Piled high with mikan, aromatic,
The boat journeys back,
Awe-struck by the Emperor’s instruction,
Ocean crossed
On his homeward journey, Tajimamori, Tajimamori

Stood there only a mausoleum,
The Emperor no more,
Grief-struck crying, he refuses to leave,
Faithful loyalty
On his homeward journey, Tajimamori, Tajimamori

When I hear “The Song of Tajimamori,” my heart fills with the memory of that day when Hiroshima was bombed and my sister, and nothing else matters. While I was recovering from back surgery at home recently, racked with pain, my days were filled with thinking about the suffering that my sister endured.

Shortly before the end of the war, the military clothing factory where my father served as an officer was evacuated to a mountain town, Shiyobara-machi. My father went by himself to lead the Shiyobara army clothing unit, leaving the rest of the family behind in Hiroshima.

We lived in the neighborhood called Hakushimanaka-machi. As the air raids worsened, people began to evacuate the city, but my father adamantly insisted that students, such as my eldest sister, should remain in Hiroshima to help demolish houses in bombed areas to prevent the spread of fire and to fill in for the shortage of factory and farm workers. To him, evacuation would be tantamount to running away from the war.

On 5 August, the air raids intensified, and we spent a restless night going in and out of the bomb shelter. We welcomed the morning of Monday, 6 August, with a sense of freedom. My eldest sister eagerly set off to the work station for student mobilization to fulfill her responsibilities.

I was absentmindedly watching my mother scrubbing laundry on a washboard when all at once, as if an enormous amount of magnesium had been set on fire, light surrounded the house. I thought I heard a spooky sound. Something had ignited. “A bomb has dropped in our yard!” my mother screamed. Curious to see what had happened, I ran through the corridor, across the front foyer, and came to the bottom of the staircase. It was at this moment that a big explosion occurred. I remember seeing a long flash that started in the living room and wound past my eye. I remember nothing that happened next.

The time from the sound of the explosion to the flash of light seemed quite long. The thought of what happened in Hiroshima during those seconds chills me to this day. It was the time during which the blast rushed through the 1.3 kilometers [0.8 miles] from ground zero to our home. It was the most horrible time in the world.

My grandmother and younger brother miraculously escaped being buried under the collapsed kitchen. My great-grandmother and sister were blown off their feet, but my sister landed at the end of the corridor and my great-grandmother on the grassy patch in the yard. My grandmother was a very strong woman. Though injured, she helped the three young ones and my great-grandmother to the front of the bomb shelter. Mother was buried completely underneath the collapsed structure. Somehow, my grandmother managed to rescue her too.

About 100 meters [109 yards] from our house was Chojuen Park, a designated meeting place for emergency evacuation. We all went there, in a nightmare shrouded in smoke, dust, and blood. All of us were covered in blood. The road was covered in debris and electric wires. Passing by a baby hanging from a tree, hearing voices pleading for help, fearing that the flames chasing after us would catch us, we kept running until we reached the park. While we were struggling to get there, people in the nearby area of Hakushima-kita-machi, ignoring their own injuries, worked together to stop the flames at the edge of the town.

That day, that night, and the following day, we waited on the grass in the park for the truck my father was sending for us. During the afternoons, my grandmother went to search for my eldest sister, who hadn’t come home.

In Chojuen Park, many people died. But there were also many who did all they could to help others. Two sisters, about ages 9 and 10, sitting on the sandy bank of the river, suddenly started to sing “Tajimamori.” They had beautiful voices, but the singing was melancholic and haunting.

The next day, my grandmother went to search for my sister in the ruins piled with corpses, but she came back alone. The truck came. We had to go. With great reluctance, we left my sister behind and piled into the truck. It took all night to reach my father in Shiyobara on the morning of 8 August.

The next day, after being treated for their injuries, my mother and grandmother, along with my father, a nurse, a doctor, and the rest of us children, went on the truck in search of my sister. I saw that Hiroshima was burned down completely. The island of Ninoshima, called Small Mount Fuji, was visible from everywhere.

My sister was nowhere to be found. We put a big sign where our house used to stand, asking that any information about her be sent to Shiyobara. A week later, on the morning of 13 August, a phone call came, letting us know that my sister was in the Toyo Industry factory.

The truck, carrying three doctors and two nurses, took off to Toyo Industry with my father. Late that afternoon, my sister came back to us. Almost the entire right half of her body was covered in burns. Strangely, the inside of her mouth was also burned badly. Her burns were covered with cotton, the kind used inside bedding, wetted with tea. Her skin was infested with maggots. The nurses tried to pick them off with tweezers but could not keep up with the maggots that kept creeping up. All of us pitched in with chopsticks to help.

Suffering with pain, my sister nevertheless started to tell my father what had happened that morning. The place where she was when the bomb was dropped. How she wanted to run home but was stopped by the sea of fire. The names of her friends who ran east. The names of her friends who ran into the river. How she almost fainted around Deshiocho. How she told everyone she met where she lived. My sister talked and talked, struggling with pain. She stayed with us for the following two days. On 15 August, the day she finished telling her story, she became quiet, thanked the family, and took her last breath. Even with the burns, her face looked peaceful.

Akio Nishikiori is a member of the Rotary Club of Hiroshima Southeast

Read Sister clubs turn scars of war into bonds of peace