Into the Forbidden Zone: A Trip Through Hell and High Water in Post-Earthquake Japan

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Devastation in Ishinomaki. Photo by William T. Vollmann

ON MARCH 11, 2011, a 9.0-magnitude temblor struck the eastern coast of Japan’s main island. A tsunami followed. The day before I departed Tokyo for the disaster zone, the casualties had been totted up as follows: killed, 12,175; missing, 15,489; injured, 2,858.⁷ In the affected area there happened to be a pair of nuclear power plants owned by the Tokyo Electric Power Company, or, in English-language parlance, Tepco. The six-reactor Fukushima Number One Nuclear Plant emerged from the catastrophe with more cracks and leaks than its counterpart a few kilometers south. By the 26th, water in Plant Number One’s second reactor was emitting at least a sievert per hour of radiation.⁸At this rate, a person would receive that five-rem dose in about three minutes.

The situation seemed unpromising, all the more so since I was not the only ignoramus in Japan:

March 27:

Q. Where did this radioactive water come from?

A. Plant officials and government regulators say they don’t know.⁹

April 3:

How much water has leaked and for how long was not known as of Saturday afternoon.¹⁰

Before I had left for Japan, Peter Bradford, formerly a member of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission and now serving on the board of trustees of the Union of Concerned Scientists, had said to me: “I’m getting increasingly concerned about the failure of the Japanese public to get accurate information. In the first week I thought the Japanese government was being cautious for good reason. In the third week, there are more and more symptoms that details are being held back. Just now there’s first of all that one extremely high radiation reading, which was declared to be a mistake, and secondly the discovery of iodine-134, which has a very short half-life and would only be present if there’s some recriticality, and they said that’s also a mistake. That’s two mistakes.”

“What would the worst case be?”

“If one of the cores was able to go critical to produce even a small-scale nuclear explosion.”

“How much of Japan would become uninhabitable?”

“It’s hard to say. It depends a lot on the wind. So far the Japanese have been lucky with the winds blowing west to east, out to sea.”

WHY THIS ESSAY IS SHORT ON STATISTICS

ALTHOUGH MY LETTER of press accreditation informed those very few Japanese who were interested that my duties involved “interviewing individuals and officials on behalf of our publication,” I did not see it as my duty to obtain figures on casualties, radiation levels, et cetera, which might well be lies and would certainly be superseded. (The stunning capacity of the Japanese official to say absolutely nothing is matched only by the absurd degree of trust that his public places in him; while the cynical suspicion of the American electorate finds its perfect mate in their officials’ complacent and sometimes even blustering dishonesty.)

Nor could I imagine that “experts” had any more to say about the profoundest questions raised by this continuing tragedy than those who suffered by it. Finally, I could see no benefit in seeking out the people in greatest emotional pain. As you read this account, you will see that my interviewees were, for materially devastated individuals, relatively “lucky.” Only a couple of families had lost members — yet. This selection was less the fruit of my deliberate policy than the consequence of the fact that those not grieving the death of a relative felt more inclined to open their hearts to a stranger; hence I was more likely to encounter them.

However conservatively considerate I imagined this approach to be, it scarcely put me in the clear. My interpreter, to whom I had been close for many years, was sluggish and irritable as I had never seen her; she admitted to being depressed, not to mention enraged at Tepco and her government. Her cousin, who had not met me, expected that I would do harm, and therefore admonished me (a) to interview no one without that Japanese standby, a go-between; (b) to begin by inviting my interviewees to refrain from answering any question they didn’t like; and (c) above all, to pay and pay and pay. I always felt that I was doing just that whenever I visited Japan, being well accustomed to slipping crisp ten-thousand-yen notes into “gratitude envelopes.” Once that would have been a trifle over eighty American dollars; now it was 125. I was willing to keep on disbursing this amount, especially to those in need; my interpreter and her cousin, however, informed me that such a small sum would be “unthinkable.” They expected me to pay at least forty or fifty thousand yen. I dug in my heels, inviting the interpreter to open her heart and add whatever she wished to my envelope, as indeed she did, not without quiet resentment; I’m sure she paid out at least as much as I remitted to her. At length we agreed to disagree. With this ugly episode our work began.

That day and every other I watched the dosimeter, perhaps more frequently than I needed to, but I hardly knew how salubrious each hour might be. The display indeed turned over in increments of 0.1 millirems; there was no in-between. In San Francisco, as I’ve said, it registered that same 0.1 millirems about every twenty-four hours, usually changing sometime during the night. The flight to Japan rewarded me with 1.2 millirems, and the return flight, which was shorter, with 0.8; both of these worked out to more or less a millirem per hour. Tokyo was essentially as radioactive as San Francisco, which pleased me for my own sake and everyone else’s.

At six in the morning, the cumulative reading was 1.5. The bus left Tokyo at eight. I was, let’s say, 230 kilometers from the reactor.¹¹ The plum trees were already in flower; the cherry blossoms must already have opened in the south. Shortly before noon we stopped for lunch in Koriyama, 58 kilometers from the danger spot, the mountain-ringed country opening out, with the rice fields still straw-colored (a month to go before planting) and snow shining on the western peaks; just then the display turned over to 1.6. We had come into the Tohoku region, which the interpreter referred to as Japan’s breadbasket, adding, “so I’m very worried about the future.” Many items in the convenience-store restaurant were sold out. Here the Japanese Self-Defense Forces began to be evident, some of them wearing flat caps and the others sporting hard hats. Continuing northward, we drew level with Plant Number One and then passed it, reaching Sendai (208 kilometers from the bad place) in mid-afternoon. From the dosimeter I judged that Koriyama must be at least twice as radioactive as Tokyo, which hypothesis I would test on my return there, once the safer portion of my work had concluded.

In Tokyo the stresses of the disaster had approached the inconspicuous: a blackout here and there, a shortage of diapers and sanitary wipes, which people were sending to their relatives in the stricken zone. As for Sendai, it was recovering; although the airport was not open, heating gas remained unavailable, and milk, yogurt, eggs, and cigarettes were in short supply, at least the two-hour waits in petrol stations had come to an end and the electricity was back on. Indeed, downtown appeared untouched, if one did not wander about to discover the warning signs posted on this or that building.

I hired a taxi to take me down into the Wakabayashi district of Sendai, which had been harder hit.

“I was on duty in the car,” said the driver, whose name was Sato Masayoshi.¹² “There were no passengers. I heard the earthquake alert on the radio. I looked for a wide open place to park, since the buildings were shaking. You couldn’t stand! I was sitting on the median strip. It lasted a good two minutes, moving between east and south, laterally.¹³When the tremors stopped, I got out of the cab, tried my cell phone, which did not connect, and used a public phone to call my family. It rang and rang but nobody answered. So I drove to the office, received permission to stop working, and hurried home. The traffic jam was terrible, but everybody was okay. We had no electricity for three days. My grandchildren enjoyed it.”

