Of all the people in the world to say such a thing, Amayo thought. Who was he to judge others, after what he’d done? He was a murderer. She tried to hide her scowl as she squeezed the knife tightly in her fist inside her purse.
Jake put his hand onto the microphone stand. “I attacked Japan for revenge. That’s what I wanted. That’s what every American wanted. I hated the Japanese for what they did at Pearl Harbor. And when I was tortured and when one of my best friends died because of the Japanese, I was filled with hatred, crazy with hatred. All I wanted was the chance to kill. I wanted revenge.”
Amayo looked down at the floor, somewhat shocked. She didn’t like the idea of being anything like this disgusting man.
“But as I thought, I faced a harder question: why was I so full of evil and hatred? Even when I made up my mind not to shoot at civilians from my plane, I was so angry – I did it anyway. I knew right from wrong, I just didn’t have the power to do it. As I sat in prison, I knew there had to be more to life than hatred and revenge and killing. Where does it end? Where?!”
He finished his sentence looking straight at Amayo. Fear shot through her as she averted her eyes. Did he know why she was there? How could he? Tense, she was curiously captivated.
“They passed around books to read in prison. One day a guard gave me a Bible. I read and read, looking for some answers from God. I read about another man who was insulted and tortured and no one cared. People thought he was getting what he deserved. They didn’t realize who he really was. But it turned out that he chose to be tortured and killed so we could have a chance to be free from the power of hatred. I wanted that. I knew I needed that. It wasn’t the evil around me I needed to be rescued from, it was from the evil inside me.”
Amayo’s face softened as her eyes looked past Jake to the bolts of fabric on the racks behind him.
“He made this great sacrifice because of a great love – for me, for you.”
She glanced up at Jake as his eyes scanned the audience.
“In that dark jail cell, I was set free from the prison of hatred, and a deep love for the Japanese people began to grow in my heart. I found that with my new heart, God was giving me new eyes. I looked at the guards who had treated my friends and me with such cruelty, and I found my hatred for them had turned into love ... a real love that brings me here to you today. That’s why I’ve come to Japan and have chosen to live here with my family. I come in the name of peace and in the name of love.”
Tears formed in Amayo’s eyes as she stared at the floor.
Chapter 128
September, 1949. Kashiwara.
Fuchida tapped a branch to the backside of the last of four goats. “C’mon. Let’s go, get in there.” He stared with disgust at his German Shepherd, Lity, as he closed the gate behind the goats. “You’re a shepherd.” He held out his arms. “You’re supposed to help me do this.” Lity looked back with a dumb smile and let her tongue hang out. He scratched her head. “You’re a good girl anyway.”
As Haruko poured water into a small trough for the goats, Fuchida tossed a rake and shovel into his cart and wheeled off down the path away from the house to a tree beside his garden rows of vegetables. Lity faithfully trotted behind him. He rubbed his upper lip, which felt so odd to him since he shaved his mustache off. It was time for it to go, though.
Getting to the tree, he looked back at the house to see if Haruko was watching him. She wasn’t. He ducked behind some bushes to his little bench beside the tree, sat down, and drew from his pocket the small black Bible he had gotten months earlier.
He had the book many months before he ever opened it. He needed to work from morning until nightfall to keep his little family afloat in the fragile economic times following the war that had devastated the nation. But an article he read in the newspaper once again piqued his curiosity to crack open the book. The writer in the newspaper said if he was sentenced to live on a deserted island and could only take one book with him, it would be the Bible, as it was the most amazing book in the world.
The Bible he had purchased was the New Testament, the four stories of Jesus’ life and the letters to the churches. Despite things he’d never heard or seen before in these pages, he was determined to keep his mind open, as he believed this book might contain secrets, if only he would continue to dig. In the months he had already been reading, he found answers to some questions about life that were slowly taking shape in his mind, yet he didn’t quite feel he could put it all together.
