by Masuji Ibuse
The party split into three groups as it set off, one to go to Miyoshi, one to Shōbara, and one to Tōjō. They walked in silence in the wake of the horse-drawn carts carrying their baggage. The members of the unit bound for Tōjō stopped to eat their lunches at Yuki, about halfway between Kobatake and Tōjō, seating themselves for the purpose on the veranda of a farmhouse that stood by the roadside. As they were eating, an unprecedented broadcast by His Majesty the Emperor came over the radio inside the house. When it was finished, they sat for a while in silence. Then the man who was leading the horse by the reins said:
“The headman’s parting speech this morning was rather long, wasn’t it?”
This led, in the natural course of events, to a discussion on what to do with their bamboo spears, and it was finally decided, by unanimous agreement, to leave them as a parting gift to the farmer whose veranda they had made free with.
The reception center at Tōjō was an old building that had happened to be available. It had two superintendents, but no one had the least idea of how to set about things. The victims were sprawled about on the tatami; visual identification was impossible since their faces, without exception, were burned raw. One of them was as bald as an egg where he should have had hair, with a single band of normal skin left; he had apparently had a cotton towel round his forehead. His cheeks were dangling like an old woman’s breasts. Fortunately, the injured could all hear, and people went round asking each of them his name, which was written in Chinese ink on his bare skin if he was naked, or on any tatters of cloth he might have retained about him. This method, though crude, was necessary if identification was to be possible, since the injured were constantly shifting about in their suffering, groaning all the while.
“What does the doctor think he’s up to?” one of the volunteers demanded of a superintendent. “Isn’t he going to do anything for them?”
But the doctor himself was reluctant to risk touching patients whose sickness he did not know how to treat. Having no idea of the source of their suffering other than the pain of the burns, he injected six of the injured with a medicine called “Pantopon,” which relieved their suffering temporarily. After that, he said, he had no more of the medicine left.
This account had been given to Shigematsu later, after he had come back from Hiroshima, by a member of the volunteer work party. By that time, Shigematsu himself was showing symptoms of radiation sickness. Whenever he applied himself too enthusiastically to working in the fields, he would be overcome by sudden lethargy, and small pimples would appear on his scalp. If he tugged at his hair, it came out, quite painlessly. At such times, he would take to bed for a while and eat plenty of nourishing foods.
The symptoms of radiation sickness usually began with an unexplained lethargy and heaviness of the limbs. After a few days, the hair would come out without any pain, and the teeth would come loose and eventually fall out. Finally, collapse set in and the patient died. The essential thing if one felt lethargy in the early stages of the sickness was to rest and eat well. Those who forced themselves to work gradually wilted, like a pine tree transplanted by a bungling gardener, until finally they expired. In the village next to Kobatake, and in the village beyond that, there had been people who had come home from Hiroshima in the best of health, congratulating themselves on their escape, and had worked their hardest for a month or two, only to take to their beds and die within a week or ten days. The sickness would set in in one particular part of the body, producing the excruciating pain so characteristic of it. The pain in the shoulders and back, too, was incomparably worse than with any other disease.
The visiting doctor diagnosed Shigematsu’s case quite explicitly as radiation sickness. Dr. Fujita in Fukuyama pronounced the same diagnosis. Yasuko, however, was a different matter: Yasuko was in no sense sick. She had been examined by a reputable doctor, and she had submitted to one of the periodic check-ups for survivors of the bomb that were given at the local health center. Everything was completely normal—corpuscle count, parasites, urine, sedimentation, stethoscopy, hearing, and so on. This was four years and nine months after the end of the war, when Yasuko had the chance of a match which seemed, if the truth be told, almost too good for her. The prospective husband was the young master of an old family in Yamano village. He must have seen Yasuko somewhere, for a tentative proposal was duly made via a go-between. Yasuko herself had no objection to the match. Shigematsu, who was anxious to ensure that for once things should not be spoiled by rumors of radiation sickness, had a reputable doctor draw up a certificate of health for Yasuko, which he mailed to the go-between.
