HOMEPAGE	CONTENTS	CITYSCOPE
CHINA GIRL by Rie Takekoshi as told to Ilaria Maria Sala

THE WAR ENDED ON August 15, right? Well, we had been hearing bad news ever since July. People in Jiamusi had been telling us that the troops were not going to make it. You'd better leave, they said. That kind of talk wasn't accepted at first, but when the Russian planes came, we had no choice. We barely had enough clothes--no food, no money, just little backpacks with as much as we could fit inside.

At Tonghua, we had to get off the train. The fighting had become quite violent up ahead, so it wasn't safe. We found out then that the Japanese army officials had all gone much earlier, very organized, leaving everyone else to find a way home by themselves. We headed for the airport, but of course there were no planes there. It was just a big place where we thought we might learn what to do.

But the airport wasn't safe, so we scattered, some trying to go towards the city to find a place to eat and a way back to Japan. People were just running, lost in the streets, so many of us, all desperately fleeing south with little hope of making it alive. So many women, and girls, and children. We had nothing to eat for days. I was lucky because I only had to take care of myself; I had no child to care for.

Chinese and Russian soldiers were everywhere and it was terribly frightening. For a while we walked along the railroad tracks, but the trek was exhausting. People began to throw away their belongings because of the weight. Some women gave their babies away to Chinese families because they had nothing to feed them and they were scared they would starve. Some people in my group fell ill, but there was nothing anyone could do for them.

As we made our cross-country escape we heard that the war was over; Japan had lost. There was an announcement broadcast on the radio, and everybody was repeating the news. We fell on our knees asking the Emperor to forgive us. Some people carried pictures of the emperor with them, and they were apologizing to the picture: "Forgive us. Forgive us."

Can you believe it? We lost our homes, we had no food, so many dead behind us, so much despair, all for his sake--for Asia's sake, they told us--and all we could do was kneel down and apologize. It was crazy. We understood nothing.

We were chased and shot at by Russian soldiers, but we got away. They were arresting and sending every Japanese male they found to the Siberian camps. One woman who was with us was pregnant, and she gave birth by the roadside. Her child died, though, and she spent the rest of the night weeping. A Japanese soldier who had been left behind by his unit came and scolded her for making noise. But in the morning she was dead.

We formed a group, and each of us tried to cling to those we knew, but after a while everything was so confusing that it was impossible to stick together. Some women were raped, some were killed, food was stolen. We would hide and run, hide and run. I met one woman whose whole family had been exterminated and I stayed with her for a while. One night, not very far from Tonghua, our group hid in a cellar where it was dark. There were soldiers outside and we thought that it would be a safe place to spend the night.

There was a horrible smell but because it was pitch black we couldn't see where it came from. The woman with me started feeling around with her hands, trying to find the source of the smell. Then she screamed. Corpses. We were sharing the space with I don't know how many corpses, and they were all decomposing. I wanted to leave, but there were many soldiers about, pacing up above our heads. We stayed in that hole for many hours until we couldn't hear anyone outside; then we picked up our bundles and ran for our lives.

We ran into other Russian soldiers who stripped us of everything we had left. "Payment for your train tickets," they told us. With them were 10 Japanese soldiers who had been left behind in Tonghua because they were sick or wounded. They had surrendered immediately and had shared their food with the Russians, so they were spared. The Russians took away our watches, whatever money we had and the little food we had left. But at least we could board the train they had arranged, which took almost two days just to get us as far as Changqun. I was begging for food, just like everyone else.

Many more died, especially the children. I found one abandoned child myself, and handed it over to a Chinese family who had food. I hoped it was the right thing to do. That child would be an adult now, maybe one of the "war orphans" who try to come to Japan. I don't know if he has ever tried to come. I lost track.

I HAD PLANNED TO MAKE my way to Dalian and eventually to get a boat to Japan, but I only made it to Changqun, where I found hundreds of other refugees. For two days I stayed at the house of a Japanese customs officer who had escaped because he had access to military transport. We thought about trying for Dalian, but that seemed out of the question. I learned later from people who got there that the situation wasn't any better. At least the war was over.

