Chapter 8 The Nichigeki Incident

CHAPTER 8

The Nichigeki Incident

Apparently in the last several years, the film industry and literary circles in China have shown a revived interest in Puyi (1906–1967), the Emperor of the “illegitimate” Manchurian Empire, thereby giving rise to a sort of Puyi

boom. The defunct ruler of China’s last Imperial dynasty, the man later carried

off on a pedestal by the Japanese military to be crowned as Manchukuo’s Emperor,

led a stormy life. His autobiography, The Early Part of My Life (Wode qian ban sheng)

was published in 1964 and attracted worldwide attention. The translated version

in Japanese, entitled Waga hansei, was published in Da’an and is currently collected in the Chikuma Selected Books Series.1 The work is based on Puyi’s reminiscences collected in several notebooks and written during his incarceration with

his younger brother, Pujie (currently a member on the Presidium of the National

People’s Congress), in a Fushun prison in 1958–1959. Before it was published, the

complete manuscript was rearranged, edited, supplemented, and amended by Li

Wenda, a literary editor of The People’s Publishers (Qunzhong Chubanshe). Reprinted annually thereafter, the autobiography has enjoyed lasting popularity.

I, too, read the autobiography along with The Wandering Imperial Consort

(Ruten no ōhi), the memoirs of Pujie’s wife Madam Hiro. As narratives of private

reminiscences, I think virtually all of what they had to say is factually authentic.

Both works depict Lieutenant General Yoshioka Yasunao, the attaché to the Imperial household, as an agent sent by the Kwantung Army to keep a close watch

over the Emperor and portray him as a craft y instrument in the ser vice of evil.

It is true that Yoshioka was at the same time a staff officer of the Kwantung

Army, and he might have manipulated Puyi in accordance with the will of the

Japanese army. Viewed from Puyi and Pujie’s perspective, men who had carried

out self-criticism as citizens of a new China, this interpretation makes all the more

sense as they looked back upon their past.

I do not have the slightest intention here of defending Lieutenant General

Yoshioka. As a Man’ei actress, I was myself denounced for having been an accomplice in advancing Japan’s policy on the continent; I was even brought to trial as

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a traitor to China. There are many things in my past that I must reflect upon, and

my desire is to atone for my transgressions. That said, a person forced to tango

with the megalomaniac politics of an era must consider herself fortunate if she

can still reflect upon her past and explain her circumstances after the nightmare

is over. Lieutenant General Yoshioka did not have that luxury. After the war and

his internment in the Soviet Union, nothing was known about him for a long time.

It was not revealed until 1962 that he had died in a Moscow hospital on October

30, 1947. One other theory had it that the year of his death was 1949.

While various memoirs have painted him in a villainous light, the Yoshioka

I knew as a private person was a good-natured elderly gentleman, even though he

was also a typical military man from the Meiji era. When I returned to Xinjing

after my location shootings or performances in various places in Japan and China,

I often stayed with the Yoshiokas just like a member of his family, and for that

reason, I was able to catch a glimpse of his human side.

He was chosen to head Li Xianglan’s fan club because among the group, he

was the most advanced in age, and as an outgrowth of that relationship, he and

Mrs. Yoshioka were good enough to take a liking to me. Their elder daughter,

Yukiko, was about the same age as I, and we became very good friends. Kazuko,

Yukiko’s younger sister and seven years my junior, also became my playmate just

like a real sister. As a constant traveler drift ing from one place to another, I suppose I deeply yearned for the family atmosphere their home provided.

Lieutenant General Yoshioka, like my father Yamaguchi Fumio, was a Kyushu

man. While Father was a civilian with a nationalistic bent and the Lieutenant

General a military man to the core, as simple, rustic youths from the Meiji generation, they both had an aspiration of realizing their dreams on the Asian continent.

It was rare for me to have the opportunity to return to my own family in Beijing,

and whenever I returned to Xinjing where Man’ei was headquartered, my feelings

for Yoshioka and his two daughters often led me to return to the warm embrace

of their family rather than staying in an upscale place like the Yamato Hotel.

Many guests came to parties at the Yoshioka residence, including Pujie and

his wife, the Emperor’s second younger sister, Runqi, the younger brother of the

Empress and his wife (the Emperor’s third younger sister), the Emperor’s fi ft h

younger sister, along with the Premier’s youthful-looking seventh wife. Surprisingly, polygamy was still practiced among a segment of the Chinese upper class,

and Premier Zhang Jinghui was a typical example with as many as eight wives.2

Mrs. Yoshioka—Hatsuko was her name—didn’t totally rely on the family’s

cooks on occasions attended by members of the aristocracy and government ministers. She would herself take part in preparing the food in the kitchen, and I, along

with Yukiko and Kazuko, would help pluck feathers out of petrel nests with tweezers. Along with bear’s palm, petrel nests are among the most highly treasured

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delicacies in Chinese cuisine, an indispensable item at a formal dinner banquet.

They were originally a product from southern China, and in those years of privation, even the Imperial court was beginning to have difficulty procuring them. Yet

for the Yoshioka family, this never seemed to be a problem. From time to time,

the supplies were sent from the place of origin through military delivery ser vice

by General Yamashita Tomoyuki, a man who had been with the Kwantung Army

before he assumed duties in South Asia.3 The nests always came bountifully in

two separate straw bags originally meant for packaging rice, one to be offered to

the court of Emperor Puyi, and the other sent to the address of Lieutenant General Yoshioka.

“There is a telephone call for Officer Yoshioka from the Imperial Household

Agency.” The way the Chinese secretary conveyed the message made it clear that

it was the Emperor himself on the line. Even in the midst of party revelry, Yoshioka would start telling a joke, saying, “Pity the servant of the Imperial court who

never had a moment of peace!” before he changed into a Chinese silk dress and

nonchalantly took his leave. His outfit was a gift from the Emperor so that he would

have something comfortable to wear while he was called in for an imperial audience in the evening.

After returning from the court, the Lieutenant General said, “What the Emperor wanted was to hear the recitation of a poem, and so I delivered one. Wouldn’t

you like to hear it?” That said and without further ado, he would begin his recitation with his thunderous voice. His favorite song was called “Act like a Man!”

(Otoko nara). In the version in which it appears in popular enka anthologies, the

song, composed by Kusabue Keizō, with lyrics by Nishioka Suirō, was sung by

Mizuhara Hiroshi. The lyrics go:

If you are a man, a real man, why do you still have such lingering

attachments?

Come, pound your chest with manly vigor and rid yourself of your useless

tears!

