MIYA-CHAN'S WORLD

I watched a new PBS series, "Superheroes" recently and while I knew something about heroes in American comics (it's history for example), the program reminded me of something that had been in the back of my mind for a while. Many times I have heard over the last few years that there are no heroes in our society; even, that we don't need a hero, that modern society doesn't allow for super heroes at all!

After watching the PBS programs, I came up with at least one reason why there are no heroes in modern society - heroes as depicted in the comics and I thought I would share that theory here: a hero, a super hero, in just about every case I can think of, goes through a transformation from normal (appearing) person into the super hero form. The time was that such super heroes used a telephone booth to get changed into their uniforms or to come up with some sort of super-weapon. Nowadays however, there are very few phone booths and their number continues to dwindle towards extinction. People have cell phones now and the internet - they don’t need phone booths!

When I was young, I even saw salarymen suiting up for work in phone booths. When I was very young, I often wondered if they were not super heroes changing into some exciting costume. Today - nothing! No heroes, no super heroes, no one changing in phone booths! Please! Bring back the phone booth so we can have some heroes in our society once again! We need them! Super heroes need them! There's no place to change!

HARMONICA

Aoi Tokugawa

One summer day, what seems now such a long time ago, in 1960, Miya-chan and her grandfather were walking in Nagoya. They had spent the morning and the early part of the afternoon visiting several of Grandfather’s friends as well as Miya’s friend Mr. Ozawa, the zookeeper in charge of the lions and tigers at the Higashiyama Zoo and Botanical Gardens. Now they were back downtown, with every intention of doing a bit of shopping, mostly from a long list of things that Miya’s mom had written on a large piece of paper, together with the admonition that if they forgot, then they should also forget about coming home! But there were other items they wanted as well such as some fresh tobacco for Grandfather’s pipe, some toys for the cats, a bone for her dog Tono-chan, and maybe even a toy for Miya.

They walked down Yabacho Dori Street, then turned right onto Hisaya Odori, and walked the three blocks to the huge building that was the Matsuzakaya Department Store. Miya was busily chattering away about all the wonderful sights she was seeing, and about what she hoped to see inside the store, when another sight, about ten meters ahead — a vision she had not expected at all and which both troubled and puzzled her — caused her to fall silent.

There in front of her, in the middle of bustling downtown Nagyoa, was a man wearing a dirty white cap and a white kimono, leaning against the building. His left arm was in a sling and his heavily bandaged left leg was visible beneath his robe. His right leg, which the little girl had expected to see, was missing entirely, from the knee on down. A crutch, with a thick, make-shift pad at its top, wrapped in dirty white cloth, stood next to him, propped up against the wall.

“He is a Shōigunjin Ojīchan, a ‘shōigunjin’” said Grandpa. “A disabled veteran.” Even though twenty years had passed since the end of World War II, there were still many disabled veterans languishing on the streets of Japanese cities and villages, who continued to convey the horrors of war, even on the streets of Nagoya.

“A shōigunjin?” asked Miya.

“But I don’t think that this man is an imposter. My heart tells me that,” and with that, Grandpa stopped, took a 100 en note from his wallet, and gave it to Miya-chan. “Miya…do you see the small box in front of that soldier?”

“Oh!” was all that Miya-chan could say.

“Yes,” replied the little girl, unsure as to why her grandfather had asked.

“Take this note and put it into his box.”

Miya-chan, slowly, cautiously approached the soldier and then quickly slipped the 100 en bill into a slot at the top of the box; then she quickly hurried back to her grandfather’s side.

Perhaps he had heard what Grandpa had said, or had noticed Miya’s trepidation in approaching him, but the old soldier gave no indication of it. Instead, he bowed as deeply as he was able, and then took something out from inside his kimono with his right hand —an old, rusted silver chromatic harmonica. He raised it to his lips and began to play — a thank you message from him to the little girl and her grandfather. The song was slow, a tune that both Miya-chan and Grandpa knew: “Yuyake-Koyake,” — “Sunset and an Evening Glow.” As a matter of fact, Miya had sung the song herself many times in school, the melody played on her teachers own harmonica; however, Sensei’s accompaniment was always bright and happy, and Miya always sang it just that way — bright and happy. The soldier’s song however, was ever so sad she thought — giving her a feeling not unlike being left alone in some unknown place. She had never heard the song played that way before. She leaned on her grandfather and listened for a moment to the harmonica’s sad sound and then a voice within her said, “Do you know the fields of war? There is only screaming and crying. The battleground is a sea of tears.”

Now, it may be just a coincidence, although many wise men say there is truly no such thing as coincidence, that the following week, Miya’s teacher announced, “Tomorrow there will be a harmonica test. You may choose any song you like.” It seems that the entire class had been learning to play the harmonica as part of their music classes — larger and grander musical instruments were far too expensive for the small school, but there was enough money (with the help of some willing parents) to make sure that everyone in Miya’s class had their own harmonica — a new, shiny, chromatic.

Miya-chan thought and thought. “What should I play?” And then the image and the sound of the old soldier’s harmonica came to her mind, and she decided to play “Yuyake – Koyake”; and just as soon as she got home that day, she began to practice. But she didn’t want to play it in the happy-go-lucky mood that her teacher played the song in; but rather, she tried to play the same sad song that had come from the soldier’s own harmonica. She blew softly into her instrument but no sound came out that was anything like the beautiful, melancholy music of the “shōigunjin.” She tried again, and then again, but nothing changed.

Grandpa happened to be sitting nearby. “Is that a ghost song?” he asked. “Why don’t you use a stronger breath? She did just that, and the music came — loud and bright. Grandpa laughed. “Oh good! Your harmonica sounds like a military march. So much better than a ‘ghost song’ don’t you think?”

Miya-chan suddenly felt happy and played “Yuyake - Koyake” loud and bright, over and over again. And as she played, the sad figure of the old soldier that had stayed in her mind since that day in Nagoya, slowly began to fade away — and she thought she heard his voice. “Ok! You are right! Thank you! We don’t need any more sad sounds.”

The next day, Miya played her harmonica, “Yuyake – Koyake,” in the brightest way you could possibly imagine, which just happened to earn a “Very Good” award from her teacher.

Some months later, it was just around Christmas time, Miya and Grandfather were again in Nagoya, intent on doing some more shopping from another long list provided to them by Miya’s mother, and also to do a bit of shopping for themselves and their friends. Together they walked up Hisaya Odori Street toward the Matsuzakaya Department Store; and as they drew closer, Miya-chan began to look this way and that, hoping perhaps to catch even just a glimpse of the old “Shōigunjin Ojīchan,” but he was nowhere to be seen. As they crossed the street and stood at the corner of the Matsuzakaya building where the old man had stood, they found that there was no one — or was there?

To this very day, Miya would tell you that she isn’t at all certain; but she would have sworn at the time that she saw the faintest of figures, just a wisp of the old solder, there leaning against the wall — a man wearing a white hat and a white kimono, his left arm in a sling, his heavily bandaged left leg just visible beneath his robe, and his right leg missing entirely, from the knee on down. A crutch, with a thick, make-shift pad, wrapped in dirty white cloth, stood next to him, propped up against the wall, and he held an old rusty harmonica to his mouth — playing “Yuyake – Koyake.”

Illustrated by Aoi Tokugawa

Translated by H. Tokugawa and H. Saito.

HARMONICA by Aoi Tokugawa appears in the book Mixed Bag by the same author. Copyright © 2013 by Aoi Tokugawa and Shisei-Do Publications. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Shisei-Dō Publications. No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any way, shape, or form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

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