Skivvy Girl:
The Love of a Post WWII Japanese Pleasure Girl
Earnest Mercer
Copyright © 2005 by Earnest Mercer
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First Edition: March 2011
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to Mary Kate Mercer, my enduring spouse of more than 57 years. She has edited my manuscript numerous times and supplied many good ideas for improving the storyline, never once complaining. Without her contributions, this work would never have been finished.
Prelude
It was the 25th year of Showa in the reign of Japanese Emperor Hiro Hito, 1950 on Western calendars. WWII had ended just five years earlier and American armed forces had occupied the country since that time. Thousands of breadwinners in the patriarchal society that was Japan died in the war leaving their families in desperate financial straits. The economy was in shambles, the large zaibatsu cartels had been closed because of their support of the war machine and the few jobs available were occupied by people with some degree of commercial training. Many young girls with limited education and skills felt driven to prostitution to support their fatherless family units. In military jargon, these girls willing to provide sex to occupying serviceman were called “skivvy girls”, a transliteration of a Japanese word that sounded the same to the GIs as the word they used for their underclothes.
Matsuyama Yoshiko, at seventeen years old, is a composite characterization of these desperate young girls. She became a skivvy girl in Yokosuka, the site of a huge American naval base. The naïve village girl with sexual experience limited to high school petting, knew nothing of the life she had chosen and had little defense for the callousness she would encounter.
Chapter I: The Choice Made
The electric train rocked along the narrow gauge tracks toward Yokosuka. Yoshiko sat sobbing, while stealing sidelong glances at her fellow travelers scattered about the coach on the notoriously uncomfortable seats.
She knew everybody was staring at her. Oh, their eyelids were lowered, pretending to doze, but they were staring nevertheless. They could see she was a country bumpkin, no doubt about that, all they need do was look at her, dressed in outdated western garb, no make-up, and a hairstyle found only on high school girls in the rural villages.
She might as well have had “ON MY WAY TO YOKOSUKA TO BECOME A WHORE” tattooed on her forehead. They know she’ll prostitute her body to the same foreigners that killed her father on Iwo Jima, dropped horrendous bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki killing thousands more, and now occupied their country. It didn’t matter to them that she had no choice, thanks to Prime Minister Tojo’s starting a war with an enemy too powerful for Japan to defeat. In her mind it boiled down to becoming a prostitute or starving.
Yoshiko didn’t even know what being a prostitute meant. She was aware of geisha and other concubines from having watched the cinema, but she’d never experienced what men pay to do with women. Even if she had, maybe these foreigners want something different; they are so strange. She didn’t even know how to go about finding somebody who will pay her for sex, how long she must stay with them, or how much to charge. Absolutely nothing about being what her girlfriends called a “skivvy girl”.
The naïve teenager from the tiny village of Wakabayashi had no inkling of what her life as a prostitute held in store for her, or even considered that once she committed herself to such a life, there could be no turning back. She did know that her life in Wakabayashi would be gone forever, because after her association with the foreign devils, she would never be welcomed back. If she returned anyway, she’d bring terrible shame on her mother and the memory of her father.
Had she realized her shame once she began selling her body to the foreigners would cause recurring temptations of suicide, she might have leapt from the speeding train to her death before she even began her life as a prostitute. In fact, thoughts of suicide had already become frequent visitors. Even now, she gazed out of the train window at the rocky rail bed zipping by and wondered how much pain the jagged rocks would cause before dying.
She forced thoughts of suicide from her mind and evoked the events leading up to her fateful decision to become a prostitute.
Yoshiko recalled the day in 1944 when she came bouncing cheerfully home from school to find her mother huddled in a corner sobbing; how she fell to her knees and pleaded with her mother to say why she was so sad.
Yume drew her daughter to her bosom, something she had not done since Yoshiko was a little girl; not for lack of love, but because she, and generations of mothers before her, had been discouraged from displaying affection once their offspring left infancy. After several minutes of silence, she gently pushed her daughter back, reached into the folds of her kimono, withdrew a crumpled sheet of paper and handed it to the teenager before speaking.
“Yoshi, this is a note from your father written over six months ago, but has just arrived. I am crying because the letter is so sad. But, here, you read it for yourself.”
Yoshiko had trouble understanding the hyperbolic language printed on one side, but recognized it was a propaganda message from Prime Minister Tojo, urging the troops on Iwo Jima to fight to their last breath against the imperialist American invaders.
Yoshiko turned the political flyer over and stared at the blurred message written in pencil; the characters were smudged and almost illegible, but she recognized her father’s name at the bottom.
My Dearest Wife,
I am writing this letter on the back of a propaganda poster that was posted on the wall of the bunker to which I am assigned, as there is no other paper available. I worry that my letter will not reach you, as the Americans are poised for an invasion and communications with our homeland are poor, especially for non-military mail. We have been under bombardment for several weeks from ships offshore the island; each week worse than the week before. I am relatively safe in this small fortification constructed of steel reinforced concrete several feet thick. But the bombardment has destroyed our power plant so we do not have electricity for light or cooling fans. We are very hot and when we light the oil lamp to see, the air becomes intolerable. So I am writing by the dim light coming through a small slit in the wall of the bunker. This explains my poorly constructed kanji. Our commander says our job is to kill as many Americans as possible when the invasion comes, though we know our resistance will be futile in the end. We can fire our weapons through a small slit in the bunker, the same one that I am using for light to write this letter. There are four other men with me, and they are as frightened as I. The greatest fear we have is being attacked with a weapon we have heard the Americans use on fortifications such as ours. The weapon, called a flame-thrower, shoots a mass of flaming material that can enter the bunker through our firing slit. The material, called ‘napalm’, clings to whatever or whomever it contacts and burns intensely. We are petrified with dread. I do not think I will survive this war to be with you and our beloved daughter Yoshi. I am so sad; sometimes I cannot stop the tears. I did not want to be a soldier and I am not well suited to combat, but I will do my duty as best as I can. If I do not see you again, know that I care for you both deeply and will await you in the hereafter.”
