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The Modern & Contemporary Japan Collaborative

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The Modern & Contemporary Japan Collaborative

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For information about our ongoing projects, collaborations, resources, and events, please refer to the navigation bar on the left-hand side of the page or scroll down. For MCJC-related inquiries, please contact the Project Manager Hannah Gould at mcjc@japanpastandpresent.org.

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Modern & Contemporary Japan Collaborative | Japan Past & Present

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For information about our ongoing projects, collaborations, resources, and events, please refer to the navigation bar on the left-hand side of the page or scroll down. For MCJC-related inquiries, please contact the Project Manager Hannah Gould at mcjc@japanpastandpresent.org.

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Susumu Higa; edited by Andrew Woodrow-Butcher and Christopher Woodrow-Butcher; translated by Jocelyne Allen
(Fantagraphics Books)

Key words: Community, family, war, translation

A peaceful, independent kingdom until its annexation by the Japanese Empire in the 19th century, Okinawa was the site of the most destructive land battle of the Pacific War. Today, the archipelago is Japan's poorest prefecture and unwilling host to 75% of all US military bases in Japan.

Okinawa brings together two collections of intertwined stories by the island's pre-eminent mangaka, Susumu Higa, which reflect on this difficult history and pull together traditional Okinawan spirituality, the modern-day realities of the continuing US military occupation, and the senselessness of the War. The first collection, Sword of Sand, is a ground level, unflinching look at the horrors of the Battle of Okinawa. Higa then turns an observant eye to the present-day in Mabui (Okinawan for "spirit"), where he explores how the American occupation has irreversibly changed the island prefecture, through the lens of the archipelago's indigenous spirituality and the central character of the yuta priestess.

Okinawa is a harrowing document of war, but it is also a work which addresses the dreams and the needs of a people as they go forward into an uncertain future, making it essential reading for anyone interested in World War II and its effects on our lives today, as well as anyone with an interest in the people and culture of this fascinating, complicated place. Though the work is thoroughly about one specific locale, the complex relations between Okinawan and Japanese identities and loyalties, between place and history, and between humanity and violence speak beyond borders and across shores.

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Key words: Community, family, war, translation

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Warrior Girl Unearthed and Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley

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Warrior Girl Unearthed and Firekeeper's Daughter by Angeline Boulley

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Warrior Girl Unearthed is a gripping follow-up to Angeline Boulley's much-lauded debut, Firekeeper's Daughter. Here, we return to Sugar Island and meet the next generation of girls in the Firekeeper family.

High school student Perry had a glorious Summer of Slack all planned out, full of fishing, teasing her go-getter twin sister Pauline, and generally enjoying life. But then she accidentally wrecks her car, and to pay back her Auntie Daunis for the repairs, she has to take a job with one of the tribal-affiliated businesses in the Kinomaage Summer Internship Program. Perry is not amused to be assigned to the last remaining and least desirable internship role - working for Cooper Turtle, the odd manager of the Sugar Island Cultural Learning Centre.

At first, it seems like it's going to be a tedious summer of cleaning museum display cases. But then her boss takes her to a meeting at Mackinac State College where he's discussing the return of sacred and important cultural objects and the human remains of their ancestors that were stolen over the previous centuries and ended up in institutions. Perry is completely horrified by the revelation that her ancestors and their belongings are being treated like artifacts and denied their proper places of rest and respect. She is enraged by the labyrinthine laws and policies that allow institutions to delay their return indefinitely, not to mention private collectors who hoard things that they should never have had in the first place.

Propelled by her newfound passion for bringing her ancestors and their stolen possessions home, Perry digs into her internship with gusto. But when her sense of duty to her ancestors sings louder than her respect for rules and process, she begins to engage in activities that may get her into deeper trouble than she could have imagined. For Sugar Island has its monsters - Perry's Auntie Daunis knows this all too well - and at least one of them is intent on stealing the lives of living Anishinaabe women as well as their dead. Perry will need the combined power of her family, her community, and her ancestors to bring justice to bear.

It's clear from this sophomore novel that Boulley really knows how to construct a riveting, culturally focused thriller. Perry's deep-dive into the injustice of colonialist institutions treating her ancestors' remains as if they are things to be collected and catalogued rather than former people deserving of respect is compelling and current. The concept of the repatriation of objects that were stolen from their people is often in the news, and this book offers a very visceral view of what it might feel like to have your culture disrespected by the very people who claim to cherish history and culture. Perry herself, like her Auntie Daunis before her, is a formidable character who will not suffer fools and will not wait around for permission or salvation. Her sense of self, her faith in her family, and her dedication to her beliefs make her a pleasure to spend time with.

In terms of the twists and turns of the story, I found that this book was very much character-driven, with a lot of the conflict and danger stemming from Perry's own decisions and actions. As the book reaches its climax, however, things begin to spin out of Perry's control, and it did feel as though a few of the twists and reveals were born out of a pressure to make this somewhat quieter story reach the same levels of drama as Firekeeper's Daughter. Perry's internal journey would have been more than enough to carry me through.

I didn't go into reading Warrior Girl Unearthed expecting its events to be tied as closely as they are to Firekeeper's Daughter, and it was nice to settle back into the community and family that I had already grown to love in the previous book. Like a detective series where the place the detective lives becomes one of the familiar elements you expect in each new installment, Sugar Island clearly contains many stories, and I loved checking in with Daunis, Granny June, and all my other favorite characters while following Perry's unique journey. Boulley has become a must-read author for me, and I hope we will continue to get more stories about the Firekeeper family and their home on Sugar Island.

Caitlyn Paxson is a writer and performer. She is a regular reviewer for NPR Books and Quill & Quire.

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'Warrior Girl Unearthed' revisits the 'Firekeeper's Daughter' cast of characters

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In this gripping follow-up to Angeline Boulley's much-lauded debut, we return to Sugar Island and meet the next generation of girls in the Firekeeper family.

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Ainu activist near Tokyo uses traditional cloth art to show her people are 'right here'

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Ainu activist near Tokyo uses traditional cloth art to show her people are 'right here'

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Shizue Ukaji gives a lecture in the city of Yokohama's Kanazawa Ward in Kanagawa Prefecture on April 17, 2021. (Mainichi/Nami Takata)

Shizue Ukaji's cloth artwork with traditional Ainu embroidery is seen in Yokohama, Kanagawa Prefecture, on April 17, 2021. (Mainichi/Nami Takata)

YOKOHAMA -- Traditional Ainu embroidery pieces using old cloths have been put on display at a gallery south of Tokyo, and on the first day of the exhibition, the artist, who has pushed for reclaiming the rights of Japan's indigenous people, spoke about the current reality surrounding the Ainu.

Shizue Ukaji, 88, is a "kofue" artist who adorns old cloths with traditional Ainu embroidery. Her works are currently on display at the Ainu Art Festival 2021 held in the Asaba Art Square, a gallery in Yokohama's Kanazawa Ward. Ukaji is a pioneer of the movement to reclaim the rights of Ainu people in eastern Japan's Kanto region, which were lost to the country's past assimilation policies. Ukaji gave a lecture on April 17, the first day of the kofue exhibition.

The Ainu are an indigenous group that lived in Japan, mainly concentrated in Hokkaido in the northernmost part of the country, as well as on Sakhalin Island and the northern Kuril Islands, also known as the Chishima islands in Japanese. In 1899, the Meiji era government enacted a law claiming to have been designed to protect the Ainu people in Hokkaido, which was used as a pretext for carrying forward assimilation. The law was abolished in 1997.

From Meiji onward, many Ainu people moved to Japan's main island not only to work, but also in an attempt to escape from discrimination. However, population surveys of Ainu people living outside Hokkaido have rarely been conducted. A study carried out by the Tokyo Metropolitan Government in 1988 estimated that some 2,700 Ainu people were living in the Japanese capital.

Ukaji, who was born in 1933 in the Hokkaido town of Urakawa, was also among those who eventually moved to Tokyo. While discrimination and prejudice against Ainu people showed no signs of disappearing, she made a contribution to a newspaper in 1972 which read, "Utari (the Ainu word for "comrade"), let us all join hands." She established the "Tokyo Utari kai" society the following year, and devoted herself to the rights restoration movement. Her son, Takashi Ukaji, is an actor.

At the lecture, she reflected on her student years where she was railed at and called "Ainu" at her school in Hokkaido, and said that she "received discrimination without understanding what was going on." In spite of her continuous efforts as the pioneer of the rights restoration movement to petition the national government and inform it of the reality Ainu people were subjected to, the situation remained unchanged. Ukaji encountered cloth art at age 63.

"I wished to express with cloth art that Ainu people are right here," said Ukaji, while explaining that her resentment toward the national government had driven her to take up the needlework.

There are about 20 works, including kofue cloth art themed after a Blakiston's fish owl which appears in Ainu mythology, and an ethnic costume. It is the second Ainu-related event held at the Asaba Art Square gallery this year.

Event organizer Kazuko Asaba said, "The views of the Ainu, who have co-existed with nature, are necessary for our present age. I'd like to continue the event in the following years to come."

The exhibition lasts until April 30. Admission is 1,000 yen (about $9). For more information, please contact Asaba Art Square at 045-783-9705 (in Japanese)

(Japanese original by Nami Takata, Yokohama Bureau)

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Ainu activist near Tokyo uses traditional cloth art to show her people are 'right here' - The Mainichi

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YOKOHAMA -- Traditional Ainu embroidery pieces using old cloths have been put on display at a gallery south of Tokyo, and on the first day of the exhi

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Ainu Tales in Tapestries: Shizue Ukaji at the Philia Museum

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Ainu Tales in Tapestries: Shizue Ukaji at the Philia Museum

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Ainu Tales in Tapestries: Shizue Ukaji at the Philia Museum
Alan Gleason

Kamui Chikap Kamui, the owl god, above an Ainu pattern embracing the island of Hokkaido. Embroidery on fabric by Shizue Ukaji, 2008.

An old woman sings out her warning of a tsunami. From The Song of the Cicada by Shizue Ukaji, published by Fukuinkan Shoten, 2008.

The shimafukuro or island owl is a species of fish owl that dwells only on Japan's northernmost island of Hokkaido. With a wingspan that can reach two meters, it is the largest owl in the world. To the Ainu, the indigenous people of Hokkaido, the shimafukuro is a god -- a guardian deity who figures in many of their legends.

It is a miracle that these orally transmitted tales can even be heard today. The campaign by the Japanese government to develop Hokkaido and make it a permanent part of Japan did not begin in earnest until after the Meiji Restoration of 1868, but in mere decades the native Ainu population and its culture were nearly eradicated. In the early 1970s, however, an Ainu rights movement emerged, demanding, among other things, that the government recognize the Ainu as an indigenous minority. The activists' efforts culminated in passage of the Ainu Cultural Law in 1997.

The old woman is swept out to sea, but returns to land as a singing cicada. From The Song of the Cicada by Shizue Ukaji, published by Fukuinkan Shoten, 2008.

The owl god watches over his little sister in a tapestry based on the Ainu legend Tokina-to. Embroidery on fabric by Shizue Ukaji, published in Tokina-to: Song by a Little Sister of the God Owl by Fukuinkan Shoten, 2008.

One of the leaders of this movement was an Ainu poet named Shizue Ukaji. Born in Hokkaido in 1933, she moved at age 23 to Tokyo, one of many Ainu who migrated to the capital to escape the poverty and discrimination they faced in Hokkaido. In Tokyo Ukaji fought not only for Ainu rights and recognition, but also to preserve Ainu culture. In the 1990s she began to study traditional Ainu embroidery. Applying Ainu patterns and needlework to scraps of old kimono fabric, she invented her own distinctive medium of expression: kofu-e, or "old cloth pictures."

Ukaji places her art in the service of giving form to the ancient myths of the Ainu -- the oral tradition of epics known as yukara. Her pictures are like small tapestries, which she produces in series to tell a story. Humans, gods, and monsters figure prominently, but pride of place goes to animals of all sorts -- salmon, snakes, cicadas, and most notably, owls -- big owls, with piercing eyes. Her creatures fly, swim and crawl across the fabric in what seem like free-form improvisations of needlework, but they are anchored by the repetition of traditional Ainu patterns: wave- or cloud-like curls and spirals that remind one of the totem pole motifs of indigenous people on the other side of the ocean, in the Pacific Northwest.

It makes sense that Ukaji's kofu-e would be compiled into picture books, a literary medium that has achieved something of an artistic zenith in Japan. In just the last five years the venerable children's publisher Fukuinkan has produced three beautiful books of Ukaji's art, each volume telling one of the yukara legends.

And it makes equally good sense to display these pictures in narrative sequence on the walls of an art museum. This is what the Philia Museum in Yamanashi Prefecture has done, and one cannot imagine a more sympatico environment for Ukaji's work.

Two tapestries of traditional Ainu patterns by Shizue Ukaji hang next to the pipe organ in the main gallery of the Philia Museum. Photo by Alan Gleason.

The pastoral setting of the Philia Museum, opened in 1990 in Kobuchizawa, Yamanashi Prefecture.

All images courtesy of the Philia Museum

The Philia overlooks a broad alpine meadow on the lower slopes of Yatsugatake, a volcanic massif in the center of Japan's main island of Honshu. Beyond the meadow tower the snowy peaks of the Southern Alps. It is probably as close an approximation of Ukaji's northern homeland as one is likely to find anywhere on Honshu.

The museum itself is also an excellent fit, albeit in unexpected ways. The Philia has nothing remotely "ethnic," artsy-craftsy, or even traditionally Japanese about it. In fact, it resembles a medieval European chapel, complete with high wooden rafters and a pipe organ in the main gallery. This cloister-like ambience resonates most serendipitously with the tapestries, large and small, that make up Ukaji's exhibition. Two of her largest works, covered in geometric Ainu patterns, hang on the gallery wall next to the pipe organ: the juxtaposition is curious, but somehow perfect.

Along the other walls and in the mezzanine upstairs one can view, in sequence, the original embroidered-fabric pictures that illustrate three of Ukaji's picture books: The Owl God and a School of Salmon, The Song of the Cicada, and Tokina-to: Song by a Little Sister of the God Owl. By poignant coincidence, The Song of the Cicada tells the story of an old woman who warns the people in her fishing village of the imminent arrival of a tsunami, but to no avail.

An even more gut-wrenching association with Ukaji's work -- and life -- is provided by one of the museum's special collections in a room off the main gallery: a series of drawings by the Polish painter Mieczylaw Kosceilniak of life in Auschwitz, the Nazi death camp where he was imprisoned from 1941 to 1945. Viewing Kosceilniak's works in tandem with Ukaji's, it is impossible not to contemplate the parallels between the Holocaust and the fate of the Ainu, and their common origin in man's casual dehumanization of those perceived as Other. As tragedies continue to unfold to the north in Iwate, Miyagi and Fukushima, Ukaji and the Philia Museum offer us some timely perspectives, at once playful and sobering, on the caprices of the gods -- and on human hubris and folly.

Late spring is the perfect time to visit the Philia Museum and its bucolic environs. Ukaji's exhibition will be on view there until June 26.

Shizue Ukaji: Pictures from Old Fabric

28 April - 26 June 2011

Philia Museum

3476-76 Kami-Sasao, Kobuchizawa-cho, Hokuto-shi, Yamanashi Prefecture
Phone: 0551-36-4221
Open 9:30-5:00 (10:00-4:00 November through April), closed Wednesdays
Transportation: 20-minute walk or 5 minutes by taxi from Kobuchizawa Station on the JR Chuo Line (2 hours from Tokyo by limited express)

Alan Gleason
Alan Gleason is a translator, editor and writer based in Tokyo, where he has lived for 25 years. In addition to writing about the Japanese art scene he has edited and translated works on Japanese theater (from kabuki to the avant-garde) and music (both traditional and contemporary).

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Ainu Tales in Tapestries: Shizue Ukaji at the Philia Museum Alan Gleason Kamui Chikap Kamui, the owl god, above an Ainu pattern embracing the island of Hokkaido. Embroidery on fabric by Shizue Ukaji, 2008. An old woman sings out her warning of a tsunami.

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March Was Made of Yarn: Reflections on the Japanese Earthquake, Tsunami, and Nuclear Meltdown (2012)

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March Was Made of Yarn: Reflections on the Japanese Earthquake, Tsunami, and Nuclear Meltdown (2012)

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March Was Made of Yarn: 9780307948861 | PenguinRandomHouse.com: Books

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In time for the one year anniversary of the 2011 earthquake in Japan, a collection of essays and stories by Japanese writers on the devastating disaster, its aftermath, and the resolve of a people to rebuild....

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My name is Kaiya, and I am a 17-year old Okinawan American high school student from Portland, Oregon. I recently went back to Henoko because I was frustrated with the  silence of the media around this crisis. I wanted to make a documentary to show the world what's happening. This is my documentary, "Our Island's Treasure," that focuses on the current destruction of the beautiful Okinawan ocean in Henoko and the fight by native Uchinanchu people to protect it. This is an emergency. 

PLEASE SHARE AND SPREAD THE WORD!

私の名前はカイヤです。17歳です。私はウチナーンチュの2世でオレゴン州のポートランドに住んでいます。アメリカでは辺野古のニュースが流れてないので自分でドキュメンタリーを作って世界に辺野古の事を見せようと思い、最近大好きな沖縄に戻りました。「私達の島の宝」と言うドキュメンタリーです。ぜひシェアしてください。宜しくお願いします。

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Nuchi nu Miji – Okinawa’s Water of Life（English subtitled）

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Henoko base relocation project enters new phase in Okinawa

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Henoko base relocation project enters new phase in Okinawa

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The project to relocate a U.S. military base to the Henoko coastal area in Okinawa Prefecture is entering a new phase five years after land reclamation began there.

On Dec. 14, 2018, the Japanese government began landfill work in the Henoko area in the city of Nago to build a facility that will take over the functions of U.S. Marine Corps Air Station Futenma in Ginowan, also in Okinawa.

On Wednesday, a high court branch in Okinawa is scheduled to issue a ruling on a lawsuit filed by the central government against the Okinawa Prefectural Government over procedures for improving soft ground off the coast of Henoko.

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Henoko base relocation project enters new phase in Okinawa

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The project to relocate a U.S. military base to the Henoko coastal area is entering a new phase five years after land reclamation began there.

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On April 11, 2011, the one-month anniversary of the earthquake, ChimPom artists traveled to the Fukushima Daiichi plant wearing Hazmat suits to create a new version of the Japanese flag.

Aired: 07/26/11

Rating: NR

Problems Playing Video? Report a Problem |

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FRONTLINE | Real Times | Season 2011 | Episode 12 | PBS

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Video art produced by the Japanese collective ChimPom near the Fukushima Daiichi plant.

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J:COM北九州芸術劇場

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山海塾「かがみの隠喩の彼方へ―かげみ」　ダイジェスト動画

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Thirty Minutes Over Oregon: A Japanese Pilot's World War II Story

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Thirty Minutes Over Oregon: A Japanese Pilot's World War II Story

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An Orbis Pictus Honor Book for Outstanding Nonfiction 2019

The devastating attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, drew the United States into World War II in 1941. But few are aware that several months later, the Japanese pilot Nobuo Fujita dropped bombs in the woods outside a small town in coastal Oregon. This is the story of those bombings, and what came after, when Fujita returned to Oregon twenty years later, this time to apologize.
This remarkable true story, beautifully illustrated in watercolor, is an important and moving account of reconciliation after war.
In this important and moving true story of reconciliation after war, beautifully illustrated in watercolor, a Japanese pilot bombs the continental U.S. during WWII-the only enemy ever to do so-and comes back 20 years later to apologize.

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Thirty Minutes Over Oregon: A Japanese Pilot's World War II Story

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Thirty Minutes Over Oregon: A Japanese Pilot's World War II Story [Nobleman, Marc Tyler, Iwai, Melissa] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Thirty Minutes Over Oregon: A Japanese Pilot's World War II Story

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Butoh: Body on the Edge of Crisis 2K [remaster]

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Dream weavers: the Indigenous Ainu people of Japan - in pictures

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Dream weavers: the Indigenous Ainu people of Japan - in pictures

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The Ainu of Hokkaido in Japan were not officially recognised as an indigenous people until 2008. This recognition came after a long history of exclusion and assimilation that almost erased their society, language and culture. Photographer Laura Liverani collaborated with members of the Ainu for this exhibition called Coexistences: Portraits of Today's Japan, showing at the The Japan Foundation, Sydney until 21 June.

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Dream weavers: the indigenous Ainu people of Japan - in pictures

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The Ainu of Hokkaido in Japan were not officially recognised as an indigenous people until 2008. This recognition came after a long history of exclusion and assimilation that almost erased their society, language and culture. Photographer Laura Liverani collaborated with members of the Ainu for this exhibition called Coexistences: Portraits of Today's Japan, showing at the The Japan Foundation, Sydney until 21 June.

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"Unsolved Mysteries" Tsunami Spirits episode - Season 2, episode 4)

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"Unsolved Mysteries" Tsunami Spirits episode - Season 2, episode 4)

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So, just like the original show (and the UFO episode in the first 6 episodes of this reboot) I never really have liked the supernatural unsolved mysteries they explore. However, everyone saying this doesn't fit the show - these things are technically mysteries that have been answered or solved ... so they absolutely fit.

It isn't just "unsolved true crime mysteries."

However, these episodes to me aren't very compelling or interesting and in the case of the Tsunami Ghosts - it's seems a tad exploitative of people that are grieving and looking for answers and comfort.

I think that UM should stick with True Crime (so should Buzzfeed Unsolved #Shaniac)

The ghost/monsters/aliens should be saved for specials or separate seasons/series.

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"Unsolved Mysteries" Tsunami Spirits (TV Episode 2020) - IMDb

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So, just like the original show (and the UFO episode in the first 6 episodes of this reboot) I never really have liked the supernatural unsolved mysteries they explore. However, everyone saying this doesn't fit the show - these things are technically mysteries that have been answered or solved ...

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【公式】日活MOVIEチャンネル

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Samurai Champloo – Opening Theme – Battlecry

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Billie Eilish - you should see me in a crown  (video by Murakami Takashi)

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Billie Eilish - you should see me in a crown  (video by Murakami Takashi)

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Billie Eilish - you should see me in a crown (Official Video By Takashi Murakami)

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Jellyfish Eyes | Official Trailer (English Subtitles)

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Butoh: 32:44-35:43

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The Tokyo 2020 Opening Ceremony - in FULL LENGTH!

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Official website of Upopoy National Ainu Museum and Park in Hokkaido, Japan. Includes visitor information and details about programs and events.

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Japan's Indigenous people assert ethnic pride

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Japan's Indigenous people assert ethnic pride

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Japan's indigenous people assert ethnic pride

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I-A Noiseless Flash

At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning, on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk. At that same moment, Dr. Masakazu Fujii was settling down cross-legged to read the Osaka Asahi on the porch of his private hospital, overhanging one of the seven deltaic rivers which divide Hiroshima; Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, a tailor's widow, stood by the window of her kitchen, watching a neighbor tearing down his house because it lay in the path of an air-raid-defense fire lane; Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, a German priest of the Society of Jesus, reclined in his underwear on a cot on the top floor of his order's three-story mission house, reading a Jesuit magazine, Stimmen der Zeit; Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, a young member of the surgical staff of the city's large, modern Red Cross Hospital, walked along one of the hospital corridors with a blood specimen for a Wassermann test in his hand; and the Reverend Mr. Kiyoshi Tanimoto, pastor of the Hiroshima Methodist Church, paused at the door of a rich man's house in Koi, the city's western suburb, and prepared to unload a handcart full of things he had evacuated from town in fear of the massive B-29 raid which everyone expected Hiroshima to suffer. A hundred thousand people were killed by the atomic bomb, and these six were among the survivors. They still wonder why they lived when so many others died. Each of them counts many small items of chance or volition-a step taken in time, a decision to go indoors, catching one streetcar instead of the next-that spared him. And now each knows that in the act of survival he lived a dozen lives and saw more death than he ever thought he would see. At the time, none of them knew anything.

The Reverend Mr. Tanimoto got up at five o'clock that morning. He was alone in the parsonage, because for some time his wife had been commuting with their year-old baby to spend nights with a friend in Ushida, a suburb to the north. Of all the important cities of Japan, only two, Kyoto and Hiroshima, had not been visited in strength by B-san, or Mr. B, as the Japanese, with a mixture of respect and unhappy familiarity, called the B-29; and Mr. Tanimoto, like all his neighbors and friends, was almost sick with anxiety. He had heard uncomfortably detailed accounts of mass raids on Kure, Iwakuni, Tokuyama, and other nearby towns; he was sure Hiroshima's turn would come soon. He had slept badly the night before, because there had been several air-raid warnings. Hiroshima had been getting such warnings almost every night for weeks, for at that time the B-29s were using Lake Biwa, northeast of Hiroshima, as a rendezvous point, and no matter what city the Americans planned to hit, the Super-fortresses streamed in over the coast near Hiroshima. The frequency of the warnings and the continued abstinence of Mr. B with respect to Hiroshima had made its citizens jittery; a rumor was going around that the Americans were saving something special for the city.

Mr. Tanimoto is a small man, quick to talk, laugh, and cry. He wears his black hair parted in the middle and rather long; the prominence of the frontal bones just above his eyebrows and the smallness of his mustache, mouth, and chin give him a strange, old-young look, boyish and yet wise, weak and yet fiery. He moves nervously and fast, but with a restraint which suggests that he is a cautious, thoughtful man. He showed, indeed, just those qualities in the uneasy days before the bomb fell. Besides having his wife spend the nights in Ushida, Mr. Tanimoto had been carrying all the portable things from his church, in the close-packed residential district called Nagaragawa, to a house that belonged to a rayon manufacturer in Koi, two miles from the center of town. The rayon man, a Mr. Matsui, had opened his then unoccupied estate to a large number of his friends and acquaintances, so that they might evacuate whatever they wished to a safe distance from the probable target area. Mr. Tanimoto had had no difficulty in moving chairs, hymnals, Bibles, altar gear, and church records by pushcart himself, but the organ console and an upright piano required some aid. A friend of his named Matsuo had, the day before, helped him get the piano out to Koi; in return, he had promised this day to assist Mr. Matsuo in hauling out a daughter's belongings. That is why he had risen so early.

Mr. Tanimoto cooked his own breakfast. He felt awfully tired. The effort of moving the piano the day before, a sleepless night, weeks of worry and unbalanced diet, the cares of his parish-all combined to make him feel hardly adequate to the new day's work. There was another thing, too: Mr. Tanimoto had studied theology at Emory College, in Atlanta, Georgia; he had graduated in 1940; he spoke excellent English; he dressed in American clothes; he had corresponded with many American friends right up to the time the war began; and among a people obsessed with a fear of being spied upon-perhaps almost obsessed himself-he found himself growing increasingly uneasy. The police had questioned him several times, and just a few days before, he had heard that an influential acquaintance, a Mr. Tanaka, a retired officer of the Toyo Kisen Kaisha steamship line, an anti-Christian, a man famous in Hiroshima for his showy philanthropies and notorious for his personal tyrannies, had been telling people that Tanimoto should not be trusted. In compensation, to show himself publicly a good Japanese, Mr. Tanimoto had taken on the chairmanship of his local tonarigumi, or Neighborhood Association, and to his other duties and concerns this position had added the business of organizing air-raid defense for about twenty families.

Before six o'clock that morning, Mr. Tanimoto started for Mr. Matsuo's house. There he found that their burden was to be a tansu, a large Japanese cabinet, full of clothing and household goods. The two men set out. The morning was perfectly clear and so warm that the day promised to be uncomfortable. A few minutes after they started, the air-raid siren went off-a minute-long blast that warned of approaching planes but indicated to the people of Hiroshima only a slight degree of danger, since it sounded every morning at this time, when an American weather plane came over. The two men pulled and pushed the handcart through the city streets. Hiroshima was a fan-shaped city, lying mostly on the six islands formed by the seven estuarial rivers that branch out from the Ota River; its main commercial and residential districts, covering about four square miles in the center of the city, contained three-quarters of its population, which had been reduced by several evacuation programs from a wartime peak of 380,000 to about 245,000. Factories and other residential districts, or suburbs, lay compactly around the edges of the city. To the south were the docks, an airport, and the island-studded Inland Sea. A rim of mountains runs around the other three sides of the delta. Mr. Tanimoto and Mr. Matsuo took their way through the shopping center, already full of people, and across two of the rivers to the sloping streets of Koi, and up them to the outskirts and foothills. As they started up a valley away from the tight-ranked houses, the all-clear sounded. (The Japanese radar operators, detecting only three planes, supposed that they comprised a reconnaissance.) Pushing the handcart up to the rayon man's house was tiring, and the men, after they had maneuvered their load into the driveway and to the front steps, paused to rest awhile. They stood with a wing of the house between them and the city. Like most homes in this part of Japan, the house consisted of a wooden frame and wooden walls supporting a heavy tile roof. Its front hall, packed with rolls of bedding and clothing, looked like a cool cave full of fat cushions. Opposite the house, to the right of the front door, there was a large, finicky rock garden. There was no sound of planes. The morning was still; the place was cool and pleasant.

