The Cake Tree in the Ruins Page 3

  If it was already like this now, what would it be like when the fire came even closer? Katchan’s mother glanced around in search of water, but there was none. If only there was some sand left in the pit, they would be able to burrow down into it to bear the heat a little better, but the hardened earth base was all that was there.

  He heard a hissing sound of escaping vapour, and saw something that looked more like steam than smoke spewing from under the eaves and out of the windows of a two-storey house. He’d never seen anything like it before, and it really felt as though the house was in its death throes. A sharp snap was accompanied by a flurry of sparks. It was like being in a nightmare, but now was no time for watching in fascination. There was no breeze and the smoke was rising straight up into the sky rather than blowing into the park, but even so his eyes were stinging. His mother covered his body with hers and told him, “Katchan, close your eyes tight. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

  Whoosh, snap, whoosh, snap. Now he felt as though his throat was on fire, and his air-raid hood was bone dry. If only there was some water! As his mother raised her head to look around again, refusing to give up, a fresh blast of hot air stung his head.

  Even with their eyes tightly shut they could still clearly see the colour of the blaze. For the first time his mother was afraid. “Papa!” she called out to her husband on the front line. Hearing this, Katchan also felt that for the sake of his father they couldn’t die here. There must be some way to survive!

  Their faces were parched, but under their clothes they were sweating uncomfortably. Suddenly his mother had an idea: she stuck her hand down the front of her clothes, scooped up some sweat and rubbed it over Katchan’s face as if it were lotion.

  “Hang on in there Katchan, we can do it!”

  Even her sweat was hot, she thought, as she desperately fumbled for more. If only the trickle of perspiration could be more like a waterfall. When she rubbed it on Katchan’s bare hands and feet, the dryness gave way to a smooth and pleasant sensation, as if he’d just got out of the bath.

  As she busied herself protecting Katchan with her sweat, she managed to forget her fear. But the fire was burning as fiercely as ever, roaring and popping, sending telegraph poles up like burning torches and shrivelling the leaves on the trees in the park. But eventually her sweat dried up. Her mouth was dry too. There was no more moisture left.

  “Mama!” cried Katchan. As long as he was with his mother, he believed that he would be okay whatever happened. But still, he needed to call her now and then to make sure she hadn’t left him.

  When she heard him call, she didn’t feel frightened so much as sad. Three years ago, when it still seemed as though Japan would win the war, she and Katchan would come to this park and bask in the sun. While she unpicked an old sweater to knit into warm socks for his father, Katchan would totter around or play in the sandpit making mountains and valleys with his little spade. On Sundays Papa would come with them and they’d take pictures of them together.

  Whoever could have imagined them being surrounded by flames like this in the very same park, the very same sandpit? She could hear little Katchan’s voice as he romped around, and then she could see his laughing face, and before she knew it the hands she was holding over her face were wet with tears.

  Unthinkingly she rubbed her wet hands over Katchan’s hot face. Only then did she realize they were her tears. For a while they kept coming, but as she became absorbed in the task of moistening Katchan’s parched skin, her sadness faded and they dried up.

  She tried hard to think of sad things, like how grief-stricken Papa would be to learn the son he had doted on was dead. She had seen many charred bodies of children killed in air raids, and how awful it was to think that cute little Katchan might end up dying the same way without ever having tasted any delicious food, or played with toys, or visited any amusement parks.

  She didn’t know which illnesses caused the most suffering, but surely there was nothing so painful as being slowly roasted to death. Whatever had Katchan done to deserve this? She conjured up the most desolate thoughts possible to make herself sadder and sadder, and every time her tears came welling up she rubbed them onto Katchan’s skin.

  Then she started singing him a lullaby, making up the words as she went.

