The Air-Raid Shelter
Eleven men sat in extraordinary session around the long, cloth-covered table. The room they had gathered in was small, only 18 by 30 feet. Its ceiling was steel-beamed, its walls paneled in a dark wood. Its most striking characteristic that particular evening, however, was a complete lack of ventilation. In the August humidity, the assembled conferees, all dressed formally in morning attire or high-collared uniforms, perspired heavily as they talked.
Four of the men were aides or secretaries. One man was a guest. The others were the Big Six, Japan’s “inner cabinet,” formally named the Supreme Council for the Direction of the War. To these six men—four cabinet ministers and two military chiefs of staff—was entrusted the formulation of policies, subject to full cabinet approval, which influenced the destinies of eighty million citizens of the Japanese Empire.
The “inner cabinet” operated very cautiously because, in the summer of 1945, real power in Japan was vested in the Army and Navy General Staffs. The Diet, similar in makeup to the United States Congress, was now a rubber-stamp assembly. The Privy Council, once a powerful group advising the Throne, was now consulted after the fact. The jushin, ex-Premiers, held no official authority, but managed to exert some pressures on events as they had in forcing General Tojo’s downfall in 1944. The cabinet, modeled like those in America and England, nevertheless had little mind or authority of its own; the military dictated its actions.
Above all these governmental branches sat the Emperor of Japan, who could express his opinions, show his feelings, but who by tradition did not order his own subjects to do his bidding. He had no veto power. On this night, for instance, he could only suggest courses of action to the men in the shelter.
The titular leader of the Big Six was Premier Kantaro Suzuki, a venerated hero of the long-ago Russo-Japanese War. Then, as a young officer, he had led a suicidal charge against the Czarist fleet off Tsushima. By that exploit, he had earned lifelong prominence in Japan. Now in his eighty-first year, the aged admiral held the highest office his nation could offer a commoner. Revered by most, he puzzled some by his contradictory statements on the conduct of the war. One day, he would tell everyone he would prosecute it to the bitter end. The next day, he would reassure the peace party that he was in favor of immediate moves to terminate hostilities.
The Japanese people delight in oblique tactics, but Suzuki’s actions confused even his closest confidants. Some whispered that his apparent indecisiveness could be traced to his advanced age. Deaf in one ear, Suzuki dozed frequently at conferences, missed points in debates, and generally let others hold the spotlight while he sat in the twilight of his career. Though he had been an inveterate cigar smoker in the past, he puffed only two a day by 1945. He loved to sit and play solitaire or read books on Taoism, while sipping part of his quota of five cups of sake a day. His wrinkled, moustached face, framed by enormous ears, smiled often as he went about among his peers. Even those violently opposed to his policies liked and admired him. Premier Suzuki was one of the few men in government without personal enemies.
Yet the Premier was beset by fear of assassination. He knew first-hand the force of military fanaticism. Nine years earlier, on February 26, 1936, hundreds of Army officers and men had gone wild in an orgy of killing. Shot three times, Suzuki had narrowly escaped death. His mind as well as his body still retained those scars of violence. In the summer of 1945, as he surveyed the ruins of his beloved Empire and tried to carry out the Emperor’s mandate to end the war, the Premier could not perform effectively. During the intensive series of high-level discussions, he vacillated, contradicted himself, trod carefully through the camp of the enemy, the military. He wanted to surrender, but he knew, as did others in Tokyo, that a premature declaration of intent would probably mean his death. His realization of the futility of continued war did not need to be confirmed by the bombing of Nagasaki. When the first Soviet troops broke across the Manchurian border that morning, Suzuki had cried, “The game is up.” Now, hours later, as he sat with his colleagues, he was at last prepared to show his hand and take his country out of the “game.”
Beside Suzuki in the Emperor’s shelter sat Foreign Minister Shigenori Togo, sixty-three years old and a strong supporter of surrender. Though later the Allies would brand him as a war criminal for his actions as Foreign Minister at the time of Pearl Harbor, Togo had assumed a dominant role in the summer’s efforts to take his nation out of the war. A brilliant intellectual, he had little use for sensitivities in his daily contacts. He was a dogmatic man, scornful of opinions contrary to his own, and given to venomous eloquence in frequent temper outbursts. A mild-looking, bespectacled face masked an aloof, acerbic personality which caused his friends much embarrassment and his enemies much pain.
