Forged In Fire: Stories of wartime Japan

Escape to Kyushu (Part 1)

As the bombing became more frequent, Grandmother, Auntie and Sadakazu reached a decision that Tokyo was becoming too dangerous. Grandmother had a sister who was married to a farmer in Kyushu, a rural southern island located just off of the mainland. We packed up and moved there.

As we rode a train that connected the mainland to Kyushu, we stared out the windows at the surrounding landscape. Images of the countryside flashed past us and soon changed into the dark, subway-like insides of a tunnel. Auntie proudly explained to me that many men had died constructing an underground tunnel so that the train could move through the water without stopping.

We were all exhausted from stress and malnutrition but what we did not realize at the time was that Auntie was gravely ill. As soon as we arrived at Kyushu, she spent most of her time in bed. She had loved her aunt — Grandmother's sister — more than Grandmother herself. In turn, her aunt and uncle had loved Auntie like a daughter and welcomed her.

It was not until after her death that my brothers and I found out that "big sister" had actually been our aunt. Tadashi was happy when Auntie died - his tormentor was gone.

Auntie was buried in casket shaped like a barrel. In Kysuhu, caskets were round rather than long and rectangular. Bodies were carefully placed into them in a kneeling position. I watched as Auntie's uncle and three other men jogged in place and shook out their arms as they prepared to carry the heavy casket. Using two strong wooden poles that were attached to the casket, they slowly lifted it onto their shoulders, two in front and two behind. They chanted a Shinto prayer and began walking down the path toward the burial site. I did not follow them.