This day, he came to the end of the account of the life of Christ, a story he had never heard before. Here was a truly good man who only gave to others, yet was being treated horribly. In the fall breeze he whispered as he continued to read with deep interest and curiosity. “When they came to the place called the Skull, there they crucified him, along with the criminals, one on his right, the other on his left. Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.’”
In a flash, Fuchida saw the jungle mountains of Panay and the circle of grieving people holding hands in prayer surrounded by soldiers. He saw the face of Peggy’s father and he knew what he had prayed. He knew it, and could hear the words fall from his mouth, “Father forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.”
This was the source of their deep love! Overcome, he fell with his face into his hands and let himself weep freely. He was finally home. His long wandering journey was over.
That night, Fuchida went through drawer after drawer, sifting through old papers and books. He knew it was somewhere. He yanked out the bottom drawer of his desk and pushed through papers. There it was.
He grabbed the wrinkled pamphlet with the title “Watakushi Wa Nippon No Horyo Deshita”39and flipped it over. Just as he remembered – there was a rubber-stamped name and address of the man who had given it to him beside the statue of Hachiko. Fuchida nodded with satisfaction, sat down at his desk, and pulled out a fresh sheet of stationery.
Chapter 129
October, 1949. Tokyo.
Under a dusty hotel chandelier, Jake leaned on a podium mounted with an assortment of microphones as he listened to one of the seated reporters in the meeting room. Flashbulbs popped sporadically from different angles.
“No, I’m not saying they’re not guilty,” Jake said in English, showing some frustration, “I’m saying that if Emperor Hirohito showed mercy to me and to some of the others who bombed Japan and let us live even though we were guilty ... and if the U.S. Government showed mercy to the Emperor and didn’t prosecute him, then I think that the people of America can take a stand and encourage our government to be a world leader and offer mercy to the forty Japanese men convicted of war crimes, to extend Christian mercy and forgiveness to these men.”
Jake looked confidently at the reporters and finished forcefully. “The world knows America has great power.” His face softened. “I’d like the world to know we have great kindness as well.”
Seated in a restaurant booth, Jake glanced over at Florence and little Paul sitting between them, then back down at a bowl being set on his plate. He stared curiously at the brown saucy mix and carefully probed it with his chopsticks.
The Japanese couple across the table tried to contain their amusement as they observed Jake. “It’s called ika no shiokara,” the man said.
“Well, I’ll give it a try,” Jake said before swallowing hard and bringing it to his mouth, closing his eyes, and taking a bite.
Watching him wince, the friend said, “Fermented squid guts.”
Jake shook his recoiling head with one eye closed and reached for his glass of water. “That’s not right.”
“Oh dear,” Florence said, covering her mouth as she suppressed her giggle.
As Jake upended the glass trying to wash the nasty taste from his mouth, the silhouette of a man standing in the restaurant aisle caught his attention. Finishing the whole glass, Jake gave a sigh of relief to Florence, then looked back at this man who stood with his hat in his hands. Jak
e stared for a moment, then put his hand on Florence’s shoulder. “Hey, honey, just a second.”
Jake wiped his mouth with a linen, stood up, and curiously walked toward the stranger, who soberly stared back at him. Jake couldn’t believe his eyes and raised both hands, palms up. “Yoshimasa?” It was his old Japanese guard from his days in China.
The man nodded as Jake came closer. “I heard you speak in the big meeting a few nights ago,” he said.
“Yoshimasa-san! How are you?” Jake said in Japanese as he reached to grab his hand and shook it vigorously. “Let me introduce you to my family!” Jake enthusiastically escorted Yoshimasa to his table.
Jake put his arm around him. “Florence, this is an old friend.”
Florence smiled with a nod, but Yoshimasa looked at Jake in humble amazement.
Turning to the other guests in this booth, Jake said, “Masashi-san, this is Yoshimasa-san. We were in China together. Can you believe that?” Jake turned to Yoshimasa. “Do you live here in town?”
