Fireflies Page 20

  We were on the top floor of the crumbling, grey venereal hospital, up five worn flights of stone stairs. Large chunks of plaster were missing from the walls and you could see the brickwork and horsehair beneath. The hall was lined on each side with thin straw mattresses, patients’ belongings arranged beside them: wiry military blankets, envelopes of tea, tangled strips of dried cod.

  One afternoon, I came back from work, my back aching from scrubbing and polishing the floors of the dining hall all morning. A plump lady was laying out her things by the mattress next to mine. I knelt down and introduced myself, and she nodded and smiled, showing deep dimples in the slabs of her cheeks. Mrs. Ishino was her name, she said, and she ran a restaurant down in Nihonbashi. There was something familiar about her face, I thought. It was as if I’d seen her on some forgotten theatre poster, many years before. She held out an earthenware jar and beamed at me.

  “Help yourself!” she said. “Pickled plums. Nothing like them to keep the doctors away.”

  I almost gasped as I tasted the sour juice for the first time in years. Mrs. Ishino spread a cloth between our mattresses, and laid out some rice crackers and dried seaweed, urging me to help myself. As I nibbled away, she glanced toward the doors at the end of the ward, then pulled out a small flask of clear liquid from beneath her kimono jacket.

  “Have a nip of this as well, dear,” she said, handing it to me quickly. “Nothing like it for the cold.”

  It was strong and she nodded at me to take another sip. It was warm as it reached my belly. As I handed back the bottle, I realized that I was smiling.

  Mrs. Ishino told me her story as we ate. She waved her hands in the air, acting things out, imitating people’s voices just as if she’d been a comic storyteller kneeling on a stage. The day before, she said, the police had banged on the door of her bar in the middle of the night. They told her that they were there to enforce new regulations, and they’d carted her off to the hospital, along with the two girls who worked for her, Masuko and Hanuko. At the hospital, the doctors performed their usual tests. Masuko and Hanuko were given the all-clear and sent home. Mrs. Ishino, however, had been diagnosed with something very unpleasant.

  “And I know exactly who’s to blame, Takara-san,” she said, waving a thick finger at me in menace. “And he’ll be in for it as soon as I get out of here, you mark my words!”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth, trying desperately not to laugh. Mrs. Ishino took a long swallow from her bottle, then burst into loud peals of laughter herself.

  ~ ~ ~

  The women wore padded kimonos of faded grey-green as they slouched on the floor. Some got on with piece work they’d been given to pay for their treatment, stitching trousers and dresses from strips of old grey uniform or painting little dolls to sell as toys and souvenirs in the hospital shop. The others sat about nattering about the same old tedious things until evening, when the generator finally gave out and we were plunged into darkness again.

  Those first nights, I lay parched, desperate for just one of my pills. I tossed and shivered with feverish nightmares, and the bed was soaking wet when I woke. But before long, I started to feel almost calm again. The terrible dreams that had haunted me began to slowly fade.

  One afternoon, I walked over to the big window of the ward to look out. Opposite the hospital, the first plum blossom had budded white against a row of scorched trees.

  ~ ~ ~

  There was a glint in Mrs. Ishino’s eye as she sat down on her mat. There was a frayed towel draped over her shoulder, and her hair was wet from the bathhouse.

  “Good news, Takara-san,” Mrs. Ishino said, as she tugged a tortoiseshell comb through her hair. “I’m finally escaping at the end of this week. I’ve been given the all-clear.”

  “Oh,” I said. I glanced at the fine wrinkles around Mrs. Ishino’s eyes. I realized that I’d become quite used to her matronly presence next to me when I woke up each morning. “Well, I’m certainly very pleased for you, Mrs. Ishino.”

  She pursed her lips in a sly smile, and then poked me in the shoulder. “And that’s not all,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard a message on the wind that you’ll be getting out as well, Takara-san!” she said.

  I looked up at her in alarm. Despite the pungent smell of the bedpans, the back-breaking work, and the chemical soap that left my hands as scaly as snakeskin, the long ward with its high ceiling had become like a refuge, a place where I could hide from the world and all its horrors.

