Shadows of World War II

By Yumiko Sato

Abstract

On my initial visit with Shen I discovered that he grew up in China under the Japanese occupation during WWII. How would my nationality affect our therapeutic relationship? As a Japanese music therapist working at hospice in America the shadow of WWII is something I can not avoid. Neither can my patients. For those who lived through the war meeting someone from Japan could bring back powerful emotions, especially when they�re facing their final journeys. This is a story of patients for whom both music and my nationality opened the door to unexpected experiences.

All identifying information has been changed to protect peoples confidentiality.

On a cold winter afternoon I visited Shen in a nursing home on the east side of the city. I remember the sticky floor, the constant sound of beepers, and the stuffy air. His room was right across the hallway from the nurse station, a busy part of the floor. Shen was sitting in a wheelchair, watching TV when I arrived. He had a private room unlike most residents, and instead of the sticky floor a light blue carpet brightened the room.

As I greeted him and introduced myself as a music therapist from hospice, Shen returned a smile. He was a thin, neatly dressed man with a warm smile and black-framed glasses.

I came here today to see if youre interested in listening to music. I said.

Sure. I like music. Ive been involved in a chorus and the church choir all my life. He said.

What kind of music do you like?

I like all kinds of music. His speech was slow due to his brain cancer, but he was alert. He seemed reserved, soft spoken, and calm.

A few weeks before the hospice aide, Wanda, had stopped me in a hallway of the nursing home, when I was visiting another patient.

She said, There is a new patient. He is a really nice man, but he is very quiet. He doesnt talk much. But, I think hell talk to you, because youre both Asian. He is from China, I think.

I wondered if Wanda knew that I was from Japan, and that China and Japan had a difficult history in the past. I thought that my nationality might not help much in this situation, but I didnt tell her. Soon after that I received a music therapy referral from Shens hospice nurse, stating that he needed a meaningful activity and sensory stimulation.

As Shen listened quietly, I played guitar and sang varieties of music including Chinese folk songs. His response to each song was the same a gentle smile with an occasional comment, Thats nice.

Have you heard of the music I just played? I asked.

Yeah, Ive heard some of them before. I remember American songs better than Chinese songs, because I left China a long time ago. This opened the conversation about his life story.

I was born in Fuzhou, China. When I was about 14, my family came to the U.S to visit. And we couldnt go back to China because of the political reasons. He didnt elaborate on what the political reasons were and continued. Soon after that my father became sick and died. He was a professor in China.

It must have been difficult for you to lose your father when you were so young.

It wasbut I had to get through it.

Shens mother raised him and his sister by herself. With no relatives or friends, they struggled to begin a new life in a foreign land. Although he talked about his past in a matter-of-fact way, I sensed unresolved feelings behind the story.

Have you ever gone back to China? I asked.

Once. A few years ago when my daughter got married in China.

How was it?

It was nice. I saw things I had not seen before. But I didnt have time to visit Fuzhou. He became quiet.

That night I went home and researched Fuzhou, China. I learned that during the time Shen was a child, Fuzhou was occupied by Japan. Some of the pictures that came up on the internet search were disturbing - lifeless bodies of men, women, and children, lying on the road. I had seen such pictures before and known that horrible things went on during the Japanese occupation of China. I wondered what kind of experiences he had had with the Japanese as a child and how my nationality would affect our therapeutic relationship.

When I began my internship at hospice several years ago, my supervisor was concerned that people who lived through World War II (WWII) might hold anger toward me because of my nationality. He asked me how I felt about that. I told him I really didnt know what to expect. Perhaps it was naïve of me not to have thought about this issue before. I considered my grandfather who fought in WWII and rarely talked about it. He didnt seem to hold any anger toward Americans, although he was very surprised by my decision to go to America after high school. As far as I was concerned the war happened a long time ago. Can people hold onto anger for that long? Will my patients be angry with me because of the war? Can I build a meaningful relationship with them despite my background? Id slowly find the answers to those questions, the answers I had not expected.

As a starting music therapist I met a cheerful patient, Sam, who was Italian American. He was in his early 90s but looked as if he was in his 70s. He was full of energy and always ready to talk about anything that came to his mind. His friendly smile and cheerful laughter soon made him a popular patient on the floor.

