A Thousand Stitches (14 page)

“It's really quite unfortunate about her parents.”

“What?”

“Oh, Isamu, I thought you were in touch with her. After the way she cried when I found her on the street with the
senninbari
. Both her brothers were killed in action, and now her parents are gone as well. Evidently her mother had tuberculosis for quite some time. I had no idea. What a danger for everyone who associated with them. It's quite dreadful when you think about all the people in and out of that shop. The mother died in mid-February, and then within a week, the father had a heart attack. When she brought this to me, she said she was on her way to Kure with a group of her classmates to work at the Arsenal. I guess that little shop will be sold—if anyone will buy it.”

In
the afternoon we went to visit the Tanakas. I still have the photo. Mother sits smiling with Mrs. Tanaka. Kobayashi and I stand with Mr. Tanaka. Reiko, lovely Reiko, is in the corner. So young. We had a feast that evening. It was our last night in Izumi. Our orders had come through. I was assigned to Wonson, in South Korea, for further flight training. I wasn't sure, but I thought it meant the Zero. But those of us assigned to Wonson were ordered to go first to Oita, on the opposite side of Kyushu.

I got Mother on the train with us when we left for Oita. She chatted cheerfully during the four-hour journey and joked with my friends. I thought it was our last, precious time together, but Mother was focused on a different future from the one I knew awaited me. She had her eyes on a bride for me. I dismissed it all as ridiculous, as wishful thinking. But, of course, I didn't say any of that. No mother wants her son insisting that he will soon be dead. I listened dutifully to what she had to say as I went with her to the ferry slip at Oita and waved as she set out for Shikoku, for the home I was sure I'd never see again.

But thanks
to another of fate's surprises, less than two months later I was sitting on the
tatami
at home again. And Mother was talking. She was completely focused. She wanted it so much. I couldn't, I didn't want anything, so I said yes. What did it matter? I would be dead soon. But she would be happy now.

“Yes, Mother. I agree.”

The
afternoon heat shimmered outside the Ishii Village house. After only a short time in Oita, my orders for Wonson had come through. I had leave for three days before we sailed for Korea—just long enough for me to make a trip to Matsuyama.

The bustle and excitement of my surprise arrival had passed. But I wasn't going to get the relaxation I was looking forward to. Mother had business for us to attend to. There was no breeze, and the sound of the cicadas and the sharp summer smells of the fields filled the house.

“It's a splendid match. You'll be a fine couple. The Katayamas are a very good family. Their roots here in Ishii are as deep as those of the Imagawas. Kayoko-san's grandfather was a close associate of your grandfather when he was mayor of Ishii Village. The doctors of their family and the mayors of our family have known each other and worked together for generations.”

“Congratulations,” said Father.

“I'll have to leave the details to you,” I said.

“That's fine, my dear, but I do want you to see her again on this visit. After that I can take care of all the formalities. It's unfortunate, but for the sake of the country we have to accept that it may be impossible for you to be present for the official engagement ceremony.”

“I don't have much time, Mother.”

Ignoring what I was saying, as I expected she would, she sailed on. “We'll find the time while you're here. Even though you probably don't want to admit it, I'm sure you remember her well. If I can arrange everything, we could even have a ceremony and sign the register the next time you get leave.”

She
had started earlier that year, mentioning Kayoko in every letter. Now that she was back home in Matsuyama, she was thinking about the Imagawa family position there and my proper future. And as much as I had tried to tune it out, she had brought it up over and over again when she visited Izumi. She kept saying that she was sure I had the same good impression of Kayoko that she had and reminded me of the visit we had paid to her family two years earlier when she was home on leave from Zentsuji. At that time, Mother was consulting with Dr. Katayama about nursing techniques he was pioneering at Matsuyama Hospital, but I should have known better: she had been much too insistent that Father and I accompany her.

I had only fragmentary memories of that visit: the hot sun in Yanai-machi, the long trolley ride. Mother in her best
kimono
, clucking at Father as we were getting ready to leave, “Don't be so slow. Help me tie this
obi
. We can't be late.”