  Mrs. Ishino twisted her hair into a knot and knelt down on the floor beside me. “Tell me, Takara-san,” she said.

  “Please ask me anything you like, Mrs. Ishino,” I said.

  “What is it that you intend to do with yourself, Takara-san?” she asked. “When you leave here, I mean?”

  The main doors to the ward swung open. The doctors appeared in their white coats to begin their rounds. A sharp chemical smell swirled through the hall. I had a sudden memory of my room at the International Palace, the orange card tacked over the entrance.

  “I’m not sure, Mrs. Ishino,” I said. “Perhaps this, or that . . . Perhaps I’ll go back to the Oasis, to see if they’ll have me.”

  Mrs. Ishino looked at me sharply. “Haven’t you heard, Takara-san?”

  “Heard what, Mrs. Ishino?” I said.

  “The comfort stations, Takara-san. The Americans have closed them all down.”

  “But why?”

  She snorted. “I expect there were too many yankiis going home to their wives in America with unexpected conditions like mine.”

  I thought uneasily of the broken-down mansion in Tsukiji: the drugged girls in their vivid dresses, the colour of bruises. We’d all be wretched pan-pan now, forced to work in the alleys and craters, to go with anyone who came along, American or Japanese, decrepit or even violent . . .

  Mrs. Ishino cocked her head to one side. “Takara-san,” she said. “I wonder if I could possibly make a request?”

  I nodded. “Of course,” I said. “Anything at all!”

  “Perhaps you might consider coming to work for me?” she said. “The shop could always do with another pretty girl. Someone who’s worked in the trade before, you know.”

  Gratitude and relief flooded my heart. It would be just like the old days, I thought, working at a real restaurant again — I’d go to and fro amongst the tables with my skirts hitched up, a big bottle of saké on my back, serving the dishes and joining in with all the banter . . .

  “I run it for the Americans of course,” Mrs. Ishino said, holding my eye. “We’re a liberal establishment.”

  The warm glow fluttered away.

  “And there are extra services we provide. Discreetly, of course.”

  My heart sank.

  Mrs. Ishino took my hands in hers. “Why not come and work with us, Satsuko? It’s not such a bad place. You’re sure to get on with the other girls. You could do much worse, you know.”

  She was right, of course, and I knew it. I could only do worse.

  I took a deep breath, then knelt before her and bowed my head.

  “Ishino-sama,” I murmured. “I’m certainly not worthy of your trust and affection. Please accept my gratitude, from the bottom of my heart.”

  Mrs. Ishino’s face lit up. She beamed at me and squeezed my hands.

  “Don’t you worry about that, Satsuko-chan,” she said. “Don’t you worry about anything at all.”

  23

  THE HOLIDAY CAMP

  (HIROSHI TAKARA)

  The plum blossom’s finally here, I thought, as I walked home from Ueno Plaza, past the arch of Yushima Tenjin shrine. The trees in the garden were prickly white, and bundles of wooden prayer plaques had been tied to the racks outside, so I guessed that the snobby kids from the Imperial University must be having their examinations again. A crow
d of GIs in khaki uniforms were gathered in the garden with their backs to me, and I wandered over to see what they were looking at. As I got closer, I felt a wave of excitement.

  They all had cameras, and they were squinting through the viewfinders, the shutters clicking and film whirring. Beneath a blossoming plum tree stood a Japanese girl, dressed like a geisha, her face hidden behind a golden fan. She wore a purple and crimson kimono and held a tasselled parasol over her shoulder. She waved the fan once, then suddenly snapped it shut.

  Satsuko.

  She looked so much like my sister that my heart actually stopped. Suddenly, in my head, I saw her treading water in the fiery canal; I could almost feel the flames scorching my cheeks, and I had a sudden terror that she would turn around and see me. I tried to duck out of sight, but then one of the GIs called out and the girl shifted.

