The Naked Blood of the Cherry Blossoms Page 6

  Mi-Chan grimaced in shock. The rumours about the Komachien abounded amongst the musume and were nauseating.

  What she knew was the fact that it was a large wooden building in Amagaseki, a city in between Kobe and Osaka that entertained GIs for sexual favours. Sessions lasted approximately ten minutes per person. Mi-Chan heard the GIs paid one cent per visit with half going to the venue management. The girls or Ianafu as they were known were expected to entertain between twenty to thirty customers a day. The rumours said that most girls who worked in the Komachien were so poor they had no alternative but to volunteer. Or they were in some sort of trouble with the authorities and served there as a penance. Mi-Chan had also heard gossip there were a disproportionate number of girls of Korean and Chinese origin stationed there. There were whispers amongst the Musume about the shame of working at the Komachien. Its reputation was just so bad that many girls committed suicide rather than disgrace or shame their families.

  On her next day off, at the end of the cherry season Mi-Chan left Rokko Garden early. There was a comforting warmth in the sun and the first green buds of spring leaves were emerging on the trees. She headed to Osaka carrying a collection of Hershey chocolate, Wrigley gum and Spam hidden deep in her bag. On the advice of her room-mate, who was also receiving gifts from an admiring officer, the Osaka black market offered the best prices for genuine products and paid in cash.

  The train left from Suma station. It took at least two hours to arrive at Umeda, due to construction delays on several bridges and extensive track repairs near Ashiya. The trains were crowded. Whilst there were wooden benches, the prized seats were filled by those who boarded at terminal stations. Mi-Chan was obliged to stand and found herself gently pushed and jostled by a diverse mix of ex-serviceman travelling home, older men and younger women who had clerical jobs in Osaka, farm workers carrying goods to sell in the black market and children.

  Many of the children were orphans, thin and emaciated, wore tattered and dirty clothes, some without decent footwear. Mi-Chan imagined the majority were between eight and fourteen. Most were boys but there were also some girls. They were more difficult to distinguish because of their dishevelled appearance and unkempt hair. Most of the orphans smelt and rarely washed. They lived rough near the stations in makeshift cardboard houses and relied upon discarded military material for clothing and warmth. Their purpose for riding the trains was finding food or other valuables which they could trade or barter. Some appealed to passengers’ emotions by asking for a bite to eat. Others openly begged for money. Some stole.

  The thieves were difficult to spot and preyed on busy carriages. They often worked in pairs, one distracting a passenger, whilst another rifled bags. They were nimble, got on and off at random at stations and were impervious to authority. Even if they were caught stealing, few had any form of identification. They were very hard for the police to monitor and control.

  Mi-Chan fought her way to the side of the carriage. She knew it was a safe position and her back to the window rode the journey with her bag firmly locked in between her legs. She understood her prized stash of chocolate and spam was like gold dust. She guarded them, resisting the temptation to doze.

  The Umeda black market was abuzz with activity. There were hundreds of small time hawkers and touts amongst the larger and more established traders. The bigger merchants held more varieties of stock. Mi-Chan threaded her way through the eclectic bonanza of stalls. It was her first time to Umeda since the end of the war. Whilst most of the traders shouted and appealed to customers in their native Osaka dialect, she also heard familiar snippets of Korean. It reminded her for an instance of her father. She also heard some Mandarin.

  She finally found ‘Tengoku’ the vendor recommended by her fellow courtesan. A signboard above the stall shouted the name in thick black kanji characters. It was non-descript, stark and easy to miss, with nothing but a small table featuring some chocolate. There was a small sign neatly written, attached to the main supporting post. It said:

  ‘Tengoku, Okashi and Candy

  We buy and sell Okashi and American chocolate, gum and candy.

  Please ask for further details.

  Ishida.’

  There was only one person manning the stall. It was a short, stocky woman in her mid-30s, wearing pantaloons and a dark unbuttoned overcoat that ran down to her ankles. She was sitting on a stool, leafing through a pile of papers. She looked up as Mi-Chan lingered in front of the entrance.

