1927. The Last Voyage of the “Shinano-maru”
Madina Fedosova

© Madina Fedosova, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0067-6013-4

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Author’s Foreword:

Dear Reader,

Before you is a work of fiction, inspired by real events but not claiming to be a documentary. The story of the sinking of the Shinano-maru in 1927 is indeed shrouded in mystery – the official reports are contradictory, the testimonies of the survivors differ, and some documents have vanished from the archives.

I have based this story on the facts I was able to reconstruct:

Date of the disaster: March 15, 1927, Pacific Ocean.

Official cause: boiler explosion, though Mitsubishi’s experts denied it.

Oddities: entries in the ship’s log about “strange noises” from the hold, a mysterious note from the captain.

But beyond that – the story is fictional.

My aim wasn’t to recreate the exact chronology of events. Instead, I tried to bring the era to life:

Japan in the 1920s – a nation at a crossroads between tradition and modernization.

People – not just “victims of the disaster,” but characters with their own fears, secrets, and hopes.

The mystery – what really happened on board?

If you’re seeking a documentary investigation, this book is not for you. But if you want to feel the atmosphere of that fateful voyage, to hear the whispers of the steel bulkheads, and to try to solve a puzzle that the sea has kept for almost a century – welcome aboard the Shinano-maru.

Sincerely,

Madina

P.S. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in the middle – between the official reports and the legends that sailors tell in the port taverns. Or perhaps it’s better not to know it at all…

Prologue

Pacific Ocean, March 15, 1927

Captain Masato Shinagawa gripped the helm of the Shinano-maru with bloodied fingers, feeling the intricate pattern of the brass handle pressing into his skin, leaving impressions that resembled cryptic runes. His palms, accustomed to all manner of storms over thirty years of service, were now trembling – not from fatigue, but from what had transpired in the last forty minutes. The air, thick with the ruby-red glow of the emergency lamps, was like a rich broth: gunpowder smoke mixed with the coppery scent of blood and something else – a cloying, putrid sweetness, reminiscent of a can of preserved food forgotten in the tropical sun.

At his feet, in a pose that no textbook on anatomy could describe, lay the second engineer, Yamada. His right hand, covered in strange blisters, resembling burns from boiling oil, still clutched a 32-millimeter King Dick wrench – the very one he had brought from England in 1912. The captain noticed how the death grip had twisted the engineer’s fingers, turning the knuckles white as though it were a frosty morning. The bullet hole in his right temple looked unnaturally black – not merely dark, but absorbing light, like a tiny hole in reality itself.

From the depths of the ship came a sound that sent a chill down even Shinagawa’s spine, a man who had witnessed both the tsunami at Tsushima and the uprising in Shanghai. It was neither the screech of metal against rocks, nor the roar of collapsing bulkheads. Rather… imagine someone drawing a bow across taut intestines, while simultaneously slapping wet meat against a sheet of tin. And beneath that – a rhythmic gurgling, as though enormous lungs were filling with water somewhere in hold number three, directly beneath their feet.

“They… they’re moving…” – the young sailor Takeshi, that eternal scamp who only a week earlier had been laughing at the bosun, now pressed himself against the bulkhead, his voice cracking into a squeak. The captain noticed how the boy’s eyes had become unnaturally wide, the pupils dilating to the size of coins, reflecting the trembling light of the lamps. “Captain, for God’s sake, they’re BREATHING!”

Shinagawa slowly ran his tongue over his cracked lips. The taste was familiar – salt, gunpowder, fear. That was precisely the way his nightmares had smelled after that voyage on the Takamaru in 1918. His gaze fell upon the Hamilton chronometer – a gift from an American captain after the rescue of the “SS Eastern Light.” The hands read 02:17. An eternity until dawn. An eternity and a half until the nearest shore. And until the moment when “it” reached the upper deck… perhaps only minutes.

“Seal the hold,” – his voice sounded so calm that he surprised even himself. As if it wasn’t him speaking, but someone else, using his vocal cords. “And… prepare the lifeboats. By order of priority.”

“But the women… the children…” – helmsman Okazaki turned, and Shinagawa saw in his eyes the same animal terror he’d seen in the engineer’s eyes a second before the man put the revolver to his temple. “We can’t…”

At that moment, the Shinano-maru shuddered, as if a giant hand had seized its keel and yanked it downwards. Somewhere below, in the bowels of the ship, something groaned – a sound that was reminiscent of both a child’s weeping and the creaking of rusty hinges. The captain felt a chill run down his spine.

He knew they had made a fatal mistake. They should never have loaded those twelve crates, marked with “Osaka Industries,” onto the ship. They should never have trusted those who whispered of “new weaponry” in oak-paneled offices, sipping whiskey and studying maps marked with red crosses along the 37th parallel. Especially after what had happened with the Takamaru.

And now, the cargo was awakening. And it was hungry.

Part One Japan, 1927

A Nation Torn Asunder

Chapter 1

Whispers of Change Tokyo, April 1927

Tokyo, March 1927

The morning mist clung to the ruins of Asakusa, as if ashamed of what would be revealed when it dispersed. Fourteen-year-old Takeshi, clutching a bundle of yesterday’s rice (a gift from the proprietress of the tea house where he scrubbed the floors), made his way past the brand-new Tokyo Jazz Club. From the open windows poured “Rhapsody in Blue,” mixing with the cries of vendors: “Fresh copy of the Yomiuri! Mitsui Bank suspends payments!”

A girl in a Chanel dress, which cost 200 yen – the price of 50 sacks of rice – caught her reflection in the shop window, where mannequins in tuxedos stood alongside traditional haori. Her fingers, in lace gloves, adjusted her garter as a gold hairpin slipped from her fashionable “à la garçonne” haircut. “Charming, isn’t it?” she whispered in English to her companion, an American diplomat. The same falseness rang in her voice as in the gold bracelet (the gold plating already flaking at the bend of the wrist). Three steps away, the blind veteran Ito, who had lost his sight at Port Arthur, plucked the strings of his shamisen. The instrument, a survivor of the war, was now falling apart, just like the old man himself. Before him lay: a tin mug (formerly a can of American corned beef), three sen (enough for barely a cup of the swill sold as “tea” at the port), and a yellowed photograph of his company (1904). “Haru no Umi” (“Spring Sea”) trembled in his fingers – one string was missing (sold last month for a bowl of soup). Passersby glanced at him: The young fashionista scoffed: “How archaic!” A bank clerk slowed his pace, but remembered that today he had to pay for a new suit. Only an old woman in a worn kimono stopped and whispered: “Ito-san… you played this before the attack, didn’t you?” The girl in Chanel, meanwhile, was laughing at the American’s joke: “Oh, these quaint Japanese musicians! So… authentic!” And the shamisen continued to play. The last string hummed like a signal wire on the front line, warning that all of them – the fashionista, the veteran, and even the smug American – were already standing on the edge of a new disaster. But who in 1927 could hear that call?

