63
Chapter Seven
Two Days To Fat Man
“Fat Man” was the second plutonium, implosion-type bomb. The first was the “Gadget” detonated in the Nevada Desert on July 16, 1945.
In the implosion-type device, a core of sub-critical plutonium is surrounded by several thousand pounds of high-explosive designed in such a way that the explosive force of the HE is directed inwards thereby crushing the plutonium core into a super-critical state.
Weight: 10,800 lbs
Length: 10 ft 8 in.; Diameter: 60 in.
Fuel: Highly enriched plutonium 239
Plutonium Fuel: approx. 13.6 lbs; approx. size of a softball
Plutonium core surrounded by 5,300 lbs of high explosives; plutonium core reduced to size of tennis ball
Bomb Initiator: Beryllium – Polonium
White Fish Bay, Wisconsin
August 7, 1945
12:20 AM
“Here we are!”
A brown brick, one story, ‘L’ shaped structure with a steeply pitched roof.
Opening the trunk, Stewart hauled Margery’s suitcase out as the girl looked about the dimly lit, sparsely planted lawn.
Following Stuart to the front door, Margy stood back as the man unlocked the door to an entirely dark house as, reaching to the switch alongside the door — the large living room alight with brightness to a stark white walled room containing a sofa, coffee table before it, two end tables, one black leather recliner and a console radio; all sitting atop near bleached white original bare wood flooring. Not a nick-nack, atop the coffee or end tables, nor a picture upon the walls.
Switching the hall light on, “Come on.”
A step behind Stewart, Margy was led into a stark white bed room containing a double bed, one end table and a dresser; all atop the bare wood flooring.
“This’ll be your room. The bathroom is just down the hallway, and so you know, my room is at the other end of the house. You’ve a lock on the door, if it’ll make you feel better.
“Don’t spend much on decorating, do you, Stu?”
“Haven’t seen a need to. Tomorrow, if you’d like, we can go into town to get whatever you’d like in your room, and some school clothes, if you know what the kids are wearing now-a-days.”
Going into the room and sitting on the side of the bed. “You mean I could just buy whatever I want?”
“Yeah. Sure. I want you to be happy here, and being my niece to fit in.”
“Doesn’t matter what I spend?”
Bringing the suitcase into the room, then sitting on the end of the bed. “For as long as you want, and follow our rules, no, doesn’t matter what you spend.” Chuckling. “At least for now.”
“You’ve got to be some kind of a rich guy, Stu.”
“Yeah. Probably you might say I’m kind’a, well, well off.”
Standing,”I feel like ‘Orphan Annie’…” tossing the suitcase onto the bed and opening it “...that just found ‘Daddy Warbucks’.”
Standing, going to the door. “Well, you’re not Orphan Annie, and I’m not Daddy Warbucks, but for now you can get what want…” motioning about “...to make this your room, and what you need to make yourself presentable for school. And, by the way…” jerking his thumb in the direction they had come from “...the kitchen’s that way, and you’re more than welcome to do whatever you want there.”
“Stewart…” coming to him, standing before him “...you just met me for the first time tonight, why all this…” motioning about “...why are you being so…” looking for an adequate word “...nice to me?”
“I’m really exhausted now and you must be, too. So if you want, no insult meant, or know how to, why don’t you put some breakfast together tomorrow…” glancing at his watch “… ‘twelve-fifty’…” Stewart said “...it’s tomorrow now! So whenever you get up, when ever you’re ready— coffee’s ready to go, so just turn it on and I’ll smell it and join you in a few minutes. Okay?”
“You’re avoiding my question: ‘Why’? I was ready to fuck you for money two and a half/ three hours ago, and here I am like ‘Orphan Annie’. Why Stu?”
Sighing… “Margy, I’m really tired now and what you want to know is hard for me to think about, let alone talk about. So, please…” his eyes watering “...let it go for now. I’ll tell you about it in the morning.”
Loveland, Ohio August 7, 1945 5:30 AM
Hearing the muted sound of her parents alarm clock on the far end of the hallway. Wrapping her blanket about her shoulders, eight year old, Sharon Kaminsky leaving her ten year old adopted brothers bed silently went through the adjoining bathroom and into her own bed.
On the other side of the international date line:
August 6, 1945 (8/7/45) in the USA.