  “Good morning, can I help you?”

  “Good morning,” replied Mi-Chan bowing, “I heard that you buy Okashi and chocolate?”

  “Yes that’s right, what do you have?” The woman was quite direct and brusque as was typical of Osaka traders.

  Mi-Chan delved into her bag and produced the chocolate, gum and Spam. The woman took the products and examined the chocolate bars and gum carefully. She looked both front and backside. With the Spam she tapped the cans with her knuckle and using a rudimentary set of scales weighed the product.

  “I see,” she said, “they’re genuine. For these ten items we will pay Yen200.” Mi-Chan nodded and did not try to bargain. The woman reached inside her overcoat and produced a faded purse from which she counted out the coins. Mi-Chan checked the change and handed over the goods.

  “Thank you,” Mi-Chan said.

  “If you have more Hershey chocolate and the Spam please bring them.” She looked at Mi-Chan adding, “they are very much in demand at the moment.”

  As Mi-Chan turned to leave, she noticed a short boy, with short cut hair and a stubby nose standing at the side of the stall opposite. She realised he had been looking at her transaction. His eyes followed her as she left disappearing into the moving tide of shoppers. Mi-Chan briskly walked back towards the station.

  It was only after mid-afternoon that Mi-Chan reached her mother’s abode. It was a dank and dreary cellar, accessed through the debris of her once proud home in Kobe. They had last seen each other two weeks before when Mi-Chan gave her mother Yen 1500, a considerable sum of money.

  Mi-Chan had not disclosed to Umma anything close to the full extent of her work at the Rokko Garden. Instead her explanation had been limited to a barer, and less honest set of facts. She worked as a live-in maid at an American military facility in Akashi city. Whenever possible, she took the opportunity to earn extra money by working extra shifts.

  The cellar was lit by a single gas lamp hanging from the ceiling. Inside was two oblong wooden boxes pressed up against the back wall. These served as seats during daylight hours. At night, they were covered in blankets creating makeshift beds for Umma and Mi-Chan’s fourteen year old sister Eun Ae. The boxes doubled as storage containers. Elsewhere there was a rickety western style table, an old wooden rocking chair with a wicker back, a stool plus an assorted collection of buckets and metallic tubs containing crockery and utensils. Items that had been salvaged from the bombed house. The cellar floor was concrete but swept clean daily with a rice straw broom. Mi-Chan noticed that since her last visit, Umma had acquired an ex-military gas stove that was used for cooking and boiling water. She presumed it had been bought using her funds.

  Umma sat in the rocking chair, wrapped in blankets, whilst Eun Ae, placed an old copper kettle on the stove and prepared a simple tea using black pine needles.

  “It’s wonderful you’re back Mi-Chan,” she said in Korean, holding the small tea cup in both hands, sipping it slowly, “we do miss you.”

  Eun Ae smiled and nodded in agreement.

  “I miss you too,” said Mi-Chan truthfully, “but there’s no choice, this is the only way to support the family.” She passed a small hessian bag to Umma. “Please take this.”

  Umma untied the string and counted out the coins. It was Yen 2000 about four times a typical worker’s monthly wage. Mi-Chan then reached into her bag and placed a bar of Hershey chocolate and a can of spam on the table. “It’s a small present to remember happier times.”

  Eun Ae’s eyes were w
ide open in excitement and anticipation. She rarely saw a full, unopened bar of chocolate, let alone had the luxury of eating one. There was a period of silence.

  “How do you get all these luxuries Mi-Chan?” asked Umma.

  “Well, I’m working every day and doing extra shifts; I can’t bear to see you suffer.”

  “I do understand and we appreciate it, of course this money, these gifts are very welcome, but I’m worried about you too.” Umma looked steadily at Mi-Chan. “Your father, if he was here, would want to know how come you’re getting so much money, so quickly.”

  Mi-Chan did not comment. She felt uneasy at not telling the complete truth about her work. Yet at the same time, she chided herself for feeling guilty when she was not doing anything wrong. Looking around the decrepit cellar and the forlorn environment, she could not conceive any alternative solution. Umma interrupted her thoughts and veered the discussion in a new direction.

