The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms Read online

  “Give me your money!” he commanded. His voice was harsh and there was a slight accent. Mi-Chan froze in shock and hesitated and he rapidly produced a knife. “Hurry up!” he ordered.

  Mi-Chan jolted and reached into her coat and produced her hessian bag of coins. The man grabbed them and ran off.

  A loud finger whistle sounded shrilly and a teenage boy ran up to Mi-Chan. A few seconds later a short and wiry man joined him, he had a pistol in thrust into his belt.

  “What happened?” asked the man with the pistol.

  “It was the Meiyu-kai,” said the boy, “they robbed this young woman.”

  “It’s just too late now,” said the man shaking his head. Mi-Chan stood quivering. It had happened so fast. “Where were you going?” he asked.

  “A stall called Tengoku,” she stammered.

  The man nodded, “we know it well, come with us.”

  Ishida introduced Mi-Chan to Sakamoto and then brewed tea. Jun continued his guard watch duties. Mi-Chan was still shaking and took time to regain her composure. It was one thing reading about violence in newspapers and another thing altogether to experience it.

  “Thank you Sakamoto-san,” she said, “you saved me.”

  “You were very lucky they didn’t get your bag,” he replied, “without Jun that would have gone too.”

  “Does it happen often?” Mi-Chan asked?

  “There are incidents every day,” Sakamoto admitted, “the Meiyu-kai is a ruthless gang. I must be honest though and say we have seen far worse.”

  Mi-Chan reached into her bag and produced some chocolate, “take this please as a sign of gratitude.” Sakamoto declined, but made a suggestion, “why don’t you give some to Jun and the orphans, they would really appreciate it?”

  Mi-Chan agreed immediately. She could see how Jun’s eyes radiated with pleasure when she gave him some Hershey.

  Later Sakamoto gave Mi-Chan advice on personal security in the Yam’ichi. He was sure she had been followed and suggested she vary the days, times and routes she took to get to Tengoku. He instructed her to wear different outfits; to conceal money in different parts of her body; and prepare a decoy purse with a few coins.

  It was only over the next few weeks by talking to Ishida’s assistant that she learnt more of the awe in which Sakamoto and the Hachiman were held by the vendor community. Sakamoto was described variously as a ‘Bushi’ or ‘Senshi’ warrior, ‘Yam’ichi no kami,’ lord of the black market, or even ‘Taisho,’ General.

  As their stories unfurled, her eyes were opened wider to the darker side of the Yam’ichi. The ruthlessness of capitalism that she had uncovered in Akahata was laid plain in a way that she had not noticed previously. Mi-Chan’s opinions hardened further as a consequence.

  It was obvious the authorities had not only lost control, but were making no effort to rectify the problem. The police were corrupt, and the occupation forces only interested in lining their own pockets. All at the expense of the innocent and starving. Akahata was correct, Mi-Chan concluded. Only through whole scale political change, like in Northern Korea, could the rights of the people be restored.

  Late in February Mi-Chan arrived at Tengoku as a ‘pass the hat’ collection was finishing. She had never seen it before and asked Sakamoto how it worked.

  “All vendors in this area contribute something to help the orphans welfare,” he replied. “For some it’s money, others donate food or household items, and others, if they can, will volunteer to help out, even if it’s only for one or two hours a week.” Sakamoto looked at Mi-Chan and said flatly, “there’s no help from the authorities.”

  Mi-Chan’s face looked troubled. “How many orphans is this Peace Bridge caring for?” she asked.

  “I haven’t got exact numbers,” he admitted, “but it would have be over five hundred; the demand is greater and increasing.” Sakamoto looked fixedly at Mi-Chan and said frankly, “I know you are getting these chocolates from the Americans, but the occupiers are also a cause of the problem.” Mi-Chan did not respond, so Sakamoto continued. “A lot of American troops take advantage of young Japanese girls, they fall pregnant and then, well, they can’t afford to look after the child and many are abandoned. It’s happening more and more.”