Then a tremendous flash of light cut across the sky. Mr. Tanimoto has a distinct recollection that it travelled from east to west, from the city toward the hills. It seemed a sheet of sun. Both he and Mr. Matsuo reacted in terror-and both had time to react (for they were 3,500 yards, or two miles, from the center of the explosion). Mr. Matsuo dashed up the front steps into the house and dived among the bedrolls and buried himself there. Mr. Tanimoto took four or five steps and threw himself between two big rocks in the garden. He bellied up very hard against one of them. As his face was against the stone, he did not see what happened. He felt a sudden pressure, and then splinters and pieces of board and fragments of tile fell on him. He heard no roar. (Almost no one in Hiroshima recalls hearing any noise of the bomb. But a fisherman in his sampan on the Inland Sea near Tsuzu, the man with whom Mr. Tanimoto's mother-in-law and sister-in-law were living, saw the flash and heard a tremendous explosion; he was nearly twenty miles from Hiroshima, but the thunder was greater than when the B-29s hit Iwakuni, only five miles away.)

When he dared, Mr. Tanimoto raised his head and saw that the rayon man's house had collapsed. He thought a bomb had fallen directly on it. Such clouds of dust had risen that there was a sort of twilight around. In panic, not thinking for the moment of Mr. Matsuo under the ruins, he dashed out into the street. He noticed as he ran that the concrete wall of the estate had fallen over-toward the house rather than away from it. In the street, the first thing he saw was a squad of soldiers who had been burrowing into the hillside opposite, making one of the thousands of dugouts in which the Japanese apparently intended to resist invasion, hill by hill, life for life; the soldiers were coming out of the hole, where they should have been safe, and blood was running from their heads, chests, and backs. They were silent and dazed.

Under what seemed to be a local dust cloud, the day grew darker and darker.

At nearly midnight, the night before the bomb was dropped, an announcer on the city's radio station said that about two hundred B-29s were approaching southern Honshu and advised the population of Hiroshima to evacuate to their designated "safe areas." Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, the tailor's widow, who lived in the section called Nobori-cho and who had long had a habit of doing as she was told, got her three children-a ten-year-old boy, Toshio, an eight-year-old girl, Yaeko, and a five-year-old girl, Myeko-out of bed and dressed them and walked with them to the military area known as the East Parade Ground, on the northeast edge of the city. There she unrolled some mats and the children lay down on them. They slept until about two, when they were awakened by the roar of the planes going over Hiroshima.

As soon as the planes had passed, Mrs. Nakamura started back with her children. They reached home a little after two-thirty and she immediately turned on the radio, which, to her distress, was just then broadcasting a fresh warning. When she looked at the children and saw how tired they were, and when she thought of the number of trips they had made in past weeks, all to no purpose, to the East Parade Ground, she decided that in spite of the instructions on the radio, she simply could not face starting out all over again. She put the children in their bedrolls on the floor, lay down herself at three o'clock, and fell asleep at once, so soundly that when planes passed over later, she did not waken to their sound.

The siren jarred her awake at about seven. She arose, dressed quickly, and hurried to the house of Mr. Nakamoto, the head of her Neighborhood Association, and asked him what she should do. He said that she should remain at home unless an urgent warning-a series of intermittent blasts of the siren-was sounded. She returned home, lit the stove in the kitchen, set some rice to cook, and sat down to read that morning's Hiroshima Chugoku. To her relief, the all-clear sounded at eight o'clock. She heard the children stirring, so she went and gave each of them a handful of peanuts and told them to stay on their bedrolls, because they were tired from the night's walk. She had hoped that they would go back to sleep, but the man in the house directly to the south began to make a terrible hullabaloo of hammering, wedging, ripping, and splitting. The prefectural government, convinced, as everyone in Hiroshima was, that the city would be attacked soon, had begun to press with threats and warnings for the completion of wide fire lanes, which, it was hoped, might act in conjunction with the rivers to localize any fires started by an incendiary raid; and the neighbor was reluctantly sacrificing his home to the city's safety. Just the day before, the prefecture had ordered all able-bodied girls from the secondary schools to spend a few days helping to clear these lanes, and they started work soon after the all-clear sounded.

Mrs. Nakamura went back to the kitchen, looked at the rice, and began watching the man next door. At first, she was annoyed with him for making so much noise, but then she was moved almost to tears by pity. Her emotion was specifically directed toward her neighbor, tearing down his home, board by board, at a time when there was so much unavoidable destruction, but undoubtedly she also felt a generalized, community pity, to say nothing of self-pity. She had not had an easy time. Her husband, Isawa, had gone into the Army just after Myeko was born, and she had heard nothing from or of him for a long time, until, on March 5, 1942, she received a seven-word telegram: "Isawa died an honorable death at Singapore." She learned later that he had died on February 15th, the day Singapore fell, and that he had been a corporal. Isawa had been a not particularly prosperous tailor, and his only capital was a Sankoku sewing machine. After his death, when his allotments stopped coming, Mrs. Nakamura got out the machine and began to take in piecework herself, and since then had supported the children, but poorly, by sewing.

As Mrs. Nakamura stood watching her neighbor, everything flashed whiter than any white she had ever seen. She did not notice what happened to the man next door; the reflex of a mother set her in motion toward her children. She had taken a single step (the house was 1,350 yards, or three-quarters of a mile, from the center of the explosion) when something picked her up and she seemed to fly into the next room over the raised sleeping platform, pursued by parts of her house.

Timbers fell around her as she landed, and a shower of tiles pommelled her; everything became dark, for she was buried. The debris did not cover her deeply. She rose up and freed herself. She heard a child cry, "Mother, help me!," and saw her youngest-Myeko, the five-year-old-buried up to her breast and unable to move. As Mrs. Nakamura started frantically to claw her way toward the baby, she could see or hear nothing of her other children.

In the days right before the bombing, Dr. Masakazu Fujii, being prosperous, hedonistic, and, at the time, not too busy, had been allowing himself the luxury of sleeping until nine or nine-thirty, but fortunately he had to get up early the morning the bomb was dropped to see a house guest off on a train. He rose at six, and half an hour later walked with his friend to the station, not far away, across two of the rivers. He was back home by seven, just as the siren sounded its sustained warning. He ate breakfast and then, because the morning was already hot, undressed down to his underwear and went out on the porch to read the paper. This porch-in fact, the whole building-was curiously constructed. Dr. Fujii was the proprietor of a peculiarly Japanese institution, a private, single-doctor hospital. This building, perched beside and over the water of the Kyo River, and next to the bridge of the same name, contained thirty rooms for thirty patients and their kinfolk-for, according to Japanese custom, when a person falls sick and goes to a hospital, one or more members of his family go and live there with him, to cook for him, bathe, massage, and read to him, and to offer incessant familial sympathy, without which a Japanese patient would be miserable indeed. Dr. Fujii had no beds-only straw mats-for his patients. He did, however, have all sorts of modern equipment: an X-ray machine, diathermy apparatus, and a fine tiled laboratory. The structure rested two-thirds on the land, one-third on piles over the tidal waters of the Kyo. This overhang, the part of the building where Dr. Fujii lived, was queer-looking, but it was cool in summer and from the porch, which faced away from the center of the city, the prospect of the river, with pleasure boats drifting up and down it, was always refreshing. Dr. Fujii had occasionally had anxious moments when the Ota and its mouth branches rose to flood, but the piling was apparently firm enough and the house had always held.

Dr. Fujii had been relatively idle for about a month because in July, as the number of untouched cities in Japan dwindled and as Hiroshima seemed more and more inevitably a target, he began turning patients away, on the ground that in case of a fire raid he would not be able to evacuate them. Now he had only two patients left-a woman from Yano, injured in the shoulder, and a young man of twenty-five recovering from burns he had suffered when the steel factory near Hiroshima in which he worked had been hit.

Dr. Fujii had six nurses to tend his patients. His wife and children were safe; his wife and one son were living outside Osaka, and another son and two daughters were in the country on Kyushu. A niece was living with him, and a maid and a manservant. He had little to do and did not mind, for he had saved some money. At fifty, he was healthy, convivial, and calm, and he was pleased to pass the evenings drinking whiskey with friends, always sensibly and for the sake of conversation. Before the war, he had affected brands imported from Scotland and America; now he was perfectly satisfied with the best Japanese brand, Suntory.

Dr. Fujii sat down cross-legged in his underwear on the spotless matting of the porch, put on his glasses, and started reading the Osaka Asahi. He liked to read the Osaka news because his wife was there. He saw the flash. To him-faced away from the center and looking at his paper-it seemed a brilliant yellow. Startled, he began to rise to his feet. In that moment (he was 1,550 yards from the center), the hospital leaned behind his rising and, with a terrible ripping noise, toppled into the river. The Doctor, still in the act of getting to his feet, was thrown forward and around and over; he was buffeted and gripped; he lost track of everything, because things were so speeded up; he felt the water.

Dr. Fujii hardly had time to think that he was dying before he realized that he was alive, squeezed tightly by two long timbers in a V across his chest, like a morsel suspended between two huge chopsticks-held upright, so that he could not move, with his head miraculously above water and his torso and legs in it. The remains of his hospital were all around him in a mad assortment of splintered lumber and materials for the relief of pain. His left shoulder hurt terribly. His glasses were gone.

Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, of the Society of Jesus, was, on the morning of the explosion, in rather frail condition. The Japanese wartime diet had not sustained him, and he felt the strain of being a foreigner in an increasingly xenophobic Japan; even a German, since the defeat of the Fatherland, was unpopular. Father Kleinsorge had, at thirty-eight, the look of a boy growing too fast-thin in the face, with a prominent Adam's apple, a hollow chest, dangling hands, big feet. He walked clumsily, leaning forward a little. He was tired all the time. To make matters worse, he had suffered for two days, along with Father Cieslik, a fellow-priest, from a rather painful and urgent diarrhea, which they blamed on the beans and black ration bread they were obliged to eat. Two other priests then living in the mission compound, which was in the Nobori-cho section-Father Superior LaSalle and Father Schiffer-had happily escaped this affliction.

Father Kleinsorge woke up about six the morning the bomb was dropped, and half an hour later-he was a bit tardy because of his sickness-he began to read Mass in the mission chapel, a small Japanese-style wooden building which was without pews, since its worshippers knelt on the usual Japanese matted floor, facing an altar graced with splendid silks, brass, silver, and heavy embroideries. This morning, a Monday, the only worshippers were Mr. Takemoto, a theological student living in the mission house; Mr. Fukai, the secretary of the diocese; Mrs. Murata, the mission's devoutly Christian housekeeper; and his fellow-priests. After Mass, while Father Kleinsorge was reading the Prayers of Thanksgiving, the siren sounded. He stopped the service and the missionaries retired across the compound to the bigger building. There, in his room on the ground floor, to the right of the front door, Father Kleinsorge changed into a military uniform which he had acquired when he was teaching at the Rokko Middle School in Kobe and which he wore during air-raid alerts.

After an alarm, Father Kleinsorge always went out and scanned the sky, and this time, when he stepped outside, he was glad to see only the single weather plane that flew over Hiroshima each day about this time. Satisfied that nothing would happen, he went in and breakfasted with the other Fathers on substitute coffee and ration bread, which, under the circumstances, was especially repugnant to him. The Fathers sat and talked a while, until, at eight, they heard the all-clear. They went then to various parts of the building. Father Schiffer retired to his room to do some writing. Father Cieslik sat in his room in a straight chair with a pillow over his stomach to ease his pain, and read. Father Superior LaSalle stood at the window of his room, thinking. Father Kleinsorge went up to a room on the third floor, took off all his clothes except his underwear, and stretched out on his right side on a cot and began reading his Stimmen der Zeit.

After the terrible flash-which, Father Kleinsorge later realized, reminded him of something he had read as a boy about a large meteor colliding with the earth-he had time (since he was 1,400 yards from the center) for one thought: A bomb has fallen directly on us. Then, for a few seconds or minutes, he went out of his mind.

Father Kleinsorge never knew how he got out of the house. The next things he was conscious of were that he was wandering around in the mission's vegetable garden in his underwear, bleeding slightly from small cuts along his left flank; that all the buildings round about had fallen down except the Jesuits' mission house, which had long before been braced and double-braced by a priest named Gropper, who was terrified of earthquakes; that the day had turned dark; and that Murata- san, the housekeeper, was nearby, crying over and over, " Shu Jesusu, awaremi tamai! Our Lord Jesus, have pity on us!"

On the train on the way into Hiroshima from the country, where he lived with his mother, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, the Red Cross Hospital surgeon, thought over an unpleasant nightmare he had had the night before. His mother's home was in Mukaihara, thirty miles from the city, and it took him two hours by train and tram to reach the hospital. He had slept uneasily all night and had wakened an hour earlier than usual, and, feeling sluggish and slightly feverish, had debated whether to go to the hospital at all; his sense of duty finally forced him to go, and he had started out on an earlier train than he took most mornings. The dream had particularly frightened him because it was so closely associated, on the surface at least, with a disturbing actuality. He was only twenty-five years old and had just completed his training at the Eastern Medical University, in Tsingtao, China. He was something of an idealist and was much distressed by the inadequacy of medical facilities in the country town where his mother lived. Quite on his own, and without a permit, he had begun visiting a few sick people out there in the evenings, after his eight hours at the hospital and four hours' commuting. He had recently learned that the penalty for practicing without a permit was severe; a fellow-doctor whom he had asked about it had given him a serious scolding. Nevertheless, he had continued to practice. In his dream, he had been at the bedside of a country patient when the police and the doctor he had consulted burst into the room, seized him, dragged him outside, and beat him up cruelly. On the train, he just about decided to give up the work in Mukaihara, since he felt it would be impossible to get a permit, because the authorities would hold that it would conflict with his duties at the Red Cross Hospital.

At the terminus, he caught a streetcar at once. (He later calculated that if he had taken his customary train that morning, and if he had had to wait a few minutes for the streetcar, as often happened, he would have been close to the center at the time of the explosion and would surely have perished.) He arrived at the hospital at seven-forty and reported to the chief surgeon. A few minutes later, he went to a room on the first floor and drew blood from the arm of a man in order to perform a Wassermann test. The laboratory containing the incubators for the test was on the third floor. With the blood specimen in his left hand, walking in a kind of distraction he had felt all morning, probably because of the dream and his restless night, he started along the main corridor on his way toward the stairs. He was one step beyond an open window when the light of the bomb was reflected, like a gigantic photographic flash, in the corridor. He ducked down on one knee and said to himself, as only a Japanese would, "Sasaki, gambare! Be brave!" Just then (the building was 1,650 yards from the center), the blast ripped through the hospital. The glasses he was wearing flew off his face; the bottle of blood crashed against one wall; his Japanese slippers zipped out from under his feet-but otherwise, thanks to where he stood, he was untouched.

Dr. Sasaki shouted the name of the chief surgeon and rushed around to the man's office and found him terribly cut by glass. The hospital was in horrible confusion: heavy partitions and ceilings had fallen on patients, beds had overturned, windows had blown in and cut people, blood was spattered on the walls and floors, instruments were everywhere, many of the patients were running about screaming, many more lay dead. (A colleague working in the laboratory to which Dr. Sasaki had been walking was dead; Dr. Sasaki's patient, whom he had just left and who a few moments before had been dreadfully afraid of syphilis, was also dead.) Dr. Sasaki found himself the only doctor in the hospital who was unhurt.

Dr. Sasaki, who believed that the enemy had hit only the building he was in, got bandages and began to bind the wounds of those inside the hospital; while outside, all over Hiroshima, maimed and dying citizens turned their unsteady steps toward the Red Cross Hospital to begin an invasion that was to make Dr. Sasaki forget his private nightmare for a long, long time.

Miss Toshiko Sasaki, the East Asia Tin Works clerk, who is not related to Dr. Sasaki, got up at three o'clock in the morning on the day the bomb fell. There was extra housework to do. Her eleven-month-old brother, Akio, had come down the day before with a serious stomach upset; her mother had taken him to the Tamura Pediatric Hospital and was staying there with him. Miss Sasaki, who was about twenty, had to cook breakfast for her father, a brother, a sister, and herself, and-since the hospital, because of the war, was unable to provide food-to prepare a whole day's meals for her mother and the baby, in time for her father, who worked in a factory making rubber earplugs for artillery crews, to take the food by on his way to the plant. When she had finished and had cleaned and put away the cooking things, it was nearly seven. The family lived in Koi, and she had a forty-five-minute trip to the tin works, in the section of town called Kannon-machi. She was in charge of the personnel records in the factory. She left Koi at seven, and as soon as she reached the plant, she went with some of the other girls from the personnel department to the factory auditorium. A prominent local Navy man, a former employee, had committed suicide the day before by throwing himself under a train-a death considered honorable enough to warrant a memorial service, which was to be held at the tin works at ten o'clock that morning. In the large hall, Miss Sasaki and the others made suitable preparations for the meeting. This work took about twenty minutes. Miss Sasaki went back to her office and sat down at her desk. She was quite far from the windows, which were off to her left, and behind her were a couple of tall bookcases containing all the books of the factory library, which the personnel department had organized. She settled herself at her desk, put some things in a drawer, and shifted papers. She thought that before she began to make entries in her lists of new employees, discharges, and departures for the Army, she would chat for a moment with the girl at her right. Just as she turned her head away from the windows, the room was filled with a blinding light. She was paralyzed by fear, fixed still in her chair for a long moment (the plant was 1,600 yards from the center).

Everything fell, and Miss Sasaki lost consciousness. The ceiling dropped suddenly and the wooden floor above collapsed in splinters and the people up there came down and the roof above them gave way; but principally and first of all, the bookcases right behind her swooped forward and the contents threw her down, with her left leg horribly twisted and breaking underneath her. There, in the tin factory, in the first moment of the atomic age, a human being was crushed by books.

II-The Fire

Immediately after the explosion, the Reverend Mr. Kiyoshi Tanimoto, having run wildly out of the Matsui estate and having looked in wonderment at the bloody soldiers at the mouth of the dugout they had been digging, attached himself sympathetically to an old lady who was walking along in a daze, holding her head with her left hand, supporting a small boy of three or four on her back with her right, and crying, "I'm hurt! I'm hurt! I'm hurt!" Mr. Tanimoto transferred the child to his own back and led the woman by the hand down the street, which was darkened by what seemed to be a local column of dust. He took the woman to a grammar school not far away that had previously been designated for use as a temporary hospital in case of emergency. By this solicitous behavior, Mr. Tanimoto at once got rid of his terror. At the school, he was much surprised to see glass all over the floor and fifty or sixty injured people already waiting to be treated. He reflected that, although the all-clear had sounded and he had heard no planes, several bombs must have been dropped. He thought of a hillock in the rayon man's garden from which he could get a view of the whole of Koi-of the whole of Hiroshima, for that matter-and he ran back up to the estate.

From the mound, Mr. Tanimoto saw an astonishing panorama. Not just a patch of Koi, as he had expected, but as much of Hiroshima as he could see through the clouded air was giving off a thick, dreadful miasma. Clumps of smoke, near and far, had begun to push up through the general dust. He wondered how such extensive damage could have been dealt out of a silent sky; even a few planes, far up, would have been audible. Houses nearby were burning, and when huge drops of water the size of marbles began to fall, he half thought that they must be coming from the hoses of firemen fighting the blazes. (They were actually drops of condensed moisture falling from the turbulent tower of dust, heat, and fission fragments that had already risen miles into the sky above Hiroshima.)

Mr. Tanimoto turned away from the sight when he heard Mr. Matsuo call out to ask whether he was all right. Mr. Matsuo had been safely cushioned within the falling house by the bedding stored in the front hall and had worked his way out. Mr. Tanimoto scarcely answered. He had thought of his wife and baby, his church, his home, his parishioners, all of them down in that awful murk. Once more he began to run in fear-toward the city.

Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, the tailor' s widow, having struggled up from under the ruins of her house after the explosion, and seeing Myeko, the youngest of her three children, buried breast-deep and unable to move, crawled across the debris, hauled at timbers, and flung tiles aside, in a hurried effort to free the child. Then, from what seemed to be caverns far below, she heard two small voices crying, " Tasukete! Tasukete! Help! Help!"

She called the names of her ten-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter: "Toshio! Yaeko!"

The voices from below answered.

Mrs. Nakamura abandoned Myeko, who at least could breathe, and in a frenzy made the wreckage fly above the crying voices. The children had been sleeping nearly ten feet apart, but now their voices seemed to come from the same place. Toshio, the boy, apparently had some freedom to move, because she could feel him undermining the pile of wood and tiles as she worked from above. At last she saw his head, and she hastily pulled him out by it. A mosquito net was wound intricately, as if it had been carefully wrapped, around his feet. He said he had been blown right across the room and had been on top of his sister Yaeko under the wreckage. She now said, from underneath, that she could not move, because there was something on her legs. With a bit more digging, Mrs. Nakamura cleared a hole above the child and began to pull her arm. " Itai! It hurts!" Yaeko cried. Mrs. Nakamura shouted, "There's no time now to say whether it hurts or not," and yanked her whimpering daughter up. Then she freed Myeko. The children were filthy and bruised, but none of them had a single cut or scratch.

Mrs. Nakamura took the children out into the street. They had nothing on but underpants, and although the day was very hot, she worried rather confusedly about their being cold, so she went back into the wreckage and burrowed underneath and found a bundle of clothes she had packed for an emergency, and she dressed them in pants, blouses, shoes, padded-cotton air-raid helmets called bokuzuki, and even, irrationally, overcoats. The children were silent, except for the five-year-old, Myeko, who kept asking questions: "Why is it night already? Why did our house fall down? What happened?" Mrs. Nakamura, who did not know what had happened (had not the all-clear sounded?), looked around and saw through the darkness that all the houses in her neighborhood had collapsed. The house next door, which its owner had been tearing down to make way for a fire lane, was now very thoroughly, if crudely, torn down; its owner, who had been sacrificing his home for the community's safety, lay dead. Mrs. Nakamoto, wife of the head of the local air-raid-defense Neighborhood Association, came across the street with her head all bloody, and said that her baby was badly cut; did Mrs. Nakamura have any bandage? Mrs. Nakamura did not, but she crawled into the remains of her house again and pulled out some white cloth that she had been using in her work as a seamstress, ripped it into strips, and gave it to Mrs. Nakamoto. While fetching the cloth, she noticed her sewing machine; she went back in for it and dragged it out. Obviously, she could not carry it with her, so she unthinkingly plunged her symbol of livelihood into the receptacle which for weeks had been her symbol of safety-the cement tank of water in front of her house, of the type every household had been ordered to construct against a possible fire raid.

A nervous neighbor, Mrs. Hataya, called to Mrs. Nakamura to run away with her to the woods in Asano Park-an estate, by the Kyo River not far off, belonging to the wealthy Asano family, who once owned the Toyo Kisen Kaisha steamship line. The park had been designated as an evacuation area for their neighborhood. Seeing fire breaking out in a nearby ruin (except at the very center, where the bomb itself ignited some fires, most of Hiroshima's citywide conflagration was caused by inflammable wreckage falling on cookstoves and live wires), Mrs. Nakamura suggested going over to fight it. Mrs. Hataya said, "Don't be foolish. What if planes come and drop more bombs?" So Mrs. Nakamura started out for Asano Park with her children and Mrs. Hataya, and she carried her rucksack of emergency clothing, a blanket, an umbrella, and a suitcase of things she had cached in her air-raid shelter. Under many ruins, as they hurried along, they heard muffled screams for help. The only building they saw standing on their way to Asano Park was the Jesuit mission house, alongside the Catholic kindergarten to which Mrs. Nakamura had sent Myeko for a time. As they passed it, she saw Father Kleinsorge, in bloody underwear, running out of the house with a small suitcase in his hand.

Right after the explosion, while Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, S. J., was wandering around in his underwear in the vegetable garden, Father Superior LaSalle came around the corner of the building in the darkness. His body, especially his back, was bloody; the flash had made him twist away from his window, and tiny pieces of glass had flown at him. Father Kleinsorge, still bewildered, managed to ask, "Where are the rest?" Just then, the two other priests living in the mission house appeared-Father Cieslik, unhurt, supporting Father Schiffer, who was covered with blood that spurted from a cut above his left ear and who was very pale. Father Cieslik was rather pleased with himself, for after the flash he had dived into a doorway, which he had previously reckoned to be the safest place inside the building, and when the blast came, he was not injured. Father LaSalle told Father Cieslik to take Father Schiffer to a doctor before he bled to death, and suggested either Dr. Kanda, who lived on the next corner, or Dr. Fujii, about six blocks away. The two men went out of the compound and up the street.

The daughter of Mr. Hoshijima, the mission catechist, ran up to Father Kleinsorge and said that her mother and sister were buried under the ruins of their house, which was at the back of the Jesuit compound, and at the same time the priests noticed that the house of the Catholic-kindergarten teacher at the foot of the compound had collapsed on her. While Father LaSalle and Mrs. Murata, the mission housekeeper, dug the teacher out, Father Kleinsorge went to the catechist's fallen house and began lifting things off the top of the pile. There was not a sound underneath; he was sure the Hoshijima women had been killed. At last, under what had been a corner of the kitchen, he saw Mrs. Hoshijima's head. Believing her dead, he began to haul her out by the hair, but suddenly she screamed, " Itai! Itai! It hurts! It hurts!" He dug some more and lifted her out. He managed, too, to find her daughter in the rubble and free her. Neither was badly hurt.

A public bath next door to the mission house had caught fire, but since there the wind was southerly, the priests thought their house would be spared. Nevertheless, as a precaution, Father Kleinsorge went inside to fetch some things he wanted to save. He found his room in a state of weird and illogical confusion. A first-aid kit was hanging undisturbed on a hook on the wall, but his clothes, which had been on other hooks nearby, were nowhere to be seen. His desk was in splinters all over the room, but a mere papier-mâché suitcase, which he had hidden under the desk, stood handle-side up, without a scratch on it, in the doorway of the room, where he could not miss it. Father Kleinsorge later came to regard this as a bit of Providential interference, inasmuch as the suitcase contained his breviary, the account books for the whole diocese, and a considerable amount of paper money belonging to the mission, for which he was responsible. He ran out of the house and deposited the suitcase in the mission air-raid shelter.

At about this time, Father Cieslik and Father Schiffer, who was still spurting blood, came back and said that Dr. Kanda's house was ruined and that fire blocked them from getting out of what they supposed to be the local circle of destruction to Dr. Fujii's private hospital, on the bank of the Kyo River.

Dr. Masakazu Fujii's hospital was no longer on the bank of the Kyo River; it was in the river. After the overturn, Dr. Fujii was so stupefied and so tightly squeezed by the beams gripping his chest that he was unable to move at first, and he hung there about twenty minutes in the darkened morning. Then a thought which came to him-that soon the tide would be running in through the estuaries and his head would be submerged-inspired him to fearful activity; he wriggled and turned and exerted what strength he could (though his left arm, because of the pain in his shoulder, was useless), and before long he had freed himself from the vise. After a few moments' rest, he climbed onto the pile of timbers and, finding a long one that slanted up to the riverbank, he painfully shinnied up it.

Dr. Fujii, who was in his underwear, was now soaking and dirty. His undershirt was torn, and blood ran down it from bad cuts on his chin and back. In this disarray, he walked out onto Kyo Bridge, beside which his hospital had stood. The bridge had not collapsed. He could see only fuzzily without his glasses, but he could see enough to be amazed at the number of houses that were down all around. On the bridge, he encountered a friend, a doctor named Machii, and asked in bewilderment, "What do you think it was?"

Dr. Machii said, "It must have been a Molotoffano hanakago "-a Molotov flower basket, the delicate Japanese name for the "bread basket," or self-scattering cluster of bombs.

At first, Dr. Fujii could see only two fires, one across the river from his hospital site and one quite far to the south. But at the same time, he and his friend observed something that puzzled them, and which, as doctors, they discussed: although there were as yet very few fires, wounded people were hurrying across the bridge in an endless parade of misery, and many of them exhibited terrible burns on their faces and arms. "Why do you suppose it is?" Dr. Fujii asked. Even a theory was comforting that day, and Dr. Machii stuck to his. "Perhaps because it was a Molotov flower basket," he said.

There had been no breeze earlier in the morning when Dr. Fujii had walked to the railway station to see a friend off, but now brisk winds were blowing every which way; here on the bridge the wind was easterly. New fires were leaping up, and they spread quickly, and in a very short time terrible blasts of hot air and showers of cinders made it impossible to stand on the bridge any more. Dr. Machii ran to the far side of the river and along a still unkindled street. Dr. Fujii went down into the water under the bridge, where a score of people had already taken refuge, among them his servants, who had extricated themselves from the wreckage. From there, Dr. Fujii saw a nurse hanging in the timbers of his hospital by her legs, and then another painfully pinned across the breast. He enlisted the help of some of the others under the bridge and freed both of them. He thought he heard the voice of his niece for a moment, but he could not find her; he never saw her again. Four of his nurses and the two patients in the hospital died, too. Dr. Fujii went back into the water of the river and waited for the fire to subside.

