When the party was over, I stepped out into the street in front of the house. It was a clear, starlit night. I walked alone through the night to the bus stop. And as I walked, I remembered Shinkichi’s antics and burst out laughing, then fell suddenly silent and then burst out laughing again. Even so, the lines “I’m working a two-man’s load for the sake of my country” and such, with their rustic tones, struck me as such positive sentiments. Well, yes. Shinkichi had had quite a bit to drink. Shinkichi the clown! But the next morning, before daybreak, he was to leave. The thought brought me up cold, and I suddenly felt sober.
It was clear again tonight. Somewhere the soldiers were out on field maneuvers. Lately I’ve heard the sound of gunfire almost every night below the palisades behind our house. On a night like tonight, there are more than a few women who find themselves relying on an invisible strength.
It was unusually warm today. My mother had sent a letter to my younger sister, who lives in Nibanchō. My sister came by in the morning, and we spent the day talking about all the things Mother had written. I suppose it’s the same for almost every household these days. We all spend our days preoccupied by the same things.
Even in the country villages, there’s hardly a house to be found that doesn’t have a loved one off at war. My family is no exception. Last autumn Sōshichi left for war, and it was months before we received word from him. Mother worried day and night, all alone as she was. Needless to say, rumors are rampant in a country town like that. One day she’d learn that so-and-so’s son had died, and the next she’d hear about the young fellow down the street. In the midst of it all Mother never spoke of her fears, as the others did. But in her letters she poured out her concerns.
“Now my son, too, has boarded a ship and sailed away, and I don’t know where he is or how he’s faring.”
Just two or three days ago she heard from Sōshichi—the first letter she’d received in nearly half a year.
“Yesterday the ship I’ve been sailing on docked safely. Being in the middle of the war, it’s a wonder I’ve managed to escape injury—working aboard this ship. As you might expect, in this kind of work, my life’s on the line every day of the week. I know you know this is the case, even without my having to tell you, Mother. If by some chance I have to end up doing the inevitable, don’t worry about me, Mother.”
This is the gist of what he had written. Mother dwelled on this at some length in her letter to my sister, adding that she was trying to go about her business, meeting with others in her neighborhood, just as before.
Of course, you’ve met Sōshichi many times before. Once he started working on the ships, he’d stop by our house every now and then. He’d never say anything special by way of a greeting. He’d get drunk on the little bit of saké he’d have with his evening meal and then would suddenly burst into song at the top of his lungs. There wasn’t anything particularly remarkable about him. And so for someone so unremarkable suddenly to be expressing such brave sentiments really touched me. I must say I was impressed, even if he is my own brother.
It was in the spring of last year when Mother decided to find a bride for Sōshichi, and so she took to sitting every day on the veranda of the tea shop by the mountain pass. She’d wait for the girls coming to town for their sewing lessons. When she spotted a girl she thought was appropriate, she’d start off in the same direction, walking beside the girl and striking up a conversation. Without anyone the wiser, she discovered the girl she wanted for Sōshichi. By the fall, when she’d been able to work out most of the arrangements, she asked Sōshichi what he thought of the girl she’d chosen. She told him that if he was interested, she’d prepare the wedding ceremony for him right away, the very next day if that’s what he wanted.
But it just so happened that the Itamotos were involved in the very same kind of negotiations with this girl’s family. Sōshichi has no obvious qualities to recommend. There’s nothing about him in particular that would strike you as different. And then there was my mother, living all alone in her country home. She is the kind of woman who stacks firewood up under the eaves of her house and plants radishes in the field out in back, the kind who lives for the letters she receives from her children. To have received such a letter from her youngest son might have startled her at first, but all he wanted was to let her know how he was getting along. There was nothing at all unusual in that. It was the sort of letter one could find anywhere these days. You see, no one in Sōshichi’s situation thinks of himself—day in and day out—as performing a service for the nation. Others may see these men in a heroic light. But they themselves do not—not until the final moment. And yet hidden deep inside their hearts there is perhaps the vaguest inkling of the fact that they have given their lives to protect our great country.