  Although it was the first time for Mi-Chan to hear this. She wasn’t altogether surprised. It was consistent with the crime stories Akahata featured, and of course her horrific experience with Jared. Mi-Chan reached into her jacket and produced some money which she proffered to Sakamoto.

  “Take this please for the orphans,” she faced him. “I’m not exactly what you think I am,” she said, the tone of her voice changing, “I have a invalided mother and a young sister to care of,” she paused, “and we’re Korean Japanese, so we know what it’s like to be outcasts. “It’s shocking that the new government and the occupation forces are impotent to help.” There was a moment’s silence.

  "I have heard about your great leadership and service, it’s only with leaders like you that the country will improve,” said Mi-Chan praising him. She changed subjects. “Back in Korea, in our homeland, the new government has stamped out all kinds of anarchy, and people are working together as equals.” She took a breath, “maybe, one day we will be able to so the same here.”

  The recital

  Spring 1947

  Atsugi’s music class at Kongo Gakuen held a mini concert featuring the adagio from Mozart’s clarinet concerto, re-arranged for the shakuhachi. They also performed an excerpt from Atterberg’s Symphony Piccola. The latter gave opportunities for students of wind, percussion and violin to show off their talents. Since its composer was aged only fifteen when Atterberg composed it, Atsugi used this fact to inspire his prodigies that anything was possible.

  The concert took place on a Saturday lunchtime in a recently rebuilt town hall in Osaka. Most of the student’s parents were in a position to attend, along with the school population. Eun Ae was delighted that her mother was in the audience too.

  The classical music performance was followed by a Pungmul dance routine that Pak’s students had been working on. There were over twenty performers, dressed in white with brightly coloured red and yellow coats. Some dancers wore hats with paper flowers attached. Others had feathers. Some hats had long white ribbons attached that with a flick of the head, moved in a wide arch. The dancers were accompanied by drummers. They moved majestically around in a series of whirling manoeuvres and a blaze of colour.

  The classical recital, conducted by Atsugi, had gone flawlessly. The musicians were in harmony with no mistimed or mis placed notes. Atsugi’s persistent training on chords and scales paid off. It was also a considerable achievement given the unprecedented state of the instruments.

  The audience was totally taken in with the students’ talent and interpretation.

  After the Pungmul dance, Pak made a short speech explaining its origins. He was at pains to emphasise its naissance on collective farms in Korea, and its importance as a community and social event to build collectivism amongst labourers. He emphasised how this was its first public airing in Japan since the war’s end. This statement received a wide round of applause from the audience, most of whom were Zainichi.

  He went on to enunciate in a serious manner that Korean-Japanese should be very proud of their heritage. The school he said, trusted that parents would support teachers in instilling a deep love of the ‘homeland’ in their children.

  Afterwards, Eun Ae introduced her mother to Atsugi using their Korean family name of Taegi. He immediately noticed her bent back, how she shuffled with the aid of a stick and her arm was in a sling. Whilst she smiled pleasantly at Atsugi, her eyes were sunk deep in their sockets and there were lines across her forehead.

  “Thank you Sensei,” Taegi said in perfect Japanese.

  It had not escaped Atsugi’s notice that most parents spoke Korean to their children, which had unnerved him somewhat as he could not understand what was being said. In his class at least, he insisted that eve
ryone spoke Japanese.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he replied, “thank you for making the effort to join us today. I know Eun Ae appreciated it, we have been practising non stop.” Atsugi said this with sincerity, imagining that it would have taken some effort for Taegi elder to get to the school given her lack of mobility.

  “Eun Ae has very much enjoyed your lessons. Thank you for giving her the opportunity to play the shakuhachi. It has helped her given all the traumas we’ve been through.” Taegi looked into Atsugi’s eyes, “I just wish her father could have been here to see it.” She continued pensively, “and her sister is too busy working for the Americans to make it today either.”

  Atsugi did not know that Eun Ae had a sister and wondered for a second what her work with the occupation forces involved.

  Atsugi went on, “She’s a very talented musician, and takes a great interest in the composers too,” he continued, remembering Eun Ae’s questions about Mozart. “We will do our best to enhance her skills further.”

