Unlike the first impression he had given me, Captain Lamb was very reserved when we were alone in the office. No singing or whistling, not even teasing. He behaved like a very serious-minded college professor, and I suddenly found myself tongue-tied and painfully self-conscious. The first thing Captain Lamb and I did was to furnish the office. There were two desks, one for him and one for me, with a typewriter and all the office supplies. He chose the desk closer to the door, as if appointing himself to be my guard, and asked me if we needed anything else. I asked if we could have curtains for the window and a picture to cover the bare wall. He brought an armful of large pictures the next day, all of which turned out to be pictures of horses. I knew he loved horses because he often came to the office on horseback and kept his horse tied to a tree by the office. But a picture of a horse was not exactly my taste in wall decoration. A picture of a basket of fruits, of flowers in a vase, or of a snow-covered landscape, maybe, but not a picture of a horse. With an effort, I finally chose a close-up of a horse’s face. "I like his innocent, large eyes," I commented. He agreed seriously and put it in a brown wood frame and hung it on the wall. Then he took the window's measurements and came up with some soft green curtains in the matter of a few days, and seemed to be quite pleased to see my approval.

The office became my safe haven from the harsh reality. As long as I was in the office with the captain, I could pretend that the world was back in order, that nothing drastic had ever happened. In reality, however, once outside the camp I constantly encountered the reminders of war-the lost war. Almost daily, the homeless former soldiers of the disbanded Imperial Japanese armed forces, maimed and still clothed in the soiled white cotton army hospital gowns, would hop onto the streetcars to collect donations for dubious organizations. Begging on the street was forbidden by law, and this was their way of forcing public support. Some collected quietly, some with dramatic speeches. I would get up to stand by the door, pretending to view the bay, pretending to shut it all out of my mind. But how could anyone ignore them, the maimed ex-soldiers disowned by their government? Their suppressed anger, their painful despair filled the silent street car. Then one morning, on my way to the office, I accidentally saw my father walking a block ahead of me. He was tarrying bamboo products—brooms, baskets, whatnots, on his back and under his arms. A street vendor? I could not believe my eyes. As far as I could remember, my father had always been a government official, which was a position bigger than life in colonial Dairen. But there he was, his steps uncertain, his back and head bent forward under the awkward load of bamboo brooms and baskets. I wrestled with this new image of my father all day at the office. I did not mention this to my father when I got home that night, nor have I mentioned it to anyone to this day. I knew that repatriates of my father’s age and professional background were having a hard time finding suitable jobs in postwar Japan. But to see my father walking with a load of bamboo products on his back was as unbearable as seeing the homeless ex-soldiers begging in streetcars.

My favorite pastime, or an escape then, was rowing a boat in the Bay of Beppu. I would rent a boat and row with all my might into the bay all alone, returning hours later, feeling exhausted but renewed. Sometimes I just sat in the boat, watching the horizon where the sky and the waves merged, waiting for the sky to suck us all up into its nothingness. I also remember manicuring my fingernails fervently, shaping them long and narrow and painting them bright red. Red was the color that lifted my morale, temporary and superficial though it might be. And the red shoes. One time, Captain Lamb went to Yokohama for a week. He brought back two pairs of shoes for me; one pair in beige, and another in red. They were a perfect fit, as if he had once held my foot in his hand and knew my size. I was almost too embarrassed to thank him. Of course, they were my favorite for a long time.

It was about this time that I started going to a Catholic church in Oita, and took up private Catechism lessons with the priest of the same church. All because I had found out that the captain was a Catholic. I wanted to breathe in his culture, I wanted to reach out to him as far as I was allowed. I knew there was a line between the members of the American occupation forces and the Japanese. The American army was strict about its men's interactions with Japanese women, especially for officers, and so was the Japanese public. Japanese women seen walking with American men instantly became social outcasts in Japanese society. We were watched from both sides. I sensed that the captain was seriously cautious in his personal relationship with me. He was gentle and sweet, but extremely prudent and respectful. Once, two of his friends came into our office, "just to say hi to Suzie Q." The captain seemed to have expected them. Both were young officers, one a captain and one a lieutenant. They casually asked me a few questions in an attempt to start a conversation with me. It didn't work. I was nervous and too tense for a casual conversation. I also sensed that I was being observed, or evaluated, by his friends, and I resented it.

