The Lonely War (45 page)

“Then when you leave us, please to know that you are a cherished member of our family. You will always have a place in our hearts and a place to come home to.”  Ayoshi bowed low as Andrew rose to leave. When she raised her head, she was weeping again. This time her tears seem to be cleansing, washing away what had been a painful question for her. These grateful tears, more than words, thanked Andrew for his role in this drama.

For a tiny slice of a second, Andrew wanted to endure the pain so that he could stay and make a life with this woman and her child, but the twisted sickness tightened its grip. He momentarily felt paralyzed by it. He mustered his will and rushed out the door and through the garden.

On the street, standing on the frigid stone in stocking feet, Andrew sucked the life out of his pipe, once, twice, a third time until there was nothing left but ash. Omi walked up, carrying his clogs. He dropped to his knees to slip them onto Andrew’s feet.

As the pain retreated, Andrew bowed to a wide-eyed Omi, thanked him for his services, and said good-bye.

Rising, Omi asked if Andrew would like him to lead him to the Nanzen temple where he was to meet Kenji. Andrew told him no. He had his own path to follow.

Omi bowed. He straightened, told Andrew that he was proud to have Andrew as an uncle, and bowed again. Andrew bowed as well before turning to leave. He walked only ten paces before Kenji stepped out of the protection of a doorway and the two faced each other.

“You’re going the wrong way. The Nanzen temple is north.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was worried you might be lost, so I came to help you find your way. Come, let’s join the
Hatsumode
. We’ll make a pilgrimage to the five major temples and pray for blessings.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

December 31, 1946—1600 hours

K
ENJI
led Andrew on a tour. They joined the stream of people, literally hundreds of thousands of pilgrims, moving from temple to temple, all anxious to begin a new year and move beyond the mist of sorrow. The streets were clogged. Each temple had a long waiting line. The air hummed with a particular sound, the voice of this city at the peak of its brightest celebration. It sang a soft, well-mannered melody that spoke of hope.

Andrew was carried along by this voice, which seemed to call directly to him.

As they made their way from one temple to another, Andrew noticed that many of the women lit up the crowd with gay kimonos that they had stored away during the war years. Against the mass of drab robes, they seemed like wildflowers spread across a spring meadow.

At each temple, Kenji lit incense and said a prayer. He guided Andrew through the grounds and explained why the gardens were laid out as they were, or why the shrines were positioned in a particular section of the garden. Andrew realized for the first time that Kenji carried a wealth of knowledge about his spiritual culture.

They strolled up the slope of Mt. Fudosan to watch the sunset. The mountain was covered with red pines and thickets of bamboo grass, all dusted with snow. When they came to a stump halfway up the slope, they stopped to enjoy the sky as it slowly turned from gold to vermilion to deep lavender. As the sky transformed, the snow covering the trees mirrored the change.

The cold air gave Andrew a chill, which meant that his opium high was fading. He also felt hungry, realizing that he had not eaten since last night. He pulled his pipe from his coat pocket while asking Kenji for more loam.

Kenji shook his head; there was no more. Kenji told him they would start the new year without it. They would face the pain together, and somehow work through it.

Andrew was not upset. He knew that soon, very soon, the voices would be silenced forever, the pain would stop cold. His karma was finished. Sweet relief was hours away. He tossed the pipe onto the frozen ground, feeling the hunger expand in his empty belly. 

As if reading his mind, Kenji leaned into him and ruffled his hair.

“Let’s go to that noodle shop we passed. I’m starving.”

T
HE
streets were now aglow with paper lanterns and lit storefronts. They weaved through the crowds—men dressed in Western suits and traditional Japanese
haoir-hakama
, women in kimonos. The music of
taiko
drums, flutes, and the clip-clopping of wooden
getas
on pavement floated on the snow-scented air.

As they reached the noodle shop, a teenaged boy dashed out the door holding a tray of fresh noodles. He stacked it onto five other trays on the back of his bicycle and sped away down the street. Kenji nodded at the boy as if that guaranteed a good meal.

