"Perhaps they feel their lives are endangered where they are."
"I really don't care so much for 'their lives'!"
The two men stepped across a small cement bridge fashioned to look like wood.
"Don't misunderstand my meaning, Kotsuji-san: I do not wish to see Jews die. But I do wish to see Japan prosper. This to me is infinitely more important than the fate of those thousands of overgrown students and old men. We must consider our own situation. I never thought so many would come. Even when I heard about that youngster in Kovno. . . . What was his name? Sugihara. . . . Even when I learned he was issuing transit visas literally in batches of a thousand, I never thought they would all come. And you know, more are coming than have any legal right to come. So many, it seems, are taking advantage of our generosity by forging the transit visa themselves into their own passports."
"Perhaps if the immigration officials were told to prevent those with improper visas. . . ."
"No! That has nothing to do with it!" Matsuoka dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "The problem is, the Germans are getting very unpleasant about it. They are pleased with the books and articles they have seen - those of Hokoshi and Utsunomiya . . . and even those by Asahina," Matsuoka said, grinning slyly at his walking companion.
Kotsuji smiled slightly: under that name, he had written several articles which might be considered anti-Jewish. He had done so partly in order to keep the kempeitai from becoming suspicious of his activities on behalf of the Jews, and partly because he also, just occasionally, found himself worried about the potential of Jewish power.
There was no lack of anti-Semitism in any of the bureaus of the Japanese government. However, this prejudice was not of the same order as traditional European-Christian anti-Semitism. In Japan, Jews were not hated simply because they were Jews. Rather, some Japanese feared Jews because they equated Jewishness with Communism (and simultaneously, if irrationally, with the excesses of capitalism) and because they believed Jews to be the cause through the "3-S tactic" of sports, screen and sex - of the breakdown of Japanese traditions. Throughout the late thirties and early forties, government and military leaders at all levels had been exposed to hundreds of articles bearing such titles as: "Jewish Power, Basis of Evil," "What Is the Jewish Plot?," "Russia under a Jewish Government," "The Jewish Commercial Movement" and so forth. The bulk of this nonsense appeared in the monthly journal; Kokusai Hinmitsu Ryoku No Kenkyu (Studies in the International Conspiracy), which was funded by the Gaimusho and the German Embassy. All the "Jewish experts" were, under discreet pen names, heavy contributors to the KHR: Yasue, Inuzuka, General Shioden, Shogun Sakai (who had accompanied Yasue on his 1926 trip to Palestine), General Higuchi (who attended all the conferences of Far Eastern Jews) and a naval officer named Tsutomu Kubota who would one day be the director of refugee affairs in Shanghai.
Kotsuji knew he was in very good company writing for the KHR and other lesser journals, and he had made sure that the kempeitai knew that he was the man behind the name "Asahina." But he had not been aware that this information had gone all the way up to Matsuoka.
"Hokoshi is still writing?" he asked after they had walked a few moments in silence.
Hokoshi - known more widely as Colonel Yasue - had been one of the first casualties of the Tripartite Pact signing in September 1940. Too visibly identified with the pro-Jewish faction, he had been dismissed the following month by the war minister, General Hideki Tojo. Yasue had immediately flown from Dairen to Tokyo, not to protest his dismissal but to urge the War Department and by extension the whole Japanese government, not to let outsiders, even allies, dictate Japanese policy. Tojo had listened to him fully and with respect, then offered him reinstatement. Yasue had refused. His pride had been deeply wounded by his dismissal, but his protest had been voiced not on his own behalf but on behalf of his country. So now Yasue was no longer an official part of the army, though with his extensive knowledge of Manchuria, he was still an unofficial adviser and consultant for the Japanese government in Manchukuo. And apparently he had become sincerely pro-Jewish. Yasue had not always been a friend of the Jews. Kotsuji well remembered that he was also the man who had translated The Protocols of the Elders of 2jon into Japanese. This was, however, not an accomplishment that Yasue now wished to have known. Once, in Kamakura, in 1939, when Kotsuji had mentioned it, Yasue, standing not two feet away, had jammed the point of his saber right into the wooden floor and screamed: "Don't you realize I can have you killed?" Fortunately, Yasue had calmed down almost immediately and apologized. But Kotsuji was just as glad not to have him around anymore.
