Chojun - Goran Powell

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saw the whole thing from my boat. It was incredible. Miyagi stepped aside and brushed past one of them, who fell to his knees. Miyagi had hit him so fast that nobody saw it. It must have been in the solar plexus because the docker rolled onto his side and curled his knees to his chest. He never got up again.

      “It took the others a moment to realize what had happened and by that time, Miyagi had slipped out of their ring. Suddenly, fists were flying. They leapt at him, eager to be the first to strike him. Miyagi ran around a pile of barrels and they split up and went to each side. He chose one side where only two were coming at him and stepped forward, hitting the first man on his neck with the ridge of his hand. The man went down. In the same instant, Miyagi kicked the second man in the stomach, driving him backward into a pile of rubble.

      “The other three had gone around the barrels the other way, and the first of them was about to seize Miyagi from behind. Now this is the truly amazing thing. Without even looking, Miyagi kicked backward like a mule, and the man went down! But the next man reached Miyagi and got him in a bear hug. I thought it was all over then, but Miyagi sunk low and shrugged his head backward, smashing the man in the face. The docker wouldn’t let go, so Miyagi bent forward and seized his foot, then pulled it upward. The man was forced to let go and fell over backward, clutching his knee in agony.

      “By this time, some of the others had recovered and three of them surrounded Miyagi and smashed at him with their fists. I saw them strike him over and over, but it made no impression on him. They might as well have hit a brick wall. He parried one man’s punch and seized his arm, and I swear there was a smile on his face. The man struggled furiously to pull his arm free but Miyagi’s grip was iron. Meanwhile the other two tried to reach Miyagi, but Miyagi kept thrusting the man in his grip at them, using him like a shield.

      “Then the man in Miyagi’s grip produced a knife, but before he could use it Miyagi jerked violently on his arm, pulling him forward onto the point of his elbow, and the man collapsed. Miyagi stripped the man of his knife and spun it expertly in his hand, daring the other men to come forward now. Both ran away instead.

      “What happened after that?” I demanded.

      “The police came by, looking for witnesses, but no one had seen a thing,” Anko smirked. “We were all sick and tired of being cheated by those dockers.”

      “What happened to Miyagi?”

      “Nothing, of course,” he laughed. “It would take more than the word of a few good-for-nothing dockers to indict a nobleman like Miyagi.” Anko refilled my cup with a half-tot, chuckling as he did. “So you see, your master wasn’t as virtuous as he likes to make out.”

      I sipped the burning liquid, wishing I could have water instead, and wondered idly if I would ever get the chance to see my sensei in action. Miyagi was a man of such quiet dignity now that I couldn’t imagine him doing the same today. Then I remembered the primal rage in his eyes when he’d broken the makiwara and wondered how completely such an instinct could ever be contained.

      At school, Mr. Kojima could barely contain his excitement. We hurried through the morning ritual of bowing to the emperor and when we were all seated and silent, he waited an extra moment before making his announcement. There had been an incident at the Roko Bridge near Peking. On the night of 7 July 1937, a Japanese soldier had been held captive illegally by the Chinese forces and there had been a battle. This had escalated and now Japan had declared a seisen on China. Seisen was a Holy War, which, Mr. Kojima explained, marked the first step in our destiny to bring the four corners of the world under Japanese rule.

      Over the following months, we received daily updates on the progress of our imperial forces across the sea. The port of Shanghai had been captured after a long battle. The Chinese capital Nanking had fallen soon after, and our troops were busy bringing order to the city. Enemy forces were on the retreat all over China.

      Mr. Kojima explained it was our divine duty to bring Japanese civilization to the rest of the world. Our English classes were canceled in favor of Japanese history and culture. We sang patriotic songs and recited heroic poems, and all the while, a steady stream of young men left Okinawa to go to war.

      My mother and my sister Yuka sewed senninbari for the soldiers on the front. These good-luck belts were supposed to be made by the mothers, sisters, or wives of the soldiers, but in practice most were sewn by high-school girls. They also put together ration packs known as comfort-bags filled with tins of food, razors, cigarettes, and sake, and decorated the outsides with messages of encouragement. I wondered whether one day in the future, I too would receive a good-luck belt and a comfort-bag in some faraway corner of Asia.

      Yuka joined a local girl’s brigade called the Wild Lilies and trained in first aid. They would go to Naha port to cheer the departing troop ships with cries of Banzai! (Hurrah!) Sometimes I would go with her to watch the new soldiers who were grinning inanely at their newfound hero status, at least for a day. Mr. Kojima was often there too, his eyes alive with joy at the sight of so many brave young fellows going to war, envious of their chance to serve the emperor. I looked forward to the day that I might be on one of those ships, holding my head high as pretty, young girls waved me off from the quayside, but there seemed little hope of that.

      When I left school, I worked full-time on my uncle’s boat, and no call-up papers ever arrived at my door. Uncle Anko began to give me a little money at the end of each week. Soon I was accompanying him on trips to the outlying islands. It seemed my life on Okinawa was set, never to change. I wasn’t unhappy, but at night I lay awake, rocked by the gentle swell of the ocean in Naha harbor, and wondered whether this was all life held in store.

      It was a baking hot day when I found myself waiting nervously outside the gate to Miyagi’s house. I’d been invited to join the classes in his private dojo, a small building in his garden, and not wanting to be late on my first visit, I’d arrived half an hour early. The gate was shut, but unlocked. I wondered whether to go through to the house or wait by the gate. I peered through the bars, trying to decide. Miyagi lived in a grand house, with a tiled roof and ample gardens surrounded by a high wall. The trees and bushes were neatly trimmed. The flowers were in perfect bloom and a pile of chopped wood had been stacked neatly beside the house. It was clear that Miyagi had no shortage of students to perform chores for him.

      A woman in a colorful kimono appeared at the gate. “You’re here for to-te?” she asked.

      “Master Miyagi invited me,” I said, “My name is Kenichi Ota.”

      “You’re eager Kenichi, that’s good,” she laughed, her voice rich and deep “My husband likes students who’re eager, but there’s no one here to teach you, not yet. Miyagi is out and about, so why don’t you come inside and have something to drink? It’s hot today.”

      I accepted gratefully and Mrs. Miyagi led the way to the house. She wasn’t as I’d imagined Miyagi’s wife, tall and haughty, she was small, with a round face and warm eyes that danced with mischief. Her hair was piled on top of her head and pinned in the traditional style, and she wore a necklace made of different colored precious stones and coral pieces.

      “Come in,” she said, stepping into the entrance hall. The lofty room was cool after the heat outside. My eyes were drawn to one wall hung with portraits of what must have been Miyagi’s ancestors, fine gentlemen and ladies in old-fashioned dress. Some were photographs, professionally taken and of high quality, but the older ones were paintings, and from the quality of the brushwork they had been done by a master. On the opposite side of the room stood a cabinet filled with fine ornaments: lacquerware boxes with unusual designs that didn’t look Okinawan but rather Chinese or Japanese in origin, incense burners of a design that could have been Malayan or Indonesian, and fearsome looking warrior masks that could have been from Borneo or the South Sea islands.

      Mrs. Miyagi showed me into the lounge and urged me to sit. I was

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