Hiroshima (3 page)

Map 1. Western Japan

Map 2. Hiroshima

Map 3. Map 1 inset, Funairi

Map 4. Map 2 inset, Central Hiroshima

Nakazawa Keiji

Dad and Mom

The Nakazawa clan had been low-ranking samurai serving the house of Asano, lords of Hiroshima Castle. With the order of 1871 to abolish the
daimyo
domains and establish instead today's prefectures, the Nakazawa family switched to the business of painting, mainly lacquer, and made its living lacquering the wooden clogs, frames of sliding interior partitions, wooden utensils, and the like, for which Hiroshima was noted.
[1]

My father, Harumi, was the oldest child in a family of three sons and a daughter. Dad didn't enter the family lacquer business. Instead, wanting to set up shop as a printer in the Japanese style, he went to Kyoto and trained in painting and fine lacquering. The Japanese-style painting was in the school of Maruyama
O
¯
kyo.
[2]

My mother, Kimiyo, was the oldest daughter of the Miyake family; she had three brothers and two sisters. The Miyakes lived in Koami-ch
o
¯
; they were bicycle wholesalers. A friend of hers told me that Mom was a fashionable “high collar” girl in the style of the 1920s. At that time if a woman rode a bike, she was derided as a tomboy. But Mom went about town on a bike, stately in split skirt, and went to movies and frequented coffee shops—that is, she was a young woman in free and broad-minded times.

Remembering her arranged marriage
with Dad, Mom often laughed.
[3]
In marriage back then, unlike today, parents made the decisions, and she couldn't declare her preferences. Before she knew what was happening, the date for her marriage interview had been set. When, uneasy about not knowing what sort of man she was to marry, she peeked from behind the sliding screen, she was astonished to see someone completely bald, with a shiny pate. She was in tears—“I'll die before I'll marry
him
!” There was a big to-do. Her parents reasoned with her, “You can't call it off at this late date,” and the whole family was in turmoil. Then a young man with a full head of hair entered the room and said, “Sorry I'm late.” He was the real candidate. Mom said with a smile that when she realized her mistake, she was so embarrassed her face turned flaming red. The bald guy was the go-between.

I was born in March 1939 in Funairi Hommachi, less than a mile from the heart of Hiroshima (the building that is now the atomic bomb dome). There were seven in the family—Dad, Mom, oldest brother K
o
¯
ji, older sister Eiko, older brother Akira, younger brother Susumu—plus Blackie, the cat. As for my name Keiji, one of my grandfather's brothers had that name. He was apparently a real entrepreneur. He invested his own capital in the development of Ujina Harbor, a project that faced rough going. He cooperated in that enterprise and received a letter of gratitude from the lord of Hiroshima Castle. Later he crossed over to Shikoku, built a home, and died there. Mom told me I was named for him.

Hiroshima was a castle town blessed by nature and climate, with both mountains and ocean: the mountains of the Ch
u
¯
goku range to the north; the Inland Sea, a calm small-scale landscape, to the south; seven rivers running through town. On the other hand, Hiroshima flourished as a military city. During the Russo-Japanese War, General Headquarters was set up in Hiroshima Castle. Thereafter, too, Ujina Harbor served as the base from which to dispatch soldiers to the southern front, and that practice continued right up to Japan's defeat in 1945. This is where I was raised.

“Artist” is another word for poor, and we were extremely poor. Dad had absolutely no mind for business—even paintings he did on commission he'd hand over generously, as if they were hostess gifts, and he hated taking money. The art galleries took advantage of Dad, accepting his work in his spirit, then making money by selling it at a high price. Mom couldn't accept that, so she'd slip out the back door, hurry to the art galleries and, saying nothing to Dad, collect the money from the gallery: “It doesn't matter what you sell it for; just give us our share.”

Engrossed in the paintings and lacquer he himself liked, Dad was a “crazy artist” oblivious to family finances. Mom earned money in the family clog-lacquering business, borrowed money from her own family, and worked day and night to make ends meet. When Mom complained about money, he scolded her: “Money's dirty. Merchants are crafty. Their only thought is to turn a profit by enticing people to spend. I hate them. I'm not the sort that can make money, so get used to it!”

