Hiroshima Maidens Read online

  The reaction she got was not what she expected, and more than she could have hoped for. Misako Kannabe yelled at her. “What do you think I am? Do you really think I’m that kind of person? How dare you speak to me like that. Of course I’m going next.” And turning her back, she stomped away.

  A shadow seemed to pass over the project with Tomoko’s death, but afterwards it was possible to see it as a blessing of sorts, for it not only gave the other Maidens an extraordinary opportunity to demonstrate their gratitude and trust by reaffirming their faith in the American doctors (on her own, Misako approached Dr. Kahn and, taking him by the hand, whispered, “Remember, you are going to operate on me tomorrow”), ironically it put suspicions in the cynical Japanese medical community to rest once and for all. From the outset, the we’re-as-good-as-they-are attitude of the Japanese doctors chosen to come to America had been a source of embarrassment and aggravation to Helen Yokoyama, who felt responsible for the behavior of all Japanese participants. “Chosen” was not really the appropriate word, for their names were put forward by the Hiroshima Medical Association because they were physicians wealthy enough to be able to leave their private practices for months at a time and anxious for the prestige that came from “studying” abroad. After several months of observing the techniques used by Dr. Barsky and his associates, Drs. Ouchi and Harada had been replaced by two other “chosen” Japanese doctors, Dr. Masakazu Fujii, who, like the Reverend Tanimoto, had been profiled in John Hersey’s book Hiroshima, and Dr. Sadam Takahashi, a young surgeon. Takaha-shi was an arrogant man, not especially interested in the girls or in gaining knowledge, enthusiastic only when it came to attending the Metropolitan Opera or a New York Yankees baseball game. He was not present at Tomoko’s operation, but had come immediately when he heard there was a problem. Pacing the halls, he had muttered, “So, they’ve finally done it.” Helen was infuriated with him. She had watched the American doctors stand under the hot heavy lights for up to four hours at a time. They were working free of charge, which was unheard of among doctors in Japan. Once she had asked Dr. Barsky why he was doing this, and he had said, “My father always told me to provide for the family first, and when you’ve done that, repay what you owe to society. And Helen, until now I have not been able to do that.” Those words rang in her ears as she turned on Dr. Takahashi and snapped, “How dare you talk like that at a time like this.” Newsmen were approaching so she lowered her voice to a fierce whisper. “Be careful. If something happens, you are to blame.”

  But in the six hours it took Tomoko to die, Dr. Takahashi underwent a prodigious change of heart. He witnessed the huge efforts that the doctors and nurses made to save Tomoko, and was moved by the vigil Norman Cousins kept outside the recovery room. He was standing beside Dr. Barsky when he went to the ward and addressed the girls awaiting surgery, saying, “Friendship develops easily in the sunshine of joy and happiness, but the friendship that grows in the darkness of sorrow and tragedy has roots that are firmer and deeper, and blossoms that last much longer.” The next day Takahashi apologized to Helen Yokoyama, admitting, “I have been wrong about the project.” That was all he said, but when the first group of girls left for Hiroshima several weeks later, Dr. Takahashi escorted them back. He took personal charge of the 9-square-inch wooden box wrapped in white cloth that contained Tomoko Nakabayashi’s ashes, as well as a lock of her hair, which he delivered to the Mayor of Hiroshima, who in turn placed the urn in the hands of Tomoko’s father. As much as anything else, it was Dr. Takahashi’s heartfelt account of the resuscitative measures that had been taken to save Tomoko that put a positive face on the tragedy in the community and was responsible for a change in attitude in the Hiroshima medical circles. All the grief expressed over Tomoko’s death finally gave way to a real sympathy for the American doctors and an appreciation, for perhaps the first time, that this was not a public relations stunt.

  Chapter Six

  From the beginning the Hiroshima Maidens Project had enjoyed a lucky streak. So many times when things could have fallen through, an incidental act of grace — usually in the form of a gesture of human helpfulness from an unexpected source — had saved the day. Though she did not consider herself a religious person, Helen Yokoyama could not help feeling at times that something greater than humanism or the power of positive thinking kept the project on course.

  That said, she thought it would be foolish to count on it to always be there, and the return of the first group of Maidens started her thinking about the situation that awaited the remaining fourteen girls. In a few months the good life would come to an end for them; they would be going back to problems and, in some cases, poverty, and she did not think they had any idea of the difficulties that lay ahead. She had become especially anxious when most of the operations were completed and the girls were thinking only of enjoying themselves. They were showered with garden parties and dinner invitations; and when they were not being entertained they would take the train into New York and, with a giddy sense of freedom, wander the streets, sometimes disappearing for whole days at a time.

