The Recreation and Amusement Association was born.
Recruits were found or bought among the ruins of the cities and the countryside. Dancehalls and houses of entertainment were reopened or created overnight, the biggest and most infamous of them all being the International Palace, a former munitions factory out beyond the eastern boundaries of Tokyo. Five of the workers’ dormitories were converted into brothels. Some of the old management stayed on to administer the new business, some of the prettier girls stayed on to service the new customers, the Victors –
Because only the Victors are welcome at the Palace –
Only Victors allowed to make the Willow Run –
But the toll is heavy and the turnover high –
Most of the first girls were hospitalized –
Many of the rest committed suicide –
Better off dead …
The second set of girls were geishas and prostitutes, barmaids and waitresses, frequent adulterers and sexual deviants, girls built of stronger stuff, too strong for some because the International Palace was placed off-limits this spring –
Supposedly.
Our chief has got the clearance for Detective Nishi and me to go out to the International Palace. Our chief has even found Nishi and me a ride out there in the back of a Victors’ truck. In the back with Larry, Moe and Curly, three well-fed and well-scrubbed GI Joes –
They offer us chewing gum and Nishi chews their gum. They offer us cigarettes and Nishi smokes their cigarettes. They talk about their lucky days and Nishi nods and laughs along. They talk about hitting the jackpot, about kids in candy stores, about Christmases that come early and Christmases that all come at once, and Nishi is nodding and laughing along, shouting out, ‘Merry Christmas!’
He is a good Jap, a good monkey. He is a tame Jap …
I do not chew their gum. I do not smoke their cigarettes. I do not nod or laugh along. I do not shout, ‘Merry Christmas! ’
Because I am the bad Jap. Bad monkey.
The Victors’ truck drives southeast, out towards Funabashi, out of the city until the ruins become fields, the burnt black earth now barren brown soil, until we can see the series of two-storey barrack buildings rising up ahead, until we can read the signs in English:
OFF-LIMITS — VD. OFF-LIMITS — VD …
More smaller signs, hundreds of them, dabbed in red paint the closer we come, thousands of them, on the fences, on the gates:
VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD VD …
The Victors’ truck goes through the open barbed-wire gates and sounds its horn as it pulls into a small, dusty courtyard, a crowd of men and women pouring out of the buildings to greet us –
I have been here before, seen these places before …
Little Japanese men in white waiters’ tunics without trays, tall Japanese women in Western dresses without stockings, all beaming and bowing to us, clapping and calling out to us –
These places, these buildings, these women …
‘All clean, all clean, all clean…’
‘Very clean, very clean…’
‘All cheap…’
Now the tall women lead the driver and Larry, Moe and Curly off towards one of the dormitory buildings, the Victors’ hands already up their skirts, leaving just the little men in their white waiters’ tunics standing with Nishi and me in the dirt of the yard –
I am ashamed to be a policeman, ashamed to be Japanese …
I ask to speak to the manager and the waiters disappear –
I am ashamed to be Japanese, ashamed to be me …
The Japanese manager steps out of another of the buildings. The manager straightens his tie. The manager flattens his greasy hair. He bows. He hands me his heavy, embossed meishi —
The manager is another oily little man –
Just another tame collaborator …
I tell him why we are here. I tell him about Shiba Park. I tell him about a murdered girl aged seventeen to eighteen years old. She is better off dead. I tell him about a yellow and dark-blue striped pinafore dress and a white half-sleeved chemise. She is better off dead. I tell him about a pair of dyed-pink socks and white canvas shoes with red rubber soles. She is better off dead. I tell him about the Salon Matsu. She is better off dead …
The manager shakes his head but he wants to help us because we came here in a Victors’ truck. Because he thinks we have connections to the Shinchū Gun. Because he thinks we have influence. Because he thinks we can help him to get this place reopened –
This place I have seen before. I have been before … He takes us on a tour.
He takes us to the infirmary –
If she was here, then she’s better off dead …
In the infirmary. A huge, bare room lined with tatami mats. Twelve girls lie perspiring on the floor under thick comforters –
They all hide their faces from us, all but one –
I squat down. I smile. ‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen years old.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Six months now.’
‘And before that?’
‘I was a clerk.’
‘Why do you stay here?’
‘I owe them money.’
‘How much do you owe them?’
‘Ten thousand yen.’
‘Ten thousand yen? What for?’
‘The clothes I’ve bought.’
‘Bought from where?’
‘The shop here.’
‘What about your family? Do they know where you are?’
‘I haven’t any,’ she says. ‘They died in the air raids.’
‘You do know that this place is off-limits now?’
She nods her head. She says, ‘Yes.’
‘Because General MacArthur has banned prostitution?’
She shakes her head. She says, ‘I didn’t know that.’
I nod. I squeeze her hand. I look into her eyes. I start to tell her she should leave here and go back home. But then I stop –
‘We are her only home now,’ says the manager.
He resumes our tour. He takes us to the clinic –
If this was where she was bound …
In the clinic. The girls are examined once a week. In the chairs. Every week. Each chair has a tiny curtain to conceal the faces of the girls from the doctor. Two shallow pools in which each girl must bathe every other day. Every other day, every single week –
‘Very clean,’ says the manager –
She’s better off dead …
He takes us on a tour. He takes us to the dining room –
In the dining room. Here the girls are fed. In shifts –
‘Two good meals a day,’ boasts the manager.
He resumes our tour. He takes us to the ballroom –
In the ballroom. There are a hundred Japanese girls. In Occidental gowns. Nothing underneath. Beneath red paper streamers that hang in the heat from the ceiling. They dance with each other to scratched and deafening records relayed through a battery of amplifiers. Back and forth across the floor in downtrodden heels or scruffy school plimsolls. They push each other. To the distorted American jazz. In the ballroom. Back and forth –