#priest cross sans

[mikimakiboo]

Your meat isn't dead, it's still moving

Hi :D I'm here for another fanfic for @ancha-aus :D

But this time it's for the Ghost & Medium AU !

This fic takes place after Dust met Killer and Cross, and it is now time to meet Horror !

Tw: mention of death, forced starvation, sect, Killer flirting

- Stopping for a little snack ?

Dust's passenger asked as he stopped his van in front of the butcher's shop. He didn't even look at him, knowing he would see Cross grinning at him, well, not Cross, his body yes, but Cross wasn't in his body anymore, Killer has possessed him when he was supposed to be exorcized, and now he followed Dust anywhere he went. Cross was there too though, his spirit sitting on the back of the van, clearly displeased by the whole situation. Ash, Dust's ghost brother, was next to him, squinting disapprovingly at Killer like he always did when he flirted with Dust.

- I'm here for work.

- Oooh can I-

- You can't come.

Dust cut him before he could ask. He heard Killer whine but he couldn't care less, he couldn't take him with him, judging by what the butcher said the ghost haunting the shop wasn't a normal one, he couldn't risk bringing another inside without first making sure that it was safe, aside from his brother but he had a necklace to protect him, and even if it was a normal ghost he really didn't want Killer to bother him.

- You're not alone, you have Cross, talk to him.

He reassured the ghost.

- I don't want to talk to that body thief.

Cross said, still bitter about the whole possession thing. Dust could understand, he would be mad too if someone possessed him to go flirt with a random guy.

- You both stay here.

He commanded as he grabbed all the material he needed to communicate with the ghost, closed the van and went to the shop, Ash following him.

From what the butcher said over the phone this ghost had been haunting his shop for about two months now, they would throw the packages off the counter, slam the walk-in fridges' doors, detach the pigs' and cows' pieces from the hooks and generally just throw food around. Nothing weird so far, just a regular poltergeist, but what seemed off to Dust was that the shop had been there for years and it was the first time something like that happened, and no one had died in or near the shop these past few month, so that meant the spirit came to haunt this particular place, just like Killer did with the last house he was in, and seeing how it turned out, Dust wanted to be extra careful with this one.

The butcher was in front of the door, waiting to greet Dust.

- Ah ! You're here, perfect ! I hope you can do something about this.. haunting thing, I'm starting to lose customers and I can't afford to lose my business.

Dust saluted him with a nod.

- I will do everything I can.

- I don't doubt it. The keys are on the door, you do your things, I have a delivery to make so you can just leave them in the mailbox once you're done.

Dust nodded again, watching the butcher get in his own truck before sighing.

- Alright, let's see who's inside..

- IF IT FLIRTS LIKE THE OTHER ONE I AM LEAVING THIS PLACE.

Ash commented.

- I hope not, Killer's annoying enough I don't need a second one.

He pushed the door open, closing it behind him. The shop was dark, the curtains were down, indicating it was closed for the day. There was still enough light to navigate though and Dust went directly behind the counter in the staff area, as it was where there was the most activity.

- Hello ? I came here to talk, if you're okay with that.

He choose a table to put his radio and ouija board, looking around, there were pieces of meat everywhere, some scattered on the floor, it looked like an animal came to make a mess before leaving. He didn't see anyone. Maybe this spirit wasn't that strong ?

- IT DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO CLEAN APPARENTLY.

- Ash, please, don't be rude.

Ash huffed but didn't add anything, letting his brother do his job.

- Are you in here ? I heard you liked throwing pieces of meat on the ground, if I put one on the table, could you make it move so I know you're here ?

He asked, but the radio stayed silent and the ouija didn't move.

- I'm going to put his steak on the table, okay ?

He bent down, reaching for a steak that was already on the ground. Just as he grabbed it he thought he saw a glimpse of red but it was gone when he looked up. He slowly stood up, put the steak on the table, and waited for it to move.

He didn't wait long, just as he backed up the steak flew across the room and hit the wall before falling on the ground once again. Dust saw a vague silhouette in front of him, a tall and large one, but he couldn't see much more for now. Dust smiled.

- Hello. My name is Dust, glad to know you're here. If it's okay with you, would you mind telling me your name ?

The silhouette shifted, and Dust saw a bright red eyelight staring directly at him, before disappearing. In the distance, he heard a door shut, probably a fridge as he heard the noise of hooks being moved.

- YOU SCARED IT.

Dust frowned, but ignored his brother. He grabbed his radio and board and went to the fridge, knocking on the door to announce his presence.

- I'm gonna come in, okay ? I just want to talk, I'm not here to hurt you or take your food.

He said, assuming that the spirit's obsession over the meat meant they felt like it was theirs. He pushed the door open, shivering at the change of temperature, and closed it again. He could see the silhouette, this time a little more clearly, sitting in one of the corners of the fridge, all curled up. Dust stopped in the middle of the room to leave space for the ghost, sitting down, he put his material in front of him.

- Hey, sorry if I scared you, I didn't mean to.

The ghost didn't move, but they were staring at him. They looked like a male skeleton monster, with one glowing red eyelight and what seemed to be a hole in their skull, which was most likely the cause of their death as no-one could survive such an injury. But why were they haunting a butcher's shop then ? They were dressed with a big coat, some thicc sweatpants and winter boots.

- Would you mind telling me your name and pronouns so I can know how to address you ? You can use either the radio or the board.

The ghost stayed silent for a little while before muttering something, not using either instrument.

- Horror... I'm a man...

He had a deep raspy voice. Dust tilted his head, he didn't expect this spirit to be powerful enough to speak without help.

- Hello Horror, I'm going to ask you some questions, okay ?

He told him. Horror didn't respond, but he didn't flee either, so Dust took it as a sign he was okay with that.

- What are you doing in such a place ? Did something happen here ?

- There's... food...

Horror answered slowly, searching for the right words. Dust let him speak at his own speed, judging by his injury he probably had trouble speaking, no need to rush him.

- Are you here for the food ?

He asked. Horror nodded.

- I'm hungry...

Dust frowned. Hungry ? Spirits couldn't get hungry, they didn't have any body to feed, Dust should know, he had a ghost brother and Killer almost panicked when he heard his, well, Cross's, stomach gurgle.

- Do you feel hungry ? Or do you remember feeling hungry ?

He asked. Maybe this spirit had been hungry before he died and this feeling made him haunt the shop ?

Horror looked down, thinking about what the medium said. Was he hungry ? He couldn't feel his stomach, it didn't hurt anymore either. Was it because he wasn't hungry ? Or because he became so used to hunger that he couldn't feel it anymore ? He had been hungry all of his life, he knew what it felt like, he had felt it so strongly when he was there, in this dark room, but he didn't feel it now... he didn't feel anything... his head didn't hurt... was he... was he dead... ? Was that what death felt like... ? Was it why he couldn't eat... ?

- Heyyyyy Dusty ! Ya missed me ? Of course ya missed me ! Oh ! Who's that with you ?

An excited voice yelled, followed by another, less excited, voice.

- I tried to stop him ! I swear I did but he wouldn't listen !

Dust let out a loud sigh, not even needing to turn around to see that Killer was behind him with Cross.

- I told you to stay in the car.

- Yeah I know but then I thought you might be in danger, so I came to the rescue !

Killer argued, feeling very proud of himself.

- I am not in danger, Killer.

- Yeah yeah anyway, who's the newbie ?

It was no surprise that Killer could see Horror, as he was a spirit too, and Cross had gained this ability too since he wasn't in his body anymore and had entered the spirit realm.

- He.. doesn't look okay...

Cross noticed, seeing how Horror was still looking at the ground, his arms around his knees, not paying attention to Killer who was now very close to him, crounching down.

- I DO WONDER WHY.

Ash sarcastically said, squinting at Killer.

- You invaded his space without his consent.

- Well first of all it's Killer's fault, and second of all he really doesn't look good, and not just because we're here...

- What do you mean he doesn't look good ? He looks fine as hell. ~

Killer said with that particular tone of voice that always made Ash gag.

- Now's not the time for that, Killer.

Dust sighed again, sometimes he really regretted accepting going to Killer's house, he couldn't even do his job properly now !

- You're new here, huh ?

Killer asked, ignoring Dust. Horror looked up at him, only now realizing that two more persons were here.

- What killed ya ?

- Killer.

Dust got up, ready to grab Killer by the hood to drag him outside if he continued to mess with his work. The only thing stopping him from doing so was when he heard Horror answer.

- ... Hunger... I... died of hunger... I think...

He seemed so unsure that Dust's anger almost vanished. This ghost didn't know he was dead, it was obvious now, he wasn't here to scare people, he was here because he died hungry and wanted to eat, not realizing he didn't need to anymore.

- Ah yes, hunger, I know how it feels.

Killer confessed with a serious tone that almost caught Dust off guard.

- But it's okay, you won't get hungry anymore now, you're free ! You can do anything you want and go anywhere you want !

Horror blinked, still slowly processing the new information.

- I don't know... anywhere else to go...

- Aww come on, don't you got a dream destination ? Somewhere you really want to visit ?

Dust searched through his pockets to find his notebook, wanting to take notes on the conversation as Killer was surprisingly getting better results than he did.

Horror shook his head.

- Couldn't go out... needed to stay.. inside the walls... our leader said... outside was unworthy of.. of our presence...

- THAT SOUNDS LIKE A SECT.

Ash commented, and even if Dust would have preferred him to be less direct, he was right, that sounded like a sect. Was Horror in a sect before ? Did he die of hunger because they starved him on purpose ? Or did he go outside those "walls" and couldn't provide for himself ? Was it how he got hurt ?

- I know it must be hard for you, but would you mind telling us more about your.. your leader and the walls ?

Dust asked, trying not to jump to conclusions by calling it a sect, even though it clearly was.

- The walls.. protected us... Undyne was chosen by the gods... she decided who was worthy... and who was not...

- Worthy of what ?

Killer asked before Dust could.

- Food...

Dust frowned, that explained his choice in the place to haunt.

- Did she say you were unworthy ?

Dust asked softly, talking about death could be traumatizing and his goal wasn't to scare Horror, it was to understand his life, and death, better in order to help him rest, but he needed to ask questions for that.

Horror nodded after thinking for a minute.

- She didn't like... that I questioned her way... she said it was a shame... I had been worthy all my life...

- What made that change ?

Horror shriveled down a little bit more on himself.

- My brother... wasn't worthy...

No one responded to that as they could all imagine what happened. Horror continued.

- We had a room... for the unworthy... couldn't have food when... when inside... couldn't go out...

Dust looked up from his notes. They starved them. They starved Horror's brother and then they starved Horror, and he died of hunger.

- That must have been horrible, I'm sorry it happened to you...

Horror looked up at him.

- But Killer is right.

It pained him to say that, and it pained him even more to see Killer's smug expression.

- You are free now, you don't have to stay here.

- Can... go with you... ? Don't want... to be alone...

- Wh-

- Oh my God of course you can ! The more the merrier come on ! We'll have such a good time together !

Killer responded with excitement before Dust could even say anything.

Horror looked at Killer for a second before smiling hesitantly, quite relieved, and finally getting up as Killer already stood up. He was... tall. Like, very tall. But that didn't stop Killer from smiling brightly.

And then Dust felt it. He felt a link forming, a thread connected to his soul, the thread that formed between a spirit and the place, or person in this case, they haunted. The third thread, not counting Cross as he was still connected to his own body.

His third ghost.

He came here to exorcize the place, and instead gained another ghost.

Well... at least the butcher would be happy.

...

Where was Dust going to find enough place for everyone ? Why did it have to happen to him ?

He already felt a headache coming. God, he really regretted meeting Killer.

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[captain-joongz]

summer recap/favourite fics/fic recommendations for the first half of 2024!

Pretty flushed by @holybibly

♡ 2 parts, wolf!hwa x rabbit!reader x wolf!joong, a/b/o, smut smut smut, a little dark

Industry baby by @kitten4sannie

♡ mingi x reader x joong, rock band au, cuckold play, bf!mingi and bandmate!joong

Arriba! + Freak! by @teeskzagain

♡ f!reader x joong, yunho, san, woo and mingi, college au, a lot of smut, sex under the influence, ateez are absolute pervs, "the boardgame made us do it"

7 minutes of compensation by @k-hotchoisan

♡ hwa x f!reader x yunho, frat!teez, threesome

in the wings by @sanjoongie

♡ rapppers hwa and joong x f!reader, backstage pass, smut, double penetration, groupie au

Case: It's you by @potatomountain

♡ ot8 x f!reader, e2l, police au, workplace romance, investigative and horny ;)

Inception by @remedyx

♡ a repeat from the last list, but it's sooo good, go check it out!!

The happiest girl in the world by @holybibly

♡ camboy!hwa x f!reader, private call, smut, streamer x fan au

February filth fest 2024 day 13: Uniform by @sanjoongie

♡ new captain!hwa x former captain!reader, mutiny au, scifi, mean dom hwa, humiliation and degradation

February filth fest 2024 day 21: aphrodisiacs/overstim by @sanjoongie

♡ alien!joong x human!reader, alien poison as an aphrodisiac, oviposition

Ugh, as if by @ennysbookstore + Ugh, as if - bonus

♡ punk!joong x f!reader, joong works with leather, cute and hot, joong helps reader overcome insomnia with some good old-fashioned orgasms

Look after you by @mingigoo

♡ musician!joong x nurse!reader, a little angsty, but with a sweet ending, smut

Plug & Play by @bangtanintotheroom

♡ guitarist!joong x f!reader, rock band au, s2l, backstage sex, reader is horny and hongjoong is hot

this ask by @nateezfics

♡ sex with angry joong, bratty reader

Honey and blood by @nateezfics

♡ vampire!joong x maid!reader, dark but sweet, smut with feels

10:11 : féconder by @yeosgoa

♡ assistant!joong x witch!reader, academia au, accidental aphrodisiacs, desperate joong under the influence of a sex potion

cross my heart by @doitforbangchan

♡ brother's best friend!joong x f!reader, dark, yandere joong, he's very manipulative, dubcon/noncon, sex under the influence

February filth fest 2024 day 4: public sex by @sanjoongie

♡ cowboy!san x wise woman!reader, wild west au, san is injured, san is head over heels for reader, save a horse ride a cowboy ;)

no hesitation by @daemour

♡ fratboy!san x f!reader, bff2l, college party au, misunderstandings, fools in love, smut

February filth fest 2024 day 23: breeding kink by @sanjoongie

♡ kitty hybrid!woo x f!reader, rut sex, cumplay, bratty woo

deliver us from evil by @holybibly

♡ priest!woo (or is he???) x f!reader, hierophilia, sacrilege, church sex, very dark, rough sex and humiliation

IT's You by @shinestarhwaa

♡ debate team au, college au, e2l, mean woo, rough sex

Right here by @0097linersb

♡ bff!woo x f!reader, pervy woo who wants to fuck his bff, very sexually frustrated reader

My library | BTS fic recs

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Salome!

"La Belle Dame sans Mercy" ("The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy") - A ballad by John Keats

"The poem is about a fairy who condemns a knight to an unpleasant fate after she seduces him with her eyes and singing." please

This screams Knight!König x Fairy!Reader to me.

I just know König would gladly die by the hand of such an ethereal being.

"She looked at me as she did love, and made a sweet moan."

"And sure in language strange she said—'I love thee true.'"

That’s it. Thank you.

I swear this artwork kills me everytime I see it....

Ok this became the silliest fairytale ever 🩷✨️

CW: Historical AU blending with mythical/supernatural AU. König being a dreamy mess of a knight who doesn't fit in "normal" society. Reader is part of faefolk. Heavy Arthurian Romance vibes.

König returns to the castle one day. The son of a great liege lord, a warrior through and through, but some people say he should’ve been a poet: so dreamily he looks beyond the battlements at times, sighs after drinking too much wine, stares off into dark corners of the room while tending to his sword and armour as if he can see little pixies dancing there.

His siblings sometimes hit him on the back of his head, or wave a hand over his eyes when he’s about to slip into the fairy world, a forgotten plane that is not supposed to reach the castle. But the castle stones were taken from the moors and the woods, the old land not bending to the priest’s will no matter how many crosses they brought here. Fragile souls are wanton prey for the elves and the fairies who would take them to their land the moment they drop down their guard, and only prayer and fasting hold them at bay. In the fairylands, there is no toil or sorrow; the food is golden honey and wine, the dance and love everlasting, and the fae girls more beautiful than any human maid.

It sounded too good to be true, and it was: God had created men to work and women to give birth, and all the land was theirs to use and cultivate, it was not made to simply run and frolic upon. Some say that these were just old tales and that Christ would banish these creatures away, turn the land to yielding crops and tame firewood.

But some still believed.

When he was a child, the mighty son of the feared lord took porridge and almonds to the woods. “For the fairy people,” he said with bright, trusting eyes. Stole food from under the mistress’s nose, and no one ever dared to say anything about it.

But when this nonsense carried on to adulthood, people had to intervene. There was work to be done, war, harvest and building, and no matter how many coins this man paid to the visiting bards, it would never turn their stories true.

His arm was strong and his strike was true, but his head seemed to be filled with dandelion wine, even when he hadn’t been drinking. Sighed after this maiden or that, wished to travel to foreign lands, courted every nobleman’s daughter who visited the castle, but no one ever took him seriously.

This man had to watch how lady after lady chose some other valiant knight as their husband, some men whose heads were not filled with fairytales and dreams. They did flirt with him, for who could’ve resisted the temptation of making this giant a little sweaty under all that armor? Armor that demanded plate for two people, and a smith who had the talent to forge such a beastly thing.

Nevertheless, he was always left without a warm embrace, and so he was usually found outside, looking at the full moon or spending time in taverns, choosing the company of thieves and rascals over his serious kin.

And now he has returned from the woods, having been gone for months.

People thought he had finally left to fight for some other lord, posing as a simple footsoldier, a disguise that would relieve him of his tedious duties as a knight. Or to court some “lovely peasant girl” he always talked about – such talks were usually crushed by his father, demanding him to be sensible for once in his life.

But he doesn’t prattle about peasant girls now, nor does he ramble about screaming ships at the bottom of the sea. He doesn’t hold a speech about forgotten stone circles in the forest, the ones that already grow moss. No, he has finally lost it completely.

His eyes are wild, as is his hair; his armour is nowhere to be seen, and his sword is without its sheath. He doesn’t talk about what he saw in that forest to anyone, nor is he willing to tell where he has even been these past few moons.

He seems very shaken when he’s told they were worried he wouldn’t make it to the May Day feast, and asks for how long he was gone, drives a hand through dishevelled hair when he hears that he was away for three full months.

“Three months…” he mutters to himself, then leaves to his room, the huge sword dragging against the stone floor as he goes. He has always, always made sure it wouldn’t dull, but now he’s treating it like it’s become a part of him, confused and lost.

He doesn’t eat, hardly speaks after that.

The food tastes like ash, he says, and the ale tastes like bile. But the following evening, when his mother orders someone to pour her poor son some more wine, he looks up helplessly like a child.

“I have to go back,” he says.

A clamour arises, huffed exclaims of “What on earth is he on about” and “Sir, you only just got back!” His father rises from his chair and orders him to stop this nonsense at once. But this time, there is no embarrassed sweep of hand through hair, no red colour that rises on this peculiar knight’s cheeks. His lips only make a thin line before he rises as well and leaves the hall with a weight on his shoulders and dark determination in his stare.

At the stables, a stout Moorland pony and poor stable boy get to witness the drunken bawls of a forlorn knight. The wine sack almost slips from his hands to the dirt as he slumps against the timber of the stall, distorted face coming to rest against a wide, shaky palm.

Luckily, a friend of his knows where to look, and the stable boy sneaks into the shadows, slightly scared of the sorrow of such a big, intimidating man.

But even the companion who always listened to every enthusiastic story since they were kids and ran across the moors, throwing little rocks at his father’s soldiers and laughing when their helmets made a funny clinky sound, can not understand the drunken babble that comes out of König’s mouth this time.

He starts from the middle, which is highly unusual, and talks in strings of sentences that don’t make sense. “She was real, I just know it,” he repeats, over and over again in the middle of confessions about how beautiful she was, how her hair was like the softest spun yarn, her body incredible, naked and wild when she came to him. That her laugh was like the chime of little bells or the sound of the loveliest harp, a song on its own when she walked to him.

She was fascinated with his sword, especially the pommel and the handle interested her, and the curve in the middle of the blade she brushed with her fingers as if it was an entire vale.

He had never seen a woman touch his sword like that… They were never interested in such things, but she was, and she asked him so many questions.

Had he ever felled a tree?

Did he like squirrels?

Were his thighs as hairy as his chest?

She took him down the river, or he followed her; he can’t remember. Her step was so light it didn’t make a sound, and the moss seemed to turn brighter every time her little foot stepped on it. Her hands were tiny too when she wrapped them around his neck, pressed her body against his, and kissed him until there was nothing left of him: no helmet, no sword, nothing but sun and her, her hands and her lips.

Her mouth was still on his when she whispered she didn’t like his armour because it was so hard and rigid and cold, oh, she wondered if there was a man inside there at all.

So of course he showed her.

She giggled at the sight of him, especially his thighs, knelt down on the moss to see how hairy they were.

And would you believe the way she touched him then? It makes him heady even now…

Yes, he took her. But not the way a man takes a woman. She came to straddle him and laughed again, and the things they did together… He can’t even speak about them, but he knows the sun always shined when they rolled on the grass. Her giggles and moans surrounded him, her soft little thighs were stronger than they looked, her breasts so round and soft, so perfect he swore he had gone to heaven.

He bathed in her, with her, all day long. And the nights… You wouldn’t believe the nights: there was song and dance and more giggling women, and also a man dressed all in leaves, so big and thick he first thought he was a tree. An old king, she said, nothing he should worry about. And the wine tasted like summer and honey and gold; it was red, perhaps, but also like sea amber and sun…

She fed him flowers and laughed, caressed his face and said he’s the biggest and hairiest human she had ever seen. She let him lick honey from her fingertips and caressed him with heather and ivy, opened her mouth before feeding him a soft, sweet piece of cake, showing him how he needed to open his mouth as well if he wanted it on his tongue.

She kissed the crumbs from his lips and trailed a finger down his chest, all the way down, until…

Oh, he can’t talk about it.

It was better than he ever even imagined: better than the stories they tell in the taverns. It was like his wedding night, over and over again, it was like he was Lancelot, and she was his Guinevere.

No, no, she was not an enchantress, although everything about her was enchanting... All the stories came alive with her, even the moon was bigger than anywhere he’d ever seen, the deers ran past them while they made love, and the birds sang even at night.

He told her he loved her, but she didn’t know what it meant. When he explained it to her, she looked at him gently, so gently…

He cried from joy then, but she never mocked him. She only said it’s a sign that he’s hers. That he will never forget her. She said he’ll always find her, even when he’s old: she will make him young again. He’s welcome here if he wants: she has so many places to show him.

He thanked all the saints for having found her, Saint George and Saint Mary first, but stopped when her little brows furrowed with sorrow. Her eyes, filled with starlight and love, turned so sad that his heart couldn’t bear it, not for one beat.

The sea is far wilder here: he should come and see the ocean as it was at the dawn of time. The ivy is so strong you can use it to climb the trees and see the whole world from atop the tree, the whole land, covered in forest, such as it was before humans came. There’s no smoke or fire or war: just green everywhere, wild rippling streams and honey bees and berries and fish for everyone who ever feels hungry... They can make love day and night, and she’ll teach him all the songs of old. Humans only remember bits and pieces, but she knows how things really happened, she can tell him everything about heroes, kings and queens.

She said she wanted to sleep, and so he took her from the feast and laid her on the grass… She might’ve sung to him, he can’t remember, but it was like an angel’s caress all over him, somber and sweet before the dreams took him, a dream within a dream.

He slept for ages, it seemed, saw so many dreams, each more beautiful than the last until he woke up and saw that the forest had turned grey.

There was no maiden in his lap, no dance and song in the distance, no scent of flowers and dreams and springs to be found. The sun was up in the sky, but it didn’t paint all the colours with gold or fill the streams with light. The forest was half dead to him, just old, thick trees around him, a green-grey forest floor and a shaggy squirrel who chirped and squeaked at him as if it was his fault that the fae folk were gone.

He searched for her, called for her, but she didn’t answer, and how could she have? He didn’t even know her name. He only knew how lovely she felt, how soft her hair was when it fell to cover him like a veil, how adorable her sighs and tiny little gasps were when he filled her, over and over again.

His armour was nowhere to be found, and his sword was somewhere downstream, half covered with leaves and dirt, rusty and beaten by the wind. It was early spring when he came here; the land was still barren and grey, but now, everything was green. Still, it was not the green he wanted. It was not the green that filled his vision entirely, bright, blooming green that pulsed with lush joy. It was just… earth and grass and dirt.

So you see, he has to go back. He has to find her, whatever it takes. She promised he could always come back… She promised…

He cries once more, head bowed and mighty shoulders trembling from the force of his sorrow, and it is no use to tell him that the fae folk are evil. That they’re from the Devil and only want to make good, decent men like them forget. Forget their duty, their laws, their Christ.

It’s no use to tell him that it is not natural, the place he has seen. No doubt he has been somewhere, but it cannot be anything good… No man can survive on flowers and spring water for three months; they cannot frolic with the faeries for days on end without losing their mind and soul.

And König is already lost; he was lost since he was a child, rambling about how he received flowers, sticks and stones as tokens of the faefolk’s gratitude because he brought them food.

He tries to tell the boy who never grew up, the mightiest man in this kingdom, the dreamiest knight there ever was, that he needs to return to the real world. No fae woman would have him as a husband, they are only after his soul. But surely some human lady would take him into her bed, think about it, for God’s sake, please... He has duties here, people who love him, his father would make him a lord if he only put himself together. What kind of knight would abandon his sword, helmet and armour for the sake of an elf who despises the saints...?

But in the morn, König is gone.

His rusty sword is on the floor, the wooden cross taken off the wall. There lies a honeycomb and a flower on his window, a blossom so sweet it cannot be plucked from any field around here. Too exotic and bright, especially when placed atop the rough, grey stones, it looks like it could never wither from how beautifully it blooms.

The peasants now tell a tale of a man that haunts the woods: a huge giant dressed all in green, donning a leaf cloak of some sort and a beard that grows ivy. But they say he is not evil: he only shows himself to hunters who are about to fall a deer, or children who remember the land with little gifts.

Old men say they saw a green man when they were kids and brought bread and milk to the faeries, they swear to this day they saw a man who greeted them with a smile. And when they looked again, there was nothing but a tree where this giant stook, a young oak, sighing with the wind...

[orshii]

Guilty Pleasure - Follow You (Part 2)

✟ Pairing: Choi San x female reader ✟ Word count: 6k ✟ Warnings: cursing, suggestive, mentions of death, blood

✟ Summary: You go back to your hometown for the summer vacation, not expecting the small town's priest to be a total eye candy. But he seems to be hiding dark secrets underneath his holy façade.

Will you find out the truth?

✟-First Part-✟

✟ A/N: Heeyy, so here is the long-awaited part 2 of this story. When I first wrote it I would've never thought it was going to head this way, but it happened and we finally know all the dark secrets of Priest San and why is he acting like this. Also, Yunho and Mingi appear in this story as well, and they are from @bvidzsoo's Who Am I fanfiction, it's happening in the same world but the mention of it is just slight. I find it funny and exciting to write in the same world lol, as in the future that is going to happen more often if she is in hehe. Anyways, read part 1 before reading this to understand everything. Tyy, byee! (Also I'm obsessed with this song again, and it matches the vibes of the story so I recommend listening to it)

         I was sitting on the church’s brown bench again as I watched the familiar face who was standing in front of the altar with the Bible in hand and a rosary strolling around his veiny hands the familiar cross hanging on his chest, as he was preaching for the people who came to the church on a bright Sunday morning.

People need to hear some reassuring thoughts about their God so they are going to feel less burdened about the sins they have committed. As if going to church will liberate them from the bad things they all did. Including me, that had the biggest sin anyone had in this church.

And that was—sleeping with the priest who was standing in the middle of the church, trying to motivate the people who came and prayed for their freedom. His sharp but innocent-looking eyes never met mine. Maybe he felt guilty about the sins we committed or he was pretending like I did not exist.

Two weeks went by since that night. And I barely saw Choi San, the priest of the town I grew up in, well he wasn’t a priest, he just pretended to be one, because he had some dark secrets that he did not share with me. After we slept together—some not-so-innocent images popped up in my mind, as he looked down at me, hovering over me, whispering some dirty thoughts into my ears that made me commit any sins that existed. The way his hands ran through my thighs up and down as he made me feel good with a burning desire in his eyes. That night I just cut all my sanity and gave in my guilty pleasure, and so did San—But after that night we did not speak. We had met a few times at the store or at the servings he held, but he pretended like nothing happened and it made me feel uneasy.

Why did he pretend like nothing happened? Was I just a one-night stand to satisfy his needs as it was rare for him to find someone who is in for a fuck with a priest? But in reality, he wasn't even a priest and I still did not know what he was doing here, and why he pretended to be one.

And as I watched him standing in front of the altar, the hall as quiet as the church's mouse, in his long black vestment his eyes observing the people sitting in front of him, I had enough of this game and I needed to talk with him.

When the mass ended, I waited until the church emptied, pretending to pray a little longer. I needed this moment, especially since my thoughts during the service had been less than innocent. Once everyone had left, I stood up and made my way to the vestry room where San always prepared for the mass.

As I entered the room, I saw San speaking with an old man. He was smiling, his dimples showing—a rare sight since he was always so serious with me. His hands rested on the old man's shoulders as he reassured him, promising to pray for the man's sick wife. It was kind of him, revealing a caring and warm side to his personality. But I knew it was all an act. He fooled these people with promises he couldn't keep because he wasn't the person they thought he was.

