The Unkowing by Peter Fuller

THE UNKNOWING

The bedside clock makes an almost indiscernible ‘click’, for I have turned off the bell, but the sound is still enough to wake me.  I open my eyes and check that the time is 6.30 am.  It is Monday and the beginning of a new week.  I close my eyes again, nestle under the cover and mentally plan my day’s duties that will befit an obedient and respectful wife and mother.

I eventually rise from the futon as quietly as possible, don my kimono and sandals and let my husband, Yudai, continue to sleep until I have brought him a cup of sweet-tasting herbal tea.  On the table I lay out bowls of grilled fish, steamed rice and dried seaweed for breakfast.  I hear my sons, Kaito and Matsu, talking together in their bedroom whilst they dress in their school uniforms.

It is the height of summer and the hills around us are already shimmering in the day’s heat. From the town below the air-raid siren emits three lingering warning blasts, which it does every morning at 7.00pm.  For months, these alarms have been followed by a complete absence of American bombers, so I ignore the sounds and concentrate on my main duty of the day, that of washing and drying my family’s clothes.

I fill a tub with hot soapy water, taking great care with my husband’s spare shirt, for it must be ready for him tomorrow.  It is my duty to ensure that Yudai, as the General Manager of the town’s water supply, looks suitably dressed every day in a pressed suit, shirt and tie, and polished shoes

My husband leaves for work at 7.45 am, taking the children with him and dropping them off at their school before travelling on to his office in the imposing Hiroshima Water Supply Company building in the centre of the town.  I continue to be busy with the washing when, as usual, the wailing ‘all-clear’ siren sounds at 8.00 am.

Having studiously washed my husband’s shirt I carry it outside and lay it carefully over the washing line.  I pause and look around me.  Hiroshima is particularly beautiful on this sun-drenched day.  It is a town that has become an oasis of peace and calm, one that seems to have been by-passed by the ongoing war.

I glance up and notice a single American Flying-Fortress bomber passing over the town.  It is cruising at such a great height that it is leaving vapour trails behind it that pattern the sky.  I cup my hand over my forehead to blot out the sun and watch more clearly this strange and unusual sight.

A single black and menacing object is falling from beneath the plane.  I am fearful now, until I notice two parachutes falling with the object.  I conclude with a smile that the Americans are dropping yet more leaflets advising us that we should ‘Surrender or suffer the Consequences’.  Our beloved Emperor is too honourable a leader to ever accede to such a demand.

I turn and peg the shirt to the line and then pat out the creases to ensure that tomorrow my husband will look every inch the General Manager of the Hiroshima Water Supply Company.