Do it if you call yourself a real man!

Yet the piece was originally a farewell song to send off members of the Special

Attack Unit (tokkōtai) before they went to battle. When I visited a tokkōtai airbase in Shimonoseki on my return trip from Japan after a fi lm shooting, I heard

young men singing the song before they began their attack missions. The lyrics

then were:

If you are a man, a real man, cast off your worldly attachments!

As the cherry blossoms scatter, what matters is a man’s courage.

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Now hold the flag close to your heart!

If you are a real man, go now and prepare to perish in battle!

When Yoshioka heard the song before the suicide pilots went into battle, he

was quite moved by it and requested it on many other occasions. He himself went

on to sing it with great earnestness. But because he couldn’t quite remember the

whole song, Yukiko and I came up with a notation for him as we played it on the

piano. After I returned home to Beijing, the Lieutenant General still practiced

the song every day with Yukiko on the piano. At the end, he was able to remember the entire song and would apparently perform it before any visitor. By word

of mouth, the song achieved a degree of popularity, and Manchiku (Manshū

Chikuonki Kabushikigaisha, or the Manchurian Gramophone Company) was

asked to produce a recording using, naturally, a professional singer. Whenever I

hear the song, still widely sung in Japan today, I am often seized with complex

emotions.

Yoshioka’s other talent was ink painting. He would gather his thoughts before

a piece of washi paper the size of a tatami-mat, narrow his eyes in what must have

been to him a moment of keen delight, and then engage his brush in a slow flowing movement. Before anyone could tell, he would proclaim his masterpiece finished, saying, with an air of self-satisfaction, “How about it? Not bad, hey?” And

yet no matter how hard I scrutinized his work, I couldn’t come up with the foggiest idea as to what he had actually painted. Any failure to pay tribute to the artist,

however, would only incur his displeasure. While I struggled to find a fitting

compliment, he would become impatient over my hesitation and utter something

like, “You see, that’s an image of a clear stream crashing on the rocks and breaking up into the heavenly sky! Ha! Ha! Ha! Total detachment from mundane

thoughts—now, that’s the soul of painting, and the brush is just god’s will, got

it?” Oh well, if you looked at his painting that way, I suppose that was not a totally implausible interpretation.

In fact, he was not just interested in painting himself; he also seemed to have

a good eye for art and was closely acquainted with many Japanese painters who

came to Manchuria as visitors, men like Kawabata Ryūshi, Kobayashi Kokei, Fukuda Heihachirō, Yasui Sōtarō, and Fujishima Takeji. Kawabata in particular was

a very good friend of his.

While the temperament of the Lieutenant General was often given to gallantry,

he once told me in an extraordinarily somber voice, “His Majesty the Emperor is

a fine gentleman. I feel sorry for him now that the Empress has fallen into madness due to her opium habit. He must feel awfully lonely.”4 Mindful of the Emperor’s frail physical condition, Yoshioka suggested that he take up sunbathing

and invited him to do such exercises as skating. The faint-hearted Emperor, on

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the other hand, was feeling too anxious even to venture onto the skating rink,

though he apparently often played tennis. According to Yoshioka, the Emperor’s

tennis skills were so marvelous that the two of them were equally matched. One

night at a party, the Emperor’s third sister let me in on a secret. The tennis match

between Yoshioka and her brother was, in her own words, “a succession of wacky

plays.” According to her, that was why neither of them would even consider playing in public view.

I think that Lieutenant General Yoshioka was genuinely concerned about the

family of Emperor Puyi and his brother Pujie. Needless to say, since the Lieutenant General was at the same time a member of Kwantung Army’s General Staff,

he was not in a position to go beyond the army’s policy parameters. Yet it seemed

to me that for that very reason, he was often distressed when squeezed between

the wishes of the army and the Imperial family. Apparently, on many occasions,

he revealed to Hatsuko and Yukiko how he sympathized with the Emperor. I heard

that he sometimes sighed deeply while alone in the middle of the night.

In 1929 when Yoshioka went to take up his new position in Tianjin,5 the deposed Emperor Xuantong was in exile in Lingyuan in the Japanese Concession.

That was when they first met. Afterwards, Yoshioka registered all his experiences

in his diary, saying that he would sooner or later show the information to the writer

Yoshikawa Eiji, with whom he had been closely corresponding, so that the latter

could produce an official history of Manchukuo.

In his autobiography, Emperor Puyi pointed to a number of Yoshioka’s “evil

doings.” One of them was his political scheme to have Pujie marry a Japa nese

woman named Saga Hiro.6 Hoping that his brother would take a Chinese bride

from an upper-class Beijing family, the Emperor naturally saw the arranged marriage involving a Japanese woman as a political ploy. On the other hand, when he

was studying at the army’s Military Academy, Pujie apparently knew and trusted

his instructor Yoshioka so well that he referred to the latter as oyaji.7 Indeed, Hatsuko remembered Pujie as saying that, circumstances permitting, he himself would

like to marry a Japanese woman even though he could not very well articulate his

wish directly to the Emperor. Later, Pujie himself acknowledged how happy his

marriage was and how Hiro devoted herself as his wife rather than to her role as a

Japanese woman.

On August 9, 1945, when the Soviet army began its drive into Manchuria, Pujie

and his wife visited the Yoshioka residence the night before the Imperial family

was about to escape from Xinjing. At that time, Pujie tried to kill himself with a

pistol in the family’s bathroom. According to Hatsuko’s testimony, it was Yoshioka who noticed something was wrong, immediately rushed into the bathroom,

and prevented the suicide. Huisheng, the eldest daughter of Pujie and Hiro, was

expected in time to work for the sake of Sino-Japanese friendship. Unfortunately,

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after the war in 1957, while studying at Gakushūin University, she was brought by

her boyfriend at gunpoint to Izu’s Mount Amagi where she was killed at the young

age of nineteen. As for Hiro, she was reunited with Pujie in 1971 after he was given

a special pardon. The couple lived peacefully in Beijing until June 20, 1987, when

Hiro died at the age of 73, ending a most dramatic life.

On another matter, Emperor Puyi was likewise suspicious of Yoshioka’s involvement in the death of an Imperial concubine from the Tatala clan. The Emperor had been married to Empress Wan Rong at a very young age.8 Wan Rong,

however, had been wasting away both physically and mentally as a result of her

opium addiction; the couple had not been intimate as man and wife. In the Qing

court, the ranking order following the Empress was the Imperial Court Consort

(Huang Gui-fei), the Court Consort (Gui-fei), and the Imperial Concubine (Pin

and Gui-ren). With his homosexual inclinations, the Emperor had not even

been on friendly terms with his Empress; that was said to be the reason for her

opium addiction.

