At the time when Taichirō was at his weakest, most despondent state following the death of his only son, Hiroko leapt into action, storming down to City Hall to have her marriage to my grandfather registered. And, if that wasn’t odd enough, she then went around our neighborhood presenting the document to our neighbors, as if to declare that she was now in charge. Unfortunately, none of us could do anything about it at the time as we were still in mourning and preoccupied with making arrangements for my father’s funeral.
In many Japanese families, the home or family business is usually succeeded by the first son or daughter. This ancient custom dating back to samurai times was supposed to have been abolished first after the Meiji Restoration[1] in the late 1800s and again during the post-war Allied Occupation—a time when many sweeping reforms were pushed through, including the Land Reforms of 1946—but in reality, it continued unabated among more traditional families such as mine. In our family, the responsibility should have fallen upon my elder sister, Tetsuko, who had been born in 1942 and was now eighteen years old.
Tetsuko, who began to talk at only six months, had always been considered precocious and intelligent from the time she was just a toddler. Nobody doubted that she could easily go on to medical school if she so desired when she got older.
Tetsuko, however, had ideas of her own. When she was about ten years old, she began to play the piano, using the Carl Bechstein piano her grandfather had brought back years earlier from Germany. She practiced for three to four hours a day. Even though she claims she can’t play at all now, our next-door neighbors remembered it well and told me that the sound of Tetsuko practicing in the afternoon filled the streets of our neighborhood like an elegant BGM.
Tetsuko continued to play the piano in order to get into a college of music and even transferred to Fukuoka Jo Gakuin, a private Methodist girls’ school, in the third year of junior high school to have even more time to practice.
When our father fell ill, however, he expressed the hope that his first daughter would also become a doctor in order to continue the family tradition and take over the clinic in his place. All of our relatives agreed that it would be the best course for my sister. Even our grandfather and the scheming Hiroko approved of the plan.
So, at the age of 17, Tetsuko abandoned her musical aspirations and began to prepare for the medical school entrance exams.[2] It was no small feat as she had only a year to study. And though she wasn’t quite as prepared to take the exam as she would have liked, she managed to pass them nevertheless and entered Kurume University in the spring of 1961. My mother has said that Tetsuko probably could have entered the medical department at the more prestigious Kyūshū National University if only she had taken an extra year to prepare for the entrance exam. That said, her circumstances at Kurume University were rather good: our father’s death evoked the sympathy of his former colleagues at the college who welcomed her with open arms and gave her special attention while she studied.
Tuition at the private university should have been no problem, either, because there was a provision waving fees for sons or daughters of the college’s professors. Kurume University, however, had asked our grandfather, Taichirō, if he would cover the cost of her education as a sort of donation. Proud of his granddaughter’s intelligence, he did so willingly. I’m not exactly sure why the university made the request, but my mother told me later that she always suspected that it may have been due to some trouble that occurred between Taichirō and the university after my father passed away.
The news of Yūki’s premature death spread quickly throughout the academic community and his funeral was a grand yet solemn affair held at the university, where he had been a young and highly admired dermatologist. His research was well-known throughout Japan and he was considered one of the rising stars in his field.
In spite of the pride Taichirō felt towards his son, he never paid the bill for the funeral service. Many years later I heard that Hiroko had taken all cash offerings, known as o-kōden, the school had received from the 250 attendees.[3] The university, which had no money budgeted for such an occasion, was forced, nevertheless, to somehow cover the cost of the funeral. My mother told me that the university was able to raise money by soliciting donations from my father’s colleagues, coworkers, nurses and students.
As I have already mentioned, my sister, Tetsuko, entered college in 1961. By then we had already been kicked out of our home in Kurakata and had taken up temporary refuge in my father’s room in a boarding house near the university. It had a single four-and-half tatami mat room and was only about 80 square feet in size. There was a small sink at the end of a narrow hallway, but no private bath. Later, we moved into a modest apartment, but again had to share the bath or go to a sentō, public bath, down the road.
Although Tetsuko’s tuition at the university was taken care of, we lived in relative destitution now that we had no support from Taichirō. My mother, Chiyoko, became the center of our family, the sole breadwinner. She was a wise head of the household and I always followed her orders without questioning. And though she was no longer encumbered by family troubles and obligations, she now had to work to support the three of us.
Before long, my mother found a job as a life insurance salesperson. It surely wasn’t the kind of work a woman from her proud background could have taken up easily, but she had to do what she had to do. To help make ends meet, she would also sew our clothes for us by hand.
