The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms Page 2

  She nodded, “What does it involve exactly?”

  “In Shioya, along the coast towards Akashi, there is a large area close to the mountains, that escaped the American bombing. This area is off limits to us Japanese and is used by the occupation forces. They are recruiting young women to help with recreational activities. These include singing, dancing and performances. Recruits stay on site and all food is free. You have one day off every fortnight.” And, he coughed slightly before continuing, “the pay is over Yen 2000 a month.”

  Mi-Chan’s face drew back. The pay was five times what her family were living on every month currently!

  She thought again of invalided Umma and her eleven year old sister. They faced severe difficulty with little or no income.

  “I understand,” she said and proceeded to give the police her personal details. She had to see what it entailed for the sake of her family. It was after all official.

  Shioya was a throwback to the heady and opulent 1930s. It was designed and built by a long term British resident of Kobe. An expatriate who had made his fortune as an agent for Lloyds in the Far East.

  It was a club developed exclusively for the use of Europeans. It consisted of wide gardens with Western style summer houses and thatched chalets. Fenced off, it was hidden from view, with entry through a pair of large iron gates. There was a winding drive, lined with trees and street lights which led up from the coast to an impressive country club.

  Unlike other parts of Japan, its telegraph and electric lines were buried underground to preserve the scenery. Its grounds consisted of swimming pools, grass tennis courts and bowling lawns. There was an immense children’s playground with birdcages, a monkey house and several fishponds. One was several hundred metres in circumference.

  The expatriate employed a horticulturist from Kew to plan the garden layout. In the grounds, there were azaleas and chrysanthemums, plus hundreds of cherry and plum trees.

  The club house itself was built on a brick base. It had large wooden framed windows with white slated shutters folded back neatly against its walls. There was a large granite carved Lion studiously watching all visitors at the entrance.

  The lobby consisted of round pillars, large and thick York stone slabs and a thick wooden door with brass handles. On either side there were bright gas lights.

  The ground floor comprised a broad reception hall with curving railed staircases. They rose to both the right and left leading up to a first floor veranda.

  The floor of the reception was laid with marble mosaic tiles. They were various shades of brown and touches of dark green, imported from London. On the left side of the reception, a doorway framed with blue Japanese oak, led into a long lounge with a brick fireplace. In one corner of the lounge was a bar. From the ceiling hung large radial fans. On the right of the reception there was a dining area of identical dimensions.

  Both the lounge and dining room afforded magnificent views of the grounds. At the rear of the building were a reading and billiard room. It was followed by a large kitchen and pantry which connected to a bricked courtyard with a lawn. There were rose bushes in one corner and a sundial in the centre.

  Further to the rear were a series of out houses, small and compact, which had been used as staff quarters. There was also a brick walled kitchen garden. Here vegetables including potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, onions, carrots and beans were grown throughout the year. In the summer months tomatoes, melons, sweetcorn and cucumber were planted. Lavender, parsley, sage and a whole variety of herbs were also grown.

  Dotted around were also apple and pear trees as well as grape vines. Behind the kitchen garden stood horse stables.

  Ten kilometres to the west of Kobe, Shioya escaped the war, especially the final months of bombing, largely intact. Taken over by the Japanese military in 1941, the club house had been used as a training school. The grounds had housed a mixture of Germans, Italians, Vichy French and other neutral nationalities. Fate left them stranded in Japan. Some of the gardens returned to nature and the swimming pool fell into disrepair.

  At the cessation of hostilities, a sharp eyed reconnaissance party for the occupation forces requisitioned Shioya.

  A week after meeting the policeman, Mi-Chan arrived at Shioya. A haggard old Japanese bus that had miraculously survived the war collected a posse of young Japanese women from the local train station. Grinding through its gears, it crawled shakily up to the Officer’s Club.

