Confectionary Redemption, A Generation Away

by Cathern Rosser

1992

Michael stared out the window of the plane as it began its descent, wondering yet again why he was making this journey.

Don’t leave me in purgatory, son. I beg you.

The words seeped from memory, almost auditory, to remind him why. The dying wish of a man that had shown him so little love in over forty years, and yet had the audacity to ask such a large favor of him.

He’d had to ask for a leave of absence from work, enough time to not only settle his father’s affairs and handle the funeral, but to book a flight to Japan and track down a family that had left the States decades ago.

Michael thought about the luggage in the overhead compartment as the plane touched down. His belongings were stowed away beneath the plane, but he felt compelled to keep the precious cargo close at hand.  As the plane decelerated, he turned his gaze out the window yet again, taking in the sights of Iwakuni and making a game plan in his head. 

First, he had to get to the hotel and get settled. The jet lag was a bitch and he needed a stiff drink. He stretched as far as the limited space would allow, feeling his achy knees protest. Yeah, a drink or two was warranted. And earned.

***

1942

John looked incredulously at his fellow officers. Are we really doing this? These people were their neighbors and friends. He saw them on the streets, in the stores. Hell, he even went fishing with a few of them. 

And yet, here he was, ransacking through their houses like they were common criminals. Thanks to the President’s new Executive Order, the Japanese were now public enemy number one. Not that it wasn’t justified. How many had been killed at Pearl Harbor, over two thousand? Jesus, he even had a few buddies from High School stationed in Hawaii.

“Barlens, move your ass!” John was shaken out of his thoughts by Sergeant Mosker. 

“Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“Well think about helping Pitt and Marlone with getting these fuckers out of here so we can search for contraband.”

“Yessir.” John quickly went upstairs to join the officers who were rushing the family to pack up.

Pitt and Marlone were bullying the parents, a middle-aged couple he had seen at the 4th of July celebration just last year. They were rushing to put everything they could into two small suitcases. In the next room, he saw Orsen terrorizing the children. 

“Hey come on now, they’re scared,” John said as he stepped in the room. 

“Shut up, rookie! These kids, they’re spies just like the parents. They use ‘em cuz they’re cute and they think you won’t suspect nuthin.’” He growled at the children like a feral dog. 

One of the children looked to John with tears in his eyes. “Look, the sooner we get them all out, the sooner we can look through the house.” 

Orsen’s eyes lit up. “Ahh, I gotcha pal.” He winked at John, then gave one last menacing look at the children before going downstairs. 

John turned to the children, three of them. The oldest, a young boy that couldn’t have been more than six or seven, began instructing the others in packing their things. He looked at John with eyes that seemed hateful and untrusting. John thought he had every right to be seen that way.

***

1992

“I appreciate you driving me around,” Michael said as they made their way to the Marine Base. 

“No problem. My father’s told me about you for as long as I can remember. It’s nice to finally put a face to the famous Michael Barlens.” Jeremy Krift sat behind the wheel, the spitting image of his father, one of Michael’s oldest friends. 

“Well, you know how it is. You go where they tell you. Your dad and me always wrote back and forth though. I’ve watched you grow up through the pictures he’s sent.” 

Michael tried to watch the city around him as they moved along. He’d never been stationed in Japan. He’s spent some time in Cuba and had a few stints over in Germany during the Cold War, but other than that, he had always been Stateside. There had been plans to travel once he did his twenty, but life happened. Besides, he’d never really considered this part of the world, and now wondered if that wasn’t, in part, due to his father’s drunken stories when he was a kid.

We had to, Michael. We didn’t know who was friend and who was foe. For the good of the Nation and all God-fearing Americans, we did what we had to do.

Looking back now, maybe that’s just what his father had convinced himself of in order to sleep at night.

***

1942

The family was gone. Maybe that’s a small blessing, John thought as he watched his fellow officers rifle through the house, looking for anything of value. 

He thumbed through books on an intricately carved bookshelf in the living room, listening to the others cackle and guffaw from every corner of the now eerily empty house. The Sergeant came up behind him, holding a fistful of jewelry in one hand and a tackle-box in the other. 

“Get a move on, rookie. The guys are getting all the good stuff. If you want to take anything nice to the missus, you better hop-to.” John watched him walk to his vehicle, dump his load, and come back for more. 

I’ll just grab a few things that don’t look too expensive. Just to keep up appearances.

This part of the home had already been pretty well ransacked, but he noticed some lovely art on the walls, a pair of hanging paintings. Walking closer, he reached out to touch them. They were soft, likely silk. Painted on one was a wonderful mountainous landscape, with multiple shades of gray that cascaded from top to bottom. The other revealed an intricately designed flower arrangement, with beautiful golden and pink hues. 

They were mesmerizing.

He gently removed them from the wall. As he was rolling the first up, Orsen came stumbling downstairs with his arms full of clothes. 

