At the crosswalk, his wife paused, and Masaharu drew back from the window, knowing she’d sensed his presence. They were synchronized in this way, even more so than he and Seiji, who’d resembled each other, casting the same determined shadow when they walked or showing the same propensity for irritation when efficiency was thwarted. She’d connected to Seiji this way as well, the two of them orbiting each other as if their umbilical cord had never been cut. It was something Masaharu had cherished: his little family cell, his wife at the fulcrum keeping them in balance. He’d vowed to do everything he could to keep them intact, even if it meant a little personal compromise.
Masaharu reached for his jacket and cap. Patting his pockets for his keys, he closed the door and quietly descended the metal steps.
* * *
—
TO ACCOUNT for the unpredictability of the world, his wife had taken to leaving early, and she stood on the platform now, with over a half hour to spare, gazing out at the wooded hill studded with scaffolding twenty-five meters high, the framework for what was to become an enormous bust of the Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. Sixteen years ago, in 1929, a volunteer group had begun building the structure, only to be interrupted five years later when conflict with China became imminent. Like everything else, the Kannon, ally of the common people, was sacrificed for war. When Seiji was born, they’d taken the train from their home in Tokyo to visit Masaharu’s brother, an esteemed surgeon in Shizuoka, and glimpsed the construction from the train window. It seemed anachronistic to build such a monument at a time of such modernization and militarization, and they were moved. It was the reason they’d decided to come here to Ōfuna, this intact but unfamiliar city, three months ago, when they’d fled Tokyo after learning that a second “new type” bomb had razed Nagasaki. If the Americans were willing to obliterate a Christian city, Tokyo’s fate seemed sealed.
“I didn’t notice it before, but the Kannon was being built with Her back to Tokyo,” his wife had observed the day they arrived in Ōfuna, clutching their few belongings scavenged from the bombed-out ruins of Tokyo. “Pity they stopped Her construction—it’s a shame. I’m not surprised we’re being obliterated.” She gazed up at the abandoned scaffolding. “Our government certainly deserves nothing less than this. This defeat,” she said, the word popping like a rogue balloon.
Masaharu glanced about them. Defeat was surely imminent, but there was no telling who might be listening, even here in this noisy station crowded mostly with refugees like themselves. He took her arm and steered them toward an exit. “It’s not like you to be superstitious. If I didn’t know you, I’d think you were saying that if She’d been completed, if She’d been facing the right way, She wouldn’t have forsaken us.”
A prickly light gathered in her eyes. “The Kannon would never forsake us. She’ll never forsake her people. No matter which way Her back is turned.”
Her vehemence surprised him, and he quickly agreed. “The important thing is that we’re here—and we’re better off here,” he added, even though he knew Ōfuna was home to one of the country’s most brutal POW interrogation centers. Though he was unaware of any American or other white prisoners there, with defeat hanging around their necks, he didn’t want to consider the ramifications of living in proximity to such an institution. “Let’s see who we can convince to let us a room,” he said. But his wife, inconsolable, refused to brighten, even after they secured a room in a boardinghouse and slumped onto the tatami floor. For there was now no denying they were here. And as Masaharu sat with this thought, it dawned on him that what had upset his wife had perhaps been his word forsake. After all, it was she, Nishi Masako, who’d made the final decision to turn their backs on the raining bombs and pitted streets that had refused to yield even the bones of their only son.
Now, watching her wait for the train, Masaharu wondered what she saw in the ugly scaffolding. Did she see hope, the promise of redemption? Or only regret, the guilt of choosing to move on?
But his wife, a mask of serenity, betrayed only that the shade had begun to chill her.
* * *
—
THE TRAIN rattled to a stop. Masaharu pushed through the crowd to the car he saw his wife board. Would she sit or stand? Even thirteen years of marriage couldn’t help him predict that. He lowered his cap and slid into line, composing an explanation in case she happened upon him.
He spotted her right away, sitting at the opposite end of the car, her coat folded neatly on her lap, her cloth bundle perched above it like an oversized mikan. Darting behind a spindly but tall man, he took up his position, only to be jostled by a throng of katsugiya smugglers transporting rice on their backs. Cooing and swaying, they eddied around him, their precious bundles, convincingly wrapped in the kind of obuihimo his own mother had once used to carry him, pressing him down the aisle. Two more seats, and sure enough, his wife’s eyes fastened onto him.
“Are you on your way to Tomita-san’s?” she asked, amused by his contortions.
Masaharu grunted. Tomita Yoshiaki was a fellow journalist, a diehard Communist who’d been released from jail after the Allied Forces abolished the Peace Preservation Law once used by the government to suppress “unpatriotic activity.” Tomita, initially censured for questioning the legitimacy of the Japanese presence in Manchuria, had been arrested for criticizing Japan’s increasingly aggressive foreign policy. He was detained for ten years, a light sentence compared to the hundreds who’d been incarcerated for upwards of twenty. Masaharu took off his sweaty cap. “I forgot we were meeting today. On a Sunday,” he mumbled, grateful for the pretext.
“Tomita-san is a zealot. If you weren’t so busy brooding, we could’ve left together,” she said, handing him her handkerchief.
Masaharu wiped his face, ignoring her gentle jab. “Tomita needs to be careful. We don’t really know how open American-style democracy is.”
“I’m sure Tomita-san isn’t keen on returning to jail. Besides, he might have some job leads for you,” she said, turning to acknowledge a young woman who’d bumped against her while attempting to unscrew a canteen. She had a small child and a sizable bundle on her lap, the verdant fragrance of tea perfuming her. She bowed apologetically, including Masaharu in the gesture.
“Can I help you with that?” A woman facing them gestured at the canteen. She was wearing a Western-style dress and a pair of Western-style shoes, and her nails were painted a garish red. Oddly, she’d left her face bare, perhaps in consideration of this train ride, or perhaps simply to minimize hostility. The elderly woman next to her sniffed. She was clutching her own bundle, possibly some kimonos she hoped to barter on the black market. The tea peddler glanced about uncomfortably but handed over the canteen. Masaharu turned back to his wife.