Christmas came, and the members of the church that I had been attending were invited to attend the midnight mass at Camp Chickamauga Chapel. I went with them, though I was not a formal member. Captain Lamb was one of the hosts, meeting us and seating us. As I knelt down and crossed myself, I felt someone watching me, and looked up. The captain was watching me from a distance, with a faint and tender smile at the corners of his mouth. After the holidays, however, Captain Lamb seemed to have disappeared. He simply did not come to the office any longer. Another captain came to take over his place. He told me that Captain Lamb had been transferred to Shikoku, another island in Japan, and gave me his new address. I never used it. I played with the idea of "surprising" him by following him to Shikoku, but never was able to muster the nerve. I waited for him to call me.

Beppu was only five or six miles from Oita, but its atmosphere was completely different from that of Oita, probably because it had always been a tourist town with hot springs, and now was crowded with GIs. It was one of those towns that slept during the day and came alive at night. Night clubs, dance halls, restaurants, and movie theaters colorfully illuminated the downtown night after night. When I wanted to see a movie in Beppu, I always chose to go for matinees on Saturdays. One of those Saturdays, I went to see a movie called The Red Shoes. Moira Shearer played the heroine ballerina whose magic shoes nearly danced her to death. The movie was filled with ballet and ballet music. I had loved ballet since I was a small child. My youngest maternal aunt, Aunt Kiku, had been an aspiring ballerina in our happy days in Dairen, and my mother had bought tickets from Aunt Kiku whenever she performed. The story of The Red Shoes was romantic and sad. The ballerina was torn between her career and love, and I cried with her. When the movie was over, I sighed and remained seated, unwilling to leave the world of fantasy. When I finally began to get up, reluctantly, the movie started again for the evening performance, and I sat back and watched it all over again.

It was getting dark when I came out of the theater. I was hungry. I had not eaten anything since lunch. Avoiding the noisy main street, I went to a small restaurant on a back street for a light meal. I had to hurry home. My parents would worry about me. As I headed toward the main street, after a bowl of noodles, to catch a streetcar back to Oita, a jeep came up to me from behind, and stopped in front of me.

"Get in," a soldier with a military police armband jumped out of the jeep and ordered me. What is it? I looked into the jeep. A young Japanese woman, who looked like a streetwalker with her heavily painted face and flashy dress, was hugging herself in the backseat.

"What happened? Is anything wrong with you?" I hurriedly climbed into the jeep and looked into her painted face with concern. The woman drew back with obvious distrust. After giving me a long, searching glance, she turned away with a sneer. I even felt hostility from the woman.

"What is it? What's going on?" I asked, tapping the shoulder of the soldier in the front seat of the already moving jeep. The jeep stopped in front of the military police headquarters before the soldier could give me a clear answer.

The woman and I were taken to a big room on the upper floor of the headquarters. About thirty women were either sitting or standing around, doing nothing. They seemed to be waiting for something. Most of them were heavily made up and were dressed somewhat provocatively. Were they streetwalkers? I looked around with genuine curiosity. Then I noticed that a corner of the room was sectioned off by white curtains, and that the women were called in, one at a time. Some kind of questioning seemed to be conducted behind the curtain. When I saw a nurse peeking out to call in another woman, however, it finally dawned on me what might be going on behind the curtain.

"What is this? Would you tell me?" I asked the nearest woman, who reacted to my question in exactly the same way as the woman in the jeep had: with a sneer and silent hostility. She made it clear that I wasn't her friend. I walked over to the MP who was standing by the door and asked to see whoever was in charge. The MP opened the door to an office where a sergeant was sitting behind a desk. I went in and showed him my identification card, which had my name, my picture, and my job title as an interpreter at Camp Chickamauga.

"What was an interpreter doing walking around the backstreets of Beppu at night?"

