World War Z

The only reason we are speaking now is that my diagonal fall carried me onto the balcony below my target. I landed on my feet, stumbled forward, and almost went toppling off the other side. I stumbled into the apartment and immediately looked around for any siafu. The living room was empty, the only piece of furniture a small traditional table propped up against the door. The occupant must have committed suicide like the others. I didn’t smell anything foul so I guessed he must have thrown himself out of the window. I reasoned that I was alone, and just this small measure of relief was enough to cause my legs to give out from under me. I slumped against the living room wall, almost delirious with fatigue. I found myself looking at a collection of photographs decorating the opposite wall. The apartment’s owner had been an old man, and the photographs told of a very rich life. He’d had a large family, many friends, and had traveled to what seemed every exciting and exotic locale around the world. I’d never even imagined leaving my bedroom, let alone even leading that kind of life. I promised myself that if I ever made it out of this nightmare, I wouldn’t just survive, I would live!

My eyes fell on the only other item in the room, a Kami Dana, or traditional Shinto shrine. Something was on the floor beneath it, I guessed a suicide note. The wind must have blown it off when I entered. I didn’t feel right just leaving it there. I hobbled across the room and stooped to pick it up. Many Kami Dana have a small mirror in the center. My eye caught a reflection in that mirror of something shambling out of the bedroom.

The adrenaline kicked in just as I wheeled around. The old man was still there, the bandage on his face telling me that he must have reanimated not too long ago. He came at me; I ducked. My legs were still shaky and he managed to catch me by the hair. I twisted, trying to free myself. He pulled my face toward his. He was surprisingly fit for his age, muscle equal to, if not superior to, mine. His bones were brittle though, and I heard them crack as I grabbed the arm that caught me. I kicked him in the chest, he flew back, his broken arm was still clutching a tuft of my hair. He knocked against the wall, photographs falling and showering him with glass. He snarled and came at me again. I backed up, tensed, then grabbed him by his one good arm. I jammed it into his back, clamped my other hand around the back of his neck, and with a roaring sound I didn’t even know I could make, I shoved him, ran him, right onto the balcony and over the side. He landed face up on the pavement, his head still hissing up at me from his otherwise broken body.

Suddenly there was a pounding on the front door, more siafu that’d heard our scuffle. I was operating on full instinct now. I raced into the old man’s bedroom and began ripping the sheets off his bed. I figured it wouldn’t take too many, just three more stories and then… then I stopped, frozen, as motionless as a photograph. That’s what had caught my attention, one last photograph that was on the bare wall in his bedroom. It was black and white, grainy, and showed a traditional family. There was a mother, father, a little boy, and what I guessed had to be the old man as a teenager in uniform. Something was in his hand, something that almost stopped my heart. I bowed to the man in the photograph and said an almost tearful “Arigato.”

What was in his hand?

I found it at the bottom of a chest in his bedroom, underneath a collection of bound papers and the ragged remains of the uniform from the photo. The scabbard was green, chipped, army-issue aluminum and an improvised, leather grip had replaced the original sharkskin, but the steel. . . bright like silver, and folded, not machine stamped … a shallow, tort curvature with a long, straight point. Flat, wide ridge lines decorated with the kikusui, the Imperial chrysanthemum, and an authentic, not acid-stained, river bordering the tempered edge. Exquisite workmanship, and clearly forged for battle.

[I motioned to the sword at his side. Tatsumi smiles.]

Kyoto, Japan

[Sensei Tomonaga Ijiro knows exactly who I am seconds before I enter the room. Apparently I walk, smell, and even breathe like an American. The founder of Japan’s Tatenokai, or “Shield Society,” greets me with both a bow and handshake, then invites me to sit before him like a student. Kondo Tatsumi, Tomonaga’s second in command, serves us tea then sits beside the old master.

Tomonaga begins our interview with an apology lor any discomfort I might feel about his appearance. The sensei’s lifeless eyes have not functioned since his adolescence.]

I am “hibakusha.” I lost my sight at 11:02 A.M., August 9, 1945, by your calendar. I was standing on Mount Kompira, ma

In Japan, hibakusha, “survivors of the bomb,” occupied a unique rung in our nation’s social ladder. We were treated with sympathy and sorrow: victims and heroes and symbols for every political agenda. And yet, as human beings, we were little more than social outcasts. No family would allow their child to marry us. Hibakusha were unclean, blood in Japans otherwise pristine genetic onsen. I felt this shame on a deeply personal level. Not only was I hibakusha, but my blindness also made me a burden.

Out the sanatorium’s windows I could hear the sounds of our nation struggling to rebuild itself. And what was my contribution to this effort, nothing!

So many times I tried inquiring about some ma

I left the sanatorium without informing my brother. I didn’t know where I was heading, only that I had to get as far from my life, my memories, myself, as possible. I traveled, begged mostly … I had no more honor to lose… until I settled in Sapporo on the island of Hokkaido. This cold, northern wilderness has always been Japan’s least populated prefecture, and with the loss of Sakhalin and the Kuriles, it became, as the Western saying goes, “the end of the line.”

In Sapporo, I met an Ainu gardener, Ota Hideki. The Ainu are Japan’s oldest indigenous group, and even lower on our social ladder than the Koreans.

Maybe that is why he took pity on me, another pariah cast out by the tribe of Yamato. Maybe it was because he had no one to pass his skills along to. His own son had never returned from Manchuria. Ota-san worked at the Akakaze, a former luxury hotel that now served as a repatriation center for Japanese settlers from China. At first the administration complained that they had no more funds to hire another gardener. Ota-san paid me out of his own pocket. He was my teacher and only friend, and when he died, I considered following him. But, coward that I was. I could not bring myself to do it. Instead I simply continued to exist, working silently in the earth as the Akakaze went from a repatriation center to a luxury hotel and Japan went from conquered rubble to economic superpower.