The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms

by Kano Ishikawa

  He had bruises to his face from resisting arrest.

  At first sight of the soldiers, Mi-Chan ran into the crowd and slid in amongst a small group of younger mothers who had avoided the face off.

  She tried to stop shaking, and tried to regain her composure, dusting off bits of paper and straightening her clothes.

  As time passed, they were approached by soldiers systematically checking the crowd, taking down names and identification, Mi-Chan produced her pass for the Rokko Garden and speaking in passable English, explained she had been on an errand to the Governor’s office when the disturbance started. The young soldiers looked at her documents in a cursory manner, and then waved her through their security gate.

  Mi-Chan fled.

  the secret

  It was only three days later that the mainstream Japanese newspapers published any details of the riot. The news, when it became public, was brief, hidden away from the front and back pages. It was presented as an illegal demonstration by a small number of communist agitators against the government’s decision to close ethnic schools.

  There was no mention that over 1500 people were in jail and special courts had been established to try protestors in-camera. Nor was there any mention that a crackdown had been ordered on pro-communist sympathisers. And despite the authorities best efforts, several ring leaders behind the riots remained at large.

  Contrary to MacArthur’s ideal of a free and democratic press, all legally registered newspapers in Japan were required to get pre-approval from the occupation’s Civil Intelligence Section before printing. A directive that ceased only in 1949. Several Kansai newspapers had prepared more comprehensive reports of the incident, but the authorities denied their publication.

  There were of course rumours in the community which spread, and in some cases distorted the truth.

  One alleged that the rioters had fired shots at the Governor’s staff, another that there were multiple fatalities.

  It was impossible for a large scale demonstration that ended with military intervention to go unnoticed and unspoken.

  Atsugi first heard mutterings of a pro-Korea demonstration the following day at Kobe First Municipal. Yet information was sketchy.

  Ever since his interview with the police, he had been uneasy about the swirling undercurrents inside the Korean community. On Thursday, he was pulled aside by the headmaster, who knew he worked at Kongo Gakuen, and told the school had been closed with immediate effect by order of the Prefectural authorities. All schools had been issued a formal notification by the education ministry. The circular lacked any context or details, so the Head was unable to answer any of Atsugi’s questions.

  Atsugi had too much invested in Kongo Gakuen to wait until Saturday. So that Thursday evening, he made the long journey over to the school to check for himself.

  The school was quiet as if resting; it was twilight after a bright, warm spring day. Atsugi noticed the bats roaming the darkening sky for insects.

  And it was true. The gates were chained, there was the abject sign, so clear but so brutal, and three policemen on guard.

  Tears of emotion welled up in Atsugi’s eyes. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and made a silent prayer, asking for wisdom and guidance.

  What had his students done to deserve this? What fate befell them now? Where was the spirit of morality Prime Minister Katayama had promised? And what about his music ensemble that had been practising so diligently?

  As Atsugi returned to Kobe, he recalled Pak’s glowing comments about Northern Korea. His fiery rhetoric, the discovery of Akahata which was stoking the flames of discontent; and then there was the preacher’s warning about communism’s godless agenda. He wondered if the rumours about a violent demonstration were true. Had his enigmatic response to the Inspector’s questions been to blame?

  Therefore it was not without trepidation that on Saturday, after two days of unquiet, Atsugi found himself outside the Kobe police station. He hesitated for a while, deep in contemplation, wrestling with his conscience.

  Atsugi replayed the scripture verse he had consulted time and time again the night before. ‘Whoever walks in integrity walks securely, but whoever takes crooked paths will be found out.’ He took a breath and stepped inside.

  At the reception, he gave the Inspector’s contact card, and after a short wait was led into the same interview room. He sat down and saw the wall mounted clock’s hands judder painfully around the dial for an hour before the Inspector and Sergeant appeared. The delay had been stressful. His palms were clammy and he had been repeatedly scratching an itch on his neck.