Rain washed the golden dust from the windows of Matsuzakaya, where mannequins in European suits stood next to kimonos made of cheap viscose silk – the new word in Japanese textile industry. In a puddle at the feet of the girl in the Chanel dress floated a wrapper from American Wrigley’s chewing gum, which she had just thrown away, wrinkling her nose: “Too sweet.” “Ghastly, isn’t it?” she said in English to her companion, American banker Johnson, adjusting her garter. “These beggars are everywhere.” The man chuckled, pulling out a cigarette case engraved with “Made in Detroit”: “But now you have a real civilization.”

At the Burnt-Out Sensō-ji Temple

“Hey, boy!” Takeshi was called out to by old Ryota, who was sitting on a broken piece of a column with a barely visible emblem of the shogunate. In his hands, he held a tea bowl, glued together with rice paste – there was no money for gold kintsugi lacquer.

“Do you know why modern Japan is called a ‘woman in a European dress’? ” he asked, adjusting his broken glasses, which were taped with paper.

Takeshi shook his head, feeling the scent of roasted chestnuts and something bitter – possibly medicine for tuberculosis, which was sold in the alley.

“Because she is beautiful from afar,” the old man whispered, “but if you get closer, you can see that the dress doesn’t fit, and beneath it are all the same old scars.”

He handed the boy a copy of Chūō Kōron, where, next to a report on the growth of car imports (300% per year), nestled a tiny note: “Cases of child trafficking have been recorded in Fukushima Prefecture—5 yen for a healthy boy.”

Takeshi’s thoughts: “5 yen… That’s how much a ticket costs for the new American film Wings, or a portion of ice cream at the Lyon cafe.” He remembered how the other day he saw a woman in a worn kimono leaving a child at the doors of the Mitsui orphanage. The sign promised “European upbringing and three meals a day.”

“When a country changes its skin, it itches at first, then it hurts, and then – there’s only a scar left.”

(From the diary of a schoolteacher, 1926)

Rain intensified, washing away the remnants of yesterday’s celebration of the opening of the new bank from the sidewalk. Takeshi hid the newspaper under his clothes – next to a photograph of his father, who died during the construction of the South Manchurian Railway. “Ryota-san,” the boy suddenly asked, looking at the veteran, “why does he play ‘Haru no Umi’? ” The old man retrieved a small bottle of cheap sake (1.5 yen, with added rice alcohol) from under a rush mat: “In 1905, this melody was played before the attack on Port Arthur. Now it sounds like a warning.”

A clipping about Lindbergh’s flight across the Atlantic fell out of his tattered haori. Scrawled in clumsy handwriting on the margins were the words: “When eagles fly too high, they forget who feeds their chicks.”

Scene in the Tea House “Sekisen”

The proprietress, O-Tsuru, a former geisha who now served the new masters of life, was cleaning an expensive Chinese vase.

“In 1905,” she said, wiping the dust from a photograph of Emperor Meiji, “when our sailors defeated the Russians, we drank sake from the same vessels. Now…” she pointed to an American can opener lying next to the ceremonial teapot, “they use them to store Swift & Company corned beef.”

Her hands, which had once been able to extract sounds from the koto worthy of the imperial court, now trembled as she poured cheap tea for banker Kawasaki.

“O-Tsuru-san,” he chuckled, grabbing her wrist, “soon you’ll be serving ‘Coca-Cola’ with sandwiches!”

“Perhaps,” she smiled, hiding her eyes. “But for now, allow me to offer you ‘Sencha’ – the last tea from the Uji plantations. Like in the good old days.”

When the banker left, she picked up the cup he had touched with his lips and examined it for long seconds. Then – with a sharp movement – she smashed it on the stone floor.

“It is better to lose the porcelain than to forget oneself,” she whispered, gathering the shards. “But the shards still cut.”

Dialogue at the Docks

Tokyo, Tsukiji Docks. March 16, 1927

The midday sun, like molten honey, flowed down the steel hulls of the ships. Takeshi, squatting down, examined an unusual cargo – a coffin made of cherry wood with a bronze plaque: “The Remains of Mr. Edward Johnson. San Francisco. 1878—1927”. The lacquer gleamed unnaturally brightly for such cargo.

“Kobayashi-ji-san,” the boy whispered, “why do they even make coffins like works of art?”

The old docker, adjusting his broken glasses, answered thoughtfully:

“You see, Takeshi-kun, Americans believe that even death should be packaged as an expensive gift. In the East, we place only a modest branch of sakura in the coffin, but they – entire fortunes.”

His fingers trembled when the lid unexpectedly opened, revealing the white cuff of a shirt with the initials “EJ.” On the deceased’s wrist, a “Rolex Oyster” watch – the first waterproof watch in the world, released only a year ago.

“Mother of Buddha…” Kobayashi blurted out. His experienced eyes immediately noted the discrepancy: the watch showed 9:17, although the sun was high.

The wind carried the scent of rotting fish and gasoline. A brightly painted boat bobbed on the water – advertising the new “Ginza Palace” cinema, with a poster of Lang’s “Metropolis.” The robot Maria’s face, half erased by the waves, now resembled a Noh mask.

“Hey, boy!” shouted an American sailor from the “SS Silverstar,” throwing Takeshi a piece of chewing gum. “Here’s a taste of civilization!”

The gum landed in a puddle with an oily film. Kobayashi hunched over: “In 1905, we sank Russian ships. Now we’re catching their gum…”

From the diary of teacher Suzuki (1926): “When a foreign culture comes as a commodity, and not as a guest, it leaves behind not mutual understanding, but only empty chewing gum wrappers and uncomfortable questions.”

Suddenly, a click sounded from the coffin – the watch mechanism had started itself. The hands spun backwards.

Tokyo, Asakusa district. March 16, 1927. 5:23 AM.