The lot of Drs. Fujii, Kanda, and Machii right after the explosion-and, as these three were typical, that of the majority of the physicians and surgeons of Hiroshima-with their offices and hospitals destroyed, their equipment scattered, their own bodies incapacitated in varying degrees, explained why so many citizens who were hurt went untended and why so many who might have lived died. Of a hundred and fifty doctors in the city, sixty-five were already dead and most of the rest were wounded. Of 1,780 nurses, 1,654 were dead or too badly hurt to work. In the biggest hospital, that of the Red Cross, only six doctors out of thirty were able to function, and only ten nurses out of more than two hundred. The sole uninjured doctor on the Red Cross Hospital staff was Dr. Sasaki. After the explosion, he hurried to a storeroom to fetch bandages. This room, like everything he had seen as he ran through the hospital, was chaotic-bottles of medicines thrown off shelves and broken, salves spattered on the walls, instruments strewn everywhere. He grabbed up some bandages and an unbroken bottle of mercurochrome, hurried back to the chief surgeon, and bandaged his cuts. Then he went out into the corridor and began patching up the wounded patients and the doctors and nurses there. He blundered so without his glasses that he took a pair off the face of a wounded nurse, and although they only approximately compensated for the errors of his vision, they were better than nothing. (He was to depend on them for more than a month.)

Dr. Sasaki worked without method, taking those who were nearest him first, and he noticed soon that the corridor seemed to be getting more and more crowded. Mixed in with the abrasions and lacerations which most people in the hospital had suffered, he began to find dreadful burns. He realized then that casualties were pouring in from outdoors. There were so many that he began to pass up the lightly wounded; he decided that all he could hope to do was to stop people from bleeding to death. Before long, patients lay and crouched on the floors of the wards and the laboratories and all the other rooms, and in the corridors, and on the stairs, and in the front hall, and under the porte-cochère, and on the stone front steps, and in the driveway and courtyard, and for blocks each way in the streets outside. Wounded people supported maimed people; disfigured families leaned together. Many people were vomiting. A tremendous number of schoolgirls-some of those who had been taken from their classrooms to work outdoors, clearing fire lanes-crept into the hospital. In a city of two hundred and forty-five thousand, nearly a hundred thousand people had been killed or doomed at one blow; a hundred thousand more were hurt. At least ten thousand of the wounded made their way to the best hospital in town, which was altogether unequal to such a trampling, since it had only six hundred beds, and they had all been occupied. The people in the suffocating crowd inside the hospital wept and cried, for Dr. Sasaki to hear, " Sensei! Doctor!," and the less seriously wounded came and pulled at his sleeve and begged him to come to the aid of the worse wounded. Tugged here and there in his stockinged feet, bewildered by the numbers, staggered by so much raw flesh, Dr. Sasaki lost all sense of profession and stopped working as a skillful surgeon and a sympathetic man; he became an automaton, mechanically wiping, daubing, winding, wiping, daubing, winding.

Some of the wounded in Hiroshima were unable to enjoy the questionable luxury of hospitalization. In what had been the personnel office of the East Asia Tin Works, Miss Sasaki lay doubled over, unconscious, under the tremendous pile of books and plaster and wood and corrugated iron. She was wholly unconscious (she later estimated) for about three hours. Her first sensation was of dreadful pain in her left leg. It was so black under the books and debris that the borderline between awareness and unconsciousness was fine; she apparently crossed it several times, for the pain seemed to come and go. At the moments when it was sharpest, she felt that her leg had been cut off somewhere below the knee. Later, she heard someone walking on top of the wreckage above her, and anguished voices spoke up, evidently from within the mess around her: "Please help! Get us out!"

Father Kleinsorge stemmed Father Schiffer's spurting cut as well as he could with some bandage that Dr. Fujii had given the priests a few days before. When he finished, he ran into the mission house again and found the jacket of his military uniform and an old pair of gray trousers. He put them on and went outside. A woman from next door ran up to him and shouted that her husband was buried under her house and the house was on fire; Father Kleinsorge must come and save him.

Father Kleinsorge, already growing apathetic and dazed in the presence of the cumulative distress, said, "We haven't much time." Houses all around were burning, and the wind was now blowing hard. "Do you know exactly which part of the house he is under?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," she said. "Come quickly."

They went around to the house, the remains of which blazed violently, but when they got there, it turned out that the woman had no idea where her husband was. Father Kleinsorge shouted several times, "Is there anyone there?" There was no answer. Father Kleinsorge said to the woman, "We must get away or we will all die." He went back to the Catholic compound and told the Father Superior that the fire was coming closer on the wind, which had swung around and was now from the north; it was time for everybody to go.

Just then, the kindergarten teacher pointed out to the priests Mr. Fukai, the secretary of the diocese, who was standing in his window on the second floor of the mission house, facing in the direction of the explosion, weeping. Father Cieslik, because he thought the stairs unusable, ran around to the back of the mission house to look for a ladder. There he heard people crying for help under a nearby fallen roof. He called to passersby running away in the street to help him lift it, but nobody paid any attention, and he had to leave the buried ones to die. Father Kleinsorge ran inside the mission house and scrambled up the stairs, which were awry and piled with plaster and lathing, and called to Mr. Fukai from the doorway of his room.

Mr. Fukai, a very short man of about fifty, turned around slowly, with a queer look, and said, "Leave me here."

Father Kleinsorge went into the room and took Mr. Fukai by the collar of his coat and said, "Come with me or you'll die."

Mr. Fukai said, "Leave me here to die."

Father Kleinsorge began to shove and haul Mr. Fukai out of the room. Then the theological student came up and grabbed Mr. Fukai' s feet, and Father Kleinsorge took his shoulders, and together they carried him downstairs and outdoors. "I can't walk!" Mr. Fukai cried. "Leave me here!" Father Kleinsorge got his paper suitcase with the money in it and took Mr. Fukai up pickaback, and the party started for the East Parade Ground, their district's "safe area." As they went out of the gate, Mr. Fukai, quite childlike now, beat on Father Kleinsorge's shoulders and said, "I won't leave. I won't leave." Irrelevantly, Father Kleinsorge turned to Father LaSalle and said, "We have lost all our possessions but not our sense of humor."

The street was cluttered with parts of houses that had slid into it, and with fallen telephone poles and wires. From every second or third house came the voices of people buried and abandoned, who invariably screamed, with formal politeness, " Tasukete kure! Help, if you please!" The priests recognized several ruins from which these cries came as the homes of friends, but because of the fire it was too late to help. All the way, Mr. Fukai whimpered, "Let me stay." The party turned right when they came to a block of fallen houses that was one flame. At Sakai Bridge, which would take them across to the East Parade Ground, they saw that the whole community on the opposite side of the river was a sheet of fire; they dared not cross and decided to take refuge in Asano Park, off to their left. Father Kleinsorge, who had been weakened for a couple of days by his bad case of diarrhea, began to stagger under his protesting burden, and as he tried to climb up over the wreckage of several houses that blocked their way to the park, he stumbled, dropped Mr. Fukai, and plunged down, head over heels, to the edge of the river. When he picked himself up, he saw Mr. Fukai running away. Father Kleinsorge shouted to a dozen soldiers, who were standing by the bridge, to stop him. As Father Kleinsorge started back to get Mr. Fukai, Father LaSalle called out, "Hurry! Don't waste time!" So Father Kleinsorge just requested the soldiers to take care of Mr. Fukai. They said they would, but the little, broken man got away from them, and the last the priests could see of him, he was running back toward the fire.

Mr. Tanimoto, fearful for his family and church, at first ran toward them by the shortest route, along Koi Highway. He was the only person making his way into the city; he met hundreds and hundreds who were fleeing, and every one of them seemed to be hurt in some way. The eyebrows of some were burned off and skin hung from their faces and hands. Others, because of pain, held their arms up as if carrying something in both hands. Some were vomiting as they walked. Many were naked or in shreds of clothing. On some undressed bodies, the burns had made patterns-of undershirt straps and suspenders and, on the skin of some women (since white repelled the heat from the bomb and dark clothes absorbed it and conducted it to the skin), the shapes of flowers they had had on their kimonos. Many, although injured themselves, supported relatives who were worse off. Almost all had their heads bowed, looked straight ahead, were silent, and showed no expression whatever.

After crossing Koi Bridge and Kannon Bridge, having run the whole way, Mr. Tanimoto saw, as he approached the center, that all the houses had been crushed and many were afire. Here the trees were bare and their trunks were charred. He tried at several points to penetrate the ruins, but the flames always stopped him. Under many houses, people screamed for help, but no one helped; in general, survivors that day assisted only their relatives or immediate neighbors, for they could not comprehend or tolerate a wider circle of misery. The wounded limped past the screams, and Mr. Tanimoto ran past them. As a Christian he was filled with compassion for those who were trapped, and as a Japanese he was overwhelmed by the shame of being unhurt, and he prayed as he ran, "God help them and take them out of the fire."

He thought he would skirt the fire, to the left. He ran back to Kannon Bridge and followed for a distance one of the rivers. He tried several cross streets, but all were blocked, so he turned far left and ran out to Yokogawa, a station on a railroad line that detoured the city in a wide semicircle, and he followed the rails until he came to a burning train. So impressed was he by this time by the extent of the damage that he ran north two miles to Gion, a suburb in the foothills. All the way, he overtook dreadfully burned and lacerated people, and in his guilt he turned to right and left as he hurried and said to some of them, "Excuse me for having no burden like yours." Near Gion, he began to meet country people going toward the city to help, and when they saw him, several exclaimed, "Look! There is one who is not wounded." At Gion, he bore toward the right bank of the main river, the Ota, and ran down it until he reached fire again. There was no fire on the other side of the river, so he threw off his shirt and shoes and plunged into it. In midstream, where the current was fairly strong, exhaustion and fear finally caught up with him-he had run nearly seven miles-and he became limp and drifted in the water. He prayed, "Please, God, help me to cross. It would be nonsense for me to be drowned when I am the only uninjured one." He managed a few more strokes and fetched up on a spit downstream.

Mr. Tanimoto climbed up the bank and ran along it until, near a large Shinto shrine, he came to more fire, and as he turned left to get around it, he met, by incredible luck, his wife. She was carrying their infant son. Mr. Tanimoto was now so emotionally worn out that nothing could surprise him. He did not embrace his wife; he simply said, "Oh, you are safe." She told him that she had got home from her night in Ushida just in time for the explosion; she had been buried under the parsonage with the baby in her arms. She told how the wreckage had pressed down on her, how the baby had cried. She saw a chink of light, and by reaching up with a hand, she worked the hole bigger, bit by bit. After about half an hour, she heard the crackling noise of wood burning. At last the opening was big enough for her to push the baby out, and afterward she crawled out herself. She said she was now going out to Ushida again. Mr. Tanimoto said he wanted to see his church and take care of the people of his Neighborhood Association. They parted as casually-as bewildered-as they had met.

Mr. Tanimoto's way around the fire took him across the East Parade Ground, which, being an evacuation area, was now the scene of a gruesome review: rank on rank of the burned and bleeding. Those who were burned moaned, " Mizu, mizu! Water, water!" Mr. Tanimoto found a basin in a nearby street and located a water tap that still worked in the crushed shell of a house, and he began carrying water to the suffering strangers. When he had given drink to about thirty of them, he realized he was taking too much time. "Excuse me," he said loudly to those nearby who were reaching out their hands to him and crying their thirst. "I have many people to take care of." Then he ran away. He went to the river again, the basin in his hand, and jumped down onto a sandspit. There he saw hundreds of people so badly wounded that they could not get up to go farther from the burning city. When they saw a man erect and unhurt, the chant began again: " Mizu, mizu, mizu." Mr. Tanimoto could not resist them; he carried them water from the river-a mistake, since it was tidal and brackish. Two or three small boats were ferrying hurt people across the river from Asano Park, and when one touched the spit, Mr. Tanimoto again made his loud, apologetic speech and jumped into the boat. It took him across to the park. There, in the underbrush, he found some of his charges of the Neighborhood Association, who had come there by his previous instructions, and saw many acquaintances, among them Father Kleinsorge and the other Catholics. But he missed Fukai, who had been a close friend. "Where is Fukai- san?" he asked.

"He didn't want to come with us, Father Kleinsorge said. "He ran back."

When Miss Sasaki heard the voices of the people caught along with her in the dilapidation at the tin factory, she began speaking to them. Her nearest neighbor, she discovered, was a high-school girl who had been drafted for factory work, and who said her back was broken. Miss Sasaki replied, "I am lying here and I can't move. My left leg is cut off."

Some time later, she again heard somebody walk overhead and then move off to one side, and whoever it was began burrowing. The digger released several people, and when he had uncovered the high-school girl, she found that her back was not broken, after all, and she crawled out. Miss Sasaki spoke to the rescuer, and he worked toward her. He pulled away a great number of books, until he had made a tunnel to her. She could see his perspiring face as he said, "Come out, Miss." She tried. "I can't move," she said. The man excavated some more and told her to try with all her strength to get out. But books were heavy on her hips, and the man finally saw that a bookcase was leaning on the books and that a heavy beam pressed down on the bookcase. "Wait," he said. "I'll get a crowbar."

The man was gone a long time, and when he came back, he was ill-tempered, as if her plight were all her fault. "We have no men to help you!" he shouted in through the tunnel. "You'll have to get out by yourself."

"That's impossible," she said. "My left leg . . ." The man went away.

Much later, several men came and dragged Miss Sasaki out. Her left leg was not severed, but it was badly broken and cut and it hung askew below the knee. They took her out into a courtyard. It was raining. She sat on the ground in the rain. When the downpour increased, someone directed all the wounded people to take cover in the factory's air-raid shelters. "Come along," a torn-up woman said to her. "You can hop." But Miss Sasaki could not move, and she just waited in the rain. Then a man propped up a large sheet of corrugated iron as a kind of lean-to, and took her in his arms and carried her to it. She was grateful until he brought two horribly wounded people-a woman with a whole breast sheared off and a man whose face was all raw from a burn-to share the simple shed with her. No one came back. The rain cleared and the cloudy afternoon was hot; before nightfall the three grotesques under the slanting piece of twisted iron began to smell quite bad.

The former head of the Nobori-cho Neighborhood Association, to which the Catholic priests belonged, was an energetic man named Yoshida. He had boasted, when he was in charge of the district air-raid defenses, that fire might eat away all of Hiroshima but it would never come to Nobori-cho. The bomb blew down his house, and a joist pinned him by the legs, in full view of the Jesuit mission house across the way and of the people hurrying along the street. In their confusion as they hurried past, Mrs. Nakamura, with her children, and Father Kleinsorge, with Mr. Fukai on his back, hardly saw him; he was just part of the general blur of misery through which they moved. His cries for help brought no response from them; there were so many people shouting for help that they could not hear him separately. They and all the others went along. Nobori-cho became absolutely deserted, and the fire swept through it. Mr. Yoshida saw the wooden mission house-the only erect building in the area-go up in a lick of flame, and the heat was terrific on his face. Then flames came along his side of the street and entered his house. In a paroxysm of terrified strength, he freed himself and ran down the alleys of Nobori-cho, hemmed in by the fire he had said would never come. He began at once to behave like an old man; two months later his hair was white.

As Dr. Fujii stood in the river up to his neck to avoid the heat of the fire, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and soon, even though the expanse of water was small, the waves grew so high that the people under the bridge could no longer keep their footing. Dr. Fujii went close to the shore, crouched down, and embraced a large stone with his usable arm. Later it became possible to wade along the very edge of the river, and Dr. Fujii and his two surviving nurses moved about two hundred yards upstream, to a sandspit near Asano Park. Many wounded were lying on the sand. Dr. Machii was there with his family; his daughter, who had been outdoors when the bomb burst, was badly burned on her hands and legs but fortunately not on her face. Although Dr. Fujii's shoulder was by now terribly painful, he examined the girl's burns curiously. Then he lay down. In spite of the misery all around, he was ashamed of his appearance, and he remarked to Dr. Machii that he looked like a beggar, dressed as he was in nothing but torn and bloody underwear. Late in the afternoon, when the fire began to subside, he decided to go to his parental house, in the suburb of Nagatsuka. He asked Dr. Machii to join him, but the Doctor answered that he and his family were going to spend the night on the spit, because of his daughter's injuries. Dr. Fujii, together with his nurses, walked first to Ushida, where, in the partially damaged house of some relatives, he found first-aid materials he had stored there. The two nurses bandaged him and he them. They went on. Now not many people walked in the streets, but a great number sat and lay on the pavement, vomited, waited for death, and died. The number of corpses on the way to Nagatsuka was more and more puzzling. The Doctor wondered: Could a Molotov flower basket have done all this?

Dr. Fujii reached his family's house in the evening. It was five miles from the center of town, but its roof had fallen in and the windows were all broken.

All day, people poured into Asano Park. This private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel, and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees-partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings; partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate's exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure; and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves. Mrs. Nakamura and her children were among the first to arrive, and they settled in the bamboo grove near the river. They all felt terribly thirsty, and they drank from the river. At once they were nauseated and began vomiting, and they retched the whole day. Others were also nauseated; they all thought (probably because of the strong odor of ionization, an "electric smell" given off by the bomb's fission) that they were sick from a gas the Americans had dropped. When Father Kleinsorge and the other priests came into the park, nodding to their friends as they passed, the Nakamuras were all sick and prostrate. A woman named Iwasaki, who lived in the neighborhood of the mission and who was sitting near the Nakamuras, got up and asked the priests if she should stay where she was or go with them. Father Kleinsorge said, "I hardly know where the safest place is." She stayed there, and later in the day, though she had no visible wounds or burns, she died. The priests went farther along the river and settled down in some underbrush. Father LaSalle lay down and went right to sleep. The theological student, who was wearing slippers, had carried with him a bundle of clothes, in which he had packed two pairs of leather shoes. When he sat down with the others, he found that the bundle had broken open and a couple of shoes had fallen out and now he had only two lefts. He retraced his steps and found one right. When he rejoined the priests, he said, "It's funny, but things don't matter any more. Yesterday, my shoes were my most important possessions. Today, I don't care. One pair is enough."

Father Cieslik said, "I know. I started to bring my books along, and then I thought, 'This is no time for books.' "

When Mr. Tanimoto, with his basin still in his hand, reached the park, it was very crowded, and to distinguish the living from the dead was not easy, for most of the people lay still, with their eyes open. To Father Kleinsorge, an Occidental, the silence in the grove by the river, where hundreds of gruesomely wounded suffered together, was one of the most dreadful and awesome phenomena of his whole experience. The hurt ones were quiet; no one wept, much less screamed in pain; no one complained; none of the many who died did so noisily; not even the children cried; very few people even spoke. And when Father Kleinsorge gave water to some whose faces had been almost blotted out by flash burns, they took their share and then raised themselves a little and bowed to him, in thanks.

Mr. Tanimoto greeted the priests and then looked around for other friends. He saw Mrs. Matsumoto, wife of the director of the Methodist School, and asked her if she was thirsty. She was, so he went to one of the pools in the Asanos' rock gardens and got water for her in his basin. Then he decided to try to get back to his church. He went into Nobori-cho by the way the priests had taken as they escaped, but he did not get far; the fire along the streets was so fierce that he had to turn back. He walked to the riverbank and began to look for a boat in which he might carry some of the most severely injured across the river from Asano Park and away from the spreading fire. Soon he found a good-sized pleasure punt drawn up on the bank, but in and around it was an awful tableau-five dead men, nearly naked, badly burned, who must have expired more or less all at once, for they were in attitudes which suggested that they had been working together to push the boat down into the river. Mr. Tanimoto lifted them away from the boat, and as he did so, he experienced such horror at disturbing the dead-preventing them, he momentarily felt, from launching their craft and going on their ghostly way-that he said out loud, "Please forgive me for taking this boat. I must use it for others, who are alive." The punt was heavy, but he managed to slide it into the water. There were no oars, and all he could find for propulsion was a thick bamboo pole. He worked the boat upstream to the most crowded part of the park and began to ferry the wounded. He could pack ten or twelve into the boat for each crossing, but as the river was too deep in the center to pole his way across, he had to paddle with the bamboo, and consequently each trip took a very long time. He worked several hours that way.

Early in the afternoon, the fire swept into the woods of Asano Park. The first Mr. Tanimoto knew of it was when, returning in his boat, he saw that a great number of people had moved toward the riverside. On touching the bank, he went up to investigate, and when he saw the fire, he shouted, "All the young men who are not badly hurt come with me!" Father Kleinsorge moved Father Schiffer and Father LaSalle close to the edge of the river and asked people there to get them across if the fire came too near, and then joined Tanimoto's volunteers. Mr. Tanimoto sent some to look for buckets and basins and told others to beat the burning underbrush with their clothes; when utensils were at hand, he formed a bucket chain from one of the pools in the rock gardens. The team fought the fire for more than two hours, and gradually defeated the flames. As Mr. Tanimoto's men worked, the frightened people in the park pressed closer and closer to the river, and finally the mob began to force some of the unfortunates who were on the very bank into the water. Among those driven into the river and drowned were Mrs. Matsumoto, of the Methodist School, and her daughter.

When Father Kleinsorge got back after fighting the fire, he found Father Schiffer still bleeding and terribly pale. Some Japanese stood around and stared at him, and Father Schiffer whispered, with a weak smile, "It is as if I were already dead." "Not yet," Father Kleinsorge said. He had brought Dr. Fujii's first-aid kit with him, and he had noticed Dr. Kanda in the crowd, so he sought him out and asked him if he would dress Father Schiffer's bad cuts. Dr. Kanda had seen his wife and daughter dead in the ruins of his hospital; he sat now with his head in his hands. "I can't do anything," he said. Father Kleinsorge bound more bandage around Father Schiffer's head, moved him to a steep place, and settled him so that his head was high, and soon the bleeding diminished.

The roar of approaching planes was heard about this time. Someone in the crowd near the Nakamura family shouted, "It's some Grummans coming to strafe us!" A baker named Nakashima stood up and commanded, "Everyone who is wearing anything white, take it off." Mrs. Nakamura took the blouses off her children, and opened her umbrella and made them get under it. A great number of people, even badly burned ones, crawled into bushes and stayed there until the hum, evidently of a reconnaissance or weather run, died away.

It began to rain. Mrs. Nakamura kept her children under the umbrella. The drops grew abnormally large, and someone shouted, "The Americans are dropping gasoline. They're going to set fire to us!" (This alarm stemmed from one of the theories being passed through the park as to why so much of Hiroshima had burned: it was that a single plane had sprayed gasoline on the city and then somehow set fire to it in one flashing moment.) But the drops were palpably water, and as they fell, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and suddenly-probably because of the tremendous convection set up by the blazing city-a whirlwind ripped through the park. Huge trees crashed down; small ones were uprooted and flew into the air. Higher, a wild array of flat things revolved in the twisting funnel-pieces of iron roofing, papers, doors, strips of matting. Father Kleinsorge put a piece of cloth over Father Schiffer's eyes, so that the feeble man would not think he was going crazy. The gale blew Mrs. Murata, the mission housekeeper, who was sitting close by the river, down the embankment at a shallow, rocky place, and she came out with her bare feet bloody. The vortex moved out onto the river, where it sucked up a waterspout and eventually spent itself.

After the storm, Mr. Tanimoto began ferrying people again, and Father Kleinsorge asked the theological student to go across and make his way out to the Jesuit Novitiate at Nagatsuka, about three miles from the center of town, and to request the priests there to come with help for Fathers Schiffer and LaSalle. The student got into Mr. Tanimoto's boat and went off with him. Father Kleinsorge asked Mrs. Nakamura if she would like to go out to Nagatsuka with the priests when they came. She said she had some luggage and her children were sick-they were still vomiting from time to time, and so, for that matter, was she-and therefore she feared she could not. He said he thought the fathers from the Novitiate could come back the next day with a pushcart to get her.

Late in the afternoon, when he went ashore for a while, Mr. Tanimoto, upon whose energy and initiative many had come to depend, heard people begging for food. He consulted Father Kleinsorge, and they decided to go back into town to get some rice from Mr. Tanimoto's Neighborhood Association shelter and from the mission shelter. Father Cieslik and two or three others went with them. At first, when they got among the rows of prostrate houses, they did not know where they were; the change was too sudden, from a busy city of two hundred and forty-five thousand that morning to a mere pattern of residue in the afternoon. The asphalt of the streets was still so soft and hot from the fires that walking was uncomfortable. They encountered only one person, a woman, who said to them as they passed, "My husband is in those ashes." At the mission, where Mr. Tanimoto left the party, Father Kleinsorge was dismayed to see the building razed. In the garden, on the way to the shelter, he noticed a pumpkin roasted on the vine. He and Father Cieslik tasted it and it was good. They were surprised at their hunger, and they ate quite a bit. They got out several bags of rice and gathered up several other cooked pumpkins and dug up some potatoes that were nicely baked under the ground, and started back. Mr. Tanimoto rejoined them on the way. One of the people with him had some cooking utensils. In the park, Mr. Tanimoto organized the lightly wounded women of his neighborhood to cook. Father Kleinsorge offered the Nakamura family some pumpkin, and they tried it, but they could not keep it on their stomachs. Altogether, the rice was enough to feed nearly a hundred people.

Just before dark, Mr. Tanimoto came across a twenty-year-old girl, Mrs. Kamai, the Tanimotos' next-door neighbor. She was crouching on the ground with the body of her infant daughter in her arms. The baby had evidently been dead all day. Mrs. Kamai jumped up when she saw Mr. Tanimoto and said, "Would you please try to locate my husband?"

Mr. Tanimoto knew that her husband had been inducted into the Army just the day before; he and Mrs. Tanimoto had entertained Mrs. Kamai in the afternoon, to make her forget. Kamai had reported to the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters-near the ancient castle in the middle of town-where some four thousand troops were stationed. Judging by the many maimed soldiers Mr. Tanimoto had seen during the day, he surmised that the barracks had been badly damaged by whatever it was that had hit Hiroshima. He knew he hadn't a chance of finding Mrs. Kamai's husband, even if he searched, but he wanted to humor her. "I'll try," he said.

"You've got to find him," she said. "He loved our baby so much. I want him to see her once more."

III-Details Are Being Investigated

Early in the evening of the day the bomb exploded, a Japanese naval launch moved slowly up and down the seven rivers of Hiroshima. It stopped here and there to make an announcement-alongside the crowded sandspits, on which hundreds of wounded lay; at the bridges, on which others were crowded; and eventually, as twilight fell, opposite Asano Park. A young officer stood up in the launch and shouted through a megaphone, "Be patient! A naval hospital ship is coming to take care of you!" The sight of the shipshape launch against the background of the havoc across the river; the unruffled young man in his neat uniform; above all, the promise of medical help-the first word of possible succor anyone had heard in nearly twelve awful hours-cheered the people in the park tremendously. Mrs. Nakamura settled her family for the night with the assurance that a doctor would come and stop their retching. Mr. Tanimoto resumed ferrying the wounded across the river. Father Kleinsorge lay down and said the Lord's Prayer and a Hail Mary to himself, and fell right asleep; but no sooner had he dropped off than Mrs. Murata, the conscientious mission housekeeper, shook him and said, "Father Kleinsorge! Did you remember to repeat your evening prayers?" He answered rather grumpily, "Of course," and he tried to go back to sleep but could not. This, apparently, was just what Mrs. Murata wanted. She began to chat with the exhausted priest. One of the questions she raised was when he thought the priests from the Novitiate, for whom he had sent a messenger in midafternoon, would arrive to evacuate Father Superior LaSalle and Father Schiffer.

The messenger Father Kleinsorge had sent-the theological student who had been living at the mission house-had arrived at the Novitiate, in the hills about three miles out, at half past four. The sixteen priests there had been doing rescue work in the outskirts; they had worried about their colleagues in the city but had not known how or where to look for them. Now they hastily made two litters out of poles and boards, and the student led half a dozen of them back into the devastated area. They worked their way along the Ota above the city; twice the heat of the fire forced them into the river. At Misasa Bridge, they encountered a long line of soldiers making a bizarre forced march away from the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters in the center of the town. All were grotesquely burned, and they supported themselves with staves or leaned on one another. Sick, burned horses, hanging their heads, stood on the bridge. When the rescue party reached the park, it was after dark, and progress was made extremely difficult by the tangle of fallen trees of all sizes that had been knocked down by the whirlwind that afternoon. At last-not long after Mrs. Murata asked her question-they reached their friends, and gave them wine and strong tea.