  “Atsugi, we apologise for keeping you waiting,” started the Inspector, “we have been busy. Now how can we help?” His tone was conciliatory but business like, whilst the Sergeant’s face was impassive.

  Atsugi had not resolved where or how to start the discussion, so his words were disjointed and lacked a clear thread.

  “Thank you for meeting. I felt compelled to come back here as I heard talk of a violent disturbance involving Koreans.” His pace quickened. “I have seen that my school, Kongo Gakuen has been suddenly shut down.” His gaze moved to and fro between the Inspector and the Sergeant. “The reasons are not clear,” he paused, “and I have further information which may be of help.”

  “How did you know there was a violent disturbance with the Koreans?” tested the Sergeant.

  “Well that’s what I read in the newspaper,” replied Atsugi.

  “Are you sure?” pushed the Sergeant.

  “Well I think so,” said Atsugi becoming flustered. The Sergeant produced a copy of the Asahi Shimbum and placed the article on the table in front of him.

  “It says here the demonstration was caused by Communist agitators,” read the Sergeant. “Are you saying that all Koreans are Communists?”

  Atsugi was not sure how to respond. “Not exactly, but as I told you before there are,” he stopped and corrected himself, “there were teachers at Kongo Gakuen who were sympathetic to Communist ideals.”

  “I see,” said the Sergeant, his eyes boring into Atsugi, “go on,” he commanded.

  “We spoke last time about Akahata, which is a pro-Communist newspaper. And I told you there are some teachers reading it.” Atsugi tried to slow himself down and looked towards the Sergeant hoping for a sign of sympathy.

  “According to my notes here you don’t know where they get the newspaper from,” stated the Sergeant, adding, “you know it's an illegal publication, don’t you?”

  “I understand that,” admitted Atsugi. He hesitated, “I must be honest and admit I didn’t give a full enough explanation there,” he lowered his head, “I’m sorry.”

  The Inspector’s eyebrows rose, but besides this he showed no visible reaction, “please go on.”

  “Well I must admit, I do know one of the sources of Akahata in the school,” confessed Atsugi.

  “And who is that?” asked the Inspector.

  “It was one of my students. Her name is Eun Ae Taegi, she told me she gets the Akahata from her sister,” replied Atsugi.

  “And what is her sister’s name?” asked the Inspector.

  “I don’t know,” replied Atsugi. He tried to be helpful, “I do know she works for the American military though.”

  “Where does she work?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you telling us the truth this time?” interjected the Sergeant brusquely.

  “Yes,” said Atsugi emphatically, his voice raised, “I am. I abhor violence. I have lost too many students in the war. I can’t face the thought we may be going back to those terrible days.” He looked at both of them, “please believe me, the reason I didn’t say before is Eun Ae is only fourteen.” He slowed down, “she deserves better than this.”

  The Sergeant didn’t look convinced and replied sourly, “we’ll be the judge of that.”

  There was a prolonged pause whilst the Sergeant consulted his notes. He then looked at the Inspector and the two excha
nged a silent message.

  It was the Inspector’s turn again. “Now Atsugi, do you know whether any Kongo Gakuen teachers were involved in the demonstration?” he asked gesturing towards the newspaper.

  “I do not,” said Atsugi. “And I hope not.”

  The Inspector looked at him, “you told us before that Pak or Takagi is a reader of Akahata, is that right?” Atsugi nodded. “Was he involved in the demonstration?”

  “I don’t know,” said Atsugi.

  “Do you think he might have been?”

  “I don’t know. I had no notice that Kongo Gakuen was going to be closed. No one did. I can’t see how the demonstration could have been pre-planned.” Atsugi looked at the Inspector. “Yet he felt passionately about the school, like me, and he was a strong proponent of building Korean identity and values.”

  “So he had a motive for demonstrating?”

  “Yes,” admitted Atsugi, “along with most of the other teachers.”

  “I see.” The Sergeant closed his notebook as the Inspector moved to wrap up the meeting. Just before standing up, he said. “And one more thing Atsugi, Pak is under arrest for criminal damage and rioting. He will be sent for trial and you may be called as a witness.”