He pointed. “Over there, there’s the restaurant that shook so much. And you see this gas station! The ceiling dropped. .”

“Did the tsunami come here?”

“No, this is all earthquake.”

“What was your opinion when you first heard about the reactor accident?”

“Sendai is eighty or ninety kilos from the power plant,¹⁴ so I’m not really worried about it. The wind in this season blows from the land to the sea. If it blows from the south, that will be a problem. The highly contaminated water needs to be released, they say. .”

That was the word I so often heard: contaminated. It sounded less frightening than radioactive.

“How contaminated is the sea around Sendai?”

“I don’t think they’ve measured it yet.”

Gazing down at the dosimeter in my shirt pocket, I was pleased to see it still at 1.6. We came to a shed that had been uprooted. I photographed it, and then the driver remarked, a trifle indignantly: “Today a fishing boat in Chosi Port,¹⁵ even without inspection their catch was refused!”

I wondered aloud if fish and eels and other such foods might be getting dangerous. Not caring to pursue those implications, or perhaps simply wishing to return to business, the driver announced like a tour guide: “And now we’re making a right turn to the place where the houses are gone. Here to the left there’s a highway. In some places the highway blocked the water. Some of the people who ran up on top of it survived.”

“Are you worried about the next earthquake?”

“Since the Miyagi Coast earthquake in 1978, it’s been a long time. This latest one was not the one the experts were discussing. People are talking about the next one; yes, there may be another. . Here the water came,” he continued, gesturing at some mud fields decorated with fallen trees and stumps. “On account of the salt water, you won’t be able to grow anything here for five or six years. They were growing soybeans.”

A fallen pine, cables, heaps of mud, bent pipes, metal grilles, fallen poles as thick as my shoulder, these sad and ugly objects varied themselves monotonously all the way to the mud horizon. On one side of the road the former fields were flooded with seawater. On the other, on the edge of streaming tidal flats which used to be rice fields, a two-story concrete house, windowless but seemingly intact, supported a second home that had been smashed up against it, the roof twisted like sections of ruined armor, both structures choked with rubbish. A detachment of goggled, web-belted, booted, camouflage-uniformed Self-Defense Forces from Hokkaido were dissecting the two houses in search of bodies. The slogan one often saw on their helmets was: “Let’s cheer up, Sendai!”

A cool breeze blew from the sea; I wondered if it was poisonous with beta particles. In any event, the dosimeter remained at 1.6. On and on in the house lots, sad heaps of trash that used to be houses hid their secrets. In this prefecture alone, more than 7,800 people had died, according to the current figure. Here came a civilian cyclist, stern and skinny, riding up the dirt road and passing us, continuing down among the house-stumps; I suppose that he was looking for his home. Slowly, while the soldiers stood around, the crane-claw opened and closed, pulling up a heap of crackling tree stumps. A young soldier informed me that they had found no corpses yet. When I photographed him, he pulled himself up tall and straight. He said that he was not worried about radiation; the likelihood of its coming here was low.

It is hard to describe to you the littered flatness, everything pulverized into irrelevance, some foundations still visible. One of the driver’s colleagues had lived here. Now he was staying at his son’s. The neighborhoods of Okada, Gamo, Shiratori, and Arahama were gone. The former geriatric home was full of rubble and trees. By now the trees had already started to decompose, so that when they edged up the sides of houses, they infiltrated them like subtly woven rattan, perfectly fitted by the weaver-upholsterer called death. Occasionally the empty doors and windows of better-off buildings had been protected by blue tarps taped into place. We drove slowly south through the smell of tidal flats, toward the Natori River, passing blue and gray stretches of rippling water, and a sign: Seaside Park Adventure Field.

“I have no words,” the driver said.

Here came mud and muck and shining water, a car in water up to the snout, a policeman in a hard hat, more fallen trees, a red sports car turned onto its side, the light now pretty on the rice fields. In one place, the road had been licked away underneath, the asphalt looking silly as it stretched through the air.

“Were most people drowned or crushed?”

“I think they drowned. Some of the cars were in a traffic jam. I know of one person who climbed up a pine tree to survive. His decision to give up the car was good.”

The cool air was dust-prickly in my throat. The driver and the interpreter both wore masks. I wondered some more about beta particles but decided to rely on the inverse-square law, which in general terms states that as radiation spreads from its source over a greater area, its intensity declines. The Natori bridge had been closed off with a checkerboarded barrel. A man with a light-stick baton and hard hat stood demoralized beside a flashing police car. Behind him, a boat had been pounded sideways into the muck.

“Driver, do you think that nuclear power is wise or unwise?”

“There are three nuclear plants in this prefecture. They are on higher ground than Tepco’s, so I think that is good.”

“So you approve of nuclear power?”

“Well, due to the greenhouse effect, oil and coal are not clean, so as long as they secure the safety, I think that nuclear power is good.”

An old woman in baggy clothes and a flapping shawl staggered down the road. Here came a small cemetery, the steles all upright but the mud churned up disgustingly between them. In the port, the trade show palace appeared in good health from the outside. A glittering stack of Toyotas which had awaited export had been crushed. It was strange to see new paint jobs on pancaked cars.

“So what will happen in the other season when the wind blows in from the south?”

“Well, we don’t have it like that so often.”

“It might only take one time,” I said.

“I agree!” he said with a laugh.

GOURMANDIZING

DUE TO HORDES of soldiers and volunteers in Sendai (the Metropolitan Hotel had been entirely turned over to relief workers), I found accommodations at a hot spring more than an hour’s bus ride out of town. Here various hard-pressed employees of the Osaka Gas Company were staying, and in the morning one sometimes saw a truckload of Self-Defense Forces outside. It was a half-empty, second-rate place where the sashimi came wrapped in plastic, although one could only admire the fervency of their many rules (“We firmly refuse your request to enter the baths when you are drunk or if you have tattoos on your body”).¹⁶ The waitress proudly assured me that the food was local insofar as possible, so while I was eating it I grew angry again at Bob the salesman, who had promised me a local measurement probe that had never arrived, and of course at Tepco; for how could I have any idea how carcinogenic the fish might be, not to mention these slightly less than fresh greens accompanying them, or the crab claw in the soup? I was not unmindful of the fact that I could eat while so many others went hungry; nor was I so concerned on my own account, for a man in his fifties has already won a victory of sorts; but what about the pregnant women, the young children, the people who should have had decades to look forward to? In the words of yesterday’s paper: “Govt. holding radiation data back: IAEA gets information, but public doesn’t.”

