Shibumi

“He was never called that!”

“That’s what they’re calling him now.” Captain Thomas sat back and pressed his forefingers into his sunken eye sockets. Then he tugged at his sandy hair in an effort to revive himself. “And you can bet your Aunt Tilly’s twat that that title will be used a hundred times during the trial. I’m sorry if I sound defeatist, but I happen to know that winning this one is very important to the Soviets. They’re making a big propaganda number out of it. As you probably know, they’ve picked up a lot of flack for failing to repatriate their war prisoners. They’ve been keeping them in ‘reeducation camps’ in Siberia until they can be returned fully indoctrinated. And they have not delivered a single war criminal, other than Kishikawa. So this is a set piece for them, a chance to let the people of the world know they’re doing their job, vigorously purging Japanese Capitalist Imperialists, making the world safe for socialism. Now, you seem to think this Kishikawa is innocent. Okay, maybe so. But I assure you that he qualifies as a war criminal. You see, the primary qualification for that honor is to be on the losing side—and that he was.” Captain Thomas lighted one cigarette from another and stubbed out the punk in an overflowing ashtray. He puffed out a breath in a mirthless chuckle. “Can you imagine what would have happened to FDR or General Patton if the other side had won? Assuming they had been so self-righteous as to set up war-crimes trials. Shit, the only people who would have escaped being labeled ‘warmongers’ would have been those isolationist hicks who kept us out of the League of Nations. And chances are they would have been set up as puppet rulers, just as we have set up their opposite numbers in the Diet. That’s the way it is, son. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. I go to trial tomorrow representing an old man who’s dying of cancer and who claims he never did anything but obey the commands of his Emperor. But he’ll probably be called the ‘Leopard of Luzon’ or the ‘Puma of Pago-Pago.’ And you know what, kid? For all I know, he might really have been the Leopard of Luzon. It won’t matter much one way or the other.”

“Can I at least see him? Visit him?”

Captain Thomas’s head was down; he was already scanning the folder on the forthcoming trial. “What?”

“I want to visit General Kishikawa. May I?”

“I can’t do anything about that. He’s a Russian prisoner. You’ll have to get permission from them.”

“Well, how do you get to see him?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“You haven’t even talked to him?”

Captain Thomas looked up blearily. “I’ve got six weeks before he goes to trial. The Leopard of Luzon, goes up tomorrow. Go see the Russians. Maybe they can help you.”

“Whom do I see?”

“Shit, boy, I don’t know!”

Nicholai rose. “I see. Thank you.”

He had reached the door when Captain Thomas said, “I’m sorry, son. Really.”

Nicholai nodded and left.

In months to come, Nicholai was to reflect on the differences between Captain Thomas and his Russian opposite number, Colonel Gorbatov. They were symbolic variances in the superpowers’ ways of thinking and dealing with men and problems. The American had been genuinely concerned, compassionate, harried, illorganized… ultimately useless. The Russian was mistrustful, indifferent, well prepared and informed, and ultimately of some value to Nicholai, who sat in a large, overstuffed chair as the Colonel stirred his glass of tea thoughtfully until two large lumps of sugar disintegrated and swirled at the bottom, but never completely dissolved.

“You are sure you will not take tea?” the Colonel asked.

“Thank you, no.” Nicholai preferred to avoid wasting time on social niceties.

“For myself, I am addicted to tea. When I die, the fellow who does my autopsy will find my insides tanned like boot leather.” Gorbatov smiled automatically at the old joke, then set down the glass in its metal holder. He unthreaded his round metal-rimmed glasses from his ears and cleaned them, or rather distributed the smudge evenly, using his thumb and finger. As he did so, he settled his hooded eyes on the young man sitting across from him. Gorbatov was farsighted and could see Nicholai’s boyish face and startling green eyes better with his glasses off. “So you are a friend of General Kishikawa? A friend concerned with his welfare. Is that it?”

“Yes, Colonel. And I want to help him, if I can.”

“That’s understandable. After all, what are friends for?”

“At very least, I would like permission to visit him in prison.”

“Yes, of course you would. That’s understandable.” The Colonel replaced his glasses and sipped his tea. “You speak Russian very well, Mr. Hel. With quite a refined accent. You have been trained very carefully.”

