This Scorching Earth Read online

  This

  Scorching

  Earth

  A NOVEL BY

  Donald Richie

  1 What am I doing here where my people unleashed the age of horror,

  2 Sowing the plague that will kill us all? Can I be loved?

  3 Is it possible this earth will not scorch the soles of my feet?

  4 Lord Buddha and Lord Christ, help me to walk lightly on this soil.

  —Lindley Williams Hubbell

  Published by

  Charles E. Tuttle Co.

  of Rutland, Vermont

  & Tokyo, Japan

  with editorial offices

  at Osaki Shinagawa-ku,

  Tokyo 141-0032

  All rights reserved

  Library of Congress

  Catalog Card No.

  55-10624

  ISBN: 978-1-4629-1280-3 (ebook)

  First edition

  January 1956

  Book design

  & typography

  by M. Weatherby

  Printed in Japan

  by Toppan Printing Co.

  Tokyo

  for

  Dick

  and

  Janie

  Larsh

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  This is a historical novel. That is, it is about something that really happened—the Allied Occupation of Japan. Most of the events and all of the characters, however, are creatures of my own imagination. The suspicious will search in vain to find themselves or people they actually knew. And yet, in the broader sense, I hope my history is true enough for all who experienced the event to say: This is it—this is how it was.

  This

  Scorching

  Earth

  TOKYO LAY DEEP UNDER A BANK OF CLOUDS WHICH moved slowly out to sea as the sun rose higher. Between the moving clouds were sections of the city: the raw gray of whole burned blocks spotted with the yellow surfaces of new-cut wood and the shining, felt-like tile of recently constructed roofs, the reds and browns of sections unburnt, the dusty green of scarcely damaged parks, and the shallow blue of occasional ornamental lakes. In the middle was the Palace, moated and rectangular, gray outlined with green, the city stretching to the horizons all around it.

  The smokes of household fires, of newly renovated factories, of the waiting, charcoal-burning taxis rose into the air, and in the nostril-stinging freshness of early autumn the bitter-yellow smell of burning cedar shavings blended with the odor of roasting chestnuts. In the houses bedding was folded into closets, and the mats were swept. Beneath the hanging pillars of the early-rising smoke there was the morning sound of night-shutters thrust back into the houses' narrow walls.

  Behind the banging of the shutters was the sound of wooden geta—the faint percussive sound of walking—and the distant bronze booming of a temple bell. Jeeps exploded into motion, and the tinny clang of streetcars sounded above the bleatings of the nearby fishing boats. A phonograph was running down—Josephine Baker went from contralto to baritone—and a radio militantly delivered the Japanese news of the day.

  A few MP's in pairs still strode the partly empty streets, and a single geisha, modest in bright red and rustling silk, hurried, knees together, to her waiting morning-tea. Greer Garson luxuriated, her paper face half in the morning sun, and a man dressed like Charlie Chaplin, a placard on his shoulders, began his daily advertising.

  In the alleys the pedicabs all stood motionless, and around the dying alley fires the all-night drivers yawned and warmed their hands both in the fires and in the morning sun. The early farmers led their horses through the city.

  An empty Occupation bus, with "Dallas" stenciled neatly on both sides, made its customary stops—the PX, the Commissary, the Motor Pool—but no one rode. The driver, in cast-off fatigues, smoked one of the longer butts from the several packets he had. An Occupation lady, very early or else very late, tried unsuccessfully to hail a passing jeep.

  The blank windows of the taller buildings now caught the rising morning sun and cast reflections—a silver flash of spectacles, a passing golden tooth, or the dead white of a mouth-mask. The food shops opened, and the spicy bitterness of pickled radish mingled with the soft and delicate putrescence of fish, mingled with the odors of the passing night-soil carrier, his oxen, and his cart.

