Nureki Chimuo Archive

I was utterly hopeless at physical labor. More than just hopeless, the very idea of heavy work terrified me, and since I only enjoyed drawing pictures and writing, the moment I moved to the second-floor room in the barracks-style building that housed the Welfare Department’s Public Relations Section, I suddenly found myself feeling alive and vibrant every single day.

For the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of workers engaged in weapons production (then called “industrial warriors”), we displayed:

“The devilish Americans and British are our enemies!” “Advance, one hundred million fireballs!” “The decisive battle on the mainland draws near, we shall fight to the end!”

I happily spent my days from morning until night drawing posters bearing slogans like these, which now seem utterly hollow. When I grew tired of making posters from scripts ordered by my superiors, I’d come up with my own half-baked slogans and freely draw original posters.

I possessed almost no spirit of patriotism, but to the adults around me, I probably looked like a plucky, admirable patriotic youth.

I would fill white paper with the face of a sturdy man wearing a hinomaru 13 headband, savoring the colors and texture of the paint. Next to it, I’d scrawl defiant words cursing and despising America and Britain, declaring final victory belonged to the divine nation of Japan, all in bold red and black brushstrokes. That was how I earned recognition for working diligently.

For me, that workplace was a pleasurable, luxurious space.

I learned to sketch, was taught how to draw people, and savored the joy of manipulating color.

The rising sun, Japanese war symbol.

Ichiro Madoroko, a Western-style painter forcibly dragged into this massive munitions factory, always guided me kindly and sincerely.

“Hey kid, do you really think Japan could win a proper war against the Americans?” he would sometimes murmur near my ear, almost as if talking to himself.

Teaching me painting techniques might have been his pleasure in that era where tomorrow was uncertain. He was a painter and a calligrapher.

He was a man entirely devoid of self-interest or greed. He seemed almost too sincere, even a bit slow.

I think he was around fifty years old. I admired him, thinking this must be what a true artist is like.

The fifteen-year-old me, playing the clever little patriot, was far more vulgar.

The Public Relations Department had one more task.

It involved welcoming and entertaining the entertainment troupes that came to visit and perform for the “industrial warriors” making weapons in the factories.

Performers specializing in popular songs, manzai14 comedy, monologue, rakugo storytelling, nagauta15 ballads, and kodan storytelling were organized into entertainment groups that toured and performed for the weapon manufacturing factories.

Theaters, movie theaters, and yose comedy halls in Tokyo and its surrounding urban areas had been almost completely destroyed by American bombs.

The citizens who enjoyed these performances had simultaneously lost their homes to fire and were scattered far and wide.

The touring entertainment troupes were apparently formed into several groups under government orders and toured various locations, but I don’t know the details.

Thanks to my position in the Public Relations Department, I was able to meet famous entertainers who were active at the time.

Popular among the workers were the popular songs. Since this was an era without tapes, singers were accompanied by a band of three or four musicians, performing live.

A two person comedy act

“Long song” in Japanese, accompanied with the shamisen

(Though some singers only had one accordion player.)

The music emanating from the instruments was gentle, peaceful, and warm.

I believe songs and music had a greater effect than any other form of entertainment in soothing the weariness of people’s hearts and bodies.

In front of the two-story wooden barracks housing the Welfare Department’s Public Relations Office was a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. Beyond it stood the Hitachi Welfare Hall, a warehouse-like building that could hold three hundred people if packed tightly.

It was an unadorned structure, but it served the role of what we would now call a hall.

It had a splendid stage, seemingly built for theatrical performances, complete with a long hanamichi extending from the stage’s left side.

(I would sneak into the building when no one was around and enjoy mimicking Benkei’s flying six-directions from “Kanjincho” on this hanamichi.)

The auditorium also had projection equipment for showing movies.

Behind the stage, separated by a prop room, was a dressing room spacious enough for about fifty performers to prepare. It was a Japanese-style room with tatami mats.

However, there were no private rooms, only one large space. Along three walls facing the room, long single planks were laid horizontally to form dressing tables.

Three female students were assigned to the Public Relations Department. They all wore monpe.

Among them was a beautiful girl named Kuga Chiyoko, two or three years older than me, with a bobbed haircut. She was primarily responsible for entertaining the visiting entertainment troupes.

When the visiting groups were large, I was ordered to assist with the hospitality under Kuga Chiyoko’s direction.

After the Public Relations Department chief greeted the visiting group as they arrived by truck and exchanged greetings, it was Kuga Chiyoko’s and my job to escort the performers to the dressing rooms in the Welfare Hall.

The dressing rooms immediately became their rest areas. I carried tea and meals there and handled various small tasks as their guide.

It was an interesting experience to see the off-stage personas of these famous entertainers.

I saw each of their distinct, strong personalities.

Some entertainers treated minors like me and Kuga Chiyoko with meaningless contempt and arrogance.

There were singers who seemed to be saying, “A top-tier performer like me came to entertain at a factory? Feed me something better!”

To a young boy’s eyes, many of the performers seemed like vulgar people.

I’ll skip the rest of this experience, as writing about it would be endless.

Tokugawa Musei, the “manzai” comedian, arrived.

I nervously presented my lunch tray to Tokugawa Musei, who sat cross-legged on the tatami mat in the center of the dressing room.

I can never forget his warm, kind-faced expression at that moment.

“Oh ho, bread, is it? How stylish.” Smiling cheerfully, he picked up a roll from the tray, split it in two, and carried one half to his mouth with obvious relish.