One day while listening to Italian songs he began talking about his childhood memories and his proud Italian heritage. This led him to ask me where I was from. When I said I was from Japan, his face suddenly darkened and he became tearful.

When I joined the army, I was hoping they would send me to Italy, so I could see my family, you know? But, instead they sent me to Japan. He closed his eyes, as if it was too painful to look at me.

I was involved in the experiment of the atomic bomb. Oh, I think of all the children and innocent people. He shook his head and looked away. I am not proud of it. He began to cry.

I didnt know what to say. As I sat next to his bed in silence, I felt the intense pain and sadness he had carried all his life. The memories of Hiroshima during my high school trip came to mind. What I saw in the museum would be forever instilled in my memory; a persons skin hanging on a wall without a body and the shadow burned onto a step with no sign of the person. I remembered talking to a survivor, a woman who looked to be in her 70s, wearing a gray suit on a hot summer day. She told us, standing in front of the museum, that there were so many dead bodies they couldnt clean them up. Underneath the concrete youre standing on, there are still many dead people, she said.

Here I was faced with another side of the tragedy an American soldier who lived his life with the guilt that he played a part in dropping the atomic bomb. Sam seemed so upset that he began breathing fast.

I was a part of the experiment in the University, said Sam, lifting his head up from the bed. Before I could ask about that, he went on to say,

I didnt knowWe didnt know we were going to do it. His eyes, filled with tears, looked directly into mine. He choked up and seemed unable to go on. Although I was curious to know more, I decided not to ask any questions. His frail body shook, as he continued to sob.

After a while Sam asked me to play music, which seemed to indicate that he didnt want to talk any more. He closed his eyes, as I played some of his favorite Big Band music. I sang and played guitar, hoping that singing would have a nurturing quality to calm his soul. Sam put his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.

In the next month I continued to visit Sam every week. The music from the past and my presence seemed to evoke his memories and feelings about the war. It was too painful for him to think about his experiences, yet he talked about them in every session. Each time he repeated the same story without being able to talk about it in detail.

Music provided Sam a safe container in which he could express his feelings: He would cry while listening to old and familiar songs. When it became too much for him to talk, he asked me to play music, which either lifted his mood or made him calm. Although Sam seemed to have had a long and fulfilling life, one thing that still haunted him was the memories of the war. The very memory that he didnt want to think about was what often came to him as his death neared.

A few years later I met Jim, who came to the inpatient unit for a five-day stay. He was sitting in a recliner next to the window when I arrived in his room. I explained my service and offered to play harp music, to which he agreed. When I asked what kind of music he liked, he said he liked any kind of music. While I played a few American folk songs, Jim was quiet. I didnt know what was on his mind, but he seemed to be thinking about something. After the music he asked if I was from China, saying that a Chinese woman he met during WWII made an impression on him. I told him I was Japanese, and he became quiet. He looked down and said, I killed some Japanese soldiers. They were young. I was young. I think of their families. I am so sorry. He choked up and couldnt speak anymore.

I was surprised by his sudden confession. His emotions were as powerful and raw as if this incident had taken place yesterday. I sensed that this was something he had not talked about with many people, if any, and that releasing the feelings might be cathartic for him. So once again I sat in silence, allowing him to express his feelings. I dont remember how long I sat there but it seemed like a long time. Eventually he stopped crying but still had his head down. I asked him if I could play one more song before I left. He said, Okay. I played the music that came to my mind at that moment a simple and familiar song with structure. The music seemed to ground both of us again. Before leaving, I thanked him for sharing. He looked up and thanked me for the music.

I never saw Jim again after that. Both Sam and Jim lived their lives carrying the burden of guilt; guilt of killing, guilt of surviving, or guilt of having been a part of something they regretted. Their stories have never left me, because Im constantly reminded of them upon meeting other dying veterans who have similar stories to tell me. Ive learned that at the end of life it is not the feeling of triumph or anger that these veterans recall; rather the intense feelings of sadness, loss, and guilt are what haunt them.