  “Thank you again Sensei,” said En Ae’s mother, “she is indeed talented. Has she shown you any of her drawings by any chance?”

  This was another surprise for Atsugi. He was intrigued as to what they might feature and answered, “I’d be delighted to see them after our next practise.” He looked at Eun Ae, “please remember to show them to me when we next rehearse.”

  A week later, Atsugi was painstakingly evaluating with the students what options might be suitable for their next performance. The school had somehow acquired a portable gramophone. It was in a wooden case with a wind up handle on one side and a large circular steel stylus. The music class clustered around the device, interested in as much in the new technology, as the music, whilst Atsugi played various pieces to provoke their thinking.

  One idea which he toyed with was Pachelbel’s Canon with shakuhachi. Another, which was a lot more adventurous, requiring further adaptation, was Brahms Clarinet Sonata.

  A virtue of their first recital, which was still the talk of the community, was that more parents had come forward offering to loan or provide musical instruments. Plus more students had expressed a desire to join the recitals.

  Following the session Eun Ae stayed behind to talk with Atsugi.

  “I very much liked the Brahms,” said Eun Ae. “The music was light, flowing and very happy.”

  “I’m pleased you could sense that,” replied Atsugi. “Brahms was a composer very influenced by nature, the outdoors and the mountains. Although he was German, he spent a lot of time in Austria.”

  “What sort of man was Brahms, Sensei?” asked Eun Ae.

  “Well he was a perfectionist,” replied Atsugi. “He was a man who faced many struggles in life, for example his first piano concerto, which many would now describe as a master piece, was ridiculed by the audience when it was first performed. Brahms showed genuine tenacity and perseverance.” Atsugi went on. “He was also a nationalist.”

  “What’s that?” asked Eun Ae.

  “He was someone who had immense pride in his country and culture. He lived in an era when Germany was going through unification,” adding, “much of his music epitomises German national esteem.”

  Eun Ae listened carefully. “Sensei, that reminds me, I brought these drawings for you to see. Do you remember my mother mentioned them?” She delved into her bag and produced two illustrations that had been placed inside a newspaper for protection.

  The first sketch was in pencil and Eun Ae had used pastels to add colour tone. The subject was an older Korean woman sitting serenely on the wooden floor of a house. She wore a light grey skirt that went down to her ankles and a red coloured top which had a cream floral pattern. The woman’s hair was tied neatly in a bun and she wore thick reading glasses. A girl aged around eight stood next to the woman, leaning on her shoulder. The child wore a pretty red dress and her hair had a pink bow in it. The older woman was reading a book to the girl, who looked on attentively. It was a picture of happiness and tranquillity and had been very well drawn.

  “That’s marvellous,” said Atsugi, impressed. “Who is it?”

  “It’s my aunt in Korea,” replied Eun Ae. “I haven’t met her, but I have heard such wonderful things about her. I imagine she is a great teacher, very kind, gentle and patient. The little girl would be my cousin,” she added, “who I also have never met.”

  The second drawing was more solemn in subject and tone. It comprised three figures. On the left a young woman, dressed in drab green, her hair covered by a white headscarf, she was carrying a baby girl on her back who was in the centre of the picture. The third figure was a soldier, dressed in khaki, he had a rifle slung over his shoulder. He seemed to be the baby’s father and was tying his daughter’s hair into a neat pony tail. The woman’s face was sad and it looked like her husband was leaving on military duties.

  Like the first picture, it had been well drawn. There was expression on the character’s faces. In the background were the dark outlines of a city that had been devastated by war.

  “What’s this one about Eun Ae?” Atsugi asked, he squeezed his eyes wondering about the militaristic nature of the scene.

  “It’s a depiction of Korea today and the struggle we’re going through to build our country. My mother tells me that in Northern Korea, our new government is under threat from the Americans. We need to build up our army and stand up for unification.” Eun Ae thought for a moment and said dramatically, “we’re like Brahms and also have pride in our country.”

  Atsugi did not think it was appropriate to get drawn into a political discussion. He had seen enough guns and soldiers; lost too many former pupils, lives wasted in the futility of war. He chose to deflect Eun Ae’s comment by complimenting her again on her drawings.

