The Wolves at My Shadow, page 23
There is so much grief and sorrow in the world: in Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, France, Great Britain, Greece, Yugoslavia, the Balkans, China, Korea, Malaysia, Thailand, and the Philippines. So few nations avoided invasion, war, casualties, destruction, domination, and oppression at the hands of the Nazis, the Russians, the Italians, and the Japanese.
I remember telling Paps, “The struggles and hostilities of the rest of the world are so far away.”
In his wisdom, he responded, “That won’t last for long, Lorechen.”
During the conflict we felt safe in Kobe, as safe as one could feel during wartime. Paps thought that it was rather unlikely that the United States military would invade the Japanese islands. He believed that the might of American air power would rain down upon us sooner or later. On the one hand, he welcomed it because he thought it would shorten the war not only in Asia but also, hopefully, everywhere else. On the other, he knew we would be caught in the horror of it.
We felt deeply conflicted. Paps and Mutsch were thankful that we had been graciously and unconditionally provided refuge in such a beautiful country. But in order for the barbarity to end, my parents wanted our adoptive nation to be defeated. I’m as sure now as I was then that the Japanese knew where our allegiance lay. Yet, we weren’t persecuted.
In preparation for the air attacks, barrels of all sorts were filled with water and then lined up on the shoulders of roads in cities and in towns and villages and along lanes in the countryside. Soon they rusted, the water inside them turning reddish brown. Bamboo tubs from the markets that had held tofu, delectable soybean cakes, and other foodstuffs were also used. When the air strikes began I saw people jump into them to escape the tremendous heat of their burning homes and properties and when they themselves were on fire. For many, the barrels proved to be lifesavers.
Many buildings, in whole or in part, were reinforced and converted into air raid shelters. But it was not enough. The majority of the homes made of wood were destroyed by the incendiary bombs.
We had first believed the Japanese to be stoic but soon came to realize that tragedy is a great equalizer. The response to the loss of a father, a mother, or a child is the same regardless of race, faith, origin, or upbringing.
Paps said, “Mourning has no nationality.”
The Americans Strike
I graduated from the Canadian Academy in the spring of 1942. My reports were sterling and my parents were bursting with pride. My English was much improved, my Japanese satisfactory, and my grades and accomplishments noteworthy. The ceremony was understated and brief because of the tense political climate. Paps and Mutsch shared with me their hopes that I would attend college in the United States.
Paps said in earnest, “Whatever the cost it’s of no concern for you. You’ll go to school in America at any university you choose. We want the best for you.”
Later that summer, I remember Paps and Uncle Hans rushing in the door one evening. They were late for supper, very late. Mutsch and I had set the table hours ago. For the past half an hour Obachan already had been trying to keep the vegetables warm and the rice from coagulating into a solid ball. Kikuchan had been distractedly dusting and sweeping even though everything had been neat and tidy since late afternoon.
“Where have you two been?” Mutsch asked as Paps strode toward her and kissed her forehead.
Uncle Hans set his briefcase on a chair. “Sit! Sit! There’s news!”
We rushed to our places at the dining room table. Obachan placed the food in front of us and Kikuchan poured sake for the adults. Once we were seated, the four of us joined hands, lowered our heads, and sat in silence for a few moments. For some time now we had been offering thanks and prayer without speaking. Obachan returned to the kitchen. Kikuchan sat on her tatami mat.
“Tell us what’s happened!” Mutsch said excitedly.
I looked over at Kikuchan. She was mending a pair of silk stockings.
Paps blurted out, “There’s been an attack. Around noontime a small squadron of American planes bombed Tokyo!”
There was unadulterated glee among us!
“Will this be the beginning of the end of the war?” Mutsch wondered.
“I don’t know,” Uncle Hans said. “We were sitting at our desks, everyone in the office as busy as bees when we heard the chatter from the short wave radio.”
Paps rushed to say, “Perhaps this will convince the Diet and the Emperor that further aggression and the continuation of war are now futile.” At the mere mention of the Emperor I noticed Kikuchan twitch. She understands us perfectly I thought.
