Hiroshima: Three Witnesses 9780691187259

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Hiroshima Three Witnesses

Hiroshima Three Witnesses Edited and Translated bt Richard H.minear

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS PRINCETON. NEW JERSERY

C o p y r i g h t © 1 9 9 0 b y P r i n c e t o n U n i v e r s i t y Press Published b y P r i n c e t o n U n i v e r s i t y Press, 4 1 W i l l i a m Street, P r i n c e t o n , N e w Jersey 0 8 5 4 0 I n the U n i t e d K i n g d o m : P r i n c e t o n U n i v e r s i t y Press, Chichester, W e s t Sussex A l l Rights Reserved T h i s b o o k has b e e n c o m p o s e d i n L i n o t r o n B e m b o P r i n c e t o n U n i v e r s i t y Press b o o k s are p r i n t e d o n acid-free paper and m e e t the guidelines for p e r m a n e n c e and d u r a b i l i t y o f the C o m m i t t e e o n P r o d u c t i o n Guidelines for B o o k L o n g e v i t y o f the C o u n c i l o n L i b r a r y Resources P r i n t e d i n the U n i t e d States o f A m e r i c a C o v e r i l l u s t r a t i o n : A section o f " F l o a t i n g Lanterns" ( 1 9 6 9 ) b y M a r u k i I r i and M a r u k i T ö s h i . M a r u k i T ö s h i ' s t e x t for this i l l u s t r a t i o n reads: " O n A u g u s t 6, the seven rivers o f H i r o s h i m a are f i l l e d w i t h floating lanterns. Inscribed w i t h the names o f mothers, fathers, y o u n g e r sisters, they float d o w n to the sea. Before they reach the sea, the tide shifts, and the r i s i n g t i d e sweeps the lanterns back u p . T h e i r candles o u t , they drift o n dark currents. T h i s is the same O t a R i v e r that 38 years earlier was filled w i t h corpses." Parts o f five o t h e r murals b y the M a r u k i s appear i n this v o l u m e , courtesy o f M a r u k i Gallery f o r the H i r o s h i m a Panels. F o r discussion o f the M a r u k i s , t h e i r art, and the murals represented here, see p p . 371—378. L I B R A R Y OF C O N G R E S S C A T A L O G I N G - I N - P U B L I C A T I O N

DATA

H i r o s h i m a : three witnesses / R i c h a r d H . M i n e a r , e d i t o r and translator. p. cm. C o n t e n t s : pt. I. S u m m e r flowers / H a r a T a m i k i — p t . 2 . C i t y o f corpses / O t a Y ö k o — p t . 3. Poems o f the a t o m i c b o m b / T ö g e Sankichi. ISBN O - 6 9 I - O 5 5 7 3 - 4 (cl.)

ISBN O - Ó 9 I - O O 8 3 7 - X ( p b k . )

I . Hiroshima-shi (Japan)—History—Bombardment, 1 9 4 5 — Personal narratives. 2 . H i r o s h i m a - s h i ( J a p a n ) — H i s t o r y — B o m b a r d m e n t , 1 9 4 5 — P o e t r y . 3. Japanese p o e t r y — 2 0 t h c e n t u r y . 4 . Hara, T a m i k i , 1 9 0 5 - 1 9 5 1 . 5. O t a , Y ö k o , 1 9 0 3 - 1 9 6 3 . 6. T ö g e , Sankichi, 1 9 1 7 - 1 9 5 3 . I . Minear, R i c h a r d H . D767.25.H6H672

1990

940.54'25—dc20

10 9 8 7 6 5 4

89-10460

For Robert Christian Minear and E d w a r d Lawrence Minear

Contents

List o f Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

N o t e o n Japanese Names and Terms

Introduction

xiii

3

Summer Flowers by Hara T a m i k i Translator's Introduction

21

Summer Flowers 45 F r o m the Ruins 61 Prelude to Annihilation

79

City of Corpses by O t a Y ö k o Translator's Introduction

19

115

117

Preface to Second Edition (1950) 147 A n A u t u m n So Horrible Even the Stones C r y O u t Expressionless Faces 165 Hiroshima, C i t y o f D o o m 178 The C i t y : A Tangle o f Corpses 198 Relief 225 W i n d and Rain 251 Late A u t u m n Koto Music 268 Poems of the Atomic Bomb by T o g e Sankichi Translator's Introduction

133

275

277

Prelude 305 August 6 306 D y i n g 308 Flames 311 B l i n d 313 A t the Makeshift A i d Station 315 Eyes 317 Warehouse Chronicle 319 O l d Woman 323 Season o f Flames 327 Little One 331 CONTENTS

vu

Grave Marker 334 The Shadow 339 A Friend 341 Landscape w i t h River 343 D a w n 344 The Smile 346 A u g u s t , 1950 347 N i g h t 330 I n the Streets 352 To a Certain Woman 353 Landscape 355 Appeal 357 When W i l l That Day Come? 358 Entreaty 366 Afterword

367

The Hiroshima Murals o f M a r u k i I r i and M a r u k i Toshi: A N o t e Glossary

379

Guide to Names and Places

381

Suggestions for Further Reading

viii

371

38g

CONTENTS

List o f Illustrations

The Hara clan before Hiroshima 22 Hara T a m i k i and his wife Sadae, undated 26 Hara T a m i k i , M a y 16, 1949 31 Three passages Hara deleted f r o m "Summer Flowers" prior to its initial publication 37 Ota and her family, 1951 123 Ota Y o k o , 1955 128 Cover o f City of Corpses (1948), showing the notations o f the censors 13g Manuscript o f page one o f City of Corpses, w i t h editorial notations 140 T ö g e Sankichi 284 Cover o f the posthumous volume commemorating T ö g e Sankichi (1954) 290 Cover o f (mimeographed) first edition o f Poems of the Atomic Bomb 294 M a r u k i Toshi and M a r u k i I r i 378 MAPS

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Western Japan 12 Hiroshima and environs 13 Hiroshima C i t y w i t h selected locations 14 Hiroshima C i t y w i t h selected neighborhoods 13 Northeast Hiroshima (detail) 16 O u t l y i n g towns to the west o f Hiroshima 17

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

IX

Acknowledgments

A s ALWAYS, I am indebted to many institutions and individuals for assistance o f various kinds. A m o n g the former are: the American Council o f Learned Societies, for a grant that supported the w r i t i n g o f the introductory material; the Rockefeller Foundation, for a m o n t h at its study center i n Bellagio during w h i c h I polished the translation o f Summer Flowers; the University o f Massachusetts, for sabbatical leave; and the libraries and librarians o f Harvard (Harvard-Yenching), Yale (Sterling), W i l m i n g t o n College (Ohio), the University o f M a r y ­ land (Prange Collection o f the M c K e l d i n Library), and the University o f Massachusetts. A m o n g the latter are the following: i n this country, Paul Boyer, Kazue Edamatsu Campbell, John Dower, Roy D o y o n , Bill" Ehrhart, Joan E. Ericson, David Goodman, H o w a r d Hibbett, Atsuko H i r a i , Robert Jones, John J linker man, Lawrence Langer, Joseph Langland, Claire and E d M an well, m y parents Gladys and Paul Minear, Helen Redding, Yoshiko Yokochi Samuel, H i r o a k i Sato, K y o k o and M a r k Seiden, M a r i k o Shinjo, Frank Joseph Shulman, N o b u k o Tsukui; i n Japan, Edamatsu Sakae, Hara Yoshiko, Hasegawa K e i , Masuoka T o shikazu, M u r a k a m i Masanori, Nakagawa Ichie, Nakano Shigeharu's estate, O muta M i n o r u , Onuma Yasuaki, Sasaki K i i c h i , Sayama J i r ö , Sayama K y ö k o , Shibata Shingo, Sodei Rinjirö, Suginome Yasuko, and Yamane Jitsuko o f the Gembaku kinen bunko i n Hiroshima. A t Princeton University Press, Margaret Case served as editor, Sue Bishop as designer, and Laura Ward as copyeditor. The maps are the w o r k o f D o r o t h y A . Graaskamp o f the University o f Massachusetts. A special note o f thanks to Yasuko Fukumi, colleague (newly re­ tired as Librarian for East Asian Studies) and friend. As w i t h m y ear­ lier translation project, Requiem for Battleship Yamato, so w i t h this one: she was o f enormous assistance from the start. That assistance i n ­ cluded general encouragement but also help w i t h translation, w i t h reference, and w i t h communications and contacts i n Japan. W i t h o u t ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

XI

that help, this project w o u l d have taken much longer and been much more difficult. For translation rights I am indebted to Hara T o k i h i k o (Summer Flowers), Nakagawa Ichie (City of Corpses), and T ö g e Takashi (Poems of the Atomic Bomb). For permission to reproduce their art I thank M a r u k i I r i and M a r u k i Toshi. Needless to say, the institutions and individuals listed above bear no final responsibility for this book. That responsibility is mine alone.

Xll

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

N O T E O N JAPANESE NAMES A N D TERMS

T h r o u g h o u t this v o l u m e

Japanese names are given in Japanese order: surname first, then given name. I n the case o f Hara T a m i k i , Hara is the writer's family name; T a m i k i , his given name. I n the case o f Öta Y ö k o , Ota is the writer's family name; Y ö k o , her given name. Japanese words are not difficult to pronounce. There is little ac­ cent; vowel sounds are close to those o f Spanish or Italian; long marks prolong the same sound. Hiroshima is He-row-she-ma (there is a slight accent on the second syllable). Hara T a m i k i is Hah-rah Tah-mekey. O t a Y ö k o is Ohh-tah Yeo-ko. T ö g e Sankichi is T o h h-g eh Sahnkey-chee. This book includes a Glossary o f Japanese terms and a Guide to Names and Places.

Xlll

Hiroshima Three Witnesses

Introduction

Part of the horror of thinking about a holocaust lies in the fact that it leads us to supplant the human world with a statistical world; we seek a human truth and come up with a handful of figures. The only source that gives us a glimpse of the human truth is the testimony of the survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings. —Jonathan Schell, The Fate of the Earth

A x 8:15:17 on the morning o f August 6, 1945, the U n i t e d States exploded an atomic bomb over the Japanese city o f Hiroshima. A c ­ cording to an official Japanese reckoning o f 1946 that did not include military personnel, the bomb left 118,661 dead, 30,524 severely i n ­ j u r e d , 48,606 slightly injured, 3,677 missing, and 118,613 uninjured. Scientific research since 1945 has determined w i t h great exactitude the height at w h i c h the bomb exploded (580 meters plus or minus 15 me­ ters), the temperature o f the outer edge o f the fireball (1,800 degrees centigrade 15 milliseconds after the explosion), the velocity o f the shock (100 meters per second 1,000 meters f r o m the epicenter). Can we find the truth o f Hiroshima i n statistics? What do these numbers tell us? What can they tell us when American and Soviet n u ­ clear arsenals today h o l d weapons a thousand times more powerful than the bomb the U n i t e d States dropped on Hiroshima? Jonathan Schell is surely right: we must look to the survivors for the human truth o f Hiroshima. Yet h o w many voices o f Hiroshima have we heard? Three writers o f note were i n Hiroshima on August 6 and sur­ vived to w r i t e o f their experiences. The witnesses are the fabulist Hara T a m i k i , the novelist Ota Y ö k o , and the poet T ö g e Sankichi. They were three very different individuals, different i n their politics, their 1

The Committee for the Compilation o f Materials on Damage Caused by the A t o m i c Bombs i n Hiroshima and Nagasaki, ed., Hiroshima and Nagasaki: The Physical, Medical, and Social Effects of the Atomic Bombings, trans. Eisei Ishikawa and David L . Swain (New York: Basic Books, 1981). 1

INTRODUCTION

3

w r i t i n g , their styles o f life and death. (We w i l l encounter all three i n more depth i n the separate introductions to their works.) Still, they shared the staggering burden o f bearing witness to A u ­ gust 6. W i t h i n 48 hours o f August 6, before leaving w i t h his relatives for shelter outside the city, Hara T a m i k i j o t t e d d o w n this note: " M i ­ raculously unhurt; must be Heaven's w i l l that I survive and report what happened. I f so, have m y w o r k cut out." Ota Y ö k o later re­ corded this exchange w i t h her half sister as they walked through a street littered w i t h corpses: " Y o u ' r e really l o o k i n g at t h e m — h o w can you? I can't stand and l o o k at corpses." Sister seemed to be criticizing me. I replied: " I ' m l o o k i n g w i t h t w o sets o f eyes—the eyes o f a human being and the eyes o f a w r i t e r . " "Can y o u write—about something like this?" "Some day T i l have to. That's the responsibility o f a w r i t e r w h o ' s seen it."

In one o f his poems, T ö g e Sankichi addresses a child whose father was killed i n the South Pacific and whose mother died on August 6; there is no one to answer the child's innocent questions. The first three stan­ zas o f the poem end w i t h questions: " W h o w i l l tell y o u o f t h a t day? . . . W h o w i l l tell y o u / o f that night? . . . W h o w i l l tell you?/Who?" In the final stanza T ö g e answers his o w n question: Right! I'll search y o u out, put m y lips to your tender ear, and tell y o u . . . I ' l l tell y o u the real story— I swear I w i l l .

This volume presents the first complete translation into English o f Hara Tamiki's Summer Flowers, the first translation into English o f Ota Y ö k o ' s City of Corpses, and a new translation o f T ö g e Sankichi's Poems of the Atomic Bomb. Forty-five years have passed since August 6, 1945, and the English-language w o r l d is able only n o w to read the premier first-person accounts o f the atomic b o m b i n g o f Hiroshima. Have we tried to avoid messages we preferred not to hear? I N J A P A N there is a category o f w r i t i n g called "atomic b o m b litera­ ture" (gembaku bungaku). The category is a broad one. It includes j o u r 4

INTRODUCTION

nalism, memoirs, novels, poems, plays; it includes authors w h o were victims and authors w h o were not; it includes famous writers and anonymous ones. I n 1983 a press i n T o k y o published the most c o m ­ prehensive compendium to date, Nihon no gembaku bungaku (The atomic bomb literature o f Japan), i n fifteen volumes. There are i n d i ­ vidual volumes for six writers, including Hara T a m i k i (volume 1, w i t h Summer Flowers as the lead entry) and Ota Y ö k o (volume 2, w i t h City of Corpses as the lead entry). Six poems by T ö g e Sankichi appear i n volume 13, w h i c h is devoted to poetry. M u c h o f the material dates f r o m the 1960s and later—the writings, for example, o f Hayashi K y ö k o (b. 1930), Oda M a k o t o (b. 1932), and Ö e Kenzaburö (b. 1935). Hara, Ota, and T ö g e were the pioneers, the first generation; long before i960 Hara and T ö g e were dead, and Ota, exhausted, had turned away f r o m the subject o f Hiroshima. I n The Plague, Albert Camus has Tarrou speak the f o l l o w i n g lines: " A t the beginning o f a pestilence and when it ends, there's al­ ways a propensity for rhetoric. I n the first case, habits have not yet been lost; i n the second, they're returning. It is i n the thick o f a calam­ i t y that one gets hardened to the t r u t h — i n other words, to silence." W i t h Summer Flowers and City of Corpses, we are still " i n the thick o f the calamity," and "the propensity for rhetoric" has not had much time to reassert itself. Neither Summer Flowers nor City of Corpses is fiction. Each is the writer's account o f personal experience. A r t is ev­ ident i n the writer's focus, choice o f events, style, vocabulary. B u t the events themselves are real; they happened. 2

3

4

Nihon no gembaku bungaku, 15 vols. (Tokyo: Horupu, 1983). Five o f Töge's poems appear in the text; the sixth, "Prelude," appears in the frontispiece, a photograph o f the stone m o n ­ ument to T ö g e i n Peace Park, Hiroshima. Given Töge's status, it does seem strange that the compendium does not include all the poems of Poems of the Atomic Bomb. For existing trans­ lations into English o f nonfictional and fictional accounts o f Hiroshima and Nagasaki, see Suggestions for Further Reading. 2

The writer Nakano Köji divides writers o f atomic bomb literature into t w o generations: those w h o were mature i n 1945, and those w h o were children then. In addition to Hara, Ota, and T ö g e , his first generation includes Kurihara Sadako and a few others. "Taidan: gembaku bungaku o megutte" (Dialogue [ w i t h Nagaoka Hiroyoshi]: on literature o f the atomic bomb), Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshö, August 1985, p. 11. This dialogue opens an issue devoted to literature o f the atomic bomb. 3

Albert Camus, The Plague, trans. Stuart Gilbert (New York: Modern Library, 1948), p. 107.

4

INTRODUCTION

5

Hara, Öta, and T ö g e are all figures o f note i n twentieth-century Japanese literature but seldom get the attention they deserve. The K o dansha Encyclopedia of Japan (9 volumes, 1983) has a brief (and inac­ curate) entry on Hara but ignores Ota and T ö g e . Donald Keene's magisterial Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature of the Modern Era (2 volumes, 1984) makes no mention o f any o f the three. Edward Sei­ densticker, second only to Keene i n introducing Japanese literature to the English-language w o r l d , recently dismissed Hara and Ota i n shocking fashion: " U n t i l Ibuse Masuji came along w i t h much the best book that has been w r i t t e n about Hiroshima, the chief propagandists were Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o . " Perhaps this volume w i l l provide an opportunity for others to come to their o w n judgments. The experience o f Hiroshima reminds us o f the experience o f other holocausts, i n particular, the European Holocaust. There, too, survivors—Charlotte Delbo, Primo Levi, N e l l y Sachs, Elie Wiesel— bear witness. There, too, the burden o f testifying proves crushing. What words can describe the horror w i t h o u t taming it, domesticating it, demeaning it, trivializing it? What testimony can bring peace to the soul o f the witness? O f course, there were significant differences be­ tween the t w o holocausts—differences i n duration, i n motivation, i n distance between perpetrator and victim. Still, we cannot overlook the striking sitnilarities. In his fine book on the literature o f the European Holocaust, Lawrence Langer wrote: " . . . every survivor memoir must be read, at least partially, as a w o r k o f the imagination, w h i c h selects some details and blocks out others for the purpose o f shaping the reader's response—indeed, for the purpose o f organizing the author's o w n re­ sponse, too. . . . all telling modifies what is being t o l d . " Langer's words should guide us i n our study o f Hiroshima. Hara's experience is not the Hiroshima experience; it is his Hiroshima. Ota's Hiroshima is not Hara's Hiroshima but her Hiroshima. T ö g e ' s Hiroshima is a 5

6

Edward Seidensticker, review o f Jay Rubin's Injurious to Public Morals, in Journal of Japanese Studies 11.1:221 (Winter 1985).

5

Lawrence Langer, Versions of Survival (Albany: State University o f N e w York, 1982), p. x i i . See also the same author's The Holocaust and the Literary Imagination (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975) and The Age of Atrocity (Boston: Beacon, 1978).

6

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INTRODUCTION

t h i r d Hiroshima. T o be sure, the experience o f atomic holocaust was more u n i f o r m than the experience o f the European Holocaust, but i n both cases the personality and w o r l d view o f the witness affected the individual's reaction. W h o the witness was played a significant role i n h o w that person reacted. Hara, Ota, and T ö g e survived August 6. M o r e than one hundred thousand i n Hiroshima did not. W h o tells us their story? W h o speaks for them? John Hersey's Hiroshima (1946) was the first significant ac­ count i n English o f the devastation o f Hiroshima; it remains an enor­ mously influential book, the account that introduces Hiroshima to most Western readers. Reading Hiroshima can be an intensely m o v i n g experience, but the book may mislead us even as it enlightens. I n her slashing attack on Hiroshima, M a r y M c C a r t h y wrote: " T o have done the atomic bomb justice, M r . Hersey w o u l d have had to interview the dead." Rhetoric aside, her point is a serious one: the atomic holocaust o f Hiroshima is qualitatively different f r o m other disasters. Formulas appropriate to accounts o f flood or earthquake are simply not ade­ quate. M c C a r t h y wrote: " H e l l is not [Hersey's] sphere. Yet it is pre­ cisely i n this sphere—that is, i n the moral world—that the atomic bomb exploded. T o treat it journalistically . . . is, i n a sense, to deny its existence. . . . U p to August 31 o f this year [1946], no one dared think o f Hiroshima—it appeared to us all as a k i n d o f hole i n human history. M r . Hersey has filled that hole . . . he has made i t familiar and safe, and so, i n the final sense, boring." We need not agree w i t h 7

8

John Hersey, Hiroshima (New York: Knopf, 1946; new edition w i t h additional chapter, N e w York: Knopf, 1985).

7

M a r y McCarthy, Letter to the Editor, Politics 3.10:367 (November 1946). See also D w i g h t MacDonald, "Hersey's 'Hiroshima,' " Politics 3.10:308 (October 1946) and Robert Warshow, "E. B . White and the New Yorker" (1947), in Robert Warshow, The Immediate Expe­ rience: Movies, Comics, Theatre and Other Aspects of Popular Culture (Garden City, N . Y . : A n ­ chor, 1964), pp. 63-66. John Leonard dismisses both McCarthy and MacDonald ("Looking Back at Hiroshima Makes Uneasy V i e w i n g , " New York Times, August 1, 1976, p. D.23): "This, o f course, isn't really coping; it is striking an attitude. It is, moreover, greedy and elitist, a k i n d o f critical imperialism: m y categories are better than your categories, and what do ordinary people know anyway, unworthy as they are o f their tragedies?" See also M i ­ chael J. Yavenditti, "John Hersey and the American Conscience: The Reception o f ' H i r o ­ shima,' " Pacific Historical Review 43.1:24-49 (February 1975) and the same author's " A m e r ­ ican Reactions to the Use o f the Atomic Bombs on Japan, 1945-1947" (Ph.D. diss., University o f California at Berkeley, 1970), and Paul Boyer, By the Bomb's Early Light: 8

INTRODUCTION

7

M c C a r t h y i n full to be grateful for her warning o f the dangers o f speaking the unspeakable, describing the indescribable, taming the untameable. A recent survey o f our nuclear images catalogs the stun­ ning impact o f the bomb on all aspects o f our t h i n k i n g . O u r w i l l i n g ­ ness to listen n o w to these witnesses may mean that we acknowledge the justice o f McCarthy's assertion that the atomic bomb exploded i n our moral w o r l d . To paraphrase Ota Y ö k o ' s comment about the re­ sponsibility o f the writer: can we read—about Hiroshima? Can we not read? 9

W H A T E V E R our end point, we start w i t h a place, the city o f H i r o ­

shima. Hara, Ota, T ö g e : all three had spent long years i n Hiroshima; all three had a great love for the city. It w i l l help us i n reading their accounts to have a general sense o f the geography o f the city. We can gain such a sense i n part by studying the maps that f o r m part o f this volume, i n part by listening to the witnesses themselves. For now, we need to k n o w that the setting is one o f great natural beauty: a delta surrounded by mountains and divided by the seven arms o f the Öta River, w i t h the Inland Sea and its islands to the south. Here is Ota Y ö k o ' s description: H i r o s h i m a fanned out between the mountain ranges to the n o r t h and the I n ­ land Sea to the south; seven rivers flowed gently t h r o u g h the city i n the delta. Countless bridges spanned the great branches o f the river . . . T h e y were all modern, clean, broad, w h i t e , long. F r o m Ujina Bay, the fishing boats w i t h their w h i t e sails and the small passenger boats came fairly far up all the branches. Upstream, the river offered v i v i d reflections o f the mountains. The rivers o f H i r o s h i m a were beautiful. Theirs was a serene and u n ­ changing beauty. They stretched out u n i f o r m l y blue i n this broad expanse w i t h no variation i n elevation. One couldn't see distinct currents; one couldn't hear the pleasant sound o f rapids; nor could one watch gentle brooks. The rivers were serene and unchanging even on freezing w i n t e r days, w h e n snow fell. I liked Hiroshima's rivers best on days when heavy snow fell. The snow American Thought and Culture at the Dawn of the Atomic Age (New York: Pantheon, 1985), pp. 203-210. Spencer R. Weart, Nuclear Fear: A History of Images (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1988).

9

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INTRODUCTION

sealed o f f the various parts o f t o w n f r o m each other and turned the city into a silent and u n i f o r m l y silver w o r l d . Yet the seven rivers still flowed, u n h u r ­ ried. . . .

Tributes to Hiroshima's beauty also appear frequently i n the w r i t i n g s o f Hara and T ö g e . Rivers were the key to Hiroshima's beauty i n 1945; they are still Hiroshima's pride today. O n August 6 they played a different role: they offered what little relief was available to the victims o f the atomic bomb—water, escape f r o m the flames that engulfed everything flam­ mable. M o s t branches o f the Ota flowed i n riverbeds between manmade embankments five or more feet high, the water level rising and falling w i t h the season and the tide; even at h i g h water, there were often d r y stretches o f riverbed. The riverbanks were the areas atop the embankments, between river and city. Together, riverbeds and riverbanks became the setting where the drama o f life and, more often, death played itself out. Hara T a m i k i and Öta Y ö k o fled to the same river—indeed, to the same area o f the river; farther away f r o m G r o u n d Zero, T ö g e did not need to flee to a river, yet rivers figure p r o m i ­ nently i n his poems. A t o m i c holocaust may render all geography ultimately irrele­ vant; but i t was Hiroshima the bomb obliterated on August 6, not a nameless, featureless spot on the map. W E M U S T L E A R N a new geography; we must learn a new

chronology,

too. Hara, Ota, and T ö g e told time differently f r o m most o f us. Ask most o f us to think o f events during these early postwar years, and we w i l l come up w i t h a fairly standard list: Churchill's I r o n Curtain speech (March 15, 1946), the Marshall Plan (June 5, 1947), the Berlin Blockade (June 24, 1948), the establishment o f the N o r t h Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO, A p r i l 4, 1949), the victory o f the Chinese Communists (December 8, 1949), the Korean War (June 25, 1950), the election o f President Eisenhower (November 4, 1952) and his re­ election (November 6, 1956). A few o f us w i l l remember as well the Hiss case (1948), the McCarran A c t (1950), the trial o f the Rosenbergs (1951), and the M c C a r t h y hearings (1953-1954). INTRODUCTION

9

These are not the dates that l o o m large i n the universe o f the writer-victims o f the atomic bomb. Their calendar is closer to the fa­ mous clock o f the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Sundials record only the sunny hours; the writer-victims reacted particularly to events atomic. Their calendar o f these years focused on these dates: 1946 July 1948 A p r i l - M a y 1949 September 1950 M a r c h November 1952 November 1953

September

1954 M a r c h

September

American atomic tests at B i k i n i American atomic tests at Eniwetok Soviet explosion o f atomic bomb Stockholm Peace Petition President Truman's statement that the use o f atomic weapons i n Korea was under consideration American announcement o f development o f h y ­ drogen bomb Soviet announcement o f development o f h y d r o ­ gen bomb American test o f hydrogen b o m b at B i k i n i , lead­ ing to the radiation death o f a fisherman f r o m a Japanese boat (the Lucky Dragon) that strayed into the test zone Soviet test o f hydrogen bomb

These are the dates that figure prominently i n the consciousness o f survivors o f Hiroshima. A n d surely this calendar is less parochial, more significant i n w o r l d history, than the calendar most o f us carry around i n our heads. It underscores as well h o w successful most o f us have been i n holding things atomic at arm's length: one calendar for real history, a second calendar when—and if—we focus on the atomic side o f today's w o r l d . The first decade after August 6 saw very little political agitation i n Japan against the bomb. Hiroshima's first international conference against atomic and hydrogen bombs was convened i n 1955, on the 10

The new chapter i n the 1985 edition o f Hersey's Hiroshima, "The Aftermath," is inter­ rupted periodically by news reports presented in italics; for example (p. 179), "On September 23, 1949, Moscow Radio announced that the Soviet Union had developed an atomic bomb." This historical frame for the new chapter serves, surely unintentionally, to underline how bare o f historical setting the original Hiroshima was. 10

10

INTRODUCTION

tenth anniversary o f August 6; until that time survivors o f Hiroshima were largely ignored, very much on their o w n . Indeed, the American Occupation o f Japan (which lasted until 1952) attempted w i t h consid­ erable success to keep discussion o f the atomic bomb f r o m lay audi­ ences i n Japan. As we shall see, both Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o ran afoul o f Occupation censorship. Censorship extended to photographs and even to paintings: i n 1950, when M a r u k i I r i and M a r u k i Toshi, the premier artists o f Hiroshima's atomic experience, exhibited the first o f their paintings, they had to change its title f r o m Atomic Bomb to August 6, 1945. We must be careful not to read history backwards, to attribute to the first postwar decade the nuclear consciousness o f a later period. W R I T I N G I N 1924, less than ten years after the outbreak o f W o r l d War I , the German writer Thomas M a n n spoke o f the prewar era as being " i n the long ago, i n the old days, the days o f the w o r l d before the Great War, w i t h whose beginning so much began that has scarcely left o f f beginning." We are even more justified i n saying o f Hiroshima and August 6 that w i t h its "beginning so much began that has scarcely left o f f beginning." W h o o f us today traces the world's plight to 1914? W h o o f us today can avoid tracing our plight to August 6? 11

I f Camus is correct, the experience o f August 6 m i g h t have hard­ ened Hara T a m i k i , Ota Y ö k o , and T ö g e Sankichi to silence; we can be grateful that it did not. They write o f their Hiroshimas. Their H i ­ roshimas help each o f us i n the construction o f our o w n Hiroshimas. W i t h o u t their Hiroshimas, we k n o w little o f the human t r u t h o f Hiroshima. A n d w i t h o u t the human truth o f Hiroshima, we k n o w little o f Hiroshima. Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain, trans. H . T. Lowe-Porter (New York: Knopf, 1951), p. v; I have made a significant correction in the wording (see Mann, Der Zauberberg, in Thomas Mann: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 3 [Oldenburg: Fischer, i960], pp. 9-10). 11

INTRODUCTION

II

M A P i . Western Japan

12

M A P 2. Hiroshima and environs

13

M A P 3. Hiroshima City w i t h selected locations

Main rail lines II II 1

Street car lines I Neighborhoods

Numbered 1 2 3 4 5

Neighborhoods

HAKUSHIMA KUKENCHÔ 6 7 HATCHÖBORI 8 KAMIYANAGI-CHÔ 9 KAM IY A- CHÖ 10 HORIKAWA-CHÖ

HIRATAYA-CHO TERAMACHI HIRATSUKA MIDORI KANSHA-DÖRI KOKUTAIJI

M A P 4. Hiroshima City w i t h selected neighborhoods

15

M A P 5. Northeast Hiroshima (detail)

M A P 6. O u t l y i n g towns to the west o f Hiroshima

17

Translator's Introduction

t i ARA T A M I K I survived August 6 and devoted much o f the re­ maining six years o f his life to recording his experience as a v i c t i m . The w o r k for w h i c h he is most famous is Summer Flowers, a t r i p t y c h he w r o t e soon after August 6 and published i n its entirety i n 1949. H A R A ' S F A M I L Y A N D CAREER, 1905-1944

Hara T a m i k i was born on November 15, 1905, son o f a prosper­ ous businessman. The family factory was located i n Kamiyanagichö, Hiroshima; the family home was part o f the same c o m p o u n d . Hara's father and mother began their family i n 1891, when his mother was seventeen years old. Their firstborn child was a daughter. The second and third children were sons w h o died i n infancy. The fourth child, the sister to w h o m Hara was especially close, was b o r n i n 1897. After her came a son (1899-1987), w h o although actually the t h i r d son became heir to the family business; i n Summer Flowers Hara calls h i m "Jun'ichi" and paints a most unflattering picture o f h i m . A t h i r d daughter arrived i n 1900, and then came a fourth son, the "Seiji" 1

2

For biographical data on Hara, see Yamamoto Kenkichi, C h ö Köta, and Sasaki Kiichi, eds., Hara Tamiki zenshü (hereafter simply Zenshü), 3 vols. (Tokyo: Seidosha, 1978), 3.404412, and t w o biographies: Kawanishi Masaaki, Hitotsu no ummei—Hara Tamiki ron (One person's fate—Hara Tamiki) (Tokyo: Ködansha, 1980), and Kokai Eiji, Hara Tamiki—Shijin no shi (Hara Tamiki—Death o f a poet) (Tokyo: Kokubunsha, 1978). See also Nakahodo Masanori, Hara Tamiki noto (Notes on Hara Tamiki) (Tokyo: Keisö, 1983). For biblio­ graphical matters, see Hara Tamiki shiryö mokuroku (Catalog o f Hara T a m i k i materials), N i h o n kindai bungakkan shozö shiryö m o k u r o k u 10 (Tokyo: N i h o n kindai bungakkan, 1983). There is an earlier two-volume collected works: Hara Tamiki zenshü (Collected works o f Hara Tamiki) (Tokyo: Haga Shoten, 1965). 1

The chronology i n Zenshü (3.409) gives Nobori-chö as the address o f the family home; another source, dated 1912, gives the neighboring ward, Kamiyanagi-chö, as the location o f the Hara weaving factory (Sakakibara Shozo, ed., Hiroshima-shi chimei sokuin [Index to place names in the city o f Hiroshima] [1912; reprint, Hiroshima: A k i shobö, 1984], appen­ dix, p. 7). John W. Treat writes that Kamiyanagi-chö is now Nobori-chö (Treat, " A t o m i c B o m b Literature and the Documentary Fallacy," Journal of Japanese Studies 14.1:37 [Winter 1988]), but the 1912 source indicates that both Kamiyanagi-chö and Nobori-chö were i n existence at that time. 2

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

21

The Hará clan before Hiroshima. Hará T a m i k i is seated at left, wearing glasses. His sister Yasuko stands at right rear holding an infant. "Jun'ichi" is seated at center; "Takako," the wife o f "Jun'ichi," sits immediately to his left. "Seiji" stands just behind Hara T a m i k i ; the wife o f "Seiji" stands at the extreme right. Courtesy N i h o n kindai bungakkan

of Summer Flowers (1902—1978). Hara T a m i k i , born i n 1905, was the fifth son and eighth child. A sixth son arrived i n 1908. Daughters were born i n 1910 and 1912; the second o f these is the "Yasuko" of Summer Flowers. The twelfth and final child arrived i n 1916. In Japanese families o f that class and era, the sequence o f birth had considerable significance, establishing not only the rights to suc­ cession but also the pecking order. Because he was the senior son, "Jun'ichi" controlled the factory; he hectored "Yasuko"; he and his immediate family ate better than did "Seiji" and the narrator. (Japa­ nese readers o f Summer Flowers have an easy time keeping all this i n m i n d , for the second element o f each o f these given names denotes rank i n the family. The " i c h i " o f Jun'ichi means first, the " j i " o f Seiji 22

HARA TAMIKI

means second, the " z ö " o f Shözö—the name given the author's per­ sona i n "Prelude to Annihilation"—means third.) The wealth o f his family was a significant factor throughout H a ra's life. It enabled h i m to get a fine private education. It made i t pos­ sible for h i m to experience a profligate period i n his twenties and made it unnecessary for h i m to depend upon salaried w o r k for much o f his adult life. The family wealth explains the ability o f his oldest brother "Jun'ichi" to experiment w i t h a trial separation f r o m his wife "Takako," and i t also explains the presence i n their home i n 1945 o f l u x ­ ury items such as navel oranges. Despite the affluence that the Hara family enjoyed, death was a constant presence. The first t w o sons died before reaching the age o f three; the sixth died at age four. Hara was seven when this brother died, twelve when his father died (in 1917), thirteen when his favorite elder sister died (in 1918), nineteen when his eldest sister died (in 1924), thirty-one when his mother died (in 1936). A d d to these deaths the death o f his beloved wife Sadae i n 1944, when Hara was t h i r t y nine, and i t is perhaps not surprising that death occupied so important a part o f Hara's consciousness. Hara's father supplied clothing to the Japanese military, and 1905, the year o f Hara's birth, witnessed a remarkable series o f Japanese m i l ­ itary victories over Russia: the fall o f Port A r t h u r i n January, the vic­ tory at M u k d e n i n March, the destruction o f the Russian Baltic Fleet by A d m i r a l T o g o i n May, all leading to the signing o f the Treaty o f Portsmouth in September. Stirred by these events, the elder Hara gave his newborn son a name to suit: the people (tami) rejoice (ki). The external events o f Hara's life before the bomb can be related quickly. Hara attended schools i n Hiroshima f r o m 1912 through 1923. In 1918 he failed the entrance examination for middle school but passed it the second time around a year later. I n 1923 he took a year o f f and immersed himself i n literature. Before he left Hiroshima to pursue higher education i n T o k y o , Hara had already read w i d e l y and published his o w n poetry. His reading included the great Russian writers o f the nineteenth century—Gogol, Chekhov, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Turgenev; the Bible, to w h i c h he had been introduced by his TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

23

favorite elder sister; Walt Whitman; and o f course the pantheon o f Japanese writers. In 1918, the year o f his favorite sister's death, Hara first came into contact w i t h the w r i t i n g o f the German lyric poet Rainer Maria Rilke. F r o m that point on, writes Iida M o m o , Hara never let Rilke's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge out o f his grasp. I n fact, The Note­ books and Summer Flowers exhibit striking similarities o f f o r m and con­ tent. Like The Notebooks, Summer Flowers is a string o f loosely-related episodes/sections; Rilke's volume is as little a novel i n the accepted sense as is Summer Flowers. Like Rilke, Hara was prey to fears and dreams; like Rilke, he was hypersensitive. Hara started keeping a diary at the age o f twelve; that year he and "Seiji" published the first number o f their o w n journal. One o f Hara's youthful poems, w r i t t e n a few years later, concerned the large maple tree that stood i n the garden o f the Hara home; as we shall see, that tree appears i n Summer Flowers. The poem reads as follows: 3

Great maple tree by m y w i n d o w : O maple, y o u alone understand me to the b o t t o m o f m y heart. O maple, y o u alone understand m y sorrow today. O maple, y o u alone understand the loneliness i n m y breast. The j o y s and sorrows that only the maple and I share, and more, the grief and desolation that cloud the b r i g h t m o o n o f m y heart; M y heart—what is it? A n d still stranger: M y body. O maple, do y o u k n o w what I am? Probably not. N o r I , nor anyone else. 4

Iida M o m o , "Kaisetsu" (Commentary), i n Hara Tamiki zenshü, 2 vols. (Tokyo: Haga shoten, 1965), reprinted i n Nihon no gembaku bungaku (The atomic bomb literature o f Japan), 15 vols. (Tokyo: H o r u p u , 1983), 1.308. There are two two-volume editions o f Hara's collected works: Hara Tamiki sakuhinshü (Collected works o f Hara Tamiki) (Tokyo: Kadogawa shoten, 1953) and Hara Tamiki zenshü (Collected works o f Hara Tamiki) (Tokyo: Haga shoten, 1965)"Kaide" ("Maple"), Zenshü 1.687. 3

4

24

HARA TAMIKI

N o t great poetry, perhaps; but a remarkable effort for a boy o f fifteen and eloquent testimony to inner t u r m o i l and anguish. In A p r i l 1924, Hara entered the preparatory course o f the Litera­ ture Faculty o f Keiö University, one o f Japan's most prestigious p r i ­ vate institutions. F r o m 1924 until his graduation i n 1932 at the age o f 26, Hara was affiliated w i t h Keiö, majoring i n English literature and w r i t i n g a thesis on Wordsworth. D u r i n g these years he continued to read w i d e l y — i n particular, Dadaism and Marxism—and to w r i t e b o t h poetry and prose. His last years at Keiö coincided w i t h the worst years o f the D e ­ pression and also the high point o f the proletarian literature move­ ment i n Japan. Hara was a member o f a group that produced a circu­ lar, "The Magazine o f the Club o f Four or Five"; Kawanishi Masaaki writes that the other members were surprised one time to find, scrib­ bled i n Hara's handwriting, " L o n g live the C o m m u n i s t Party!" and "Workers o f the w o r l d , unite!" Hara became involved i n radical p o l ­ itics and organizing f r o m 1929 until 1931. That activity led to his ar­ rest i n T o k y o i n 1931 and to his break w i t h political action. One o f Hara's biographers describes the process not as a change o f heart or apostasy but as an "abandonment" o f politics. O n leaving politics, Hara turned to other interests entirely, be­ coming something o f a dandy. He smoked cigarettes that were outlandishly expensive. A t considerable cost he bought out the contract o f a Yokohama prostitute and lived w i t h her for a m o n t h before she ran out on h i m . Shortly after she left h i m , Hara attempted suicide. This phase o f Hara's life came to an end w i t h his marriage i n 1933 to Nagai Sadae, w h o at t w e n t y - t w o was five years younger than he. W i t h her help he led a life happier than any he had k n o w n since early childhood. I n his early years, he had depended first on his mother and then on his elder sister; n o w he depended completely on Sadae. Even before his marriage he had displayed introspective, even antisocial ten­ dencies. Entering middle school a year later than his age group, he had kept himself apart and largely silent. He thought o f himself as schizoid; his friends offered politer diagnoses. Hypersensitive at the 5

6

5

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 20.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

6

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 27.

25

very least, Hara feared the dark, bright light, and shocks o f any k i n d . In the words o f one friend, Hara was "thoroughly incompetent, hand­ icapped, and deformed for life i n society." Sadae became his contact w i t h the w o r l d . She communicated for him. Hara w o u l d t h r o w up at the prospect o f going to T o k y o (from their apartment i n Chiba, not far distant) or o f meeting people. She accompanied h i m everywhere, even to the doctor's office i n the neighborhood. I n the words o f one biographer, " F r o m that time on, o f his o w n w i l l , he ceased all attempts to communicate w i t h others." It was "thoroughgoing misanthropy." Wrapped i n this cocoon, Hara gave himself over to a life o f w r i t ­ ing, the only f o r m o f communication w i t h w h i c h he was comfortable. Staying up late, sleeping late (a habit that i n 1945 earned h i m the sharp criticism o f both elder brothers), he wrote and wrote, mainly short pieces and tales o f childhood (Japanese critics use the German term Märchen). K o k a i E i j i argues that these tales place Hara among the top three Japanese writers o f childhood. A n excerpt from "The M a r t e n " (1936) is indicative o f their nature: 7

8

9

Standing on one leg, the apricot tree stretches b o t h arms w i d e i n t o the blue sky. The tree says to the breeze b l o w i n g t h r o u g h its top: " H m m , pretty ripe." Yamamoto Kenkichi, "Hara Tamiki," Mita bungaku (July 1951), reprinted i n Yamamoto Kenkichi zenshü (Tokyo: Ködansha, 1984) 10.162. 7

8

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 33.

9

Kokai, Hara Tamiki, p. 106.

Hara T a m i k i and his wife Sadae, undated. Courtesy N i h o n kindai bungakkan

26

HARA T A M I K I

Enticed by the breeze, a bumblebee comes along. Its t w o arms still stretched w i d e , the tree speaks to the bee: " I ' l l bet the apricot tree i n the Kawasaki garden is pretty ripe." The bee says, " I have no idea," and flies off. T h e tree laughs as i f tickled, shaking its t w o arms: " H a ha ha! That d u m b bee doesn't k n o w the Kawasaki garden!" 10

Between his marriage i n 1933 and his wife's death i n 1944 there were only t w o significant intrusions into Hara's fairy-tale w o r l d : not Japan's war i n China, not Pearl Harbor, but events that had a direct bearing on h i m . The first came i n 1934, when the T h o u g h t Police arrested both Hara and his wife, held them for thirty hours, and then released them. Apparently neighbors had become suspicious o f Hara's behavior. It was an age o f suspicion, and o f course Hara had a prior arrest on his record. This second arrest, Hara w o u l d w r i t e later, "burned itself onto [ m y ] very soul." The second intrusion was both more gradual and more earthshaking. I n 1939 Sadae was diagnosed as having pulmonary tubercu­ losis. F r o m then until her death i n September 1944 at the age o f 33, she became an invalid. Hara stopped w r i t i n g his tales, resumed some w r i t i n g o f poetry, and took on w o r k , first teaching English i n a m i d ­ dle school, then w o r k i n g for a f i l m company. Sadae's brother has left a m o v i n g description o f Hara's attendance at his wife's sickbed: 11

W h e n m y sister fell i l l and entered the hospital o f Chiba Medical College, Hara went to the hospital every other day. N o matter what the weather, he never missed a visit. . . . W h e n he set out for the hospital, he seemed utterly happy, as guileless as a grade-school k i d heading for the zoo. I don't doubt that he w o u l d have gone every day had i t been possible; but he had a j o b , and he w o r r i e d that daily visits m i g h t l o o k a little queer, so he settled o n every other day. H a v i n g stayed home one day, he w o u l d set out lightheartedly the next, as i f he had been l o n g i n g for that day to come. I t was a touching sight. . . . H e visited her r o o m , but i t appears he hardly ever said anything. H e w o u l d simply sit at his wife's bedside, stare fixedly at her face, and perhaps peel and eat a piece o f f r u i t . 12

10

"Ten," Zenshü 1.270.

"Kuroshiku utsukushiki natsu" ("A painfully beautiful summer") (1949), Zenshü 2.272. Hara is writing o f himself in the third person. 11

12

Quoted i n Kokai, Hara Tamiki, pp. 113-115.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

27

I n fact, continues the brother-in-law, Hara may have been happier, more at peace w i t h the w o r l d , at his wife's bedside than at any other time i n his life. Sadae died i n September 1944. Hara had long been incapable o f l i v i n g alone, and i n January 1945 he returned to his family home i n Hiroshima, m o v i n g i n w i t h "Jun'ichi." Summer Flowers opens w i t h the narrator b u y i n g flowers to place on his wife's grave. The festival o f the dead—bon, August 15—was less than t w o weeks away, the first bon since his wife's death eleven months earlier. Virtually the entire first section o f Summer Flowers is an amplification o f the notes that Hara began to set d o w n less than 36 hours after the bomb fell; but not this opening. Perhaps it is testimony to the continuing influence o f his wife. O r perhaps the flowers he places on her grave are also, s y m b o l ­ ically, flowers for those w h o died on August 6. D E A T H A N D T H E A T O M I C B O M B , 1944-1950

The death and the deaths—the personal, individual death o f his beloved Sadae and the impersonal, mass deaths o f the residents o f Hiroshima—came less than a year apart and brought about a profound transformation i n Hara's life and thought. That transformation was not all negative. B o t h i n the psychological and i n the literary senses, these t w o events had their enabling aspects. Consider first the psychological impact o f his wife's death. H a ­ ra's almost total dependence on Sadae, his guileless j o y even i n the g r i m business o f regular visits to a patient slowly dying o f tuberculo­ sis, came to an end. Hara's biographer Kawanishi Masaaki has sug­ gested that Sadae's death led to Hara's r e b i r t h . Kawanishi describes Hara's w r i t i n g before 1944 as the product o f an immature self and argues that the death o f Sadae began the process whereby Hara broke free o f his self-inclosed inner w o r l d . Even so, his vision was still personal and solitary. This feeling comes across i n "Far Journey," an essay first published i n 1951. "Far Journey" recounts a m e m o r y o f an earlier year: "The next spring a collection o f his works first saw the light o f day. Yet even as he held 13

13

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, pp. 85-87.

28

HARA T A M I K I

the volume i n his hand, he wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad. . . . It had happened just after he had married. His wife had spo­ ken dreamily o f death. As he looked at his young wife's face, i t had occurred to h i m that he m i g h t soon lose her. I f she were to die, he w o u l d outlive her by only a year—in order to leave behind a single volume o f sad and beautiful poems." A volume o f sad and beautiful poems: u n t i l August 6, that had been Hara's goal. H a d that been his fate, he w o u l d not be o f such interest. I n the words o f K o k a i Eiji, " . . . had he not experienced the atomic bomb, he probably w o u l d not have achieved historical significance as a postwar w r i t e r . " For all the confessional aspects o f Hara's writings on dreams and death, one can glean little about the events o f his life f r o m his w r i t ­ i n g — u n t i l August 6. K o k a i remarks that Hara's writings underwent no significant changes i n the 1930s despite all the t u r m o i l : his one month's cohabitation w i t h the ex-prostitute, his attempted suicide, his subsequent marriage to Sadae. Kawanishi adds: "Hara was a writer w h o d i d not sing o f the springtime o f youth. It was not merely that he d i d not sing o f youth. He consciously refused to sing o f y o u t h . I t was not the case that he had no y o u t h o f w h i c h to sing. He had ideal material. Poems, Dadaism, M a r x i s m , love, wine, women, attempted suicide, arrest. He did not lack for material. Self-imposed isolation, disintegration, madness." Elsewhere Kawanishi suggests a direct link between Hara's earlier isolation and the power o f his postwar w o r k : "Precisely because he had cut o f f the avenues leading to society . . . he was able better than anyone else to see the human condition clear-eyed amid the unprecedented experience o f the atomic b o m b . " In "Flowers after the Frost," an essay o f 1947, Hara describes the p r o ­ cess himself, more simply: "The atomic bomb moved h i m to what m i g h t be called a new compassion for and interest i n h u m a n k i n d . " As Yamamoto Kenkichi has written, " I f marriage taught solitary Hara the w o r l d o f another person, that g r i m experience [ o f the atomic b o m b ] taught h i m the w o r l d i n w h i c h everyone is linked by ' g r i e f " ° 14

15

16

17

18

19

2

14

"Haruka na tabi," Zenshü 2.298.

15

Kokai, Hara Tamiki, p. 132 (his italics).

16

Kokai, Hara Tamiki, p. 91.

17

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 58.

18

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 39.

19

"Hyöka," Zenshü 2.30.

2 0

Yamamoto, "Hara T a m i k i , " p. 163.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

29

N o t only was there a new compassion and interest, there was also a sense o f mission. I n "The A t o m i c B o m b : Contemporary Notes o f a V i c t i m , " Hara j o t t e d d o w n this thought: "Miraculously unhurt; must be Heaven's w i l l that I survive and report what happened." I n Summer Flowers that statement becomes " I thought to myself: I must set these things d o w n i n w r i t i n g . " Later still, Hara w o u l d w r i t e an essay entitled "The W i l l to Peace." The precise date is uncertain, but f r o m internal evidence it must be after 1948. Hara addresses himself: " Y o u who escaped harm f r o m the thunderclap o f the atomic b o m b — w h e n you tried to scramble to your feet among so many whose whole b o d ies were nearly destroyed, when it came to the clamor o f the vortex o f dead people all around, when y o u still tried to survive i n the face o f a long spell o f hunger: w h y was it important to survive? D i d something order y o u to survive? —Answer! Answer! Tell o f its meaning!" Hara proceeds to make a statement against nuclear weapons and i n favor o f peace: " I n the back o f the m i n d i n w h i c h a single human being desires and affirms war, the vague feeling probably rules that even i f the other millions o f people die violent deaths I alone w i l l survive. W i t h o u t doubt, such an outcome was possible i n past wars. B u t war henceforth w i l l lead to the w i p i n g out o f each and every person o f every country, impartially—that fact must be impressed upon people." Or, as Hara writes i n Requiem, " I kept telling myself again and again—don't live for yourself; live only to lament those w h o have died." His political stance comes across most clearly i n an essay o f 1948, " O n War": " W i l l humankind merely live pitiful lives i n the valleys between wars? Can one not sense its meaning unless one's o w n skin is seared by the murderous rays o f an atomic bomb? W i l l man's opposition to the slaughter o f men remain powerless? . . . I don't know. I k n o w only one thing clearly: those faint voices o f the countless i n j u r e d people, fallen i n the tragedy o f Hiroshima, their voices all appealing to Heaven—I k n o w what they w o u l d say." Hara had moved back to Hiroshima less than four months after 21

22

23

24

21

"Gembaku hisaiji no nòto," Zenshü 3.340-341.

22

"Heiwa e no ishi," Zenshü 2.599-600.

23

Chinkonka (1949), Zenshü 2.107.

2 4

"Senso ni tsuite," Zenshü 2.598.

30

HARA T A M I K I

Hara T a m i k i , M a y 16, 1949. Courtesy N i h o n kindai bungakkan 31

Sadae's death. There he was on August 6, 1945, and w i t h i n four months after the bomb he had completed "Summer Flowers." It was w r i t i n g unlike anything he had undertaken previously. It was not a fairy tale or a poem, not a dream. It was about death, and he had w r i t t e n often about death; but the differences were more striking than the similarities. Before Sadae's death and before August 6, Hara was a precious, insulated, isolated writer, w r i t i n g out o f childhood m e m ­ ories and dreams and nightmares. After August 6, he produced Sum­ mer Flowers. Yet even as he was w r i t i n g Summer Flowers, between 1945 and 1949, his thinking changed. Hara himself described the process o f rel­ ative disillusionment i n "Death, Love, Solitude," an essay o f 1949: " I t is true that f r o m amid the screams and chaos o f death I burned w i t h a prayer for a new human being. That I , a weakling, was able to w i t h ­ stand bitter hunger and destitution—that too was probably due i n part to that prayer. B u t the tempestuous seas o f the postwar era beat t h u n ­ derously upon me and threaten even n o w to break me i n pieces." Hara felt misused by a friend, by his nephew, by a landlord; his faith i n a new human being gave way. Evidence o f the change can be found i n Summer Flowers. I n "Summer Flowers," the opening section that he finished i n 1945, Hara focuses almost exclusively on the magnitude o f the tragedy; he tells us almost nothing about relations among the members o f the narrator's family. I n " F r o m the Ruins," published i n 1947, Hara speaks critically o f some people, i n particular the villagers w h o d i d not welcome the refugees from Hiroshima. I n "Prelude to Destruction," published i n January 1949, Hara is scathingly critical not simply o f outsiders but also o f the family itself. T h o u g h i t deals w i t h events that happened before August 6 (and hence predating "Summer Flowers" and " F r o m the Ruins"), "Prelude to Destruction" was w r i t t e n last; by then Hara had moved back to his awareness o f 25

26

Hara also wrote free verse and haiku about Hiroshima; for the latter and one o f the former, see Richard H . Minear, "Haiku and Hiroshima: Hara T a m i k i , " Modern Haiku 19.1:11—17 (Winter-Spring 1988). The same free verse poem is found (translator not credited) i n K e n zaburo Oe, Hiroshima Notes, ed. David L . Swain (Tokyo: YMCA, 1981) and (with a second poem) i n John W. Treat, "Early Hiroshima Poetry," Journal of the Association of Teachers of Japanese 20.2:221-225 (November 1986). 2 5

2 6

"Shi to ai to ködoku," Zenshü 2.550.

32

HARA T A M I K I

humankind's daily i n h u m a n i t y I n Hara's o w n words: "For me i t seems precisely as if, while we are alive on this earth, each moment is filled to the b r i m w i t h fathomless horror. A n d the tragedies that take place daily i n people's minds, the unbearable agonies that each i n d i ­ vidual human being is subjected to—things like these n o w fester hor­ ribly inside me. Is it likely that I can stand up to them, depict them?" These "unbearable agonies" found voice i n another w o r k o f 1949, Requiem. There Hara writes as follows: " I have absolutely no idea h o w everyone lives. H u m a n i t y is all like glass shattered into smither­ eens. . . . The w o r l d is broken. Humankind! H u m a n k i n d ! H u m a n ­ kind! I can't understand. I can't connect. I tremble. H u m a n k i n d . H u ­ mankind. H u m a n k i n d . I want to understand. I want to connect. I want to live. A m I the only one trembling? Always inside me there is the sound o f something exploding. Always something is chasing me. I am made to tremble, am flogged, am made to flare up, am shut d o w n . " The years immediately after Sadae's death and the atomic b o m b had been not a cure but a remission, and by 1949 Hara's internal demons were i n the ascendant once more. 27

28

DEATH

The t w o most significant works o f Hara's late years are Requiem and "Land o f M y Heart's Desire," published i n 1951 shortly after H a ­ ra's death. I n the former, Hara treats the death o f Sadae and the deaths o f Hiroshima almost as a single loss and comes to terms w i t h both. The tone is tranquil, elegiac. Early i n Requiem he composes an i m a g ­ inary ESSAY O N M A N (the title is capitalized and i n English i n the original) : Death: death made me g r o w up. Love: love made me endure. Madness: madness made me suffer. Passion: passion bewildered me. Balance: m y goddess is balance. Dreams: dreams are m y everything. The gods: the gods cause me to be silent. Bureaucrats: bureaucrats make me melancholy. 27

"Shi to ai to ködoku," Zenshü 2.550.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

28

Chinkonka, Zenshü 2.122-123.

33

Flowers: flowers are m y sisters. Tears: tears resuscitate me. Laughter: I w i s h I had a splendid laugh. War: ah, war makes people come to grief.

29

T o w a r d the end of Requiem Hara returns to this list, n o w transformed into a prayer for the people he sees as he wanders aimlessly through the city: "(That their deaths be mature. That their love endure. That they not be alone. That passion not bewilder, that madness not be too tearing. That they be blessed w i t h balance and dreams. That they not be lost sight o f by the gods. That their bureaucrats be kind. That flow­ ers move them to tears. That they often laugh together. That war be exterminated. ) " In "Land o f M y Heart's Desire," Hara speaks o f his o w n death i n terms that are only slightly veiled. For example: "This life no longer offers even a single straw for me to clutch." B u t the most m o v i n g passage o f all is the section i n w h i c h he talks o f a grade crossing near his apartment i n T o k y o : 3 0

31

This is a crossing I often use; often w h e n the barrier comes d o w n I have to wait. Trains come f r o m the direction o f N i s h i - O g i k u b o or f r o m the direction o f Kichijöji. As the trains approach, the tracks here vibrate perceptibly up and d o w n . T h e n the trains roar past at full throttle. The speed somehow washes me clean o f all cares. It may be that I am jealous o f those people w h o can charge t h r o u g h life at full throttle. B u t the ones w h o appear to m y mind's eye are people w h o f i x their gaze more despondently o n these tracks. M e n broken by life, w h o despite their w r i t h i n g and struggling have already been shoved d o w n into a pit f r o m w h i c h there is no escape—it always seems that their shades loiter i n the v i c i n i t y o f these tracks. B u t as, stopping at this cross­ ing, I sink i n t o this contemplation . . . w o n ' t m y shade, too, soon loiter along these tracks? 32

W i t h i n days o f w r i t i n g these lines, at 11:31 on the night o f March 13, 1951, Hara T a m i k i lay d o w n on these rails and was run over. 29

Chinkonka, Zenshü 2. n o .

Chinkonka, Zenshü 2.142-143.

"Shingan no k i m i , " Zenshü 2.329. For a complete translation, see Richard H . Minear, "Hara Tamiki's 'Land o f M y Heart's Desire' " (University o f Massachusetts Asian Studies Committee Occasional Papers, no. 14, forthcoming); see also "The Land o f Heart's Desire," trans. John Bester, in Kenzaburo Oe, ed., Atomic Aftermath: Short Stories about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, trans. David Swain (Tokyo: Shueisha, 1984), pp. 55-61. 31

32

"Shingan no kuni," Zenshü 2.331.

34

HARA T A M I K I

One o f Hara's biographers, K o k a i Eiji, stresses the political con­ text o f Hara's suicide, that Hara was despondent over the Korean War and specifically over President Truman's statement i n a November 1950 press conference that the use o f atomic bombs was under consid­ eration. I n fact, Hara d i d compose the following poem i n response to Truman's declaration (he enclosed i t i n a last letter to a friend): 33

L o r d , p i t y the homeless child's Christmas. The child n o w homeless w i l l be homeless t o m o r r o w , too; and the children w h o n o w have homes, they too w i l l be homeless t o m o r r o w . Wretched, stupid, we lead ourselves o n to destruction, bodies and souls, not k n o w i n g enough to stop one step this side o f destruction. T o m o r r o w , once again, fire w i l l pour d o w n f r o m the skies; t o m o r r o w , once again, people w i l l be seared and die. The misery w i l l continue, repeat itself, t i l l countries everywhere, cities everywhere all meet destruction. Pity, p i t y these thoughts o f a Christmas n i g h t filled, filled w i t h signs that the day o f destruction is near. 34

Still, Hara's long-standing fixation on death and the tranquility o f his final writings suggest that internal causes had more to do w i t h his suicide than external causes, that the internal dialectic took prece­ dence over the external stimulus o f President Truman's nuclear brinksmanship. This is not to say, o f course, that Truman's threat had only a m i n o r impact on Hara's thinking. Those w h o d i d not experi­ ence Hiroshima or Nagasaki can imagine only w i t h great difficulty what President Truman's statement must have meant to Hara: after all, the same man had ordered the b o m b i n g o f Hiroshima and Naga33

Kokai, Hara Tamiki, p. 14.

34

"le naki ko no Kurisumasu" ("The homeless child's Christmas"), Zenshü 3.36.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

35

saki. B u t the Korean War and President Truman's threat were not the only factors i n Hara's calculations. W r i t i n g after Hara's death, Hara's friend Yamamoto Kenkichi caught that personal dialectic best. I n the atomic b o m b i n g o f H i r o ­ shima, he writes, Hara's darkest premonitions and allegories became reality. Hara "devoted the next five years exclusively to speaking o f its meaning." I n the process, he "became merely a voice, losing all sounds apart f r o m i t . " Consequently, "his death was like the death o f a cricket when winter comes and he has sung his last song." 35

36

SUMMER

FLOWERS:

T H E TEXT

The first t w o sections o f Summer Flowers appeared separately i n Mita bungaku (Mita letters), a literary j o u r n a l associated w i t h Keiö University, located i n M i t a . "Summer Flowers" appeared i n June 1947; " F r o m the Ruins," i n November 1947. Hara chose Mita bungaku because i t did not face pre-publication censorship by the Occupation authorities. (Hara first approached Kindai bungaku [ M o d e r n letters], w h i c h did face such censorship. The j o u r n a l was instructed not to publish "Summer Flowers." Hara thought briefly o f arranging initial publication i n English translation i n order to present the censors w i t h a fait accompli, but that option did not prove practicable.) "Prelude to A n n i h i l a t i o n " appeared i n Kindai bungaku i n January 1949. 37

In July 1949 Hara wrote o f himself as one "who tends sometimes to be so despairing his head swirls, thinking that all is naught." Book review i n Mita bungaku 31:35 (July 1949). 35

36

Yamamoto, "Hara T a m i k i , " pp. 160-163.

See, for example, Hirano Ken, "Hara Tamiki," Nihon no gembaku bungaku 1.319. The Prange Collection at the University o f Maryland includes the issues o f Mita bungaku con­ taining the first t w o parts of Summer Flowers, no. 10 (June 1947) and no. 12 (November 1947). They show clearly that Mita bungaku was subject to post-publication censorship dur­ ing these years. The first issue stamped "Spot Checked" is that o f October 1949; the first issue stamped "Processed w / o Examination" is that o f March 1949. Further, the Prange Collection copies indicate that the censors took no issue w i t h either "Summer Flowers" or "From the Ruins." Four earlier articles (issues o f January 1946 and November 1946) were post-censored and marked disapproved; the penalties, i f any, are not clear. Kindai bungaku, which for this period had roughly twice the circulation of Mita bungaku, faced pre-publica­ tion censorship until the end o f 1949 brought a virtual end to censorship; Hara's "Prelude to Annihilation"—which mentions the atomic bomb only in its final sentence—appeared i n the January 1949 issue. In her study o f Occupation censorship o f things atomic (The Atomic Bomb Suppressed: American Censorship in Japan, ig4$—ig4Ç [Lund: Liber, 1986], p. 106), Monica Braw comments: " I t is sometimes difficult to see i n what respect the published 37

36

HARA T A M I K I

Three passages Hara deleted f r o m "Summer Flowers" p r i o r to its initial publication (June 1947). T h e first t w o excerpts he restored w h e n he published the completed Summer Flowers i n February 1949; i n this v o l u m e they appear o n pages 52 and 57-58. The t h i r d passage, a p o e m , Hara published later, separately. Courtesy N i h o n k i n d a i bungakkan and Hara T o k i h i k o

The first appearance o f the entire w o r k came i n February

1949,

w h e n N ö r a k u shorin b r o u g h t out a single v o l u m e under the title Sum­ mer Flowers. w o r k for the

I n his " A f t e r w o r d " first

to that volume, Hara referred to

t i m e i n p r i n t as a t r i p t y c h .

38

Since 1949

the

Summer

Flowers has appeared i n many forms: i n the various collections o f H a ra's w o r k s , i n anthologies, and twice on its o w n . The latter is the f o r m articles are different from those suppressed." The inconsistencies i n the censors' treatment o f Hara and Mita bungaku seem to support that assessment. Hara T a m i k i , Natsu no hana (Tokyo: Nöraku shorin, 1949), p. 216; reprinted i n Zenshü 3-367-368. The Nöraku shorin volume also included three short pieces; Hara wrote that they had "links to the triptych (sanbusaku) 38

TRANSLATORS' INTRODUCTION

37

i n w h i c h i t attained its greatest popularity: the Shöbunsha edition o f 1970 had gone through ten printings by 1981. The differences among the various texts are largely insignificant, w i t h one major exception: the order o f the three parts. Chronological order does not match order o f composition. "Prelude to Annihila­ t i o n " opens i n the spring o f 1945 and takes the story up to August 4; it ends w i t h the sentence, "There were still more than forty-eight hours to go before the atomic bomb paid its visit." "Summer Flowers" opens on August 4. " F r o m the Ruins" tells o f life i n the village to w h i c h Hara and some o f his family fled several days after August 6. However, that is not the order i n w h i c h Hara wrote them. "Pre­ lude to A n n i h i l a t i o n " came last, a full eighteen months after "Summer Flowers," fourteen months after "From the Ruins." N o r is it Hara's preferred order. I n the first appearance o f the triptych as a whole, Hara arranged the three parts i n order o f composition. Moreover, i n his " A f t e r w o r d " he referred to the three parts as "original, continua­ tion, and supplement. " That terminology sets "Prelude to Annihila­ t i o n " i n a distinctly subordinate position. ("The A t o m i c B o m b : C o n ­ temporary Notes o f a V i c t i m " forms the basis for only t w o parts o f the triptych—"Summer Flowers" and " F r o m the Ruins"; it begins w i t h August 6 and contains no reference to the subject matter o f "Pre­ lude to Annihilation.") The Shöbunsha edition, w h i c h is the version most Japanese readers know, ignores the order o f composition i n fa­ vor o f chronological order; the various collected works all yield to the author's preference. 39

The order is significant for a number o f reasons. M o s t important, the tone o f "Prelude to Annihilation" differs markedly f r o m that o f the other t w o . It marks the emergence o f a darkened picture o f the human beings w h o are the central characters o f all three parts—the rebirth, writes Kawanishi, o f egoism. I n it Hara writes o f intense friction among the members o f the family; the overbearing attitude o f "Jun'ichi" toward the j u n i o r members o f the family is perhaps most 40

39

Sei, zoku, ho; Hara, Natsu no hana, p. 86 {Zenshü 3.367).

4 0

Kawanishi, Hitotsu no ummei, p. 118.

38

HARA T A M I K I

striking. Kawanishi links this development to the larger trend o f H a ­ ra's g r o w i n g disillusionment. This translation follows the order Hara himself favored, order o f composition rather than chronological or­ der. In "Summer Flowers" and " F r o m the Ruins" Hara writes i n the first person and designates his immediate family by their relation to him—"eldest brother," "second brother," "younger sister," "sister-inlaw"—not by name. Indeed, the sole name he uses i n "Summer F l o w ­ ers" is that o f his nephew Fumihiko, w h o appears only i n death. I n "Summer Flowers" Hara identifies acquaintances by initials ( " K . , " " N . " ) ; i n " F r o m the Ruins" he gives them names ("Nishida," "Maki"). I n "Prelude to Annihilation" Hara invents names for the i m m e ­ diate family: "Jun'ichi" for the eldest brother, "Seiji" for the second brother, "Yasuko" for the younger sister, "Takako" for the wife o f "Jun'ichi." He gives full names to all others w h o appear, except the schoolteacher, "Miss T . , " for w h o m there is at least a hint that the author has a soft spot. Finally, i n the case o f the narrator-figure Hara shifts f r o m the first person o f "Summer Flowers" and " F r o m the R u ­ ins" to t h i r d person, "Shözö." It is grating i n English (as it is not i n Japanese) to refer repeatedly to "eldest brother," "second brother," and "younger sister," so i n " F r o m the Ruins" this translation uses for the immediate family the names Hara uses only i n "Prelude to A n n i ­ hilation." The designation o f the narrator-figure remains unchanged: " I " i n the first t w o parts, " S h ö z ö " i n "Prelude to Annihilation." This is not the first translation into English o f the w o r k o f Hara T a m i k i . I n 1953 George Saito published a nearly complete translation o f "Summer Flowers," the first part o f Summer Flowers. The present translation is the first complete translation of Summer Flowers into E n ­ glish (or any other language). 41

George Saito, trans., "The Summer Flower," Pacific Spectator 7.2:202-212 (Spring 1953). That translation has been reprinted several times, most recently in Shoichi Saeki, ed., The Catch and Other War Stories (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1981) and in expanded form in Oe, ed., Atomic Aftermath (the identity o f the "editor" w h o did the expanding is not clear, nor is the expanded text in fact complete). 41

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

39

O N E C R I T I C has commented that o f all Hara's works, Summer Flowers leaves the "faintest impression." He couples that criticism w i t h the comment that Hara's gifts were not well suited to the stark portrayal o f reality. Hara's voice is always soft, often muted. Here is the critic Yamamoto Kenkichi: " A m i d the frenzied noise o f the postwar era, he speaks to us i n a faint, soft voice, as i f whispering directly, soul to soul; and even though i t originates i n the single earthshaking experi­ ence [ o f the b o m b ] , his voice is so pure that only those w h o listen intently can hear i t . " Some o f Hara's works—"Land o f M y Heart's Desire" comes immediately to mind—positively sing; Summer Flowers does not. B u t the criticism is wide o f the mark insofar as it assumes that literary excellence i n its normal acceptation is the crucial criterion i n j u d g i n g accounts o f holocaust. Perhaps event overwhelms style. Per­ haps event—and the need for witness—forces a rethinking o f the cat­ egory "literary excellence." Hara is not the greatest writer o f his gen­ eration, but Summer Flowers is one o f the important books o f the twentieth century. Other writers have written w i t h greater style; i n ­ deed, Hara himself does i n some o f his other works. B u t Summer Flowers is the classic account o f the atomic bombing o f Hiroshima. 42

43

Hirano Ken, "Hara T a m i k i , " Nihon no gembaku bungaku 1.319. See also John W. Treat, " A t o m i c B o m b Literature and the Documentary Fallacy," Journal of Japanese Studies 14.1:2757 (Winter 1988).

4 2

43

Yamamoto, "Hara Tamiki," p. 160.

40

HARA T A M I K I

Summer Flowers by Hara Tamiki

O loved ones, may y o u r o m p and play like the roe, the fawn, deep i n fragrant mountains.