"No," Matsuoka said, absently, "Hokoshi is no longer writing. But the important thing is, what to do with these refugees. I do not want to be sitting across the conference table from Hitler while yet another horde of destitute refugees is being off-loaded into the security of Japan! On the other hand even if the fugu plan isn't working out there is no point in creating an international incident. Or even in making it appear that Japan is being told what do do by the Germans. Especially, I don't want the Germans themselves thinking they can dictate our policy. I was being absolutely sincere last December, you know, when I saw that Jew from Manchukuo, Zikman. The reason I spoke to him at all was to send a message to the World Jewish Congress in America. But I was sincere in saying Japan is not an anti-Semitic country and that I had never promised Hitler we would become one. We have no need for that business: it would completely block off one potentially very lucrative category of options. And that is what I don't want to do.
Not for nothing had Matsuoka been nicknamed "the Talking Machine." Kotsuji said nothing, merely measured his stride against the minister's as they crunched along the gravel path.
"But there must be something we can do with those Jews, either to move them out faster or turn off the inflow." Matsuoka stopped and turned to Kotsuji: "You've been working with them for several months now. What ideas do you have?"
Actually, Kotsuji had himself been concerned about this "inflow" since the early weeks of February when a huge increase in arrivals had decidedly not been matched by an increase in departures. Such a situation could not continue, yet the refugees were still coming, and it was already well into March. But politics and international diplomacy were not Kotsuji's strong suits. He simply didn't have anything to suggest, which was what he said.
"Well, I am sorry to hear that," Matsuoka said after a short pause. "I really think you know Jews better than anyone else in Japan, Kotsuji-san - even better than me, in fact. But if you have no ideas, I will consult with my staff.
"We must find some way, you know," he added, almost offhandedly. "A simple, legal, sure-fire way to cut down on the numbers coming in. And it would be best, of course, if it could be timed for exactly when it will do us the most good with our friend, the Fiihrer."
"What sort of thing will you do?" Kotsuji asked, a little alarmed.
"I don't really have any idea," Matsuoka replied, candidly. "But I, or someone, will think something up."
Matsuoka then turned decisively to the right and began walking down a narrow park path that would lead most directly back to the Gaimusho. The consultation was over.
9
YANKEL GILBEWITZ awoke with the dawn, before any of the other boys who shared the large tatami-ma.t room in the yeshiva's heim. Quietly whispering the prayer of thanks that God had restored his soul to him after the night, he slid back the shoji door that led to the corridor. A few remaining nocturnal bugs skittered out of his way as he washed in the long communal tin sink. Donning the black pants, tie and jacket, the white shirt and narrow-brimmed black hat customarily worn at the yeshiva, he slipped into his slightly damp overcoat, took his prayer book and a small embroidered bag containing the leather phylacteries needed for morning prayers and stepped through another sliding door into the narrow street.
Yesterday, the weather had been absolutely foul. A freezing rain had fallen practically all day, not only coming down, but seeming to creep up from
below as well. Until two weeks ago Yankel would have been quite content to stay indoors wrestling with Talmudic intricacies and arguing philosophical convolutions with his study partner. But, intrigued by what he'd seen of Kobe and anxious to see more, Yankel had volunteered to walk the few blocks from the yeshiva's newly established heim to Jewcom to pick up the bread ration for his section. The consequences of the simple act of volunteering turned out to be not insignif1cant.