This happened a long time ago. Even now it gives me great joy to remember. I told you about it, didn’t I? That night. Remember? It was really late, and I had gotten out at Shinbashi Station. Toyoko was with me. It was just the two of us. Because it was so late, we were afraid that we wouldn’t be able to find a taxi. Even so, we stood out in front of the station for a bit and waited. From out of the darkness, beyond the railroad bridge, we saw a car approach. We breathed a sigh of relief. But just then a young man in a navy uniform stepped out of the darkness and walked toward the car, calling out his destination. We hadn’t noticed him earlier. He must have gotten off the same train and had been standing there as well, waiting. I was reluctant to let the taxi go without us, believing it unlikely that another would come by. I worried we might never get home. And so, as is typical of me in moments like these, I ran up to the man without giving it a second thought and asked whether we might share the taxi with him. We can wait until after you’ve been taken to your destination, I offered, and then hire the taxi from there. At that point the man looked at me with the kindest face and said, “Please, get in.” Then he explained that he was on his way to enjoy himself and was not in any particular rush, so he’d be glad to see us to our destination first. Anyone who heard what he said would immediately conclude that he was going “there!” I mentioned the name of the quarters where he was surely headed as Toyoko and I climbed into the car, and we all had a laugh. As we drove through the dark, silent streets, he spoke readily about his experiences in the South Seas. “I’m on leave now,” he explained, “and am just in Tokyo for some fun. But I’m from Shikoku—Sanuki to be precise.” I didn’t know quite what to say. But for the short time that we were together in the car, he left such a strong impression on me with his honesty that for a long time afterward, for months even, I would think “Oh, he was such a good person” whenever I happened to remember the encounter. I would certainly like to count him among the people I admire most in the world—a group that includes our closest friends. . . . He was just a man with nothing unusual to distinguish him but for the fact that he was a good person. This may just be my own, womanly way of thinking, but that’s what I remember when I recall those days.
He was just an everyday man, just a nice person. And surely there are hundreds, thousands, of men like him. At the bottom of his heart, hidden where no one else could notice, however, was the assurance that he was protecting his country, this country that appears so natural in its citizens’ hearts, this strange country. You too, and me too, as I await your return, when I realize that both you and I are included among these people, I feel a rush of warmth surge through my heart.
Tomorrow we’re celebrating the fall of Singapore. Just a little while ago Mr. Suda, the neighborhood group leader, came by to drop off the flags for the flagwaving parade. Who, who can I tell about the feelings that flood my heart?
Just before daybreak there was an enormous uproar. More people than you can imagine poured out into the streets right in the middle of the night, and the tumult was unbelievable. The shouts could be heard even from our house on the Yamanote bluffs, and the shouts seemed to go on and on without so much as a moment’s break. I felt my entire body engulfed in those voices. I soon le
arned that the commotion was on account of the fall of Singapore, and yet even though I understood that everyone was shouting in celebration over our victory, I felt there was much more to it than that. Oh, I don’t know how to explain myself. There’s no one word to describe my feelings. But compressed in that multitude of voices was a multitude of emotions. And my tears welled forth. You were there amid the voices. That’s what I felt. No matter where you were right then. No matter what you were doing. You were here with me on this day of celebration.
During the morning we received a visit from the priest of Horenji Temple. Today was the death anniversary for your little Yukiko’s mother. It wasn’t the year for one of the designated observances, but still I could not help thinking of you—my darling, the Buddhist authority! This was the kind of service you normally would have attended. And yet I doubt that you even had time to remember that there would be these services today. Tsuruko from Nibanchō came by to help me, and as I made odango dumplings with her, I couldn’t help but think of you. You filled my thoughts as well while I sat beside Tsuruko in front of the altar listening to the priest chant the sutras. Two summers ago when your little Yukiko died, the priest stopped by regularly. Whenever he came around, you said, “There’s nothing about that man that’s the least bit priestly. The way the flesh of his shoulders lies heavy under his robes and the way his voice reverberates hoarsely when he chants the sutras . . . he’s more like a man who hasn’t quite cut himself off from the desires of the floating world!” It amused you to speculate about this priest. And now here he was once again seated in front of the altar offering prayers. Off in the distance we could hear the volleys of celebratory gunfire. As I sat there with my hands clasped in prayer silently listening to the sutras, I felt myself being drawn into the services, even though the priest’s heart was not in his voice. When you get right down to it, you should have been here sitting with me at this memorial service. And I guess the realization that you weren’t weighed on my heart, making me even more acutely aware of the fact that I was alone. I stared at the candles in the dimly lit altar, the flames flickering, and before I realized it, my eyes began to burn with tears—feeling as I did that I had glimpsed the heart of the deceased. From what you’ve told me about her, she has no relative left in the village where she was born. No one left to mourn for her, no one other than you, her former husband. Today she is attended by two women she never knew—the very thought was so profoundly touching that as I sat there thinking how our fates had intersected, the tears began to course down my cheeks. And then the priest, who had been reading the sutras without paying attention to what he was saying, recited the line “and gathered before you today, your family and kin. . . .” I know the line is inscribed in his sutra book, but even so, it made me cry so hard I could not even lift my head.
After the priest had left, I took Tsuyuko with me to the Imperial Palace, even though the hour had grown quite late. We got out of the trolley at Wadakuramon and started to push our way through the throngs of people crowding the broad avenue that leads to the palace. The avenue is always full of people, but today it was particularly crowded. I took Tsuyuko’s little hand in mine and led her with me. Only moments before we had been sitting before the Buddhist altar, and now here we were being jostled by this mass of people. My heart was still with her.