In the body of the article, an unnamed Meteorological Agency official explained that the Japanese government made its own forecasts — never mind that they had been released only once, because, an official named Seiji Shioya explained, “we can’t do it since accuracy is low.” The unnamed official then remarked: “If the government releases two different sets of data, it might cause disorder in the society.”¹⁷Was that why the official statistics offered varying units of measurement, so that in Koriyama the drinking water at the bus station was proclaimed safe on account of its radioactivity being less than a hundred becquerels, while the newspaper reported the radioactivity of this or that city in millisieverts per hour? Nobody I met knew what these numbers meant. How convenient! And so I chopsticked another previously frozen tidbit of horse mackerel into my mouth, wondering how safe it was.

PRESENT INTEREST

IN CASE YOU HAVE NOT NOTICED, I considered this matter of the reactor to be the real story. Sad as the earthquake and the tsunami had been, the damage had been done, the people killed and property ruined; and now recovery could continue until the next quake. But this other horror wrapped up in becquerels, sieverts, and millirems, it was just beginning, and nobody knew how bad it might be.

(I had asked Peter Bradford: “Could it happen here in the States? I understand we have some reactors of the Japanese type.”

“I don’t think the likelihood is driven so much by reactors of that kind as by the fact that we’re just about as vulnerable as the Japanese to complacency about what used to be called a Class Nine accident. I don’t think we’re any less vulnerable than the Japanese.”)

About the earthquake-tsunami and the concomitant reactor disaster it may be apposite to cite the words of Buddha: “Nothing in the world is permanent or lasting; everything is changing and momentary and unpredictable. But people are ignorant and selfish, and concerned only with the desires and sufferings of the present moment. They do not listen to the good teachings; nor do they try to understand them; and simply give themselves up to the present interest, to wealth and lust”¹⁸—to, for instance, the tax credits awarded those who dwell near a nuclear reactor, not to mention what the reactor enables and impels.

From Buddha’s point of view, it scarcely matters whether all our ease in life derives from uranium pellets, solar cells, or perpetual motion; in any case, our complacency alone protects the lovely roofs and trees of this present instant from becoming the rubble into which the very next moment might in fact cast them. But how many of us (excepting monks) can live and hope — in other words, chase our present interests — without disregarding our inevitable ends? I say we are “better off” pretending that the bullet train we're riding won’t derail. The peril is remote; probably we will die from something else. When the peril is nearer, present interest advises against disregard. The more present the interest, the less present or apparently present the danger, the more irresistible the disregard.

Hence the following parable, courtesy of the paterfamilias of the family who would soon host me on Oshima Island. Refilling my sake glass as we sat in his dark and chilly mud-stained dining room, he remarked that following an infamous tsunami back in the Meiji era,¹⁹ many oceanfront plots here and elsewhere were banned from resettlement, but “somehow,” he jocularly continued, people forgot or set the edict aside. Of course, even had they complied, this latest terror would have carried off ever so many, since it rolled in higher than any wave seen by the people of the Meiji period. Who can blame the inhabitants of Oshima for not predicting that?

However, the corporate engineers and presidents, the prefectural governors, the authorities whose task it ought to be to maximize public safety, these super-actors on the civic stage, they must be held accountable should they abandon themselves to their own present interests. The reason that I unalterably oppose nuclear power is so obvious to me that I remain astounded that everybody on earth is not likewise against it: Dangerously radioactive nuclear wastes must be stored and guarded for periods insanely in excess of any civilization’s frame of reference. Were it possible to render those spent fuel rods harmless in, say, five years, even then I’d worry about carelessness and greed, but at least I would be willing to suppose that nuclear power might be useful. Having reached that point, I would, of course, remain among the complacent ignoramuses against whom Buddha’s warning was directed.

Tepco’s complaint-apology — how could we have been expected to foresee so high a tsunami? — is nearly legitimate, but may fall short. “The cooling facilities survived the earthquake, at least partially,” remarked my interpreter. “The disaster occurred because the cooling facility was totally destroyed by the tsunami. The cooling facility was located lower than the reactor itself. Their assumption was a five-point-seven-meters tsunami while the tsunami was actually fourteen.” Well, should Tepco have been expected to prepare for a fourteen-meter tsunami?

Whatever your answer may be, please consider Buddha’s admonition an instant longer. “They do not listen to the good teachings; nor do they try to understand them; and simply give themselves up to the present interest, to wealth and lust.” If the present interest requires us to consume more and ever more energy, then dangerous forms of energy generation may become accepted as necessary. Practically speaking, any individual Japanese (or American) is powerless to prevent the construction of nuclear plants. But while you read this story, please consider how many more times you desire the Fukushima reactor disaster to occur. Should you come down on my side, consider relocating upwind.

NONE OF US ARE PARTICULARLY CONCERNED

THREE BLOCKS AWAY from the pedestrian mall where on this sunny, breezy afternoon members of the group called Atiatom proffered petitions against nuclear weapons and reactors, in an almost undamaged quarter stood the Sendai City War Reconstruction Memorial Hall, which presently served as a temporary evacuation center for thirty-one voluntary evacuees from Fukushima. One entered through the back door, the earthquake having rendered the lobby’s ceiling ducts liable to collapse. In Japan, neighborhood attachments run deep enough that communities often relocate as coherent entities. Hence the Memorial Hall housed people from a specific place: the northern sector of the radiation-poisoned zone.

Rather than seek out some bureaucrat who might have denied me entry privileges (I had already been refused permission to sleep in several evacuation shelters), I waylaid the first nonuniformed individual who seemed in no hurry — in this case, a bespectacled woman about twenty-five years old who had fled the Haramachi-ku ward of Minami Soma City. Officialdom had drawn two rings around Plant Number One. The inner one, twenty kilometers in diameter, constituted an area of involuntary evacuation. Residents of the outer ring were merely advised to leave, at their own expense; if they wished, they could remain home, keeping indoors as much as practicable. The woman, whose name was Hotsuki Minako, had lived in the outer ring.

She said: “On Friday there was an earthquake. On Sunday or Monday, on the news they said to stay inside. We tried to wait and see, but since we have kids, just my two kids and I came to Sendai with my husband. In a couple of days, my husband’s parents also came here.”

“So now your home is empty?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please tell me more about how you left Minami Soma?”

“After we saw the video of the reactor explosion, we immediately moved. Even after the explosion we thought we could come back. .”

“Did you feel or hear the explosion?”

“No. We only saw the television image. There were three explosions, I think”—she held her fist to her mouth in thought. “And because we had kids, we were concerned. Otherwise we would have simply stayed inside.”

“If somebody cared for your children where it was safe, would you ever go back?”

“Life here is just fine, so we are not too concerned to go back.”