“It’s not a matter of being trained. My mother was Russian.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I never learned Russian formally. It was a cradle language.”

“I see. I see.” It was Gorbatov’s style to place the burden of communication on the other person, to draw him out by contributing little beyond constant indications that he was unconvinced. Nicholai allowed the transparent lactic to work because he was tired of fencing, frustrated with short leads and blind alleys, and eager to learn about Kishikawa-san. He offered more information than necessary, but even as he spoke, he realized that his story did not have the sound of truth. That realization made him explain even more carefully, and the meticulous explanations made it sound more and more as though he were lying.

“In my home, Colonel, Russian, French, German, and Chinese were all cradle languages.”

“It must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in so crowded a cradle.”

Nicholai tried to laugh, but the sound was thin and unconvincing.

“But of course,” Gorbatov went on, “you speak English as well?” The question was posed in English with a slight British accent.

“Yes,” Nicholai answered in Russian. “And Japanese. But these were learned languages.”

“Meaning: not cradle?”

“Meaning just that.” Nicholai instantly regretted the brittle sound his voice had assumed.

“I see.” The Colonel leaned back in his desk chair and regarded Nicholai with a squint of humor in his Mongol-shaped eyes. “Yes,” he said at last, “very well trained. And disarmingly young. But for all your cradle and post-cradle languages, Mr. Hel, you are an American, are you not?”

“I work for the Americans. As a translator.”

“But you showed an American identification card to the men downstairs.”

“I was issued the card because of my work.”

“Oh, of course. I see. But as I recall, my question was not whom you worked for—we already knew that—but what your nationality is. You are an American, are you not?”

“No, Colonel, I am not.”

“What then?”

“Well… I suppose I am more Japanese than anything.”

“Oh? You will excuse me if I mention that you do not look particularly Japanese?”

“My mother was Russian, as I told you. My father was German.”

“Ah! That clarifies everything. A typical Japanese ancestry.”

“I cannot see what difference it makes what my nationality is!”

“It’s not important that you be able to see it. Please answer my question.”

The sudden frigidity of tone caused Nicholai to calm his growing anger and frustration. He drew a long breath. “I was born in Shanghai. I came here during the war—under the protection of General Kishikawa—a family friend.”

“Then of what nation are you a citizen?”

“None.”

“How awkward that must be for you.”

“It is, yes. It made it very difficult to find work to support myself.”

“Oh, I am sure it did, Mr. Hel. And in your difficulties, I understand how you might be willing to do almost anything to secure employment and money.”

“Colonel Gorbatov, I am not an agent of the Americans. I am in their employ, but I am not their agent.”

“You make distinctions in shading which, I confess, are lost upon me.”

“But why would the Americans want to interview General Kishikawa? What reason would they have to go through an elaborate charade just to contact an officer with a largely administrative career?”

“Precisely what I hoped you would clarify for me, Mr. Hel.” The Colonel smiled.

Nicholai rose. “It is evident to me, Colonel, that you are enjoying our conversation more than I. I must not squander your valuable time. Surely there are flies waiting to have their wings pulled off.”

Gorbatov laughed aloud. “I haven’t heard that tone for years! Not only the cultivated sound of court Russian, but even the snide disdain! That’s wonderful! Sit down, young man. Sit down. And tell me why you must see General Kishikawa.”

Nicholai dropped into the overstuffed chair, voided, weary. “It is more simple than you are willing to believe. Kishikawa-san is a friend. Almost a father. Now he is alone, without family, and in prison. I must help him, if I can. At very least, I must see him… talk to him.”

“A simple gesture of filial piety. Perfectly understandable. Are you sure you won’t have a glass of tea?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

As he refilled his glass, the Colonel opened a manila folder and glanced at the contents. Nicholai assumed that the preparation of this file was the cause of his three-hour wait in the outer offices of the headquarters of Soviet Occupation Forces. “I see that you also carry papers identifying you as a citizen of the USSR. Surely that is sufficiently uncommon as to merit an explanation?”

“Your sources of information within SCAP are good.”

The Colonel shrugged. “They are adequate.”

“I had a friend—a woman—who helped me get employment with the Americans. It was she who got my American identification card for me—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hel. I seem to be expressing myself poorly this afternoon. I did not ask you about your American papers. It was your Russian identity card that interested me. Will you forgive my vagueness?”