  Time for bed, little Katsuhiko

  Close your eyes and in your world

  Nothing will scare you any more

  Time to sleep, little Katsuhiko

  No need to be scared any more

  You’re only five after all…

  If he had to die, surely it was better he did so in his sleep. But her voice was hoarse from her dry throat and was drowned out by the popping of the fire, so Katchan never heard it.

  If you have to die, don’t suffer too much

  If you have to die, let it be in your sleep

  If you have to die, let it be while you dream

  And give all your suffering to me

  If you have to die, then go to sleep

  If you have to die, I’ll sing you a lullaby

  At last her tears ran dry. She could no longer see anything for the smoke in her eyes, but she wanted somehow or other to be able to moisten Katchan’s skin. She scratched at the earth, but it was bone-dry. She bared her breast to protect Katchan’s skin with her own. He had been a clingy baby and had breastfed up until last year, so when she did so he instinctively fumbled for her nipple and tried suckling her milk. Surely the milk wouldn’t come, but even so she desperately tried to relive those moments when he’d been a baby. How could she ever forget those important memories!

  But the fire was getting closer and closer, and now three sides were ablaze, and the park’s trees appeared to bloom with sparks, and in her confusion the memories only came in fragments: Katchan, still in her belly, stretching his legs out as if in pleasure when she got into the bath; surprising her by moving around inside her in the middle of the night. Here you go, your little soldier, the midwife had remarked, holding him up for her to see, and she had laughed because he looked so much like his Papa, and he’d sucked on her nipples so fiercely, squirming and groping for her other nipple with his hand, but ending up clutching at the smooth mattress instead. When at first her milk hadn’t come, she’d resorted to massaging her breast and had been shocked as it spurted out as high as the ceiling, and when it was time to wean him she’d been told to spread mustard on her nipple, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to do that to him.

  She desperately kneaded her breast and, cradling Katchan like an unweaned baby, gave it to him to suckle on. If just a little came out, then he could drink it, or she could use it to moisten his skin as she’d done with her sweat and tears. Mother horse and her sweet foal, always happy together, clippety clop clippety clop, peacefully walking along… when Katchan was just beginning to talk, he’d loved this song and squealed in delight when it came to clippety clop clippety clop. That big rattle and musical box and summer kimono Papa had bought for him had been such rare treasures, and even nappies had been hard to come by, and the terrible fits that Katchan had suffered… memories of him as a baby came flooding back to her. But she had reached the limit of her strength. Now she wasn’t surrounded by flames, but together with Papa gazing at Katchan’s smooth baby face as he slept.

  She no longer felt the heat, and suddenly she noticed that Katchan was greedily sucking in his cheeks drinking her milk. “Wait a moment, there’ll be more,” she said, regaining her senses again. Removing her nipple from Katchan’s mouth she squeezed with both hands and rubbed the trickle of milk over his face, hands, legs, chest and tummy. This would be better than drinking it now, and would make things more bearable for him. The trickle soon stopped, so she rubbed her nipples directly onto his body until all the milk dried up.

  Now she was beginning to get light-headed in the glare of heat. She tried to focus, but was at a loss as to what else she could do. Katchan and Papa began to recede into the distance and she felt an overwhelming desi
re to sleep. The raging blaze and collapsing houses seemed to belong to another world.

  “Mama, I’m hot!” Katchan clung to his exhausted mother and screamed, “Mama, I’m scared!” Hearing his cries, his mother came to again and thought—water. Anything wet! I have to find some for Katchan.

  But what could she do? Her own body was so dry that it could burn like a matchstick at any moment. She held Katchan tightly to her and focused all her mind on that one word, water. Water! She no longer even really knew what it was, waterwaterwater, only that it could save Katchan, waterwaterwater. She chanted it over and over like a spell, and as she did so blood began seeping from her pores and dripped over Katchan in her arms, waterwaterwater, even as she was losing consciousness she prayed harder and her blood began pouring out, covering Katchan from head to foot.