At the time of the Emperor’s marriage at the age of sixteen, Wan Rong and

another woman named Wen Xiu were respectively given the titles “Empress” and

“Imperial Concubine.” At age twenty-five, the Emperor divorced Wen Xiu; in fact,

the latter was driven out of the Imperial court by the Empress herself. In 1937, following the advice of those close to him, the Emperor took in another imperial concubine by the name of Tan Yuling, a seventeen-year-old from the Tatala family.9

In his The Early Part of My Life, Puyi wrote that “she, too, was merely a wife in

name. I kept her at court until her death in 1942 just as I would have kept a pet

bird.” Moreover, he revealed that “as far as I am concerned, the cause of her death

remains a mystery.” Puyi disclosed his murder theory after she caught typhoid

fever, saying that “Tan Yuling was in the care of Japa nese physicians under the

supervision of Yoshioka, but astonishingly, she died the day after she had received treatment.”

On this matter, I have to say that this was a total misunderstanding on the

Emperor’s part. It is impossible today to recover the circumstances around a strange

death that occurred on the Chinese continent forty-five years ago as if in a detective story. Yet the Emperor repeatedly spoke of his suspicions of Yoshioka’s involvement during his appearance on the witness stand at the Tokyo Trials and

later in his autobiography. On the other hand, one would arrive at a different conclusion if one were to look at all the views of concerned parties. Convinced that

such suspicions were based on a “complete misunderstanding,” Yoshioka’s surviving family members explained the situation in the following manner:

While the Emperor was not sexually intimate with the Empress, he was very

fond of his imperial concubine Tan. In 1942, after she was examined by Yamaguchi Shimpei, Chancellor at Xinjing Medical University, it was determined that she

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was in fact suffering from stage-three tuberculosis. This discovery came much too

late, unavoidably, due to the manner in which medicine was practiced at the Imperial court. Following Qing conventions, the patient was not given the benefits

of modern medicine; instead, she had nothing to rely on except Chinese-style

prayers, her traditional Chinese doctors, and Chinese herbal medicine.

The Emperor was at a complete loss as to what to do when her condition failed

to show the slightest improvement. Unable to stand idly by, Yoshioka made repeated recommendations that Tan be examined by Dr. Onodera Naosuke, Head

of the Xinjing First Hospital. The Emperor’s own close advisors were reluctant,

but since the Emperor himself expressed the same wish shortly afterwards, the

doctor was brought into the Imperial court by Yoshioka. But Tan’s condition had

become worse, and nothing could be done. Dr. Onodera, a professor emeritus from

Kyushu University, was regarded as Manchuria’s foremost physician. His examination revealed that the illness was not typhoid fever as diagnosed by the Chinese court doctors, but meningitis developed as a result of miliary tuberculosis

and that it was too late for treatment. As an emergency measure, he could only

give Tan an injection and left her room.

Yoshioka was further criticized for his domineering role in the selection of a

new imperial concubine to replace Tan, but his surviving family likewise strongly

denied the charge. At first, the Lieutenant General consulted with the Emperor’s

close advisors, suggesting that the selection be made from among students or graduates of normal universities who typically came from respectable Manchurian families. For his part, the Emperor apparently indicated his preference for a relatively

young woman regardless of her education or family background; he himself would

like to tutor her in court. With that, over a thousand photographs of candidates

from Manchu elementary schools all over Manchuria were assembled, and the Emperor himself picked a fourteen-year-old girl named Li Yuqin. For a short while,

the Emperor’s second sister took Li into her personal care in her own residence

and prepared her for the occasion before bringing her to court as the “Imperial

Concubine of Prosperity” (Fu Gui-ren).

*

*

*

With the arrival of 1941 came a sudden flurry of travels to various locations for

my performances and for visiting troops at the front, making it impossible for me

to spend leisurely days at the Yoshioka residence or at my own Beijing home. I

had to labor under a hectic schedule, not just to make battlefront visits but also to

answer the heavy demand for my appearance in various Japa nese cities. Work

seemed endless, leaving me with scarcely any breathing space. As I was given train

and plane tickets from left to right, I was told that my frantic activities were all

“for the sake of Japan” or “for the sake of Manchuria.” At times, it reached a point

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where I didn’t even know where or what I was supposed to perform or sing until

I actually arrived at the location.

Now I find it quite amusing that I myself did not fully experience the riotous

confusion surrounding the “Nichigeki Incident,” an affair that prompted all those

aforementioned activities. Early in 1941, I was ordered to go to Tokyo as “Singing

Ambassadress for Japanese-Manchurian Friendship.” What we celebrate today on

February 11 as our National Foundation Day was then called Kigen setsu, a

national holiday based on the mythology of Emperor Jimmu’s unification of

Yamato. In celebration of the event, I was scheduled to give a weeklong show at

the Japan Theater (Nihon Gekijō or Nichigeki) in Tokyo’s Marunouchi beginning on February 11.

I had already appeared twice at the Nichigeki, albeit playing only minor roles.

That time around, I was supposed to do the real thing, a solo performance. Although I debuted as “a singing actress,” I was still having operatic and other singing lessons from Ms. Miura Tamaki in Tokyo. The order to perform, however, came

from Man’ei’s main office in the name of “Japanese-Manchurian friendship.” The

year before, a large-scale commemoration of 2,600 years of imperial rule had just

taken place, with Emperor Puyi visiting Japan for the second time and praying

for the fortunes of Japan and Manchukuo. My performance as a “singing ambassadress” was also being publicized to “offer our gratitude to our injured and

brave warriors” and to “Japanese-Manchurian friendship”; the general tenor of the

show can be surmised from the fact that it opened with Manchukuo’s “national

anthem.”

Following instructions from Man’ei’s main office, I checked into the Imperial Hotel after arriving in Tokyo in early February. When I went to a planning

session at Tōhō, I found an angry Shigeki Kyūhei, President of Man’ei’s Tokyo

branch office. “It’s outrageous to fi nalize decisions with Tōhō without going

through the Tokyo branch office! I am going to report this to Mr. Amakasu and

ruin your plans!”