From 1942, when he had been deposed owing to a dispute with the military, until 1945, when Suzuki became Premier, Togo had lived in retirement. At the urging of the jushin he then again took charge of the Foreign Office. He agreed to do so only after he was assured that Suzuki intended to end the war as soon as possible. Like Suzuki, however, Togo was forced to proceed carefully to forestall a coup by military fanatics. He too feared for his life in the long summer of 1945.
The third member of the peace faction was a military man, Navy Minister Admiral Mitsumasa Yonai, whose weather-beaten face had been a familiar sight among top circles in the Government for nearly twenty years. At sixty-five, the Navy Minister sat once more with old friends and rivals and championed the cause of peace. His features betrayed an enthusiasm for good whiskey. Once handsome, his facial muscles now sagged, huge pouches hung under his eyes, deep lines creased his cheeks, and veins stood out on his nose. Yet a warm smile constantly wiped away these signs of debilitation and attracted people to his side.
Yonai had many enemies among the military, who resented his “pacifist” attitude. When he had been Premier in 1940, he ran afoul of the generals because he opposed any alliance with Germany and Italy. For that the Army forced his resignation.
He was an ardent critic of war with the United States and was subjected to much harassment when the Japanese marched south in 1941. Called pro-American, he was sent into retirement. For nearly three years, Yonai languished in relative obscurity while the United States armed forces battered their way to the Marianas. When Tojo fell in July of 1944, he was catapulted back into service as Navy Minister under Koiso. Actually he was more than that. Because the jushin had forced the Army’s hand, Yonai was in effect assistant Premier, standing in Koiso’s shadow, subtly trying to influence the course of events. When Suzuki took over, Yonai continued as Navy Minister.
As noted in the Fujimura affair, he walked carefully to avoid extremists. He had the same fears, the same memories as did Suzuki and Togo. Death lurked in the barracks, in the officers’ clubs, in the hearts of young men unable to comprehend defeat. Yonai had to wait for the right opportunity, the moment when the scales would be heavily weighted in his favor. Tonight he sat near his inseparable companion, Kantaro Suzuki, and prepared to strike. The events of the past few days—Hiroshima, Nagasaki, the Russian invasion of Manchuria—had unbalanced the scales.
Ranged against Togo, Yonai and Suzuki were the other members of the Big Six. Their leader was General Korechika Anami, War Minister, spokesman for the Army and the most powerful man in Japan.
Only four months before, Anami had arrived at the summit of his military career. The fifty-seven-year-old general had been given the War Ministry post when Suzuki formed his new cabinet. His new power, however, offered him little satisfaction. Beneath him lay the ruins of an empire. His Army numbered in the millions, but it was doomed to defeat. Supplies for the war machine had begun to dwindle and disappear. Though tactically the Imperial Japanese Army could still inflict cruel punishment on the enemy, strategically it had lost the war.
But Anami had one hope left. His forces might bleed the Americans so badly on the beaches of Kyushu and Honshu that Japan could extract better peace terms from the conquerors.
The general was a stubborn man, whose career reflected a tenacious determination to succeed. As a youth, he took and failed the entrance exams for the Military Academy four times before passing. After graduating from school, he served a typical apprenticeship in the Japanese Army in the period during and after World War I. In 1926, he was placed in the much sought-after position of aide to Hirohito. As such, Anami became friendly with Marquis Kido, also an Imperial aide, who later became Hirohito’s most influential counselor.
Anami was not one of the original fanatics who usurped power in Manchuria. Not a firebrand, he chose a middle path between the disputing factions of the Imperial Army, thus avoiding the bitter factional warfare that erupted in the turbulent thirties. After Pearl Harbor, the rapidly rising officer commanded Japanese armies in the Dutch East Indies. From there his path led back to the intrigues of Tokyo. When Koiso fell, he was acceptable to both peace and war advocates as War Minister.
