One Man's Justice (10 page)

His uncle was obviously putting on an act. His eyes betrayed a lack of conviction in the words he had chosen, and before he finished each sentence the momentum behind it faded away. The newspapers were full of stories about former military men being condemned to death for little more than acts of assault on prisoners of war, so his uncle would have been well aware that ‘standing up in court' would lead to nothing less than the death penalty. He was obviously afraid of having anything to do with someone on the run from the Allied authorities, and doubtless reluctant to stretch his limited food supply, even for a short time, by taking in another mouth to feed. Given his former position overseeing military education throughout the nation, he may even have feared the prospect of being investigated himself.

Takuya regretted having come all this way to visit his uncle. He had idled away the days since his demobilisation, but during that time he had come to resent what he saw as a growing tendency to denounce every aspect of the defunct Imperial Army. He felt something akin to pride for having been in the military, and was determined to live out the rest of his days without abandoning that feeling.
The thought that his uncle could have served for so many years in uniform and then, with the war lost, become a completely different person made Takuya's blood boil.

He stared at his uncle, who was again gazing out at the garden. Most likely this man was barely justifying his place as the head of the family by working the meagre garden plot to help feed his wife and only daughter. The thought that his father had gone so far as to frame and display a piece of the uncle's calligraphy, the words ‘great achievement' boldly proclaimed in resolute brushstrokes, now seemed rather comical.

Takuya stole a glance at the lintel behind his uncle, remembering that the last time he had visited it had featured a prized piece of calligraphy by an army general from the same village. It was gone, as was the photograph of his uncle resplendent in an army colonel's full-dress uniform. He had evidently chosen to purge himself of all vestiges of his military past, and in the process had been reduced to little more than a helpless old man, concerned solely with self-preservation.

‘I'll give it some thought,' said Takuya, assuming a pensive expression to avoid injuring what was left of his uncle's dignity.

‘That's what you must do. I really think you must go to court and make them understand the truth,' said the old man as he turned back to face his nephew.

There was no point in staying any longer, thought Takuya. He wished his uncle well and stood up to leave.

‘Sorry I couldn't give you more than just a cup of tea, but with both my wife and daughter out …' said his uncle as
he led Takuya back toward the entrance, a hint of relief in his voice.

Takuya bowed once again before stepping out through the gate, and regretted as he did so that coming all this way to Osaka by train and boat and then train again had been such a foolish waste of time. He sighed in annoyance at the thought that this futile exercise had depleted his precious funds.

Fences from the surviving houses defined the road on both sides. Takuya walked back the way he had come. Occasionally, broken sections of fence or low gates afforded him a view into people's gardens, which had all been transformed into vegetable plots. The pungent smell of human excrement reminded him of fields in the countryside.

He came out on to a main road. A tram swayed from side to side as it rattled noisily towards and then past him, men and women perched precariously on the steps at the front and rear of the carriage. The façades of the buildings on either side of the road suggested that they had once been shops, but now they were virtually deserted. Without exception, the people who had ventured out into the streets were gaunt and pallid. Some wore suit jackets and trousers, obviously bought in better times to fit fleshier frames; others, equally gaunt, sat beside the road dolefully clutching matchstick knees.

When Takuya turned right at the intersection, a simple bridge slung over a canal drew his attention. Two large lorries were parked one behind the other on the near side of the bridge, and he stopped and stared at what was going on in front of them. A noisy crowd of people, most of
them children, stood stretching out their hands to those in the lorries. Two American soldiers sat in each lorry's cab, and there were more, with sub-machine-guns slung over their shoulders, seated in the back. The white star insignia of the American army was clearly visible on the doors of the lorries.

Takuya had never seen US Army vehicles or personnel up this close before. The soldier on the passenger side in the nearer lorry had his back to Takuya and was leaning half out of the window space in the door, apparently talking to those sitting under the furled hood in the back. The soldier in the driver's seat was staring in Takuya's direction.

Even though Takuya knew that these trucks certainly had nothing to do with his being in that street, the thought that they might very well be making random checks on passers-by made him want to turn back in the direction he had come from. Unnerved by the gaze of the soldier behind the wheel, Takuya shuffled to the side of the road as nonchalantly as he could and sat down on the dry ground, as though he were merely stopping to rest along his way. He wiped the sweat from his neck with a cloth from his pocket, then pulled out the bag of roasted beans he'd bought at a stall in front of the station and dropped a few into his mouth.

Takuya could hear the crowd of urchins still calling out to the soldiers, ‘Haroo, Haroo!' He could not understand what on earth these children, and the adults standing behind them, could be doing milling around American military trucks.

As he sat contemplating the scene, he saw something
quite astounding. The children had stopped calling out, and were now bent over, frantically scrambling to grab something off the ground. The adults who had been bystanders seconds earlier were also racing helter-skelter among the children, picking things up off the road. The soldiers in the trucks were throwing small objects out from under the furled canvas hoods. A black soldier in one lorry purposely threw them as far as he could, and one of his white comrades in the other one watched in fits of laughter as adults and children responded to his feigned throws. Takuya sat there aghast, transfixed by what he saw.

The slamming of cab doors was followed by the roaring of engines. The two vehicles edged slowly forward one after the other, and the crowd of people moved with them, adults and children breaking into a run as the lorries accelerated off down the road. The adults gave up after a few paces, but many of the children tore past Takuya in hot pursuit.

The lorries swung left round the first corner, leaving the young pursuers in a cloud of dust. The children stopped chasing and gathered at the corner of the intersection, and others who had not run after the lorries hurried past Takuya to join them and wait for the next truckload of Americans to appear. Some of them were holding their booty: pieces of chewing gum, chocolate bars and even cigarettes.