Changqun was a stronghold of Chiang Kai-shek's Guomindang. Many of the Guomindang people had lived in southern cities like Shanghai so they were used to having a good time. They loved dancing. But the Chinese girls in Changqun didn't know how to dance--they were mostly from the countryside. Japanese women had learned to dance especially during our free time in Manchuria.

I had no money, so I went to a dance hall named Shanghai, looking for a job. I was 23 then, and I was quite slim, though I have never been tall. The dancing hall was run by a Chinese Madame in her fifties called Peng Hui, who spoke Japanese. During the war, her customers had been Japanese officials.

At my interview, I could tell that she thought I was too small. She asked me: How old are you? Are you sure you can dance? When did you learn? So I showed her I was quite good at dancing and she took me in. Our customers were mainly Guomindang: soldiers, policemen and others. There were about 18 of us dancers, all Japanese, and we only had to dance.

If the men liked us, they would pay for our meals, buy us clothes or give us money. I didn't make a lot, probably because I was so short. But my friend was very beautiful and tall and she could earn a lot. Her name was Nami-chan, and she was always inviting me out, buying me food. I used to wash her clothes, because it was the only way I could thank her. She was a good friend.

Madame didn't care whether we were eating or not, that was not her business. She only provided our lodgings and wanted us to be always happy for dancing.

There was one man who came every day, and watched me all the time. He was quite handsome, I thought, and tall too. He couldn't dance, but he liked to be there to look at us. He wore a police uniform so Madame was always very nice to him.

One day, after he had finished watching, we started talking. He spent a lot of money that day, ordering drinks and food. Half of the money went to Madame, half to the girl who sat with the customer. His name was Li. He owned a big house nearby, a big house all to himself. It had previously been occupied by Japanese, so it had tatami on the floor.

One day, after I had been working there for seven or eight months, Li asked me to marry him. I thought about it for a while and decided that it was the best thing to do. So Li became my Chinese husband. He was 30 years old and very rich. Because at that time everything was done quite informally, our wedding was a very simple ceremony, nearly no ceremony at all, and I went to stay in his house.

We spoke in Japanese, which he had studied at university. What he didn't speak about was that he already had a wife. I knew that different countries had different habits--that was all right with me. But I didn't want to be the second wife. It was legal at the time, but I just didn't like it. Of course, he was rich, and rich men used to get as many wives as they wanted.

But I did not know this at the beginning. I was living in his house and, although he went to work every day, I did not go out much. I did not speak the language and it was not very safe for a Japanese woman to go around by herself. I took care of the house and cooked. In the evening he used to bring food home, whatever he had been able to get, which often was not much. I liked living with him: food was scarce, but he was educated, a cultivated man and he always had charming manners. He never lost his temper, never beat me nor ever swore at me.

Eight months after we married, he said, "You should come and meet my first wife." She was in her mid-thirties, and rich, from a very good family. Her feet were tiny, she had "three-inch lotus feet," but she could not have children. She was living in a big house with Li's father and his younger sisters who were still at school. His mother had died when he was little.

IT WAS A BIG TRADITIONAL Chinese house, square, with a great courtyard in the middle and huge rooms. Their marriage had been arranged by their families when they were still children, like a pact between close friends. They had married when he was 17, still at school, and she was 22. That's how rich people got married then. But after graduation, Li stopped living at home. The family lost a lot of money during the war and the father had got a job at the electricity company. They rented out part of the house.

Somehow, his first wife heard that he had married again. So his father came to see us, and asked us to move in with them. He spoke with my husband for a very long time, and as they talked I realized that I had never asked Li about his family. He had never said anything about them, but I had never asked either.

When I learned about the situation, I said, "I want a divorce. I am not living in a house where there are two wives." One week later, his first wife also came to ask us to move in. She was a nice person, and it was the same to her if I went or if I stayed. She was a university graduate, but to her polygamy was the custom and there was nothing to do about it. I told her, "I'm sorry. I married him thinking he was single." (Back then, my Chinese wasn't very good. I could only have general conversations, nothing really detailed. But I did tell her that, and I think she understood.)

My husband said, "If you divorce me, how will you live?" He was right. I didn't have a place to live. I was a woman, without a job and without money.

I divorced him anyway. Then he found out I had his child inside me, so he sent me a letter and some money. I had gone to work as a maid at the house of a Japanese teacher named Kurata, whose wife was in very poor health. Kurata taught at the university Li had attended, so they knew each other and Li had recommended me. Actually, my husband knew everybody, because he was in the police.

