A Comrade from the First Infantry Regiment
Totto was awakened in the middle of the night by a sound she’d never heard before. It was her mother, sobbing convulsively in a corner of the room, her shoulders trembling. Totto heard a low rumble, as though a vibration deep inside Mother’s body was thundering to the surface. Daddy seemed to be crying next to her as well.
The next morning, Totto asked Mother what was wrong. Her expression unchanged, Mother said quietly, “Daddy is going to war.”
Military service was compulsory in Japan at the time. When Daddy was twenty years old, he had taken the required physical examination and received a Class III designation, the third out of five levels. Class I was for the most physically fit and competent conscripts, followed by Class II for the young men deemed less suited to some roles but still acceptable as reserve soldiers. Daddy’s Class III classification meant that he had narrowly qualified for service but was not fit for battle and could thus return home.
It was likely his height that Daddy had to thank for having managed to avoid the draft up to that point. He was tall and thin for men of his generation, and because taller men didn’t fit into standard-issue military uniforms, they were often designated Class II or III. In fact, it was generally understood that men in Class III, the step just above disqualification for duty, would not need to go to war at all. The situation must have been quite dire for men in Daddy’s classification to receive draft orders, also called “red papers.”
Mother later told Totto that the composer Kosaku Yamada had gone to great lengths to try to keep Daddy from being drafted. “He’s an essential figure of the Japanese music industry,” he’d argued. “Is there no way we can keep him from having to go to war?” Before getting married, Daddy had played in the Japan Symphony Orchestra which Mr. Yamada had founded, and the composer had taken him under his wing. But by the time Daddy faced the draft, a great many orchestra members had already been called up, and performances of the “music of the enemy” were prohibited; it would have been impossible to put on any classical concerts even if they so wished.
Daddy occasionally received requests to play military music, but he definitively declined them all. His pride as a musician would not allow him to accept. He had been promised rice, sugar, and sweet treats for his performances, but no matter how severe the hunger his family suffered, he would not compromise his morals. Mother supported him, simply saying, “You needn’t play if you don’t want to.” She never asked him to go against his principles for the sake of the family, which always amazed Totto.
Daddy’s send-off ceremony took place in front of their house. Women in matching white kappogi smocks and National Defense Women’s Association sashes as well as middle-aged men wearing the national uniform came and distributed small Japanese flags to those in attendance. Daddy stood at the center of the crowd looking very uncomfortable in his military attire. He bowed repeatedly, seeming quite abashed and appreciative, as everybody raised their arms and gave three cheers of “Banzai!”
Totto had never before seen her father surrounded by so many people without a violin in hand. But while the war appeared to be worsening, nobody knew the true severity of the situation, so the mood was not one of great despair. That, at least, was a small blessing.
Daddy joined the First Infantry Regiment of the Japanese Army, which was based in the Roppongi area currently known as Tokyo Midtown. Not one week later, Totto and her family were notified that he would be leaving shortly for the front and invited to pay him one final visit.
“We shall get to see Daddy!” Mother chirped. Somehow, she managed to find celebratory red beans for the occasion. Then, using the rice they had been allotted by the military when Daddy was drafted and the little sugar she had saved at home, she made ohagi rice cakes filled with sweetened red bean jam. The treats weren’t very sweet, but as even bland ohagi were impossible to come by at the time, these were an almost unheard-of luxury.
Mother then led Totto, her younger brother Noriaki-chan, and her newborn sister Mari-chan to a photography studio to take a family portrait for Daddy to carry with him. Totto had never had her photograph taken in a studio before.
For the photo, Mother braided her hair and wrapped it around her head, and donned what looked like a pinafore dress but was in fact a pair of brown monpe work trousers that were loose around the hips and slimmer by the ankles. Little Mari-chan sat on her lap. Four-year-old Noriaki-chan stood right next to Mother in hand-knit shorts, a sweet, boyish expression on his face as he held his younger sister’s hand. Totto wore her very best—a white blouse and black pants—and had her soft hair parted in the middle and pinned back. But although they had gone out of their way to have a studio portrait taken, no one in the photograph was smiling.
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On the day they were to see Daddy, Totto and her family brought the ohagi sweets and the portrait with them to the First Infantry Regiment barracks. The place was bustling with families by the time they arrived, but they spotted Daddy right away.
“Father!”
“Totsky!” Daddy shouted and ran over.
Totto could hardly believe her eyes. Her father’s head had been shaved into a buzz cut and his khaki military uniform was already looking threadbare. On his feet, he wore gaiters over two-toed, rubber-soled jikatabi workmen’s boots. Totto was used to him leaving the house in a sharp suit and seeing him shine onstage in a tailcoat tuxedo and sparkling patent-leather shoes. This man was unrecognizable from the Daddy they knew. Mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. Though Totto didn’t notice, Mother told her afterwards that a beer bottle had hung from Daddy’s waist in place of a proper canteen.
“This is a comrade of mine,” said Daddy with a carefree smile as he introduced a fellow soldier who had apparently been the proprietor of a fresh fish shop before joining the regiment. By no stretch of the imagination a sociable man, Daddy was exceptionally shy and usually stuck to Mother like glue. But here he was, calling the fishmonger a comrade.
It surprised but also relieved and gladdened Totto to see that Daddy was better at adapting to change than she’d thought. She had been most concerned that his life as a soldier would be lonely. It comforted her to know that her father, a man who loved chatting with his family but rarely spoke to strangers, had made a friend. Even better, this friend was not a fellow musician he’d met through work, but someone whom he’d gotten to know and like by chatting about everyday things.
“Thank you for looking after my father,” Totto said to the fishmonger in her most sophisticated voice.
“I’m the grateful one,” the fishmonger replied, smiling. He appeared to be rather younger than Daddy.
Daddy, Mother, Totto, and her younger brother and sister bid goodbye to the friend, who was also expecting relatives to arrive, and went to sit in an open field by the barracks. Mother handed Daddy the shiny new family photo. He took a good long look at the photograph and whispered to Totto and her siblings, “Isn’t Mommy beautiful?”
Totto’s heart skipped a beat. “Mommy” and “Daddy” were English words used by the enemy country, which meant that in public they now needed to use the Japanese words for “Mother” and “Father.” Thankfully, no one was around to hear them. Daddy tucked the photo into his chest pocket with great care and turned to the children. He curled his fingers into a ball and stuck his thumb up toward the sky in a familiar gesture resembling the “Like” button we now see on YouTube, one he had picked up while working with various international musicians.
People think nothing of it these days, but back then, Daddy was most likely the only person in Japan who gave a thumbs-up to express approval.
Totto and her family talked about a great many things that day. Daddy took a bite of the ohagi and sighed happily, “I haven’t had anything this delicious in a long time.” He was in much higher spirits than Totto had imagined he would be.
Before they knew it, their visit had come to an end and Daddy was walking them to the front gate. Totto wondered if they might be able to see him again if they returned another day. Daddy waved goodbye. Just as he began to turn toward the barracks, Totto yelled a silly phrase she and her family liked to say: “Too-da-loo, triangle! See ya, see ya, square!” Daddy smiled, raised both arms this time, and gave them an even bigger wave. Totto and her family waved back with everything they had.