Anami possessed a relatively colorless personality. Compared to predecessors like Tojo, he seemed almost a shadow figure in the military hierarchy. Grandfatherly in appearance, Anami’s only affectation was a neatly trimmed moustache. His face was full, his figure ample but not portly. The general kept in excellent condition through his favorite pastimes, archery and kendo (Japanese fencing). Every morning he tried to spend a few minutes shooting a bow and arrow because he felt that it helped discipline his mind.
To the young officers under him, Anami was always calm and almost paternal. To the men who argued for peace in the cabinet meetings, he was infuriatingly obstinate. Frequently, the general would agree to a main point of discussion, then spar over side issues interminably. Such a man now grasped the leadership of the most dominant force in Japan, the Army. He must either disarm it forever or see it overwhelmed on the beaches. Thus far no one had been able to convince him not to fight. He had insisted on one last battle.
His Chief of Staff sat next to him. General Yoshijiro Umezu, who looked like an oriental version of Benito Mussolini, also managed to typify the American image of a Japanese warlord. His head was shaven, his eyes were narrowed slits, hooded and menacing. His thick lips were constantly pursed, lending a perpetual scowl to his face.
Umezu was a rigid, gruff martinet, a product of the fanatical Kwantung Army. Like Tojo, he had been in the center of the drive into Manchuria and China from 1931 to 1940. As one of the small nucleus that guided Japan’s destinies overseas, he was partially responsible for the disaster that engulfed his nation. But Umezu was not blind to the truth of impending defeat. He merely wanted better terms than those offered so far by the Potsdam Declaration. From the tip of his visored cap to the spurs on his shiny boots, the Army Chief of Staff epitomized the dilemma facing Japan. The Army must have peace with honor or it would fight on without quarter to the enemy.
The sixth member of the council was Admiral Soemu Toyoda, a beefy man with a pockmarked face, who was Navy Chief of Staff. As such, he was the most recent addition to the select group and had been appointed by Navy Minister Yonai both for his competence and for a less apparent reason. Toyoda came from the same clan and region as General Umezu. Assuming that Toyoda leaned toward immediate peace, Yonai felt that the admiral would be a positive influence on Umezu in the final weeks of discussion. He guessed wrong.
In these discussions, Toyoda vigorously defended the Army’s position. With his Navy lying on the floor of the Pacific, the Admiral lent full moral support to his fellow officers. Probably the most astute of the three, he dissected arguments brilliantly and found flaws in every position held by the opposition. His speeches were eloquent and reasoned. The sixty-year-old Toyoda was known as extremely nationalistic, and his hatred of foreigners was intense. Instead of being a subversive force against the generals, he had proven a worthy compatriot to the military clique in the last days.
The guest, Baron Kiichiro Hiranuma, had no legal right to be there. As President of the Privy Council, an advisory body to the Emperor, he approved decisions already laid down by the full cabinet. Hiranuma had been invited merely to observe and report back to his own group on this meeting, thereby speeding up the decision-making process within the Government. However, the bespectacled, long-faced old politician intended to do more than just listen to the dialogue. Hiranuma had decided to become a devil’s advocate, soliciting facts, seeking out loopholes in arguments, generally pressing the participants closely in order to help them break through to a conclusion.
As a veteran of high-level negotiations in Japan, Hiranuma was admirably suited for the job. At eighty, he had miraculously survived many decades of the in-fighting that typified his nation’s politics. An artful, wily tactician, the baron had lost little of the zealot’s fire he showed in his earlier career. Then he had been an ultranationalist, a strict constitutionalist, lending his support to various patriotic societies whose avowed purpose was to strengthen the Imperial institution. As a leader of the Kukohonsha, a rightist organization, he wielded tremendous influence on formation of cabinets in the turbulent years that followed World War I. By 1927 he managed to cause the overthrow of the reform-minded Wakatsuki cabinet and the establishment of Giichi Tanaka, an Army general, as Premier. From that point on, Japan’s policies were increasingly determined by the militantly ambitious groups within the Army, and Hiranuma learned to repent his action.
