Using the pregnancy as an excuse, the entire family fled Tokyo for a small
town in the country. Since the region was new to them, they let it be known
that their daughter was married, that they had brought her to the country to
give birth—and that was that.
Utako’s father was still working, so he’d remained for the most part in
their house in Tokyo.
Her mother took her and the baby to Tokyo, plagued though the city was
by air-raids. Utako held the baby in her arms. They went to get rid of the
baby. Utako wanted to see Jiro, but she was taken back to the country the
day after they gave the baby away.
Utako had not heard until after the end of the war that the child had died
in the care of the person who took it.
“But—do you think the child really died?” Utako said.
Jiro looked away.
“Sometimes I think that it might still be alive, you know—possibly.”
‘‘I’m certain that it’s dead.”
“If it’s alive, do you think if I met it somewhere— do you think I would
know?”
“Look, the child is dead. Let’s not talk about it.”
Jiro had no desire to talk with Utako about anything in the past, not in
detail. It wasn’t just talk of the child.