I didn't want my child to be born. I knew it wasn't easy to find work with a child. How was I going to live? So I went to the hospital and paid for an abortion with the wedding ring Li had given me.

I spent four years working for the Kuratas, washing, cooking, cleaning. Every month, Li would write, asking me to come back. He also sent me money, though I told him I didn't want it. He said that his wife was very ill so there was no one to take care of him. I liked staying with the Kuratas and grew fond of them. You could tell it was the house of a cultured person, a university teacher. And they treated me well too. I didn't get a salary, but I had food and accommodation, which seemed a lot. They were difficult times, with the civil war going on.

Li's wife died four years later. Li wrote me again, asking me to go back. I talked to Kurata-san about my situation and he advised me to rejoin my Chinese husband. He said, "What will you do? People will look down on you if you live by yourself." I thought about it a lot. I was 28 years old by then and I was tired--I needed a rest. I needed a husband and Li, in fact, was a good man. And, after all, I had married him once.

So I went back to him. It was a Monday and I said, "Here I am." We married again, and this time I had a proper wedding, a real ceremony, with guests, and I was the only wife. Soon I was pregnant again, and this time I kept my child. We had four children, Li and I.

THE FIRST TIME THE JAPANESE authorities got in touch with those who had been left behind was in 1953. The Chinese and Japanese governments had agreed to let everybody leave--men, women, everybody. We heard this from Chinese policemen who told us that the Japanese government would arrange transport. There was only one thing. The Japanese government refused to let anyone return with a half-Chinese child. We asked many times and I never understood their reasons. But their decision left me with no choice.

What did they think? I have a heart. I just couldn't leave my child. He was so little, still drinking my milk, and although he had a father, I thought his mother should stay with him. I worried about this for a long time, thinking, thinking, but there was nothing I could do in the end.

Kurata-sensei left with his wife. But I and other women in the same situation chose to stay behind. The boats left with very few people, just a few teachers and some skilled civilian laborers who had been working in Manchuria at the end of the war. Back in Japan, nobody had bothered tracking down relatives of children abandoned in China, so nothing was done for them either.

By this time, the Communists were already in power and Li was no longer in the police. He got a job as a school teacher at a very distant, small country village of Erdaosi, where we spent eight years. He was sent there because he had been in the Guomindang, but we considered ourselves lucky--others had received much harsher punishment. Everything was all right until the Cultural Revolution came along in 1966. Because he had been a policeman for the Guomindang he was immediately suspect. They accused him of having "wrong thoughts" and he was arrested and confined for more than two years. Actually, he was lucky to have avoided prison for so long.

I was left at home with the kids. My eldest was grown--he had already finished high school. He had been so proud of how he had passed all of his exams and was admitted to university, but they took away his diploma because his mother was Japanese. He was sent to work at the train station doing manual labor. We didn't get arrested, at least, but life was very tough. We were often attacked, beaten and insulted for being Japanese: "Japanese devils, Japanese devils!" they would yell.

We were also blamed for being the relatives of a Guomindang officer. We didn't have any money, so--little by little--I sold everything there was in the house. First the valuables, then the rest. I even sold the furniture. That's how we made it through the Cultural Revolution. In the end the government rehabilitated my husband and we even got some compensation. But there were other campaigns and we always fell in the wrong categories: "Japanese," "intellectual," "Guomindang". . . .

Things eventually got better. Li became a teacher again and I got a job in a library. When he retired, he opened a Chinese medicine shop with our daughter, where he still works.

For more than 20 years I had no contact with my family. After diplomatic relations were established between China and Japan in 1972 I wrote a letter to the Hokkaido government, asking them to find my family. I told them where we used to live, the name of my mother, sister and brother. After a few months I got an answer. They had found them and we started exchanging letters. I really wanted to see my mother. I asked the Japanese government for help with travel expenses, but it took four years for them to finally grant it to me. I was 53 and my mother had last seen me when I was 20. I was allowed back for a few months after endless bureaucratic formalities, but again, only if I was alone. My children were not permitted to go and meet their relatives. I went to Hokkaido, but only stayed a few months, because I couldn't leave my family in China. My youngest children were much too young to be left without a mother.