Daybreak
Squads of soldiers feverishly rushing throughout the City of Nagasaki attempting to gather whatever of the five million ‘EVACUATE YOUR CITIES’ leaflets as possible — air dropped the night before — in an attempt to keep the leaflets from the citizens of Nagasaki; but of course they could not, and did all in their power to control the population by radio broadcasting and blaring motor vehicle loudspeakers announcing this was but a device to draw the Imperial Forces from the Americans true target, ‘commanding’ the people of Nagasaki to remain where they should be and go about their normal days business.
White Fish Bay, Wisconsin
August 7, 1945
5:30 AM
Awakening, looking about the dull light splotched room— coming from the loosely closed curtains— taking a few seconds for Margery to acclimate herself, then going to the suitcase— that she’d so quickly packed just the morning before — the girl removed a, though wrinkled, pink blouse, panties, bra and blue jeans.
Remaining in pyjamas. Quietly opening the door, noting the rest of the house quiet and dark, hoping there would be soap and a towel, going into the bathroom on the other side of the hallway, Margery Binkowski, AKA Margy Crawford, took a slow shower, her mind on Stewart Karlin’s — AKA Daddy Warbucks— true motives for bringing her, a virtual stranger to his home with the promise of ‘so much’…
Why? There had to be more to it than just wanting my company and helping me through school, Said it has nothing to do with him and me fucking. Friends? Maybe… the girl thought ...he’s going to pimp me out to people he knows, and watch, maybe? “Shit!” Margy said aloud, stepping from the shower onto a bath mat.
6:00 AM
CBS, NBC and ABC broadcasting much the same information over the airwaves of the nation...
“Nothing forthcoming from the Japanese High Command’ regarding the ‘Six Allied Nations’ demand of the ‘Japanese Empire’s’ unconditional
surrender.”
….putting the entire nation in a state of nervous expectation over the Allied Forces next military movement.
Other than those that had been part of the ‘inspirational development’, design and actual construction of ‘Fat Man’ — actually constructed in four different locations for secrecy—none others knew of it’s existence.
White Fish Bay, Wisconsin
6: 20 AM
Still damp, brushed back, the girl’s straight, dirty-blonde hair coming to just above her shoulders. Wearing the wrinkled pink blouse and blue jeans, fully dressed with the exception of shoes; flicking the light switch along side the door lighting the room with unaccustomed brightness, blinking her eyes, Margy walked barefooted into Stewart Karlin’s sterile kitchen.
The tile on the floor white, all prewar appliances, white. The white porcelain sink, tile counter-tops and cabinets all white.
Knowing there had to be some mental reason for this as for the creepy circulation motion above, or onto her knees. Thinking he’s a crazy person? Sensing a quiver of fear as she crossed the room, and surprising herself upon opening the refrigerator to find all three shelves fully stocked with food any normal person or family might want, further confusing Margy as with strict food rationing still in effect, Who the hell is this guy?
Taking an unopened cellophane wrapped package of thick cut bacon, a quart bottle of dairy delivered milk, six eggs and a slab of butter — also dairy delivered — to the counter-top between the sink and stove, as suggested by ‘Uncle Stu’, lifting the top of the coffee pot, noting the basket was loaded with coffee… Who the hell is this guy? Margy turned the gas jet beneath to ‘medium’.
Loveland, Ohio
August 7, 1945 6:20 AM
Malcolm and Ellen Murphy, Murray and Sarah Kaminsky, along with ‘Mildy’ Harris; as their daily habit had dictated, gathered around the radio in the living-room sipping their early morning — due to rationing — cup of weak coffee, listening to that first mornings news on ABC coming from New York City, putting the entire nation in a state of nervous expectation over the Japanese Empires next military movement.
Standing, “Well…” Malcolm said “...guess that’s it for a while.”
“It’s too quiet. Where are the kids?” Ellen asked.
“ Yesterday…” Sarah said “..I taught your son the basics of Poker, so I’d guess he’s probably winning all the girl’s marbles by now.”
“So long as they’re quiet.” Heading to the kitchen, “Let’s eat!” Murray said.
In Clyde’s bedroom, having taught his adopted sister the raw basics of poker, it was ‘’miss smarty-pants Sharon’ that was winning all the marbles.
But they were doing it quietly.
White Fish Bay, Wisconsin 6: 40 AM
Smelling the coffee.
