The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms

by Kano Ishikawa

  The officers formally received their Shin-gunto curved swords with colourful knotted cords. Their shining, polished and pristine uniforms were complete. They were bursting with passion, all encapsulated in the rising sun flag.

  Immediately after graduation Sakamoto entered an infantry regiment. Within a matter of months after the war’s outbreak, he was overseas, expanding the boundaries of Japan’s Empire, Dai Nippon Teikoku.

  Being captured was a hammer blow to Sakamoto’s Samurai code. It was despicable, he had broken his promises to Japan, his fellow officers and his creed. Above all he had broken a wow to his subordinates. How many times had he lectured and cajoled them about surrender? Not only was it ethically wrong to lay down arms but it has been expressly forbidden in the ‘Code of Battlefield Conduct.’ Everyone read the newspapers and heard the radio venerating those who had fought to the death.

  ‘Do not live in shame as a prisoner. Die, and leave no ignominious crime behind you.’

  He was a disgrace. He felt insoluble guilt. He reviled himself. And now he had returned to Japan empty handed. He was an abject failure.

  Sakamoto could feel and see the anguish, disillusionment and torment of the nation's defeat. In spite of the bombing, people had been told, and believed, they were winning right up to the surrender.

  The epiphany occurred when Sakamoto saw in the newspapers the dramatic photo of his Emperor with General MacArthur. There was the obvious size comparison. The well-built and tall American juxtaposed against the much smaller Hirohito. The casual, confident pose of the valiant over the vanquished. The white, bright colour suit versus the dark and sombre.

  It was the clearest illustration that Japan had truly lost the war. Sakamoto acknowledged that the Emperor was a mere mortal.

  He felt that everyone was blaming him for Japan’s catastrophe. One time he asked for a light for his cigarette and was deliberately ignored. Another time, buying a bus ticket, the driver refused to tell him the time.

  Riding on a train, he heard the word ‘Haizanhei,’ a special phase for defeated soldiers. Two middle aged women spoke openly in front of him. They described the Haizanhei as ‘hardly human,’ saying they were ‘no different from deserters.’ The women had lost husbands and brothers and wanted to find out when their remains would be repatriated? They complained about the ‘swarms of hungry Haizanhei’ now filling the ports and ‘demanding scarce rations.’

  Sakamoto also read in a newspaper with a mixture of horror and disbelief about Imperial army atrocities in the Philippines. In February 1945, he learned there had been rapes and looting in Manila. He was bewildered. He had never heard or seen such events. Some mothers were quoted saying that if their husbands, brothers or sons were involved they should be punished, even executed. ‘These men are not wanted back in Japan,’ one said. Another lamented they had, ‘brought inexcusable shame on us.’

  He became paranoiac, everywhere he walked in the broken city, people avoided looking at him. Others gave him hostile glances. How was it that an officer, let alone from the front, who was uninjured, was alive?

  One morning, in a feverish bout of pity, he ripped off his officer lapels and threw them aside. His humiliation was triumphant.

  In the weeks, after his return, Sakamoto saw that Japan had become inward and individualistic. The public was only interested in immediate survival. Their primary need was food. Second rebuilding their dashed dwellings. Some of the most desperate were deemed to be leading an ‘onion’ style existence. Daily they peeled off belongings, like undressing a Kimono, to sell and to stay alive.

  Sakamoto loitered daily by the railway station with many other Haizanhei. He often observed increasing numbers of city people going out into the countryside. They were bartering or even ravaging for food. Farmers were all powerful. Sakamoto started to hear of a special phrase coined to describe this behaviour, it was ‘kaidashi’.

  There were stories of others who had relocated to live with relatives deep in the rural ‘inaka.’ Sakamoto heard of places like Shimane and Tottori were far less war torn. They were across the mountains and on the sea of Japan.

  Sakamoto became troubled that a selfish element was emerging around him. The shortage of basic food and other commodities meant prices were rocketing. Sugar prices doubled just in January, but not everyone appeared to be suffering. Indeed a small number seemed to be deliberately profiteering on the back of the country’s misfortunes.