So I returned and waited for the day they would not need me anymore. But I kept thinking: I am Japanese. I have a right to be in Japan. So after the children grew up, married and started their own families, I thought it was time to go back again. My mother had died in the meantime. And I had waited 20 more years before seeing my country again.

I RETURNED TO JAPAN TO live for a while in September 1993, after almost 50 years in China. I came with 11 other women, all like myself. They have Chinese husbands, have children--and weren't allowed to return by the Japanese government unless they left their kids behind. So we all waited until our kids no longer needed us.

In March 1993 we wrote a letter to the Japanese embassy, saying, "We are Japanese women and we would like to go home. Are we allowed to?" The embassy said no. They said that we couldn't come because we could not support ourselves. They asked if we had guarantors or family members waiting for us. They asked us how we would live. What family did they expect would be waiting after 50 years?

They said there were many bureaucratic formalities to go through and told us to wait. We did get passports, because at the time they were issuing them to people who were obviously Japanese. They said we could come to Japan to visit but we couldn't stay. We wrote many times--to the Ministry of Health and Welfare and to the embassy--but they stopped replying to our letters. We had Japanese passports, which meant they accepted that we were citizens of the country. But they told us we didn't have a right to live here. That is wrong. I couldn't accept that.

When the LDP fell out of power and Hosokawa became Prime Minister I thought we had a chance. I told the other women: If we board the plane and get to Japan maybe we can talk to the government and gain our rights. So the other women followed me.

Once here, we refused to leave. We created a fuss and eventually the government gave in. No one had the nerve to force us out. Now I stay in a small apartment in a center for returnees in Saitama, where they teach Japanese to returning war orphans. These places are run entirely by volunteers. Some of them have heard their parents telling them stories about how hard it was to get back from Manchuria after being abandoned by the army and they imagine themselves in our position.

Now the government's attitude has changed. They allow children to come too. And husbands. Maybe they found out that even with permission, not everyone wants to come to Japan.

I have two daughters and two sons. One daughter works in the shop with my husband. Another one has a husband who has gone to the U.S. My youngest son now lives in Nagoya. He isn't married and he has his own job. He studied Japanese in China and came here by himself, not through my doing.

Anyway, none of them wants to live here in Iwatsuki, because it is in the country. They are all in their thirties and want to stay in the city, in Changqun. If they don't want to come, let them stay, I say. I can be by myself. I don't need them here. Besides, they can't speak Japanese. I spoke Chinese to them because that's where we were. In Changqun we have many friends who are Japanese war orphans, who were left in China at the end of the war and grew up there. None of them speak Japanese and it is very difficult for them to get by in Japan. My husband can speak a little Japanese, but he won't come either. He is more than 70 and feels that his own country is best.

The women with whom I returned will stay but I know that I'll go back to China eventually. I have a good life there, after all. Here, the government gives me Y80,000 per month and it is very hard to live. They pay my rent, and they furnished the flat for me, but I don't have health insurance, so if I get sick I will have to go back to China.

My children phone me sometimes and ask why I want to stay here. I answer: I am Japanese. And everyone should have the right to stay in their own country.

In Hokkaido, I still have a sister. I contacted her and do you know what she said? You wanted to go to China, you said you were willing. I don't have money to give you. I can't support you." Money! I couldn't believe she could grow so cold.

At first, I thought of settling in Hokkaido, but after talking to her I changed my mind. The government offered me this place in Iwatsuki and I said fine. Is it like this in other foreign countries?

My son, the one who lives in Nagoya, comes to see me sometimes. He gives me Y20,000 out of his own salary every month. But I can't live with him because the government would cut off my pension and he would have to support me. His salary is not enough for two. I am going to move down close by him very soon.

I will go to China to visit next year. I was told that if I stay there too long I will lose my pension. How long is too long? I asked. They said, "Four months." Fine. All right. I will come back after three-and-a-half.

I went to China to marry a Japanese man. He died. His family has died. So I married again because I had to eat. At the beginning I did not love my husband, and I was angry at being the second wife. Then things changed, and I accepted my life in China. I am in Japan now but I will definitely go back. There I think of Japan. Here I think of China. The Chinese are good to me. They are much warmer. They don't hate the Japanese any more. But in Japan, people are so much colder now.