Dear Otōsan..

My Otōsan wiped the tears from my eyes. “It will be okay, Emiko,” he said, “You are the joy of this family. You are the eldest daughter. So take care of your mother, brother, and sister for me, okay?” 

I nodded. He turned to Kiyoko, 

“Goodbye, Kiyoko. Be good for your mother.” 

 She just hugged him and cried. He kissed Ichiro on the forehead. He just giggled, and my father smiled.

Finally, he turned to my mother. “I will come back.” 

She was crying, but she said, “You'd better.” He kissed her. 

He walked away from the house. His dark green uniform faded into the scenery.  

That was two years ago. I haven't heard from him since. 

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Ever since that day, I decided I hated war. Because it's what took my otōsan away. 

“Why did Otōsan have to leave?” I asked. 

“The war, Emiko. He has to fight for his country.” 

“But why are we at war?” 

“Because some men want more than they need.”  

The war was all anyone ever talked about. I could never escape it. 

Everyone in the neighbourhood seemed invested in Japan’s victory, except for my family. Sometimes my oba would come over, and my mother and her would talk in hushed voices, hunched over our kitchen table. Whenever I walked inside, they would stop talking and look at me, smiling. I pretended I couldn’t hear them, but their voices often drifted through the paper-thin walls. I only caught snippets of what they were saying, but they talked about– 

“Germany…surrender…, America…, coming closer…” 

I never understood what they were saying, but it always sounded like it was important. 

Sometimes, when my Okkasan thought we were asleep, she would turn on the radio at the quietest setting, and the clear voice of the broadcaster would fill the kitchen.  I came in one time, but my mother quickly shut off the radio. 

“Okkasan, what’s going on?” I asked. 

“Nothing, Emiko, go back to bed.”

“But, I want to know what’s happening.” 

She shook her head, “No, you’re too young.” 

“But I’m nine.” 

She shook her head but pulled me into a hug. “No, go back to bed.”

I didn’t ask her about it again. Besides, my days were usually filled with chores. My mother would often have to forage for food by going around the farms, begging, because the government rations weren’t enough. So my sister and I took turns taking care of Ichiro and doing the cleaning around the house. Even after all that I still had to find time to write. During the school year, the government required that we write in diaries, and we had to hand them in every week. But during the summer, I wrote different letters, ones I’m not supposed to tell anyone about.

  Unfortunately, chores were the one thing that both my mother and the government agreed on. “Why do the steps of the house need to be clean?” I asked tiredly as I swept the front steps. It was a beautiful summer's day, and all I wanted to do was play outside. 

“It’s good to have a clean home,” was my mother’s reply. “Just do as you're told.” 

She was standing on the porch, her eyes scanning the sky. She frowned, looking around for something. 

“Come inside,” she said, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. I sighed. 

I didn’t mind my chores; I just wanted to be outside. It was summer vacation after all. 

Our house is not far from downtown Nagasaki. When I was younger, my mother used to take me to the markets downtown. They were always so lively, shopkeepers with big signs; colourful banners were everywhere, and there was a busyness all around me.

But now my mother never lets me out of the house, scared that an air raid siren will go off. Not even to go to the beach, a short walk from our house. The last time I left the house was to go to school, which was two months ago.

Until one day, our routine changed.

“Emiko, tomorrow I have to hand in your elementary school application. Do you want to come with me to visit the school?” 

“Yes, Okaasan! Can I visit the school yard?” 

“Of course, Emiko. Let me just ask Oba to take care of Ichiro and Kiyoko.” 

Then I had a thought. “Okaasan, if Oba is coming over to take care of Ichiro and Kiyoko, can you walk me to the beach?” 

She hesitated. 

“Please, Okaasan, it’s summer vacation. It will be a nice day tomorrow.”

Finally, she said, “Fine, but we shouldn’t stay there for too long.”  

---------

The next day, we took the streetcar up to Shiroyama National School. The school is made of concrete, its windows small and round. If I didn’t know it was a school, I would say it’s a prison. I heard hammering as we approached. When all the men left to go fight in the war, teenagers started working in factories, making weapons. The air smelled of rubber and gasoline. We walked inside and were greeted by a woman.

“Hello,”  the receptionist said as she bowed, “How can I help you today?”

“Can I go to the schoolyard?” I blurted out

“Yes, of course,” said the receptionist. “ It’s at the end of the hall to the right.” 

“Thank you,” I said as I bowed. 

I followed her directions to the courtyard. While the outside looked like a prison, the schoolyard was quite the opposite. I breathed in the fresh air. The schoolyard looked like your regular schoolyard; the ground was flat and made of concrete. There were faded hopscotch lines, worn out by months of rain. 

