Bunny had put the locals to work converting an auditorium at the Imperial Army Officers School into a suitable arena. Stone walls had been paneled in walnut to more closely approximate the look of an American courtroom. A long, raised, two-tiered dais was constructed for the bench—there were eleven judges altogether, each representing a victorious nation—and another smaller platform for the defendant’s box directly across the room. Between them, lawyers would scuttle about on dappled marble floors imported from Torino. It was rumored that a Hollywood director had been consulted regarding where to position the media, what kind of sight lines the photographers would require, how the klieg lights should be arranged for newsreel cameras. Air conditioning and central heat had been installed, and seating was provided for a thousand spectators, half for locals, half for military and resident civilian personnel.
The gallery was full when Arthur and I arrived, but an MP in a white helmet escorted us through the crowd to the front row, where a second MP had been dispatched to save our seats. Arthur was wearing a camera around his neck. Photography was strictly forbidden in the spectators’ gallery, but an exception would be made for Arthur. I was carrying his canvas satchel. In it, I knew, were legal pads, like his father’s, and pencils, in case he wanted to take notes, and lunch, for both of us, packed by Mrs. Bunny. Our excursion had the air of a field trip.
Several judges were already milling around on the dais, and the lawyers, dozens of them, were in conference at wooden tables on the floor below the bench. The room rumbled with chatter. I noticed that one of the lawyers was pointing at Arthur, and another had turned to look, fifty-ish, handsome in an ordinary way, though at the moment his brow was knitted with concern. He stared at Arthur for a second, then brightened and crossed the room in our direction.
“Hey there,” he said, and flashbulbs began to pop. He took Arthur’s hand and shook it and held it for a moment in both of his, giving the photographers time to get a shot. “I’m glad you’re here. Tell your old man I said hello.”
I’d seen his face in the paper: Joseph Keenan, Chief Prosecutor, International Military Tribunal of Japan. I turned to tell Arthur who the man was but he was busy now, camera at his eye. He took pictures of the judges, the lawyers, the crowd. He took pictures as the defendants were led into the courtroom. He took pictures when a third MP rose and called the court to order, and more pictures as the Australian judge banged the room quiet with his gavel. Technically, the Australian judge was in charge, but it became clear before long that the American judge was running the show.
Tojo was seated in the front row of the defendant’s box. Bald but for wisps of gray hair at the back of his skull, wearing round rimmed spectacles and a brown lapel-less suit. When Keenan called him to the stand, he pushed to his feet like the effort cost him something, then shuffled to the witness box, bowing slightly to the judges.
Keenan began by asking the witness to state his name, then led him through a series of simple questions summarizing his career from 1936 to 1945: Major General in the Imperial Army, Minister of the Imperial Army, Prime Minister of Japan.
From there, he sallied into the specifics of Tojo’s role in the invasion and subsequent occupation of Manchuria, the various atrocities committed there. Tojo responded in Japanese, calmly, politely. “Such things happen in a time of war.” He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief, which he kept tucked into his sleeve. “This is unfortunate but unavoidable. I was the commanding officer of the men who perpetrated the acts you have described. If in fact they did occur, then a measure of responsibility lies with me. But I issued no orders authorizing any soldier to rape any woman or murder any civilian or execute any prisoner without trial.”
The proceedings moved in an awkward, halting rhythm—first Keenan, then a pause, while a translator relayed the question, then Tojo, followed by another pause, while another translator reversed the process. A few times the examination was put on hold so the judges could discuss some point of order, ruling, in each instance, in favor of the prosecution. It didn’t take long for excitement to leak out of the day. By the time Keenan had steered the witness through Japan’s motive for invading China and all those islands in the Pacific, each addressed methodically, individually, Japan’s imperial ambition, its need for raw materials, Tojo’s role in the decision-making process—by then, Arthur had put his camera down and was sketching a picture of an aircraft carrier beset by kamikazes in his pad.
“In principle,” Tojo said, “it is not so different from your Monroe Doctrine.”
Keenan looked at him for a moment, almost amused. In a tone so respectful as to be ironic, he said, “You’re talking about principle, sir. I’m interested in facts.”
“The end of war forever would require the ending of desire. This is fact.”
“I suppose that depends on one’s definition of the word. But now that you mention it, isn’t that what we’ve been talking about here, sir? Japan’s desire?”
Tojo shrugged. “Desire is infinite in all nations. So it is with men. War is inevitable. What is inevitable cannot be a crime.”
“This tribunal begs to differ,” Keenan said.
Mostly, the testimony was dry, hard to follow, names and places and dates, confirmation or denial. I had to use the head. I’d been holding it for half an hour when court finally recessed for lunch. Arthur said he didn’t have to go but I couldn’t leave him alone so I dragged him with me to the john. They were three deep at the trough. By the time we reached the front of the line, he was hopping from foot to foot in desperation.
Outside, the day was clear and cool, though the sun had burned the morning chill out of the air. The Tribunal was on a hilltop, and you could see the whole of Tokyo from up there, patches of greenery between the buildings in Little America and steam rising from heating units and traffic moving in the street and all around it, even now, grunge and wreckage and bare spots on the cityscape where entire blocks had been obliterated.
