It was an autumn day in 1981 when I first learned about the atomic bomb. We were studying the events of World War II in my sixth-grade class, and our teacher told us about the scientists who had harnessed the power of a small atom, creating a devastating device that brought an end to the war. Our textbooks showed pictures of the bomb’s wrath—shadows of vaporized people on sidewalks, twisted steel skeletons of demolished buildings, the vast emptiness of two cities known as Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
That night during dinner, Dad asked about my day at school. I told him about the atom and the scientists. I told him about the bombs and their use on Japan. I knew Dad had been in the war, even in the Pacific, but that was all I knew. After dinner he disappeared into the attic and returned with a dozen black and white photographs.
“Take these with you to school tomorrow and show your teacher,” he said.
The photographs were similar to those I had seen in class—barren, scorched landscapes, buildings with windows blown-out, streets lined with charred telephone poles and tangled wires. Dad pointed to one of his photographs and explained how the hypocenter of the bomb left an area so flat, the Army Air Corps could land their planes there. For this reason the American forces dubbed the hypocenter “Atomic Field”—not because it was full of radiation, but because airplanes could land there.
No one really knew about radiation back then, at least not the men at Atomic Field.
- Dad's Nagasaki photo, 1945
- My Nagasaki photo, 2008
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The next day I took the photographs to school and that night the telephone rang. My teacher wanted Dad to speak to the students. Dad politely refused. At the time I didn’t know why he didn't want to speak to the class, but a few days later I went to the attic and opened his military trunk—something he had told my sister and I never to do. Inside the metal box were some of the most disturbing and gruesome images I have ever seen, and to this day I regret my curiousity. It was then I knew Dad had seen things he didn't want to remember or talk about.
Years later, while on a religious retreat to The Sisters of Loretto Motherhouse in Kentucky, Dad saw a work-of-art made by resident nun, Sister Jeanne Deuber. Her sculpture was a nearly life-size crucifix, encircled by fire. The body and flames were made of paper-mache, and was mounted on a wooden cross. From afar the body appeared to be covered in burns. When closer however, one could see images of atomic bomb victims—mostly women and children—laminated on the body’s skin. The name of the piece was “Once,” and it was Sister Deuber’s hand-made memorial to the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
When Dad saw it, the proverbial fire under his ass was lit, and he became inspired. He returned home and opened his Marine Corps trunk.
- Dad's photo of Ukrami Cathedral, 1945
- My photo of Ukrami Cathedral, 2008
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In the ensuing months, Dad sorted through piles of photographs, and selected certain 4x5 negatives to enlarge into poster-size prints. He decided not to use the more gruesome images, because he felt the victims had already been exploited from his photographing them while on their deathbeds.
"Once was enough," Dad said.
In 1995, during the 50th anniversary of the atom bombs being dropped, the exhibit toured extensively throughout Japan. The elderly brought their sons and daughters to see Dad's photographs, and those siblings brought their children—some only five or six years old. Many of the photographs in the exhibit were of innocent children—also known as "A-bomb orphans" because no surviving parent could be found. Thanks to the atomic bombs, there were an estimated five thousand of them.
Years passed, and in August of 2007, so did Dad. He died on the ninth of August—on the 62nd anniversary of the bombing of Nagasaki. Today is the 66th anniversary of the bombing, and the fourth anniversary of Dad's death.
I'm glad he finally opened the trunk. I'm glad he created his exhibit, took it to Japan, and that he was finally able to see smiling faces while there. Dad often said he never saw a smiling face while in 1945 Japan.
I should be more active in keeping Dad's photographs in the public eye. Thankfully, my stepmother Kimiko has been doing this—and extremely well. As I've lamented before, I prefer to remember him first and foremost as the father he was, and secondly as the photographer he was. Yes, he took some great photographs, but he was an even greater dad.
I've been told by many people that his photographs are my inherited legacy, and should I live long enough, it's my birthright to return to Japan in 2045—on the 100th anniversary of the atomic bombs being dropped. I'll be seventy-six years old then, and about the same age as Dad was when he first returned to Japan with his exhibit. I don't know what the future holds, although I should be honored and proud and privileged to promote peace through my father's photographs.
Instead though, right now the best I can do is selfishly say this inherited legacy is a blessing and a curse.
Forgive me Dad, for not being as strong as you.
FiN.
However I do think it was important at that time in history to show the Japanese, and to show the world that it did exist. However I’m sure a better location could have been found to show the possibilities of such a powerful and destructive weapon.
A tragedy has taken place. Focus on that and not on another tragedy such as a world war and a subject that you know so little about. Bring up the Atomic Bomb? You’re no better than the idiot that you quoted about Pearl Harbor.