"I came to Beppu to see a movie," I said indignantly.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"No boyfriend?"

"No."

"Where do you live?"

"In Oita with my parents."

"Your parents probably have no idea what you are doing in Beppu."

"They know that I came to see a movie."

"You'd better come up with something better than a movie. You're going to run out of excuses sooner or later." Apparently he was enjoying himself.

"You are mistaking me. I am not what you seem to think I am."

"That remains to be seen. Anyway, we've caught a lot of girls tonight. You aren't the only amateur here. We caught a lot of amateurs tonight too. Its no big deal. You see, there's been a lot of VD going around. It's good to have yourself checked. It's for your own good." Then he added, "There's no charge," and laughed.

"I don't need to be checked."

"What do you mean?"

"I, er. . . " How could I tell him? that I had never slept with a man? My heart pounded with embarrassment and anger, and the thought of Captain Lamb suddenly came to my mind. With one telephone call, he would storm in here and rescue me. He had been extremely protective toward me. GIs around me had always treated me with respect and reservation. He had taken over my personal protection where my family was unable to reach. But I was alone now. The thought of the captain blurred my vision instantly, as it always did in those days. Ever since I had seen the captain from the streetcar window one afternoon, my tears had been hopelessly free flowing. He was riding in the back seat of an open car, with cocked cap and dark sunglasses. There were five people in the car: two American women and three American officers, probably two couples and one bachelor—Captain Lamb. Apparently he was back in town, visiting his friends. They were heading toward Oita, the same direction that I was going, headed to a quieter restaurant in Oita, most likely. Their car and my streetcar ran parallel for a while. I could almost hear their laughter. A carefree group of young American officers and their wives, in a world where he belonged and I did not. I watched the merry open car passing by, blurred and deformed by my unreliable tears.

"It would be much easier and quicker, if you'd just go ahead and get it over with," the sergeant said. I left his office in silence, and "got it over with" in silence.

As I left the MP headquarters, someone caught up with me from behind.

"You are a repatriate, aren't you?" the young woman asked. "Repatriate" had become a proper noun for those of us who had returned to Japan from Japanese colonies after World War II, to distinguish us from native Japanese.

I recognized her as a repatriate also. Somehow, we were different from the native Japanese.

"From where?" she asked. "Dairen."

"Oh, my God! I am from Port Arthur." Port Arthur had been a naval base for the Japanese Imperial Navy, about thirty miles west of Dairen. We were practically cousins!

"I saw you at the MP station a while ago, and I knew right away that you were a repatriate. I was a freshman at Port Arthur Teacher's College. Which college are you from? When did you leave Dairen? And where are you living now? Oh, we have so much to talk about!"

"Did you say that you were in the MP station a while ago?"

"Yeah, but you didn't see me. You didn't see anybody, or anything. Boy, were you mad! Raging mad!" She laughed, a cheerful and lively laugh.

"I am sorry." I tried to wipe away the trace of the bitter tears.

"That's all right. I understand, though I quit crying a long time ago myself."

Her name was Miyako. She had her own apartment in Beppu, where a group of young repatriates congregated often. I was welcomed into the group readily. One repatriate accepted another without question. They were mostly from Manchuria, although there were one or two from Korea, which had been under Japanese occupation, and from Taiwan, another lost colony. We talked about everything: movies, books, schools, jobs, families, and current incidents. Whatever the topic, however, the conversation somehow always ended up in memories of the colonies, our hometowns. "Ah, the acacia. Remember the fragrance of acacia? It filled the whole city, the whole summer." "Yeah. We tried to make a bottle of perfume out of it once. It didn't work." "What did you do?" "We packed a bunch of acacia flowers in a bottle with water and some alcohol. They rotted." "Stupid!" We missed our hometowns, as would anyone. Only we knew that our hometowns were lost to us for good. Once, the colonies were the frontier symbols of Japan's international power, and we, the children of the colonial pioneers, had grown up with an extra dose of national pride. Now we represented the war crimes of Imperial Japan and were made to feel ashamed, as if we had invaded China ourselves.