  Helen Yokoyama’s earlier fears about the difficulties facing the girls in America were now reversed. She was afraid they were becoming slightly spoiled, and that when they returned to their own nests they would be restless, dissatisfied, and unable to settle down. Just as she had previously done everything in her power to prepare them for the social and psychological adjustment to America, she now labored to prepare the girls for the return to postwar Japan. There was no book to go by for this sort of thing, but in the belief that conversations with great people would take their minds off the creature comforts and social liberties they were growing accustomed to and remind them of the elevated spiritual qualities they had been exposed to, she tried to arrange a series of meetings with esteemed individuals of international stature. A request for a conference with President Eisenhower was politely refused by his aides without an explanation, and an effort to get together with Helen Keller, who had overcome the triple handicap of blindness, deafness, and dumbness, and who had visited Hiroshima twice, failed because she was in Europe at the time. The girls did share an afternoon with Pearl Buck at an office in the United Nations building, but the most profitable meeting was the time spent with the renowned Zen Buddhist philosopher Daisetz Suzuki, who was lecturing at Columbia University. He cast life-after-America as a Zen problem. “Remember the beauty of not having,” was the essence of his message. At the end, when he asked if there were any questions, one girl piped up, “Yes. Soon we are leaving for Japan and the moment we arrive there will be reporters and photographers. Pm afraid. What are we to do?”

  Throughout the project, Sensei had done her best to shield the girls from unwanted media exposure, even though it often meant doing battle with Dr. Hitzig, who was continually setting up interviews and making television plans without consulting the committee first. He would show up on the ward and announce, “Helen, I’ve arranged for us to appear on TV this morning at ten o’clock. Please have two girls ready,” in a voice that did not admit discussion. It got to the point where Helen dropped her tact. She knew Dr. Hitzig felt the presence of the girls on TV could raise funds for this and future projects, but she had made up her mind that the girls would not be used to raise money, and if there were no funds or if the money ran out, then they would go back to Japan. “No, Dr. Hitzig, the girls are not going on TV,” she would say resolutely. And every time, after an attempt to reason her out of her intransigence failed, he would throw a tantrum, yelling at her for being so uncooperative, mussing his hair, moaning that he had already made a commitment, that if she were to back out it would leave him looking like a fool. At first his temperamental outburts startled her, but once she got used to them she would remain composed and let him rant on. It was all a little extreme, she thought, but if he had spoken with her first he could have avoided the inconvenience and embarrassment; television appearances were simply out of the question. Now, having sheltered the girls so well during thei
r stay in America, she too had lingering doubts about how well they would be able to stand up for themselves and hold their own under pressure from the media upon their return to Japan, and she listened keenly to Suzuki’s reply.

  “There is no reason to be afraid,” he said with a wise and knowing nod. “Just say to yourself, Inu ga wan-wan hoeyoru wai,” which translates, “The dogs are barking, woof, woof.”

  There was only so much she could do, but when she learned that a New Jersey hostess was actively recruiting a nice husband for her girl, inviting eligible foreign college students to the house for dinner, Helen wanted to fly home immediately. To encourage a boy-girl relationship at this time was most inappropriate. If the girl became involved and had a love affair and word got around to the Japanese press, it would be scandalous. Even if a promising relationship had developed she would have insisted the girl go back to Hiroshima and put off making any final decisions. That had been her advice, in fact, to the one girl who did receive a proposal, Hiroko Tasaka.

  During their stay at Pendle Hill, a letter came from an American man who wrote he had seen a photograph in the daily newspaper of the Hiroshima Maidens arriving in America, and he wanted to send a message to the one wearing the mask. Take heart, he had written in a note, and trust the doctors. He said his brother had lost his nose in a bomb explosion while fighting in the Philippines and plastic surgery had made him more handsome than before.

  It was the first mail received by any of the girls, and Hiroko was the envy of them all. She drafted a gracious thank-you letter in Japanese, which Helen Yokoyama translated into English and Hiroko signed. To her surprise, she received a box of candy from the man in return.

  Hiroko was one of the first girls to enter the hospital, but before surgery could be safely performed on her the doctors felt her physical condition needed strengthening, so she spent a waiting period of several weeks on a supplementary diet. She was still waiting her turn on the operating table when Mrs. Yokoyama came and told her she had a visitor.

  Hiroko stared at her, and Mrs. Yokoyama said, ‘The man who wrote you at Pendle Hill.”

  It took a moment to register, and another to remember his name — Harry Harris. In a whirl she brushed her hair and tied on her mask. It did not trouble her that she was about to meet someone she did not know — she had done a lot of that lately. Still, she was nervous when she first gazed upon the stolid, ruddy face of the man who stood in the reception room waiting for her with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Had Helen Yokoyama not been there, Hiroko would not have known how to handle the situation. As it was, she stood silently, bringing the bouquet close to her face now and then, listening to her visitor talk while Mrs. Yokoyama translated.

  “He says he lives in Baltimore, where he drives a cab. He says he is a baseball fan and he came up to New York to see the Orioles play the Yankees — I guess that’s the name of two teams — and since he was in the neighborhood he thought he would stop in and pay his respects.”