  “But I wasn’t at the riot. I was at Kobe First Municipal,” replied Atsugi, worried.

  “We have already checked that out,” let on the Inspector. “However you have testified here that Pak had a clear motive for demonstrating and is also involved in distributing an illegal newspaper.” The Inspector stood up, “that will be all, thank you.”

  Once more Atsugi left the encounter with the police his nerves jangling, his mind amok. It was a shock to learn that Pak had been demonstrating and arrested. Whilst he had become more vociferous in his outbursts, Atsugi felt sympathy. Pak was someone trapped between two cultures and systems. And was he guilty as charged? What was his future now? Were the police telling the whole truth?

  Although Atsugi implicitly trusted authority figures, he found the Sergeant’s attitude aggressive. He was troubled by their statement he may be called as a witness. Was this a scare tactic designed to intimidate? Did the police suspect he had more to reveal?

  Then there was Eun Ae. Whilst she was naïve in being used by her sister, and it was true her drawings indicated a degree of ideological manipulation. Atsugi believed she was innocent of radicalism. Though now, with his confession, she would become a suspect. Watched for certain and probably detained.

  As the hours ticked by, Atsugi wondered if he had been too hasty in giving succour to his own guilt at the expense of others.

  He decided to visit Eun Ae and her mother. If nothing else he owed them an apology. For a moment, he wondered how to find them. Then remembered the school had issued teachers with a contact sheet in case of emergencies. Fortunately he still had a copy.

  That Saturday afternoon, Atsugi immediately went to find their house. It took time, whilst there was a helpful neighbourhood map at the station and street signs, there were still few recognisable landmarks and even fewer visible house numbers. He wandered around their block.

  “Atsugi Sensei!”

  He turned around and there was Eun Ae walking with her mother. They were pushing a cart with water containers.

  “Taegi-san, Eun Ae, good afternoon,” said Atsugi, bowing politely, “I was looking for you.”

  Eun Ae’s mother was hobbling and her clothes were dishevelled. “Umma, it’s my Kongo Gakuen music teacher,” said Eun Ae. Her mother nodded and then straight away offered tea.

  Sitting on wooden boxes in the Taegi’s cellar abode, Atsugi led the conversation.

  “I’m so sorry about Kongo Gakuen,” he began. “I had no notice that the school would suddenly be closed. I’m here to apologise.” Atsugi lowered his head again.

  “It’s not your decision Sensei,” said Taegi senior. “We live and work in Japan; but we are not citizens, and we cannot educate our children in our culture and language.” Her voice was bitter, she looked at him savagely. “Even gentle people can lose their tempers.”

  There was quiet, Atsugi did not know what words could sooth her anger. They sipped tea.

  “I came to warn you of danger,” said Atsugi after a while. He came straight to the point, “I have been interviewed by the police and they know about Akahata.”

  Eun Ae spluttered and quickly covered her mouth, her eyes wide in shock. Taegi looked at her daughter, who quickly explained how Atsugi had spotted the newspaper in her bag. Taegi’s face darkened. The lines stretching across her face.

  “The police know about Eun Ae and also her sister,” continued Atsugi. “I’m sorry I don’t know her name. I fear they may come here asking questions,” he paused. “If they haven’t done so already.”

  “What do they know?” asked Taegi.

  “That Akahata was being distributed amongst staff and that Eun Ae and her sister were one of the supply sources.”

  “What else?”

  “Pak Sensei has been arrested and was apparently involved in the demonstration,” he paused. “That’s all.”

  Eun Ae’s head was shaking slowly and she looked like she would burst into tears, “what about my sister?”

  “I don’t know,” Atsugi paused, “was she involved in the demonstration?”

  “We don’t know, we don’t know,” whimpered Eun Ae. “Mi-Chan was here last Sunday and since then we haven’t seen or heard from her. She was our main source of money, worked for the Americans, sold chocolate on the Umeda Yam’ichi for extra income. She even donated money to a charity called Peace bridge. We’re so worried for her safety.”

