Hiroshima: Meetings with Atomic Bomb Survivors

From END Info 44 | DOWNLOAD

Michael Mears

Michael Mears has been in Japan to perform THE MISTAKE, his powerful play that on the decisions that changed the course of history and the human cost that followed. We are publishing part of Michael’s ‘Japan Diary’ and the accompanying photographs with his permission.

* * *

Saturday afternoon, October 4th, we take off from Hiroshima Airport to begin the long journey home. What a week it’s been, this final week of our Japanese tour.

In Tottori City on Monday morning, after our two performances at Bird Theatre Festival, we are undecided how to get to Hiroshima with all of our baggage. Six large suitcases, a number of smaller cases, and not forgetting the tatami mat used in the play as well. There’s a cheap bus all the way to Hiroshima which is a very tempting option - until we discover that the bus-stop is 50 miles away. The bullet-train beckons, but that would involve a change of trains and then hunting down at least two taxis at Hiroshima Station. So the best option seems to be a minibus and driver - taking us from hotel door to hotel door - but this will cost a cool £500.

I don’t even hesitate. ‘Let’s do it - it will relieve us of so much stress.’ There have been savings in other parts of the budget so I feeI I can justify this expense.

From hotel door to hotel door; from cramped submarine-sized ‘cabin’ to stylish spacious apartment with all mod-cons - located right on Hiroshima’s Peace Boulevard. After five nights cooped up like a budgerigar in my birdcage of a room in Tottori, at last - enough room in which to stretch out, walk about, dance around, open up my suitcases, spread all my clothes and papers about. Room in which to think and reflect.

I feel many emotions coursing through me as the minibus draws ever nearer to the city which has taken up so much of my thinking, my feeling, my creativity, these last few years.

Shortly after arriving, we meet up with Junko, our second wonderful Japanese collaborator for this tour, then head to the home of Toshiko Tanaka. She is the gently inspiring 86-year-old atomic bomb survivor who I met and befriended in London last year - and who at that time invited Riko and myself to her home in Hiroshima should we ever get here.

She’s waiting on the doorstep and when she recognizes me her face cracks open into a huge grin, a heart-melting beaming smile, as she takes my hand and says, ‘This is like a dream - a dream come true!’

I introduce her to Riko, Maria and Junko and we are ushered inside to where family and friends await. There is so much laughter, so much emotion. Riko is deeply moved to have this opportunity of talking with Toshiko and hearing her story first-hand, of surviving the atomic bomb, her subsequent trauma, her turning to art in later years as a way of healing that trauma, and then, only at the age of 70, at the urging of others, beginning to talk in public about her experiences; travelling, when her health permitted, travelling the world to speak at conferences, schools, all kinds of events - where she would share with her audience the horrors of that August day, in 1945, when she was just six years old, when she lost family and school friends, when she suffered burns and injuries such that at first her mother didn’t recognise her.

At these public events, Toshiko would then take questions and, in conclusion, gently, but so persuasively, so irresistibly, urge everyone listening to ensure that these terrible weapons are never used again.

One of her recommended strategies? To travel and make friends with people in other countries, to reach out to those from different nations, so that should war between those nations ever rear its ugly head, we would resist it, with every fibre of our being, because of the precious friends we have in that country, that nation.

Next, she urges the four of us to go next door where she has a small gallery exhibiting her striking mural art-works, which use ceramics and enamels as well as many other components - all her work referencing in subtle and varied ways different aspects of her experiences of the bomb and her reflections and contemplations of the world, the universe, and how we are all so deeply connected.

There are many exquisite details in these art-works. In one of them I see Einstein’s famous equation - the same equation which is written on the blackboard in my play THE MISTAKE, which Toshiko will attend tomorrow as a guest of honour.

When we return from the gallery she tells us how each of these art-works took her about six months to complete; that while she was working on them she forgot everything else, she could feel her trauma and pain subsiding. We are then greeted by a huge feast of delicacies laid out on the tables - and amidst the devouring of tasty snacks and the clinking of glasses filled with sparkling wine - ‘Kampai!’ we toast - the laughter resumes.

