Shibumi (19 page)

Gorbatov laughed aloud. “I haven’t heard that tone for years! Not only the cultivated sound of court Russian, but even the snide disdain! That’s wonderful! Sit down, young man. Sit down. And tell me why you must see General Kishikawa.”

Nicholai dropped into the overstuffed chair, voided, weary. “It is more simple than you are willing to believe. Kishikawa-san is a friend. Almost a father. Now he is alone, without family, and in prison. I must help him, if I can. At very least, I must see him… talk to him.”

“A simple gesture of filial piety. Perfectly understandable. Are you sure you won’t have a glass of tea?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

As he refilled his glass, the Colonel opened a manila folder and glanced at the contents. Nicholai assumed that the preparation of this file was the cause of his three-hour wait in the outer offices of the headquarters of Soviet Occupation Forces. “I see that you also carry papers identifying you as a citizen of the USSR. Surely that is sufficiently uncommon as to merit an explanation?”

“Your sources of information within SCAP are good.”

The Colonel shrugged. “They are adequate.”

“I had a friend—a woman—who helped me get employment with the Americans. It was she who got my American identification card for me—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hel. I seem to be expressing myself poorly this afternoon. I did not ask you about your American papers. It was your Russian identity card that interested me. Will you forgive my vagueness?”

“I was trying to explain that.”

“Oh, do excuse me.”

“I was going to tell you that this woman realized I might get into some trouble if the Americans discovered I was not a citizen. To avoid this, she also had papers made up indicating a Russian nationality, so I could show them to curious American MP’s and avoid questioning.”

“And how often have you been driven to this baroque expedient?”

“Never.”

“Hardly a frequency that justifies the effort. And why Russian? Why was not some other nationality selected from that crowded cradle of yours?”

“As you have pointed out, I do not look convincingly Oriental. And the attitude of the Americans toward German nationals is hardly friendly.”

“While their attitude toward Russians, on the other hand, is fraternal and compassionate? Is that it?”

“Of course not. But they mistrust and fear you, and for that reason, they do not treat Soviet citizens highhandedly.”

“This woman friend of yours was very astute. Tell me why she went to such efforts on your behalf. Why did she take such risks?”

Nicholai did not answer, which was sufficient answer.

“Ah, I see,” Colonel Gorbatov said. “Of course. Then too, Miss Goodbody was a woman no longer burdened with her first youth.”

Nicholai flushed with anger. “You know all about this!”

Gorbatov tugged off his glasses and redistributed the sneer. “I know certain things. About Miss Goodbody, for instance. And about your household in the Asakusa district. My, my, my.
Two
young ladies to share your bed? Profligate youth! And I know that your mother was the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna. Yes, I know certain things about you.”

“And you have believed me all the while, haven’t you.”

Gorbatov shrugged, “It would be more accurate to say that I have believed the details with which your story is garnished. I know that you visited Captain Thomas of the War Crimes Tribunal Staff last…” He glanced at the folder. “…last Tuesday morning at seven-thirty. I presume he told you there was nothing he could do for you in the matter of General Kishikawa who, apart from being a major war criminal guilty of sins against humanity, is also the only high-ranking officer of the Japanese Imperial Army to survive the rigors of reeducation camp, and is therefore a figure of value to us from the point of view of prestige and propaganda.” The Colonel threaded his glasses from ear to ear. “I am afraid there is nothing you can do for the General, young man. And if you pursue this, you will expose yourself to investigation by American Intelligence—a title more indicative of what they seek than of what they possess. And if there was nothing my ally and brother-in-arms, Captain Thomas, could do for you, then certainly there is nothing I can do. He, after all, represents the defense. I represent the prosecution. You are quite sure you will not take a glass of tea?”

Nicholai grasped for whatever he could get. “Captain Thomas told me I would need your permission to visit the General.”

“That is true.”

“Well?”

The Colonel turned in his desk chair toward the window and tapped his front teeth with his forefinger as he looked out on the blustery day. “Are you sure he would want a visit from you, Mr. Hel? I have talked to the General. He is a man of pride. It might not be pleasant for him to appear before you in his present state. He has twice attempted to commit suicide, and now he is watched over very strictly. His present condition is degrading.”

