Japan is on the Horizon

June 1936

By noon word came that the ferry captain felt it was safe to cross. Everyone waiting to board passed the message along. The news spread in a dozen different languages. The wind had died down and the sky was not as ominous as it had been a few hours before. Still, the day was dark and the air and water remained in turmoil.

Soon attendants began ushering everyone toward the ship. We did not move. We stood together, looking at each other, our faces showing a combination of hope and fear.

We walked the gangplank onto the massive ferry that rolled on the agitated waters. A Japanese officer in a gold-trimmed white uniform showed us to our cabin. On the way we passed a dining room, a lounge, a game room with tennis tables, and several smaller sitting rooms.

“It won’t take long to cross,” Paps said.

We surveyed our compartment. It was small with just a divan and a chair, a dresser with two shallow drawers, and a quaint lavatory consisting of a miniature toilet and sink.

Paps asked us if we wanted to go on deck to watch the ship’s departure from the terminal.

“Is it safe to do so?” Mutsch wondered.

“Of course, darling,” he said, “just don’t stand too close to the railings.”

“Oh, my!” Mutsch exclaimed.

Paps laughed and at once Mutsch and I could see he was joking. So off we went to the deck. As we mounted the stairs we heard the engines starting. Then we felt a slow, smooth movement beneath our feet as the ship left the pier.

“Next stop, Japan!” Paps said. “Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

“Yes, father,” I moaned as my stomach plunged and rose with the now more violent pitching of the ferry. I looked at Mutsch and saw she was experiencing the same queasiness I was. Without a word we rushed back to our cabin. I was grateful that we had a lavatory! Mutsch and I were so seasick!

Later, after the rough sea had quieted and our uneasiness had passed, Mutsch and I joined Paps on deck.

“Well,” he greeted us, “hello my sleepyheads! You look much better now!” Then to me, “And you, Lorechen, you aren’t as green as a frog anymore! How do you feel?”

“Better,” my mother and I answered in unison. We laughed. Then Mutsch said, “We’re starving. Can we get something to eat?”

“Yes, of course,” Paps said, “some caviar?”

Mutsch, cringing at the thought, led me to the dining room.

Once seated we were joined by an unexpected guest.

Captain Shogawa was short and angular, his bearing suggesting a constant state of being at attention. Even his hair stood at attention, its straight black and gray bristles like spikes on a pineapple. His brow was weathered, his eyes clear.

“Welcome aboard!” he said in French.

“Thank you, Captain,” Paps said. Then pointing to Mutsch and me, “My wife and daughter are now hungry after a bout with le mal de mer. Perhaps some tea and toast?”

“Forgive me,” he said, “but earlier there was a huge demand for just those items and at present we have none left. It’s too bad. Not only are most of my passengers seasick but even my crew are struggling!” Mutsch and I looked at each other, our faces still pale with nausea. “It’s the remnants of the storm,” he continued, “the waters are rough, the waves strong, the motion unrelenting. Perhaps coffee? Or a cocktail? Crackers?”

“No, thank you,” Mutsch responded, “but cold soda water, if it’s not too much trouble.”

With that the Captain snapped his fingers summoning a waiter to our table. He ordered in Japanese and the waiter hastily ran off to fulfill his request.

“You’ll have your soda water very soon,” he said. Then he walked out of the dining room.

After a while we went back on deck and found the sea much calmer, the wind gentle, the air crisp and clear. The setting sun gleamed with a calming afterglow, its light painting the crests of the gently swelling waves with golden flecks. Large white birds soared overhead, their feathers tinted pale pink in the shadows.

A man further along the deck was taking photographs. He came over to introduce himself. He spoke German and he and Paps began talking. Mutsch and I turned away to look at the views. “I must remember,” I said, “to try to capture this seascape in a drawing.”

She smiled. “Yes, Lorechen, you must try.”