  Eventually the flames died down and the hot air was sucked up into the sky, the smoke dispersed by the breeze, and blue sky appeared. “Mama!” called Katchan, becoming aware of his surroundings again. He shook his mother, who was still covering him with her body, but she slipped to the ground, flat and dry, with no moisture left in her at all.

  His mother’s body floated up in the strong breeze that always followed an air raid. “Mama, where are you going?” Katchan called in surprise, but his mother merely smiled at him the same way she always did. Relieved, he ran after her, but then a strong gust of wind suddenly whipped her up and away, higher and higher into the sky. “Mama!” he called again and again, and each time she turned to look back at him. Like a kite her body was drawn up into the post-blaze sky, and remained dancing there like an angel until eventually she disappeared from view.

  Katchan waited. His mother would definitely come back. He was hungry and thirsty, but he crouched, waiting for her, not moving from the spot where he’d seen her soaring up into the sky like a kite. He didn’t feel particularly lonely, as he felt she was up there in the sky watching over him, and also because she’d told him that his father’s departing words as he left for the front had been, “He’s a strong boy, you mark my words.”

  On 15th August, a little before the imperial message announcing the end of the war was broadcast over the ruins, Katchan’s emaciated body too was blown away by the wind up into the sky. His mother had come to meet him, and they fluttered and danced together like two kites under the brilliant summer sun as they went up, up into the sky, looking down on the burnt-out ruins far below.

  THE OLD SHE-WOLF AND THE LITTLE GIRL

  The 15th of August 1945

  IN MANCHURIA, now north-east China, a large she-wolf and a girl just four years old squatted in a sorghum field.

  The wolf was sturdily built, but she was old and patches of her fur had fallen out and most of her teeth were missing. The little girl wore a white shirt with red baggy pantaloons, and was holding tightly onto a basket. They had been hiding here for two full days, as the earth rumbled from the countless large tanks heading south, and exchanges of gunfire sounded all around. Long ago, the old wolf had fled from humans with guns, and she had never forgotten the smell of gunpowder smoke.

  The wolf was well aware that the time of her own death was approaching. Her eyes, which had once seen far into the distance even at night, were now blurred as if covered by a perpetual mist, and her ears, which had been able to distinguish between people’s voices in the village in the next valley, were now quite deaf, so all she had to rely on was her sense of smell.

  Until two years earlier she had reigned as leader of the pack of fifty-two cubs that she herself had given birth to and raised, but as she began to feel her age she had ceded to a younger wolf, and once she knew the end was not far off she had quietly set out in search of a place to die.

  When she had been with the pack, she hadn’t needed to hunt for food since the younger wolves would all offer her the choicest meat out of respect, and they had also taken turns to keep guard night and day, so there was no need for her to stay attuned to every noise.

  Now she was on her own, however, she had to take care of everything herself. And with her nerves constantly on edge, her physical strength rapidly deteriorated. Although she was old, however, she did have her pride. It would be better to lie down on the railroad tracks that crossed the plain from north to south and be run over by a train than succumb to wild dogs or cats, she thought. And so she had once more drawn herself up and strained her useless eyes and ears to the utmost, hoping quickly to find a quiet place where she wouldn’t be disturbed by birds or worms.

  With this one wish in mind, she had continued walking unsteadily on and on. But about ten days ago a great commotion had broken out around her, the Japanese began moving southwards en masse, and aeroplanes with markings she hadn’t seen before began flying around overhead.

  The wolf only wanted to find a place to die as soon as possible and was not particularly startled by this. Nevertheless, the ruckus only grew daily and the sounds of human voices became ever more deafening, so she was no longer able to go peacefully on her way and was instead forced to hide in the woods by day and wait until nightfall to continue.

  At dusk on the fifth day, as the wolf came out of the woods, she ran into a large group of Japanese people rushing by in a panic. The wolf cursed her own carelessness, shrinking back at the thought of being targeted by their guns, but they didn’t seem at all concerned with her as they called out to each other in shrill voices and, ignoring the wails of the children among them, hastened on their way.

