Fireflies (20 page)

23

THE HOLIDAY CAMP

(HIROSHI TAKARA)

The plum blossom's finally here
, I thought, as I walked home from Ueno Plaza, past the arch of Yushima Tenjin shrine. The trees in the garden were prickly white, and bundles of wooden prayer plaques had been tied to the racks outside, so I guessed that the snobby kids from the Imperial University must be having their examinations again. A crowd of GIs in khaki uniforms were gathered in the garden with their backs to me, and I wandered over to see what they were looking at. As I got closer, I felt a wave of excitement.

They all had cameras, and they were squinting through the viewfinders, the shutters clicking and film whirring. Beneath a blossoming plum tree stood a Japanese girl, dressed like a geisha, her face hidden behind a golden fan. She wore a purple and crimson kimono and held a tasselled parasol over her shoulder. She waved the fan once, then suddenly snapped it shut.

Satsuko.

She looked so much like my sister that my heart actually stopped. Suddenly, in my head, I saw her treading water in the fiery canal; I could almost feel the flames scorching my cheeks, and I had a sudden terror that she would turn around and see me. I tried to duck out of sight, but then one of the GIs called out and the girl shifted.

There was something wrong with her nose, I thought. It was the wrong shape, though the white powder on her face made it hard to tell. Her eyes seemed small and narrow as well, not deep and black like my sister's had been. As I stood there staring, the illusion floated away. My sister was dead, after all. I was flooded with an awkward sense of guilt and relief.

The girl looked as wooden as a doll as the soldiers pushed their cameras right up in her face, pulling her about by her kimono sleeve and pushing her into position. I glanced jealously at the cameras, wondering how much they must have cost. Down by the girl's feet was a cardboard sign scribbled in clumsy English. “Genuine Japan Geisha girl,” it said. “Photograph — 1 Yen.” There was a tin can next to the sign, already filled up with bank notes.

She started spinning her parasol, pushing out her chest and posing in a way that no real geisha would ever have done. I almost felt like jeering at her. The idea that I'd mixed her up with my sister made me feel stupid and sheepish.

The men were all grinning and whistling now. I thought of the tall American in the trench coat who'd come over to talk to us that day behind the station, who'd taken our photographs by our old baseball pitch. We'd played almost a whole series against the other gangs that autumn afternoon, running and scrambling amongst the stones until hours after dark. I remembered the solid weight of the American's camera as I'd held it up to my face. How I'd caught Tomoko in the rangefinder for a moment, the twin images of her shy face, one sharp, one blurred, as I squinted through the lens.

She was buried not far away from there now, I thought. We'd carried her body to a shallow bomb crater in the wasteground and covered it up with a sheet of corrugated tin. Later on that night, I crept back down to say goodbye. I sat in the pit with her for a long time, her body blanched in the splinters of moonlight, withered away almost to a skeleton. I held her hand in mine, until her fingers began to thaw out just a little. Finally, it became too cold to stay. I climbed out of the pit and dragged the metal sheet back over the top.

A GI was squatting in front of me. I suddenly shoved him as hard as I could, and he stumbled forward. I darted down and grabbed hold of his camera with both hands, and for a moment, the man was choking, clutching his throat as the thin leather strap garrotted him. Suddenly, the leather snapped, and I went tumbling backward. Thrusting the camera under my shirt, I leaped up and sprinted through the garden, faster than I'd even run before, as crunching footsteps pounded behind me, the soldiers hollering.

I nearly stumbled in front of a bus as I sprinted across the main road. As I ran along by the university walls, I snatched a glance behind me. The men were standing on the other side of the street, caught by the traffic. Spinning around the corner, I slipped through the famous Red Gate of the university. Students and professors were coming out of the buildings and they yelled at me as I dodged around them. I ran out through the back gate at the other end of the quadrangle, and slid down against the wall, completely out of breath. As I pulled the camera out from beneath my shirt, my heart started to pound even harder.

A Leica. Just like the American had used!

I gazed at the elegant dials and knobs, rubbing my thumb over the finely engraved letters and embossed serial numbers. I felt a sudden, sharp stab of guilt about what I'd just done. But as I pictured the children's faces, when I'd get back and tell them my idea, I could hardly stop myself grinning.