Dawn was just beginning to blur the night shadows, coloring the sky in pale gray tones, when Takeshi, wrapped in a worn-out haori with a faded family crest, made his way through the deserted streets. The air was filled with a complex range of smells – burnt wood from recently rebuilt houses, damp earth after the night rain, and the faint, salty aroma of the Sumida River, mixed with soot from the coal stoves. This peculiar “Tokyo perfume” had become familiar after the Great Earthquake of 1923, when the city, like a phoenix, began to rise from the ashes.

At the base of a ruined gas lamp, whose rusty foundation still bore traces of that terrible fire, sat the blind veteran Ito. His shamisen – once a beautiful instrument made of red sandalwood with mother-of-pearl inlays in the shape of flowering cherry blossoms – now lay on his lap like a wounded crane. Three strings had long disappeared, and only one, the thickest, made of the highest quality silk (the kind used by court musicians of the Edo period), remained, reminiscent of past grandeur.

“Ito-san…” the boy called cautiously, noticing the morning breeze ruffling the old man’s gray hair. His voice sounded particularly loud in the pre-dawn silence, broken only by the rare cries of street vendors beginning their day.

The old man slowly raised his face, furrowed with deep wrinkles and scars left by shrapnel at Port Arthur. His clouded eyes, deprived of sight from that fateful day in 1905 when Russian shrapnel blinded him forever, seemed to see something beyond this world.

“Cold, boy?” he laughed hoarsely, and his breath turned into a small cloud in the cold air. “When you’re seventy, cold becomes your second name. But hunger… Hunger is a special torturer. It doesn’t let you forget that you’re still alive.”

From the nearby eatery “Morning Carp,” where they prepared the first breakfast for dockworkers and rickshaw drivers, came the rich aroma of miso soup with tofu and dried mackerel. The proprietress, a woman in her fifties with hands covered in burns from constant contact with boiling water, appeared in the doorway, holding an old faience bowl with steaming broth.

“Last time, old man,” she said, and in her voice there was not so much rudeness as tired resignation. “Tomorrow – either ten sen, or your instrument. I have a family myself, you understand.”

Ito slowly ran his trembling fingers over the only remaining string. The sound was shaky, but surprisingly pure – like the last cry of a dying era. Then, with a sharp movement, as if cutting off his own finger, he removed this string – the very one that had once played before General Nogi himself during the siege of Port Arthur.

“Music dies last…” he whispered, holding out the precious silk thread. “But it is resurrected first, when all other voices have fallen silent.”

Takeshi saw how the old man’s hands trembled as he accepted the bowl. The veteran had not eaten, judging by his hollow cheeks and protruding cheekbones, for several days. His dirty kimono, with the barely discernible crest of a once-noble samurai family, hung on him like on a hanger.

At that moment, the sound of a new “TGE” (Tokyo Gas Electric) bus, which had just begun to run in the area, came from around the corner. Its roar drowned out the last notes of the dying music, and its exhaust fumes mixed with the aroma of morning broth, creating a strange metaphor for the new era.

Ginza Street. 1:40 PM.

Takeshi made his way through the bustling street, where the smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with the acrid smoke from factory chimneys. Signs flashed overhead: “Café Lyon – Real French Coffee!”, “Matsuya Store – Singer Sewing Machines on Installment!”, and next to them – a modest sign for an old kimono shop, almost lost among the bright neon letters.

Two students stood by the window of the Matsuzakaya department store, where mannequins in tuxedos stood alongside traditional haori. The first – in a brand-new suit from “Tailor Toyo,” with a tie pinned with an expensive anchor-shaped pin (a gift from his shipowner uncle) – nervously tapped his lacquered shoes on the sidewalk. The second – in a worn but impeccably clean gakuran, with a battered volume of Nietzsche under his arm – gazed thoughtfully at the plumes of smoke rising over the industrial district.

“Have you seen the new Ford automobiles at the parliament building?” exclaimed the first, excitedly, adjusting his pince-nez. “The Minister of Trade himself stepped out of one yesterday! This is progress! Soon we’ll have wide avenues like in New York!”

The second student turned slowly. His fingers squeezed the book so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath of the smoke-laden air and smiled bitterly:

“They call this progress, but why does it smell like burning?” He pointed to the factory chimneys in the distance, whose black plumes stretched across the sky like clouds. “Yesterday at the Suzuki school, three children fainted from the smog. The teacher opened a window – and within five minutes the class was coughing as if they were in a gas attack.”

The first student fidgeted, his fingers drumming nervously on the lid of his Omega pocket watch:

“This is a temporary cost! In ten years, when all the factories switch to new standards…”

“In ten years,” the second interrupted, turning sharply so the sun glinted off his glasses, “we’ll be breathing through gauze masks and remembering the scent of blooming cherry blossoms in Ueno Park. Remembering the smell of rain on the cedar boards of an old temple. And our children will ask, ‘Father, what is ‘clean air’?’”

Takeshi, passing by, slowed his pace. His bare feet felt the sticky mud on the sidewalk – a mixture of rainwater, machine oil, and something else he couldn’t identify. In the pocket of his worn-out jinbei lay the same silk string he had picked up after Ito left. His fingers squeezed it, and suddenly the blind veteran’s words flashed in his memory: “When the last string disappears, the music doesn’t die – it just gets quieter, so that only those who truly listen can hear it.”

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed – a new, American-made fire engine. A street vendor selling “Tokui-style ramen” (which was actually just noodles with cheap broth) shouted loudly, shooing away the flies. And from the open doors of the “Palermo” cafe, the sound of jazz drifted out – the new hit, “Tokyo Shuffle,” which everyone was now humming.

The student in the gakuran suddenly turned sharply to his companion: “Do you know what they’re selling at the pharmacy on the corner now? A cure for ‘Western dizziness’ – for those who are running too fast after progress and losing themselves.”

His friend blushed and turned away, looking at the display window, where, among other goods, a brand-new radio receiver was proudly displayed with a sign that read “The Latest Fashion Scream from Europe!”

Takeshi sighed deeply and walked on, towards the docks. The sweetish smell of burnt sugar from the nearest confectionery lingered in the air, but it was overridden by the acrid smoke of a steamboat that was just passing on the Sumida River. Somewhere between these aromas, between the old and the new, between the shamisen string and the roar of automobile engines, something important was being lost. Something he couldn’t yet name.

