Occupation

1945

I was particularly fond of a group of Signal Corps officers whose duty it was to defuse bombs that had been dropped but had not detonated. Major Jay was my favourite. He was a handsome young man with eyes as black as coal, very curly dark hair with tiny ringlets that draped his forehead like grapes dangling from a vine. He seemed always to be smiling. I loved looking at him and his pronounced dimples.

One time I said to him, “I’m worried about your dangerous assignments.”

As usual, he grinned. “Don’t worry about me, Ingi,” he joked. “I’ve made it this far and I don’t intend to go home in a box at this late date!”

This was hardly reassuring to me.

I learned that Major Jay could play the piano as well as a professional. The tune “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” was popular at the time and he played it beautifully. At someone’s urging he began to sing. Whenever I heard that song I pictured him playing it for me and me alone even though there were always dozens of people huddled around.

There were parties every night at the Officers’ Club located in a British colonial mansion that had survived the bombing. It had been used for receptions and balls when foreign dignitaries arrived in Kobe. My parents had taken me there for a reception in 1938 or 1939, our second or third year in Japan. At the reception we attended there was an endless procession of people shaking hands with a lady in a funny hat wearing white gloves. We were in line. I curtsied. Later, while people stood around chatting, champagne flutes in hand, I wandered about. The rooms with high ceilings were full of antique furniture and old paintings. Outside, gardens were surrounded by velvety-smooth lawns and rose beds. If you walked across the pebble path there was a waist-high cement wall that overlooked the Inland Sea. I imagined English masons built it to prevent their countrymen who had imbibed too much from plunging over it into the water.

After the British consular staff had gone home at the start of the war in Europe the mansion was not empty for long. It housed a high-level German delegation and accommodated visiting Nazi officials still exploring diplomatic channels, trying to convince the Japanese government to extradite German Jews back to Berlin. The irony of this history wasn’t lost on me now.

Many years later all that remained of those wonderful gardens were unkempt and weed-infested lawns. The Germans had neglected the pristine landscaping. Evidently, the art of English gardening didn’t appeal to the Nazi mind.

At the mansion, I was introduced to rum and coke. The strongest beverage I had drunk before was wine which was permitted only on special occasions and even then only under my parents’ supervision and unrelenting surveillance.

The parties with the Americans were wonderful. We danced and talked all night. Jay and his officer friends wanted to know about my life in Japan before the war. They were amazed to learn how kind the Japanese had been to me. I asked them about their experiences, especially about the fighting on the islands in the Pacific, and I was surprised to hear few complaints. “Sure it was hard,” one would say, “hot and tedious and the snipers were everywhere.” Another would join in, “The mosquitoes were as big as the birds back home!” Jay said that the worst thing were the snakes that fell onto his shoulders from overhanging branches. Conspicuous by their absence were stories about their buddies being killed. If the conversation became too serious, Jay would lighten the mood by shouting, “We’re here now and we’re having such a good time!”

It felt good to laugh again. Our lives had changed dramatically since the end of the war. There were no more air raids and frantic trips to shelters. For the first time in years we had all the food we wanted. We could travel wherever and whenever we chose. But what I loved most of all was dressing up for the endless rounds of parties hosted by the soldiers at the Club. Before the war all my clothes had been hand-tailored, some locally and some brought back from Shanghai or Hong Kong by my father. But during the war we salvaged whatever we could, altering dated items into something more current. Shoes however, were our biggest problem. None were available and no amount of repair and polishing could restore the ones we had. And oh how I had missed wearing silk stockings. I remember Kikuchan sitting on her tatami mat in the corner of our dining room spending hours at a time with tiny hooks meticulously repairing the endless runs in our old pairs. When she was finished with them they looked brand new.

The music from the Officers’ Club was soothing and soft. They would play the new Benny Goodman recordings that were so popular in the States. But part of me still preferred the old-fashioned waltzes, the kind Paps had taught me to dance to before the war.

I noticed that although there were dozens of gorgeous Japanese girls both willing and able to entertain their American overseers, several of my Caucasian girlfriends and I were able to pick and choose at will from nearly all the officers and the huge flocks of enlisted men—each one of them as eager to have fun as we were.

Many of my soldier friends frequently came to my house. Most often their arms were laden with cartons of food of the kind my parents and I hadn’t seen in years. Obachan became adept at preparing fabulous meals with the new and unique foodstuffs. Within a few weeks half the army must have learned of Mutsch’s reputation as a gracious hostess and of Obachan’s mastery and magic in the kitchen.

“They must think of you as a surrogate mother,” I said to Mutsch, “as a symbol for what they long for back home, that’s why they always drop by.”

“No, Lorechen, they come here to see you,” she teased.

Our humble home became a meeting place. Meal times echoed with laughter and good conversation. Being alive was fun again! We were euphoric! We wanted to make up for all those years of deprivation, fear, and hunger. This was not only true for us but also for the young American soldiers who had lived through the horrors of a war they hadn’t created but were unable to avoid.

The good company and good times were one thing but too much good food was something else altogether. My digestive system rebelled. I came down with hepatitis. The army doctor explained that my liver was not able to digest fats after such a long period of deprivation. I had a high fever. I turned yellow all over. My sclera were no longer white. I stayed in bed for weeks while linens, towels, and everything else I came in contact with were washed daily to rid the fabrics of the yellow hue. But there was no keeping me down. Life was too full of fun to waste time. Soon I was back with my soldier friends on condition that I adhere to a strict diet of foods that were crushed, mashed, or puréed! Another irony, I thought, after years of being hungry.

Much too soon for me but not for them, many of my soldiers were called back to the United States for discharge. Farewells, as they always had been, were very difficult for me. I had finally found a group of friends, marvellous young men who were strong, good-looking, and full of life and now they were leaving and I would be alone again. Some were returning to wives and children, others to families and friends. Their loved ones surely must have missed them. My only consolation was that since my parents and I were going to America we might see each other again.

The replacement troops that came in relief to continue with the Occupation had spent most of the war years in America. Many of them resented being sent overseas after the war. There was no glory to be had in peacetime. And since many hadn’t endured the hardships of war they were immature and sought recognition by acting like conquerors. Some were rude and uncivilized. They took advantage of the Japanese girls, treating them like slaves, having their way with them against their wishes, thus perpetuating the cliché of the ugly American. I recall the commanding officer in Kobe, an Army Colonel. After a few drinks, his sport was to roll down the lawn in the front of the Officers’ Club while clutching any Japanese girl he could catch. It was revolting and embarrassing, not only for the girls but also for many of the men on his staff.