Writing this book, I found myself marveling at life’s interesting twists. I started out hoping to become a mother who read bedtime stories to her children, and before I knew it, I was appearing on numerous children’s programs. In the end, however, I was never able to read to children of my own.
Nevertheless, through my appointment as Goodwill Ambassador for UNICEF, I have endeavored to inform people around the world about the suffering of children in various countries. When I held a dying, orphaned child in Africa, I hoped that I could at least help them not to feel alone, and that they might find a little comfort in this stranger’s arms.
Following my year abroad in New York, I returned to Japan and began hosting a news program while also continuing to appear in television dramas. On one occasion, I played a character who was an alcoholic and was asked by a staff member, “Are you really a drinker?” I do not drink alcohol. But if even the people I saw and worked with every day mistakenly assumed that I did, viewers who watched me playing a person of disrepute in a fictionalized setting might think that same untrustworthy person was hosting the news. That is why I quit playing characters on television and limited my acting to the stage.
One day, while yammering away as I always do, I declared, “I’m going to live to be a hundred!” To which the celebrated actor and radio personality Shoichi Ozawa replied, “That’s all well and good, but when you’re a hundred, you won’t have anyone with whom to reminisce and say, ‘Do you remember that time…?’ It will be quite lonely.” His words made me weep then, and now I find they are all too true.
My “big brother” in show business, Kiyoshi Atsumi, and my “mother” Sadako Sawamura have both passed away. My “big sister” Hisano Yamaoka, with whom I made a solemn vow to live together in a nursing home someday, and the marvelous actress Junko Ikeuchi have also gone before me. Rokusuke Ei, the original lyricist of Kyu Sakamoto’s “Sukiyaki,” once consoled me, “You poor thing. Your show business family is all gone.” Now, even he is gone as well.
At some point, I called An-chan and invited him out to dinner, not knowing he was ill. It was only after leaving several messages on his answering machine that we were finally able to meet. “Why didn’t you return my calls?! Did you take some woman to a hot-springs resort or something?” I teased, much as I always did. He howled with laughter, removed his hat, and wiped the beads of perspiration from his head.
“Little Lady! I haven’t gone anywhere!”
“Liar! You’re always keeping secrets from me!”
Tears of laughter streamed down An-chan’s face as we joked back and forth. I learned later from his wife that his illness had worsened significantly by this juncture, and that at home, he rarely left his bed. And there I was, yapping away as usual, without a care in the world. I’ll never know whether he thought I was clueless and silly, or whether he was simply glad that things were the same as always between us. But whenever I close my eyes, I can still picture the way he laughed and wiped away his sweat.
When Mother Sawamura fell ill, I visited her in the hospital nearly every day. It was around that same time that I received a call from the film director Yoji Yamada, who said, “I have had word that Mr. Atsumi has passed away. They held a quiet memorial and will soon be making a statement to the press. I called thinking that you would want to know before you heard it on the news.” Mr. Yamada had written and directed the classic Tora-san films that had made An-chan a superstar. I was grateful for his kindness, but heartbroken over An-chan’s passing.
Recently, I was devastated by the loss of one of my dearest friends, the wonderful actress Yoko Nogiwa. We joined NHK at the same time—she as an announcer and I as a troupe member—and were very close. We shopped at the same boutiques, took French lessons together, and faxed messages back and forth all the time. Because she lived near Denzuin Temple in the Koishikawa area of Tokyo, she always signed her missives, From Denzuin. I signed mine, From Nogizaka. I recently met with her daughter, whose hands so resembled her dear mother’s that they nearly brought me to tears.
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My daily talk show Tetsuko’s Room, which began airing in 1976, has now entered its forty-eighth year. It feels like nothing short of a miracle that someone who was expelled from school so soon after beginning first grade could continue a program for forty-eight years. On the show, I have interviewed numerous actors who lived through the war and requested them all to recount their experiences for fear that if I didn’t ask them when I had the chance, their stories might be lost forever.
Before Ryo Ikebe became a film star, he was a second lieutenant in the army. Once, he and his men were on a transport ship heading south from Shanghai when a submarine attack sunk the vessel, stranding them in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He and his subordinates, many of whom were older than him, called out to each other as they swam. One of his men said, “Sir, I have your sword!” and raised the saber. Mr. Ikebe recalled, “I had left the saber on the deck when I dove into the water, fearing that it would weigh me down. I cried when I saw him holding it.” He added, “Thankfully, nobody could tell, since we were all in the water.”
Superstar singer Haruo Minami shared his experience of battling the Soviet troops in Manchukuo shortly before the war ended. A young Soviet soldier was struck by a bullet shot from a pillbox, and after nightfall, as Minami and his comrades lay still in the guard-post, they heard the soldier cry, “Mama, Mama…” The soldier’s voice gradually grew fainter and fainter, until at last they heard no more. “I am against any type of war,” Mr. Minami said. Coming from him, those words held great power.
When chanson star Noriko Awaya visited a Japanese Air Force base to sing for the soldiers, she was told by a high-ranking officer before her set, “The men here belong to Special Attack Units and may need to leave in the middle of your performance,” referring to the specialized groups typically used for suicide missions. She began to sing a blues number and the soldiers all sat forward and listened, enraptured. Then, a young man stood up, saluted her, and exited the venue. I will never forget Miss Awaya’s expression when she said, “He smiled wide, saluted me, and then left. I was so choked up that I couldn’t continue to sing.”
My final guest of 2022, in keeping with tradition, was comedy and talk show legend Tamori-san. I said to him, “I wonder what next year has in store for us,” to which he replied, “I think our country is about to enter a new pre-war era.” I pray that his prediction continues to be wrong for years and years to come.
My forty-eight years of hosting Tetsuko’s Room have been forty-eight years of listening to these kinds of stories. It is important to me to explain here that one of my motivations for writing this book was to leave behind a record of my own wartime experience.
Very recently, I was invited to become a member of the prestigious Japan Art Academy. It is a truly great honor. I have also received official recognition from the government as a Person of Cultural Merit, in addition to being awarded the Order of the Sacred Treasure for long-term contribution to public service. My daily talk show Tetsuko’s Room will be celebrating its fiftieth anniversary in two years, and although I used to say, “Fifty years is my goal!” I am now beginning to hope that I can continue until I turn one hundred. If I reach that age and can still think and speak as I do now, I will probably say to myself, “I wasn’t able to become a mother, but oh well, it was for the best.” And I would mean it.
When that time comes, I will give thanks to my father and mother for providing me the nourishment and support I needed to live a strong and healthy life.
And I will thank, with all of my heart, the people who have understood me over the years.
Now that is something to look forward to!
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August 2023
Tetsuko Kuroyanagi