Chojun - Goran Powell

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sacrifice wasn’t in vain,” he assured us. “Japanese civilization will soon spread throughout all of China.” He looked at me as he said this, though I pretended not to notice and kept my eyes downcast at the paper in front of me. “Soon we will free all Asia from the yoke of Western imperialism,” he promised, “and one day, the whole world will thank us for showing it a better way.”

      During our lunch break, we gathered in the yard and made a ring from old rope to play our favorite game, sumo wrestling. I was skinny for my age and rarely won a bout. After two quick defeats, I spent the rest of the break trying to get the dust off my uniform to avoid another dressing down from Mr. Kojima. The winner, as always, was an older student called Jinan Shinzato who, as well as being very skilful, was a powerful athlete. Occasionally he would perform gymnastics on the bars, swinging and dismounting with a beautiful somersault like a professional circus-man. Shinzato took no notice of me, he didn’t even know I existed, but I knew about him. He was from a noble family, like Miyagi, and I knew he also studied to-te with Miyagi. I longed to talk to him about it, but could never summon the courage to approach him—Shinzato was as distant to me as those heroes in Manchuria that we heard about.

      In the afternoon, we did English. Mr. Kojima had spent a year in Boston, which, he was at pains to explain, was not in England but in Massachusetts in the United States. I was talented in English, even Mr. Kojima had to acknowledge this, but it wasn’t such a good thing. During every lesson, Mr. Kojima lectured us long and hard about the moral destitution of the Anglo-Saxon race. America was a land of untold luxury and wealth, but this had been achieved through unabated greed. American people claimed to worship God, but in truth, they worshipped money. They had no emperor. They didn’t honor their parents or their ancestors. They acted like spoiled children, and perhaps most important of all, they were not brave—not like our people. Their soldiers were big in size but small in heart. They lacked the samurai spirit of the Japanese. Mr. Kojima assured us that one Japanese soldier was worth ten Americans. Only one country could compare with Japan, albeit dimly, and that was Germany. Germany’s new leader was strong and determined. In just a few years, he had achieved an economic miracle comparable to Japan’s own, and created a military machine of impressive power. Our country had struck an alliance with his, and together we were set to lead the world in industry, arms, and technology. Germany would be a valuable ally for the time being, though, as the original Anglo-Saxons, they could never share in Japan’s long-term plans. Our nation was born of the gods, with a living god as our ruler. We were destined to rule, first Asia and then the four corners of the world.

      I wondered whether Germans spoke English, but dared not ask. It was close to home time, and I didn’t want to incur Mr. Kojima’s wrath and stay behind after class.

      My fourteenth birthday was a special day. Mother cooked imokuzu—potato pancakes—for breakfast, and father presented me with a new penknife like the one he used on his boat. I was thrilled and ran to fetch his sharpening stone. He gave me advice, and though I’d sharpened knives many times before, I listened attentively and did as he instructed. I didn’t wish to anger him, especially not today. When it was time to go to school, I stood before him and waited to be invited to speak. My father raised his eyebrows at my sudden formality—we didn’t stand on ceremony in our household. I think he could guess what I was about to ask.

      “Father, I am fourteen now,” I began, then waited a moment to gauge his reaction. He nodded once, as if to say there was no doubting it was true. “Do you remember Master Miyagi, who we met a few years ago?” I continued.

      “Miyagi? Miyagi?” he said, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall where he’d heard the name before, “there is a noble family in Naha by that name…”

      “The to-te man!” I said, frustrated by his forgetfulness.

      “Yes, I do believe Chojun Miyagi is a to-te teacher,” he said slowly, as if dredging up some long-forgotten memory from the past.

      “The typhoon-man!” I exclaimed, fit to burst with impatience.

      “That was Chojun Miyagi?” he asked, wide-eyed.

      I stared at him in disbelief until I noticed the twinkle in his eye. “You know it is!” I shouted, all formality forgotten.

      “Yes, I know all about Master Miyagi,” he said. “Now what about him?”

      “He told me I could begin training in to-te when I was fourteen,” I said breathlessly, “and I am fourteen now, and there is a to-te class tonight.”

      “You know where his dojo is?”

      “Yes, in the elementary school in Naha.”

      “Naha is a long way, Kenichi.”

      “I’ll come home at once, as soon as the training is finished,” I promised.

      “Make sure you do!” he said sternly.

      It took a moment for it to sink in. “Thank you, father!” I said loudly.

      “One more thing,” he said, reaching behind his back. He handed me a small flat parcel wrapped in brown paper. I took it and stared at it dumbly. “Open it,” he urged gently.

      Inside was a crisp white cloth. I looked at him questioningly. “You can wear it as a headband, if Miyagi permits,” he said. “It’ll stop the sweat stinging your eyes.”

      I was touched that my father knew me so well and didn’t know what to say. Father filled the silence for me. “When you train, do so with all your body and soul. Don’t waste Master Miyagi’s time.”

      “I won’t,” I promised.

      “I know you won’t,” he smiled.

      I rolled the cloth into a band and he tied it around my head. I hurried out of the house. Our exchange had made me late for school, and I’d have to run all the way to avoid a ticking-off by Mr. Kojima.

      As it happened, Mr. Kojima ignored my hasty entrance that morning. He even overlooked the headband that I’d forgotten to take off when I bowed to the emperor’s portrait. He had a very special announcement to make and nothing was going to distract him from that task.

      “Today is a proud day for the school,” he began, beaming with delight, “a very proud day! One of our teachers—a former student here himself, Mr. Uchihara—has been afforded the singular honor of fighting for the emperor!” At this point Mr. Kojima was so moved by the depth of his own emotions that he was forced to pause for breath. When he spoke again, he hurried to end his sentence before his passion overwhelmed him. “Mr. Uchihara will be leaving for Manchuria in the morning. There is passing-out parade taking place for him now by the school gate.”

      We made our way into the yard and Mr. Kojima formed us into two lines that created a path that led to the gate. Some of the other teachers distributed flags and banners bearing good-luck messages and slogans: Protect the Home Front—National Unity—Do Your Best For Your Country. The girl beside me was given a banner that was too big for her to hold up alone, so I helped her. Our slogan read, Reproduce and Multiply! We held it high, beaming with delight, the irony of our particular message lost on us in our youthful zeal.

      Mr. Uchihara appeared, accompanied by the head-teacher, who spoke at length of the honor and privilege of serving the emperor. He called Mr. Uchihara a flower of Japan, a hero. When the speech was over, one of the senior girls presented Mr. Uchihara with a senninbari, a traditional belt made up of a thousand stitches—a good-luck talisman given to soldiers by wives and daughters. Finally, Mr. Uchihara walked through the lines of students and banners to the car that was waiting to take him to Naha port.

      That evening, I made my way to the elementary school in Naha where Miyagi taught to-te. It was larger than my own school, though similar in layout: three sturdy brick buildings with roofs of corrugated iron and a dusty yard. A row of trees had been planted around the outer edge as a windbreak, a common sight in Okinawa. As I walked I planned what to

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