My mother had only been selling insurance for a few months when she made the mistake of going to people she knew as prospective clients. Naturally, word got back to my grandfather and his new wife and they were mortified. They forced her to quit the job as it was a disgrace to the noble Fujita family name.
Chiyoko was at a loss for what to do, but thank God, the head nurse at the university hospital came to our rescue. She introduced my mother to the nurses and asked her to teach them o-shūji, or Japanese calligraphy. At last, my mother could find her own way in life.
Despite our struggles, this was a relatively tranquil period for us. I was thirteen years old and entered the local junior high school. Tetsuko meanwhile enjoyed her college life and played in the “light music” jazz club at school as a pianist. She had a lot of friends among her classmates and seniors. Everything was new to her and she glowed when she talked to us about her classes, classmates, teachers and extracurricular activities. Her stories cheered us up and helped us forget the otherwise miserable situation we were in.
In the evenings, my mother would walk as far as she could to meet Tetsuko on her way home and I would tag along. It was during this time that I could sense my mother was gravitating more and more towards my elder sister and my relative position in the family waning.
Although our lives had undertaken a dramatic change, we were able to relax much more than could have ever been possible in my grandfather’s home in Kurakata. When I look back on those days now, I feel it might have been one of the most peaceful times of our lives. Little did I know, however, that dark clouds were gathering, and an ominous shadow was about to encroach upon my life in Kurume.
While my mother struggled to make ends meet, Taichirō, now in his mid-seventies, settled into a comfortable and relatively happy life with his new wife, who was 28 years his junior. Although his first wife, Kanamé, had been physically weak, she henpecked him to her dying day. Hiroko, on the other hand, was more attentive to him and would go on to greatly influence my grandfather’s life and career, I dare to admit, for the better. Her true colors, however, wouldn’t come out until much later.
For starters, Taichirō’s new wife introduced him to yakyū, or Japanese baseball. Before they met, he had only been interested in sūmo wrestling. Thanks to Hiroko, he began to learn all about the sport and often traveled to Fukuoka to watch ball games at Heiwadai Stadium. After the war, baseball was resurrected and quickly grew in popularity among the young and middle-aged generations. In those days, the local Nishitetsu Lions were one of the strongest teams in Japanese Professional Baseball and had won the Japan Series three years in a row in the late 50s.
I heard that whenever Taichirō attended conferences, he would make them change the TV channel from sūmo to baseball. Since he had become the head of the meetings, the others had no choice but to obey him and were often annoyed with his new hobby.
Also, at Hiroko’s encouragement, Taichirō set up the Kurakata Lions Club with Yoshiyuki Kaijima, one of the sons of the founder of the famous Kaijima Coal Mining Company which had mines throughout the Chikuhō Region. Taichirō called upon many old friends and acquaintances and recommended them to join the organization. Thanks to networking, his hospital became even more successful and the house was always full of people. The depressing atmosphere that had hung heavily in the house following the war and the deaths of his wife and only son was swept away and the mood became lighter. Hiroko entertained the guests. Her omotenashi, or hospitality, was one of her points of pride. The organization continues its charitable activities today.
Hiroko also started going to a cooking school run by a famous hotel’s chef. She managed her husband’s meals with great care. I remember her always preparing expensive, hard-to-find fruit—such as Muscat grapes, peaches, oranges—for Taichirō who loved it. His breakfast was usually oatmeal, which was very rare in Japan in those days, milk, an egg and some fruit. Thanks to the attention Hiroko paid to her husband, he was able to live to the age of 102 without ever being bedridden.
After my father passed away, there was some trouble regarding our inheritance. Hiroko was eager to get her hands on everything, and had been scheming from the get-go. My grandfather, Taichirō, originally wanted Tetsuko to take over the clinic and home. In the event that she was incapable of doing so, the responsibility was to fall on me.
When Tetsuko entered college, Taichirō agreed to pay for her tuition, which was a tidy sum and far too much for my mother alone to afford. At the same time, there was a problem concerning the inheritance tax we had to pay after my father’s death. My father had never had much money himself and didn’t think of putting anything aside for us. Because he lacked any sense when it came to finances, his father had the foresight to buy the plot of land next to his clinic and put it in my father’s name. Hiroko, however, had her eyes on the property and demanded that it be relinquished in exchange for the payment of my sister’s educational fees.
