The War is Coming

Autumn was a wonderful time of the year. The hills pulsed with red and bronze maples and chrysanthemums. The daytime temperatures were pleasant and at night a slight chill required us to don our sweaters.

My instruction in English and Japanese was going very well and the reports from my teachers at the Canadian Academy continued to note my sterling progress. At home, Paps, Mutsch, and I conversed solely in English. Kikuchan augmented my education with lessons of both the katakana and hiragana systems of syllabic writing. Even though I was fourteen, Kikuchan decided to use the same teaching method applied to Japanese first graders! Soon I was able to read signs in store windows, bits and pieces of newspaper articles, and most of the time I understood basic sentences when spoken slowly. Sadly, I have forgotten most of what I learned.

Mutsch and I had begun to do a great deal of gardening along the gentle slope that stretched from our home down toward the retaining wall. We both perspired profusely as we worked and our hands were caked with dirt. Once back inside, we would take turns freshening up.

On one particular day after we came inside and changed our clothes, Mutsch was slumping and rubbing the small of her back. “I’m so sore,” she complained.

Kikuchan put down the laundry she was sorting and said, “I can help you.”

“What do you mean?” Mutsch asked her.

Without hesitation Kikuchan led us to the living room and stood in front of the convertible sofa, one of the items Paps had managed to save after the mudslide many months ago. Kikuchan pulled out the concealed mattress and said, “Lay down.”

Mutsch was dubious. But with Kikuchan’s insistence, and not-so-subtle hand gestures, Mutsch reclined face down on the mattress. Kikuchan then straddled her and began massaging Mutsch’s shoulders. A chorus of oohs and aahs filled the air as Kikuchan’s fingertips glided across Mutsch’s back, her palms pressed, her knuckles kneaded and her thumbs found their way into every aching and knotted muscle on Mutsch’s back.

Both Mutsch and Kikuchan seemed to be entranced by the massage—Kikuchan hummed while Mutsch moaned, their eyes closed.

After twenty minutes Kikuchan said to me, “Your turn.”

I lay down next to Mutsch. Kikuchan knelt astride me and started massaging me. It was heaven! Her hands located and quickly relieved whatever tensions I had. Mutsch sat up. “Isn’t that wonderful, Lorechen?” she asked. I was too much in a daze to answer. I was so relaxed.

September 3, 1939 is forever branded into my memory. That Sunday morning the sun shone brilliantly in a cloudless sky and a gentle breeze blew. Obachan and I were returning from an outing. I often accompanied Obachan when she went shopping for fruits and vegetables. Sometimes she would take me to farm stands and I would watch her barter for chestnuts, pears, persimmon, and kumquats. But most often we would stop by private homes where she knew the cooks. The cooks would trade vegetables and herbs they had grown on the grounds of their employer’s homes for Obachan’s needlework and sewing. Our arms were laden with bags of radish, cucumber, mung beans, bamboo shoots, onions and cabbage as we walked up the hill to my home. We had been gone for most of the morning and it was well past lunchtime.

Several steps from the front door I happened to look up. I saw the curtains drawn in my parents’ bedroom. That’s odd, I thought. Perhaps Kikuchan was cleaning and she wanted to stop the bright sun from getting in her eyes or heating up the room.

In the kitchen, Obachan and I unpacked and put the foodstuffs away. Mutsch entered, looking haggard.

“How did you fare?” she wondered.

Ignoring her, I asked, “Mother, what’s wrong?”

She plopped down at the kitchen table.

“Mother?” I repeated.

“Your father has a terrible headache. He’s in bed resting. I put an icepack on his forehead. He needs darkness and quiet.”

I cringed with worry.

“Your father insisted on going to the office this morning even though he could barely stand up, something about a meeting with prospective buyers. I urged him to stay in bed but he wouldn’t listen. He told me he’d be fine and I wasn’t to worry.” She leaned back in the chair. “So, do you know what I did?” she asked.

“Tell me,” I said.

“After an hour or so, I went to his office.”

I can only recall a few other times when Mutsch has behaved so brazenly or countered what Paps had said or done.

“I strolled in,” she said proudly, “and the men who were busily working at the tables looked up. Your father’s chin dropped into his lap. After a brief welcome, he ushered me into an office sputtering incoherently. His face was agog. He was incredulous.”

“What did you say to him?” I asked.

“I told him I’d spoken to Uncle Hans and he was kind enough to arrange for your father and me to see his personal physician immediately.”

“On Sunday?” I was amazed.