  “That’s enough!” snapped Taegi.

  “I’m sorry Umma,” sobbed Eun Ae, then to Atsugi, “I am sure she was involved in the demonstration, she was acting strangely.”

  Atsugi left shortly afterwards. He tried to reassure Eun Ae that Mi-Chan would return, although privately he was not optimistic.

  Wishing to depart on a positive note, Atsugi shared an idea about continuing the musical ensemble, despite Kongo Gakuen’s closure, and promised to get in touch when things were calmer.

  He encouraged Eun Ae to continue practising the shakuhachi.

  the search

  Mi-Chan was scared.

  The speed at which the protest, which started peacefully, had turned violent played over and over again in her mind. She had let her own frustrations take over, lost control and attacked officials. Plus she was Korean, an alien, and certain to get punished if caught.

  Fleeing was the only option. But where?

  She walked hastily away from the military cordon, resisting the temptation to run, nervously glancing around her. Was she being followed? She didn’t think so. As Mi-Chan headed for the station more military and police reinforcements rushed past heading to the scene.

  She took the train to Umeda, three kilometres away, and alighted. Business was as normal. No one seemed aware of the protest or the gun shots.

  For a few minutes Mi-Chan considered returning to Kobe. She would feel safe with her family. But on further reflection, wouldn’t the authorities be systematically checking all teachers, parents and students of Kongo Gakuen in their search for the perpetrators? It was very likely. She wondered if her mother and sister kept any copies of Akahata? If their house was searched, their discovery would immediately raise suspicions. In these circumstances, the less her family knew the better.

  Having dismissed the idea, she turned to the Yam’ichi south of the station gate. It appeared to be a natural place to hide. Perpetually busy, it was easy to disappear in the anonymous crowd, and not well policed.

  Mi-Chan headed for Tengoku, carefully watching her security, and found Ishida.

  “Hello, what have you brought today?” he asked whilst serving a customer.

  “Ishida-san, I haven’t, I’m sorry but there is a problem, is Sakamoto-san around?”

  Ishida saw her stressed look. “Sit down here, and I’ll call him,” and gestured to one of Jun�
��s fellow orphans nearby.

  Sakamoto took Mi-Chan to a secluded space to discuss, although for security one of the Hachiman remained within earshot.

  “Please tell me, what is the matter?” he asked.

  Mi-Chan’s story spurted out. She went back over why she was involved in the Yam’ichi: supporting her sick mother; her sister was at a Korean school which had been closed without notice, nor justification, by the authorities. Korean Japanese were being robbed of their culture, and they were no longer citizens; and finally there had been a demonstration about the school closure that had turned violent with multiple arrests.

  Sakamoto listened intently. He was appalled by the school closure saga. At the same time, he wondered whether Mi-Chan had told the whole truth about her involvement. Recently several Hachiman vendors had shown Sakamoto copies of Akahata. He suspected she was the source.

  “So that’s why the Yam’ichi has been quiet today,” said Sakamoto after a pause. “I imagine the Meiyu-kai were involved in that too. Any excuse to create trouble.”

  He could see Mi-Chan was still shaken, “so you have escaped arrest, is that right?”

  “The military was detaining everyone involved in the demonstration.” She looked at Sakamoto and said passionately, “Zainichi are fighting for our culture, and the right to educate our children. The authorities are trying to suppress us. The Americans don’t seem to care. Someone has to stand up and say No!”

  Her answer appealed to Sakamoto’s values of honour and duty.

  “Were you involved in the violence?” asked Sakamoto.

  Mi-Chan looked at him and her brazen response surprised him. “Have you ever fought for what you believe is right and proper Sakamoto-san?”

  Sakamoto was further reminded of the war, fighting in the name of the Emperor, and now his new life battling crime. It was a good question. “I will help you,” he put his hand on her arm, “now, what do you want me to do?”

  “Please help me hide until things settle down.”