When the subject is serious, Toshiko speaks with earnestness and gravitas, every word carrying profound emotion. But when the subject is not serious she laughs, smiles and is filled with joy. Despite constant bomb-related health issues throughout her life, she has never wanted to come across as a sad old lady bemoaning the past. As a result there have been people - can you believe this? - who have suggested she is not a genuine survivor; because of the joy she so often exudes. (Holocaust-deniers, climate-crisis-deniers…you can now add to the list atomic-bomb-survivor-deniers…)

Ten years ago Toshiko welcomed the grandson of President Truman into her home - the grandson of the man who authorized the dropping of those terrifying atomic bombs. She is a true ambassador for peace and I feel my life has been deeply enriched by meeting her.

The Japanese word for atomic-bomb survivor is ‘hibakusha’ which, strictly translated, means ‘bomb-affected person’. Little do I know that I will soon meet another extraordinary hibakusha.

Next morning, Tuesday September 30th, the day of our performance in the city, I need some time to myself - to visit and contemplate some of the city’s significant sites and memorials. Sometimes it’s the smaller things that have greater impact. I feel my eyes pricking with tears when I suddenly encounter half a dozen atomic-bomb survivors not far from our aparthotel in Peace Boulevard. But these survivors are trees. Trees that were less than a mile from the epicenter of the atomic blast but somehow survived. Are somehow still alive. 80 years later. What did these trees experience that August day? What unbearable sights did they witness? If trees could talk…

I lay my hands on each of them in turn, then move on - towards one of Hiroshima’s seven rivers - the Motoyasu - and its distinctive T-shaped bridge. This was the target point for the atomic bomb, which I reference more than once in the play. And here it is. I am standing on it. The actual bridge. Rebuilt, restored. 80 years ago, standing on this spot, I would have been instantly vaporised. I gaze down into the river, I survey its banks, imagining the thousands of wounded and dying taking refuge there, many of them jumping into the water, trying to cool their burns, many dying instantly… All of which is witnessed in my play.

A short distance away I can see the iconic A-bomb dome - which partially survived the blast and has been carefully preserved as a potent reminder of what happened 80 years ago in this now rebuilt, modern, bustling city.

I walk past an affecting sculpture of a burns-victim … reddish stone, the body slightly abstracted, writhing in agony; on into the Peace Park, where I ring the Peace Bell; where I walk past the flame of peace - which will only be extinguished once the last nuclear weapon has been eliminated from the world; on to visit the children’s memorial - one of many in the city, each one so poignant - this one in tribute to Sadako Sasaki, who folded a thousand paper peace cranes before dying of bomb-related leukemia, aged 12. When she ran out of paper in her hospital bed she would fold tiny cranes from the papers her medicines were wrapped in. Next, I walk a little further to pay my respects at the Memorial Cenotaph, with its famous inscription - translated into numerous languages. In my play it’s translated as ‘Rest In Peace for the mistake shall not be repeated’. In German, it’s ‘katastrophe’; in French, ‘tragedie’; and in Italian, ‘malvagio’ (evil).

I look up at the blue sky above me and imagine the monstrous swirling black and purple mushroom cloud, towering terrifyingly above the city 80 years ago; I can sense the ghosts of atomic-bomb victims all around - in the air, on the breeze, floating above the river, hovering within the reverberations of the Peace Bell…

And yet the city is now so full of greenery, so full of life, so full of bustle… In response, however, a simple heartfelt poem materialises in my mind…

‘The city survives,

The earth revives,

But one hundred thousand

Lost their lives…’

Riko and I have been trying not to put too much pressure on ourselves as this day has approached. ‘Let’s just think of it as another performance,’ I say, ‘We’ll do our warm-ups, then give 100% as usual.’ ‘But it’s not as usual,’ Riko says, ‘It’s Hiroshima!’ She’s right. Who am I trying I fool? It most certainly is not just ‘another performance’. I feel my nerves jangling, my stomach churning.

Later that afternoon we set up in the large hall of Hiroshima International House, we assemble the whiteboard we’ve bought online, and before we know it, it’s six o’clock, and 100 people are filing in to take their seats… friends, friends of friends, younger people, older people, Japanese people, English-speaking people, peace activists, strangers who have heard about our visit from a newspaper article, and three atomic-bomb survivors - one of them Toshiko Tanaka, now sitting in the front row accompanied by her English-speaking daughter, Reiko.