She had a very oval, girlish face; her bangs spilled over her thick eyebrows. Her hooded blue sweatshirt seemed too large for her.

Soon, she believed, her family and neighbors would be moved again, to a hotel, “so that the community itself will continue.” They had already stayed first at a relative’s, then at an elementary school. She supposed that after the hotel they would be moved still again.

“Do you think you’ll be returning home anytime soon?”

“I have a feeling it will take a year or more.”

“When you think about radiation, what comes into your mind?”

“I worked as a clerk for a Tepco subsidiary. So I’ve heard about the danger of radiation and about controlling it, but I hear it’s not that scary. But now, when I hear on television that it can affect your blood and so forth, well, I didn’t know that.”

“Was Tepco a good employer?”

“Those who worked at the nuclear site seemed to enjoy their job, but I only saw them once a month. I was in a clerical department.”

“How are you managing for expenses nowadays?”

“We are using our savings. I heard the city would pay some fifty thousand²⁰ per household, but I was unable to attend the registration for that. The city office is not really functioning. I’ve lost my job, but I don’t know whether I can register for unemployment in this prefecture.”

“Should we ask for you at the prefectural office?”

“My company has not finished the clerical procedures related to our termination, so I cannot.”

She had two children, ages seven and five. Just now they were at the park with her husband. I asked how they were managing, and she replied: “They’ve regressed to a younger state. At home they do everything themselves. Here, I don’t know whether it’s from staying so long and living like this, they say, ‘I can’t do this. .’”

I requested to see how her family lived. She hesitated. “My husband’s mother is a bit depressed, so. .” At length I prevailed on her to at least ask the older woman, who kindly allowed the interpreter and me inside the long, almost empty room, over whose floor stretched many long, narrow tatami mats, very bright and clean, a few bags of belongings in a neat row against the wall. Sheets and blankets had been folded into neat squares and stacked.

Hotsuki Keiko, the mother-in-law, was lying down. She sat up when we came in, smiling politely, lowering her eyes, discreetly half-stretching; perhaps she had been sleeping. She appeared to be not much older than her daughter-in-law. Bowing as respectfully as I could, I inquired how the quake had expressed itself to her.

“At that time I was at home. I rushed out of the house, where there was a big plum tree. I held it for a long time.”

Since Minami Soma lies some distance from the ocean, the tsunami caused her no personal fear. But her aunt and uncle had drowned in their car. Fortunately, she said, the family could recover their bodies. Unfortunately, the cemetery had washed away.

“We were allowed within thirty kilometers. The recommendation was to stay inside. The city mayor told us to evacuate ‘on your responsibility,’ so some are still living there.”

“What is your opinion of the reactor accident?”

“Everyone has always said that nuclear power is safe. .”

“Mrs. Hotsuki, here is a question that baffles me. As a citizen of the country that dropped atomic bombs on Japan, I wonder how this could have happened in your country twice. First you were our victims, and then, it seems, you did it again to yourselves.”

“We don’t know much about the nuclear bomb,” explained the older woman. “They’re pretty far from here, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and we just heard from our parents that some plane came over and so forth. They didn’t talk about it.”

“Why didn’t they?”

“Unless you go to that area and see that atomic site, then maybe you have no interest in it.” Trying to give me what I appeared to expect, Mrs. Hotsuki gleaned through her memories, then presently grew animated, gesturing and almost grimacing as if she were close to tears, nodding her head as she said: “Once I saw a display in Chiba Prefecture, all about the kamikazes. I was so moved I couldn’t stop crying.”

Less moved by the kamikazes than perhaps I should have been, I resurrected the matter of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It turned out that both of the Hotsuki women believed the atomic bomb to have been worse than the reactor accident, because “at least we evacuated.” Minako, the young daughter-in-law, explained that “the prefectural office said that if you just brush it off, it should be okay, and you don’t even have to take the radiation screening. So we felt better.”

As Orwell would say, ignorance is strength. Or was the prefectural office correct? Alpha particles were nearly harmless, if one managed not to ingest them; beta particles once washed or brushed away could do no further harm. While I essayed to formulate why that procedure might be inadequate, a pretty girl wearing a red armband bowed herself in, announcing that the child-minders were here again, today with candy; she also wished to inquire whether anyone might be sick. So perhaps it was all perfect; no matter how politely I pleaded, neither of my two interviewees would accept a ten-thousand-yen note, not even for the children’s sake; wouldn’t you rather believe that they lacked for nothing?

Having scored my interview, I dared to risk an encounter with officialdom, and so met a certain bespectacled, pimpled, and narrow-faced young man named Mr. Maeda, who identified himself as “just an employee of this facility. If you put this in your article, you must contact the city office. That’s what we have been told.” (I most inexcusably neglected to follow his instructions, but, reader, if you wish to do so, the telephone number is 022-214-1148.) He photocopied my letter of press accreditation most alertly; fortunately, my interpreter had always reminded me to keep it neatly folded, in homage to its pretense of importance. “In your opinion,” I inquired, “how dangerous is the radiation?” Mr. Maeda replied: “None of us are particularly concerned.”

AN OLD MAN PLANTING SEEDS

ISHINOMAKI, THEY SAID, looked now the way that Sendai had two weeks ago. In Sendai some people stayed for two days on their roofs until the water subsided. In Ishinomaki there were those who were trapped on their roofs for a week.

On the other hand, Ishinomaki was better off than Rikuzentakada. Never mind that; isn’t there always a worse place?

The fifty-kilometer drive in the veterinary science professor’s car would ordinarily have taken an hour. Ever since the quake, there were traffic jams. It took nearly two hours to reach Ishinomaki; and, indeed, in the course of my journey I had almost daily recourse to the four- or six-hundred-dollar creeping taxi ride or half-day stalled bus ride (the region’s railways being broken), on this highway or that expressway, frozen in traffic or not, so many kilometers toward or away from Fukushima, the long windshield wipers sometimes dancing in rain of unknown salubriousness, the radio news on low, the cab creeping and stopping between other cars in a like situation, the driver occasionally misplacing his Japanese patience.

In Ishinomaki the first story of the supermarket was open and newly gleaming. Most goods were present in prequake abundance. Only one yogurt was allowed per customer, several shelves were bare, and others held milk brands from Kyushu and Hokkaido that were not normally sold here. The brand new washing machines were sold out, the tsunami having ruined ever so many; the automobile dealerships were booming for much the same reason.

The professor’s name was Morimoto Motoko. She lived in Sendai. After the tsunami hit, her two teenaged children had stayed overnight in the care of their teachers; now they were living in Osaka with relatives. She was making this drive to bring supplies to one of her students, a young man named Utsumi Takehiro, who now bowed to us; so did his mother, Yoshie. They got into their car and we followed them home, Ishinomaki being less easy to navigate than before. “If you go beyond the number-45 road,” said Takehiro drily, “the scenery changes.”

