6. SAM

Matsuyama, 1939–1940

My last year at Matsuchu was the beginning of a period of disappointment and confusion. The next step was university, one of the military academies, or a local college. Many from the class ahead of me, and even some in my own class, had already left home to follow these paths. At the start of my last year, in April 1939, it was time to start making decisions. I secretly yearned for Keio or Waseda in Tokyo. I was confident I could do the work. It was all I could do to ask Mother and Father if I could try for a private university in Tokyo. I didn’t dare to mention which ones I was thinking about. They would have thought I was aiming too high. It took them several days to come back with their answer, and it was no.

“We’re sorry, we can’t agree to let you go,” said Father. “Not with the war the way it is. And you know that your mother may be conscripted into the Nurse Reserve Corps. We can’t let you go to Tokyo now.” At this point, the National Mobilization Law had been in effect for a year; my parents’ concerns that Mother could be called to service were completely justified. The nation was on a war-time footing.

So my options were Matsuyama Higher School or Matsuyama Commercial College, the two local colleges, since the military academies weren’t really discussed in my family as an option. The school year was off to a dispiriting start. I saw my future coming, and couldn’t generate much enthusiasm about my prospects.

Despite the disappointments, there was one somewhat auspicious occasion early that last year, one that boosted my confidence in a most unusual way. It had to do with an addition to the schoolyard. In some ways this event paralleled the appearance of the Kinjiro statue at Bancho, but it was a much more serious matter. The first day it was there, we had no idea what it could be. The new wooden structure just inside the main gate of Matsuchu was about seven feet tall and three feet wide. It had the curving roof of a Shinto shrine. At the next assembly we were told that it was a storage facility, of a very special type. The only things it housed were portraits of the Emperor and Empress. When explaining it, Principal Sato and Colonel Matsuura, our army drill master, referred to it as a Hoanden.

What? I thought I was past not knowing Japanese words. I finally understood everything about the ceremonies like the one that had mystified me on my first day at Bancho, but I had no idea what this new word was or what it could mean. My fellow students had the same blank looks on their faces. This was news to everyone. Actually, I don’t think any of us learned the meaning of the word; we just learned what we were supposed to do. The big Kodansha Japanese-English dictionary I keep on my desk informs me that the proper translation is “Enshrinement Hall.”

Now that Matsuchu had this Hoanden, there were new rules. Veneration of the Imperial portraits was now a full-time requirement. They might not be on display when locked in the Hoanden, but we still had to show our respect. Every time we passed through the school’s main entrance we had to stop, take off our caps, and make the deepest bow possible before the Hoanden. It went without saying that the bow was to be accompanied by a prayer for long life for the Imperial couple and prosperity and victory for the nation. Even if we came through an entrance to the schoolyard that wasn’t near the Hoanden, we were supposed to stop as soon as we were on the school grounds, face the Hoanden, and pay our respects. Needless to say, this ritual was honored most often in the breach. But for some reason, I was captivated and promised myself I would never fail in this new duty. I realize now that I was still working to fit in.

At the end of our morning assembly about a month after the Hoanden was installed, the principal stepped up on the podium and told us that Colonel Matsuura would make a few remarks before we went to our classrooms.

“Boys,” the Colonel said, “I am distressed that I must remind you of your duties to the nation and the gratitude, respect, and obedience you owe to the Emperor. Some of you are shirking those duties when you enter the school grounds and fail to pay your respects to the Hoanden. Just because no one is looking—or you think no one is looking—doesn’t mean that the rules don’t apply. The heavens have eyes and I too have been observing. You should let Imagawa be your model. He obeys the rule at all times; he always shows his respect. Follow his example.”

I was flabbergasted. Me, a role model? I thought I was just doing what I was supposed to. As my friends and classmates—who I thought of as truly Japanese—turned to look at me, I tried to stand up tall and look proud rather than embarrassed by the attention. I realized with a rush of pride that I had finally succeeded in my quest to be completely Japanese myself—and maybe I was even a bit more Japanese than some of my peers.

We were hot and tired. As always, it was thrilling to march with the military, but this was the third time that week we had been to the station. Another group from the Matsuyama Infantry Regiment was heading for the front. It was our job to send them off in style.

A mounted officer led, and I was in the group of ten buglers behind the first column of soldiers. The rest of the troops followed behind. The instruments gleamed, the music blared. The soldiers moved forward to their futures, through the heat, through the dust.