Chapter 2

Whispers of Old Tokyo

Nihonbashi District, March 17, 1927. 7:15 AM

The golden dawn, seeping through the soot-stained glass of Takeshi’s tiny cubicle, painted whimsical patterns on the floor, resembling either a map of new Tokyo streets or cracks on old porcelain. Each ray, passing through the uneven glass, refracted in a unique way, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air – tiny witnesses to yesterday’s cleaning.

The air was filled with a complex range of smells:

The sweetish smoke of coal braziers from the “Morning Tea House” across the street, where they were preparing the first breakfasts for workers

The sharp aroma of freshly grilled mackerel – the fisherman Ueda had already laid out his wares on the stall, sprinkling them with coarse sea salt

A faint metallic tang – perhaps from the new water tower around the corner, built just a month ago according to American blueprints

The tart smell of freshly brewed tea, mingling with the aroma of roasted chestnuts from the street vendor

Takeshi stretched, and his bare feet touched the cool tatami, woven from old reeds – exactly the same kind that once grew along the canals of Edo a hundred years ago. His toes automatically felt for the familiar unevenness of the weave – here, in the right corner, was a small hole that he had been meaning to mend for a long time.

His haori, once dark blue (the color of the night sky over Edo, as his father used to say), had now faded to a gray-blue hue, but the family crest – three rice ears, symbolizing the prosperity of his ancestors – could still be discerned on the back, if you looked closely. A neat patch was visible on the left elbow – the work of the proprietress O-Fuji, done a month ago in exchange for helping unload a tea shipment.

The “Shōfūan” Tea Shop

The bell above the door rang especially sharply as the first customer crossed the threshold. “One sencha tea, please!” came the familiar voice of Mr. Tanaka, the kimono shop owner from the neighboring alley. His worn, but impeccably clean kimono made of inexpensive cotton with a faded wave pattern betrayed a thrifty owner.

O-Fuji, without looking up from the brazier, nodded: “Right away, Mr. Tanaka! Just took it out of the oven – can you smell that aroma?” She deftly flipped the rice cakes with a bamboo spatula, leaving appetizing scorch marks on them. Her hands, covered with a web of minor burns – living evidence of thirty years at the brazier – moved with honed precision.

“And for you, as usual – with ume paste?” the proprietress specified, already reaching for the clay pot with the salted plums.

Mr. Tanaka frowned unhappily: “No ume today, O-Fuji-san. My daughter gave me a lecture about my blood pressure for a whole hour yesterday… She says modern doctors strictly forbid it.”

“Ah, youth!” the proprietress snorted, deftly wrapping the cake in a bamboo leaf. “My grandfather lived to ninety-three, eating salted plums every day and washing them down with rice sake!” She angrily tapped the edge of the brazier with her spatula. “And now these new doctors from the Tokyo University…”

Her monologue was interrupted by the ring of the door. A young couple entered the shop – he in a fashionable European suit, she in a newly designed kimono with shortened sleeves.

“Two coffees, please!” the young man chirped, adjusting his tie.

O-Fuji paused for a moment: “Coffee? That’s at the ‘Cafe Paris’ across the street, young man. We have real Japanese tea here.”

At the neighboring table, the old fisherman Ueda, a regular customer, laughed loudly: “Ha! More ‘modern youth’! In my day…”

On the Street:

Morning Tokyo was awakening like a huge beast stretching after a long sleep. Rickshaw pullers in patched jinbei were already bustling through the streets, their bare feet slapping on the wet asphalt, leaving tracks on the freshly washed sidewalks.

The crowd in front of the new electric display resembled a flock of sparrows near a rice field. The advertisement flickered on the screen: “A MIRACLE OF MODERNITY! The ‘National’ vacuum cleaner, model J-12—only 85 yen on installment for 12 months! Rid your home of dust, as civilized people do!”

A young woman in a hybrid outfit – a violet kimono with shortened sleeves and a Parisian handbag – gasped, covering her mouth with a fan advertising a bank:» —85 yen! That’s… – she quickly counted on her fingers – almost half of my Kenji’s salary from the weaving factory!”

Her companion, a young man in an ultra-modern English suit with narrow trousers, wrinkled his nose disdainfully:» – But no dust! Every housewife in America has one. Even the maids! – » He nervously adjusted his tie, on which a gold anchor-shaped pin was displayed. “If your husband worked at my firm…”

“Progress is when old people stop understanding what the birds are singing outside their windows, and children forget the smell of real rain.”

(From the diary of teacher Suzuki, found in the ruins after the earthquake)

At the Old Well:

The blind Ito sat on the edge of the well, built during the Meiji era. His black glasses – a gift from a German doctor in 1904—reflected the crowd like two small mirrors, showing the world upside down.

“ – Ito-san! You today… – » Takeshi began, but the old man raised his hand, stopping him.

“ – Hush, boy. Listen closely. – » His wrinkled face tensed. “Do you hear how their new shoes squeak? How their heels tap on the stones? Each step says: “We are different. We are better’.”

He ran his fingers over his empty shamisen, on the deck of which the traces of blood from Port Arthur were still visible:

“ – When I was a boy, my teacher, the old monk from Sensō-ji temple, used to say: ‘A person without roots is like a lantern without a flame. It may shine beautifully, but it will never warm the soul’.”

Takeshi’s Reflections: “Strange… This city is becoming like those Western pictures from magazines – bright, noisy, but… somehow flat. As if something important is hiding behind all these new things, something we are gradually losing.”

His fingers felt the silk string in his pocket – the last thread connecting him to another Tokyo, the city of his childhood.

Chapter 3

Shadows and Ash: Tokyo, 1946

Ginza District, January 1946. 6:17 AM.

The city was waking up slowly, like a heavily wounded soldier after surgery without anesthesia. The fog – thick, milky, permeated with the smell of smoldering wood and decaying flesh – enveloped the ruins like a shamefaced shroud. It hid what no one wanted to see: charred beams protruding from piles of rubble like a dead man’s ribs; children’s toys covered in ash; the empty eye sockets of windows in half-destroyed buildings.

The air was filled with contradictory smells:

The acrid haze from the still smoldering ruins – some buildings had been burning for eight months already, as if refusing to acknowledge the end of the war.

The sweetish-putrid smell of the black market “kitchens” – where they were cooking soup from bark, rats, and American tin cans washed in the Sumida River.

The metallic tang of blood and rust – left on the tongue by the ruins of the factories, where weapons for the Emperor had recently been forged.

