Childhood Account of WWII: By, Setsuko Kato
When I was about the age you are now [Erik, CoevalBlog Admin], Japan was at war with America. The war had been carrying on for far too long, and it seemed obvious to me that it would never be won, even as a young girl. I’m sure it’s hard for people who see me now as an old Obaa-san to imagine that I once had a youthful face. But I digress. Our nation was weighed down by the idea that the gods were on our side, that what we were doing was divine and right. Everyone, not just the army but everyone I knew, was committed to do anything they could to help the war effort until the bitter end. I decided with some young girlfriends of mine that the best way in our power to help would be to bake cookies and bring them to the local Air Force base. We marched down to the gate of the base, all looking very cheerful in our little school uniforms. I walked at the front, holding a basket of cookies by my side.
The guard at the gate was a young man who was probably about seventeen years old. When he saw us approach, he unslung his rifle from his shoulder, wielding it menacingly with shaking hands. He barked at us to go away, the area was off limits to civilians. Undaunted, I held the basket of cookies at arms length. I asked if he could please deliver our baked goods to the soldiers inside. He paused for a moment, his rifle still, then broke out laughing. ‘Wait here,’ he told us. He came back with the First Lieutenant’s invitation for us to join them for some tea.
What a picture we must have made! Three young school-girls, sitting on the floor with a dozen grave-faced military men in their crisp green Air Service uniforms. The First Lieutenant bowed and introduced himself as Koji Nakamaru. He was a very handsome older gentleman with a weary sort of bravery about him. We drank tea and talked about how we were doing in school, and what an unseasonably hot spring we were having. My friends and I had baked traditional o-sembei rice cookies, each of us drawing from her allowance of rations.
Each of the military men in the room took one cookie in his hand and ate it silently, in small bites. Some men even closed their eyes, chewing slowly and nodding as though in agreement. Nakamaru-san thanked us and told us to please, come back whenever we wished. He and all of the men bowed low, and we were escorted to the gate.
I did come back several times. Sometimes my friends came too, sometimes I was alone. Sometimes we brought o-sembei cookies, and sometimes we would just drink tea and chat. Nakamaru-san and I grew to be good friends. He was a poet, and his men would gather eagerly at the end of each week to drink rice wine and listen to the verses he wrote. He had a wife and a daughter, about my age, living in Sendai. He confided in me that, although he was as diligent a soldier as you’re likely to meet, he had been opposed to the war from the day we invaded Manchuria, and had spoken out against it several times. He told me that he was raised as a Christian.
And at last, he told me why so many of the men on the base seemed so humorless. He had tried once to convince his Colonel that this was a hopeless war, and that it was only bringing suffering to the home island. The colonel listened attentively, and left without a word. One week later, the order came to the base designating their unit Shimbu-tai, a specialized division. They were given orders that by the end of summer, they were to learn the piloting of the Yokosuka MXY-7 Ohka, the kamikaze plane.
Spring turned to summer and without classes to study for, I came to visit more often. Nakamaru-san encouraged me privately to spend my free time studying English. He told me that even though Japan was superior to China and America in every single way, such a small country simply did not have enough people to hold Manchuria or the Pacific Islands for long. In a few years, he said, this war would end. Japan had done irreparably arrogant things, he said. I would be better off leaving the mainland for the coast of California.
When the Matsuuri festival season came, my parents gave me a gift of plum wine to bring to the soldiers for celebration. The Air Service men were gathered inside, sitting rigidly on the floor in their traditional Kimono. Nakamaru-san didn’t even smile to me when I came in, he just gave me a small wave. I felt awkward, gangly as I passed him the bottle of plum wine. He smiled a little, and thanked me.
He told me that word had come from Tokyo. They were to fly their mission off the coast of Palau in one week.
He put his hand on my shoulder and thanked me for coming to see him. He told me that my friends and I were like a small ray of sunlight opening in to a stormy time of their lives. I was stunned. Wasn’t there something that could be done? Couldn’t he just fly to America, or join a monastery?
“Shikata ga nai,” he said, and smiling at me, said goodbye.
I sobbed the whole walk home, and was despondent for days. Five days later, while my parents were away working, I shook myself out of depression and made up my mind that I was going to go back. I would bow to Nakamaru-san, and give him a proper, final goodbye.
I rode my bicycle as quickly as I could, but hit a rock on the dirt road leading towards the base and blew the air out of my tire. And so I walked, for four miles, pushing the heavy bicycle by my side. When I got there, the young man with the rifle was missing and the gate to the base was swinging open. The officer’s building where I usually met with Nakamaru was empty. I found him finally with the rest of the Air Service men, huddled together in the barracks. They were crowded around a radio.
I called out to him, and they all turned. Several of the men had tears streaming down their faces.
Emperor Hirohito had spoken on the radio for the first time, they told me. He had said that to fight against the terrible new bomb would bring an end to Japan, and to the world. He had said that the war was over. That they would go home alive.
Mr. Nakamaru and I remained close friends for the rest of his life. Even when I moved to California I would still visit him every few years at his rural home during early spring, when the cherry blossoms were in bloom. We never talked of the war, or any such serious and sober things. We would go to the restaurant he opened to have a light meal and a bottle of beer. We would chat lightly, go for walks, and laugh in the shadow of old trees that will outlast us all.
Leave a Comment