Around this time, Hiroko asked my mother to come to Kurakata with her personal seal. When she showed it to Hiroko, she was told it was no good because it wasn’t a jitsuin, which was an officially registered seal. In those days, ordinary people did not have much need for registered seals except on special occasions, such as buying property.
Hiroko told my mother that the seal she had brought was useless, then had one made herself and brought the new registered seal to the Kurakata City Office without telling anyone, something that would go unnoticed for a decade.
When I reached the age of fourteen, my grandfather and Hiroko proposed to adopt me as their daughter.[4] This was, I believe, his attempt to protect his son’s legacy. The idea should have been satisfactory for all involved. I would act as peacemaker. Taichirō would continue to pay for my sister’s tuition and I would take over the clinic and home once I had married. As for Hiroko, she would gain a huge fortune and a daughter, perhaps, who could take care of her later in life.
Naturally, I was dead-set against the idea as I disliked my grandfather’s second wife. I also hated the bleak mood of my hometown and did not want to return.
When I heard of their plans, I flew into a rage and rejected the idea outright, but no one was willing to listen to the opinion of a teenaged girl. My mother, too, seemed to be worried about the whole affair, but kept her thoughts to herself. One night that summer, she suffered from a serious stomachache. It must have been terribly painful, but I had run out of sympathy for her.
In spite of my wishes, the time passed mercilessly forward, marching as if it were heading into a doomed battle. My mother and I never found a peaceful solution to the adoption problem and when I graduated from junior high school, I was forced to leave Kurume. Reluctantly, I moved back to Kurakata and entered a high school in the town, leaving my sister and mother in Kurume where they continued to live.
At the time, I couldn’t fathom how my mother and sister would let me be adopted, but over time I have come to understand that my mother’s first priority had been to ensure that Tetsuko’s studies not be disrupted. In those days, though, I could not appreciate how precarious their situation was and for a long time I must confess I held a sense of uneasiness toward my mother.
I was watching on a documentary on TV about pandas recently. According to the program, the female panda gives birth only once every two years or so. When she does, it’s often to twins. What struck me most was the fact that a panda in the wild seldom raises the two cubs equally. If one of them is weak, she will abandon it and focus her care on the stronger one as it is believed she cannot produce enough milk to support two cubs.
As I watched the program, I couldn’t help being reminded of my own story. My mother, like the panda, had decided which daughter to keep as the prospect of raising two daughters on her meager income was a daunting one. By consenting to my adoption, her father-in-law, Taichirō, would take care not only of my educational and living expenses, but those of my sister’s, as well. It could not have been easy for my mother to consent, so I cannot really fault her. Despite what a piece of paper in City Hall attested, she was still my mother and nothing would have ever changed that. Blood, as they say, is thicker than water.
Over the years, I have come to believe that harmony should be sought after even if you must make sacrifices to achieve it. Peace at all costs, as they say. This is a Confucian idea, I suppose, and I have tried to follow the philosophy ever since because there often is little to no choice in a matter. That said, I considered myself weak and lacking in confidence at the time. I had neither the energy nor wisdom to stand up against the others. All I could do was obey, and hope for the best in spite of my grave reservations.
I can’t help thinking that things would have gone much more smoothly if only my grandmother, Kanamé, hadn’t passed away so early.
My own mother passed away in 2018. In late April, one year after she died, my sister and I visited Kaho to attend a relative’s Buddhist memorial service. On the way to the temple, I looked at the house my husband had built for us, which is located along the train tracks near Kaho Station. I couldn’t believe what I saw.
As the train was passing my old home, I noticed the mauve color of Japanese wisterias blossoms hanging over the wall of the house. It was the first time in many years that I could see them. Whenever I go to the area on business, be it Kaho or Kurakata, I usually take the train and always try to look at the old house as I pass to see how it’s doing. Usually, all I can see is the outer wall and the tops of several broadleaved trees growing in the garden.
It was a special flower for us. When the house was built, my mother gave us the potted plant as a housewarming gift as she knew my husband enjoyed gardening. He was pleased with the gift and put it in the center of our small garden and never failed to look after it.
After he died, the house was rented out. From time to time, I would have a niwashi, or traditional Japanese gardener, come in and trim the plants, but for the most part the garden was allowed to grow as nature willed.
I had almost forgotten about the wisterias, but over time, the roots extended towards the wall and continued to grow there.
When I noticed the wisterias hanging down over the wall, I couldn’t help feeling as if my mother was trying to tell me, “Motoko, I’m fine. You were always a good girl, looking out for your elder sister and me. Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