“I must try to see him. I owe him… very much.”

The Colonel nodded without looking back from the window. He seemed lost in thoughts of his own.

“Well?” Nicholai asked after a time.

Gorbatov did not answer.

“May I visit the General?”

His voice distant and atonic, the Colonel said, “Yes, of course.” He turned to Nicholai and smiled. “I shall arrange it immediately.”

Although so crowded into the swaying elevated car of the Yamate loop line that he could feel the warmth of pressing bodies seep through the damp of their clothing and his, Nicholai was isolated within his confusion and doubts. Through gaps between people, he watched the city passing beneath, dreary in the chill wet day, sucked empty of color by the leaden skies.

There had been subtle threat in Colonel Gorbatov’s atonic permission to visit Kishikawa-san, and all morning Nicholai had felt diminished and impotent against the foreboding he felt. Perhaps Gorbatov had been right when he suggested that this visit might not, after all, be an act of kindness. But how could he allow the General to face his forthcoming trial and disgrace alone? It would be an act of indifference for which he could never forgive himself. Was it for his own peace of mind, then, that he was going to Sugamo Prison? Were his motives at base selfish?

At the Komagome Station, one stop before Sugamo Prison, Nicholai had a sudden impulse to get off the train—to return home, or at least wander about for a while and consider what he was doing. But this survival warning came too late. Before he could push his way to the doors, they clattered shut, and the train jerked away. He was certain he should have gotten off. He was equally certain that now he would go through with it.

Colonel Gorbatov had been generous; he had arranged that Nicholai would have an hour with Kishikawa-san. But now as Nicholai sat in the chilly visiting room, staring at the flaking green paint on the walls, he wondered if there would be anything to say that could fill a whole hour. A Japanese guard and an American MP stood by the door, ignoring one another, the Japanese staring at the floor before him, while the American devoted his attention to the task of snatching hairs from his nostrils. Nicholai had been searched with embarrassing thoroughness in an anteroom before being admitted to the visiting area. The rice cakes he had brought along wrapped in paper had been taken from him by the American MP, who took Nicholai for an American on the strength of his identification card and explained, “Sorry, pal. But you can’t bring chow with you. This—ah—whatshisname, the gook general—he’s tried to bump himself off. We can’t run the risk of poison or whatever. You dig?”

Nicholai said that he dug. And he joked with the MP, realizing that he must put himself on the good side of the authorities, if he was to help Kishikawa-san in any way. “Yeah, I know what you mean, sergeant. I sometimes wonder how any Japanese officers survived the war, what with their inclination toward suicide.”

“Right. And if anything happened to this guy, my ass would be in a sling. Hey. What in hell’s this?” The sergeant held up a small magnetic Gô board Nicholai had thought to bring along at the last minute, in case there was nothing to say and the embarrassment should hang too heavily.

Nicholai shrugged. “Oh, a game. Sort of a Japanese chess.”

“Oh yeah?”

The Japanese guard, who stood about awkwardly in the knowledge of his redundancy in this situation, was glad to be able to tell his American opposite number in broken English that it was indeed a Japanese game.

“Well, I don’t know, pal. I don’t know if you can bring this in with you.”

Nicholai shrugged again. “It’s up to you, sergeant. I thought it might be something to pass the time if the General didn’t feel like talking.”

“Oh? You talk gook?”

Nicholai had often wondered how that word, a corruption of the Korean name for its people, had become the standard term of derogation in the American military vocabulary for all Orientals.

“Yes, I speak Japanese.” Nicholai recognized the need for duplicity where sensibility meets stony ignorance. “You probably noticed from my ID card that I work for Sphinx?” He looked steadily at the sergeant and tipped his head slightly toward the Japanese guard, indicating that he didn’t want to go into this too deeply with alien ears around.

The MP frowned in his effort to think, then he nodded conspiratorily. “I see. Yeah, I sort of wondered how come an American was visiting this guy.”