“What are you, a fancy pants art guy?” he snorted. “Here, take some of these for your wife. Maybe she can cut em’ up for aprons or something.” Orsen tossed two garments from the large pile he was holding before heading out to his own vehicle. 

John picked them up from the floor. They were extraordinarily soft, probably the finest silk he had ever seen or felt. One was white, with intricately sewn designs throughout the fabric. The second was a vibrant red, with gold leaves and flower petal designs. Like the artwork on the wall, they were beautiful beyond measure, unlike anything he had ever seen. 

John folded the garments as best he could before he rolled up the art works. Most of the men had left, arms full of stolen bounty that they had no use for and no understanding of. Only Marlone remained, waiting for John at the front door.

“Got your fill, Barlens?” he asked as they walked out.

“Yeah, I guess so,” John replied as he turned to shut the door behind him. It wouldn’t latch.

“Just leave it.”

“But,” John began.

Marlone interrupted him. “Those people, they ain’t coming back any time soon. Just do your job. Go along to get along.”

John looked at the house one last time and then turned for his car, walking solemnly.

“Look,” Marlone interjected beside him. “I don’t think you’re really cut out for this. It’s really for more seasoned cops anyway. I’m going to suggest to the Chief that you maybe get some time with traffic under your belt first.”

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” John replied, trying to hide his smile. He glanced at Marlone walking beside him. Maybe they weren’t all power hungry, racist, assholes. Maybe some of them were just like him, going along to get along.

***

1992

Michael sat in a relatively uncomfortable chair as he waited for the Master Gunnery Sergeant to return. The Records Management Office proved to be just as cramped as he’d imagined. Of course, they didn’t initially have the information that he needed, but Jeremy had sent in the request before Michael had even booked his flight. 

You have to return them, Michael. I’ve wanted to for so long. In 1946, when they repealed the Executive Order. In 1988, when our government finally apologized. In the end, I was too much of a coward to face them. To face that boy and his eyes.

Jeremy sat beside him with perfect posture as they waited. “So how did you find out they moved back to Japan?”

Michael rubbed his temples. “My father remembered the exact address of the family. I started there, but the house had been long deserted.”

Michael shifted in his seat, trying to get more comfortable. “So, I started talking to the neighbors. One of them had lived there since 1937, and she knew exactly who I was talking about. Old lady now, but her memory was sharp as a tack. ‘The Tadashi family,’ she said. She used to babysit the little ones sometimes, and even swapped a few recipes with the wife.” 

Footsteps started coming down the hall.

“Anyway, she told me they came back after the war, but only long enough to gather some things. They couldn’t even sell the property because of all the back taxes.” He thought for a minute, snapping his fingers as he tried to remember. “Kaori, that was the wife’s name. And her husband, Hiroto. So that’s what I gave your old man in hopes of tracking them down.”

The door opened. Master Gunnery Sergeant Lorick entered the room carrying a large file. Both waiting men stood.

“Gentlemen,” Lorick said as he sat down, followed by both Michael and Jeremy. “My apologies for the delay. The files were sent by fax last week by the Embassy, but it took awhile to track them down on my end.”

“Not a problem,” Michael said. “I just really appreciate you finding them at all.”

“It wasn’t easy, to be honest. My contact at the Embassy said they had to research into something called a koseki, which took some time. But thankfully they did find the family you were looking for, the Tadashis.” He opened the file on his desk. “According to this, they came to Japan in 1946, to the city of Moriyama, outside of Kyoto. It’s about a four-hour train ride from here.” Lorick closed the file and handed it to Michael.

Michael held the manila folder, thinking that his journey was almost at an end, but also dreading the conclusion for the first time since this began. What did he expect from this family that was so mistreated by his country, his father, so many years ago?

Jeremy snapped him out of his reverie. “Thank you, Master Gunnery Sergeant Lorick.” Michael stood, extending his hand. 

“Yes, thank you, Master Gunnery Sergeant.”

“From one Marine to another, I think you’re doing a good thing. Not just for this family, but for your father’s peace, and your own.” 

Michael shook the man’s hand, wondering who was actually getting the most out of this journey.

***

1944

John looked at his young son crawling on the floor. The boy was rosy cheeked, chubby, everything he had ever wanted. A son, someone to carry on his name, his legacy. But when he looked into the boy’s eyes, he couldn’t help but remember the Japanese boy.

He had put in for a transfer, requesting a change of scenery after Michael was born. Despite his wife’s objections, they had moved to a new city on the other side of the state. It put hundreds of miles between him and that house. 

John had started drinking more heavily after the move. Hoping to drown the accusing eyes, he’d finish off three or four bottles a week. His wife Bethany tried to talk to him, but he couldn’t confess his sins to her. How would she look at him if she knew the truth? How could she look at him?