Summer Flowers W H E N I W E N T O U T and bought flowers, it was w i t h the intention o f visiting m y wife's grave. I n m y pocket was a bundle o f incense sticks I had taken f r o m the butsudan. August 15 w o u l d be the first bon since my wife's death; but I doubted that this h o m e t o w n o f mine w o u l d survive that long unscathed. It happened that the day was a no-electricity day; early that m o r n i n g I saw no other men walking along carr y i n g flowers. I do not k n o w the proper name o f the flowers; but w i t h their small yellow petals, they had a nice country flavor about them, very summer-flower-like. I splashed water on the gravestone standing exposed to the hot sun, divided the flowers into t w o bunches, and stuck them i n the flower holders on either side. Once I had done so, the grave seemed somehow cleansed and purified, and for a moment I gazed at flowers and gravestone. Beneath this stone lay buried not only m y wife's ashes, but also Father's and Mother's. After setting a match to the incense I had brought and b o w i n g i n silent respect, I took a drink o f water at the well nearby. Then I walked home the roundabout way, via N i g i t s u Park; that day and the next, the smell o f incense clung to my pocket. I t was on the t h i r d day that the atomic b o m b fell. I OWE M Y LIFE to the fact that I was i n the privy. The m o r n i n g o f A u gust 6 I got out o f bed at about eight o'clock. The air raid warning had sounded twice the previous night, but there had been no air raid; so before daybreak I had taken off all m y clothes, changed for the first time i n a while into sleepwear oïyukata and shorts, and gone to sleep. When I got out o f bed, I had on only the shorts. Catching sight o f me, Sister complained about m y having stayed i n bed so long; w i t h o u t a w o r d I went into the privy. H o w many seconds later it happened I can't say, but all o f a sudden there was a b l o w to m y head, and everything went dark. I cried out instinctively and stood up, hand to m y head. Things crashed as i n a storm, and i t was pitch dark; I didn't k n o w what was going on. Grasping the handle and opening the door, I came out onto the veSUMMER

FLOWERS

45

randa. U n t i l that point, I was i n agony: amid the hail o f sound I had heard m y o w n cry distinctly, but I couldn't see a thing. However, once out on the veranda I quickly saw, materializing i n the thin light, a scene o f destruction; m y feelings too came into focus. It was like something i n the most horrible dream. Right f r o m the start, when I received the b l o w to m y head and things went black, I knew I wasn't dead. Then, thinking what an enormous inconvenience this all was, I tried to w o r k myself up to anger. M y cry sounded i n m y ear like someone else's voice. But as the situation around me, though still hazy, began to resolve itself, I soon felt as i f I were stand­ ing on a stage that had been set for a tragedy. I had surely seen spec­ tacles like this at the movies. Beyond the dense cloud o f dust, there appeared patches o f blue, and then the patches grew i n number. Light came streaming i n where walls had collapsed and from other unlikely directions. As I took a few tentative steps on the floorboards, f r o m w h i c h the tettami had been sent flying, Sister flew toward me f r o m across the way. " N o t hurt? N o t hurt? You're all right?" she cried. Then: " Y o u r eye is bleeding; go wash it o f f right away," and she told me the water was running i n the kitchen sink. Realizing that I was utterly naked, I said, looking back at Sister, "Isn't there something for me to put on?" She produced some under­ pants f r o m a closet that had survived the destruction. A t that point someone rushed i n making strange gestures. Face bloody and wearing only a shirt, he was one o f the factory workers. He saw me, said over his shoulder, "You're lucky y o u weren't hurt," and went o f f busily, muttering, "Phone, phone, I must phone." Cracks had opened everywhere; screens and tatami were scattered all about; bare joists and doorsills were plainly i n sight; for some time a strange silence continued. The house seemed on its last legs. As I learned later, most houses i n this area collapsed flat; but our second story did not fall, and the floor held f i r m . Probably because it was so solidly built. M y father, a cautious person, had built it forty years ago. T r a m p l i n g on the j u m b l e of tatami and sliding screens, I looked for something to put on. Right o f f I found a jacket; but as I was searching here and there for pants, m y busy eye was caught by stuff l y i n g scattered, i n a mess. The book I had been reading, half-finished 46

HARA T A M I K I

last night, lay on the floor, pages curled up. Fallen f r o m the lintel, a picture frame covered m y bed, ominously. M y canteen emerged out o f the blue, and then I found m y cap. M y pants did not turn up, so I looked for something to put on m y feet. A t that point K . f r o m the office appeared on the veranda o f the drawing r o o m . O n seeing me, he called i n a pathetic voice, "Help! I ' m hurt," and slumped to the floor. B l o o d was oozing f r o m his forehead; tears glistened i n his eyes. I asked h i m , "Where are y o u hurt?" He replied, " M y knee," pressing i t and contorting his pale, w r i n k l e d face. I gave h i m a piece o f cloth that was there and pulled on t w o pairs o f socks, one over the other. "Look—smoke! Let's get out o f here! Take me w i t h y o u ! " K . urged me repeatedly. T h o u g h a good deal older than I , K . was nor­ mally far more energetic; but even he was a little lost. Surveying the scene f r o m the veranda, I saw an expanse o f r u b ­ ble, the ruins o f collapsed houses; except for the reinforced concrete building still standing i n the middle distance, there wasn't even any­ thing by w h i c h to get m y bearings. The large maple next to the earthen w a l l — n o w toppled—of the garden had had its trunk snapped o f f halfway up, and the upper half o f the tree had been t h r o w n atop the outdoor washstand. Stooping over the air raid shelter, K . said, irrationally, "Shall we stick i t out here? We've got water . . ." " N o , " I said, "let's head for the river," and w i t h a look o f i n c o m ­ prehension, he cried, "River? Which way to the river, I wonder?" As a matter o f fact, even i f we wished to flee, we still hadn't made any preparations for doing so. Pulling some pajamas out o f a closet, I handed them to h i m and also tore d o w n the veranda's blackout cur­ tains. I picked up some cushions, too. When I turned over the tatami scattered on the veranda, m y emergency k i t came to light. Relieved, I slung i t over m y shoulder. Small red flames began to appear f r o m the storehouse o f the medicine factory next door. It was time to get out. The last to leave, I climbed over the wall alongside the maple tree, snapped o f f and broken. That large maple had stood forever i n the corner o f the garden; when I was young, i t had figured i n m y daydreams. After having been SUMMER

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away a long time, I had returned this spring to live i n m y old home; I had thought i t odd, since returning, that the tree no longer held its o l d charm. Strangely, this whole city seemed to have lost its gentle natu­ ralness, to have become a collection o f cold inorganic matter. Each time I entered the r o o m that looked out onto the garden, there had come floating into m y mind, unbidden, the words, "The Fall o f the House o f Usher." C L A M B E R I N G over the ruins o f the house and around what was i n our way, K . and I proceeded at first quite slowly. Soon our feet came to level ground, so we knew that we had come out onto the road. Then we hurried briskly d o w n the center o f the road. F r o m the other side o f a flattened building came a voice crying, "Mister, please!" We turned, and a girl whose face was bloody came walking toward us; she was crying. L o o k i n g absolutely horror-stricken, she followed us for all she was w o r t h , calling, "Help!" We went on a while and met an old w o m a n standing squarely i n our way i n the road, weeping like a child: "The house is burning! The house is burning!" Smoke was rising here and there among the ruins, but suddenly we came to a place where tongues o f flame licked at us fiercely. Running, we got past that spot, and the road became level again; we had come to the foot o f Sakae Bridge. Here refugees had gathered i n droves. Someone on top o f the bridge was being a hero: "Those o f you w h o are up to i t — f o r m a bucket brigade!" I took the road i n the direction o f the bamboo grove at the I z u m i Villa and at this point became separated f r o m K . The bamboo grove had been b l o w n flat, but the press o f people fleeing had opened a path. I looked up at the trees; most o f them, too, had been snapped o f f partway up. This historic garden flanking the river: i t too was n o w covered w i t h wounds. Suddenly I noticed the face o f a middle-aged w o m a n w h o was squatting next to the shrubs, her fleshy body slumped over. W h o l l y devoid o f life, her face seemed even as I watched to become infected w i t h something. This was m y first encounter w i t h such a face. B u t thereafter I was to see countless faces more grotesque still. Where the grove j o i n e d the riverbank, I came upon a bunch o f schoolgirls. They had fled here from the factory, all lightly injured; 48

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they still trembled from the vividness o f the event that had only just taken place before their very eyes, yet they chattered all the more spir­ itedly. A t that point m y eldest brother turned up. Wearing only a shirt and carrying a beer bottle i n one hand, he seemed at first glance u n ­ injured. O n the opposite bank, too, as far as the eye could see, b u i l d ­ ings had collapsed, and only telephone poles still stood; the fire was already spreading. When I sat d o w n on the narrow path on the riverbank, I felt, despite everything, that I was n o w safe. What had hung over our heads for so long, what i n time surely had to come, had come. There was nothing left to fear; I myself had survived. Before, I had given myself an even chance o f dying; now, the fact that I was alive took m y breath away. I thought to myself: I must set these things d o w n in w r i t i n g . However, at that time I still had virtually no idea o f the true state o f things brought about by this air raid. T H E FIRE o n the opposite bank had g r o w n i n force. The heat was be­ ing reflected all the way over to our side, so we repeatedly soaked the cushions i n the river, w h i c h was at high tide, and covered our heads w i t h them. Meanwhile, someone shouted, " A i r raid!" A voice said, "Those wearing white hide under the trees," and people responded by crawling, all o f them, into the center o f the bamboo grove O n the other side o f the grove, too, w i t h the sun pouring d o w n , it looked as i f a fire was burning. W i t h bated breath I waited for a while, but it didn't appear that an air raid was coming; so I came out again on the river side o f the grove. The fire on the opposite bank had not lessened i n force. A hot w i n d blew over our heads, and, fanned across toward us, black smoke came as far as mid-river. Suddenly the sky overhead seemed to have turned black, and large drops o f rain came pouring d o w n , a torrent. The rain dampened the fire a bit i n our vicinity, but i n a while the sky turned cloudless again. The fire on the opposite bank burned on. N o w , on this bank, I saw m y eldest brother, Sister, and t w o or three acquaintances f r o m the neighborhood; we all drew together, and each o f us gave his account o f the morning's events. When the bomb fell, m y brother was at the table i n the office. A brilliant light flashed through the garden, and immediately thereafter SUMMER

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he was sent flying six feet or so; trapped under the building, he strug­ gled for a while. N o t i c i n g a gap at last and crawling out, he became aware that over at the factory the schoolgirls were screaming for help. He struggled m i g h t i l y to get them out. Sister was at the entryway when she saw a brilliant flash and quickly took cover under the stairs, so she was not injured badly. Each o f us had been convinced at first that only his o w n house had been bombed; when we did go outside, we were flabbergasted to see that the same thing had happened ev­ erywhere. We were also amazed that while everything aboveground had collapsed, there were no holes that looked like bomb craters. Sis­ ter said i t had happened soon after the lifting o f the preliminary alert. There had been a brilliant flash and a soft hissing, like the sound o f magnesium burning, and instantaneously everything had turned u p ­ side d o w n . . . just like black magic, she said, trembling. As the fire on the other bank began to die down, a voice said the trees i n this garden had caught fire. A faint smoke began to be visible high i n the sky over the bamboo grove behind us. The water i n the river was still at full tide and gave no indication o f falling. I walked along the stone wall and climbed d o w n to the water's edge. Just at m y feet, a large wooden crate came floating past, and onions that had spilled out o f the crate were bobbing about. I pulled the box over, grabbed onion after onion out o f it, and handed them to people on the bank. O n the railway bridge upstream a freight train had derailed, and this box, t h r o w n out, had floated down. While hauling i n onions, I heard a voice crying, "Help!" A young girl was floating past i n the middle o f the river holding on to a piece o f w o o d , her head sometimes above the water, sometimes under it. I picked out a big log and swam out, pushing it ahead o f me. I hadn't s w u m i n a long time, but I was able, more easily than I w o u l d have thought, to rescue her. The fire on the opposite bank had slackened for a while but sud­ denly started raging again. This time dark smoke appeared i n the midst o f the red flames, and the black mass spread savagely; even as we watched, the temperature o f the flames seemed to rise. B u t even that eerie blaze too gradually burned itself out; when i t did, only empty shells o f buildings remained to be seen. It was then that I n o ­ ticed, i n the sky downstream above the middle o f the river, an abso50

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lutely translucent layer o f air trembling and m o v i n g toward us. A tor­ nado, I thought; at that very moment violent winds were already b l o w i n g overhead. The trees and plants all around me trembled; sud­ denly, I saw many trees above m y head sucked up by the w i n d , just like that, and carried o f f into the sky. Dancing crazily i n the air, the trees fell into the midst o f the maelstrom w i t h the force o f arrows. I don't remember clearly what color the surrounding air was. B u t I think we must have been enveloped i n the dreadfully g l o o m y faint green light o f the medieval paintings o f Buddhist hell. Once this twister had passed, a k i n d o f t w i l i g h t obtained, and m y second brother, w h o hadn't appeared until then, unexpectedly came to where we were. His face was streaked w i t h gray; the back o f his shirt was torn, too. The marks on his skin looked as i f he had gotten sunburned at the beach; later, they developed into real burns that sup­ purated and required several months o f treatment. B u t at the m o m e n t he was still pretty fit. He said he had just returned home on an errand when he spotted a small airplane high i n the sky and then saw three strange flashes. He was t h r o w n a good six feet. He rescued his wife and the maid, both o f w h o m had been pinned under and were strug­ gling; he entrusted the t w o children to the maid and sent them fleeing ahead o f h i m ; then he rescued the old man next door, w h i c h took longer than he expected. M y sister-in-law was very worried about the children f r o m w h o m she had become separated, but then the maid called f r o m the other bank. Her arms hurt, she said, and she was no longer able to carry the children; please come quickly. The trees o f the Izumi Villa were burning, a few at a time. We w o u l d be i n trouble i f the fire burned its way here after dark; we wanted to cross to the opposite shore while it was still light. B u t there was no boat to be seen. M y eldest brother and his family decided to cross to the other shore via the bridge; still searching for a boat, m y second brother and I went up the river. As we proceeded up the nar­ r o w stone path running along the river, I saw for the first time a group o f people defying description. The rays o f sunlight, already slanting, cast a wan light on the surrounding scene; there were people b o t h on top o f the bank and below i t , and their shadows fell on the water. SUMMER

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What k i n d o f people? . . . Their faces were so swollen and crumpled that it was impossible to tell w h i c h were men and w h i c h women; their eyes were narrowed to slits; their lips were festering h o r r i b l y Baring their hideously painful arms and legs, they lay on their sides, more dead than alive. As we passed i n front o f them, these monstrous peo­ ple called to us i n thin soft voices. "Please give me a little water to drink!" or "Please help me!"—every last one appealed to us. I was stopped by someone calling "Mister!" i n a sharp, pitiful voice. I n the river just there I saw the naked corpse o f a boy, entirely submerged; and on the stone steps less than a yard away crouched t w o w o m e n . Their faces were swollen to about half again normal size, de­ formed and ugly, leaving only their burned and tangled hair as a sign that they were women. A t first sight, rather than pity, I felt m y hair stand on end. When these women saw that I had stopped, they pleaded w i t h me: "That blanket over there by the trees is ours; w o n ' t y o u please bring it here?" Over there by the trees there was indeed something that looked like a blanket. B u t on top o f it lay a badly injured person on the point o f death, and there was nothing I could do. We found a small raft, so we untied the rope and rowed toward the other bank. B y the time the raft landed on the sandy beach on the other bank, night had already fallen; but here too, it seemed, many injured were waiting. One soldier w h o had been crouching at the r i v ­ er's edge pleaded, "Give me some hot water to drink!" so I made h i m lean on m y shoulder as we walked on. In pain, he tottered forward over the sand, and then he muttered as i f in utter despair, " I ' d be better o f f dead." I agreed sadly but said nothing. It was as i f unbearable re­ sentment against this absurdity bound us together; we needed no words. Partway there I had h i m wait, and looked up from the base o f the stone wall to the emergency stand w i t h its supply o f hot water; it had been set up on top o f the embankment. A t the place on the stand f r o m w h i c h steam rose, a large head, burned black, was grasping a teabowl and slowly drinking hot water. The huge grotesque face seemed to me made entirely o f black beans. What is more, the hair on its head had been cut o f f i n a straight line just at the ear. (Later, as I saw people w i t h burns, hair cut o f f in a straight line, I came to realize 52

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that their hair had been burned o f f right up to the line o f their caps.) I got a b o w l o f water and carried i t back to where I had left the soldier. In the river a single soldier, seriously injured, was squatting, d r i n k i n g his fill o f river water. In the dusk the sky above the Izumi Villa and the fire i n our i m ­ mediate vicinity loomed brilliantly; on the sandy shore some people were even burning bits o f w o o d to cook supper. A w o m a n had been stretched out right beside me for some time, face swollen like a spongy balloon; f r o m her voice pleading for water I recognized her for the first time as the maid f r o m m y second brother's house. Car­ r y i n g the baby, she had been about to set out f r o m the kitchen w h e n the flash caught her, burning her face, chest, and hands. Then, taking w i t h her the eldest daughter and the baby, she had fled just ahead o f m y brother and his wife; but at the bridge she had become separated f r o m the girl and had reached the riverbank here carrying only the baby. The hand that had been injured when she first tried to shield her face f r o m the flash, she complained, that hand still hurt as badly n o w as i f it were being wrenched off. The tide was n o w rising, so we left the riverbed and moved t o ­ ward the embankment. N i g h t had fallen; crazed voices echoed f r o m this side and that, crying, "Water! Water!" The clamor o f those still left behind on the riverbed gradually grew more insistent. O n top o f the embankment a breeze stirred, and i t was a little chilly for sleeping. Immediately across the way was Nigitsu Park; i t too was n o w en­ closed i n darkness, only the faint outlines o f broken tree trunks visi­ ble. M y brother and his family were lying i n a h o l l o w i n the ground; I found another hollowed out place and crawled into i t . L y i n g right next to me were three or four injured schoolgirls. Someone was worried and said, "The trees across the way have caught fire; w o u l d n ' t we be better o f f fleeing?" I emerged f r o m m y h o l l o w and looked across. The flames were flashing i n the trees t w o or three hundred yards away, but they didn't seem about to come t o ­ ward us. "Is the fire burning our way?" an injured y o u n g girl asked me, trembling. SUMMER

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" N o , " I told her, "we're okay," and she had another question: "What time is i t now—not twelve yet?" The preliminary alert sounded. Somewhere there must have been an undamaged siren, for one reverberated faintly. Downstream there was a glow, vast and hazy: the fire i n the city must still be going strong. The schoolgirls sighed: " A h , i f only m o r n i n g w o u l d come!" In soft, gentle voices they sang i n chorus, "Father! Mother!" "Is the fire burning our way?" the injured young girl asked me again. A t the riverbed could be heard the dying gasps o f someone ap­ parently quite young and strong. Echoing on all sides, his voice car­ ried everywhere. "Water, water, water, please! . . . O h ! . . . Mother! . . . Sister! . . . Mit-chan!": the words poured out as i f he were being t o r n body and soul; interspersed between the words, forced out o f h i m by the pain, were faint groans o f " O o h , ooh!" —Once when I was a child I walked along this embankment to fish from this riverbank. The m e m o r y ofthat entire hot day still remains strangely v i v i d . O n the sand is a large billboard for Lion toothpaste; f r o m time to time, off in the direction o f the railway bridge, I hear the roar o f trains crossing. It is a scene peaceful as i n a dream . . . W H E N D A W N CAME, last night's voice was stilled. Its bloodcurdling death cry seemed to linger i n m y ear; yet the light was full, and a m o r n i n g breeze was blowing. M y eldest brother and Sister went around to the charred ruins o f our house, and since people said there was an aid station i n the East Parade Ground, m y second brother and his family set o f f for there. I too was about to head for the East Parade Ground when the soldier next to me asked to go along. This hefty soldier must have been pretty badly injured; leaning on m y shoulder, he went forward on his o w n legs one hesitant step at a time, just as i f carrying something fragile. What is more, ours was a terrible, o m i ­ nous path: fragments and splinters and corpses, still smoldering. When we got to T o k i w a Bridge, he was tired out and told me to leave h i m because he couldn't take another step. So I left h i m there and proceeded alone i n the direction o f Nigitsu Park. I n some places 54

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houses were still there, as they had collapsed, spared by the flames; but the brilliant flash seemed to have left the marks o f its claws ev­ erywhere. I n an open space people had gathered. Water was trickling f r o m a pipe. It was then w o r d reached me that m y niece was being cared for at the T ö s h ö g u disaster station. I hurried to the precincts o f T ö s h ö g u Shrine. Just as I got there, m y niece came face to face w i t h her mother again. Yesterday she had become separated from the maid at the bridge, then afterward had fled i n the company o f people from somewhere else; when she saw her mother, she burst out crying, as i f suddenly she could stand it no longer. Her neck, black f r o m burns, looked painful. The aid station had been set up at the base o f the T ö s h ö g u torii. A police officer asked for home addresses, ages, and so on. B u t even after the injured were given the slips o f paper on w h i c h he had w r i t t e n d o w n that information, they had to wait another hour and a half or so i n a long line under the hot sun. Still, i f y o u were injured and able to j o i n this line, y o u were probably among the fortunate. Even now, there was a voice crying frantically, "Soldier! Soldier! Help! Soldier!" It was a girl w i t h burns; she had collapsed at the side o f the road and was rolling about. A n d a man wearing the u n i f o r m o f the guards had lain d o w n , his head, swollen w i t h burns, atop a stone; just then he opened his pitch-black mouth, pleading brokenly i n a weak voice: "Please help me, someone! O h ! Nurse! Doctor!" B u t no one paid h i m any attention. Police officers, doctors, nurses: all had come f r o m other cities to help out, and there weren't enough o f them. Accompanying the maid f r o m m y second brother's house, I j o i n e d the line; by n o w she was swollen badly and could hardly stay on her feet. Presently her turn came, and she was treated; then we had to make a place where we could rest. Every spot w i t h i n the shrine precincts was taken up by badly injured people l y i n g about; we saw no tents, no shade. So for a r o o f we leaned some thin boards against the stone wall and crawled underneath. I n this cramped space the six o f us spent more than twenty-four hours. Right beside us, too, a similar shelter had been fashioned, and a fellow was i n constant m o t i o n atop its mats; he called over to me. He had neither shirt nor undershirt; only one leg o f his long pants was SUMMER

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left, and that reduced to a piece about his waist; he had burns on both hands, both feet, and face. He said he had been on the seventh floor o f the C h ü g o k u Building when the bomb fell; he must have had enor­ mous willpower, for despite his severe injuries he had made i t this far—pleading w i t h some people to help h i m , ordering others. Then a young man came wandering over, whole body bloody and wearing the armband o f a headquarters cadet. Seeing h i m , the man next to us reared up and almost roared, from his high horse: "Hey! Hey! Get away! M y body's a mess; touch me and y o u ' l l get yours! There's plenty o f r o o m , so w h y pick this tiny spot? Quick, take off!" L o o k i n g dazed, the bloody young man stood up. Perhaps ten feet f r o m our shelter there was a cherry tree w i t h only a few leaves, and t w o schoolgirls had lain d o w n under it. Faces burned black and thin backs exposed to the hot sun, they both groaned for water. Students from the girls' vocational school, they had come to this area to dig potatoes and here had met disaster. Then another w o m a n came, face bloated, wearing cotton w o r k trousers; setting her handbag down, she stretched her legs out, exhausted . . . The sun was already beginning to set. Another night here? I was sin­ gularly forlorn at the thought. B E G I N N I N G just before dawn we heard voices here and there reciting the nembutsu over and over. People were dying one after the other. When the m o r n i n g sun rose high i n the sky, the students from the girls' vocational school both breathed their last, too. Having checked their corpses, which lay face d o w n i n the ditch, a police officer ap­ proached the w o m a n clad i n cotton w o r k clothes. She too had col­ lapsed and seemed n o w to be dead. When the police officer checked her handbag, he found a bank book and a war-bond book. So she had been on a trip when disaster struck. A t about noon, the air raid warning sounded, and we could hear planes. We had become quite inured to the sorrow and grotesque u g ­ liness on all sides; even so, our exhaustion and hunger gradually be­ came severe. B o t h the eldest son and the youngest son o f m y second brother had been going to school i n the city, so we still didn't k n o w what had happened to them. People died one after the other, and the 56

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corpses simply lay there. W i t h a sense that no help was coming, peo­ ple walked about restlessly. Yet now, f r o m over toward the parade ground, a bugle sounded, loud and clear. Suffering from burns, the nieces cried bitterly, and the maid pleaded frequently for water. Just when we had had about all we could endure o f their complaints, m y eldest brother returned. Yesterday he had gone o f f in the direction o f Hatsukaichi, to w h i c h his wife had been evacuated; today he had come back w i t h a horse-drawn goods cart he had arranged to hire in the village o f Yahata. So we climbed onto the cart and left. L O A D E D w i t h m y brother's household and Sister and me, the cart left Töshögu and went in the direction o f Nigitsu. It happened as the cart set o f f f r o m Hakushima toward the entrance o f the Izumi Villa. I n an open area over toward the West Parade Ground m y brother happened to spot a corpse clothed i n familiar yellow shorts. He got o f f the cart and went over. M y sister-in-law and then I also left the cart and con­ verged on the spot. I n addition to the familiar shorts, the corpse wore an unmistakable belt. The body was that o f m y nephew F u m i h i k o . He had no jacket; there was a fist-sized swelling on his chest, and fluid was flowing from it. His face had turned pitch-black, and i n it a w h i t e tooth or t w o could barely be seen. T h o u g h his arms were flung out, the fingers o f both hands were tightly clenched, the nails biting into the palms. N e x t to h i m was the corpse o f a j u n i o r high school student and farther off, the corpse o f a young girl, both rigid just as they had died. M y second brother pulled o f f Fumihiko's fingernails, took his belt too as a memento, attached a name tag, and left. It was an en­ counter beyond tears. T H E W A G O N then went toward Kokutaiji and, crossing Sumiyoshi Bridge, toward K o i , so I was able to get a look at virtually all the ruins. In the expanse o f silvery emptiness stretching out under the glaring hot sun, there were roads, there were rivers, there were bridges. A n d corpses, flesh swollen and raw, lay here and there. This was w i t h o u t doubt a new hell, brought to pass by precision crafts­ manship. Here everything human had been obliterated—for example, SUMMER

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the expressions on the faces o f the corpses had been replaced by some­ thing model-like, automaton-like. The limbs had a sort o f bewitching r h y t h m , as i f rigor mortis had frozen them even as they thrashed about i n agony. W i t h the electric wires, j u m b l e d and fallen, and the countless splinters and fragments, one sensed a spastic design amid the nothingness. B u t seeing the streetcars, overturned and burned ap­ parently i n an instant, and the horses w i t h enormous swollen bellies l y i n g on their sides, one might have thought one was i n the w o r l d o f surrealistic paintings. Even the tall camphor trees o f Kokutaiji had been torn up, roots and all; the gravestones too had been scattered. The Asano Library, o f w h i c h only the outer shell remained, had be­ come a morgue. The road still gave o f f smoke here and there and was filled w i t h the stench o f death. Each time we crossed a river, we mar­ veled that the bridge hadn't fallen. Somehow I can capture m y i m ­ pressions o f this area better i n capital letters. So here I set d o w n the following stanza: BROKEN PIECES, GLITTERING, A N D GRAY-WHITE CINDERS, A VAST PANORAMA— THE STRANGE R H Y T H M OF H U M A N CORPSES BURNED RED. WAS ALL THIS REAL? COULD I T BE REAL? THE UNIVERSE HENCEFORTH, STRIPPED I N A FLASH OF EVERYTHING. THE WHEELS OF OVERTURNED STREETCARS, THE BELLIES OF THE HORSES, DISTENDED, THE SMELL OF ELECTRIC WIRES, SMOLDERING A N D SIZZLING

The wagon proceeded along the road through the endless de­ struction. Even when we got to the suburbs, there were rows o f col­ lapsed houses; when we passed Kusatsu, things finally were green, liberated f r o m the color o f calamity. The sight o f a swarm o f dragonflies flying lightly and swiftly above green fields engraved itself on m y eyes. Then came the long and monotonous road to Yahata. B y the time we got to Yahata, night had already fallen. N e x t day began our wretched life i n that place. The injured made little progress t o ­ ward recovery, and even those w h o had been healthy gradually grew weak f r o m lack o f adequate food. The arm burns o f the maid suppu­ rated horribly, flies swarmed, and finally her arms became infested 58

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w i t h maggots. N o matter h o w we treated them, the maggots came back, again and again. After more than a m o n t h , she died. O N T H E F O U R T H or fifth day after we came here, m y middle school nephew turned up; he had been among the missing. O n the m o r n i n g o f the sixth, he had gone to school i n order to help clear firebreaks; the flash came just as he was i n the classroom. Instantly he had t h r o w n himself under a desk, and then the ceiling had collapsed, b u r y i n g h i m ; but he had found a hole and crawled out. N o t more than four or five o f the schoolchildren were able to crawl out and flee; the others had all been killed i n the initial blast. W i t h four or five others, he had fled to Hijiyama, v o m i t i n g up white fluid o n the way. Then he had gone by train to the home o f a friend w h o had fled w i t h h i m , and they had taken h i m i n . However, a week or so after he came home to us here, he too saw his hair fall out, and w i t h i n a few days he became c o m ­ pletely bald. A t that time many o f the victims o f the b o m b subscribed to the theory that i f your hair fell out and your nose started to bleed, y o u were done for. O n the twelfth or thirteenth day after his hair fell out, m y nephew finally began having nosebleeds. That night the doc­ tor declared h i m to be i n critical condition. However, he did hold his o w n , his condition still critical. O N HIS WAY by train, for the first time, to a factory evacuated into the countryside, N . felt the bomb's shock at the precise moment the train entered a tunnel. O n emerging from the tunnel, he looked toward Hiroshima and saw three parachutes floating gently d o w n . Then the train arrived at the next station, and he was astonished that the sta­ tion's w i n d o w s were badly splintered. B y the time he got to his des­ tination, detailed reports had already come in. T u r n i n g around on the spot, he boarded a train bound for Hiroshima. The trains he passed that came f r o m Hiroshima were all filled w i t h grotesquely injured people. H e waited impatiently for the fire i n the city to die out, then walked along at a rapid pace on asphalt that was still hot. H e went first to the girls' school where his wife taught. I n the ashes o f the class­ r o o m , he found the bones o f schoolchildren; i n the ashes o f the p r i n ­ cipal's office, he found a skeleton that appeared to be the principal's. SUMMER

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B u t he found no skeleton that could have been his wife's. I n great haste he went i n the direction o f their house. That was near Ujina, where houses had merely been knocked flat; they had been spared the fire. B u t he found no trace o f his wife there either. So now, one by one, he checked the corpses lying on the road between his house and the school. Because most o f the corpses were lying face d o w n , he had to pull them into a sitting position i n order to examine the faces; every last face was grossly disfigured, but none belonged to his wife. I n the end, he went looking almost mindlessly, even i n places i n the opposite direction. In a cistern there were ten or more corpses piled one atop the other. O n a ladder leaning on the riverbank, there were three corpses; rigor mortis had frozen them w i t h their hands on the ladder. In a line waiting for the bus, corpses were standing just as they had been; they had died w i t h their fingernails sticking into the shoulder o f the person ahead o f them i n line. He also saw a large group o f corpses—an entire unit o f the labor corps mobilized from the country­ side to clear firebreaks had been annihilated. Those scenes still did not equal the West Parade Ground. That was a mountain o f dead soldiers. Yet nowhere did he find his wife's corpse. Visiting in turn every aid station, N . examined the faces o f the severely injured. Each face was the very picture o f suffering, but none belonged to his wife. Then, having spent three days and three nights examining corpses and burn victims to the point o f utter revulsion, N . started all over again, going once more to the charred ruins o f the girls' school at w h i c h his wife had taught.

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From the Ruins W H E N W E FIRST moved to the village o f Yahata, I still had lots o f en­ ergy; I loaded the injured onto the cart and went w i t h them to the hospital, walked here and there to pick up what was being handed out, and kept i n touch w i t h Jun'ichi i n Hatsukaichi. The house was the outbuilding to a farmhouse i n Yahata; Seiji had rented i t . F r o m our initial place o f refuge Yasuko and I ended up m o v i n g in w i t h his fam­ ily. The flies f r o m the cowbarn came swarming boldly into the rooms. They stuck tight to the burned neck o f m y young niece and did not budge. T h r o w i n g d o w n her chopsticks, she screamed frantically. T o ward them off, we spread mosquito netting even during the day. Face and back burned, Seiji was stretched out inside the netting, a g l o o m y expression on his face. The main house was separated f r o m us by a garden, and on the veranda we could see a man w i t h cruelly swollen face—we had already seen so many such faces that we had g r o w n weary o f them; i n the back, a bed had been laid out for someone ap­ parently even more seriously injured. I n the evening we heard a weird delirious voice f r o m over there. H e ' l l die any time now, I thought. Soon thereafter we heard a voice already intoning the nembutsu. It was the husband o f the family's eldest daughter w h o had died; he had been i n Hiroshima when the bomb fell, then walked all the way back. After taking to bed, they say, he scratched involuntarily at his burns and i n short order developed fever on the brain. N o matter when we went, the clinic was crowded w i t h the i n ­ j u r e d . It took a whole hour to treat a middle-aged woman, carried i n by three others—her entire body lacerated by splinters o f glass; so we had to wait until afternoon. Some o f the people we met no matter when we went: the injured old man brought by handcart, the j u n i o r high school student w i t h burns on face and hands—he had been at the East Parade Ground when the bomb fell—and others. When they changed m y young niece's bandages, she screamed as i f possessed: "Ouch! Ouch! Give me some candy!" W i t h a bittersweet smile, the doctor said, " Y o u say, 'Give me some candy!' but I haven't got any." The r o o m adjoining the examination r o o m was full, too—apparSUMMER

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ently, w i t h injured relatives o f the doctor w h o had been brought there; their dying moans were unearthly While I was transporting the injured, the air raid alarm frequently went off; I even heard planes flying overhead. That day, too, our turn didn't come and didn't come, so I decided to return home for a while and rest; I left the cart just where it stood at the hospital entrance. When Yasuko, w h o was i n the kitchen, saw that I had returned, she said, looking puzzled: " A little while ago they began playing the national anthem; I wonder w h y . " Brought up short, I went straight to the radio i n the main house. I couldn't hear the voice o f the newscaster distinctly, but the words "cessation o f hostilities" were unmistakable. Shocked so deeply I couldn't sit still, I went outside again and set o f f for the hospital. A t the entrance to the hospital, Seiji was still waiting, a vacant look on his face. O n seeing h i m , I said: "What a pity! The war's over, b u t . . ." I f only the war had ended a little sooner—these words became a c o m ­ m o n refrain thereafter. Seiji lost his youngest son; the belongings he had got ready w i t h the intent o f evacuating here all went up i n flames, too. I N T H E E V E N I N G I followed a path amid green rice paddies and de­ scended to the embankment along the Yahata. It was a small shallow stream, the water was clear, and a black dragonfly was resting its wings on a rock. I submerged myself i n the water, shirt and all, and heaved a great sigh. T u r n i n g m y head, I could see the l o w mountain range quietly changing color i n the twilight; the distant peaks sparkled b r i g h t l y as they caught the slanting rays o f sunlight. It was a scene too beautiful to be real. N o longer was there fear o f air raid; n o w the broad sky wore an air o f deep tranquility. I felt almost like a new person, someone born w i t h that atomic thunderclap. A l l the same, what o f the people w h o died desperate deaths that day on the riverbed near N i g i t s u and on the riverbank by the Izumi Villa?—I enjoy this tranquil view, but what has become o f those charred ruins? The newspaper reports that for 75 years the center o f the city w i l l be uninhabitable; people say that there are ten thousand corpses still unidentified, that every night the spirits o f the dead wander among the ruins. The fish i n the river, too: a few days after the bomb, dead fish floated to the 62

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surface, and the people w h o ate them, it is said, soon died. Even peo­ ple about us w h o seemed fine at the time died thereafter o f blood p o i ­ soning, and I was haunted by a stubborn and incomprehensible u n ­ ease. W E L I V E D EVERY DAY i n dire need o f food. N o one i n this t o w n ex­ tended a helping hand to the victims. Day after day we had to live on a bit o f rice gruel; increasingly exhausted, I became absurdly sleepy after eating. When I looked out f r o m the second floor, I saw rice pad­ dies stretching all the way to the foot o f the l o w mountain range. Tall green rice plants quivered under the hot sun. Was this rice the fruit o f the land? O r was it there i n order to make people hungry? Sky, m o u n ­ tains, green fields: i n the eyes o f hungry people they m i g h t as well not have been there. A t night scattered lights appeared i n the fields between here and the foot o f the mountains. It had been some time since we had seen lights, and the sight was a cheering one, making me feel almost as i f I were on a journey. Completely w o r n out when she finished cleaning up after a meal, Yasuko w o u l d come climbing up to the second floor. As i f still not wakened from the nightmare o f that day, shaking like a leaf, she kept recalling that instant i n great detail. Shortly before the b o m b fell, she had been about to go to the storehouse to get the l u g ­ gage ready; had she been i n the storehouse, she probably w o u l d not have survived. I too had survived only by chance. The y o u n g man on the second floor next door had been killed instantly, and he was only the w i d t h o f a single fence from where I was.—Even n o w Yasuko trembled when she remembered so v i v i d l y a neighborhood child she had seen pinned under. It was a child i n her o w n child's class w h o had taken part i n the mass evacuation to the countryside; but the child had been simply unable to get used to life there, so it had been sent home to its parents. Whenever Yasuko had seen the child playing i n the street, she had wanted to call her o w n child home, i f only for a short while. When the flames appeared, she saw this child, pinned under a rafter, lifting its head and appealing to her, "Help!" B u t t r y as she could, she wasn't strong enough to help. M a n y stories o f this k i n d were making the rounds. When the SUMMER

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b o m b fell, Jun'ichi was pinned under but squirmed out, stood up, and recognized the face o f the old w o m a n o f the house across the way, also pinned under. T h o u g h his first impulse was to rush to her aid, he could not t u r n a deaf ear to the voices o f the schoolgirls screaming over at the factory. His wife's relatives were worse o f f yet. The M a k i home had been a tranquil nest facing the river i n Ötemachi; after coming back to Hiroshima this spring, I too had gone there once to pay m y respects. Ötemachi was virtually the epicenter o f the atomic bomb. Maki's wife had called for help f r o m the kitchen; yet even w i t h her voice i n his ear, M a k i had no choice but to rush right out o f the house. When their eldest daughter gave birth at the place to w h i c h she had fled, she took a sudden turn for the worse, suppurated from the needlemarks left by the blood transfusion, and finally died. A n d as for the Nagarekawa branch o f the family, the husband was away at the front and didn't k n o w what had happened to his wife and children. I had lived i n Hiroshima less than half a year, so I didn't k n o w many people; but Seiji's wife and Yasuko were forever gleaning news f r o m somewhere about some neighbor's fate and rejoicing or grieving accordingly. A t the factory three o f the schoolgirls had died. The second floor, it appeared, had collapsed on top o f them; only their skeletons re­ mained, heads touching as i f examining a photograph or something. F r o m a very few clues, it was established w h o they were. B u t the fate o f Miss T., the teacher, was not k n o w n . That m o r n i n g she hadn't shown up yet at the factory. She lived at a temple i n Saiku-machi; whether at home or en route, she had probably been killed. In m y mind's eye I could still see her, neat and composed. Once, needing some paperwork from her, I went to her place; l o o k i n g a bit flustered, she scribbled something i n a hasty hand and gave i t to me. I had taught the schoolgirls English on the second floor o f the factory during their lunch hour; gradually the air raid alerts had become more frequent. One time no alert sounded even as the radio was reporting that planes could be heard and seen i n the skies over Hiroshima. "What should we do?" I asked her. " I ' l l let y o u k n o w i f it looks dan­ gerous; please go on w i t h the lesson until then," she said. B u t the 64

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situation was alarming: American planes circling over Hiroshima i n broad daylight. One day I finished class, came d o w n f r o m the second floor, and Miss T. was sitting i n a corner o f the factory all by herself. F r o m a cardboard box beside her there arose frequent peeps. I looked in, and i t was full o f w r i g g l i n g chicks. I asked, "Where did y o u get them?" and she said w i t h a smile, "One o f the schoolgirls brought them i n . " The schoolgirls sometimes brought i n flowers. They were either set i n water on the desk i n the office or placed on Miss T.'s table. When, leaving the factory, the girls streamed out the front door and lined up i n the street, Miss T. always supervised them i n an inconspic­ uous way, f r o m a spot a little o f f to the side. I n her hand was a bunch o f flowers, and there was something noble about her small, tastefully dressed figure. Supposing disaster had struck while she was on the way to school, her face, too, had probably been transformed into a gruesome sight, like the faces o f all the other injured. I often went to the East Asian Travel Office to arrange bus passes for the schoolgirls and the factory workers. The bureau had already moved twice since this spring because its buildings had been razed. The site to w h i c h it moved the second time was right i n the center o f the destruction. There had been a young w o m a n there w h o k n e w me by sight; she had a dark complexion and spoke w i t h a lisp, but she seemed intelligent. She too had probably not survived. There was an old man over 70 w h o often came to the office about his military dis­ ability pay. M y brother i n Hatsukaichi said he saw this old man after­ wards, apparently i n good health. E V E R Y N O W A N D T H E N normal human voices terrified me. When someone over at the barn let out a sudden cry, that cry immediately called to m i n d the wailing voices o f those dying on the riverbed. There must be only the tiniest o f differences between voices that rend one's heart and voices making madcap jokes. I became conscious o f something abnormal i n the corner o f m y left eye. Four or five days after m o v i n g here, when walking the roads i n broad daylight, I sensed an insect or something floating and gleaming i n the corner o f m y left eye. I thought it m i g h t be refracted light; but sometimes even w h e n I SUMMER

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was walking i n the shade, something glittered i n m y eye. A n d even after dark, even at night, at odd times something bright flickered. Was it because I had seen so many flames? O r because o f the b l o w to the head I had taken? I was i n the p r i v y that m o r n i n g when the b o m b fell, so I didn't see the flash everyone else saw; darkness suddenly de­ scended, and something hit me on the head. There was some bleeding f r o m above m y left eyelid, but the injury was so slight i t left virtually no scar. Is the trauma ofthat m o r n i n g still reverberating i n m y nerves? —but i t was a matter o f only a few seconds, hardly enough to call a trauma. A SEVERE and excruciating case o f diarrhea hit me. The sky had looked threatening since dusk, and the storm struck that night. The lights were o f f on the second floor; lying there I could hear the w i n d h o w l i n g over the rice paddies, loud and clear. The house m i g h t be b l o w n away, so Seiji and his family and Yasuko, w h o were d o w n ­ stairs, fled to the main house. I was alone on the second floor, i n bed, listening drowsily to the sound o f the w i n d . Before the house col­ lapsed, I thought, the rain shutters w o u l d fly o f f and the tiles scatter. The extraordinary experience o f the bomb had made everyone j u m p y . Occasionally, when the w i n d died d o w n completely, the croaking o f frogs reached m y ear. B u t then the w i n d at once resumed its o n ­ slaught, w i t h a vengeance. I n bed I too considered what to do i f worst came to worst. What to take w i t h me i n flight? The satchel right be­ side me, and that was about i t . Each time I went downstairs to the privy, I looked at the sky, and the pitch-black o f the sky didn't seem about to g r o w lighter. There was a crunch, the sound o f something cracking. G r i t t y sand came falling from overhead. N e x t m o r n i n g the w i n d died out completely, but m y diarrhea w o u l d n ' t stop. I was weak i n the knees and tottered when I walked. M y nephew, the j u n i o r high schooler, had survived the b o m b mirac­ ulously despite having been out clearing firebreaks; thereafter all his hair had fallen out, and his health had gradually failed. Then small pink dots had begun to appear on his limbs. O n examining m y body that m o r n i n g , I too found pink dots, albeit very few o f them. T o be on the safe side, I went to the hospital to be examined; the injured 66

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overflowed out into the garden. One w o m a n there had moved f r o m O n o m i c h i to Hiroshima and was at Otemachi when the b o m b fell. Her hair hadn't fallen out, but that m o r n i n g she had begun to spit up blood. She was apparently pregnant, and her weary face wore an u n ­ fathomable disquiet and signs that death was approaching. T H E F A M I L Y o f m y elder sister i n Funairi Kawaguchi-chö had sur­ vived: that report came f r o m m y brother i n Hatsukaichi. Her husband had been confined to his sickbed since spring, and everyone figured the family could not have survived. But although the house was dam­ aged, the fire had spared i t . Her son was n o w suffering greatly f r o m dysentery, so they asked that Yasuko come and help. Yasuko wasn't any too well herself; but deciding to go see h i m anyway, she set out. N e x t day she came back f r o m Hiroshima and told me how, much to her surprise, she had bumped into Nishida on the streetcar. Nishida had been employed at the factory for the last twenty years. That m o r n i n g he had not yet reported for w o r k , so we figured he had been en route when the flash came and was surely done for. I n the streetcar Yasuko saw a man whose face was burned black and swollen all out o f shape. A l l the passengers were staring at h i m ; but almost as i f nothing were the matter, he was asking the conductor something. Yasuko thought his voice sounded really quite like N i s h i da's, so she approached h i m ; he recognized her and greeted her i n a l o u d voice. That was his first excursion into the outside w o r l d f r o m the place where he was being treated. . . . It was more than a m o n t h later w h e n I saw Nishida, and by then the burns on his face had al­ ready scabbed over. He said he and his bicycle had b o t h been sent flying, and that even after he had been carried to the treatment center, he had had a very rough time. A l m o s t all the injured around h i m died, and maggots bred i n his ear: "The maggots were always t r y i n g to get into the ear canal; i t was unbearable." He spoke w i t h his head tilted to the side, as i f being tickled. O N C E SEPTEMBER CAME, there was rain and more rain. M y nephew's hair had fallen out, and he had lost heart; n o w he suddenly took a t u r n for the worse. He was bleeding f r o m the nose, and f r o m his throat too SUMMER

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carne a stream o f blood clots. The crisis w o u l d likely come tonight, they said. So f r o m Hatsukaichi m y brother's family j o i n e d us at the bedside. M y nephew had the smooth pale face and w h o l l y bald head o f a m o n k , and he had been dressed i n a silk garment w i t h small stripes. Stretched out dead tired, he looked like a weird bunraku pup­ pet. The cotton plug i n his nostril was soaked w i t h blood; the basin was colored bright red from his vomit. His father tried fervently to keep his spirits up, saying i n a l o w voice: "Come on! Y o u can make i t ! " Oblivious o f his o w n burns, which had not yet healed, he was completely absorbed i n nursing the boy. Miraculously, when the anx­ ious night gave way to day, my nephew had held his ground. A classmate had fled to safety w i t h m y nephew; w o r d came f r o m his parents that the boy had died. The energetic old man from the insurance company, too, w h o m m y brother had seen i n Hatsukaichi, began to bleed f r o m the gums and soon died. He had been w i t h i n 200 meters o f me when the bomb fell. M y stubborn diarrhea gradually subsided, but there was nothing I could do to halt the weakening o f m y body. M y hair, too, got con­ spicuously thinner. A u t u m n deepened: the l o w mountains close by were enveloped completely i n white mist; the rice i n the paddies rus­ tled ripely i n the breeze. Dozing, I had a rambling dream. Watching the light o f the eve­ ning lamps as it spilled onto the surface o f the rice paddies soaked i n rain, 1 thought repeatedly o f m y wife's deathbed. The first anniver­ sary o f her death was approaching; I got the feeling that I was still i n that familiar house we had rented i n Chiba, shut in w i t h her by the rain. I almost never thought o f the Hiroshima house, w h i c h had been reduced to ashes. B u t i n early m o r n i n g dreams I often saw the house just after the bomb fell. I saw various treasures o f mine, strewn about, to be sure. Books, paper, desk had all been turned to ash; but i n m y inmost heart I felt a sense o f elation. I wanted to t r y w r i t i n g about it w i t h every ounce o f power that was i n me. One m o r n i n g the rain lifted, and a cloudless blue sky spread out over the l o w mountains. T o the eyes o f one long beset by the extended rainy spell, that blue sky seemed too good to be true. Indeed, the break i n the weather lasted barely a day; next m o r n i n g the g r i m rain 68

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clouds returned. F r o m the home o f m y late wife came w o r d that her brother had died; though sent special delivery, the message had taken ten days to get here. He had been c o m m u t i n g to Hiroshima by train; we had heard that on the sixth he had escaped w i t h o u t a scratch and that afterwards too he had been energetic and active. C o m i n g on top o f t h a t report, this w o r d o f his death stunned me. There must still be some harmful substance i n Hiroshima; even people w h o set out f r o m the countryside healthy, they say, come back unsteady. U t t e r l y exhausted f r o m nursing both husband and son, m y sister i n Funairi Kawaguchi-chö had taken to her bed, too; so once more they asked Yasuko to help out. It happened the day after Yasuko left for Hiroshima. Beginning that m o r n i n g , the radio warned o f a typhoon; at dusk the winds grew more and more violent. The w i n d brought heavy rains, and in the pitch-black night i t howled w i t h rage. As I lay drowsing on the second floor, there came f r o m below the sound o f rain shutters being opened noisily and, out i n the paddy, people talking. There was a sound like that o f rushing water. The em­ bankment had collapsed. Before long Seiji and his family roused me so we could all seek refuge i n the main house. M y nephew still could not walk, so Seiji picked h i m up, bedding and all, and carried h i m along the dark corridor to the big house. There everyone was up, l o o k i n g anxious. N o t h i n g like the collapse o f the embankment o f the river had happened, i t seemed, for ages. "This is what happens when y o u lose a war," lamented the farm­ er's wife. The w i n d shook the front door o f the b i g house violently. A thick l o g had been braced against it. N e x t m o r n i n g the storm had gone on its way, and it was as i f nothing had happened. The rice stalks were all bent i n the direction the t y p h o o n had gone; thick red clouds drifted at the edge o f the mountains. . . . It was t w o or three days later that we heard that the railroad had become impassable and that nearly all the bridges o f Hiroshima had been swept away. T H E FIRST anniversary o f m y wife's death was approaching, so I had had i t i n m i n d to go to H o n g ö . The temple i n Hiroshima where her ashes were buried had burned d o w n completely; but i n the place o f SUMMER

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her b i r t h lived her mother, w h o had nursed her until the end. Still, rail service was said to be suspended, and the extent o f the damage was not clear. I n an attempt to find out more about h o w things stood, I went to Hatsukaichi Station. The newspaper had been pasted on the wall o f the station; it carried reports o f the damage. As o f now, it appeared the trains were running between Otake and A k i - N a k a n o ; h o w soon the entire route w o u l d be open was not k n o w n , but O c t o ­ ber i o was the estimated date for the reopening o f the line between A k i - N a k a n o and Hachihommatsu. So even going simply by that, the trains w o u l d n ' t be running for t w o weeks. The newspaper also con­ tained figures on the flood damage w i t h i n Hiroshima Prefecture; a two-week interruption o f rail service was absolutely unprecedented. I was lucky enough to buy a ticket to Hiroshima, so on the spur o f the moment I decided to go to Hiroshima Station. This w o u l d be m y first visit since that day. A l l was well as far as Itsukaichi. B u t little by little, beginning already when the train entered K o i Station, traces o f destruction became evident outside the w i n d o w . The pine trees on the hillsides had been mowed d o w n and tossed about; they too be­ spoke the horror o f that moment. Still lying where they had been hurled i n that instant, roofs and fences stretched on, a continuous black; here and there empty concrete shells and rust-red girders lay j u m b l e d together. As for Yokogawa Station, only the platforms were left. The train moved on into an area i n w h i c h the destruction was even more severe. Those passengers w h o were traveling past for the first time could only stare i n astonishment; as for me, I could still feel the g l o w i n g embers o f that day. The train crossed the i r o n bridge, and T o k i w a Bridge came into sight. Behind the burned riverbank, giant trees, burned black, clawed the sky, and endless piles o f cinders u n ­ dulated like serpents. O n that day o f the bomb, on this riverbed, there had been a demonstration o f human suffering beyond words; but n o w the water o f the river was flowing quiet and clear. What is more, hav­ ing taken a new lease on life, people were n o w trooping across the bridge whose railing had been b l o w n off. Once past N i g i t s u Park, we could see the East Parade Ground, burned out; a bit higher up, the stone steps o f Töshögu Shrine glittered like a fragment o f a grisly nightmare. I had camped out i n those precincts, mixed i n among the 70

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injured, so many o f w h o m had died one after the other. The black black m e m o r y o f those days seemed still to be engraved v i v i d l y on those stone steps. I got o f f at Hiroshima Station and j o i n e d the line for the bus to Ujina. I f I went f r o m Ujina to O n o m i c h i by ship, I could go then f r o m O n o m i c h i to H o n g ö by train; but w i t h o u t going to Ujina, I couldn't tell whether the ship was operating. The bus left at t w o - h o u r intervals; the line o f people waiting for the bus stretched several blocks. The hot sun shone overhead, and i n the shadeless square the line did not move. I f I went n o w to Ujina and back, I w o u l d not be i n time to make the train home. I gave up and left the line. Intending to have a look at the ruins o f the house, I crossed E n k ö Bridge and proceeded directly along the road toward Nobori-chö. The destruction to left and right still called to m i n d some o f m y feel­ ings as I fled on the day o f the bomb. When I came to Kyöbashi, the burned-out embankment stretched as far as the eye could see; dis­ tances were far more compressed than they had been. Come to think o f it, I had noticed some time before that the mountains were clearly visible beyond the endless heaps o f ruins. N o matter h o w far one went, there were the same ashes; but i n some places, strangely enough, there were piles o f countless glass bottles, and i n others only steel helmets had been b l o w n into one spot. In a daze, I stood before the ruins o f the house and thought o f h o w I had fled that day. The rocks o f the garden and the pond were still there, i n fine shape; but w i t h the charred trees it was impossible to tell what k i n d o f tree they had been. The tiles o f the kitchen sink were still there, unbroken. The faucet had been b l o w n away; even n o w a broken stream o f water issued f r o m the pipe. That day, right after the calamity, I had used this water to wash the blood o f f m y face. Even though f r o m time to time people came and went along the road on w h i c h I was n o w standing, for a while I was possessed by the scene. Then I went back again i n the direction o f the station, and f r o m some­ where or other a stray dog appeared. Its eyes wore a singular expres­ sion, as i f i t were frightened; n o w ahead o f me, n o w behind, i t kept me company. I had an hour before the train left, and the western sun burned SUMMER

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d o w n on the exposed plaza. The station building, o f w h i c h only the shell remained, was a black cavern and looked about to collapse even now; a wire had been strung up, w i t h signs: "Danger! Keep out!" The canvas r o o f o f the ticket counter was anchored by a pile o f stones. M e n and w o m e n i n ragged clothes squatted here and there, and about every last one o f them flies were buzzing unpleasantly. Given the recent heavy rain, there should have been fewer flies; but they were still r a m ­ pant. However, w i t h both legs stretched out on the ground and munching something black, the men seemed utterly heedless o f the flies and talked as i f o f t h i r d persons: "Walked twenty kilometers yes­ terday"; "Wonder where to camp out tonight." As I watched, an o l d w o m a n w i t h a vacant look on her face approached and asked i n a c o m ­ ical tone, "Isn't the train leaving yet? Where do they punch the tick­ ets?" Before I could tell her, she said, " A h , is that so?" thanked me, and went off. Something was undoubtedly w r o n g w i t h her, too. A n old man i n geta, feet badly swollen, said something listlessly to his companion, another old man. I N T H E T R A I N on the way back that day, I overheard someone say that a trial run on the Kure line w o u l d begin the next day; so on the next day but one I set o f f again for Hatsukaichi, intending to take the Kure line to H o n g ö . However, they had taken d o w n the train schedule, so I took the streetcar to K o i . Having got that far, I figured I m i g h t as well go to Ujina; but the trolley bridge had collapsed, so f r o m that point on the connection was via ferry, and I heard that there was nearly an hour's wait for the next one. So deciding to go once again to Hiroshima Station, I sat d o w n on a bench at K o i Station. A l l sorts o f people were t h r o w n together i n that narrow space. One person said he had come that m o r n i n g by ship f r o m O n o m i c h i ; someone else said he had walked here after getting o f f a boat at Yanaizu. People asked each other about their o w n destinations, saying all the while that the situation wasn't clear because reports varied, so h o w could they k n o w unless they went there themselves? A m o n g them were five or six demobilized soldiers carrying large bundles; the pop-eyed one opened his bag and pressed a package o f w h i t e rice packed i n a sock on the merchant w o m a n beside h i m . 72

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"It's because I ' m so sorry for her, that's w h y She's o f f to collect her soldier's ashes; I can't just leave her like this," he muttered to h i m ­ self Then a man came up and said, " H o w about selling me some?" "Impossible! We've come back f r o m Korea, see, and we still have to get to T o k y o . O n the way we'll have to walk forty kilometers, eighty." Saying this, the pop-eyed fellow produced a w o o l blanket and muttered, "Want to buy this o f f me?" O n reaching Hiroshima Station, I learned that the report was false: trains on the Kure line were not running. I was at a loss what to do, but then it occurred to me to visit m y sister's house i n Funairi Kawaguchi-chö. F r o m Hatchöbori to Dobashi a streetcar was running on a single set o f tracks. F r o m Dobashi i n the direction o f Eba, m y way lay through ruins. I saw a single streetcar sitting there that had not burned, but I saw nothing resembling a house. Presently a farm field came into v i e w and, beyond i t , a single compound spared by the flames. It appeared that the fire had burned right up to the field, that m y sister's house had been saved at the last moment. Still, the fence was twisted, the r o o f torn, and the main entrance a mess. C o m i n g around f r o m the back gate, I got to the veranda. M y sister, m y nephew, and Yasuko were all sick i n bed, pillows lined up i n a r o w underneath mosquito netting. Even Yasuko, w h o had come to help out, had fallen i l l here; t w o or three days ago she had taken to bed. When m y sister realized I was there, she called out f r o m inside the netting: "Let me have a look at you! Come over here and show me your face! I heard y o u too were i l l . " The talk turned to the events o f the day o f the b o m b . That day m y sister luckily had not even been injured. B u t m y nephew had a slight injury, so they had set o f f for Eba to get it treated. B u t that hadn't helped at all. Each time he saw a badly burned person along the way, m y nephew had felt worse; since then he had been i n poor spirits. The night o f the bomb the flames had burned right up to where they were; m y sister had sat shuddering i n the air raid trench— they could not move m y sick brother-in-law. Then, too, the t y p h o o n o f several days ago had been fierce here. The broken roof, she said, had seemed again about to fly off, rain had leaked i n , and the w i n d had come b l o w i n g i n through every crack, relentlessly; they had SUMMER

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thought they were done for. Even now, looking up, I could see large cracks i n the roof, exposed as it was because the ceiling had caved i n . In this neighborhood the water still was not running, the electricity was off, and night and day i t was unsafe. I went to the next r o o m to say hello to m y brother-in-law; a small mosquito net was spread i n one corner o f a r o o m whose walls were cracked and pillars bent, and he was lying there. He had a fever or something, w h i c h gave his red and swollen face a vacant look; w h e n I spoke, he only panted, "It's rough! Rough!" Having rested t w o or three hours at m y sister's house, I went back to Hiroshima Station and returned i n the evening to Hatsukaichi, going to Jun'ichi's house. To m y surprise Yasuko's son Shirö had turned up. The place to w h i c h he had been evacuated had also been cut o f f by the flooding o f several days ago; i t had taken h i m three whole days, accompanied by his teacher, to get back here. F r o m heel to knee he had countless marks where fleas had got him, but he looked in pretty good shape. Deciding to take h i m along w i t h me to Yahata the next day, I stayed that night at Jun'ichi's. B u t somehow I couldn't sleep. The spectacle o f the ashes, i n all its detail, and the sight o f dazed people came back to life i n m y sleepless head. I remembered the breeze that all o f a sudden had b l o w n i n through the bus w i n d o w s as I rode f r o m Hatchöbori to the station; i t had carried a strange smell. Beyond a doubt, i t was the stench o f death. Beginning at dawn I heard the sound o f rain. N e x t day i n the rain I returned to Yahata, taking along m y nephew. Barefoot, he trudged along after me. M Y SISTER-IN-LAW grieved for her dead son every day, constantly. That was what i t was, her muttering as she worked i n the small damp kitchen. A n d their belongings, too, w o u l d not have gone up i n flames had they been sent offa bit sooner: this had become virtually her stock refrain. Seiji listened to her i n silence; but sometimes, unable to con­ tain himself, he was gruff w i t h her. T r e m b l i n g w i t h hunger, Yasuko's son caught locusts and such and ate them. T w o o f Seiji's sons had left w i t h the evacuation o f the schoolchildren; since the trains weren't r u n ­ ning, they still hadn't returned. The long spell o f bad weather finally 74

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lifted, and fine fall weather arrived, clear and dry. The rice ears t r e m ­ bled, and the big drums for the village festival reverberated. I n total absorption, the people o f the village carried the festival palanquin along the embankment. Stomachs empty, we stared after them i n a daze. One m o r n i n g w o r d came that m y brother-in-law i n Funairi K a waguchi-chö had died. Seiji and I exchanged glances and got ready to set out for the funeral ceremonies. The t w o o f us walked at a brisk pace along the river to the streetcar stop, four kilometers or more away. So he had died, after all. We could not but feel his death deeply. What appeared to m y mind's eye first was something that hap­ pened when I visited his office after coming back to Hiroshima this spring. He was wearing an old overcoat and clinging to a hibachi that was burning green wood; his voice trembled as he said, " I ' m cold, I ' m cold." He had become frail both i n speech and i n bearing; he had aged appreciably. Soon after that he took to his bed. The doctor's exami­ nation revealed that his lungs had been damaged; but that was some­ thing people w h o had k n o w n h i m before simply couldn't believe. There was suddenly more white i n his hair; one day when I went to see h i m , he raised his head and talked o f various things. He foresaw already that defeat was approaching, and he gave vent to his indigna­ tion: the people, he said softly, had been fooled by the military. I had never expected to hear such words from h i m . Once, about the time the China Incident began, he had got drunk and had given me a very hard time. He had served a long stint as an army engineer; people like me probably went against his grain. I knew many things about the life he led after m a r r y i n g m y sister. I could w r i t e volumes about h i m . When we reached K o i , we transferred to streetcar. The streetcars were running as far as Temma-chö; from there one made connections by walking across a temporary bridge to the other side. Even this t e m ­ porary bridge, it appeared, had been open only i n the last day or so. People walked cautiously over the planks—the bridge was three feet wide, and only one person at a time could cross. (It was a long time before the railway bridge was restored, and one had to go by foot, so SUMMER

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for some time the black market flourished i n this sector.) We arrived at m y sister's house before noon. Four or five relatives had gathered i n the guest r o o m w i t h its fallen ceiling and cracked walls. Looking at all o f us, m y sister said through her tears, "He wanted the children to have everything there was to eat, so he w o u l d n ' t take a lunch to w o r k ; instead, he w o u l d walk to a porridge shop and make do w i t h that." The body lay i n the next r o o m , a white cloth covering the face. I n death his face called to m i n d the charcoal i n a hibachi after the fire has gone out. When i t got late, even the streetcars stopped running, so we had to complete the cremation i n daylight. Neighborhood people trans­ ported the corpse and made the preparations. Presently we all left m y sister's house and walked to a field four or five blocks past her house. N o t i n a coffin but simply wrapped i n sheets, m y brother-in-law's body had been carried to an open area at the edge o f the field. M a n y corpses had been cremated here since the atomic bomb; scraps o f w o o d f r o m demolished buildings had been piled up for fuel. We all made a circle, w i t h m y brother-in-law's body i n the center, a priest dressed i n standard civilian attire read the sutra, and someone set fire to the straw. M y brother-in-law's son, ten years old, burst out crying. Quietly, sadly, the w o o d caught fire. The early evening sky, threat­ ening rain, was already getting darker moment by moment. We said our goodbyes there, then hurried back. C o m i n g out onto the embankment along the river, Seiji and I hurried d o w n the road to the temporary bridge at Temma-chö. A t our feet, the river had become completely dark, and there wasn't a single light to be seen i n the ruins that stretched out along the other side. The dark, chill path continued on and on. We could feel the stench o f death i n the air, wafted out o f nowhere. We had heard quite a while ago that i n this area there were countless corpses under the rubble and still not disposed of, that it had become a breeding ground for maggots. Even n o w the pitch-black ruins seemed darkly threat­ ening. Then faintly I heard the crying o f a baby. M y ears weren't play­ ing tricks; as we walked, the voice gradually grew more distinct. It was a vigorous, sad voice, but h o w innocent! Were people already 76

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l i v i n g there, and babies crying? A n indescribable emotion wrenched at m y heart. M R . M A K I had returned f r o m Shanghai, recently demobilized; but on returning, he found his house, wife, and children all gone. That was w h y he stayed w i t h m y sister i n Hatsukaichi and sometimes set o f f for Hiroshima. Today, more than four months have passed since the atomic b o m b . I f a missing person hasn't turned up yet, one really has to resign oneself to his death. Still, M r . M a k i made the rounds o f the likely places, beginning w i t h his wife's birthplace; but at each and ev­ ery stop he heard only condolences. He went twice to the ashes o f the Nagarekawa house. Here and there victims told h i m their personal accounts. I n fact, i n Hiroshima even n o w someone, somewhere was for­ ever telling and retelling the events o f August 6. There was the story o f the man w h o , i n searching for his wife, lifted up the corpses o f several hundred w o m e n i n order to examine their faces; not a single one still had a wristwatch on. There was the story about the w o m a n w h o died i n front o f the radio station i n Nagarekawa, doubled over as i f to prevent the flames f r o m reaching her baby. A n d , a change o f topic, there was the story about a certain island i n the Inland Sea: o n that day all the males i n the village had been mobilized for labor ser­ vice clearing firebreaks, so all the w o m e n i n the village had become w i d o w s ; later, they had gone to the village chief's house to demand an apology. M r . M a k i liked listening to such stories on the streetcar, i n corners o f stations, and i t soon became a k i n d o f habit o f his to go again and again to Hiroshima. O f course, he also went as well to the black markets at K o i Station and i n front o f Hiroshima Station. B u t more than a practical matter, i t became a consolation o f sorts to w a n ­ der among the ashes. Before, y o u had to climb a rather tall building to see all the way to the C h ü g o k u range; now, no matter where y o u walked, the range was visible, and even the island mountains o f the Inland Sea appeared right before your eyes. The mountains seemed to look d o w n at the people o f the ashes, asking what i n the w o r l d had happened. A n d rash people were already beginning, impetuously, to erect crude shacks among the ruins. This city had prospered as a m i l S UMMER

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itary city; M r . M a k i tried to imagine the f o r m it m i g h t take f r o m n o w on, as i t came back to life. A peaceful city encircled by luxuriant green trees: the vision floated hazily before his mind's eye. As he walked, thinking vaguely o f one thing and another, M r . M a k i was often greeted by people he didn't recognize. Long ago he had hung out his shingle as a doctor, so he thought they m i g h t be patients w h o remem­ bered h i m . Still, it was strange. He first noticed it, i n fact, when walking the m u d d y road leading f r o m K o i to Temma Bridge. Rain had just begun to fall; f r o m the opposite direction came a man, apparently a beggar, wrapped i n tat­ tered clothing and carrying on his head a broken piece o f rusty red sheet metal. H o l d i n g the piece o f metal over his head i n place o f an umbrella, he stuck his face unexpectedly out f r o m behind the edge, his glittering eyes looked hard and inquiringly at M r . Maki's face, and he appeared on the point o f introducing himself. B u t then disappoint­ ment quickly showed i n his eyes, and he h i d his face behind the sheet metal. When M r . M a k i was riding on crowded streetcars, too, someone on the other side o f the car w o u l d frequently nod to h i m . When i n an unguarded moment he nodded back, the person w o u l d say something like " M y heavens! M r . Yamada, isn't it?"-—a case o f mistaken identity. When he told this story to others, he learned that he was not the only one to have strangers greet h i m . Indeed, i n Hiroshima even n o w someone was always t r y i n g to find someone.

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Prelude to Annihilation A POWDERY SNOW had been falling since m o r n i n g . The traveler had spent the night i n the city, and enticed by the powdery snow he went walking toward the river. Honkawa Bridge was very close to the place he had stayed. The name itself—Honkawa Bridge: it too he recalled f r o m the distant past. It seemed still to hold memories o f his middle school days long ago. The powdery snow sharpened his eyesight, al­ ready keen. C o m i n g to a stop at about the middle o f the bridge and l o o k i n g toward the shore, he noticed an antiquated billboard advertis­ ing "Honkawa D u m p l i n g s . " A l l at once he seemed to sink into that marvelously peaceful landscape o f long ago. B u t then a shudder welled up inside h i m , beyond his control. I n that tranquil m o m e n t mantled i n powdery snow, there had flashed into his m i n d a vision o f a most gruesome end o f the w o r l d . . . . He set all this d o w n i n a letter and sent i t to a friend w h o lived here. Then he left the city and traveled to distant parts. . . . T H E RECIPIENT o f that letter was looking out his second-floor w i n ­ dow, daydreaming. Immediately under his gaze was the small earthen storehouse next door; near the roof, one patch o f white had peeled away, exposing coarse red mud—the sight made h i m lonely, for only things like that one tiny patch still looked the way he remembered them l o o k i n g long ago. . . . His current residence i n the city was a matter o f the recent past; he had been away for a long time, and n o w it all seemed to be a w o r l d to w h i c h he had no ties. What had hap­ pened to them, the mountains and rivers that had nourished his b o y ­ hood dreams? Letting his feet take h i m where they w o u l d , he walked, gazing at the scenes this place o f his birth offered. C r o w n e d w i t h late spring snow, the C h ü g o k u range and the rivers that flowed at its feet made only a faint impression because o f the hubbub i n the city, awk­ w a r d i n its wartime role o f armed camp. People he came upon i n the streets treated h i m brusquely. Yet even i n the midst o f the high ten­ sion, one still found pockets o f the old languor—a weird w o r l d . . . . He found himself pondering the shudder his friend had experiSUMMER

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enced and w r i t t e n about i n the letter. A hellish cataclysm beyond imagining—moreover, one that w o u l d arise i n an instant. Should that happen, w o u l d n ' t he perish along w i t h this city? O r had he returned i n order to see w i t h his o w n eyes the final hour o f this city o f his birth? His fate was a fifty-fifty proposition. Perhaps, somehow, this city w o u l d survive unharmed, unscathed? —such selfish, fatuous thoughts also flitted through his head. H i s H A N D S O M E black woolen jacket tied at the hips w i t h a black sash, his cleanly shaven chin shining, feet apart, Seiji stood w i t h a busy air i n the doorway o f Shözo's r o o m . " H e y — o f f your duff!" The gentle­ ness o f Seiji's glance belied the harshness o f his words. Squatting be­ side the desk on w h i c h Shözö was w r i t i n g a letter, he riffled through the pictures i n Winckelmann's Thoughts on the Imitation of Greek Art, a copy o f w h i c h was lying there. Shözö put d o w n his pen and watched his elder brother silently As a young man, this elder brother o f his had once had a passion for art history—might i t not hold attraction for h i m even now? . . . B u t Seiji immediately shut the book w i t h a bang. To Shözö, that sound was a continuation o f the " H e y — o f f your duff!" o f a moment ago. M o r e than a m o n t h had passed since he had found his way back to his eldest brother's house, but he still had no j o b , and he continued simply to stay up late and sleep late. Compared w i t h Shözö, this second brother lived each day i n a disciplined way, tensely Even after the factory closed, the lights i n the office were sometimes on late into the night. One time Shözö hap­ pened to come d o w n the alley and look i n at the office; there was Seiji, sitting alone at the desk, w r i t i n g away. Putting his seal on the m o n t h l y wage packets to be handed to the factory workers, readying the doc­ uments to be sent to the mobilization office: his contentment i n han­ dling such bureaucratic chores could be read even i n his characteristic handwriting. Various announcements were stuck to the office walls i n neat letters, as well-formed as i f they had been set i n type. . . . As Shözö looked admiringly at those signs, Seiji swung his swivel chair toward the coal stove that still hadn't gone out; saying, " H o w about a cigarette?" he produced a crumpled pack o f cigarettes f r o m a desk 80

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drawer, then turned on the radio that was sitting on the shelf. The radio warned o f crisis at Iwojima. They couldn't avoid talking about the prospects o f the war. Seiji merely mentioned his doubts; Shözö uttered words that clearly showed his despair. . . . A t night, when the alarm sounded, Seiji w o u l d generally come h u r r y i n g to the office. Less than five minutes after the alarm, the front bell rings stridently. Sleepy-faced, Shözö opens the shutters f r o m the inside, and outside are t w o young girls. They are workers at the factory w h o are on guard duty. One o f them calls to Shözö: "Good evening!" Shözö i m m e d i ­ ately feels touched, that he too should look sharp. He gropes his way through the darkness o f the office and turns on the radio and its dial light; about then, a fidgety Seiji shows up, wearing a heavy cotton air raid hood. "Anyone there?" Seiji calls i n the direction o f the light and sits d o w n i n a chair; but he immediately stands up again and goes to take a look around the factory. The m o r n i n g after the alert, too, Seiji comes to w o r k on his bicycle, bright and early. A n d i t is he w h o comes to the second floor rear, where Shözö is sleeping late, to ad­ monish h i m , " A r e y o u going to sleep all day?" N o w , too, Shözö read the usual admonition i n Seiji's busy air; putting Thoughts on the Imitation of Greek Art back i n its place, Seiji suddenly asked, "Where's Jun'ichi gone?" "He got a phone call this morning; he's probably gone to Takasu." A slight smile i n his eyes, Seiji lay d o w n w i t h a sigh and muttered softly, "Again? What a pain!" He seemed to be waiting to hear Shözö blab about the doings o f their eldest brother, Jun'ichi. B u t Shözö hadn't really figured out the recent trouble between Jun'ichi and his wife, and Jun'ichi never said anything more about i t than he had to. S I N C E T H E DAY Shözö had come back to his eldest brother's house, he had sensed something amiss i n its atmosphere. It was not the black cloth covering the lights and the blackout curtains hanging every­ where, nor was it merely the manner i n w h i c h they had failed to w e l ­ come this younger brother whose wife had died and w h o i n this time o f general hardship had had no choice but to find his way here. N o , something beyond bearing lurked i n the house. Harsh shadows were SUMMER

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sometimes etched on Jun'ichi's face, and he sensed i n his sister-in-law Takako's face some anguish, rankling obscurely. Even his t w o middle schooler nephews, w h o had been mobilized to w o r k at Mitsubishi, were strangely quiet, their faces gloomy. . . . One day sister-in-law Takako disappeared f r o m the house. Then began Jun'ichi's harried solo departures, and the management o f the house was entrusted to their younger sister, a young w i d o w l i v i n g i n the neighborhood. Even late at night this sister, Yasuko by name, came to Shözö's r o o m on the second floor and chattered on and on about all sorts o f things. Shözö learned that this wasn't the first time his sister-in-law had disappeared, that twice already the care o f the house had been entrusted to Yasuko. This w o m a n i n her thirties, sis­ ter-in-law to Takako, described for h i m the atmosphere o f the house, a description that was filled w i t h conjecture and distortion. For that very reason, parts o f it stuck f i r m l y i n his m i n d . . . . In the family r o o m out back, hung w i t h blackout curtains, a kotatsu w i t h its attached quilt o f luxurious damask glowed red, l i t by the light o f the stand—there he occasionally spotted Jun'ichi, apparently i n very l o w spirits. The sight told Shözö something extremely sad. B u t the next m o r n i n g Jun'ichi w o u l d get into his w o r k clothes and speedily begin packing for the evacuation. His face w o u l d hold n o t h ­ ing but arrogance and menace. . . . From time to time, long-distance calls w o u l d come, and Jun'ichi w o u l d set o f f w i t h a busy air. I n Takasu, i t seemed, there was a mediator—but Shözö knew no more than that. . . . Yasuko attributed these changes i n their sister-in-law over the last few years to her having been spoiled by the luxuries the war had brought—luxuries compared to all the troubles the war had imposed on Yasuko herself—and she talked apprehensively as i f this latest per­ plexing disappearance m i g h t well be a physiological phenomenon brought on by menopause. . . . Occasionally, as she was chattering on, Seiji came and listened silently. Then, interrupting: " I n short, she has no m i n d to w o r k . B u t she could show a little consideration for the factory workers." Yasuko nods assent: "She's a lady o f leisure, all the w a y " B u t when Shözö comes out w i t h "Still, I wonder i f the untruths o f this war aren't destroying all our souls," Seiji replies w i t h a smile: 82

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" N o , it's not that complicated. She's just angry because all her l u x u ­ ries are finally at an end." M o r e than a week after Takako flounced out o f the house, she returned as i f nothing had happened. B u t apparently something was still unresolved, and after four or five days she disappeared again. Jun'ichi's pursuit began all over. Head high, he declared: "This time she'll be away a good while." He also made snide remarks about his younger brothers: "Shilly shally, and everyone w i l l make fun o f y o u . You're past the age o f forty, and y o u still don't k n o w h o w to deal w i t h people?" . . . I n both his elder brothers Shözö had detected character­ istics that he shared, a fact that sometimes gave h i m an unpleasant feeling. Yasuko, w h o was acting as supervisor o f the M o r i Works, pointed out the ineptness i n their behavior toward people at large. That ineptness was part o f Shözö's makeup, too. . . . B u t h o w his brothers had changed during the long time he had been away! Still, was i t likely that Shözö himself had not changed at all? . . . N o . E x ­ posed to the dangers threatening every day, every last one o f them was changing and w o u l d continue to change; o f that there could be no doubt. He w o u l d watch i t w i t h his o w n eyes to the very end. . . . These thoughts came floating o f their o w n accord into Shözö's head. " I T ' S HERE!" Seiji produced a slip o f paper and passed i t to Shözö. It was the notice calling Shözö up into the reserves. Shözö stared at the paper and read it again, to the very last punctuation mark. "May?" he m u r m u r e d . Shözö was no longer so frightened as he had been last year when he was mobilized for training i n the militia. Still, seeing the anguished expression on Shözö's face, Seiji said, "What's the problem? Nowadays they don't send y o u overseas any more; no big deal." His nonchalant words masked his real con­ cern. . . . M a y — t w o months f r o m now; Shözö asked himself, w o u l d the war last that long? Shözö often walked aimlessly about the city. Taking Yasuko's son Kan'ichi w i t h h i m , he went to the I z u m i Villa; i t had been a long time since his last visit. I n the old days, when he was a child, he too had often been taken there; now, as then, the trees and the water lay hushed i n the w a r m rays o f the early spring sun. The thought i m m e SUMMER

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diately flashed into his mind: an ideal place to flee to. . . . F r o m late forenoon on, the movie theaters were full, and the lunchrooms i n the entertainment quarter were always crowded. Shözö walked on, taking byroads he still remembered; but nowhere could he find any o f the things that had engraved themselves on his child's m i n d , any o f the things for w h i c h he yearned. A unit o f soldiers led by a noncommis­ sioned officer appeared suddenly from a cross street, singing a sad and heroic song. Wearing white headbands, a unit o f the schoolgirl labor corps came marching i n step like soldiers and also passed h i m . . . . Standing on a bridge and looking upstream, Shözö could see many hills whose names he did not know; from the direction o f the Inland Sea at the other edge o f the city, the island hills peeked out f r o m behind tall buildings. Shözö almost felt like calling out to all these hills surrounding the c i t y . . . One evening t w o young w o m e n passing the corner caught his eye. They piqued his curiosity: w i t h their healthy bodies and full permanents, were they perhaps t o m o r r o w ' s new type? Shözö followed them and tried to overhear what they were saying. "We'll be okay, see, as long as we've got potatoes." The voice was horrible: dull and w o r n out. I T H A D BEEN ARRANGED that some sixty schoolgirls w o u l d come to w o r k at the garment factory i n the M o r i Works. Seiji toiled like a beaver on preparations for the reception for them; as the day neared, even Shözö, w h o until n o w had been loafing around, showed up at the office o f his o w n accord and was put to w o r k . Wearing new w o r k clothes and shuffling his geta noisily, Shözö carried chairs f r o m the storehouse; there was something ungainly i n his manner, as i f he were resisting unaccustomed labor. . . . Chairs had been moved, curtains had been hung, the program written by Seiji had been posted: the hall stood ready. The ceremony was supposed to begin at 9. B u t the air raid alarm had sounded early that morning, so the schedule got all fouled up. "Planes over Okayama, Bingo, Matsuyama . . .": moment by moment the radio reported the attacks o f carrier-based aircraft. A b o u t the time Shözö finished getting ready, the antiaircraft guns roared out. It was the first antiaircraft fire heard i n the city; leaden, the sky seemed 84

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to reflect the somewhat heightened tension. B u t no planes were to be seen, and once they downgraded the alarm to an alert for the time being, people became merely fidgety. . . . When Shözö entered the office, he bumped into Ueda, w h o was wearing a metal helmet. "They've finally come. M y , oh me," said Ueda, w h o commuted to w o r k f r o m the country. Even now, Ueda's stout body and the face through w h i c h his candid spirit shone somehow evoked i n Shözö a sense o f reassurance. Then Seiji appeared, wearing a jacket. He tried to smile gallantly, but his eyes were bright w i t h excitement. . . . I t happened w h e n Ueda and Seiji had gone out front and Shözö was sitting alone i n a chair. For a while, he was daydreaming, t h i n k i n g o f nothing at all; suddenly, there was a whistling noise f r o m the direction o f the r o o f and then a crash. T h i n k i n g something was falling right on his head, Shözö looked quickly toward the w i n d o w . For a moment the second floor eaves across the way and the top o f the pine i n the garden engraved themselves onto his retina w i t h an extraordinary i n ­ tensity. The noise d i d not come again. Soon people came c r o w d i n g back f r o m out front. W i t h a twisted smile on his face, M i u r a said: " A h , what a shock! Scared the pants o f f me." . . . When the alert was lifted, people i n great numbers began to pass by along the street. A m i d the bustle, one could even sense a m o o d , somehow, o f j a u n t i ness. Someone brought i n a piece o f shrapnel; he said he had picked i t up right over there. N e x t day, wearing white headbands, the class o f schoolgirls streamed i n , led by their principal and the teacher i n charge, and were taken immediately to the hall. When the factory workers too had all been seated, Shözö and M i u r a sat d o w n together at the very back. Shözö listened i n a perfunctory manner to the address o f the man f r o m the mobilization section o f the prefectural government and to the words o f instruction f r o m the principal. Then Jun'ichi took the ros­ t r u m , a fine figure i n his civilian uniform. Shözö perked up and lis­ tened carefully to each w o r d and phrase o f his speech. Jun'ichi must have had experience i n this k i n d o f ceremony; his voice and demeanor were b o t h crisp. B u t there were also moments when he seemed to stumble somewhat on a word—rather, on the contradiction between what he was saying and what he really felt. While Shözö was observSUMMER

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ing h i m closely, Jun'ichi looked straight at h i m . Jun'ichi's eyes shone strangely, as i f flinging some sort o f challenge. . . . The schoolgirls sang a song; then, from that day on, they streamed cheerfully into the factory. They appeared early each morning; i n the evening, lined up i n precise order, they were led o f f by their teacher. They brought something fresh to the works and added a little charm. Their sweet­ ness, too, struck Shözö. Shözö was counting buttons i n a corner o f the office. The buttons were scattered on the tabletop, and he was supposed to sort them into piles o f one hundred. Jun'ichi was meeting w i t h some visitors but kept a close eye on h i m ; as Shözö continued languidly and clumsily, his fingers not accustomed to the task, Jun'ichi called out, as i f finally fed up: "That's no way to count! It isn't a game, y o u k n o w ! " Katayama had kept on scribbling a letter, but n o w he set his pen d o w n and came over. " A h , that? T r y it this way." W i t h a kindly air, Katayama showed h i m how. Younger than he and full o f vigor, this Katayama was frighteningly smart and always t w o j u m p s ahead o f Shözö. O N T H E N I N T H DAY after the carrier-based planes appeared over the city, the air raid alarm sounded again. The planes flew i n over Bungo Strait but turned away at Sada Point and streamed toward Kyushu. This time the city escaped unscathed, but n o w people and city both experienced a sudden loss o f confidence. As military units were dis­ patched to raze building after building, the evacuation continued day and night. In the early afternoon, after everyone else had left the office, Shözö sat alone, immersed i n the Iwanami paperback edition o f The Discovery of Zero. There was something that strangely moved h i m i n the story o f the French officer, a prisoner o f the Russian army at the time o f the Napoleonic wars, w h o i n his mortification lost himself i n the study o f mathematics. . . . Then Seiji came bustling back. F r o m the expression on his face i t was clear that he was worked up about something. "Jun'ichi still isn't back?" "Apparently not," answered Shözö, w i t h an abstracted air. As before, Jun'ichi often was o f f somewhere; h o w the trouble between 86

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h i m and Takako had gone recently, no third party could judge. "We can't just sit here!" burst out Seiji, anger i n his voice. "Go out and take a look. They've gone and razed both Takeya-chö road and the neigh­ borhood o f Hirataya-chö. The A r m y Clothing Depot is about to be evacuated!" "Come to that, has it? That shows Hiroshima's about three months behind T o k y o . " Shözö muttered this comment offhandedly; but Seiji stared unblinkingly at h i m , the expression on his face sterner still: " Y o u have to think, don't y o u , that Hiroshima is lucky to be that far behind." . . . W i t h its many children, Seiji's house had recently been t h r o w n into confusion by one thing after another. Clothes to be sent o f f were spread out i n every single r o o m ; moreover, t w o o f the children were part o f the group evacuation and were to leave soon, so getting them ready was a b i g deal all by itself. M i t s u k o did not have a deft hand, and she w o r k e d at a snail's pace; occasionally she wasted time i n idle chatter. When Seiji came back f r o m being out, he was always irritated, and he took i t out on his wife. B u t when supper was over, he usually w i t h d r e w into the back r o o m and pedaled away at the sewing ma­ chine. H e was sewing up a rucksack. However, there were already t w o rucksacks i n the house, so a third didn't seem all that urgent a matter. B u t Seiji was absorbed i n the excitement o f making i t . M u t ­ tering " D a m n ! D a m n ! " he plied his needle. " I ' l l be switched i f I can't do a better j o b than a rucksack maker." I n fact, the rucksack he made was better than what a poor rucksack maker w o u l d have turned out. . . . Thus Seiji continued to divert himself in Seiji-like ways; but t o ­ day, o n reporting at the A r m y Clothing Depot and being ordered to evacuate the factory, he had felt the ground suddenly give way be­ neath h i m . Then, on his way back, he approached Takeya-chö. For forty years he had been accustomed to the sight o f these small streets; now, overnight, they looked like a m o u t h that has lost all its teeth, and soldiers were plying their axes pell-mell. Except for t w o or three years i n his twenties when he had gone away to school, Seiji had v i r ­ tually never been away f r o m this city o f his birth; he had borne pa­ tiently w i t h the tasks given h i m and had seen his status gradually beSUMMER

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come secure—for h i m it was quite unbearable to see all this happening. . . . What i n the w o r l d was to become o f everything? It was not something someone like Shözö w o u l d understand. He had to see Jun'ichi as quickly as possible and i n f o r m h i m about the evacua­ tion o f the factory. He felt a need to have a brotherly talk w i t h Jun'ichi about a whole series o f things. But Jun'ichi was Jun'ichi, wrapped up i n the matter o f Takako; i t didn't look as i f he w o u l d be a source o f strength now. Seiji stripped o f f his leggings and sat for a while, a blank look on his face. While he was sitting there, Ueda and M i u r a returned, and the office filled w i t h talk o f the razing o f buildings. Ueda admired the speed w i t h w h i c h the soldiers worked: "They're really rough! They saw away at the pillars, tie a rope, and heave away on i t ; then it's wholesale destruction—roof tiles and everything are one big mess." " A pity about the papermaker, Nagata! Even i f y o u only saw i t f r o m the outside, his house looked solidly built; the old man was cry­ ing like a baby as he moved his hands over the pillar o f the tokonoma." M i u r a spoke as i f he had just come from watching i t . Smiling once again, Seiji too j o i n e d i n the conversation. A n d at that point Jun'ichi too returned, a somber expression on his face. W H E N A P R I L C A M E to the city, fresh young leaves gradually began to appear; the w i n d fanned the earth and sand o f the m u d walls, and the air became very gritty. The constant coming and going o f horses and carts continued, and people's lives now stood exposed, naked. L o o k i n g out the office w i n d o w , Seiji smiled and said, " Y o u w o u l d n ' t believe what they're taking!" There came a stuffed pheasant, trembling, on a large cart. As i f struck by life's vicissitudes, Jun'ichi muttered: "Rough, isn't it! They say things are really bad i n China; but aren't we just as bad off?" As the eldest brother, he was very care­ ful to avoid criticism o f the war; but when Iwojima fell, he let slip, " D r a w i n g and quartering w o u l d be too good for Töjö and his i l k . " Still, when Seiji urged haste w i t h the evacuation o f the factory, Jun'ichi was not particularly approving: "It's a fine mess when the C l o t h i n g Depot is the first to cut and run." Shözö, too, wrapped on his leggings and went out more often. 88

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The bank, the prefectural offices, the city hall, the travel agency, the mobilization bureau—simple errands, all o f them, and on the way back he strolled the streets. . . . The streets o f Horikawa-chö had been opened way out; they had left only the storehouses behind each house, and traces o f destruction could be seen, glittering, way o f f into the distance: i t was like an impressionist painting. I n spite o f himself, Shözö almost conceded i t a certain charm. One day countless w h i t e sea gulls were m o v i n g about i n the middle ofthat impressionist paint­ ing: schoolgirls on a labor detail. They had alighted atop the b r i g h t l y gleaming rubble; white blouses bathed i n the bright rays o f the sun, each had opened her lunchbox. . . . When he went to the secondhand bookstores, too, panic and disorder were evident; there was an enor­ mous turnover o f merchandise. " D o n ' t y o u have any books o n as­ trology?" Shözö could still hear the voice o f the young man w h o made this inquiry. . . . One no-electricity day he visited the grave o f his wife and after­ ward walked over to N i g i t s u Park. Before, people had thronged here to see the flowers and to have picnics; thinking o f those crowds, he looked into the hushed shade and saw an o l d w o m a n and a y o u n g girl who had quietly spread out a box lunch. The peach trees were i n full b l o o m , and the w i l l o w leaves were glistening. Still, for Shözö the feel­ ing o f the season somehow simply wasn't there. Something had slipped out o f place; things were dreadfully out o f j o i n t . . . . He w r o t e these thoughts i n a letter to a friend w h o had been evacuated to Iwate Prefecture. H e often received letters from this friend. "Stay well. Take care o f yourself." Reading between these lines, short as they were, Shözö got the feeling that his friend was praying w i t h all his heart that the war end soon. But, Shözö thought, w i l l I still be alive w h e n that new day dawns? . . . K A T A Y A M A received his induction notice. Undaunted, j o k i n g as usual, he set about briskly w i n d i n g up his affairs. "Had your physical?" Shözö asked h i m . Katayama smiled: "That was supposed to take place this year . . . now this! N o matter: it's a colossal war, one i n a thousand years; so they're taking everyone." SUMMER

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O n account o f illness, old man M i t s u i had not shown up for a long time. W i t h a worried air, he had been watching the t w o o f them f r o m the corner o f the office. N o w he approached Katayama quietly and spoke as i f giving advice to a son: "Once you're i n the army, make yourself callous! D o n ' t let things get to you!" . . . O l d M i t s u i had been an employee ever since Shözö's father's time. Once as a child Shözö had fallen i l l at school, and this man, Shözö remembered, had come to get h i m . Shözö had been pale, and M i t s u i had cheered h i m up, patting h i m on the shoulder as he vomited over by the river. Would M i t s u i w i t h his shriveled face, practically expressionless, still remember that trivial incident o f long ago? Shözö sometimes felt like asking the old man what he thought o f a time like the present. B u t the old man, always sitting i n the corner o f the office, seemed somehow hard and unapproachable. . . . Once the A r m y Paymaster Section sent for rings to attach to blackout curtains. Ueda quickly produced boxes o f rings f r o m the storehouse and set them out on the office table; the soldier f r o m the Paymaster Section asked, " H o w many to a box?" Ueda answered nonchalantly, " A thousand." Over i n the corner the old man had been watching closely and suddenly put i n his oar: " A thousand? N o t likely." Ueda looked at the old man, unbelieving: " O f course it's a thousand. That's what it's always been." " N o . You're w r o n g . " The old man stood up and brought over a scales. He weighed 100 rings and then placed a box o f rings on the scales. When he divided the weight o f the whole by the weight o f 100, 700 i t was. T H E SEND-OFF PARTY for Katayama was held at the M o r i Works. Peo­ ple Shözö didn't k n o w appeared i n the office, bringing stuff f r o m w h o knows where. It dawned gradually on Shözö that various groups Jun'ichi belonged to were bartering goods. . . . B y that time the long dissension between Takako and Jun'ichi had finally lost its edge and was approaching a surprising resolution. As i f being evacuated, Takako w o u l d go to a house o f f i n Itsukaichi, and the domestic affairs o f the M o r i house w o u l d be entrusted to Yasuko, whose son had just been evacuated w i t h the schoolchildren 90