  There was something wrong with her nose, I thought. It was the wrong shape, though the white powder on her face made it hard to tell. Her eyes seemed small and narrow as well, not deep and black like my sister’s had been. As I stood there staring, the illusion floated away. My sister was dead, after all. I was flooded with an awkward sense of guilt and relief.

  The girl looked as wooden as a doll as the soldiers pushed their cameras right up in her face, pulling her about by her kimono sleeve and pushing her into position. I glanced jealously at the cameras, wondering how much they must have cost. Down by the girl’s feet was a cardboard sign scribbled in clumsy English. “Genuine Japan Geisha girl,” it said. “Photograph — 1 Yen.” There was a tin can next to the sign, already filled up with bank notes.

  She started spinning her parasol, pushing out her chest and posing in a way that no real geisha would ever have done. I almost felt like jeering at her. The idea that I’d mixed her up with my sister made me feel stupid and sheepish.

  The men were all grinning and whistling now. I thought of the tall American in the trench coat who’d come over to talk to us that day behind the station, who’d taken our photographs by our old baseball pitch. We’d played almost a whole series against the other gangs that autumn afternoon, running and scrambling amongst the stones until hours after dark. I remembered the solid weight of the American’s camera as I’d held it up to my face. How I’d caught Tomoko in the rangefinder for a moment, the twin images of her shy face, one sharp, one blurred, as I squinted through the lens.

  She was buried not far away from there now, I thought. We’d carried her body to a shallow bomb crater in the wasteground and covered it up with a sheet of corrugated tin. Later on that night, I crept back down to say goodbye. I sat in the pit with her for a long time, her body blanched in the splinters of moonlight, withered away almost to a skeleton. I held her hand in mine, until her fingers began to thaw out just a little. Finally, it became too cold to stay. I climbed out of the pit and dragged the metal sheet back over the top.

  A GI was squatting in front of me. I suddenly shoved him as hard as I could, and he stumbled forward. I darted down and grabbed hold of his camera with both hands, and for a moment, the man was choking, clutching his throat as the thin leather strap garrotted him. Suddenly, the leather snapped, and I went tumbling backward. Thrusting the camera under my shirt, I leaped up and sprinted through the garden, faster than I’d even run before, as crunching footsteps pounded behind me, the soldiers hollering.

  I nearly stumbled in front of a bus as I sprinted across the main road. As I ran along by the university walls, I snatched a glance behind me. The men were standing on the other side of the street, caught by the traffic. Spinning around the corner, I slipped through the famous Red Gate of the university. Students and professors were coming out of the buildings and they yelled at me as I dodged around them. I ran out through the back gate at the other end of the quadrangle, and slid down against the wall, completely out of breath. As I pulled the camera out from beneath my shirt, my heart started to pound even harder.

  A Leica. Just like the American had used!

  I gazed at the elegant dials and knobs, rubbing my thumb over the finely engraved letters and embossed serial numbers. I felt a sudden, sharp stab of guilt about what I’d just done. But as I pictured the children’s faces, when I’d get back and tell them my idea, I could hardly stop myself grinning.

  ~ ~ ~

  At the entrance to the inn, through the long grass of the garden, I put up my hand to the wooden screen door. I stopped. I could hear Shin’s hoarse voice bellowing away inside.

  I slid the door open a crack, and peered through into the reception hall. The children were all kneeling in a circle on the tatami, engrossed in some kind of game. Nobu, Koji, and Aiko had their heads bowed low and were whimpering like little dogs. Shin had a blanket around his shoulders, and was strutting up and down in front of them, holding a broomstick like it was a sword.

  “Please, sir, take me,” Koji was saying. “Please!”

  Nobu jerked up his head. “No, sir!” he begged. “Take me!”

  “And what will you do for me,” Shin demanded, “if I take you home to our mansion?”

  He was pretending to be an aristocrat, I realized. The accent was just appalling. He jabbed the broomstick into Nobu’s shoulder. “Well?” he asked.

