The Time of My Life

Spring 1946

I first met Harold Grossinger at the Officers’ Club. He had been sent to Kobe with the Occupation forces and assigned to the motor pool even though he had been trained for and did intelligence work in France during the war. He told me several times that from the moment he came ashore he’d fallen in love with Japan and when his tour of duty ended he wanted to stay on as a civilian employee attached to the Army. I liked him right away. He was very good looking, so much so that all the girls considered him to be the epitome of what was meant by the words tall, dark, and handsome.

The third or fourth night I saw him at the Club, he rushed in and walked rapidly in my direction, as though pushing against a storm. He handed me a drink and then hurriedly pulled me into the dining room. The liquid in my glass was splashing all around as I ran to keep up with him!

“Harold, what is it?” I said smiling as I looked up into his seductive sky blue eyes.

“The Colonel’s asked me to open the first Post Exchange on the base in Osaka,” he said finding it difficult to contain his excitement. “We went to see the building earlier this morning. It’s an enormous old warehouse, one of the few that wasn’t bombed.”

His energy was contagious. “I’m so happy for you!” I beamed.

“Well, get this, Ingi,” he breathed into my ear, “I’m supposed to open in two months and I want you to be my personnel manager!”

“Who, me?” I was shocked.

He spurted his words. “Yes, you! You speak Japanese so you can hire all the people we need!” Then, putting two of his fingers under my chin to tilt my head upward, he said, “Please say you’ll take the job!”

He was breathless. And so was I. God, what a handsome man he was with his curly black hair and classic facial features! It all sounded so exciting to me. But there was one person whose permission I needed. My father would have to be sold on the idea and for some reason I didn’t think he would be. So rather than have Harold think of me as a girl who was still under my parents’ protection, I said, “You have my heartfelt congratulations, Harold! I’m sure you’ll make it a tremendous success. But you know I’m supposed to leave shortly for the United States. How can I accept your offer?”

He leaned forward for a kiss. I willingly obliged him.

“You know how the bureaucrats work! Who knows when your visas will come through!”

I kissed him again. “Harold, I’d love to but . . .”

A smile burst across his face. “But nothing! You’ll do it! I know you will! Remember, we only have two months so we’ll have to get started in the morning. It’ll be fun working together!”

He led me outside onto the veranda overlooking the Inland Sea. It was a balmy, clear night.

“What a beautiful spot,” Harold said softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever leave this country. And I know I’ll miss you terribly when you finally get your visa and go to America. But right now I’m too excited about this new job and working with you to even think about that.”

At breakfast the next morning Paps, Mutsch, and I discussed Harold’s idea. I was pleasantly surprised when my father offered no resistance. He said, “Yes, Lorechen, it’s a good opportunity for you. You’ll be safe with all the soldiers around but more importantly you’ll be able to put your many skills to use.”

Harold picked me up around lunchtime. We drove to the warehouse chatting and laughing the entire way. When we arrived, he escorted me in, squeezing my hand almost to the point of discomfort. I could just imagine the enormous building stocked with food and clothing, soldiers walking the aisles full of goods. But it was filled with mouldy cardboard boxes and scattered with office files and broken furniture. Cobwebs hung like Spanish moss from windows and doorframes. There was trash and discarded personal items littered everywhere.

“Achoo!” I sneezed. “This place smells terrible and look at the mess!”

He was quick to comfort me. “Don’t worry Ingi, the Colonel promised to send some GIs from the bucket brigade. You know, custodians. They’ll be here shortly to clean this place up, as good as new. In the meantime, let’s see if we can lay out an office for you.” He was so happy to have me with him. “The Colonel found a couple of soldiers with carpentry experience! They’ll also be along soon to figure out what supplies we’ll need for renovations.”

“This is incredible, Harold,” I said. “There are so many Japanese who would give their all for lumber and cement and tools and plaster to rebuild their houses! Where will these things come from?”

Harold smiled. “Don’t you worry about a thing! The Army and I have our ways! Next problem?”

“Well,” I asked, “after the boys clean up, how about a table and some chairs?”