I interrupted him, whispering, “Es ist am besten wir sprechen Deutsch jetzt.”31
As the words came out of my mouth I saw Mutsch glance over at Kikuchan. My mother understood my meaning but my father seemed perplexed.
Mutsch said, “That would be rude, Lorechen.” But then she said, “Kikuchan, please go and help in kitchen.”
The little mouse on her mat in the corner looked up, smiled, stood, bowed, and then left the dining room.
“What was that all about?” Paps asked.
Mutsch grabbed his wrist. “It makes Kikuchan uncomfortable when we speak ill of her Emperor.”
“I see,” Paps mulled.
Uncle Hans continued, “It’s a tremendous feat, so brazen and one accomplished with such authority!”
We understood the meaning of the raid. While it was true that it had caused comparatively little damage, it made the Japanese border look permeable.
Uncle Hans said, “The Japanese government is embarrassed. The Japanese people are astonished such a thing has been accomplished against what they believed was the impregnability of their homeland.”
“And,” Paps added, “the daring feat will be a tremendous morale booster for the Americans.”
The shadows of frustration and fear soon descended upon us again. Rationing took hold. The prices of groceries and household items tripled and quadrupled. Several months later, the items became scarce and prices increased as much as ten-fold. Paps had to consider dismissing Kikuchan and Obachan. He chose not to dismiss Kikuchan because he felt Mutsch still needed help with the daily tasks and upkeep of our home. I wasn’t so convinced. I was beginning to be suspicious of Kikuchan. Nothing specific came to mind but I couldn’t help myself.
“We must keep Obachan, too,” he said, “she can make the limited food we have edible.”
Our daily meals invariably were scant, we were always hungry. Mutsch had begun to store extra foodstuffs and supplies in a closet in advance of the rationing and we were fortunate to have them. The canned goods were stacked like bricks—I vowed to never eat another can of salmon as long as I lived. When our stock eventually ran out I came to know the idiom “be careful what you wish for.”
There was a flourishing black market especially out in the country where farmers would offer produce and eggs at outrageous prices. We rarely partook in these covert transactions because we were frightened the Japanese authorities would catch us. Once we emptied Mutsch’s larder, our dietary staple was rice. Unscrupulous merchants would short weight our purchases by adding pebbles to the burlap bags of rice.
I saw Kikuchan eating insects to stave off the hunger. This was repulsive to me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Then the Japanese government devised evacuation plans for all the major cities. Everyone was encouraged to flee.
Uncle Hans often would come to our home after his workday. He and Aunt Eva lived several kilometres down the road so whenever he had time he would stop in for a visit. Usually Paps would already be home and we would have eaten our paltry supper of rice. Hans would refuse Mutsch’s offers of food because he was well aware of the near-famine conditions. Like us, he and Aunt Eva had very little. He would stay to drink a glass or two of sake, tell a joke, squeeze my cheek, say his goodbyes, and continue on home. During his visits he would relate to us what he had heard during the day, not only from his colleagues but also on the short wave radio. Paps’ duties had kept him out of the office lately so he, too, was eager to learn the latest news. Uncle Hans’ opinion of the mindset of the Japanese military, the war-bent political aspirations of the Axis, and even of the Emperor himself were ungenerous, to put it mildly.
Holding his glass high for emphasis, he said, “The Japanese soldiers are savages. The reports of the atrocities committed by them in China, Korea, and on the islands in the Pacific are horrendous.”
Mutsch and I cringed.
“Doesn’t the government understand the hopelessness of war with the Americans?” he asked in disbelief. “Soon they’ll see their sacred islands overrun.”
More sake. His face now beet red, anger and frustration visible on his tensed body. His eyes opened wide. “And the Emperor,” he shouted, “what’s to understand? He’s oblivious to everything. His advisors must be denying him the reality of the ardent Americans, their might and resolve. He’s a puppet at best.” More sake. “He’s divine, all right,” he belched, “with his imperial head in the clouds.”
A few days later Uncle Hans was arrested and interned. We were terrified.