They luckily got a table without having to wait. It was warm in the shop, and the place was packed with customers, all slurping down bowls of noodles. Andrew ordered rice and pickled vegetables, but Kenji insisted that they both have the house specialty—a one-pot soba noodle dish called
hokoro
—and a flask of sake. The
hokoro
was prepared at the table. They watched the waiter set up a charcoal burner under a handcrafted Mongolian hot pot. He poured the broth into the hot pot and added a variety of mountain vegetables and two heaping mounds of soba noodles.

Kenji explained that noodles were always eaten on New Year’s Eve because traditional belief was that the long noodles would grant them longevity. The broth smelled heavenly, but by the time the noodles were ready, Andrew’s growing pain had overtaken his appetite. He ate only a few mouthfuls. He tried to figure a way to free himself from Kenji so that he could finish his journey and put an end to the pain.

After dinner they wandered down the valley toward the Chion-in Temple, which was where Kenji wanted to be at the stroke of midnight. They stopped at temples and shops along the way. Kenji seemed careful to not let Andrew out of his sight.

They ambled under the arch of the Chion-in Temple and strolled around the gardens. Food and trinket stalls crowded the temple yard. It was nearly midnight, and although the bright stars lit up the heavens, the garden remained steeped in shadows.

Andrew concentrated all his attention on following the gravel path that led through the garden. A crowd of worshipers huddled on the steps of the temple.

Kenji took Andrew’s hand and led him to a corner where a stone bridge spanned a pond. On the far side of the bridge a lantern gave off a yellow glow, and beside the lantern sat a stone bench. Kenji guided Andrew over the bridge, and turned toward the temple. From this corner of the garden they could see the Great Bell and the path leading from the bell to the temple.

They sat on the bench and watched a procession of monks snake single file from the temple to the Great Bell. Four thick posts supported a blue tile roof. Under the shelter of the roof hung the Chion-in Temple bell, the largest in all of Japan—165,000 pounds and as large as a house. Shortly before midnight, dozens of young priests would strike the bell with the end of a stout cedar log horizontally suspended by ropes.

While watching the procession, an old lady, perhaps a priest’s wife, crept up beside Andrew and placed a cup of green tea beside him. She placed another beside Kenji. When Andrew glanced down, it was as if the cups had magically appeared. They sipped their tea, and again Andrew tasted the saltiness of the traditional “Great Happiness Tea.”

The moon rode higher, turning the sky a purplish-white. Soon it would reach its zenith. On this clear night even the rarely seen stars bit through the firmament. The temple grounds and the surrounding snow-covered cedars all gleamed a luminous white. The temple lamps had minimal effect.

The assemblage of priests took their positions around the bell. The onlookers grew silent, waiting for the first gong. An aged monk took hold of the rope attached to the log and hauled the log back with all his weight. He let it fly. The great bell tolled with an ear-shattering sound that reverberated throughout the valley, with a voice that was deep and aged and pure.

The reverberations soaked into Andrew like water on dry sand. In the stillness left by the bell, he glanced at the pond. It imperfectly reflected the bright sky. Through his pain and the whispering voices, he thought about Tottori in those last moments. How Tottori had lovingly held him and sent him away. He saw Tottori in the pond’s reflection, kneeling before the Shinto shrine, saying a prayer for his wife and son, a prayer for Andrew as he took the gun from the leather holster. He pulled the hammer back, felt the cold steel touch his temple, heard the explosion. But did he feel his skull burst open? Was there ripping pain, or pleasure, or nothing at all? And what came next? He died in an instant, but Andrew was well aware that an instant can span an eternity. Andrew saw a fine trickle of blood running down Tottori’s cheek and over his lips. His eyes were wide open, empty, staring into nothingness. Did he feel the rush of his essence spilling out into the void? Was there pleasure in the release from leaving all worldly cares behind?

“Can you feel it?” Kenji asked.

Andrew stared at him, not quite understanding.

“This close, you can feel the bell’s pulsation inside your body. It vibrates every cell and brings your whole being into harmony with it.”

“I feel it. It feels….” He paused. Shocking, he thought, but realized that was not right. Exhilarating? Not that either. He realized that the vibration hummed beneath his flesh. It seemed to drive away the pain, silence the voices. His whole being quivered. He had no words for what he felt, so he remained silent.