He kissed me. “You’ll see!”

By evening, after the Army custodial help had gone through the place like a tempest, the warehouse was relatively clean. Using chalk on the concrete floor, Harold and I completed the task of outlining a reception area, an office, spaces for showcases, and storage locations.

“The GI carpenters and a half-dozen Japanese labourers working for the Army will arrive tomorrow,” he promised.

The next day workers were waiting when we arrived at the warehouse. A delivery had already been made! In the alley there were large bundles of framing lumber, buckets of nails, pails filled with plaster, and crates brimming with hammers, saws, and other tools.

Inside, the soldiers and some local Japanese men were quick to understand what Harold and I wanted them to do. I clarified the chalk markings on the floor with them. I found out that one of the Japanese workers was an accountant before the war, another a chef at a posh hotel in Osaka, and two others had worked in management positions for the railroad. And here they were, now common labourers.

After they understood the plans, they went right to work. They measured, sawed, studded out the rooms, closets, and counters, lathed and plastered, and built showcases, shelving, and storage units.

Harold commented, “I can’t believe how quickly the Japanese learn and how quickly they work. Look at them! And they’re so pleasant. It’s just amazing.”

I wasn’t surprised. Having lived in Japan for a decade I had witnessed, countless times, the resolve and determination of the Japanese people.

We decided to run a single advertisement for sales help, stock boys, and cleaning positions in the local Osaka Mainichi Shimbun newspaper. We included an application form in the copy so whoever was interested could come with their information in hand.

When we arrived at the warehouse the day after the notice was published a long line of people snaked around the building with hundreds of hopefuls patiently waiting.

“What have we done?” I asked Harold as he ushered me in the rear door. “How will I interview all those people?”

Harold melted me with his magnetic smile. “You’ll do just fine, Ingi.”

He snapped his fingers to get everyone’s attention. There was complete silence. “You’re up, Ingi,” he said playfully patting my buttocks. Then he disappeared into the stock room.

“Kon’nichiwa! Yoi asa!” I said smiling, greeting and wishing them good morning. The sad sea of faces stared back at me as if they were drowning and I was the sole proprietor of a life raft. I thanked them for coming but made it clear that I would only be hiring two dozen people at this time. There were murmurs. I could see disappointment settling over them like a dark cloud. I knew that many factories and retail establishments were not yet back in business after having been destroyed in the bombings. Many of the Japanese were hungry and frightened and in need of work. I felt great sympathy for them.

One by one the applicants filed inside for interviews. The assortment of candidates was unbelievable. I talked to Japanese women with babies on their backs, men and women too old to work but who obviously needed to do so, a young man on crutches, another with a missing limb, several girls who appeared so young I found it difficult to believe they were in their teens. Widows pleaded with me for employment. Widowers cried for a chance. Orphans begged for any kind of work. It was heartbreaking. The interviewing process was slow because of the written applications. I only read katakana, a simple form of script used mainly by children. But I was lucky. The fifth applicant, a young girl in a colourful kimono, spoke some English. She was so pretty with broad cheekbones, a pleasant smile, and the blackest, straightest waist-length hair I had ever seen. I hired her on the spot as my assistant. Yaniko was so happy yet she hid her smile behind her hand in the traditional Japanese way, bowed, and then sharply drew in her breath between her teeth to show her pleasure.

We worked out a system. I did the interviewing and she read the written information. By the end of the day we had talked to about half of the applicants. We promised to see the others the following day.

Within a week, Harold, Yaniko, and I hired thirty people. Seven were assigned as stock clerks. One of them, Imo, the young man on crutches, was the most agile of the six. We employed fourteen sales girls and nine women and men as custodial staff. One of the sales girls had been a teacher whose job had evaporated when a particularly intense B-29 bombing raid hit the school where she worked. Two of the cleaning women had never worked outside their homes before but their husbands had been killed in the war and they were now living with their parents and they needed to support their own children. I felt for them.

