I grow sad at the loss.
A bright sunny day—an unusual occurrence in Vancouver for mid-March. Chisato’s outlook was lightened as a result. She could not get used to the overcast days that seemingly went on endlessly. Hiroshima was sunny most days, hot, burning hot at times. Just the other day, she looked for the sun, but nothing but the heavy anvil of clouds. And so here it was, finally.
Chisato enjoyed being outside in the backyard preparing the vegetable and flower garden for the growth to come. At least now, there will be enough light for the plants and there will be colour and wonderful fragrances, she thought.
She turned her head when she heard a faint rapping in the air. It didn’t come from inside the house but from the front of it. She walked along the side path until she was in front, near the street.
Yet another phantom knock.
“Sachiko-chan,” she called, more happy than surprised. “Forgive me I was in the back. Come and we’ll visit back there.”
“Could we go inside?” she asked timidly, while turning every which way.
“Of course.” Chisato returned to the backyard, depositing digging implements, before entering the house and swiftly moving to the front door. She opened it and welcomed her friend who wore a cheap, worn beige coat and carried a small rough valise.
Sachiko Jikemura appeared the same as she did at Ernie’s a few months ago, perhaps not as skinny (might have been Chisato’s imagination), but certainly disheveled with a pronounced curve to her back. Her face was as thin as before with more bruising here and there; her eyes tired with pronounced dark bags underneath each.
Chisato noticed of course but didn’t want to call attention to them.
Sachiko kept turning her head behind her to see through the front door.
“What are you looking for?” Chisato asked.
“My husband…” Her eyes bulged with fear.
“I thought he was away at sea.”
“Maybe one of his spies. He has them everywhere.” She meant one of her husband’s friends, though Chisato couldn’t imagine who would bother.
After Sachiko was safely in the house, Chisato scanned the street for anything suspicious. There were many more Canadian strangers, tall and in suits, overcoats, and fedoras in the neighbourhood of late. Some stood on a corner; some in cars parked on the street, while others walked as if patrolling the area.
At the kitchen table and after some green tea in charming China cups from Hiroshima and some colourful manju from Kawasaki Confectioner beside the nearby fruit market, Chisato explained what was going to happen with Sachiko.
“Only one suitcase?” she asked. “The rest of your belongings?”
“Left everything behind. The past is a curse and I want to forget it.”
“I understand,” Chisato said in sympathy. “I’m so happy to see you! And glad you made your escape.”
Sachiko sat with lowered head, in a tomb of silence.
The room absorbed any noise Chisato made anyway. “I’ll take you to the church where Reverend James will take care of you.”
“No,” Sachiko murmured and tensed up.
“Now, don’t worry, he knows about your situation. He’s a good man. You’ll be in good hands. The fujinkai will provide you with new clothes, some money…anything you need.”
Her shoulders relaxed somewhat.
“One thing bothers me though. My husband is at work, and I can’t speak English.”
“I speak a little,” Sachiko said, suddenly raising her voice.
“Good. I bet there’ll be someone there to help,” she said. “Oh, are you Christian?”
“What? Me? No, I’m nothing.”
“Well, don’t say that to the Reverend.”
***
While walking along Powell Street towards the church, both women kept a sharp eye on their surroundings. When Sachiko thought she saw a “spy”, they elected to go through the wide back lanes going east, lanes of garbage cans and animal leavings. The smell followed them like an insecure child.
They arrived at the front doors of the church, safe and sound. They entered through the back door at the top of a small wooden porch as a precaution. The yard was small and full of debris.
Chisato led the way up a short flight of inside stairs, which creaked with age. Despite the sun-lit day, the interior was dark and musty. Nevertheless, Chisato knew the way. Once they made it to the minister’s office all was well.
It was an office full of books on shelves and filing cabinets. On the floor was what looked like decorations: crepe-paper flowers, small baskets with multicoloured eggs and white, green, and pink toy rabbits. Neither of the women had ever seen anything like it. Chisato examined the paraphernalia while Sachiko lifted a finger to touch the leather-bound books, but Chisato stopped her before she could.
***
She later learned that Easter is the festival commemorating the death and resurrection of Christ, the Saviour. The Jesus in the living room came to mind. Chisato thought it odd that at this time of year Buddhists celebrate the birth of the Buddha with Hanamatsuri, a time of flowers, joy, and beauty, not toy rabbits. She would never understand these Christians.
“Chai-sato!” greeted Rev. James with his permanent smile and extended hand. “Please excuse the mess. Easter decorations. The children love the candied eggs! You and Kiyo must come to that service. Lots of fun.”
Michiko Fujino accompanied the minister to act as interpreter. Her smile reassured Chisato.
Despite her ignorance about the Easter celebrations and not understanding what he was saying (Michiko remained mum), she nodded while reaching out and took the hand. He predictably grasped, shook, and pulled; she pulled back, but he was too strong.
“Sensei, this my friend Sachiko Jikemura.” That was the extent of her broken English. She stepped aside to reveal her friend.
“Now, I don’t need to know Japanese to know who this is.” Again, he grabbed Sachiko’s hand and pulled. Sachiko’s eyes widened. “Kiyo told me all about her.” The minister then invited them to sit in his office while he left to go downstairs.
“I Christian,” she confessed in a timid English.
The reverend laughed. “So am I!”
Sachiko in Michiko’s place quickly translated for Chisato. She was impressed by her friend’s skill. Michiko confirmed that Sachiko’s understanding of English was pretty good.
After some explanation by Michiko, Sachiko understood she was to accompany Rev. James and Michiko out of town to somewhere safe. “You need to be as far away as possible from your husband and his friends.”
