And then I stop. I stop falling
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, nuns are sticking a hose down my throat, doctors are pumping my stomach, and I am coughing and I am retching, fluid and bile, rambling and ranting. But I can speak again. And I am talking now. Men sat beside my bed. Men stood beside my bed. Men holding my hand. Men whispering in my ear.
And I am talking, talking to the men beside my bed. The men who are holding my hand, holding it tight, tight, tight.
‘The drink,’ I whisper. ‘The drink …’
‘But what did you eat?’ they ask.
‘It was the drink. The drink …’
‘What did you drink?’
‘It was medicine …’
‘A medicine?’
‘A doctor …’
‘What doctor?’
‘Dysentery …’
The men beside my bed let go of my hand. The men beside my bed stand up now. The men beside my bed say, ‘This is not a case of food poisoning, Detectives.’
And now the men beside my bed leave, shouting, ‘This is a case of murder! Of robbery …’
And then the men are gone and I am alone, in the white room, I am alone again, in the Occupied City.
And I am afraid.
I am scared.
That night, that dream, IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, that night, for the first time, that dream: I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I wake and I hate myself
I hate myself
In a white room, I wake again. It is a hospital. There are nuns and there are nurses and there are doctors. They are giving me drugs. They are giving me medicines. But I am afraid.
I am afraid in this place, of this place, this hospital. I am afraid of the nuns. I am afraid of the nurses.
I am afraid of the doctors.
I am afraid of their drugs. I am afraid of their medicines.
But in this place, in this hospital, I close my eyes and, for the second time, I dream the same dream: I AM THE SURVIVOR
But of course I know: only through luck
Have I survived so many friends.
But night after night
In dream after
Dream
I hear these friends saying of me: ‘Those who survive are stronger.’ And I hate myself
I hate myself
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I open my eyes. I am awake again in the white room. In the hospital. But a man in a white coat is holding my hand, a man whispering in my ear, a man sat beside my bed. And I am afraid and so I pull away from this man in a white coat beside my bed, this man who is whispering in my ear and holding my hand, and I say, ‘Get away! Get away! Get away from me!’
And now this man lets go of my hand and now I am alone again in this white room, in this place
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
‘I can help you. Please believe me. I can help you …’
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, I am awake again, my hand in another hand again, the whispers in my ear again:
‘I can help you. You can trust me …’
‘Who are you? Are you a doctor?’
‘No, this white coat is just so I could talk to you. That’s all. I just want to talk to you. I just want to help you.’
‘But why? Who are you?’
‘My name is Takeuchi Riichi. I am a journalist.’
In this place, in this white room, in this hospital, I want to cry, but I am laughing, ‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Yes, with the Yomiuri.’
I want to laugh, but I am crying, ‘Get away from me!’
And again, the hand is gone, and again the whispers are gone, and again I am alone in this place, in this white room, in this hospital, and again I am afraid in this place, and again
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, a young woman. Help me. On her hands and on her knees, she crawls through the Occupied City. Help me, she says. In the mud and in the sleet, on her hands and on her knees, in the Occupied City.
Please help me
‘I can help you. Please believe me. I can help you. I can make that dream go away …’
In this place, I open my eyes. In this white room, I squeeze his hand. In this hospital, I whisper, ‘How can you help me?’
‘I can save you from this place, these dreams.’
‘Until yesterday,’ I say. ‘I thought a cup was a cup. Until then, a table was a table. I thought the war was over. I knew we had lost. I knew we had surrendered. I knew we were now occupied.
‘But I thought the war was over. I thought a cup was still a cup. That medicine was medicine. I thought my friend was my friend, a colleague was a colleague. A doctor, a doctor.
‘But the war is not over. A cup is not a cup. Medicine is not medicine. A friend not a friend, a colleague not a colleague. For a colleague here yesterday, sat in the seat at the counter beside me, that colleague is not here today. Because a doctor is not a doctor.
‘A doctor is a murderer. A killer.
‘Because the war is not over.
‘The war is never over.’
‘I know,’ says the man in the white coat beside my bed, the man who is not a doctor, the man who is a journalist, this man called Takeuchi Riichi, this Takeuchi Riichi who now squeezes my hand tight, tight, tight, and who says again and again and again, ‘I know.’
‘I was still going through that day’s thirty deposits when the killer arrived. I didn’t see what time it was when he entered, but business had closed as usual at 3 p.m., and I had then immediately begun to count up the deposits. The thirty deposits would have taken me no longer than ten minutes, which means the killer must have arrived sometime between 3 p.m. and 3.10 p.m.
‘When the killer began to distribute the poison, I looked him in his face. I will never forget that face. I would know it anywhere.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’
‘I am a survivor,’ I tell him. ‘But of course I know only through luck have I survived so many friends. But night after night, in dream after dream, I hear these friends saying of me: “Those who survive are stronger.” And I hate myself.
‘I hate myself.’
‘I know,’ he says again, ‘But I will help you …’
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, it is 4 February 1948.
There are flowers and there are presents, photographers and well-wishers. The nuns, the nurses, and the doctors stand in a line to bow and wish me well. And I bow back and I thank them and then I leave this place, this hospital, and I step outside.
But something is still wrong…
IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, it is cold and it is grey, and there are more flowers and there are more presents, more photographers and more well-wishers. Mr Yoshida, Mr Tanaka and Miss Akuzawa are here too, and we greet each other for the first time since that day, trying to smile as the cameras flash and the reporters shout, thinking of our colleagues who are not here, who will never be here to receive these flowers and these presents as the smiles slip from our lips and fall to the floor of this cold, grey Occupied City.