The Wolves at My Shadow, page 20
More than six months had passed since father had brought home stationery along with a dozen or so interesting Japanese postage stamps and had said, “It’s time for you to write your letters to family and friends again, Lorechen.”
Immediately, I sat down and wrote to Omi and Opa, Uncle Sieke, Uncle Hans, Aunt Jenny, and Aunt Irma and her stepdaughter Stella. I also wrote to Herr Bayern, Adah Metzger, and my cousin Ullie. I missed Gerta, Katya, and Frau Beck so much that I composed my longest scripts for them. My hand was nearly crippled when I finished. Paps mailed them the next day and I had forgotten all about them until Kikuchan handed me that envelope.
The envelope was made of some delicate but strong material. The lettering was impeccable and there was a slight hint of perfume about its seal. The stamp was from China. I opened it carefully.
Inside was a wafer-thin piece of rice paper. I unfolded it slowly and was pleasantly taken aback when I realized that it was from Frau Beck.
Dearest Erna, it began, I was unaware that I was acquainted with someone named Ingelore.
I gasped!
I had forgotten all about the ruse! The day after we arrived in Japan Paps secured proper papers for us through Herr Griesbach’s connections in the immigration offices in Tokyo. Herr Griesbach has been our longtime benefactor. So, at the time of writing I had forgotten all about our masquerade.
My heart was racing as I read Frau Beck’s next words, terribly ashamed now and frightened that she might be angry with me.
She continued. I’m well, earnestly hoping you and your parents are, too, and I’m relieved and thankful that you arrived safely in Japan. It’s occurred to me that you must have had your reasons to disguise yourself but it’s no concern of mine. I’m as fond of you now as I was when last we were together.
I was relieved that her words and tone suggested indifference, if not forgiveness. I wished I could explain all our trials and tribulations.
I love you for who you are not for your name.
I had told Kikuchan a great deal about Frau Beck. She was amazed when I showed her the bracelet she had given me. Kikuchan asked if I would read Frau Beck’s letter aloud.
“But Frau Beck writes in German,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll listen to the words,” she replied haltingly, her English still very much in need of improvement.
I told her, “I’ll read it and you are more than welcome to listen to my native language.”
It’s been a long time since we were together. You may be interested to know that I gave birth to a precious little girl only five weeks ago. When we were in China I suspected that I was pregnant but I didn’t wish to disclose that to anyone at the time, not even to my husband, for fear that the voicing of it would somehow affect me badly. I’m happy to say that I’ve been fortunate. Like you, my daughter is a treasured pearl.
I started crying. I remembered Frau Beck’s guilt. How she felt she had been punished with barrenness for escaping the fate of drowning. I said to Kikuchan, “If anyone deserves good fortune, it’s Frau Beck.”
She went on. Our vacation has been prolonged due to my condition and by some business concerns my husband and my father have needed to address but now we’re about to return to Berlin. Before we do, I must go to the Records Hall to change the name of my daughter from Erna to Ingelore.
I nearly fainted with happiness.
Please continue to write and to think of me often. Give your parents my warm regards.
She closed her letter with, All my love and devotion, your friend, Li.
Nature’s Violent Display
February 1937–April 1938
Kikuchan taught me the basics of Japanese flower arranging. It became a favourite hobby of mine. I have always been enamoured of plants and flowers, especially orchids.
The first hour of every Sunday afternoon was set aside for my drilling her in English, while the second hour was for my instruction in flower arranging.
Mutsch would purchase several different kinds of flowers and I would look for branches and twigs in the backyard and colourful pebbles and small rocks to use as accents.
I knew all about flowers and how to display them so I did not think that my first lesson in Japanese arrangements would be that difficult.
Kikuchan asked where my tokonoma would be. After she explained that a tokonoma represents the heart of the home I decided that I would designate a small area in a foyer just inside our front door as our tokonoma.