  “Have you heard the story of the Okichi Mi-Chan?”

  Mi-Chan shook her head.

  “A few years after I arrived in Japan from Korea, I was given a novel by a friend. It was called ‘The Barbarian and the Okichi.’ It was set in the 1850s just after the first American ships came to Japan. The main character was an American, a man called Harris. He was responsible for signing the first commercial treaty with the Tokyo government. He was sick and lonely so the Japanese authorities wanted to find him a companion. The Okichi was a seventeen year old girl sent to be his mistress. She had been a washerwoman, no one else wanted to befriend the Barbarian. Of course the Okichi was reviled by her fellow citizens. She had sold herself to satisfy the barbarian’s passions. Well after being with Harris for many years, he returned to America and she was left alone. She moved from one job to another, disillusioned, just trying to settle. She finally opened a restaurant but it failed. Her reputation was ruined. She was seen to lack any sense of morality, she had nowhere to turn. In despair at the age of 49, she finally drowned herself.”

  Umma paused and looked at Mi-Chan. “Please think of your father and your family.”

  The shakuhachi

  Atsugi’s Saturdays at Kongo Gakuen were a looking glass into the emerging and turbulent world of post liberation Korean culture and political discourse.

  Korean Japanese were known as Zainichi. It meant ‘living in Japan.’ Atsugi found the Zainichi at Kongo Gakuen, a marginalised and transient group. They were struggling to define their identity and values.

  There was universal jubilation and euphoria to mark the end of forty years colonial rule on the Korean peninsula. However, opinion about the country’s future direction was volatile and divided.

  The majority of Kongo Gakuen teachers came from the south. They were in favour of immediate self-determination. Not the trusteeship agreed between the Allies and the Soviets at the war's end. They saw it as patched up arrangement that thwarted independence.

  There were some teachers from Pyongyang and other Northern cities who were sympathetic to Kim Il-sung. He was an anti-Japanese guerrilla fighter backed by the Soviets. With their support, he had established a provisional government north of the 38th parallel.

  His government immediately implemented many popular policies. The land reform programme, which broke the dominance of large landowners in favour of smaller farmers, was well received. News of it reached Korean emigres in Japan, encouraging many to return.

  Even so, a significant number of Zainichi chose to stay. Either because they had married locals, found work or lost contact with distant relatives. Pak was not alone in telling Atsugi there was a fear of prejudice and castigation if they returned.

  Adding even further uncertainty was the legality of those Zainichi who elected to remain. Paradoxically they were residents but not legal citizens. Then late in 1945 they lost all their Japanese voting rights.

  Some Kongo Gakuen teachers saw themselves as an ethnic minority. They were fighting for legitimacy against the postwar Japanese government. Whilst no longer militaristic, it was still pushing for assimilation. Especially through the school system.

  Another faction, saw the authorities as detached and indifferent.

  Against this backdrop, early in May Atsugi initiated Kongo Gakuen’s first classical ensemble. It comprised several shakuhachi, two violins, a flute and a piano. Acquiring the instruments had taken months. It involved reaching out to fellow teachers, parents and, for a nominal fee, persuading the Kobe Shimbun to run a wanted advert. The instruments Atsugi finally acquired were in varying states of repair. Only with the extended support of a technical colleague, were they finally ready for use.

  Atsugi was invited by the headmaster to speak at the morning assembly to launch his project. The musical ability of the school’s pupils varied. Yet Atsugi discovered there were at least twenty students who had received regular lessons and coaching. Even in the war. And they had a passion to perform again. Later that afternoon he started rehearsals with this group. Although the number of players outnumbered the available instruments, Atsugi’s goal was to make his ensemble open to everyone.

  Atsugi was an admirer of the Romantic period. He picked a well-loved, but challenging piece as their first composition. It was the second concerto of Mozart’s clarinet concerto no 23. Lacking a clarinet he substituted it with the shakuhachi. An instrument whose low, sombre and haunting tones he found profoundly emotive, and a worthy substitute. The rehearsal lasted over two hours and by the end the young musicians were excited and enthused with the progress they’d made. The stirring music had taken them into another realm.