Paps turned to us. “Herr Gessler has asked if we’d like our pictures taken. Shall we?”

“Yes,” I exclaimed.

Herr Gessler took several pictures of us before he ran out of film. Paps thanked him and then told us that Herr Gessler had promised to send the pictures to Paps’ office in Kobe.”

“How long will that take?” I wondered.

“I don’t know, Lorechen,” he said, “but no matter. At least we’ll have a few pictures of our trip.”

Several hours later there came a blast of static and then a man spoke in French over the loudspeaker. “Good evening. This is the captain speaking. We are approaching Honshu. You can see it on the horizon. We continue on to our landing at Shimonoseki.”

Paps and Mutsch cheered. I exhaled with relief. Our long and eventful journey was drawing to a close.

As we approached, the island of Honshu swelled before us, its landmass slowly coming into view. We saw strange-looking boats in a harbour that Father called junks. They lolled gently in the still, dark water.

We docked. Customs officials came aboard to check visas and search baggage. One of them confronted Herr Gessler. The official bowed deeply and then in perfect English asked the man for his camera.

Herr Gessler replied, “I don’t understand.” His English was also good. “I merely was taking pictures of the sunset.”

“You were observed taking photographs. This is strictly forbidden. I’m sorry but I must insist. If you do not comply it may be rather unfortunate for you.”

Herr Gessler and the customs official stared into each other’s eyes. Then the official held out his hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, Herr Gessler handed him the camera and pouch. With remarkable efficiency, the official opened the camera and the pouch, removed the rolls of film, closed both, and handed the camera and now empty pouch back.

I whispered to Paps, “Why did he take the film? Officials must have seen him taking pictures before. Why did no one stop him then?”

“In these trying times,” Paps said, “every country feels that it must keep secrets. Perhaps there were other ships on the water that the Japanese didn’t want anyone to know about. I’m not sure.” I thought of Katya and the detailed instructions she would give to ensure order. At that time it was to prevent us from wandering off or getting lost. But now it was this. What a crazy world!

I remember that evening clearly. It signified not only the conclusion of a long voyage that began in Wilmersdorf but also it was the last night that we were drifters, transients. Within a matter of hours we would have a home again and would begin a new life as German nationals in a country that would accept us for who we were.

After Captain Shogawa bid his passengers adieu, we went ashore. Paps led the way to the train. It was quite dark now and I could not make out much of our surroundings save for a few lights from some villages in the distance.

Once on the train, I dozed for a while. I woke with a start when the train arrived at a brightly lit station. I saw a sign with large Japanese characters under which was the word KOBE. My first thought was, how will I ever learn those strange symbols?

Even though it was late, the platform was crowded. What struck me was the curious custom of bowing. There were dozens of people doing it, their heads rising and falling like an undulating ocean. The women I saw were garbed in brightly coloured kimonos.

We exited the rail car and within a few steps I was swept off my feet into the arms of my Uncle Hans! Of course, Hans was not my real uncle, nor was his wife, Evchen, my real aunt, but both of them had always been two of my favourite people. I had known them all my life. How happy I was to see Hans, that tall giant with steel blue eyes and a gentle manner. He had arrived in Kobe with his wife, who we called Eva, several months before. He was working at the branch office of the same import-export business that Paps worked for in Berlin. Aunt Eva hugged us and wished us welcome. She was so regal-looking with her high forehead, classic Roman nose, clear gray eyes, soft slim hands, and voice that never failed to remind me of a lullaby. The five of us stood embracing and kissing each other.

“It’s so good to see you,” Uncle Hans said with his beautiful smile beaming. “You’ve made your way to Japan! We’ve been praying for your safe arrival.”

Paps shook his hand so violently I thought both men would lose their balance. “Yes, yes,” Paps said, “it’s been a long and arduous trip but we’re here now, we’re safe, and we’re with friends.”

