“This does not inspire，”Kunugi observd as he exhaled. He offered m e a cigarette.
　　I did not sm oke， not since I had had tuberculosis in m y tw enties. But I reached out for one.
　　Take the w hole pack， he said， w e seized w arehouses full in Singapore.
　　I looked at the package， black and gold， an elaborate coat of arm s， lions on hind legs facing off under Rom an lettering.
　　“It’s just a sketch，”I explained， pointing to m y draw ing.
　　But Kunugi had already m oved on.
　　“W e have a problem ，”he declared.
　　I rem oved a cigarette and searched on m y drafting table for a box of m atches until Kunugi held out his lighter.
　　I coughed the first tim e I tried to inhale， but the tobacco tasted delicious， so I inhaled again and felt the pleasant， still- fam iliar dizziness brought on by the nicotine. 　　“M ickey M ouse，”he began，“is on the list of enem y characters.”
　　This did not surprise m e.
　　I thought back to w hen Kunugi and I had both been students here together. H e had been am ong the best in our departm ent， w inning several student prizes and even gaining entry into the N ikka group. His canvases hanging next to those of renow ned artists. H is affection then had been a beret， a pipe， bodkin trousers ——and now look at him . W e had been rivals for the sam e professor’s attention， and even shared stylistic sim ilarities —— w ork that I now can see w as our naive im itation of im pressionism . W e rarely interacted despite being intensely aw are of one another. Shortly before graduating， I had abandoned the derivative form of painting， m oving into uncom fortable territory as I searched for m ore individual expression. Kunugi continued in the faux European vein， and w hen he w as invited to N ikka group， I w as so jealous I couldn’t bear to say hello to him at the show .
　　I lost touch w ith Kunugi after university， as I continued to paint， even w inning a sm all scholarship that allow ed m e to live in Paris for a few m onths and on m y return securing a prestigious gallery show in Asakusa. Kunugi m ust have stopped painting， for I never saw his nam e am ong the lists of entries to various contests and prizes that w e all vied for. I heard from a classm ate that he had taken over his fam ily business， som ething to do w ith fabrics and patterns. His nam e reappeared in m y life a year ago at the bottom of a letter addressed to several dozen of us explaining that in voluntary accordance w ith the N ational M obilization Law， the W eekly National ， the liberal m agazine publishing m y illustratons， had suspended publication. I suspected I w ould lose m y position at the university as w ell. Instead， I w as to lose m y livelihood by attrition. I w as reduced to one class of four students， all of them physically unfit for active duty， for w hich I w as allow ed to keep m y office. For incom e， I took on a few private students， pam pered children of officails w ho only w anted to paint in the tradition style， no foregin subjects or influences.
　　Kunugi， I recalled， had alw ays had bushy eyebrow s. N ow ， he still had the long， slender face， but he m ust have plucked his eyebrow s， for he had only a spider’s leg- shaped brow over each of his narrow eyes. He had a m ustache the shape and size of the Germ an dictator’s. 　　“W ould you like tea？”I asked， taking up m y kettle and feeling the side of it for w arm th. I w ould have to refill it from the com m unal tap in the hall.
　　He shook his head and rem oved a silver flask of brandy.
　　“W e need you，”he explained， pulling out the cork stopper and taking a sip.
　　“M e？”
　　He held out the flask. I took a sm all nip.
　　He continued，“To com e up w ith a cartoon character， like M ickey M ouse， only Japanese. But as entertaining as M ickey M ouse！ W e w ant to m ake cartoons better than the Am ericans. W e can m ake w onderful Japanese film s， but w e have failed to com e up w ith any entertainm ent betw een the new s and the film s. W e can’t show these disgusting foreign cartoons.”
　　He took back the flask.“So you， O hta- kun， you w ill w ork on a new cartoon character， a Japanese cartoon character that w ill m ake our pure race forget all about enem y characters.”
　　He had thought of m e because of the w ork I had done for the W eekly N ational ， m y caricatures and illustrations， w hat I considered m y m inor w ork but that had turned out to be the only w ork of m ine that anyone knew . That kind of cartoon had com e easily to m e， pen ank ink， bold lines， sim ple figures； I could capture a street scene or a rural village in three dozen strokes. But I knew nothing about anim ated characters.
　　Kunugi left m e a card w ith the nam e and address of the Inform ation Bureau. W hen I turned up， I saw that I w as actually at the old Com m unications M inistry. I presented m y card to the vast guard kiosk w here soldiers in crisp green uniform s stood. They took m y card and m y identification card， filled out a form on onionskin paper， and rolled that into a leather- capped bam boo tube w hich they dropped into a pneum atic cylinder beside them . W ith a shhhhhoooop， the bam boo tube w as sucked aw ay. And I stood w aiting.
