“One thing Tomita needs to realize is that it’s not Japan, but us men, who were defeated.”
“You men have certainly made a mess,” his wife agreed, suppressing a smirk.
“That’s right,” a woman standing near them piped up. “All men do is make war.”
“And lose it too,” another chimed in.
“I heard they’re opening the government to women. Pretty soon women will be running this country,” a man behind Masaharu said.
“Lucky for you; you’ll never lose another war ’cause we won’t make any,” a third woman cracked to the others’ approval.
Masaharu wondered what these women would be saying if Japan had won the war; victors could justify anything, and hadn’t they thrown themselves into the war effort just months before? The man behind him clucked but didn’t reply.
His wife said, “Didn’t we all contribute to this war? I certainly didn’t do enough to prevent it.”
A silence descended over the car, the train’s rhythmic clatter unpleasantly marking their progress. Of course she was right; unlike most, he and his wife had at least done their part, boycotting send-offs, contesting propaganda news, but in the end these were small individual acts with no collective reach. If his wife and son hadn’t been a factor, Masaharu would’ve also kept writing, handcopying his exposés and distributing them himself; once upon a time, not so long ago, his name had carried weight. Ultimately, though, he’d never been convinced jail was a useful option, and now, knowing Tomita’s ordeal, he had to admit he didn’t regret this concession.
Surprisingly, it was the panpan prostitute in the Western-style dress who broke the silence. “But we were deceived, weren’t we? We were tricked by the Emperor.”
The elderly woman shrank at the blasphemy, but the others murmured their assent. Even the Occupation authorities pushed this logic: they, the Japanese, were simply misguided children in need of a little reeducation, this time to obey the American Father. A thoroughly colonial attitude, thought Masaharu.
“Well, if we were all deceived, we’re one stupid country, aren’t we? No wonder we lost the war.” This time it was the tea peddler with the small child who spoke, once again attuning them to the train’s fitful clatter.
The doors rattled open. Masaharu gripped his wife’s seat. A few passengers pushed their way out as more squeezed in, among them two GIs who, despite the Occupation’s segregation rules, had apparently decided to experience native life. Unlike those who strutted around like roosters, at least this pair seemed well-meaning, if revved by the thrill of disobedience.
“Kunichiwa,” they said, their well-fed faces flushed with optimism. “How are you today? My name is Jim,” one said, looking at a group of schoolgirls. “What’s your name?”
Several women tittered. The men turned away. A ropy silence hung in the air, low grumbles of displeasure rising. “Name?” The soldiers extended their hands. “Nah-meh?”
The schoolgirls giggled nervously. The man behind Masaharu clucked again. “They occupy our country; do they have to occupy our car too?”
“Maybe their car’s full,” a woman said.
“Ever see more than five or six in their car?” the man retorted.
“They’re just kids,” someone else snapped.
And that was true, Masaharu thought, turning to his wife. That was the problem with war. “Kids know nothing about consequences—that’s what makes them useful in war. Even Seiji—” He swallowed his words; Seiji wasn’t a topic they mentioned freely. The last time he’d slipped up they’d ended up pointing fingers at each other with a viciousness that had alarmed them. He glanced at his wife, expecting the doleful smile he found especially withering.
His wife, though, was gazing out the window, the platform beginning to glide; wrapped in sunlight, she didn’t appear to have heard him. Masaharu wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Something about the way she was sitting, inert and strangely vacant, she looked exactly the way she’d looked when she returned from work that October evening four weeks ago, like a marionette on idle strings, and the memory of how close he’d come to shaking her flashed through his brain. He’d been careful to remove himself then, gently sliding the paper doors behind him.
“Let me see that handkerchief again,” he said.
She handed it to him. Shortage had brought a new edge to her face, the kind of sharpness he might have mistaken for hardness if he didn’t see her hands, white with nervous pressure. She’d long since mastered her body, but here it was betraying her. Years ago, when the first kenpeitai underlings raided their home, she’d almost undone the family with her hands. Fortunately the soldiers were too green to notice, but it was the first time Masaharu had understood how much his dissidence was wearing on her. He looked at her hands again. What had they been doing that October night? She’d sat at the table, legs folded on the tattered hassock, her face frozen in a stare. But her hands? He wiped his face with the handkerchief.
At the front of the car, a schoolgirl stepped forward. Fist on her hip, she regarded the soldiers with teacherly impatience. “Nah-mah-eh. Kon-nichi-wa,” she said.
The soldiers exchanged a glance. “Nahmeh! Kunichiwa!” they said, grinning.
“Nah. Mah. Eh. Kon. Nichi. Wah,” the girl repeated.
“Nahmeh! Kunichiwa!” the soldiers cheered.
A loud bang stilled the air as someone punched the side of the car. “Think this is a game? Think you’re welcome here? Go back to where you belong.” The words were in Japanese, but the tone was clear, and for a moment the soldiers’ faces wavered with teenage panic, but their bodies hardened, their hands gripping their rifles. Masaharu felt his wife tense. She was a small woman, her seat sufficiently hidden in the rear of the car, but he moved to shield her anyway. The soldiers trained their eyes on the crowd. “What’d you say?” the one called Jim shouted. The tea peddler bounced her stirring child. The car swelled with apprehension as the soldiers spoke to each other, their rapid back-and-forth reminding everyone of how decisions were made these days: from on high and in a language as inaccessible as their own Emperor’s had been.
“Hey America!” A man stood up. He had the face of someone who, in his youth, had probably carried a little flesh with charm. “Haro! Monay? Gaaru? Chocoraito? Ingurishu prease!” He cupped his ear in humorous apology.
The soldiers swiveled to look at him.
“Ingurishu?” the man tried again.
The soldiers did not move.
“Oh-rai, oh-kay.” The man wiped his upper lip. “USA!” He pumped a thumbs-up.