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American.’
    â€˜I cut his head off with my sword,’ replied Takuya.
    The old man stayed sitting where he was, not moving a muscle. A mournful look had come over his face.
    Takuya stood up and walked over to his own room, switching the light on as he stepped through the doorway. He pulled out his photo album, stripped it of all the photographs taken since he had reached adulthood, and put them and his letters, diaries and address book in the wastepaper basket. This in hand, he stepped down on to the earth-floor section of the house and pushed the contents into the kitchen stove, lighting the paper with a match. His mother, not seeming to realise what Takuya was burning, dried her hands on her apron and walked into the living-room. He pushed the poker into the fire, checking that the papers were reduced to ashes before stepping back into the living-room.
    There was a pile of notes on the low table in the middle of the room. To deal with the inflation that followed immediately after the war, the government had restricted the amount of money any householder could withdraw from a bank to three hundred yen per month, and one hundred yen per family member. Takuya knew that without the money on the table his family would inevitably struggle, yet he knelt down, took the notes, and stuffed them into the inside pocket of his jacket. His mother looked on apprehensively as she poured tea for the three of them. His father removed his glasses and sat motionless, staring vacantly into a corner.

    Takuya rose to his feet and walked a couple of steps to the chest of drawers. He pulled out some socks and underwear and stuffed them into his rucksack along with a grey army blanket he took from the cupboard. His mother offered cups of green tea to the two men.
    â€˜Are you going somewhere?’ asked his mother, looking inquisitively at her son.
    â€˜I have to go away. I’ll be off in a few minutes,’ he replied as he tied the cord on his rucksack.
    â€˜What? Tonight? It’s late,’ said his mother sharply.
    â€˜Where are Toshio and Chiyoko?’ He thought he should see his brother and sister before he left.
    â€˜Chiyoko is in bed. She’s coming down with a cold. Toshio is on the night shift. He won’t be home for another hour or so,’ replied his mother incredulously.
    Takuya took a sip of the tea, picked up his rucksack, and got to his feet. He stepped into his shoes on the earth floor of the kitchen area.
    â€˜Why can’t you go tomorrow?’ asked his mother, her tone now slightly angry.
    He swung his rucksack over his shoulder, opened the back door and stepped outside. His father slipped on his mother’s clogs and followed him out. Takuya turned round to face his father, took off his service cap, and bowed his head.
    â€˜If they catch you they’ll hang you, won’t they?’ the old man said hoarsely. Takuya nodded.
    His father said, ‘Go to the Sayama family in Osaka. They’ll help you.’ He handed his son a small parcel. Takuya nodded, then turned and walked away. He jumped over the little stream and headed straight across the grassy patch, onto the slope of the path up the hill. Like an animal trusting its natural instinct of self-preservation, Takuya decided that the safest way to return would be along the path he had used to come to the village.
    He climbed the track at a brisk pace before pausing under the pine tree halfway up the hill. He looked down over the village, now half shrouded in a rising mist. The houses and the path were barely visible through the pale white murk, with only a few faint strips of light escaping from windows here and there.
    Takuya opened the little package his father had handed him. Under two layers of paper were some two dozen cigarettes. To a father who would cut cigarettes in thirds with a razor and then smoke them stuffed parsimoniously into a pipe, these must have been even more valuable than money.
    He sat down on one of