  The rolled metal shutters of the smaller shops were locked, but before the open entrances of larger buildings MP's stood and waited, their white-gloved hands behind their backs, their white helmets above their white faces. They stood before the main Occupation buildings, opposite the Palace, across the street and moat—the gray Dai Ichi Building, the square Meiji Building, the tall and pale Taisho Building, and the squat Yusen. To the south rose the box-like Radio Tokyo and, in all directions, the billets of the Occupation. The American flag floated high above them all.

  The clouds had drifted out to sea, and the city lay beneath the sun. The pedicab drivers went home, and the carpenters began their work; the geisha sleepily sipped their tea, and the housewives served the morning soup. The railroads, holding the city in their net, brought more and more people into the stations and then returned to bring yet more. The sun and smoke rose into the air, and the radios shouted into the sky, while the streetcars rattled, and the auto horns honked, and the fishing boats cried, and the railroads filled up the city.

  The Saturday-morning train for Tokyo on the Yokosuka line left Yokohama Station precisely at six-thirty. At every station passengers had crowded on, and past Yokohama there was never any room. This did not bother Sonoko. She lived at Zushi, and the train, leaving precisely at six, was always half-empty. She could always sit next to a window, either studying her Basic GI English in 12 Simple Steps or just thinking. Her preference was for the latter, and as a consequence her English was not too advanced. This morning both pleasures were denied her, because Mrs. Odawara, from the house across the street, had taken the seat beside her. For half an hour they had talked of nothing but the party.

  "My, how lovely it will be," said Mrs. Odawara for the twelfth time. Sonoko had unwillingly invited both her and her family after the second time. Now Mrs. Odawara felt a proprietary interest and kept adding little touches here and there. "I'll bring some sushi, and we have some saké left—oh, no, it's no imposition at all."

  "My parents and I shall remain forever grateful," said Sonoko formally, wishing she had never breathed a word about the party to Mrs. Odawara. The thought of its finally occurring had made her talkative, had made her forget that people like Mrs. Odawara are always waiting to pounce upon extraordinary social occasions and make them their own. Since this was going to be so very extraordinary an occasion, she'd had no choice but to invite her.

  "But are there enough guests to do the American proper honor?"

  Any more and there wouldn't be room in the house. All of Sonoko's relatives—and now the Odawaras! This party wasn't going to be at all what she'd originally planned. It was to have been something intimate, comfortable, democratic, with only a few speeches by her father and a well-organized schedule of parlor games. Now she would rather not have the party at all. But it was too late. The invitation had been accepted; her father had bought an extra saké ration; her mother was assembling the ingredients for "mother-and-child"—a lovely dish which used both the egg and the chicken, to say nothing of frightening quantities of black-market rice—and her brother was cleaning the entire house.

  "Yes, there are enough people, I think," said Sonoko.

  "But you must remember your position with the Americans, dear Sonoko. This is an important occasion. This may well further your Career!"

  Mrs. Odawara knew all about careers, for she had had several. She had been an Emancipated Woman in the Taisho Era, and during early Showa had be
en one of the first suffragettes in the country. She wore lipstick and silk stockings right through the great Kanto earthquake, and often said so. Then she'd been married twice. She'd even had a divorce, of which she was intensely proud, even though it turned out later not to be legal. At present she was campaigning for birth control.

  Sonoko smiled and nodded politely. It might indeed help her career. Ever since she had begun to work for the Americans she had dreamed of becoming a career girl, American-style. In fact, the dream was already becoming true. Since getting the job with the Occupation she had begun to enjoy privileges at home which had never been hers as a schoolgirl. She was, to be sure, supplementing the family income, but that was not the real reason. It was that she was working for the Americans. There were a few Zushi girls who were employed by the nearby Military Government unit, but it was Sonoko alone who made the daily one-hour train trip to the city, and it was she who came back with stories of American kindness, generosity, and nobility which far surpassed those her high-school friends working for the MG could contribute.