The second day he made the trip, Yankel was returning to the yeshiva heim by a roundabout route when he passed a particularly well-stocked fruit stand. He had smiled shyly at the storekeeper - a magnificently wrinkled old lady dressed in a traditional long-sleeved white apron - and, in a moment of enthusiasm, exclaimed with gestures over the magnificence of all her produce. She had grinned gold false teeth gleaming in the sunlight - and bowed in appreciation of his interest. The next day, Yankel found himself taking the same route, with a strange idea working its way through his mind. Finding the old lady alone, he tentatively broke off a chunk of one of the loaves he had under his arm and offered it to her. Surprised but pleased, she in turn offered him an apple. Yankel ate it on the way home and told his classmates he himself had eaten the bread. The principle having been established, it was a short step to a steady barter arrangement: every day Yankel offered the lady a loaf of bread - two if he thought it wouldn't be missed - and she gave him in return half a kilo of apples, half a dozen of a heart-shaped very sweet orange fruit she called a kaki, or whatever he liked. This was not, however, anything he wished to share with his schoolfellows, so Yankel would leave his gains in the back corner of the store to be collected later.
It was, he thought, a fine arrangement: the old woman was happy, his yeshiva section never seemed to miss the extra bread and, best of all, the fruit not only added an extra dimension to his daily menu, it could also, he discovered, be bartered among the other refugees. Yankel had made only one exchange so far: he had arrived in Kobe with one white shirt and now had two. The trade had been done so easily, however, that he was already asking if anyone had an extra pair of socks. It was very exciting, trading what you had for what you wanted. It was a totally new world!
As a child, he had had absolutely nothing but his mental agility to trade on. The yeshiva in Poland had been a completely closed world with virtually no opportunities for self-improvement in a material sense. And in Lithuania, Yankel, like all of them, had been too frightened to venture out of the house. Kobe, however, was different. The Japanese, so accommodating, always smiling, always bowing, weren't at all frightening. In spite of its different customs, Japan seemed almost to be inviting a previously very sheltered young man to step out into the secular world and see how it worked. Yankel accepted the invitation. Of necessity, he attended to his studies and maintained the appearance of full commitment. But in his mind, he was being pulled away from the yeshiva, out into the big world. There were moments, many moments, when this worried him. Never before had there been a conflict between his improving his place in the world and his improving himself as a Jew. Now there was. The simple bread-for-fruit exchange was the basis of all his dealings - those accomplished and many he had planned for the future. Simple or not, though, it was wrong. His fellow students might not know what they were missing; but he, Yankel Gilbewitz, knew he was stealing from them. He didn't like his new self image of thief. He didn't like to think of it. But he did like his new purchasing power. He continued to look out for someone with extra socks.
Yankel walked down the quiet alley where the yeshiva heim was located and turned left into a broader street. As if to make up for the unpleasantness of the freezing rain, yesterday's bread run had brought him the bonus of finding an old friend, Gershon Cohen. Yankel had known Gershon in Vilna during the two months that the Mir Yeshiva shared the living quarters of the Ramailes Yeshiva. Gershon, and a very few of the other Ramailes students had arrived in Kobe on Consul Sugihara's visa only two days before. The two friends had agreed to meet this morning, near the fruit stand. "Gershon," Yankel had promised the other youth, "believe it or not, I'll take you to a mountaintop to say the morning prayers."
As he had planned, Yankel reached the meeting place first. Nodding good morning to its owner, he retrieved yesterday's gain of two red-net packages of tangerines, then stood waiting for Gershon, casually watching the early morning scene.
Like most Japanese streets, it had a curiously intimate feeling. Zoning was unknown in Japan. So quite nice houses sat side by side with small factories, office buildings and shops. Each of the residences maintained its privacy inside a high wall enclosing itself and its garden. The walls - light colored masonry or dark, weathered board - lent an air of privacy as well to the street, as if whatever took place there was also a family matter. Off the main thoroughfares, there was little mechanized traffic. Motorcycles outnumbered cars and trucks; bicycles surpassed all three. Occasionally, a rickshaw man trundled his fare through the street. But mostly, there were pedestrians. Men in khaki pants and jackets the officially sanctioned uniform for civilians wishing to show enthusiasm for Japan's war effort - strode briskly toward their offices. Many wore little square masks of white gauze over their faces, believing erroneously that this was a protection against contagious sicknesses. Women, more of them dressed in informal kimonos than in Western dress, walked more slowly. Many were bent almost double under the weight of children strapped to their backs. Youngsters were carried this way till they were quite large three years old or so. One overcoat went around both mother and child, giving the women the unfortunate appearance of hunchbacks. Still they smiled and bowed continually as they passed among their acquaintances seemingly unaware of any awkwardness. The children rarely cried.