The priests discussed how to get Father Schiffer and Father LaSalle out to the Novitiate. They were afraid that blundering through the park with them would jar them too much on the wooden litters, and that the wounded men would lose too much blood. Father Kleinsorge thought of Mr. Tanimoto and his boat, and called out to him on the river. When Mr. Tanimoto reached the bank, he said he would be glad to take the injured priests and their bearers upstream to where they could find a clear roadway. The rescuers put Father Schiffer onto one of the stretchers and lowered it into the boat, and two of them went aboard with it. Mr. Tanimoto, who still had no oars, poled the punt upstream.

About half an hour later, Mr. Tanimoto came back and excitedly asked the remaining priests to help him rescue two children he had seen standing up to their shoulders in the river. A group went out and picked them up-two young girls who had lost their family and were both badly burned. The priests stretched them on the ground next to Father Kleinsorge and then embarked Father LaSalle. Father Cieslik thought he could make it out to the Novitiate on foot, so he went aboard with the others. Father Kleinsorge was too feeble; he decided to wait in the park until the next day. He asked the men to come back with a handcart, so that they could take Mrs. Nakamura and her sick children to the Novitiate.

Mr. Tanimoto shoved off again. As the boatload of priests moved slowly upstream, they heard weak cries for help. A woman's voice stood out especially: "There are people here about to be drowned! Help us! The water is rising!" The sounds came from one of the sandspits, and those in the punt could see, in the reflected light of the still-burning fires, a number of wounded people lying at the edge of the river, already partly covered by the flooding tide. Mr. Tanimoto wanted to help them, but the priests were afraid that Father Schiffer would die if they didn't hurry, and they urged their ferryman along. He dropped them where he had put Father Schiffer down and then started back alone toward the sandspit.

The night was hot, and it seemed even hotter because of the fires against the sky, but the younger of the two girls Mr. Tanimoto and the priests had rescued complained to Father Kleinsorge that she was cold. He covered her with his jacket. She and her older sister had been in the salt water of the river for a couple of hours before being rescued. The younger one had huge, raw flash burns on her body; the salt water must have been excruciatingly painful to her. She began to shiver heavily, and again said it was cold. Father Kleinsorge borrowed a blanket from someone nearby and wrapped her up, but she shook more and more, and said again, "I am so cold," and then she suddenly stopped shivering and was dead.

Mr. Tanimoto found about twenty men and women on the sandspit. He drove the boat onto the bank and urged them to get aboard. They did not move and he realized that they were too weak to lift themselves. He reached down and took a woman by the hands, but her skin slipped off in huge, glove-like pieces. He was so sickened by this that he had to sit down for a moment. Then he got out into the water and, though a small man, lifted several of the men and women, who were naked, into his boat. Their backs and breasts were clammy, and he remembered uneasily what the great burns he had seen during the day had been like: yellow at first, then red and swollen, with the skin sloughed off, and finally, in the evening, suppurated and smelly. With the tide risen, his bamboo pole was now too short and he had to paddle most of the way across with it. On the other side, at a higher spit, he lifted the slimy living bodies out and carried them up the slope away from the tide. He had to keep consciously repeating to himself, "These are human beings." It took him three trips to get them all across the river. When he had finished, he decided he had to have a rest, and he went back to the park.

As Mr. Tanimoto stepped up the dark bank, he tripped over someone, and someone else said angrily, "Look out! That's my hand." Mr. Tanimoto, ashamed of hurting wounded people, embarrassed at being able to walk upright, suddenly thought of the naval hospital ship, which had not come (it never did), and he had for a moment a feeling of blind, murderous rage at the crew of the ship, and then at all doctors. Why didn't they come to help these people?

Dr. Fujii lay in dreadful pain throughout the night on the floor of his family's roofless house on the edge of the city. By the light of a lantern, he had examined himself and found: left clavicle fractured; multiple abrasions and lacerations of face and body, including deep cuts on the chin, back, and legs; extensive contusions on chest and trunk; a couple of ribs possibly fractured. Had he not been so badly hurt, he might have been at Asano Park, assisting the wounded.

By nightfall, ten thousand victims of the explosion had invaded the Red Cross Hospital, and Dr. Sasaki, worn out, was moving aimlessly and dully up and down the stinking corridors with wads of bandage and bottles of mercurochrome, still wearing the glasses he had taken from the wounded nurse, binding up the worst cuts as he came to them. Other doctors were putting compresses of saline solution on the worst burns. That was all they could do. After dark, they worked by the light of the city's fires and by candles the ten remaining nurses held for them. Dr. Sasaki had not looked outside the hospital all day; the scene inside was so terrible and so compelling that it had not occurred to him to ask any questions about what had happened beyond the windows and doors. Ceilings and partitions had fallen; plaster, dust, blood, and vomit were everywhere. Patients were dying by the hundreds, but there was nobody to carry away the corpses. Some of the hospital staff distributed biscuits and rice balls, but the charnel-house smell was so strong that few were hungry. By three o'clock the next morning, after nineteen straight hours of his gruesome work, Dr. Sasaki was incapable of dressing another wound. He and some other survivors of the hospital staff got straw mats and went outdoors-thousands of patients and hundreds of dead were in the yard and on the driveway-and hurried around behind the hospital and lay down in hiding to snatch some sleep. But within an hour wounded people had found them; a complaining circle formed around them: "Doctors! Help us! How can you sleep?" Dr. Sasaki got up again and went back to work. Early in the day, he thought for the first time of his mother at their country home in Mukaihara, thirty miles from town. He usually went home every night. He was afraid she would think he was dead.

Near the spot upriver to which Mr. Tanimoto had transported the priests, there sat a large case of rice cakes which a rescue party had evidently brought for the wounded lying thereabouts but hadn't distributed. Before evacuating the wounded priests, the others passed the cakes around and helped themselves. A few minutes later, a band of soldiers came up, and an officer, hearing the priests speaking a foreign language, drew his sword and hysterically asked who they were. One of the priests calmed him down and explained that they were Germans-allies. The officer apologized and said that there were reports going around that American parachutists had landed.

The priests decided that they should take Father Schiffer first. As they prepared to leave, Father Superior LaSalle said he felt awfully cold. One of the Jesuits gave up his coat, another his shirt; they were glad to wear less in the muggy night. The stretcher bearers started out. The theological student led the way and tried to warn the others of obstacles, but one of the priests got a foot tangled in some telephone wire and tripped and dropped his corner of the litter. Father Schiffer rolled off, lost consciousness, came to, and then vomited. The bearers picked him up and went on with him to the edge of the city, where they had arranged to meet a relay of other priests, left him with them, and turned back and got the Father Superior.

The wooden litter must have been terribly painful for Father LaSalle, in whose back scores of tiny particles of window glass were embedded. Near the edge of town, the group had to walk around an automobile burned and squatting on the narrow road, and the bearers on one side, unable to see their way in the darkness, fell into a deep ditch. Father LaSalle was thrown onto the ground and the litter broke in two. One priest went ahead to get a handcart from the Novitiate, but he soon found one beside an empty house and wheeled it back. The priests lifted Father LaSalle into the cart and pushed him over the bumpy road the rest of the way. The rector of the Novitiate, who had been a doctor before he entered the religious order, cleaned the wounds of the two priests and put them to bed between clean sheets, and they thanked God for the care they had received.

Thousands of people had nobody to help them. Miss Sasaki was one of them. Abandoned and helpless, under the crude lean-to in the courtyard of the tin factory, beside the woman who had lost a breast and the man whose burned face was scarcely a face any more, she suffered awfully that night from the pain in her broken leg. She did not sleep at all; neither did she converse with her sleepless companions.

In the park, Mrs. Murata kept Father Kleinsorge awake all night by talking to him. None of the Nakamura family were able to sleep, either; the children, in spite of being very sick, were interested in everything that happened. They were delighted when one of the city's gas-storage tanks went up in a tremendous burst of flame. Toshio, the boy, shouted to the others to look at the reflection in the river. Mr. Tanimoto, after his long run and his many hours of rescue work, dozed uneasily. When he awoke, in the first light of dawn, he looked across the river and saw that he had not carried the festered, limp bodies high enough on the sandspit the night before. The tide had risen above where he had put them; they had not had the strength to move; they must have drowned. He saw a number of bodies floating in the river.

Early that day, August 7th, the Japanese radio broadcast for the first time a succinct announcement that very few, if any, of the people most concerned with its content, the survivors in Hiroshima, happened to hear: "Hiroshima suffered considerable damage as the result of an attack by a few B-29s. It is believed that a new type of bomb was used. The details are being investigated." Nor is it probable that any of the survivors happened to be tuned in on a short-wave rebroadcast of an extraordinary announcement by the President of the United States, which identified the new bomb as atomic: "That bomb had more power than twenty thousand tons of TNT. It had more than two thousand times the blast power of the British Grand Slam, which is the largest bomb ever yet used in the history of warfare." Those victims who were able to worry at all about what had happened thought of it and discussed it in more primitive, childish terms-gasoline sprinkled from an airplane, maybe, or some combustible gas, or a big cluster of incendiaries, or the work of parachutists; but, even if they had known the truth, most of them were too busy or too weary or too badly hurt to care that they were the objects of the first great experiment in the use of atomic power, which (as the voices on the short wave shouted) no country except the United States, with its industrial know-how, its willingness to throw two billion gold dollars into an important wartime gamble, could possibly have developed.

Mr. Tanimoto was still angry at doctors. He decided that he would personally bring one to Asano Park-by the scruff of the neck, if necessary. He crossed the river, went past the Shinto shrine where he had met his wife for a brief moment the day before, and walked to the East Parade Ground. Since this had long before been designated as an evacuation area, he thought he would find an aid station there. He did find one, operated by an Army medical unit, but he also saw that its doctors were hopelessly overburdened, with thousands of patients sprawled among corpses across the field in front of it. Nevertheless, he went up to one of the Army doctors and said, as reproachfully as he could, "Why have you not come to Asano Park? You are badly needed there."

Without even looking up from his work, the doctor said in a tired voice, "This is my station."

"But there are many dying on the riverbank over there."

"The first duty," the doctor said, "is to take care of the slightly wounded."

"Why-when there are many who are heavily wounded on the riverbank?"

The doctor moved to another patient. "In an emergency like this," he said, as if he were reciting from a manual, "the first task is to help as many as possible-to save as many lives as possible. There is no hope for the heavily wounded. They will die. We can't bother with them."

"That may be right from a medical standpoint-" Mr. Tanimoto began, but then he looked out across the field, where the many dead lay close and intimate with those who were still living, and he turned away without finishing his sentence, angry now with himself. He didn't know what to do; he had promised some of the dying people in the park that he would bring them medical aid. They might die feeling cheated. He saw a ration stand at one side of the field, and he went to it and begged some rice cakes and biscuits, and he took them back, in lieu of doctors, to the people in the park.

The morning, again, was hot. Father Kleinsorge went to fetch water for the wounded in a bottle and a teapot he had borrowed. He had heard that it was possible to get fresh tap water outside Asano Park. Going through the rock gardens, he had to climb over and crawl under the trunks of fallen pine trees; he found he was weak. There were many dead in the gardens. At a beautiful moon bridge, he passed a naked, living woman who seemed to have been burned from head to toe and was red all over. Near the entrance to the park, an Army doctor was working, but the only medicine he had was iodine, which he painted over cuts, bruises, slimy burns, everything-and by now everything that he painted had pus on it. Outside the gate of the park, Father Kleinsorge found a faucet that still worked-part of the plumbing of a vanished house-and he filled his vessels and returned. When he had given the wounded the water, he made a second trip. This time, the woman by the bridge was dead. On his way back with the water, he got lost on a detour around a fallen tree, and as he looked for his way through the woods, he heard a voice ask from the underbrush, "Have you anything to drink?" He saw a uniform. Thinking there was just one soldier, he approached with the water. When he had penetrated the bushes, he saw there were about twenty men, and they were all in exactly the same nightmarish state: their faces were wholly burned, their eyesockets were hollow, the fluid from their melted eyes had run down their cheeks. (They must have had their faces upturned when the bomb went off; perhaps they were anti-aircraft personnel.) Their mouths were mere swollen, pus-covered wounds, which they could not bear to stretch enough to admit the spout of the teapot. So Father Kleinsorge got a large piece of grass and drew out the stem so as to make a straw, and gave them all water to drink that way. One of them said, "I can't see anything." Father Kleinsorge answered, as cheerfully as he could, "There's a doctor at the entrance to the park. He's busy now, but he'll come soon and fix your eyes, I hope."

Since that day, Father Kleinsorge has thought back to how queasy he had once been at the sight of pain, how someone else's cut finger used to make him turn faint. Yet there in the park he was so benumbed that immediately after leaving this horrible sight he stopped on a path by one of the pools and discussed with a lightly wounded man whether it would be safe to eat the fat, two-foot carp that floated dead on the surface of the water. They decided, after some consideration, that it would be unwise.

Father Kleinsorge filled the containers a third time and went back to the riverbank. There, amid the dead and dying, he saw a young woman with a needle and thread mending her kimono, which had been slightly torn. Father Kleinsorge joshed her. "My, but you're a dandy!" he said. She laughed.

He felt tired and lay down. He began to talk with two engaging children whose acquaintance he had made the afternoon before. He learned that their name was Kataoka; the girl was thirteen, the boy five. The girl had been just about to set out for a barbershop when the bomb fell. As the family started for Asano Park, their mother decided to turn back for some food and extra clothing; they became separated from her in the crowd of fleeing people, and they had not seen her since. Occasionally they stopped suddenly in their perfectly cheerful playing and began to cry for their mother.

It was difficult for all the children in the park to sustain the sense of tragedy. Toshio Nakamura got quite excited when he saw his friend Seichi Sato riding up the river in a boat with his family, and he ran to the bank and waved and shouted, "Sato! Sato!"

The boy turned his head and shouted, "Who's that?"

"Nakamura."

"Hello, Toshio!"

"Are you all safe?"

"Yes. What about you?"

"Yes, we're all right. My sisters are vomiting, but I'm fine."

Father Kleinsorge began to be thirsty in the dreadful heat, and he did not feel strong enough to go for water again. A little before noon, he saw a Japanese woman handing something out. Soon she came to him and said in a kindly voice, "These are tea leaves. Chew them, young man, and you won't feel thirsty." The woman's gentleness made Father Kleinsorge suddenly want to cry. For weeks, he had been feeling oppressed by the hatred of foreigners that the Japanese seemed increasingly to show, and he had been uneasy even with his Japanese friends. This stranger's gesture made him a little hysterical.

Around noon, the priests arrived from the Novitiate with the handcart. They had been to the site of the mission house in the city and had retrieved some suitcases that had been stored in the air-raid shelter and had also picked up the remains of melted holy vessels in the ashes of the chapel. They now packed Father Kleinsorge's papier-mâché suitcase and the things belonging to Mrs. Murata and the Nakamuras into the cart, put the two Nakamura girls aboard, and prepared to start out. Then one of the Jesuits who had a practical turn of mind remembered that they had been notified some time before that if they suffered property damage at the hands of the enemy, they could enter a claim for compensation with the prefectural police. The holy men discussed this matter there in the park, with the wounded as silent as the dead around them, and decided that Father Kleinsorge, as a former resident of the destroyed mission, was the one to enter the claim. So, as the others went off with the handcart, Father Kleinsorge said goodbye to the Kataoka children and trudged to a police station. Fresh, clean-uniformed policemen from another town were in charge, and a crowd of dirty and disarrayed citizens crowded around them, mostly asking after lost relatives. Father Kleinsorge filled out a claim form and started walking through the center of town on his way to Nagatsuka. It was then that he first realized the extent of the damage; he passed block after block of ruins, and even after all he had seen in the park, his breath was taken away. By the time he reached the Novitiate, he was sick with exhaustion. The last thing he did as he fell into bed was request that someone go back for the motherless Kataoka children.

Altogether Miss Sasaki was left two days and two nights under the piece of propped-up roofing with her crushed leg and her two unpleasant comrades. Her only diversion was when men came to the factory air-raid shelters, which she could see from under one corner of her shelter, and hauled corpses up out of them with ropes. Her leg became discolored, swollen, and putrid. All that time, she went without food and water. On the third day, August 8th, some friends who supposed she was dead came to look for her body and found her. They told her that her mother, father, and baby brother, who at the time of the explosion were in the Tamura Pediatric Hospital, where the baby was a patient, had all been given up as certainly dead, since the hospital was totally destroyed. Her friends then left her to think that piece of news over. Later, some men picked her up by the arms and legs and carried her quite a distance to a truck. For about an hour, the truck moved over a bumpy road, and Miss Sasaki, who had become convinced that she was dulled to pain, discovered that she was not. The men lifted her out at a relief station in the section of Inokuchi, where two Army doctors looked at her. The moment one of them touched her wound, she fainted. She came to in time to hear them discuss whether or not to cut off her leg; one said there was gas gangrene in the lips of the wound and predicted she would die unless they amputated, and the other said that was too bad, because they had no equipment with which to do the job. She fainted again. When she recovered consciousness, she was being carried somewhere on a stretcher. She was put aboard a launch, which went to the nearby island of Ninoshima, and she was taken to a military hospital there. Another doctor examined her and said that she did not have gas gangrene, though she did have a fairly ugly compound fracture. He said quite coldly that he was sorry, but this was a hospital for operative surgical cases only, and because she had no gangrene, she would have to return to Hiroshima that night. But then the doctor took her temperature, and what he saw on the thermometer made him decide to let her stay.

That day, August 8th, Father Cieslik went into the city to look for Mr. Fukai, the Japanese secretary of the diocese, who had ridden unwillingly out of the flaming city on Father Kleinsorge's back and then had run back crazily into it. Father Cieslik started hunting in the neighborhood of Sakai Bridge, where the Jesuits had last seen Mr. Fukai; he went to the East Parade Ground, the evacuation area to which the secretary might have gone, and looked for him among the wounded and dead there; he went to the prefectural police and made inquiries. He could not find any trace of the man. Back at the Novitiate that evening, the theological student, who had been rooming with Mr. Fukai at the mission house, told the priests that the secretary had remarked to him, during an air-raid alarm one day not long before the bombing, "Japan is dying. If there is a real air raid here in Hiroshima, I want to die with our country." The priests concluded that Mr. Fukai had run back to immolate himself in the flames. They never saw him again.

At the Red Cross Hospital, Dr. Sasaki worked for three straight days with only one hour's sleep. On the second day, he began to sew up the worst cuts, and right through the following night and all the next day he stitched. Many of the wounds were festered. Fortunately, someone had found intact a supply of narucopon, a Japanese sedative, and he gave it to many who were in pain. Word went around among the staff that there must have been something peculiar about the great bomb, because on the second day the vice-chief of the hospital went down in the basement to the vault where the X-ray plates were stored and found the whole stock exposed as they lay. That day, a fresh doctor and ten nurses came in from the city of Yamaguchi with extra bandages and antiseptics, and the third day another physician and a dozen more nurses arrived from Matsue-yet there were still only eight doctors for ten thousand patients. In the afternoon of the third day, exhausted from his foul tailoring, Dr. Sasaki became obsessed with the idea that his mother thought he was dead. He got permission to go to Mukaihara. He walked out to the first suburbs, beyond which the electric train service was still functioning, and reached home late in the evening. His mother said she had known he was all right all along; a wounded nurse had stopped by to tell her. He went to bed and slept for seventeen hours.

Before dawn on August 8th, someone entered the room at the Novitiate where Father Kleinsorge was in bed, reached up to the hanging light bulb, and switched it on. The sudden flood of light, pouring in on Father Kleinsorge's half sleep, brought him leaping out of bed, braced for a new concussion. When he realized what had happened, he laughed confusedly and went back to bed. He stayed there all day.

On August 9th, Father Kleinsorge was still tired. The rector looked at his cuts and said they were not even worth dressing, and if Father Kleinsorge kept them clean, they would heal in three or four days. Father Kleinsorge felt uneasy; he could not yet comprehend what he had been through; as if he were guilty of something awful, he felt he had to go back to the scene of the violence he had experienced. He got up out of bed and walked into the city. He scratched for a while in the ruins of the mission house, but he found nothing. He went to the sites of a couple of schools and asked after people he knew. He looked for some of the city's Japanese Catholics, but he found only fallen houses. He walked back to the Novitiate, stupefied and without any new understanding.

At two minutes after eleven o'clock on the morning of August 9th, the second atomic bomb was dropped, on Nagasaki. It was several days before the survivors of Hiroshima knew they had company, because the Japanese radio and newspapers were being extremely cautious on the subject of the strange weapon.

On August 9th, Mr. Tanimoto was still working in the park. He went to the suburb of Ushida, where his wife was staying with friends, and got a tent which he had stored there before the bombing. He now took it to the park and set it up as a shelter for some of the wounded who could not move or be moved. Whatever he did in the park, he felt he was being watched by the twenty-year-old girl, Mrs. Kamai, his former neighbor, whom he had seen on the day the bomb exploded, with her dead baby daughter in her arms. She kept the small corpse in her arms for four days, even though it began smelling bad on the second day. Once, Mr. Tanimoto sat with her for a while, and she told him that the bomb had buried her under their house with the baby strapped to her back, and that when she had dug herself free, she had discovered that the baby was choking, its mouth full of dirt. With her little finger, she had carefully cleaned out the infant's mouth, and for a time the child had breathed normally and seemed all right; then suddenly it had died. Mrs. Kamai also talked about what a fine man her husband was, and again urged Mr. Tanimoto to search for him. Since Mr. Tanimoto had been all through the city the first day and had seen terribly burned soldiers from Kamai's post, the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters, everywhere, he knew it would be impossible to find Kamai, even if he were living, but of course he didn't tell her that. Every time she saw Mr. Tanimoto, she asked whether he had found her husband. Once, he tried to suggest that perhaps it was time to cremate the baby, but Mrs. Kamai only held it tighter. He began to keep away from her, but whenever he looked at her, she was staring at him and her eyes asked the same question. He tried to escape her glance by keeping his back turned to her as much as possible.

The Jesuits took about fifty refugees into the exquisite chapel of the Novitiate. The rector gave them what medical care he could-mostly just the cleaning away of pus. Each of the Nakamuras was provided with a blanket and a mosquito net. Mrs. Nakamura and her younger daughter had no appetite and ate nothing; her son and other daughter ate, and lost, each meal they were offered. On August 10th, a friend, Mrs. Osaki, came to see them and told them that her son Hideo had been burned alive in the factory where he worked. This Hideo had been a kind of hero to Toshio, who had often gone to the plant to watch him run his machine. That night, Toshio woke up screaming. He had dreamed that he had seen Mrs. Osaki coming out of an opening in the ground with her family, and then he saw Hideo at his machine, a big one with a revolving belt, and he himself was standing beside Hideo, and for some reason this was terrifying.

On August 10th, Father Kleinsorge, having heard from someone that Dr. Fujii had been injured and that he had eventually gone to the summer house of a friend of his named Okuma, in the village of Fukawa, asked Father Cieslik if he would go and see how Dr. Fujii was. Father Cieslik went to Misasa station, outside Hiroshima, rode for twenty minutes on an electric train, and then walked for an hour and a half in a terribly hot sun to Mr. Okuma's house, which was beside the Ota River at the foot of a mountain. He found Dr. Fujii sitting in a chair in a kimono, applying compresses to his broken collarbone. The Doctor told Father Cieslik about having lost his glasses and said that his eyes bothered him. He showed the priest huge blue and green stripes where beams had bruised him. He offered the Jesuit first a cigarette and then whiskey, though it was only eleven in the morning. Father Cieslik thought it would please Dr. Fujii if he took a little, so he said yes. A servant brought some Suntory whiskey, and the Jesuit, the Doctor, and the host had a very pleasant chat. Mr. Okuma had lived in Hawaii, and he told some things about Americans. Dr. Fujii talked a bit about the disaster. He said that Mr. Okuma and a nurse had gone into the ruins of his hospital and brought back a small safe which he had moved into his air-raid shelter. This contained some surgical instruments, and Dr. Fujii gave Father Cieslik a few pairs of scissors and tweezers for the rector at the Novitiate. Father Cieslik was bursting with some inside dope he had, but he waited until the conversation turned naturally to the mystery of the bomb. Then he said he knew what kind of bomb it was; he had the secret on the best authority-that of a Japanese newspaperman who had dropped in at the Novitiate. The bomb was not a bomb at all; it was a kind of fine magnesium powder sprayed over the whole city by a single plane, and it exploded when it came into contact with the live wires of the city power system. "That means," said Dr. Fujii, perfectly satisfied, since after all the information came from a newspaperman, "that it can only be dropped on big cities and only in the daytime, when the tram lines and so forth are in operation."

After five days of ministering to the wounded in the park, Mr. Tanimoto returned, on August 11th, to his parsonage and dug around in the ruins. He retrieved some diaries and church records that had been kept in books and were only charred around the edges, as well as some cooking utensils and pottery. While he was at work, a Miss Tanaka came and said that her father had been asking for him. Mr. Tanimoto had reason to hate her father, the retired shipping-company official who, though he made a great show of his charity, was notoriously selfish and cruel, and who, just a few days before the bombing, had said openly to several people that Mr. Tanimoto was a spy for the Americans. Several times he had derided Christianity and called it un-Japanese. At the moment of the bombing, Mr. Tanaka had been walking in the street in front of the city's radio station. He received serious flash burns, but he was able to walk home. He took refuge in his Neighborhood Association shelter and from there tried hard to get medical aid. He expected all the doctors of Hiroshima to come to him, because he was so rich and so famous for giving his money away. When none of them came, he angrily set out to look for them; leaning on his daughter's arm, he walked from private hospital to private hospital, but all were in ruins, and he went back and lay down in the shelter again. Now he was very weak and knew he was going to die. He was willing to be comforted by any religion.

Mr. Tanimoto went to help him. He descended into the tomblike shelter and, when his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, saw Mr. Tanaka, his face and arms puffed up and covered with pus and blood, and his eyes swollen shut. The old man smelled very bad, and he moaned constantly. He seemed to recognize Mr. Tanimoto's voice. Standing at the shelter stairway to get light, Mr. Tanimoto read loudly from a Japanese-language pocket Bible: "For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. Thou carriest the children of men away as with a flood; they are as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth. For we are consumed by Thine anger and by Thy wrath are we troubled. Thou has set our iniquities before Thee, our secret sins in the light of Thy countenance. For all our days are passed away in Thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told. . . ."

Mr. Tanaka died as Mr. Tanimoto read the psalm.

On August 11th, word came to the Ninoshima Military Hospital that a large number of military casualties from the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters were to arrive on the island that day, and it was deemed necessary to evacuate all civilian patients. Miss Sasaki, still running an alarmingly high fever, was put on a large ship. She lay out on deck, with a pillow under her leg. There were awnings over the deck, but the vessel's course put her in the sunlight. She felt as if she were under a magnifying glass in the sun. Pus oozed out of her wound, and soon the whole pillow was covered with it. She was taken ashore at Hatsukaichi, a town several miles to the southwest of Hiroshima, and put in the Goddess of Mercy Primary School, which had been turned into a hospital. She lay there for several days before a specialist on fractures came from Kobe. By then her leg was red and swollen up to her hip. The doctor decided he could not set the breaks. He made an incision and put in a rubber pipe to drain off the putrescence.

At the Novitiate, the motherless Kataoka children were inconsolable. Father Cieslik worked hard to keep them distracted. He put riddles to them. He asked, "What is the cleverest animal in the world?," and after the thirteen-year-old girl had guessed the ape, the elephant, the horse, he said, "No, it must be the hippopotamus," because in Japanese that animal is kaba, the reverse of baka, stupid. He told Bible stories, beginning, in the order of things, with the Creation. He showed them a scrapbook of snapshots taken in Europe. Nevertheless, they cried most of the time for their mother.

Several days later, Father Cieslik started hunting for the children's family. First, he learned through the police that an uncle had been to the authorities in Kure, a city not far away, to inquire for the children. After that, he heard that an older brother had been trying to trace them through the post office in Ujina, a suburb of Hiroshima. Still later, he heard that the mother was alive and was on Goto Island, off Nagasaki. And at last, by keeping a check on the Ujina post office, he got in touch with the brother and returned the children to their mother.

About a week after the bomb dropped, a vague, incomprehensible rumor reached Hiroshima-that the city had been destroyed by the energy released when atoms were somehow split in two. The weapon was referred to in this word-of-mouth report as genshi bakudan -the root characters of which can be translated as "original child bomb." No one understood the idea or put any more credence in it than in the powdered magnesium and such things. Newspapers were being brought in from other cities, but they were still confining themselves to extremely general statements, such as Domei's assertion on August 12th: "There is nothing to do but admit the tremendous power of this inhuman bomb." Already, Japanese physicists had entered the city with Lauritsen electroscopes and Neher electrometers; they understood the idea all too well.

On August 12th, the Nakamuras, all of them still rather sick, went to the nearby town of Kabe and moved in with Mrs. Nakamura's sister-in-law. The next day, Mrs. Nakamura, although she was too ill to walk much, returned to Hiroshima alone, by electric car to the outskirts, by foot from there. All week, at the Novitiate, she had worried about her mother, brother, and older sister, who had lived in the part of town called Fukuro, and besides, she felt drawn by some fascination, just as Father Kleinsorge had been. She discovered that her family were all dead. She went back to Kabe so amazed and depressed by what she had seen and learned in the city that she could not speak that evening.