She wondered, “What are you going to put it in?”
“I’ll use a vase,” I said. She didn’t know that word. “Watch me,” I said all-knowingly.
Doris with Ingelore’s first ikebana flower arrangement, 1937.
I selected a few stalks of gladiolus and irises and placed them in the vase, centering it on the table in the foyer. Mutsch came with a camera to take a photograph of my first attempt.
“I’ll stand beside it,” she said posing at the table.
I took the photograph.
“Well?” I asked Kikuchan, pointing to my display.
She bowed and then said, “It’s not good. It’s not art. It’s very bad.”
It was not until my third or fourth lesson that I grasped the complexity of Japanese flower arrangement. I learned that ikebana symbolizes the sky, man, and Earth and that they are expressed by three distinct heights.27 The quintessence of any arrangement is simplicity, elegance, and creativity. Arrangements are situated in the tokonoma, which was originally the honoured place for Buddhist scrolls. The room with the tokonoma is the heart of the home, an area used to present precious art work, and as a symbol of respect for one’s guests and their artistic pleasure.
Every well-educated Japanese girl like Kikuchan is trained in the art of flower arranging. The selection of flowers depended not only on the type of arrangement but also on the season. In the spring, branches of plum, cherry and pear trees were used. And while quince blossoms represent the sky, bright orange birds of paradise, daffodils, and azaleas represent man and pure white Shasta daisies, cyclamen, or tiny dianthus represent the Earth. A good arrangement is simple, clean and pleasing to the eye.
“Cut the branch like so,” Kikuchan demonstrated. She made sure I could see the diagonal cut. Then she picked a particularly lovely flower, “Cut the flower straight. Never cut it like you would a branch! That is wrong, very wrong!”
After several weeks Kikuchan and I congratulated each other. My flower arranging abilities were satisfactory and her English had progressed as well.
“You’re a wonderful teacher,” I said.
She smiled, bowed and then without any hint of modesty said, “I am a good teacher for you!”
I still have my nightmare every so often. It is as frightening in Japan as it was the first time I dreamed it in Berlin. The only good that comes of it is that after I awake, catch my breath, and realize that I am safe, I can revisit its setting in my mind. How I would like to be back in our home in Wilmersdorf and, more importantly, spend hours with Gerta in the library.
On a Sunday morning that spring I woke to a soft breeze coming through my bedroom window. Birds chirped while tree branches scraped against the wall of our villa. But the serenity soon was disturbed when I heard Mutsch and Paps bantering back and forth in the kitchen.
It was very unusual for my parents to discuss something in loud voices. Although I have never heard them shout in anger, I do remember that on this particular occasion the discussion, while not heated, was considerably warmer than the level of tones I was accustomed to hearing.
“And this photograph from the office party?” Mutsch asked slowly and deliberately.
Paps answered, “Arthur was a little tipsy when he asked that we all group together. The parties provide food and drink and he had had his fill by then. These are the people I work with, darling. That is all.”
Mutsch replied sarcastically, “I see that the party is not at the office and I see many of the people you work with wear makeup and kimonos.”
Father exhaled in exasperation. “You know they are geishas. It’s the custom in Japan. They are waitresses. When the photograph arrived in yesterday’s mail I showed it to you right away, didn’t I?”
“So Arthur felt it would be something for your eyes only? Is that why he sent it by mail rather than hand it to you? Was he afraid to do so in my presence?”
Paps’ voice went up a notch. “He’s on business in Europe. He must’ve sent it just before he left. There are no secrets here, darling, from you or from anyone else.”
“Look at them!” Mutsch’s voice was raised now, too. “They’re so elegantly attired, their hair layered on their heads, their faces powdered. And I see they’re the only women there! Where was I? Where was Arthur’s wife? Where was George’s wife? Where was—”
Paps must have been seated because just then I heard a chair scrape across the floor, presumably pushed back so he could stand. Interrupting her, he said, “—you will listen to me now. Every so often Herr Griesbach sponsors a get-together to build morale, afford time away from customers and business, and to provide an occasion for his subordinates to relax and enjoy food and conversation. That’s all.”