Your devoted husband,
Takeo 21 June 1944
Yoshiko sobbed uncontrollably and her voice trembled as she spoke disjointedly, “Father’s letter is unbelievably sad. It’s not fair that they sent him away, leaving us here alone. I can’t imagine anyone using such a horrible weapon on human beings. The Americans are truly barbarians, as Tojo-san says. Spraying flaming liquid on someone and causing such agonizing death is horribly cruel.”
Yoshiko felt in their heart her father was already a casualty of the battle for Iwo Jima and suspected her mother felt the same way. After a few moments of silence, Yoshiko clapped her hands and prayed for her ancestors to intercede with the Shinto gods and protect her father from the horrible flame-thrower, and if he must die the soldier’s death, to lift him into their care.
From that day forward, she would never again be the carefree girl she once was. The letter had rendered her childhood null, and thrust her into adulthood never to return.
Several days later, Yoshiko ran all the way from school, and charged into the house crying. “Mother! Terrible news! I just heard a radio broadcast saying Iwo Jima has fallen and all the soldiers defending the island have died! The man on the radio said, ‘the last survivors charged straight into the midst of the invaders in true bushido tradition, shouting banzai, glory to our divine Emperor. Others took their own lives to avoid capture by the barbaric Americans’.
Mother, it’s for sure now isn’t it; Father will not come home, will he?”
“Yes Yoshi it seems so. What makes our loss of Father so deeply saddening is that he was a gentle man, and really shouldn’t have been sent into battle to wield a gun and be forced to kill people…” Her voice trailed off before resuming, “But I know he did his duty as best he could.”
“I wish I could die too,” Yoshiko whispered so her mother wouldn’t hear.
But Yume did hear and scolded her daughter. “Stop it daughter, I will not hear of such talk. You’re too young for such thoughts. Your life is still ahead of you. Father has probably already ascended to the realm of our ancestors where he is safe. Somehow you and I must find a way to survive until it is our time to follow him.”
Several months passed with nothing but bad news from the war. Then one day, Yoshiko was jarred awake by blaring public radio speakers.
“The enemy has destroyed Hiroshima with just one bomb! The bomb with incomprehensible power had utterly flattened all structures and killed thousands of Hiroshima citizens; the carnage was unbelievable.”
Three days later the radios announced a similar fate had befallen Nagasaki, and the Americans threatened to bomb more cities unless Japan agreed to an unconditional surrender.
Emperor Hiro Hito overruled the recalcitrant Tojo and accepted the terms of the Allied Forces. The long war was finally over. The wartime propaganda machine had instilled such unmitigated fear of the cruel and merciless nature of American troops that the Japanese people were terrified of the military occupation sure to follow.
Yoshiko and her mother’s troubles were exacerbated as almost all support for the civilian population stopped with the surrender, leaving many families with no way to obtain anything but a meager supply of rice and tea. Most women had not been taught work-place skills, and were unable to compete for the few jobs left after the large cartels were closed by the occupying forces.
When Yoshiko saw that her mother was so helpless and demoralized, she knew it was up to her to find some way for them to subsist. So after finishing high school, she begged for work throughout the village, finally finding a job at a vegetable market. It was a sorry job and only paid a pittance, but there was no other available to her. Unpleasant as the duties of the job were, she nevertheless felt fortunate to be hired, as adults usually had first choice of any available work.
Her responsibilities included unpacking the farm baskets and arranging the fruits and vegetables onto display shelves. That wasn’t too bad, but at day’s end, she had to rummage through the remaining stock and sort out the items unsuitable for future sale. The stench of rotten produce was so bad she had to breathe through her mouth. Not only was it nauseating work, it was mind-numbingly boring. By the end of the day, her body and clothes reeked of the foul odor of rancid produce, and her hands were raw and chapped. The only redeeming factor, aside from the meager pay, was that she could take home any of the vegetables not suitable for continued display, but still edible.
All during the day, she kept telling herself over and over how lucky she was to have a job of any kind when so many others were living on handouts from their neighbors, or worse, starving. This repetition helped her keep going.
Yoshiko and her mother survived on two bowls of boiled rice each, one in the morning and one at night. Although able to maintain their high standards of cleanliness, their clothes gradually became tattered and their house deteriorated for lack of upkeep that they were unable to perform themselves or hire others to do. Fortunately they managed to avoid illness as that would have been catastrophic. They wistfully hoped that when the zaibatsu cartels started operating again, if they ever did, things would get better, but facing reality, both knew that they stood little chance of finding work in the commercial sector.
After a day at the vegetable stand, Yoshiko was so tired and her mother was so depressed, they didn’t feel like conversation; they ate their meal in silence. Neither seemed to care what was happening around them; it just didn’t matter. Now and then one of them would try to start a conversation during the dreary evenings, but the effort quickly evaporated and silence prevailed again.
“What did you do today, Yoshi?”
“Nothing much, Mother. I just sorted rotten vegetables and waited on customers. That’s all. What did you do today, Mother?”
“I cleaned house and mended clothes…,” her voice trailing off.
Sometimes, Yoshiko envisioned her spirit hovering over their heads, looking down on them: an old woman and a young girl in threadbare clothes, each hunched over a bowl of rice mixed with soggy vegetables. It was a pathetic vision.
