Shimbashi Station watching the destruction of Fukagawa, Honjo, Asakusa, Ueno. It must have been for a very long time, and he wondered why they were so selectiveâwhy not the Ginza, why not Shimbashi Station, why not him, Tadashi? He remembered walking up the deserted streets past the closed motion-picture house where he had been that afternoon. It was near dawn when he reached Shirokiya Department Store again. The last pink of the fires had been replaced by the first pink of dawn.
At that corner he first saw those coming over from Fukagawa. Most of them were burned. They carried scorched bedding on their backs, or trundled bicycles with a few possessions strapped to them. They walked slowly and didn't look at him as they passed. He wondered where they were all going. Finally he stopped one old man, who told him that everything had been burned and that everyone had been killed, and his tone of voice seemed to include himself in the death list.
It was at the bridge across the Sumida that he first saw Fukagawa. He couldn't believe it. There was nothing. Nothing but black and smoking ruins, as far as he could see in all directions. He had never known that so much could be destroyed in one night.
On the bridge he found a bicycle that belonged to no one, and on it he started toward his home. Nothing looked the same. There were scarcely streets any more. In cleared places were piles of burned bodies, as though a family had huddled beneath a roof that had now disappeared. They seemed very small and looked like charcoal.
He peddled slowly along the street. Long lines of quiet, burned people, all looking the same, came toward him. He didn't know where to turn north to go to his father's lumberyard. Nothing was familiar. He leaned the bicycle against a smoking factory wall and looked toward where his home should have been but wasn't. The lines of the burned moved slowly by, and suddenly, for the first time in years, he began to cry.
After he had cried he looked at the people again and saw his younger brother coming toward him. They were both amazed. It was fantastic that such a thing had happened. The slowly moving lines parted around them in the middle of what had been a street.
His brother had spent the night at school because he had to finish a war-work project of some kind, and he hadn't heard about the raid until he awoke. He had just arrived and didn't know where their house was either. So they began walking.
Troops had already been brought in and were clearing the streets, or where they supposed the streets had been. They shifted the bodies with large hooks and loaded them, one after the other, onto trucks. Often the burned flesh pulled apart, making their work difficult.
They walked on, past mothers holding burned infants to their breasts, past little children, boys and girls, all dead, crouched together as for warmth. Once they passed an air-raid shelter and looked in. It was full of bodies, most of them still smouldering.
The next bridge was destroyed, so they decided to separate. His brother would go north, and he south. It was the first time they had used the words north and south to each other. They usually spoke of "up by the elementary school" or "down by the chemical plant" or "where we saw the big dog fight that day." His brother started crying and walked away rubbing his eyes. They were to meet at their uncle's house in Shinagawa.
Tadashi walked south to the factory section. The chemical works had exploded and what little remained was too hot to get near. Some of the walls were standing, burned a bright green from the dye, the color of leaves. In a locomotive yard the engines were smoking as though ready for a journey, the cars jammed together as in a railway accident. There were some in the ruins still alive, burned or wounded. Those who couldn't walk were patiently waiting for help by the side of the road. There was no sound but the moaning of an old woman. It sounded like a lullaby.
He saw only two
At that corner he first saw those coming over from Fukagawa. Most of them were burned. They carried scorched bedding on their backs, or trundled bicycles with a few possessions strapped to them. They walked slowly and didn't look at him as they passed. He wondered where they were all going. Finally he stopped one old man, who told him that everything had been burned and that everyone had been killed, and his tone of voice seemed to include himself in the death list.
It was at the bridge across the Sumida that he first saw Fukagawa. He couldn't believe it. There was nothing. Nothing but black and smoking ruins, as far as he could see in all directions. He had never known that so much could be destroyed in one night.
On the bridge he found a bicycle that belonged to no one, and on it he started toward his home. Nothing looked the same. There were scarcely streets any more. In cleared places were piles of burned bodies, as though a family had huddled beneath a roof that had now disappeared. They seemed very small and looked like charcoal.
He peddled slowly along the street. Long lines of quiet, burned people, all looking the same, came toward him. He didn't know where to turn north to go to his father's lumberyard. Nothing was familiar. He leaned the bicycle against a smoking factory wall and looked toward where his home should have been but wasn't. The lines of the burned moved slowly by, and suddenly, for the first time in years, he began to cry.
After he had cried he looked at the people again and saw his younger brother coming toward him. They were both amazed. It was fantastic that such a thing had happened. The slowly moving lines parted around them in the middle of what had been a street.
His brother had spent the night at school because he had to finish a war-work project of some kind, and he hadn't heard about the raid until he awoke. He had just arrived and didn't know where their house was either. So they began walking.
Troops had already been brought in and were clearing the streets, or where they supposed the streets had been. They shifted the bodies with large hooks and loaded them, one after the other, onto trucks. Often the burned flesh pulled apart, making their work difficult.
They walked on, past mothers holding burned infants to their breasts, past little children, boys and girls, all dead, crouched together as for warmth. Once they passed an air-raid shelter and looked in. It was full of bodies, most of them still smouldering.
The next bridge was destroyed, so they decided to separate. His brother would go north, and he south. It was the first time they had used the words north and south to each other. They usually spoke of "up by the elementary school" or "down by the chemical plant" or "where we saw the big dog fight that day." His brother started crying and walked away rubbing his eyes. They were to meet at their uncle's house in Shinagawa.
Tadashi walked south to the factory section. The chemical works had exploded and what little remained was too hot to get near. Some of the walls were standing, burned a bright green from the dye, the color of leaves. In a locomotive yard the engines were smoking as though ready for a journey, the cars jammed together as in a railway accident. There were some in the ruins still alive, burned or wounded. Those who couldn't walk were patiently waiting for help by the side of the road. There was no sound but the moaning of an old woman. It sounded like a lullaby.
He saw only two
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