When the man finally turned, I smiled at him and bowed a little when he passed by me, leaving the two of us in the room. San just glared at me with his sharp eyes, his dimples disappearing the moment the old man left the room.

"Hi," I said as I walked further inside leaning against a table that was full of crosses and Bibles, on the walls there were a few glorious paintings and a closet in the corner of the room where the priest's vestments were hanging. I looked at San with crossed arms in front of my chest.

"Hey," he said, not even meeting my eyes as he turned his back to me. He began taking off the black vestment he was wearing, revealing an ironed white shirt and black pants underneath. 

"Why are you avoiding me?" I said as I stared at his wide shoulders where my nails drew blood a few weeks ago.

He folded his black vestment and put it into the closet. Then he turned around to face me as he leaned against the closet mirroring my position. His eyes scanned me up and down. "I'm being watched. I have to pretend everything is normal and fulfill my priest duties," he said in a low voice, his expression unreadable. 

I scoffed. "So, I do not deserve at least an explanation?" I lifted my hands questioning him. "You can't keep fooling these people, they really trust you San. Some people would give their life into your hands."

He pushed himself off the closet and slowly approached me with predator's eyes. "I know, I hate to do this, but I have to. I can explain everything. Let's meet at the cemetery tonight." He said as he stood in front of me, he hovered above me, making me feel small. His eyes, burning with intensity, stared into mine, lighting up even in the dimly lit room.

"A cemetery? Really?" My brows furrowed in disbelief.

"Yes, I want to show you something." He stepped closer to me, even though we barely had space between us, his hands squeezing my waist tightly.

"First you kidnap me to an abandoned mansion, and now you want to take me to a cemetery? Are you planning to hide my body in a used coffin?" I folded my arms in the narrow space between us.

He hummed, leaning close to my face, his lips brushing against mine. "I want to do other things with your body, and they're far from innocent," he whispered as his thin lips moved to my bare neck, leaving slight kisses along the way. My lips parted, my body growing hotter, and my heart pounded with uncontrollable desire. I gripped the table behind me, trying to pull away, but he held me in place, not letting me escape. 

His hands on my waist pulled me flush against his body, one of his hands traveling up to my jaw as he held it and pulled me closer to his parted lips. "You are my guilty pleasure." He whispered the words onto my lips as his thumb traced over the bottom of my lip. I couldn't control my body or my thoughts, so I just gave control to him. His familiar candy-like scent drove me crazy, making me lose my mind.

Then I felt his lips crush onto my lips, which immediately parted letting his tongue in as it discovered my mouth. This feeling was too familiar yet too strange. I felt like all of this was wrong, I didn't know anything about him, yet I was here kissing him like he was the love of my life.

His lips moved against mine, meanwhile, his hands discovered my body that was flushed against his, I wrapped my hands around his neck like it was in a script of a movie, all of this felt so natural but inhuman at the same time. While he was kissing me, his hands traveled down to the back of my tights just to lift me to the table, swiping the things off from the top so I could sit. He was standing in between my legs that I wrapped around his small waist. His hands brushed against the top of my thighs up to my back where his hands ended up in my hair as he ran his fingers through my dark strings.

The desire that lit my heart in that moment was endless, I felt like it could never burn out, but I couldn't let this go further. After all, we were still in a church… I slowly pulled away from him a string of saliva still connecting our lips from our passionate kiss as San captured my lips in a deep possessive kiss again, pulling me into a more rushed kiss, sucking my lower lip between his teeth, as my hands were on his pumped-up chest trying to push him away carefully.

He leaned his forehead against mine as we both breathed heavily. "I want you," He whispered in between quick breaths.

"We are in a church," I whispered back as my eyes met his, our eyes mirroring the same desire we felt for each other.

He nodded with a slight smile, as his lips met mine again, leaving a long peck on my warm lips. "I have to go, meet you at the cemetery at 8 p.m. darling." He left a kiss on the corner of my mouth and with that he left me there sitting on the table, the crosses and Bibles on the floor scattered, making me want to run away as quickly as possible from there, and I face-palmed myself mentally for being this high over heels for a man, who made me forget humans had sinned and that needed forgiveness.

I parked my car in the cemetery’s parking lot, the sun was slowly settling down, to hide behind the hills that hugged the town around. The weather was quite chilly, as it was already the end of summer, early autumn knocking on the door to let them in. This change of season meant I would soon have to return to where I lived and resume teaching the children who counted on me. I didn't want to let them down.  

When I stepped inside the cemetery goosebumps ran through my body. The sun was barely shining, leaving me in a quiet and dark cemetery that was swimming in mist. I heard some weird noises that I couldn't comprehend. Perhaps it was a bird nesting in the branches or a squirrel scurrying up and down the tree trunks. I stood frozen at the entrance, hesitant to venture deeper into the eerie yet noisy cemetery. There were a lot of gravestones and some flowers that were long withered.

Then I gathered all my courage and stepped deeper into the cemetery not knowing where should I wait for San. The cemetery slowly swallowed me as I went deeper, the graves forming a labyrinth around me.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps, but I couldn't tell which direction they came from. My heart was beating wildly, and I was frozen in place, my legs refusing to move. Then, I felt hands on my waist from behind, squeezing me. I jumped and let out a small scream.

"Holy shit San, don't do this again." I felt relieved as I turned around and saw his face where the curves of his lips were up his dimples on the sight.

"Sorry," He chuckled as he saw my terrified face. "You seemed lost in here, darling." His hands were still on my waist as he pulled me closer to him.

"Of course, it's not me who comes to the cemetery daily to bury random people." I squinted my eyes looking up at him and I noticed he was in casual clothes that was a black T-shirt, glued to his chest and broad shoulders, the familiar cross hanging on his pumped-up chest, the T-shirt paired with black sweatpants. He looked so comforting in normal clothes I wanted to hug him so badly.

He giggled, seeming genuinely happy—a rare sight to see him smile in a way that wasn't fake. His hands reached for mine, interlacing our fingers. "Come, I want to show you something," he said.

He began pulling me along by our interlaced hands, guiding me through the maze of graves and random sculptures of fallen angels that I didn’t quite understand. I realized there were many things about this small town that I didn't know, despite having grown up here.

Suddenly, San stopped, and I bumped into his broad back, feeling as if I had collided with an unbreakable wall. As I looked around, I saw we were standing in front of a grave that was unique—nothing like the others. It was crafted with care, adorned with fresh flowers in two vases on the ground, and featured graceful curves with winged decorations. I had never seen anything like it before. I turned to look at San, who stood next to me, gazing down at the grave with a look of deep grief.

"This is my grandmother's grave." He said with a low voice still holding my hand as I stood next to him. I nodded and caressed his shoulders signaling I was here next to him. "She raised me with my grandpa. My parents passed me to them when I was little. We have not heard about them since then." He sighed and sat down in front of his grandma's grave pulling up his legs to his chest and resting his elbows on his knees. I followed him and sat close to him and ran my hand up his back my fingers slowly combing through his raven-black hair. I wanted to be there with him, I wanted him to know I was by his side no matter what.

He was staring at his hands in front of him as he continued. "So, I was growing up here until I was eighteen, that was the time I left the town so I could study more."

"How come I don't remember you? I was growing up here, yet I never seen you." I asked with a frown.

His lips curved a little. "Well, I changed a lot. I was a weak and not-so-social little boy, maybe that is why." He tilted his head towards my direction to look at me with a slight smile. As I pouted trying to remember the boy he was describing. "If it helps you more, my grandfather was the priest before me." He smiled at me looking at my face, my eyes going wide at the realization.

"No way, you are the mysterious grandchild of Father John? Oh my God." I looked at him as I couldn't believe it. "Look at you, now being strong and independent." I squeezed his biceps as he chuckled. But then his expression turned serious.

"So, the thing is, I don't know where is my grandfather." His gaze went back to the grave in front of us.

"What? Isn't he retired?" I asked him a little confused.

"No, he had this year to complete, and he wanted to retire next year. I came to visit him, but he was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere, but there was no trace. Then, one day, these guys came after me and mentioned a 200-year-old golden relic that my grandpa owned, worth millions. " He glanced at me briefly as he spoke. 

"Those were the guys who chased us?" I asked him, trying to stay calm, it was a lot of information to process, as I remembered the night someone was chasing us with a black car, that night led us to San’s mansion.

"Yes, it's a mafia gang. They call themselves The Boyz and their leader is Sunwoo. One day they cornered me and told me they captured my grandpa and they were going to kill him if I don't tell them, where is the cup." His voice was full of rage as I watched his sharp side profile as he gritted his teeth. "When you saw me negotiate with some guys the other day, it was another gang called Ateez, their leader is Kim Hongjoong and I turned to them to ask for help. But the only way they agreed was that I give them the cup to keep it safe because they were famous for collecting different kinds of relics, and I agreed because I couldn't save my grandpa alone… I gave them money to help me but they only told me they were going to come when needed. And since that, I never saw them. So, it was a waste of time and I don't know if my grandpa is still alive." He sighed weakly in frustration, the burning rage slowly fading out of his eyes.

I ran my finger through my hair trying to calm down and think straight. "Do you know where is the cup?"

"Yes," He looked at me his eyes full of sadness alongside revenge. "We are sitting on it."

I frowned at that, looking around in confusion. "Where?"

"It's in my grandma's coffin."

My jaw hung open as I looked at the grave in front of us. "So, what will you do?"

"I don't know, Y/N…" He ran his fingers through his hair stressed. "I don't know what to do, what is the right choice I'm all by myself—"

"Hey," I said, reaching out to gently pull his hands away from his hair. I moved in front of him so I could look directly into his eyes. "I'm here. You're not alone, San." Kneeling between his spread legs, I cupped his face in my hands. "We'll figure this out together, okay?" I gazed into his eyes as I rested my forehead against his. 

He nodded and enveloped me in his strong arms and legs while I remained kneeling, almost making me disappear in his embrace. "Thank you so much, Y/N." He whispered into my ears his voice going weak. The familiar scent of candy hugged me tight, giving me a comfort that I didn't even know I needed.

Then San pulled away as his hands cupped my face. "I want you to be by my side…I want to be with you, but I'm scared you might get hurt in the process. I have a difficult life, Y/N…especially now…I don't know if I can keep you safe." He whispered as his gaze never left mine, his eyes welling up with tears.

I traced my thump on his cheek, where a teardrop escaped his eyes and wiped it away. "I'm going to be okay, it's easier to fight together than alone, right?" My lips curved up a little, giving him comfort.

He smiled at me emotionally, as his finger reached towards my hair, brushing a string behind my ear. "You are so beautiful and perfect, my darling. I don't deserve you." His eyes beamed caring and unlimited love, which made my heart twist painfully, but that pain was good, it whispered good things for the future.

"You do deserve someone by your side. And I want to be that person." I whispered back, leaning close to his face. When his lips met mine, it felt like he was kissing me for the hundredth time, yet each kiss still felt like the very first. It wasn't rushed, it was careful and warm, we sealed our lips together as a promise to protect the other no matter what. Something in my heart started to grow and it felt right for the first time in my life. But then a voice interrupted our promise to each other. 

“Well, well—the love birds are hiding in the cemetery. How romantic,” a voice said from behind us. I glanced over San’s shoulder and saw five men standing there, their eyes fixed on us with a predatory gaze.

San immediately got up and hid me behind his broad shoulder, his arms out in a protective manner. He looked like he was the mountain that hid people from danger. "Sunwoo…what do you want?" Sunwoo—then he was the leader of The Boyz… they were after the cup and we were standing right above it.

"Wasn't I clear enough on that?" I peeked out from the safety of San's back and saw the man who was speaking, he had foxlike eyes and black hair, and all of them were wearing leather jackets with ripped jeans, making them disappear into the darkness of the cemetery. I could barely count how many of them were still hiding in the dark.

Suddenly I heard hustling from behind and I had no time to react, all I felt was a hand around my neck and that pulled me away from San, a sharp, cold thing replacing the strange hand. San turned towards me, looking at the man behind me with sharp, glaring eyes. "Let her go, she has nothing to do with this!" He shouted as he tried to attack the man who held a knife to my neck. From the sudden movement, the knife went deeper into my skin, as blood streamed down my neck like tears. But San had no chance as the leader caught him in no time and held a gun to the back of his head. "Don't try to act like a hero, or she'll die," Sunwoo mumbled into San's ear.

I couldn't process what was happening, my heart was pumping loudly in my ear, and I barely heard what was happening. My vision was on San the whole time, whose eyes were staring at me, trying to give me some strength that I needed at that moment. I breathed heavily, trying to calm myself down, but as I lifted my chest to breathe the sharp knife dug deeper into my skin, making me panic at the sudden pain.

"If you tell us, where the fuck is that cup, I'm going to tell you where is your old man and we won't kill this sweetheart." The leader nodded towards me with a perverted smile. I wanted to throw up from the pain and the faces they all made while looking at me.

I met San’s gaze again; he was signaling that he was about to make a move. In a sudden burst of action, he spun around, grabbed the gun that was pressed against his head and punched the man in front of him who fell to the ground. At the sudden movements, the man behind me lost the grip of the knife and I immediately kicked him in the balls and he hunched over immediately from the sudden pain. San ran towards me and held me by both sides of my shoulders. "You have to run, Y/N! Drive to the mansion and wait for me there, please!" He said hurriedly, as the other men were running towards us. Fuck, I had no chance there, but I did not want to leave him alone.

He saw my face as I hesitated a little, "I promise I'm going to find you, darling. Just go!" He begged me as the man behind him gripped his shoulder trying to hit him. I wanted to scream and shout at the men who attacked him, but I needed to run and get some help for him. San was fighting with the two men, punching them and trying to dodge their movements.

Then I got an idea, San had no chance against a bunch of people we were surrounded by, it was impossible, so I needed to distract a few of them. The ones behind my back were walking towards me because they knew I had no chance, but I quickly jumped over a grave and started to run so they were going to get far away from San. I needed to reach my car, but navigating through the graves was difficult in the dark; I could only make out vague shapes.

 I jumped over several gravestones and tried to be as quick as I could and try to distract them, hoping one of them was going to get lost in the dark mist, trying to move quickly and create enough confusion that maybe one of them would get lost in the darkness. Then I heard gunshots—lots of them. The sound made me stumble, and I fell to the ground, feeling a surge of fear and wanting to cry. "San," I whispered, still on the ground as the men behind me closed in. I couldn't let them catch me, for San, I needed to gather my strength and get help for him. So, I stood up with determination and started to run towards the exit. 

When I finally arrived at a trail that led me to the exit, I felt relieved as the adrenaline gave me a burst of power, making me run faster as I looked behind me. Three men were running after me, the fourth probably gave up on chasing me, or he did get lost in the labyrinth of the cemetery.

I ran through the exit and quickly sat in my car. I fired the engine, the lamps lit up and the three men were standing in front of my car, their faces like the devil's, smiling in success as they trapped me. But I was in a car, and I had the advantage of simply using it as a weapon. The engine of the car roared up as I hit the gas pedal and the car speeded towards them. Two of the men managed to jump out of the way, but the third wasn't as fortunate.

He leaped onto the hood of my car, trying to avoid the impact. He looked at me with killer eyes through the windshield as I was still speeding, but then I hit the break and he stumbled forward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. I hoped he wasn’t seriously injured—or worse.

I was frozen for a moment as I tried to think what to do, my breathing was loud and heavy, and blood pumped in my ears. Then I looked to my right and saw a baseball bat lying on the floor. I had kept it in the car for situations just like this. Why not use it? I couldn't just leave here San; I promised him we were going to fight together.

So, I grabbed the bat and opened the car door. The man I had hit was groaning on the ground, clearly in pain but still alive. The other two men were running towards me as I held up the baseball bat preparing to defend myself as they approached.

But then, I heard a loud engine sound and all I saw was a big, black jeep, hitting the two men that were running towards me. It all happened so quickly. The jeep stood in quiet for a moment, the front a little broken from the impact and smoke coming up from the engine.

Then someone opened the passenger door and a tall man got out of it, whom I barely saw in the dim lights of the parking lot. The other door opened as well, and another tall figure stepped out, both of them heading in my direction. I held up the baseball bat again because I did not know if I could trust these men.

"We are here to help." The one with the soft features raised his hands in the air.

"Who are you?" I asked them, gathering all the strength I had left.

"I'm Jeong Yunho, Kim Hongjoong sent me to help San." He is Song Mingi, we came to help." The tall boy came closer to me and reached his hands to shake hands, his features full of kindness.

"We don't have time for this, San is in the cemetery and we got attacked, he needs help." I started to panic as I did not hear anything after the gunshots.

"Mingi stay with her, she is injured, I'm going to find San! " Yunho said with a serious expression on his face as he was speaking to the other guy, whose expression was bored as he leaned against my car folding his arms. Then Yunho ran towards the entrance of the cemetery as the dark swallowed him.

I leaned against my car, waiting impatiently for Yunho and San to come, I tried to go after them a few times but Mingi stopped me all the time, saying 'Let them do their job'.

After half an hour that I spent worrying about San, their dark figure finally appeared from the cemetery as Yunho was holding San by the waist and San's hands were clinging around Yunho's neck. I hurried in front of them quickly, San seemed injured.

"San-ah, are you okay?" I cupped his face, which was a little beaten up, with a few cuts on his lips, and on his cheekbones.

"I'm okay, darling, I'm okay," he whispered as he released Yunho and pulled me into a protective embrace. When he gently pulled me away, his eyes roamed over me from head to toe, checking for any injuries. His gaze finally landed on my neck.

"Fuck, Y/N!" He traced the cut on my neck with great care, where the blood had already dried—I had already forgotten about my wound. "Does it hurt?" he asked softly. Leaning down, he placed a tender kiss on the wound, sending shivers through my body. 

I shook my head as a no. "It's not that deep."

He tilted his head up looking into my eyes with anger. "I'm glad I killed those motherfuckers." My heart started to race at that, it was a new side of him, that I did not see until now. It did scare me, but at the same time, I knew he had no other choice than to kill them. It was a choice between him and them, and clearly, the better option was for San to survive. 

"Okay you love each other we get it," Yunho clasped his hands together, making me remember they were also there. "But we should hurry if you want to save your old man, San."

"Where is he?" San asked turning towards the two tall men, both leaning against the car. San's eyes were full of determination.

"Right now, as our people told us, he is in a building that is going to explode in like…" Yunho looked at his watch on his wrist. "…10 minutes." He said casually.

"Then why are we even here, let's go!" San said, already forgetting he was injured, as we sat into the black jeep, the guys already gone that they hit.

As we made our way to the building, I cuddled up to San’s side. He caressed my back and ran his fingers through my hair, whispering how proud he was of me for standing up to the bad guys and staying by his side. Even if I had the choice, I wouldn't have it any other way. I knew I was meant to be with San, and I never wanted to leave him.

When we arrived at the building, which was about to explode, I stayed in the car despite my urge to join them. I figured it would be easier for them if I stayed behind. Nervously biting my nails, I watched the clock ticking down to the explosion—just 2 minutes remaining—and they were still nowhere to be seen.

I couldn’t stay still. I stepped out of the car and paced back and forth in front of it, my anxiety making it impossible to remain in one place. 

1 minute - nothing

30 seconds - nothing

I was on the verge of running into the building just before it was about to explode when I saw four figures run through the entrance the moment the building exploded. The moment the building erupted, a burst of orange filled the dark air pieces of the building everywhere in the air, which landed in a rain-like form on the ground with a loud thump as the explosion shook the ground.

I lost sight of the figures running as I held my arm out forming a shield. Bits of concrete and debris struck me, and some landed on the car. When the building caught on fire I looked around to search for them.

But I saw no one in between the burning pieces. I walked closer, as I spotted them between two big concrete pieces that fell from the building. As I ran to them, I saw that San held his grandfather on his lap, crying as Yunho and Mingi were kneeling beside them, Yunho's hands on San's shoulder trying to calm him down.

I speeded next to San my hands on his back, as I looked down at his grandfather. His abdomen was full of blood, his T-shirt long soaked with red, his chest unmoving, and his eyes were glassy, a single teardrop falling towards his temple as he was staring up at the sky full of stars, with no reaction in his eyes. He left us.

"I couldn't save him," San's voice came out and stumbled as he was sobbing, holding his grandfather's dead body. His grandfather raised him and made his grandchild the most caring and passionate human on earth. He fulfilled his job and it was time for him to leave us behind.

I hugged San as he was sobbing into my neck, still careful not to hurt the wound on my neck. I whispered to him some reassuring thoughts that slowly calmed him down. Yunho and Mingi waited for us patiently to calm down so we could talk about the cup that was the cause of this turmoil that ended with the death of San's grandfather.

 It is interesting to think about how humans are capable of anything just because of a two-hundred-year-old relic that was worth millions—even billions. They do not realize the value of a human's soul; it is higher than the paper that is worth—perhaps millions.

A human's soul is worth the universe which has more value than a piece of paper. But people are greedy and they do not care if someone gets lost along the way. They only see the gold and money, that keeps them going, not caring about burning the world along the way.

This is why San decided to entrust the cup to Yunho, whom he trusted deeply. San knew Yunho was a man of his word, reliable, and always present when help was needed. As we handed the cup over to them just before they left, Yunho's final words were:

"Welcome to Ateez."

With that, they drove away with the cup, leaving behind a trail of trouble but also opening the door to a mysterious future with the gang Ateez. 

-1 month later-

"That's all," San said as he closed the rear door of the car, clasping his hands together as we were in front of his mansion, I needed to go back because the summer vacation ended.

"Are you sure you want to come with me?" I asked still unsure of why would he come with me back to where I was living.

He stepped closer to me as he grabbed my waist, one of his right hands cupping my cheek as his thumb traced it with care. "I have nothing left here." He whispered resting his forehead against mine. "I'm going to follow you, wherever you go."

"Promise me you'll never leave my side," I whispered, overwhelmed by the surge of emotions that suddenly hit me.

"I promise, darling." He whispered looking into my eyes. "I love you," He cupped my face, his eyes full of sincerity and passion that burned with flaming desire.

I held his wrist that held my face as I left a feather-like kiss on his wrist. "I love you too, San" I smiled at him with all the warmth in my heart, gazing at him as if he was my entire world—and it wasn’t a lie. He truly was my world, and I was committed to following him wherever he went. From the moment I saw him, I knew we were destined for each other. 

Then he kissed me carefully his lips moving against mine in a possessive way, like he wanted to ensure I was his forever, his hands pulling me closer to him, locking me in, as if I wanted to run away from him, but that was the last thing I wanted to do. I kissed him back reassuring him I was never going to leave him.

Our story had only just begun, and I was eager to discover what destiny had in store for us. The red strings bound us together to connect us so we could fight the obstacles that life would throw our way. It was easier to fight against the bad things when you had someone by your side.

Choi San had me, and I had Choi San—together, we were ready for whatever came next. 

[echoing-death]

I'm too lazy to turn this sketch into something complete. In fact, these sketches are inspired by the song "Orthodoxia" and I just couldn't pass by and not make Nightmare a priest who would take advantage of others instead of helping them. I think Cross would have easily fallen for his ploy ~ Nightmare belongs to Jokublog Cross! Sans belongs to JakeiArtwork

[gatabella]

"One evening, as I was waiting for someone at the Beverly Wilshire, the most radiant apparition emerged from the elevator. Covered with gold and topaz like some Byzantine idol, hair floating on royal shoulders, Maria Montez crossed the lobby and disappeared into the street. How beautiful she was! As soon as I could get friends to introduce us, I invited her to dinner. In those days she was the queen of technicolor enchantment, having just achieved success in those innocent and outlandish screen epics Arabian Nights and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Knowing these films, I’d expected the same studied languor which she displayed on screen. Instead, I found her spontaneous, direct, and childlike, warbling the tale of her nomadic life in an adorable Spanish accent: Born in Santo Domingo, where her father was consul general of Spain, brought up in a convent in the Canaries, married for eighteen days to an Irishman who was naive enough to think he could lock her up in some frosty castle. Then Maria had whirled through London, New York, and San Francisco like a cyclone before settling in Hollywood, where her beauty and personality soon made her one of the most popular new stars. To say that between us it was love at first sight would be an understatement. From that day on, I spent every evening at her place. It was a strange house. You didn’t answer the telephone or read the mail; the doors were always open. Diamonds were left around in ashtrays. Lives of the Saints lay between two issues of movie magazines. An astrologer, a physical culture expert, a priest, a Chinese cook, and two Hungarian masseurs were part of the furnishings. During her massage sessions Maria granted audiences."

-Jean-Pierre Aumont, Sun and Shadow, autobio (1977)

[apenitentialprayer]

full text below, due to paywall. Bolded emphases added.

When Pope Francis gave a firm “no” to women deacons in an interview with Norah O’Donnell of “60 Minutes” in May, but noted quickly that “women have always had…the function of deaconesses,” my mind traveled back to November of last year, when I made a visit to the Dominican Republic and saw the work of one of these women firsthand. I also thought of my colleague Colleen Dulle, who recently visited Argentina with the Pontifical Mission Societies and encountered catechists, many of them women, who bring the Gospel to the shanty towns in Buenos Aires and the mountain towns beyond

I offer these reflections as a way to understand the context of the pope’s remarks, and to think about the ministry he is calling all of us to consider.

El Cercado is a mountain town in the Dominican Republic not far from the Haitian border. I traveled there with my godfather, the Rev. John I. Cervini, a priest of the Diocese of Rockville Centre on Long Island, who spent 17 years there as pastor to the community. Rockville Centre is one of several U.S. dioceses with mission parishes in “the D.R.”

The Church of San Pedro Apóstol is located across from the town square in El Cercado, but we stayed a short drive away at a retreat center built by “Padre Juan” and his pastoral team, with support from benefactors in Long Island. It’s a beautiful setting, with views of the mountains and a prayer garden with the Stations of the Cross. In the mornings we drank coffee in the cantina; at night we drank Presidentes on the roof deck.

One of the images that remains with me from my stay is the gazebo at the entrance to the retreat house and the paintings inside, hanging in a circle from the gazebo’s roof. Each depicted a tongue of fire and represented one of 14 districts in the surrounding area that oversaw 85 “basic ecclesial communities.” Community leaders would gather at the gazebo for days of pastoral planning and spiritual reflection and then return home to carry out their mission.

The history of these base ecclesial communities goes back to the meeting of Latin American bishops in Medellín, Colombia, in 1968. They were also supported by the theologian Gustavo Gutiérrez, who brought together pastoral workers from around Latin America to train them in evangelization and community organizing.

One of those leaders is Joana Peterson, a lay minister from the United States who has spent over 40 years in the Dominican Republic. She is a critical part of the pastoral team at San Pedro Apóstol, visiting seniors, working with the local Fe y Alegría schools and training local residents in sustainable farming techniques. She is an ever-present, respected presence in the community, and the bishop is known to seek her counsel.

Strong lay leadership is also a feature of church life in Argentina. One of the takeaways from Colleen’s trip, which she shared on a recent episode of America’s “Inside the Vatican” podcast, is the key role played by catechists in spreading the faith where priests are scarce. This is no doubt why Pope Francis decided to elevate catechists to an official ministry of the church in 2021. He knows how essential they are to the church in his home country.

We are spoiled in the United States. We have grown used to having priests available to say Mass on weekdays and multiple Masses on Sundays. That is changing, of course, and we are beginning to understand how the church has survived in other countries without a steady supply of priestly vocations. Especially in Latin America, laypeople have played a critical role, leading communities and carrying out the corporal and spiritual works of mercy.

Women have always been part of that picture. I think that is what Pope Francis means when he says that “we have always had” deaconesses. In other words, “we have always had” non-ordained women committed to lives of service, women like Joana and like the catechists Colleen met in Argentina.

By elevating the role of the catechist in church life, Pope Francis tried to recognize the essential contribution of lay ministers. He was also reminding us that ministry in the church is not the responsibility of the ordained alone. We are all called to serve, and sometimes, I think, Pope Francis is suggesting that discussions about ordination can distract from that.

Of course, ordination is a question that will continue to be discussed, even if Pope Francis has made his thoughts on women deacons known. But if the only debate sparked by our vocations crisis is about ordination, of women or married men, I think that’s a missed opportunity. We all have to find ways to serve the church. The sooner we discern how to do that, the healthier our church will be.

Speaking of leadership, our editor, Sam Sawyer, S.J., is currently away on tertianship, the final stage of Jesuit formation. He will return to this space in the October issue.

[ineffable-opinions]

Unknown - Review

An adaptation that worked better for me than the source work, to an extent.

Priest is a highly regarded danmei author. When I discovered the author through fans, I really wanted to partake in all that awesomeness too. But time and time again, Priest’s writing style failed to resonate with me. I could never immerse myself in any of her works, truly get into them, be moved by characters and their action. Nothing Priest ever wrote seem to impact me. I always felt like I was at bus stop waiting for a bus that would take me to a destination that everyone else seemed to be able to reach and praise so highly about. I would board every bus that said it would take me to my destination but somehow, I couldn’t reach there.

When live-action adaptations came out, I chased them, in multiple languages (I tried Mandarin, Tamil, Hindi, Malayalam in that order; Indian language dubs can be found on MX player). But then even Malayalam dubbed version of Word of Honor was a chore and I gave up.

When I heard of Unknown based on 大哥 (da ge; Big Brother) (a work I found reprehensible at certain points due to pretty normalized racial and heterosexist psychological depictions) I had no interest in checking it out. Things couldn’t be so simple. I heard Huang HongXuan (Kurt) was going be in it. Now, I must watch it for he had rizz in spades in VIP Only and I wanted more of that. (Spoiler alert – I think the Unknown by focusing on Wei Qian missed out on cashing that sweet charisma except for glimpses of it in the last few episodes.)