“This time it’ll be all right!” he said somewhat self-importantly. “There’s nothing like making doubly sure! People nowadays like to exchange health certificates before they get married. I’m sure they won’t think it at all odd. The go-between’s the wife of a former army officer, it seems, so she’s sure to be used to the modern way of doing things. It’ll be all right this time, you’ll see!”
In the event, though, he proved to have shown more care than wisdom. The go-between must have come to someone in the village to inquire about Yasuko’s health, for a letter came asking about Yasuko’s movements in Hiroshima from the day the bomb fell until her return to Kobatake. This was only for the go-between’s own information—the letter hastened to add—and was not the result of any contact concerning the subject with the prospective husband.
It dawned on Shigematsu that he had incurred yet another liability. His wife read the letter and handed it to Yasuko without speaking; she herself sat still for a while, gazing down at the tatami, then got up and retired to the box room. Yasuko followed her there. After a while, Shigematsu went and peered in. His wife’s face was buried in Yasuko’s shoulder, and they were both sobbing quietly to themselves.
“All right, then—I was wrong for once,” he said. “But it’s disgraceful, to treat someone like a chronic invalid just because people gossip. Let them gossip, then! We’ll rise above it. We’ll find some way out, mark my words!”
But he knew, even so, that he only said it to make himself feel better.
Slowly and wearily, Yasuko got to her feet and, taking a large diary from the chest of drawers, handed it silently to Shigematsu. It was her private journal for 1945, and the cover had a design of two crossed flags—the national flag, and the Rising Sun flag used by the navy. During their stay in Senda-machi in Hiroshima, she had written up the day’s events in it every evening after supper, using the round meal-table as a writing desk. She had written it up unfailingly every day, however tired she might be.
Her way of keeping a diary was to deal with the day’s events in a brief five or six lines for four or five days, then, on the fifth or sixth day, to devote one entry to describing the past few days in greater detail. In this she was carrying on Shigematsu’s own method, which he had followed for many years past and which he had taught his niece. He had first devised this scheme, which he liked to call his “stopstart” method, so that on evenings when he was late home from work and too sleepy to do anything more, he could allow himself to dismiss the day in a few lines.
It occurred to Shigematsu that he must copy out the relevant parts of this diary of Yasuko’s and send it to the go-between. Setting to work, he transcribed several days’ entries just as they stood, beginning with August 5.
August 5
Gave notice to Mr. Fujita, the factory manager, that I should be absent tomorrow, and went home to get our belongings ready for sending to the country. List: Aunt Shigeko’s summer and winter formal kimonos (one of them—very precious—a yellow-striped silk which great-grandmother is supposed to have worn when she first came as a bride), and four summer kimonos; Uncle Shigematsu’s winter morning coat, winter and summer formal kimonos and a formal haori, two winter suits, one shirt, one tie, and his graduation diploma; my own summer and winter formal kimonos, two sashes, my graduation diploma. Did them all up in a straw mat. In a bag to carry over my shoulder, I put three measures of ri
ce, my diary, a fountain pen, my seal, mercurochrome, and an all-purpose triangular bandage. (Note added by Shigematsu: Our belongings were sent back to us from the country, still done up, more than a year after the end of the war.)
An air raid warning in the middle of the night, and a B-29 squadron flew over without doing anything. All-clear around three. When Uncle Shigematsu came back from night watch he said he’d been told that the other day the B-29’s dropped propaganda leaflets saying “Don’t think we’ve forgotten to raid Fuchū-machi, will you? We’ll be there before long.” The phrasing manages to sound affable yet threatening at the same time. Will they really bomb Fuchū, I wonder? According to someone who came from Yamanashi Prefecture, the other day, the B-29’s dropped a kind of propaganda pamphlet printed on real art paper before raiding Kōfu. One passage apparently claimed that on Saipan or some other island occupied by the Americans the Japanese were living quite contentedly, with plenty to eat. One never even sees art paper in Hiroshima these days. To bed at 3:30.
August 6
Mr. Nojima came in his truck at 4:30 to take our belongings to the country. At Furue there was a great flash and boom. Black smoke rose up over the city of Hiroshima like a volcanic eruption. On our way back, we went via Miyazu and thence by boat up as far as Miyuki Bridge. Aunt Shigeko was unhurt, Uncle Shigematsu injured on his face. An unprecedented disaster, but it is impossible to get any overall picture. The house is tilting at an angle of about 15 degrees, so am writing this diary at the entrance to the air raid shelter.
