us too. I guess we were too lucky for too long. The hospital was just about the only thing left standing in this neighborhood, and those monkey American boys in those big shiny airplanes were good—real good—they rained some of their bombs right on us here at the hospital.

&nb
sp; “Come, come with me,” she said. “I want you to meet Shun. He was always busy off with his business, but now that the hospital’s gone, he’s making sure we stick together.” She ran ahead of them and started climbing over the rubble, calling “Shun, Shun, dearest, where are you?”

  As Shotaro and Michiko hurried to keep up with her, Shotaro explained that O-Hana had been the custodian at the hospital, and told her about the time he came with his father to the hospital when he was about ten. O-Hana had chased behind them when they left, with a cartoon book that Shotaro had left behind. “Young Master, don’t forget your book. It’s no good for the likes of me who can’t read,” she had said as she handed it over.

  As they walked away, Dr. Miyazawa, in response to his son’s puzzled questions, had said that yes, O-Hana was illiterate, but he emphasized how big-hearted she was, telling his son he was sure he could see that himself. He also said she was a dedicated worker, someone who put her heart and soul into the hospital, the welfare of the staff, and what she could do for the care of the patients.

  Michiko and Shotaro watched as O-Hana disappeared inside a small mountain of rubble. As they got closer to where they had last seen her, she reappeared, emerging from what appeared to be the mouth of a cave. “Come out, Shun,” she said. “Young Master Miyazawa has returned and he has a beautiful bride with him.”

  “I’m here,” said the old man who appeared behind her. He wasn’t much taller than O-Hana, but was stocky and tough-looking next to his skinny wife. To Shotaro he said, “I’m pleased to meet you, having heard about you since you were a little boy.” Turning to Michiko, he said, with great formality, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m Michiko,” she said, bowing. “I’m grateful for your kind consideration of both of us.”