I did remember that Kayoko, who was almost three years older than I, was a terrible
koto
player. Like most proper young ladies, she had no education beyond elementary school and had spent the years since she left school helping her mother and studying flower arranging and
koto,
so she had been at it for quite a while. Her mother insisted on the recital after the medical business was concluded. As Kayoko knelt before the instrument and moved her hands across its strings, her father's face wore one of those patient, indulgent parental looks. I kept my face under control by thinking about Yamamura-sensei and what his reaction would have been. Mother's letters always mentioned Kayoko's beauty, but I could only remember a narrow face and long, lank hair.

“Fine, now that's settled. Your father has been saving our ration for three months, so we have enough
sake
for all of us, and I'm going to start the fried chicken now. We'll have a feast. We have lots to celebrate.”

The
next morning, I asked Mother for my old college clothes, but she insisted that I appear in public only in my uniform. I set off for the city to visit my old teachers. For a Navy officer, riding a bicycle was prohibited, so I had to walk all the way. I visited both Bancho and Matsuchu and saw a number of my old teachers. I know they wanted me to be safe and well, but all they could manage to say were the conventional exhortations to do my best for the Emperor and the country. But what I saw in their faces was the deep and sure knowledge that was mine too—the time left to me was very short. I regretted that Yamamura-sensei was not at Matsuchu that day; I had especially wanted to see him.

On the long walk back to Ishii Village in the midday heat, I consoled myself with the thought that my death would mean the survival of my family and all the good people I had seen that day.

Mother was waiting. We were going out again right away. I was to wear my uniform again. She had been making plans, and as she bustled about, she laid out her vision of the future. I would be serving in the Navy for many years to come. I would come home on leave again soon, and there would be time for the marriage ceremony. And then Kayoko would be a Naval officer's wife. Still chattering, she rushed me out the door, and off we went to Kayoko's aunt's house, where my fiancée and I were to meet again.

When we arrived, the four of us sat in Aunt Furusawa's tiny parlor, which was crowded with examples of her craft work. I certainly didn't know what to say; no one else seemed to either. I concentrated on the
sashiko
cover on the table, letting my eyes drift in and out of focus and letting first the squares and then the diamonds in the pattern float into prominence. I wondered if Aunt Furusawa helped girls and women work on the
senninbari
they made for their loved ones.

Thinking of the
senninbari
offered an escape route, and I removed myself from the situation I was in by thinking about Michiko.

Mother commented on how hot it was for mid-June. With that the older women launched into a conversation about how the rainy season should begin soon. Neither Kayoko nor I had anything at all to say. We sat and listened to Mother and Aunt Furusawa. Their conversation had drifted to textiles. Suddenly they stood and then disappeared upstairs to look at some special samples of
iyo kasuri
that Aunt Furusawa had bought at a local temple festival.

My fiancée and I sat in silence. When I couldn't bear it any longer, I said, “Your name is Kayoko, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“When did you first hear about me?”

No answer. I tried again.

“Did you do well in school? Did you enjoy it?”

Again no answer.

“Do you know what a Zero fighter is?”

“No.”

“Do you have a hobby?” Again, she looked down at the table. No answer. I gave up on the conversation. We sat again in silence. I looked at her closely. She kept her eyes cast down. After a long time, she looked up, caught my eye and quickly turned away again. The minutes ticked by. I wondered how much more of this I'd have to endure.

Kayoko was visibly working herself up to something—she first seemed to brace herself, then wriggled in her place and finally whispered, “May I serve you some tea?”

“Oh yes, please. By all means,” I responded, surprised that she could produce a sentence on her own.

She went to the kitchen, and I relaxed for a few moments as I listened to the kettle rattle and then whistle. The ladies upstairs must have heard it too. They came downstairs chatting about the humble beauties of the local folk arts. The group reformed when Kayoko brought the tea cups and pot in from the kitchen. She served us with grace; it was obvious she had studied tea ceremony. The atmosphere relaxed a bit. Conversation turned to mutual acquaintances and Ishii Village characters. Kayoko giggled, but again didn't have anything to say. I was bored silly and glad when we finally escaped.