That’s how I ended up watching Unknown in the first place. It is safe to say I am glad I did. I never thought Da Ge will become something like this. I am impressed by the meticulous cultivation that source material underwent. That little carp really crossed the gate to become a dragon.

Da Ge is a popular and critically-acclaimed work. IMHO, it was for most parts a classist, 金手指 (golden finger) plot with half-baked versions of then popular danmei tropes. For context (I don’t want to say comparison), 弟弟 (didi; younger brother) by 人体骨架 came out in 2011, two years before Da Ge. In BL, newer don’t necessarily mean better. 

What Unknown managed to do was tone down the golden finger bits and keep things realistic to an extent.

Wei Qian got the funds he dearly needed not from killing and snitching on gangsters but from gang-boss Le ge who was Dr. Lin’s senior. Le ge defied some gang codes and sorta wronged his own underlings to that the plot can turn in favor of Wei Qian. The whole triad bit was decent enough that I didn’t mind the snitching part much – I chose to ignore it.

Removed three female characters who were there for man-pain purposes in the novel. Instead gave Wei Lili, pavam xiao baobao, time to shine.

Did not airlift Wei Qian into the waiting arms of a benefactor with sufficient connections in Mainland who would rescind everything in grief, right when Wei Qian could take over and reign. Instead, Unknown let Wei Qian build a company with San Pang and Lao Xiong which fits right into Taiwan’s SME-heavy capitalism.

Didn’t include anything that I found reprehensible in the novel.

Gave relatively explicit intimate scene.

Toned down novel Wei Qian’s Valliettan-aura to build a warmer, more sensible relationship between the Wei siblings.

Made passing mentions of novel events, in ways that was more connected and believable.

Didn’t make villains into caricatures who loose brain cells to benefit Wei Qian. Instead fleshed out Le ge and his relationship with both his underling and his junior. Made him interesting.

Got us a character with blacked out tattoos. I have listed this one at the last but this is the best thing about Unknown for me. Here’s why…

While organized crime is a popular setting in BL, it is rare for BL characters to have visible evidences of their criminal pasts after leaving it for a civilian life. Usually, they either hide it with full-sleeves and what-nots. But here’s a character in a BL with blacked out tattoos trying to make a living through street-vending. Tattoos are customary, ceremonial and meaningful in the context of organized crime, triad in this case. While involved in the triad, tattoos signal trust and loyalty, etched into skin. But it is a burden too. It is part of the cage that leaves no way out. As Le ge’s underling emphasizes, it is not easy to get away having once involved oneself with the triad. Moreover, the tattoos evoke fear among civilians – so ex-gangsters can forget prospects of finding jobs. Even if one is to be self-employed, tattoos doesn’t signal anything good and are effective in scaring customers away. In Unknown, the blacked-out tattoos signal a dark past he has shut door to; all symbolisms that meant something in the context of triad has been wiped out by ink.

There are points where I felt Unknown was rush through the plot, some others which I felt drag. But overall, it was a good BL and a surprisingly enjoyable adaptation of a source novel I didn’t enjoy at all.

[sanjoongie]

Library of Illusions~ Historical Fiction Section

Pray To Me

📚Part Four for the Library Of Illusions Event

📚Pairing: High Priest! San x Goddess! Reader (f)

📚Genre: Fantasy au, Historical au, Egyptian au 

📚Warnings: mentions of a knife cutting san's palm, reader drinks a cup of san's blood, oral (f receiving), dynamics switching, penetrative sex with no barrier, thigh fucking, strength kink, breath play, f and m orgasm

📚Word Count: 4,295

📚Rating: 18+ MDNI, smut

📚Summary: lost amongst the sands of time, you become a goddess visiting her high priest, sucked into a narrative that seeks to pull you into it forever

📚Dedication: @mejuii & @downtoamagicalland the best beta readers a writer could bribe have

↫The Science Fi Section ↭ MasterList ↭The Adventure Section↬

The History section held books that looked like they came from every walk of life--and timeline. This time you did allow your eyes to select the story you were going to dive into. There was a papyrus scroll with a rawhide tie. At the center of the knot was a snake. When you pulled the rawhide knot, the scroll unfurled and flew to the floor and grew to the size of a door. The center of the scroll was transparent, and within you could see a golden throne and endless blue skies over sand.  

The pressure of something watching you was more than just a feeling now. You could swear that there was an actual presence looming over you, like the entity was here you just couldn't see it. "I really hope you're some secret support system that's getting stronger as I get through these stories."

Out of nowhere and also right beside you, you heard a laugh. It haunted you, curling inside of your skull and bounced between your eardrums. 

"Kay, that's super helpful," You said sarcastically. You sighed and stepped through the scroll to your new story.

The heat washed over you before anything else, even though you were in the cool shade, two pyramids on top of each other, base to base. The slim line between the two bases was where you reclined on a throne, gilded and embedded with jewels.

"My Goddesssssss."

A king cobra slithered up to you, offering a bowl with its tail. "Your High Priesssssst is praying to you again. You ssssssaid to notify you when he did ssssssssso next."

You peered into the golden bowl and found the waters revealing a man prostrated before your statue. His bronze skin was uncovered, with the exception of a loincloth, jewelry in abundance, and black tattoos in hieroglyphs that spelled out your name. "Oh Goddess of Secrets, Goddess of the Unknown, I pray to thee once again, to bestow upon me the knowledge that only your most dedicated servants may attain."

"How long since the last High Priest was bestowed the knowledge?" You wondered absent-mindedly. You liked this one. They finally realized that you wanted something nice to look at when you were fed prayers.

"It'sssss been…" The cobra flickered his tongue and turned his head towards scrolls that were gathered on a table. "Awhile, Goddessssssss."

You tap a long nail against your lip. "I will travel to him."

The snake bent his head. "As you wish, Goddessssss." 

You took one step and fell into a shadow. It swallowed you up whole and suddenly your feet were in the place of the statue the High Priest had been praying to. 

The shock written across San's, the High Priest’s, face was almost comical. 

"Goddess." He crossed his arms, fists closed and hitting his collar bones. "I am your servant."

You tipped your head in acknowledgement. "Good Evening, High Priest."

San was now wearing a smile that showed he was both unsure but happy you were here. "To what do I owe the honor of you making your presence known to I, a lowly servant?"

You scoffed at his statement. "Is that what a man covered in jewels and gold calls himself? A lowly servant?"

San pulled off the jewelry without another thought. "The others demand that I wear all the finery befitting of a goddess's favorite. But it means nothing to me."

His hand went to his loincloth next before you stopped him, stepping through one shadow to the next to put a hand on his wrist. "You need not disrobe."

San raised his eyebrows in surprise? "Is this not custom? I read in the old high priests scrolls--"

You shook your head. "You are looking for hidden knowledge, are you not?" You couldn't help but smile knowingly. "You will not find it disrobing."

"But payment is required--" San let out a garbled yell as you yanked his arm upwards and slashed a knife across his palm. A cup was there instantly to receive his blood.

"Seed is not a good enough payment for this particular kernel of knowledge," You informed him.

San watched in complete wonder as you drank his blood, tipping your head back to receive the very last drop. "The high priest didn't mention anything like this."

"The last high priest was not given the gift of receiving my corporeal form, San. His scrolls are lies."

San fell to one knee, humbled that you would give him this information. "Goddess. How dare he?" His voice was stormy with anger. Was San angry on your behalf?

"He dared very much. It was quite entertaining to see how far his lies and trickery would get him. Do not worry, he did not sully my name, San. His heart was weighed and he did not make it to the blessed fields of reeds."

"How may I serve you, Goddess?" San wondered again.

"Receive my knowledge and act in my name," You intoned.

San finally looked up at you. His eyes shined with the determination of a warrior spirit. "It is what I was born to do."

You tipped your head. "Very well. I will give you three chances to decline the knowledge. Once the third time is confirmed, we are bound, you and I, in shadows and mystery."

"So mote it be," San agreed, thumping his fist to his heart.

"You will receive my knowledge from between my thighs. My essence, what is between a woman's legs, is full of knowledge and mystery. Do you agree to receive my secrets?"

San's eyes widened in surprise once again. He looked amazed and like he had been hit on the head at the same time. "Between your thighs?"

You raised your chin. "Do you consent?"

San nodded his head quickly and multiple times. "Y-yes-, of course, Goddess."

You continued. "The knowledge you seek will change your life irreversibly. You cannot go back to your current state of sanity. They will call you the broken one because they will not understand your ramblings but you will speak the truth. Do you consent?"

"I…" San swallowed that kernel of information. "You will break my mind?"

"The knowledge will, San," You told him gently. You cupped his face and he cuddled into it with familiarity he wasn't aware of. You felt new and old to him. He didn't understand the feelings you elicited from him but he yearned for it at the same time.

"I agree," San said in a firm voice, "If the knowledge is the truth, I need it."

You brought your face close to San's and he held onto his breath. "This is the final question, San. This is the last chance to step away. You will not be cursed or out of favor if you decline. But this is the last time you will see me if you do decline. Are you prepared?"

San's eyes shone with the eagerness of a child who wished to know everything the universe could throw at him. "Please, Goddess."

"Upon learning the knowledge I will bestow on you, you will bring the end of the world as everyone knows it. After death comes rebirth. You will be their messiah. You will lead them into the new world. Where once they spat on you, they will raise you above them all. You will save them even though they do not deserve it. What will you, High Priest of mine? Will you endure to save the world you know and love?"

San prostrated himself before you, both legs folded under him as his arms were held above his head, forehead pressed against the cool stones of your temple. "It is an honor to serve you, my Goddess. I will be your messiah."

You clapped your hands and thunder shook the room. "So mote it be."

San stood up suddenly, eyes scanning the room for anything for you to sit on, but what was good enough for a Goddess? You chuckled as his question flew across his face. "High priest?"

"Yes, Goddess?" San's eyes snapped to you, like a well trained dog.

"Pillows will suffice," You informed him cooly.

San scrambled to assemble pillows and cushions, plumping and fluffing the soft mounds until he was satisfied. He smiled eagerly and motioned with his arms that your throne was prepared. You laughed again. "San, they're for you. You're lying down."

San pointed a finger at himself in question. "Me?"

You sighed softly. "Humans."

You put a hand on San's broad shoulder and pushed him to his back onto the pillows. He stared up at you, blinking and curious as you discarded your dress. Two simple flicks of your fingers had the straps leaving your shoulders and your dress pooling at your feet. You were left in a simple chain that ran from your neck to your waist. You placed a knee on each side of San's head and tucked your legs under San's arms. 

San looked a bit dazed, you had to admit. He was looking up at your bare cunt and then he licked his lips. "I…"

"You won't find that knowledge while looking between my thighs, High Priest. Please inform me that you are aware of how to coax pleasure from a woman's petals?"

"I do!" San insisted, his eyebrows furrowing. "I've simply never… this is not my method."

You laughed again. "Of course it is not, San. It is mine."

San smiled, full of sunshine and aw-shucks. "I understand, Goddess."

You rested your weight on San's face and his tongue found your folds immediately. He closed his eyes upon the first taste of your essence. Then his tongue began to eagerly lap at you, simply for the taste, if anything. His tongue traced your inner lips, following the lines of those folds until he found your sensitive nub. His eyes snapped upwards to meet yours as he sharpened his tongue and circled the sweet flesh. 

"You have but one goal in this, High Priest. If you search for the knowledge, the mysteries of this world, and the secrets that the shadows keep, you must bring me to completion and drink me down. Only once you've received my knowledge, will your journey begin. I will be with you for every step, but only you can move your feet. Bring me to--"

Your breath caught in your throat as San's tongue had found your hole and began to thrust in and out of you. You sent him a stern look. "San."

San let his head fall back but the confidence that leaked into his tone was apparent. "Yes, Goddess?"

"Perhaps the women you pleased previously found it charming that you cut off their words but you will find that I am not a patient goddess."

San shivered under you and curled his arms around your thighs that gleamed with the dust of an immortal. "Yes, Goddess. I simply seek to give you everything before I am broken."

You let him get away with this, although you did not show this on your face. "Proceed."

San licked at your entrance, your essence beginning to accumulate there as a result of his hard work. Sometimes he closed his eyes to take in everything his eyes could not and sometimes he would not even blink, as if he was drinking in your reactions instead of your essence. His tongue was certainly skilled, flicking with accuracy. 

But it was not until you pushed his hair out of his eyes that he moaned into your mound and shifted upwards. His lips wrapped around your clit and he sucked, hard. It brought you to place your hands on the floor, bracing against the stone. The reaction only made him more enthusiastic. He greedily sucked at your swollen flesh, tongue lathing back and forth until you felt your climax approaching. So soon? Were you not a goddess? Was this really how you were to bestow the knowledge of--

What if you didn't get your key?

"Stop!" You demanded hoarsely.

"Goddess?" San let his head fall back. 

"This isn't right," You said and you could feel the fear aching from your heart.

"Am I…am I not--"

You stood up, your pleasure forgotten. This wasn't right! You weren't a goddess and San was not a High Priest. But then what were you? Or San?

"Have I offended you? Did I do something wrong? Please, let me try again, surely I can--!"

You turned on your heel and met the eyes of San that were now full with tears of disappointment. 

"Do not patronize me, San. Just because I cannot say what is wrong at this moment, does not mean I am wrong."

A gleam suddenly appeared in San's eyes, one that held knowledge and amusement. "He said you were strong."

You narrowed your eyes at San. "He who?"

San pouted but it was not genuine, it was a mockery of a true pout. "But we were having so much fun!"

"I can win this yet," You said with determination. "This game of yours will not swallow me whole."

"Would you up the ante, traveler?" San cocked his head curiously.

You knew you had to win a game but then why would San put you as the one in power? Was it a ploy to suck you into said game concretely? You had broken the cardinal rule and you weren't playing with him now. How did this game work exactly? 

"High Priestess?" San lured you back to his world.

"I am--" You blinked profusely. You felt yourself being pulled in deep, despite your desperate attempts to stay afloat. You had to…

You were on your knees now, prostrated before the God to whom you worshiped since you were dedicated to this temple. San was the God of Secrets, the God of Mysteries, the God of knowledge unknown. Your thirst for knowledge had shot you to the High Priestess role and it felt like you were born for it.

"I will bestow upon you the knowledge of the unknown. I will slip between your thighs and penetrate you, but only if you allow me the honor. This is the only way for the seed of knowledge to enter you. Others have attempted to receive it through their mouth but," San chuckled darkly, "They did not survive. Do you accept this method, High priestess of mine?"

You nodded quickly, sharp jerks of your head rattling the heavy earrings. "The honor would be mine, San."

San cupped your jaw, thumb running over your lips. "Although it will be a shame for these lips to not pleasure my cock."

"San!" Your hands moved to his loincloth, made of shadows, but his other hand slapped them away. 

"Go make yourself a bed of pillows and I shall be the one to worship you," San commanded.

You scrambled to do as you were told, your nerves making you jittery. You hadn't felt this excited for sex since… well, awhile. Men often found their pleasure between your thighs and it was up to you to find your own. But to receive knowledge through the act, surely that was truly as it was meant to be?

Knowledge…to be received…were you here to win a game? Weren't you here for… a key?

"Goddess?"

San was before you, on his knees and a hesitant hand resting on your hip, unsure if he was allowed to touch you.  "I am worthy, am I not? To receive your knowledge? I am worthy to be between your thighs?"

You smiled tenderly down at the man who fed you with his prayers. "You are my chosen one."

San smiled so happily, it made his eyes disappear but his feelings did not. "I am yours, mind, heart and soul."

You carded your hand through his hair and then gripped it tightly, making San hiss in pleasure with the tightness of his scalp. "You are mine, San. No one shall touch you after this. A celibate High Priest is what I require. Your only pleasure will only be sought through me, is that understood?"

San was pliant in your hand and he began to whimper. "Yours, Goddess, I'm all yours."

You pushed him backwards and he caught himself with his elbows holding his upper body up. His eyes were eager and excited. "My pleasure is yours."

You turned to discard your dress, spun of shadows and mysteries. Your cunt ached for that skilled tongue--wait, was this first time you had shown yourself to your high priest? How did you know his tongue was skilled?

You spun around on your heel but San was standing in front of you. His skin sparkled with the dust of an immortal. His arms were crossed over his chest and your lips ached to kiss his bronze flesh. He was the god you had dedicated your life to worshiping, he--

He's a demon

San was grinning like he knew of a joke that would make you belly laugh. "Oh, he should be worried. You're going to give him a run for his money, aren't you?"

You needed to get that damn key!

The scene reset again and you decided that this was the final time. You were the goddess and you were going to get what you came here for. San was a formidable opponent but this would not be the last story you experienced.

San bent his neck in acknowledgement. "Yes, Goddess. It would be my honor."

"The knowledge is inside of you, San. But you need me to release it. I'm the lock and you're the key. Come between my thighs, release the seed of knowledge and your journey will begin."

You were standing upright, the dainty body chain and glimmer of your body your only ornaments. San gripped his hard cock and rubbed the tip against your clit. Pangs of lust echoed your lower half.

"Does that please you, Goddess?" San wondered, eyes dark with lust.

"Just like that, San, you're doing--" You choked on your words as San pulled your body against his so that his cock was now nestled between your thighs. 

His mouth was at your neck, licking and sucking the sensitive skin there. You let out a garbled noise as San began to thrust between your thighs. He moaned loudly, the top of his cock running along your wet folds and the sides of his cock pushing through the plushness of your thighs. "Feels so good," San whined.

"You have to release inside of me, San," You insisted, "Stop this--" The length of his wet cock running across your clit was wonderful, however.

"You taste like ambrosia," San murmured against your skin. Your hand cupped the back of his neck to encourage him. "Let me have you for an eternity," San whispered into your ear, "We need never stop."

San cocked one of your legs, palm supporting your thigh from underneath. He continued to run the head of his cock up and down your slit, precum and your earlier wetness making the job easier. "I--"

San entered you and anything intelligent that was about to leave your mouth was gone. His girth alone was something to be pleased about. He stretched you in a way that was pleasant and pleasurable. You could only whimper as it went on and on and you were surprised once he was full hilt inside of you. Your leg was curled around his slim waist. San's hand traveled along your thigh to finally get a handful of your ass. "You are everything I need, my Goddess."

"San, why--?"

San captured your lips in a passionate kiss that stole your breath away. "I have dedicated my life to you. Shouldn't I dedicate this moment to you as well?"

"Fuck me, San, fuck me so well I’m incoherent," You encouraged him. 

"As my goddess wishes," San ducked his head and did as he was commanded.

The waves San made between your thighs would make the Nile jealous with its strength. He wasn't doing it to be rough or hard, no, it was the quiet strength of a river carving a new path through rock. The accuracy with his hips rivaled that of his tongue. Each measured stroke inside of you gave you butterflies but pulled a moan from your mouth. Your breathing came out in sharp cries and pants. You so very much wanted to beg but you were supposed to be the one in control, so you instructed him. 

“Let’s come together, High Priest.” Your hands sought his chest, raking your nails down the muscles there, enjoying the red marks that followed.

San's arms moved to circle your upper body, squeezing and squeezing as his climax soon approached. Your breath became shortened as your own pleasure sought release. You came with a tiny squeak, barely any air to make a noise. Once your pussy walls clenched down in climax, San was gone, coming with a long, drawn out whine with you. He released you after his orgasm and air rushed into your lungs.

San had squeezed you so hard that you had a scratch in the valley of your breasts. San licked it up instinctively and you shivered. "A goddess' blood is not for mortals to taste," You scolded him in amusement 

"Neither is their essence nor their sweet depths, but I've tasted both," San said with a sweet, lazy smile, slow to grow. 

"If I didn't have a consort, you would be tempting, High Priest," You sighed, tapping his nose.

San's face fell in disappointment. "I wasn't lying. I have dedicated my life to you. Could I not receive the same in return?"

You shook your head. "You ask for too much."

San's voice turned cold and you shuddered. "You can't defeat him, you know."

"Defeat who, San?"

San rolled his eyes and sighed. 

The air tensed, warping and stretching and suddenly it snapped and you were back in the History Section. San was no longer covered in black hieroglyphic tattoos but a vest that barely covered his broad chest, leaving his stomach exposed nonetheless, shiny leather pants and wrist high gloves. San found the scroll you had disappeared in and snapped the snake off the rawhide. He handed his key to you but kept your hand in his grip tight.

"What do you think happens when you get all the keys?" San questioned you.

"Seonghwa unlocks the restricted section for me and I get the treasure," You said without hesitation.

San snickered. "All those six hard quests and it's just that easy?"

That made you uncertain. He was right. Surely there would be more than just the six trials. But then…?

"Surely you haven't been talking about Seonghwa this whole time, have you? He's more like the library's adopted cat than Keeper of the Keys."

San's face was sobering. "You'd do well not to underestimate the Keeper."

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. "He's not intimidating in the slightest. You worry too much for a demon."

San shrugged. "Well, I did my best to warn you, Goddess."

Your mind was sharpened after the History Section. You did not let it wander with thoughts of what you just experienced but you did find yourself searching out a very specific smell that brought you to the desk that Seonghwa always seemed to occupy.

"Did you really get cookies?" You demanded incredulously.

"I'll have you know I found Wooyoung in the creepy doll house, singing some creepy song just so I could bake you these!" Seonghwa frowned heavily.

You were about to grab one when you remembered many many stories of fools who ate food of a realm and were stuck there for eternity. Maybe eating the cookies was a bad idea.

Seonghwa watched you with sad eyes as you took your hand back from the plate. "Key?"

You handed him the snake and watched him as he lifted the cover to the display case and sunk it in with the other three. Which reminded you immediately to confirm your suspicions.

Seonghwa turned around and his eyes widened to the size of saucers when you unbuttoned your shirt and there was a pyramid nestled between your breasts now. “San give you that?”

You half smiled back at him. “Seems so.”

Seonghwa licked his lips. “Only two more to go now, huuuu…huh?”

You laughed under your breath at Seonghwa’s new attempts to stop calling you human. You were sobered at the thought of just how deep San’s story had pulled you in, however. You barely fought back. And San kept alluding to a ‘him’ but never confirmed or denied that it was Seonghwa or not.

“Keeper?” 

Seonghwa’s eyes snapped up from staring at the pyramid tattoo. “Yes?”

“You are who you say you are, are you not?”

Seonghwa smiled, full of awkwardness. “I am the Keeper of the Keys. Nothing more, nothing less.”

You searched his honest face for a hint if Seonghwa was lying. “Is there another section I don’t know about? Another demon you’re not to tell me?”

Seonghwa shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

You sent him a skeptical look and he shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. I’m leaving. Try not to miss me too much."

"Guess I'll eat these cookies myself," Seonghwa grumbled under his breath. You heard spitting noises followed by a "Who put raisins instead of chocolate? WOOYOUNG?!"

The next section had a sign that was a wooden oar, vine's draped around it and the word Adventure spelled out using iridescent beetles. You could hear the chattering of monkeys and the roar of a waterfall. You really hoped you survived this next story. You had a feeling that the fight to survive and revive your love was slipping from your grasp but you refused to let it go without a fight.

Tag list: @yoonguurt  @hijirikaww  @flowerboykun  @starillusion13  @flurrys-creativity  @kitten4sannie  @a-soft-hornytiny

Library staff: @kwanisms   @smallfrye  @anyamaris   @stardragongalaxy   @kpop-stories-21

↫The Science Fi Section ↭ MasterList ↭The Adventure Section↬

[mikimakiboo]

Ghosts & Medium AU by @ancha-aus :3

I'M FINALLY DOOOONE I was busy so I couldn't finish sooner :(

A nice AU idea where Dust is a medium and goes to haunted places to help the ghosts leave and rest in peace :)

Until he finds Killer, a very flirty and clingy ghost who seems to have fallen in love with him at first sight

The post that started it all

And my interpretation of everyone's backstories under the cut !

Tw: mention of torture, death, starvation, possession, religious trauma, sect

Medium Dust

( official backstory )

He had a rough childhood, being bullied most of his life because he kept saying he "could talk to ghosts", that made him the weird kid

He can really talk to ghosts tho, but it depends on how strong the ghost is, if it is a weak ghost he will need material to be able to communicate with them, but if the ghost is strong (like his brother, Killer, Horror and Cross) he will be able to see and talk to them without any material needed

He later decided to use this ability to work as an exorcist and soon became popular as he was one of the rare ghost hunters to actually have good results and not doing it for tv

That's when he met Killer, and regretted chosing this job

He used to be a lone wolf, only talking to his dead brother who never left his side after Dust failed to reanimate his body after studying necromancy, but now he is a tired guy trying to monitor four ghosts and a demon, and killing himself isn't an option for a very obvious reason that is: he would become a ghost too

Ghost Killer

( official backstory )

I wrote his backstory in an ask before making this post

Quick summary: Killer was a hitman who killed a very important man (possibly mafia boss), the man's family got mad, kidnapped him, kept him tied up in their cave to torture him and make him pay for the murder, and ended up leaving him to die in an abandoned train wagon, still tied up so he wouldn't escape, due to that Killer is deeply afraid of loneliness and ropes (and just restraints in general)

He caught an interest in Dust because for the first time someone wanted to know him, and having been manipulated all his life the fact that Dust asked him things about himself and listened to what he had to say made him fall for him in an instant

He then swore to stay by his side no matter what ! Dust is not happy about that

Priest Cross

Cross is the priest of the universe !

Why did he become a priest ? To please his father, and as a punishment too

Cross's father, XGaster, didn't like that his son was bisexual and after trying many conversion therapies he forced him to go to the church and become a priest so that he would devote his life to God, never take a partner, and hopefully quit being bi

Cross, of course, got influenced by his father's opinions and thinks that being a priest is the best choice, he got traumatized by the therapies and genuinely thinks that being bi is a sin and that he will burn in hell of he ever feels attracted to a man

Needless to say he didn't take it well when he realized he was attracted to FOUR men, one of them being a demon, two of them being dead, and one of them (Killer) having possessed his body to flirt with Dust (Cross was supposed to exorcize him but messed up and Killer possessed his body instead, so now Cross is the ghost following Dust around, waiting to take his body back, and having to witness his own body flirting with Dust)

Ghost Horror

Horror was born and spent all of his life in a sect in the middle of nowhere, not that he wanted to leave anyway, but even if he wanted to he couldn't have reached out to anyone because there wasn't anyone aware of their existence

Food was sacred in the sect, so much that it would be used as sacrifice for their supreme leader (Undyne) and that only the worthy would be allowed to eat, and they still didn't have much food left

Horror was part of the worthy, he believed whole heartedly that the sect was good and only ever acted for its good

Until his brother made a mistake and was left to starve

And Horror loved his brother way more than he loved the sect, so needless to say his death greatly affected him

He started questioning Undyne, questioning the sect, and of course he got into troubles for that

He was hit, his head got badly injured, and he got locked up in the room where they left those unworthy of food, he later died of hunger

He haunts Dust now, and he always makes sure he eats during the day, being very scared that he might be hungry too as he had been hungry all of his life and died because of that, he is very insecure about food and always scared that there won't be enough

Demon Nightmare

A demon born in heaven and banished in hell, twin brother of an angel

Angels don't want to hear about him as he is a demon and demons don't trust him as he has angel magic in him and angel magic is more powerful than demon magic

Thanks to, or because of, the angel magic Nightmare is one of the most powerful demons in hell and quickly got a reputation among mortals who summon him quite often

But the thing is, he is too powerful, and demons don't trust him even if he never showed any sign of rebellion, but to prevent any risk they decided to lock him away, separating his spirit (not his soul as demons don't have souls) from his body, leaving him as a broken version of himself only able to do small spells

But he still has a reputation, and Dust summoned him in hope he could do something for all the ghosts already following him, and Nightmare agreed on one condition: Dust had to give him his body back

Lots of things happened, Nightmare got his body back and is now tied to Dust because of their deal, but he never gets rid of the ghosts because he grew attached to them even tho he won't admit it, he will say that he finds them untertaining instead

Anyway Nightmare has big trust issues as he was betrayed by heaven first (and by Dream who did nothing to defend him) and then by hell, so it takes a long time for him to admit liking the group as deep inside he's still afraid they're gonna turn their back on him like everyone else did

(He also tries to convince Dream to stop trying to exorcize Dust when there is clearly no need to (Dust doesn't agree with him))

God Error

A God with not many followers but the few he's got are very devoted

His followers tried to sacrifice Dust once as they recognized he had a great power (plus the fact he had a demon following him around), but of course Dust's mates stalkers intervened and killed the followers

Blood having been spilled, and followers' blood being a greater sacrifice than other people's blood, Error got summoned, but instead of being mad that his followers got killed he was actually curious of Dust and declared him as his high priest to keep an eye on him and his little teammates

Error now shows up once in a while to appreciate some drama, Nightmare also became his new gossip buddy as Error talks shit about other Gods and Nightmare talks shit about Angels and Demons

[zu-is-here]

Happy 4th anniversary to X-orcist ♪

[ruiniel]

Remember

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no Yaiba

Pairing: Kokushibō x fem!Reader

Chapter Count: 1.5K

Rating: 🔞

Chapter Tags & Warnings: Blood, Mild Gore, Injury, POV Second Person

Part I - Part II - Part III - Part IV - Part V - Part VII - Part VIII - Part IX

On AO3

VI.

The path to the temple feels longer than usual. Once there, you waver. How does one make sense of all you’ve seen so far? The world, different to anything one’s known all their life, is an idea difficult to grasp for anyone. 

And if you told others, would they think you were out of your mind? The most likely possibility. All I can do is try not to be swept away by this tide of strangeness. The truth has to be lurking somewhere.