In 1939, Hiranuma was made Premier. As often happens, the office helped tone down the man’s reactionary tendencies. He tried to slow the Army’s drive to expand into China and elsewhere but failed. Though he worked most of his life for continuation of the Emperor system he in no way wanted the dictatorial monster that emerged from Manchuria in the guise of the Kwantung Army, which slowly spread its tentacles throughout the Government. Compared to this army, Baron Hiranuma was a flaming symbol of reform. Disillusioned, he continued to combat the military even after the Army forced him out of power. Terrorists tried to kill him in 1941. In the same year, he opposed war with America. When Tojo came to power as Premier, Hiranuma went into eclipse.
As the long war came to a close, he once more began to play a pivotal role as he struggled to shore up the Imperial institution and protect it from extinction. Hiranuma saw the necessity of convincing the warring factions within the government to agree on some form of answer to the Allied Powers.
The Big Six, their aides and Hiranuma waited twenty-five minutes in the underground shelter before the door to the Emperor’s quarters opened and the Divine Ruler walked in, accompanied by an assistant. Hirohito moved quickly to a straight-backed chair at the head of the table and sat down. His subjects bowed to him and sank back into their seats.
All of them were dismayed to see that their Sovereign’s hair was unkempt, hanging down in disarray on his forehead. His harried look was hardly that of a godlike leader.
Hirohito cleared his throat and waited for the meeting to begin.
The Emperor was not an impressive figure. Short-statured, bespectacled, he was shy to an extreme. His right cheek was marred by a nervous tic. His chin receded. His shoulders twitched. His voice was high-pitched. Yet to millions of his subjects he was a divine being, beyond worldly criticism, safe from any comparison to a mere mortal. The introverted, ineffectual-appearing Hirohito was nothing less than a direct descendant of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu.
Born in 1901, Hirohito had been brought up in a traditional pattern. His world was ruled by advisers, who saw to it that the young prince was indoctrinated in the mystical origins of his ancestors. Even he had trouble digesting the myth. In his teens, he clashed with Professor Shiratori, a history instructor, over the legend of his succession. Declaring that it was biologically impossible, the youthful Prince refused to accept the teacher’s thesis. Shiratori was thoroughly alarmed and reported Hirohito’s blasphemy to court advisers, who brought in Prince Saionji to reason with him. This aged relative was a poor choice; he did not believe the ancestral lore either. Saionji worked out a compromise. As long as Hirohito kept his suspicions to himself and did not upset the popular image of the Imperial family, no harm would be done. The masses could still worship the Emperor and find in him a strength of purpose. Hirohito agreed not to rock the ship of state. He spent less time with his history professor and more in the study of marine biology, at which, in later years, he became a world-renowned expert.
As Crown Prince, he shocked the conservatives at the court by insisting on taking a trip to Europe. Never before had a Japanese heir apparent ventured out of the country. Over strenuous objections, he traveled to London, Paris and Rome where he was thrilled by his glimpse of Western life and enjoyed the companionship of such men as Edward, Prince of Wales, who also would inherit an Empire.
Within two years after he returned to his cloistered world in the Imperial Palace, he married Nagako, a princess to whom he had been engaged for five years. In that period, he had seen her only nine times. Their betrothal had sparked warfare at the court as opposing factions jostled for the honor of supplying the bride for the next Emperor. Though Nagako was vilified by hostile elements, she persevered through the engagement period and married the nervous Prince on January 26, 1924. Slightly less than two years later, on Christmas Day, 1926, Hirohito became the 124th Emperor of Japan. His father Taisho, who had been insane during most of his reign, died, to the regret of practically no one at court. A man who spent his days in a world of unreality, who once sat gazing at legislators through a rolled-up newspaper “telescope,” Taisho had been a ruler in name only.
Now his eldest son carried on the royal tradition. Like previous leaders, he chose a new name for his reign. Hirohito called it Showa, which means Peace.
The new Emperor settled down to ceremonial routine, which marked the main function of his office. He and Nagako raised a family and he continued with his other love, the study of the sea. A retiring man, he watched passively as Japan fell under the sway of the militarists, whose acts in his name had terrible consequences. Hirohito could possibly have spoken out, but the Emperor of the Japanese people was not supposed to get involved in worldly intrigues. While he sat behind the gray walls of his compound, his subjects set the Pacific on fire.