~ ~ ~

At the entrance to the inn, through the long grass of the garden, I put up my hand to the wooden screen door. I stopped. I could hear Shin's hoarse voice bellowing away inside.

I slid the door open a crack, and peered through into the reception hall. The children were all kneeling in a circle on the tatami, engrossed in some kind of game. Nobu, Koji, and Aiko had their heads bowed low and were whimpering like little dogs. Shin had a blanket around his shoulders, and was strutting up and down in front of them, holding a broomstick like it was a sword.

“Please, sir, take me,” Koji was saying. “Please!”

Nobu jerked up his head. “No, sir!” he begged. “Take me!”

“And what will you do for me,” Shin demanded, “if I take you home to our mansion?”

He was pretending to be an aristocrat, I realized. The accent was just appalling. He jabbed the broomstick into Nobu's shoulder. “Well?” he asked.

“I'll do anything, sir,” Nobu whimpered, as he pressed his head down to the floor. “Anything at all.”

“Kiss my feet, then,” Shin said.

Nobu glanced up as Shin waved his muddy straw sandal in his face. Puckering his lips, he gave his foot a quick, unhappy peck.

Shin suddenly spun around and squatted over Nobu's head, gripping onto his shoulders as he spread his bandy legs.

“Eat my shit?”

Nobu brayed like a donkey and shoved him away. “No, sir!” he shouted. “Please don't make me!”

I shoved the rattling door wide open and strode forward into the hall.

“What the hell's going on here?” I said.

Shin's face froze. He gave that stupid grin of his, showing the wide gap between his broken teeth.

“So big brother's back, is he?” he said. “Got any apples for us today, big brother?”

I almost gasped. It was as if he'd ­punched me in the stomach. I saw Tomoko's body, lying in the moonlight. The black apple pips glistening on her chin.

“Up on your feet. All of you,” I said.

One by one, the children stood up, looking ashamed of themselves.

“Well?”

Koji stammered, “We were just playing a game.”

Shin slapped his hand over Koji's mouth. “It's none of his business!” he said, angrily.

“A game? So why don't we all play?”

“Because it's none of your business!” Shin shouted. His face was red.

Koji pulled Shin's hand away and tugged at it. “Why don't you tell him?” he whined. “Just tell him!”

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“About the holiday camps!” Koji said, desperately. “The holiday camps!”

I hesitated for a second. “What are you talking about?” I said, warily.

“The holiday camps,” Aiko said, nodding earnestly. “We're all going away to be adopted.”

The hair prickled up at the back of my neck. I sat down cross-legged on the floor.

“Please tell me what you're talking about,” I said.

Slowly, they all sat down in front of me.

“Well,” Aiko started, “I don't really know —”

“The Americans,” Shin said. “It was their idea, wasn't it?”

“One at a time.”

Koji frowned, then drew a vague shape with his finger on the floor.

The Americans, he said, had decided to set up holiday camps in the countryside, for all the Japanese children who had lost their families during the war.

“Children like us,” Aiko said, with a firm nod.

Some of the camps were by the seaside, others were up in the mountains, in the old noble mansions and monasteries. They had proper beds, and the children were fed three meals a day, hot soup and rice with them all. You could choose if you wanted to help with the farm work, digging the fields and crops or taking care of the animals, or you could just go back to school and have lessons. There were all sorts of activities and toys, board games and model airplanes for rainy days, trips out to the countryside and to the beach, swimming galas, running races, butterfly collecting . . .

Koji rubbed his eyes as his story dwindled into confusion. “At least that's what everyone's saying,” he said. The other children were looking at me, as if they'd been hypnotized.

It all sounded so marvellous. Just for a second, I let myself imagine that it was true. I felt a rush of excitement as I saw us all, miles and miles away from Tokyo, racing along a shimmery beach, splashing and diving amongst the blue waves.

I imagined Tomoko standing by a rock pool. Wearing a white swimming cap, the skin brown and sunburned on her shoulders.