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and w h o was n o w alone. Once this decision had been reached, Takako returned ostentatiously, and she did the packing for the move. B u t Jun'ichi became even more absorbed i n the packing than Takako. He bound things up neatly w i t h rope; he prepared covers and casings. I n between, he returned to the office and w o r k e d the check-writing ma­ chine or met guests. A t night he drank alone, though Yasuko sat w i t h h i m . Jun'ichi had got the sake by hook or by crook, and he was i n a good m o o d . . . . Then one m o r n i n g B - 2 9 S swept through the sky over the city. L o o k i n g out the w i n d o w s or scrambling onto the roof, the schoolgirls i n the garment factory at the M o r i Works all were fascinated by the contrails o f the planes, still to be seen i n the sky. One by one, the girls sighed i n admiration: "Beautiful, aren't they!" " W o w ! They go so fast." This was the first time that B-29S—indeed, that contrails—had appeared over the city. . . . Last year Shözö had become used to the sight i n T o k y o , but these were the first contrails he had seen i n a good while. N e x t day carts came and transported Takako's things to Itsukaichi. W i t h a laugh, Takako said, " I ' m sending o f f m y trousseau a sec­ ond time!" Then she bade good-bye to the people o f the neighbor­ hood and left. B u t four or five days later Takako came back again for a formal neighborhood send-off. It was a no-electricity day, and f r o m m o r n i n g on the rice-cake mortar stood ready i n the kitchen; Jun'ichi and Yasuko w o r k e d on the preparations for making rice cakes. As they did so, the w o m e n o f the neighborhood association poured into the kitchen. . . . B y then Shözö, too, had had to listen u n t i l he was bored stiff as Yasuko talked about the affairs o f these neighbors. W h o was i n cahoots w i t h w h o m , w h i c h families were at loggerheads, h o w they were all circumventing the rationing and making do. The w o m e n w h o came to the kitchen all looked like w i l y old birds; they seemed to have vital energies that someone like Shözö could not equal and an instinct for dealing innocently i n lies. . . . Various colleagues came to Jun'ichi w i t h suggestions for the banquet—"Better drink while we still can!"—and the kitchen o f the M o r i house was a bustling place. A t such times the neighborhood w o m e n come and pitch i n . SUMMER

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D R E A M I N G , Shözö saw himself violently t h r o w n about i n a storm and felt himself falling. Just then came a thump, and the windowpanes reverberated. Soon a cry f r o m right close by reached his ear: "Smoke! Smoke!" O n w o b b l y legs he edged up to the second-floor w i n d o w and saw, far o f f i n the western sky, black smoke boiling up. Straight­ ening his clothes, he went downstairs, but by that time the planes had already flown off. . . . Seiji had a worried look on his face. He scolded Shözö: "This is no time to be sleeping late!" Shözö hadn't even been aware the alarm had sounded that morning, but no sooner had the radio reported one plane heading for Hamada (on the Japan Sea coast, a port i n Shimane Prefecture) than it happened: a string o f bombs came raining d o w n on Kamiya-cho. This happened at the end o f April. M A Y CAME, and preliminary drills for the muster were held every eve­ ning i n the auditorium o f the local elementary school. Shözö hadn't k n o w n they were going on; but he finally became aware o f that fact on the fourth, before the drill. F r o m that day on, like everyone else, he finished supper early and set out for the auditorium. B y this time the school was already being used as a barracks. Standing on the bare floor o f the d i m l y l i t auditorium was a motley group, some relatively old and some really very young. A young drill instructor w i t h ruddy cheeks stood as i f at attention; his high boots gleamed, the calves quiv­ ering like rubber. C a l m at first, the drill instructor asked Shözö: "You're the only one w h o didn't notice everyone was coming here to drill?" Shözö whispered an excuse. "Speak up!" the drill instructor thundered suddenly i n a startling voice. Shözö quickly realized that here everyone shouted. He waggled his head and, desperate, strained his voice to its l i m i t . When he re­ turned home, tired out, the shouting still eddied inside h i m . . . . The drill instructor rounded up the young people and drilled them one by one for the muster. I n response to his questions, they answered i n high spirits, and the drill proceeded smoothly. When it came the t u r n o f a 92

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young man w i t h something o f a l i m p , the drill instructor looked d o w n at h i m f r o m the dais: "Occupation: photographer?" "That is so, sir," the young man answered, his head dipping ob­ sequiously. "Cut that out. 'Yes' w i l l do. I've kept things nice and simple so far, but answers like that spoil everything," said the d r i l l instructor w i t h a tight smile. It was this pronouncement that suddenly enlight­ ened Shözö: the man was drunk! Returning home, Shözö poured out to Yasuko: "It's the height o f absurdity. The Japanese military is drunk on f o r m . " I T WAS A DARK M O R N I N G , w i t h rain threatening at any moment. Shözö was standing i n formation on the playground o f the elementary school. They had been at it since 5, nothing but instructions and for­ mations, repeated over and over; it seemed they w o u l d never move out. That m o r n i n g the drill instructor had t o l d a y o u n g man his atti­ tude was disgraceful, then slapped h i m on the cheek; he looked as i f he still was very much o f a m i n d to find fault. A t just that point a middle-aged man appeared, very grimy, and started to m u m b l e an excuse. "What!" Everyone there could hear the drill instructor's voice and nothing else. " Y o u haven't made it to even one o f these drills, yet you show up this morning? —you've got some nerve!" The d r i l l i n ­ structor stared h i m i n the face and shouted: "Strip!" The man tenta­ tively started undoing buttons. The drill instructor soon went w i l d : "This is h o w y o u strip!" Hauling the man to the front, he spun h i m around and ripped the shirt o f f his back. There i n the sunlight, made weaker by the green haze that enveloped the scene, stood exposed the man's u g l y back, covered all over w i t h pimples. "This body needed absolute bed rest, eh?" The d r i l l instructor paused a second i n anticipation. " D u m m y ! " Even as he spoke, his fist lashed out. A t just that m o ­ ment the siren i n the schoolyard began to moan out the preliminary alert. That loud noise, so mournful, added a yet more gruesome note to the scene. When i n due time the siren stopped, the drill instructor declared to one and all, as i f largely satisfied w i t h what he had SUMMER

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achieved, " I ' m going to report this fellow to the military police," and then for the first time he ordered them to move out. . . . As the for­ mation neared the West Parade Ground, drops o f rain began to fall. The harsh sound o f marching feet followed the moat along. O n the other side o f the moat stood I I Corps o f the Western C o m m a n d , but Shözö's eye was caught by the azaleas b l o o m i n g i n profusion, b l o o d red against the dusky green o f the embankment. A P A R T FROM A BAG or t w o sent to the site to w h i c h her son's school had been evacuated and a trunk entrusted to a friend i n the country, most o f Yasuko's belongings were stored i n the storehouse at Jun'ichi's. Her personal effects and her w o r k things had been put i n the six-mat r o o m that held the sewing machine. She liked to w o r k away amid half-finished jobs spread out all over; she simply did not notice the mess. The weather tended toward the wet, and the light faded early; as soon as the sun set, mice came rustling out and h i d behind the cartons. Jun'ichi liked things neat and sometimes scolded her, and then and only then Yasuko went through the motions o f cleaning up; but the r o o m immediately became even messier than be­ fore. Yasuko often grumbled to Seiji that what w i t h the business, the cooking, and the cleaning, it was impossible to keep this large house the way Jun'ichi wanted it kept. . . . Since renting the house i n Itsukaichi, Jun'ichi kept thinking o f one thing after another to be sent there; virtually every day he devoted himself to packing. B u t it was his habit, after scattering things about, to put everything neatly back in its place. The rucksack Jun'ichi had prepared to take w i t h h i m i n flight was packed w i t h food and fastened to a rope hanging d o w n f r o m the porch ceiling. That was to protect it from the mice. . . . Jun'ichi had Nishizaki tie up the luggage, and then the t w o o f them carried it to a corner o f the factory; thereupon Jun'ichi went to the office, put on his reading glasses, read t w o or three documents, then up and headed for the bathroom and set about giving the tiles a good scrubbing. . . . B o d y and soul, Jun'ichi was spinning like a top these days. He had sent Takako off, but the ward council refused to approve the evac­ uation o f those w h o had important roles i n the air raid procedures and 94

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thus d i d not certify her change o f residence. So Jun'ichi had to carry food, too, to Takako. He was able to wangle a commuter's ticket to Itsukaichi; further, i n order to keep a supply o f rice on hand, he ar­ ranged for a steady influx f r o m the black market. . . . B y the time Jun'ichi finished cleaning the bath, he had already made his plans for t o m o r r o w ' s packing. N o w he dried his hands and feet, slipped into geta, and went to take a look at the storehouse. Yasuko's belongings were piled i n confusion just beside the entrance—boxes f r o m w h i c h something had been taken and the top left off; boxes w i t h the top on and clothes spilling out. That was the way they always were. B u t still they caught his eye. For a time Jun'ichi eyed them stonily; then, re­ membering w h y he had come, he muttered to himself that they could use more water buckets here. Already i n her late thirties, Yasuko was no longer so cheerful as she had been i n her schoolgirl days; her serenity had disappeared along the way. I n its place n o w was a certain impudence. Her sickly husband had died, and she had taken her young child and moved to a place near Jun'ichi. Since then her life had been difficult. Moreover, during that time she also had spent a full year learning dressmaking. D u r i n g the time she was unable to make ends meet, she had received rough treat­ ment at the hands o f her mother-in-law and the neighborhood group and her sister-in-law and her elder brothers. She had gradually come to understand quite a bit about life. What interested her most o f all these days was other people; speculating about people's feelings and criticizing them had become virtually an addiction. A n d then she be­ guiled the time i n her o w n fashion by twisting people around her little finger—better, by having entertaining chats w i t h people and giving and receiving small favors. She was extremely fond o f a n e w l y mar­ ried and guileless husband and wife i n the neighborhood w h o m she had come to k n o w six months ago, so on nights Jun'ichi was away, o f f to Itsukaichi, Yasuko w o u l d have these t w o i n and prepare beanj a m pancakes. W i t h the blackout i n force and the specter o f death l o o m i n g nightly, such evenings were happy times for her; she was like a child playing house. . . . Ever since the domestic affairs o f the main house had been placed i n Yasuko's keeping, her middle school nephews too had g r o w n fond SUMMER

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o f her and often addressed her as i f she were their elder sister. O f the t w o , the younger one had gone to Itsukaichi w i t h his mother; the elder middle schooler, w h o had already started to smoke and perhaps was drawn by the nightlife o f the city, stayed i n Hiroshima. I n the evening, when he came home f r o m the Mitsubishi factory, he i m m e ­ diately looked i n at the kitchen. Yasuko always prepared something different to please him—steamed bread, doughnuts, and the like. A f ­ ter eating his fill at supper, he w o u l d lumber o f f into the dark streets; when he returned, he w o u l d climb right into the bath and relax. A t his ease i n the bath, he w o u l d sing i n a loud voice—exactly like a fac­ t o r y hand. His face was still that o f a child, but his body had become that o f an adult. Yasuko always tittered as she listened to h i m sing. . . . When she fixed bean-paste dumplings and set them out for Jun'ichi to eat after his evening drink, Jun'ichi w o u l d praise her ex­ travagantly. Wearing an open-throated shirt and feeling young again, Jun'ichi sometimes j o k e d good-naturedly: "Put on weight, haven't you? Hey, you're getting fatter by the day!" Actually, Yasuko's stom­ ach did protrude, and her face soon shone w i t h the luster o f someone i n her twenties. Still, her sister-in-law did come back about once a week f r o m Itsukaichi. Wearing loud cotton bloomers and trailing per­ fume i n her wake, Takako never said as much but apparently came to keep an eye on Yasuko. When at such times the air raid alarm sounded, Takako w o u l d immediately frown; when it lifted, she w o u l d depart i n haste: " I ' l l be stuck here i f the alarm sounds again, so I ' m o f f now." . . . Second brother Seiji usually turned up at about the time Yasuko began preparing supper. Sometimes, w i t h a happy air, he w o u l d pull out a postcard, saying it had come from his children, w h o had been evacuated. B u t sometimes Seiji w o u l d complain, " I ' m feeling shaky," or " I ' m dizzy." W i t h all animation gone f r o m his face, his fretfulness was all the more prominent. When Yasuko offered h i m a rice ball, he w o u l d devour i t silently and w i t h relish. Then, seeing h o w caught up i n the evacuation everyone was, he w o u l d laugh m o c k i n g l y and say something like "While you're at i t , w h y not take the stone lanterns and the shrubs, too?" Yasuko had been worried about a chest and a vanity that had s i m 96

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ply been left l y i n g i n the storehouse. She had even got Jun'ichi to say, " I t ' d be a good idea to make a crate for this vanity"; i f he w o u l d only give Nishizaki the w o r d , the problem w o u l d be solved. B u t , occupied w i t h his o w n evacuation, Jun'ichi looked as i f he had already forgotten about i t . Yasuko was very reluctant to ask Nishizaki directly. N i s h i ­ zaki obeyed any order o f Takako's unconditionally, but he seemed somehow to h o l d back when i t came to Yasuko. . . . That m o r n i n g Yasuko watched closely f r o m the office as Jun'ichi carried a claw h a m ­ mer to the storehouse and saw f r o m his face that he had calmed d o w n ; so she figured n o w was as good a time as any and quickly broached the subject o f the vanity. "Vanity?" Jun'ichi muttered, unmoved. " U h - h u h . I ' d really like to get it out o f here, even i f nothing else goes." Yasuko stared straight at h i m , as i f appealing to h i m . His gaze slid o f f to the side. "That . . . rubbish? I really don't care what happens to i t , " said Jun'ichi, then wheeled around and left. A t first Yasuko felt as i f she had had the w i n d knocked out o f her. Then her resentment rose i n waves, and she was no longer able to concentrate. Rubbish i t m i g h t be, but i t was the many times she had moved that had turned i t into rubbish. It was something she kept for remembrance; her mother, n o w dead, had given it to her at the time o f her wedding. Where his o w n things were involved, Jun'ichi was attached to every last b r o o m ; couldn't he understand someone else's heartache? . . . There floated up again before her mind's eye the terrible look on Jun'ichi's face that one evening. It had been about the time arrangements were being made to send Takako o f f to Itsukaichi. Jun'ichi wanted to move Yasuko here to take Takako's place and entrust everything to her; but Yasuko w o u l d not be persuaded. I n part, her refusal was a covert rebuke o f her spoiled sister-in-law, but she was also worried about her child, w h o had been evacuated to Kake; she thought she w o u l d rather go there as a govern­ ess. Placating her, coaxing her, Takako and Jun'ichi hemmed Yasuko in, and the night wore on. D r a w i n g himself up, Jun'ichi asked, "Is there really no way y o u ' l l agree to come?" SUMMER

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Yasuko repeated, " N o . Hiroshima is a dangerous place; I ' d rather go to Kake. . . ." Suddenly Jun'ichi grabbed the skin o f a navel orange l y i n g beside the hibachi and flung it w i t h a smack against the far wall. His fury flooded out, a deluge. As i f mediating, Takako got a w o r d i n — " W e l l , well, please think it over again during the night"—and during the night Yasuko finally did acquiesce. . . . For a little while next m o r n ­ ing Yasuko walked around the house aimlessly, as i f dizzy; soon, al­ most i n spite o f herself, she climbed the stairs and came to Shözö's r o o m . So early i n the morning, Shözö was alone i n his r o o m , mend­ ing his socks. W i t h o u t pausing for breath, she told h i m all about h o w Jun'ichi had acted, and then her tears overflowed for the first time. Afterwards, she did seem to become a bit calmer. Shözö merely lis­ tened i n g l o o m y silence. A F T E R ROLL CALL, Shözö's m i n d tended to go blank; he himself was powerless to prevent i t . A t that time he didn't have much to do, and he hardly ever even put i n an appearance at the office. When he did appear, i t was to read the newspaper. Germany had already surren­ dered unconditionally, and now people i n Japan were advocating a fight to the finish on the main islands; phrases such as "digging i n " began to appear. Reading between the lines o f the editorials, Shözö tried to sniff out some sense o f the truth. B u t for t w o days and maybe even three he hadn't been able to read the paper. U p until n o w he could expect to find it on Jun'ichi's desk; now, for some reason, i t wasn't there. Shözö felt forever driven, yet it was impossible not to let up. He spent a lot o f time aimlessly pacing the large house, as i f he didn't k n o w what to do w i t h himself. . . . A t noon, the schoolgirls came to the kitchen to fetch tea. A t that time they were liberated f r o m w o r k , and their lively voices could be heard at the alley o f the factory, sepa­ rated f r o m the kitchen only by a black wooden wall. Shözö w o u l d sit d o w n on the veranda o f the cafeteria on this side o f the wall, his t r o u ­ bled gaze dropping to the small pond at his feet; over at the factory, the girls' physical exercises were beginning, and y o u could hear the bright voice o f the class leader: "One, t w o ! One, t w o ! " It was strange, 98

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but only the gentle, bouncy voices o f the girls seemed able to offer Shözö consolation. . . . When three o'clock came around, as i f it had just occurred to hirn to do so, he w o u l d return to his o w n r o o m on the second floor and mend his socks. Then the girls w o u l d appear, standing and w o r k i n g at a lively pace, on the floor above the office, over there across the garden, and the sound o f the electric sewing ma­ chines too reached across to h i m . While he felt w i t h his fingertip for the eye o f the needle, the thought w o u l d flicker through Shözö's m i n d : "When I pull these on and head for the hills, i t w i l l mean . . ." F r o m then on he was often to be seen evenings i n the streets, walking dejectedly. I n one quarter after another the houses had been razed, so i n unexpected places open areas had been cleared and crude shelters crouched. T u r n i n g f r o m a street that was far broader than necessary—the streetcar hardly ever ran here any more—he came out onto the embankment along the river. Green fig leaves flourished, thick and heavy, by crumbling dirt walls. Dusk had gathered but w o u l d not give way to night; a heavy dampness filled the air. Shözö felt as i f he were walking i n a place completely strange to h i m . . . . B u t passing the embankment, he came out at the end o f Kyöbashi and then walked again along the embankment along the river. When he got to the door o f Seiji's house, first his niece called to him—she had been playing at the edge o f the street—and then his nephew the first grader came flying. The boy tugged at Shözö's hand, and his small hard nails bit into Shözö's wrist. A b o u t that time Shözö began to want a carryall to take w i t h h i m i n flight. Each time the alarm sounded, he took afuroshiki w i t h h i m ; but his elder brothers had fine rucksacks, and Yasuko had a satchel that hung f r o m her shoulder. Yasuko agreed to sew one up for h i m any time he found the cloth. When Shözö broached the subject to Jun'ichi, Jun'ichi mumbled, " C l o t h for a satchel?" Shözö couldn't tell f r o m Jun'ichi's look whether there was any cloth. Shözö waited, t h i n k i n g Jun'ichi m i g h t produce some one day, but there were no signs that he w o u l d ; so Shözö pressed Jun'ichi again. Smiling meanly, Jun'ichi said, " Y o u don't need one! Y o u want something to take w i t h y o u when y o u flee? Take one o f those rucksacks hanging over there!" N o matter h o w Shözö explained that he wanted a satchel just for i m SUMMER

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portant documents and personal effects, Jun'ichi paid no heed. . . . Shözö heaved a deep sigh. He simply could not grasp Jun'ichi's t h i n k ­ ing. Yasuko explained to h i m h o w to manipulate Jun'ichi: " T r y sulk­ ing. I give h i m a hard time by crying." She had even succeeded i n getting Jun'ichi to send the vanity o f f to safety. B u t prolonged hag­ gling was more than Shözö could manage. . . . He went to Seiji's house and mentioned the matter o f the satchel. Seiji produced the k i n d o f cloth perfect for a satchel and said, "This ought to be enough. It's w o r t h a bag o f rice on the barter circuit; what can y o u offer?" Seiji knew full well that Shözö had nothing to offer. W i t h the cloth i n hand, Shözö asked Yasuko to make the satchel. She too had a spiteful remark: " W h y is it y o u think always and only o f fleeing?" T H E C I T Y had not come under air attack since the b o m b i n g o f A p r i l 30. So the evacuation went by fits and starts, and the public m o o d , too, alternated constantly between tension and languor. The alarm sounded virtually every night, but the planes always dropped mines i n the harbor, so even at the M o r i Works they discontinued the watch. B u t the sense o f being embattled, o f having to fight a last-ditch battle, on the main islands, had gradually intensified. One day i n the office Seiji said to Shözö: "Field Marshal Hata has come to Hiroshima! The headquarters for Fortress Japan is at the East Parade Ground. Looks like Hiroshima w i l l be the site o f the last stand!" Seiji had his doubts; but compared w i t h Shözö, he seemed almost eager for the decisive battle. . . . "Field Marshal Hata, eh?" drawled Ueda. " A l l he does every day is sit on his fat duff at head­ quarters." . . . I n the evening, the radio i n the office reported that five hundred B - 2 9 S had raided the Tokyo-Yokohama area. Listening w i t h a f r o w n , old M i t s u i suddenly said i n astonishment, "Gee—five h u n ­ dred!" Everyone snickered. . . . One day the city's factory owners were summoned to the second floor o f East Police Headquarters to receive some instructions. Shözö went i n place o f Jun'ichi. This was the first time that Shözö had at­ tended this sort o f affair; looking bored, he let his thoughts wander. When he came to, the speaker had changed, and a police officer w i t h a splendid physique was beginning his talk. Shözö began to pay a little 100

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attention to the man. B o t h i n stature and i n face, he was the very model o f a police officer. His voice, too, was clear and direct: "Well, let me say a few words n o w about the air raid training exercises. . . ." Shözö lent an ear even as he marveled: cities throughout the land are exposed to shot and shell, and here we talk o f exercises? "As y o u k n o w , at the present time refugees are flooding into H i ­ roshima f r o m all over—Tokyo, Nagoya, the Osaka-Kobe area. What is i t that these refugees talk about to our townspeople? They grumble: ' M y goodness, the air raids were terrifying, terrifying. The only thing to do is to get out as quick as y o u can.' B u t after all, these people are the losers i n the air raids; they are pitiful, ignorant. We w h o are fully self-reliant must never listen to them. To be sure, the fighting is fierce, and the air assault is getting worse. But no matter h o w dangerous i t becomes, there is nothing to be the least bit afraid o f as l o n g as we take resolute measures against i t . " Saying this, he swiveled around i n the direction o f the blackboard and began his actual presentation w i t h diagrams. . . . He showed not the slightest uneasiness; listening to h i m talk, one m i g h t have thought that air raids were simple and clear-cut affairs, that human life too was subject to simple and clear-cut physical processes: that and no more. A curious fellow, thought Shözö. B u t i n Japan today j o l l y robots o f that sort are not i n short supply. J U N ' I C H I never set o f f for Itsukaichi empty-handed, but always stuffed into his rucksack small items destined for there; he usually set out after supper, alone and happy. B u t one time he took Shözö along: " I f an emergency arose and y o u didn't k n o w h o w to get there, w e ' d be stuck; so come w i t h me now." Given a small package to carry, Shözö headed w i t h Jun'ichi for the streetcar stop. The car for K o i didn't come and didn't come; Shözö stood looking toward the far end o f the broad thoroughfare. Beyond the buildings, the crouching f o r m o f Gosasö M o u n t a i n was clearly visible. Charged w i t h the h u m i d i t y o f a summer's evening, Gosasö was n o w full o f life. The other mountains connected to it usually looked as i f they were snoozing; but today they too were absolutely filled w i t h vitality. Clouds drifted lazily through the clear sky. The m o u n SUMMER

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tains looked as i f at any moment they m i g h t shake and tremble, call out. It was a strange spectacle. Shözö imagined a large composition w i t h this city at its center. . . . Even after the streetcar crossed several clear rivers and got to the suburbs, Shözö's eyes devoured the scenery outside the w i n d o w . The tracks ran through an area that used to be thronged w i t h beach-goers; even n o w the breeze b l o w i n g i n through the w i n d o w brought w i t h it the smell o f happy memories. B u t the look o f the C h ü g o k u range, w h i c h had frightened Shözö even before they boarded the streetcar, still had not lost its vigor. Against the darkening sky the mountains displayed an ever more brilliant green; the islands o f the Inland Sea too stood out i n bold relief. The waves, the calm blue waves, seemed at any moment about to rage, stirred up by the fiercest o f storms. T H E M A P OF J A P A N , SO familiar, popped into Shözö's head. O n the edge o f the Pacific Ocean, infinitely broad, the Japanese archipelago appears first as small dots. A formation o f B-29S that has taken o f f f r o m bases i n the Marianas threads its way through the clouds, like so many shooting stars. The Japanese archipelago draws much nearer. Over Hachijöjima, the formation splits i n t w o ; one part heads straight for M t . Fuji, the other follows Kumano Sea toward K i i Channel. One plane f r o m that formation gradually detaches itself, crosses Muröto Cape, and heads rapidly for Tosa Bay. . . . A mountain range comes into view, massed and rising over green plains like a foaming wave; once the plane crosses these peaks, the Inland Sea appears, calm as a mirror. The plane inspects the islands scattered atop this m i r r o r and wheels silently over Hiroshima Bay. In the too-strong rays o f the noonday sun, the C h ü g o k u range and the city facing the bay are b o t h a hazy light purple. . . . Soon the contours o f Ujina Harbor appear clearly; n o w all o f Hiroshima C i t y is visible. Flowing between the mountains, the Öta River divides as it enters the city, and then the divisions divide again; the city spreads out over the delta. The city engulfs the l o w hills i n the immediate background, and t w o squares— the t w o parade grounds—shine large and white. B u t recently, all over this city divided by rivers, bare white spots have appeared where fire­ breaks have been cleared. Can these defenses against firebombs be i m 102

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pregnable?. . . Binoculars reveal bridges. Even n o w groups o f human beings the size o f ants are m o v i n g about busily. Soldiers, w i t h o u t a doubt. Soldiers: recently, i t seems, they have taken over the entire city. It goes w i t h o u t saying that the figures on the parade grounds, m o v i n g about like ants, are soldiers; but even those figures scattered about among the tiny buildings appear to be soldiers. . . . Perhaps the siren has sounded. M a n y carts are m o v i n g through the streets. A t o y train is m o v i n g at a snail's pace through green paddies on the outskirts o f the city. . . . Farewell, tranquil city! The B-29 banks and flies majes­ tically off. A B O U T T H E T I M E the battle for Okinawa came to a close, there were major air raids on the city o f Okay ama i n the prefecture next door; then, after midnight on the night o f June 30, the city o f Kure went up i n flames. Over and over that night the sound o f squadrons o f planes crossing the sky above Hiroshima assailed the ears o f the residents; even Seiji turned up at the M o r i Works, eyes huge and glittering be­ neath his air raid hood. N o one was at the factory or i n the office, but three people—Yasuko, Shözö, and the middle school nephew—were crouching i n the entryway o f the house. The thought occurred i n ­ stantly to Seiji: only the three o f them to stand watch over this vast compound? Then the fire bell rang out front, and a voice could be heard shouting, "Take shelter!" The four o f them quickly took shelter i n the trench i n the garden. Densely clouded, the sky did not look as i f it w o u l d lighten up soon; again and again they heard airplanes. The all clear finally sounded as they began to be able to make out shapes. . . . C a l m was restored to the city; but Jun'ichi, very agitated, strode through its streets at a great pace. A t Itsukaichi he hadn't had a m o ­ ment's sleep; all night long he had watched the fires burning b r i g h t l y across the bay. M u t t e r i n g to himself—mustn't be caught o f f guard; the fires are already right at our doorstep—he hurried home as quickly as possible. The streetcar did not come p r o m p t l y that m o r n i n g either, and the passengers all had vacant expressions on their faces. B y the time Jun'ichi got to the office, the sun was already high i n the sky; here too everyone he met had a vacant, sleepy expression on his face. SUMMER

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As soon as he saw Seiji, Jun'ichi announced: "This is no time for idling! Q u i c k , get going w i t h the evacuation o f the factory!" The dis­ mantling o f the sewing machines, the petition to the prefectural office asking for horse-drawn carts, the evacuation o f the remaining house­ h o l d effects—there was still a huge pile o f urgent matters for Jun'ichi to deal w i t h . However, he had to consult w i t h Seiji, and Seiji kept slipping i n his doubts about details; he did not t h r o w himself into it wholeheartedly. Jun'ichi burned w i t h the thought o f h o w he w o u l d like to crack the w h i p . O N T H E N E X T DAY but one, the r u m o r spread like wildfire that i t was Hiroshima's t u r n for a major air raid. That evening, after Ueda had relayed the warning he had received from the office for food rations, Jun'ichi pressed Yasuko to have an early supper, then looked at Shözö and Yasuko and said, " I ' m o f f now; please take care o f things." Shözö stated emphatically: " I f the alarm sounds, I ' m not sticking around . . ." and Jun'ichi nodded: " I f it looks hopeless, put the sewing machine i n the well." Brave thoughts welled up inside Shözö: " H o w about sealing the doors o f the storehouse? Shouldn't we do that n o w while we've still got the chance?" He went to stand i n front o f the storehouse. Some time ago red clay had been plastered on; but sealing the doors o f the storehouse—that was something that had never been done i n his fa­ ther's day. Raising the ladder, Shözö pushed sticky red clay into the cracks around the white-paneled doors. B y the time he finished, Jun'ichi had already disappeared. Shözö took i t into his head to go to Seiji's. He found M i t s u k o stuffing things into sacks i n great haste. When Shözö said, "Tonight's supposed to be a bad one . . ." M i t s u k o replied slowly, "Yeah, it's supposed to be a secret; but our neighbor M r . K o j i m a heard about it this evening at the government office where he works." The normal preparations were completed, and Shözö had just crawled into the mosquito net i n the six-mat r o o m on the ground floor—by this time Shözö had begun sleeping on the ground floor. The radio reported a preliminary alert along the coast o f Tosa. Inside the mosquito net Shözö pricked up his ears. Köchi Prefecture and 104

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Ehime Prefecture went on preliminary alert; then the alerts changed to alarms. Shözö crawled out o f the net and wrapped on his gaiters. T h r o w i n g canteen over one shoulder and carryall over the other, crossing the straps over his chest, he added a belt around his chest to keep them i n place. B y the time he had searched out his shoes at the entry way and finally pulled on his gloves, the siren sounded the pre­ liminary alert. He rushed outside and hurried toward Seiji's house. I n the dark, the asphalt seemed to fight the hard soles o f his shoes. For all his hurry, Shözö was conscious o f h o w taut his legs were, h o w well they were functioning. The gate o f Seiji's house stood open. He knocked at the entryway door as loudly as he could, but there was no response. They must have left already. Shözö burst out onto the road on the embankment and hurried toward Sakae Bridge. As he neared the bridge, the siren roared the air raid alarm. Frantically crossing the bridge, he went round the dike by N i gitsu Park and soon came to the embankment leading i n the direction o f Ushita. N o w at last Shözö became aware o f the throngs o f people i n his immediate vicinity, jostling each other as they streamed along. Young, old, male, female—city folk o f all sorts, they wore looks o f desperate determination. A baby carriage carrying an o l d w o m a n and a bicycle-drawn trailer piled high w i t h bowls and pots went past, fighting their way through the crowds. A man sailing out i n metal helmet, an army dog pulling his bicycle; an o l d man clinging to a cane and l i m p i n g . . . A truck came. A horse passed. D a r k and narrow, the street was n o w as thronged w i t h people as on the day o f a festival. . . . Shözö sat d o w n on a log beside a cistern underneath some trees. A n old w o m a n passing by asked h i m , " D o y o u think we're safe here?" T u r n i n g the spigot o f his canteen, Shözö replied, " I think so— the river's right there; no houses nearby . . ." The sky over the city o f Hiroshima had become much lighter; it made one think that any time n o w flames w o u l d appear. I f the entire city goes up i n flames, what w i l l become o f me? Even as he had this thought, Shözö took an inter­ est i n the fate o f these refugees so close at hand. The scene o f the ref­ ugees at the beginning o f Hermann und Dorothea came to m i n d . B u t this sight was even more terribly desolate than that scene. . . . Pres­ ently the air raid alarm was lifted, then the alert too. Leaving, people SUMMER

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streamed away d o w n the road along the embankment. Shözö too re­ traced his steps d o w n that road. It was more crowded than it was when he came. Shouting something, litter-bearers and their litters came one after another: nurses carrying the sick. H A N D B I L L S dropped f r o m the sky announced that an air raid was i m ­ minent, and w i t h the setting o f the sun the terrified residents began to flee en masse. The alert had not sounded yet, but the upper reaches o f the river, the open spaces i n the suburbs, the lower parts o f the hills filled w i t h people; i n grassy spots, they set out what they had brought w i t h them: mosquito netting, bedding, even cooking utensils. The trains on the Miyajima line, congested all day, became yet more o f a struggle i n the evening. B u t even though flight was instinctive, the authorities immediately instituted strict regulations against it. The re­ fusal to approve the evacuation o f personnel deemed essential for the air raid defenses had been i n effect here for some time; now, i n an attempt to check up on such people, they stuck a list o f names and ages on each door. A t night soldiers w i t h bayonets and police stood guard at the approaches to bridges and at crossroads. They tried to intimidate the fainthearted residents and make them defend this city to the death; but like cornered mice, the people outsmarted them, sneaking past behind their backs. A t night Shözö tried checking the houses along the course o f his flight; it certainly appeared that more houses were empty than not. F r o m that night o f July 3 until the night o f August 5—the last night people fled—Shözö, too, took flight immediately i f things looked bad. . . . When the preliminary alert sounded along the coast o f Tosa, he w o u l d begin to get ready. When the air raid alarm sounded i n Köchi Prefecture and Ehime Prefecture, it w o u l d be less than ten minutes before the preliminary alert sounded i n Hiroshima Prefecture and Yamaguchi Prefecture. He w o u l d wrap his gaiters on i n the dark, immediately; sometimes he w o u l d be delayed a bit by some small thing—towel, shoehorn, or the like. But by the time the siren sounded for the preliminary alert, he w o u l d always be i n the entry way w i t h his shoes on. Yasuko w o u l d get dressed at her o w n pace but w o u l d reach the entryway at about the same time. One after the other, the t w o 106

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w o u l d go out the gate. . . . Having turned a certain corner and gone only ten steps, Shözö w o u l d think, here i t comes! Sure enough, f r o m the dark on all sides the awful air raid siren w o u l d scream out at h i m . What a hideous sound, rising and falling! Like the cry o f a wounded beast, wasn't it? H o w w o u l d later historians describe it?—such were the thoughts that ran through his head; and then memories . . . L o n g ago, he had only to hear at a distance the flute o f the lion dancers as they came d o w n the street to go absolutely pale and flee. The p u r i t y o f his terror then, and his terror now: n o w the terror had somehow become routine. —Such thoughts w o u l d pop into Shözö's head for a few seconds; then, panting for breath, he w o u l d climb the stone steps leading to the embankment. Sometimes when he raced up to the gate o f Seiji's house, the whole family w o u l d have finished getting ready; sometimes they w o u l d have made no preparations at all. Either just before Shözö showed up or right on his heels, Yasuko w o u l d come running at her o w n pace. . . . His little niece holds out her hood to Shözö: "Please tie these strings." After tying the strings tight, he swings his niece up onto his back and goes out the gate a step ahead o f the rest. Getting across Sakae Bridge, he heaves a sigh; his pace eases a bit, too. Crossing the railroad tracks and coming out onto the N i g i t s u embankment, Shözö sets his niece d o w n on a clump o f grass. The water o f the river gleams white, and the large cedar throws a black shadow on the road. W i l l this small child remember this scene? There suddenly pops into Shözö's sweat-soaked head The Life of a Woman, w h i c h begins w i t h the child heroine fleeing night after night. . . . Soon Seiji's whole family comes along. His sister-in-law is carrying the baby on her back; the maid has something i n her arms. Yasuko is out front, holding the hand o f her small nephew and setting a brisk pace. (Once when fleeing alone she was caught by the police and scolded severely, so since then she " b o r r o w s " her nephew.) Seiji and the middle school nephew bring up the rear. They listen to radios f r o m houses nearby and, i f the situation calls for i t , go farther up the river. As they make their way rapidly up the long bank, there are fewer houses, and the surfaces o f paddies and the lower slopes o f the hills come faintly into view. A l l over there resounds the croaking o f frogs. There is no break i n the stream o f people fleeing quietly SUMMER

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through the dark night. Soon the night grows lighter; sometimes too a heavy fog envelops the entire return road. Sometimes Shözö flees all by himself. Occasionally i n the last m o n t h he has been dragged out to the drills o f the military reservists; but although at first over twenty people attend, the number gradually decreases, and n o w no more than four or five show up. "Sometime i n August they're going to call up a whole lot o f people," says the head o f the unit. Shözö is made to stand in the dark schoolyard and listen to the talk o f a reserve ensign, while far o f f i n the sky over Ujina searchlights move back and forth; soon he becomes restless. The drill over, he returns home, and just at that moment the siren blows. B u t by the time the air raid alarm sounds i n its wake, Shözö has completed his preparations. As i f continuing the feverish pace o f the drill, he rushes out into the dark streets. Listening to the lively clatter o f feet, he pretends to be hurrying home. Safely past the checkpoint at the bridge, he comes at last to the embankment above Nigitsu. . . . Here Shözö stops for the first time and sits d o w n i n the grass. Just d o w n ­ stream is the rail bridge; w i t h the tide out, the white sand seems to float up mistily. It is a scene Shözö remembers well, having often walked here since his boyhood; the starry sky over his head makes h i m imagine what a battle i n the open w o u l d be like. That vision o f Nature i n all its beauty that one o f the characters i n War and Peace beheld, and that tranquility o f mind: w i l l they come to me too as I die? F r o m the branches o f the cedar just above the grassy spot where Shözö is crouching comes an unsettling cry. Dear me . . . an owl? —Shözö has an uncanny feeling. Should the war come to the final battle for the main islands, and should Hiroshima become the site o f the last stand, could he fight resolutely, at the cost o f his life? . . . What a delusion, crazier than crazy—that the last stand w i l l be i n Hiroshima! Suppose he were to write an epic about it; it w o u l d undoubtedly turn out stunted and unrelievedly g r i m . . . . Shözö feels as i f the bird he cannot see above his head is fluttering its wings right beside h i m . Even after the alert is lifted and they all return to Seiji's house, Shözö sometimes stays there i n the entry and listens for a while to the radio. Occasionally they have to flee again, so his nephews and his niece all keep their shoes on. However, while the grown-ups are ab108

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sorbed i n listening to the radio, the nephew, w h o has been chattering away u n t i l just a moment ago, stretches out on the stone i n the entryway and quickly is sound asleep, snoring away. W h o l l y accustomed to this uncertain and unsettled life, the child is snoring just like a trooper. (Shözö watches h i m w i t h no special concern, never dreaming that the child w i l l soon die a trooper's death. Still i n first grade, the nephew was unable to take part i n the group evacuation, so he was still going o f f and on to elementary school. As luck w o u l d have i t , August 6 was one o f the days he went to school, and that m o r n i n g , near the West Parade Ground, this child met a tragic end.) . . . I f i t becomes clear, after they wait a while, that all is well, Yasuko goes home first, and then Shözö too leaves Seiji's. B y the time he gets back to the main house, his t w o layers o f clothes are drenched w i t h sweat, and he wants to strip both shirt and socks right o f f H a v ­ ing rinsed o f f w i t h cold water i n the bathroom, he sits d o w n on the kitchen chair; only then does Shözö feel himself again. —Tonight's chapter may be ended; but tomorrow's . . . ? T o m o r r o w night, too, the planes w i l l surely come i n f r o m Tosa. Then all the things he has got ready—gaiters, carryall, shoes—will leap out o f the dark, and the road d o w n w h i c h to flee w i l l be there at his feet. . . . (Afterward, when he thought back to this time, Shözö realized he had been i n pretty good health but still wondered h o w he could have dashed about so quickly. It must be that everyone's life holds surprises.) T H E E V A C U A T I O N o f the M o r i Works went forward at a snail's pace. Even after the sewing machines had been dismantled, it was still a while before the factory's turn w i t h the horse carts came. The m o r n ­ ing the carts appeared everyone was busy w i t h the m o v i n g , and Jun'ichi became especially animated. A t one point the floor mats o f the l i v i n g r o o m were all carried o f f in one cart. Stripped o f its tatami, w i t h only bare floorboards showing, the r o o m seemed huge; plop i n the middle o f it, the sofa had been left on its side. One got the feeling that this house was nearing its end. Shözö stood for a while on the veranda and gazed at the white flower i n the corner o f the garden. The plant had begun to b l o o m at about the time the rainy season set i n , a second flower b l o o m i n g as the first wilted; n o w a six-petaled flower

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stood, quiet and alone. When he asked Seiji what it was called, Seiji replied, cape jasmine. It was a flower he had k n o w n since childhood; now, standing silent and alone, it spoke so hauntingly o f times past. . . . Shözö received a letter f r o m a friend i n T o k y o : " i C A N ' T T E L L Y O U H O W

M A N Y

THE

AIR RAIDS

C O A S T IS B R I G H T

TAKE

W E

HAVE

W I T H

M Y MANUSCRIPT A N D HIDE

STUDYING HIGHER MATHEMATICS. ERS

EXPERIENCED ALREADY.

FIRES.

A N D ARTISTS ARE N O

GOOD

EACH

TIME

THE ALERT

I N T H E SHELTER.

EVEN

NOWADAYS

M A T H IS B E A U T I F U L . J A P A N ' S BECAUSE THEY

N O W

SOUNDS, I

I

A M

W R I T ­

D O N ' T UNDERSTAND

Shözö hadn't heard f r o m h i m for some time. There had been no recent w o r d from his friend i n Iwate Prefecture. Kamaishi had come under naval bombardment, so that area couldn't be safe any longer, either. One m o r n i n g Shözö was i n the office when Otani turned up; he w o r k e d i n a company nearby. A relative o f Takako's, he had been dropping i n often since the trouble between Jun'ichi and Takako, so he was no longer a stranger to Shözö. W i t h his thin legs encased i n black gaiters, lanky trunk, and long, thin face, he gave the impression o f being fragile; but his drive seemed to compensate for i t . O t a n i strode up to Jun'ichi's desk and spoke w i t h great good cheer: "What is it w i t h Hiroshima? Last night again they seemed headed right our way, but then they veered o f f toward Ube. The enemy knows what's what, don't they?—that there are important factories i n Ube. B y comparison, Hiroshima's only got soldiers. As far as industry is con­ cerned, nothing to speak of, y o u know. Recently I've begun to think: we're surely safe here; we'll be spared." ( O n the m o r n i n g o f August 6, O t a n i disappeared on his way to w o r k . ) THIS."

. . . Otani was not the only one w h o began to think that H i r o ­ shima m i g h t be spared. A t one time the nighttime exodus had flour­ ished, but n o w the numbers o f those fleeing gradually fell off. A t this juncture there were several air raids involving small airplanes; but the large formations that cut through the sky over Hiroshima i n daylight didn't drop their bombs here. What is more, the antiaircraft guns at the West Parade Ground even shot d o w n a middle-sized plane. I n the streetcar a resident asked a military officer, "Hiroshima w i l l hold 110

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them off, w o n ' t it?" The officer nodded silently. . . . " A h , " said Y a ­ suko to Shözö, " i t was exciting! I ' d never seen an air battle like that!" Sitting i n a r o o m w i t h no tatami, Shözö was immersed i n Gide's Si le grain ne meurt. The beautiful portrayal o f y o u t h and the ego developing amid the burning heat o f Africa impressed itself indelibly on his m i n d . S E I J I D I D N ' T T H I N K the whole city w o u l d be spared, but he always prayed that his o w n house facing the river not go up i n flames. H e dreamed o f the day his t w o children, evacuated to M i y o s h i , m i g h t return i n safety to this house and all o f them together could fish and go boating on the river again. B u t when w o u l d that day come? — When he took it all too much to heart, he became utterly lost. Ever since they began fleeing every night, Yasuko had become ever so anxious: " I f even just the small children could be sent o f f . . ." A b o u t that time Seiji's wife M i t s u k o also alluded to evacuation: "Please do something quickly." Seiji didn't like it at all and responded, " Y o u find a place!" Ele simply couldn't imagine h o w he himself could go on l i v i n g i n this house i f he sent his wife and children off—he wasn't like Jun'ichi, for w h o m things somehow went smoothly. I f it were a matter o f wanting to rent a house somewhere i n the country to ship just their belongings to—he had already talked that over w i t h his wife. B u t Seiji himself hadn't a prayer o f finding such a house i n the country. B y this time, instead o f insinuating this or that about Jun'ichi's actions, Seiji kept his thoughts to himself, his face set and resentful.

B u t i t became impossible for Jun'ichi simply to ignore the p r o b ­ lem o f Seiji's family. Eventually, w i t h Jun'ichi's help, they were able to rent a house i n the country. B u t the horse-drawn cart to transport their belongings was not available immediately. N o w that a house i n the country had been found, Seiji heaved a sigh and lost himself i n the packing. Then f r o m the teacher at the evacuation site i n M i y o s h i came the announcement o f a visiting day for parents. I f he was going to visit M i y o s h i , Seiji wanted to take w i t h h i m all the children's w i n t e r things, and what w i t h packing for the evacuation and preparing things to take to the boys, the house was once again a pretty mess. I n addi­ tion, Seiji had an odd quirk: he couldn't rest until each item he was SUMMER FLOWERS

III

taking to the children had on it, i n neat and tidy brushwork, the name o f the child. B y the time he had cleaned this up and messed that up, evening had come and Seiji's m o o d had changed, so he took his fishing pole and went out to the riverbank just i n front o f the house. There wasn't m u c h to catch these days, but Seiji was most at peace when his line was i n . . . . As i f startled by the din the river was making, Seiji came to himself. I t was as i f for a few moments, his gaze fixed on the river, he had been dreaming. He seemed to have been recalling drowsily the scene o f the flood i n the O l d Testament, w h i c h he had read l o n g ago. Then M i t s u k o appeared f r o m the direction o f the house on top o f the bank, shouting to h i m . Fishing pole i n hand, Seiji climbed the stone steps; abruptly, his wife said, "The house!" N o t comprehending, Seiji responded, "What?" " A bit ago Ökawa came and told us. We have three days to move out; then they raze the house!" Seiji groaned: " Y o u agreed?" "That's not the point. I f we don't do something, we're done for! Last time we saw Okawa he showed us a sketch and explained that our house didn't fall into this phase o f the plans; but n o w all o f a sudden he says the regulations call for a break every twenty meters." "That bastard conned us?" M i t s u k o began to grow impatient: " M o r t i f y i n g , isn't i t . I f we don't do something, we're done for!" " Y o u go settle i t , " Seiji declared, feigning indifference; but it was no time for indecision. "Let's go talk w i t h Jun'ichi," and soon the t w o o f them went to the main house. B u t that evening, too, Jun'ichi had already set out for Itsukaichi. They tried calling long-distance, but for some reason no phone calls were getting through that night. M i t s u k o clutched Yasuko and railed on and on once more about what Okawa had done. N o w , as he listened to her, Seiji felt absolutely desperate, oppressed by the thought o f h o w his house w o u l d appear three days f r o m now, razed. In his y o u t h Seiji had been a Christian, and when he opened his m o u t h , this was the prayer that popped out: "Please, L o r d . I f it's go112

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ing to happen, let all o f Hiroshima go up i n smoke i n the next three days." N e x t m o r n i n g Seiji's wife went to the office to see Jun'ichi and complained and complained about the evacuation; since the razing o f buildings was apparently C i t y Councilman Tazaki's brainchild, she asked Jun'ichi please to make some k i n d o f approach to Tazaki. Jun'ichi listened w i t h a long-suffering air; soon, phoning Itsuka­ ichi, he told Takako to come at once. Then, looking at Seiji, he g r u m ­ bled, "Spineless, eh? They say, 'Your house is to be razed,' and y o u say, 'Yes, I see,' and do as they say? Houses that burn i n an air raid are covered by insurance; houses that get torn d o w n aren't." In due time Takako appeared. After getting a general sense o f the situation, she set o f f in good humor: "Well, I ' m o f f to M r . Tazaki's." She was back w i t h i n the hour, her face beaming: " M r . Tazaki p r o m ­ ised me the razing o f buildings i n that area w i l l stop." Thus was solved, easily, the vexed question o f Seiji's house. A n d just then the preliminary alert was lifted. "Well, i t ' l l be a bother i f the alarm sounds again, so I ' m o f f now." Takako set o f f in a hurry. Presently the t w o chicks i n the chicken coop at the side o f the storehouse peeped, each on its o w n . They were young, and their voices still hadn't matured, so their peeping sometimes amused Jun'ichi and the others; but n o w no one was listening. The hot rays o f the sun filled the tranquil sky over the crape myrtle. . . . There were still more than forty hours to go before the atomic b o m b paid its visit.

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Translator's Introduction

L^ITY OF CORPSES is Öta Y ö k o ' s single most famous w o r k . As w i t h Summer Flowers and Hara T a m i k i , so w i t h City of Corpses and Öta Y ö k o : the specific w o r k o f witness fits into the larger context o f the writer's life and w r i t i n g . Hara T a m i k i was born i n Hiroshima i n 1905; Öta Y ö k o was then t w o years old. O n August 6, 1945, Hara was almost forty; Öta, almost f o r t y - t w o . When Hara died i n 1951 at the age o f forty-five, a suicide, Öta was forty-seven. Öta lived on for twelve more years, dying i n 1963 at the age o f sixty, o f heart failure. Hara and Öta were the t w o premier prose writers to survive H i r o ­ shima and w r i t e about the experience; but they never met, and their lives both before and after the bomb were vastly different. A N D CAREER, 1903-1947 Öta Y ö k o was born Fukuda Hatsuko i n Kushima, a small village in the hinterlands west o f H i r o s h i m a . Her father was a landowner o f consequence i n the village; Öta was his firstborn (the "Hatsu" o f H a ­ tsuko means first). I n mid-August 1945, fleeing Hiroshima, Öta made her way back to Kushima. One passage from City of Corpses describes her family's standing both at the time o f her birth and i n 1945: FAMILY

1

A large o l d house stood i n spacious grounds atop a stone embankment. The branches o f giant trees intertwined luxuriantly o n a tiny artificial h i l l w i t h its o w n pond, and flowers o f all kinds bloomed year-round. I f we made a circuit o f the h i l l , there was an earthen storehouse, a wooden cabin, a pickle shed, a bathhouse, and a large detached cookhouse. F r o m the h i l l a path led to the m o u n t a i n that was part o f the property. The paddies and hills around the The only full-length biography o f Ota Y ö k o is Esashi A k i k o , Kusazue: hyöden Öta Yöko (Withered grass: A critical biography o f Ota Y ö k o ) , rev. ed. (Tokyo: Otsuki, 1981). There is an edition o f her works that omits many important writings: Ota Yöko shü, 4 vols. (To­ kyo: San'ichi, 1982). There is also a volume (volume 2) devoted to Ota i n Nihon no gembaku bungaku (The atomic bomb literature o f Japan), 15 vols. (Tokyo: H o r u p u , 1983). Ota Yöko shü and volume 2 include important biographical data and essays on various aspects o f Ota's life and w o r k . See also essays by Hasegawa Kei listed in notes. 1

TRANSLATOR

S INTRODUCTION

II7

house and almost all the fields and woods visible from the house belonged to us. We lost the entire property to extravagant living in Father's generation. The family graveyard was the only thing in the village still belonging to us. Under these conditions neither Mother nor Sister had any stomach for returning and living on the second floor of someone else's house. Once in spring Mother had taken it into her head to rent a house there, and someone had said, "You people again!" Tears had come to Mother's eyes, and she had felt miserable. Ota was her father's firstborn but not her mother's. Her mother T o m i had already had one child, a daughter, by her first husband; w i t h i n five years o f divorcing h i m , she married a second time, i n 1901 or 1902, and i n 1903 gave birth to Ota Y ö k o . T o m i was perhaps the single most important figure i n Ota Y ö k o ' s life. M o t h e r and daughter lived together i n T o k y o before 1945; mother and daughter were i n the same house at 8:15 a.m. on August 6; mother and daughter lived t o ­ gether i n T o k y o after Hiroshima. T o m i died i n 1959 at the age o f eighty-two. She was the subject o f t w o o f Ota Y ö k o ' s final works: Eighty (1961) and Eighty-four (1962). Ota's childhood was hardly a stable one. When her mother left her first husband, she abandoned her firstborn daughter, too. Her marriage to Öta Y ö k o ' s father lasted ten years; she left h i m i n 1910, when Ota was seven and her younger brother five. M o t h e r and daughter returned to Tomi's family home. T o m i gave her daughter Hatsuko i n adoption to a family named Ota (the adoptive parents were then seventy and sixty-five), but by 1912 Ota Y ö k o was back, l i v i n g first w i t h her grandmother and then following her mother into the household o f her mother's third and final husband, w h o m T o m i married i n 1912. That family already included t w o sons (a year older and t w o years younger than Ota); daughters were b o r n i n i 9 i 3 , 1916, and 1919. Thus Ota Y ö k o was the only child o f the six not related by blood to the head o f the house. Ota Y ö k o came from village Japan. She arrived i n the c i t y — H i ­ roshima, not Tokyo—at age thirteen. Her formal education took place i n schools that were respectable but far from elite. She began primary school i n 1910, changed schools i n 1912, and graduated i n 1916. I n 1918 she entered a girls' higher school i n Hiroshima, gradu118

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ating i n 1920 at the age o f seventeen, and then d i d a year o f "graduate" w o r k . Her formal education ended well before her twentieth birthday. Less than eight months after finishing her "graduate" course, Öta took employment as a teacher at an elementary school on Etajima, the island i n Hiroshima Bay famous as the site o f Japan's Imperial Naval Academy. She lasted only a year; the verdict seems to have been that she was a nice person but not a good teacher. F r o m 1924 u n t i l her major literary breakthrough i n 1940-1941, she supported herself i n various ways: as a typist, as a dance-hall hostess, as a secretary. A n attractive w o m a n , she had numerous affairs, often w i t h figures i n the w o r l d o f letters. So there were inevitably those w h o charged later, when she had achieved success, that she had made it to the top not on her talent but on her back. Life was not easy i n Japan i n the late 1920s—in the literary w o r l d or i n any other arena—for single female provincials. Her first love was a newspaperman she came to k n o w i n 1925. She married h i m , only to have a w o m a n and three children show up f r o m T o k y o claiming, rightly, to be his family. Ota left h i m i n 1926, but not before bearing h i m a son, her first and only child. I n a replay o f her mother's action, Ota allowed the child to be adopted. A l t h o u g h Ota returned six months later to live again w i t h the reporter, the re­ lation was not an easy one. Ota's second marriage took place i n T o k y o (1936-1937); her third, after the war (1947-1948). For most o f her adult life, Öta lived alone and supported herself Öta went to T o k y o for the first time i n 1926 and stayed less than a year. Introductions got her a j o b as private secretary to one o f the lions o f Japan's literary establishment; she met many prominent w r i t ­ ers o f the period. She moved to T o k y o once again i n 1930, after she had begun to publish stories i n the journal Nyonin geijutsu (Female writers). This time she stayed until the intense American b o m b i n g o f late 1944 forced her back to the relative security o f Hiroshima. Öta Y ö k o ' s literary activities began i n Hiroshima before the sec­ ond move to T o k y o . There i n late 1929 she helped f o r m a literary circle, offshoot o f an organization o f female artists and writers based i n Osaka. T h r o u g h o u t her life she was to be involved i n groups o f female writers. Her literary debut came i n June 1929 i n the j o u r n a l o f TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

119

the organization i n w h i c h she soon became active, and during the next four years her stories appeared i n that j o u r n a l more than a dozen times. B y 1932 she was publishing stories i n newspapers and other journals as well. She began her first long piece i n 1937 after the breakup o f her second marriage; a fictionalized account o f that mar­ riage, it appeared i n a j o u r n a i i n June 1939 and then as a book six months later. B u t her real breakthrough came i n 1940. I n that year she pub­ lished not one book but t w o . The first, Woman of the Sea, had appeared i n ajournai i n 1939, taking first prize i n a contest sponsored by a major j o u r n a l , Chüö köron. The second, Land of Cherry Blossoms, took first prize i n another major contest, sponsored by the T o k y o newspaper Asahi; it ran serially i n the newspaper and then appeared as a book i n October 1940. The second success is all the more impressive i n that she submitted that manuscript under an assumed name. Building on these successes, Ota enjoyed her greatest popular acclaim i n the years 1940-1944. D u r i n g that time her stories appeared somewhere almost monthly, and she published six collections. These include The Dawn Is Beautiful and Daughter of Battle (both 1943). Wartime Japan was not a place conducive to artistic creativity— at least, not to art that did not glorify the state—and Ota was most popular precisely when the pressures for conformity, for national unity, for thought control were at their most intense. Like Hara Ta­ m i k i , Ota had flirted briefly w i t h the proletarian literature movement i n earlier days; but i n the 1940s Ota wrote stories to w h i c h the most nationalistic Japanese did not object. The titles themselves—Land of Cherry Blossoms, Daughter of Battle—are one index; the content i n d i ­ cates that the titles are not misleading. Hasegawa K e i has termed Woman of the Sea "production literature," that is, literature extolling the virtues o f w o r k i n the service o f the nation. Ota herself described the story i n these terms: " I t was m y desire to portray the development i n a life lived w i t h little reflection when a young w o m a n w i t h a bright future runs into external setbacks which seem bleak but does not suc2

Hasegawa Kei, "Nitchü sensöki nojosei sakka—Ota Y ö k o to Sata Ineko no baai" (Female writers during the Sino-Japanese War—the cases o f Ota Y ö k o and Sata Ineko), i n Shinshü shirakaba 53-55.281 (April 1983). 2

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cumb to slippery metaphysical w r i t h i n g . " Ota's anti-intellectualism here is stunning; so also is what her biographer Esashi A k i k o calls the "exact f i t " between Ota's express aim and the "direction i n w h i c h the country was m o v i n g . " I f Woman of the Sea earned the label "production literature," Land of Cherry Blossoms earned a whole range o f labels: "continental litera­ ture," w i t h continent: referring to the Asian mainland and Japan's i m ­ perialist ambitions there; "war-effort literature" and "literature g l o r i ­ fying war"; "national policy literature." Land of Cherry Blossoms is the story o f young Japanese i n China; one o f them speaks these lines: " N o matter when y o u look, Japan is a youthful country. The country o f youth. Okay, so I ' l l w o r k like the fires o f y o u t h i n that China where the stench o f old age is strong! I ' l l rejuvenate China w i t h the blood o f a young Japanese man." Land of Cherry Blossoms was part o f the patri­ otic bath i n w h i c h the Japanese public was immersed during the war years. N o irresistible external compulsion forced Ota i n this direction. She had welcomed the outbreak o f war w i t h China. A t least, when her second husband left her and went to Manchuria, she had lamented the fact that as a w o m a n she did not have that option. I n October 1938 she paid her o w n way to China to see for herselfand to gather material for Land of Cherry Blossoms. Later she went on junkets sponsored by the military to improve the morale o f the troops. Land of Cherry Blos­ soms became a major movie; it was released on November 1, 1941, less than six weeks before Pearl Harbor. In a story published i n 1943, Ota recounts her reaction to the news o f the Japanese attack: " O n the eighth [on the other side o f the international date line, Pearl Harbor took place on December 8] sacred war was declared against America and England. I wasn't surprised or frightened by the beginning o f the war; on the eighth I stayed glued to newspapers and the radio, cried, and felt as i f fully alive; I felt a fresh new flame." T o be sure, one cannot assume automatically that 3

4

5

3

Quoted i n Esashi, Kusazue, p. 117.

Quoted i n Hasegawa Kei, "Ota Y ö k o no Sakura no kuni to watakushi" (Öta Y ö k o ' s Land of Cherry Blossoms and I), in Jugoshi noto (Notes from the home front) 6.148 (1977).

4

"Jünigatsu yöka no y o " (The night o f December 8), March 1943, quoted i n Esashi, Kusa­ zue, p. 120. 5

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

121

an author speaks through her characters, but there is no reason not to think so here. Statements like this provide a benchmark against w h i c h to measure the radical shift i n Ota's politics after Hiroshima. After the war Öta did not disclaim these works or recant, but according to her biographer she chose not to list them on her curriculum vitae. The poet Kurihara Sadako, a friend o f Öta and one o f her staunchest defenders, has suggested that a good deal o f Ota's postwar sense o f insecurity may be attributable to embarrassment over her wartime w o r k s . In January 1945 Öta returned from T o k y o , w h i c h had become virtually unlivable, to Hiroshima, to the house o f her half sister N a kagawa Ichie; she had sent her mother back to Hiroshima some time earlier. The fall o f Saipan i n June 1944 had brought T o k y o w i t h i n range o f land-based American bombers; the night o f March 9-10, 1945, witnessed the devastation o f T o k y o by firebombs. As Öta wrote i n City of Corpses: " I had come back from T o k y o at N e w Year's, i n ­ tending to wait until March and then take someone w i t h me to dis­ pose o f m y house i n T o k y o . For until things warmed up a bit, i t was impossible to do anything at all i n T o k y o , where day and night one had to hole up i n air raid shelters. . . . Exhausted by the day-andnight b o m b i n g o f T o k y o and by the shortage o f food, I had come back to Hiroshima." 6

7

The house i n Hakushima Kuken-chö i n the northeast section o f Hiroshima held four women: Öta's mother T o m i , Öta herself, her sister Nakagawa, and Nakagawa's baby daughter. Öta had intended to stay only briefly, but an extended hospitalization and then the dif­ ficulties o f arranging transport to the village that was her ultimate des­ tination delayed her departure. A t 8:15 on the m o r n i n g o f August 6 Öta was i n bed: " A t daybreak the air raid alarm was lifted; shortly after seven o'clock the alert too was lifted. I went back to bed. I usu­ ally slept late anyway, and since I had just been released from the hos­ pital, where I often slept till almost noon, those i n the house left me alone u n t i l that bright light flashed. I was sound asleep inside the mos­ quito net." 8

6

Esashi, Kusazue, p. 193.

7

Kurihara Sadako, "Kaisetsu" (Commentary), in Ota Yöko shü 3.413.

8

City of Corpses was not Ota's first published account o f the atomic bomb. O n September 122

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Ota and her family, 1951. Ota Y ö k o is second f r o m left. Her mother is i n the middle. Ota's younger half sister is to the right o f her mother. The three children are the children o f this half sister, nieces to Ota Y ö k o . Courtesy Nakagawa Ichie

City of Corpses tells the story o f Ota's experience o f the atomic bomb, both the events o f August 6 i n Hiroshima and the subsequent days and months i n Kushima. It is a straightforward narrative, more reportorial and less consciously literary than Summer Flowers. 1947-1963 Ota returned to T o k y o i n late 1947. Hara T a m i k i outlived the atomic b o m b experience by less than six years; Ota Y ö k o lived on for eighteen years. For all those years, the shadow o f the atomic b o m b hung over her. It was not merely that she worried about her health, nor that people quickly came to label her, often disparagingly, the CAREER,

30, 1945, before Occupation censorship swung into action, Ota published a short account in the Asahi shimbun: " U m i z o k o no yö na hikari: genshibakudan no küshü n i atte" ( A flash as at the b o t t o m o f the sea: Encounter w i t h atomic bombing); in Ota Yöko shü 2.275-280. That essay is the very first listing in the chronological bibliography o f writings about the atomic bomb offered in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 15.344. TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

"atomic bomb writer." B u t i n the early years the experience o f the atomic b o m b left her unable to write on other subjects. I n 1950 Öta commented on this block i n the Preface to the first complete edition of City of Corpses: The reverberations continue to this day. . . . I tried to w r i t e other w o r k s . I tried to w r i t e works unrelated to the atomic b o m b , different w o r k s . B u t the image o f m y h o m e t o w n H i r o s h i m a branded onto m y m i n d drove away the vision o f other w o r k s . . . . I had witnessed w i t h m y eyes and heart and lis­ tened to people talk about the reality o f the destruction o f H i r o s h i m a and the annihilation o f people. A n d that reality produced a vision o f a concrete piece o f w r i t i n g that . . . crippled m y zest for w r i t i n g other works.

B u t w r i t i n g about the atomic bomb was never easy. Indeed, to write about i t was to relive the experience: " I f I t r y to write about the Hiroshima o f the summer o f 1945, I am tormented, o f course, by the accumulated memories and fragments o f memories I have collected. I gaze fixedly at these events I have to call up f r o m memory i n order to write, and I become i l l ; I become nauseated; m y stomach starts to throb w i t h pain." I n these years Öta was dependent periodically on drugs and attributed this problem to the anguish she had to endure. In 1956 she wrote: "Literature is a hard fight f r o m start to finish; but in order to continue w r i t i n g on the theme o f the atomic bomb, I ex­ haust myself i n the vicious confrontation w i t h m y atomic-bomb an­ tagonist. . . . Frightened o f what I was w r i t i n g even as I was w r i t i n g it, I took tranquilizers as I w r o t e . " 9

Still, between 1945 and 1955 Öta wrote and published five major works relating directly to the atomic bomb. T w o took the experience o f August 6 as their centerpiece, one i n straightforward nonfictional fashion (City of Corpses), one i n the f o r m o f a novel (Human Tatters, 1951). T w o took as their subject the fate o f the city and its inhabitants i n the years after the atomic bomb. The fifth is a lightly disguised account o f the mental and physical ailments that led Öta i n 1951 to have herself admitted for a lengthy hospital stay. Together, they con­ stitute a body o f w o r k unequaled, at least i n quantity, by any other writer-survivor. Critics generally consider Hara T a m i k i the better "Bungaku no osoroshisa" (The fearsomeness o f literature) (March 1956); in Öta Yöko shü, 2.322.

9

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writer, but all his w r i t i n g s that treat the atomic b o m b do not fill a medium-sized book. Even before the deaths o f Hara (1951) and T ö g e Sankichi (1953), Öta had reason for the touchy pride she revealed i n her statement to Robert Jay L i f t o n : " I am the only A - b o m b w r i t e r . W h o else could y o u

find?"

10

These w r i t i n g s do not make easy reading. This is true not o n l y because they offer accounts o f the b o m b itself, but also because o f their tone and overall outlook. I n Human Tatters Öta creates

fictional

characters w h o then experience the b o m b . Öta places them at various spots i n H i r o s h i m a on August 6, hence forcing herself to conduct re­ search to supplement her o w n memories. Human Tatters opens w i t h an i d y l l i c scene: O n a m i d s u m m e r m o r n i n g the Inland Sea gave o f f its characteristic v i v i d emerald glitter. W i t h a sharp, earsplitting noise, three diesel-powered ships were slicing t h r o u g h the ripples that gleamed w h i t e i n the sun. The surface o f the sea spread out vast and comfortable, its color changing lazily among the colors unique to the Inland Sea: delicate velvety blue, pale grape, dark and l i g h t blue, occasionally light y e l l o w . 11

A l t h o u g h the "sharp, earsplitting noise" may foreshadow the atomic b o m b , the m o o d is hardly somber. Over 250 pages later, the final chapter begins w i t h this passage: Winter came. I n the city the snow sparkled, and the w i n d blew. Sullen-faced soldiers o f foreign armies walked the streets o f the city, whose r o o f tiles sparkled w i t h w h i t e powder. I n this city English soldiers had replaced the A m e r i c a n troops w h o arrived immediately after the war ended. English, Australian, French troops and soldiers, w h i t e and yellow and black troops, Chinese troops were stationed here or vacationed here. A n d the so-called postwar phase that was assaulting every last inch o f Japanese territory assaulted every last part o f Hiroshima, too, inside and out. Because virtually all the houses had been destroyed, there was no i n d o o r crime i n the city; the crime t o o k place out o f doors, and indoor crime arose w i t h great frequency i n the small towns. The criminals themselves were shabby victims o f the war; i n t o w n after t o w n chases, gambling, prostitution, fraud, Robert Jay Lifton, Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima ( N e w York: Basic Books, 1967), p. 402; we have only the interpreter's version, not Ota's o w n words. 10

11

Öta Yöko shü 2.7.

TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

125

and murder were all daily occurrences. People gradually grew inured to them, and i n some quarters people even voiced approval o f the psychology o f the c r i m i n a l s . 12

Human Tatters ends w i t h the female protagonist full o f loathing b o t h for the w o r l d and for herself: " W i t h o u t k n o w i n g w h y , she thought she w o u l d like to go o f f somewhere deep i n the mountains. That is, to someplace where there were no people. A w o r l d w i t h o u t people is a w o r l d w i t h o u t destruction."

13

W o r l d events affected Ota's moods, and the Korean War was rag­ i n g as she w r o t e Human Tatters. B u t four years later, i n "Pockets o f Ugliness," the m o o d is little different. Here is the opening passage, p r o f o u n d l y unsettling: A b o u t the small hovel there was the sound o f splashing rain. I t sounded like a sudden squall. It was late at night, w i t h people fast asleep; and the thought that this wretched hut was not standing i n isolation all by itself, but that all around i t stood hundreds o f similar structures, that i n all o f them people were l i v i n g and sleeping, somehow brought an unaccustomed relief to m y spirits. . . . A n d I felt as i f f r o m the house i n w h i c h I was sitting and f r o m the neighboring houses inches away, the w a r m breath o f sleeping people came carried across to m y skin. Perhaps, I thought, i n every house a single person was up, intent as I was o n controlling the slugs that were crawling around the rain-drenched hut. W i t h a sharp glance I looked into the next r o o m . The only light i n the house had been taken into the three-mat alcove o f f the kitchen; the o l d l i g h t y e l l o w mosquito netting hung suspended, filling the six-mat r o o m , f r o m one edge to the other, and the corner o f the light only just reached i t , a glow. I n the shadowy spaces between the light reaching the mosquito netting and the nooks, I could see countless slugs crawling about. The slugs grabbed h o l d o f the h e m o f this ancient netting and w i t h their distinctive crawl slowly moved up the front o f the netting. One after the other, a set distance between them, the slugs crawled soundlessly up, taking possession o f the entire netting, their soft bodies weaving their way along, undulating sinuously. For the slugs, i t seemed, all moisture was food and air. 14

Ota Yöko shü 2.266. Ota Yöko shü 2.273. For a recent study of narrative voice in City of Corpses, Human Tatters, and Hanningen (Half-human) (1954), see John Whittier Treat, "Hiroshima and the Place of the Narrator," Journal of Asian Studies 48.1:29-49 (February 1989). "Zanshü tenten," in Ota Yöko shü 1.220. 12

13

14

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It is a disturbing start, and things get worse, not better. I t is the narrator's relatives—sister, sister's t w o daughters, mother—under the netting. The site is a shanty t o w n t h r o w n up on Hiroshima's West Pa­ rade Ground. Inadequate as the huts are, there are not enough o f them to go around; the narrator's sister got hers through a lottery. Because the area had always been wet, the slugs flourish. I t is the sister's prac­ tice to pick o f f the slugs w i t h chopsticks and drop them into a pail o f salt solution. The narrator objects to that way o f dealing w i t h the problem: " I didn't like to k i l l the slugs. Somehow I wanted to spare them. They didn't k n o w anything, hadn't committed any crime." U n t i r i n g l y , the sister and the mother drop slugs into the pail: B u t I peeked i n the pail. The slugs were half-dissolved, not completely dis­ solved. T h e y became like mush; there was no indication they offered the slightest resistance to this sole and primitive disposal. Ever since seeing the state o f things i n the pail, I had begun to be distressed by what i t reminded me of. I t made me think o f human bodies piled high, half-burned and halfmelted, not w h o l l y melted, unable to resist i n any way. The slugs i n the pail resembled the pile o f bodies precisely. I couldn't think o f the slugs as mere slugs. 15

In both "Pockets o f Ugliness" and City of Twilight, People of Twi­ light (1955), Ota reveals herself to be an early opponent o f H i r o s h i ­ ma's urban renewal. N o t that Hiroshima should not be rebuilt. Öta had crossed that bridge i n 1945; i n City of Corpses she states that i t was simply unthinkable to preserve Hiroshima as it then was for a me­ morial to atomic holocaust: "Those w h o were the guinea pigs when Hiroshima was blanketed i n the stench o f death must be praying f r o m the grave that Hiroshima be rebuilt. That the city be beautiful, peace­ ful, fertile, bright." B u t Öta's support for rebuilding Hiroshima did not mean that she supported what actually took place; far f r o m i t . Boulevards one hundred meters wide were stately, but h o w many people w o u l d they displace? Would they have military uses like H i t ­ ler's autobahns? N e w high rises were attractive, yet w h o but the w e l l to-do could afford them? What about the people displaced? Öta spoke for the dispossessed, seeking at least to bring their plight and their 16

15

Öta Yöko shü 1.222.

TRANSLATOR'S

16

Öta Yöko shü 3.5-294.

INTRODUCTION

127

Ota Yoko, 1955. Courtesy Nakagawa Ichie

plaints to the attention o f her readers. I n some ways Öta had returned to her earlier sympathies; her w r i t i n g was hardly proletarian litera­ ture, but it was advocacy o f causes unpopular i n postwar Japan. Still, by 1956 it all became too much: Korea and President T r u ­ man's threat to use nuclear weapons, the B i k i n i tests o f 1954 and the contamination by radioactive fallout o f the Japanese fishing vessel, the Lucky Dragon. As Öta wrote i n 1958: The memory of the atomic bomb branded me with a dark stigma. In 1954 I took another rest cure at home, and when I awoke . . . the Bikini incident occurred; the twenty-three men of the Lucky Dragon were at the point of death. I was shocked, to be sure; but in my heart of hearts, I thought I had known it would happen. I thought: that's why I've kept writing about the atomic bomb. I became angry. Why must I be the only writer to write on this issue? I was uneasy—was it enough to leave the writing to me? More writers must write—of those things. . . . [One of the fishermen], whose condition had been cause for grave concern, died. In that week or ten days, quick as a 128

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w i n k , m y lush black hair turned gray and then w h i t e . M y b l o o d pressure fell; fingers, toes, the soles o f m y feet grew itchy; I became unable to soak i n the bath. 17

U n w i l l i n g to subject herself to further anguish, Ota turned to a w a n ­ dering existence. She explains w h y i n Wandering (1956). She mentions a wanderlust that goes back to her childhood and a statement by her late friend, the novelist Hayashi F u m i k o : " O n the small scale, I want to escape m y o w n home. O n the large scale, I want to escape the globe." Ota writes o f her o w n "sour sympathy for those w o r d s " and comments that Hayashi's thoughts were "like those o f anyone l i v i n g i n the m o d e r n w o r l d . " T h e n comes this passage: Soon after m a k i n g that prudish statement, Hayashi F u m i k o died suddenly; then there were the hydrogen-bomb tests, and what people called the ashes o f death came b l o w i n g t o w a r d T o k y o . I thought to myself: serves t h e m right! If, smeared i n the ashes o f death, they die one after the other: fine! I f that happens, they may be able to understand h o w the human soul must change i n response to modern anxiety; their hearts may be shaken. H a v i n g thought these thoughts, I decided to set out on a t r i p . 18

Kurihara Sadako is one o f Ota's most insightful critics. I n 1982 Kurihara w r o t e : "Someday I ' l l have to. It's the responsibility o f a w r i t e r who's seen i t " — t h i s determination is the unwavering writer's declaration Öta made i n the ex­ treme hardship o f the days after the b o m b fell. T h e n ten years later, j u s t as the antinuclear movement i n Japan started to b u i l d w i t h the H - b o m b tests at B i k i n i , she began to spit out an atomic curse on those w h o had caused her previous struggles against the atomic b o m b to make no headway, w h o d i d not understand the fearsomeness o f the atomic b o m b , w h o had criticized as "oversensitive" the sufferings o f the survivors. She spat out these words that could not be taken back—"Serves them right!" " I f , smeared i n the ashes o f death, they die one after the other: fine!"—and drove herself to a position f r o m w h i c h there was no going back. 19

Here is the major t u r n i n g point i n Öta's literary career after 1945, a confession o f surfeit and impotence and rage. "Noiroze no kokufuku" (Conquering neurosis) (February 1958); i n Ota Yöko shü 2.336338. 17

18

Ota Yöko shü 3.296-297.

TRANSLATOR'S

19

Kurihara, "Kaisetsu," i n Ota Yöko shü 3.403.

INTRODUCTION

129

Between 1955 and her death i n 1963 Öta wrote much less than she had i n previous years. Her major pieces during this time were the t w o long essays on her mother already noted. Still, her output was substantial, and she was i n the middle o f a serialized novel when, on December 10, 1963, she died o f heart failure. T o judge f r o m Ota's w r i t i n g , Hara Tamiki's suicide was often on her m i n d . I n a brief essay on Hara's death, Öta had listed the parallels i n their lives: they grew up i n Hiroshima, they were close contemporaries, they were not far apart i n Hiroshima on August 6, they fled to the same riverbank, they w o u n d up a week later i n the same general area west o f Hiroshima, they returned thereafter to live i n T o k y o . Nevertheless, they never met, and Öta said she had not been particularly interested i n meeting Hara: "Reading the works o f writers, one thinks o f some, ' I ' d really like to meet them,' and o f others, no such thoughts. . . . Hara was not a writer w h o excited m y interest to meet h i m . " She continued: had Hara been i n the former category rather than the latter, "he p r o b ­ ably w o u l d n ' t have been able to c o m m i t suicide. He w o u l d have wished to live long, not i n order not to die but because he had much to accomplish. . . . Hara died leading a daily life he could not bear." These are strangely unsympathetic words on the death o f a fellow writer-survivor. Where others admired the purity o f Hara's life and intentions, Öta raised questions: I acknowledge the fact that we are l i v i n g i n fearsome times; but solitude—the idea that i t is fine not to have deeply felt connections to others, to get along on one's o w n — n o w no longer suffices. World-weariness, isolation, the con­ templation o f death: all are related to evasion, and evasion is part o f ev­ eryone's makeup; but one must consider the fundamental difference between i n d u l g i n g only i n literature, becoming entranced by i t , and getting out into the real w o r l d and w r i t i n g as the conscience o f the age. 20

The clear implication is that Hara gave up the struggle prematurely. In a short story o f 1953, she added: " N o one really understands sui­ cide. Some say Hara T a m i k i was the suicidal type even i f memories o f "Hara Tamiki no shi n i tsuite" (On Hara Tamiki's death), Kindai bungaku, August 1951; in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 1.292-293 (and not in Ota Yöko shü); see also Ota's essay on the death o f Töge Sankichi: "Gembaku shijin no shi" (Death o f the poet o f the atomic bomb) (March 1953); in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 2:289—290. 20

13O

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YOKO

the atomic b o m b had not terrified h i m . They may be right. . . . Still, I can't think o f the atomic b o m b and Hara's suicide except as con­ nected." A t various times i n her o w n life she had considered suicide; i n ­ deed, one critic has suggested that Öta assailed Hara's suicide so sharply to guard against following his lead. I n the same short story o f 1953, t w o w o r k m e n approach the narrator as she is lost i n thought at the ruins o f Hiroshima Castle, site o f a proposed memorial to Hara: 21

"Lady . . ."—gently—"what's so heavy o n y o u r mind? . . . D o n ' t tell me you're g o i n g to leave a last note and take your o w n life? You're not, are you?" " N o , I ' m not!" . . . I had no intention o f d y i n g the way Hara T a m i k i did. Yet the danger o f a self-willed death dogged m y steps. I wanted to live, but regardless there was always the danger o f a self-willed death. 22

Hara's death had made her o w n life more difficult. She had felt a bond w i t h h i m , at least after he was gone. I n "Fireflies" she speaks o f having eyes and soul i n c o m m o n w i t h Hara, i n contrast particularly w i t h "the eyes and souls o f those . . . f r o m T o k y o , w h o had not seen the vicious radioactive rays." B u t i t was not simply a matter o f sharing the atomic experience. After all, she shared that experience w i t h several hundred thousand survivors. It was that Hara and she were among the very few writers seeking to w r i t e about Hiroshima, to transform Hiroshima into art. 23

Öta spoke most poignantly o f this burden i n 1952, i n response to a questionnaire that included the question, " F r o m here on, what methods o f w r i t i n g do y o u propose to use?" Her answer began not w i t h methods but w i t h subject matter: I t h i n k I shall probably continue to w r i t e works that take as their subject matter the experience o f the atomic b o m b . I n t h i n k i n g so, I can o n l y consider m y s e l f unfortunate. I f true peace should come to pass, i f there were no war anywhere i n the w o r l d , then I should w r i t e other w o r k s . I n its discussions "Hotaru" (Fireflies) (June 1953); in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 2.194-195. For an English translation o f the entire story, see "Fireflies," trans. Koichi Nakagawa, i n Kenzaburo Oe, ed., Atomic Aftermath: Short Stories about Hiroshima and Nagasaki (Tokyo: Shueisha, 1984), 21

pp. 22

23

93-II9-

"Hotaru," in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 2.175. "Hotaru," in Nihon no gembaku bungaku 2.176.

TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

131

w i t h the U n i t e d States, the Japanese government says not a w o r d about the great h u m a n and material losses brought about by the b o m b ; people i n gen­ eral seem to think that the atomic bombs were some natural calamity that fell on distant H i r o s h i m a and Nagasaki, that the atomic b o m b is merely some­ t h i n g America is testing year-round, that i t has no particular connection to them. Hence they don't set great store by the creation o f literature based o n it. Some reviewers criticize m y writings as " H i r o s h i m a stuff," call i t "atomic b o m b stuff," say it is " w r i t t e n as i f only she could w r i t e i t . " I think such criticism comes f r o m perplexed intellectuals; I tend to think that i t is because o f t h a t attitude that the advocates o f rearmament are not w i l l i n g to stay i n the background. H a d Hara T a m i k i lived and w r i t t e n as he could, were T ö g e Sankichi i n better health and w r i t i n g lots o f poetry, should the "children o f the atomic b o m b " g r o w up and w r i t e a whole series o f great w o r k s even w i t h o u t being required to do so by their teachers, then m y soul w o u l d soon find rest. Y o u don't k n o w h o w hard i t is, t h i n k i n g that I must w r i t e all by myself. One person can't w r i t e i t all. It is a disgrace for Japanese writers that I am left to w r i t e i t alone. 24

B u t Hara had taken his o w n life i n 1951, and T ö g e Sankichi died on the operating table i n 1953. F r o m 1953 on, Ota was the only p r o m i ­ nent writer-survivor o f Hiroshima. ÖTA

A N D T H E CRITICS

The critics have not been k i n d to Öta Y ö k o . There is one b i o g ­ raphy i n Japanese, a prizewinning account that appeared i n 1971. Its author, Esashi A k i k o , knew Öta personally toward the end o f Öta's life (Esashi was twenty-one when Öta died, twenty-nine when her biography o f Öta appeared), and she poked w i t h great diligence into Öta's private life. She relates w i t h relish anecdotes and impressions f r o m various sources that a less uninhibited biographer w o u l d have suppressed; the biography is as much about Esashi as about Öta. Esa­ shi is particularly acerbic about Öta's early life and loves. For exam­ ple, she writes: "This was the 1920s, when one heard words like 'free­ d o m ' and 'liberation.' The newspapers devoted a lot o f space as well to the topic o f free love. Y ö k o too became a practitioner o f free love." Esashi shows some sympathy for Öta, but her portrait re25

2 4

"Sakka no taido" (The attitude o f the writer) (July 1952); i n Ota Yöko shü 2.310-311.

25

Esashi, Kusazue, p. 47.

132

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mains a nasty one. One sentence brings together these adjectives to describe Ota: unpleasant, haughty, overbearing, stingy, n a r r o w minded, spoiled, self-centered, cold-blooded, g l o o m y Esashi's harsh comments encompass Ota's writings as well: " Y ö k o was not a talented writer. She hadn't the composure to amuse herself i n the w o r l d o f ideas. N o r did she have the spark o f the poet or the talent to t h r o w a veil over the depiction o f passions and let them develop i n a quiet key. Rather, she was the type o f writer w h o went after what she herself had experienced and seen. A n d somehow, i n going after that, after t h r o w i n g herself headlong and letting go o f the works, she was stuck on one leg, unable to j u m p to the next foothold. Once upon a time she had spread wide the wings o f her imagination and w r i t t e n great love stories. B u t by n o w [late i n Ota's career] she had lost the energy one needs to write long works; she was w o r n out after the atomic bomb, and the springs o f her imagination had dried u p . " A member o f Ota's household only i n the late, unhappy years, Esashi could hardly have been expected to come up w i t h a bright pic­ ture; but her account does seem jaundiced. Ota Y ö k o is k n o w n to the English-language w o r l d primarily through the portrait Robert Jay Lifton painted i n a late chapter o f Death in Life (1967), his psychohistorical study o f survivors o f H i r o ­ shima. Where Esashi was critical o f Ota largely i n personal terms, Lifton couched his criticism i n the language o f psychology. Lifton found Ota "touchy and ambivalent about our meeting," "harassed and restless," surrounded by "a fragile aura o f pride, anxiety, vanity, and suspiciousness." A l t h o u g h these harsh first impressions softened, Lifton discussed Ota and her w o r k i n terms o f his o w n categories: survival priority, guilt, sense o f mission, and so on. His chapter title for Öta is "Literary Entrapment"; he wrote that "the imprisoning ac­ tuality o f the A - b o m b experience prevented her f r o m entering upon its imaginative re-creation" and that her "early sensitivities concerning love and dependency were exacerbated by her A - b o m b experience and her subsequent literary struggles." Lifton described Öta as "entrapped 2 6

27

2 8

2 6

Esashi, Kusazue, p. 82.

2 8

Lifton, Death in Life, pp. 402-407.

TRANSLATOR'S

2 7

Esashi, Kusazue, p. 208.

INTRODUCTION

133

by the identity o f the dead, by its disturbing inner questions, w h i c h i n her case are asked i n literary terms: ' D o I have the right to imagina­ tion? Can what I say about the dead ever be authentic?' Her increasing dissatisfaction w i t h the memoir approach to A - b o m b literature, and her inability to evolve an alternative one, undoubtedly contributed to her 'anger' at the A - b o m b . " It is hardly an attractive picture, al­ though one senses that Lifton the person was more sympathetic than his psychological categories permitted h i m to be. B u t think for a moment o f the circumstances o f Lifton's inter­ v i e w w i t h Ota. The year was 1962, little more than a year before Ota's death. She was fifty-nine. Six years earlier, fed up w i t h the burden o f being "the atomic bomb author," she had turned her back on H i r o ­ shima. Lifton was a male psychologist i n his late twenties, not fluent i n Japanese (they spoke through an interpreter); he hadn't read her works. He was a national o f the country that had dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. Under these conditions, it is hardly surprising that she was reluctant to see Lifton at all or that the picture Lifton painted was less than complimentary. 29

30

Lifton's approach and his categories invite scrutiny. He felt it nec­ essary to distance himself—by means o f single quotation marks— f r o m Ota's "anger"; he saw her experience as something to be mas­ tered. B u t can it be mastered? Should Ota have moved beyond it? Are those w h o have experienced atrocity neurotic i n l i v i n g i n the past? In his study o f the European Holocaust, Lawrence L . Langer wrote: " A terminology o f order may help us to cope w i t h the expe­ rience o f chaos, but it does not encourage us to enter its unsettling realm." The "neurosis," wrote Langer, Lifton, Death in Life, p. 405. It is not clear whether the questions are Ota's words or Lifton's.

2 9

Discussing in 1970 his earlier writings on Hiroshima, Lifton spoke o f "what I should have k n o w n from the start: there is no tone, no framework, adequate to the nuclear weapons experience." Lifton, "The Hiroshima B o m b , " i n History and Human Survival, ed. Robert Jay Lifton ( N e w York: Random House, 1970), p. 115. Lifton's comment is not directed to his treatment o f Ota, but it applies. For an incisive—and vitriolic—critique o f Death in Life, see Paul Goodman, "Stoicism and the Holocaust," New York Review of Books, March 28, 1968. 3 0

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may actually represent only a more honest i f more painful encounter w i t h the heritage o f atrocity. Retaining a p o r t i o n o f that heritage, meeting and ex­ pressing i t imaginatively, accepting the constricted life that confrontation w i t h the Holocaust sometimes imposes, may be a n o r m a l response to an ex­ perience that is mocked by the idea o f renewal. The emptiness and despair that accompany what the psychiatrist clinically defines as psychic n u m b i n g . . . may not signify a retreat f r o m t r u t h but a simple acknowledgment o f h o w extermination has invaded our lives. 31

Langer was speaking o f the writer-survivors o f the European H o l o ­ caust. A l l civilization united i n condemning the Holocaust, and still the writer-survivors clung to "an experience that is mocked by the idea o f renewal." Langer's analysis holds equally for the w r i t e r - s u r v i ­ vors o f Hiroshima. Even though there was scattered condemnation o f the dropping o f the atomic bombs, the major powers continued to build up their arsenals, to test new atomic and hydrogen weapons, and to threaten their use. There is a large element o f sheer heroism i n Ota's dozen years o f encounter w i t h Hiroshima; i t is astonishing that she persisted as long as she did. It is hardly surprising that to the end o f her life she remained torn and "conflicted," as i n the interview w i t h Lifton. Ota was a complicated person even before she experienced the atomic bomb; the negative reactions to her and to her w o r k are not w i t h o u t foundation. Ota herself was as aware as anyone o f the short­ comings o f her w o r k . I n the Preface (1950) to City of Corpses, she w r o t e as follows: I had no time to w r i t e City of Corpses i n the f o r m o f a novel. . . . I had neither the t i m e nor the emotional reserves necessary to portray that reality clearly and skillfully i n the format o f superior literature. I hurried w i t h the w r i t i n g , one t h o u g h t i n m i n d : to get it w r i t t e n , using the strength I had and a f o r m that came easily to me, before I died.

She spoke particularly o f her inability to "describe adequately" what Hiroshima was like; the reality o f Hiroshima was far more tragic than Lawrence L. Langer, Versions of Survival (Albany: State University o f N e w York, 1982), pp. 14-15. 31

TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

135

any

reader can

accept readily. She

gave a few

examples before

concluding: T o people w h o k n o w n o t h i n g o f the nature o f a u r a n i u m b o m b , facts like these must seem like lies. B u t precisely for this reason i t was all the more i m p o r t a n t that I w r i t e about Hiroshima. The disaster o f H i r o s h i m a cannot be considered apart f r o m its historical significance. W h e n one realizes this, then even i n a w o r k o f literature one cannot fabricate, one cannot take one's time. One should transplant the situation into fiction, preserving its factual under­ pinnings and not arbitrarily destroying its original f o r m . A n d the very fact that i t has to be w r i t t e n makes i t difficult to begin. Öta ended her Preface w i t h the hope that she m i g h t still w r i t e "a l i t ­ erary w o r k that can make good the inadequacies o f this memoir." B u t what exactly did she have i n mind? T w o years later, i n re­ sponse to a questionnaire, she made this statement: I t h i n k that the literary h i g h road is, after all, realism [Öta used the English w o r d ] . I want to w r i t e w i t h o u t hard-to-read, conceptual, useless frills or dis­ tortions, so that everyone can read, everyone can understand. So I shall p r o b ­ ably continue to w r i t e works that go against the grain o f the literary estab­ lishment; I can think o f n o t h i n g that w o u l d cause me more regret afterward than to lose m y nerve and give way to the w r i t i n g style o f the literary estab­ lishment. 32

I f n o t h i n g else, this passage demonstrates Öta's willingness to offend the literary establishment o f the day: literature, yes; but realistic liter­ ature. Four years later, i n 1956,

as she was t u r n i n g f r o m the atomic

b o m b to other subjects, Öta published an essay entitled "The Fearsomeness o f Literature." The essay concludes w i t h this passage: I sometimes t h i n k I have forgotten h o w to w r i t e fiction. W h e n I t r y to con­ struct a w o r k according to the hitherto traditional rules o f Japanese fiction, i t makes me severely ashamed. I become so ashamed I tremble. Because I w h o live i n this extraordinary Japan cannot h o l d fast to the conventional literary forms. However, I am not satisfied w i t h m y o w n method o f w r i t i n g fiction. I w o u l d dearly love to w r i t e a great, perfectly constructed roman [ O t a used the French w o r d ] . B u t if, for example, I were to w r i t e 'fiction' based on what 3 2

"Sakka no taido," Öta Yöko shü 2.311.

136

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YOKO

is there i n documentary f o r m i n City of Twilight, People of Twilight, i t w o u l d take me 2,000 pages. M y way attempts to meet j o u r n a l i s m halfway; but j o u r ­ nalism doesn't seem about to meet m y w o r k halfway. . . . I intend to w r i t e first w h a t I have to w r i t e even i f it means closing m y eyes to the artistry o f literature. T h e n I read Hara T a m i k i ' s Summer Flowers. W h e n I read Summer Flowers, I k n o w for dead sure that I am i n pursuit o f artistry. I too w i s h to capture not the facticity o f the atomic b o m b that I k n o w so well, but the unique p u r i t y o f literature. Herein lies m y contradiction. M o r e than that, the fearsomeness o f literature is brought home to m e . 33

"The

unique p u r i t y o f literature" may be more Hara's realm than

Ota's, but her achievement is an enormous one nonetheless. There is a larger issue that these criticisms tend to obscure. C o n ­ sider these words o f Sasaki K i i c h i : I feel I am skating on thin ice w h e n I talk about these t w o writers [ O t a Y ö k o and Hara T a m i k i ] w h o experienced the atomic b o m b and w r o t e that internal and external experience into fiction and poems. Recently I have come to feel ever more strongly that i t is o f no use to argue whether their works are good or bad. T h e y w r o t e w i t h a total involvement that was virtually prayer-like; for us to participate i n their experience o f the atomic b o m b , we too must have a sense o f prayer r o u g h l y as strong as theirs. . . . The fact that what the t w o w r o t e is literature appears almost incidental, a phenomenon b r o u g h t about by the p r o f u n d i t y o f their personal experience. So Í like to think. H a d they confronted the experience o f the atomic b o m b f r o m the outset t h i n k i n g " I ' l l t u r n i t into f i c t i o n " or " I ' l l t u r n i t into poetry," their w o r k s likely w o u l d n o t be so deeply impressive. 34

T o be sure, Sasaki himself was hardly an unbiased observer. A w r i t e r himself, he was Hara Tamiki's brother-in-law (brother o f Hara's be­ loved wife), a contemporary o f Ota's, and not untouched by either the war or the atomic b o m b . Still, his perspective may well be broader than those o f Ota's detractors. The dropping o f the atomic b o m b is one o f the critical events o f the twentieth century. A n y o n e w i s h i n g to enter vicariously into that event must cherish every account, every "prayer." 33

"Bungaku no osoroshisa" (March 1956); in Ota Yöko shü 2.323.

Sasaki Kiichi, "Hara T a m i k i to Ota Y ö k o san no k o t o " (Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o ) (1970); i n Nihon no gembaku bungaku 2.339.

3 4

TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

137

CITY

OF CORPSES:

CENSORSHIP

A N D THE

TEXT

Like Hara T a m i k i , Ota Y ö k o faced Occupation censorship. Her efforts to publish City of Corpses brought her to the attention b o t h o f the censors and o f A r m y intelligence. Her account o f the incident is heavy w i t h i r o n y and resentment: The policy was that a w o r k a Japanese writer wished to publish i n Japan had to pass the censorship o f the army o f occupation i n the section o f Japan she resided i n . I n m y case, I had fled to the hills o f Hiroshima Prefecture; but i f I wished to get clearance for m y manuscript, I had to send it to K o k u r a i n K y u s h u . There had been a reply addressed to me f r o m K o k u r a , that I should submit t w o copies o f the w o r k i n question. I didn't feel like m a k i n g t w o copies o f the 350-page manuscript. I knew full well that America did not take k i n d l y to the publication o f the book; and it was more than I could bear to have the manuscript—written i n pencil on scraps o f paper pulled o f f shöji, toilet paper, and smudged w r i t i n g paper—sent back f r o m T o k y o for me to see once more. A n d I was not happy that to spite me the reply f r o m K o k u r a had used incorrect characters for m y names, both first and last. I sent a card saying that next time they should get i t right. Soon an Occupation intelligence officer appeared on her door­ step. Her interrogator was a tall white American i n his thirties; he was accompanied by an interpreter, a short American o f Japanese descent. The intelligence officer had not read her manuscript; his interests were narrow and simplistic. Ota recounted the give-and-take as follows: " A p a r t f r o m y o u yourself, w h o has read the manuscript o f your book?" " O n l y I , before I sent i t o f f to the publisher i n T o k y o . I received a letter f r o m M r . E. o f the editorial staff, so he must have read i t . " "What are M r . E.'s ideas and politics?" " H e is a liberal." "What Japanese political party does he belong to?" " I don't k n o w h i m personally, so I can't say; but to go by the past habits o f Japanese intellectuals, he probably doesn't belong to any political party." Swiveling his large head f r o m left to right and back again, the interpreter transmitted the questions and answers back and forth between the officer and me; the officer didn't seem particularly interested, didn't even n o d his head. H e had taken out a notebook and occasionally j o t t e d things d o w n i n i t . "Aside f r o m Japanese, has any foreigner read the manuscript?" " N o . N o foreigner has read i t . " "Please name as many o f your friends as y o u can. . . . What are their ideas and politics?" 138

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Cover o f City of Corpses (November 1948), showing the notations o f the censors. The artist is Fukuzawa Ichiro. Courtesy o f the G o r d o n W. Prange Collection, University o f M a r y l a n d College Park Libraries

139

Manuscript of page one of City of Corpses, with editorial notations. Courtesy Nihon kindai bungakkan and Nakagawa Ichie 140

" T h e y are liberals. T h e y are antiwar." " W h a t political party do they belong to?" " T o none."

Ota volunteered some thoughts on the relation between art and p o l i ­ tics but soon realized that neither man was interested. The questions continued: "Since August 6, have y o u walked t h r o u g h Hiroshima?" "Yes." " A t that time, were y o u i n the company o f foreigners?" "No." " D i d y o u w r i t e i n y o u r manuscript about any atomic b o m b secrets?" " N o . I don't k n o w any atomic b o m b secrets. W h a t I w r o t e about was simply what the city o f H i r o s h i m a and the people i n i t experienced."

Then, toward the end, the officer said: " I want y o u to forget y o u r memories o f the atomic b o m b . America w o n ' t use the atomic b o m b again, so I want y o u to forget the events i n Hiroshima." After a m o m e n t I responded: " I don't think I can forget. Even i f I wanted to forget, I couldn't." The t w o were silent. " A s a resident o f the city, I want to forget, but forgetting and w r i t i n g are t w o different things. A w r i t e r writes even about things l o n g past and forgotten. I n that sense I can't promise to forget." H e made no response to this either. "For m y part, I have a question. . . ." " I f it is something I can answer, I w i l l . " " I hear that i n respect to the atomic b o m b there is an u n w r i t t e n rule that o n l y scientific reports can be published; I k n o w that no p r o h i b i t i o n has been issued publicly. W h y is that?" "It's not m y j o b to answer." "Even i f I can't publish, I have to write; apart f r o m the fact that I don't k n o w any atomic b o m b secrets, is what cannot be published a matter o f the cruelty involved? O r is i t a total prohibition?" "It's not m y j o b to answer that, either, so I can't answer. I want y o u to forget the atomic b o m b . " I could not accept the American officer's w o r d that America w o u l d not drop another atomic b o m b . Given the fact that America dropped i t o n Japan, there was the possibility o f b r i n g i n g about a crisis i n the next, greater war— the pain i n m y heart was ineradicable. Then, out o f the blue, I said: " I f I can't TRANSLATOR'S

INTRODUCTION

publish i t i n Japan, I ' l l make a present o f it to America." The resentment piercing m y breast suddenly was gone. 35

Öta's m e m o r y may not be entirely reliable, for she published this ac­ count eight years after the event. A n d the hand o f the Occupation was not so heavy: the Occupation authorities did not t h r o w her into prison, did not torture her, did not forbid the appearance o f a censored version of City of Corpses. Still, this encounter holds enormous pathos. The manuscript o f City of Corpses reflected the conditions i n w h i c h Öta lived and worked. It consisted o f thirteen sequences o f text on many sizes, types, and brands o f paper; a good many pages had w r i t i n g on both sides, numbered i n various orders. The first edition appeared i n November 1948, published by one o f Japan's major pub­ lishers. The threat o f censorship had led to the deletion o f the second chapter, "Expressionless Faces." I n her Preface o f 1950, Öta refers to these deletions as "voluntary," although they were more likely v o l ­ untary on the part o f the publishers than on her o w n part. The second edition—the first complete version—appeared i n M a y 1950; i t serves as the basis for this translation. 36

37

38

35

"Sanjö" (Mountaintop) (May 1955); in Ota Yöko shü 1.186-190, 192, 199-201.

Nagaoka Hiroyoshi, "Shikabane no machi no genkö ni tsuite" (On the manuscript o f City of Corpses), i n Nagaoka, Gembaku bunken 0 yomu (Reacting atomic bomb literature) (Tokyo: San'ichi, 1982), pp. 241-267.

3 6

The first edition contains 26 numbered sections, not the 30 o f the second edition. The five numbered sections that make up the second chapter are missing, and the final chapter is broken up into t w o numbered sections, section 26 beginning w i t h the line: "Late autumn has finally come to this small country village." 3 7

The second edition was reissued in August 1951, this time as volume 65 o f a "Citizen's Library" series. A fourth appearance came i n August 1955, as volume 66 in a second series. Since Ota's death City of Corpses has appeared in several forms: as a book (July 1972, volume 79 in yet another "Library"), as the lead entr^ in volume 1 oí Ota Yöko shü, and as the lead entry i n volume 2—the volume devoted to Ota Yöko—of Nihon no gembaku bungaku. Por­ tions of City of Corpses have appeared in a number o f anthologies. There are no major textual differences among the editions published from 1950 on. 38

142

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City o f Corpses by Öta Yöko

Preface to Second Edition (1950) I W R O T E City of Corpses between August 1945 and the end o f N o v e m ­ ber 1945. I was l i v i n g at the time on a razor's edge between death and life, never k n o w i n g f r o m moment to moment when death w o u l d drag me over to its side. After August 15, when the unconditional surrender o f Japan ended the war, and after the 29th, alarming symptoms o f atomic bomb sickness suddenly began to appear among those w h o had sur­ vived August 6, and people died one after the other. I hurried to finish City of Corpses. I f like the others I too was d y ­ ing, then I had to hurry to finish it. I had lost everything I owned that day i n the conflagration that devastated Hiroshima, and even after I got to the country, I hadn't even a single sheet o f paper, not one pencil, let alone pens and manu­ script paper. A t the time there wasn't a single store selling these items. I got yellowed paper, peeled from the shöji o f the house I was staying in and the houses o f acquaintances i n the village, toilet paper, t w o or three pencils. Death was breathing d o w n m y neck. I f I was to die, I wanted first to fulfill m y responsibility o f getting the story w r i t t e n down. Under those circumstances, I had no time to organize City of Corpses i n good literary form. Having listened to many people w h o had experienced w i t h their o w n bodies and souls the reality o f H i r o ­ shima on August 6, and having done some research, I had neither the time nor the emotional reserves necessary to portray that reality clearly and skillfully i n the format o f superior fiction. I hurried w i t h the w r i t i n g , one thought i n m i n d : to get i t w r i t t e n , using the strength I had and a f o r m that came easily to me, before I died. N o w , on the occasion o f its republication, I have given i t a careful reading. As I read, I could not help feeling, all the more keenly, that what I experienced was small and insignificant when set against the extraordinary suffering that unfolded throughout Hiroshima on A u ­ gust 6, 1945. CITY OF CORPSES

I47

M y pen did not take i n the whole city. I wrote only o f m y very limited experience o f the riverbed. I had been living i n Mother's house but escaped f r o m there to the riverbed, where I lived i n the open for three days. I wrote also o f the sights I saw on our flight to the country. The whole city was buried i n a calamity more sad and severe than the scenes I saw on the riverbed and i n the streets: that fact I should like m y readers to be aware of. Readers w i l l probably find m y style unsatisfying. I n rereading this book today, five years later, I myself felt impatient at many points. There arose before m y mind's eye the conditions i n Hiroshima then, conditions I was unable to describe adequately; I could not help remembering physical and spiritual suffering so severe it seared m y very soul. T H E S E F I V E Y E A R S I have thought only o f reorganizing City of Corpses i n less subjective fashion and, having regained m y mental and spiritual health, o f turning it into a literary w o r k . But, surprisingly enough, the city o f death that the dropping o f the atomic bomb on Hiroshima created makes very difficult subject matter for literature. The new methods o f description and expression necessary to w r i t e cannot be found i n the repertoire o f an established writer. I have not seen hell, nor do I acknowledge the existence o f the Buddhist hell. Losing sight o f the exaggeration involved, people often spoke o f the experience o f the atomic bomb as 'hell' or 'scenes o f hell.' It w o u l d probably have been a simple matter i f one were able to ex­ press the bitterness o f that experience i n terms o f that ready-made concept 'hell,' whose existence I did not acknowledge. I was abso­ lutely unable to depict the truth w i t h o u t first creating a new t e r m i ­ nology.

Using the writer's pre-existing concept o f what constitutes liter­ ature, I found i t difficult to communicate i n w r i t i n g the indescribable fright and terror, the gruesome misery, the numbers o f victims and dead, the horrifying conditions o f atomic bomb sickness. I was a witness when for the first time ever, i n one instant, a city o f 400,000 people was wiped out by the fires o f war. I also learned then for the first time that those fires o f war were brought about by 148

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something called an atomic bomb, w h i c h contains u n k n o w n and frightening mysteries. It was also the first time that thousands, tens o f thousands, hundreds o f thousands o f human beings died i n one i n ­ stant, and I was among the first to walk weeping among corpses l y i n g about, so many that there was hardly place to set one's feet. I was also the first to see the gruesomeness o f atomic bomb sickness, a vast and profound force that destroys the human body even while the body is alive. Under these conditions anything and everything I was forced to see was new under the sun; being forced to witness i t was itself tragic. Similarly, for example, hearing o f a girl w h o had been on K a nawa Island, eight kilometers due south o f the epicenter i n Ötemachi: i n the instant after the radioactive flash she had one breast gouged out. T r y as one m i g h t to depict that i n w r i t i n g , it cannot be done. A girl closer to the blast escaped death because she was w o r k i n g on a girls' volunteer brigade on a small island out i n the Inland Sea; but she had her breasts ripped o f f by the glass splinters the blast sent flying, and a round, breast-shaped ball o f bloody flesh protruded and hung f r o m the socket i n her chest that thereafter became a black cav­ ity. T o people w h o k n o w nothing o f the nature o f a uranium bomb, facts like these must seem like lies. B u t precisely for this reason i t was all the more important that I w r i t e about Hiroshima. The disaster o f Hiroshima cannot be consid­ ered apart f r o m its historical significance. When one realizes this, then even i n a w o r k o f literature one cannot fabricate, one cannot take one's time. One should transplant the situation into fiction, preserving its factual underpinnings and not arbitrarily destroying its original f o r m . A n d the very fact that it has to be written makes it difficult to begin. I W A S U N A B L E to publish City of Corpses even after the war had ended, due to unfortunate conditions that had nothing to do w i t h me person­ ally. I finished w r i t i n g City of Corpses i n a village o f f i n the hills forty kilometers n o r t h o f Hiroshima, thinking, as I wrote earlier, that every moment m i g h t be m y last. After having been o f f the air for a whole m o n t h because o f damage caused by typhoon and flood, the radio came on again one day, and I heard the faint voice o f the announcer CITY OF CORPSES

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say that only scientific accounts o f the atomic bomb could be pub­ lished. N o t being able to publish—that was another o f the fateful bur­ dens writers o f a defeated nation had to shoulder. City of Corpses was published, i n November o f 1948. B u t a fair number o f pages, contain­ ing parts I thought important, had been excised voluntarily. The re­ sult was a w o r k that had been watered d o w n and was incomplete. F r o m 1948 until n o w I have let it sit. I had hoped i n the five years after 1945 to reestablish m y standing as a novelist, but these five years have been an unfortunate, fateful— indeed, strange—period. The war had rendered about ten years o f m y life null and void; these five years added to the damage. The reverberations continue to this day. D u r i n g that time I tried to w r i t e other works. I tried to write works unrelated to the atomic bomb, different works. B u t the image o f m y h o m e t o w n Hiroshima branded onto m y m i n d drove away the vision o f other works. It was difficult to turn the Hiroshima o f the atomic bomb into a w o r k o f literature. Even more, I had witnessed w i t h m y eyes and heart and listened to people talk about the reality o f the destruction o f H i r o ­ shima and the annihilation o f people. A n d that reality produced a vision o f a concrete piece o f w r i t i n g that was something less than literature and that crippled m y zest for w r i t i n g other works. I f I t r y to write about the Hiroshima o f the summer o f 1945, I am tormented, o f course, by the accumulation o f memories and o f frag­ ments o f memories I have collected. I gaze fixedly at these events I have to call up f r o m m e m o r y i n order to write, and I become i l l ; I become nauseated; m y stomach starts to throb w i t h pain. Take one episode, reported i n the press at the time, that is still fresh i n m y mind. It is the story o f three children, orphaned i n that instant on August 6, w h o entered the camp for or­ phans that had been set up i n Kusatsu, outside Hiroshima; they wished to become monks. T w o o f the children were eleven; one was thirteen. The three said they wanted to become monks and dedicate their lives to the spirits o f their parents and to the spirits o f other vic­ tims o f the war; accompanied by a monk f r o m a branch temple i n Hiroshima, they went to K y o t o , to the main temple ofthat sect. 150

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There they took the tonsure and wore the shawls and robes o f priests. Right or w r o n g aside (and I doubt that these children should end their lives as monks), the memory o f this newspaper article is all it takes to flood m y heart w i t h tears. I am a writer; but even so, I wanted first and foremost to wrap m y arms around those small chil­ dren and weep. I wanted to be a writer able to do that w i t h good grace. I grieved bitterly; body and m i n d threatened to fall apart. I could not get over the pathos o f those children; confronted by other griefs as well, I w o u l d t h r o w d o w n m y pen. There were also days when I doubted whether writers should w r i t e at a distance f r o m their emotions. W h o l l y caught up i n the city o f corpses, I was unable to w r i t e about anything else. For me there is no way other than to let more time pass. This may be only natural. Tormented as I am by such thoughts, I take only slight conso­ lation f r o m the republication o f this book. The atomic b o m b is the greatest tragedy o f the century—no, o f Japanese history. The re­ publication o f this book helps me w i t h the unbearable thought o f the people o f Hiroshima w h o died and the people w h o were injured and survived. Indeed, I do hope some day to write a literary w o r k that makes good the inadequacies o f this memoir. May 6, 1950

CITY OF CORPSES

Öta Yöko

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A n Autumn So Horrible Even the Stones Cry Out i . The days come, the days go, and chaos and nightmare seem to wall me i n . Even the full light o f clear, perfectly l i m p i d autumn days brings no relief f r o m profound stupefaction and sorrow: I seem to be sub­ merged i n the deepest t w i l i g h t . O n all sides people whose condition is no different f r o m mine die every day. B o t h the neighbors to the west and the neighbors to the east are getting ready for funerals. Yesterday I was told that the person I saw at the doctor's three or four days earlier had begun to v o m i t up pitchblack blood; today, that the pretty girl I bumped into a few days ago on the street has lost all her hair, is covered w i t h purple spots, and lies at the point o f death. N o r do I k n o w when death w i l l come to me. A n y number o f times each day I tug at m y hair and count the strands that pull out. Terrified o f the spots that may appear suddenly, at any moment, I examine the skin o f m y arms and legs dozens o f times, squinting w i t h the effort. Small red mosquito bites I mark w i t h ink; when, w i t h time, the red bites fade, I am relieved they were bites and not spots. A t o m i c b o m b sickness inflicts strange, idiotic bodily harm: y o u remain fully conscious, yet no matter h o w dreadful the symptoms that appear, y o u are aware o f neither pain nor numbness. For those suffering f r o m i t , atomic b o m b sickness represents the discovery o f a new hell. Incomprehensible terror when death beckons and anger at the war (the war itself, not the defeat) intertwine like serpents and even on the most listless o f days throb violently. I have always wanted to spend an autumn i n the country; yet n o w that I am here, I find myself in a peculiar state. I am not on a welcome trip i n the natural course o f events. I have come driven out o f the burnt-out wasteland o f a metropolis totally destroyed, a metropolis no longer deserving o f the name; I am so utterly weak and wretched CITY OF CORPSES

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that I have lost all touch w i t h that dream that was once so dear to m y heart. Even i f only because o f m y memories o f childhood, the beauty o f the seasons as they change from summer to fall i n this place deep i n the mountains has given me what strength I have. The magnificent colors as the sky, once light blue, darkens each day, changing i n late autumn to deep azure; the delight the mountains provide when, far and near, the b i l l o w i n g ranges appear i n the evening to be piles o f bright green crystal; the mountains and fields, scorched by the sun, changing gradually from light yellow and b r o w n to dark b r o w n , then, withering, to silver gray and the color o f miscanthus. A n d the rice fields hour by hour taking on color, the rice tassels seen at a distance a faint line that becomes finally the surface o f an ocean, its golden waves undulating. The sound o f flowing water on a m o o n l i t night, a m u r m u r almost like someone sobbing, echoing softly. The autumn insects that chirp like w i n d chimes almost until w i n ­ ter. The mountain birds w i t h their brilliant plumage, i n quiet repose o f f i n the hills, and the male pheasants w i t h their beautiful w i n g col­ ors. Even i n the midst o f T o k y o , where life was often unkind, such memories o f the landscape revived me. In T o k y o I often thought: someday I ' l l go back to that place o f m y memories and take a long vacation. N o w I have come at last to the countryside o f w h i c h I was so fond. Afflicted i n body and soul by the brutality o f war, I have come to lay m y body d o w n . I look at the light purple mountains, at the perfectly clear blue sky; at night I sit looking at the brilliance o f the m o o n or listening to the sound o f flowing water. But those sights and sounds no longer hold me spellbound. I think o f the day I came back, a beggar, to this village that was once mine, where I no longer have a home o f m y o w n . F r o m the skin out, all the clothes I had on were full o f blood, sweat, and dirt; m y face and hands were swollen, and streaks o f dried blood encrusted m y clothing. That fateful m o r n i n g I had been sleeping i n a silk n i g h t g o w n w i t h 154

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a white-on-blue pattern and a narrow obi and, underneath, an undersash and w h i t e cotton underclothes. Those clothes had all been sliced t h r o u g h i n back as i f by a sharp knife, all at once, a cut only about an inch long; one after the other, the injuries to m y ear and back had begun to fester. The clouds are gray; the earth is damp to its marrow. A u t u m n is here. I am cast out, w i t h no home; m y clothes are all i n tatters. — f r o m the verses G o r k y has Pashka recite i n The Three

The dropping o f the atomic bomb on Hiroshima t o o k place o n the m o r n i n g o f August 6. People fleeing the city o f flames began reaching the country here the next day, the seventh—the city was still burning furiously; and they were all i n the same condition. They were even worse o f f than the person i n Pashka's song. For some reason the bus, w h i c h made only one trip a day, was not running; one after another, severely injured people came w a l k i n g d o w n the road f r o m the train station twenty-five kilometers away at Hatsukaichi. Swathed i n white, only their eyes glittering, people w i t h burns over their entire bodies came d o w n the shortcut over the pass. There are n o w more than 360 such people i n the village; each day even now, w i t h September nearly past, someone new returns, death perched on his shoulder. One day a young girl w h o had lost b o t h parents to the atomic b o m b came tottering as far as the top o f the pass and died, her lips to the water o f the mountain stream. 2. September 6, one m o n t h to the day after the b o m b fell, was b r i l ­ liantly clear; i t followed a period o f continual rain. In the sunlight, a bunch o f girls came by, chattering away, return­ ing f r o m the elementary school nearby. F r o m the second floor I o b ­ served these y o u n g village girls. One o f them, ten or eleven years old and wearing cotton trousers, came to a sudden stop and looked up at the bright sun as i f just reCITY OF CORPSES

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membering. Hand shading her eyes, she said, "Gee, I ' m terrified! Punishment f r o m Heaven! The atomic bomb . . ." The other girls, too, all turned their faces toward the sky, looked at the sun and, as i f frightened, put both hands up to cover their heads or shield their faces. The child's expression is an interesting one: " p u n ­ ishment f r o m Heaven." The bright flash that morning reached even this village—twenty-five kilometers from Hiroshima as the crow flies. The blast that came on the heels o f the flash knocked sideways the villagers w h o were cutting grass or doing other w o r k high i n the mountains that morning. The girls walked on, shouting as i f i t were a song: "Punishment f r o m Heaven! Punishment from Heaven!" I n any o f their homes, one or t w o members o f their immediate families or relatives w h o have come for refuge are headed for or are on the point o f dying cruel deaths. Even the feelings o f little children seem to have been affected. The eight-year-old girl f r o m the first floor came upstairs to play, and I asked her, " D i d y o u see the flash, too?" "Yeah, yeah. Saw i t clearly. Grampa, y o u know, was w o r k i n g i n the field, and the field glowed, see. He thought, you know, there m i g h t be a fire underground, so he started to dig." She and I both burst out laughing. "Where were you? Weren't you frightened?" " N o t really frightened, see; I didn't k n o w what was happening. N o t frightened. I was i n school, you know, and the teacher was calling the r o l l . As he said 'Matsui Shigeo,' there was a sudden flash." Talking away i n her charming voice, the girl spread her hands wide, as far apart as she could. I could almost see the bluish-white flash emerging f r o m between her extended palms. "Matsui Shigeo looked around i n great confusion; he thought i t m i g h t be a movie." When I am curious, I can't help opening m y eyes wide. The m o ­ ment the bluish flash got here over the mountains from Hiroshima, a first-grade boy stared wide-eyed and expectant, thinking a movie was about to begin: h o w pathetic! 156

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"The other kids, too—they clapped their hands and said, 'Hey, a movie's beginning!' The teacher scolded them." Then, she said, the children were led to the air raid shelter and squatted there for a long time. As I was listening to the story this girl told, six P-51S—was this a flight to mark the first m o n t h since the bomb?—appeared w i t h a great roar f r o m over the mountains to the west and flew o f f to the east. Just at that moment a group o f twelve or thirteen children came past on their way home from school. They were all boys—perhaps friends o f Matsui Shigeo. The children spotted the planes. O n the i n ­ stant, confused, they scattered i n all directions, then clustered t o ­ gether again; excited, they stuttered and cried out, "Hey, look! A m e r ­ ica, America! Those planes bring the bright pika and the l o u d don\" "Hey, pika-don, pika-donl They're 29s! 29s! 29s!" They were so flustered they didn't speak i n complete sentences. T o see the planes they stretched up until their feet almost left the ground; their small bodies teetered. One child spread his legs as far apart as he could: "Hey, hey! I got a good look at them. They weren't Bs or 29s. Neither one. When they turned, they had something w r i t ­ ten on the side. . . ." His right hand, thrust suddenly and fiercely into the air, flew o f f to the side, as i f following the lettering. Another child said timidly, "Then, uh, maybe they were Japanese planes? H o w w o u l d American planes k n o w the way to Kushima?" " D o n ' t be silly. Aren't no roads i n the sky. W i t h no roads, y o u can't lose your way no matter where y o u go. That's w h y they're al­ ways coming over." This child spoke emphatically. The children needn't wonder. It's been a m o n t h since Japanese planes lost the freedom o f the skies. 3. Another incident: on a rainy day near the end o f September, I was coming d o w n f r o m the annex on the second floor o f the house that is m y temporary quarters; I got partway d o w n the stairs and then hap­ pened to l o o k to the b o t t o m . I almost reeled. There, slumped over on the open veranda o f the first-floor r o o m , was a y o u n g man. One look at his face told me he had atomic b o m b CITY OF CORPSES

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disease. He had set his hands weakly on the veranda and looked barely able to hold himself up. This must be Gin-chan, I thought, a distant relative o f the family. I had heard he had come back t w o or three days ago. I f this was G i n chan, I had heard that his hair was falling out, and his teeth were loose i n his gums as i f he had pyorrhea; what is more, he had lost so much weight he was a living skeleton. What stunned me so was the inde­ scribably eerie color o f his skin. The skin all over his body was like that o f someone i n the last stages o f tuberculosis, and that color had been painted over w i t h a more hopeless color, opaque like that o f roasted eggplant. The skin around his eyes was tinted lightly, as i f tattooed blue; his lips were ashen and dry. His hair was as thin as that o f an eightyyear-old and had turned the color o f ash. His body was encrusted all over w i t h spots—pale blue, purple, dark blue—the size o f beans. I had heard about such symptoms from the doctor and had read about them i n the newspaper. When things were that far along, y o u had t w o or three days to live, at most five; people like that didn't even bother to go to the doctor's. As I stood there, startled at the dreadfulness o f these symptoms I was seeing for the first time, a member o f the household said, "This is Gin-chan; he showed up just recently." D r a w i n g closer, I said, " I was i n Hakushima that day and was injured slightly; where were you?" "Hiratsuka," he answered sullenly. " H o w far was Hiratsuka f r o m the epicenter?" "Less than a kilometer." Those w i t h i n a radius o f t w o kilometers were said to have re­ ceived a more or less brutal dose o f radiation. We may stay healthy for a while and feel no pain, but suddenly we develop the standard symp­ toms. According to the specialists studying the situation, the 'standard symptoms' include the following (as reported i n Hiroshima's Chügoku shimbun): —fever —loss o f energy 158

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—apathy —loss o f hair (as i f pulled out, but w i t h the root attached) —loss o f blood (bleeding at the spots on the skin, nosebleeds, bloody phlegm, hemorrhage, bloody v o m i t , bloody urine) —inflammation o f the m o u t h (especially inflammation o f the gums) —tonsillitis (especially gangrenous tonsillitis) —diarrhea (especially w i t h blood i n the stool). B y the time these external symptoms become apparent, drastic changes i n the blood corpuscles—especially the white ones—have al­ ready taken place. Naka M i d o r i , an actress o f the new drama, had come to Hiroshima w i t h the troupe that included Maruyama Sadao; she was examined by D r . Tsuzuki o f T o k y o University. It was an­ nounced that before she died i n the surgical clinic at T o k y o University her w h i t e corpuscle count had fallen to between 500 and 600; her red corpuscle count was at the 3,000,000 level. Under n o r m a l conditions, they say, one has 6,000 to 7,000 w h i t e corpuscles and about 4,500,000 red. Yet D r . Sawada o f K y u s h u U n i ­ versity published a count o f barely 200 to 300 white corpuscles per cubic centimeter o f blood—completely unthinkable under n o r m a l conditions. I read these reports o f the clinical research o f D r . Tsuzuki and the other specialists very closely, w i t h the eyes o f a sick person, and I intend to set this all d o w n i n proper fashion. B u t first I must back up a bit. The damage caused by the atomic b o m b is peculiar i n these ways: people do not feel pain immediately i n their bodies, and the s y m p ­ toms do not manifest themselves for a long while. U n t i l September 2 Gin-chan had kept his v i m and vigor. The burns on his leg had healed; but on the third his hair began to fall out, he bled at the gums, and the spots appeared. The young man m u t ­ tered, "It's all over w i t h me. I might as well die. Three doctors all t o l d me so." "Rest quietly. They say those w h o develop the disease late re­ cover. Tell yourself you are going to live no matter what. Be tough." It was w i t h complex emotions that I spoke to the y o u n g man, for CITY OF CORPSES

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i f indeed he was able to survive despite being i n such shape, then I , too, w h o had not yet exhibited the symptoms, m i g h t also survive. " I was i n bed, but I was dying for a smoke, so I got up to get some cigarettes." He said he m i g h t as well die; yet all the while he asked for and got the necessities o f life—pipe, notebook, toothpicks— f r o m the members o f the household. Wearing a thin padded dressing g o w n directly over his bare skin, he went out into the autumn rain, hands inside next to his chest. Afterward, one o f the household spoke o f h i m : " I tell y o u , G i n chan's hair used to be thick and pitch black. He prided himself on i t . " Gin-chan appeared at one moment to be an old man, at the next a boy; i n reality he was twenty-three years old. While the war was i n full swing, he had boarded ships and set o f f for the South Pacific and for the N o r t h Pacific, too. As the defeat approached, the ships stopped sailing, so he had returned to Hiroshima just recently and was l i v i n g w i t h a w o m a n w h o was supposed to be f r o m Kagoshima; to speak plainly, he was a young tough. Those w h o cause their parents such grief, they say, are better o f f dead. Still, even his young heart may have had its feelings. Adopted f r o m somewhere or other at the age o f t w o , he had gone bad at an early age, a juvenile delinquent impossible to control. In Hiroshima that m o r n i n g , i n his rented r o o m i n Hiratsuka, Gin-chan was still i n bed w i t h the girl. She was pinned under, and he pulled her f r o m the rubble. However, her hair fell out until she was completely bald, she suffered f r o m dysentery-like diarrhea, and she died before Gin-chan's symptoms appeared. His parents had evacuated to this village some time earlier. Car­ r y i n g the ashes o f the girl, Gin-chan finally made it to the house i n w h i c h his foster parents were renting space. His foster father was a white-haired old man w h o helped out at the village barbershop; his face always had a pallid yellowish coloring. He sometimes hobbled to m y place for a visit, on legs that were bad f r o m chronic tuberculosis. When he did, he w o u l d walk about slowly, looking at the plants i n the large garden; peering for a long time at the pond, he w o u l d watch the carp—black, scarlet, and white. Was he really looking at them? He seemed instead to be depressed about something. 160

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Foster father and Gin-chan: they didn't have a smile between them. 4. A n d another: here i n the village there is only the one clinic. O l d D o c t o r S. and m y late father were friends. When I was young, he was often at our house. So when I returned to the village after ten-odd years away and went to be treated, we sometimes talked about all kinds o f things. It felt almost like talking w i t h Father. One day D r . S. told me the following story. A girl first came to h i m w i t h her head filthy, covered all over w i t h splinters o f glass. When D r . S. took out all the pieces o f glass and wiped away the dried blood, he found only t w o cuts, and those so small they m i g h t have been made by the tip o f a chopstick. The girl felt relieved. Still, after t w o weeks or more had passed and she no longer needed treatment for the cuts, pale spots appeared on her arms. N o t thinking, D r . S. said, "Spots, eh? Let's have a l o o k , " then examined her arm gently. She let out a shriek. Then she collapsed against h i m . Frantic, she asked, " W h e n w i l l I die? Doctor, tell me, when w i l l I die? W h i c h stops first, m y pulse or m y heart?" "Who says you're going to die? The fact that these spots have appeared doesn't mean you're going to die. D o n ' t w o r r y . You're not going to die." "But everyone dies-—every last person w h o was i n H i r o s h i m a that day w i l l die, all o f them. Sooner or later, every last one w i l l die." The girl died w i t h i n the week. She hemorrhaged and had an at­ tack similar to blood poisoning. Generally speaking, the blood hem­ orrhaged by atomic b o m b victims is not red but black, pulpy and r o t ­ ten. One day D r . S. told me this story. I had caught sight o f this man sometimes at the clinic. He was t h i r t y - t w o or thirty-three, a r o u g h hewn type, and he resented the fact that Japan had lost the war. Shak­ ing his fist, he w o u l d accost patients in the waiting r o o m . It appeared that he had been injured i n t w o or three places i n both legs. His wife, a good-looking w o m a n w h o wore glasses, always accompanied h i m . He spoke i n a loud, cheerful voice. There were many patients i n the CITY OF CORPSES

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waiting r o o m ; even when his turn came, he w o u l d make all the others who seemed i n bad shape—those w i t h burns, for example—go first, and he himself w o u l d go last. Dr. S. gave more o f his attention to the wife than to the husband. F r o m the start he thought: "She w i l l die." She had received only a slight cut on the chest, but deep i n her complexion lurked a strange and indescribable color. One m o r n i n g about three weeks after they first appeared, the man showed up, as always w i t h his wife, and reported he was very tired. He stretched out on the bed and said: " I was a ship's cook, y o u know, and every time I went ashore I got a shot o f Salvarsan; by n o w I've had 250 or more. Even now, i f I ' m tired when I get the shot, I feel fine. I don't k n o w h o w I ' l l react this time, but w o n ' t y o u give me one?" W i t h a wave o f his hand, D r . S. said, " I w o u l d n ' t give y o u one now. I t ' d be dangerous." " I ' m already done for, no matter what y o u do. You're a doctor, aren't you? Wouldn't i t be w o r t h experimenting on me? There's n o t h ­ ing to lose." "The needlemark w i l l surely get infected." "Please go ahead and see what happens. Shoot me up, please, w i t h Salvarsan." The doctor decided he w o u l d t r y i t . B u t not w i t h a full dose. H e w o u l d give h i m a shot one-third the normal strength, cut w i t h dis­ tilled water. That w o u l d probably be safe. D r . S. turned his back to the man and made his preparations, hiding what he was doing w i t h his body so the man w o u l d n ' t complain. As he was doing so, he heard the man's cheerful voice behind h i m : "Hey, h o w about giving me a somewhat smaller dose?" " H o w about just distilled water?" " N o , I didn't say just water. There has to be a little medicine, too." F r o m the very first, the man had been neither excited nor blus­ tery; a tranquil smile had always played about his face. When D r . S. administered the injection, the reaction was i m m e 162

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diate. The man shook and shivered but did not say anything. When the shaking stopped, his cheeks turned the color o f blood. " I ' m boiling! Boiling! Boiling, Doc! Take m y temperature; I bet it's over 120!" He smiled as he spoke, then took the hand o f his wife, who was standing beside h i m , and raised i t to his forehead. " N o t even 104," said the doctor. "You just feel hot. One person in three reacts this way. Does it always hit y o u this way?" "It's never been this bad." Dr. S. took the man's temperature, and it was 105.8; this was typical for atomic bomb sickness. B u t as the man said, the feeling y o u got f r o m touching his skin was that his temperature was much higher than 105.8. "Let's put y o u to sleep tonight i n this bed. We'll find y o u a futon and boil y o u some rice gruel. H o w about it?" The man refused the offer. " N o . It may give m y wife a fat head i f I say this, but even her family home is better for me than this place." After watching as his wife left the waiting r o o m , the man asked Dr. S., "Say, h o w much more time does the wife have?" "She's got about a week left." "Then she and I w i l l die at about the same time, w o n ' t we? War has finally begun to k i l l us off in pairs, husbands and wives. I can take m y o w n death; but she's a woman—sad! Still, it's not a bad fate, to keep each other company into the next w o r l d . " When he came the next day, red spots had appeared, three on the tip o f his tongue, four or five at the b o t t o m o f his armpit. B u t he said nothing about them, and D r . S. did not speak o f them, either. W i t h ­ out referring to them, D r . S. asked, " Y o u were w o r n out yesterday, weren't you?" "Yeah. It took three hours to walk the four kilometers home. U n t i l yesterday i t took less than an hour." " F r o m n o w on stay home. I ' l l come to you. B y the way, what are y o u eating—a rice-barley mix?" "Yes." "Stomach trouble's no fun, so w h y don't y o u stick to straight rice?" "Okay, w i l l do. Makes sense." N e x t day someone from the wife's village came for D r . S. When CITY OF CORPSES

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D r . S. got there, the man was sitting up i n bed. He bowed: "Thanks a l o t for coming." B u t even as he spoke, a smile crossed his face. "Be­ ginning last night I've been eating nothing but white rice, lots o f it. B u t i t doesn't taste good any more. Still, I realized h o w clever doctors are, the way they tell y o u you're dying. M y tongue and armpits are covered w i t h red spots and purple spots. That's w h y y o u spoke o f white rice, isn't it?" " Y o u knew?" "It's m y b o d y As long as I ' m alive, I ' l l k n o w what's happening to i t . B u t Doctor, there's something that's puzzling me. Japan took a real licking, and the war ended, didn't it? A n d , see, the war's been over n o w for a while. Yet we're dying because o f the war, I tell y o u . Even though the war's over, we're still actually dying like this because o f the war. That's weird." Three days later D r . S. had to write out the man's death certifi­ cate. The wife died quietly t w o days later.

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Expressionless Faces 5. I n the last days o f the war, Japan's opponent employed atomic bombs. M o s t people seem to react to that fact w i t h resentment. I n doing so, they rely more on emotion than on reason. They refuse to face the facts. Theirs is like the illusion o f those w h o said that the Soviet U n i o n w o u l d mediate at war's end and settle things equitably; they haven't thought things through. It makes no sense to think o f waging modern war for ten or even fifteen years, etiquette as proper as w i t h the samurai o f old, i n lei­ surely fashion. We lament the ravages o f war. B u t we must lament as well what led up to the ravages o f war. Nations decide i n cold blood and w i t h o u t pity to go to war; i n modern war i t is simply a matter o f course that there is hideous agony, that one uses radio waves to set fires until city after city goes up i n flames, that one destroys everything, w i p i n g out the last trace o f every last house. It is no longer possible to hope for any other k i n d o f war. W i n or lose, aggressive war brings pretty much the same grief. That we had to go to war i n the first place was the result o f stupidity and corruption. When the atomic b o m b was dropped on Hiroshima, the war was already over. The Fascist and Nazi armies had been utterly defeated, and Japan stood alone against the entire w o r l d . A war i n w h i c h , o b ­ jectively speaking, the outcome has been settled is no longer a war. I n that sense, the war was already over. H a d the militarists not held out desperately and pointlessly, the war actually w o u l d have been over. The atomic bomb, at Hiroshima or anywhere else, is unthinkable ex­ cept as the ugly after-echo o f a war that had already ended. The war had already ended on the crest o f the wave that rolled f r o m Iwojima to Okinawa. So an inversion takes place i n m y m i n d . It goes like this: it was America that dropped the atomic b o m b on our heads, yet at the same time i t was also Japan's militarism. 6. F r o m then on Japan's exhaustion became conspicuous. The ex­ haustion o f a dazed populace made for more deaths that day i n H i r o ­ shima; i t piled up the corpses. CITY OF CORPSES

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One after the other, i n rapid succession, cities all over Japan were being attacked from the air and exposed to a suffocating, apocalyptic horror. B u t until dawn on August 6 Hiroshima had been left abso­ lutely alone. N o one understood w h y this was so. People sat around marveling at the fact. O n the map o f Japan it became more and more obvious that only K y o t o and Hiroshima were being left alone. I n that period between June and the beginning o f August, the following con­ jectures made the rounds o f residents o f the city. American bombers w o u l d destroy the dam on a large river back i n the mountains i n the northern part o f Hiroshima Prefecture. The dam i n question was a large one; i f they took out the dam, forty k i ­ lometers o f villages and towns w o u l d be washed out into the Inland Sea. Even i f people fled to the high mountains, wherever they gath­ ered bombs w o u l d fall on them. A n d those w h o survived w o u l d die o f starvation, unable to get produce from any o f the farm villages throughout the prefecture that had been washed away by the water. A b o u t the time this rumor began to circulate, life preservers made o f bamboo were distributed to neighborhood associations at neighborhood meetings i n some parts o f the city. They weren't given out to all residents, so I never even saw one; but I understand that this was the plan: should waves o f night bombings create a ring o f fire around the city, cutting o f f the people inside the ring f r o m the o u t l y ­ ing areas to w h i c h they were supposed to flee, then they should grab their life preservers, j u m p into one o f the seven rivers running through the city, float out to sea, and be rescued by waiting navy ships. Distributed courtesy o f the military, these bamboo life preservers gave b i r t h to this sort o f mistaken speculation, and so, w i t h o u t speci­ fying the content o f the rumor, the Hiroshima newspaper reproved the residents editorially. However, by the time I heard the talk about destroying the dam, that r u m o r had already spread throughout the city w i t h absolutely irresistible force. Wondering whether i n the war i n Europe there had been similar cases o f intentional flooding, I asked whether the r u m o r 166

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had any basis i n fact; I was told no. Nevertheless, people i n t o w n were making rough calculations. I f the dam i n the mountains were destroyed, i t w o u l d take eight hours for the water to reach Hiroshima; no, they w o u l d time the de­ struction o f the dam to coincide w i t h high tide, so we w o u l d be sub­ merged i n t w o and a half hours. When all that water got to H i r o ­ shima, i t w o u l d be enough to cover Hiroshima to an average depth o f only four inches; no, four feet. B u t even i f B - 2 9 S were to take out the dam, they couldn't take i t out simply by dropping a couple o f bombs. That dam w o u l d n ' t break unless the B - 2 9 S came i n like Japan's spe­ cial-attack squadrons, diving into the dam carrying the bombs. Talk like this spread throughout Hiroshima. Aware i n a vague way that something was going to happen some­ time, we d i d not pursue further what it meant that Hiroshima had not been bombed. The residents o f the city also had pipe dreams that were even wilder. For example: Hiroshima was k n o w n as the city o f water; it was a beautiful stretch o f delta crossed by the seven rivers that flowed through the city. So the Americans w o u l d turn i t into their residential sector. I , too, had vain dreams o f this sort. Hiroshima was not a partic­ ularly beautiful city; I couldn't think the city w o u l d hold charm for foreigners. B u t every other city had been destroyed; so w h e n they landed i n Japan, they m i g h t at first be hard up. " O n an east-west axis, Hiroshima is i n the exact middle o f Japan; so they may be leaving i t as a place to store their stuff when they get here." When M o t h e r and Sister and I were alone, I w o u l d say things like this. M a i n l y i n jest, but a little bit i n earnest. W i t h o u t realizing i t , people had fallen into thoughts o f defeat— even while continuing to think w i t h one part o f their minds that each and every Japanese w o u l d take on ten o f the American soldiers as they came ashore, that we w o u l d "fight to the death." F r o m the middle o f July through the end o f the m o n t h , the cities to the east o f Hiroshima went up i n flames, including Okay ama; to the south, Kure was utterly destroyed by fire. T o the west, the i m ­ portant smaller cities o f Yamaguchi Prefecture were bombed and de­ cir y OF CORPSES

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voured by fire, one after the other, and the towns i n our vicinity that had not been bombed were gasping for breath. Once i n the spring Hiroshima had confronted several hundred enemy carrier planes; but even then there had been merely a small air battle and m i n o r damage out among the islands. People i n the city didn't even get a good look at the enemy planes, and w i t h o u t going well out o f their way, they couldn't even see the marks left by enemy shells. A r o u n d the beginning o f A p r i l a single B-29 flew over, and i n passing i t dropped a bomb or t w o d o w n t o w n , on Ötemachi; that was all. That incident, too, happened i n the m o r n i n g . However, i t was so early—before 7—that the big buildings—City Hall, the banks, the companies—were empty, w i t h no signs o f life, and even i n the neigh­ borhoods nearby not many people died. F r o m then on until about the time Okinawa fell, the skies over Hiroshima were comparatively quiet. Once the fierce air assault spread to Okayama and Kure and Yamaguchi, day i n and day out for­ mations o f B-29S passed high over Hiroshima, f r o m the east and f r o m the west, even f r o m the south and from the north, on their way to burn out other cities. O n some days they were accompanied by large numbers o f carrier planes. Some days we thought for sure that H i ­ roshima's t u r n had come. B u t as always, the planes flew on, and we were spared. It was spooky. Once more Hiroshimans began to talk. W h y was i t the A m e r i ­ cans took care not to touch K y o t o and Hiroshima? K y o t o was the city o f flowers, and Hiroshima was the city o f water; they must be destined to become residential sectors for the Americans. What is more, people began to say even stranger things. There had always been a lot o f emigration from Hiroshima; historically, H i ­ roshima Prefecture had sent o f f more emigrants to America than had any other part o f Japan. Their sons were manning the American battle lines i n this war and performing well. So out o f indebtedness to them the U n i t e d States was not b o m b i n g Hiroshima. Even intellectuals w i t h some discernment passed on this k i n d o f talk among themselves and to others w i t h a straight face, just as some intellectuals get swept away by ridiculous new sects. 168

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Meanwhile, those i n charge o f the war established categories o f enemy air assault—strategic b o m b i n g , tactical bombing—and re­ quired the newspapers to use them. Those i n charge o f the war were able to make judgments ofthat kind; w h y was i t they never used their talents for orthodox technical and tactical things to pursue the matter o f w h y there were large cities that hadn't been bombed? As for modern scientific weapons, the time had come to i n t r o ­ duce them w i t h all haste. I f our side didn't, the other side w o u l d . That they w o u l d be cruel and horrible was a foregone conclusion. A d d to this presentiment other aspects—geography, surround­ ings, distance—of the cities that had been spared, and one has to think that the smartest o f those i n charge o f the war had some idea o f what m i g h t happen. H a d they pursued that train o f thought to its conclusion, the corpses m i g h t not be piled so high i n Hiroshima and i n the villages o f the prefecture. Sadly, the war had left everyone dazed and exhausted. As the end o f the war approached and even before the atomic bombs, Japan itself had already fallen to the mental state epitomized by expressionless faces. 7. N e x t , f r o m newspaper clippings i n m y possession, I should like to set d o w n for posterity a statistical count o f the casualties the atomic b o m b inflicted. I don't k n o w w h y i t is, but w i t h o u t doing so I can't get myself into the m o o d to start w r i t i n g o f the events that summer m o r n i n g i n Hiroshima. Leaving aside for the moment the very interesting interim reports o f the experts and the phenomenon called "atomic b o m b sickness" that appears over and above specific injuries, the statistics for deaths and injuries are as follows: Dead:

males females gender u n k n o w n total

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Missing:

males females

8,554 8,875

total

17,429

Severely injured: males females

9,857 9,834

total

19,691

males females

21,947 23,032

total

44,979

males females

103,649 132,008

total

235,657

Slightly injured:

Homeless:

These figures—they must be considered very conservative esti­ mates—are totals compiled August 25; they are by no means the last w o r d . O n September 15 the newspaper reported that i f the missing and severely injured were counted as dead, the death toll w o u l d ex­ ceed 120,000. A n d it was after August 24 that people listed as slightly injured, w h o had only scratches, and people w h o l l y w i t h o u t either cuts or burns began to die one after the other. Even i n m y small v i l ­ lage, three or four people died each day. A n d at that time i t was said that even people from the surrounding areas w o u l d die, people w h o had not been i n Hiroshima on August 6 but had gone there afterward, on labor details, to dispose o f the dead bodies and the like. This fear o f death was even more profound than the vague and inchoate fear the day the atomic bomb fell; i n all its anxiety, i t lasted for nearly a m o n t h . O n l y after September 20 did we learn that a small number might manage to survive. 8. As regards the terra incognita inhabited by people w h o went to Hiroshima after August 6, soon contracted atomic b o m b sickness, and died, Professor Fujiwara o f Hiroshima University has issued an interim report. Professor Fujiwara has a doctorate i n physics and spe­ cializes i n X rays. His report states: 170

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— O n August 20 a resident o f the suburbs went to Nishi-Teramachi i n Hiroshima C i t y and spent half a day digging graves; soon after returning home, he contracted atomic bomb sickness. —Despite the fact that he had not been injured, a person w h o on August 6 was three kilometers outside the area o f the blast (in Yoshijima Hommachi) soon died. —Countless balls o f fire fell that day on the eastern part o f M i d o r i Kansha-döri (three kilometers from the epicenter). —Similarly, intense radiation poured d o w n on Hiroshima Tech­ nical School i n Chiyoda. —One person i n Yaga i n the suburbs felt intense light and heat on his face but thereafter exhibited no symptoms at all. — M y o w n experience was that a ball o f fire fell on the r o o f o f m y house (in M i d o r i ) ; yet when the woman next door brought water to douse the fire, she could find nothing out o f the ordinary. — D r . Watanabe o f the Japan Red Cross Hospital examined a pa­ tient i n Shöbara, Hiba C o u n t y (on the sixth the patient had been at home i n M i d o r i ) and found a white corpuscle count o f less than 2,000. In his scrupulous way, D r . Fujiwara continues: Having heard often o f these and other anomalies, I wondered whether there m i g h t not have been variations i n the diffusion o f radioactive matter. I wondered whether, even after the fighting had ended, the radioactivity m i g h t not still be relatively strong. So I went to the eastern part o f M i d o r i Kansha-döri, the spot where balls o f fire were said to have rained d o w n on August 6, and when I measured the radioactivity I found the level quite high. Moreover, at Hiroshima Technical School a piece o f the posi­ tive terminal o f a rectifier had fallen. A n d chips o f stone had fallen into a storeroom o f m y house, and an electric i r o n that must have been heated to a pretty high temperature had come t u m b l i n g into the l i v i n g r o o m ; probably all o f them had been sent flying f r o m the blast zone. Rectifier, stones, iron: on none o f them could I detect any radioactivity. Inferring from this fact, one m i g h t con­ clude that the neutrons, gamma rays, electrons, X rays, ultraviCITY

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olet rays, light rays, and heat rays created i n the destruction o f the atomic structure o f the bomb's substance (uranium) went flying in all directions, giving rise to a strong blast that i n turn sent ma­ terial flying f r o m the blast zone. The professor's report continues earnestly: We are open to the charge o f having neglected this point. I f we postulate that they used t w o bombs, the first one exploding at a height o f 6,000 meters and the second one probably induced by that explosion, the explosion o f the second bomb w o u l d have taken place at a lower altitude than the first and w o u l d have been less than complete. Following this line o f thought, i t is conceiv­ able that i n addition to scattering objects i n the blast zone to the four winds, the atomic bomb also sent fragments o f itself flying. It is likely that the matter that scattered i n all directions was heated to a high temperature and that that temperature was due simply to the application o f external heat or to heating as i n a high-frequency electric furnace. Moreover, there were probably some fragments to w h i c h much o f the destructive substance o f the b o m b adhered and some to w h i c h it did not adhere. Fragments w i t h high radioactivity were sent flying to the eastern part o f Kansha-döri, as mentioned earlier; stones and metal scraps that were not radioactive but sim­ ply incandescent were sent flying toward m y house. F r o m these premises, D r . Fujiwara reaches his conclusion: Following this line o f thought, is i t not possible to affirm that even people some distance f r o m the blast zone suffered burns or developed the symptoms o f atomic bomb sickness? N o t long ago the newspaper published the opinion o f D r . Tsuzuki that "the radioactivity is spread relatively uniformly," but I call those places where blast matter landed "points o f special impact." I am proceeding n o w to investigate h o w much radioactivity remains at these "points o f special impact." As D r . Tsuzuki too reported, even i n the blast zone the radioactivity appears today to have become so slight that i t is o f no danger to the human body. 172

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B u t as D r . Asada says, it appears that for t w o or three days after the explosion the radioactivity i n the center o f the blast zone re­ mained relatively high. Hence the fact that, for example, soldiers w h o w o r k e d for a week disposing o f corpses at the West Parade Ground suddenly died is likely due to the fact that at the latter time their health and the conditions o f the environment were not good. It probably stands to reason: as long as they were healthy, the symptoms w o u l d n ' t become apparent; but overwork and i n ­ adequate diet w o u l d cause atomic b o m b sickness to manifest i t ­ self. W i t h the above, D r . Fujiwara's report o f his investigation o f re­ sidual radioactivity comes, by and large, to an end. T h o r o u g h as it is, it still leaves us groping about i n the dark. 9. Let's see what D r . Tsuzuki o f T o k y o University, the leading an­ atomical expert, has to say: Given conditions today, four weeks after the b o m b i n g , I believe it is reasonable to conclude that there is nothing remaining at the site that m i g h t affect negatively the degree o f contamination. So the problem is determining h o w much heat was produced on the m o r n i n g o f August 6 at the point o f explosion. Perhaps we can draw an analogy w i t h something we all k n o w about. H a v i n g conferred w i t h physicists, I think I w i l l be understood most easily i f I speak i n the following terms. The heat o f the uranium 1500 feet above the ground appears to have been equal to the heat o f the alpha rays given o f f by 100,000,000 tons o f radium. What w o u l d have happened had they dropped 100,000,000 tons o f ra­ dium? N o r m a l l y we discuss radium i n terms o f milligrams; the figure 100,000,000 tons gives us a rough idea. There is a legend that Taira no K i y o m o r i called back the setting sun; i t is not nec­ essarily impossible that such energy exists. As far as energy f r o m the sky is concerned, there are generally four forms. The first is the power o f light and heat, w h i c h runs i n a given direction and gives rise through reflection to strong energy. The second is meCITY

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chanical, explosive force, the power that destroys houses and sends people flying. The t h i r d is power we still don't k n o w about, the result, for example, o f radioactivity. The fourth we can only call power still u n k n o w n ; today, as i n the past, we don't k n o w what i t is. I myself am taken w i t h this phrase "still u n k n o w n . " It may be be­ cause o f the conceptual mystique o f this phrase that I am setting this informal talk d o w n faithfully. What could the radioactive substance have been? I f this atomic b o m b used uranium, w h i c h has been under study i n America for some years, then the most important sources o f heat are the neu­ trons; they are particles that move at extremely high speed. The neutrons forever rushing about the universe are thought not to harm the human body, but they are capable o f doing so. Continuing: The Institute o f Physical and Chemical Research collected soil f r o m air raid shelters; the poison i n that soil is n o w losing its potency at a rapid rate. Phosphorus is found i n bones, so we k n o w the most about it; when I came to Hiroshima the first time [author's note: August 8?], I found an animal bone i n the vicinity o f the A i o i Bridge. I thought it was a paw bone; when I brought it back and examined i t , I detected radioactivity. A t the time o f the explosion on August 6, there was probably t w o hundred times the normal amount o f radioactivity i n that bone. When I examined the bones o f a human burned to death i n the vicinity o f Ground Zero, I found roughly ninety times the normal radioac­ tivity. The day before yesterday (September 2), I examined h u ­ man bones found i n that vicinity, and the radioactivity was ninety times greater than normal. The human body is not affected unless there is radioactivity more than one thousand times greater than normal. I ' m talk­ ing only about phosphorus, but people w h o entered Hiroshima immediately after the bomb received less than one-tenth that damage; after several days had passed, radioactivity disappeared 174

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completely f r o m substances like iron and copper. So I concluded that except for the first few days after the b o m b i n g there was v i r ­ tually no damage. Continuing: The fourth, u n k n o w n power I still do not understand. I can only think that i t is something extraordinary. Even i f the equivalent o f a 222-kilogram bomb—weight 500 pounds, length 30-36 inches, diameter 18-20 inches—came packed w i t h poison, i t is not conceivable that i t could poison so many things. What I do k n o w is this: the substances emitted i n the instant o f the bombing—the neutrons and something equiv­ alent to the gamma rays o f radiation—are like high-frequency X rays; they burst all at one time, and what was exposed got h i t first. Regarding the damage neutrons pose for human beings, we can compare neutrons w i t h what we normally deal w i t h ; neu­ trons probably have about twice the power o f the gamma rays o f uranium. B u t i n the moment o f the explosion, the heat is u n ­ imaginable, and the heat thereafter can hardly be measured i n the normal lab. Today, n o w that one m o n t h has elapsed, I think i t is probable that nothing remains w h i c h even i n the aggregate can cause harm to human beings. As for the question o f pathological changes, i t is not possible at the present moment to say that they always have a progressive character. Assuming that neutrons suddenly hit our bodies, I think that at first our whole bodies w o u l d contain small amounts o f radium but that i n a month's time the radium w o u l d have left the body; however, i n terms o f pathology, we w i l l not k n o w more precisely until we conduct miscroscopic examinations i n T o k y o . Still, as o f n o w I do not think i t has a progressive character. Then further: Madame Curie, the discoverer o f uranium, died o f p r i m a r y ra­ diation; but given proper treatment, people w h o survived the i n ­ stant o f the explosion I think w i l l recover. CITY

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Another report: the Sawada team o f internists from K y u s h u U n i ­ versity Medical School entered Nagasaki on August 29 and w o r k e d at the site and i n relief hospitals. They speak o f the effects o f uranium o n the human body as follows: The effects o f the atomic bomb on the human body can be d i ­ vided into three categories. Category 1 is instant death; category 2 includes those w h o develop the symptoms o f diarrhea, like pa­ tients w i t h false diarrhea, and die; category 3 includes those n o w i n the relief stations w h o have no major superficial injuries—that is, no burns—yet still die. The chief symptoms o f these category-3 patients are these: their gums bleed, they exhibit anemia, their hair falls out, and they develop throat ulcers. Some spit blood, v o m i t blood, have bloody urine and bloody stools; the spots on their skin bleed; and their white corpuscle count falls to 200 or 300 per cubic centi­ meter. When one studies these cases clinically, one learns that the dis­ ease to some extent destroys bone marrow. Bone m a r r o w is where the cells o f red corpuscles crystallize (red corpuscles per­ f o r m the function o f coagulation). Block this capability o f bone marrow, and y o u give rise i n the first instance to anemia; as a disease that reduces the production o f corpuscles, anemia then gives rise to fever, hoarseness, and inflammation o f the tonsils. The symptoms are similar to those o f diphtheria. Some w o m e n develop tumors, and because the platelets do not adhere to each other, the bleeding w i l l not stop. As for the issue o f white corpuscles, what normally happens is acute leukemia. Here, by contrast, the white corpuscles increase, the spleen and other parts swell, and the patient dies; i n this acute leukemia, there is acute myelosis. That is, i t resembles very closely the way the white corpuscles decrease rapidly i n the case o f the atomic bomb. I n these matters we should like f r o m here on to focus our attention on histological changes i n bone marrow. 176

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Virtually everyone had an opinion, expressed as earnestly as this, about such technical matters and about treatment. Yet our unease w o u l d not abate. The unease was primarily a psychological thing. N o w subject, n o w object, we victims could not help feeling that death was forever tugging at us. A l l these effects arose from the fact that such an event had never happened before. A special quality o f the damage the atomic b o m b inflicts lies i n the extreme unease it generates, unease because the t r u t h is not likely to be k n o w n for many years. It cannot be denied that the issues are o f extraordinary scientific interest. A n d out o f honor and conscience and righteous indignation, not to mention curiosity and interest, the specialists conscientiously confined their interest to their o w n disciplines. However, no one seemed to be interested i n understanding the psychology o f the vic­ tims. It may be that this was not the fault o f the scientists. The concern o f the central authorities at the time seemed u n i f o r m l y weak. Given that situation, things o f the body may have been more important; but what we most wanted was consolation for our souls. Methods o f treatment were determined, but then the stock o f those medicines and injections immediately disappeared, even i n doc­ tors' offices; i n rural areas it was not possible even to count blood corpuscles. A n d when i t came to nutrition, there was no fruit at all and no vegetables; even i n the case o f grains, only half a pint was dis­ tributed per day—two-thirds barley, one-third polished rice. H a d huge trucks—loaded w i t h medicine, injections, the equip­ ment for various experiments, and nourishing food—come racing to us, that critical assistance w o u l d have resuscitated the bruised spirits o f the victims; o f that there can be no doubt. O h , h o w I hoped that well-meaning shipments w o u l d arrive at one village after another to tend to our spiritual wounds! For i n the villages way back i n the hills and far f r o m Hiroshima, the nightmare o f death had had its baleful effects on the very souls o f many o f the victims.

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Hiroshima, City of Doom i o . Those w h o were never i n Hiroshima before the bomb fell must wonder just what Hiroshima used to be like. I n the distant past i t was called not Hiroshima, broad island, but Ashihara, reed plain. It was a broad, reed-covered delta. I n the era o f warring states about four hundred years ago, M o r i M o t o n a r i built a castle here. M o t o n a r i was driven away by the Tokugawa and moved west to H a g i i n Yamaguchi Prefecture. Fukushima Masanori suc­ ceeded h i m , expanded the castle, and made it his seat. B u t the house o f Fukushima, too, lasted only one generation. Its successor, the Asano, flourished for thirteen generations before its long rule came to an end i n the M e i j i Restoration; L o r d Asano Nagam o t o o f the Loyalist faction was the last o f the line. I n that era o f revolution, neighboring Chöshü had risen to a position o f great prominence; but not Hiroshima. Marquis Nagamoto was a fine and noble man; but the people under his command, it was said, lacked fire. This fact is not w i t h o u t its lessons for an understanding o f the psychology o f Hiroshima peo­ ple i n modern times. Like Hiroshima's scenery, the Hiroshima personality is i n some respects cheerful, but it is irresponsible and unsociable. I n the local dialect, words are spoken lightly at the tip o f one's tongue, the exact opposite o f the heaviness o f the Töhoku accent. Still, as long as one didn't take things to heart or get deeply i n ­ volved, i t was a cheerful city w i t h a good climate, rich i n material goods and a good place to live. In topography, Hiroshima fanned out between the mountain ranges to the n o r t h and the Inland Sea to the south; seven rivers flowed gently through the city i n the delta. Countless bridges spanned the great branches o f the river flowing through the city. They were all modern, clean, broad, white, long. F r o m Ujina Bay, the fishing boats w i t h their white sails and the small passenger boats came quite far up all the branches. Upstream, the river offered v i v i d reflections o f the mountains. 178

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The rivers o f Hiroshima were beautiful. Theirs was a serene and unchanging beauty. They stretched out u n i f o r m l y blue i n this broad area w i t h no variation i n elevation. One couldn't see distinct currents; one couldn't hear the pleasant sound o f rapids; nor could one watch gentle brooks. The rivers were serene and unchanging even on freez­ ing winter days when snow fell. I liked Hiroshima's rivers best on days when heavy snow fell. The snow sealed o f f the various parts o f t o w n f r o m each other and turned the city into a silent and uniformly silver w o r l d . Yet the seven rivers still flowed, unhurried, the water so clear that the w h i t e sand and greenish pebbles on the b o t t o m gleamed through as always. The fine sand o f the dry riverbed was white, and the pebbles were w h i t e and b r o w n and dark green. Occasionally, one even saw stones that looked as i f they had been dyed red. The surface o f the water was a quiet pale blue, just like that o f a lake deep i n the mountains. I n the winter it appeared to be covered w i t h a sheet o f thin smoky glass or overspread w i t h the thinnest coat o f wax; flake by flake, the snow pouring d o w n onto i t was absorbed gently and disappeared. According to the map, Hiroshima lay i n the west; but it some­ h o w gave offa southern w a r m t h , a languid and carefree air, due p r o b ­ ably to these rivers and to the fact that the city opened like a fan w i t h its handle to the south. W i t h the exception o f the southern side toward the water, the city was surrounded on three sides by mountains. L o w and gently rolling, the mountains ran one into the next like the humps o f a sleeping camel. N o matter where y o u looked, the mountains were there, visible even f r o m the bustling streets i n the heart o f the city; I had not always lived i n Hiroshima, and the nearness o f the mountains surprised me. A n d then, no matter w h i c h part o f t o w n y o u were i n , Hiroshima Castle and its crumbling foundation o f stone also seemed very near, rising up i n bold relief against the mountains. W i t h its quiet tones o f white, black, and gray, the tall old castle provided the flat city one sort o f variation. The young w o m e n o f Hiroshima do not have the w h i t e skin and fierce faces o f mountain women; their coloring is generally light tan. CITY

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(Some people say they get their tans not at the beach but along the rivers. The tide enters the rivers from Ujina Bay nearby, ebbing and flowing several times a day; so it may make sense to speak o f 'riverburns.') The young w o m e n are usually chunky; though, w i t h their black hair and white teeth, they b r i m w i t h youth, they sway strangely w h e n they walk, run when they don't need to, avert their vacant eyes as i f making fun o f people, and on the bus let their mouths hang open. Occasionally y o u see a tall and high-spirited girl w i t h a beautiful face. B u t the sound o f her soft chatter—as I mentioned before, she uses only the tip o f her tongue—is disappointing. The population o f Hiroshima—including, o f course, such easy­ going y o u n g w o m e n as these—was said to be 400,000. One also heard 300,000 and 500,000. The evacuation to the countryside must have reduced the figure greatly. B u t on the other hand, great numbers o f the military had come f r o m all over, i n rapid succession. O n August 6 there were, I think, about 400,000 people here. U s i n g a conservative estimate o f one house for every four people, Hiroshima had about 100,000 houses. Before August 6, houses i n ev­ ery quarter—even historic buildings—had been torn d o w n ruthlessly to create firebreaks anywhere and everywhere. Yet shortly before A u ­ gust 6, as I looked at the city f r o m the fourth-floor r o o f o f the Japan Red Cross Hospital, the rows o f houses stood so crowded together, shoulder to shoulder, that one wondered where the firebreaks were. This was the city above which, one m o r n i n g at the height o f sum­ mer, suddenly and w i t h o u t warning, there flashed an eerie blue flash. il. I was l i v i n g i n the house o f m y mother and younger sister i n Hakushima Kuken-chö. Hakushima is on the northeast edge o f the city; long ago i t had become an established residential area. Entirely befitting a middle-class w o r l d , many military officers and govern­ ment officials lived there; so during the day its front doors stayed closed and, except for the housewives, i t was deserted. There were four o f us i n an all-female house: Mother, Sister, her baby daughter, and I . Sister's husband had been called up for the sec180

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ond time at the end o f June, and we still didn't even k n o w where he was. I had come back f r o m T o k y o at N e w Year's, intending to wait u n t i l M a r c h and then take someone w i t h me to dispose o f m y house i n T o k y o . For until things warmed up a bit, it was impossible to do anything at all i n T o k y o , where day and night one had to hole up i n air raid shelters. The very first b o m b i n g o f T o k y o took place the rainy night o f October 30. H i t repeatedly by bombs and firebombs, Nishi-Kanda and the area around Nihombashi burned f r o m 11 at night u n t i l after 5 i n the m o r n i n g . A n d i n the next raid, on November 2, seventy planes appeared suddenly i n the sky over Nerima, where I was l i v i n g , and scattered bombs and firebombs over Musashino, an area i n w h i c h the houses were spaced somewhat sparsely. People said t w o hundred bombs fell, one bomb per one and a half city blocks; even i n the v i c i n ­ i t y o f m y o w n residence, houses I knew well went up i n smoke or were demolished. A nearby female writer friend and I often repeated to ourselves Togo Heihachirö's words, and they became a k i n d o f j o k e : "The en­ emy w i l l come when y o u least expect h i m . " Exhausted by the r o u n d the-clock b o m b i n g o f T o k y o and by the shortage o f food, I had come back to Hiroshima. D u r i n g the war Hiroshima was not thought o f as a safe place to live. B u t one could not head for the countryside empty-handed, ei­ ther; so I planned to go get the belongings I had left i n T o k y o . M a r c h came and went, A p r i l came, and still I was afraid to set out for T o k y o . F r o m T o k y o west as far as Osaka and Kobe, eastern Japan was already exposed to terrible b o m b i n g , w i t h not a day's letup. I n M a y I suddenly took sick and was admitted to the Red Cross Hospital. I stayed there until July 26. Before entering the hospital, I had engaged a house i n the country, but factors like these delayed m y departure. O n the m o r n i n g o f August 6 I was sound asleep. O n the night o f the fifth, virtually all night long, repeated waves o f bombers had hit U b e i n Yamaguchi Prefecture. As I listened to the radio reports, the flames seemed to rise up before m y very eyes. CITY

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To the west o f us i n Yamaguchi Prefecture, one city after another had burned: H i k a r i , Kudamatsu, Ube. That very night Hiroshima too might be turned into a sea o f fire. The announcer later retracted the report, saying i t had been i n error; but on the night o f the fifth, the radio reported that Fukuyama, on the other side o f Hiroshima f r o m Ube, was undergoing its o w n firebomb attack. The air raid alarm sounded i n Hiroshima, too, and the neighbor­ hood group sent round a warning to be ready to flee at any moment. So on the night o f the fifth, sleep was w h o l l y out o f the question. A t daybreak the air raid alarm was lifted; shortly after seven o'clock the alert too was lifted. I went back to bed. I usually slept late anyway, and since I had just been discharged from the hospital, where I often slept till almost noon, I was left alone until that bright light flashed. I was sound asleep inside the mosquito net. Some say it was 8:10 when the b o m b fell; some say 8:30. Whichever it was, I dreamed I was enveloped by a blue flash, like lightning at the b o t t o m o f the sea. I m ­ mediately thereafter came a terrible sound, loud enough to shake the earth. W i t h an indescribable sound, almost like a roll o f thunder, like a huge boulder t u m b l i n g d o w n a mountain, the r o o f o f the house came crashing d o w n . When I came to, I was standing there, dazed, i n a cloud o f dust—the plaster walls smashed to smithereens. I was standing there completely i n a fog, struck absolutely dumb. I felt no pain; I was not frightened; I was somehow calm and vaguely l i g h t ­ headed. The sun, which had shone so brightly early that m o r n i n g , had faded, and the light was d i m , almost as i n the evening during the rainy season. The firebombing o f Kure popped into m y head; the bombs there had fallen, I had heard, like very large snowflakes. Everything came crashing down—windowpanes, exterior walls, fusuma dividing m y r o o m f r o m the next, roof. As it did, I looked for firebombs this way and that on the second floor, n o w dark and a mere skeleton. For I imagined that forty or fifty firebombs must have fallen. Yet there was no flame, no smoke. A n d I was alive. H o w could I still be alive? That seemed strange. I looked about me dazedly, half expecting to see m y dead body stretched out somewhere. 182

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O n the second floor I could see nothing at all. The only thing left was a small pile o f dirt, dust rising from i t , glass broken into tiny fragments, and a small m o u n d o f pieces o f r o o f tile; o f the mosquito net and even o f the bed, there was not the slightest trace. There were none o f the things that had been at m y bedside: no flak jacket, no helmet, no watch, no books. There was not a trace o f the twelve pieces o f luggage we had packed for the countryside and left sitting i n the next r o o m ; i t was as i f they had been swept away. The several large glass-fronted bookcases containing the 3,000 volumes o f the library belonging to Sister's husband—I had no idea where they had gone. Inside the house there was nothing at all to be seen. B u t outside, as far as the eye could see—which was much farther than usual—there stretched ruined house after ruined house. The same was true even o f those parts o f t o w n a long way off. The Chügoku shimbun building i n Hatchöbori, the radio station i n Nagarekawa, and other buildings looked deserted and empty, silhouettes. In the case o f the house across the street, only the stone gate re­ mained, standing all by itself; the house had collapsed utterly and completely. I n the gate a young girl was standing dazedly, as i f stripped o f all life. She looked up at me, i n full view on the second floor, and said, " O h ! " Then, i n a subdued voice: " C l i m b d o w n quickly!" I could not climb d o w n . B o t h stairways, front and back, were still standing, unbroken; but they were blocked halfway up by boards and tiles and dirt, a pile taller than I . I had the girl f r o m the house i n front summon someone f r o m m y family. I counted on them, yet I felt they w o u l d never come. Smeared w i t h blood, her face transformed monstrously, Sister came climbing halfway up the stairs. As i f she had dyed i t , her w h i t e dress had become pure red; her j a w was wrapped i n a w h i t e cloth, and her face was already swollen up like a p u m p k i n . M y first question: "Is M o t h e r alive?" "Yeah, she's okay. She's watching y o u f r o m the cemetery out back. The baby's alive, too. Quick, come on d o w n . " " H o w ' m I going to get down? It looks impossible." Relieved that M o t h e r was alive, I found m y strength had deserted me. W i t h b o t h hands, Sister pushed away at the stuff obstructing the staircase. Then CITY

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she closed her eyes tight and looked about to collapse on top o f the pile. L o o k i n g d o w n at her, I said, "Please go back. I ' l l be right d o w n . " She replied: "You're not so badly injured as I am, so do get y o u r ­ self out somehow!" As she said this, I noticed for the first time that the collar o f m y kimono was thoroughly drenched i n blood. F r o m shoulder to waist, I was soaked i n blood. As I left the r o o m , this r o o m I w o u l d never enter again, this ten-mat r o o m that had been home to me these several months, I took a last look around. I couldn't see even a single handkerchief; where I thought the bed had been, I finally made out the Singer sewing machine, on its side and i n pieces. O n the stairs, I opened a hole i n the pile o f debris just big enough to crawl through and went downstairs. The ground floor wasn't as much o f a shambles as the second floor; the chests and trunks and boxes that Sister had packed just t w o days ago to take w i t h her when she left for the countryside were piled impossibly on top o f each other. I n the garden behind the house, m y large trunk and Mother's wicker trunk were half-buried, as i f they had been hurled d o w n w i t h great force. Last night we had set them out on the edge o f the second-floor balcony. I f a firebomb attack came, we had planned to t h r o w them d o w n into the cemetery out back. The cemetery stood outside the board fence that surrounded the yard. I n the fence were gates o f woven twigs, and on the edge o f the spacious cemetery we had dug an air raid shelter. There was also a tiny vegetable garden. The fence had been b l o w n away, so I could see the whole cemetery. M o t h e r was coming and going between ceme­ tery and house. The cemetery led to a raised-stone embankment, and around the stone embankment stretched a board fence; that board fence too was gone. N o r m a l l y I could not see the stone steps, but n o w they were clearly visible, and I could see, way over there, that the shrine o f Sis­ ter's husband had been completely destroyed. O n l y the torii was still standing. 12.

