Although living conditions were gradually improving in Japan, there were other hardships to bear. One time, Sadakazu came home in pain because an American soldier at the dock had beaten him severely on the back with a rifle butt. He lay in bed, hardly able to move. Sometimes he would cry from the pain. He eventually became sick with tuberculosis and a doctor had to perform surgery on his back, removing a couple of his ribs to access his lungs. Sadakazu recovered slowly but surely.
I was about fifteen years old when I took a job as a waitress at a military college that was being used by the Americans during the Occupation. A group of international officials were in Tokyo to judge the trials of war criminals including Prime Minister Hideki Tojo, the man who had been responsible for starting the war on America. Higher-ranking Japanese war criminals were being housed at the college instead of at Sugamo Prison, where lower-ranked criminals were kept.
My job was to bring trays of coffee or tea to the rooms where the prisoners were being held. I would place a pot of coffee or tea onto a tray, add some cups turned upside down, and carry the tray upstairs. After knocking on a door that would be opened by an MP guard, I would unload the tray and pick up any empty pots and cups and bring them back downstairs to the dining hall. It was a coincidence that I happened to be employed at the college during such an important time in history.
On the upper floor of the College there was a dining area where I also worked as a waitress. Only officers, their wives, and the international judges were allowed to eat there.
Once, as I was coming down the wide staircase, I saw an American soldier approaching below. He was in uniform, wearing a helmet, his pants tucked into his combat boots. He noticed me heading down so he paused and waited. Before I reached the floor, I stopped and moved aside to let him go by. Although a few steps below me, he was still taller than me.
He reached out and gently placed his hand on the back of my neck, gazing at me with a look of deep sadness and compassion. As I stood there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his hand, neither of us spoke a word. I sensed that he felt pity seeing someone so young working in such a situation. I wanted to tell him that it was not so bad working there. As we looked into each other's eyes, it felt as though our souls were speaking to each other. He finally let go and moved past me upstairs. I sensed that he was someone who might have had a younger sibling or child back home.
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Forged In Fire: Stories of wartime Japan
Non-FictionForged In Fire is the true story of a young girl's childhood in pre-WW II Tokyo; her schoolgirl dreams; the violence, starvation and desperation of wartime that drove her family out of the city; and the American Occupation that shaped Japan's future...