Aiko nudged Koji in the ribs. “Tell him about the family visits,” she whispered.

Koji nodded earnestly. “They're the best thing of all.”

Every Sunday, he said, mothers and fathers who had lost their sons and daughters in the war drove up to the camps. They inspected the children, asked the headmaster about their behaviour, and then chose one to take home with them.

“We're going to be adopted,” Aiko interrupted, her eyes bright.

I clasped my hands around my knees. A horrible, empty feeling welled up inside me.

“Please,” I said. I shook my head helplessly. I felt as if I were holding a hammer, about to smash a mirror. “I'm so sorry. But someone has been filling your heads with fairy tales.”

Koji smiled doubtfully, as if he thought I was joking. Shin's eyes narrowed, and he gave me a look of pure hatred.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, my voice wavering. “I wish it was true as much as you do. Really I do. But it's just not.”

From somewhere in the garden came a faint sound, like a bird, or a child, crying far away.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered, waving a hopeless hand at the hall around us. “But this is all we've got.”

Aiko burst into tears. Koji looked at me in confusion, as if he could see ghosts fluttering in the air.

Shin crashed his fist into his palm and clambered to his feet.

“You're so clever, aren't you, you bastard?” he snarled. “You're always right about everything, aren't you? Well, this time you're fucking wrong!”

His thick lips were trembling.

I stared back at him, appalled. This was the worst thing of all, I thought. That such a bully as Shin could get caught up in such helpless fantasies . . . It was hideous.

Shin lurched toward me and I slid backward on the floor as he rotated his shoulders.

A horrible feeling of guilt and shame came over me.
I realized he missed his violent, drunken father as much as I missed my own. I'd never even imagined it was possible.

As if a boy from Sengen Alley was too stupid to feel pain, as if only a smart kid like me from Senso High School was sensitive enough to feel hurt, to feel loss.

The children stared at me tearfully as Shin edged closer, his face twisted in anger.

All those times when they'd cried out in the night, I'd ignored them. Every time they'd started to snivel, I'd told the others to sit on them, as if they were unfeeling sacks of rice. I'd made them work the streets day and night, forcing them to pick up saliva-soaked cigarette butts, to root about in the filth and night soil, grubbing about like animals, acting as if I was their big brother, their father even! What kind of dad would do this to his kids? Force them to work until they were fainting, locking them in at night in this collapsing ruin, which was nothing more than a filthy old whorehouse, and where we'd probably all die together —

“We're sick of you, you bastard,” Shin hissed. He clutched his fingers into a fist, and I backed away, suddenly scared.

They'd have been better off without me,
I thought.

Tears flooded my eyes as Shin raised his elbow into the air.

Tomoko would still be alive —

The fist slammed into my face and I toppled backward.

Shin loomed over me, the other children gathered behind his legs, as if for protection.

“It's all over, big brother,” he said, waving a trembling finger at my face. “We're not going to be your slaves anymore. We're going away to the holiday camps. And there's nothing you can do to stop us.”

My slaves!
Tears ran down by cheeks and I spoke through wrenching sobs.

“Go away then. Do whatever you want. Just see if I care.”

I raced outside, through the long grass to the bottom of the garden. With a howl, I sank down onto the earth. I clutched my shirt to my face, and pounded the ground with my fist, whimpering with bitter tears.

~ ~ ~

The signs for lost relations in Ueno Plaza were all peeling in soggy strips from the bronze statue of Saigo Takamori. The shoeshine boys were playing catch as I smoked a newspaper cigarette. Last year, there'd been signs everywhere, I remembered. Scrolls unfurling from every wall and notices tacked to every telegraph pole. One night in winter, a bunch of kids had gone around tearing them all down. They'd brought them up here in piles and lit a huge bonfire, dancing around the flames and whooping as the names and addresses and hopeless messages all turned black and went up in smoke.

I was so lost in thought, that I didn't notice the policemen until the very last moment. There was a flash of blue, and then they pounced. One clouted my spine with a bamboo stave and I sprawled on the ground in agony. A boot landed on my head, pressing my face into the gravel, and my arms were jerked up behind my back, making tears spring into my eyes.