Sachiko remained silent as Chisato advocated for her. She naturally wanted to know where. The reverend upon his return would not tell since knowledge would become a danger to her if the husband ever found out her role in all this. Chisato nodded.
“Michiko,” said the reverend, “can we find some clothes for Sachi? The other ladies can help, I’m sure. Feed her as well. She looks like she could use a good meal!” He was smiling the entire time. “I’m sure we can do something about the bruises.”
Chisato was taken aback as her face turned red. For Sachiko’s part, she looked away and pulled down her sleeves and fingered her sweater as best as she could.
After a few moments, the Rev. James and Michiko took Sachiko down the stairs into unknown darkness. The last thing Sachiko said to Chisato was “Thank you. I will contact you, I promise.”
Chisato sat in the office alone, thinking about what had just happened.
***
A few weeks after Sachiko’s rescue, in April in fact, Chisato received a letter. She first thought it might be from her friend but then she noticed it was from Japan—Chiemi! But no, it was from her father. Strange, she thought. She had written home infrequently because of all the adjustments she had to make and then only to her sister. But no, this time it was from her father. Only a single piece of paper and on it was written a tanka.
But when I give thought to the
Moment of death,
I grow sad at the loss of
Warm family memories.
What did it mean? And why did her father send it to her? There was no explanation, but the message made her tremble inexplicably. What was he trying to say? She immediately wrote to Chiemi. Principally, she wanted to know if her father was all right.
She did not receive an answer until September.
Chisato-chan,
Hello, I hope you are well. I am sad to say that, on August 6th, our beloved father died. I can’t tell you why. The doctors don’t even know. He didn’t look ill; he didn’t complain of any pain or even discomfort; he just passed away in his sleep.
I suppose the poem you received was a warning. He gave me a copy as well and he said he had sent one to Hideki, though I haven’t heard from him to confirm that fact. Somehow, Otousan knew he was going to die.
Okaasan is grieving, of course, but she is generally doing well. The funeral was overseen by Sensei Kiyahara and well-attended. I told everyone that you are prospering in Canada.
Write soon.
Chiemi
Chisato wrote back immediately.
Chiemi Oneesan,
How can this be? Otousan was not sick, showed no signs of an illness, yet he died? Can’t be true. Can it?
I don’t know what to say. Please let me know if anything is found out.
Also let me know what Hideki has to say. I am destroyed.
Chisato
For most of the day and night, she wept off and on, to varying degrees. What was she to do without her father? Ridiculous since she lived so far away.
***
When she told Kiyoshi that evening, his face filled with sympathy and quietly said to her, “He’s in a better place. Let’s talk to Reverend James.”
Chisato wondered about the “better place”. He’s dead, not on holiday, she thought with anger in her heart, but she said nothing in return. But she did think, This is a crazy religion. She had no wish to listen to the minister, but Kiyoshi insisted.
In the same church office as before, she sat opposite Rev. James with Kiyoshi standing to translate. The reverend even looked tall sitting down. The place was heavy with dust causing Chisato to sniffle constantly, which both men surely mistook for grief. They said as much as they gazed at her with sympathetic eyes.
The reverend’s chair creaked as he leaned forward. “Chai-sato, I know how you’re feeling, but he is with the Lord now. I’m sure he was a good man. Be comforted by the fact that your father will be saved come the Judgement Day. Can we pray together? Give me your hands.”
Chisato sighed when he reached for her two hands and held them in front of her. She flinched with his touch, but he held firm and pulled her slightly towards him. She would never get used to the off-putting familiarity. He closed his eyes and uttered a few words, but she didn’t hear his words. She shut her mind. And he and Kiyoshi did not see the disgust on her face as they prayed.
Whenever Kiyoshi left for the evening, not as frequently these days, she appreciated his absence. Even if he stayed home, she retreated to an empty, gloomy room in the house. Only one window allowed dull light from the street to enter. She missed her sister, her mother and even her brother. She wanted to see the Akamatsu compound again. To feel the cool of the surrounding woods, to warm in the bright sunlight coming from over the sea. To walk the Hiroshima streets to smell the familiar odours (sweet confections and fermented products like miso), to see the familiar landmarks, to take in the surrounding crowds of her fellow Japanese. She should’ve been there with her father.
Was coming to Canada a mistake? Was the Emperor wrong? The questions plagued her mind as she sat in the engulfing darkness.
The first chance she had, she went to the Buddhist church. She wanted to offer incense to her father’s memory. She knew she was breaking with her vows to the Christian church, even though she was obligated to Rev. James for what he did for Sachiko, but this was her father she was thinking of. She would not tell her husband or the Reverend James.
The Vancouver Buddhist church was on two lots of Cordova Street near Princess Avenue. So, within walking distance. The wooden building with the familiar wisteria emblazoned above the entrance seemed new and indeed it had just opened in 1934. Chisato ventured up the curved stairs that acted like bookends to the entrance and walked into the musty congregation hall. It smelled so differently from the Christian church. It smelled familiar.
The incense and the faint sounds of a sutra being chanted comforted her. She was home as she sat at the back, with a good view of the altar. There were a few people gathered observing a memorial service, she guessed, since it was mid-week.
The sensei was at the front seated before the scroll of the Nembutsu and altar. His eyes were closed, his hands in supplication as he recited from the Dharma. One by one the parishioners approached the altar and offered incense, small fragrant crumbs, placing them in the burner. The smoke curled into the air above like a premonition.
Chisato waited her turn and then approached the large bronze koro to do the same. She thought of her father as she expressed gratitude to the Buddha. She bowed before returning to her seat.
Impermanence leads to desire which leads to suffering. Depend on the Buddha Dharma.
She had thought to talk to the sensei, but she just sat meditating for a while. She then quietly left and vowed to return when the God Talk got to be too much.