THERE came not many letters during the winter months to the little
Kurukawa family, but the ones that did come were all the more precious.
Before the first flowers of the year had begun to tint the plum-trees
with their pink beauty, all Japan knew that the war would have but one
ending. Victory followed victory. Instances of heroism became so
frequent they could scarcely keep count of them. People, smiling, would
hear the tale of a certain officer or soldier’s self-sacrifice for his
country, then they would say, still with that mysterious smile so common
in Japan: “He has done only what any soldier of Japan would do.”
The newspapers, little, slim sheets, containing less than a quarter of
the words an American newspaper would give to the war-story, seemed to
drift about the empire. Everywhere they were found, everywhere people
carried them.
It was in April that the _Far East_ published a story of a certain act
of surpassing heroism performed by a Japanese officer. Mrs. Kurukawa had
seen the head-lines, and stopping in the street had bought the paper.
She read it through slowly, still standing there in the street. As she
stood, perfectly still, her white face tense and drawn, curious
passers-by stopped to look at her, wondering what it was the foreign
woman found in the paper to make her look so strangely. It was the act
of a child which aroused her. Passing, he lightly pulled the sleeve of
her kimono. She started as if struck, the paper fluttered from her hand.
Mechanically she reached for it, but a sudden wind caught it up and blew
it hither and thither about the street. She stood there watching its
flight until it had passed out of sight. It disappeared utterly. Surely
it had never been at all, she had not really held it in her hand and
read the story of her husband’s terrible fate! Walking unsteadily and
blindly, she started down the street.
Madame Sano came swiftly from the garden-path to meet her, for the news
had reached the house in Mrs. Kurukawa’s absence.
Japanese women are not demonstrative, but they are exquisitely tender.
The touch of Madame Sano’s hands upon her face was balm itself. The
stricken woman’s features quivered. Sobs burst from her lips, and in the
other woman’s arms she wept as though she had found the haven of a
mother’s breast. Without speaking, Madame Sano led her into the house.
The children, a pitiful, frightened group, were in the hall, waiting for
her. Passionately, Marion called her mother by name, and clung to her a
moment, but Madame Sano gently put the little girl aside and took the
mother to her room. There she induced her to lie down until she waited
upon her, murmuring words in soothing Japanese. When the younger woman
was calmer, Madame Sano gently spoke of the sad news. She said, in a
reverent voice:
“God is good, my daughter. How gloriously he has rewarded your husband!”
The woman on the bed did not stir or speak. Madame Sano continued:
“Think how many families there are in Japan whose men have never had the
opportunity to give such august service to their Emperor. We are
fortunate indeed.”
Mrs. Kurukawa covered her face with her hands. The tears came slipping
through them; helpless, silent tears which would not be held back. Her
voice was choked but inexpressibly sweet:
“I know,” she said, “it is all—very—glorious—but—I will not give up
hope.”
“Hope?” repeated Madame Sano. “Our best hopes are realized, my daughter.
Kurukawa Kiyskichi has made the supreme sacrifice. He has given his life
to his Emperor and to his country.”
Now, Mrs. Kurukawa raised herself. Two spots of red appeared in her
cheeks. Her eyes were feverish, her nervous fingers clasped each other
spasmodically.
“I will tell you my hope—my belief. I feel, in spite of what we have
heard, that my husband is not dead. I _feel_ it somehow. I cannot
explain. Only this I do know: he promised he would return, and he must!
Oh, I am sure he will!”
Gently the old woman spoke, smoothing the hands of the other woman as
she did so.
“My child, he will truly return to you as he has promised. All Japanese
soldiers expect to return to their wives, but in the spirit!”
Mrs. Kurukawa drew her hands passionately away.
“That was not his meaning,” she said.
Madame Sano shook her head sadly.
“Ah, my child, be reconciled to the august inevitable.”
There was a smile upon the pale lips of the younger woman.
“You do not understand my faith,” she said, “and I cannot explain it.
When I read that story in the street I felt as if something had struck
me. I tried to push it from me with my hands, and I do not know how I
found my way home. I still feel as if I had been hurt and bruised in
some way, and yet I know—I feel—that it is not true—that he is—dead.”
Her voice whispered the word, and for a long interval there was silence
in the room. Then she said, slowly: “It is a mistake—a horrible mistake.
God give us courage to bear the mistake. But that is all it is.”
“You do not believe the story of your husband’s magnificent heroism?”
“I do believe it.”
“Then you must admit that he has passed away. Is it not clearly stated
that after he had saved almost the entire division that was caught in
the ambush that he himself was struck down and his body carried away by
the Russians, for what purposes can only be surmised?”
Mrs. Kurukawa was silent. After a while she arose, and, though her hands
were trembling, she dressed herself afresh with calmness. Madame Sano
watched her in silence.
After a while she asked:
“You are going out?”
“Yes, to learn what I can. If necessary I will go again to Tokio,
leaving the children with you.”
The old woman nodded.
“They will make an honorable effort,” she said, “to obtain possession of
your husband’s body, and he will be given an exalted funeral. ‘He died
gloriously for Dai Nippon’ will say all loyal Japanese.”
Mrs. Kurukawa smiled wearily.
“He is not dead,” she said. “Do not, dear Madame Sano, rob me of my
hope. I want to be courageous, for while I feel he is not gone truly
from me, I do not know what may have befallen him. It may be that he is
wounded—sick—tortured—a prisoner. Oh, I cannot bear to think of it!”
“Better, my child,” urged the old woman, gently, “to believe he is at
rest. Cherish not false hopes. Ah, had you been a true daughter of
Japan, you would have looked for, expected, and even hailed this
bereavement, but—”
“Do not reproach me,” cried Mrs. Kurukawa. “My husband would not have
done so. Oh, I have tried to be as he would wish me, and—and—I feel that
he would have me believe as I do. I know he will keep his promised word.
He will return to me.”
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