  The wolf had always warned the younger members of the pack that groups of Japanese were generally soldiers, most of whom were good marksmen, so they should never go near them, but this group seemed a bit different. They didn’t smell of leather or look in the slightest menacing. In fact, most of them appeared to be women and children.

  Instinctively the wolf followed them. She might be on the verge of death, but she was still hungry. And there was nothing tastier than a human child, she thought, recalling how as a young wolf she had led her own cubs raiding human settlements. She followed stealthily after the group thinking that she would follow their scent for as long as it took. Even if they noticed her it wouldn’t matter, for sooner or later they would tire and squat down for a rest, and that would be her opportunity.

  But the humans just carried on and on, and showed no signs of stopping even when she thought it was about time they should be getting tired. And she herself was exhausted. However, she was determined that this should be her last hunt, so however unsteady she felt, she doggedly followed after them. And just before dawn they came abruptly to a halt, a hush fell over them, and they lay down flat on the ground as if in fear of something.

  Not far away was a Manchu village. The humans consulted amongst themselves, and then an old man stood up and went towards the village. As it grew light and the group became visible, the old wolf could see that, as she had thought, most of them were women and children, accompanied only by a few old men. All carried backpacks and water bottles, and had evidently been walking a long time for they all looked completely worn out, and now and then a child could be heard sobbing.

  Finally the old man returned accompanied by three Manchu. She didn’t know what they were talking about, but the Japanese crowded around them, their heads bowed in supplication. Just ten days earlier, this would have been unthinkable of the haughty Japanese. They had always yelled at Manchu, Koreans and White Russians as if they owned the place!

  It seemed they were exchanging goods for food, and after a long discussion the group again dragged themselves on their way, their bodies heavy after the short rest. Even the voices of the mothers scolding their grizzling children sounded pitiful, as though they themselves were wailing.

  Thirsty, the wolf took a drink from a small stream, then caught two field mice to appease her hunger. She had just started running as hard as she could to catch up with the group again when she suddenly caught sight of something red in the grass. Pricking up her ears, she could hear a hoarse voice crying. It didn’t immediately occur
to her that it might be a human child, but as she cautiously approached she saw a small girl tottering through the grass.

  The only reason she didn’t pounce on the girl and gobble her up right away was that the edge had been taken off her hunger by those two field mice. And then she was quite taken aback when the little girl showed absolutely no fear upon seeing her, but instead called out “Belle!” and flung her arms happily around her neck.

  The girl stroked the wolf’s neck and back, sobbing, “Where’s Mama, Belle? Go find her for me!” The wolf didn’t understand what she was saying, but the girl clearly thought that she was a friend and so she submitted to her, thinking how odd it was for a human to be so unafraid of a wolf.

  The little girl didn’t smell of the things the wolf hated most, leather and gunpowder, but instead was permeated with the scent of milk. This brought back memories of all the cubs that, not so long ago, she herself had given birth to and raised. Come to think of it, the little girl’s sobbing voice was not unlike the wheedling cries of a newborn wolf cub.

  Before the wolf realized what she was doing, she was cradling the little girl between her front paws, just as she had done with her own cubs, and was licking her face and hands, which still smelt of her mother’s milk. The little girl snuggled up to her. Now and then she called loudly, “Mama!”, but her only answer was the sound of the wind crossing the wide-open plain. She began sobbing again, but when the wolf licked away her tears she became ticklish and wriggled.

  When the wolf drank water, the little girl copied her, getting down on her hands and knees and drinking noisily. Then, feeling hungry, she took out some stale bread from her basket to munch on, first picking out the little sugar-candy balls in it to give to the wolf. Sugar candy was not at all what the wolf was used to, but she tried licking it and, finding it quite tasty, rolled it around in her toothless mouth. She even began to feel renewed strength welling up in her flagging body.