The building is silent at your arrival but for the faint tinkle of bells here and there. There are people inside, many of whom you assume to be devotees. There are adjacent huts which you heard offer refuge to those in need of it. The assembly lingers either in prayer or in wait.

You notice, for the first time, how dark it is inside, with only a few sparse lamps lighting the way. The space smells of agarwood incense, and soft chanting reaches you from a separate chamber. 

“Hello?”

“Greetings,” a kindly-looking man comes before you. “What might we help you with?”

“Is your master receiving today?”

“Oh, hmm,” the man looks behind his shoulder. “I’m afraid he is not here at the moment.”

“I need to speak with him. Will you please relay—”

“Hideo-san,” a soothing voice hails from somewhere. Despite its familiarity, apprehension coils in your gut. 

That maniac got to me with his ‘warnings’… You shake free of the sensation as the personage in question nears, or rather, glides over. There is, without a doubt, an allure to his presence, confirmed by the deeply blushing acolyte. 

He must certainly be well-loved among his followers. 

“Honored Founder, forgive me! I didn’t think you’d be in yet,” the disciple says, bowing his head in contrition.

“Please, don’t worry, neither did I! But here I am.” He takes in your features, bright eyes widening in recognition. “Greetings yet again! How good to see you! But…you look rather unwell. Has something happened?”

A sigh leaves you. “May we speak somewhere… in private?”

His smile is as lovely as it ever was. “Of course. Come, this way.”

The priest is not human. 

You smother the vexing reminder, following him deeper inside the pillared temple.

“... I see.”

You’d relayed the latest encounter with your unusual visitor, without mentioning your offering and his actions that followed, for now. There’s something in the priest’s manner, in the way he observes you this time, that keeps you from doing so. But you needed to tell someone, anyone, else you went mad. 

He tilts his head, regarding you with a pitying expression. “You’re being given no reprieve from this, are you?”

“I only want to know why these things keep happening. But…” But he seemed not to know either. Unless he was lying. And even then, why? “What I can say, is that he… confirmed your own presumptions from last time we spoke.” It still rings preposterous, even after you felt the strength of him biting into you. 

“Oh?” The fair face is the epitome of childlike wonder—so out of place compared to the rest of him, you now realize.

“About immortals, ones that feed on living flesh and blood.”

“Did he, now…? How very interesting. And what about you? Do you believe such a thing?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore, Honored Founder.”

The mild smile persists, but now it fails to bring you ease. His gaze drops to your collar, where a bandage barely peeks from beneath. His eyes, shining demurely in the barely lit chamber, swiftly turn sharp. 

There’s nothing aberrant about the person seated cross-legged before you, the handsome man with the birch-colored hair and rainbow gaze. Nothing at all... However, upon closer inspection, the comforting atmosphere of benevolence reveals a subtle peculiarity, akin to scented herbs concealing the odor of decay. How had these details escaped you before?

The air is dizzying, encroaching, frosty.

“I’m afraid I have nothing else to share on the matter,” he says, still smiling. His manner is amiable, but his eyes linger on the bandage at your neck.

“... nothing else? At all? I’m not even sure what to do, if…”

“No.” Kindly spoken, but definite. A long, pale hand points at precisely the area where the supposed ‘demon’ drank from you. “Owed to that.” 

“W-what?” He knows? How can he know? Impossible. Your hand flies to your injury even as you rise unsteadily to your feet.

The priest is still smiling his unwavering smile. “My dear, I like to think of myself as generous, and I do my best against leaving people mucking about in the dark, as it were… All I can say is this: the mark you now carry prohibits further involvement from me, or anyone else.” He rises as well, the smile as cutting as his eyes. “... from anyone, or anything.”

For a moment, for only a moment, the lamplight shines not on black pupils, but on something else; something you’d seen before, in another’s eyes. 

You back away. He keeps watching, unmoving, hands clasped before him. 

The room grows icier still. “I… I should be going.” 

“I agree. That would be best.”

You nod, trepidation making your limbs shake as you head for the sliding panel, stumbling out and never looking back.

You pace around your home, restless and shaking. Having made your way back, the peculiar encounter at the temple is still fresh; it makes your skin crawl. What is it about your injury that made that man retreat, when he’d been so forthcoming before? The subtle change in his demeanor had awakened all your worst instincts.

You try to steady yourself with distractions. Music comes to mind, but you can’t bring yourself to touch the flute now. What you felt today was dread, not dissimilar to the visceral one permeating the air when he is near. 

Nothing makes sense, so you hang on to the mundane to keep from falling apart. You take out the rice and set a pot to boil as the dying sunset fades through the shoji panels. 

It’s all right, I’ll… I’ll leave. I’ll sell this place, if I have to. I’ll move to a large city, start anew…

A crashing sound startles you, and your head swivels towards the source.

The entrance is blocked by a shadow. 

“Who’s there?”

The shadow shifts and lurches, revealing the form of a… woman? She walks closer, but no sooner does the lamp reveal her better than you freeze.

Her bloodshot eyes have an abnormal sheen to them, as though they’re made of glass. What appear to be fangs protrude from the snarling mouth, and saliva drips down her chin. With each passing moment, she appears less human and more like a wild animal, causing your hands to tremble despite the distance between you.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in my home, b-but I want you to leave.”

A growl is the only answer, followed by movements of frightful speed and agility. You dart out of the way, into the other room. Frenzied eyes seeking, you reach for the first useful object in sight: a sheathed sword set on its stand in a place of honor. 

There comes a mournful hiss as you unsheathe the weapon, grasping the handle with both shaking hands, as your father once taught you. You’d not done this in years, and the sequences are too rusted to rekindle in your memory. 

“Damn it—”

It pounces; you scream, gripping the blade as sturdily as you can, ready for the unthinkable.

Warm droplets splash your face; before you, time slows. There is one slash, the pale gleam of metal. The attacker falls at your feet, its body split clean in two. 

The author of the single stroke goes out of stance. He looks at you.

“Stand back.” The sword is still in your grip. It probably won’t do much against him, but what else could you possibly try now? The dripping warmth on your skin must be blood, and the last thing you want is him, close.  

He says nothing, does nothing. The sight of his dark-stained clothing compared to the last time you met fills you with horror. The choking smell of sliced flesh makes you gag in disgust. 

“I—” he says, and, to your surprise, stumbles forward, so unlike his usual grace. 

“Leave me be, why won’t you just leave me be?!” Your voice might be frantic, you can’t tell. You follow his every movement, taking in his appearance: face deathly pale, dark hair untamed, falling freely over his shoulders. He crosses over the fallen body, towards you, smashing its head underfoot. Each step is agonizingly slow. One blood-stained hand grasps at his own throat, his sword still held in the other.

When he’s so close that the curved point of your blade touches his chest, you see it: a deep, long gash, slit across his neck. The blood drenching his kimono down to his middle is his own, and so much of it.

Your breaths are loud and harsh. “Don’t come any closer, stop—what are you doing?! You’ll hurt yourself, you fool—”

He takes no heed of the sharp steel about to pierce his chest, nearing all the more, lips parting to speak words that won’t come. As he sinks to his knees and his own weapon clatters onto the floor, all you can do is stare in confusion.

This curse of yours—because that’s what he feels like—is panting as he glances up at you. His voice is so weak you barely hear him, and still wish you hadn’t. That disquieting array of eyes, fading scarlet and gold, burrow into your will. “…I need… your help.”

 The blade drops from your hands.

Part VII

[irithnova]

Notes on "Empire of Care : Nursing and Migration in Filipino American History"

Previous post:

Filipino nurse Patrocinio Montellano was a nurse who was interviewed for this book

Art by Filipino-American artist MYSTERIOUSxBEAUTY

She was an accomplished woman, furthering her nursing career in the US by taking post-graduate courses.

She eventually secured deployment through the aid of Americans such as William Musgrave, former director of the Philippine general hospital.

In 1924, she returned to the Philippines, becoming the field representative and nurse supervisor of the Philippine chapter of the American red cross.

None of this would have been able to happen had it been a few decades earlier - when the Philippines was under the colonial rule of the Spanish.

Under Spanish rule, Filipinos were only offered unequal opportunities rooted in gender by the education system implemented by the Spanish at the time.

Because of this, very few Filipino girls were permitted primary education given to them by Spanish charitable institutions.

Women were outright excluded from the University of Santo Tomas - the Spanish university in the Philippines

This was until 1879, when a school of midwifery was opened

When it came to specialised health care jobs, only midwifery was allowed for Filipino women to enter into

Traditionally, Filipino women would take on the role of the caretaker at home

Filipinos would also rely on indigenous healers

On the other hand, in Spanish medical institutions, usually Spanish Friars and Priests were the caretakers.

Sisters of Charity, along with a European nurse, arrived in the Philippines in 1862 to work at the San Juan de Dios hospital.

Spanish surgeons and male Filipino physicians would practice both generalised and specialised forms of healthcare.

In the 19th century, elite Filipino men (called ilustrados) were encouraged by the Spanish government to further their education in European countries.

Jose Rizal - a Filipino national hero and ilustrado was a doctor of medicine himself.

Filipino women were outside banned from these opportunities

US colonialism did implement some changes of opportunities that Filipino women were offered - as Montellano's story reveals.

The opportunities that were now offered were nursing, education - and travel opportunities to the U.S

These opportunities for both work and travel were closely linked.

Montellano's account demonstrates how like clockwork, the beginning of the U.S colonial rule marked significant transnational relations between the U.S and Filipino women

Montellano's socioeconomic and geographic mobility was enabled by these relations

Montellano was aided by American physicians and nurses in order to reach her employment goals in the United States

Montellano's experience in the US helped her secure an advanced nursing career upon her return to the Philippines.

Montellano notes that it was also her sheer determination and courage that helped her progress her career - even against her father's wishes.

The literature on women and imperialism challenges the perception of imperialism as masculine.

American women's participation in U.S. colonialism in the Philippines has been overlooked.

U.S. colonial nursing played a crucial role in American modernity and American women viewing themselves as civilised.

Filipino nurses' perspectives reveal the role of Filipinos and Americans in Philippine nursing.

Nursing and medicine legitimised U.S. colonial agendas and social hierarchies.

Western medicine is often seen as a humanitarian effort, making it difficult to critique its exploitative effects

Reynaldo Ileto noted that it was even difficult for the most nationalist Filipino writers to criticise the US sanitary regime as it saved countless Filipino lives.

Reynaldo Ileto, Filipino historian

The introduction of professional nursing in the Philippines had both liberating and exploitative aspects.

This chapter highlights a period of transnational mobility in Filipino American history.

American and Filipino nurses shaped Philippine nursing through travel, teaching, training, and practice.

This multidirectional mobility has been overlooked in Asian American histories.

The formation of a gendered labor force laid the foundation for significant migrations of Filipino nurses later in the twentieth century.

[homerforsure]

Ahem: 3

Angel!Buck

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙

Thank you! (3!)

Morning light hadn’t yet begun to stream through the tiny window in the church basement when Buck heard the footsteps on the stairs. Bound the way he was, he couldn’t turn to look at them or see what they were dragging with them that made such a loud noise as it hit each step, and the uncertainty made him shiver. That small ripple of feeling up his spine could have made him scream, the way it set off an echo of pain throughout every one of his bent and cramped muscles.

Still, he didn’t react as the bright overhead lights were flicked on or as the five (was it five? Anything more than two was so hard to count) sets of treds crossed the floor. Exhaustion numbed the terror that Buck knew he should be feeling and kept him from hyperventilating. It let him for Herrick to come fully into his line of sight without straining to know where the man was at all times. 

“Slept well?” he asked, looking down at Buck with a twisting smirk. 

Buck glared back. 

“The paint’s held well,” Herrick remarked, circling around the drop cloth covered cardboard that Buck had been kneeling on all night. “Minimal touchups. We’ll save those for upstairs. There’ll be more once we move him.” 

“Now?” one of the other people in the room asked. 

Herrick sighed in exasperated displeasure and asked, “Is the platform done?”

“No, you asked us to bring-”

“Then seeing as we have nowhere to move him to, I think we’ll leave him here for the time being, hmm? You two get up there and finish it.”

“I- I think I’ll go with them,” another voice said. The priest “Make sure the placement is what we agreed.”

“Coward,” Herrick said when the stairs had started to creak under his weight. “Fortunately, I’ve secured better hosts for the next legs of your grand tour. By the time happy pilgrims in Santa Fe are drinking in your holy vision, I shouldn’t need to be involved at all.” 

It was bait. Herrick only said it to make Buck react, but as the words sank in slowly to his sluggish mind, Buck couldn’t help but react. He jerked to the side, turning his head as far as he could in the wire restraints, rattling the chains that held his wings aloft and secured them to the ceiling. 

“Oh. Didn’t I tell you? We’ve arranged for you to go on tour. It simply isn’t fair to keep you locked up here in LA when there are devotees across the world who are so eager for a glimpse of you. You’ll leave for San Diego tonight.”

This time Buck did scream, a frantic, desperate no from behind the fabric in his teeth that had no hope of reaching anyone who would do anything to help.

Herrick smiled, “Don’t be dramatic, please. You’ll smudge.” Then, to the person who hadn’t yet left the room, he added, “You can get to work on the mask now.”

[whileiamdying]

Hiroshima

A hundred thousand people were killed by the atomic bomb. Survivors wonder why they lived when so many others died.Photograph from Rolls Press / Popperfoto / Getty

By John Hersey August 23, 1946

I—A Noiseless Flash

At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning, on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk. At that same moment, Dr. Masakazu Fujii was settling down cross-legged to read the Osaka Asahi on the porch of his private hospital, overhanging one of the seven deltaic rivers which divide Hiroshima; Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, a tailor’s widow, stood by the window of her kitchen, watching a neighbor tearing down his house because it lay in the path of an air-raid-defense fire lane; Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, a German priest of the Society of Jesus, reclined in his underwear on a cot on the top floor of his order’s three-story mission house, reading a Jesuit magazine, Stimmen der Zeit; Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, a young member of the surgical staff of the city’s large, modern Red Cross Hospital, walked along one of the hospital corridors with a blood specimen for a Wassermann test in his hand; and the Reverend Mr. Kiyoshi Tanimoto, pastor of the Hiroshima Methodist Church, paused at the door of a rich man’s house in Koi, the city’s western suburb, and prepared to unload a handcart full of things he had evacuated from town in fear of the massive B-29 raid which everyone expected Hiroshima to suffer. A hundred thousand people were killed by the atomic bomb, and these six were among the survivors. They still wonder why they lived when so many others died. Each of them counts many small items of chance or volition—a step taken in time, a decision to go indoors, catching one streetcar instead of the next—that spared him. And now each knows that in the act of survival he lived a dozen lives and saw more death than he ever thought he would see. At the time, none of them knew anything.

The Reverend Mr. Tanimoto got up at five o’clock that morning. He was alone in the parsonage, because for some time his wife had been commuting with their year-old baby to spend nights with a friend in Ushida, a suburb to the north. Of all the important cities of Japan, only two, Kyoto and Hiroshima, had not been visited in strength by B-san, or Mr. B, as the Japanese, with a mixture of respect and unhappy familiarity, called the B-29; and Mr. Tanimoto, like all his neighbors and friends, was almost sick with anxiety. He had heard uncomfortably detailed accounts of mass raids on Kure, Iwakuni, Tokuyama, and other nearby towns; he was sure Hiroshima’s turn would come soon. He had slept badly the night before, because there had been several air-raid warnings. Hiroshima had been getting such warnings almost every night for weeks, for at that time the B-29s were using Lake Biwa, northeast of Hiroshima, as a rendezvous point, and no matter what city the Americans planned to hit, the Super-fortresses streamed in over the coast near Hiroshima. The frequency of the warnings and the continued abstinence of Mr. B with respect to Hiroshima had made its citizens jittery; a rumor was going around that the Americans were saving something special for the city.

Mr. Tanimoto is a small man, quick to talk, laugh, and cry. He wears his black hair parted in the middle and rather long; the prominence of the frontal bones just above his eyebrows and the smallness of his mustache, mouth, and chin give him a strange, old-young look, boyish and yet wise, weak and yet fiery. He moves nervously and fast, but with a restraint which suggests that he is a cautious, thoughtful man. He showed, indeed, just those qualities in the uneasy days before the bomb fell. Besides having his wife spend the nights in Ushida, Mr. Tanimoto had been carrying all the portable things from his church, in the close-packed residential district called Nagaragawa, to a house that belonged to a rayon manufacturer in Koi, two miles from the center of town. The rayon man, a Mr. Matsui, had opened his then unoccupied estate to a large number of his friends and acquaintances, so that they might evacuate whatever they wished to a safe distance from the probable target area. Mr. Tanimoto had had no difficulty in moving chairs, hymnals, Bibles, altar gear, and church records by pushcart himself, but the organ console and an upright piano required some aid. A friend of his named Matsuo had, the day before, helped him get the piano out to Koi; in return, he had promised this day to assist Mr. Matsuo in hauling out a daughter’s belongings. That is why he had risen so early.

Mr. Tanimoto cooked his own breakfast. He felt awfully tired. The effort of moving the piano the day before, a sleepless night, weeks of worry and unbalanced diet, the cares of his parish—all combined to make him feel hardly adequate to the new day’s work. There was another thing, too: Mr. Tanimoto had studied theology at Emory College, in Atlanta, Georgia; he had graduated in 1940; he spoke excellent English; he dressed in American clothes; he had corresponded with many American friends right up to the time the war began; and among a people obsessed with a fear of being spied upon—perhaps almost obsessed himself—he found himself growing increasingly uneasy. The police had questioned him several times, and just a few days before, he had heard that an influential acquaintance, a Mr. Tanaka, a retired officer of the Toyo Kisen Kaisha steamship line, an anti-Christian, a man famous in Hiroshima for his showy philanthropies and notorious for his personal tyrannies, had been telling people that Tanimoto should not be trusted. In compensation, to show himself publicly a good Japanese, Mr. Tanimoto had taken on the chairmanship of his local tonarigumi, or Neighborhood Association, and to his other duties and concerns this position had added the business of organizing air-raid defense for about twenty families.

Before six o’clock that morning, Mr. Tanimoto started for Mr. Matsuo’s house. There he found that their burden was to be a tansu, a large Japanese cabinet, full of clothing and household goods. The two men set out. The morning was perfectly clear and so warm that the day promised to be uncomfortable. A few minutes after they started, the air-raid siren went off—a minute-long blast that warned of approaching planes but indicated to the people of Hiroshima only a slight degree of danger, since it sounded every morning at this time, when an American weather plane came over. The two men pulled and pushed the handcart through the city streets. Hiroshima was a fan-shaped city, lying mostly on the six islands formed by the seven estuarial rivers that branch out from the Ota River; its main commercial and residential districts, covering about four square miles in the center of the city, contained three-quarters of its population, which had been reduced by several evacuation programs from a wartime peak of 380,000 to about 245,000. Factories and other residential districts, or suburbs, lay compactly around the edges of the city. To the south were the docks, an airport, and the island-studded Inland Sea. A rim of mountains runs around the other three sides of the delta. Mr. Tanimoto and Mr. Matsuo took their way through the shopping center, already full of people, and across two of the rivers to the sloping streets of Koi, and up them to the outskirts and foothills. As they started up a valley away from the tight-ranked houses, the all-clear sounded. (The Japanese radar operators, detecting only three planes, supposed that they comprised a reconnaissance.) Pushing the handcart up to the rayon man’s house was tiring, and the men, after they had maneuvered their load into the driveway and to the front steps, paused to rest awhile. They stood with a wing of the house between them and the city. Like most homes in this part of Japan, the house consisted of a wooden frame and wooden walls supporting a heavy tile roof. Its front hall, packed with rolls of bedding and clothing, looked like a cool cave full of fat cushions. Opposite the house, to the right of the front door, there was a large, finicky rock garden. There was no sound of planes. The morning was still; the place was cool and pleasant.

Then a tremendous flash of light cut across the sky. Mr. Tanimoto has a distinct recollection that it travelled from east to west, from the city toward the hills. It seemed a sheet of sun. Both he and Mr. Matsuo reacted in terror—and both had time to react (for they were 3,500 yards, or two miles, from the center of the explosion). Mr. Matsuo dashed up the front steps into the house and dived among the bedrolls and buried himself there. Mr. Tanimoto took four or five steps and threw himself between two big rocks in the garden. He bellied up very hard against one of them. As his face was against the stone, he did not see what happened. He felt a sudden pressure, and then splinters and pieces of board and fragments of tile fell on him. He heard no roar. (Almost no one in Hiroshima recalls hearing any noise of the bomb. But a fisherman in his sampan on the Inland Sea near Tsuzu, the man with whom Mr. Tanimoto’s mother-in-law and sister-in-law were living, saw the flash and heard a tremendous explosion; he was nearly twenty miles from Hiroshima, but the thunder was greater than when the B-29s hit Iwakuni, only five miles away.)

When he dared, Mr. Tanimoto raised his head and saw that the rayon man’s house had collapsed. He thought a bomb had fallen directly on it. Such clouds of dust had risen that there was a sort of twilight around. In panic, not thinking for the moment of Mr. Matsuo under the ruins, he dashed out into the street. He noticed as he ran that the concrete wall of the estate had fallen over—toward the house rather than away from it. In the street, the first thing he saw was a squad of soldiers who had been burrowing into the hillside opposite, making one of the thousands of dugouts in which the Japanese apparently intended to resist invasion, hill by hill, life for life; the soldiers were coming out of the hole, where they should have been safe, and blood was running from their heads, chests, and backs. They were silent and dazed.

Under what seemed to be a local dust cloud, the day grew darker and darker.

At nearly midnight, the night before the bomb was dropped, an announcer on the city’s radio station said that about two hundred B-29s were approaching southern Honshu and advised the population of Hiroshima to evacuate to their designated “safe areas.” Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, the tailor’s widow, who lived in the section called Nobori-cho and who had long had a habit of doing as she was told, got her three children—a ten-year-old boy, Toshio, an eight-year-old girl, Yaeko, and a five-year-old girl, Myeko—out of bed and dressed them and walked with them to the military area known as the East Parade Ground, on the northeast edge of the city. There she unrolled some mats and the children lay down on them. They slept until about two, when they were awakened by the roar of the planes going over Hiroshima.

As soon as the planes had passed, Mrs. Nakamura started back with her children. They reached home a little after two-thirty and she immediately turned on the radio, which, to her distress, was just then broadcasting a fresh warning. When she looked at the children and saw how tired they were, and when she thought of the number of trips they had made in past weeks, all to no purpose, to the East Parade Ground, she decided that in spite of the instructions on the radio, she simply could not face starting out all over again. She put the children in their bedrolls on the floor, lay down herself at three o’clock, and fell asleep at once, so soundly that when planes passed over later, she did not waken to their sound.

The siren jarred her awake at about seven. She arose, dressed quickly, and hurried to the house of Mr. Nakamoto, the head of her Neighborhood Association, and asked him what she should do. He said that she should remain at home unless an urgent warning—a series of intermittent blasts of the siren—was sounded. She returned home, lit the stove in the kitchen, set some rice to cook, and sat down to read that morning’s Hiroshima Chugoku. To her relief, the all-clear sounded at eight o’clock. She heard the children stirring, so she went and gave each of them a handful of peanuts and told them to stay on their bedrolls, because they were tired from the night’s walk. She had hoped that they would go back to sleep, but the man in the house directly to the south began to make a terrible hullabaloo of hammering, wedging, ripping, and splitting. The prefectural government, convinced, as everyone in Hiroshima was, that the city would be attacked soon, had begun to press with threats and warnings for the completion of wide fire lanes, which, it was hoped, might act in conjunction with the rivers to localize any fires started by an incendiary raid; and the neighbor was reluctantly sacrificing his home to the city’s safety. Just the day before, the prefecture had ordered all able-bodied girls from the secondary schools to spend a few days helping to clear these lanes, and they started work soon after the all-clear sounded.

Mrs. Nakamura went back to the kitchen, looked at the rice, and began watching the man next door. At first, she was annoyed with him for making so much noise, but then she was moved almost to tears by pity. Her emotion was specifically directed toward her neighbor, tearing down his home, board by board, at a time when there was so much unavoidable destruction, but undoubtedly she also felt a generalized, community pity, to say nothing of self-pity. She had not had an easy time. Her husband, Isawa, had gone into the Army just after Myeko was born, and she had heard nothing from or of him for a long time, until, on March 5, 1942, she received a seven-word telegram: “Isawa died an honorable death at Singapore.” She learned later that he had died on February 15th, the day Singapore fell, and that he had been a corporal. Isawa had been a not particularly prosperous tailor, and his only capital was a Sankoku sewing machine. After his death, when his allotments stopped coming, Mrs. Nakamura got out the machine and began to take in piecework herself, and since then had supported the children, but poorly, by sewing.

As Mrs. Nakamura stood watching her neighbor, everything flashed whiter than any white she had ever seen. She did not notice what happened to the man next door; the reflex of a mother set her in motion toward her children. She had taken a single step (the house was 1,350 yards, or three-quarters of a mile, from the center of the explosion) when something picked her up and she seemed to fly into the next room over the raised sleeping platform, pursued by parts of her house.

Timbers fell around her as she landed, and a shower of tiles pommelled her; everything became dark, for she was buried. The debris did not cover her deeply. She rose up and freed herself. She heard a child cry, “Mother, help me!,” and saw her youngest—Myeko, the five-year-old—buried up to her breast and unable to move. As Mrs. Nakamura started frantically to claw her way toward the baby, she could see or hear nothing of her other children.

In the days right before the bombing, Dr. Masakazu Fujii, being prosperous, hedonistic, and, at the time, not too busy, had been allowing himself the luxury of sleeping until nine or nine-thirty, but fortunately he had to get up early the morning the bomb was dropped to see a house guest off on a train. He rose at six, and half an hour later walked with his friend to the station, not far away, across two of the rivers. He was back home by seven, just as the siren sounded its sustained warning. He ate breakfast and then, because the morning was already hot, undressed down to his underwear and went out on the porch to read the paper. This porch—in fact, the whole building—was curiously constructed. Dr. Fujii was the proprietor of a peculiarly Japanese institution, a private, single-doctor hospital. This building, perched beside and over the water of the Kyo River, and next to the bridge of the same name, contained thirty rooms for thirty patients and their kinfolk—for, according to Japanese custom, when a person falls sick and goes to a hospital, one or more members of his family go and live there with him, to cook for him, bathe, massage, and read to him, and to offer incessant familial sympathy, without which a Japanese patient would be miserable indeed. Dr. Fujii had no beds—only straw mats—for his patients. He did, however, have all sorts of modern equipment: an X-ray machine, diathermy apparatus, and a fine tiled laboratory. The structure rested two-thirds on the land, one-third on piles over the tidal waters of the Kyo. This overhang, the part of the building where Dr. Fujii lived, was queer-looking, but it was cool in summer and from the porch, which faced away from the center of the city, the prospect of the river, with pleasure boats drifting up and down it, was always refreshing. Dr. Fujii had occasionally had anxious moments when the Ota and its mouth branches rose to flood, but the piling was apparently firm enough and the house had always held.

Dr. Fujii had been relatively idle for about a month because in July, as the number of untouched cities in Japan dwindled and as Hiroshima seemed more and more inevitably a target, he began turning patients away, on the ground that in case of a fire raid he would not be able to evacuate them. Now he had only two patients left—a woman from Yano, injured in the shoulder, and a young man of twenty-five recovering from burns he had suffered when the steel factory near Hiroshima in which he worked had been hit.

Dr. Fujii had six nurses to tend his patients. His wife and children were safe; his wife and one son were living outside Osaka, and another son and two daughters were in the country on Kyushu. A niece was living with him, and a maid and a manservant. He had little to do and did not mind, for he had saved some money. At fifty, he was healthy, convivial, and calm, and he was pleased to pass the evenings drinking whiskey with friends, always sensibly and for the sake of conversation. Before the war, he had affected brands imported from Scotland and America; now he was perfectly satisfied with the best Japanese brand, Suntory.

Dr. Fujii sat down cross-legged in his underwear on the spotless matting of the porch, put on his glasses, and started reading the Osaka Asahi. He liked to read the Osaka news because his wife was there. He saw the flash. To him—faced away from the center and looking at his paper—it seemed a brilliant yellow. Startled, he began to rise to his feet. In that moment (he was 1,550 yards from the center), the hospital leaned behind his rising and, with a terrible ripping noise, toppled into the river. The Doctor, still in the act of getting to his feet, was thrown forward and around and over; he was buffeted and gripped; he lost track of everything, because things were so speeded up; he felt the water.

Dr. Fujii hardly had time to think that he was dying before he realized that he was alive, squeezed tightly by two long timbers in a V across his chest, like a morsel suspended between two huge chopsticks—held upright, so that he could not move, with his head miraculously above water and his torso and legs in it. The remains of his hospital were all around him in a mad assortment of splintered lumber and materials for the relief of pain. His left shoulder hurt terribly. His glasses were gone.

Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, of the Society of Jesus, was, on the morning of the explosion, in rather frail condition. The Japanese wartime diet had not sustained him, and he felt the strain of being a foreigner in an increasingly xenophobic Japan; even a German, since the defeat of the Fatherland, was unpopular. Father Kleinsorge had, at thirty-eight, the look of a boy growing too fast—thin in the face, with a prominent Adam’s apple, a hollow chest, dangling hands, big feet. He walked clumsily, leaning forward a little. He was tired all the time. To make matters worse, he had suffered for two days, along with Father Cieslik, a fellow-priest, from a rather painful and urgent diarrhea, which they blamed on the beans and black ration bread they were obliged to eat. Two other priests then living in the mission compound, which was in the Nobori-cho section—Father Superior LaSalle and Father Schiffer—had happily escaped this affliction.

