N03, Mayuka Kowaguchi ‘07, Nobue Uozumi, Grandmother, 1935, Shizuoka
My name is Nobue Sakakibara Uozumi, and I am Mayuka Kowaguchi’s grandmother. I was born on November 25, 1935 and was in the fourth grade at the end of World War Il. I came from a wealthy family which ran a liquor store in the city of Hamamatsu. Before the war, my family consisted of my father Mamoru, my mother Tomo, my grandparents, my younger sister Hisae, and younger brother Yoshihiro. There were also seven kozō, or young men who helped in the store, and two jochi, or female housekeepers.
During the war, my grandparents escaped to their summer house on Benten-jima. The seven kozō were sent akafuda, which was a compulsory “invitation” to join the troops, or in other words they were drafted into the Army, and the two jochi returned to their homes and their families. At one point, my father was also summoned by the army; he returned, however, as his illness made him unfit for the strenuous job of a soldier.
I remember I went to school every day during the war, but I returned home early when alerts such as air raid sirens and red alerts were issued. The loud sound could be described as “inochi ga chijimu hodo” (so loud and terrifying that it would shorten my life span). There was a set meeting place on the school grounds where all students would evacuate to when alerts went out. From there, we returned home in large groups of students, grades one through six combined, according to the location of our houses. The alerts were triggered often, and as schools were considered a dangerous place to take refuge and it was desirable to stay with your family in times of crises, we made many trips back and forth from school.
My house was located in Tenma-chō, a town in the center of Hamamatsu. We had one personal air-raid shelter at the front of the house for the family, and there was also a group air-raid shelter close by, behind the house, for the neighborhood. Shōidan, or incendiary bombs, were dropped on a regular basis in many areas of Hamamatsu, and it was a miracle to be able to live to see tomorrow.
An incident that I remember clearly, and one which was so frightening I will never forget, was the time when the group air-raid shelter behind my house was burned down by a firebomb. Our family almost always escaped to the group air-raid shelter when red alerts went off, but on one particular day, we took refuge in our personal air-raid shelter. The next day, I found out that the group air-raid shelter had been hit by a bomb, and all my neighbors who were inside had been burned down with it. I cannot describe the horror and shock that overcame me when I realized my family would have been killed too if it were not for our decision to stay in the personal air-raid shelter.
The clothes we wore during the war were simple but comfortable. We wore monpe, similar to two other Japanese-style trousers known as hakama, and momohiki, a type of loose workers’ pants which were tied at the waist and at the ankles. We also wore wappare, which were jumpers, with a patch on the chest which had our name and our bloodtype. This patch was to be used in identifying casualties if they were separated from their families, and also to quickly learn what type of blood they would need if they required a blood transfusion. A similar patch was also stitched onto our bōkū-zukin, head-protecting cushion hoods,which served as a replacement if the first patch was lost.
There was also a shortage of food during the war period. We ate pumpkin, sweet potatoes, and suiton, tiny balls of flour boiled in soup, instead of rice. Food was not bought with money but by butsubutsu-kōkan, or barter. We had to go to rural areas and visit the farmers or the country people who did the bartering. My mother’s kimonos and other articles of clothing were traded for precious food.
To escape from the constant bombings, and to seek refuge, I was almost always moving around, like many others in the city. I would have to travel to and fro between my house and my school, and my family would then have to go back and forth between my house and the air-raid shelters. Sometimes, the bombings were very low and close, so life-threatening that we would flee from our house protected under our futon, or mattresses. Other times, escaping on foot would be too slow and we would take the bicycle: my father would ride it; my mother with my little brother on her back would perch on the luggage rack behind the seat of the bicycle; and I would carry my sister in the basket, on the front. Looking back, I do not know how we managed to all get on the bicycle, let alone, how the bicycle even managed to move. Now I doubt whether riding the bicycle was faster than escaping on foot; it probably took about the same time, or even faster on foot!
I also remember how it was almost impossible to walk around on foot; not only because it was dangerous, but because I had to be very cautious and it was psychologically stressful. The words to describe the situation are a Japanese expression, “Ashi ga hakobenai,” or literally “My feet will not carry themselves,” but which figuratively describes a situation where you cannot seem to move your feet forward because there are abstract obstacles preventing them from moving. The time it took to get from one place to another seemed extremely and unnecessarily long, because I would be in a haste to get to my destination, and my impatience and rushed feelings made time seem to pass slower and slower.
The event which led to the decision of the mass evacuation of children in the area was the bombing of Renjaku-chō, the neighboring town. Renjaku-chō had suffered severe damage and loss, and to avoid the same outcomes, the people of Tenma-chō decided to carry out gakudō-sokai, a mass evacuation of children. Hisae, who was four years younger than me, and I were taken by bus to Kiga, a city close to Hamamatsu, where my relatives, the Mitsui family, lived. My brother, seven years younger than me and therefore too young to evacuate with us, stayed with my parents. I remember that Yoshihiro, who was probably around one or two years old, was always carried on my mother’s back.
Kiga was safe and sound; no bombs were dropped, and I was fed well by my substitute family. I temporarily went to an elementary school in Kiga, where air raid sirens did not disturb our classes. As Hamamatsu was fairly close by, it was possible to see the bombs being dropped on the city in the far distance. My sister and I would watch the B-29 planes crowd the sky as they soared across the city, “buaaaaaaan,” and set off their machine guns, “chichichichi.” From a distance, I remember that the bombings looked like beautiful fireworks; that’s a spooky thought when I think about it now.
In Hamamatsu, one of these incendiary bombs had been dropped on my house. My brother and my parents had evacuated to an air-raid shelter and they were safe; the house, however, had burned down completely. A group of neighbors decided it was too dangerous to stay in Tenma-chō. A group evacuation was planned, and a truck was organized to come pick up their belongings the next day. Packed bags were collected and gathered in preparation for a swift and smooth loading of the truck. The next day, the bags were discovered in ashes. A bomb had hit the night before, and the group evacuation was cancelled, leading the people to great despair.
Eventually, though I do not know how, my parents and Yoshihiro arrived in Kiga. They had managed to escape Hamamatsu with few injuries. The Mitsuis took care of us until the bombings ceased. When the end of World War Il came, Hamamatsu finally recovered. It was safe to return again.
The first few months after the surrender were the toughest. There were two types of barracks on sale; one for 1000 yen and another for 2600 yen. They were to serve as temporary housing for those who had lost their houses in the war. Our family bought a unit and proceeded to regain our daily routines and the normal life we had led before the war. We restarted the family liquor store. The sake brewing industry formed a union, shuzō kumiai, which distributed sake, soy sauce, and miso to dealers. My family bought these products from the union and began business. There was a wartime rationing policy, haikyū seidō, which continued for a while after the end of the war, and our liquor store distributed the goods equally. Sales gradually increased and we were making a profit again.
At the end of World War II, diseases and sickness were commonplace among the people. Our family was fairly well off, and I was able to eat and bathe normally, unlike some others, during the war. Therefore, my family didn’t suffer from any illness. All around me there were people suffering from the Itch, kaisen, or lice in their hair. To cure these diseases, a white medicine called mutōhappu was dissolved in warm water, and patients bathed in the solution. My father’s illness had worsened during the war, and we went to an onsen, or hot springs. The onsen water was known to have excellent healing powers, and true to its word, my father’s illness was cured.
As I was young, I cannot remember much more, and some details may be wrong. But World War Il was a demanding period, where you had to have strong will power to survive each day. To this day, I look back upon it and remember many things, though I was only in the fourth grade, because it greatly impacted my childhood, my life, and me.