As soon as she told me this, she wrinkled her brows and lowered her voice in that way of hers, you know, and said, “And then I told her, ‘Tsuruko, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself. You’re now fighting the women’s war.’”
As I listened to her, I felt tears well up in my eyes remembering how I’d been pushed behind the crowds that cold rainy morning when you’d left. Even though I had not shed a single tear then, now when I hear this story about someone else—perhaps because it is about someone else—the pain that I concealed deep in my heart that day comes rushing back to me as if breaking through a dam, and for some time I felt that I could not raise my head. When you think about it, those words that she spoke then are words that apply especially to a woman like me—“You’re now fighting the women’s war.”
Her story so upset me that I was up rather late last night until I finally dozed off lost in thoughts of you. I don’t remember what time it was. No, that’s not true. It would have been just around this time last night—around the very time you were to leave your lodgings this evening, board the ship, and set sail. Was this something I dreamed? Or something I knew after I awoke? Suddenly I sat up in bed and opened the shōji on the second-floor window. What was I thinking to have done such a thing? Was I asleep or awake? I don’t know. And yet now when I think about it, I realize that I sat up in bed and opened the shōji just when you were boarding the ship.
I remember the night before you were to leave. You began going through your pack and pulling out some of the items that I had carefully tucked away for you. As you did, you said to me, “I’ve got to be able to carry this myself, you know. And it’s not just that I have to be able to walk with this pack on my back. I have to be able to board the ship. You don’t want me falling off the gangway, do you?” Even at such a time you could joke, as if this were a matter of no importance. I suppose I’ve folded your words away in my heart. When I opened the shōji and looked out, it was as bright as day outside. Even the rain doors of the houses that line the street under the palisades shone white in the moonlight—it was such a brilliant night. Was the moonlight really that bright? “Ahh, it’s so bright,” I murmured to myself without thinking. I had never imagined that the street could be so radiant in the dead of night like that. It glittered just like a dreamscape, and through the branches of the white fir in the garden across the way, I could see far, far into the distance. Even though there was no way I could have seen you, I felt I could see you with that pack on your back, boarding the ship, preparing to leave the harbor. Without thinking I pressed my hands together, just as I was, sitting on the bed.
There was no wind, and the night was bright with the moon. You must be nearing——Inlet by now, I thought to myself. And as I did, I realized that you would now be slipping farther and farther out to sea, and the thought shot through me, snapping me awake and strangely sending me into that serenely bright mood.
Ten days have passed since your departure. Today I received my first postcard from you. The message, so clearly written in your hand, tells me that you are well and surviving. Gazing at the postcard, I feel I am in a dream.
Over these last ten days I have tried to keep track of the passing time by counting off the days on my fingers. At first I followed your progress diligently, charting your different destinations on a map. But how could I continue this vigilance indefinitely? I now spend my days quietly, not knowing where you are or what you are doing. Even I have difficulty accepting the abruptness of my own turn to complacency—just as if a string had suddenly snapped. That is why your postcard from Taiwan threw me off balance. “You mean he’s still in Taiwan?” Rather than feeling relieved that at least I knew your whereabouts, I felt impatient and forlorn.
Now what sort of reaction was that! Up until that moment, I had not known where you were or what you were doing, and I had lived my days luxuriating in my ignorance. But when I received this postcard, so clearly in your hand, it made me want more. I wanted to be able to see all of you before my eyes—to see the gentle expression on your face and to know what it was you were thinking at that very moment. The desire flooded up through my heart in an endless torrent!
Is there anything more ridiculous than the human heart? Staring at the brief message in front of me, I wanted nothing more than to know what you looked like right then and there, and the more I wanted this, the less able I was to envision even vaguely the streets and towns of Taiwan where you now were. So what did I do? I imagined you stopping by the local seafood shop there and ordering some of the dried mullet roe that you so enjoy. Do you see what I mean? This is the kind of triviality that rushed through my mind. Go ahead, have a good laugh at the silly figure I must have cut.
As soon as I received your postcard, I sent off to you in rapid succession a telegram, a letter, and then a package, with no thought as to how you might feel being the recipient of such an onslaught. That was yesterday. This morning I received the package you sent. It held a jumble of clothes—the suit, wool jacket, and undergarments you had worn the day you left the house. When I pulled out the clothes and spread them around me, it made me gasp. Does this mean you’ve already left Taiwan?
This suit of yours is the kind of garment you can find at almost any store these days. It is made of ordinary fabric with nothing particularly exceptional to recommend it. And yet even though this was the suit that I had just had made for you to wear when you left, here and there the fabric had faded, and along the sleeve and across the knees it was completely threadbare—worn to a fray! It hardly looked like the same suit! Clinging to your wool jacket were fragments of some kind of grass, unfamiliar to me. When I saw these, I immediately pictured to myself how you must look as a soldier, even though I knew that you were not supposed to be engaged in any war-related activities while you were in Taiwan. And then I felt surging over my heart the realization that this package was the answer to that silly letter I had sent you yesterday, the one in which I wrote over and over again how much I longed to know how you were keeping yourself and what you looked like. The realization flooded my breast.