Yoshimasa motioned to Jake that he wanted privacy, so the two of them walked to the side of the restaurant beside some dark windows.
“I want to know more ... about what you said. I’ve starting reading, you know, the book.”
Jake gave a slow nod and couldn’t help but smile. “God’s kingdom is like a buried treasure – you have to dig a while, but in time, you’ll find what you’ve been searching for. I know you will.”
Yoshimasa hung his head and started wiping his eyes. “I’m ... so sorry ...”
Grabbing his shoulders with both arms, Jake looked at his friend, “The past is past. All is forgiven. It’s time for new things, a day to celebrate. Come. Please eat with us.”
After a brief moment, Yoshimasa looked up at Jake, gave into a smile, and nodded.
Early Spring, 1950. Nagoya.
A young Japanese man in a coat and tie led Jake to a pair of double doors inside the community center. “Everyone’s ready now,” he said with smile as he opened the door for Jake. “We’re so excited.”
Jake wasn’t quite sure what was in store and was surprised to see more men and women greeting him at the door, quite dressed up before a group of about fifty men and women seated in rows in preparation for a group photo.
A smiling young lady in a soft yellow kimono patterned with white flowers bowed to Jake, who bowed in return.
“Amayo, so good to see you again! What’s going on here?”
“Well, all of us decided we wanted to have a picture with you so we could remember our times together.”
“You know I’ll be back again for some of your daifuku.40 Where would you like me to sit?”
Amayo led Jake to the center where a smiling young girl handed a bouquet of yellow and pink flowers to Amayo, who held out the arrangement to Jake. “As a token of our love for you, Mr. DeShazer, from all the people of Nagoya.”
Jake felt he was in a dream, yet the sweet smell of the bouquet and the tears forming in Amayo’s eyes told him it was all real. He and Amayo took their seats next to each other in the front.
The photographer motioned for people to look at him. Sitting beside Jake, Amayo’s face beamed with joy as the room was filled with a flash of a brilliant light.
Chapter 130
April 14, 1950. Osaka, Japan.
A streetcar filled with passengers rattled past Fuchida as he stood on a downtown street corner, searching to find a particular address among the buildings plastered with advertising. He glanced around, then headed toward a hotel through a sidewalk teeming with people. He’d thought about doing this for many months. Now, after he and another had exchanged a number of letters, he was finally at the place. He looked at the glass doors of the hotel, then strode forward.
Fuchida sat nervously among four other men in the lobby: Tim Pietsch, the American who gave him the pamphlet about Jake DeShazer by the statue of Hachiko; Kiniji Sato, the Japanese man who sold him his little Bible; and another Japanese and an American man.
The four worked with an organization founded in 1893 by a young lady in England, Helen Cadbury, the granddaughter of the founder of Cadbury Chocolate. At an early age, this heiress to a fortune decided to dedicate her life to helping others in less fortunate circumstances and to reading the Bible each day, but found the old books too large to carry. She and a group of young ladies agreed to sew a small pocket into their skirts and started the Pocket Testament League.
Years later, the organization flourished in many nations. It was in response to a direct request from General Douglas MacArthur for ten million Bibles for Japan that the league was there. Fuchida was one of the recipients of the over eleven million Bibles that were eventually passed out to the people of Japan following the end of hostilities.
All the men were perched on the edges of their seats, trying not to appear as intensely interested as they were. Fuchida was many things, but one thing he was not, was ordinary.
“Yes, I read the Bible often,” Fuchida said. “I feel like I’m learning something new every day.”
“And you’re taking time to talk to God each day? You know, pray?” Tim said in Japanese.
“Yes, yes, all the time. I’ve been doing these things for months now,” Fuchida responded with a bit of impatience. “I understand the importance.” He had been slowly piecing together everything he’d read with everything he’d experienced along with everything he was thinking. He believed he had it right about what it meant to really believe, as he knew he did, but he felt he had to meet with some others who were more solid in their faith. He feared that perhaps he might have come up with something that wasn’t quite right. He wanted assurance.
