Forged In Fire: Stories of wartime Japan

Childhood (Part 1)

I grew up in a neighborhood in a town called Oimachi in Shinagawa, a southern ward of Tokyo, Japan.   Shinagawa sits within the deep curve of Tokyo Bay, which flows out to the Pacific Ocean.  Across from Shinagawa lies the busy Port of Tokyo.  Slightly further south is Haneda Airport (Tokyo International Airport).  My two older brothers, ailing mother, grandmother and later, aunt, lived together in an apartment near Oimachi Station. 

Grandmother had often told me stories about her father who had served the Emperor of Japan as a samurai. Samurai were warriors who lived by a strict code of honor known as bushido.  Sometimes when her father went to pay a visit at the Emperor's palace, he would take Grandmother along with him.  She was about three or four years old at the time.

Palace employees would watch over my Grandmother while her father met with the Emperor.  The Emperor always gave her father a present to take with him.  As a result, our home had many treasured items.  One of these was a black, lacquered wooden box about three or four inches deep with a hinged top, designed to hold writing paper.  The edges of the box had rounded grooves that were painted gold and on the center of its lid was an image of a golden chrysanthemum flower — the Emperor's crest.  

There was a suit of samurai armor and a pair of katana, one short and the other long. We even had photographs of then-current emperor, Emperor Hirohito, and previous generations of his family hanging on our walls, tracing the roots of the Emperor's lineage.

These treasures were considered unusual and were not the sort of thing that a typical family would own.  My grandmother often reminded us to be proud of our history.  She would tell me and my brothers, Sadakazu and Tadashi, that even if we did not have money in our pockets, we were still samurai. I had fun being with my grandmother and enjoyed listening to her stories.  I think I loved her more than anyone else.  

Grandmother would sometimes take me on little trips.  We once took a train to a Shinto shrine in Asakusa.  The giant statues sitting inside frightened me.  I told her I would wait for her outside. Grandmother laughed.

Grandmother had been married to a police officer and had given birth to three daughters, one of whom was my mother; the other, my aunt; and a third who had died at the age of seventeen.  Of these three daughters, I would only get to know one.

Although my mother was living in the same home with us, I never knew her — never even realized that she was my mother.  She lived upstairs, mostly bedridden due to a kidney infection.  There was a long cord that ran from her bedroom all the way downstairs that had a bell attached to it.  She would ring the bell whenever she needed something.

My mother came downstairs only once.  She sat down on the tatami and pulled me into her lap with my back toward her and held me for a little while.  I did not even see her face and had no idea who she was at the time.  It is the only memory I have of her while she was still alive.

I was about three years old when mother died around the age of thirty-four.  I was too young to understand what had happened.  There was a wake and neighbors came to our home with food.  Everybody was crying.

A woman was lying in a box in the middle of our living room.  I didn't realize it was my mother or that she was dead but what I did notice were the small bags surrounding her body like gift packages.   The bags were filled with tinder to aid in the cremation process.  I tried to climb inside the casket to get a closer look at them but Grandmother stopped me and carried me away from the casket.  I protested: No I want to go in there!  Everyone started crying even harder because they felt sad for me, thinking that I had wanted to be with my mother.  They had no idea that I was just trying to have fun.

Then it was time to go to the shrine to cremate the body.   I was hopping around and playing, unaware of the seriousness of what was taking place.   For a moment, I remember someone opening the door to a furnace and seeing a red-hot fire inside where the casket was pushed in.  Still, I did not make the connection in my head that my mother was being cremated. A group of Shinto priests sat down with the family and started chanting with deep, deep voices.  I was bored by their chanting and wanted to leave.  After the cremation was done, the ashes were placed into a container for us to bring to a shrine.  I remember happily reaching into the container and sifting through the ashes, pulling out pieces of bone.  

We had a shrine in the living room of our apartment home but it was small, like a doll's house.  Whenever a family member or relative passed away, a miniature grave marker would be placed inside.   The markers were made of wood and painted with black lacquer.  The deceased person's name and the year that he or she had died would be written on it.   The markers were about two by four inches and were propped up on tiny display stands.  Upon opening the double door to the shrine, one would see the little grave markers sitting inside.  My mother, grandfather, and great-grandfather's names were in there.  My grandmother would bring a tiny, miniature bowl of steaming hot gohan or miso soup to the shrine as an offering for the dead.  The food would be presented to the grave markers and we would say a prayer together before placing it inside.