Mother continued to chat about Ishii Village and Kayoko as we walked home. I thought, she's a nice enough girl, I'm sure. Typical, a nice typical, reserved, well-mannered Japanese girl. But not my type. I wanted someone curious, frank, and humorous. Michiko was like that, and flexible as well. But my stubborn mother had made up her mind about who was appropriate for me.
But none of Mother's plans mattered. Michiko was gone. I'd be gone soon, and I wasn't coming home alive.

When we got home, Mother asked directly what I thought of Kayoko. I kept my thoughts to myself.

Mother,
Father, and I had another feast that night but only one drink each: I had an early train the next morning. I successfully steered the conversation clear of Kayoko by talking about the Zero and what a great honor it was that I was going to learn to fly such a magnificent aircraft. I didn't sleep well that night and thought about Michiko as I lay awake. I was probably anxious about the journeys ahead of me, and worried that I would never see Michiko again, much less have a chance to bid her farewell before my final journey.

Oita, Japan and Wonson, Korea, 1944

It wasn't until
we arrived at Oita that we learned why our posting to Korea was delayed. The winter there had been especially harsh and the runway at Wonson needed extensive repairs. We would have to stay at Oita for at least a month and would start our fighter training there.

We were now at the northeastern corner of Kyushu, on the shore of the Inland Sea. Shikoku was to the east. Oita Naval Air Corps (NAC), the airfield we were assigned to, was only a short distance from Beppu, Japan's most famous seaside hot spring. We were thrilled that we were going to become fighter pilots, and we were excited to be close to the fabled resort; we found its honky-tonk reputation alluring.

But we were deflated when we learned that there were no Zeros at Oita. Our training would start on Model 96 fighters. Since our days at Mie we had been talking about the Zero: a sleek, powerful, maneuverable engineering marvel. And now we were going to work with an outdated plane that had had its heyday in the 1930s on the China front. Like the Model 93s we used at Izumi, the Model 96 was a sturdy plane with a big engine up front, a tail wheel, and non-retractable landing gear. The most obvious difference was that the Model 96 was a single-wing plane. Well, we told each other, looking at the clunkers, we have to make do—it's all part of our contribution to the war effort. And we'll learn fighter techniques.

Oita NAC was a busy place. Hundreds of
yokaren
were in basic flight training, and the runway was being lengthened to accommodate the fighters that arrived with us. An army of construction workers, aided by high school and middle school students, worked long shifts.

Our training repeated the process from Izumi: hands off first; hands lightly on the controls; flying with the instructor in the rear seat; soloing. But the speeds were much faster and the rates of ascent and descent much steeper. It was more dangerous, and discipline was tighter. Navy Spirit “injections” were frequent. But the discipline didn't assure safety. In just one week, I saw one of the ground crew killed when he walked into a propeller, and watched as another plane cartwheeled on landing. The flames flashed immediately—brilliant and cruel. It was quite some time before the fire crew could even approach the plane. The NAC Commander, a remote and severe character, stood as the firefighters did their work. Watching him, I realized that it would be his job to write to the cadet's parents.

We had three or four Sundays free while we were at Oita. We were far from the mountains and the plains of Izumi, and its small-town atmosphere. Cranes were definitely not the biggest thing here. Beppu was a seaside city, but nature was remote—no one seemed to think about the beach. The local people were all in business and the local business was pleasure.

Beppu called. Several hotels had been singled out for our patronage. The Navy designation entitled the hotels to extra food and liquor rations, and we ate and drank to our hearts' content. We soaked in the warm waters.

By the end of the second Sunday, we were a bit bored: we wanted more than just eating, drinking, and relaxing in the warm waters. Someone mentioned
geisha
. As the conversation continued, I realized I wasn't the only one confused. I knew that
geisha
were high-class entertainers, specialists in traditional Japanese instruments, art song, and classical dance, and I knew that the word
geisha
literally meant “arts person” or
artiste
. But with the altered circumstances of the war years, the term had been adopted by women at all levels of the “water trade,” from the traditional
geisha
artistes
, whose performances were no doubt beyond our tastes as well as our wallets, to the lowest level “entertainers,” who provided nothing more than sex.

