Title lines borrowed from from Miyazawa Kenji’s “Eiketsu no Asa” (Morning of Final Farewell). Unknown translator.
My little sister, so brave
Terazuma Izumi turned 64 years old this year.
When she was nine years old, on the night of August 5, 1945, she was kidnapped.
Down the street lived a neighbor. His name was Watanabe Arata, and his mother had just died of old age, leaving him alone in the world.
It was the last straw.
Watanabe-san had a daughter and wife. They used to live in Tokyo where they had a modest house in a nice neighborhood. But then, the Americans firebombed the capital, and tens of thousands were killed.
A heavy missile exploded near his house. What wasn’t shattered was burned, including his family. Watanabe-san somehow managed to survive. He didn’t want to, though.
That was in March. After that, he moved back to Hiroshima to live with his mother, a tiny wizened woman with stark white hair. Watanabe-san had been a quiet man always, mild in character, meek in tone. He worked as an accounting clerk and had an exceptionally dull life, up until the moment he cradled the broken and burnt bodies of his wife and child in his arms. She was only nine, the same age as Terazuma Izumi. Her charred body had been sheltered in the arms of his wife – the kitchen had collapsed on them, crushing them before the fire swept through. He couldn’t do anything about it.
After that, something in him had gone wrong. His mind was tormented, wracked with guilt. Eventually, he believed that somehow, somewhere they were still alive, hidden in a safe place. If only he could find them. It gave him a will to live.
And that’s when he saw Terazuma Izumi. She lived down the street with her brother. At first, he used to imagine that it was really his own daughter; after all, they had the same name. Funny coincidence, wasn’t it, at first? But then, he started believing it.
It maddened him, that some strange man had stolen his daughter. At one point, it crossed his mind to murder the young man and steal his daughter back. But he had enough reason to keep those thoughts to himself, for the young man worked for the police, and waited for the right moment, watching, always watching.
The right time came the night of August 5, 1945. He waited for the young man to leave to work, crept into the house through an unlocked window, and took Izumi – his Izumi. She was too afraid of him to do anything but comply, as he smashed furniture and glass to make it appear as if a robbery, cutting himself on the sharp broken edge of a mirror. Later, Izumi had wrapped it up for him, all the while crying. For a girl her age, the experience was as shattering as the broken glass that littered the Terazuma home.
They had taken the midnight train out of the city, headed north on the long ride toward Tokyo. It was all part of the plan. They were going home. She trembled under his comforting pats before finally falling asleep, exhausted. He told everyone she was his daughter – look, my precious Izumi-chan is still alive. Tears of joy streaked down his cheeks as he watched the scenery fly by, the nearly full moon lighting up the countryside beautifully. He had his Izumi-chan back.