The pungent aroma of the cheap “Golden Peacock” tobacco – a postwar surrogate made from chestnut leaves and waste paper.

Takeo, a former sergeant of the 23rd Infantry Regiment, sat by a broken fountain, which had once been the pride of the area. Now it was just a pile of marble fragments, covered in obscene graffiti in English. His greatcoat – once dark green, the pride of the Japanese soldier – now hung on him like on a hanger, burned by acid rains and faded to a dirty gray color.

He reached out automatically with his right hand to adjust his collar – and again felt the phantom pain in his missing limb. He had lost the arm not in battle, but in a Hiroshima hospital, when American surgeons were cutting into him without anesthesia.

In his pocket lay a letter from his mother from the village in Niigata Prefecture:

“Son, come home. At least we have potatoes. We sold the old samurai house for three sacks of rice, but the garden is still ours. I’ve saved your childhood books…”

The letter was dated October. Now it was January.

Takeo’s thoughts: “A train ticket costs 200 yen. My monthly ration is 150. I could, of course, go to the black market, sell my medal for bravery… But then what will be left of me?”

He pulled out a tattered photograph from his inner pocket – their entire platoon, taken in Manchuria in 1943. Out of twenty men, only he had survived.

Philosophical quote: “When an empire dies, the heroes disappear first. Then – the memory of them. And those who remembered what they died for are the last to perish.” (Inscription on the wall of a burnt-down post office in Tokyo)

The Black Market near Ueno Station

The crowd at “Ameyoko” swarmed like ants around a ravaged anthill. This spontaneous market, which sprang up near the walls of the destroyed station, lived by its own brutal laws. The air here was a thick cocktail of:

The sour smell of “bread,” in which third-rate flour mingled with birch sawdust and a yellowish powder of unknown origin – this mixture was proudly called “food additive No. 7” by the occupation authorities.

The sweetish-putrid ambrosia from boxes of fish, which were caught in Tokyo Bay – where unidentified bodies had been lying just a month ago.

The acrid scent of American cigarettes, which had become the new currency – a pack of “Lucky Strike” cost more than a teacher’s monthly salary.

The pungent smell of human despair – sweat, tears, and blood, etched into clothing over years of war.

Stall 12: “The Bread Shop”

Twelve-year-old merchant Koichi, whose face was lined with wrinkles like an old man, threw a loaf of strange yellow bread onto the counter. His voice, not yet formed but already devoid of childlike resonance, cut through the market din:

“Three hundred yen! Today with real American flour! Last batch!”

Former teacher Yoshida, whose once-delicate fingers, which knew how to draw complex characters on the blackboard, were now covered in sores from hunger, sharply grabbed the loaf. She broke the bread, exposing black streaks of mold, and a grimace distorted her gaunt face:

“This is… this is death in a loaf!”

Koichi shrugged indifferently, quickly hiding the money in a hidden pocket of his ragged trousers:

“Yesterday’s death was with green spots. Today’s will just deprive you of your sight. But the choice is yours, teacher. Hunger isn’t a bad killer either.”

Stall 17: “American Gifts”

A woman in her forties, dressed in a kimono remade from parachute silk (the only reminder of the air raids), arranged cans on the counter. Her movements were precise and deliberate – naturally, a former nurse in the Imperial Army knew a thing or two about order.

“Real canned stew! Without labels, but…” – she glanced around and lowered her voice – “see this code C-456? It means ‘top-grade beef’. For special guests.”

Old fisherman Matsuda, whose hands were covered with scars from nets and shrapnel, spat on the ground:

“Last month, this ‘top-grade’ stuff sent three people from our barracks to the other world. Their bellies swelled up like fish washed ashore.”

The woman, without batting an eye, pulled out another can, on which “US Army” was barely readable: “Then take this one. Personally verified by me. My children ate it – they’re alive.”

Barrack 5 for Displaced Persons

Doctor Sato, whose white coat had turned into a patchwork quilt of dirt, blood, and medicinal stains, knelt before a dying old man. His medical bag contained only:

Empty vials of penicillin

Dirty bandages that had been washed in river water for the fifth time

A bottle of sake with a half-erased inscription “For the Imperial Army”

“I have no medicine. Not even clean bandages,” – his voice sounded tired, but without reproach. “All I can offer is sake. At least it will ease the pain.”

The old man, a former shamisen maker, whose hands had once created instruments for the imperial theater, smiled weakly: “In my village… the cherry blossoms… they must be blooming now…” – his fingers clenched a piece of string – all that remained of his last instrument.

The doctor turned away, but Takeo, standing at the entrance, noticed his shoulders trembling. An hour later, the master died, and the string in his hands made a soft sound, like a farewell chord.

“When a culture dies, first the musical instruments disappear. Then – those who knew how to play them. In the end – those who still remember their sound.” (From an unknown diary, found in the ruins of Osaka)

Street Scene

An American Willys MB jeep roared through a puddle near the bombed-out post office, sending up a wave of dirty water. Splashes mixed with motor oil and ash crashed over the crowd standing in line for rations. A woman in a remade parachute kimono shrieked, covering her face with her hands – water had gotten into the can labeled “US ARMY. CORNED BEEF. 1944,” which she was saving for her sick daughter.

“Catch, jap!” yelled a red-headed sergeant from the jeep, throwing several Hershey’s chocolate bars into the crowd. One of them, wrapped in a bright red wrapper with white stars, fell right into the puddle, where Lucky Strike cigarette butts and rusty shell casings floated.

Seven-year-old Ken, in tattered zori (straw sandals), darted forward. His fingers were almost grasping for the chocolate when old teacher Ito (now without his glasses – one lens had broken during the bombing, the other he’d sold for a bowl of broth) sharply grabbed his wrist.

“ – Don’t take it,” he whispered, and his voice, which had once resonated in university lecture halls, now sounded like a rusty door creaking. “Do you know what they put in this chocolate? Not just cocoa. There is something else… something that makes our children forget who they are. They are buying our souls piece by piece, Ken. First – for chocolate. Then – for jeans. And in the end – for empty promises.”

An American interpreter – a Japanese from Hawaii, in a perfectly ironed uniform with a “US ARMY INTERPRETER” patch – stepped out of the jeep. His Japanese sounded unnatural, like a gramophone recording with scratches:

“ – Demokrato! Demokrato wa, kodomo-ga tenpura o taberu koto desu!” (“Democracy – that is when children eat tempura!”) – he clearly mixed up his words, but the soldiers didn’t care. They laughed, filming on a Kodak Brownie as the Japanese children reached for the candy.