Passing the vegetable market, which was now a temporary morgue, we rounded a corner, and I saw many grooves cut deep in the smooth tan earth, with a line of cars and people perpendicular to them on the far side, and white coffins down in the farthest of those open trenches. Takehiro’s grandmother was buried here. The tsunami had caught her. From the way that he spoke about her, I came to believe that he had loved her very much.

“I didn’t see the body, actually,” he said. “My parents saw a hundred bodies every day. They finally found her. Now it takes a year or two before they’re cremated. First, we temporarily bury them. Then they’re disinterred. There are only a few crematoria, so we have to take turns.”²¹

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Our dog was also killed, because he was chained. We took his body to Niigata, where my father was working, and cremated him. But you need a special vehicle to transport a human body, and those are in shortage.”

Now came heaps of mud, canted trailers, gouged walls, crumpled cars, the crazy skeleton of a shed barely supporting its intact roof, many relief workers and blue-clawed cranes, half-smashed houses on a muddy ugly plain with wet trenches tunneled through it, man-high mounds of debris on the roadside; and so we came into the Tsukiyama district (the clouds like sheets of white slate, the sun in the pine tops, and the dust in my throat). Several large oil tanks had exploded, setting off numerous fires. We rolled past the wreckage of the paper mill, whose round bales of product lay oozing and dripping everywhere. Paper was now in short supply, remarked Mrs. Utsumi.

“My uncle was rescued by helicopter, and he appeared on TV,” said Takehiro proudly.

An American battleship lay on the horizon of the pale blue sea. Here came a long mild wave, its crest so clean. One of its predecessors, the tsunami, had dragged a giant fuel tank onto what remained of the dike. More heaps of mud framed our scenic drive, accompanied by fuel tanks thrust against and through roofs, cars leaning against trees, block after block of ugliness; and presently we turned down a street of newly made junk lots and Takehiro said, “This is my house.”

His next-door neighbor Kawanami Shugoro made us black coffee on a butane-powered hot plate on the dust-choked rickety table inside his blighted house, which appeared intact on the outside. He wore a cap, presumably for warmth. Fat hunks of ceiling dangled down from the rafters, the Sheetrock torn like cardboard. Everything in the living room cabinet was in place, but the cabinet itself tilted at about thirty degrees.

Mr. Kawanami said: “When the earthquake came I was at home. My office had some meeting, so I was trying to change into a suit. At that time there was not much damage, so I changed back into my work clothes and drove the clerical worker to her home near the supermarket. Then I headed toward the office. Then there was a traffic jam, and they said that the tsunami was coming, so I made a U-turn, meaning to come home again. I saw water coming out of the canal by the senior high school and vehicles were floating; so, since that direction was no good, I made another U-turn and took a higher direction. At the river’s edge, the fire department personnel told me not to go that way, but it didn’t look bad. All the same, the water level seemed a bit higher, and then I saw it come over the dike. So I fled. I had to sleep on the ground for four days. I went to Yamato to confirm that my grandchildren were all right. Then there was a gas shortage, and it was so cold. I found a garbage bag to keep me warm — so cold, so cold! It was snowing. I tried to find someplace warm; I took more and more garbage bags for a shirt. .”

“What color was the tsunami?”

He laughed. “I don’t remember. It was black, they said, with oil.”

He was a cheery, rugged, white-bearded old man — sixty-six years old, with the face of a workingman. At the shipyard he was in charge of safety and hygiene. The neighbors stood around us. Cans of juice were on the filthy table. His wife had led some panicked Chinese girls up onto the second story of a parking lot, and they all survived. “Everyone went to the roofs,” he said. The second or third tsunami wave had been in his opinion the bad one, people floating in their cars and calling out for help until they sank. Mr. Kawanami said, “These images were in my brain yesterday, and I got depressed and confused. .”

A couple of his acquaintance had fled. The wife had returned home for their valuables, because she was a strong swimmer. Fortunately, they recovered her corpse, which still gripped a bag of precious things.

“When you think of all you’ve suffered,” I asked him, “do you think the reactor accident might be better or worse than that?”

“What shall I say? I can’t even imagine. This area is where elderly people are residing. It requires money to rebuild a house, and many people are scared. My wife says that if everybody leaves, then only we will stay. We think that since we are old, we can stay until we die, since this”—he must have meant the tsunami—“happens only on a thousand-year scale. I planned to retire this year and live a nice relaxed life. But the money for my future will have to be spent on repairs. Moreover, the people at the nuclear plant, they are talking about some nuclear explosion. Our governor is so proud of our nuclear plant, compared with Fukushima.”

In the filth, muddy dishes were neatly stacked. Freshwater was still too rare for washing just yet.

At my request, Mr. Kawanami took me upstairs to admire the sand and silt. He said: “When the wave came, each tatami mat struggled like this!” and his arms writhed.

Thanking him and departing with my best bow, I was next introduced to Mrs. Ito Yukiko, age sixty-six, who received me narrow-eyed, with her shoulders drawn in and her fists on her lap as she sat on the edge of her chipped, cracked concrete porch, wearing orange wind pants, a dingy sweater, and a white-striped wool cap pulled down over her eyebrows. The toes of her slippers touched the mucky, rubbly ground, which happened to be decorated with broken dishes. Here as everywhere else in that neighborhood the smell of diesel was nauseating. Her two young granddaughters, wearing galoshes, played at sweeping the doorway, then settled down to read what might have been comic books. They were very shy; I left them alone. I did not ask, since no one mentioned them, where their parents might be.

“I was born in the beach area,” Mrs. Ito said. “I have experienced the Chilean tsunami, and also another one in this prefecture. So I knew well that when an earthquake comes, you have to take care in case of a tsunami. But this one,” she said, grimacing (and stopping to pick up a spoon that one of the little girls had dropped), “this one was different.”

Well aware that quake-deformed doors might trap people behind them, she had carefully opened the house door in advance, then rode out the temblor just within, for fear of getting brained by her roof tiles. Unlocking the safe, she removed “the memory of the ancestors,” evidently their Buddhist memorial tablets, and then, believing she still had time, searched for a cotton furoshiki cloth in which to wrap them. One of the granddaughters then suggested that she might wish to take the cell phone. And so they fled in the car. Sending the two girls ahead, she returned to the vehicle to retrieve their dog and her wallet. Here her hands began twisting tighter and tighter together in her lap, and when she said, “I took a narrow way, and then I saw the tsunami in the middle of the road,” I found the horror in her round reddish face nearly unendurable.