Not having even the remotest idea of how to find these
geisha
, we asked the hotel manager for advice. He was happy to oblige, and we soon found ourselves at a tea house where the women were all too well acquainted with Naval officers. They knew all the Navy songs and joined us in spirited renditions. Once everyone was drunk, we and the girls joined in an off-key but robust chorus of the Navy's Battleship March:
Defending or attacking, like a floating fortress of steel…so reliable.
I loved the singing, just as I had when I was singing hymns in English, but I didn't have the skills to join in when my colleagues from the big cities spun the girls around the room in foxtrots.

When the party wound down, we paired off and went to bed. It was my first experience with sex. The physical act itself was pure delight, but that experience taught me that with sex comes a cascade of emotional reactions and connections.

After we finished, “my girl”—whose name I cannot for the life of me remember—sat with me and talked for quite some time. It slowly dawned on me that she was an indentured servant, not an employee, and had virtually no personal freedom. She had to have special permission to leave the premises, and was only allowed out for short periods of time. She was checked weekly for venereal disease, and she had absolutely no say in when she had to work or how many customers she had to entertain. Evidently, a number of her “customers” were quite unpleasant and some of them downright abusive. I resolved then and there to stay away from the sex-for-money business. And in the years since the war I've wondered why so many of my countrymen expend so much energy denying that the “comfort women” system existed in Japan and in the lands we conquered.

On June 1, we were all promoted and officially made officers. I was now Ensign Imagawa. It was also the first day for summer uniforms. We were all delighted with our shining cherry blossom pins and our new epaulets with one gold stripe. We knew we looked sharp. We were also told that the repair work at Wonson was finally finished. We could expect our orders any day.

But first, the stern Commander told us, “All of you brave new officers will have three days leave. You can leave tomorrow as early as you like. Pick up your travel vouchers at the gate. Enjoy your time with your families.” I realize now that this was a form of compassionate leave. There would be a death in each of our families, and those deaths were likely to be far away from home. But we tamped down those thoughts as we raced off in our crisp, bright uniforms, with our new cherry blossoms, our glittering convictions, and our dreams of glory.

I got home to the Ishii Village house by early afternoon. It felt so good to sit on the
tatami.
Of course, there had been a
tatami
at the Tanakas when I was in Izumi, but this was special, this was home. Here I could relax. I looked forward to the rest of that day and another full day with my parents.

My fears that Mother's ambitions to advance my match with Kayoko would occupy my one precious day at home proved unfounded. At breakfast the next morning she announced that she was satisfied that her negotiations with the Katayamas were almost finished; all that remained were the details on when and where the marriage would take place. She bemoaned the fact that I had appeared without notice and that no visit could be undertaken because Kayoko's mother was sick. “If only we had known you would be here,” she said. “But no worries, I'll have everything arranged and will write to you with all the information I know you'll be anxious to receive.”

So I was able to enjoy my day at home, cherishing what I was sure were my last hours with Mother and Father, and put all thoughts of the Katayamas and Kayoko out of my head. Dinner with my parents in the quiet of the farmhouse was to be savored—I did just that, and then slept well, safe at home.

The
next morning at Takahama Port, my head was filled with memories of the year before. But this time Father was not with me. And now I knew this would really be the last time, that there would be no more reprieves. Matsuyama faded away; the ferry went through the Inland Sea and down the east coast of Kyushu to Beppu.

Less than a week later, we headed out from Oita for Shimonoseki, where we boarded the Kampu Ferry for Korea. As I stepped aboard, I thought about the 12th century battle fought nearby at Dan-no-Ura, the battle that brought to an end the power and influence of the Taira clan and set the stage for the rise of the Minamotos, and Japan's first military government. Thoughts of the Taira often led to thoughts of cherry blossoms and transience. Basho's
samazama
haiku that Professor Takahashi taught us floated quickly into my consciousness, but I found myself focusing on the victorious Minamotos. I was trying to work out some sort of link between their Kamakura government of long ago and the government that had led us into the grand but perilous adventure in which we were now engaged as the ferry pulled away.