"We don't even have a burnt down house to rebuild," someone at Miyako’s place said with a mock grumbling, and we laughed. We were young. Material losses did not really matter to us. What we needed was some kind of a focal point, something to believe in, something to fill the vacuum we suddenly found in ourselves. We turned to meaningless daily excitement or dreaming, or both. Miyako dreamed of becoming a ballerina. She had a well-balanced, athletic figure, befitting Port Arthur Teacher's College, which had been known for its athletic performances, especially floor exercise. She had a parallel bar fixed on the wall of her apartment, exercised regularly, and worked as a taxi dancer at night at one of the dance halls in downtown Beppu.

Miyako and the others who congregated at her place were about my age. If they were older, it was only by a few years. Yet they seemed more mature and worldly than I was. I suspected that I might have been somewhat sheltered and felt the need to catch up with them. I wanted to grow up. On my own. Most of all I wanted to become a woman, no more "goody two-shoes." I decided to move to Beppu, and found an apartment close to Miyako’s. My father was not pleased with the idea of my moving, but did not try to stop me. I had noticed that my parents, since we had reached Japan, seemed to have abandoned their parental authority over us children, especially over me, at an awkward age. But a free rein did not give me any sense of freedom. Instead, I remember feeling lost without my parents' authority, though I might have rebelled had they tried to stop me. I am not sure. As I understand now, this was a postwar phenomenon in Japan. When Japan had surrendered to the Allies, many Japanese parents, though temporarily, seemed to have relinquished their parental authority over their children. It seems that they blamed themselves for the fate that had fallen on their children because of the consequences of the war, and thus "disqualified" themselves as parents. But didn't they realize that they were depriving us children of guidelines or role models when we most needed them? Or were they lost themselves?

Miyako and I became close friends. Sometimes I followed her to the dance hall, where I met other dancers and the manager. One day, I decided to be a taxi dancer myself. The dance hall represented the world of adults, filled with women's intimate secrets—the world that I had never known. This was an irresistible temptation to me. An older dancer called "Shanghai," a repatriate from a former Japanese concession in mainland China, taught me the dance steps, and Miyako's dressmaker made me two evening gowns. I was ready for the adventure of my life.

The dance hall was located on the top floor of a warehouse-like building along the Beppu Bay. One could enjoy the night view of the bay, shimmering under the rotating beams from the lighthouse. Along the windows, there were tables and chairs for patrons from the hot spring hotels as well as local men of all ages and occupations. No American soldiers were there because the place was an "off limit" area for GIs. The band played on the stage, in front of which the dancers sat in a semicircle, waiting to be asked for a dance in exchange for the tickets the customers had purchased at the entrance. No cash was used. Sometimes patrons would send a waiter to ask certain dancers to come sit at the table with them, just for a chitchat. I was seated between Miyako and Shanghai. They were both popular, and I was often left alone. Most of the dancers seemed to have old customers who would ask for them by name, but I was a novice, awkward and uncomfortable at dancing as well as at table conversation. I was almost always the customers' last choice. Often I was asked, to my chagrin and embarrassment, if I were a college student. My long gown and painted fingernails did not fool anybody. So when a waiter came to tell me that someone was asking for me to come to his table, I could not believe it.

A heavy-set Caucasian man in a suit and tie was sitting at the table by himself. When I approached his table, the man jumped up noisily, spreading his arms with exaggerated surprise.

"So it is you! I couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw you sitting there. What in the world are you doing here?" I finally recognized him by his voice. His name was John, and was one of the civilian engineers working for U.S. Army in Camp Chickamauga. I had seen him, or rather heard him, once when I went to Captain Denton s office. He was shouting at Captain Denton, it seemed, but then I realized that he was simply talking to everyone in the office about the strike we had just had in the camp. Swinging his arms around, snapping his fingers in the air, I would have expected a fight had he not roared in laughter.

Kuramoto, Kazuko. Manchurian Legacy: Memoirs of a Japanese Colonist. East Lansing: Michigan State U Press, 1999.