A comparative orderliness, at least, began to be established at the Red Cross Hospital. Dr. Sasaki, back from his rest, undertook to classify his patients (who were still scattered everywhere, even on the stairways). The staff gradually swept up the debris. Best of all, the nurses and attendants started to remove the corpses. Disposal of the dead, by decent cremation and enshrinement, is a greater moral responsibility to the Japanese than adequate care of the living. Relatives identified most of the first day's dead in and around the hospital. Beginning on the second day, whenever a patient appeared to be moribund, a piece of paper with his name on it was fastened to his clothing. The corpse detail carried the bodies to a clearing outside, placed them on pyres of wood from ruined houses, burned them, put some of the ashes in envelopes intended for exposed X-ray plates, marked the envelopes with the names of the deceased, and piled them, neatly and respectfully, in stacks in the main office. In a few days, the envelopes filled one whole side of the impromptu shrine.

In Kabe, on the morning of August 15th, ten-year-old Toshio Nakamura heard an airplane overhead. He ran outdoor and identified it with a professional eye as a B29. "There goes Mr. B!" he shouted.

One of his relatives called out to him, "Haven't you had enough of Mr. B?"

The question had a kind of symbolism. At almost that very moment, the dull, dispirited voice of Hirohito, the Emperor Tenno, was speaking for the first time in history over the radio: "After pondering deeply the general trends of the world and the actual conditions obtaining in Our Empire today, We have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure. . . ."

Mrs. Nakamura had gone to the city again, to dig up some rice she had buried in her Neighborhood Association air-raid shelter. She got it and started back for Kabe. On the electric car, quite by chance, she ran into her younger sister, who had not been in Hiroshima the day of the bombing. "Have you heard the news?" her sister asked.

"What news?"

"The war is over."

"Don't say such a foolish thing, sister."

"But I heard it over the radio myself." And then, in a whisper, "It was the Emperor's voice."

"Oh," Mrs. Nakamura said (she needed nothing more to make her give up thinking, in spite of the atomic bomb, that Japan still had a chance to win the war), "in that case . . ."

Some time later, in a letter to an American, Mr. Tanimoto described the events of that morning. "At the time of the Post-War, the marvelous thing in our history happened. Our Emperor broadcasted his own voice through radio directly to us, common people of Japan. Aug. 15th we were told that some news of great importance could he heard & all of us should hear it. So I went to Hiroshima railway station. There set a loud-speaker in the ruins of the station. Many civilians, all of them were in boundage, some being helped by shoulder of their daughters, some sustaining their injured feet by sticks, they listened to the broadcast and when they came to realize the fact that it was the Emperor, they cried with full tears in their eyes, 'What a wonderful blessing it is that Tenno himself call on us and we can hear his own voice in person. We are thoroughly satisfied in such a great sacrifice.' When they came to know the war was ended-that is, Japan was defeated, they, of course, were deeply disappointed, but followed after their Emperor's commandment in calm spirit, making whole-hearted sacrifice for the everlasting peace of the world-and Japan started her new way."

IV-Panic Grass and Feverfew

On August 18th, twelve days after the bomb burst, Father Kleinsorge set out on foot for Hiroshima from the Novitiate with his papier-mâché suitcase in his hand. He had begun to think that this bag, in which he kept his valuables, had a talismanic quality, because of the way he had found it after the explosion, standing handle-side up in the doorway of his room, while the desk under which he had previously hidden it was in splinters all over the floor. Now he was using it to carry the yen belonging to the Society of Jesus to the Hiroshima branch of the Yokohama Specie Bank, already reopened in its half-ruined building. On the whole, he felt quite well that morning. It is true that the minor cuts he had received had not healed in three or four days, as the rector of the Novitiate, who had examined them, had positively promised they would, but Father Kleinsorge had rested well for a week and considered that he was again ready for hard work. By now he was accustomed to the terrible scene through which he walked on his way into the city: the large rice field near the Novitiate, streaked with brown; the houses on the outskirts of the city, standing but decrepit, with broken windows and dishevelled tiles; and then, quite suddenly, the beginning of the four square miles of reddish-brown scar, where nearly everything had been buffeted down and burned; range on range of collapsed city blocks, with here and there a crude sign erected on a pile of ashes and tiles ("Sister, where are you?" or "All safe and we live at Toyosaka"); naked trees and canted telephone poles; the few standing, gutted buildings only accentuating the horizontality of everything else (the Museum of Science and Industry, with its dome stripped to its steel frame, as if for an autopsy; the modern Chamber of Commerce Building, its tower as cold, rigid, and unassailable after the blow as before; the huge, low-lying, camouflaged city hall; the row of dowdy banks, caricaturing a shaken economic system); and in the streets a macabre traffic-hundreds of crumpled bicycles, shells of streetcars and automobiles, all halted in mid-motion. The whole way, Father Kleinsorge was oppressed by the thought that all the damage he saw had been done in one instant by one bomb. By the time he reached the center of town, the day had become very hot. He walked to the Yokohama Bank, which was doing business in a temporary wooden stall on the ground floor of its building, deposited the money, went by the mission compound just to have another look at the wreckage, and then started back to the Novitiate. About halfway there, he began to have peculiar sensations. The more or less magical suitcase, now empty, suddenly seemed terribly heavy. His knees grew weak. He felt excruciatingly tired. With a considerable expenditure of spirit, he managed to reach the Novitiate. He did not think his weakness was worth mentioning to the other Jesuits. But a couple of days later, while attempting to say Mass, he had an onset of faintness and even after three attempts was unable to go through with the service, and the next morning the rector, who had examined Father Kleinsorge's apparently negligible but unhealed cuts daily, asked in surprise, "What have you done to your wounds?" They had suddenly opened wider and were swollen and inflamed.

As she dressed on the morning of August 20th, in the home of her sister-in-law in Kabe, not far from Nagatsuka, Mrs. Nakamura, who had suffered no cuts or burns at all, though she had been rather nauseated all through the week she and her children had spent as guests of Father Kleinsorge and the other Catholics at the Novitiate, began fixing her hair and noticed, after one stroke, that her comb carried with it a whole handful of hair; the second time, the same thing happened, so she stopped combing at once. But in the next three or four days, her hair kept falling out of its own accord, until she was quite bald. She began living indoors, practically in hiding. On August 26th, both she and her younger daughter, Myeko, woke up feeling extremely weak and tired, and they stayed on their bedrolls. Her son and other daughter, who had shared every experience with her during and after the bombing, felt fine.

At about the same time-he lost track of the days, so hard was he working to set up a temporary place of worship in a private house he had rented in the outskirts-Mr. Tanimoto fell suddenly ill with a general malaise, weariness, and feverishness, and he, too, took to his bedroll on the floor of the half-wrecked house of a friend in the suburb of Ushida.

These four did not realize it, but they were coming down with the strange, capricious disease which came later to be known as radiation sickness.

Miss Sasaki lay in steady pain in the Goddess of Mercy Primary School, at Hatsukaichi, the fourth station to the southwest of Hiroshima on the electric train. An internal infection still prevented the proper setting of the compound fracture of her lower left leg. A young man who was in the same hospital and who seemed to have grown fond of her in spite of her unremitting preoccupation with her suffering, or else just pitied her because of it, lent her a Japanese translation of de Maupassant, and she tried to read the stories, but she could concentrate for only four or five minutes at a time.

The hospitals and aid stations around Hiroshima were so crowded in the first weeks after the bombing, and their staffs were so variable, depending on their health and on the unpredictable arrival of outside help, that patients had to be constantly shifted from place to place. Miss Sasaki, who had already been moved three times, twice by ship, was taken at the end of August to an engineering school, also at Hatsukaichi. Because her leg did not improve but swelled more and more, the doctors at the school bound it with crude splints and took her by car, on September 9th, to the Red Cross Hospital in Hiroshima. This was the first chance she had had to look at the ruins of Hiroshima; the last time she had been carried through the city's streets, she had been hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Even though the wreckage had been described to her, and though she was still in pain, the sight horrified and amazed her, and there was something she noticed about it that particularly gave her the creeps. Over everything-up through the wreckage of the city, in gutters, along the riverbanks, tangled among tiles and tin roofing, climbing on charred tree trunks-was a blanket of fresh, vivid, lush, optimistic green; the verdancy rose even from the foundations of ruined houses. Weeds already hid the ashes, and wild flowers were in bloom among the city's bones. The bomb had not only left the underground organs of plants intact; it had stimulated them. Everywhere were bluets and Spanish bayonets, goosefoot, morning glories and day lilies, the hairy-fruited bean, purslane and clotbur and sesame and panic grass and feverfew. Especially in a circle at the center, sickle senna grew in extraordinary regeneration, not only standing among the charred remnants of the same plant but pushing up in new places, among bricks and through cracks in the asphalt. It actually seemed as if a load of sickle-senna seed had been dropped along with the bomb.

At the Red Cross Hospital, Miss Sasaki was put under the care of Dr. Sasaki. Now, a month after the explosion, something like order had been reëstablished in the hospital; which is to say that the patients who still lay in the corridors at least had mats to sleep on and that the supply of medicines, which had given out in the first few days, had been replaced, though inadequately, by contributions from other cities. Dr. Sasaki, who had had one seventeen-hour sleep at his home on the third night, had ever since then rested only about six hours a night, on a mat at the hospital; he had lost twenty pounds from his very small body; he still wore the ill-fitting glasses he had borrowed from an injured nurse.

Since Miss Sasaki was a woman and was so sick (and perhaps, he afterward admitted, just a little bit because she was named Sasaki), Dr. Sasaki put her on a mat in a semi-private room, which at that time had only eight people in it. He questioned her and put down on her record card, in the correct, scrunched-up German in which he wrote all his records: " Mittelgrosse Patientin in gutem Ernährungszustand. Fraktur am linken Unterschenkelknochen mit Wunde; Anschwellung in der linken Unterschenkelgegend. Haut und sichtbare Schleimhäute mässig durchblutet und kein Oedema," noting that she was a medium-sized female patient in good general health; that she had a compound fracture of the left tibia, with swelling of the left lower leg; that her skin and visible mucous membranes were heavily spotted with petechiae, which are hemorrhages about the size of grains of rice, or even as big as soybeans; and, in addition, that her head, eyes, throat, lungs, and heart were apparently normal; and that she had a fever. He wanted to set her fracture and put her leg in a cast, but he had run out of plaster of Paris long since, so he just stretched her out on a mat and prescribed aspirin for her fever, and glucose intravenously and diastase orally for her undernourishment (which he had not entered on her record because everyone suffered from it). She exhibited only one of the queer symptoms so many of his patients were just then beginning to show-the spot hemorrhages.

Dr. Fujii was still pursued by bad luck, which still was connected with rivers. Now he was living in the summer house of Mr. Okuma, in Fukawa. This house clung to the steep banks of the Ota River. Here his injuries seemed to make good progress, and he even began to treat refugees who came to him from the neighborhood, using medical supplies he had retrieved from a cache in the suburbs. He noticed in some of his patients a curious syndrome of symptoms that cropped out in the third and fourth weeks, but he was not able to do much more than swathe cuts and burns. Early in September, it began to rain, steadily and heavily. The river rose. On September 17th, there came a cloudburst and then a typhoon, and the water crept higher and higher up the bank. Mr. Okuma and Dr. Fujii became alarmed and scrambled up the mountain to a peasant's house. (Down in Hiroshima, the flood took up where the bomb had left off-swept away bridges that had survived the blast, washed out streets, undermined foundations of buildings that still stood-and ten miles to the west, the Ono Army Hospital, where a team of experts from Kyoto Imperial University was studying the delayed affliction of the patients, suddenly slid down a beautiful, pine-dark mountainside into the Inland Sea and drowned most of the investigators and their mysteriously diseased patients alike.) After the storm, Dr. Fujii and Mr. Okuma went down to the river and found that the Okuma house had been washed altogether away.

Because so many people were suddenly feeling sick nearly a month after the atomic bomb was dropped, an unpleasant rumor began to move around, and eventually it made its way to the house in Kabe where Mrs. Nakamura lay bald and ill. It was that the atomic bomb had deposited some sort of poison on Hiroshima which would give off deadly emanations for seven years; nobody could go there all that time. This especially upset Mrs. Nakamura, who remembered that in a moment of confusion on the morning of the explosion she had literally sunk her entire means of livelihood, her Sankoku sewing machine, in the small cement water tank in front of what was left of her house; now no one would be able to go and fish it out. Up to this time, Mrs. Nakamura and her relatives had been quite resigned and passive about the moral issue of the atomic bomb, but this rumor suddenly aroused them to more hatred and resentment of America than they had felt all through the war.

Japanese physicists, who knew a great deal about atomic fission (one of them owned a cyclotron), worried about lingering radiation at Hiroshima, and in mid-August, not many days after President Truman's disclosure of the type of bomb that had been dropped, they entered the city to make investigations. The first thing they did was roughly to determine a center by observing the side on which telephone poles all around the heart of the town were scorched; they settled on the torii gateway of the Gokoku Shrine, right next to the parade ground of the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters. From there, they worked north and south with Lauritsen electroscopes, which are sensitive to both beta rays and gamma rays. These indicated that the highest intensity of radioactivity, near the torii, was 4.2 times the average natural "leak" of ultra-short waves for the earth of that area. The scientists noticed that the flash of the bomb had discolored concrete to a light reddish tint, had scaled off the surface of granite, and had scorched certain other types of building material, and that consequently the bomb had, in some places, left prints of the shadows that had been cast by its light. The experts found, for instance, a permanent shadow thrown on the roof of the Chamber of Commerce Building (220 yards from the rough center) by the structure's rectangular tower; several others in the lookout post on top of the Hypothec Bank (2,050 yards); another in the tower of the Chugoku Electric Supply Building (800 yards); another projected by the handle of a gas pump (2,630 yards); and several on granite tombstones in the Gokoku Shrine (35 yards). By triangulating these and other such shadows with the objects that formed them, the scientists determined that the exact center was a spot a hundred and fifty yards south of the torii and a few yards southeast of the pile of ruins that had once been the Shima Hospital. (A few vague human silhouettes were found, and these gave rise to stories that eventually included fancy and precise details. One story told how a painter on a ladder was monumentalized in a kind of bas-relief on the stone façade of a bank building on which he was at work, in the act of dipping his brush into his paint can; another, how a man and his cart on the bridge near the Museum of Science and Industry, almost under the center of the explosion, were cast down in an embossed shadow which made it clear that the man was about to whip his horse.) Starting east and west from the actual center, the scientists, in early September, made new measurements, and the highest radiation they found this time was 3.9 times the natural "leak." Since radiation of at least a thousand times the natural "leak" would be required to cause serious effects on the human body, the scientists announced that people could enter Hiroshima without any peril at all.

As soon as this reassurance reached the household in which Mrs. Nakamura was concealing herself-or, at any rate, within a short time after her hair had started growing back again-her whole family relaxed their extreme hatred of America, and Mrs. Nakamura sent her brother-in-law to look for the sewing machine. It was still submerged in the water tank, and when he brought it home, she saw, to her dismay, that it was all rusted and useless.

By the end of the first week in September, Father Kleinsorge was in bed at the Novitiate with a fever of 102.2, and since he seemed to be getting worse, his colleagues decided to send him to the Catholic International Hospital in Tokyo. Father Cieslik and the rector took him as far as Kobe and a Jesuit from that city took him the rest of the way, with a message from a Kobe doctor to the Mother Superior of the International Hospital: "Think twice before you give this man blood transfusions, because with atomic-bomb patients we aren't at all sure that if you stick needles in them, they'll stop bleeding."

When Father Kleinsorge arrived at the hospital, he was terribly pale and very shaky. He complained that the bomb had upset his digestion and given him abdominal pains. His white blood count was three thousand (five to seven thousand is normal), he was seriously anemic, and his temperature was 104. A doctor who did not know much about these strange manifestations-Father Kleinsorge was one of a handful of atomic patients who had reached Tokyo-came to see him, and to the patient's face he was most encouraging. "You'll be out of here in two weeks," he said. But when the doctor got out in the corridor, he said to the Mother Superior, "He'll die. All these bomb people die-you'll see. They go along for a couple of weeks and then they die."

The doctor prescribed suralimentation for Father Kleinsorge. Every three hours, they forced some eggs or beef juice into him, and they fed him all the sugar he could stand. They gave him vitamins, and iron pills and arsenic (in Fowler's solution) for his anemia. He confounded both the doctor's predictions; he neither died nor got up in a fortnight. Despite the fact that the message from the Kobe doctor deprived him of transfusions, which would have been the most useful therapy of all, his fever and his digestive troubles cleared up fairly quickly. His white count went up for a while, but early in October it dropped again, to 3,600; then, in ten days, it suddenly climbed above normal, to 8,800; and it finally settled at 5,800. His ridiculous scratches puzzled everyone. For a few days, they would mend, and then, when he moved around, they would open up again. As soon as he began to feel well, he enjoyed himself tremendously. In Hiroshima he had been one of thousands of sufferers; in Tokyo he was a curiosity. Young American Army doctors came by the dozen to observe him. Japanese experts questioned him. A newspaper interviewed him. And once, the confused doctor came and shook his head and said, "Baffling cases, these atomic-bomb people."

Mrs. Nakamura lay indoors with Myeko. They both continued sick, and though Mrs. Nakamura vaguely sensed that their trouble was caused by the bomb, she was too poor to see a doctor and so never knew exactly what the matter was. Without any treatment at all, but merely resting, they began gradually to feel better. Some of Myeko's hair fell out, and she had a tiny burn on her arm which took months to heal. The boy, Toshio, and the older girl, Yaeko, seemed well enough, though they, too, lost some hair and occasionally had bad headaches. Toshio was still having nightmares, always about the nineteen-year-old mechanic, Hideo Osaki, his hero, who had been killed by the bomb.

On his back with a fever of 104, Mr. Tanimoto worried about all the funerals he ought to be conducting for the deceased of his church. He thought he was just overtired from the hard work he had done since the bombing, but after the fever had persisted for a few days, he sent for a doctor. The doctor was too busy to visit him in Ushida, but he dispatched a nurse, who recognized his symptoms as those of mild radiation disease and came back from time to time to give him injections of Vitamin B1. A Buddhist priest with whom Mr. Tanimoto was acquainted called on him and suggested that moxibustion might give him relief; the priest showed the pastor how to give himself the ancient Japanese treatment, by setting fire to a twist of the stimulant herb moxa placed on the wrist pulse. Mr. Tanimoto found that each moxa treatment temporarily reduced his fever one degree. The nurse had told him to eat as much as possible, and every few days his mother-in-law brought him vegetables and fish from Tsuzu, twenty miles away, where she lived. He spent a month in bed, and then went ten hours by train to his father's home in Shikoku. There he rested another month.

Dr. Sasaki and his colleagues at the Red Cross Hospital watched the unprecedented disease unfold and at last evolved a theory about its nature. It had, they decided, three stages. The first stage had been all over before the doctors even knew they were dealing with a new sickness; it was the direct reaction to the bombardment of the body, at the moment when the bomb went off, by neutrons, beta particles, and gamma rays. The apparently uninjured people who had died so mysteriously in the first few hours or days had succumbed in this first stage. It killed ninety-five per cent of the people within a half mile of the center, and many thousands who were farther away. The doctors realized in retrospect that even though most of these dead had also suffered from burns and blast effects, they had absorbed enough radiation to kill them. The rays simply destroyed body cells-caused their nuclei to degenerate and broke their walls. Many people who did not die right away came down with nausea, headache, diarrhea, malaise, and fever, which lasted several days. Doctors could not be certain whether some of these symptoms were the result of radiation or nervous shock. The second stage set in ten or fifteen days after the bombing. The main symptom was falling hair. Diarrhea and fever, which in some cases went as high as 106, came next. Twenty-five to thirty days after the explosion, blood disorders appeared: gums bled, the white-blood-cell count dropped sharply, and petechiae appeared on the skin and mucous membranes. The drop in the number of white blood corpuscles reduced the patient's capacity to resist infection, so open wounds were unusually slow in healing and many of the sick developed sore throats and mouths. The two key symptoms, on which the doctors came to base their prognosis, were fever and the lowered white-corpuscle count. If fever remained steady and high, the patient's chances for survival were poor. The white count almost always dropped below four thousand; a patient whose count fell below one thousand had little hope of living. Toward the end of the second stage, if the patient survived, anemia, or a drop in the red blood count, also set in. The third stage was the reaction that came when the body struggled to compensate for its ills-when, for instance, the white count not only returned to normal but increased to much higher than normal levels. In this stage, many patients died of complications, such as infections in the chest cavity. Most burns healed with deep layers of pink, rubbery scar tissue, known as keloid tumors. The duration of the disease varied, depending on the patient's constitution and the amount of radiation he had received. Some victims recovered in a week; with others the disease dragged on for months.

As the symptoms revealed themselves, it became clear that many of them resembled the effects of overdoses of X-ray, and the doctors based their therapy on that likeness. They gave victims liver extract, blood transfusions, and vitamins, especially B1. The shortage of supplies and instruments hampered them. Allied doctors who came in after the surrender found plasma and penicillin very effective. Since the blood disorders were, in the long run, the predominant factor in the disease, some of the Japanese doctors evolved a theory as to the seat of the delayed sickness. They thought that perhaps gamma rays, entering the body at the time of the explosion, made the phosphorus in the victims' bones radioactive, and that they in turn emitted beta particles, which, though they could not penetrate far through flesh, could enter the bone marrow, where blood is manufactured, and gradually tear it down. Whatever its source, the disease had some baffling quirks. Not all the patients exhibited all the main symptoms. People who suffered flash burns were protected, to a considerable extent, from radiation sickness. Those who had lain quietly for days or even hours after the bombing were much less liable to get sick than those who had been active. Gray hair seldom fell out. And, as if nature were protecting man against his own ingenuity, the reproductive processes were affected for a time; men became sterile, women had miscarriages, menstruation stopped.

For ten days after the flood, Dr. Fujii lived in the peasant's house on the mountain above the Ota. Then he heard about a vacant private clinic in Kaitaichi, a suburb to the east of Hiroshima. He bought it at once, moved there, and hung out a sign inscribed in English, in honor of the conquerors:

Quite recovered from his wounds, he soon built up a strong practice, and he was delighted, in the evenings, to receive members of the occupying forces, on whom he lavished whiskey and practiced English.

Giving Miss Sasaki a local anaesthetic of procaine, Dr. Sasaki made an incision in her leg on October 23rd, to drain the infection, which still lingered on eleven weeks after the injury. In the following days, so much pus formed that he had to dress the opening each morning and evening. A week later, she complained of great pain, so he made another incision; he cut still a third, on November 9th, and enlarged it on the twenty-sixth. All this time, Miss Sasaki grew weaker and weaker, and her spirits fell low. One day, the young man who had lent her his translation of de Maupassant at Hatsukaichi came to visit her; he told her that he was going to Kyushu but that when he came back, he would like to see her again. She didn't care. Her leg had been so swollen and painful all along that the doctor had not even tried to set the fractures, and though an X-ray taken in November showed that the bones were mending, she could see under the sheet that her left leg was nearly three inches shorter than her right and that her left foot was turning inward. She thought often of the man to whom she had been engaged. Someone told her he was back from overseas. She wondered what he had heard about her injuries that made him stay away.

Father Kleinsorge was discharged from the hospital in Tokyo on December 19th and took a train home. On the way, two days later, at Yokogawa, a stop just before Hiroshima, Dr. Fujii boarded the train. It was the first time the two men had met since before the bombing. They sat together. Dr. Fujii said he was going to the annual gathering of his family, on the anniversary of his father's death. When they started talking about their experiences, the Doctor was quite entertaining as he told how his places of residence kept falling into rivers. Then he asked Father Kleinsorge how he was, and the Jesuit talked about his stay in the hospital. "The doctors told me to be cautious," he said. "They ordered me to have a two-hour nap every afternoon."

Dr. Fujii said, "It's hard to be cautious in Hiroshima these days. Everyone seems to be so busy."

A new municipal government, set up under Allied Military Government direction, had gone to work at last in the city hall. Citizens who had recovered from various degrees of radiation sickness were coming back by the thousand-by November 1st, the population, mostly crowded into the outskirts, was already 137,000, more than a third of the wartime peak-and the government set in motion all kinds of projects to put them to work rebuilding the city. It hired men to clear the streets, and others to gather scrap iron, which they sorted and piled in mountains opposite the city hall. Some returning residents were putting up their own shanties and huts, and planting small squares of winter wheat beside them, but the city also authorized and built four hundred one-family "barracks." Utilities were repaired-electric lights shone again, trams started running, and employees of the waterworks fixed seventy thousand leaks in mains and plumbing. A Planning Conference, with an enthusiastic young Military Government officer, Lieutenant John D. Montgomery, of Kalamazoo, as its adviser, began to consider what sort of city the new Hiroshima should be. The ruined city had flourished-and had been an inviting target-mainly because it had been one of the most important military-command and communications centers in Japan, and would have become the Imperial headquarters had the islands been invaded and Tokyo been captured. Now there would be no huge military establishments to help revive the city. The Planning Conference, at a loss as to just what importance Hiroshima could have, fell back on rather vague cultural and paving projects. It drew maps with avenues a hundred yards wide and thought seriously of preserving the half-ruined Museum of Science and Industry more or less as it was, as a monument to the disaster, and naming it the Institute of International Amity. Statistical workers gathered what figures they could on the effects of the bomb. They reported that 78,150 people had been killed, 13,983 were missing, and 37,425 had been injured. No one in the city government pretended that these figures were accurate-though the Americans accepted them as official-and as the months went by and more and more hundreds of corpses were dug up from the ruins, and as the number of unclaimed urns of ashes at the Zempoji Temple in Koi rose into the thousands, the statisticians began to say that at least a hundred thousand people had lost their lives in the bombing. Since many people died of a combination of causes, it was impossible to figure exactly how many were killed by each cause, but the statisticians calculated that about twenty-five per cent had died of direct burns from the bomb, about fifty per cent from other injuries, and about twenty per cent as a result of radiation effects. The statistician' figures on property damage were more reliable: sixty-two thousand out of ninety thousand buildings destroyed, and six thousand more damaged beyond repair. In the heart of the city, they found only five modern buildings that could be used again without major repairs. This small number was by no means the fault of flimsy Japanese construction. In fact, since the 1923 earthquake, Japanese building regulations had required that the roof of each large building be able to bear a minimum load of seventy pounds per square foot, whereas American regulations do not normally specify more than forty pounds per square foot.

Scientists swarmed into the city. Some of them measured the force that had been necessary to shift marble gravestones in the cemeteries, to knock over twenty-two of the forty-seven railroad cars in the yards at Hiroshima station, to lift and move the concrete roadway on one of the bridges, and to perform other noteworthy acts of strength, and concluded that the pressure exerted by the explosion varied from 5.3 to 8.0 tons per square yard. Others found that mica, of which the melting point is 900° C., had fused on granite gravestones three hundred and eighty yards from the center; that telephone poles of Cryptomeria japonica, whose carbonization temperature is 240° C., had been charred at forty-four hundred yards from the center; and that the surface of gray clay tiles of the type used in Hiroshima, whose melting point is 1,300° C., had dissolved at six hundred yards; and, after examining other significant ashes and melted bits, they concluded that the bomb's heat on the ground at the center must have been 6,000° C. And from further measurements of radiation, which involved, among other things, the scraping up of fission fragments from roof troughs and drainpipes as far away as the suburb of Takasu, thirty-three hundred yards from the center, they learned some far more important facts about the nature of the bomb. General MacArthur's headquarters systematically censored all mention of the bomb in Japanese scientific publications, but soon the fruit of the scientists' calculations became common knowledge among Japanese physicists, doctors, chemists, journalists, professors, and, no doubt, those statesmen and military men who were still in circulation. Long before the American public had been told, most of the scientists and lots of non-scientists in Japan knew-from the calculations of Japanese nuclear physicists-that a uranium bomb had exploded at Hiroshima and a more powerful one, of plutonium, at Nagasaki. They also knew that theoretically one ten times as powerful-or twenty-could be developed. The Japanese scientists thought they knew the exact height at which the bomb at Hiroshima was exploded and the approximate weight of the uranium used. They estimated that, even with the primitive bomb used at Hiroshima, it would require a shelter of concrete fifty inches thick to protect a human being entirely from radiation sickness. The scientists had these and other details which remained subject to security in the United States printed and mimeographed and bound into little books. The Americans knew of the existence of these, but tracing them and seeing that they did not fall into the wrong hands would have obliged the occupying authorities to set up, for this one purpose alone, an enormous police system in Japan. Altogether, the Japanese scientists were somewhat amused at the efforts of their conquerors to keep security on atomic fission.

