Hiroshima in the Morning (2 page)

Hotel rooms in Tokyo are so small you can’t turn over in your bed without knocking your shampoo into the sink.

Identically suited salary men surge forth like lemmings every day for a fifty minute lunch.

Before I land, I should at least know how many islands Japan has, and what they are called.

Five hours down. Seven hours and six months to go.

I AM WALKING IN SHINJUKU STATION. Me and Ellen and the one million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-eight other people who come through this place every day. And as much as I loathe the thought of being a wide-eyed tourist, this is not, and never could be, a train station.

It is Oz.

It is miles of shopping. Kiosks, salons, restaurants, boutiques, pharmacies, grocery stores, bookstores—stores within stores, on top of stores, kitty-corner to other stores. I tick them off, each as marvelous as the one that will come next: I can get a cell phone here; a toy; envelopes for weddings, funerals, and birthdays; perfume; a
happi
coat; wine from France. Anne Klein is underground, right next to agnès b. And for those passengers returning from Kyoto who haven’t yet bought a gift for everyone they know, there are sweet, folded
yatsuhashi
in sets from six to forty-eight. They sell art here—actual paintings in the subway. But of course, this is not the “subway.” This is wide, bright, incredibly
clean. There are no homeless people here, and all the smells are good.

These are my thoughts as Ellen strolls beside me. It’s my second day, a day of rain in Tokyo, and I’ve been brought here because, here, I can gawk all day and never get wet. It’s not that the city is strange, not exactly, not in the way of being unimaginable or never before seen, but still, I seem to be having a hard time filtering. In my rush to understand, to label and characterize—in my excitement—I’ve lost even the basics of perspective because, in the same way I might experience the sun moving across the sky, Tokyo has become a parade. I’ve walked from the train station itself to Takashimaya, and then through a second department store, over a covered bridge piped with American pop tunes, to a Kinokuniya bookstore with an excellent collection of English-language fiction, all without going outside. Now, back in the general perimeter of the train station, I’m still ticking off the floats: this one is the basement of yet another department store, where Ellen can buy some beef for her stroganoff dinner.

Stroganoff as a gift from the hostess, perhaps. A reminder, for me, of home. It was one of the few dishes my mother used to make, the kind with cream of celery soup in a can, that went along with the green beans and fried onions in a can, the boxed Jell-O, the short list of food from the 1950’s. My memories maroon me: the green beans especially, and the three-tiered gelatin mold that was featured at every Thanksgiving with my mother’s side of the family, the one with the cream cheese layer that no one ever ate.
There are few occasions to think of such things anymore. I’m still unused to the silence that ushers in the subject of my mother, or the irony that she resides more and more in my memory even though she is still alive.

Every time Ellen asks about my parents, I add a few more trifles to my standard response. By now, I am used to evasion, perhaps even good at it. Since my mother’s illness became apparent, I haven’t had the occasion to spend so much time with someone who knows her, a friend who could pick me out instantly at the customs gate in the airport—me, the differently shaded replica of my mother—and who would hug this stranger to her as a long-lost child. Ellen will give up five full days of her life for me, to take me every single place I need to go, want to see, or might like to experience if only I knew it existed. She merely smiles when, on my first day in her small suburban neighborhood, we must stop three times on the way to the train station to take pictures of narrow two-block-long side streets because there are signs outside the shops with kanji on them; we snap picture after picture of one or the other of us standing in front of shrines smaller than a bedroom, which must be captured on film to send back to New York for my children since they have never seen these curving, organic roof lines tucked under like a turtle shell, tipped up like the wings of a bird. Roofs with snakes’ scales, edged in armor, fish dancing on their bones, cranes sleeping on the mossy, wooden ribs that fan out above them. These animals whirl in my head—who knows why one is here and not the other?—and if I don’t capture them now, there may never be another
chance. Ellen indulges me without once mentioning how ridiculously small my vision is. It’s her pleasure to care for the poor foreign child who doesn’t speak Japanese . . . But I am not a child. I’m a thirty-seven-year-old mother who should be equipped; who should have left my home once in a while; who should not still need a mother—and even though I say I don’t, and Ellen says of course I don’t, it’s still more than nice to put off that moment when I must determine which “
. . . mutter mutter gozaimasu
” means this is where I’m supposed to get off the train. If it was a bit of a shock that, after three months of language study, I was finding it impossible to guess where individual words begin and end in both written and spoken Japanese, it was at least a perfectly acceptable reason to be coddled . . . until Ellen assured me that she doesn’t speak Japanese either.