A graduate of Waseda University, Shigeki became a Tokyo city councilman

in his twenties and served as the editorial bureau chief of the newspaper Yorozu

Chōhō. Due to his ideological affinities with Captain Amakasu, he was scouted to

serve as a Man’ei executive director and the head of its Tokyo branch. A paternalistic, macho-type ultranationalist not uncommon in those days, he was a complete contrast to the refined, left-wing intellectual type such as Iwasaki who worked

under him as the Deputy Chief of the Tokyo office. Even to this day, I cannot believe that the two in fact worked together within Man’ei; this certainly had to be

a result of personal connections unique to the Amakasu-Negishi duo.10

Shigeki used to boast about his venture of secretly entering into the Soviet

Union alone to meet with Lenin and bring back a large sum of money to support

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a right-wing revolution. The thrills and humor with which he recounted his exploits reminded one of a captivating old-time kōdan storyteller. He also appeared

in Ozaki Shirō’s novel The Theater of Life (Jinsei gekijō) as the eccentric Katczinsky (that is, Natsumura Taizō).11 As he spoke at the Tōhō meeting, his small frame

shook with anger as he pounded on the table, “I will put a stop to Li Xianglan’s

Nichigeki performance even if I have to call in the gangsters!”

Nichigeki’s officials, including Director Hata Toyokichi and Manger Mikami

Ryōzō, had absolutely no idea what to do when faced with such ferocious outbursts

from this notorious figure. At that point, I boldly chimed in, “The order from

Man’ei’s main office is the same as the order from Executive Director Amakasu.

Since this matter has already been decided upon, I must go through with my performance no matter how I will be lambasted.” Thereupon, Shigeki stared at my

face and then broke into a smile, saying, “Hey, what an interesting girl we have

here! All right, tell you what, you can go on with your performance! Tōhō can go

to hell, but I’ll let off Li Xianglan!”

While this was how quickly the matter was resolved, I think the background

to it had to do with Man’ei’s opposition to Tōhō’s contractual monopoly over Li

Xianglan’s activities in Japan. It was Yamanashi Minoru, originally a Tōhō employee before becoming Man’ei’s General Affairs Manager, who had served as the

intermediary in arranging Tōhō’s exclusive rights, and all such arrangements had

taken place before Amakasu and Shigeki joined Man’ei. Th is was the same Yamanashi who was later kicked out of Man’ei for having incurred Amakasu’s displeasure. This deteriorating relationship between Man’ei and Tōhō was certainly

a factor in explaining Shigeki’s hostile behavior.

At the time, Man’ei’s Tokyo branch office was situated diagonally across from

Hibiya Park in the neighborhood where the Press Center Building (which houses

the Japan Press Club) currently stands. It was the private residence of former Minister of Railways Ogawa Heikichi, the maternal grandfather of Finance Minister

Miyazawa Kiichi. It was a smart-looking, two-story structure built of reinforced

concrete, and a place frequented by right-wing figures such as Tōyama Shūzō. In

accordance with the wishes of Amakasu in Xinjing, Shigeki appeared to serve as

the manager of political funds streaming out of Manchuria.

While Shigeki allowed my performance to go forward, he appeared to have

subsequent clashes with Tōhō, making the latter rather ner vous. The fact that I

was later given the protection of a professional security guard was the result of

Tōhō’s apprehension that Shigeki might in fact call in the gangsters.

During the week before my show began, I recorded songs for Columbia at its

main office at Uchisaiwaichō while rehearsing, in my free time, for my Nichigeki

performance. One day, Nichigeki’s manager, Mikami Ryōzō, telephoned me to say

that he would immediately dispatch a male security guard for my protection

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until the end of my show “to prepare for any contingencies.” He would ask the

guard to come over right away; I was told that I should wait for him and not return to my hotel after my rehearsal. Mikami further instructed that from then

on I must be accompanied by the guard wherever I went.

After finishing work, I waited somewhat absentmindedly in a corner of a vacant room, but after some time had passed, nobody resembling a security guard

showed up. As I looked around, I saw another young man in the waiting room

standing near the window with his back to me. I waited and waited and no one

came. While thinking of returning to my hotel, I thought I’d better call Mikami

from the waiting room just in case something had happened.

“I am afraid nobody showed up.” I felt that my voiced betrayed my edginess.

“That’s strange. His name is Kodama, a tall guy.”

“Mr. Kodama?”

At that point, the man standing by the window approached me and said, “Oh,

so you’re the person waiting for me? I’ve also been waiting for you.” Just as Mikami said, he was tall with a slightly dark complexion, someone who looked like

a nice young man.

I was feeling exhausted after having been kept waiting for so long. On top of

that, he never spoke to me even though he knew all along I was in the waiting

room. My anger must have manifested itself in my irritated facial expression. Similarly without smiling, he stammered, “So you are Miss . . . ?” When I told him

who I was, he merely nodded without offering even a word of apology.

Starting the next morning, this taciturn young man would arrive at nine

o’clock at the Imperial Hotel and take me to Columbia’s studio. Until I fi nished

my recording or rehearsal, he would wait in the same waiting room by the window and look at the scenery outside. One time, he did go into the rehearsal

room, a visit that prompted Koga Masao to comment, “What a wonderful young

man! Is he a Tōhō actor or is he your boyfriend?” Later, Koga would frequently

praise Kodama, saying, “He is a nice guy, the type other men would find appealing as well.”

Kodama and I would then commute from Columbia’s main office to Nichigeki. While I was being instructed on stage performance, Kodama would attentively observe my rehearsals. He went everywhere I did; we had lunch and dinner

together, and he even went shopping with me and accompanied me to my meetings. At night, he would escort me back to my room at the Imperial Hotel.

As we were together much of the time during the few days before my actual

performance, I began to appreciate an indescribable air surrounding this unsociable and presumptuous young man. While he was a person of few words, there

was a refreshingly masculine quality about him. That said, he was capable of paying unobtrusive attention to things around him. For his part, he also seemed to

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have formed a new impression of me as someone quite different from a typical

“star.” In any case, the range of my activities included my trips from the hotel to

Columbia, Nichigeki, or else Man’ei’s Tokyo branch in Hibiya. The only long distance travels I made were infrequent trips by car to my teacher Miura Tamaki’s

residence for my musical lessons. Having to listen to my vocal practices from morning to night everywhere we went, Kodama must have been bored to death!