I j o i n e d M o t h e r and Sister i n the cemetery. As i f whispering a secret, Mother m u r m u r e d to me i n a l o w voice, " C o u l d they have been aiming at the shrine?" B u t despite the 184

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fact that so many houses had been demolished completely, there were no fires; so i t couldn't have been firebombs. O r d i n a r y bombs were hardly thinkable, either. I had experienced both i n T o k y o , and this was different. For one thing, no air raid alarm or other warning had sounded, nor had I heard any planes. H o w could everything i n our vicinity have been so transformed i n one instant? We hadn't the slightest idea. Perhaps i t hadn't been an air raid. I n m y daze, I had a different idea: that i t m i g h t have no con­ nection w i t h the war, that it might be something that occurs at the end o f the w o r l d , when the globe disintegrates. As children, we had read about such things i n books. Where we were, things were quiet, hushed. (The newspaper wrote that there was "instant pandemonium," but that was a precon­ ceived notion on the part o f the writer. I n fact, an eerie stillness set­ tled, so still that one wondered whether people, trees, and plants hadn't all died at one fell swoop.) Mother said, "We called up to y o u many times; didn't y o u hear us? We heard a scream; but then, no mat­ ter h o w many times we called, there was no answer. We figured y o u must be dead." I couldn't remember having cried out. M o t h e r went on: "Was I happy when I looked from the cemetery and y o u were standing there staring!" "Really?" I replied. "We were lucky, weren't we! A l l o f us sur­ vived." Seated on a gravestone, her face i n her hands, Sister was barely staving o f f collapse. M o t h e r handed the sleeping baby to me. T o get water, M o t h e r went back into the house, w h i c h looked as i f i t m i g h t collapse at any moment. She appeared to shrink as she walked through our house, through the house i n front, too, and finally out the other side. People f r o m the house next door and f r o m other houses i n the neighborhood gathered i n the cemetery; most o f them were barefoot, and every single one was drenched i n blood. Heavily wooded, the cemetery was a large and pleasant space; curiously, not a single grave­ stone had been knocked over. Everyone was strangely calm. Their faces were calm and expressionless, and they talked among themselves exactly as they always d i d — " D i d y o u all get out?" " Y o u were lucky CITY

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y o u weren't hurt badly," and so on. N o one spoke o f bombs or fire­ bombs; they kept their mouths shut about such matters almost as i f they thought them not proper subjects for Japanese to talk about. Meanwhile the fat girl next door had begun to call out: "Mother! Mother! Let's get out o f here! There're fires. I f we t r y to find too many things i n the house, we'll burn to death. That's h o w people everywhere have died. Let's get out o f here! Quick! Quick!" U p o n hearing her cry, we too realized i t was dangerous to stay there long, un worried. I f we took our time, Mother, too, w o u l d keep going back into the house i n search o f things. We should leave soon, i f only to stop Mother. As i f creeping along the ground, thin smoke started to issue f r o m the eastern part o f the flattened neighborhood. The trunk and the wicker suitcase were partly buried i n the ground; intending to stow them i n the air raid shelter, I set m y hand to them. B u t I was too weak. A n d i f I gave the baby to Sister to hold, the baby w o u l d become cov­ ered w i t h blood. So I gave up on the luggage. Mother, w h o was not bleeding, had brought some cotton t r o u ­ sers for me, and I pulled them on. Then I put on some old straw san­ dals we used for going out into the fields and shouldered m y satchel. Each evening we set all our satchels i n the entryway; only the things set i n the entryway were undamaged. We carried a single bucket. Like an o l d w o m a n , I used a dark green umbrella for a cane. The stock o f the umbrella was bent i n the middle, just like the house. M o t h e r had t h r o w n things out into the cemetery for me—several pairs o f good shoes I valued, a summer overcoat, and the like. I saw them as I fled; but like a person beyond such desires I did not reach for them. It w o u l d be better to say that I had lost interest i n the belongings than that I had given up on them. For the same reason, even people w h o normally were very concerned about possessions abandoned things they might well have carried. This hollowness, almost n u m b ­ ness, lasted a long while; even thirty or forty days later, i t had changed hardly at all. In the shrine precincts we caught sight o f the wife o f Sister's hus­ band's younger brother. She was wandering back and forth between the shrine and her demolished house. I n June her husband had gone 186

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on active duty for the third time; he was i n I Corps, stationed i n Hiroshima City, so his y o u n g wife had been alone. B y the time we got out onto the road i n front o f the shrine, fire was already crawling toward us from across the road on the right. Nearby on the left the embankment was visible, and we saw five or six people walking along the railway tracks on top. Those people didn't seem to be i n a rush; seeing this, we figured the fire couldn't be all that fierce yet. Even though we were walking through a neighborhood that had been demolished, i t aroused no feeling at all i n us. As i f i t were an everyday time and an ordinary occurrence, we did not feel surprise, we did not cry; so i t was w i t h o u t particularly h u r r y i n g that we f o l ­ lowed the others up onto the nearby embankment. O n one side o f the embankment was a quarter o f government-owned homes for officials. A l t h o u g h i t too was part o f Hakushima, the ranks o f homes there were o f a much higher quality, more grand and beautiful than those i n Kuken-chö. Every one o f these houses, too, had been leveled, as i f flattened by a powerful force. Even the house i n w h i c h m y friend Saeki A y a k o lived had been demolished w i t h o u t a trace. What had become o f Saeki Ayako?—the question flitted across m y m i n d , and I looked around. B u t here, too, it was hushed and quiet; nowhere was anyone to be seen. Each o f the beautiful estates on the embankment had stone steps leading d o w n f r o m back garden to riverbed, so one could climb d o w n . O n the parts o f the riverbed where water did not flow, there were vegetable gardens. Hedges formed boundaries between plots. It was to this riverbed that we climbed d o w n f r o m the demolished houses. (From our house to the riverbed was about three blocks. Probably a good forty minutes had elapsed since the b o m b fell—as we sat disoriented i n the cemetery and then came to the riverbed. B u t i t was only long afterward that I managed to call to m i n d what had gone on during that time.) 13. The tide had ebbed; a band o f blue water was flowing gently on the other side o f the white sand. It was wide, the white sandy bank; CITY

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in places, bunches o f weeds were growing, and there were clumps o f straw and the like that had come floating d o w n at high tide. Compared w i t h those w h o were pinned under and had trouble freeing themselves, we had gotten here quickly. Tongues o f flame were nowhere to be seen, so there weren't all that many people on the riverbed. As i f they had come to see an outdoor play, people wandered about searching out the best place to sit. Each to his fancy, they con­ structed places to sit under dense hedges, next to the trees between vegetable plots, right next to the flowing water, and so on. We chose a spot beneath a fig tree. It was on the edge o f the garden that was part o f Saeki Ayako's residence. It was quite a distance f r o m the flowing water. The stream o f people fleeing became constant and unending. The desirable places—for example, the shady spots where one could es­ cape the sun—were soon gone. Every last person w h o flocked to the riverbed had been injured. One might have thought the riverbed was open only to the injured. F r o m the faces, hands, legs protruding f r o m their clothing, i t was impossible to tell what i t was that had given these people their lacerations. B u t they had a half dozen or more cuts, and they were covered w i t h blood. Some people had many streaks o f clotted blood on their faces and limbs, the blood already dried. Some were still bleeding; their faces, hands, and legs were dripping blood. B y now, all the faces, too, had been hideously transformed. The number o f people on the riverbed increased every moment, and we began to notice people w i t h severe burns. A t first, we didn't realize that their injuries were burns. There was no fire, so where and h o w could these people have got burned so badly? Strange, grotesque, they were pathetic and pitiable rather than frightening. They had all been burned i n precisely the same way, as i f the men w h o bake sembei had roasted them all i n those i r o n ovens. N o r m a l burns are part red and part white, but these burns were ashcolored. It was as i f the skin had been broiled rather than burned: ash-colored skin hung from their bodies, peeling o f f i n strips, like the skins o f roast potatoes. Virtually everyone was naked to the waist. Their trousers were all tattered, and some people were wearing only underpants. Their 188

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bodies were distended, like the bodies o f people w h o have drowned. Their faces were fat and enormously puffed up. Their eyes were s w o l ­ len shut, and the skin around their eyes was crinkly and pink. They held their puffy swollen arms, bent at the elbows, i n front o f them, much like crabs w i t h their t w o claws. A n d hanging d o w n f r o m b o t h arms like rags was gray-colored skin. O n their heads they appeared to be wearing bowls: the black hair on top was still there, having been protected by their field caps; but f r o m the ears d o w n , the hair had disappeared, leaving a dividing line as sharp as i f the hair had been shaved off. M a n y o f those w h o looked like this, we knew, were m e m ­ bers o f a unit o f young soldiers, well-built, w i t h broad chests and shoulders. These people w i t h strange injuries sooner or later lay d o w n on the hot sand of the riverbed, sand scorched by the sun. One couldn't see their eyes. Even though these people were i n such fright­ ful shape, nowhere did pandemonium arise. N o r did the t e r m har­ r o w i n g apply. For everyone was silent. The soldiers too were silent. They didn't say it hurt or that they were hot; nor did they say h o w dreadful i t was. I n no time at all, injured people filled the broad river­ bed. Here and there on the hot sand people were sitting, standing around, or stretched out as i f dead. Those w i t h burns vomited contin­ ually, and the sound was nerve-wracking. Saeki Ayako's German shepherd prowled the riverbed. W i t h people arriving all the while, the human mass on the riverbed grew still larger. Q u i c k l y locating small places o f their o w n , they settled i n . N o matter what the situation, it seems, people are always impa­ tient to find a place to call their o w n . Even out-of-doors, people clearly prefer not to be j u m b l e d together but to have exclusive posses­ sion o f a specific piece o f ground. Soon fires began to break out all over the city. Even then, people still did not dream that the whole city had been set ablaze all at once. Each thought that only his o w n part o f t o w n — f o r us, Hakushima—had been hit by a major disaster. 14. Pillars o f fire rose up i n a r o w i n our section o f Kuken-chö. Then the grand homes on the embankment, the residences o f officials, be­ gan to burn. O n the other side o f the river, the houses on top o f the CITY

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bank burst into flames, and beyond a white fence over there, i n N i gitsu Park, tall pillars o f flame suddenly shot up. F r o m out o f the flames came loud reports—things exploding. W i t h m y short temper, I soon got angry and said to M o t h e r and Sister: " W h y should fires be breaking out everywhere like this? Once fires start, it's all over. D i d n ' t we all go through all that training i n being careful w i t h fire? It wasn't firebombs, so it must be carelessness. I f only people had put out their stove and hibachi fires before they fled!" M o t h e r and Sister kept silent, as much as to say that nothing could be done. Resignation was an attitude I detested. As i f attacking M o t h e r and Sister for not getting angry, I went on: "These fires are a disgrace for the people o f Hiroshima. N o w everyone w i l l make fun o f us. Fires like this—I can't believe it!" The sky was still as dark as at dusk. I n the dark sky airplanes had been audible for some time now, and we passed the w o r d f r o m one person to the next, even to strangers, to watch out for strafing. People rushed to conceal everything white and red, pushed into hedges, or went to the edge o f the riverbed intending to j u m p into the river. The sparks and the flames f r o m the r o w o f houses burning on the embank­ ment were so hot i t was impossible to stay i n the vicinity o f our fig tree. We went out onto the sand. What w i t h the w a r m t h o f the sun and the heat o f the flames, we soon moved to the water's edge. That area was full o f soldiers w i t h burns, l y i n g face up. T i m e and again they asked us to soak towels i n the water for them. We got the towels sopping wet and spread them as we were told on their chests; but soon the towels were bone-dry once more. M o t h e r asked a soldier, "What happened to you?" He replied, "We were on a labor detail at the elementary school. I don't k n o w what it was, but this enormous noise sounded, and we got these burns." His face was completely swollen, as i f he had gray leprosy; the contrast w i t h his imposingly broad chest and the y o u t h fulness o f his entire well-built and handsome body was all too pa­ thetic. The fires spread fiercely, w i t h irresistible force. Close by on the right, flames even began to spurt from the engine o f the freight train 190

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stopped i n the very middle o f the railway bridge. One after the other, the black cars o f the train burst into flame, and when the fire got to the last car, i t sent sparks flying and belched thick smoke, as i f it had had a full load o f gunpowder. It spat fire; i t was as i f molten i r o n were gushing out o f a tunnel. Underneath the bridge, we could see over there the shore o f the elegant park, the Asano I z u m i Villa; on the bank there, too, demonic deep red flames crawled. Soon the riverside began to burn, and we could see groups o f people crossing to the other side. The river was burning fiercely. The people around us on the riverbed attempted to flee upstream. Over our heads, w i t h o u t letup, circling B - 2 Q S roared, a sound we had g r o w n accustomed to hearing; at any m o m e n t strafing fire or firebombs or bombs m i g h t pour d o w n o n our miserable group. People felt certain that there w o u l d be a second wave to the at­ tack. I n one corner o f m y heart, I thought: there's probably no need to drop anything more. While we h i d i n the grass or squatted beside the river, fearing that we w o u l d be strafed, up i n the sky they were taking photographs. O u t i n the open as we were, we had our pictures taken f r o m overhead, as did the entire devastated city. A typhoon-like w i n d had arisen. O n l y its secondary gusts blew toward us, and soon large drops o f rain fell. When Osaka burned, too, a w i n d arose, and rain fell; people emerged f r o m their shelters carry­ ing umbrellas even though the sun was shining. I had heard about that, so I opened the blue umbrella. The rain was blackish i n color. Countless sparks rained d o w n i n its midst. I say sparks, and I thought they were small sparks; but these sparks were bits o f rag and scraps o f w o o d g l o w i n g bright red as they were swept along by the high w i n d . The sky became darker still, as i f night had come, and the red ball o f the sun seemed to sink rapidly out o f a mass o f black clouds. Sister came toward me, saying i n a small voice, "Sister! U p there i n the sky—a firebomb! A firebomb!" "What are y o u talking about? That's the sun, isn't it?" For the first time we both laughed a bit. B u t by then neither one o f us could open her m o u t h easily. CITY

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I said to her, " T o m o r r o w I may not be able to eat. So I ' m going to drink some water n o w and scoop some up for later." I scooped water into the bucket. B y n o w dead bodies were likely floating i n the river. Yet over there i n the sky was a faint rainbow. The rain had just stopped. The faint colors o f the rainbow i n the sky over there looked eerie. "Water! Water! Water, please!" The soldiers w i t h burns con­ stantly craved water. T o stop them, people said, " W i t h burns y o u shouldn't drink, or y o u ' l l die. We can't give y o u water." Between those warning against drinking and those still pleading for water, there could already be seen, faintly, the shadow o f death. The fires swelled up, became mountainous, burned everything i n their path, and proceeded on their way; the city was being destroyed a block at a time. The heat was unbearable. We could see the fires spreading to distant neighborhoods and hear fiery explosions some­ where or other continually. N o Japanese plane showed itself i n the sky. We could not conceive o f the day's events as being related i n any way to the war. We had been flattened by a forces—arbitrary and v i o ­ lent—that wasn't war. Moreover, fellow countrymen did not partic­ ularly encourage one another, nor did they console one another. They behaved submissively and said not a w o r d . N o one showed up to tend the injured; no one came to tell us h o w or where to pass the night. We were simply on our o w n . Saeki Ayako's German shepherd was still hanging about the groups o f injured people on the riverbed; i t hadn't barked once. That dog was k n o w n even i n Hiroshima as a fierce dog; but he came and went dragging his tail, looking exactly like a lonesome human being, as i f he had lost all powers o f resistance. Saeki Ayako wasn't to be seen anywhere. Since coming to the riverbed, I had kept looking, almost w i t h o u t being conscious o f doing so, for the mother-in-law and the only daughter, nearly sixteen years old, w h o lived w i t h her. I n the end, even after dusk fell, I failed to catch sight o f them. 192

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15- N i g h t fell. It was impossible to say just when. The day, too, had been dark, so between day and night there was no clear break. B u t w h e n night came, city and riverbed were both bright red f r o m the reflection o f the fires. We did not eat during the day or during the night, but we did not feel hungry. Even after we each had taken great pains to fashion the spots we had chosen, we were unable during the day to stay for very long i n one place; the sparks, the rain, and the sound o f enemy planes chased us away. However, people said that the tide w o u l d rise after dark, so they gathered i n the vegetable gardens and near the trees on the edge o f the gardens on the way d o w n to the sandy riverbed. We, too, fashioned a place to lie d o w n i n front o f the hedge facing the sandy riverbed. Pulling up lots o f weeds and spreading them out, we covered them w i t h some straw that had washed up on the sand, then the nurse­ maid's coat M o t h e r had been wearing as she carried the baby on her back. The four o f us took our places on this small platform, almost like a theater box. Eight months o l d and chubby, the baby slept even during the day, and i t did not wake up at night. Sister and I removed the kerchiefs that had protected our necks and faces all day long. For the first time we each got a good look at the other's angry-looking face, but we were beyond smiling at each other. Neither o f us could see her o w n face, but looking at the other's face gave us a sense o f the shape we were i n . Sister's face was puffed up like a round loaf o f bread, and her eyes, normally large, black, and uncannily clear, had become mere slits; the skin around them looked as i f dark i n k had been spilled on it. A cut i n the shape o f a cross extended f r o m the right edge o f her lip to her cheek, so her whole m o u t h was twisted into a sideways and inverted letter L; it was so ugly I couldn't look at it for long. Her hair was caked w i t h blood and w i t h the red clay o f the walls; she looked like a long-time beggarwoman. B o t h Sister and I had bound up our wounds w i t h strange material. I can't recall where we had found i t , but three or four days earlier, i n preparation for autumn and winter, M o t h e r had dyed a piece o f crepe—the broad collar o f an old kimono. Each o f us had wrapped the CITY

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cloth under her chin and tied i t i n a bow on top o f her head. I had a deep cut f r o m the middle o f m y left ear to d o w n below the ear. O u r injuries were covered over w i t h strands o f hair caked w i t h blood. O n account o f our injuries, i t was not easy for Sister and me to open our mouths, n o w swollen shut. It was not so much that i t was painful as that i t felt like glue, as i f a lock had been placed on m y jaw. Lips barely moving, I finally spoke: "What were y o u t w o doing yesterday morning?" "Yesterday? It was this morning!" Her lips puckered as i f playing a flute, Sister laughed. T h i n k i n g back w i t h regret i n her voice, M o t h e r said, "This m o r n i n g I got out the salted bamboo shoots I had been saving for some special occasion and cooked up a delicious dish: boiled carrots and potatoes I had g r o w n out back, seasoned w i t h soy. A n d I had just eaten a mouthful o f the rice I was having w i t h i t w h e n there came a bright blue flash." "What did y o u think i t was? A bomb? A firebomb?" "Before I even had time to think what it was, there was a bang, and the cupboard came falling down, see. I had t h r o w n myself d o w n when the flash hit, y o u know. Then the cupboard fell on top o f me; but fortunately the closet behind me kept the cupboard f r o m falling to the floor, and I was bent over i n a kind o f cave just as i f I were curled up under a desk or whatever, so I was quite all right. Then I heard y o u give a shriek." Sister had been sitting across from M o t h e r i n the l i v i n g r o o m ; she too had just eaten a mouthful o f breakfast. When she saw the flash, she rushed to the baby i n the next r o o m . Because there were mosqui­ toes about even i n the morning, she had put the baby to sleep under mosquito netting. She threw herself d o w n on top o f the baby, w h o was sound asleep. B u t thinking that a firebomb had fallen on the par­ lor, she turned to look i n that direction. As she did so, there came a sudden gust o f w i n d , and she immediately started bleeding. "The blue flash lasted only an instant, but I must have flown to the baby i n the first instant o f that instant. Still, I have absolutely no m e m o r y o f getting through the mosquito netting." Mother spoke again: "That breakfast this morning—what a waste!" 194

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I said, "What could i t have been, then, this morning? I haven't the faintest idea. That umbrella stock had no bend i n i t before, y o u know." Perhaps thinking she had to say something, Sister responded, "Maybe it was mustard gas?" "What's mustard gas?" "Poison gas." "That's i t , for sure. B u t i t wasn't poison gas that knocked the houses d o w n , was it?" "They combined i t — w i t h conventional bombs." Having no clear idea what had happened, we talked nonsense. I n the distance the fires still soared into the sky, burning fiercely. H a k u shima had burned completely: Kuken-chö, nearby Higashimachi and Nakamachi and Kitamachi, the houses on the embankment. I n the night Hakushima d i m m e d to the color o f ash. O n the riverbank op­ posite, t w o or three houses still burned away, out o f control. The flames burned wildly, w r i t h i n g and turning like giant snakes. The area over toward Ushita had already been on fire during the day; when night came, the fires burned f r o m peak to peak on the low, wavy range; they looked like lights i n a far-off t o w n . Like shooting stars, flames often flew across the space between one peak and the next, and then the second peak too caught fire. After night fell, groaning voices, slow and dull, could be heard coming from a distance. Monotonous groaning voices, deeply melancholic, sounded here and there. It was about then that someone came to i n f o r m us that a meal w o u l d be distributed. We hadn't given the slightest thought to supper, so we responded happily The firm voice o f someone, apparently a soldier, called to those o f us along the hedge: " A l l those able to walk, please go to the East Parade G r o u n d to pick up food." Everyone began to gabble, and for the first time y o u could tell that the silhouettes m o v i n g along the riverbed were i n fact flesh-and-blood people. O f our little group, b o t h Sister and I ached all over and were unable either to stand or to walk; so M o t h e r went, helped by a young w o m a n nearby I t was a little more than a mile to the East Parade Ground. M o t h e r was given four CITY

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large, white, triangular rice balls, still w a r m . She also received four bags o f hard biscuits. " A feast!" We took the rice balls happily i n our hands; they were so large they were actually heavy. But Sister and I were simply unable to open our mouths wide enough to eat. Like a dentist, I forced apart m y n u m b jaws w i t h the thumb and index finger o f m y left hand; w i t h m y right, I pushed the rice into m y m o u t h a few grains at a time. " T o k i w a Bridge—was it still standing?" "The railing on both sides was all burned away, but the middle o f the roadway was still there, all bulged out. Things are really pretty bad; the flames have spared nothing." People were sitting i n a r o w i n front o f the fence facing the river; simply by listening to them talk, we understood that today's confla­ gration destroyed the entire city o f Hiroshima, that not a single part o f t o w n was spared. It was not a minor fire caused by carelessness; i t was caused by enemy planes scattering sparks over the whole city. "They scattered sparks? N o wonder the whole place burned! W i t h bombs, it w o u l d have taken a hundred or t w o , even five hundred or a thousand. They didn't drop that many. They 'sprayed' the place." "Spraying" is a provincialism meaning to sprinkle clusters o f bombs, a waterfall. There were no craters anywhere, yet people still didn't realize it hadn't been bombs. So people did not complain about what happened today. We lay d o w n . Thanks to the forest fires and the fires along the coast, i t was bright and w a r m . We listened to the groaning voices audible far and near, as i f to the sad sound o f musical instruments. The voices o f insects, too, came to our ears. It was all so very sad. W i t h m y whole body numb w i t h sadness and pain, a distinct idea set itself loose i n m y head. A numbed feeling. A strangely numbed feeling brought on by violent external shock. This was the immediate effect on m y body this m o r n i n g i n the instant o f the strange blue flash, the enormous noise, and the destruction o f the city. It m i g h t be some function f r o m physics or even something f r o m physical chemistry— say, a poison gas; but i t did not stink, was not visible to the eye, had no odor. Something that had no color, no smell, no form, I thought, 196

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had burned up the air. I wanted to p i n i t down; f r o m its impact o n m y senses I wanted somehow to figure out what i t was. I fell easily, naturally, into a primitive mode o f thought. Like a child, I thought o f the nitrogen and the oxygen and the carbonic acid gas and so on i n the air. Perhaps the enemy had sent electrons i n the f o r m o f ultra-short waves to these elements invisible to the human eye. W i t h o u t giving o f f any sound or smell, w i t h o u t exhibiting any color, these airborne radio waves must have turned into a great w h i t e fire. Unless I drew a mental picture o f a new mystery w o r l d like that, I couldn't conceive o f how there could be so many victims w i t h those strange burns. I thought i t pretty remarkable that I could reason like this at such a time—indeed, rather than thoughts, they were feelings received via the senses. Falling into an unbearable sense o f defeat, I felt awful. Sister was sitting beside me; i n a l o w voice I m u r m u r e d into her ear, "The war's over." "What are y o u saying?" Her tone was reproachful. "Japan's done for, o f course. A t the most, t w o months more." I spoke i n a subdued voice. Spreading f r o m peak to peak, the fires i n the mountains continued to burn spectacularly. It was late at night, but no one came to attend to the injured. Interspersed w i t h the heavy, l o w human voices arising f r o m here and there, we could hear the voices o f insects.

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The City: A Tangle of Corpses 16. It was a g l o o m y m o r n i n g . I say m o r n i n g , but dawn had only just begun to break. Right next to me, as i f snuggling up to m y bed o f grass and straw, a boy o f fourteen or fifteen had been moaning o f f and on since yesterday evening. A b o u t daybreak he started saying, " C o l d ! Cold! O h , I ' m so terribly cold!" He trembled all over; every time he moved his arms and legs, he shook and shivered. Except for a pair o f underpants, he was naked; the skin o f his face, arms and legs, chest, and back was burned and festering. A l l night long we had had to gather grass and straw to cover h i m and fetch water for h i m to drink. I asked h i m , " H o w ' d y o u lose all your clothes?" " B y the time I noticed anything, m y shirt and pants were already on fire, burnt to shreds. I pulled them away f r o m m y body, but they were burning to pieces and simply fell off. When the flash came, y o u know, even the grass under m y feet caught fire." He spoke distinctly. "The grass on fire? Where's your home?" "Miyajima." "Where were you?" " I had gone to Takeya-chö w i t h a labor detail f r o m the d o r m i t o r y o f Sötoku M i d d l e School." "They say it's better not to drink water, so t r y to make it through the night. A relief squad is supposed to come at daybreak; w e ' l l ask them to treat y o u first o f all." W i t h these words we tried to quiet the boy's groaning. " I ' m dying. I think I ' m dying. It's horrible." " A l l the people here look like they're dying, so bear w i t h i t . When m o r n i n g comes, someone from your family w i l l show up to take y o u home." The boy to w h o m we said these things during the night died at dawn. The w o m a n just the other side o f the boy said, "What a pity! He's dead." M y conscience troubled me for a long time thereafter. I had 198

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learned that he came f r o m Miyajima. W h y hadn't I asked his name so I could let his family k n o w where he died? The m o r n i n g sun began to shine on the tenements along the river—that is, on the small partitioned-off individual plots lined up along the hedge. Long ago I had seen Gorky's The Lower Depths o n the stage; here was a group exactly like the people ofthat slum society, like the crowds o f beggars, cripples, and the severely i l l that appear i n every w o r k by Russian writers. They filled up the riverbed so c o m ­ pletely y o u couldn't see the sand. The tide had gone out again, and the curtain had already risen o n death. People had died l y i n g face down; people had died face up; peo­ ple had died sitting on the grass. The people walking dazedly about were all i n rags and tatters, hair unkempt, faces hard; only their gimlet eyes gleamed. The w o m e n were an ugly sight. A girl was walking about naked, w i t h nothing on her feet. A young girl had not one strand o f hair. A n old w o m a n had both shoulders dislocated, and her arms hung limply. Occasionally someone walked by w h o had neither injuries nor burns, and people w o u l d turn and stare i n astonishment. People were no longer v o m i t i n g up everything, as had been the case yesterday; but there were people whose whole bodies were covered w i t h broil-like burns—skin hanging off, bleeding, exuding an oil-like secretion. They had all slept naked on the sand, so sand and blades o f grass and bits o f straw and the like were pasted onto the putrid-looking flesh o f their burns. The hills we could see from the riverbed were still on fire, b u r n ­ ing dully. The raging fires i n t o w n had burned themselves out; neigh­ borhoods lay i n pitiful ruins. O n the bridge yesterday's freight train lay on its side. Everything burnable had burned, and the red o f the flames had died out; the train had become a mere skeleton, long, thin, and black, a burned harmonica, the bones o f a snake. O n the opposite bank t w o concrete structures side by side were still burning slowly. Distribution stations for rice rations, someone said; rice contains oil, so those buildings w i l l go on burning forever. A n d so many buildings had burned furiously: the shrine and the res­ taurant at N i g i t s u Park, the mansions o f the rich . . . CITY

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A r o u n d us that m o r n i n g we heard typical m o r n i n g chitchat. "Well, well. A welcome morning! N o t h i n g to do. I ' m forty-one years old, and this is the first time I've had a m o r n i n g w i t h so little to do!" There came the sound o f light female laughter. "That's h o w i t is w h e n y o u have a house to run. First thing i n the m o r n i n g to last thing at night—so busy all day y o u go dizzy. Get up; while it's still dark out, clean the whole house, living r o o m to toilet. D o the cooking. The washing. M i n d the children, too. Meanwhile—can't tell when—the deli very man knocks; y o u run to answer. Get back again; boil and roast—if you've got something to cook, fine. C o m p l a i n that y o u haven't this, haven't that; but even while complaining, make do some­ how; boil and fry something. B u t take this m o r n i n g now. N o t a thing to do!" The men talked among themselves i n the voices almost o f selfhatred men use w h e n they become totally disgusted w i t h themselves. "Well, no big deal—the damage." " N o , there's a good deal o f damage. They're checking i t out now—the damage citywide." A b o u t this time we learned o f the deaths o f M a y o r Awaya, Gen­ eral Superintendent Ötsuka, and a Korean prince, Prince Somethingor-other. Someone said, "The civilian air raid wardens are all dead or injured, so they can't be o f any use. The people w h o are still hale and hearty—they're all f r o m outside Hiroshima." These words suddenly set me thinking. Yesterday m o r n i n g , as we sat dazedly i n the cemetery, I had a sense o f waiting for something. C o u n t i n g on someone to take very systematic action, we waited and waited and waited. We had lost long since the ability to act on our o w n . D u r i n g the air raids i t was i m m o r a l to act on our o w n , and t h i n k i n g only got i n the way. We became marionettes, operating only on the instructions o f our leaders. We had come to leave even our minds to busybody leaders; so i n moments o f crisis like yesterday morning, the spirit o f obedience that had been indoctrinated into us took right over. It had been decided that i f firebombs fell thick as snowflakes, we w o u l d flee; everything had been planned out precisely—who w o u l d flee w i t h w h o m , where outside the city to go. The city had parceled out evacuation points— schools i n the countryside—among the various neighborhood associ200

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ations. I t was expected that people w o u l d go where they were sup­ posed to go even i f great fires blocked their w a y B u t yesterday morning, after the catastrophe, no one told us anything. N o t a single person showed up—not the head o f the ward association, not the air raid wardens. Before, i f they so much as saw a d i m light during a blackout, they w o u l d get all w o r k e d up, rise up on their hind legs to search out its source, and then turn to the neighbors and call out "Traitor!" or put y o u i n prison. B u t where were those leaders yesterday morning? M o t h e r and Sister were so solicitous o f the people i n their neigh­ borhood association; come to think o f i t , where have those people been all this time? Yesterday morning, when we gathered w i t h our bloody faces i n the cemetery i n the grove and then departed, we met no one. Having had little contact w i t h the members o f our neighbor­ hood association, I myself didn't k n o w them well; but we had en­ countered none o f the difficulties one heard about elsewhere. They handled things skillfully—-with gentleness, kindness, and coopera­ tion. They didn't send old people or w o m e n w i t h babies out on labor detail or on antiaircraft exercises. W i t h o u t even a raised eyebrow, they picked up rations for people w h o were often away, holding the goods for their return. They stepped i n to cover at home for those w o m e n w h o went o f f to w o r k . They gave and received w i t h good cheer and sometimes pooled resources to make sushi or rice dumplings to eat at a happy get-together. Because it was that k i n d o f neighborhood group, M o t h e r and Sister were keenly concerned about its members. So despite hearing time and again that the houses o f Hakushima had all burned, that not a single one was left standing, the three o f us refused to believe i t . (Hakushima was the size o f a district like Köjimachi or Koishikawa i n T o k y o . ) We all shared the hope that perhaps the area around our o w n houses i n Kuken-chö had not burned. The distribution o f breakfast began early. There was neither soup nor tea, but a rice ball and a bag o f hard biscuits apiece; once again M o t h e r went to the East Parade Ground to pick up ours. Sister's face was all puffed up and had turned an ugly purple. I n the insteps o f both feet, she had horizontal cuts about an inch long, CITY

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and the hollows o f her knees, too, had cuts that looked as i f they had been made w i t h a knife; she couldn't walk w i t h o u t l i m p i n g . I was not injured as badly as she, but m y neck and left arm were bruised so badly I couldn't move them. W i t h o u t helping hands from M o t h e r and Sister, I couldn't lie d o w n or get up, stand or sit. Since we couldn't open our mouths, Sister and I dipped our hard biscuits into an enam­ eled cup filled w i t h water and poked them into our mouths, a little at a time. Red outside, white inside, w i t h a handle, this enameled cup had been i n our knapsack; i t and the water bucket came i n terribly handy for a long time thereafter. B u t drinking the river water already seemed risky. F r o m time to time bloated corpses the color o f copper came floating past. The body o f the boy w h o had died right beside me lay just as he had died. It was so hot the air itself seemed to be boiling. We heard the roar o f a B-29, and people said there might be strafing once again. We climbed into one o f the air raid shelters that were located here and there next to the ruins o f houses. B u t what was going on i n the sky n o w was repeated photographing. (That fact emerged f r o m conver­ sations w i t h the plane's crew that appeared later i n the newspaper's column for foreign telegraphic despatches.) We moved to a spot some distance o f f f r o m the young man's corpse. Just before noon we learned that yesterday's attack was the first use o f a new weapon. O n l y a single plane had come. Some said there had been three planes. C u t t i n g its engines, i t came high over the city. The new-style b o m b was dropped by parachute. The white parachute descended gently, gently, and then suddenly i t gave o f f a blue flash. T o those w h o heard the story, i t sounded like a tall tale. B u t people did not seem overly frightened, nor did their faces show agitation. The g r i m affirmation that what was to come had come made its way quietly among the people. Today, too, the riverbed was as calm as it had been yesterday. F r o m the overall m o o d one had no sense o f people making a fuss, speaking i n loud apprehensive voices, or getting angry at their ordeal. M r s . H . o f the neighborhood group came past our spot. M o t h e r called to her, and she rushed up to us, looking as i f she hadn't seen us for months. M r s . H . said that she and people from three or four 202

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houses i n our neighborhood group were way d o w n at the eastern end o f this row. As for the rest o f the people, she said, some appeared to be still i n the cemetery, but others were here and there o n the riverbank. She was holding i n her hand a pretty red-patterned kimono, ap­ parently her daughter's. She said she was going to give i t to the w e l l built soldier w h o was roaming the riverbed naked. Sister asked, " D o y o u k n o w him?" " N o , I don't k n o w w h o he is. B u t last night, all night long, right beside us, he kept saying ' I ' m cold! I ' m cold!' I've been home just now and brought it f r o m the air raid shelter. I ' l l give it to h i m to put on." "Everything burned up?" " U h - h u h . N o t even ashes left." Sister hung her head, l o o k i n g mournful. O n the way back to the house, said M r s . H . , the ground was still so hot y o u couldn't get near; her sturdy body shook as she spoke. The kimono might have fit a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl; M r s . H . put i t over the shoulders o f the soldier w h o was wandering aimlessly back and forth. There was no obi, so the red silk upper lining and the green lower lining fell open; it looked strange. The sun shone brilliantly, much too hot. Using her hand to shield her eyes f r o m the sizzling sun, M r s . G., captain o f the neighborhood group, came over to us. She said she had learned o f our whereabouts from Mrs. H . "Welcome," we said, inviting M r s . G. up onto our floor o f grass and weeds as i f we were admitting someone to our l i v i n g r o o m . M r s . G. had come to suggest that Sister and I have our wounds treated at Teishin Hospital. Her twenty-one-year-old daughter had cuts all over her head and face and had come just now, M r s . G. said, f r o m Teishin Hospital. M o t h e r and M r s . G. gave us each a hand, and Sister and I struggled to our feet. I put a branch to use as a cane i n each hand and climbed slowly up onto the embankment. 17. It was no longer possible to tell what was embankment and what was residential area. It had all been transformed into a field o f rubble. Since no one had made the slightest attempt to put out the fires, ev­ erything really had burned right d o w n to the ground. It had all become a vast field o f rubble: the neighborhoods on CITY

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level ground that we could see f r o m the embankment—Kuken-chö, Nakamachi, Kitamachi, Higashimachi—and the distant neighbor­ hoods as far as the eye could see. Here and there we could see fires still burning slowly; everywhere there were fires smoldering. Each time I had gone to m y friend Saeki Ayako's house, I had been struck by the architectural beauty o f the large temple at the foot o f the slope that fell away f r o m the front o f her house, the temple that looked up at an angle toward her house. B u t n o w it had burned d o w n , and only the frame was left, ash-colored and utterly caved in. Telephone poles had burned and toppled. Electric wires were all tangled like a torn spider's web; hanging d o w n , a shambles, they reached the rubble-filled streets and crawled along. We walked on, not touching the dangling lines, as fearful as i f the power were still on. B u t i t was impossible to walk w i t h o u t stepping on at least one wire. People came streaming i n f r o m the east and f r o m the west, ap­ parently having come f r o m outlying towns i n search o f relatives. They stood rooted, aghast, gazes fixed on the vast area leveled by the flames. Bathed i n the strong rays o f the sun, these people remained mute as they heaved deep sighs. The Teishin Hospital was six or seven blocks f r o m the riverbed, next door to the Hakushima Post and Telegraphic Office. The road that came out onto the road w i t h the streetcar line that led to the hos­ pital had been a street o f shops; but we could not tell w h i c h shops had been where. M a n y bicycles were lying about i n the middle o f the street, burned the color o f rust, twisted into delicate lines, reduced to frames. A t several points the street was still spitting flames. We came out onto the street w i t h the streetcar tracks. The rails were twisted and bulged out to the side. One streetcar had been turned into a yel­ l o w i s h - b r o w n corpse and left stranded atop splayed rails. I thought o f Saeki Ayako. N i g h t before last, when I went to use her telephone, she said she was going out somewhere early on the m o r n i n g o f the sixth. So perhaps she met instant death while standing at this streetcar terminal. Perhaps she had already boarded the car. Perhaps i t was when she got nearly to Hatchöbori that both flash and blast enveloped her. O r m i g h t she perhaps have been severely injured and even n o w be lying exposed to the hot sun? We turned o f f the 204

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streetcar street to the right, onto a street that was no longer a thor­ oughfare, no longer a street, a way clogged so completely w i t h debris and rubble that there wasn't even space to set one's feet. O n this street there were corpses lying on the right, on the left, and even i n the m i d ­ dle o f the road. The corpses were all headed i n the direction o f the hospital, some face up, some face down. Eyes and mouths all swollen shut and limbs, too, as swollen as they could possibly be, they looked like huge ugly rubber dolls. Even as I wept, I engraved the appearance o f these people on m y heart. "You're really looking at them—how can you? I can't stand and look at corpses." Sister seemed to be criticizing me. I replied, " I ' m l o o k i n g w i t h t w o sets o f eyes—the eyes o f a human being and the eyes o f a writer." "Can y o u write—about something like this?" "Some day I ' l l have to. That's the responsibility o f a writer who's seen i t . " The dead bodies lay i n heaps. The bodies were all facing the hos­ pital. Where the hospital's front gate had been, t w o or three steps i n ­ side the gate, and elsewhere, they had died w i t h arms stretched out, as i f floundering. Seeing this pathetic sight, the bodies o f people w h o had come tottering toward the hospital only to die before reaching a doctor, I could not help feeling that their resentful spirits were flaring up, like shimmering heat waves. I don't like to use the w o r d 'hell' because that w o u l d use up m y vocabulary o f horror; but there was no way to describe this scene other than as the w r a t h o f hell. As for the three-story hospital, only a scorched concrete shell re­ mained. The inside was empty. I f y o u stood on this side o f the gate and looked, y o u could easily see right through the hollowed-out sec­ ond and t h i r d floors to the mountains on the other side o f Ujina. Dead bodies were everywhere: i n the densely planted areas to left and right, i n the entryway, even i n the lobby. Forming a line, the great mass o f the injured waited their turn. I wondered w h y we had come. O u r injuries d i d not put us i n the same category. I n the middle o f the court­ yard there was a reception desk, like the check-in table at a track meet, and there the c r o w d divided into t w o lines—burns and cuts. Burns to the right, cuts to the left, the t w o lines moved forward a step at a time. CITY

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There were doctors; there were nurses. B u t they moved at such a snail's pace y o u could hardly tell they were there. W h y they were so slow I can't say. It may have been that they had lost their composure. Perhaps they were overly conscious o f the fact that as scientists they should not be surprised or excited even i n the face o f an event like this, that they thought to themselves too often, "Keep calm, keep calm," and kept too calm. Inside the hollow shell and i n the lobby, the injured lay facing this way and that, like pieces o f luggage wrapped i n rags. After a long wait, Sister and I received treatment. There were no bandages, so they rewrapped us i n the purple silk cloth that was al­ ready soaked w i t h blood. B l o o d had begun to flow f r o m m y ear, and it hurt badly. They said I had an inflammation o f the inner ear. We returned to the riverbed. The dead bodies on the riverbed lay exposed to the sizzling sun, and flies were swarming about them. I marveled that the flies had survived. Beginning i n the afternoon, a relief squad came to the embankment. It was made up o f doctors and nurses w h o had come i n from various places. They were full o f en­ ergy. The young nurses i n particular rolled up their sleeves and went to w o r k briskly and dynamically. The hospital they set up on the sand did a t h r i v i n g business. Approximately half o f the troop o f injured had burns, and half had cuts. It may sound strange, but i n the t w o lines not a single person had lost an arm or a leg, had lost an eye, or had gone mad. Even i n the desperate atmosphere o f the aid station, w i t h every­ one at the end o f his tether, a curious situation arose. A middle-aged man, himself uninjured, was helping by forming the stream o f injured people into orderly lines. He appeared to be a Hakushima person. T i m e and again, moistening the tip o f his pencil on his tongue, he w r o t e names and addresses d o w n on slips o f paper. Then, having lined the people up i n order o f arrival, he sent them i n to the doctors i n that order. B u t every n o w and then he cheated. He w o u l d take peo­ ple w h o had come later and people w h o came from the sides and squeeze them i n adroitly at the head o f the line. They appeared to be people he knew; until the night o f the fifth they had lived i n his neigh­ borhood. The young girls he called, familiarly, Yot-chan or Shizuchan. His o w n t w o children he summoned f r o m the back o f the line 206

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and put up front; when they said the doctors' treatment hurt, he took the opportunity to make a stern face and scold them harshly. B y scolding them harshly, he fooled many o f the injured. I had to laugh: no matter what the circumstances, y o u find cheats like h i m . Going to the hospital, going to pick up food rations, eating them, listening to people's stories, keeping an eye on those w i t h severe i n ­ juries—there was always something to keep us busy. While there is life, there are things to be done. Some people came i n family groups that included men and brought along quite a few o f their belongings; they had the strength and the k n o w - h o w and i n no time at all con­ structed habitations on the riverbed. Scrounging scorched sheet i r o n and scraps o f w o o d , they stretched burned wire or vines or rope across between upright trees and built huts that kept out w i n d and rain. People o f that sort had even built a stove w i t h stones f r o m the riverbed, set a pot to cook, and were cooking food and boiling water. For fare, they went and got the scorched squash and cucumbers that lay on the ground all over the place i n the gardens o f the houses on the embankment. Once the river water became undrinkable, someone discovered that the mansions i n a r o w on the embankment had their o w n wells. We too roasted squash and ate i t . The people preparing food at the stove were k i n d enough to say we too could use the stove. So M o t h e r got them to boil some water for us. Sister and I soaked our biscuits i n the hot water; after b l o w i n g to cool them off, we ate them. B y evening we had been drenched w i t h sweat many times and had dried off i n the sun only to be soaked again; the dust and sand and blood were unbearable. M o t h e r said she w o u l d wash m y underwear for me i n the river, so I changed to what I had i n the knapsack. When I looked at the underwear I had taken off, a spot on the back as broad as m y palm was stained bright red w i t h blood. So I realized that I had a cut back there. Sash, kimono, and underwear had all been sliced through. M o t h e r used well water to rinse the clothes she had washed i n the river, then hung them on branches. Sister washed the baby's diapers. "So much to do!" she said. A l l the people on the riverbed w h o were only slightly injured went to the river and began to wash their clothes. O n the riverbed CITY

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people organized something approaching family life; they carried on, quite naturally, a life that was simple, though not i n the sense o f ex­ treme poverty. Still, I wanted to get away f r o m there as quickly as possible. There is no question that I was afraid that infectious diseases could get a start, and that there m i g h t be a second air raid. B u t I had a different, more basic terror: I did not want m y soul damaged more than i t already had been by seeing the dismal spectacle o f the city o f corpses. I f for some time I were to watch the city as it putrefied street by street, m y heart m i g h t be injured, m y very soul ruined. B u t we had to t r y one more time to return to our house. We had left any number o f things i n the air raid shelter there, and we could not believe they had all burned. We simply couldn't leave w i t h o u t taking a look. M o t h e r had said many times that she was o f f for home. B u t today the ground was still w a r m , and it was not safe to walk about. B y the m o r n i n g o f the eighth the ground w o u l d probably be somewhat cooler. I n addition, we couldn't go anywhere w i t h o u t pa­ pers certifying that we were victims. D u r i n g the day the police set up a station on the riverbed and issued these papers. Still, when Sister went there toward evening, they said they were busy disposing o f the dead and did not process her application. Again that night we had no alternative but to sleep on the riverbed. A b o u t sunset a relief force o f troops f r o m Shimane Prefecture came along. Y o u n g soldiers—they said they had come by truck f r o m Hamada—walked around handing out hard biscuits. The biscuits smelled faintly o f m i l k . Faint as the smell was, i t was still enough to restore our spirits. Simply getting a w h i f f . . . The houses along the opposite shore were still burning. The hills were crimson, still b u r n ­ ing slowly. The fires did not sparkle; they did not shimmer; nor were they as pale as the light o f fireflies. W i t h o u t spreading or appearing to burn, they looked as i f an entertainment quarter hung w i t h beautiful lanterns burning crimson had been spread out over the hills. A doctor w h o had come i n f r o m the country to help out passed by, talking w i t h a companion: "We'll be sleeping on the riverbed t o ­ night, too, w o n ' t we?" The corpse o f the young boy had been put behind the hedge, barely t w o or three feet f r o m where i t had been. I had a bad conscience, thinking I bore some responsibility for the boy. 208

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O n into the night, people came i n search o f family members, relatives, acquaintances, more people than had come during the day. A tall man w h o looked like a teacher walked about carrying a lantern and calling out, " A n y children here from Sötoku M i d d l e School? No? Sötoku M i d d l e School students?" I asked M o t h e r to point out to h i m the body o f the boy w h o had died next to me. B u t he was looking for live students. A corpse was something else again; to carry it away or bury i t was someone else's j o b . It was a dark night. The large fires had gone out, so we felt the touch o f the chilly w i n d . N o one spoke i n a loud voice; no one laughed or cried; it was hushed and still. F r o m time to time, f r o m somewhere or other, a faint moaning could be heard. Even after night had fallen, the soldier w i t h the large frame walked constantly and a i m ­ lessly to and fro, the red silk kimono M r s . H . had given h i m wide open, trailing. 18. C o l d because the river breeze was b l o w i n g and we had no blan­ kets, we moved again. Underneath a lush w i l l o w at the foot o f stone steps where a house had been, we constructed a bed o f grass, straw, and the nursemaid's coat. The spot was next to the place where Saeki Ayako's house had been. M a n y years ago Saeki A y a k o had been a writer. She was no longer w r i t i n g ; but not w r i t i n g cleansed her, purified her. Her elder sister, they say, had been a very fine writer; but she had died early, and I never met her. Back then I was a young writer, a w o m a n f r o m the back o f beyond, and, arrogant i n m y ignorance, I put people off. Saeki A y a k o had smiled d o w n at me and enticed me into the gentle w o r l d o f her o w n art. I had often slipped away f r o m the d o r m i t o r y o f the girls' school to spend time at her large house. She was somewhat older than I . F r o m that time on, we were friends. I had no friends i n Hiroshima except for her, so when I came back f r o m T o k y o , I often went to see her. She was more o f a romantic than I , but she criticized the war w i t h a cool eye. Letting her anger toward simple-minded m i l ­ itarism show just a bit, she spoke o f the irretrievable complexity o f the war that the militarists had started nonchalantly—indeed, w i t h gung ho spirit. Before the air raid on the sixth, when there were r u CITY

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mors that the Americans w o u l d destroy the dams and wash H i r o ­ shima away i n the floodwaters, we both felt the tension, and Saeki A y a k o w o u l d sometimes burst out laughing. " I f we gave i n now, we w o u l d probably be i n sad shape," she said, "but our side w o u l d dis­ guise i t for us somehow, so I do hope we'll end it soon. . . ." I n society at large people were still preaching the patriotic zeal o f Kusunoki Masashige. The ancient etiquette o f the battlefield called for individual combat between mounted knights, each o f w h o m an­ nounced his name and fought gloriously. Saeki Ayako w o u l d laugh and ask, do they intend to fight America f r o m here on i n on the basis o f that etiquette? The strain o f attempting the impossible threw our lives into confusion. Impatient n o w that just about everything i n Ja­ pan had slowed to a snail's pace, Saeki Ayako w o u l d ask: did people i n Japan think the Americans w o u l d come walking to war, one at a time, f r o m across the ocean? While talking o f such matters, she w o u l d tell stories o f bamboo spears or o f the neighborhood groups that went to the hills to collect pine needles so as to be ready, i n case o f air raid, to spread smoke screens. She and I restrained ourselves even when we could hardly keep f r o m laughing. W i t h o u t doubt the war w o u l d end soon, but we agreed that the manner i n w h i c h i t w o u l d end was i m ­ portant—to speak precisely, h o w Japan lost. T h r o u g h o u t the war, we could not be true to our o w n selves. We lamented the fact that we could not say what we wanted to say; but we also had to say and do things we didn't want to say and do. That was very painful. We w h o revered a rational peace, liberty, and dem­ ocratic politics nevertheless were forced to turn our backs on the w o r l d o f those fine ideals and c o m m i t our souls to the grave. We had to play dead. Given that situation, there was absolutely nothing one could do even w h e n the enemy dropped propaganda leaflets f r o m the skies warning that the all-out air raids w o u l d continue until Japan surren­ dered. N o matter h o w much we used the handbills to argue that we had been fooled by the military and must surrender soon, Japan wasn't a democratic or rational or free country. So the Japanese people them­ selves were not capable even o f forming opinions. We had reached the point o f wearing stiff masks over our ears, our eyes, our mouths; we 210

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had lost completely the ability to hear, to see, to speak. W i t h words like these I turned aside friends w h o wanted me to say once and for all whether Japan had been right or w r o n g i n starting the war. Rational peace, liberty, democratic politics—they were a dream I could speak o f only w i t h Saeki Ayako. A n d this huge war itself—perhaps i t wasn't something that some human beings had started against other human beings? Otherwise i t was too tragic, too horrifying. Perhaps i t wasn't war at all, but the latest cosmic phenomenon? So many months and years had passed since the w o r l d began; perhaps the globe wasn't able any longer to rein i n all its emotions and had handed the reins over to the w o r l d o f natural phenomena? There is even, i t seems, a term 'universal gravi­ tation'; this war must have arisen out o f t h a t supernatural force. It is neither a war o f aggression nor, as Japan often said, a war for control o f the w o r l d , nor a war simply for the sake o f East Asia. It may not be a passing vanity o f that sort; instead, i t may be a philosophical, a cosmic phantasm that has taken the f o r m o f war and is on the p r o w l . W i t h t r u l y fearsome power, w i t h truly fearsome sadism. Unless that were the case, an event o f this magnitude probably w o u l d never have taken place. The fate o f the cosmos itself, no doubt, is to b u r n out and then become colder than ice; then again blaze, be destroyed, collapse; then wander anew; then shed silent tears o f sadness and anger. The process o f the earth's self-destruction, so to speak, m i g h t have taken the f o r m o f war. As I spoke this childish nonsense and waved m y hands about like a mischievous child, she listened w i t h her characteristic innocent look, occasionally nodding her head. I could almost see her face as she played dumb. Yet she herself was not to be seen. O n this riverbed adjoining her house, a spot safe enough that people had fled here from neighborhoods quite a distance away, her absence weighed on m y m i n d . The three o f them lived t o ­ gether, but I was unable to catch sight o f either her mother or Y u r i k o . Y u r i k o had been o f f on a labor detail, away f r o m the girls' high school, so the b o m b probably caught her at the factory. Saeki Ayako's mother often set o f f in the m o r n i n g to shop for vegetables, so o n the sixth she may have been out i n the open when the b o m b fell. CITY

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O n the night o f the fifth, I had gone to her house to make a tele­ phone call concerning h o w I was going to get here, to this village. A man named T. lived i n the t o w n o f Gion, about an hour outside H i r o ­ shima by suburban train; he owned a car and had gasoline. The people w i t h w h o m I am n o w staying i n the country had arranged for me to come here i n T.'s car. Otherwise there was no way I , a convalescent, could make it here over the mountains. It took rice or sake or a suit o f clothes, or sugar or oil, to get T. to take his car into the country. I had none o f those things, but the people here w h o found me a house were on good terms w i t h T. ; so it was agreed that money alone w o u l d suf­ fice. However, T. was a long time i n getting started. It had been ar­ ranged that I should move to the country on August i , but it was put o f f a day and then another day. I sensed danger very strongly around me, so I telephoned Gion daily. T. never answered the phone; it was always his wife. O n the night o f the third, she said that T. hadn't been home the last t w o or three days. Almost i n tears, she said she didn't k n o w where he was. (Since coming here, I have learned that that was precisely the time T was having an affair and lying l o w at the w o m ­ an's house.) I felt oppressed every single moment by a sense o f danger, but there was nothing to do but wait for T. to show up w i t h his car; so I began to pack small parcels and mail them to the country. The post office accepted only parcels that weighed less than nine pounds. Each household could send only one. The post office i n Hakushima ac­ cepted only ten parcels a day. O n the fourth, I sent one parcel i n the name o f our next-door neighbor—that is, t w o i n all; they reached here the m o r n i n g o f the sixth. B u t the three I sent on the m o r n i n g o f the fifth apparently went up i n flames; a m o n t h has passed, and they haven't turned up. The t w o parcels I was set to mail on the sixth burned w i t h our house. (The parcels sent f r o m T o k y o apparently also burned when Hiroshima burned.) When I telephoned on the evening o f the fifth, the wife answered once again and said that T. m i g h t come home late that night, so w o u l d n ' t I please come see h i m t o m o r r o w , early or late? Sitting beside me, Saeki A y a k o said w i t h a stern look, as 212

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i f scolding me, "He's never going to come unless y o u go there y o u r ­ self and t h r o w yourself on his mercy." " T h r o w myself on his mercy? O r offer rice or sake!" I was not one to t h r o w myself on someone's mercy over a mere automobile. B u t then I didn't have rice or sake, either. Saeki A y a k o laughed and said that even telephoning every day w o u l d n ' t do the trick. B u t w i t h m y one-track m i n d I concentrated m y energies on telephoning, relying entirely on the wife, w h o apparently had abso­ lutely no say. I n the end I lost. Somewhere Saeki A y a k o is probably laughing at me. In order to escape being injured by the atomic b o m b , nothing was o f any use except not being i n Hiroshima. . . . Water buckets, w o r k pants, helmets, even first-aid kits, yes, and all that air raid train­ ing—none o f it was o f any use at all. 19. I invited M o t h e r and Sister to come w i t h me to this village. I had arranged to come alone; the people f r o m w h o m I had rented rooms before had reserved the second floor for me. U p until twenty years ago, this village had been our home. A large o l d house stood i n spacious grounds atop a stone embankment. The branches o f giant trees intertwined luxuriantly on a tiny artificial h i l l w i t h its o w n pond, and flowers o f all kinds bloomed year-round. I f we made a circuit o f the hill, there was an earthen storehouse, a wooden cabin, a pickle shed, a bathhouse, and a large detached cook­ house. F r o m the hill a path led to the mountain that was part o f the property. The paddies and hills around the house and almost all the fields and forests visible f r o m the house belonged to us. We lost the entire property to extravagant l i v i n g i n Father's generation. The fam­ ily graveyard was the only thing i n the village still belonging to us. Under these conditions neither Mother nor Sister had any stom­ ach for returning and l i v i n g on the second floor o f someone else's house. Once i n spring M o t h e r had taken it into her head to rent a house there, and someone had said, " Y o u people again!" Tears had come to Mother's eyes, and she had felt miserable. M o t h e r and Sister had decided that after seeing me o f f they w o u l d go to N o m i j i m a . The house o f Sister's husband was standing CITY

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vacant i n N o m i j i m a , and Sister wanted to take care o f i t while her husband was o f f on military service. She thought that was part o f be­ ing a virtuous wife. O n the fourth, m y middle sister's husband came and finished o f f the packing o f the belongings that w o u l d go by ship to N o m i j i m a . Even as late as the evening o f the eighth, Sister still seemed to want to go alone to N o m i j i m a . N o m i j i m a was an extension o f Etaj i m a , and y o u could see the buildings o f the Naval Academy on Etajima clearly right across an inlet o f the ocean. Behind the Naval Academy y o u could see the hills o f Kure. The coast o f N o m i j i m a had been bombed and strafed any number o f times. One week before A u ­ gust 6, Sister had gone to arrange to stay i n the N o m i j i m a house, and she had spent the entire day i n an air raid shelter listening to the re­ sounding thud o f bombs. She came home having seen as well a war­ ship torn i n t w o and fishing boats set ablaze along the shore, one after the other. O n the sixth and seventh, it was said, dead bodies f r o m Hiroshima had been taken at night to nearby Ninoshima and N o m i ­ j i m a . There was also a r u m o r that many American bombs had fallen on these mortuary sites. I admired Sister's desire to go there, but I could not take to the idea o f Mother's going w i t h her to such a place. I couldn't believe that ships were leaving f r o m either Ujina or H o n ­ kawa. Even supposing Sister and Mother got as far as Ujina or H o n ­ kawa, there was no telling h o w many corpses they w o u l d have to trample on, street after street, before they got that far. The night was damp, as i f dew might fall. The electricity was off, and the radio didn't w o r k either. We heard American planes every three or four hours; each time, instead o f a siren, someone came around calling out, " A i r raid! A i r raid!" So time after time we climbed d o w n into the air raid shelters, charred and gruesome though they were. I n one o f the shelters lay the corpse o f a young w o m a n . When we lighted a match, we saw that the eyes were open, the hands clasped tightly. Immediately next to us, n o w standing, n o w sitting, someone we couldn't see was groaning softly. The person whispered twice, three times, " I ' m dying!" Then we began to hear the high-pitched crying o f a young girl. Her screams were piercing, something like a night bird's. She shouted the same words again and again: "Father! 214

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Mother! Everything's all right now! Come on home!" Yelling at the top o f her lungs, she didn't stop for a minute. N o w she sang as l o u d as she could: The moon's I ' m all alone The moon's I ' m all alone The moon's I'm all. . .

all alone; too. all alone; too. all alone;

The girl sang quickly and repeatedly, loud enough to burst her lungs, as i f she were being pursued by something dreadful. A n d then she went back to crying: "Father! Mother! It's okay now! Come on home! Mother! Father!" Because o f the mad m i d n i g h t singing o f this grief-stricken girl, people couldn't sleep, and many tossed and turned on their beds o f grass. I dozed o f f and fell under the thrall o f a vision. Flowers are b l o o m i n g on a nearby hill. O n top o f the hill stands a reddish-yellow three-story house, unmistakable. The open w i n d o w s o f the t h i r d floor face us, and a y o u n g w o m a n is resting on the bed. B u t the w o m a n is crazy. The vision was as plain as day Indeed, we do hear a voice coming f r o m above. A cry distressing enough to turn those listening to it crazy, too: I w o u l d not have thought it could come f r o m the same stretch o f sand. The absence o f buildings had its effect. People said the girl was stretched out on the riverbed only a hundred meters to the south o f us, burns all over her body. One couldn't tell whether she had been pretty. B u r n blisters like thick tubes were crawling all over her body, and last evening they had broken. People said that her mother, w h o was injured, was at her side. Her father was i n the navy, and o f the seven people w h o had been i n the house only the two—mother and daughter—were still alive; the others had all died on the sixth. The w o m a n next to us suddenly burst into tears as she whispered this girl's story to us. The fellow right next to us died at dawn. He had been forever standing up and sitting d o w n , sitting d o w n and standing up, always m u r m u r i n g to himself or moaning softly. His fingers were almost CITY

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touching m y face. M o t h e r said the body was face up, completely na­ ked. B y n o w we had become inured even to dead bodies, but I could not bear to look at the corpse o f this tormented young man. I got M o t h e r to cover his dead body w i t h grass, and then Sister and I got to our feet. While i t was still dark, we broke some branches o f f the w i l l o w and used them to veil the face o f death. It was n o w the third day after August 6, so the stench o f death filled the riverbed. As the day grew light, we discovered on every side the bodies o f people w h o were alive yesterday but had collapsed and died. Even the soldier wearing the red silk gown—his body lay beside the path, all swollen up, his young life ended. A girl barely five years old had died; her body lay on its side on the riverbed as i f she were taking a nap, hand flung out. A baby had died at the water's edge; burned all over, the body lay exposed to the sun. The girl w h o had gone insane kept screaming on into the m o r n i n g ; but then, I under­ stand, a car came from somewhere, picked up both mother and daughter, and left. Apart f r o m her, no one was screaming, and no one was talking. It was quiet. Today, too, the sun shone brilliantly, boiling hot. A small boat came up the river, picked up the badly injured sol­ diers and the bodies, and left. B u t the dead body o f the young man f r o m Miyajima was still there, starting to decompose. F r o m m o r n i n g on, the first-aid station was besieged by a throng o f injured people. The doctors and nurses at the station came f r o m outside Hiroshima i n relays, so those w i t h injuries were treated by different people each day. The authorities had decided to treat cuts w i t h hydrogen peroxide solution and Mercurochrome and to treat burns w i t h salve, poultices, and other medicines. So each time they were treated, lacerations turned redder, and burns glistened more brightly, were smudged whiter, or were stained grayer. For the most part, these injuries looked gruesome. The splinters o f glass and the other fragments had come flying so very fast, i t seemed, that all the cuts were deeper than they appeared. I said to Sister, "Bullets from machine guns leave neater wounds, don't they!" I remembered that just recently at the Red Cross Hospital I had seen a w o m a n w h o had been hit by machine-gun fire. She had been going by boat to N o m i j i m a , taking the last o f the clothes she 216

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planned to store outside the city, when shots were fired d o w n into the boat. When she was brought to the hospital on a stretcher, her lips were pressed firmly together, and her eyes glittered; she screamed and complained o f the pain. (Victims o f the atomic b o m b have vacant ex­ pressions on their faces.) Before they moved her to the Red Cross Hospital, the island doctor had removed the bullets f r o m her arm, w h i c h was sliced wide open f r o m below the shoulder to the wrist. Calling me over, the head o f the hospital had shown me the X ray; the bones were broken, and the X ray showed the presence o f gas. The head o f the hospital said, " I f that's gangrene, w e ' l l have to take the whole arm off." Still, the w o u n d looked neat, and the w o m ­ an's excited expression was also fresh and attractive. Injuries caused by the atomic bomb were so much messier that no comparison was possible. A n d the people wore such vacant expressions. The people at the aid station said that they w o u l d not treat people w h o had been treated yesterday. We had to leave for the country today, but w i t h o u t transportation we w o u l d have to walk; so we asked them to treat us. Even so, they refused. There was such a horde o f injured people and so little medicine. A n older doctor rushed about i n agitation: " I didn't think it was this bad. N o t enough medicine to go around!" Extremely busy, he j u g g l e d what little medicine he had. What was strange was the rela­ tionship that arose between victims and nonvictims. F r o m the first, the average person treated the injured, f r o m w h o m he differed only i n not being injured, almost as i f they had always been dirty beggars. He was arrogant i n words and attitude and treated them as inferiors. I could not help being struck both by this psychology and also by the psychology whereby victims as victims became absolutely servile, as i f they had always been pathetic creatures, even though only t w o or three days had passed since they had been burned out o f house and home. M r s . H . and M r s . G. came and said that since the distribution o f food was going to be regularized from n o w on, the members o f the neighborhood group wanted to get together as a group i n one place. In addition, the riverbed was not a safe place. Bombs m i g h t fall at any time on so large a group o f people out i n the open. The people on the CITY

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riverbed were beginning to leave, a few at a time, each going his o w n way. We decided to gather for n o w back at the cemetery. Sister went and got the papers certifying us for relief aid. As i f branding us defin­ itively w i t h the mark o f victims o f the atomic bomb, these small, thin sheets o f paper seared our hearts; they made us miserable. Leaving Sister behind, Mother and I went first, taking our leave o f the white sand o f the riverbed o f death, enveloped as i t was i n stench. T o the last I looked around for Saeki Ayako's dog, but it was nowhere to be seen. 20. After climbing the embankment and before descending to the vast expanse burned flat by the flames, I looked back at the riverbed. A l l I could see was the reflection o f the bright rays o f the sun, and a mass o f people. W i t h neither land nor houses o f their o w n , a bunch o f nomads had found a bit o f land on the edge o f a river and were l i v i n g a rootless existence, one day at a time. That is what the mass o f people I saw on the riverbed looked like. When I looked i n the direction o f the city, there was no city. It looked like a winter field, bleak and desolate. We climbed d o w n as far as the area i n front o f the remains o f the temple that had collapsed and burned, but the road to where our o w n house had been was changed so completely we didn't rec­ ognize i t . A l l we could do was walk through the vast expanse o f r u b ­ ble, aiming for the trees o f the cemetery. Before I knew it, moved to tears, I wanted to walk by myself. Slowing to a snail's pace, I said to Mother, "Please go on ahead." M o t h e r had decided she w o u l d go back to the riverbed once more to fetch the baby, so she left me behind and walked on ahead. M y heart broke, and I wept at the tragic state o f the people w h o had died on the riverbed and at the state o f the whole city o f Hiroshima, utterly and completely leveled, a state that I was seeing n o w as I walked. A man was sitting on a rock at a place where until the m o r n i n g o f the sixth there had been a bend i n the road. N e x t to h i m there was an air raid trench. A mat had been spread i n the trench, and the body o f a girl o f twelve or thirteen had been laid d o w n facing the other way. A white cloth covered her. Beside her pillow had been placed a small red b o w l holding a ball o f white rice. A n incense stick w i t h a point o f 218

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red flame was sending up smoke. N e w clogs had been put o n her feet and fastened w i t h thin thongs. I asked the man sitting on the rock, "Is she dead?" H e nodded and said, " U h - h u h . " Tears welled up i n the young father's eyes; tears overflowed i n m y eyes, too. Her father had clothed her i n a pretty traveling outfit, and she reminded me o f Otsuru, the character i n the play w h o makes a pilgrimage to A w a . The parental love expressed i n his tender treatment o f his daughter's dead body reverberated i n m y o w n heart like the echo o f a gentle poem, I w h o had lived these three days amid devastation. I walked on, sobbing loudly, through dead bodies so numerous there was no place to set m y feet. I walked, reel­ ing, not even m o p p i n g away the tears w h i c h flowed so bounteously. The sun dried m y tears, and I felt a bit relieved. L o o k i n g up at heaven, I prayed, "Give us back eternal peace!" Even though this great disaster had been visited upon us, I thought it was hardly possible that G o d w o u l d not let humankind have peace again. What was God, after all? G o d was an idea inside us. Sobbing loudly, I walked along the rubblestrewn street, still w a r m , to the spot i n front o f our house. When I saw Mother, m y tears stopped o f their o w n accord. The house had burned so completely one could not imagine that a house had ever stood there. T w o stone gateposts remained, p r o t r u d i n g f r o m the ground like cemetery headstones; where the bath had been, only the metal tub remained, scorched a rust color and looking unreal. I n ad­ dition, the frame o f the sewing machine that had been on the second floor, the shears that had been at the b o t t o m o f the parcel to go to the country, and t w o or three pieces o f pottery were half-buried i n the burned ground, reduced to ash though still holding their shapes. M o t h e r and I exchanged a silent glance. Then M o t h e r said, "What do y o u suppose happened to all the glass? There aren't even any broken bits!" Indeed, the glass was gone w i t h o u t a trace. Perhaps, melted d o w n like jelly, i t had flowed away? As for the pots and kettles, some­ one m i g h t have stolen them i n the last three days, so people said; but I thought they too m i g h t have melted d o w n and flowed away. We also saw ashes i n the shape o f the wicker trunk, ashes i n the shape o f the camera bag, and so on. CITY

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A t the air raid shelter i n the cemetery, the four or five thick quilts M o t h e r had t h r o w n into the entrance as she left were gone; only a m o u n d o f ashes was left. Some time ago we had placed a sturdy box filled w i t h foodstuffs i n the front half o f the shelter; that large box had acted as a wall, and the things beyond it had not burned. What had not burned? The portable charcoal stove and the pots and kettles and a scant three trunks o f clothing. When I saw the things that hadn't burned, I felt as I w o u l d feel on seeing, safe and sound, people I thought had died: h o w wonderful to clasp their hands i n mine! The pots and kettles and trunks seemed to be calling out to us; it irritated me that they didn't come walking out toward us n o w o f their o w n accord. U p until n o w I hadn't liked the air raid shelter. It was not like a tunnel, open at both ends, but had only one entrance; so had people been inside it, they might have suffocated. They w o u l d surely be dead. These belongings survived because they were inani­ mate; had there been an opening at the other end, too, they w o u l d surely have gone up i n flames. I am not a fatalist; still, i f I were able to think o f things as fated, then fate was surely all about us. The headstones i n the cemetery were not broken or toppled or even discolored by the flames; they were standing i n straight rows, just as before, seared only by the sizzling rays o f the sun. A m o n g them were stones on w h i c h dates f r o m the 1850s and 1860s were carved. When I looked at those stones and their inscriptions, i t was as i f I had suddenly been transported back i n time. The more recent gravestones were lighter i n color, and the graves o f those w h o had died i n this war were newer still. The tall trees i n the cemetery had been pine and cedar and zelkova and fir, but n o w only the thick trunks remained. The branches and leaves were all dry as a bone, curled up tongue-like. The large ginkgo tree that had been growing i n the stone wall o f the shrine was t o r n i n t w o , i n three; one part hung d o w n toward the cemetery, one part hung d o w n l i m p l y to the side, and the bark smoldered like charcoal that hasn't been fired long enough. There was no w i n d , so the cemetery was even hotter than the riverbed. Breathlessly hot, we sat atop the stone bases o f the t o m b ­ stones. I n order to avoid even a bit o f the sun, w h i c h moved along the other side o f the trees, n o w reduced to thick trunks, we moved con220

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stantly i n the other direction, keeping pace w i t h the sun. The people o f our neighborhood group stayed inside rude shacks, hardly w o r t h y o f the name, sat like us on the bare pedestals, or stood around aim­ lessly. Even after we got here, we sometimes heard the roar o f B-29S overhead. M u c h time had passed, but we still were not out o f danger. While the houses were still standing, we had not been able to see the rail line on the embankment on the other side o f the river. A l o n g i t a procession o f people was n o w passing. They weren't injured, but they were the very picture o f refugees. American bombers were right over­ head, but the procession streamed on, not even climbing d o w n o f f the tracks. Those people had been passengers on a train coming f r o m far off; they were walking f r o m Yokogawa, d o w n the line, to Hiroshima Station and then on to Kaita to make connections w i t h another train. In Hiroshima there was no place to hide when y o u heard planes; so, carrying their bundles and their precious shoes, those people simply walked straight ahead d o w n the tracks, w h i c h were blazing hot i n the sun. Once Sister too got to the cemetery, we opened the boxes o f food. Inside, there was a little rice and some soy beans and some salt and dried bonito and dried chestnuts. I n addition, there were tea bowls, plates, chopsticks, spoons. T o me the tea bowls and chopsticks seemed extraordinary beyond words, and I rejoiced as at an unex­ pected gift. There were lots o f chopsticks and spoons, so we handed some to the people i n the hut o f our neighbor, M r . F. M r . F.'s sixteen-year-old daughter was l y i n g i n the narrow hut; she had been pinned under on the second floor, and both her head and her arms were covered w i t h injuries. She had major injuries to b o t h legs as well. N e x t to her sat her elder sister, a teacher at a girls' school, w h o , they said, had been sleeping beside her sister that m o r n i n g ; she hadn't the slightest scratch. Another elder sister was also i n the hut. This elder sister had married into a Kure family. When Kure was bombed, she was l i v i n g i n a lone house halfway up the mountain, so she figured she was safe. B u t , she told us, it had burned first o f all. She had come here shortly before the sixth, and on that very m o r n i n g , the sixth, she had set o f f by train for Kure. When the train got just CITY

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beyond Kaita, she saw the brilliant blue flash, and the shock came immediately thereafter. She says passengers tumbled o f f the seats right and left. L i g h t l y made up, this young woman was wearing neat Western clothes and shoes, too. Eyes wide i n astonishment, she said, "The train kept right on going, but when I looked out the w i n d o w toward Hiroshima, y o u know, an indescribably strange smoke was b i l l o w i n g up, and then it got pitch-dark. I didn't k n o w what had happened, so when I got to Kure I switched immediately to a train coming back here; but the train couldn't get any farther than Kaita. F r o m Kaita I came by foot; what a shock!" " H o w far is i t from Kaita?" "Eight kilometers, maybe? D i d m y feet get sore! It's not your ordinary road, y o u know. Because all along the way, houses and dead bodies lay piled on top o f each other. But y o u know, all along the train tracks, beginning on the other side o f Kaita, people were cooking rice and making rice balls. That was nice." "They were making rice balls out i n the open?" " U h - h u h . A l l along the tracks they had set up a line o f tables, y o u see; all along the way, people were making rice balls." I commented, " I bet some o f the food we got came f r o m there." Everyone smiled at that nice thought. We didn't k n o w whether three members o f our neighborhood group were alive or dead. One woman had set out that m o r n i n g for the prefectural office on business; she had not returned yet, even though it was n o w the eighth. A thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girl had gone o f f to assist a labor-service detail and hadn't been seen since. The t h i r d was M r s . H.'s husband. The office where he w o r k e d was a wreck, so M r s . H . searched for h i m every day; but he had not been admitted to any o f the treatment centers nor to any o f the several hos­ pitals o f w h i c h only the exteriors remained. N o one i n our neighborhood group had burns. Except for an old w o m a n w h o had lost an arm and a young w o m a n w i t h splinters o f glass i n her eye, it was all bruises and cuts. N o r had anyone been pinned under. The more people we saw, the more chance appeared to have played a role. M o s t o f our group were homemakers w h o were 222

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uninjured. M a n y o f these w o m e n w h o were middle-aged or older— M r s . H . , M r s . B . , Mother, and those f r o m other families, too—had not received even a scratch. The same thing continued to h o l d true even later. M e n and young w o m e n had the serious injuries, probably because they went o f f to w o r k and led active lives. The w o m e n past middle age and the old people, even the men, shut up inside their houses, received injuries that were relatively slight. It appeared to be chance, but then again it may not have been. The wife o f Sister's hus­ band's brother was stretched out i n the air raid shelter w i t h a head injury. T w o days had passed, but there was still no sign o f her hus­ band. We made a fire i n the charcoal stove and crumbled up our ration o f rice balls into a pot, sliced i n the squash we had brought w i t h us f r o m the riverbed, filled the pot w i t h water, and cooked a porridge o f rice and vegetables. Sitting i n the hot sun and eating hot stew, b l o w ­ ing on it to cool i t off, was pure delight. I n the burned rubble, a foun­ tain o f water played out o f the water main f r o m a broken pipe. It was nice, too, to wash the dishes and the pot o f f there and put them back into the box they came from. We tucked the box away i n the back o f the air raid shelter. A short train ran past, made up only o f engines that looked like wedge-shaped snowplows, w i t h people w h o looked like station staff and w o r k crew hanging f r o m the train. They were probably o f f to clear away the remains ofthat train lying on its side on the bridge. The train going west f r o m Hiroshima, we heard, w o u l d depart after noon. We decided to board the train at Yokogawa Station and leave Hiroshima. M r s . K.'s husband agreed to take our luggage to the station by bicycle. M r s . K . was expecting a child i n September; as she said good-bye to us, her hair was dirty and mussed up, her face was swollen and bloody f r o m a cut that stretched f r o m her eyebrow across her nose, and she was barefoot. We were the first i n the group to leave Hiroshima, so our words o f farewell to each person were sad ones: "We'll surely see y o u again sometime, w o n ' t we?" The people o f the neighborhood group had gotten along well w i t h each other, but they must have k n o w n that they couldn't live the rest o f their lives i n the same place. Still, on the surface at least, they CITY

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h i d f r o m each other their sorrow that the group was scattering, that life was so uncertain. A white chicken pattered about underfoot. The child f r o m the temple i n front o f the shrine came looking for it and carried it off. People said that three o f those living at the temple—husband, baby, and five-year-old son—had been pinned under and died. M o t h e r had afuroshiki w i t h a light purple stripe. I wrapped m y head and face i n it, t y i n g i t under m y jaw, and set o f f in the direction f r o m w h i c h the strong rays o f the afternoon sun were pouring d o w n on us.

