remember he gave very boring sermons and that his English, which was very clear, tended to go on for a very long time. But I could tell he was very convinced.”
“Convinced?” Owen pressed.
“Absolutely, he was ....” Mioko seemed, uncharacteristically to struggle for the right word in English. “Faithful, full of faith.”
“What happened to him?”
“I have no idea.”
“I mean was he arrested too?”
“No,of course not. No one was arrested. I attended every Sunday right through the war, and Pastor Rielmann gave the sermon in English every 3rd Sunday right through the war, in fact right through till some time in 1946, when a missionary came part-time.”
“And you can remember that very well?” Yasuko said.
“Yes, of course, I can.”
“But not warning Mogens Nielsen and Pastor Rielmann?”
“Warning them of what? The security police only said thank you to me, for what I don’t know.”
“How many children did Mr. Nielsen have?” Owen asked.
“Four,—one he had never seen, but three he could describe to you in great detail. He spent too much time doing that, describing his children to anyone who would listen. I had met them, and they weren’t so angelic as he described them.”
“He thought they were angels?” Yasuko asked.
“He thought they were the most special creatures on the planet. I remember that very well. Especially the oldest Johanna. and little Peder and the baby until the new baby came, Soren. He was always showing pictures of them.”
“Did he ever see them again?”
“How should I know?”
“I thought you might have stayed in touch somehow, or after the war.”
“We didn’t. I assume he got back to his family and had everything he had longed for.—Why write then?”
“But you don’t know for sure?”
“No, I don’t know what happened to him. I could imagine I suppose, but I don’t know.”
“What would you imagine?” Owen pressed.
There was a long silence. Mioko unwrapped another cake. She smiled first at Owen, then at Yasuko. “You are so kind to visit me, but I had better get back to my group; we are in some kind of competition today and maybe I am the fittest.” She quickly ate the cake, then got up putting the shards back in the plastic bag. “I will walk you to the entry and then I must get back to my group.”
On the train home Yasuko said, “I can’t imagine Mioko being told to join her group. I can’t imagine her wanting to live that way. She never lived that way, couldn’t live that way.”
“She was younger then. Maybe as you get older...”
“Only if you lose your faculties.”
“So what have we then? Was it because I was there, she wouldn’t talk. She didn’t want gaijin listening to her story, is that it?”
“No. She likes talking to gaijin. Probably no one speaks English to her there. No one. Her mind is going. She truly can’t remember anything as it actually was, only as she might want it to have been. That happens—my mother doesn’t remember fighting with my father; she remembers only golden times, wonderful moments. She delights in telling and retelling those. But it is not what I remember.”
“You’d think she’d recall her own heroics.”
“Yes, it is very sad.”
“Well, she’s not sad about it. “
“We can be sad for her.”
“I don’t think so.” Owen said, watching as the sea near Suma drifted out to absolute blackness. The train swayed almost soundlessly.
4
“So old Mioko’s gone round the bend,” the rector said just after Owen’s second Sunday school class on Judas.
“Apparently—I wonder. If I hadn’t been there, maybe she would have talked to Yasuko.”
“Ahenh, no. Not a chance. I’ve seen it so many times before. Past a certain age, everything starts to dissolve. The Church wasn’t bombed. The church wasn’t bombed. The simplest, most direct impressions give way, till there’s nothing left. It’s called getting ready for the end. Course, being in that home hasn’t helped much—nothing to keep her alert or focused. I’ve seen it all before. Lots of times. Poor old Mioko.”
“Well, I’m not ready to write her off yet.”
“Who’s writing her off? I’m just saying as a historical source she’s a dead loss. I’m sorry I put you on to her.”
“She seemed pretty lucid most of the time.” Owen said.
“It’s like short term and long term memory. Some older folks can remember exactly what happened on July 12, 1951 but can’t remember whether they talked to you this morning or not.”
“That’s not her problem.”
“Well it’s like her problem only reversed, I guess. Anyway I’ve seen it plenty of times before. I’ll put you on to some other sources—the church has had plenty of amateur historians. You’ve got to roll better with the punches, my boy. But you will, I know. I know it exactly. Now I can’t be late. You can, but I can’t.”
Owen thought, I can be more than late, I can miss the whole service. And he did. He went downstairs, turned away from the open chapel doors and went outside. The sunlight was harsh, brittle, crisp and the trek down the mountain to the train station was severely steep, upsettingly tilting so that he pushed toes against the pavement to prevent pitching off balance. It seemed he was always lurching ahead of himself, struggling to keep upright. The roadway was narrow, slick black macadam and there was a treacherous seven inch wide concrete trench on the side where he walked. Mercifully no car came up or down the slope. He walked gingerly along the edge of the drainage trench. Japan was no country for the infirm of step, he decided. After a certain age there’d be no way to walk to church. The taxis were expensive.
He imagined the rector had reached that part of the ecumenical service called The Pardon. The rector’s phrase was always predictable; “And so my friends believe the good news of Jesus Christ crucified, died, and resurrected for our sins. Believe the good news.”
Judas’s fate had been the subject of some debate at the lesson. Did the Jewish elders purchase the burying site for paupers or did Judas himself? Did he throw himself off a cliff or did he simply swell up and explode in blood on the ground? Akeldama meant exactly what, another stocky American executive wanted to know. Owen was unsure, but that is not what the fellow wanted to hear. He wanted an answer, opaque, solid, and significant. Something to hurl at skepticism,