　　There w as a thum ping sound and one of the guards opened the returned tube， rem oved the onionskin， and read out m y nam e， saying I w as to go to an office on the second floor.
　　I found the office， slipped off m y shoes， entered， bow ed， and said m y nam e. I looked up discreetly and saw through a thick haze of tobacco sm oke a half dozen m en in civilian clothes seated at desks in the vast open room . I shuffled over to the desk that faced all the other desks， w here the bucho w ould sit in a civilian office， w hich this seem ed to be. I said m y nam e and a m an w ith a round face， sm all nose， sideburns， and eyeglasses looked up at m e over his steel- fram e rim s. 　　“O hta，”I said.
　　“Ebitsubo，”he said. He had a protuberant fleshy grow th on the side of his forehead. The skin flap w as angled slightly dow nw ard and looked like a tiny dolphin trying to jum p out of his head.
　　I explained that Kunugi had told m e to report here， that I w as to be given m ore instructions. Ebitsubo studied the card I gave him .
　　“I’ve never done this before，”I explained.
　　He looked surprised.“Really？”
　　I bow ed.“M y m istake. I’ve draw n， of course， and draw n cartoons. But never an anim ated cartoon.”
　　“Don’t w orry，”he assured m e.“First， com e up w ith the character. W hen you do， our w riters w ill help you w ith appropriate scenarios.”
　　He indicated this room full of m en leaning back in their chairs and sm oking. The w riters， presum ably all underem ployed now that their m agazines and new spapers had voluntarily suspended publication.
　　He rem oved a key on a string from around his neck and opened his top draw er， taking out som e tickets w hich had Prince Konoe’s face on them . I had never seen these before.
　　“Are these som e kind of m oney？”I asked.
　　H e shook his head. They w ere vouchers， I could exchange them for certain goods.
　　Food？
　　He shook his head.
　　Art supplies. Paint. Paper.
　　He told m e I could also w ork here， if I liked.
　　I told him I had m y own office， at the university. But could I get additional ration coupons？
　　He said no， that could not be arranged.
　　W e w ere advancing everw here， in Burm a， the Dutch East Indies， N ew Guinea： M anila had fallen.
　　M y office in an old stone building on the Geidai cam pus w as alw ays cold. I had a kerosene heater but couldn’t find and fuel for it， so I w as reduced to burning charcoal in a ceram ic kiln that em itted a terrible stench and gave m e frequent headaches. After looking through historical m aterial in m y alm anacs， the Heian period Kozanj i Tem ple scroll w ith its anthropom orphic frogs and rabbits becam e m y inspiration. I had proposed a dozen characters， including a tanuki， a badger， a deer， a pair of m onkeys， and a sym pathic ape in sam uri headdress. Ebitsubo had rej ected them all； I had not even heard from Kunugi. But as long as I w orked on the project， I continue to receive m y vouchers， and could exchange these at a poor rate for food coupons or could som etim es trade them for currency that I used to buy food from the street vendors. I spent m ost of m y tim e using m y new art supplies to w ork on m y ow n draw ings， street scenes I observed： an old w om an in prayer before a street corner shrine， boys w atching soldiers， a Korean selling sw eet potatoes from a m etal drum .

　　I had com e dow n to the Azabu area to purchase m ore charcoals paint， ink， and paper. The w om an w ho ran the art supply store didn’t seem happy about the vouchers， and explained she w ouldn’t m ake change for them . I agreed and took m y supplies， w rapped in rice paper and tw ine.
　　Vendors w ere selling black m arket goods from w ooden crates： M anchurian oranges， Vietnam ese peaches， and salted fish from Korea. O ne w ell- fed m an even had a dozen bars of Dutch chocolate for sale， terribly expensive； all of this， I assum ed， the spoils. I pulled m y padded cotton coat tight around m e and m ade m y w ay to the Keihin line. The first tw o trains each had just one car that w asn’t reserved for the m ilitary and w ere im m ediately overw helm ed w ith passengers. As I w aited on the platform under a cloudy spring sky， I w as surprised by a loud and vigorous w hining， like the am plified how l of a cat. I looked at m y fellow passengers， and then， at once， w e all realized w hat this w as： an air raid siren.
　　W e did not know w here w e w ere supposed to go， so w e stepped back from the platform and began briskly w alking in the general direction of the exit. As w e w ere w aiting at the top of the stairs， w e heard quick， short， sharp percussive thum ps， like the cylindrical firew orks w e used to ignite in the sum m er. There w ere a few scream s， and then from behind m e I felt a shove and then suddenly the space around m e filled up w ith other people’s shoulders， elbow s， and hips as w e w ere pushed dow n the stairs. Ahead of m e， I saw a head disappear as som eone m ust have fallen， and then as I w as jostled I felt beneath m y feet soft contours of a hum an body. I continued w ith the m ass of people until w e w ere all in the tunnel below w here w e stood， now noticing that after those first few explosions， they had ceased. W e had panicked for nothing.
