Children of the Crane

Victory Rio de Janeiro, August 15 1945 Sirens, church bells, horns and drums give chaotic quiver to the air as spotlight beams, slanting through the midnight sky, emblazon Christ the Redeemer who, from atop Mount Corcovado, casts His blessings on the dancing multitudes below. Adding to the cacophony, megaphone trucks, shepherded by the movements of the masses, repeatedly blare out: ATTENTION! . . . ATTENTION! . . . GREAT NEWS! HIROHITO SURRENDERS! . . . WORLD WAR TWO IS OVER! Celebrations continue through the night and beyond—though the news does not bring equal joy to all. Loyalists and Defeatists Countryside, State of São Paulo, September 1945 Near the bank of a stream, a score of Asian men, their features alternately shaded and illuminated by a flickering campfire, sit cross-legged on the ground. Before them stands a hooded man whose strong young voice says, " Then we agree. We will coordinate our harvests and increase our profits to hasten our return to the Land of the Rising Sun." Applause follows. Someone signals and, recognized at once, says, "Then it is true, despite what Round-eyed Devils say, that Nippon remains victorious." "Yes, it is true," says the hooded man. "I heard it in the words of His Divinity, himself, from the radio of my patron. He praised His victorious sailors, for sending the Allied Navy to bottom of the Sea of Nippon." "Then they lie to mask our victory," says another, "that is why the Brazileiros say His Divinity has surrendered Nippon to the Allies!" "That is why," says the hooded man. "But that lie," says a voice from the dark, "is believed not only by the Brazileiros; it is also believed by some of the Nipponese in our enclaves. Here, in Brazil, among us." "True," says the hooded speaker. "There are such Defeatists. Most are youngsters who have left our enclaves, but some are adults who do live among us." "We must silence them lest they poison the minds of all our children!" shouts another. "Yes," cries an ancient voice, "but how can we guard our children from our own?" " We must, as just said, silence all Defeatists," says the hooded speaker. "Yes, we must!" all agree. "But what of our older children gone away? What of those at Brazilian Universities? Some speak like Brazileiros, and some even think they are Brazileiros." "We Loyalists must do our duty, and that includes having our children do their duty as well," says the speaker. "The children may be disciplined by their parents, but how are we to silence the adults?" "By all means needed," replies the speaker. "Yes, but by what means?" asks another. "No longer loyal sons of Nippon, they no longer fear loss of face." "Then we must use silent means to silence them." And the cry, "SILENCE THE DEFEATISTS!" becomes an angry chant, repeated over and over and over. When quiet returns, the speaker says, "Again, we are agreed. We will silence the Defeatists. But to do so, we must have names. Go home and get names. But keep all names secret. If we tell names, the Defeatists will tell the Brazileiros, and the Brazileiros will try to silence us. Tell no one the names, but leave them for me, unaddressed and anonymously, in the stone box bearing a carving of a crane, that will, tomorrow morning, appear in the entrance hall of the Temple of the Thunder God in Aruja." "And then?" "Then we will meet again to make plans." "When? When? When will we meet? We must act soon!" Ignoring the last voice, the speaker asks, "Are there others who wish to speak? No? Then let us meet here at the next full moon. But remember: Keep all things secret, just as I have used this hood to keep my identity in secret while traveling here. Some of you have recognized me nonetheless, but do not tell your neighbor who I am. We will operate best in total secrecy. And I shall wear my hair behind me in a braid, so that, when we meet at other times, you may know me as the braided one. And that shall be my only name between you. The speaker lowers his hood, revealing a masked face whose intense dark eyes reflect and project, as if tiny beacons, the ember-light of the dying fire. And his hair, long and darkly resplendent, trails behind him in a single, long braid. "And now," he says, "let us depart." All stand now and, with whispered farewells and many bows, they leave; some by foot, some by donkey, and some by canoe. Only the hooded speaker remains, smiling. Perfect. Our cooperation will hasten our return to Nippon, and in the meantime, we will eliminate the Defeatists. Taking a vessel from his canoe, the speaker gathers water from the stream and, as he douses the remaining embers, his attention turns to a darkening in the western sky. Good. Rain is coming this way. It will shift the sand and remove the signs of our meeting. Departing in his canoe, he paddles quickly to the south. Later, now beyond the clouds and rain, he is observed as a dark silhouette in a swift canoe, flying a tattered flag as it skims across the moonlit water. But what the observer sees is not exactly what is. The flag is not a flag at all, but an abundance of long black hair that, released from its braid, is tossing about, cooling the paddler with nighttime air.