As we neared the station, we swept past the groups of high school girls waving flags and shouting encouragement. “Banzai! Banzai!” And the families. The old grandparents, the parents, the little brothers and sisters. A few of the mothers and grandmothers were trying to hide their tears, but most were beaming with pride. I spotted Michiko in the crowd with her parents and realized that her second brother must be in this group, following his older brother to Manchuria, leaving Michiko alone at home with her parents. I knew she saw me and hoped she admired my uniform.

It was high summer, and my parents and I were staying at the Ishii Village house. As the parade broke up, Yamamura-sensei, on duty as music director, said, “Imagawa, I know your family is out at Ishii this week. I’ll give you a ride on my scooter. Otherwise, it’ll be dark by the time you get home.”

When we arrived, no one was home. I was sure Father was across the fields, fishing in the local stream. Yamamura-sensei and I decided to take a walk and see if we could find Mother in the orchards behind the vegetable garden.

“How are things in Suzuki-sensei’s class?” he asked.

I didn’t know how to answer. Everyone in the school knew I had gotten in trouble during the last pronunciation test, by writing my true best guess—bear instead of bell. Did Yamamura-sensei know that Suzuki-sensei had no idea how to properly pronounce English words?

“Well,” he continued, not waiting for an answer, “it’s not easy studying systematically. You know English in your bones and your heart. But Suzuki-sensei has the job of analyzing it and teaching his students how to do the same. And you have the difficult job now of learning how to analyze.”

So knowing how to speak wasn’t important—at least in the classroom this year. My job was to listen and to accept the word of the teacher.

“And, besides, who knows how much longer any of us will be able to teach English.” I wasn’t sure what Yamamura-sensei meant, but he switched topics before I had much time to think about it. “How are the Grahams?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“Still singing?”

“Yes.”

“Still eating all those gaijin foods?”

“Yes.”

“Are you and Morgan still speaking English?”

“Yes, the whole family climbed up to the Castle last Sunday. We haven’t done that for years. Morgan’s dad says the view of the Seto Inland Sea up there ‘nourishes his soul.’”

“More poetic than the Buddhist priest,” said Yamamura-sensei.

We hadn’t found Mother and had tramped so far into the orchards that we sat down to rest. The heat was receding. It would be light for a bit longer, but the birds were beginning to find their way to their perches, their day winding down, as was ours. We sat down under the large oak at the end of the orchard. Yamamura-sensei began to quiz me in English, expecting the answers in Japanese.

“Listen Isamu. Ears first. Now tell me.”

“Kakko?”

“Yes, and the other?”

“Tsutsudori.”

“Yes. Listen, I think I hear a woodpeeker too.”

“Woodpecker, Sensei.”

“Thank you. Now tell me the name.”

“Ao-gera?”

“Probably, and now the names of the others.”

“Oaka-gera, ko-gera, and…and…”

“And what about our old friend Basho and the woodpeckers?”

I stumbled, but once he prompted me with the first word, it rolled out, “‘Kitsutsuki mo / io wa yaburazu / natsukodachi.’”

“Yes,” he said, “yet another word for woodpecker. How can we translate this haiku into English, Isamu?”

“I don’t know, Sensei. It’s hard. Maybe, ‘The woodpecker doesn’t tear at the thatched cottage in the summer grove,’ but I don’t think it sounds as good in English.”

“I agree. It needs something. Maybe we could switch it around, but we still have to get the idea that the woodpecker, who usually loves to attack anything wood, is leaving the humble thatched cottage alone. How about, ‘In a summer grove, the woodpecker doesn’t peck, sparing the thatched cottage’? Still isn’t exactly right. Ah, how difficult speaking and thinking in another language is.”

“Yes, Sensei,” I said.

“I think we’re almost finished with the birds, but I want you to learn the words komadori and meboso mushikui too. I’ll show you the pictures in my book next week. Maybe you’ll know the English. They’re warblers. You’ll like their songs. Now it’s time for my quiz. Are your ready?”

When I had first come back from San Francisco, Mother had shown Yamamura-sensei my second grade class portrait from Raymond Weill Elementary School. She apologized for the scruffy, undisciplined-looking bunch, but Yamamura-sensei had been enchanted and loved my explanation that the photo was taken on a “Show and Tell” day.

“It’s Henry Fong holding the Songs and Tales from Mother Goose book,” he said. “That I remember. Please tell me the others.”