“The first wave took all the belongings away from me, so then I ran to where the wave was lower. I know that a human cannot escape the tsunami once she is caught in it, so I removed my shoes and climbed a wall, and first it was unstable, but I found a stable place, clinging with my toes. The water was up to my waist, and then it was up to my chest; I was holding onto the roof so that I couldn’t be carried away; I was screaming help, help, help! to the spirit of my late husband. . Then it came.”

The grandchildren went on reading books in their galoshes in the fishy, diesely wind (and since it might for all I knew be blowing from the reactor, I inspected my dosimeter, which at six in the morning had been reading 1.9 accrued millirems and now after three hours in Ishinomaki turned over to 2.0, which signified that the radioactivity here was at least twice that of Tokyo’s — not bad; never mind those hypothetical beta particles riding on the wind); and a crow cawed; there was a heap of tires; from a glassless window, sodden futons hung out to dry.

“I was on the rooftop, so I was rescued at the end, before it got dark. I didn’t see my granddaughters for two days, but their teacher told me they were all right. .”

Behind a leaning grate, her old neighbor was picking up clinking things from the mud of his former yard.

“How relevant is the nuclear accident to you?” I asked her.

“The power plant may be necessary, but they ought to publish the facts. It seems to be stopped all right, but is it really? They’ve said that in some fishery products the concentration is low, but accumulation will be bad. .”

Gazing down at the sand by her feet, I saw a small fish-mummy, convulsed.

In a narrow zone of sand between two ruined houses, an old man was planting seeds. Streams of plastic twitched in the tsunami-pollarded trees. A twisted cypress, still green, rested against the patio wall of a house that had been smashed open on its eave-end. I bowed goodbye to Mrs. Ito, who slowly crept into her house.

CONCERNING A KOTO NOW UNDER REPAIR

HOW MANY SUCH STORIES would you care to hear? I collected a number; they are much the same in the one quality that causes journalists to seek them out, just as are the grimacing, often swollen, frequently forehead-bruised corpses whose images face us on the fluttering blue tarp-wall of that temporary morgue at Ishinomaki; their expression much depends on the angle of the head. The survivors who view them keep calm, in the best Japanese manner, gesturing each other forward with a polite “hai, domo!”, offering one another the best views of those horrid faces, whose eyes are usually closed.

One woman was explaining to another: “I came here to look for my mother-in-law, but since the faces are swollen it’s difficult, and the number I specified was wrong; that’s why I couldn’t identify her right away. .”

On the other side of the long rectangle of sunlight, a priest was ringing a bell, and a photograph gazed down upon a bed of donated flowers. Relatives bowed over the ritual bowl; candles flickered. The priest bowed. My throat ached with dust.

Thinking to learn more, I asked a policeman for information, so he referred me to his chief, who could do nothing without the big boss, who when I asked him how many people had died in Ishinomaki rewarded me with a perfect answer: “Our policy is not to answer regarding the individual numbers.” Bowing and thanking him, I said that in that case I had no further questions; reddening, he bowed deeply and apologized for keeping me waiting.

So let us at least momentarily leave the narratives of loss at rest with their eyes closed (the bulldozers clearing more long narrow corpse-trenches in the dirt, twenty bodies per line, three temporary cemeteries in Ishinomaki, and a long green line of Self-Defense Forces dividing into two detachments to break open buildings in search of bodies), while we consider what meaning, if any, we can find in them. In this context let me now reintroduce you to Takehiro’s mother, Mrs. Utsumi Yoshie.

“What lesson if any do you see in this event?” I asked her.

“Since March 11, something is finished. I feel that something different has begun. We have never had the experience of losing everything to this extreme. The good lesson,” she laughed, “is to keep valuable things on the second floor!”

“Will your lives be worse?”

“Of course I believe they’re going to be better,” she replied, sitting with me in the dirty wreckage inside her house, with smashed things everywhere.

“Why?”

“Well, I don’t know why. The passage²² of daily life will create another sense of value. Unless you think that way, you cannot advance.”

I told her how brave I considered her and all of them to be, at which she remarked that for some time she had been taking lessons in playing the koto, a traditional stringed instrument the notes of which I have sometimes been graced to hear in Kyoto’s and Kanazawa’s secluded teahouses: slow, quiet, and (to me) melancholy notes reassembling some blurred ghost face out of the melodies of olden times. I hope never to forget how it was for me in that small chamber in Gion when the lovely old geisha Kofumi-san danced the “Black Hair Song,” to which Kawabata and Tanizaki allude in their greatest novels.²³ It pleased me that Mrs. Utsumi also knew and indeed had mastered this tune, whose simple mention made her faintly smile. For a fluttering instant the two of us lived again in the Japan of March 10, 2011—the day before Ishinomaki became newsworthy.

I wondered whether she had time to play for me on her koto, but the instrument had been submerged in the filthy wave. Right now it was under repair. Very softly she said: “A koto is like a living thing to me, so I was very sad. We lost our dog, but when I saw the koto so dirty with mud I felt so sad. .”

I asked her sons which possessions they themselves had been the most distressed to lose. “All!” they laughed cheerfully. Since not enough chairs remained, they stood around us inside that dark and chilly ruin with its bitter stench of dust.

And what did they all think about the reactor accident?

“I think the fact that it occurred cannot be helped,” the mother said. “I want Tepco to work hard and the vegetables to be grown again. I would like to buy the vegetables from Fukushima, but. .”

“Do you think it will become contaminated here?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What will you do?”

“We have nowhere else to go.”

“Have you suffered any nightmares?” I asked her.

“In my case, I didn’t see the tsunami with my own eyes. I wasn’t able to return home for two days, so I didn’t experience that, but the fire, well, we could see it so vividly from our hill²⁴ that I was almost afraid it might come to us; at three in the morning there was an announcement that the flame might come to us, so we evacuated.”

“But no nightmares?”

“No. The fire burned two days. .”

“I cannot live in our home,” Mrs. Utsumi said later. “It’s too scary. I cannot live there again, even if we have to build a new house. .”

Not knowing what else to say, I repeated that she was brave, and she said, “I think that if we live decently, that will give my mother-in-law peace of mind. She would not have wanted an expensive coffin for her temporary burial; she would have preferred to have the money go to her grandchildren.”

I nodded. The dust ached in my chest.

“To console my dead mother-in-law, I would like my two sons to work hard to rebuild this city.”