  They stopped at the gated entrance to the club. It was guarded by American soldiers. Mi-Chan saw a sign in English characters that said, ‘Rokko Garden, Shioya, U.S. Eighth Army, Officer’s club.’ Two GIs came onto the bus and conducted a cursory body and bag search of the women. They then let the bus to proceed.

  It stopped at the back of the club house and assembled in front of one of the out houses. A middle aged Japanese lady greeted them. She was wearing a smart Kimono made from hemp with wide swinging sleeves. It was cream colour with accents of green and red. She wore a matching Obi, a sash that was tied behind her back in a smart butterfly knot.

  She wore traditional socks and sandals with a raised wooden base. There was a fabric, v-shaped thong which was just visible at the base of her kimono. Her hair was short and she had a parting on the left side. Her lips wore a touch of red lipstick and her cheeks had some light make-up.

  “Welcome to the Rokko Garden, my name is Tamura but you will call me Oka-san.”

  She stood bowed slightly and stood formally. Her left hand clasped over her right wrist, held above her waist. Her feet were together, facing precisely forward.

  “I am in charge of the entertainment here. Thank you for attending. The Rokko Garden is a place for off-duty American officers. Our job is to serve and provide entertainment to help them relax.”

  Oka-san explained the vast majority of the occupation forces had not seen action in the Pacific. Instead war weary veterans were rotated home immediately after the surrender. Their replacements came straight from America, most having just finished basic training. She said they were young, enthusiastic and untarnished by the harrow of battle. They were excited to be on their first overseas tour.

  She looked at the young women, all of whom were wearing old, worn and in some cases dirty clothing and then she smiled.

  “Our first task is to make sure you have a proper wash and then I will arrange clean clothes for everyone.”

  “After this,” she continued, “there will be a short orientation.” She paused and then said, “It is a privilege to be here. Initially you are all here on a two week probation period. After which I will judge whether your assignment will be extended.”

  The Letter

  Yasuo Atsugi was a music teacher at Kobe’s First Municipal Junior High school. It was an institution popular with many of the city’s merchants. Their teaching was rigorous plus there were many out of class activities. The school's students had a reputation for taking promising positions in society.

  Forty-five years old, middling height, with a full head of hair and hints of grey at the sides, Atsugi wore round academic style glasses. They accentuated his dark, flickering eyes. He dressed formally, in Western style, typically with a waistcoat and chained pocket watch, starched wing collar and tie.

  A native of Kobe, Atsugi lived alone. His parents had both passed away unexpectedly before war broke out. He was a sincere, patient and mild mannered man. And his whole life and vocation were teaching, preparing and inspiring students for the future.

  Atsugi’s conviction was that through music, students developed self-discipline. Practise was critical to perfection. Students acquired social skills like teamwork, partnership and bonding. They learnt to listen and interpret through rhythm, rhyme and tempo; they developed the emotional gift of tranquillity.

  The school followed, as mandated by government instructions, a collegiate and militaristic style. Musical activities like the wind ensemble or the Taiko drums were strongly encouraged. Yet for those who showed aptitude and passion, Ats
ugi introduced pieces from Japanese and Western masters. His personal favourites included Kikuko Kanai, Brahms and Chopin.

  Nonetheless, the war years had been traumatic and exacting for Atsugi. A bombing raid in June 1945 demolished the school and brought the term to an abrupt end. It heralded a crossroads in Atsugi’s life.

  He was a deeply committed, earnest and conscientious teacher. Atsugi was passionate as much about extra-curricular activities as formal instruction. As a music teacher he spent countless hours with pupils encouraging, perfecting and in some cases parenting. Many had fathers who were away on active service.

  It resulted in a profound emotional bond with students. A bond shattered forever after graduation and enlistment into the military. Many lives came to a precipitous end.

  News of battles, defeats and bereavements was not communicated widely, but still seeped through. A short telegram to the family, a chance remark from a sibling at the school; letters which suddenly stopped flowing.