Late in February, 1946, a friend of Miss Sasaki's called on Father Kleinsorge and asked him to visit her in the hospital. She had been growing more and more depressed and morbid; she seemed little interested in living. Father Kleinsorge went to see her several times. On his first visit, he kept the conversation general, formal, and yet vaguely sympathetic, and did not mention religion. Miss Sasaki herself brought it up the second time he dropped in on her. Evidently she had had some talks with a Catholic. She asked bluntly, "If your God is so good and kind, how can he let people suffer like this?" She made a gesture which took in her shrunken leg, the other patients in her room, and Hiroshima as a whole.

"My child," Father Kleinsorge said, "man is not now in the condition God intended. He has fallen from grace through sin." And he went on to explain all the reasons for everything.

It came to Mrs. Nakamura's attention that a carpenter from Kabe was building a number of wooden shanties in Hiroshima which he rented for fifty yen a month-$3.33, at the fixed rate of exchange. Mrs. Nakamura had lost the certificates for her bonds and other wartime savings, but fortunately she had copied off all the numbers just a few days before the bombing and had taken the list to Kabe, and so, when her hair had grown in enough for her to be presentable, she went to her bank in Hiroshima, and a clerk there told her that after checking her numbers against the records the bank would give her her money. As soon as she got it, she rented one of the carpenter's shacks. It was in Nobori-cho, near the site of her former house, and though its floor was dirt and it was dark inside, it was at least a home in Hiroshima, and she was no longer dependent on the charity of her in-laws. During the spring, she cleared away some nearby wreckage and planted a vegetable garden. She cooked with utensils and ate off plates she scavenged from the debris. She sent Myeko to the kindergarten which the Jesuits reopened, and the two older children attended Nobori-cho Primary School, which, for want of buildings, held classes out of doors. Toshio wanted to study to be a mechanic, like his hero, Hideo Osaki. Prices were high; by midsummer Mrs. Nakamura's savings were gone. She sold some of her clothes to get food. She had once had several expensive kimonos, but during the war one had been stolen, she had given one to a sister who had been bombed out in Tokuyama, she had lost a couple in the Hiroshima bombing, and now she sold her last one. It brought only a hundred yen, which did not last long. In June, she went to Father Kleinsorge for advice about how to get along, and in early August, she was still considering the two alternatives he suggested-taking work as a domestic for some of the Allied occupation forces, or borrowing from her relatives enough money, about five hundred yen, or a bit more than thirty dollars, to repair her rusty sewing machine and resume the work of a seamstress.

When Mr. Tanimoto returned from Shikoku, he draped a tent he owned over the roof of the badly damaged house he had rented in Ushida. The roof still leaked, but he conducted services in the damp living room. He began thinking about raising money to restore his church in the city. He became quite friendly with Father Kleinsorge and saw the Jesuits often. He envied them their Church's wealth; they seemed to be able to do anything they wanted. He had nothing to work with except his own energy, and that was not what it had been.

The Society of Jesus had been the first institution to build a relatively permanent shanty in the ruins of Hiroshima. That had been while Father Kleinsorge was in the hospital. As soon as he got back, he began living in the shack, and he and another priest, Father Laderman, who had joined him in the mission, arranged for the purchase of three of the standardized "barracks," which the city was selling at seven thousand yen apiece. They put two together, end to end, and made a pretty chapel of them; they ate in the third. When materials were available, they commissioned a contractor to build a three-story mission house exactly like the one that had been destroyed in the fire. In the compound, carpenters cut timbers, gouged mortises, shaped tenons, whittled scores of wooden pegs and bored holes for them, until all the parts for the house were in a neat pile; then, in three days, they put the whole thing together, like an Oriental puzzle, without any nails at all. Father Kleinsorge was finding it hard, as Dr. Fujii had suggested he would, to be cautious and to take his naps. He went out every day on foot to call on Japanese Catholics and prospective converts. As the months went by, he grew more and more tired. In June, he read an article in the Hiroshima Chugoku warning survivors against working too hard-but what could he do? By July, he was worn out, and early in August, almost exactly on the anniversary of the bombing, he went back to the Catholic International Hospital, in Tokyo, for a month's rest.

Whether or not Father Kleinsorge's answers to Miss Sasaki's questions about life were final and absolute truths, she seemed quickly to draw physical strength from them. Dr. Sasaki noticed it and congratulated Father Kleinsorge. By April 15th, her temperature and white count were normal and the infection in the wound was beginning to clear up. On the twentieth, there was almost no pus, and for the first time she jerked along a corridor on crutches. Five days later, the wound had begun to heal, and on the last day of the month she was discharged.

During the early summer, she prepared herself for conversion to Catholicism. In that period she had ups and downs. Her depressions were deep. She knew she would always be a cripple. Her fiancé never came to see her. There was nothing for her to do except read and look out, from her house on a hillside in Koi, across the ruins of the city where her parents and brother died. She was nervous, and any sudden noise made her put her hands quickly to her throat. Her leg still hurt; she rubbed it often and patted it, as if to console it.

It took six months for the Red Cross Hospital, and even longer for Dr. Sasaki, to get back to normal. Until the city restored electric power, the hospital had to limp along with the aid of a Japanese Army generator in its back yard. Operating tables, X-ray machines, dentist chairs, everything complicated and essential came in a trickle of charity from other cities. In Japan, face is important even to institutions, and long before the Red Cross Hospital was back to par on basic medical equipment, its directors put up a new yellow brick veneer façade, so the hospital became the handsomest building in Hiroshima-from the street. For the first four months, Dr. Sasaki was the only surgeon on the staff and he almost never left the building; then, gradually, he began to take an interest in his own life again. He got married in March. He gained back some of the weight he lost, but his appetite remained only fair; before the bombing, he used to eat four rice balls at every meal, but a year after it he could manage only two. He felt tired all the time. "But I have to realize," he said, "that the whole community is tired."

A year after the bomb was dropped, Miss Sasaki was a cripple; Mrs. Nakamura was destitute; Father Kleinsorge was back in the hospital; Dr. Sasaki was not capable of the work he once could do; Dr. Fujii had lost the thirty-room hospital it took him many years to acquire, and had no prospects of rebuilding it; Mr. Tanimoto's church had been ruined and he no longer had his exceptional vitality. The lives of these six people, who were among the luckiest in Hiroshima, would never be the same. What they thought of their experiences and of the use of the atomic bomb was, of course, not unanimous. One feeling they did seem to share, however, was a curious kind of elated community spirit, something like that of the Londoners after their blitz-a pride in the way they and their fellow-survivors had stood up to a dreadful ordeal. Just before the anniversary, Mr. Tanimoto wrote in a letter to an American some words which expressed this feeling: "What a heartbreaking scene this was the first night! About midnight I landed on the riverbank. So many injured people lied on the ground that I made my way by striding over them. Repeating 'Excuse me,' I forwarded and carried a tub of water with me and gave a cup of water to each one of them. They raised their upper bodies slowly and accepted a cup of water with a bow and drunk quietly and, spilling any remnant, gave back a cup with hearty expression of their thankfulness, and said, 'I couldn't help my sister, who was buried under the house, because I had to take care of my mother who got a deep wound on her eye and our house soon set fire and we hardly escaped. Look, I lost my home, my family, and at last my-self bitterly injured. But now I have gotted my mind to dedicate what I have and to complete the war for our country's sake.' Thus they pledged to me, even women and children did the same. Being entirely tired I lied down on the ground among them, but couldn't sleep at all. Next morning I found many men and women dead, whom I gave water last night. But, to my great surprise, I never heard anyone cried in disorder, even though they suffered in great agony. They died in silence, with no grudge, setting their teeth to bear it. All for the country!

"Dr. Y. Hiraiwa, professor of Hiroshima University of Literature and Science, and one of my church members, was buried by the bomb under the two storied house with his son, a student of Tokyo University. Both of them could not move an inch under tremendously heavy pressure. And the house already caught fire. His son said, 'Father, we can do nothing except make our mind up to consecrate our lives for the country. Let us give Banzai to our Emperor.' Then the father followed after his son, ' Tenno-heika, Banzai, Banzai, Banzai!' In the result, Dr. Hiraiwa said, 'Strange to say, I felt calm and bright and peaceful spirit in my heart, when I chanted Banzai to Tenno.' Afterward his son got out and digged down and pulled out his father and thus they were saved. In thinking of their experience of that time Dr. Hiraiwa repeated, 'What a fortunate that we are Japanese! It was my first time I ever tasted such a beautiful spirit when I decided to die for our Emperor.'

"Miss Kayoko Nobutoki, a student of girl's high school, Hiroshima Jazabuin, and a daughter of my church member, was taking rest with her friends beside the heavy fence of the Buddhist Temple. At the moment the atomic bomb was dropped, the fence fell upon them. They could not move a bit under such a heavy fence and then smoke entered into even a crack and choked their breath. One of the girls begun to sing Kimi ga yo, national anthem, and others followed in chorus and died. Meanwhile one of them found a crack and struggled hard to get out. When she was taken in the Red Cross Hospital she told how her friends died, tracing back in her memory to singing in chorus our national anthem. They were just 13 years old.

"Yes, people of Hiroshima died manly in the atomic bombing, believing that it was for Emperor's sake."

A surprising number of the people of Hiroshima remained more or less indifferent about the ethics of using the bomb. Possibly they were too terrified by it to want to think about it at all. Not many of them even bothered to find out much about what it was like. Mrs. Nakamura's conception of it-and awe of it-was typical. "The atom bomb," she would say when asked about it, "is the size of a matchbox. The heat of it was six thousand times that of the sun. It exploded in the air. There is some radium in it. I don't know just how it works, but when the radium is put together, it explodes." As for the use of the bomb, she would say, "It was war and we had to expect it." And then she would add, " Shikata ga nai," a Japanese expression as common as, and corresponding to, the Russian word " nichevo": "It can't be helped. Oh, well. Too bad." Dr. Fujii said approximately the same thing about the use of the bomb to Father Kleinsorge one evening, in German: " Da ist nichts zu machen. There's nothing to be done about it."

Many citizens of Hiroshima, however, continued to feel a hatred for Americans which nothing could possibly erase. "I see," Dr. Sasaki once said, "that they are holding a trial for war criminals in Tokyo just now. I think they ought to try the men who decided to use the bomb and they should hang them all."

Father Kleinsorge and the other German Jesuit priests, who, as foreigners, could be expected to take a relatively detached view, often discussed the ethics of using the bomb. One of them, Father Siemes, who was out at Nagatsuka at the time of the attack, wrote in a report to the Holy See in Rome, "Some of us consider the bomb in the same category as poison gas and were against its use on a civilian population. Others were of the opinion that in total war, as carried on in Japan, there was no difference between civilians and soldiers, and that the bomb itself was an effective force tending to end the bloodshed, warning Japan to surrender and thus to avoid total destruction. It seems logical that he who supports total war in principle cannot complain of a war against civilians. The crux of the matter is whether total war in its present form is justifiable, even when it serves a just purpose. Does it not have material and spiritual evil as its consequences which far exceed whatever good might result? When will our moralists give us a clear answer to this question?"

It would be impossible to say what horrors were embedded in the minds of the children who lived through the day of the bombing in Hiroshima. On the surface their recollections, months after the disaster, were of an exhilarating adventure. Toshio Nakamura, who was ten at the time of the bombing, was soon able to talk freely, even gaily, about the experience, and a few weeks before the anniversary he wrote the following matter-of-fact essay for his teacher at Nobori-cho Primary School: "The day before the bomb, I went for a swim. In the morning, I was eating peanuts. I saw a light. I was knocked to little sister's sleeping place. When we were saved, I could only see as far as the tram. My mother and I started to pack our things. The neighbors were walking around burned and bleeding. Hataya-san told me to run away with her. I said I wanted to wait for my mother. We went to the park. A whirlwind came. At night a gas tank burned and I saw the reflection in the river. We stayed in the park one night. Next day I went to Taiko Bridge and met my girl friends Kikuki and Murakami. They were looking for their mothers. But Kikuki's mother was wounded and Murakami's mother, alas, was dead." ♦

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At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning, on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk.

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"Help (Not) Wanted: Immigration politics in Japan" book talk with Michael Strausz

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"Help (Not) Wanted: Immigration politics in Japan" book talk with Michael Strausz

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The Crisis in Pro Baseball and Japan's Lost Decade: The Curious Resilience of Heisei Japan, Paul Dunscomb

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The Crisis in Pro Baseball and Japan's Lost Decade: The Curious Resilience of Heisei Japan, Paul Dunscomb

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This book examines Japan's Heisei era through the lens of the crisis in Japanese professional baseball of 2004, challenging the narrative of decline that dominates the discourse on the period.

The story of this crisis reveals much about the Japanese psyche during the "Lost Decade," about the nature of change during Heisei Japan and of the nation's resilience. The business of professional baseball provides crucial insights as it achieved its basic form at the same time as Japan's postwar political economy, and shared many characteristics with it, including systemic inefficiencies that post-"bubble" Japan could no longer sustain. The book traces how the crisis unfolded and the cast of characters who appeared during it (including team owners, players, IT entrepreneurs and ordinary fans), revealing much about the push and pull of continuity and change in Japan.

Featuring an in-depth analysis of the key participants and developments of the crisis in baseball, this book will be a valuable resource for students and scholars of sports management, Japanese history and Japanese culture, particularly of the Heisei era.

Introduction: The Squeeze 1. Baseball as Business within Postwar Japan's Political Economy, to 1992 2. Lost Decades: Troubles for Japan and NPB, 1992-2003 3. The Storm Gathers, Then Breaks, January-June 2004 4. The Crisis Broadens, Then Deepens, June-July 2004 5. Unstoppable Forces Meet Immovable Objects, July-September 2004 6. The Strike, September 2004 7. The New Normal, September-December 2004 Conclusion. "When You Come to the Fork in the Road, Take it."

Biography

Paul E. Dunscomb is Professor of East Asian History at the University of Alaska Anchorage, US. He is author of Japan's Siberian Intervention, 1918-1922: A Great Disobedience Against the People (2011), the first ever complete narrative of the event in English, and Japan Since 1945 (2014) for the Association for Asian Studies Key Issues in Asian Studies Series. He has written and presented extensively on matters relating to the history of Heisei Japan. His current research project marries his knowledge of Alaskan and Japanese history into a new and comprehensive look at how the Second World War affected the fate not only of Alaska and its peoples but also the Kuril Islands, Sakhalin and residents of Northern Japan.

"Dr. Paul Dunscomb expertly shows that Japan's pro baseball is both a national sport and a barometer of national change. Accessibly written with remarkable detail, Japan's Pro Baseball Crisis of 2004 challenges prevailing views of Heisei-period Japan through the story of an industry in crisis, its major players, and the larger lessons it teaches about society, economics and resilience."

Alisa Freedman, Professor of Japanese Literature and Culture, University of Oregon, USA.

"Baseball may be Japan's national pastime, but in 2004 the financial struggles of the Japanese professional leagues erupted onto the headlines as a full-fledged spectator sport. In a fast-paced

narrative that takes readers into the boardroom (as well as the locker room), Paul Dunscomb tells

the engrossing story of a pivotal moment in the evolution of Japanese baseball, when elite club

owners, players and their unions, maverick tech entrepreneurs, a sensationalistic sports media,

and loyal (but often marginalized) fans jockeyed for the future of the game. Adeptly

contextualizing professional baseball within the sweeping changes in society, politics, and

business during Japan's millennial "Lost Decade," this volume is an essential addition to the

scholarly literature on Japanese sports and a major contribution to the history of contemporary

Japan."

William M. Tsutsui, Professor of Japanese History and President, Ottawa University (Ottawa, KS), Canada.

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The Crisis in Pro Baseball and Japan's Lost Decade: The Curious Resilience of Heisei Japan

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This book examines Japan's Heisei era through the lens of the crisis in Japanese professional baseball of 2004, challenging the narrative of decline that dominates the discourse on the period. The story of this crisis reveals much about the Japanese psyche during the "Lost Decade," about the nature of change during Heisei Japan and of the nation's resilience.

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The official tourism website of Tohoku, Japan “TRAVEL TO TOHOKU“

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Former Onagawa Police Box, A Remnant of the Great East Japan Earthquake｜Search Destinations in Tohoku | TRAVEL TO TOHOKU - The official tourism website of Tohoku, Japan

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The former Onagawa Police Box is a two-story reinforced-concrete building whose foundation was ripped out of the ground by the receding tsunami wave produced by the Greart East Japan Earthquake. It is one of the rare cases in the world whe…

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An elementary school where more than 80 pupils and teachers lost their lives as the 2011 tsunami washed out Ishinomaki, Miyagi Prefecture, will be preserved to remember what happened and improve the city's disaster preparedness, the mayor said.

Public opinion was split about whether Okawa Elementary School should be preserved or demolished. But at a news conference Saturday, Ishinomaki Mayor Hiroshi Kameyama unveiled a plan to turn the building into a monument.

"It's an important place to remember and mourn the victims as well as educate people about disaster preparedness and pass on what transpired," he said.

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Ishinomaki to turn Okawa Elementary ruins into 3/11 monument

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An elementary school where more than 80 pupils and teachers lost their lives as the 2011 tsunami washed out Ishinomaki, Miyagi Prefecture, will be preserved to remember what happened and improve the city's disaster preparedness, the mayor said.

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JapanCraft21 - Revitalizing crafts for the 21st century

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JapanCraft21 - Revitalizing crafts for the 21st century

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Forbidden

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JapanCraft21 - Revitalizing Japanese Crafts

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Kaizawa Yukiko, 50 years of Ainu 'attus' weaving

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Kaizawa Yukiko, 50 years of Ainu 'attus' weaving

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Kaizawa Yukiko on 50 years of weaving Ainu 'attus' fabric

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3.11 Fukushima, 281 Anti nuke - FOUR YEARS ON - English/French subs

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Takashi Murakami "The 500 Arhats" at the Mori Art Museum

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The Tsunami and the Cherry Blossom (2011)

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The Tsunami and the Cherry Blossom (2011)

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The Tsunami and the Cherry Blossom - Official Trailer

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The fog of War - Lesson 5 HQ (subs ES - EN)

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The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara (2003)

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The Fog of War: Eleven Lessons from the Life of Robert S. McNamara (2003)

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The Fog of War, winner of the Academy Award for Best Documentary, is the story of America as seen through the eyes of the former Secretary of Defense, Robert S. McNamara. One of the most controversial and influential figures in world politics, he takes us on an insider's view of the seminal events of the 20th Century. Why was this past Century the most destructive and deadly in all of human history? Are we doomed to repeat our mistakes? Are we free to make choices, or are we at the mercy of inexorable historical forces and ideologies?

From the firebombing of 100,000 Japanese civilians in Tokyo in 1945 to the brink of nuclear catastrophe during the Cuban missile crisis to the devastating effects of the Vietnam War, The Fog of War examines the psychology and reasoning of the government decision-makers who send men to war. How were decisions made and for what reason? What can we learn from these historical events?

As American forces occupy Iraq and the possibility of additional military conflict looms large, The Fog of War is essential viewing for anyone who wants to understand how the American government justifies the use of military force. Combining extraordinary archival footage, recreations, newly declassified White House recordings, and an original score by the Oscar nominated composer, Philip Glass, the film is a disquieting and powerful essay on war, rationality, and human nature.

Presented by SONY PICTURES CLASSICS
A @RADICAL & SENART FILMS Production
In Association with THE GLOBE DEPARTMENT STORE

Produced & Directed by...ERROL MORRIS
Produced by...MICHAEL WILLIAMS, JULIE AHLBERG
Executive Producers...JON KAMEN, JACK LECHNER, FRANK SCHERMA, ROBERT MAY, JOHN SLOSS
Co-Producer...ROBERT FERNANDEZ
Original Music...PHILIP GLASS
Editors...KAREN SCHMEER, DOUG ABEL, CHYLD KING
Directors of Photography...PETER DONAHUE, ROBERT CHAPPELL
Production Design...TED BAFALOUKOS, STEVE HARDIE

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The Fog of War, winner of the Academy Award for Best Documentary, is the story of America as seen through the eyes of the former Secretary of Defense, Robert S. McNamara. One of the most controversial and influential figures in world politics, he takes us on an insider's view of the seminal events of the 20th Century.

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Grave of the Fireflies - Official Trailer

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Barefoot Gen is the powerful, tragic, auto-biographical story of the bombing of Hiroshima, as seen through the eyes of the author as a young boy growing up in wartime Japan. The atomic bomb exploded 600 meters above my hometown of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 at 8:15 a.m.

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All Godzilla Movies - Eras, Order, Facts, Series, & More

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Learn more about the classics of the Godzilla film series and discover new details about the best Godzilla movies, we have it all.

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Godzilla on My Mind: Fifty Years of the King of Monsters by William Tsutsui

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Godzilla on My Mind: Fifty Years of the King of Monsters by William Tsutsui

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This year, to mark the fiftieth anniversary of his first appearance on the screen, the original, uncut version of Godzilla was released in American theaters to the delight of Sci-Fi and B-Movie fans everywhere. Ever since Godzilla (or, Gojira, as he is known in Japan) crawled out of his radioactive birthplace to cut a swath of destruction through Tokyo, he has claimed a place alongside King Kong and others in the movie monster pantheon. He is the third most recognizable Japanese celebrity in the United States, and his fan base continues to grow as children today prove his enduring appeal. Now, Bill Tsutsui, a life-long fan and historian, takes a light-hearted look at the big, green, radioactive lizard, revealing how he was born and how he became a megastar. With humorous anecdotes, Godzilla on My Mind explores his lasting cultural impact on the world. This book is sure to be welcomed by pop culture enthusiasts, fans, and historians alike.

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This year, to mark the fiftieth anniversary of his first appearance on the screen, the original, uncut version of Godzilla was released in American theaters to the delight of Sci-Fi and B-Movie fans everywhere.

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Don't Follow the Wind (March 11, 2014 - August 2022)

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Don't Follow the Wind (March 11, 2014 - August 2022)

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1/12 Don't Follow the Wind: Meiro Koizumi & Non-Visitor Center

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Fukushima town lifts evacuation order, allowing former residents to return 11 years after nuclear disaster

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Fukushima town lifts evacuation order, allowing former residents to return 11 years after nuclear disaster

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Fukushima town lifts evacuation order, allowing former residents to return 11 years after nuclear disaster | CNN

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More than a decade after Japan’s worst nuclear disaster, the town that hosts the disabled Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant finally lifted its evacuation order on Tuesday, allowing former residents to come home.

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Manga was once considered to be "low culture" in contrast to "high culture" art, but these days, there are increasing opportunities to view manga and artworks that use manga-derived techniques in art museums. These crossovers have forced us to reconsider the value of manga as a medium and have opened up new possibilities in art. A curator Kodama Kanazawa, who conducts research on manga theory and other fields in contemporary art, introduces eight Japanese artists who cross the boundaries of manga and art along with some examples of their work.

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Artists Who Cross The Boundaries of Manga and Art - Google Arts & Culture

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Google Arts & Culture features content from over 2,000 leading museums and archives, which have partnered with the Google Cultural Institute to bring the world's treasures online.

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Mission

Pittsburgh based indie film company Daliborka Films, seeks to produce passion projects that inspire and entertain. Everyone has a story to tell and we are proud to help bring those stories to life.

Our documentaries, music videos, and promotional films highlight fascinating people, incredible places, and important work being done in Pittsburgh and beyond!

Day of the Western Sunrise

Day of the Western Sunrise is a Japanese-language (with English subtitles) animated documentary following three surviving fishermen from the tuna trawler Daigo Fukuryu Maru, or the Lucky Dragon No. 5. Created with a mix of animation and live-action, the second full-length documentary produced by Daliborka Films, Day of the Western Sunrise introduces us to the forgotten story of the Lucky Dragon, the Castle Bravo nuclear tests, and the damage and devastation still felt in Japan 65 years later.

The Story

On March 1st, 1954, the U.S. detonated Castle Bravo on Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. This detonation was the first in a series of six thermonuclear weapon tests, and remains the largest and most powerful nuclear weapon detonated by the United States. The blast was three times larger than predicted, and deposited radioactive fallout as far away as Australia. Not far away, 23 fishermen aboard the Lucky Dragon No. 5 immediately began experiencing symptoms of radiation sickness and, when they returned to Japan two weeks later, they were quarantined. During their 15 months in a Tokyo hospital, they became the subjects of intense medical scrutiny by both Japanese doctors who sought to treat them, and American doctors who sought to study them. When they were finally released from the hospital, they had to integrate themselves back into communities that did not understand radiation sickness. Many of the fishermen were shunned by friends and family and eventually forced into hiding. Day of the Western Sunrise is a human interest documentary that uses first-hand survivor accounts to craft an urgent and heartfelt narrative about the dangerous of nuclear testing and the importance of advocacy for victims of all kinds of nuclear incidents.

The Animation

The film is animated in a kamishibai style, paying homage to a Japanese story-telling tradition. Kamishibai translates into 'paper drama,' and dates back to 12th century Japan when monks began using the method to teach moral lessons to their pupils. In Day of the Western Sunrise, characters have been designed, drawn, and then animated to interact in a 3D computer simulated environment. Over 2,000 individual drawings were produced for this project, and the film contains over 500 animated shots. Audiences have remarked that the kamishibai style helped them connect deeply with the fishermen and the subject matter in a way traditional documentaries have not accomplished. Character and computer animations went through an arduous research and design period to make sure the film captured history as accurately as possible.

The Fishermen

The detonation of Castle Bravo changed the lives of the fishermen forever. The 23 crew-members of Daigo Fukuryu Maru had no idea what was in store for them when they left Japan on January 22nd, 1954. Most of the fishermen had been at sea before, but they were young and forced into menial jobs because of Japan's defeat during World War II. This is the first time many of the surviving crew members had been interviewed by American journalists intent on making a product for an American audience. The featured fishermen, Susumu Misaki, Matashichi Oishi, and Masaho Ikeda, tell their story elegantly and delicately. Their collective memory allows the filmmakers to animate a very detailed and accurate portrayal of what happened on March 1st, 1954.

Educational Outreach

Day of the Western Sunrise is not only an award-winning documentary, it is a film that inspires conversation among young people across the country and keeps history alive as those who lived it leave us. Partnerships with the University of Pittsburgh's Asian Studies Center and the National Consortium for Teaching About Asia allow the message of the film to enter the classroom. The filmmakers, along with representatives of the educational community, have created educational modules meant to accompany the film as an educational tool for classroom use. By speaking in conferences and classrooms, our hope is to connect as many people as we can with this important subject matter. The more we speak and listen, the more information we have thus preventing these disasters from happening again.

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Pittsburgh based indie film company Daliborka Films, seeks to produce passion projects that inspire and entertain. Everyone has a story to tell and we are proud to help bring those stories to life. Our documentaries, music videos, and promotional films highlight fascinating people, incredible places, and important work being done in Pittsburgh and beyond!

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Daigo Fukuryu-Maru (Lucky Dragon No 5) Exhibition Hall 

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Daigo Fukuryu-Maru (Lucky Dragon No 5) Exhibition Hall 

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Daigo Fukuryu-Maru Exhibition Hall Official Site

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Day of the Western Sunrise Documentary Trailer

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Documentary: Hellfire: A Journey from Hiroshima (1986)

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Documentary: Hellfire: A Journey from Hiroshima (1986)

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Hellfire: A Journey from Hiroshima (1986) ⭐ 7.4 | Documentary

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The Art of Persistence: Akamatsu Toshiko and the Visual Cultures of Transwar Japan by Charlotte Eubanks (2019)

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The Art of Persistence: Akamatsu Toshiko and the Visual Cultures of Transwar Japan by Charlotte Eubanks (2019)

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Home / Book / The Art of Persistence: Akamatsu Toshiko and the Visual Cultures of Transwar Japan

Additional Information

336 pages | 15 color plates, 44 b&w illustrations

About the Book

The Art of Persistence examines the relations between art and politics in transwar Japan, exploring these via a microhistory of the artist, memoirist, and activist Akamatsu Toshiko (also known as Maruki Toshi, 1912-2000). Scaling up from the details of Akamatsu's lived experience, the book addresses major events in modern Japanese history, including colonization and empire, war, the nuclear bombings, and the transwar proletarian movement. More broadly, it outlines an ethical position known as persistence, which occupies the grey area between complicity and resistance: Like resilience, persistence signals a commitment to not disappearing-a fierce act of taking up space but often from a position of privilege, among the classes and people in power. Akamatsu grew up in a settler-colonial family in rural Hokkaido before attending arts college in Tokyo and becoming one of the first women to receive formal training as an oil painter in Japan. She later worked as a governess in the home of a Moscow diplomat and traveled to the Japanese Mandate in Micronesia before returning home to write and illustrate children's books set in the Pacific. She married the surrealist poet and painter Maruki Iri (1901-1995), and together in 1948-and in defiance of Occupation censorship-they began creating and exhibiting the Nuclear Series, some of the most influential and powerful artwork depicting the aftermath of the Hiroshima bombing. For the next forty or more years, the couple toured the world to protest war and nuclear proliferation and were nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 1995.

