A Child’s
Tale
by
Charles Fishman
—for
Tadataka Kuribayashi
I. April 12, 1945
The night before the evacuation, your father
procured some sugar, so your mother could make
botamochi, a rice-cake dumpling coated with bean paste:
such sweetness was rare in that time of scarcity
and the dinner—the last you would share
with your parents—
was a gift of memory only the distant future would open
Next morning, along with the other students, your teachers led you
to Yokogawa Station: this was your farewell to Hiroshima
* *
When you arrived at Tsutsuga Village,
you were housed in Saihoji Temple
The copper roof
glowed with a quiet effulgence and the dinner of sekihan
—rice cooked with red beans—was
nutritious and satisfying
This was a wonderful haven, yet the night
could not be salvaged by rice cakes and official welcomes
This shrine did not cater to families, only to the newly
orphaned, and the taste of separation and loneliness
was in your mouth
It was cold in the mountains and life at the
temple
was harsh A few holiday
excursions taught you
the difference between exercise and labor between
hunting for firewood and hunger
Once, at school,
when there was nothing sweet to eat, you licked a tray
of water colors and, soon, lice took up residence
on your body
A few of the young teachers were kind, but a child needs a mother
At Saihoji Temple, some children hid in a room to weep
* *
One day, a visit from parents was permitted, but rules
had to be followed
Your mother adhered to the strictures
and brought you only the sparest foods: parched
sesame seeds, pickled ume . . .
Reunions are always
painful, for it is sweet to be cared for again and the new
parting is deep, inescapable, and may be lasting
This day, though, your mother cut your hair
in the precincts of the temple
She cut the hair
of one child after another: you remember her
with the clipper in her hand
II. August 6, 1945
There was summer in the mountains . . .
food was scarce and each bowl of rice was precious
Instead of lice, there were fleas, but you knew the sutras
by heart and some of your friends had learned to make sandals
Near the temple, a small river gurgled over stones
leaves
grew green and abundant the feel of cool water
made time and sorrow disappear
* *
In a shrine adjacent to the school, you learned Morse code
A cool breeze blew under the gingko trees, and the cicadas
—newly emerged from their shelter in the
earth—signaled
their pleasure in those days of endless summer
. . . something warm brushed your cheek as if
the hot August sun
had been reflected off a mirror and Tsutsuga
Village trembled
A column of pink clouds rose above the mountains
rose higher
deepening in the intensity of color: all the pink in the universe
had been swept up into these clouds
Later, the light darkened and papery cinders fell from the sky
thin slivers of scorched wood curled scrapings
of metal bits of bone
and skin—these, too, rained down
You know this now,
but on that day the pinkest clouds in creation were enough to ponder
the burnt remnants of paper were enough
III. September 3, 1945
At the beginning of September, the postcard arrived
It was about your mother but not from her: she couldn’t have
written this flat note to her son and the handwriting was definitely
not hers Someone at
the reception center in Miyajima
had known how to contact you
* *
Your teacher stayed with you on this new journey
that could only conclude with death
On the way,
you saw that the castle town of Hiroshima was a field
of charred ruins that only rats and flies could
be content
to live there There
was little to see from the boat
out of Miyajima-guchi merely the towering archway
of the Shinto shrine and the shrine of Itsukushima,
wrapped in a film of beauty
* *
In the center, survivors were lying on futons . . .
In that cavernous room, a small woman like your mother
was difficult to find and, when you saw her, your heart stopped
for a moment: she was lying face-down in the bed clothes,
and she had grown smaller
When you looked more closely, you saw the burns
on her back: her whole body had dwindled and she was
unable to move This
woman, your mother, who had cut
and combed the hair of other women’s children, could not
turn herself over
* *
She could still speak, though slowly and with no volume,
so you learned by listening closely: she had been exposed
to the flash while helping to demolish buildings near Tsurumi Bridge
she had seen Mrs. Takai burn to death in front of her
and her own back had accepted the fire—the
fire and the gas
had inched to the center of her body
From the top of Hijiyama Hill, she had looked back
she had seen
the death of the city
It was later that she learned how your father had died
IV. September 15, 1945
You were a good son, Tadataka, and cared for your mother
in those final hours
You spoke gently and lovingly to her
and cleaned her chamber pot you gave her last
day on earth
a small portion of dignity
Let it go now, that pain that stabs your heart: the small infractions
you remember were forgiven by her
You were a child
yet you taught the living the meaning of duty and bravery
Before she died, your mother was unable to speak
still
she smiled on you Take
the knife from your heart
the sharp blade of memory
* *
On the third day of your vigil, her pain broke and she lay
in a bell of calmness
The tears on her cheek blessed
your life and gave you a million words: one day,
they would find your lips
From her pain her silence
and her tears, all you knew of history—and
what you knew
of being human—would enter you
* *
When you returned to Tsutsuga Village, you remembered
the big torii you had seen from Miyajima’s bathroom window
The gateway to the shrine had appeared to you
and then
the B-29 bomber had flown over
Remove the knife from your heart! What could a small boy do?
* *
You returned to the village . . .
The road from Miyajima-guchi
seemed endless but an old man shared the long
train ride
and other guardians appeared as you walked
You reached the front gate of Saihoji Temple at dawn
Copyright © 1997 by Charles
Fishman. Used with permission of Charles Fishman.
Notes: Tadataka Kuribayashi has
served at the Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF) for more than
30 years. This poem is based on an anonymous translation of Kuribayashi's
account, posted on the World Wide Web.