Although I was young I remember a lot about daily
life including the War years. My mother helped with
foreigners who needed interpreting because of her
bilingual ability and she also went to school to study
other languages herself. Along the way she met and
became friends with an official of the Royal Thai
Embassy in Tokyo. Luang Ratanadib was the First
Secretary and he had been posted in Japan for a few
years. His wife and children chose to remain in
Bangkok. He was a very able diplomat and a gentleperson.
The Thai Embassy was located in Tokyo's
Meguro area.
He lived in a large house in the middle of Tokyo in
keeping with his rank. It was located in Shibuya's
Jinnan-cho area. As a diplomat the home was
appropriately grand. It faced a vast open field that was
one of the Japanese military training grounds where
recruits went for their initial orientation.
My mother and I moved into this house and lived
there throughout the War and the bombings until it was
destroyed during the big raid on Tokyo a few years
later. Luang Ratanadib and my mother lived as man
and wife. Looking back on the circumstances as an
adult, I do not find fault with either person. Only those
people who are confronted with a certain set of reality
may understand the reasons for their decisions. Even
those of us on the sidelines, however close to it, cannot
always fathom the whys, nor need we. Their union
produced a brother, Ratha.
From the second floor of our home across the road
in front I could see the field and watch the young
5
Japanese soldiers in training. Our house had a small
garden by the entrance, enough space for a bomb
shelter, which we had. It was a long rectangular trough
with a reinforced overhead arch with mounds of soil on
top. It had a dirt floor, no lighting, only a piece of burlap
hanging at the entryway. It was large enough for about
15 people to sit on the ground. In those days
neighborhoods throughout Japan were organized into
groups, tonarigumi, with each having a leader. During
air raids over Tokyo, something that became almost a
daily ritual after a while, the people in the neighborhood
would come to our yard to take refuge in our bomb
shelter.
Since it was in our yard, I usually got to it early and
ended up going way back into the rear. My most vivid
recollections are of the raids at night, which were often.
Sitting as I did in the rear it was really dark. As the
American bombers flew over the city releasing their
bombs, I could hear the explosions and the ground
shake. Each time it did so, a trickle of dirt would fall on
to my shoulders. I did not like it.
When the all-clear signal would sound we would
crawl out of the shelter to see the entire sky red with a
mixture of smoke and pungent odor of gunpowder.
Sirens would be blaring as firefighters attempted to put
out the many fires. We would return to our home
hoping the fires would not spread in our direction.
Despite the air raids and the bombing, life seemed
to go on. For us children, we played and did the things
kids do. We would fly kites, play marbles and catch
dragon flies in season. Along with everyone my hair
was closely cut and I usually walked around in wooden
“shoes” known as geta. Also like everyone I was skinny
though a bit taller for my age. The children in our
neighborhood did not see me too differently. I was just
part of the gang. Japan and even in Tokyo at that time
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had gutters and sewers which were uncovered and
connected to nearby little shallow creeks. These were
part of our play areas. On one occasion, I walked up
stream to one of these creeks near our home in the
Shibuya area. After a while I came upon a tunnel
beneath a road, which led to the other side. At the end
of the tunnel were a number of steel bars to keep
people out or large item from flowing into the sewer
system. For a small kid, it was not an obstacle. I
squeezed through it. The water was getting colder. I
decided to go a bit farther and saw that the stream was
coming from a little lake or marsh surrounded by some
small trees. Suddenly off in the distance I saw a ghostly
figure shrouded in a sheet like covering. It was against
a tree, bent over struggling to rise. Then from the other
side of that tree appeared a uniformed Japanese
soldier. Holding what to me looked like a wooden rod,
he proceeded to hit the shrouded figure with a great of
force whereupon the figure would sink to the ground.
The soldier would yell at it to stand up and when it tried
to do so he would repeat the beatings again. The
shroud was covered with blood. I was afraid and
shocked. I had unknowingly entered into the Japanese
military recruit-training compound. I do not recall
whether other soldiers were there. I only saw the
violent beatings.
I quickly retraced my steps and went home to tell
my mother what I had seen. Clearly, it was a brutal act
in the name of discipline. My mother said I should
never go back there and not to repeat this story to
anyone else.