  One day he spied a stall selling what he thought was ‘Kao’ soap, a famous brand. A huge crowd had formed quickly. Soap was after all a rarity, especially Kao. The bars were placed in wooden crates and he noticed there were lots of crates. It was just on closer inspection that Sakamoto wondered if the product was fake. It looked identical but was there was a stroke missing in the second Kanji character? How had the vendor managed to acquire so much stock?

  How much were the authorities aware and were they doing anything? Such was the thought running through Sakamoto’s head. Certainly there were police patrols in the Yam’ichi. The Americans had not disbanded the police force, only the Kenpeitai, the secret police. In fact, often GI and police were seen patrolling in close collaboration. Yet, as before the war, the mannerisms and attitudes of the police remained brusque and haughty. The police were frequently dismissive, especially towards locals.

  Sakamoto learnt of one staggering incident. The sister of a fellow Haizenhei had her yutaka or summer dress stolen. A few days later, it was seen on sale in the Yam’ichi priced at over Yen 1000. The Haizanhei approached the police, explaining the circumstances. Instead of investigating, the police advised discussing with the vendor and coming to an agreement. The sister was obliged to pay the asking price, even though her monthly salary was Yen300. Sakamoto wondered whether it was possible the police themselves were complicit?

  A few days later, outside Sannomiya station in Kobe, Sakamoto watched as a truck drove up. It was full of skeletal Japanese men who were waving red flags and shouting. The spectacle quickly drew a curious crowd. The police and GIs watched but did not interfere. Uninterrupted, a speaker emerged from the throng and stood on a wooden crate.

  Looking around he gleefully announced these men were ‘comrades’ who had been incarcerated for years under the military government. They had just been released, on orders of the American occupation powers. Loud cheers and applause broke out.

  “False leaders, deities and the Emperor were responsible for the ruinous war,” the speaker opined with a loud voice. “The intense nationalism, bellicose rhetoric and the anti-communist propaganda had brutally suppressed the working man. Never again should Japan have a military.” There was more clapping from the onlookers. Looking intently in Sakamoto’s direction, the speaker finished. “Punishment for the guilty should be swift and merciless!”

  That night Sakamoto sat down under a sheltered arch of the Kobe-Osaka railway line. It was his new abode. And he was not alone. Free from the rain but exposed and cold, with nothing but his military overcoat and a few ravaged blankets. He pondered what was happening to Japan. Was this a sign of Japan’s new status as a ‘fourth rate country?’ It was a phrase he’d read in the station newspapers.

  The media were once proud apologists for Imperial Japan. Now they had turned apostate.

  Were they not all ‘one family’ under the Emperor? Where had the honour, respect and obedience for the Imperial system gone? Were the deaths of his compatriots on the battlefield a wasted endeavour? Sakamoto felt devoured by guilt and indignity.

  .

  Lindy Hop

  Thursdays were jazz party night at the Rokko Garden and the weekly highlight. Usually up to three hundred officers would attend. First drinks and canapes were served before the jazz band struck up at seven o’clock. The dancing lasted into the early hours.

  The club house was not spacious enough for such numbers. So a temporary dance hall under a white marquee had been erected on the front lawn. Inside, the back of the marquee was taken up by a large emblem. It was a
blood red hexagon with a white four bladed propeller set on a red and white striped flag. Underneath was the words ‘Eighth Army, Pacific Victors’ in bold type. The interior was criss-crossed with red, white and blue bunting which hung down from the tent top.

  At the rear of the marquee was a raised platform for the band accessed by a small wooden stairway. There was a stylish hand painted sign on a round wooden board. It read ‘Amphibious Eighth Dixie Band.’ At its centre was a cartoon style, older white man with a goatee beard, he was wearing a lop sided grey hat. He had a twinkle in his eye and wore a beckoning smile. In one hand, he was carrying a bugle and from the other was an explosion of red sparkling stars. He was standing in the prow of a landing ship and was poised to march ashore.

  The 17 piece band consisted of saxophones, trombones, trumpets and a rhythm section of banjo, double bass, drums and piano. The band members were all serving members of the military. All with a musical background, the came from all over the United States. They practised several times a week and were barracked at the Rokko Garden.

