I did not not trust him, my eyes wandering from the scrap of paper he’d apparently followed here to the gaunt face lowered in a deferential manner rarely seen these days. Gripping his satchel, he spoke politely, and as flooded as I was with questions, I did not immediately ask them, his presence like a beaten dog’s, weary and shamefaced, his whole shrunken person so darkened by what I assumed was the tropical sun that he appeared like a photographic negative backlit against the bright street. Instead, I told him that Yasushi hadn’t returned from the war, and though Murayama’s eyes flashed at this news, he never once attempted to peer past the wooden gate I had opened just wider than a crack despite my husband’s parting caution each morning, and after a moment I found myself leading him into the front room, excusing myself to rummage for some tea leaves and a small bowl of millet noodles, which was more than I could offer. Whatever this man could tell me about our son I wanted to know—or so I told myself. Turning him away was unbearable.
The paper was brown, shiny with wear, and I resisted looking at it as I poured the tea, embarrassingly weak, and urged the noodles, taken from my evening portion, toward him. In this room, softly lit by the midday sun sifting through the osmanthus tree rustling outside the sliding glass doors, he seemed less shrunken than coiled, his muscles humming with such nervous energy I began having second thoughts. Calculating the time I had before my husband’s return in the evening, I focused on how I should nudge him out. For even then I knew I would keep the visit to myself. In retrospect, I can only say that it was a guarding instinct at work, though I cannot say for whom.
Murayama did not speak right away. Instead he gazed around the room, bare now except for the pale ornamental vase my husband had sent from Harbin during his tenure there. Like everything else, I did not expect the vase to stay, its delicate color soon to be given up for a sack of grain or a few stalks of vegetables, but for the moment it cheered the room, its quiet shape attracting the eye and settling the soul, though it did not seem to have this effect on Murayama. Seeing that he’d withdrawn into himself, I got up and slid the glass doors open.
The air outside was still, the sky abuzz with cicadas clamoring as though to convince everyone it was summer, a hot one, to be appeased only by kites and watermelons, both of which had been conspicuously missing from the season for some time. In fact it was hard to believe it was already July, almost a year since surrender, and yet the stream of returning soldiers and refugees seemed only to be increasing, bringing new hopes and difficult tidings to those in perpetual waiting. Until now, I had been repeating to myself that even if Yasushi had survived, he may not want to return to this house he’d once found so intolerable as to run away. But now? I sat back down and glanced again at the creased paper placed at the edge of the low lacquered table.
Murayama, for his part, seemed to have forgotten me, and again I urged the tea and noodles toward him. To my surprise, he met my gaze. This man, this soldier, knew Yasushi, and the knowledge, like a sudden clap, shifted the curtain of air between us, and for a moment I could feel my son’s presence, his shape, his face, almost visible, until Murayama moved, and the moment released itself.
Picking up his chopsticks, Murayama bowed and began to eat, chewing the noodles, sipping the broth, his movements measured as though heeding the advice of someone who’d once told him to slow down, eat with care, and he confessed as much, explaining that his mother had enforced it. “The good thing is it helps with the hunger,” he said, adding that the last time he’d eaten properly was two days ago, when he discovered that his home, indeed most of Nagoya, had been razed by the firebombs.
“Did you find your family?” I asked, blotting my face with my handkerchief.
Murayama looked away. He’d searched for them in the shanties that had cropped up in the ruins, but nobody had seen or heard from them. “That’s when I decided to make my rounds, see who I could find. Shizuoka was the closest, so I came here. I didn’t think I’d find you—seems like this city too went the way of Nagoya.” He glanced about appraisingly this time, taking in the vase, the wall, the view of the narrow garden. The house, unrefreshed for years, felt indecently opulent.
I dabbed my face again. “These are troubled times—I appreciate you coming all this way. Yasushi would be upset he missed you.” Again I caught that flash in his eyes. I quickly went on. “Did you know each other long?”
Murayama explained they’d started out in different units. “As the war went on and we lost more people, units got merged. I was stationed in Luzon. That’s where I met Tanaka—I mean, that’s what your son called himself: Tanaka Jirō. I don’t know if you were aware.” His gaze slid toward me.
Tanaka Jirō. It was a name I recognized. It belonged to the kenpeitai officer who’d once come to this house to interrogate my husband about his “antipatriotic” views—an unimaginative catchall accusation the government launched at whomever it fancied, even a respected doctor like my husband. That Yasushi had hung on to the name—this was a shock; he’d been so little, and we never spoke of it. But Yasushi and my husband had always had their differences. Still, it was a cruel snub. “Murayama-san, please excuse me. We’ve had no idea about Yasushi’s whereabouts since he ran away from home seven years ago. He was only in high school, but he was committed to serving, so we assumed he’d found a way to enlist, even without my husband’s consent. We made inquiries, of course, but found no trace of him. Now I know why. Did he say why he chose that name?”
Murayama, listening keenly, shook his head. He explained that the two of them had spent only the three months they were stationed in Luzon together. “Just before we were deployed, I got pulled from my unit because I had mechanical skills they wanted to retain. I went straight to my commander—I asked to go with them.”
“But you were kept back,” I said, my voice thin.
Murayama nodded. “When I knew I was staying behind, I offered to, you know, take care of anyone’s effects, if it came to it. At first Tanaka wasn’t interested, said he had no one he needed to send anything back to. But the next day, after they were gone, I found that.” He gestured at the paper.
The revelation struck me, its bluntness leaving no room for interpretation: as far as Yasushi was concerned, he’d severed himself from us. But the implied subtext was worse. “What kind of mission was this? When was it?”
Murayama shifted in his seat. “Two years ago. The unit was assigned to garrison an island. Given the state of the war…”
“And you never heard anything? There was no news?”
Murayama lowered his gaze. “I got shipped out right after. Last I heard, they’d lost contact. But that doesn’t mean anything,” he added. “Strange things happen all the time.”
This was no doubt true—it was the source of so much painful hope—but my fears seemed confirmed. I began to shake.