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This
Scorching
Earth
A NOVEL BY
Donald Richie
1 What am I doing here where my people unleashed the age of horror,
2 Sowing the plague that will kill us all? Can I be loved?
3 Is it possible this earth will not scorch the soles of my feet?
4 Lord Buddha and Lord Christ, help me to walk lightly on this soil.
—Lindley Williams Hubbell
Published by
Charles E. Tuttle Co.
of Rutland, Vermont
& Tokyo, Japan
with editorial offices
at Osaki Shinagawa-ku,
Tokyo 141-0032
All rights reserved
Library of Congress
Catalog Card No.
55-10624
ISBN: 978-1-4629-1280-3 (ebook)
First edition
January 1956
Book design
& typography
by M. Weatherby
Printed in Japan
by Toppan Printing Co.
Tokyo
for
Dick
and
Janie
Larsh
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This is a historical novel. That is, it is about something that really happened—the Allied Occupation of Japan. Most of the events and all of the characters, however, are creatures of my own imagination. The suspicious will search in vain to find themselves or people they actually knew. And yet, in the broader sense, I hope my history is true enough for all who experienced the event to say: This is it—this is how it was.
This
Scorching
Earth
TOKYO LAY DEEP UNDER A BANK OF CLOUDS WHICH moved slowly out to sea as the sun rose higher. Between the moving clouds were sections of the city: the raw gray of whole burned blocks spotted with the yellow surfaces of new-cut wood and the shining, felt-like tile of recently constructed roofs, the reds and browns of sections unburnt, the dusty green of scarcely damaged parks, and the shallow blue of occasional ornamental lakes. In the middle was the Palace, moated and rectangular, gray outlined with green, the city stretching to the horizons all around it.
The smokes of household fires, of newly renovated factories, of the waiting, charcoal-burning taxis rose into the air, and in the nostril-stinging freshness of early autumn the bitter-yellow smell of burning cedar shavings blended with the odor of roasting chestnuts. In the houses bedding was folded into closets, and the mats were swept. Beneath the hanging pillars of the early-rising smoke there was the morning sound of night-shutters thrust back into the houses' narrow walls.
Behind the banging of the shutters was the sound of wooden geta—the faint percussive sound of walking—and the distant bronze booming of a temple bell. Jeeps exploded into motion, and the tinny clang of streetcars sounded above the bleatings of the nearby fishing boats. A phonograph was running down—Josephine Baker went from contralto to baritone—and a radio militantly delivered the Japanese news of the day.
A few MP's in pairs still strode the partly empty streets, and a single geisha, modest in bright red and rustling silk, hurried, knees together, to her waiting morning-tea. Greer Garson luxuriated, her paper face half in the morning sun, and a man dressed like Charlie Chaplin, a placard on his shoulders, began his daily advertising.
In the alleys the pedicabs all stood motionless, and around the dying alley fires the all-night drivers yawned and warmed their hands both in the fires and in the morning sun. The early farmers led their horses through the city.
An empty Occupation bus, with "Dallas" stenciled neatly on both sides, made its customary stops—the PX, the Commissary, the Motor Pool—but no one rode. The driver, in cast-off fatigues, smoked one of the longer butts from the several packets he had. An Occupation lady, very early or else very late, tried unsuccessfully to hail a passing jeep.
The blank windows of the taller buildings now caught the rising morning sun and cast reflections—a silver flash of spectacles, a passing golden tooth, or the dead white of a mouth-mask. The food shops opened, and the spicy bitterness of pickled radish mingled with the soft and delicate putrescence of fish, mingled with the odors of the passing night-soil carrier, his oxen, and his cart.
The rolled metal shutters of the smaller shops were locked, but before the open entrances of larger buildings MP's stood and waited, their white-gloved hands behind their backs, their white helmets above their white faces. They stood before the main Occupation buildings, opposite the Palace, across the street and moat—the gray Dai Ichi Building, the square Meiji Building, the tall and pale Taisho Building, and the squat Yusen. To the south rose the box-like Radio Tokyo and, in all directions, the billets of the Occupation. The American flag floated high above them all.
The clouds had drifted out to sea, and the city lay beneath the sun. The pedicab drivers went home, and the carpenters began their work; the geisha sleepily sipped their tea, and the housewives served the morning soup. The railroads, holding the city in their net, brought more and more people into the stations and then returned to bring yet more. The sun and smoke rose into the air, and the radios shouted into the sky, while the streetcars rattled, and the auto horns honked, and the fishing boats cried, and the railroads filled up the city.
The Saturday-morning train for Tokyo on the Yokosuka line left Yokohama Station precisely at six-thirty. At every station passengers had crowded on, and past Yokohama there was never any room. This did not bother Sonoko. She lived at Zushi, and the train, leaving precisely at six, was always half-empty. She could always sit next to a window, either studying her Basic GI English in 12 Simple Steps or just thinking. Her preference was for the latter, and as a consequence her English was not too advanced. This morning both pleasures were denied her, because Mrs. Odawara, from the house across the street, had taken the seat beside her. For half an hour they had talked of nothing but the party.
"My, how lovely it will be," said Mrs. Odawara for the twelfth time. Sonoko had unwillingly invited both her and her family after the second time. Now Mrs. Odawara felt a proprietary interest and kept adding little touches here and there. "I'll bring some sushi, and we have some saké left—oh, no, it's no imposition at all."
"My parents and I shall remain forever grateful," said Sonoko formally, wishing she had never breathed a word about the party to Mrs. Odawara. The thought of its finally occurring had made her talkative, had made her forget that people like Mrs. Odawara are always waiting to pounce upon extraordinary social occasions and make them their own. Since this was going to be so very extraordinary an occasion, she'd had no choice but to invite her.
"But are there enough guests to do the American proper honor?"
Any more and there wouldn't be room in the house. All of Sonoko's relatives—and now the Odawaras! This party wasn't going to be at all what she'd originally planned. It was to have been something