Three years and eight months after Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Emperor of Japan saw visible evidence around him that his Showa reign was a mockery. Sickened and depressed by the appalling casualty figures, he began to insinuate himself into discussions of peace. Already he had insisted that Prince Konoye approach Russia with a bid for peace. Now, in the twilight of his Empire, he was ready to lend his authority to his faltering statesmen. Legend and history had bestowed power on him. Hirohito intended to use it.
Premier Suzuki stood up at the Emperor’s left and addressed the assemblage:
“I would like the Cabinet Secretary to read the Potsdam Declaration once more.”
The Secretary, bushy-browed Hisatsune. Sakomizu, quickly recited the terms laid down by the Allies, terms that every man in the room knew. Suzuki then outlined the difficulties in reaching agreement. In two previous meetings of the Big Six, opinion on the note was divided 3–3. In a cabinet session of fourteen ministers that afternoon, no harmony had been achieved. Six ministers were for peace providing only that the Emperor’s status was left unchanged. Anami, Umezu and Toyoda wanted this provision plus three others: Japan must be allowed to try its own war criminals; Japan must be permitted to disarm its own men in the field; and America must not occupy the Home Islands. They insisted on the last two to insure against friction between conqueror and vanquished. The five other ministers advocated peace with varying omissions of the conditions set forth by Anami, Umezu and Toyoda.
As Suzuki continued to describe the deadlocked discussions of that day, presumably for the Emperor’s benefit, General Anami sat glowering. Since he had come into the room, Anami had been building into a rage because of the presence of the guest, Hiranuma. Leaning over to Umezu, he whispered: “Hiranuma has no business being here. They’re trying to trick us, so let’s stand fast.” Umezu stared across the table at the elderly intruder and grunted agreement.
After his prefatory remarks, Suzuki asked Togo for his opinions. The Foreign Minister rose, bowed to the Emperor, and began to speak. He admitted, “It is disgraceful to have to accept the Potsdam Declaration. Yet we must.” Glancing from time to time at notes, he pointed out the folly of sitting still while Japan burned to the ground. His round spectacles glinted in the light as he fervently concluded, “We must accept the Potsdam Declaration with the sole condition that the Emperor’s status remain as it is.” He sat down.
Suzuki quickly stepped into the vacuum and asked Admiral Yonai for his opinion. The sleepy-eyed Navy Minister did not bother to stand. Staring straight ahead, he said quietly, “I agree with the Foreign Minister.”
Anami leaped to the attack. Pointing his finger at Yonai, he shouted: “Absolutely not! There is enough determination left in the armed forces to wage a decisive battle in the homeland. Unless all four conditions are met, there is no other choice for us. We will fight on.”
General Umezu swiftly echoed that determination, and added, “I have no objection to a decision in favor of accepting the Potsdam Declaration but the four conditions must be included.”
Premier Suzuki switched tactics. Ignoring Admiral Toyoda, he asked Baron Hiranuma to give his opinion. Toyoda was left with his mouth open.
Hiranuma rose to assume a role he relished. Immediately he baited Shigenori Togo: “Why did Russia declare war?”
Togo hotly retaliated, “Russia had no intention of being a mediator. It wanted to get into the war.”
The devil’s advocate continued to press for details. “Russia said that on July 28 the Japanese Government refused the Potsdam proposal. Is it true?”
Togo patiently replied, “No, we didn’t refuse.”
“Then why do they say so?”
Togo shrugged and answered, “It’s all in their imagination.” For himself, the Foreign Minister was speaking the truth. He had not rejected the Potsdam Declaration. Suzuki’s “mokusatsu” speech had caused the damage.
After several more questions to Togo on the various conditions put forth by the two generals and Admiral Toyoda, Hiranuma addressed the war faction directly: “You said you had the means to continue the war but air raids come now every night and day. Do you have the means to defend against the atom bomb? I wonder.”
General Anami did not answer. He was still annoyed by Hiranuma’s presence at the meeting, and he was also plagued by a sobering thought which had been with him since morning. Osaka intelligence officials had informed him of their interrogation of the captured American fighter pilot, Lieutenant Marcus McDilda. The pilot’s marvelously embroidered lie about the size and design of the atomic bomb, its inner workings and other details did not impress Anami as much as the information that Tokyo itself might be the bomb’s next target. McDilda had been discussed seriously at the morning’s meeting of the Big Six, for no one could deny that this obscure American pilot might be telling the truth. It was an appalling possibility.
