Bob van Laerhoven - Return to Hiroshima

All his life my father had been free to indulge his every urge without concern for reasons or consequences. Who, after all, would dare stand in the way of Rokurobei, this natural manifestation, half god half human? He was ignorant of the boundary between good and evil, and had no idea what either meant.

But his reaction, disgraceful as it was, also revealed that he could feel pain, perhaps even doubt himself. He had never touched me in such a manner before, or shown any signs of desire. When I think about it, I’m sure he didn’t do it because he desired me, but because it was the only way to vent his fury. He was faced with a choice: kill your daughter or rape her. He chose the latter.

As I lay on the deck trying to cover my body with my torn clothes, he charged towards the wheelhouse, broke the helmsman’s neck like a match, and threw his body overboard. He took the helm, didn’t deign to look at me or say a word. I needed no explanation: I knew why he wanted no witnesses to what he had done.

We returned in silence to the lump of rock that had been my prison for as long as I can remember.

“What’s got into you, inspector Takeda?” Chief commissioner Takamatsu is standing at his desk, hunched dramatically, leaning on the tips of his fingers. “Why waste my time with these absurd theories?”

“Take a look at the facts one more time, commissioner, if you don’t mind. In 1948, the Teikoku Bank in Tokyo was raided in a bizarre attack. A man identifying himself as a Ministry of Health official informed the manager that a deadly epidemic had engulfed the area. Management and staff were asked to drink what they thought was an antidote. They did what they were told and they were all poisoned. An unusual modus operandi , don’t you think? Stranger still was the fact that the robbers only took a small sum of money. What did the federal police discover yesterday at the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank?”

The commissioner stares at inspector Takeda long and hard. Takeda begins to think he’s unwilling to give an answer or that he hasn’t understood this abrupt twist in his argument. His superior sits, leans back and says in a deceptively gentle tone: “The amount of money stolen has yet to be determined. It appears that nothing has been taken from the safes. It probably has to do with bonds and securities.”

“That only supports my conviction, commissioner. In 1948, the police arrested an artist by the name of Hirasawa Sadamichi. After attempting suicide he confessed to the raid on the Teikoku Bank. But his written statement was full of holes when it came to the modus operandi of the robbery. Taro Shiga, the manager of the bank who had also taken poison and died, is referred to in American books as “Prince Chichibu’s WWII banker”. According to the Americans, the prince had an important role to play in the disappearance of Japanese war treasures after the capitulation and…”

The chief commissioner interrupts his subordinate: “Inspector Takeda, have you been drinking? Are you suffering from one or other venereal disease that has affected your mind?”

Takeda is taken aback by the abruptness of the interruption, but is intent on saving face come what may. “The poison used during the raid on the Teikoku Bank, respected commissioner, was acetone cyanohydrin, a gas we used a great deal during the war. And the ceo of the Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank in Tokio who died during the raid was Tomio Shiga, the son of Taro Shiga. This can’t be mere coincidence.”

“What are you trying to say, inspector?”

“When I heard that Tomio Shiga was among the victims his name stuck in my mind. A great many contemporary American historians are convinced that his father Taro Shiga was the true target of the strange “bank raid” because he knew where the clandestine operation to secure Japan’s war treasures after the capitulation had located its spoils. The operation was called Kin no yuri, the Golden Lily, and was among the activities of Unit 731. Luck would have it, chief commissioner, that I had the opportunity to investigate Unit 731 earlier in my career.”

“Unit 731 is a fairytale for children who like to read mangas,” the chief commissioner interrupts in the same curt tone.

“I have reason to believe otherwise.” Takeda bites his lip. In his determination to get Takamatsu on his side he has to be careful not to go too far and expose his past. That would be a disaster. He clears his throat and continues. “I think Unit 731 actually existed and that operation Golden Lily is not a fairytale. I’m also inclined to believe that a portion of Japan’s war treasures has yet to be found and that someone is determined to get his hands on them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Tomio Shiga knew more than he was willing to reveal and that he died for his silence just like his father decades earlier.”

The commissioner shakes his head as if he’s talking to a retarded child: “And you, inspector Takeda, want me to take this infantile fantasy of yours to the head of the National Guard and make myself immortally ridiculous? Have you perhaps become obsessed by such fables and by the twisted convolutions of your own mind?”

The inspector folds his hands behind his back, his right fist in his left. He’s relieved that he said nothing to the commissioner about the secret Unit 731 he had heard about from a man he had believed for a short time to be his father. Since that encounter, which took place twenty-two years earlier, Takeda had continued to search for information on Unit 731 and the book he had recently bought by the American scholar Hal Gold had been very informative.

“Tomio Shiga, commissioner, may have been killed because he knew something about operation Golden Lily, something he refused to divulge, or because he had revealed too much. If you ask me the bank raid was just an excuse to blur Shiga’s death. I also think my theory is worth investigating.” As Takeda is formulating his conclusion one more time he can see in the expression on the chief commissioner’s face that he’s gone too far. Imaginative lines of investigation don’t tend to be appreciated in the Japanese police force. But he still finds the harshness of chief commissioner Takamatsu’s reaction difficult to understand. He only knows that he can’t turn back, nor does he want to. The same obstinacy that haunted Takeda’s younger years tightens around his chest like a band of steel.

The chief commissioner joins his hands. ‘Fine, inspector, you refuse to let go of this insanity? Well, your foolishness demands serious measures. As of now you are off the case.”

Takeda stands at Takamatsu’s desk, his back straight. What had he expected? He can’t remember. Anything but this.

“You should be grateful I don’t have you demoted,” the chief commissioner concludes with an icy glance. Takeda opens his mouth, but is able to control himself. Takamatsu puts on his glasses, lifts a sheet of paper from his desk and throws it at Takeda. “You’re on a new case. It should give you the chance to relax those overstressed brain cells. We were contacted this morning by the people at Funairi Hospital. Apparently someone tried to kill a foreigner, a Belgian. An unusual weapon, if I’m not mistaken. With your language skills and your penchant for exotic theories, it should be right up your street.”

The paper lands on the floor. Takeda has to bend down to pick it up. He straightens himself, red blotches on his cheeks.

“At your command, sir.”

Takeda is almost at the door when he hears Takamatsu’s voice behind him. “You’re familiar with the National Guard, inspector? They don’t like the local police disturbing their investigations with insane conspiracy theories involving the imperial family. You would do better to keep your mouth shut about those fantasies of yours, Takeda. You can curse me now, but one day you’ll be grateful.”