365 True Things: 46/Childhood (Tokyo)

In 1965, when I was ten, my father took a six-month sabbatical, ultimate destination: Tokyo. He left the U.S. before my mother and me, but we caught up with him in the Philippines. From there we visited Singapore. It was Chinese New Year, and we were invited to a big celebration at the home of a student of my father's—but all I remember is the gekkos scurrying upside down across the ceiling. Plus there was a visit to the wildly surreal Tiger Balm Gardens, which I'm surprised didn't give me nightmares (^).

Next up, Hong Kong and Taiwan—with a refueling stop in Saigon. That I remember because there had been a firefight at the airport the week before, and I didn't want to leave the plane—until, that is, everyone else got off, leaving me all alone. So okay, I got off too. We sat outside on benches under camouflage netting; it was hot and humid and the sweaty cold bottle of Coke stilled my jitters. (I remember the words Coca-Cola being rendered in another alphabet, but that may be a trick of memory.)

Finally, we arrived in Tokyo, where my father had lined up an apartment: our address was 12 Sarugaku-chō, Daikanyama, Shibuya-ku. It was a two-story apartment in a multistory concrete building: small kitchen and living room upstairs, tatami rooms for sleeping, on futon that we pulled each night out of the closet, and o-furo (traditional bath) down. Across the street was an old wooden silk factory, complete with mulberry bushes for the raising of silkworms. (I don't believe I'm making that up!) Nearby was the Northwest Airlines compound, for resident employees of that airline. I never had any interaction with them; I just remember knowing that Americans were close by. (Today, Daikanyama is a stylish high-end shopping district.)

For the last few months of the academic year I was enrolled in the fifth-grade class of Mr. John Brentnall (^) at Nishimachi School, Minato-ku—a half-hour-plus subway and bus ride away from home, which I undertook daily all on my own. Mr. Brentnall was British and without doubt the kindest teacher I've ever had. I came to the school in the middle of February, which would have been difficult even for an outgoing child. He welcomed me and made me feel like I belonged. I remember two things in particular: he helped me understand long division (back in California, we were doing "new math," and I was totally lost); and he gave me a postcard that I sincerely hope I still have—you can bet I'm going to be looking for it as I go through my files. It was a handpainted ink drawing of a bumble bee coming in from the rain, and two small fairies helping him remove his soaked coat. An accompanying verse in German said something about taking shelter with loving friends. Mr. Brentnall was that loving friend, to all his young charges. (I wrote an essay about that postcard in freshman English at UCLA, which cleared me of having to do the class assignments. Apparently I could write. But more tellingly, his gift gave me something important to write about.)

Here is a drawing of the childhood home of the school's founder, Miss Tane Matsukata—of whom my parents spoke not just with approval, but with great admiration. (Her sister Haru was the wife of Edwin O. Reischauer, ambassador to Japan in the early 1960s.) The house, which stood next door to the school that Miss Matsukata built in 1951, was one of the few older homes left standing after WWII, and it served variously as embassies until 1965, at which point it reverted to Miss M.'s ownership. I believe when I was at Nishimachi it was still the Venezuelan embassy. It was surrounded by a garden that abutted the school building, and we all played there. (I had my first encounter with a toad in that garden.) Today the house is the Nishimachi International School (as it is now called) administration building. Although I never went inside, the Matsukata house was always there, watching over us—so it feels fitting to include it here.

I have a few other memories of Nishimachi, which I may write about in a later post. One involves a different embassy: the Yugoslavian. And if I do run across that postcard, I will post it as well.

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