  On the sides of the marquee were round tables and chairs. Right in the centre was the dance floor decked with large wooden panels. Kerosene powered heaters and lamps provided warmth and light.

  Mi-Chan had never heard of Lindy Hop or the Jitterbug when she arrived. Nor could she pronounce the words very well. So this was the core of her induction.

  In the preceding days, she along with the other new arrivals, had been through a rushed dance programme. It was led by Oka-san. They started with the step, triple and rock steps and send out. Then they moved onto six-count, hand holding techniques and culminated in the Charleston with its kicks and skip ups. Dressed in long Kimono, some of the moves were particularly challenging. They rehearsed for a full two days and on the second afternoon were accompanied by the Dixie band.

  The abundance of food at the Rokko Garden was Mi-Chan’s biggest revelation. Ration cards had entitled her to a meagre three cups of rice a day which she needed to supplement by scavenging or the black market. She had always been hungry.

  Immediately on arrival, she was presented with plenty of food. It ranged from bread, butter and fresh eggs to a selection of meat including chicken and beef. There was also canned fruits. Mi-Chan learnt from Oka-san that the Americans were shipping these goods in refrigerated containers. They were for the exclusive use of the occupation forces. Oka-san did not need to encourage her ‘Musume-san’ as she had labelled them to take their fill. Especially given the rigours of the dance regimen. For the first time in many months Mi-Chan enjoyed three meals a day.

  Another element of Mi-Chan’s orientation was a crash course in English. This was led by Oka-san who had lived in the United States before the war. Very few Americans, she learnt, could speak Japanese, so as hosts they needed to grasp key phrases. These ranged from simple greetings, names and introductions. It moved onto asking where their guests came from, the types of food and drink they wanted. Oka-san stressed the names of key dance moves.

  On Thursday afternoon, Mi-Chan and her fellow Musume-san assembled in a room at the rear of the Rokko Garden. They numbered twenty. All were dressed in Kimono. Mi-Chan’s was light red with a white floral imprint. Some flowers had orange, light green or pink petals. Around her waist was a light pink sash. Her hair was tied back and she wore Geta sandals.

  “Tonight is your first time to greet our guests,” started Oka-san. She relaxed her intense gaze to smile for a moment. “Our duty is to make their night memorable and relaxing. The guests are officers, so I would like to remind you that politeness, decorum and etiquette are of the utmost importance.” She paused and her eyes ranged across the assembled group. “There is to be no improper behaviour. You are not allowed to drink alcohol or under any circumstances return with a guest to their room. This is a strict order from the commanding officer.”

  She paused again, allowing her words to sink in. “Remember I will be watching.”

  The army officers were dressed in light coloured khaki uniforms with dark olive ties. Shoulder epaulettes signified their rank. Most had a single or double white stripes. Mi-Chan learnt later these were for lieutenants or captains. They all wore peaked caps with a golden crest comprising the bald eagle.

  Mi-Chan had rarely seen white men before the war. Those that lived in Kobe were only in the Kitano area. Her school teachers taught that the ‘white race’ was evil and greedy. They had stolen land in other Asian countries. She heard there was a history of Negro slavery. Later she read in newspapers that in America, Japanese immigrants were interned in camps. Her impression of Westerners wasn’t positive. Yet since her family was Korean and had also experienced discrimination. She was unsure whether to believe everything she heard.

  Following the surrender, Mi-Chan was so relieved that life would continue. She was so thankful the bombing was over. She wasn’t focused or thinking about the arrival of the Americans. Although her mother did mutter some concerns about their airy manners. Umma said they lacked morals and had “improper ways.”

  Her first impression on seeing the officers was their height. In general they averaged one shaku taller than a Japanese man. Their hair styles and colours varied. Some were short and close cut, others were longer, swept back and shiny. They looked young, their skin was unblemished and smoother. Milling around in clusters of four or five, their conversation was animated. English seemed louder than Japanese. They used their hands and gestured a lot. They moved backwards and forwards from one foot to the other, and were smiling and laughing.

