No Surrender (29 page)

Breaking off, he said, “Let me take a picture.”

I consented. It was a gamble on my part. I knew by now that the young man was Japanese, but I was not sure what his real aim was. Still, if I let him take my picture, there ought to be some sort of reaction before long.

He trained his flashlight on his camera and put on the flash attachment. After taking two shots, he still seemed dissatisfied.

“I'm not too confident about these flashbulb shots. If you don't mind, I'd like to take a daylight shot tomorrow. About three in the afternoon would be a good time, if you're willing to come.”

That gave me a turn. Was he a fraud after all? With that expensive camera and flash equipment, why should he be worried about the results?

“I don't want to do that,” I replied casually. I was trying to think of some way to make him give himself away. The first step, I supposed, was to ask him a few questions.

“You didn't tell me your name,” I remarked.

“My name is Norio Suzuki.”

“How do you write ‘Norio'? With the character in ‘rule'?”

“No, with the character
ki
that means ‘annals.'”

“Oh. You mean the
ki
in Kii Peninsula, don't you?”

“That's right.”

So far I was getting nowhere. Before I could think of anything
else to ask, he started questioning me about life on the island and how Kozuka and Shimada had died and a lot of other things. In the course of the conversation I referred to something that had happened in Japan recently.

Startled, he inquired, “How did you know about that?”

“I have a transistor radio,” I replied nonchalantly.

That really surprised him. He listened with open mouth as I told him how we had acquired the radio. I, for my part, kept watching his reactions closely for any sign that he might not be what he said he was. I had not talked with anybody since Kozuka's death sixteen months earlier, and I would have been enjoying myself but for the lingering fear that Norio Suzuki was an enemy agent.

After we talked about two hours, he asked, “What could I do to persuade you to come out of the jungle?”

“Just what it says in the newspapers,” I answered. “Major Taniguchi is my immediate superior. I won't give in until I have direct orders from him.”

Major Taniguchi was not, in fact, my immediate superior, but I had read in one of the newspapers left by the search party that Major Taniguchi had said he was. This meant that Major Taniguchi was no longer involved with army secrets. What I could not understand was why, if the war was really over, Major Taniguchi did not offer some explanation that made sense or send me some sort of written message. If, on the other hand, the war was still going on, why did I not receive new orders of some kind?

In any case, without positive proof that Norio Suzuki was not an enemy agent, I could not mention the name of my real commander, Lieutenant General Yokoyama, or even that of Major Takahashi. In short, the only name I could mention was that of Major Taniguchi.

“Let me get this straight then,” said Suzuki. “If I bring Major Taniguchi, and if Major Taniguchi tells you to come to
such and such a place at such and such a time, you will come, right?”

“Right.”

Needless to say, when the time came, I intended to make sure I was dealing with the real Major Taniguchi, but there seemed to be no point in bringing this up now.

By way of testing my newfound friend, I said, “Why don't I go with you to your camp and stay with you? Then you can take your picture in the morning.”

My real object was to keep him under guard until morning. That meant staying awake all night, but that was just part of my work. Anyway, the idea excited me a little.

Arriving back in front of his mosquito net, I sat down on the sand, put my pack beside me, and laid my rifle on it. The wind had died down, and the night was dark.

From his rucksack, Suzuki got a fresh pack of cigarettes, a can of sweetened beans and a bottle of gin. He offered me a drink, which I refused.

“I tried drinking when I was in China,” I told him, “but I didn't like it.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping we could sit here and talk over a couple of drinks.”

He seemed so disappointed that I said, “I'll have some of the beans instead. I like sweets.”

He started sipping his drink, but noticing that I had no spoon for the beans, darted into the mosquito net and brought one out, sticking it into the open can. I took a spoonful in my mouth and savored the wonderful flavor. I felt that for the first time in thirty years I was eating something fit for human beings. My tongue, my whole mouth, melted.

Suzuki said, “I'm lucky. I never dreamed I would meet you after only four days here.”

Puffing on my cigarette, I looked up at the moonless sky. This was the first time I had ever sat in such an open place so long, even on very dark nights.

I answered his questions about my food, the weather on Lubang and the islanders. I even told him about my life in Hankow and my experience in the army before I came to Lubang. I jumped from one subject to another and digressed a number of times, but that did not seem to bother Suzuki. What I was really trying to do was try to find out something about him—what kind of person he was. He, for his part, seemed to grow sleepy from the gin, which he finished off, but from time to time he would open his half-closed eyes and ask another question.

“If you're sleepy,” I said, “go to bed. I'll stay here by you until the sun is high enough for you to take your picture.”

He straightened up and began telling me about himself. He said he had wandered about all over the world, working his way through about fifty countries in four years. I thought to myself, somewhat admiringly, that he looked like the type who might do something like that. He reminded me a little of myself in those erratic days before I went into the army. I felt myself drawn to him to some extent.