One saw small germinations of this stoically and at times quixotically resurgent impulse here and there in Ishinomaki; I remember a gang of workmen with white rags around their foreheads, dragging soaked tatamis out of a warehouse, needing a wheelbarrow and a man on each end, such was the water weight; and then the car rolled down past a wide hill of garbage, many men in rubber boots standing in a puddled courtyard, waiting for I know not what; but less than a month had passed since the tidal wave, so that more conspicuous than these were the antediluvian survivals: for example, the age- or diesel-blackened torus of a small shrine standing alone in the mud struck me with déjà vu, and later I remembered an image made by the great photographer Yamahata Yosuke in Nagasaki, 1945: not dissimilar to Ishinomaki, 2011, except that in the former case the wreckage around the torus appeared to be almost exclusively wooden. Moreover, a certain wheeled fragment, evidently deriving from a cart, seemed more slender than any modern counterpart, and the backdrop was all white-veined gray smoke.²⁵

Before we returned to Sendai’s stopped Ferris wheel and rectangular dirt fields speckled with pale trash, the elder of the two boys, whose name was Yuya, said to me: “I would like to eat food from this area to help the farmers.”

“You mean, you wish to eat produce grown near the nuclear plant?”

He nodded with a calm smile.

Professor Morimoto having already gone home, they drove us to the bus station. I told them that there was no reason for them to wait for us to board our bus, but Mrs. Utsumi assured me that they had nothing better to do.

WHEN THE WIND COMES FROM THE SOUTH

IN THE NIGHT there was a tremor at the hot spring, which became a moderate quake, and there came a swaying and a shaking as I lay on my tatami. I knew that I could do nothing but relax, being on the fifth floor. Fortunately, the room contained hardly any furniture (people sometimes told me how televisions and books could literally fly off the wall).

As the blue-white dawn glanced through the rush blinds, the dosimeter still pleasantly lodged at 2.0, the new taxi driver called to report that the road had been “broken,” so an early start would be best. The power was out again in Sendai, it seemed, and when we stopped to pick up Professor Morimoto, now on another mercy errand to a student of hers on Oshima Island, we found her shaken and discouraged. The elevator was dead, of course, so the driver and I carried her suitcases of batteries and other provisions down six flights of stairs, then we sped down the crisp road.

By now the dosimeter read 2.1. Laughing, the driver, a strong man in late middle age, remarked that he and his wife had just finished clearing up the earthquake damage from their home, and now, after the most recent tremors, their crockery lay smashed on the floor again! The railroad station at Sendai was leaking through the roof, he remarked, so it might have become unusable. Meanwhile the interpreter looked up from the newspaper to report that restrictions on the fisheries in Miyagi Prefecture might be put into place for two months, which I imagined could possibly turn into twenty or fifty years. Early plum blossoms and very occasional palm trees kept us company as we passed the straw-colored rice fields; a seagull overflew us. The radio announced that 916 households had been “powered down” by last night’s event. Here came another hour-long traffic jam, since the trains were stopped.

In time we entered the diesel-flavored ugliness of Furukawa, which the creeping of all vehicles allowed us to inspect to our hearts’ content: small banks, billboards, automobile carriers, undistinguished houses behind hedges, pachinko parlors surrounded by empty parking lots, car washes, a tombstone shop laid out on blacktop overlooking a dirty concrete-lined canal. We stopped at a dark convenience store so that the two women could relieve themselves but the washroom was out of order. Half an hour later, their experience repeated itself in an establishment whose dim shelves were partially bare. A single clerk received a long line of customers who appeared to be buying mostly bottled liquids. His cash register was asleep, of course. Everybody was patient. Back on the road we began to see the long crack in the asphalt, running parallel to the white line; sometimes there were fragments of pavement sticking up like bedraggled roosters’ combs. At one place, two yellow-uniformed road workers shared a long gauging-pole between them, inserting it into a fissure in the highway as if they were fascinated.

The cracks gradually grew more impressive. They were at their worst as the road slipped on and off bridges. The driver sighed and shook his head; the two women were silent. Then the highway improved again.

After a longish time we came down into Kesennuma, 172 kilometers from Fukushima Plant Number One, meeting ever larger heaps of broken lumber, then ruined buildings, mounds of metal and masonry, upturned cars. The driver groaned, “Awh! Ehh!”

I never knew how Kesennuma used to look; all I know of the place is street after street of rainy trash, wrecked cars, burned cars, trash in puddles, trash-hills with sludgy pools between them, a bad-tasting rain (and for all I know, the most dangerous thing I did on that entire trip was to hold the interpreter’s dripping umbrella for her while she went to the washroom). Sometimes filth-darkened fibers, cables, and splinters hung down in doorways like teeth in a monster’s maw. The dirt roads had on occasion come to resemble dikes between rectangular ruin-fields²⁶ heaped with garbage and filled to the brim with stinking water. Many houses resembled auto wrecking yards. On higher ground, where it was less watery, former neighborhoods simply looked like vandalized construction sites. And in one puddly, muddly stretch, another vermilion shrine-torus stood alone above junk and filth, just as at Ishinomaki.

Kesennuma, they say, derives from an Ainu word meaning “bay.” Across the street from the harbor whose street sign was buckled and torn and whose power wires were having a bad hair day, the flooded parking garage smelled like the sea and rain spanked down onto the sidewalk. A gaunt cyclist in grubby gray pedaled past, his dust mask down around his neck. The milky-green-gray sea did not seem foul. The rain made the air less dusty, although possibly more radioactive; I never forgot that the dosimeter couldn’t tell the difference. After hauling Professor Morimoto’s boxes of batteries over to the ferry landing I stood gazing uphill across the concrete chunks and through the rebar, over the matchbox-crushed houses, chairs, futons; here was a house whose upper story looked virginal but whose first floor had entirely disappeared except for one wall. The rubble led my gaze up to two red roofs and somebody’s pine tree, which had been manicured into cloudlike lobes of green in traditional Japanese style.

The unevenly humming ferry bore crates of apple juice and other supplies. A long-haired adolescent boy whose shirt said HAVE A NICE YEAR 2009 was one of the many who wore dust masks; the dosimeter was steady at 2.1. A tiny girl in a pink windbreaker sat in her mother’s lap, playing with a toy pistol, laughing gleefully, reaching out uncomprehendingly at a horizon of broken ships. Lumber floated here and there, and another boat lay sunk as if by enemy aircraft. Fingers and claws of wreckage protruded from the chilly sea. After half an hour of filthy slicks, scraps of foam rubber and Styrofoam, a row of multicolored garbage-flecks, a seagull flying very low, a lost bamboo pole, and the orange prow of a ship sticking out of the water upside down like the bill of a dead porpoise, we landed at Oshima Island (165 kilometers from the reactor; population about three thousand), where Professor Morimoto’s student Murakami Takuto awaited us.