Mother and daughter continued to make nightly visits to the neighborhood bathhouse, the one respite from their melancholy existence. Each night, they trudged, heads down, unspeaking, not even acknowledging people they met along the way. While there, Yoshiko scrubbed with a stiff-bristle brush until her body was a rosy pink, trying to remove the decaying vegetable stench that seemed to exude from her tired body. She was sure that others could smell the vile odor when she came near.
Back home, she quickly crawled into her warm and comfortable futon. She didn’t even feel like reading anymore, or going out to the movies assuming she could scrape up the price of a ticket, or doing anything but keeping warm and resting from her exhausting labor. She wanted to snuggle in and sleep forever. She recognized that she was sinking deeper and deeper into depression, but couldn’t help herself. She could see no way out of their worsening situation.
Still, day after day, she continued to toil dutifully at her odious job. Then one day after laboring from early in the morning until after dark, exhausted and utterly despondent, she had a sudden epiphany of sorts.
Staring at her hands mostly buried in a tray of fruit she was sorting, she said out loud, “I can’t go on this way! I will quit this awful job; come what may! If I can’t find another source of income, Mother and I will just have to starve! I simply cannot tolerate clawing around in this rotting stuff anymore. I just can’t!” She knew she was wallowing in self-pity, and that without the pittance she earned and the free produce, they could indeed starve. Still, she remained adamant.
****
That evening, Yoshiko joined some of her girlfriends in front of the local theater. None of them had any money for tickets, but out of habit, they still congregated in the familiar spot.
After a cursory greeting, Yoshiko blurted, “Girls, I’m at the end of my endurance! I’ve positively got to get away from my awful job and this intolerable life! Mother and I don’t have enough to eat, no money for medicines, and certainly no money for fun things. I get so angry sometimes; and then I get so depressed. I think I’m losing my mind.”
Her friends cast knowing glances at one another. They recognized the signs of despair that could lead to drastic actions. Despite having similar problems, they tried to allay some of Yoshiko’s concerns by explaining that she was not alone; that they too were going through hard times.
It didn’t help Yoshiko to know others felt as she did; in fact it made matters worse. She didn’t need commiseration; she needed a way out! She thought that if these girls are as desperate as I, where else can I turn?
“Maybe it’s time for me to think about suicide! Lots of people in Japan these days are ending their worries by taking their own lives, and hardly anyone seems to care. I doubt if anyone but Mother would grieve for me: well maybe one or two of you.” Yoshiko continued in a matter-of-fact tone, “I don’t really know if I could kill myself, but if I can’t find some way to ease this torment, I might summon enough courage to try.”
“Listen Yoshi, we know things are really bad,” the girl named Midoriko interjected. “The future looks bleak for all of us, but somehow we’ve got to keep up our spirits. As for suicide, forget it, you are not going to kill yourself. We won’t let you! What would your poor mother do then? We’ll help you find a way out of your troubles. There’s got to be a solution; all we have to do is find it.”
Then Yumiko, a cute, bouncy girl Yoshiko’s age, a girl many envied for her rosy outlook of life and her positive attitude, spoke, “Hey Yoshi, I heard from some other girls who came home for a visit that they’re making tons of money working in towns where there are American military bases. Just the other day, Hiromi boasted that she could make 800 Yen in one hour!”
“Doing what?” Reiko demanded. “I’d rather kiss a frog than trust Hiromi; she is always boasting about something.”
“Never mind about kissing frogs,” Yoshiko interjected, “just tell me what Hiromi said. I’m willing to consider anything! I will consider anything.”
“Well, Hiromi told me that the work is easy, and the American servicemen tend to be generous with their seemingly endless supply of money. According to her, they don’t bear much ill will because of the war, especially toward young Japanese girls,” Yumiko spoke up with a grin as she imitated the exaggerated movements of a geisha.
Scowling, Reiko exclaimed, “Shame on you!”, but with a twinkle in her eyes.
Ignoring the humor, Yoshiko pressed for details and Yumiko continued, “Hiromi told me that some girls find work as kitchen help or maids, but it’s hard to get those jobs; there are many seeking them. Work in the nearby bars and dance halls pay more and are more agreeable, but they require good English and social skills. Girls have to know all the modern dances. The tankobushi isn’t very popular,” she said, giggling again at her reference to the ancient Japanese folk dance.
“Some of these jobs also involve ‘accommodating’ the customers after hours, Hiromiko said. She also mentioned something about ‘skivvy’ houses, or maybe she said ‘sukebe’ houses, I’m not sure. She didn’t explain what she meant by such places.”
“What do you mean by ‘accommodating’, Yumi?” Yoshiko demanded, “Do you mean that the jobs Hiromi told you about involve sex with the foreigners?”
“Well, yes, Yoshi, I guess so. At least that’s what I think. But I don’t know any details. Hiromi didn’t tell me exactly what ‘accommodating’ means, but I can guess.”
“How disgusting!” Yoshiko blurted, “Performing sexual favors for money, especially for the abominable foreigners. My mother would die of shame if I took such a job! I’d dishonor my father’s memory as well!”
But when Yumiko repeated Hiromiko’s comments about the money that could be earned, Yoshiko began to think of grounds to justify her consideration of such work. Despite the propaganda-fed image of the barbaric Americans, she rationalized that life had to go on and prostituting her body to the foreigners, no matter how degrading, might after all be preferable to suicide. What's more, prostitution in Japanese history wasn’t considered all that bad; the Shinto religion made no mention of it one way or the other. And regardless of what some people say, the geisha were high-class prostitutes.
Then, looking directly at Yumiko, she asked, “If I should want to get a job near an American military base, not that I’m definitely planning to, how I go about getting started?”
