The notice was signed by an organisation calling itself the ‘Meiyu-kai.’ It was dated and stamped with an official looking seal. Its design was circular in shape with three leaves as a motif around the edge. In the middle were two Kanji spelling out the name.
Patrons in the Yam’ichi were of all ages and backgrounds. There were young children, many of whom were orphans, scurrying around. Mothers carried infants in slings hidden underneath blankets. There were countless ex-military men, some wounded and missing limbs. Officials wearing drab suits, teachers and doctors, American GIs, rural farmers, gamblers and the unemployed were part of the throng. There was no social hierarchy. Rank and status did not have consequence.
A few vendors also served food. Sakamoto observed an orderly queue twenty or thirty metres in length before a poorly lit stall. Makeshift curtains made from blankets hung down from a wooden beam. Sakamoto couldn't see inside. He could only see clouds of steam which rose into the cold air. People dressed in grim, shabby clothes shivered in the twilight. They waited patiently to enter. A strong but enticing pungent smell reached Sakamoto. He saw a rudimentary sign attached to the outside. It said, ‘Boteju Ramen.’
Sakamoto’s fingers searched deep into his threadbare pockets and he found a few yen coins. He could barely spare them, but he was so overcome with hunger pangs, he joined the line. It shuffled forward and finally it was his turn to pull back the thick curtain and enter.
Right in front was a wooden counter. Behind it he immediately saw two large cauldrons full of boiling water. They contained noodles, and a huge wooden ladle protruded from each. A tall, thin man with an apron and a bath towel tied around his head stood stirring the contents. There were no seats. Instead customers stood leaning against the counter, slurping ramen from old and battered tin bowls. They used military issue metal chopsticks. The dirty dishes were washed in plastic bowls for reuse by a young woman. A range of tins and jars containing salt, pepper and other ingredients were ranged on a shelf at the back. On the ground Sakamoto spied two or three large hessian sacks tied at the top with thick string. Letters in English read, ‘Made in the USA.’
There were only three varieties of ramen available, Shio, Shoyu and Miso. Sakamoto immediately opted for Shio which was the cheapest. There was little conversation, just the sounds of customers swallowing their food and the clatter of bowls as they were cleaned. Sakamoto was so focused on the pleasure of devouring the filling noodles and feeling his hunger pains subside, that he did not even notice the man next to him. As he was about to leave, a hushed voice said.
“Excuse me, is it Captain Sakamoto?”
Sakamoto turned to his right and looked at the short, pencil-thin man next to him, he wore round glasses and drab military khaki.
“It’s Ishida,” the man continued, and in a lower voice, “Second corporal Ishida.”
Sakamoto’s mind flashed back to the Philippines. Second-Corporal Ishida had fought with him in Leyte. He was a loyal and unflinching soldier. He looked thinner than when Sakamoto had last seen him. He seemed to have aged. His eyes were shrunken deeper into their pockets.
“How are you?” asked Sakamoto, smiling. Ishida did not reply, instead he put his hand on Sakamoto’s arm.
“Let’s go outside.” He gestured beyond the curtain. Ishida whispered. “Walls have ears and paper doors have eyes,” quoting the well-known proverb.
Outside they embraced and shook hands, letting the greeting linger for some time. The alleyway was full of people and to avoid being jostled, Ishida led them to a quieter place. This proved to be a stall that Ishida managed. It was named ‘Tengoku’ and sold chocolate, candy and chewing gum, simply laid out on a mat.
“We can talk here,” he said, “this is my new home and also my source of income.”
They sat at the back of the stall on two wooden stools. The stall was manned by a younger woman, who Sakamoto discovered later was Ishida’s sister.
“What a coincidence!” started Sakamoto, “I’m so pleased to see you.” After they’d exchanged pleasantries, Ishida asked Sakamoto what he been doing since returning. Sakamoto replied honestly. “I have been looking for work. My parental home is gone. I sleep under the railway with many ‘haizanhei’ and...” he stuttered. ”I live the life of a lizard, scavenging from rubbish dumps. What about you?”
Ishida related his story.
