The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms

by Kano Ishikawa

  “He’s offered me chocolate and gum,” she replied, “like most of the Americans.”

  “I see.” Oka-san lifted her head and straightened her Kimono. “Let me try to explain. Jared Kenyon-san, that’s his family name, is in the supplies corps. That means he organises shipments and distribution of product for the US military from America to Japan. One of his responsibilities is managing the PX exchange in Kobe.”

  Mi-Chan looked puzzled.

  “The PX is the Post Exchange,” explained Oka-san. “It is where the military send and collect mail. There is also a special shop there for US Army personnel to buy food and other goods. We Japanese are not allowed to use it,” she hesitated, “even if we could afford it.”

  “Oh I see,” said Mi-Chan slowly, she smiled adding, “I imagine they must have a lot of chocolate in there!” They both laughed politely, cupping their hands over their mouths.

  “So Jared-san is in a very important position. He has access to US government property.” Oka-san paused before elaborating, “he also accesses Japanese government property too.”

  She looked straight at Mi-Chan. “When the war finished there were stock piles of goods from military equipment to clothing and even food supplies. These have been taken over by the Americans. Now officers like Jared-san are controlling them. Do you remember that phrase we heard in the war, ‘indulgence in luxuries is our enemy?’”

  Mi-Chan nodded, she remembered it all too clearly. The newspapers and radio were full of such exhortations, ‘deny thyself, serve the public’ was another common one.

  “I have heard from one of my contacts that Jared-san likes to indulge in luxuries.” Oka-san took a short breath. “Your friendship with Jared-san is very commendable. It could be very beneficial to all of us.”

  There was a moment of silence, Oka-san continued to look straight at Mi-Chan. “That’s all.”

  Mi-Chan could not exactly grasp what Oka-san was alluding to. She felt for the first time a tug of conflicting emotions and loyalties. Her mind flashed back to a phrase her father used to repeat. ‘Family is not an important thing, it is everything.’ The money she had earnt so far had allowed her mother to get vital medicines. Her younger sister had some new clothes.

  She had quickly grown to love life at the Rokko, the abundance of food in particular; she savoured the attention of Jared-san. Mi-Chan felt a debt of gratitude to Oka-san.

  Yet for a passing moment Mi-Chan sensed a deeper impending obligation.

  Kongo Gakuen

  Kongo Gakuen high school was established in early 1946. It was a new establishment located in Suminoe-ku, Osaka. The school was for the Korean Japanese population, which numbered several hundred thousand.

  Tens of thousands of Koreans had come to Japan in the 1920s and 1930s, often entire families, after the annexation of the Korean peninsula. They worked as labourers in urban centres like Osaka and Kobe or as miners in Hokkaido and Kyushu. Although a considerable number chose to return to Korea at the war’s end, when colonial rule ended, many elected to remain in Japan.

  The wartime Japanese military government suppressed and discouraged displays of Korean culture. Speaking in Korean was frowned upon, the government tried to 'Japanise' Korean family names. At the war end, with the tacit encouragement of the Americans, the Korean Japanese community established its own schools.

  Atsugi joined Kongo Gakuen as an auxiliary teacher. He taught only on Saturdays when he assisted on the music programme. During the week, he remained at Kobe First Municipal.

  Although he was under no express obligation to take the role, morally he felt compelled to accept. There were several factors which shaped his decision.

  First, he felt deep regret for some of the extremist anti-Korean sentiment he had witnessed in the war. Many Koreans had received only a very basic education under the military government. Enough to learn the language, obey orders and ‘dotoku,’ Japanese moral ethics. But nothing more. He felt complicit and was remorseful that like the Priest and the Levite he had walked idly by. In America, as a student he had stayed with a Korean-American host family. He did not forget their hospitality and friendship towards him, when he was a stranger in California. Even after hostilities had ended he saw discrimination against Koreans. He had disciplined several Kobe First students for shibboleths and slurs blaming Koreans for daily misfortunes.

  Second the Kongo Gakuen headmaster spoke of his long term ambitions to build an orchestra. This resonated with Atsugi. He recalled the Edo era proverb. ‘Even the head of a sardine can become holy through devotion.’ Through music and recitals he yearned for communal harmony and reconciliation. He saw an opportunity for repentance and the cathartic healing of wartime wounds. In his imagination, he dreamed of a combined performance featuring Kobe First and Kongo Gakuen.

  As much as Atsugi was a utopian, he also had to acknowledge there was a compelling financial factor too. He would receive an additional 50 yen salary on top of his existing 300 yen per month. Atsugi’s living conditions, like for everyone, were spartan. The daily struggle for survival was bitter, especially given the rocketing prices.

  On his first Saturday at Kongo Gakuen, Atsugi spent the day helping arrange a Pungmul dance. It was based on traditional folk music and involved dancing, singing and drumming. The rehearsal was outside and involved over forty students. They cavorted around energetically. Some played a selection of fashioned hourglass and bulk drums. Others, who Atsugi coached, playing wind instruments. During the afternoon, Atsugi bonded with the teacher in charge, Pak-san. He explained that Pungmul originated from the farms, and was an important community building event, particularly at harvest time. He went on to add quietly that it had been banned by the Japanese military authorities. Kongo Gakuen, Pak explained, viewed Pungmul and other cultural activities as a way to reignite Korean values in their students.