By the second week, the warehouse had taken on the look of a department store. Harold and I were amazed. Display cases, shelving, and storage closets were almost complete. To the sound of sawing and hammering, Yaniko and I continued to train our personnel. It was easy since everyone was eager to work. And then our first shipment from the air base arrived. We received linens, towels, blankets, Army surplus clothing, and canned goods. Yaniko said that she had never seen such bounty, she was moved to tears to see so many items in one place at one time.

Each morning, Harold and I checked the progress of the construction. He suggested we paint the walls and ceilings white to get away from the drab olive colours of the Army material. I suggested our sales girls should wear kimonos. Harold agreed. “Yes, that’s a great idea! They’re much more colourful and interesting to look at than the washed out skirts and tops they usually wear.”

Several days before the opening, one of the sales girls sent a note by way of another that she would be absent for two days because of her grandmother’s death. But when she used the same excuse twice more that month I confronted her. “Fumichan,” I asked, “how many grandmothers do you have?” She looked at me with apprehension and burst out crying. “Please forgive me. My baby’s sick and I need to stay home. My mother is too old to care for a sick baby.”

The Japanese would tell a lie rather than hurt someone’s feelings but why she thought I would be angry if she stayed home with her sick baby I didn’t know. I explained that staying home to care for a child was reason enough to be absent. I didn’t want to commit the ultimate insult of shaming her in front of the others. Surely, if I had, Fumichan would have had no choice but to resign. So I asked Yaniko to inform the others discreetly about how I felt regarding absences. She did so and soon after I sensed a high degree of respect from my employees.

The time flew by. There were only three days left until our opening. Except for a few mouldings not yet attached to doors and storage units and the delivery of glass pieces for some of the display cases, construction was complete. The custodial staff cleaned, re-cleaned, and polished everything. Our makeshift department store sparkled like freshly fallen snow. It was a pleasure to see how much pride the Japanese took in their work.

Twenty hours before the opening, three massive Army trucks arrived. The GIs dragged in carton after carton of blankets, sheets, pillowcases, and towels. Cases of canned olives, pickles, tuna, and salmon were brought in. There were even two small cases of liver pâté! More packages were rolled in on hand trucks. Boxes of coffee, hot chocolate, Spam, and canned beans were stacked along the walls. The last arrival took the combined efforts of several GIs. They wheeled in a Coca-Cola vending machine and three cigarette machines! It was incredible! Many of the soldiers bringing the supplies and linens were the same ones who had brought the building materials at the outset. They marvelled at the place, wondering aloud if they could have completed construction, remodeling, and all the other finishing touches in so short a time. Harold winked at me. Of course they couldn’t have, his look told me.

The big day arrived. At 9:00 a.m. on a clear spring day, Imo opened the polished corrugated doors, proudly stepping aside to allow in a crowd of GIs. Many came with their Japanese girlfriends. The sales people bowed low, their obis pressing flat against their backs. Their brightly coloured kimonos reflected off the glass cases. The soldiers pressed forward, sometimes shoving to get closer to the showcases. Yaniko quickly signalled the girls to take to their stations. I was amazed at how professional they all were while keeping pace with the demands of our customers. Harold browsed around, watching the soldiers. On a few occasions he had to remind them that they were in the presence of women. Some of the GIs were rude and overbearing. Harold kept them in line.

Fumichan looked confused when one of Harold’s friends, a burly, soft-spoken soldier from Alabama, approached her. He wanted to know whether we carried molasses. We didn’t. She told me later she didn’t believe he was speaking English!

At another counter, one of the girls was in trouble. Yaniko was there before me. Harold was yelling at a GI, appearing just in time to stop the soldier from pulling the Japanese girl into the back room. This second wave of Army guys were so different from the first wave of GIs who had arrived from the Pacific Islands where they had already encountered a different culture and suffered the trials of war. Even though the first GIs hadn’t been with women for more than a year, most behaved like perfect gentlemen. There is something to be said for the courage, bravery, and fortitude gained in battle.

