Atoms

They were sitting in the dining room when the news came. She, gently unwrapping the tea set; he, sitting in his armchair, reading the news. I was cowering in the corner of my bedroom, crying softly from the beating I had just received. I didn’t really understand what my parents were doing, mother seemed to be trying to calm herself down with the slow movements involved in the intimate ritual of preparing for tea; father trying to drown out the voices in his head berating him for his last act against me.

Then I heard it, the soft muttering one can instantly recognise as a Japanese newsreader on the wireless. The droning voice could barely be heard over the soft clinking sound of pieces of porcelain knocking together in mother’s hands. I was too upset to listen to the newsreader, attempting as I was to stifle my cries of pain and distress by hiding my head between my legs. However from my position I could discern one word on the radio, “Hiroshima” and then the crash of china breaking on our wooden floors. I jumped up, worried that mother had fainted, or worse, died. In my childlike innocence she seemed my only protector, the only person brave enough to stand up to my domineering father. But when I got to the dining room, I saw my parents embracing each other, and the faintest glimmer of a tear running down my father’s cheek.

I must admit that I did not immediately understand the enormity of the event that was being reported constantly on the radio. I was only four, and the only words I could recognise were Hiroshima, Bomb, and that most hated of all places, America. They seemed to be being repeated endlessly, and the more we heard them the more upset mother and father became. Giving in to my instincts, I ran to the wireless and switched it off, in the vain hope that with the sound gone, my parents would recover. Their eyes remained wet, and with a sob I ran to my room, and cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I awoke to the sound of soldiers marching steadily up and down the road; the sharp, barking voices of the officers ringing in my ears. I imagine it had been going on since daybreak, but it had failed to disturb my sleep. Running from my bed, I stood on tiptoe, trying to look out of my window and get a glimpse of what was going on. It was an unusually quiet day, the wind barely disturbed the pink cherry blossom trees that were found all over the nicer parts of Nagasaki. If it hadn’t been for the soldiers, I might have thought that time had come to some miraculous standstill. There were no children making their way to school, no shopkeepers trying desperately to sell their wares to passers-by. Even the birds that nestled in the pink branches of the trees refused to sing their songs.

My parents welcomed me to the breakfast table as if I was some noble lord from my Japanese history books. They poured my green tea before I even had a chance to ask for it, and mother served me steaming fried rice, a delicacy for our relatively poor family. Father’s eyes were glowing whenever he looked at me, full of forgiveness and compassion, but I fancy that every time he looked away, either out of the window, or to my mother, his gaze fell. I ate quickly; unable to meet his look, and when I had finished, ran to my room.

I was studying when the bomb came. My calligraphy book was open, and I had almost finished my work for the day. It was beginning to get dark, but during the sudden flash I could see the faint outlines of nearby buildings. In a moment these too disappeared, and all was white. I heard mother scream, and all I could think of was trying to find her. I made it to the doorway when the shockwave hit, and I was knocked off my feet. I don’t remember how long I lay there, but when I woke up, I staggered to what remained of the window and looked out. It was still bright, and the air itself seemed to have attained a kind of luminescence. Everything was covered in a thin layer of ash, and the cherry blossom trees had disappeared. So had the soldiers.