Naoki Hyakuta - The Eternal Zero

That rumor wasn’t wholly inaccurate, as I was, in fact, very attracted to Matsuno.

I always took the night train to Osaka. I would head to her house the next morning, and most days we would head into town—Matsuno, Kiyoko, and I.

We went all over Osaka. Shinsekai, Osaka Castle, Dotonbori, Ten-roku, Sennichi-mae. On each trip to Osaka, I could see the progress of recovery there. People’s faces grew brighter and the streets bustled. But the scars of the war were still visible all over the place. There were still the ruins of buildings bombed out during the air raids, and black-market stalls stood in some fire-ravaged areas.

There were many disabled veterans loitering in front of Osaka Station. Men missing eyes, hands, legs, or several limbs sat on the streets garbed in white hospital-issued clothes. This was a common sight in Tokyo, too.

Seeing those men made my chest ache. Having fought for their country and lost a part of their bodies, they were being forced to live out painful lives, while the streets around them focused on recovery as though to forget the war. The contrast scared me.

Every time Matsuno passed by the war wounded, she gave Kiyoko some money and had her place it in the donation box.

We would eat lunch at a cheap restaurant. I would talk about my days as a reserve pilot and about how kind Instructor Miyabe had been. Matsuno sometimes looked happy and sometimes sad when she heard stories about her husband.

She rarely spoke of him, but she did discuss their marriage just once. She told me that it had been an arranged marriage. In 1941, after serving in China, Miyabe-san had been stationed temporarily with the air unit in Yokohama. Matsuno’s father had worked in the mess hall there and had taken a liking to Miyabe-san, eventually asking him to marry his only daughter. He had probably known at first glance that Miyabe-san would be a perfect match for her. For that alone, I think her father must have been quite a character. He died in 1945, during the air raids on Yokohama. She said that she and Miyabe-san never spoke a word before the wedding.

No matter where we went, everyone mistook us for a married couple and their child. Kiyoko had grown attached to me, and I often walked about with her on my shoulders. After spending a day like that together, I would take the night train back to Tokyo.

This routine continued, once every few months.

On one occasion after several of my visits, Matsuno appeared wearing a skirt. I had only seen her in work pants up to that point, so it was a welcome surprise.

“A friend of mine sold me some material cheaply, so I was able to tailor this,” she explained a bit bashfully.

“It looks great on you. You’re…”

I wanted to say “very pretty,” but the words stuck in my throat.

That day Kiyoko was absent. Apparently, she had gone off to play with some friends from school.

We walked along Shinsaibashi. This was our first meeting where it was just the two of us. My heart pounded in my chest. At the same time, I was beset by guilt.

That evening, while we dined at a restaurant inside Takashimaya Department Store, she asked earnestly, “Oishi-san, why exactly are you so kind to me?”

“Because Miyabe-san saved my life.”

“Isn’t that just what men do on battlefields?”

“No, I mean he actually risked his life to protect mine.”

“When and where?” she practically demanded. “I asked you this before, but you wouldn’t tell me.”

I was lost for words.

“Please, tell me the truth.”

I made up my mind. “All right, I will.”

I shared with her what had happened that fateful day when Miyabe-san and I had gone out on a kamikaze mission. All of it.

Partway through the tale, Matsuno lowered her head. Even after I had finished speaking, she kept her face down and didn’t say a word.

“Ever since the war ended, I’ve thought about what Miyabe-san did. Back then, in the midst of a hopeless situation, he found a single spider’s thread dangling before him that might be his salvation. If he caught hold of that thread he might be saved—but others would die. And in the end he refused to take that thread for himself.”

Matsuno was still facing downwards and silent. At long last she whispered, “I wonder why he chose you.”

“I don’t know. Or rather—there’s only one thing I can think of.”

I told her what had happened when I was still a flight student, about the day I’d come to Miyabe-san’s rescue and suffered grave injuries, and how he had come to visit me in the hospital—and given me his overcoat.

“I retailored that overcoat,” Matsuno said in a small voice.

I recalled how it had a cotton lining and leather on the collar.

“I see. Then Miyabe-san gave me something he truly treasured.”

Matsuno looked up. “So Miyabe meeting you on the day he went out as a kamikaze was fate.”

She looked at me fixedly. When I saw those eyes brimming with sorrow, I felt my heart seize up with regret. Why, oh why did I allow him to trade planes with me that day?

“Please forgive me,” I said.

Matsuno looked down, not responding.

“The only reason I am alive today is because of Miyabe-san. So please allow me to do what I can until I feel I have satisfied that debt. He entrusted you and Kiyoko to my care. That’s why I was allowed to live. If I’m not able to fulfill my obligation to him, then my life has no meaning.”

Matsuno didn’t reply, but neither did she reject my plea. In any case, I had no intention of halting my support, no matter how she felt.

My trips to Osaka continued.

After two years, she moved from Osaka to nearby Toyonaka. The new apartment was small, but there were actually two rooms including the kitchen. Matsuno found a job with a transportation company in Toyonaka. The company was affiliated with the National Railway, and I’d used my connections for her.

I’d told her just one lie.

It was true that I supported Matsuno and Kiyoko because I wanted to carry out Miyabe-san’s last request, but that wasn’t all. I wanted to see her. Likewise, the reason for my visits to Osaka was not entirely genuine. Had I merely wanted to support them financially, I could have just sent them the money. The only reason I took the night train all the way to Osaka was to see Matsuno.

I wonder if she knew. Well, maybe she didn’t. After all, I did my best to keep her unaware of my feelings.

Normally, there would have to be some sort of emotional factor for my actions. But Matsuno wasn’t the type to say, “Just send me the money.”

In this manner, our strange relationship continued for five years.

During that time, my mother passed away, and Kiyoko started middle school. She had grown into an intelligent, lovely girl. I turned thirty. Matsuno was thirty-three.

Then came that day in August 1954.

On the anniversary of Miyabe-san’s death, the two of us went to visit his grave. Two years prior, Matsuno had purchased a plot in a public cemetery in the northern part of Osaka and erected a small tombstone for her husband. She did not have the stone engraved with a posthumous name in the Buddhist style. It simply read: GRAVE OF KYUZO MIYABE.

The public cemetery had been carved into a hillside, and the surrounding area was lush and green. There was a temple some distance from the spot, and after visiting the grave, we stopped by there.

It looked empty, and we sat down on the porch of the main hall.

Abruptly Matsuno said, “Oishi-san, thank you for having supported us for so many years.”

I was surprised by this sudden remark. What’s she saying? I thought.

“You have been entirely too generous to us.” Matsuno bowed deeply. “I can’t allow you to continue to care for us.”