The Solomon Curse

CHAPTER 35

The customs line at Narita International Airport moved at a rapid clip. Sam and Remi were waved through, after a cursory study of their passports and a few disinterested questions in perfect English, and were blinking in the sunlight a few minutes after changing money at an airport kiosk.

It had taken them a full day to get from Guadalcanal to Japan since all flights went through Australia first. Remi had poured on the charm with Kumasaka’s daughter in their brief phone conversation the prior day and found her to be friendly but cautious in her replies.

Sawara turned out to be closer to Narita Airport than to the proper city of Tokyo. Sam took one glance at the map of train lines and instructions Selma had e-mailed him and then headed to the waiting line of taxis.

“No train?” asked Remi. “Afraid to navigate the system?”

“Time is money,” replied Sam, “and I’d rather not spend the better part of the afternoon puzzling out which train is the local and which is the express. It’s only about fifteen kilometers from here. How hard can that be?”

The first cab in line pulled up, the passenger door swung open automatically, and the white-gloved driver jumped out to help them with their carry-on bags, stowing them efficiently in the trunk before slipping behind the wheel again. He nodded vigorously several times when Remi showed him the address printed neatly on the paper. He spoke limited English, learned from watching American movies and YouTube, he said, and pointed to the GPS unit in his dashboard when Remi asked if he knew the quickest route.

The trip took longer than they’d expected, as the taxi wound around country lanes bordered by rice fields. They were a good forty-five minutes late when they finally rolled to a stop in front of a modest wooden house in a residential neighborhood. The driver told them he’d wait for them, after pocketing Sam’s generous tip. They stepped out onto the sidewalk and made their way to the front door, eyeing the crumbling concrete steps that led to the porch without comment.

The door opened before they had a chance to knock and a diminutive woman wearing a sweater and dark slacks offered a tentative smile from the shadows. Remi smiled at her as the woman fiddled with the screen door, Sam standing slightly behind her, having agreed that Remi would take the lead in the questioning.

“Mrs. Kumasaka?” Remi asked.

The woman nodded. “Yes. But, please, call me Chiyoko. You must be Remi-san. I recognize your voice.”

“This is my husband, Sam,” Remi said.

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said with a small bow.

“Come in,” Chiyoko said. Remi smiled again, her expression offering no reaction to Chiyoko’s profile when she turned to allow them to step past. The Japanese woman’s face was puckered scar tissue on the left side, artfully repaired at some point in the past but still obvious even with a layer of heavy foundation applied in an attempt to mask it.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Remi said as they entered. They slipped their shoes off and left them by the front door, where several other pairs, most likely Chiyoko’s, lay on the floor.

“My pleasure. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to help you much. I hardly knew my father,” Chiyoko said. “Please. Help yourselves to slippers,” she said, motioning to a neat rack of house slippers behind the shoes. “This way, please,” she said, leading them up the little step that separated the entryway from the hall. “Let’s go to the living room.”

Remi and Sam sat on a stuffed chintz couch and looked around the room. The overhead lights were dim, but even in the faint light they could see the scar tissue on Chiyoko’s hand as well as her face.

“I’ll be right back. I have made some tea. I hope that’s all right,” Chiyoko said, and disappeared through a doorway.

Sam and Remi sat wordlessly, waiting for Chiyoko to return, the only sound the whirring of an overhead fan. When the Japanese woman reappeared, she was carrying a tray with three small cups, a teapot, and a plate of sweets.

Once the tea was prepared and they had sipped appreciatively from their cups, Chiyoko sat back in the shadows and eyed them expectantly.

Remi leaned forward and cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for the hospitality,” she began.

“It is nothing. You have traveled a long way.”

“Well, it’s true, we have. We’re so glad that you agreed to meet with us.” Remi paused. “Your English is very good.”

“I was a secretary for an international company that did considerable business with the United States. I studied it in school, which proved wise, because as Japan changed after the war being an English speaker became a valuable skill. But it has been some time since I have had a chance to practice, so forgive me if I am a little rusty.” Chiyoko touched a hand to her beautifully styled gray hair. “You mentioned you are researching my father. I hope you haven’t come so far to go away empty-handed.”

“Yes, we’re trying to piece together his story. He was one of the highest-ranking Japanese prisoners of war in Australia and New Zealand. But we’re having a difficult time creating a coherent account of his time before being captured or during his imprisonment. All we have about his stay in the camp was the account of his illness, and later his death, from the camp physician’s records. There are no real details.”

“I am afraid there is not much I can tell you about his time before the war. He was already in the service when I was born in 1939 and was gone most of the time on one campaign or another. I only have the vaguest memories of him.”

“But surely you looked into his life as you grew up?”

Chiyoko shook her head. “After the war, there was no real mechanism in place to do so. The country was busy reinventing itself as it rebuilt, with no interest in revisiting the past. I did spend a little time investigating him when I was in college, but it was like chasing ghosts. There were no records left — almost nothing to go on.”

“Did he have any siblings? Anyone he was close to?”

“Yes. A sister.” Chiyoko swallowed hard before continuing. “She raised me. But she passed away twenty years ago. The only things she could tell me about my father were that he was a very brave, honorable man who died doing his duty and that he had been a scholar and a fine husband to my mother, who also passed away during the war.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Remi said in a soft voice.

