The Return

In the fuzzy world of Japan's new democracy it seemed like a Shinto nightmare. Two thousand hard-jawed Japanese, in jackboots and military khaki, clomped down the gangplank of the transport that had brought them from prison camps in Siberia to their home in Dai Nippon. They clenched fists, bawled the Internationale and the Song of the Kolkhoz.

Many a shocked compatriot on shore remembered how these men had sailed away, in the days of the Co-Prosperity Sphere, with a similar purposeful spirit and disciplined jingoist chants. The official welcoming party--talkative bureaucrats, beaming Red Cross nurses, bustling newsmen--waited on a bare wooden dock in Maizuru harbor, with blue, cloud-flecked hills and stark rusted cranes of the former naval base as backdrop. The 2,000 lined up rigidly, listened stonily to the effusive greetings, responded with chilling precision. A close-cropped ex-army captain stepped stiffly forward. "Some of us," he barked, "have not seen home in ten years. All of us have been prisoners for four. We have made the greatest sacrifice." The 2,000 chorused: "Sono tori [exactly]!" The captain barked: "Full of hope, we have come to build a new democratic Japan on the Potsdam agreement." The men thundered: "Yoshi [good]!"

Members of the welcoming committee exchanged worried glances. These were not soft, war-sick homecomers but hard, aggressive strangers. In four years of captivity, their Russian jailers seemed to have taught them well.

"Join the Communists." They were the first of 95,000 whom the Russians had promised to send home this year. Some 300,000 other Japanese P.W.s were still unaccounted for. What had happened to them was anybody's guess.

The 2,000 spoke about their captivity in various ways. "The Russian treatment was on the whole good," some would say with jerky glances over their shoulders. "I say join the Communists in Japan, but I want to wait and see what conditions are really like first." At times, when one of the dyed-in-the-wool Communists passed, the voices would die to a murmur.

The men who led the lusty singing and shouted the stiff commands were more positive in their views. Artilleryman Sei-saku Akimoto, leader of the Russian-sponsored Minshu Ka Undo (Democratic Movement) in his camp, said: "The Russians trust us and we trust the Russians. We soon found out from our newspapers there how we had been duped by fascists and capitalists." Snapped former Pfc. Tsugio Kishimoto, prison company commander: "We must all join the Communist Party. It is our only chance to build a new, democratic Japan."

"I Never Had It So Good." The school in Siberia which had inculcated such thoughts and sentiments had begun bitterly. For two years the men were cold and hungry, worked unremittingly. Then the Russians eased up. For those who embraced Communism or at least paid lip service, living conditions took a sharp turn for the better. Recalled one repatriate: "I never had it so good. There was plenty to eat and the Russians were so easygoing."

Tsumoru Fujii had been at Ulan Ude near Lake Baikal. His story was typical. This P.W. camp was run by a seven-man "antifascist committee" made up of captives who had gone through a two-month political school at Nakhodka, near Vladivostok. Five nights a week, Fujii and his fellow prisoners would trudge off to hear a two-hour lecture. Last November, prisoners were told how Henry Wallace had been defrauded of the U.S. presidency by vote-buying and illegal balloting organized by Democrats and Republicans. Recently they were told that MacArthur was forcibly taking rice from Japanese farmers for shipment to America; in return the U.S. shipped low-grade corn meal to Japan. They discussed the Atlantic pact as "The Prelude to World War III."

When he refused to attend propaganda movies, Fujii was brought before a "People's Court." As punishment, he was thrown into the middle of a ring of prisoners, then kicked and beaten from one side to the other.

"They Never Told Us." Soviet indoctrination, however, did not shield all the 2,000 from the impact of home. Private Masaatsu Okada stammered: "My heart is full." Some wept. Recalling the bare grass mountains of Siberia, Toshiji Sugimoto choked: "When we first saw the bamboo forests this morning . . ." He broke off. "I just can't put it in words."

For three days the repatriates were processed through a reorientation center. There were many surprises in U.S.-occupied Japan. "I didn't think Japan had any clothing left," said one man as he wriggled his feet into a pair of heavy new shoes. Gradually, as the repatriates talked to friendly representatives from home prefectures, looked at Japanese newspapers and books, attended reorientation lectures on the new government and the social structure, the crust of fear and suspicion softened; tight, drawn faces began to relax. Smiling repatriates in new grey clothes crowded around local exhibits in the prefectural exhibition building. One happy man saw his child's drawing on display. Another found his family's picture in a large album and burst into tears. Said one wide-eyed, thin-faced soldier: "They never told us it would be like this."

Red Flags & Cold Tea. Then the re-indoctrination for the U.S.-brand of democracy went awry. Some 500 of the repatriates were shuttled on to their native Kyoto. To the old city's railway station trooped a crowd of official greeters. All was carefully planned, including the serving of tea by the local women's club. But Kyoto's Communists moved into the party and made it their own show.

Somehow, perhaps in collusion with Red railway workers, they managed to filter through a police cordon. They cleverly planted Red flags in the hands of the official greeters. When the repatriates' train pulled in, the welcome was transformed into a frenzied Red rally. Bewildered clubwomen stood disconsolately amid unnoticed cups of cold tea as the demonstration swept around them.

Led by their company commanders, the repatriates marched onto the platform singing the Internationale. Black-capped students rushed alongside to exchange greetings and slogans. As a crowd of 10,000 gathered before the speakers' stand, a succession of screaming Communist orators warned of the dangers of a capitalist society. From the roof of a nearby building, pudgy little doshi (girl comrades) waved red flags bearing the slogan, "Welcome to the returning heroes who will guard the independence of the motherland."

U.S. occupation officers on the spot cursed and gritted their teeth over the "inefficiency" of the Japanese authorities, who had bungled the reception. Said one: "Sure we'd like to stop it, but what can you do with a directive?"

The Communists were happy. For the repatriates it was reassuring to cheer banzai once more, to see hundreds of flags waving overhead in the light summer breeze. In fact, Kyoto station didn't seem different from the time they had last left it.

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