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Relief 2i. H a d Hiroshima been functioning normally and had its residents been clad i n n o r m a l apparel, then the four o f us—mother, daughter, daughter, granddaughter—might have seemed to be lunatics or per­ haps long-time beggars w h o had been badly injured. B u t every last person was i n the same shape. Even the t o w n itself—one couldn't tell whether i t was dead or alive. Clad i n squalid disguises, the people all wore vacant expressions on their faces; all o f them walked at a strange slow pace, as i f heading for a destination they were reluctant to reach. M y whole body hurt, so I walked very slowly, tottering like a marionette on a string. B u t no matter h o w strange y o u looked, people did not laugh. N o r did they show sympathy. For no matter h o w sad the shape y o u were i n , people no longer felt they had to show s y m ­ pathy. There were dead bodies wherever we went. Dead bodies v i r ­ tually blocked the road we were walking on, though i t was not really a road. A l m o s t all o f the bodies had burns, so even alive they had given o f f a foul odor. Half-decayed, the dead bodies sent wafting i n the air an acid smell, as o f a crematorium. Some o f the dead bodies seemed to have only just died, and the salve that had been used to treat their burns gleamed wet and white i n the sunlight. U n m o v e d , u n ­ afraid, we walked amid the corpses. B u t on coming up to one corpse, I stopped i n m y tracks. M y skin turned cold. The place appeared to be the entrance to the quarters o f some military unit; here were t w o stone pillars that looked like a guardhouse gate. A young man was sitting w i t h his back against one o f those pillars, b o t h legs drawn up and arms wrapped around them, not m o v i n g at all. He was twenty-three or twenty-four years old; he was wearing a shirt and pants; he even had shoes on, too. His coloring resembled that o f o p i u m addicts I had seen i n China, but he d i d not look as i f he had been sick. The young man was dead. His was the first corpse I had seen that hadn't bled at all and that had no burns. H e appeared to be a member o f a student militia unit f r o m some other prefecture. Four or five soldiers—they looked like university stu­ dents—were carrying a stretcher to dispose o f corpses. They d i d not CITY

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touch the young man's body, w h i c h i n death leaned against the stone pillar like a seated statue. Instead, they stuck poles under the arms and clumsily tipped the body onto the stretcher. The lower half o f the young man's body turned out to be swollen like a barrel, out o f all proportion to the upper half o f his body. It was already decomposing. B y then I was accustomed to dead bodies. Everyone was. Even on the sixth itself, the day the bomb fell, people did not feel any great pain f r o m their o w n severe injuries, and there was virtually no an­ guish i n our hearts. The dead bodies themselves did not show ag­ ony—neither the beautiful bodies o f children that looked alive nor the bodies that had begun to decompose. N o r did the people passing by revive our anguish. We didn't think o f connecting this situation i n any way w i t h the war. It was as i f we had lost even the ability to think. Yet tears were continually welling up i n our eyes. When I walked out onto the bridge and looked over toward H i r o ­ shima Castle, toppled to earth and absolutely flattened, a great wave o f emotion swept over me. Grief and the ability to think, reviving periodically, made m y heart ache. The castle keep looked as i f i t had collapsed and shattered w i t h o u t offering much resistance. Because the castle was white, i t had been visible i n normal times from anywhere i n the city; so yesterday when I climbed up onto the embankment or when I was on the way to Teishin Hospital, I should have noticed that it was gone. Then I w o u l d have understood merely that the castle was gone. B u t the fact that the castle had been demolished so utterly told me something. Even supposing a new city were to be built on this land, there w o u l d be no rebuilding the castle. Hiroshima was a flat city w i t h no hills. Thanks to its white castle, Hiroshima became three-dimensional and preserved the flavor o f the past. Hiroshima, too, had its history, and it saddened me to march forward over the corpse o f the past. Having lived so long i n T o k y o , I was not accustomed to crossing long bridges. Even i n normal times, i t was a scary thing for me to cross Hiroshima's long, long bridges. B u t n o w the buildings on b o t h banks that seemed to anchor the bridge were gone, as were the sec­ tions o f the city that had formed a distant backdrop. So the bridge 226

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appeared to be floating i n the air, and I seemed about to be dragged o f f and d o w n to the b o t t o m o f the river. The bridge hung suspended like a rainbow over a great void. Those hundreds o f temples that were such a grand sight i n Teramachi, always visible on the left—they were gone. The ancient buildings o f the Hongan Temple, so vast and stately that only K y o t o could match them—they were completely flattened; not even pieces o f r o o f were visible. Yokogawa was across the bridge, about a mile and a half f r o m Hakushima. It lay on the outskirts o f the city, a small factory belt w i t h many lumber mills; so i t had scars to show that were more ghastly yet than the ashes o f the residential areas. F r o m all the w i n d o w s o f the concrete warehouses and the factory buildings, so solidly constructed, red flames belched and swirled i n astonishing shapes. The fires were so hot we could hardly get by. A stranger walking alongside me struck up a conversation: "Some fire, isn't it! That warehouse over on the right was chock-full o f sugar. Those are the flames o f burning sugar. The bright red flames o f sugar." Wondering i f that was true, I didn't respond, and he spoke again: " I know, see; I w o r k e d i n that ware­ house." Sister had a sweet tooth. Glancing up at h i m w i t h eyes so swollen they were mere slits, she complained, " I f the sugar was going to go up i n flames, it's a shame they didn't hand i t out!" Her face showed her chagrin. There was a smell i n the air like that o f caramel on the stove. So i t wasn't a lie; the building was a sugar warehouse. A m i d the charred ruins, so ruined i t was impossible to tell what they had been, a small, pure-white pile was burning briskly, red tongues o f flame reaching out; i t m i g h t have been asbestos or perhaps salt. Five or six young men were squatting on the ground nearby. L o o k i n g i n m y direction—I w h o looked like a beggar—they laughed, "It's the fifty-three stages o f the Tökaidö, isn't it! One o f Sharaku's w o o d ­ blocks . . ." Those young men were wooden dolls wrapped i n rags; only their faces showed any life. A t the Misasa Shrine just outside Yokogawa, only the t r u n k o f a giant tree rose into the sky, its bark scorched; the shrine and the main building and all other structures had burned d o w n . The shrine was the home o f m y second sister's husband. Sister had taken four children CITY

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w i t h her and evacuated to the country, but her husband and her eldest son w o u l d have been here. Stopping to face i n the direction o f the shrine, M o t h e r looked as i f she wanted to go there, but the forest fire still burning behind it had such force that we could not go near. Just i n front o f Yokogawa Station a navy hospital aid station had been set up, and hordes o f injured people poured into the tent. D i ­ rectly i n front o f the tent, atop a mountain o f rubble, lay the dead bodies o f men and women, old people and children and babies, tossed together and piled up as i f they were merely, say, dead cats. We were w h o l l y accustomed to the sight o f dead bodies; still, this mountain o f dead bodies forced us to avert our eyes. There was no tent, only a wooden sign on w h i c h was w r i t t e n "Emergency Mortuary." The m o u n d o f corpses lay exposed to the strong rays o f the high summer sun. O n the m o u n d lay the body o f a fat young woman, naked arms and legs spread out indecently; it seemed to be staring fiercely at the sky. A l l the dead bodies were bloated and fat and burned pitch black, their skin like that o f a bronze Buddha. (They had been burned by the bluish flash, not by the flames, so they had not felt the heat o f that flash directly.) The sooner I left this city behind, the better. I didn't k n o w what things w o u l d be like once the train got to Hatsukaichi; but even i f we were to live i n the open as before, I thought I ' d rather be i n Hatsuka­ ichi, forty minutes away by train, than i n Hiroshima. A t Yokogawa Station, too, there was no building left that looked anything like a station. There were only the station platforms. A t a place resembling a ticket booth for an open-air play, we picked up refugee tickets, and then we went onto a platform that was awash i n a w h i r l p o o l o f refu­ gees. The four o'clock train came at six; but when I saw the engine coming toward me I rejoiced, as amazed as when, as a child, I first saw a train. M y chest expanded and gave o f f a happy noise, like the pop when a lotus blossom opens. The train brought victims from the next station up, Hiroshima's main station. Inside, it was a human cattle car. The injured lay piled one atop the other i n the corridors. The people looked as i f they had been crushed alive; they did not say a w o r d . Downcast, they kept si228

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lent and exhibited clearly the dementia that characterized this disaster; they looked as i f they weren't getting enough air. Some o f the passen­ gers had come f r o m well east o f Hiroshima and had not k n o w n h o w things were i n Hiroshima; w i t h dazed expressions on their faces, they stared at the injured people inside the car or, wide-eyed, looked out the w i n d o w . A n d one group o f young officers w h o apparently came f r o m some other part o f the country folded their white-gloved hands atop their swagger sticks. Displaying an icy attitude, they d i d not even offer their seats to those w i t h serious injuries. Outside the w i n d o w , the suburban towns on the edge o f H i r o ­ shima went past. The rows o f houses here were like the houses i n the city i n those very first moments o f August 6: they were smashed, twisted and leaning, or fallen completely over, or crumbled all to pieces. T o the eyes o f those w h o had wandered through places i n the city that were like desolate fields, where every last house had burned, where there weren't even any houses that had only half burned, these collapsed houses looked weird. They had been crushed i n the t w i n ­ k l i n g o f an eye by a terrible pressure f r o m the sky, indescribably strong though invisible. One could tell that graphically f r o m their condition. Even i n this area, the shells o f houses were sometimes burning raggedly; they tugged at m y heartstrings. I n the fields, too, here and there, large balls o f fire were burning. (I can believe the tales, reported afterward by Professor Fujiwara o f Hiroshima University, o f balls o f fire, some o f them burning fiercely even on the surface o f rivers.) Fragments o f the bomb, so people i n the train said, had acted as incendiaries. I n terms o f geographical spread, they said the damage was greatest to the west, that to the west there were clearly more corpses and more people w i t h severe injuries. O n August 6, they said, the w i n d had been i n the direction o f K o i . Since the towns and villages we could see f r o m the w i n d o w s o f the train were extensions o f K o i , blood-red balls o f fire had probably caused all that fire damage. Stretching as far as the eye could see i n the pale blue t w i l i g h t , the rows o f collapsed houses and the bright red balls o f fire burning i n the fields seemed to be nightmare, not reality. Even after we got to Itsukaichi, we could see houses about to collapse and houses where glass and slidCITY

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ing panels had been b l o w n out. A r r i v i n g at Hatsukaichi, we finally saw a normal t o w n , n o w dark. The train got to Hatsukaichi i n about the usual forty minutes. We came out into the familiar square i n front o f the station, out under the cherry trees o f the square, the trees I always saw when I came home f r o m school on even the shortest o f vacations—spring, summer, w i n ­ ter. I was on the point o f fainting. Sister helped me to lie d o w n on the ground. 22. Hatsukaichi was dark, all lights out. The t o w n was engulfed i n terror, not k n o w i n g when what happened to Hiroshima m i g h t hap­ pen to i t . A l l the long-time inns i n the t o w n had been turned into dormitories for soldiers and for workers i n the war industries; there was no r o o m for us. For a place to spend the night, we w o u l d have no alternative but to go to the elementary school, n o w an aid station. Having gotten this far from Hiroshima, we had no desire to go near a place where there were corpses and hosts o f the injured. Setting her rucksack d o w n under the cherry trees, M o t h e r c o m ­ mented, ' T d almost rather sleep i n the open." She said she'd look for lodging. " I ' d prefer to set out for Kushima, even i f we get only a step or two." I suggested this because I was pained at the thought o f M o t h e r walking the dark streets. B u t M o t h e r has her o w n ways o f doing things and demonstrated her love for us by taking upon herself what w o u l d normally have been ours to do. She disappeared into the dark streets. She returned almost a full hour later. I was grouchy, thinking to myself, "Where's she been all this time?" When I am grouchy, she normally keeps her distance; but n o w she looked me squarely i n the eye and said: " I went to the police station and asked, and they said the hotels and guest-houses were all full, so I should go to the aid station. I wondered what to do. Then, figuring it was useless, I decided I m i g h t as well come on back. I was on m y way back here when a w o m a n came toward me, hale and hearty; so I told her we were going to Kushima and asked her, see, whether we'd find lodging i n a village along the way. She said the country inns, too, were probably full o f 230

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injured people from Hiroshima. T w o or three refugees were staying at her house, she said, so w h y didn't I come too? I said that i f I were alone, I w o u l d impose on her hospitality, but m y daughters and the baby were waiting at the station, and w i t h so many o f us I couldn't possibly impose on her. She said no, that didn't matter. That she was like that; even i f Hiroshima hadn't happened she liked to do things for people. That catastrophe had been so bad that putting up four or five people wasn't too much to ask. That's what she said. The bath's hot, she said, so it's better than staying i n the open. A n d she took me along to show me where she lives. What do y o u think?" I thought for a moment. M o t h e r went on: "It's strange to get put up for even a single night by someone y o u don't k n o w ; but i n the towns up ahead, they say, virtually every i n n has victims staying i n it. . . . " D o n ' t call them 'victims,' at least call them 'refugees.' ' V i c t i m s ' sounds pitiful. What sort o f house is it?" "It's a large house. N o w what business are they in? The name is Osono. She said she'd leave the gate open for us, but what do y o u want to do? I f y o u don't like the idea, we can sleep i n the open or walk a bit i n the direction o f Kushima." "Let's accept her hospitality for one night." We walked t h r o u g h dark streets. Sister spoke: "It's embarrassing that so many o f us are descending on her, but what choice do we have?" There were no destroyed houses and no fires thereabouts, and no one i n the street looked like a refugee, so we felt better. Like everyone else, I too had fallen unawares into the standard refugee mentality. N o t i c i n g that state o f m i n d , I became unbearably scornful o f myself, but I couldn't help i t . After a long walk on a street I remembered, M o t h e r stopped i n front o f a large house w i t h a broad frontage. "Here we are." M o t h e r gets lost even during the day and going to a house she knows well. It was astonishing that she should have found a pitchdark house on the very first try, and I was filled w i t h admiration. The house belonged to a timber merchant, not Osono but Osoto. It had many rooms, and we were led to a r o o m w i t h a tokonoma. There apCITY

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peared to be refugees both i n the next r o o m and i n the annex. A large earthenware j u g was filled to the b r i m w i t h hot green tea, and seallions were set out as a side dish. O n the third day after the disaster we drank this tea, and i t was so delicious it seemed to permeate m y entire body. It was nearly midnight. Normally, the trip f r o m Hiroshima to Hatsukaichi takes an hour and a half, even i f y o u take your time. This trip had taken more than ten hours. The air raid alarm sounded twice during the night, and we could hear explosions i n the distance. Absolutely terrified, the people o f Hatsukaichi spent practically the whole time i n air raid shelters. B u t we were no longer able even to get ourselves out f r o m under the mos­ quito net. T o die on tatami—that was better, at least, than dying o n that horrible riverbed. The next day, too, was fine weather, so hot we seemed to roast. The bus for Kushima left only once each day, at four i n the afternoon. In the Osoto house, too, there was coming and going; there was talk about close relatives still missing i n Hiroshima, and there were w o m e n crying. I n addition, they were frightfully busy w i t h clothing and food to be sent to the aid station, so we decided to leave during the m o r n i n g . M r s . Osoto w o u l d n ' t let us leave until she had fed us lunch, and then she hurried after us, after we had departed, to return a little something we had left i n token o f our thanks. As i f we had borrowed something we could not return, our debt to her weighed on our spirits. It was only 2 p . m . when we got to the waiting r o o m for the bus; yet refugees had gathered, silent as usual, an ash-colored flock. M o s t unbearable o f all was the bad smell emanating from the injuries. There were several dozen people. Their ghost-like faces and whatever parts o f their bodies stuck out o f their clothing—neck, both arms, chest, both legs—were all burned, so there was a smell o f burns and o f grossly swollen naked bodies. It was like a r o o m full o f deathbed can­ cer patients. The waiting r o o m led as well to the stop o f the suburban trolley for Miyajima. Each time the trolley arrived, victims o f the atomic b o m b came pouring out the exit gate, looking almost like a bunch o f 232

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convicts, utterly d o w n and out. H a d I been an observer rather than a fellow v i c t i m , I m i g h t have felt revulsion and contempt rather than sympathy. That's h o w filthy the refugees were. A man w h o looked like a ghost got o f f the streetcar. He had burns; his whole body was swathed i n bandages, including both arms to the fingertips. The bandages on his face were oozing blood and pus, and only his shining eyes w i t h their burned eyelashes poked out. He looked around uneasily. A w o m a n w i t h t w o children ran up to h i m : " A moment ago your brother f r o m Furuta got on the streetcar b o u n d for Hiroshima!" "Really? Just missed h i m , d i d I? Shucks." The man looked back toward the streetcar. " I chased after h i m , but the streetcar went too fast. A n d to think he w o u l d have seen me i f he'd only looked this way for a b i t . " "He must have come i n f r o m the country. Too bad. I really have to go right after h i m , don't y o u think?" "You've just gotten here by the skin o f your teeth! Y o u can't want to go back to Hiroshima." " I don't want to, but I came that close to seeing h i m . So I can't just let h i m go. Given the state o f things, even i f he goes to our place i n Hiroshima, there's no way he can find us. He w o n ' t k n o w what to do. I ' l l go back. When the bus comes, y o u take the children and go on ahead." " N o . I ' l l go. Y o u take the children." Tears came to her eyes. " N o , I ' d better go. A w o m a n can't do i t . I ' l l go to Hiroshima n o w and look for h i m . I may miss the bus and have to stay the night somewhere; that's rough. I ' m such a mess I put everyone off. I smell bad, and I get the bed all sticky and messy." Faint tears came to his eyes, too. "So I ' l l go," said the wife. " Y o u go on home." " N o , I ' m going. The sooner y o u get the children to the country, the better." W i t h that the conversation between husband and wife came to an end. The w o m a n turned away and wiped her tears w i t h a handker­ chief. CITY

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23. The refugees were packed so tight on the benches i n the waiting r o o m that there were no seats left. But on one o f the benches sat a couple no one went near. They were both past fifty. Someone asked, "What happened to you?" The wife, a large woman, replied: " O u r home is i n Yoshijima, and I had gone out be­ hind the kitchen and was washing greens. That's when the bluish flash suddenly hit, see; I put m y hands to m y face. This is what happened to all the exposed parts o f m y body, from face to chest." She looked like a leper. O n her skin, burned the color o f copper, there was white medicine and red medicine and salve, and also broken blisters, like rows o f roasted chestnuts. " I finally found m y husband on the evening o f the sixth at the spot i n Temma where he had t u m ­ bled out o f a streetcar. That's the state he was i n . " Her husband lay prone on the bench just as i f he were l y i n g on a stretcher. He was burned i n virtually the same way as she; his color was darker, almost metallic. As i f it had been shaved off, the hair was gone f r o m those parts o f his head not covered by his cap. The person w h o had asked the earlier question said, "There are lots o f people whose heads look like this, as i f they all agreed to get shaved this way. Roasted by that flash, weren't they?" The w o m a n talked w i t h o u t haste, w i t h frequent pauses: " E v ­ eryone out i n the open got burned like this. It's like a snapshot, isn't it?—the difference between where light hit and where it didn't. M y husband was standing on the platform at the back o f the streetcar, y o u see, so he was i n the open. The streetcar, too, got burned pitch black, and there were a lot o f people, too, w h o died inside i t . The people w h o tumbled out were lying one atop the other, all over the street. Fortunately, m y husband survived." The buses for both Tsuda and Yoshiwa were to leave f r o m here, so these people were not all waiting for the Kushima bus. B u t we couldn't k n o w h o w many people w o u l d have gathered by 4 p . m . What is more, we couldn't be sure that the buses headed for these three destinations w o u l d actually leave. N o r , people said, was i t cer­ tain w h e n they w o u l d leave. The ticket w i n d o w was shut. When we looked into the office from the side door, the clerks were smoking, l o o k i n g the other way, or lost i n their o w n talk. They simply did not 234

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respond to refugees w h o wished to inquire about various things. The refugees stood alone. One could only gaze i n silent wonder at the Jap­ anese characteristics brought into such clear relief i n this situation: passivity, laxity, the absence o f even an ounce o f intelligence, and other crucial human shallownesses and weaknesses. Even after an event like this, one that m i g h t happen only once i n a hundred years, a clear policy about carrying refugees had not reached those i n charge o f the buses. They shut themselves up i n the office as i f hiding, as i f afraid, should they act decisively or be k i n d to the refugees and treat them w i t h compassion and feeling, that some­ one w o u l d reprimand them afterward. They had to carry on just as they always did. Someone or other told us that the severely injured w o u l d get first shot at the bus. Three o'clock passed. They said "severely injured" and "slightly injured," but there was no sharp difference between the t w o categories. A n d even the slightly injured, i f left behind, did not k n o w where or h o w they could wait until 4 t o m o r r o w afternoon. One man, young and unnaturally pale, said he had come back yesterday f r o m Okayama to Hiroshima and was heading for the coun­ t r y because he didn't k n o w whether his family was safe. Suddenly, on purpose, he developed a l i m p i n one leg. As i f he had suddenly broken a shoulder, he began to look exhausted, like one o f the injured. H e kept his place at the very head o f the line at the ticket w i n d o w . A rattletrap bus departed, bound for Tsuda. The Yoshiwa bus, too, departed right afterward. The bus for Kushima wasn't that full, but the attendant i n charge o f the passengers stuck to his callous air, asking each person to state the nature o f his injuries. After we boarded the bus, M o t h e r said i n a small voice, "Once we get to Kushima, we'll all collapse." The bus drove off, giving us a good shaking; but we were as w e l l behaved as shabby luggage. The bus entered an area i n the hills, sparsely dotted w i t h farmhouses. N o one was walking on the road. I had seen m y fill o f people, and as we went forward into the natural tranquility o f the region, I felt I was awakening f r o m a bad dream. The summer greenery seemed at its lushest. I had come wandering through a city that looked like a winter field. H a d m y eyes suddenly CITY

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been dipped i n bright green dye? M i g h t the clear green restore m y half-dead soul? Sister and I weren't able to open our mouths easily, so we hadn't been able to eat our fill. Still, we had never once felt hungry. As the bus entered the mountains and dusk approached, I became terribly hungry. I got some hard biscuits out and chewed on them. I had half noticed a cute youngster sitting i n back. So while I was at i t , I turned and gave h i m a piece. The boy was just nine, and his head was wrapped i n a filthy, blood-stained cloth. The person sitting on the seat next to h i m asked what had happened, and he told this story i n a brisk voice. O n that fateful m o r n i n g he had lost father and mother and elder sister. The three had been pinned under; only their hands and toes peeked out f r o m under the w o o d and dirt. He pulled every w h i c h way t r y i n g to free them, but the fire burned its way right up to where he was. H e couldn't see his mother; he could only hear her voice. She said to get away quickly, so he fled. Left on his o w n , he decided to go to his grandmother's place i n Tsuda. He had missed the bus for Tsuda, so he was taking this bus. He understood that the bus for Tsuda, having made a wide swing, w o u l d double back to a point up ahead, so he w o u l d have to transfer there. He had cried when he re­ solved to go by himself, but he wasn't sad any longer. The man sitting next to h i m said, " I hope y o u make the bus for Tsuda!" The boy answered squarely, " I f I miss the connection, I ' l l walk." The boy gave no sign that he w o u l d eat the hard biscuit I had handed back to h i m . The man next to h i m apparently had shared a rice ball w i t h h i m , and even though he urged h i m to eat it right away, the boy seemed to have made up his mind. He replied, " I ' m not h u n ­ gry n o w ; I ' l l eat i t after I get on the other bus." Worried about the connection, the people around h i m gave h i m words o f advice. The boy himself went to the driver's seat and checked w i t h the driver, and when we came to the corner past w h i c h the Tsuda bus ran, he j u m p e d lightly off, w i t h o u t looking back or saying a w o r d . Then he came to a stop i n front o f an o l d village restaurant and watched our bus leave, a sullen look on his face. 236

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The sun set. The air was clear. The smell o f earth and the resiny smell o f tree bark came drifting i n the air. 24. N e x t day we arrived at our temporary lodging, and for the first time i n a long while, i n a long-handled m i r r o r we borrowed, Sister and I saw our o w n faces. "What a face! A l l puffed up and ghastly! A n d before we knew what was happening!" In truth, Sister's face was i n worse shape than mine. M i n e wasn't so monstrous; one half was all swollen up, and stray strands o f b l o o d soaked hair were stuck fast to m y cheek, w h i c h was clotted w i t h blood. B u t her injury was beside her mouth; and the skin around her eyes was swollen an indescribable purple—she really was all puffed up and ghastly. It was I w h o had used the w o r d ghastly before Sister could speak. Sister responded w i t h o u t laughing, "You're right, but we're lucky to be alive. Wouldn't have surprised me a bit had we died." Neither o f us so much as smiled. As we spoke w i t h each other, we were absolutely sick at heart. Having found a place where we could gather our wits, we felt more or less out o f harm's way. B u t it really was "more or less." We no longer had to sleep on a riverbed or i n a cemetery—that was all. Life indoors is not as unconstrained as life w i t h o u t bedding i n a cemetery or on a riverbed. People living indoors face many con­ straints; having come f r o m the riverbed where neither constraints nor conventions obtained, we were aware i n an apathetic way o f the lack o f freedom. It really is strange. I don't understand w h i c h is which, what is unconstrained and what is not. H u m a n i t y is astonishingly adaptable: even amid total devastation people find ways to carry on. There began to flicker i n the darkness o f m y heart a glimmer, almost a hope: no matter what the conditions, life goes on. The l i v i n g hell that was Hiroshima and the peaceful countryside were distinctly different worlds, but i n b o t h o f them ordered life went on. I found i t remarkable. I said "peaceful countryside," but to the people w h o came here f r o m Hiroshima, that meant only that they could sleep on tatami rather than on the ground. It d i d not mean peace CITY

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and contentment. That we, gypsies, had come uninvited was an added drag on our spirits. In the meantime, even after we got to the village, the war contin­ ued dizzily, sending sparks flying like fireworks. Here, too, people were engulfed i n i t . That is, they were drawn into the beginning o f the end. I n the village, as elsewhere, the air raid siren sounded con­ stantly, and B - 2 Q S and P-51S and other bombers large and small sped incessantly across the sky. The second atomic bomb fell on Nagasaki at 11 a.m. on the ninth. A l m o s t simultaneously i t was announced that the Soviet U n i o n had declared war. The Soviets had now joined the fighting, and the newspaper, w h i c h came a day late, carried news o f their attacks i n Korea and Manchuria. Near dusk on the thirteenth, a large formation o f B - 2 Q S flew across the evening sky, flowing along majestically, like a great rushing river, white and shining. As i f there were a broad h i g h ­ way i n the sky over the mountains, south to north, formations o f t e n to twelve planes appeared one after the other. For some reason there was a single black plane i n the corner o f every box formation. A lone black plane i n every pure white formation: i t was ominous. Even w i t h the atomic bomb, the Soviet entry into the war, and hundreds o f giant bombers i n the skies over small villages and ham­ lets, people still didn't suspect that these events marked the heart­ breaking beginning o f the surrender that w o u l d end the war. Poor creatures, they thought the war w o u l d go on and on for a long time into the future—three years, five. O n the fifteenth, when she learned that there w o u l d be an i m p o r ­ tant broadcast, Sister was greatly concerned: "What d'you think i t is? C o u l d n ' t be the end, could it?" "Yesterday's paper said that we w o u l d fight the Soviet U n i o n res­ olutely. Perhaps i t ' l l be something to this effect, that w e ' l l arm our­ selves w i t h spears and fight to the last Japanese. B u t I can't think what they'll come up w i t h now." The radio was broken, so we couldn't listen to the broadcast at home. T h i n k i n g we might be able to listen at D r . S.'s house, I went there w i t h Sister just before noon. B u t D r . S.'s radio was broken, too. Even i f i t had been w o r k i n g , the sound didn't carry to the waiting 238

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r o o m , and I had lost the g u m p t i o n it w o u l d have taken to go to the doctor's private quarters and listen there. Rather, I was struck d u m b even though I saw the same scene every day—at the mass o f the i n ­ jured, packed tight, f r o m the dirt floor o f the entry way to the waiting r o o m to the rooms w i t h tatami. I was so overwhelmed I even forgot the announcement about the important broadcast, and having lost track o f its importance I could think o f nothing but what was before m y eyes. I n addition to the peo­ ple I saw every day, there were the new patients w h o were leaving Hiroshima and coming here i n a steady stream. A n d that unbearable stench wafted through the waiting r o o m . A patient came not to have one thing looked at, but for five or more injuries, f r o m head to toe. Splinters o f glass had to be removed w i t h great care. A m i d the stench we w o u l d have to wait as long as three hours. Each time the thin adhesive was removed f r o m beside Sister's mouth, her face turned an earthy color, and she almost fainted. When we first came here, D r . S. said to her, " H m m , you've got a bad injury i n a bad place . . ." and her face suddenly paled. The same scene was repeated each day thereafter. Since we had slept a number o f nights on the filthy ground, we feared greatly that we might contract tetanus f r o m germs i n the soil, so we asked D r . S. to give us preventive shots. (In T o k y o , too, and particularly i n Osaka, a great many o f the homeless contracted teta­ nus. They say there was an incubation period o f several days, then horrible t w i t c h i n g w o u l d develop and one was done for.) That day, too, we asked D r . S. to give Sister a shot. He smiled, " Y o u look as i f y o u need a shot i n the arm more than a tetanus injec­ t i o n , " had her lie d o w n on the bed, and gave her the injection. While I was waiting for Sister, the patients all left (the office closed at 12). Then Sister too got up and left before me, so D r . S. and I were left alone. As I w r o t e at the beginning, D r . S. was like a father to me, so I relaxed i n his office and listened to h i m talk about the injuries these new patients had and about other things. U p u n t i l a little while ago, D r . S.'s elderly wife had been hard at w o r k preparing prescriptions i n the apothecary. As I was sitting there, she came into the office, polishing the metal rims o f her glasses, her CITY

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face a little different f r o m usual, and said to her husband, "They say Japan's capitulated! The children heard it on the t w o o'clock broadcast. . . . D r . S.'s face suddenly turned dry and pale: "What? For sure? N o t a rumor?" I n a vague and listless tone, his wife said, "They say Japa­ nese territory w i l l be t r i m m e d back to a line east o f Kagoshima or Nagasaki." His b r o w wrinkled, as crestfallen as a child, D r . S. sat speaking n o w to his wife, n o w to me: "What to do? What to do? What should we do? What has Japan done? There are various ways o f sur­ rendering. What k i n d o f surrender has Japan made? The same as Germany s? Going out the large gate o f D r . S.'s house, I climbed d o w n the stone steps. People often describe such an experience by saying that everything went black, but I felt I had been set free into bright clear air. I say air, but it was an indescribable emptiness, as when y o u climb to mountain highlands; the air was thin and too light, the k i n d that makes y o u giddy. It was like walking i n the fog when no one else is around. M y legs trembled. I was shaking so badly I couldn't even walk. N o one was about, so I was helpless to stop m y tears. Mean­ while, I felt i n m y heart o f hearts a series o f emotions: relief, a sense o f h o w long the war had gone on, safety. I f I were to meet someone, even someone I didn't know, I ' d have to check whether i t really was true that the war had ended. The road back to the house seemed twice or three times its nor­ mal length. A r o u n d me all was quiet. There was no way to tell that something important had happened. It was dead quiet, no noise at all. That night I couldn't sleep a w i n k . N o t sleeping—rather, l y i n g motionless i n bed—became too much for me, and I spent the time sitting outside the mosquito net, pacing up and down, l o o k i n g out the w i n d o w at the dark village. A few solitary houses i n the village even had lights on. They were burning the lights that people had made such a fuss about. That must have been it—they couldn't sleep. A n d perhaps those houses held se­ riously injured people lying n o w at the point o f death. I wondered 240

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h o w to explain these t w o sudden reverses: the atomic b o m b and the end o f the war. . . . Neither M o t h e r nor Sister could sleep. F r o m her knapsack Sister took out a candle she had saved carefully for many years, l i t i t , set i t on the edge o f the table, and stared at it. As she sat there, I could smell her w o u n d . O n l y the baby, chubby and cute, slept soundly. F r o m out­ side the mosquito net I could see the scrapes on its feet and the blue o f the small bruise on its cheek. 25. Food was i n short supply even i n the country. I n the broad pad­ dies, green and undulating, the stalks began to bend w i t h the weight o f the still-colorless heads o f rice; squash and cucumber and other veg­ etables were g r o w i n g i n the fields. But they all belonged to others. The government's food distribution amounted to only a little rice and barley; salt and soy were supposed to be for sale, but the distribution center had neither. A n d no supplementary foods were distributed, not even a single potato. Every last thing was stored i n places not visible to us—in the sheds and storehouses and back recesses o f the kitchens o f other people's houses. It didn't emerge o f its o w n accord. We had only t w o alternatives: beg and whine like gypsies, w h o cried outside people's houses even when they had i n their pockets the money to pay the staggering prices o f the black market, or become thieves. O u r family, all o f us, were most maladroit at asking things o f people; I w o u l d sooner go hungry than wander about begging. I n the hamlet that long ago had been our family home, there were a dozen or so people w h o m Father and M o t h e r had helped out i n the o l d days, and they were k i n d enough to bring us things to eat. One after the other, they brought us soy and salt and pickles, and such things as barley flour and flour for making noodles; at bon they brought us rice cakes and rice dumplings. Had they not done so, we m i g h t have gone w i t h o u t food for three days, even four, at a time. We sank helplessly into feelings we could not express. I n the past, our family's ancient house code had stipulated that we take care o f the villagers. This assistance involved special bonds, virtually lifelong, second i n importance only to the bonds among blood relations. I t i n ­ cluded tutoring the young w o m e n at the main house, making chests CITY

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o f drawers and crested kimonos for people when they got married, lis­ tening to the problems o f the young men, getting together to cele­ brate the j o y s o f marriage or to bemoan divorces, organizing celebra­ tions when children were born. B u t now, having not visited them for many years, we showed up, beggars, reduced to poverty and ac­ cursed. We did not beg i n so many words, but w i t h o u t their help we w o u l d have starved; so it amounted to the same thing. They all greeted us w i t h surprise: "Well, that was a horrible thing that happened over i n O k i ; you're lucky y o u weren't severely i n ­ j u r e d . " The villagers referred to Hiroshima as O k i . We were there because o f the horrible thing that happened i n O k i , so their comment served only to hurt us and make us all the more self-conscious. Talk o f food quite disgusted me. It was because we had none that we talked so compulsively about food. People talked openly about the ridicu­ lously high prices on the black market, as i f such prices were an ev­ eryday occurrence, forgetting that talking like that only sent the prices still higher. We were drawing the rope tight around our o w n necks. T w o years ago I had g r o w n tired o f stories about starvation rations and about the black market; i n the end we got by w i t h o u t hearing them. (In T o k y o the talk o f food stopped when the b o m b i n g became fierce. Life itself is more important than the mundane matter o f want­ ing to eat.) It had become possible i n Hiroshima to get by w i t h o u t hearing the stories; n o w we had to hear them all over again i n the country. Hiroshima was one year behind T o k y o i n everything, and the countryside was another year behind Hiroshima. N o w (since the end o f the war) people were shocked at the food distribution—half rice, half barley—and complained from dawn to dusk. As for us, we were shocked by this behavior; wartime conditions i n the cities were so much worse than i n the countryside, and we were numbed by the thought o f what things must be like n o w i n the large cities. N o matter where y o u turned, there was no intellectual life i n the countryside. I n the big cities, supposedly half-filled w i t h the social ills o f dishonesty, deception, and ugliness, there was a dazzling intellec­ tual life. There were no sparks o f intelligence and conscience i n the country, nor was there eye-opening evil; i n their place, on a much 242

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smaller—indeed, petty—scale, was an odor o f decline and decadence. One w o u l d not have thought that the riverbed and the cemetery and the streets reeking o f rotting human flesh were fit for human habita­ tion; but i n the country there even came moments when, on l o o k i n g back, I thought h o w pure and clean life i n those places had been. That's h o w bad, i n the country, the rural avarice was. I still could not turn m y head easily. N o r did all m y aches f r o m the fierce trauma o f the blast go away. There were times when, w i t h an assist f r o m Mother, I got up, went into the river out back, on w h i c h faint m o o n l i g h t was shining, and washed m y blood-stained clothes. T h e n the cruelty o f war came home to me w i t h a vengeance, and m y tears flowed freely. It was almost as i f I went to the river to weep. For the first time I even thought that there m i g h t be no relief at all. War itself was cruelty to humanity, pure and simple, and I had already understood the agony o f war on the day the war broke out. I thought it likely that the agony w o u l d spread to Japan, too. N o w those shocking thoughts came back to torment me once more. Having suffered the ultimate evil o f these t w o sudden reverses, I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole. B u t entirely apart f r o m that feeling, the last embers o f the war were still smoldering i n m y body. O n August 20, M o t h e r and Sister got up at 4 a. m . , bought tickets for the bus, and left. We did not k n o w i f m y younger brother-in-law was alive, i f m y younger sister's family was safe, or what the situation o f other relatives was. So they went i n part to make inquiries about them. Also, they had not been able to reconcile themselves to l i v i n g in someone else's house. To say "someone else's house" was to say that one did not have a house o f one's o w n . M o t h e r and Sister went to N o m i j i m a to live i n a house by themselves and to plant seeds i n their o w n garden. I hoped that their wishes w o u l d be granted, that they w o u l d reap a bountiful harvest. I knew they w o u l d plant lateb l o o m i n g herbs and lovingly protect the seeds w i t h a cover o f dirt. O n the evening o f the same day I moved to the house I am n o w l i v i n g i n . I , too, moved i n order to plant good seed. For the writer's itch was beginning to come back to me. CITY

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26. A l l at once, soon after the 20th, the victims w h o had come f r o m Hiroshima were attacked by the radiation sickness I described at the beginning o f this volume, and one after the other they began to die. The phenomenon o f completely unanticipated death rose to distress­ ing prominence. A young w o m a n and a boy were among those going back and forth past m y w i n d o w ; pulled on a large wagon, they came every day at a set time. O n the wagon was a l o w box w i t h a cushion on top o f it; the w o m a n sat on the cushion, i n bandages and holding a parasol. Face pale and head bandaged, the boy sat beside her. The man pulling the wagon was the father o f the young woman, but w o m a n and boy were not mother and son. I sometimes saw the t w o at D r . S.'s clinic as well. The w o m a n and the boy had been next-door neighbors i n H i r o ­ shima. The m o r n i n g the bomb fell the w o m a n lost her o w n child; the boy lost his mother. The boy's father, a soldier, was in Java. The boy had been playing outdoors w i t h the woman's child; only he had sur­ vived. The w o m a n w o u l d have brought the boy along w i t h her, she said, even i f her o w n child had lived. She seemed not to want to think that she had brought h i m instead o f her o w n child. When the w o m a n t o l d people this story, the boy listened w i t h downcast eyes, then wept s l o w l y He was six years old. Three or four other children about that age also came to D r . S.'s clinic, and every time he treated them, they complained and misbehaved. O n l y this boy shut one eye tight and said not a w o r d . I enjoyed seeing this w o m a n and boy being pulled on the wagon. I liked that k i n d o f story. I also liked seeing the old father pull the wagon. The w o m a n had had a good constitution, but then all o f a sudden she died. The boy is still alive. A person the same age as Sister frequently went to D r . S.'s clinic w i t h her four-year-old child; she said she had been one o f Sister's classmates i n primary school. O n the fifth, the day before the b o m b , she had left the child i n Hiroshima and come to see i f she could stay i n her parents' home. The next day had seen her son transformed into his present condition. He had burns over his whole body, w i t h the sole exception o f his 244

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eyes. They changed the bandages every day, and i n the process, splashed by the child's blood and pus, the mother's back and neck became filthy. I f y o u got close to her, the smell w o u l d make y o u v o m i t . While the doctor was treating h i m , the child complained and cried. His mother soothed h i m and told h i m not to cry, since crying only made it hurt worse, to w h i c h he responded, "Before i t hurt and I didn't cry; n o w I ' l l cry every day. M o m m y ! M o m m y ! Water! Water! Water!" A n d he cried. His mother said, " C r y like that and y o u ' l l never make a soldier. D o n ' t cry," and he said, " I w o n ' t be a soldier! I don't want to be a soldier! M o m m y ! " He cried and repeated the same w o r d , stretching it out slowly u n t i l the tail end o f the w o r d faded away: "Waterrrr! Waterrrr! Waterrrr!" Dr. S. smiled broadly: "What's all this singing about?" His wife brought cooled tea for the child to drink. One m o r n i n g it was the young mother's face, not the child's, that looked w o r n out and thin and palely swollen. She said, " H i s throat has the worst burns, and some o f them don't heal over; they just don't seem to get better." Face still downcast, she put the half-dead child on her back and went out into the hot sun. The stench the t w o left behind was suffocating. Said one old man, " A w h i f f o f that is enough all by itself to k i l l y o u . " Another person told this story: "Even those w h o went to H i r o ­ shima after the b o m b fell, it appears, were poisoned and w i l l die. B i t by bit, they w i l l die. I n the village o f K . , the men i n the civilian guard all left for Hiroshima on the sixth to clear firebreaks; virtually all o f them died. The village doesn't have any more males. A n d even those w h o came back fit as a fiddle, they say, w i l l die, too." Such talk came to the ear o f Dr. S. i n his office, yet oddly he did not gainsay the idea that even people w h o had not been i n Hiroshima when the b o m b fell w o u l d die. That night the four-year-old burn v i c t i m died i n his sleep, his short and troubled life at an end. A taciturn young man said he was fine, he had only a trifling scratch on his back. One day he leaned against the pillar i n the waiting CITY

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r o o m and pulled at his hair. Suddenly and curtly, he said, "It's falling out!" A n d he smiled. The hair fell out here and there on his round head, as i f he had the mange. I saw this young man t w o or three times i n D r . S.'s waiting r o o m ; he died soon thereafter. A j o v i a l middle-aged w o m a n told the following story. That m o r n i n g the alarm had been lifted and then the alert, too, and it was hot; so everyone had taken o f f their cotton w o r k pants. She was about to begin her laundry, so she w o u n d up w i t h burns on her face and both arms. Still, there was something very strange. She heard the sound o f an engine, and a plane passed overhead, so w i t h the w o m a n next door she watched the plane. As they watched i t , the sound stopped suddenly, and then something fell toward her. The w o m a n next door said, "Something's falling from that plane! Something's falling!" A t that very moment there came a brilliant flash, and every­ thing turned bright blue. Yet the other w o m a n kept watching. I n the instant o f the flash, the speaker had t h r o w n herself flat on the ground and held her breath. When she opened her eyes, it was pitch dark; she couldn't see a thing. A t one stroke the house and everything else had been b l o w n away; she was astonished to see the w o m a n next door still standing and looking up at the sky. Because the other w o m a n looked at the flash for such a long time, her face and hands and feet and chest were all badly burned; her skin sagged greasily. The speaker's stomach had begun to ache, and she had had a bad case o f diarrhea. The poison, she thinks, may well have left her body then. For even though people were dying here and there, it looked as i f she w o u l d survive. The speaker recovered beautifully from her burns. The w o m a n next door was alive, too; the speaker had met her i n Hiroshima. In a loud voice the speaker said, " B u t that brilliant flash, y o u know, lasted only a second. Had it lasted for t w o or three hours, every last person w o u l d have died." A n injured old man w h o often talked w i t h this w o m a n replied, " N o . T w o or three hours w o u l d have been okay; but had i t lasted a whole day w i t h o u t fading, what then? H e l l on earth." He had three or four cuts on his forehead, and eventually he died. Another old person, 246

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a w o m a n , had been fine—not a pinprick anywhere—when she got back f r o m Hiroshima, so she was helping out w i t h the rice harvest. Then suddenly spots appeared all over her body. I n less than three days she was dead. After the o l d w o m a n died, D r . S. commented: " I don't like to say they were beautiful. But red, green, yellow, black spots appeared like stars all over her body, and I was fascinated by them." Another story about burns. When a person w h o m i g h t have been his younger sister first brought h i m i n , the patient was i n such shape one wondered i f he could be alive. O n l y his eyes were gleaming; all the rest o f his body was covered w i t h burns. He was just like the per­ son I had seen i n the bus waiting r o o m i n Hatsukaichi. There were spots where he was burned black, light pink spots where skin had fallen off, and places where his skin was like that o f an albino. B u t he wore a cotton kimono over the bandages that covered his body and walked w i t h his back straight as a ramrod. He had gone w i t h one o f the volunteer brigades to clear firebreaks. The location was Senda (probably close to D r . Fujiwara's residence). He had climbed up onto a roof, at first wearing a shirt all buttoned up and w i t h the sleeves rolled d o w n . B u t the strong m o r n i n g sun got too hot, so he unbut­ toned the shirt and bared his upper body. A n d then came the flash o f blue lightning. U h oh! he thought, a nearby gas tank has exploded. (In Nagasaki, too, many people apparently had the same idea.) He j u m p e d d o w n o f f the roof. There was no refuge i n Senda, so he ran toward Ujina. A l o n g his path, people stuck faces and hands out f r o m under collapsed houses and called for help; he didn't k n o w h o w many there were, but there were lots o f them. Without stopping to help a single one, he ran to the ocean and j u m p e d i n . After soaking i n the ocean, he thought again about his conduct i n not pulling out even one o f the people w h o had called for help. B u t had he pulled them out, the flames o f the fire that came chasing after h i m w o u l d certainly have gotten h i m . He did not die, either. D r . S. was said to be an expert at treating burns; even so, this person recovered completely, w i t h o u t even a scar. It was almost too good to be true. Still, his younger sister, w h o had CITY

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shown up the first time w i t h a happy expression on her face: she died, even though her only injury was a slight cut on the lip. It suddenly dawned on me. I asked D r . S., and he said I was right. The people w i t h burns did not die, even i f their burns were very ex­ tensive or covered the entire body. Death came to those w h o were slightly injured, w i t h only t w o or three burns, and to those w i t h no injury at all. Those w h o died right at the start—that is, those w h o died either i n Hiroshima or while fleeing, unable even to make it all the way back to this village—were a different matter. Those w i t h burns w h o were able to get to D r . S.'s clinic, no matter h o w bad their burns, were classified as second-degree cases. Those w i t h t h i r d - and fourthdegree burns, far f r o m coming here, died i n Hiroshima. The corpses o f those w h o died instantly o f burns, corpses that glistened a pure black like bronze Buddhas—those were burns o f the most severe k i n d , fourth-degree, mortal wounds. B u t people w i t h second-degree burns over their whole bodies did not die, and people w i t h no injuries or w i t h cuts hardly w o r t h men­ tioning died one after the other: that was the issue. The r u m o r spread even among lay people, and the somber message was treated as i f it were definitive. H o w could it be that people w i t h burns were less likely to die than people w i t h no injuries at all? I n a newspaper article i n mid-September, D r . Tsuzuki touched i n passing on this matter: "Even people roughly t w o kilometers f r o m G r o u n d Zero w h o received burns, it appears, do not lose their hair or run fevers. One might even suppose that having a burn to some extent protects the body f r o m radioactivity." Experts other than D r . Tsuzuki did not respond. T o be sure, I read only the one paper published i n Hiroshima, the Chügoku shimbun, w h i c h continued to be published even i n the midst o f the chaos. It is true that on account o f typhoon and heavy rains, all c o m ­ munications are broken, and I haven't read a single newspaper since September 17; so i n the meantime things that once were ' u n k n o w n ' may have been found out. There may have been reports and accounts o f them. D r . S. has spoken to me a little more specifically about D r . T s u 248

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zuki's opinion. I n the case o f normal burns, i f the b u r n covers more than one t h i r d o f the surface area o f the body, the skin cannot breathe, the circulation o f the blood is blocked, and the patient dies. B u t w i t h these burns, even burns covering the entire body, as long as the b u r n is second-degree or less, the patient does not die. Strange. Excepting those w i t h burns over only a small area o f the body, most people had burns on the front upper body (virtually no one was burned on the back); but i n not a single case is the skin still there, as in normal burns. This may provide a clue. I n one instant, w i t h a force that had that special effect, the b o m b may have stripped o f f b o t h the Malpighian layer o f the skin and the uranium. Ordinary victims speak o f radioactivity simply as poison or as poison gas; i t may be that they have discharged that poison each day together w i t h the secretions f r o m their burns. Dr. S. talked to me i n these terms about w h y it was that the b u r n victims survived. There were still gaps i n our knowledge, but even lay people frequently said the same thing, though their words were not so logical as his. Second-degree burns affect the skin's upper, Malpighian layer. Everything above that layer had been scraped away, and so the poison was eliminated: even the victims said that much. I f this theory is cor­ rect, i t becomes all too easy to understand w h y patients died w h o had injuries other than burns and were unable to slough o f f the uranium. The slightly injured and those w i t h a clean bill o f health w i l l all die; they have survived, but only so far. They haven't died yet, but they will. I asked D r . S.: "Is it clearly the case that those w i t h cuts are more likely to die than those w i t h burns?" "Yes, it is. O n l y t w o people w i t h burns have died—the fouryear-old child y o u saw and one person I treated at his home. I have treated some 290 patients. O f those, 15 percent have died; t w o o f them had burns. Some died whose cut was only a pinprick." I was deathly silent. I n m y heart, I had been repeating, almost like an incantation, that on that m o r n i n g I had been inside the mos­ quito netting, inside the mosquito netting; thinking that I m i g h t have CITY

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been under the futon, I was obsessed w i t h the thought that netting and futon m i g h t well have functioned as a Malpighian layer. D r . S. went on: "Well, I said it from the start: these injuries are all horizontal cuts. Y o u are the only one w i t h a vertical cut, the only exception. I really don't understand it. Y o u ' d think some expert w o u l d say something about i t ; but w i t h o u t exception all the cuts are horizontal, eye-shaped. It was probably glass that made all the cuts. It may be a farfetched idea, but perhaps an indescribably strong force pressed d o w n from above and broke the glass, so it all flew sideways. B u t that's strange, too. There are all kinds o f strange things. It isn't clear w h y those w i t h burns don't die. N o r do I understand either w h y those w i t h cuts die. O n l y a hair's breadth separates those likely to die f r o m those likely to live." I had a feeling that the logic didn't hold. B u t to be told that the cut on m y ear was not horizontal but vertical—even that was enough to allow me to think I m i g h t not die.

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Wind and Rain 27. The newspaper came once every week or ten days, a week or ten days' w o r t h at one time. F r o m these late newspapers I learned that an unexpected number o f noted people had been killed by the atomic bomb. The prince about w h o m I had heard i n Hiroshima was His H i g h ­ ness Prince Y i K ö n . It was also true, as I had heard, b o t h that General Superintendent Otsuka was a v i c t i m and that the mayor had been killed. M r . Otsuka had seemed to be a person w i t h the sensibility o f a modern intellectual, so his coming to Hiroshima had pleased us. We had expected big things o f h i m . M a y o r Awaya I had met through m y great-uncle. Great-uncle S. had been a second deputy mayor. That fateful m o r n i n g , while still at home, Uncle S. was injured. B u t since he was temporarily acting mayor, he had soon forced himself to go to C i t y Hall. Thereafter his hair fell out, he ran a fever, and, I learned f r o m village scuttlebutt, he took to bed i n a hotel i n Miyajima. Since that time high winds and heavy rains had cut o f f all communications c o m ­ pletely; the mail wasn't getting through, and the telephones weren't working. The family o f General Superintendent Ötsuka had evacuated, people said, to someone's mansion i n Hera, a flatland village close to Hatsukaichi. F r o m m y village here there is a steep road four k i l o m e ­ ters up to a pass and then a steep road four kilometers d o w n f r o m the pass to Hera, just this side o f Hatsukaichi. O n the m o r n i n g o f the sixth, someone i n our neighborhood told us, all eight members o f the Otsuka household survived unscathed except for the governor, w h o was pinned under when the house col­ lapsed. O n l y his head, all bloody, was sticking out. Engulfed i n the eddying smoke and flame, he told his family not to w o r r y about h i m but to leave h i m there and get out quickly. The person telling me this story wept. Various people had died: acquaintances f r o m the Chügoku shimCITY

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bun, famous legislators and military men, noted actors like Maruyama Sadao. A n d then an odd thought struck me: h o w strange, given the fact that all these people had died, that I had survived. The axe o f fate—I mean thereby the first atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima—fell, w i t h no warning, on all our heads alike; so i t w o u l d have been fitting had death, too, come to all alike. Perhaps those w h o survived were like some k i n d o f insect, were not human. The shame o f being alive, I thought, might weaken me. M y next thought, that I might be the next to die, caused me to shake w i t h terror. Having to die o f injuries received i n an air raid but after the war itself had already ended: that really was absurd. Death hung suspended before our eyes. D u r i n g the day, during the night, one was alive, yet face-to-face w i t h death. Put cancer and leprosy patients together i n a large r o o m , and w i t h t w o or three o f them dying every day, those still alive w i l l rivet their gaze on death. They w i l l do so because they k n o w that their illness is incurable. We resembled them, yet we weren't even sick! We resembled them i n be­ ing incurable; but the differences were greater than the similarities. It wasn't even a matter o f being incurable—we were being killed o f f w i l l y - n i l l y by an u n k n o w n agent. The interim reports o f the scientific investigations still under way also lured the victims w i l l y - n i l l y into thoughts o f death. The research team f r o m T o k y o University came to Hiroshima for the first time on September 2. I thought that was slow. W h y hadn't they come rushing i n the very day after August 6? A n d then i t wasn't enough to be at the site only four or five days or a week or t w o ; they should have taken twenty-five days, thirty days. Psychologists should have come, too. A n d some eminent Buddhist priests. It w o u l d have been wise to mobilize a lot o f general practitioners from outside H i r o ­ shima Prefecture. A n d i t w o u l d have helped i f a stream o f ingenious and committed purveyors o f foodstuffs had come, too. The fact that even these modest steps proved impossible we may attribute to a typically Japanese characteristic. The Japanese are not quick. They are slow on the uptake and lack fire. There is nothing to be done about Japan's material poverty, but 252

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i n dealing w i t h this catastrophe—so enormous that over half the pop­ ulation o f a large city died i n one day—and i n stating that this catas­ trophe was a result o f the war, the authorities simply weren't smart enough. Even i n an atmosphere o f death i n w h i c h no matter where y o u turned there was no help at all, the people made homeless that day kept their mouths shut, neither grumbling nor complaining. One o f the symptoms o f atomic b o m b disease is an expression­ less face. It is not, I think, something that develops after one contracts radiation sickness; i t has been i n evidence ever since August 6. I t is the expressionless face o f imbecility, the face o f the idiot. The expression­ less face o f the imbecile has become a state o f m i n d , and i t is this very condition that manifests itself i n the victims o f this calamity, setting them apart. It is a reality that cannot be measured i n terms o f conven­ tional b o m b i n g : incendiaries, bombs, naval shelling. I f the issue is ter­ ror, waves o f incendiaries, bombs, naval shelling may well be more terrifying. I f one is under attack all day or continuously day and night, the fear may drive one crazy. We were not afraid o f the atomic b o m b . We had no time to think about being afraid. A n d even afterward we were not afraid. We probably w o n ' t be afraid u n t i l t w o or three years have passed. B u t the shadow o f death crossed before our very eyes, returned, passed on. Alongside one's live self stood one's dead self. There are no words to describe i t . The only way to get through the day was to feel cheered i f y o u awoke i n the m o r n i n g alive, having made i t back f r o m hell, and to rejoice at having been brought back f r o m death. We even forgot to resent the atomic bomb. It is the resolve to use the atomic b o m b that is terrifying. Even supposing the b o m b contained no poison, the injury to the spirit amounts to the same thing. Japan had lost the war long since; still, i t had not surrendered i n orthodox fashion, and i t had no way o f m o u n t ­ ing a fierce counterattack. So even when the enemy came w i t h his decisive stroke, Japan could do nothing. When y o u get into a brawl, y o u can't rule out certain blows, nor can y o u rule out certain weapons. Even i f the enemy had not i n t r o ­ duced the atomic bombs, we had lost the war. The black curtain o f CITY

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defeat simply descended sooner. Still, used i n a conflict among human beings, the atomic bomb is the very epitome o f evil. Someone somewhere may think up something to best even atomic bombs. Suppose something is developed that can beat atomic bombs, i t w i l l be possible to fight, all right, but that w i l l no longer be war. It w i l l be all-out destruction. We have n o w reached a revolution­ ary moment i n this human tragedy that progress comes only through destruction. The only road to peace is to make progress w i t h o u t de­ struction. I hope this defeat contributes to making Japan truly peace­ ful. This is w h y , i n the midst o f all the suffering, I am w r i t i n g this book. Rain falls. Rain falls. A n d the w i n d blows. Beginning at the end o f August—-just when the Occupation army landed near Atsugi i n Kanazawa—rain began to fall, a prolonged rain, w i t h intervals o f a half day or a day when it cleared a bit. It rained and rained for ten days, for t w o weeks. Every last person w h o passed by beneath m y second-floor w i n ­ dow—the men, as y o u might expect; the bent old women; even chil­ dren w h o knew only a few words—went by speaking only o f the atomic b o m b and the defeat. They completely forgot about food, about w h i c h there had been so much talk. Instead, i n place o f the nor­ mal civilities, they talked w i t h characteristic candor about h o w Japan had been defeated after fighting such a stupid war and about how, duped, they had w o r k e d throughout the war until their bones ached but n o w didn't want to w o r k any more because disappointment had left them absolutely l i m p . H o m e f r o m the war, young warriors also passed by, groups o f them. I f one couldn't tell from strong faces and hard bodies that they had been trained to a fine point, it was because these warriors no longer looked like warriors. For example, some young men back f r o m the navy returned wearing shirts that looked like underwear— the sleeves were short and the neck scooped out—tucked into their pants, and they came riding i n vehicles. They bore the unmistakable look o f a defeated army. As they went past, they greeted people at the roadside cheerfully 254

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and w i t h spirit—"We're not i n the military any more"—but the v i l ­ lagers were hard put to find words o f consolation. D u r i n g a trip to China I had seen soldiers coming home w i t h o u t their weapons, so I understood h o w the villagers felt. The next day, too, and the day after that, demobilized soldiers returned, soldiers no more and wearing hangdog expressions. The rain poured d o w n on their backs, soaking them. A y o u n g man w h o had been near O m i y a Island came staggering back, weaponless. When he set foot in his o w n home, I hear, the very first thing he said to his mother was, "Please get me a cushion. M y tail is so sore I can't sit d o w n . " B u t even w i t h a cushion his tail bones were so sore he couldn't sit down: that's h o w emaciated he was. The hundred or so children f r o m Hiroshima w h o had been evac­ uated to the three temples i n the village couldn't wait for a clear day but returned to Hiroshima on a day when it was raining hard. It was the same group that had come, except that three o f the children, w h o had lost both parents, stayed on i n the village. They were children f r o m towns around Hiroshima, not children f r o m the city itself. Even so, when they got to Hiroshima Station and saw that the large w h i t e building that had been the station had burned, collapsed, and disap­ peared w i t h o u t a trace, and that the area i n front o f the station and extending o f f into the distance had been reduced to ruins, they were struck d u m b . Hearts heavy, the children looked at the city. The acting mayor was there to welcome them, and they responded to his greeting i n these terms: " H o w happy we w o u l d have been to come back after w i n n i n g ! When we learned that we had lost, we felt as i f the ground had been swept out from under our feet." Another girl spoke her thoughts to a journalist: " I f Japan had w o n , I could accept even all this damage; but n o w I can hardly bear it. I was very surprised to see the city i n ruins. It's impossible to tell where y o u are. I f M o t h e r hadn't come to meet me, I couldn't have found m y way home." The children returned, to be sure, to the outskirts o f the city, but most o f them to half-destroyed houses or to temporary housing w i t h CITY

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l o w floors and w i t h sheets o f t i n for a roof. The monsoon-like rain continued to pour, and even indoors they had to put up umbrellas. The American reporters w h o entered Japan w i t h the army o f oc­ cupation got to Hiroshima quickly, on September 3. O n that day, too, rain obscured their view. Photographers included, there were twenty people. They had come to see evidence o f the power o f the atomic b o m b , w h i c h had provided a telling reason for ending the war. After landing at an airfield near Kure, they got into cars sent round by the navy and came to Hiroshima, place o f doom. Their assignment was to cover this new phenomenon, and so they had come specifically to see Hiroshima. Greeting them, H i r o ­ shima lay i n ruins and drenched i n rain. After they completed a thorough inspection, the reporters' asso­ ciation o f Hiroshima Prefecture had a question-and-answer session w i t h W. H . Lawrence o f the New York Times and the others. "What are your feelings on seeing the sad state o f things i n Hiroshima?" "We have been w i t h the armies on every front i n Europe and the Pacific, but Hiroshima's damage is the worst o f all. I n The World to Come, H . G. Wells says, 'War carried out w i t h the new scientific forces becomes ever fiercer, ever more destructive; it simply cannot be w i t h ­ stood.' That reality we see v i v i d l y i n Hiroshima." "People say the area where the atomic bomb exploded w i l l be uninhabitable for humans and other living things for the next 75 years. Is that true?" "We don't know. We'll k n o w for sure when order has been estab­ lished i n Japan and American scientists come and investigate." " D o y o u think the atomic bomb serves the cause o f future peace?" "Right n o w that's not clear." After giving these dispassionate answers, the American reporters questioned the Japanese: " D i d y o u think Japan w o u l d w i n the war?" "Yes, we did. U n t i l the very last moment, there wasn't one o f us w h o thought Japan w o u l d lose." I n Japan even reporters were able to speak only i n this r o u n d ­ about manner. For me, the desolate f o r m o f that response was far 256

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more painful than the somber letters o f that day's headline: " H i r o ­ shima Damage: World's Worst." The Americans asked, "What were the restrictions on speech?" The Japanese reporters replied, " N o w , w i t h the war over, there is free­ d o m o f expression." To think! The fact is that w h e n Japanese open their mouths to c o m m u n i ­ cate w i t h foreigners, they are at a loss for words. Silence is golden, so they say; but that is among people w h o are well acquainted. W h e n t w o parties do not understand each other, h o w can y o u expect the other party to understand either silence or offensive candor? They smack o f trickery. I n the matter o f freedom o f expression, we must start w i t h a bold leap; we have no alternative. Because Japanese have forgotten by n o w h o w to use free words. T h i n k i n g that this is what freedom is, they make free w i t h things that are o f no consequence. The rain poured d o w n singlemindedly, spitefully The newspaper that came f r o m Hiroshima still devoted more than half o f its space to accounts o f the atomic b o m b and continued to w r i t e about conditions i n the aftermath o f the b o m b . 28. Hiroshima unlivable for 75 years: the bald figure caused a great sensation. It gave me a strange feeling, but one day i n response the newspaper ran a large headline impressively across the top o f page 2: "The 75-Year R u m o r — A Lie." It is a lie: what does that mean? W h o was i t , I wonder, w h o first voiced the lie? O n the m o r n i n g o f September 8, independently o f the American reporters, an observation team o f Allied experts came f r o m overseas specifically to see Hiroshima. I n addition to technical experts attached to Brigadier Generals Farrell and N e w m a n o f the A r m y Corps o f E n ­ gineers, there were, among others, D r . M o r i s o n , a physicist, and D r . Junod o f the International Red Cross. O f course, photographers were also i n the party. D r . Tsuzuki happened to be i n Hiroshima w h e n the party arrived, and he also j o i n e d i t . As an escort the party brought along several police officers w h o wore armbands w i t h the w o r d 'Po­ lice' i n English and i n Japanese; passing through the neighborhood o f the G o k o k u Shrine, w h i c h had been Ground Zero, they arrived at the CITY

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ruins o f the buildings that had served as Imperial Headquarters during the Russo-Japanese War. This day, too, rain fell incessantly. Listening carefully to D r . T s u ­ zuki talk about the results o f his on-site investigations, the observer team stood i n the rain atop the charred ruins o f Hiroshima Castle and looked out over the whole tragic scene. Afterward i t visited radiationmeasuring spots, aid stations, and the like. Dr. Junod had come from the International Red Cross i n Geneva. As an expression o f sympathy for this unprecedented tragedy, he had brought along fifteen tons o f emergency medical supplies; the supplies had been brought by air to Iwakuni airfield. According to the news­ paper, D r . Junod spoke i n these terms: " I am astounded at the fear­ some power o f the atomic bomb—a single blast w i t h such destructive force. The people o f Hiroshima were the first human beings to expe­ rience the atomic bomb, and we can only sympathize fully w i t h them. We must w o r k to see that such weapons are never used again. As soon as the tragedy o f Hiroshima was reported to us, the International Red Cross immediately organized a delegation and came to Japan." Dr. Tsuzuki had served to that point as guide and interpreter; now he asked D r . Junod, D r . Morison, and the others about the r u ­ mor that uranium poison was involved: "There is only one thing I should like to ask about. That is, wasn't the atomic b o m b equipped w i t h something like poison gas? When I listen to reports o f the explo­ sion, they say that a white, gas-like something floated above G r o u n d Zero." Brigadier General Farrell and D r . M o r i s o n both responded: "We w i l l explain that later." Dr. Tsuzuki asked again: "According to foreign press reports, American specialists have announced that the poison o f the atomic b o m b w i l l remain potent for the next seventy-five years. However, the results o f m y research lead me to believe that that is entirely w r o n g . What is your opinion?" This time both D r . M o r i s o n and Brigadier General Farrell re­ sponded on the spot and said i n unison: "Seventy-five years is n o n ­ sense. The b o m b presented a danger on the day i t fell, but not a m o n t h later, let alone a year; i t probably had lost its potency the day after or 258

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the second or third day after." They clearly rejected the seventy-fiveyear theory. Moreover, Reuters, too, reported f r o m America as follows: American reporters had inspected the atomic test site i n N e w M e x i c o and were refuting reports f r o m Japan that radioactivity made H i r o ­ shima and Nagasaki danger zones unsuitable for human habitation. Those newsmen reported: " I t is possible to explode an atomic b o m b i n such a way as to cause long-term radioactivity at the target site; but this method was not used because the purpose was to demonstrate the explosive force involved i n scientific war. A t Hiroshima and Naga­ saki, the bombs were exploded i n such a way as to achieve the greatest destructive force and the least radioactivity." N o t until the observation team left Hiroshima for Nagasaki d i d D r . M o r i s o n , the physicist, respond to the earlier question f r o m D r . Tsuzuki: " M a n y people have asked us whether this atomic b o m b con­ tained poison gas. The reason a foreign substance resembling w h i t e gas floated above G r o u n d Zero immediately after the explosion is that at the time o f the explosion chemicals combined i n the air, became active, and gave rise to that phenomenon. Depending on its density, it may have caused some damage. The deaths they say are becoming frequent n o w are entirely the result o f deep-level radiation damage, not o f any poison gas." Brigadier General Farrell, too, spoke as he left Hiroshima: "When we came, we already knew o f the damage to Hiroshima f r o m dozens o f aerial photos taken immediately after the fact. B u t here on the spot, the more we looked and the more we listened, the more we were astonished at the scale o f the damage. As for the results o f our investigation, we must report first to our o w n government; this is not the time to make them public." Meanwhile, as they banqueted together at the Restaurant Ganso i n Itsukushima, the military doctors on the research team and the prefectural reporters asked each other questions. The reporters: "What thoughts do y o u have as a result o f your investigations?" Colonel Oughterson, military doctor: "It's a tragedy, pure and simple. We military doctors are i n full sympathy. Please don't ask us CITY

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about our investigation o f atomic bomb damage; until we have re­ ported to General M a c A r t h u r we can't release i t . B u t your D r . T s u zuki's thesis and our o w n are pretty much i n agreement; and all o f us are very grateful to h i m and express our respect for his cooperation and for his scholarly attitude. Y o u referred to D r . Tsuzuki's theory, so I simply wished to note that i t is, after all, the same as ours." Reporters: "The fact that the victims and the slightly injured are dying one after the other has caused great consternation among the people l i v i n g on the scorched earth o f Hiroshima. Isn't the 75-year theory perhaps accurate?" Colonel Warren: " N o . It's a silly theory w i t h no basis whatsoever in fact. When an atomic b o m b explodes, the w i n d blows the radioac­ t i v i t y away. Because i n summertime i t is lighter than air, there is ab­ solutely no danger that i t w i l l settle into the soil w i t h the rain." Reporters: "What about methods o f treatment?" Colonel Oughterson: "The best method is blood transfusion; on this trip we flew fifteen tons o f medical supplies f r o m Atsugi to Iwa­ k u n i , and that included lots o f blood plasma for use i n transfusions." The prefectural reporters took the occasion to ask candidly: " H o w many atomic bombs does the U n i t e d States have?" F r o m his position o f f to one side, D r . Tsuzuki answered this question: "The team may be i n the position o f not being able to re­ spond i n public. B u t estimating from data gathered f r o m other sources, I think that America already has produced about a hundred. O f these they used t w o , on Hiroshima and on Nagasaki." Reporters: "Then they still have 98?" D r . Tsuzuki: "The ore exists only i n America and i n Africa. The raw materials, after all, don't exist i n Japan; so we're out o f luck. T o be sure, twenty years ago, i n Pittsburgh i n 1925, I got hold o f a small sample for research use; but one can't build an atomic b o m b w i t h a small sample." Colonel Oughterson: "Pearl Harbor was an unexpected tragedy for the U n i t e d States. The atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki were unexpected tragedies for Japan. It began i n unforeseen tragedy and ended i n unforeseen tragedy. I hope that we all cooperate f r o m n o w on so that unforeseen tragedies do not arise for either side." 260

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The press reported this relaxed and reasonable exchange, too, and we heard that i n the burned ruins o f Hiroshima, the vegetation was returning to life and sending out green leaves. B u t even as we heard these things, people were still dying. A n d when we saw the figure—barely 6,000—for those w h o had been i n Hiroshima and were n o w i n good health, even the w i n d and the rain seemed dark and gloomy. The victims w h o had descended upon this mountain village saw not a trace o f the medical supplies shipped f r o m America, and the newspaper was content to shout, as i f arrogantly giving orders, " A p ­ ply moxa cautery immediately!" It ran photographs o f such poor quality one couldn't even see the black moxa scars; it wrote that it is medicinal to eat squash; i t recommended drinking a decoction o f cu­ cumber and persimmon leaves. As for the foul-smelling dokudami plant, said to be effective even i f your hair had fallen out, the black market price went up frightfully, turning it into treasure, and those w h o needed i t could no longer get it. It became impossible to find even a single leaf o f dokudami i n the fields. The rain fell i n such a constant drizzle I feared m y body w o u l d rot. M o r e than forty days had passed since I had come here, and bit by bit m y half-numbed soul seemed to have revived. Like a person w h o has just had a serious illness and regains her health one tiny step at a time, I had begun to return little by little to the way I was before August 6. A n d as I returned to normal, I began to be subject to an indescrib­ able terror. A t night, i f the sound o f the rain suddenly turned harsh, I w o u l d be overcome by the feeling that the bluish flash had come again, that the r o o f I was sleeping under m i g h t collapse w i t h o u t a sound, and I w o u l d j u m p up and examine the ceiling. M y acute sensibility came back to life, yet I still thought I w o u l d die, albeit somewhat later than the others. M o r n i n g and evening I said to the people o f the house i n w h i c h I was lodging: " F r o m here on i n I ' l l probably die by slow degrees." I could only speak as i f i n jest, but I made out m y w i l l for real. I n the hamlet up the river where we lived long ago, the family plot was all that remained. I wrote, among other things, that I wished to be buried there by the people o f the hamlet. CITY

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The monsoon-like rain continued to fall through mid-Septem­ ber. O n the 16th i t rained heavily all day, and on the 17th, too, the heavy rains didn't let up for a moment. When night fell, the storm developed into a typhoon. I was i n bed on the second floor, and the building shook. The east w i n d came up o f f the garden w i t h its large pond as i f to b l o w the house down. It shook the shutters and seemed about to rip the mosquito netting to pieces. N o t letting up for a moment, the rain continued to fall w i t h enough force to smash the house. The r o o f began to leak. The power was still not on. Suddenly the air raid siren at the post office sang out. Since the end o f the war, i t was sounded to announce the hour—5 i n the m o r n i n g , noon, 9 at night. B u t I had opposed its use because it sang out exactly like the air raid sirens during the war. It was the most hateful sound I had heard since coming to the village. Each time I heard the siren, I remembered things that happened during the war and broke out i n a sweat. But this time there was heavy rain, and high w i n d to boot, and I raced d o w n the stairs to the ground floor, bursting i n on the people living i n the main part o f the house. The old w o m a n and the young wife and some others had just lighted a paper lantern. The t w o women—mother and daughter—laughed: "Startled, weren't you! We were just thinking o f calling up to y o u . " Dressed i n rain gear, the husband o f the older w o m a n was standing i n the entryway. Fields and houses and roads might be washed away i n the storm, so the civilian guard was being called out to do what it could. A m i d the rain and w i n d we could hear footsteps and loud voices out front. Still, instead o f summoning people w i t h that horrible siren, I wished they w o u l d beat a large d r u m or something. For each time that unbearable siren rang out i n T o k y o and i n Hiroshima, we had crawled into holes i n the ground, not k n o w i n g i f we w o u l d live through the night. A l t h o u g h they invited me to sleep downstairs w i t h them, I took a lamp and returned to the second floor. Each time the great gusts o f the storm hit, the second floor creaked and shook; so I couldn't bring myself to get inside the mosquito net. N o w standing up, n o w sitting d o w n , I didn't k n o w quite what to do, and then the picture frame i n 262

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the transom, above the shöji on the east wall, fell w i t h a thud, and the stucco wall behind it also crumbled to the talami. The shöji became sopping wet. Carrying the lamp, I went downstairs again and stayed up u n t i l dawn. There is nothing as clear as the daylight after a m i d n i g h t storm, the air cleansed by w i n d and rain. The weather was still not good, and the last remnants o f the w i n d and rain were still keeping the day over­ cast. B u t f r o m time to time faint rays o f sunshine did break through. The side o f the l o w h i l l directly across the river had been sliced off, and red earth had gone sliding d o w n into the river. Having expanded sideways, the river gave o f f a roar as it rushed past. Far and near, the wooden bridges had all washed out. I n some places, tiles had b l o w n off, and roofs had been left half fallen. I n other places, roads had crumbled and become rivers. Here and there entire paddies i n w h i c h golden waves o f rice had billowed had been sucked d o w n toward the river, and the rice stalks lay flat i n the m u d . The college student w h o had fled here f r o m Hiroshima had de­ veloped atomic bomb sickness: spots had appeared on his skin, and his hair had fallen out. B u t he had recovered and regained his energy. O n the night o f the 17th, the ceiling above his bed collapsed. He thought another bomb had fallen. The old men o f the village said it was sixty years since there had been a storm that bad: " A real beating, that was—on top o f the bomb! We give up!" The electric wires stayed d o w n , so the village once again was pitch dark. M o s t houses had neither candles nor oil; but i n m y r o o m , i n good old-fashioned style, a lamp kept me company. I hadn't given it much thought, but I liked the lamp, and I was grateful at first for the dark, quiet nights. The flame o f the lamp was soft and attractive; it illumined the r o o m gently. B u t when I read or wrote, I immediately became sleepy. 29. H o w nice it w o u l d be, I had long thought, to go to a hot spring o f f i n the mountains to write, to pass the nights by lamplight. I had asked around after such a place but hadn't stumbled onto one. CITY

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The power was off, so I couldn't even listen to the radio. B u t that was fine w i t h me, because I don't like the radio: y o u hear human voices coming out o f a square box, v i v i d and uncanny, but y o u can't see faces. Communications w i t h the city were completely cut off; neither newspapers nor mail arrived. Even after the 17th, much rain fell. Early i n October, more rain fell, so heavy i t shook the earth and then bounced back up, and a w i l d storm blew up. The village took on its present look o f utter exhaustion. The river grew broader and broader; rocks and stones gave offa loud r u m b l i n g as the river carried them past. Hillside and mountainside slid d o w n into the paddies be­ low, squeezing out the rice. I n lordly fashion giant trees toppled over onto the rice; standing upright on what was left o f the rice, shrubs put d o w n roots, like potted plants. Like an untended park, the paddies were covered w i t h bright red sumac and red maple leaves and purple asters. The power wasn't on; the newspaper didn't come. Things had been that way since September 17. Trucks and buses coming f r o m Hatsukaichi, they said, probably w o u l d n ' t be able to make i t for the rest o f the year. The villagers got together and went o f f to repair the washed-out road to Sensui Pass, and fourteen or fifteen people left for Hatsukaichi to bring back soy and vinegar for the Fall Festival. W i t h baskets on their backs and age enjoying no preferential treatment, o l d and y o u n g set o f f cheerfully to buy the vinegar and soy. They looked like the ceremonial procession o f a feudal lord. H o w people picked up the other food rations was also fascinating to see. The young people's group and the volunteer militia set o f f for Hatsukaichi i n full force, those w i t h bikes riding, those w i t h o u t bikes carrying baskets on their backs. Washed out here and there, the route was twenty-four k i l o ­ meters long. They made i t there and back i n one day. This procession o f bicycles and shoulder baskets was a grand spectacle. Groups f r o m nearby villages also came through. I n the m o r n i n g i t was like watching an athletic meet or a bicycle rally; i n the evening i t made us think o f exhausted marathon runners. People rarely left the village. People rarely came f r o m outside. 264

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The lamplit nights continued for t w o weeks, and even though a m o n t h had passed, there was still no newspaper. So, night and day, things were as they had been i n the distant past. Like people i n the distant past, we knew only what happened i n the village. We didn't even k n o w what was going on i n Hiroshima. A full m o n t h after A u ­ gust 6, people said, corpses lay wherever y o u went i n the city, skele­ tons were everywhere, and a nauseating smell blanketed the city. Flies were all over the place, as i f someone had scattered red beans; the flies were so dense i n the burned streetcars running i n some parts o f the city that they turned the passengers' skin pitch black; b i g black flies swarmed hideously, particularly on the faces o f babies. Flies even got inside those a l u m i n u m lunch boxes w i t h the tight lids and expired atop the rice. Immediately after the b o m b fell, there were people suffering f r o m dysentery, and the basement o f Fukuya, the department store i n the middle o f the once bustling city, had been turned into an isolation ward for dysentery patients. Hearing things like this, I could not help t h i n k i n g o f the back streets o f China, supposedly the world's most unsanitary country, the home o f the plague. Better, Hiroshima resem­ bled Panama C i t y around the turn o f the century, when i t suffered f r o m yellow fever, the germs o f w h i c h were transmitted by mosqui­ toes. Cuba's Havana had been a beautiful port, and the topography was salubrious. B u t the whole filthy city had been filled w i t h a bad smell, and the streets were chock-full o f rotting vegetables, dead ani­ mals, filth, and dirt. The charity hospitals were always jam-packed, but many poor people, unable to get admitted even to them, lay i n the streets. N o matter where one went, beggars stuck out their hands and importuned one for money. A committee had been set up to study yellow fever, and scientists and military doctors were despatched to Havana f r o m the U n i t e d States. O f these men, Carroll and Lazear and others died because o f their research. B u t as a result o f the successful experiments, Governor General Lee and D r . Gorgas, head o f the Bureau o f Sanitation, insti­ tuted draconian measures, and by about 1905 the city had become as clean as i f b o r n anew. The mosquitoes and mosquito larvae had been eradicated, cleaned out. The Havana o f that era had a population o f CITY

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300,ooo, and i n some respects it resembled Hiroshima. Yet after the atomic b o m b Hiroshima most nearly resembled Havana o f the pre1905 era. B u t i n Hiroshima today there is no D r . Gorgas, no Governor General Lee, no self-sacrificing victims o f yellow fever like Carroll, no discoverers o f mosquito larvae like Reed. It hasn't been decided who w i l l be mayor o f the city; the prefectural governor has been p r o ­ moted to the ministry i n T o k y o ; his successor has not been appointed. Hiroshima makes one think o f the Havana o f a century ago, a solitary island o f f i n a distant sea. The fact that there are no houses makes i t even worse than Havana. Nonetheless, even after only t w o months, people have settled into life i n makeshift huts and refuse to move. A w o m a n I k n o w spent a m o n t h i n a hut i n the field behind her home; the hut had been built by someone w h o then left. She slept among corpses, she was terrified by the idea o f uranium poison, and the cre­ matory flames rose up each night all around her; one m i g h t have ex­ pected her to go o f f her head. B u t she stayed on until w i n d and rain destroyed the hut. I k n o w f r o m reports o f people from here w h o have gone to H i r o ­ shima that all the bridges i n Hiroshima have collapsed. M o r e than twenty modern bridges spanned the seven rivers. I n Hiroshima the bridges had linked the neighborhoods; so i f the bridges had washed away, one couldn't even set out for the neighboring quarter o f the city. People were crossing the rivers on ferries, they said, but sometimes too many people boarded these ferries, the ferries capsized, and people drowned. One old man, not a boatman, was taking his o w n things across in a small boat when people called to h i m to stop and pick them up, and he took a number o f people across. As their fare, people gave the old man fifty sen or one yen. The old man rented a boat and became a ferryman. A n d on a day o f heavy rain the boat capsized and sank, d r o w n i n g many people. He too sank beneath the waves and died. Bridges that had survived the atomic bomb washed away, so there could be no doubt i t was a heavy rain. H o w could the sky hold enough water for a full m o n t h o f such rain? I n times o f drought farm­ ers light fires on even the lowest hills to beseech Heaven for rain. O n August 6, even w i t h the sun shining brightly, large drops o f 266

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rain fell on and around the great conflagration. The fire god and the rain god on high: were they smiling at each other? We grieved that we were taking such a beating. B u t these events were not unrelated— undoubtedly both heavy rain and typhoon were aftereffects o f the fire. C i t y after city was razed by fire, and i n the end cities were destroyed and burned by atomic bombs. These events reverberated up into the sky and came falling back d o w n to earth i n the f o r m o f rain. The b o m b had its effects not only on the ground but also i n the sky. I had begun to be aware o f the inconvenience o f lamplight at night. A t first, the lamplight had been soft and romantic; but w h e n I had to depend on i t night after night, the glow strained m y eyes. M y posture sagged, and m y brain became befogged. Moreover, the smell o f oil lost its early charm. M o s t o f all, I could not bear the fact that the lamp created a sense o f g l o o m and made me feel absolutely iso­ lated, o f f where foxes barked.

