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Mejiro, Japan
January, 1946
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Sergeant Hiroto Sato stood behind the counter of his police station. His shift was about to end, and he was looking forward to getting home to his wife and his evening meal. There would be rice, miso, a bit of fish. Food was more plentiful, now that the war was over.
The door opened. Two of the gajin conquerors entered, one wearing the stripes of a sergeant. A breeze blew past them through the open door, bringing with it a whiff of body odor. Sato fought to maintain a passive face. These foreigners had such an offensive smell. How could they live with it?
Sato bowed. He hated to do it, but it was necessary. Of course, the Americans failed to return the polite gesture.
Barbarians.
Sato spoke reasonably good English. It was one of the reasons he'd been promoted to sergeant after the humiliation of the surrender. That, and the empty sleeve that showed his sacrifice for the Emperor.
"How can I help, Sergeant?"
"How about that, Mike?" the man said to his companion, a corporal. "A Nip that speaks English."
"Let's get the damn swords and get out of here, Sarge."
The Sergeant took an official looking piece of paper out of his pocket and put it down on the counter.
"We're here to pick up the swords you've collected."
One of the edicts laid down by the occupying forces demanded that all swords, knives, and daggers be turned in to the nearest police station for collection. There had been incidents of American servicemen being attacked. The war was over, but some refused to admit it.
"Ah," Sato said. "Yes, Sergeant, at once."
He turned toward the back of the station, calling out in Japanese.
"Kazahiro! Bring the swords. American soldiers are here for them."
"I would like to shove one up their ass," Kazahiro said.
"Perhaps on another day. Bring them, please."
"All of them?"
"Hai."
In a moment Kazahiro emerged from the back room, pushing a cart loaded with swords. On top of the cart was a package wrapped in brown paper and string.
"Tell your man to take them out to our truck," the American Sergeant said.
Sato translated the order and Kazahiro trundled the cart out into the street.
Sato produced a form in Japanese that listed forty-seven swords of various lengths and styles. The American would never understand the distinctions between them. Sato didn't bother to explain.
"I must fill out this form, Sergeant. What is your name?"
Sato listened to the response and wrote down the Japanese characters for the name.
"What is your military unit?"
"Seventh Cavalry, U.S. Army."
Sato wrote it down.
"Is that it?" the sergeant said.
"You must sign, here."
The sergeant took a pen from his pocket and signed, a rapid scrawl.
"Domo."
"Am I done now?"
"Hai."
"Great," the Corporal said. "Let's get out of here. Place stinks of fish."
As the two men left the station, the Sergeant bumped into Kazahiro coming back in.
Sato knew it was a good thing the Japanese policeman didn't have one of those swords in his hands at that moment.
Outside by the truck, the sergeant picked up the long, paper wrapped package. He could feel the handle and guard of a sword under the thick wrapping.
"Wonder why they wrapped this one up? All the others are loose."
"Who cares? Let's take a couple of these before the officers grab them. I want a souvenir to show the folks back home."
"I'll keep this one."
They tossed the rest of the swords into the truck and headed back to the barracks. Six months later, the sergeant went back to the states, the sword stowed away in his duffel bag. He had no idea that his souvenir was a priceless treasure, a legendary sword of the samurai.
Over the centuries it had been quenched with rivers of blood.
The samurai had vanished into the mists of history, but the bloodshed wasn't over.