Umezu instead responded to Hiranuma’s question:
“We have a new plan and hope for good results. Regarding the atomic bomb, it might be checked if proper antiaircraft measures are taken against the planes.”
Hiranuma asked Toyoda if the Navy, too, had a plan. The admiral agreed that it did, adding: “We wanted to use our planes against the American fleet but in preparing for homeland defense we couldn’t. From now on, we’ll attack.”
Hiranuma called on Umezu to account for the Army’s contingency plans against invasion. Haltingly, Umezu replied: “Our biggest problem is weapons production. That is the major deterrent to completion of beach defenses.”
“What about the Tokyo area? Is the Kujikuri Beach ready?”
“No.”
“What about the division that is supposed to be guarding it?”
“The equipment for that unit will not be available until September 15.”
An undercurrent of dismay ran around the table. Anami and Umezu shifted uncomfortably.
Hiranuma pursued the military men on several more points, then suddenly asked in disgust, “How on earth can you believe it is still possible to continue the war under the existing conditions?”
Anami, Umezu and Toyoda sat dumb.
The baron finished his fact-finding mission with a warning to the group about the danger of a leftist revolution by the masses. He said, “I’m worried about keeping the public peace—”
Suzuki interrupted: “I am too. The people are uneasy.”
Hiranuma continued: “Therefore, I think that some form of answer should be sent to the Allies. Perhaps negotiations on the conditions imposed by the Army and Navy might even be appropriate—”
Suzuki interrupted him to let Toyoda speak. The admiral recovered from the onslaught by Hiranuma and launched into an explanation of the military position, which he felt could salvage some sort of honorable terms from the Americans. His chief fear was that the Army would revolt if not catered to in the last emergency, and he wanted to do as much as possible to help General Anami keep a firm grip on his staff. The four conditions were a necessary prerequisite to that stability.
The opinions had been given. Now the moderator, Kantaro Suzuki, prepared for his own master stroke. Since early in the morning of the ninth, just after the news of the Russian entry into the war, he and the Emperor had shared a secret with Togo and Marquis Kido. At 7:30 A.M., he had gone to the palace and agreed with Hirohito that the Potsdam Declaration must be accepted that day. Suzuki had told the Emperor that he would be needed that night for the last thrust. Then he had outlined a course of action. “I will make sure that there is no final vote taken in any meeting in the morning or the afternoon sessions.” Though a consensus would be ascertained, no formal ballot would be taken until the Emperor could be ushered in to break the stalemate. Hirohito was only too willing to be an active participant and the stage was set for a dramatic move.
At 2:00 A.M., over two hours after the discussion began, deep under the streets of Tokyo, Suzuki did the unprecedented. He stood up in the humid room and said: “I believe that everyone has fully expressed his opinion but I regret that we did not come to an agreement. As it is a matter of great importance, there is no way left but to rely on the decision of His Imperial Majesty.” He addressed the Emperor: “Your Imperial Decision is requested as to which proposal should be adopted, the Foreign Minister’s or the one with the four conditions.” Suzuki had trumped the opposition, which had never expected the Emperor to speak. He had asked the 124th Emperor of the Japanese people to take the matter out of his subjects’ hands and decide the best course for them.
The only visible reaction in the room was an immediate stiffening in posture and sharp attention to the man at the head of the long table.
Hirohito rose. He began to speak slowly, as though feeling for the proper words.
“I agree with the Foreign Minister’s plan. I have given serious thought to the situation prevailing at home and abroad and have concluded that continuing the war can only mean destruction for the nation and a prolongation of bloodshed and cruelty in the world. Those who argue for continuing the war once assured me that new battalions and supplies would be ready at Kujikurihama by June. I realize now that this cannot be fulfilled even by September. As for those who wish for one last battle here on our own soil, let me remind them of the disparity between their previous plans and what has actually taken place. I cannot bear to see my innocent people struggle any longer. Ending the war is the only way to restore world peace and to relieve the nation from the terrible distress with which it is burdened.”
Hirohito was spelling the end for the die-hards; and in personally assuming the onus of breaking the deadlock, he was giving them a face-saving way out.