“My parents and family were killed in the bombing. Only my younger sister survived, it took days to locate her after I was demobbed. My father had been a shopkeeper and as children we helped him. There are few jobs so we decided to start selling these Okashi,” Ishida pointed at the chocolates. “We’ve used some of our savings to buy them off GIs and then sell them on. We take some money, enough to feed ourselves. But that’s about it,” he added, before continuing, “the problem we have is the rent and other dues.”
“I didn’t realise the government was involved,” said Sakamoto. He assumed the 'dues' referred to local taxes. Ishida looked at him surprised.
“They’re not involved at all. At least officially,” continued Ishida, “I know you can see police and other authority figures around. Let me say they see but their eyes are blind. This is a place where the weak are meat; the strong eat.”
Ishida paused and offered Sakamoto a mug and poured a clear liquid from a bottle. “It’s shochu, I made it myself,” he poured some for himself, adding, “from old potatoes. It’s quite strong but gives some heat here,” he pointed at his belly.
“The Yam’ichi are run by gangsters. Police and government elites receive a slice of the profits from all the trade. It explains their motive for accepting the black market. At the war’s end, many gambling halls closed down, so those ‘Chinpara’ switched to trading on the black market.” Ishida used a word for thugs. And he said it bitterly. He took another sip from his drink, and added sarcastically, “that’s what we fought for Captain.”
Sakamoto grimaced and listened as Ishida went on.
“Here in Umeda the Yam’ichi is controlled by a group called Meiyu-kai. The name sounds Japanese but actually the members are Formosans as well as a few Koreans. They run the biggest stalls and have connections with ex-military people, especially from the Imperial Navy. By a miracle, they procure blankets, clothes, rubber, nails and all sorts of valuables from the old war time stockpiles. That’s not all. They are trying to exert their influence on other vendors too, by asking us for ‘protection money’ and warning of problems from the police if we don’t pay up.”
Ishida continued, “so far I haven’t paid but the threat is growing. They are warning that things may disappear from my stall if I don’t cooperate.” He pointed at his stall, with its limited display of chocolate. A few were in full packaging, most were sold in individual pieces from brown paper bags. “As you know there are few other jobs available and I can’t see any other options but to stay here.”
Listening intently, Sakamoto’s mind swirled as he digested the perverse realities of the new Japan. Where was the Yamato spirit, the soul of old Japan that had united the country? The values of honour, respect for neighbours, and order and harmony?
The shochu made Sakamoto introspective. He saw himself from above and looked at his shrunken and emaciated body, his scatty clothes and downtrodden eyes. He wondered where was his own brave, daring, and indomitable spirit? The proud and energetic young man who had survived the jungle war and heat of the Philippines. What a reversal of fortune! He had bravely fought for the country, the Emperor but had returned home, beaten. Now he saw the nation sliding into poverty and despair. He knew he was guilty of defeatism; once a dignified officer who now had shrunk away, sleeping rough, facing no future and lacking will or ambition. He felt selfish and ashamed.
He was woken from his reverie as Ishida continued. “There are hundreds of small vendors here. Most are scraping by earning a few yen in profit and now are threatened by these villains.”
They sat in silence finishing their shochu, listening to the sounds of the market.
There was the murmur of voices; occasional shouts; the clip clap of wooden gita on the concrete floor; the puffing trains as they pulled into Umeda station; and a conductor’s distance whistle piercing the night air.
Ishida continued. “There is a stall close by, it’s called ‘Ikeda Sakana.’ The woman who runs it brings in dried fish, wakame, konbu and if she's lucky, octopus and squid from Akashi port. She’s helped by her daughters who are ten and twelve. Their father went missing in China, no one knows whether he’s dead or taken prisoner. Well the children don’t attend school anymore. Anyway one day, a couple of weeks ago, she brought in one ‘kan’ of boiled abalone. It’s worth at least 50 yen, around one month’s wages for a government worker. A crowd quickly gathered round her stall to see such a delicacy. Then Lee, I mean Hirata, he is the boss of the Meiyu-kai appeared. He immediately strode over with two of his henchmen, and a policeman, and confiscated the product. He said it was on the wartime list of illegal or prohibited goods! Defenceless, she could do nothing. She was humiliated.”