Tens of thousands were out in the streets walking under the bright rays of the sun. It was much warmer than expected for a winter’s day. A group of people went by with large flags hoisted high. They were preceded by a band dressed in army uniforms and beating drums. There were people from every walk of life and from every organization. People with children in tow. Others with the elderly hoisted on their backs. Young girls out in groups. Tens of thousands were here, and everyone was singing and shouting without cease. And even though I knew that every voice was raised in celebration over the fall of Singapore, it still was an eerie sight. Who could believe such an unprecedented spectacle where in the midst of this wild celebration there was an unbelievable stillness, a soundless pall? Who, from any other country, would believe that this was the way a country’s citizens celebrated its victory in war?
I had brought little Tsuyuko along with me but had forgotten to talk to her. Scattered among the many in the crowd with their neatly creased kimono jackets were countless others with tousled hair who just stood and stared in blank amazement. Old men and women with similarly dumbfounded expressions were huddled beneath the pine trees that dotted the lawn as if they’d been cast ashore by the swelling waves of humanity. Yes indeed, here I was amid the endless swirl of strangers—people about whom I had no knowledge—not knowing their names, what they did for a living, or how they had suffered. Had all these many thousands also sent the one person on whom they relied off to some distant battlefield, as I had? Surely there were thousands among these who longed to be reunited today—this day of celebration, yes, especially today—with those who are no longer of this world. Looking about me I saw people sitting on the broad expanse of gravel bordering the grassy lawn. I don’t know who began to shout, but almost at once the cries rang out “Long Live the Emperor!” “Tennō Heika banzai!” And others joined in until the cheer rang out three times from every direction. And then I heard weeping. The cheers had turned to sobs. The shouts of banzai, the songs drowned out by tears in an instant, led me to wonder whether this really was the way to celebrate victory in war. In all the world is there another country where people would celebrate such a day by prostrating themselves in tears in front of the Imperial Palace? Why had we all given in to the tears streaming down our cheeks? Why were we crying?
Ahhh, there you are, so far, far away in a foreign land, and here I am amid this cluster of people crying prostrate beneath the gentle warmth of a winter sun. I am also one of these. You my darling, you my husband, your heart as our bond, please behold the emotions of a woman such as myself.
It is late now. And yet I can still hear the boom of distant gunfire. I’ve lit a candle in the altar, and as I sit here by myself, my heart has grown open and silent. From your distant land, please see me as I am.
POETRY IN THE INTERNATIONAL STYLE
Poets were no more exempt than other writers from the pressures of the military and, at least at the beginning of the war years, a naive euphoria regarding the possibility of a Japanese victory. The works of the poets translated here reveal their various responses during this period.
TAKAMURA KŌTARŌ
Takamura Kōtarō (1883–1956) wrote several poems in the 1920s and 1930s that expressed his alienation as a Japanese living abroad. Eventually, under the pressure of national mobilization for war, this alienation developed into full-blown xenophobia against the West. Three poetry collections written during the war articulate these patriotic and anti-Western feelings. Of the two poems translated here, one was written before the war, and the other was published on April Fool’s Day 1945, in the Asahi shinbun.
THE ELEPHANT’S PIGGY BANK (ZŌ NO GINKŌ, 1926)
The blank-looking elephant in the Central Park Zoo,
Picks up skillfully all the coppers and nickels that are thrown to him,
With the extraordinarily big tip of his nose,
And drops them with a clink, into the elephant’s piggy bank above.
From time to time he rolls his red eyes and thrusts out his nose,
And says to this Jap as “they” call me, gimme some nickels.
That’s what the elephant says,
Pleased at hearing him say it, I throw out some more nickels.
A blank-looking elephant, product of India,
A lonely young man, product of Japan.
The crowd “they” had better have a look-see at
Why the two of us are so friendly.
Bathed in the rays of the setting sun, I take a walk through Central Park,
And an obelisk brought from the Nile looks at me,
Ah, there’s someone else who is angry.
Returning to his attic “their” Jap l
ashes at his own blood.
THE FINAL BATTLE FOR THE RYŪKYŪ ISLANDS (RYŪKYŪ KESSEN, 1945)
Ryūkyū, land of the sacred Omoro sōshi1
Will become the final great battlefield of the Greater East Asian War.
The enemy is gathering his strength for a big blow,
The lovely mountains and valleys of these island jewels,
In the green grasslands of Manzamō, the crimson of deigo flowers,2
Will be poured a cataract of violence.
Ryūkyū—in all sincerity the carotid artery of Japan,
Everything will occur here, everywhere here will coalesce.
Defend Ryūkyū, victory in Ryūkyūs.
All the Japanese in all of Japan!
Give your all for Ryūkyū!
The enemy will spare no sacrifice,
Our holy opportunity has arrived.
The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series) Page 121