1945

April 25

Early this morning my older brother, who lives in the corner house down the street, carried our betrothal gifts over to the Furusawa family residence in Senju. I had handed him 500 yen in cash and a bolt of cloth for hakama trousers, for which I bartered two hundred and fifty fans to take to them. This is a very large outlay for us since, with the shortage of materials these last years, we haven't made any fans for some time now, and quite honestly it's the most we can afford, given how things are these days.

When my brother came back, he said, "It seems that when the Furusawa boy met Kinuko for the first time at the restaurant the other day, he was so shy he never looked up and saw only her hands. So the morning of the day after tomorrow, the 27th, they're going to send him over here. Mrs. Furusawa says to make sure that Tadao gets a good look at the girl who's going to be his bride."

Kinuko blushed, and Fumiko and Takeko teased their older sister that she probably didn't see Tadao's face, either.

My wife and I talked it over and decided that Kinuko and Tadao should go together to the Shinbashi Embujo Theater, which just happens to be the opening day for Kikugoro VI. If we let them go on their own, they're sure to at least see each other's face.

The double cherries in front of the Takahashi house are in bloom. People walking by on the street are stopping to point at them.

April 26

I got up early today to repair my three-wheeled truck, but just couldn't get it going. I've taken a job with Furusawa Enterprises delivering fertilizer and tools to farmers in Katsushika, so I was desperate to get the truck up and running, but no luck. I listened to Masao Sasaki on the radio at noon performing "The Watchman's Rounds" on the mandolin. That picked me up a little, and I decided to take the truck into town to have it looked at; with me pulling the truck with a rope, Fumiko steering and my wife pushing from behind, we managed to get it to Daihatsu Motors in Nihonbashi Hon-cho.

The mechanic looked it over and told me the truck was completely worn down. "If we had the parts, we could probably get it running again," he said, "but we don't have anything in stock. There's nothing we can do." So we ended up dragging the miserable piece of scrap through the burned-out wasteland back home to Nezu. I wanted to cry. I called Furusawa Enterprises on the phone, told them the situation and apologized. Then I went to my brother's house.

"I was hoping to get a little business delivering stuff around town, but with the truck kaput, it's all over. I'll start making the rounds again tomorrow for supplies for fans. You went to a lot of trouble to introduce me to the Furusawas. I'm sorry I let you down," I said, bowing to him.

"You know, I know this saké brewer in Toride," my brother said. "Remember — I think it was about five years ago — he ordered two thousand fans with his company logo to be printed on them? That order that I got for you, remember? Anyway, the other day I went to get some saké from him, and he said he had a three-wheeled truck he didn't need anymore, and asked if I knew anybody who'd be interested. He wanted 7,000 yen, with a down payment of 1,000 yen, the rest in installments. Why don't you go see him on Monday? Or if you prefer, I could buy it and rent it out to you."

My brother reached into his cash box and took out five 200 yen notes recently printed by the Bank of Japan. The paper and printing of the 100 yen notes these days are really cheap and crappy, but these brand-new 200 yen bills have the crisp sound of genuine money. I thought how nice it would be to drive through the countryside in the spring, instead of slogging through the dust and ashes of Tokyo. I accepted the crisp bills and headed for home.

I know it's not really fair to call my truck a piece of junk. After all, I bought it eight years ago, in the spring of 1937, when business at our Yamanaka Fan Shop was booming. We'd gotten the exclusive commission to produce the commemorative fans that the Asahi Shimbun was giving to all their readers to celebrate the achievement of a new world record, when the paper's airplane Kamikaze broke the Asia-to-Europe record on a goodwill flight, making the journey from Tokyo to London in 94 hours, 17 minutes and 56 seconds. We had twelve or thirteen employees then. When the Korakuen Baseball Stadium opened in September that year, we made the commemorative fans for that, too. That little three-wheeler certainly more than paid its dues. By all rights, I shouldn't badmouth it.

And the reason I even thought of starting a delivery service was because we already had that three-wheeler, which of course led to us getting to know Furusawa Enterprises, and now to Kinuko marrying into the Furusawa family. That little truck wasn't such a troublemaker at all — in fact, it was more like some beneficent deity who descended from heaven to grant our every wish.

When I was walking by the Takahashi house next door, I suddenly heard the roar of a B-29. A single plane. That was odd. I quickly looked up into the night sky; there hadn't been even a cautionary alert siren, not to mention an air-raid siren. Maybe this was just reconnaissance. But reconnaissance flights came during the day. Then, what really scared me, after the sound of the engine strangely faded, there was the roar of a whole formation.

"Ah, Mr. Yamanaka is out wandering the streets," called out Shoichi. He's in his first year at Azabu Middle School. He was sticking his head out of the second-floor window of the house, laughing. "You're the fifth person to fall for it. It's just a record." Shoichi's head disappeared inside for a moment, and the sound of a formation of B-29s stopped a few moments after.

"Nitchiku just put out this record of B-29s exploding," Shoichi said, back at the window and waving a pamphlet. "See —'Death-defying Recording Finally Completed!'"

"What a stupid thing to put out at a time like this. To say nothing about the kind of people who would buy it," I said, glaring up at him.

"Don't be unpatriotic," Shoichi jeered. "This was produced by the Fortification Department. And it's recommended by the General Defense Headquarters and the Ministry of War."

Shoichi can be a troublemaker, but he's a good boy at heart and he's generally pleasant and cheerful. In fact, sometimes I like him better than Kiyoshi, even though Kiyoshi's my own son. Kiyoshi studies hard, but there's something dark about that kid. I waved goodbye to Shoichi and headed on my way.

When I got home, my wife, Kazue, was sewing Kinuko's kimono. Lately she's been up until dawn sewing away, preparing Kinuko's trousseau, which includes a set of futon and three kimonos. It's a big job for one person.

"Don't overdo it. You need to take a break. If you push yourself too hard, you're going to collapse in a heap before the wedding takes place," I told her.

"If an air-raid siren goes off," she replied, "I'm going to tie everything in Kinuko's trousseau in a big bundle, and I want you to carry it to the air-raid dugout in Ueno Park. If these are destroyed in a raid, I'll kill myself."

I pulled my low desk over next to my wife to write in my diary.

April 27

I woke up early this morning and went to Ueno Station to stand in line for a train ticket. It was a sunny day, with just a...