You often hear stories of artists or left-wing zealots spouting idealistic talk. To my mind, it stands to reason that things one creates by one's own sweat should sell for a good bit of money as return on the labor. It's silly to make flimsy excuses, such as “Money's dirty.”

That's the way Dad was. He couldn't make a living, so he made Mom weep because of our poverty. But that obstinate Dad—Mom loved him. Our family's fate depended on Mom's slender arms, and the sight of Mom working herself to the bone is burned into my memory.

Dad Disappears

The Industrial Arts Exposition Hall (now the atomic bomb dome) was a venue for exhibitions and prefectural art shows. Dad's ink paintings and lacquer were exhibited there, and we children went proudly to see them.

The Dad we were so proud of once disappeared. Scenes from that time etched themselves into my young mind. Evening: two sharp-eyed men stand in our entryway, then pack Dad off with them. Mom's face is ashen, her lips tremble, her hair is in disarray. Watching Dad intently, prayers in her eyes, she sees him off. He sets off with one man holding each arm. I can never forget the sight. Even though I was a child, I understood that a family tragedy had occurred, and I trembled with terror. That afterimage is etched onto my heart, painfully.

From that day on, Dad was not there. I often asked Mom where he was. She replied, “Your father went for his military physical.” Thereafter my memory fades and goes blank. Was he was away six months? Twelve?—I don't know. The significance of Dad's disappearance became clear only after Japan's defeat, when I met people who knew him.

At the time Dad was devoted not only to ink painting and lacquer but also to the stage. He belonged to the left-wing New Theater Group; it rented halls to put on Shimazaki T
o
¯
son's
Before the Dawn
, Gorky's
The Lower Depths
, and other plays. Today, no matter what bookstore or library you go to, it's easy to lay your hands on
Before the Dawn
or
The Lower Depths
and read them, but during the war, under the Peace Protection Law, the winds of ideological oppression blew fiercely, and the authorities were pitiless, throwing into jail those who took issue with the wartime regime.
Before the Dawn
and
The Lower Depths
were classified as “dangerous thought,” couldn't be published, and of course couldn't be performed. One after the other, left-wing theater groups disbanded.

Dad's theater group, too, was the subject of police surveillance; it was watched from the rooftop, raided constantly, had its materials confiscated. As suspect individuals, Dad and his buddies were under surveillance. The last left-wing stage performance took place in Osaka, and having seen that, the members of Dad's troupe decided to disband. At its dissolution, the entire group met and took a commemorative photograph. Among them, I understand, were “thought police” spies pretending to be troupe members. With that commemorative photograph as unshakable evidence, the members of Dad's theater group were arrested as thought criminals, taken to the jail in the Hiroshima Prefectural Offices, and held as prisoners awaiting trial. The sight of Dad being taken from our house is still engraved on my heart, an afterimage of panic.

After the war I mentioned that afterimage to Dad's younger brother Uncle H., and staring at me with surprise, he muttered: “You remember that? Toddlers never forget what they see.” Mom, Uncle H., the relatives: they all thought it shameful that the Nakazawa clan had produced a thought criminal, so they kept us children in the dark about the fact that Dad had been detained. Uncle H. became his guarantor, and he met Dad at the jail on his release. That was October 1941, fourteen months after Dad was detained.

Dad's return home after his release from jail is seared onto my retinas. Wearing kimono, he was hunched over, fingers to his teeth, his expression filled with bitterness. Dad's teeth were all loose. When we ate, he tried to use bowl and chopsticks, but his fingers didn't cooperate. Food lay scattered all over his place at the table.

I can't forget the words Dad muttered in mortification: “Inside, they give you food with no salt, and you get so that your hands and fingers stop moving. No pickles.” In jail back then, they removed salt from the food they gave detainees. Remove the salt, and people's energy and muscles atrophy, and they stop functioning. If you're active in jail and cause problems, the authorities worry that they'll be in trouble. He'd had this diet for over a year, so of course his teeth grew loose and his muscles atrophied. Dad came home utterly debilitated, but Mom looked happy as she tried to cheer him up.