Aware his suggestion to Margy had been simple, still, knowing that she had turned the coffee on gave Stewart the sense that the girl was ‘coming around’.
Going into the bathroom, urinating, brushing his teeth and washing his face, putting a robe on…
“ ‘Morning!” Still in the doorway. “Coffee smells great.”
“All I did was turn it on.”
“Ah, yes! The important thing, though, is knowing when to turn it off.”
“Any way, ‘morning…” thinking it might be a good habit to get into if she’s going to be hanging around “...Uncle, Stu.”
“ ‘Uncle, Stu’, huh? I like that Margy.”
“How you like your coffee?”
Approaching the table, pulling a chair, Stuart sat. “Black.”
Pouring a cup, approaching the table…
Studying the girl’s face as she approached. “My, God, Margy! I knew you were pretty before, but without all that whores makeup, you are one ‘truly’ beautiful girl!”
The word ‘girl’ coming to Margy flatteringly as that of a not yet fifteen year old girl rather than that as an eighteen year old pretend woman. And she liked the way this man said it.
“Going to make up some bacon and eggs, how you like ‘em?”
“Well…” sipping coffee “...usually I like the bacon fried, and my eggs ‘over easy’.”
Giggling. “Eh?” Gesturing about.
“Pots and pans in the cabinet…” pointing “… there.”
Watching as the bare footed girl stooped before the cabinet, hesitated a moment looking for the two frying pan she wanted. Thinking: She’d be like this now. Closing his eyes, Stewart envisioned…
The clunk of the heavy pans being lowered onto the stove thankfully breaking the thought.
Unwrapping the bacon, putting six strips onto the smaller pan, then dropping a chunk of butter onto the larger pan and turning both burners on….
Waiting for the butter to melt. “Stuart…” seriously asked “...why no colour here…” jerking her thumb about the kitchen “...or there…” pointing towards the doorway. “Why’s everything in this place so fu… so damn white?”
“Margy, when I returned…” Stopping. Knowing, if he was going to tell her, he had to tell it right because he didn’t what this girl to think she’s only here to replace— “...I’d been away for a long time, and when I got back here…” hearing the first pop of frying bacon, smelling the delicious scent of frying bacon along with the sizzling sound of melting butter”...it’s a long story, and don’t know about you, but that bacon is making me ‘really’ hungry…”
Wanting to hear this man’s story and how it affects her, but, “Me, too!” Margy said.
“...so why don’t we eat first, them, maybe put another pot of coffee up because it’s a rather long story.”
“Oh, boy…” turning the frying strips bacon “...do I ‘ever’ want to hear that story.” Margy said as turning back to the stove, expertly, using the edge of the pan…
Watching as the girl, using one hand and the edge of the frying pan, cracked egg after egg until all six were sizzling… then, turning three of the partially fried eggs without breaking the yokes completed Stuarts, ‘over easy’.
“Know what?” Stewart said. “Looks like you’re pretty handy to have around.”
Bringing his plate to the table. “So long as I ‘want to be around’.” She said, returning to the stove for her plate.
Using his fork, cutting into a piece of bacon. “Of course! Only so long as you want to be around.”
7:20 AM
Stuart carrying the dirty dishes to the sink, then returning with the freshly brewed pot of coffee. Pouring coffee into both cups, he sat a moment thinking, Where to start?
“That blouse you’re wearing…” touching the top button “...what do you thing this is made of?”
“The button?”
“Yeah.”
Shrugging her shoulders, “Don’t know. Never thought about it.”
“You bought this blouse after the war started, didn’t you!”
“Yeah. Wanted a pink blouse, saw it at Woolworths a couple’a years ago and paid a buck for it. How’d you know?”
“The buttons...they’re plastic.”
Asked between sips of coffee. “What’s the difference?”
“Buttons and knobs and thousands of things had always been made of steel and how many steel buttons ‘do you think, it takes to make a bullet?”
“D’know…” Touching the tip of her finger to the buttons of her blouse, counting.“Six?”
“D’know also. But before the war… You ever hear of Neville Chamberlain ?”
“No…” thinking a history lesson on the way “...can’t say I have.”
Noting the girl rolling her eyes.“Okay, to keep it simple, Chamberlain was a British ambassador that made a deal with Hitler to keep Germany from declaring war with Great Briton.”