Ishida paused. “Later Ikeda-san heard that Hirata was selling the abalone for over 70 yen. She first complained to the police koban at Umeda station. She argued that the occupation authorities had scrapped the prohibited foods list. However, the police officers ignored her. They turned a blind eye and refused to even file a report.” He lowered his voice, “they are in the pocket of the Meiyu-kai.”
They finished the last dregs of the shochu.
“We need help urgently,” Ishida looked at Sakamoto, his brown eyes wide in appeal, “please can you help us Sakamoto-san? This is not what we fought for at all.”
Sakamoto nodded and said simply, “of course, it’s my duty.”
They shook hands and he left for Kobe taking the last train and promised to return the following day. For the time being Sakamoto had no clear idea how he was going to make a difference, but he felt resolved to try.
the Hanami
March 1946
Spring finally emerged from the long dark winter of sorrow. First there were the plum blossoms in late February, red and purple, sweet and florid in fragrance. The cherry trees followed at the end of March. There were very few standing plum or Sakura trees in Kobe city, most destroyed by bombs or raided for firewood. But in the mountains which were largely untouched and adjoined Shioya, their pink beauty was quite clear to see. Their pink contrasted the dark winter grey of the cedars.
Oka-san consulted with Colonel James, who oversaw activities at the Rokko Garden. They made a decision to hold a ‘hanami’ party and a date was set for a Saturday afternoon at the beginning of April. It was the moment when the cherry trees were at the peak of their spring splendour. Very few of the officers were familiar with traditional custom of hanami. They warmed to the idea when the event poster was displayed on the club house notice board.
One of the Musume who was a skilled artist had drawn a large placard using red, black, pink and purple colours. At the centre was a young woman, sitting sedately underneath a hoary cherry tree. Her black hair was set in a bun, pierced by an ornate wooden pin. She was surrounded by smiling and courtly dressed compatriots in silk kimono. They all carried parasols. To the left of the picture were three uniformed American officers. The middle one carried a banjo and the ones on the left and right bottles of sake. The poster's title was ‘Amphibious Eighth Hanami Party.’
The Musume were excited by the prospect of the party. It presented a welcome change.
There was a rotating series of events at the Rokko Garden which they were all obligated to attend either as dancers, waitresses or hostesses. Monday was dance practise. Tuesday bingo. Wednesday was live boxing or a sketch performed by the officers. Thursday and Saturday were jazz nights and dance. Friday was billiards and Sunday was movie night. The hanami party was an opportunity to be outside to enjoy the change in the seasons. They could also celebrate being Japanese.
Mi-Chan delighted in the Rokko Garden, a fact she did not want to admit to herself. Whilst she still felt a filial duty to her sick mother, she was so thankful to escape the dreary depression and hunger of the bombed and starving city.
However, there emerged one time of the week which was becoming stressful, namely Tuesday mornings. There was a mandatory doctor’s gynaecological examination. It was conducted by an older Japanese man who had served in the Imperial Army. Whilst he was assisted by a female nurse, many of the musume, including Mi-Chan found him judgemental, brusque and at other times lascivious. Although Oka-san had prohibited any physical relations with the guests, the rule was broken.
Amongst the GIs, cases of venereal disease were reaching epic proportions. In fact Colonel James had insisted that a chart monitoring unit infection rates be published at the Rokko Garden. He thought it was a chaste moral reminder to the officer corps.
Any of the musume who failed the weekly examination were given a dose of penicillin and immediately dismissed. Since Mi-Chan had arrived there had been four girls who had their services terminated. She did not know whether similar checks were being conducted on the officers.
Whilst so far she had resisted Jared’s sexual advances, she sensed that he would not forever be placated.
The hanami party took place near the club’s main swimming pool. It was still covered over for the winter. A barbeque and outdoor bar had been put in place plus a small wooden stage. Waterproof tarpaulins were set on the ground, then military blankets, along with some wooden deck chairs requisitioned from a troop ship. The hanami area was marked out by traditional wooden and paper lanterns, sited atop tall poles made from cedar with angular planked roofs.
