P R O L O G U E
Once he is in the cell they unshackle him and instruct him to strip. He
takes off the grey winter coat with brisk efficiency and then - as they
watch, arms folded - his movements slow, fear turning his fingers
clumsy on belt buckle, shirt buttons.
They wait until he is completely naked before they gather up his clothes and leave. When he is dressed again, he suspects, he will be wearing an orange jumpsuit.
The cold gleam of the steel bench makes his body shrivel. As long as its possible, hell stand.
How did it come to this, he wonders.
The Yet Unknowing World
nagasaki, 9 august 1945
Later, the one who survives will remember that day as grey, but on the morning of 9 August itself both the man from Berlin, Konrad Weiss, and the schoolteacher, Hiroko Tanaka, step out of their houses and notice the perfect blueness of the sky, into which white smoke blooms from the chimneys of the munitions factories.
Konrad cannot see the chimneys themselves from his home in Minamiyamate, but for months now his thoughts have frequently wandered to the factory where Hiroko Tanaka spends her days measuring the thickness of steel with micrometers, images of classrooms swooping into her thoughts the way memories of flight might enter the minds of broken- winged birds. That morning, though, as Konrad slides open the doors that form the front and back of his small wooden caretakers house and looks in the direction of the smoke he makes no attempt to imagine the scene unfolding wearily on the factory floor. Hiroko has a day off - a holiday, her supervisor called it, though everyone in the factory knows there is no steel left to mea sure. And still so many people in Nagasaki continue to think Japan will win the war. Konrad imagines conscripts sent out at night to net the clouds and release them in the morning through factory chimneys to create the illusion of industry.
He steps on to the back porch of the house. Green and brown leaves are scattered across the grass of the large property, as though the area is a battlefield in which the soldiers of warring armies have lain down, caring for nothing in death but proximity. He looks up the slope towards Azalea Manor; in the weeks since the Kagawas departed, taking their house hold staff with them, everything has started to look rundown. One of the window shutters is partly ajar; when the wind picks up it takes to banging against the sill. He should secure the shutter, he knows, but it comforts him to have some sound of activity issuing from the house.
Azalea Manor. In 38 when he stepped for the first time through its sliding doors into a grand room of marble floor and Venetian fireplace it was the photographs along the wall that had captured his attention rather than the mad mixture of Japanese and European architectural styles: all taken in the grounds of Azalea Manor while some party was in progress, Europeans and Japanese mixing uncomplicatedly. He had believed the promise of the photographs and felt unaccustomedly grateful to his English brother-in-law James Burton who had told him weeks earlier that he was no longer welcome at the Burton home in Delhi with the words, Theres a property in Nagasaki. Belonged to George - an eccentric bachelor uncle of mine who died there a few months ago. Some Jap keeps sending me telegrams asking whats to be done with it. Why dont you live there for a while? As long as you like. Konrad knew nothing about Nagasaki - except, to its credit, that it was not Europe and it was not where James and Ilse lived - and when he sailed into the harbour of the purple- roofed city laid out like an amphitheatre he felt he was entering a world of enchantment. Seven years later much of the enchantment remains - the glassy loveliness of frost flowers in winter, seas of blue azaleas in summer, the graceful elegance of the Euro- Japanese buildings along the seafront - but war fractures every view. Or closes off the view completely. Those who go walking in the hills have been warned against looking down towards the shipyard where the battleship Musashi is being built under such strict secrecy that heavy curtains have been constructed to block its view from all passers-by.
Excerpted from Burnt Shadows by Kamila Shamsie. Copyright © 2009 by Kamila Shamsie. Excerpted by permission of Picador, a division of Macmillan. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
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