  “I’ll do anything, sir,” Nobu whimpered, as he pressed his head down to the floor. “Anything at all.”

  “Kiss my feet, then,” Shin said.

  Nobu glanced up as Shin waved his muddy straw sandal in his face. Puckering his lips, he gave his foot a quick, unhappy peck.

  Shin suddenly spun around and squatted over Nobu’s head, gripping onto his shoulders as he spread his bandy legs.

  “Eat my shit?”

  Nobu brayed like a donkey and shoved him away. “No, sir!” he shouted. “Please don’t make me!”

  I shoved the rattling door wide open and strode forward into the hall.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” I said.

  Shin’s face froze. He gave that stupid grin of his, showing the wide gap between his broken teeth.

  “So big brother’s back, is he?” he said. “Got any apples for us today, big brother?”

  I almost gasped. It was as if he’d ­punched me in the stomach. I saw Tomoko’s body, lying in the moonlight. The black apple pips glistening on her chin.

  “Up on your feet. All of you,” I said.

  One by one, the children stood up, looking ashamed of themselves.

  “Well?”

  Koji stammered, “We were just playing a game.”

  Shin slapped his hand over Koji’s mouth. “It’s none of his business!” he said, angrily.

  “A game? So why don’t we all play?”

  “Because it’s none of your business!” Shin shouted. His face was red.

  Koji pulled Shin’s hand away and tugged at it. “Why don’t you tell him?” he whined. “Just tell him!”

  “Tell me what?” I asked.

  “About the holiday camps!” Koji said, desperately. “The holiday camps!”

  I hesitated for a second. “What are you talking about?” I said, warily.

  “The holiday camps,” Aiko said, nodding earnestly. “We’re all going away to be adopted.”

  The hair prickled up at the back of my neck. I sat down cross-legged on the floor.

  “Please tell me what you’re talking about,” I said.

  Slowly, they all sat down in front of me.

  “Well,” Aiko started, “I don’t really know —”

  “The Americans,” Shin said. “It was their idea, wasn’t it?”

  “One at a time.”

  Koji frowned, then drew a vague shape with his finger on the floor.

  The Americans, he said, had decided to set up holiday camps in the countryside, for all the Japanese children who had lost their families during the war.

  “Children like us,” Aiko said, with a firm nod
.

  Some of the camps were by the seaside, others were up in the mountains, in the old noble mansions and monasteries. They had proper beds, and the children were fed three meals a day, hot soup and rice with them all. You could choose if you wanted to help with the farm work, digging the fields and crops or taking care of the animals, or you could just go back to school and have lessons. There were all sorts of activities and toys, board games and model airplanes for rainy days, trips out to the countryside and to the beach, swimming galas, running races, butterfly collecting . . .

  Koji rubbed his eyes as his story dwindled into confusion. “At least that’s what everyone’s saying,” he said. The other children were looking at me, as if they’d been hypnotized.

  It all sounded so marvellous. Just for a second, I let myself imagine that it was true. I felt a rush of excitement as I saw us all, miles and miles away from Tokyo, racing along a shimmery beach, splashing and diving amongst the blue waves.

  I imagined Tomoko standing by a rock pool. Wearing a white swimming cap, the skin brown and sunburned on her shoulders.

  Aiko nudged Koji in the ribs. “Tell him about the family visits,” she whispered.

  Koji nodded earnestly. “They’re the best thing of all.”

  Every Sunday, he said, mothers and fathers who had lost their sons and daughters in the war drove up to the camps. They inspected the children, asked the headmaster about their behaviour, and then chose one to take home with them.

  “We’re going to be adopted,” Aiko interrupted, her eyes bright.

  I clasped my hands around my knees. A horrible, empty feeling welled up inside me.

  “Please,” I said. I shook my head helplessly. I felt as if I were holding a hammer, about to smash a mirror. “I’m so sorry. But someone has been filling your heads with fairy tales.”

  Koji smiled doubtfully, as if he thought I was joking. Shin’s eyes narrowed, and he gave me a look of pure hatred.