  On the surface, Atsugi like all the school and the teaching staff, showed little emotion. Every day he had to read and repeat well versed lines from the Imperial Rescript on Education. It exhorted cohesion and obedience.

  ‘Should emergency arise, offer yourselves courageously to the state; and thus guard and maintain prosperity of our Imperial throne.’

  Inside it was soul wrenching. The bombing of the school exacerbated his anguish further, where and when was it going to end? What if the bombing had occurred in day time?

  It was less well known that Atsugi had lived and studied in America before the war. Although a trickle of emigrants had left Japan from the turn of the century, many from the port of Kobe, he was a rarity. He also learnt English.

  Atsugi didn’t speak of his time there openly. Especially in the war years. Yet he knew there were one or two teachers who had access to his records and were suspicious. Feelings about the Americans reached a fever pitch after the 1945 bombings. Atsugi heard stories of shot down air crew being tortured and even lynched by locals. To preserve his job Atsugi had been careful not to give the wrong impression.

  What he had kept hidden from the authorities and his colleagues was his baptism as a Seventh Day Adventist. Whilst in America he had also taken a Christian name, Paul. Although the Japanese military government did not explicitly ban Christianity, it was viewed dimly. Practitioners had to forswear all contact with the Church overseas.

  Many church buildings were appropriated. Worshipping openly was not an option. To compound matters further, pacifism was a key doctrine in the Seventh Day Church. And had Atsugi been called up, he would have faced a threatening dilemma. He had heard of people who were imprisoned for ‘dangerous thinking.’

  In September 1945 term started, two weeks later than normal due to the surrender and bombing aftermath. The school had moved to a temporary location in the city. Classes were held under large military canvas tents. Teaching was limited to mornings since many senior students were engaged in rebuilding efforts.

  The Japanese surrender had brought a dramatic outpouring of relief. The collective mood was of salvation and deliverance. Atsugi felt a huge burden lifted from his shoulders. Everyone felt liberated from death. They had all witnessed first-hand trauma, suffering and agony, memories they were all too anxious to blank out.

  He pondered whether divine intervention had exonerated them?

  But the honeymoon was ephemeral. It broke like the impromptu arrival of a powerful and unpredictable autumnal typhoon. In October, a colleague whispered that a former prize student was lost in battle. The student had been winner of the Shirakaba, white birch musical prize. He had been a particularly gifted player of the shakuhachi, a bamboo flute. Atsugi had spent weeks and months coaching him. The student had become an expert in honkyoku pieces. These were created and performed by Japanese monks for enlightenment and meditation. The sacred function of the music had a deep spiritual resonance for Atsugi and over time his pupil too. The mutual bond and respect between the pair were deep. They exchanged letters for years after graduation discussing different interpretations of the music.

  Atsugi was initially stunned, he felt his body go cold, the air gasped from his lungs and his heart thrashed away in disbelief. It was unimaginable that fate could be so cruel. Where was the providence or grace?

  For days afterwards he felt angry. First of the Militarists and the Emperor. Then as time passed towards the school and ultimately himself. What was he doing all these years to see the blossom of youth, strewn away needlessly in the winds of conflict and adventurism? A precocious talent he had nurtured, watered, sheltered and loved was lost. Atsugi felt isolated and alone, cast away in purgatory to an island of grief.

  The idea came to him one Saturday afternoon in November. Sitting in a parse and temporary hut which served as the school office, he wrote a letter.

  “Dear Honourable and Supreme Excellency General MacArthur,

  I offer you my greetings from Kobe and am so grateful for Your Excellency’s powerful leadership. Thank you for delivering us from the illegal adventures of our former government.

  When I was a student at the Pacific Union College in California in the 1930s, I came to admire American values of democracy and freedom of speech. I studied your constitution and was taught that citizens have a right to petition the government to redress grievances. This is why I am writing today.

  It is a with a humble and heavy heart that I seek your urgent help and support in rebuilding Japan, our schools and most critically the lives of our pupils.