Uncle Hans pulled Aunt Eva to his side. “We have a wonderful surprise for you,” he boasted, “one I hope won’t be an inconvenience at this time.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well,” Aunt Eva said, “even though it’s late, we’ve arranged with the staff to welcome you to the office. It’s available now for your inspection.”

“Now?” Mutsch asked in disbelief. I could see she was exhausted, her eyelids drooping, her usually perfect posture slightly rounded. “Now?” she asked again.

“Yes, now,” Paps interjected. He looked more tired than Mutsch but this would be another example of his iron will and perseverance. He would overcome his exhaustion. “Let’s go see the workplace. Thank you, Hans and Evchen, for your thoughtfulness.”

Paps then addressed Mutsch. “As soon as we’ve seen it, Hans will escort us directly to our new residence.” Paps always had a way of smoothing things over.

“Certainly,” Hans said. “Let’s go.” With his arm extended he showed us the way. With Mutsch and me bringing up the rear, we followed Uncle Hans, Aunt Eva, and Paps. Outside the station there was the shiniest and longest automobile I had ever seen parked at the curb. It was idling, its trunk compartment open. As we came closer to it a young Japanese man in a chauffeur’s uniform stepped out from the driver’s seat, came around to the passenger side, bowed to all of us, opened the car doors, and then rushed to relieve us of our baggage. He took our things, placed them in the trunk, and then ushered us into the automobile.

The bench seats were enormous. There was plenty of room for the five of us. When we were ready, Uncle Hans gave the driver instructions in Japanese and we pulled away from the station.

I sat snugly in between Paps and Mutsch and to this day I still can feel the softness of that seat. Velvet is such an intoxicating fabric!

The office staff, some of whom Paps had known from the Berlin office, came out to greet us. My uncle made introductions in what sounded like a stream of mystical sounds, dozens of distinct vowels and tones. Whatever he said caused each of the employees to bow and smile. I bent over, too, though it felt strange to do so especially since I had noticed that the women bowed lower than the men. I later learned that the lower one’s status, the lower one’s bow.

Some spoke to my parents in halting English and, even though I considered myself competent in that regard, I understood only so much of their conversation. A few spoke German. I became anxious at the thought of learning Japanese and improving my English concurrently. I felt isolated and lonely—I wished my friends were here with me now.

Then we met Mr. Suzuki, Uncle Hans’ assistant, and Mr. deCouto. Mr. Suzuki was short and stout but his face was pleasing. Arthur deCouto was different. He was the son of a Macao Portuguese. Arthur, fleeing his native country during a coup, had come to Japan and later married a Japanese woman. He was a slight young man with prominent cheekbones, a tawny complexion, and noticeably slanted eyes. His voice was pitched higher than any man’s voice I’d ever heard. It was enchanting. He intrigued me. He told my parents that he spoke English, Japanese, and Portuguese fluently. Even though I felt shy in my new surroundings I wished he would talk only to me.

After an invitation to enjoy a spread of Japanese snacks and tea and a tour of the office, most people departed, bowing again. Uncle Hans took us outside and we got in his car with Aunt Evchen and Mr. deCouto. Mutsch grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear, “We’re almost home, Lorechen.”

“You’ll like it there,” I heard Aunt Eva say, “it’s more of a home than a hotel, more like a country house or a villa

I remember the ride even though I was tired, hungry, and in need of a bath. As the chauffeur drove slowly through the streets of the city I saw men in dark trousers and jackets with towels around their heads pulling rickshaws whose passengers were half-hidden behind curtains. The car windows were open and I heard bells tinkling from all directions. There were women carrying packages wrapped in bright cloths, some had babies on their backs, the little ones clinging to the sleeves of their mothers’ kimonos. Some children wore brightly coloured outfits while others wore dark skirts or pants with white shirts. I saw groups of girls playing hopscotch. As they went about their play, they sang, sometimes alone and sometimes in concert. Their songs sounded like poems or perhaps they were nursery rhymes.