Takeo, standing in the shadows of the ruined wall, squeezed his medal – a photograph of his company in Manchuria, 1943. On the back was engraved the phrase: “A samurai dies only when he is forgotten.”

His thoughts: “We didn’t lose the war. We lost the right even to our pain. Our dead now have to die again – at the tribunals of the victors. They will be judged by those who dropped napalm on Tokyo and called it “liberation’.

Someone turned Hiroshima into a laboratory experiment and wrote in the report: “The results exceeded expectations’.”

Next to him lay a “Stars and Stripes” newspaper with the headline: “Japanese Joyfully Welcome American Liberators!” The photograph showed a crowd of smiling children. But Takeo knew the truth: this picture was taken in an American internment camp, where food was only given to those who “smiled” wide enough.

“The victors write history. The defeated – whisper it in the dark so that their children will not forget. But the paper on which the victors write is always made of the ashes of the defeated.”

(From the diary of Dr. Sato, found in the ruins of Nagasaki)

Dialogue at the Destroyed Fountain

Former Captain Kazumaru sat on the edge of the fountain, whose marble steps now resembled broken teeth. His fingers, once accustomed to holding binoculars on the destroyer’s bridge, trembled, unfolding an “Asahi” newspaper with a portrait of the Emperor in a Western suit. The ink imprinted on his palm, like a brand.

“ – Did you see?” his voice sounded hoarse, as if passed through a rusty pipe. “Our tenno… our living god… now just a balding man in round glasses. Like an accountant from Osaka.”

Takeo slowly raised the newspaper. The photograph was taken in the American style – harsh light, no respect. Emperor Hirohito stood next to MacArthur, and the difference in height (182 cm versus 160) seemed especially humiliating.

“ – No, Kazumaru-san,” he said finally, running his finger over the portrait. “Now we are all gods. Because only gods can die and continue to exist. Only deities survive their own deaths.”

The water in the fountain was rusty-brown, with iridescent streaks of machine oil. Takeo pulled out the medal – silver, with the engraved names of his fallen company. On the back was the inscription: “Honor does not die with the body.”

“ – Remember, the koi used to swim here?” he asked, looking at the murky water. “Gold, red, black and white… Children threw them bread. Now…”

The medal fell into the water with a soft splash. On the bottom were visible:

Fragments of American newspapers

Empty Coca-Cola cans

A chocolate wrapper with the inscription “Hershey’s – the taste of victory”

Kazumaru suddenly coughed – his lungs, poisoned by gases in Shanghai, couldn’t stand the Tokyo smog. When the attack passed, he whispered:

“ – They are rewriting history, Takeo. Our sacrifices, our spirit… everything is turning into an anecdote for their soldiers. Yesterday I saw a marine showing a Japanese girl a caricature of the Emperor.”

From a broken loudspeaker on a neighboring building, the first chords of “Tokyo Boogie” came. Takeo closed his eyes. In his memory, the words of the old teacher from the military academy surfaced:

“When a country is conquered, its future dies first. Then – its past. And the present becomes a ghost, wandering among the ruins.”

He lifted his head and saw a young Japanese woman in a dress with a full skirt pass by, laughing loudly with an American sergeant. Her laughter sounded unnatural, like the squeak of an unlubricated door.

“We have become shadows of our own history,” Takeo said. “But shadows are proof that light once existed.”

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed – a new, American-made fire engine. Kazumaru slowly tore the newspaper and threw the scraps into the fountain, where they soaked and turned into a shapeless mass, resembling the dough for black market “bread”.

“The victors write history in ink, the defeated – in blood. But there is a third history – that which is written with the tears of those who remember the truth. It cannot be published in any printing house.”

(Inscription found in the ruins of a library in Nagoya)

Chapter 4

Ashes and Cranes Tokyo

April 1946. 6:17 AM

The fog rose from the Sumida River in thick, milky clouds, reminiscent of the ghosts of those who found their death there during the March 1945 bombings. It slowly enveloped the ruins of the former Asakusa district, where only one of the thirteen temples had survived, and even that one stood like a wounded bird, with a collapsed roof and charred columns.

The air was thick with contradictory smells:

Burnt cherry blossoms – the three surviving trees, having endured the napalm, bloomed right out of the cracks in the concrete. Their petals, pink and delicate, fell on the rusty helmets of Japanese soldiers, which had turned into flower pots for weeds. An old man, a former gardener of the Imperial Palace, collected these petals in a tin can from American stew – “for tea,” as he whispered to himself.

Fresh printing ink – near Ueno Station, a Japanese man in a too-new suit was handing out “Stars and Stripes” newspapers in broken Japanese. On the front page – an article titled “New Democratic Values for Japan,” and next to it, in the corner, in small print: “Girls aged 18—25 needed for work in officers’ clubs. Knowledge of English is an asset.”

Roasted soybeans – an old woman in a faded kimono sat at the entrance to the station, a tin bowl with beans in front of her. “Five yen a handful,” she repeated monotonously. Her fingers, which had once skillfully painted boxes with mother-of-pearl paints, were now covered in cracks and burn marks.

“ – Sato-san, is it possible to sell beans at such a price?” called out her former neighbor, an old carpenter.

“ – Once, for five yen, I bought silk for embroidery,” she replied, without looking up. “Now, for five yen, you can buy either a handful of beans, or hope. Beans are more filling.”

An American jeep emerged from the fog, a voice booming from the loudspeaker:» – Attention! Today at 2:00 PM in Hibiya Park – distribution of humanitarian aid. Please bring your identification!”

The old woman slowly raised her head:» – Humanitarian aid… Last year, they called it bombs.”

“When conquerors come, they first take your land. Then – your language. And then they demand that you smile when you call them saviors.”

(Inscription on a piece of wall in Nagoya, October 1945)

The old woman’s thoughts: “My granddaughter now paints her lips like American actresses. My son is silent – since he returned from the front without legs. And I sit here and sell beans that I once used only for miso soup. The world has turned upside down, like a stone in a stream – and now we are all sliding across its wet surface, trying not to fall.”

The fog slowly dissipated, revealing the ruins to the sun. Somewhere in the distance a nightingale sang – the first this spring. His song sounded the same as it had a hundred years ago, when samurai in swords walked these streets, and not soldiers with chewing gum.