I’d lost the ability to rattle off the roll alphabetically as Mrs. Murphy had every morning, but I could still manage most of the names. My memories were fading, but Yamamura-sensei had fixed the photo in my head. “Mary Jean Wallace, Ellen Nakamura, Patricia Nolan, Suzy Meecham, Danny Eguchi, Pete Semanovich.”

“I love ‘Se-man-o-vich,’” Yamamura-sensei said with a smile.

“We used to think it was a difficult name, and the Japanese kids used to tease him with, ‘Nihon katta, Rosha maketa,’ even though we really didn’t know what it meant.”

“Ah, that old playground rhyme. It’s from when I was a student. Well, now, if you believe the government, we’re winning everything, and we always will.”

“Yes,” I said, hesitantly, but he didn’t give me time to continue.

“Keep going.” I knew he wanted to hear his favorites and repeat some of the names.

“Esther Gimbel, Stanley Crowe, Arthur Miyamoto, Clarissa Peters, Nicholas Johannsson.”

He played, as he always did with “Clarissa,” trying and re-trying to get his tongue around all the slippery sounds. Again, as part of our ritual I said, “Sensei, that sounds like ‘Chris.’ We had no one named Christopher in our class. It’s Cla-RISS-ah.”

“Fine. Let’s hear the rest.”

“Bobby Walsh, Billy Wong, Samuel Fujita, Evelyn Quinn.”

“Ah, yes, Miss Queen.”

“Quinn, Sensei. Quinn. She was definitely not a queen or even a princess,” I said, enjoying our best joke.

“Susie Da Silva, Tommy Maida, Frankie Falucci, Joey MacNamara, Julie Shimamura, Kevin O’Rourke, Juan Chavez, Kathryn Kalsen, Terence Tanaka, Charles Kawabata.”

“The San Francisco League of Nations. Thank you Isamu. I love to hear all those mixed-up names. But it’s time to go back now.”

When we stood, we saw Father on the other side of the orchard, on a path angling through the paddies. He waved and called, “Good to see you again,” to Yamamura-sensei.

“My son here still making all that awful noise under your tutelage?” Father asked as we met at the edge of the orchard. Despite Father’s jokes, I knew he was proud of my musical skills and happy that I retained my English. We all turned toward the house and walked together through the vegetable garden.

“Ah, Mrs. Imagawa,” said Yamamura-sensei. “I’m so glad to see you.” Mother was standing just outside the back door, bowing.

“Sensei, I’m so sorry I missed you. I was taking our neighbor Mrs. Ishizuki some cucumbers from the garden. Please come in and stay for dinner. I see that my husband had a successful afternoon by the river.”

Father grinned and held up a string of fishes. It didn’t look like much to me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Imagawa, but my wife is waiting for me. I know she’s preparing dinner at home.”

“But, oh, Sensei, please take some of these cucumbers. It’s impossible for us to eat so many.”

Yamamura-sensei walked back to his scooter, and he and Mother tied a furoshiki full of cucumbers on its back. As he said his farewells, he told Mother and Father, “It’s really commendable that the two of you have encouraged Isamu to keep up his English. It will be so important for him. The future will be internationalism. That’s the world all our young people will live in.”

“Yes, and I hope that world comes soon, without too much more blood shed in vain,” said Father.

Mother smiled and waved as Yamamura-sensei pulled away.

The next week—in mid July—my friend Masao, who had left to study at the Naval Academy, came home for a visit. I was happy to see him, but at the same time I was a bit intimidated. He seemed stronger, tougher, and somehow smarter. Maybe it was just that he was more confident. And he looked wonderful in his uniform. He was a cadet, which gave him semi-officer status. His uniform had a waist-length tunic top. His stand-up collar had gold bars. Their shine matched that of the gold dagger flashing at his waist. He was full of stories about his training and how much he was learning. I listened, rapt, as he speculated about which ships he might ultimately be assigned to. Oh, I thought, a career! One that would be right for me. Every day that I spent time with Masao made me more certain. I was sad to see him go, but happy that his visit had shone such a bright light on my future for me. I now had a purpose.

Mother and Father quickly squashed that dream too. When I went to them after Masao had gone back to the Naval Academy, I had all my arguments marshaled. The Naval Academy was just across the Seto Inland Sea, only a four-hour ferry journey. My education would be at government expense. Their refusal was immediate, absolute, and shocking. Perhaps they saw my request coming; my fascination with Masao must have been obvious. “No,” Father said.