With abundant excerpts and drawings from Akamatsu's journals and sketchbooks, The Art of Persistence offers a bridge between scholarship on imperial Japan and postwar memory cultures, arguing for the importance of each individual's historical agency. While uncovering the longue durée of Japan's visual cultures of war, it charts the development of the national(ist) "literature for little citizens" movement and Japan's postwar reorientation toward global multiculturalism. Finally, the work proposes ways to enlist artwork generally, and the museum specifically, as a site of ethical engagement.

About the Author(s)

Supporting Resources

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The Art of Persistence: Akamatsu Toshiko and the Visual Cultures of Transwar Japan

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The Art of Persistence examines the relations between art and politics in transwar Japan, exploring these via a microhistory of the artist, memoirist, and activist Akamatsu Toshiko (also known as Maruki Toshi, 1912-2000). Scaling up from the details of Akamatsu's lived experience, the book addresses major events in modern Japanese history, including colonization and empire,...

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'The historic painted panels that exposed the hell of Hiroshima' (2015)

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'The historic painted panels that exposed the hell of Hiroshima' (2015)

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After the atomic bomb that led to the deaths of over 100,000 people exploded in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, artists Iri and Toshi Maruki entered the destroyed city - Iri just three days after the blast, Toshi following her husband shortly thereafter. The pair had traveled there from Tokyo to join friends and family and found themselves surrounded by burned buildings and charred bodies, breathing air that smelled like death, with flies and maggots the only thriving forms of life. For weeks they remained in the leveled city, tending to the injured and cremating the dead. Three years later, they began painting the trauma they had witnessed - an effort that stretched over 32 years and yielded 15 large, folding panels of hellish scenes known as the Hiroshima Panels, each accompanied by a short poem explaining the subject depicted. Six paintings and poems from the series, usually on display at Maruki Gallery in Saitama, are currently at Pioneer Works, marking the first time the panels have appeared in New York City in 45 years.

Standing nearly six feet tall, each work consists of eight joined panels forming a seamless scene in the style of a traditional screen that stretches 23-and-a-half feet. Laid out in this monumental format, tragedy literally unfolds before viewers; the horrific events and aftermath of Hiroshima - and Nagasaki - are unflinchingly exposed. Such imagery, however, was rarely seen in the years following the bombing due to US censorship of related media, and the Marukis became concerned that people would never really understand what happened. The couple initially intended to paint just one work, but when saw the completed painting and shared their personal experiences with the artists, the two resolved to create more, realizing that for many Japanese, the image was the first they had seen of the bombings.

That first panel, "Ghosts," which stands at the start of the Pioneer Works exhibition, is an ashen nightmare: piles of bodies float through vacant space with outstretched arms, processing like corpses to some afterlife, all naked as their clothes have burned off. Some clutch their faces or each other; limbs dissolve into smoke and mix with blackened debris. Many are nearly skeletons with visible ribcages. From afar, the mass of tangled bodies resembles a plume of toxic smoke. The Marukis' collaborative approach to painting in particular enhanced this density and haziness, marrying Iri's traditional technique of black-and-white sumi-e, or inkwash, painting with Toshi's western-style illustrations. (She was known as one of Japan's most celebrated children's book illustrators.) After Toshi outlined figures with ink and chalk, Iri would splash India ink over them to muddle them; they would then repeat the process of painting and concealing, making the realities of war emerge from the layers of darkness.

One may witness this peculiar dance in Hellfire: A Journey from Hiroshima, a 1986 documentary about the panels that is also on view at Pioneer Works. The couple works directly on top of each sheet of paper as it lays on the ground. The resulting imagery is so strong that when they unveiled the red-and-black stained "Hell" to Japanese press at a local temple in 1985, the artists encouraged reporters to walk on its surface in their socks.

"Hell," tumultuous and charged, memorializes the fateful moments immediately following the explosion. Flames, crimson like blood, lick bodies crammed into the picture plane with no sign of possible escape. For their first 10 or so works, the Marukis focused on the desperation and anguish from the Japanese perspective but later, in a significant shift of perspective, showed their countrymen as aggressors, too, following the panels' 1970 world tour - which stopped in US cities, including New York.

"The panels were always meant to be shown globally," Pioneer Works curator David Howe told Hyperallergic. " This was important to the Marukis because they considered the panels to have resonance beyond a specifically Japanese context, and they wanted them - particularly in later examples - to offer a multidimensional view of the catastrophes.

"W hen the Marukis first showed the panels in the US in 1970, they received viewpoints very different from what they were used to in Japan, of Japanese aggression towards US citizens (such as at Pearl Harbor)," Howe continued. " So I think that encountering a US audience broadened and complicated their position on World War II, and they sought to address that."

Two of these later works, among the six in the exhibition, show American prisoners of war as they were beaten to death by Japanese survivors and the corpses of forced laborers from Korea feasted upon by a menacing flock of crows. The Hiroshima Panels, however, did not just center on violent visuals. Bookending the four apocalyptic scenes are two vividly colored series of panels set after the bombings: one showing a lantern ceremony that commemorates the dead; the other documenting a 1954 petition launched by housewives in Suginami to protest nuclear weapons. In the latter, cherry blossoms fleck the crowded space with light spots while doves soar beside the living. On the far right, a young woman shouldering a swaddled baby bends over to sign the document in a panel that looks forward to a future of hope and revival. In a world still not free of nuclear arms, the Hiroshima Panels remind of the risks that were once realized and the horrific consequences. Seventy years have gone by since the atomic bombs fell, but the Marukis' message is not yet just part of the past.

The Hiroshima Panels continues at Pioneer Works (159 Pioneer Street, Red Hook, Brooklyn) through December 20.

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The Historic Painted Panels That Exposed the Hell of Hiroshima

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After the atomic bomb that led to the deaths of over 100,000 people exploded in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, artists Iri and Toshi Maruki entered the destroyed city - Iri just three days after the blast, Toshi following her husband shortly thereafter.

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LEVEL7 feat. Myth of Tomorrow / Chim↑Pom

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Aoshima Chiho: Rebirth of the World (2015)

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Aoshima Chiho: Rebirth of the World (2015)

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Hiroshima no Pika by Toshi Maruki (1980)

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Hiroshima no Pika by Toshi Maruki (1980)

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August 6, 1945, 8:15 a.m.
Hiroshima. Japan

A little girl and her parents
are eating breakfast,
and then it happened.
HIROSHIMA NO PIKA.

This book is dedicated to
the fervent hope the Flash
will never happen again,
anywhere.

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Hiroshima No Pika [Maruki, Toshi, Maruki, Toshi] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Hiroshima No Pika

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The Last Cherry Blossom by Kathleen Burkinshaw

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The Last Cherry Blossom by Kathleen Burkinshaw

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In November 2019 I spoke about The Last Cherry Blossom at the United Nations Bookshop in New York City. Click on the link to view a short teaser and view the full speech on the United Nations Bookshop official Facebook page.
Click HERE to watch my United Nations Speech Teaser.
KATHLEEN BURKINSHAW

Kathleen Burkinshaw is a Japanese American author, the daughter of a Hiroshima survivor and resides in Charlotte, NC. She's a wife, mom, and owns a dog who thinks she's a kitchen ninja. In 2019 she spoke about her mother's experience in Hiroshima at the United Nations (NYC) and with her daughter on UN virtual events for the 75th anniversary of atomic bombing. In 2021, she had the honor of speaking at a Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum virtual event. Kathleen has presented to middle/high schools around the world for the past 10 years. She now serves on the Advisory Council at the International Center for Multigenerational Legacies of Trauma and on the Steering Committee for the Global Alliance Sustainable Peace & Prosperity for All, Hiroshima Japan.

She also has been a featured guest on NHK World Japan, Asian American Magazines, and on numerous podcasts. Writing gives her an outlet for her daily struggle with chronic pain from Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy. The Last Cherry Blossom (2016, English Edition), is now a United Nations Office for Disarmament Affairs Resource for Teachers and Students. The Japanese translation from Holp Shuppan Publishing released August 12, 2022. The audiobook version(English) of The Last Cherry Blossom (Dreamscape Media) released on September 27, 2021.

The Last Cherry Blossom has been nominated for 2019 NC School Library Media Association YA book award,2019-2020 Volunteer State Book Award (Tennessee), 2018& 2016 Scholastic WNDB Reading Club selection, and Finalist for NC Sir Walter Raleigh Fiction Award, 2018 Sakura Medal, Japan, and SCBWI Crystal Kite Award(southeast region).

Click HERE to learn more about Kathleen through her Blog - Creating Through the Pain.

Segment on Newsroom Tokyo

In April 2020 NHK World-Japan, an international news station based in Japan, did a short segment on The Last Cherry Blossom in both Japanese and English. The English segment was on their Newsroom Tokyo TV program and the Japanese segment was on their Today's 2020 TV program.

Click HERE to watch the English segment.

Click HERE to watch the Japanese segment.

NHK Backstories: "Hiroshima novel a hit with students on both sides of the Pacific"

In April 2020, in addition to my segment on Newsroom Tokyo, NHK wrote an article about The Last Cherry Blossom and its impact on students in both the United States and Japan.

Click HERE to read my article on NHK.

United Nations Professional Development Workshop Article

In November 2019 I was mentioned in a United Nations article about a workshop for high school teachers discussing nuclear threats. I was part of a Q&A on nuclear weapons at the workshop.

Click HERE to read the article.

Japan Times Article

In November 2019 The Last Cherry Blossom was featured in an article in the Japan Times, a leading newspaper in Japan.

Kyodo News Article

In November 2019 I was featured in an article in Kyodo News, another major Japanese newspaper.

Click HERE to read the article.

United Nations Podcast

In January 2020 I was a guest on the United Nations podcast The Lid is On to speak about The Last Cherry Blossom.

Click HERE to watch the podcast.

Rafu Shimpo Article

was featured in an article in The Last Cherry Blossom Rafu Shimpo, the largest Japanese American newspaper since 1903. You can read the article in the picture below.

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Kathleen Burkinshaw, Author, The Last Cherry Blossom - The enemy isn't so different from ourselves.

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In November 2019 I spoke about The Last Cherry Blossom at the United Nations Bookshop in New York City. Click on the link to view a short teaser and view the full speech on the United Nations Bookshop official Facebook page. Click HERE to watch my United Nations Speech Teaser.

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Ground Zero 1945: Pictures by Atomic Bomb Survivors by John W. Dower, MIT Visualizing Cultures

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Ground Zero 1945: Pictures by Atomic Bomb Survivors by John W. Dower, MIT Visualizing Cultures

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For most Americans today, the words "Ground Zero" immediately call to mind the horror of September 11, 2001, when terrorists crashed hijacked airplanes into the World Trade Center in New York City, destroying two skyscrapers and killing some three-thousand individuals. As a place, Ground Zero thus refers to the dead center of an explosive act of violence. As a concept, these ominous words are inseparable from the terrifying vision of WMD-Weapons of Mass Destruction. What if the next Ground Zero involves nuclear weapons?

Prior to "9-11," Ground Zero did in fact have a concrete, historical, explicitly nuclear meaning. The phrase was coined in reference to the first nuclear weapons tested and used by the United States in 1945-the top-secret "Trinity" test in the desert of Alamagordo, New Mexico, in mid July 1945, and the atomic bombs dropped with devastating effect a few weeks later on Hiroshima (August 6) and Nagasaki (August 9).

The historical monument that used to mark the epicenter of the Trinity test bore the simple legend Ground Zero. It is possible that the "zero" designation had its actual origin here, before the bombs were deployed against the two Japanese cities. By 1946, in any case, "ground zero" had become a media catch phrase referring to the epicenter of a nuclear explosion. Hiroshima and Nagasaki stood before the world as stark examples of what this really meant.

Japan surrendered on August 14 (August 15 Japan time)-eight days after Hiroshima, six days after the Soviet Union declared war on Japan, five days after Nagasaki. These were the first atomic bombs ever actually used against an enemy population. To date, they are the last.

Most of this history-this genesis of an awesome, horrifying catch phrase-has been forgotten.

The American decision to deploy the new technology of nuclear destruction against densely populated cities will always remain controversial. Supporters of this decision-and, to the present day, this includes the great majority of Americans-argue that the bombs were necessary to end the war against a fanatical enemy quickly and save untold numbers of American lives. A well-known essay by the distinguished historian Paul Fussell succinctly captures this position in its title: "Thank God for the Atomic Bomb."

Critics of the decision to use the bombs argue that the Japanese government could have been persuaded to surrender by other policies-most notably, by (1) clarifying the U.S. terms of surrender (to make clear that Japan's imperial dynasty would be maintained), and (2) waiting for the imminent declaration of war against Japan by the Soviet Union (which the Japanese were known to be desperately trying to prevent).

This controversy will never be resolved but should never be ignored, for it raises practical and moral issues of the highest order. The debate over the use of the bombs in 1945 is inseparable from present-day controversies concerning just and unjust war. It involves an issue that has been with us since World War II and was abruptly thrown to the forefront of popular consciousness by 9-11: when, if ever, is it appropriate to identify civilians as a legitimate target of war?

That, however, is a subject in itself. This present treatment of "Ground Zero 1945" is more narrowly focused. It addresses what it was like to be present, on the ground, when nuclear weapons were actually used.

It is impossible to give precise figures for the victims of mass slaughter. We can only venture plausible estimates, for example, concerning how many tens of millions of people died worldwide in the course of World War II. This imprecision of numbers is also true with Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

By the final year of the war, Japan was disintegrating. Malnutrition was widespread. City residents made constant trips to the countryside to barter for basic foodstuffs. Many urban women and children relocated with rural kin to escape terror bombing by the U.S. Army Air Force, which followed a massive air raid on Tokyo in March 1945 with a policy of systematically targeting urban centers. Troops and labor forces (often schoolboys and schoolgirls mobilized for factory work) were moved from place to place. Populations were in flux.

By the time Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed in August 1945, over sixty Japanese cities had been targeted with "conventional" napalm fire-bombing. The nuclear destruction in the two cities was so extensive that entire neighborhoods were obliterated, often with few survivors (or paper records) to recall them.

The most careful and persuasive estimates suggest that somewhere in the neighborhood of 140,000 individuals probably died as a result of the nuclear bombing of Hiroshima. In Nagasaki, where the bomb exploded off-target, fatalities probably numbered around 70,000. (Both of these figures are roughly double the estimates commonly cited shortly after the war.)

Most of these deaths occurred immediately or by the end of 1945. By one standard calculation, 60 percent of the deaths came from burns, 20 percent from trauma from the blast, and 20 percent from radiation sickness. Many deaths, however, also took place between 1946 and 1950. Over the decades that followed, small numbers of survivors continued to die from bomb-related injuries or illnesses.

Despite the scale of these casualties, the visual record of them is comparatively sparse. The major U.S. survey team sent to assess the effects of the air war (the U.S. Strategic Bombing Survey) produced thousands of photographs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki that focused almost obsessively on damage to physical structures. Other American military and civilian photographers who worked in Japan in the immediate wake of the war also, as a general rule, shied away from human suffering.

Where the Japanese themselves were concerned, censorship by U.S. occupation authorities, who exercised control over defeated Japan from August 1945 to April 1952, resulted in a remarkable occurrence: the public had virtually no access to graphic images of Hiroshima and Nagasaki until seven years after the bombs were dropped. The magazine Asahi Gurafu broke the ice by publishing a portfolio of photographs in August 1952. That same year also saw belated publication of a somber record of the destruction in Nagasaki, taken on August 10, 1945, by Yamahata Yōsuke.

Although Japanese filmmakers produced several hours of black-and-white footage of the nuclear destruction in the weeks that followed, only a surprisingly small portion of this focused on human suffering. This footage was confiscated by the U.S. government and remained censored until the mid-1960s. (After being declassified, the most dramatic frames were privately edited as a short documentary titled Hiroshima Nagasaki, 1945.)

This averted gaze was as psychological as it was political. Few Japanese wished to dwell on the madness and misery of the war, and the hibakusha-the survivors of the atomic bombs-were essentially stigmatized or ignored until the late 1950s and early 1960s. It took two famous photographers to draw serious public attention and sympathy to them. Dōmon Ken published an influential study of Hiroshima hibakusha in 1957. Four years later he and Tōmatsu Shōmei collaborated on a volume depicting the nuclear legacy in the two stricken cities, and in 1966 Tōmatsu followed this with a truly distinguished collection of photographs titled Nagasaki "11:02 a.m." (the time the bomb exploded).

This time-warp is worth keeping in mind. It took until the 1960s before people in Japan (as well as outside) really began to see the human face of nuclear devastation. Even then, it was all too easy to avert one's gaze: these images were almost unbearable to look at.

Beginning in 1974-over a quarter century after the bombs were dropped-an entirely new window on the atomic-bomb experience was opened. This took the form of drawings and paintings by survivors.

Every August, it is customary for the Japanese media to observe the anniversary of the end of World War II with retrospective pieces. These include television documentaries and personal reminiscences in magazines and newspapers. The tone is somber, commonly focusing on the suffering and horror of war. More than is appreciated outside Japan, some of these observances also address Japanese atrocities and war crimes (there are numerous private institutions and organizations devoted to such "peace" activity in Japan). Unlike in the nations that emerged victorious in World War II, there is nothing to celebrate on this anniversary occasion. There is, on the contrary, a great deal of a cautionary nature to pass on to ever-younger generations.

In Hiroshima (more than in Nagasaki), August becomes an occasion for intensified reflection on the atomic bombs and agitation for nuclear disarmament-a tradition that dates back to the mid-1950s. The Peace Memorial Museum opened its doors in 1955, and the first Japanese anti-nuclear organizations emerged around the same time, initially on the political left. By the 1970s, the "peace movement" had become not only politicized but also highly factionalized.

This was the setting in which the hibakusha moved toward center stage to tell their personal stories by drawing or painting what they had experienced and witnessed in August 1945.

This was an unplanned development. It began in 1974, when a survivor visited the Hiroshima office of the Japan Broadcasting Corporation (NHK) to give them a picture he had drawn of a scene from 1945 that still haunted him. This prompted NHK to solicit other such graphic recollections, and these became the basis for a television program and exhibition in Hiroshima in August 1975. Eventually, several thousand such pictures were collected and exhibited throughout the country.

These are the intimate images that have been drawn upon for this site. There is nothing like them. John Hersey, who introduced Americans to atomic-bomb survivors in a celebrated long essay in 1946 (issued in book form as Hiroshima), put his finger on the difference between these visuals and the more familiar photographs and film footage from Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The pictures by hibakusha, he observed, are "more moving than any book of photographs of the horror could be, because what is registered is what has been burned into the minds of the survivors."

All images that follow have been provided
by the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum.

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For most Americans today, the words "Ground Zero" immediately call to mind the horror of September 11, 2001, when terrorists crashed hijacked airplanes into the World Trade Center in New York City, destroying two skyscrapers and killing some three-thousand individuals. As a place, Ground Zero thus refers to the dead center of an explosive act of violence.

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原爆の図 丸木美術館 | Maruki Gallery For The Hiroshima Panels

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Opening Hours & Days

March - November 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m.
December - February 9:30 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.

Closed

Mondays (except for national holidays, or Tuesday if Monday is a national holiday), Dec 29 - Jan 3

Open daily

Apr 29 - May 5, Aug 1-15

1401 Shimogarako, Higashi-Matsuyama city, Saitama
355-0076

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Opening Hours & Days March - November 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. December - February 9:30 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.

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"75 years after the Hiroshima bomb, a couple's art still devastates" LA Times (2020)

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"75 years after the Hiroshima bomb, a couple's art still devastates" LA Times (2020)

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Pika. It means glitter or flash in Japanese. It's what survivors of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima remember from exactly 75 years ago. The flash that popped in a blue cloudless morning sky. Followed immediately by a brilliant blue-white light that was far stronger and erased all shadows.

Survivors say they heard no sound.

Then the city of Hiroshima - homes, barracks, hospitals, factories, government offices, rice paddies, schools, street cars - simply vanished, along with Japanese soldiers, American prisoners of war, farmers, grandparents, schoolchildren.

An estimated 140,000 died. The shockwave leveled a two-mile radius and threw people into the air, bodies raining down in trees and bamboo thickets. Survivors in the rubble found themselves naked, their clothes blown away or burnt off. Those who had instinctively raised their arms to block the flash had their skin flayed off. Glass and metal pierced ash-blackened bodies. Buildings were flattened. Fires raged.

You don't have to be Japanese or remember World War II to be shocked and inevitably transformed by the life-sized art that records these memories at the Maruki Gallery for the Hiroshima Panels in Saitama prefecture, about an hour north of Tokyo.

It is a beautiful and terrible experience to take in the combined vision of the panels' wife-and-husband creators, Toshiko and Iri Maruki. Their searing stories rendered in ink and rice paper take the suffering of war to a different level beyond even Guernica or Goya.

The artists' caption to a panel titled "Ghosts," showing survivors walking the streets with arms outstretched, pleading for water, says what the rest of the world initially did not see:
With hands lifted half up, they were ghosts in procession.
Dragging their ragged skin behind them exhausted,
they fell down moaning in heaps and died one after another.
For decades, the human experience of an atomic bombing was censored by the Allied occupation. Japanese newsreel footage, photos and eyewitness accounts were repressed. Photography of building destruction was circulated, but not images of survivors - not until occupation ended in 1952.

Before that, there was the Marukis' art. Their Hiroshima Panels consisted of 6-by-24-foot scroll paintings done in a mixture of Iri's traditional sumi-e and Toshiko's Western-style figurative painting. They depicted the bomb's effects from the survivors' point of view in gruesome detail.

In "Ghosts," figures crowd the canvas at eye level, their features scorched and twisted from the blast, moving inexorably toward a pile of carcasses. A dead baby lies underfoot, and a dark stain of ink hangs over all, smearing bodies with smoke and black rain.

Iri, a native of Hiroshima, took the first train south from Tokyo once he heard that a new weapon had been dropped on the city. He arrived on Aug. 9, the day the U.S. dropped the second atomic bomb on Nagasaki. Toshi, as she was known, followed a few days later.

Together they removed bodies, repaired homes, collected food for the injured. They stayed a month.

"We carried the injured, cremated the dead, searched for food and water, made roofs of scorched tin sheets, wandered about just like those who had experienced the bomb," they wrote later.

A few years passed. The couple was living in the country outside Tokyo, and Toshi was suffering from radiation poisoning. They craved fresh surroundings.

"They were at the end of this dirt road in the middle of nowhere," said Charlotte Eubanks, a professor of Asian studies at Penn State University who published a biography of Toshi, "The Art of Persistence: Akamatsu Toshiko and the Visual Cultures of Transwar Japan," in December.

"It was summer - humid and rainy. And she said to Iri, 'We've seen things that if I die and I haven't painted them, they will be lost. And if you die, they'll be lost. No one else is painting these things. We don't have anything to lose."

Although they risked jail, Eubanks said, the artists began sketching, talking to survivors and collecting memories to tell a story visually.

The first panel was "Ghosts, " drawn on rice paper from the descriptions of those on the ground and what Toshi and Iri had witnessed. That was followed within a year by "Fire" and "Water."

The complex marriage of the two artists' styles is vividly obvious in "Fire," with Iri's stylized traditional flames licking at the bodies of the living. He wanted to use gold to depict hell, as in medieval Buddhist and Japanese scrolls, but he had to settle for vermillion.

In "Water" the main figure is a mother holding her dead child as bodies clog a river, the only escape from the fires. In "Bamboo Thicket," Iri's technique is foremost in the somber wash and the brushwork of bamboo branches bent from the blast. Huddled within the thicket are Toshi's naked walking dead, clustered for protection.
Some fell senseless under fallen debris,
others desperately digging out.
All consumed by the crimson.
For two years the art traveled around Japan, rolled-up as scrolls, carried in a wooden box and used as agit-prop illustrations at town meetings, city museums and village gatherings in talks about what had happened at Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The caption for "Fire" opens with:

" PIKA!" The blue-white light of the flash
the explosion-
the force-
the heat wave-
Never in heaven or on Earth
had humankind experienced this.

Later, the caption continues:

The poetic text that accompanies each panel is ascribed to Toshi but was continually reworked with poet and calligrapher Iri while the couple toured Japan and asked people to share their memories.

The stories that the panels tell are reminiscent of the vernacular in ancient Buddhist hell scrolls, Eubanks said.

Born Toshiko Akamatsu, Toshi was the daughter of a Buddhist priest and raised in a temple in rural Hokkaido. She would have seen the hell scrolls growing up. The panels were a collaboration, but Toshi was the driving force.

"It was her idea to make them," Eubanks said. "And her idea to continue to make them, to tour the country with them, to have written explanations of what was going on in the panels."

Iri was trained in traditional Chinese ink and wash painting. He was influenced by the Surrealism movement and was known for his ability to impart depth in his large canvases. Toshi worked as an illustrator and had been schooled in Western charcoal nudes and oil painting.

Their process was at times combative, more a fight than a partnership. While Toshi sketched her figures on paper, Iri would critique and sometimes splash his own ink over her drawings because they were too direct for his abstract aesthetic. Sumi-e treasures the spontaneous gesture, the value of uncluttered empty space.

Undeterred, Toshi would sketch in the figures again, layering the images.

They were "oil and water," said historian John Dower, who produced an Academy Award-nominated documentary about the artists in 1986, "Hellfire: A Journey From Hiroshima."

Encouraged by a survivor at their first showing of "Ghosts" in 1950, the Marukis went on to make 15 panels together over the next 36 years. Their later artworks shifted from the aftermath of Hiroshima to inhumanity in other places: Nanjing, Auschwitz, Bikini Atoll, Minamata.

"Empire and colonization and war are all types of structural violence," said Eubanks, citing a Japanese city infamous for mercury poisoning. "Minamata was connected to the war industry. It seems all of a piece. Hiroshima was their entrance."

Iri died in 1995, Toshi in 2000.

The couple's Maruki Gallery, opened in 1967, is in the town of Higashimatsuyama. It is a few minutes by taxi from the local train station, in a quiet suburban neighborhood.

Planted around the gallery are chestnut oak, cherry, redwood, plum, magnolia. Every Aug. 6 it holds a festival to honor ancestors and floats paper lanterns down the Toki River.

Just outside the main building is a temple to Kannon, the Buddhist goddess of mercy. It is built from sections of Iri's partially demolished family home in Hiroshima. The statue comes from a temple destroyed there. The structure is bedecked with folded paper cranes left by visitors.

Inside the gallery, 14 of the Hiroshima Panels are on view. (The 15th, "Nagasaki," is owned by the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum and is on permanent display there.)

The panels are fragile and lack proper protection from humidity and sunlight. Insects have damaged the artworks. The gallery has launched a preservation fund to restore the original panels, create replicas and construct a new building for public viewing.
You have to endure this image
You have to walk from this picture
You can never forget this history.
"They underwent some pretty rough treatment," Eubanks said of the panels. "They would be disassembled and rolled up and stuck on backpacks, traveled all over Japan, and hung again."

Yukinori Okamura,the curator and managing director of the gallery, first saw the panels as a high school student in Tokyo.

"I saw them in a schoolbook and was very shocked," he said. "But they are beautiful. Terrible but beautiful."

In "Atomic Desert,"the eye is immediately drawn to a naked mother trudging through the desolation holding a doll. Some of the figures have glass shards protruding from their bodies.

Toshi fought a battle within herself as instinct pushed her to draw beauty instead of ugliness. Japanese viewers were repelled by the brutal imagery, but even then one of the earliest critiques from survivors was that the reality was much worse that what the art portrayed.

These days, few of them are alive and want to revisit the horrors of the war years. But they still come to the gallery, sometimes with grandchildren.

Outside, in the small temple, they can read a poem by Sankichi Toge, a noted Hiroshima poet and bomb survivor.

Okamura struggled with the translation, saying they are very old words.

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75 years after the Hiroshima bomb, a couple's art still devastates

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Toshiko and Iri Maruki's shocking paintings of atomic bomb survivors transform those who see them. Now the Hiroshima Panels themselves need rescuing.

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3.11-Ten Years on Great East Japan Earthquake (NHK)

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3.11-Ten Years on Great East Japan Earthquake (NHK)

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March 2021 marks 10 years since the Great East Japan Earthquake. NHK WORLD-JAPAN has continued close coverage on the affected areas from the moment the disaster struck. This page shows the progress of reconstruction efforts, the thoughts of survivors and where Japan stands 10 years later.

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3.11-Ten Years On Great East Japan Earthquake - NHK WORLD - English

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March 2021 marks 10 years since the Great East Japan Earthquake. This page shows the progress of reconstruction efforts, the thoughts of survivors and where Japan stands 10 years later.

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Godzilla Minus One is now available for rent or purchase!
Untangling the Godzilla series continuity and watching the movies in order can be a kaiju-sized endeavor, but if you get lost, just remember one thing: Green lizard bad. But also sometimes good!