“Yes, Lorechen,” she exhaled. “Hans and the doctor are golfing partners. They had already finished their game by the time I contacted him. Hans told me that the doctor would be more than happy to interview and examine your father.” She went on. “Your father was reluctant to leave his office. But I convinced him.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Kurt, you will regret bearing witness to the scene I’m about to create right here and right now in front of your friends and associates if you refuse to go.””

Kurt? I wondered what had happened to darling, dear, and honey? She must have been very angry to use his given name.

“And?” I asked hesitantly.

“He tidied his desk, made his apologies to his colleagues, and then we left.”

Mutsch told me that the doctor they had seen was a general practitioner possessing subsidiary specializations in osteopathy and acupuncture. After a long examination, some skeletal manipulations, and an agonizing session with hundreds of needles being pressed into a dozen areas of Paps’ head and neck, Paps was cleared to return home. The doctor prescribed rest and relaxation and gave him medicines—some of which were pharmacological while others were herbal mixtures to be used in teas and soups.

“He’s resting now,” she said dejectedly. “All that and then there was the news of . . .” She caught herself.

“What news, mother?”

“Hitler invaded Poland a few days ago. I am so worried for my sister and Stella.”

Every one of our letters to family sent from Japan had gone unanswered. We had had no word from any of Paps’ and Mutsch’s families. We did not know where they were or if they were safe.

Two days later I received three letters, one from my cousin Ullie, one from my childhood friend Inga, and another from Frau Beck.

Frau Beck’s news was tragic. Her daughter Ingelore, my namesake, had died from complications of pneumonia. She was not yet three years old.

Clutching the bracelet Frau Beck had given me, I cried into the night.

Six months later I met Paul Sernau, the handsomest man I had ever seen. He had dark skin, thick, prematurely graying hair, and piercing black eyes.

“How do you do, Ingelore?” He bowed deeply as he shook my hand.

How elegant, I thought. I hoped he would kiss my hand as he had my mother’s a few moments before. His wife stood next to him. She was also attractive. With her wavy auburn hair, smooth white skin, and gleaming teeth she resembled a famous film actress, Garbo or Dietrich.

We were at Lake Biwa, a beautifully serene body of water not far from Kyoto. Paps and his colleagues, with Herr Griesbach’s blessing, had organized an out-of-the-office party to celebrate a recent sales accomplishment. Paps invited Kikuchan and with the rest of the staff from the office, their families and their domestics, our group numbered about three dozen. I remember that day because Mutsch, Paps, and I had hiked through the dense woods, walking among the white and red azaleas and wild purple orchids. The lake shimmered in the sunshine.

For lunch, we were given a pristine white box that contained fresh vegetables and rice wrapped in seaweed, delectable pieces of sweet and sour fish, and a luscious pastry. It was so artfully arranged that each box resembled a beautiful painting.

In the afternoon, just after our picnic-style lunch, several of the men played baseball while others dressed up in their wives’ kimonos, powdering their faces white in the tradition of geishas and securing to their heads elaborate wigs decorated with silver ornaments. A few maids provided music on samisens.

Whenever my mother remembered that outing, she would laugh and smile. But I recall that she had refused to go unless father assured her no geishas would attend as she could not bear their presence.

I remember the crack of a bat and a ball soaring into the sky. I saw Paps running in from the outfield screaming, “I can get it! I can get it!” He raised his glove only to see the ball fly over his head toward the limits of a fence near where he was originally positioned.

Later, Paps would field a ball to throw a runner out at home base. He threw the ball so hard that it went way over the metal cage behind home base and the runner scored. Paps took off his glove, threw it on the ground and kicked it.

“It looks like your father is having a tough day!” Mutsch said.

I have vivid memories of Kobe in the fall. The hills surrounding the city were animated with the swaying movements of deciduous trees, their leaves blazing red and orange in the wind, as alive as fire. The Japanese maples are especially brilliant. The darkness of the muted yet radiant pine trees contrasted with the bright vibrant colours everywhere.

One night Paps arrived home from work looking particularly fatigued. For several weeks he had been at the office for what seemed like twenty hours a day, even on Sundays. “Business has been nonstop,” he said, “the Japanese military is our most demanding customer and we’re having trouble filling all of their orders.”

At supper, Mutsch persisted in diverting us away from conversations about business. We talked about the gardens, Obachan’s facility in acquiring fruits and vegetables, Kikuchan’s interest in learning more English, and other such trivialities. Paps was aware of her efforts. “Still, we must monitor more closely what’s happening in the world,” he insisted. “Look and listen for any news that may affect us.”