Beside me in the back seat, mother followed my gaze, “Maybe those outfits are school uniforms? Though I’m puzzled why the children still would be wearing them this late at night.”

As we rode along pungent odours from tiny cafés and eateries billowed into the car. Then the city thinned out, the buildings became smaller, the blocks less dense with development. We passed scrawny wooden houses with paper screens nestled in garden patches. Flowers were everywhere.

We arrived at the villa. Uncle Hans introduced us to the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Dimitriev, who had come to greet us. Mrs. Dimitriev was heavy-set. She was an ebullient woman of tremendous energy. Later, we learned that she and her husband were emigrants from Russia. She spoke quickly in English yet I could hear her distinct accent. I asked if she knew Katya.

“No, little one, I’m sorry but I don’t know any person of that name,” she said apologetically.

“Mother,” I said, “Katya called me little one, too!”

Mrs. Dimitriev ran the villa, cooked gourmet meals, and professed that she would be ready to lend a helping hand at any time. Her husband was the caretaker, bookkeeper, and general manager. As we walked to the front door I marvelled at the beautiful grounds. There were sturdy trees and lovely flowers, some varieties that I had never seen before. The lawns were a lush green. The sprawling two-story villa was magnificent. It contrasted sharply with the much smaller Japanese homes I had seen along our drive. A wide veranda encircled the house.

Inside, the rooms were enormous. There were Persian carpets, soft lights, and plush couches and armchairs. Overhead fans purred to keep the rooms cool.

Mr. deCouto asked me if I would accompany him on a walk about the grounds. Paps overheard and immediately spoke on my behalf. “Yes, of course she’d love to.”

I asked Arthur about the children I had seen. “Did you hear the children we passed on our way here? What were they singing?”

“They constantly study their characters and the sounds related to each one,” Arthur explained. “They need to learn at least four thousand of them just to read a newspaper!”

I was astonished. “I guess I was lucky that I only had to learn the thirty letters of the German alphabet!”

Ingelore’s first home in Japan, the villa in Kobe, 1936.

Suddenly, a large black cat ran through a puddle near the edge of the grounds. “Strange,” I said, “I thought cats disliked water.”

“That wasn’t a cat, Ingelore,” he said. “It was a rat! You’ll see rats here so large that most cats are afraid of them!”

During our stay in Kobe I considered Hans Mendelsohn my favourite uncle. He and his wife had met in Berlin at the home of one of Hans’ friends where Eva was the children’s governess. They were married a week before they immigrated to Japan. Six months later, my family arrived in Kobe. The Mendelsohns helped us adjust to this strange new land. They introduced us to their friends, showed us around the city and its neighbourhoods, and secured the villa that was our home. I always admired Eva, her fun-loving personality and ready laugh delighted me.

“Come, Lorechen,” Aunt Eva would say, “let me show you something.” Then off we would go to the brook that ran behind her home. Sometimes we would wander around the grounds and inspect the wonderful trees. She introduced me to Okachan, or little granny, their faithful old cook.

Eva and Hans were childless and gradually they adopted me as their surrogate daughter. I spent plenty of time at their beautiful glass and stucco ranch house set among Kobe’s rolling hills overlooking the Inland Sea. Cherry, almond, and apple tree blossoms spread a fabric of pink and white over large areas close to their property. In the summer I saw wild yellow, purple, and white orchids blooming among flaming red Japanese maples. Later in the year, huge purple and bronze chrysanthemums burst into flower among the graceful pines.

Midway up the long driveway to Eva and Hans’s home rested a huge boulder. “An archeologist friend of ours says it was deposited here during the last ice age,” Eva told me. At the base of the rock low-growing lacy bushes hugged the soil sending shoots over it in a web that almost completely covered the granite mass in sprays of tiny pink flowers.