For some time I sat there in a stupor. I saw the notebook that I had packed for you earlier. It was tucked in among the other items in the box. Even when I saw that it was completely untouched, the pages still bare of writing, I told myself that this couldn’t be. It had to bear some kind of message. Oh dear, how can I express the fretfulness I felt at that moment? I refused to acknowledge that it would have been very unlikely for you to have slipped a special message into such a package, and I began to spread your clothes all around the room, determined to read in them some kind of sign, something that would serve as a message in place of a written note, and then, finally realizing that my quest was futile, I buried my face in your clothes.
These garments had been next to your body until just a day or two ago. But where was your scent? Why didn’t it cling to the fabric? All I could smell was the faint odor of earth and dust. Well, that’s it then. Knowing this package was sent to me from a great distance, I decided to accept its contents as a substitute for my husband. Are there others in the world who would admit as much? I felt that my own fate was too painful to voice.
Early this morning Mrs. Kawamura’s son left for the war. You know her, she’s a member of our neighborhood association. Last year she had another son leave for the front, and it was months before she had word from him. This time she’s sending her second son, the one who just finished school last winter. I went to see him off and arrived just as he was leaving. Members of the reserve forces and our town council were there lined up in front of the house with their flags. One of the members gave a send-off speech. You’d know him. Remember when we had the air-raid drill and one member of our association was named our point person and assigned the task of reporting to headquarters on the success of our exercise? Remember? The tofu seller? Well, the poor man stammered and stumbled his way through his entire speech, just as he had then. He kept having to say things over and over again. You would think he’d be
the last person they would ask for such a task. But contrary to expectations, his words, with their artless honesty, moved all who heard them. Just as the car pulled up, someone in the crowd shouted out loudly, “The car’s here!” And spontaneously everyone standing there raised their arms and gave three choruses of “Banzai!” There was a man in the crowd who just the other day had stopped by the house pulling a handcart with goods for sale. It didn’t seem that he was closely acquainted with anyone in the family. But here he was to pay his respects. When I saw this, my heart glowed warm with the knowledge that our great nation is made up of such people. When Mrs. Kawamura’s son stepped into the car, I saw him for the first time as a soldier. His face, more than just youthful, was positively childlike, and perhaps because he was not accustomed to appearing before such a large crowd, he was blushing brightly as he said good-bye. I was immediately struck by his youth and innocence, and yet the more youthful he was, the more innocent, the more I felt certain—and how can I quite explain this?—I felt certain that he would be magnificent as a soldier.
We stood there for a while, even after the car had slipped from sight. And then the youth’s mother called out to us from the open door. “Won’t you come inside?” My heart filled at the sound of her cheerful voice.
Surely Mrs. Kawamura’s son will meet you somewhere, I told myself. But then again, since your package arrived from Taiwan, I have not known your whereabouts. Just the other day I saw the newspaper article that you had written with another member of your company. Although it wasn’t stated anywhere in the report, I told myself that you were part of the advance on Malay. How strange that I would derive such comfort from this little ruse of mine, rather than admitting to myself that I really had no idea where you were.
I read the newspaper every day. Recently in a report from Kuala Lumpur there was a photograph of a young sunburned soldier crouching in front of a grave. He wore only a shirt. “Deceased soldier,” the grave marker read. The young man was offering flowers like large rhododendrons, whose color I could not discern. Even when I see a photograph such as this, I can’t help but be impressed by the gentleness of the article, and it makes me imagine that you, too, have knelt before this grave in prayer. I am reminded of last summer when we went to Manshū. We took a tour bus and rode to a park-like site on the lonely outskirts of the city. There, lined up in the shadows of trees, were graves—much like the one in this photograph. These were the people who had been captured and executed by enemy soldiers at the start of the Russo-Japanese War. As we stood in front of the graves listening to the tour guide recount the familiar story in her lightly accented voice, I watched the tears roll down your cheeks, one right after the other. Before long, it was time to board the bus again for the ride back to the city. But you were busy collecting the dandelion-yellow flowers that dotted the low grasslands. You stopped at each grave and offered a flower and a prayer. I can still see you now.
I read an article that was dispatched from somewhere in Jahore. It described a group of soldiers who came across an automobile the enemy had left behind. They used the automobile to launch their own counterattack. When night fell, they found themselves deep in a rubber tree forest, so they stopped, spread their mosquito nets out inside the automobile, and then wrote letters home by the light of a bean-oil lamp—with no guarantee that they’d ever see those letters mailed. When I read this, I imagined that you, too, were somewhere writing letters home to me.
Each time I read articles like these, regardless of whether they concern Malay or Burma, I’m reminded of how hot it is there—a heat I can’t describe because I can’t even imagine it. Occasionally I’ll run into Inoue Minako, who spent time in Java, and we’ll talk about the heat. But the other day she interrupted me and said with a laugh, “Every time we meet, all you want to talk about is the heat over there! Let’s just put it this way, the second the automobile that you’re in comes to a stop, you feel like the hair on your head will burst into flames.”