Mutsch and I gathered news from a variety of sources. Kikuchan would read the Japanese newspapers and then translate them into English as best she could. She didn’t know what news I might be interested in so as part of her lessons I would tell her which key words to look for. Sometimes I would draw pictures to help her understand. My list and scribbles included Hitler, Stalin, Mussolini, America, China, and war. Herr Schnee, our next-door neighbour, an elderly widower born in Austria but who had lived in Japan all of his adult life was also a good source of information. Often Aunt Eva and Mutsch would share information over coffee or tea.

At the office, Uncle Hans and Arthur deCouto discussed the news with Paps. Father kept his ears open while listening to conversations among his colleagues and to the short wave operators broadcasting from a radio situated near his desk. I can clearly picture his eyeballs moving from side to side as he listened.

Between the three of us, we knew, more or less, what was going on in Japan, Asia, and Europe.

The news was not good.

By this time, Hitler’s armies already had invaded Denmark, Norway, Belgium, Luxembourg, and Romania. France had fallen. Britain was under siege. London was being bombed. The Soviet armies had rolled into Finland, the Baltic States, Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia. Italy had crushed Egypt and Greece. The continent was in an avalanche of conquest.

Whenever we would talk about the goings-on, Kikuchan would sit quietly on a tatami mat in the corner of our living room busying herself with embroidery or practicing her English lettering.

“The war on the Asian mainland is raging. China is trying to defend itself. The Japanese won’t relent until their interests in Manchuria are satisfied. Korea is in shambles,” Paps said.

Mutsch wondered, “Will the Japanese Minister and the Emperor continue with this senselessness?”

Kikuchan dropped her needle.

“I don’t know,” Paps said. “But it seems the Japanese didn’t anticipate how much resistance the Chinese would offer. What a nuisance it is that they resist oppression. It doesn’t appear that the American embargo has had much effect on the aggressive Japanese.”³⁰

Kikuchan stood up and left the room, a sneer on her face.

I excused myself and went to find her. In the kitchen, she was leaning against the counter, her arms folded tightly across her chest with her head bowed, staring intently at the floor.

“What’s wrong?” I asked her.

She slowly raised her head. “You and your family are against us and you are against my Emperor. You are silly to favour the Chinese.”

It was then that I realized Kikuchan’s English wasn’t so broken after all.

Nearly a year later, I arrived home from school one day and was surprised to hear Paps’ voice in the kitchen. I immediately assumed that he was sick again. His crushing headaches had returned and I worried that his disregard of the doctor’s advice to slow down and make concerted efforts to control and lessen the stress he was under at work finally had come home to roost. He looked awful.

“Paps,” I shrieked, running toward him. “Are you all right? What’s wrong? Why are you home?” Mutsch threw her arms around me just as I was about to crash into him. “Your father is fine, Lorechen. There have been some developments in the world which—”

“—What’s wrong?” I insisted.

“I’m fine,” Paps assured me. “I’m home because there’s been terrible news circulating at the office.”

“Oh no,” I blurted out, “did you lose your job? Did the company fail? What will we do?”

Kikuchan was sitting in her usual spot in the corner of the room, working on some embroidery.

“Yesterday,” Paps said in exasperation, “the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, a United States military installation on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. Ships were sunk. Countless American servicemen and many civilians died. A terrible tragedy.”

I looked at Kikuchan. I could tell she was listening but I didn’t know whether she could understand everything Paps was saying in English. I worried that he might say something inappropriate.

“This will mean war for certain and we—”

I interrupted him. “—Erzählen Sie mir in Deutsch!”

He looked at me, puzzled. I nodded my head in Kikuchan’s direction. He quickly understood and continued in German. After just a few words, Kikuchan snorted, stood up, and left the room.

He went on. “I’m astonished that you didn’t hear of this at the Academy but maybe they wanted to spare you the worry and anxiety. The news is everywhere, on the radio, in the newspapers. It is the topic of conversation at every street corner. Most Japanese feel that the action was provoked by the Americans.”

I was amazed. “I didn’t hear anything!” Then I asked, “What do you mean? What provocation?”

Paps drew in his breath. “Japan won’t withdraw from China and it won’t forgo its agreements with Hitler and Mussolini. The Americans will not lift the embargo and continue to be ever watchful of Japan’s expanding influence in the Pacific and Asia. But this horrible event ensures there’s no stalemate anymore. There will be war.”

His words saturated the air, making it hard to breathe.

Mutsch held my hand. “This changes our situation and we may need to discuss how we should react to this news. But not until later, Lorechen.

“Yes, mother,” I said, “and only among the three of us.”