　　A few days after the Honshu bom bing， the first tim e in history that our hom eland had been attacked by foreigners - - a dozen or so crim inal Am erican bom bers - - Kunugi cam e to see m e again.
　　He now w ore a crisp- looking m ilitary uniform ， khaki， w ith shiny bronze m edals and badges on the front and a cap on his head w ith a five- point star insignia inside an im perial cross.
　　He didn’t answ er. Instead， he said I had to redouble m y efforts. M oral w as low after the bom bing. 　　“I w ould offer you tea.”I said，“but I don’t have any.”
　　He m ade a perfunctory bow .“I heard from Ebitsubo you haven’t com e up w ith anything satisfactory.”
　　I told him I had been trying， but that this w asn’t m y natural form ， cartoon anim als. Perhaps you should find som eone else， I suggested.
　　He slapped m e.
　　Do your duty， he shouted， for you Em peror.
　　M y cheek stinging， I quickly opened a folder and show ed him som e of m y characters， careful to hide m y personal w ork. I show ed him m y latest effort， a cat w ho w ore a m ilitary uniform and flies a fighter plane.
　　Kunugi lit a cigarette and flipped past m y arm y cat， and before I could stop him he cam e to a draw ing I had done of the scene on the train station stairw ell during the bom bing， the terrified faces， the guilty looks w e all shared dow n in the tunnel. He paused at the draw ing and then turned back to m y m ilitary feline.

　　“This isn’t bad，”he said，“bring it to Ebitsubo and see w hat he says.”Here， he handed m e real ration coupons.“Keep w orking.”
　　To save m oney， I w alked the six kilom eters from m y office to Inform ation Bureau to show m y arm y cat to Ebitsubo. He w as now alone in the vast office. Not only w ere the w riters gone， but so w ere their chairs and desks， all of it， the m en and m aterial， apparently requisitioned for the w ar effort.
　　He looked at m y latest illustrations.
　　I stood in the em pty office. W ho w as going to w rite these stories？ I w ondered. W ho w ould produce them ？
　　“You’re just like the rest，”Ebitsubo said.
　　That surprised m e： the rest？ There w ere others w orking on this project？
　　“Your character is w ell rendered， attractive， and anthropom orphic， but he lacks a certain cuteness， som ething that m akes you root for him . M ickey M ouse is successful because you w ant him to overcom e obstacles. A cat is a lazy predator w ho sleeps all day. A m ouse is seen as industrious.”
　　He had a point.“Perhaps I can just draw a m ouse？”I suggested.
　　“The others have tried，”Ebitsubo explained，“cheap copies that only rem ind you of M ickey.”
　　“N o， I w ould have to com e up w ith som ething m ore com pelling.”
　　W e had lost num erous ships， aircraft， and airm en at som e speck of an island near Haw aii， though the w hole engagem ent w as presented as a success because w e had taken tw o frigid little specks off Alaska. Papers， paint， ink， all the supplies I still had access to w ere now so scarce that I could trade them for rice， tea， flour， soy sauce， and cabbage and still have enough to w ork on m y ow n illustrations. W ithout the vouchers from special branch， I w ould have starved. 　　I w as forced to leave m y office w hen the university did shut dow n. And like m ost of the rem aining faculty， I received m y draft papers. I w as surprised the arm y w ould take a forty- three- year- old w ith a spot on his left lungs. I rem oved m y boxes and what rem ained of m y supplies， setting them on a cart w ith w ooden w heels I had borrow ed from the j anitor， w ho him self had enlisted. I rolled w hat I could across to m y Ueno flat， just one room w ith a kitchen.
　　Kunugi sum m oned m e one m orning， a runner in uniform show ing up at m y flat， panting and handing m e a note ordering m e to appear.
　　W hen I did report to Kunugi’s of f i ce， a vast ， t hi rd f l oor sui t e of a downtown hotel that had been requisitioned by his special branch， he asked m e about m y w ork， how m uch longer w ould I need？
　　Behind him w as a scroll by Kyoto artist Hashim oto Kansetsu， frolicking m onkeys on a cypress tree. In the warm breeze， t he monkeys were undulating at m e. In the alcove below the m onkeys were what looked like very good exam ples of Tang dynasty pottery figures and an elaborate gold laquerw are box.
　　I told him I had been drafted. That I had just a few days.