Around it was a forest of trees. I could already see a woodpecker with its little red hat and a small bird with its green coat blending into the trees. 

 “Emiko,” a voice called. I turned around, it’s my mother. “Time to go.”

 “Okay, Okaasan,” I said, running up to her. 

“Do you like your new school?” 

“Yes, Okaasan.” 

We passed the reception desk again on our way out, and the secretary waved goodbye. The sun was high in the sky as we walked out; it must have been almost lunch. 

“Are we going to the beach now?” I asked.

“Yes, we’ll take the streetcar back. We can’t be there for too long. I have to make lunch.”

I looked up at the sky; it was one of the clearest days I’d seen. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a plane. It streaked across the sky, leaving a thin white trail. It dropped a thin black dot, which spiralled toward the ground.

“What was that?” I asked my okaasan, panic filling my voice.

“What was what?” she asked, looking around. 

I’m about to tell her what I saw when the world turned white. Hot wind hit my face, and I felt my body lift off the ground, but I couldn’t see anything; I’m blinded. Suddenly, I slammed into the pavement, and my eyes closed. 

---------

I woke up in a ditch. Around me, I heard screams and cries of pain, but nothing compared to the ringing in my ears. 

“Okaasan,” I cried as I tried to get up. My whole body was burning. I lifted my hand only to find it blackened and covered in burns. I touched my shoulder only to find my hand covered in a red sticky substance. I tried to cry, but my body was too tired. 

Around me, everything was flat. There were no buildings and no people in sight. The sky was pitch black, covered with clouds of smoke. There was a thick brown fog all around. I could barely see two meters. The only light was the fire that burned the buildings and trees. 

“Okaasan, mama,” I tried again, desperate. My voice was hoarse, and my throat was dry. I must find her. Where is she? We were just together. 

I kept walking, and almost collapsed, but I pushed through the pain. Finally, I see a body. Her face was almost unrecognizable, covered in burns, but beside it was a bag, her kinchaku. 

“Okaasan, mama. Please wake up.” Tears blurred my vision. “Please.” 

The body lay still, lifeless. I shook her, but she didn’t wake.

I cried; my body had given up, and the pain was worse. My skin felt like it was on fire. I felt blood dripping down my cheek like tears. So I laid next to her and clutched her bag to my chest. The screams have stopped now; the only thing I heard was my beating heart.

My first thought was of my siblings, Ichiro and Kiyoko. I hope they’re safe at home.

Then I thought of my school: a place I’ll never go to again, somewhere I’ve only seen once.

But mostly I thought of my otōsan, how he’s alone at war, how I’d never see him again.

Because this was the end. 

I cried into my mother’s shoulder as I took my last breath.

---------

Seven days later 

Isamu Yamamoto steps off the train in Nagasaki. After two years of fighting, the war is finally over, but at what cost? He has received correspondence that his two children, Ichiro and Kiyoko Yamamoto, are safe. 

They were inside the house when the bomb dropped. The house collapsed, but both of them managed to survive, though not without injuries. But there has been no news of his wife and eldest daughter, Emiko. 

As he walks the familiar path to his house, so much has changed. Buildings have collapsed; entire neighbourhoods are now wastelands. 

 This is what war does, he thinks. 

He approaches the Yamamoto home, now in shambles. The front steps are the only thing standing. 

 He sifts through the debris, hoping to find any trace of the family that once lived there. As he looks around, he stops to pick up things. Favourite toys, little pictures and jewelry. He stops as he reaches where Emiko’s room used to be. 

He almost turns away but forces himself to keep looking. One thing catches his eye, and he bends down to retrieve it. 

A brown leather-bound notebook. He opens it to the first page. 

Dear Otōsan

You left to fight the war yesterday, and I already miss you. Okaasan has been scared to let us go outside since you left. She says it’s to focus on schoolwork and chores, but really, it’s because of the air raids in Tokyo. 

Will you please come back? Then we can go to the beach together like we used to. 

I miss you, Otōsan. Please come back soon 

- Emiko 

He flips through the notebook 

Dear Otōsan, today Okaasan wouldn’t let me go to the beach… 

Dear Otōsan, I miss you. 

Please come back soon. 

He’s reached the last entry in the book. 

Dear Otōsan 

I’m so excited! Tomorrow Okaasan is taking me to my new school, and after that we're going to the beach. Just like you and I used to do. Ichiro and Kiyoko aren’t coming either; they’re staying at home with Oba.

It’s been so long since I’ve been out of the house. 

I miss you, Otōsan. Please come back soon. 

- Emiko 

Tears fall onto the page because they’re gone. His daughter and wife are gone. 

He clutches her notebook to his chest and holds her one last time.