Harp of Burma - Michio Takeyama

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from the next village, and the sheer cliff before us dropped off into a deep gorge, where we could see a river with frothing white rapids far below. Behind the village was another high cliff, over which eagles soared in circles. In the center of the village was an open space, and on both sides of that the forest—a dark, fathomless tropical forest. You could hardly imagine a better hiding place for some fifty Japanese soldiers.

      The captain said we would stay here for several days, resting and getting ready for the last stage of our march.

      As we approached the village, the chief and many of his people came out to greet us. We were ushered to a large thatch-roofed house standing at the edge of the open space. A feast was prepared for us—there was even wine. We were overjoyed.

      Until recently the Burmese were so strict in their observance of Buddhist commandments that they never drank alcoholic beverages. Although this custom had begun to break down in the cities, it is still very strong in the country; it was almost impossible to find any liquor along the battle front. But in this case the villagers seemed to have gone to great trouble to get it for us.

      They treated us royally. Before we knew it, the feast turned into a lively party, with entertainment. About ten young people from the village stood in a row and sang us one of their folksongs. All of them had kinky hair, and their eyes were brilliantly clear. Yet they were not very dark skinned—we Japanese soldiers were darker. They were barefooted and naked, except for the gay colored longyi wrapped around their hips. At first their song sounded harsh, but when you listened carefully you could hear a plaintive undertone. The song seemed to have no end; just as you thought it was over, it would gather strength again and go on. It was the sad, languid, monotonous music of the tropics.

      The guide translated the words for us:

      “Far off among the clouds gleam the snows of the Himalaya—-

      We bathe in a stream of melted snow.

      Far, far off your heart is hidden—

      I wish I could bathe my burning heart in that icy stream.”

      All through the singing more and more delicacies were served. The ruddy-cheeked, white-bearded chief kept pressing wine on us.

      One of our men turned to him and asked: “Can you see the Himalayas from here?”

      The chief smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes deepened. Then, absentmindedly stroking his long beard with both hands, he answered, “They cannot be seen from here. None of us has ever seen them. We only know them through the sutras and our legends.”

      The Burmese become familiar with sutras and legends in childhood. We often heard the Himalayas mentioned in their songs and stories, and saw paintings or sculptures of these sacred mountains in their temples. They all think of that great mountain range as the home of their soul, and hope to make a pilgrimage to it before they die. People say that those snow-capped peaks among the clouds glow in the sun like marble or beaten silver—a vision of unearthly beauty. And at their foot, thousands of years ago, the lord Gautama meditated on a way to save mankind, and attained Enlightenment. All this is part of the vital faith of the Burmese. Listening with that in mind, we could detect a prayerful quality in their song.

      When the villagers finished, we sang. After all, we were the famous “Singing Company.” We sang all sorts of songs, but the one most applauded was “The Moon Over the Ruined Castle.” That was a real masterpiece. No matter where we went or how primitive the audience, people were enchanted by it.

      Drawn by the music, a large crowd of villagers gathered around. The Burmese love festivals. On the slightest occasion they bring out flower-decorated carts and sing and dance. From the time we entered this mountain village the people were in a festive mood, smiling as they vied with one another in devising ways to entertain us. We meant to thank them with our songs.

      The villagers listened to us as attentively as if they were at a ceremony. Old people sat in the doorway. Children leaned against the window sills, propping their chins on their hands, and peered in. Under a palm tree in the open place in front of the house squatted women carrying their babies pickaback. All of them were sitting motionless, with their thin arms and legs folded in the peculiar Burmese crouch.

      What they liked best was Corporal Mizushima’s harp. He sat on a chair with the harp between his knees, playing as passionately as ever. The harp was decorated with orchids and red feathers, and when he plucked the strings vigorously with both hands it made the flowers and feathers dance.

      Suddenly, from among the listeners, a young girl stepped forward as lightly as if on air. She was about twelve years old, dressed in a tight-fitting skirt and jacket with curved, winglike ornaments attached at the waist. Her supple arms and legs shone glossily. Her hair was wound in a high, tapering coil, as if she wore a little pagoda on her head.

      The young girl stood in the middle of the room, glanced around at her audience, and struck a dance pose. She cocked her head to one side, stretched her left hand out in front of her, fingers straight up, and put her right hand on her breast, palm out turned, forming a circle with her thumb and forefinger. Then, ready to spring into action at any moment, she turned her big black eyes imploringly on the harpist.

      Mizushima started to play. The tune was an old school song which he had arranged as a march.

      The girl began to dance. Slowly she turned her head from side to side, crossed and recrossed her legs, bent her elbows, her wrists, all her joints, making a series of right angles.

      Her slender arms and legs moved with a snaky indolence. Her hands fluttered here and there. She leisurely traced circles with her feet. It was indeed a charming, exotic, unforgettable dance.

      The young men of the village shouted her praises and threw flowers at her. They demanded encore after encore. When it was finally over, Mizushima went to a corner of the room and sat on the floor hugging his knees while the villagers cheered.

      “How about it, Mizushima?” we asked him.

      “Wouldn’t you like to stay here in Burma and play the harp for the rest of your life?”

      Mizushima was always a man of few words, and this time too he only smiled and said nothing. Then he stared straight ahead as if lost in thought.

      “Somehow, I like Burma,” he used to say. He seemed very much attracted by the tropics—the bright sunshine, the vivid colors, the varied forms of life, the strange customs of the people. He was proud that when he wore a longyi he couldn’t be distinguished from a native Burmese. And though he was a man who conscientiously carried out his duties, a natural, easy-going life seemed to have a great appeal for him. Whenever we passed a wandering Burmese musician, Mizushima would gaze after him with what was almost a look of envy. When he went scouting he usually disguised himself as a traveling musician. Our teasing about staying in Burma for the rest of his life may have touched him somewhere deep within.

      It was time for us to sing again—” The Autumn Moon,” “Wild Roses,” all lovely melodies we had known since childhood. As we sang, we forgot our troubles. Every one of us had memories linked with these songs. People we loved came to our mind’s eye. “Ah, I remember now. Mother was there, and my brothers.... I remember how they looked, what they were saying ... ” Such were our thoughts as we sang under circumstances we had never dreamed of, hunted, in peril of our lives, high among the mountains of a strange land.

      We sang on and on, each of us pouring our inexpressible feelings into our songs.

      SUDDENLY we noticed that we were alone. For some reason, all the Burmese had slipped away.

      That little girl, the young men—even the chief who had been so busy feeding us was gone. So was our guide, who had promised to arrange for our night’s lodgings. We were alone in the house singing to the scattered chairs and remnants of the feast. Even outside, under the windows or in the open space, there were no Burmese to be seen. They had all simply disappeared.

      Panic gripped us, and someone shouted, “Stop singing!”

      It

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