A fishing party went out early in the morning to find sea bream and octopus and other local delicacies. The fishermen comprised local young Japanese men, recruited as cleaners and batman for the officers. They fished in the Akashi strait which separated Honshu and nearby Awaji island. Another party went in military jeeps towards Sanda, further inland, to buy homegrown vegetables. They returned with a bountiful supply of large white radishes, spring onions, cabbages and carrots.
One of the most memorable impressions of the party was the cherry blossom dance. It was performed by four of the musume, all wearing complementary styled kimono; one light cream, another soft pink, one darker red, and the fourth was a heavier cream with shades of orange. All the dancers had their hair tied up in neat buns Geisha style. They wore traditional footwear and carried identical pink parasols. The dance was supported by five other musume who had been practising the shamisen, a three stringed musical instrument. The officers enjoyed the performance, despite the fact it was an altogether new cultural experience.
The routine started with parasols which were then swapped for twigs of cherry blossom, rotated high and low. The culmination was when the musume unveiled large ornate fans. They displayed them, stretching, extending and folding like swans' wings. And there was a raw beauty to the gently plucked chords which matched the dancers' graceful swirling and floating moves.
Mi-Chan had been selected as one of the dancers and she could sense Jared’s eyes following her every move.
Another triumph was the arrival of a crate of Namazake. It was procured, so Oka-san later revealed, through ex-Imperial Navy sources, from a sake brewery in Okayama prefecture. The fresh aromatic and cloudy sake matched the grilled seafood and vegetables.
With cheers and shouts of, “She’s a jolly good fellow,” Oka-san made a toast to the officers. She ended in very fluent English, “Harmony produces good sake! Campai!”
Mi-Chan spent the party mixing with all the officers, as she had been instructed. So it was just as the evening came to a close, she found herself with Jared.
“That dance routine was awesome!” exclaimed Jared, beaming.
“Thank you very much,” replied Mi-Chan bowing, “we had much practise.”
“I brought some special presents for you,” went on Jared, “some chocolate, candy and some Spam.” Mi-Chan’s eyes lit up. Spam had become a sought after delicacy amongst the M
usume. One of Mi-Chan’s co-workers informed her it was attracting high prices in the black markets.
“Actually there are a couple of extra cases I put aside for you,” he winked at her, “they’re in the usual place. You deserve it sweetheart!” Jared took a sip from his sake, “see you later!” He walked off to join his fellow officers who had produced a banjo. They started a sing song under the blowing blossoms.
After the party had ended, Oka-san beckoned to Mi-Chan, and they found a quiet place, deep in the shadows at the rear of the Rokko Garden.
Oka-san started by congratulating Mi-Chan on her performance. She thanked Mi-Chan for preparing the hanami party.
“Colonel James was quite impressed, actually. He’s from Chicago in the middle of America and frankly hasn’t shown much interest in our Japanese culture up to now. Yet he was happy and the feedback from his officers was very positive.” She smiled and then her voice turned serious, “I need to talk again about Jared-san.”
Mi-Chan didn’t comment, wondering where the conversation would lead.
Oka-san continued, using more of her native Osaka dialect than normal. “You must be careful with Jared-san,” she paused, “and I’m not talking about your relationship.”
Oka-san studied Mi-Chan. “I have very reliable sources who have informed me that Jared-san and another officer are actively falsifying paperwork on shipments to sell product here.” Mi-Chan frowned. “Jared-san is less than honest. Even last week there was a shipment of 80,000 cases of canned goods from America, but he altered the documentation to prove that only 70,000 landed. The extra 10,000 cases will be sold here and Jared-san will take most of the profit.”
It was a startling allegation. And gradually it dawned on Mi-Chan where some of Jared-san’s largesse might come from.
“Were Jared-san to be caught, we will all be finished here,” warned Oka-san. “And if that happens, we’ll be relegated to serving at the Komachien, in the Akasen.” Oka-san used a slang word meaning ‘red line,’ which described the designated area for state authorised prostitution.
The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms Page 5