At the Corner of the Former Suzenji Avenue

Former Lieutenant Ishii Masaru, a graduate of the elite Naval Academy of the Imperial Fleet in 1938 (“Tsukikaze” course), stood frozen in the middle of a wasteland, where his family’s ancestral home had stood just six months ago. The three-hundred-year-old cedar beams, having survived the 1923 earthquake, were now just a pile of charred remains. His right hand involuntarily clenched into a fist – muscle memory still retained the exact weight of the katana “Koto-no-Mabuki,” passed down to him by his grandfather on his coming-of-age day.

Before him, a sheet metal sign hung on a leaning post:

“PLOT 456 FUTURE PARKING FOR DEMOCRATIC CULTURAL CENTER BY ORDER OF SCAP COMMAND VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED”

The letters “SCAP” (Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers) gleamed in the sun like new bayonets.

The wind played at his feet with a torn photograph – a wedding portrait of his parents in 1915, taken in the famous “Ueno Photo” studio (the one that photographed the family of Emperor Taisho). The lieutenant bent down, his fingers trembling – the family motto could be discerned on the back: “Loyalty is heavier than death.”

At that moment, a shadow slid across the ground:

“ – Mr. Officer, buy chocolate?”

Before him stood a boy of about ten in a tattered school uniform (in terms of cut – the former uniform of the prestigious “Gakushuin” school). He held a cardboard box with the inscription “Hershey’s – The Great American Chocolate”.

Ishii recognized him – in 1942, this boy and his mother had been selling dango near Ueno Station. Back then, his eyes had shone with childlike innocence. Now, a strange mixture could be read in them:

Hunger (from the blue shadows under his eyes)

Premature adulthood (from the lines around his mouth)

Cynical calculation (from the way he instantly assessed Ishii’s uniform)

“ – Where did you get… – » began the lieutenant.

“ – American uncle gave it to me!” The boy grinned unnaturally wide, displaying teeth whitened with some chemical. “They say I speak ‘Thank you, sir!’ well! I get two chocolates instead of one!”

Behind the child, on the wall, a piece of a war poster remained: “Ichioku Gyokusai!” (One hundred million – united front!). Now, over it, was daubed: “Drink Coca-Cola!”

The lieutenant turned away. In a puddle at his feet floated a fragment of the “Asahi” newspaper with the headline: “Emperor renounces divine status.” Next to it – a “Lucky Strike” cigarette butt with a half-erased logo.

Ishii’s thoughts: “We didn’t just lose the war. We lost the right to our own history. Now our children are learning not from the ‘Bushido Code’, but from Mickey Mouse comics. Our temples are becoming cinemas, our swords – scrap metal, and our souls – small change for a piece of chocolate.”

He suddenly remembered the words of his teacher in the academy, old Captain Togo:

“When a samurai loses his sword, he becomes a ronin. When a nation loses its soul – it becomes a colony.”

The boy, seeing that the deal wouldn’t happen, was already running to a group of American marines, shouting loudly:

“ – Hello! Chocolate! Good price!”

His voice rang out against the sound of the steamboat whistle, carrying away the last Japanese battle flags as trophies, to America.

At the “Erpi” Cinema (formerly “Nikkatsu”)

The line snaked along the sidewalk, paved with the remains of bricks from the burnt-down post office – the building where, just a year ago, a portrait of the Emperor in a carved black wooden frame had hung. Now, its facade bore a new sign with screaming Latin letters:

“TODAY: ‘TOKYO ROMANCE’ (USA, 1945). SPECIAL SCREENING FOR OUR JAPANESE FRIENDS!”

“ – Only five yen for a ticket!” – a young Japanese man in a cowboy hat (a gift from a sergeant in the 11th Airborne Division) pranced on a C-ration crate. “After the show – a draw for real Levi’s! The winner will get the jeans that General MacArthur himself wears!”

In the crowd stood 72-year-old O-Tama, the widow of a fisherman from Okinawa. Her kimono made of homespun silk (the last roll that survived the Naha bombing) was worn thin, but washed with such care that the folds shone like blades.

“ – Five yen… – » her fingers, scarred from fishing nets, clutched a small knot with three copper coins. “Last year, you could buy for this money:

10 sheets of nori (enough for a month of rice balls)

3 small bags of salt (to salt the fish for the winter)

A visit to the public bathhouse for the whole family (the last luxury before the coal furnaces destroyed the sento)

Next to her, 19-year-old Michiko, a former student of a girls’ high school, was fixing her “Veronica Lake” hairstyle – which was worn by the heroines in the American Life magazines, which were now sold on every corner. Her lips, painted with mascara (the only cosmetic available after the war), curled into a mocking smile:

“ – But now we have democracy, grandmother. Isn’t that more valuable than nori?”

Michiko’s thoughts: “Grandmother doesn’t understand. These jeans are a ticket to a new world. In a world where girls can watch movies without their father’s permission. Where the words ‘duty’ and ‘honor’ are not written in blood-drawn hieroglyphs.”

O-Tama slowly unfolded the knot with three roasted soybeans – her daily ration.

O-Tama’s thoughts: “As a child, I saw Commodore Perry arrive in Edo. Then our grandfathers said: ‘They will bring locomotives and telegraphs’. Now they have brought cowboy hats and gum that sticks to your hair. What will they bring tomorrow? And what will be left of us?”

“ – Democracy will not fill the stomach, my child. When I was little, my grandfather, a samurai from the Satsuma clan, said: ‘When new gods come, they first demand songs, then bread, and in the end – souls. But true gods never ask – they give’.”

Around the corner, in an alleyway between stalls with American cigarettes and canned goods, a group of children were playing a new game.

“ – I will be MacArthur!” —12-year-old Kenta, in glasses made of wire and foil (imitating those worn by the general), stood on a box with the inscription “US ARMY PROPERTY”. “I order everyone to forget kokutai! Now you will eat hamburgers and watch baseball!”

Seven-year-old Haruko, the daughter of a fallen kamikaze pilot, in a dress remade from parachute silk (her mother had found it in a bombed-out warehouse), timidly raised her hand:

“ – But what if we don’t want to forget?”

The “General” took a piece of Spearmint chewing gum out of his mouth (it lasted for three days of chewing) and stuck it to her forehead:

“ – Then you won’t get Hershey’s!”

