Comfort

Gwendolen Mair

Based upon true stories of women during WWII

I remember a warm summer’s eve when I was twelve. The crickets chirped and the bloody sun blazed like crimson fire, slowly merging with the ground. There was a boy from the neighborhood there with me, and as we sat on the swing of my back porch, he turned and kissed me. He, too, was an immigrant, with black hair and the oddest gray eyes I had ever seen. He was half-Japanese, I later realized. His last name was Yamamoto. He was a mature thirteen years old, and I liked him very much. His kiss was sweet and warm, and I wanted it to last forever. It didn't.

My mother came out as we sat there together, our lips pressed innocently together on that creaky swing. When I saw her I pulled away. There was fear in her eyes, for me, but also for herself. I saw accusation, and anger. She screamed at him. She told him he didn't own me, that she wouldn't let him hurt me. He ran away and cried, because he liked me, too. We didn't speak for six years. I hated her for it.

Now, as my mother lies helpless and withered, dying, these are the things I ponder, even now. Her weak hand squeezes mine again, every fifteen minutes, to let me know she is still with me. I stare at her, so pale and small now. She had always seemed so strong and tall, but now her body and spirit are minute and vulnerable. I watch her labored breathing slow and think about the incidents that make up my past. Now is the last chance to ask.

“Mama,” I keep my voice low, in case she is sleeping. “May I ask you something?”

She opens her eyes. “The room is dark,” she whispers, the sound seeming to fall from her lips and melt away into the silent room. “Light a candle for me. My eyes are too weak to see you.”

I bring a candle and light it, letting the warm glow illuminate the shadows on mother's face. She sighs, satisfied.

“What is it you wanted to know?” she asks, her voice heavy. She knows the question I will pose.

“Who is my father, Mama?” I can hardly believe I've finally asked. I have wondered so long.

The woman sighs and looks at me, resigned. “When I was seventeen, I lived in Korea. It was 1943, I think. I lived with my father and brothers.”

As her voice trails into the night, it becomes apparent that I am going to have more than one questioned answered. She wants to pass on her wisdom now. She knows that the time has nearly come.

“The war was happening then, but I had not noticed it until the day my best friend, Kim Sang Yu, disappeared. Her father bought a horse three days later. Others began to disappear, replaced only by soldiers. Soldiers in the shops, soldiers in homes, soldiers everywhere. The Japanese men moved into our town, demanded lodging and food, though we had little of both.  We thought they would just like comforts of home, that they were passing through, until they set up the Camp.” The story is interrupted by deep, hoarse coughs. I take her hand and sit her up. When she stops, I help her drink.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“I am dying, Jade,” she manages a chuckle. “Now finally your husband will not have to deal with me.”

“Don’t say that, Mama,” I sigh. She is always picking on my husband. “You know he’s a good guy. Why do you have to pick on him? If you had your way I would still be single, and you wouldn’t have any grandkids.” I know my tone is sour and I don’t particularly care.

“I know,” she admits in sad resignation.

“He is a good man,” I am still defensive.

“I know,” she repeats. “I am glad that you have found love. Let me continue. My time is short.”

I nod and she continues.

“At the Camp, there were tall gates, with sharp wire. Nobody that went in ever came out. If you offended the soldiers, they would take you there, and if you went there you would not return. We lived in fear.”

“Why didn't you leave?” I ask, mesmerized by her tale. I had known, of course, that we had immigrated to this country, but I can’t wrap my mind around all that she’s telling me. It is hard to picture her, there, living in fear of invading soldiers.

“We were wealthy compared to some. We had a wooden house, we had land to till and animals to raise, but we were still poor. We could not leave our land and animals. What would we have done? We did not think we could leave. The men came and soon more women disappeared. Women, or girls, of fourteen, even twelve, would be there one day, working in their fields, and the next they would vanish. One day, a man came to see my father. He brought gold. My father told me to run, and hide, told my brothers to lock me in the barn until he was gone. They spoke quietly. The soldier left with an animal.

“Father told me it was nothing, that they simply needed the animal for food, but I knew better. They had come to buy me. They did not want animosity within the town, they did not want a rebellion, so they bartered, goods for people. Since father had done business, we thought they would leave. Then one night, they came to me. They stole into the house, into where we slept. They killed my father before my eyes,” her voice became strained with grief. “They stood him up and executed him before me, and my brothers. And my brothers tried to protect me. They pushed me out the window so I could escape, and they fought. I heard them die.”

“It's all right, you don't have to say more,” I interrupt, tears slowly escaping down my face. I don't want to hear this. It is painful to hear of what she endured, and I know it will get worse.  “I don't have to know.”