We sat on the steps outside the auditorium to eat our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, our celery and apples. Several vendors had set up shop and spectators were scattered at intervals on the steps. Farther down, kept at bay by more white-helmeted MPs, a group of protesters strolled in lazy rectangles, wearing signboards and carrying banners on long poles. I recognized one of the men, his moles and his mustache. From the sake bar. The man I’d seen with Clifford and Eguchi. He was wearing a signboard with Japanese characters on one side and what I assumed was its translation, in English, on the other.
Imperial Edict:
The national polity has been maintained.
I am eating my fill, you people starve and die.
—Imperial sign and seal
I watched him—up three steps, across, down three steps, and back again.
“This is boring,” Arthur said.
“No argument here.”
“Can we leave?”
“We’ve made it this far.”
“Please,” he said. “Please, Van.”
I said, “I know your dad would like it if we stuck around,” and the mention of his father settled the matter. I felt sorry for him. Stifled. Disappointed. Without recourse. A day so full of promise had dissolved into tedium, the end nowhere in sight.
“Who do you think would win,” I asked Arthur, “in a fight between John Wayne and a ninja?”
Arthur stopped a celery stick an inch from his lips.
“Would they have weapons?”
“I think not.”
“Would the fight be organized—you know, like a boxing match—or would it be like the ninja jumped him in an alley or something?”
“Which would be more interesting, do you think?”
It was a complicated question, warranting serious consideration. For a few minutes, we debated the rules of engagement and if John Wayne would fight in character or as himself. I could tell Arthur was trying to steer the variables in John Wayne’s favor. Even so, he was having a tough time arriving at a scenario
where an actor would have the advantage over an assassin.
“You can’t discount the intangibles,” I told him. “John Wayne’s got guts. There’s no quit in John Wayne.”
Arthur crunched his celery, unconvinced.
“Maybe the trial will pick up after lunch,” I said, but after lunch was more of the same. Keenan did eventually get around to Pearl Harbor, but by then, Arthur had dozed off with his head on my bicep, leaking drool onto my sleeve. No matter what Keenan asked, Tojo replied as though all of this had been settled long before he took the stand. He seemed a little bored himself as Keenan pressed him about the War Rescript and the deliberation leading up to the Pearl Harbor and who was involved and on what grounds and how had the decision been reached to attack without issuing a declaration of war.
Tojo rubbed his eyes, sighed. The answer was obvious.
“We would have lost the element of surprise,” he said.
“Are you aware that the Emperor himself has condemned the attack on Pearl Harbor? According to Emperor Hirohito, he didn’t know what you had planned until he read about it in the paper.”
“I am aware of those statements. I am also aware that the Emperor has not been called to testify before this tribunal.” Tojo looked at the ranks of reporters as he spoke, and what came next was the nearest thing to a dramatic moment that afternoon.
“Objection,” Keenan said.
One of the lawyers at the defense table pushed to his feet. “He can’t object to the testimony of his own witness, your honor.”
Without conferring with the rest of the bench, the American judge said, “The witness’s last remark will be stricken from the record.”
The defense attorney started to protest but the judge held up his hand. “The record will reflect your objection but not the witness’s statement. That’s it, counsel. Not another word.” He turned to Tojo. “And you, sir, will restrict your testimony to answering the questions that have been asked.”
Tojo linked his fingers in his lap and dropped his eyes.
Quietly, in English, he said, “I will be hanged in any case.”
The American judge snatched the gavel out of the Australian’s hand and banged it, once, twice, then pointed it at Tojo. “I assure you, sir, that’s not the way we do business. You will be punished only if that man there proves your guilt. Now, will you behave or do I need to have you removed from court? Understand that if you are removed, evidence against you will be read into the record and neither you nor your attorney will have the opportunity for rebuttal.”
“I will answer your questions,” Tojo said.
And so they went on, through Luzon and Bataan, and was it true that Tojo ordered such and such at such and such a time, and afterward, in the car on the way home, Arthur asked me, “What did I miss?” His eyes were bleary, his cheeks lined from the wrinkles in my shirt.
“Not a thing,” I said.
“Don’t tell my dad, OK?”
“Don’t tell him what?”
“That I fell asleep.”
I pinched two fingers together and drew them over my lips like I was pulling a zipper closed and I let myself wonder about the possibility that this child who would have my name might turn out to be a boy. It occurs to me now, typing these words, that that moment, with Arthur at my side, the Packard rounding Hibiya Park, so familiar after so much time—the footpaths and the moat and the leafless cherry trees—but still exotic in its way, still able to kindle in me a sense of how far I’d come from everything I’d ever known—it occurs to me that that was my last happy moment in Japan.
VIII
Twenty-seven hours after Ridges dropped me at the barracks and delivered Arthur safely home, Clifford and Namiki checked into a small resort hotel in Kamakura. Clifford sent the innkeeper for sake like they were on their honeymoon. They slept late in the morning. Took breakfast in bed at Clifford’s insistence, followed by a walk on the beach, deserted, I imagine, at that time of year, the ocean wide and black and cold, waves rolling in exactly as they’d rolled in forever, wind bending the seagrass and brushing sand up from the dunes. In the afternoon, they visited the local Shinto shrine and offered a donation so that the novitiates would dance a blessing on their love. On their second night in Kamakura, at approximately 2200 hours, Clifford shot himself in the temple with his sidearm, then Namiki turned the pistol on herself. The innkeeper and his wife were awakened by the noise.