  And that wasn't all. She had come back one day, for example, with the blouse and skirt, both brand-new from the PX, that Miss Gramboult had given her. The family had been highly gratified by this typically American bit of prodigality and could not admire the blouse enough nor too often finger the luxurious texture of the skirt. Her mother had clasped her hands in admiration, both of the clothing and of her child, and her father had spent far too much in obtaining a basket of ruddy apples to take to the kind American in return. The lovely Miss Gramboult had been so touched that she had actually kissed Sonoko, who thereafter did not wash that cheek for three days.

  "One never knows the results of such things," Sonoko answered politely. "It might well assist my career, or it might not."

  "Well, it certainly won't unless you put sufficient thought into it," said Mrs. Odawara. Her tone was not nearly so domineering as usual. She was thinking. Sonoko guessed that she was working at further party details, anxious to extract the last morsel of instruction and enjoyment from the American's visit.

  Everyone thoroughly misunderstood Sonoko's real purpose in inviting the American lady to her house. They all took for granted that she herself would derive eventual benefit from the visit. But to Sonoko that aspect made no difference whatever. It might have done so if the invited guest had been Miss Gramboult, who had already proved herself generous to an almost idiotic degree, or any other of the ladies in the hotel. But this guest was very special—it was Miss Wilson.

  Miss Wilson was more than her employer—she was her friend. Though Sonoko loved all the American ladies dearly, it was Miss Wilson whom she loved the most, even though, oddly enough, it was Miss Wilson alone who had given her no presents beyond the usual Saturday-morning candy bars. It was something much stronger than gifts that bound them together. It was their Souls.

  Like Sonoko, Miss Wilson could not be called pretty. Though she did not wear steel-rimmed glasses and did not have to hide her teeth with her hand when she smiled, as did Sonoko, her mouth was too large, even by American standards, and her eyes stuck out a bit far. She had what was called a good shape, however, and her legs were very long. Sonoko admired both these attributes, which she unfortunately did not possess herself, but not to the extent of feeling any the less affection for their happy owner.

  But perhaps the strongest of Miss Wilson's many attractions was that she was worldly. Sonoko knew that she was the secretary of a colonel, that she went to parties at the French Mission, that she went often to the American Club, that she belonged to some very exclusive literary organization called the Book-of-the-Month Club, and that her parents were actually Baptists. Also—and this was Bomantic—many times over she had been seen escorted by handsome and gentlemanly men. All of them were, naturally, officers. Sonoko could not imagine her going out with an enlisted man, and that just proved how superior Miss Wilson was. If General MacArthur went with women—other than Mrs. Mac-Arthur of course—he would probably choose to go with Miss Wilson. Sonoko was sure of that!

  Then, Miss Wilson always dressed like the ladies in those fashion magazines of which she owned so many and over which the plump Sonoko pored hopelessly every afternoon when her work was finally done. And she had seven pairs of shoes—Sonoko had counted them—all of them high-heeled, with not a sensible pair in the lot. And that proved how really sophisticated Miss Wilson was. She was, in fact, everything Sonoko ever hoped to be, and that was the reason they were soul-mates, and that was the reason Sonoko loved her so much.

  "There are no men," said Mrs. Odawara suddenly.

  Sonoko, caught with tears of emotion in her eyes, looked at her lap and said: "Well, there's your husband and my father and brother—"

  "No unattached men," Mrs. Odawara explained impatiently.

  Mrs. Odawara knew all about the desirability of unattached men, just as she knew all about a career for the emancipated woman. This naturally gave her an enormous amount of prestige and an enviable reputation for being progressive. Of course, during the war her reputation had counted against her, but she had overcome that obstacle by working in a factory and staging anti-American demonstrations. She had aroused the admiration of the countryside by systematically breaking every piece of American manufactured goods which she owned. But that was in 1942. Now, over half a decade later, when just everyone smoked and wore lipstick and was progressive, Mrs. Odawara hoarded American goods and kept her reputation alive by acting as adviser on matters Western, particularly on fine points of American etiquette. Thus it was that she knew that all parties with American ladies should have as many unattached males as possible.