“I was trying to explain that.”

“Oh, do excuse me.”

“I was going to tell you that this woman realized I might get into some trouble if the Americans discovered I was not a citizen. To avoid this, she also had papers made up indicating a Russian nationality, so I could show them to curious American MP’s and avoid questioning.”

“And how often have you been driven to this baroque expedient?”

“Never.”

“Hardly a frequency that justifies the effort. And why Russian? Why was not some other nationality selected from that crowded cradle of yours?”

“As you have pointed out, I do not look convincingly Oriental. And the attitude of the Americans toward German nationals is hardly friendly.”

“While their attitude toward Russians, on the other hand, is fraternal and compassionate? Is that it?”

“Of course not. But they mistrust and fear you, and for that reason, they do not treat Soviet citizens highhandedly.”

“This woman friend of yours was very astute. Tell me why she went to such efforts on your behalf. Why did she take such risks?”

Nicholai did not answer, which was sufficient answer.

“Ah, I see,” Colonel Gorbatov said. “Of course. Then too, Miss Goodbody was a woman no longer burdened with her first youth.”

Nicholai flushed with anger. “You know all about this!”

Gorbatov tugged off his glasses and redistributed the sneer. “I know certain things. About Miss Goodbody, for instance. And about your household in the Asakusa district. My, my, my. Two young ladies to share your bed? Profligate youth! And I know that your mother was the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna. Yes, I know certain things about you.”

“And you have believed me all the while, haven’t you.”

Gorbatov shrugged, “It would be more accurate to say that I have believed the details with which your story is garnished. I know that you visited Captain Thomas of the War Crimes Tribunal Staff last…” He glanced at the folder. “…last Tuesday morning at seven-thirty. I presume he told you there was nothing he could do for you in the matter of General Kishikawa who, apart from being a major war criminal guilty of sins against humanity, is also the only high-ranking officer of the Japanese Imperial Army to survive the rigors of reeducation camp, and is therefore a figure of value to us from the point of view of prestige and propaganda.” The Colonel threaded his glasses from ear to ear. “I am afraid there is nothing you can do for the General, young man. And if you pursue this, you will expose yourself to investigation by American Intelligence—a title more indicative of what they seek than of what they possess. And if there was nothing my ally and brother-in-arms, Captain Thomas, could do for you, then certainly there is nothing I can do. He, after all, represents the defense. I represent the prosecution. You are quite sure you will not take a glass of tea?”

Nicholai grasped for whatever he could get. “Captain Thomas told me I would need your permission to visit the General.”

“That is true.”

“Well?”

The Colonel turned in his desk chair toward the window and tapped his front teeth with his forefinger as he looked out on the blustery day. “Are you sure he would want a visit from you, Mr. Hel? I have talked to the General. He is a man of pride. It might not be pleasant for him to appear before you in his present state. He has twice attempted to commit suicide, and now he is watched over very strictly. His present condition is degrading.”

“I must try to see him. I owe him… very much.”

The Colonel nodded without looking back from the window. He seemed lost in thoughts of his own.

“Well?” Nicholai asked after a time.

Gorbatov did not answer.

“May I visit the General?”

His voice distant and atonic, the Colonel said, “Yes, of course.” He turned to Nicholai and smiled. “I shall arrange it immediately.”

* * *

Although so crowded into the swaying elevated car of the Yamate loop line that he could feel the warmth of pressing bodies seep through the damp of their clothing and his, Nicholai was isolated within his confusion and doubts. Through gaps between people, he watched the city passing beneath, dreary in the chill wet day, sucked empty of color by the leaden skies.

There had been subtle threat in Colonel Gorbatov’s atonic permission to visit Kishikawa-san, and all morning Nicholai had felt diminished and impotent against the foreboding he felt. Perhaps Gorbatov had been right when he suggested that this visit might not, after all, be an act of kindness. But how could he allow the General to face his forthcoming trial and disgrace alone? It would be an act of indifference for which he could never forgive himself. Was it for his own peace of mind, then, that he was going to Sugamo Prison? Were his motives at base selfish?