“A job’s a job.”

“Right. Well, I guess it’s okay. What harm can a game do?” He returned the miniature Gô board and conducted Nicholai to the visiting room.

Five minutes later the door opened, and General Kishikawa entered, followed by two more guards, another Japanese, and a thick-set Russian with the immobile, meaty face of the Slavic peasant. Nicholai rose in greeting, as the two new protectors took up their positions against the wall.

As Kishikawa-san approached, Nicholai automatically made a slight head bow of filial obeisance. The gesture was not lost upon the Japanese guards, who exchanged brief glances, but remained silent.

The General shuffled forward and took the chair opposite Nicholai, across the rough wooden table. When at last he lifted his eyes, the young man was struck by the General’s appearance. He had expected an alteration in Kishikawa-san’s features, an erosion of his gentle virile manner, but not this much.

The man sitting opposite him was old, frail, diminished. There was an oddly priestly look to his transparent skin and slow, uncertain movements. When finally he spoke, his voice was soft and monotonic, as if communication was a pointless burden.

“Why have you come, Nikko?”

“To be with you, sir.”

“I see.”

There followed a silence during which Nicholai could think of nothing to say, and the General had nothing to say. Finally, with a long, fluttering sigh, Kishikawa-san assumed the responsibility for the conversation because he did not want Nicholai to feel uncomfortable with the silence. “You look well, Nikko. Are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Good. You grow more like your mother each day. I can see her eyes in yours.” He smiled faintly. “Someone should have advised your family that this particular color of green was meant for jade or ancient glass, not for human eyes. It is disconcerting.”

Nicholai forced a smile. “I shall speak to an ophthalmologist, sir, to see if there is a remedy for our blunder.”

“Yes. Do that.”

“I shall.”

“Do.” The General gazed away and seemed for a second to forget Nicholai’s presence. Then: “So? How are you getting on?”

“Well enough. I work for the Americans. A translator.”

“So? And do they accept you?”

“They ignore me, which is just as well.”

“Better, really.”

There was another brief silence, which Nicholai was going to break with small talk when Kishikawa-san raised his hand.

“Of course you have questions. I will tell you things quickly and simply, then we shall discuss them no further.”

Nicholai bowed his head in compliance.

“I was in Manchuria, as you know. I became sick—pneumonia. I was in fever and coma when the Russians attacked the hospital unit where I was. When I became myself again, I was in a reeducation camp, under constant surveillance and unable to use the portal through which so many of my brother officers had escaped the indignity of surrender and the humiliations of… reeducation. Only a few other officers were captured. They were taken away somewhere and not heard of again. Our captors assumed that officers were either incapable or unworthy of… reeducation. I assumed this would be my fate also, and I awaited it with such calm as I could manage. But no. Evidently, the Russians thought that one thoroughly reeducated officer of general rank would be a useful thing to introduce into Japan, to aid them with their plans for the future of our country. Many… many… many methods of reeducation were employed. The physical ones were easiest to bear—hunger, sleeplessness, beatings. But I am a stubborn old man, and I do not reeducate easily. As I had no family left alive in Japan as hostages, they were denied the emotional whip with which they had reeducated others. A long time passed. A year and a half, I think. It is difficult to tell the seasons when you never see the light of day, and when endurance is measured in five more minutes… five more minutes… I can stand this for five more minutes.” The General was lost for a time in memories of specific torments. Then, with a faint start, he returned to his story. “Sometimes they lost patience with me and made the error of giving me periods of rest in unconsciousness. A long time passed in this way. Months measured in minutes. Then suddenly they stopped all efforts toward my reeducation. I assumed, of course, that I would be killed. But they had something more degrading in mind for me. I was cleaned and deloused. A plane trip. A long ride on a railroad. Another plane trip. And I was here. For a month, I was kept here with no idea of their intentions. Then, two weeks ago, a Colonel Gorbatov visited me. He was quite frank with me. Each occupying nation has offered up its share of war criminals. The Soviets have had none to offer, no direct participation in the machinery of international justice. Before me, that is.”