Other than a few incidents, the day was a tremendous success. By evening, we were exhausted but exhilarated. When the last customer left, Harold and I called the staff together to tell them what a fine job they had done. They hid their beaming faces as they bowed and thanked us. Then Harold told me to tell them, “Now, everyone go home! Enjoy your evening! Come in an hour earlier tomorrow to clean and restock.” There was no reaction. Then he told me to add, “Of course you’ll be paid overtime!” Giggling and chattering like a flock of magpies, they left the warehouse. After all the hustling, jostling, and confusion of the day the store was now eerily silent.

“We did it! We did it!” Harold sang, dancing me around the floor. I held on to him tightly. “Do you realize how successful this day has been?” He had already tallied the receipts, but I didn’t need to see the figures. I saw how quickly the merchandise disappeared from the shelves.

“And now young lady,” he said kissing my forehead, “it’s time for us to celebrate. Let’s go to the Officers’ Club to see what excitement we can find there!”

When we arrived, the lobby was strangely quiet. The dining table where our friends usually waited was unoccupied. Damn it, I thought, Harold will be disappointed. Why couldn’t they be here on the one night we want to celebrate?

Suddenly the back door opened and our friends rushed in with a bouquet of red roses for me and an enormous wooden board painted as a medal of honour for Harold! Harold was very touched. I was speechless. “How did you know that our day was such a success?” I asked them.

“That’s the Army! A salute to Grossinger and to Ingi!” is all they said.

And celebrate we did! The men had arranged for the band to play. We danced until the early morning, laughing and reminiscing and listening to stories of home from the GIs. I shared with them my haunting encounter with the trainloads of American prisoners of war and what it was like during the bombing attacks.

As dawn broke, Harold and I walked along the grounds, arm in arm. The sunrise was spectacular. I felt so happy and yet a sadness fell upon me as I realized all this would soon end.

“Strange, isn’t it,” I said to Harold, “that for so long I’ve been waiting to go to the States and now that the time is near I’m not sure I want to leave here. These last few weeks have been so exciting, especially with you, and I guess there’s a large part of me hoping that my visa doesn’t come too soon.”

He hugged me tightly. “I know,” he said earnestly, “I’ll miss you terribly. But your dad needs medical care and I know he and your mom won’t leave Japan without you. Maybe I’ll tire of Japan and eventually I’ll come to the States and we’ll see each other often. But for now, I want to stay here, for as long as possible. So let’s enjoy the time we have. No more sadness, okay?”

He unlocked his eyes from mine. “Look! It’s light already! It’s five a.m.!” I gasped. I knew my parents would be flaming with worry. “I’ll take you home now,” he said, “and we’ll have just enough time to shower and change our clothes before we leave for work!”

What transpired when I arrived home that morning is better left unsaid.

The Post Exchange warehouse turned out to be a very profitable undertaking. The Colonel was pleased with our sales volume. When the Stars and Stripes ran an article about it the store was flooded with GIs from a neighbouring base, resulting in a rapid depletion of our inventory. Due to Harold’s connections, we were able to restock immediately. Every soldier must owe him a favour, I thought.

We did have some problems. Absenteeism plagued us. Part of the problem was the terrible condition of public transportation. Yaniko told me a thirty-minute train ride could take as long as two hours on some mornings. Japanese trains were famous for their punctuality but that all changed after the bombings. Some of our employees lived in cramped houses with dozens of elderly relatives who often needed their attention. Regrettably, the more attractive Japanese girls soon learned that they could make more money faster by entertaining GIs in certain ways that perpetuated the stark contrast between overlords and minions. There were some who decided to escape the city and return to the country where there were opportunities on recently revitalized farms. One of those was Yakochan, our best sales girl, who moved back to Bunkamura where her family was trying farming again. Yakochan’s husband had been a kamikaze pilot who had kept his solemn pledge, piloting his plane into one of the American battleships near Okinawa. Then she lost everything in an air raid that mercilessly bombed her home. For a while, the job had given her purpose and she worked harder than most others.

“I am sorry,” she said, “you were so good to me. I will miss you. I will never forget you.”

I enjoyed every moment at the warehouse and wished that life would just continue on as it was. Then word came from the American Consul that our visas were being processed and that Paps would have them in hand within the month.