Beside the bread sat a bowl of soup and a dish of simmered dried daikon radish. Though called bread, it was merely a coarse lump of flour, now recalling it was dry and crumbly, with bits of black bran mixed in.

Bran is the husk residue left when grinding wheat into flour, a part normally discarded.

In times of food scarcity, bread made by mixing this bran into the flour was the best treat the factory could offer to the visiting group.

Even to me, a boy who was always hungry, that bread was not tasty.

Yet Tokugawa Musei, mindful of us, ate it all with a smile, cheerful and without leaving a crumb.

The soup was a thick, sludgy broth, like gruel made from ground corn.

He drank that too, looking as if he enjoyed it.

That warm way of eating was conveyed to us, the servers.

I was deeply moved. I sensed the greatness of the man.

That emotion from sixty years ago remains unforgettable to this day.

He entertained the workers in the audience with stories from his days as a katsuben (live movie narrator), told with exquisite storytelling skill and brimming with humor.

Not much time has passed since silent films gave way to talkies. The term “katsuben” still held an everyday familiarity.

I’ll write about Shimikin and Asagiri Kyoko too.

Back then, the “King of Laughter” Shimikin, from Shimzu Kinichi’s troupe, came to the Welfare Hall as an entertainment troupe.

The audience was packed to the rafters with workers starved for laughter.

I had already seen Shimikin’s troupe perform their comedies many times on stages in Asakusa.

I watched “Shimikin’s Asakusa Young Master” from the front row at the Tokiwaza theater.

I can still sing the theme song from “Asakusa Young Master” today.

It goes like this: “Someone once taught me that being strong isn’t the only way to be a man.”

Decades later, Seki Keiroku took up this song and sang it on stage at Asakusa’s Mokubatei theater with the “21st Century Theater Company” until very recently.

Seki Keiroku, too, is now deceased.

I also saw Asagiri Kyoko perform on stage.

She was a star with the Shochiku Girls’ Revue before joining the Shimikin Troupe.

I saw her sing and dance at Asakusa’s Kokusai Theater. She also starred in films.

She wasn’t a conventional beauty, but she had a round face and a warm, endearing, distinctly Japanese charm.

As soon as I guided her from outside to the dressing room entrance, she slipped close beside me and whispered in my ear, “Hey, where’s the restroom?”

Enveloped in a sweet feminine scent unlike anything I’d experienced in the factory, I was flustered and my legs went weak.

Feeling her dazzling aura so close, I felt like my knees buckled and couldn’t respond.

I silently bowed my head repeatedly as I guided her to the shared restroom in a separate building.

As the cast attendant, I stayed in the dressing room, listening to the constant laughter from the audience during the Shimikin troupe’s comedy.

As the performance neared its end, Shimikin, who had briefly returned to the dressing room, staggered over to me and said, “Son, got any sake? Bring me some sake.”

Asagiri Kyoko also came backstage and stood beside Shimikin looking like she was about to tend to him.

“Boss, the show isn’t over yet!” she said, almost scolding him.

“I’m thirsty. I can’t go on without sake.” Shimikin yelled in a raspy voice. He really did look miserable.

Hearing that, I immediately consulted Kuga Chiyoko.

She nodded, then trotted over to the kitchenette in the corner of the dressing room and unlocked a large metal cabinet.

She then pulled out a one-liter bottle of sake from the back of the bottom shelf.

“It’s okay, the manager told me,” Chiyoko said firmly to me. Then, carrying the bottle and a tea cup, she returned to where Shimikin was panting heavily.

“Thank you. You never know where you’ll find it.” Shimikin grabbed the bottle himself, poured sake into the cup, and drank it down with a gulp.

Asagiri Kyoko dutifully wiped the sake spilled on his knee with a hand towel.

Watching from a little distance away, Chiyoko whispered in my ear.

“The section chief told me to serve it to everyone in the troupe after the play ends today.”

Occasionally, sake like this would be distributed from somewhere in the weapons manufacturing factory.

Even so, Kuga Chiyoko was a quick-witted, dependable schoolgirl. I respected her.

After the play ended, tables were set up in the dressing room, and sake and food were served to the troupe members.

The section chief greeted the performers who had given such a passionate performance and expressed his gratitude.

After the troupe members had left, only Shimikin lingered, drinking sake slowly with Asagiri Kyoko.

The section chief ordered me to take the two of them to Kameari Station.

It was past eight o’clock at night, and the road wound through dark rice paddies and fields on both sides.

Asagiri Kyoko supported Shimikin, who was drunk and staggering, practically carrying him on her shoulder as they walked.

I walked slowly about three meters ahead of them.

“Kyoko! Kyoko!” Shimikin would occasionally cry out in a voice that sounded like he was crying.

He would stumble, unable to walk, and drop to one knee on the ground.

I saw Shimikan’s hand reach over Asagiri Kyoko’s shoulder, grabbing and kneading her breast through her clothes.

Asagiri Kyoko, without trying to brush away Shimikin’s clinging hand, bravely continued walking while supporting him.

Kneading her breast, Shimikin took his time walking the road to the station. “How nice!” I thought.

Being the troupe leader, he could freely knead a beautiful actress’s breasts like this while walking. How nice!

I never became an elegant old man like Tokugawa Musei, radiating warmth and dignity, but I felt I had become a man like Shimikin, with a fondness for breasts.

This part is a bit funny, isn’t it?