Father Kleinsorge woke up about six the morning the bomb was dropped, and half an hour later—he was a bit tardy because of his sickness—he began to read Mass in the mission chapel, a small Japanese-style wooden building which was without pews, since its worshippers knelt on the usual Japanese matted floor, facing an altar graced with splendid silks, brass, silver, and heavy embroideries. This morning, a Monday, the only worshippers were Mr. Takemoto, a theological student living in the mission house; Mr. Fukai, the secretary of the diocese; Mrs. Murata, the mission’s devoutly Christian housekeeper; and his fellow-priests. After Mass, while Father Kleinsorge was reading the Prayers of Thanksgiving, the siren sounded. He stopped the service and the missionaries retired across the compound to the bigger building. There, in his room on the ground floor, to the right of the front door, Father Kleinsorge changed into a military uniform which he had acquired when he was teaching at the Rokko Middle School in Kobe and which he wore during air-raid alerts.

After an alarm, Father Kleinsorge always went out and scanned the sky, and this time, when he stepped outside, he was glad to see only the single weather plane that flew over Hiroshima each day about this time. Satisfied that nothing would happen, he went in and breakfasted with the other Fathers on substitute coffee and ration bread, which, under the circumstances, was especially repugnant to him. The Fathers sat and talked a while, until, at eight, they heard the all-clear. They went then to various parts of the building. Father Schiffer retired to his room to do some writing. Father Cieslik sat in his room in a straight chair with a pillow over his stomach to ease his pain, and read. Father Superior LaSalle stood at the window of his room, thinking. Father Kleinsorge went up to a room on the third floor, took off all his clothes except his underwear, and stretched out on his right side on a cot and began reading his Stimmen der Zeit.

After the terrible flash—which, Father Kleinsorge later realized, reminded him of something he had read as a boy about a large meteor colliding with the earth—he had time (since he was 1,400 yards from the center) for one thought: A bomb has fallen directly on us. Then, for a few seconds or minutes, he went out of his mind.

Father Kleinsorge never knew how he got out of the house. The next things he was conscious of were that he was wandering around in the mission’s vegetable garden in his underwear, bleeding slightly from small cuts along his left flank; that all the buildings round about had fallen down except the Jesuits’ mission house, which had long before been braced and double-braced by a priest named Gropper, who was terrified of earthquakes; that the day had turned dark; and that Murata-san, the housekeeper, was nearby, crying over and over, “Shu Jesusu, awaremi tamai! Our Lord Jesus, have pity on us!”

On the train on the way into Hiroshima from the country, where he lived with his mother, Dr. Terufumi Sasaki, the Red Cross Hospital surgeon, thought over an unpleasant nightmare he had had the night before. His mother’s home was in Mukaihara, thirty miles from the city, and it took him two hours by train and tram to reach the hospital. He had slept uneasily all night and had wakened an hour earlier than usual, and, feeling sluggish and slightly feverish, had debated whether to go to the hospital at all; his sense of duty finally forced him to go, and he had started out on an earlier train than he took most mornings. The dream had particularly frightened him because it was so closely associated, on the surface at least, with a disturbing actuality. He was only twenty-five years old and had just completed his training at the Eastern Medical University, in Tsingtao, China. He was something of an idealist and was much distressed by the inadequacy of medical facilities in the country town where his mother lived. Quite on his own, and without a permit, he had begun visiting a few sick people out there in the evenings, after his eight hours at the hospital and four hours’ commuting. He had recently learned that the penalty for practicing without a permit was severe; a fellow-doctor whom he had asked about it had given him a serious scolding. Nevertheless, he had continued to practice. In his dream, he had been at the bedside of a country patient when the police and the doctor he had consulted burst into the room, seized him, dragged him outside, and beat him up cruelly. On the train, he just about decided to give up the work in Mukaihara, since he felt it would be impossible to get a permit, because the authorities would hold that it would conflict with his duties at the Red Cross Hospital.

At the terminus, he caught a streetcar at once. (He later calculated that if he had taken his customary train that morning, and if he had had to wait a few minutes for the streetcar, as often happened, he would have been close to the center at the time of the explosion and would surely have perished.) He arrived at the hospital at seven-forty and reported to the chief surgeon. A few minutes later, he went to a room on the first floor and drew blood from the arm of a man in order to perform a Wassermann test. The laboratory containing the incubators for the test was on the third floor. With the blood specimen in his left hand, walking in a kind of distraction he had felt all morning, probably because of the dream and his restless night, he started along the main corridor on his way toward the stairs. He was one step beyond an open window when the light of the bomb was reflected, like a gigantic photographic flash, in the corridor. He ducked down on one knee and said to himself, as only a Japanese would, “Sasaki, gambare! Be brave!” Just then (the building was 1,650 yards from the center), the blast ripped through the hospital. The glasses he was wearing flew off his face; the bottle of blood crashed against one wall; his Japanese slippers zipped out from under his feet—but otherwise, thanks to where he stood, he was untouched.

Dr. Sasaki shouted the name of the chief surgeon and rushed around to the man’s office and found him terribly cut by glass. The hospital was in horrible confusion: heavy partitions and ceilings had fallen on patients, beds had overturned, windows had blown in and cut people, blood was spattered on the walls and floors, instruments were everywhere, many of the patients were running about screaming, many more lay dead. (A colleague working in the laboratory to which Dr. Sasaki had been walking was dead; Dr. Sasaki’s patient, whom he had just left and who a few moments before had been dreadfully afraid of syphilis, was also dead.) Dr. Sasaki found himself the only doctor in the hospital who was unhurt.

Dr. Sasaki, who believed that the enemy had hit only the building he was in, got bandages and began to bind the wounds of those inside the hospital; while outside, all over Hiroshima, maimed and dying citizens turned their unsteady steps toward the Red Cross Hospital to begin an invasion that was to make Dr. Sasaki forget his private nightmare for a long, long time.

Miss Toshiko Sasaki, the East Asia Tin Works clerk, who is not related to Dr. Sasaki, got up at three o’clock in the morning on the day the bomb fell. There was extra housework to do. Her eleven-month-old brother, Akio, had come down the day before with a serious stomach upset; her mother had taken him to the Tamura Pediatric Hospital and was staying there with him. Miss Sasaki, who was about twenty, had to cook breakfast for her father, a brother, a sister, and herself, and—since the hospital, because of the war, was unable to provide food—to prepare a whole day’s meals for her mother and the baby, in time for her father, who worked in a factory making rubber earplugs for artillery crews, to take the food by on his way to the plant. When she had finished and had cleaned and put away the cooking things, it was nearly seven. The family lived in Koi, and she had a forty-five-minute trip to the tin works, in the section of town called Kannon-machi. She was in charge of the personnel records in the factory. She left Koi at seven, and as soon as she reached the plant, she went with some of the other girls from the personnel department to the factory auditorium. A prominent local Navy man, a former employee, had committed suicide the day before by throwing himself under a train—a death considered honorable enough to warrant a memorial service, which was to be held at the tin works at ten o’clock that morning. In the large hall, Miss Sasaki and the others made suitable preparations for the meeting. This work took about twenty minutes. Miss Sasaki went back to her office and sat down at her desk. She was quite far from the windows, which were off to her left, and behind her were a couple of tall bookcases containing all the books of the factory library, which the personnel department had organized. She settled herself at her desk, put some things in a drawer, and shifted papers. She thought that before she began to make entries in her lists of new employees, discharges, and departures for the Army, she would chat for a moment with the girl at her right. Just as she turned her head away from the windows, the room was filled with a blinding light. She was paralyzed by fear, fixed still in her chair for a long moment (the plant was 1,600 yards from the center).

Everything fell, and Miss Sasaki lost consciousness. The ceiling dropped suddenly and the wooden floor above collapsed in splinters and the people up there came down and the roof above them gave way; but principally and first of all, the bookcases right behind her swooped forward and the contents threw her down, with her left leg horribly twisted and breaking underneath her. There, in the tin factory, in the first moment of the atomic age, a human being was crushed by books.

II—The Fire

Immediately after the explosion, the Reverend Mr. Kiyoshi Tanimoto, having run wildly out of the Matsui estate and having looked in wonderment at the bloody soldiers at the mouth of the dugout they had been digging, attached himself sympathetically to an old lady who was walking along in a daze, holding her head with her left hand, supporting a small boy of three or four on her back with her right, and crying, “I’m hurt! I’m hurt! I’m hurt!” Mr. Tanimoto transferred the child to his own back and led the woman by the hand down the street, which was darkened by what seemed to be a local column of dust. He took the woman to a grammar school not far away that had previously been designated for use as a temporary hospital in case of emergency. By this solicitous behavior, Mr. Tanimoto at once got rid of his terror. At the school, he was much surprised to see glass all over the floor and fifty or sixty injured people already waiting to be treated. He reflected that, although the all-clear had sounded and he had heard no planes, several bombs must have been dropped. He thought of a hillock in the rayon man’s garden from which he could get a view of the whole of Koi—of the whole of Hiroshima, for that matter—and he ran back up to the estate.

From the mound, Mr. Tanimoto saw an astonishing panorama. Not just a patch of Koi, as he had expected, but as much of Hiroshima as he could see through the clouded air was giving off a thick, dreadful miasma. Clumps of smoke, near and far, had begun to push up through the general dust. He wondered how such extensive damage could have been dealt out of a silent sky; even a few planes, far up, would have been audible. Houses nearby were burning, and when huge drops of water the size of marbles began to fall, he half thought that they must be coming from the hoses of firemen fighting the blazes. (They were actually drops of condensed moisture falling from the turbulent tower of dust, heat, and fission fragments that had already risen miles into the sky above Hiroshima.)

Mr. Tanimoto turned away from the sight when he heard Mr. Matsuo call out to ask whether he was all right. Mr. Matsuo had been safely cushioned within the falling house by the bedding stored in the front hall and had worked his way out. Mr. Tanimoto scarcely answered. He had thought of his wife and baby, his church, his home, his parishioners, all of them down in that awful murk. Once more he began to run in fear—toward the city.

Mrs. Hatsuyo Nakamura, the tailor’ s widow, having struggled up from under the ruins of her house after the explosion, and seeing Myeko, the youngest of her three children, buried breast-deep and unable to move, crawled across the debris, hauled at timbers, and flung tiles aside, in a hurried effort to free the child. Then, from what seemed to be caverns far below, she heard two small voices crying, “Tasukete! Tasukete! Help! Help!”

She called the names of her ten-year-old son and eight-year-old daughter: “Toshio! Yaeko!”

The voices from below answered.

Mrs. Nakamura abandoned Myeko, who at least could breathe, and in a frenzy made the wreckage fly above the crying voices. The children had been sleeping nearly ten feet apart, but now their voices seemed to come from the same place. Toshio, the boy, apparently had some freedom to move, because she could feel him undermining the pile of wood and tiles as she worked from above. At last she saw his head, and she hastily pulled him out by it. A mosquito net was wound intricately, as if it had been carefully wrapped, around his feet. He said he had been blown right across the room and had been on top of his sister Yaeko under the wreckage. She now said, from underneath, that she could not move, because there was something on her legs. With a bit more digging, Mrs. Nakamura cleared a hole above the child and began to pull her arm. “Itai! It hurts!” Yaeko cried. Mrs. Nakamura shouted, “There’s no time now to say whether it hurts or not,” and yanked her whimpering daughter up. Then she freed Myeko. The children were filthy and bruised, but none of them had a single cut or scratch.

Mrs. Nakamura took the children out into the street. They had nothing on but underpants, and although the day was very hot, she worried rather confusedly about their being cold, so she went back into the wreckage and burrowed underneath and found a bundle of clothes she had packed for an emergency, and she dressed them in pants, blouses, shoes, padded-cotton air-raid helmets called bokuzuki, and even, irrationally, overcoats. The children were silent, except for the five-year-old, Myeko, who kept asking questions: “Why is it night already? Why did our house fall down? What happened?” Mrs. Nakamura, who did not know what had happened (had not the all-clear sounded?), looked around and saw through the darkness that all the houses in her neighborhood had collapsed. The house next door, which its owner had been tearing down to make way for a fire lane, was now very thoroughly, if crudely, torn down; its owner, who had been sacrificing his home for the community’s safety, lay dead. Mrs. Nakamoto, wife of the head of the local air-raid-defense Neighborhood Association, came across the street with her head all bloody, and said that her baby was badly cut; did Mrs. Nakamura have any bandage? Mrs. Nakamura did not, but she crawled into the remains of her house again and pulled out some white cloth that she had been using in her work as a seamstress, ripped it into strips, and gave it to Mrs. Nakamoto. While fetching the cloth, she noticed her sewing machine; she went back in for it and dragged it out. Obviously, she could not carry it with her, so she unthinkingly plunged her symbol of livelihood into the receptacle which for weeks had been her symbol of safety—the cement tank of water in front of her house, of the type every household had been ordered to construct against a possible fire raid.

A nervous neighbor, Mrs. Hataya, called to Mrs. Nakamura to run away with her to the woods in Asano Park—an estate, by the Kyo River not far off, belonging to the wealthy Asano family, who once owned the Toyo Kisen Kaisha steamship line. The park had been designated as an evacuation area for their neighborhood. Seeing fire breaking out in a nearby ruin (except at the very center, where the bomb itself ignited some fires, most of Hiroshima’s citywide conflagration was caused by inflammable wreckage falling on cookstoves and live wires), Mrs. Nakamura suggested going over to fight it. Mrs. Hataya said, “Don’t be foolish. What if planes come and drop more bombs?” So Mrs. Nakamura started out for Asano Park with her children and Mrs. Hataya, and she carried her rucksack of emergency clothing, a blanket, an umbrella, and a suitcase of things she had cached in her air-raid shelter. Under many ruins, as they hurried along, they heard muffled screams for help. The only building they saw standing on their way to Asano Park was the Jesuit mission house, alongside the Catholic kindergarten to which Mrs. Nakamura had sent Myeko for a time. As they passed it, she saw Father Kleinsorge, in bloody underwear, running out of the house with a small suitcase in his hand.

Right after the explosion, while Father Wilhelm Kleinsorge, S. J., was wandering around in his underwear in the vegetable garden, Father Superior LaSalle came around the corner of the building in the darkness. His body, especially his back, was bloody; the flash had made him twist away from his window, and tiny pieces of glass had flown at him. Father Kleinsorge, still bewildered, managed to ask, “Where are the rest?” Just then, the two other priests living in the mission house appeared—Father Cieslik, unhurt, supporting Father Schiffer, who was covered with blood that spurted from a cut above his left ear and who was very pale. Father Cieslik was rather pleased with himself, for after the flash he had dived into a doorway, which he had previously reckoned to be the safest place inside the building, and when the blast came, he was not injured. Father LaSalle told Father Cieslik to take Father Schiffer to a doctor before he bled to death, and suggested either Dr. Kanda, who lived on the next corner, or Dr. Fujii, about six blocks away. The two men went out of the compound and up the street.

The daughter of Mr. Hoshijima, the mission catechist, ran up to Father Kleinsorge and said that her mother and sister were buried under the ruins of their house, which was at the back of the Jesuit compound, and at the same time the priests noticed that the house of the Catholic-kindergarten teacher at the foot of the compound had collapsed on her. While Father LaSalle and Mrs. Murata, the mission housekeeper, dug the teacher out, Father Kleinsorge went to the catechist’s fallen house and began lifting things off the top of the pile. There was not a sound underneath; he was sure the Hoshijima women had been killed. At last, under what had been a corner of the kitchen, he saw Mrs. Hoshijima’s head. Believing her dead, he began to haul her out by the hair, but suddenly she screamed, “Itai! Itai! It hurts! It hurts!” He dug some more and lifted her out. He managed, too, to find her daughter in the rubble and free her. Neither was badly hurt.

A public bath next door to the mission house had caught fire, but since there the wind was southerly, the priests thought their house would be spared. Nevertheless, as a precaution, Father Kleinsorge went inside to fetch some things he wanted to save. He found his room in a state of weird and illogical confusion. A first-aid kit was hanging undisturbed on a hook on the wall, but his clothes, which had been on other hooks nearby, were nowhere to be seen. His desk was in splinters all over the room, but a mere papier-mâché suitcase, which he had hidden under the desk, stood handle-side up, without a scratch on it, in the doorway of the room, where he could not miss it. Father Kleinsorge later came to regard this as a bit of Providential interference, inasmuch as the suitcase contained his breviary, the account books for the whole diocese, and a considerable amount of paper money belonging to the mission, for which he was responsible. He ran out of the house and deposited the suitcase in the mission air-raid shelter.

At about this time, Father Cieslik and Father Schiffer, who was still spurting blood, came back and said that Dr. Kanda’s house was ruined and that fire blocked them from getting out of what they supposed to be the local circle of destruction to Dr. Fujii’s private hospital, on the bank of the Kyo River.

Dr. Masakazu Fujii’s hospital was no longer on the bank of the Kyo River; it was in the river. After the overturn, Dr. Fujii was so stupefied and so tightly squeezed by the beams gripping his chest that he was unable to move at first, and he hung there about twenty minutes in the darkened morning. Then a thought which came to him—that soon the tide would be running in through the estuaries and his head would be submerged—inspired him to fearful activity; he wriggled and turned and exerted what strength he could (though his left arm, because of the pain in his shoulder, was useless), and before long he had freed himself from the vise. After a few moments’ rest, he climbed onto the pile of timbers and, finding a long one that slanted up to the riverbank, he painfully shinnied up it.

Dr. Fujii, who was in his underwear, was now soaking and dirty. His undershirt was torn, and blood ran down it from bad cuts on his chin and back. In this disarray, he walked out onto Kyo Bridge, beside which his hospital had stood. The bridge had not collapsed. He could see only fuzzily without his glasses, but he could see enough to be amazed at the number of houses that were down all around. On the bridge, he encountered a friend, a doctor named Machii, and asked in bewilderment, “What do you think it was?”

Dr. Machii said, “It must have been a Molotoffano hanakago”—a Molotov flower basket, the delicate Japanese name for the “bread basket,” or self-scattering cluster of bombs.

At first, Dr. Fujii could see only two fires, one across the river from his hospital site and one quite far to the south. But at the same time, he and his friend observed something that puzzled them, and which, as doctors, they discussed: although there were as yet very few fires, wounded people were hurrying across the bridge in an endless parade of misery, and many of them exhibited terrible burns on their faces and arms. “Why do you suppose it is?” Dr. Fujii asked. Even a theory was comforting that day, and Dr. Machii stuck to his. “Perhaps because it was a Molotov flower basket,” he said.

There had been no breeze earlier in the morning when Dr. Fujii had walked to the railway station to see a friend off, but now brisk winds were blowing every which way; here on the bridge the wind was easterly. New fires were leaping up, and they spread quickly, and in a very short time terrible blasts of hot air and showers of cinders made it impossible to stand on the bridge any more. Dr. Machii ran to the far side of the river and along a still unkindled street. Dr. Fujii went down into the water under the bridge, where a score of people had already taken refuge, among them his servants, who had extricated themselves from the wreckage. From there, Dr. Fujii saw a nurse hanging in the timbers of his hospital by her legs, and then another painfully pinned across the breast. He enlisted the help of some of the others under the bridge and freed both of them. He thought he heard the voice of his niece for a moment, but he could not find her; he never saw her again. Four of his nurses and the two patients in the hospital died, too. Dr. Fujii went back into the water of the river and waited for the fire to subside.

The lot of Drs. Fujii, Kanda, and Machii right after the explosion—and, as these three were typical, that of the majority of the physicians and surgeons of Hiroshima—with their offices and hospitals destroyed, their equipment scattered, their own bodies incapacitated in varying degrees, explained why so many citizens who were hurt went untended and why so many who might have lived died. Of a hundred and fifty doctors in the city, sixty-five were already dead and most of the rest were wounded. Of 1,780 nurses, 1,654 were dead or too badly hurt to work. In the biggest hospital, that of the Red Cross, only six doctors out of thirty were able to function, and only ten nurses out of more than two hundred. The sole uninjured doctor on the Red Cross Hospital staff was Dr. Sasaki. After the explosion, he hurried to a storeroom to fetch bandages. This room, like everything he had seen as he ran through the hospital, was chaotic—bottles of medicines thrown off shelves and broken, salves spattered on the walls, instruments strewn everywhere. He grabbed up some bandages and an unbroken bottle of mercurochrome, hurried back to the chief surgeon, and bandaged his cuts. Then he went out into the corridor and began patching up the wounded patients and the doctors and nurses there. He blundered so without his glasses that he took a pair off the face of a wounded nurse, and although they only approximately compensated for the errors of his vision, they were better than nothing. (He was to depend on them for more than a month.)

Dr. Sasaki worked without method, taking those who were nearest him first, and he noticed soon that the corridor seemed to be getting more and more crowded. Mixed in with the abrasions and lacerations which most people in the hospital had suffered, he began to find dreadful burns. He realized then that casualties were pouring in from outdoors. There were so many that he began to pass up the lightly wounded; he decided that all he could hope to do was to stop people from bleeding to death. Before long, patients lay and crouched on the floors of the wards and the laboratories and all the other rooms, and in the corridors, and on the stairs, and in the front hall, and under the porte-cochère, and on the stone front steps, and in the driveway and courtyard, and for blocks each way in the streets outside. Wounded people supported maimed people; disfigured families leaned together. Many people were vomiting. A tremendous number of schoolgirls—some of those who had been taken from their classrooms to work outdoors, clearing fire lanes—crept into the hospital. In a city of two hundred and forty-five thousand, nearly a hundred thousand people had been killed or doomed at one blow; a hundred thousand more were hurt. At least ten thousand of the wounded made their way to the best hospital in town, which was altogether unequal to such a trampling, since it had only six hundred beds, and they had all been occupied. The people in the suffocating crowd inside the hospital wept and cried, for Dr. Sasaki to hear, “Sensei! Doctor!,” and the less seriously wounded came and pulled at his sleeve and begged him to come to the aid of the worse wounded. Tugged here and there in his stockinged feet, bewildered by the numbers, staggered by so much raw flesh, Dr. Sasaki lost all sense of profession and stopped working as a skillful surgeon and a sympathetic man; he became an automaton, mechanically wiping, daubing, winding, wiping, daubing, winding.

Some of the wounded in Hiroshima were unable to enjoy the questionable luxury of hospitalization. In what had been the personnel office of the East Asia Tin Works, Miss Sasaki lay doubled over, unconscious, under the tremendous pile of books and plaster and wood and corrugated iron. She was wholly unconscious (she later estimated) for about three hours. Her first sensation was of dreadful pain in her left leg. It was so black under the books and debris that the borderline between awareness and unconsciousness was fine; she apparently crossed it several times, for the pain seemed to come and go. At the moments when it was sharpest, she felt that her leg had been cut off somewhere below the knee. Later, she heard someone walking on top of the wreckage above her, and anguished voices spoke up, evidently from within the mess around her: “Please help! Get us out!”

Father Kleinsorge stemmed Father Schiffer’s spurting cut as well as he could with some bandage that Dr. Fujii had given the priests a few days before. When he finished, he ran into the mission house again and found the jacket of his military uniform and an old pair of gray trousers. He put them on and went outside. A woman from next door ran up to him and shouted that her husband was buried under her house and the house was on fire; Father Kleinsorge must come and save him.

Father Kleinsorge, already growing apathetic and dazed in the presence of the cumulative distress, said, “We haven’t much time.” Houses all around were burning, and the wind was now blowing hard. “Do you know exactly which part of the house he is under?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Come quickly.”

They went around to the house, the remains of which blazed violently, but when they got there, it turned out that the woman had no idea where her husband was. Father Kleinsorge shouted several times, “Is there anyone there?” There was no answer. Father Kleinsorge said to the woman, “We must get away or we will all die.” He went back to the Catholic compound and told the Father Superior that the fire was coming closer on the wind, which had swung around and was now from the north; it was time for everybody to go.

Just then, the kindergarten teacher pointed out to the priests Mr. Fukai, the secretary of the diocese, who was standing in his window on the second floor of the mission house, facing in the direction of the explosion, weeping. Father Cieslik, because he thought the stairs unusable, ran around to the back of the mission house to look for a ladder. There he heard people crying for help under a nearby fallen roof. He called to passersby running away in the street to help him lift it, but nobody paid any attention, and he had to leave the buried ones to die. Father Kleinsorge ran inside the mission house and scrambled up the stairs, which were awry and piled with plaster and lathing, and called to Mr. Fukai from the doorway of his room.

Mr. Fukai, a very short man of about fifty, turned around slowly, with a queer look, and said, “Leave me here.”

Father Kleinsorge went into the room and took Mr. Fukai by the collar of his coat and said, “Come with me or you’ll die.”

Mr. Fukai said, “Leave me here to die.”

Father Kleinsorge began to shove and haul Mr. Fukai out of the room. Then the theological student came up and grabbed Mr. Fukai’ s feet, and Father Kleinsorge took his shoulders, and together they carried him downstairs and outdoors. “I can’t walk!” Mr. Fukai cried. “Leave me here!” Father Kleinsorge got his paper suitcase with the money in it and took Mr. Fukai up pickaback, and the party started for the East Parade Ground, their district’s “safe area.” As they went out of the gate, Mr. Fukai, quite childlike now, beat on Father Kleinsorge’s shoulders and said, “I won’t leave. I won’t leave.” Irrelevantly, Father Kleinsorge turned to Father LaSalle and said, “We have lost all our possessions but not our sense of humor.”

The street was cluttered with parts of houses that had slid into it, and with fallen telephone poles and wires. From every second or third house came the voices of people buried and abandoned, who invariably screamed, with formal politeness, “Tasukete kure! Help, if you please!” The priests recognized several ruins from which these cries came as the homes of friends, but because of the fire it was too late to help. All the way, Mr. Fukai whimpered, “Let me stay.” The party turned right when they came to a block of fallen houses that was one flame. At Sakai Bridge, which would take them across to the East Parade Ground, they saw that the whole community on the opposite side of the river was a sheet of fire; they dared not cross and decided to take refuge in Asano Park, off to their left. Father Kleinsorge, who had been weakened for a couple of days by his bad case of diarrhea, began to stagger under his protesting burden, and as he tried to climb up over the wreckage of several houses that blocked their way to the park, he stumbled, dropped Mr. Fukai, and plunged down, head over heels, to the edge of the river. When he picked himself up, he saw Mr. Fukai running away. Father Kleinsorge shouted to a dozen soldiers, who were standing by the bridge, to stop him. As Father Kleinsorge started back to get Mr. Fukai, Father LaSalle called out, “Hurry! Don’t waste time!” So Father Kleinsorge just requested the soldiers to take care of Mr. Fukai. They said they would, but the little, broken man got away from them, and the last the priests could see of him, he was running back toward the fire.

Mr. Tanimoto, fearful for his family and church, at first ran toward them by the shortest route, along Koi Highway. He was the only person making his way into the city; he met hundreds and hundreds who were fleeing, and every one of them seemed to be hurt in some way. The eyebrows of some were burned off and skin hung from their faces and hands. Others, because of pain, held their arms up as if carrying something in both hands. Some were vomiting as they walked. Many were naked or in shreds of clothing. On some undressed bodies, the burns had made patterns—of undershirt straps and suspenders and, on the skin of some women (since white repelled the heat from the bomb and dark clothes absorbed it and conducted it to the skin), the shapes of flowers they had had on their kimonos. Many, although injured themselves, supported relatives who were worse off. Almost all had their heads bowed, looked straight ahead, were silent, and showed no expression whatever.

After crossing Koi Bridge and Kannon Bridge, having run the whole way, Mr. Tanimoto saw, as he approached the center, that all the houses had been crushed and many were afire. Here the trees were bare and their trunks were charred. He tried at several points to penetrate the ruins, but the flames always stopped him. Under many houses, people screamed for help, but no one helped; in general, survivors that day assisted only their relatives or immediate neighbors, for they could not comprehend or tolerate a wider circle of misery. The wounded limped past the screams, and Mr. Tanimoto ran past them. As a Christian he was filled with compassion for those who were trapped, and as a Japanese he was overwhelmed by the shame of being unhurt, and he prayed as he ran, “God help them and take them out of the fire.”

He thought he would skirt the fire, to the left. He ran back to Kannon Bridge and followed for a distance one of the rivers. He tried several cross streets, but all were blocked, so he turned far left and ran out to Yokogawa, a station on a railroad line that detoured the city in a wide semicircle, and he followed the rails until he came to a burning train. So impressed was he by this time by the extent of the damage that he ran north two miles to Gion, a suburb in the foothills. All the way, he overtook dreadfully burned and lacerated people, and in his guilt he turned to right and left as he hurried and said to some of them, “Excuse me for having no burden like yours.” Near Gion, he began to meet country people going toward the city to help, and when they saw him, several exclaimed, “Look! There is one who is not wounded.” At Gion, he bore toward the right bank of the main river, the Ota, and ran down it until he reached fire again. There was no fire on the other side of the river, so he threw off his shirt and shoes and plunged into it. In midstream, where the current was fairly strong, exhaustion and fear finally caught up with him—he had run nearly seven miles—and he became limp and drifted in the water. He prayed, “Please, God, help me to cross. It would be nonsense for me to be drowned when I am the only uninjured one.” He managed a few more strokes and fetched up on a spit downstream.

Mr. Tanimoto climbed up the bank and ran along it until, near a large Shinto shrine, he came to more fire, and as he turned left to get around it, he met, by incredible luck, his wife. She was carrying their infant son. Mr. Tanimoto was now so emotionally worn out that nothing could surprise him. He did not embrace his wife; he simply said, “Oh, you are safe.” She told him that she had got home from her night in Ushida just in time for the explosion; she had been buried under the parsonage with the baby in her arms. She told how the wreckage had pressed down on her, how the baby had cried. She saw a chink of light, and by reaching up with a hand, she worked the hole bigger, bit by bit. After about half an hour, she heard the crackling noise of wood burning. At last the opening was big enough for her to push the baby out, and afterward she crawled out herself. She said she was now going out to Ushida again. Mr. Tanimoto said he wanted to see his church and take care of the people of his Neighborhood Association. They parted as casually—as bewildered—as they had met.