In Tokyo, I am beginning to realize, you don’t
need
to speak a word of Japanese.

The young woman at the J-phone shop wearing blue contact lenses speaks English. The hawkers on the streets in front of the nightclubs do, too—and many of them are do-rag adorned, Fubu-wearing African American men whose very existence suggests that genuine hip-hop style will rub off on all who enter there. Every building and storefront in Roppongi has English on it: WELCOME, BIG SALE, LUNCH SPECIAL, HEAD STORE, STARBUCKS. Every restaurant has an English menu you don’t even have to ask for. Of course, Ellen can buy beef in a department store basement. She can spend fifty dollars on one hundred grams of meticulously marbled meat, she can spend twelve dollars on a peach. Beneath the
layers of the latest New York and Paris fashions, she can peruse a kaleidoscope of sustenance, from jellyfish to pancake mix, all without a word of Japanese.

It isn’t the gift of borrowed translation, then, that I’m relaxing into. It’s the possibility that life here might be possible. And if I am not aware of it yet, if to be aware of it would mean admitting my fear—which is precisely what all my intense and dogged efforts to ignore the fact that I was going to Japan were designed to obscure—still, I can feel a loosening. As I watch Ellen select her groceries with no task more unusual than placing her bread on a plastic tray in the bakery section; as Ellen smiles at the cashier and takes the bags she needs to pack up her own items after she pays, all without actually speaking to the girl behind the conveyor belt who seems to be effusively thanking us for visiting the store, I can allow myself to acknowledge my journey. I am here, in Japan, and it
is
an odd, crazy place; it
is
halfway around the world, the farthest point on the globe from my real life, but there’s no reason to be nervous. I don’t have to learn anything to get along here, about them or about myself. I don’t have to change or find myself lacking—Japan has accommodated me, and long before my arrival.

This is going to be easy—that’s what I think. Walking next to Ellen, on our way to make some stroganoff, I can clearly envision how simple the next six months are going to be.

AUNT MOLLY SAW THE CITY when it was not. She told me about it the first time we met, but I wasn’t listening. And my deafness then—almost eight years ago now—is the reason I’ve come to Japan.

Molly arrived in Hiroshima in 1946. Too late to see the lily of the valley lamps that hung in telescoping arches over the Hondori shopping arcade, or the men in creased black suits and bowler hats, or the ladies they escorted. Ladies who trailed hems of flowers around their covert ankles, who were replaced by workers scurrying in
monpe
pants; men who were never replaced but simply disappeared. Too late for the bomb, for the sea of fire, the endless bed of concrete stones. My great-aunt was one of the few Americans who ever saw the burned-out city, but by the time she got to Hiroshima, people were already building shelters on the small plots of the wasteland where their homes had stood. Where their brothers and sisters had been incinerated. Where they’d returned to gather their mothers’ gleaming bones.

In those days, if you hiked even a short distance up the mountains that ring the Ota River delta, you could still get a clear view through the ghost of what once was Hiroshima, miles away to the shore of the Inland Sea. But there was already a black market where people sold what they had, and bought what they could, and ate dog meat without caring what it was. There were soldiers (albeit Australian and
English because the Americans were being housed in radiation-free zones) giving chocolate to begging orphans with the stock benevolence we have all come to recognize from the movies. Hiroshima was manageable by then—if not a city, then still a place. If not alive, then at least no longer dying.