In time, I began to have bits and pieces of conversation with him, only to discover that there was good reason why he had acted with such aloofness on the

first day we met. He had just joined Tōhō’s Arts Division a year before in 1940,

and at the time was preoccupied with preparations for the original production of

the musical Hyūga, the script he had written as his debut work.12 Kodama was a

native of Takachiho in Miyazaki Prefecture, and the revue was based on the myth

associated with the place and conceived as a burlesque performed by Nichigeki’s

dancing teams. The expectation was that, when performed during the Kigensetsu

celebrations, with Emperor Jimmu at center stage of the fitting story about the

founding of the country, it would be a big hit. And then, all of a sudden, his longcherished plan was dropped and replaced by a singing performance of a Manchurian girl named Li Xianglan. To further add insult to injury, a big, proud

Japanese man like himself was then ordered to serve as a guard to protect that

same Chinese girl. After listening to his story, I could well understand his impertinence when we first met in Columbia’s waiting room. We reciprocally apologized for our behavior that day, and the occasion gave us the opportunity to open

up to each other.

It was only after the next day that I became fully aware of the circumstances

surrounding the “Nichigeki Incident.” On that day, I was totally engrossed in

making sure that I did not make any mistakes during my first solo performance.

I miss Nichigeki’s white cylindrical structure which has now been transformed

into Yūrakuchō’s fashionable Mullion Building, but at the time, it was a famous

attraction in the area, along with Asahi Shimbun’s company building, the Sukiyabashi Bridge, and other sites. The stage was customarily set up in such a way

that it could serve both to screen movies and to put on live performances; at the

time it was screening a long documentary called Explorations in Dutch Indo-China

(Ran’in tanbōki) and Island in Morning Glow (Shima wa asayake), a mid-length

Japanese fi lm. As for the live show, its program (directed by Shirai Tetsuzō) was

called “The Singing Ambassadress Li Xianglan: For Japanese-Manchurian Friendship in Commemoration of our National Foundation Celebrations.” There were

three per formances a day and the ticket price was uniformly set at eighty sen,

tax included.

When the day came, on February 11, even I who grew up in Manchuria could

feel the chill in the air. At nine in the morning, Kodama came to the Imperial

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Hotel to fetch me. While the show was set to begin at nine-thirty, there was first

a film screening and the live performance did not start until eleven, giving us plenty

of time. And so, I didn’t set my hair or put on makeup, but instead wore a cloth

mask to keep myself warm and bundled myself up in a fur overcoat before venturing out on the streets of Yūrakuchō with Kodama.

When we approached Nichigeki, we found throngs of people. The day was a

Tuesday, but since it was a national holiday, we expected a sizeable audience. But

of course as the performer myself, I had no idea how many the attraction would

bring. Director Shirai said that while on stage I wouldn’t be able to see much of

the dimly lit seating area, and that I should feel free to sing in the same way as

I did in my rehearsals without getting too distracted. I should have followed

his advice.

Swarms of people resembling black mounds gathered around the theater’s

three ticket windows. Since the entrance to the dressing room could be reached

from Yūrakuchō Station, we tried to get closer by going around the cylindrical

structure, only to find ourselves tightly squeezed into a complete standstill. Thinking that a national holiday had caused such hordes of passengers to congregate at

a train station, I muttered, “Tokyo is so jam-packed!” With a ner vous look on his

face as he surveyed the unusual scene, Kodama didn’t answer me but held firmly

onto my arm so that we wouldn’t be separated from each other in the crowd.

Despite our hope to reach the dressing room, the wall of humanity in front

of us made any such attempt impossible. We shouted and pleaded with them to

let us pass, only to be yelled at by the angry crowd, now forming multiple columns

as they queued up.

“Hey! This is the line for those with tickets. Go to the other end if you want

yours. Queue up from the back!”

“Don’t cut in from the side! Don’t push!”

“Hey! Let us in quickly! We’ve been kept standing since seven in the morning! Quickly open the door!” The atmosphere was getting so ferocious that it would

not have been surprising if the crowd turned riotous.

“There isn’t going to be any show if you don’t let her in!” Kodama shouted

out to the crowd once or twice, but nobody paid him any attention. “On the other

hand, all hell will break loose if they find out who she really is!” he mumbled. Even

though he tried hard to shove forward with his own body, the human wall failed

to budge at all.

Resigned to the situation, Kodama said to me in a low voice, “You stay here!

Don’t move!” before quickly leaving the scene. Soon, he came running back with

four or five security guards from the theater, who proceeded to pick me up on their

shoulders in a team relay, knocked open the door to the dressing room, and carried me inside.

The Nichigeki Incident

125

The stagehands there were already saying things like, “Gee! Those people are

already making three and a half rounds!” I finally realized what they were saying, that those waves of people queuing around the theater in circles were none

other than fans who came to see “Li Xianglan.” Getting ner vous again, I told

myself that I must do well in my singing so that I wouldn’t disappoint them. At

the same time, I simply couldn’t suppress my excitement at having just overcome

the formidable human blockade to get to where I was.

While I was the sole stage performer, I also had to be aware of the show’s overall dramatic effects, act my part, and speak my lines. Even when I was making up

my face in front of the mirror, I became quite fretful and apprehensive that I might

forget my song lyrics or my lines. When eleven o’clock came around, the first stage

performance was set to begin. Preparing to make my appearance from stage right,

I asked Kodama to tap me on the back so that he would in effect jostle me onto

the stage. In fact, in my subsequent performances, whenever Kodama was around,

I always asked him to do the same. Incredibly, his action calmed my nerves.

The curtain stayed down as the Tōhō Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by

Ueno Katsunori played the overture “That Lovely Star.” Wearing a purple velvet

Chinese dress with a white cape across it, I came into a silver horse-drawn carriage in the middle of the stage and waited in the darkness. As the overture was

nearing its end, the curtain went up smoothly and the spotlight focused directly

on me. As the illumination began to spread out across the stage, the audience could

see me emerge from the luminous glow as I stood inside the carriage. With that,

the audience erupted in a roaring cheer that shook the theater.

With bells ringing in the background and wearing a continuous smile, I

began to sing, “The horse carriage went and went, in the evening breeze . . .” Meanwhile, my head was inflamed with excitement at the extraordinary frenzy of the

audience. As I stepped off the carriage and walked toward the front of the stage

during the song’s interlude, the crowd greeted me with applause. They did so again

as I bowed during the refrain with the sound of the bells receding into the background. As the lights on the stage grew dimmer and the curtain was being lowered, the fans’ roar faded into a strange silence.

I had a quick change of costume on stage right before I hid under the leaves

of a banana tree which had been placed at center stage. I covered my face with a

large feather fan and waited again in the darkness for my next appearance. The

melancholy tune of the er’hu became progressively louder as the orchestra accompanied it; what they were playing was the prelude to “The Suzhou Serenade.” The

spotlight first fell on the fan concealing my face which I proceeded to reveal strategically as I began to sing, “In your arms, dreamily I listened . . .” The audience

burst in a tremendous uproar and started to applaud, only to settle down instantaneously into an incredible hush. Every change in my pose onstage would inspire

126

Chapter 8

the fans’ applause. Mr. Shirai Tetsuzō had choreographed every movement I made;

I simply acted and sang as I had been instructed. After singing “The Suzhou Serenade,” I retreated behind the stage, only to find Kodama waiting anxiously.

