Blossoms in the Wind: Human Legacies of the Kamikaze Read Free Page B

counterrevolutionaries in 1869. Perhaps a hundred meters past this imposing piece of statuary, the entrance to the inner sanctum compound is guarded by ten-meter high glass-paneled limestone snow lanterns. The lanterns rest on stout pedestals with wraparound bronze bas-relief friezes depicting heroic scenes from the Russo-Japanese War and Chinese campaigns, naval scenes on the right side pedestal, army scenes on the left. 
    After visitors walk past these and under a smaller bronze tori’i, they are now considered to be on hallowed ground. Before proceeding further into the compound, I must undertake a Shinto purification ritual at a large granite water-filled trough that looks almost like an Egyptian sarcophagus. It must weigh several tons. I walk under a copper roof resting on dark wood posts that covers the holy trough, and read a sign written only in Japanese that gives a step-by-step explanation of what I am to perform here. I follow the instructions, dipping a wood-handled tin ladle into the water, splashing it over my hands, ridding myself of the uncleanliness of the outside world. I dart glances at the Japanese people around me to make sure that I’m doing everything correctly. I watch a bespectacled corporate type in his early thirties take water into his mouth from his cupped left hand, swish the water around a bit, and spit it out in the stone gutter below the trough. Another glance at the sign confirms that this is what I’m supposed to do, so I mimic what I’ve just observed. There is a faint aftertaste of copper in the water.
    Following the general flow of my fellow pilgrims, I walk through a handsome wooden gate about as tall as a three-story house. The hinged doors look almost battering-ram-proofed, like they could have been built for an old samurai castle, and are at least a handspan thick. They are emblazoned with large gold kikunomon crests, the sixteen-petal chrysanthemum device that has been the heraldic crest of the imperial family since medieval times.
    A souvenir photo hawker who has set up shop next to the gate is also conducting a ritual of sorts, tossing chunks of bread that are snatched up in mid-air by half-tame starlings swooping down from the gate eaves. A small cluster of uniformed junior high school girls here on a class trip has stopped to watch the show. The girls squeal with delight each time a starling makes a successful bread catch. “ Sugoi! Moikkai!” “Wow! Do it again!”
    I stop directly in front of the main altar and bow in the direction of the inner sanctum, which is half-hidden behind purple and white kikunomon -patterned curtains. As I approach the altar, the rent-a-cop eyes me warily, perhaps weighing tactical options in the event that I’m some gaijin [8] weirdo with a protest banner smuggled in my coat lining or a volley of red paintballs stashed in my attaché case. I smile at him and climb three steps to the altar, bow, and clap my hands to get the attention of the resident spirits (as if they aren’t already eyeballing me as intently as the security guy is). I toss my coin into the tithing box, bow once more and move on to get out of the way for the people behind me.
    I walk by some smaller memorials tucked amongst the trees on the northern edge of the main promenade. One of them is done with an interesting sunken grotto effect – a covered reflecting pool surrounded with stepped layers like a miniature Greek amphitheater – but it has a neutered Sixties prefab energy out of place here, almost as if the architect had been too timid to incorporate more recognizably Japanese elements into the designs when work crews were still cleaning up B-29 raid rubble in the suburbs and the Socialist Party still made decent showings in elections. While this monument may have looked cutting edge when it was put up, it now looks like a soot-streaked, mold-mottled Omaha Beach gun emplacement designed by some failed Le Corbusier pupil – a sad reminder of how unflattering the humid