Anxious to get to the ‘knee rubbing thing’; “What’s this got to do with plastic buttons?”
“Margy, I said that this was going to be a long story…” stated with a tinge of anger “...so if you’d rather do something else—“
“No!” Catching his tone of voice. “It’s okay. Tell me any way you want, please!”
“Margy, I’m trying to make this as simple as possible, but it’s just not a simple story, so have some patience! Okay?”
Margery Binkowski’s temperament changing from a ‘know-it-all’ punk to a truly interested young woman. Nodding her head. “Sorry.”
“Okay. I’ve a factory here... not in White Fish Bay, but in Milwaukee that I’ve had for about fifteen years, that if you want — because I have to go to work today, I’ll take you with me there later.”
“Yeah.” Nodding her head. “I want.”
“Before the war, we were making plastic ‘put together’ models of cars; kids love them, you know.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember seeing those at the ‘Five & Ten Cent’ store.”
“Next time you’re in Milwaukee and can get to a ‘5 & 10’, if there’s still any there, you might even find your car.”
“ ‘My car’? The Cadillac?”
“If there’s any left because we stopped doing the models back in ‘thirty-nine’ when we got a government contract to make knobs.”
“ ‘Knobs’?”
“Yeah. The military runs on plastic knobs: radio, radio transmitters, anything that needs a knob to turn on or off, and there’s a hundred different sized and shapes of knobs. That’s why I was sent to London.”
“Because of knobs?”
“Well, actually because of what I knew about the manufacturing process and the injection presses that form the knobs, which I helped to improve. And they, the Brits needed someone that knew the business to help set up three factories that they were anxious to get going. So I became something like a, uh, ‘knob ambassador’ that knew how to change a toy-car mold into a knob mold, then into a different mold without shutting the press down saving a hell of a lot of time.”
“That’s why you were in London, to make knobs?”
“What they wanted from me was going to take time; possibly more than a year.” Finishing the last of his coffee… “I was also being paid one hell of a lot of money.” ... and motioning for Margy to pour another.
One day ago, the girl would have leaned forward as she poured the coffee showing whatever cleavage could be seen from the top opening of her blouse; on this day, walking to the other side of the table Margy refilled Stewart's cup, then poured whatever was left into hers.
“Your wife? You mentioned earlier that you had a family. She wanted to go with you?”
“Yeah, my wife, Cynthia, she was British, and my daughter…” hesitating, sipping coffee “...Susan, being as I’m American, had duel citizenship. And seeing as… You remember I asked if you’d ever heard of Neville Chamberlain?”
“Stuart, you asked me about that guy…” comically rolling her eyes “...just a few minutes ago, and I told you, no, I haven’t.”
“Don’t they teach what’s happening in the world, in that school you went to?”
As though giving an explanation for not knowing what he, obviously, thought she should know: “It’s a Catholic school!”
Forcing a shallow smile, “Oh…” Stuart said “...guess that means you slept through that class.”
Smiling, “Yeah. Guess.”
“Okay. In a nutshell.: In nineteen-thirty-eight, when England thought… ‘rightfully’ thought that Germany would declare war on Great Britten, Chamberlain appeased Germany by telling them England had no objection if Germany annexed the German speaking Sudetenland region of Czechoslovakla to Nazi Germany led by Adolf Hitler.
“It was about then— in ‘thirty-eight that I got the offer from London to come over, bringing my family, if we wanted, and they, the ‘Ministry of Manufactured Production’, the ‘ MMP’, would find a suitable house for my family to live rent free, until I’d accomplished what I’d been brought to London for, which the figured would take, on the outside, three years.
“Your wife, uh…”
“ ‘Cynthia’.”
“Yeah. ‘Cynthia’. She okay with that?”
“Loved it actually. Her parents and a brother still lived in London, and she couldn’t wait to show Susan, who was twelve at the time, where her mother came from and some British culture.”
“When did you and your family get there?”
“Early in ‘thirty-nine.”
The shadow of a thought coming to her. “How old was your Susan when you moved there?”
Moving the coffee cup in tight circles on the table. “Susan, Susan was ten when we moved.”
Margy’s thought touching on the sterile bed room. “My bed room, the one I slept in last night, was that your daughter’s room?”
Stewart Karlin’s eyes downcast, staring at the circular motion of the cup. “Yes’. Barely audible, ‘yes’.”
