when the emperor was divine by julie otsuka

We listened to the interviews on the radio. Trapped Yanks Doused with Gasoline and Turned into Human Torches. Some Forced to Wear Metal Bits, Others Starved to Death. More Rescued Prisoners Tell of Japan’s Torture Camps. We kept up with the stories in the papers. Squadronsof returning B-29s swooped down out of the sky and flew overhead in perfect formation as down below, on the streets, the crowds roared and wept and welcomed the good men home. Mayors on windy platforms stood up and gave speeches, and children in red, white and blue waved the flag. There were victory parades in their honor, with horses and trumpets and great showers of confetti.

We had to make deep bows, even to the cooliesand the richshaw runners.īest day of my life? The day Harry dropped that beautiful bomb.

We were just numbers to them, mere slaves to the Emperor: We didn’t even have names. We had to stand at attention with our hands at our sides while they beat us. They shoved bamboo splinters under our fingernails and made us kneel for hours. Some had been found, more dead than alive, in prison camps in Manchuria and Ofuna at the end of the war. Some had made D-day landings in the Marshalls, on Saipan, Tinian, Luzon, and Leyte. Some of them had seen combat on Okinawa and New Guinea. They arrived, by the thousands, on the huge battle-scarred ships that sailed into the bay. They were fathers and brothers and husbands. EVERY DAY, all around us, more and more men were coming home from the war.

When the emperor was divine by julie otsuka