It was always there in a corner of my mind, the thought that I wanted to learn what Dad's jail life had been like. Years later, I had a visit from a woman in the same theater group as Dad. The instant she saw me, she said, “Without a doubt! You're the spitting image of him!” This woman, S., was shocked that I resembled Dad so exactly.

According to S., her most vivid memory of jail life was on January 1. They were all let out of their isolation cells, lined up in the corridor, and the whole theater group sang favorite antiwar songs. The guard was considerate: while they sang antiwar songs, he abandoned his post and took no notice. He must have sympathized with Dad's theater group and thought well of them. After her release, S., too, had had bitter experiences. When talk of marriage arose and the day of the marriage interview
approached, the other side always called things off. Like serpents coiling about S., the detectives of the thought police kept up their surveillance; to teach her a lesson, they broke up all her marriage negotiations. They continued to spread rumors about her, that she was a wicked woman; they even treated her family harshly, leaving bad memories.

S. spoke of Dad as if she were leafing through the pages of a fond past. Dad was great in the spotlight reading his lines; when he'd got married, she had thanked Dad for all he'd done for her. The leader of Dad's theater group had been held in Yoshijima Prison, awaiting trial, until Japan's defeat in 1945.

For the fourteen months Dad was detained, Mom had faced great worries about money. With us young ones to feed, she earned money working for all she was worth at the painting of clogs that was the family business. I spoke to the young boss of the guild that handled clogs then; he said it pained him to see Mom at that time—she was so haggard. Her technique wasn't great, so he couldn't give her much work, but he couldn't simply stand by silent. So he'd sent work her way behind his boss's back. But she hadn't produced good stuff, and one time his boss caught on and thundered at him not to send orders Mom's way. Throwing herself on the mercy of her parents, Mom got money to live on. Frantic, she raised us.

Don't Die a Dog's Death!

There is another vivid memory from November 1941 burned onto my heart. Mom's younger brother, Uncle Y., resplendent in the uniform of a naval officer and grasping his military sword by its white handle, appeared at our home looking stern. I liked Uncle Y. He was very attractive. I'd told Mom that I wanted to be like him when I grew up. Uncle Y. often came to visit us. When I had a cold or at other times, he'd take off his short sword and let me play with it. I can't forget the heft of the short sword and the feel of its polished blade.

That day Uncle Y. climbed with nervous step up to Dad's workroom on the second floor and, a serious expression on his face, listened to Dad. That tense atmosphere came across to me, young as I was. I'd gone up with him. Dad unsheathed Uncle Y.'s sword, stood the blade upright, and stared at it. Oppressed by the extraordinary tension, I sat beside Dad and stroked the remarkable white sword. And I compared Dad's grave expression with Uncle Y.'s. I always wondered, “What
was
that all about?”

After the war ended, I learned from Uncle Y., who'd been repatriated, and understood the reason for the tension. Uncle Y. was set to leave from Kure harbor on a submarine to be in the front lines of the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941, as Japan plunged into the Pacific War. That day he'd come to pay a final farewell to Dad and Mom. The image that lingered, of tension, was because life and death were at stake.

Soon after Uncle Y. set sail, Mom grieved. “Y. died in battle. I felt closest of all to him.” She greatly mourned his death. When told that Uncle Y., handsome man, had died, I was stunned. But days later, I remember going to see Uncle Y. at Kure Naval Base accompanying Mom, who was ecstatic—“He survived!”

According to what Mom heard from Uncle Y., the submarine on which Uncle Y. embarked got almost as far as Pearl Harbor, rammed its bow into the mud of the seafloor, got stuck, and couldn't take part in the attack. The air inside the sub turned humid and suffocating, and with their whole bodies drenched in sweat, the crew tried desperately to free themselves. But the bow wouldn't come free, and they all figured they were dead. Uncle Y. was chief engineer, so his responsibility was especially grave. Fortunately, as he was trying desperately to escape by backing the sub out, the bow pulled loose from the mud of the ocean floor, floated free, and the crew tried to take part in the attack. But the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor was already over.