Mr. Tanimoto’s way around the fire took him across the East Parade Ground, which, being an evacuation area, was now the scene of a gruesome review: rank on rank of the burned and bleeding. Those who were burned moaned, “Mizu, mizu! Water, water!” Mr. Tanimoto found a basin in a nearby street and located a water tap that still worked in the crushed shell of a house, and he began carrying water to the suffering strangers. When he had given drink to about thirty of them, he realized he was taking too much time. “Excuse me,” he said loudly to those nearby who were reaching out their hands to him and crying their thirst. “I have many people to take care of.” Then he ran away. He went to the river again, the basin in his hand, and jumped down onto a sandspit. There he saw hundreds of people so badly wounded that they could not get up to go farther from the burning city. When they saw a man erect and unhurt, the chant began again: “Mizu, mizu, mizu.” Mr. Tanimoto could not resist them; he carried them water from the river—a mistake, since it was tidal and brackish. Two or three small boats were ferrying hurt people across the river from Asano Park, and when one touched the spit, Mr. Tanimoto again made his loud, apologetic speech and jumped into the boat. It took him across to the park. There, in the underbrush, he found some of his charges of the Neighborhood Association, who had come there by his previous instructions, and saw many acquaintances, among them Father Kleinsorge and the other Catholics. But he missed Fukai, who had been a close friend. “Where is Fukai-san?” he asked.

“He didn’t want to come with us, Father Kleinsorge said. “He ran back.”

When Miss Sasaki heard the voices of the people caught along with her in the dilapidation at the tin factory, she began speaking to them. Her nearest neighbor, she discovered, was a high-school girl who had been drafted for factory work, and who said her back was broken. Miss Sasaki replied, “I am lying here and I can’t move. My left leg is cut off.”

Some time later, she again heard somebody walk overhead and then move off to one side, and whoever it was began burrowing. The digger released several people, and when he had uncovered the high-school girl, she found that her back was not broken, after all, and she crawled out. Miss Sasaki spoke to the rescuer, and he worked toward her. He pulled away a great number of books, until he had made a tunnel to her. She could see his perspiring face as he said, “Come out, Miss.” She tried. “I can’t move,” she said. The man excavated some more and told her to try with all her strength to get out. But books were heavy on her hips, and the man finally saw that a bookcase was leaning on the books and that a heavy beam pressed down on the bookcase. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll get a crowbar.”

The man was gone a long time, and when he came back, he was ill-tempered, as if her plight were all her fault. “We have no men to help you!” he shouted in through the tunnel. “You’ll have to get out by yourself.”

“That’s impossible,” she said. “My left leg . . .” The man went away.

Much later, several men came and dragged Miss Sasaki out. Her left leg was not severed, but it was badly broken and cut and it hung askew below the knee. They took her out into a courtyard. It was raining. She sat on the ground in the rain. When the downpour increased, someone directed all the wounded people to take cover in the factory’s air-raid shelters. “Come along,” a torn-up woman said to her. “You can hop.” But Miss Sasaki could not move, and she just waited in the rain. Then a man propped up a large sheet of corrugated iron as a kind of lean-to, and took her in his arms and carried her to it. She was grateful until he brought two horribly wounded people—a woman with a whole breast sheared off and a man whose face was all raw from a burn—to share the simple shed with her. No one came back. The rain cleared and the cloudy afternoon was hot; before nightfall the three grotesques under the slanting piece of twisted iron began to smell quite bad.

The former head of the Nobori-cho Neighborhood Association, to which the Catholic priests belonged, was an energetic man named Yoshida. He had boasted, when he was in charge of the district air-raid defenses, that fire might eat away all of Hiroshima but it would never come to Nobori-cho. The bomb blew down his house, and a joist pinned him by the legs, in full view of the Jesuit mission house across the way and of the people hurrying along the street. In their confusion as they hurried past, Mrs. Nakamura, with her children, and Father Kleinsorge, with Mr. Fukai on his back, hardly saw him; he was just part of the general blur of misery through which they moved. His cries for help brought no response from them; there were so many people shouting for help that they could not hear him separately. They and all the others went along. Nobori-cho became absolutely deserted, and the fire swept through it. Mr. Yoshida saw the wooden mission house—the only erect building in the area—go up in a lick of flame, and the heat was terrific on his face. Then flames came along his side of the street and entered his house. In a paroxysm of terrified strength, he freed himself and ran down the alleys of Nobori-cho, hemmed in by the fire he had said would never come. He began at once to behave like an old man; two months later his hair was white.

As Dr. Fujii stood in the river up to his neck to avoid the heat of the fire, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and soon, even though the expanse of water was small, the waves grew so high that the people under the bridge could no longer keep their footing. Dr. Fujii went close to the shore, crouched down, and embraced a large stone with his usable arm. Later it became possible to wade along the very edge of the river, and Dr. Fujii and his two surviving nurses moved about two hundred yards upstream, to a sandspit near Asano Park. Many wounded were lying on the sand. Dr. Machii was there with his family; his daughter, who had been outdoors when the bomb burst, was badly burned on her hands and legs but fortunately not on her face. Although Dr. Fujii’s shoulder was by now terribly painful, he examined the girl’s burns curiously. Then he lay down. In spite of the misery all around, he was ashamed of his appearance, and he remarked to Dr. Machii that he looked like a beggar, dressed as he was in nothing but torn and bloody underwear. Late in the afternoon, when the fire began to subside, he decided to go to his parental house, in the suburb of Nagatsuka. He asked Dr. Machii to join him, but the Doctor answered that he and his family were going to spend the night on the spit, because of his daughter’s injuries. Dr. Fujii, together with his nurses, walked first to Ushida, where, in the partially damaged house of some relatives, he found first-aid materials he had stored there. The two nurses bandaged him and he them. They went on. Now not many people walked in the streets, but a great number sat and lay on the pavement, vomited, waited for death, and died. The number of corpses on the way to Nagatsuka was more and more puzzling. The Doctor wondered: Could a Molotov flower basket have done all this?

Dr. Fujii reached his family’s house in the evening. It was five miles from the center of town, but its roof had fallen in and the windows were all broken.

All day, people poured into Asano Park. This private estate was far enough away from the explosion so that its bamboos, pines, laurel, and maples were still alive, and the green place invited refugees—partly because they believed that if the Americans came back, they would bomb only buildings; partly because the foliage seemed a center of coolness and life, and the estate’s exquisitely precise rock gardens, with their quiet pools and arching bridges, were very Japanese, normal, secure; and also partly (according to some who were there) because of an irresistible, atavistic urge to hide under leaves. Mrs. Nakamura and her children were among the first to arrive, and they settled in the bamboo grove near the river. They all felt terribly thirsty, and they drank from the river. At once they were nauseated and began vomiting, and they retched the whole day. Others were also nauseated; they all thought (probably because of the strong odor of ionization, an “electric smell” given off by the bomb’s fission) that they were sick from a gas the Americans had dropped. When Father Kleinsorge and the other priests came into the park, nodding to their friends as they passed, the Nakamuras were all sick and prostrate. A woman named Iwasaki, who lived in the neighborhood of the mission and who was sitting near the Nakamuras, got up and asked the priests if she should stay where she was or go with them. Father Kleinsorge said, “I hardly know where the safest place is.” She stayed there, and later in the day, though she had no visible wounds or burns, she died. The priests went farther along the river and settled down in some underbrush. Father LaSalle lay down and went right to sleep. The theological student, who was wearing slippers, had carried with him a bundle of clothes, in which he had packed two pairs of leather shoes. When he sat down with the others, he found that the bundle had broken open and a couple of shoes had fallen out and now he had only two lefts. He retraced his steps and found one right. When he rejoined the priests, he said, “It’s funny, but things don’t matter any more. Yesterday, my shoes were my most important possessions. Today, I don’t care. One pair is enough.”

Father Cieslik said, “I know. I started to bring my books along, and then I thought, ‘This is no time for books.’ ”

When Mr. Tanimoto, with his basin still in his hand, reached the park, it was very crowded, and to distinguish the living from the dead was not easy, for most of the people lay still, with their eyes open. To Father Kleinsorge, an Occidental, the silence in the grove by the river, where hundreds of gruesomely wounded suffered together, was one of the most dreadful and awesome phenomena of his whole experience. The hurt ones were quiet; no one wept, much less screamed in pain; no one complained; none of the many who died did so noisily; not even the children cried; very few people even spoke. And when Father Kleinsorge gave water to some whose faces had been almost blotted out by flash burns, they took their share and then raised themselves a little and bowed to him, in thanks.

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Mr. Tanimoto greeted the priests and then looked around for other friends. He saw Mrs. Matsumoto, wife of the director of the Methodist School, and asked her if she was thirsty. She was, so he went to one of the pools in the Asanos’ rock gardens and got water for her in his basin. Then he decided to try to get back to his church. He went into Nobori-cho by the way the priests had taken as they escaped, but he did not get far; the fire along the streets was so fierce that he had to turn back. He walked to the riverbank and began to look for a boat in which he might carry some of the most severely injured across the river from Asano Park and away from the spreading fire. Soon he found a good-sized pleasure punt drawn up on the bank, but in and around it was an awful tableau—five dead men, nearly naked, badly burned, who must have expired more or less all at once, for they were in attitudes which suggested that they had been working together to push the boat down into the river. Mr. Tanimoto lifted them away from the boat, and as he did so, he experienced such horror at disturbing the dead—preventing them, he momentarily felt, from launching their craft and going on their ghostly way—that he said out loud, “Please forgive me for taking this boat. I must use it for others, who are alive.” The punt was heavy, but he managed to slide it into the water. There were no oars, and all he could find for propulsion was a thick bamboo pole. He worked the boat upstream to the most crowded part of the park and began to ferry the wounded. He could pack ten or twelve into the boat for each crossing, but as the river was too deep in the center to pole his way across, he had to paddle with the bamboo, and consequently each trip took a very long time. He worked several hours that way.

Early in the afternoon, the fire swept into the woods of Asano Park. The first Mr. Tanimoto knew of it was when, returning in his boat, he saw that a great number of people had moved toward the riverside. On touching the bank, he went up to investigate, and when he saw the fire, he shouted, “All the young men who are not badly hurt come with me!” Father Kleinsorge moved Father Schiffer and Father LaSalle close to the edge of the river and asked people there to get them across if the fire came too near, and then joined Tanimoto’s volunteers. Mr. Tanimoto sent some to look for buckets and basins and told others to beat the burning underbrush with their clothes; when utensils were at hand, he formed a bucket chain from one of the pools in the rock gardens. The team fought the fire for more than two hours, and gradually defeated the flames. As Mr. Tanimoto’s men worked, the frightened people in the park pressed closer and closer to the river, and finally the mob began to force some of the unfortunates who were on the very bank into the water. Among those driven into the river and drowned were Mrs. Matsumoto, of the Methodist School, and her daughter.

When Father Kleinsorge got back after fighting the fire, he found Father Schiffer still bleeding and terribly pale. Some Japanese stood around and stared at him, and Father Schiffer whispered, with a weak smile, “It is as if I were already dead.” “Not yet,” Father Kleinsorge said. He had brought Dr. Fujii’s first-aid kit with him, and he had noticed Dr. Kanda in the crowd, so he sought him out and asked him if he would dress Father Schiffer’s bad cuts. Dr. Kanda had seen his wife and daughter dead in the ruins of his hospital; he sat now with his head in his hands. “I can’t do anything,” he said. Father Kleinsorge bound more bandage around Father Schiffer’s head, moved him to a steep place, and settled him so that his head was high, and soon the bleeding diminished.

The roar of approaching planes was heard about this time. Someone in the crowd near the Nakamura family shouted, “It’s some Grummans coming to strafe us!” A baker named Nakashima stood up and commanded, “Everyone who is wearing anything white, take it off.” Mrs. Nakamura took the blouses off her children, and opened her umbrella and made them get under it. A great number of people, even badly burned ones, crawled into bushes and stayed there until the hum, evidently of a reconnaissance or weather run, died away.

It began to rain. Mrs. Nakamura kept her children under the umbrella. The drops grew abnormally large, and someone shouted, “The Americans are dropping gasoline. They’re going to set fire to us!” (This alarm stemmed from one of the theories being passed through the park as to why so much of Hiroshima had burned: it was that a single plane had sprayed gasoline on the city and then somehow set fire to it in one flashing moment.) But the drops were palpably water, and as they fell, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and suddenly—probably because of the tremendous convection set up by the blazing city—a whirlwind ripped through the park. Huge trees crashed down; small ones were uprooted and flew into the air. Higher, a wild array of flat things revolved in the twisting funnel—pieces of iron roofing, papers, doors, strips of matting. Father Kleinsorge put a piece of cloth over Father Schiffer’s eyes, so that the feeble man would not think he was going crazy. The gale blew Mrs. Murata, the mission housekeeper, who was sitting close by the river, down the embankment at a shallow, rocky place, and she came out with her bare feet bloody. The vortex moved out onto the river, where it sucked up a waterspout and eventually spent itself.

After the storm, Mr. Tanimoto began ferrying people again, and Father Kleinsorge asked the theological student to go across and make his way out to the Jesuit Novitiate at Nagatsuka, about three miles from the center of town, and to request the priests there to come with help for Fathers Schiffer and LaSalle. The student got into Mr. Tanimoto’s boat and went off with him. Father Kleinsorge asked Mrs. Nakamura if she would like to go out to Nagatsuka with the priests when they came. She said she had some luggage and her children were sick—they were still vomiting from time to time, and so, for that matter, was she—and therefore she feared she could not. He said he thought the fathers from the Novitiate could come back the next day with a pushcart to get her.

Late in the afternoon, when he went ashore for a while, Mr. Tanimoto, upon whose energy and initiative many had come to depend, heard people begging for food. He consulted Father Kleinsorge, and they decided to go back into town to get some rice from Mr. Tanimoto’s Neighborhood Association shelter and from the mission shelter. Father Cieslik and two or three others went with them. At first, when they got among the rows of prostrate houses, they did not know where they were; the change was too sudden, from a busy city of two hundred and forty-five thousand that morning to a mere pattern of residue in the afternoon. The asphalt of the streets was still so soft and hot from the fires that walking was uncomfortable. They encountered only one person, a woman, who said to them as they passed, “My husband is in those ashes.” At the mission, where Mr. Tanimoto left the party, Father Kleinsorge was dismayed to see the building razed. In the garden, on the way to the shelter, he noticed a pumpkin roasted on the vine. He and Father Cieslik tasted it and it was good. They were surprised at their hunger, and they ate quite a bit. They got out several bags of rice and gathered up several other cooked pumpkins and dug up some potatoes that were nicely baked under the ground, and started back. Mr. Tanimoto rejoined them on the way. One of the people with him had some cooking utensils. In the park, Mr. Tanimoto organized the lightly wounded women of his neighborhood to cook. Father Kleinsorge offered the Nakamura family some pumpkin, and they tried it, but they could not keep it on their stomachs. Altogether, the rice was enough to feed nearly a hundred people.

Just before dark, Mr. Tanimoto came across a twenty-year-old girl, Mrs. Kamai, the Tanimotos’ next-door neighbor. She was crouching on the ground with the body of her infant daughter in her arms. The baby had evidently been dead all day. Mrs. Kamai jumped up when she saw Mr. Tanimoto and said, “Would you please try to locate my husband?”

Mr. Tanimoto knew that her husband had been inducted into the Army just the day before; he and Mrs. Tanimoto had entertained Mrs. Kamai in the afternoon, to make her forget. Kamai had reported to the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters—near the ancient castle in the middle of town—where some four thousand troops were stationed. Judging by the many maimed soldiers Mr. Tanimoto had seen during the day, he surmised that the barracks had been badly damaged by whatever it was that had hit Hiroshima. He knew he hadn’t a chance of finding Mrs. Kamai’s husband, even if he searched, but he wanted to humor her. “I’ll try,” he said.

“You’ve got to find him,” she said. “He loved our baby so much. I want him to see her once more.”

III—Details Are Being Investigated

Early in the evening of the day the bomb exploded, a Japanese naval launch moved slowly up and down the seven rivers of Hiroshima. It stopped here and there to make an announcement—alongside the crowded sandspits, on which hundreds of wounded lay; at the bridges, on which others were crowded; and eventually, as twilight fell, opposite Asano Park. A young officer stood up in the launch and shouted through a megaphone, “Be patient! A naval hospital ship is coming to take care of you!” The sight of the shipshape launch against the background of the havoc across the river; the unruffled young man in his neat uniform; above all, the promise of medical help—the first word of possible succor anyone had heard in nearly twelve awful hours—cheered the people in the park tremendously. Mrs. Nakamura settled her family for the night with the assurance that a doctor would come and stop their retching. Mr. Tanimoto resumed ferrying the wounded across the river. Father Kleinsorge lay down and said the Lord’s Prayer and a Hail Mary to himself, and fell right asleep; but no sooner had he dropped off than Mrs. Murata, the conscientious mission housekeeper, shook him and said, “Father Kleinsorge! Did you remember to repeat your evening prayers?” He answered rather grumpily, “Of course,” and he tried to go back to sleep but could not. This, apparently, was just what Mrs. Murata wanted. She began to chat with the exhausted priest. One of the questions she raised was when he thought the priests from the Novitiate, for whom he had sent a messenger in midafternoon, would arrive to evacuate Father Superior LaSalle and Father Schiffer.

The messenger Father Kleinsorge had sent—the theological student who had been living at the mission house—had arrived at the Novitiate, in the hills about three miles out, at half past four. The sixteen priests there had been doing rescue work in the outskirts; they had worried about their colleagues in the city but had not known how or where to look for them. Now they hastily made two litters out of poles and boards, and the student led half a dozen of them back into the devastated area. They worked their way along the Ota above the city; twice the heat of the fire forced them into the river. At Misasa Bridge, they encountered a long line of soldiers making a bizarre forced march away from the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters in the center of the town. All were grotesquely burned, and they supported themselves with staves or leaned on one another. Sick, burned horses, hanging their heads, stood on the bridge. When the rescue party reached the park, it was after dark, and progress was made extremely difficult by the tangle of fallen trees of all sizes that had been knocked down by the whirlwind that afternoon. At last—not long after Mrs. Murata asked her question—they reached their friends, and gave them wine and strong tea.

The priests discussed how to get Father Schiffer and Father LaSalle out to the Novitiate. They were afraid that blundering through the park with them would jar them too much on the wooden litters, and that the wounded men would lose too much blood. Father Kleinsorge thought of Mr. Tanimoto and his boat, and called out to him on the river. When Mr. Tanimoto reached the bank, he said he would be glad to take the injured priests and their bearers upstream to where they could find a clear roadway. The rescuers put Father Schiffer onto one of the stretchers and lowered it into the boat, and two of them went aboard with it. Mr. Tanimoto, who still had no oars, poled the punt upstream.

About half an hour later, Mr. Tanimoto came back and excitedly asked the remaining priests to help him rescue two children he had seen standing up to their shoulders in the river. A group went out and picked them up—two young girls who had lost their family and were both badly burned. The priests stretched them on the ground next to Father Kleinsorge and then embarked Father LaSalle. Father Cieslik thought he could make it out to the Novitiate on foot, so he went aboard with the others. Father Kleinsorge was too feeble; he decided to wait in the park until the next day. He asked the men to come back with a handcart, so that they could take Mrs. Nakamura and her sick children to the Novitiate.

Mr. Tanimoto shoved off again. As the boatload of priests moved slowly upstream, they heard weak cries for help. A woman’s voice stood out especially: “There are people here about to be drowned! Help us! The water is rising!” The sounds came from one of the sandspits, and those in the punt could see, in the reflected light of the still-burning fires, a number of wounded people lying at the edge of the river, already partly covered by the flooding tide. Mr. Tanimoto wanted to help them, but the priests were afraid that Father Schiffer would die if they didn’t hurry, and they urged their ferryman along. He dropped them where he had put Father Schiffer down and then started back alone toward the sandspit.

The night was hot, and it seemed even hotter because of the fires against the sky, but the younger of the two girls Mr. Tanimoto and the priests had rescued complained to Father Kleinsorge that she was cold. He covered her with his jacket. She and her older sister had been in the salt water of the river for a couple of hours before being rescued. The younger one had huge, raw flash burns on her body; the salt water must have been excruciatingly painful to her. She began to shiver heavily, and again said it was cold. Father Kleinsorge borrowed a blanket from someone nearby and wrapped her up, but she shook more and more, and said again, “I am so cold,” and then she suddenly stopped shivering and was dead.

Mr. Tanimoto found about twenty men and women on the sandspit. He drove the boat onto the bank and urged them to get aboard. They did not move and he realized that they were too weak to lift themselves. He reached down and took a woman by the hands, but her skin slipped off in huge, glove-like pieces. He was so sickened by this that he had to sit down for a moment. Then he got out into the water and, though a small man, lifted several of the men and women, who were naked, into his boat. Their backs and breasts were clammy, and he remembered uneasily what the great burns he had seen during the day had been like: yellow at first, then red and swollen, with the skin sloughed off, and finally, in the evening, suppurated and smelly. With the tide risen, his bamboo pole was now too short and he had to paddle most of the way across with it. On the other side, at a higher spit, he lifted the slimy living bodies out and carried them up the slope away from the tide. He had to keep consciously repeating to himself, “These are human beings.” It took him three trips to get them all across the river. When he had finished, he decided he had to have a rest, and he went back to the park.

As Mr. Tanimoto stepped up the dark bank, he tripped over someone, and someone else said angrily, “Look out! That’s my hand.” Mr. Tanimoto, ashamed of hurting wounded people, embarrassed at being able to walk upright, suddenly thought of the naval hospital ship, which had not come (it never did), and he had for a moment a feeling of blind, murderous rage at the crew of the ship, and then at all doctors. Why didn’t they come to help these people?

Dr. Fujii lay in dreadful pain throughout the night on the floor of his family’s roofless house on the edge of the city. By the light of a lantern, he had examined himself and found: left clavicle fractured; multiple abrasions and lacerations of face and body, including deep cuts on the chin, back, and legs; extensive contusions on chest and trunk; a couple of ribs possibly fractured. Had he not been so badly hurt, he might have been at Asano Park, assisting the wounded.

By nightfall, ten thousand victims of the explosion had invaded the Red Cross Hospital, and Dr. Sasaki, worn out, was moving aimlessly and dully up and down the stinking corridors with wads of bandage and bottles of mercurochrome, still wearing the glasses he had taken from the wounded nurse, binding up the worst cuts as he came to them. Other doctors were putting compresses of saline solution on the worst burns. That was all they could do. After dark, they worked by the light of the city’s fires and by candles the ten remaining nurses held for them. Dr. Sasaki had not looked outside the hospital all day; the scene inside was so terrible and so compelling that it had not occurred to him to ask any questions about what had happened beyond the windows and doors. Ceilings and partitions had fallen; plaster, dust, blood, and vomit were everywhere. Patients were dying by the hundreds, but there was nobody to carry away the corpses. Some of the hospital staff distributed biscuits and rice balls, but the charnel-house smell was so strong that few were hungry. By three o’clock the next morning, after nineteen straight hours of his gruesome work, Dr. Sasaki was incapable of dressing another wound. He and some other survivors of the hospital staff got straw mats and went outdoors—thousands of patients and hundreds of dead were in the yard and on the driveway—and hurried around behind the hospital and lay down in hiding to snatch some sleep. But within an hour wounded people had found them; a complaining circle formed around them: “Doctors! Help us! How can you sleep?” Dr. Sasaki got up again and went back to work. Early in the day, he thought for the first time of his mother at their country home in Mukaihara, thirty miles from town. He usually went home every night. He was afraid she would think he was dead.

Near the spot upriver to which Mr. Tanimoto had transported the priests, there sat a large case of rice cakes which a rescue party had evidently brought for the wounded lying thereabouts but hadn’t distributed. Before evacuating the wounded priests, the others passed the cakes around and helped themselves. A few minutes later, a band of soldiers came up, and an officer, hearing the priests speaking a foreign language, drew his sword and hysterically asked who they were. One of the priests calmed him down and explained that they were Germans—allies. The officer apologized and said that there were reports going around that American parachutists had landed.

The priests decided that they should take Father Schiffer first. As they prepared to leave, Father Superior LaSalle said he felt awfully cold. One of the Jesuits gave up his coat, another his shirt; they were glad to wear less in the muggy night. The stretcher bearers started out. The theological student led the way and tried to warn the others of obstacles, but one of the priests got a foot tangled in some telephone wire and tripped and dropped his corner of the litter. Father Schiffer rolled off, lost consciousness, came to, and then vomited. The bearers picked him up and went on with him to the edge of the city, where they had arranged to meet a relay of other priests, left him with them, and turned back and got the Father Superior.

The wooden litter must have been terribly painful for Father LaSalle, in whose back scores of tiny particles of window glass were embedded. Near the edge of town, the group had to walk around an automobile burned and squatting on the narrow road, and the bearers on one side, unable to see their way in the darkness, fell into a deep ditch. Father LaSalle was thrown onto the ground and the litter broke in two. One priest went ahead to get a handcart from the Novitiate, but he soon found one beside an empty house and wheeled it back. The priests lifted Father LaSalle into the cart and pushed him over the bumpy road the rest of the way. The rector of the Novitiate, who had been a doctor before he entered the religious order, cleaned the wounds of the two priests and put them to bed between clean sheets, and they thanked God for the care they had received.

Thousands of people had nobody to help them. Miss Sasaki was one of them. Abandoned and helpless, under the crude lean-to in the courtyard of the tin factory, beside the woman who had lost a breast and the man whose burned face was scarcely a face any more, she suffered awfully that night from the pain in her broken leg. She did not sleep at all; neither did she converse with her sleepless companions.

In the park, Mrs. Murata kept Father Kleinsorge awake all night by talking to him. None of the Nakamura family were able to sleep, either; the children, in spite of being very sick, were interested in everything that happened. They were delighted when one of the city’s gas-storage tanks went up in a tremendous burst of flame. Toshio, the boy, shouted to the others to look at the reflection in the river. Mr. Tanimoto, after his long run and his many hours of rescue work, dozed uneasily. When he awoke, in the first light of dawn, he looked across the river and saw that he had not carried the festered, limp bodies high enough on the sandspit the night before. The tide had risen above where he had put them; they had not had the strength to move; they must have drowned. He saw a number of bodies floating in the river.

Early that day, August 7th, the Japanese radio broadcast for the first time a succinct announcement that very few, if any, of the people most concerned with its content, the survivors in Hiroshima, happened to hear: “Hiroshima suffered considerable damage as the result of an attack by a few B-29s. It is believed that a new type of bomb was used. The details are being investigated.” Nor is it probable that any of the survivors happened to be tuned in on a short-wave rebroadcast of an extraordinary announcement by the President of the United States, which identified the new bomb as atomic: “That bomb had more power than twenty thousand tons of TNT. It had more than two thousand times the blast power of the British Grand Slam, which is the largest bomb ever yet used in the history of warfare.” Those victims who were able to worry at all about what had happened thought of it and discussed it in more primitive, childish terms—gasoline sprinkled from an airplane, maybe, or some combustible gas, or a big cluster of incendiaries, or the work of parachutists; but, even if they had known the truth, most of them were too busy or too weary or too badly hurt to care that they were the objects of the first great experiment in the use of atomic power, which (as the voices on the short wave shouted) no country except the United States, with its industrial know-how, its willingness to throw two billion gold dollars into an important wartime gamble, could possibly have developed.

Mr. Tanimoto was still angry at doctors. He decided that he would personally bring one to Asano Park—by the scruff of the neck, if necessary. He crossed the river, went past the Shinto shrine where he had met his wife for a brief moment the day before, and walked to the East Parade Ground. Since this had long before been designated as an evacuation area, he thought he would find an aid station there. He did find one, operated by an Army medical unit, but he also saw that its doctors were hopelessly overburdened, with thousands of patients sprawled among corpses across the field in front of it. Nevertheless, he went up to one of the Army doctors and said, as reproachfully as he could, “Why have you not come to Asano Park? You are badly needed there.”

Without even looking up from his work, the doctor said in a tired voice, “This is my station.”

“But there are many dying on the riverbank over there.”

“The first duty,” the doctor said, “is to take care of the slightly wounded.”

“Why—when there are many who are heavily wounded on the riverbank?”

The doctor moved to another patient. “In an emergency like this,” he said, as if he were reciting from a manual, “the first task is to help as many as possible—to save as many lives as possible. There is no hope for the heavily wounded. They will die. We can’t bother with them.”

“That may be right from a medical standpoint—” Mr. Tanimoto began, but then he looked out across the field, where the many dead lay close and intimate with those who were still living, and he turned away without finishing his sentence, angry now with himself. He didn’t know what to do; he had promised some of the dying people in the park that he would bring them medical aid. They might die feeling cheated. He saw a ration stand at one side of the field, and he went to it and begged some rice cakes and biscuits, and he took them back, in lieu of doctors, to the people in the park.