August 7
We decided yesterday to move to the workers’ dormitory at the Ujina works, but it proved impossible, and at Uncle Shigematsu’s suggestion we took refuge at Furuichi. Aunt Shigeko accompanied us. Uncle Shigematsu shed a few tears in the works office. Hiroshima is a burnt-out city, a city of ashes, a city of death, a city of destruction, the heaps of corpses a mute protest against the inhumanity of war.
Today, inspection of damage done to the works.
August 8
Frantically busy cooking rice for everybody’s breakfast.
The main points which were decided on at a conference on the running of the works have been published.
August 9
More survivors arrived seeking refuge today. Among them, some people who are quite unconnected with any of the workers here. Almost all of them are injured. Not one of them has any proper clothes. One of them came clasping a parcel containing a box with somebody’s ashes, which he hung on a cord under the eaves over the window, muttering a prayer to himself as he did so. There was a middle-aged man too, with his throat bandaged in a grubby cloth, and a heavy, coarse face. He had a kind of desperate humor, and distributed three unused postcards each to everybody, saying “Don’t hesitate, now. Drop a line to the people who’ll be worrying about you. You can have as many of these cards as you like—I make them at my place. But keep it to yourselves, will you?” I imagine he had found the cards lying around at a bombed-out post office or somewhere.
It is 1 p.m., and most people are resting, fast asleep. Today, I feel I have recovered the power to think somewhat, so will go over again in my memory what has happened since the sixth. At 4:30 on the morning of the sixth the truck came with Mr. Nojima driving and loaded our belongings to take to the country. Our party were all from the same district association, or from the next district—Mrs. Nojima, Mrs. Miyaji, Mrs. Yoshimura, and Mrs. Doi. Everyone got in next to her own belongings. Off at 5:30.
On the main road on the way from Koi to Furue, we saw a dark brown, life-size figure of a man set up as a scarecrow in a tiny vacant lot being used to grow millet. Mr. Nojima slowed down the truck and tapped on the bar of the partition, as if to say “Look at that! There’s something queer for you!” It was only a figure, but the face, hands, and feet were done in detail, as though modeled in clay, and it had a straw mat wrapped round its hips. It may well have been papier-mâché, but Mrs. Nojima said: “Do you think it’s a scarecrow made by natives that somebody’s brought back from the South Pacific?” And Mrs. Miyaji said, “I expect it’s a wax dummy from a department store that got blackened with smoke from an oil bomb or something.” But Mrs. Doi said, “It gave me a proper turn. I thought it was a real human being all burnt black!”
It was 6:30 a.m. when we reached Furue. The farmhouses still had their shutters closed, but at Mrs. Nojima’s parents’ home the old lady and gentleman had got the doors of the earthen-walled storehouse open ready for us. We unloaded our belongings and put them in the storehouse. Mrs. Nojima wrote out a receipt for us—just to make sure, she said—then took us into a room in the main house and gave us each a small cucumber with some bean-paste, since there weren’t any proper cakes for serving with green tea, she explained. They were all very nice to us. Mrs. Nojima’s father seemed to prefer to leave things to his son-in-law, Mr. Nojima. “Our peaches are still rather green,” he said with old-fashioned politeness, “but I hope you’ll try them. They’re still cold from the night dew, you know.” He disappeared outside and was back in no time with about ten peaches in a basket. A variety called “Ōkubo,” he said. They were still rather green, but Mrs. Nojima peeled them for us.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Nojima are always doing things for the other people who live in the same district. People say that Mr. Nojima has been friendly for years with a left-wing scholar called Mr. Matsumoto, and that since the war got more serious he’s been making himself especially nice to everybody in the district so that the authorities won’t get suspicious. Mr. Matsumoto, who went to an American university and used to correspond with Americans before the war, has been called before the military police any number of times. So he, too, is always on his best behavior with people at the city hall, the officials of the prefectural office, and the members of the civilian guard, and whenever there’s an air raid warning he’s always the first to dash outside and rush around calling out “air raid! air raid!” He’s never been known to take off his puttees, even at home. They say he even offered to take part in bamboo spear practice with the women. It’s really pathetic to see a reputable scholar like him trying so hard to please. Once, when we were talking about his behavior, Uncle Shigematsu said: “It shows there’s something wrong with the world when a man like Mr. Matsumoto can let himself be put on so by officials. It reminds me of the saying that ‘the finest barge sometimes conceals a load of turnips’—but I don’t feel that quite fits his behavior. Or you could compare him to that story of the great hero, the man of action, whom circumstances obliged to turn to growing flowers for a while—but that’s not quite it, either. Nor is he one of those ‘political turncoats.’ No, it’s spy phobia—that’s what’s the matter with people like him! But what I say is this: there’s a time for every man to show his true colors, and when that time comes he should do it like a man!”