The franchise launched in 1954 with the black-and-white original, both a creature feature that was en vogue for the decade and a metaphor for nuclear fallout and atomic fear. Today, the lizard is loved as much as any time in his 70-year history, with Japan's Shin Godzilla and Godzilla Minus One stomping box office and awards records, and running parallel to America's Monsterverse, the royal rumble featuring Godzilla, Kong, Mothra, Rodan, and King Ghidorah, with more challengers to come.

The Monsterverse, which launched in 2014, is driven by Legendary Entertainment, while in Japan, Toho has held and steered Godzilla since deep-sea birth. In our guide to Godzilla movies in order, we'll start at the very beginning and then navigate the separate eras of our dear god of destruction. (Thanks to IGN and Wikizilla for details and reference.)

Showa era (1954-1975)
The Showa era (named so after the Japan's then-reigning emperor) is one storyline that can be separated by three periods. There is the original duology of Godzilla (1954) and Godzilla Raids Again (1955), with Godzilla, King of the Monsters! being the widely-seen American cut of Godzilla starring Raymond Burr. Godzilla was released from his long ice bath in the revival period of the '60s, which sees his evolution as an anti-hero, and where we're first introduced to his monster rivals and allies. Toho then held their Champion Film Festival from 1969 to 1978, and the movies produced for the fest re-framed Godzilla as a children's matinee idol. These as-such Champion movies take place between 1967's Son of Godzilla and 1968's Destroy All Monsters. All of these are collected in Criterion Collection's epic box set from 2019.

Original duology (1954-1955)

Godzilla Raids Again (1955) *American version of Godzilla

Revival period (1962-1968)

Champion period (1969-1975)

Heisei era (1984-1995)
The Heisei era (again named after the Emperor of Japan who reigned over most of this timeline) pulls a Halloween and ignores every sequel after the first, following then its own separate continuity.

TriStar era (1998)
This era, as it were (named after the producing studio), resulted in the American would-be blockbuster.

Millennium era (1999-2004)
After 1998's failure to launch, Toho took what opportunity there was to set up a new story that could boast spanning millennia. Once again, these steer clear of all sequels after the 1954 original.

Monsterverse (2014-)
Legendary Entertainment produced a solo Godzilla movie in 2014, with rights being subsequently secured for apex axe Kong for future fights, plus more from the Toho stable. Godzilla vs. Kong swatted the pandemic blues away, with the two forces collaborating in The New Empire.

Reiwa era (2016-)
Encouraged again by the American counterpart run, the Reiwa era began with Shin Godzilla, part of a loose branding that saw other Japanese pop culture titans like Ultraman and Kamen Rider. An animated trilogy was released in theaters in Japan and saw release in America on Netflix. Godzilla Minus One, the first period piece of the series, is set post-World War II and won Gojira-san his first Oscar for Best Visual Effects.

See below for the full continuous list of Godzilla movies in order.

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See Godzilla movies by release, including the original, Godzilla Minus One, Shin Godzilla, and Godzilla vs Kong.

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Above and Below the Mushroom Cloud: Perspectives on the Atomic Bombings, University of Colorado

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Above and Below the Mushroom Cloud: Perspectives on the Atomic Bombings, University of Colorado

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By Sharlyn Scott with David Culley

Introduction:

In this lesson, students explore political, military, and scientific reasons, motivations, and justifications for dropping the atomic bombs and, through atomic bomb survivors' stories, perspectives of everyday Japanese citizens' encounters with total war. For high school students, an optional activity involves viewing the documentary White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. After exploring various perspectives of this history "above and below the mushroom cloud," students develop arguments about how the history of the atomic bombings should be told and what it means.

This lesson can end a unit about World War II in middle or high school World History or U.S. History courses. Students need foundational knowledge about the period to succeed with the lesson; they should know about (1) the brutality of World War II in both the European and Pacific Theaters (e.g., the Holocaust, the Nanjing Massacre, the Bataan Death March, the fire bombings of Dresden and Japanese cities); (2) topics such as propaganda, forced labor, B-29 and other air technology, 1931 invasion of Manchuria, Battle of Iwo Jima, the Potsdam Declaration; (3) main historical figures involved in decision-making in both the U.S. and Japanese governments; and (4) basic information about the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Objectives:

After completing this lesson, students will be able to:

Articulate different perspectives as to why the atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the damage caused by nuclear weapons, and the impacts on civilians at these targets

Explore oral history testimonies and assess point of view and perspective.

Construct an argument that addresses a specific perspective in the controversy over the dropping of the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and use evidence to support their claim.

Guiding Questions:

"What did it really mean to drop atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?" (Dower 2006, p. 18)

How should we remember the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and why?

Standards and Guidelines:

Era 8 (1900-1945)

Standard 4: The causes and global consequences of World War II.

Standard 4B: The student understands the global scope, outcome, and human costs of the war.

9-12: Compare World Wars I and II in terms of the impact of industrial production, political goals, national mobilization, technological innovations, and scientific research on strategies, tactics, and levels of destruction.

Standard 5: Major global trends from 1900 to the end of World War II.

Standard 5A: The student understands major global trends from 1900 to the end of World War II.

5-12: Explain how new technologies and scientific breakthroughs both benefited and imperiled humankind.

Period 6: Accelerating Global Change and Realignments, c. 1900 to the Present

Key Concept 6.1 Science and the Environment

III. Disease, scientific innovations, and conflict led to demographic shifts.

C. Improved military technology and new tactics led to increased levels of wartime casualties.

Key Concept 6.2 Global Conflicts and Their Consequences

V. Although conflict dominated much of the twentieth century, many individuals and groups-including states-opposed this trend. Some individuals and groups, however, intensified the conflicts.

A. Groups and individuals challenged the many wars of the century, and some promoted the practice of nonviolence as a way to bring about political change.

Era 8: The Great Depression and World War II (1929-1945)

Standard 3: The causes and course of World War II, the character of the war at home and abroad, and its reshaping of the U.S. role in world affairs.

Standard 3B: The student understands World War II and how the Allies prevailed.

7-12: Evaluate the decision to employ nuclear weapons against Japan and assess later controversies over the decision.

5-12: Explain the financial, material, and human costs of the war and analyze its economic consequences for the Allies and the Axis powers.

Standard 3C: The student understands the effects of World War II at home. 9-12: Evaluate the war's impact on science, medicine, and technology, especially in nuclear physics, weaponry, synthetic fibers, and television.

Period 7: 1890-1945

Key Concept 7.3: Participation in a series of global conflicts propelled the United States into a position of international power while renewing domestic debates over the nation's proper role in the world.

III. U.S. participation in World War II transformed American society, while the victory of the United States and its allies over the Axis powers vaulted the U.S. into a position of global, political, and military leadership.

D) The United States and its allies achieved military victory through Allied cooperation, technological and scientific advances, the contributions of servicemen and women, and campaigns such as Pacific "island-hopping" and the D-Day invasion. The use of atomic bombs hastened the end of the war and sparked debates about the morality of using atomic weapons.

Key Ideas and Details

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.6-8.1: Cite specific textual evidence to support analysis of primary and secondary sources [with additional details for grades 9-12].

Craft and Structure

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.6-8.6: Identify aspects of a text that reveal an author's point of view or purpose (e.g., loaded language, inclusion or avoidance of particular facts).

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.9-10.6: Compare the point of view of two or more authors for how they treat the same or similar topics, including which details they include and emphasize in their respective accounts.

Integration of Knowledge and Ideas

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.6-8.9: Analyze the relationship between a primary and secondary source on the same topic.

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.9-10.9: Compare and contrast treatments of the same topic in several primary and secondary sources.

Text Types and Purposes

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.W.7.1: Write arguments to support claims with clear reasons and relevant evidence.

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.W.9-10.1: Write arguments to support claims in an analysis of substantive topics or texts, using valid reasoning and relevant and sufficient evidence.

Plan for Assessment:

The argumentative essay assignment that concludes the lesson is intended as the assessment for the lesson. A rubric is available for teacher use or peer review.

Middle School: Two 50-minute class periods (Days 1 and 4 only) plus time to complete argumentative essay High School: Two to four 50-minute class periods plus time to complete argumentative essay

Materials:

Materials Provided

Online Resources

Other Materials

White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Stephen Okazaki. HBO Films. August 6, 2007. PG-13. (optional)

Implementation:

For homework, assign students to read their textbook's account of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki if they have not already done so. As an alternative, students might explore one of the many websites that cover the bombings. The sites listed here are just four of many available resources:

Day 1

Ask if students have any questions about what they read about the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and answer their questions to ensure they understand basic information about the bombings as context for this lesson.

Distribute the Education About Asia Interview with John Dower handout, assigning students to read and annotate this secondary resource, which is an interview with historian John Dower conducted by educator Lynn Parisi. Through this reading and the follow-up discussion, set the tone and analytic-thinking process in preparation for the essay assignment.

Lead a discussion using the following questions and asking students to provide evidence to support their answers:

According to Professor Dower, what are the reasons the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima? Why does he say it was again used on Nagasaki?

Was the atomic bombing of Hiroshima necessary to end the Pacific War? Was the bombing of Nagasaki necessary to end the war?

Why did the Japanese finally submit to "unconditional surrender" (as outlined in the Potsdam Declaration) on August 15, 1945?

World War II was a "total world war." What does this mean?

Where is "Ground Zero"? (The hypocenter of an explosion, as in New Mexico, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, New York City, the Pentagon)

How/why is "official" wartime different in terms of targeting civilians?

Days 2-3 (Optional for High School Classes Only)

In preparation for viewing the documentary, have students read the Wikipedia entry on the film, White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to familiarize themselves with the interviewees.

Introduce the Viewing Guide on Perspectives in White Light/Black Rain, which describes the students' task: to note different perspectives of those involved in the atomic bombings. Begin showing White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki (83 minutes).

Complete viewing the documentary and the Viewing Guide on Perspectives in White Light/Black Rain.

Tell students that they will be reading and/or viewing recollections by people affected by the bombings, recorded some years after they occurred. All of the recollections are from hibakusha-the name given to survivors of the atomic bombings (hibakusha literally translates to "people exposed to the bomb"). As homework or in-class assignment, give each student a testimony by an atomic bomb survivor to read and/or listen to (you may choose specific survivors for specific students based on comprehension skills). Recollections can be selected from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan-Testimonies of Hibakusha (Atomic Bombing Survivors) webpage and/or The National Peace Memorial Halls for the Atomic Bomb Victims in Hiroshima and Nagasaki: Global Network website.

Have students view and/or read the testimony, assessing point of view and perspective in preparation for sharing with classmates. Distribute the Atomic Bomb Survivor's Testimony Analysis Worksheet for students to use to organize their analysis.

For middle school: Offer guided practice in analyzing the testimonies for bias, point of view, audience, purpose, author, date, etc.

When students have completed their analysis, place students into pairs or small groups to share the testimonies they viewed and/or read. They should use categories from the Atomic Bomb Survivor's Testimony Analysis Worksheet to structure the discussions.

Debrief as a class to ensure students understand all of the damages and effects of the atomic explosions on the victims, the social and economic implications, and survivors' thoughts about nuclear proliferation and peace.

Introduce the final assignment, in which students are to write a persuasive or argumentative essay answering the following question: Should the history of the atomic bombings be told and remembered from above or beneath the mushroom cloud? That is, should this history be told from the perspective of the government officials whose decisions led to the bombing or from the perspective of the people on the ground in Hiroshima and Nagasaki? Students must use evidence from the resources they have examined in the lesson to support their answer. Distribute the Argumentative Essay Rubric and go over it with students, explaining that it identifies what you will be looking for in grading the essays.

Depending on level (middle school or high school AP, honors, or regular classes), give a week to two weeks to write and turn in the essay. You may wish to provide class time for working on the essay or the work can be done out of class; you may also choose to have students do the work independently or in pairs/small groups.

Extensions:

Supplement the reading of the John Dower interview with Peter Jennings' report, "Hiroshima: Why the Bomb Was Dropped". This documentary was produced in the wake of the controversy surrounding the 1995 Smithsonian Air and Space Museum's 50th Anniversary exhibition on the use of the atom bombs in Japan. Specifically, it addresses the official U.S. government narrative versus what historical evidence of the period indicates about reasons behind the use of the atom bombs in Japan.

In addition to analyzing survivor testimony, students could view survivors' illustrated testimonies from the book, A-bomb Drawings by Survivors. The "Ground Zero 1945" unit on the MIT Visualizing Cultures website presents many of these images.

Use an excerpt from the manga Barefoot Gen, by atomic bomb survivor Keiji Nakazawa, to introduce the impact of the atomic bombing on the ground or as a supplement to students' readings of survivor testimonies.

Resources and References:

City of Hiroshima. A-bomb Drawings by Survivors. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007.

Dower, John. "Ground Zero 1945." MIT Visualizing Cultures. Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2008.

Dower, John, and Lynn Parisi. "EAA Interview with John Dower." Education About Asia, vol. 11, no. 1, Spring 2006, 16-19.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. The Spirit of Hiroshima: An Introduction to the Atomic Bomb Tragedy by the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. Hiroshima: The City of Hiroshima, 1999.

Hiroshima Peace Site. Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. 2000-2011.

Jennings, Peter. "Why the Bomb Was Dropped." ABC News Special. 1995.

Nagasaki City - Peace & Atomic Bomb. Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum. Nagasaki City. 2015.

Nakagawa, Keiji. Barefoot Gen: A Cartoon Story of Hiroshima. Project Gen, trans. Philadelphia: New Society Publishers, 1987.

Nasu, Matsumoto. Hiroshima: A Tragedy Never to Be Repeated. Shigeo Nishimura, ill. Joanna King and Yuki Tanaka, trans. Tokyo: Fukuinkan Shoten Publishers Inc., 1995, 1998.

The National Peace Memorial Halls for the Atomic Bomb Victims in Hiroshima and Nagasaki: Global Network. n.d.

"Testimonies of Hibakusha (Atomic Bombing Survivors)." Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan (MOFA). Tokyo: MOFA, 2014.

White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Stephen Okazaki. HBO Films. August 6, 2007. PG-13.

White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.

The Program for Teaching East Asia at the University of Colorado gratefully acknowledges the support of the United States-Japan Foundation in the development of Cultural Encounters: Teaching Japan in World History.

Created 2015 Program for Teaching East Asia, University of Colorado.

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Above and Below the Mushroom Cloud: Perspectives on the Atomic Bombings

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By Sharlyn Scott with David Culley In this lesson, students explore political, military, and scientific reasons, motivations, and justifications for dropping the atomic bombs and, through atomic bomb survivors' stories, perspectives of everyday Japanese citizens' encounters with total war. For high school students, an optional activity involves viewing the documentary White Light/Black Rain: The Destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

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Effects of the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake, 2011 lesson plan, University of Colorado

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Effects of the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake, 2011 lesson plan, University of Colorado

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By Kazuko Stone with Laurel Singleton

Introduction:

In this lesson, students consider the effects of the Kantō Tōhoku earthquake, tsunami, and subsequent nuclear meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. They use photographs, a primary source, and Internet research to identify effects, categorize those effects according to the type of effect (environmental, emotional, economic, etc.), and identify whether the effects were felt locally (in Japan) or globally. They synthesize the information they have gathered to create a photo essay with a thesis statement and supporting evidence in the form of photographs or quotations.

You may find it useful in preparation for teaching this lesson to view the ClassApp video, "Voices from Japan": 3.11 through Tanka Poetry, which provides useful background, as well as teaching ideas for using poetry, specifically tanka, to teach about the tragedies of 3.11.

Objectives:

After completing this lesson, students will be able to:

Identify and categorize local and global effects of the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake on March 11, 2011.

Demonstrate understanding of cause and effect, particularly related to natural disasters.

Explain how human actions can worsen or ameliorate the effects of natural disasters.

Create a photo essay incorporating a thesis statement and supporting evidence.

Guiding Question:

How did the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake of 2011 affect local Japanese communities, as well as communities around the globe?

Standards and Guidelines:

World History Across the Eras

Standard 1: Long-term changes and recurring patterns in world history.

5-12: Analyze ways in which human action has contributed to long-term changes in the natural environment in particular regions or worldwide.

Essential Element V: Environment and Society

Standard 14: How human actions modify the physical environment

Standard 15: How physical systems affect human systems

Key Ideas and Details

CCSS.ELA-Literacy.RH.9-10.3: Analyze in detail a series of events described in a text; determine whether earlier events caused later ones or simply preceded them.

Plan for Assessment:

The photo essay assignment that concludes the lesson is intended as the assessment for the lesson. The photo essay should reflect in-class learning and research about the effects of Japan's 3.11 earthquake, tsunami, and/or nuclear meltdown. A checklist is available to establish expectations and for teacher use or peer review.

Time Required: Three or four 50-minute class periods

Materials:

Materials Provided

Online Resources

Other Materials

Map of Japan

Computers with Internet access and printing capability

Equipment for projecting images from the Internet

Optional: Self-adhesive notes in two colors and enlarged copy of Effects of the 2011 Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake Worksheet

Materials for making photo essays (flip chart paper, markers, tape/glue sticks, etc.).

Implementation:

Ask students why the date 9/11 has such significance for Americans. (It marked a day of fear, confusion, and loss for the United States-the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001.) Point out that 3.11 is a similarly significant date for Japanese. Ask if any students know why this is true. (On March 11, 2011, Japan was hit by the strongest earthquake in its recorded history, followed by a massive tsunami and damage to the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, resulting in radioactive contamination of a significant area around Fukushima.)

Point out the Kantō and Tōhoku regions on a map of Japan (you may want to use the map to show the location of the earthquake) and project a few before-and-after images of the damage in these areas; the following sites provide useful photographs (showing five or six pairs of before-and-after photos is sufficient):

Distribute the Thank You Note from a Community Member and allow time for students to read it or read it aloud with the class.

Conduct a class discussion of what the letter reveals about the effects of the earthquake and tsunami, drawing out both physical effects and emotional/human effects. Record all effects mentioned on the board.

Draw students' attention to the list of effects you have compiled and ask:

Where were these effects felt? (Primarily in and around the Kantō and Tōhoku regions and possibly in other parts of Japan) Do you think effects were felt beyond Japan? (Accept all answers.)

What types of effects have we listed here? In other words, if we were going to sort the effects into categories, what would the categories be? (Accept students' answers; some possible categories include political, economic, social/cultural, emotional, geographic or environmental, technological.)

Distribute the Effects of the 2011 Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake Worksheet and go over the categories listed, helping students define each category. Allow time for students, working in groups of three or four, to categorize the effects the class has listed to this point in the lesson. This could also be done as a class, using an enlarged copy of the worksheet; if you choose this option, give students two colors of self-adhesive notes, one for local effects and one for global effects. They can write one effect on each note and post it in the appropriate category on the enlarged worksheet. A third option would be to use an online post-it site such as Padlet (http://padlet.com).

Share and discuss the results of the categorizing.

Tell students they will expand their analysis of the effects of the earthquake and tsunami in the next phase of the lesson.

Days 2 and Optional Day 3

Remind students of their work in the previous class period by asking: When you think about the effects of the earthquake and tsunami that we looked at previously, would you say they show how the environment affects humans or how humans affect the environment? (How the environment affects humans) Tell students that part of the story of the 3.11 earthquake and tsunami shows how humans affect the environment.

Provide some details about the meltdown of three reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant in the days following the March 11, 2011 earthquake and tsunami (you may want to use a timeline from an internet source).The natural disasters damaged the plant, causing three reactors to meltdown and allowing radioactive material to be released from the plant. The environment in hundreds of square miles in the area around the plant was contaminated, and at least 160,000 people had to be evacuated from their homes. It took four years for even a small part of the area to be declared safe for human habitation, and many former residents have decided not to return. Ask: How does this aspect of the tragedies that occurred in Japan in 2011 illustrate that humans affect the environment and that human actions can worsen or ameliorate the effects of natural disasters? (The natural disaster affected human-built structures which, when damaged, released material harmful to the environment. Public policy in Japan encouraged use of nuclear power, which was ultimately harmful to the environment and made the effects of the natural disaster even worse.) Ask: How might this aspect of the tragedies illustrate global effects of the natural and human disaster? (Radiation might travel via air or water to other parts of the world. Radiation might contaminate farming and fishing products for export. The accidents might cause other countries to rethink their policies on nuclear energy.)

Tell students they are going to be working in groups of three or four (these might be the same groups from the previous day) to do Internet research that will help them better understand the effects of the earthquake, tsunami, and subsequent nuclear accident. Distribute the Researching the Effects of the 2011 Earthquake, Tsunami, and Nuclear Accident handout and go over the instructions with students, making sure they understand they are to use the Effects of the 2011 Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake Worksheet to record the results of their research. Also be sure they realize that they will need photos from their research for their final product.

Allow the rest of the class period for research. If time permits, you may allot another day for research or encourage students to continue their research as homework.

Tell students that today they are going to analyze the information they have found and synthesize it into a photo essay. Distribute the Photo Essay Directions to students, along with the Photo Essay Checklist, and go over both, ensuring that students understand the instructions. Point students to the materials available for making their photo essays (flip chart paper, markers, tape/glue sticks, etc.). Allow most of the class period for constructing the photo essays.

Have students post their photo essays around the classroom. Assign each group to use the checklist to assess the photo essay posted to the right of (or clockwise from) their own work.

Conduct a concluding discussion focused on the lesson's guiding question: How did the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake of 2011 affect local Japanese communities, as well as communities around the globe?

Extensions:

Explore with students how literature-poetry, fiction, essays, memoir-can help people to understand disaster. Choose a work from March Was Made of Yarn; The Voices from Japan tanka collection; or from the online collection Japanese Earthquake Charity Literature for students to read and discuss.

Challenge students to research and analyze how visual and performance artists responded to the earthquake. When they have completed their research, they might create their own artworks to reflect personal responses to the 3.11 tragedies.

Resources and References:

Edge, Don. Inside Japan's Nuclear Meltdown. Frontline. WGBH and PBS, February 28, 2012.

Japan Earthquake: Before and After. Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 2011.

Japan's Killer Quake. NOVA. WGBH and NOVA, February 27, 2013.

Kingston, Jeff. Natural Disaster and Nuclear Crisis in Japan: Response and Recovery after Japan's 3/11. London: Routledge, 2012.

Krauth, Kathleen. "Voices from Japan": 3.11 through Tanka Poetry. National Consortium for Teaching about Asia.

Luke, Elmer, and David Karashima, eds. March Was Made of Yarn. New York: Vintage Books, 2012.

"Massive Earthquake Hits Japan." Boston Globe, March 11, 2011.

Map: Impact of Japan Tsunami and Earthquake. Cable News Network, 2011.

Samuels, Richard J. 3.11: Disaster and Change in Japan. Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2013.

"Satellite Photos of Japan, Before and After the Quake and Tsunami." The New York Times, March 13, 2011.

Voices from Japan. American School in Japan.

Waseda Bungaku's Charity Project: Japan Earthquake Charity Literature. Waseda Bungaku.

The Program for Teaching East Asia at the University of Colorado gratefully acknowledges the support of the United States-Japan Foundation in the development of Cultural Encounters: Teaching Japan in World History.

Created 2015 Program for Teaching East Asia, University of Colorado.

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Effects of the Kantō Tōhoku Earthquake, 2011

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By Kazuko Stone with Laurel Singleton In this lesson, students consider the effects of the Kantō Tōhoku earthquake, tsunami, and subsequent nuclear meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. They use photographs, a primary source, and Internet research to identify effects, categorize those effects according to the type of effect (environmental, emotional, economic, etc.), and identify whether the effects were felt locally (in Japan) or globally.

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70 years after U.S. nuclear tests in Bikini Atoll, Japan port recalls legacy

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70 years after U.S. nuclear tests in Bikini Atoll, Japan port recalls legacy

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70 years after U.S. nuclear tests in Bikini Atoll, Japan port recalls legacy

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The first 1954 hydrogen bomb test at the atoll was one of six, with nearly 1,000 Japanese ships confirmed to have been exposed to radiation by the end of the year.

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Don't Follow the Wind - A Walk in Fukushima

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Japan Disaster Archive | Japan Disasters Archive

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Aggregating Japan’s disaster data and reporting from around the world Learn Morechevron_right

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Japan Disaster Archive - Google Arts & Culture

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Japan Disaster Archive - Google Arts & Culture

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The Japan Disasters Digital Archive JDA is an advanced search engine whose purpose is to collect, preserve, and make broadly accessible many forms of first-hand information and primary documentation of the events of 11 March 2011 and their aftermath. Launched in July of 2012 with the support of metaLAB and the Center for Geographic Analysis at Harvard, the project seeks to build digital repositories from materials from around the globe related to the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake.

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The Japan Disasters Digital Archive - Google Arts & Culture

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Google Arts & Culture features content from over 2000 leading museums and archives who have partnered with the Google Cultural Institute to bring the world's treasures online.

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Ghosts of the Tsunami by Richard Lloyd Parry

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Ghosts of the Tsunami by Richard Lloyd Parry

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It's easy to send thoughts and prayers and move on if you're not among those whose lives were altered by the storms. But natural disasters continue to destroy lives long after the damage is done. In his new book Ghosts of the Tsunami, author Richard Lloyd Parry considers the aftermath of the 2011 Japanese tsunami, which took thousands of lives, and which haunts its survivors to this day. It's a wrenching chronicle of a disaster that, six years later, still seems incomprehensible.

Parry, a British journalist based in Japan, was in a Tokyo office building when the earthquake that spawned the tsunami struck, causing the structure to emit "a heart-sickening noise suggesting deep and mortal distress, like the death sound of a dying monster." It wasn't until later that he saw video of the tsunami that hit the Tohoku region of Japan: "Something is moving across the landscape as if it is alive, a brown-snouted animal hungrily bounding over the earth. Its head is a scum of splintered debris; entire cars bob along on its back."

After the tsunami was over, Parry traveled to Tohoku to survey the incredible damage the tidal wave left in its wake. "The scenes along four hundred miles of coast that morning resembled those of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in August 1945, but with water substituted for fire, mud for ash, the stink of fish and ooze for scorched wood and smoke," he writes. One witness tells him living through the tsunami felt like "the whole world was collapsing - it was like the special effects in a film about the end of the world."

Some of the most brutal damage took place at Okawa Elementary School, which was essentially destroyed by the wave; the faculty's failure to evacuate the school led to the deaths of 74 children and 10 teachers. The families of the dead students were enraged at the faculty's inaction, and Parry condemns the school's staff for their lack of planning: "A group of unexceptional men had failed dismally. They didn't even try very hard to deny their failure, just to contain it within manageable bounds."

Any writer could compile a laundry list of the horrors that come in the wake of a disaster; Parry's book is not that. He takes his readers deep into Tohoku, "a remote, marginal, faintly melancholy place, the symbol of a rural tradition that, for city dwellers, is no more than a folk memory." Many in the region practice ancestor worship, treating the dead and the objects that represent them with veneration; the tsunami destroyed their altars and photographs, leaving families spiritually battered and doing "appalling violence to the religion of ancestors," Parry writes.

The stories Parry tells are wrenching, and he refuses to mitigate the enormity of the tsunami with false optimism or saccharine feel-good anecdotes.

The tsunami caused over $200 billion in damages, but the money seems like nothing when compared to the psychic injuries it inflicted. Parry writes about the survivors with sensitivity and a rare kind of empathy; he resists the urge to distance himself from the pain in an attempt at emotional self-preservation. The result is a book that's brutally honest, and at times difficult to read. "A tsunami does to human connectedness the same thing that it does to roads, bridges, and homes," he writes. "And in Okawa, and everywhere in the tsunami zone, people fell to quarreling and reproaches, and felt the bitterness of injustice and envy and fell out of love."

Ghosts of the Tsunami is a brilliant chronicle of one of the modern world's worst disasters, but it's also a necessary act of witness. The stories Parry tells are wrenching, and he refuses to mitigate the enormity of the tsunami with false optimism or saccharine feel-good anecdotes. Above all, it's a beautiful meditation on grief, which, he writes, "doesn't resolve anything, any more than a blow to the head or a devastating illness. It compounds stress and complication. It multiplies anxiety and tension. It opens fissures into cracks, and cracks into gaping chasms." The chasms created by the Japanese tsunami are still there, six years later, and they probably always will be.

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'Ghosts Of The Tsunami' Examines The Disaster That Haunts Japan

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Richard Lloyd Parry looks at the aftermath of Japan's 2011 tsunami in this brutally honest new book, which refuses to mitigate the full horror of the events with feel-good recovery stories.

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Japanese Popular Culture and Globalization by William M. Tsutsui

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Japanese Popular Culture and Globalization by William M. Tsutsui

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National Consortium for Teaching about Asia

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National Consortium for Teaching about Asia

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NCT Asia|National Consortium for Teaching about Asia

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NCTA is a multi-year initiative to encourage and facilitate teaching and learning about East Asia in elementary and secondary schools nationwide. NCTA is a premier provider of professional development on East Asia courses.

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Providing K-12 educators with opportunities at the University of Washington since 1971 to deepen their knowledge of East Asia.