Or maybe she wasn’t too late. Molly’s children still remember joining the peace marches in Berkeley while they were in strollers, or at least old enough to cling to them, or to cling to the high hand of their angry and determined mother as the people on the sidewalks screamed “Commie go home.” They remember the antinuke meetings, the visit from the Hiroshima “maidens”—young, crippled, disfigured women who were sponsored by the Quakers to endure months of surgery to reduce their scars and repair the damage. They remember playing in the other room to avoid seeing rare footage of the wreckage that one of the antinukes got their hands on: even glimpsing it through a doorway would give Molly’s daughter nightmares for years. When I first went to California to interview my mother’s aunt, more than fifty years after the bombing, Molly was full of Hiroshima, haunted and desperate to get it out. She wanted to break the silence.

But I didn’t want to hear.

This is what haunts me now: How could I have come into adulthood in America without knowing about the atomic bombings? Once I was faced with a family member who’d actually been there, how could I have chosen to ignore? Perhaps I was afraid of the tremble that came into Molly’s voice
when she talked about it, or of exposing my own ignorance. I found it much easier to stick to the topic I’d come to discuss: the internment camps, where Molly and the rest of my mother’s family had been banished during World War II. That was a wartime embarrassment I was familiar with—the makeshift barracks in the desert where the US put its own ethnically Japanese citizens—an episode I had control over by having already spent a year exploring its limits and parameters. My first novel was inspired by my mother’s discovery that she herself had been interned as a child, and my fantasies about what secrets and safeties such a silence might contain. Aunt Molly may, at that point, have been one of the few people still alive who had lived the unique Japanese American triptych of the internment, the American occupation of Japan and the atomic bomb aftermath, but I didn’t know that. The interview with her was one of the last I was doing to wrap up a book that had already taken shape. That was the truth: I had come with one topic, and couldn’t allow my aunt to stray too far from it. The bomb was too risky to conceive of. It was too big a world.

But then, when so much time had passed that I could no longer vouch for a single detail of my meeting with Aunt Molly, I started having nightmares of my own. I was walking through an atomic wasteland. Fires burning, buildings at my feet. I had lost something; I was searching—I was walking on ashes through a place where I’d lived, that should have been familiar, but which would never again hold the things I loved, or even resemble the world I once knew.

I didn’t know what I was looking for in my nightmares,
only that I never found it. I woke with a fist in my chest, and an awareness that, of course this had something to do with Hiroshima, but also with my mother. I was embarrassed at knowing nothing, at ignoring my mother’s recollections of a time when she herself had been in Aunt Molly’s living room avoiding the “crazy peace people” with her cousins, so this was my mother’s history too, however glancing, that I had lost.

A memory, then, from that interview: my great-aunt, single girl in her twenties, in a shiny black car with the doctors. They are going house to house; they are visiting the mothers of stillborn babies. Molly is a file clerk for the Americans, or a statistician, but she can also be an interpreter. She can ask the grieving mothers for the details—where were you when the bomb dropped?

She can ask for the body of the dead baby.

I remember her every word, “I thought we were helping.”

When she found out—and how did that happen?—that she was the enemy, that the US government was classifying all that information so no one could fully understand what the bomb did, that they were offering no help and no medical care—and here begins the outrage—that’s when she became a peace activist.

I am almost sure that’s what Molly told me. I had no other source of information, so it had to come from her.

But when I returned—just over a year ago, surrounded by silence, suffocating—to really listen to her story . . .

Molly had finally forgotten.

“
T
hat trip to Japan was the highlight of my life. I’m not sure why I decided to go. I wanted to see it, and on some level I knew I was doing something unique that had some historical value. But any young person going out and traveling, even if there isn’t a war, is going to be changed.

“You see how other people are living, and how they look at things differently. They have different concepts. I was changed in that way. But the biggest thing was, I realized that I was not Japanese. That no matter what I went through in America, being evacuated—that was terrible—I was shocked that the Japanese Americans were being put into those camps because I really believed what I had learned in civics class, that if you were an American citizen, you were born with certain rights. I mean, I really believed that, and the next thing I knew, I was behind barbed wire. And it made me question—I mean there I was, a teenager, singled out and put in a camp—it made me question whether I was a real American.