“I really don’t know how, Yoshi,” Yumiko responded, “but if I wanted to find out more, I’d contact some of the girls already there and ask them.” Yumiko glanced at Midoriko and then at the other girls. They all nodded agreement. Then since there was nothing else to be said, one by one the girls silently drifted away.
Yumiko grasped Yoshiko’s arm roughly and said emphatically, “Yoshi, all joking aside, working for the Americans is not something you or I look forward to doing, but sometimes we must make hard decisions. You’ve got to make up your mind to do whatever it takes to survive, even if it means providing the so-called accommodations. Now promise me, girl, you won’t do anything drastic! If your problems seem overwhelming, come see me so we can talk things over.
“I promise, Yumi. Thank you for being such a good friend. I don’t think I could face this awful decision without the support of you and the other girls.”
Returning home, Yoshiko joined her mother in one of their parsimonious meals and after an attempt at some small talk, retired. She didn’t mention the discussion with her girlfriends. She lay awake for a long time wrestling with the discussion she must have with her mother. When she finally dropped off, frightening dreams tortured her relentlessly. She appeared as the most pathetic looking slattern imaginable, soliciting foreigners in the crowded streets of Yokosuka. Men approached her making vulgar and repulsive comments, clinging to her clothing and grabbing at her body, and all the while laughing in derision. Half-crazed with fear and revulsion, she tried to flee, but members of the mob, even the girls, to her surprise and disgust, kept holding her back. She began screaming and struggling with all her strength, finally managing to break loose. She ran and ran, but no matter where she tried to hide, the surging mass of people kept tracking her down and resuming their torment until the panic-stricken girl awoke screaming, “Leave me alone; go away, I hate you!”
Yume rose to one elbow and gazed at her troubled daughter, but recognizing that she could do little to help, she lay back. She remained awake until Yoshiko seemed to calm down.
Mercifully, the miserable night ended. Yoshiko awoke in a cold sweat with a gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach, not from hunger, but anxiety. She crawled out of bed earlier than usual, prepared breakfast, and took a tray to her mother. Instead of staying by her side while she ate, Yoshiko returned to the kitchen area and sat glumly staring at her bowl of rice and overripe vegetables before dressing for work.
The tiny dried fish resting atop the rice, stared with glassy eyes at the distraught girl as if to say, “You foolish girl, eat your breakfast and go to your loathsome job. What are you waiting for?”
Glaring at the bowl of rice, she muttered, “Listen, you stupid little fish, I have problems you can’t even imagine. I can’t stand my job another day, but if I go to Yokosuka to take a job selling my body to the Americans, I’ll have to figure out what that means. I don’t even know exactly how to go about selling my body. After all, fish, I have no sexual experience and know nothing of such matters except what I’ve learned from the movies and romance novels. What happens, you uncaring little fish, if I offer my body to a man and he refuses? How do I find somebody I can offer my services to in the first place? Where does this accommodation take place anyway? Tell me that, you brainless little fish! This matter is too complicated for me to solve alone, and you’re no help. I just hope I can get one of my friends in Yokosuka to tell me what I need to know.”
The dried fish stared back with glassy eyes and uttered no sound. “Okay, fish, if you’re not going to help me, I’m going to eat you and then I’ll be off to wallow around in rotten vegetables until I smell worse than you!”
At work, Yoshiko performed her usual duties mechanically, hardly noticing the obnoxious conditions, and paying little heed to customers. Several villagers spoke politely, but she was so deep in self-pity, all she could manage was a wan smile in response.
The day dragged on interminably, but finally the shop owners put up the shutters for the night. Yoshiko sorted through the fruits and vegetables, picked out those she would take home and waited for the owner to inspect her work. Then she scrubbed her hands until they were flaming red before dragging her tired body home carrying the little bag of food that would help sustain her and her mother another day or so.
“I’d rather jump in that benjo ditch with its disgusting contents than tell Mother what I’ve decided to do,” Yoshiko muttered, “but I’ve made the decision and that’s it. I can’t stand this job or our life the way it is now anymore. I’ll go to Yokosuka and take any kind of job I can find. I know that once I’ve shamed myself by selling my body for sex with Americans, people here will neither accept me again, nor will society allow me to marry a Japanese man and have a family. On top of all that, I don’t know how the neighbors will treat Mother if they find out what I’ll be doing in Yokosuka.”
She looked skyward and prayed. “Honorable Father, what will you think of me? Will you forgive me? I wish with all my heart you were here to take care of us so I wouldn’t have to do this terrible thing. Oh how I hate the war, the devil Tojo for getting us into it, and the Americans for causing your death.”
People stopped and stared at the girl talking to herself; probably demented, some thought. Several shook their heads in pity while others politely ducked their heads and quickly moved on.
Yoshiko trudged on, step by labored step, toward the dreaded discussion with her mother.
Yume, still overwrought from watching over her daughter the night before, was waiting at the door. “You have an awful look on your face, Yoshi. Are you sick? Have you lost your job? Tell me daughter! What has happened to cause such sadness?”
“Mother, please come inside with me. I have something important to discuss with you.” She followed the frail, stooped old lady back inside.
When they were seated, Yoshiko tried to clear the lump from her throat, dabbed an errant tear, and began the discussion she had rehearsed all the way home, but still dreaded with all her being.
“Mother, you know how miserable I’ve been lately, how much I hate the work I’m doing. Well, I’ve reached a decision that I think you will not like, but please consider carefully what I have to say before reacting.”
Yume froze, fearing the worst.