I wasn’t there of course. I witnessed none of the above. The reason I’m in possession of particulars at all is that two days later, I woke and made my bed, showered, shaved, the whole business so habitual I stumbled through it half-awake, but on this morning a Major Charlie Roebuck of the Criminal Investigations Division was waiting for me when I got back to my room.
I was wearing only a towel. He smiled like he was glad to see me. I noticed a divot in his neck where some shrapnel had been removed.
“If I’m not mistaken, you’re PFC Francis Vancleave, but everybody calls you Van.”
“Yessir.”
“Tell you what, Van, why don’t you put some clothes on and we’ll head over to my office. I’ve got a few questions for you and I’d rather not do this here if I can help it.”
He rubbed the top of his head. Crewcut. He could have worn it longer if he wanted. This was peace time. The army didn’t care.
“What’s this about, sir?”
“Let’s discuss all that at my place if you don’t mind.”
“What about work?”
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “That’s all taken care of.”
He leaned in the doorway with his back to me while I dressed, speaking now and then to the other men passing in the hall, like his presence was nothing unusual, no cause for alarm.
CID was housed in what had been a bank before the war. The building was only a couple of blocks from the barracks but Roebuck insisted we take his car. The city yawned and stretched and shivered itself awake around us. He set me up in an interview room—table, two chairs, walls painted marine surplus gray—then ducked out for a few minutes and when he returned, he had a manila folder tucked under his arm.
“When was the last time you saw your roommate?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Maybe two weeks.”
Roebuck opened the folder and pushed a photograph in my direction. As part of an ongoing campaign, he told me, CID had raided the apartment of a poet known to be a communist sympathizer. He tapped the photograph. “We didn’t expect to turn up any contraband,” he said. “Every so often, we just like to remind the Reds that the army’s paying attention.” But they did find something—a single crate of Browning Automatic Rifles. “Not enough to restart the war, but enough to cause plenty of trouble.” The BARs were traced back to the Battalion Armory in Tokyo. CID arrested the first sergeant in charge of inventory, and he rolled on Clifford right away. He claimed he had no idea what happened to the rifles after they left his warehouse. If he’d known the BARs were going to wind up in communist hands, he said, he would never have gone along with Clifford’s plan.
“Course nobody believes him.” Roebuck fingered the divot in his neck. “He’s just trying to get out in front of his own court-martial. Who can blame him? But we’ve only got his testimony and he’s put all the weight on your buddy Clifford Price.”
I recognized the poet. Mustache, moles. The photograph was taken at night. Hard to tell where. But there was no mistaking the identity of the other person in the picture.
“Your houseboy muled the rifles,” Roebuck said.
Both of them were in custody at Sugamo Prison. Neither, according to Roebuck, would ever see the light of day again.
“Most likely, it was this Eguchi who tipped your roommate.”
Clifford had managed to clear out before CID could pick him up. Didn’t bother covering his tracks. He wasn’t really trying to escape. CID had no trouble tracing his movements. They had statements from the innkeeper and his wife and from several guests at the hotel. They’d interviewed t
he novitiates at the shrine. It was unclear how much Namiki knew about the rifles. What could be presumed, however, was that she had chosen to take her life. Roebuck showed me the crime scene photos. Her body slumped over his. Blood pooled like a shadow.
“We suspected murder-suicide,” Roebuck said, “but the paraffin test indicates otherwise. Plus there’s the position of the bodies.”
I opened my mouth to ask a question, but no sound came out. My vision had gone blurry at the edges. I cleared my throat to find my voice.
“What’s all this got to do with me, sir?”
“Clifford Price arranged your initial invitation to the MacArthurs’ residence, isn’t that right?”
“Yessir.”
“Was it his idea to buy Arthur MacArthur a birthday present?”
“Nosir.”
“Explain it to me then. Why does a typist buy a birthday present for a general’s kid?”
“I felt sorry for him, I guess.”
“You felt sorry for him?”
“He’s lonely,” I said. “He’s eight years old.”
Roebuck said, “Well, aren’t you a decent human being,” and I understood then that he was sniffing around for a conspiracy. As if the tumult of Clifford’s love wasn’t motive enough. I shouldn’t have been surprised—in those days, everybody was anxious about the Reds—but my heart lurched at the thought.
“Arthur is my friend,” I said and even as I spoke the words, I could hear how ridiculous, how pathetic they sounded, but that didn’t make them any less the truth.
Roebuck frowned and scraped his chair back, the sound loud enough to make me jump, and left me in the interview room alone. He was gone for hours. I tried the knob, but it was locked. I paced and tried the knob again and yet again, pressed my ear to the door, heard nothing. The silence beyond the door was total. Like I was the only person left in the building. Like I was buried deep under the earth.
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