  She thanked him very much but could not think of anything else to say; apparently he could not either and after awkwardly shaking her hand he wished her well and left.

  To date, Hiroko’s observations of Western social customs were narrowly based on the way hospital personnel related. From the way doctors held the door open for nurses and men let women exit from the elevators first, she surmised that conventions between the sexes were the reverse of the way things were done in Japan. After the Baltimore cab driver was gone she thought that perhaps his calling on her was part of a cultural courtesy. After all, this entire project was possible because of the generosity of people unknown to her. But when a package arrived in the hospital mail several days later, addressed to her from him, containing a pink bedjacket, even she had to admit that something else might be going on, though she had no idea what that might be.

  At last Hiroko was wheeled into the operating room and the first stage of a pedicle flap was constructed. All went well and soon she had taken up residence with an elderly couple who lived in a spacious old frame house at the end of a lane named after them in Peekskill, New York. A month later she returned to the hospital for the second stage of her skin transplant, and at that time the cab driver came back for another visit. On this occasion she was more attentive to the details, noticing the amble to his walk, like a man with seaworthy legs; the way his blunt features had only to shift slightly for a frown to change to a grin. They had a friendly chat through Helen Yokoyama, from which she learned he had spent a lot of time at sea. During the war he had served in the Navy as a Boatswains Mate First Class, and for some years afterward he had worked as a Merchant Marine seaman. Cordial as he was, Harris confused her. He did not pity or patronize Hiroko in the least, but after he was gone she still did not understand why he had come.

  The next time she saw him was in early December, and she was pleased that he showed up. The awkwardness of their first meeting had given way to a genuine friendliness. His voice was cheerful and his round eyes and furry brows lively with the holiday spirit. After scattering season’s greetings around to the other girls on the ward and the nurses on duty, he took Hiroko aside. Fumbling in his pocket, he came out with a small store-wrapped present. “Merry Christmas,” he said in a tone that appeared to try and keep the event low key, as though this was something he had found lying around and thought maybe she could use. But as he watched Hiroko delicately unfold the bright Christmas wrapping, the corners of his mouth curled up slightly.

  Inside a case, mounted on a field of black velvet, was a 24-karat-gold-plated Bulova watch. Hiroko stared at it a long time.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  She knew enough English now to say simple things. “Oh, yes, yes. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  But it was too much. An expensive piece of jewelery was too personal a gift, and she did not feel right accepting it. But how could she tell her suitor that without insulting him? She looked at him; as if expecting her to protest, he wore a decisively masculine expression that said if he wanted to buy something pretty for a woman that was his right, and his pleasure. She thanked him again.

  Then, acting as though he had just remembered something, he reached into another pocket and came up with a second present. “And Happy New Year.”

  What has come over this man? she wondered, looking totally bewildered.

  He sat there literally glowing as he watched her discover a gold bracelet for her other wrist.

  All she could do was look at it. Surely the income of a cab driver, even in America, could not allow for such extravagance. Taking a deep breath, she apologized and said he must return the gift.

  “I can’t,” he replied jauntily.

  “Please.”

  “It has your name on it.”

  Examining the bracelet more closely, she saw that Hiroko was indeed engraved on one side. She sighed. As she turned it over in her hand, something on the inside caught her eye. There, printed in tiny letters, was Earl. It was his middle name, he explained.

  At first the Baltimore cab driver had seemed like such an unlikely prince, his hospital courtship of a disfigured Maiden such an implausible romance that it was viewed by the project organizers with more bemusement than alarm. Once it became obvious that it was something more serious, however, Hiroko’s guardians found themselves in a dilemma. At a steering committee meeting Dr. Hitzig, who found the whole business utterly incomprehensible, suggested an end be put to the affair. “You have to admit, it’s an unusual situation, and it could even be an abnormal situation,he maintained. “Where it’s normal for one person to feel sympathy for another, with a disfigured person it could become something else.”

  No one knew what to do, and since Helen Yokoyama told the group that if they stopped Harris from seeing Hiroko it would certainly affect her mood, nothing was done. But from then on, whenever Harry Harris came to the hospital, Helen made a point of staying close by. Not that there was anything remarkable to observe; often when he came to see Hiroko they woul
d sit together without talking, or stroll together down the hospital halls, and then he would go. Once he brought his sister with him, who burst into tears when she saw Hiroko. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she said. For the rest of the visit she talked about their brother and how he was getting along. The closest Helen heard Harris come to flirting was a comment he made about how the sunshine seemed to follow Hiroko from room to room. Nothing he said or did made her suspect that his actions were motivated by any unnatural emotion, but finally she felt it was her responsibility as chaperone to determine the nature of his intentions. The next time he came to visit she stopped him on the way from the elevator and asked him to please come with her to the nurse’s station. There she asked him point blank what his purpose was in coming to see Hiroko.