Yes, I believe [K]-san was Korean.
No, she never said as much, but she told me her parents had been conscripted workers, forced into the mines.
Her Japanese was flawless. But she would’ve been a little girl when she was forced to learn—
No, the women she lived with spoke with an accent.
Well, we didn’t ask their profession. They were terrified when we knocked, and we weren’t there to interrogate—
I suppose they could’ve been former—
[K]-san too could have been, as you say, a “comfort woman.” But, frankly, at that moment that wasn’t at the forefront of my mind—
No, I hadn’t a clue. We’d heard the term, some variation or another, but we assumed it was some sort of nurse corps. Of course, insinuations were made about “nurse corps,” but insinuations are always being made, aren’t they? It’s the sort of talk men enjoy over a cup, isn’t it? And even if we expected there to be…camp followers, we never imagined a whole system of…of…
…thank you, sexual slavery.
Yes, the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunals were going on then, but what with your Occupation censors, even with my husband’s connections, information was always second- or thirdhand. But I heard about a group of white women—Dutch, or half Dutch, I think they were, in Indonesia. That country was under the Dutch, wasn’t it? Before it was occupied by our men?
Yes, I believe the case was raised during the Tribunals, though I don’t think the case went anywhere. It was a male court—
Oh, I don’t know if anyone knew the extent, all those tens of thousands of women, but I believe the practice was known. Though with men, white men, in charge…Even when it concerned white Dutch—
When I first heard the testimonies? I couldn’t stop shivering. Those brave Korean women. To come forward like that. All these years later in front of the whole world. I kept wondering what [K]-san would’ve thought. Of course, I had to rely on subtitles and voiceovers—
<Laugh> You sound just like my son: “recolonization.” He especially abhors voiceovers. But what could I do? I hardly know Korean. To see their faces and hear all the things our soldiers, our military, had done…Then when I saw that interview…It was with a former Imperial Army man. He was recounting his war experiences. When the reporter asked him if he’d visited any of those “comfort stations,” you should have seen his face. It lit up like a little boy’s. He had nothing but fond memories. Can you imagine? It made me wonder what all your American soldiers—
Oh, yes, our circumstances were very different from the women who worked—
—I’m sorry, were enslaved at the comfort stations. Of course, I heard many of them were set up like brothels. Not that the women were paid—or that that should excuse the behaviors—
No, no, I don’t mean to suggest any were brothels—
But I’m not trying to “conflate” my situation. Though one wonders sometimes whether soldiers from one country are so different from another’s. Even now, wherever there are foreign soldiers, even peacekeepers…Your own troops in Korea, Philippines—
But, surely, this isn’t just a “national” issue or a “historical” one. Just last week there was that woman in Okinawa with an umbrella—
Didn’t you see it in your newspaper?
But it’s hardly an “isolated incident.” Why do you think there are so many protests—
Well, it’s not the only reason—there are the drunken hit and runs, the environmental destruction—
No, no, I’m not trying to “shift the blame.” Our government, our media, our own men—
Yes, I understand your specific mission, I understand you’re advocating—
Yes, that Okinawan woman was, as you say, a “professional.” But an umbrella.
No, I wasn’t a comfort woman, I know my country was the one that perpetrated—
But what are you doing? Where are you—
No, please don’t go.
Please, [K]-san was Korean; she was probably—
No, please. You must tell the world. You must tell our—
No, please. You must stop—
Please. Please, think of what [K]-san went through. Please, I promised her—I promised myself. You see, my son—her son—
Please!
I STAND ACCUSED,
I, JESUS OF THE RUINS
…am I not on target in calling him “the Jesus of the ruins”?
—ISHIKAWA JUN, “JESUS OF THE RUINS”
Q. Where were you on the afternoon of April 29, 1947?
The body, curled in the corner of the dusky room, was still, and the boy, equally still, stood peering at it as the afternoon light caught the lip of the blackout paper covering the window. Outside, businesses had reopened, and he could hear the tinkle of the shop bells, the chime of the tills, the mundane sounds that used to pepper his world before the bombings and the Surrender and now the Occupation. Somewhere in the building, a press was running, its muffled clicks and clacks stapling the air. Behind him, the doorway stood agape, the dark corridor running past it, and someone stepped into it, trailing the smell of hot ink and paper. The boy turned, a slow tropistic pivot, the hairs on his neck standing on end: Furukawa.
WITNESS #1: SATO
TOKYO METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT, APRIL 29, 1947, 18:00
I know the kid. Met him downtown by what they call Little America about seven months ago. I was with Kiyama, the one you brought me in with. I had business at the CCD, the Occupation’s censorship detachment—I work for a publisher, though nowadays that means paging through what magazines we still put out, excising what’s “noncompliant” with the American censors. Which is pretty much anything related to the war and the Occupation, which is the most relevant topic, if you ask me. At least I’m not in film, all those retakes Kiyama’s got to do because the Yanks want evidence of their presence expunged. First of all, they’re everywhere, and second, we’re talking down to the tiniest blip of a plane. Now that’s true censorship. Makes you wonder what’s changed; we had high hopes for this democracy. And you wonder why everyone’s flocking to us Commies? Who else is fighting for our rights, our freedoms, the direction of our future?
So, we were in Little America. Afterward we swung by an izakaya, our old haunt from before this mess. Mama there used to feed us for free around exam times. Best noodles, hands down. Only reason we got into university. That night we’d just left Mama’s when we saw two Yanks kicking the shit out of this kid. They were in their browns—probably just got off patrol—but they’d had a few, and, like I said, we’d come from Mama’s, we’d had a drop or two ourselves, and you know Occupation life. Kowtowing day in and day out like someone snapped your spine. Now don’t get me wrong, we’re not violent, just ’cause we’re Party members—not all of us Commies are radical, you know that, right? We saw the Yanks, we rushed in, we ended up with the kid, face like a plate of soft vegetables. We dragged him back to the shelter you picked us up at, nursed him for days, and the first thing he says? I thought heaven would be nicer. Could’ve clocked him right back to where he came from. What I’m saying is, he’s a kid. He doesn’t plot and plan. He does things for love. Her name? Why should I tell you that? You brought me in to ask about the kid. I’m telling you: he’s no schemer. No murderer. You think that kid can overpower a man? He looks thirteen.