Filled with treasures from all over the world, the interior of their home was as enchanting as their gardens. A family of carved ebony elephants marched across the fireplace mantle. Near the hearth were clusters of wooden statues of warriors and hunters. Intricately woven baskets were strewn there as well. An ancient silken scroll, what I later learned was called a kakimono, hung along one wall. It was hand-woven and embroidered, depicting Mount Fuji, its crown enveloped in clouds. An old Japanese man looked out dreamily on another scroll, his dark brown and black robe contrasting with the softly lit background. Of all their wondrous curios I was most interested in their metre-tall statue of Buddha, whose one hand rested on his knee, the other hand in front of the chest, fist clenched and index finger raised in a traditional pose. Peace, he seemed to be saying, looking so very wise and kind.

The writing desk in the living room.

The view from the living room through the Japanese screen doors.

During our first days in Kobe, Mutsch and I tended to housekeeping duties even though Mrs. Dimitriev told us there were servants at our disposal. “We’ll do the primary things ourselves,” Mutsch said, “and after we’ve completed them, we may wish to avail ourselves of maids and domestics.” I heard the guilt in her voice. Perhaps she considered the distinction of station another form of oppression, the very scourge we had been running from for so long.

Upon arrival, we immediately unpacked our luggage. After our long trip every article of clothing needed to be washed. In the afternoon we rearranged some of the furniture to make space in the centre of the room. We were finished with living in confinement, the rail cars and the compartments we inhabited for so long seemed so claustrophobic to us now. When Paps came home from work he inspected what Mutsch and I had done. He spoiled praise all about us!

Just then Mrs. Dimitriev stopped by to remind us to explore the rooftop of our villa.

“You can use it any time,” she said, “to host parties or just relax or play table tennis.”

Paps adjusted easily to our new home. He became absorbed in his work and looked forward to going to the office each morning. When he returned, he usually brought Mutsch a flower or a small article of jewellery, and for me a silk scarf or a handful of candy. When he found the time to garner such things I don’t know.

Ingelore, Kurt, and Doris on the rooftop.

Kurt and Ingelore playing table tennis while the Mendelsohn’s dog, Boya, lounges in the shade.

Sometimes I would go to Aunt Eva’s home. First to greet me was Uncle Hans’ black Siberian husky, Boya, who Uncle Hans said was ever so gentle with those he trusted but who could become ferocious when threatened. “Boya doesn’t care for many people,” Uncle Hans told me, “but it seems he’s taken a liking to you. Perhaps he knows how much we love you!” During the rainy season Boya and I would sit for hours in the Mendelsohn’s guest room. Its walls were lined with classics in English, German, French, and Portuguese. Books on the Orient, history, modern painters, and architecture were everywhere. Those days and that setting brought to mind warm and cherished memories of Gerta with me in the library in our home in Wilmersdorf.

Eva was a fine pianist. I loved watching her play the shiny grand piano, sitting erect she would play Chopin, Beethoven, and Mozart. Her fluid hands and fingers like streams of sunlight danced about the keys as Boya lolled nearby.

“You must come to hear Herr Waldstein,” she said, “when we do our duets. He’s a marvelously talented cellist with such powerful arms and yet such sensitive hands.”

I remember those duets and times when Mr. Kaga, a colleague of Uncle Hans and Paps, would play his violin. During those recitals their home was crowded with guests. The music soared through the house, the melodies and harmonies so colourful and so magical I can still hear them today. When the stringed instruments reached a crescendo, Boya howled like a coyote.

I passed many hours with the Mendelsohns during the terrible war years. We fretted about what would happen if we were forced to leave Japan. The future looked so dim.

On one occasion Uncle Hans asked me, “You’re terribly anxious about your father, aren’t you, Lorechen?” This came after one of Paps’ bad headaches when he had been confined to his darkened bedroom for an entire day.

“Yes, I am.”

He consoled me. “The doctors will be able to help him. I’m sure of it.”

I agreed but I could not stop thinking the worst.