　　Bef or e I r epor t ed at t he prefectural arm y headquarters， I spent tw o days m oving several crates of m y illustrations back to the celler beneath m y old office building on cam pus， a huge dam p stone- w alled space that w as to have double as our bom b shelter. Already， the cam pus had a deserted feeling， as the unkem pt gardens w ere starting to go a little w ild. W ithin a few m onths， the grounds w ould be put to use for agriculture， neat little row s of vegetables grow ing w here students had once crossed the courtyards.

　　The lieutenant w ho looked at m y draft notice seem ed disappointed at the m edical report he had in front of hi m . The doctors had correctly ascertained the w eakness of m y lungs， w hich had been even m ore depleted by m y taking up sm oking again.
　　“W e can’t do m uch w ith you， he said， at your age， in your condition. You are not suitable for the front.”
　　I nodded. That w as fine w ith m e. I had heard， how ever， that those w ho deem ed unfit for fighting w ere sent to even w orse units， diggers， builders， pavers， units fed m inim al calories and assigned the w ork unfit for the w arriors. 　　The lieutenant w ent through his fi le and then looked agai n at m e letter. He seem ed surprised by w hat he found.
　　“There has been a special action，”he said，“you’ve been assigned to special branch. M aybe they can m ake som e use of you.”（Kunugi？ I w ondered.）
　　And so he stam ped m y form s， told m e to report w ith tw enty- four hours to Fort Akagi for m y m ilitary training， and gave m e a coupon for m eal at the com m issary.
　　I survived the w ar， spending a few m onths continuing m y feckless attem pts to com e up w ith a com ical yet inspiring cartoon character under the auspices of Kunugi and Ebitsubo. I kept trying until the special branch w as disbanded in 1943. （ Another artist， a painter from Kyodai， had in the m eantim e com e up w ith Inu Nora the stray dog w ho joins the arm y and becom es a hero. ） I lost touch w ith Kunugi， and w ithout his tutelage. I w orried that I w ould be given arduous duty. Instead， I w as assigned by the m ilitary to help design currency f or occupi ed terri tori es before that program too was ended， and I w orked the last year of the w ar in a m unitions factory in Kawasaki until that was bom bed. I spent the last few w eeks of the w ar living in a trench j ust outside Yokosuka naval base， subsisting on the food the naval officers discarded， ferns w e gathered， and pine needled we battered and roasted.
　　Kunugi， w hom I had com e to think of as t he ul t i mat e survi vor， was ordered to com m and a unit in O kinaw a. But som ehow ， through connections， he w as able to postpone that duty until after the island fell to the Am ericans.
　　I heard a few m onths after the capitulation that Kunugi had been ki lled i n t he Tokyo f i rebombi ngs during the spring of 1945.

　　After the w ar， I retook m y position on campus， t hough now t eachi ng illustration instead of painting. I had a different office， this one on the first floor， a perpetually damp room that sm elled of mol d and cat urine， but it cam e w ith a sm all stove so it could be heated up to an alm ost bearable tem perature in w inter. M y health w as fading， m y lungs w heezing like leaking bellow s， and I could no longer w alk the m any kilom eters across the city that I used to. But I w as so happy to be teaching again， to have students w ho w ere eager to learn figure draw ing， illustration， and rendering. O ur university had m erged w ith a m usic college， and I only had a dozen lice- infested candidates that first year of the occupation， enrolled as m uch for the free lunch as for the education， but then every year a few m ore students joined as w e shook off our long， artless Im perial nightm are. 　　O ur old university buildings w ere m ade of stone， and so had com e through the firebom bings w hile the surrounding neighborhoods charred to cinders. M iraculously， m y crates of w ork w ere charred but had survived. A few years later， w hen there w as som e interest in looking back at how w e lived during the conflict， a prom inent Ginza gallery arranged a show of m y w artim e illustrations. I w as grateful they sent a car for m e， a rarity in those days， and w hen I arrived， I w as astonished at the crow d. N early a hundred attendees， and a few new spaper reporters w ere there to interview m e.
　　N ear the end of the evening， w hen I w as tired and seated on a bench near the front of the gallery， an old w om an approached m e， short gray hair tied up beneath a furoshiki ， her slender body w rapped in layers of gray and brow n cotton and w ool. Up close， I could see she had fine features， alm ond- shaped eyes， a sm all， shapely nose， the kind of sharp characteristics that a few years ago w ould have been described approvingly as “pure Japanese.”
　　She said m y nam e.
　　I nodded.
　　She said she w as Kunugi’s w idow and that she w as pleased that I w as show ing m y w ork.
　　M y husband often spoke about you as classm ates.
　　I bow ed slightly.
　　He said you w ere a real artist. He said it w as im portant that a real artist like you survive the w ar.
　　She looked around the gallery. I expected her to com plim ent m y w ork.
　　But she had already told m e w hat she cam e to say.