“Your body is slowly wasting away, Mother; I know you often go hungry. I’ve seen you slip part of your food into my bowl from time to time, and I love you for doing so, but what would happen if a grownup should take my job, or the owners should say they don’t need me anymore? There aren’t any more jobs in our village. I just don’t know how we could manage.”
After pausing to give her mother time to prepare for what was coming, Yoshiko plodded on, “Everything seems so hopeless that I’ve even thought about taking my own life. But before I decided to undertake such drastic action, I talked with several of my girlfriends about the situation we find ourselves in. Although they were sympathetic, they have their own problems, much the same as ours. They did suggest one possible solution, however. And that’s what I want to talk to you about.”
Yume breathed a sigh of relief; nothing could be as bad as Yoshiko considering suicide.
Yoshiko hesitated then, her heart pounding and hands shaking, she took a deep breath and continued, “One of the girls, Yumiko, told me she had heard about some work near the military bases that paid lots of money to girls like me. Some of the girls from our village have already left for those jobs.”
Before her mother could say anything, Yoshiko blurted her decision. “Mother, I’ve decided to go to Yokosuka to find a job working for the Americans. Will you please give me your blessing?”
Yume reached out to embrace her daughter, and then in a whisper said, “My dearest Yoshi, I’m so frightened that thoughts of suicide even entered your head, though I could tell you were reaching the end of your endurance.”
Yoshiko suspected her mother knew the kind of work she was talking about.
With her eyes locked on the tatami mat just in front of her folded knees, Yume spoke softly, “It will be hard for you to find a job in Yokosuka. You are too young to leave home and too inexperienced to mix with the people in that evil city. Who will look after you?”
“I don’t know, Mother, but what choices do I have? We cannot go on as we have, and there isn’t anything I can do about it here in our village.”
After a long pause, Yume sighed deeply as if she had reached a conclusion that she didn’t much like. “As much as I hate for you to leave home, if doing so will stop your thoughts of suicide, I give you my blessing.
I have led a typical homemaker’s sheltered life, Yoshi, but I’m aware of the physical and psychological dangers inherent in the life you are considering; especially for a young inexperienced girl such as yourself. I know that Japanese men can be cruel and ruthless with women, especially those that serve their sexual needs, and I’ve heard alarming stories about the Americans as well. I can only imagine the dangers you will face in Yokosuka, but I will pray for our ancestors to intercede with the gods for your protection. I will miss you terribly and worry about you all the time. Will you be able to come home from time to time? Promise me you will try.”
Using the customary language of a child to her parents, Yoshiko replied, “I will be careful, haha-chan, and I will come home whenever I can. As soon as I can find work, I’ll send you some money. In the meantime, please try hard to keep up your spirits and take good care of yourself until we can be together again. I don’t know what I’d do if you were not here for me.”
Yoshiko was so overwhelmed with compassion she had to leave her mother and seek refuge in the relative privacy of her futon. Before falling to sleep, she spoke to her father’s spirit again, “Well, it’s done honorable Father! I’m leaving Mother and my beloved village and going to Yokosuka with all its dangers. Please watch over both of us.”
After her prayer, Yoshiko lay awake for a long time trying to envision what lay ahead, but since she knew nothing of Yokosuka or the situation there, the effort was futile. When she finally drifted into a fitful sleep, the bad dreams came again. Several times during the night nerve-racking nightmares caused her to sit bolt upright, covered in perspiration and trembling like a mountain aspen leaf in autumn.
The Americans in her dreams were huge and horribly ugly. Sharp-pointed horns protruded from their foreheads, fire and smoke erupted from their nostrils, and their eyes were glowing embers. They hovered over young Japanese girls lashing out at them with coarse leather whips while the naked girls lay sprawled on the tatami floor. The men occasionally forced one or the other girls to perform some sadistic bidding. She was one of the naked girls. She could feel the heat emanating from her attackers and smell their unpleasant body odor as she awaited the attack on her body.
The rising sun illuminated the rice paper panels; the weary girl faced the reality that she must get up and go to her hated job one more time. “It will be the last time,” she vowed to herself.
She struggled through another day of gut wrenching toil and tedium. And then true to her vow, she quit her job. She bowed deeply to the owners and thanked them for their generosity. When they handed over the few coins she had coming, Yoshiko collected a handful of moldering produce and set out for home. Her thoughts were flip-flopping, one minute she felt joy and relief at leaving behind the detestable job, but the next minute she felt an overwhelming foreboding of what lay ahead; no job, no money, and Mother left to depend on the largesse of her neighbors. She was terrified!
While Yoshiko packed her meager belongings, her mother sat quietly for a long time without moving. Then she rose and retrieved a small black lacquered chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl flowers and garden scenes from among her personal things. She slipped a gold chain from around her neck, opened the box with a tiny key, and removed a silk scarf that she reverently spread in front of her.
“Yoshi, I have nothing of great value to give you, but I want you to have this scarf that your father gave to me when we were first married. I have kept it in this box for all these years, never using it. I always took a less expensive one to carry my articles when shopping. Please take it with you and think of your father and me when you use it.”
Dabbing at her tears, Yoshiko whispered, “Thank you with all my heart Mother. I will cherish it always.”
Yoshiko’s nightmares that night were different, but as terrifying as the night before. She dreamed of being lost in a strange city, roaming unfamiliar streets, not knowing which way to turn, and the object of scorn from everyone she encountered. Though she humbled herself before anyone she met, begging for help, they just sneered and gathered around her muttering hateful words of ridicule until she could stand it no more and started running. When she could run no more, she awoke with her legs churning like pistons, chilled to the bone from the perspiration that covered her body. Rather than face the awful nightmares again, she lay awake until dawn. At first light, she rose, wrapped herself in a street kimono and left for the station. Her mother awoke as Yoshiko was leaving and silently arose, donned her street yukata and followed her daughter.