At the Komagome Station, one stop before Sugamo Prison, Nicholai had a sudden impulse to get off the train—to return home, or at least wander about for a while and consider what he was doing. But this survival warning came too late. Before he could push his way to the doors, they clattered shut, and the train jerked away. He was certain he should have gotten off. He was equally certain that now he would go through with it.

* * *

Colonel Gorbatov had been generous; he had arranged that Nicholai would have an hour with Kishikawa-san. But now as Nicholai sat in the chilly visiting room, staring at the flaking green paint on the walls, he wondered if there would be anything to say that could fill a whole hour. A Japanese guard and an American MP stood by the door, ignoring one another, the Japanese staring at the floor before him, while the American devoted his attention to the task of snatching hairs from his nostrils. Nicholai had been searched with embarrassing thoroughness in an anteroom before being admitted to the visiting area. The rice cakes he had brought along wrapped in paper had been taken from him by the American MP, who took Nicholai for an American on the strength of his identification card and explained, “Sorry, pal. But you can’t bring chow with you. This—ah—whatshisname, the gook general—he’s tried to bump himself off. We can’t run the risk of poison or whatever. You dig?”

Nicholai said that he dug. And he joked with the MP, realizing that he must put himself on the good side of the authorities, if he was to help Kishikawa-san in any way. “Yeah, I know what you mean, sergeant. I sometimes wonder how any Japanese officers survived the war, what with their inclination toward suicide.”

“Right. And if anything happened to this guy, my ass would be in a sling. Hey. What in hell’s this?” The sergeant held up a small magnetic G

Nicholai shrugged. “Oh, a game. Sort of a Japanese chess.”

“Oh yeah?”

The Japanese guard, who stood about awkwardly in the knowledge of his redundancy in this situation, was glad to be able to tell his American opposite number in broken English that it was indeed a Japanese game.

“Well, I don’t know, pal. I don’t know if you can bring this in with you.”

Nicholai shrugged again. “It’s up to you, sergeant. I thought it might be something to pass the time if the General didn’t feel like talking.”

“Oh? You talk gook?”

Nicholai had often wondered how that word, a corruption of the Korean name for its people, had become the standard term of derogation in the American military vocabulary for all Orientals.

“Yes, I speak Japanese.” Nicholai recognized the need for duplicity where sensibility meets stony ignorance. “You probably noticed from my ID card that I work for Sphinx?” He looked steadily at the sergeant and tipped his head slightly toward the Japanese guard, indicating that he didn’t want to go into this too deeply with alien ears around.

The MP frowned in his effort to think, then he nodded conspiratorily. “I see. Yeah, I sort of wondered how come an American was visiting this guy.”

“A job’s a job.”

“Right. Well, I guess it’s okay. What harm can a game do?” He returned the miniature G

Five minutes later the door opened, and General Kishikawa entered, followed by two more guards, another Japanese, and a thick-set Russian with the immobile, meaty face of the Slavic peasant. Nicholai rose in greeting, as the two new protectors took up their positions against the wall.

As Kishikawa-san approached, Nicholai automatically made a slight head bow of filial obeisance. The gesture was not lost upon the Japanese guards, who exchanged brief glances, but remained silent.

The General shuffled forward and took the chair opposite Nicholai, across the rough wooden table. When at last he lifted his eyes, the young man was struck by the General’s appearance. He had expected an alteration in Kishikawa-san’s features, an erosion of his gentle virile manner, but not this much.

The man sitting opposite him was old, frail, diminished. There was an oddly priestly look to his transparent skin and slow, uncertain movements. When finally he spoke, his voice was soft and monotonic, as if communication was a pointless burden.

“Why have you come, Nikko?”

“To be with you, sir.”

“I see.”

There followed a silence during which Nicholai could think of nothing to say, and the General had nothing to say. Finally, with a long, fluttering sigh, Kishikawa-san assumed the responsibility for the conversation because he did not want Nicholai to feel uncomfortable with the silence. “You look well, Nikko. Are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Good. You grow more like your mother each day. I can see her eyes in yours.” He smiled faintly. “Someone should have advised your family that this particular color of green was meant for jade or ancient glass, not for human eyes. It is disconcerting.”

Nicholai forced a smile. “I shall speak to an ophthalmologist, sir, to see if there is a remedy for our blunder.”