The excitement from the audience continued unabated until the very last song.

During my performance of “China Nights,” we recreated the scene from the fi lm

by having a shabbily clad Chinese girl stumble onstage after she was roughly shoved

by a Japanese. After launching a lengthy volley of curses in Chinese at the perpetrator, invisible though he was to the audience, she picked herself up and, with

her posture slumping, began to sing. Moments later as the violins were playing a

long drawn-out prelude, the rotating stage ushered in the same girl, now dressed

totally differently in a gorgeous Chinese-style dress to sing the next song. And then

for the presentation of “Red Water Lilies,” I changed into a Chinese dress with a

red flower pattern and performed a simple Chinese dance.

My next routine was a sweet chanson, which I sang wearing a white evening

dress as I leaned against a black grand piano. Synchronizing my lyrics with the

piano, I began singing in French, “Parle moi d’amour,” followed by Japanese, “Kikaseteyo! Yasashi ai no kotoba!” (“Come now, let me hear your sweet words of love.”)

Again following Mr. Shirai’s instructions, I spoke to the audience coquettishly during the song’s interlude, “Tell me, why are you so quiet? Why are you not saying

anything?” Thereupon, I sang the lyrics again: “Come now, let me hear them, your

sweet words of love.”

My last number, delivered in a wine-red evening dress, was “The Drinking

Song” from La Traviata, an opera in which I had been taking lessons as late as

the day before. As soon as a chorus from a contingent of Tōhō vocalists joined

me following my solo performance, the fans all rose to their feet, locked each

other’s arms, and gave off an unexpected chorus so loud it rocked the theater.

They probably all knew the music quite well from watching Deanna Durbin’s big

hit One Hundred Men and a Girl.13

With “The Drinking Song” as its finale, my show ended with the presentation of a bouquet to me from a young girl, a disciple of Miura Tamaki-sensei.

Kodama held me in his arms as we walked down a narrow fl ight of stairs leading

to the dressing room. There, we found the place so packed, not only with staff

members and other stagehands but also with police officers, that we could not

even find a place to stand. There were all kinds of rumors flying around, such as

“They have called in the fire engine!” and “The mounted police are now dispersing the crowd!” I, for my part, had absolutely no idea what was happening. In any

case, it appeared that the area outside the theater was very crowded. I didn’t venture out for safety’s sake, but stayed behind in the dressing room to prepare for

my next performances.

The Nichigeki Incident

127

It was not until seven in the evening that the third run of my performance

came to an end. It was a long day, and I was glad it was over. Completely exhausted,

I just wanted to lie down in my hotel room rather than to think about dinner. Fortunately, the Imperial Hotel was just ten minutes away on foot. As I threw on my

coat and was about to leave the dressing room, Kodama’s face turned pale as he

stopped me in my tracks, “Don’t you just walk out so nonchalantly! You would

either be crushed by the fans or be besieged by reporters!”

I am not sure what exactly happened, but the story was that a number of vehicles belonging to the Asahi Shimbun Company, next to the Nichigeki Building,

had been smashed up. Indignant over its damages, the paper had, I heard, requested

a one-on-one interview in order to uncover Li Xianglan’s Japanese identity. Dreading that scenario, Tōhō seemed reluctant to allow any meeting between me and

the reporters. To conceal Li Xianglan from their eyes—that was Kodama’s job for

that day.

Picking up a dirty overcoat from the wardrobe in the dressing room, he put

it over my head on top of my fur coat. Just like a detective escorting a prisoner, he

dragged me down to the basement where an emergency ladder allowed us to climb

up. Clutching me at his side, he began to go up the ladder and emerged in what

appeared to be a dancing studio. From there, we went down a ladder on the opposite side. As I had a fear of heights, I cried out, “No, no, I can’t do it!” frustrating

Kodama in his efforts.

We finally managed to get out of the building through a rarely used emergency exit. In the vicinity of the theater, despite the late hour, there were still lots

of people jostling one other, and police officers were attempting to bring some

order to traffic. Our great escape to the Imperial Hotel finally succeeded. Without going through the main entrance, we went into another room different from

the one I had the day before—Kodama probably had made such arrangements in

advance.

“Always stay in your room and don’t step outside at all! Please take your meals

inside for the time being. If something should come up, contact me by telephone.

You must be tired. Go to bed early!”

To him, it was also a day of confusion. He appeared agitated and looked

exhausted.

It was not until the next morning that I learned the full story of the “incident” from the newspapers. All reported the great commotion associated with the

event. Perhaps out of spite due to the damages it had suffered, the Asahi Shimbun

in par ticular came out with the caption “Unruly Fans Tarnished Auspicious Occasion” along with a harshly critical report. Its preachy tone was already apparent from the beginning:

128

Chapter 8

We note with regret the messy pandemonium displayed by members of the

audience before a certain movie theater in the Marunouchi area in our empire’s capital on the morning of our Kigensetsu Day celebrations on the 11th.

It was a misfortune to have to witness such a blatant display of our fl ippant

national morality, still unaltered to this day, on the part of a segment of our

citizenry and the laxity of their discipline. It is sad to have to write about such

matters, but our report also wants to convey the wish that this is the last time

we will ever see such chaos again.

It continued:

Mindful of the show’s opening at nine-thirty in the morning, the fans had already been gathering in front of the building around eight o’clock. In the blink

of an eye, the jostling fans had flooded the square in front of the building and

the surrounding roads. The crowd didn’t bother to queue up or do anything

of the sort. The swarming scene of tens of hundreds of people wrestling one

another to be the first to get to the two or three ticket booths then turned into

scuffling brawls. Women screaming with cuts on their foreheads, students still

maddeningly pushing ahead, undeterred by the sight of blood, vehicles rocking left and right as they were being shoved by the crowd in the square. The

situation developed to the point where some women and children, unable to

withstand the maddening confusion, decided to climb up onto the roofs of

the cars.