  After a few weeks of similar practise sessions, which Atsugi found tiring but exhilarating, he sat down one afternoon with Pak. They shared some tea made from sweet potato leaves, grown by the school. Kongo Gakuen like many institutions was encouraging its students to grow vegetables on the school grounds. Some had even converted sports pitches into gardens. They spoke in Japanese. Atsugi could never have guessed that Pak was from Korea such was his fluency.

  “I came to Japan when I was thirty-five,” he started. He held the metallic can that served as a tea cup with both hands. As he spoke, he swilled it round and round, “that was about six years ago.”

  “So I arrived before the war. I was promised a teaching position in Osaka.” Pak took a sip of tea. “I needed to send money home for my family and the opportunity sounded promising. But I had been deceived by the authorities. Instead I ended up working in a munitions factory doing manual work.”

  He continued his story, “I was mandated to take a Japanese name, Takagi, even though my real Korean name is Pak.”

  Atsugi’s face dropped and he shook his head. Pak continued, “the conditions were dreadful, I was starved and we only had one day off per month. There was no chance to escape. We were even watched over by Korean guards.” He paused letting the irony sink in, “when the war ended the savings book that recorded my wages were now worthless. Even worse I had lost all contact with my family back in Korea.”

  Atsugi listened intently to the painful narrative. Pak went on, “I experienced terrible feelings of uncertainty at the war’s end. Whilst I was so relieved to see that the bombing and killing were over. I became anxious about the situation in Korea especially in the North. In one sense I was free, but in another I was still trapped.” Pak stopped and looked at his swirling tea. “I’m actually from Pyongyang and I read in the newspaper that the Soviets had taken territory there. I don’t want to return to my old life, it was so very harsh.“ He sighed, “I imagine that I would be accused of being a traitor or a collaborator. They would say I had become Japanese, plus what would I do for food or a living?”

  Atsugi did not comment, the silence did all the talking. After s
ome time Pak concluded. He said he was going to stay in Japan rather than repatriate and had decided to devote his energy to the new school. His closing words were particularly chilling.

  “I will regret that I died with a Japanese name, despite the fact that I am Korean.”

  Later the following week, Atsugi reflected on their conversation and decided to write again to General MacArthur. Although he had not received an acknowledgement nor a reply to his first letter, he was confident the avuncular General would be perturbed. News articles said MacArthur was, ‘deeply impressed by and filled with admiration for the thrift, courtesy and friendliness of the ordinary citizen of Japan.’ A recent news story quoted one of his speeches. “When the Japanese people are liberated from this condition of slavery, if the talents of their race are turned to constructive channels, the country can lift itself from its present deplorable state into a position of dignity.”

  He imagined MacArthur in his Yokohama office. Dressed informally with his open collar, sucking on his corncob pipe, reading, digesting and pondering on his letter. Then dictating orders to waiting aides.

  “Dear Honourable and Supreme Excellency General MacArthur,

  I offer you my sincere greetings from Kobe. My name is Paul Yasuo Atsugi, a music teacher at Kobe First Municipal Junior High School. I also assist at the recently opened Kongo Gakuen Korean school on Saturdays. Your Excellency may recall that I first wrote to you two months ago about the severe food shortages which are impacting our schools and students. It troubles me greatly to say that so far there has been no improvement in the availability of supplies. The situation is dire and getting worse. At our schools, we are even planting our own crops. I earnestly ask you once more to take urgent action on this issue. I fear the danger of social unrest and strife is increasing.”

  Atsugi was hesitant about including the last sentence, as he suspected the Americans would crack down heavily on any disorder. Yet there were almost daily cases of food theft and misappropriation from students which the staff was increasing struggling to control. He felt there was no alternative.

  “The second reason for writing, concerns the plight of Korean nationals who moved to Japan before and during the war. They experienced appalling discrimination. Their culture was squashed and the military government treated them as second class citizens.

  As citizens of ‘occupied’ Korea they were considered Japanese, now they are unsure of their nationality. In December 1945 Koreans in Japan lost their voting rights. Why did you allow this to happen? In America, your constitution states that voting rights cannot be denied based on race, colour or condition of servitude. It is important for the new Japan to have open and democratic government as I saw in America before the war.”

  Atsugi wrote the letter using the same old Corona typewriter as before. The school had been given it by the occupation authorities. He had not been trained as a typist. As he peered through his round rimmed glasses, he carefully tapped out one letter at a time. Paper was in short supply and he had no way to correct mistakes.

  The letter went on. “It grieves me to say that your Administration is not embracing and encouraging Korean schools in Japan sufficiently. They too are suffering from a lack of resources, food and good teachers. They should be treated in the same way.”

  Atsugi concluded the letter by recounting an incident which had been preying on his conscience.

  “Your Excellency, last weekend at the Kongo Gakuen school two of your military officers showed up with a squad of GIs to watch a rehearsal. We were happy to see them there and they enjoyed the performance. The officers did not know I could speak English and I was so disappointed to hear their disrespectful remarks about the Koreans in Japan. One even said they were a ‘poor lot, they include many Communists and many criminals.’"