“Yes. Do that.”

“I shall.”

“Do.” The General gazed away and seemed for a second to forget Nicholai’s presence. Then: “So? How are you getting on?”

“Well enough. I work for the Americans. A translator.”

“So? And do they accept you?”

“They ignore me, which is just as well.”

“Better, really.”

There was another brief silence, which Nicholai was going to break with small talk when Kishikawa-san raised his hand.

“Of course you have questions. I will tell you things quickly and simply, then we shall discuss them no further.”

Nicholai bowed his head in compliance.

“I was in Manchuria, as you know. I became sick—pneumonia. I was in fever and coma when the Russians attacked the hospital unit where I was. When I became myself again, I was in a reeducation camp, under constant surveillance and unable to use the portal through which so many of my brother officers had escaped the indignity of surrender and the humiliations of… reeducation. Only a few other officers were captured. They were taken away somewhere and not heard of again. Our captors assumed that officers were either incapable or unworthy of… reeducation. I assumed this would be my fate also, and I awaited it with such calm as I could manage. But no. Evidently, the Russians thought that one thoroughly reeducated officer of general rank would be a useful thing to introduce into Japan, to aid them with their plans for the future of our country. Many… many… many methods of reeducation were employed. The physical ones were easiest to bear—hunger, sleeplessness, beatings. But I am a stubborn old man, and I do not reeducate easily. As I had no family left alive in Japan as hostages, they were denied the emotional whip with which they had reeducated others. A long time passed. A year and a half, I think. It is difficult to tell the seasons when you never see the light of day, and when endurance is measured in five more minutes… five more minutes… I can stand this for five more minutes.” The General was lost for a time in memories of specific torments. Then, with a faint start, he returned to his story. “Sometimes they lost patience with me and made the error of giving me periods of rest in unconsciousness. A long time passed in this way. Months measured in minutes. Then suddenly they stopped all efforts toward my reeducation. I assumed, of course, that I would be killed. But they had something more degrading in mind for me. I was cleaned and deloused. A plane trip. A long ride on a railroad. Another plane trip. And I was here. For a month, I was kept here with no idea of their intentions. Then, two weeks ago, a Colonel Gorbatov visited me. He was quite frank with me. Each occupying nation has offered up its share of war criminals. The Soviets have had none to offer, no direct participation in the machinery of international justice. Before me, that is.”

“But, sir—”

Kishikawa-san lifted his hand for silence. “I decided I would not face this final humiliation. But I had no way to release myself. I have no belt. My clothes, as you see, are of stout canvas that I have not the strength to tear. I eat with a wooden spoon and bowl. I am permitted to shave only with an electric razor, and only under close surveillance.” The General smiled a gray smile. “The Soviets prize me, it would appear. They are concerned not to lose me. Ten days ago, I stopped eating. It was easier than you might imagine. They threatened me, but when a man decides to live no longer, he removes the power of others to make potent threats. So… they held me down on a table and forced a rubber tube down my throat. And they fed me liquids. It was ghastly… humiliating… eating and vomiting all at once. It was without dignity. So I promised to start eating again. And here I am.”

Throughout this minimal explanation, Kishikawa-san had riveted his eyes on the rough surface of the table, intense and defocused.

Nicholai’s eyes stung with brimming tears. He stared ahead, not daring to blink and send tears down his cheeks that would embarrass his father—his friend, that is.

Kishikawa-san drew a long breath and looked up. “No, no. There’s no point in that, Nikko. The guards are looking on. Don’t give them this satisfaction.” He reached across and patted Nicholai’s cheek with a firmness that was almost an admonitory slap.

At this point, the American sergeant straightened up, ready to protect his Sphinx compatriot from this gook general.

But Nicholai scrubbed his face with his hands, as though in fatigue, and with this gesture he rid himself of the tears.

“So!” Kishikawa-san said with new energy. “It is nearly time for the blossoms of Kajikawa. Do you intend to visit them?”

Nicholai swallowed. “Yes.”

“That’s good. The Occupation Forces have not chopped them down, then?”

“Not physically.”

The General nodded. “And have you friends in your life, Nikko?”

“I… I have people living with me.”