“Don’t worry,” the authorities told a frantic Aunt Eva, “soon your husband will be released.” This was no small comfort to us. We didn’t know what soon meant. In confidence, Paps said, “Perhaps it’s just the typically polite response of the Japanese to someone’s anxiety.”
Every day Aunt Eva went to see Hans where he was being held at a compound not far from the outskirts of Kobe. She brought him small amounts of food and some clothing and books. She told us that he was comfortable and well-treated but for the time being he wasn’t allowed to leave.
“Hans seems fine,” Aunt Eva told us. “He exercises, can shave and bathe, and he reads his books.”
Herr Griesbach and Paps appealed to dozens of government officials for Hans’ release. For weeks Paps didn’t receive any explanation for Hans’ internment. Many of the Japanese office managers where Hans and Paps worked pulled every string they could but they, too, were stonewalled with polite smiles and bows.
“If it’s because he’s German,” Paps reasoned, “or if it’s that he’s a Jew then why haven’t I suffered the same fate? There must be another reason.”
It was Kikuchan.
Our little mouse had overheard Hans’ ranting and railing. Although he often spoke in German, the effects of the sake inexplicably caused him to shout in English much of the time. I knew how much Kikuchan understood. At the Canadian Academy I was considered a quick learner for my rapid grasp of both English and Japanese. Kikuchan learned swiftly as well.
We found out later that she had reported Hans to the local police. She was most offended by what she felt were his unforgiving and offensive remarks concerning the Emperor. The authorities questioned her repeatedly and, based on her testimony, they decided to investigate him and his business.
Several Japanese officials arrived at the office. They questioned some of Hans’ and Paps’ colleagues. No one said anything disparaging about him. Demanding to see the company’s books they encountered an annoyed Arthur deCouto, the company’s accountant. “I had no choice but to submit to their request to review the ledgers. Not that it mattered of course since there was nothing to hide.” The police used this inquiry as the basis to arrest Hans as a matter of municipal security. Kikuchan had convinced the authorities that Hans’ anger and hatred would manifest itself in some sort of action against the Emperor. This accusation was completely unfounded and untrue. Uncle Hans had difficulty disciplining his dog.
Six weeks later he was released. He told us he had been questioned about the company. As Gerber was a major supplier of goods needed by the Japanese army this tactic was a dead end for them. He said he had been treated well, never threatened.
From that day on I worried that Paps would be interned since he was the company manager. But neither he nor any of the other administrators and lower-level employees at Gerber were ever accosted or taken into custody.
Kikuchan was dismissed summarily. We were not sorry to see her go.
It was only a few days later that we heard the thrilling and exhilarating news of the Allied invasion of France at Normandy. This eerily coincided with the bombing of Japanese cities on Kyushu. Would our island Honshu be spared? We didn’t think so. The Americans and their bombers seemed to be everywhere.
In November of that year I recall approaching our home after a morning-long visit at a friend’s to find the curtains drawn in my parents’ bedroom. I dropped the spray of wildflowers I was holding and rushed into the house.
Mutsch was hunched over on the couch. There were soiled hankies on the floor. She looked up at me and I saw the overwhelming concern in her eyes. “Your father,” she said slowly wiping the tears from her face, “had to be escorted to the hospital by Uncle Hans and me. His headache was paralyzing him.”
I gasped. I rushed to her side. Frantically I asked, “Is he all right now?”
“He’s resting,” Mutsch whispered.
There was something else. I knew it. “Tell me, mother,” I begged.
She tucked a hankie into the end of her shirtsleeve. With a serious look on her face, she reached over to touch my shoulder. “Your father is very sick. After examinations and consultations with several doctors and specialists the preliminary diagnosis is a brain tumour.”
My breathing instantly became rapid. Chills burrowed up my spine. I nearly fainted. “What can we do?” I was pleading.
“Nothing now. There’s no room at any of the hospitals. There are too many wounded Japanese soldiers. All the beds are taken. Many suffer on mats on the floors and in the hallways. The doctors tend only to them.”
We didn’t say anything for quite some time. Then I asked, “Is there medicine or other remedies?”