Arriving at the tram platform as the first rays of sunlight topped the humble village dwellings, Yoshiko found the station almost deserted; it would be crowded later when the Tokyo commuters arrived. She gazed at her mother shrouded in the morning mist standing at the edge of the clearing and somehow drew strength from the frail woman mechanically waving to her only living relative. Will I ever see her again, she wondered.
The tram rattled to a stop at the platform and the electric doors opened with a rush of air. Yoshiko had to charge quickly into the coach or risk being trapped by the automatic doors. As they swooshed closed with a thud, signaling an end to one phase of her life and the beginning of another, Yoshiko felt a surge of the recurring knot of fear in the pit of her stomach.
Yoshiko was suddenly jarred from her reverie by the braking of the
train and was drawn back into the uncertain present.
****
The train pulled into the Yokosuka station and groaned to a stop. Passengers surged en masse onto the platform, sweeping her along like a swimmer caught in a rip tide. After a few minutes, most of the passengers melted into the rabbit warren that was urban sprawl in the 1950’s Yokosuka and she was left almost alone on the platform. She couldn’t believe how quickly the crowd disappeared. Having no notion what to do next, she simply stood and gazed at the town that held her destiny: old run-down houses, haphazardly constructed kiosks, and a few grimy buildings packed together in a monotonous hodgepodge of post war construction. Smoke from the ubiquitous charcoal hibachi caused an ugly veil of smog that blanketed the whole scene.
Well, now that you’re here girl, what next? See those people with mockery written on their faces; they know you are a yokel, a bumpkin from the countryside---an inaka-no hito. You’ll get no help from the likes of them, so move on girl! You can’t just stand here all day; you’ve got to find somebody willing to lend a hand and someplace to stay. You’ll be getting hungry again soon and you have precious little money for food. The hopelessness of her predicament overwhelmed her, causing tears to flow, and almost choking her. Just then, an old woman shuffled by drawing Yoshiko’s attention for the moment. Her heart went out to the pitiable creature creeping along at a snail’s pace, leaning heavily on a wooden rod. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump of her staff accompanied the scraping of the cleats affixed to her wooden sandals. Her bony knuckles were bloodless from the pressure, as she held on to her staff in a matter-of-life-or-death grip. She wore an old frayed street kimono with a pre-tied obi sash, the kind that allowed the wearer to dress without help. She was just skin and bones, and she was so stooped that it looked as if she might pitch forward with each step. The skin on her face and hands were as parchment. Her red-rimmed eyes were sunken deep in their sockets. They focused precisely where her next step would land, looking neither to the right or the left.
Poor old lady, Yoshiko thought. Like so many older Japanese women, she no doubt has weathered cold damp winters sleeping on a thin futon only partially shielded from the cold damp winters by thin rice paper walls, and judging from her appearance, is now facing the autumn of her life alone and destitute.
“Good day, honorable grandmother, may I help you in some way?” Yoshiko inquired courteously.
The woman stopped short and twisted with great effort to see who had spoken. “Well, child, it has been some time since anyone spoke to me in such a gentle and respectful manner. Who are you and why are you standing here all alone?”
Yoshiko blurted uncontrollably, “I could not find any way to support my mother and me in my village, so I have come to Yokosuka to earn some money. But now that I’m here, I don’t know where to turn”.
“Stop crying child and tell me, do you have any money?”
Though taken aback at first by the surprisingly personal question, Yoshiko decided the old woman was just conserving her precious breath. “I have a little money, Grandmother, but not enough to last beyond today. I desperately need to find some of my friends from my village.”
“Listen granddaughter, I didn’t mean to get so personal, but I have little stamina for conversation these days. I am old, crippled with arthritis, with no family and have very little personal belongings, but I do have a small room in back of a shopkeeper’s house where he lets me stay in return for keeping his store’s toilet clean. Come along with me. You can rest for the night and try to find your friends tomorrow.”
“Grandmother, surely you are sent by the gods,” Yoshiko said bowing deeply. “If I can stay for just one night, it will be of great help. I’ll go in search of my friends tomorrow.”
The woman led the way with Yoshiko following a few respectful steps behind. They inched along for about ten minutes before the old lady hesitated and pointed her staff toward a narrow passageway. It was only a short distance from the train station, but seemed farther to Yoshiko because it had taken so long to get there. Pausing in front of the entrance of an ancient wooden house sorely in need of repairs, the old woman pushed open the heavy door. The rusty hinges groaned their resentment. The old lady leaned heavily against the door jam and struggled out of her wooden street sandals.
Yoshiko concluded that the bare weathered boards of the house had probably never seen a coat of paint and probably never would. Still, it didn’t appear all that different from others nearby. She stepped into a tiny room that was obviously the old lady’s private quarters, and was struck by the parsimonious furnishing; she realized just how poor her benefactor must be. The tatami floor covering was threadbare and the paper panels were torn in several places. There was a tokonoma Shinto shrine occupying one corner, and though showing its age was well tended. An ornate incense burner with several half-burnt sticks sat in a prominent place in front of the shrine. A few grains of rice rested in a dish as a token offering. A faded purple velvet cloth was spread beneath. A painting of a waterfall hung on one wall above a low table that covered the opening housing a hibachi, and a brocaded draped mirror rested on a stand in another corner—that was all. But typically, everything was clean and neat.
Yoshiko sighed wearily and dropped to the floor after being invited to sit.
“Have you eaten since leaving home?” the woman asked.