Even without the sounds of traffic, the street was noisy. The wooden sandals, geta, worn by many of the women and almost all the tradespeople, constantly clattered against the street. Shopkeepers greeted customers with rhythmic shouts of welcome and encouragements to buy. Bicycle bells rang continually as delivery boys wove expertly through the throngs. Radios blared the martial music that had been in vogue since the beginning of the war. Yankel leaned against one of the wooden poles that supported a web of electric and telephone lines overhead, and watched the day get underway. It was so different from Europe. No one seemed angry. No one seemed suspicious. The vegetables, flowers, sacks of rice, barrels of fish, stacks of china, everything sat out for all to touch or take; but shopkeepers often turned their backs to the street, apparently oblivious of any danger of pilferage by passersby.
"You too haven't said the morning prayers!" Yankel turned to the familiar voice. Gershon Gohen in rumpled black jacket and pants, his hat pushed back on his head, appeared from around the corner. He gestured toward the embroidered bag containing Yankel's phylacteries.
"Where do we go and pray?" he asked.
"As I promised, I will take you up to the top of a mountain," Yankel said, happy to see his friend again. He directed Gershon down one of the intersecting streets. "Of course, it is a mountain in the form of a department store. But it is eight stories tall."
"And then," he added, holding up the tangerines, "I will treat you to breakfast!"
Gershon's mouth hung open in amazement. "Are those fruit? How did you get so many?"
Yankel only smiled - right now the joy of having enough to share with his friend was more than sufficient to offset the gnawings of his conscience.
"I still cannot believe I am here," Gershon was saying, talking fast but walking slowly as he peered curiously into every store. "I was so frightened when I landed because I didn't have a real visa. I had the visa for Curacao, but not for Japan because that Japanese fellow had disappeared before I got to him. Where did he go? He was like an angel, like a gift from God. He appears. For no reason, he appears. And then, also for no reason, he disappears! But in the meantime, I didn't get a visa."
"So how did you get in?" Yankel asked.
"Ah! I copied the real one from a friend's passport. I copie
d it over and over again until I thought I had it down perfectly. Then I spent an exorbitant amount of money on a little bit of red ink and I made a copy of the visa in my own passport. What else could I do? But still it didn't look kosher. Everyone else's was a kind of red-orange and mine was more red-red. I was astonished it passed the Russians at all, but I knew it would never get past the Japanese. . . . Do they really eat these things?"
The boys had stopped outside a small shop. Oddly shaped, murky colored vegetables were packed in tubs of what appeared to be sawdust.
"I suppose so," Yankel said, having just two days before traded an apple for what he later learned was a pickle. "They taste horrible. What happened with the visa?"
Gershon shook his head in wonder at the diversity of the world and turned away from the pickle shop.
"What happened? Absolutely nothing! It was the biggest anticlimax of my life! I'm terrified. My legs are like rubber. My ankles barely support my weight. I stumble up to that little desk in the shed, you know? I hand over my passport. The immigration official looks at the Curacao visa: fine. Then he looks at the Japanese visa. I can't watch anymore. But nothing happens. So I can't not watch any more. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye . . . and he's grinning! Laughing at the visa! That fellow, Triguboff, told me on the train later that not only had I used the wrong ink but I had copied it so badly the immigration fellow said his seven-year-old daughter could have done it better."
Yankel laughed out loud, but Geshon just smiled and shrugged. "Never mind! They are very nice, the Japanese. They let me in, as you can see. Where is this mountain? I'm getting hungry."
The Fugu Plan Page 17