After we cleared the straits between Kyushu and Honshu, we were out on the open sea. I remembered our pleasant cruise at Amakusa just two months earlier, but now things were different. The Americans had taken Guadalcanal and the Marshall Islands, and air raids had started on the major cities; it was dangerous to be so exposed. But we reached Pusan safely and then took a long train ride north to Seoul. After a layover in Seoul, we headed farther north and finally reached Wonson, which is on the eastern coast, facing the Japan Sea, in what is now North Korea.

Early the next morning we finally got to see what had been our obsession since we first started training as aviators: the Zeros. They were magnificent. As we headed for our first morning assembly, most of us had big grins on our faces—we were finally going to fly the Zero! And the Zero did not disappoint. It was the pinnacle of aviation engineering. Its engine power of about 1,000 horsepower was about twice that of the clunky Model 96s we had trained on at Oita. It was sleek and responsive, and the pilots had excellent views from the cockpits.

But the weight of history was pressing on us and we soon learned how precious time was. The situation at the front was worsening. Island after island was falling, Japan was losing pilots, cherry blossoms falling and scattering. As soon as we had a feel for the Zero, our instructors began formation and dog-fight training. And we worked, intensely, on night flights and target shooting. The accident rate was even higher than at Oita. I especially remember the horror of a mid-air collision. And since the base was short on fuel, each of us was able to train for at most half an hour a day. I checked this memory last year; the official records show that Mie's Thirteenth Class had an average of only seventy hours flight training, a mere tenth of the number of hours of flying experience Japanese Navy pilots had before Pearl Harbor.

Sundays were again a day for diversion. We took a bus to town. One time, a group of us decided to go to the local beach. We swam a bit, but spent most of our time eating and drinking at a small restaurant. One of the waitresses seemed to take a special liking to me. She was very pretty and very young—only about seventeen, I think. I took myself back to the same place—alone—the next week. I ate. I drank. We flirted. She disappeared. I was surprised when she reappeared in a few minutes and announced that her boss had given her the rest of the day off so she could take me home to meet her family.

Her family was quite large. We all sat in the living room sipping tea and chatting about life in the Navy. Her mother and father talked about how some Japanese officers got drunk and rowdy when they were on leave. After about an hour, I realized that everyone else had drifted off. The girl and I were alone in the living room—the entire house was suddenly empty. This was now, without question, a seduction scene—or an entrapment. I'm still not sure how I got out of there—when I broke away she was fondling me, making her intentions quite clear. I hurried back to the base, burning with desire, anger, and shame. In my heart, I realized that this confused and confusing episode was part of what a number of my colleagues had talked about: the deep fury and loathing that sat just beneath the surface when the Korean people dealt with their Japanese occupiers. But that day and for a long time afterward I resolutely told myself another story—that I had been smart to avoid an unwise romantic entanglement since I wouldn't be in Korea long.

The next Sunday, I made sure I went in the opposite direction. About ten minutes away from the base, I thought I saw a stable from the bus window. Curious, I got off at the next stop and walked back. Sure enough, there was a stable, with a beautiful white horse. I stood in admiration and didn't hear the person who materialized beside me until he began to speak. When he got a good look at me, he was startled to see a Naval officer, but recovered enough to introduce himself as Mr. Kim and ask if I was interested in horses. I explained that I had been the president of the riding club at my college. Mr. Kim told me with pride that his horse was a Russian Cossack—he was a magnificent animal, taller and slimmer than the average Japanese horse. As I expressed my thanks to Mr. Kim for giving me the pleasure of visiting his stable and prepared to leave, he asked if I had any plans for the evening. When he learned that my only obligation was to be back at the barracks by ten, he invited me for dinner. So I got back on the bus, entertained myself in town, and returned for dinner at six.