Yes, she was our go-between. Several Americans spoke Japanese, but we rarely—
We did like her; [A]-san was a helpful woman.
Yes, there were people who disliked her, but there are always people who dislike others, aren’t there? And given her proximity to the Americans—
We did. We trusted her. As much as anybody could trust anybody in those days. We were all so needy, you know; it wasn’t always easy to discern—
Advantage? What do you mean—
Oh. No. No, no. [A]-san wasn’t a liaison <laugh>. That office wasn’t a back door to—
Well, now that you mention it. About a month after I started, I found a piece of paper. I was, as they say, sleuthing <laugh>, looking for information about the air raids. The paper was peeking from beneath the file cabinets. It had rows of our faces printed on it, our names below each.
It was in rÅmaji, in English script.
But we could read our names; we knew the alphabet—
At first I thought it was a roster. Some faces were crossed out, and I thought they were women who had left the job. Then, when I realized that most women were still there…
About half. Half the women were crossed out, and at the top someone had scribbled the word “moose.”
No, not the dessert; the animal <laugh>. Of course I didn’t know that then, and my first thought was to show [A]-san.
No, her face wasn’t crossed out.
Yes, she was very distraught, very unforthcoming. Eventually, she asked me if I’d noticed the American fondness for contractions.
<Laugh> I must have looked as baffled as you. Do you know the Japanese word for “girl”?
That’s right. Musume. Or musume-san, as the Americans liked to say. “Moose” was short for musume. They had a popular game they called Hunting for Moose.
Yes, Hunting for Moose.
Exactly, the paper was their tally sheet.
I suppose we knew things went on; most women were widows with small children and parents to support, and the soldiers…It wouldn’t be unfair to say they were here to enjoy a little—
There were twenty men in that office. Including the officer.
Yes, I believe they were all in on it.
[A]-san? She made me promise to keep it to myself. Not that there was any recourse, you understand. For some time, all I could think of were those faces, those terrible slash marks…
I assumed [A]-san disposed of the paper. Though sometimes…Well, it’s just that one morning, soon after the incident, I arrived at the security gate, and they wouldn’t let me through.
Oh, I don’t know if [A]-san had anything do with it. What could she gain—
Yes, I went back every day for a week, returning at various times to catch a familiar face. But no one would speak to me. And in the end, I couldn’t risk anybody’s job.
No, I never saw [A]-san. But it had always been that way. As though she never went in or out of that building. She was always there when I arrived, there when I left—
Oh, no, I don’t think she was in on it. Though it’s true: we all did what we had to. If one of them had told me they could find Seiji for me…
Yes, eventually, I met a recruiter.
He was Japanese. A policeman. Working with the Public Safety Association. He got the job because, as a policeman, he knew all the licensed and unlicensed women in his district.
Oh, yes, our government was eager for women—for a “people’s diplomacy,” they called it <laugh>. Our role was “to soothe foreign tempers and protect the purity of girls and women.” It goes to show, doesn’t it? They knew exactly what to expect, didn’t they? After all, they’d had plenty of experience, all those years setting up ways to cater to our own soldiers’…needs.
The recruiter? He was pleasant enough. He kept reassuring me of the cleanliness of—
Coerced?
Well, he never physically or verbally—
I suppose, yes, it was, as you say, my decision. But “voluntary” isn’t exactly—
Well, many women were, as you say, coerced. But “coerced” is such a…cunning word, isn’t it?
No, no, I don’t mean to trivialize—
But I never said I was coerced. On the telephone, I only told you—
But you agreed. You agreed to hear my story, my side—
* * *
*
I WAS fortunate; my shift was during normal hours. And my husband wasn’t the suspicious type—
Oh, no, I never told him. He was so frustrated in those days; he couldn’t find work, he’d already had a few run-ins with the American authorities. But he did follow me one day. Of course, one might have expected a journalist to be more discreet <laugh>. You should have seen the fuss he made at the doors. I was afraid he’d barge right in—
No, no, it was open only to white foreigners.
Yes, there were designated establishments for black soldiers.
Actually, some women preferred it. They claimed they were treated more…sympathetically, perhaps because of the soldiers’, you know, own plight—
Yes, two guards. They were there mostly to watch the line.
Oh, yes. From opening to closing. All the way around the building. They were usually keyed up too, drinking from first thing in the morning.
Fourteen of us. Though someone was always out sick.
Yes, we did; we had our own designated clinic.
No, they were Japanese. They were overseen by American doctors.
Oh, yes, every week. Why they didn’t insist on examining their own soldiers with equal—
Fifteen minutes or a half hour. Most soldiers chose the fifteen.
Forty yen. Can you imagine? Same as a pack of cigarettes.
On average? Between fifteen and twenty. One woman had more than thirty in a day. She was relieved when she was taken out for a course of penicillin.
Yes, for VD.
Well, of course, they were required. But we could hardly force them to put them on—
The first time? I never thought I’d make it home, my legs were so shaky. Every few steps I had to stop. And all the way home I bled and bled. And the pain. It was like giving birth all over again. The next day…Everything ached, my hips, my joints, and when I passed water, the sting of it…Eventually, we all found ways to…accommodate things, but I don’t think anyone got used to it. Some days we could hardly wash, we were so swollen, you know. And the feeling of seeping, as though everything were rotting out. I never felt clean, always as though it were infected with some terrible odor or disease. I’d wash and wash…