“No,” she wailed, “your father is very ill!”
On 9 March 1945, almost five months later, we heard the welcome news that three hundred Allied bombers had pummelled Tokyo. Several other major cities were hit the following day: Nagoya, Yokohama, and Osaka. We knew it wouldn’t be long before Kobe was hit.
And so it was.
As the first bombs fell on Kobe on 16 March, Muschi disappeared. No calling, no promise of her favourite food, no shaking of her favourite toys, absolutely nothing would lure my adored cat from her hiding place, wherever it was. I was terrified that she might be injured. We turned all of her usual hideouts upside down. She had vanished.
Our home wasn’t damaged. We were on the outskirts of the city, far enough away from the manufacturing and industrial areas. Yet, the whistling of the bombs as they fell sounded as if they would land in our backyard. At times I could feel the ground trembling. In the city, fires raged everywhere.
Paps and Mutsch, along with many of our neighbours, realized our hilltop homes were no longer safe. It was decided that we would move to Bunkamura, a small village a two-hour train ride from Kobe. We were to run for our lives, again.
While my parents packed as many of our belongings as was practical, I kept on looking for Muschi. What will happen to her? Will she starve? Will she be hit by a bomb and die?
“Lorechen,” Paps said the day before we were to go, “we have to get out of here. Once you and Mutsch are safely settled, I promise I’ll come back to find Muschi.”
“But how will you do that?” I asked.
We hugged. “Leave it to me.”
When we arrived at our tiny Japanese-style house in Bunkamura we were relieved to find that it had running water and a gas stove.
“It’ll only be a matter of time before our utilities are reduced or terminated,” Mutsch said dejectedly.
She was right. Within a few days the water was cut off completely and then restored for one hour each day. When it was available we would scramble to fill every empty vessel. Soon the gas was discontinued. After that, we cooked whatever food we had on a hibachi. When the charcoal disappeared from the stores we used wood gathered from the surrounding forests.
As food became scarcer, Bunkamura proved to be an island of hope because it was flanked by farms. Sometimes we would barter for eggs, fruit, and vegetables and on very rare occasions we would obtain a chicken. There were figs there, too, and I couldn’t resist pulling them off the heavily laden trees. However, most of our meagre food supplies came from ration centres set up by the government.
Aunt Eva and Uncle Hans were steadfast in their desire to remain in their home. I remember Hans saying to Paps, “Your decision to leave is premature and unfounded.” Soon after, our home in Kobe, not far from his, was hit and destroyed. Miraculously, Hans’ home was spared.
One night Paps tried to sneak into our house in Bunkamura just before Mutsch and I were about to help Obachan present some rice and vegetables to the table. We saw him tiptoeing in. He was carrying a sack. “Is that food?” Mutsch asked. Suddenly, we saw the burlap bag in his hands moving of its own accord!
True to his word, Paps had travelled back to what was left of our home in Kobe. He found Muschi cowering in a hollow formed by the upended roots of a fallen tree. She was dirty and thin but her eyes were bright. I didn’t know who to hug first, Paps or Muschi! I was so appreciative that my father had come to the rescue, again.
“Your father took a tremendous chance,” Mutsch said, petting the cat.
Muschi was with us for the remainder of our stay in Japan. She was happier in Bunkamura than in Kobe because there were plenty of field mice to catch and bring to us as an offering. When we refused to have her bring her gifts in the house she sulked. Eventually she knew what to do with her captives. She would find a shady spot outside and then indulge herself. She never went hungry.
After our beautiful hillside home in Kobe was destroyed I realized how difficult life had been for Mutsch. When we left Berlin I was an adolescent, as resilient and as naïve as any other, Mutsch was in her mid-thirties more or less set in her ways. She had run from the Nazi wolves, she had kept me safe while she watched out for a husband who suffered from debilitating headaches, and she had dragged our baggage and me across half the world for months on end, only to arrive in an alien society. It must have been incredibly taxing. What was even more traumatic was that she had had to leave her in-laws, her siblings, and her friends behind each time.