“Would you like to ring the bell?” Kenji asked.

Andrew nodded. “But I’m not a priest.”

“Wait here.” Kenji hurried across the bridge and bowed before a bald-headed monk. They exchanged words. The old one stared across the garden at Andrew and nodded. Kenji led the monk across the pond to meet Andrew.

The monk spoke to Andrew in Japanese and Kenji translated, “The bell of Chion-in bears the inscription
Kokka Anko
, meaning: Security and peace in the nation.”

The old one gave Andrew a friendly smile. “You are welcome to partake in the New Year’s celebration by helping to ring the bell, which must be rung 108 times. You see, we believe that during the year a man is likely to have committed 108 sins, so by ringing the bell as many times, all sins are expiated and a man can begin the New Year immaculate. On the last stroke of the bell, our New Year begins. Tradition requires that each man who rings the bell at midnight is obliged to drink one cup of sake for each stroke of the bell that he sounds, so take care in how many times you ring the bell.”

Andrew bowed. As he did, he felt the knife inside his coat pocket poking his ribs and he realized that ringing the bell could very well be his last act before death took him. His hand slipped into his pocket and his index finger caressed the cool metal blade. He straightened up and looked at the old monk to say thank you.

The monk sucked in his breath as he peered into Andrew’s eyes. “My son, you hold much pain in your heart. The heart is too fragile an instrument for such grief. Whatever brought about this pain, let it flow away from you like the tide. Give up a piece of it with each strike of the bell, and learn to give yourself to life as the sea gives itself to the beach, to give and take during the high tide and the low.”

The monk led him to the bell and Andrew took hold of the rope. With Kenji’s help, he pulled back the log and hammered the bell five times. Each strike sent a quivering through his being. As his body reeled, the old monk’s words echoed in his head.

When he stepped away from the bell, handing the rope to Kenji, he felt disoriented. A monk guided him to a table, where he downed five cups of sake.

The strong wine opened Andrew’s head. He felt woozy and a little sick. He staggered to the bench to watch the other men strike the bell. He felt his own heart beat wildly as the vibrations rumbled through him.

Is it really possible to end my life?
he wondered. It seemed bizarre to be contemplating suicide when the entire country was celebrating the New Year, new beginnings, and rebirth after surviving so long and painful a war. Still, the idea of death seemed deeply comforting, even mournfully beautiful, like sailing over the infinite sea at sunset. He could leave his loss and his history behind. This longing for comfort consumed him.

Kenji sat beside Andrew. He had rung the bell seven times and his face was flushed from the sake. He told Andrew that, while Andrew visited Mrs. Tottori, he had gone to the Jingo-ji Temple and asked to become an acolyte. They had accepted him, and he would begin training tomorrow morning with the New Year. The Superior had also agreed to take Andrew. They could go into the service of the Buddha together. They could continue to live with each other.

“I didn’t realize you were so devout. Do you really want to become a priest?”

“No choice. When Colonel Tottori sent me away with you, I become deserter. My family must live with this shame. Now, if the
Kempeitai
find me in Japan, they hang me. The monastery will give me new identity. They protect me. I can live safe life within the temple. You too. You come live with me.”

Andrew could only stare at Kenji. The bell’s vibrations kept drowning out the voices, but his world seemed to tumble out of control. His chapped lips trembled with unrealized words.

Kenji said, “In my language, samurai means: to serve. We will be Buddha’s samurai. We will serve Buddha, the people, and each other. Please Andy, it will be too lonely a life without you.”

Realizing the sacrifice that Kenji had made and the shame he had willingly brought upon his family, Andrew saw the young soldier with the large eyes hiding behind wire-rimmed glasses in a new light. A transformation came over Kenji’s face. Andrew saw a courageous beauty shining from behind those dark eyes.

Andrew realized what had gone unnoticed, what he had not thought to look for—devotion.  This past year, Kenji’s love had secretly flourished, unrequited. Kenji had experienced the solitude and suffering that came from secretly loving someone, and Andrew realized that Kenji had been a prisoner as surely as Andrew was inside Changi. Andrew knew too well what anguish he would cause when he took his life.
Am I capable of that?
he wondered.