Takuya gazed at the crowd of children squatting and standing on the street corner and mused that, though the newspapers never mentioned this, it must occur every day, not just here but in all the towns and cities where the occupation forces were stationed.

Takuya got to his feet and started walking. Since the
reduction of the cities of Japan to scorched wastelands was the work of the American military, he reasoned that the representatives of those who had committed such heinous acts should be the object of nothing less than revulsion. The sight of adults grasping at sweets in front of laughing Americans made Takuya feel sick to his stomach.

He crossed a bridge and faced an expanse of burnt ruins, a few makeshift shacks standing here and there to one side and a row of concrete buildings behind them. A cart pulled by an emaciated horse went past, soon to be overtaken by a man on a rickety old bicycle. There were potholes everywhere, and the cart and the bicycle bounced up and down as they moved along the road.

Takuya followed the road as far as the station. He couldn't shake off the image of adults and children milling around the American lorries. It was hard to believe that those people had lived through the same war he had.

Suddenly he was jolted by the unexpected sight of his younger brother, Toshio, walking toward him. Even though he was wearing his service cap pulled down low, there was no mistaking that tall, lean frame and distinctive gait. His brother had obviously seen Takuya, too, because he quickened his pace towards him. Takuya felt the energy draining from his body and a wave of foreboding struck him. His brother worked in their hometown post office and there was no chance that his work had brought him to Osaka, so he must have come to intercept Takuya at their uncle's house.

Takuya's brother stopped in front of him. His eyes were bloodshot from a sleepness night on the train and the pallor of his face betrayed weariness.

‘The police came,' he blurted out. ‘At five in the morning the day after you left. Two detectives and one constable.' Takuya felt himself flinch. Obviously his brother had followed him all the way to Osaka to alert him to the danger.

‘What did they say?' Takuya asked timidly.

‘They said that they had an order from the occupation authorities for you to report for questioning and that they'd come to take you in. They came inside and searched everywhere. Father told them you'd gone to visit a friend in Fukuoka and hadn't been back since. They told us to let them know if we heard from you or if you came home, but I think they'll have people watching the house,' said Toshio. His face was ashen grey.

‘Did our father ask you to come and tell me?'

‘Our mother and sister wanted me to as well. I got Mother to tell the people at work that I was ill and jumped on the train straight away. They all said you should make sure you stay away from home,' said his brother, in a voice barely more audible than a whisper.

‘OK. Don't worry, I won't let them find me,' replied Takuya, thinking of his good fortune in deciding to leave his parents' house the night before the police turned up. His instinct had saved him then; if he stayed focused and alert, he should be able to keep one step ahead of the authorities.

‘So you've been to Uncle's house, then?' said Toshio, a hint of doubt in his tone.

‘That was a waste of time. He said a military man should come forward and straighten things out. It is ridiculous. He's
just scared to get involved. He won't take me in because he's too worried about himself,' said Takuya, making a wry face.

‘Really? Father told me to give him this sack of rice, since he was supposed to be looking after you and everything,' said Toshio disappointedly.

‘He'll never let me stay there. All I got was a cup of tea. You can leave the rice with me,' said Takuya. The expression on his face was almost defiant.

Toshio put down his shoulder-bag, pulled a small cloth bag from inside it, and put it into his elder brother's rucksack.

‘What will you do now?' he asked as he began walking beside Takuya.

‘I've just remembered there's a fellow from Osaka University working in a steel company here. We were in the same officer training company. I may look him up while I'm here. He took part in executing the American airmen, too,' said Takuya without turning to look at his brother.

He felt an almost primordial instinct for self-preservation welling up inside him. Just as he had thought, the occupation authorities had instructed the police to arrest him on suspicion of involvement in war crimes. Unable to return home, he would have to stay one step ahead of those who wanted to put him behind bars.

‘You'd better get straight back home, Toshio. If the police catch on to the fact that you're away, they'll realise you've gone to get in touch with me. You don't seem to have been followed, but you shouldn't be with me too long. Each of
us should be on his way,' said Takuya, stopping to face his brother.

Toshio nodded reluctantly.

‘Give the family my regards. I won't be in touch again. Just know that I'm lying low somewhere in Japan. Well, take care of yourself,' said Takuya, squeezing his brother's arm affectionately before turning away and crossed the road.

He strode along the path through the scorched ruins, not once pausing to look back. Since the end of the war, he had received just one postcard from this man Himuro, who worked at the steel company, and in it he had suggested that Takuya visit his company if he should ever be in Osaka. The company would be located among the buildings in front of him, which had somehow escaped the ravages of the bombing. He couldn't come this close without letting his friend know how serious his situation had become.

All the same, visiting Himuro's company might be as dangerous as returning home. No doubt Himuro had also been cited as a suspected war criminal, and so he might have already been taken into custody. Or maybe he had gone into hiding. The police might even have the company under surveillance, which would put Takuya at risk if he were to visit the premises.

He paused for a few seconds on the road leading to the steel company, then resumed walking, his gait more decisive than before. A moment's thought had brought him to the conclusion that, if his friend had not yet been arrested, he could not allow himself to get this close and then leave without alerting Himuro to the impending danger. Takuya had learnt from Shirasaka about the arrests of
those directly below the commander-in-chief, and that the search had already begun for those who had carried out the executions of B-29 crew members, but it was highly unlikely that his friend, far away in Osaka, would be aware of these developments, and there was no doubt that for Himuro, too, capture would mean the gallows. Takuya remembered that Himuro had married while still at the university, and that his friend carried a photograph of his young wife in the inside pocket of his uniform. Himuro had always been the archetypal outgoing student, a gregarious man known for his raucous laugh. He had beheaded the oldest of the American airmen, a well-built thirty-two-year-old with deep-set, melancholy eyes.