“You do not have to know, but I have to tell,” she murmurs, pulling her hand away to wipe her eyes. She straightens her back and takes a breath to prepare herself. “I fell out the window, hard and fast. I tried to get away, but my leg was injured by the fall. There were soldiers there, too. After my family was dead, they dragged me inside, into my house. I saw the blood on them. There were four of them, with guns and swords. They had used swords. They said they would kill me if I fought, and I believed them. This... I have never told,” she admits, her deep, brown eyes filled with shame. “They threw me to the ground, they ripped my clothes and beat me with their swords. They raped me,” she finally says, sobbing. “They took turns on me. It hurt like nothing I had ever felt. I felt... so dirty. I have always felt much shame for this.”

“My father is... one of those men?” I ask softly, trying not to show her my tears. “Is that why you hate Dan? Because of his heritage?”

“I hated all men,” she replies. “I am sorry that I tried to make you do the same.”

“Then it was them?”

“I don't know,” she says to me, wiping her eyes and looking up at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. “It could be them, or others.”

“Others?” I question, feeling sick. What had my mother gone through? How had she endured this in silence? I felt a lump in my throat – and my lunch – rise.

“There were more. After that, they dragged me to the Camp, and threw me into a room with other women, my friend Kim was there. Her eyes were haunted, like she had glimpsed beyond life. I saw the other women of my village. They were filthy, but they wore dresses and sat demurely. The Japanese would come in and take one or a few away, to rooms, where they were used like... like animals. They made me bathe in water that stings and they cut my hair. They forced me into a kimono, but with no obi, only buttons, so it could be removed. They took me to those rooms, and men would come through, one at a time, and they would rape me and move on. Thirty men the first day,” her voice cracks and she weeps.

We sit in silence for a long time, crying and holding one another. I cannot believe the violence she has endured. I cannot believe she could bear to look at me. She squeezes my hand twice before she begins again.

“After a week, they tried to give me contraception. They said they did not want bastard children. I knew I was pregnant. I felt you,” she says, squeezing my hand. “I refused, so they beat me. They gave me a drink to swallow, but I spit it out when they were not looking. They sent me back to the room for more. I could not do it any longer. I thought about death. I thought about how I should die. I did not want to live with such torture any longer. I tried to take a knife, but they caught me and beat me again. For eighteen days this went on. On that day I did not want to kill myself any longer,” she whispered. “I wanted to kill them.

“I talked with Kim Sang Yu, and we wanted to plan escape. We could not stay. She had become pregnant and she was beaten until the child died. I could not let that happen to you. One day, there was a German soldier who came into the room for me. I tried to talk with him while he used me, and he knew Korean. He treated me well, and while he spoke I stole his tobacco lighter. I hid it until night. When I went to speak with Kim Sang Yu, another told me she was dead. I cried, and then I stole her blankets. Three more days I waited, planning in my head to escape.

“Finally, I decided to act. I told the women to give me their blankets, and told them to run when I said. I piled the blankets high, and we hung some from the walls. I told them to go to the door, though it was locked from the outside. I lit the blankets on fire and then we began to scream that there was a fire! Some soldiers came in to look and when the door was opened, we ran. Not all escaped. Some were shot, others only caught, but I ran. I did not stop though they shot at me, though my leg was injured from the fall still. I ran because my life depended on it, and yours. The fire blazed at the camp, orange sparks flying like fireworks. I ran into woods, and I hid there for two days, with only the tobacco lighter to give warmth for a few moments at a time. On the third day, I escaped into town and ran to harbor. I paid with my body,” my mother turns her head away in shame. “I was taken across the waters, into Japan. A kind woman took care of me, treated my diseases and cared for you while I recovered. I lived there for two years, until the war ended, and then I came to this country with you.

“I swore no man would touch me. I swore I would let no man touch you, unless you wished. I worked long days to live in this house with you, but still I cannot provide what you want. I cannot tell who your father is, but he is Japanese.”

“How could you love me?” I sob, my face between her small breasts. “How could you look at me?”

“I could not always. I… I hated you,” she whispers. “But you were new life from death. You were beautiful and precious… so I came to love you.”

“Why did you never tell me this before?” I hold her hand tightly, unable to prevent the tears that roll steadily down my cheeks. “Why did you let me hate you? Why didn't you tell me before?” I sob into her silk pajamas. My chest is tight with guilt and sorrow for what she has endured.

Her fingers brush my dark hair lightly. “What happened has scarred me, but I did not want it to scar you. You needed to hate at times, to be happy other times. I needed to hate sometimes too, but more important is to forgive.”

I lay there, crying with her, and she comforts me. I remember when I was sixteen, and the boy I liked did not like me, and I cried to her like my knee was skinned. I remember how she held me, and comforted me, as she does now. I tell her I love her, and she says I am her most precious thing in life. Her hand squeezes mine lightly, and her breathing slows. Fifteen minutes pass, and I feel no pressure against my fingers. I sit up and wipe my eyes. I look at her still body. Where before I had seen a woman filled with fear and anger, I now see a woman who was filled with strength, who protected what she loved the best she could. I stand, and take the slowly burning candle up with me. In the hall, I lean against my husband, his gray eyes full of understanding, and cry, holding the candle as it flickers gently, still burning.