Naoki Hyakuta - The Eternal Zero

“So, did you read up a bit about the war?”

“Like I have the time,” Keiko replied. “Besides, I don’t want to bring unncecessary preconceptions to the interview.”

As self-serving as always, I thought, but held my tongue.

After walking thirty minutes from the station we were drenched in sweat. Even my sister stopped talking for the most part.

The address we were given brought us to a small farmhouse. The single-story building looked to be about fifty years old. It was surrounded by fields, and a light pickup truck sat in the vacant space in front of the entrance. The house was pretty shabby. From the title “ensign” I had imagined a fine estate, so I was mildly disappointed. I glanced at Keiko, who was gazing fixedly at the house, examining it.

I pressed the doorbell next to the glass door, but even after waiting a good while there was no response. The doorbell was apparently broken. I called out from across the door. Immediately a sturdy voice replied, “Come in.”

In the vestibule stood a skinny old man. Seeing him made my heart skip a beat. There was no arm below the left sleeve of his blue open-neck short-sleeved shirt. This was Hasegawa.

He led us to a sitting room off of the foyer. The narrow, roughly 8x10-foot room felt somehow unnatural. There was a wooden table in the center, reproductions of paintings on the walls, and a cheap-looking chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The room was horribly hot. It was probably a prefabbed addition to the house. The moment I stepped inside, I burst into a full sweat. But I didn’t ask for the AC to be turned on.

Hasegawa’s white hair was all combed back and he had a mustache. He looked at us through narrow eyes like he was appraising us.

Keiko addressed the silent Hasegawa, reiterating the purpose of today’s visit; namely, to learn about our grandfather, Kyuzo Miyabe. As she spoke, Hasegawa looked at both of us in turn. The heat of the room kept forcing the sweat to pour out of me.

“The letter was signed with a man’s name,” Hasegawa interrogated.

“That’s because I put my brother in charge of communications,” Keiko explained.

Hasegawa nodded in comprehension. Then he stared at both our faces again.

“So…” Keiko uttered, “you knew our grandfather?”

“That I did,” Hasegawa replied without pause. “He was the biggest damn coward in the whole Naval Air Corps.”

What ? I thought.

“Kyuzo Miyabe held his own life dear above anything else.”

Keiko’s face turned crimson. I touched her knee under the table. She pressed my hand to indicate that she was okay.

Keeping her voice as calm as possible, she asked, “What exactly does that mean, sir?”

“What exactly does that mean?” Hasegawa parroted. “Just that. He was a man who held his own life dear like it was everything. We pilots had given our lives to our country. Once I became a fighter pilot, I no longer considered my life my own. I absolutely would not die except in my boots. I had but one thought. How. ”

As Hasegawa spoke, he touched his left shoulder with his right hand. His empty left sleeve fluttered.

“I was prepared to die at any moment. No matter the battlefield, I never held my life dear. But Kyuzo Miyabe was not that sort of man. He was always running away from fights. His greatest desire wasn’t to win but to save his own hide.”

“I think it’s a natural feeling to value one’s own life.”

Hasegawa glowered at my sister. “Such are woman’s feelings.”

“Just what do you mean by that?”

“Keiko,” I muttered.

She pretended not to hear me. “I think men and women are the same. Isn’t it normal to value one’s life?”

“That, young lady, is the thinking in peacetime. We were fighting for the very existence of Japan. I didn’t care if I died so long as my country remained. But Miyabe was different. He was always avoiding combat.”

“I think that’s wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” Hasegawa raised his voice. “How can you fight a war if the troops avoid combat?”

“If everyone thought the same, there wouldn’t be any wars to begin with.”

Hasegawa’s mouth dropped open. “What are they teaching you kids in school these days? Didn’t you learn world history? Mankind’s history is a history of war. Of course war is evil, the worst possible evil. Everyone knows that. But no one can get rid of war.”

“Are you saying that war is a necessary evil?”

“It’s pointless to debate whether or not war is a necessary evil with you. Go back to your workplace and discuss it with your superiors and colleagues to your heart’s content. And if you find out a way to eradicate war, turn it into a book. Send it to the leaders of all the countries and the next day we’ll have world peace. You could even go to war zones and tell them that if they all run away, the disputes will end.”

Keiko bit her lip.

“Listen up. Battlefields are for fighting, not for running away. It makes no difference to us troops whether we were the aggressors or the defenders in that war. On the battlefield, we fire at the enemy before us. That’s the duty of a soldier. It’s the politicians’ job to work for a ceasefire or a peace deal. Am I wrong?” Hasegawa touched his armless left shoulder again. “Miyabe was always running away from the fight.”

Keiko could not respond.

“So you despised our grandfather, sir?” I asked.

Hasegawa turned to me. “The reason I call him a coward is because he was a pilot. If he had been drafted, then he could hold onto dear life all he wanted. But he volunteered. He wanted to join the military, and became an aviator. That’s why I can’t forgive him. Knowing that, do you still want my story?”

Since Keiko remained silent, I said, “Please tell us, sir.”

Hasegawa blew his nose loudly. I asked if it was okay that I use a voice recorder. He replied that he didn’t mind.

When I turned it on, Hasegawa said, “Fine, I’ll tell you.”

I joined the Navy in the spring of 1936. I was born the son of a farmer here in Saitama, the sixth of eight children. Our family were tenant farmers. It took everything we had just to survive. We were what you called peasants.

Now listen to me. If you don’t know about the military and airmen back then, you’ll never understand my hatred of him.

Since lower primary school, I was a good student. Not that it’s anything to brag about but I was always top of the class. Still, my folks could barely afford to send me to higher primary school, so I never made it to middle school. Most village kids were in the same boat back then. Pretty much the only ones who went on to middle school were the sons of the village chief. My teacher kindly told my father, “It’s a shame that such a bright kid can’t continue his studies,” but there was nothing to be done about it. My three elder brothers were very smart, too, but none of them went on to middle school, either.

After I graduated from higher primary school, my family sent me off to work as an apprentice to reduce the number of mouths that needed to be fed. My apprenticeship was with a tofu maker in Osaka. It was grueling work. Early mornings, late nights. Keeping my hands in the ice-cold water continuously made my fingers go numb. I was prone to getting frostbite to begin with, and it troubled me all winter long. My fingers would turn reddish brown, and the chapped skin bled, splitting open in new places before the old wounds could heal. Pain shot through my fingers every time I had to plunge them into the cold water.

I lost count of how many times I cried. The master was a relentless man. He told me I got frostbite because I was a spoiled brat. “I’ve done this job for decades and I’ve never gotten frostbite even once,” he said.