Meeting Shen reminded me that civilians suffered as much as soldiers during the war. Although Shen was not an active participant of the war, he was a recipient of the violence. So I wondered if this would make Shen more likely to hold anger toward Japanese than the veterans might. I was concerned that the painful histories of our countries might negatively affect our relationship.

Five months had passed since I first met Shen. The scenery outside his window changed from a gray sky to purple flowers and greens. His illness progressed slowly, affecting his speech and movement. I wanted to explore more about his childhood in Fuzhou, but he said he didnt remember much any more. I didnt know if his unwillingness to talk was due to his brain tumor or the fact he did not want to think about it. During our sessions I focused on providing music that seemed to give him comfort and bring back pleasant memories of singing in a chorus. Although he was always kind and polite to me, I didnt know how he felt about my being Japanese.

An unexpected moment came on one afternoon, when we were discussing how we should address people: Should we call people by their first names or their last names? Shen said even though he felt fine about the nursing home staff calling him by his first name, it would have been more appropriate to use someones last name according to the Chinese custom.

You understand this, because youre Asian too. He looked at me and smiled. I was pleasantly surprised by his comment, as it was the first time he mentioned anything about both of us being Asian.

Yes, I know what you mean. Itd be more natural for me to call you by your last name if we were to meet in China or Japan. Should I call you by your last name then? I asked. Shen laughed and said,

No, you can call me Shen.

This simple exchange seemed to release the unspoken tension between us. I felt that by acknowledging the similarities in our cultures Shen was giving me permission to explore more about our backgrounds.

You have several Chinese calendars in your room. Tell me about them. I said.

I like Chinese calligraphy. He said, pointing at the calendar of Chinese calligraphy next to the TV. My daughter gave it to me, because she knew that I liked Chinese characters, even though I forgot a lot of them. Shen spoke slowly but clearly. I understood his sentiment, because Chinese characters, also used as a part of Japanese language, had been difficult for me to retain. I recalled how often my father insisted that I continue to read and write in Japanese, so that I would not forget it.

I know its hard to remember Chinese characters. Im forgetting a lot of them myself. When we dont use them, its easy to forget. Shen nodded, so I continued. I used to take a calligraphy lesson as a child.

Did you? Shen smiled.

Yes, but I didnt like it much then, because as you know, you have to sit straight on your legs to do calligraphy.

Oh yes. He laughed.

But I like to do calligraphy now. I also enjoy learning about the origins of Chinese characters, because each has an interesting meaning. I wrote my name in Chinese characters for him while he looked at my writing intently.

Thats nice. I like that. He said.

For the rest of the session we looked at his calendar and discussed the meanings of the Chinese characters which were pronounced differently in Japanese but had the same meanings in both languages. I thought Wanda was right in that my background was affecting my relationship with Shen in a positive way. Through the sharing of music and cultures Shen and I were building rapport. I was relieved to know that Shen was allowing me to be a part of his life in this way. I also felt a sense of peace as if a burden passed down by the history was lifted off my shoulder.

In the next session I asked Shen if he was interested in listening to Japanese folk songs. He said, Sure. So I sang Haru ga kita (Spring Has Come), a popular Japanese folk song.

Have you heard of it before?

Shen shook his head, so I told him the translation of the song:

Haru ga kita, haru ga kita, doko ni kita?
(Spring has come, spring has come, where has it come?)
Yama ni kita, sato ni kita, no nimo kita
(Its come to the mountains, the villages, and the fields.)

Ive never heard of it, but I like it. He said, looking out the window. I used to go to placeslike mountainsand fieldsand takepictures. It took great effort for him to complete a sentence now. The song seemed to remind him of his hobby -- photography. I knew he missed going outside, but the only time he could do that was when his family came to visit him.

You miss going outside and taking pictures.

He nodded and appeared to be reflecting deeply. I sensed that this was an opportunity to ask him what I had wanted to ask for a long time.

Its been over five months since we met. How do you feel about being a hospice patient?

Sometimessometimes I have mixed feelingsabout it. But, thats something I have to I have to get through.

Its something you have to get through.

Yeah.

You said the same thing, when I once asked you how you survived difficult times in the past.

He laughed and said, Thats right.