The morning, again, was hot. Father Kleinsorge went to fetch water for the wounded in a bottle and a teapot he had borrowed. He had heard that it was possible to get fresh tap water outside Asano Park. Going through the rock gardens, he had to climb over and crawl under the trunks of fallen pine trees; he found he was weak. There were many dead in the gardens. At a beautiful moon bridge, he passed a naked, living woman who seemed to have been burned from head to toe and was red all over. Near the entrance to the park, an Army doctor was working, but the only medicine he had was iodine, which he painted over cuts, bruises, slimy burns, everything—and by now everything that he painted had pus on it. Outside the gate of the park, Father Kleinsorge found a faucet that still worked—part of the plumbing of a vanished house—and he filled his vessels and returned. When he had given the wounded the water, he made a second trip. This time, the woman by the bridge was dead. On his way back with the water, he got lost on a detour around a fallen tree, and as he looked for his way through the woods, he heard a voice ask from the underbrush, “Have you anything to drink?” He saw a uniform. Thinking there was just one soldier, he approached with the water. When he had penetrated the bushes, he saw there were about twenty men, and they were all in exactly the same nightmarish state: their faces were wholly burned, their eyesockets were hollow, the fluid from their melted eyes had run down their cheeks. (They must have had their faces upturned when the bomb went off; perhaps they were anti-aircraft personnel.) Their mouths were mere swollen, pus-covered wounds, which they could not bear to stretch enough to admit the spout of the teapot. So Father Kleinsorge got a large piece of grass and drew out the stem so as to make a straw, and gave them all water to drink that way. One of them said, “I can’t see anything.” Father Kleinsorge answered, as cheerfully as he could, “There’s a doctor at the entrance to the park. He’s busy now, but he’ll come soon and fix your eyes, I hope.”

Since that day, Father Kleinsorge has thought back to how queasy he had once been at the sight of pain, how someone else’s cut finger used to make him turn faint. Yet there in the park he was so benumbed that immediately after leaving this horrible sight he stopped on a path by one of the pools and discussed with a lightly wounded man whether it would be safe to eat the fat, two-foot carp that floated dead on the surface of the water. They decided, after some consideration, that it would be unwise.

Father Kleinsorge filled the containers a third time and went back to the riverbank. There, amid the dead and dying, he saw a young woman with a needle and thread mending her kimono, which had been slightly torn. Father Kleinsorge joshed her. “My, but you’re a dandy!” he said. She laughed.

He felt tired and lay down. He began to talk with two engaging children whose acquaintance he had made the afternoon before. He learned that their name was Kataoka; the girl was thirteen, the boy five. The girl had been just about to set out for a barbershop when the bomb fell. As the family started for Asano Park, their mother decided to turn back for some food and extra clothing; they became separated from her in the crowd of fleeing people, and they had not seen her since. Occasionally they stopped suddenly in their perfectly cheerful playing and began to cry for their mother.

It was difficult for all the children in the park to sustain the sense of tragedy. Toshio Nakamura got quite excited when he saw his friend Seichi Sato riding up the river in a boat with his family, and he ran to the bank and waved and shouted, “Sato! Sato!”

The boy turned his head and shouted, “Who’s that?”

“Nakamura.”

“Hello, Toshio!”

“Are you all safe?”

“Yes. What about you?”

“Yes, we’re all right. My sisters are vomiting, but I’m fine.”

Father Kleinsorge began to be thirsty in the dreadful heat, and he did not feel strong enough to go for water again. A little before noon, he saw a Japanese woman handing something out. Soon she came to him and said in a kindly voice, “These are tea leaves. Chew them, young man, and you won’t feel thirsty.” The woman’s gentleness made Father Kleinsorge suddenly want to cry. For weeks, he had been feeling oppressed by the hatred of foreigners that the Japanese seemed increasingly to show, and he had been uneasy even with his Japanese friends. This stranger’s gesture made him a little hysterical.

Around noon, the priests arrived from the Novitiate with the handcart. They had been to the site of the mission house in the city and had retrieved some suitcases that had been stored in the air-raid shelter and had also picked up the remains of melted holy vessels in the ashes of the chapel. They now packed Father Kleinsorge’s papier-mâché suitcase and the things belonging to Mrs. Murata and the Nakamuras into the cart, put the two Nakamura girls aboard, and prepared to start out. Then one of the Jesuits who had a practical turn of mind remembered that they had been notified some time before that if they suffered property damage at the hands of the enemy, they could enter a claim for compensation with the prefectural police. The holy men discussed this matter there in the park, with the wounded as silent as the dead around them, and decided that Father Kleinsorge, as a former resident of the destroyed mission, was the one to enter the claim. So, as the others went off with the handcart, Father Kleinsorge said goodbye to the Kataoka children and trudged to a police station. Fresh, clean-uniformed policemen from another town were in charge, and a crowd of dirty and disarrayed citizens crowded around them, mostly asking after lost relatives. Father Kleinsorge filled out a claim form and started walking through the center of town on his way to Nagatsuka. It was then that he first realized the extent of the damage; he passed block after block of ruins, and even after all he had seen in the park, his breath was taken away. By the time he reached the Novitiate, he was sick with exhaustion. The last thing he did as he fell into bed was request that someone go back for the motherless Kataoka children.

Altogether Miss Sasaki was left two days and two nights under the piece of propped-up roofing with her crushed leg and her two unpleasant comrades. Her only diversion was when men came to the factory air-raid shelters, which she could see from under one corner of her shelter, and hauled corpses up out of them with ropes. Her leg became discolored, swollen, and putrid. All that time, she went without food and water. On the third day, August 8th, some friends who supposed she was dead came to look for her body and found her. They told her that her mother, father, and baby brother, who at the time of the explosion were in the Tamura Pediatric Hospital, where the baby was a patient, had all been given up as certainly dead, since the hospital was totally destroyed. Her friends then left her to think that piece of news over. Later, some men picked her up by the arms and legs and carried her quite a distance to a truck. For about an hour, the truck moved over a bumpy road, and Miss Sasaki, who had become convinced that she was dulled to pain, discovered that she was not. The men lifted her out at a relief station in the section of Inokuchi, where two Army doctors looked at her. The moment one of them touched her wound, she fainted. She came to in time to hear them discuss whether or not to cut off her leg; one said there was gas gangrene in the lips of the wound and predicted she would die unless they amputated, and the other said that was too bad, because they had no equipment with which to do the job. She fainted again. When she recovered consciousness, she was being carried somewhere on a stretcher. She was put aboard a launch, which went to the nearby island of Ninoshima, and she was taken to a military hospital there. Another doctor examined her and said that she did not have gas gangrene, though she did have a fairly ugly compound fracture. He said quite coldly that he was sorry, but this was a hospital for operative surgical cases only, and because she had no gangrene, she would have to return to Hiroshima that night. But then the doctor took her temperature, and what he saw on the thermometer made him decide to let her stay.

That day, August 8th, Father Cieslik went into the city to look for Mr. Fukai, the Japanese secretary of the diocese, who had ridden unwillingly out of the flaming city on Father Kleinsorge’s back and then had run back crazily into it. Father Cieslik started hunting in the neighborhood of Sakai Bridge, where the Jesuits had last seen Mr. Fukai; he went to the East Parade Ground, the evacuation area to which the secretary might have gone, and looked for him among the wounded and dead there; he went to the prefectural police and made inquiries. He could not find any trace of the man. Back at the Novitiate that evening, the theological student, who had been rooming with Mr. Fukai at the mission house, told the priests that the secretary had remarked to him, during an air-raid alarm one day not long before the bombing, “Japan is dying. If there is a real air raid here in Hiroshima, I want to die with our country.” The priests concluded that Mr. Fukai had run back to immolate himself in the flames. They never saw him again.

At the Red Cross Hospital, Dr. Sasaki worked for three straight days with only one hour’s sleep. On the second day, he began to sew up the worst cuts, and right through the following night and all the next day he stitched. Many of the wounds were festered. Fortunately, someone had found intact a supply of narucopon, a Japanese sedative, and he gave it to many who were in pain. Word went around among the staff that there must have been something peculiar about the great bomb, because on the second day the vice-chief of the hospital went down in the basement to the vault where the X-ray plates were stored and found the whole stock exposed as they lay. That day, a fresh doctor and ten nurses came in from the city of Yamaguchi with extra bandages and antiseptics, and the third day another physician and a dozen more nurses arrived from Matsue—yet there were still only eight doctors for ten thousand patients. In the afternoon of the third day, exhausted from his foul tailoring, Dr. Sasaki became obsessed with the idea that his mother thought he was dead. He got permission to go to Mukaihara. He walked out to the first suburbs, beyond which the electric train service was still functioning, and reached home late in the evening. His mother said she had known he was all right all along; a wounded nurse had stopped by to tell her. He went to bed and slept for seventeen hours.

Before dawn on August 8th, someone entered the room at the Novitiate where Father Kleinsorge was in bed, reached up to the hanging light bulb, and switched it on. The sudden flood of light, pouring in on Father Kleinsorge’s half sleep, brought him leaping out of bed, braced for a new concussion. When he realized what had happened, he laughed confusedly and went back to bed. He stayed there all day.

On August 9th, Father Kleinsorge was still tired. The rector looked at his cuts and said they were not even worth dressing, and if Father Kleinsorge kept them clean, they would heal in three or four days. Father Kleinsorge felt uneasy; he could not yet comprehend what he had been through; as if he were guilty of something awful, he felt he had to go back to the scene of the violence he had experienced. He got up out of bed and walked into the city. He scratched for a while in the ruins of the mission house, but he found nothing. He went to the sites of a couple of schools and asked after people he knew. He looked for some of the city’s Japanese Catholics, but he found only fallen houses. He walked back to the Novitiate, stupefied and without any new understanding.

At two minutes after eleven o’clock on the morning of August 9th, the second atomic bomb was dropped, on Nagasaki. It was several days before the survivors of Hiroshima knew they had company, because the Japanese radio and newspapers were being extremely cautious on the subject of the strange weapon.

On August 9th, Mr. Tanimoto was still working in the park. He went to the suburb of Ushida, where his wife was staying with friends, and got a tent which he had stored there before the bombing. He now took it to the park and set it up as a shelter for some of the wounded who could not move or be moved. Whatever he did in the park, he felt he was being watched by the twenty-year-old girl, Mrs. Kamai, his former neighbor, whom he had seen on the day the bomb exploded, with her dead baby daughter in her arms. She kept the small corpse in her arms for four days, even though it began smelling bad on the second day. Once, Mr. Tanimoto sat with her for a while, and she told him that the bomb had buried her under their house with the baby strapped to her back, and that when she had dug herself free, she had discovered that the baby was choking, its mouth full of dirt. With her little finger, she had carefully cleaned out the infant’s mouth, and for a time the child had breathed normally and seemed all right; then suddenly it had died. Mrs. Kamai also talked about what a fine man her husband was, and again urged Mr. Tanimoto to search for him. Since Mr. Tanimoto had been all through the city the first day and had seen terribly burned soldiers from Kamai’s post, the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters, everywhere, he knew it would be impossible to find Kamai, even if he were living, but of course he didn’t tell her that. Every time she saw Mr. Tanimoto, she asked whether he had found her husband. Once, he tried to suggest that perhaps it was time to cremate the baby, but Mrs. Kamai only held it tighter. He began to keep away from her, but whenever he looked at her, she was staring at him and her eyes asked the same question. He tried to escape her glance by keeping his back turned to her as much as possible.

The Jesuits took about fifty refugees into the exquisite chapel of the Novitiate. The rector gave them what medical care he could—mostly just the cleaning away of pus. Each of the Nakamuras was provided with a blanket and a mosquito net. Mrs. Nakamura and her younger daughter had no appetite and ate nothing; her son and other daughter ate, and lost, each meal they were offered. On August 10th, a friend, Mrs. Osaki, came to see them and told them that her son Hideo had been burned alive in the factory where he worked. This Hideo had been a kind of hero to Toshio, who had often gone to the plant to watch him run his machine. That night, Toshio woke up screaming. He had dreamed that he had seen Mrs. Osaki coming out of an opening in the ground with her family, and then he saw Hideo at his machine, a big one with a revolving belt, and he himself was standing beside Hideo, and for some reason this was terrifying.

On August 10th, Father Kleinsorge, having heard from someone that Dr. Fujii had been injured and that he had eventually gone to the summer house of a friend of his named Okuma, in the village of Fukawa, asked Father Cieslik if he would go and see how Dr. Fujii was. Father Cieslik went to Misasa station, outside Hiroshima, rode for twenty minutes on an electric train, and then walked for an hour and a half in a terribly hot sun to Mr. Okuma’s house, which was beside the Ota River at the foot of a mountain. He found Dr. Fujii sitting in a chair in a kimono, applying compresses to his broken collarbone. The Doctor told Father Cieslik about having lost his glasses and said that his eyes bothered him. He showed the priest huge blue and green stripes where beams had bruised him. He offered the Jesuit first a cigarette and then whiskey, though it was only eleven in the morning. Father Cieslik thought it would please Dr. Fujii if he took a little, so he said yes. A servant brought some Suntory whiskey, and the Jesuit, the Doctor, and the host had a very pleasant chat. Mr. Okuma had lived in Hawaii, and he told some things about Americans. Dr. Fujii talked a bit about the disaster. He said that Mr. Okuma and a nurse had gone into the ruins of his hospital and brought back a small safe which he had moved into his air-raid shelter. This contained some surgical instruments, and Dr. Fujii gave Father Cieslik a few pairs of scissors and tweezers for the rector at the Novitiate. Father Cieslik was bursting with some inside dope he had, but he waited until the conversation turned naturally to the mystery of the bomb. Then he said he knew what kind of bomb it was; he had the secret on the best authority—that of a Japanese newspaperman who had dropped in at the Novitiate. The bomb was not a bomb at all; it was a kind of fine magnesium powder sprayed over the whole city by a single plane, and it exploded when it came into contact with the live wires of the city power system. “That means,” said Dr. Fujii, perfectly satisfied, since after all the information came from a newspaperman, “that it can only be dropped on big cities and only in the daytime, when the tram lines and so forth are in operation.”

After five days of ministering to the wounded in the park, Mr. Tanimoto returned, on August 11th, to his parsonage and dug around in the ruins. He retrieved some diaries and church records that had been kept in books and were only charred around the edges, as well as some cooking utensils and pottery. While he was at work, a Miss Tanaka came and said that her father had been asking for him. Mr. Tanimoto had reason to hate her father, the retired shipping-company official who, though he made a great show of his charity, was notoriously selfish and cruel, and who, just a few days before the bombing, had said openly to several people that Mr. Tanimoto was a spy for the Americans. Several times he had derided Christianity and called it un-Japanese. At the moment of the bombing, Mr. Tanaka had been walking in the street in front of the city’s radio station. He received serious flash burns, but he was able to walk home. He took refuge in his Neighborhood Association shelter and from there tried hard to get medical aid. He expected all the doctors of Hiroshima to come to him, because he was so rich and so famous for giving his money away. When none of them came, he angrily set out to look for them; leaning on his daughter’s arm, he walked from private hospital to private hospital, but all were in ruins, and he went back and lay down in the shelter again. Now he was very weak and knew he was going to die. He was willing to be comforted by any religion.

Mr. Tanimoto went to help him. He descended into the tomblike shelter and, when his eyes were adjusted to the darkness, saw Mr. Tanaka, his face and arms puffed up and covered with pus and blood, and his eyes swollen shut. The old man smelled very bad, and he moaned constantly. He seemed to recognize Mr. Tanimoto’s voice. Standing at the shelter stairway to get light, Mr. Tanimoto read loudly from a Japanese-language pocket Bible: “For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. Thou carriest the children of men away as with a flood; they are as a sleep; in the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth and groweth up; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth. For we are consumed by Thine anger and by Thy wrath are we troubled. Thou has set our iniquities before Thee, our secret sins in the light of Thy countenance. For all our days are passed away in Thy wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told. . . .”

Mr. Tanaka died as Mr. Tanimoto read the psalm.

On August 11th, word came to the Ninoshima Military Hospital that a large number of military casualties from the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters were to arrive on the island that day, and it was deemed necessary to evacuate all civilian patients. Miss Sasaki, still running an alarmingly high fever, was put on a large ship. She lay out on deck, with a pillow under her leg. There were awnings over the deck, but the vessel’s course put her in the sunlight. She felt as if she were under a magnifying glass in the sun. Pus oozed out of her wound, and soon the whole pillow was covered with it. She was taken ashore at Hatsukaichi, a town several miles to the southwest of Hiroshima, and put in the Goddess of Mercy Primary School, which had been turned into a hospital. She lay there for several days before a specialist on fractures came from Kobe. By then her leg was red and swollen up to her hip. The doctor decided he could not set the breaks. He made an incision and put in a rubber pipe to drain off the putrescence.

At the Novitiate, the motherless Kataoka children were inconsolable. Father Cieslik worked hard to keep them distracted. He put riddles to them. He asked, “What is the cleverest animal in the world?,” and after the thirteen-year-old girl had guessed the ape, the elephant, the horse, he said, “No, it must be the hippopotamus,” because in Japanese that animal is kaba, the reverse of baka, stupid. He told Bible stories, beginning, in the order of things, with the Creation. He showed them a scrapbook of snapshots taken in Europe. Nevertheless, they cried most of the time for their mother.

Several days later, Father Cieslik started hunting for the children’s family. First, he learned through the police that an uncle had been to the authorities in Kure, a city not far away, to inquire for the children. After that, he heard that an older brother had been trying to trace them through the post office in Ujina, a suburb of Hiroshima. Still later, he heard that the mother was alive and was on Goto Island, off Nagasaki. And at last, by keeping a check on the Ujina post office, he got in touch with the brother and returned the children to their mother.

About a week after the bomb dropped, a vague, incomprehensible rumor reached Hiroshima—that the city had been destroyed by the energy released when atoms were somehow split in two. The weapon was referred to in this word-of-mouth report as genshi bakudan—the root characters of which can be translated as “original child bomb.” No one understood the idea or put any more credence in it than in the powdered magnesium and such things. Newspapers were being brought in from other cities, but they were still confining themselves to extremely general statements, such as Domei’s assertion on August 12th: “There is nothing to do but admit the tremendous power of this inhuman bomb.” Already, Japanese physicists had entered the city with Lauritsen electroscopes and Neher electrometers; they understood the idea all too well.

On August 12th, the Nakamuras, all of them still rather sick, went to the nearby town of Kabe and moved in with Mrs. Nakamura’s sister-in-law. The next day, Mrs. Nakamura, although she was too ill to walk much, returned to Hiroshima alone, by electric car to the outskirts, by foot from there. All week, at the Novitiate, she had worried about her mother, brother, and older sister, who had lived in the part of town called Fukuro, and besides, she felt drawn by some fascination, just as Father Kleinsorge had been. She discovered that her family were all dead. She went back to Kabe so amazed and depressed by what she had seen and learned in the city that she could not speak that evening.

A comparative orderliness, at least, began to be established at the Red Cross Hospital. Dr. Sasaki, back from his rest, undertook to classify his patients (who were still scattered everywhere, even on the stairways). The staff gradually swept up the debris. Best of all, the nurses and attendants started to remove the corpses. Disposal of the dead, by decent cremation and enshrinement, is a greater moral responsibility to the Japanese than adequate care of the living. Relatives identified most of the first day’s dead in and around the hospital. Beginning on the second day, whenever a patient appeared to be moribund, a piece of paper with his name on it was fastened to his clothing. The corpse detail carried the bodies to a clearing outside, placed them on pyres of wood from ruined houses, burned them, put some of the ashes in envelopes intended for exposed X-ray plates, marked the envelopes with the names of the deceased, and piled them, neatly and respectfully, in stacks in the main office. In a few days, the envelopes filled one whole side of the impromptu shrine.

In Kabe, on the morning of August 15th, ten-year-old Toshio Nakamura heard an airplane overhead. He ran outdoor and identified it with a professional eye as a B29. “There goes Mr. B!” he shouted.

One of his relatives called out to him, “Haven’t you had enough of Mr. B?”

The question had a kind of symbolism. At almost that very moment, the dull, dispirited voice of Hirohito, the Emperor Tenno, was speaking for the first time in history over the radio: “After pondering deeply the general trends of the world and the actual conditions obtaining in Our Empire today, We have decided to effect a settlement of the present situation by resorting to an extraordinary measure. . . .”

Mrs. Nakamura had gone to the city again, to dig up some rice she had buried in her Neighborhood Association air-raid shelter. She got it and started back for Kabe. On the electric car, quite by chance, she ran into her younger sister, who had not been in Hiroshima the day of the bombing. “Have you heard the news?” her sister asked.

“What news?”

“The war is over.”

“Don’t say such a foolish thing, sister.”

“But I heard it over the radio myself.” And then, in a whisper, “It was the Emperor’s voice.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Nakamura said (she needed nothing more to make her give up thinking, in spite of the atomic bomb, that Japan still had a chance to win the war), “in that case . . .”

Some time later, in a letter to an American, Mr. Tanimoto described the events of that morning. “At the time of the Post-War, the marvelous thing in our history happened. Our Emperor broadcasted his own voice through radio directly to us, common people of Japan. Aug. 15th we were told that some news of great importance could he heard & all of us should hear it. So I went to Hiroshima railway station. There set a loud-speaker in the ruins of the station. Many civilians, all of them were in boundage, some being helped by shoulder of their daughters, some sustaining their injured feet by sticks, they listened to the broadcast and when they came to realize the fact that it was the Emperor, they cried with full tears in their eyes, ‘What a wonderful blessing it is that Tenno himself call on us and we can hear his own voice in person. We are thoroughly satisfied in such a great sacrifice.’ When they came to know the war was ended—that is, Japan was defeated, they, of course, were deeply disappointed, but followed after their Emperor’s commandment in calm spirit, making whole-hearted sacrifice for the everlasting peace of the world—and Japan started her new way.”

IV—Panic Grass and Feverfew

On August 18th, twelve days after the bomb burst, Father Kleinsorge set out on foot for Hiroshima from the Novitiate with his papier-mâché suitcase in his hand. He had begun to think that this bag, in which he kept his valuables, had a talismanic quality, because of the way he had found it after the explosion, standing handle-side up in the doorway of his room, while the desk under which he had previously hidden it was in splinters all over the floor. Now he was using it to carry the yen belonging to the Society of Jesus to the Hiroshima branch of the Yokohama Specie Bank, already reopened in its half-ruined building. On the whole, he felt quite well that morning. It is true that the minor cuts he had received had not healed in three or four days, as the rector of the Novitiate, who had examined them, had positively promised they would, but Father Kleinsorge had rested well for a week and considered that he was again ready for hard work. By now he was accustomed to the terrible scene through which he walked on his way into the city: the large rice field near the Novitiate, streaked with brown; the houses on the outskirts of the city, standing but decrepit, with broken windows and dishevelled tiles; and then, quite suddenly, the beginning of the four square miles of reddish-brown scar, where nearly everything had been buffeted down and burned; range on range of collapsed city blocks, with here and there a crude sign erected on a pile of ashes and tiles (“Sister, where are you?” or “All safe and we live at Toyosaka”); naked trees and canted telephone poles; the few standing, gutted buildings only accentuating the horizontality of everything else (the Museum of Science and Industry, with its dome stripped to its steel frame, as if for an autopsy; the modern Chamber of Commerce Building, its tower as cold, rigid, and unassailable after the blow as before; the huge, low-lying, camouflaged city hall; the row of dowdy banks, caricaturing a shaken economic system); and in the streets a macabre traffic—hundreds of crumpled bicycles, shells of streetcars and automobiles, all halted in mid-motion. The whole way, Father Kleinsorge was oppressed by the thought that all the damage he saw had been done in one instant by one bomb. By the time he reached the center of town, the day had become very hot. He walked to the Yokohama Bank, which was doing business in a temporary wooden stall on the ground floor of its building, deposited the money, went by the mission compound just to have another look at the wreckage, and then started back to the Novitiate. About halfway there, he began to have peculiar sensations. The more or less magical suitcase, now empty, suddenly seemed terribly heavy. His knees grew weak. He felt excruciatingly tired. With a considerable expenditure of spirit, he managed to reach the Novitiate. He did not think his weakness was worth mentioning to the other Jesuits. But a couple of days later, while attempting to say Mass, he had an onset of faintness and even after three attempts was unable to go through with the service, and the next morning the rector, who had examined Father Kleinsorge’s apparently negligible but unhealed cuts daily, asked in surprise, “What have you done to your wounds?” They had suddenly opened wider and were swollen and inflamed.

As she dressed on the morning of August 20th, in the home of her sister-in-law in Kabe, not far from Nagatsuka, Mrs. Nakamura, who had suffered no cuts or burns at all, though she had been rather nauseated all through the week she and her children had spent as guests of Father Kleinsorge and the other Catholics at the Novitiate, began fixing her hair and noticed, after one stroke, that her comb carried with it a whole handful of hair; the second time, the same thing happened, so she stopped combing at once. But in the next three or four days, her hair kept falling out of its own accord, until she was quite bald. She began living indoors, practically in hiding. On August 26th, both she and her younger daughter, Myeko, woke up feeling extremely weak and tired, and they stayed on their bedrolls. Her son and other daughter, who had shared every experience with her during and after the bombing, felt fine.

At about the same time—he lost track of the days, so hard was he working to set up a temporary place of worship in a private house he had rented in the outskirts—Mr. Tanimoto fell suddenly ill with a general malaise, weariness, and feverishness, and he, too, took to his bedroll on the floor of the half-wrecked house of a friend in the suburb of Ushida.

These four did not realize it, but they were coming down with the strange, capricious disease which came later to be known as radiation sickness.

Miss Sasaki lay in steady pain in the Goddess of Mercy Primary School, at Hatsukaichi, the fourth station to the southwest of Hiroshima on the electric train. An internal infection still prevented the proper setting of the compound fracture of her lower left leg. A young man who was in the same hospital and who seemed to have grown fond of her in spite of her unremitting preoccupation with her suffering, or else just pitied her because of it, lent her a Japanese translation of de Maupassant, and she tried to read the stories, but she could concentrate for only four or five minutes at a time.

The hospitals and aid stations around Hiroshima were so crowded in the first weeks after the bombing, and their staffs were so variable, depending on their health and on the unpredictable arrival of outside help, that patients had to be constantly shifted from place to place. Miss Sasaki, who had already been moved three times, twice by ship, was taken at the end of August to an engineering school, also at Hatsukaichi. Because her leg did not improve but swelled more and more, the doctors at the school bound it with crude splints and took her by car, on September 9th, to the Red Cross Hospital in Hiroshima. This was the first chance she had had to look at the ruins of Hiroshima; the last time she had been carried through the city’s streets, she had been hovering on the edge of unconsciousness. Even though the wreckage had been described to her, and though she was still in pain, the sight horrified and amazed her, and there was something she noticed about it that particularly gave her the creeps. Over everything—up through the wreckage of the city, in gutters, along the riverbanks, tangled among tiles and tin roofing, climbing on charred tree trunks—was a blanket of fresh, vivid, lush, optimistic green; the verdancy rose even from the foundations of ruined houses. Weeds already hid the ashes, and wild flowers were in bloom among the city’s bones. The bomb had not only left the underground organs of plants intact; it had stimulated them. Everywhere were bluets and Spanish bayonets, goosefoot, morning glories and day lilies, the hairy-fruited bean, purslane and clotbur and sesame and panic grass and feverfew. Especially in a circle at the center, sickle senna grew in extraordinary regeneration, not only standing among the charred remnants of the same plant but pushing up in new places, among bricks and through cracks in the asphalt. It actually seemed as if a load of sickle-senna seed had been dropped along with the bomb.

At the Red Cross Hospital, Miss Sasaki was put under the care of Dr. Sasaki. Now, a month after the explosion, something like order had been reëstablished in the hospital; which is to say that the patients who still lay in the corridors at least had mats to sleep on and that the supply of medicines, which had given out in the first few days, had been replaced, though inadequately, by contributions from other cities. Dr. Sasaki, who had had one seventeen-hour sleep at his home on the third night, had ever since then rested only about six hours a night, on a mat at the hospital; he had lost twenty pounds from his very small body; he still wore the ill-fitting glasses he had borrowed from an injured nurse.

Since Miss Sasaki was a woman and was so sick (and perhaps, he afterward admitted, just a little bit because she was named Sasaki), Dr. Sasaki put her on a mat in a semi-private room, which at that time had only eight people in it. He questioned her and put down on her record card, in the correct, scrunched-up German in which he wrote all his records: “Mittelgrosse Patientin in gutem Ernährungszustand. Fraktur am linken Unterschenkelknochen mit Wunde; Anschwellung in der linken Unterschenkelgegend. Haut und sichtbare Schleimhäute mässig durchblutet und kein Oedema,” noting that she was a medium-sized female patient in good general health; that she had a compound fracture of the left tibia, with swelling of the left lower leg; that her skin and visible mucous membranes were heavily spotted with petechiae, which are hemorrhages about the size of grains of rice, or even as big as soybeans; and, in addition, that her head, eyes, throat, lungs, and heart were apparently normal; and that she had a fever. He wanted to set her fracture and put her leg in a cast, but he had run out of plaster of Paris long since, so he just stretched her out on a mat and prescribed aspirin for her fever, and glucose intravenously and diastase orally for her undernourishment (which he had not entered on her record because everyone suffered from it). She exhibited only one of the queer symptoms so many of his patients were just then beginning to show—the spot hemorrhages.

Dr. Fujii was still pursued by bad luck, which still was connected with rivers. Now he was living in the summer house of Mr. Okuma, in Fukawa. This house clung to the steep banks of the Ota River. Here his injuries seemed to make good progress, and he even began to treat refugees who came to him from the neighborhood, using medical supplies he had retrieved from a cache in the suburbs. He noticed in some of his patients a curious syndrome of symptoms that cropped out in the third and fourth weeks, but he was not able to do much more than swathe cuts and burns. Early in September, it began to rain, steadily and heavily. The river rose. On September 17th, there came a cloudburst and then a typhoon, and the water crept higher and higher up the bank. Mr. Okuma and Dr. Fujii became alarmed and scrambled up the mountain to a peasant’s house. (Down in Hiroshima, the flood took up where the bomb had left off—swept away bridges that had survived the blast, washed out streets, undermined foundations of buildings that still stood—and ten miles to the west, the Ono Army Hospital, where a team of experts from Kyoto Imperial University was studying the delayed affliction of the patients, suddenly slid down a beautiful, pine-dark mountainside into the Inland Sea and drowned most of the investigators and their mysteriously diseased patients alike.) After the storm, Dr. Fujii and Mr. Okuma went down to the river and found that the Okuma house had been washed altogether away.