Michael, growing bigger every day, would try to come to him, to crawl on him, ask love of him. “Up! Up!” in baby babble. And John would try, God would he try, but the moment he caught his son’s eyes, the memory surfaced. He placed the baby back on the floor or in Bethany’s arms, and went back to the bottle.

One day, he promised himself over and over. One day, I’ll make it right. I can wait until after the war, and give them their things back. Those things lay packed away carefully in the attic, in a box marked DO NOT OPEN in big, black letters. 

The box stayed in the attic, month after month, year after year. Collecting dust but never forgotten.

***

1992

Michael had taken the train to Moriyama, and then hailed a taxi to the address listed in the file. He tucked the box under his arm. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to walk up to the front door. 

Before he could bring his arm to knock, the door opened, and a man that appeared to be about Michael’s age stood looking at him. Michael froze.

“May I help you?” the man asked.

Michael snapped out of his paralysis. “I’m looking for the Tadashi family.” 

“I am Hiro Tadashi,” the man said.

Michael shifted the box in his arms. “Is there a Hiroto, or Kaori here?”

“Those are my parents,” Hiro replied. He looked at the box and the American holding it, curious as to what brought them to his door. “Who are you?”

Michael took a deep breath. “My name is Michael Barlens. A long time ago, my father, John Barlens, took things that didn’t belong to him. I’m here to return them.”

Hiro looked at the box with surprise, then turned his gaze to Michael. “Won’t you please come in.”

***

1988

John sat alone in his kitchen, reading the morning paper. The house was too quiet these days. Bethany had passed two years ago, and his son simply had no interest in a relationship. Not that he blamed him. And Michael was a good man, he called on birthdays and Christmas, even sent a card on Father’s Day. John suspected he couldn’t ask more from a son that he could never look in the eye.

As he opened the morning paper and sipped his coffee, one of the headlines caught his eye. “Restitution data offered to Japanese-Americans.” John started reading the article, trying to ignore the sudden pain that had started in his left arm. The pain began to creep up his arm, and into his chest. His vision got blurry and his hands began to shake.

The last thing he remembered thinking before blacking out was not yet, Dear God, I still have to make it right. Give me time to make it right.

***

1992

“This is called a seppuki monaka,” Hiro said as he handed the pastry to Michael. He had spent the afternoon with the boy whose eyes were burned into his father’s memory, all grown up. 

“What is it?” Michael asked, as the elderly Hiroto and Kaori waited, seated across from him at the table.

“It’s an apology. You must present it to them, as a representative of your father.” Michael took the pastry, which looked like a little bun filled with jelly, and handed it gently to Tadashi elders, who smiled and accepted it together. 

“Now, you may hand them the box,” Hiro instructed. Michael took the box from beside him and placed it gently on the table before sitting back down. Hiroto and Kaori rose from their seats as one to open it and pull out the treasures within, tears forming in their eyes as they beheld the contents.

First were the silk garments. “This was my wedding Kimono,” Kaori said as she hugged the white material to her chest tightly. Hiroto pulled the red garment and held it up to show his son. “This was your grandmother’s,” he said with pride. Michael watched, feeling tears form in his own eyes.

After a few moments, Kaori remembered the box and looked inside again, and gasped. She gently placed the kimono on the table and reached in, pulling out the two pieces of art and handing one to her husband. They each unrolled them, crying as the majestic painting unfurled. 

“They’re beautiful,” Michael said, wiping his eyes. 

“They are kakemono, hanging scrolls. They have been in our family for generations!” Hiroto exclaimed. 

Michael glanced at Hiro, who was also trying to covertly wipe the tears in his eyes at seeing the pure joy of his parents.

“My father, he wasn’t a bad man,” Michael felt the need to say. “He was an ordinary man who did a bad thing in a bad time. He wanted to bring these to you sooner, but he couldn’t face you. It was his dying wish for these to be returned to their rightful owners. I hope you can one day forgive him.”

Hiroto, still holding the mountain scroll with one hand, looked to his wife, who nodded. He reached out his free hand, laying it on top of Michael’s on the table. “Mizi ni nagasu,” he said. “The water flows. Your father is forgiven.” 

A weight lifted from Michael’s shoulders. He didn’t know what to expect when he came here, to be cursed at, spit on, ignored. These people who were so mistreated, losing everything and having to relocate to a new country to start their lives over, were smiling at him. They were thanking him, and they had offered the forgiveness that his father needed. And that Michael now realized, he himself needed.

Hiro clapped his hands. “Michael, please join us for dinner.” 

Michael watched as Hiroto went to hang the scrolls, and Kaori carefully folded the Kimonos. His stomach growled, and he laughed. “I’d love to,” he said, and stood to offer his hand. Hiro took it, and shook it gladly. The boy whose eyes had haunted his father, now looked at Michael with friendship, and Michael felt his father could finally rest in peace.