As she hadn’t poured a full cup, no longer even remotely warm, drinking the last, “uck.” curling her lip. “So when you and your family moved to London, your daughter, Susan was ten in nineteen thirty-nine and it’s now ‘forty-five so she’d be…” dawning “...about my age now.”
“Yes…” again speaking quietly “...about your age now.”
Becoming frightened. “Where is she?” Standing quickly, her chair toppling over. “What did you do to her?” A Thought occurring. “Am I here because of her?”
What do I say? Getting up, Stuart walked to the window, looked out a moment and returned to the table.
“Margy…” his hands folded on the table before him “...I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell you without frightening you. ‘No’! I promise… I ‘swear’ I didn’t do anything to my daughter.”
Wanting to say, ‘I love my daughter’, but afraid this would cause Margy to think that was the reason she was there: to replace his daughter; which wasn’t the reason at all — deep down, Maybe, he thought.
“Where is she then?” In demanding tones. “And your wife! This place…” motioning about “...this house of yours is like…” in the girl’s memory, having nothing to compare the barren starkness of this house “...no woman would live here. Where the hell is your family?”
“Okay.” Said softly. “Know I have to tell you.” Stalling. where to start? “Any coffee left?”
Authors notation: On September 7, 1940, 300 German bombers raid London, in the first of 57 consecutive nights of bombing. This bombing “blitzkrieg” (lightning war) would continue until May 1941.
8:06 AM
Still standing. Both hands flat upon the table. “No.”
“Margy…” gesturing “...sit down, please.”
Lifting her chair Margy sat watching… Waiting for the man to speak.
Eyes closed. Forehead lined in deep thought. “ ‘MMP’ found the three of us a nice, little house about fifteen miles north-west of London: Three bedrooms, well stocked kitchen with fairly new appliances, a living room and a toilet and, figuring if anything ‘should’ develop regarding Germany, our little village would be of no importance to the ‘krauts’ and, so they said, we’d be well away from anything the Krauts would want to destroy —our little house did have a basement…” Stopping, taking a deep breath…
The first sight of Stewart Karlin reminding then ‘Pansy’ of the actor ‘Earl Flynn’ — the thin hairline scar going from the hairline of his right sideburn to the projected angle of his chin, giving more the appearance of the actor during one of his sword fighting, swashbuckling scenes that Margery Binkowski thought to be extremity ‘manly’.
The girl intently watching— the thin scare becoming more noticeable — as the man’’s facial complexion became a barely discernible shade of gray. His eyes becoming a half lidded glaze. The harsh tempo of his breathing slowing as horrible things he fought not to remember, he remembered.
Looking up, his eyes still half-lidded. “A terrible sound, Margy, is the high pitched whistling sound of falling bombs, and the closer the louder and you pray and you duck your head and cover your head hoping the whistling is not above you, along with the split second—one after the other convulsing sound of marching explosions coming closer, until… It was frightening,
Margy! We were always prepared for it, always expecting it, but never expecting it… Suddenly then hearing the air raid sirens! Suddenly in the dark. All electricity instantly off putting us in absolute blackness.”
Eyes uplifted now. Speaking quicker now.
“My wife and me at the table doing a jig-saw puzzle. Susan on the floor reading a book when the siren went on and the lights went off frightening us so much we all three almost forgot what we were supposed to do.
“ ‘We know what to do’!” It was Cynthia that pulled our thoughts together as me grabbing Susan’s hand…” speaking quicker now “... pulling her from the floor with me, remembering where it was I grabbed the extra lantern and we stumbled our way through the dark to the basement staircase, then hanging onto the railing until I slammed the door shut, then turning the lantern on we got into the basement and onto an old sofa that some one else living in this house had dragged down the steps and left and we sat together, bodies huddled side to side as close as could be listening to the then muffled siren and the roar of the motors of the Nazi bombers and the whistling and the ground shaking crunch of the split second march of explosions coming closer.
Terrified! Cynthia, to my right put both arms about my neck pulling our heads, our bodies even closer as my daughter, screaming in fear crawled onto my lap for her fathers protection, her knees tightly bent to her chest in effort to make herself smaller, pulling closer, my hands holding her knees pulling her even closer to make her smaller, to protect my Susan.