“It is still hard to talk about even after all these years. I was six. The Allies bombed Tokyo regularly, but in the final days of the war there was a huge firebombing campaign that destroyed whole residential neighborhoods.” Chiyoko stopped and drew a ragged breath. “She was caught in the fires. I was lucky. She wasn’t.”

“It must have been terrible,” Remi said.

“Nothing I say can describe it. Miles of Tokyo burned to ashes. Over a million lost their homes, and it’s said that over a hundred thousand civilians died. My mother one of them.” When Chiyoko looked Remi directly in the eyes, they were moist, the pain still fresh. “It was a vision of hell I’ll never forget. Nobody who went through it could.”

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Chiyoko,” Remi whispered.

“It was a long time ago. Regrettable acts were committed on all sides. I’m grateful to have lived, and that there has never been another war like it. I grew up and lived in a time of relative peace and prosperity. A rebirth of Japan as a world power, but without the need to conquer militarily. A better time, I think.”

Remi sat silently for several moments before she spoke. “What about photographs? Letters?”

“Most were lost in the fires. Although I do have some very old ones that my aunt salvaged. I’m not sure they would be of any help. Mostly, him as a young man.” Chiyoko hesitated. “Would you like to see them?”

“That would be wonderful,” Remi said. Chiyoko stood and left the room, and Sam gave Remi a hopeful look. She returned several minutes later, carrying a cardboard box. Sam leapt to his feet and approached her.

“Please. Let me help you.”

Chiyoko reluctantly handed him the box. “Thank you. It’s easy to forget that I’m not as fit as I once was. Time is a thief. It steals our memory, our hopes, and our strength, leaving only the sense there’s never enough of it.” She pointed to the low table in the center of the room with a scarred hand. “You can put the box there.”

Sam complied and sat beside Remi again, watching as Chiyoko removed several tiny metal picture frames. She stared at them for a long moment and then handed them to Remi.

“These are the best ones. My father as a young boy, then as a student, graduating from university. And that one is his wedding photograph. That is the only one I have of my mother.”

Remi and Sam gazed at the picture. A stern-faced young man stood by his diminutive bride, who seemed to glow in the faded black-and-white picture. Remi gasped as she held the frame. “Oh my… she was breathtaking.”

“Yes, she was considered a great beauty. My aunt reminded me all the time.” Chiyoko’s voice was oddly flat. She lifted a final frame from the box and passed it to Remi with trembling fingers. “This last one is my favorite — I keep it by my bed. It was taken by his sister at the cherry blossom festival in Arashiyama before the war with America began. She said that the trees bloomed late that year because it had been an especially cold winter. They were there on the final day before the blossoms began falling. She said when they did, it was like the air was filled with pink snow.”

Remi and Sam studied the photograph of the martial Kumasaka in uniform, staring off into the distance beneath a canopy of cherry blossoms, figures in the background adorned in traditional Japanese garb. The image had an otherworldly quality to it, something from a different era. They both regarded it with intense concentration, trying to reconcile the accounts of a savage monster with the serious man in the shot, about mid-thirties, his profile pensive. Sam noted the insignia — Kumasaka was already a colonel by that point, already a veteran of Japan’s foray into China, which had begun in 1937 with the start of the bloody Second Sino-Japanese War.

“Do you know anything about your father’s service? His involvement with Unit 731 or the Meiji Corps?” Remi asked.

Chiyoko looked confused. “I’ve never heard of either. Do they have some significance?”

“They’re army groups that were involved in medical research.”

“Medical? My father was a soldier, not a doctor.”

“He had a degree in microbiology.”

“Yes, but he became a career officer. He never put the degree to use. It was a strange time, according to my aunt. Many educated Japanese pursued military careers instead of their trained professions.”

“Do you know anything about what he did in the army?”

“My aunt said he was in communications. I’m not sure what that involved, to be honest.”

Sam was looking in the box. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a small leather-bound notebook, battered and scarred almost beyond recognition.

“Ah, I was going to mention it. My father kept a journal while he was a prisoner. I have read it numerous times. There is not much in it. Some poems, his thoughts on being a prisoner. Nothing very detailed that relates to his captivity. One of the men in the building where he was imprisoned gave it to me after the war. He said that the prisoners were allowed to keep diaries, but they were regularly raided and read to ensure that nothing seditious was being written. It is pretty bland.”

“May I see it?” Remi asked.

“Certainly. But I must warn you, it is all written in kanji.”

Chiyoko handed her the book. The pages were badly yellowed and stained in many places, covered in neat, tight Japanese symbols from top to bottom. Remi handed the journal to Sam and lowered her voice. “Is there any way we can get a copy made and return the diary to you? It might provide some information we can use. We’ll guarantee it isn’t damaged in any way.”

“There is nothing in it, but if you want to make a copy, I have no objection.”

They continued their discussion for another half hour, but as friendly and helpful as Chiyoko was, she really had no material information that they didn’t already know. When it was obvious that there was nothing further to be gained by continuing the questioning, Sam and Remi stood and Chiyoko showed them to the door.

“Thank you so much, Chiyoko,” Remi said. “We both appreciate the time and your sharing painful memories.”

The Japanese woman looked down at her small feet. “It’s been a pleasure. I’m sorry I don’t have anything more I can offer.”

“You’ve done more than enough. Thanks again.”

The taxi was still parked where they’d left it, and when they got into the car, they were both silent. Only once they were under way did Remi lean forward and speak to the driver.

“Can you take us to the nearest place that would have a scanner and a printer?”