Although Mr. Matsumoto could be evacuated any time he liked, he’s too afraid that he might be suspected as a spy, and dashes around all day frantically doing things for other people in the district. Even supposing that Mr. Nojima is acting on the same principle, I wonder whether we really ought to take advantage of it and get him to drive trucks and look after clothing for us? I expect my kimonos, graduation diploma, and the like would have seemed so much worthless trash to him before the war.
Mrs. Nojima’s parents’ house had an air of gracious living. How many acres of farm land—or rather, how many dozens of acres—would go with a residence on this scale? I was wondering about it and looking out at the rockery in the garden when the all-clear siren sounded. My watch said eight o’clock. Every day at this time an American metereological observation plane had been coming and flying over the built-up area of Hiroshima without doing anything, so I assumed it was the same thing again, and thought no more of it. Four or five of the neighborhood children who had strayed into the garden were playing around the truck, which had been driven inside the gate, and were sitting on the frame or dangling from it. Mrs. Nojima’s father brought all kinds of utensils for the tea ceremony,
saying he was going to offer us a cup of powdered tea. Not knowing the etiquette for the ceremony, and being the youngest, I sat in the humblest seat.
It was pleasantly cool in the room. The old gentleman took the lid off the iron kettle, which had begun to boil, and as he did so there was a terrible flash of bluish-white light outside. It seemed to rush past from east to west—from the built-up part of Hiroshima, that is, toward the hills beyond Furue. It was like a shooting star the size of hundreds of suns. Almost simultaneously, there came a great roar of sound. “Why, something bright flashed past!” I heard the old gentleman exclaim. We all leapt to our feet and dashed outside, where we crouched down in the shelter of the rocks in the rockery or behind the trunks of trees. The children had leapt down from the truck and were falling over each other to get out of the gate, as though someone were after them. One of them, who had fallen over on the ground, scrambled to his feet and ran away limping—he must have been sitting on the frame of the truck, and been blown off. “The shelter’s round the back,” said Mr. Nojima, but nobody got up to go there, nor did he himself make any move.
In the direction of the city, smoke was rising high up into the sky. We could see it above the white clay wall of the garden. It was like the smoke from a volcano, or a column of cloud with sharply etched outlines; one certain thing was that it was no ordinary smoke. My knees as I squatted there shook so uncontrollably that I pressed them against a rock, heedless of a small white flower clinging to it.
“They must have dropped some new weapon,” said Mr. Nojima from behind a rock. “Do you think it’s safe now?” said Mrs. Nojima. Little by little, like freshwater crabs creeping out from between the stones, we poked our heads out from behind the rocks. Finally, we left the rockery and, running to the gate, gazed in the direction of the city. The smoke had climbed high into the sky, spreading out wider the higher it went. I remembered a photograph of oil tanks burning in Singapore that I had once seen. It had been taken just after the Japanese army had brought about the fall of the city, and the scene was so horrifying that I wondered at the time whether such things were really justified. The smoke climbed higher, ever higher, into the sky, and put out a horizontal bank of cloud around it, forming a great, umbrella-shaped mass that loomed over everything like some top-heavy monster. It made me wonder if the B-29’s had dropped some kind of oil bomb. All the married women agreed with Mr. Nojima’s theory about a new weapon. A thatched cottage visible at the foot of the slope outside the gate had collapsed. The houses with tiled roofs had had their tiles stripped off.