  We lost some of our most talented and finest students in the futility of the war. Now there is a new battle for peace, which to my utmost horror we are once more in danger of losing.

  We used to provide meals for our students, but the severe shortages mean we can no longer do so. The hungry are being turned away!

  Our children are thin, underweight and smaller than ten years ago. Everyone is tired. Some have dry scaly skin. Others have bad teeth and swollen gums, there are some with thin and weak bones.

  The shortage of food is a crisis! Many of our children are so hungry that they search the debris for old cigarette butts or stands of copper to trade in at the black markets.

  Last week I watched one student, an orphan, scurrying around our crushed neighbourhood. He was wearing shorts and a thin shirt, on his feet were old, dishevelled shoes without laces. He hadn’t been washed for days and was cold and shivering in the winter wind.

  Like many students he was begging for chocolate and food from your GIs.

  Our students are losing their youth, minds and energy in the daily grind for survival. They are losing their motivation; some boys are resorting to theft. Some girls are selling their bodies to fill their bellies with rotten scraps.

  Honourable Sir, I beg of you, please guide and help Japan. Only with your assistance will the Japanese people assuage their hunger and thirst.

  In closing I offer my heartfelt respect and gratitude to your officials and members of the occupation forces.

  Paul Yasuo Atsugi, Music Teacher, Kobe”

  Atsugi found it took much longer to write than anticipated. In the war, English had been declared a combatant language. So Atsugi had discretely tucked it away leaving his composition skill at best rusty, jagged and broken. Words and sentences did not form and flow naturally.

  Yet Atsugi felt compelled to appeal to the General’s emotions, which Atsugi felt was important. After all MacArthur’s speeches and comments were being reported widely and glowingly in the newspapers.

  One of the General’s phrases resonated strongly. 'A better world will emerge based on faith and understanding,’ compelled Atsugi to be more open and forthright.

  Atsugi had contemplated at length whether to compare his severely under nourished students to the healthy, well fed and generous GIs. He finally settled on its omission. For the sake of his students he could not afford to tempt fate. So it was only two weeks later that the letter was finally completed, written on a
n old typewriter with dried up ribbon. He carefully folded and sealed it in a substitute envelope.

  He was very surprised to learn, when enquiring to the post mistress of the General’s address, that his was one of many letters sent to MacArthur.

  The Haizanhei

  Sakamoto was a Showa 16 (1941) graduate of the Japanese Imperial Army’s officer academy in Saitama. In the first two years of training the regimen was character building physically, and psychologically. There were military skills comprising Jukendo, bayonet fighting, horsemanship and martial arts. The classroom lectures varied from strategy and organisation to discipline.

  They put theory into practise with numerous exercises and manoeuvres. They were taught to be resourceful and enterprising. Their teachers stressed the importance of living off the land when supply lines were fractured.

  The cadets slept in communal barracks, ate and washed together. They were up before dawn until late at night. There was virtually no spare time. Whilst Japan was not yet at war, everyone could see it coming. Precipitous, anvil shaped thunder clouds heralded torrential and long lasting rain.

  Sakamoto was inculcated with and possessed by Bushido, the unwritten warrior spirit. It was ‘shameful to die without having risked one’s life in battle,’ went one popular axiom. Instructors emphasised time and again that faith in the creed and culture of the Samurai was their unique strength. They were reincarnate. ‘Death,’ they were reassured was, ‘as light as a feather.’

  He was fixated by justice, rectitude and courage. He imbued values of diligence, obedience, loyalty, control and self-sacrifice. Sakamoto eulogised the Yamato spirit; and fanatically convinced of the preservation of Japan, the holy country. They were supreme.

  The passing out parade was a day of breath-taking pride. It was a testament to their patriarchal love and worship for the Emperor. An Emperor descended from the sun god. Sakamoto and his fellow Lieutenants were in mental and physical union. They were one unit, one people with one collective destiny. Passion radiated from their exemplary cohesion on the parade ground.