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Late Autumn Koto Music 30. People went o f f to Hiroshima on one errand or another, but I simply could not bring myself to go. People encouraged me: o f all people, a writer should go and have a look. A n d they may have been right. B u t I was unable to bring myself to go again just to gawk. It made me unhappy to see people going partly to sightsee; i n some small way i t was insulting to me. I w i l l never lose that slight sense o f humiliation. I don't k n o w where the talk got started about keeping Hiroshima forever as i t was on August 6, o f making it a war memorial. B u t early i n September, i n the editorial column o f the Chügoku shimbun, a writer gave vent to his anger i n these terms: People cry out that Hiroshima, n o w i n ruins, should be left as a war memorial and advocate the preservation for all time o f this wasteland, burnt out as far as the eye can see. It is impossible not to become incensed at the audacity o f people w h o , coolly and w i t h no sense o f shame, give vent to such utterly irresponsible nonsense; for all the people o f Hiroshima love their city. T o be sure, the ravages o f uranium are w i t h o u t precedent. The majority o f us residents o f the city are dead, sacrifices to the atomic bomb. A m i d the chill winds o f autumn, we have n o w finished b u r y i n g them, and we are setting about the tasks o f recovery and recon­ struction. Yet they choose this precise moment to put a damper on our spirits, heartlessly, as i f it were not their business, too: their shortsightedness is truly thoughtless i n the extreme. Those w h o advocate that we leave Hiroshima as a war memorial say that f r o m the point o f view o f physiology and pathology, Hiroshima is not fit either for human habitation or for the cultivation o f crops; they write o f f Hiroshima. B u t look! The city trolleys are running again, and i n the shells o f high-rise buildings a good many people—to be sure, fewer than i n the past—come and go to their offices. There are plans to restore telegraph and telephone service; day by day, the opportunity comes to rebuild as well 268

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other facilities that were destroyed. The contradiction and incon­ sistency between this reality and what they advocate: h o w can those people resolve it? A t the present moment, the fall i n the count o f white corpuscles and the reconstruction o f the city offset each other, and proponents o f both schools are conducting stud­ ies. . . . Prudence is a fine thing; but w i t h the issue hanging i n the balance, they are wasting time, waiting to see w h i c h course is the most politic to follow. Consider this: the glorious history o f Hiroshima began w i t h the Sino-Japanese War and ended w i t h the Pacific War. The burden o f this role was a heavy one, rarely equaled elsewhere i n the nation. . . . Ignore such things as the relative d i m i n u t i o n i n our white-blood-cell count, and assume the worst—that we die i n the process o f reconstruction. Even then, don't we have the determination to defend w i t h our lives this delta our ancestors bequeathed to us? The human w i l l to start again and the effects o f weather make i t impossible, I think, to turn Hiroshima as is into a memorial, a speci­ men. It is more difficult yet to turn a cold shoulder to this angry writer, whose grandiose style harks back to the nineteenth century. I n the Xhabei region o f Shanghai, I once saw vestiges o f b o m b damage, a war memorial o f sorts. It was labeled "ruins o f war," and all kinds o f travelers came to see i t . Beggars were l i v i n g i n the cellars o f con­ crete buildings that had been destroyed ruthlessly. Anti-Japanese slo­ gans had been carved on walls all around. Later, I learned, the question arose: should Japan preserve all o f Xhabei as "ruins o f war" or raze i t and clean i t up? (The year was 1940, perhaps 1939.) A t the time I heard about i t , I thought, what a strange thing to be discussing! We were stressing peace and cooperation for all we were w o r t h , yet there seemed nothing more counterproductive than to leave Chinese ruins o f our making just as they were, exposed forever to the eyes o f the Chinese people. Xhabei came to m i n d when I read the angry editorial i n the Chü­ goku shimbun. Those w h o were the guinea pigs when the stench o f death blanketed Hiroshima must be praying f r o m the grave that H i r o ­ shima be rebuilt. That the city be beautiful, peaceful, fertile, bright. CITY

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I n the faint, faint glow o f the lamp, I thought o f many things. Beginning that tragic midsummer m o r n i n g and continuing until the late autumn o f today, when the mountains and fields have turned to gold, I have had extraordinary experience upon extraordinary expe­ rience. I have gained f r o m these experiences, I think, a new and p r o ­ found view o f humanity. Compared w i t h a tattered spirit, tattered clothing is o f no consequence whatsoever. Y o u can simply take tat­ tered clothing o f f and change i t , but not a tattered spirit. That expe­ rience o f living for three days on the riverbed among all those corpses, horrible as it was, left me as a human being w i t h a profound and unique lesson I shall never forget. Lives hinged on whether one had evacuated to a safe place before August 6. One speaks o f the simple life, but I have a sense that n o w I have grasped its true f o r m . Before, t r y as I might, I hadn't been able to. They say every last person was stripped completely naked; but people weren't walking about naked, nor were they going barefoot. Apart from handkerchief, belt, and the like, I had only three pieces o f clothing the whole summer. One I wore every day, one I slept in, and the last I used as a spare. That state was b o t h simple and clean. I had one geta and one straw sandal, given me by an old w o m a n I knew long ago, to wear w i t h care, and that sufficed. M y life up until then I had thought o f as simple, but I realize I had been w r o n g . I had had too many possessions; I had been con­ trolled by them; and m y very spirit had been coarsened. Japanese are enslaved by varieties and numbers o f articles o f clothing; Japanese have come to rely for energy too much on foods that are attractive but lack nutritional value. Japanese were masters when it came to food and clothing; but these concerns used up their time, and they lost the time it takes to cultivate depth. Feeling the writer's spirit burning once again w i t h i n me, I expe­ rience bliss. Strong emotions begin to stir inside, emotions that only those w h o have been submerged i n a long hibernation can know. The disaster o f the atomic bomb has had various and sundry effects on m y m i n d and body. A l l the tears, I feel, have purified m y writer's soul; put water through a filter, and i n due time only pure water w i l l emerge. I n fact, I am angrier at the mindlessness o f Japan's imperial­ ism, a mindlessness that almost destroyed m y life as a writer, than I 270

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am at the destruction o f Hiroshima. It is not a personal anger; it is entwined w i t h m y lament for m y country. Seeing the m o r t a l defeat pass into history, I grieve. Japan today seems to be sloughing off m u c h o f its traditional character. Japan was crushed i n the war, but that does not mean that Japan also came up short i n all other aspects o f life. The idea that Japan failed across the board is a psychological side effect, something that defeat brings i n its train. One should not root out all those other things simply because o f the defeat. They are fundamentally progressive. The compass needle seems to have swung rapidly toward peace. But Japan and the Japanese belong to the Japanese; they cannot belong to anyone else. Is that the reason there is r o o m for both feelings, the sad and the happy? M o s t Japanese don't really seem to k n o w what democracy is. B u t in order for Japan and the Japanese to revive or, better, i n order to shed the o l d skin and carve out an image o f a new human being, we have no alternative but to clear the way for democracy. This political principle that has never flowered here is a relatively short w o r d , yet it has surmounted the zigzags o f a long history. It is the progenitor o f the modern age. B u t the soil o f Japan may be too harsh even to permit its transplantation to succeed. However, even i n the present chaotic conditions o f defeat, we must live according to our ideals. For the sake o f true peace i n the distant future, we must achieve a precise understanding o f what needs doing right now; the fact that there w i l l be deep suffering we must take for granted. Responding sharply to direct impacts on our very lives, our spirits w i l l gradually become keener, more acute, even i f we pay no particular attention. Together, the Japanese people shoulder the burden o f this grave fate. I f they all realize that fact, they must take as their guiding p r i n ­ ciples the w i s d o m to survive the dark, the bitter struggles they are conscious of, and great strong hope itself. The somber reminder that we have a c o m m o n fate absolutely for­ bids us to indulge i n either nihilism or easy evasion. Late autumn has finally come to this small country village. The rain no longer falls w i t h such startling ferocity. Occasionally a mistCITY

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like rain falls, but then the sky immediately clears to the navy blue unique to late autumn. When the w i n d blows above the golden rice fields, n o w fully ripe, the yellow waves o f grain give o f f a dry whishing sound like the rustle o f crinoline. The r h y t h m is indescribably pleasant, and the sound resembles that produced when one runs the plectrum gently sideways over the strings o f the koto. The sound o f the koto has already faded, but the various insects o f autumn still sing, and when their sound joins the chirping o f the birds and the m u r m u r i n g o f the stream, the result is a melodious koto song. It reminds me o f when I was a girl, o f the very first song I learned when I began taking koto lessons, and I sing it to myself: Gems y o u don't polish Give o f f no sparkle. Character, too, Comes only w i t h effort. I hated obvious moral injunctions, so for a long time I turned a deaf ear to this song. N o w i t seems to go straight to m y heart. As for the people w h o came here from Hiroshima, those w h o could not outrun death have died; those w h o outran death are l i v i n g , albeit w i t h long faces. Supplemental food is simply not being distrib­ uted to those w h o have come from the outside. Someday a major so­ cial issue w i l l be made o f this coarseness and neglect (I am not using the w o r d coarseness loosely). It devastates me to think what it w i l l be like when people raise an outcry. We w h o have come f r o m the outside are all gypsies; we have money but no food. For the victims still alive, the traces o f burns and the scars left by cuts on faces, necks, and hands are still fresh. Some o f us bear the mark o f burns long untreated while we wandered about Hiroshima; we have scars i n the skin o f our armpits such that we cannot lift our arms all the way, eyebrows that were burned o f f and have not g r o w n back. The scars f r o m our cuts are completely different f r o m the scars f r o m ordinary cuts; the t w o sides o f the cut r o l l i n toward the inside and j o i n only irregularly. D r . S. says that i n the case o f these ugly scars uranium poison destroyed the skin tissue around the cut. 272

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The Gin-chan I w r o t e about at the beginning o f this book is still alive today, even though D r . S. doubted he w o u l d last t h r o u g h Sep­ tember. His face is still as ghastly as i f he were on his deathbed, but he leads a bold life. He says he buried the clothes o f his dead wife some­ where i n Hiroshima, so he goes o f f to dig them up; i f he simply leaves them there, he says, someone w i l l steal them. U n t i l the very moment o f death, people don't understand life. Their skin scarred by the h i d ­ eous atomic b o m b disease, many people live by sheer force o f w i l l . But they are like l i v i n g corpses, and the scars on their souls manifest themselves somewhere on their bodies. D u r i n g these three months that I have glimpsed unfathomable death, I too have kept i t at a distance. B u t once or twice a day I call to m i n d four or five scenes. They are not panoramas o f the vast destruc­ tion o f the city, but vignettes. The y o u n g girl w h o died on the riverbed at the edge o f the water, stretched out as i f asleep; the girl i n the air raid trench at the side o f the road w h o departed this life like P i l g r i m Otsuru i n the play, and the y o u n g father sitting on the scorched rock beside her body; the many dead girls, bodies distended barrel-like and burned bronze: I cannot forget them. Further, the Saekis' dog wandering about the r i v erbank, barking not at all, and the white chickens f r o m the temple roaming about the cemetery are oddly luminous i n m y memory. In the villages the rice, singed b r o w n , has been harvested. I f y o u look closely, y o u w o n ' t see j o y i n those w h o harvest the rice; y o u w i l l see the pain o f farm folks w o r n out by the war. Their padded vests sag; they wear no hats; their bare feet protrude f r o m broken straw sandals. The shaggy sheaves o f rice lean against the ricks. Set up here and there as far as the eye can see i n the paddies, the ricks are like screens o f gold. The sky sparkles emerald blue, infinite. The groans o f hungry Japanese are the koto song o f the country­ side i n this year when even the stones cry out. War and natural disas­ ter: these t w o millstones grind against each other, and the song o f death they produce creeps along the ground.

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Translator's Introduction

T Ö G E S A N K I C H I is a figure o f epic proportions. Twelve years younger than Hara T a m i k i , fourteen years younger than Ota Y ö k o , T ö g e was twenty-eight on August 6, 1945; always sickly, he died on M a r c h 10, 1953, at the age o f 36. The English-language w o r l d knows T ö g e , i f at all, t h r o u g h the portrait Robert Jay Lifton painted i n 1967. Lifton described T ö g e as "the most celebrated A - b o m b poet—and i n fact the only Hiroshima w r i t e r to become a popular hero . . . the epitome o f the poet o f p r o ­ test." For Lifton, T ö g e was "a poet o f the streets and militant spokes­ man for the young and disaffected. . . T ö g e ' s was an extraordinary life, and his is extraordinary poetry. F A M I L Y A N D CAREER, 1917-1945

T ö g e Sankichi was born T ö g e Mitsuyoshi. (The t w o given names, Mitsuyoshi and Sankichi, are alternate readings o f the same Chinese characters; it was only i n his teens that T ö g e decided to go along w i t h the more obvious reading, Sankichi.) The T ö g e family had lived i n Hiroshima for t w o generations, T ö g e Sankichi's grandfather having moved his family there f r o m a remote village. T ö g e ' s father K i ' i c h i was a successful manufacturer o f bricks until the panic o f 1927, when his company failed; at about the same time he resigned his d i ­ rectorship o f a second company due to the involvement o f his children i n radical politics. He died i n 1950. (As we shall see, 1950 was a time o f great activity, indeed crisis, for T ö g e Sankichi. Even as his father lay dying on the first floor o f their rented house, on the second floor T ö g e and his fellow poet-activists were rehearsing and arguing into the small hours o f the morning.) Töge's mother Sute died o f blood poisoning i n 1927, when T ö g e was ten. 2

1

Lifton, Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima (New York: Basic Books, 1967), pp. 441, 446.

2

The main sources on Töge's life are Masuoka Toshikazu, Hachigatsu no shijin (Poet o f

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T ö g e ' s parents were quite unusual. Despite his life i n the business w o r l d , K i ' i c h i supported his children i n their radical (and dangerous) political activities before the war; after the war he waited up at night for T ö g e Sankichi to return from his organizing. K i ' i c h i also loved music. Sute was a teacher and revered the feminist Hiratsuka Raichö; because o f its treatment o f women, she opposed Buddhism. A fan o f poetry, she liked Heinrich Heine i n particular. The family as a whole read the works o f Leo Tolstoy and the Christian social reformer K a gawa T o y o h i k o . There were five children. The eldest was a daughter born i n 1906. She exerted a major influence on T ö g e Sankichi, especially after their mother's early death. A convert to Protestant Christianity, she was musical and taught piano. She married and had one child, a son w i t h infantile paralysis; she raised h i m to be a composer. Her husband died after August 6 o f secondary radiation. After the war she lived w i t h T ö g e Sankichi and their father until her death from cerebral hemor­ rhage i n 1950. The second child was a boy born i n 1909; t w o years later came a second daughter; and i n 1914 a second son was born. A l l four o f these children became involved i n radical activities; t w o joined the C o m ­ munist Party. A l l were arrested (the elder son over a dozen times), and three o f the four went to prison. The second son was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment, but then on appeal his sentence was re­ duced to six years. I n prison he contracted tuberculosis and died, at t w e n t y - t w o , soon after being released. The elder son inspired c o m ­ parison w i t h the dashing swordsman M i y a m o t o Musashi; the second son was k n o w n to have shouted " D o w n w i t h Imperialism!" i n dark­ ened movie theaters. The younger daughter, also radical, was an ath­ lete and dancer. 3

August) (Tokyo: Töhö, 1978); Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari: Töge Sankichi to sono shühen (Story o f the atomic poet: T ö g e Sankichi and his surroundings) (Osaka: N i h o n k i kanshi shuppan senta, 1987); T ö g e Sankichi tsuitöshü shuppan iinkai, ed., Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni: Töge Sankichi tsuitöshü (Like the wind, like the flame: A tribute to the memory o f T ö g e Sankichi) (Hiroshima: Warera no shi no kai, 1954). There are two publications o f Töge's work: Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü (Collected works o f Töge Sankichi), 2 vols. (Tokyo: A o k i , 1975) and Gembaku shishü (Poems o f the atomic bomb) (Tokyo: A o k i , 1952). O n Ki'ichi's retirement from the business world, see Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 79-80. 3

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 12-14.

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T ö g e Sankichi was b o r n on February 19, 1917. H a i f a generation younger than the sister b o r n i n 1906, he was the youngest o f all by three years. F r o m the start he was a sickly child, suffering f r o m asthma and periodic v o m i t i n g . He refused to eat meat or fish and was even choosy about the vegetables he ate—he preferred green. Perhaps because T ö g e was weak and the youngest, perhaps reacting against the experiences o f the elder children, perhaps hoping that here finally was a suitable heir, T ö g e ' s father tried to keep h i m f r o m following the same political path as the elder children. Hence after a normal school­ ing, T ö g e went not to the mainstream higher school but to Hiroshima Prefecture's school o f commerce; he graduated i n 1935 at eighteen. Thereupon he went to w o r k for the Hiroshima Gas Company. Three years later T ö g e was diagnosed, wrongly, as having tuber­ culosis. Believing himself to have only a few years to live, he spent most o f his time an invalid. Ten years later, on November 17, 1948, T ö g e learned that the diagnosis was w r o n g . O n that day he had u n ­ dergone a physical examination to prepare for a scheduled operation and learned that his illness was not tuberculosis but bronchiectasis, an enlargement o f the bronchial tube. Here is what he wrote: I went outside and there was a clear autumn sky, not a scrap o f cloud. A h ! M y ten years and more o f life as a T B patient w i t h large cavities: i t is—is i t not?— over n o w ! Indeed! Rejoicing, I walk on the grass near the pond, hand i n hand w i t h Yoshiko, and pass t h r o u g h the pine grove. Yoshiko cries. U n ­ doubtedly there w i l l be coughing and phlegm and occasionally hemorrhage, and w h a t is more, there is no cure; but h o w wonderful that i t is not tubercu­ losis. I can't believe i t . M y second life began today. U p t i l l n o w I thought m y fate was to suffocate o f l u n g hemorrhage and that I had at best t w o or three years o f life; n o w m y life plans can be longer, ten years or even twenty, and I can count o n a future as long as the n o r m a l person's! I ' m so happy I must be dreaming! H o w w o n d e r f u l . 4

As his friend and biographer Masuoka Toshikazu comments, there is irony here. Streptomycin and other medical developments soon mas­ tered tuberculosis. For bronchiectasis the only treatment was surgical, and that surgery was the occasion o f Töge's death. Masuoka goes on to tie T ö g e ' s death to the weakening o f his body through radiation sickness at a time when "America did not notify the residents o f H i 4

Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.245; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 224.

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roshima o f the fearsomeness o f radiation sickness." Masuoka con­ cludes: "The atomic bomb killed T ö g e . " B u t that is both going be­ y o n d the evidence and getting ahead o f the story. The immediate point is that beginning i n 1938 T ö g e considered himself an invalid under sentence o f death. A t an early age, T ö g e had taken an interest i n literature. Begin­ ning i n his third year o f primary school he wrote stories; i n the second year o f middle school he began to compose poems. Early influences included Tolstoy and Kagawa, as we have seen, but also Heine, Shimazaki Töson, and Satö Haruo. I n 1938 he read his first proletarian literature. O n December 20, 1942, he was baptized into the Catholic Church, having been moved i n the direction o f Christianity by his elder sister and, suggests Masuoka, by Tolstoy and Beethoven. B y 1945 T ö g e had composed 3,000 tanka and even more haiku. Writes Masuoka: "The w o r l d knows T ö g e Sankichi as 'the poet o f the atomic b o m b ' ; his friends and acquaintances k n o w h i m always as a lyric poet." There are striking connections i n content between the t w o facets o f Töge's w o r k . His lyric poems focus on girls, boys, old people, mothers, babies, young women i n love. These same figures appear prominently i n T ö g e ' s Poems of the Atomic Bomb. B u t what is not present i n the prewar poems and is present i n the postwar poems is the concept o f poetry as a weapon, as a means to personal and po­ litical change. Still, Masuoka is undoubtedly correct i n labeling T ö g e "a lyric poet f r o m cradle to grave." Despite the example o f his elder brothers and sisters, T ö g e San­ kichi was naive politically before Hiroshima. Sickly and hence not i n danger o f being called up for military service, T ö g e described himself i n his diary as an "onlooker." I n part for this reason, Japan's war i n China had little effect on h i m . O n the one hand, suggests Masuoka, he saw it as a holy war; on the other, he was conscious o f war's human 5

6

7

8

9

5

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 225.

7

Cf. Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 57.

6

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 54.

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 79. See the manifestos in Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü, 2 . 8 1 112.

8

9

Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, p. 84.

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TOGE S A N K I C H I

cost. He d i d express a preference for fighting England rather than China.

10

T ö g e went to Yokohama i n January o f 1945 and stayed there u n t i l June, w o r k i n g at an easy j o b i n a company where his brother-in-law was an official. So he witnessed the massive Yokohama raid o f M a y 29, and he witnessed as w e l l at least one instance i n w h i c h prisoners o f war were maltreated. I n his diary for M a y 29 he w r o t e : I saw an enemy P O W , w h o had parachuted to the edge o f K i k u n a P o n d and had been captured, under arrest. F r o m less than a meter away, I observed h i m for some time. H e was o n a bicycle-drawn trailer, hands tied behind h i m , blindfolded, and legs stretched out, accompanied by t w o soldiers; one w o r e a s w o r d , and one was an interpreter. H e appeared to be a youngster o f about 20, w i t h gray hair, a b i g nose, childish lips t i g h t l y clenched; he w o r e a shirt and pants and leather shoes. His neck rose stiffly f r o m his breast; w h a t thoughts d i d his breast contain? T h e c r o w d (in reality, there were ten or twelve people, still not u n r u l y ) surrounded h i m and watched silently; there were whispers, someone saying softly, " W i r e w o u l d be better to tie h i m w i t h , " another saying, "Isn't there something we can do for h i m ? " Just before the trailer began to move again, someone caught the guards napping and suddenly landed a g o o d kick on the P O W ' s legs, l i m p and pale, stretched out over the metal bumper i n front o f us. The P O W held back his pain w i t h an " o h ! " and pulled i n his legs, and the soldier angrily pulled his pistol. T h e person quickly fled, melting into the c r o w d , and the trailer began to move and pulled away. I returned, deep i n thought. W i t h o u t falling into animal hatred (nay, I may suffer because I can't easily do so), taking the path o f intellectual affirmation, I suffer greatly t r y i n g to hate h i m . Indeed, m y sense o f intellectual struggle is deep. H e too is a y o u n g man and probably to some degree feels a sense o f righteousness. I can't have a sense o f righteousness strong enough to destroy his and to engulf me. For me the slogans—co-prosperity sphere, liberation o f oppressed peoples, and the like—are only intellectual concepts and are n o t sublimated to beliefs; so I have a weakness: I cannot hate h i m f i r m l y and deeply w i t h m y m i n d . 1 1

O n A u g u s t 6, 1945, T ö g e was i n H i r o s h i m a , at home i n M i d o r i chö. H a d the b o m b fallen at 8:20 or 8:25 rather than at 8:15, 10

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 38, 39.

II

Quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 42.

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281

Töge

w o u l d probably not have survived, for he was just on the point o f setting out. Here is his statement from the A f t e r w o r d to Poems of the Atomic Bomb: " O n the m o r n i n g o f August 6, 1945, at home i n a part o f t o w n more than three kilometers from Ground Zero, I was just about to set out for d o w n t o w n Hiroshima when the bomb fell, and I survived merely w i t h cuts from splinters o f glass and atomic b o m b sickness." T H E POSTWAR YEARS, 1945-1953

Masuoka Toshikazu has w r i t t e n that T ö g e flashed across the sky "like a comet." Robert Jay Lifton called h i m "a Hiroshima version o f the lyrical-revolutionary tradition o f Mayakovsky and Y e v t u shenko." They are describing not the years before 1945, but the alltoo-brief years between 1945 and Töge's untimely death i n 1953. These years w r o u g h t sudden and dramatic changes i n T ö g e ' s life and thinking and w o r k ; they raised h i m to national prominence. T ö g e ' s disillusionment w i t h the war came very quickly. Masuoka cites a diary entry o f September to the effect that it was good Japan had lost the war and offers the poem " T r u t h " as additional evidence. " T r u t h " is an opaque poem, open to at least t w o distinct readings. It describes a death, w i t h enlightenment ("the pure scent o f t r u t h , " "the beautiful bird o f truth") occurring just at the moment o f death. M a ­ suoka interprets the corpse mentioned i n the final line as the death o f T ö g e ' s belief in Japan's holy war. T ö g e ' s disillusionment developed i n a striking direction. M a n y factors were involved: his life w i t h Harada Yoshiko, his activities i n various cultural organizations, his decision to j o i n the Japanese C o m ­ munist Party, labor strife i n Hiroshima, and the Korean War. B y 1951 T ö g e was w r i t i n g poetry startlingly different f r o m his earlier efforts. After being involved i n largely platonic affairs w i t h a number o f women, T ö g e settled d o w n and lived w i t h Harada Yoshiko, a w i d o w three years older than he. The t w o had to overcome real obstacles: 12

13

14

12

Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 19-20.

13

Lifton, Death in Life, p. 443.

Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 123—124; the entry is not included i n the diary excerpts published i n Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü. " M a k o t o " is in Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 1.98. 14

282

TOGE S A N K I C H I

T ö g e very much wanted children o f his o w n , yet because o f an earlier operation Yoshiko could bear no more children; her first husband's family w o u l d not permit a second marriage; her son Osamu took a long time to accept T ö g e . B u t the problems did not prevent them f r o m having an extraordinarily w a r m life together. Here is an excerpt f r o m a poem o f January 1948: O h ! W h a t a happy event! O u t o f the blue, t w o people have discovered love. Take m y hands, reaching w i d e — wide, wide, as w i d e as we can reach— and claim this g i f t .

15

Yoshiko outlived T ö g e by twelve years; i n M a r c h 1965 she committed suicide. Masuoka has described i n great detail T ö g e ' s activities i n various cultural organizations. Suffice it here to say that T ö g e was extraor­ dinarily active, that the activities brought h i m into contact w i t h cul­ tural figures on the left and w i t h idealistic students and labor move­ ment radicals, that they played a major role i n the development o f his thinking, and that his new friends sustained his spirits even as the ac­ tivities left h i m exhausted physically. These activities brought T ö g e to public notice i n a way that Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o never ex­ perienced. T ö g e ' s conversion to C o m m u n i s m came slowly and w i t h consid­ erable reluctance. It: was only i n the postwar years that T ö g e read his brother's books on socialism, and he always w o r r i e d about his i n d i ­ vidualism. B u t by M a y o f 1946 his thinking had changed, dramati­ cally. For one thing, he came to see Japan's defeat i n the Pacific War as—in Masuoka's words—"the defeat o f fascism and the victory o f w o r l d democracy." For another, he concluded that Christianity and C o m m u n i s m were a linked pair. His short piece "Distant Thunder" is largely a dialogue between a dying C o m m u n i s t (Kimoto) and a 16

17

"Karada o kakete," Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 1.112; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 180. 15

16

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 181-288.

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

17

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 80.

283

Toge Sankichi. Courtesy N i h o n kindai bungakkan

Christian (Tanaka). The Christian offers love o f humanity; the C o m ­ munist counters that love is not enough. The Christian speaks for the character o f each individual; the Communist speaks o f the group. B u t the Christian concludes as follows: That y o u put your life on the line for the sake o f society i n the struggle to serve y o u r ideology and that we believe i n and t r y to practice the teachings o f Christ—after all, don't they come f r o m the same spiritual core? I f they do, i t isn't likely that we alone w i l l gain eternal life or that y o u and y o u r comrades w i l l fall into eternal nothingness. W i t h o u t a t r u t h so entirely limitless, so completely turned into a faith that i t does not disappear even w i t h the death o f an individual, we cannot be linked to this w o r l d properly and effectively. 18

O n A p r i l i l , 1949, T o g e j o i n e d the party. In Hiroshima, as i n Japan as a whole, labor strife was endemic i n the early postwar years. Landmark events included MacArthur's p r o ­ hibition i n 1947 o f the planned nationwide rail strike (February 1); the Occupation's first (October 1949) and second (October 1950) Red Purges; and, i n June 1949, the wholesale dismissals at the Hiroshima factory o f Japan Steel. The latter was a major event not only i n H i r o ­ shima but also i n the national news. Some one-third o f the 2,000 18

"Enrai," Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü, 2.42; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 194. 284

TOGE SANKICHI

workers were fired; Occupation officials involved themselves on the pretext that the factory was one o f those designated for reparations; and 2,000 police officers faced 10,000 demonstrators. T ö g e returned f r o m a day o f confrontation to write "Song o f Rage," a poem he then read aloud before the strikers: T h e machines that t i l l yesterday produced sewing machines and vehicles are stopped, the workers driven off; today o n the r o o f o f the locked factory, the hated police flag flutters. Seize our broken flagpoles, yes! and break the shackles that b i n d our wrists! Even i f our b l o o d drenches the dust, even i f nightsticks knock us out— aged workers complain about pistols d r a w n i n threat; wives do not leave even t h o u g h the babies strapped to their backs sleep, heads to one side. O u r numbers increasing m o m e n t by moment, we surround the factory. A m i d fluttering u n i o n flags: our rage that becomes a song our tears that become a h y m n In the shade o f the trees, as dusk gathers, Japan Steel workers, prostrate, sleep: sleeping giants. 19

In his diary that night, T ö g e recorded his elation: "[wjorkers listened w i t h tears flowing . . . today's 'Song o f Rage' is the first poem o f mine that actually has been received w i t h j o y by the hearts o f the peo­ ple; moreover, today is the first time that I—a poet w h o has changed the esthetics o f his poems i n practice and shed one skin—have been able to receive joy. I ' m happy; I feel an intense maturation. I t can be done! I can accomplish something!" A final contributing factor was an increased concern w i t h atomic weapons. I n M a r c h 1950 came the Stockholm Appeal against atomic 20

Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 1.132. Masuoka gives a vivid description o f the events ( M a ­ suoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 237-239). 19

20

Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.261-262.

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285

weapons. The Stockholm Appeal was a landmark i n the propaganda battle surrounding nuclear weapons; eventually millions o f people around the w o r l d signed i t . It inspired T ö g e to write "Appeal," his first poem o f the atomic bomb, i n time for M a y Day. T ö g e also wrote "Little One" for publication i n August (its original title was "The T r u t h " — b o t h titles are phrases from the poem). I n June came the Korean War, w h i c h figures i n a number o f poems i n Poems of the Atomic Bomb. A n d on November 30 came President Truman's threat to use atomic weapons i n Korea. I n his diary for December 1 T ö g e noted the negative reaction i n England and France and elsewhere and commented, "There ought to be some quick expression o f opinion f r o m the people o f Hiroshima." As always, T ö g e was i n poor health. A spate o f hemorrhaging i n June had made h i m think he was dying; to Yoshiko he whispered, "Good-bye, Yoshiko! U p the revolution! Long live our poetry!" I n January 1951 T ö g e entered the hospital to prepare for an operation scheduled for A p r i l . I n a phenomenal burst o f energy he wrote almost all the poems o f Poems of the Atomic Bomb during that time; those he did not compose while he was i n the hospital, he polished there. Pro­ vided w i t h a table and an eight-person r o o m for his o w n use, he w r o t e till late at night, covering up the windows w i t h newspaper so that the doctors w o u l d n ' t see that he was still u p . He completed the poems, but the doctors called o f f the operation; the previous three such op­ erations had all ended i n the death o f the patient. B y 1951 T ö g e had become a figure o f charisma and fame. N a ­ tional campaigns raised blood for transfusions and money for hospital expenses. I n A p r i l 1952 T ö g e was i n Shizuoka and collapsed once again; Yoshiko was back i n Hiroshima. Here is part o f what T ö g e wrote i n a long letter to Yoshiko: 21

22

23

24

25

For the original title, see Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 267. Töge's first poem o f the atomic bomb was "Ehon" (Picture Book), composed August 9, 1945; but it is strikingly different in tone. Cf. Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 126-127. Masuoka claims some o f the credit for stimulating Töge's development by involving h i m i n the editing o f an anthology o f antiwar poetry (Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 126-127).

21

22

23

24

See "Grave Marker," "The Smile," "August 6, 1950," "Landscape." Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.268; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 276. Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 265.

286

2 5

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 276. TOGE S A N K I C H I

[ 0 ] n the 9th, the fund-raising campaign o f the local independent laborers delivered 470 yen. Three rain-soaked people i n very ragged clothing acted as representatives and b r o u g h t the money. I n the accompanying circular I was introduced as the poet o f the atomic b o m b , and most people gave very small contributions—20 or 30 yen. T h e sums are small, but they have a t r u l y valu­ able meaning for me. T h i n k o f it, dear! People w h o probably d o n ' t k n o w m y face or m y name are stirred by an appeal— . . . that a poet w h o stands against war and for peace and w i t h the proletariat has fallen i l l away f r o m home; can't y o u please help?—and f r o m that day's wages that probably aren't enough for their evening rice or food take 20 or 30 yen, dug out o f workjackets that are worse than beggar's clothes or out o f slack purses, and present i t u n c o n d i ­ tionally to me! W h a t o n earth does that mean? I f this has no meaning for m y life, then n o t h i n g has any meaning. For good or for i l l , many things like this are happening to me. Events happen one after the other that prove that m y life is n o t mine and yours. . . . [W]hat responsibility I felt! I t h i n k y o u w i l l understand. T h a t I must not warp m y life w i t h personal desires, that I live for everyone and die for everyone, that this is the supreme path whereby I am I . This is easy to say but difficult to do. A m I up to it? I want to t r y to be like that. "For the happiness o f a l l " means to help create a society i n w h i c h capi­ talism is crushed and i n w h i c h people are freed f r o m w o r r y about their daily bread. There is no other road whereby we and the people can achieve h a p p i ­ ness. 26

Masuoka comments that this sense o f mission, the conviction that his life was no longer his o w n , may have undercut T ö g e ' s reluctance to go ahead w i t h the rescheduled operation. The rescheduled operation t o o k place on M a r c h 9, 1953.

The

doctors estimated T ö g e ' s chances at 70:30, up f r o m 50:50 t w o years earlier.

27

The operation began at 2 p . m . , but preparations started be­

fore that time. Masuoka was i n prison at the time and so was not an eyewitness; but he reports as follows: F r o m m o r n i n g on, y o u n g comrades f r o m [the various poetry circles associ­ ated w i t h T ö g e ] arrived one after the other. As they had done already many times before, as they had pledged to do i n f o r m i n g the transfusion brigade that had been organized for each time T ö g e hemorrhaged. B u t none o f t h e m t h o u g h t this w o u l d be the last time. So as Sankichi was getting his final T ö g e Sankichi to Yoshiko, A p r i l 7-10, 1952, in Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni, pp. 104105; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 279-280.

2 6

2 7

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 367.

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287

checkup at i o that m o r n i n g , they w h i l e d away the time i n a happy circle on the l a w n below the w i n d o w o f his r o o m . Singing songs, they w a i t e d . 28

Inveterate diarist, T ö g e wrote his last entry at about noon. It ran: Beautiful weather. W h i l e they aspirated me i n the clinic, many people have shown up. The time passes i n a w h i r l o f activity: having b l o o d taken and some k i n d o f check o n i t done, being given all kinds o f shots and medicine, measuring respiration, going for a fluoroscope, measuring b l o o d pressure. I haven't eaten, so I am thinner; but I feel fine. M y health is the best. I am confident I can stand up to any pain. I n about an hour I go under the k n i f e . 29

A t 4 the next m o r n i n g Tsubota Masao, an X - r a y technician, set d o w n a detailed record, virtually minute by minute, o f the operation and its aftermath. That record includes these developments: 1:35 p . m .

2:15 p- m . 2:30 p- m . 4:10 p- m .

4:20 4:50 5:00 6:00

p. m . p- m . p- m . P- m .

6:30 P- m . 7:00 p- m . 7:05 p- m . 28

29

T ö g e wheeled into operating r o o m . After exchanging good wishes w i t h the attendants, T ö g e "said not another w o r d i n the fourteen long hours" o f his ordeal except to count out loud as the anesthetic took effect. Five doc­ tors, a dozen or so nurses. The first incision. The first transfusion. W i t h ninety minutes o f operation to go, T ö g e ' s blood pressure suddenly drops; his pulse rises sharply. Doctors bring surgery to a halt. Condition critical: no pulse, no blood pressure. Pulse up to 60. Pulse around 54. 300-cc. transfusion o f blood offered by T ö g e ' s friends and supporters (making 1700 cc. i n all). Pulse up to 92. T ö g e regains consciousness. Pulse at n o . Subdermal emphysema develops.

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 364. Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.291; quoted in Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 368.

288

TOGE S A N K I C H I

8:oo p . m . 11:50 p . m .

2 a.m. 3:30 a.m.

Transfusion up to 2200 cc. Doctors, nurses eat i n relays. T ö g e ' s left hand writes i n the air; Tsubota gives T ö g e a pencil, but the result is not legible. Then T ö g e writes "Quick!" Breaking the rules, doctors permit direct transfusions f r o m nurses. Yoshiko and T ö g e ' s friends enter Operating R o o m briefly, one at a time. Someone puts a copy o f Poems of the Atomic Bomb by T ö g e ' s head. Tsubota reads "Prelude" a l o u d . 30

Still i n the Operating R o o m , T ö g e died at 4:45 a.m. Öta Y ö k o commemorated T ö g e ' s death i n a strange essay. It be­ gins w i t h praise: " B y the lights o f the literary establishment, he was not a famous poet, but he died having left us the volume Poems of the Atomic Bomb and his spirit. Poems of the Atomic Bomb is, I think, i m ­ mortal. The poems are emotional, almost shuddering w i t h his grief and sadness, and T ö g e Sankichi's antiwar conviction is stronger than the f o r m o f his poems." Her essay then moves to an account o f one o f her last meetings w i t h T ö g e , i n 1951. The meeting took place as Ota, hoping to learn the reasons for the suicide earlier that year o f Hara T a m i k i , visited the Hara family home. She comments on the u n c o m ­ fortable contrast between the unseemly sumptuousness o f the house, newly rebuilt, and the pale and sickly T ö g e . She remembers walking away f r o m the Hara home w i t h T ö g e , through a Hiroshima—"city i n ruins"—that the tourists and postwar arrivals "could never know." She concludes: "He hoped for peace. It is not surprising that a single poet w h o experienced the atomic bomb should hope for peace, but it hardly seems likely that arts people—poets, painters, writers, and the like—should all w o r k for peace." Even i n a tribute to T ö g e , n e w l y dead, Ota cannot restrain her tongue, and she castigates the literary establishment that turned a cold shoulder to all three: Öta herself, Hara T a m i k i , and T ö g e Sankichi. 31

Tsubota Masao, "Shujutsushitsu yori no hökoku" (Report from the operating room), i n Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni, pp. 124-125; cf. Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 364-366. Tsubota writes literally that he read aloud the Preface. Masuoka interprets that to mean the poem "Prelude"; the only other prefatory material is the dedication. 3 0

31

"Gembaku shijin no shi" (Death o f a poet o f the atomic bomb) (March 1953), i n Nihon

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

289

Cover o f the posthumous volume commemorating T ö g e Sankichi,

Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni: Töge Sankichi tsuitöshü (Like the w i n d , like flames: Essays i n m e m o r y o f T ö g e Sankichi) (Hiroshima, 1954). The artist is M a r u k i Toshi (her signature is i n the b o t t o m right-hand corner); the original is i n color 290

TOGE S A N K I C H I

Robert Jay Lifton speaks o f T ö g e as "a legendary figure and an A - b o m b m a r t y r " and comments on "the canonizing needs" o f his f o l ­ lowers and on "the canonizing imagery" i n accounts o f his life and death. Still, there is much that is extraordinary here. T ö g e is indeed an epic hero. 32

THE

POEMS

T ö g e Sankichi published a mimeographed edition o f Poems of the Atomic Bomb i n 1951. It was equal parts description o f the effects o f the atomic b o m b and call for action against the b o m b . I n its printed f o r m (1952), it has gone through more than forty printings. Masuoka is hardly an unbiased witness i n calling Poems of the Atomic Bomb— even t h i r t y years later—"the most advanced" book o f poetry about the atomic b o m b ; but no single poet rivals T ö g e , and only antholo­ gies rival Poems of the Atomic Bomb. A few comments about aspects o f T ö g e ' s poems may help the reader. Masuoka traces at length the development o f T ö g e ' s poetry away f r o m symbolism toward what Masuoka calls realism, a devel­ opment that took place largely i n the years after 1945. Here the con­ cern is primarily w i t h some aspects o f T ö g e ' s late poems, most o f w h i c h are included i n Poems of the Atomic Bomb. First o f all, T ö g e experiments w i t h f o r m . N o t one o f these poems employs the format o f tanka or haiku, thousands o f w h i c h T ö g e had w r i t t e n before the war. They are "free verse." Stanzas (and poems) have no specified number o f lines; lines have no specified length. I n Poems of the Atomic Bomb, line counts range f r o m 8 ("Prelude") to 185 ("When W i l l That Day Come?"); syllable counts per line range f r o m i to over 30. T ö g e even includes "Warehouse Chronicle," w h i c h is almost pure prose. In one poem, " D y i n g , " T ö g e attempts to underline the story o f 33

34

35

no gembaku bungaku (The atomic bomb literature of Japan), 15 vols. (Tokyo: Horupu, 1983), 2:289-290. 32

Lifton, Death in Life, pp. 443, 445.

33

Cf. Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 104-105.

34

Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, p. 137.

35

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 81, 253-254.

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a person dying on August 6 by having the poem, too, expire. The poem is 86 lines long, w i t h none o f the structural breaks T ö g e nor­ mally employs; the lines are generally short, breathless. The ending is particularly striking, made up as i t is o f lines o f the following syllable counts: 2, 6, 8, 12, 9, 3, 2, 1, 2, 1. The person dies; the lines die. Here is the Japanese: Aa döshita koto döshite watashi wa michibata no konna tokoro de omae kara mo hanareshi, shinaneba naranu ka In this passage T ö g e uses only t w o Chinese characters: the michi o f michibata (roadside) and the shi o f shinaneba (die). The last five lines are really only the verb (shinaneba naranu) plus the interrogative ka; this fact adds to the sense o f expiration. The equivalent English terms are all o f one syllable, and there is no voiced interrogative, so replication is impossible: Ah! Why? W h y here by the side o f the road, cut off, dear, f r o m you; why must I die ?

T ö g e uses other techniques that bring the reader up short. The Japanese language has no exclamation point; i t achieves the same effect w i t h a voiced particle. B u t " D y i n g " opens w i t h a first line that is an exclamation point standing alone. "Flames" includes one line set i n English: "1945, A u g . 6." "Season o f Flames" opens w i t h the w o r d 292

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"FLASH!" i n English and capitalized (ironically, " W H O O S H ! " is a more fitting translation than "FLASH!"). " D a w n " includes a line that is al­ most entirely statistical: "the energy ten m i l l i o n times more powerful than gunpowder, i gram the equal o f 10,000,000." "Poem w i t h o u t T i t l e " — n o t included i n Poems of the Atomic Bomb—has blank spaces to m i m i c censorship: The newspapers that carry news o f have been banned; the peace festival at T o k y o University has been crushed by the police; the fellow w h o placed antiwar handbills o n the bus seats has been arrested again today. Have y o u seen them? Go to the station: many times a day passenger trains are shunted onto sidings and freight trains full o f — go r u m b l i n g through, headed west. 36

The first blank refers to the Korean War; the second, to weapons. T ö g e published this poem under a pseudonym, and Masuoka argues that i n 1950 Occupation censorship necessitated the blanks and the false name. T ö g e makes frequent use o f repetition. This repetition takes many forms. I n "August 6" the phrase wasureyö ka ("who can forget it?") i n the first line appears again twice i n the final stanza; indeed, the phrase constitutes the final line. I n " A t the Makeshift A i d Station" the phrase omotte iru ("thinking") appears five times i n the last eleven lines. In "Grave M a r k e r " the inscription "Seibi Primary School Dead" ap­ pears three times, each time standing alone, a stanza unto itself. Some­ times T ö g e repeats words or phrases but varies the orthography. I n " B l i n d , " one line runs "Eyes, eyes, eyes." T ö g e writes the first w i t h the Chinese character for eye; the second, w i t h the hiragana syllable for the sound; the third, w i t h the katakana syllable for the sound. When the poem is read aloud, the audience can detect no difference among the three; i f the audience sees the text, the difference is striking. In English a roughly comparable impact is as follows: "Eyes, eyes, 37

36

"Dai no nai uta," Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.139-140.

37

Masuoka, Gemhaku shijin monogatari, p. 131.

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293

E Y E S . " N o t entirely i n the same category, but visual repetition none­ theless, is T ö g e ' s use o f the character for fire i n "Landscape." I n the second stanza T ö g e deploys seventy-nine Chinese characters and over a hundred hiragana syllables; fifteen o f the Chinese characters include the element for fire. I n the third stanza five characters (often) include the element for fire, and four o f the five are the character for flames, w h i c h consists o f the character for fire written twice; so i n thirteen lines the reader's eye sees fire twenty-five times. The sixteen lines o f the final stanza o f " N i g h t " constitute a second example: lines 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 13 end i n the same character, w h i c h appears twice elsewhere as well. In setting scenes T ö g e proceeds normally f r o m the large to the small, f r o m the general to the specific. The structure o f Japanese aids

Cover o f (mimeographed) first edition oí Poems of the Atomic Bomb. The artist is Shikoku G o r ö . Courtesy N i h o n kindai bungakkan and the estate o f Nakano Shigeharu

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h i m ; the structure o f English sometimes makes it difficult to replicate the original. For example, "Eyes" sets the scene beginning w i t h line 2 as follows (in literal translation) : unknown world u n k n o w n time, dark warehouse l i g h t falling t h r o u g h barred w i n d o w faces o f the d y i n g

The second stanza o f " O l d W o m a n " moves as follows (this transla­ tion, too, is literal; the translation i n its final version inverts this or­ der): creaking i n the w i n d , home for w i d o w s , corner o f 4 / -mat empty r o o m orange crate butsudan, i n front o f flabby skin, sinews only, your body, stretched out too heavy, t h i n futon, under all day, something muttering, old woman. I

2

I n b o t h cases T ö g e moves f r o m the large to the small, f r o m establish­ ing shot, as it were, to close-up. The second stanza o f "August 6, 1950" provides a third example. In Poems of the Atomic Bomb T ö g e never once writes " U n i t e d States" or "America" or "American." Yet the U n i t e d States is the u n ­ spoken subtext o f virtually every poem i n the collection. It is the unnamed addressee o f "Prelude," and it lurks i n the background o f all the poems that speak o f the sufferings o f August 6. I n "When W i l l That Day Come?" T ö g e writes: A h , that was no accident, no act o f God. After precision planning, w i t h insatiable ambition, humanity's first atomic b o m b was dropped, a single flash, o n the archipelago i n the eastern sea, o n the Japanese people; y o u were killed, one o f 400,000 victims w h o died horrible deaths. TRANSLATOR S I N T R O D U C T I O N

295

But he does not write "America" or " U n i t e d States." The U n i t e d States held the B i k i n i tests that figure i n "Season o f Flames," " N i g h t , " and "Landscape"; but T ö g e speaks o f the tests, not o f America. I n "Grave M a r k e r " he speaks w i t h irony o f "the M a c A r t h u r Cup tennis courts," and i n "When W i l l That Day Come?" o f M a c A r t h u r Boule­ vard. I n "Season o f Flames" he uses the circumlocution "the other side o f the w o r l d . " I n " N i g h t " he speaks o f the A t o m i c B o m b Casualty Commission and expensive cars and the "rhythms o f the N e w M e x i ­ can desert." B u t he does not say "America" or "the U n i t e d States." M o s t often T ö g e uses the w o r d "foreign." To be sure, there were other foreign presences i n postwar Hiroshima; but most o f T ö g e ' s references are surely to the U n i t e d States. I n "Grave Marker," "a for­ eign soldier and a g i r l " lie sprawled. In "The Shadow," "foreign sail­ ors amble up i n their white leggings, / come to a stop w i t h a click o f their heels, / and, each having taken a snapshot, go off." In "When W i l l That Day Come?" T ö g e writes w i t h particular bite o f "Japanese w o m e n selling their bodies to foreign soldiers" and o f "the night when the snow drifted high atop the child run over by the jeep." It is in this poem, added at the last moment to increase the political em­ phases of Poems of the Atomic Bomb, that T ö g e flirts most openly w i t h anti-American, almost nationalistic sentiments. He speaks o f the t w o atomic bombs, asserts that "the war w o u l d have ended i n any case / even w i t h o u t the atomic b o m b , " stresses the humiliation "that has engraved itself on the souls o f all Japanese," and decries the fate o f Japan "bound i n servitude w i t h o u t l i m i t o f time." B u t even here T ö g e speaks indirectly and does not write "America" or " U n i t e d States." T ö g e published Poems of the Atomic Bomb first i n mimeographed f o r m i n 1951, when the American Occupation was still i n control. As we have seen, the Occupation censors placed obstacles i n the way o f Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o . Was Töge's avoidance o f "America" and "the U n i t e d States" simply his attempt to evade censorship? Probably not. T ö g e wrote most o f his atomic bomb poems i n 1950 and 1951, when Occupation censorship was no longer a real factor; what is more, he outlived the Occupation, i f only by a matter o f months. The more likely answer is that T ö g e chose not to name the country that dropped the bomb, that he preferred indirection and apparent eva296

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sion. Indeed, reading these poems, we can see the w i s d o m o f his choice. A l l these stylistic devices play a supporting role to the message. I n an essay o f early 1947 entitled "The A g o n y Leading to the N e w Age," T ö g e had w r i t t e n o f the tendency o f intellectuals (he writes " i n ­ telligentsia") to "love the muse more than humanity." B y 1950 T ö g e had enlisted f i r m l y i n the cause o f changing society, o f using poetry to mobilize opposition to injustice. T ö g e dwells on pain and seeks to convert that agony into political action. Several poems speak primarily o f physical pain; among these are " D y i n g , " " A Friend," "Eyes." M o r e typical are the poems that move f r o m that pain to anger and affirmation and action. I n the final stanza o f "Flames" T ö g e writes: 38

39

Hiroshima's night o f fire casts its g l o w over sleeping humanity; before long history w i l l set an ambush for all w h o w o u l d play god.

I n " I n the Streets" T ö g e writes o f "the anger o f black-market w o m e n , " "the laughter o f painted ladies," and "the sorrow o f a drunk staggering along"; "underneath / underneath," he detects emotions "that the slightest pinprick w o u l d bring gushing out." He does not specify the emotions, but they clearly include resentment and anger. "The Smile" ends w i t h these t w o stanzas: I n the choking stench o f pus, stripped even o f the capacity for hatred, for anger, y o u sent the w o r l d o f the l i v i n g that last smile. That quiet smile Masuoka speaks approvingly o f the evolution o f the opening line o f "Ehon" (Picture Book). The initial opening phrase o f 1945, Teki no te (at the hands o f the enemy), became the more general Tatakai no te (in the struggle) a year or so later; Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, p. 127. Apparently T ö g e used a number o f pseudonyms to cause difficulty for the Occupation censors; cf. Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 1.122. 38

"Shinjidai e no kunö," Töge Sankichi sakuhinshü 2.72; quoted (with incorrect title) i n M a ­ suoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 201. 3 9

TRANSLATOR'S I N T R O D U C T I O N

297

has been primed, painfully, inside me; for three years, five years, the pressure has built up and n o w is about to explode i n the direction o f the w a r - m a k i n g power that, once again, has forced its way back, and o f people w h o are losing the w i l l to resist. W i t h a violence that abhors even that smile y o u smiled— yes! N o w it is about to explode!

The one triumphal poem here, " D a w n , " T ö g e wrote to celebrate the Soviet Union's development o f atomic power. The largely lyrical po­ ems—for example, "Landscape w i t h River"—are the exceptions. The anger that suffuses so much o f T ö g e ' s poetry appears even in "Prelude," the deceptively simple poem written entirely i n the hiragana syllabary, i n words (figuratively, not literally) o f one syllable. The poem has been quoted widely, anthologized, set to music, and carved onto a memorial to T ö g e i n Peace Park i n Hiroshima. "Pre­ lude" doesn't seem angry, and it has been criticized for being too ac­ cepting, too passive. B u t Masuoka argues that it "expresses pithily and plainly the anger at those w h o dropped the b o m b " and suggests that it be read once again after reading the entire collection. He c o m ­ ments that its simplicity is not accidental: "The words that human beings use when they have sublimated the most poignant thoughts are probably pithy and plain." Masuoka cites the note T ö g e added when he published Poems of the Atomic Bomb i n mimeographed form: "These poems are prophecy . . . these words are omens." Masuoka takes comfort f r o m the fact that this poem is engraved i n stone only one hundred meters away from the atomic cenotaph so that it redresses the balance. The inscription on the atomic cenotaph reads: "Rest i n peace. The mistake shall not be repeated." Critics have long consid40

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 314-317. The complete text o f the passage excised from the printed version is as follows (Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, p. 113): "These words— / poems o f prophecy? / These poems— / words o f omen? / / These poems— / a record o f the suffering / suddenly visited on mankind, / a cry o f sorrow / that cannot be expunged from the heart. / / S o now / these poems— / words o f prophecy, are they not? / These words— / poems o f omen, are they not?"

4 0

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ered that inscription at best empty moralizing, at worst an exculpation o f the U n i t e d States and President H a r r y S T r u m a n . T ö g e ' s "Prelude" is considerably more pointed. Indeed, T ö g e apparently wrote at least one poem—"When W i l l That Day Come?"—--in response to the criticism that Poems of the Atomic Bomb was not political enough. Masuoka, for example, was a close friend and fellow poet; an activist, he reports that he was one o f those dropping leaflets f r o m the upper floors o f the Fukuya Depart­ ment Store (cf. "August 6, 1950"). He welcomed T ö g e ' s move away f r o m symbolism and sees the real line o f T ö g e ' s late development as running f r o m "August 6, 1950" to "Landscape" to "When W i l l That Day Come?"—in one sense at least, the more political, the better. T ö g e ' s aim after completing Poems of the Atomic Bomb was to write an epic poem to be entitled "Hiroshima." For such a poem, "When W i l l That Day Come?" w o u l d have served as a trial run. T ö g e never did write "Hiroshima," but by one account he intended it to deal w i t h these themes, among others: research into the atom; the fight against the Nazis; atomic spies; military misrule i n Japan; the firebombings o f Japanese cities; the successful atomic tests; the scientists in opposition and "the politicians and capitalists" w h o pushed the de­ cision through; the Soviet atomic bomb tests; the Korean War; the American tests o f atomic and hydrogen bombs. Masuoka suggests that T ö g e ' s aim was to depict Japan as both victimizer and v i c t i m , America as both developer and dropper o f the bomb, and atomic power as both destructive and beneficial. 41

42

43

THE

TEXT

Poems of the Atomic Bomb appeared first i n 1951, i n time, writes Masuoka, for the sixth anniversary o f August 6. (The chronology i n 44

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 342. Masuoka reports that the leaflets focused on the Stockholm Appeal and the Korean War (Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, p. 103).

41

Sasaki Takeo (?), "Jojö no henkaku—Jojishi 'Hiroshima' e no döryoku no tochü de" (Change o f lyrics—on the road to the epic poem 'Hiroshima'), in Kaze no yd ni, honoo no yö ni, pp. 87-88; Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, pp. 360-361. 42

43

Masuoka, Gembaku shijin monogatari, pp. 35-36.

44

Masuoka, Hachigatsu no shijin, p. 276.

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299

Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni gives the date as September.) That ver­ sion, mimeographed rather than printed, is n o w a collector's item. The first printed edition appeared i n 1952, published by A o k i shoten (no. 48 i n the A o k i Library); that edition includes "When W i l l That Day Come?" and several other poems that were not part o f the m i m ­ eographed edition, and o f course the A f t e r w o r d . 45

46

45

Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni, p. 127.

There are conflicting dates for the publication o f the first A o k i Library edition: Kaze no yö ni, honoo no yö ni gives the date as June (Töge's Afterword is dated May 10); but the later editions give the date as February. Existing translations o f Töge's poems include the following: "Prelude" and "August 6" (excerpts) and "Dawn"—in Lifton, Death in Life, pp. 441-443 (no translator is credited); " A t the Makeshift A i d Station," "To a Certain Woman," " N i g h t , " "Landscape"—-James Kirkup, in Kirkup and A . R. Davis, Modern Japanese Poetry (St. Lucia, Queensland: University o f Queensland Press, 1978), pp. 152160; "Prelude"—John W. Treat, in Treat, "Early Hiroshima Poetry," Journal of the Association of Teachers of Japanese 20.2:219 (November 1986); and an excerpt from "August 6, 1950" translated into English from a German translation—in Robert Jungk, Children of the Atomic Bomb, trans. Constantine Fitzgibbon (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1961), pp. 213-214. The only complete translation is a j o i n t effort: Hiroshima Poems, trans. Rob Jackaman, Dennis Logan, and T. Shioda (Tokyo: Sanyusha, 1977). 4 6

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Poems of the Atomic Bomb by Töge Sankichi

Dedicated to those whose lives were taken by the atomic bombs dropped August 6, 1945, on Hiroshima and August 9, 1945, on Nagasaki, to those w h o have continued d o w n to the present to be tormented by the terror o f death and by pain, to those w h o as l o n g as they live have no way o f extinguishing their agony and grief, and finally to those throughout the w o r l d w h o abhor atomic bombs

Prelude B r i n g back the fathers! B r i n g back the mothers! B r i n g back the o l d people! B r i n g back the children! B r i n g me back! B r i n g back the human beings I had contact w i t h ! For as long as there are human beings, a w o r l d o f human beings, bring back peace, unbroken peace.

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August 6 That brilliant flash—who can forget it? In a split second, 30,000 i n the streets vanished; the screams o f 50,000 pinned under i n pitch black died away. The churning yellow smoke thinned to reveal Hiroshima: buildings split, bridges fallen, packed streetcars burned, an endless heap o f rubble and embers. Soon a procession o f the naked, crying, walking i n bunches, trampling on brain matter: charred clothes about waists, skin hanging like rags f r o m arms raised to breasts. Corpses at the Parade Ground, scattered about like stone statues; at the river's edge, too, fallen i n a heap, a group that had crawled toward a tethered raft, turning gradually, under the burning rays o f the sun, into corpses; in the glare o f the flames piercing the night sky, the area where M o t h e r and Brother were pinned under alive— it too went up i n flames. In the feces and urine on the floor o f the arsenal a group o f schoolgirls w h o had fled lay fallen; bellies swollen like drums, blinded i n one eye, skin half-gone, hairless, impossible to tell one from the other— by the time the rays o f the m o r n i n g sun picked them out, they had all stopped m o v i n g ;

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amid the stagnant stench, the only sound: flies buzzing about metal washbasins. The stillness that reigned over the city o f 300,000: w h o can forget it? In that hush the w h i t e eyes o f dead w o m e n and children sent us a soul-rending appeal: w h o can forget it?

POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

307

Dying i

L o u d i n m y ear: screams. Soundlessly welling up, pouncing on me: space, all upside-down. Hanging, fluttering clouds o f dust smelling o f smoke, and, running madly about, figures. "Ah, get out o f here!" Scattering fragments o f brick, I spring to m y feet; m y body's on fire. The hot blast that blew me d o w n f r o m behind set sleeves, shoulders on fire. A m i d the smoke I grab a corner o f the cement water tank; m y head— already i n . The clothes I splash water on burn, drop off: gone. Wires, boards, nails, glass, a rippling wall o f tiles. Fingernails burn; heels—gone; plastered to m y back: a sheet o f molten lead. "Owww!" Flames already 308

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blacken; telephone poles, walls, too. Eddies o f flame and smoke b l o w d o w n on m y broken head. "Hiro-chan! Hiro-chan!" Press hand to breast: ah—a bloody cotton hole. Fallen, I cry— C h i l d ! C h i l d ! Child! Where are you? A m i d the smoke that crawls along the ground— where could they have come from?— hand i n hand, round and round as i n the bon dance, naked girls: one falls, all fall. F r o m under tiles, someone else's shoulder: a hairless o l d w o m a n , driven up by the heat, w r i t h i n g , crying shrilly. Beside the road where flames already flicker, stomachs distended like great drums, even their lips torn off: lumps o f red flesh. A hand that grabs m y ankle slips off, peels o f f A n eyeball that pleads at m y feet. A head boiled white. Hair, brain matter m y hand presses d o w n on. Steamy smoke; fiery air that rushes at me. A m i d the darkness o f flying sparks: children's eyes, the color o f gold. B u r n i n g body, scalding throat; arm POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

that suddenly collapses; shoulder that sinks to the ground. O h , I can go no farther. I n the lonely dark, the thunder i n m y ears suddenly fades. Ah! Why? W h y here by the side o f the road cut off, dear, f r o m you; why must I die

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Flames Pushing up through smoke f r o m a w o r l d half-darkened by overhanging cloud— the shroud that mushroomed out and struck the dome o f the sky, the angry flamesblack, red, blue— dance into the air, merge, scatter glittering sparks, already tower over the whole c i t y Quivering like seaweed, the mass o f flames spurts forward. Cattle bound for the slaughterhouse avalanche d o w n the riverbank; wings drawn i n , a single ash-colored pigeon lies on its side atop the bridge. Popping up i n the dense smoke, crawling out wreathed i n fire: countless human beings on all fours. In a heap o f embers that erupt and subside, hair rent, rigid i n death, there smolders a curse. After that concentrated moment o f the explosion, pure incandescent hatred spreads out, boundless. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

BU

Blank silence piles up into the air. The hot rays o f uranium that shouldered the sun aside burn onto a girl's back the flowered pattern o f thin silk, set instantaneously ablaze the black garb o f the priest— August 6, 1945: that midday m i d n i g h t man burned the gods at the stake. Hiroshima's night o f fire casts its glow over sleeping humanity; before long history w i l l set an ambush for all w h o w o u l d play God.

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Blind F r o m under the pile o f rubble o n the riverbank— all that's left o f the maternity hospital— men w h o had been visiting their wives drag themselves—arms, legs— d o w n to a barge at the stone embankment. I n darkness brought on by the splinters o f glass that attacked chests and faces, the beached barge is daubed w i t h sparks. D r i v e n by the heat, the blind stagger d o w n to the riverbed; staggering feet slip i n the m u d and fall. Above the knot o f fallen men, Hiroshima burns silently, burns and crumbles; already here—evening high tide. In the riverbed the water rises, comes full, covers arms, covers legs; salt water seeps into the countless open wounds o f people w h o no longer move. In the blackness o f flickering consciousness, nerves that grope for sensations no longer there strike against an exploding curtain—the flash o f l i g h t — and b u r n out once more. As arms, legs begin to float, senses that survived all the destruction are wrenched off; POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

inside log-like bodies, burned black, that tumble into the river g l i m m e r afterimages o f life: the smile o f a wife w i t h her newborn child; breakfast at the w i n d o w o f the delivery r o o m . N o w t w o eyeballs gouged out by flying glass reflect bloody pus and m u d , a rift i n the clouds and smoke, and the evening light over the mountains.

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At the Makeshift Aid Station Y o u girls— weeping even though there is no place for tears to come from; crying out even though y o u have no lips to shape the words; reaching out even though there is no skin on your fingers to grasp w i t h — y o u girls. Oozing blood and greasy sweat and l y m p h , your limbs t w i t c h ; puffed to slits, your eyes glitter whitely; only the elastic bands o f your panties hold i n your swollen bellies; though your private parts are exposed, y o u are w h o l l y beyond shame: to think that a little while ago y o u all were pretty schoolgirls! Emerging f r o m the flames that flickered gloomily i n burned-out Hiroshima no longer yourselves, y o u rushed out, crawled out one after the other, struggled along to this grassy spot, i n agony laid your heads, bald but for a few wisps o f hair, on the ground. W h y must y o u suffer like this? Why must you suffer like this? For what reason? For what reason? Y o u girls don't k n o w

POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

h o w desperate your condition, h o w far transformed f r o m the human. You are simply thinking, thinking o f those w h o until this m o r n i n g were your fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters (would any o f them k n o w y o u now?) and o f the homes i n w h i c h y o u slept, woke, ate (in that instant the hedgeroses were torn off; w h o knows what has become o f their ashes?) thinking, t h i n k i n g — as y o u lie there among friends w h o one after the other stop m o v i n g — thinking o f w h e n y o u were girls, human beings.

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Eyes Shapes I do not recognize are looking toward me. I n a lost w o r l d , a lost time, inside a dark storehouse, a light neither night nor day falls through the twisted bars of a window; piled one atop the other—shapes that once were faces. Shapes that once were the front sides o f heads. Faces once the upper parts o f human beings, that like flickering water reflected life's joys and sorrows. Now—ah!—lumps o f putrid, blubbery flesh, only the eyes ablaze; seals o f the human, skin torn away, on the ground, sinking into the cement floor; swollen, soft, heavy, round objects not m o v i n g as i f pinned d o w n by some force; the only movement: w h i t e gleaming from t o r n flesh, watching m y every step. Eyes fastened to m y back, fixed on m y shoulder, m y arm. W h y do they look at me like this? After me, after me, f r o m all sides, thin white beams coming at me: eyes, eyes, E Y E S — f r o m way up ahead, f r o m that dark corner, f r o m right here at m y feet. Ah! Ah! Ah! Erect, clothed, b r o w intact and nose undamaged, I walk on—a human being: eyes transfix me, hold steady on me. F r o m the hot floor, f r o m the oppressive walls, f r o m beside stout pillars supporting the cavernous ceiling, eyes materialize, materialize, do not fade. A h , pasted to me, fixed forever on me— back, then chest; armpit, then shoulder— POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

I w h o step into this dark in search o f the one w h o only this morning was m y younger sister— eyes! A straw mat on the cement floor, urine from somewhere oozing through its meshes; pressing into the mat, sunken-cheeked, slippery w i t h ointment, secretions, blood, burnt ash—a death mask. Oh! Oh!— an eyeball that moves spills drops o f transparent liquid; f r o m torn lips red-flecked teeth groan out m y name.

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Warehouse Chronicle D A Y ONE The site; amid fields o f lotus plants, all the leaves scorched into horseshoe-shape, the A r m y Clothing Depot, the second floor. H i g h w i n d o w s w i t h gratings offering the only d i m light; concrete floor. A t o p army blankets that cover the floor, those w h o have fled here are l y i n g every w h i c h way. A l l o f them naked but for pieces o f panty and cotton workpants about their waists. They lie so close together there is no place to set foot, most o f them thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds f r o m the girls' school w h o had gone to clean up the debris left as firebreaks were cleared; burns on faces and over whole bodies, Mercurochrome, clotted blood, salve, bandages, and the like make them resemble a bunch o f filthy o l d beggarwomen. B y the wall, beside the thick pillars, buckets and barrels are full o f filth, overflow; into them they pour excrement. A m i d the pungent stench: "Help, Daddy, help!" "There's water, water! O h , I ' m so happy! Happy!" "Fifty seni Fifty sen here!" "Get i t out o f here! This dead body at m y feet—get it out o f here!" The voices are high and thin and never stop. Some girls already become delirious; half are already corpses that move no more; but there is no one to dispose o f them. F r o m time to time a parent seeking a daughter comes i n , all wrapped up i n air-raid clothing, and looks about uneasily for familiar features or cotton workpants o f a certain pattern. When the girls k n o w someone is there, they call for a while, frantically, for water and for help. N o hair, one eye twitching, her whole body swollen, a girl halfrises by a pillar, holds out a battered canteen, and waves i t ; not giving up, she repeats over and over the plea, "Please, mister, water! B r i n g me some water!" B u t the adult has been told not to give water to b u r n victims and does not heed her plea; so most o f the girls g r o w weary POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

o f moaning and lower their voices as i f i n reproach, and the one girl by the pillar soon slumps back. The unlighted warehouse transmits to the earth the reverbera­ tions o f the city still burning i n the distance; its mad voices rising and falling, it is gradually engulfed by the night. D A Y T W O M o r n i n g : quiet, an unreal quiet. The group on the floor is d o w n to half; there is none o f yesterday's screaming. The bodies o f those still here are all swollen and bronze-colored—arms like thighs, thighs like bellies; the dark shading o f clumps o f hair, singed and curly—armpit hair, young pubic hair—lends u n m o v i n g shadows to the indentations o f j u m b l e d limbs and twisted bodies; only whites o f eyes, thin and faint, are not swallowed up i n that pool o f darkness. Here and there fathers and mothers w h o have found daughters bend over, give them something to drink; the metal basins alongside that h o l d thin gruel have become the haunt o f flies. There is a sound like that o f airplanes, and the bodies all cringe; the number o f those no longer m o v i n g increases yet again. Spotted beside these corpses: the eyes that are M r s . K . D A Y THREE M r s . K.'s condition: respiration 30; pulse 100; burns over half the face, the entire back, a bit at the waist, both heels; fever; no appetite; eyes that watched quietly as the others screamed all m o r n ­ ing are hot; hands tremble gripping the r i m as she squats over the bucket. T o w a r d evening, delirium: Water! Tea! I want some pickled cucumber! Her arms forget the feel o f her husband, dead at Iwojima; her eyes forget the sight o f her little one, left w i t h neighbors as she went off on labor detail—the agony as the senses leave her inflamed flesh. D A Y FOUR Severe diarrhea, white and watery. Eyes w i t h burned eyebrows freeze; no more faint smiles; suppuration over entire area o f burns. Treatment: salve for burns, herbs for diarrhea—nothing more. Soon stools begin to be bloody; small purple and crimson spots begin to appear where skin is not burned; i n the evening, i n between groans 320

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as v o m i t i n g worsens, people pass along i n whispers the r u m o r that Japan has retaken A t t u Island. D A Y FIVE Hair comes out at the slightest touch. Maggots gather i n suppurating wounds; cleaned off, they drop i n clumps to the floor, scatter, and creep back into the pus. Once so full there was no place to set foot, the warehouse n o w seems empty, only a few still alive; i n that corner over there, i n this shadow here, people swollen and hopeless; t w o or three attendants move about, faces dark, waving o f f the flies that swarm on wounds. Shining through the high w i n d o w , the sun moves across the floor w i t h its stains; the evening dusk steals i n early; candles i n hand, people leave to search for relatives at the next aid station; the eyes o f the mask-like faces on the floor follow them. D A Y S I X I n a thin, thin voice, the young factory worker over by the pillar, his entire body swathed i n bandages and only his eyes showing through, sings the national anthem. W i t h feeble, feverish breath: "The enemy B-29S are no big deal; we've got Zeros, Hayates—the enemy thinks he's so good; just h o l d on a little longer, everyone, a little longer—" Her head wrapped i n bandages, one-eyed, the w o m a n near h i m crawls over and speaks to h i m : Be strong! T r y to get some sleep! Call Auntie, here, and I ' l l come right over. . . . "Auntie? You're not Auntie. You're Mother! Mother!" His arms don't move; inch by inch he turns his face, his darkly flushed cheek­ bones greasy w i t h sweat; tears f o r m t w o tracks f r o m his glittering eyes, trickle d o w n beneath the bandages. D A Y SEVEN I n the d i m light o f the empty warehouse, someone sob­ bing all day over i n the corner; by this pillar, someone silent as stone, sometimes arching her back and gasping—the last o f the wounded. D A Y E I G H T Warehouse n o w completely empty. I n the sky seen through the twisted grate, smoke rises today, too—they are cremating the corpses piled up outside i n the open. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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B y a pillar, a hand waving a canteen; the dark walls w i t h their rows o f countless terror-stricken eyes. M r s . K . too is dead. "Patients: none. Dead: . . ." The i n k on the piece o f paper pasted up i n front o f the gate has dried; lotus petals, torn off, lie scattered, white, on the pavement.

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Old Woman Y o u mustn't die! O l d woman, y o u mustn't go like this! O l d woman, muttering away all day long, your body that is only sinews and flabby skin stretched out under a thin futon too heavy for y o u , before an orange-crate butsudan i n a bare r o o m seven by ten i n a corner o f a home for w i d o w s that creaks i n the w i n d . The pale sunlight comes f r o m the west, f r o m over the hills o f K o i , lighting up the evening dust on the windowpane, giving a gentle glow to the white lock o f hair at your temple. In this late-autumn light, once again you've turned their yellowed faces this way— your dear son, his wife, your grandson, and you're talking w i t h them, aren't you? The faded photo on the butsudan, slightly cracked, seems almost to smile. Yesterday someone from the office brought y o u these gold-capped front teeth dug up right at the spot your son's desk stood. R u m o r has it his wife and son, POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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covered w i t h burns like all the neighbors i n Dobashi, crawled d o w n to the Temma River close by and one after the other were swept away. Day after day, under that blazing sun, I took one hand as, cane i n the other, y o u searched a Hiroshima that offered no shade; over mountains o f rubble, climbing across fallen bridges; north, south, east, west; f r o m the crossing that, r u m o r had i t , had become a mortuary, to temples and schools on the edge o f t o w n and small aid stations on the islands; leafing through torn pages o f registers o f the injured, searching all over among people still groaning; it was on the seventh day, headed for a village hospital back i n the hills y o u ' d heard o f by chance, as y o u crossed, once again, the burned-out waste— u n t i l then y o u ' d been strong-willed to the point o f stubbornness— that, suddenly squatting beside the broken-off stump o f a telephone pole that still smoldered, sputtered, y o u said: "Enough is enough! M o r e than enough! W h y should I have had to suffer like this?" Raising your voice, y o u cried; your umbrella tumbled into the ash, and a small cloud o f dust arose, nothing, absolutely nothing in the absurdly blue sky 324

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but a single wisp o f white smoke rising ever so slowly. . . . Y o u lost your husband when y o u were still young; your only son, w h o m y o u supported by becoming a seamstress, a washerwoman, even h a w k i n g noodles at night, had T . B . for five, six years after college, finally recovered and took a bride, had a son, and six months later, on that m o r n i n g , August 6, set off, laughing as always; the baby on her back, his bride was called out to clear firebreaks and never came back. The three o f them left y o u all alone at home and never came back. O h , woman! O l d woman! Y o u mustn't die like this! Is it exhaustion f r o m searching among the ashes? Is it the effect o f the poison that's still here? Weary, soon to doze off, y o u yourself no longer understand clearly the words y o u mutter. Your grief that is beyond grief, bitterness beyond bitterness, w i l l j o i n w i t h the thoughts o f all those

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w h o lost loved ones i n the war and become strong enough to keep such a thing f r o m happening ever again i n this w o r l d . Keeping only to yourself your muttered words, your dried tears, y o u mustn't die like this; y o u mustn't go-

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Season of Flames WHOOSH! Reduced to shadows i n burning magnesium, the whole city crumbles. It wasn't sound; only consciousness sent reeling. A t the instant o f being buried under, I am far away; ten m i l l i o n flying splinters o f glass. O l d beams heavier than lead, plaster thudding mark the end; outside: strangely gray roofs twisted all out o f shape, webs o f wires, several square miles that stink o f people, where people died— the hush o f death. Suddenly the b r o w n mountains l o o m higher over devastated Hiroshima in the b o w l they f o r m — quite a j u m p ! B o i l i n g , rolling, quivering, thrusting up: cloud— POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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cloud— cloud— red—orange—purple— a crimson eruption high i n the firmament. B u m p i n g against itself, exploding violently, boiling up into the atmosphere f r o m smoking fissures i n the earth— a great blast o f air! A sound, a moan, a roar heard on earth for the first time ever! 500 meters above Hiroshima, as intended, uranium 235 produces a man-made sun; 8:15 a.m. makes i t certain that residents w i l l be clogging the streets at the center o f the city. Hiroshima is no more. Beneath smoke dark as pubic hair, under the sun that swells to twice, three times its size and shrinks, appears and disappears, crawl tongues o f flame that lick at the torn flesh o f human beings, and flutter i n the w h i r l w i n d . Sudden black rain stops up mouths calling out for their o w n kind. A line, a line, 328

a procession o f ghosts, passing under a strange rainbow, on and on. Fleeing the city, ants whose anthill has been destroyed, filling the streets, hands dangling i n midair i n front o f them, m o v i n g at a snail's pace: a procession o f l i v i n g creatures w h o were once once human beings. N o sky, no earth; hot w i n d and stench, and i n between, the lazy movement o f water flowing i n the seven branches o f the river. Hard, soft, they come on, ever on, b u m p up against the islands i n the estuary. (Ah, we aren't fish, so we can't float silently, belly-up. The tens o f thousands o f tons o f seawater that spouted into the air at B i k i n i were mirrored i n the vacant eyes—eyes—eyes o f the animals used i n the test: pigssheep— monkeys.) Hiroshima: the sun scorches i t ; POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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the rain soaks it; the vast, vast rubble—seven miles by seven— o f white bones and pieces o f tile surely has raised the elevation o f Hiroshima three feet or so. The dead: 247,000. The missing: 14,000. The injured: 38,000. L y i n g about i n the atomic bomb exhibition hall: scorched rocks, melted tiles, twisted glass bottles, and, covered w i t h dust, blueprints for tourist hotels the city once hoped to build. Yet even today, i n 1951, the cloud still billows up. A n d skirting i t , floating d o w n lazily— Sure! T w o white dots! Look! That's what it is! Parachutes w i t h instruments to measure radioactivity, controlled by radio f r o m the other side o f the w o r l d . They never fade f r o m our sight, we o f the clan o f Hiroshima, the parachutes o f that fateful m o r n i n g ; they dancer— oh, so l i g h t l y — below the cloud.

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Little One Little one, dear one, where, oh where have y o u gone? That bright m o r n i n g , i n the t w i n k l i n g o f an eye, M o m m y was cut o f f f r o m y o u ; y o u keep looking, but she's gone. The pupils o f your eyes that reflect the sky so strikingly suddenly show calamity: the reddish-black cloud rises up, the silent flash o f light billows out and fills the sky. Y o u r childlike questions never end; w h o w i l l tell y o u o f that day? Little one, dear one, where, oh where are you? M o m m y had left y o u w i t h neighbors and gone o f f on w o r k detail; sustained solely by fierce devotion to y o u , she dashed back through burning streets; i n the darkness o f the makeshift aid station, too weak even to feel revulsion at the maggots infesting the burned soles o f her feet, silent, she died. Having left M o m m y pregnant w i t h you, Daddy was b l o w n to bits i n the South Pacific—artillery fire. Once bathed i n his parting tears, n o w swollen w i t h burns, pus, purple spots, her gentle body w r i t h e d i n agony i n a heap o f many similar bodies; she had kept her satchel—it alone—from the dirt and fire, and w i t h the new picture book intended for y o u POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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beside her on the floor, she breathed her last. W h o w i l l tell y o u o f that night? Little one, dear one, where, oh where are you? The naked sun shimmered above the mushroom cloud; all along the deafening road, its dust aflame, bits o f fire poured d o w n , splinters o f glass glittered as they flew through the air; driven, M o m m y ran; sick at heart, stammering, M o m m y called y o u , you and y o u alone, wanting to tell you, only you, about Daddy, about M o m m y , and about her anguish on leaving y o u all alone. W h o w i l l tell you? Who? Right! /'// search y o u out, put m y lips to your tender ear, and tell you: how the war that all over Japan cut daddies and mommies asunder f r o m small sons they loved, w i t h sinister force stretched them on the rack, and finally swatted them dead like flies, stabbed them to death, drove them to mad death; how it 332

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burned the sea, burned the islands, burned the city o f Hiroshima; and h o w it snatched Daddy, snatched M o m m y f r o m your innocent gaze, your clinging hands. I ' l l tell y o u the real story— I swear I w i l l .

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Grave Marker Y o u kids stand together, one clump. It is as i f y o u had huddled together for w a r m t h on a cold day, been gradually compressed, squeezed into a corner, become this small grave marker that no one notices any more: "Seibi Primary School Dead."* Base surrounded by scorched bricks; upright strip o f w o o d less than three feet tall; bamboo flower holder, cracked and empty, atilt. Behind a r o w o f false-fronted buildings— A . B . Advertising, C. D . Scooters, and a huge billboard for Hiroshima Peace C i t y Construction Company, Inc.— on the corner o f the road that leads to the M a c A r t h u r Cup Tennis Courts, painted green; on that corner where bits o f tile and concrete, discarded, lie heaped, where the school gate, fallen, lies half-buried, where on rainy days i t turns into a mudhole, where one always hears babies crying in the municipal barrack-apartments that look beyond repair, there y o u kids stand. Turned into an upright strip o f wood, gradually rotting, w i t h o u t hands, * Seibi Primary School was a school that admitted only the children o f military personnel.