“Yes, honorable Grandmother, I have eaten part of the food prepared by my mother for this trip. Will you share some with me?”
“Thank you my child, but I am about to prepare my evening meal. I suspect that you can use some hot food as well. By the way, my name is Kawada Yume, what is yours?”
“My name is Yoshi, honorable Grandmother. My family name is Matsuyama and before the war, I lived with my mother and father in Wakabayashi, Setagaya-ku. Sadly, my father lost his life on Iwo Jima.”
“I’m sorry Yoshi; many people lost their fathers, brothers and other relatives in the dreadful war. My only son was slain on Tarawa. But let’s put aside discussion of these unpleasant things for now. Relax while I prepare some rice for us and then later we can talk more of our families and visit the bathhouse together.”
Kawada Yume presently set out two bowls of the sticky white rice, garnished with two small dried fish; she placed one in front of Yoshiko. Kawada ate very slowly, and Yoshiko wondered, in view of the old woman’s meager surroundings, if the unfortunate old lady just wanted the meal to last a bit longer.
They finished their meal, cleared the dishes and set out for the communal bathhouse. When they returned, Kawada retrieved a photograph album from a richly decorated lacquered box that belied its otherwise mean surroundings. She and Yoshiko looked at the photos for several minutes, with Kawada calling attention to images of her husband and son. After a while, Kawada closed the box gently; her sadness was etched into her ancient face. She didn’t notice the tears streaming down her young visitor’s cheeks.
Kawada retrieved a futon from storage, spread it on the tatami mat, and motioned that it was for Yoshiko.
Yoshiko didn’t see another for Kawada, so she just bowed and lay down on the straw floor. Kawada’s kindness had a calming effect allowing the tired country girl to relax, but before sleep overtook her, she thanked the Shinto gods for her good fortune at coming upon Kawada. She asked them to help the kind old lady find peace of mind in her last days.
Yoshiko had a good night’s sleep, notwithstanding her bed being a threadbare tatami. She awoke rejuvenated. The sun was shining, and birds were singing somewhere within her earshot. Her youthful resilience and the reinforcement from her comforting visit with Kawada rendered her predicament a little less daunting.
“Good morning Yoshi. Our morning rice will be ready soon.” Kawada was already up and had the water boiling.
“Good morning, Grandmother,” Yoshiko replied brightly
They ate their meal in silence and when finished, Yoshiko stood, bowed, and spoke in tones of respect used by youngsters to their elders, “O’baa-san, thank you very much for the hospitality. I don’t know what I would have done without your help. Now I must go to find my friends, if I can. Please do not think me rude for leaving so soon after our meal.”
“My child, I do not think you rude. You are the most polite and gracious young woman to have taken time with me in a long time. Go now and find your friends, but please come back for a visit soon.”
“Thank you, O’baa-san; I wish you good fortune.”
Yoshiko draped her carrying scarf with her few belongings over an arm and set out for downtown. “I’ll repay this kind old lady as soon as I can,” she said to herself, bowing to Kawada standing in her doorway waving.
“Use great care in this evil city my young friend. May the gods protect you,” the old lady whispered.
****
Yoshiko’s pace slowed as she neared what appeared to be the main part of town. The closer she came, the greater the ache in the pit of her stomach became. Eyeing the milling crowd, she wondered how she would go about finding a familiar face among all those people. She humorously envisioned herself standing on a box and shouting to the throngs; does anybody out there know me? The ever ready smile that never strayed far from her lips popped up again. It faded as she merged into the crowd and saw some people staring at her much like villagers gawked and pitied freaks in traveling shows that occasionally came to Wakabayashi.
“I’m no freak! I hate all of you,” she blurted drawing even more pitying stares.
She kept walking, and when she neared the entrance to the navy base, she was halted in her tracks at the incredible scene before her. The roiling crowd reminded her of a giant blob she’d seen in a horror movie, surging and undulating as a single multicolored unit gobbling up those on the fringe.
Yoshiko was flabbergasted, “What in the world is going on here? Why are those people gathering in front of the gate? What are they doing? What do they want? There must be hundreds! Well, maybe not hundreds, but dozens anyway. They remind me of maggots on the carcass of a dead sewer rat I saw one day. The gate looks like the mouth of some huge ogre regurgitating a mass of bodies.
The blue uniforms, white hats and the foreigners’ pale skin contrasted with the colorful western style clothing of the young Japanese girls pushing and shoving to get closer to the grinning seamen.
The young girl fresh from the countryside hadn’t the slightest notion of what to do next. She shuffled her feet and dabbed at her eyes with the scarf her mother had given her; its perfume made her homesick. For the hundredth time, she was tempted to give up her fool’s quest and go home. Once, she even turned back toward the train, but hesitated just long enough to have a change of heart, muttering, “You don’t even have train fare home, silly girl.”
Yoshiko tried to understand something from the bits and pieces of what sounded like negotiations between the Americans and locals, but whatever they were saying was gibberish to her.
They must be speaking some form of English, she thought, but it sounds like monkeys jabbering in their cages at the zoo, or like the frenetic auction at a seaside fish market where everybody talks at the same time with no regard to what others are saying. After a while, she realized that the girls and Japanese men were trying to sell the Americans something, but what? Surely they weren’t offering sexual favors, not at this time of day, and in this public place. And, why did both young men and the girls harass the foreigners? She remembered reading that some Japanese men occasionally chose to dally with young boys in olden days and wondered if the Americans wanted boys too.
She couldn’t believe her eyes; some girls actually grabbed the men as they passed through the gate, hanging onto whatever they could take hold of, even their privates! It made no difference to the girls---or most of the men! But they continued their loud sales pitch and groping until some of the sailors became exasperated and roughly shoved them away. Others apparently enjoyed the attention, laughing and shouting back at their human leeches. Many gleefully tussled with the girls, but rejected the men.