The fear. The crying. The whistling. The inching explosions. My wife’s breath upon my neck. My daughter’s knees held in both hands in effort to make her smaller; in effort to protect my daughter. The split second oncoming explosions!” Taking a breath in an attempt to calm himself. “Then nothing.” Stewart said.
Listening. Emotionally holding her breath. “ ‘Nothing’?” Breathing again. “What do you mean by ‘nothing’?” Margy asked.
Forcing a lip twitching smile, that was not a smile. “So I’ve been told…” wiping his eyes “... ‘you never hear the one that gets you’. For me there was absolute silence till my eyes opened, until my sound came back. Don’t remember or know for how long I was out till I heard, “ ‘ We’ve three more down ‘ere’!” Then however long after, “ ‘Okay to let go now, Mate’.” As dirt crusted hands tried prying mine from my daughters knees. “ ‘We got ‘em now, Mate. Okay to let go’.”
Stopping. Stewart's eyes gazing deeply into Margy’s. “There was blood all over me. All over my clothes, from top to bottom, but it wasn’t my blood. Hauling me out of the basement rubble, getting me onto a stretcher.— ‘My wife! My daughter’! I remember screaming: ‘My wife! My daughter!’
“How awful for you Stewart!” Coming about the table, holding the man’s heat to her chest in an act of simple humanistic sympathy. “How awful!”
Pulling back. “Don’t know why…” Stewart said “...how I was sitting? Cynthia and Susan’s bodies covering mine? Don’t know why, but all I got from that explosion was a concussion…” tracing a finger along the thin scar on his cheek “...and this.”
A thought coming to Margy. The reason for Stuart’s knee fetish?
“I never did find their bodies, you know. There was so much death and confusion after that Nazi raid, my wife and daughters bodies were taken somewhere that they didn’t know and I never could find.
Our home… This house! When I got home… Maybe because I couldn’t bury my family? I felt, don’t know, I felt incomplete and couldn’t stand all the remembrances and yet didn’t have the heart to sell the place, So I got rid of everything other than what I needed to live and had everything painted…” gesturing “...this color.”
Loveland, Ohio August 7, 1945 8:09 AM
Sarah, Murray and Hildy at the store opening Pink’s.
While back home...
“Don’t want no eggs!”
“Clyde…” his mother asked “... you have any idea how much some starving kid in Russia would just ‘love’ to have some eggs for breakfast?”
“Send ‘em to him, then! Don’t want no eggs!”
“I’ll eat eggs, then!” Clyde’s, ‘miss goody-two-shoes’ adopted sister said.
Scowling. “Don’t send ‘em to that starvin’ kid in Russia, then! Give ‘em to…” jerking his finger to the left “… ‘goody-two-shoes’, here”
Reading this morning's news paper with breakfast. Upset over the Japanese’ refusal to surrender and annoyed at his son’s argument over eggs, that at least fifty percent of the people in the world would kill for.
Slapping the paper onto the table. “What is it you want then!?” Malcolm demanded.
Hardly ever yelled at by his father, or his mother also, as a matter of fact. “French toast with honey.” The boy sheepishly said.
“We got honey?”
Honey being one of those rationed items that Pink’s Hardware would occasionally do an in-store trade for.
“Yes.” Ellen said.
“Then give him french toast!”
“Me, too!” Sharon said. “I want french toast, too, then.” adding, “With Honey.”
Looking at Jymmi, who… “Me, too, with honey, too.” ...nodded her head.
Thinking the word that Ellen Murphy would never say aloud: ‘Christ’ she thought, unwrapping the fresh white bread they’d purchased from the baker, Viktor Johansson just the evening before.
Hiroshima, Japan August 7, 1945 8:09 AM
August 6th had been a beautiful day suddenly punctuated by a blinding light that flashed as if ten thousand magnesium bulbs had been turned on all at once, the Hiroshima survivor said.
The blast trapped 21-year-old Shiota and her 16-year-old sister beneath the remains of their razed house, more than a mile from the bomb’s hypocenter.
After Shiota’s father rescued his daughters from the rubble, they set out in search of their remaining family members.
Burned bodies were scattered everywhere, making it impossible to walk without stepping on someone.
The sisters saw a newborn baby still attached to its dead mother’s umbilical cord lying on the side of the road.
As the pair walked the streets of Hiroshima, their 10-year-old brother conducted a similar search.
