Nureki Chimuo Archive

I’ve taken quite a detour.

This time I’ll write about the Tsurukame Theater.

Before that, I must briefly mention how I met Kataoka Tobei through Hitachi’s public relations theater troupe.

Had I not crossed paths with Tobei, I doubt I would have ended up joining the Tsurukame Theater troupe, no matter how much I loved theater as a boy.

When Masako Ichimura joined this “Public Relations Troupe,” her impression was dazzling and vivid. Tobei, however, seemed to have slipped seamlessly into the troupe’s fold before anyone noticed.

Naturally, I only know the troupe members’ stage names. When we call each other for business, it’s always by our stage names.

Tobei, too, was over forty when he was conscripted and brought to this factory to make weapons, so he must have had a real name.

Yet, both I and the other troupe members all called him “Tobei-san.”

And yet, no one had actually seen Kataoka Tobei perform as a kabuki actor on stage.

But he had a face that was very much like an actor’s, a broad, wide face like a chopping board, with two slender, gentle eyes set upon it.

His nose and mouth were large, and his face was a fine one, well-powdered, yet only his eyes were small and gentle, set apart. He had the very air of a good natured “Tobei-san.”

Despite being a professional kabuki actor, he never put on airs or acted superior toward us amateurs. Whenever we asked questions, he kindly answered everything.

He responded politely even to children like me.

However, judging by the hierarchy of the kabuki world, I guessed he was probably around the rank of “named actor” (meidaishita), not one of the leading actors who got the best roles on stage.

Having a father who loved theater meant I became knowledgeable about these things from childhood.

I practically grew up buried in the mountain of kabuki magazines my father loved to read, breathing in their dust.

When the public relations troupe was set to perform the kabuki piece “Oshiro Suzukamori,” I watched Tobei properly instructing Suzuki Keiichiro (playing Banzui Chobei) and Yoshoka Shintaro (playing Shirai Gonpachi) on kabuki movements and forms during their rehearsal.

(This man is the real deal, I thought to myself.) Gonpachi cuts down a crowd of thugs, then draws back one leg, lowers his hips, and stares intently at the blood-stained blade. Chobei hides his face with his left sleeve, holds up a lantern, and checks the blade. Tobei performed each of these poses stylishly by himself, then efficiently taught them to the two actors.

The duo of this tall, stout Deputy Chief Suzuki from the Public Relations Department and the self-proclaimed handsome Yoshio Shintaro, formerly a silent film projectionist, was well-matched and well-received.

When we performed “Blood-Red Smoke at Takada’s Horse Market,” I played the daughter of Horibe Yahei. It was an onnagata role.

Looking back, this was my very first onnagata role.

Horibe Yahei would later become one of the forty-seven Ako ronin who stormed the residence of Kira Kozukenosuke, despite his advanced age.

This role was played by the painter, Kazato Ichiro. He, too, was perfectly suited to the part.

Tobei sat facing me in the corner of the dressing room, studying my face intently and meticulously applying my makeup.

He applied white powder to my face, neck, and nape, outlined my eyes with red and black, drew my eyebrows, and applied lipstick.

The cosmetic and makeup tools were all Tobei’s own, his personal belongings.

I was intoxicated by the rich scent of the powder and the sticky sensation as it was applied to my skin.

When applying the eye makeup, Tobei’s small eyes widened as wide as they could, his face coming close to mine.

I instinctively shrank back, but I still vividly recall the tiny pimples on either side of his nose, like little black sesame seeds stuck there.

Tobei even dressed me in the costume himself.

“You’re looking pretty, boy, looking pretty. Stand up straight and turn around once.”

For some reason, Tobei suddenly switched to a woman’s voice, peering and squinting, looking at me with obvious delight.

I too, occasionally peering into the mirror before my makeup, watched my face and figure transform into that of a samurai daughter from a period drama. I felt a strange mix of embarrassment, dread, and something utterly inexplicable.

But at that moment, something else caught my eye. As I was changing, I found myself utterly captivated by it as well.

I must write about this honestly too.

Nakayama Yasubei, a rogue ronin known in the streets as a drunkard and a brawler, received a letter from his uncle and rushed to Takada’s Horse Market. There he found his uncle already savagely slain by his duel opponent.

Upon learning this, Yasubei immediately drew his sword, declaring this spot the place for revenge, and engaged in a great battle against eighteen men.

A large crowd of onlookers and spectators gathered around this act of vengeance.

The residents of the poor tenement where Yasubei lived also cheered him on loudly and boisterously. It's a scene familiar from both popular theater and film.

Among these spectators were men and women from the Welfare Department, along with drama enthusiasts from other sections who had been rounded up to play their parts.

In a long, narrow dressing room about sixty tatami mats in size, the performers prepared without distinction between seniority or rank.

A girl playing one of the spectators stood up and began taking off her outer garment, entering my field of vision.

It was just as Tobei was applying lipstick to my lips with a red brush.

Still standing, she then hooked both hands under the hem of the white cotton undershirt she wore on her upper body and spun around to take it off.

The next instant, large white breasts popped out.

This was an era before bras existed. Beneath the shirt was bare skin.

Tobei was facing away from her, unaware of this. He was busily applying makeup to my face.

Seeing those two breasts, I was stunned by their overwhelming beauty.

It felt like I’d been suddenly struck on the back of the head with something hard.

They were perfectly spherical, as if a sphere had been precisely halved and the halves neatly affixed to either side of her chest, their shape vividly clear.