The Murakami family’s is the last tsunami story I will tell. They were of old stock, their ancestors marine soldiers who fought on the side of the Heike in that famous twelfth-century civil war, about which so much great literature has been written. The Tale of the Heike opens in a way not devoid of reference to the events of this essay: “The bell of the Gion Temple tolls into every man’s house to warn him that all is vanity and evanescence. The faded flowers of the sala trees by the Buddha’s deathbed bear witness to the truth that all who flourish are destined to decay.”²⁷

The first floor of their house had been half submerged. The second floor was fine. Almost all of their electrical appliances would have to be replaced, from the rice cooker to the new television to the heating system, which unfortunately and uncharacteristically had not employed natural gas.

In the dining room, which now needed work, Grandmother Fumiko (born in 1933) said, speaking very slowly, tilting her wide, handsome face: “On that day I was in the garden when the earthquake broke out. When it stopped, I came in; there wasn’t much damage, just some glasses and candlesticks. Then I heard the tsunami alert: someone from the fire department calling on the loudspeaker. I cannot run like others. Then I saw the wave: lots of bubbles, so it was white. It was low. And I saw another big wave coming behind it, and so I tried to run. I ran to a higher place. Had I taken the big road I would have been drowned. I took the narrower, higher road. I looked back; the neighbor’s house was floating. After that, I picked up a bamboo stick and used it as a cane. In this city an elementary school is used as an evacuation center. I still live there. I just came here to welcome you.

“In the beginning we couldn’t communicate with anyone. After five days the parents came and I learned that the three grandchildren had survived. It was so scary that I trembled and couldn’t stop. I couldn’t sleep. Friends offered me clothes, rice balls,²⁸ and a futon, so I’m doing fine.”

She then said: “For 350 years our family has been living here, and our ancestors’ saying is that in the Meiji era the big tsunami could not come up to here; therefore this house is safe. If I believed the saying of the ancestors, I wouldn’t be alive.”

“Are you concerned about the accident in Fukushima?”

“The radiation, when it rains, they tell us not to get wet. .”

(Her grandson later told me: “About radiation people on this island don’t know anything.”)

I made my usual remark that after Hiroshima and Nagasaki it seemed particularly sad to me that Japanese were once again suffering from radiation, to which the old lady replied, clasping her hands: “I just want them to be careful.”

“The pines are all fallen and gone,” said the grandmother, stretching out her left hand toward where they used to be, out across the broken trees and sand and over the sea toward the former location of the great rock that the two grandsons used to call their “target” when they swam together. “From here we used to be able to see the sun rising through the pines. We were so proud of that. Now the ocean seems closer. That’s a little scary.”

In the garden she had grown corn, rapeseed, spinach, pumpkins, and white radishes.²⁹ She said, “I feel so lonely now that I have nothing left to work on.”

The interpreter, Professor Morimoto’s student Takuto, and I went for a walk. Down on the futile breakwater of the wrecked beach we found a dripping Chinese book for boys and girls — the property of his late grandfather. “But we never read it anyway,” he laughed, leaving it for others. I found a field now prettily sown with scallop shells, a bamboo grove hung with garbage.

We met a fisherman in an orange jacket; he thought that a third of the island’s inhabitants had died on March 11. He said: “First they ran, then they returned to fetch something important; they didn’t survive.”

“Radiation?” he cried. “No, that’s Fukushima. We have nothing to do with that.”

Walking past him to the end of the concrete jetty was nearly pleasant, the gulls calling from their low islet, the sea wind smelling so delicious that I could not make myself wear a mask, my dosimeter still at 2.1. The setting sun cast a white trail on the water, and a helicopter, probably from the Self-Defense Forces, hummed out behind a cloud. As the day failed, the sad tokens of the tsunami withdrew into the shadow, until Oshima appeared nearly whole.

Takuto said to me: “I would like to do everything I can for this island. I would like to grow up and be a human being and help.”

Although our clothes were getting quite dirty (we expected to discard them after entering the hot zone), that kind and hospitable family refused to let us use our sleeping bags. Father and son laid out futons for the two women, and a bed for me in the adjacent chamber. That meant that the rest of them slept downstairs in those chilly rooms that stank of muck. Our host’s flashlight wavered slow and white around his belly, Professor Morimoto’s cell phone glowing as she and her student giggled over some stupid display, the interpreter switching on her headlamp, which illuminated her face, and I writing notes with the aid of my American flashlight, which was more yellow than anyone else’s.

Although the Murakamis accepted half a dozen cans of American food, they insisted on cooking us dinner. Ashamed and grateful, we came downstairs to the table, where Mr. Murakami’s stubbled, mustached face gleamed in the light of the Coleman lantern. He was the assistant headmaster of an elementary school. After the earthquake, he had permitted some students to depart in the care of their parents. I could tell that he felt guilty about what could have taken place; as it happened, however, they survived the tidal wave. He pressed on me a satellite-photograph disaster map of Oshima. With his spectacles high on his forehead, he showed me the family home on the map. He said: “Far too optimistic.”

The mother, Mrs. Murakami Kaoru, in her checked apron, stayed nearly always on her feet, her pale arms and cheekbones shining, the other grandmother slowly nodding her heavy head at the two of her three grandsons who were present, while bananas and aluminum foil shone softly in the dark. Mrs. Murakami invariably bowed to the grandmother when offering her food, with a polite “hai, dozo.” Given the absence of refrigeration I cannot imagine how she managed so well to make that ad hoc stew, many of its ingredients perishable. Mr. Murakami said: “For the first five days, we got only one rice ball per day, so I became thinner.”

An hour before dinner he had already been promising me treasure: a bottle of sake rescued from the first floor after the ocean departed. The sodden label was nearly invisible in the darkness. Again and again he filled my water glass to the brim, meanwhile offering it around to the other guests. Embarrassed to take so much from him, I finally pleaded tipsiness, at which he happily continued to fill his own glass, not least, he remarked, because it was Saturday night. He kept saying to his wife in English: “I love you.” She smiled with pleasure. I am happy to report that on the following drizzly sober morning, he said it again.

In the midst of dinner the electricity came back on, and they happily shouted, “Surprise!”, the grandsons grinningly illuminated. I assured our two hostesses that they were even more beautiful by electric light, and the grandmother clapped her hand over her laughing mouth.

Whenever I mentioned Hiroshima the whole family grew sad and silent, so I hated to bring up the matter, but it seemed my duty to raise it once more with the patriarch, which I did while we were still eating in the dark. The whites of his eyes seemed to flare. “Because Fukushima is prosperous on account of their fishery,” he said, “I fear their decline.” To me this seemed so Japanese, to worry about others first! He went on: “Atomic power is very dangerous. To me, it’s so dangerous. To me, it’s like war.”

That afternoon I had asked Takuto how he imagined the worst might be, and he replied, not quite a week before the Japanese government admitted that the reactor accident was a Level Seven like Chernobyl’s: “Like Chernobyl. Oshima could be contaminated. In the summer the wind comes from the south.”