In the spring of 1942, Mutsch and I had decided to exercise more often. We were just coming home after a brisk walk on a gorgeous, though crisp, spring day when I heard a droning low-pitched sputtering sound in the distance. Shielding my eyes from the bright sun, I saw a single plane off in the distance, it was gliding in ever widening circles. It seemed to be floating in the cloudless sky, its speed so slow I feared that at any moment it would fall to the earth.

“Mutsch,” I said pointing, “I wonder if there’s something wrong with that plane. It sounds so different from the ones we usually hear.”

She looked up. “You may be right. Look at how low it’s flying.”

The plane circled once more and then it banked sharply, levelled off, and turned toward the Inland Sea. Moments before it disappeared I thought I could see an American flag on its wings.

I said, “Could that be a . . .”

Suddenly, we heard sirens wailing. Mutsch hurried me into the house.

At the supper table, I told Paps what we had seen.

“Yes, Lorechen,” he said, “a few men at the office also heard and saw that aircraft and then shortly after the air raid sirens blared. Some say that it’s the first American plane to fly over the Japanese mainland since the outbreak of the war. It’s assumed it was some sort of reconnaissance flight, most likely unarmed, testing the Japanese defence systems.”

“Who would do such a dangerous thing?” I asked.

Paps exhaled. “Some are speculating that it was the famous Doolittle on a solo mission. He has a reputation for being bold.”

That night, talking about the plane incident we discussed how much more complicated our lives might become. We tried to anticipate what would happen during American bombing attacks. Naturally, we identified with the Allies and we wanted desperately for the Axis powers to be defeated but we felt no animosity toward the Japanese. However, our feelings changed when we learned of the brutality and horrors perpetrated by the Japanese armies in China and the Philippines.

We were fortunate to have made it to Japan. Although Japan was one of the few countries that had given Jews a haven, we still were cautious because we knew we couldn’t hide our Western identity. Even in crowds we stood out, literally, each of us at least a head taller than the majority of the Japanese citizenry. Nor could we excuse ourselves from any conversations about or observations of German immigrants because the suspicion that we might be Jews was always near. We didn’t openly profess or betray our heritage and religion for fear of reprisals.

A few years ago, my father told me that Hitler had requested that the Japanese government extradite all German Jews. Incredibly, the Japanese steadfastly refused the request from their fascist ally. From that moment on my admiration for and gratitude toward the Japanese increased. Both the people of Japan and the government had been fair, hospitable, and decent to us even though it was rather obvious that we were aligned, at least in ideology, with their enemy, the United States. Despite our differences we were treated humanely and with respect. The only limitation imposed on us was that our movement was confined to a twenty-five kilometre radius from our home and from Paps’ place of business. This wasn’t a hardship for us. We managed.

There is so much grief and sorrow in the world: in Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Norway, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Luxembourg, France, Great Britain, Greece, Yugoslavia, the Balkans, China, Korea, Malaysia, Thailand, and the Philippines. So few nations avoided invasion, war, casualties, destruction, domination, and oppression at the hands of the Nazis, the Russians, the Italians, and the Japanese.

I remember telling Paps, “The struggles and hostilities of the rest of the world are so far away.”

In his wisdom, he responded, “That won’t last for long, Lorechen.”

During the conflict we felt safe in Kobe, as safe as one could feel during wartime. Paps thought that it was rather unlikely that the United States military would invade the Japanese islands. He believed that the might of American air power would rain down upon us sooner or later. On the one hand, he welcomed it because he thought it would shorten the war not only in Asia but also, hopefully, everywhere else. On the other, he knew we would be caught in the horror of it.

We felt deeply conflicted. Paps and Mutsch were thankful that we had been graciously and unconditionally provided refuge in such a beautiful country. But in order for the barbarity to end, my parents wanted our adoptive nation to be defeated. I’m as sure now as I was then that the Japanese knew where our allegiance lay. Yet, we weren’t persecuted.

In preparation for the air attacks, barrels of all sorts were filled with water and then lined up on the shoulders of roads in cities and in towns and villages and along lanes in the countryside. Soon they rusted, the water inside them turning reddish brown. Bamboo tubs from the markets that had held tofu, delectable soybean cakes, and other foodstuffs were also used. When the air strikes began I saw people jump into them to escape the tremendous heat of their burning homes and properties and when they themselves were on fire. For many, the barrels proved to be lifesavers.

Many buildings, in whole or in part, were reinforced and converted into air raid shelters. But it was not enough. The majority of the homes made of wood were destroyed by the incendiary bombs.

We had first believed the Japanese to be stoic but soon came to realize that tragedy is a great equalizer. The response to the loss of a father, a mother, or a child is the same regardless of race, faith, origin, or upbringing.

Paps said, “Mourning has no nationality.”