VOSHN 358

<body><a href="../index.html">HOME</a><br><table summary="336"><tr><td class="etesti">336</td><td class="edate">The end of August or the beginning of September, 1945.</td><td class="eage">35 years old at that time</td></tr><tr><td class="ei_midasi" colspan=3>A boy was playing with the bone of my daughter, poking with a stick.</td></tr></table><div class="large"><p>Five of six our children had died.  Two of them had gone missing.  I couldn't look after the affairs of the other two of them, when they died under my eyes.  Our seven-year-old daughter was survived, who had been injured and become ill.  I don't remember very well, whether it was the end of August or the beginning of September, when she died in the first-aid station.</p><br><p>Since I couldn't get a coffin for her body, I laid it in a drawer in our broken house.  I began to cremate it in a corner of the schoolyard, where the first-aid station was placed.  But because of lack of wood to burn and raining, the body was not burnt thoroughly.  I wondered what to do.</p><br><p>Next morning I walked to the place, dragging my injured leg.  There I found the body was half burnt and a boy in the neighborhood played with it, poking with a stick.</p><br><p>Whenever I remember it, I'm bursting with sorrow.  I'm quite at a loss where to go to see our children.  Although I try to forget, I can never.  I can't give up our missing children, because I've never found their bodies.</p><br><p>Recently I heard the news that a survived Japanese soldier came back from a southern island.  I'm afraid our missing children have been lost somewhere like this soldier.</p></div></body>