“We’re not ready to offer your life to His Majesty yet,” Mother said.

The matter was closed. I kept telling myself that. It’s closed. Mother and Father had to be respected. They had the final word. Now I had to figure out something else to do with myself. It was back to Matsuyama Higher School or Matsuyama Commercial College. I sighed the first day I sat down to study for the entrance exams. As the summer passed and autumn arrived, I kept studying and kept sighing. I knew my time at Matsuchu was coming to an end, but couldn’t imagine what would come next. Sometimes I thought of my experience coming to Matsuyama. That too was a time of great uncertainty, but I had been a baby then, and in the hands of my mother, my aunt and uncle, Miss Tatsukawa of Bancho, Yamamura-sensei, and even the Grahams. Now things were different. I was facing the great unknown of the future alone. I wasn’t a little boy in short pants anymore. I had to go meet the next part of my life, without any idea of what I wanted and no certainty that I was equal to the task.

Late in the fall, Mother was conscripted. She was assigned to the Naval Reserve Corps and stationed three hours away at Zentsuji. She was still on Shikoku Island, but far away from us, closer to Takamatsu. All the patterns of everyday life changed as Father and I adjusted to Mother’s absence.

We stumbled through the winter. Father had a new job, at a machine tool factory outside the city. Because the factory was past Ishii Village, we moved to our house there and rented out the Yanai-machi house. I had a long walk to school every day, and even from Ishii Village, Father had a long bicycle ride to the factory. We didn’t do well at keeping the house neat or clean, but Father somehow got us up and out the door every day. In the deep winter, we were getting up, dressing, and leaving in the dark. Father didn’t work on the factory floor—he worked in the office, keeping the accounts and tracking shipments. He had had several jobs like this since we had returned to Matsuyama. He was recruited for this new job because he knew the president of the company, who persuaded Father that he needed his help. That was certainly true. Father worked long hours because production at the factory had been stepped up to meet the demands of the military. But he somehow managed to make me dinner every night and prepare my lunch for the next day before he fell into bed exhausted.

Mother came home for the New Year holiday, but only for two days. As we had our small celebration at home, she chided me, telling me that I needed to pull myself out of my doldrums. She told me that she was sure I would do well on the exams for Matsuyama Higher School, which is what we had all decided was my first choice. On New Year’s morning, she brushed the lint off my jacket as we got ready to pay a call on Aunt Yoshie and her family. When she finished brushing my back, she spun me around, held me with her arms on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Isamu, you will do well. This year will be a good one. You have a bright future here in Matsuyama.”

I took the exam in February and failed. I regretted not trying for Matsuyama Commercial College as well. I would have nothing to do the next year. I would be a ronin, a student without a college to attend, adrift for at least a year. Everything before me was bleak. My days at Matsuchu came to an end. I found myself dreaming about the Navy again. One Sunday when Father and I were fishing in the river beyond the fields that stretched behind our house, I talked about the Naval Academy again. He let me talk, and over the next few weeks, I was able to persuade him to at least let me try. I’m not at all sure things would have been the same if Mother had been home, but Father on his own was a soft touch. The night he consented the light at the table was low as we sat after dinner for the few moments we had together before he had to get to sleep to be ready for the next day. “You make a good argument,” he said. “It’s not what I’ve ever wanted for you, but you’re right, there are few alternatives at this point.”

The Naval Academy exam was in November. I buckled down and started studying again. Now I made our simple dinners and packed Father’s lunch for him. I saw him off early in the morning and sat down to study. I didn’t allow myself a break until mid-afternoon. Often I would walk into town even if I didn’t even have any errands to run. One day I found myself in front of Bancho. Soon, it became my routine to go there every day. I had to prepare for the Navy’s physical exam too. I ran around the track and practiced jumping and climbing on the jungle gym. I wanted to be tough enough to meet the Navy’s exacting standards. Then I walked back to Ishii and studied again until Father got home.

On my way out of Bancho one day, I saw Mrs. Graham walking down the street. Her face was twisted in sadness, but when she saw me, I watched her sweep it all aside. “Isamu, my dear,” she said, “how wonderful to see you. A friendly face is just what I need. Come in with me and have some tea. Morgan’s out this afternoon, but Reverend Graham will be delighted to see you.”

“Darling,” she called as she stepped into the genkan, “I’m back, and I have Isamu with me.”