Satō Masami, Manager of Nichigeki’s Underground Theater and one of Kodama’s close friends, was on night duty the day before and could remember the

scene well:

Before six in the morning, a security guard woke me up and reported an unusual situation developing outside. As I looked down from the roof, I found

that there were already about five hundred people gathering around the ticket

windows even though the show wouldn’t start until nine-thirty. Since Nichigeki’s capacity was three thousand, I expected that from then on, the congestion was going to get quite bad. At eight, the fans had formed a long queue

encircling the theater two times before the line was about to form the third

ring. Seen from the roof, it was very clear to me that waves of fans were coming all the way from the square before the Imperial Palace; visitors celebrating the national event there were streaming right into Nichigeki’s direction.

Li Xianglan and the Kigensetsu festivity—now what kind of connection did

they have? The year before, the Emperor of Manchukuo had visited Japan to

The Nichigeki Incident

129

commemorate the two-thousand six-hundredth anniversary of Imperial rule.

Mongolia’s Prince Demchugdongrub also came to Japan that year, but I was

not sure whether that had anything to do with Japanese-Manchurian friendship. At a little past nine o’clock, just before the show was scheduled to begin,

I looked with amazement as I saw the river of humanity had been split into

two major directions like uncontrollable floods that had just broken the

levees. One was running from the neighboring Asahi Shimbun building toward the Yomiuri Shimbun building past the Sukiyabashi Bridge; the other

was pouring out of Yūrakuchō Station toward the Tokyo Nichinichi Shimbun building under the railroad bridge. Meanwhile, automobiles owned by

the Asahi Shimbun were just being tossed sideways one after another.

In 1985, I gave a talk in Mitaka City in Tokyo, and at the tea reception afterward, an elderly woman told me that she had gone to the Nichigeki that day and

had an awful experience. Water was thrown at her, and she ended up with her

clothes torn and her footwear missing. When I apologized, she said with a smile,

“Oh no! I am still thankful for having gone to the Li Xianglan show.” When she

was pushed to the ground by the crowd, a young man was good enough to drag

her into an automobile parked in front of the Asahi Shimbun building. Until the

police came to rescue them, they sat close to each other inside the car, breathless

while the mayhem outside continued. “That young man is now my husband!”

At ten in the morning, the Marunouchi Police Station mobilized more than

twenty police officers to maintain order, along with the mounted police, but

still they could not control the unruly crowd. The report in the Asahi continued

as follows:

Loud warnings alone were completely ineffectual. Then, the fi re hose was

brought out, but when it was seen as nothing more than an empty threat, that

effort was again rendered futile.14 Finally, the police put up a sign in front of

the building saying that today’s show had been discontinued. Still, some fans

failed to disperse, and those had to be chased down the street from the theater building one block at a time to be constrained. On the ground where the

crowds had gathered were numerous geta and sandals which had gone astray

from their owners’ feet. Also scattered around on the ground were red scarfs

worn by women.

Once the fans quieted down under police warnings, they were lined up and led to

the ticket windows by the officers. Realizing that that particular group alone would

be able to enter the theater to watch the show, the majority of the fans left behind

grew angry and began to start another commotion. The Asahi reported:

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Chapter 8

What shameful behavior! What imprudent conduct! The fans were about

seventy percent male and thirty percent female. Half of the male fans wore

student uniforms, and the women were generally around twenty years of

age. . . . In view of the continuing disorder, at one o’clock in the afternoon, the

Marunouchi Police Station sent out another contingent of more than fifty

police officers.

It was Lord Byron who said, “I awoke one morning and found myself famous.”

I awoke one morning and noticed that all the papers carried stories on “the Singing Ambassadress for Japanese-Manchurian Friendship.” The bellboy from room

ser vice who brought in my meal told me with excitement that a long queue had

already begun forming before seven in the morning. Yet that piece of information did not change me in the least—I was exactly the same person that I had been

yesterday. Just because I had become “popular,” I was compelled to isolate myself

in an inconspicuous room to eat a solitary meal.

Kodama came in with a knock on the door and a “Good morning.” He took

a quick glance at the papers and muttered, “That’s incredible popularity!” And

then, he added, “Congratulations! For having a sold-out crowd, but more importantly, it’s your birthday!” Ah yes, today was my twenty-first birthday! I had

completely forgotten about it.

Since that day, I have never again forgotten my birthday. February 11, National

Foundation Day, the Kigensetsu in the old days, the Nichigeki Incident,15 the “escape” I had with Kodama, and the newspaper reports the next day, February

12—these items come back to mind as though in a game of word associations.

Amidst the ever-escalating tension over Japan’s imminent war with the United

States and Britain, the Nichigeki Incident appeared to have been a sign of the

times—that is, a manifestation of how much our nation’s people needed some form

of invigorating entertainment. At the time, items such as sugar, matches, and then

rice were being rationed. Theatrical troupes had been asked to disband, and dance

halls had been closed. Perhaps the reason why I became the focus of such popularity was that no other forms of enjoyable distraction existed.

On December 8 of the same year, Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and declared war on the United States and Britain. The country was plunged into the Pacific War.
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Chapter 8: The Nichigeki Incident

1. Chikuma Shobō Sensho.

2. Zhang Jinghui (1871–1959) became Manchukuo’s second Premier from May

1935 until the demise of the Japanese puppet state in August 1945. For an account of

Zhang’s relationship with Zhang Xueliang and his early collaboration with the Kwantung Army, see Rana Mitter, The Manchurian Myth, pp. 87–91.

3. Yamashita Tomoyuki (1885–1946), nicknamed “the Tiger of Malaya” for his

military takeover of the British colonies of Malaya and Singapore in February 1942.

Given command of the Japanese army in the Philippines, he and his remaining forces

surrendered to the Allies in September 1945. Sentenced to death by a military tribunal for war crimes, he was hanged in February 1946.

4. The Empress’ opium addiction will be discussed later in this chapter.

5. As Staff Officer of the Japanese China Garrison Army. A note in the original text indicates that he was a major at the time.

6. The daughter of Marquis Saga and a distant relative of the Shōwa Emperor, Saga

Hiro (1914–1987) was known as Aisin Gioro Hiro or Aisin Gioro Hao after her marriage

to Pujie in February 1938. Considering the fact that Emperor Puyi did not have a direct

heir, the marriage was seen as Japan’s attempt to further integrate Manchuria into the

Japanese Empire by introducing Japanese blood into the Imperial family.

7. Roughly, “pop” or “old man.”

8. Descended from one of the most distinguished Manchu families, Wan

Rong was married to the Xuantong Emperor (i.e., Puyi) at the age of seventeen; the

latter was then sixteen.