“Those women are nothing more than courtesans, Kurt, and you will not tell me otherwise.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “No they’re not! They’re waitresses!”
I sneezed.
“Lorechen?” Mutsch asked.
I was discovered. Walking into the kitchen, I saw Paps, his face crimson. Mutsch’s was similarly coloured, perhaps even more so.
I decided it was best to own up. “I heard you and Paps arguing,” I told Mutsch, forcing a yawn.
Paps reached for me. I went to him and embraced him. “It’s not an argument. Your mother and I are just discussing some things.”
“Because of the photograph?” I asked.
Instantly I realized that I had let the proverbial cat out of the bag.
“How long have you been listening to us, young lady?” Mutsch demanded.
I went to Mutsch and embraced her. “I’m sorry but I find it upsetting when you and father are having a disagreement.”
“Well, the proof is in the pudding,” Mutsch said handing me the photograph. “What do you make of this, Lorechen?”
I looked at it. A group of shoeless gentlemen were seated on tatami mats in the background of the photo. Masks belonging to kabuki dancers hung on the walls of the restaurant
“It looks like a very nice restaurant,” I said innocently.
“And what else?” Mutsch yelped.
Bowls of soup and platters laden with fish, meat, and vegetables, ceramic containers overflowing with rice, and porcelain cups filled with sake were everywhere. I tried to be as nonchalant as possible. “The cooks must have worked hard to prepare all that food.”
With that my parents looked at each other and then simultaneously burst into laughter.
“Our precious daughter won’t take sides!” Paps said.
Father explained again what I had already heard him try to explain to Mutsch. Then he said, “There’s music, too. Some of the geishas sing while others strum an instrument called the samisen, something akin to a lute or a ukulele.”
“So it’s business, in a way,” I said trying to bring the discussion to an end, hoping to placate Mutsch and release my father from the hook from which he was dangling.
“It’s very strange,” he said, “sitting on the floor while eating and being so graciously entertained.” He quickly realized Mutsch might incorrectly interpret what he meant by “being entertained.” I know I did. “What I mean to say,” he offered, pointing to the photograph, “is that it’s the custom not to stretch out one’s legs. None of us Westerners manage to remain that way for long. We’re always excusing ourselves to walk about to have the blood return to our lower extremities!”
Mutsch, with finality, said, “You must remind Mr. deCouto to leave his camera at home the next time Herr Griesbach summons everyone for a . . .” she hesitated, “. . . the next time he summons everyone for a business dinner.”
Her sarcasm was muted though direct. I am sure Paps gathered her meaning.
Because Kikuchan was helping me learn Japanese, Mutsch reasoned that it was essential to keep employing her. She also was an excellent housekeeper. Obachan was indispensable because she prepared meals from ingredients that were relatively inexpensive and easy to procure and because she was older and more experienced Mutsch could rely on her to keep an eye on Kikuchan and me.
“We’re helping them,” my father explained to Mutsch. “The amount of money we spend on their salaries is small to us but large to them. Think of it as economic assistance. Either way, we won’t be in Japan forever.”
And Paps explained that our stay in Japan would depend on two things.
“It may be that when the business expands to the level Herr Griesbach demands we may need to consider relocating to America. There’s a large company office in New York City.”
“And the other?” Mutsch asked.
Paps drew in his breath, squeezing his temples between his fingers to try to ease the pain of another nagging headache. “Our company has seen a staggering increase in orders from the Japanese government for certain goods. Requisitions for some items have numbered in the tens of thousands. I’m certain the upswing is for the military. The Japanese are intent on overrunning China.”28
“Do you mean . . .” Mutsch offered.