  Before dancing, the officers had been in the main Rokko Garden house. So it was only when they entered the dance marque were they greeted by Oka-san and her Musume-san. To the sounds of Rhapsody in Blue which was wafting into the house, the girls stood in one neat line. They clapped and lowered their heads in a bow as the officers entered the dance hall.

  The evening passed in a whirlwind of fast paced, punchy numbers. The band's repertoire featured an extensive use of trumpet and saxophone. There were flowing and escalating drum rolls interspersed with piano. The band played an occasional slower tune, like ‘G.I. drive.’ The Dixie band’s lead vocalist, who was the only coloured man in the room, had a deep, powerful and fatherly voice. His voice predominated most of the melodies which Mi-Chan, new to jazz, found striking.

  Like all the Musume, Mi-Chan danced with an endless series of officers. They all seemed to know each song and dance move off by heart. Since the Musume were the only women present, and so few in number, compared to the male officers, they were asked to dance all the time. The officers were extroverts. They approached saying simple phrases like “Konbanwa, let’s dance!” and gesturing towards the dance floor. Oka-san had made it very plain that refusing to dance was not an option.

  She found dancing intensely physical and acrobatic, not least as the long kimono restricted her movements. On at least two occasions, she lost a sandal, much to the amusement of her partner. By the time midnight approached her heels were sore and the sandal straps had chaffed her feet.

  The final song was ‘don’t fence me in,’ and at the behest of the vocalist all the officers swarmed onto the dance floor and joined in the chorus, singing loudly. Mi-Chan found herself next to a tall American with a dry slicked back hair style. It was high at the front and cut close at the sides. He was muscular and fit with dark brown eyes, large hands and smoked ‘Lucky Strike.' Its green and red pack stuck out from his chest pocket. He had danced with Mi-Chan at least twice and walked with a swagger. Mi-Chan had never imagined she’d be attracted to a Westerner. Yet she found him handsome and was attracted by his confidence.

  “Konbanwa, Hi, I’m Jared,” he said smiling at her between verses and then continued to sing. “Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies above.”

  His voice was a baritone and sweet-toned. Mi-Chan moved in time with him and the music, hearing but not understanding the words. She wondered what they meant. She beamed up at him with her wide eyes. He hooked his arm with h
ers swaying together with the rest of the group.

  “Fan-ta-su-tee-ku!” said Mi-Chan after the band finished with a drum flourish. As she’d learnt from Oka-san, she gave a small burst of rapid, enthusiastic applause.

  “What’s your name?” he asked. When she replied, he repeated it a couple of times, “Mi-Chan, Mi-Chan.” He paused and looked her in the eye, “Mi-Chan you are very pretty,” he winked at her, “see you again! Good night!”

  Two weeks later her probation had finished. Following more dances where Jared and Mi-Chan had been together, Oka-san took her aside.

  They sat down together in a quiet room at the back of the Rokko Garden, and they were alone.

  “I can see that you’re quite fond of Jared-san,” she began. “And he very much likes you.” Mi-Chan nodded. “That’s very good. It’s important that our guests are happy.” Oka-san hesitated a moment. “But I need to explain a little more about him.”

  “Is there a problem?” enquired Mi-Chan.

  Oka-san did not answer immediately. “Do you know what his job is here?”

  “No,” she replied, “as you know my English is not very good, we only dance and sing together.”

  “I am wondering whether he has offered you anything?”

  Mi-Chan paused as she was unsure where Oka-san’s questions were leading. She and Jared had not only danced together but had met up twice in the late afternoons and walked around the Rokko’s grounds in the shadowy twilight. They had held hands, touched and kissed. Nothing more. Jared had been fun and entertaining. They giggled and although communication between them wasn’t deep, Mi-Chan revelled in her new found liberty. He had been generous and given her little gifts. At first some Hershey chocolate, which she had never seen let alone tasted. As was the fashion they shared cigarettes. The second time he had given her a box of canned fruit, which she had secreted in her shared room, under some clothes. Her roommate had raised her eyebrows when she saw it, but avoided comment. It was not unusual, most of the Musame-san received small gifts and gratuities from the officers.