“The victors always come with gifts in one hand and scissors for memory – in the other. First, they allow you to speak in your own language. Then – they forbid you to speak in yours. And when the last word disappears – the people disappear.” (Inscription in charcoal on the wall of a destroyed school in Shinagawa, found among the fragments of the textbook “Bushido Code”)

On the Nagasaki Waterfront

Former technical director of the Mitsubishi shipyard, Okawa Tetsuo, sat on a fragment of a concrete bunker, remaining from the destroyed military factory. His palms, covered in scars from burns and ingrained fuel oil, trembled as he ran his fingers over a wooden model of the destroyer “Yukikaze” – a precise copy of the ship he had built in 1939.

“See these seams?” his voice sounded hoarsely, like the squeak of ungreased hinges. “We called it the ‘Empress method’. Every steel sheet was fastened by hand, with copper rivets. No more than three millimeters between the seams – so that the waves would not tear the hull apart, even in a typhoon.”

He pointed to the American transport ship “SS Liberty Star,” at whose pier Japanese workers in tattered jinbei were unloading crates labeled “Made in USA.”

“Now our shipyards will build fishing boats. For their canneries in Hokkaido. Twenty years ago, we were creating ships that challenged the Pacific Ocean. Today – wooden boats for catching herring.”

Okawa’s thoughts: “In 1941, when the Yukikaze returned after the Battle of Midway without a single scratch, Admiral Yamamoto told me: ‘Your seams are stronger than samurai swords’. Now these seams are falling apart, like everything else…”

The water in the bay reflected the sky, split in two:

To the west – black clouds of smoke from the Mitsubishi factories, where tractors were now being assembled according to American blueprints.

To the east – the first spring clouds, resembling the sails of a squadron that had sailed on its last voyage from Yamato.

Between them, barely touching the rusty cables of the sunken cruiser “Takao,” flew a Japanese crane. Its wings, spread against the wind, resembled the last salute of a departing era.

“ – Look!” suddenly exclaimed an old worker standing nearby.

The model slipped from Okawa’s hands and fell into the water. But the wood, soaked in fuel oil during the bombings, did not sink – it only slowly swirled on the surface, until the current carried it to the rusty hull of a disassembled destroyer.

“When an empire dies, its ships disappear first. Then – those who knew how to build them. In the end, only the waves remain, which still crash against the shore, but can no longer tell whose flags they were.”

(Inscription on a piece of board found in the Yokosuka dock, 1945)

Dialogue with a Worker:

“ – Okawa-san,” the old man held out a bottle of moonshine, distilled from American aviation fuel. “Remember when we launched the Shinano?”

Okawa took the bottle, but didn’t drink: “ – I remember. Back then, there was a poster at the shipyard: “Every riveted strike is a strike against the enemy’. Now there’s a new one: “Quality is the path to democracy’.”

“ – And the vodka is still the same,” the worker laughed hoarsely. “Only before, it was given for exceeding the plan, and now – for not stealing a nail.”

The wind carried the sounds of American jazz from the newly opened “Blue Bird” club. Okawa closed his eyes. In his memory surfaced the words spoken to him in 1938 by an old master:

“A ship is not steel and not guns. It is the last island where one can take refuge when everything around becomes alien.”

The Yukikaze model, meanwhile, disappeared around the bend of the canal, where the best destroyers of the Empire had once been built.

Chapter 5
Ink Shadows

Tokyo, May 1946.The ruins of the Waseda University Library.

The fog, as thick as the gauze on an old kimono, rose from the Kanda River, mingling with the acrid smoke that stretched across Kanda-Sarugakucho. The last traces of pre-war Japan dissolved in this stifling haze:

Burnt pages of the “Kojiki” fell into the fire, bursting into blue flames – this was how high-quality paper with added mulberry tree fibers burned. Professor Arai Seiichiro, formerly the personal tutor of Prince Chichibu, with trembling hands threw into the fire lecture notes that had once been praised by the imperial court itself. His “Nikon” glasses from 1938 (the left temple bandaged with plaster from an American field kit) fogged up from tears mingling with ash.

The sharp smell of printing ink beat from the basement window, where, on an “Adast” press from 1887—a gift from Austro-Hungarian Emperor Franz Joseph – former students were printing leaflets with Akutagawa’s poems. Each strike of the press sounded like a gunshot:

“In a country where they burn books, sooner or later they will start burning people”

(Unpublished poem, 1925)

The sweetish-bitter aroma of fried locusts wafted from O-Tsuru’s stall. Her husband, the head chef of the Imperial Palace, had left a farewell note in calligraphic handwriting:

“Unable to serve rice of the new harvest to those who trampled the flowers of the old garden” (September 10, 1945)

In the Destroyed Auditorium 3

Former professor Ito Hiroshi, now a night watchman at the headquarters of the occupation forces, made his way between the ruins. His fingers – the same ones that in 1936 had transcribed the entire “Tale of Genji” in gold ink for a gift to the Emperor – now left black marks on the charred walls.

“ – Sensei…”

Yamamoto Kenji appeared from behind a column with a broken head of the goddess Kannon. Five copper circles stood out on his gym shirt (a former dress uniform of the kendo club) – traces of torn-off buttons with the Waseda crest.

Ito sharply raised his hand:

“ – ‘A’ unit patrols the quarter every 47 minutes after yesterday’s search of the bookseller in Kanda.”

Yamamoto unfolded a bundle, tied with a parachute cord:

“ – In the west wing… behind the map cabinet… I found this.”

The pages of Professor Fujita’s diaries (1937—1945) smelled of gunpowder and mildew. Ito opened it at random:

“February 11, 1937. Today Lieutenant Tanaka asked how to combine Hagakure with Saigyo’s poetry. I answered:

“A true sword does not cut a flowering branch’. I saw only emptiness in his eyes. When a warrior forgets that he is first and foremost a human being – he becomes simply a murderer.”

“First they burn books. Then they rewrite history. Then they forbid memory. And when there are no books, no history, no memory left – a new people is born, who believes that this is how it has always been.”

(Last entry of Professor Fujita, written in charcoal on the back of the menu of the restaurant “Takitori”)

“We have become shadows in our own country. But isn’t the shadow of a samurai still a samurai? Isn’t the shadow of a blossoming sakura still a flower? They may forbid our books, but they cannot forbid us to remember their smell – the tart aroma of washi paper, mixed with ink from pine soot.”

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