  "Well, perhaps my brother's school friends could—"

  "No good! No, someone about this lady's age. How old is she? "

  Sonoko never could guess the age of Americans. They always looked older than they were, just as, to them, the Japanese always appeared younger. "Perhaps thirty," she suggested.

  "Well, that's nice. Now, I have a nephew, my sister's boy—she was killed in the air raids, you know—and he's just twenty-eight—that's American counting—and a very well-mannered young man. Of course, he's married, but we won't invite his wife. After all, I've sort of protected him ever since dear Michiko's death."

  This was just like Mrs. Odawara—no false nonsense about not mentioning death. She even made a point of standing her chopsticks up in the rice, though it was the worst kind of luck to do so. She was very advanced.

  "Oh, do you really think—" began Sonoko.

  "Of course I do. I'm calling on his wife today and I'll ask him. It will be quite wonderful—you'll see. The lady Wilson and my nephew will become the best of friends. Won't that be nice?"

  "Very nice," said Sonoko, miserably. "I'm forever indebted for your kindness."

  Mrs. Odawara took the acknowledgment with a complacent nod. She was so emancipated that she always purposely neglected making the little negative signs of self-disparagement with which anyone else would have received the thanks.

  Sonoko did not want this married twenty-eight-year-old at her party. More than ever she regretted the whole business. The party seemed headed for disaster, but now it was too late to do anything about it.

  The party meant nothing to her. Far more important were her delightful and personal relations with Miss Wilson. If she could only speak English well enough, she felt sure that she could tell the American lady anything, everything, and that the lady, like a wiser older sister, would understand, would console. Then Sonoko, too, might have become Miss Wilson's secret confidante, holding the doubtless many secrets of the American lady's life and guarding them with her own.

  Their relations, Sonoko had finally decided at the peak of her enthusiasm, were truly democratic. Sonoko thought democracy was wonderful. Yet as she thought of the coming party, she felt a certain chill. For one thing, despite her almost daily readings in GI English, which she had purchased after a great amount of deliberation, her command of the language was not precis
ely secure. For another, the responsibilities of the party were so great that she was actually fearful for their friendship. Miss Wilson was still as lovably democratic as ever, but Sonoko felt herself becoming hopelessly feudal.

  "Does he speak English.?" she asked, trying to conceal her curiosity under her customary politeness. If he did, this might help the party a bit. At least Miss Wilson would have someone to talk with.

  "Oh, I suppose," said Mrs. Odawara, who didn't speak English herself. She smiled patronizingly. "He too works for the Americans."

  "May I ask in what capacity?"

  "Yes."

  "What capacity is it, please?"

  "Something to do with transportation, I think."

  Sonoko was relieved. If he was with Transportation and also spoke English, he could really be of help. He might be able to do Miss Wilson some favors, and she him, and they would all be friends together.

  "Oh, please do invite him, Mrs. Odawara," she said, turning around in her seat.

  Her companion looked at her, slightly startled. "I intended to."

  Contented, Sonoko looked at the other passengers. A large farm woman with fat red hands sat opposite her, leaning forward, a large bundle of vegetables on her back. Mixed in with the vegetables was a child who, from time to time, peered through the radishes at Sonoko. Beside the seat there stood a disabled soldier, all in white, wearing his field cap and holding a crutch, his other hand on the luggage rack. His long hair was beautifully parted, and from where she sat Sonoko could smell the pomade. Near him stood several businessmen, briefcases in hand. They were noisily discussing some contract or other. They were not arguing, but were only engaged in a typical business conversation, banging their briefcases emphatically on the other passengers. Beyond them Sonoko could see yet more passengers, standing and sitting. There was room for no more. She occasionally glimpsed the car behind, the Allied Forces car, completely empty.