Later he wrote somewhere that I had talked all night without interruption. Although I will admit that I talked a lot, it was not because I was fascinated with the sound of my own voice. In the hope of eliciting some sort of reaction or information from him, I fed him a wide selection of facts that it would do no harm for him to know. But when he asked how many bullets I had, I flatly refused to answer.

Eventually he stood up and said, “I'm hungry. Let's cook some food.” He started over to the river to get water, and I took the precaution of going with him.

When he took out his mess kit, my suspicions were suddenly reawakened. It was of the type that American soldiers carried.

I was further alarmed when he plucked some leaves off a nearby tree and said, “Let's put some of these in for flavor.”

He explained that he had learned this from the Lubang islanders. Although I had been on the island for thirty years, I had never watched the islanders preparing food, nor had I ever seen leaves in the pots they left behind in the mountains. I did not even know the leaves were edible. I also found it odd that he put in a flavoring made by pickling in salt a small fish found around the island. I knew the islanders ate this, but would a tourist who had been here only four days know about it?

I considered both the leaves and the seasoning ample reason for suspicion, and when he served the food, I was careful not to pick up my chopsticks until after had had started eating.

He disarmed me somewhat by saying, “It never occurred to me that I might one day be sitting here with you eating from the same pan. I am honored.”

As he was making coffee, the wind came up again. There was not enough wood on the fire, and the smoke blew off into the distance. We picked up some pieces of bamboo that were lying around and put them on the fire, but the smoke continued to rise up toward the clear sky and then blow off toward the river. Not having for years dared build a fire without keeping the smoke to a minimum, I could not help feeling uneasy. When we finished our coffee, I said, “Let's go to the mountains.”

As he hurried to get his camera, he pulled three or four photos from his rucksack and handed them to me.

“Do you like nude photos?” he asked. His tone sounded as though he thought I had never seen one before.

I laughed and told him I was not interested. I also gave him back the novel he had given me the night before. This was hardly the time to take up reading as a pastime, even though it was a novel about samurais and the samurai spirit. Strange
as it may sound, most of the time I was too busy to read.

Going ahead of him, I climbed up to a place somewhat higher than the place where I had camouflaged myself the evening before. I sat down in a spot from which I could look down on the river, removed the leaves and twigs from my hat and jacket, and turned the clothing right side out. After putting my jacket back on, I rolled up the left sleeve and held up my arm so that Suzuki could see the scar there.

“This,” I told him, “is what they call my ‘distinguishing mark.' Make sure that it and the chrysanthemum emblem on my rifle show up in the picture.”

The scar was from a wound I had received in middle school. While we were practicing
kendō
, my opponent's bamboo sword had broken and pierced my arm. My brothers and nearly all of my middle school friends would recognize the scar.

Turning my rifle sideways, I laid it across my knees. Suzuki focused his camera and took several shots. Assuming that he was finished, I started to leave. I could see no purpose in staying any longer.

But Suzuki said, “Wait just a minute. If I don't take a picture of the two of us together, people might think I faked the shots.”

Squatting beside me, Suzuki said, “Let me hold the rifle.”

I did as he requested. I did not know whether he was a friend or not, but I was pretty sure by this time that he was not an enemy.

When the picture was taken, he said, “Don't you want to see cherry blossoms again? Wouldn't you like to see Mount Fuji?”

Without answering these questions, I said, “I am fifty-two years old, but physically I don't think I am more than thirty-seven or thirty-eight. So long as my body is healthy, I am strong enough mentally not to do anything to destroy my own life.”

“Onoda-san,” he said seriously, “if there are official orders
from your superior, you really will come out, won't you? You're not joking, are you? If I name the time and the place, will you really come?”

“Yes,” I replied rather impatiently, “I'll come. If you say so, I'll come.”

Since last night, I had told Suzuki everything I had to say. Even if he should turn out after all to be an enemy, I felt sure that one way or another my message would reach Japan, and that my description of the death of Shimada and Kozuka would be relayed to their families.

I was relieved to have that off my chest. I myself might still be killed by an enemy agent or die alone of illness, but I could do so now without regrets. I also felt more cheerful for having been able to talk to someone in Japanese after so many months of solitude.

“I'll come back for you as soon as I can,” said Suzuki. “The press will make a huge story out of this. You won't believe it!”

He laughed and then saluted. I nodded and shook his hand. He was genuinely happy, and I thought he had a good, honest face.

I said good-bye and shouldering my pack started walking toward the mountains. The sun was high now; it was getting hotter. I quickened my pace. Suzuki might have an honest face, but if in spite of everything he was working for the enemy, I had better move as far away as possible before he had a chance to report.

A little farther on I saw three or four islanders cutting trees. I crossed the valley and hid in the bushes on the opposite slope. Already I had ceased to put much store by Suzuki's parting remarks. I thought of Kozuka, who had often said, “Let's wait for the people to come for us, but let's not depend on it.”