I don’t know why, but for some reason we’ve had a lot of snow this year. It has snowed many times since you left. The snow doesn’t melt right away but collects in the low spots in our garden and lingers there as if on purpose, making it even harder for me to imagine what it must be like for you.
It’s true, I really have no idea how you must look now. Yesterday I saw Mr. Baba’s wife who lives below the palisades, and she told me that she saw her husband once in a news film and twice in newspaper photographs from the front. She’s sure it was him. “I’m telling you, it had to be him,” she claimed. “He was leaning forward the way he always does and walking with his shoulders hunched. It was definitely him.” I wondered how I would feel if I happened to catch even a glimpse of you.
By now, you know, I’ve rather grown used to your absence. Or perhaps I should say I’ve grown quite adept at tending to your absence. Since you left, I’ve become very busy, indulging myself in thoughts of what I would do if you were here or what we will do when you return. For example, I’m probably rushing the season—what with the snow still on the ground—but the peas that I planted last year are slowly pushing their slender tendrils up through the ground. I’ve had to stake them. I don’t know when they’ll produce pods, but I tell myself that I’m going to pick them every morning for your breakfast soup. And then on days when the sun is bright, I’ll clean the upstairs room. I’ve kept the pens and so forth on your desk just as you left them. But yesterday I went to that store down by the train tracks and bought a large white magnolia bough—the kind you like—its white blossoms in bloom, and set it on your desk. Really though, nothing has changed since you left. At night, I darn your socks and mend your clothes and think to myself that I really am a fortunate woman. When I remind myself that I am waiting for your return—even while I’m enjoying such a peaceful life—I am filled with great pride.
Just a little while ago I received a message from my mother in the country. She says my younger brother is also in the South Seas—traveling by transport ship.
I suppose you have reached Singapore by now. Left to my own devices, this is all I can think of every day, and the strain has stretched my heart thin. I’m quite sure you’ll laugh at this, but these days I’ve been feeling that I know, from the very depths of my heart, just what it feels like to be a wife who has sent her husband off to war. Actually, yesterday the young fellow who works at the fruit shop down the hill stopped by to make a delivery. “Where’s the master of the house these days?” he called out loudly to the maid. “He’s in Singapore,” she replied. I was inside combing my hair but stopped without thinking when I heard this exchange. “That’s right,” I murmured to myself. “The master of the house is now in Singapore.” And I repeated this sentence over and again in my heart. My husband, among all those many who have gone to war, was with the force that marched triumphantly on Singapore. The thought made me tremble with pride. How fortunate I am—tending your absence with pride—much more so than an ordinary woman.
Really, who can blame women like us for our petty feelings? Sometimes, at those ladies’ meetings, the conversation will shift to the topic of children born after their fathers have died at war. It is a subject that weighs heavily on the heart. Just the other day there was a woman at the meeting who said, “We have to consider the child, you know. If all he ever hears is that he’s a ‘posthumous child,’ he’s going to grow up convinced that he’s somehow different from other children, that he’s special.” When I heard this statement, I felt that I, too, was just like one of those children. I was sure that I was special, quite unlike the normal women around me. And this notion did nothing to dispel my pride.
I forgot to tell you . . . at Mrs. Sakamoto’s house, this time Shinkichi got the call and suddenly, too. I went over there last night for his farewell party. That house is always full of good cheer, regardless of whether or not it’s a special occasion. But tonight it was especially lively! Although we were there for a farewell gathering, it was so lively that you would have thought we were ce
lebrating a triumphant return! I found myself caught up in it all and ended up laughing harder than I have in a long time. I laughed all night long!
Shinkichi has always struck me as being a bit taciturn. But after a few drinks, he started to talk in a strong North Country accent. I imagine you’ve heard it before. He took out a postcard that he’d received from a relative back in the country and read it aloud in his best country accent.
“Last year my horse got the call and I cried. . . . Now I reckon he’s off on some battlefield. . . . I worry about him awful. . . . I wonder if he thinks of me. . . . Now I’m working a two-man’s load for the sake of my country.”
After he read the postcard, he let me see it. There was furigana alongside the characters, indicating their pronunciation—just as I have them here—and next to this was a picture drawn in a childish hand of a young girl and boy dressed in their finery and sitting on top of a horse as if they were off to a village festival. They were looking back over their shoulders, and the words of the postcard were written like a dialogue between them.
“Now I reckon he’s off on some battlefield,” Shinkichi drawled with a clownish gleam in his eye. Then he glanced in my direction. “Well how about you? Do you worry about your fellow awful? Do you wonder whether he’s thinking about you?” It was plain to all that not a second goes by that I’m not thinking about my husband, so to see my situation compared with such a funny one caused all the people present to burst out laughing. Really, that Shinkichi was in rare form! I couldn’t help laughing along with the rest. But then suddenly I felt that I wanted to cry. In the brief moment when Shinkichi teased, “Do you wonder whether he’s thinking about you,” what flashed through my mind but you! There you are out on a march somewhere, and I have no idea what you look like. In the midst of such a vicious war, how can I expect you to make room in your heart for thoughts of me?
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 120