When Shiota finally spotted him standing among a crowd of people, she was horrified: “All the skin on his face was peeling off and dangling,” she said. “He was limping feebly, all the skin from his legs burned and dragging behind him like a heap of rags.”
The young boy survived his injuries. His 14-year-old sister, Mitsue, did not.
Though the family never recovered her body, they were forced to face the worst after finding a scrap of Mitsue’s school uniform burned into the asphalt.
“I thought my heart would surely stop because the very cloth I found was my sister’s, Mitsue, my little sister,” Shiota remembered. “‘Mi-chan!’ I called out to her. ‘It must have been terribly hot. The pain must have been unbearable. You must have screamed for help.’ … My tears falling, I searched for my sister, but could not find her.
Milwaukee, Wisconsin August 7, 1945 10:48 AM
“’Morning, Stu!.”
“’Morning, Paul. Like you to meet my niece Margery… She'll be staying with me a while.”
“Hi!” The man said.
“Margy, Paul’s the plant foreman and I’m going to leave you in his care while I get some work done.”
Nodding his head, repeating, “Hi!” A tall man in rumpled street clothes. “Okay I show her around?” He asked Stuart.
“Sure, that’s why I brought her. Wanted my niece to see how we’re winning the war.”
Bitterly, “Should be ‘won’ by now.” Paul said.
Turning to the girl. “So… ‘Margery’ you say?”
“Margy’ll be just fine.”
“ You ready to see a ‘real’ defence plant?”
Laughing. “Looks like I’m seeing it already.”
The entire one story structure no more than five thousand square feet with a wood and glass, possibly ten by fourteen square foot office containing two large steel desks and six folding chairs.
To the rear was a walled off area that Margy Crawford would soon learn contained the ‘product’ grinder and two injecting moulding machines.
Towards the middle of the open space were two rows of six each of what looked like drill presses with men working before them. The left side wall contained a pull up garage door large enough for a truck to enter. On the right wall, alongside and behind where Paul and Margy stood were high stacks of folded cardboard boxes.
Walking across the concrete deck towards the walled off area. “You’ll be staying with your uncle long?”
“Yeah, I’d say… “ Margy answered in a somewhat friendly tone “...those Nazi bastards killed my folks, so I’d say I might be with my uncle Stu for, for maybe forever.”
Quiet a long moment. “So sorry to hear that ab out your folks. Glade to have you here with your uncle; Stu’s a really good guy.”
“Seems to be. Just met uncle Stu yesterday when he picked me up at the airport.”
“So you know about his family?”
“Yeah, ‘so sad’! Think me and his Susan could have been great friends.”
“Both about the same age, weren't you?”
“If she was about fifteen, then, yeah, I guess.”
“Here we are.” opening the door to the far back partitioned area.
Nagasaki, Japan
August 9, 1945
11:o2 AM
On August 9 Major Charles Sweeney flew another B-29 bomber, ‘Bockscar’, from Tinian.
Thick clouds over the primary target, the city of Kokura, drove Sweeney to a secondary target, Nagasaki, where the plutonium bomb “Fat Man” was dropped at 11:02 that morning. More powerful than the used at Hiroshima, the bomb weighed nearly 10,000 pounds and was built to produce a 22-kiloton blast. The topography of Nagasaki, which was nestled in narrow valleys between mountains, reduced the bomb’s effect, limiting the destruction to 2.6 square miles.
Immediate Aftermath
The dropping of two atomic bombs, the tremendous destruction caused by U.S. bombing, elements of the Japanese Army were unwilling to yield, as was evident from intercepted messages dated 12 and 13 August: Their Willingness to accept even the “destruction of the Army and Navy” rather than surrender.
Arguing that continuing the war would reduce the nation “to ashes,” The Emperors words about “bearing the unbearable” and sadness over wartime losses and suffering prefigured the language that Hirohito would use in his public announcement the next day.
“Hirohito's language helped to transform him from a war to a peace leader, from a cold, aloof monarch to a human being who cared for his people” but “what chiefly motivated him … was his desire to save a politically empowered throne with himself on it.”
AHirohito was determined. Against all precedent, the emperor himself convened an Imperial Conference and at noon on August 15, 1945, announced Japan's surrender.
The war was over.
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Chapter Eight
Theaters