To me, the diameter of her breasts seemed larger than the area of her face.

There was not a hint of sagging, they were firm and full, a shape that could only be described as beautiful.

Her nipples resembled plum blossom buds.

The girl always sat at the desk at the far end of the general affairs department. I recognized her face, but I didn’t know her name. We had never spoken.

She quickly put on a hada-juban, the undergarment of a town maiden, concealing those large breasts.

Thinking back now, it must have been just five or six seconds, no, maybe only two or three seconds.

But for me, in my adolescence, it was an impulsive moment.

Even now, sixty years later, I can recall that fleeting scene as if it were yesterday.

Later in life, though it was part of my job, I would touch the breasts of over five thousand young women.

It wasn’t merely touching.

Sometimes I would grasp them with five fingers, twist and squeeze them, or even use all ten fingers to grasp and knead both breasts simultaneously.

Yet, the shock I felt that day as a boy, glimpsing the breasts of that nameless girl, was something I could no longer experience. I felt no eroticism.

One could say it was only natural, since I was touching them for work…

Is the sweet shock of eroticism tasted in adolescence something no one can ever forget for the rest of their life?

Or is this feeling something only I possess?

I can’t help but feel that the rest of my life was perhaps dominated by that fleeting scene in the dressing room.

I have another memory associated with this “Blood-red Smoke at Takada’s Horse Market.”

Next to the two-story wooden building housing the Public Relations Section of the Welfare Department stood a similar wooden structure, the cafeteria for factory workers.

While today’s employee cafeteria offers a rich variety of dishes, this was the era of food shortages toward the end of the war.

We were given rice mixed with large amounts of burnt-smelling soybeans, charred by air raids, and a meager soup containing some kind of seaweed, served in aluminum dishes in exchange for meal tickets.

At lunchtime, groups of female students dressed in monpe-style work clothes would come together to this cafeteria.

Brought here from their classrooms by government order to work in this massive munitions factory, they were engaged in weapons production. While eating alongside these “military schoolgirls,” I said, “I’m performing in a play at the Welfare Hall this Saturday night. Would you like to come see it?”

“Wow, that’s wonderful! What are you playing? A cool role?” They exclaimed in unison, looking at me with eyes full of expectation.

I was pleased with myself.

“Oh, it’s a cool role. You’ll all be surprised,” I said, imagining myself dressed as a glamorous daughter in a period drama.

But I didn’t go into details about what kind of play it was.

I felt it was something best left as a surprise to be seen. I was confident in my female role.

“We’ll definitely come see it!” they said, their eyes sparkling.

And then, nearly ten of them came along and actually came to see it.

But the criticism I received after the performance was brutal.

What they had all imagined and talked about as the “cool role” was, believe it or not, the image of someone wearing a crisp white Japanese Navy officer’s uniform, a dagger at the waist, and a military cap.

That was the image of the young man that the girls of militaristic Japan admired.

A pure and noble, valiant figure clad in the Navy’s pure white uniform, wearing a cap with a chin strap.

What I portrayed was a samurai daughter, heavily powdered, wearing lipstick, a wig, and a long-sleeved kimono, waddling weakly from the hanamachi onto the stage.

Transformed into such a figure, gazing at myself with pride, I must have appeared to those "militaristic schoolgirls” as a “non-national” or even a “traitor.”

It was probably around this time that I first realized there was a significant age gap between the values inherent in my nature and the values recognized by ordinary people.

Deputy Chief Suzuki, playing the role of Nakayama Yasubei, drew two swords, a large and small, midway through the scene, wielding them in both hands as he slashed down eighteen men one after another.

The sword fight had the sheer intensity of a Shin Kokugeki performance and drew thunderous applause.

(As an aside, I’ll add this. After this, Yasubei married the daughter of Horibe Yahei, whom I portrayed, becoming Horibe Yasubei. He would later play a major role during the raid on the Kira residence.)

Six actors played Yasubei’s opponents who were slain. They would be cut down, retreat offstage, reappear onstage only to be cut down again, and retreat. After being slain three times, they delivered a passionate performance, which also drew thunderous applause and cheers from the audience.

That “battle choreography” was also meticulously directed by Tobei.

After slaying eighteen men, Tobei even handled the “final strike” when Yasubei brandished both swords and struck a grand pose.

Truly, he was a man of remarkable skill and versatility.

Later, I wondered if Yasubei, being a professional actor, might already have been involved with the Tsurukame Theater at that time.

And I suspect all the costumes, wigs, swords, and other props were borrowed from the Tsurukame Theater.

But back then, I was just a child, unaware of such behind-the-scenes matters. Though I vaguely sensed the day would come when he’d be killed by the American military, I was completely absorbed in the daily changes unfolding before my eyes.

Though I feared the death that would surely come soon, for me, each day back then was a series of quite amusing, stimulating, and enjoyable events.

Even after the war ended, when there should have been no need to continue work in weapons production, the propaganda troupe somehow kept putting on plays.

I, as a boy, didn’t understand any of these circumstances at all. No one explained them to me.

Even though the war ended in August 1945, the propaganda troupe continued performing at the Welfare Hall. With no other entertainment available, the audience seats were always packed.

Then, one day, Tobei came over to me and whispered, “Boy, wanna come to the Tsurukame Theater with me?”

He invited me in a voice that was almost a whisper.

“Wanna come” meant, “Wanna become an actor at the Tsurukame Theater?”