Because so many people were suddenly feeling sick nearly a month after the atomic bomb was dropped, an unpleasant rumor began to move around, and eventually it made its way to the house in Kabe where Mrs. Nakamura lay bald and ill. It was that the atomic bomb had deposited some sort of poison on Hiroshima which would give off deadly emanations for seven years; nobody could go there all that time. This especially upset Mrs. Nakamura, who remembered that in a moment of confusion on the morning of the explosion she had literally sunk her entire means of livelihood, her Sankoku sewing machine, in the small cement water tank in front of what was left of her house; now no one would be able to go and fish it out. Up to this time, Mrs. Nakamura and her relatives had been quite resigned and passive about the moral issue of the atomic bomb, but this rumor suddenly aroused them to more hatred and resentment of America than they had felt all through the war.

Japanese physicists, who knew a great deal about atomic fission (one of them owned a cyclotron), worried about lingering radiation at Hiroshima, and in mid-August, not many days after President Truman’s disclosure of the type of bomb that had been dropped, they entered the city to make investigations. The first thing they did was roughly to determine a center by observing the side on which telephone poles all around the heart of the town were scorched; they settled on the torii gateway of the Gokoku Shrine, right next to the parade ground of the Chugoku Regional Army Headquarters. From there, they worked north and south with Lauritsen electroscopes, which are sensitive to both beta rays and gamma rays. These indicated that the highest intensity of radioactivity, near the torii, was 4.2 times the average natural “leak” of ultra-short waves for the earth of that area. The scientists noticed that the flash of the bomb had discolored concrete to a light reddish tint, had scaled off the surface of granite, and had scorched certain other types of building material, and that consequently the bomb had, in some places, left prints of the shadows that had been cast by its light. The experts found, for instance, a permanent shadow thrown on the roof of the Chamber of Commerce Building (220 yards from the rough center) by the structure’s rectangular tower; several others in the lookout post on top of the Hypothec Bank (2,050 yards); another in the tower of the Chugoku Electric Supply Building (800 yards); another projected by the handle of a gas pump (2,630 yards); and several on granite tombstones in the Gokoku Shrine (35 yards). By triangulating these and other such shadows with the objects that formed them, the scientists determined that the exact center was a spot a hundred and fifty yards south of the torii and a few yards southeast of the pile of ruins that had once been the Shima Hospital. (A few vague human silhouettes were found, and these gave rise to stories that eventually included fancy and precise details. One story told how a painter on a ladder was monumentalized in a kind of bas-relief on the stone façade of a bank building on which he was at work, in the act of dipping his brush into his paint can; another, how a man and his cart on the bridge near the Museum of Science and Industry, almost under the center of the explosion, were cast down in an embossed shadow which made it clear that the man was about to whip his horse.) Starting east and west from the actual center, the scientists, in early September, made new measurements, and the highest radiation they found this time was 3.9 times the natural “leak.” Since radiation of at least a thousand times the natural “leak” would be required to cause serious effects on the human body, the scientists announced that people could enter Hiroshima without any peril at all.

As soon as this reassurance reached the household in which Mrs. Nakamura was concealing herself—or, at any rate, within a short time after her hair had started growing back again—her whole family relaxed their extreme hatred of America, and Mrs. Nakamura sent her brother-in-law to look for the sewing machine. It was still submerged in the water tank, and when he brought it home, she saw, to her dismay, that it was all rusted and useless.

By the end of the first week in September, Father Kleinsorge was in bed at the Novitiate with a fever of 102.2, and since he seemed to be getting worse, his colleagues decided to send him to the Catholic International Hospital in Tokyo. Father Cieslik and the rector took him as far as Kobe and a Jesuit from that city took him the rest of the way, with a message from a Kobe doctor to the Mother Superior of the International Hospital: “Think twice before you give this man blood transfusions, because with atomic-bomb patients we aren’t at all sure that if you stick needles in them, they’ll stop bleeding.”

When Father Kleinsorge arrived at the hospital, he was terribly pale and very shaky. He complained that the bomb had upset his digestion and given him abdominal pains. His white blood count was three thousand (five to seven thousand is normal), he was seriously anemic, and his temperature was 104. A doctor who did not know much about these strange manifestations—Father Kleinsorge was one of a handful of atomic patients who had reached Tokyo—came to see him, and to the patient’s face he was most encouraging. “You’ll be out of here in two weeks,” he said. But when the doctor got out in the corridor, he said to the Mother Superior, “He’ll die. All these bomb people die—you’ll see. They go along for a couple of weeks and then they die.”

The doctor prescribed suralimentation for Father Kleinsorge. Every three hours, they forced some eggs or beef juice into him, and they fed him all the sugar he could stand. They gave him vitamins, and iron pills and arsenic (in Fowler’s solution) for his anemia. He confounded both the doctor’s predictions; he neither died nor got up in a fortnight. Despite the fact that the message from the Kobe doctor deprived him of transfusions, which would have been the most useful therapy of all, his fever and his digestive troubles cleared up fairly quickly. His white count went up for a while, but early in October it dropped again, to 3,600; then, in ten days, it suddenly climbed above normal, to 8,800; and it finally settled at 5,800. His ridiculous scratches puzzled everyone. For a few days, they would mend, and then, when he moved around, they would open up again. As soon as he began to feel well, he enjoyed himself tremendously. In Hiroshima he had been one of thousands of sufferers; in Tokyo he was a curiosity. Young American Army doctors came by the dozen to observe him. Japanese experts questioned him. A newspaper interviewed him. And once, the confused doctor came and shook his head and said, “Baffling cases, these atomic-bomb people.”

Mrs. Nakamura lay indoors with Myeko. They both continued sick, and though Mrs. Nakamura vaguely sensed that their trouble was caused by the bomb, she was too poor to see a doctor and so never knew exactly what the matter was. Without any treatment at all, but merely resting, they began gradually to feel better. Some of Myeko’s hair fell out, and she had a tiny burn on her arm which took months to heal. The boy, Toshio, and the older girl, Yaeko, seemed well enough, though they, too, lost some hair and occasionally had bad headaches. Toshio was still having nightmares, always about the nineteen-year-old mechanic, Hideo Osaki, his hero, who had been killed by the bomb.

On his back with a fever of 104, Mr. Tanimoto worried about all the funerals he ought to be conducting for the deceased of his church. He thought he was just overtired from the hard work he had done since the bombing, but after the fever had persisted for a few days, he sent for a doctor. The doctor was too busy to visit him in Ushida, but he dispatched a nurse, who recognized his symptoms as those of mild radiation disease and came back from time to time to give him injections of Vitamin B1. A Buddhist priest with whom Mr. Tanimoto was acquainted called on him and suggested that moxibustion might give him relief; the priest showed the pastor how to give himself the ancient Japanese treatment, by setting fire to a twist of the stimulant herb moxa placed on the wrist pulse. Mr. Tanimoto found that each moxa treatment temporarily reduced his fever one degree. The nurse had told him to eat as much as possible, and every few days his mother-in-law brought him vegetables and fish from Tsuzu, twenty miles away, where she lived. He spent a month in bed, and then went ten hours by train to his father’s home in Shikoku. There he rested another month.

Dr. Sasaki and his colleagues at the Red Cross Hospital watched the unprecedented disease unfold and at last evolved a theory about its nature. It had, they decided, three stages. The first stage had been all over before the doctors even knew they were dealing with a new sickness; it was the direct reaction to the bombardment of the body, at the moment when the bomb went off, by neutrons, beta particles, and gamma rays. The apparently uninjured people who had died so mysteriously in the first few hours or days had succumbed in this first stage. It killed ninety-five per cent of the people within a half mile of the center, and many thousands who were farther away. The doctors realized in retrospect that even though most of these dead had also suffered from burns and blast effects, they had absorbed enough radiation to kill them. The rays simply destroyed body cells—caused their nuclei to degenerate and broke their walls. Many people who did not die right away came down with nausea, headache, diarrhea, malaise, and fever, which lasted several days. Doctors could not be certain whether some of these symptoms were the result of radiation or nervous shock. The second stage set in ten or fifteen days after the bombing. The main symptom was falling hair. Diarrhea and fever, which in some cases went as high as 106, came next. Twenty-five to thirty days after the explosion, blood disorders appeared: gums bled, the white-blood-cell count dropped sharply, and petechiae appeared on the skin and mucous membranes. The drop in the number of white blood corpuscles reduced the patient’s capacity to resist infection, so open wounds were unusually slow in healing and many of the sick developed sore throats and mouths. The two key symptoms, on which the doctors came to base their prognosis, were fever and the lowered white-corpuscle count. If fever remained steady and high, the patient’s chances for survival were poor. The white count almost always dropped below four thousand; a patient whose count fell below one thousand had little hope of living. Toward the end of the second stage, if the patient survived, anemia, or a drop in the red blood count, also set in. The third stage was the reaction that came when the body struggled to compensate for its ills—when, for instance, the white count not only returned to normal but increased to much higher than normal levels. In this stage, many patients died of complications, such as infections in the chest cavity. Most burns healed with deep layers of pink, rubbery scar tissue, known as keloid tumors. The duration of the disease varied, depending on the patient’s constitution and the amount of radiation he had received. Some victims recovered in a week; with others the disease dragged on for months.

As the symptoms revealed themselves, it became clear that many of them resembled the effects of overdoses of X-ray, and the doctors based their therapy on that likeness. They gave victims liver extract, blood transfusions, and vitamins, especially B1. The shortage of supplies and instruments hampered them. Allied doctors who came in after the surrender found plasma and penicillin very effective. Since the blood disorders were, in the long run, the predominant factor in the disease, some of the Japanese doctors evolved a theory as to the seat of the delayed sickness. They thought that perhaps gamma rays, entering the body at the time of the explosion, made the phosphorus in the victims’ bones radioactive, and that they in turn emitted beta particles, which, though they could not penetrate far through flesh, could enter the bone marrow, where blood is manufactured, and gradually tear it down. Whatever its source, the disease had some baffling quirks. Not all the patients exhibited all the main symptoms. People who suffered flash burns were protected, to a considerable extent, from radiation sickness. Those who had lain quietly for days or even hours after the bombing were much less liable to get sick than those who had been active. Gray hair seldom fell out. And, as if nature were protecting man against his own ingenuity, the reproductive processes were affected for a time; men became sterile, women had miscarriages, menstruation stopped.

For ten days after the flood, Dr. Fujii lived in the peasant’s house on the mountain above the Ota. Then he heard about a vacant private clinic in Kaitaichi, a suburb to the east of Hiroshima. He bought it at once, moved there, and hung out a sign inscribed in English, in honor of the conquerors:

Quite recovered from his wounds, he soon built up a strong practice, and he was delighted, in the evenings, to receive members of the occupying forces, on whom he lavished whiskey and practiced English.

Giving Miss Sasaki a local anaesthetic of procaine, Dr. Sasaki made an incision in her leg on October 23rd, to drain the infection, which still lingered on eleven weeks after the injury. In the following days, so much pus formed that he had to dress the opening each morning and evening. A week later, she complained of great pain, so he made another incision; he cut still a third, on November 9th, and enlarged it on the twenty-sixth. All this time, Miss Sasaki grew weaker and weaker, and her spirits fell low. One day, the young man who had lent her his translation of de Maupassant at Hatsukaichi came to visit her; he told her that he was going to Kyushu but that when he came back, he would like to see her again. She didn’t care. Her leg had been so swollen and painful all along that the doctor had not even tried to set the fractures, and though an X-ray taken in November showed that the bones were mending, she could see under the sheet that her left leg was nearly three inches shorter than her right and that her left foot was turning inward. She thought often of the man to whom she had been engaged. Someone told her he was back from overseas. She wondered what he had heard about her injuries that made him stay away.

Father Kleinsorge was discharged from the hospital in Tokyo on December 19th and took a train home. On the way, two days later, at Yokogawa, a stop just before Hiroshima, Dr. Fujii boarded the train. It was the first time the two men had met since before the bombing. They sat together. Dr. Fujii said he was going to the annual gathering of his family, on the anniversary of his father’s death. When they started talking about their experiences, the Doctor was quite entertaining as he told how his places of residence kept falling into rivers. Then he asked Father Kleinsorge how he was, and the Jesuit talked about his stay in the hospital. “The doctors told me to be cautious,” he said. “They ordered me to have a two-hour nap every afternoon.”

Dr. Fujii said, “It’s hard to be cautious in Hiroshima these days. Everyone seems to be so busy.”

A new municipal government, set up under Allied Military Government direction, had gone to work at last in the city hall. Citizens who had recovered from various degrees of radiation sickness were coming back by the thousand—by November 1st, the population, mostly crowded into the outskirts, was already 137,000, more than a third of the wartime peak—and the government set in motion all kinds of projects to put them to work rebuilding the city. It hired men to clear the streets, and others to gather scrap iron, which they sorted and piled in mountains opposite the city hall. Some returning residents were putting up their own shanties and huts, and planting small squares of winter wheat beside them, but the city also authorized and built four hundred one-family “barracks.” Utilities were repaired—electric lights shone again, trams started running, and employees of the waterworks fixed seventy thousand leaks in mains and plumbing. A Planning Conference, with an enthusiastic young Military Government officer, Lieutenant John D. Montgomery, of Kalamazoo, as its adviser, began to consider what sort of city the new Hiroshima should be. The ruined city had flourished—and had been an inviting target—mainly because it had been one of the most important military-command and communications centers in Japan, and would have become the Imperial headquarters had the islands been invaded and Tokyo been captured. Now there would be no huge military establishments to help revive the city. The Planning Conference, at a loss as to just what importance Hiroshima could have, fell back on rather vague cultural and paving projects. It drew maps with avenues a hundred yards wide and thought seriously of preserving the half-ruined Museum of Science and Industry more or less as it was, as a monument to the disaster, and naming it the Institute of International Amity. Statistical workers gathered what figures they could on the effects of the bomb. They reported that 78,150 people had been killed, 13,983 were missing, and 37,425 had been injured. No one in the city government pretended that these figures were accurate—though the Americans accepted them as official—and as the months went by and more and more hundreds of corpses were dug up from the ruins, and as the number of unclaimed urns of ashes at the Zempoji Temple in Koi rose into the thousands, the statisticians began to say that at least a hundred thousand people had lost their lives in the bombing. Since many people died of a combination of causes, it was impossible to figure exactly how many were killed by each cause, but the statisticians calculated that about twenty-five per cent had died of direct burns from the bomb, about fifty per cent from other injuries, and about twenty per cent as a result of radiation effects. The statistician’ figures on property damage were more reliable: sixty-two thousand out of ninety thousand buildings destroyed, and six thousand more damaged beyond repair. In the heart of the city, they found only five modern buildings that could be used again without major repairs. This small number was by no means the fault of flimsy Japanese construction. In fact, since the 1923 earthquake, Japanese building regulations had required that the roof of each large building be able to bear a minimum load of seventy pounds per square foot, whereas American regulations do not normally specify more than forty pounds per square foot.

Scientists swarmed into the city. Some of them measured the force that had been necessary to shift marble gravestones in the cemeteries, to knock over twenty-two of the forty-seven railroad cars in the yards at Hiroshima station, to lift and move the concrete roadway on one of the bridges, and to perform other noteworthy acts of strength, and concluded that the pressure exerted by the explosion varied from 5.3 to 8.0 tons per square yard. Others found that mica, of which the melting point is 900° C., had fused on granite gravestones three hundred and eighty yards from the center; that telephone poles of Cryptomeria japonica, whose carbonization temperature is 240° C., had been charred at forty-four hundred yards from the center; and that the surface of gray clay tiles of the type used in Hiroshima, whose melting point is 1,300° C., had dissolved at six hundred yards; and, after examining other significant ashes and melted bits, they concluded that the bomb’s heat on the ground at the center must have been 6,000° C. And from further measurements of radiation, which involved, among other things, the scraping up of fission fragments from roof troughs and drainpipes as far away as the suburb of Takasu, thirty-three hundred yards from the center, they learned some far more important facts about the nature of the bomb. General MacArthur’s headquarters systematically censored all mention of the bomb in Japanese scientific publications, but soon the fruit of the scientists’ calculations became common knowledge among Japanese physicists, doctors, chemists, journalists, professors, and, no doubt, those statesmen and military men who were still in circulation. Long before the American public had been told, most of the scientists and lots of non-scientists in Japan knew—from the calculations of Japanese nuclear physicists—that a uranium bomb had exploded at Hiroshima and a more powerful one, of plutonium, at Nagasaki. They also knew that theoretically one ten times as powerful—or twenty—could be developed. The Japanese scientists thought they knew the exact height at which the bomb at Hiroshima was exploded and the approximate weight of the uranium used. They estimated that, even with the primitive bomb used at Hiroshima, it would require a shelter of concrete fifty inches thick to protect a human being entirely from radiation sickness. The scientists had these and other details which remained subject to security in the United States printed and mimeographed and bound into little books. The Americans knew of the existence of these, but tracing them and seeing that they did not fall into the wrong hands would have obliged the occupying authorities to set up, for this one purpose alone, an enormous police system in Japan. Altogether, the Japanese scientists were somewhat amused at the efforts of their conquerors to keep security on atomic fission.

Late in February, 1946, a friend of Miss Sasaki’s called on Father Kleinsorge and asked him to visit her in the hospital. She had been growing more and more depressed and morbid; she seemed little interested in living. Father Kleinsorge went to see her several times. On his first visit, he kept the conversation general, formal, and yet vaguely sympathetic, and did not mention religion. Miss Sasaki herself brought it up the second time he dropped in on her. Evidently she had had some talks with a Catholic. She asked bluntly, “If your God is so good and kind, how can he let people suffer like this?” She made a gesture which took in her shrunken leg, the other patients in her room, and Hiroshima as a whole.

“My child,” Father Kleinsorge said, “man is not now in the condition God intended. He has fallen from grace through sin.” And he went on to explain all the reasons for everything.

It came to Mrs. Nakamura’s attention that a carpenter from Kabe was building a number of wooden shanties in Hiroshima which he rented for fifty yen a month—$3.33, at the fixed rate of exchange. Mrs. Nakamura had lost the certificates for her bonds and other wartime savings, but fortunately she had copied off all the numbers just a few days before the bombing and had taken the list to Kabe, and so, when her hair had grown in enough for her to be presentable, she went to her bank in Hiroshima, and a clerk there told her that after checking her numbers against the records the bank would give her her money. As soon as she got it, she rented one of the carpenter’s shacks. It was in Nobori-cho, near the site of her former house, and though its floor was dirt and it was dark inside, it was at least a home in Hiroshima, and she was no longer dependent on the charity of her in-laws. During the spring, she cleared away some nearby wreckage and planted a vegetable garden. She cooked with utensils and ate off plates she scavenged from the debris. She sent Myeko to the kindergarten which the Jesuits reopened, and the two older children attended Nobori-cho Primary School, which, for want of buildings, held classes out of doors. Toshio wanted to study to be a mechanic, like his hero, Hideo Osaki. Prices were high; by midsummer Mrs. Nakamura’s savings were gone. She sold some of her clothes to get food. She had once had several expensive kimonos, but during the war one had been stolen, she had given one to a sister who had been bombed out in Tokuyama, she had lost a couple in the Hiroshima bombing, and now she sold her last one. It brought only a hundred yen, which did not last long. In June, she went to Father Kleinsorge for advice about how to get along, and in early August, she was still considering the two alternatives he suggested—taking work as a domestic for some of the Allied occupation forces, or borrowing from her relatives enough money, about five hundred yen, or a bit more than thirty dollars, to repair her rusty sewing machine and resume the work of a seamstress.

When Mr. Tanimoto returned from Shikoku, he draped a tent he owned over the roof of the badly damaged house he had rented in Ushida. The roof still leaked, but he conducted services in the damp living room. He began thinking about raising money to restore his church in the city. He became quite friendly with Father Kleinsorge and saw the Jesuits often. He envied them their Church’s wealth; they seemed to be able to do anything they wanted. He had nothing to work with except his own energy, and that was not what it had been.

The Society of Jesus had been the first institution to build a relatively permanent shanty in the ruins of Hiroshima. That had been while Father Kleinsorge was in the hospital. As soon as he got back, he began living in the shack, and he and another priest, Father Laderman, who had joined him in the mission, arranged for the purchase of three of the standardized “barracks,” which the city was selling at seven thousand yen apiece. They put two together, end to end, and made a pretty chapel of them; they ate in the third. When materials were available, they commissioned a contractor to build a three-story mission house exactly like the one that had been destroyed in the fire. In the compound, carpenters cut timbers, gouged mortises, shaped tenons, whittled scores of wooden pegs and bored holes for them, until all the parts for the house were in a neat pile; then, in three days, they put the whole thing together, like an Oriental puzzle, without any nails at all. Father Kleinsorge was finding it hard, as Dr. Fujii had suggested he would, to be cautious and to take his naps. He went out every day on foot to call on Japanese Catholics and prospective converts. As the months went by, he grew more and more tired. In June, he read an article in the Hiroshima Chugoku warning survivors against working too hard—but what could he do? By July, he was worn out, and early in August, almost exactly on the anniversary of the bombing, he went back to the Catholic International Hospital, in Tokyo, for a month’s rest.

Whether or not Father Kleinsorge’s answers to Miss Sasaki’s questions about life were final and absolute truths, she seemed quickly to draw physical strength from them. Dr. Sasaki noticed it and congratulated Father Kleinsorge. By April 15th, her temperature and white count were normal and the infection in the wound was beginning to clear up. On the twentieth, there was almost no pus, and for the first time she jerked along a corridor on crutches. Five days later, the wound had begun to heal, and on the last day of the month she was discharged.

During the early summer, she prepared herself for conversion to Catholicism. In that period she had ups and downs. Her depressions were deep. She knew she would always be a cripple. Her fiancé never came to see her. There was nothing for her to do except read and look out, from her house on a hillside in Koi, across the ruins of the city where her parents and brother died. She was nervous, and any sudden noise made her put her hands quickly to her throat. Her leg still hurt; she rubbed it often and patted it, as if to console it.

It took six months for the Red Cross Hospital, and even longer for Dr. Sasaki, to get back to normal. Until the city restored electric power, the hospital had to limp along with the aid of a Japanese Army generator in its back yard. Operating tables, X-ray machines, dentist chairs, everything complicated and essential came in a trickle of charity from other cities. In Japan, face is important even to institutions, and long before the Red Cross Hospital was back to par on basic medical equipment, its directors put up a new yellow brick veneer façade, so the hospital became the handsomest building in Hiroshima—from the street. For the first four months, Dr. Sasaki was the only surgeon on the staff and he almost never left the building; then, gradually, he began to take an interest in his own life again. He got married in March. He gained back some of the weight he lost, but his appetite remained only fair; before the bombing, he used to eat four rice balls at every meal, but a year after it he could manage only two. He felt tired all the time. “But I have to realize,” he said, “that the whole community is tired.”

A year after the bomb was dropped, Miss Sasaki was a cripple; Mrs. Nakamura was destitute; Father Kleinsorge was back in the hospital; Dr. Sasaki was not capable of the work he once could do; Dr. Fujii had lost the thirty-room hospital it took him many years to acquire, and had no prospects of rebuilding it; Mr. Tanimoto’s church had been ruined and he no longer had his exceptional vitality. The lives of these six people, who were among the luckiest in Hiroshima, would never be the same. What they thought of their experiences and of the use of the atomic bomb was, of course, not unanimous. One feeling they did seem to share, however, was a curious kind of elated community spirit, something like that of the Londoners after their blitz—a pride in the way they and their fellow-survivors had stood up to a dreadful ordeal. Just before the anniversary, Mr. Tanimoto wrote in a letter to an American some words which expressed this feeling: “What a heartbreaking scene this was the first night! About midnight I landed on the riverbank. So many injured people lied on the ground that I made my way by striding over them. Repeating ‘Excuse me,’ I forwarded and carried a tub of water with me and gave a cup of water to each one of them. They raised their upper bodies slowly and accepted a cup of water with a bow and drunk quietly and, spilling any remnant, gave back a cup with hearty expression of their thankfulness, and said, ‘I couldn’t help my sister, who was buried under the house, because I had to take care of my mother who got a deep wound on her eye and our house soon set fire and we hardly escaped. Look, I lost my home, my family, and at last my-self bitterly injured. But now I have gotted my mind to dedicate what I have and to complete the war for our country’s sake.’ Thus they pledged to me, even women and children did the same. Being entirely tired I lied down on the ground among them, but couldn’t sleep at all. Next morning I found many men and women dead, whom I gave water last night. But, to my great surprise, I never heard anyone cried in disorder, even though they suffered in great agony. They died in silence, with no grudge, setting their teeth to bear it. All for the country!

“Dr. Y. Hiraiwa, professor of Hiroshima University of Literature and Science, and one of my church members, was buried by the bomb under the two storied house with his son, a student of Tokyo University. Both of them could not move an inch under tremendously heavy pressure. And the house already caught fire. His son said, ‘Father, we can do nothing except make our mind up to consecrate our lives for the country. Let us give Banzai to our Emperor.’ Then the father followed after his son, ‘Tenno-heika, Banzai, Banzai, Banzai!’ In the result, Dr. Hiraiwa said, ‘Strange to say, I felt calm and bright and peaceful spirit in my heart, when I chanted Banzai to Tenno.’ Afterward his son got out and digged down and pulled out his father and thus they were saved. In thinking of their experience of that time Dr. Hiraiwa repeated, ‘What a fortunate that we are Japanese! It was my first time I ever tasted such a beautiful spirit when I decided to die for our Emperor.’

“Miss Kayoko Nobutoki, a student of girl’s high school, Hiroshima Jazabuin, and a daughter of my church member, was taking rest with her friends beside the heavy fence of the Buddhist Temple. At the moment the atomic bomb was dropped, the fence fell upon them. They could not move a bit under such a heavy fence and then smoke entered into even a crack and choked their breath. One of the girls begun to sing Kimi ga yo, national anthem, and others followed in chorus and died. Meanwhile one of them found a crack and struggled hard to get out. When she was taken in the Red Cross Hospital she told how her friends died, tracing back in her memory to singing in chorus our national anthem. They were just 13 years old.

“Yes, people of Hiroshima died manly in the atomic bombing, believing that it was for Emperor’s sake.”

A surprising number of the people of Hiroshima remained more or less indifferent about the ethics of using the bomb. Possibly they were too terrified by it to want to think about it at all. Not many of them even bothered to find out much about what it was like. Mrs. Nakamura’s conception of it—and awe of it—was typical. “The atom bomb,” she would say when asked about it, “is the size of a matchbox. The heat of it was six thousand times that of the sun. It exploded in the air. There is some radium in it. I don’t know just how it works, but when the radium is put together, it explodes.” As for the use of the bomb, she would say, “It was war and we had to expect it.” And then she would add, “Shikata ga nai,” a Japanese expression as common as, and corresponding to, the Russian word “nichevo”: “It can’t be helped. Oh, well. Too bad.” Dr. Fujii said approximately the same thing about the use of the bomb to Father Kleinsorge one evening, in German: “Da ist nichts zu machen. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

Many citizens of Hiroshima, however, continued to feel a hatred for Americans which nothing could possibly erase. “I see,” Dr. Sasaki once said, “that they are holding a trial for war criminals in Tokyo just now. I think they ought to try the men who decided to use the bomb and they should hang them all.”

Father Kleinsorge and the other German Jesuit priests, who, as foreigners, could be expected to take a relatively detached view, often discussed the ethics of using the bomb. One of them, Father Siemes, who was out at Nagatsuka at the time of the attack, wrote in a report to the Holy See in Rome, “Some of us consider the bomb in the same category as poison gas and were against its use on a civilian population. Others were of the opinion that in total war, as carried on in Japan, there was no difference between civilians and soldiers, and that the bomb itself was an effective force tending to end the bloodshed, warning Japan to surrender and thus to avoid total destruction. It seems logical that he who supports total war in principle cannot complain of a war against civilians. The crux of the matter is whether total war in its present form is justifiable, even when it serves a just purpose. Does it not have material and spiritual evil as its consequences which far exceed whatever good might result? When will our moralists give us a clear answer to this question?”

It would be impossible to say what horrors were embedded in the minds of the children who lived through the day of the bombing in Hiroshima. On the surface their recollections, months after the disaster, were of an exhilarating adventure. Toshio Nakamura, who was ten at the time of the bombing, was soon able to talk freely, even gaily, about the experience, and a few weeks before the anniversary he wrote the following matter-of-fact essay for his teacher at Nobori-cho Primary School: “The day before the bomb, I went for a swim. In the morning, I was eating peanuts. I saw a light. I was knocked to little sister’s sleeping place. When we were saved, I could only see as far as the tram. My mother and I started to pack our things. The neighbors were walking around burned and bleeding. Hataya-san told me to run away with her. I said I wanted to wait for my mother. We went to the park. A whirlwind came. At night a gas tank burned and I saw the reflection in the river. We stayed in the park one night. Next day I went to Taiko Bridge and met my girl friends Kikuki and Murakami. They were looking for their mothers. But Kikuki’s mother was wounded and Murakami’s mother, alas, was dead.” ♦

Published in the print edition of the August 31, 1946, issue, with the headline “Hiroshima.”