  Atsugi wrapped up the letter, with an appeal to the General’s conscience.

  “At the Pacific College where I studied, one of my professors introduced me to the work of George Bernard Shaw. He wrote, ‘progress is impossible without change, and those that cannot change their minds cannot change anything.’

  I remain your faithful servant. I trust in your guiding hand to correct these prejudices so together we can build an honest and democratic Japan.

  Paul Yasuo Atsugi, Kobe.”

  the Yam’ichi

  February 1946

  The winter dragged on with cold, dry North West winds sweeping down across the Japan sea, over Kyoto’s mountains, and into the Kansai plain.

  The flattened buildings provided little respite or shelter for the bone weary population. Living conditions were devilish. The homeless numbered millions. The fortunate had fashioned jerry-built huts from chicken wire and old timber. The less fortunate camped in bomb craters, old air raid shelters and around the few remaining standing public buildings or railway lines.

  The only heating most had was from small fires. The population burnt discarded wood from destroyed buildings and houses. There were not any regular water supplies. So queues formed at schools and other community centres where people could fill bottles, buckets and tubs. These were carried home by hand or on rickety carts. No one had hot water. Most washed themselves once or twice a week at the few bathhouses that were still operating.

  Adding to the cruel conditions, an official notice informed citizens rations were cut to 40g of meat and 45g of fish per day. To make matters worse, regular deliveries of ration were rare. Often ration deliveries were cancelled altogether with no prior warning. It was the third time in eighteen months that rations had been reduced.

  Sakamoto read in the newspapers that there had been a bad harvest in Autumn 1945. Some said as severe as 1910. It all compounded the existing post war shortages.

  Life became a fraught fight for survival. The Kobe prefectural government announced it would give one day per month leave to all staff as a ‘food holiday.’ The thin, underweight and severely undernourished public searched the bombed landscape for food and throwaways. For protein, some ate beetles, beetle larvae, and other insects that they found at the roots of the plants and bushes. Trees and shrubs were picked clean and then mashed, pummelled and boiled into a watery gruel to supplement their meagre rations. Those fortunate enough to live in open spaces planted potatoes, kale and onions. But it was winter and crops grew slowly. Those who had planted vegetables had to be wary. In the night it was common for sprouting plants to vanish.

  Yet despite these hardships, the Yam’ichi not only continued to operate, but grew and expanded. They were impervious to any efforts to control or regulation by the authorities. Newspaper reports even said there were over 30 black market locations operating in Osaka by the late winter of 1946.

  The Umeda Yam’ichi was located south of the main station terminus that connected Osaka to Kobe in the West and Kyoto in the East. There was another close by outside the Hankyu station, run by a separate train company.

  One day in late February, Sakamoto was in Osaka just looking for work. His savings were low. He had no assets or family heir looms to sell or pawn, and he was homeless. He was feeling desperate and disillusioned having approached many public works projects for a job. Yet he lacked specific technical skills or qualifications and had yet to find any opening.

  Before returning to Kobe, Sakamoto wandered through the Umeda Yam’ichi. It comprised a disparate collection of stalls, benches and improvised shop fronts. Most were sheltered under rough fashioned wooden beamed structures. Their roofs used bamboo straw matting to hold off the worst of the rain. A few had signs handwritten in Kanji in thick black letters posted on boards naming the stall. Others none. Stalls operated to no fixed schedule and were ‘open’ up to twenty hours a day. There was no electricity supply in the Yam’ichi. Stalls were lit at night with an array of gas and candle lights that cast dark and obscure shadows.

  Narrow pathways, each about two or three metres in width, dissected the market. Vendors faced each other. Many chose to sleep in situ to guard stock and territory.

  Mos
t of the vendors were men. Some were ex-military who like Sakamoto had returned to Japan penniless and jobless. Others were run by labourers and construction workers in defence related enterprises. Many of these had been laid off at the war’s end.

  Stalls at the entrances and centre of the Yam’ichi, where there was the highest flow of traffic, were larger and manned by more vendors. They also had a wider range of goods. Sakamoto saw one specialising in metals ranging from steel, cast iron, tin and aluminium. Another sold bicycles, wheels, carts and even engine parts. A stall selling rubber was especially busy given the poor condition of the roads, broken pipes and poor utilities. There were not any fixed prices, everything was settled on a haggle or knowing nod for regular patrons. Some customers paid in cash either Yen or American dollars. Others bartered and exchanged using popular commodities like rice. The desperate sold off valuables like silver rings or gold pennants.

  Sakamoto was taken aback to read a printed notice attached to one of the larger stalls. The heading which caught his eye read, ‘Attention New Umeda market enterprise owners!’. The text underneath continued:

  “Urgent notice to enterprises, factories and those manufacturers in the process of shifting from wartime to peacetime production. Your product will be bought in large quantities at a suitable price. We are particularly keen to hear from food and household enterprises. Those who wish to sell should come with samples and estimates of production to the following address: Umeda Market, Osaka Station.”