The Reverend came to the entryway. He smiled at me, but his eyes were on his wife as he said, “Sam, great to see you. Come in.”

“I need some tea,” said Mrs. Graham, “and I’ve persuaded Isamu to have some with us.”

“Excellent! Darling, I’ll help you in the kitchen. Sam, why don’t you go sit in the parlor?”

I went to the familiar room and sat on the piano bench, fingering the keys.

“It was absolutely beastly hot queuing today,” Mrs. Graham said in response to her husband’s inquiry. I could hear most of what she then went on to tell the Reverend. She had stood in the ration line for a long time as the sun beat down on the dusty road. She was talking about Abe-san, the grocer in their neighborhood. He was now the assistant rations officer. She said he sneered when he saw her and made a great show of looking up her name on his list, mispronouncing it, and then giving her a receipt with her coupons that had the word “FOREIGNER” scrawled where her name should have been. I heard her voice break. “Richard, everyone else just looked away. No one would catch my eye. These people have been our neighbors for fifteen years. They laughed and cried with us and watched our children grow. I thought they cared for us. What has all our work been for?” I thought she might be crying.

“Margaret, I simply won’t let you do that again by yourself,” said Reverend Graham. “And we’ll talk about it more later. For now, give me that tray. You finish the tea. Take your time. Pull yourself together.”

The Reverend strode back into the room with the tray. “See how clever Mrs. Graham is. She found some cookies for us to have with our tea. Tell me, Sam,” he said as he sat down, “how are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m sorry to be here when I’m so sweaty and dirty.”

“Nonsense, it’s great to see you. It’s been so long since we went hiking. You and I don’t get much of a chance to talk anymore. What are you doing downtown today?”

“I’m taking a break from studying. I started taking walks in the afternoon and realized that Bancho is a great place to exercise.”

“Why so much exercise? Isn’t the walking enough? Don’t tell me you miss the calisthenics and all those drills now that you’re finished with Matsuchu.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just trying to prepare for the physical exam.”

“The physical?” said Mrs. Graham as she walked into the room with the teapot.

“Yes, for the Naval Academy. I’m taking the exam in November. I really want to do well.”

“I see,” said the Reverend. He stood up, took the teapot from his wife, added it to the tray, and took her elbow to help her onto the sofa. “Sam, when did you decide on the Academy?”

“Really last year when my friend Masao came home for a visit.”

“Masao Kato?” asked Mrs. Graham. “Such a handsome boy.”

“Yes, I realized what a great opportunity it would be. A career. And my duty as a Japanese. Last year Mother and Father said no, but now at least I’m taking the exam. It’s a long shot, but I want to give it my best.”

“Sam,” said the Reverend, “you’re brave and ambitious. We will always wish the best for you.”

“And we’ll pray for your safety, my dear,” said Mrs. Graham.

I don’t remember what I thought about as I walked home. Maybe about what Father and I would have for dinner. Maybe about how many chin-ups I’d be able to do the next day.

I entered the Regiment Gate with anxiety and pride. The physical was first. I was pleased that I did well. Those who didn’t were sent home immediately. There was no point in letting them take the written exam. After lunch at the Regiment, the candidates took the exam in one of the barracks, which had been arranged like a huge classroom. I found the math part of the exam particularly difficult and was sure I had failed as I turned my papers in. As I left the Regiment I saw a few of my friends from Matsuchu in a group outside the Regiment Gate. I just waved and called, “Have to get home. They’re waiting for me,” and didn’t stop. I wanted the solitude of the walk back to Ishii by myself.

The results came before the end of the year. I didn’t pass. I was not surprised, and I think Father was secretly pleased. I know Mother had been displeased that he had let me take the exam. But now, with her experiences as a war nurse, I suspect she had come to accept that military life was inevitable for her only son. She heard my news about the Naval Academy on one of her rare weekend visits home. She said, “So, it’s Matsuyama Commercial College for you now, my dear.” That night, she and Father sat up after I went to bed. I heard her telling Father about a new patient she had at the hospital that week. He had stepped on a land mine somewhere in China and lost his right arm, his left hand and most of both legs. She described how the nurses had to do everything for him. “His mother is supposed to arrive this weekend,” she said. “I’m glad I won’t be there to see it.”

I went back to studying, took the Matsuyama Commercial College exam, and passed. I was finally going to be a college student. My terrible, drifting ronin year was over.