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w i t h o u t feet, not wheedling, not clamoring, silent, silent, y o u stand. N o matter h o w y o u called, no matter h o w y o u cried, your daddies, your mommies couldn't come to your aid. Brushing aside your outstretched hands, other daddies fled. Heavy weights pinning y o u under, the hot, hot w i n d b l o w i n g , i n that dark, dark, choking place, (Ah! What could y o u have done to deserve this?) your gentle hands, your thin n e c k s h o w easy, beneath rock and steel and old lumber, to make blood spurt, to crush! I n the shadow o f Hijiyama, eyes burned like roasted marshmallows, a r o w o f friends squatted, dazed; hearing soldiers running by, side arms clattering, y o u called out, "Soldier! Please help!" and even then no one answered; when as dusk fell beside the water tank y o u pleaded, "Take us w i t h y o u ! " and pointed west, no one took your hands. Then, aping the adults, y o u climbed into the water tank, covered your faces w i t h compresses o f leaves, and, still understanding not a thing, POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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died. A h , y o u kids! Y o u kids w h o have gone to a far place where y o u can't smell apples, where y o u can't lick lollipops: whoever made y o u say "We can do w i t h o u t . . . until victory is ours"? "Seibi Primary School Dead." This corner f r o m which, as y o u kids stand, silent, your disbelieving eyes can see a field gun your fathers and elder brothers were forced to defend, rusted red, l y i n g on its side, and, i n a h o l l o w green w i t h clover, a foreign soldier and a girl, sprawled out; this corner across from the empty lot across w h i c h today again— because they said "Stop the war!"— people are led o f f in chains to the detention center behind high new walls. Indeed, h o w strange! F r o m under the eaves o f a r o o f o f cheap shingles your sharp ears hear a radio plagued w i t h static elatedly pouring out news: h o w many tons o f bombs dropped where; h o w many hundred m i l l i o n dollars added to the funds for building atomic bombs; reinforcements landing i n Korea. F r o m deep i n the horseweed that smells like grass even rusty nails get scavenged and sold. 336

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A h ! Y o u kids: even this simple grave marker barely holding its o w n w i l l be cleared away and then forgotten, w i l l be buried soon i n dirt and sand as Peace C i t y Construction builds its annex; the grave that holds the bones o f your small hands and necks w i l l be lost forever underneath something. "Seibi Primary School Dead." Even though the flower tube holds no flowers, two butterflies chase each other about; the breeze blows o f f the ocean over the weatherworn strip o f w o o d ; the sky is as sparkling blue as on that fateful m o r n i n g . Kids, w o n ' t y o u come forth? Gentle arm i n gentle arm, w o n ' t y o u arise? Grammy— "Who w o u l d want to go to that Peace Festival shindig?"— waits for y o u still; Grampa too, u n w i l l i n g to t h r o w out your old shoes, has stuck them out o f sight under the rose o f Sharon. The babies w h o sucked away that day at the breasts o f dead mothers and survived are already six years old. Your friends, too, who prowled rainy streets stealing, POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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begging, already have the muscles o f adults, burned b r o w n i n the sun. "Never give i n ! Never give i n ! " — at Hiroshima Station, under the hot sun, Korean comrades collect signatures: stop the war! "Never give in! Never give i n ! " — Japanese war orphans t h r o w d o w n their shoeshine kits and sell the newspaper that tells the truth. Y o u kids, enough already! Enough o f being silent! Come forth, eyes sparkling, clear voices raised i n protest, to do battle round the w o r l d w i t h the adults w h o w o u l d start wars. And t h r o w i n g open the arms we w o u l d all be embraced by, thrusting forward the cheeks that w o u l d bring back good tears to all our hearts, come and t h r o w yourselves into everyone's arms, saying: "We are the children, the children o f Hiroshima!"

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The Shadow Cheap movie theaters, saloons, fly-by-night markets, burned, rebuilt, standing, crumbling, spreading like the i t c h — the new Hiroshima, head shiny w i t h hair oil, barefaced i n its resurgence; already visible all over the place, i n g r o w i n g numbers, billboards i n English; one o f these: "Historic A - B o m b Site." Enclosed by a painted fence on a corner o f the bank steps, stained onto the grain o f the dark red stone: a quiet pattern. That m o r n i n g a flash tens o f thousands o f degrees hot burned i t all o f a sudden onto the thick slab o f granite: someone's trunk. Burned onto the step, cracked and watery red, the mark o f the blood that flowed as intestines melted to mush: a shadow. A h ! I f y o u are f r o m Hiroshima and on that m o r n i n g , amid indescribable flash and heat and smoke, were buffeted i n the w h i r l p o o l o f the glare o f the flames, the shadow o f the cloud, crawled about dragging skin that was peeling off, so transformed that even your wife and children w o u l d not have k n o w n you, this shadow POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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is etched i n tragic m e m o r y and w i l l never fade. Right beside the street where the people o f the city come and go, well-meaning but utterly indifferent, assaulted by the sun, attacked by the rain, covered over by dust, g r o w i n g fainter year by year: this shadow. The bank w i t h the "Historic Site" sign at the foot o f its steps dumped out into the street pieces o f stone and glass, burned gritty, completed a major reconstruction, and set the whole enormous building sparkling i n the evening sun. In the vacant lot diagonally across, drawing a crowd: a quack i n the garb o f a mountain ascetic. Indifferent, the authorities say: " I f we don't protect it w i t h glass or something, it w i l l fade away," but do nothing. Today, too, foreign sailors amble up i n their white leggings, come to a stop w i t h a click o f their heels, and, each having taken a snapshot, go off; the shoeshine boy w h o followed them here peers over the fence, wonders w h y all the fuss, and goes on his way.

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A Friend When he took o f f the dark glasses, tears oozed f r o m the scar left as eyelids, torn off, healed and pulled together. A t the treatment center, when they moistened the crusted blood, loosened bit by bit the w h i t e cotton that swathed his whole face, removed the last gauze, that was h o w his eyes, n o w a single mass o f matter, had healed; a thin trickle oozed as he spoke o f the wife and child he had lost, and his fingers trembled as they fumbled w i t h a handkerchief. "Where am I? Where is this?" Speaking once more the words he had spoken on first regaining consciousness, carried f r o m the morgue, he took a firmer grip on the thick bamboo cane, felt for the sill w i t h the toes o f his gaitered legs, and inched his way out. —This too must be God's w i l l . — — I get 50 yen per massage; soon I ' l l be able to set a spread for y o u . — H e attended the Catholic church, learned massage, all sorrows buried i n the depths o f time; one evening toward winter I looked out f r o m the train and saw h i m , i n o l d military clothes, a new bride, her hair i n a bun, leading h i m by the hand. "Where am I? Where is this?" Stopping amid the din o f the street as i f to make sure o f his balance,

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he turned his face i n his felt hat toward the gleam i n the sky; it looked as i f he was forever asking her something. Then several years later, I saw h i m coming toward me once again at that corner where the n o r t h w i n d blows, Bent double, making way for a bunch o f reservists, arm supported f i r m l y by his dreadfully gaunt wife, he went past, h u r r y i n g into the teeth o f the w i n d as i f t r y i n g to catch up w i t h something. The tears that oozed from the fold o f skin behind his dark glasses had dried up long since, the mark o f the pain making its way through his heart.

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Landscape with River The sun, already setting over the city, is cold. The city at the head o f the bay is hushed, bridges on tiptoe. F l o w i n g i n the t w i l i g h t between sparsely spaced houses, its surface jagged, the timeless river reflects broken pieces o f autumn sky. N o w lost i n darkness, the mountains upstream sleep, snow on their peaks. F r o m afar, the snow sends d o w n on the living its foretaste o f winter cold. Dear wife! Sighing again tonight over what we w i l l wear to keep warm? C l i n g i n g to the vase, withered chrysanthemums dangle; those happy days when we dreamed o f children: they too are gone. Close our eyes, open our arms, and i n the w i n d on the riverbank above this city o f bleached bones, leveled, we too are l i v i n g grave markers. The flames on the surface o f the waves, rising up; the echoes, breaking, falling on the pleated hills; now the setting sun is gone; the river is choppy i n the w i n d .

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Dawn They dream— the laborer, setting his pickaxe d o w n for a moment, sweat pooling in the marks left by the atomic flash; the housewife, slumped over her sewing machine, her scarred armpits giving offa smell; the g i r l selling tickets, elbows forward crablike to conceal her twisted hands; the child selling matches, too, neck full o f splinters o f glass— dream o f the element o f white light, dug out o f pitchblende and cale mines, in its infinite power o f fission transforming dry desert into fertile and undulating fields; dream o f sparkling canals passing along the feet o f mountains reduced to rubble; dream o f man-made suns used to build shining cities o f gold even i n the barren regions o f the N o r t h Pole; dream o f festive flags swaying i n shady spots as w o r k i n g folk take their holiday ease and speak i n gentle tones o f the Hiroshima that once was; dream o f a dawn when the pigs i n human skin who use the power o f earth's veins erupting, o f earth's crust quaking, only for butchery, w i l l not be found except i n fairy tales; when the energy ten m i l l i o n times more powerful than gunpowder, i gram the equal o f 10,000,000, w i l l be released f r o m inside the atom and strengthen the arms o f the people; 344

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when i n the peacetime o f the people we w i l l harvest the fecund fruits o f science like lush bunches o f grapes heavy w i t h dew.

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The Smile You smiled that once. Since that fateful m o r n i n g , friend and foe, bombs and fire had ceased to hold meaning for you; the sugar and rice y o u once so craved had become o f no use to you. You had been blasted beyond the pale o f jostling humanity, o f war. I hastened to whisper to y o u the news that the war had ended— the only medicine I had. Yes, I swear, you smiled i n m y direction. You even stopped groaning. Your body covered w i t h maggots, between the lids o f lashless eyes, there appeared the ghost o f a smile, full o f tenderness toward me, alive, distant. In the choking stench o f pus, stripped even o f the capacity for hatred, for anger, you sent the w o r l d o f the l i v i n g that last smile. That quiet smile has been primed, painfully, inside me; for three years, five years, the pressure has built up and n o w is about to explode in the direction o f the war-making power that, once again, has forced its way back, and o f people w h o are losing the w i l l to resist. W i t h a violence that abhors even that smile you smiled— yes! N o w it is about to explode! 346

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August 6, 1950 They come running; they come running. F r o m that side, f r o m this, hands on holstered pistols, the police come on the run. August 6, 1950: the Peace Ceremony has been banned; on street corners at night, on bridge approaches at dawn, the police standing guard are restive. Today, at the very center o f Hiroshima— the Hatchöbori intersection, i n the shadow o f the F. Department Store— the stream o f city folk w h o have come to place flowers at memorials, at ruins, suddenly becomes a w h i r l p o o l ; chin-straps taut w i t h sweat plunge into the crowd; split by the black battle-line, reeling, the c r o w d as one looks up at the department store— f r o m fifth-floor w i n d o w s , sixth-floor w i n d o w s , fluttering, fluttering, against the backdrop o f summer clouds, n o w i n shadow, n o w i n sunlight, countless handbills dance and scatter slowly over upturned faces, into outstretched hands, into the depths o f empty hearts. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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People pick them up o f f the ground; arms swing and knock them out o f the air; hands grab them i n midair; eyes read them: workers, merchants, students, girls, old people and children from outlying villages— a throng o f residents representing all Hiroshima for w h o m August 6 is the anniversary o f a death—and the police: pushing, shoving. A n g r y cries. The urgent appeal o f the peace handbills they reach for, the antiwar handbills they w i l l not be denied. Streetcars stop; traffic lights topple; jeeps r o l l up; fire sirens scream; riot trucks drive u p — t w o trucks, three; an expensive foreign car forces its way through the ranks o f police i n plain clothes; the entrance to the department store becomes a g r i m checkpoint. Still handbills fall, gently, gently. Handbills catch on the canopy; hands appear, holding a b r o o m , sweep every last one off; they dance their way d o w n one by one, like l i v i n g things, like voiceless shouts, lightly, lightly. The Peace Ceremony—the releasing o f doves, the ringing o f bells, the mayor's peace message carried o f f on the breeze— is stamped out like a child's sparkler; all gatherings are banned: speeches, 348

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concerts, the UNESCO meeting; Hiroshima is under occupation by armed police and police i n m u f t i . The smoke o f rocket launchers rises f r o m newsreel screens; f r o m back streets resound the shouts o f those, children too, w h o signed petitions against the b o m b . I n the sky over Hiroshima on August 6, 1950, spreading light above anxious residents, casting shadows on silent graveyards, toward y o u w h o love peace, toward me w h o wants peace, drawing the police on the double, handbills fall, handbills fall.

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Night The m y r i a d tiny lights o f Hiroshima hem i n m y view, prick m y eyes; cramped by the greasy skin o f bulging keloids, shiny rails r u n i n all directions; tender buds sprout from the charred trunks o f the trees lining the m u d d y streets that reek o f entrails; i n the pouring rain, the woman's eyes are redder than the tips o f lighted cigarettes; she does not hide the festering bruise on her thigh. A h , Hiroshima! Your night, whose erection the atomic bomb rendered sterile. M y sperm lose their tails, don't reach the woman's w o m b . The lighted arch o f the A B C C building, pregnant beneath the trees o f Hijiyama Park on its glittering leasehold i n the middle o f Hiroshima— the taillights o f the limousines that leave its w o m b , the rhythms o f the N e w Mexican desert that fill the air— A h , night fog! (Across the river, framed i n a w i n d o w , a whore stretches up to pull o f f her dress and takes a man's penis; here too the w o m e n o f the cat clan carry on their nocturnal occupation.) A t o p the r o o f o f the station where trains rest, headlights doused, the w i n k i n g lights o f the m o v i n g news ribbon tonight too coalesce into blind letters that tell o f the second, third, hundredth atomic test. Trailing drops o f blood, 350

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men w h o have tried to d r o w n their sorrows come staggering d o w n the dark riverbank; a boat rocks and creaks, and a tall soldier suddenly sits up. Stealing up f r o m the sea, the evening tide covers the footprints o f those scavenging scrap metal. Something pale dark, moth-like, cuts across the sky w i t h a mere flap o f wings, night and day, day and night: lights o f f i n the distance; lights that snagged as they were about to fall; lights that, terrified, want to forget; lights that, evanescent, barely hold on; lights that flicker; lights about to die; lights o f Hiroshima that f r o m one moment to the next just barely survive, that t r y i n g still to leave that day behind crawl no one knows where. In the darkness o f history, soft and l o w , shine the many lights o f Hiroshima.

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In the Streets O h , the emotions! The anger o f the black-market w o m e n at the train w i n d o w , all cursing the station cop as the train pulls out; the laughter o f the painted ladies, coquettish voices raised as they huddle i n the dark; the sorrow o f a drunk staggering along, blood dripping from an unbandaged wound; underneath it all, underneath i t all— a pinprick, and i t w o u l d all come gushing out— the emotions!

352

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To a Certain Woman T o r n belly up, a workhorse treads the air w i t h its hooves: a phantasm hanging over the stones o f the water t r o u g h i n this shantytown where the quartermaster corps once stood. Y o u live hidden away at the back o f this foul alley, and for the year or so since that summer have gone back and forth to the hospital hidden behind an umbrella; the scar f r o m the flash— the precise shape o f a B-29, fallen all o f a sudden onto your face— n o w encrusted over eyes and nose, y o u say never again can y o u face people. I n this crumbling house, one forearm torn off, y o u k n i t for a l i v i n g : h o w often do y o u draw blood f r o m your palm? This quiet quarter where a pinwheel turns lazily and children play i n the vegetable patch. This burned-out street: I have turned back any number o f times, but today I pay y o u a call. Your skin bulges snake-like, absolutely hairless and shiny; i n the faint evening light i t reminds me o f what happened to dear ones o f mine. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

353

Thanks to tough scabs that discharge p u t r i d pus f r o m scars that ache horribly i n heat and cold, your girlish innocence is congealed, burned up. I ' l l speak w i t h y o u — tell y o u o f the force o f the flames as the desperate desire that wells up is branded on all people; tell y o u o f the struggle o f a thousand like y o u to eradicate the world's dark ills. W i t h the sound o f planes overhead once more, I ' l l speak: o f the day m y anger, your curses become supremely beautiful.

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Landscape Y o u and I carry w i t h us a landscape always i n flames. C i t y on a delta on a chain o f islands born o f fire; w i n d o w s o f buildings spouting colorless flames; traffic lights festooned w i t h fire holding back, releasing displaced people; chimney crumbling into the fire, great station clock hidden i n the flames; ships loaded w i t h fire entering, leaving the far breakwater; sudden steam whistle o f flame, emitting no sound; train pulling away at top speed, locomotive-penis hidden i n fire; fiery pus collecting i n a woman's crotch; a foreigner stopping, scattering flame from a lighter; beggars i n black scrambling for the butt— ah! over there: someone's got it, still burning. Y o u and I live i n a landscape always i n flames. These flames never go out; these flames never die. A n d y o u and I : w h o can say we too haven't become flames? N i g h t lamps all over the city. Above neon embers flashing on and o f f i n a sky dark as a tunnel, portents o f fire, massed and flickering; the brotherhood o f the deformed, m i l l i n g about. A h ! Hands and feet that are simply pieces o f flesh; open wounds i n each that flames lick; i n the end brains crack open; the M i l k y Way burns and crumbles. Flame-roses, blue sparks, gale-wind vortex, the dark crying out w i t h one voice: resentment, regret, rage, curses, hatred, pleas, wails. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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The groans smite the earth, rise flickering into the sky. The true y o u and I , inside. Another I . The stench o f m y body, burned and festering. Your t o r n skin. The woman's hairless head. The child's purple spots: oh, l i v i n g kinsfolk o f the atomic race, humans no longer human. Y o u and I rise up i n terror even at tests on atolls far across the Pacific. Each b o m b they build hangs suspended from a black parachute over this cauldron i n w h i c h we live. Flames dance, tongue-less; tongues twist, lung-less; teeth bite lips; lips spew out flaming liquid; voiceless flames spread i n waves around the w o r l d : Hiroshima blazing i n the middle o f London; Hiroshima exploding i n the middle o f N e w York; Hiroshima burning white-hot i n the middle o f Moscow: the voiceless dance that extends throughout the w o r l d ; the rage o f the dancers. Y o u and I , by n o w we ourselves—flames consuming the landscape; flames, heat covering the globe like a forest, like lava; the fireball, the rage that crush the plans, already laid once more, for atomicide.

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Appeal It is not too late, even now; it is not too late to muster your true strength. I f the scene seared onto your retinas that day pierced your heart so that tears drip unceasingly f r o m the w o u n d ; i f your body bears the marks o f Hiroshima that still cause the bloody pus that curses war to drip steadily f r o m those clefts— the true y o u , the y o u w h o abandoned your little sister as she thrashed about, reaching out w i t h both hands f r o m beneath the house the flames were about to engulf; w h o w i t h o u t bothering to cover your private parts w i t h scraps o f burned clothing, w i t h both arms bent and dangling i n front o f you, raw and red, staggering on burned bare feet, wandered o f f through a desert o f glittering rubble on a j o u r n e y that held no consolation— it is not too late, even beginning now, to raise your twisted arms into the air and w i t h all the other arms like yours to h o l d o f f the accursed sun that is about to fall once more; to block, w i t h your back that bears the brand o f death, the tears o f all those gentle people w h o hate war but simply stand around; to take those hands that n o w hang l i m p and grasp them f i r m l y between your o w n palms, raw and red: no, it is not too late, even now. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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When Will That Day Come? I

Buried under hot rubble and collapsed buildings, roads f r o m three directions come together, intersect where a streetcar lies on its side, burned black and snarled in copper wires: the heart o f Hiroshima—here i n a corner o f Kamiya-chö square you lie, a corpse not yet disposed of. N o sound, but evidence o f a heat that penetrated every last fragment o f tile; no movement, but smoke that rises brokenly into the dazzling August sky; as for the rest: a brain-numbing emptiness, everything annihilated. Bending at the waist, as befits a girl, gripping the vast earth w i t h both hands, bird-like, half prostrate, y o u lie dead. The other corpses are all naked and raw red; w h y is i t that y o u alone are clothed, even have one shoe on? Above a cheek that is slightly sooty, your hair is full, and neither burns nor blood are to be seen— except that the back o f your cotton culottes, only the back, is burned clear through, exposing your round b o t t o m ; forced out i n your death agonies, a bit o f excrement sticks there, dried; w i t h shade nonexistent, the rays o f the midday sun pick i t out. 2

Your home is i n Ujina— port o f Hiroshima where ever since the wars w i t h China, w i t h Russia 358

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the y o u n g men o f Japan were given guns to carry and slopped wine and tears into their pillows at being separated f r o m loved ones; loaded into the holds o f ships, they went to their deaths. Deep i n the squalid alley enveloped i n the smell o f gutters, y o u were wife—once M o t h e r died—to your metal-caster father, mother to your younger brother and sister; delicate, like a plant that has been forced, y o u became at last a young woman; but as defeat approached, fear and r u m o r became your daily fare: w i t h the cities o f Japan being burned out night by night, so many sheaves o f straw, w h y hadn't Hiroshima been put to the torch? Your beloved home was pulled d o w n by the ropes o f the firebreak-clearers, and y o u four rented a hut i n the eastern part o f t o w n ; y o u gnawed at raw soybeans that had been cached underground and boiled horseweed for gruel; y o u fought for bamboo life preservers for each member o f your family w i t h grown-ups frightened by rumors the enemy w o u l d flood the city out; y o u fled on air raid nights hand i n hand, were knocked to the ground by the home guard standing watch at the bridges; y o u spent your days rushing hither and thither, your girl's hands, girl's body frantic to help your neuralgic father, to defend your brother and sister against the raging forces o f war. 3

A n d as August 6 approached, y o u did not k n o w POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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that i n the jungles o f the South Pacific the Japanese army was scattered, weaponless, starving, sick; that warships were out o f oil, hiding i n the lee o f islands, unable to move; that the entire nation was bathed i n a rain o f fire; that the fascists still didn't k n o w h o w to bring the war to an end. Y o u d i d not k n o w that i n the eyes o f the w o r l d the surrender o f Japan had become simply a matter o f time once the Soviet forces that had destroyed the Nazis confronted Imperial Japan w i t h the announcement that the nonaggression pact w o u l d not be extended. Y o u d i d not k n o w that because i n Berlin the Hakenkreuz had been struck and the Red Flag already raised, the day o f the Soviet entry into the war— set for three months thereafter— was already l o o m i n g large. They rushed to drop the atomic bomb. They felt they had to destroy Japan on their o w n before that day. W i t h this dark and ugly motive they rushed to drop the atomic bomb. There was so little time between July 16—the test i n N e w M e x i c o — and the day o f the Soviet entry! 4

Late at night on the fifth, the night before, came the accurate rumor, spread by pamphlets dropped f r o m the sky, that Hiroshima w o u l d be burned out; people fled to the surrounding hills and melon patches and stayed up all night; 360

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though still intimidated by the sirens that continued to wail, relieved when dawn arrived w i t h o u t incident, they returned home; setting out for jobs that were ultimately useless, they began to fill the streets o f the c i t y That morning—August 6, that hour— y o u saw your father o f f to the factory, fixed lunch for your brother w h o had just started middle school, and then, as always, sending your sister to play at the home o f relatives i n a distant quarter, y o u locked the door o f the rickety house and set o f f for your w o r k site, mobilized labor, to be scolded today too, doing w o r k y o u were not yet accustomed to. Silent, h u r r y i n g , y o u got partway there. For some reason y o u threw yourself d o w n as a blinding flash hit y o u f r o m behind; when the dust and smoke settled and y o u came to, y o u still tried to struggle on to the factory; y o u fought the waves o f people fleeing i n the opposite direction and, having got here, collapsed. Your j u d g m e n t on this event sealed i n your heart, accepting your fate, y o u died. A t this point, young girl, what could y o u have k n o w n for sure? H o w could your earnest brain have fathomed the atomic bomb? Wrists bent, leaning forward like a small bird fallen to earth even as it longed for the sky; your knees are tight together, as i f embarrassed to be l y i n g i n so public a place; only your hair is i n disarray, braided d o w n the back, but n o w lying on the pavement. POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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Having g r o w n up k n o w i n g nothing but war, y o u lost to the flames all glimmer o f your modest and restrained dreams; a person so gentle no one ever really noticed y o u or what y o u d i d — here y o u lie, killed by the crudest method on earth. A h , that was no accident, no act o f God. W i t h unprecedented precision, w i t h insatiable ambition, the world's first atomic bombs were dropped on the Japanese archipelago, on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and y o u died, one o f the 400,000 w h o died horrible deaths. D i d y o u think, at that moment, of of of of

the sunflowers along the ditch when y o u were a child? the scent o f the powder your mother put on once a year? your little sister's begging for things once the war worsened? the lipstick y o u and your friend put on, then w i p e d off, behind the storehouse? o f flowered skirts y o u longed to wear? A n d could y o u have thought that the street leading to this square i n our beloved Hiroshima w o u l d be widened out, renamed M a c A r t h u r Boulevard? that the time w o u l d come when streets lined w i t h w i l l o w trees w o u l d flicker w i t h the kerchiefs o f Japanese women selling their bodies to foreign soldiers? A n d could y o u have thought i n your grief that the war w o u l d have ended i n any case even w i t h o u t the atomic bomb? N o . H o w could y o u have thought such thoughts? There are things 362

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even the survivors still don't k n o w the meaning of: that the day the second atomic b o m b was dropped on Nagasaki was the m o r n i n g the Soviet army crossed the Manchurian border and headed south; that several years later, when the third atomic b o m b was about to be used, then too the target was the race w i t h yellow faces. 5 A h , that was no accident, no act o f God. After precision planning, w i t h insatiable ambition, humanity's first atomic b o m b was dropped, a single flash, on the archipelago i n the eastern sea, on the Japanese people; y o u were killed, one o f 400,000 victims w h o died horrible deaths. There is no one to identify and take charge o f your murdered body. There is no one to cover over the shame o f your burned pants. A n d o f course no one to wipe away the mark o f your agony clinging there. Even as y o u gave your all i n the struggle o f your humble life, always w i t h a t i m i d smile on your face, and held back the tender thoughts that rose, more and more, i n your breast, y o u were at the age most vulnerable to embarrassment— n o w your soft b o t t o m lies exposed to the sun, and f r o m time to time people come by searching for a particular corpse, look dully at the spot o f dried excrement and go on their way. Is i t the cruelty? Is i t the anguish? POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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Is i t the pathos? N o , more— the humiliation: what can be done? You are already beyond shame, but the humiliation seared itself onto the retinas o f those who have seen, and w i t h the passage o f time it w i l l penetrate their very hearts; this is a humiliation that is no longer yours alone, that has engraved itself on the souls o f all Japanese. 6

We must endure this humiliation, endure i t for a long, long time. The night when the snow drifted high atop the child run over by the jeep—that too we must endure. The M a y when the blood o f Japan's youth spouted forth at the hands o f helmets and pistols o f foreign make— that too we must endure. The era when freedom is put i n chains and this country is bound i n servitude w i t h o u t l i m i t o f time— that too we must endure. But tell me: what shall we do i f the day comes when we can endure i t no longer? Even should y o u come, hands spread bird-like, f r o m the land o f death and t r y to calm us, no matter h o w y o u t r y to hold i t gently i n check in your easily embarrassed breast, the humiliation o f your corpse, seared onto our hearts, builds and builds like subterranean heat; the day w i l l come when the menace o f an ugly, grasping w i l l seems about to force the people once again to war; when a force that mothers and children and sisters can hold back no longer 364

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turns into the w r a t h o f a peace-loving people and erupts. O n that day your body w i l l be covered over w i t h o u t shame; the humiliation w i l l be cleansed by the tears o f the race; the curses against the atomic bomb that have accumulated in this w o r l d w i l l begin to dissipate. When, oh when w i l l that day come?

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365

Entreaty —on reading "Paintings o f the A t o m i c B o m b "

Before these grotesque figures, let me pause, stand; against the measure o f these cruel scenes, may what I have done, w i l l do, be tested. Page after page, their voices close i n on me, darker than dark; picture after picture, m y tears flow freely, never stopping. In this book I see so graphically the faces o f close friends w h o fled, loved ones w h o died. Even as shudders engulf m y heart at the agony o f these countless naked people, I see beyond the flames—what is it?—fallen, staring fixedly at me— Can i t be? — m y o w n eye. A h ! W h o could check the desire to straighten these twisted legs, to cover these naked loins, to free, one by one, these fingers, clenched and bloody? Who can repress indignation, deep and growing, that an atomic flash was set o f f in the skies over a dying Japan, warning shot i n a new war; that i n that instant 200,000 Japanese lives were taken? Before these paintings I pledge that I w i l l act; that i n the light o f this history, the future w i l l not be one that calls for repentance.

366

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Afterword O N T H E M O R N I N G o f August 6, 1945, at home i n a part o f t o w n more than three kilometers f r o m Ground Zero, I was just about to set out for d o w n t o w n Hiroshima when the bomb fell, and I escaped merely w i t h cuts f r o m splinters o f glass and w i t h atomic b o m b sickness. Peo­ ple w h o were then w i t h i n a radius o f about t w o kilometers f r o m the center o f Hiroshima died—if they were indoors—of trauma or burned to death while pinned under and—if outdoors—disappeared, burned to death, or, having fled w i t h burns, died w i t h i n about a week. People just beyond died o f burns and o f atomic bomb sickness w i t h i n a few months, and people farther away barely survived. I n the towns and villages surrounding the city each household had someone, sent by the neighborhood group to clean up after the firebreak-clearers, w h o never came back. Moreover, several factors made this disaster even more grievous: the r u m o r that on the night o f the fifth Hiroshima w o u l d be burned out—according, people said, to handbills dropped several days earlier at the time o f the b o m b i n g o f certain cities; the mobilization o f middle schoolers and the lower grades o f the girls' schools to help clear firebreaks; and the like. Today everyone knows that at Hiroshima about 300,000 people were killed i n the blast o f a single atomic bomb. A n d at Nagasaki, 100,000 or so. These events are so enormous—figures are merely fac­ tual summaries—that it is impossible to get a true sense o f them; no one confronting them head-on could ever stop weeping. A t the time, even those o f us i n the vortex could not k n o w i n our bones the full story o f these disasters, and today there have been changes i n the social environment and time has cut us o f f so these events are accessible to us only i n the f o r m o f recollections. Still, colored as they are by grief and despair, these recollections add new tears, increase the bleeding o f those survivors w h o are weighed d o w n day i n and day out by a life that is far f r o m stable. A n d the tears we have shed and the blood that has dried as we fathomed POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

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the terror o f the cruelest o f cruel experiences o f the atomic b o m b and the unease about what it means i n terms o f the complete transforma­ tion o f war have become something particularly intense, striking, as it were, our exposed nerves. This year the eighth anniversary o f the deaths approaches. The temples cannot respond all at one time to the demands o f the occasion; most households i n Hiroshima take that fact into account and either postpone the services or move them up. So these services are already beginning to be held. B u t w h o can k n o w the pain stored away, sealed off i n the innermost hearts o f the people attending those services? That pain has already become words that can never be spoken, tears that can never be shed, sinking all the deeper into their innermost hearts; i n the development o f history, consciously or unconsciously, it is n o w taking on new forms, and, given the good w i l l o f human­ kind, the meaning o f these events has great power to spread and little by little is gaining an enormous force. I have n o w completed this manuscript, but I am ashamed that for six years I neglected to compose poems about these events; that this collection o f poems is too meager; and that m y powers are too weak to convey the true sense o f these events and to impress on the hearts o f all people the actual facts and their continuing importance—these are not merely recollections—for the future o f every person, people, nation, o f humankind. This is a gift, from me—no, from us i n Hiroshima—to the people o f the entire w o r l d : to eyes that twinkle stealthily no matter h o w g r i m the situation, into gentle hands that cannot help reaching out, instinc­ tively, w i t h sympathy; it is the greatest gift o f w h i c h I am capable. I should like to add this: I sing i n m y poems o f this desire for peace; yet the times are going i n such a backward direction that people must be stripped o f even their basic human freedoms. I have virtually no chance o f making a l i v i n g w i t h this k i n d o f literary activity—that goes w i t h o u t saying, and the pressures, tangible and intangible, i n ­ crease; they are g r o w i n g steadily worse. This is p r o o f positive o f how political conditions in Japan today disregard the people's w i l l and lead again to war. 368

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Moreover, I wish to say that the people w h o are quickening these pressures on me are taking action hostile to humankind itself. This collection o f poems is a gift to all people w h o love human­ kind; at the same time, it is a book o f admonition to those others. May 10, 1952

POEMS OF THE ATOMIC BOMB

Töge Sankichi

369

The Hiroshima Murals o f M a r u k i Iri and M a r u k i Toshi: A Note

I

ROSE A N D POETRY are not the only forms o f artistic response

to Hiroshima. I n the w o r l d o f f i l m , Alain Resnais' Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), based on a script by Marguerite Duras, is the most noteworthy attempt to deal head-on w i t h Hiroshima. Other films, i n Japan and elsewhere, have dealt w i t h life i n the nuclear age. Kurosawa A k i r a produced Ikimono no kiroku (The record o f a l i v i n g being [some­ times translated: I live i n fear]) (1955), the story o f a businessman w h o begins to take seriously the threat o f nuclear war. The f i l m was a c o m ­ mercial failure, but it has its merits. Other f i l m treatments o f the atomic b o m b range from Stanley Kramer's On the Beach (1959), based on the novel by N e v i l Shute, to Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove (1964) to The Day After (1983), produced for television. I n the w o r l d o f sculpture, the most striking w o r k is that o f Kita Kazuaki (1934- ).* In the w o r l d o f painting, the preeminent artists are M a r u k i I r i and M a r u k i Toshi. Together, they have produced one o f the most striking artistic legacies o f the twentieth century. M a r u k i I r i was born i n 1901, t w o years before the b i r t h o f Öta Y ö k o , four years before the birth o f Hara T a m i k i . He was the eldest son i n a farming family l i v i n g i n a village that was then on the n o r t h ­ ern outskirts o f the city o f Hiroshima. As urban sprawl came to Japan, the city engulfed the village. B u t Iri's memories go back to the time before: The Ota River flowed past the house, and f r o m early each m o r n i n g dozens o f boats floated past, loaded w i t h lumber and firewood. Just i n front o f the house the river was still, so there they stuck i n their sweeps and used t h e m like oars. T h e squeak o f the sweeps against the gunwales resounded and gave See Society to Study Kazuaki Kita's Creative History, ed., The World of Kazuaki Kita's Art: The New Era (After Hiroshima 42 = 1987) (Tokyo: 1987).

1

T H E H I R O S H I M A MURALS! A NOTE

rise to a fine air. W h i l e r o w i n g their sweeps, men p r o u d o f their voices sang boat songs. . . . 2

Resolving at an early age to become a painter, I r i gravitated t o ­ ward the traditional medium o f ink and paper; he also remembers an early attraction to poster art. I r i joined and left many groups o f artists i n the 1930s. He was influenced by the proletarian art movement and after the war joined the Communist Party; both I r i and Toshi w o u l d be expelled f r o m the Party i n the 1950s for opposing all nuclear test­ ing, including that o f the Soviet U n i o n . Some o f the i n k paintings he did before embarking on the Hiroshima paintings are huge affairs: a painting o f a lion (1939) measures roughly six feet by ten feet; a paint­ ing o f a peacock (1940), roughly six by eight; a group o f horses (1940) stretches across a screen twenty-two feet l o n g . M a r u k i Toshi was born i n 1912, eldest daughter o f a Buddhist priest i n a small t o w n i n Hokkaido. She began drawing early, not al­ ways under supervision. As she remembers i n her delightful autobi­ ography: 3

It was a day no one was home. I don't k n o w w h y . I may have been five years old. I noticed the l i d o f the b o x i n w h i c h D a d d y kept his i n k stone had been left open. I tried rubbing i n k like Daddy. T h e n I took a brush and tried d i p ­ p i n g i t i n the i n k . T h e n I wanted to paint something. W h y not that school excursion that went past the house a w h i l e ago? N o paper? Well, this wall is perfect. Beautiful w h i t e paper, n e w l y papered. T w o first graders, w i t h hats o n and rice ball lunches at their waists, h o l d i n g hands, walk along side by side, singing. N e x t girls h o l d i n g hands—one, t w o , three, four, still more— go by. Five, six, ten, twenty, fifty. N o w the second grade. I covered the w a l l completely. N o t h i n g for i t but to continue the painting on the adjacent fusuma. The fusurna, too, filled up. So n o w slide i t back and continue on the corridor w a l l . Second grade, t h i r d grade: o n and on went the school excursion . . . Grandma and M o t h e r came home; I don't recall h o w surprised or sad they were. I ' m sure I wasn't scolded. H a d I been scolded, I ' m sure I ' d remember. 4

M a r u k i Iri, unpublished autobiography written circa 1980, p. 17. I am indebted to John Junkerman for access to his copy. 2

3

M a r u k i Iri, Garyü (Reclining dragon) (Tokyo: 1970) is a partial catalog of his work.

M a r u k i Toshi, Onna egaki no tanjö (Birth o f a female painter) (Tokyo: Asahi sensho 93, 1977), PP- 22-23.

4

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So, like I r i , Toshi got an early start; like h i m , she had a flair for largescale w o r k . Toshi's academic career included art school i n T o k y o f r o m age seventeen to twenty-one. After graduation she taught for four years i n a p r i m a r y school near T o k y o . I n 1937 she decided i t was either teaching or art; she chose the latter. There followed a period o f several years o f unsettled existence, including service as governess to children o f Japanese diplomats i n Moscow, a stay i n the South Pacific, and an affair w i t h M a r u k i I r i . O n l y after the affair began did Toshi learn that I r i was still married—-to his second wife. I r i and Toshi were married i n 1941. The t w o lived i n T o k y o and worked separately, he on i n k paint­ ings, she on oils. Together, they resisted the wartime pressures to paint patriotic art; together, they experienced the b o m b i n g o f T o k y o . When the atomic b o m b was dropped on Hiroshima, I r i got on the next train to help out. F r o m the train he witnessed the firebombing o f Nagoya; then the train made its way by fits and starts to Hiroshima: [A]s the train neared Hiroshima, all the trains c o m i n g this way carried victims o f the b o m b . I n the train I was on, there were barely five or six passengers left, and I was assailed by a feeling o f total abandonment, that I was about to go o f f for good i n t o another w o r l d . . . . Even after the train stopped, I was unable to bestir m y s e l f for some time. T h i n k i n g this was i t , I was barely able to stagger d o w n o f f the train like a sleepwalker; and w h e n I d i d , I f o u n d neither anything like a station nor any signs o f life. The city o f H i r o s h i m a was a field o f rubble, complete and total, and fires were still b u r n i n g every­ where. I t was particularly striking that i n the dark I could see H i r o s h i m a Bay and even the islands o f Etajima and M i y a j i m a . 5

He proceeded on foot to Yokogawa Station and thence home. Toshi j o i n e d h i m several days later. She described her arrival i n these words: "Burned pines, houses f r o m w h i c h the r o o f tiles had been b l o w n off, houses smashed to pieces, telephone poles and wires burned like fishbones continued; and then a plain as far as the eye could see up ahead, a wasteland completely gray. Here and there a charred storehouse survived, giving o f f smoke and flame. The train 5

M a r u k i Iri, unpublished autobiography, pp. 88-89.

T H E H I R O S H I M A MURALS: A NOTE

373

stopped. H i r o s h i m a . " The t w o spent a m o n t h i n H i r o s h i m a tending 6

Iri's family (his father and t w o uncles w o u l d soon die) and helping w i t h the general cleanup. After they returned to T o k y o , Toshi devel­ oped the symptoms o f radiation sickness. For several years after 1945, I r i and Toshi continued their separate artistic efforts, and neither o f them dealt w i t h H i r o s h i m a . I n 1948, all that changed. These are Toshi's words: The shibboleth among our artists' group was "It's time to build. Paint peace­ ful, b r i g h t faces!" For all we were w o r t h , we painted y o u n g men and y o u n g w o m e n . Even I r i , w h o had painted only quiet still-life w o r k s and landscapes before, began to do drawings o f people. . . . We thought we had to paint faces o f bright, healthy Japanese. B u t somehow what we w o u n d up produc­ i n g were faces w i t h w o r r i e d looks. Something must still be w r o n g w i t h our techniques, we kept saying as we painted; but whatever the reason, no shining brightness came f r o m w i t h i n us. It was o n a rainy summer night all o f three years after the b o m b fell that we resolved to paint pictures o f the atomic b o m b . W i t h o u t either o f us having to say so, we agreed; we shuddered and nestled close to each other. . . . What had we been doing for three full years? Was i t muddleheadedness f r o m the atomic bomb? N o , the painters at the time i n H i r o s h i m a forgot to paint; and although we went to H i r o s h i m a after the b o m b fell, we wandered about half-crazed and starving, j u s t like those injured by the atomic b o m b . I had been praised for being a demon for w o r k ; yet i n the m o n t h i n H i r o s h i m a I d i d o n l y t w o drawings. Somehow sketching gave me a bad feeling. U n i n j u r e d ourselves, we could not bear the futility o f observing those w h o were injured; i t seemed more important to treat injuries than to paint, more i m p o r t a n t to feed the injured than to paint. So we did our best to act as i f we d i d not see the corpses, and we dreaded being called to by people w h o had collapsed and could not move. There must be all kinds o f excuses—we had no paper, we had no pens; but true artists should have penetrated on the spot to the heart o f this hell that should not have existed i n this human w o r l d , faced the reality angry and fresh, and painted i t out; we were fainthearted painters. We returned f r o m H i r o s h i m a to T o k y o , and for three years we were muddleheaded w i t h the words "peace," "construction." D u r i n g the war we were muddleheaded f r o m the war; i n Hiroshima, muddleheaded f r o m the atomic b o m b ; i n peace, muddleheaded f r o m peace. I n retrospect, we had 6

M a r u k i Toshi, Onna egaki no tanjö, p. 117.

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THE H I R O S H I M A MURALS: A NOTE

been slow, but i t still m i g h t not be too late. Because no one else was painting Hiroshima. 7

That night began an artistic collaboration that has lasted four decades. I r i has commented w i t h simple eloquence on the background that led them to paint Hiroshima: We don't paint these subjects because we enjoy painting them. It's not out o f some desire to do something for humanity or to make a point. We painted the b o m b because we had seen Hiroshima, and we thought there had to be some record o f what had happened. B u t we could not have done those paint­ ings i f we had not already been different i n our way o f t h i n k i n g about the w o r l d . We had opposed the war, we were socialists, and we were not satisfied o n l y painting pretty pictures. That's the k i n d o f people we were, so we painted the atomic b o m b . I t happened naturally. 8

The Marukis painted monumental murals o f Hiroshima into the 1960S, completing a series o f fourteen, each roughly six feet by twenty-four feet. The focus o f their paintings was people, drawn almost life-size. In all their paintings o f Hiroshima, there is no recognizable land­ mark—no atomic dome, no eternal flame, no specific bridge or r i v erbank or temple or shrine. Instead, there are people. When they started painting Hiroshima, there were no photographs o f Hiroshima and only a few paintings—showing solitary figures wandering through the moonscape Hiroshima had become. I r i commented i n 1981: "The atomic bomb isn't a matter o f buildings. Unless y o u paint people, it's not the atomic bomb. Unless y o u paint the condition o f the people, it's not the atomic bomb. . . . I ' m not sure whether I hit upon i t or she did, but we had to paint people" The parallel w i t h the poems o f T ö g e Sankichi is striking. Indeed, Iri's statement can stand as a manifesto for Hara T a m i k i and Ota Y ö k o , too. The atomic b o m b is people. 9

M a r u k i Toshi, Onna egaki no tanjö, pp. 125-127. John Dower and John Junkerman, eds., The Hiroshima Murals: The Art of Iri Maruki and Toshi Maruki (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1986), p. 125.

7

8

Kitagawa Furarmi, ed., Contemporary Human Documents: Watakushi de wa naku, Shiranuhi no umi ga (Contemporary human documents: N o t I , but Shiranuhi Sea) (Tokyo: Gendai kikakushitsu, 1981), p. 74.

9

T H E H I R O S H I M A MURALS: A NOTE

375

A t the early exhibitions Toshi found herself talking w i t h viewers about the paintings: " I n order to explain, I had begun giving talks. I r i said to please stop giving talks i n front o f our o w n paintings. B u t when I was asked questions, I had to answer." The spoken w o r d led to arguments, and I r i commented, "Such things happen because y o u say what there is no need to say." Toshi writes: I decided to w r i t e a statement and paste it up instead o f g i v i n g talks. . . . T o be sure, I ran into the criticism that I had sullied the p u r i t y o f the paintings. That may be so. B u t what wasn't said completely i n pictures I had to c o m ­ municate orally. A n d what I couldn't communicate orally, I had to w r i t e . B y whatever means i t took, I wanted to communicate the t r u t h o f H i r o s h i m a to as many people as possible. H o w can that be impure? What after all is art? 10

The dropping o f the atomic bomb on Hiroshima forced Hara, Öta, T ö g e , and the Marukis to face this question. Their achievements force readers and viewers to confront the same question. Paintings by the Marukis adorn the covers o f the fifteen-volume compendium o f the atomic bomb literature o f Japan. The Marukis had no personal contact w i t h Hara T a m i k i , but then few people did. Öta Y ö k o mentioned Toshi at least twice, both times i n 1952. In July, Ota wrote: " [ M a r u k i ] Toshiko has said that since 300,000 people died, her o w n lifetime is not time enough to paint their deaths one by one; her calculation touched me." Five months later Ota linked the H i r o ­ shima paintings w i t h her o w n City of Corpses and Human Tatters and stressed the inadequacy o f all three, and even o f recently published photographs o f the destruction the bomb w r o u g h t . The Marukis' connection w i t h T ö g e was indeed close. One o f T ö g e ' s poems, " E n ­ treaty," is a celebration o f their painting; I r i was among the support group at the hospital the day T ö g e died; a painting by Toshi adorns the cover o f the volume memorializing T ö g e , and a drawing by her is the frontispiece for the standard edition o f Poems of the Atomic Bomb; the Marukis' catalog o f 1967 includes a number o f poems, among them excerpts f r o m T ö g e ' s "Grave Marker." 11

10

M a r u k i Toshi, Onna egaki no tanjö, pp. 133-135.

"Sakka no taido" (The attitude o f the writer) (July 1952), in Ota Yöko shü 2.311, and "Ikinokori no shinri" (The psychology o f the survivor) (November 1952), i n Öta Yöko shü 2.320. A detail from the Marukis' first mural forms the endpapers for Ota's collected works. II

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M U R A L S REPRESENTED I N T H I S V O L U M E

The title page is a section o f "Water," third i n the Hiroshima se­ ries (1950). M a r u k i Toshi's text for "Water" reads i n part: A n injured mother fled w i t h her baby along the river. Stumbling i n t o deep water, then panicking and scrambling back into shallows, cooling her head w i t h water as the raging flames enveloped the river, fleeing, fleeing, she came at l o n g last to this spot. She offered her breast to her child and o n l y then realized i t was dead. A 20th-century image o f mother and child. Injured mother cradles her dead child. A mother-and-child image o f despair, is i t not? M o t h e r and child should be an image o f hope.

Preceding page 3 is a section o f "Fire," second painting i n the series (1950). M a r u k i Toshi's text (there are at least t w o versions, and this passage is f r o m the earlier) notes that the artists used "traditional Japanese forms" i n painting the flames; stylized flames such as these appear i n paintings as early as the 13 th century. After page 41 is a section o f "Relief," the eighth painting (1954). M a r u k i Toshi was the model for the w o m a n pulling the cart. After page 143 is a section o f "Boys and Girls," the fifth painting (1951). I n the superb documen­ tary f i l m about the Marukis and their art (Hellfire: A Journey from Hiroshima [1986; First Run Features]), M a r u k i Toshi says: " N o matter h o w cruel i t is, and it is cruel—it is an atrocity . . . when I draw that I don't want to only draw the tragedy. I always want to depict the beauty as well. The face may be deformed, but there is a breast or a finger that is beautiful. The body may be burned, but the profile o f the face is still beautiful. It is a dreadful, cruel scene, but I want to paint it w i t h kindness." N o t e the contrast between the burns o f the girl i n the left foreground and the unmarked skin o f the others; M a r u k i Töshi's text notes that some bodies had no visible wounds. (The silhouette on the back endpaper is f r o m this painting. The text reads: " T w o sisters, horribly disfigured, embraced.") After page 301 is a section o f "Yaizu" (1955). Yaizu was the home port o f the Lucky Dragon, the fishing ship contaminated by fallout f r o m the American test o f a hydrogen bomb at B i k i n i (1954); one member o f the crew died. The right half o f the painting depicts a T H E H I R O S H I M A MURALS: A NOTE

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ghostly Lucky Dragon suspended i n mid-air over the ocean; the left half, f r o m w h i c h this section comes, depicts the townspeople o f Yaizu. M a r u k i Toshi's text states i n part: "Three times the Japanese have fallen v i c t i m to nuclear weapons." The revised version adds: "Yaizu and B i k i n i : a shared fate." M a r u k i Toshi and Maruki Iri. Courtesy o f the M a r u k i Gallery for the H i r o s h i m a Panels

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Glossary

bon: Summer (mid-July or mid-August) festival, Buddhist in origin, in honor o f the spirits o f the ancestors. bunraku: Traditional theatrical form featuring large hand-held puppets. butsudan: Cabinet in the home for image o f Buddha and for ancestral mortuary tablets. Normally, families make offerings o f food, flowers, and incense on a regular basis. dokudami: Foul-smelling perennial plant, family Saururaceae; Houttuynia cordata. furoshiki: Carrying-cloth. fusuma: Sliding door or screen. futon: Padded quilt used for bedding. geta: Wooden clogs. Hakenkreuz: Swastika (Töge reproduces Hakenkreuz phonetically). hibachi: Charcoal brazier, used as a space heater. hiragana: Cursive syllabary (cf. katakana). katakana: Block syllabary (cf. hiragana). kotatsu: Space heater, usually set into floor under low table so that family dangles feet into the heated space. koto: Thirteen-stringed zither, horizontal (nearly two meters long) and semicylindrical; played by plucking w i t h the right hand. nembutsu: Prayer/recitation—"All hail, Amida Buddha!" (Namu Amida butsu)— for rebirth into Amida's Western Paradise. pika-don: Literally, flash-boom; the colloquial expression for the flash (pika), then boom (don) o f the atomic bomb. sake: Rice wine. Salvarsan: Arsenical powder for treatment o f syphilis; superceded by penicillin. sembei: Cracker, made w i t h rice or wheat flour. sen: One-hundredth o f a yen; in the early postwar years, the exchange rate was fixed at 360 yen to the U.S. dollar. shöji: Sliding screen or door. tanka: Traditional poetic form o f thirty-one syllables. tatami: Rush mats (roughly 3' X 6') that form the flooring o f living quarters o f traditional Japanese home. tokonoma: Alcove, often used for displaying works o f art. torii: Sacred gate to Shinto shrine. yen: Japanese currency (equal to 100 sen), set in postwar years at 360 to the U.S. dollar. yukata: Unlined cotton garment for informal wear; bathrobe. GLOSSARY

379

Guide to Names and Places

NAMES

ABCC: Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission. Successor to Joint Commission for the Investigation o f the Effects o f the Atomic Bomb in Japan; established by presidential order, under the general direction o f the National Academy o f Sciences and w i t h funds from the Atomic Energy Commission. H i r o ­ shima offices were located on Hijiyama. Target o f considerable Japanese suspicion and antagonism; cf. Robert Jay Lifton, Death in Life, esp. p. 344. Asada Tsunesaburö: 1900-1984. Member, Osaka Imperial University Research Team. Asano Nagamoto: 1842-193 7. Last daimyo o f Hiroshima. Awaya Senkichi: 1898-1945. Mayor o f Hiroshima. Carroll, Dr. James: 1854-1907. Assistant surgeon, U.S. A r m y ; bacteriologist for U.S. A r m y Yellow Fever Commission; author w i t h Walter Reed o f several articles on yellow fever. Carroll contracted yellow fever, as did Lazear; but Carroll recovered. Chügoku shimbun: The most important o f several newspapers published in H i r o ­ shima. Curie, Madame Marie: 1867-1934. Polish-born scientist, winner o f the Nobel Prize for chemistry i n 1911 for her work on radium (she had shared an ear­ lier Nobel, for physics, in 1903). The Discovery of Zero: Account o f the life o f Jean Victor Poncelet (1788—1867), French expert in geometry and industrial mechanics; prisoner o f war, N o ­ vember 1812-June 1814. The Iwanami shinsho series is roughly compara­ ble to Modern Library. The Fall of the House of Usher: Masterpiece o f Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849), pub­ lished i n 1845. Farrell, Brig. Gen. (later Major Gen.) Thomas: 1891-1967. Construction engi­ neer. Deputy commander, atomic bomb project, 1944-1945; head o f M a n ­ hattan District group. Fujiwara Takeo: 1897-1981. Professor, Hiroshima University. Gide, André: 1869-1951. French writer; author o f Si le grain ne meurt (If it die) (1921). Gorgas, Col. (later Major General) William C : 1854-1920. Sanitarian, surgeon general o f the U.S. A r m y ; appointed chief sanitary officer o f Havana, 1898.

Gorky, M a x i m (Maksim Gorkii): 1868-1936. Russian writer; published The G U I D E TO NAMES A N D PLACES

381

Three (Tpoe) in 1900. A literal translation o f Gorky's original (which has only four lines) is as follows: "The clouds are gray, / and the earth is damp: / Thus comes autumn. / But I have neither house nor home, / and all my clothes—one hole upon another." Compare the version in Gorky, The Three, trans. Margaret Wettlin (Moscow: Foreign Languages Publishing House, n.d.), p. 84. Author also o f The Lower Depths (Na Dnye) (1902). Hata Shunroku: 1879-1962. Field Marshal, Imperial Japanese Army. Hayate: Nakajima Ki-84; fighter plane designed and developed during the war. Hermann und Dorothea: Long poem (1797) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832).

Junod, Marcel: 1904-1^)61. Swiss surgeon; vice-chair, International Committee o f the Red Cross; author, Le troisième Combattant: de Vyperite en Abyssinie à la bombe atomique d'Hiroshima (Paris: Payot, 1947), published in English as Warrior without Weapons, trans. Edward Fitzgerald (London: Jonathan Cape, 1951). Kusunoki Masashige: Died 1336; legendary swordsman, warrior chief, active in the loyalist cause o f Emperor Go-Daigo (Kemmu Restoration, 1 3 3 3 1336).

Lawrence, W. H . : 1916-1972. New York Times correspondent in the Pacific, 1945. [Easily confused w i t h Laurence, William Leonard (1888-1977), who was the only journalist present at Alamagordo in 1945 and who was an eyewitness to the Nagasaki bombing. Laurence was also the author o f (among other books) Dawn over Zero: The Story of the Atomic Bomb (New York: Knopf, 1946); The Hell Bomb (New York: Knopf, 1951); and Men and Atoms: The Discovery, the Uses, and the Future of Atomic Energy (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1959).] Lazear, Dr. Jesse W. : 1866-1900. Assistant surgeon, United States A r m y ; member w i t h Reed and Carroll (and Agramonte), U.S. A r m y Yellow Fever Commission; died o f yellow fever. Lee, Fitzhugh: 1835-1905. Soldier, bureaucrat, governor o f Virginia 1886-1890; consul general, Havana, 1896-1898; military governor, Pinar del Rio. Life of a Woman: Am onna no shögai (1921), novel by poet and novelist Shimazaki Töson, 1872-1943. Maruyama Sadao: 1901-1945. Prominent Shingeki actor. Meiji Restoration: 1868. The coup d'etat that brought an end to the Tokugawa shogunate (1600-1868) and established a central government that soon undertook major modernizing policies. M o r i Motonari: 1497-1571. Powerful military leader and daimyo in Hiroshima area. Morrison, Philip: 1 9 1 5 - . Physicist and group leader, Los Alamos, 1944-1946; professor at Cornell (1946-1965) and M . I . T . (1976- ) . Naka M i d o r i : 1909-1945. Actress. Newman, Brigadier General: Identity unknown.

382

GUIDE TO NAMES A N D PLACES

Ötsuka Seiken: 1884-1945. General Superintendent. During the war the Japa­ nese government established this position as an intermediate step between the national government and the prefectural governors (several o f w h o m reported to each general superintendent). Oughterson, Col. Ashley W.: 1 8 9 5 - 1 9 5 Ó . Clinical professor o f surgery, Yale University; surgical consultant in the Pacific Theater o f Operations (i.e., to Gen. Douglas MacArthur), served on Joint Commission for the Investiga­ tion o f the Effects o f the Atomic Bomb in Japan; editor (with S. Warren), Medical Effects of the Atomic Bomb in Japan (1956). Reed, Dr. Walter: 1851--1902. Head o f U.S. A r m y Yellow Fever Commission. Sawada Töichirö: 1895-1982. Professor, Kyushu University Medical Faculty. Sharaku: Töshüsai Sharaku, active 1794-1795; famous for woodblock prints o f kabuki actors. Taira no K i y o m o r i : 1118-1181. For legend o f his stopping the sun, and its use by Hotta K i y o m i , a playwright from Hiroshima, see David Goodman, Af­ ter Apocalypse (New York: Columbia University Press, 1985), pp. 13, 2 3 24.

T o g o Heihachirö: 1848--1934. Admiral; architect o f Japan's naval victory over Russia, 1905. Tsuzuki Masao: 1892-1961. Head o f Department o f Surgery, Tokyo Imperial University; director, Medical Division o f Japan Research Council. War and Peace: Voina i mir (1869), masterpiece o f Count Leo Tolstoy (Lev T o l ­ stoi, 1828-1910). Warren, Commander Shields: 1898-1980. Pathologist, N e w England Deaconess Hospital, 1927-1963; member Nav Tech Jap, Team 11 (to investigate i m ­ pact o f atomic bomb on Nagasaki). There was also a second Warren: Col. Stafford L . Warren, 1 8 9 6 - ; head o f survey team, Sept. 8-19, 1945, repre­ senting the Manhattan District; director, Manhattan District Project, 1943; chief o f medical section, 1943-1946; head o f medical section o f Farrell team. Watanabe Masumi: 1898-1987. Red Cross doctor. Wells, H . G.: 1866-1946. English writer; prolific author, w i t h at least a halfdozen titles that could be translated into Japanese as Kitarubeki sekai. They include The Shape of Things to Come, " A Story o f the Days to Come," and The Way the World Is Going. Winckelmann, Thoughts on the Imitation of Greek A r i : Johann Joachim Winckelmann, 1717-1768; author o f Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke in der Malerei und Bildhauerkunst (Thoughts on the imitation o f Greek works in painting and sculpture) (1755). Y i Kön: The Korean prince who, according to Ota Y ö k o , was killed at H i r o ­ shima. A prince died at Hiroshima, but it was a brother o f Y i Kön: Y i U (1912-1945), lieutenant colonel in the Japanese Imperial Army. Zero: Mitsubishi A 6 M Reisen, best Japanese fighter o f the war. G U I D E TO NAMES A N D PLACES

383

PLACES

A i o i Bridge: The T-shaped bridge at the heart o f Hiroshima that served as the target for the Enola Gay's bombardier. See Map 3. Aki-Nakano: See Map 2. A r m y Clothing Depot: See Map 3. Asano Library: See Map 3. Atsugi: City i n central Honshu; in September 1945 Atsugi was the landing point for General D o u g ­ las MacArthur and the Occupa­ tion forces. A t t u Island: Farthest west o f the Aleu­ tians, A t t u was controlled by Ja­ pan between June 1942 and June 1943.

B i k i n i : A t o l l , one o f Marshall Islands in Northern Pacific; site o f U.S. atomic bomb tests, 1946-1958. Bingo Offing: See Map I. Bungo Strait: North-south waterway between the islands o f Shikoku and Kyushu. Chiba: City and prefecture on the eastern side o f Tokyo Bay. Chiyoda: Ota writes Chiyoda, but there is no such section o f H i r o ­ shima; the only Chiyoda in H i ­ roshima Prefecture is thirty miles north o f Hiroshima. Drop the middle character, and the name becomes Senda. See Map 3. Choshu: Daimiate on the western end o f Honshu; one o f major players in the Meiji Restoration o f 1868. Chügoku Building: See Map 3. Chügoku Range: East-west mountain range that runs throughout west­ ern Honshu. See Maps 1 and 2. City Hall: See Map 3. Dobashi: See Map 4. 384

East Parade Ground: See Map 5. East Police Headquarters: See Map 5. Eba: See Map 4. Ehime Prefecture: Prefecture occupy­ ing the northwest quarter o f Shi­ koku. Enkö Bridge: See Map 5. Etajima: Island south o f Hiroshima; site (1888-1945) o f the Imperial Naval Academy. See Map 2. Fuji, M t . : See Map 1. Fukushima: Capital o f Fukushima Prefecture in north-central H o n ­ shu. Fukuya Department Store: See Map 5. Fukuyama: City on eastern edge o f Hiroshima Prefecture, on main rail line between Hiroshima and Kobe. Funairi Kawaguchi-chö: See Map 4. Furuta: Hamlet in western Hiroshima Prefecture. Gion: See Map 2. Gosasö Mountain: See Map 2. Hachihommatsu: See Map 2. Hachijöjima: Small island 300 kilome­ ters due south o f Tokyo. Hagi: City on Sea o f Japan i n Yamaguchi Prefecture, almost directly north o f Ube. Hakushima: See Map 4. Hakushima Kuken-cho: See Map 4. Hakushima Post and Telegraph: See Map 5. Hamada: See Map 1. Hatchöbori: See Map 2. Hatsukaichi: See Map 6. Hera: See Map 6. Hijiyama: See Map 3. Hikari: City on Inland Sea, southeast­ ern Yamaguchi Prefecture, 3 5 GUIDE TO NAMES A N D PLACES

kilometers east and south o f Iwakuni. Hirataya-chö: See Map 4. Hiratsuka: See Map 4. Hiroshima Castle: See Map 3. Hiroshima Prefecture: One o f prewar Japan's 40-odd administrative d i ­ visions (roughly comparable to American states), bounded on the west by Yamaguchi, on the north by Shimane, on the north­ east by Tottori, and on the east by Okayama Prefectures. Hiroshima Station: See Map 3. Hiroshima Technical School: See Map 3Hongan temple: See Map 3. Hongö: See Map 2. Honkawa Bridge: See Map 3. Horikawa-chö: See Map 4. Imperial Naval Academy: See Map 2. Inland Sea: See Map 2. Itsukaichi: See Map 6. Itsukushima: See Map 6. Iwakuni: City in eastern Yamaguchi Prefecture, site o f industrial complex and (after the war) o f major American air base. See Map 6. Iwate Prefecture: Prefecture on north­ ern Honshu's Pacific coast. Iwojima: Island 750 miles south o f T o ­ kyo, captured by the American forces after bitter struggle, Feb­ ruary-March 1945; properJapa­ nese reading is lojima. Izumi Villa: Scenic spot, Kaminagarekawa-chö, originally the de­ tached villa o f the Asano family, w i t h formal garden k n o w n as Shukkeien. Ota Y o k o refers to it once as Asano Sentei; John Her­ GUIDE TO NAMES A N D PLACES

sey (Hiroshima) refers to it as Asano Park. See Map 5. Japan Red Cross Hospital: See Map 3. Kagoshima: See Map 1. Kaita: See Map 2. Kake: See Map 2. Kamaishi: Coastal city i n central Iwate Prefecture. Kamiya-chö: See Map 4. Kamiyanagi-chö: See Map 4. Kanawa Island: See Map 3. Kanazawa: Capital o f Ishikawa Prefec­ ture on the Japan Sea coast o f central Honshu. See Map 1. K i i Channel: North-South waterway between eastern Shikoku and Honshu. Kobe: Capital o f H y ö g o Prefecture. See Map 1. Köchi Prefecture: One o f prewar Ja­ pan's 40-odd administrative d i v i ­ sions (roughly comparable to American states), comprising most o f southern Shikoku. K o i : See Map 3. Koishikawa: Section o f Tokyo. Kojimachi: Section o f Tokyo. Kokutaiji: See Map 3. Kudamatsu: City on Inland Sea in southeastern Yamaguchi Prefec­ ture, 40 kilometers west and south o f Iwakuni. Kumano Sea: See Map 1. Kure: Important port city south o f H i ­ roshima, major naval base and shipbuilding site. See Map 2. Kusatsu: See Map 4. Kushima: See Map 6. Kyöbashi: See Map 5. Kyoto: See Map 1. Kyushu: See Map 1. Marianas: Island group in Western Pa385

Marianas (cont.) cific, including Guam, Saipan, and Tinian; mandated to Japan by League o f Nations (1920), oc­ cupied by United States in 1944, and mandated to United States in 1947. The Enola Gay took off from Tinian w i t h the atomic bomb it dropped on Hiroshima. Matsuyama: See Map 1. M i d o r i Kansha-döri: See Map 4. Mihara: See Map 2. Misasa Shrine: See Map 3. Miyajima: T o w n on Hiroshima Bay opposite Itsukushima, the island famous for Itsukushima Shrine w i t h its huge torii out in the wa­ ter. See Map 6. Miyoshi: See Map 2. M o r i Works: Hara's fictional name for the Hara factory in Kamiyanagichö. Muröto Point: See Map 1. Musashino: City in Tokyo Prefecture. Nagarekawa: See Map 4. Nagasaki: Capital o f Nagasaki Prefec­ ture in western Kyushu, target o f second atomic bomb. See Map I.

Nagoya: See Map 1. Nerima: Section o f Tokyo. Nigitsu Park: See Map 5. Nihombashi: Section o f Tokyo. Ninoshima: See Map 6. Nishi-Kanda: Section o f Tokyo. Nishi-Teramachi: See Map 4. Nobori-chö: See Map 4. Nomijima: See Map 6. Okayama: City on Honshu Coast o f Inland Sea, roughly halfway be­ tween Hiroshima and Kobe; cap­ ital o f Okayama Prefecture. 386

Okinawa: Largest o f Ryukyu Islands south o f Kyushu; site o f bitter fighting (April-June 1945) lead­ ing to Allied conquest. Omiyajima: See Map 2. Onomichi: See Map 2. Osaka: See Map 1. Öta River: See Map 2. Ötake: See Map 2. Otemachi: See Map 4. Rail bridge: See Map 5. Sada Point: See Map 1. Saijö: See Map 2. Saiku-machi: See Map 4. Sakae Bridge: See Map 5. Seibi Primary School: See Map 5. Senda: See Map 3. Sensui Pass: See Map 6. Shimane Prefecture: Prefecture imme­ diately north o f Hiroshima Pre­ fecture, on Japan Sea coast. Sötoku Middle School: See Map 3. Sumiyoshi Bridge: See Map 4. Takasu: See Map 4. Takeya-chö: See Map 4. Teishin (Communications) Hospital: Also Post and Communications Hospital, Hiroshima C o m m u n i ­ cations Hospital, and C o m m u n i ­ cations Department (P.O.) Hos­ pital; site o f labors o f Dr. Hachiya Michihiko (Hiroshima Diary). See Map 5. Temma: See Map 4. Temma River: See Map 4. Töhoku: Northeast section o f H o n ­ shu. Tokaido: Eastern Sea Road, highway linking Tokyo and Kyoto. Tokiwa Bridge: See Map 5. Tosa: City in Kochi Prefecture on south-central coast o f Shikoku. GUIDE TO NAMES A N D PLACES

Tsuda: See Map 2. Ube: See Map 1. Ujina: See Map 4. Ushita: See Map 4. West Parade Ground: See Map 5. Xhabei: Section o f Shanghai. Yaga: Neighborhood 2 kilometers due east o f Hiroshima Station. Yahata: See Map 6. Yamaguchi Prefecture: One o f Japan's 44 administrative divisions (roughly comparable to A m e r i ­ can states), immediately west o f Hiroshima Prefecture, compris­

G U I D E TO NAMES A N D PLACES

ing western end o f Honshu. Yanagi-chö: Neighborhood i n H i r o ­ shima, comprised o f Kamiya­ nagi-cho (see Map 4) and Shimoyanagi-cho immediately to the south. Yanaizu: See Map 2. Yokogawa: See Map 4. Yokohama: See Map 1. Yoshijima Hommachi: See Map 4. Yoshiwa: Village on western edge o f Hiroshima Prefecture, 25 k i l o ­ meters northwest o f Hatsuka­ ichi.

387

Suggestions for Further Reading

READERS interested in further materials in Japanese should turn first o f all to the collected works (cited in the notes) o f Hara Tamiki, Ota Y o k o , and Töge Sankichi and then to the fifteen-volume Nihon no gembaku bungaku (The atomic bomb literature o f Japan) (Tokyo: Horupu, 1983). Readers interested in further materials in English should turn to the follow­ ing: W R I T I N G S OF SURVIVORS

Akizuki, Tatsuichiro. Nagasaki 1945. Trans. Keiichi Nagata. Ed. Gordon H o n eycombe. London, Melbourne, and N e w York: Quartet, 1981. A n earlier version o f this translation was published privately in 1977: Document of ABombed Nagasaki. Originally published as Nagasaki gembakki (Tokyo: K ö bundo, 1966). Chujo, Kazuo. Nuclear Holocaust: A Personal Account I Watakushi no Hiroshima no gembaku. Trans. Asahi Evening News. Tokyo: Asahi shimbun, 1983. Simultaneous English / Japanese edition. Hachiya, Michihiko. Hiroshima Diary: The Journal of a Japanese Physician, August 6-September30, 1945. Trans, and ed. Warner Wells. Chapel H i l l : Univer­ sity o f N o r t h Carolina Press, 1955. Originally published as Hiroshima nikki (Tokyo: Asahi shimbunsha, 1955). Kanda, M i k i o , ed. Widows of Hiroshima: The Life Stories of Nineteen Peasant Wives. Trans. Taeko Midorikawa. N e w York: St. Martin's, 1989. O r i g i ­ nally published as Gembaku ni otto o ubawarete (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1982).

Kurihara, Sadako. "The Songs o f Hiroshima—When Hiroshima Is Spoken of." Trans. Cheryl Lammers, Wayne Lammers, Laylehe Masaoka, Osamu M a saoka, Cheiron M c M a h i l l , Miyao Ohara, and Setsuko Thurlow. H i r o ­ shima: Anthology Publishing Association, 1980. Kurihara, Sadako. "Four Poems (1941-45) by the Hiroshima Poet Kurihara Sa­ dako." Trans. Richard H . Minear. Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 21.1:46-49 (January-March 1989). Nagai, Takashi. The Bells of Nagasaki. Trans. William Johnston. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1984. Originally published as Nagasaki no kane (Tokyo: Hibiya shuppan, 1949). SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER R E A D I N G

389

Nakazawa, Keiji. Barefoot Gen (Hadashi no Gen): A Cartoon Story of Hiroshima. Trans. Project Gen. Tokyo: Project Gen, 1978. Nakazawa, Keiji. Barefoot Gen (Hadashi no Gen): The Day After. Trans. Dadakai and Project Gen. Philadelphia: N e w Society Publishers, 1988. Oe, Kenzaburö, ed. The Crazy Iris, and Other Stories of the Atomic Aftermath. N e w York: Grove, 1985. (This is the American edition o f Atomic Aftermath: Short Stories about Hiroshima and Nagasaki [Tokyo: Shueisha, 1984].) Included are Ibuse Masuji's "The Crazy Iris" ("Kakitsubata," 1951), translated by Ivan Morris; Hara Tamiki's "Summer Flower" ("Natsu no hana," the first part o f the work translated here), translated by George Saito, slightly emended; Hara's "The Land o f Heart's Desire" ("Shingan no kuni"), translated by John Bester; Oda Katsuzö's "Human Ashes" ( " N i n gen no hai," 1966), translated by Burton Watson; Ota Yöko's "Fireflies" ("Hotaru," 1953), translated by Koichi Nakagawa; Sata Ineko's "The C o l orless Paintings" ("Irò no nai e," 1961), translated by Shiloh A n n Shimura; Hayashi Kyöko's "The Empty Can" ("Akikan," 1979), translated by M a r garet Mitsutani; Inoue Mitsuharu's "The House o f Hands" ("Te no ie," i 9 6 0 ) , translated by Frederick Uleman and Koichi Nakagawa; and Takenishi Hiroko's "The Rite" ("Gishiki," 1963), translated by Eileen Kato. O f these authors, Hara, Ota, and Sata experienced Hiroshima, and Hayashi experienced Nagasaki. Osada, Arata, comp. Children of the Atomic Bomb: Testament of the Boys and Girls of Hiroshima. Trans. Jean Dan and Ruth Sieben-Morgen. A n n Arbor: M i d west Publishers, International, 1982. (Authorized reprint o f the first English edition, Tokyo: Uchida Rokakuho, 1959.) According to the "Publisher's Note to the American Edition" (n.p.), Children of the A-Bomb (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1963) is an abridgment published "against the wishes o f Dr. Osada." Originally published as Gembaku no ko—Hiroshima no shönen shöjo no uttae (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1951). Saeki, Shoichi, ed. The Catch and Other War Stories. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1981. Reprint (with one deletion) o f a volume by the same press, The Shadow of Sunrise (1966). The stories are Oe's "The Catch" ("Shiiku," 1958), translated by John Bester; Umezaki Haruo's "Sakurajima" ("Sakurajima," 1946), translated by D . E. Mills; Hara's "Summer Flower," translated by George Saito; and Hayashi Fumiko's "Bones" ("Hone," 1949), translated by Ted T. Takaya. Seiden, K y o k o , ed. and trans. "Poems by Atomic Bomb Survivors." Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 19.2:17-23 (April-June 1987). Seiden, Kyoko, trans. "Hayashi Kyöko's 'Ritual o f Death' (Matsuri no ba [1975])." Japan Interpreter 12.1:54-93 (Winter 1978). Seiden, K y o k o , ed. and trans. "Hayashi Kyöko's ' T w o Grave Markers' (Futari 39O

SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER R E A D I N G

no bohyö [1975])." Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 18.1:23-35 (JanuaryMarch 1986). Seiden, K y o k o and Mark, eds. The Atomic Bomb: Voices from Hiroshima and Na­ gasaki. N e w York: M . E. Sharpe, forthcoming. Shiotsuki, Masao. Doctor at Nagasaki: My First Assignment Was Mercy Killing (Hatsushigoto wa anrakusatsu datta). Tokyo: Kosei, 1987. Shohno [Shono], Naomi, ed. Hibakusha: Survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Trans. Gaynor Sekimor. Tokyo: Kosei, 1986. Shono, Naomi, ed. The Legacy of Hiroshima (Hiroshima wa mukashibanashi ka). Trans. Tomoko Nakamura. Tokyo: Kosei, 1986. Siemes, John A . [Johannes] [S. J.]. "Hiroshima: Eye-witness." Trans. Averill A . Liebow. Saturday Review of Literature, May 11, 1946. See also "From H i r o ­ shima: A Report and a Question." Time, February 11, 1946.

L I T E R A R Y T R E A T M E N T S OF T H E A T O M I C B O M B

Agawa, H i r o y u k i . The Devil's Heritage. Trans. John M . M a k i . Tokyo: H o k u seido, 1957. Originally published as Ma no isan (Tokyo: Shinchösha, 1954). Goodman, David, ed. and trans. After Apocalypse: Four Japanese Plays of Hiro­ shima and Nagasaki. N e w York: Columbia University Press, 1985. The four plays are "The Island" ("Shima," 1955) by Hotta K i y o m i , a native o f Hiroshima but not a survivor o f August 6; "The Head o f M a r y " ("Maria no kubi," 1958) by Tanaka Chikao, a native o f Nagasaki but not a survivor o f August 9; "The Elephant" ("Zö," 1962) by Betsuyaku M i n o r u ; and "Nezumi Kozö: The Rat" ("Nezumi kozö jirokichi," 1969) by Satoh M a koto. Ibuse, Masuji. Black Rain. Trans. John Bester. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1969. Originally published as Kuroi ame (Tokyo: Shinchösha, 1966). Though from Hiroshima, Ibuse was not there on August 6, 1945; still, he uses lengthy excerpts from the actual diary o f a survivor. Nagai, Takashi. We of Nagasaki: The Story of Survivors in an Atomic Wasteland. Trans. Ichiro Shirato and Herbert B . L. Silverman. N e w York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1951. Originally published as Genshi senjö shinri (The psy­ chology o f those on an atomic battlefield) (n.p., n.d.). Öe, Kenzaburö, ed. The Crazy Iris, and Other Stories of the Atomic Aftermath N e w York: Grove, 1985. See above under "Writings o f Survivors." Öe, Kenzaburö. Hiroshima Notes. Ed. David L. Swain, Trans. Toshi Yonezawa. Tokyo: Y M C A , 1981. Originally published as Hiroshima noto (Tokyo: K ö bundo, 1965). Saeki, Shoichi, ed. The Catch and Other War Stories. Tokyo: Kodansha Interna­ tional, 1981. See above under "Writings o f Survivors." SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER R E A D I N G

39I

O T H E R WORKS

Barker, Rodney. Hiroshima Maidens. N e w York: Penguin, 1985. Braw, Monica. The Atomic Bomb Suppressed: American Censorship in Japan, 19451949. Lund, Sweden: Liber, 1986. Burchett, Wilfred. Shadows of Hiroshima. London: Verso, 1983. Chisholm, Anne. Faces of Hiroshima. London: Jonathan Cape, 1985. Chujo, Kazuo. Hiroshima Maidens: The Nuclear Holocaust Retold. Trans. Asahi Evening News. Tokyo: Asahi shimbun, 1984. The Committee for the Compilation o f Materials on Damage Caused by the Atomic Bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, ed. Hiroshima and Nagasaki: The Physical, Medical, and Social Effects of the Atomic Bombings. Trans. Eisei Ishikawa and David L . Swain. N e w York: Basic Books, 1981. Originally published as Hiroshima Nagasaki no gembaku saigai (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1979). A n abridged edition o f this book is The Impact of the A-Bomb: Hiro­ shima and Nagasaki, 1945-1985. Trans. Eisei Ishikawa and David L. Swain. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1985. Del Tredici, Robert. At Work in the Fields of the Bomb. N e w York: Harper & Row, 1987. Dower, John W. " A r t , Children, and the Bomb." Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 16.2:33-39 (April-June 1984). Dower, John W., and Junkerman, John, eds. The Hiroshima Murals: The Art of Iri Maruki and Toshi Maruki. N e w York: Kodansha International, 1985. Hersey, John. Hiroshima. N e w York: Knopf, 1946. N e w edition w i t h "a final chapter written forty years after the explosion," 1985. Japanese Broadcasting Corporation (NHK), ed. Unforgettable Fire: Pictures Drawn by Atomic Bomb Survivors. Trans. World Friendship Center in Hiroshima, supervised by Howard Schönberger and Leona Row. N e w York: Pan­ theon, 1977. Jungk, Robert. Children of the Ashes: The People of Hiroshima. Trans. Constantine Fitzgibbon. N e w York: Harcourt, Brace, 1961. Jungk is author as well o f an earlier book, Brighter Than a Thousand Suns: The Story of the Men Who Made the Bomb, Trans. James Cleugh (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1958). Junod, Marcel. Warrior without Weapons. Trans. Edward Fitzgerald. London: Jonathan Cape, 1951. Lammers, Wayne P., and Osamu, Masaoka. Japanese A-Bomb Literature: An An­ notated Bibliography. Wilmington,- Ohio: Wilmington College Peace Re­ source Center, 1977. There are at least two supplements (1981 and 1982) to this valuable bibliography. Liebow, Averill A . Encounter with Disaster: A Medical Diary of Hiroshima, 1945. N e w York: W. W. Norton, 1970. This is a reprint o f a 1965 article in The Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine; Liebow was a member o f the Joint 392

SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER R E A D I N G

Commission for the Investigation o f the Effects o f the Atomic Bomb on Japan. Lifton, Betty Jean. A Place Called Hiroshima. Photographs by Eikoh Hosoe. T o ­ kyo: Kodansha International, 1985. Maruki, Iri, and Maruki, Toshi. The Hiroshima Panels. Saitama: M a r u k i Gallery for the Hiroshima Panels Foundation, 1984. Maruki, Toshi. Hiroshima no pika. N e w York: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard, 1980. Pacific War Research Society, ed. The Day Man Lost: Hiroshima, 6 August 1945. Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1972. Rhodes, Richard. The Making of the Atomic Bomb. N e w York: Simon and Schus­ ter, 1986. Samuel, Yoshiko Y A Requiem: Atomic-bomb Literature—30 Years After. Master's thesis, Indiana University, 1976. Society to Study Kazuaki Kita's Creative History, ed. The World ofKazuaki Ki­ ta 's Art: The New Era (After Hiroshima 42 —1987). Tokyo; 1987. Townsend, Peter. The Postman of Nagasaki. London: Collins, 1984. Treat, John W. Pools of Water, Pillars of Fire: The Literature oflbuse Masuji. Seattle: University o f Washington Press, 1988. Tsukui, Nobuko. "Writer's Mission: A n A - B o m b Experience in the Works o f Öta Y ö k o , Hara Tamiki, Ibuse Masuji, and Hotta Yoshie." Typescript, 1984.

Tsurumi, E. Patricia, ed. The Other Japan. Armonk, N . Y . : M . E. Sharpe, 1988. Wyden, Peter. Day One: Before Hiroshima and After. N e w York: Simon and Schuster, 1984.

SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER R E A D I N G

393