We are performing on a stage but it’s quite small, our movements and staging more restricted than we’ve been used to recently - but all goes well, if not perfectly. I have a little trouble with one or two props - due to nerves? - but nothing that the audience would notice. Portraying the pilot of the Enola Gay, Colonel Paul Tibbets, in the very city that he flew over so precisely in order that the first atomic bomb in history could be delivered, is not an easy task for me - it almost feels brutal. But I endeavour to stay true to the character of the man.

The silence and concentration in the room is very moving, and as the play progresses the emotion in the air is audible. Tears. More tears. ‘Stay focussed,’ I tell myself. But then, towards the end, as I deliver nuclear physicist Leo Szilard’s penultimate line - ‘The one thing I could not do was turn back the clock’ - I make the simple error of looking straight into the eyes of Toshiko Tanaka, atomic-bomb-survivor, sat there before me in the front row - and I nearly lose it. I so nearly lose it. ‘Get a grip,’ I order myself - which I do, then manage to complete the last few minutes of the play. Riko’s character Shigeko has the final line - spoken in Japanese - but which in English means, ‘I’m sorry if any of this has caused you distress’. That line seems acutely pertinent today of all days, in this city, in front of this audience.

Applause; more applause; then my speech in Japanese thanking them all for being there and fervently hoping that we’ll all continue working for a world free of these monstrous weapons; yet more applause; after which Toshiko is invited onstage to speak about her experiences, while Riko and I quickly change - not before emotionally high-fiving and hugging each other with relief. We then join Toshiko onstage and answer questions and share reflections with the audience.

Some scenes in the play were clearly hard for Toshiko to watch, painful memories flooding back, but she grasps our hands in gratitude, urging us to continue contributing to a more peaceful world through our particular medium of dramatic art.

After we conclude, we mingle with the audience. We meet Keiko Ogura, another atomic-bomb survivor who speaks fluent English and travels the world working for peace. Riko’s mother is also in the audience - she saw the play in New York earlier this year and has come down from Osaka to see her daughter perform in Japanese. She compliments my Japanese speaking in the play (three short scenes) - and Riko then tells me that when her father saw the play in Tokyo two weeks earlier he had declared that my Japanese speaking was better than Johnny Depp’s in the film ‘Minamata’.

Wow. I had no idea. There’s something I’m better at than Johnny Depp.

As people begin to leave, someone tells me there’s another woman who wants to say hello to me. A small 80-year-old woman, whose name is Koko Kondo. I learn that she too is an atomic-bomb survivor. She was a ten-month-old baby at the time, and was pushed out by her mother through a hole in the debris of their home that had collapsed on top of them, with flames getting closer - both of them miraculously surviving and ultimately reuniting with their father, the Methodist minister Reverend Tanimoto, who was in another part of the city. This is making my head spin.

I have been performing another, shorter, Hiroshima play, called The Priest’s Tale - a solo piece I’ve created from one of the accounts in John Hersey’s seminal book ‘Hiroshima’. In it I play a German Jesuit priest, based in Hiroshima, who survived the blast. This priest, and his fellow Jesuit priests in the city, knew and were friends with the Reverend Tanimoto, who I reference several times in my piece. I even briefly portray Tanimoto. And now I find myself talking to Reverend Tanimoto’s daughter. Who takes my hand. Who warmly thanks me for the performance of The Mistake she has just seen. Who tells me she will be seeing me again tomorrow. When I am due to perform The Priest’s Tale for English-speaking peace studies students at Hiroshima University. My head spins even more. I find it hard to process this all.

We say goodbye to Toshiko and her daughter, then it’s time to clear up the hall and wait for a taxi to take us and our cases full of props back to the aparthotel. What a day. Unforgettable.

Later, in the solitude of my spacious room, I devour the bag of snacks left over from yesterday’s feast, which Toshiko insisted we take home with us - while I reflect on what has just happened this evening: that after so many months and years of preparation, I have performed THE MISTAKE, my play about Hiroshima, alongside a remarkable Japanese performer, Riko Nakazono, in front of atomic-bomb survivors, in the heart of that very city.