“Yes, Japan has dreams of the conquest of Asia. Also it may mean that they are stockpiling goods, gearing up for a defence of their islands from the fascists and communists. No one knows how far Hitler and Stalin and even Mussolini will go to . . .”
He did not finish his sentence. His words hung in the air, unfinished.
Mutsch changed the subject. “Well, luckily all of Lorechen’s assessment reports from the Canadian School have been excellent. Perhaps you should begin to consider going to college in America.”
“Yes, mother,” I said.
Two weeks passed with no news about the future of our family in Japan.
One night at supper Paps announced, “Does anyone here know how to ski?” Mutsch and I laughed. “Next month we’re going to the Japanese Alps for a short vacation and we’ll learn to ski.”
“Oh, I can’t wait!” I said eagerly.
“But,” he said, “before we do that we need to do something else.”
Mutsch tried to conceal a smile.
They were hiding something. “What’s going on?” I asked.
“We’re moving!” Paps exclaimed.
Over the next few days we packed and organized our things. For several afternoons Mutsch and I did some rigorous shopping looking for appropriate clothing for our ski trip.
As we readied ourselves to go the recurring cloud of regret settled upon us—it was difficult to say farewell to Mr. and Mrs. Dimitriev and our other neighbours and friends.
Fortunately, our goodbyes didn’t need to extend to Kikuchan and Obachan since Paps had arranged for them to come to our new home with us.
Not only was our vacation in the Japanese Alps a welcomed change of routine but it was also an amazing adventure filled with exhilaration and discovery.
The mountains were deliciously imposing, their grand peaks covered in snow, the clouds about them singularly white and majestic, the underlying rock peeking through in pinto fashion where some of the snow had melted. The radiant sunshine was so intense it nearly burned my fair skin. The air was bitingly crisp and crystal clear, so very chilling yet refreshing. I believe we were near Matsumoto, an outpost surrounded by imposing summits.
The lodge was enormous, its masonry base made up of assorted rocks and boulders solidly supported the wooden upper stories of the building. The views from its many balconies were breathtaking.
After being outfitted with boots, skis, and poles the three of us ventured out into the snow. It was crunchy, a very thin layer of ice having formed on top of the powder from intermittent freezing and thawing. We struggled sideways, plopping our skis one by one and impaling our poles into the ground for support. We were attempting to get further away from the wooden terrace while trying to keep out of everyone’s way. Many people were gliding past us as if we were standing still which for the most part is what we were doing. When we had flailed past the limits of the terrace I turned to see Paps suddenly crouch, pierce the snow with his poles, push off, and then effortlessly glide down the decline away from us. Mutsch and I were flabbergasted.
The lodge near Matsumoto and the postcard from their travels that featured the view from the balcony.
“I didn’t know you could ski!” I shouted after him.
Mutsch yelled, too. “I didn’t either!” Then with an admiring glance, “That man never ceases to surprise me.”
Me, too, I thought.
“Well?” Mutsch asked me, “Are we going to stand here all day . . .” Before she finished her sentence, she was off. A few seconds later, she was down. In between bursts of laughter I heard her shout, “Your turn, Lorechen!”
Skiing is an exercise in balance and equilibrium, neither of which came easily to me. I tried several times, warily progressing a metre here and a metre there only to have my body leaning, dipping, faltering, and then collapsing under the unforgiving force of gravity. Before long my mittens and leggings were soaked through as was the seat of my trousers. And although my back ached, all was well when we partook of the soothing warmth of the hot springs. It was the first time I was outside immersed in water when there was snow on the ground.
I reflect now both on those days and on that particular experience to discover that each underscores the broad scope of the Japanese lifestyle. Japan is a country so rich in culture and history that neither artist nor poet can adequately describe it. The landscapes are beautiful and its people kind. Yet at times we had difficulty because Asian and Western customs were often at odds with one another. In spite of these challenges, I’m proud to say that for more than a decade I was a Japanese citizen.
