One of my Grandpa's notes

Those were the days when there was no internet , no proper communication system . My grandpa used to write down things in red big note and I preserved it , didn’t throw in dustbin as I was told to do by my Mother . I found the writings interesting though I didn’t understand most of the words . I’ll share some of his story .

“ I was glad to hear from my sensei – my Japanese teacher – but his letter also worried me . It was 1945: the Bsitish had just returned to Singapore . My sensi and other Japanese had been taken prisoner , and young Singaporeans ,including teenagers like me , were anxious , confused , feeling your way under colonial rule – phasing from one subjugation to another .

I was surprised that my sensei had not yet been repatriated to Japan , but happy to learn that he was being treated well . My worry was for myself : I had received a letter from the enemy openly posted to me !. Although the enemy was detained , still , the letter could have attracted the attention of some clandestine police department . Surely they were now watching me to see how I would respond to my sensei’s letter . Indeed , the envelope looked as though it had been opened and resealed ..

The letter mentioned a pair of shoes that he had given me. The last time I saw him was at his home in Cavanagh Road when Singapore was still occupied . He had said , “ Take these new shoes . They look too big for you , but you’re still growing . Some day they’ll fit. I don’t mind going into the POW camp in these old shoes .”

My sensei’s letter said he missed his friends . No one had visited him . He wondered if I could visit him at the camp . And he asked if he could have his shoes back. His old shoes had come apart , he wrote .

I felt sorry for him . An understanding man , he had been good to us and taught us Values . Through songs he introduced us to the old Japanese way , the true Japanese way , the true Japanese spirit.

He’d been teaching at a school back home when the Japanese Imperial Army conscripted him nd shipped him to Singapore to teach the Japanese language to its conquered citizens . We soon found him different from the arrogant and sadistic soldiesrs , who treated us like dirt .

He sponsored his students for precious food rations and helped them get jobs . He even took the grave risk of speaking up for students and their relatives who had somehow displeased the notorious Kempeitai , the all-powerful Japanas Milatary Police . When the father of Fong , one of my classmates , was detained afer he got drunk and trampled a Japanese flag . Fong asked our sensei for help. He bravely went o the Kempaitai and got him released, although the old man came out haggard , white hair all straggly , hobbling on sticks and dragging one useless foot along . After that , my sensei was a hero in my eyes .

Now reading his letter , I thought , he must be feeling desperately low in his detention camp . I owed it to him to visit him . Returning his shoes was no problem . They were too big for me and I was planning to sell em . But would I get blacklisted if I went to visit . What future use might they make of that ?

My fears were groundless, but o a teenager who grew up in a Kempaitai world , they were very real . Stories of wartime atrocities were being circulated , and in general feeling was that vengeance was about to be exacted on the Japanese and all who had collaborated with them in any way .

“ Why go / Why take the risk .?” close friends asked me . “ Look at the terrible things those Japanese did!” . He was a bloody Japanese , too , wasn’t he ? .

Was he ? A small voice in me kept reminding me that he was a understanding man , one who had been truly good to me . I switched off that voice Instead , I wrote him lies : his shoes had been sold , I was studying hard for my exams and had no time , I had no transport to his camp .

For weeks , I suffered remorse over what I had done . Then one day I saw in the streets a stranger – an old man, white hair all straggly , dragging one useless foot along . After that m sensei was a hero in my eyes .

Now , reading his letter , I thought , he must be feeling desperately low in his detention camp . I owed it o him to visit him . Returning his shoes was no problem . They were too big for me and I was planning to sell them . But would I get blacklisted if I went to visit the enemy ? . There would be a register to sign – a record of my visit . What future use might they make of that ?

My fears were groundless , but to a teenager who grew up in a Kempeitai world they were very real . Stories of wartime atrocities were being circulated, and the general feeling was that vengeance was about to be exacted on the Japanese and sll who had collaborated with them in any way .

‘ Why go ? Why take the risk /” close friends asked me . “ Look at the terrible things those Japanese did !” . He was a bloody Japanese too wasn’t he ? .

Was he ? A small voice in me kept reminding me that he was as understanding man , one who had been truly good to me . I switched off that voice. Instead , I wrote him lies : his shoes had been sold , I was studying hard for my exams and no time , I had no transport to his camp .

For weeks , I suffered remorse over what I had done . Then one day I saw in the streets a stranger – an old ma , white hair all straggly , dragging one useless foot along . And I remembered someone whose feet needed shoes .

I cycled to the camp with those shoes . Outside the camp gates , standing before the British Soldiers on duty , I sweated cold sweat when I bowed hem , as I had done to the Kempeitai , showed them my sensei’s letter and signed my particulars into their formidable book .

As they escorted me in , I hugged the shoes tightly for courage . The camp guards took me to the canteen tent to wait . There were a dozen of people already there –visitors and prisoners . I ALMOST CRIED WHEN I SAW MY SENSEI . He had grown thin and pale , and looked depressed and withdrawn . At first he did not recognize me – or did not want to . He did not look me in the eye .

When he finally spoke he was polite but not warm , speaking only brief words . I held out the shoes to him . He did not take them . I put them on the table before us.

I confessed that I was scared and that I had not been truthful to him in my letter . He said nothing . I realized my letter had hurt him grievousl . Perhaps he was not sure whether I had now come as a friend , or out of reluctant duty , or even pity. Though I talked and talked , I could not get through to him-and time was running out , for they limited the visiting hours.

Finally I said in desperation , “ Sensei I know I shouldn’t have written you those lies . How can I make pfor it ? Don’t stay angry with me .Can we noy part friends ? We may never meet again .”

A torrent from me . From him , only silence . Still no eye contact . Then I was inspired . There , in the midst of other visitors and prisoners , I stood up before my teacher . And putting my heart into its moving lyrics , I began to sing the Aogeba-to-toshi , a song my Sensei had taught me, the well=known farewell Japanese students sing to their teachers upon graduation .

A silence fell on the crowd around us . And then-perhaps in support of my respectful good-bye to my teacher , or to express their own heartfelt farewell to friends – several others in the room stood , one by on , and began to sing .

“Now is the time we part,”my Sensei said , quoting the last words of the song . “ We part as friends” . His eyes glistened as he looked into mine .

He handed me back his shoes , saying with smile “ Keep these They’ve issued me new ones .” .

I took them back-no longer to sell . I was growing . I could feel it . I might still be able to fit into my Sensei’s shoes” .