Every few minutes one of the Japanese men ended on his backside after being shoved down by an annoyed seaman. Other men and the girls just laughed at him lying on the tarmac with a surprised look on his face. Such ridicule would humiliate anyone Yoshiko knew, but these men just popped up after a couple of minutes and latched onto the next available sailor, still voicing the customary spiel, “You want girl swabi? Beautiful girl, she clean, no VD! You come screw girl my skivvy house? Cheap! Special price, just thousand Yen for short time!”
Though Yoshiko couldn’t understand the men’s sales pitch, she eventually deduced they were soliciting the Americans for girls they represented. Later, she would learn the Japanese called them “managers” and the GIs called them “pimps”. She couldn’t believe how the girls pranced about in their slinky skirts slit to reveal their not so attractive thighs and their tight blouses designed to reveal their small immature breasts pushed up by the tight bras to make them look larger. Most of the girls had amateurishly daubed western-style makeup on their faces, making them appear grotesque to Yoshiko. Despite her fear and amazement, she could still find humor in watching the girls waddle like ducks in their high-heeled shoes.
Sure, she reflected, geisha daubed their faces with heavy powder and rouge, but that was different—professionals applied the makeup and the geisha certainly didn’t roam the public streets soliciting foreigners.
Yoshiko watched half shocked, half amused at a tug-a-war between two of the girls and one of the managers fighting for the attention of a young seaman. Each of the three dueling solicitors was shouting reductions in price to capture the prize. Other girls occasionally interjected an offer to the sailor. He was apparently a prize catch, as the contest was vigorous and heated.
Nothing more than a boy, the seaman was slender with blond hair, revealed when his white hat was knocked off in the struggle. His blue eyes were set wide in his pale freckled face. The man-boy seemed to radiate sexual inexperience, and that must have been catnip to the sex kittens looking for business. The manager knew his sponsors would reward him hugely if he could coax the sailor to their place of business.
During the skirmish, the sailor was grinning from ear to ear, loving the attention, as evidenced by the bulge in his groin area.
In months to come, Yoshiko would see this scenario replayed many times when numerous ships came into port. The seamen disgorged from the vessels were known as “ship-sailors” and always seemed to have lots of money they were willing to part with. Business at the bars and skivvy houses was always good at these times. Military personnel stationed ashore on the base were more frugal and generally avoided any engagement with the girls and managers congregating around the base entrance. The wannabe skivvy girl would learn to appreciate the base personnel and dread business from the ships because of their pent up sexual needs after months at sea, and often, their roughness during sexual encounters.
Yoshiko was amazed at the physical size of the Americans, and at the color of their skin, hair and eyes. In addition to the “prize” she had seen the girls quarreling over before, she saw several other pale skinned men, some with red hair, blue eyes and freckles, physical traits she had never seen before. Despite her current state of mind, she had to stifle a chuckle at the bizarre appearance of these foreigners; there was even one man with black skin and dark curly hair! Everybody she knew had black hair, but it wasn’t curly and they certainly did not have black skin. Japanese also had dark almond-shaped eyes, quite different from the round eyes of these foreigners.
Yoshiko trudged slowly, mechanically, up and down the streets looking for a friendly face, but with no success. The hours passed, and the sun slowly sought its home in the west, still nobody seemed the least bit approachable.
She stopped at a small food shop and asked the price of some food and about a place to stay. The shop owner was haughty and unsympathetic, even rude, telling the ill-dressed girl to move on as she was interfering with paying customers. Yoshiko was getting hungrier by the minute, and she was so tired she could hardly stand.
She walked up to a girl about her own age standing on the perimeter of the throng. She was dressed like the others, but seemed to be disassociated from the crowd at the gate. Good, thought Yoshiko, she seems more likely to be sympathetic, maybe she will help me. “My name is Yoshi and I have just come to Yokosuka from my village. I need help in finding a place to stay and a job, can you help me?”
The girl scowled and whirled away abruptly. “Go away, yokel. If you can’t take care of yourself, go back to the countryside where you belong, inaka-no hito!” she spat the derogatory term over her shoulder as she distanced herself. “Don’t bother me. Stay away. You will drive my business away.”
Yoshiko was stunned! What is happening to my country, to my people? Has the world gone mad? Have all these young people lost their senses? Can they really be Japanese? Why are they acting like barbarians? I have never seen this level of rudeness before. What happened to the time-honored Japanese manners? Has losing the war driven them to abandon our customs? Or, is it something they are learning from the ugly foreigners?
“I will absolutely not degrade myself and become one of them. Even if I must ‘accommodate’ these Americans, I will never give up my traditional values, no matter what!” she swore aloud.
Several young Japanese men and women within earshot stared quizzically as if to say, “Who let this bumpkin on the street?” They quickly strode away as if Yoshiko had some communicable disease. It was patently obvious they wanted no contact with such a misfit.
Yoshiko hid her face in her hands and slunk into an alley where she sought refuge in a corner between a food stall and a hardware store. She was a pitiable sight, cringing in the shadowy corner, looking every bit of what she was: a misfit, a yokel, a rube, a bumpkin.
Just then Yoshiko felt a hand on her shoulder. Startled, she recoiled even farther into her temporary haven. Daring to deal with another hateful person, she slowly turned to face the stranger dressed much like the other girls she had observed-split skirt, heavy makeup, strange hairdo, tight blouse, pushed up immature breasts, high-heeled shoes; just like the others, except she didn’t have the ugly scowl on her face.