9. She was given the title Imperial Concubine of Good Fortune (Xiang Guiren), a consort of the Fift h Rank.

10. On Negishi Kan’ichi’s role within Man’ei, see chapter 6.

11. Ozaki’s novel, published in 1935, is a popular story about the passions and

rebelliousness of youth centering on the main character Hyōkichi. “Katczinsky” is a

play on the onomatopoeic kachin or kachin-kachin, a reference to one or a series of

sharp metallic sounds. On Ozaki Shirō and his well-known autobiographical novel,

see Donald Keene, Dawn to the West: Japanese Literature in the Modern Era—Fiction

(New York: Henry Holt & Co., 1987), pp. 926–933.

12. Hyūga is the old name for the area in southeastern Kyushu corresponding

more or less to present-day Miyazaki Prefecture.

13. The popular 1937 musical was screened in Japan under the name Ōkesutora no

shōjo. Distributed by Universal Pictures and directed by Henry Koster, it belonged to a

Japanese subgenre sometimes referred to as “human-sentiment comedy” (ninjō kigeki).

14. Apparently, water was actually sprayed on the fans in an attempt to maintain order.

15. The original calls it the “Nichigeki nanamawari-han jiken,” a reference to

the swarm of fans encircling the Nichigeki building seven and a half times at the

height of the congestion.

Notes to Pages 132–142

323

Chapter 9: The Spring of My Youth

1. A heavily government-sanctioned “para-fascist” organization created in

October 1940 under the second Konoe Fumimaro cabinet to promote the administration’s “New Order” movement and to centralize Japan’s war time efforts by merging political parties and mobilizing the domestic population. By June 1942, it absorbed

under its wings such broadly based organizations as the Great Nippon Patriotic Industry Association, the Great Nippon Women’s Association, and various neighborhood associations.

2. Nogami Yaeko (1885–1985), one of the most prominent writers of modern

Japan whose career spanned from the late Meiji period into the postwar decades.

Socially and politically engaging, with an imagination often informed by a bold, liberal sensibility, her major works included Machiko (1928–1930), Watashi no Chūgoku

ryokō (1959), and Hideyoshi to Rikyū (1962–1963). Particularly notable was her ambitious Meiro (six vols., 1936–1956), a massive work reimagining the intellectual and

spiritual vicissitudes of Japan’s war time years and a work that the renowned fi lm director Yamamoto Satsuo aspired to turn into a fi lm before his death in 1983.

3. Miyazawa Kiichi (1919–2007), Finance Minister in the Takeshita Noboru

cabinet in 1987, went on to serve as Prime Minister in 1991–1993 and again as Finance

Minister in 1998–2001 under the Obuchi Keizō and Mori Yoshirō administrations.

4. The Japanese name for the school is Gyōsei.

5. Directed in 1934 by Marcel L’Herbier (of L’Argent [1929] fame) and screened

in Japan under the name Karisome no kōfuku (A Transient Happiness). Charles Boyer

plays Philippe Lutcher, an anarchist artist, while Gaby Morlay takes the lead female

role as the popu lar music hall star and actress Clara Stuart.

6. Their Japa nese names are Jiji Tsūshinsha and Kyōdō Tsūshinsha, respectively.

7. For an appraisal of Matsuoka Yōsuke’s diplomatic career in English, see

David J. Lu’s Agony of Choice: Matsuoka Yōsuke and the Rise and Fall of the Japanese

Empire, 1880–1946 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2002). For a contrasting evaluation, see Frederick R. Dickinson’s review of Lu’s book in Journal of Japanese Studies

30, no. 1 (Winter 2004): 167–171.

8. The original text identifies Nomonhan as currently in the County of New

Barag Left Banner in the Inner Mongolian Autonomous Region in the People’s Republic of China.

9. The original text gives its source as “Kantōgun I” from Bōeichō Senshishitsu.

10. For studies on the Nomonhan Incident in English, see Alvin D. Coox, Nomonhan: Japan Against Russia, 1939 (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1985), and

Edward J. Drea, Nomonhan: Japan-Soviet Tactical Combat 1939 (Fort Leavenworth,

Combat Studies Institute, U.S. Army Command and General Staff College, 1981).

11. The original text identifies Maki as being active in Europe in the early

Shōwa period and as the founder of the Maki Operatic Troupe upon his return

to Japan.

324

Notes to Pages 142–150

12. Kikumasamune is a famous sake brand; indeed, a popu lar commercial

song was called “Yappari ore wa Kikumasamune!” (Kikumasamune is my kind of

sake!), composed and with lyrics by the memorable Nakamura Haichidai–Ei Rokusuke duo. One gō is about 0.18 liter. A mid-size bottle today usually contains 4 gō.

13. In A Warbler’s Song in the Dusk: The Life and Work of Ōtomo Yakamochi

718–785 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), Paula Doe’s translation of the

same poem reads: “From today on, Without a look back, I go to be the emperor’s damn

shield” (p. 218). For brief summaries of the controversy over the translation of shiko

no mitate, an expression used in the poem, see Doe, Warbler’s Song, p. 218, and Emiko

Ohnuki-Tierney, Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms: The Militarization

of Aesthetics in Japanese History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), p. 353,

n. 24. For a study on the subject, see Tesaki Masao, Shiko no mitate kō: Man’yō sakamori uta no kōsatsu (Tokyo: Kasama Shoin, 2005).

14. In Azabu in Tokyo’s Minato Ward. The place name, meaning “the raccoon hole,” presumably alluded to the many raccoon dogs that lived in the area in

the past.

15. The original carries a note identifying him as the father of Vice President

Laurel under the Aquino administration.

16. Kon Hidemi (1903–1984), novelist, critic, translator of Gide, Professor of French

literature at Meiji University from 1933, and widely known for his wit and erudition.

Conscripted into the army’s Press Division, he was first sent to the Philippines in 1941

and again in 1944 to report on the war situation on the island of Leyte, a duty that led

to his fl ight into the mountains of the Philippines with the withdrawing Japa nese

troops. His reminiscences of that experience, Sanchū hōrō (Tokyo: Hibiya Shuppansha, 1949), is regarded as his representative work and a masterpiece in Japanese war

literature.

17. Yoshimura Kōzaburō (1911–2000) established his reputation with such Shōchiku

productions as Danryū (1939) before making fi lms for the Modern Film Association

he established in 1950 with Shindō Kaneto. Among his more well-known postwar works

are Mori no Ishimatsu (1949), Ashizuri-misaki (1954), Kokoro no sanmyaku (1966),

and Ranru no hata (1974).

18. For a detailed description of the fighting, see Thomas M. Huber’s online

and undated article “The Battle of Manila,” at http:// battleofmanila .org /pages/01

_huber.htm.