“As I recall from a letter from our friend Otake shortly before his death, there was a girl in his household, a student—I am sorry, but I don’t remember her name. Evidently you were not totally indifferent to her charms. Do you still see her?”

Nicholai considered before answering. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Not a quarrel, I hope.”

“No. Not a quarrel.”

“Ah, well, at your age affections ebb and flow. When you get older, you will discover that you cling to some with desperation.” The effort to make Nicholai comfortable with social talk seemed to exhaust Kishikawa-san. There was really nothing he wanted to say, and after his experiences of the past two years, nothing he wanted to know. He bowed his head and stared at the table, slipping into the tight cycle of abbreviated thoughts and selected memories from his childhood with which he had learned to narcotize his imagination.

At first, Nicholai found comfort in the silence too. Then he realized that they were not together in it, but alone and apart. He drew the miniature G

“They have given us an hour together, sir.”

Kishikawa-san tugged his mind to the present. “What? Ah, yes. Oh, a game. Good, yes. It is something we can do together painlessly. But I have not played for a long time, and I shall not be an interesting opponent for you, Nikko.”

“I haven’t played since the death of Otake-san myself, sir.”

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Yes. I am afraid I have made a waste of the years of training.”

“No. It is one of the things one cannot waste. You have learned to concentrate deeply, to think subtly, to have affection for abstractions, to live at a distance from quotidian things. Not a waste. Yes, let’s play.”

Automatically returning to their first days together, and forgetting that Nicholai was now a far superior player. General Kishikawa offered a two stone advantage, which Nicholai of course accepted. For a time they played a vague and undistinguished game, concentrating only deeply enough to absorb mental energy that would otherwise have tormented them with memories, and with anticipations of things to come. Eventually the General looked up and sighed with a smile. “This is no good. I have played poorly and driven all aji out of the game.”

“So have I.”

Kishikawa-san nodded. “Yes. So have you.”

“We’ll play again, if you wish, sir. During my next visit. Perhaps we’ll play better.”

“Oh? Have you permission to visit me again?”

“Yes. Colonel Gorbatov has arranged that I may come tomorrow. After that… I’ll apply to him again and see.”

The General shook his head. “He is a very shrewd man, this Gorbatov.”

“In what way, sir?”

“He has managed to remove my ‘stone of refuge’ from the board.”

“Sir?”

“Why do you think he let you come here, Nikko? Compassion? You see, once they had removed from me all means of escape into an honorable death, I decided that I would face the trial in silence, in a silence as dignified as possible. I would not, as others have done, struggle to save myself by implicating friends and superiors. I would refuse to speak at all, and accept their sentence. This did not please Colonel Gorbatov and his compatriots. They would be cheated out of the propaganda value of their only war criminal. But there was nothing they could do. I was beyond the sanctions of punishment and the attractions of leniency. And they lacked the emotional hostages of my family, because, so far as they knew, my family had died in the carpet bombing of Tokyo. Then… then fate offered them you.”

“Me, sir?”

“Gorbatov was perceptive enough to realize that you would not expose your delicate position with the Occupation Forces by making efforts to visit me unless you honored and loved me. And he reasoned—not inaccurately—that I reciprocate these feelings. So now he has his emotional hostage. He allowed you to come here to show me that he had you. And he does have you, Nikko. You are uniquely vulnerable. You have no nationality, no consulate to protect you, no friends who care about you, and you live on forged identity papers. He told me all of this. I am afraid he has ‘confined the cranes to their nest,’ my son.”

The impact of what Kishikawa-san was saying grew in Nicholai. All the time and effort he had spent trying to contact the General, all this desperate combat against institutional indifference, had had the final effect of stripping the General of his armor of silence. He was not a consolation to Kishikawa-san; he was a weapon against him. Nicholai felt a medley of anger, shame, outrage, self-pity, and sorrow for Kishikawa-san.

The General’s eyes crinkled into a listless smile. “This is not your fault, Nikko. Nor is it mine. It is fate only. Bad luck. We will not talk about it again. We will play when you come back, and I promise to offer you a better game.”

The General rose and walked to the door, where he waited to be escorted out by the Japanese and Russian guards, who left him standing there until Nicholai nodded to the American MP, who in turn nodded to his opposite numbers.