  Afterwards, Atsugi was approached by one student, a teenage girl wearing a dress with a white shirt and blue cardigan. Her hair was thick and bushy and had been neatly cut to shoulder height.

  “Atsugi Sensei, thank you very much for the practise today.” She started, bowing politely and using formal Keigo Japanese. “My name is Eun Ae.”

  Atsugi looked at his pupil and nodded, “You’re welcome, was today your first time to play the shakuhachi?”

  “Yes Sensei, I used to play the recorder and before the war started, I dreamed of playing the flute.”

  “Well today’s piece was by Mozart. He is one of the most influential composers ever born. Perhaps you know that he created some beautiful pieces for the flute?” Atsugi looked upwards as if in silent prayer, dreaming for a moment of a school production of Die Zauberflöte, Mozart’s famous flute opera.

  Reality snapped back, “Maybe one day we will be fortunate enough to find one for our ensemble.”

  He paused, turning back to the student’s practise. “I’m digressing. Now in order for you to achieve and hold some of the adagio’s longer notes, I’m going to explain some breathing exercises to follow. These also apply, of course, if you aim to be a flautist.”

  Eun Ae listened attentively as Atsugi tutored her on the importance of breath intake and expulsion; control using the belly’s abdominal wall; and freeing muscle tension from the mouth, throat and lungs to maximise capacity. He suggested practising these at home before the next class.

  At the subsequent rehearsal, he was joined by Pak, the Korean dance teacher, who was intrigued to see how the student’s musical skills were being harnessed. Atsugi had noticed clear improvements in Eun Ae’s contribution. Afterwards he commended her efforts. She smiled in appreciation and then proceeded to pose several questions regarding the composer.

  “Sensei, I heard that Mozart was a poor man and died a beggar. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” replied Atsugi, “whilst he was quite well known in his lifetime, he was not wealthy. He relied upon the rich for patronage. When he died he left his widow many debts. Why do you ask?”

  “It seems so unfair that someone who could compose such beautiful music was not always appreciated by the people around him.” Eun Ae mused.

  “Well he lived in very unsettled times. Only two years before his death, the French Revolution rocked Europe; it was an age of enlightenment. An era when society began to chal
lenge its precepts like the absolute supremacy of monarchs, even the role of the Church.”

  “The Enlightenment was all about self-expression and human fulfilment,” interjected Pak who had been listening intently. “And liberation.”

  Atsugi was surprised by Pak’s comment. He had expressed it emphatically. Neither had Atsugi expected him to be aware of the Enlightenment.

  After a moment Atsugi continued, “so it’s in the context of reform and revolution that Mozart's life and work should be considered.”

  “So it sounds almost like Korea and Japan today?” Eun Ae enquired.

  “That’s very true,” said Pak again interrupting. “One of the reasons this school was founded is to give Koreans in Japan the right to proclaim our own values and traditions.”

  “My father was from Pyongyang,” added Eun Ae, “he was lost in the bombing. Now my mother says it’s very important for us Koreans to stick together.” She paused for a few seconds. “My mother says that can only happen with leaders like Kim Il-Sung.”

  Whilst Atsugi had heard of the newly proclaimed North Korean leader. He was not at all familiar with his policies. He shrugged his shoulders; Japanese newspapers gave scant coverage to the topic.

  Pak seized the opportunity to explain in more detail.

  He began to lecture. “Kim-Il Sung is very respected. He was trained by the Russians and was an exceptional warrior. He helped free Korea from colonial rule. Since forming a government, he has introduced many reforms in favour of the people, rather than the wealthy. Kim-Il Sung is nationalising industries and returning them to public ownership. The sooner he becomes leader for all Korea the better.”

  Atsugi listened impassively. In one sense, he realised how little he knew of what was happening across the Japan Sea. In another how emotive and rapidly evolving this issue was. Pak concluded the conversation by stating somewhat pompously, “so you could say this is our Korean age of enlightenment.”