His face lined with grief, the Emperor continued: “I cannot help feeling sad when I think of the people who have served me so faithfully, the soldiers and sailors who have been killed or wounded in far-off battles, the families who have lost all their worldly goods, and often their lives as well, in the air raids at home. It goes without saying that it is unbearable for me to see the brave and loyal fighting men of Japan disarmed. It is equally unbearable that others who have rendered me devoted service should now be punished as instigators of war. Nevertheless, the time has come when we must bear the unbearable.”
There was absolute stillness in the tiny room. No feet moved, no sound escaped the lips of the other twelve in audience.
The Emperor paused, then concluded, “When I think of the feelings of my Imperial Grandfather, Emperor Meiji, at the time of the Triple Intervention, I cannot but swallow my tears and sanction the proposal to accept the Allied Proclamation on the basis outlined by the Foreign Minister.”
Hirohito did not wait for a reaction, but rose from his chair and went to the door opened by his aide. He walked through it and was gone.
Eleven men remained with their own private thoughts, absorbing the import of his speech. The Emperor had spoken. He had supported the peace faction, recommending surrender on the condition alone that the Imperial status be preserved. No one raised his voice in either protest or agreement. There was no sound.
Finally Suzuki rose to his feet, his masterful plan accomplished. He quietly stated, “His Majesty’s decision should be made the decision of this conference as well.” No one disagreed. Then the Premier adjourned the group to a full cabinet meeting at three o’clock in the morning at his official residence. The meeting broke up and the participants made their way up the long flight of stairs into the night air of Tokyo.
At the top of the steps, a scuffle broke out. Silent through the whole meeting, General Yoshizumi, an aide to Umezu, lost his temper and rushed at Premier Suzuki. Trying to get his hands on the aged man, he screamed over and over, “Are you happy? Are you satisfied now?” As the bewildered Suzuki dodged his assailant, General Anami stepped between the men and wrapped his arms protectively about the old statesman. Yoshizumi was pulled away by other witnesses while Anami escorted Suzuki into the beautiful gardens in the center of Tokyo. Overhead, a brilliant moonlight brought even pine cones lying on the grounds into sharp relief. It was a perfect summer’s night.
From the cloistered garden of the Imperial Palace the eleven men went to join other cabinet members assembled at Suzuki’s house, to consider an appropriate answer to the American offer of peace. They began another argument immediately. This time it was over the phrasing of the sentence dealing with the preservation of the Emperor’s status. Not one of the men disputed the necessity of that stipulation. The only problem now was in correctly stating it to the Allies.
Hiranuma, the defender of the royal function for most of his life, was adamant that his sentence be the one chosen. It was put in by Toshikazu Kase, a Foreign Office secretary, who admitted later that he had severe doubts about the phrase “with the understanding that the said declaration does not comprise any demand which prejudices the prerogatives of His Majesty as a Sovereign Ruler.” But he included the phrase, and the full cabinet approved it to go out over the airwaves just that way.
The message ended with the remark, “The Japanese Government hopes sincerely that this understanding is warranted, and desires keenly that an explicit indication to that effect will be speedily forthcoming.”
At four o’clock, the cabinet members walked out to their cars and were driven through the pre-dawn quiet of the city streets while civilians slept on in their beds.
Chief Secretary Sakomizu went to bed in an armchair downstairs in Suzuki’s home. The old admiral went upstairs satisfied with the day’s work, but utterly exhausted by his efforts. General Anami returned home heartsick. Though he knew that the Emperor was right, nevertheless he felt that the Army had been disgraced and he worried that the Emperor’s position was in great danger.
Marquis Kido, the Emperor’s closest adviser, was in bed by four o’clock, after talking with his Ruler about the meeting in the shelter. When Hirohito had told him what happened there, Kido listened, “filled with emotions and trepidation.” His fears were justified shortly.
At 7:33 A.M., wireless operators in the Foreign Ministry Building in downtown Tokyo began clicking off the momentous news in code to Switzerland and Sweden, for transmittal to the appropriate parties in Allied capitals. Reaction to the news would come swiftly and it would indicate trouble ahead, both at home and abroad.