“Then, as a Christian,” Kiniji said leaning back with a smile, “you should let others know what God has done for you.”
Fuchida recoiled in puzzlement and with offense. “What? I haven’t even spoken to my wife about this. This is a completely private matter!” Fuchida glanced around the room, surprised that none of them seemed surprised. Keniji even smiled a bit. “Do you know what people would say? People would consider me a traitor – to embrace the God of my enemies?!” Fuchida shot his arm out. “The God of the Americans?! No, this is something I will not do!”
The group in the lobby went silent for a few seconds. Kiniji responded softly, “Just for you to know, Jesus is not from America.”
Everyone smiled except Fuchida. He was serious and let his eyes fall to the floor in contemplation.
Kiniji leaned in toward the Captain, as Fuchida was now known. “Listen ... you do what you want, but remember this ...”
Fuchida looked up into Kiniji’s eyes that spoke of a deep wisdom.
“Christ said that if you’re ashamed of him before men, he’ll be ashamed of you before your Father in heaven.”
Fuchida’s gaze again drifted downward.
“But you must decide what you will do.”
He wasn’t prepared for this. His posture fell. All Fuchida wanted was some advice to help confirm some ideas about what it really meant to be a true follower of Christ. He liked living his life as a nobody on a farm with his family. Life was simple. He was happy to be left alone. Now it was becoming complicated again, and he chafed at the idea – but inside, he knew he was being a coward. In many ways, he was the same man he had always been, but inside, he felt he was being renewed. Certainly, he thought, this must be seen in the outer man as well. It dawned on him that perhaps this was part of the cost of following, but he didn’t like it.
Tim spoke up. “This nation is at a crossroads. They need hope. A new beginning. We’re going downtown to the business district today. Why don’t you come with us and watch?” Tim raised his eyebrows.
The team had parked their black panel van on a lot beside a bridge that spanned over the Yodogawa River in a busy part of Osaka. Tim stood on a small platform beside the truck painted with lettering in Japanese and English saying, “Pocket Testament League.” The roof was mounted with loudspeakers and a tiny crowd of fifteen or
so stopped from their sidewalk journey to listen to the American who could speak their language.
“There is good news for everyone. The God of heaven cares about you and wants to help you.” He paused to let a truck slowly pass by, draped with a banner promoting a brand of socialism, filled with people in the back throwing handbills into the air.
Fuchida listened to the competing loudspeakers of the truck, and felt the country had become a kind of circus of ideas in the vacuum after the war. No one knew what the nation would be like a decade later, so everyone with an idea seemed motivated to get out there and get known. Tim’s voice was simply one of many. No one cared. Few listened.
“There’s a better way to live,” Tim continued as the truck rolled out of sight.
As he spoke, Fuchida could see the disappointment in Kiniji’s face, like a man with a key watching people unable to open a locked door. Most people walked by on the sidewalk pretending they didn’t see or hear anything. They were more interested in survival than propaganda. Some listened for a sentence or two, then walked on.
Fuchida wondered what would become of his country. He was glad that his life was somehow spared, that he was also coming into understanding and freedom, but felt completely torn: either he would have to be willing to suffer the shame of those of his friends who would never understand his change of heart, or suffer the shame of a God who trusted him to speak on his behalf.
As Fuchida wiped the sweat from his forehead, he caught Kiniji glancing at him with some disappointment.
Tim was running out of steam. “If only you could ... if you could see ... you’d have purpose and direction in your lives in every way.”
A middle-aged woman listening with a blank, hopeless face caught Fuchida’s eye. If for no one else, he would speak for her. He stepped up onto the platform, and to Tim and Kiniji’s surprise, stood behind the microphone.
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