  “In future you could try some drawings of the great composers, for instance Brahms in the mountains?” he said.

  “I will Sensei,” came her warm reply. As Eun Ae put the drawings away, he noticed the newspaper that had been used as protection. Its title was Akahata, one that Atsugi did not know. He picked it up and looked at the front page, the headline read, ‘Soviet Union provides vital aid to Korea.’

  “What’s this?” he asked, troubled.

  “It’s a special newspaper,” Eun Ae admitted clearly having not intended to show it to Atsugi. “My sister gives it to me to read,” she paused. “She told me that I need to understand the real truth of what’s going on in the world.”

  “I see,” said Atsugi. His eye caught another headline which read, ‘Imperialists hide the death toll of Japan atomic bombing.’ He rapidly thumbed through Akahata. Other articles blamed the poverty in Japan on the Americans; failure to charge the Emperor for war crimes; and banning of workers’ rights to strike.

  Atsugi struggled to reconcile the dichotomy between a woman who worked for the US occupation forces and yet distributed secretive newspapers.

  “Does she often give this to you?” he enquired.

  “Yes, we usually get a copy every week.” Eun Ae admitted putting the newspaper and drawings back in her bag. “My sister asks me to share it with Pak-Sensei as well.”

  Atsugi decided to broach the topic with Pak and waited for an opportune moment when they were alone. He chose a time when they were sharing tea and reflecting on a rehearsal. He did not expect it would be an easy conversation.

  “I have a student in my music class who plays the shakuhachi. She is also a very talented artist. Her sketches use a combination of pen and pastel shades. I'm sure you know her?” asked Atsugi.

  “Do you mean Eun Ae Taegi?” replied Pak.

  “Yes that’s her. She’s very eager to please, practises hard but, I fear she experienced a terrible trauma in the war.” Atsugi explained meeting her invalided mother, the loss of her father and went on. “She recently has shown me some drawings she did of the bombing in Kansai. There was a lady pulling a cart through a pile of bodies and the city was in flames. It was very disturbing.”

  “Her experience
s are sad but not unique,” replied Pak. He did not display any empathy.

  “That’s true,” admitted Atsugi, “but we have a duty to guide her towards a more stable and peaceful future. Don’t you think?” he asked. Pak nodded his head and Atsugi continued. “This isn’t easy for me to discuss, but she also revealed a newspaper – Akahata – that she gets from her sister. I understand you also read it?”

  Pak looked straight at Atsugi and said flatly, “Japan has lurched from one extreme, the militarists, to another extreme under the Americans. They are against us as Koreans becoming independent and self-governing. And they are concealing many truths.” He paused, “Akahata is important because it tells stories the Japanese newspapers are trying to hide.” Then Pak said with emphasis. “I like you Atsugi-san but you are not Korean and won’t ever understand the problems we’re facing.” He concluded, saying, “for the sake of the school and our relationship, this is a private matter and doesn’t concern you.”

  Atsugi was mild mannered, but he was also a perpetual worrier and never completely settled. He had no parents or children of his own to look after. Teaching and students’ welfare were his life. He had seen how the euphoria of war and propaganda had twisted and warped so many young minds under the militarists.

  Now he feared he was seeing a repeat.

  The sequel threatened to be more dangerous: identity and self-determination were at its heart; it was also covert and appealing to vulnerable minds.

  As the proverb warned, 'while young the tree can easily be bent.'

  Besides, Atsugi was not an anarchist or revolutionary, he hated chaos and uncertainty. As a Christian, he believed and trusted those in a position of authority believing them to be ordained. ‘By me, Princes rule, and nobles, all who judge rightly.’ This belief explained why he was reaching out to the General, who he believed was fair, righteous and objective.

  The reality remained, however, that his letters had gone unanswered, and by this time he had sent at least three, in English and carefully scripted. Or so he felt. Why would the General not even acknowledge them? There was a seed of doubt that niggled away, no matter how much he told himself. He had to have faith.